They stepped out, Marcus turning to lock the door behind him. Protecting his secrets, she thought, and approved.
Tiny snowdrops sparkled in the air, though the sun shone down. The waterfall’s spray, she realized with a shock. It glistened on the nekis. Closer to the pit, it was likely forming ice. A new and serious problem for those assigned to bring water to the village.
One thing at a time. Aryl walked forward to the center of the open space. She stopped, Marcus beside her. “We see you,” she told the Tikitik.
The snapping of stalks announced the arrival of the Oud vehicles. They drove between one of the stranger-buildings and the edge of the grove, lurching from side to side, knocking flat whatever was in their way. One scraped a corner as it turned to join them; the illusion on that section of wall flickered, then turned white. The Tikitik gave their guttural bark, clearly entertained.
Marcus tensed, ready to protest. She dug an elbow into his ribs and whispered. “Fix it later.”
Five Tikitik—none with familiar symbols on their wrist cloths. They were gray, as Thought Traveler had been, but there the resemblance ended. Instead of a band of fabric about their narrow hips, these wore a tunic-like garment, white and inked in black with straight lines that came together at angles. If she stared at the pattern for long, it hurt her eyes. They’d inked or painted their faces as well. Circles of black around the base of their eye cones. Dots of the same color made a line from their mouths, along the side of their long faces, and continued up the curved necks to the shoulders.
The centermost bore a Speaker’s Pendant affixed to a band of cloth. The others were armed with the hooked blades, this time on the ends of long wooden staffs. No sacks or bags. Not, she decided, here to trade.
The Oud, one per vehicle, stopped side by side. They might have been the two she’d already met, for all the differences between them. Whirr/clicks settled to the stone, some on snow.
“We see you,” Aryl repeated, though sure they’d all heard.
“Sona.” An acknowledgment from the Tikitik Speaker, who took a quick step ahead of its fellows. “We have come with a serious complaint against these Oud.”
The Oud closest to the building reared on its platform, dust and snow slipping from the fabric of its cloak. Limbs moved in a wave, bringing forth a Speaker’s Pendant. “Decide other.”
Was this a request or order? To her or at the Tikitik?
“They defile the Makers!” Its mouth protuberances writhed, and one hand clawed the air toward the cliff. She was glad to have it out of sight, Aryl thought. “They do not belong here. Sona is Tikitik! Tell them so, Speaker.”
The Oud held its ground. “Decide other.”
Aryl looked from one to the other. “What is going on here?” she demanded.
“These intrude where they are not welcome.” The Tikitik lowered its head, smaller eyes on the Oud, larger on her. “They disturb the remains of the Makers, seeking what was never meant for us. It is Forbidden by the Agreement—”
“NOTNOTNOT!” The Oud reared higher in emphasis, lashing from side to side. The vehicle tilted and groaned beneath. “Agreement, keep us! Goodgoodgood. Tikitik bad. Tikitik leave!”
“We will not. Sona is ours, you stupid lump of flesh!” The Speaker’s fellows hissed and raised their weapons over their heads. The second Oud reared, limbs flailing violently.
This wasn’t good.
Marcus touched the back of her hand. She turned hers, wove her fingers with his. Steady, she wanted to send to him. Trust me. Wait. All she could do was hope he understood her tight grip.
“The Agreement demands clarity in all conversation between the races on Cersi,” Aryl said loudly, in her best imitation of her mother’s stern tone. “What do you mean, Sona is yours?”
The Tikitik Speaker bobbed its head twice. “Before the Oud took interest in what they shouldn’t, this valley was home to Tikitik as well as Om’ray. But they are insatiable, Sona Speaker. First metal from the ground. Water. Now this unlawful search. It is our duty to protect the Makers’ Rest!”
“Makers, not! Tikitik fool.”
She winced inwardly. The Oud wasn’t helping, especially if the painted Tikitik were of a faction who believed Cersi and all upon it had been created for their benefit by powerful beings. In the version she’d heard, the Makers lived in the Moons, to this day toiling to repair their mistakes—which happened to be the Om’ray and Oud.
At least in this one, the Makers didn’t appear to be active participants.
The Tikitik had been Sona’s neighbors? That explained the wood construction, as well as the nekis and a water system to nurture a variety of plants unfamiliar to the Grona.
She didn’t want them now. “The Agreement is to keep our world at peace and in balance.” If only Taisal could hear her, spouting what she’d overheard during those long and boring night conversations.
The Oud settled. “Peace. Goodgoodgood.” The Speaker waggled its pendant with each “good.”
A pendant that had come from a corpse.
As had hers, Aryl reminded herself. What mattered was now and here.
The Tikitik had lowered their weapons; all eyes but two were on the Oud. “Where’s the balance?” demanded their Speaker, staring at her. “Do you speak for a Clan?” Its barking laugh. “Those pitiful few Om’ray? This valley is ours.”
“We are a Clan.” She bristled, pulling her hand from Marcus’. “And this is our home, not yours, Tikitik.”
“Decide other,” the Oud concluded in a smug clatter of limbs. “Few. Less. More soon.”
More what? More Om’ray? “What do you—”
“No!” the Tikitik shouted. “This is unacceptable. We will tolerate no more change. We stand by the Agreement. The Oud must go. This—” with a disdainful eye flick at Marcus, “—must go.”
Aryl stepped in front of the Human, sweeping him back with one strong arm as he tried to stay beside her. “You are not welcome here,” she said firmly.
“Tikitik, bad!”
Weapons flashed in the sun. As Aryl grabbed for her own knife, the ground erupted. She lost her footing and fell with Marcus, twisting to see.
The Tikitik had time to do nothing but scream. Aryl wasn’t sure if they were pulled down or if the ground became a liquid and they sank below its surface.
Her legs…they were sinking, too! “No! Stop!” The Oud didn’t know how fragile they were. Sona Om’ray had died like this. She flung out her arms, tried to stay above ground. Dirt entered her mouth and she spat, fighting to breathe.
“Aryl!” Marcus tried to pull her free. He plunged suddenly to his waist in the moving stone and dirt, dropped with a second jerk to his shoulders. She held his hands. Looked into his desperate eyes…
…and concentrated. The swirling madness of the M’hir felt comforting by comparison…she pushed…
…and collapsed on the floor with the Human, surrounded by crates.
“Teleportation.”
They’d almost died, Aryl thought wryly, and Marcus was grinning so widely it had to hurt his jaw.
“Teleportation!”
His language had a word for what she could do. Somehow, that wasn’t a comfort. She leaned against the door, peering through one of its rectangular windows. The Oud were laying on their vehicles; in front of them an oval of dirt, slightly sunken and too level, to mark where the Tikitik had been.
Where they’d been.
She supposed the Oud might have stopped in time, might have realized they were about to kill the two beings they wanted. “Might” being the word. She hadn’t been willing to risk their lives. To be buried alive? She didn’t wish that on anyone, even the Tikitik.
She’d tasted no one. She hadn’t tried, too busy surviving. Desperation indeed.
Could Taisal still know what she’d done? Did such a quick—was trip the word?—through the M’hir leave a trail, like tracks in snow? Or was it more like stepping through water, where the current washed away any trace?