Marcus had said the word to get her immediate attention. She raised the ’scanner, wondering what she could possibly reply, then thumbed it off and replaced it in her pocket.
“What was that?” Naryn. Who, Aryl realized, didn’t know the Strangers existed, or that Cersi was one of many worlds.
That wasn’t her problem now.
Everything else was.
Sona poured in, those who had been Grona, Tuana, and Yena gathering in confusion and fear. Bern held Oran, called Aryl’s name. Haxel shouted over the din, “Go!”
“Naryn, help your people.”
“You’re going to the tunnel—” the Tuana guessed, grabbing her own coat. “Take me with you. If this was the Oud—I have to know.”
There wasn’t time to argue. Aryl threw herself out the door, into the snow. She closed her eyes and cleared her thoughts, entering the M’hir.
Easier, every time.
Easiest of all, to go where she’d been before, to go to who she most wanted to see, needed to see…
Aryl concentrated…
Someone seized her arm. She tried to pull out of the M’hir, to stop the ’port, but it was too late.
…she found herself, with Naryn, standing in the Human’s shelter.
“I told you she would come.”
Marcus seemed to take Om’ray popping into sight in stride—that, or he was so glad to see her, he didn’t care. “I’d been up all night. I was taking a nap.” With that odd greeting, he turned to a young Om’ray lying on his bed. The child was unconscious, his leg bent in too many places. The Human began assembling his gear, muttering something in his words.
Trusting he knew what to do, Aryl looked to the others.
Who were staring at Naryn, who stared back, as if she hadn’t seen the Human or their surroundings at all.
Yuhas Parth. A welcome surprise. With his Chosen.
And Enris Mendolar.
A storm gathered around him, in him. She could taste it, despite his shields. All the Tuana were bloody and covered in soot. The Human’s white furnishings and floor were streaked red and black, marks of Om’ray tragedy. Enris stood among it all, larger than life, grimmer than death. “You.”
“Enris.” Naryn lifted her head. Her net had come loose; locks of hair rose to frame her pale face in red.
“Why aren’t you dead?” His tone was almost conversational. Almost. Aryl could envy the Human, deaf and blind to the terrible hate Enris allowed to spill from his mind. “Why are you here and not dead?”
The color left Naryn’s cheeks but she didn’t flinch or look away. “We didn’t know,” a broken whisper. “The Oud found us in the tunnels—”
“The tunnels?” Yuhas’ Chosen choked on the words. “You tres—you did this? You brought the Oud down on us?” She threw herself at Naryn. Yuhas caught her by the shoulders, grabbed her tight; she collapsed, sobbing, in his arms. His hand dropped to his belt, as if hunting a knife that should be there.
“So it was your fault.” Enris was too calm. Blood seeped down his neck from deep scratches along his cheek and jaw. Aryl doubted he knew they were there. “So you’re to blame, Naryn S’udlaat.”
“Stop it,” she told him, told them. This wasn’t right. They were Om’ray, Tuana. They should have been glad to know they’d all survived, not snarling like scavengers over ripe carrion. There’d be time for accusations and guilt—and grief—once she was sure Sona was safe. “The Oud attacked Tuana?”
Enris frowned as he finally looked at her, as if he didn’t remember who she was. “The Oud. A reshaping,” he said, cold and flat. “Everything and everyone above ground is gone. Except the Cloisters.”
“We should go, bring back any more survivors—”
His mouth twisted. “The Adepts are safe where they are, and those with them. There’s no one else.”
Bile rose in her throat.
“What do you mean, Enris?” Marcus demanded. He half stood, one hand touching the child as if he couldn’t bear to leave him, his expression desperate and afraid. “Oud coming here? Hurt us next?”
Not if she could help it.
Aryl brought out her Speaker’s Pendant. “Marcus, can you call them, bring them to talk to me?”
“Yes, but—”
NO!
His sending hurt; she didn’t let him see it. Instead, Aryl raised an eyebrow and said coolly, “You’ve been away, Enris Mendolar. Things have changed.”
His look to the Human and back at her was deliberate. The way his eyes then locked on Naryn and his hands became fists was not.
“Call the Oud,” Aryl told Marcus.
The child, Worin Mendolar, was awake and struggling to sit before the warning lights flickered red and blue. “You don’t move,” Marcus told him. “The regenerationcycle takes time. Your leg will be fixed soon.”
How a machine that looked like a tube with bumps could repair a broken bone, Aryl couldn’t imagine, but she had no trouble believing the Human. Nor did Enris, whose face showed its first glimmer of normalcy as he knelt by his brother and held him still. “Listen to Marcus,” he said gently. “He’s a friend. You can trust him.”
“But—he’s not-real.” Worin cried with an anguished effort to squirm free.
“Be still, Worin.”
“The child’s right.” Yuhas and his Chosen, Caynen S’udlaat, had stayed as far from Marcus as the crowded room allowed. Naryn apparently didn’t care. “It’s not-Om’ray. Not-real!”
Before Aryl realized what Marcus intended, he held out his hand. “Real inside. See?”
Only good manners to touch an offered Om’ray’s hand, to accept that private contact. For Worin to do it took courage. Enris immediately laid his over both, receiving a puzzled glance from the Human that quickly changed to a pained grimace.
“Sorry!” Worin pulled his hand free and gestured apology. “Real inside,” he agreed soberly. Almost a smile. “Kind. But different.”
“Should be,” Marcus managed to say. His hand was still within Enris’ grasp. He didn’t try to pull free, simply waited. And winced again.
What was Enris doing? Aryl started to object—
Which was when, with admirable timing, the lights went through their warning change.
Enris let go. “The Oud are here,” she said, almost relieved.
Yuhas pushed away from the counter. “I’m going with you.” Caynen blanched but offered no protest.
They’d played hide/seek together in the canopy. She knew his ability as he knew hers, knew and trusted his Yena reactions. But his life was not his alone to risk. “I need you to stay with the rest.”
Naryn wrapped her scarf around her neck, her hair sliding back and forth over her shoulders as if impatient. Marcus stared at it. Oh, he’d have questions about that later, Aryl thought.
If there was a later.
“Naryn—” she began.
“I want to hear for myself.”
Enris was at the door, looking out the window. Muscles worked along his jaw. Aryl remembered how she’d felt, seeing a Tikitik for the first time after their attack on Yena. It wasn’t Om’ray to want to kill another being.
She wouldn’t have minded the chance to watch one die. Then.
Now? The Agreement was about keeping the peace. There was no place for Om’ray to live, if that peace ended. They all knew the hard truth. Whatever had happened to Tuana, to Yena, to Sona mattered less than survival.
Maybe, Aryl thought wearily, this was why normal Om’ray only remembered those whose lives and memories they could still touch. To carry the dead into the future—how could peace endure their weight?
“I’m ready.” Marcus brushed at dirt on one sleeve. Dirt brought through the M’hir from Tuana, in a heartbeat. Was that more remarkable than dirt from this world, clinging to clothing from another? He caught her gaze and smiled. It wasn’t a good smile. The Human was afraid, but would come with her. He could call for his people and leave this world and its troubles behind, but chose to come with her. Aryl found she could smile after all.