Enris? she sent, this time sharing her confusion.
“Count. Follow. Measure.”
All of Cersi’s races had the pendants. Only Om’ray wore tokens. If she assumed she understood the Oud—which was like stepping on an untried frond over the Lay—then it was claiming the Tikitik somehow used both pendant and token to keep track of . . . what?
Count. That was easy. One Speaker per Clan, one Speaker per neighbor. Eight Om’ray Clans, seven with neighbors, meant no less than fifteen pendants. Tokens? Every Clan knew how many it sent out, how many arrived. Easy to believe the Tikitik, being inclined to spy on others, kept track of such movements between Clans.
Follow. A Tikitik had followed Enris to Vyna; it had found him afterward. So it could be done. But how could a token help?
As for “measure.” That made even less sense. Tokens and pendants were metal ornaments, not devices like the geoscanner presently riding her hip in a hidden pocket. And what would Tikitik measure if they could?
Profoundly annoyed, Aryl shook her head. “You’re making no sense at all.”
“YESYESYES.” As if the Oud were made desperate by her inability to understand. “Tikitik do. All life. Tikitik count. All life. Tikitik follow. All life. Tikitik measure. All.”
Biters, too? The silliness of it restored her confidence. The creature might be confused—and confusing—but she made the gesture of gratitude. It was trying, in its way, to convey a warning. “That should keep them too busy to be trouble,” she suggested.
“Trouble. Tikitik trouble. Tikitik other. Not Makers! Notnot not!! Not First. Not Only. Tikitik Least Is!” The words made no sense, but the Oud flung itself backward in a paroxysm of emotion, limbs writhing. Somehow its cloak remained attached to its back. Whirr/clicks threw themselves into the air and hovered, like a cloud of interested bystanders.
Aryl, having jumped in the other direction, gazed worriedly at the creature.
“I’m going to guess this means no more water.” Her Chosen came to stand beside her. If amused by the spectacle of the Oud Speaker flat on its back, Enris kept it to himself.
“It claims we have enough now, that we’re wasting it.” Aryl let him sense some of her frustration. “I don’t see how.”
They’d kept their voices quiet, though the sound didn’t appear to bother the Oud Speaker. However the creature, finished whatever display it required, rolled back to its feet and reared, stones and dirt sliding off its cloak, whirr/clicks settling to the ground. “Waste,” it agreed, as if the other matter—of Om’ray “tunnels” and Tikitik and care—had been forgotten.
Then it made the sound again, to prove her wrong.
“What was—” Enris gripped her arm, stared at the Oud. “Is it a Torment?”
“No Power I. Speaker.” The Oud lowered itself slightly. A conciliatory posture, Aryl decided. Hoped. “Balance good. Peace good. Om’ray, Oud. Best is. Us. Best is. Tikitik. NononoNO. Water more than?”
It couldn’t mean what she feared, could it? Their two races, somehow working against the third . . . Enris?
And you worry we’ll break the Agreement?
He was right. The mug would shatter on the floor. The world would end. Taisal had warned there’d be no safety for Om’ray if the Oud and Tikitik weren’t at peace. None for the life inside her.
“Sona abides by the Agreement,” Aryl said calmly, though inside she trembled. Rage or terror? They felt the same. They were the same. “You will abide by the Agreement, you will keep the peace of Cersi, or I will tell the Strangers to leave, now. You will never know about your past.”
The Oud sank lower and lower until it was flat against the ground.
She took a shaky breath. “Good.”
Good guess. Enris loosened his grip on her arm, turned it into a brief caress. Best we don’t have to test that.
He was right, of course. Now that Hoveny artifacts had been found, not even Marcus could stop his people from coming. He could stop them cooperating with the Oud. Say they were dangerous. He’d do it for us.
And it wouldn’t be a lie.
“I—”
Every Oud in the clearing suddenly reared and turned to face in the direction of Sona. The Speaker rocked back and forth, uttering that sound, over and over. The M’hir surged closer, pulled at her conscious mind.
“Stop—” she pleaded. The sound ended; the Oud continued to sway back and forth. “Why did you do that?”
“Sona Om’ray less than.”
Enris stiffened. “Who!?”
She reached, uncaring about Torments or the M’hir. Reached and was trapped by waves of PAIN and NEED and . . .
ARYL! Enris had her, held her body and mind. Stay with me. Stay. Don’t follow . . . don’t follow . . .
Eyes shut, she buried her face into his chest and closed her mind until all she could feel was her place in the world and his presence, until she no longer heard the echo of DESPAIR through the M’hir.
Until she knew it was over.
Everything became too quiet.
“Someone’s gone into the M’hir. Gone in and not—not come out.” She’d never heard his voice break before. “Who?”
The quiet trapped the name, protected her for a heartbeat, let her breathe. Once. Again.
Then, she knew.
Ael d’sud Sarc.
Her uncle, with his bright eyes and clever wit. Fostered with Haxel’s family. Connected to everyone . . .
Aryl clung to Enris with all her strength; his arms were like bands of metal, keeping her safe, keeping them together. They had to be; there was no other Choice. She didn’t care if Oud or Human watched or wondered. They were not-real. They could never understand, never experience the full implication of being Joined, one mind forever linked to another.
Only Om’ray knew their fate, should their Chosen die.
Ael was gone.
And Myris, his Chosen, was Lost.
The First Scout burst into the Meeting Hall. “What happened?” The scar was drawn stark and white against her reddened skin. Aryl wouldn’t have been surprised to see a knife in her hand.
For what good it would do.
The others looked up, weary with grief, unsettled by Haxel’s barely contained fury. No one spoke. Morla looked to Aryl.
“There’s no way to know,” Aryl said gently. Beside her, on a bench covered with blankets, lay her aunt. Her hair hung limp as a child’s. Her eyes were closed. She might have been alive.
She was not.
Her mind had followed Ael’s. According to Oran, assigned the task of making sure, not enough had been left to keep her body breathing.
Aryl wasn’t sorry to be grateful.
Three long strides brought Haxel looming over her. “There must be. Ael doesn’t—didn’t—he was strong. Capable. We have to know what happened!”
Such pain. Aryl felt it, shared it, as she did from all around. It bound them together, Sona to Sona, as nothing else could have done. She wasn’t Myris, to ease another’s suffering, to turn grief into acceptance. But she understood Haxel’s desperation. Beyond the grief of losing her foster brother, training and instinct made the First Scout need to identify the threat, find a way to counter or avoid it.