He stopped punishing his mount, but his shoulders were hunched.
Enris?
Not hungry. Not leaving.
Stubborn, annoying Tuana.
By this point, their esasks were between the wide lower supports of the outer wall, brown-and-black bodies merging with the shadows.
Aryl wasn’t the least surprised when her Tuana, who so hated climbing, stood on the back of his moving esask, caught his balance with a wild swing of his arms, then leaped to one of the wide overhanging branches. Tikitik scurried out of his way. Not the most graceful landing. He hung half over the branch, kicking the air, then hauled himself up by brute force.
She was a little surprised when Enris reached down to pull Naryn up with him. Their esasks disappeared into the shadows, probably relieved.
I’m always right, he sent smugly, taking a seat. What’s next?
As if it somehow heard, Thought Traveler smacked his esask. As it lowered itself into the water, hair spreading around it, the Tikitik stepped from its back to the barrier and began to prance along that edge, one foot ahead of the other, clawed toes spread to hook over the sides.
If she hadn’t been close enough to see the barrier, she’d have believed it walked on water.
Its right side was bathed in soft light, filtered up from the clear depths; its left was shadowed and cast a dark reflection that jostled and moved over the dark, turbid stream. Things rose to that reflection, snapped at it, thought it prey. Things she didn’t want to see more closely, like what lived within the Lay Swamp and devoured Yena’s husks.
Her heart began to pound in great, heavy beats.
Her esask stomped the water, impatient to join its fellow now wandering after those of the other Om’ray. The Tikitik hissed to each other and leaned down, eyes catching fire from the lights below. The smell of wet wood mixed with that of stirred rot.
Gorge rose in her throat.
I can’t do this.
Enris might have held her, so real was the sensation of his strong arms around her, his breath in her ear, his warmth. You won’t fall. Not teasing, not a goad. What he truly believed.
A ground dweller’s opinion. This was no healthy branch or trusted braid of rope. The Tikitik, superb climber that it was, stepped carefully and used its long clawed toes, a natural advantage. At a guess, the smooth surface was slick with moisture. There’d be no second chances if she lost her footing, no grasp for safety.
A short fall, but into what might as well be the Lay, for her chances of survival. Would she be eaten alive or drown? She’d almost drowned twice; had drowned and died once, according to Marcus, who’d somehow revived her.
He wasn’t here now.
There was no one else here who could do this.
Aryl took a deep breath. She sat cross-legged atop the esask to undo her sandals and tie them to her belt. She rubbed her bare feet against the creature’s long hair to rid the soles of mud and sweat.
Acting on a less practical impulse, she unclasped her hairnet and tucked it safely in a pocket. Her hair took a heartbeat to realize it was free, then spread in joyous waves. Red-gold obscured her left eye and she batted it away, but before she completely regretted her decision, the mass settled over her shoulders, soft, warm, and thoroughly Om’ray.
Now that’s not fair. With gentle heat.
Not fair. But if it was for the last time?
Later, my Chosen, she sent, refusing fear.
Cold. That was her foot’s first impression of the barrier. The chill sent a shudder up her leg.
Cold, and curved. Higher in the middle. Without conscious thought, Aryl turned her foot slightly, let its curve follow the barrier’s. Turned her other foot the opposite way. Found her balance.
Easier, once committed. Now that she could fall into the water at any moment, Aryl no longer paid attention to it. The Tikitik above were silent. When she’d looked up, all she could see were heads, all eyes reflecting points aimed at her. For some reason, they pressed their long necks against the nearest wood. To brace themselves?
Her Thought Traveler walked one way around the world’s name. She would walk the other, for no better reason than she wouldn’t follow anyone else. Not on this journey.
If she was wrong—well, this could all be wrong.
Paired v-ripples followed her shadow. Let them.
See? I told you it’d be easy.
Don’t distract her! Naryn, doing her best to keep her own dismay and fear to herself. The sooner she’s done, the sooner we can be out of this appalling smell.
Done.
Done what? So far, she was walking around the symbol. Surely the audience above expected more, even if they’d doubtless be entertained by a fall.
A fall . . . unlikely. Aryl gained confidence with every step; the motion helped warm her. If they wanted to watch Om’ray drown—or be eaten—they could have had the esasks throw them from their backs. This place, this symbol. These were important to the Tikitik. To share them with another species?
They believed they had good reason.
She was here to offer an explanation.
Of what?
Start somewhere, Aryl told herself. Anywhere. She slowed and cleared her throat, choosing words with care. They were more dangerous here than any lurker underwater.
“My name is Aryl di Sarc. You named me Apart-from-All, and once it was true, but no longer. Now I am Chosen, a mother-to-be, and Speaker for Sona’s Om’ray. Sona’s new Om’ray. Yena’s exiles.”
They knew, of course. Three factions claimed Yena: one willing to follow the Agreement, one too cautious to change, and one eager to seize the Strangers as an excuse to end it. There’d been Tikitik laughing in the grove that truenight. Laughing as Yena’s homes burned and her people were divided. Because of her.
“We stayed at Sona where Oud, not Tikitik, made us welcome. We would not have wanted any to die on our account, but the Oud protected their claim on Sona. One of you came and insisted on the Balance being maintained. If we’d known—” her hair rose and snapped, “—if I’d known that meant destroying Tuana, I would never have permitted it. We would have left Sona first.”
She reached a point where the barrier turned back on itself and had to stand on tiptoe to make the turn. The next section was straight, and she took longer strides, possibly gaining on Thought Traveler, though one thing she grew sure of: this wasn’t a race. They moved together, somehow, it and she.
“There are Tuana with us. Most, including my Chosen, came because of the Oud. They value us for their own reasons. You know that, too. The others—some escaped the reshaping.”
Clear water, lit from within, swept a gleaming curve ahead of her, matched by a curl of thick brown stream. The two began to seem less like water as she walked between them, and more like symbols themselves. Was the brown the M’hir; the clear, the real world? Or was the brown what lived and the clear what did not, but rather was made by the will of intelligence? Which made little sense when the Tikitik made what lived—or at least so some factions claimed. Perhaps, Aryl thought, she made it all too complicated. Maybe the two simply represented life or death. Survival or failure.
Both had to exist, to write the name of the world. Was that the true meaning of Tikitna and the Makers’ Touch?
If so, she wasn’t here to explain Sona or Tuana.
She was here to explain herself.
Why not?
Why, she thought fiercely, not.
Their attempts at secrecy were worse than futile. The Tikitik could follow them—somehow—no matter if they walked, climbed, or ’ported. They’d been caught in Vyna, traveling as no Om’ray could, where no Om’ray Chosen would.