“Point taken. Though to be fair to my predecessors, you’re the first Om’ray to endure our attempts at serious conversation.” A chill ran down her spine. “We do indeed care—a great deal—about the differences between Om’ray Clans. Every one is unique. Every one must stay distinct to promote the diversity of your kind. Your understanding is not required—” proving it could read her gathering scowl. “Your cooperation is.”
A promising turn. Cooperation implied a future, didn’t it? “If it means we can live in peace . . .” she let her voice trail away.
“It means you have become dangerous, Little Speaker. Your people now walk the name of the world, as we did here, and to either side is death. For the first time in our shared history, Om’ray could disturb the Balance. By accident. By design. And we cannot survive without one another.”
Like the stupid Oud, she decided in frustration. Trying to enlist her, or Sona, or both, against a rival. “Then leave us in peace—”
It pushed her. Quick and hard.
Even as she cried out and slipped toward the brown water, Thought Traveler caught her arm in a grip that hurt. It pulled her upright again, held until she tugged free. “None of us,” it insisted, “survive alone.”
Aryl!
She sent reassurance to Enris, to the others, wishing she could do the same for herself. She was missing something here. Something vital. The Tikitik wasn’t trying to annoy or scare her. It was—it was trying to make her understand. What?
Words. Words weren’t enough for Om’ray. How could she get more from such a being?
The Yena game. The trust game.
Using her left hand, Aryl took hold of Thought Traveler’s left wrist, below the band of cloth with its name. It didn’t avoid her touch; it didn’t resist when she tugged the wrist toward her. Their balance so connected was precarious; both had to use their opposing arms to compensate. “Cooperation,” she said.
“Yes.”
The Tikitik’s skin was cool and dry, almost pebbled. More like stone than the covering of flesh, except for the pulse beneath her forefinger and thumb. Too quick.
Might be normal. Hers raced, too. She’d never imagined playing with it, nor any game for such stakes. The world itself? What could it want from her?
They, not it. Thought Traveler spoke for more than itself. So must she. How could Om’ray be dangerous?
It had taken them from Vyna, said it was to protect the Vyna.
Why?
Unless . . . “Our new Talent lets us travel to other Clans, not just at Passage. Or instead of Passage. That’s the danger,” Aryl guessed with a surge of triumph. “You want us to stay away from each other, to keep the Clans as different as possible.” So much for Enris and his plans for trade. “We can do that.” She’d be glad to keep Sona to itself. They’d have to be sure Oran’s dreams truly stopped, but she’d be glad of that, too. Life would be simple. Peaceful.
Thought Traveler moved its left arm outward; Aryl adjusted automatically. “Vyna knows it must not be contaminated by other Om’ray, Little Speaker. For the rest, change is essential. We would not impose restrictions on your Talent, even if we could.”
Bubbles disturbed the brown water beside her, as if something hung below the surface and laughed at her. “The Vyna can drown in their own poison,” she said coldly. “They’re hardly Om’ray anymore. But if you don’t care about our Talent or what we do with it—” how she wished her mother listened to this, “—I don’t know what else you could want.”
“Stability. Numbers matter, Little Speaker. Your numbers. Clans are supposed to stay together. An unChosen here or there is accommodated by the Agreement. You’ve seen the result when several Om’ray move from one Clan to another at once. The Oud react in reckless fashion. The Balance changes. Too much change and—”
She was ready, barely, for its sharp pull. Knew to bend her knees and resist, to ease the pressure as it suddenly moved toward her again. Thought Traveler played the game well, for all it was something Om’ray, something Yena. She didn’t let go. She didn’t dare.
“Sona won’t happen again,” Aryl protested. “We prefer to stay with our Clans, with our families. We must. Like Chosen, we’re linked to one another, inside.” Except Yao, she thought suddenly. Except Yao and the new babies.
Tomorrow’s problem.
Today? If all the Tikitik wanted was for Om’ray to live as they normally would, of course she’d agree. “If we’re left in peace, I promise we’ll stay where we are.” She offered her right hand, her left still locked on Thought Traveler’s wrist. The final stage of the game: commitment.
The bubbles increased, as if what watched them from beneath sensed they would fall any moment.
Aryl. More than her name. Everything Enris saw in her, believed about her, felt for her. Hair caressed her neck, slid over her shoulders.
Rippled down her arm to where the Tikitik’s clawed hand closed gently over hers, and explored that black strangeness, its shining red gold like a glove. Thought Traveler canted its head to watch, eyes swiveling in their cones, until her hair relaxed to lie against her body as hair should.
All four eyes lifted. “Then we understand one another, Aryl di Sarc, Speaker for Sona and all Om’ray of Cersi.”
A loud rustle overhead made Aryl look up. The branches had emptied. They were alone.
Thought Traveler, its balance as sure as her own, released her hand. She let go its wrist. Then it barked. “Congratulations, Apart-from-All. You’ve exceeded every claim I made on your behalf, and I was most extravagant in my belief. There were those,” in a confiding tone, “sure you’d try to kill me on the way here, a breach of Tikitna that—it doesn’t bear mentioning, now.”
Oh, there’d have been no “try” about it.
Not a thought she’d share when all was going well.
More than well.
Aryl felt giddy as she stepped back. The future she’d imagined as a dim possibility was here. Now. They could ’port without fear. Be whatever they were to be. Stay together? What could be easier to promise?
Being together was life to Om’ray.
She’d done it!
Her joy threw itself to the others, came back threefold. Joy with an underlying distrust doubtless from Anaj. The old Speaker thought she knew the Tikitik. But she’d admitted this wasn’t her time.
It was theirs. Hers. She’d done it!
Now can we go home? Naryn asked.
Home it is. Aryl gestured gratitude to Thought Traveler, then drew the locate of Sona in her mind and . . .
NO!!! The hysterical protest broke her concentration. She almost fell into the water.
It’s safe, Anaj. Naryn shared her sending with the rest of them, as well as her own weary longing. Relax. You don’t have to do any—
NO!!! You can’t know it’s safe!
It doesn’t hurt our babies, Aryl interjected. She felt Enris keep his distance from the conversation. Coward.
I am not one of your babies! NO!!!
Naryn shared her loathing of Tikitna, all things Tikitik, and of sitting on a branch over filthy, swimmer-infested water. Do you want to stay here? Memories of soft Sona blankets, fragrant soup, and crisp mountain air.
Walking was good enough for your parents. It’s good enough for me.
With real fear.
Justified, Aryl decided ruefully. They couldn’t promise travel through the M’hir was safe, not for Anaj, not until they knew more of what she was. At any rate, they couldn’t ’port if the powerful Old Adept continued to resist Naryn’s efforts to concentrate. Or leave Naryn behind.