Naryn pushed her aside. I can talk to them now. Any of them. Ask for their help.
Though the other couldn’t see it, Aryl shook her head violently; her hair lashed her shoulders. It won’t work. Marcus had told her the Trade Pact wouldn’t let the Triads interfere; he wore his costume and pretended to be Om’ray, rather than draw attention. As for those who’d attacked the Triad sites? The Strangers won’t help us.
They would for the ability to travel through the M’hir.
Tuana were traders.
She hadn’t realized, until now, that they could make anything a commodity.
No, Naryn.
Spread their problems across countless worlds and races. What had Marcus called it?
War.
Aryl . . .
NO! Don’t mention this to anyone again. Either of you.
Aryl severed their connection so violently, the M’hir slapped back at her as if she’d tossed a mountain into the ocean. Stung, she fought to see reality, to hold her sense of self. Finally, the waves ended and released her. She hoped Naryn and Anaj hadn’t felt that. Not all of it.
Enough, Aryl thought grimly, to help them understand.
The Oud, wanting her help against the Tikitik. The Tikitik, against the Oud. Now Naryn, proposing Om’ray and the Strangers against both.
Never, Aryl vowed, while she lived.
“Anything I should know?” Haxel asked in a quiet voice.
Checking her shields, Aryl made herself relax as she turned. “We’re in trouble, and the Adepts argue about my age.”
The First Scout chuckled. “They don’t know you.” Her smile faded. “What does that mean?” She pointed at Aryl’s hand.
Which still held the geoscanner. Startled, Aryl raised the device. A blue light pulsed beneath its clear dome. “Something new,” she admitted.
Haxel stiffened. “Dangerous?”
The blue pulse flickered faster and faster.
“Not the Oud.” She could think of only one thing to try. Aryl lifted the device near her mouth. “Marcus? Are you there?”
A loud burst of jumbled sounds answered, none understandable. The voice—was it a voice?—was shrill, higher than any she’d heard. Shrill and threatening.
Aryl turned off the ’scanner, shoved it in its pocket, and met Haxel’s pale eyes. “Not a friend,” the First Scout decided. “Inside.”
The hole was, if anything, darker and scarier than ever. Aryl avoided looking at it as Haxel began to speak. “Syb, you and—” The rest was drowned out by a deep rumble, rushing toward them.
Closer . . . closer. On them!
The building shook.
Mud loosened around the hole, sliding down but not filling it.
Enris!!!
We’re all right. Are you?
Last time it had been Naryn, digging out the riverbed.
This? Was the mountain shaking? Should they ’port to safety? Before she could do more than consider it, the sound and vibration passed overhead and diminished.
It’s leaving, she sent, astonished.
“Find it!” Haxel ordered. “Stay out of sight!”
Be careful! This from her Chosen, with a certain irony.
The rumble went behind the buildings, to where the Oud toiled to disturb what some Tikitik called the “Makers’ Rest.” Om’ray didn’t go there, not anymore. Aryl followed the sound, running close to one wall. She stopped before breaking into the open, paused to sense Haxel and the rest nearby in the grove.
They would let her take the lead; she was their Speaker, and there were no other Om’ray here. What might be here, Aryl thought with an odd catch in her breath, none of them could guess.
The Oud had been busy since she’d last been here. The landscape was torn open—not torn, she realized with amazement. They’d stripped away what had lain on top to uncover roadways and stone stairs. A set lay before her, winding and worn, and of no use to Oud, which likely explained why they’d continued to dig deeper to either side. Aryl could imagine Marcus being grateful to have something easier for his feet.
Easier and better cover. She took the stairs, careful to keep to shadows. The rumble was coming back toward her.
Aryl showed her teeth. Good. Now to see. She eased around an exposed rock wall.
Busy indeed. A structure had been partially freed from the cliff face, curved and elaborate, as flawless as those she’d seen beneath the Lake of Fire and uncovered by the Strangers at Site Two. Hoveny ruins.
Things left by the long-dead didn’t concern her.
What came toward her, its low rumble vibrating through the soles of her feet, did.
She’d made fiches the size of her hand glide through the air, of dresel wing, thread, and sticks. She knew the amazing aircars of the Strangers, the noisy winged flyers of the Oud, had been carried by an esan’s doubled wings.
How could anything like this fly?
Aryl clutched her pendant, almost deafened. The machine descending before the cliff was larger than the buildings behind her. Twenty—more—aircars could have fit inside it. Like the Oud flying machines, fire came out of it. Like the Humans’ aircar, there were no wings.
Her eyes narrowed. Scars marred its skin. There were objects fastened to it, or protruding from it. Along its underside, what must be feet. On its back? Those objects were sharp and aimed forward, like horns or knives. Best to assume they were as dangerous as they looked.
The fire ceased, as if turned off like a glow; with that, the rumble ended, but the machine wasn’t silent. It whined as it came to rest, feet adjusting to the uneven ground with a series of metallic clangs. Suddenly, even the whine stopped.
Silence. Aryl’s ears buzzed.
A ramp extended like a tongue to taste the dirt. Above it, a door opened into the belly of the machine.
And out they came . . .
Interlude
UNTIL THIS MOMENT, STANDING TOO CLOSE to the sky in Yena’s canopy or on a mountain ridge—closely followed by dangling from the claws of an esask over a mountain ridge—had been the former Tuana’s idea of situations to avoid repeating at all costs. Enris dropped his hand from the now-stable tunnel wall, tested his legs, and moved being underground when the ground itself shook to the top of his list.
Trust Aryl and the Yena to chase after the cause.
Be careful, he’d sent, as if she could. Or would.
“That was—unpleasant,” he commented.
“That?” His uncle chuckled, not unkindly. “Always happens when Oud run their machines in nearby tunnels. Shakes up some dust, nothing worse. Josel?”
The hole had opened into a well-lit tunnel; a tunnel which promptly and unhelpfully branched in four directions, all strewn with Oud gore. Not for long, Enris noticed queasily. Normally skittish iglies clustered around the larger splots of green, paying no attention to Om’ray and their boots as they crowded to get at the stuff, shoving one another vigorously with their jointed legs. Those pushed out of place flashed alarm and complained with wet-smacks before jumping back in.
“Through here,” the unChosen announced, pointing to one of the identical tunnels.
All Josel had done was quickly step inside each tunnel mouth and back again. Having been lost among the Oud once, Enris hesitated. “Why that one?”
Netta bumped him forward. The twins, also identical, were his height and strongly built, even for Tuana. “She knows.”
“She does,” Suen assured him. “Josel’s Talent tells her where there’s been movement lately—and how much. This was the busiest tunnel.”
A useful Talent for a Runner, who would normally avoid any space in use by Oud. Enris gestured gratitude and was rewarded by a shy smile.