“That’s not what he means.” Aryl stepped closer. “What is it, Marcus?”
A gleam in the open eye. Gratitude or tears? “Think five more—in ship. Seven, most. Can’t let—any go,” he struggled. A finger scratched at Enris’ arm, lifted to point at the headless husk in its spreading orange-yellow pool. “Mind—mind—crawler—” He turned to press his face against Enris, his body convulsed in quiet sobs.
Pity later.
They scanned his memories, Aryl sent to the Om’ray staring at Marcus, her rage ice-cold beneath the calm. They could know about us.
Haxel’s scar whitened. “We were going to kill them anyway. It’s—” She broke off as Josel leaped from where she was standing and stared downward. “What is it?”
Footprints blurred. The dirt softened!
“The Oud!” Enris. “To the Cloisters. Now!” He and his living burden disappeared.
GO! Aryl sent. And watched the others vanish.
Windows broke the smooth side of the building, made an easy climb to its rounded top. A breeze slipped by her cheeks; she couldn’t tell if it was chill or warm. Didn’t care.
ARYL! Her Chosen was not happy. Not happy at all.
I know what I’m doing.
Safe or not, she couldn’t leave.
Not without seeing for herself.
Not without being sure the rest died for what they’d done.
The bodies of the not-real went first. Aryl lay on her stomach to watch, ready to ’port if the building began to sink. But the Oud left it alone and churned only the ground between.
Quiet fell. Like the still of the canopy before the M’hir Wind, when the world took that final breath.
Aryl stood and walked to the end of the building, balanced on the top of its domed roof. She looked down at the air machine. Sun streaked its surface, shadowed the weapons on its humped back. The tip of the ramp remained exposed, a convenience for those expected back with what they valued.
She smiled.
The first sign of attack was a darkening in the dirt all around the air machine, a stirring.
The next?
As if a mouth opened in the world, the ground fell away beneath the machine. As it toppled and dropped, fire erupted with a roar from its end. If it was an effort to escape, all it accomplished was to obscure the hole with smoke and violent flashes of light. Aryl flinched, threw her arms over her face, began to concentrate . . . kaBOOM!
... she was in the air, flying backward amid dirt and stone and scorching heat . . .
... then, she was on the floor of the Cloisters.
Flat on her back on the floor. Surrounded by legs.
Where, she thought giddily, was dignity when she needed it?
And why was everything spinning into darkness . . . ?
“Aryl. Beloved. Aryl?” A deep, gentle whisper in her ear. It tickled and her hair lifted to find the source. “Awake? It’s about time.” This not gentle at all. Aryl opened her eyes and blinked.
Still on her back.
Pushing off the blanket, she sat up, ignoring the complaints of various abused body parts, and swung her legs off the platform. Enris stood nearby and watched, arms folded, shields tight.
Not tight enough. Waves of anxiety, dread, and a not-insignificant OUTRAGE beat at her. “Stop that,” she grumbled, rubbing her forehead. “I’m fine.”
The waves eased slightly. His ferocious scowl didn’t. “You aren’t fine. You were close to an explosion.”
Explaining the sore head.
Aryl rose to her feet, pleasantly surprised to be clean. Her hair tumbled free around her bare shoulders and she fought it back with both hands, looking for its net. “What’s been hap—” The rest was smothered as Enris wrapped her tightly in his big arms. Aryl patted him comfortingly, though she winced at what was, by the feel, a bruised rib. Or two. Never do that again, he sent.
I didn’t know it would blow up, she said reasonably. Though this was the second time, in her experience, which didn’t say much for Stranger technology. Enris, love. My ribs? Not to mention she couldn’t talk while he squeezed her like this.
He changed his hold to cup her face in both hands, studying it while she waited. Hair coiled around his wrists, looped its red-gold up his arms to stroke along his jaw. Finally, his scowl faded. He planted a firm kiss on her forehead, then her mouth. “Oran did a good job.”
Oran. The Healer?
Aryl pushed away. “How long have I been lying here?” And where was here? She looked around for the first time.
One of the Cloisters’ small rooms. She hadn’t lain on a platform—she’d been on their bed, from Sona. The weathered wood and rock looked wrong against the pale yellow walls. There was more, all wrong. Supplies, blankets, baskets of clothing.
The steady light from the ceiling strip shone on their home.
“What have you done?” she demanded as she grabbed clothes and began to dress.
Enris chose to answer her first question. “You’ve been lying here, scaring me, for two days.”
She froze, her head halfway through the neck of her tunic. “Two days?”
The corner of his generous mouth twitched. “The world hasn’t ended and no one’s come knocking.”
Two days . . . Finished with the tunic, Aryl fought hair until Enris tossed her hairnet to her. “As for what we’ve done—”
Hair secured, Aryl shook her head impatiently. She reclaimed the Human’s disk and ’scanner, tucking both into pockets, then threw her knife belt around her hips and secured it with a quick tug.
“I can see for myself.” Done? They’d settled in, that was what they’d done. They’d had time to ’port the entire village here, plus probably most of the supplies from the mounds. She picked up her Speaker’s Pendant. Put it down. Everything else could wait. “Marcus?”
His shields locked tight.
Not good. Not good at all. “Enris?”
“We’ve done all we can—”
Worse. “Where is he?”
“I’ll take you.” He gathered her close again, this time gently, and . . .
... they were outside.
Outside?
A damp breeze chilled her face as Enris opened his arms to let her go. Aryl stared around in shock. This was the Cloisters’ platform, still covered in dirt and dust. There was the wall around it—
—a wall that looked over a wide, dark lake. At its far edge, where there should be nekis, only a few scattered tips showed through water laced with white foam. Its near edge was the wall. Water slapped against it, sprayed into her face. A log tumbled past, roots helplessly in air.
She was still unconscious, Aryl thought numbly. This couldn’t be real.
“We think it was the explosion,” Enris said. “Whatever the Oud did to divert the waterfall isn’t working anymore. The upper part of the valley is flooded like this, though by Sona the river returns to its old path.” He didn’t mention his dam; it couldn’t have withstood this, Aryl realized with an inner pang. “The Stranger camp was destroyed,” he finished.
“Why did you bring me here? Where’s Marcus?”
Enris sighed and gestured apology, his hand raised to point left. The others refused to let a not-real inside.
She didn’t reply to this, didn’t do anything but turn and walk along the platform, following the outer curve of the Cloisters. She passed window after window and dared not think of those inside, who’d leave—who’d leave—
“Aryl!”
There. A cluster of white crates for walls. Sona blankets for a roof. This was all they’d done for him?