Riders of the Storm (46 page)

As Sona would be, if she failed.

Tired of fighting the snow and her emotions, Aryl stopped short. “We see you,” she said, her voice carrying in the cold.

The centermost Oud reared up, creating a plume of snow, and produced its pendant. “Sona Speaker. Here is.”

The other two Oud lifted on their platforms and began tossing objects from beneath their bodies at them. Packs. Bulky Tuana-style packs. Nine large ones, well used. A small one, torn along a side. A hail of blades and tools followed, most burying themselves in the snow. The gear taken from Naryn and the others?

As if it mattered.

“That's not why I want to talk to you.”

“What is? Water want? Other?”

The Oud being reasonable. The Oud being considerate, if a little late. Did these not know what had happened less than a tenth ago? Dare she ask?

Enris shifted beside her, snow creaking under his big feet. Like thunder from the sky, building to an explosion of light and fire.

She'd ask. “What happened at Tuana today?”

“Why did you destroy it and kill everyone?” Enris roared, stepping forward.

The Oud reared higher. “Whowhowho?”

Aryl drove her shoulder into him, hard enough to throw him off-balance.
Stop!
she sent desperately.
Give me a chance.
Please, Enris,
more softly.
Trust me.

He subsided. Slightly.

“Tuana was—” she stumbled over their term, “—reshaped. Why?”

Naryn stood with Marcus. Aryl waited for the Oud to answer, hoping for a reason that wouldn't crush her new friend with the kind of guilt she carried. Hoping for a reason they could understand.

Cold. She was always cold these days. Could see the clouds from her breath meet and mingle with Enris'. The Oud spoke without breath, its limbs rubbing together to produce words. It didn't matter, Aryl told herself. They were still words.

“Balance,” the Oud said finally. “Balance goodgoodgoodgood. Peace.”

A child without a mother lay broken in Marcus' bed. Enris stood beside her, so consumed by rage and grief it felt like her own. An entire Clan, lost. “It's not good!” she denied, her voice rising. “Oud killed Tuana's Om'ray. What could that possibly balance? It's not good. Not good!”

It hesitated, as if surprised by her anger. “Decided other. Sona Oud.”

What did it mean?

“Exactly.” The snow shifted as the Tikitik stood, its skin as white as its surroundings, save for the short black barbs on the outside of its arms and gleaming black orbs that were its four eyes. “I see you didn't die, Enris Mendolar.”

“Day's not over,” that worthy replied.

They knew one another?

Aryl glared at it. Thought Traveler was attracted to trouble like a biter to blood. “Do you know why the Oud destroyed Tuana?”

“We were in their tunnels.” Naryn was at Aryl's shoulder, hair a wild cloud. “Was that why? Was it my fault?”

Thought Traveler barked his laugh. “Tuana has been re-born because of you, Apart-from-All. Did you not realize the Agreement holds the lands of Oud and Tikitik in balance? That when you resettled Sona and welcomed the Oud—who, it must be said, had pushed rudely into these mountains before your time, but still—that the Tikitik were owed a replacement?”

It toyed with her—with them all. Like Mauro, it took pleasure from their pain and suffering. “You're lying. Why would the Oud kill so many Om'ray because a few of us came here?”

The Tikitik dipped its head, like a sly child. “Why do you think they like lists? They can't count.”

The Oud Speaker flung itself from side to side, crashing into its companions. With each movement, it spoke, loudly. “Oud calculate.” Thud! “More than.” An Oud was tumbled from its vehicle and humped back on top, crouching low. “Less than. Extrapolate.” A final thud, then it settled. “Tikitik stupid!”

“I meant no insult, Esteemed Speaker,” Thought Traveler said smoothly. Its larger pair of eyes never left Aryl. “I merely educate your counterpart.”

“Don't listen to it,” Enris urged.

She didn't want to.

She had to.

Was it her doing?

“How did killing the Tuana—” the words were slivers of wood in her mouth, “—restore the balance?”

Thought Traveler's long toes lifted it on the snow. It pranced, more than walked, toward her. “Tuana is again Tikitik. The Lay Swamp already spreads. We have begun our planting. There will be rastis once more on the plains, homes for our mothers. Dresel for our dear Om'ray.”

“What Om'ray?” Enris said harshly.

“The strongest.” That sly head tilt. “The best.”

Hush,
she sent to Enris. “What do you mean, ‘again'?”

It came close to her, fingers scooping the air. She could smell it: stale dresel, old clothes. “Did you think this the first time, Apart-from-All, that Oud and Tikitik have exchanged Clans for the sake of balance? Do you think it the last?”

“Balance good!” the Oud agreed.

Aryl's hand clenched over the pendant.

It had been her fault. All of it.

She'd stepped on a branch that couldn't hold her, led her people there, gathered the innocent Grona and Tuana to her folly. Believed she was a Speaker, a leader, that she could save everyone.

All she'd accomplished was death. “Why kill them?” Numbly. “Why kill Sona?”

“I did warn you, Apart-from-All. The Oud do not appreciate your fragile nature. They came seeking their metal, water for their industry, and found secrets from the past. Their desire made them impetuous. They reshaped to supplant us and killed Sona's Om'ray instead.”

Abruptly, its face thrust at hers—she refused to pull away, even when the writhing protuberances around its mouth patted her lips and chin, tasted the tears from her eyes.

“Delicate, your flesh.” This so quietly she doubted anyone else heard. “Dangerous, what lies within. I will tell you another truth, Apart-from-All. The Oud cherish what could destroy them. We are not such fools.”

Then it was gone, running on top of the snow.

Aryl lifted the pendant from her neck, over her head, yanked it free of her scarf. Raised her hand and drew back her arm to throw it away.

The Oud Speaker lowered itself until its speaking limbs were barely free of the platform. “Sona Oud? Goodgoodgoodgood? Water want?”

She hesitated, her arm shaking.

Starvation. Flood. Storm.

The Tikitik stole Yena's defenses, invited what climbed in truenight to eat their flesh…
watched
and laughed.

The Oud dug the ground from beneath Tuana's feet…and seemed surprised they were upset.

The Oud “cherished” them?

“Marcus.”

He pushed between her and Enris, slipped in the snow. The Tuana caught his arm to steady him. “I'm here.”

“Triad First,” the Oud agreed, whether in greeting or identification Aryl wasn't sure.

But it was right. The Human was the only one used to the confusion of many kinds of being, of thought. He'd said the Oud's lifecycle was different.

She lowered her voice, though no one knew how well Oud could hear. “Marcus, could they have destroyed Tuana without realizing it would kill its people? Could they make that kind of—mistake?” Enris flinched at the word. She didn't blame him.

Marcus gave her his troubled look. “We saw them kill Tikitik. I don't think by mistake. Might be,” he glanced uneasily at the creatures, “might be they don't value life as we do.
Colonial-society
—”

“Our words.”

“The Oud may be less individual, more group-minded. If some Oud die, it doesn't matter to them so long as the group continues.”

“They have individuals,” Enris countered harshly. “They know who we are, who you are.”

“Other Oud not.” In his urgency to be understood, Marcus struggled to put words together. “I've see—seen Oud who work and never talk. Seen Oud who talk and decide—make decisions. There could be more kinds.
Castes
. Or some stage of lifecycle when an Oud could be an individual, at other part of life, not. Complicated life—I don't know, we didn't ask. Do you understand? But nothing like Om'ray or Human. Actions are not like Om'ray or Human. You can't think of them that way.”

Aryl chewed her lower lip. If she understood him—something she hoped but couldn't be sure—then the Oud might not feel remorse or guilt. Or any other emotion she could grasp. “What can I do?” she asked hopelessly.

Marcus put his back to the Oud, faced her and the other Om'ray. “Let me talk to them.”

“No! I don't know what you are,” Naryn objected hotly, “but you don't speak for us. Aryl—you can't let it.”

Aryl looked at Enris. His face was pale where he'd wiped away soot. Pale and hard and desperate. Anything, that expression told her. Anything that keeps us alive.

Marcus waited in the snow, shivering, in his not-quite-Om'ray clothes. He should have seemed the weakest here, out of place. Instead, suddenly she saw him as she thought others of his kind must: a leader of exceptional skill, confident of his abilities, experienced and brave.

Frightened, yes. But no fool.

She nodded, and the Human turned to the Oud. “Speaker. What happens to Oud who die?”

Not what she'd expected, nor, from Enris' expression, had he. Who cared about those already dead? Or the Oud's dead?

The Oud Speaker reared to answer. “Dead reshaped.”

“Reshaped to what?”

The Oud rose higher, its pendant dangling from a limb. “Tikitik.”

Aryl blinked. Naryn choked.

Marcus didn't appear surprised. “What do Tikitik become when they are reshaped?”

“Om'ray. Better is.”

Aryl opened her mouth to protest. The Human, perceptive as always, reached back and signed her to stop. “And Om'ray?” he asked.

The Speaker rocked gently.

“What do Om'ray become, when reshaped?” Marcus persisted.

She'd been wrong to let him speak. This was madness.

“Oud. Best is.”

Did he expect her—expect anyone—to listen to such nonsense? That the Oud believed the bodies of each race somehow became the other?

“Did you destroy the Tuana Om'ray to make more Oud?”

How could he ask that?

What if it were true? They'd never be safe. The Oud would surely kill them all…

“Oud less,” the Speaker denied. “Tuana reshaped. Tikitik more.”

Marcus shook his head. “I don't understand,” he objected, sounding shaken for the first time. Aryl agreed. “Where are the Tuana Oud?”

“Oud reshaped.” The Speaker shook its pendant vigorously. “Tikitik more. Balance.”

The Oud had died, too? Some mass suicide, required to remove themselves from land that was now Tikitik?

If they expected her to feel guilt for Oud deaths, Aryl thought darkly, they should have let the Om'ray escape first.

Before the Human could ask another question, the Speaker spoke again, quickly. “Om'ray live, best is. Om'ray more, Oud more. Goodgoodgoodgood.”

Ever-curious, Marcus asked, “How?”

In answer, all three Oud reared, their limbs clenched together.

And all three Om'ray cried out.

Aryl fought to keep her focus as
SOMETHING
twisted inside. Her Power, her inner sense, all that connected her to other Om'ray was being disturbed, pulled and pushed away, taken and replaced…until she retreated into the comfort of the M'hir and could find herself again.

Enris.
She summoned him there, felt the link between them form and grow strong, Power reaching to Power.
Naryn,
she called.

No!

She ignored his objection. They were Om'ray. They had to survive.

Naryn.
Clinging to her at first, then, gaining confidence. Naryn extended a link to Enris.

The M'hir churned with his
hate.
His
revulsion
!

No.
Aryl refused to allow it.
The others! Worin!
Had they been—what had the Oud done?

These are Oud Torments. We're taught not to use Power near them.
Naryn's mindvoice, clear and sure.
This…this is why. I told you. They have their own Power, too different from ours. But it doesn't affect us here…
with wonder.

She could feel Enris
reaching
for his brother, for Yuhas and Caynen, felt the three minds drawn into the M'hir, how he held them there, safe from the Oud.

Away from her. From Naryn.

Aryl didn't waste time feeling hurt. Safe from the Oud didn't mean safe from the M'hir. And they'd left Marcus, their own bodies…

She eased herself from the M'hir, regaining cold feet and a foul taste in her mouth.

The twisted sensation was gone. All the Oud were lying on their vehicles.

Marcus had her by the shoulders. He gave her a shake. “Aryl! Aryl!”

She grunted something, busy recalling the rest. “That was—”

“Painful,” Naryn supplied. “Stupid not-Om'ray.”

Enris was already halfway to the shelter. Checking on his brother or abandoning her?

Both, Aryl decided.

“Aryl!”

“I'm fine, Marcus. The Oud—” None of the words he'd given her fit what she'd sensed from the creatures. “They did something we could feel. Not telepathy. Not words or communication. Their presence. It was—unpleasant.”

“Better now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” A dismissal; the Human, unaffected, had no idea how devastating the moment had been for the Om'ray. Something to remember, Aryl thought. “Listen to me. The reshaping. The Oud aren't talking about bodies. Not flesh. The Oud talk about—” he waved his gloved hands around his head, “—telepathy, parts of mind, what we not see/touch, what you feel. They believe all connected. Om'ray. Tikitik. Oud. Same inside.
Continuum.
I need more words.
Spirit. Reincarnation. Soul. Religiousbeliefs.
” He sputtered along, frustrated. “Important to understand—”