Free Reap the Wild Wind by Julie E Czerneda Page B

preparations that their hair was liberally anointed with a rare oil to discourage biters. The dignity of Council would hardly be served by them flailing about to protect themselves from clouds of small annoyances. It didn’t work as well as somgelt toxin, but helped.

The Speaker’s Pendant, heavy and narrow, rested between Taisal’s small breasts. Having heard from playmates that Tikitik couldn’t tell each other apart, let alone Om’ray, a young Aryl had guessed they used the ornament to know who her mother was. Taisal had smiled at her, saying only that it was easy to underestimate those who looked different. She’d let Aryl touch the pendant. Its markings weren’t like those the Tikitik wove on Om’ray door panels; the metal itself was equally foreign, pale and green as if a leaf had hardened. It was the oldest object among the Yena, of forgotten origin.

Now, Aryl knew the pendant was more important than the individual wearing it. No meeting could take place between any of Cersi’s three races without the pendant of each Speaker present and displayed. There were, she’d noticed, a great many such incomprehensible rules, minded more by Council than ordinary Om’ray.

To be fair, when not in their robes and wearing implacable expressions, those on Council were, in Aryl’s experience, ordinary enough. Old and inclined to make pompous announcements, smell funny, and pat her on the head, but that was to be expected. That had been her opinion before this M’hir and the Harvest. Before she’d done what she’d done. Now, the six looked dangerous, a threat to her and to Bern if the Tikitik weren’t.

They’d probably always been dangerous, Aryl decided morosely, her fingers restless on the pane— they wanted to slip between Bern’s for comfort, and she refused. Was this growing up? Realizing what their kind of power could do? Sanction. Exile. They’d been words before. Now they were real.

“There. There they are.” The whispers came from all around them. No one dared mindspeech; no one gambled they knew everything about the Tikitik.

She could see them now, three narrow forms taking shape at the limit of the glows. An angled limb. A curve of neck. A broad foot plunged into the water; a final movement that sent ripples outward. The watery rings captured light before they wrapped around the platform’s varied edges and crossed to darkness.

Aryl focused on breathing through her nose. There were cries from children, quietly hushed. Someone nearby gave a nervous laugh. Another coughed. The benches creaked on their ropes.

The Tikitik waited. They were aware of the profound confusion their physical presence caused Om’ray; it was unlikely they understood it. Though intelligent and capable of speech, to Aryl’s deeper sense they were not-there . It was like watching a drawing come to life, or having a table answer a question. Impossible and disturbing. You couldn’t prepare, Aryl knew. Only work your mind around to belief.

It took a moment for the Om’ray to settle. Once they did, the Speaker took a step closer to the platform edge. “We see you,” she announced, the words clear and loud.

Even as echoes came back, the Tikitik were moving.

Eyes winked out, leaving a swathe of dark water to precede them. Respect and sense both. There was only one sure mode of travel through the Lay Swamp, and the Tikitik owned it.

And rode it. Their esask mounts rocked forward on six thin, armored legs long enough to find secure footing during flood. Although they were the largest inhabitants of the Lay Swamp, their bodies were narrow— tall and long rather than wide— allowing them to easily pass between the dense columns of buttress and trunk.

The upper half of those bodies was covered in shaggy hair, dyed white and red in more of the Tikitik’s inexplicable patterns. The lower half was protected by black overlapping plates. The head was carried low on a twice curved neck, and constantly in motion, swinging side to