“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.
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?
“Wait!”
Aryl broke into a run, hearing Enris behind her. She burst through the blanket that made a door and stopped in her tracks.
Warm and dry. Dim; the oillights couldn’t match daylight. A faint, unfamiliar smell. Two narrow crates were tables; one held an untouched meal, the other an assortment of items that belonged in pockets but not on Cersi. Other crates for seats. A bed. The breeze wafted the blanket overhead.
Like their first shelter at Sona, when they’d had nothing.
Sian surged to his feet at the sight of her; so did Naryn. Little Yao stayed where she was, snuggled in the curve of the Hu man’s arm.
While he—while Marcus lay against pillows, a shadow that smiled and coughed and wasn’t right. Wasn’t right.
“What have you told her?” Naryn demanded.
Enris, who’d entered at her heels, spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “She didn’t wait.”
Aryl didn’t listen to them. She walked to the bed, found a smile for Yao, lost it when she looked at Marcus. “I’m sorry—” Her voice failed, too.
“Are you all . . . right?” the Human asked. “They told . . . me you . . . were hurt.”
Perfect words, quietly spoken, the small pained gasps for breath the only sign of effort. Why he wasn’t already dead, she couldn’t guess. Bones stood out on his face and hands. The skin of both was purpled by bruises, pale yellow where it wasn’t. His neck had been neatly bandaged; fresh red stains marked a still-open wound. “They took better care of me,” she told him, and planned to ’port their precious Healer into the floodwater at her first opportunity.
“Oran tried. So did Sian.” Naryn was standing on the other side of the bed. She drew the child from Marcus with a gentle hand and handed her a cup. “Yao, our friend’s run out of his drink. Please go and ask Rorn if there’s any sombay left.”
Yao gave Aryl a too-adult look, but disappeared obediently.
“What do you mean ‘tried’?” Aryl asked.
Sian.
Marcus looked anxious, as if he’d transgressed. “Everyone . . . has been kind. Aryl. Don’t . . . be . . . angry.”
Was she that easy to read? Probably. Aryl forced her expression into something calmer. “You haven’t been eating.”
His eyelids had healed, the eyes themselves were unutter ably weary. “Left . . . for the big guy. Not . . . hungry.”
“The real hurt is inside.” Sian touched a forefinger to his own head.
The mindcrawler.
Aryl sat on the bed and put her hand close to, but not touching, the Human’s.
She waited. Marcus met her gaze for a long moment, then tipped his head on the pillow, the way he had when about to ask one of his odd questions. “This . . . not your fault. You know . . . that.”
