That was the thing I feared. That was the trap that snared him.

  The undying came through the village when he was in the t’nink.

  Avagrunn saw him and desired him. Took him.

  I had friends then. One of them saw what happened and came to tell me, comfort me as much as she could.

  He betrayed his teaching. How could he not—he was only a boy and she is ages old in treachery and terror. He didn’t tell her anything, I’m sure of that, but somehow he let her see he knew his letters. That was all she’d need. They brought his head to me, priests and a squad of harriers. They branded me and drove me from my home. They burned everything, killed my kin, everyone except me. Me they left alive to remember and grieve over what I had done. Oh yes, they sterilized me first to make sure none of my tainted blood would be passed on. What can I do? Avagrunn won’t change. As long as she is there, as long as her power supports the Matriarch, nothing will change. You must understand, hope’s the only pain I couldn’t endure. I have no hope. I will walk my quiet rounds the rest of my days. I will shear my gettesau each spring and trade the fleeces for what I need to keep me for the year. When the time comes I will die up here and rot and finally I will be some use again, fertilizing the trees and feeding the scavengers. Regrets? I regret nothing. What I did before I would do again. My beautiful boy, how could I cripple him with unnecessary ignorance? Would I break his leg to make him limp, would I pluck out an eye to destroy the lovely symmetry of his face? How much less could I stop the reach of his mind? I accept no guilt for what I did; the guilt lies with the undying, with Avagrunn. If I could get my hands around her throat, I would test how undying she really is. But there is no hope of that, so I have no hope. Ah, I’m tired of talking about this, it’s all foolishness and futility. Go away. I’ve nothing more to say to you. Go!

  Vrithian

  action on the periphery [3]

  Amaiki touched the screen to life, clasped her hands to stop them trembling as she saw the loved faces: little Muri up front; Kimpri leaning over his shoulder; Keran towering over all of them, a half-smile on her narrow face; Betaki leaning against her, amusement warm in his slitted eyes; Se-Passhi, their naish, in the curve of Muri’s arm. Dear, most dear, all of them. Seeing them like this, unable to touch or smell them, was almost more than she could bear. Then Betaki held up the newest hatchling, a tiny gold naish, the blessing of blessings to a mate-meld. She gasped and bent closer to the screen, her hand up to touch the little blind face, her heart so full that she couldn’t speak. She made the blessing signs, the joy signs that should have been made touching the soft soft skin, aching because she could not feel their naishlet, could not smell the sweet-sour scent of the infant.

  Muri cleared his throat, tapped his skinny forefinger against the screen, finally catching her notice. “Haven’t named our naish yet, Ammi-sim. Waiting for you.”

  “Ah why? Muri-sim, I’m stuck here three more years.”

  “We want you to tell the undying to let you go. He’s broken his side of the covenant, two winters with no rain. Why should we keep our side?” His high tenor roughened to a low growl; there was a general murmur of agreement from the others.

  Amaiki closed her eyes and breathed slowly until she had control of herself; she hated fusses, hated getting into a flutter. Keeping her voice low and quiet, she said, “It will be difficult. He does not listen to our speaker here—why should he listen to me? I’ll try to make him hear me. Muri meldbrother, have there been dreams in the Dums around here, dreams of fire and death that could be reaches into tomorrow?”

  Muri smoothed his hand over his lacy crest. “No one but us left in Shiosa, Ammi. We had dreams, but who can say what they mean?”

  “No one left?”

  “The deepest well in Shiosa is sucking mud. We could drill deeper yet, but what’s the point?”

  “Ah. The meld dreams?”

  Kimpri leaned over Muri, ignoring his disgruntled snort. “Blood and death, Ammi. You remember Tamakis in Dum Hayash? Who was my nest-sister?”

  “Kimp-sim, I’ve only been gone a year and a half, not half a life.”

  “Feels like a life—the flavor of the meld needs your Spice, love-sister. Anyway, she called me before her mate-meld left, a pretty good far-speaker she is too, says she felt blood dreams all over the uplands.” She straightened, brushed affectionately at Muri’s crest, flicked a finger against the tip of an ear. “All right, all right, little cricket.”

  Amaiki swallowed. “How long can you wait?” she said, her voice hardly louder than a whisper.

  Muri looked uncomfortable. “We thought we could stay out your time, Ammi, but we can’t do it alone. Wolves prowling. Four-legged and otherwise. The other night we talked things over and called line-mother in Shim Shupat. She’s got space we can have on a ship for Bygga Modig. It leaves with the tide Minha-new-moon. That’s seven days from today.” He fell silent, drooped sadly, his quicksilver spirits gone suddenly dull.

  Keran made an impatient sound, leaned forward, taller and more angular than any of the others; she wasn’t a talker, was far more expressive with her hands. “Am, uplands’re empty. Pinbo m’ cousin Likut’s line, taken the year after I hatched, she a far-speaker, touched our Se-passhi, says come and be welcome. Guldafel. Lot of taken there.” She raised a long hand, signed love and retreated.

  Amaiki signed back, then stroked the folds of skin about her neck. “Nothing else you can do. I agree. Give me three days. If I’m not out by then, Hyaroll won’t let me go. That gives you four to make the coast.” She smiled at Keran, reached out touched the glass where her meld-sister was. “My love, no one can convince me you’ve let our flier go out of shape, so you all can spare me three days.”

  Keran smiled gratification, nodded.

  Muri erected his crest, opened his eyes wide. “We’ll be early and wait the whole day.” He spread his hands, long fingers flickering with signs for amplitude and good living. “A grand last picnic to say farewell to the uplands. The hatchlings will love it.” He sobered. “And if the undying won’t let go?”

  Amiki moved restlessly, shifting her feet on the beaten-earth floor of the com-kiosk. Nothing here was secret from the undying. Nothing at all. But what did it matter? She had to do what her fate decreed, so let him hear. Let me be as bold as the odd folk. “If he will not let me go, I will get free somehow and come after you, my loves. Leave signs behind to tell me where you are and I’ll find you no matter what. No matter how long or hard the journey, I will find you.” That last was a promise she meant to keep, a promise implicit in the formality of the words. She backed half a step from the screen, fighting to control the emotion erupting in her; she was turning into a stranger she didn’t quite like.

  The meld made the love signs, the waiting and faithful signs, then the farewell signs; Betaki held up the hatchling and moved the little naish’s hand in a fluid farewell sign, the baby cooing and making small sucking sounds. Amaiki gave the signs back, her eyes blurring, her control deserting her again. She brushed at her eyes, blinked to clear them, unwilling to miss a second of seeing them. Understanding this, Muri broke the connection and all that was left was darkness.

  Amaiki moved quickly out of the kiosk and went to stand by the wall. She watched her family move out of the other side and climb into the flier, stood leaning on the top stones while the flier lifted vertically and turned toward Shiosa. It hovered a moment. She waved. It dipped a stubby wing at her, a quick precarious move that could have been a disaster with anyone but Keran at the console.

  She stood watching until she could see the black speck no longer, then trudged wearily to her dwelling to eat a light meal and gather her courage before she tried to reach Hyaroll.

  Vrithian

  on the oblique file [3]

  Willow sang: “This and this and this and this and this and this,” scraping carefully at a shaft a little greater around than her biggest finger, smoothing it, gradually tapering a portion at one end to the girth of the tapestry needle set in that end.

  Days ago, after she left Bodri brooding over the properties of roots and how they could possibly get at a man who knew exactly what they were doing, she rambled about the whole of the domed enclave hunting out and collecting branches of the proper tight grain, girth, strength and straightness. She brought these back to the hillside where she had her camp, cut them into roughly equal lengths, then dried them on a frame over a smoky fire. When they were ready for working, she sent Sunchild foraging for her. In the lizard folk’s village he found a dozen tapestry needles, in Hyaroll’s long-unused workshop he found glue, hones and an assortment of cutting tools. He was limited in the weights he could manage, but he absorbed patience from Willow and found what he considered a perverse satisfaction in the task.

  She took the hone and began sharpening the blunt needles; Sunchild squatted beside her, the squeaks and squeals of the hone affecting him as catnip did a cat.

  When the needles were sharp enough to prick a thought, Willow chose twelve shafts from among the cured branches, reamed holes in one end of each, then glued the needles into them.

  Willow sang: “This and this and this and this and this,” and handed the finished shaft to Sunchild. He heated up one hand and rubbed gently along the shaft until it was polished smooth and hard as stone. He set it on a cloth beside him and waited contentedly for the next.

  Bodri was burming along to himself, a low rumbling tuneless hum, working as intently as Willow, borrowing her worksongs to pass the time in his tedious experiments. He was cutting up several different kinds of roots and pods, tossing the chunks into the pot hanging over a small hot fire. While Willow was hunting her arrow shafts, he’d been prospecting among the plants, sniffing and tasting, bringing back samples to the camp, making decoctions of them and testing these on birds and fish. He wasn’t satisfied yet with the toxicity of his mixes or the speed with which they acted. The decoctions that acted quickly enough killed just as fast in very small doses; the ones that only stunned took too long to do it. They certainly didn’t want to kill the man—that would ruin everything.

  Willow’s camp was a dirt flat on the hill behind Hyaroll’s house, trees thick on three sides, large boulders sprayed in an arc about the downhill side. A small stream sang through the trees, ran between two of the boulders down the long gentle slope to the lake. Beside that stream was a small hut built of bark and wattle where Willow slept at night, where she kept her tools and anything else she didn’t want rained on.

  She handed a finished shaft to Sunchild, reached for another, glancing downhill as she did so. Hyaroll was walking toward the landing saucers. She held the shaft across her thighs, frowning. The back of a flier was just visible over the kadraesh trees. “Old Vryhh, he going somewhere.”

  Sunchild set the shaft with the other finished ones. “Kepha said he would. To meet that woman. You know, the one the Vryhh bitch was yelling about.”

  “Hmmp. Yelling.” She clicked her tongue, danced her fingers on her thighs, over and around the shaft. “Singing her into the clan, huh?”

  “In their way.”

  She lifted the shaft, then set it aside and climbed onto one of the larger boulders, waiting to see the flier jump up and dart away. One of the lizard folk stepped from behind a bush and put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Willow could hear their voices, but couldn’t make out the words. The slim lacertine figure was filled with passion, talking fast, demanding something. He listened briefly to it, then brushed it out of the way, more roughly—maybe—than he intended, went on to his flier. The slight figure lay crumpled on the grass.

  A moment later the flier passed through the dome, then darted away to the northwest.

  Willow stood on the boulder, looking from the vanishing flier to the creature below. It stirred and sat up. She hummed the paka cat song, moved her feet on the rock, curiosity growing in her. An impatient snort. A quick jump from boulder onto grass. She ran downhill to the shuddering shape.

  The creature was trembling all over, incapable of speech, unable to stand. Willow moved cautiously closer, touched its shoulder. It jumped as if her touch stung, then collapsed again and struggled for control of the emotions wracking it. It wasn’t hurt as far as she could tell, just filled with a seething mess of anger and frustration and fear. She remembered seeing this one working here and there in the garden all summer, handling the plants with a delicate touch that reminded her of Bodri. She squatted beside the creature, frowning, humming snatches of song, trying to find a way to comprehend the hurt and help it. Finally she began one of the go-’way-hurt songs she used to sing to her children, faltering at first because these were songs she hadn’t sung since Old Stone Vryhh ripped her from her family—but something about the pain in this creature struck deep into her and drew from her responses she’d denied till now to save her sanity. Singing that string of magic meaningless sounds, she ignored the creature’s feeble attempts to push her away and gathered it into her arms, across her legs, and patted its back and rocked it as she would have rocked her babies. After that first resistance it went limp against her and began sobbing, something that startled a tiny part of Willow because she didn’t know lizards could weep. She continued to sing her go-hurt song, continued to comfort the creature. No no, folk not lizards, no no, folk can cry, no no, folk have ears not lizards. The sunlight shone a light leaf green through the creature’s large pointed ears, the skin as fine and thin as the newest spring leaf. Man or woman? she thought suddenly. Which is this? Cries like me when I hurt. Can’t just look with folk, not like run-about beasts. Have to ask. Yes, I ask. She let her song die and loosened her arms as the creature’s shuddering diminished, then stopped.

  The man? woman? pulled back, stiff with embarrassment. At least that was what it looked like to Willow. Its face was a light olive green with a smooth pebbly texture; ordinary eyes except they were shiny like melted gold; a nose like a knife blade with wide flared nostrils, a long mouth, thin flexible lips delicately curved; high cheekbones, rather hollow cheeks. Almost no chin, but that didn’t make the face look weak. Mobile pointed ears much larger than Willow’s. She watched the sun shine through them and reminded herself again, this was another place and these were real folk, not spirit creatures with animal forms. She shifted around so she was sitting on her heels, her knees spread, her hands resting on her thighs, palaver stance among her people. “You man or woman?”

  The creature looked startled, then offended, then faintly amused. “I am female,” she said. Her voice was clear, its sound very pure. Willow sighed with pleasure hearing it. “My name is Amaiki,” the other went on. “I am a conc of the Conoch’hi.”

  Willow bowed her head, snapped her name sound on her fingers, then said it in the common tongue Hyaroll’s teaching box had given her. “Willow,” she said. “Old Stone Vryhh, what he doing to you?’’

  A film slid over Amaiki’s gold-foil eyes. Her impossibly long thin hands closed into knotted fists. She bowed her head, the trembling back again, but only for a moment this time. She smoothed her tabard about her narrow body, pulling out the wrinkles, tucked her legs under her, set opened hands neatly on her thighs. For several heartbeats longer she was silent, staring past Willow at the wind-teased grass on the hillside. When she spoke again, she was outwardly composed, but in her voice was an angry helplessness that found a powerful echo within Willow’s breast. “For many and many generations have Conoch’hi served Hyaroll, for many and many generations has he shaped our lives and made us depend on him, has he taken our children from us and changed them or sent them away. He gave us peace, he gave us rain, he took our naidisa from us. Look around you, Willow from far far away. How green and lovely it is in here. But go to the dome’s edge and look out, then you will see dust and death and a sun without pity. He does not call the rain for us, he sucks the ground dry to feed his trees. Our children grow hungry, our children thirst, our plants and beasts they die. Six days ago, oh Willow, my mate-meld came to the caller kiosk. They are leaving the uplands, Willow, leaving me behind. They are taking our newest child and our other four and they are going to the far side of the world. They cannot stay and starve. I went to Hyaroll and asked him to let me go with my mates-in-meld. He would not. I begged him to let me go. He would not. I asked again and again until he would not see me, until he would not come out of the house for fear of seeing me. I asked again today and you saw his answer.” She stopped speaking, calmed herself, went on in a low quiet voice. “If I could leave the dome, I could follow them still. They must be deep into Istenger Ocean by now, but I could follow them. They promised to leave word for me as many places as they could, so I could find them if only I could leave the dome. I must … I must … I …” Her throat fluttered as she fought for control; her fingers moved in small gestures Willow read as distaste for her own excesses—or what she saw as excesses. Willow scowled at the dome, its faint flicker close to invisible against the cloudless sky. “He gone, but he leave ears behind.” She lowered her eyes to Amaiki’s face, her hands touching her own ears, dropping, clutching hard at each other; she hissed and pulled her hands apart. “Time was once, I have a man, my Otter; time was once, I birth my Sparrow my daughter who sing before she talk; time was once, I birth my Mouse, my son-baby, my hurry-about baby. Before he walking good, hah!” She hugged herself, rocking on her toes. “Before he walking, he still on tit, Hyaroll snatch me away. Ay be-be, ay-yii, my Mouse. No more. No more.” She straightened her back, dropped her arms. “Can’t go back, me. But you, hah!” She lifted a hand, made a blade of it, chopped the blade down. “Him! He don’t do it again. I get you out.” She spread her hands. “Don’t know how. Not now.” She got to her feet. “You come, huh?”