Reap the Wild Wind

Chapter 8

ARYL AWOKE THE NEXT DAY to a bedlam of footsteps and voices. She jumped from the bed and rushed to the window panel, pulling aside its curtain.

The bridges were bustling with Om’ray, but only those who, to her inner sense, were connected by unseen bonds, some to one another, others to those left in homes. The Chosen.

Adults were always, in Aryl’s opinion, in a hurry to do the incomprehensible. She yawned, rubbing her eyes.

They were burdened, she noticed curiously. Some carried wooden chests with ornate carvings, awkward to manage on the more narrow bridges. Family heirlooms? Others had bags or objects wrapped in cloth. She couldn’t guess. Whatever they carried, they were taking it to the meeting hall.

After a quick wash, Aryl pulled on her tunic and shoved her hair back in its net. She wanted breakfast and answers, not necessarily in that order.

Her mother would know.

Her mother, it turned out, had left for the Cloisters. Meanwhile, her mother’s sister, Myris Sarc, and her Chosen, Ael sud Sarc, arrived to take Aryl’s home apart. They claimed consent but wouldn’t explain. So Aryl sat at one end of the Sarc table, scowling so fiercely her forehead hurt, and took her time chewing the last bite of the tiny portion of cold breakfast she’d been allowed.

“You could help instead of glaring,” Ael suggested after a while. Like many Kessa’ats, he was dark of hair and slight. He was an excellent climber—only a still-healing ankle had kept him from this M’hir’s Harvest. Myris was a younger version of Taisal, fair and given, normally, to irrepressible giggles. Aryl adored them both.

Until now.

She scowled harder.

She watched as her aunt and uncle opened every cupboard and pulled out the contents, piling these with care on the table until she had to lean to one side to keep an eye on what the pair did next. They pulled down the storage slings, dumping their contents with less care, as if running out of time or patience. Piles began to grow, on the counter, before the window panels.

More pointless tasks. Myris went on hands and knees, running her fingertips along the floor’s finely fitted planks as if hunting dust. Ael, having rolled the carpets, pulled the sling chairs up to the rafters one by one, scrutinizing what was underneath. He freed the fastened one at the table and did the same to it.

Then he eyed hers; she didn’t move.

With a shrug, Ael headed for Costa’s room.

Stop!

Both adult Om’ray looked pained.

Aryl covered her mouth with her hands, as though she could take back that fierce inner shout.

“We’ve a job to do,” Myris said gently. “It’s no easier for us.”

Aryl hurried to the door, where she put herself in Ael’s path. “You can’t touch Costa’s things. Not—not without my mother here,” she added forcefully, feeling on more solid ground. “If there’s something you need, tell me. I’ll bring it to you. Just—wait. Please.”

They exchanged looks. “We don’t know when she’ll be back, Aryl,” sighed Ael. “She’s busy with the—”

Hush!

Even Aryl felt that. She narrowed her eyes, and looked from one to the other. “Busy with what?”

“There are lists to be prepared for Council. Using symbols in ink for things.” Her aunt stopped there.

“I know,” grated Aryl, “what a list is. Lists of what things?”

They looked at one another again. If anything passed between them, it was on that deeper level Chosen used with one another. Ael made a clear gesture of protest before walking away. He went into Aryl’s room, where she could hear him opening trunks. Her trunks.

Oddly, she didn’t care. Her attention was on Myris, who looked suddenly much older than she should. “Lists of what?” Aryl repeated. “Please, Myris. What’s going on?”

“Last night. The Speaker did her best. But we’ve half what we normally need until the next M’hir.”

I was there, Aryl thought impatiently, but didn’t say it out loud. Adults rarely liked correction from unChosen. “What does that have to do with—?”

Rip!

The loud sound came from her bedroom, followed by an alarming: creak . . . SNAP! “What’s he doing?” Aryl protested.

Whatever it was, he was happy about it. Ael’s triumph flooded her mind. “Found it!” he shouted.

Myris almost ran, Aryl at her side. They stopped in the doorway to stare. For Ael stood inside what was left of—

“My bed? What have you done?” Aryl demanded. The sheet was on the floor and the pad beneath had been sliced open with a knife. Flakes of stuffing drifted through the air, tumbling in the light breeze through the window. As for the rest? A line of connected planks stood upright in the middle, as if startled awake. Their ends were splintered and broken. And it wasn’t just her bed—this had been Taisal’s, her grandmother’s, her—Aryl couldn’t remember how old it was.

Clearly, no one would sleep there again.

“I’ll fix it,” Ael promised, though she couldn’t imagine how. “Look what I found! This has to be your great grandfather’s gear.” He held up a strange-looking bag by its straps; the brown material was stained and faded, but intact. The bag itself bulged in several directions, closed with more straps and metal buckles; a rope of some odd woven fiber was fastened to one side.

Ael dropped the bag to pounce on something else in the ruin. “And supplies!” He straightened, both hands full of small pouches. From their look, they were of oiled leather, not woven as was normal.

Which great grandfather? She had, Aryl frowned in concentration, four. No. Eight. Who . . . then it dawned on her exactly what Ael had found inside her bed, what they’d been hunting. “That’s traveler’s gear,” she accused. “For Passage.”

Myris nodded. “These belonged to Dalris sud Sarc—Dalris Sawnda’at. He came on Passage from Amna.”

Unnel Sarc’s father; her mother’s grandfather. Aryl wrinkled her nose, unsure what offended her more: the destruction of her bed; that her family would hide dirty old belongings in it; or not finding them first. She settled for all three. “Then they’re mine,” she declared. “That’s my bed.”

Ael stepped over the bed frame, bringing the pouches and bag with him. “And I will fix it, Aryl. But these? They go to Council.”

And that was all either of them would say.

“Why do I have to put everything back?” Aryl muttered. She’d been tidying the main room since Myris and Ael left with their discovery; the piles on the table, floor, and counters remained daunting. Who knew adults could make such a mess? “And where did they find it all?” she complained, knowing full well but enjoying the freedom to speak her mind with no Chosen about. She left the storage slings hanging like surprised drapes in the middle of the room, their ropes swinging loose. The cupboards had been virtually empty; she might as well fill them. It was besides the point that it was easier.

“Most of this isn’t even mine. Anymore,” she qualified with surprise, holding a tunic better suited to be a shirt against herself.

Why hadn’t Taisal given this—all this, she thought, spotting more too-small clothing that had to be Costa’s—to some other child? The Om’ray passed such things between families. They always had. Unless it had further use . . .

“It can be a hat!” Laughing, Aryl plopped the dress on her head and spun around, keeping it in place with both hands. “Everyone will want—”

Her inner sense told her she was no longer alone. She froze, her back to the door. “You should knock,” she said archly, whisking the little dress into a pocket before turning around. “As you can see, I’m very busy.”

Bern grinned at her. “Is that what it’s called?”

Aryl opened her mouth, ready with a cutting reply. She shut it again. Something wasn’t right. Heart-kin? she sent.

Bern’s pale eyes slipped away; he answered aloud. “This isn’t the only mess,” he informed her, giving a loosened chair a gentle push to set it swinging. “They’re tearing through every home. It’s been going on all day.” As he spoke, he prowled the room as if following a trail—or too restless to stand still—moving around the hanging slings. “Only the Chosen, mind you. They’re taking what they find to the meeting hall.” A glance through her bedroom door made him purse his lips and whistle softly. “Ouch. What are they after?”

“Things on lists,” Aryl offered. “Myris said the Adepts made lists for the Council. They must be gathering what’s on them.”

He paused beside the rolled-up rugs as if she’d surprised him, one hand taking hold of a dangling sling rope. “Like what?”

How should she know? Aryl wanted to say, but something about him subdued the impulse. For the first time, she paid attention to what Bern wore: his favorite heavy tunic, woven from cunningly supple braid, reinforced down the back and front with inlaid slices of polished dresel pod his father had bleached white. It was excellent camouflage within the dappled canopy light. His longknife and hook gleamed at his belt; a fine rope and a set of tightly rolled nets crossed his chest from either shoulder. His legs and arms were sheathed in fresh bindings of gauze; his gloves and hood hung from their clips. She frowned at his boots. They looked scuffed and old, though sturdy, and she’d never seen them before. Buckled instead of tied? What a waste of metal.

Dismissing the boots and Bern’s air of gloom, Aryl focused on what mattered. “You went hunting without me?”

Bern shook his head. He’d left his hair loose and it tumbled, as always, into both eyes. “I’ve been summoned to Council. I should be there now.” He hesitated, then a word slipped into her thoughts. Heart-kin. “I had to see you.”

At first, this made no sense at all. Which fit the day, she decided.

Then it made too much. “Passage.” The word fell out of her mouth. She fumbled for the table, found a grip. Strange time for the rastis to sway, though nothing about the world was as it should be. “That’s silly,” she said desperately. “You’re not old enough.”

Bern shook his head again, this time slowly. “No, Aryl. You aren’t.”

His shields were up, so she searched his face, finding shadows beneath his eyes, harsh lines beside his mouth. There was no fear in it, only a sad resignation. He looked, she thought abruptly, like the stranger, Kiric.

The stranger who’d died.

There was a way to keep Bern here, where he belonged. Aryl surreptitiously rubbed her hands against her thighs, making sure they were free of dust, if not truly clean. She licked her lips, then walked up to him. “We can—” her voice broke and she coughed, avoiding his eyes, her own shields desperately tight. She placed her left hand on his chest, palm flat over the cool lines of inlay. The rope scratched her wrist but she didn’t flinch.

Aryl, no.

She shook her head fiercely to silence him, trying not to feel his pity. She lifted her right hand, hoping it hadn’t started to sweat—her palms grew damp when she was nervous, she couldn’t help it—and captured his. She took a deep breath and said the words.

“I, Aryl Sarc, offer you Choice, Bern Teerac.”

Then waited.

Their hands were callused from branch and rope; his was warmer.

That was all.

Finally, Aryl had to look up. “Am I doing it right?” she whispered.

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t.” Bern’s eyes glistened. “It’s too soon for you, Aryl.”

“No. No. It’s something I’m doing wrong. Tell me how. What do I do!?” she pleaded, tears in her own eyes. “You’re all I want. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. You can’t—you can’t leave.”

His wavering smile was a terrible thing. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Then stay!”

His hand cupped the back of her head, gave it a gentle shake. “You have so much Power, Aryl. I’m not surprised you’re the one to have this amazing ability—can do what maybe no Om’ray ever has before. Me? I’m nothing special,” he told her. “But I’m unChosen and male. We feel the Call of Choice when we’re ready. I feel it. It burns . . .” his voice became hollow as his head turned right “. . . in Grona . . .” left, “. . . in Amna . . . and Tuana . . .” this last looking into her eyes. “But not here. Not in Yena. Not this M’hir.”

“Wait for me.” Aryl rose on her toes, pressed both hands on his chest. “I’ll be old before you know it.”

Heart-kin. Bern stepped away. “It’s not my decision to make.”

Aryl stood very still, feeling the blood drain from her head and shoulders, sensing the wild darkness as if another eye opened without her willing it. His shields didn’t protect him in that realm. Suddenly, she could touch Bern’s innermost thoughts, share the pain so like her own.

And the anticipation. The lust. He might not know it yet himself, but she did. “You want to go,” she accused.

She’d shocked him; she could see it, sense it. Then, with characteristic honesty, he lowered his head. It wasn’t quite a nod. It was, nonetheless, an admission. “I’ve been ready since the last M’hir,” the words said so quietly she almost didn’t hear. “I waited for you, Aryl. I was sure—it doesn’t matter now. Something in me . . . I’m empty. I need . . .”

He never did know when to stop talking, Aryl fumed to herself. “You need someone else, is that it?” she snapped. “Then go.”

Bern gave her a stricken look. “We’ll always be heart-kin—”

“Find your Chooser,” Aryl interrupted haughtily. “I hope she’s stupid and afraid of heights!” She turned and stormed into Costa’s room, closing the curtain behind her.

Once there, she sagged against the wall panel, her fist in her mouth to stifle the sobs shaking her body. She sensed Bern’s sending brush her shields—no words, just an anxious, lonely touch between heart-kin—and retreated inward until she couldn’t.

She’d saved him.

She listened to his footsteps; they grew faint, then were gone.

She could see Bern now, safe on that bridge, and knew she could make the vision real again. Her Power was waiting, ready to use, if she dared.

But she wouldn’t see him, not where he was going.

Were there even bridges?

Aryl slid to the floor and buried her face on her knees, letting despair shudder through her.

How could she save him there?

Interlude

THE DRUMS OF THE WATCHERS announced their guests, that heavy beat vibrating through lungs and hearts as well as floors. Enris lifted his bowl from the table, making a quick grab to capture a mug about to bounce off the near edge.

The drums stopped, but his mother, his height and youthfully slender despite birthing three, hadn’t been quick enough. She glared at the resulting mess. “And what’s wrong with a bell, I ask you?” she muttered. “Worin, get those, please.” While her youngest cheerfully scrambled beneath the table to retrieve errant tubers, Ridersel collected the pieces of what had been her second favorite platter.

Enris met his father’s somber gaze. It wasn’t a question waiting an answer. The Tuana used drums, set into the ground, because they suited other ears than theirs. “I should get to the shop,” he said apologetically. When he went to scrape his share of supper back in the pot, Ridersel intercepted him.

“No need to starve,” she said, taking his bowl. Cutting open a dumpling, she spooned the contents, a rich stew, inside, then wrapped the whole in a square of food cloth.

“This time, don’t forget it by the vat,” Jorg advised around mouthfuls. “Lad gets preoccupied,” he reminded his Chosen. Ridersel smiled fondly.

Enris could feel the warm bond between his parents. Not everyone could, he knew. And not every Joining produced such a resonance between its partners, although it was more common now than in his grandparents’ time.

Kiric, his older brother, had felt it, too. That was why he’d taken Passage so eagerly, hoping to find someone to complete him, as their parents completed one another. Those he’d left behind believed in his success. Belief was all they had.

Except for Enris. He’d never told his family how he’d been roused from sleep, night after night, to his brother’s pain. Night after night after night until . . . it stopped, torn apart by inner screams. He never hinted he knew the truth.

That Kiric had died of loneliness.

And Passage was a lie.

“Don’t listen to your father. Keep it warm,” Ridersel urged, pressing the bundle into his hands. She paused, her eyes searching his, then her silver-streaked black hair stirred from its peaceful fall over her shoulders and back, locks reaching toward him.

Though thick and lustrous and the crowning glory of a Joined Chooser, that hair was prone to opinion. It could also be sensitive to the moods of others, and Enris backed away, very slightly, to avoid its silken touch. Ridersel restrained her hair with what appeared an absent sweep of her slender white fingers. Unlike some, she scorned metal clips. When younger, Enris had argued this was an unfair advantage; his father had only laughed.

“Thank you,” Enris said with unconscious dignity. “I’d better go.”

Worin peered over the table’s edge, blue eyes gleaming. “Do I get your sweetpie?”

“I’ll meet you there, Enris.” Jorg ruffled his youngest’s hair. “With your pie.”

“Be well,” his mother added. Words formed in his mind. Be careful.

“I will,” he said, to both.