Reap the Wild Wind

Chapter 12

“SIX PODS. ALL BY YOURSELF.”

Aryl nodded, again, doing her best not to slouch. The pods in question had been taken immediately, their precious dresel to be dried and stored—most within the security of the Cloisters. She, on the other hand, had made it only these few steps from the sorting table toward the meeting hall door. The door through which she had to pass to go home. Her skin itched from bites and thorns, her muscles ached with fatigue, but none of these were as taxing, she discovered, as trying to keep her temper.

Evra and Barit sud Teerac, Bern’s parents, made no such effort. They blocked her exit, their angry voices collecting more than a few looks of disapproval from those working here. It wasn’t Om’ray to confront one another. It wasn’t Om’ray to shout either.

They’d lost their only son. Aryl found a little more patience.

“Did you steal these from Bern?” Evra demanded, again. “Leave him to starve?”

So much for patience. She straightened with a jerk. “I told you—I found them—”

“Don’t lie!!!! You followed him!” thundered Barit. He raised the net in his callused hand and shook it in her face. “We made this for Bern. Did you think we wouldn’t recognize it?”

At this, Haxel Vendan broke away from the discussion she was having with two of her weary scouts to stride over to them. When the First Scout scowled, it twisted the deep puckered scar that ran from her left brow to the corner of her wide mouth, a reminder that she was one of the few Om’ray to survive a stitler trap. She was scowling now. “What’s going on here?”

“Aryl’s obsession with our son!” Usually placid, Barit’s face was flushed and his mouth worked between the words. “She put his Passage at risk—”

“She’s no Chooser,” Evra broke in, her contempt slamming against Aryl’s shields. “She’ll never be. Look at her. Pretending to be adult, as if this is some new game. Any proper Om’ray would have matured by now.” At the appalled hush around her, she paled, but stumbled on. “Everyone knows it. Being the Speaker’s daughter doesn’t give her the right to destroy our son’s chance for happiness.”

How could Bern’s mother believe that? Aryl felt the words like a blow. How could anyone? She tried not to hear the sendings speeding through the hall: thief . . . violator . . . how dare she! . . . Forbidden.

Haxel sketched a gesture of appeasement, the movement of her hand brusque and almost impolite. “Control yourselves,” she ordered. “Aryl,” almost gently. “The truth, now. How did you get this net? Did you find Bern’s body?”

Evra gasped and whirled to press her face against Barit’s chest. He glared at the First Scout, his arms around his Chosen. “Our son isn’t dead! Ask her!”

Haxel turned to Aryl. “Well?” Pursing her lips whitened the scar.

There were over thirty now-silent Om’ray standing or sitting in the meeting hall. None were working, too intent on the unaccustomed scene. Anything she said would be heard by everyone here; shortly after, by everyone else. The only choice was the truth.

Her heart hurt.

“I picked Teerac grove to search for pods. I did find two there, but that’s not the only reason I—I went,” she confessed. Barit and Evra glared at her and Aryl shook her head. “Not to stop him,” she protested. “I knew Bern would travel through his family grove one last time. He—I—I just wanted to spend time where he’d been, that’s all. Bern must have known I would. I believe he left the pods for me to find. Yena needed them, and he trusted me.” The thought made her smile.

“Nonsense,” Evra snorted, pulling free of her Chosen. “Bern’s on Passage to his Chooser. Why would he think about you?”

“I’m sorry you’ve never approved of me or our friendship,” Aryl said, weary beyond caution, “but we were friends. Dear friends. I would have gladly been more. I would follow Bern Teerac across the world, if I believed it could be. But it can’t. My place is here, helping Yena survive. I don’t know what else I can say.”

Haxel nodded, as if this confirmed something she knew. She faced the Teeracs and gestured gratitude. “Yena thanks your son for his gift.” The gesture was repeated by everyone present, including Aryl. Then the First Scout fixed her difficult-to-meet gaze on Barit and Evra. “Without Aryl, his gift would have fed flitters instead of Om’ray. Remember that, if you ever again think less of their friendship, or her skills as an adult.”

Glows vanquished truenight’s terrors, or at least held them at a forgettable distance. Aryl walked the bridge to her home, that safety lulling her into a pleasant numbness. The day’s triumph, the Teeracs’ accusation, Haxel’s unexpected intervention—she let it all fade to a blur. None of it mattered as much as rest.

When other footsteps matched hers from behind, she reached to sense the First Scout and hoped it was coincidence. Haxel could be on her nightly rounds. There wouldn’t be anything further asked of her now, especially conversation. She’d be lucky to make it to her bed without falling face first on the floor. Finding something to eat? Taking off her filthy arm and leg wraps? She couldn’t imagine that effort.

Once at her door, she unlatched and turned the panel, hand almost trembling.

“Aryl Sarc.”

Groaning inside, she looked around. “Yes, First Scout?”

“Could we talk?” Haxel walked through the opening without waiting for an answer.

Holding in a sigh, Aryl followed and closed the door.

Haxel stopped by the long Sarc table, her eyes sweeping her surroundings as if she checked for an escape route. “You’re here on your own.” Her shields were impeccable; her voice revealed even less.

With an arm that protested the motion, Aryl pulled down a sling chair. She motioned to another. “For now,” she nodded. “My mother’s sister and her Chosen may join me soon.” She eased her body into the chair; the relief of sitting made her close her eyes for an instant.

“This won’t take long.” Haxel had her hand on the chair rope, but didn’t pull it. Instead, she studied Aryl. “Few Om’ray climb with your skill.”

“Then why wasn’t I selected for the Harvest?” The accusation—for that’s how it sounded even to Aryl’s ears, startled them both. She gestured apology at once. It had to be the exhaustion. “Forgive me, First Scout. I meant no disrespect.”

“You know your strengths. That’s good.” Haxel frowned slightly, the scar twisting her brow. “I did select you. Council overruled me.”

“What?” Aryl leaned forward, holding the chair still with her toes on the floor. “Why?”

Haxel pulled down her chair at last, sitting with care as if she distrusted the sling. Or, Aryl thought, was more used to branches than civilized furniture. “I believe they chose not to risk your special Talent,” the First Scout said. “I find I agree.”

“What Talent?” Aryl asked in her best “who me?” voice, the one that had worked, most of the time, to shift blame to her brother. With luck, her face was too dirty and swollen with bites to show her dismay.

“You played with my nephews.” Haxel gave a thin smile. “I’m curious, Aryl. Do you always know who an Om’ray is? Or does it take conscious use of your Power to identify someone?”

That was why she’d been passed over? Her outrage faded as Aryl thought of Taisal and the sweetberries. Another small and harmless—even useful—Talent; her mother, afraid to be caught using it outside the Cloisters.

Was Haxel one of the careless Yena her mother and other Adepts feared?

“I cheated at seek,” Aryl said calmly. “Better than some of the others. That’s all.”

Haxel raised one eyebrow, the scar resisting. “Then why did Council overrule me?”

Easy to sound petulant. “Taisal didn’t want me to go. Maybe they listened to her. She said I was too young, the Harvest too dangerous. Mothers are like that.” Not hers—Taisal had alternately encouraged and ignored her adventures—but Haxel wasn’t to know.

She wasn’t someone to underestimate either. First Scout was a position of merit. No Om’ray climbed with Haxel Vendan’s skill, none approached her ability as a tracker and hunter. Yena slept well at night because of the rigor with which she trained those she chose for scout duty. No fool studied Aryl through those narrowed eyes.

She checked her shields and smiled back. “Was there anything else, First Scout?”

“Yes. I want you to join us.”

“Me?” Aryl echoed, her voice cracking on the word. For a moment, she actually considered it. Scouts were the most disciplined of Om’ray, responsible for the protection and defense of Yena. Superb climbers all, they built and maintained the bridges and ladders that made movement through the canopy safe for every Om’ray.

Only a child thought it a glamorous life, she thought. The reality was mapped in scars like those on Haxel’s face. When a scout did his or her job well, no one noticed. That part, Aryl found unexpectedly appealing.

What did it say about her?

“I’m not old enough,” she evaded desperately. “I don’t know how to track or build.” Aryl frowned to herself, unhappy with that list. What was she to do? Be the Speaker’s daughter until Choice? Become an Adept and leave freedom behind?

She hadn’t expected to need those answers so soon.

Haxel’s lips quirked to the side. It wasn’t a smile. “Scouts were lost in the Harvest. Most of those training with me left on Passage. Council will allow me any recruit I can find, believe me. Your ability—to cheat at seek, that is—could be useful.” She hadn’t fooled the older Om’ray for an instant, Aryl realized with a shiver. Suddenly they were playing an adult game, where you used words because you didn’t dare share thoughts and the truth.

“How?”

“Council’s sending everyone who can climb and carry with us to gather whatever we find that’s edible. I can’t argue—” from her sour tone, Aryl guessed she’d tried, “—the rains are coming. By tomorrow I could have fifty such helpers scattered through a grove, a quarter barely able to send beyond their noses. You could help me keep track of them. Know who’s heading toward trouble; who’s close enough to help.” Haxel lifted a callused finger lacking a nail and drew a short line in the air.

Aryl chewed her lower lip for a moment. The First Scout waited, her eyes hooded, her shields as solid as before. She knew the Agreement forbade change that might be noticed—which meant new Talents. Everyone did. The difference, Aryl decided, was that Haxel didn’t care—not when that Talent could offer an advantage.

Adult games. She could play them too. Aryl stood and swept her hands in the gesture of gratitude. Her mother used it regularly to end a discussion. “Thank you, First Scout. I will keep your offer in mind. Be well.”

The other rose, too. There were courtesies when visiting another’s home; departing when told was one. “As I’ll keep you in mind, Aryl Sarc,” Haxel said with a nod, then pulled her gauze over head and face. “Thank you for your time.”

After she closed and latched the door behind her visitor, Aryl listened to her heart pound. There was no reason to feel she’d just made the narrowest escape of the day, here, in her own home. No reason, she scolded herself. Being a scout was an honorable profession; better suited to her solitary nature, she admitted, than most. Yet . . .

It was the taste, she realized. Something was about to change. When she’d first sensed it, she’d assumed it meant the arrival of the M’hir Wind, then the disaster of the Harvest. Maybe even Bern’s leaving on Passage.

But the feeling had never left. It lingered, deep inside, as real as the glowlight making its way through her windows and as hard to hold in her hands.

There was worse to come, Aryl shuddered.

Now she feared it would come from within the Om’ray, not without.

After a night and a half’s sleep, broken only when Aryl woke long enough to fumble out of her filthy clothing before plunging back on the mattress, the ominous warning in her mind seemed . . .

“Nonsense,” she assured a nodding flower. “I was overtired. People weren’t letting me rest. I ask you—was that nice, considering all the pods I brought home?”

The flower wisely kept silent. Aryl finished pouring water into its pot, careful not to let it overflow on the floor—not that Costa’s floor was in any shape to care—and looked around for more to do.

Leaves on some of the plants were withered and pale. She wasn’t sure they were dead. After all, her brother would hover protectively over desiccated sticks, claiming they would grow. To be on the safe side, Aryl poured water into every container she could find.

She wrinkled her nose when done. It hadn’t improved the smell.

Now what? Her muscles were too sore to trust with another climb this soon. She’d washed her skin and hair, using the same water to soak her wraps. For the moment, she wore only a knee-length shift, loose and comfortable. Breakfast had been slivers of dried fruit, quick and easy to eat with fingers. No dishes, she thought with satisfaction.

The sweetberry vine had conquered one window gauze and was making a concerted effort to reach the nearest rafter, tendrils waving in the air. A gleam of red between its toothy leaves caught her eye. A last few berries. About to pick them, Aryl withdrew her hand.

It hadn’t been her imagination.

Something was wrong.

Haxel’s position as First Scout didn’t make her the Speaker’s peer. Nor, Aryl realized, did it give her the right to summarily dismiss a Council decision in front of the Speaker’s daughter. Om’ray could argue and disagree—she and Bern had fought constantly—but never about matters of Power or its use. Never about what Council declared best for all.

Haxel wanted Aryl to use her Talent—despite it being secret, despite no Council permission for its use. It hadn’t seemed to matter that she’d no proof the gift was real, she’d wanted it. The First Scout must have realized Aryl would tell her mother—she hadn’t said anything to stop her. It was as if she wanted Taisal to know. Why?

Aryl touched a sweetberry with her fingertip. She’d never paid attention to relationships between her elders, other than knowing who was a close enough relative to require her to do dishes during a visit and whose conversations could keep her mother preoccupied so she could slip away and climb with Bern.

All of Yena were relatives, of course. The six families crossed and blended with one another based on Choice alone, though it was rare an Om’ray was called to Join with anyone closer than a full cousin. Those who arrived on Passage brought new blood, their stranger names left behind at Choice, “sud” to a Yena Chooser. Adepts made their cryptic records of births, part of their duty to the Cloisters and Council. Presumably there was a reason, though the only record most cared about was who was Chosen first, since the First Chosen in a family took over the household responsibilities—and the home itself.

Aryl had only a dim idea of how Haxel Vendan might be related to Taisal. There were, she decided, tugging the berry free, a few Uruus and probably a Teerac between.

But they were close in age. She was struck by a novel thought. With few young Yena each generation, Haxel and Taisal must have played together, like she had with Seru, Bern, and others of their age. Climb and seek in the canopy. Giggles and secrets.

They might not be friends now; they had to know each other well, nonetheless.

Aryl tossed the berry on the floor and watched it roll. Did Haxel know about Taisal’s Forbidden Talent? Was all this to send her mother a message—that the First Scout rejected the Council’s restrictions and wanted the Speaker’s support?

Having clean knees, she left the berry where it was and picked another to pop into her mouth. The sweet tang burst against her tongue.

Support to do what? Aryl shook her head, feeling as though she climbed a ladder made of threads, not wood. The Chosen were supposed to worry about such things. That’s why they had wrinkles. The thought made her run a palm over one smooth cheek and she grinned. None yet.

The grin faded. She was young, not stupid. What she’d done to save Bern was of an entirely different order than pushing a berry or sensing identity. She didn’t want to do it again—ever—but that wasn’t the point.

Taisal feared her revealing this Talent above all. Aryl found herself wondering if her mother was more afraid of the Tikitik learning of it—or other Yena like Haxel?

She rubbed cold arms and went in search of warmer clothes.

There was nothing she could do about the chill in her heart.

Interlude

THEY RAN OUT OF TIME before questions, and Enris reluctantly locked the object away in a hidden cupboard only he and his parents knew existed. Locking it out of sight, if not from his thoughts.

Om’ray technology to rival that of the Oud and the Tikitik?

What did it mean? How was it even possible?

“Don’t drag your feet, Enris,” Jorg said from the door. “They’ll have other business first—you know our current Council—but the Speaker will read the roll of unChosen soon. You don’t want to miss it.”

Enris froze in place. “Me? Why me?”

His father smiled gently. “Because you’re finally ready. Did you think your mother couldn’t tell?”

Yes, since he couldn’t, Enris grumbled inwardly. He didn’t doubt Ridersel’s ability—but shouldn’t he be the first to know? Feel different? Care about Choice more than the puzzle locked in that cupboard and burning in his mind?

“Come, come. This harvest’s Choosers-to-Be will be named as well.”

Giddy cousins, noxious neighbors, and dull little strips—to become Choosers, the most desirable of their kind?

One of them to intrude on his time in the shop?

Aghast at the mere notion, Enris followed Jorg out the door, waiting while he locked and checked it, trailing behind all the way to the meeting hall. Like his father, he avoided stepping in the tread marks from the Oud.

Unlike his father, he wasn’t in a hurry. His mind had stuck at “eligible.” Shouldn’t that be up to him?

In too few steps, the meeting hall was in sight. Like the other buildings lining the Tuana’s main street, it had been made from materials at hand—a cobbling of salvaged tunnel wood, scrap metal, and flat bricks made from a mix of local sand and surry, a syrup refined from nost peelings that dried clear and hard and impenetrable.

And, like the other buildings, Enris thought with pride, the hall had been built with care and an eye for beauty. The sunset’s glow reflected from intricate brickwork that both bound the structure to the earth and rose past each corner to touch the darkening sky. Precious wood, rich with carving and hand-polished to gleaming smoothness, met the brick. Metal bands, scorched and strained to reveal rainbows of fantastic hues, formed curves and angles. Last, but not least, sheets of surry formed broad windows to admit light.

The Oud vehicles were lined up outside, their attendant whirr/clicks resting in uneven piles. Jorg was about to climb the steps to the open doorway when Enris stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” he pleaded.

Though Enris kept his shields tight, Jorg’s smile faded as he looked at his son. “What’s wrong?”

“Last Harvest. During the Visitation. Everyone seemed to know who they—they just knew.”

Jorg looked relieved. “And you don’t,” this with a nod.

“Of course I don’t!”

“Maybe—” a wink, “—someone inside does.”

If his father had wanted Enris struck dumb, he couldn’t have done better. Jorg seemed to realize it and made a gesture of apology. “It’s harder for you,” he said quietly. “That’s my fault. I kept you working when you could have been making friends, getting to know the Choosers-to-Be. I didn’t think.”

“You didn’t make me work,” Enris protested. “I love the shop. You know that.”

“I know. But while others were—” Jorg paused and shrugged. “What’s done, or not, is done. Relax, Enris.” His voice lightened, as if they discussed tomorrow’s tasks. “It’s only your first eligible Visitation. UnChosen often wait for their second or third before finding a Choice that suits.”

Enris raised a dubious eyebrow. “How often is often?”

His father laughed. “I’m sure at least once before. Come on. Think of them as customers.”

As they went inside, Enris shook his head. “Stop helping me,” he half-joked. “Please.”

The Tuana meeting hall, like those of other Clans, had started as a simple room, large enough to hold those in attendance. There had been some modifications. To safely host their visitors, the floor was now of metal-reinforced brick. To accommodate a steadily growing population, for Tuana was a prosperous Clan, stairlike seating had been added along its three windowless outer walls. Several times. Today, they sat crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, children in laps, and there was barely room on what floor remained for Council, the unChosen, and their guests.

Enris had heard talk of tearing down the back wall or removing the roof—anything to expand the space inside. According to Ridersel, similar schemes had been brought to Council in the past. All collided with Oud sensibilities. Other than the Cloisters, this was the largest building they would tolerate above ground. The Om’ray were welcome—even encouraged—to dig if they needed more room.

The Tuana Om’ray politely declined to enter the realm of the Oud, and pressed ever closer to their own kind.

Though shields were up, Enris felt the pull of so many together. He didn’t need to look to see where the families were. There was a pattern, as old as the village, and only those who would be the focus tonight stood or sat elsewhere than expected. Jorg gave his shoulder a hearty pat before leaving to squeeze his way up two stairs to where Ridersel and Worin waited with the rest of Mendolar.

The three Oud were gray-brown hills in the middle of the open space. In front of them stood the Tuana Speaker, Sole sud Serona. Behind him stood the six who formed Tuana’s Council, also resplendent in white, embroidered robes. One, Mendolar, leaned on two canes, but her bright eyes flicked to Enris as he passed, her lips pressed thin in disapproval.

Grandmother didn’t miss much, he thought ruefully, hurrying out of range with what dignity he could.

Enris knew where he was to go. The lines of eligible unChosen, suddenly his fellows if he believed it, stood to the right of the door. He nodded a greeting to Ral, somehow not surprised to see his younger cousin; he deliberately looked past Mauro and Irm. The Lorimar brothers viewed themselves as above working with their hands, and enjoyed sneering at those who did—not that they didn’t want the results for themselves. Just as well. Enris wouldn’t trust either with a tool or the responsibility to use it.

The only place left to stand was in front and there was, of course, dust on his boots. He resisted the urge to comb his fingers through his hair. It was thick, black, and almost as unruly as—Enris stopped there.

The unChosen weren’t the focus of the Visitation, not yet. The Speaker was reading numbers—the yield lists, from the sound of it. Enris took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax. It didn’t work, though it gained him a sympathetic smile from his neighbor, Traud Licor. Traud was quiet and reserved; like Enris, he had little patience for the few their age who didn’t earn their keep. The Licors were crop tenders, as were most on the stairs. Making those Traud’s numbers, too, Enris thought, sure the other must be enjoying this moment. It had been, everyone knew, an exceptional growing season.

Traud leaned close. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he whispered.

Not the numbers. Enris looked where he carefully hadn’t to this point, at the assembly of potential Choosers: a blur of colorful beadwork and gauze, topped by improbable hair ornaments. “Who?” he had to ask.

“Olalla, of course.”

Another cousin. “Lucky you,” he said, grateful that shields were considered appropriate tonight. Olalla Mendolar, whatever her beauty to Traud, had crooked teeth and a tendency to hiccup when nervous. Which was, he recalled, most of the time. When she wasn’t humming off key.

He couldn’t think near someone like that, let alone work.

As for work, he thought, they’d have to be careful. He and Jorg had discussed the next step. Before anything drastic like removing crystals, they’d do more precise measurements and test the metal of the outer casing. They couldn’t risk the object. They had to assume the Oud wanted it back, and in the same condition.

Which Oud had it been? Enris studied the creatures with new interest. The Speaker was obvious, centermost and facing—or the equivalent—its Om’ray counterpart. Its pendant was affixed to that end, anyway. It crouched in its front-end-up position, ready to talk in turn. The other two had their heads down.

Maybe they were bored.

Bored, he understood. He was bored. And anxious. And, above all else, he didn’t want to be here and they couldn’t make him—

Traud glanced his way and Enris checked his shields for leaks. “Beautiful,” he whispered quickly and was rewarded by a bemused smile.

Were all the other unChosen that hopeless?

Other than his location at its focus, this Visitation continued like all the others Enris could remember. Om’ray liked tradition; the Oud didn’t like change. First came the good news: the amount of nost drying in racks; the number of fields freed of various scourges—the most repugnant plants had their pests and Tuana scouts were always busy while the crop ripened; lists of those born and their immediate relations; lists naming those arrived on Passage and any others Joined since the last Visitation—which always produced a rumble of approval from the assembled Om’ray, though Enris doubted the Oud cared; and so on. There would be lists of the productivity of various trades, his and Jorg’s shop among them. In short, all that had been improved by their village’s existence.

After that came lists related to the village’s impact on the Oud. The area of land used to grow food for Om’ray; the amount of that food harvested; the number of warehouses required. The number of power cells consumed and glows to be replaced; the quantity of other supplies used, from water to cooking oil. The number of blades broken; accidents to equipment; damage to buildings.

And deaths. When their Speaker reached this list, the Tuana hushed and held their children. They were six hundred and sixteen strong this Visitation, their greatest number in memory. But there had been losses. It was a source of dismay, that the Oud wouldn’t leave the dead in peace, though they didn’t ask for names. They demanded cause, and the Tuana Speaker gave it, his voice flat and even. Ten lost to age. One found ravaged by nocturnal hunters in a field. A child succumbed to wasting fever. The worst—a Chosen who had died during childbirth, the final cost three lives.

Eryel S’udlaat and her unborn son, followed at once by her Chosen, Mirs sud S’udlaat. Mirs Eathem had come on Passage from Amna Clan, drawn across the world to Eryel’s Call, entranced by her kindness and mirth.

Enris forced himself to look at the Choosers-to-Be. What would it be like? He tried to imagine being lured, to imagine finding his life’s partner. He made the effort to imagine dying at the loss of his Chosen.

His imagination wasn’t good enough, he decided. All he felt was queasy.

All too soon, it was time. The Oud Speaker had begun its statement on the balance between their two peoples, a fancy way of agreeing to supply its share of the predicted needs of the village for the coming seasons, be that power, water, or seed. The Oud had made those calculations while listening to the Om’ray Speaker. It was always accurate, if never overgenerous. A cagey but reputable customer, as his father would put it.

Soon would come the moment Enris dreaded. With the Oud as witness, the Speaker would reveal those eligible unChosen who’d asked to take Passage and been judged fit by Council to do so. Next, he’d announce those who would be Choosers before the next Visitation. There was, Ridersel had told her sons privately, a fair amount of guesswork involved in the matter, but it let official courting begin.

Last, and most unnerving, in Enris’ opinion, would be the naming of those already committed to one another, to the joy of all present. The resulting swell of emotion pouring from mind-to-mind had been known to inspire otherwise sane unChosen to bolt across the open floor and fall on their knees in a fit of suddenly discovered passion.

That was not, he assured himself after another wary glance at the crowd of costumed gigglers, going to be him.

Startled dismay flooded Enris’ mind. What had the Oud just said? He’d stopped paying attention.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who needed to hear it twice. “What did you say?” asked Sole, their Speaker. In no pleasant tone either.

“Too many,” this with emphasis. “Send away.”

“Our Council decides who takes Passage.”

“Who decides Om’ray. More decides Oud.” It nudged the creature on its right. “More tokens we. Decide who.”

From the anxious murmurs behind him, Enris wasn’t the only one taken aback. What was happening? He looked for his family on the stairs, found his father first. Jorg gave a helpless shrug. Ridersel was holding Worin so tightly he should have been squirming. Instead, the youngster stared down at his brother, his face the color of ash.

“Decide who!” This louder, with that abrupt, agitated body shift Enris remembered all too well.

Sole was an intimidating figure, well suited to his role, but now he seemed fragile. He glanced back at the Council members as if for help; they looked equally shocked. Turning back to his counterpart, he gave a slow nod. “We will,” he told the Oud. “But we need time—”

“Decide who! Tokens we!” This with a hard shove against the one next to it.

As if the blow was a signal, the abused Oud humped toward the assembly of potential Choosers.

Every Om’ray rose to their feet with a shout, outrage surging from mind to mind. Enris found he’d taken a step forward with the unChosen, his hands now fists.

“What are you doing?” Sole shouted. “Those are Choosers! Get away from them!”

The Oud might not be able to tell Om’ray apart, but it understood the shout. It immediately humped backward until Enris was staring at its dusty rear. Then it turned in place, little feet drumming rapidly against the brick, and stopped. It rose to speak. “These are?”

It looked and sounded like the one in the shop. But he couldn’t tell them apart either.

“Decide who!” bellowed the Oud Speaker, thrashing its body from side to side twice. The Om’ray on the floor scrambled to get as far away as they could, which wasn’t far. Some climbed the stairs, helped by family.

The other Oud endured what had to be bruising contact without moving.

Hear me, Tuana! The sending from their Speaker quieted the room. Sole bowed to Council before coming to stand before the unChosen. His face was pale and set. After a moment, he bowed to them, a respect that dried Enris’ mouth.

The Speaker moved along the front line of unChosen, his gaze touching each in turn. The silence in the great room was so profound Enris feared the pounding of his heart could be heard.

Sole sud Serona paused before Irm, then spoke at last.

“Irm Lorimar shall take Passage.”

The waiting Oud rose slightly higher. Its limbs rushed in the tidy waves Enris remembered to ferry an assortment of packages from underneath itself. Most were immediately carried back down in a reverse flow almost too quick to see. Sorting through its pockets, Enris thought wildly. Too many packages were caught by limbs near its head and held ready. How many of them had to leave?

Tuana sent at most three or four on Passage, always those who, like Kiric, had petitioned to find Choice outside their village. Everyone knew who they were. There was time to prepare, for farewells.

It wasn’t done like this, not by ambush in front of their families.

Sole took a package from the Oud, opening it to reveal a metal disk. Though smaller and plain, the style resembled that of the pendant around his neck and the one affixed to the Oud Speaker’s head.

Sole fastened it to Irm’s tunic. “Receive this token, that you may Pass unhindered to Choice. Find joy.”

The unChosen looked ready to faint. Mauro, his brother, didn’t hide his relief when the Speaker moved past him.

Next to receive a token was the eldest son of Serona, who smiled and tipped the disk in his hand to admire it. Obviously, one of those who’d asked for this fate.

When his turn came, Enris tilted his chin, prepared, he thought, for anything.

He wasn’t prepared for the grief in Sole’s eyes; his own widened in response. It couldn’t be . . .

“Enris Mendolar. Receive this—”

The Oud, showing unexpected reach and quickness, snatched back the token. “Decide other.”

The Tuana Speaker’s mouth worked without sound for a moment. He looked from Enris to the Oud and then back. “We decide,” he said.

“Yes. Decide other.”The black claw thrust the token at Traud, who frantically backed into those standing behind him to avoid it. There was a faint squeal from the area of the Choosers. “Decide this.”

“No!” Enris protested and grabbed the token. It was cold and hard. He closed his fist over it and stared up at the Oud. “I’ll go.”

“Stop! All of you!” The now-livid Tuana Speaker brushed a hand over his pendant, as if to remind himself and them of his rank. Enris could sense the Power he used to shield his thoughts—which was, he decided, just as well. “You make a mockery of our ways,” Sole said to the Oud, his tone nothing less than forbidding. “And you—” only fractionally milder to Enris, “—remember who speaks for Tuana.” To Traud, who had resumed his position, shaking so hard Enris could feel it. “Your Chooser awaits you here,” still with that edge.

Back to the Oud. “We decide who.”

The creature was unimpressed. “Metalworker this. Decide other.”

Sole drew himself to full height. “No.”

The remaining tokens began a rapid journey back down its limbs. “Decide none. Goodgoodgoodgood.”

Enris wasn’t sure what that meant. From his frown, neither was Sole. The Oud Speaker rested its head on the brick floor, either lacking an opinion or deferring to what they’d all assumed was a servant.

Servant, Enris wondered, or had the Oud brought their version of Council?

This had to be the Oud who’d come to the shop.

And the object it had brought was somehow worth risking the Agreement between Om’ray and Oud, that had stood since the world began.

At least it was to the Oud.