Reap the Wild Wind

Chapter 14

UNLESS AN ADEPT OR MEMBER of Council, an Om’ray visited the Cloisters only three times in life: as a newborn, to be dutifully—and quickly—added to the Yena records before being returned to waiting parents; as one of a Joined pair, that union to be affirmed by the Adepts; and to end their days in peace, granted none of the many hazards of the canopy ended it sooner.

Aryl squinted at the tower. She hadn’t thought of it before, but the Cloisters was, beyond doubt, the perfect place to drop and test a model. Had she known she’d be coming . . . not that she had, but still.

Such thoughts were easier than imagining why her mother needed her here, of all places.

There were other reasons a Yena might come here, of course. Those sundered from their Choice and Lost . . . those of damaged mind . . . maybe even those who’d tried to hide a new Talent, to be investigated by Adepts and punished?

Aryl concentrated on planning to fly a fich.

The Cloisters rose from the waters of the Lay on its own gray-green stalk, thick and straight, with three flat sides that met at crisp joins. The canopy closed overhead, but not around it. The nearest rastis set buttress roots well away from its artificial neighbor, though smaller plants had less respect. The lower portion of the Cloisters’ stalk was coated in a thick growth of vine. The growth ended where six clear panels, parallel to the stalk, jutted outward at angles. There was no apparent reason why vegetation shunned these protrusions; why no flitter would perch there and no biters flew close.

Above the panels, the stalk widened into a perfectly shaped crown, as if a rastis after all, but this crown, from below, looked like two giant bowls, one nested within the other. From higher in the canopy, Aryl remembered, the structure looked more like an opened flower: two high-walled platforms encircling an inner curved core, itself topped by a series of overlapped white rings.

The core was a building of two floors, each opening to one of the encircling platforms. The building’s round outer walls were broken by a series of tall wide arches. Within each arch were three smaller ones: the centermost a door, the outer two filled with the same clear material that somehow guarded the stalk from living things.

Inside . . . she had no idea. Aryl straightened her best, though mended, tunic and checked her hairnet. Till sud Parth, the scout guarding the bridge platform, leaned against the stalk to regard her thoughtfully. “I don’t know about this, Aryl.”

She’d hoped for someone who’d be impressed by her being the Speaker’s daughter. Instead, she had Till, Seru’s father and someone who’d bandaged her knees more than once.

As she feared, he pursed his lips, then shook his head slowly. “No. You go home. I’ll keep the drawings here. Contact someone from the Cloisters to fetch them. That’s best, Aryl.”

She pulled the bag of panes closer to her chest, trusting he wouldn’t become suspicious and demand a look. “I drew these for the Speaker,” Aryl said truthfully. All Yena had witnessed her giving a drawing to Taisal for the Tikitik; a minor, if crucial detail that the art she now clutched had been done years ago by a much younger Aryl, and involved more ink than skill. “She’ll have questions about them.” Definitely true.

His keen eyes left her to scan the rain-shadowed canopy, why she didn’t know. Having less of his attention, Aryl took a small step closer to the bridge, slinging her bag over one shoulder, then another. Till didn’t appear to notice until she was almost there. Then, he frowned at her.

Aryl gave him her best smile and patted the bag. “These shouldn’t stay in the rain, Till. Let me go, please?”

“I suppose you’ll be the one in trouble.” With a resigned snort, he waved a hand in dismissal, again intent on whatever he watched.

The Cloisters’ bridge was a marvel in itself. Not wood, but metal slats. No rails, but true sides and a curved roof, themselves of such closely woven metal threads they really did block the rain. The bridge was attached to that normal platform of wood, girdling a great rastis. Above were other platforms, older ones and no longer of use. A new one would eventually be built to replace this one, as the rastis continued to grow and lift the platform and bridge with it.

For the Cloisters was older than the Lay Swamp, so the Adepts taught, and its remarkable bridge had once reached dry ground.

Aryl started across the bridge, listening to her footsteps’ light echo. She’d always scoffed, to herself, at the stories of its age. What ground? The waters of the Lay had always been below. The grove might change, but it was as old as the world. She’d believed the Adepts—her mother included—made up stories to keep everyone in awe.

They didn’t need to, she thought, fingertips brushing the smooth metal. Unlike other bridges, this didn’t sway with her footsteps. Unlike others, it felt cold to the touch.

How had her ancestors made this place? Aryl asked herself for the first time. Or, was the real question, why? Every Clan had a Cloisters, like enough to this one to be instantly recognizable, although she’d heard Grona’s Cloisters sat directly on the ground, either lacking a stalk or with it buried out of sight.

Why weren’t their homes like this? Why did Yena sit in fear, protected only by the glows the Tikitik gave them, if Om’ray could build this? Only Adepts and the infirm were allowed to spent truenight within the Cloisters. Even members of Council returned to their homes. So it had always been.

The bridge led to the lower of the Cloisters’ two platforms, ending in a massive pair of doors. These were metal—there had to be enough here to satisfy the needs of the entire world—worked in intricate patterns. Not the plain gray-green of the bridge, but a surface ribboned in color to rival any flitter or flower she’d seen. Not ink or paint. Something in the metal itself. Aryl stretched her hand to touch it . . .

The leftmost door turned open without a sound, and she dropped her hand hurriedly. A figure in a plain brown robe stood within the wide gap, face shadowed beneath a hood.

“Welcome to—” The greeting died away as the Adept saw her. “Who are you?”

Aryl was about to ask the same when she recognized the wrinkled face peering from the hood. Pio di Kessa’at? Had it been that long since her great-aunt last left the Cloisters? “Aryl Sarc,” she replied. “Taisal’s—”

“By Mele sud Sarc. Yes, yes. I know the lineage. It’s quite interesting. There are expectations—why are you here? You haven’t Joined.” Aryl felt a deft touch explore her shields. “You aren’t even ready. Go home.”

Expectations? Refusing to be distracted by the old Adept’s rambling, she braced herself to argue. “I was asked to bring—” she began, hand on her bag.

“No, you weren’t. There’s been no messenger.” The Adept shook a crooked finger at her. “We play no games here, child. Go home.” She began to turn the door closed in Aryl’s face. “Children always try to sneak inside,” she grumbled to herself. “Don’t hurry your life away!” This to Aryl, who found herself speechless.

Without pausing to consider, she put out a hand to stop the door. “This is no game, Pio. My mother needs me. I know she does.” She let her shields weaken, hoping her worry for Taisal, her sincerity, would accomplish what words could not.

And received a stern flash of anger back. “Impudent!”

“Desperate, Aunt.” Aryl removed her hand and gestured apology. She restored her shields but stayed where she was.

Pio’s eyes were bright spots within the shadow of her hood. “Your mother was the same at your age. A troublemaker. Bothersome as a biter. She matured into a thorn. Will you?”

Another of those questions better ignored than answered, Aryl decided. “Please. Let me in.”

Pio didn’t answer immediately; she didn’t close the door either. Aryl waited, feeling a draft of warm, moist air from the bridge behind her, making herself as small and insignificant a mental presence as she could.

Then, the Adept stepped back, turning the door wide open with no obvious effort despite its thickness and height. “You can’t wander around alone, you know,” she cautioned as Aryl gratefully stepped through to the open platform beyond. “I’m the gatekeeper. I certainly can’t take you.” Pio finished turning the door closed, its inner colorations aligned perfectly with those of its partner. From this side, Aryl saw that the doors curved inward at the top, that curve matched to the one defining the low wall that edged the platform. “You stay here,” the Adept emphasized. “Right here. I’ll find someone.”

“I won’t leave,” Aryl promised. “Thank you.”

The old Adept’s wrinkles creased deeper. “I’m sure you won’t. Only an Adept can unlock the Cloisters’ doors. In or out.”

Aryl didn’t move from the shelter of the great doors. Though the deserted platform swept intriguingly away in both directions, and windows in the wall beckoned, she wouldn’t risk disobeying Pio di Kessa’at.

Plus, it was pouring. She stuck her hand beyond the overhang to catch drops for a drink. There were no real puddles. The platform sloped to the inside, the water disappearing into a series of channels. She wondered if it rained down along the stalk from there, or was collected.

Aryl had run out of such questions by the time two figures appeared in the archway across from the doors. They were faceless in their robes, robes colorless through the curtains of rain. She swallowed her curiosity and didn’t reach for their identities. One hurried toward her; the other followed at a more deliberate pace, as if the deluge was beneath notice.

The one in a hurry was Pio. The old Adept tossed back her hood, showering Aryl with drops. As she blinked to clear her eyes, the other pointed. “I brought a guide.”

The second figure was dressed in dull red, without a hood. As she stepped from the rain into their shelter, she spoke, her voice oddly flat. “I will take Aryl to the Speaker.”

A familiar voice, nonetheless.

“Leri!” Aryl greeted Costa’s Chosen with a glad smile, a smile that died on her lips.

At first glance, Leri Teerac looked as she had before the M’hir, save for the plain red robe that smothered her from neck to ankles. She was still slender and tall, with those high cheekbones and startling green oblong eyes. But Leri’s thick golden hair, Costa’s particular joy, was no longer secured in a metal net. It lay sodden and limp over her shoulders and back, as if what gave it life had died.

It had.

Costa’s Chosen beckoned. “I will take Aryl to the Speaker.” There was no impatience to the gesture, no expression to her face. Her features might have been composed by an artist who worked from corpses. As for the inner sense . . . Aryl withdrew instantly. All she felt where Leri stood was that familiar roiling darkness. Involuntarily, she stepped closer to Pio.

Lost. Aryl swallowed bile. She hadn’t known it meant lost in the Dark. Was this what her mother had somehow escaped, while remaining connected to it?

What did that make her?

Pio didn’t seem to notice anything strange about the other Om’ray or Aryl’s reaction. “What are you waiting for, Aryl?” she demanded querulously. “The rain to stop? You won’t melt. I’ve wasted enough time. I’m today’s gatekeeper. Go.”

“I will take Aryl to the Speaker.” The same words; the same beckoning.

“It’s Leri,” Aryl said helplessly. “My brother’s—it’s Leri.” As if repeating the name would help the Adept understand.

“I will take Aryl to the Speaker.”

Aryl wanted to cover her ears. “I heard you—”

“I will take Aryl—”

“Stop saying that!”

“—the Speaker.”

“Pio!” Aryl turned to the Adept, who shook her head.

There was no amusement on her face this time, only a weary grief. “She’ll stop when you go with her, child,” Pio explained. “There’s no talking to the Lost, you know. Well, you can try, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“I will take Aryl to the Speaker.” The beckoning. The horrifying precision of that repetition.

“But she knows me,” Aryl whispered. “Doesn’t she? She says my name.”

“She doesn’t know herself. She’s saying what I put in her head to say. Follow where she leads. Go now. But don’t expect more. The Lost are empty.”

“I will take Aryl to the Speaker.”

Aryl took a deep breath and stepped into the rain with what had been Leri Teerac.

Despite her unease, Aryl followed Costa’s Chosen through the door in the archway, along a series of hallways, and through rooms unlike any she’d seen before. Instead of glows, light emerged from the curved join of ceiling and wall, soft and white. It hadn’t failed in Om’ray memory, though there were no cells to change. Instead of wood or mats on the floor, they walked on some resilient material for which she had no name, pale yellow and smooth. The damp hem of Leri’s robe whispered as it brushed that surface. She no longer spoke.

Aryl studied her surroundings, to avoid looking at her guide. Frames hung on the walls every few steps, frames that held clusters of disks and lines. These were of metal; most bore markings that reminded her of her mother’s pendant. None formed pictures or shapes that made any sense. Why were they here, in a place where only Om’ray could go?

Though Aryl found little to prove this place was home to her kind. A display of wooden bowls caught her eye; they were lined up along a clear shelf, their carving a match to those on Aryl’s table. But beside them was a tall cylinder of pale green, seamless and smooth; she couldn’t guess its purpose. The air held a hint of dresel, but stronger was a crisp, clean tang, as if there’d been a storm indoors.

There were other Yena here. Aryl was aware of their existence as they would be aware of hers—they were Om’ray after all. She didn’t dare reach to know who was who, not here. There would be the Adepts; Yena boasted thirteen and all lived here. A trio in ordinary brown had hurried past them, their heads close together as they spoke in silence. There would be the elderly. A long, low seat before a windowed arch had contained a pair of sleeping Om’ray older than Aryl believed possible, small and wizened, taking such slow, soft breaths that only her inner sense of their presence assured her they lived.

As for the rest . . . she didn’t want to find more of the Lost.

Each step with Leri eroded days of healing, made the past real and urgent again. Aryl’s eyes stung as she found herself consumed by the memory of Costa slipping away again, reliving the agony she’d sensed as he died.

When her guide finally stopped before an arch, curtained reassuringly like a door at home, Aryl abruptly realized she wasn’t reliving her own memories, but Leri’s. She firmed her shields at once, staring at the other’s passive face in horror. Was all she was an echo of Costa’s death?

Not even her own?

“I will take Aryl to the Speaker,” Leri intoned. This time the beckoning gesture was reversed, indicating the closed curtain.

Aryl restrained a shudder and pushed the thick material aside. She’d loved Leri as the sister she’d never had. Now, she couldn’t wait to be away from her. She’d been right to believe death would be kinder.

The curtain had fooled her into thinking she would enter a simple apartment. Instead, Aryl found herself in an immense curved expanse, standing on a metal floor awash with more of those exotic bands of color.

At first, she thought the only furnishing was a narrow raised dais centered on the longer wall, with six tall-backed seats of the same pale green as the cylinder on the shelf. The wall behind the dais was lined by those windows, three times her height. She guessed they’d offer a spectacular view of the canopy, though now all she could see were gray sheets of rain. Yet no drops marred the clear material.

The Council Chamber. It had to be, though Aryl was astonished by its size. All of Yena could fit in here, with room for a hundred more. Why? The meeting hall, with its benches and tables, was where Council met the rest of Yena. This space was a waste for six alone.

She’d come through a discreet entrance to one side, perhaps the Councillors’ own. The proper, ceremonial doors were at the far end. Leri’s mistake or Pio’s instruction?

“Let be. I don’t need a healer!”

The weak, strained voice made a lie of the words. Aryl found its source.

To her left was a cluster of unusual, though comfortable-looking, chairs, set before one of the windows on a simple woven mat that might have come from any home. There were low tables between the chairs, some crowded with mugs, others with piles of what looked like pod-wood trays, only silver. An Om’ray sat slumped in one chair; six others stood around him, their postures indicated concern. No one turned to look at her or otherwise indicate they knew she was there.

Which, of course, they did.

Until officially noticed, Aryl didn’t dare take a step or make a sound. She glanced desperately around the room. Austere, empty, and utterly lacking in places to be inconspicuous.

Her mother was one of those standing. She’d know her anywhere. From here, she couldn’t be sure who the stricken Om’ray was, although this was Yena’s Council. The Adepts were easy to spot; Tikva di Uruus and Sian d’sud Vendan wore brown robes twin to that of Pio’s, as did Taisal, the gleam of her Speaker’s Pendant muted against the fabric. The rest looked ready for a climb or day of work, their tunics and wraps as oft-repaired as Aryl’s own.

Why would her mother bring her here?

I didn’t.

She winced. No one else reacted to Taisal’s aggrieved sending. Aryl checked her shields, trusting they’d work, and considered whether she could sidle back through the curtain or if escape at this point would only make things worse.

One of the six did turn, then. Her mother. “Aryl Sarc.” Her name bounced from the distant walls. “Come here.”

As Aryl warily obeyed, her feet making their own too-loud echoes despite soft-soled boots—at least she’d remembered boots and wasn’t slapping her way across the magnificent floor bare-foot—the others straightened to watch her approach. One kept her hand protectively on the shoulder of the still-hunched figure and glared at Taisal. “What’s the meaning of this, Speaker?”

It was Morla Kessa’at who chided her mother while comforting the sufferer. Who was, Aryl recognized with a delay that startled her, Yorl sud Sarc, her mother’s great-uncle and acknowledged head of their family. She’d bounced on his knee, learned to draw at his table.

She’d never seen him in such pain, his arms held tight to his chest and his face beaded with sweat and sickly pale. Here was the reason for Taisal’s distress.

“You know what drew her,” Taisal said, beckoning her daughter.

Aryl went to stand by her mother; she couldn’t take her eyes from Yorl. The clinking bag of old drawings on her shoulder now felt anything but clever. She shouldn’t have come. What had drawn her here was nothing she could help.

“The child can’t help,” a too-accurate echo from Morla. “She—”

Yorl’s head lifted, and he reached a shaking hand toward her. A slight turn of the wrist indicated the broad arm of his chair.

Aryl moved to take his thick, chill hand in hers without hesitation, though she sat cautiously. It might be wood, beneath its burnished black finish, but the furnishings here weren’t Yenamade.

She braced herself to share Yorl’s pain across the bridge of their hands, then was startled when all she felt was the dimmest glow of his existence. It was as if his Power had been drained by whatever hurt him.

No, Aryl corrected, abruptly understanding. Yorl’s formidable Power was somehow focused inward; a struggle no less real for taking place out of sight. He fought to heal himself, to strengthen some failing part of his body.

Was such a thing possible?

Aryl sensed another presence and glanced at Morla in surprise. “Perceptive, indeed,” the head of Kessa’at said, her stern expression softening. The weave of family with family showed in her large, wide-set gray eyes, a match for Aryl’s own. She was the smallest here; standing, her netted white hair wouldn’t reach Aryl’s shoulder. Unwise to judge her by that—Morla had ruled her close kin for many M’hirs. One of Yena’s most accomplished woodworkers, she was first on Council as well. “Let her stay,” Morla decided. “She may comfort him.”

“Yorl should go to the healers,” Taisal’s voice had an edge, as if she’d pressed this for some time without result. “Aryl can go with him.”

The words hardly penetrated. Aryl found herself fascinated by what she sensed within Yorl. Some Om’ray healed from wounds or illness much faster than others. The difference must lie in this Talent.

But it was costly. She could feel Yorl weakening with each labored breath. He wasn’t eating enough dresel, she fumed to herself. He’d been stinting himself, like all the older Om’ray. She cupped her other hand over his. Why won’t you go? she sent, hoping he could hear. You’re worrying my mother. As if she wasn’t terrified for him, too.

His reply was whisper-faint, almost imagined. We decide Yena’s future, here and now. Your future. Sarc must always have a voice. Help me, child.

How? As she asked the question, she felt its answer. Something began draining from her to him. It flowed from shoulder to arm to hand, the sensation of a rapidly moving fluid so vivid Aryl stared stupidly at her wrist, expecting to see blood pumping from a wound.

She began to gasp; Yorl to take easier breaths. Dimly, she heard voices, angry and upset. She heard Yorl answering. She reeled and would have slipped from the arm of the chair if not for his now-strong grip on her hands. She . . .

ENOUGH!

... Aryl was pulled free and pushed, almost roughly, into a chair. She curled within its unfamiliar shape and closed her eyes, hoping the world would stop spinning like a loose ladder in the M’hir.

If it didn’t, and soon, she was quite sure the Yena Council would not appreciate the result.

“—Yorl’s right! Admit it!”

Aryl realized she’d been listening to the heated debate for a while, listening but until now without hearing the words or caring who said them. She cautiously cracked open her eyes, unwilling to remind those nearby she existed.

Not only that, but her head pounded. The light made it worse. The nausea was gone, but she doubted she could stand without tipping over.

What had Yorl done to her?

The others had taken their seats, leaving those to either side of hers empty. Aryl was happy to be excluded. Fighting a shiver, she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Did it feel the same to her elders—that being huddled together on this homely mat offered little protection in this vast exposed space?

Why, she wondered again, did they use this place? Old people and their habits. An unmistakably deep voice drew her attention. Cetto sud Teerac.

“—we’ve sacrificed, there’s worse ahead, much worse,” he was saying. “We all know.” Cetto was Bern’s great grandfather and Leri’s grandfather, a strong, thoughtful Om’ray whose abilities had always rested in his hands, not his Power. His green eyes tended to water when he was weary or emotional, or when the young ones sat on his lap to tell him stories. Aryl noticed they glistened now.

She also noticed Yorl sud Sarc was sitting straight up in his chair, his face flushed with healthy color. He was watching the others, his eyes hooded; Taisal watched him, her expression one of bewilderment, as if she didn’t know how to act.

For the first time, Aryl was struck by how young her mother was in this company, how out of place.

“Cetto—” Morla began.

“We all know,” the head of Teerac repeated, refusing to be interrupted. “There’s no time for despair or pity. Not if Yena is to survive. We must prepare.” He patted the stack of odd metal squares on the table near his hand. “The inventory lists will be of use to Haxel and her scouts. She’ll need an Adept to read them.”

The lists were pieces of metal? Aryl longed to see one up close.

“Prepare?” Sian steepled his fingers and regarded his fellow Councillor over them, as if over the rail of a bridge. “Surely premature, Cetto, since we still debate Yorl’s original proposal.”

“Then I say end the debate!”

“Oh, on that we agree.” Sian said sharply. Aryl sensed tension between the two Councillors. The slender head of Vendan was elegant compared to Cetto, his skin darker and less worn, his long black hair streaked with bands of silver, not totally gray. She’d always been a little afraid of him. Sian used words the way others used tools, to split ideas apart and rebuild them, and had little patience. On the rare times he left the Cloisters, he spent more time in the Sarc hall arguing with Taisal than he did with his own Chosen. Given warning of such visits, Aryl would escape to climb with Bern.

“Peace, both of you.” Yorl leaned forward to catch the gaze of each of his fellow Councillors in turn, avoiding Taisal. “Yena can’t endure a second year of famine. We can’t risk the future on the hope the coming M’hir will be free of disaster or that our few starving harvesters will reap sufficient dresel for us and the Tikitik. You’ve heard my proposal. All of Yena must seek a new home while we have strength and supplies left. We must leave the grove as soon as possible.”

Aryl’s hand flashed to her mouth, smothering the gasp she couldn’t stop. Leave? Yena was the grove! No Clan abandoned its home. Was it even possible?

“Nonsense!” protested Adrius sud Parth. Oldest on Council, his voice had rotted into a loud rasp, interspersed with spit. The joke was that standing in front of old Adrius when he spoke would get you as wet as the rains. Aryl no longer found it funny. The rasp made each word hook-sharp. “I’m going to die right here,” the head of Parth vowed, bouncing in his chair. “Right here! I’ve earned it. Here, I say!”

“Die, then,” Cetto countered harshly. “No one’s stopping you.”

“Think of our unChosen, Adrius,” Yorl urged, gesturing a tactful apology while giving Cetto a quelling look. “We sent them away to help them survive. How is this different?”

“You know how,” Morla answered before Adrius could. “They had tokens. A place to go. As it is . . . another perished, Yorl. Four of ten failed, despite being young and healthy, despite the best supplies we could provide.”

Aryl felt a wave of guilt-laced grief. It might have come from any or all of them. Or been hers. She knew how it felt to have picked who would live, only to face the consequence of who did not.

Morla continued, “You suggest that our entire clan take Passage—can’t you see it’s impossible? Even if the Tikitik should permit us to move through their groves—”

“It’s impossible to stay. We’ll arrange permission,” Cetto rumbled, his cheeks flushed with emotion. “The Tikitik like to trade. Speaker?”

Aryl shuddered, remembering a mouth of finger-things and moving eyes.

“They do, Councillor,” Taisal agreed, then held up her empty palm. “But we have nothing to offer.”

The head of Teerac looked triumphant. “Yes. Yes, we do.” His strong hand smacked the arm of his chair. “This place. They’ve wanted it for generations. I say we trade the Cloisters for Yena’s freedom.”

From the ensuing pause, during which her breathing—and Adrius’ wheeze—were the loudest sounds, Aryl knew she wasn’t the only one shocked. But was Cetto wrong? she wondered in the safety of her own thoughts. True, the Cloisters was a remarkable structure, but what use was it to everyday Yena?

None, so far as she could tell.

Sian pursed his lips. “The Cloisters,” he said in a reasoning tone, “is the heart of Yena, as it is for each Om’ray Clan. As well talk about abandoning who we are.”

“There’s our heart,” Cetto rejoined, twisting in his seat to thrust a finger at Aryl. She tried not to shrink away. “There. Our young. Our families. Our future. All to starve if we stay here.”

“By the next M’hir—”

“And how many of us will be alive when the Watchers call?” This time it was Yorl who interrupted with passion. “Every day we grow weaker, Sian. Soon, we won’t be able to leave.”

“The time to act is now,” Cetto agreed. “While we can all still climb. Beat the worst of the rains; look for a place in the mountains.”

“And do what? Die on the rock? It’s too dangerous—”

Several began to talk at once; underneath, emotions spilled past their shields. They were like biters, jostling for the same scrap of exposed skin.

Aryl was appalled.

Yena’s Council: the venerable and respected heads of the six families. Yena’s Speaker: a powerful Adept, selected for rare skill with words and diplomacy. She’d come here believing they could do anything, Aryl realized, as if being responsible for the entire Yena Clan somehow made these individuals more than ordinary Om’ray.

Had that been fair?

She’d believed until this moment they could save her, save everyone; that the rationing, the hunt for more food, the heartbreak of sending away their unChosen were parts of a well thought out plan to keep them safe.

Wasn’t it?

Or was this the truth in front of her, in their bickering? Cetto’s desperation. Yorl’s conviction. Sian’s fear. Adrius’ selfishness.

The dread none of them—Yena’s eldest and wisest—could fully hide.

Was there no future?

No need to be warned of consequences if she repeated a word from this meeting. If it upset her to hear all this, Aryl couldn’t imagine how Seru or others might react.

Tikva di Uruus, hitherto silent, lifted her hand to catch Aryl’s attention along with the rest. Two of her fingers were wrapped together; from the purpled tip of one, a break. Despite her rank as Adept, the wiry head of Uruus had been among those out hunting before the rains.

“Before we climb to the unknown,” she said, the words crisp and sure, “I suggest we look closer for our salvation. To the Power that lies within us all.”

NO!

That denial slammed through Aryl’s mind, ripping past any shield. She winced. It wasn’t Taisal’s. She found herself staring at Sian d’sud Vendan, who’d surged to his feet.

Not Taisal’s sending, but her mother rose as well, her expression equally defiant as the two faced their fellow Adept.

Tikva raised one brow, seeming unaffected by their protest. “It’s Council’s duty,” she stressed the word, “to consider any and all means to save our people.” She deliberately looked away, focusing on the four Councillors who weren’t Adepts.

Aryl was puzzled. Adepts didn’t acknowledge a leader among themselves, but Tikva acted like one. Did they answer to their eldest member after all, like families? If so, she grimaced, they were lucky Pio di Kessa’at was a season younger.

Then she hurriedly checked her shields.

No one appeared to notice. Taisal and Sian sat back down, though they looked no less angry.

“An option that divides Adepts?” Morla asked. “Now I’m curious.”

Yorl frowned. “And I hope you aren’t wasting our time, Tivy.”

Aryl tried not to squirm at the nickname.

“Then let me be quick,” Tikva said smoothly, “I propose we increase our chance of survival here. Thus.” She lifted her hand once more.

A carved mug floated from the table to meet it.

This demonstration was greeted with an astonished wheeze from Adrius, narrowed eyes by the other Adepts, and a dismissive shrug from Cetto. Aryl wasn’t sure if she should try to look surprised; her mother’s great uncle certainly wasn’t.

Morla remained still, then her white brows knotted. “A skill of Adepts,” she observed.

“One we can teach.” This with a confidence that rang through the immense chamber.

Aryl couldn’t take her eyes from the mug in Tikva’s hand. This was her mother’s Talent. If she could learn it . . . breakfast in bed, she decided without hesitation. Doubtless more significant and important uses would follow, but that first.

“Teach to who?” Cetto growled. “Everyone? Or those with the most Power?” Another shrug of broad shoulders, still well-muscled from a life of climbing. “How many could learn this, Adepts? Do you know? Can you?”

“We know.” Sian glanced sideways at Tikva, as if asking permission. When she did and said nothing, he continued. “Five among the unChosen. More of the very young, but until they mature . . .” Adrius wheezed vigorously at that, likely, Aryl decided, imagining the trouble his already infamous great granddaughters would cause. “Few, if any, of our Chosen—understandable, since those of exceptional Power are already Adepts. Those who didn’t die in the Harvest—or of it.”

“A good start,” Tikva claimed brusquely, pushing aside Sian’s final comment. “The use of Power to move objects will help everyone.”

Yorl rested his chin on a fist, as if deep in thought.

Cetto’s palm smacked his chair arm for the second time. “Help! Instead of Adepts, trained and sworn to work for the benefit of all, we would have those with this ability and those without, choosing to do what they will. Do you not see it, Tikva?” He lowered his voice until it vibrated through Aryl’s bones. “You would stratify our kind, sort us by the strength of our Power instead of family. You would divide us, when we must stay together.”

Tikva made a dismissive gesture. “Power has always varied among Om’ray. Even now, our youngest reach each other over greater distances than before—better shield their thoughts—healers help speed recovery as well as ease pain—”

“This is not the same. You know it isn’t. Those are Talents that bring us closer, help us communicate, one to the other. An ability like this?” Cetto reached as if for something far overhead, then brought his hand down as a fist to wave at the Adept. “To be able to have a thing in your hands, without climbing for it? How long before it becomes the ability to take a thing, without right to it?”

“You are old, Cetto. Old and old-fashioned; our people will die of your ideas.”

“You would have them battle each other because of yours?”

PEACE!

They quieted, but Aryl flinched as anger spilled over shields. The ability to push an object had seemed almost trivial, but the passions regarding its use were, she realized with dismay, anything but. What she’d done, using Power to move Bern and now her thoughts through the other place? If they knew, would they argue about its use like this—or would it be worse?

Best, she glanced at Taisal’s expressionless face, never to find out.

Morla, for it had been her sending, spoke aloud. “It’s time to hear from all. I call a vote on Yorl sud Sarc’s initial proposal. Shall we, as Council, prepare Yena to leave the canopy and seek safety elsewhere? All must agree.”

Aryl kept very still, hoping to continue unnoticed. A Council vote? Only Councillors and the Speaker attended such. It would be full of ceremony, she knew. Dignified. The result was vitally important . . .

Adrius staggered to his feet. “To the Lay with everyone else!” This with a spew of droplets that just missed his fellows. “I’m dying in my chair.” With this, he sat, wheezing soundlessly to himself.

“Parth votes no,” Morla said, giving the older Councillor a weary look. She rose. “Kessa’at votes—no.” She gestured apology to Yorl and Cetto as she sat.

Sian and Tikva, however divided on other issues, voted no.

“You doom us,” Cetto said when it was his turn. “Yes. For what it matters.”

Leaving Yorl. He rose to his feet, standing as tall and erect as a much younger Om’ray. The weakness Aryl had sensed might never have been, except for her own now. He spoke with passion and resolve. “We sent our best from Yena to save their lives. Our future, loose on the wind. Do you remember that day, my friends?”

A pause during which he studied the others, including Aryl. She made herself gaze back without flinching; she thought she saw a familiar warmth light his eyes before his expression turned implacable again.

“We told our grandsons and great grandsons there was hope away from here. All of us agreed that was so. All of us.”

There was no answer to this.

“I will not abandon that hope,” Yorl insisted. “We will not.” He gestured gratitude to Aryl, included Taisal, then flattened his hands over his chest. “Sarc votes yes. We should follow our unChosen and soon.” He sat.

“Council is not agreed,” Morla concluded, rising to her feet again. “Your proposal is not accepted. Yena will stay and wait for the next M’hir.”

Yorl closed his eyes briefly. Aryl glanced at Cetto. He showed no reaction. She sighed with relief, as inconspicuously as possible. The mere idea of leaving . . .

Morla bowed her head to the others. “Firstnight approaches. I suggest we end here for today.”

“Wait,” Tikva stayed seated. “I ask a vote on my proposal. Let the Adepts teach those capable the Talent to move objects—to begin immediately.”

“No vote without debate,” Cetto insisted, his thick brows in a frown.

“Which I can start and end with one question to our Speaker,” Sian offered smoothly.

Morla hesitated, then returned to her seat. “Ask it.”

He gestured gratitude, then looked to Taisal. “Speaker—when the Tikitik see pods floating through the air into Yena nets—what will you tell them?”

Tikva scowled as Taisal stood, the fingers of her right hand drifting across her pendant—to remind herself or her elders, Aryl wondered.

“I need tell them nothing,” her mother began. “They will see for themselves the Agreement has been broken. They will have proof for the Oud that Yena Om’ray have adopted a new and potent ability. Such reckless change will disrupt the peace across Cersi, a peace that has held longer than any memory. You would doom not only Yena, but all Om’ray.”

She’d begun to see her mother as powerless and vulnerable, least among the others. Aryl sank deeper into her chair, understanding at last that Taisal di Sarc was none of those things.

“What would they do?” Morla asked, her face bloodless.

Tikva’s eyes locked with Taisal’s. “What could they do?” she countered acidly. “The Agreement is clear. The three races share the world in peace. The Tikitik and Oud may not like the Om’ray gaining Power. They can’t do anything to stop us.”

“And you believe that?” Aryl knew that note in her mother’s voice; it didn’t bode well for Tikva.

“I do.”

“Then let me remind Council exactly how we three share this world. May I?” She reached for the mug in Tikva’s hand; the other Adept gave it to her with a puzzled, not-yet-angry look.

“Cersi,” Taisal named it. She tapped its polished wood with a fingernail. “The Tikitik.” Another tap. “The Oud.” A final tap. “The water beneath us, the sky above, all that grows between.”

Aryl swallowed, unsure why she suddenly felt afraid. Unless it was something from her mother she sensed but couldn’t name.

With a violent sweep of her arm, Taisal dashed the mug to the metal floor. Aryl jumped as it splintered on contact, fragments sliding in all directions, connected by a spray of dark liquid.

Taisal walked to the mess and bent to touch a fingertip to the liquid. “This,” she told them, straightening to hold up that one dark speck, “was the Om’ray.

“Om’ray are the shape of the world,” she continued, the flat calm of her tone more chilling for what it said. “But we are not what binds it together. We are not needful to this world. Om’ray exist at the whim of Oud and Tikitik. If either of those races fails, we fail. If either abandons us, we fail.”

Tikva looked defiant. “You assume the worst. The Tikitik haven’t cared that we speak mind to mind over greater distances. Why? Because they care how much we harvest, not how we do it. Think the Oud care we can better heal ourselves? It’s the number able to work that matters, not why they’re healthy. This new Talent will be no different, mark my words.”

“You’d risk our lives on their indifference?” Cetto growled. “I need proof.”

Yorl’s mocking laugh startled Aryl and tightened Taisal’s lips. “What proof do you expect from Adepts?” he said. “They can’t agree how to tell if the other races are real, let alone if they have the ability to detect Power or its use.”

“They’ll detect this.” Taisal swept her long white hands together. In answer, the splinters and spilled liquid hurried back to the point of impact with muted, urgent slurps, until only a small, messy pile marred the Council Chamber floor.

Aryl was not surprised when Morla Kessa’at declared the debate and Council session over.

Taisal di Sarc escorted Aryl to the massive doors leading to the bridge. Neither spoke. Aryl didn’t know what to say. She suspected her mother’s thoughts were of other things besides her errant daughter.

When they arrived, she was relieved to find the rain had stopped. The climb home would be easier; she was still weary. Overhead, the canopy was more gray than green, with long shadows reaching beneath. Morla had been right; firstnight was close.

With a wave of her hand, Taisal dismissed Pio di Kessa’at from her post. The old Adept gave Aryl a curious look before she left.

As for Aryl, she hefted her bag over one shoulder, happier to take it home unopened than to reveal the full extent of this disaster to her mother, and waited patiently for Taisal to open one of the doors—however an Adept accomplished that feat. With luck, she’d escape without the scolding she deserved. Never meddle in the business of any Chosen, she reminded herself. Especially her mother’s.

Instead, Taisal hesitated with her hand on the door, staring at her. Aryl did her best not to squirm. “Do you understand what happened?” her mother asked after an agonizing pause.

Memories, too many and too fresh, tumbled through Aryl’s head: the smashed mug that was the world, the alarming notion to abandon their homes, the Cloisters traded to the Tikitik, never being able to summon her breakfast with a thought. She, Aryl thought with some self-pity, now knew far more than any unChosen should and it wasn’t anything to help her sleep at night . . .

“You mean Yorl,” she said at last, recognizing the bewilderment in Taisal’s eyes. “No. But,” she added, “he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He asked for my help.” Taking it before she could answer, she finished to herself.

A flash of anger. “All so he could stay for the vote. Stubborn, opinionated, difficult . . . his only virtue is being harder on himself than anyone else. Still,” the anger faded, “I’d rather keep him around than lose him. Thank you, Daughter. He would have happily died trying to make his point—you did help him survive that misjudgment.” Taisal touched Aryl’s wrist, sending a flood of warmth and caring.

Aryl’s eyes filled with tears. She hunted for words to send back, to tell her mother how proud she was, but Taisal withdrew her hand too soon. She looked angry again. “Don’t think that I approve of what Yorl did, Aryl. Or for that matter, of your coming here without permission, then interrupting a Council session instead of going home as you were told!”

“I knew something was wrong,” Aryl said truthfully, clamping down her shields. She could only hope Taisal had been distracted enough by the afternoon’s events to overlook the discrepancy between her daughter’s sending and her daughter’s arrival. The knowledge of one’s place granted by sensing other Om’ray didn’t involve counting one another. Not usually. But she had no idea what her mother, as an Adept, could do.

“Something was wrong,” Taisal admitted. “The moment I saw Yorl today, I knew he was in trouble.” She looked up at the canopy as if hunting something, then her gaze dropped to Aryl again. Her mouth turned down at the corners. “He hides it, Aryl, but he can barely climb anymore. He should be living here all the time, yet won’t. But today, this—it was the worst I’ve seen him. He denied it; refused to listen to me, refused to admit weakness before the others. When he started self-healing, I felt the drain on his body grow beyond his control.

“It’s a trap, Aryl, using your Power to heal yourself. It’s like trying to make a ladder from one rope. You can unwind the braid and make two ropes from the one, but the ladder’s only half as strong. Stealing strength from one part of the body to help another weakens the whole. No Adept would attempt it unless there was no other recourse.”

“So Yorl stole strength from me instead,” Aryl concluded. She still felt weak, though not as much as before. The sense of betrayal was worse. The head of their family was supposed to care for her, protect her . . .

“You said he asked for your help,” Taisal said gently.

“I thought he needed help to get out of his chair!” Having made her protest, Aryl gestured apology. “It’s all right,” she admitted. “He knew I’d give what I could to him.”

“You gave him his life.” Her mother sighed. “You’re young and strong. What you gave him—what he took—you’ll replace with a night’s rest.” This last with distraction, as if Taisal’s mind was worrying at other, more difficult topics. “Go home. And this time stay there.” She touched the door and closed her eyes briefly.

The massive curve of metal sighed away from its partner, leaving a gap sufficient for Taisal’s hand to wrap around the edge and turn the door open. Aryl peered down the empty bridge. If Till was at his post, she’d have to explain the still-full bag. . . .

Aryl sighed and pulled it off her shoulder. “I brought these for you,” she confessed.

Taisal took it and looked inside. Her mouth quirked, then she closed the bag. “My room here is bare. Thank you. Reminders of home are welcome.”

“I—” hadn’t thought of that, Aryl almost said, torn by unexpected guilt, but stopped herself in time. The result was what counted. “—I’m glad you like them.”

“I always have,” her mother commented lightly.

There was an ease between them, and Aryl finally knew what to say. “In the meeting. I may have saved Yorl,” she told her mother, “but I think you saved all of us.”

Taisal’s smile faded. “I prevented a vote,” she corrected. “Today. Tikva’s not going to give up—and she’s not alone in her belief that Yena should have greater use of their Power. All we can do for now is keep Forbidden Talents secret. Imagine the temptation, if all Yena knew abilities like mine existed.”

“I wanted breakfast in bed,” Aryl admitted ruefully.

That drew a chuckle. “That I can arrange without breaking the Agreement—granted I get home tonight. Which is where you belong, youngest.”

Then, as if Aryl was a baby, her mother kissed her on the forehead and pressed two fingers over the warm spot, sending her love.

Aryl was halfway across the bridge when she realized her mother’s sending had contained something else, something Taisal hadn’t intended her daughter to share.

Dread.

Interlude

THE OUD HAD LEFT THE TUANA village as they’d come, their vehicles etching a second set of lines through the dust. There’d been no more surprises.

One had been more than enough, Enris thought, kicking a tread mark.

“Hey!” Ral jumped sideways. “These are—were—clean boots, cousin.”

Enris gestured apology. “I’m in a foul mood,” he admitted. “You shouldn’t bother with me.”

Ral laughed and clapped the other on his shoulder. They’d had breakfast in the meeting hall, a usually lighthearted gathering to host those taking Passage. Tradition abounded during Visitation. “How can you be grumpy today?” he protested. He spun about, holding his hands from his sides to show off his new shirt. “Do I not look fabulous?”

Enris’ lips twitched involuntarily as he considered his cousin. It was, to be fair, a fine shirt and Ral looked ridiculously blissful in it. Still . . . “She hasn’t Chosen you yet,” he cautioned. Gelle Licor was one of Naryn’s ilk, in his opinion, full of her own Power and herself.

“A mere detail.” This with an airy wave. “She filled my cup twice!”

“Well. That says it all, doesn’t it.” Enris somehow managed a straight face. Besides, what did he know of Choice? No Chooser-to-Be had offered to fill his cup. “Congratulations.” And he meant it. Several couples had left the meeting hall last night with soft looks at one another. All during breakfast, Traud and Olalla had touched fingertips under the table when they thought no one could tell. Mind you, she’d hiccupped each and every time.

He should be grateful this morning had been calm and civil. There’d been a threat to the look and feel of Mauro Lorimar and his friends at the end of last night. They hadn’t taken Irm’s being picked for Passage well; they took Enris being “spared” as a personal insult. Only the watchful eye of the Speaker had kept them from saying what they felt.

Or worse.

“It’ll be my turn to congratulate you soon, Enris,” Ral said magnanimously. “That is, when you . . . when there’s more . . . next time . . . I mean—” He coughed at some dust and then laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“Not a clue,” Enris grinned. “But if it has anything to do with letting me get to back to work sometime today, I’m happy.”

The two stopped outside the shop. It was locked against the night; Jorg hadn’t arrived yet.

Enris wasn’t surprised. The Chosen weren’t expected to attend the breakfast and they’d stayed up late, he and his parents, trying to make sense of the Oud. Jorg wanted to go to Council even if it meant revealing they’d had commerce with the Oud earlier. Ridersel wanted the strange object away from her family and forgotten. Returned to the Oud. Tossed in a field, if need be.

He’d—Enris sighed. He’d wanted to keep it a while longer, to puzzle at it in secret. Maybe not the best or wisest course, but his mother had given him that too-keen look, the one she used to see right through him, and agreed.

“I’d help you fetch the leavings, Cousin, but . . .” Ral indicated his new shirt. “Gelle would never forgive me.”

Enris laughed and waved him on. “See you later.”

To save time, he didn’t bother unlocking the shop but went around to the side where he parked the cart each night. It was a long, thin alleyway, protected by the overhang from the potter next door. Enris was in its cool shadow before he noticed something wrong.

The cart had been turned upside down.

He ran the rest of the way, stopping with his hands on the wheels. They were priceless, virtually irreplaceable—and intact, he discovered after checking them carefully. He let out a sigh of relief. Whoever had done this hadn’t been thorough fools.

They’d been angry. At him.

He didn’t need to be an Adept to figure that out. Or to know who. There were footprints everywhere he looked, footprints made by fancy, hard-soled boots. Mauro Lorimar and his friends. He should have realized why they’d been all smiles at breakfast; it hadn’t only been the company of their Choosers-to-Be.

Enris shook his head. None of that mattered. The Oud who brought the new day’s leavings expected the previous ones to be gone. He was already running later than he liked—it would take most of the afternoon to empty the bins.

The cart was made of thick metal, built for heavy loads and rough terrain. On its big wheels, it could be moved with ease, even fully loaded. To flip it like this? He guessed there’d been five of them, maybe more.

Help would lead to questions. There were, Enris decided glumly, too many of those already.

He stood back, concentrated on the cart, and pushed. It was easier than shoving the bench. Once in the air, the cart moved without resistance. He turned it over and lowered it. Slowly. Slowly.

“Nice trick.”

The cart thudded to the ground. Enris groaned. Had he damaged the wheels? He plunged to his hands and knees to check, ignoring Naryn.

She came closer, kicking dust. “Did you hear me?”

He rocked back on his heels and gazed up at her. “The wheels are fine.” No thanks to you, he added to himself, keeping his shields tight.

“Wheels—? What do—” She seemed to collect herself. “So this is why you wouldn’t vouch for me. You wanted to show off yourself!”

Enris got to his feet, brushing dust from his pants. “I’m not the one who ran to Council and the Adepts,” he pointed out.

“I have every right to use my special Talent.”

“No,” he said calmly, “you don’t. Not if you make a display of it where the Oud could find out.” He wrapped his hands around the handles of the cart and heaved it into motion. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late.” She didn’t move; and he was forced to stop. “Naryn—” with exasperation.

“You didn’t pick anyone last night. Why?”

Enris stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You aren’t—” this as though she’d made a startling discovery “—stupid.”

“Thank you. Now get out of my way.”

Naryn put her hands on the cart. “Not until I get an answer.”

“I could push you out of the way,” he suggested almost idly.

She arched a shapely brow. “You could try.”

For an instant, Enris ached to do just that, to pit his Power against hers, to make her stop behaving like the spoiled child she was. It was more than frustration, more than anger. Something deep inside, something he’d never felt before, wanted . . . was trying . . . trying to . . .

To answer . . .

“You!” he accused, dropping the handles and backing away. “What are you doing?”

Naryn tilted her head, as if she needed a different view of him. “How—interesting,” she said, running the tip of her tongue over her lower lip to taste the word. “I suspected. Oh, yes. There was always something about you, Enris Mendolar. Annoying. Addictive. They’re much the same, you know.” She eased out of the cart’s path, but only as far as the wall of the shop. She leaned back against the brick, stretching her slender right arm languidly over her head as if daring him to reach for it. “Go.”

Enris wrapped his big hands around the cart handles and left her there.

By the time he reached the Oud tunnel, he’d almost stopped wanting to go back.