Riders of the Storm

Chapter 2

“WE CAN’T GO THERE! WE can’t! Don’t—” the words dissolved into another scream.

The Om’ray clustered around the prone figure moved out of Aryl’s way, letting her through. Seru lay on her back, hands pressed over her face, fingers tangled in strands of wet hair. She no longer screamed, but squirmed fitfully.

“Seru!” Aryl dropped to her knees. “Seru?” she repeated, gently. “Cousin.” No response. She looked up at the others. “What happened?”

“We don’t know.” Taen held Ziba’s shoulders, her face and voice grave. Murmurs of agreement from the other exiles, an ebb and flow of emotion that read to Aryl’s inner sense as concern mixed with pity. “She was climbing with us, then she was down, screaming we had to stop. Why?”

“Seru’s been talking to herself all day,” the young Om’ray offered, eyes wide. “She wouldn’t listen to me.” This with profound distress.

“We’re too exposed here.” Rorn sud Vendan, Haxel’s Chosen, traded looks with Cetto. “I can carry her,” he offered. “She’s little more than bone and clothing.”

“Wait.” Aryl pressed her hand lightly over Seru’s, sending her cousin’s name through that contact. No shields barred her way. No consciousness responded. How was that possible? Her eyes widened in shock.

Seru was sound asleep.

An unnatural sleep. Aryl eased Seru’s hands away from her face, then stroked strands of hair from her pale forehead and cheeks. Her cousin’s lips quivered and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t stir.

Like last truenight.

Aryl laid her palms along her cousin’s cold cheeks and summoned her strength. Wake up, she coaxed, as if it were a normal morning, as if this were a day when a pair of giggly young unChosen might sneak away from chores and spy on those who did work. Sleepy Seru. We’ll be late. C’mon. It’s me. Aryl.

A disgruntled huff of warm breath in her face.

Wake up. Lazy Seru. Wake up. She hid her own fear, did her utmost to project only anticipation and pleasure. Her awareness of the other Om’ray faded as they tightened their mental shields. It helped her focus; the reason for it didn’t. She shared their instinct for self-preservation. If Seru’s mind was damaged, contact risked them both.

Snow swirled and danced in silence; chill wind snuck between the legs of those waiting and found its way down the neck of Aryl’s hood. She didn’t move, didn’t stop sending.

At last, Seru’s eyelids fluttered open. She blinked away snowdrops. Her green eyes, their gaze vague, strayed until they caught Aryl’s. “Why are you taking us to Sona?” Her voice, though hoarse with the aftermath of screams, was disturbingly calm and reasonable. A bead of blood marked a crack on her lower lip. “We can’t go there. Everyone’s dead. Can’t you hear them warn us away?”

With a gasp, Taen drew Ziba back into the crowd. The rest exchanged troubled glances and Aryl didn’t blame them. Her hands trembled as they left Seru’s face. “Wake up!” she insisted, this time aloud.

Another blink, then Seru’s eyes snapped into focus. “Aryl?” Her brows knitted together as she noticed the others staring down at her. “What am I doing on the ground?” A look of dismay. She beckoned Aryl closer, then whispered urgently. “I didn’t fall, did I?”

“Of course not.” What could she tell her? Don’t worry, Seru? You’ve been climbing in your sleep? You’ve had another bad dream? You said things none of us understand? It didn’t make sense, Aryl fussed to herself. She did know none of this would reassure those hovering anxiously around them. “It’s the cold,” she improvised hastily. “You aren’t used to it. You—fainted.”

With perfect timing, snow swept between them, the wind tugging at their clothes. Seru’s shiver reached her teeth and she sat with Aryl’s help. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

A touch on her shoulder that wasn’t wind. Aryl. We have to move.

“Let’s get you on your feet, Cousin.” Aryl acknowledged Gijs’ sending with a somber I know.

Husni, Cetto’s Chosen, and Myris closed on Seru, chattering in anxious synchrony about the effects of such dreadful cold and how badly they felt, too. Seru, for her part, was unsettled by the attention of her elders; her cheeks flushed in spite of the cold.

How could she not remember shouting? How could she sleep while climbing in this difficult place—and not fall?

Only one thing was certain. It hadn’t been the cold.

“Do you want me to stay—” Aryl began.

“We’ll take care of her,” promised Myris. Seru averted her eyes and started climbing with the others.

Lip between her teeth, Aryl watched her go. Their only Parth. Their only Chooser. Seru was young and strong. She shouldn’t be the first to falter—shouldn’t falter at all during what was—what had been—easy travel for a Yena.

She felt someone’s attention and glanced up. Through the haze of falling snowdrops, Ziba regarded her solemnly from the top of the rise, her hand tight in her mother’s. As the two turned to take their place in the line of exiles, the child twisted to look back. “What killed Sona, Aryl?” she called out, loud and frightened. “Is it going to kill us, too?”

Taen’s head bent over her daughter’s. Reassurance, Aryl supposed, wishing she had some. Whether inspired from dream or something more, Seru’s shouts had shaken everyone’s confidence in this path. But they had no other option.

Followed by Juo and the others, the two disappeared down the other side, leaving Aryl alone.

Not entirely. Slowing down, Yena?

Admiring the scenery. Aryl smiled. The snow made it impossible to see any distance. The ridge itself had vanished into bands of gray and white, along with the valley floor. Didn’t matter. With a flash of her inner sense, she knew exactly where Enris was: farther down the slope, but closer than before. He’d made up time while they’d stopped with Seru; possibly found a superior route.

If the Tuana outpaced her on the flat, he’d be insufferable for days.

She wiped drops from her face and climbed hurriedly after the others.

The storm eased to sullen misery for the rest of the afternoon. The snow became little more than an unpredictable nuisance, drops to splatter into an open eye or mouth, mounds to fill nooks and crannies, so already numb fingers must push into the cold wet stuff to find a sure hold. The wind fretted at them, poked through ill-fitting clothing, unerringly found whatever was damp.

The Yena exiles maintained their pace. No one called for a rest; no place offered shelter if they had. Aryl followed the trail left by the others, the shape of a booted foot pressed into melting snow, the dark stain of soil where someone had yanked free yet another tuft of vegetation in hopes of a warm, evening fire. These were the only traces held by rock and loose pebbles. She noted that, as she noted everything she could about this place. They had to learn to survive here.

They’d never last the journey to Rayna otherwise.

Gaining the high ground, Aryl paused to survey her surroundings before the plunge into the shadow of the next ravine. There were fewer such gashes in the mountain ridge this far up the valley; unfortunately, each was deeper and more treacherous to climb than the last. Aryl wasn’t surprised to see those in the lead, already halfway up the other side, were angling downslope as well, to where the ravine walls weren’t as rugged. At this rate, she thought ruefully, they might meet Enris after all.

The sun was a pale dot she could look at without pain, powerless against the cold that assailed her the instant she stopped moving. Her breath steamed from her mouth; the novelty had worn off. What interested Aryl lay ahead. She balanced the balls of her feet on the thin edge of rock and tried to make sense of the land before her.

Like the ravines cutting its sides, the valley itself narrowed and deepened as they moved toward its source, or rather the mountain ridge that was its far wall surged skyward here. Just as well they hadn’t been forced along its jagged, shadowed face. No further sign of the disturbance caused by the Oud—a relief—but the valley’s floor wasn’t as smooth as where its mouth opened to the Lay Swamp. Traces of snow clung to the leesides of low, even hills, emphasizing the smallest wrinkle of ground.

No wonder Haxel had kept going. There was no shelter here.

Puzzled by a broad depression that wound its way up the middle of the valley, Aryl let her gaze follow its irregular edge. It looked like a giant version of the annoying small rivers they’d crossed, but held no gleam of water, only drifts of snow. Perhaps the Oud had made it. It curled out of sight behind the ridge.

At that curve, she spotted a cluster of straight and crisscrossed lines, stark against the muted brown-gray and whites of the landscape. Aryl’s heart quickened. Only one thing she knew made that shape.

Nekis!

Too small to be the familiar giants that soared above all other growth in the groves. She refused to be disappointed. Possibly these were another kind of plant, or nekis stunted by the cold so high in the mountains. It didn’t matter. Yena could work with wood of any kind.

Aryl shivered. Or burn it for heat.

Haxel would have found that grove, she told herself as she descended after the others, her steps eager and sure. Rather than retrace where the rest had climbed, she moved farther down the ravine to catch up, a more direct path. They’d be busy erecting a shelter for them…there was nothing Yena couldn’t do with wood.

Distracted, Aryl almost stepped into a trap.

Almost. At the last instant, she glimpsed half-buried metal and flung herself away. She slid precipitously, grasping for handholds she’d marked as she jumped, missing the first…the second…There.

Hanging by one hand, Aryl froze in place, her feet suspended in midair. Pebbles continued to fall without her, pinging as they bounced off one another and the rock face. Before the last ping, she’d found a good hold for her other hand, a brace for one knee. A quick squirm and she was on her feet again.

She considered the piece of metal from a cautious distance, absently wiping blood and pebbles from her scraped palm on her coat. They needed to know the hazards here. Gingerly, ready to spring back, she crouched to brush snow, then dirt and small stones from around it, for the piece was set into a pile of such loose material. Some kind of snare, like those Yena hunters braided from wing threads. No. Something else.

Though the metal piece, a strap, did connect with others farther down, the whole was too fine and delicate to hold any prey worth catching.

Her fingers contacted something long and smooth to one side of the metal. She pulled it free, impatient for an answer.

Bone.

She laid it along her forearm, confirming her suspicion.

An Om’ray had died here.

“Some poor unChosen on Passage,” she decided aloud, but didn’t rise at once. The hem of her long coat collected snow as she reached for the piece of metal.

It resisted. Determined, she used the arm bone as a tool, first to loosen the dirt, then to pry at the metal. With a sudden pop and spray of stone, up it came, complete with skull.

Aryl rocked back on her heels. “Not unChosen,” she whispered.

The skull was damaged, the jaw and back missing. The two deep cavities where eyes should be looked at her below a forehead-spanning strap of green metal. The ends of that met fine chain; more straps rose above it and fell behind, trailing down where a neck should be.

Only one type of Om’ray wore such an elaborate headdress. Only one type needed such restraint—designed to tame willful hair.

“You were Chosen.”

Saying it made it no easier to comprehend. Mother, grandmother, aunt…a mature Chosen shouldn’t be wandering alone, shouldn’t be in this wasteland of rock. She’d heard flat-landers disposed of the empty husk by burial, but this lay on a path, as if it were where the Chosen had died.

What had happened here?

Aryl freed the headdress, leaving the bones where they were. She rubbed the front of the strap, feeling a texture suggestive of carving or inlay. It would have to be cleaned and polished, perhaps repaired. Remarkably light, for all its parts. Enris might know which Clan did such work.

Opening her coat, she carefully tucked the headdress inside her tunic. The cold metal stole heat from her skin.

Whatever Seru had experienced…was experiencing…

It wasn’t anything so innocent as a dream.

Perversely, her cousin appeared anything but afflicted by dreams or visions of death when Aryl rejoined the exiles. They’d stopped where a hollow made a welcome windbreak, a few standing, most sitting on packs. Husni leaned against Cetto, only her bright pale eyes showing past the layers of coats and wraps she’d bundled around her body and head. A small waterfall trickled listlessly to one side. Seru was helping Ziba refill water sacs, the two giggling as if the same age.

Aryl watched them as she accepted what Grona’s Om’ray called “travel bread” from her aunt. “How’s she been?”

Hesitantly, Myris touched her tongue to her own piece of the hard, bitter stuff. She gave a resigned shudder instead of taking a bite. “Terrified. Angry. Confused.” At Aryl’s raised eyebrow, she colored. “I didn’t pry, if that’s what you think. Seru’s emotions are—” a wince. “I’m not the only one avoiding her right now. No offense to the Parths, but I wish her shields were stronger.”

“Then she’d be able to hide whatever’s wrong.” Aryl dutifully nibbled the bread, taking her own lack of appetite as a warning. “What if they aren’t dreams, Myris? Some Om’ray can taste a coming change.” She happened to be one of them, though it was a thoroughly untrustworthy Talent. The metal headdress pressed against her waist, its mystery prompting her to press on. “Have you heard of anyone who could taste what happened before?”

“Seru?” They both looked toward the owner of the name—presently juggling an armload of full sacs as Ziba laughingly piled on more—then back at each other. Though her shields were impeccable, Myris’ hair squirmed in agitation within its net. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said after a moment. “I wouldn’t believe it if I did. What’s already been…surely it’s done. Done and gone. What could be left to affect a living mind? Memories flying around?” She tipped her bread through the air like a flitter after a biter. “These fancies of Seru’s will pass. It’s difficult for everyone—worse for your cousin. She must restrain powerful needs and instincts—hard under the best of conditions. I cried for days.” The bread wagged at Aryl. “One day, you’ll know the stress of being a Chooser.”

Impossible to argue with that, though Aryl resolved then and there she’d never cry when her time came. “Seru’s lucky to have you.”

“Maybe I can do more when we reach shelter,” Myris offered bravely. Her Talent to affect the emotions of others might be restricted to very close kin; it still took its toll on her, regardless of outcome.

Aryl gestured gratitude. “What you should do is eat,” she urged.

“I can’t. Not without something to wash it down. Ziba! One of those sacs, please?” Myris left in pursuit of water, a little too obviously avoiding Seru.

Did the past leave its trace? Something to touch a mind in the present? If so, Aryl feared she knew where it would be. That darkness between minds, the whirling seductive abyss through which she’d sent Bern and traveled with Enris—whenever she’d allowed herself to enter it, she’d felt it wasn’t empty. There was a sense of being observed, of some intangible presence.

Her mother, Taisal di Sarc, claimed the minds of the dead lingered there, able to lure the living from their bodies. She wasn’t sure she believed Taisal, though it was true the darkness drew as much as terrified her. Just to think of it, standing here on this mountain in the middle of nowhere, brought it swelling into awareness, like the irresistible pressure of the M’hir Wind against her innermost self.

If she let herself go, it would carry her away.

Aryl worried her tongue at a stubborn crumb of bread lodged beside a tooth, studied the faces of those nearby, stamped her worn, damp boots against the ground until her feet were warm. She held to the real, to what was here and now. After a too-long struggle, the other place receded. All was improbably normal.

She shuddered. Dangerous. Deadly. That darkness was part of Taisal since the death of her Chosen, Mele, Aryl’s father; it was part of those less fortunate Lost, whose minds no longer functioned.

And part, Aryl admitted, of her as well.

As for Seru? Was it the source of her dread?

Aryl knew better than to reach for her cousin. This was not the time or place for extra risk. She took another bite and frowned. As for her find? This wasn’t the time or place to spread the news a Chosen had died here either.

She’d show Enris, but he was inconsiderately out of reach. Or…there was someone she could trust to keep this secret.

Aryl tucked away her bread and started to climb.

While the others rested, Veca Kessa’at had climbed to a vantage point to pick out their route. The tall, rangy Om’ray had been a promising young scout, until Joining Tilip Sarc. After Choice, like many, she turned to an occupation posing less risk to both their lives and became a woodworker like Tilip and her grandmother, Morla Kessa’at. Their quiet son, Fon, though younger than Aryl, showed the same interest. A valued, productive family.

Yena’s Council had exiled him with his parents and great-grandmother—why, she couldn’t imagine.

Veca’s teeth bared in what wasn’t a smile as Aryl joined her on the spit of rock. “Got any ideas?” she half shouted, gesturing over the edge.

“That bad?” Coat fluttering, Aryl braced herself and looked down, forewarned by a roar that wasn’t wind.

The sheer drop at her feet wasn’t the problem, though the scar in the rock was fresh and angry. They had sufficient ropes to get everyone down. Once at the bottom, though, they’d be trapped. Instead of the narrow ribbons of water they’d encountered thus far, barely worth a jump, here an angry torrent tore down the ravine. White fists slammed against huge boulders or bullied their way between in muscular currents. Directly below, Aryl watched the water plunge over a rock step. Clouds of spray, like snowdrops, obscured its fate.

And everywhere, the hard glitter of ice. It coated the boulders. It grew from the rocky banks like teeth.

“That bad,” Aryl agreed. They couldn’t cross this.

Veca squatted on her heels and rubbed one hand over her face. Weariness smudged the skin under her eyes; worry tightened the edges of her mouth. “Your friends’ flying machine would be nice about now.”

It was the first time any of the exiles had mentioned the strangers or their help. Aryl copied Veca’s position, then gestured apology with sore, numb fingers. “Do you think I was wrong to tell them to stay away from us?”

Veca had deep-set blue eyes. Now they held a warning. “I’m no Councillor to say what others should do.”

Implying she had? Aryl tucked her hands under her arms to warm them. “The strangers seek old things. They aren’t interested in Om’ray.” Or hadn’t been, until they’d recognized some of their words, words she’d used in their first meeting.

Marcus Bowman, Human, Triad First, Analyst, Trade Pact: all those words named the stranger who’d brought his machine to save the exiles from certain death, carrying them through the air to refuge with Grona Clan. He and those with him were from other worlds, if she continued to believe what seemed incredible now, back among her kind. Om’ray in appearance, unreal to her other, deeper sense.

She’d saved his life. He’d saved theirs.

Friend?

Trouble, Aryl assured herself. Because of the strangers’ curiosity, Yena’s annual Harvest had resulted in the deaths of too many, including her brother Costa. Because of Marcus’ interest in her words, one or more factions of Tikitik had turned on Yena itself. As a result, those deemed likely to cause even more change and disruption had been exiled.

“The strangers are no friends of mine,” she declared finally. “Or of any Om’ray. We’re better off without their machines or attention.”

“Best we join your plodder on the flats, then.” Veca’s move to rise stopped, her eyes riveted on what Aryl held out for her inspection. She sank back on her heels, taking the metal headdress in both hands. “Where did you find this?”

“With the remains of its owner.” Aryl gestured. “On our path, among the stones.”

Veca spread the headdress across one broad, callused palm. Its simple counterpart wrapped her thick brown hair, braids of red thread connected by small wooden rings. Such a flimsy net could never control Taisal’s opinionated hair, or Myris’, Aryl thought, distracted. A Sarc trait. Kessa’ats were more restrained. “Did she die alone?” Veca asked, a wondering finger tracing the tarnished links.

Aryl shrugged. “I didn’t see more bones, but I didn’t stay to look. Have you seen—” she hesitated. What was she asking?

“All I’ve seen, young Aryl, is rock and snow. With more rock and snow. Despicable place. As for this?” The Chosen tipped her hand to pour the metal net into Aryl’s. “A mystery too old to matter to us.” She rose to her feet, Aryl doing the same. Standing, the older Om’ray easily looked over her head, and did so now. “Down it is,” she mused. “That way.” Louder, with a sidelong glance, “Did you show anyone else?”

“No.”

“Don’t.” The word was said heavily. “Confidence is what stands between life and a fall. Might not be the Lay below us. Doesn’t matter. These rocks will do the job just as quick. We can’t afford doubt—not of the next handhold, not of where we’re going. Not until we’re safe for truenight.” A tired smile. “Now, young one. Save my legs and call them for me, will you?”

How strange, to have others know and value her abilities like this, to use them at need. All her life, Taisal had taught her to keep her differences secret. The Adepts claimed new Talent, tested it, and locked it away in the Cloisters to maintain the Agreement. Her mother had wanted her to be an Adept. She’d chosen freedom.

Not that all secrets were out, she thought wryly, then concentrated. Time to go, she sent to the rest, adding with what confidence she could, Veca’s found an easier path.

That worthy laughed. “Downhill, at any rate.”

Aryl closed her fingers over the headdress. “What if Seru’s not dreaming? What if we’re going somewhere Om’ray have died?”

Another laugh, but this one bitter. “Haven’t you noticed by now, Aryl? It’s the living you have to watch out for. You needn’t fear the dead.”