Riders of the Storm

Chapter 9

“ENRIS?”

His name died on her lips. Aryl sat up and pushed free of the softness that covered her body. He wasn’t here. She shook her head. The remnant of a dream, she decided. Not the useful kind.

As for here…where was she?

Oh, she knew where she was relative to Sona and Grona, although their remoteness made her inner sense uneasy. She had only the haziest memory of their final steps, but Marcus hadn’t brought her far from the Cloisters. Aryl swung her legs over the side of what was a bed, solid and raised on a platform, moving in silence despite the snores from the other side of the room. Room?

Daylight streamed through an abundance of too-small windows: narrow rectangles set head-high in the walls that angled into the smooth domed ceiling, a pair on one of two closed doors. Everything else—walls, ceiling, doors, and furnishings—was of a dull white material. She’d seen such before. The strangers used it in their more permanent structures.

The place was a mess. Every possible wall space supported shelves cluttered with devices, tools, and clear jars of what appeared to be dirt. Counters ran beneath, crowded with boxes. The boxes had buttons and controls; some had screens displaying patterns of flickering light. The floor was a maze of the white crates the strangers used to carry supplies in their aircar, most empty and on their sides. Either the Human had been here a long while, or he’d had help who unpacked in a hurry.

Here for a rest, was he? Hardly.

The Human—a lump under fluffy blankets—slept on a second bed platform. There was a third suspended above it. She looked up. Another above hers. Two more farther along, these folded against the wall.

Alone, was he? For now, perhaps.

Aryl stood, finding herself in her still-damp tunic and leg wraps. Her boots and belt—and the Human’s—lay on the floor with his coat, carelessly dropped. Her knife…there it was. On one of the counters, sharp point to the wall. Not so careless.

She went to the door with windows and looked out, relieved to see stunted nekis stalks and a too-neat path between them. The Cloisters was that way.

The other door led to another pleasant surprise. It opened into a ’fresher—the one stranger technology she’d gladly add to her life.

Sorely tempted, Aryl looked back at the Human. What she could see appeared asleep. Besides—when would she have another chance?

She stepped inside the stall and fastened the door, shedding her filthy clothes with relief. Her hairnet came apart as she tugged it from her hair, hair thoroughly tangled and, from the feel, mud-encrusted. Shouldn’t it have been cleaned by the waterfall? Water…her pockets! Aryl grabbed her tunic to check. Her Grona fire starter was gone, but the headdress was still safely tucked in its pocket, if filthy. The rokly had swollen into an unappetizing mass, coated with dirt. She scooped it out and dropped it on the floor.

The Speaker’s Pendant thudded against her chest, cold and heavy, as she straightened. So it hadn’t been a dream. She left it around her neck.

Aryl tapped a square in the wall, and warm, fragrant foam sprayed her from every side, head to toe. She gathered handfuls and rubbed it on her clothing. It couldn’t hurt. Foam collected on the lump of swollen rokly, but didn’t wash it away. The device wasn’t perfect, she thought, amused.

The soft wind of heated air dispersed the foam from her skin and hair, and most, if not all, from her clothes.

Refreshed and alert, Aryl dressed, picking clumps of dried foam from her tunic. Her leg wraps had fared best, being almost white again.

She lifted the pendant in both hands to examine it, clean hair brushing her cheekbones. It gleamed like a leaf after the rains, markings no longer obscured by dirt. They weren’t like those on Sona’s wooden beams, or on Enris’ blade. They weren’t like any other writing or drawing she’d seen—or dreamed—here. As she’d expected, Sona’s pendant was the same as those worn by her mother and Grona’s Speaker, as the one fastened to the cloth band of the Tikitik’s Speaker. That was the point of the pendants. They identified the wearer as a Speaker.

What was she, an unChosen, doing with such a thing?

Only a Clan’s appointed Speaker was, by the Agreement, allowed to talk to his or her counterpart from either of the other races. Aryl had no idea how other races chose theirs. For Om’ray, few could converse comfortably with what they sensed as an object, not a person. Of those who could, fewer were willing to accept the risk. The Speaker assumed responsibility for whatever was understood or not. Speakers sometimes died for his, her, or its mistakes. That was the Agreement, too.

Although, Aryl thought with some impatience, the other races persisted in talking to her, without a pendant or her consent, as if rules didn’t apply to them.

Was that why the Oud had given her this? Did it know she’d talked to Tikitik? To the strangers? Was this to get her out of trouble—or into more?

More, she decided, and tucked the pendant inside her tunic before leaving the ’fresher.

Snores greeted her. Aryl almost envied the Human his trust in walls. Almost. She collected her knife and belt—hair falling in her eyes—slipped on her damp boots—hair in her mouth—and put on the Human’s pretend-Grona coat. It was dirty but dry, as the real garment wouldn’t have been. As for her hair? A quick search of a countertop supplied a length of threadlike metal. She twisted it around the annoying locks and pulled them into a painfully tight knot at the base of her neck. There. Out of the way.

A length fell back into her eye. Aryl ignored it.

Stranger-doors could be locked. When she pressed her palm flat against the square plate beside the door, she was relieved to have it open, sliding to one side instead of turning around its center. Too wide, but she supposed the gap was necessary. Strangers came in a variety of races; she’d met one much larger than a Human.

Aryl stepped out, closing the door behind her. As she did, its surface transformed from white to…she lifted her hand, astonished to find herself facing the pale gray-streaked stalk of a nekis, one of several. There were more in the distance.

Image or drawing?

She brushed her fingertips over the door and couldn’t tell.

Aryl turned to face an oval clearing of packed dirt, free of stone if not footprints. They appeared all the same: the Human’s. The clearing and path were free of roots or cut stalks. Impressive, given how densely nekis grew all around, their roots writhing up through the ground.

Broken cloud overlaid the mist, but the sun’s light came through. Midmorning, she guessed, displeased to have slept so much of the day. On the thought, she tied another knot along her rope. The interior of the building had been warm. The outside air had a bite to it; she was glad of the Human’s coat. As she walked away from the building, she held out her hands. Despite feeling foolish, she had no desire to walk into another illusion.

The thought made her look back. From here, the image was almost perfect. A hasty glance would miss the building entirely, despite its size. Marcus didn’t rely on his Om’ray-like clothing alone. More “policy”?

Aryl spotted a second area of not-quite-right nekis. Another building. When she investigated, she was disappointed to find its door locked.

Secrets.

Enough. Anything the strangers would lock away wasn’t for Om’ray. Time she was gone. She could reach Sona before firstnight, if she moved quickly. She wanted her own kind.

Something made Aryl look back before she entered the shadow of the path. Strange. From here, the buildings—their illusions—met. For no reason…or to hide something behind them from anyone approaching from the Cloisters?

She hesitated. What did it matter? This was the strangers’ camp—Triad business. She should leave, now. Before Marcus woke up.

She’d never know…

“One look,” she promised herself.

Putting the locked—and hopefully empty—building between herself and the one where the Human—also hopefully—still snored, Aryl traced its disguised wall with her fingertips, keeping close. The waterfall’s background drone, the wind rustling the twig tips of the nekis made more sound than her steps.

She came around the back and gasped, flattening herself against the wall.

The Oud paid no attention.

Too far away to detect her—or didn’t they care? Nothing hid her. Nothing grew between—it had been removed, she realized with dismay, along with any growth on the towering rock above. Plumes of spray from the waterfall filled the sky toward the Cloisters, hiding the mountain. To the other side of the Oud, the cliff folded inward, as if to hide itself. This was the valley’s end.

And the Oud had been busy here.

Beginning only steps in front of her—and the strangers’ buildings—the dirt was churned and treacherously soft. No, not all. Her eyes narrowed. Oud ground vehicles had left paired tracks; where they’d been, they packed the dirt into hard lines. Most paralleled the cliff, leading from where the Oud worked to the mouth of their tunnel. She’d seen its like at Grona: an immense slanted opening framed in wood. This one had been thrust up through the edge of the living grove, leaving stalks splintered and dead to either side.

Aryl counted five of the creatures at the base of the cliff. What were they after? There were dark pits—holes—in the cliff face above the Oud. Were they Watchers, like Yena’s, whose immense pipes were blown by the M’hir Wind each year to sound a warning? She couldn’t be sure.

Below, the bulky Oud and their machines kicked up so much debris she couldn’t see past them, creating a roar and rumble like the waterfall’s.

They were moving rock. A great deal of rock. Digging into the cliff itself.

She hadn’t realized Oud could do that.

It didn’t matter. The cliff was above ground. Above ground belonged to Sona’s Om’ray, not the Oud. She was their Speaker—appointed by the Oud, at any rate.

Aryl pulled the pendant out and made sure it was in plain sight—not that Oud had eyes. She would go to the creatures and demand to know what they were doing out of their tunnel. It was her duty.

She took a deep breath…

Pounding feet made her spin about, knife out and ready. The Human almost collided with her. Only her quickness saved him from impaling himself.

“Fool,” she exclaimed, shaking as she put the knife away.

Marcus flinched but didn’t retreat. His eyelids were swollen and purpled, as was most of his face; his eyes were wild. He hadn’t stopped to put on his boots. “Aryl—”

“You’re too late,” she interrupted. “I’ve seen what’s going on here.” She jerked her head toward the Oud.

He glanced toward the cliff, then back to her, looking confused. “Aryl not run away again?”

Is that what he’d thought? Aryl flushed. Not her finest moment, dashing off into truenight. No credit to her they weren’t both dead. She owed him her life.

She didn’t owe him any part of Sona.

“You told me you came here for a rest, Marcus Bowman,” she accused. “You lied!”

His expression darkened. “Not lie. Not! Oud already here. Invite us many time. Push. Rude. Want full Triad assess site.” He shook his head violently. “No proof. No surveyindicators. We not come. Oud ask again. This time different. I can’t do my work. So I say yes. I come. Curious. Unhappy. Understand? Me only, set up survey camp, determine if real find or empty hole. Make Oud happy. Me, away from others. Peace. Truth, Aryl,” this with a heavy sigh, as if he didn’t expect her belief. “Oud want explore ruins. They interest in Hoveny Concentrix. This place no Tikitik stop them.”

Oh, she believed him. Aryl instinctively tightened her shields to keep in her reaction. The Tikitik kept the Oud from exploring? The Oud went to the strangers for help to do just that?

Was the Human trying to terrify her?

“Have they found something?” she managed to ask, surprised her voice sounded normal.

“Oud think so.” Marcus leaned on the wall of not-nekis and rubbed the bottom of one foot, grimacing as he did. She guessed he didn’t run barefoot often. “Not let me look yet,” he said with a resigned shrug.

Which helped explain, she realized, why the too-curious Human had been poking around the Sona Cloisters. He’d been bored.

He peered at her through his swollen eyelids. “Aryl want breakfast? Sombay?” From his hoarse tone, he did.

“I have to go. My people are waiting—” For what? Answers? Who appointed you Speaker for Sona Clan? Who said there was a Sona Clan? What if we want to leave? What if the Oud refuse to share water? What if the Tikitik object to the Oud’s “explorations” and blame us? How dare strangers make camp in Sona? What do they want? Didn’t you promise Marcus Bowman would never come near us again?

“Aryl not eat first?”

“Maybe I should,” she sighed.

Aryl sat on the ground and crossed her legs. Being low kept her out of the damp, chill breeze that swayed the nekis, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “We can eat here,” she suggested.

“Here?” Marcus looked horrified. “Aryl come inside,” he insisted, leaning against the side of the door’s opening. “Please. Don’t sit on dirt.”

Not her first choice, to go inside his building, surrounded by all that gave the Human an advantage, but the bruises on his face were her fault. He’d saved her life again. How he’d followed her through the darkness was a mystery; she assumed some gadget or device gave him an advantage. What mattered was that he’d jumped into the waterfall after her, risking his own life. Ridiculous.

Heartwarming.

The waterfall may have spat them both out, but Marcus, battered and scared, had protected her from the Oud. He’d made her breathe again, a trick she’d like to learn. She could no longer doubt him.

Everyone else. Them she doubted. What he was here to do. That she doubted.

Aryl sighed again and stood. “Inside,” she agreed.

Once through the door, Marcus shoved and tossed crates aside until he cleared the area of floor between their beds. “Wait,” he told her when she tried to help. “I do.” He pressed a control that folded both beds against the wall—their blankets stuck out as if trapped—then grabbed a handle she hadn’t noticed in the floor. A pull, and up rose a table, complete with attached seats. “There,” he beamed at her. “Not sit on dirt. Sit.”

She sat with a certain amount of caution. Furniture that came out of a floor could, in her opinion, sink back into it without warning.

In short order the Human filled self-heating cups, gave one to her with a box of “supplements,” found soft, useless-looking boots to put on his sore feet, and sat down across the table with a groan of pleasure. “There. Better.”

Aryl smiled into her cup.

“Aryl happy?”

As Speaker for Sona Clan, she had every right and obligation to talk to the not-real.

She probably wasn’t supposed to like the not-real individual in question.

“You think hard.” Marcus scrunched his face. “Like this.”

She pretended affront. “I don’t look like that.”

“Yes. Laugh is better.” They sipped in companionable silence for a moment, then Marcus gestured toward her. “See what Oud gave you? Scan. Find how old?” With that too-innocent look.

The Human had accepted that the Cloisters were off-limits as far as she was concerned—or he’d stopped asking, which suited her. Aryl found herself equally reluctant to share the pendant. To divert him, she pulled the wet and still-grimy headdress from her pocket and laid it on the table. “You could scan this. It’s from Sona,” she added when he didn’t reach for it. “I found it with Om’ray bones.”

“Went through ’fresher.” Complaint or observation? “Not good.”

Complaint.

She should have guessed from what lined his shelves that he’d prefer things covered in dirt. Aryl nudged it toward him anyway. “It stayed in a pocket.”

“Hmm.”

Collecting what he needed, Marcus returned to the table. He handled the metal links with greater care than she’d shown them, holding a length gently against one end of a palm-sized device, before he pressed a series of buttons. Small lights flickered and she could have sworn the device gave a satisfied hum. The Human’s eyebrows rose. “Old, is.”

“How old?”

He pressed more buttons. “Two times get. One wrong.”

“Two?” Aryl reached for the headdress.

Marcus laid his hand over it. “How long exposed to elements? ’Fresher,” he said, shaking his head dolefully. She almost gestured an apology. Then, “How long since manufacture? Different times.”

“What are you saying?”

He blushed easily. “Sorry. Excited. This,” he raised the hand over the headdress, “was made over 240 standard—sorry. Your year, close to same, good enough. Little more.” At her impatient nod, “This made to this shape 240 years ago.” He held up the headdress and peered through its links at her. “What is it?”

This time, he relinquished it at her gesture. Aryl laid it over her hair, shivering as the decorative piece crossed her forehead. “A headdress—to keep hair quiet and well behaved. Only a Chosen would wear one.”

A grin. “Mother give daughter, yes?”

She took off the headdress and put it back in her pocket, more carefully than before. Enris’ Clan traded for such ornaments. She had no idea what Sona would have done. Still, something so difficult to make, yet lovely and useful—in Yena, such would stay within a family, to be treasured. “Or to the First Chosen,” she hazarded.

“Then this could be gift many many—”

Trill! Loud, from a box on the counter behind Marcus. Flashing lights accompanied the sound. Muttering impatiently, he slapped a control and turned back to her.

Trillll! With more lights. Then a deep male voice uttered incomprehensible words, sounding none too pleased.

“Tyler,” Marcus announced with a shrug. “Triad First, Site Two. I better answer.” He held a finger in front of his lips. “Aryl, no sound please.” A gesture to his abused face and a crooked smile. “No vid, sure.”

Having seen him use a comlink before, Aryl understood. She sat quietly, enjoying the warm drink, while Marcus exchanged strings of stranger-words with this Tyler. Site Two was where they’d uncovered large structures, inexplicably whole, from the side of a mountain—a discovery important enough to make Marcus take her with him to join the others.

From his tone, this “Tyler, Triad First, Site Two” wasn’t a friend. They exchanged short bursts of words, like scouts reporting. Whatever it was about, Marcus remained calm and assured. By the end, Tyler’s voice went from argumentative to resigned, as if Marcus had made some point.

The Human switched off the comlink and sighed. “Sorry, Aryl. Missed last night’s check in. I tell them I all right.”

So many words for that? She decided not to press for an explanation. The less she knew about the strangers’ doings on Cersi, the better.

Though she wondered what they’d found…how they’d entered the buildings, if they had…and why…?

Before she could ask—or to forestall any questions—Marcus tapped the table with a finger. “Need to know how many times that be gift. How many First Chosen. How many mothers to daughters.”

Her surviving great-grandparents could remember one of their great-grandparents—injury took the lives of most Yena before they grew old, and Ele Sarc had lived a remarkably long life—so she’d grown up hearing the stories of more ancestors than other Yena families. Of course, whomever had lived before that was no longer real and didn’t matter. They might never have existed at all. She’d certainly never given them thought, until now. “I don’t know.”

“We can estimate. For Om’ray, how long per generation?” Marcus immediately rephrased his question. “Sorry. Generation is how long for Om’ray from born, grow up to be mother, have own child. How many years for that?”

What an odd thing to ask—a Clan always had Om’ray of every stage in life. Maybe Humans were different there, too. As for his question? Those Chosen pairs who could have children became pregnant soon after Joining. After that, some might have more children or not; everyone hoped. A Clan needed children. There were never enough Om’ray. Yena had diminished in number long before the disastrous Harvest.

“Sixteen years,” Aryl said cautiously. “For most.” The coming M’hir would be her eighteenth. Surely she would be a Chooser by then. What was it like to Choose…to Join…to have a Chosen’s body…to carry new life inside? She wasn’t supposed to wonder. After Choice, a new Chosen stayed with her mother, to learn, to be cared for as she matured.

Hers might as well be on one of the Tikitik’s fabled moons, Aryl thought with a bitterness that startled her. She took a sip of her sombay.

For some reason, the Human appeared distracted, too. He fussed with the device in his hands until it made a buzz of complaint, then tossed it aside with a grumble in his language. “How old your elders?” he asked after a moment.

The Human had a gift for asking what she’d never considered before. For most of their lives, Om’ray paid no attention to age, only accomplishments. “Old.”

That drew a laugh. “My son say same.” But something bothered him. Aryl didn’t need to seek out his emotions to know. She waited, sure some of their mutual confusion came from haste. Marcus rubbed one hand over his face, then looked at her, determination in his eyes. “Quick generations,” he said at last. “Aryl say Om’ray have only living past.” A frown, as if this continued to be difficult for the Human. He drew a circle on the tabletop with his finger, over and over again. “Means quick forget. Quick generations means change quick, too. Om’ray not remember. Change inside. Change outside. Om’ray now, not like Om’ray many many generations past.”

About to protest, to explain why this couldn’t be, Aryl closed her mouth and stared at Marcus. He gazed back, his expression solemn. Hadn’t the Om’ray changed? Wasn’t she proof? Those with her proof? New Talents, new strength. Enris and his ability to resist a Chooser. Her Clan’s Adepts had purged their population of those new Talents to prevent more change—but hadn’t that changed Yena, too?

“Change normal. Many generations, population adapts,” Marcus said gently, as if sensing her distress. “Change not bad.”

Maybe to a Human, she thought, grappling with ideas as strange as his disguised building and a box that sensed time. Maybe to someone from another world. On Cersi, change was deadly. It had destroyed Sona. It would destroy Yena, if there was no Harvest this M’hir. Another Clan lost.

How long then before all Om’ray forgot Yena had existed?

“When did Sona die?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“This?” A vague gesture at the outside world. “Happen eighty-three years ago. Headdress could be outside, in dirt and water and air, same time. Not know. ’Fresher.” He could be as annoying as Enris. “Most five generations Om’ray.” That keen look. “How forget?”

“I don’t know,” she said for the second time, her heart pounding. Those on Yena’s Council would have been alive then. Cetto and Morla should remember that day, as should their Chosen, Husni and Lendin.

But by all she’d sensed, they’d been as surprised by Sona’s existence as everyone else.

“Maybe Sona different kind of Om’ray? Not-real as you say for me?”

“They were real.” Aryl had no doubt at all.

“Sometime, those who live want a different history remembered. Tell lie. My job, look for truth, not what living want.”

Implying conflict. The possibility twitched nerves used to the canopy; it was all she could do not to check her knife. “Do those who lie try to stop you?”

“We take care. Clearancechecks. Vid records.” A too-casual shrug. “Here? Aryl not worry. Nothing contentious here. No lie to fight.”

Still, she didn’t care for the sound of it. “The Oud want to find their own Hoveny ruins—to look for some truth of their past or to bury it?”

“Good question, Aryl. Very good. I not—I don’t know.” He laid his hand on his chest. “My thought only, for you. Oud not care truth or past. They care things. Things of use, of value. But that is my idea, not certain.” He shrugged. “Not easy, talk to Oud.”

The strangers had been talking to the Oud for years. If she was the Speaker, how could she do any better?

Tomorrow’s problem.

Marcus gave her a considering look. “Why you run away last night? What I do? What I say?”

“What you are,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks warm. “We’re different, Human. It’s worse sometimes, because you look so much like us. But I know you aren’t.”

“I understand. To me, you could be Human,” he said. “Basic shape, humanoid, common. Some assembler species look same, too. Need bioscanner to know Om’ray, not Human. Aryl—any Om’ray—could walk on my world. No one know difference, outside.”

Aryl shuddered. It was one thing to accept Marcus Bowman as real enough to be a person, quite another to accept his entire race. Let alone more not-Om’ray mimics. Her head hurt. “I’ll stay on my world, thank you.”

He turned his cup around slowly, looked into it rather than at her. “You need a place, safe place, stay here.”

The Human didn’t know, she realized with a start. He believed she was alone. That she’d left her people, or they’d left her. “Thank you.” She dared touch his hand with hers, stopping the cup. If he’d been Om’ray, she would have sent her gratitude through that contact. “You’re a good friend,” she said instead, when his eyes lifted to hers. “I have a place, Marcus. The people you helped escape the swarm? They’ve come with me. We’re making a home in Sona. I’m here looking for water. We have everything else we need.”

“Haxel, too? And the big one. Enris?”

The other Om’ray who’d seen the Human—in person. She’d shared his image with the rest, but hadn’t dared let them meet, afraid they wouldn’t be able to deal with the confusion between sight and inner sense. “Haxel, too,” Aryl agreed. “Enris—” For some reason, her voice caught.

Marcus let go of the cup and gripped her hand. Dread. Anxiety. “Enris dead?”

“Why would you—of course not! No,” she went on more calmly. “Enris left. He’s on Passage to Vyna. He travels to another Clan,” felt his confusion. Mentioning the Tuana’s true quest would be like dangling food scraps over the Lay. “It’s what our unChosen do when they seek a Chooser—a lifepartner, like your Kelly.”

Anger. “Enris stupid.” He scowled. “You best lifepartner.”

Aryl gently freed her hand, not that the Human could sense her feelings in return. “I’m not ready for Choice. Enris couldn’t wait for me.” Why was she explaining this to a stranger?

Because he wasn’t, not anymore, not to her. The person sitting across the table, bruised and worn, with kind green-brown eyes, was her friend—however unusual his origins. He wanted her to be happy as well as safe. A teardrop hit the table; she wiped the second from her cheek, then said what she hadn’t to anyone else. “I did want Enris to stay. He might have, if I’d asked, for me. But I couldn’t, Marcus. He had to go.”

“You not go?” Before she had to answer, he gave a quick nod. “No, you not leave your people. Your family. I know that, Aryl. Sorry. Sorry.”

“My family,” she whispered, feeling the pull of that too-distant glow. Louder, “I have to leave, Marcus.”

As she rose to her feet, the Human did, too. “You come back, want find me, knock on door.” He drummed a pattern on the table. “I not talk to other Om’ray. Promise. I give autolock your palmprint. I not here, door open for you, anytime. No one else. Aryl use ’fresher, anytime.” This with that dimpled grin, distorted by his swollen lip.

She considered what he offered. Access to him, to his amazing technology, whenever she wanted—on her terms. “What if I don’t come back at all?”

The grin widened. “You come. Aryl curious.”

That word.

Aryl found herself smiling back.

The valley was different now. Familiar. Smaller. Defined. It contained a friend and comfort. Not to mention something that hoped to eat her, making this a more normal place. Aryl studied the rock hunters she passed. Once aware of them, she found it simple to pick them out from ordinary stone, even if dusted by snow. A little too smooth. A little too symmetrical. Large and small, the same basic shape. If she’d had time, she would have examined one. Anything could be killed. It was only a matter of finding its vulnerability.

“Maybe you’re good eating,” she told a pile in the shadows and imagined a quiver of fear.

Threatening rocks was probably not the sort of thing a Clan Speaker should do. She couldn’t imagine Taisal doing it. Then again, once made an Adept, Taisal di Sarc had no longer hunted or climbed—or lived at home.

She’d been without a mother, Aryl thought wistfully, longer than she’d realized.

Costa had been there instead. Her kind and funny brother. Not a hunter or a climber—but he’d let her do as she wanted. He’d lived at home until being Chosen by Leri Teerac.

Who’d become Lost at his death. Leri was in the Cloisters now, a mindless pair of hands in service to the Adepts and others.

Sona had no Lost. And no Adepts. Aryl sincerely hoped it would stay that way.

She climbed the arch of the second bridge and stopped to consult her geoscanner, a gift from Marcus. Hand-sized, with a flat base and a clear dome over an intimidating array of small glowing parts, she’d refused the thing at first. It wouldn’t fit in a pocket. She’d break it. After the Human gleefully hammered and stomped on the device, she could hardly use that excuse. And it was well worth having, though she’d have to find a better way to carry it than down her tunic. For the Human had preset the geoscanner to hunt for tunnels. It would display a symbol on its dome if it detected any, a symbol that would flash red if the tunnels radiatedenergy.

All Aryl needed to know was that red meant Oud, nearby and active.

No symbol. Nothing below the surface but rock.

She carefully tucked her treasure away, sucking air through her teeth as its cold touched bare skin. Sona had its own Watcher now, unlike any on Cersi. With this, maybe they could find all the tunnels—watch for any reshaping. With this, the Oud couldn’t surprise them.

The Human had given her a less welcome gift: a puzzle. Sona had been destroyed within the lifetime of living Om’ray, but those who should remember, didn’t.

She wasn’t sure what to do about that.

Aryl started moving again, running in an easy lope. The effort kept her warm; she’d left the Human’s coat and hadn’t bothered to collect her sodden Grona one from the grove.

She wasn’t sure what to tell the rest about Marcus Bowman either. There was already the stolen river. Two of them, if she counted the one missing farther down the valley. The Cloisters. The Oud and its gift. The potential for negotiation.

Speaker for Sona. That alone should get everyone talking, she thought with an inner wince.

Maybe she’d leave the Human out of the discussion, for now.

The shadows were dark and noisy by the time Aryl came to the final turn of the valley before Sona. The noise was the grind and clatter of rock hunters, apparently willing to risk her attention now that she was leaving their hunting ground. They didn’t move quickly, unless tumbling from on top of a neighbor, but their numbers were unsettling. When she glanced over her shoulder, it was like being followed by a sluggish landslide.

Maybe they hoped she’d stop and conveniently fall too deeply asleep to hear them. Or trip and knock herself out. Not that a self-respecting Om’ray would panic and run like a fool from a bunch of rocks.

From a Human?

Mistakes you survived were lessons, Aryl told herself firmly.

The glow of Om’ray ahead lengthened her stride. Not just ahead, but someone coming toward her. She tasted a name. Haxel.

Impatient for a report, no doubt. Hopefully, the First Scout would settle for words. Haxel couldn’t read her memories against her will—no one here had the Power to penetrate her shields—but there was something wrong about deliberately hiding part of a memory. Neglecting to volunteer a minor detail or two, like meeting a Human, wasn’t the same at all.

Though Haxel wouldn’t miss what she could see. With reluctance, Aryl unwound the length of stranger-metal from her hair and tucked it deep in a pocket. Errant strands flew in her eyes at once and snagged on her chapped lips. Annoying stuff.

What would it be like if more than the wind moved it?

More than annoying, she decided.

Her head turned, drawn by another solitary warmth. Enris. He hadn’t left the valley floor yet, but moved away at a steady pace. Easy to imagine his long strides. She didn’t try to send to him. Wouldn’t. Talking to the Human had, in an odd way, helped. Marcus understood and sympathized with her decision—if not the Tuana’s. Her lips curved.

Aryl focused on the glow of her people, reached for their names, but kept the touch feather soft. Everyone was where they should be.

More than everyone.

She drew back to herself with dismay.

Slow they might be, but the Grona would be here before firstnight.

Haxel turned and matched strides with her rather than stop, her hood down. Her white hair strained against its net—agitation, not the wind. “Traveling light?”

The missing pack and coat. “Rock hunters.” True enough. “They like shadows.” Aryl nodded at the far wall, black to within a third of its top. So the return trip, admittedly at a good pace, had taken her less than two tenths. Yena’s Cloisters had been almost as far from its village.

“Hunters, are they?” The First Scout gave the oh-so-still-now stones a considering look. “Threat or meal?”

On the snow that by rights should cover them, they were easier to spot than ever. As if that wasn’t enough, each had pressed a trail of white as it rolled. “Nuisance,” Aryl decided. “Though I didn’t take the time to find out for sure.”

“You’ve news, then.”

“I found water—the source of the river. It’s no closer than where we’re getting water now,” she warned, “but will be faster. This goes all the way.” She scuffed her toe against the flat stone of the road.

“What else?”

“The river’s dry because of the Oud.”

The First Scout stopped. Aryl, resisting the urge to lean toward Sona, so close, did the same. “The Oud?”

“They made a hole to take the water below ground. And they haven’t left. One confronted me—gave me this.” She pulled out the Speaker’s Pendant.

Haxel raised a curious brow. “You have been busy.”

If only she knew—or better still, didn’t. Aryl put away the pendant and chose her next words with all the care she’d use climbing an unknown rastis. “I think it understood me. That we need the water back. They’ll negotiate.”

“To put the water back.” They both looked toward the empty riverbed. “I suppose if they can dig a hole…” As if to dispense with the chancy topic of rivers empty or otherwise, Haxel took off her coat and tossed it to Aryl, who pulled it on without argument. Whatever warmth running had given her was long gone; she had to clench her teeth together to keep them still. The First Scout began walking again, and Aryl hurried to keep up. “You found the Cloisters?”

“Yes. Empty, but whole.”

Satisfaction. “I don’t suppose they left the doors open.”

“No.” Aryl hugged the coat close. “I found bones, too. Most of Sona died there, not here.”

“Locked out, were they?” None of them would forget their own exile.

“Or taken by surprise. The Oud dig as fast as we climb.”

The First Scout glared at the ground. “How can we watch the dirt?”

About to tell her, Aryl hesitated, unsure why. If Enris had been here, she’d have already pulled out the geoscanner, boasted of its power, let him try it. Haxel knew Marcus Bowman, too—she’d met the Human, seen some of the strangers’ technology. The First Scout wouldn’t flinch at anything that offered an advantage for their people, regardless of source.

Threat or meal…

If Haxel believed Marcus had anything more to offer, she’d want it.

If he refused? There was no Yena more ruthless; none more dangerous.

“There might be a way,” Aryl said as casually as she could, her shields firm. “I thought I sensed the Oud who approached me. I can’t be sure, but if that’s so…” she let her voice trail suggestively.

Haxel took the bait. “If that’s so, Aryl, we’ve an advantage.” Cheerfully. “Just remember what the Tuana said.” Her lip curled. “The stronger your Power, the more you’ll suffer if you use it near an Oud. And you are the strongest we have. I’d rather not have you incapacitated when we’re about to have our first guest. Or is it guests?” All innocence.

“Guests.” Typical of the First Scout to thoroughly embrace every Talent she deemed useful, Forbidden or not, dangerous or not. Aryl sighed inwardly. She hadn’t wanted to think about the Grona, but that was foolish. Haxel should know. “Six. Bern and his Chosen, Oran di Caraat. The rest are family. Her brother and a cousin. Her uncle and aunt.”

“Coming for you.” A hand dropped, not casually, to the hilt of her longknife. “I expected it.”

“You did?” The words came out as a squeak, and Aryl closed her mouth hastily.

Haxel chuckled. “What did you think I’d miss, young Sarc? Bern’s lack of gratitude for being saved at the Harvest or your reappearance at Yena the instant we needed you most? I’ll take what I sense over any explanation, thank you, no matter how convincing. You’ve a Talent like Fon’s, that lets you move from place to place, or move someone else.”

The forlorn and stunted grove of nekis followed alongside the road. Equally humbled, Aryl asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You can’t control it yet, or you’d have used it to save us instead of calling your stranger.” The First Scout laid a hand on her shoulder. Pride blended with sympathy. “Taisal knew, didn’t she? That’s why the Adepts exiled you.”

“That’s why they exiled all of us,” Aryl replied bitterly. “It’s my fault—”

The hand gave her a friendly shove. “It’s their loss.”

Futile to warn her, but Aryl had to try. “This isn’t like other Talents, Haxel,” she began. “It’s dangerous. I need time to learn it, find where the traps lie. It may never be controllable.”

“Don’t worry.” Calm and sure. “Until you’re ready, no one else need know. As for our guests?” A rude noise. “They won’t announce what they’ve come for, unless they’re thorough fools. If they are? They won’t eat before we send them home again, truenight or not. You’ve my word on that.”

The warmth she felt was more than the coat.

Aryl climbed up the riverbank beside Haxel, and stood, transfixed.

“We’ve been busy, too.” Pride.

Deserved. A true village had sprung from the ruins since she’d left yesterday morning. Their original shelter and second building not only had roofs and doors, but were faced by two more structures under construction. All were square-edged and sturdy, well-suited to the weather. Paths had been tramped through the small field between, narrow and leading to openings in the low wall that, when intact, must have tied the original buildings together. The Sona design was revealed: four sturdy homes had backed onto each open space, with roofs that overhung sheltered areas along their outer walls, those areas connecting their doors one to the other, like Yena bridges. Add water and growing things?

This would be a place she could live.

The wind snickered through dead plants, raising dust.

“We’ll have a home for every family by spring,” Aryl replied in defiance.

Haxel smiled. “Sooner.”

There. They’d said it, both of them. Aryl could feel the realization in Haxel’s thoughts, a peaceful drawing close, like the moment when glows were lit and ladders pulled to protect Yena through truenight. “We’re staying, then.” The First Scout sounded amused. “Didn’t even take a Council vote.”

They didn’t have a Council. If they did? Took the eldest of each family? Aryl grinned. Then Seru would serve with Morla and Cetto. The last time she’d seen her cousin, she’d been staggering alongside the elderly weaver, using her chin to keep a massive stack of coats together. He and Husni were going to teach her how to alter the Sona coats, which were warm but overlong, with too much material that hampered movement.

They walked past the pile of beams and stone that had been Sona’s meeting hall. Aryl blinked in surprise. When she’d left, the narrow road that went behind the buildings had been blocked by huge slabs of stone. Now it was a clear passage, if dirt. She turned to Haxel. “How?”

“Fon,” the other explained smugly. “Cetto’s notion.”

A greater change than the road, then. In Yena’s Council, Aryl had listened as Cetto sud Teerac spoke passionately against the use of Power to move objects. He’d warned it would lead to taking, instead of sharing, that Om’ray would become divided by their abilities instead of brought closer. His was the one voice she’d believed would be raised against using what she could do.

Did he no longer fear those consequences? Or had Cetto realized it was too late to do anything but ride the storm and hope to survive?

Maybe Haxel had convinced him. Aryl felt a certain sympathy. She shivered despite the coat. The First Scout—who didn’t appear to notice the mountain cold any more than the wilting heat of the canopy—could ask the rest of her questions somewhere warm. With food.

“Think I’m in time for a meal?” she asked hopefully as she lengthened her stride.

“There’ll be some in the pots. Rorn sees to that.”

“Wonderful.” Maybe she’d get a chance to ask Cetto or better yet, Husni, about those memories they should have. It would have to be carefully done. They couldn’t learn what she knew or how…

“Looks like your cousin can’t wait to see you.”

Seru?

There, without any coats, running flat out toward them between the rebuilt homes, hair loose and streaming. Alarmed, Aryl reached to her cousin.

Desperation. Her heart lurched in her chest. “Something’s wrong.”

Haxel broke into a run, Aryl right beside her. The three met, hands outstretched to clasp one another.

It’s Myris! Fear gave Seru’s sending new strength. Hurry!

A real door had replaced the blanket at the entrance to the second shelter. There was no center pivot to allow it to turn, but an arrangement of slats and rope held it in place or moved it aside, like the mechanism the scouts used each night to pull up ladders, to protect Yena. Had used.

Haxel threw it open, leading the way inside. “Ael—”

Stay away!

“I brought help, Uncle.” Seru closed the door behind them, fumbling with the ropes.

The room inside was now twin to their original shelter, embers aglow on a stone hearth and oillights on the walls, except for ranks of shoulder-high jars and baskets from the mound. The floor stones tilted this way and that, packed dirt used to level the result.

The musty scent of long-stored blankets and woodsmoke couldn’t hide that of sickness.

Myris lay on a platform of blankets. Before they could take another step toward her, Ael blocked their path. “Stay away, Haxel!” Aloud, this time, and hoarse. His face was terrible to see, tear-streaked and pale; his lips struggled to shape words. “All of you! Go!”

“Hush, little brother.” The First Scout’s voice was unusually gentle. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

Aryl had forgotten their relationship. Though Ael had been born Kessa’at, not Vendan, he’d been raised by Haxel’s parents after his own fell to their deaths in the Lay, victims of a rotted span of bridge. The two had never seemed close.

Not that she’d cared about the past of any Chosen, she thought with a twinge. Before the Harvest, she’d considered adults—other than Costa—boring, opinionated, and against anything a lively unChosen might want to do instead of work.

After? They weren’t what had changed.

“Wrong? Nothing you can fix.” Ael waved his arms, as if they were biters to be shooed away. “Go. Please, Haxel. Take them with you. Get away, now! It’s not—safe. She’s not.”

Chaun, who should have been here, was gone. Moved to the other shelter, despite his injuries. There was no one to help Ael or Myris.

A desertion with only one explanation. Aryl swallowed, hard, and listened.

Sure enough, to her inner sense, Myris was unshielded chaos: emotions, memories, words tumbling in purposeless frenzy. Locked within her mind for now, but that could change in a heartbeat. If it did, her madness would engulf other Om’ray who were too close, taking first those who shared any connection. Like kinship.

Aryl turned to Seru while the other pair argued. “You can’t be here. Go. Keep everyone in the shelter.”

Comprehension widened those green eyes. “But you—”

“Go.”

To her relief, Seru didn’t argue.

Ael hadn’t stopped pleading. “—Haxel, listen to me for once,” he begged. “There’s nothing you can do. I don’t want you here.”

“I’m not leaving—”

“Why?” From pleading to rage. “Tell me that. What good are you? What’s our mighty First Scout going to do about this? Comfort me when my Chosen dies? I won’t care. I won’t hear a word, will I? I won’t know who you are—who I am.” As she tried to answer, he raised his voice to a shout. “I’ve a better idea. Kill my husk, so it won’t waste food. That’s what you’re good for!”

Aryl had never seen her cheerful uncle enraged; she’d never imagined Haxel speechless with hurt.

Myris needed help, not this.

She pushed between the two, facing the First Scout. “The Grona are coming, Haxel. Go.”

Their eyes locked. Aryl didn’t dare lower her shields to reinforce the command, but Haxel had to obey. Whatever her outer strength, she couldn’t protect herself from Myris. They’d lose her, too.

But whatever the other read on her face was enough. The First Scout spun on her heel and walked out.

“Aryl…”

“Uncle.” She made herself smile as she turned. “What have you done to my poor aunt while I was gone?”

Everywhere else, anticipation ran mind-to-mind. The newcomers were on the road to Sona. They’d made good time despite having chosen to walk the maze of abrupt hills left by the Oud. The weather had held for them: clear, if windy and chill. If the Yena had delayed their own departure from Grona by a day, they’d have missed the storm.

If they’d missed the storm, Aryl thought, she wouldn’t be sitting here, in the relative gloom of Sona’s second shelter, desperately wondering what to do. A broken bone was a simple matter.

A broken mind was not.

Myris was so still. Her eyelashes brushed shadows on ashen cheeks and the gash over her temple had grown a dark, ugly bruise. Her thick golden hair lay flaccid, without life.

Ael kept his eyes fixed on his Chosen’s face. “I thought at first she’d fallen asleep. Sleep would be…” his voice trailed away, then firmed. “Don’t worry about Haxel. We always end up shouting. I was never good at doing what I was told. Didn’t know or care if there was a difference between daring and stupid.” To himself as much as to her, Aryl decided. “She looked out for me, brought me home, patched me up. Did you know she wouldn’t let me take Passage? Oh, I was wild to go. She said the waters were too high that season…too many stitler traps even for her. When I refused to listen, she threatened to tie me to a chair. And she would have. She would.” A wan smile. “Haxel thought I was good enough for a Sarc, you see. Because of her, when Myris was ready, I was there.” His fingertips hovered just above the golden hair, traced the length of it as if inviting touch. But it didn’t lift from the blanket. “My life—my life began that moment.”

Ael radiated fear and misery, his shields barely coping with the strength of his emotions. “Now it ends.”

“Not yet.” Aryl laid her hand over her aunt’s.

“Careful!”

“It’s all right,” she assured him, fervently hoping it was. Despite her shields, being this close to a mind out of control affected every sense. Hard to be confident when the room tipped at whim, the lights flared until she squinted or was blind, and why did she smell overripe sweetberries? “Let me try.”

Through the touch, she sent strength, what little she had left to spare. Enris would have been furious, but if it could help Myris’ struggle to hold on to herself, at least she’d gain time to find an answer.

The floor steadied. The lights behaved. Not everything was normal. Aryl sniffed, recognizing the soap used to soak dresel wings. She sat back with a sigh.

“Thank you.”

Startled, she looked at her uncle. Ael looked deathly ill, his usually bright eyes dull and fighting to focus on her. But he managed a smile. “I felt it, too. Your—gift. I’m sure it helped.”

He felt it because the Chosen were one. An unnecessary reminder that if Myris died, she’d lose them both.

“I don’t know what else to do, Ael,” Aryl admitted. “You must be sorry you followed me.”

“Daughter of our hearts. No.” His slim callused hand covered hers. We’re family. We belong together. She wants to be with you when you commence your Chosen life. It’s only…now…so much…confusion…so much pain…

PAIN…

Shuddering, Ael pulled away. “Forgive me.” Harsh and low. “Go. You need to eat. Talk to the others. She’s a Sarc, don’t forget. Strong. Stubborn. She’ll hold on. You’ve helped. We’ll be fine. Some rest. That’s all.”

“I’ll be back, Uncle,” Aryl promised, shaken. “As soon as I can.”

Ael didn’t answer. He rocked in place, back and forth. His fingertips hovered just above his Chosen’s hair, traced the lifeless length of it.

Over and over again.

Haxel stood outside, coatless. “We go up the valley. Tonight.”

Aryl’s hand dropped from the door fastener. “What?”

“Get Myris ready. I’ll tell the rest.”

Just in time, Aryl stopped herself from shaking her head in the Human’s gesture. “We can’t leave,” she protested. “What about our supplies? The Oud—the rock hunters!” The creatures hadn’t crossed the dry riverbed to follow them, to her relief and the First Scout’s intense interest.

Haxel seized her arms, powerful fingers digging through the coat to bruise, hair breaking free of its net like something alive. “Don’t argue with me! We take her to the Cloisters. Tonight!”

“Haxel, we can’t.” Aryl’s lips felt numb, her mind thick and slow. She’d felt alone when Enris left, but she hadn’t been afraid. Not like this. First Scout Haxel Vendan wasn’t like ordinary Om’ray. She was beyond emotion, incapable of rash judgment, always their wise and calm protector. Wasn’t she? “It’s locked. I told you—”

“We’ll find a way in. There’ll be something inside. Something to help them.” Hair lashed Aryl’s cheeks, left a sting near one eye. “Don’t you understand? I have to do something. I have to fix this!” Fury! “I won’t lose them!” Suddenly, she was supporting most of Haxel’s weight. “I can’t lose him.” Almost a whisper. “Aryl. I can’t. Not after…not after losing everything else…”

How could they be safe, if Haxel failed?

Aryl’s heart hammered in her chest. It hurt to breathe.

There’d never been safety. She’d let herself use Haxel the way a young child would the tether tied to her waist as she learned to climb. Like a child, she’d believed she’d never be allowed to fall.

But she was no child. Haxel was extraordinary, not invincible. She owed her better—didn’t they all? Cut the tether, Aryl told herself.

“They aren’t going to die, Haxel.” This with all the confidence she’d ever heard in her mother’s voice, having none of her own. “Listen to me. Myris is probably in retreat, like I was once. If so, she can be called back. I’ll try. Like this.” She let strength flow through that contact until it left her dizzy and the other’s eyes dilated in shock. “I’ve given her what I can for now. She’s—she’s resting. I need to eat, warm up. I need you to help me tell the others what I found, what it means. Prepare them for the Oud. I don’t want anyone afraid.”

She was, Aryl thought glumly, scared enough for everyone already.

“The Cloisters,” she made herself add, “can wait.”

The First Scout inclined her head, hair subsiding. “Speaker.” She straightened. Her hands eased open, lingered on Aryl’s arms, then busied themselves in a futile effort to shove her hair inside what remained of its net.

“The others should hear your report.” Brisk, assured, the old Haxel. She glared down the road. “We’ve Grona on our bridge. If they expect us to waste food in one of their feasts, they’re in for a surprise. Let’s go.”

They walked together to the shelter, as if nothing had changed between them.

As if the world had boundaries and certainty and shape.

As if, Aryl thought wistfully, they were safe.