Riders of the Storm

Chapter 10

A FEW TENTHS MORE THAN a day. Aryl couldn’t imagine what kind of welcome a longer absence would create. Upon word that Myris was resting, everyone began to bustle around her at once. Haxel’s coat was whisked away, a blanket draped over her shoulders. A special place was readied for her by the hearth, on what had to be a first for Yena, a bench consisting of a blanket-covered wooden plank supported by large stones at each end. A bowl of something remarkably tasty was pressed into her hands.

A few brushed their fingers across her cheek, as if they needed touch to be sure she was back, as if she’d gone too far for them to sense, and they’d believed her lost.

Best of all, the sense of home. Goodwill and relief flowed mind-to-mind, through each touch, until she ducked her head to hide her tears. These were her people.

“Tell them what you found, Aryl.” Haxel’s order silenced the hum of quiet voices. Everyone paid attention. Everyone was here.

Except Myris and Ael.

First things first. Aryl rested the warm bowl on her lap, her fingers pressed to its curve so they wouldn’t tremble. She prepared an image of the waterfall and sent it to them all. As they reacted, some with dismay, others with astonishment, she continued aloud. “The Oud have stopped the water from going down the river for now, but there’s a good road. Easy to make it there and back in daylight.”

“A good road? Then what we need is a flatlander’s cart,” Morla offered. “Enris showed me the design.” She touched her bandaged wrist. “Veca and Tilip can build it.”

“Before or after finishing the next home?” This from Veca. “People need space.”

“The cart first!” Kayd paled as he realized his elders were all looking at him—most with surprise—but didn’t back down. “Water’s more important.”

“And heavy.” This from someone in the crowd drew amusement from everyone but Fon and Cader, who’d also spent yesterday carrying bags of water on their backs.

Haxel had been leaning against one wall, arms crossed, her eyes on Aryl. She stirred. “Tell them the rest of it. What you mean by ‘for now.’”

Aryl passed her bowl to Seru, who sat cross-legged and patient nearby, then brought out the pendant.

It sent reflections skittering across the dark beams and blanketed walls, flashed in startled eyes. “The Oud are willing to discuss restoring the river.”

She let them absorb the shock, feeling the race of inner conversation—some cautious and private, the rest she politely ignored. Telepathy, Marcus had called this ability. Until he’d named it, described it, she hadn’t realized all races didn’t communicate this way. How did they connect to one another? How could they trust what was said, if all they had were words?

“May I see that?” Cetto held out his hand, broad and callused.

She gave him the pendant and waited.

The former Councillor turned it this way and that, as if searching for a reason to dispute what it was, then passed it back to her. “Some might call it unfair, Aryl, to give someone so young such responsibility,” he stated in his deep, loud voice. “I call it rare good sense by the Oud.”

Startled laughter eased the feel of every mind. Aryl sent a flash of gratitude to Cetto, who smiled kindly.

Lendin sud Kessa’at, sitting by his tiny Chosen, spoke up. “What about the Oud?”

“What about them?” Husni looked around the room. “A Clan’s supposed to have neighbors.”

Agreement. Aryl sensed it coursing through the others. However unwarranted, many were relieved by this return to the proper order of things. A Clan had neighbors, Tikitik or Oud. A Clan conducted civilized dealings with those neighbors through a Speaker. Until now, they’d been uncertain of their status.

From Aryl’s point of view, that hadn’t changed. She wouldn’t argue. Let them be comforted.

Except for Chaun, resting on a blanket platform, and Myris—her people looked better, she thought. Rested. Fed. And more. They’d begun to settle into this place, to make it their own.

She’d been right. Whether they’d intended to become a Clan or not, they had.

Sona lived.

Aryl slipped out, leaving the others in the midst of discussing what they’d do with plentiful water. None had ever planted or grown food; there was, nonetheless, optimism. Plants, after all, wanted to grow. In the canopy—as Taen pointed out—they’d struggled to keep greenery from taking over rooftops and bridges. Should growing food prove difficult to learn, there were the rest of the storage mounds. If half contained supplies similar to the first, Sona could support ten times their number for years. Though by then, Ziba had proclaimed, she’d be sick of dried rokly.

Haxel watched her leave. The others, too obviously, did not. Aryl understood. They wanted to believe she could help Myris. Wanted, but couldn’t. She was no Healer.

Maybe not, but she was the only Om’ray here who dared approach Myris in this state. Fon’s mind was strong enough, but his parents would never let him take that risk. Risky it was, Aryl thought, feeling as if she ventured over an untried branch. But Ael shouldn’t be left alone, that at the very least.

Cloud coated the sky, tattered in dark strips against the top edge of the ridge closest to Grona. Aryl shivered inside her warm coat. Something unpleasant fell up there. Snow or ice-rain. Their visitors pushed on for good reason. If they kept their pace, they’d be here well before truenight. Only Sona’s fourth, she realized. How quickly life could change.

Aryl opened the door and stifled a gasp of dismay. The interior of the second shelter had changed as well. The room ballooned at its far end, the jars wider than tall. The oillights were small suns on the walls, painfully bright. The wind outside, always present, always rustling and moaning, whistled shrill around her legs until she closed the door to keep it out.

Her senses lied for one reason—Myris was worse.

Resolutely, she walked forward and put her tray—a short plank—near the hearth. A container of water. Bowls of Rorn’s latest. Ael, beside Myris, flinched. One hand sketched gratitude. Aryl doubted he could eat; Rorn had insisted.

Much of this, and she’d lose her own supper. She averted her eyes from a basket determined first to be a ball, then a waving stalk, trying not to breathe through her nose. None of the odors vying for attention were pleasant.

“Aryl?” Her uncle’s dark head lifted, turned in a vague search. Could he not see her?

Fighting back pity, she touched his shoulder, letting him sense her presence. “Told you I’d be back, Uncle.” Confusion spilled from Myris, this close. Careful to shield herself, Aryl adjusted her aunt’s blankets, then went to touch her hand.

Ael grabbed her wrist. “No!”

She didn’t resist, allowing her renewed strength to flow through that contact instead, to him. Gradually, his fingers loosened and something saner showed in his reddened eyes. “Aryl.” Convinced, now. “You’re here.” Glad, if weary to the bone. “Thank you.”

She patted the makeshift bed beside Myris. “Why don’t you lie down? Rest a moment.” The suggestion alone made him yawn. “You’ll do her no good exhausted.”

“I won’t sleep,” Ael vowed.

“Of course not. But I’m here now. I’ll keep watch.”

With a final, doubtful look, Ael laid down, taking great care not to disturb his Chosen, though he had to know nothing so simple would arouse her. Like someone old and stiff, he shuddered with relief as he stretched out.

Suddenly, he looked younger, too young. Aryl blinked as what she should have seen—the mismatch of Yena tunic, Grona leggings, Sona coat they all wore—was replaced by a handsome white shirt, worked with threads, a new tunic, and leg wraps. Her uncle as he’d been the day of Choice.

The vision distorted, then was replaced by reality. The room spun around its axis, spun and tipped. Aryl swallowed bile. If her mind was assailed by chaos from Myris’, how much worse was it for Ael?

Aryl pushed aside her pity. They lived.

She laid her hand on that of her mother’s sister, and gave what she could of herself.

Heart-kin.

Faded, that bond.

Horribly familiar.

Aryl rose to her feet, moving without sound, hand seeking the hilt of her knife. Ael slept, muscles atwitch as if beset by nightmares. Myris didn’t move, hadn’t moved. Her battle was deeper and the strength Aryl had given could only help her wage it, not win. The room, for now, was real.

Heart-kin.

That recognition had never made her feel this way before, cold inside. Afraid.

Bern Teerac, once her dearest friend, was here. Bern, now Bern sud Caraat. He wouldn’t be alone. He couldn’t be. She was here as well.

His Chosen. Oran di Caraat. Adept and trouble. The others, Oran’s kin.

She had to know why they’d come.

With a final look at Ael and Myris, Aryl went to find out.

The wood platform Tilip had rebuilt along the front of what had just become their meeting hall was jammed with packs. Aryl’s lip curled as she looked at them. Overloaded, too heavy, with trailing ropes and hanging bags to snag the carrier at every step. Unless, she reminded herself, the carrier made sure to stay on clear, open, and very flat roads. Grona, if she hadn’t already known.

Her hand was almost on the latch when she felt it again. Heart-kin.

Aryl opened the door.

Wet fabric. Smoke. Sweat. The less definable odor of whatever cooked in the communal pots. Dust—always that bitterness on the tongue, reminder of time passed and disaster.

What had been life-saving shelter against their first winter storm had four walls and a complete roof in time for the next. If blankets covered gaps packed with splinters and dirt; if the roof took a steep dip at one end so Rorn, their tallest without Enris, had to duck; and if the floor was no more level than any one rough stone? It was a safe place, it was their place, and it was blissfully warm.

The warmth lured her in, but Aryl delayed after she pulled the door back in place and secured its rope, letting her eyes adjust from daylight to the shadow of lamp and fire.

The newcomers, a tight little group, stood beside the cook fire. They hadn’t removed their coats; dirty snowmelt puddled around their boots.

They held steaming cups, Sona-made, doubtless more of Rorn’s soup. Her people didn’t fail in hospitality.

Or in caution. No matter how Om’ray felt drawn together, there was a statement made by who stood closest to these strangers. Haxel, of course, but also Syb and Veca. Did the Grona have the faintest idea how quickly those three could draw knives? Om’ray didn’t attack one another. When everything else changed, so could that. As for Cetto and Morla. Experience, diplomacy, dignity. Could the Grona sense their deep abiding anger, their well-learned distrust?

Something tight eased inside her chest. Enris and Haxel might be the only ones to know why she’d left Grona in haste; her people stood by her nonetheless.

Aryl slipped among those who stood against the walls to watch, looking for Seru. No one took their eyes from the Grona as she passed, but hands, held low and inconspicuous, turned to meet hers. Welcome. Warmth. Caution. Stranger names: Gethen. Hoyon. Oswa and Yao. Caraat. Kran and Oran. One who hadn’t been a stranger until now. Bern. What little else they’d learned before her arrival. Adepts. Oran di Caraat. Hoyon d’sud Gethen. A mother, Oswa Gethen. Her child, Yao. A brother, Kran. Oran’s and unChosen.

From a few: hope.

From the rest: distrust.

Aryl replied in kind, giving a little strength through each contact, keeping her dread to herself. Seru? she asked one. Juo.

Sulking. The other was amused. He’s not ready. The Chosen were rarely sympathetic to those less fortunate.

There. She spotted Seru where folded blankets made a comfortable bench in their most windproof corner. Her cousin sat, feet together, hands folded on her knees, the image of polite disinterest. Husni and Ziba sat to either side, Taen beside her daughter. Weth was there as well, Chaun supported against her shoulder. Her blindfold hung loose around her neck; she suffered the changes in Sona best when she could see them happen.

Change, this was. Aryl planted herself by Tilip, using his shoulder and arm as a shield past which to see the Grona and not, she hoped, be seen. Not yet.

Kran Caraat was a younger, male copy of his sister. Tall and slender for Grona. Pale of skin and hair, dark eyes. The same facial structure, beautiful and austere, though Oran’s bore fine lines at the eyes and mouth. Concentration and effort could have put them there; Aryl was inclined to believe it was temper. Certainly Oran’s hair—free, save for a loose cap in the Grona fashion, to express itself—twitched its ends constantly, as if impatient.

The other Adept was heavyset and red-faced. He stood as if about to fall. Unused to exertion, Aryl judged. Or maybe it was the clothing he’d yet to shed. The Grona had come dressed in the kind of cold weather gear they hadn’t, for some reason, bothered to give the Yena who’d passed through their village. Thick coats, stuffed round through the sleeves and chest. High boots, also thick with extra lining. Looked hard to move in, impossible to bend—perhaps why she hadn’t seen a Grona bow yet. She’d have thought it ridiculous, if she hadn’t experienced a winter storm.

Hoyon’s daughter Yao was a waist-high shadow behind her mother, a shadow herself. Aryl frowned. The child was too young to travel away from safety; not that any of them should be here. Oswa Gethen silently sipped from her cup as the others murmured pleasantries; her brown hair shifted slowly over her shoulders. Exhausted, at a guess. She’d have the added burden of shielding the unfettered emotions of so young an Om’ray, though to be honest, of them all, only one looked able to walk another step.

And was the most relaxed of them here, by face and voice. Why not? Cetto and Husni were his grandparents. Weth—who squinted uncomfortably at him as much as smiled—an aunt. He who’d been Bern Teerac stood among friends as well as family, a homecoming the likes of which no unChosen who’d left on Passage could expect.

Did he also expect a welcome?

Bern turned his head to stare right at her, as if somehow hearing his name in her thoughts. He hadn’t. He couldn’t. No matter the bond they’d forged as heart-kin, hers was the stronger Power. He could never see into her mind without permission, a permission she’d never again give. Not when his was Joined for life with Oran di Caraat’s.

Could he see her heart, feel what she kept from the others?

Let him. Aryl made herself smile.

“We came,” he said, as if to her alone, “because I knew you’d need help.”

“What kind of help, Grandson?” Cetto’s deep voice drew Bern back around.

“Yena don’t know the mountains—”

“Ah.” A warning in that tone, to those who knew Haxel. “You came to give us good Grona advice.”

Bern, who did, gestured a hasty apology. “Of course not.” He quelled a scowling Hoyon with a look. “Oran and Hoyon are Adepts—”

“Troublemakers, you mean.” This from Veca. Tilip stirred beside Aryl, echoing his Chosen’s anger. “We’ve no need for Adepts.”

“Peace, Veca.” Barely taller than Ziba, Morla’s soft voice nonetheless commanded attention. “These are our guests. They may have more to offer. Something useful. Can you grow food, Adept?” to Hoyon, who looked as if a small biter had attached itself to his nose. “Can you tile a roof?” to Oran, whose hair twitched its outrage. Morla shrugged. “If you can’t, well, no offense, younglings, but you should go back where others will provide for you. We will not.”

“You need me,” Oran replied with total conviction. “You’ve injuries.”

“This?” the former Councillor lifted her bandaged wrist and flexed the fingers of that hand. “Doesn’t slow me at all.” Veca grinned.

“Oran is a Healer,” said Bern stiffly. “Her Talent drew us to your need.” He pointed to Chaun and Weth, the latter looking up with abrupt hope. “How could we not dare this difficult journey? We’re family. Om’ray. Nothing else matters.”

A stir throughout the room. Healers were rare. Valued. Oran hadn’t, Aryl realized with a chill, been wrong to expect a welcome here.

She did wonder what Grona’s Council thought of their own people roaming the slopes after a pack of exiled, ungrateful Yena.

“We don’t ask to stay. We brought our own supplies.” Oran’s glance into her cup was less than appreciative. “Give me a tenth, no more, to rest from the journey, and I’ll do what I can for your people before we leave. We’ll be gone by truenight—”

“We can’t go so soon!” Oswa spoke for the first time, a hand fumbling for her daughter. “We can’t! Hoyon, tell them. There’s a storm coming—Yao’s too small. She’s already exhausted.”

An instinctive swell of care and reassurance answered. Oswa quieted in response, her lips trembling, eyes wide as she looked from face to face. Strangers to her, Aryl reminded herself.

Haxel made a brusque gesture. “No one goes out in truenight or bad weather.”

Hoyon managed to bow despite the coat. “Thank you.”

The First Scout’s smile twisted her scar. “As for you, Oran di Caraat? If you’re a Healer, prove it now.”

Aryl watched Bern walk out in the road past the coals of the watch fire, make a bold show of scouting for threat. No self-respecting Yena would swing his head from side to side when a subtle flick of eyes covered the same range without shifting balance. A display for Oran’s benefit, no doubt. Was he aware of his surroundings…did he see what they were building here?

From Haxel’s sour expression, she wasn’t the only one to judge him. The First Scout went to the door of the second shelter, but didn’t open it. “In here.” When Bern went to enter, she snapped, “Not you.”

Oran hesitated, her yellow hair moving in heavy, unsettled waves, ends plucking at the weave of her scarf.

“I’ll come with you,” Aryl said quickly. If the Grona Adept was a Healer, the sooner she saw Myris the better. “It’s my aunt.”

“Myris?” Bern gave her a startled look. “What happened? Is Ael all right?”

So now he cared?

Her own scorn made her ashamed. He’d known them all his life, too. “She was struck by falling ice, like Chaun. Ael’s with her.”

“Where you should be.” Haxel looked set to grab Oran and throw her through the door.

Before that disaster of manners could occur—inciting a justified rebellion in their hoped-for Healer, not to mention her Chosen’s likely regrettable response—Aryl pulled the door aside. Oran pressed close, in a hurry to see Myris or avoid Haxel. Or both.

The door closed behind them.

Aryl was relieved to see the room appeared itself. Ael looked up, surprise on his face. “Who’s this?”

“The Healer,” Oran announced, sweeping forward. She couldn’t quite manage warmth in her voice, but bowed graciously in the Grona fashion as she removed her scarf and opened her coat. Both garments were thrust at Aryl. “I’m Oran di Caraat. I’ve come to aid your Chosen.”

“You’re too young to be an Adept.”

Aryl managed not to smile.

“Do you want my help or not?”

As “not” wasn’t an option, either for Myris or the grim First Scout waiting outside, Aryl spoke up. “Uncle, let her try.”

Oran’s hair gave an annoyed flick. At her use of the word “try,” no doubt. Confidence was important, Aryl reminded herself. She put the Adept’s outerwear on a basket—mercifully square and solid—and found a place to stand she hoped would be out of Oran’s way.

Ael knelt by Myris, brushed limp hair from her forehead, then took her hand. “Go ahead,” he said at last.

The Adept frowned at them. “I require privacy. A Healer is left alone—”

“No.”

Only the word. Ael didn’t look away from Myris to say it, but Oran knew better than to argue. She went to her knees beside the platform of blankets, the fingers of both hands touching as if to net a ball of air. She closed her eyes and moved her hands, still fingertip to fingertip, over Myris. Side to side, across her waist. Lower down. Then, up to her head. Aryl could detect the stir of Power; she didn’t dare taste it and risk the other’s concentration.

The movement of Oran’s hands ended above Myris’ forehead. Aryl didn’t know what to expect. She focused on breathing very quietly.

The ugly bruise began to fade, from purple-black to brown to yellow, hopefully not another trick by her senses.

The gash itself knitted from both ends at once, until it became a smooth seam, nothing more than a scar.

This was beyond what Yena’s Healers could do, Aryl was sure. Their best could speed healing by days, not cause it to occur before your eyes. Was this what Yorl sud Sarc, her mother’s great-uncle, had done for his own ailing body? He’d needed her strength. Did Oran?

Aryl looked at the Adept. Her eyelids were half-closed, revealing only the whites of her eyes. Her face, chapped and reddened by days in the cold, had a new, sickly pallor. A sign of the effort she expended, to use her Power this way? Whatever else she felt about the Grona, this she respected. Should she offer—

Oran muttered under her breath, then screamed! The air filled with the miasma of rot, wet and cloying. The Adept’s terrified face stretched until her chin touched the bed and ran below it. The world began to slip sideways, as if they clung to a great rastis as it fell…

“My-ris!” Her voice or Ael’s?

Oran—the blur of color that was Oran to Aryl’s distorted sight—continued to flow away. No, she fell! Aryl threw herself forward to catch the Adept, ease her to the floor. She heard a shout that turned itself to birdsong. Bern, she guessed.

Haxel would keep him out. Had to keep him out. It wasn’t safe here.

For anyone.

Words walked by and shouted themselves at her. “Don’t! Leave! Stay! Stay! Hold!”

Ael.

Leave?

Aryl fastened on the word, remembering what had happened with Enris, what she suspected about the Lost.

Was Myris—her mind—caught in the M’hir?

Without hesitation, without fear for herself, Aryl dove into that inner darkness.

MYRIS!

She reached for her aunt with all her strength, summoned an image of her well, of those wide gray eyes—so like her own—sparkling with mirth, her cheery smile…

…Aryl…?

Faint, frightened. …where…am I Lost?

NO! Aryl’s denial coursed down that tenuous connection, Power forging a deeper, stronger pathway—like the Sona river, cutting through rock itself.

Amazement.

Ael?

Aryl refused to be distracted by his presence, or what it meant. She reached for her aunt, as she would when trying to contact her in the real world. Myris. Listen to me. Hold on.

…Aryl…? Stronger. Still frightened. Confusion threatened their link. Where is this place? Where are we?

We’re riding the M’hir, Aryl sent, adding encouragement and calm to the words. Follow me home.

As she had with Enris, Aryl gathered what was Myris close to her. Even as she held herself within the M’hir, she sensed Ael’s presence as an echo of brightness, steady and sure.

And more.

Suddenly, she realized she could see—sense—all of the exiles. Not where they were, but what they were. Their Power, their vitality. They might have been her little fiches, aglow, dancing within that unseen wind. So much more than she’d ever felt before.

Enris, too. She reached for him, stopping just in time, fought to focus. Almost free. Stay with me, Aunt, she urged, holding on with all her strength.

There…at the edge of this strange vision. Another presence she knew.

Not aware but as clear to her as if she saw him standing before her. What was Yorl doing in the M’hir?

Yet another. Taisal? Her mother. Unlike the rest, she watched, somehow. Was aware, somehow. Suddenly…she was closer…she was…

Here. The connection between them locked in place.

Help or leave! Aryl sent fiercely as she concentrated on Myris, on keeping Myris with her…on escape…

You can’t save her. An upwelling of grief threw the M’hir into chaos. She is Lost.

No! Not while I have her…Aryl tried to pull free of Taisal, who resisted. Insisted.

Save yourself!

As they struggled, tangled in the M’hir, in themselves…memory blurred. Did she see Taisal’s tears at their parting, or feel her own? Did her heart pound with a mother’s despair, or a daughter’s rage? Which of them disobeyed, which of them punished, which of them would take a step to save the other, if it risked the rest…

Neither…they were Sarc, of a kind, and there would never be doubt. Their people came first.

The link strengthened, raw Power coursing between them. The M’hir steadied, grew almost calm.

Daughter.

Mother.

Myris…Aryl struggled to hold that dim, frightened presence…began to fail…MOTHER!

We have her. Go.

A flood of Power, as if the M’hir itself threw them clear.

Hesitantly, Aryl opened her eyes.

The room was real.

Myris lay motionless. As before.

Then, without warning, a lock of hair stirred on the blanket. It slipped up and around Ael’s wrist and with a glad cry, he bent over his Chosen. Dark hair blended with gold. His shields were nonexistent.

Aryl quickly tightened hers. “Ael. Uncle? Is she all right?”

He eased back, looked at her. Tears streaked his face. “Aryl. Yes. Thank you. Thank you. You did it.”

Aryl didn’t correct him. But she hadn’t done it alone. Taisal had risked herself in the M’hir to save them.

Why?

After condemning her for traveling the M’hir to save others. After helping exile—condemn—those the Adepts judged a threat to Yena.

Why?

With Yena protected, was that it? Was Taisal di Sarc willing to help her daughter and sister then?

Had she wanted to before?

Did it change anything?

“You’d better help the Healer.”

Aryl was aghast to see Oran sprawled on the dirt-and-stone floor as if her bones were missing. Her eyelids fluttered and jerked open as she fought to stay awake. Her eyes, when they showed, were shot through with blood, their expression alternately vague and alert. They found Aryl, seemed to ask a question.

“Ael says Myris is better—” a scowl dismissed that answer. What else? The rising commotion at the door? “I’ll let Bern in,” she assured the Adept, but as she rose to do just that, Oran’s hand clawed at her wrist.

“How—” she had to lean down to catch the broken whisper—neither of them had lowered shields, “—how dare you—should have—warned me—”

Remorseful, Aryl gestured apology. She hadn’t considered any risk to Oran. Weren’t Healers able to protect themselves? Maybe one older, with more experience, could have—not an observation to make Oran feel better. Instead, she bowed her head, Grona-fashion. “You saved them both.” That, to ease her pain. “Thank you.”

Oran finally put a sentence together. “Get me off this filthy floor.”

Myris woke with a smile. She looked bemused to find Aryl by her bed. “You’re back already? How was your journey? What did you find?”

She’d found a river emptied of the water Sona needed. She’d found a Cloisters surrounded by the dead.

Aryl smiled and did her best to radiate confidence. “Haxel’s going to make me one of her scouts if I’m not careful. Let me tell you all about it.” She settled, cross-legged, and gave her haggard uncle a meaningful look. “How would you like some of Rorn’s latest?”

Myris lifted one hand, sketched a fitful apology. “I couldn’t…”

She could. Success was measured in spoons of soup, what kind none of them knew. It was warm and savory and Ael sud Sarc willingly emptied his own bowl as he listened, too.

Aryl described her adventures up the valley, taking shameless advantage of her aunt’s attention to trickle spoonfuls between her dry lips. Four. Five. A talent she’d never expected.

The soup’s virtue showed in her uncle’s relaxed smile and the faint color on her aunt’s cheeks, although she was sure Ael responded more to his Chosen conscious and eating than to his own full stomach.

They’d had no visitors. Oran had hurried out, presumably to her solicitous Chosen; Haxel hadn’t come in.

She, Aryl decided, wasn’t leaving her aunt. The outer wound had healed, any visible sign of injury was gone, but Myris remained dangerously close to the M’hir. She could sense it. Like the edge of the glows in Yena, where the dark of truenight began, where the swarms fed. It was all she could do to hold her shields and smile, talk about rock hunters and crazed Oud.

When she came to the part about the pending Visitation, Ael’s spoon stopped in midair. “The Oud are coming?” Dismay. On both faces.

If they weren’t here now—a notion Aryl kept to herself. “They’re willing to discuss restoring water to the river,” she pointed out. “I think that’s worth a visit.”

“Listen to her, Ael. Our little Aryl, the Speaker. Taisal would be—” she faltered, her eyes swimming with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Aryl said gently. She stroked her aunt’s hand, sending reassurance and strength through the touch. “I wish she was here, too. Better her talking to the not-real than me.”

“Why?” Ael bristled. “Yena’s had no dealings with Oud. You’ve done more…with them…with the Tikitik.” He waved his spoon in the air. “Those strangers, too.”

Not a reminder she wanted, but she managed to smile. “I suppose.”

“I must get out of this bed. Meet our strangers.” Myris changed the subject with her usual perception. “You said there was an unChosen, didn’t you?”

Ael looked down at his Chosen, their eyes meeting for a moment, then glanced up at Aryl. He had the oddest expression on his face. She couldn’t tell if it was surprise or hope. “Yes,” he said. “You go, Aryl. Get to know him.”

Get to know Kran Caraat? “You, Uncle, could use a nap,” she retorted. “I’ll stay here, thanks. Seru can get to know him, if she wants. She’s the Chooser.”

Myris smiled gently. “As you will be soon, daughter of our hearts.”

She would? Aryl closed her mouth and stared at her aunt.

“Myris is never wrong,” Ael asserted. “Don’t waste more time with us. We’re fine, thanks to you. See who’s going to be available. No need to let Seru pick the best!”

Pick the…she couldn’t utter a word. Instead, Aryl filled the spoon with soup. “Three more,” she challenged.

After that…she refused to imagine.

Aryl blinked when she stepped out of the shelter. Blinked and shivered. The wind had become a capricious howl, chill and promising worse to come. Despite the cold, someone waited, little more than a taut shadow. She smiled. “Myris will be fine, Haxel. They both will. You can go in if you—”

“Healer looked worse than Chaun. Sent her and Bern to rest. What about you? Can you scout for the Oud now?”

If the words were hoarse, and the First Scout’s tightest shields couldn’t hide a tumult sof gladness/guilt/relief/shame, Aryl wasn’t about to show she noticed. “Of course. I need to—”

“Get it done. I don’t want any more surprises.” With that, Haxel headed for the other building.

No rest yet, then. Aryl gave a contented sigh. Some things—some Om’ray—should never change.

She’d wanted a chance to use the geoscanner. Had it only been this morning she’d received it from Marcus? She shook her head. The sun was on its way behind the mountains, going wherever it went before returning to Amna tomorrow. Their fourth truenight at Sona.

They wouldn’t, she judged, see this sunset. Cloud already coated the sky, tattered in dark strips against the top edge of the ridge toward Grona. Something unpleasant fell up there. Snow or ice-rain. Oran had pushed her little flock for good reason.

Unlikely Haxel would tell the rest why she was wandering the ruins. Aryl grimaced. Some would think she’d avoided the Grona.

Would that she could.

None of the exiles believed they’d followed only to offer help, but they’d be willing to leave it at that. Om’ray manners. Tradition.

By that same tradition, Kran should have a token, but brought his sister instead. Why? Adepts never left their Clan, yet these two had. Why? The child, Yao, was hardly old enough to walk, to judge by her size. Too young to risk outside her village, let alone traveling through the mountains in winter. Why?

The exiles had rushed to have Oran care for their injured. What of the Grona? Did they truly plan to go home after offering their “help”?

Tonight, Aryl vowed, there would be answers.

After she checked Sona for the Oud.

She activated the device.

Nothing…

Aryl walked as Marcus had instructed, the device held discreetly in her hand, hand near her waist so a downward glance sufficed. No need to lay it directly on the ground, if her steps were smooth and even. He’d smiled as if this was funny, and told her he’d didn’t think she could move any other way.

The Human said the oddest things.

She kept her shields tight, her sense of the others no more than there and here, the inner comfort of close. A relief to be among Om’ray again. She pushed away thoughts of Enris, who was not.

The range of the geoscanner was narrow—a compromise to allow it to look more deeply underground, he’d told her. Good enough for her purpose. She’d start with the roads that bordered the reconstruction, then cut through the path between the buildings. Haxel was right—they needed to be sure they were safe where they slept.

Nothing…

Their visitors were there. In the “meeting hall” with the remaining exiles. Emotions—gratitude/curiosity/caution—were barely perceptible now, politely tucked behind shields.

Her sleeves were too long; her Sona coat needed altering. The net she’d repaired was no better fit. Hair whipped against her cheek and she shoved it behind one ear. “Pick the best?” Aryl muttered under her breath. She’d blame Myris’ troubling pronouncement on her aunt’s head wound, but…Ael was right. Myris infallibly predicted the next Choosers.

Part of her Talent, she supposed.

She didn’t feel any different. Other than being so off-balance she wouldn’t trust herself crossing a bridge.

Enris. He’d have known this about her. Wouldn’t he? Her heart pounded. He would have known and stayed for her. Wouldn’t he? She had to believe it.

So it wasn’t her time, Aryl told herself firmly. No matter what Myris sensed. Not yet.

The wind buffeted her as she left the taller ruins. She ignored it. Nothing…nothing. When the first snowdrops began, she blinked them from her eyelashes and used her other hand to shield the glow of the device. Her fingers numbed.

Nothing…

Aryl eased through the path between the meeting hall and shelter, heading back where she’d started. Despite the inner warmth of being surrounded by Om’ray, she was beyond cold. The snowdrops, thick and wet, were already a nuisance.

Not the only one. Bern. Out of the shelter, alone.

Sensing his approach, she casually pulled her hands into the too-long sleeves of her undercoat, turning the one with the geoscanner so he wouldn’t see its faint glow. She should, Aryl told herself in disgust, have expected him.

He climbed the wall to wait, a silhouette of unknown intention. She stopped short. “What do you want, Bern?”

Bern jumped down, crushing dead stalks beneath his boots as he approached. “We can’t leave tonight. Oran’s barely conscious. She needs to recover.”

Explaining why he was here, Aryl wondered, or how? She couldn’t imagine Oran di Caraat in favor of a private meeting between her Chosen and an old friend. Still. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she couldn’t protect herself—”

“Oh, Oran’s quite convinced you made her suffer because of me. She’ll never trust you.” A hint of pride in his voice, as if this pleased him. He came closer, too close, but Aryl refused to step back. “I do. I know you better than that, Aryl. Better than anyone.” Beneath the words, he sent, Heart-kin. You could never hurt someone, no matter how provoked. With entirely unwelcome affection. Aloud, “We need to talk, now, before she—”

“Before she shuts you up,” Aryl supplied helpfully, shielding her disgust.

When Bern Teerac had come to her before leaving Yena on Passage, he’d worn his favorite heavy tunic, woven from supple braid, lovingly inlaid with slices of bleached and polished dresel pod by his father. Protection from claw and tooth, camouflage from other hunters.

Bern sud Caraat stood before her now buried inside a too fat Grona coat, his powerful legs trapped in too-fat boots. Useless clothing. Was that what happened to those who left their Clan? Did they abandon all that was good from their past and accept the shape of their future without question?

Not Enris.

“Yes,” Bern admitted easily. “Oran, though wonderful and wise, detests you. I suppose it’s my fault—my best memories have you in them.” Heart-kin.

Aryl gritted her teeth. “My feet are cold, Bern. Get to the point.”

Snowdrops slid down his coat, clung to his eyelashes. “Oran’s too proud to ask for help. I’m not—not from you. I convinced her you’d listen—”

“Not if this is about—”

“It’s not.” He dared reach for her arm. This time she moved to put space between them. “This is about Passage. Our Passage. We—I need you to speak to the rest. For us. We want to stay. To become part of your Clan, of Sona.”

Aryl found herself colder inside than out. The words made no sense at all. If she’d dared, she’d have lowered her shields and felt the truth mind-to-mind. “Part of Sona,” she echoed in disbelief. “Why?”

Bern did know her. Too well. His mindvoice, once so familiar, flooded her thoughts. The Grona aren’t like us, Heart-kin. They interfere. They tell me what to do, how to behave, where to sleep. They keep Oran in their Cloisters…to keep us…to—a wild flash of despair and need—we’ve never touched! They won’t allow a baby while she’s in training. I’m dying inside, Aryl. You’ll help me, won’t you? Let us live here, as Chosen should!

So Ael had been right, Aryl thought with pity. Oran was too young to be an Adept. Grona couldn’t stop her Choice—but they could control her Joining. “You want me to believe Oran di Caraat’s willing to give up her home and Cloisters to live here, in Sona’s mud. With us.”

“I told her. Promised her. If she came, proved her worth, you might change your mind. I know—” Aryl opened her mouth to protest. “—I know you’ll give her a chance.” Heart-kin…for me.

A trade. Bern tried to trade her Talent for their Joining bed.

Heart-kin…please…

Was it Bern’s fault—any incomplete Chosen would be desperate—or Grona’s? Which, she sighed to herself, was worse? “What about Hoyon and the rest?”

“Their soft-headed Council agreed to let us come tend your injured. They have other Healers. The Adepts,” a snarl to the word, “weren’t so sure. They sent Hoyon and Oswa with us to make sure we came back.”

“And to keep you apart,” she hazarded.

“Yes. But Oran persuaded Hoyon to stay.”

She could guess the argument. Her secret had spread before she’d found a chance to tell those who deserved it. Aryl found her mother’s smile. “Here’s an idea for you, Bern. Get her pregnant, then go back. They can hardly close the screens once the biters are inside.”

Bern’s handsome face turned sullen.

Aryl winced. Oh, she knew that look. It meant he’d tried exactly that and been rebuffed. Oran protected her future. If they had to return, she wouldn’t risk the Adepts refusing to train her. She wouldn’t accept being anything less among her own people.

As for what she could be here? “What do you want me to do, Bern?” If they were children again, she thought wistfully, she could kick his shin. Hard.

“Speak for us. That’s all. Your people don’t trust Adepts—for good reason, I know—but you could vouch for us. They’ll listen to you. They trust you.” As I trust you, Heart-kin.

The affection repulsed her, but she couldn’t shield against it. “They trust me not to make mistakes.”

“What mistake? You need a Healer.”

“Not anymore.”

“You need unChosen. Oran brought her own brother for your Choice—”

Aryl was speechless.

“You need me, Aryl.” Bern came closer still, until she couldn’t see past him. “You blame yourself for all of it—how Yena sent us, her unChosen, away, the Tikitik attack, the exile of those here. You’re torn between guilt and responsibility, with no one else to talk to, no one else who understands you, who remembers the joy you used to take in life.” Heart-kin. Let me stay. Let me be your friend again, share your burden, remind you how to laugh.

The wind and falling snow blurred their surroundings, turned the world into a small space, trapped them inside. As intimate as the canopy, vistas behind curtains of vine or rain, havens within the shadow of a frond. Aryl lifted her hand, touched his chest. We were good friends.

They’d been more. She’d loved him once, wanted nothing more than to be together, always, had saved his life instead of Costa’s for that love.

We can be again, Heart-kin. Help me have my Chosen. His lust was like a slap. I can’t wait much longer. Please.

She pushed him away. “You always did talk too much, Bern.” And she’d been a fool once already. Love. Her lips twisted. The word she’d given Marcus counted for so little, in the end, to an Om’ray. Snowdrops melted on her eyelashes; they could have been tears. Bern deluded himself if he thought Oran would let him be her friend in any way.

But he was right—they had been heart-kin. She couldn’t forget that.

“I can’t make any promises,” Aryl said at last. “I don’t know yet if I can move through the M’hir safely—let alone if I should teach anyone else. We’ve been busy staying alive. You can’t make promises either,” she cautioned when he made to speak. “You don’t control the Adepts.”

“But you’ll speak for us. You’ll let us stay.” With triumph.

He did know her, too well. Aryl tightened her shields. “It’s up to Oran and Hoyon. Sona needs more Om’ray, not more problems. If they’ll stay—and work—under our terms?” However unlikely that seemed. “I’ll do my best.”

Heart-kin.

“Don’t make me sorry, Bern,” she warned.

Heart-kin. With that cloying affection.

“Once. Not now.”

Another warning, if he was wise.

Aryl had done harder things than enter the crowded meeting hall and smile, but those had involved imminent death and pain at the hands—or claws—of the not-real. This was a room full of her people, her family. If she couldn’t accept the Grona in the same spirit, she owed Bern her best effort not to see them as intruders.

Which wasn’t easy when Oran, sitting wrapped in a blanket in pride of place on the new bench, gave her a look of pure fury.

So much for peace in that family.

Her outer clothing dripping wet, she stayed near the wall by the door, using the moment to tuck the geoscanner securely away, then hung her coat and scarf on wooden pegs hammered between wall beams. Bern, who’d come through the door behind her, did the same. She felt his stare on her leg and arm wraps, her tunic. She was still Yena, as he was not.

Before she could work her way to a quiet seat near a back corner, Haxel beckoned her to her side, near the fire. Those seated between lifted their hands to hers. Without hesitation, Aryl brushed her fingertips across them, receiving their welcome, sending back warmth. How it looked to the Grona, she didn’t know or care.

Bern, used to how things had been, was probably scandalized.

A comforting order had developed. Their eldest, Husni and Cetto, Morla and Lendin, sat on stacks of folded blankets, in the warmest part of the room by the fire, safe from the worst drafts. Their largest families had their spots, the Kessa’ats here, the Uruus with Seru, there. Myris and Ael, looking worn but happy, sat with Juo Vendan. Of Juo’s kin, Haxel rarely stayed in one place, and either Rorn or Gijs were on watch. The unChosen, Kayd, Cader, and Fon, were together—usually as near to where the food was as was polite.

They had not, Aryl noticed, added Kran Caraat to their ranks. He sat with Hoyon and Oswa, off to one side. Hard to tell they were close kin.

Yao wasn’t with her parents, though she had to be here, somewhere. Aryl sensed no glow in Sona beyond Gijs on guard outside the door. She looked around the room; with the improvements to the roof and smoke vent, the air was clear. Was the child with Ziba? She spotted Ziba curled between Seru and her mother, as if for protection. Which, now that Aryl thought about it, was a very good idea. Ziba’s shields were not yet mature. They confined most of her emotions, allowed her to roam from her mother without disturbing the minds of other Om’ray, but they were less than trustworthy around an upset younger Om’ray.

The last thing they needed right now would be the two of them expressing their personal reactions and needs with all the strength of instinct.

Aryl took a place beside Haxel, every tenth of this day expressed in the relief of being off her feet. She took the bowl passed to her by the Kessa’ats, gesturing gratitude to all involved with her free hand. “No Oud.”

“What did he want?”

“Bern?” She blew steam from a spoonful she was too tired to want. “Freedom from Grona’s rules. Rules concerning their Adept.”

“That’s the way of it?” The scar twisted along the First Scout’s cheek. “No wonder he looks to be sitting on a thickle. Wouldn’t let anyone interfere with mine.” Fondness. Across the room, Rorn sud Vendan glanced their way and broke into one of his rare smiles.

The unChosen, among themselves, chafed at the connection between Joined pairs, felt excluded from what they envied and longed for—their own completion. Hadn’t she complained about Chosen secrets and their silly, besotted looks? But lately, what she noticed wasn’t what was the same about the Chosen, but what was different. Each pair was unique. Haxel and Rorn went their separate ways and showed no obvious affection, yet Aryl couldn’t imagine one without the other. Ael and Myris were miserable on their own. Tilip and Veca might argue every waking moment, but they worked shoulder-to-shoulder whenever they could.

Costa and Leri? They’d stay apart for tenths for no reason than the joy of reuniting again. There had been a time she’d thought them fools.

Bern and Oran. Those were the fools. The connection between them should have brought them joy. It should have Joined the best of each. From all she could tell, so far it had brought out the worst.

Or maybe it was Grona. Hoyon and Oswa didn’t appear too happy with each other either.

“Think they’d stay?”

Aryl startled back to herself. “I don’t know. Do we want them?”

“That may not be up to us. Look.” Haxel nodded to where Chaun lay, Weth supporting his shoulders.

Oran knelt beside them, on a folded blanket. Her hair rose around her head as she passed her coupled hands over Chaun’s chest. She had the rapt attention of every Om’ray in the low-ceiling hall.

Chaun coughed, then took a deep, free breath. He looked up in wonder. “Nothing hurts.” Weth, though her eyes were closed, smiled tremulously. Both gestured gratitude as Oran rose.

The Healer staggered and would have fallen if Bern and Husni hadn’t hurried to support her. Whether planned or necessary, it left the right impression. Smiles, more gestures, murmurs of appreciation, followed as Bern escorted her back to her bench seat.

“Nicely done,” Haxel commented.

Aryl concentrated on her stew.

A moment later, Ael and Myris approached. Aryl stood quickly, and lifted her hands to her aunt, assessing how she looked. Weary, yes, but the wound looked months healed and her smile was every bit as bright as it used to be. When their fingers touched, the M’hir was its normal, distant roar to her inner sense. “You’re better,” she said, relieved.

Ael gestured gratitude with one hand, his other arm firmly around his Chosen. “Thanks to you as much as our new Healer.”

“No need for that,” Aryl said, hoping he took her meaning. She wanted no questions from Oran about her own ability.

“Of course,” he agreed, a twinkle in his eye. “Now, we’re off to bed.”

“Ael insists I need more rest.” Myris’ smile acquired a mischievous dimple. “I haven’t heard that excuse for years.”

Definitely better. Aryl let them feel her joy.

Around them, things had settled to a quiet buzz of conversation. Impolite, to speak mind-to-mind in front of others. The topics were carefully neutral: projects underway, projects to be tackled, the not-unpleasant but different flavor of tonight’s stew. Sona’s Om’ray, carefully avoiding their visitors.

Not Grona’s way. Aryl was sure every exile remembered—not happily—the questioning they’d faced before Grona’s full Council. Everyone but Ziba had had to give their version of the events that led them from Yena to the mountains.

They’d all lied, of course. They’d kept the secret of the stranger’s aircar, claiming Oud had brought them. They’d omitted being exiled for their new and Forbidden Talents, for their willingness to change, claiming instead the Tikitik’s attack on Yena meant some had to leave, to preserve enough supplies for the rest.

Maybe that was why no one asked an accounting from these new arrivals. They feared lies in return.

When had Om’ray come to this? Wrong. Wrong.

Aryl found herself on her feet. Voices hushed as all turned to look at her.

Haxel radiated satisfaction.

What would Taisal do? Civil behavior. Aryl combined a bow that wasn’t quite Grona with the sweeping two-handed gesture of gratitude that was pure Yena, directed at Oran. The adult Grona gave halting bows in return. “Welcome to Sona, Oran. Bern—” beside his Chosen on the bench, “—Hoyon and Oswa. Kran and—” the tiny child was impossible to see among the rest “—Yao.” When in doubt, be formal. “We are Sona Clan, and we are pleased to offer you shelter from the storm.” Which cooperatively moaned and hammered against their newly stout walls.

As everyone reacted to the thought of being outside those walls—Oswa with wide eyes and a grab for a blanket—Aryl continued, gaining confidence. “Thank you, Oran, for putting your duty as Healer and Adept ahead of your own well-deserved rest.” She paused to let the exiles once more gesture their thanks. Chaun and Weth cuddled against the wall, Husni close by.

Oran managed to bow her head graciously. Her shields, to Aryl’s perception, were flawless.

As were her own. Aryl smiled. “I believe I speak for everyone when I invite you to stay, if that’s your wish. Sona will need strong hands and backs for the work ahead.”

The quiet laughter wasn’t altogether kind. Of the Grona, only Bern had calluses, and those weren’t fresh. Oran? Likely never sweated a day in her life.

Sona had no room for idlers.

Or lies. “You didn’t come because we needed a Healer. You came to Sona on Passage, hoping to stay. I’m sure everyone is curious…why.” The hush following her statement was tangible. Aryl could see Hoyon gathering himself to be first to speak. Oran’s face turned sickly pale; Bern gathered her in his arms.

Aryl sensed threads of anxiety drawing the exiles close. Most wanted to put the past behind them. Was she proposing to reveal their truth in turn?

There was nothing to gain either way, she decided. The exiles were ready to forget Yena. As for the Grona? If she revealed Bern’s plight, she’d humiliate him and Oran in front of everyone. If she told the truth about what the Adepts sought—to trade their help and unChosen for knowledge of her ability in the M’hir—she’d be forced to make that potentially dangerous decision here and now.

Leaving her one choice.

“We’ve come for the same reason,” she stated. “To shelter from a storm. Sona has given us that and more—a new Clan, a new life. Does it matter why any of us started the journey? We’re here. Only what we do together, from this moment, is important.

“I say anyone who comes to Sona for shelter should leave their past on the road. I say we should accept you for who you are and what you do here.” DO YOU AGREE, SONA? She sent to every mind, with all her strength, unintentionally dipping into the M’hir to reinforce her question.

The answer came back in an outpouring of warmth and welcome. The exiles surged to their feet and—rare for Om’ray—clustered around the startled Grona, offering their hands, patting shoulders. There were tears in not a few eyes.

Aryl stood apart with Haxel, watching. She’d done what she could for Bern: silenced the Grona before they could lie or expose themselves, and given them a way to become part of Sona.

“Hoyon looks ready to choke,” the First Scout commented.

Aryl shrugged. “He didn’t plan to stay. He may not. Depends how persuasive Oran can be.”

“They’ll leave when they get what they want.”

Watching Oswa smile shyly at Taen, Yao chase Ziba through a grove of adult legs, Aryl shrugged again. “Maybe they’ll find more here than they expected.”

Haxel snorted. “More work, that’s for sure. We’d best keep watch on them.”

“I couldn’t refuse,” she admitted, now worried. Likely the older Chosen’s intention. “He’s still—well, I couldn’t.”

“Think they didn’t know?” Haxel laughed at whatever showed on Aryl’s face. “Take it as a compliment. You look for the best. I prepare for the worst.”

Which had she just done?