Riders of the Storm

Interlude

ENRIS STOOD IN THE TALL arched window, gazing out at Vyna, and wondered about many things.

Chief among them, his future.

The Tikitik had helped him get here. Why, he didn’t know, unless it was the creature’s cruel nature.

There was no soil here to farm, no giant stalks to climb or bear fruit. Only black rock shaped into this island and the enclosing wall that towered on all sides—or was this the hollowed inside of a mountain? When the sun penetrated the haze overhead, the black absorbed its light and cast even darker shadows into the water that lay between island and wall. Water like nothing he’d ever seen. It was warm, warm enough to produce the mist that hung above its surface most of the day and all truenight. Its smooth surface glistened with the colors of congealing metal: purples, reds, flares of iridescent blue. He wasn’t sure if he’d have drowned falling into it, or been poisoned.

It held life. Life the Vyna hunted from wide-bottomed craft able to float on the water. There was no obvious control or mechanism pushing the craft, yet they moved with precision and sometimes speed, leaving a froth of lingering yellow bubbles behind. Platforms along the island’s shore received them when they returned; steps carved in the black rock led upward, for the sides of the island were sheer, its people perched every bit as precariously as the Yena in their canopy.

He half smiled, thinking of Yena. Aryl wouldn’t call the Vyna’s technique hunting. From what he could see, what they pulled wriggling from the water was as eager to be caught as the Vyna were to catch them.

Do you understand what you see?

His mother’s uncle, Clor sud Mendolar, had come on Passage from Amna, with fascinating stories of life on the shore of the bitter water. Though, from what he remembered, those swimmers weren’t so easily caught. “They’re catching swimmers,” he answered out loud.

Fikryya came to stand beside him and covered her ears. Hush, Enris.

“It’s you I don’t understand,” he whispered.

Vyna didn’t speak. The ones he’d met understood what he said. None replied in kind. They wanted him to use mindspeech, an intimacy he wasn’t prepared for—not without more answers.

I’m here to answer your questions.

No emotion. Fikryya’s shields were perfect. Better, he was sure, than his own. Another reason for caution.

The Vyna was his height, though so slender he could have spanned her waist with his hands. Her hair was hidden beneath a tight red-and-gold cap; its curled ends framed her face. Twists of sparkling blue fell from small knots on the cap: an illusion of hair to brush her back and shoulders.

Her face—she was Om’ray, his inner sense knew it—her face wasn’t right. Her eyes were too deeply set; the bones of her jaw too pronounced, chin thrust forward. Her skin was so pale he could see blood vessels; her lips were almost blue. The color of her shadowed eyes eluded him. Her eyebrows had been replaced by a doubled line of glittering red dots.

She wore a robe from shoulder to toe as revealing as her skin, a flow of symbols in red and gold the only disguise to parts of her body he found remarkably distracting.

As was the second thumb on each elegant hand, opposed to the first.

A Chooser. Something deep inside responded to her presence in a way he couldn’t ignore. Not that he’d rush to take her hand, if offered. She was intriguing, but…no. Not for him.

His heart thudded in his chest. Had he just proved Aryl’s belief? That he’d been exiled not because he was unable to Join, but because he could refuse?

Not that the Vyna Chooser Called to him. He supposed he was as strange to her as she was to him.

Enris coughed. “Why are you keeping me here?” “Here” being the room to which they’d brought him, in such haste he’d caught only tantalizing glimpses of his surroundings. Black rock, metal doors, windows open to the air, without covering or shutters, long boxes of stone filled with green, growing things. Vines heavy with fruit. Glows where there would be shadows.

Something about his arrival had upset them. He wasn’t surprised, but he was tired of this room, with its over-thick cushions and deep carpets. He was tired of being dirty.

Not to mention of being hungry.

“Well?”

He hadn’t moved toward her, but Fikryya flinched away, the fabric of her robe so fine it took an instant to settle against her body again. Her hands covered her ears.

Enris gestured apology. “Forgive me,” he whispered, giving her his best smile. “But I’ve come a long way. This isn’t the welcome I expected.”

Council must decide what to do.

That didn’t sound good. He kept his voice down. “With me?” A startled flash from those hidden eyes. Worse. “You can sense what I am, Fikryya,” Enris coaxed. “An unChosen. Eligible. On Passage. My mother thinks I’m good-looking.”

Her blush was spectacular. You are not Vyna.

Enris leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. I could be, he sent, adding overtones of friendliness and a warm hint of interest. Didn’t hurt to show good intentions.

NO! You are not Vyna! A lash of outraged fury. Her shields, he winced, weren’t perfect after all. You are a lesser Om’ray. Choice between Vyna and lesser Om’ray is Forbidden! Council decides if our Adepts should waste their time scouring your mind before you are fed to the rumn, that is all.

With that, and a whirl of fabric that left nothing remaining to his imagination, the Vyna Chooser left the room. The metal door spun closed with a thud.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Enris said mildly.

Not good at all.

They weren’t interested in his belongings either, leaving him the clothes he wore and whatever he’d shoved into his pockets at the Tikitik’s suggestion. For that small favor, he should be grateful, Enris thought grimly as he chewed his last morsel of food, using his tongue to find pieces of lint and swallowing those, too.

On second thought, he’d like to introduce Thought Traveler to Vyna’s strange lake. No wonder the creature had been entertained. He’d demanded to go to the one Clan Forbidden to accept those on Passage.

Why?

More importantly, how was he going to change their minds?

Enris laughed. He sounded like a certain Yena.

Still, these were Om’ray with secrets. He had a few. A trade might be possible.

He needed to know more about them first. From the window, all he could see was what surrounded the island: water, mist, and a soaring wall of rock. The narrow bridge where the esan dropped him wasn’t in sight.

What else? They might be isolated, but Vyna didn’t lack power. There were six glows attached to the walls of this room alone; others in use along the walkways. Their style was peculiar, with outer casings shaped like swimmers and leaves.

A people with time for aesthetics.

He tried taking one of the glows down, but it was inset into the rock wall as if there would never be need to remove it. Another mystery. In Tuana and Yena, glows had to be replaced regularly, along with the sealed cells that powered them. The Oud used a similar arrangement in their tunnels. He supposed the Tikitik did as well.

The lighting within a Cloisters had its own, apparently endless supply of power. Cloisters. Something he hadn’t seen while being hustled to this room. Perhaps Vyna had found a way to extend that power to where they lived.

An exciting thought. To not depend on the technology of others.

As for the strangers…power for their devices had been among the hundreds of questions he would have asked Marcus Bowman, if it hadn’t been too dangerous for all concerned. Aryl had been wise to resist temptation. They were having trouble enough with the Oud and Tikitik…

And now with their own.

Despite Fikryya’s vehement denial, there was only one kind of Om’ray. Vyna were the same as everyone else to his inner sense. What else mattered?

Manners, for one. Enris swallowed his last, very well-chewed mouthful and listened to his stomach complain about its emptiness. Surely they’d feed him before…

Before what? Before they fed him to whatever she’d said?

Om’ray kill Om’ray? He’d never heard of such a thing. That didn’t make him less afraid. Too easy to summon the memory of those kicks and blows in the dark, his own desperate realization that while these were his people, his Clan, their anger was about to send them across an unimaginable line.

Anger, he could understand. A cold decision to end another life? Why?

He fingered his token. When they’d left it untouched, he’d assumed there would be a grand ceremony—with feast—to welcome him. But other than Sona, Vyna was the smallest Clan. How could they not need unChosen, especially—no point being modest—one of his strength, skill, and Power?

And ability to annoy. Enris smiled, remembering the outrage in Aryl’s gray eyes when she suspected he made fun of her.

He’d tied her knot of hair to the thong holding his neck pouch, where his fingers could easily find it. Now he touched that tiny softness.

She’d believed in him.

He hadn’t come this far to fail.

Enris straightened his tunic and checked his boots. He’d been welcomed by the Grona. Sona, too, had he stayed. He’d make these Vyna appreciate him.

Thoughtful of them to leave his things.

The glows might be unfamiliar, but the spindle on which the door turned was as normal as could be. The rings holding it in position would be of softer metal than the back of his knife. A moment’s effort to pry them open and off, then he tugged the door down and toward him, freeing the spindle’s tip from its hole. The door, now turning on the lock rod, tipped inward. With a grin, Enris crouched and crawled underneath.

There was no one outside. He’d have known. Yena’s First Scout might mock his inability to move quietly—something their children could do—but no one had to teach him to be aware of those around him. While working on the Om’ray device, he’d always been careful to check that he was alone.

Not to mention it had helped him avoid Naryn S’udlaat. For a while.

For the first time, he wondered about her reaction. Shocked out of her skin, he imagined, grinning with satisfaction. Hadn’t the spoiled daughter of Adepts had her way from birth, doted on by aging parents, worshiped by her gang of useless friends? He’d been one of the few unimpressed by her Power or beauty. When she’d pushed a hammer at his head in a fit of temper, he’d refused to support her claim to that Talent. The only reason, he supposed, she’d wanted him at all was because he didn’t want her.

Served her right he could refuse.

Though he didn’t envy whomever Naryn had finally claimed. He hoped not one of his cheerful cousins.

And not, he thought, his grin fading, Mauro Lorimar. Lorimar had led the attack against him. Dangerous, indeed, Joining such unnatural violence to Naryn’s selfish Power.

Enris shrugged. He’d only know if another Tuana came to Vyna on Passage. This was his Clan now.

If he wasn’t eaten.

Beyond his room was a short straight hall with arched openings to the outside at either end. No biters, he guessed, the first thing about Vyna he liked. He’d take that as a promising start.

No need to keep out the cold either. The water surrounding the island was warm, the air still. If that was the sum of their seasons, he supposed he could get used to gloom and mist, though the abundance of glows hinted the Vyna themselves didn’t care for it.

The arch he chose led to a walkway, too narrow to call a road, neat, straight, and flat. Its black rock was inlaid with bands of white. The inlay caught the light from the glows, giving the darkness between the illusion of depth. He found himself reluctant to trust his footing.

To his inner sense, the Vyna were scattered throughout their island—all below this level—and on its water. None nearby.

Enris paused, startled. Many—too many—were Choosers. He could taste them, like a sweetness on the roof of his mouth. Everywhere. Yet none were Calling. That he’d feel.

They didn’t seek a Choice? How could that be?

Without knowing the capabilities of these Om’ray, he wasn’t about to lower his shields and reach for any one mind to ask. Nor was he going to let any Adept “scour” his. Whatever that meant.

The being-eaten part was, in any case, completely unreasonable. Whatever a “rumn” was.

All he had to do was find a way to impress the Vyna with his quality.

Tuana’s shops and homes were works of beauty. Intricate brick-work inlaid with precious wood, carved and polished. Metal bands, treated to bring out rainbow hues, at curves and angles. Light welcomed through sheets of clear surry. And what light. Until experiencing Yena’s canopy, Enris had taken for granted that huge arch of sky, with its star-laced dome at truenight. Until stumbling across mountain slopes, he’d given no thought to Tuana’s level roadway: how it connected buildings and fields, made easy the path to the meeting hall or Cloisters, and kept the Oud from driving where they shouldn’t. Usually.

Vyna differed in every way. The island thrust from the water like a jagged shard of metal protruding from a bin. Rooms had been cut from it, or rather into it—how, he couldn’t imagine, unless the Vyna worked rock the way other Om’ray worked wood. The result wasn’t a village but a single building, little more than a room’s width at its narrowest, but tens of levels high. He’d been housed close to the top. Walkways stepped and staggered around its girth, sometimes meeting platforms overhung by arches, at others taking abrupt turns to end at blank walls as if waiting for a forgotten door.

No dirt. No dust. Mist curled in corners, scattered beneath glows, blunted sharp edges. Vines trailed from irregular openings high overhead, self-conscious against the black rock, withered at their tips.

If there were differences between homes, storerooms, or shops, none showed from outside. He could pick any door, go inside…Enris snorted, hearing his mother’s voice in his head. ‘Poor manners make a poor guest.’”

His father wasn’t the only one with sayings.

Still…it could be time for supper. Maybe that was why he’d seen no one. Surely even a stranger under a death sentence being ignored by an entire Clan could walk in and share a family’s meal.

Despite not sensing any Om’ray here, Enris paused and sniffed hopefully near one of the always-open arches. Not food, but…he sniffed again and coughed. Musty. Damp. Like the back corner of a storehouse in spring. Old.

The whole place was musty and old, he decided with a grimace. It didn’t matter how clean it appeared, how perfect. There was rot somewhere.

Up was—he leaned back to see—an appalling number of steps without any change.

Enris picked down.

Down meant around as well. By the time he reached the lowest level, Enris had circled Vyna twice. His feet hurt and he was unhappy, being, as Aryl would doubtless point out, too easily ruled by his stomach. His shrinking stomach. Fine for Yena to starve themselves, he grumbled to himself. None of them were his size.

From above, he’d spotted three bridges connecting the island and wall, each a stretch of black rock barely wide enough for a child. That he’d needed to be led by the hand on his arrival—and almost fallen off every other step—was proof. The mist obscured most of their length, but two ended in tunnel-like openings into the mountainside, lit by glows. The third didn’t come out of the mist. Perhaps it wasn’t finished.

The last step. Enris greeted the platform at the water’s edge with a groan of relief. It stretched to either side, matched to the sharp, irregular lines of the island itself. Beside him, the upraised tips of floating craft pretended to be a forest. Instead of being tossed by a breeze, they rose, leaned, and settled with the water’s movement. Not that he could see the water through the mist. It fingered its way up the sides of the craft, pooled against the black edge of the platform. Steps disappeared into it, as well as the light from the glows.

Plenty of Om’ray here, shadows without voice. They looked at him as they passed with hooks and mesh over their shoulders, sidelong looks without welcome or curiosity. As if to see where he stood, so they could avoid him.

Which only worked if he let it, Enris thought, amused. He planted himself in the path of the next burdened Vyna and smiled widely. “Need help with that?”

This didn’t get the reaction he’d hoped. Every Vyna in earshot stopped what they were doing to glare at him. HUSH! The sending was from more than one.

With an undertone of fear.

Of him? Not judging by the disdain on the face of the Om’ray he’d interrupted.

A familiar face. Deep-set eyes, a prominent chin and heavy cheekbones, skin so pale it reflected the light from the nearest glow. Tall, bone-thin. Like Fikryya, his hair was hidden beneath a tight cap, this one green and blue, with tassels of blue hanging to his shoulders and down his back. Unlike the Chooser, he wore a snug-fitting yellow tunic, overwritten with black symbols, that went to his knees and left his arms bare. Scrawny arms, like a child’s. No, that was an insult to young Ziba, whose arms were ribboned with muscle.

Enris felt thick.

Though he had no idea why his voice upset them, he gestured apology. May I help? he sent, careful to maintain his shields.

The Vyna shrugged the mesh from his shoulder to the platform. Bring that. Once Enris moved aside, he walked to the nearest step and disappeared into the mist. This way.

If there was anticipation and a not-pleasant amusement in the sending, the Tuana chose to ignore them.

He picked up the mesh and put it over his shoulder.

It was a start.

The craft of the Vyna were metal, not wood as he’d expected, and extraordinarily simple. The shape, like a curled leaf, was hammered from a single thin sheet. Enris ran his hand along the side, imagining how it would have been poured and cooled to retain its strength. Folds reinforced the top edge and midline. Wide, lengthwise bars created a floor; he had to be careful not to wedge his boot in their gap. There were two narrower bars across the width. After climbing over the side—in his case, a graceless struggle made worse by the damp footing of the steps—the two Vyna leaned back against one of those bars, mesh bundled beside them, their expressions impassive.

He leaned on the other and smiled. I’m Enris Mendolar.

The silence, inner and outer, was almost painful. Then, Daryouch. The older Vyna, who’d given him the mesh to carry.

Etleka. The other Vyna. UnChosen. A son, he guessed. The similarity between the two, and to Fikryya, must mean close kin.

Of the same family?

Of Vyna. This from Daryouch, with a snap of impatience, as if Enris asked a stupid question. Make no sound once the float begins to move.

Move how? Enris couldn’t see any mechanism or device to—

Power. He sensed it, felt it. But—

The float, as Daryouch named it, slipped away from the steps, mist parting as if to let it through, then closing in behind.

The Tuana almost laughed in amazement. They were using Power to move their float—and themselves—across the water. The control required outstripped anything he’d imagined. He had to learn this. He’d been right to come.

The only sound was their breathing and the slide of water along the metal sides. Mist poured into the float, swirling and damp. At times, it obscured everything below their waists, so they might have been sitting in a cloud. The sky above was masked as well. Nothing to see in any direction. If it hadn’t been for his sense of other Om’ray, Enris would have been lost.

That and the smell. The must of old rot was stronger out here.

The float came to a stop.

Ready the net.

Etleka held out one side of the mesh. The Tuana took it, watching carefully as the other Om’ray demonstrated, with his two-thumbed hands, how to grip a thicker edge rope in one and take a handful of the fine mesh in the other. Raise it like this.

In the air? From the glint in Daryouch’s eye, he knew better than to ask. Dutifully, Enris copied Etleka’s position.

Hold. No matter what.

Enris braced himself within the metal leaf, boots against a floor bar, his back to the one that crossed the width.

Power. This time not to move anything, but to summon.

It was like the Call of a Chooser, but immeasurably stronger. And, like so much of Vyna, Enris realized it was not…quite…

…right.

Even as he grasped that the summons wasn’t meant for him, a small shape appeared in the mist, flinging itself toward them. It collided with the net, and Etleka grinned. Denos, he sent. Supper!

Then the mist was full of flying shapes. The denos seemed oblivious to the net, quickly becoming entangled in such numbers that Enris copied Etleka and fastened his rope to the bar. The two plucked the swimmers free and dropped them to the floor where they fell through the gaps, a writhing harvest of silver and black that soon spilled over the bars and flopped around their feet.

The summons ended. With a final splash, the last denos dropped into the water on the other side of the float, safe for the time being.

Etleka clapped Enris on the shoulder then began folding up the net.

“Let me help,” the Tuana said without thinking.

HUSH!

No missing the fear. The Vyna looked horrified; Daryouch furious as well. Both froze in place, staring into the mist.

Something was there.

Enris wasn’t sure how he knew, but he stared as well.

The float rocked once, gently.

Something approached.

His inner sense. That was it. But how? How could he sense something in the water?

Not with his inner sense, he realized with a shudder, but with what connected him to the M’hir. That was where he felt that cold, strange touch. It wasn’t Om’ray. But real. Alive.

The Vyna had summoned something from the depths, something to terrify the denos into their net.

And now it hunted his voice.

He pulled his knife, gripped the bar with his other hand, and readied himself.

Put that away. For once Daryouch didn’t feel angry. A rumn can swallow three floats with one gulp. Stay still and make no more sound. It should leave.

That was a rumn?

No wonder the tiny swimmers thought leaping into the air was safer.

Enris wanted to join them.

Two days in a row and he hadn’t been eaten.

Enris decided he was pleased. He also decided to avoid extremely large hungry creatures on the premise a third encounter could be his last.

After an endless tenth waiting for the rumn, whatever that was, to choose not to eat them, they returned to the platform. He helped Etleka unload their catch, now fully understanding why the Vyna didn’t care to speak out loud—particularly by the water.

How do you eat them? he asked Daryouch, eyeing the still-flapping denos with ravenous intent. If they said raw, he’d take that plump one first.

Flatcakes. This from Etleka, with an image of white flesh, shredded and spiced, shaped into disks and fried a crisp brown.

Stomach growling, Enris licked his lips. I’ll take a few of those.

Stranger! A harsh summons. The Tuana glanced up at the grim-faced pair on the platform. They could have been Daryouch’s brothers and were dressed like the denos-catcher, except for the green metal rod each carried, about the length of an arm. Tool or badge of office?

An escort, that he knew. Enris gave the dying denos a wistful look, shrugged at his companions—who turned away to become too-obviously busy with their catch—and climbed out of the float. Supper? he asked.

In answer, they pointed the rods left.

Not up? Enris shrugged again and started walking. The pair set themselves one to each side, as if to make sure he didn’t elude them by diving into the mist-covered, rumn-infested water or choose to walk into a rock wall. As he had no intention of harming himself, he projected a mild amusement.

They didn’t respond. He hadn’t expected they would.

The platform met another that turned a sharp corner. One of the bridges loomed ahead, a black tongue tasting the mist. Enris lengthened his stride to get past the dangerous thing. To his dismay, his escort stepped in his way, rods pointing where he least wanted to go. Enris stopped dead. “You—” before they could object, he switched to a sending, a most emphatic one. You can’t expect me to walk on— “OOF!” The sound whooshed out as a rod poked him firmly in the stomach.

Hush!

Enris braced himself to grab the next bit of metal aimed his way, but the two merely waited.

If you plan to feed me to the rumn, he sent, keeping his feelings—which were intense on the subject—firmly behind his shields, you’ll have to pick me up and throw me in. If they tried, he vowed, they’d go in first.

The pair exchanged looks. You’ve been summoned to Council, stranger. We’re to make sure you arrive safely.

He stood a better chance with Vyna’s elders than their odd Choosers, Enris assured himself, feeling more cheerful. He had the right smile, according to his grandmother. Resisting the urge to rub his abused middle, he gave a little bow. Lead the way.

One did. The other motioned him ahead. Enris took a deep breath and followed, taking the smallest possible steps once on the bridge. It was worse than climbing a branch in the canopy. At least there, he could hold on to something. Here he felt as though he tipped from side to side. Not to mention the mist obscured the footing. He slowed. Despite that care, one foot slipped. He stopped.

Take hold.

Of what? His escort? These Vyna, however, were better prepared than those who’d met him on his arrival. Rather than offering a hand, the one in front swung his rod back, taking hold of the rod from his partner.

Railings.

Enris stifled a laugh sure to attract the wrong kind of attention. Clever.

Take hold.

Trust them, or knock them all into whatever lay hidden in mist. Enris locked his right hand around the rod to that side, his left to the left.

Whether their confidence came through that contact, or it was their matter-of-fact strides, Enris soon found himself able to ignore what was—or wasn’t—under his boots. Mostly. But just as he estimated they’d passed the halfway point, his escort slowed, then stopped.

Why? There was nothing here. Just as Enris was about to point this out, and suggest a return to ground wider than his shoulders, he realized they weren’t alone.

Om’ray.

Not ahead…

Below.

The mist ahead blazed yellow, then parted, sliding from the bridge with palpable reluctance. Enris found himself staring down at a familiar pair of metal doors, slowly turning open. Their movement pushed aside the mist, let light from within touch his face.

Vyna’s Cloisters.

The bridge ended here, with these doors. Between them, a set of stairs carved from black rock led down, steeply down. Enris couldn’t see the end of them. Water lapped, unseen. Mist began to slink back around his legs, explored the opening.

The rods in his hands twisted, he let go and their owners reclaimed them. Go. You will be met.

He gestured gratitude. I thank you for your care.

Both Vyna stared at him, their heavy lids half closed. Then, Do not expect a welcome.

He’d expected walls, at least. But the stairs led to more doors. Beyond those had been…this. Windows. Tall arched windows just like those that graced Yena’s Council Chamber. After his first astonished stare, Enris did his best to keep his eyes on anything else. The darkness pressing inward wasn’t the sky. It had no right being populated by stars. Stars that moved with disturbing suppleness or would abruptly gather and still, as if watching.

“Anything else” was only slightly less disturbing. If he thought Vyna’s Cloisters strange, what could he call its Council? No one outside Vyna, Enris thought wryly, was going to believe this.

Instead of the eldest of each family—something he supposed was unreasonable if they all considered themselves members of one—he stood before six pregnant Chosen.

Very pregnant. When his mother had been this large with Worin, he and Kiric had teased her about moving out of the house until she gave birth.

All were dressed in the next-to-transparent fabric Fikryya had worn, as if it was important to flaunt their swollen abdomens and breasts.

He couldn’t have told them apart. This went beyond the resemblance of kin to kin. Any one of them, if not pregnant, could have been older Fikryyas.

As well as the Councillors, there were nine Adepts, attended not by Lost, but by nine unChosen males. Vyna’s Adepts were the oldest Om’ray he’d ever seen, frail and confined to chairs. Fortunately, a judgment he kept to himself, they were wrapped in layers of fine white blankets. He couldn’t have told their sex. He couldn’t tell if the two in the middle were still alive, but assumed the rest knew.

All wore brightly colored caps over their hair; all had tassels of fake hair hanging to their shoulders. The colors varied, but not the style. It was as if they wanted to look alike.

He brushed his straying black locks from his forehead self-consciously.

Enris Tuana.

Disconcerting, not being able to tell the source of the words. Though not as disconcerting, Enris thought, as the tone of boredom. He smiled politely at the Council, quite sure his smile would have no impact on the Vyna Adepts. I have come on Passage and hope for your welcome.

Strange, how that part he’d never doubted until now.

Tuana bears the stain of Ground Dwellers.

Another mindvoice. And of the Meddlers. An esan dropped him here.

Meddler—that suited the Tikitik. Ground Dwellers? Had to be Oud. He felt a fierce rush of hope. Had he been right? Was Vyna free of the Agreement, safe from the demands of other races?

Does Vyna not have such neighbors? he sent, allowing a tinge of envy.

We are not lesser Om’ray.

The emphasis stung, as the sender no doubt intended. The third Councillor, he decided. The one closest to the Adepts’ row of chairs. There was something in her posture that matched the overbearing pride of the sending, a hint of greater strength. Or ruthlessness.

Careful of that one, he told himself.

I come in search of Om’ray technology. Enris delicately offered his memory of the device the Oud had given him, just its shape, nothing more, not yet. Is this of Vyna?

One of the Adepts slumped forward. The attendant unChosen immediately placed one hand on his or her shoulder. Enris sensed a flow of Power, a giving of strength from the younger Om’ray. The ancient Adept wheezed and sat up again; the attendant, now gasping, removed his hand.

The rest ignored this lapse, their wizened faces intent on him, lipless mouths working eagerly as if he’d offered them a sweet morsel.

These would “scour” his mind? Shaken, he checked his shields.

Show us. Noncommittal, but he sensed interest.

Which was a problem. The device was still in the Mendolar shop, unless the Oud had reclaimed it. If only he’d taken it…

Wait. Enris pulled the pouch from his neck and opened it. I have this, he sent, holding the clear wafer on the palm of his hand. It was old, strange, and Om’ray. He’d meant to leave it with Aryl; a small curiosity of Sona, a bauble of no possible use to an unChosen on Passage.

Of definite use, if it bought him his life.

The wafer rose from his hand and flew to that of the third Councillor. Enris let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. More than interest.

He wasn’t prepared for her to press the wafer over the swell of her unborn and exclaim—out loud—in rapture, “Take her, Glorious Dead! Take her and be born again!”

The other Councillors took up the chant, the Adepts gumming the words. “Take her! Be born again!”

The clear wafer turned milky white and began to glow, pulsing in time with the chant.

It wasn’t the only light to play over the rapt faces of the Vyna. Enris looked at the windows. The stars-that-weren’t swarmed in greater and greater numbers. They pulsed, too, but faster, as if excited.

He rubbed his hand against his tunic. What had he been carrying?

Take him. No telling who gave the order, but Enris stepped back quickly, ready to defend himself. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he’d be willing to throw a few.

You’ll live, Tuana. Too cold to be reassuring. Take him to those already contaminated.