Riders of the Storm

Chapter 16

THE STORM SETTLED IN THE VALLEY, laying down snow, packing it into cracks and crannies with fitful pats of wind. The village became so many lumps in the landscape; what was restored indistinguishable from what had been destroyed. No one stirred outside. A curl of smoke was the only argument for life.

As far as Aryl could tell, no one cared. This latest storm was an excuse for the exiles’ first prolonged rest and the arrival of the Tuana, whole if battered, had ignited a celebration that showed no signs of ending.

As for Seru’s Joining? With a supple adaptation of tradition, Husni and Taen had whisked Seru away to Sona’s third building, home to both Uruus and Vendan families, there to spend her first truenight as a Chosen. Receiving, no doubt, a great deal of unsolicited and highly intimate advice.

There, in relative peace, her body would take its mature form—a mysterious change Aryl, for one, wasn’t in a hurry to experience. Imagine the impact on balance, she fussed to herself. Let alone clothing.

She hoped Seru was all right.

Seru’s Chosen, meanwhile, could wait. His body would also change over the next hours, but apparently not in ways that required new clothes.

She didn’t want to know.

Sona was content.

She was so tired her bones ached.

“You want to know how long we’ve been here?” Aryl propped her chin on one hand and fingered her thin rope of dayknots. Seru’s cleverness. Clever and kind, her cousin. She’d tie the second tassel tonight. “Two fists, tomorrow.”

“Only that?” Naryn wrapped her long white fingers around her steaming cup; she still wore a scarf around her head and the coat they’d provided, as if chilled through, but didn’t complain. Her eyes, large, blue, and fiercely bright, darted from hooks to oillights to the newly-made tables. Her voice would be lovely, once its hoarse cough eased. “Well done. You’ve made a home.”

“We’ve made a Clan,” Aryl corrected firmly. She wanted no misconceptions about what Sona was, or what they offered.

A dimple appeared. “So you have.”

Aryl yawned, her jaw cracking, and gestured apology. No one suggested sleep; the Om’ray in the packed meeting hall were too aware of each other, too curious and unsettled. Without doubt, the Tuana were too rattled by their experience to relax any time soon.

One hand left the cup to rest warm and strong over hers. Here.

Strength flooded her body from that confident touch, driving back her exhaustion. Aryl blinked in surprise. “I didn’t need—”

Naryn clutched her cup again. “You drained yourself for us. A fair trade.”

Trade. Enris had explained the disquieting concept. Tuana was a Clan of such abundance they had time to produce more than the essentials, had individuals and families who no longer worked for the survival of the whole, but instead produced ornaments and goods distributed not by need, but by exchange for objects deemed of equal value. The wristband the Oud had given her, now against her skin, was one such item—not that Enris hadn’t worked for his entire Clan.

Yena did not trade; they worked hard and they shared what they had. Sona-that-had-been? Her dream-memories were silent on that detail, but their stored wealth suggested they could have. Sona-that-would-be?

“There are no debts or trades here,” Aryl said stiffly. A hope, perhaps futile. They had so many Tuana now.

So many and in two neat groups. The first, nine strong, were all members of three families: Serona, Licor, and Annk. Different from one another; similar in manner. They sat close together, spoke quietly and courteously to those around them but listened more. Appreciative but cautious. They—and their sturdy, dark clothing—had suffered the least from the rough handling of the Oud. One, Tai sud Licor, was unusual enough even Aryl caught herself staring at his face, skin dappled like the pattern of sunlight through leaves. He’d come on Passage from Amna, where that coloring was common. His two daughters, shy but beginning to smile at Ziba’s fascinated attention, were dappled like their father and startlingly tall, with shoulders to rival any Yena male’s.

Not yet Choosers. Aryl was dismayed to be sure, just as she was sure the other unChosen, the Seronas’ son, was ready for Choice. He kept his head down as if to be unnoticed, his black hair—which reminded her of Enris—tumbling over his eyes.

A group with sensible boots and gloves, used to heavy work by their hands—little wonder Haxel radiated distinct satisfaction whenever she looked at them.

She radiated nothing at all when she looked at the others.

Those five sat closest to the hearth, wearing Sona undercoats over the tattered remnants of what had been not-sensible clothing. The fabric—before being dragged through dirt and snow by the Oud—reminded her of flitter wings, brilliantly colored and smooth. Pretty, Aryl told herself, trying to be charitable. Ridiculous, she decided, giving up the effort.

The clothes—completed by ornate, cold-looking footwear—were only the start. These had never worked a day in their lives, as far as she could tell. No calluses. Their movements were awkward and slow, their faces and bodies plump by Yena standards. They sat in sullen silence, although one, newly Chosen from the way she clung to her Choice, wiped fresh tears from her cheeks every time her face left his sleeve and she saw where they were.

Aryl’s inner sense persisted in sorting the new arrivals. Of the sullen five, one was a Chooser, pointedly not looking at her. Beko Serona. Another eligible unChosen. He glared at those around them as if the Sona were to blame.

When he wasn’t staring at her. Deran Edut was his name, lean for a Tuana, with a pinched face that made Aryl think of sour fruit.

Last of the five, Mauro Lorimar, was the one who rivaled Enris in size, though he moved like something soft. When he noticed Aryl’s attention, his full lips spread in a triumphant smile.

Seru’s Chosen. Mauro sud Parth.

Aryl found the tabletop of overwhelming interest.

“Never back down from Mauro,” Naryn advised quietly. “He likes it too much. Deran? You needn’t worry—he hasn’t the Power for you. Ezgi might. The Serona runner.”

“‘Runner?’” Aryl managed.

A nod at Haxel’s favorites, and the unChosen a little too obviously avoiding her eye. “They scavenge abandoned tunnels—we don’t have the wood you do.” This with an envious pat on the table. “Running’s all they can do if the Oud reshape.”

Hence their alert air, Aryl thought. Daring and resourceful. Haxel was going to like them even more once she knew. “The others aren’t.”

Her companion chuckled. “Their idea of risk is to trade for what runners bring up. After all, that defies Council edict. As if anyone really obeys it. Though Mauro—he takes bigger chances.” Her lips closed after that and Aryl sensed her withdrawal behind tightened shields.

Naryn didn’t belong to either group, she realized abruptly. Not the only puzzle she posed. The other Om’ray might be close to her age, but she wasn’t a Chooser—that she could sense, anyway. Not Chosen, surely, though she didn’t attempt to reach to find that bond. Powerful, controlled. Trained. That she did know. “You’re an Adept,” she guessed, frowning.

“No.” This with a flash of some emotion, hidden so quickly Aryl couldn’t be sure of more than disturbance. Naryn gestured apology. “It’s been a difficult—I don’t know how long it’s been,” she admitted. “There’s no truenight in the tunnels, no dawn. It’s all the same. Suen—my uncle’s cousin and heart-kin, Suen sud Annk—promised I’d get used to it.” Aryl felt her shiver. “The Oud came first.”

“You’re safe now,” she said awkwardly, sending reassurance.

“We believed we were being punished,” a low strained whisper. “The Oud forbid trespassing. None of us had tokens. Mauro, the fool, tried sending to Tuana for help—my head still hurts from the Oud’s reaction to that.” A grimace invited Aryl’s sympathy.

Which she’d give, if she understood. “What reaction? We’ve never experienced a—problem—with using Power near the Oud here.”

“Imagine running as fast as you can, then stubbing your bare toes on a rock.”

Aryl frowned. “I’d jump it.”

Naryn’s chuckle turned to a cough. She took a sip. “Yena. Of course. Though not-real, a few Oud have something like an Om’ray’s Power. Like, but different enough, believe me. Put them together? Nausea. Headache. Dizzy—”

“Oud have Power?” Not a pleasant thought. Not pleasant at all.

“Not many. Adepts don’t like admitting it, but it’s hardly a secret. We call them Torments. Tuana has had more than its share lately.”

Making the Oud changeable. Another complication. Aryl gave a resigned sigh. “What do the Oud call them?”

A quizzical look. “Why do you care?”

“I’m Sona’s Speaker. I can hardly ask the Oud to keep their ‘Torments’ away. I need their word. The right word.” She sounded like the Human, Aryl thought to herself, suddenly amused.

“You’d ask?”

Tired as she was, Aryl grinned at Naryn’s startled expression. “Our First Scout doesn’t like surprises.”

“She’d best get used to them, then.” The other Om’ray traced the top ring of her cup with a long finger. “The Oud don’t give warnings. Not ones we understand, anyway. They simply act for whatever twisted reasons. Look at us. We didn’t know where they were taking us…if they’d drop us down a pit and leave us to die…if they’d abandon us past the end of the world where the sun would never shine again.” Naryn’s finger stopped. “Then you were there. I knew we were safe. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Was she truly to blame for every ill on Cersi, Aryl thought wearily, or only for those that climbed into her home? “The Oud weren’t punishing you. They found and brought you here because—” she braced herself, “—because of us.”

“Of you? Why?”

Where did she start? Aryl looked into Naryn’s pale, exhausted face and sighed. Stick to what mattered. “The Oud felt we needed more Om’ray to be a proper Clan. They found you and brought you here. Their Speaker told me. In a way.” She pulled back the sleeve; the wristband caught the light. “It gave me this two days ago.” Before it was killed—something else that didn’t matter now. She took it off, reluctantly, and held it out. “It’s from—”

“That’s mine!” Naryn’s eyes fixed on the green metal band. “The Oud surrounded us. Took what we carried. Bags, packs. The others lost more. All I had…clothes, water…that.” Her hand began to reach for the wristband, then stopped in midair. She drew it back, drew within herself until to Aryl’s inner sense she was almost invisible. “Keep it. A gift, not a trade.”

Enris had shared his memory of making the wristband, not its owner, but Aryl smiled warmly as she replaced it on her arm. “Thank you. Don’t worry about clothing or supplies, Naryn. We’ve enough for all.” And ample water lay drifted against the walls, the storm’s gift. “Sona takes care—”

A furious shout shattered the peace. “We shouldn’t be here!”

“Mannerless igly.” Deeper, just as angry. “You think it’s our fault? We were fine till you came. Uninvited. Unprepared. Fools.”

Aryl rose to her feet; Naryn stayed seated, her hands around her cup.

Two Tuana were standing in front of each other, both red-faced with emotion. She wasn’t surprised to find the deep voice had come from the runner, Suen sud Annk. The older, much tougher Om’ray glared down at Deran Edut, one of the complainers. He glared defiantly back—between quick glances to Mauro.

While Mauro Lorimar leaned comfortably on his elbows, apparently at ease.

UnChosen games, Aryl judged it. Trick a fool into stirring a stinger nest, while you watched from a safe perch.

The emotions beginning to turn in the room made it no game. The stolen Tuana were justly upset, ready to blame someone for their plight. She noticed Rorn and Syb easing their way toward the two; Haxel’s doing. She’d tolerate no disruption, not when they were all so close.

Not when outside was only the storm.

Aryl climbed on the table and held up her pendant. “If you want to go home,” she said in her best Speaker voice, “I’ll try to explain that to the Oud.”

The eldest runner, a craggy-faced Om’ray named Galen sud Serona, stood. Their leader, she judged. “We are grateful to you and to Sona. Including those of us who don’t act it—” This with a lash of focused irritation that stung even Mauro, by his wince. “But Tuana knows the Oud better than most. There’s no explaining that won’t make things worse. They start in a direction—” he shrugged broad shoulders, “—and all Om’ray can do is get off the road. If they want us here, here we stay.”

The rest of his Clan looked unhappy, but no one disagreed.

Haxel stepped up. “I don’t care who brought you. You’re welcome, if you’re willing to work.” The two appraised each other for a moment. They were, Aryl thought, amused, as alike as a thin, scarred Yena scout and a bulky old Tuana runner could possibly be.

Rorn diverted to get another bowl of soup, a move that relaxed all the exiles.

Suen eased back, but the younger Tuana wasn’t done. “Welcome where?” Deran shouted, waving his arm at the hall. “The tunnels were better!”

“We can take you back to them,” Haxel assured him cheerfully, bringing a smile to more than a few faces.

Not to Oran’s. A tingle of apprehension ran down Aryl’s spine as she noticed the rapt attention the Grona Adept paid to this exchange.

Kor sud Lorimar, the Chosen from Mauro’s group, as Aryl began to call the sulkers to herself, laid his hand on Deran’s arm. With so strong a resemblance, they could be brothers. Deran made an abrupt gesture of apology and sat.

His shields weren’t as tight as they should be. Aryl wasn’t the only one to sense the bitter anger he sent, not at Haxel or the runners, but at Naryn. Suen slammed his hand flat on the table. “Enough!”

All the other Tuana looked at him then, resentment on their faces; unhappiness on that of Suen’s Chosen, Lymin, heavy with their unborn. All but Naryn, who hadn’t turned around once. Tension flared, tension that none of the Sona understood.

What sort of mess had the Oud brought them?

Haxel pursed her lips, then threw a glance at Aryl. No need for a sending.

Aryl jumped down from the table. “Firstlight will be here before we know it,” she told Naryn. “Care to share my home?”

It wasn’t the kindest invitation. Once outside, Aryl discovered lights were useless; there was no watchfire. Someone had secured ropes between the buildings early in the storm. Whether dream-memory or Grona advice, it was the only guide through the bite and howl of wind-driven snow—unless they went back to talk Weth into that service.

Aryl pulled her scarf over her mouth. This way.

You’re sure?

The wry tone made her smile. Unless the roof’s fallen in.

The roof had bulged down at one end, but still held. Someone—perhaps the same helpful Om’ray who’d tied the rope—had brought one of the oilburners for heat. Aryl lit it gratefully, adding its glow to the oillights. Within a few moments, the shelter, sparse as it was, began to warm.

And drip. Snow had blown into the cracks—helping seal out the wind, but now melting in the heat. Naryn helped move the now-larger pile of bedding into the center. There was more than enough, perhaps in anticipation of their new arrivals. Who, Aryl wondered, had they thought would want to sleep with her?

Not any of the unChosen, that was for sure. As for her new companion? “I should warn you. The reason I sleep away from the rest—”

“Let me guess.” Naryn, having made a nest of blankets, burrowed beneath them still in her snowy coat, scarf, and boots. She grinned over the top. “You snore.”

Did she? Aryl let herself be distracted. “I don’t think so. No one’s mentioned it.” She hung her coat and took off her boots. “Toss me yours. I’ll put them where they’ll dry.”

Silence. Apprehension.

Aryl turned, careful to make the motion unhurried. Enris had found Yena movements disturbingly quick; so might Naryn. Instead of seeking her share of the blankets, she crouched by the oilburner, pretended to check its flame. The rough stone was cold on her bootless feet, but she waited. Something was very wrong. Haxel trusted her to find out what, for Sona’s sake.

Aryl found herself more worried for Naryn’s.

“The Choosers of my family have a reputation for being ‘noisy’ in their sleep,” she explained easily. “This will be my first chance to learn if I’m the same. You have exceptional shields, so I hope I can’t disturb your rest. You must be—”

“What are you doing here?” Almost an accusation. “You call yourselves Sona but you had a Parth Chooser—a Yena name. You had a home. You had a Clan. Against all custom and the Agreement, you chose to come here, defining this direction for all Om’ray with your presence, drawing Grona here, us. Why?”

Fair question. Aryl chewed her lower lip for a moment as she considered possible answers. But Naryn S’udlaat wasn’t any other Om’ray. Power radiated from her—controlled, trained. More than Oran or Hoyon. Likely more than her own. Naryn could be the first to learn to ’port through the M’hir, to help safely teach the others. She had to believe she was trusted and could trust.

The truth, then. “Yena’s Adepts decided to remove those with Forbidden Talent,” Aryl said bluntly. “Those who might risk the Agreement by daring to use their Power in a new way.”

“Remove? You mean exile?” Disbelief. “But you’ve children here, a pregnant Chosen—”

“Family didn’t matter. My own mother was one of the Adepts who tossed us from Yena.” Aryl tightened her shields, holding in the anger and hurt, but her voice was strange to her own ears, old. “They expected us to die. But we survived. We found this place.” And they would continue to survive, she vowed. “We’re Sona now.”

Naryn’s presence gained an easier feel, as if she’d heard something that reassured her—though what that could be, Aryl couldn’t guess. “The hoarding of knowledge should be Forbidden, not Power or Talent. Adepts keep too much from the rest of us, stop us from being all we could be. They have no right.”

Aryl looked up. “They protect their Clan.”

Naryn leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Do they? Or do they try to control us? Let me tell you why the other Tuana shun me, Aryl Sarc, because you and I have something in common. My mother—and father—are Adepts. And it was Tuana’s Adepts who made it impossible for me to stay there.”

A wet, dirty ball of scarf landed at Aryl’s feet, and Naryn’s glorious mass of dark red hair seethed with freedom.

Chosen. But not Joined to anyone here. How could that be? Unlike Humans, Chosen couldn’t be so far apart, not without agony. Unless—Aryl’s breath caught. Was Naryn like Taisal, having survived the loss of her Chosen, wounded to her depths…?

“Our Adepts forbade me to reveal myself.” Naryn rose, shedding blankets, her coat, the clothes underneath. “They called me ruined.” She stood, naked and perfect against the shattered beams and stone of Sona, her face set, without expression. The glows painted her full breasts and hips in light and shadow, drew a hint of curve between. “They don’t warn Choosers that if we try and fail our Choice, our bodies will not care. They don’t warn us that if we have no Chosen, our Power will seek elsewhere for its completion. They don’t warn us we will grow life within, and Join to that life.” Her long white fingers hovered over the faint swell of skin, their shadow partners like a stain. “No Chooser is to know. We would be too afraid…” Her brave voice failed and she began to tremble.

They were both outcasts. Aryl went to Naryn, threw a blanket around her shoulders, urged her down to the warmth of the rest, then held her as she shook. “Are you sure?”

Wasn’t it too soon? Those pregnant claimed awareness began shortly before their unborn was old enough to affect others unless shielded. In practice, some were a little slow. She wasn’t the only Om’ray to have inexplicable urges to change position or eat raw dresel near a mother-to-be.

Seru had said there were two unborn coming with the Oud.

“I thought it was Choice, at first. My body had changed—what else could it be? I told the Adepts to bring him back…that it had worked, that they had to let me—let us—be together. I begged them, Aryl, but they refused.” Naryn’s hair flailed against the blanket and Aryl’s arm; her body had grown still, warmed perhaps, or numb. “They already knew. Tuana’s Birth Watcher could sense the new life in me, that the bond I felt was a Joining not to another Chosen, but to this part of myself. That I was perverse. Ruined.”

Enris. Aryl trembled, suddenly sure. It had been Enris. Naryn was the Chooser desperate for his Choice. The one he’d resisted. The one he’d fled.

Naryn continued, her voice without emotion, her hair settling limp down her back. “The Adepts ordered me kept in the Cloisters, hidden from anyone else. A kindness to other Choosers. They said the birth would end my life, that if the child somehow survived it would doubtless be Lost, so I should hope it died, too.”

The sounds of wind and storm outside couldn’t touch the silence. He hadn’t known this, Aryl told herself. He wouldn’t have wanted this. No matter what Naryn had done or tried.

Then, with a hint of pride, “As if I’d let them dictate my fate. I went to the Councillor for his family and said I’d expose the truth—how I was going to die because of their unChosen’s failure to Choose—unless she helped me escape the Adepts. The old joop was glad to see me go. She brought me clothes, a pack, even gifts for my so-called Passage. That wristband. Neither of us could get a token, but she got me out of the Cloisters and arranged for Suen, my uncle’s heart-kin, to take me to the tunnels. Where I’d be now, if not for the Oud.” A bitter laugh that became a sigh. “As for the others? Menasel has the Talent to tell one Om’ray from another. The silly fool sensed me underground and convinced her cousin Mauro and the rest of his pack to follow. See where it got them?”

“They came to help you—” Aryl guessed.

“Hardly.” Naryn pulled free. “They thought I was sneaking down to make a trade with the runners and wanted to spoil it.”

“Why?”

“To punish me for taking up residence in the Cloisters, for being accepted as an Adept when they weren’t. For refusing to Choose Mauro—as if I could.” A pause. “To hurt me. Maybe that. Mauro has a taste for pain. I—I hope your Parth can handle him.”

Aryl couldn’t imagine any of it. She wouldn’t have believed any of it, except…she was a Chooser.

The imperative texture of the blankets beneath her hands…the depth of flesh warmed by the oilburner…the knife-sharp edge of every shadow…the music of their breathing…

Without warning, she felt everything, including the presence of those eligible unChosen the length of the rope away. Enticing.

Essential.

Her mother had felt this, her grandmothers, their grandmothers, generations stretching back through time she’d once never believed mattered, stretching ahead to create the future. All Choosers felt this…

“Aryl! Control yourself. Unless you want Deran and Ezgi breaking through what passes for the door.”

The slight rasp, the lilting cadence of the voice meant more than the words, meant less than what was building inside her. What had to be sent…

“Aryl!” There was pain now. “Show some sense!”

…and so she Called for the first time, a glorious outpouring of desire and longing through the M’hir, through space, across the world…

Slap!

Aryl’s head jerked back with the openhanded blow. Cheek stinging, she stared at Naryn. Embarrassment fought with affront.

“Now that was Power.” Naryn’s eyes were fever-bright. “I can’t believe anyone thought simply putting you out here would protect their sleep.” She laughed. “They felt that all the way to Vyna, mark my words.”

Embarrassment won. “I can’t—I can’t do that again.”

“Oh, you can and you will,” the Tuana promised. “But for all our sakes, not until you’re ready for Choice. Didn’t your mother teach you control?”

“There wasn’t—no,” Aryl finished helplessly. Haxel and the others wouldn’t let the unChosen rush out into the storm—would she? What would she do if they came? Did she want them to come? Taisal. Her mother. Should she go to her—did she dare?

No. There was no welcome in Yena.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.

“I do.” Naryn held out her hand. “Trust me.” And know this, Aryl Sarc, she sent. Yena and Tuana’s Adepts will regret every decision that brought us together. We’ll make this new Clan greater than theirs, greater than any other. A Clan of Power.

Feeling her determination, her passion was like that first glimpse of the sky above the canopy, expanding the world beyond its limits, affecting everything she thought she knew.

We’ll protect our people, Aryl vowed, reaching eagerly for Naryn’s hand.

…dreams were not like this.

Aryl brushed her hand along the frond, palm tickled by its soft down. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the spice of fresh dresel. The air against her naked skin was warm, moist, a caress.

…the canopy wasn’t like this. Bare skin was a table set for biters.

“You can come home. As a Chooser, you would be welcome.”

…her mother’s voice was not this voice. She’d never want her back.

Her feet were on a floor of cut and sealed fronds, revealed by lovingly polished nekis wood, patterned in grays, yellows, and rich browns. A yellow swing chair spun on its rope, an invitation. The light of glows caught on window gauze, stroked across wall panels.

…her home wasn’t like this. It had burned. The ash had fallen into the Lay.

They were all there, all who’d died or left or abandoned her. All smiled. All shared their welcome and love. She had only to take a step…only to reach out her hand…

…dreams were not like this.

Daughter. A voice without body, a ripple in black water. Follow me.

Aryl heard a moan.

This is no dream. This is pointless desire. Longing. Foolishness. Stop, Daughter, before you lose us all in it!

Too hot. Why was she under blankets at this time of year? A cool sheet…the breeze through fronds, laughter, peace…

Hot—but there was snow. Ice and snow. Another moan. Her voice?

ARYL!!!! Please. Stop. You can’t be here. I won’t be here. You’ll drag us with you into the Dark…

…no dream.

Dark. Who was talking about the Dark? Aryl rubbed her eyes, blinked at the oillight overhead.

“Thank goodness.” Naryn sat back with a heavy sigh. Her hair thrashed the air, not as willing to relax. “I thought you’d never wake up. You were right. Sarcs are loud dreamers. Where were we? Yena?”

Aryl shot upright. “What do you mean? What happened…I was dreaming?” Her mother’s mindvoice. The M’hir. “What did you see?” she asked with sudden, horrible dread. Everything of her life had seemed to flash by, forced into some childish, improbable wish for only the good in it, only what she wanted. Selfish. Foolish. Her mother had been right to chase her from it. “What did you hear?”

“I heard nothing,” Naryn said gently. “But I saw?” Her smile was wistful. “The world as it should be.”

That didn’t sound too embarrassing, Aryl thought. Then she felt the blood drain from her face. “You don’t suppose anyone else…”

The other tilted her head, as if listening. “Oh, I’m quite sure everyone else saw it too. Here, at any rate. Good night, Aryl Sarc, Chooser of Power. Do try to get some proper sleep, for all our sakes?”

Aryl sank back under the blanket.

Not to sleep.

Absolutely not to sleep again.

Ever.

“We tied their feet together. Suen’s idea.” Haxel radiated dissatisfaction. “Ezgi was sensible enough after that. Deran? You’ve never heard such whining. I wanted to knock him on the head, but our Healer made herself useful and put him to sleep.” A considering pause. “Should have hit him.”

Maybe she could go live underground with the Oud. Aryl leaned against the stone slab of the doorway and gestured a mute apology.

“Never hurt an unChosen to suffer. How are you?” A triumphant grin twisted her scar. “Besides louder than Taisal ever was.”

Underground wasn’t far enough, Aryl decided. Maybe Marcus would take her to his world. That had to be at least beyond the mountains. “Can we not talk about…” she waved her hand vaguely.

As well as ask the sun not to rise. Haxel gave a wicked chuckle. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Chooser. You’ve ruined a ’night’s sleep for an entire village. Probably started every unChosen in Cersi on Passage here. Next time—”

Chooser, Aryl thought with a pang of guilt. “How’s Seru?” she interrupted.

“Seru.” Something flickered in those pale eyes. Caution?

“Yes, Seru.” She tensed. “Something’s wrong. What?”

“Choosers don’t get invol—”

“Answer me.” Aryl didn’t intend the flick of Power.

Haxel winced then scowled fiercely. “Listen to me, Aryl. It’s none of your—”

Not waiting to hear the rest, Aryl pushed past. She’d find out for herself.

Trails had been forced through the snow between the four homes. Only one led out to where she and Naryn spent truenight. Aryl disregarded it, forcing her way through the stuff in a straight line to where she knew Seru was.

The First Scout caught up. “There’s nothing you can do. She’s Joined to him now. It’s too late.”

Aryl moved faster.

Husni opened the door, slipping its rope latch onto a hook. She didn’t say a word, only backed out of Aryl’s way.

Taen rose to her feet, eyes darting between them. Silent.

She ignored them both, going to where her cousin sat on a bench, a blanket around her shoulders, another on her lap. Seru’s hair moved fitfully, as if tossed by a dying wind. “I’m here,” she said gently.

“You shouldn’t be.” Her cousin looked at her.

Aryl thought she’d seen every expression of those huge green eyes.

She’d never seen them dead.

Seru held out her hand, turned it, let something small and tangled fall to the floor between them.

Her dayknots. Her waiting. Her wishes.

Aryl went to her knees. “Seru—”

“You shouldn’t be here. Mauro—” the name twisted her lips, “—doesn’t like you. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like anyone. He won’t let me…”

Aryl flinched. What had the Oud brought them? “Of course you like me, silly Seru,” she coaxed desperately, shields tight. “You just need to show him how to like us—”

“He shows me blood. He likes blood. Likes Om’ray who cry in pain—” Seru’s eyes filled with tears that spilled without heed. “He almost killed Enris. Wanted to kill him. Beat him. Kick him. Bones break. Feels good—”

HUSH! If Mauro shared that sending, Aryl thought, blind with fury, she hoped it hurt.

Seru wilted. She caught her, Taen helping. “What did you do, Aryl?” Husni demanded.

He’s taken the babies…Aryl…I can’t feel the babies…all I feel is HIM.

“Hold her.” Aryl rose to her feet and turned to find Haxel, hovering in the doorway. “Restrain Mauro,” she ordered, her lips numb. “I don’t care how. Bring Ezgi Serona here.”

“I don’t know what you think—”

“I will not allow this Joining.”

The others froze, staring at her. Seru gave a wild laugh. “You? Dirty little Yena animal. Think I care what you will allow or not? You’re pathetic. All of you!”

Aryl didn’t take her eyes from Haxel. “Go.”

“She’s mine,” said the voice from Seru’s lips. “Mine forever. Get out of my way. It’s time to rut. Maybe she’ll scream. Scream for me, my Chosen.”

Grim-faced, the First Scout whirled and left, hand on her knife.

Aryl’s mind was already elsewhere. She opened to the M’hir, sought within it for Seru. Drew her close.

Aryl? There…wistful…so small…

Sought Mauro. Drew him, too.

WHAT IS THIS PLACE!??

She ignored his loud gibbering fear, though it set the M’hir into wild motion. She concentrated, searching the chaos for the bond connecting the Tuana to her cousin.

There. As she’d dared hope, it was still forming. Pulses of Power attached themselves one to the other, most being drawn from Seru to Mauro. Nothing peaceful about it, nothing willing. Nothing of joy. He took, causing harm for his own gain, as a Tikitik would drink blood from an osst.

She would not allow it.

GET AWAY FROM US!

He was powerful. Brave, in his way.

Another part of Aryl heard: “We’re here.” Another part of Aryl stretched out a hand, felt a palm, clammy but strong, took hold.

Most of what she was remained in the other and sought the new arrival there.

Ezgi.

A blaze of light, of Power. Solid, afraid but unshaken by his surroundings. A song in the Dark. Aryl fought the temptation to go closer.

SERU! As she called, she gathered, tearing what she tasted as her cousin free of Mauro. As the M’hir seethed and boiled in protest, she thrust Seru toward Ezgi.

Eagerly, they reached for one another. Aryl pulled back, readied herself.

NOOOO!!!

Mauro resisted, grabbed for Seru. Aryl struck, severing each link as he made it. Each time, a new one sprang into life between Ezgi and Seru. Over and over. The two slipped closer and closer.

The two were one.

And all that remained in the M’hir was Mauro Lorimar.

CHOOSER! I AM FREE!

He was a storm within a storm, riding its violence with his own, triumphant. COME TO ME NOW!

Links began to form between them, pulsing, potent. She reeled, tried to evade, to escape. Others were helpless. She felt them, their fear for her. All it did was stir the force within the M’hir, weaken her.

She was losing…no matter how she fought…no matter how he repulsed her…she would be his…

MINE!!

Then, she was alone, the M’hir almost peaceful.

Aryl opened her eyes and promptly threw up, gesturing an apology to the owner of a too-near pair of boots.

Boots already splattered with blood.

Explaining the peace.

She staggered to her feet, helped by strong hands from behind, and gave Mauro’s husk barely a glance. “Seru?”

Haxel, busy cleaning her knife, tipped her head. “There.”

Seru stood with Ezgi, right hands clasped, left hands exploring one another’s face and hair with a tender preoccupation that answered any question she might have.

Husni’s wrinkles creased deeper. “This won’t do,” she declared. “It won’t.”

Aryl opened her mouth to argue, but Taen’s fingers brushed hers. Don’t worry.

The elderly Om’ray took Seru by the shoulders and pulled the two apart. “I’ve never seen such foolishness. There must be time apart, then a proper bathing. Go at once, young sud Parth.” Ezgi’s shy smile and blush matched Seru’s. “Someone find him decent clothes. Haxel, clean up your mess. Hurry now!”

The First Scout carefully didn’t smile. “At once, Husni.”

Seru looked at Aryl, her eyes dancing. “How can we…”

“Tradition!” Husni insisted. “As for you, Aryl Sarc.” A summons not to be ignored.

Aryl stepped up to the tiny Chosen, wiping her mouth on a sleeve.” Yes, Husni.” In her best, most polite tone.

Husni beckoned, and Aryl bent. Cool, crooked fingers stroked her cheek, sending a flood of gratitude and pride, then snapped smartly under her chin. “Some sleep this truenight, if you don’t mind?”

“I’ll do my best, Husni,” Aryl vowed.

“Impressive.”

Aryl shrugged, regretting the motion as it sent a thrill of pain across her forehead. Breakfast might help. Or time. She wouldn’t ask Oran. “It shouldn’t have been necessary.”

“It shouldn’t,” Naryn pointed out, “have been possible. Tamper with Choice? Switch Chosen in the midst of Joining? How did you know how?”

Aryl didn’t want that kind of Power. To meddle in Choice. But seeing Seru herself again, seeing her joy with Ezgi, who was as thoroughly besotted and kind as her cousin had ever wished?

Safe from whatever Mauro Lorimar had been?

She’d do it again.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” she repeated. “We need to protect those who are—who can’t protect themselves—before it’s too late.”

The Tuana hung the next blanket over the line, straightening it with great care. Most had been soaked from below as the dirt thawed during the ’night. They could use, Aryl thought with distraction, a proper floor.

“In Tuana,” Naryn said slowly, “an unChosen first seeks the approval of the Chooser’s family. We receive more strangers on Passage than most Clans. Pana, often. Amna. Rarely Grona or Yena. A meal together, conversation. Time together, a chance to find a good fit. UnChosen aren’t rushed.”

Criticism? Aryl bristled. “Seru waited a long time. It’s no wonder—”

“It’s no wonder,” Naryn agreed. A lock of red hair writhed free of its net; the Yena fashion had pleased her, but she would need more than braided thread. “Denied, the urge becomes overwhelming. If you have to wait long enough, you might be tempted by Deran.”

Never, Aryl thought grimly.

Haxel would be watching to see how closely Deran had followed his friend. Mauro had been an abomination, however tolerated or ignored by the Tuana.

As for Naryn…“Did you have to wait too long? Is that why you tried to force Enris Mendolar?” There, she’d said it.

Long, shapely hands paused on the next blanket, then continued moving, spreading it along the line. “He’s here?”

“He was. He took Passage.”

Naryn tilted her head, like a flitter studying a biter. “You wanted him, too.”

“I never hurt him.”

“No,” the Tuana said softly, “I don’t suppose you did. He left before you were ready.”

“What does that—”

“It means that Choosers of exceptional Power, like you, like me, are not comfortable partners.” Naryn’s smile was bitter as she brought out a flat, wrapped package, small enough to hide on her palm. It was so like a portion of dresel that Aryl’s stomach growled. “A gift for your future, Aryl Sarc. What Tuana’s Adepts use to ease the Joining of those of greater Power. A quarter, dissolved in water. Share a cup with your Candidate. If I’d known—well, I no longer need it. You may.”

“What is it?” Aryl didn’t touch the package; she couldn’t take her eyes from it.

“Somgelt. We trade with the Oud for it.”

Somgelt was found in some rastis pods, a parasite on its seeds. Yena used an extract to coat their stairs and ladders, to keep away the hunters of the Lay Swamp. “Poison.”

“Safe,” Naryn countered, “if used properly.” She tucked it away. “I’ll keep it for you.”

Aryl ignored this last, worried by something else entirely. The Oud could only obtain somgelt from the Tikitik. Wood for the Oud tunnels, she could understand. Metal for the Tikitik. But this? “Do the Oud know how you use it?”

A puzzled frown. “You ask the oddest questions.” At Aryl’s look, “No. Why would the not-real know or care what happens in a Cloisters?”

“They care,” she assured the Tuana. Hadn’t an Oud spent days trying to dig into Sona’s? Wanted her help to enter?

Curious? Or something more?

Naryn smiled suddenly. “He liked you—all of you. Didn’t he?”

“Enris?” Aryl fingered the rope. “He was welcome.”

“Of course.” Her smile faded. “Enris could have been an Adept—should have been—but he didn’t want it. I did, and he thought less of me for it. For wanting to be powerful, to use my Talents. I shouldn’t have cared. I should have ignored him. He didn’t like me. Or my friends. He would never have come to my family to be my Choice. In front of everyone—he ignored me at Visitation—”

“We should get breakfast,” Aryl interrupted.

“You wanted to know why.”

Not anymore. “You don’t need to explain—”

“I do. I must. There was something about him I couldn’t ignore. You’ve met him—you know. When my time came, there wasn’t anyone else. I had to Call Enris. But instead of answering, he—he forced me away.” Naryn’s hair slithered over her shoulders. Her face, always pale, was like ice. “I hope you never feel pain like that.”

“Because he didn’t want you,” Aryl snapped. “You should have stopped. You should have let him go.”

“I couldn’t. He was pain and anger—” her voice broke, then steadied, “—he was everything wonderful. I had to hold on or lose him…but he was stronger. Too strong. He left me. Ruined me. I lost—”

“So did Enris,” Aryl snapped.

“I know.” Naryn lowered her shields, until Aryl felt sorrow laced with guilt, a growing determination. Then, You’re right, Aryl Sarc. We who can must protect our Choosers and unChosen, ease their Joining. If we don’t, we risk losing those of greatest Power. Like Enris and me. Like you.

There could be no lies here, mind-to-mind. Aryl knew, beyond any doubt, that Naryn cared about the future of their kind. However she’d come to this moment, whatever she’d done before, she would do anything to ensure no one else suffered as she had.

Could Sona ask more?

She wouldn’t.

Tell me about somgelt.

Before she Called again and someone answered.