Riders of the Storm

Chapter 1

ARYL SARC LAY AWAKE, disturbed by her cousin’s weeping. Soft, the sound. Weary.

Without hope.

Not that Seru Parth was any different from the rest of Yena’s exiles. Despair. Grief. Dread of this unfamiliar landscape. All were kept private behind the mind’s shield; any needful tears hidden by truenight and a blanket’s cover. None wished to burden the others, though they shared the same past and pain. Exiled by their own Clan, who themselves faced a chancy future. Forced to seek a new place to live, to survive on their own. No wonder some wept.

But all truenight?

Soft. Weary. Without hope.

Aryl abandoned the effort to sleep and sat up. She hugged her share of their blanket, careful not to pull it from her cousin, and gazed helplessly at the bump lying beside her. Seru had lost parents as well as home.

Hadn’t they all?

She shivered. Each firstnight, as the sun left them, darkness moved up the mountain ridges like a swarm of shadow, consuming not only light but warmth. Their tiny fire gave the reassurance of a glow but never enough heat, not for twenty-three exhausted Om’ray. The Chosen and families huddled together, sleeping in their clothes and sharing blankets, always cold. Her nose, Aryl was sure, was permanently numb. Was it almost firstlight?

Unlike the others, Seru’s weeping had only started last truenight. A few moments, a hiccup, then peace. This?

“Seru,” Aryl whispered as quietly as possible. The bump didn’t move. The sound of weeping didn’t stop. She lowered her shields and reached ever-so-gently to let her inner sense seek the other’s mind. Cousin…she began to send, then stopped, realizing what she felt.

No wonder Seru didn’t respond. She was fast asleep.

With a sigh, Aryl laid down, pressing her forearm over her ear. Whatever dream troubled the other’s rest was none of her business. They all needed sleep.

There were troubles enough ahead.

Could the exiles take to the air, their route would be a straight line over the mountain ridges that crested one after the other, each higher and more jagged than its predecessor. Sunlight flowed across bare rock, carving harsh, angled shadows that changed shape throughout the day. Clouds caught on the most distant ridge, as if its summit crushed the sky. A fitting end to the world, in Aryl’s estimation, except that the world inconveniently extended beyond. Vyna and Rayna. Two more chances to find a home among their kind. And they couldn’t fly.

Vyna was unknown. Its Om’ray could be felt, of course; they all knew exactly where it was. But could they get there? No one could recall a Vyna unChosen arriving on Passage, implying a barrier too difficult for Om’ray to cross isolated Vyna from the rest of Cersi.

Rayna was their best hope. It was also the nearest Clan to them, the lure of its hundreds of Om’ray like the warmth of the sun on cold cheeks. It wasn’t right, for Om’ray to be separated. Aryl took comfort in every step closer.

Though there were, she thought wryly, a great many steps to go. To reach Rayna meant this too-slow march around the lowest reaches of the mountains. Part of the time, they walked across shadowed valleys. At others, they would top a rise and be able to gaze down toward Amna and Yena, see the broad, glittering darkness that severed the two: the Lay Swamp, here open to the sky. Herds of what Aryl guessed to be osst moved through its bent vegetation. Sometimes their deep grunts carried up on the night breeze, making her shudder. They belonged to the Tikitik. Not friends to Om’ray. Not friends at all.

The solid footing close to the mountains was the only choice. There was a road of sorts, winding with the ridges, if the word applied to an uneven trail free of worrisome boulders. The exiles took it, since it went the way they needed to go. Easier walking, maybe. Monotonous, definitely.

Aryl kept a worried eye on her cousin throughout the morning. During their daily march, Seru stayed back in the latter half of their group, seeming content with the Uruus family. She entertained their precocious daughter Ziba—surely a valuable service to all. Once in a while, the two burst into giggles, startling smiles from those nearby. Aryl might have dreamed the endless weeping.

She yawned. No. Hadn’t slept enough to dream.

“Something wrong?”

Enris Mendolar, the only one of their company not of Yena, matched his pace to hers. Being a Tuana flatlander, he wasn’t as light-footed or quick as the rest; being bigger than any, he could—and did—carry the heaviest pack with ease. Hardly older than she, he’d earned respect from all. Enris had risked his life to save them; his knowledge of similar landscapes helped guide them now. Dark hair, dark eyes, a powerful mind full of secrets. He laughed when she least expected it.

A stranger, by Om’ray terms. An eligible unChosen, as yet more interested in puzzles than any Chooser. Poor Seru had learned not to cast longing looks his way across the evening fire.

A friend to whom Aryl could speak her mind without fear. She looked up with a small frown. “Wrong? Tell me what isn’t.” She gestured to the ridge that loomed beside them. “Rocks that hunt.” Another to the dome of sky above, still strange to the younger Yena. “No shelter.” She finished by patting the rope wound around her flat stomach. “Should I mention food?”

That laugh, deep and amused. “Please don’t. I’m fading away.”

She didn’t point out that there was more flesh on his bones than on any Yena. It was, she knew, not the Tuana’s fault. They’d been the ones living with starvation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten her fill without thought to the next day. The Grona had given the Yena a feast—she hadn’t been the only one to tuck excess in her pockets. “We’ve Grona bread,” she reminded Enris.

They’d left Grona Clan with high spirits, full if not of hope, then the determination to find some. Before leaving, the other exiles had filled packs with supplies, Grona obliged to be generous to those on Passage, even if these were the most unlikely travelers. After three days on this road, Aryl knew she wasn’t the only one to put away most of her ration. This terrain was barren; a barrier to life, she decided, rather than home for it. The grove was a distant line of lush green within the Lay, tempting their eyes.

It wasn’t safe. By day, Tikitik would be watching for them. By truenight?

Truenight in the mountains might be cold but, away from the rock hunters, it was safe. The same could never be said of the canopy. The towering groves of rastis and nekis were home to myriad forms of life, most, in Aryl’s experience, fond of Om’ray flesh, while the black waters of the Lay held the swarms that climbed by truenight to hunt. To be caught away from light by those was to be eaten before you died.

“We aren’t thirsty,” Enris commented.

Aryl grimaced, her feet damp from crossing the last mountain torrent. More strangeness. Where did it come from, without rain? Why was the water numbingly cold no matter if the day warmed? The Tuana’s thick boots at last made sense. Haxel, being no fool, had obtained a similar pair before leaving Grona, as had a few of the others. Her own departure had been more abrupt. Remembering turned her grimace into a real frown.

“Do you feel it? There are Grona away from their village.”

“Fields,” Enris said mildly. “Grains and other crops to reap. They aren’t following us.”

“They” being Bern and his Chosen, the Adept Oran di Caraat. The two were why the exiles were again without a home. Oran had wanted Aryl’s ability to access the other place, to move through its darkness at will. A new Talent, barely under her control, not ready to be shared. A Talent fraught with danger to the user, let alone all Om’ray.

For Cersi, this world, was held in peace by the Agreement. What was, should remain. Change, significant and sudden, in Tikitik, Oud, or Om’ray, would break that Agreement. The consequence? Aryl was quite sure Oran di Caraat didn’t worry about that, safe in her stony village.

She did. So did those with her.

“I could find out.”

A sharp look. Enris knew what she meant. Aryl had the Talent to reach and learn identity. It took Power. “Too risky.” He scuffed the toe of his boot, raising a puff of dust. “See?”

She dutifully stared down at the road. “See what?”

Haxel Vendan glanced over her shoulder. “Oud. Their machines crush the small stones to powder.”

“Exactly,” Enris said with a nod to the First Scout. “This is their road, not Om’ray. No recent tread marks, maybe, but—” he shrugged, the motion letting him adjust the pack on his shoulders. “It’s not worth the risk. Trust me. Unless necessary, don’t use Power where they might be close.”

By close, he meant under their feet. Oud tunneled. Aryl wasn’t sure what a tunnel would be like; she was sure she didn’t want to find out. Nor was she anxious to find out for herself what he meant by “risk,” though others among the exiles had also heard of this peculiarity of Oud, that a few had minds that interfered—painfully—with an Om’ray’s natural ability if used.

Having joined their conversation, Haxel paused to let them catch up. They moved through this unfamiliar territory with their strongest members to the fore and rear. The First Scout and Syb sud Uruus led the way, with Aryl and Enris next. Rorn sud Vendan, Haxel’s Chosen, came last with the Kessa’ats, Veca and Tilip, as well as Ael sud Sarc. The four eldest, the children, and pregnant Juo Vendan stayed in the midst with the others.

Their only Looker, Weth Teerac, had left a tenth earlier, at firstlight. What her Talent could find out of place in a land none of them had seen before, no one knew. But it was a precaution, of sorts, against being surprised.

“Good advice,” the First Scout asserted. “Besides, the Grona walk like him. We’d hear those big feet long before being in sight.”

Enris chuckled, not denying it. Even in the same kind of boots, Yena were a great deal quieter.

“Besides,” continued the scout, her wicked grin twisting the scar that ran from cheek to eyebrow, “who’d follow us? One of their unChosen lusting for our Seru? Hah! Bunch of diggers. Not one looked worth feeding. She’s a Parth. She can wait for better.” This with a meaningful glance at Enris, who smiled. Haxel laughed, then lengthened her stride to rejoin Syb at the front.

The Tuana raised one eyebrow. “Should I be flattered or insulted?”

Aryl ignored him. The other problem with this too-flat road was time to think—too much of it. “Oran could have told all of Grona by now.”

“She could,” Enris agreed. “But she won’t. I know her kind. They don’t share secrets—not when there’s some advantage. Relax, Aryl.”

She tightened her shields, her cheeks growing warm despite the chill breeze that fingered its way past her hood. Enris didn’t mean her. It didn’t change anything. She hadn’t shared her secret, hadn’t explained to the others why she’d fled Grona with only the clothes she wore, without a word to anyone.

She must. She would. When the time was right. Each ’night, they crowded together, exhausted and worn, staring at a fire smaller than two fists. Yena nerves twitched to the darkness; children whimpered. She couldn’t bring herself to add to their burden.

Only Enris knew the whole truth. He’d left it for her to decide when and what to share. He’d told her people Bern and Oran had made it impossible for her to stay in Grona. The other exiles had followed without hesitation. She owed him for that. She owed them all.

She would find them shelter and food, make them safe.

Then find a way to tell them all this was her fault.

Aryl removed her boots and turned them upside down. Water gushed out, then settled into a steady drip. The stone underfoot was warm, for once; the sun high overhead. No biters or flitters. They were, as far as she could tell, the only living things in this desolate place. Unless she counted the occasional wispy clump of dried vegetation, none of it more than ankle-high.

She wasn’t the only one dealing with the aftermath of their latest crossing. The mountain river had been shallow, but so white with froth there’d been no telling where best to step. Or not step. Enris, who professed to love the noisy, annoying streams, had managed to soak his feet this time as well. Aryl lowered her head to grin.

Some of the exiles took advantage of the respite to lay wet clothing out to dry. They’d learned the hard way how quickly it chilled the skin beneath. On that thought, Aryl untied her leg wraps and squeezed them to merely damp, then spread the gauze strips over a dark flat rock. Bare, her shins and ankles showed the cost of a moment’s carelessness: the pink of new scars showed where her flesh had fed the swarm. No swarm here.

She grabbed a pair of small stones, then stared at them, her skin crawling.

There were other threats.

Feeling the fool, Aryl flattened her palms to give each stone a chance to move, if it was so inclined.

Being ordinary matter, they did nothing of the kind.

She used them to weigh down her wraps, in case the breeze kicked up. Better safe than supper, she consoled herself. She’d shared her memories of the rock hunters with Haxel and the others. The Grona spoke of them, too, but claimed the bizarre creatures stayed to uncivilized slopes, where they could hide among the real thing. Camouflage was their only weapon; they moved too slowly to catch living prey. So Grona believed.

Grona believed truenight was safe, too.

Aryl decided she wasn’t wrong to be wary of loose rock.

After consideration, she kept on her longest coat. The hem might drip, but the sun wasn’t that warm.

Beside her, Chaun sud Teerac slowly straightened to look into the distance, a smile lighting his face. She followed his gaze and saw a figure appear at the rise of the next hill. It would be Weth, his Chosen.

Who was walking toward them. Quickly.

All the exiles rose to their feet, clothing forgotten. “What’s brought her back?” Haxel said for all, and strode off to meet their guide, collecting Ael and Syb—and their longknives—with a look.

“She’s found it, hasn’t she?” Seru came to stand close to Aryl, arms wrapped around her middle. Her hood was down and hair escaped its net, black strands playing against her too-pale cheeks, catching on the cracks of her lips. They all suffered in the dry cold air, soaked feet and legs notwithstanding. “I knew it would be soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Remembering how her cousin had wept in her sleep, Aryl gentled her tone. “Found what?”

Seru’s green eyes were huge and unfocused. “Where they died.”

Who? For an instant, Aryl couldn’t answer, her mind racing through possibilities. There had been Yena unChosen sent on Passage. A couple had taken this route. She didn’t know if they’d survived it.

Or had Seru talked to Grona Om’ray, heard of a misadventure of that Clan? Or…“Who?” she asked, staring at her cousin. “Who died?”

“Sona.” Quick and certain. Seru hesitated then, licked her lower lip before taking it between her teeth. “It’s a name,” she said at last, looking directly at Aryl. “Of something. I don’t know what. I don’t know how I know, Aryl. I don’t!”

“Sona” meant nothing to Aryl. What did was the stricken look on her cousin’s face. “It’s all right, Seru,” she soothed, mystified. “You’ve been having bad dreams. That’s probably what it was. A dream.”

“No.” Seru’s chin trembled. “We’re getting closer with every step, Aryl. Closer to where they died! All of them died!! It’s dangerous here! We have to turn around. You have to believe me!”

They had an audience; there was no avoiding it. The other exiles granted them a semblance of privacy by a sudden interest in drying boots and clothes. Enris, who sat near enough to hear every word, gave Seru a pitying look before turning away.

She noticed. Her small frame straightened within its burden of heavy Grona clothing, and she blinked as if to fight back tears. Stung, Aryl touched her cousin’s hand. He doesn’t know you as I do, she sent, tight and private. And it was true. Power and Talent weren’t the only strengths an Om’ray could possess.

I don’t know how I know. Repeated mind-to-mind, the words came laced with dread. I feel—I feel them die, Aryl. I hear your voice and their screams at the same time. I— Seru rubbed her arms vigorously. “I hurt with their pain.”

Aryl’s fingers left her cousin’s hand, curled to meet her palm. The exotic Power of a Chooser, Seru’s longing, her need. Easy to sense that, too. The disinterest of the only candidate for her Choice had to be a torment. The instinct consumed Seru from within, fought her valiant effort to restrain her Call and save her strength for the march.

For how long? A Chooser could wait, sometimes must wait, but there was always Choice. Wasn’t there? She remembered a story, one of the glowlight scares for those too young to understand its true horror, about a Yena Chooser denied Choice. Her drive faded, then left. Her immature body remained as it was, infertile and barren, her mind partnerless and alone. One day she’d walked into a stitler’s trap, and no one believed she’d been careless.

Not Seru, Aryl vowed to herself. She would have a future. Parth would have a future.

All of Yena’s families would survive.

“I’ll see what Weth found,” she promised aloud, her voice steadier than she’d expected. She eyed her still-damp wraps with distaste and left them, grabbed her wet boots, and forced them on with a grimace. “Go tell Myris what you’ve told me.” When there was no reply, she glanced up, not surprised to see her cousin’s face had clouded. Aryl knew that stubborn look. “Please,” she said softly, tying her laces.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Each word flat and hard.

“I didn’t say there was. Myris isn’t a Healer.” But they both knew their aunt could ease the emotions of close kin. Worth a try, as far as Aryl was concerned. Maybe Myris could calm Seru, stop her dreams from affecting her while awake. At least keep her quiet. They had no Adepts of their own; no one who could repair a mind or protect the rest of them from its failure. “She’s wise, that’s all,” Aryl said with care. “She might help you understand—”

“Understand what?” Seru scowled. “I’m not imagining this, Aryl. You think because my Power’s less than yours, I don’t know how to use it. I do. I have to. I’ve always had to. That’s why I know this is real. Sona died.” Her cousin stopped, her head rising to stare up the rise where Weth was now talking to Haxel. “Om’ray died. That’s what you’ll see.”

Enris squatted at the near edge. Aryl noticed his hand hovered over the disturbed ground but didn’t touch it. “Oud,” he said at last, then turned his head to spit eloquently.

In disbelief, she stared at what should have been the road across the next valley floor. Should have been. From their feet—at the base of the hill Weth had climbed to meet them—to where it curved to disappear past the next abrupt rise of rock, the ground was no longer flat. Instead, its surface heaved and sank as if stone had momentarily become water, leaving ripples that grew in size toward the middle of the valley. The largest were, she estimated, more than two Om’ray high. Difficult obstacles, Yena or not. Worse, the footing between looked soft and treacherous. The disturbance stretched to either side, filling the valley.

They couldn’t go this way.

“How?” Haxel asked, also staring ahead. “How did they do it?”

Enris rose to his feet. “Does it matter?” He brushed dust from his legs. “The reshaping was long ago. See the plants? The weathering on exposed rock? They’re done. For now.”

He spoke casually, but Aryl caught something restrained in his manner, a new tension. She was tempted to lower her shields and reach to him, but didn’t. Even if manners seemed less important in this wild place, Haxel would likely notice.

“We can go around it,” Weth offered. Leri’s cousin, of the same height and slender frame but, unlike other Teeracs, her eyebrows and hair almost white against her tan skin. As with other Lookers Aryl knew, she was visibly restless, her eyes flicking from side to side as often as they fixed on someone else, her body tense, its weight shifting from one foot to the other. Possessed of an uncomfortable Talent, a Looker was alarmed by physical change in a remembered place. A band of tightly woven cloth hung from her neck, a blindfold Weth would use if confronted by too much change, too quickly. Her visual memory was so precise, she could close her eyes to retrace her own steps, and often did, as if memory was more trustworthy.

Aryl shaded her eyes with one hand, studying their options. Haxel, Syb, and Ael did the same. Enris didn’t appear interested. He tossed a handful of dirt into the wind, then stared into the distance toward their goal, making a soft, irritating whistle between his teeth.

She ignored him. Weth was right. They could move along the slope of the ridge. Though wide, the disturbance created by the Oud didn’t appear to extend all the way up the valley. Disturbing, to think the creatures might have focused their destruction on the road itself, as if to cut off movement in this direction. Why? Aryl couldn’t forget Seru’s feeling about this place. Had someone—or several someones—died when the Oud struck?

If so, how had her cousin known?

As for the other choice? This valley, like the others they’d passed, opened its mouth to the Lay Swamp. Cutting close to that dangerous shoreline would expose them to any Tikitik riding in the shallows. Worse, they’d have to be away from it before truenight, or face what might come out to hunt.

Aryl squinted up the valley again. Rock, rock, and more rock. Difficult and exhausting to climb. There was no way to know how much the detour would delay their crossing.

Or, she shuddered inwardly, if there were hunters hiding amid the rubble.

Ael spoke up. “Syb and I can take one route each. Report back—”

“We stay together,” Aryl countered without thinking, then gestured a hasty apology to Haxel. The First Scout led in this wilderness; she hadn’t meant to usurp her authority.

She didn’t want any.

Haxel merely raised an eyebrow, stretching her scar. “We’ve another problem, don’t we, Tuana?”

The whistle ended. Enris tipped his head at the mountain ridge ahead of them, its top edge cloaked, as always, in heavy cloud. “Only if we’re caught in the open.”

“There’s nothing but open,” Haxel pointed out. “Such clouds on a changing wind mean an early winter storm,” she clarified for the rest of them. “A hazard Grona’s excuse for a First Scout did know. Enris is right. We’ll need shelter before it hits. That’s the priority.”

“Winter? Will the water turn hard, like wood? The Grona said that’s what happens.” Syb was clearly entranced by the possibility. Aryl shivered. Water should behave like water, in her opinion.

“Not these streams.” Enris sounded sure. “But there’ll be a nasty bite to that wind soon. It’s going to get cold.”

Get cold? Aryl’s legs were almost numb below the hem of her coat. “We could make a shelter,” she suggested. “Pile rocks into walls, like the Grona do. Use blankets to fill any gaps, shield a fire—” If they could find anything to burn, she reminded herself. Everyone collected what dry vegetation they found as they walked. Twisted into compact knots, each day’s gleaning barely let them heat water and light the way to their blankets. That trick…how to dig holes for their waste—there being no convenient swamp below…sharing their body warmth? All from Enris. She didn’t doubt him. None of them did.

“Good idea—if we had bigger rocks or a cave.” Haxel gazed up the valley for a long moment, her face expressionless, then looked over her shoulder at them. “That way.”

“Up there? What we’ll find are rocks to eat us in our sleep.” Nothing could be trusted, Aryl thought. Not the ground. Not even the sky.

Haxel’s scar twisted with her fierce grin. “One threat at a time. We’ll go ahead. Find and prepare a shelter. You and Enris get them moving and follow as quickly as you can.”

Decision made, the First Scout broke into an easy run, Weth, Syb, and Ael keeping pace. The wraps on their long legs flashed white as they ran parallel to the ridge, then, without slowing, up its slope to avoid the disturbed ground of the valley floor.

Aryl blew out a breath. “She didn’t listen.”

“She did,” the Tuana said with a hint of his deep laugh. “Ravenous rocks or not, we don’t have a choice.” He put one big hand on her shoulder and turned her to face the ridge and its shroud of dirty white. “See what looks like mist dropping below the clouds? That’s snow, Aryl.”

Young Grona had excited Ziba beyond measure with their tales of playing in the fluffy stuff. “I’ve heard of it,” said Aryl impatiently. “Frozen water. So what?” Hadn’t she witnessed Enris’ dismay at a little rain in the canopy? Om’ray like Tuana and Grona probably ducked inside their homes if the weather was anything but perfect. He’d learn. “We’ll manage.”

“Snow can be deadly.” No laughter in his face now. “It can fill the air so we won’t be able to see each other, let alone where we’re going. Or,” Enris hesitated, then went on, his voice grim, “it could be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Winter storms from the mountains sometimes reach the edges of Tuana. What falls from them this early isn’t snow. It’s rain, a hard rain that coats whatever it touches in ice. Imagine being cold, blind, and unable to take a step without falling—”

“Yena,” Aryl said stiffly, “don’t fall.”

“Yena haven’t met winter.” His grip became a push. “Let’s get the others.”

The click and rattle of disturbed pebbles. A deep breath of effort. The creak of a rope strap over a shoulder. Otherwise, the exiles were silent as they made their way along the lower slope of the ridge. Though Aryl kept close to her cousin when they’d first come over the rise, Seru had said nothing more, her face set and grim. Even Ziba remained hushed, making Aryl realize how much cheer her lively babble had added to their journey. She didn’t blame the others, feeling the same. It was hard to find words, faced with the evidence of a force that could stir rock the way an Om’ray might a bowl of dresel.

The storm that so alarmed Enris and Haxel kept its distance. Or, she thought anxiously, her gaze slipping up the mountain to the torn edge of cloud, distance lied. The blue of the sky had turned pale and the sun’s power to warm was gone.

The exiles moved silently, but quickly. The more rugged terrain suited the Yena as the flat road hadn’t. They leaped over small gulleys and cracks instead of wading through the inevitable small stream, and ran up or down any vertical rise worth the effort, rarely touching the gray-and-russet rock with their hands.

Enris let them, choosing his path by flatlander criteria. Though he made what speed he could, he soon fell behind. He’d wave nonchalantly whenever she stopped to look back. At times, he was out of sight.

Aryl didn’t like it.

When she next looked for the Tuana, Cetto sud Teerac paused with her on the ledge. “We should have split his load,” the former Yena Councillor commented in his bone-deep voice. “That pack would do three.”

“It’s not the weight.” Aryl tapped her toe on the rock. “It’s the height. He doesn’t like it.”

“Ah.” Cetto hopped down, nimble as Ziba despite being the oldest of them. “Not much we can do about that, is there?”

She could wish Enris less stubborn, Aryl thought, but to herself.

Something cold touched her cheek. She brought up her hand in surprise, bringing away a drop of water. A fleck of white, like the fluff around some seeds, landed on her open palm. It collapsed on itself, becoming another drop. When she looked out over the valley, she discovered that view now obscured by an oddly bright mist. Snow?

The others had come to a halt where they were, hands outstretched to intercept their own snowdrops. It wasn’t easy. Wind followed the snow, tossing it up, spinning it around.

Much more, she realized, and Enris would be right. It was already confusing to look through the falling stuff over any distance. If it became thicker and continued to swirl in their faces, they’d be in trouble. At that worry, Aryl sent to the rest. Stay close together, she sent, pouring strength into the warning. If it gets worse, move slowly and with care.

Along with the sense of disquiet and firm agreement from all around, a wry amusement touched her mind. Like me?

Busy licking a snowdrop from her lips, Aryl didn’t answer.

Slow and careful didn’t send the exiles to Enris’ flatter ground. Instead of moving independently, they tightened their group so that a couple chose the safest path for all, the Yena way when traversing a dangerous section of canopy. Parents kept their children close; foot-and handholds, however secure in appearance, tested before trusted. The damp left by melting snow might be no worse than during a light rain, but rock was still new to Yena.

New and cold. Aryl’s fingers grew numb, less sensitive to texture. She could see her breath now if she puffed, a phenomenon they’d experienced thus far in the early morning, not midday. She guessed at the time; the sky was heavy with cloud as well as snow, imparting a gloom close to firstnight on the landscape.

Enris. She couldn’t see him anymore.

Here. Strong and sure, as always. Few Yena could match his ability to send mind-to-mind over distance. Unless Chosen, most required touch to keep that sending private. Watch your step.

He was right. This wasn’t a good place to be. She lowered her shields enough to reach, finding where the others were in line. Gijs sud Vendan had taken the lead now, doubtless concerned for his pregnant Chosen, though Juo was the better climber of the two. Gijs was paired with Veca Kessa’at, who was their best.

Other than Aryl herself. She came last, ready to help anyone ahead if they faltered. Or anyone behind. No doubting Enris’ strength and will, but he had no better view of his footing than she did—and would have more trouble climbing out of a gully should he fall.

This part of the ridge was gouged away, its surface scarred by deep ravines, themselves cut by cracks. Loose material collected there, making them treacherous places to step. She noticed any snow that fell within these cavities or in deep shadow didn’t melt, accumulating in deceptively soft piles, cold and dangerous.

To her inner sense, Haxel and her companions were there, farther up the valley and lower down: four warm, distant glows. Too distant. At least one would be coming back to meet them if they’d found or made shelter by now. Aryl began looking for a cave or overhang, something to house them all. She soon gave up.

There was no safety or protection here. They had to keep going.

Suddenly, a scream rent the air, felt as much as heard. Aryl recognized the source and threw herself forward.

“Seru!”