Reap the Wild Wind (5 page)

Interlude

E
NRIS BRUSHED HIS FINGERS along the row of slender punches until he found the finest tip. The wristband was waiting in the grip, its pale green surface polished until the intricate designs might have been water as it curled over stone. Not that he’d seen such a thing for himself. The memory of stream and stones had come with his grandfather, who’d taken Passage from Grona Clan, and Enris liked it.
It was the inside of the wide band that concerned him now. Taking his favorite hammer, the one with leather wrappings worn to the shape of his palm, he sat at his bench and carefully punched tiny indentations into the smooth metal. First, an outer square, no larger than his smallest fingernail, open at one corner. He thickened its lines slightly before moving inside to shadow it with a thinner one. After a moment to stretch and rest his eyes, he returned to work, painstakingly hammering a pattern within the squares. Random dots, to those who never went outside in the dark, or looked up; precisely placed, to someone who did.
These were the first stars he’d ever seen for himself. Two were bright— and hammered deeper— three the same in a line below, then another below these and to one side, faint and blue, invisible if either moon shone. He marked this last with the lightest possible dimpling, unconsciously holding his tongue between his teeth until done.
Enris ran his forefinger lightly over what was a familiar face. Through the seasons, he’d watched them slip around the night sky as if on Passage themselves. Unlike the Om’ray, the stars stayed with their Clan as they traveled; unlike the Om’ray, they always found their way home again.
At the thought, he sent a possessive look around the shop, its benches and furnace generations old. This was his place, all he wanted in the world. Not even for Choice would he leave it.
The metal band grew warm, reclaiming his attention. Enris let a strand of his Power touch it, explore it, know its elegant shape. He would remember this piece. His smile widened. As it would remember him. Hammering his signature was duty to his family and expected, but to him, unnecessary. Everything he made and touched with Power
sang
his name back to him. Not a Talent of use, since he’d yet to find another able to feel it, but it pleased him.
A quick buff with a polishing leather, and the wristband was ready for its owner. Enris wrapped it carefully and locked it in the concealed drawer beneath his father’s bench. The Oud expected their scraps to be turned into useful things— blades and hooks and fasteners— not adornments for the Om’ray. This close to Visitation, it was prudent to tuck such gauds out of sight.
His lips twisted in a grimace. If only he could tuck Naryn and her followers in a drawer. That would solve a few problems. But the unChosen were rarely asked their opinion. He shrugged on his longcoat before making his rounds. The furnace was already set for the night, its bellows now blowing heat away from the melting vat and throughout the village, carried by pipes embedded within building floors. The air outside Tuana’s homes chilled rapidly after sunset. During the day, the furnace vented to the sky and they worked shirtless.
Sunset also brought
lopers.
The sly little thieves loved anything with a sparkle, and would carry off whatever fit their paws. For something brainless, they were disconcertingly good with fasteners. He’d had to design locks for the ceiling vents and windows. He tested these now, one after another, ignoring his stomach. Supper could wait; their livelihood lay within these walls and he didn’t take chances.
On that thought, Enris took a moment to check the interior of the shop. The Oud rarely entered buildings; that didn’t mean one wouldn’t this time. The door would do— it passed the wide cart well enough— but the well-swept shop floor was split into two narrow aisles by this summer’s new bench, a wonderfully solid structure positioned beneath the main sky vent to catch the natural light. His idea.
Against the far wall with it, then. He gave the massive wooden structure a tentative push. It didn’t budge. Taking off his coat, Enris flexed his arms, planted his hands on the bench, and leaned into it with a grunt.
It still didn’t budge.
He frowned.
Need he care? If an Oud wanted in tomorrow, the bench would move out of its way, all right. In pieces.
“Not good,” he muttered. Intact, this bench matched all the others. Broken, the pieces would reveal its wood had been used before. Solid beams like this were reserved for tunnels, Oud tunnels. Granted, these came from an abandoned spur and the Om’ray had permission to use what they could take, but all such within Tuana territory had been picked clean before he’d been born. Wood was something precious in his generation, traded for other goods, reused, or hoarded by Council decree.
With Enris coming of age, the shop’s workspace had been increasingly cramped, his father doing his best to share with his son. That son? Enris wasn’t sure if he’d lost patience, common sense, or both— but he’d wanted his own bench.
To get it, he’d traded with runners.
The tunnels beneath the Om’ray stayed as they were. That was the Oud’s side of the Agreement; theirs was to stay where they were. Go outside Tuana territory and Oud tunnels were no longer reliable. For no reason shared with Om’ray, a tunnel would lose its light and heat, remaining empty and unused, a temptation of wood and metal and other supplies. A day might pass. Or a full set of seasons. But the moment would come when, without warning, the Oud would remember this tunnel and violently reshape it, collapsing ceiling and walls, smashing the floor. A tunnel could fill in seconds, obliterating everything within, or restored lighting could reveal new openings, a different direction or slope. There was no knowing.
Except that an unlit tunnel was a trap.
Runners dared go beyond where Om’ray were tolerated. Never to trespass on the Oud— no one was that stupid— but where no others would go. Everyone knew it. They gambled they could glean from such tunnels before their reshaping. Questions weren’t asked, by Council or those seeking what they had to offer. Runners weren’t of one family, or one Talent, though those with the ability to sense imminent change were persistently if quietly courted. They were risk takers, not fools.
Enris laid his hand on the innocent, so-useful bench. The Oud didn’t care if Om’ray took wood. They didn’t care if they died trying. What provoked them was an Om’ray stepping beyond agreed boundaries. This much new runner wood in one place would be proof.
There was nothing else to do. He lowered his barriers to let his inner sense explore the village, finding the warm lights of his Clan. Without making contact, he couldn’t tell who was family, friend, or acquaintance, but he cared more for privacy. No one was near or approaching.
Good enough. He pulled back into himself, raised his shields, then concentrated.
The tools on the bench began to vibrate.
Blinking away sweat, Enris
pushed
harder. The bench shuddered, then
moved
. The legs left gouges in the floor, but when he was done, the bench, with its incriminating wood, was safely out of the way against the far wall.
He retrieved a jar of polish that had rolled off and replaced it, then scattered sand over the gouges, grinding it in with his boot until the marks were no longer obvious. Satisfied, Enris picked up his longcoat and turned off the lights.

Chapter 5

“T
AISAL?” THE DOOR PANEL SHIFTED, as if whoever had come three times already in search of the Adept had lost patience. Shifted, but didn’t turn open. There were firm understandings among Om’ray. Without permission, you didn’t touch a person. You didn’t open a door.
You didn’t enter a mind
, Aryl thought numbly.
Unless you must.
The words slipped among hers, layered with emotion. Remorse was there, and pity, but over and through all pulsed determination.
Do not regret this sharing, Daughter. You’ll need every protection I can give you.
Was the fear drying her mouth hers, her mother’s, or something they now shared? Aryl didn’t look to where Taisal continued to pace, back and forth. She laid her hands on the cool table and moved them in small, light circles. She could feel the wood grain through generations of polish. Tikitik didn’t work thus in wood; they wouldn’t take carvings in trade. No one knew why. “Syb’s at the door,” she said out loud.
Power surged and Aryl pulled her head between her shoulders in reflex. Not directed at her, she realized. “He’ll wait,” her mother stated with confidence. “But we don’t have much time.”
You’ve touched the Dark that waits inside us all, Daughter. Seen it. Used your Power within it. Few can.
So it was real. Aryl pressed her palms flat, the old table’s tangible strength a comfort.
Where is it? That other place.
Puzzlement.
Place? Why do you think it’s a place?
Because she’d sent Bern through
somewhere
, Aryl almost replied, but quickly buried the thought. Her mother was the Adept.
I don’t know what it is
, she sent instead.
Taisal’s hands swept up as if gathering air.
To touch that which binds us all mind-to-mind is like walking through the rooms of our home. Safe. Understood. To touch the Dark . . . that is to step outside in truenight, without glow or guide. Yes, it holds Power, or is Power manifest. But it holds danger above all. Know this, Daughter. I was caught there once. Part of me remains— lost there with him—
The memory of her father was a maelstrom of grief, longing, and emptiness. Aryl gasped, trying to keep them away. Instantly, the emotions vanished behind Taisal’s restored shields.
If that was how it felt to outlive your Chosen, Aryl told herself, it was another reason to die first.
She hadn’t hidden the thought.
So your Chosen suffers instead?
her mother’s tone was scathing.
He’ll want to die, too!
Aryl sent wildly.
What’s the point of surviving alone?
Answer me when you have children,
came the searing reply.
Quickly now. What matters is you are in danger, Aryl. Avoid the Dark. It will call you, tempt you to explore it. The Adepts know the risks, you do not. The Dark is an abyss that will consume your mind if you allow it. Promise me!
Aryl shuddered.
Never. I’ll never touch it again.
Be sure, Daughter. I’m not the only Adept Council has watching. The others will know if you do. For now, they’ll believe it was Bern Teerac— the Dark left its touch on him. I felt it.
It wasn’t Bern’s fault! We can’t let them believe that!
Aryl protested.
I won’t.
Taisal stopped near a gauze panel; its soft curtain lifted in a breeze, whispered against her robe. After a long moment, she nodded.
Best to keep attention on the cause, not the result.
She drew the image of the airborne device to fill both their minds.
It wasn’t Oud. That we know.
For the first time, Aryl was glad her memories of that day rested behind her mother’s eyes, too. She relaxed slightly.
What can I do?
Be unnoticed.
Taisal lifted the curtain and gazed outside, speaking aloud as if this she wanted heard. “Council sent lookers to collect salvageable pods as well as any remains of the device. With luck, they’ll bring something worth showing our neighbors.”
It was an uncommon, but highly valued Talent: the ability to precisely sense what was new or didn’t belong in a place. Lookers were always scouts, marking fresh
stitler
traps— not all biters were small— and other hazards. Aryl might sense when something around her was about to change, but such inner warnings were too personal and vague to be useful. Adepts warned against trusting them.
Hadn’t she believed she’d sensed the M’hir coming? Instead, it had been disaster.
“If they don’t?” she asked with an effort, pulling out of memory.
“You have skill with ink. Can you draw me the shape of it, any details you recall?” Under the words, caution.
We don’t dare send this memory mind-to-mind. They’ll know what you did.
Aryl stared at her mother.
What did I do?
“I’ll get a pane for you.” This time, beneath the words, a thrill of fear.
What no one ever has. I’ll search the records. Make discreet inquiries. But it doesn’t matter if this is a new Talent or a rediscovered one, Aryl. This is no little
push
, easily hidden. Worse, it involves the abyss we rightly fear. What you did threatens all Om’ray, let alone the Agreement. The Tikitik must never know. Do you understand?
Aryl swallowed bile and managed a half nod. She’d never do it again. Didn’t that count? Shouldn’t it be enough? Questions she didn’t dare ask as her mother went to the door.
“Now hurry and do as I’ve asked. Truenight will be on us soon.”

* * *

Aryl waved her hands over the finished pane, wishing there was a Talent that dried ink. It would probably be Forbidden, she thought morosely. She ignored the shift in her sense of place as more and more adult Om’ray descended from Yena. They made their preparations for the pending Visitation. This was hers.
Not bad, she thought, passing a critical eye over her work. The process of putting splinter to fabric had brought details from her memory she didn’t recall seeing, yet trusted. She added a symbol at the top, a tiny curve and dot she imagined as her name, as if names— the essence of an Om’ray— could be captured in mere ink.
The drawing didn’t portray anything dangerous, unless the series of disks on the underside could be dropped on someone’s head. Aryl studied it more closely.
How did it fly?
There were no engines spouting flame, such as she’d heard lifted the Oud’s machines. And no wings.
She waved the pane again, feeling the draft it sent through the air, like a wingbeat.
Wings were necessary, weren’t they?
Not the way she’d sent Bern to the bridge . . .
Aryl gagged and almost dropped the pane. Her mother’s warnings, her fear, didn’t matter. What she’d done— it had made her forget her brother, made her pick one to live over others. Remembering how it had felt to do what she’d done made her sick inside. It brought the churning wildness of the
Dark
up behind her eyes until she had only to close them to be lost in it. Her mother was right. It was dangerous.
“Wings,” she told herself, keeping her eyes open. “I need wings.”
To go where?
Her hands wanted to tremble as they cleaned the splinter she’d used, then resealed the ink pot. It was a simple question. Reasonable. Why did it feel . . .
About to put the pot in its cupboard, she hesitated.
... perilous. That’s how it felt. Not one of her inner warnings this time, but as if she stood too near the side of a bridge and stared down at the Lay, about to lose her balance.
Her mother had brought five panes, each white woven panel framed in strips of pod wood. She’d only needed one. Now, feeling foolish but determined, Aryl picked two from the stack and held them out at arm’s length. Slowly, she moved them up and down, imitating a flitter.
She didn’t rise from the floor, but the growing draft caught her finished pane and sent it skittering along the tabletop.
Aryl pumped her arms faster, putting real muscle into it. Glow strands swung back and forth, spilling shadows over the floor.
The curtains along the far wall lifted from their bottoms, curving inward toward her until the nearest billowed and snapped like a dresel wing. Aryl stared at it, her arms stopped at shoulder height. The fabric settled. All was normal again.
Her shoulders complained, but Aryl paid no attention. She didn’t need force, she realized in awe. She had that, so long as the M’hir blew. “All I need are wings,” she breathed.
To go where? whispered something at the back of her mind.
She paid no attention to that either.