Riders of the Storm (27 page)

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that…she refused to imagine.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would that she could.

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

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

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

Tonight, Aryl vowed, there would be answers.

After she checked Sona for the Oud.

She activated the device.

Nothing…

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

The Human said the oddest things.

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

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

Nothing…

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

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

Part of her Talent, she supposed.

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

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

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

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

Nothing…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Enris.

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

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

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

“Not if this is about—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heart-kin…please…

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

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

“And to keep you apart,” she hazarded.

“Yes. But Oran persuaded Hoyon to stay.”

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

Bern's handsome face turned sullen.

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

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

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

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

“What mistake? You need a Healer.”

“Not anymore.”

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

Aryl was speechless.

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