Riders of the Storm (39 page)

Better. He believed what he touched; his movements didn't need grace, only patience.

Enris measured the bridge by the growing soreness of his knees and palms, unused to supporting his bulk. He vowed to eat less, although with a certain self-pity, since he didn't see how that was possible. His last meal of denos seemed a feast in memory. He had nothing in his pockets or pouch but his Oud firebox. And the knife in his belt.

The Vyna weren't used to having captives, he mused as he crawled forward. Just as well. None he'd seen, all modesty aside, would be a match for his big hands and strength. He didn't want to hurt them.

Warn other Clans, yes. He'd find a way. There was no welcome for those on Passage here, despite Vyna's abundance of Choosers. No one else should come here.

Enris paused, shaking his head like a beast. Droplets flew from his hair. Something wasn't right.

He wanted to laugh. Crawling along a thin bridge of stone through impenetrable mist to an end he couldn't be sure existed? What could be right about that?

No, he told himself, rocking back to sit still and listen. It was something else.

Something
within.

A Call.

As he braced himself to resist, he heard a sound. A little splash, only that. Then another, and another.

Denos.

The Call wasn't from a Chooser—it was the summoning the Vyna used to bring up the rumn!

Enris drew and held his knife, eyes blind in the mist, and began to crawl again, as quickly as he could with only one hand free. As quietly, too. He tried not to breathe.

The Vyna approached the bridge. They made no sound either. Denos began to land on the bridge, silver bodies wriggling and slapping in their struggle to return to water. One thudded into Enris, and he grunted with surprise. More landed in his path, and he swept them aside rather than risk putting a knee on their slippery sides.

The rumn.

It was coming. The denos knew. His inner sense knew.

Enris moved faster. Once beyond the splash and smack of denos, he put away the useless knife and pressed himself flat against the bridge, breathing into a sleeve, wishing his heart to slow. He'd wait it out. Surely a deepwater dweller couldn't stay near the surface for long. It couldn't find him if he was quiet.

A shape loomed from the mist and collided with the bridge beside Enris.
Bang!
One of the Vyna floats—empty. It rocked back with the force of impact, out of sight.

From the other side—a second empty float hurtled toward him.
Bang!

Simple, Enris thought with disgust. He couldn't see them in time to fend them off with his own Power. And they made enough noise to summon the entire lakeful of rumn.

Time to go.

He crawled as quickly as possible, no longer worried about noise. It followed him, the Vyna precise in their aim. Presumably they'd run out of empty floats soon.

Another shape loomed beside him. Enris braced himself for the sound, but there was none. The shape didn't collide with the bridge—it
turned
and began to slide alongside. A glistening darkness, the curved sweep of a back.

Not entirely dark. There were faint whorls and patterns of light embedded in it, as if the stars had become stuck in the rumn's skin. If it was skin and not a hole in the world…

Perverse. Wrong. Like everything here. Enris spat and kept moving. The bridge couldn't go on forever. Once on land, he'd take his chances against anything alive.

The rock bridge shuddered under his hands.

And again.

The rumn was alive, wasn't it? Despite its terrifying extension into the M'hir…its feel in his mind…it had to be a living thing…

He wasn't sure why that was vital, but it was.

Crunch!

From ahead. He knew that sound—a careless foot on loose stone—and launched himself to his feet, desperately running toward it.

His foot lost the bridge, struck what was firm enough to support it, something that
rose
.

Enris didn't look down, didn't dare. He pushed off with all his strength, regained the bridge, ran through the mist…

…and into another Om'ray, who fell back with a startled “Ooof!” The Tuana kept running, now on pebbles. A soundless
wail
burned through his mind, hungry and enraged. Then a scream from behind, cut short…

The mist fell back. He found himself on a ramp, treacherous with loose stones. Ahead, the tunnel mouth he'd seen from the island.

And what he hadn't seen.

Its massive, closed door.

Something
moved
behind him. Something
hungry.

Enris lifted his hands, concentrated, and
pushed.

With a shriek of stretched, abused metal, the door gave way.

He ran through the opening and never looked back.

A
RYL WASN'T SURPRISED TO FIND Haxel, who would miss nothing that moved near Sona from her perch, waiting by the empty river. “Here,” the First Scout greeted her, holding out a flask.

She gestured gratitude but took only a swallow to clear her throat. Best be blunt. “It's not good news, Haxel. We have a problem.”

The scar twisted—not quite a smile. “I guessed as much from your rush to get here. Rorn's cooking's not that great. The Oud?”

“And Tikitik.” Aryl dropped down beside the other, twisting on the rock so she could see both tunnel mouth and village. “They confronted the Oud, claimed to be first here, demanded the Oud leave Sona. The Oud killed them.”

Haxel stilled.

“Thought Traveler arrived. It didn't seem to care about the deaths or the Oud, only about what it called the balance. The Oud said they would maintain it.” She remembered something else. “And that more Om'ray were coming here.”

“That we know.” Haxel's head dipped toward the Lay Swamp. “Quickly, too. Rorn's put on extra. Mind telling me how many to expect?”

Startled, Aryl
reached
immediately, finding a tight cluster where no Om'ray belonged. “Fifteen.” She'd been too focused on herself, on Sona…As for their speed…“They can't be on foot,” she blurted the obvious.

The First Scout gestured agreement. “And too low to be flying in one of your friend's machines. I'm guessing Oud vehicles—at Grona, I saw one move faster on a road than I could run.” Had she raced with the Oud, just to find out? “Fifteen. Did the Oud say why they were bringing us guests?”

“Only that it had to do with the Agreement and balance.” Aryl shivered. “They almost killed me as well. I'm never sure I understand them, Haxel.”

A too-keen look. “No water?”

“Not yet.” Her hands sketched apology. “I should have stayed—tried to talk to their Speaker—”

Haxel shrugged. She unwrapped her legs from their comfortable folding and stood, Aryl doing the same. “We've fifteen people on their way here. Possibly injuries—the Oud being unaware of our limits. Confused and terrified—I've no doubt. That's enough to deal with right now.”

Aryl turned toward the village. Before she took a step, the First Scout dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder.
So your time's come at last.
There was no joy in the sending, only
concern
.

She didn't look at the other. She couldn't.
I didn't plan it.

We never do.
Aloud, then, as if to avoid emotion. “If you can't control yourself, tell me. I've dealt with a Sarc Chooser before.”

Aryl winced. Haxel meant her mother, Taisal. “I'll be fine—”

“It's not you I'm worried about.”

She had no answer for that.

 

“That's it, then.”

“Seru—”

Her cousin's stiff back expressed her opinion as she left the shelter. That, and the way she managed to slam home the stick that kept the door closed against the wind.

“You can apologize to her later,” Myris said gently.

Aryl transferred her glare to her aunt. “She's the one being unreasonable!” They had Om'ray being dragged here—through tunnels, she very much feared, and undoubtedly against their will. They had Tikitik and Oud killing one another—for whatever reason. Marcus was alone with creatures who'd almost killed them both—not that she could share that bit of worry. And she was to apologize for—for—“It's not as if I want any of them,” she grated out.

“Do you think that makes it easier to bear when you could have any?”

Aryl threw her armload of Sona bedding into a corner. Rock for a floor and a roof of blankets. Wind whistled through cracks that could fit her arm. No hearth for a fire. Half a wall on one side. Three oillights gave an illusion of warmth.

She kept on her coat.

This excuse for a building was across not one but two roads of tilted stone, with shattered homes and dead fields between. They'd been using it to store the jars of oil, the Grona having warned of the danger of those too close to sleepers.

Suddenly, without argument or discussion, it was necessary to put her here, even though they had room for the new arrivals in one of the four already restored.

“I don't feel any different,” she grumbled. It was true. That episode with Marcus, when she'd been overwhelmed by her senses, had been the only one.

Myris straightened the blankets into something closer to a bed. “You will.” Her smile was a shade too cheerful. “You know we're all happy for you. But you're a Sarc.” A meaningful shrug. “My own time was—let's say there was a reason I had to stay with our grandparents. Once I started my Call, no one could sleep.” Her smile softened; her eyes grew moist. “It wasn't long before Ael came in answer. May you find joy soon.”

Given the options of trying to respond to her aunt, or pound a sliver of wood into a crack to hold her coat, Aryl found a rock and pounded. The wood split under the force, and she stung her fingers on the wall.

Myris sighed. “This is temporary, Aryl. You have exceptional control—you always have had. But a sleeping Chooser tends to—can be disturbing.”

“Seru sleeps with the rest.” As soon as she'd said it, Aryl gestured a grudging apology. Parths had less Power; their Chooser's Call had almost no impact on others. It was the truth, if unkind to mention.

She envied her cousin. That was the truth, too. “I won't stay here during the day—I've work to do. No one should treat me any differently.”

Her aunt came close. Her cool fingers brushed a lock of hair from Aryl's brow, tucked it into its net, rested against her cheek.
You may not feel it yet, little Aryl, but you are different. Since we've come to this cold place, being near you has been like finding a warm spot in the sun. Now, you're like a flame. If I ever doubted what Taisal said about your Power…
her sending faded beneath waves of
pride
and
love.

The wind tested the blanket roof. Aryl searched those gray eyes, a mirror to her own.
I don't want this—I'm not ready.
With a wrench of honesty.
Why am I afraid?

Because Choice isn't about control or planning or what you desire
. Myris seemed much older in that instant, the gulf between Chooser and Chosen wider than the world.
Choice is as inevitable and needful as breathing. When the unChosen who can fulfill you stands where I am now, you will lose yourself. When he takes your outstretched hand, you will be unmade. When your Powers merge and you have Joined minds forever, you will become something new. You will be changed by him, as he will be changed by you.

This wasn't what unChosen eagerly whispered to one other about Choice. She'd feared exposing her secrets—now did she have to fear she'd no longer care to keep them? Was that what had happened to Bern?
Have I no say in this?

Only what you are. As a Sarc
—an upwelling of
compassion—
Choice will not come easy. We resist. We fight. We challenge. Only an unChosen able to match his will to ours can succeed.

“You make it sound like a battle,” Aryl protested, her breath coming fast and hard.

For those of great Power, it is.
Her aunt gestured apology. “You need to know, Aryl. To be prepared. Seru can accept any unChosen, her Choice will be easy. But with you nearby, no one will want her. They'll turn to you instead—they must. They'll respond to your Call, to your greater Power, like wastryls scenting fresh dresel.”

“Now I'm a prize?” She didn't want to hear this. She wanted Myris to stop.

No. That wasn't true. Something deep inside her responded to the words, to what she was being told. Something believed.

Something
rejoiced
.

“Choice cannot be forced on a Chooser. You must offer it. But you can't complete your Choice with an unChosen who is less in Power. I may be weak for a Sarc,” Myris stroked her cheek again, “but my Power to Choose was not. Ael had to struggle against me at first. I was afraid I'd lose him, that our Joining would fail, that I'd stay incomplete. You can't imagine how that felt.”

She could. She'd lost Bern and thought it the worst that could happen.

Until she'd lost Enris.

Aryl paced away, then back. “What am I supposed to do, Myris? Walk up to every unChosen in Sona and try to measure their Power against mine, then pick the one I want?”

“Those of great Power can't plan their Choice, Aryl, or control it. That's what I'm trying to explain. Seru's drive is not as strong as yours will be. It's let her wait. Parths can be patient.” Her aunt's hands were restless; she clasped them together. “My sister loved Sian. Did you know? They were heart-kin from childhood. When Taisal became a Chooser, she wanted Sian and he wanted her. But it was Mele who stopped her on that bridge at firstlight, Mele whose Power matched hers, Mele who became sud Sarc.” Myris' lips twitched. “For which we were all grateful, let me tell you. Taisal was making truenight a misery for everyone.”

“My parents were happy together,” Aryl countered, tight-lipped. Had this been why Sian visited their home so often? Not to debate with a fellow Adept, or not only that, but to be near someone he could never have?

“The Chosen are—” Myris seemed to rethink what she was going to say. “You aren't a child, Aryl, to be told Joining is about love and companionship. Neither of those require Choice. Choice is deeper, wilder. It's the body's need: to claim a mate, to mature, to breed. Yes, the Chosen are obsessed with one another—until the urge to have children ends. After that? Our bond remains; what we do with it depends on us. I will always love Ael and he, me. We are partners. But you've seen how Oran rules Bern, Hoyon's disdain for his Chosen. You need to be strong. Sure of what you want. Rule, if you must. You can't let your Chosen take you from us.”

Aryl stared at her aunt. “Haxel sent you to talk to me.” The First Scout didn't wait for events to happen, not if she could anticipate them. “Why?” At the ripple of
dismay
she felt, she knew. “The Caraats. Haxel actually believes I'll Choose Oran's brother?” She laughed; she couldn't help it.

Myris looked offended. “He's the most Powerful unChosen in Sona.”

“No,” Aryl replied, sure of one thing. “I am.”

 

Whatever worries and fears her aunt had managed to increase, not ease, Aryl was relieved when she joined the rest for supper in the meeting hall. No one gave her odd looks or moved aside. As usual, hands lifted to hers as she passed; grateful beyond words, she sent
strength
back through each touch.

Not every hand. Oran and Hoyon sat together against a wall, Bern and Kran nearby. Seru managed to be busy serving soup and didn't look up.

But tiny Yao reached up from Oswa's lap and both returned Aryl's smile.

Anxiety
and
anticipation
rilled from mind to mind, as noticeable as the increasing howl of wind outside. They could all sense those approaching. At their rate of travel, the newcomers should arrive tonight.

She should be grateful for that distraction, Aryl decided ruefully. Otherwise, the topic of conversation would doubtless be her apparently obvious-to-everyone-else condition.

Which was on the minds of some regardless. When it was her turn to receive a bowl from Seru, her cousin quickly handed it to Rorn and moved to the far side of the cook fire. Hurt, Aryl stared after her.

“She can't help it.” Rorn added a spoon with this matter-of-fact explanation. “Close to you, no one will hear her. Choosers have an instinct.”

No longer hungry, Aryl accepted the bowl and hurriedly moved away.

Haxel made room for her at the end of one of the tables. “We'll need to eat in shifts once they're here,” she said with no preamble. “Fifteen? You're sure?”

“I'm sure.” Aryl watched the steam rise from her soup, toyed with her spoon. She could feel Kran's eyes on her, but he was, as she'd hoped, easy to ignore. Murmurs of conversation filled the room like glows. This was more than they'd hoped—to have numbers so soon, to be a Clan.

At what price?
We need to tell them about the Oud and Tikitik.

Haxel made a dismissive sound.
Speaker's business.

The pendant was stored beneath her tunic. Nonetheless, Aryl felt its weight.

It wasn't as heavy as other secrets. She tried a mouthful, made herself swallow. One sending, here and now. She could tell them all about the M'hir, how to move through it. One sending, and she could abdicate responsibility for keeping that ability from the strangers. Make whatever happened willful Ziba's fault, or earnest young Fon's, or power-hungry Oran's.

Aryl put down her spoon.

“No appetite?” Morla, on her other side, leaned in. “I was the same as a Chooser. Ate nothing but fresh baked dresel cake for a fist. Hungry for something else, let me tell you.”

“Leave her be.” Veca gave Aryl a sympathetic look. “Don't let anyone tell you how you should feel, Aryl. Everyone's different. I couldn't stand company—until I found Tilip.” This with a softening of her usually dour features.

“Rorn found me,” Haxel volunteered. “Not that I objected.” The three Chosen shared a laugh.

Aryl pushed away her bowl and rose to her feet. “I have to check on the Oud.”

She didn't run from the meeting hall.

She did, however, manage to be out the door before anyone else could comment on Choosing, Choice, and her future.

 

Snowdrops played in the wind, the thick fluffy kind Aryl had learned found its way through eyelashes and down necks. Drifts were forming again, white scratches against the dark ground. The fire in front of the meeting hall melted the nearest to black puddles.