Riders of the Storm (13 page)

“I know.” His big hands shook as he stretched them to the fire's warmth. He stared at them as if surprised, then drew them inside his coat.

Enris had met the strangers, flown in their aircar, traveled the M'hir with her. He'd fought the swarm and climbed—however badly—high in the canopy. What could disturb him like this was beyond her imagining.

Aryl sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the fire, and waited. The silence between them grew desperate.

Finally, she pulled the metal headdress from her pocket and ran it through her fingers. Though dull, its links and straps glinted rich green in the firelight. It must have been beautiful once. “I found this high on a ridge.” Easy, quiet, not looking at him. “With a Chosen's bones. I suppose she thought she could escape that way.” A dangerous climb, for someone used to flat ground. Or maybe the daring Om'ray had made it that far, Aryl thought with a rush of sadness, only to be doomed by the loss of her Chosen in Sona. She laid it flat on her hand, rubbing her thumb over the forehead band. “There are marks in the metal.”

Enris rose to his feet, but not to leave her. He went to his pack and brought something from it to the fireside. “I found bones, too. And this.”

“This” was a strangely deformed blade, point divided into two, one tip longer than the other. It was attached to a broken wooden shaft. Enris had also brought the two sticks he carried tied to his pack, the ones he'd refused to donate to the fire. He fitted the three together and demonstrated the original length against himself. The tips reared over his head.

Awkward to carry. “What was it for?”

“I've no idea,” he said, sounding remarkably pleased. He tossed the sticks at his pack, then squatted beside her and held out the blade. “There are markings.” He wet his finger and ran it over the metal. “Like the ones carved into the Sona wood.”

At least he was talking again. Aryl dutifully glanced at the thing, then took a second look that developed into a stare. She didn't realize she'd reached for it until she felt its weight in her hands.

“These are words.”

“I knew it!” A definite resurgence of the Enris she knew. “Can you read what they say?”

She sent him an annoyed look from the shadow of her hood. “Of course not. I'm no Adept.”

“But you've seen writing.”

True. She'd seen the plates used in the Cloisters, glimpsed from a distance the lines and circles that made sense, somehow, to those with that skill. She'd seen the writing used by the strangers—sharper lines and angles—and thought she might be able to reproduce a word or two. The Tikitik used all manner of wild swirls and lines, some to decorate—or label—the door panels they made for Yena homes, and wore their names on wristbands of cloth. From Thought Traveler, she'd learned there was no Talent needed to read, only a knowledge of what each symbol represented. He'd shown her his name, then what he took to be hers from the little drawing she'd used for herself. A bowl containing a small dot, neither touching.

Apart-from-All.

Enris, perhaps impatient, tapped the blade. “Does it look familiar?”

Pushing back her hood, Aryl tilted the blade to the firelight to study each intricate line. “I can't tell,” she admitted. “What I've seen before wasn't cut into metal. If it's from Sona, it could be Om'ray. But why would an Om'ray do this?”

An image formed in her mind: a memory offered. Aryl saw a pale green ring, large enough for a wrist, polished to a rich gleam. Its surface rippled in a never-repeated pattern. It was as if the metal was water, curling around small round rocks. A mountain stream. She felt Enris'
satisfaction
and
pride,
watched his hands painstakingly hammer a design into the inner surface of the ring. Three tiny dots in a row; two others, above; one below.

“You made it.” She'd never imagined such an ornament, for it was clearly of no other use. “Tuana trade for such things?”

“All the time.”

She'd sneered when he'd described his Clan's wealth, how farming gave them leisure to create and specialize, how one Om'ray could trade the makings of her hands for the work of another's. She'd thought Yena, who shared everything—including hunger—superior.

While not ready to declare Yena any less, Aryl knew she'd gladly have “traded” anything from the Sarc storage slings and cupboards for what Enris had made. “What does the pattern mean?” she asked. “Is it your name?”

“No. They're my stars. Would you like to see them?”

“See them,” she repeated doubtfully.

Trust me.

Aryl let Enris take her hand and pull her to her feet. She was less sure when he turned her from the comforting brilliance of the fire to face the dark, but there was no arguing with his firm grip on her shoulders.

The fire crackled; she could hear her heartbeat. The silence was suffocating.

Patience.

Her hand found the hilt of the short knife protruding from her belt, every instinct warning her of danger. His breath tickled the top of her head. The Tuana's size would be a comfort, she grumbled to herself, if he showed the slightest comprehension of the risks outside his village, especially during truenight. How had he stayed alive?

Maybe anything hunting him suspected such too-easy prey had to be a trap.

She'd lived her life among hunters. Truenight should be a cacophony of song and screams, sounds she'd learned to ignore as normal, protected by the glows of Yena, safe within the inner glow of her Clan. Everyone should be together.

Aryl let her inner sense
reach
for that reassurance. Close, but not close enough, those asleep in Sona. Close, but not close enough, Grona and Rayna. They faced distant Pana and Amna, Tuana to one hand. Vyna faint but there, to the other.

Yena—Aryl found the glow that sang
home
to her innermost self and retreated. Those left lived within the Cloisters now, the safest place in the world. They no longer needed her.

Even if she needed them.

Where did unChosen find the courage to walk away from their Clan? Did the drive to find a Chooser really overwhelm fear? There was so much to fear—

She hoped that was the truth. Passage was fraught with enough peril; she couldn't bear to think all the young Om'ray who'd walked away from their homes had felt like this, had stared as she stared now into unknowable darkness, had ached for those left behind as she ached.

Because if they had, Aryl decided with abrupt fury, Agreement or no Agreement, she'd never let Kayd, Cader, or Fon take Passage. Not like this.

Not alone.

I'm never alone when I can see my stars.

Shame flooded her; she hadn't meant Enris to
hear
her thoughts. Too tired. Careless. But his sending was calm, if nonsense. He understood her. She'd miss that most of all.

I don't see any stars.

You will. Patience.

An urging for now, or the future? Aryl smiled.

Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, and stars made their chill appearance overhead. More and more of them, until they might have been the flower dust that coated Yena's bridges and rooftops in early summer. Once, she'd believed the specks were all of a piece: the sun's light leaking through the gauze of the sky. Thought Traveler had mocked her—any Om'ray's—understanding of the sky and this world. The strangers claimed there were more worlds than Cersi.

Aryl frowned. Stars complicated her life.

There.
Enris dug his big chin into the collar of her coat and pressed his ear against hers.
Little more that way.
He tilted her head with his, sending the image of his pattern.
See them now?

Typical Tuana. Aryl didn't bother being offended by his un-Yena-like familiarity; he'd only laugh. Besides, her back had been cold. As for his stars…“How can you expect me to find six? Look at all…” Her complaint faded away.

There they were. Among all the rest, she could see them. Five were bright: two above, three in a row below. Two Om'ray, she imagined, standing on a straight branch, Fainter, but still distinct, a blue dot beneath the rest and to one side. That was harder. “A fich!” she exclaimed and laughed.

“A what?”

Aryl shared her memory of being on a branch, high in a nekis, tossing her creation of wing and thread into the air above the Sarc grove, watching it sail into the distance, free as any flitter. She remembered the child with her, Joyn Uruus, full of enthusiasm and joy, both LOUD. She remembered the arrival of the aircar and…

Shields tight, Aryl lurched away. She went to sit before the fire, her eyes partly closed against what now was too bright, her back again cold. “A foolish notion.” Bitterness rose in her throat. “Others rule the sky. There's no room for Om'ray in it. Only stars.”

“Aryl…”

“The fire's hungry.”

Enris was silent a moment. Then, “I'll look after it.” A home lay shattered steps from the roadway. She listened to him move, heavy-footed in the loose stone, and refused to yawn. Dawn would be too soon.

He returned to drop an armload with a triumphant
clatter,
then went for more. On his third trip, he tossed the splinters directly on the fire, the flames licking the lengths of jagged black wood as if famished. Light spilled over the road. Not done, he added more wood until Aryl had to move or risk her boots. Soon flames shot above the Tuana's head. Sparks popped and snapped, landing in every direction. Against the stone they looked like eyes caught by a glow.

Aryl brushed one from her coat. “Syb'll see this,” she disapproved. “You'll give him ideas.” The exiles absorbed every word and action the Tuana provided about the care and maintenance of fire, their newest, most vital skill. Those instructions hadn't promoted waste, till now.

Enris laughed for the first time since entering the M'hir. “I only follow your example.”

He was on the far side of the flames; if she couldn't see his face, he couldn't see hers, hot from more than the Tuana's immense fire. Was he right? Was she daring too much, too soon? Was the freedom of Sona nothing more than the trap her mother and Yena's Adepts had feared all along: the release of Talents and ideas too dangerous for Om'ray to survive?

“I intend no harm,” she said finally, cold inside. “I want the best for my people. For all Om'ray. To stop us dying needlessly.”

Enris came and sat beside her, making a show of looking for rocks first. He tossed a few aside. Once settled, he nudged her with his wide shoulder. “You want us to fly, Aryl Sarc. The only harm I see is if we fall.”

A Yena caution. To check a handhold before trusting your weight to it was the first, vital training. She'd nearly cost Enris his life, drawing him into the M'hir when she hadn't checked it was safe, and he knew it.

Aryl raised her hands to gesture a profound apology. Enris trapped them in one of his. “Don't. What happened to me wasn't your fault. You saved my life.”

She tugged free. “After almost losing it!”

“What matters to me is the M'hir. How you move through it. Whether I ever can.” Enris used a giant from his pile of splinters to prod others deeper into the fire. “The truth, Aryl?” with a wary glance her way and a sense of
determination
. “You were right. Back in Tuana, something did happen to me. I was…there was a Chooser. Powerful. Beautiful.” His voice became a low rumble. “I wasn't ready. She was. I didn't want her.” This with a twist to his lips as if at a foul taste. “She wanted me. Maybe she couldn't stop herself. Maybe she didn't care.” When he paused, Aryl held her breath. “She tried to force me to answer her Call. I refused.” He shoved the heavy length of wood violently into the rest, showering sparks into the air. “That's when my mind fled into the M'hir.”

Aryl struggled to grasp what he was telling her. She'd never heard such a thing. How could an unChosen refuse Choice? Why would he? Wasn't it the most wonderful moment of an Om'ray's life? Whatever you'd felt about each other before, heart-kin or stranger, Joining made you one for the rest of your lives and ridiculously happy to be so.

Didn't it?

“Afterward,” Enris continued, his voice flat, “the Adepts told me I was damaged. They couldn't promise I'd ever be able to complete Choice—that it would be better for Tuana if I sought a future elsewhere.” He shrugged. “So I did.”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” she said without thinking.

His laugh was bitter. “While I appreciate your high regard, Aryl Sarc, you're hardly—”

“I know. I
saw
you. In the M'hir.” She'd held the fragments of his mind together,
felt
them. There'd been no flaw, no injury. Whole again, Enris had been solid Power, a boulder the dark currents could only fling themselves against or pass around, not force out of place.

Hurt and terrified—she'd
seen
that, too. All of which explained why he took Passage to solve a mystery, not to seek Choice.

It didn't explain why he'd been sent on Passage in the first place. Her heart thudded heavily. Could she? “Do Tuana unChosen often refuse a Chooser?” Aryl asked carefully.

She'd startled him. “What?” A hint of
embarrassment.
“How should I know? I don't talk about such things.”

Making Enris different from other unChosen of her experience—not that Aryl was surprised. “I'd think a—” she hunted a word that wouldn't offend him, “—an ability like that would be noticed.” Without delight by Choosers, she was quite sure.

“‘Ability?'” If she'd startled him before, he was appalled now. “I've seen my cousins lose all sense about each other, but that's their decision, not mine.”