Riders of the Storm (23 page)

Aryl sighed again and stood. “Inside,” she agreed.

Once through the door, Marcus shoved and tossed crates aside until he cleared the area of floor between their beds. “Wait,” he told her when she tried to help. “I do.” He pressed a control that folded both beds against the wall—their blankets stuck out as if trapped—then grabbed a handle she hadn't noticed in the floor. A pull, and up rose a table, complete with attached seats. “There,” he beamed at her. “Not sit on dirt. Sit.”

She sat with a certain amount of caution. Furniture that came out of a floor could, in her opinion, sink back into it without warning.

In short order the Human filled self-heating cups, gave one to her with a box of “supplements,” found soft, useless-looking boots to put on his sore feet, and sat down across the table with a groan of pleasure. “There. Better.”

Aryl smiled into her cup.

“Aryl happy?”

As Speaker for Sona Clan, she had every right and obligation to talk to the not-
real
.

She probably wasn't supposed to like the not-
real
individual in question.

“You think hard.” Marcus scrunched his face. “Like this.”

She pretended affront. “I don't look like that.”

“Yes. Laugh is better.” They sipped in companionable silence for a moment, then Marcus gestured toward her. “See what Oud gave you? Scan. Find how old?” With that too-innocent look.

The Human had accepted that the Cloisters were off-limits as far as she was concerned—or he'd stopped asking, which suited her. Aryl found herself equally reluctant to share the pendant. To divert him, she pulled the wet and still-grimy headdress from her pocket and laid it on the table. “You could scan this. It's from Sona,” she added when he didn't reach for it. “I found it with Om'ray bones.”

“Went through 'fresher.” Complaint or observation? “Not good.”

Complaint.

She should have guessed from what lined his shelves that he'd prefer things covered in dirt. Aryl nudged it toward him anyway. “It stayed in a pocket.”

“Hmm.”

Collecting what he needed, Marcus returned to the table. He handled the metal links with greater care than she'd shown them, holding a length gently against one end of a palm-sized device, before he pressed a series of buttons. Small lights flickered and she could have sworn the device gave a satisfied hum. The Human's eyebrows rose. “Old, is.”

“How old?”

He pressed more buttons. “Two times get. One wrong.”

“Two?” Aryl reached for the headdress.

Marcus laid his hand over it. “How long
exposed to elements
? 'Fresher,” he said, shaking his head dolefully. She almost gestured an apology. Then, “How long since
manufacture
? Different times.”

“What are you saying?”

He blushed easily. “Sorry. Excited. This,” he raised the hand over the headdress, “was made over 240
standard
—sorry. Your year, close to same, good enough. Little more.” At her impatient nod, “This made to this shape 240 years ago.” He held up the headdress and peered through its links at her. “What is it?”

This time, he relinquished it at her gesture. Aryl laid it over her hair, shivering as the decorative piece crossed her forehead. “A headdress—to keep hair quiet and well behaved. Only a Chosen would wear one.”

A grin. “Mother give daughter, yes?”

She took off the headdress and put it back in her pocket, more carefully than before. Enris' Clan traded for such ornaments. She had no idea what Sona would have done. Still, something so difficult to make, yet lovely and useful—in Yena, such would stay within a family, to be treasured. “Or to the First Chosen,” she hazarded.

“Then this could be gift many many—”

Trill!
Loud, from a box on the counter behind Marcus. Flashing lights accompanied the sound. Muttering impatiently, he slapped a control and turned back to her.

Trillll!
With more lights. Then a deep male voice uttered incomprehensible words, sounding none too pleased.

“Tyler,” Marcus announced with a shrug. “Triad First, Site Two. I better answer.” He held a finger in front of his lips. “Aryl, no sound please.” A gesture to his abused face and a crooked smile. “No vid, sure.”

Having seen him use a comlink before, Aryl understood. She sat quietly, enjoying the warm drink, while Marcus exchanged strings of stranger-words with this Tyler. Site Two was where they'd uncovered large structures, inexplicably whole, from the side of a mountain—a discovery important enough to make Marcus take her with him to join the others.

From his tone, this “Tyler, Triad First, Site Two” wasn't a friend. They exchanged short bursts of words, like scouts reporting. Whatever it was about, Marcus remained calm and assured. By the end, Tyler's voice went from argumentative to resigned, as if Marcus had made some point.

The Human switched off the comlink and sighed. “Sorry, Aryl. Missed last night's
check in
. I tell them I all right.”

So many words for that? She decided not to press for an explanation. The less she knew about the strangers' doings on Cersi, the better.

Though she wondered what they'd found…how they'd entered the buildings, if they had…and why…?

Before she could ask—or to forestall any questions—Marcus tapped the table with a finger. “Need to know how many times that be gift. How many First Chosen. How many mothers to daughters.”

Her surviving great-grandparents could remember one of their great-grandparents—injury took the lives of most Yena before they grew old, and Ele Sarc had lived a remarkably long life—so she'd grown up hearing the stories of more ancestors than other Yena families. Of course, whomever had lived before that was no longer
real
and didn't matter. They might never have existed at all. She'd certainly never given them thought, until now. “I don't know.”

“We can
estimate
. For Om'ray, how long
per generation
?” Marcus immediately rephrased his question. “Sorry.
Generation
is how long for Om'ray from born, grow up to be mother, have own child. How many years for that?”

What an odd thing to ask—a Clan always had Om'ray of every stage in life. Maybe Humans were different there, too. As for his question? Those Chosen pairs who could have children became pregnant soon after Joining. After that, some might have more children or not; everyone hoped. A Clan needed children. There were never enough Om'ray. Yena had diminished in number long before the disastrous Harvest.

“Sixteen years,” Aryl said cautiously. “For most.” The coming M'hir would be her eighteenth. Surely she would be a Chooser by then. What was it like to Choose…to Join…to have a Chosen's body…to carry new life inside? She wasn't supposed to wonder. After Choice, a new Chosen stayed with her mother, to learn, to be cared for as she matured.

Hers might as well be on one of the Tikitik's fabled moons, Aryl thought with a bitterness that startled her. She took a sip of her sombay.

For some reason, the Human appeared distracted, too. He fussed with the device in his hands until it made a buzz of complaint, then tossed it aside with a grumble in his language. “How old your elders?” he asked after a moment.

The Human had a gift for asking what she'd never considered before. For most of their lives, Om'ray paid no attention to age, only accomplishments. “Old.”

That drew a laugh. “My son say same.” But something bothered him. Aryl didn't need to seek out his emotions to know. She waited, sure some of their mutual confusion came from haste. Marcus rubbed one hand over his face, then looked at her, determination in his eyes. “Quick generations,” he said at last. “Aryl say Om'ray have only living past.” A frown, as if this continued to be difficult for the Human. He drew a circle on the tabletop with his finger, over and over again. “Means quick forget. Quick generations means change quick, too. Om'ray not remember. Change inside. Change outside. Om'ray now, not like Om'ray many many generations past.”

About to protest, to explain why this couldn't be, Aryl closed her mouth and stared at Marcus. He gazed back, his expression solemn. Hadn't the Om'ray changed? Wasn't she proof? Those with her proof? New Talents, new strength. Enris and his ability to resist a Chooser. Her Clan's Adepts had purged their population of those new Talents to prevent more change—but hadn't that changed Yena, too?

“Change normal. Many generations, population
adapts,
” Marcus said gently, as if sensing her distress. “Change not bad.”

Maybe to a Human, she thought, grappling with ideas as strange as his disguised building and a box that sensed time. Maybe to someone from another world. On Cersi, change was deadly. It had destroyed Sona. It would destroy Yena, if there was no Harvest this M'hir. Another Clan lost.

How long then before all Om'ray forgot Yena had existed?

“When did Sona die?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“This?” A vague gesture at the outside world. “Happen eighty-three years ago. Headdress could be outside, in dirt and water and air, same time. Not know. 'Fresher.” He could be as annoying as Enris. “Most five generations Om'ray.” That keen look. “How forget?”

“I don't know,” she said for the second time, her heart pounding. Those on Yena's Council would have been alive then. Cetto and Morla should remember that day, as should their Chosen, Husni and Lendin.

But by all she'd sensed, they'd been as surprised by Sona's existence as everyone else.

“Maybe Sona different kind of Om'ray? Not-
real
as you say for me?”

“They were real.” Aryl had no doubt at all.

“Sometime, those who live want a different history remembered. Tell lie. My job, look for truth, not what living want.”

Implying conflict. The possibility twitched nerves used to the canopy; it was all she could do not to check her knife. “Do those who lie try to stop you?”

“We take care.
Clearancechecks
. Vid records.” A too-casual shrug. “Here? Aryl not worry. Nothing
contentious
here. No lie to fight.”

Still, she didn't care for the sound of it. “The Oud want to find their own Hoveny ruins—to look for some truth of their past or to bury it?”

“Good question, Aryl. Very good. I not—I don't know.” He laid his hand on his chest. “My thought only, for you. Oud not care truth or past. They care things. Things of use, of value. But that is my idea, not certain.” He shrugged. “Not easy, talk to Oud.”

The strangers had been talking to the Oud for years. If she was the Speaker, how could she do any better?

Tomorrow's problem.

Marcus gave her a considering look. “Why you run away last night? What I do? What I say?”

“What you are,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks warm. “We're different, Human. It's worse sometimes, because you look so much like us. But I know you aren't.”

“I understand. To me, you could be Human,” he said. “Basic shape,
humanoid,
common. Some
assembler
species look same, too. Need bioscanner to know Om'ray, not Human. Aryl—any Om'ray—could walk on my world. No one know difference, outside.”

Aryl shuddered. It was one thing to accept Marcus Bowman as
real
enough to be a person, quite another to accept his entire race. Let alone more not-Om'ray mimics. Her head hurt. “I'll stay on my world, thank you.”

He turned his cup around slowly, looked into it rather than at her. “You need a place, safe place, stay here.”

The Human didn't know, she realized with a start. He believed she was alone. That she'd left her people, or they'd left her. “Thank you.” She dared touch his hand with hers, stopping the cup. If he'd been Om'ray, she would have
sent
her gratitude through that contact. “You're a good friend,” she said instead, when his eyes lifted to hers. “I have a place, Marcus. The people you helped escape the swarm? They've come with me. We're making a home in Sona. I'm here looking for water. We have everything else we need.”

“Haxel, too? And the big one. Enris?”

The other Om'ray who'd seen the Human—in person. She'd shared his image with the rest, but hadn't dared let them meet, afraid they wouldn't be able to deal with the confusion between sight and inner sense. “Haxel, too,” Aryl agreed. “Enris—” For some reason, her voice caught.

Marcus let go of the cup and gripped her hand.
Dread. Anxiety.
“Enris dead?”

“Why would you—of course not! No,” she went on more calmly. “Enris left. He's on Passage to Vyna. He travels to another Clan,” felt his
confusion
. Mentioning the Tuana's true quest would be like dangling food scraps over the Lay. “It's what our unChosen do when they seek a Chooser—a lifepartner, like your Kelly.”

Anger.
“Enris stupid.” He scowled. “You best lifepartner.”

Aryl gently freed her hand, not that the Human could sense her feelings in return. “I'm not ready for Choice. Enris couldn't wait for me.” Why was she explaining this to a stranger?

Because he wasn't, not anymore, not to her. The person sitting across the table, bruised and worn, with kind green-brown eyes, was her friend—however unusual his origins. He wanted her to be happy as well as safe. A teardrop hit the table; she wiped the second from her cheek, then said what she hadn't to anyone else. “I did want Enris to stay. He might have, if I'd asked, for me. But I couldn't, Marcus. He had to go.”

“You not go?” Before she had to answer, he gave a quick nod. “No, you not leave your people. Your family. I know that, Aryl. Sorry. Sorry.”