Riders of the Storm (30 page)

“Feels good to teach the skills again.” Veca helped her fit the wood in place. “Fon has less interest these days.” She grinned at Aryl's wary look. “Don't worry. You won't be working wood forever. Haxel has other plans for you.”

Not a statement an unChosen could dispute. If she hammered the fastening hook with excessive force, the other Om'ray paid no attention. Instead, Veca asked casually, “Have you shown Hoyon the headdress you found?”

Aryl missed the hook. “No. Why?”

“He knows about old things.”

She'd shown the object to Marcus Bowman, who'd revealed more about Sona from his brief inspection than any Grona Adept could. Or would—if Hoyon kept secrets the way she suspected. “I'll think about it,” she replied tactfully.

Veca wasn't done. “Do you believe him?”

Aryl looked up. “About what?”

“About the mountains. That their shaking damaged Sona, not the Oud.” Veca shifted, her rugged features displaying an unusual unease. “Doesn't that make more sense? Look at this place. What race could do such a thing?”

To every side, the valley floor was heaved and torn, buildings tipped and knocked apart. What they'd accomplished, the restoration of these four homes, made as much difference to the devastation as the finger-sized hole a stinger chewed into a giant rastis.

It was a start, Aryl assured herself. They didn't need more than that.

“I don't know about shaking mountains, Veca, but I've seen Oud for myself. Trust me. Oud could do this.” She remembered how the creature had moved through the ground as easily as she'd walk a branch, how they tore rock from the cliff. “Does Hoyon explain how a mountain could destroy the village but spare the nekis grove, stop up the river and take its water, but leave the road between alone? The Oud did do this. To think otherwise is to dangerously underestimate our neighbors.”

Something Aryl was abruptly sure the Grona did. It explained why they slept so well. They pretended—or truly believed—the Oud were harmless. Enris must have realized it, too. Was that another reason he'd never intended to stay there—being all too aware his hosts were fools?

“You're the Speaker,” Veca said cheerfully, as if assigning her to deal with Oud was safer than arguing with a mountain.

She might be right. Or not.

“Right now,” Aryl reminded her, “I'm a woodworker. A not very good one. What's next?”

She paid attention, but it was hard. Her mind kept wandering.

How many other exiles were listening to the Grona Adept?

And why did that make her afraid?

 

Veca was right. Haxel Vendan, First Scout and Sona's distributor of work, did indeed have other plans for her. Aryl sharpened her new longknife—it wasn't a proper one, a Yena one, but served the same purpose—with hard, straight strokes and considered the potential for disaster in Haxel's latest one.

She had plenty of time. They were late.

She sat on a beam, that beam the only one left on this roof, this roof over a home no one wanted yet, and sharpened her longknife.

She hadn't argued either. How could she? When Haxel called her down from the roof to tell her she was to lead Oran and Hoyon to the Cloisters, to see if the Adepts could open its doors, what could she say but yes?

The wind tore at her coat and teased hair from its net.

The perfect use of resources. The Adepts weren't helping to rebuild, Oran's healing Talent was no longer critical, and, as Haxel smugly put it, the Oud hadn't shown up, so they didn't need a Speaker either at the moment.

Perfect.

Stroke…stroke.

If they ever started. Not that she planned to rush whatever preparations had the two former Adepts delayed. More time to think of how to hide any sign Marcus might have left at the Cloisters, to hope the Human would see them coming and hide himself as well, and to think of what to tell the Oud, if it showed up and wanted to go inside, too.

Perfect.

Aryl paused. Someone had stopped below. She
reached
and relaxed. “Took you long enough.”

“Hah!” Seru scrambled up beside her. “You'll have to try harder if you want to hide from Rorn's cooking. It'll be ready soon. Blue—whatever it is. “As she settled, she puffed, admiring the resulting cloud of breath. A glance sideways. “You're going to ruin that.”

Aryl tested the blade on her thumbnail. “It's Grona.”

A moment's silence. Then, “We needed a Healer.”

She found a section marginally less sharp and spat on it. “We needed a Healer,” Aryl conceded. Myris and Chaun—thus Ael and Weth—would live. For that alone, she'd endure a fist of Orans. She rubbed the offending edge against the stone. “Should make everyone happy.”

“Juo,” with relish, “won't let Oran anywhere near her. Said no upstart Grona Adept whelp was to fool with her unborn. Morla was less polite about it.”

Not a surprise. Morla Kessa'at had been the Councillor most betrayed by Yena's Adepts, Aryl thought to herself, remembering that day and moment very well. Besides, a broken bone didn't need Power to cure. Time and a splint would do. Juo? Hopefully she wouldn't need a Healer when her time came.

But the rest? “Some must be pleased to have Adepts again.” Gijs for one.

Exasperation.
With elbow. “No one forgets who tossed us off the bridge. We won't trust Adepts again. From any Clan.” Seru drew her knees up under her coat, fitting herself on the narrow beam. The wind tugged at her scarf; its chill reddened her cheeks. “As ordinary Om'ray, they're welcome. That's all.”

All? “How do you know—” Aryl hesitated.

“About Kran?” Her cousin gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I know. Trust me. He's not ready. Just as well. I'd rather not have an Adept against me.” She lowered her voice to a reasonable imitation of Oran's. “My brother would be an Adept already, but Grona's Adepts were jealous of his Talent. Kran deserves a Chooser of equal or greater Power, not a mere Parth.”

The sharpening stone slipped; Aryl caught it before it fell. “She said that?”

“She didn't have to.” A grin. “Haven't you noticed? She won't let him so much as look my way.”

Aryl nudged Seru with her shoulder. “I see no reason you'd want him to.”

“It doesn't matter what any of us want,” Seru admitted. “What I need is to Choose someone. Anyone.” Another sigh. “Soon.”

“Fon is nice—” Aryl began cautiously.

“I helped at his birth.”

She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “You were four.”

“And helped. You know my Talent.”

True. Seru might not be strong, but like her mother she was a gifted Birth Watcher, the one assistance Juo would need. Om'ray unborn were reluctant to leave the womb, to let their inner bond to their mother thin with distance. Without the baby's courage and cooperation, birth was a grave risk to both. A Birth Watcher could not only
sense
when a baby should be born, but would contact that young mind to offer reassurance and encouragement.

“Mother took me with her. All the time.”
Sadness
leaked through Seru's shields; she gestured apology.

“Fine.” Aryl put her arm around her cousin. “Not Fon. Cersi's a big place, Cousin. There'll be Choice—the someone you've wished for.”

“Wish?” Seru's right hand moved restlessly. “It's not like that, you know. What I feel. What a Chooser feels. UnChosen—we don't have any idea what's to come.” She laid her head on Aryl's shoulder. Almost a whisper. “They should tell us the truth.”

What had her aunt said…you can't know what it's like for Seru?

Feeling awkward, she sent
compassion
. “I'm sorry—”

It's not grief or longing.
Seru's mindvoice was distant, as if she
listened
to herself too.
My family's gone, and I miss them every moment. But I can remember good things.
Images came and went: parties, chases along a glow-lit bridge, games. Sensations: laughter, the squeeze of baby fingers, warm rain on skin.
There's nothing good in how a Chooser feels.

She could pull away, close her mind to Seru's. Be ignorant.

Instead, curious, Aryl drew Seru closer.
Show me, Cousin.

…emptiness

…need

…weary despair

Aryl slammed down her shields. Too late. Tears froze on her cheeks; words in her throat.

Seru eased away, dangling her feet over air as if a child again. “When there wasn't enough dresel,” she offered, “I'd dream about my favorite ways to eat it. Dresel cakes. The sweets my uncles made. I'd imagine the taste—that smell. When I got my ration of powder each day, I'd pretend it was fresh and try to enjoy every mouthful. But after a while, I didn't care. I needed it so badly, I'd have chewed the spoon and bowl if I thought there was more left.

“That's being a Chooser,” flat and sure. “The longer I stay empty, the less I care who fills me.” A shudder. “Even if means I'll be changed, like Bern—or Joined to someone who despises me, like Oswa. I have to offer Choice.”

Choice wasn't supposed to dry your mouth and send a thrill of fear down every nerve, like hearing the footsteps of a predator at your back when there was nowhere safe to jump. It was supposed to be the joyous start of the rest of your life.

Maybe it was, for most. But wasn't this also the truth? Aryl asked herself, refusing to flinch. That unChosen took Passage alone, in fear. That Choosers waited in an agony of need and uncertainty. That their union was beyond any control or reason, though it changed both forever.

Like riding the M'hir.

“Don't listen to me,” Seru ordered shakily. “You're a Sarc. It won't be like this for you.” She managed to laugh. “You watch—you'll Call handsome unChosen from every Clan, including Vyna. They'll arrive all at once and beg for the touch of your hand. And bring sweets. I expect you—” archly, “—to share, Cousin.”

Aryl chuckled. “The unChosen or the sweets?”

“Both!”

“I promise.”

If the words were less than steady, Seru pretended not to notice. “Good,” she replied. “I'd better get back. Hoyon claims it'll be a bad storm. The undercoats, you know.”

“The undercoats,” Aryl agreed fervently.

Sona's light, mobile clothing cut the wind, but did little to keep out the deeper cold. Seru had dreamed again last 'night, more productively than Ziba, who recalled only dreams with sweets. The loose white coats they'd guessed were for indoors or spring were meant to go under the windproof outer one. The combination was warmer by far, while easy to move.

Doubling the number of alterations needed. Sona, Aryl decided, seemed to do that to its new inhabitants. She glanced up the valley, coated in fresh snow. “A shame you don't have them ready. Haxel's sending me off again.”

“I heard. With the Grona. Enjoy yourself.”

Aryl gave her cousin a shove. “Go.”

About to drop to the ground, Seru paused. “What do you think of Hoyon?”

That the most dangerous fools were those who believed themselves right? That if he wasn't a fool, he was something worse? Aryl settled for, “I think he should talk less.”

“He doesn't talk to Oswa at all. Or Yao. Have you noticed?”

Chosen varied, but to ignore his own daughter? “That's—” It was more than strange, as was his failure to help search for her. Om'ray parents, Adept or not, were close to their young children, whose maturing minds depended on theirs. “Yao's different—” she began.

This gained her a fierce “Aryl Sarc!” A reaction she should have expected, Seru having been forced to leave her beloved baby brother in the care of the Uruus family. “Hoyon's the one to blame here.”

“She is different.”

Deep offense.
“A Tikitik is ‘different.' Yao's a wonderful child. Any family would be glad of her. You wait till you've one of your own.” Seru swung down and landed lightly, then walked away.

Yao was different, Aryl reminded herself. Perhaps enough to cost her bond to her father, if not her mother.

Another change, she thought, troubled. This one at the heart of what they were.

“M
UST YOU WALK SO quickly?” Aryl didn't bother to answer. If the Grona couldn't keep up, they could follow behind. It wasn't as if she could lose them.

“Is there a reason you have us running?”

Because they'd wasted the entire morning?

Aryl eased her pace, slightly, and glanced over her shoulder. “Recognize those?” she said, pointing at the snow-cloaked lumps to either side.

Hoyon, red-faced and panting, gave her a sour look. “Rocks.”

“That's what they'd like you believe.”

His eyes widened.

“We're safe in daylight—as long as we keep moving.”

Oran, head bundled in bright Grona scarves so only her eyes showed, merely lengthened her strides.

Just the three of them. Bern, who had been Yena and—however reluctantly—a skilled maker of rope and ladders, had, in Haxel's unarguable opinion, use. The trip itself was, also in her opinion, safe. After all, if there were Oud, who else could talk to them but their Speaker?

If she'd looked a little too pleased with herself, not even the Adepts had dared protest.

Aryl had been tempted.

They were already at the second arched bridge. The sun was overhead, turning shadows an impenetrable black, reflecting from snow piles with painful intensity. Exposed stone sparkled like the wings of the flitters that flew highest in the canopy. Stark. Beautiful.

Sona's valley was never the same twice. A lesson, Aryl decided, to be remembered.

“Are you taking us to the end of the world?”

Not far enough, she thought. “We're close. Feel the waterfall?” She could, drumming through her thinner boots. They looked puzzled. “We're close.”

“And you're sure the Cloisters is intact?” Every word from Oran had been variations on that theme. “You should show us.”

Lower her shields to these two? “You'll see for yourselves soon.” Aryl turned away and resumed walking, faster than before.

As if she could outrun them.

 

Snow could lie. It coated the hill of bone and shattered homes, blurring its shape, hiding its source. The Grona thumped and scrambled up the slope on their too-big boots, oblivious to what lay beneath, their labored breaths puffing in the cold air. Aryl didn't bother to tell them they climbed on Sona's first Om'ray. They wouldn't care if they knew. What Om'ray would?

She'd become strange, she thought without regret, and made her steps soft.

The waterfall was even more impressive under a clear sky, its vast weave of plumes distinct and white against the spray-dark cliff. Aryl tilted her head but couldn't see its upper reach through the mist at the top. The sun, she decided, must pass through it.

Straight ahead, she spotted the arrangement of ropes and wood Rorn's group had constructed—while she waited for Oran and Hoyon—to take advantage of the nekis stalks leaning into the pit. They could suspend containers out in the falling feathers of water, catch what they could, then haul them back to empty into waterproof bags. They'd passed them, Rorn and Syb, the three unChosen, on the way back, bent under their loads. The five reported seeing no other life. She'd trusted Marcus to stay out of sight.

Veca and Tilip were working on a cart. Once finished, it would help only if they could get it close to the water. Aryl tucked her lower lip between her teeth as she considered the problem. Impossible to haul anything with wheels, as Enris had shown them, over this loose, rubble-strewn hill.

It would be possible if they went around the hill, to the side of the waterfall beyond the Cloisters, where the nekis had never grown along that edge, or had been removed by the Oud. Easier access to the water itself as well. Aryl flushed. Too easy, for a fool running in the dark.

The grove was in the way. She grinned. They could copy the Human. Cut their own path around the hill.

Cut down nekis?

When had she started thinking like those who lived on the ground?

When it became their new home, she told herself sternly.

Hoyon stopped, shading his eyes with one hand. “I don't see the Cloisters. We've come too far.” There was a tremor in his voice Aryl understood. Hadn't she felt the pull of other Om'ray fading as she moved farther and farther away?

It no longer bothered her.

Perhaps, despite all appearances, he missed his Chosen and daughter. “Don't worry,” she said, finding it odd to reassure an Adept. “The world doesn't end. Not yet. There are mountains beyond this. The waterfall comes from them.”

“Were you taught nothing at Yena? The waterfall comes from the Village of the Moons,” Oran stated, as if to a child, “where the Sun rests its fire in its hearth by night. There are no more mountains. The world—” her eyes narrowed, “—ends at that village. Hoyon's right. There's no Cloisters here. Take us back.”

Some things weren't safe to argue. “We're close now,” Aryl replied calmly. “Beyond the nekis.”

That drew a frown. “These can't be what you climbed.”

“Yena's are taller.” The Chosen of Bern Teerac. What other memories did she have? Doing her best not to wonder, Aryl led the way down the hill to where the grove began.

The growth, though stunted and bare, warmed her heart. Her fingers lingered on snow-dappled buds, the promise of leaves to come. No path here between the tight-growing stalks. She slipped out of her coat and hung it beside the one she'd left two days ago, offering not a word of explanation.

She glanced at her companions, waiting. Neither Hoyon nor Oran were heavy by Grona standards; they weren't Yena-slim. Those stuffed coats made them twice as wide. As for the scarves?

Realizing what she expected, neither Adept appeared happy.

She hid a smile while fine spray from the waterfall collected on her face and crossed arms.

“Take off your coat, Hoyon,” Oran snapped, throwing back her hood. Her thick blonde hair flooded over her shoulders as if offended by its brief captivity. Aryl had no idea what kept the small, loose cap in place on the top of her head.

“But—” He looked appalled. “You can't be serious.”

“Is there another way, unChosen?”

Only if she was willing to take them along the cliff face, past the section where the Oud hunted Hoveny secrets from the rock itself. “No,” Aryl replied, doing her best to sound regretful. “We could go back—you can try again once there's a path cut.”

At this, Oran threw her coat to the ground; her scarves followed, red and yellow and blue, writhing like something alive as they fell. Beneath she wore not the sensible warm tunic or woven vest she'd arrived in, but a very different garment.

Adepts appearing at Council or in their official capacity wore this white robe, so densely sewn with thread of the same color that its surface shimmered with shapes and its pleats fell stiff and heavy to the ground. Her mother wore one as Speaker, though her role as Adept also gave her the right. Councillors would don them, too, but only for formal occasions.

Hoyon removed his coat and hung it over a branch. He wore a robe as well.

No wonder they'd been slow to get ready.

Both Adepts had folded their hems through their belts and wore pants underneath, stuffed into high thick boots. Practical, Aryl supposed, if lacking respect. To protect the precious garments from the weather, or from curious eyes?

Not that it mattered. They were the ones, she thought with amusement, forced to move in the almost solid material. Though against snow, the white had advantages. She'd have to tell Haxel. Yena preferred to blend with their surroundings; wise in a place where what you didn't hunt, hunted you. Difficult, so far, to match the bleak gray-browns of stone and dirt. Sona's white undercoats had promise against snow.

“This way,” she said, stepping into the grove.

Now to hope Marcus was watching.

And that the Oud weren't.

 

For once, the two Adepts didn't move slowly or complain, though their faces bore angry red marks—they had to learn to raise their arms to protect themselves from twigs—and both were thoroughly winded from struggling through tight spaces before Aryl led them to the edge of the grove.

“Wait,” she admonished, when they would have plunged forward into the cleared space. “The Oud—”

“We know the Oud, unChosen.” Hoyon shoved her out of his way, a shocking rudeness for any Om'ray. “Look, Oran! The Cloisters!”

“I see it.” With quiet triumph.

Aryl pulled herself straight, rubbing her elbow where it had met a branch with decided force. No choice but to let them go ahead. She followed, watching for Marcus and his flying “eye.” Their footsteps sank through the thin layer of snow into the still-loose dirt left by the Oud. Hard going. The Adepts didn't care, possessed by fresh energy in sight of their goal.

She cared. Aryl scanned the snow for any tracks, any disturbance. Only the Adepts' prints marred the white surface. As for the path the strangers had blazed through the nekis?

It had been there. Right there. Aryl tried not to be obvious as she stared at a section of compact stalks where none had been before. More stranger-illusion, she decided, growing cheerful. Marcus did know they were here. He was keeping himself—and his camp—out of sight.

As for the Oud…she had the geoscanner, but all it would tell her was yes, there were Oud here, and likely everywhere.

The Adepts were half running now, working their way across the shallow depression Aryl's dreams told her had been water. Hoyon freed his robe from his belt, its pleated length flapping as he ran. He looked ridiculous, dressed like that, out here.

Or magnificent.

Suddenly, she wasn't sure. These were Adepts, the most powerful and Talented of their Clan. They belonged inside a Cloisters. Wasn't it right and fitting they were here, now? That she'd brought them?

What she'd said to her people, to her Clan last night—hadn't it meant this as well, that she must accept Oran and Hoyon as Sona's first Adepts?

When they promised to stay, Aryl told herself, feeling cold inside. When they proved themselves worth having.

Then, and not a moment before.

The Oud ramp remained. Oran climbed it without pausing to look for another entry; she disappeared down the other side, Hoyon right behind. Aryl hurried to catch up.

When she jumped down behind them on the platform, Hoyon started and whirled around, one hand up as if to push her again.

Aryl kept her distance. “Can you open it?”

There was a door centered on every arch. These, in her limited experience, weren't normally locked. A Cloisters wasn't normally empty of life and half buried by curious Oud either.

Oran stood, palms pressed to one side of the nearest door, her head bent in an attitude of concentration.

Concentration…or frustration.

Her hair thrashed uneasily down her back. Her knuckles whitened, fingers pressing hard. Adepts didn't use force to open the doors. They were taught a technique, given a secret passed down within their order.

Aryl remained quiet and still. Perhaps the Oud had somehow damaged the door, pushed dirt into its mechanism. It was possible.

No sign of Marcus. Snow had filled in his tracks, blurred his ladder of rock into something that might have been another, very small, ramp.

No sign, she saw with relief, of the Oud.

Oran stayed where she was. Hoyon went to the next door, hands flat, eyes closed as if he communed with the metal.

Aryl eased her weight from one foot to the other. The sun reflected from the upper portion of the Cloisters, it didn't reach here. Their robes were heavier than her tunic, but she wasn't worried about the cold. The movement of the sun was the concern. They were running out of time. She had to get the Adepts back to Sona before truenight and they couldn't run the distance, as she had. There were oillights in the small pack she carried. Would they keep away the rock hunters? Not something Aryl planned to test with only these two for help.

Oran joined Hoyon at his door. If they
sent
to one another, it was nothing she sensed.

She waited until she was sure.

They couldn't do it.

“Oran. Hoyon.” Neither looked up or acknowledged her. “We should leave now.”

“No!” This from Hoyon, hoarse and angry. At her or the door's failure to obey?

Stupid Grona.

“We'll come back,” she said reasonably. “Bring help to clean away the dirt. If you want, we'll dig out the main doors. But we have to leave. It'll take three tenths—” if they kept a good pace, “—to get back to Sona. That's pushing firstnight if we go now.” She wasn't the one, Aryl reminded herself, who'd caused the slow start.

Oran glanced over her shoulder, lips curled with disdain. “How could I forget? You Yena fear the dark.”

Poor Bern.

Aryl didn't bother reacting. “We came to see if you could open the Cloisters,” she pointed out. “You can't. It's time to leave.”

Both Adepts turned to face her. “You think that's the only reason we came?” Oran said, her voice smooth and sure. Her hair lifted like a cloud.

Hoyon laughed.

Power
pressed
against her from not one, but two minds. Aryl staggered back, her hands over her head as if it could help. Hammer blows of
force
and
demand
and
OBEY!

Once before, she'd been attacked like this. Her mother had ripped apart her shields to take the memory she wanted. By comparison, that assault had been gentle. Those who wanted entry into her thoughts now cared nothing for the damage they caused.

PAIN!!!!

She was on the ground, writhing in the snow. Someone screamed.

NO!

She wasn't a child anymore and they weren't as powerful as Taisal. But they were two—and winning. Aryl tried to resist. She poured all she had into her shields, but layer upon layer shredded away.