Riders of the Storm (2 page)

A
N OUD DIED.

As was normal for its kind, this death took place somewhere dark, moist, and warm, where its naked remains would decay to nourish those above. It was alone, also normal, for Oud avoided those ill or wounded or otherwise infirm, even when dying themselves. There were dwellers in the tunnels to take care of any unable to reach a useful deathbed on their own. Nothing would be wasted. All would be reshaped. It had always been thus among Oud.

An Oud died. What was not normal for its kind was that it had crawled and humped to its final resting place with ventral pouches stuffed with treasures, instead of empty as was proper. Treasures which were not Oud. For this Oud had touched the unknown and Forbidden, sought answers only to find questions. Before the end, it had learned certain truths about its world.

In death, it would keep them.

A
RYL SARC LAY AWAKE, disturbed by her cousin's weeping. Soft, the sound. Weary.

Without hope.

Not that Seru Parth was any different from the rest of Yena's exiles. Despair. Grief. Dread of this unfamiliar landscape. All were kept private behind the mind's shield; any needful tears hidden by truenight and a blanket's cover. None wished to burden the others, though they shared the same past and pain. Exiled by their own Clan, who themselves faced a chancy future. Forced to seek a new place to live, to survive on their own. No wonder some wept.

But all truenight?

Soft. Weary. Without hope.

Aryl abandoned the effort to sleep and sat up. She hugged her share of their blanket, careful not to pull it from her cousin, and gazed helplessly at the bump lying beside her. Seru had lost parents as well as home.

Hadn't they all?

She shivered. Each firstnight, as the sun left them, darkness moved up the mountain ridges like a swarm of shadow, consuming not only light but warmth. Their tiny fire gave the reassurance of a glow but never enough heat, not for twenty-three exhausted Om'ray. The Chosen and families huddled together, sleeping in their clothes and sharing blankets, always cold. Her nose, Aryl was sure, was permanently numb. Was it almost firstlight?

Unlike the others, Seru's weeping had only started last truenight. A few moments, a hiccup, then peace. This?

“Seru,” Aryl whispered as quietly as possible. The bump didn't move. The sound of weeping didn't stop. She lowered her shields and
reached
ever-so-gently to let her inner sense seek the other's mind.
Cousin
…she began to send, then stopped, realizing what she felt.

No wonder Seru didn't respond. She was fast asleep.

With a sigh, Aryl laid down, pressing her forearm over her ear. Whatever dream troubled the other's rest was none of her business. They all needed sleep.

There were troubles enough ahead.

 

Could the exiles take to the air, their route would be a straight line over the mountain ridges that crested one after the other, each higher and more jagged than its predecessor. Sunlight flowed across bare rock, carving harsh, angled shadows that changed shape throughout the day. Clouds caught on the most distant ridge, as if its summit crushed the sky. A fitting end to the world, in Aryl's estimation, except that the world inconveniently extended beyond. Vyna and Rayna. Two more chances to find a home among their kind. And they couldn't fly.

Vyna was unknown. Its Om'ray could be
felt,
of course; they all knew exactly where it was. But could they get there? No one could recall a Vyna unChosen arriving on Passage, implying a barrier too difficult for Om'ray to cross isolated Vyna from the rest of Cersi.

Rayna was their best hope. It was also the nearest Clan to them, the lure of its hundreds of Om'ray like the warmth of the sun on cold cheeks. It wasn't right, for Om'ray to be separated. Aryl took comfort in every step closer.

Though there were, she thought wryly, a great many steps to go. To reach Rayna meant this too-slow march around the lowest reaches of the mountains. Part of the time, they walked across shadowed valleys. At others, they would top a rise and be able to gaze down toward Amna and Yena, see the broad, glittering darkness that severed the two: the Lay Swamp, here open to the sky. Herds of what Aryl guessed to be osst moved through its bent vegetation. Sometimes their deep grunts carried up on the night breeze, making her shudder. They belonged to the Tikitik. Not friends to Om'ray. Not friends at all.

The solid footing close to the mountains was the only choice. There was a road of sorts, winding with the ridges, if the word applied to an uneven trail free of worrisome boulders. The exiles took it, since it went the way they needed to go. Easier walking, maybe. Monotonous, definitely.

Aryl kept a worried eye on her cousin throughout the morning. During their daily march, Seru stayed back in the latter half of their group, seeming content with the Uruus family. She entertained their precocious daughter Ziba—surely a valuable service to all. Once in a while, the two burst into giggles, startling smiles from those nearby. Aryl might have dreamed the endless weeping.

She yawned. No. Hadn't slept enough to dream.

“Something wrong?”

Enris Mendolar, the only one of their company not of Yena, matched his pace to hers. Being a Tuana flatlander, he wasn't as light-footed or quick as the rest; being bigger than any, he could—and did—carry the heaviest pack with ease. Hardly older than she, he'd earned respect from all. Enris had risked his life to save them; his knowledge of similar landscapes helped guide them now. Dark hair, dark eyes, a powerful mind full of secrets. He laughed when she least expected it.

A stranger, by Om'ray terms. An eligible unChosen, as yet more interested in puzzles than any Chooser. Poor Seru had learned not to cast longing looks his way across the evening fire.

A friend to whom Aryl could speak her mind without fear. She looked up with a small frown. “Wrong? Tell me what isn't.” She gestured to the ridge that loomed beside them. “Rocks that hunt.” Another to the dome of sky above, still strange to the younger Yena. “No shelter.” She finished by patting the rope wound around her flat stomach. “Should I mention food?”

That laugh, deep and amused. “Please don't. I'm fading away.”

She didn't point out that there was more flesh on his bones than on any Yena. It was, she knew, not the Tuana's fault. They'd been the ones living with starvation. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten her fill without thought to the next day. The Grona had given the Yena a feast—she hadn't been the only one to tuck excess in her pockets. “We've Grona bread,” she reminded Enris.

They'd left Grona Clan with high spirits, full if not of hope, then the determination to find some. Before leaving, the other exiles had filled packs with supplies, Grona obliged to be generous to those on Passage, even if these were the most unlikely travelers. After three days on this road, Aryl knew she wasn't the only one to put away most of her ration. This terrain was barren; a barrier to life, she decided, rather than home for it. The grove was a distant line of lush green within the Lay, tempting their eyes.

It wasn't safe. By day, Tikitik would be watching for them. By truenight?

Truenight in the mountains might be cold but, away from the rock hunters, it was safe. The same could never be said of the canopy. The towering groves of rastis and nekis were home to myriad forms of life, most, in Aryl's experience, fond of Om'ray flesh, while the black waters of the Lay held the swarms that climbed by truenight to hunt. To be caught away from light by those was to be eaten before you died.

“We aren't thirsty,” Enris commented.

Aryl grimaced, her feet damp from crossing the last mountain torrent. More strangeness. Where did it come from, without rain? Why was the water numbingly cold no matter if the day warmed? The Tuana's thick boots at last made sense. Haxel, being no fool, had obtained a similar pair before leaving Grona, as had a few of the others. Her own departure had been more abrupt. Remembering turned her grimace into a real frown.

“Do you feel it? There are Grona away from their village.”

“Fields,” Enris said mildly. “Grains and other crops to reap. They aren't following us.”

“They” being Bern and his Chosen, the Adept Oran di Caraat. The two were why the exiles were again without a home. Oran had wanted Aryl's ability to access the
other place,
to move through its darkness at will. A new Talent, barely under her control, not ready to be shared. A Talent fraught with danger to the user, let alone all Om'ray.

For Cersi, this world, was held in peace by the Agreement. What was, should remain. Change, significant and sudden, in Tikitik, Oud, or Om'ray, would break that Agreement. The consequence? Aryl was quite sure Oran di Caraat didn't worry about that, safe in her stony village.

She did. So did those with her.

“I could find out.”

A sharp look. Enris knew what she meant. Aryl had the Talent to
reach
and learn identity. It took Power. “Too risky.” He scuffed the toe of his boot, raising a puff of dust. “See?”

She dutifully stared down at the road. “See what?”

Haxel Vendan glanced over her shoulder. “Oud. Their machines crush the small stones to powder.”

“Exactly,” Enris said with a nod to the First Scout. “This is their road, not Om'ray. No recent tread marks, maybe, but—” he shrugged, the motion letting him adjust the pack on his shoulders. “It's not worth the risk. Trust me. Unless necessary, don't use Power where they might be close.”

By close, he meant under their feet. Oud tunneled. Aryl wasn't sure what a tunnel would be like; she was sure she didn't want to find out. Nor was she anxious to find out for herself what he meant by “risk,” though others among the exiles had also heard of this peculiarity of Oud, that a few had minds that interfered—painfully—with an Om'ray's natural ability if used.

Having joined their conversation, Haxel paused to let them catch up. They moved through this unfamiliar territory with their strongest members to the fore and rear. The First Scout and Syb sud Uruus led the way, with Aryl and Enris next. Rorn sud Vendan, Haxel's Chosen, came last with the Kessa'ats, Veca and Tilip, as well as Ael sud Sarc. The four eldest, the children, and pregnant Juo Vendan stayed in the midst with the others.

Their only Looker, Weth Teerac, had left a tenth earlier, at firstlight. What her Talent could find out of place in a land none of them had seen before, no one knew. But it was a precaution, of sorts, against being surprised.

“Good advice,” the First Scout asserted. “Besides, the Grona walk like him. We'd hear those big feet long before being in sight.”

Enris chuckled, not denying it. Even in the same kind of boots, Yena were a great deal quieter.

“Besides,” continued the scout, her wicked grin twisting the scar that ran from cheek to eyebrow, “who'd follow us? One of their unChosen lusting for our Seru? Hah! Bunch of diggers. Not one looked worth feeding. She's a Parth. She can wait for better.” This with a meaningful glance at Enris, who smiled. Haxel laughed, then lengthened her stride to rejoin Syb at the front.

The Tuana raised one eyebrow. “Should I be flattered or insulted?”

Aryl ignored him. The other problem with this too-flat road was time to think—too much of it. “Oran could have told all of Grona by now.”

“She could,” Enris agreed. “But she won't. I know her kind. They don't share secrets—not when there's some advantage. Relax, Aryl.”

She tightened her shields, her cheeks growing warm despite the chill breeze that fingered its way past her hood. Enris didn't mean her. It didn't change anything. She hadn't shared her secret, hadn't explained to the others why she'd fled Grona with only the clothes she wore, without a word to anyone.

She must. She would. When the time was right. Each 'night, they crowded together, exhausted and worn, staring at a fire smaller than two fists. Yena nerves twitched to the darkness; children whimpered. She couldn't bring herself to add to their burden.

Only Enris knew the whole truth. He'd left it for her to decide when and what to share. He'd told her people Bern and Oran had made it impossible for her to stay in Grona. The other exiles had followed without hesitation. She owed him for that. She owed them all.

She would find them shelter and food, make them safe.

Then find a way to tell them all this was her fault.

 

Aryl removed her boots and turned them upside down. Water gushed out, then settled into a steady drip. The stone underfoot was warm, for once; the sun high overhead. No biters or flitters. They were, as far as she could tell, the only living things in this desolate place. Unless she counted the occasional wispy clump of dried vegetation, none of it more than ankle-high.

She wasn't the only one dealing with the aftermath of their latest crossing. The mountain river had been shallow, but so white with froth there'd been no telling where best to step. Or not step. Enris, who professed to love the noisy, annoying streams, had managed to soak his feet this time as well. Aryl lowered her head to grin.

Some of the exiles took advantage of the respite to lay wet clothing out to dry. They'd learned the hard way how quickly it chilled the skin beneath. On that thought, Aryl untied her leg wraps and squeezed them to merely damp, then spread the gauze strips over a dark flat rock. Bare, her shins and ankles showed the cost of a moment's carelessness: the pink of new scars showed where her flesh had fed the swarm. No swarm here.

She grabbed a pair of small stones, then stared at them, her skin crawling.

There were other threats.

Feeling the fool, Aryl flattened her palms to give each stone a chance to move, if it was so inclined.

Being ordinary matter, they did nothing of the kind.

She used them to weigh down her wraps, in case the breeze kicked up. Better safe than supper, she consoled herself. She'd shared her memories of the rock hunters with Haxel and the others. The Grona spoke of them, too, but claimed the bizarre creatures stayed to uncivilized slopes, where they could hide among the real thing. Camouflage was their only weapon; they moved too slowly to catch living prey. So Grona believed.

Grona believed truenight was safe, too.

Aryl decided she wasn't wrong to be wary of loose rock.

After consideration, she kept on her longest coat. The hem might drip, but the sun wasn't that warm.

Beside her, Chaun sud Teerac slowly straightened to look into the distance, a smile lighting his face. She followed his gaze and saw a figure appear at the rise of the next hill. It would be Weth, his Chosen.

Who was walking toward them. Quickly.