Riders of the Storm (25 page)

A greater change than the road, then. In Yena's Council, Aryl had listened as Cetto sud Teerac spoke passionately against the use of Power to move objects. He'd warned it would lead to taking, instead of sharing, that Om'ray would become divided by their abilities instead of brought closer. His was the one voice she'd believed would be raised against using what she could do.

Did he no longer fear those consequences? Or had Cetto realized it was too late to do anything but ride the storm and hope to survive?

Maybe Haxel had convinced him. Aryl felt a certain sympathy. She shivered despite the coat. The First Scout—who didn't appear to notice the mountain cold any more than the wilting heat of the canopy—could ask the rest of her questions somewhere warm. With food.

“Think I'm in time for a meal?” she asked hopefully as she lengthened her stride.

“There'll be some in the pots. Rorn sees to that.”

“Wonderful.” Maybe she'd get a chance to ask Cetto or better yet, Husni, about those memories they should have. It would have to be carefully done. They couldn't learn what she knew or how…

“Looks like your cousin can't wait to see you.”

Seru?

There, without any coats, running flat out toward them between the rebuilt homes, hair loose and streaming. Alarmed, Aryl
reached
to her cousin.

Desperation.
Her heart lurched in her chest. “Something's wrong.”

Haxel broke into a run, Aryl right beside her. The three met, hands outstretched to clasp one another.

It's Myris!
Fear gave Seru's sending new strength.
Hurry!

 

A real door had replaced the blanket at the entrance to the second shelter. There was no center pivot to allow it to turn, but an arrangement of slats and rope held it in place or moved it aside, like the mechanism the scouts used each night to pull up ladders, to protect Yena. Had used.

Haxel threw it open, leading the way inside. “Ael—”

Stay away!

“I brought help, Uncle.” Seru closed the door behind them, fumbling with the ropes.

The room inside was now twin to their original shelter, embers aglow on a stone hearth and oillights on the walls, except for ranks of shoulder-high jars and baskets from the mound. The floor stones tilted this way and that, packed dirt used to level the result.

The musty scent of long-stored blankets and woodsmoke couldn't hide that of sickness.

Myris lay on a platform of blankets. Before they could take another step toward her, Ael blocked their path. “Stay away, Haxel!” Aloud, this time, and hoarse. His face was terrible to see, tear-streaked and pale; his lips struggled to shape words. “All of you! Go!”

“Hush, little brother.” The First Scout's voice was unusually gentle. “I'm here. What's wrong?”

Aryl had forgotten their relationship. Though Ael had been born Kessa'at, not Vendan, he'd been raised by Haxel's parents after his own fell to their deaths in the Lay, victims of a rotted span of bridge. The two had never seemed close.

Not that she'd cared about the past of any Chosen, she thought with a twinge. Before the Harvest, she'd considered adults—other than Costa—boring, opinionated, and against anything a lively unChosen might want to do instead of work.

After? They weren't what had changed.

“Wrong? Nothing you can fix.” Ael waved his arms, as if they were biters to be shooed away. “Go. Please, Haxel. Take them with you. Get away, now! It's not—safe. She's not.”

Chaun, who should have been here, was gone. Moved to the other shelter, despite his injuries. There was no one to help Ael or Myris.

A desertion with only one explanation. Aryl swallowed, hard, and
listened.

Sure enough, to her inner sense, Myris was unshielded chaos: emotions, memories, words tumbling in purposeless frenzy. Locked within her mind for now, but that could change in a heartbeat. If it did, her madness would engulf other Om'ray who were too close, taking first those who shared any connection. Like kinship.

Aryl turned to Seru while the other pair argued. “You can't be here. Go. Keep everyone in the shelter.”

Comprehension widened those green eyes. “But you—”

“Go.”

To her relief, Seru didn't argue.

Ael hadn't stopped pleading. “—Haxel, listen to me for once,” he begged. “There's nothing you can do. I don't want you here.”

“I'm not leaving—”

“Why?” From pleading to rage. “Tell me that. What good are you? What's our mighty First Scout going to do about this? Comfort me when my Chosen dies? I won't care. I won't hear a word, will I? I won't know who you are—who I am.” As she tried to answer, he raised his voice to a shout. “I've a better idea. Kill my husk, so it won't waste food. That's what you're good for!”

Aryl had never seen her cheerful uncle enraged; she'd never imagined Haxel speechless with hurt.

Myris needed help, not this.

She pushed between the two, facing the First Scout. “The Grona are coming, Haxel. Go.”

Their eyes locked. Aryl didn't dare lower her shields to reinforce the command, but Haxel had to obey. Whatever her outer strength, she couldn't protect herself from Myris. They'd lose her, too.

But whatever the other read on her face was enough. The First Scout spun on her heel and walked out.

“Aryl…”

“Uncle.” She made herself smile as she turned. “What have you done to my poor aunt while I was gone?”

 

Everywhere else,
anticipation
ran mind-to-mind. The newcomers were on the road to Sona. They'd made good time despite having chosen to walk the maze of abrupt hills left by the Oud. The weather had held for them: clear, if windy and chill. If the Yena had delayed their own departure from Grona by a day, they'd have missed the storm.

If they'd missed the storm, Aryl thought, she wouldn't be sitting here, in the relative gloom of Sona's second shelter, desperately wondering what to do. A broken bone was a simple matter.

A broken mind was not.

Myris was so still. Her eyelashes brushed shadows on ashen cheeks and the gash over her temple had grown a dark, ugly bruise. Her thick golden hair lay flaccid, without life.

Ael kept his eyes fixed on his Chosen's face. “I thought at first she'd fallen asleep. Sleep would be…” his voice trailed away, then firmed. “Don't worry about Haxel. We always end up shouting. I was never good at doing what I was told. Didn't know or care if there was a difference between daring and stupid.” To himself as much as to her, Aryl decided. “She looked out for me, brought me home, patched me up. Did you know she wouldn't let me take Passage? Oh, I was wild to go. She said the waters were too high that season…too many stitler traps even for her. When I refused to listen, she threatened to tie me to a chair. And she would have. She would.” A wan smile. “Haxel thought I was good enough for a Sarc, you see. Because of her, when Myris was ready, I was there.” His fingertips hovered just above the golden hair, traced the length of it as if inviting touch. But it didn't lift from the blanket. “My life—my life began that moment.”

Ael radiated
fear
and
misery,
his shields barely coping with the strength of his emotions. “Now it ends.”

“Not yet.” Aryl laid her hand over her aunt's.

“Careful!”

“It's all right,” she assured him, fervently hoping it was. Despite her shields, being this close to a mind out of control affected every sense. Hard to be confident when the room tipped at whim, the lights flared until she squinted or was blind, and why did she smell overripe sweetberries? “Let me try.”

Through the touch, she
sent
strength, what little she had left to spare. Enris would have been furious, but if it could help Myris' struggle to hold on to herself, at least she'd gain time to find an answer.

The floor steadied. The lights behaved. Not everything was normal. Aryl sniffed, recognizing the soap used to soak dresel wings. She sat back with a sigh.

“Thank you.”

Startled, she looked at her uncle. Ael looked deathly ill, his usually bright eyes dull and fighting to focus on her. But he managed a smile. “I felt it, too. Your—gift. I'm sure it helped.”

He felt it because the Chosen were one. An unnecessary reminder that if Myris died, she'd lose them both.

“I don't know what else to do, Ael,” Aryl admitted. “You must be sorry you followed me.”

“Daughter of our hearts. No.” His slim callused hand covered hers.
We're family. We belong together. She wants to be with you when you commence your Chosen life. It's only…now…so much…confusion…so much pain…

PAIN…

Shuddering, Ael pulled away. “Forgive me.” Harsh and low. “Go. You need to eat. Talk to the others. She's a Sarc, don't forget. Strong. Stubborn. She'll hold on. You've helped. We'll be fine. Some rest. That's all.”

“I'll be back, Uncle,” Aryl promised, shaken. “As soon as I can.”

Ael didn't answer. He rocked in place, back and forth. His fingertips hovered just above his Chosen's hair, traced the lifeless length of it.

Over and over again.

 

Haxel stood outside, coatless. “We go up the valley. Tonight.”

Aryl's hand dropped from the door fastener. “What?”

“Get Myris ready. I'll tell the rest.”

Just in time, Aryl stopped herself from shaking her head in the Human's gesture. “We can't leave,” she protested. “What about our supplies? The Oud—the rock hunters!” The creatures hadn't crossed the dry riverbed to follow them, to her relief and the First Scout's intense interest.

Haxel seized her arms, powerful fingers digging through the coat to bruise, hair breaking free of its net like something alive. “Don't argue with me! We take her to the Cloisters. Tonight!”

“Haxel, we can't.” Aryl's lips felt numb, her mind thick and slow. She'd felt alone when Enris left, but she hadn't been afraid. Not like this. First Scout Haxel Vendan wasn't like ordinary Om'ray. She was beyond emotion, incapable of rash judgment, always their wise and calm protector. Wasn't she? “It's locked. I told you—”

“We'll find a way in. There'll be something inside. Something to help them.” Hair lashed Aryl's cheeks, left a sting near one eye. “Don't you understand? I have to do something. I have to fix this!”
Fury!
“I won't lose them!” Suddenly, she was supporting most of Haxel's weight. “I can't lose him.” Almost a whisper. “Aryl. I can't. Not after…not after losing everything else…”

How could they be safe, if Haxel failed?

Aryl's heart hammered in her chest. It hurt to breathe.

There'd never been safety. She'd let herself use Haxel the way a young child would the tether tied to her waist as she learned to climb. Like a child, she'd believed she'd never be allowed to fall.

But she was no child. Haxel was extraordinary, not invincible. She owed her better—didn't they all? Cut the tether, Aryl told herself.

“They aren't going to die, Haxel.” This with all the confidence she'd ever heard in her mother's voice, having none of her own. “Listen to me. Myris is probably in retreat, like I was once. If so, she can be called back. I'll try. Like this.” She let strength
flow
through that contact until it left her dizzy and the other's eyes dilated in shock. “I've given her what I can for now. She's—she's resting. I need to eat, warm up. I need you to help me tell the others what I found, what it means. Prepare them for the Oud. I don't want anyone afraid.”

She was, Aryl thought glumly, scared enough for everyone already.

“The Cloisters,” she made herself add, “can wait.”

The First Scout inclined her head, hair subsiding. “Speaker.” She straightened. Her hands eased open, lingered on Aryl's arms, then busied themselves in a futile effort to shove her hair inside what remained of its net.

“The others should hear your report.” Brisk, assured, the old Haxel. She glared down the road. “We've Grona on our bridge. If they expect us to waste food in one of their feasts, they're in for a surprise. Let's go.”

They walked together to the shelter, as if nothing had changed between them.

As if the world had boundaries and certainty and shape.

As if, Aryl thought wistfully, they were safe.

A
FEW TENTHS MORE THAN a day. Aryl couldn't imagine what kind of welcome a longer absence would create. Upon word that Myris was resting, everyone began to bustle around her at once. Haxel's coat was whisked away, a blanket draped over her shoulders. A special place was readied for her by the hearth, on what had to be a first for Yena, a bench consisting of a blanket-covered wooden plank supported by large stones at each end. A bowl of something remarkably tasty was pressed into her hands.

A few brushed their fingers across her cheek, as if they needed touch to be sure she was back, as if she'd gone too far for them to sense, and they'd believed her lost.

Best of all, the sense of
home. Goodwill
and
relief
flowed mind-to-mind, through each touch, until she ducked her head to hide her tears. These were her people.

“Tell them what you found, Aryl.” Haxel's order silenced the hum of quiet voices. Everyone paid attention. Everyone was here.

Except Myris and Ael.

First things first. Aryl rested the warm bowl on her lap, her fingers pressed to its curve so they wouldn't tremble. She prepared an image of the waterfall and
sent
it to them all. As they reacted, some with dismay, others with astonishment, she continued aloud. “The Oud have stopped the water from going down the river for now, but there's a good road. Easy to make it there and back in daylight.”

“A good road? Then what we need is a flatlander's cart,” Morla offered. “Enris showed me the design.” She touched her bandaged wrist. “Veca and Tilip can build it.”

“Before or after finishing the next home?” This from Veca. “People need space.”

“The cart first!” Kayd paled as he realized his elders were all looking at him—most with surprise—but didn't back down. “Water's more important.”

“And heavy.” This from someone in the crowd drew
amusement
from everyone but Fon and Cader, who'd also spent yesterday carrying bags of water on their backs.

Haxel had been leaning against one wall, arms crossed, her eyes on Aryl. She stirred. “Tell them the rest of it. What you mean by ‘for now.'”

Aryl passed her bowl to Seru, who sat cross-legged and patient nearby, then brought out the pendant.

It sent reflections skittering across the dark beams and blanketed walls, flashed in startled eyes. “The Oud are willing to discuss restoring the river.”

She let them absorb the shock, feeling the race of inner conversation—some cautious and private, the rest she politely ignored.
Telepathy,
Marcus had called this ability. Until he'd named it, described it, she hadn't realized all races didn't communicate this way. How did they connect to one another? How could they trust what was said, if all they had were words?

“May I see that?” Cetto held out his hand, broad and callused.

She gave him the pendant and waited.

The former Councillor turned it this way and that, as if searching for a reason to dispute what it was, then passed it back to her. “Some might call it unfair, Aryl, to give someone so young such responsibility,” he stated in his deep, loud voice. “I call it rare good sense by the Oud.”

Startled laughter eased the
feel
of every mind. Aryl sent a flash of
gratitude
to Cetto, who smiled kindly.

Lendin sud Kessa'at, sitting by his tiny Chosen, spoke up. “What about the Oud?”

“What about them?” Husni looked around the room. “A Clan's supposed to have neighbors.”

Agreement.
Aryl sensed it coursing through the others. However unwarranted, many were relieved by this return to the proper order of things. A Clan had neighbors, Tikitik or Oud. A Clan conducted civilized dealings with those neighbors through a Speaker. Until now, they'd been uncertain of their status.

From Aryl's point of view, that hadn't changed. She wouldn't argue. Let them be comforted.

Except for Chaun, resting on a blanket platform, and Myris—her people looked better, she thought. Rested. Fed. And more. They'd begun to settle into this place, to make it their own.

She'd been right. Whether they'd intended to become a Clan or not, they had.

Sona lived.

 

Aryl slipped out, leaving the others in the midst of discussing what they'd do with plentiful water. None had ever planted or grown food; there was, nonetheless, optimism. Plants, after all, wanted to grow. In the canopy—as Taen pointed out—they'd struggled to keep greenery from taking over rooftops and bridges. Should growing food prove difficult to learn, there were the rest of the storage mounds. If half contained supplies similar to the first, Sona could support ten times their number for years. Though by then, Ziba had proclaimed, she'd be sick of dried rokly.

Haxel watched her leave. The others, too obviously, did not. Aryl understood. They wanted to believe she could help Myris. Wanted, but couldn't. She was no Healer.

Maybe not, but she was the only Om'ray here who dared approach Myris in this state. Fon's mind was strong enough, but his parents would never let him take that risk. Risky it was, Aryl thought, feeling as if she ventured over an untried branch. But Ael shouldn't be left alone, that at the very least.

Cloud coated the sky, tattered in dark strips against the top edge of the ridge closest to Grona. Aryl shivered inside her warm coat. Something unpleasant fell up there. Snow or ice-rain. Their visitors pushed on for good reason. If they kept their pace, they'd be here well before truenight. Only Sona's fourth, she realized. How quickly life could change.

Aryl opened the door and stifled a gasp of dismay. The interior of the second shelter had changed as well. The room ballooned at its far end, the jars wider than tall. The oillights were small suns on the walls, painfully bright. The wind outside, always present, always rustling and moaning, whistled shrill around her legs until she closed the door to keep it out.

Her senses lied for one reason—Myris was worse.

Resolutely, she walked forward and put her tray—a short plank—near the hearth. A container of water. Bowls of Rorn's latest. Ael, beside Myris, flinched. One hand sketched gratitude. Aryl doubted he could eat; Rorn had insisted.

Much of this, and she'd lose her own supper. She averted her eyes from a basket determined first to be a ball, then a waving stalk, trying not to breathe through her nose. None of the odors vying for attention were pleasant.

“Aryl?” Her uncle's dark head lifted, turned in a vague search. Could he not see her?

Fighting back pity, she touched his shoulder, letting him
sense
her presence. “Told you I'd be back, Uncle.” Confusion spilled from Myris, this close. Careful to shield herself, Aryl adjusted her aunt's blankets, then went to touch her hand.

Ael grabbed her wrist. “No!”

She didn't resist, allowing her renewed strength to flow through that contact instead, to him. Gradually, his fingers loosened and something saner showed in his reddened eyes. “Aryl.” Convinced, now. “You're here.” Glad, if weary to the bone. “Thank you.”

She patted the makeshift bed beside Myris. “Why don't you lie down? Rest a moment.” The suggestion alone made him yawn. “You'll do her no good exhausted.”

“I won't sleep,” Ael vowed.

“Of course not. But I'm here now. I'll keep watch.”

With a final, doubtful look, Ael laid down, taking great care not to disturb his Chosen, though he had to know nothing so simple would arouse her. Like someone old and stiff, he shuddered with relief as he stretched out.

Suddenly, he looked younger, too young. Aryl blinked as what she should have seen—the mismatch of Yena tunic, Grona leggings, Sona coat they all wore—was replaced by a handsome white shirt, worked with threads, a new tunic, and leg wraps. Her uncle as he'd been the day of Choice.

The vision distorted, then was replaced by reality. The room spun around its axis, spun and tipped. Aryl swallowed bile. If her mind was assailed by chaos from Myris', how much worse was it for Ael?

Aryl pushed aside her pity. They lived.

She laid her hand on that of her mother's sister, and gave what she could of herself.

 

Heart-kin.

Faded, that bond.

Horribly familiar.

Aryl rose to her feet, moving without sound, hand seeking the hilt of her knife. Ael slept, muscles atwitch as if beset by nightmares. Myris didn't move, hadn't moved. Her battle was deeper and the strength Aryl had given could only help her wage it, not win. The room, for now, was real.

Heart-kin.

That recognition had never made her feel this way before, cold inside. Afraid.

Bern Teerac, once her dearest friend, was here. Bern, now Bern sud Caraat. He wouldn't be alone. He couldn't be.
She
was here as well.

His Chosen. Oran di Caraat. Adept and trouble. The others, Oran's kin.

She had to know why they'd come.

With a final look at Ael and Myris, Aryl went to find out.

 

The wood platform Tilip had rebuilt along the front of what had just become their meeting hall was jammed with packs. Aryl's lip curled as she looked at them. Overloaded, too heavy, with trailing ropes and hanging bags to snag the carrier at every step. Unless, she reminded herself, the carrier made sure to stay on clear, open, and very flat roads. Grona, if she hadn't already known.

Her hand was almost on the latch when she felt it again.
Heart-kin.

Aryl opened the door.

Wet fabric. Smoke. Sweat. The less definable odor of whatever cooked in the communal pots. Dust—always that bitterness on the tongue, reminder of time passed and disaster.

What had been life-saving shelter against their first winter storm had four walls and a complete roof in time for the next. If blankets covered gaps packed with splinters and dirt; if the roof took a steep dip at one end so Rorn, their tallest without Enris, had to duck; and if the floor was no more level than any one rough stone? It was a safe place, it was their place, and it was blissfully warm.

The warmth lured her in, but Aryl delayed after she pulled the door back in place and secured its rope, letting her eyes adjust from daylight to the shadow of lamp and fire.

The newcomers, a tight little group, stood beside the cook fire. They hadn't removed their coats; dirty snowmelt puddled around their boots.

They held steaming cups, Sona-made, doubtless more of Rorn's soup. Her people didn't fail in hospitality.

Or in caution. No matter how Om'ray felt drawn together, there was a statement made by who stood closest to these strangers. Haxel, of course, but also Syb and Veca. Did the Grona have the faintest idea how quickly those three could draw knives? Om'ray didn't attack one another. When everything else changed, so could that. As for Cetto and Morla. Experience, diplomacy, dignity. Could the Grona sense their deep abiding anger, their well-learned distrust?

Something tight eased inside her chest. Enris and Haxel might be the only ones to know why she'd left Grona in haste; her people stood by her nonetheless.

Aryl slipped among those who stood against the walls to watch, looking for Seru. No one took their eyes from the Grona as she passed, but hands, held low and inconspicuous, turned to meet hers.
Welcome. Warmth. Caution.
Stranger names:
Gethen. Hoyon. Oswa and Yao. Caraat. Kran and Oran.
One who hadn't been a stranger until now.
Bern.
What little else they'd learned before her arrival.
Adepts. Oran di Caraat. Hoyon d'sud Gethen. A mother, Oswa Gethen. Her child, Yao. A brother, Kran. Oran's and unChosen.

From a few:
hope
.

From the rest:
distrust
.

Aryl replied in kind, giving a little
strength
through each contact, keeping her
dread
to herself.
Seru?
she asked one. Juo.

Sulking.
The other was amused.
He's not ready.
The Chosen were rarely sympathetic to those less fortunate.

There. She spotted Seru where folded blankets made a comfortable bench in their most windproof corner. Her cousin sat, feet together, hands folded on her knees, the image of polite disinterest. Husni and Ziba sat to either side, Taen beside her daughter. Weth was there as well, Chaun supported against her shoulder. Her blindfold hung loose around her neck; she suffered the changes in Sona best when she could see them happen.

Change, this was. Aryl planted herself by Tilip, using his shoulder and arm as a shield past which to see the Grona and not, she hoped, be seen. Not yet.

Kran Caraat was a younger, male copy of his sister. Tall and slender for Grona. Pale of skin and hair, dark eyes. The same facial structure, beautiful and austere, though Oran's bore fine lines at the eyes and mouth. Concentration and effort could have put them there; Aryl was inclined to believe it was temper. Certainly Oran's hair—free, save for a loose cap in the Grona fashion, to express itself—twitched its ends constantly, as if impatient.

The other Adept was heavyset and red-faced. He stood as if about to fall. Unused to exertion, Aryl judged. Or maybe it was the clothing he'd yet to shed. The Grona had come dressed in the kind of cold weather gear they hadn't, for some reason, bothered to give the Yena who'd passed through their village. Thick coats, stuffed round through the sleeves and chest. High boots, also thick with extra lining. Looked hard to move in, impossible to bend—perhaps why she hadn't seen a Grona bow yet. She'd have thought it ridiculous, if she hadn't experienced a winter storm.

Hoyon's daughter Yao was a waist-high shadow behind her mother, a shadow herself. Aryl frowned. The child was too young to travel away from safety; not that any of them should be here. Oswa Gethen silently sipped from her cup as the others murmured pleasantries; her brown hair shifted slowly over her shoulders. Exhausted, at a guess. She'd have the added burden of shielding the unfettered emotions of so young an Om'ray, though to be honest, of them all, only one looked able to walk another step.