Riders of the Storm (3 page)

All the exiles rose to their feet, clothing forgotten. “What's brought her back?” Haxel said for all, and strode off to meet their guide, collecting Ael and Syb—and their longknives—with a look.

“She's found it, hasn't she?” Seru came to stand close to Aryl, arms wrapped around her middle. Her hood was down and hair escaped its net, black strands playing against her too-pale cheeks, catching on the cracks of her lips. They all suffered in the dry cold air, soaked feet and legs notwithstanding. “I knew it would be soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Remembering how her cousin had wept in her sleep, Aryl gentled her tone. “Found what?”

Seru's green eyes were huge and unfocused. “Where they died.”

Who? For an instant, Aryl couldn't answer, her mind racing through possibilities. There had been Yena unChosen sent on Passage. A couple had taken this route. She didn't know if they'd survived it.

Or had Seru talked to Grona Om'ray, heard of a misadventure of that Clan? Or…“Who?” she asked, staring at her cousin. “Who died?”

“Sona.” Quick and certain. Seru hesitated then, licked her lower lip before taking it between her teeth. “It's a name,” she said at last, looking directly at Aryl. “Of something. I don't know what. I don't know how I know, Aryl. I don't!”

“Sona” meant nothing to Aryl. What did was the stricken look on her cousin's face. “It's all right, Seru,” she soothed, mystified. “You've been having bad dreams. That's probably what it was. A dream.”

“No.” Seru's chin trembled. “We're getting closer with every step, Aryl. Closer to where they died! All of them died!! It's dangerous here! We have to turn around. You have to believe me!”

They had an audience; there was no avoiding it. The other exiles granted them a semblance of privacy by a sudden interest in drying boots and clothes. Enris, who sat near enough to hear every word, gave Seru a pitying look before turning away.

She noticed. Her small frame straightened within its burden of heavy Grona clothing, and she blinked as if to fight back tears. Stung, Aryl touched her cousin's hand.
He doesn't know you as I do,
she
sent,
tight and private. And it was true. Power and Talent weren't the only strengths an Om'ray could possess.

I don't know how I know.
Repeated mind-to-mind, the words came laced with dread.
I feel—I feel them die, Aryl. I hear your voice and their screams at the same time. I—
Seru rubbed her arms vigorously. “I hurt with their pain.”

Aryl's fingers left her cousin's hand, curled to meet her palm. The exotic Power of a Chooser, Seru's longing, her
need
. Easy to sense that, too. The disinterest of the only candidate for her Choice had to be a torment. The instinct consumed Seru from within, fought her valiant effort to restrain her Call and save her strength for the march.

For how long? A Chooser could wait, sometimes must wait, but there was always Choice. Wasn't there? She remembered a story, one of the glowlight scares for those too young to understand its true horror, about a Yena Chooser denied Choice. Her drive faded, then left. Her immature body remained as it was, infertile and barren, her mind partnerless and alone. One day she'd walked into a stitler's trap, and no one believed she'd been careless.

Not Seru, Aryl vowed to herself. She would have a future. Parth would have a future.

All of Yena's families would survive.

“I'll see what Weth found,” she promised aloud, her voice steadier than she'd expected. She eyed her still-damp wraps with distaste and left them, grabbed her wet boots, and forced them on with a grimace. “Go tell Myris what you've told me.” When there was no reply, she glanced up, not surprised to see her cousin's face had clouded. Aryl knew that stubborn look. “Please,” she said softly, tying her laces.

“There's nothing wrong with me.” Each word flat and hard.

“I didn't say there was. Myris isn't a Healer.” But they both knew their aunt could ease the emotions of close kin. Worth a try, as far as Aryl was concerned. Maybe Myris could calm Seru, stop her dreams from affecting her while awake. At least keep her quiet. They had no Adepts of their own; no one who could repair a mind or protect the rest of them from its failure. “She's wise, that's all,” Aryl said with care. “She might help you understand—”

“Understand what?” Seru scowled. “I'm not imagining this, Aryl. You think because my Power's less than yours, I don't know how to use it. I do. I have to. I've always had to. That's why I know this is real. Sona died.” Her cousin stopped, her head rising to stare up the rise where Weth was now talking to Haxel. “Om'ray died. That's what you'll see.”

 

Enris squatted at the near edge. Aryl noticed his hand hovered over the disturbed ground but didn't touch it. “Oud,” he said at last, then turned his head to spit eloquently.

In disbelief, she stared at what should have been the road across the next valley floor. Should have been. From their feet—at the base of the hill Weth had climbed to meet them—to where it curved to disappear past the next abrupt rise of rock, the ground was no longer flat. Instead, its surface heaved and sank as if stone had momentarily become water, leaving ripples that grew in size toward the middle of the valley. The largest were, she estimated, more than two Om'ray high. Difficult obstacles, Yena or not. Worse, the footing between looked soft and treacherous. The disturbance stretched to either side, filling the valley.

They couldn't go this way.

“How?” Haxel asked, also staring ahead. “How did they do it?”

Enris rose to his feet. “Does it matter?” He brushed dust from his legs. “The reshaping was long ago. See the plants? The weathering on exposed rock? They're done. For now.”

He spoke casually, but Aryl caught something restrained in his manner, a new tension. She was tempted to lower her shields and
reach
to him, but didn't. Even if manners seemed less important in this wild place, Haxel would likely notice.

“We can go around it,” Weth offered. Leri's cousin, of the same height and slender frame but, unlike other Teeracs, her eyebrows and hair almost white against her tan skin. As with other Lookers Aryl knew, she was visibly restless, her eyes flicking from side to side as often as they fixed on someone else, her body tense, its weight shifting from one foot to the other. Possessed of an uncomfortable Talent, a Looker was alarmed by physical change in a remembered place. A band of tightly woven cloth hung from her neck, a blindfold Weth would use if confronted by too much change, too quickly. Her visual memory was so precise, she could close her eyes to retrace her own steps, and often did, as if memory was more trustworthy.

Aryl shaded her eyes with one hand, studying their options. Haxel, Syb, and Ael did the same. Enris didn't appear interested. He tossed a handful of dirt into the wind, then stared into the distance toward their goal, making a soft, irritating whistle between his teeth.

She ignored him. Weth was right. They could move along the slope of the ridge. Though wide, the disturbance created by the Oud didn't appear to extend all the way up the valley. Disturbing, to think the creatures might have focused their destruction on the road itself, as if to cut off movement in this direction. Why? Aryl couldn't forget Seru's feeling about this place. Had someone—or several someones—died when the Oud struck?

If so, how had her cousin known?

As for the other choice? This valley, like the others they'd passed, opened its mouth to the Lay Swamp. Cutting close to that dangerous shoreline would expose them to any Tikitik riding in the shallows. Worse, they'd have to be away from it before truenight, or face what might come out to hunt.

Aryl squinted up the valley again. Rock, rock, and more rock. Difficult and exhausting to climb. There was no way to know how much the detour would delay their crossing.

Or, she shuddered inwardly, if there were hunters hiding amid the rubble.

Ael spoke up. “Syb and I can take one route each. Report back—”

“We stay together,” Aryl countered without thinking, then gestured a hasty apology to Haxel. The First Scout led in this wilderness; she hadn't meant to usurp her authority.

She didn't want any.

Haxel merely raised an eyebrow, stretching her scar. “We've another problem, don't we, Tuana?”

The whistle ended. Enris tipped his head at the mountain ridge ahead of them, its top edge cloaked, as always, in heavy cloud. “Only if we're caught in the open.”

“There's nothing but open,” Haxel pointed out. “Such clouds on a changing wind mean an early winter storm,” she clarified for the rest of them. “A hazard Grona's excuse for a First Scout did know. Enris is right. We'll need shelter before it hits. That's the priority.”

“Winter? Will the water turn hard, like wood? The Grona said that's what happens.” Syb was clearly entranced by the possibility. Aryl shivered. Water should behave like water, in her opinion.

“Not these streams.” Enris sounded sure. “But there'll be a nasty bite to that wind soon. It's going to get cold.”

Get cold? Aryl's legs were almost numb below the hem of her coat. “We could make a shelter,” she suggested. “Pile rocks into walls, like the Grona do. Use blankets to fill any gaps, shield a fire—” If they could find anything to burn, she reminded herself. Everyone collected what dry vegetation they found as they walked. Twisted into compact knots, each day's gleaning barely let them heat water and light the way to their blankets. That trick…how to dig holes for their waste—there being no convenient swamp below…sharing their body warmth? All from Enris. She didn't doubt him. None of them did.

“Good idea—if we had bigger rocks or a cave.” Haxel gazed up the valley for a long moment, her face expressionless, then looked over her shoulder at them. “That way.”

“Up there? What we'll find are rocks to eat us in our sleep.” Nothing could be trusted, Aryl thought. Not the ground. Not even the sky.

Haxel's scar twisted with her fierce grin. “One threat at a time. We'll go ahead. Find and prepare a shelter. You and Enris get them moving and follow as quickly as you can.”

Decision made, the First Scout broke into an easy run, Weth, Syb, and Ael keeping pace. The wraps on their long legs flashed white as they ran parallel to the ridge, then, without slowing, up its slope to avoid the disturbed ground of the valley floor.

Aryl blew out a breath. “She didn't listen.”

“She did,” the Tuana said with a hint of his deep laugh. “Ravenous rocks or not, we don't have a choice.” He put one big hand on her shoulder and turned her to face the ridge and its shroud of dirty white. “See what looks like mist dropping below the clouds? That's snow, Aryl.”

Young Grona had excited Ziba beyond measure with their tales of playing in the fluffy stuff. “I've heard of it,” said Aryl impatiently. “Frozen water. So what?” Hadn't she witnessed Enris' dismay at a little rain in the canopy? Om'ray like Tuana and Grona probably ducked inside their homes if the weather was anything but perfect. He'd learn. “We'll manage.”

“Snow can be deadly.” No laughter in his face now. “It can fill the air so we won't be able to see each other, let alone where we're going. Or,” Enris hesitated, then went on, his voice grim, “it could be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Winter storms from the mountains sometimes reach the edges of Tuana. What falls from them this early isn't snow. It's rain, a hard rain that coats whatever it touches in ice. Imagine being cold, blind, and unable to take a step without falling—”

“Yena,” Aryl said stiffly, “don't fall.”

“Yena haven't met winter.” His grip became a push. “Let's get the others.”

 

The click and rattle of disturbed pebbles. A deep breath of effort. The creak of a rope strap over a shoulder. Otherwise, the exiles were silent as they made their way along the lower slope of the ridge. Though Aryl kept close to her cousin when they'd first come over the rise, Seru had said nothing more, her face set and grim. Even Ziba remained hushed, making Aryl realize how much cheer her lively babble had added to their journey. She didn't blame the others, feeling the same. It was hard to find words, faced with the evidence of a force that could stir rock the way an Om'ray might a bowl of dresel.

The storm that so alarmed Enris and Haxel kept its distance. Or, she thought anxiously, her gaze slipping up the mountain to the torn edge of cloud, distance lied. The blue of the sky had turned pale and the sun's power to warm was gone.

The exiles moved silently, but quickly. The more rugged terrain suited the Yena as the flat road hadn't. They leaped over small gulleys and cracks instead of wading through the inevitable small stream, and ran up or down any vertical rise worth the effort, rarely touching the gray-and-russet rock with their hands.

Enris let them, choosing his path by flatlander criteria. Though he made what speed he could, he soon fell behind. He'd wave nonchalantly whenever she stopped to look back. At times, he was out of sight.

Aryl didn't like it.

When she next looked for the Tuana, Cetto sud Teerac paused with her on the ledge. “We should have split his load,” the former Yena Councillor commented in his bone-deep voice. “That pack would do three.”

“It's not the weight.” Aryl tapped her toe on the rock. “It's the height. He doesn't like it.”

“Ah.” Cetto hopped down, nimble as Ziba despite being the oldest of them. “Not much we can do about that, is there?”

She could wish Enris less stubborn, Aryl thought, but to herself.

Something cold touched her cheek. She brought up her hand in surprise, bringing away a drop of water. A fleck of white, like the fluff around some seeds, landed on her open palm. It collapsed on itself, becoming another drop. When she looked out over the valley, she discovered that view now obscured by an oddly bright mist. Snow?