Riders of the Storm (33 page)

If there were differences between homes, storerooms, or shops, none showed from outside. He could pick any door, go inside…Enris snorted, hearing his mother's voice in his head. ‘Poor manners make a poor guest.'”

His father wasn't the only one with sayings.

Still…it could be time for supper. Maybe that was why he'd seen no one. Surely even a stranger under a death sentence being ignored by an entire Clan could walk in and share a family's meal.

Despite not sensing any Om'ray here, Enris paused and sniffed hopefully near one of the always-open arches. Not food, but…he sniffed again and coughed. Musty. Damp. Like the back corner of a storehouse in spring. Old.

The whole place was musty and old, he decided with a grimace. It didn't matter how clean it appeared, how perfect. There was rot somewhere.

Up was—he leaned back to see—an appalling number of steps without any change.

Enris picked down.

 

Down meant around as well. By the time he reached the lowest level, Enris had circled Vyna twice. His feet hurt and he was unhappy, being, as Aryl would doubtless point out, too easily ruled by his stomach. His shrinking stomach. Fine for Yena to starve themselves, he grumbled to himself. None of them were his size.

From above, he'd spotted three bridges connecting the island and wall, each a stretch of black rock barely wide enough for a child. That he'd needed to be led by the hand on his arrival—and almost fallen off every other step—was proof. The mist obscured most of their length, but two ended in tunnel-like openings into the mountainside, lit by glows. The third didn't come out of the mist. Perhaps it wasn't finished.

The last step. Enris greeted the platform at the water's edge with a groan of relief. It stretched to either side, matched to the sharp, irregular lines of the island itself. Beside him, the upraised tips of floating craft pretended to be a forest. Instead of being tossed by a breeze, they rose, leaned, and settled with the water's movement. Not that he could see the water through the mist. It fingered its way up the sides of the craft, pooled against the black edge of the platform. Steps disappeared into it, as well as the light from the glows.

Plenty of Om'ray here, shadows without voice. They looked at him as they passed with hooks and mesh over their shoulders, sidelong looks without welcome or curiosity. As if to see where he stood, so they could avoid him.

Which only worked if he let it, Enris thought, amused. He planted himself in the path of the next burdened Vyna and smiled widely. “Need help with that?”

This didn't get the reaction he'd hoped. Every Vyna in earshot stopped what they were doing to glare at him.
HUSH!
The sending was from more than one.

With an undertone of
fear
.

Of him? Not judging by the disdain on the face of the Om'ray he'd interrupted.

A familiar face. Deep-set eyes, a prominent chin and heavy cheekbones, skin so pale it reflected the light from the nearest glow. Tall, bone-thin. Like Fikryya, his hair was hidden beneath a tight cap, this one green and blue, with tassels of blue hanging to his shoulders and down his back. Unlike the Chooser, he wore a snug-fitting yellow tunic, overwritten with black symbols, that went to his knees and left his arms bare. Scrawny arms, like a child's. No, that was an insult to young Ziba, whose arms were ribboned with muscle.

Enris felt thick.

Though he had no idea why his voice upset them, he gestured apology.
May I help?
he sent, careful to maintain his shields.

The Vyna shrugged the mesh from his shoulder to the platform.
Bring that.
Once Enris moved aside, he walked to the nearest step and disappeared into the mist.
This way.

If there was
anticipation
and a not-pleasant
amusement
in the sending, the Tuana chose to ignore them.

He picked up the mesh and put it over his shoulder.

It was a start.

 

The craft of the Vyna were metal, not wood as he'd expected, and extraordinarily simple. The shape, like a curled leaf, was hammered from a single thin sheet. Enris ran his hand along the side, imagining how it would have been poured and cooled to retain its strength. Folds reinforced the top edge and midline. Wide, lengthwise bars created a floor; he had to be careful not to wedge his boot in their gap. There were two narrower bars across the width. After climbing over the side—in his case, a graceless struggle made worse by the damp footing of the steps—the two Vyna leaned back against one of those bars, mesh bundled beside them, their expressions impassive.

He leaned on the other and smiled.
I'm Enris Mendolar.

The silence, inner and outer, was almost painful. Then,
Daryouch
. The older Vyna, who'd given him the mesh to carry.

Etleka.
The other Vyna. UnChosen. A son, he guessed. The similarity between the two, and to Fikryya, must mean close kin.

Of the same family?

Of Vyna.
This from Daryouch, with a
snap
of impatience, as if Enris asked a stupid question.
Make no sound once the float begins to move.

Move how? Enris couldn't see any mechanism or device to—

Power. He
sensed
it, felt it. But—

The float, as Daryouch named it, slipped away from the steps, mist parting as if to let it through, then closing in behind.

The Tuana almost laughed in amazement. They were using Power to move their float—and themselves—across the water. The control required outstripped anything he'd imagined. He had to learn this. He'd been right to come.

The only sound was their breathing and the slide of water along the metal sides. Mist poured into the float, swirling and damp. At times, it obscured everything below their waists, so they might have been sitting in a cloud. The sky above was masked as well. Nothing to see in any direction. If it hadn't been for his
sense
of other Om'ray, Enris would have been lost.

That and the smell. The must of old rot was stronger out here.

The float came to a stop.

Ready the net.

Etleka held out one side of the mesh. The Tuana took it, watching carefully as the other Om'ray demonstrated, with his two-thumbed hands, how to grip a thicker edge rope in one and take a handful of the fine mesh in the other.
Raise it like this.

In the air? From the glint in Daryouch's eye, he knew better than to ask. Dutifully, Enris copied Etleka's position.

Hold. No matter what.

Enris braced himself within the metal leaf, boots against a floor bar, his back to the one that crossed the width.

Power. This time not to move anything, but to summon.

It was like the Call of a Chooser, but immeasurably stronger. And, like so much of Vyna, Enris realized it was not…quite…

…right.

Even as he grasped that the summons wasn't meant for him, a small shape appeared in the mist, flinging itself toward them. It collided with the net, and Etleka grinned.
Denos,
he sent.
Supper!

Then the mist was full of flying shapes. The denos seemed oblivious to the net, quickly becoming entangled in such numbers that Enris copied Etleka and fastened his rope to the bar. The two plucked the swimmers free and dropped them to the floor where they fell through the gaps, a writhing harvest of silver and black that soon spilled over the bars and flopped around their feet.

The summons ended. With a final splash, the last denos dropped into the water on the other side of the float, safe for the time being.

Etleka clapped Enris on the shoulder then began folding up the net.

“Let me help,” the Tuana said without thinking.

HUSH!

No missing the
fear
. The Vyna looked horrified; Daryouch furious as well. Both froze in place, staring into the mist.

Something was there.

Enris wasn't sure how he knew, but he stared as well.

The float rocked once, gently.

Something approached.

His inner sense. That was it. But how? How could he
sense
something
in
the water?

Not with his inner sense, he realized with a shudder, but with what connected him to the M'hir. That was where he felt that cold, strange touch. It wasn't Om'ray. But
real.
Alive.

The Vyna had summoned something from the depths, something to terrify the denos into their net.

And now it hunted his voice.

He pulled his knife, gripped the bar with his other hand, and readied himself.

Put that away.
For once Daryouch didn't
feel
angry.
A
rumn
can swallow three floats with one gulp. Stay still and make no more sound. It should leave.

That was a rumn?

No wonder the tiny swimmers thought leaping into the air was safer.

Enris wanted to join them.

 

Two days in a row and he hadn't been eaten.

Enris decided he was pleased. He also decided to avoid extremely large hungry creatures on the premise a third encounter could be his last.

After an endless tenth waiting for the rumn, whatever that was, to choose not to eat them, they returned to the platform. He helped Etleka unload their catch, now fully understanding why the Vyna didn't care to speak out loud—particularly by the water.

How do you eat them?
he asked Daryouch, eyeing the still-flapping denos with ravenous intent. If they said raw, he'd take that plump one first.

Flatcakes.
This from Etleka, with an
image
of white flesh, shredded and spiced, shaped into disks and fried a crisp brown.

Stomach growling, Enris licked his lips.
I'll take a few of those.

Stranger!
A harsh summons. The Tuana glanced up at the grim-faced pair on the platform. They could have been Daryouch's brothers and were dressed like the denos-catcher, except for the green metal rod each carried, about the length of an arm. Tool or badge of office?

An escort, that he knew. Enris gave the dying denos a wistful look, shrugged at his companions—who turned away to become too-obviously busy with their catch—and climbed out of the float.
Supper?
he asked.

In answer, they pointed the rods left.

Not up? Enris shrugged again and started walking. The pair set themselves one to each side, as if to make sure he didn't elude them by diving into the mist-covered, rumn-infested water or choose to walk into a rock wall. As he had no intention of harming himself, he projected a mild
amusement
.

They didn't respond. He hadn't expected they would.

The platform met another that turned a sharp corner. One of the bridges loomed ahead, a black tongue tasting the mist. Enris lengthened his stride to get past the dangerous thing. To his dismay, his escort stepped in his way, rods pointing where he least wanted to go. Enris stopped dead. “You—” before they could object, he switched to a sending, a most emphatic one.
You can't expect me to walk on—
“OOF!” The sound whooshed out as a rod poked him firmly in the stomach.

Hush!

Enris braced himself to grab the next bit of metal aimed his way, but the two merely waited.

If you plan to feed me to the rumn,
he sent, keeping his feelings—which were intense on the subject—firmly behind his shields,
you'll have to pick me up and throw me in.
If they tried, he vowed, they'd go in first.

The pair exchanged looks.
You've been summoned to Council, stranger. We're to make sure you arrive safely.

He stood a better chance with Vyna's elders than their odd Choosers, Enris assured himself, feeling more cheerful. He had the right smile, according to his grandmother. Resisting the urge to rub his abused middle, he gave a little bow.
Lead the way.

One did. The other motioned him ahead. Enris took a deep breath and followed, taking the smallest possible steps once on the bridge. It was worse than climbing a branch in the canopy. At least there, he could hold on to something. Here he felt as though he tipped from side to side. Not to mention the mist obscured the footing. He slowed. Despite that care, one foot slipped. He stopped.

Take hold.

Of what? His escort? These Vyna, however, were better prepared than those who'd met him on his arrival. Rather than offering a hand, the one in front swung his rod back, taking hold of the rod from his partner.

Railings.

Enris stifled a laugh sure to attract the wrong kind of attention.
Clever.

Take hold.

Trust them, or knock them all into whatever lay hidden in mist. Enris locked his right hand around the rod to that side, his left to the left.

Whether their confidence came through that contact, or it was their matter-of-fact strides, Enris soon found himself able to ignore what was—or wasn't—under his boots. Mostly. But just as he estimated they'd passed the halfway point, his escort slowed, then stopped.

Why? There was nothing here. Just as Enris was about to point this out, and suggest a return to ground wider than his shoulders, he realized they weren't alone.

Om'ray.

Not ahead…

Below.

The mist ahead blazed yellow, then parted, sliding from the bridge with palpable reluctance. Enris found himself staring down at a familiar pair of metal doors, slowly turning open. Their movement pushed aside the mist, let light from within touch his face.

Vyna's Cloisters.

The bridge ended here, with these doors. Between them, a set of stairs carved from black rock led down, steeply down. Enris couldn't see the end of them. Water lapped, unseen. Mist began to slink back around his legs, explored the opening.