Riders of the Storm (37 page)

“Safe from what?” Why was he was more worried about keeping her ability secret than she was? “What are you talking about? I hope more Om'ray will learn how to
'port.
” She liked the short, strange word. “One day, all of us.” Then let the Oud try to dig the ground from under their feet.

“Aryl—” Marcus went to his knees in front of her, putting his somber gaze level with hers. “Listen to me. If we discover the best possible Hoveny find…a
functional installation
…Cersi would be safe. Om'ray would be safe. Seekers would come, but careful. Respectful. If anyone discovers what you can do?” Despite knowing she could sense his emotions—or because of it—he touched her cheek. Through the contact, she felt
sorrow
and
dread.
As well as
determination
. “Aryl. Every
government, criminalorganization,
every species in Trade Pact would come here. No respect. No protection. They would take you away. They would destroy your Clans, your life. For this power, they could
gotowar
. Worlds fighting worlds.”

The
taste
of change.

What could she tell the others? If she taught them, if she now should, what could she say to keep them cautious? That there were mysterious invisible watchers?

It would be true.

She should use the knife, Aryl thought numbly. Not on the Human's throat…

On her own. End this.

The lights flashed red, then blue…

“The Oud!” she warned, following Marcus as he lunged for the console.

It wasn't.

A lone Tikitik stood at the edge of the grove, feet pointedly not on the churned dirt. It was shouting something. The Human hit a control and a voice filled the room.

“Little Speaker. Come out and talk to me.”

Thought Traveler.

 

It should have been familiar, Aryl decided, being unable to trust her footing. But what the Oud had done wasn't like a rain-slicked branch or ice-coated stone. They upset all expectation. They made the ground itself unsafe.

A power never to be discounted, she thought.

Neither were the Tikitik. Thought Traveler squatted comfortably near where its kind had died moments before, its small eyes riveted on Marcus, larger ones on her. “Greetings, little Speaker. And who might this be, this ally of the precipitous Oud? What is your name, stranger?”

“Stranger will do,” she told it before Marcus could reply. This Tikitik was an entirely different problem from those before. Give it information and there'd be no stopping its spread.

As if to confirm her fears, it barked its laugh. “An Om'ray who stands with a stranger. That gives me your name, little Speaker. ‘Apart-from-All.' Aryl Sarc, discard of Yena Clan. I knew you would be entertaining.”

The Oud Speaker, subdued to this point, reared. “Decided other!” Its limbs clattered against one another. “Sona Oud. Goodgoodgoodgood. Tikitik go.”

“Oh, I will,” Thought Traveler said easily. Its eyes fixed on her. “Entertaining indeed,” it murmured. “Remember this day, Apart-from-All. Remember how you triumphed.”

Triumphed? “We only want to live in peace—”

“Under the Agreement, of course.”

Something wasn't right. Aryl found herself afraid to say another word. What was going on?

Thought Traveler stood and looked at the Oud. “Unlike the fools you dispossessed here, I don't care what you do. Dig up the past. Haul it to your pits. Trade it to strangers. But by the Agreement, you must address the balance.”

The Oud waved its pendant. “Balance, yes. Comply. GoodGoodGoodGood.”

“What do you mean?” Aryl demanded.

“Enjoy your peace, Apart-from-All,” the Tikitik advised, then slipped away into the grove.

It couldn't be this easy. Before she could do more than glance at Marcus—the confusion on his face a perfect match to her own, the Oud spoke again. “Peace goodgoodgoodgood. Come, Triad First. Authenticate. Now. Come.”

Not a word about what had happened, the dead Oud, the dead Tikitik, what she'd done. Did they not care? Or not notice? Different
lifecycles
Marcus called it.

Different minds, that above all.

“I have to go.” The Human looked grim. “If I don't, my people will wonder why.”

He'd been so happy before, tripping over himself in his eagerness to see what the Oud had found.

“Comecomecome!”

“I'll get my equipment.” Calmly, as if he dealt with creatures capable of killing another every day. To her, “Stay here, inside
securityfield
.”

“Marcus—” Her protest died unspoken. They each had to do what they must. “I have to go back. They need to know what happened.” As much as she could say of it. “Be careful.”

“You, too.” A wistful smile cracked lines through the dust on his face. “It was good soup.”

“I'll bring more,” she promised.

They were, Aryl decided as she walked away through the too-soft ground, thorough fools.

As for triumph?

They were still breathing.

 

The Oud hadn't asked about their dead, but as Aryl jogged the road to Sona, she watched for the place in the rock wall shown by Marcus' machine. They might not care; she did. A threat to something as large as an Oud was surely a threat to an Om'ray.

And if it had been the Tikitik, she might stop thinking about those she'd watched die.

Nothing helped her stop thinking about the rest. She ran, wishing every beat of foot to stone could turn back time. She'd left this morning, worried only about Oran and Hoyon, when to try her ability again, what to say to the Oud the next time they met. She'd looked forward to surprising Marcus, to learn more about him. Instead…

Instead her footsteps were reminders.
Beat beat
…dying Tikitik…
beat beat
…Oud risking the Agreement…
beat beat
…revealing her ability not to those who deserved it, who needed it, but to a stranger from another world…
beat beat
…becoming a Chooser?

Aryl misstepped and almost stumbled. Not fair, she told herself. None of it.

She could almost hear her mother's voice. One handhold at a time. Be sure of your grip.

Be sure? Her laugh echoed, as if the towering rock shared the joke.

The rock could tell her one thing, she remembered, and starting paying closer attention to where she was.

There. Spotting the section of cliff, she left the road. Hard Ones lay everywhere, only a few larger than her doubled fist. She kicked the smallest from her path. After a couple clattered and pinged, the rest began rolling out of her way.

They observed what was around them and reacted to avoid trouble. Or they'd met Haxel and learned to feared all Om'ray.

Aryl slowed as she neared the rock face. Under the bright sun, the shadows at its base were intensely dark, if narrow. She would have avoided such in the canopy, wary of ambush. Stitlers were particularly fond of shadow, since it allowed them to stay close to their traps.

She'd forgotten to be properly cautious on the ground. No more.

Something buzzed by her ear. A biter? It was too cold, too dry.

Another. This time she caught a glimpse of it. A whirr/click.

There were more. They clung to the rock in neat rows, evenly spaced. Every so often, one would shift position. Those nearest would do the same until all had adjusted. Then they were still again.

Weren't they always with Oud?

Aryl eased forward, a step at a time, checking where she would put each foot before she moved it.

Another step, her hand on the cold rock face, and there. She could see the opening. The cliff was split here, a separate wall of rock standing in front of the ridge itself. It looked weathered and old. Perhaps the Oud had many such doors to their underground world. Or had this one been made when they'd destroyed Sona?

Neighbors now, she reminded herself. Neighbors were always perilous. That was an Om'ray's life.

The passage between could fit an Oud vehicle. She'd need a light to see tracks.

More buzzing around her ears. Whirr/clicks lined the inside walls. She waved a couple from her face. Biters, crawlers. Even the ones that didn't like the taste of Om'ray were a nuisance.

Were they waiting for the next Oud?

Aryl trembled and listened. Nothing but faint
whirrr/clicks
. Nothing but her breathing. Her heart pounding.

She hadn't asked about water.

The Tikitik—the Hoveny—none of that should have mattered. She'd been there, talking to the Oud's new Speaker, and hadn't said a word for her people.

Why?

Her mouth twisted. She'd been afraid. Afraid of what the Oud could do. Afraid to risk it. Like she was now. Willing to leave Marcus to them, while she ran.

Her mother never flinched from her duty. Even when it meant condemning her daughter for the good of Yena.

One handhold at a time. The Oud were in Sona to stay. So was she.

Her toe sank deeper than it should.

Aryl threw herself back and away as the ground in front of her shot upward. Enormous hooklike claws cut through the air, scraped against the rock wall. Pebbles rained down. The whirr/clicks abandoned their perches for the safety of anywhere else.

The hook-claws—there were six, taller and wider than she was—grabbed at nothing one last time, then plunged back under the ground.

She stood up, selected a good-sized Hard One, and heaved it where the hook-claws had disappeared.

The ground shot upward. The hook-claws cut and scraped, one connecting with the Hard One which shattered in a spray of green, black, and glistening yellow. The rest turned in midstrike to plunge into the mess, then sank out of sight again.

Aryl walked very carefully back to the stone road—a construction material that suggested the Sona had known very well what could lurk beneath looser ground. The Oud Speaker must have been shielded, in part, by its vehicle—otherwise, it wouldn't have left this spot.

So…a natural predator or a cunning trap left by the Tikitik, who used living things as their tools?

At least the hook-claw appeared fixed in place and none-too-bright. The canopy had innumerable such hazards. Once the rest knew, they'd be watchful.

At the thought, Aryl
reached,
seeking that comfort. There. Her people. After the Oud and Tikitik, even Oran was a welcome
taste
.

She could be with them before taking another step. All she had to do was picture the warmth and comfort of the meeting hall and
'port
herself there.

Who might be watching? A stranger-device, far overhead? A Tikitik, skin matched to stone? What about the Oud…they hadn't reacted to her use of the M'hir. That didn't mean they wouldn't.

Marcus had been right to warn her.

She began to run again.

E
TLEKA EYED ENRIS.

Putting his hands behind his head, Enris eyed him right back.

Five days of his best behavior. His parents wouldn't have believed it. For his trouble, his hands bore new calluses from five mornings of catching the hapless denos, as well as cuts from five afternoons of hauling that catch to be cleaned and cleaning it. He'd endured flatcakes at every meal, by now almost inured to the Vyna's mouth-burning spice. He wore the clothes they gave him: the tunic and pants were cool and comfortable, if snug. No shirt. From the Vyna he'd seen, there wasn't a size to fit his shoulders.

Five days of doing whatever he was told, without argument or complaint. Of giving the Vyna time to grow used to his presence. Hopefully, time enough so they wouldn't feed him to the denos' unseen nightmare.

Any stranger had to prove his worth. But what Etleka held in his hand?

There was, Enris thought cheerfully, always the moment best behavior ended. “You can't make me wear it.”

Stop talking out loud.
Etleka held out the cap, a sparkling confection of blue and green, complete with yellow tassels.
Everyone stares at your head when we go out. It's embarrassing.

“Doesn't bother me.” Enris deliberately ran his fingers through his thick hair and added to his list of having behaved very well five days of talking—not talking—to no one but the two denoscatchers, neither of whom communicated a thought that wasn't about either denos or catching them. Unless it was to complain about his strangeness and having to put up with him.

He tried not to think of the five truenights he'd been left alone in this windowless bedroom. Every 'night, once asleep—he could only stay awake so long no matter how he tried—once asleep, he would hear the chant of Vyna's Council and Adepts echoing through the corridors of the Cloisters, an incoherent howl like something with teeth and terrible appetite, watched by bodiless eyes that pressed against the windows.

“You have no idea, my friend,” Enris said peacefully, leaning back in the chair and crossing his long legs, “how long I can talk out loud. Let me start with my grandmother. Did I tell you she had a—”

You're impossible.
Etleka placed the rejected cap on the table and flopped gracelessly into the other chair. Those furnishings and a narrow bed competed for what space there was. The other two rooms were no larger.

The Vyna had done more than cut into the island, they'd tunneled completely through it, like Oud. Enris had discovered the massive shard of rock was hollow, as if rotted from within. Where the rock narrowed—at its peak and ends, a single room might have doors to the outside piercing three of its walls. At its thickest, like here, along the lower levels, rooms opened only to other rooms. Vyna had no hallways inside its rock. Workrooms, including the one where he'd gutted denos were on the outside, with windows. Anyone going home had to walk through them first, then continue through whatever other rooms were in the way.

Many of those rooms were empty. Vyna had been more populous once.

I'm not impossible,
he sent, inclined to peace now.
I work hard. I'm pleasant.

You think that matters?
Etleka replied scornfully.
You're lesser Om'ray. That you made it here past the mountains and water doesn't change anything. You can't be here, and you can't leave. You have to die.

Enris grinned.
Haven't yet.

Even a Vyna's laugh was soundless, a gaping of the mouth, a shake.
No. You tossed a rumn into Council, that's for sure.
The younger Om'ray's mindvoice was decidedly pleased.
They're still in session, arguing. Until that's settled, you can help with the denos.

Arguing about what?

I shouldn't talk about such things.

Oh, he knew that look. He'd see it on Worin's face, when his little brother ached to tell a secret to someone.
If they're going to kill me eventually,
Enris sent, with a deliberate hint of amusement,
why not tell me? I'm curious.

Beyond curious. Desperate.

Patience, he told himself, keeping his body and face relaxed.

Tarerea Vyna, the High Councillor. She claimed the Glorious Dead for her unborn, used it before the others had a chance. There should have been a vote.
Disdain.
Not that they'd have agreed on anything.

What's a “glorious dead”?

Etleka's eyes widened.
You really are lesser, aren't you? Don't you know anything?

The Tuana imagined a certain Yena's response to this and gave his best smile.
Maybe not. Tell me.

When an Adept can no longer be kept alive through the gifting—that is my future,
the unChosen added with
pride—I am strong. One of their servers will fail soon, and I'll be Called. They won't Call you. I've heard they fear your taste will be sour.

Remembering the unChosen waiting to give their strength to those too-old bodies, Enris was mutely grateful.

When an Adept is close to death,
Etleka continued,
another scours the memories from her mind and puts them in a Vessel. When an unborn is ready, she receives the Glorious Dead. It doesn't always work. The unborn can be willful and refuse the gift. If it does work, a new Adept is born, with the memories and Talents of the one gone before.

Vile. Horrible. Enris fought the urgent desire of his stomach to express its own opinion, fought to keep his shields tight and to project only
curiosity.
How could they do this to the unborn? What were the minds behind those old eyes?

So the argument is about Tarerea?

Another grin. Etleka had likely never had so eager a “listener.”
They argue about you, Enris. You brought a new Vessel to Vyna, the first ever. They want more, badly, but no Vyna would leave and be contaminated by the world beyond. They could send you. You are already ruined. But you can't be trusted to return. You can see their problem. Some want you dead now. The rest argue for a delay, saying you could be neutered, made useful while they try to find a way.

Neutered?
Enris didn't care for the feel of the word—or the
satisfaction
that came with it.

Not that any Vyna Chooser would crave a lesser Om'ray, but if it happened? Nothing can stop Choice and Joining. All that can be done to protect the Chooser from her misjudgment is to remove—
Rather than send an image, Etleka spread his legs and pantomimed the slash of a knife.
Those of feeble Power cannot be allowed to breed.

“You expect me to believe you mutilate Chosen?” The outburst rang against the walls. Enris didn't care. “I may be new to Vyna, my friend, but I'm not stupid.”

The other jumped to his feet, pale face flushed with anger.
Ask Daryouch, then.

“Your father?”

At the door, Etleka gave Enris a scathing look over his shoulder.
I had none.
Not with grief—with
pride
.

Once the incomprehensible Vyna was gone, Enris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. If his future was set, this lesser Om'ray needn't risk his life “helping” catch denos.

What should he do?

The irony didn't escape him. If there was any unChosen on Cersi the Vyna shouldn't worry about contaminating their precious Choosers, it was him. He hadn't come in answer to a Call. To be honest, he found the one Vyna Chooser he'd met as appealing as an Oud and had no higher expectations from the rest. He felt no urge whatsoever to Join any of them.

He fingered the knot of hair at his throat. He'd come here to help all Om'ray and found the only ones who wouldn't. No wonder Thought Traveler had been amused.

If the Vyna thought he was going to sit here while their strange Council and withered Adepts decided his fate…

He laughed loud and long.

…time to misbehave.

Enris delayed only to change into his own clothes. The Vyna garments, he left lying on the floor.

Now to find something worth taking.

 

Each truenight, sent to his bed, he'd listen to the door being locked. It wasn't now, Enris discovered when he went to break it open. Either he'd angered Etleka to the point of carelessness, or the unChosen had no idea how uncooperative a lesser Om'ray could be. Grinning, the Tuana investigated the main room, where Daryouch prepared and served their meals, but its few cupboards contained nothing but dishes, utensils, and clothing. Perhaps the Vyna had no need for preserved or dried foods, going out daily to catch the hapless denos.

Another excellent reason to leave. A steady diet of the things and he'd become as thin as any Vyna.

He wouldn't be able to leave unobserved. There were four “homes” and a storeroom between here and the outside. Vyna privacy was based on a deliberate turn of the head to not look directly at those already in a room—or those passing through—as if the pretense possibly mattered.

No one home in the first three. Enris opened the door to the next and strode inside. He'd never seen anyone there.

Until now. A smokelike mist, redolent with musk, swirled around the naked Chosen standing inside. She grabbed her cap from the table, fumbled it over her head. No pretense this time. She stared at him as he stared at her.

Who are you?

With a frantic gesture of apology, Enris hurried through, turned the next door, and bolted for the safety of the storeroom.

He slowed, tasting musk at the back of his throat. What had the Chosen been doing? He had a confused memory of…

A Call flooded his mind, pulled at his thoughts, twisted his senses. He stopped with his hand about to turn the door to outside. A Call from…

…the room he'd just left.

No. Impossible. He'd seen her. Too well. The swollen breasts and hips of a Chosen, a body ready to nurture new life. Her exposed hair had been strange, a thin pale fuzz like the coating of a fruit, but it had moved with her emotions.

He'd seen her.

The Call continued, stronger than Fikryya's, than Seru's. Despite his revulsion for all things Vyna, Enris hesitated, surprised by longing.

He had only to turn around. Go back through that door.

To what? What
was
she? A Chooser waiting for completion—or a Chosen half-thing? Or was this another aspect of Vyna, that their Choosers need not wait for Choice to mature?

Etleka claimed no father. Had he meant exactly that? No. Impossible.

Enris licked dry lips. Wasn't it?

Did Vyna need the unChosen at all?

She did. She wanted him. Her urgent desire ached in his bones, fired his blood.
Come back…let me offer myself…offer you Choice…
Sweat stung his eyes as he resisted. Her Call, so close and powerful, weakened his shields, shook his hold on reality. The M'hir surged closer, pulled at his sanity, sang destruction…

No! He would not.

Rebuffed, the Call withered and stopped, a triumph of will over passion. He choked back a cry at its loss…turned the door and half fell through it…found himself…

Outside.

And ran.

 

Morning could be midday could be firstnight. The mist-laden water and clouded sky diffused light, confused all sense of time. His stomach helped, insisting he'd missed breakfast.

His pounding blood said he'd missed something else.

With an effort, Enris forced his thoughts away from the memory of her Call, of his ability to refuse it. She hadn't sent again, perhaps stung by his rejection—Choosers, he'd noticed, didn't take well to being spurned—perhaps gathering strength to send it again. If she did, could he resist her again?

Whatever she was.

Wrong to refuse, something inside argued. What was he waiting for? Enris suddenly thought of his cousin Ral, who doubted the next sunrise until he saw it for himself. He'd been fond of stories of unChosen who failed to find a Chooser. Their fate, according to these tales, involved a long and romantically miserable life made bearable by incredible feats of daring and accomplishment.

Kiric had lasted a year before walking off a Yena bridge. There, thought Enris bitterly, was the truth.

His own emptiness? He filled it with determination, with anger, with the need to help others. Made himself remember the
pain
Naryn had caused, when she'd tried to force him to answer her Call. With the
terror
of being lost in the M'hir, in that endless insanity of darkness…Should he add a new one? That his own ability might keep him from any Choice at all?

Enris broke out laughing. “Now I sound like you, Ral.” Who, for all he knew, had already Joined with sweet, if hiccup-ridden, Olalla. Besides, if he believed Etleka, he'd escaped a match that would have cost him dearly. He tugged his pants for reassurance.

Whatever else, he had to leave this place. To his inner sense, the Vyna were spread over more than the island. The denos-catchers were heading out in their floats, Daryouch and Etleka among them. Not that he planned an overwater route. Even if he could use his Talent to move one of the craft, the thought of what swam below?

No. A Tuana belonged on ground. Solid, flat ground.

Which meant a bridge. And he'd complained about Yena's. At least they'd been wide, with rope rails.

Enris paused by one of the Vyna's always-bright glows, gazed at it thoughtfully. “What powers you?” he asked it. No cell. No oil. But what?

The Vyna themselves? They used Power in novel ways.

Determined, if glad no one watched, he put his hand against its cool outer case. The light shone through his flesh, painting his fingertips pink. Cautiously, Enris lowered his shields,
reached
with the part of his mind that understood Power and objects, that could sense another's
touch
.