Riders of the Storm (38 page)

Nothing.

What are you doing?

He tightened his shields and turned to face the sender, startled to have to look down. The mindvoice hadn't felt childish. The shield he gently explored was as firm as any adult's, yet this was a child too young to be away from her parent's protection.

What are you?
A miniature Fikryya, complete with the same haughty tone. She wore a shift, bright yellow, that went to her knees. A cap—also yellow—covered her head, answering his curiosity of whether all Vyna wore the things, although hers was adorned by black knotted fibers bound by wire in a tuft on top. Her slim wrists and ankles were covered in bands, not of metal, but of black thread strung through the eye sockets of white skulls, smaller than her fingertips. They were tied so they wouldn't click against one another.

He went to one knee.
My name is Enris Mendolar. What's yours?

Tiny eyebrows collided.
That's not a real name.

Enris sensed her
disapproval,
as if he tried to make fun of her. He carefully didn't smile.
It's not a Vyna name,
he agreed.

A flare of
curiosity,
again with that unnatural control.
You're the one the esan dropped on the bridge.
She eyed him up and down.
You don't look hideously deformed.
This with distinct
disappointment.

Very young, he decided, with growing concern.
Let me take you to your mother.

Her eyes widened; he sensed
alarm
mixed with
longing
and a bitter
resignation
no child her age should be able to feel.
I'm a fosterling. I'm not allowed near my mother.

Enris couldn't contain his
dismay
at this; he didn't try.
That can't be.
Even as he protested, he
reached.

The bond was there, between the child and her mother. It wasn't the one he'd known, or what he'd felt between his new brother and Ridersel. Instead of that fierce, protective closeness, this burned with Power, as if ignited by the tension of distance, or as if both minds fed it strength to keep it alive.

And it felt like the connection Aryl had forged between them, in the M'hir.

Wrong. Like everything else here.
You should be together,
he sent desperately.
Let me take you home.

A hand, light and cool as mist, rested on his.
It's not for long. She slips from me if I'm not careful. Soon I'll be of no use. Then I can go home.

Enris stared into the child's patient, weary eyes.
I don't understand.

You're lesser Om'ray.
As if he should accept this.

As if he could. Mist curled over stone, muffled even their breathing.
You shouldn't be here alone.
It was all he could find to send.

A shy smile.
I think you're nice, Enris Mendolar. And I'm not alone. Look, here comes Jenemir. Jenemir Vyna,
she added formally.
My name is Nabrialan Vyna. He can't send very far.
With
pity
.

Enris rose to his feet and turned to face the oncoming Om'ray. Like the Adepts, Jenemir was older than any Om'ray he'd met outside Vyna. He shuffled more than strode, one hand locked around a staff pressed with care to the pavement, its well-wrapped end preventing any sound.

Much longer here, Enris told himself, and he'd long for Olalla's hiccups.

The child rushed to the old Om'ray's side, looked up adoringly as she grasped his free hand. It took Enris a moment to realize the ferocious creasing of Jenemir's face was a smile.
This is Enris, Jenemir.
Nabrialan's sending was powerful enough.
He's nice. For a lesser Om'ray.

Eyes that were slits beneath thick lids gazed at him. A puckered hand wedged the staff under an arm, then was offered.

Enris didn't dare hesitate, taking Jenemir's cold and twisted fingers in his.
The child is without her mother,
he sent immediately, with undertones of
urgency
and
concern. We must take her home.

Nabrialan lives with me.
The sending was labored as well as faint. Had too many years sapped Jenemir's Power as well as his body?
It is Vyna's way. Why are you here?
His fingers twitched; Enris could feel the other's mind fumble at his shields.
Strong. Very strong. Shame you are lesser Om'ray.

The corner of Enris' mouth quirked up, and he restrained a laugh. The Vyna were consistent, he'd give them that.
Which is why I'm leaving,
he informed the other,
once I understand what powers your glows.

Nabrialan looked at the nearest fixture, then back at the Tuana.
Powers the glows?
Her sending was perplexed, as if Enris had asked why the sun bothered to shine above the mist.
They light Vyna.

Jenemir's face creased into its smile again.
And well they do, little one, or we'd have rumn crawling the streets at night.

He hadn't wanted to know that.

There'd been
pride
in the other's sending to the child.
You know how they work,
he sent to Jenemir.

Definitely pride.
Of course. Those who cannot gift the worthy or offer Choice still have their place in Vyna. I worked for many years on the fire below. Important work. Valued work.

You can't be still unChosen.
Enris hadn't meant to share the thought, but Jenemir's creases only tightened.

Of course,
the Vyna sent again.
Only the weak can survive alone. The Power's need—it eats the powerful from inside. You can feel it, can't you. A mercy to let them spend themselves to maintain the lives of their betters. The most powerful…
He stopped there.

What about them?

If they are Vyna, they are Chosen. Our Choosers refuse any less.
A hint of
apprehension
beneath his mindvoice; the gnarled hand trembled in Enris'.
You shouldn't be here. Your Power will tempt them. It's Forbidden to Choose a lesser Om'ray. You must go.

Enris forced a smile.
I'll be gone as soon as you tell me about these glows. What is the fire below?

The other thought to refuse, but his shields were thinner than the gauze of Yena's windows. Memories surged through his mind, memories of a lifetime spent working within an immense cavern, sensations so vivid Enris could feel the searing heat from its floor of molten rock on his skin, imagine his legs cramped with the effort of climbing stairs, his throat rasped by fumes.

A cavern.
The Oud,
he concluded with disappointment.

We have nothing to do with lesser races. Ground Dwellers dare not enter our cavern. Meddlers dare not cross our lake. The Vyna
—this with overwhelming conviction—
are not part of the outside world.

Molten rock explained the too-warm lake water, and the mist above it. It didn't, as far as Enris was concerned, explain glows with no power cells. There had to be more. Something he could learn or take with him.
What makes the glows work?
he insisted, careful not to tighten his larger hand. Those old bones would break.

Why do you care?
Nabrialan broke in,
impatience
under the words.
Come, Jenemir. I'm hungry. Let's go home.

The old unChosen looked down at the child.
Go ahead, little one. I will make sure this lesser Om'ray goes where he belongs, then cook you a fine supper.

Enris watched the tiny figure in yellow skip down the roadway, the only life and color to be seen, her footsteps smothered by the mist.
What will happen to her?
he asked.

Nabrialan? She will sit on Council one day. Her unborn may even receive a Glorious One. She has great Power.
As if this mattered most of all.

To the Vyna, maybe it did. If it led to this? A Council that squabbled over the memories of the dead, their greatest ambition for their children to bring those memories back to life? Om'ray who died were supposed to stay that way.

Vyna was as foul as its air.

The glows?
Enris sent gently but firmly.
In my Clan, I'm a metalworker. There are many things I can do with fire, Jenemir, but powering light from glows isn't one of them. Tell me about them, please.

Vyna's Heart.
Instead of more words, another memory, this time deliberately shared. Enris
was
Jenemir as he stood before a machine larger than a Cloisters. Its lower surfaces took their color from the molten rock lapping against its base, reds and oranges, swirls and eddies of searing white against the black. There were moving parts, none of which made sense, most larger than an Om'ray. Some spun, some turned, others came and went through openings he couldn't see.

What didn't move was just as incomprehensible. Five massive “arms” had been driven up and into the ceiling of stone, or the stone had formed around them. Curls of pipe entered the molten pool, unaffected by its heat or seeking it. Openings that couldn't be reached without wings.

And Om'ray, stripped to the waist, carrying cubes of black rock on their bent backs down long, narrow staircases. Cubes that were stacked by other Om'ray atop a wall of other cubes that ran along the near border of the molten pool, holding it back. From the height and breadth of that wall, the Vyna had been doing this longer than Enris dared imagine.

Not all the Vyna, he realized. Those without Power to give an Adept, or attract a Chooser. Their weakest unChosen.

Their expendable fools.

The glows?
he sent, somehow keeping his disgust from Jenemir, though he no longer hoped for an answer. Even if he could understand the workings of this machine, even if he could build another—where else on Cersi was a cavern that melted rock itself?

Jenemir's tongue worried at a solitary, yellowed tooth.
They shine as long as the machine floats on the molten lake. So was made the Promise.

Adept prattle, Enris judged it, to make the carrying of rocks important.
Glows can be powered by other means,
he offered, unsure why.

We need nothing from the outside world. Where you belong, lesser Om'ray.
The Vyna pulled his hand free, moved his staff, moved his feet, and made his slow way after the child.

Enris made the gesture of gratitude. Jenemir was right.

He didn't belong here.

 

Mist butted the black stone like a mattress of lies. Layers of it were above him, obscuring the sky, cutting the light until the glows to either side were the brightest source. When he kicked out with one foot, the mist shied away, then curled back, as if enjoying the game.

The bridge had to be here. Somewhere.

Enris stood at the edge of the platform,
reached
with care. There were no Om'ray ahead—or below. This wasn't the bridge to their Cloisters.

Nor was it a game.

There were stairs to the water here. Somewhere. This might be where they'd brought him, the first day. He vaguely remembered doing more congratulating than paying attention, grateful to have been saved.

Saved. Enris would have laughed, but the mist covered the water, and the water held what he especially didn't want noticing him.

Especially when he had to walk out on the bridge, surrounded by water.

The bridge he couldn't see for mist.

Enris sat down, his legs hanging over the platform. His fingers toyed with the knot of hair as he considered the problem. The mist swallowed his feet and ankles, tasted his knees. He reached down with his foot. Nothing. A shift to one side, a reach. Nothing. Shift, reach. Shift, reach. Shift…there. Just as he felt a thorough fool, the side of his boot struck what he couldn't see—a solid surface. The bridge, or a stair to it.

When would they try to stop him? He
reached.
No one nearby. Enris frowned thoughtfully. Were they letting him go?

Or did they know something about his planned escape route he didn't?

Not that it mattered. He was leaving and now.

Enris cautiously descended what proved to be stairs, feeling his way. It wasn't slippery, but he loathed the mist even more as he sank into its damp warmth, its stench. He tried not to think about it or the bridge, instead concentrating on the feel of real sunlight and a proper, cleansing wind.

The third step was the last. The bridge. Mist engulfed his body from the waist down. It would rise higher by truenight. Ahead—an appalling distance ahead—rose the smooth black rock that encircled the lake, the opening that led inside. To what?

He'd worry about that if—when—he got there.

Wishing for Aryl's effortless balance, Enris slid one foot ahead of the other, making sure each was on a solid support before shifting his full weight to it.

Water lapped, unseen. Vyna craft moved across it, unseen, unheard.

Nice to have company, he decided, licking sweat from his upper lip. Step, step.

Though Enris tried to move in a straight line, too often his next step would slide off the edge of the bridge and he'd freeze in place to keep his balance. After the fourth close call, he glanced over his shoulder at the island.

What island? Mist had consumed the platforms, slipped under the lights. All he could make out was a rumor of height.

He clung to his sense of other Om'ray—without it, the world had no up, down, or sides. There was nothing but mist.

Time for a different strategy.

He lowered himself to his hands and knees. Mist pressed soft and wet against his face; he closed his eyes. It wasn't as if sight was helping.