“Bitter, are we?” He snorted and started walking.
It was the way things had always been. His family grieved him as dead, as was natural and proper. His friends might talk of him, tell stories. Hopefully, those fit to be heard. Naryn S’udlaat…
A mistake, to think of her when he was alone. Enris gritted his teeth and walked faster, driving the shaft of wood deep into the pebbles, his feet slipping with each careless stride.
Naryn…
She thought herself powerful. She’d make Adept; of that he had no doubt, if only so others could keep her in the Cloisters and under watch. She thought herself entitled to whatever and whomever she wanted; as a result, her failed attempt to force him into Choice had left him…damaged. Whatever she’d done, the Adepts warned he might never be able to Join.
He certainly didn’t feel inclined to try.
No?
Enris blew out a harsh breath, unable to lie to himself. He was unChosen and eligible for Choice. Seru Parth might not interest him, but the mere thought of Naryn brought the heady remembered lure of her Call to speed his pulse, make his hands clammy despite the cool air. No matter how thoroughly she disgusted him, there was a part of him desperate to go back, to let her do whatever she wanted, turn him into whatever she wanted, if only he could touch her hand….
The length of wood snapped, stinging his knee. One way to get his sanity back, he thought ruefully.
Enris picked up the broken pieces and put them in his pack. He walked at a more rational pace, finally paying attention to his surroundings. The freshening wind couldn’t decide between a pleasant mildness—doubtless chill to the Yena—and a truly bitter cold.
He feared the storm played with them. Fine for those under a roof, with a warm fire, or for those used to such weather. On that thought, he reached to find the Yena. The glow of Haxel and her companions was still too far, farther up the valley. How long did it take to find some kind of shelter? The rest of the exiles were closer than he’d expected, and lower. Coming toward him. Maybe they’d finally grown sensible.
He lowered his shields and reached for one mind in particular. Aryl.
Here.
Strain. Worry. He could sense them despite her control, and couldn’t help looking up the slope beside him. The mountain ridge was every bit as awful as he feared, an impassable conflict of vertical shapes and loose, snow-streaked rock, soaring into ugly cloud.
Distinct amusement. That was the easy part.
How had she seen what he saw? An image could be drawn from memory and sent mind-to-mind—this was something new. Enris surreptitiously checked his shields, though he should be used to surprises from Aryl Sarc by now. Be careful, he sent. I don’t trust this storm.
Good advice. Here’s mine. Walk faster, or we’ll eat supper without you.
He laughed. You forget who’s carrying the pots.
A whisper of contrition, quickly silenced. It left a warmth, like a smile. We’re coming down. Truenight’s too close.
Afraid of the dark? Enris shared his instant regret. The Yena had excellent reason to be. Sorry.
With the honesty he’d come to expect, I’m afraid of everything until my people are safe. Move those big feet of yours, Tuana.
His awareness of her faded and he didn’t try to regain it. If this part of the ridge was “easy,” he couldn’t imagine what Yena might consider difficult.
Enris found himself walking faster, and smiling.
It wasn’t only the reminder of supper, scant as that would be.
Chapter 3
THAT WAS…INTERESTING.
Aryl tiptoed along an edge to avoid a patch of loose stone. She came last, as usual, but now stayed with the rest of the exiles. If Enris needed help, she’d reach him faster going ahead, as they were. It shouldn’t be long before they met again.
Very interesting.
He’d effortlessly shared what he saw—along with his aversion to it, which she chose to ignore. No denying his Power or skill. Few Yena could send with such ease in sight of one another, let alone at any distance. She’d learned to use the other place to reach her mother. Yet Enris took his ability to contact her at will for granted. Perhaps all Tuana were as gifted. Though this time she had the impression he hadn’t realized what he was doing, that instinct, not concentration, had opened that path to his senses. Another new Talent?
At her turn, she jumped to the ledge below like the other exiles, arms out to balance her pack as she landed lightly. A few steps to the next. Another, longer drop. The eighteen moved almost as one, in a flow of confident quick steps.
Until they reached Rayna, there was no Council to dictate what they were to do, she mused, and no Adepts to enforce those dictates. A freedom she didn’t trust. Not that she…
Aryl focused on a tricky set of handholds as she climbed up, across a thrust of stone, then down.
…not that she agreed with Yena’s refusal to permit new Talents and change. What could possibly be wrong in Enris letting her see through his eyes? If Haxel could do the same, they’d know where they were going.
They had to be careful. Without Adepts, they had no one skilled in the consequences of Power. A mistake out here could be fatal to both the user and those too close.
She refused to think about the consequences of upsetting the Agreement. One good thing about this land of cold and bleak, lifeless rock—it kept the neighbors away.
The scuff of boot on stone was the only sound. Whenever possible, fingertips brushed as holds were exchanged, exchanges of reassurance and encouragement. Ziba and Seru stayed together, the child unusually attentive. Juo lagged despite her best efforts. The previous Harvest, she’d been one of their group of unChosen, quick and surefooted, hard to beat at any game. Joined with Gijs, filled with child, she’d become more careful, not more patient. Aryl smiled to herself when Husni deliberately slowed to make the pregnant Chosen do the same. A slow pace for Yena was still a good one, especially on this stretch, where exposed ledges of some dark, harder rock formed natural steps.
Veca and Gijs had picked a route to bring the exiles to the floor of the ravine before it opened wide to meet the valley. Not far, but…Aryl frowned as she studied the descent left for the leaders. The final portion would be the most complex, choked with piles of fallen rock. The cracks between were full of snow. Couldn’t be avoided without a long detour back the way they’d come; even then, there were few better choices.
Though the wind had died, at some point each of the Om’ray paused to stare at the wild shredded darkness looming above them. Something brewed in those clouds. She took Enris’ warning about the weather seriously; they all did. Whether more snow or rain, they’d best be off the rocky slope before it fell.
“Ow!” The loud cry came with a powerful flash of pain, quickly suppressed but enough to draw startled looks. Young Cader Sarc, climbing with his Kessa’at cousin. He gave a reassuring, if sheepish, wave, and she guessed he’d stubbed a toe. He was at that clumsy age.
“What?!” Another pained exclamation, this time from Morla’s Chosen, Lendin sud Kessa’at.
As more of the exiles shouted and crouched, looking in all directions for their unseen attacker, something landed with a thud in front of Aryl.
She picked up a fist-sized lump of ice.
Before she could look for who might have thrown it, something slammed against her pack, knocking her off-balance. Another lump rolled between her feet.
They were falling from the clouds!
The path no longer mattered. Aryl and the exiles scrambled to find cover as lumps struck all around them, but there was none. Chosen shielded the children with their bodies. Some of the lumps smashed apart on rock, sharp pieces spraying outward. Most stayed intact and bounced, too hard to break. They struck flesh with the same force. Aryl’s left arm was numbed by a glancing impact. She heard screams from others as they were hit. One, then another went down. She hurried toward the horribly limp forms, her feet sliding through loose stones and balls of ice, a
lmost deafened by the clatter of ice against rock. She reached to know who…
Chaun sud Teerac was the one crumpled and motionless on a ledge. Myris—Aryl gasped with relief—her aunt was conscious and trying to sit up, though her face was dark with blood.
Weth!!! Fear drove the sending into her mind. Aryl staggered. Somehow she collected herself in time to catch Husni by the arms before she could rush past her. As gently as she could, she urged the older Chosen under the meager shelter of an overhanging ledge.
Stay. I’ll look after Chaun.
Cetto… Husni’s mindvoice wavered, but she didn’t resist.
Stay.
Others were looking after Myris, drawing her to her feet. Aryl hurried to where Cetto protected Chaun’s helpless body with his own, an act to save Weth, their granddaughter, as much as her Chosen. The loss of one would be the loss of both.
No one would die.
Aryl joined the elder Om’ray, laying herself over as much of Chaun as she could. He was so still. She reached through that contact and found…
PAIN! She winced, relieved by the strength of Chaun’s inner self. Impossible to be heard over the crash and thud of the ice lumps. They were piling around them like the snow, chilling the air. She pushed her shoulder against Cetto’s. He’s unconscious, but I don’t think badly hurt. For now, she despaired. How long could any of them endure this onslaught? Lumps continued to strike her. The long Grona coat and her pack took the brunt of it, but Aryl knew her head and neck were vulnerable. Cetto stoically endured blows she felt through their contact. Only bruises, she hoped.
The moment came when the thud and crash gave way to a high-pitched pinging, then a steady drone. Belatedly, Aryl realized lumps no longer fell. They were being hit by what felt like small hard seeds instead. She eased herself up, holding out her palm. Icedrops. Unlike lumps, they stung when they hit skin but didn’t break it. Unlike the dancing snowdrops, they fell in sheets, a heavy white curtain that made it impossible to see any distance.
Cetto’s relieved laugh was a deep rumble. “I see why Grona like their stone houses.”
Shelter they’d left to follow her. Aryl added that to the tally she’d begun to keep, the one that measured the value of one stubborn, strange Om’ray against all the precious lives in her care.
She would get them to safety. Haxel would find shelter and be waiting. Nothing less was acceptable.
Aryl got to her feet, adjusting her hood to protect her face. “We have to go.”
No one else moved from their crouch or hiding place. Were they afraid the lumps would start falling again? The icedrops bounced and pinged from the stone, collected in piles faster than the lumps. They’d make treacherous footing. She pushed aside her own anxiety, focused on confidence. I thought we left biters behind, she sent to everyone, making it a complaint.
A wave of startled amusement answered. Time to get off this hill. Agreement. Figures began to shift and straighten, icedrops slipping from the fabric of coats and packs.
Their strongest, Rorn and Gijs, would carry Chaun. As they prepared, Aryl checked on Myris, then made sure she touched every one of the exiles before they followed Veca, reaching through that touch as unobtrusively as she could to assess their state. All but the youngest bore bruises; all were shocked by the sudden violence of the storm. Morla’s wrist was broken, a discovery they could do nothing about here. Lendin was at her side, a wicked gash on his temple, ready to help his diminutive Chosen.
Aryl quietly asked Tilip to stay close to the older pair.
They were descending again before she reached for Enris, only to find his thoughts were already close to hers, as if he’d been waiting for her attention. Are you all right?
I hid under the pots. What about you?
Icedrops bounced against her coat and hood, as noisy as the canopy after a rain. She rubbed her left arm, keeping the pain to herself. At least it’s over.
No, it isn’t, he corrected, letting her feel his dread. Ice stones come before the storm, Aryl. Those were the biggest I’ve ever seen. Haxel better have found shelter. Forget walking. It’s time to run.
It was as well for their flight from the ridge that none of the Yena understood what lay in store. Aryl urged them to hurry, but didn’t explain why. It wasn’t as if she knew. But Enris had faced truenight and the swarm without the kind of fear she felt from him now.
They were steps from the ravine floor when the din of the icedrops abruptly ceased. Ears ringing in the silence, Aryl almost missed the start of the rain.
Rain they knew. Aryl felt the tension ease in those around her. Cold, sharp, and driving, hard enough to restrict visibility to those nearest, a vicious chatter against the rocks as they continued to climb down.
But just rain.
The dim light slowed them more. It wasn’t firstnight yet, when the sun disappeared from sight behind Grona, but the dark heavy clouds made it seem more like truenight, when the only light came from stars and the Makers, Cersi’s two moons. They had to go slower, touched one another as often as possible to share impressions of the next foot-or handhold. Ziba stayed close to her mother, Juo to Husni. Or the other way around. Aryl depended more and more on her inner sense to know where everyone was, seeing the slope, like the world, in terms of Om’ray life.
Until the first flash of lightning. Then she saw the rest.
Aghast, Aryl froze in place. STOP! she sent frantically.
The fierce white light had reflected from every surface. This wasn’t rain. It was liquid ice. Like the boulders in the river they couldn’t cross, the rocks all around them were already coated in a glistening layer. In the dark, in disbelief, she stretched out her hand to touch the slick chill of the nearest surface. Flakes of ice cracked from her sleeve to melt on her skin. Thunder shook the ground.
What kind of place was this?
Another flash. Another terrifying echo from the ice. The next roll of thunder seemed to never end.
She couldn’t move a muscle. One slip. One. She’d fall. Falling, she’d knock those below from their feet and they’d fall. All of Yena’s exiled children, falling on the ice-crusted rock, cracking open like lumps themselves, fragments dying alone in the cold….
Thought Yena could climb anything. Mockery, sharp and pitiless, lanced through her paralysis. Thought Yena didn’t fall.
Stung, Aryl took one breath, then another. Yena don’t fall. And what’s a flatlander know of climbing anyway?
More than you know about ice. Oh, now he was smug. Small steps, like a baby. I haven’t all day to wait for you.
Insufferable Tuana. She’d show him. Don’t get comfortable. We won’t be long.
Waiting for a pot of water to boil. The weary comfort before sleep claimed a tired body. The rest of their descent should have taken as little time; they were that close to the gorge bottom and safety. It should have been as easy, with only two wide ledges left.
But nothing was as it should be.
Anything flat and smooth was now an enemy, impossible to walk across. The exiles had to abandon the experience and training that worked in the canopy. The only way to move was to cling to one another, to form a living chain no safer than any one link. Without warning, feet would skid from underneath, taking the strength of all to hold and recover. It was terrifying.
Through it all, the unceasing rain. It built ice on their clothing and packs, adding weight. It melted and wicked through seams to add a chill misery to weary bodies.
Through it all, the blinding flashes. They alternated with a darkness akin to truenight in the canopy. Like the others, Aryl waited for each bolt of lightning, memorizing the few steps she dared take when the light was gone. Small steps, like a baby, as suggested by someone who did, after all, know something about ice. Tiring, painstaking movements.
How much worse for Gijs? They’d strapped Chaun’s limp form to the younger Chosen’s back. Rorn helped take some weight where he could, but most of the time Gijs had to manage alone. Aryl couldn’t imagine that bur
den. Veca’s wish for the stranger’s aircar haunted her; her own untested ability was a constant frustration.
But how could she push Chaun to somewhere safe, if she didn’t know where that could be?
All she could do was send encouragement to the rest.
Or was that all?
No, not all.
Her great-great-uncle, Yorl sud Sarc, had used her strength to heal himself. Stolen it. She’d been helpless for that draining, trapped until freed. A sensation she’d never forget.
Could she repeat it?
Aryl followed Gijs. She closed her hand on his arm and did her utmost to feel as she’d felt, to give strength to the weary, courageous Chosen. She thought she felt something drain from her, though he didn’t react. As they waited in the dark, the exiles linked hand to hand to cross the ice, she tried a second time, tried to extend the sensation to include everyone.
When the next flash came, and they moved forward as a group, Aryl staggered and had to catch herself. Had she helped at all? She hoped her sudden clumsiness was a sign.
The drop from this ledge to the last was barely twice an adult’s height, but jumping was impossible, too. One at a time, the Om’ray slipped over the edge and felt for holds that weren’t covered in ice. Aryl came last, waiting to be sure all below had found safe footing before joining the chain again.
The final stage was a nightmarish tumble of ice-slicked boulders. The only grace was that a slip here, and there were many, couldn’t send you farther than the next obstacle. No one would escape bruises, Aryl knew, feeling her own.
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