Sona lived.
Aryl slipped out, leaving the others in the midst of discussing what they’d do with plentiful water. None had ever planted or grown food; there was, nonetheless, optimism. Plants, after all, wanted to grow. In the canopy—as Taen pointed out—they’d struggled to keep greenery from taking over rooftops and bridges. Should growing food prove difficult to learn, there were the rest of the storage mounds. If half contained supplies similar to the first, Sona could support ten times their number for years. Though by then, Ziba had proclaimed, she’d be sick of dried rokly.
Haxel watched her leave. The others, too obviously, did not. Aryl understood. They wanted to believe she could help Myris. Wanted, but couldn’t. She was no Healer.
Maybe not, but she was the only Om’ray here who dared approach Myris in this state. Fon’s mind was strong enough, but his parents would never let him take that risk. Risky it was, Aryl thought, feeling as if she ventured over an untried branch. But Ael shouldn’t be left alone, that at the very least.
Cloud coated the sky, tattered in dark strips against the top edge of the ridge closest to Grona. Aryl shivered inside her warm coat. Something unpleasant fell up there. Snow or ice-rain. Their visitors pushed on for good reason. If they kept their pace, they’d be here well before truenight. Only Sona’s fourth, she realized. How quickly life could change.
Aryl opened the door and stifled a gasp of dismay. The interior of the second shelter had changed as well. The room ballooned at its far end, the jars wider than tall. The oillights were small suns on the walls, painfully bright. The wind outside, always present, always rustling and moaning, whistled shrill around her legs until she closed the door to keep it out.
Her senses lied for one reason—Myris was worse.
Resolutely, she walked forward and put her tray—a short plank—near the hearth. A container of water. Bowls of Rorn’s latest. Ael, beside Myris, flinched. One hand sketched gratitude. Aryl doubted he could eat; Rorn had insisted.
Much of this, and she’d lose her own supper. She averted her eyes from a basket determined first to be a ball, then a waving stalk, trying not to breathe through her nose. None of the odors vying for attention were pleasant.
“Aryl?” Her uncle’s dark head lifted, turned in a vague search. Could he not see her?
Fighting back pity, she touched his shoulder, letting him sense her presence. “Told you I’d be back, Uncle.” Confusion spilled from Myris, this close. Careful to shield herself, Aryl adjusted her aunt’s blankets, then went to touch her hand.
Ael grabbed her wrist. “No!”
She didn’t resist, allowing her renewed strength to flow through that contact instead, to him. Gradually, his fingers loosened and something saner showed in his reddened eyes. “Aryl.” Convinced, now. “You’re here.” Glad, if weary to the bone. “Thank you.”
She patted the makeshift bed beside Myris. “Why don’t you lie down? Rest a moment.” The suggestion alone made him yawn. “You’ll do her no good exhausted.”
“I won’t sleep,” Ael vowed.
“Of course not. But I’m here now. I’ll keep watch.”
With a final, doubtful look, Ael laid down, taking great care not to disturb his Chosen, though he had to know nothing so simple would arouse her. Like someone old and stiff, he shuddered with relief as he stretched out.
Suddenly, he looked younger, too young. Aryl blinked as what she should have seen—the mismatch of Yena tunic, Grona leggings, Sona coat they all wore—was replaced by a handsome white shirt, worked with threads, a new tunic, and leg wraps. Her uncle as he’d been the day of Choice.
The vision distorted, then was replaced by reality. The room spun around its axis, spun and tipped. Aryl swallowed bile. If her mind was assailed by chaos from Myris’, how much worse was it for Ael?
Aryl pushed aside her pity. They lived.
She laid her hand on that of her mother’s sister, and gave what she could of herself.
Heart-kin.
Faded, that bond.
Horribly familiar.
Aryl rose to her feet, moving without sound, hand seeking the hilt of her knife. Ael slept, muscles atwitch as if beset by nightmares. Myris didn’t move, hadn’t moved. Her battle was deeper and the strength Aryl had given could only help her wage it, not win. The room, for now, was real.
Heart-kin.
That recognition had never made her feel this way before, cold inside. Afraid.
Bern Teerac, once her dearest friend, was here. Bern, now Bern sud Caraat. He wouldn’t be alone. He couldn’t be. She was here as well.
His Chosen. Oran di Caraat. Adept and trouble. The others, Oran’s kin.
She had to know why they’d come.
With a final look at Ael and Myris, Aryl went to find out.
The wood platform Tilip had rebuilt along the front of what had just become their meeting hall was jammed with packs. Aryl’s lip curled as she looked at them. Overloaded, too heavy, with trailing ropes and hanging bags to snag the carrier at every step. Unless, she reminded herself, the carrier made sure to stay on clear, open, and very flat roads. Grona, if she hadn’t already known.
Her hand was almost on the latch when she felt it again. Heart-kin.
Aryl opened the door.
Wet fabric. Smoke. Sweat. The less definable odor of whatever cooked in the communal pots. Dust—always that bitterness on the tongue, reminder of time passed and disaster.
What had been life-saving shelter against their first winter storm had four walls and a complete roof in time for the next. If blankets covered gaps packed with splinters and dirt; if the roof took a steep dip at one end so Rorn, their tallest without Enris, had to duck; and if the floor was no more level than any one rough stone? It was a safe place, it was their place, and it was blissfully warm.
The warmth lured her in, but Aryl delayed after she pulled the door back in place and secured its rope, letting her eyes adjust from daylight to the shadow of lamp and fire.
The newcomers, a tight little group, stood beside the cook fire. They hadn’t removed their coats; dirty snowmelt puddled around their boots.
They held steaming cups, Sona-made, doubtless more of Rorn’s soup. Her people didn’t fail in hospitality.
Or in caution. No matter how Om’ray felt drawn together, there was a statement made by who stood closest to these strangers. Haxel, of course, but also Syb and Veca. Did the Grona have the faintest idea how quickly those three could draw knives? Om’ray didn’t attack one another. When everything else changed, so could that. As for Cetto and Morla. Experience, diplomacy, dignity. Could the Grona sense their deep abiding anger, their well-learned distrust?
Something tight eased inside her chest. Enris and Haxel might be the only ones to know why she’d left Grona in haste; her people stood by her nonetheless.
Aryl slipped among those who stood against the walls to watch, looking for Seru. No one took their eyes from the Grona as she passed, but hands, held low and inconspicuous, turned to meet hers. Welcome. Warmth. Caution. Stranger names: Gethen. Hoyon. Oswa and Yao. Caraat. Kran and Oran. One who hadn’t been a stranger until now. Bern. What little else they’d learned before her arrival. Adepts. Oran di Caraat. Hoyon d’sud Gethen. A mother, Oswa Gethen. Her child, Yao. A brother, Kran. Oran’s and unChosen.
From a few: hope.
From the rest: distrust.
Aryl replied in kind, giving a little strength through each contact, keeping her dread to herself. Seru? she asked one. Juo.
Sulking. The other was amused. He’s not ready. The Chosen were rarely sympathetic to those less fortunate.
There. She spotted Seru where folded blankets made a comfortable bench in their most windproof corner. Her cousin sat, feet together, hands folded on her knees, the image of polite disinterest. Husni and Ziba sat to either side, Taen beside her daughter. Weth was there as well, Chaun supported against her shoulder. Her blindfold hung loose around her neck; she suffered the changes in Sona best when she could see
them happen.
Change, this was. Aryl planted herself by Tilip, using his shoulder and arm as a shield past which to see the Grona and not, she hoped, be seen. Not yet.
Kran Caraat was a younger, male copy of his sister. Tall and slender for Grona. Pale of skin and hair, dark eyes. The same facial structure, beautiful and austere, though Oran’s bore fine lines at the eyes and mouth. Concentration and effort could have put them there; Aryl was inclined to believe it was temper. Certainly Oran’s hair—free, save for a loose cap in the Grona fashion, to express itself—twitched its ends constantly, as if impatient.
The other Adept was heavyset and red-faced. He stood as if about to fall. Unused to exertion, Aryl judged. Or maybe it was the clothing he’d yet to shed. The Grona had come dressed in the kind of cold weather gear they hadn’t, for some reason, bothered to give the Yena who’d passed through their village. Thick coats, stuffed round through the sleeves and chest. High boots, also thick with extra lining. Looked hard to move in, impossible to bend—perhaps why she hadn’t seen a Grona bow yet. She’d have thought it ridiculous, if she hadn’t experienced a winter storm.
Hoyon’s daughter Yao was a waist-high shadow behind her mother, a shadow herself. Aryl frowned. The child was too young to travel away from safety; not that any of them should be here. Oswa Gethen silently sipped from her cup as the others murmured pleasantries; her brown hair shifted slowly over her shoulders. Exhausted, at a guess. She’d have the added burden of shielding the unfettered emotions of so young an Om’ray, though to be honest, of them all, only one looked able to walk another step.
And was the most relaxed of them here, by face and voice. Why not? Cetto and Husni were his grandparents. Weth—who squinted uncomfortably at him as much as smiled—an aunt. He who’d been Bern Teerac stood among friends as well as family, a homecoming the likes of which no unChosen who’d left on Passage could expect.
Did he also expect a welcome?
Bern turned his head to stare right at her, as if somehow hearing his name in her thoughts. He hadn’t. He couldn’t. No matter the bond they’d forged as heart-kin, hers was the stronger Power. He could never see into her mind without permission, a permission she’d never again give. Not when his was Joined for life with Oran di Caraat’s.
Could he see her heart, feel what she kept from the others?
Let him. Aryl made herself smile.
“We came,” he said, as if to her alone, “because I knew you’d need help.”
“What kind of help, Grandson?” Cetto’s deep voice drew Bern back around.
“Yena don’t know the mountains—”
“Ah.” A warning in that tone, to those who knew Haxel. “You came to give us good Grona advice.”
Bern, who did, gestured a hasty apology. “Of course not.” He quelled a scowling Hoyon with a look. “Oran and Hoyon are Adepts—”
“Troublemakers, you mean.” This from Veca. Tilip stirred beside Aryl, echoing his Chosen’s anger. “We’ve no need for Adepts.”
“Peace, Veca.” Barely taller than Ziba, Morla’s soft voice nonetheless commanded attention. “These are our guests. They may have more to offer. Something useful. Can you grow food, Adept?” to Hoyon, who looked as if a small biter had attached itself to his nose. “Can you tile a roof?” to Oran, whose hair twitched its outrage. Morla shrugged. “If you can’t, well, no offense, younglings, but you should go back where others will provide for you. We will not.”
“You need me,” Oran replied with total conviction. “You’ve injuries.”
“This?” the former Councillor lifted her bandaged wrist and flexed the fingers of that hand. “Doesn’t slow me at all.” Veca grinned.
“Oran is a Healer,” said Bern stiffly. “Her Talent drew us to your need.” He pointed to Chaun and Weth, the latter looking up with abrupt hope. “How could we not dare this difficult journey? We’re family. Om’ray. Nothing else matters.”
A stir throughout the room. Healers were rare. Valued. Oran hadn’t, Aryl realized with a chill, been wrong to expect a welcome here.
She did wonder what Grona’s Council thought of their own people roaming the slopes after a pack of exiled, ungrateful Yena.
“We don’t ask to stay. We brought our own supplies.” Oran’s glance into her cup was less than appreciative. “Give me a tenth, no more, to rest from the journey, and I’ll do what I can for your people before we leave. We’ll be gone by truenight—”
“We can’t go so soon!” Oswa spoke for the first time, a hand fumbling for her daughter. “We can’t! Hoyon, tell them. There’s a storm coming—Yao’s too small. She’s already exhausted.”
An instinctive swell of care and reassurance answered. Oswa quieted in response, her lips trembling, eyes wide as she looked from face to face. Strangers to her, Aryl reminded herself.
Haxel made a brusque gesture. “No one goes out in truenight or bad weather.”
Hoyon managed to bow despite the coat. “Thank you.”
The First Scout’s smile twisted her scar. “As for you, Oran di Caraat? If you’re a Healer, prove it now.”
Aryl watched Bern walk out in the road past the coals of the watch fire, make a bold show of scouting for threat. No self-respecting Yena would swing his head from side to side when a subtle flick of eyes covered the same range without shifting balance. A display for Oran’s benefit, no doubt. Was he aware of his surroundings…did he see what they were building here?
From Haxel’s sour expression, she wasn’t the only one to judge him. The First Scout went to the door of the second shelter, but didn’t open it. “In here.” When Bern went to enter, she snapped, “Not you.”
Oran hesitated, her yellow hair moving in heavy, unsettled waves, ends plucking at the weave of her scarf.
“I’ll come with you,” Aryl said quickly. If the Grona Adept was a Healer, the sooner she saw Myris the better. “It’s my aunt.”
“Myris?” Bern gave her a startled look. “What happened? Is Ael all right?”
So now he cared?
Her own scorn made her ashamed. He’d known them all his life, too. “She was struck by falling ice, like Chaun. Ael’s with her.”
“Where you should be.” Haxel looked set to grab Oran and throw her through the door.
Before that disaster of manners could occur—inciting a justified rebellion in their hoped-for Healer, not to mention her Chosen’s likely regrettable response—Aryl pulled the door aside. Oran pressed close, in a hurry to see Myris or avoid Haxel. Or both.
The door closed behind them.
Aryl was relieved to see the room appeared itself. Ael looked up, surprise on his face. “Who’s this?”
“The Healer,” Oran announced, sweeping forward. She couldn’t quite manage warmth in her voice, but bowed graciously in the Grona fashion as she removed her scarf and opened her coat. Both garments were thrust at Aryl. “I’m Oran di Caraat. I’ve come to aid your Chosen.”
“You’re too young to be an Adept.”
Aryl managed not to smile.
“Do you want my help or not?”
As “not” wasn’t an option, either for Myris or the grim First Scout waiting outside, Aryl spoke up. “Uncle, let her try.”
Oran’s hair gave an annoyed flick. At her use of the word “try,” no doubt. Confidence was important, Aryl reminded herself. She put the Adept’s outerwear on a basket—mercifully square and solid—and found a place to stand she hoped would be out of Oran’s way.
Ael knelt by Myris, brushed limp hair from her forehead, then took her hand. “Go ahead,” he said at last.
The Adept frowned at them. “I require privacy. A Healer is left alone—”
“No.”
Only the word. Ael didn’t look away from Myris to say it, but Oran knew better than to argue. She went to her knees beside the platform of blankets, the fingers of both hands touching as if to net a ball of air. She closed her eyes and moved her hands, still fingertip to fingertip, over Myris. Side to side, across her wa
ist. Lower down. Then, up to her head. Aryl could detect the stir of Power; she didn’t dare taste it and risk the other’s concentration.
The movement of Oran’s hands ended above Myris’ forehead. Aryl didn’t know what to expect. She focused on breathing very quietly.
The ugly bruise began to fade, from purple-black to brown to yellow, hopefully not another trick by her senses.
The gash itself knitted from both ends at once, until it became a smooth seam, nothing more than a scar.
This was beyond what Yena’s Healers could do, Aryl was sure. Their best could speed healing by days, not cause it to occur before your eyes. Was this what Yorl sud Sarc, her mother’s great-uncle, had done for his own ailing body? He’d needed her strength. Did Oran?
Aryl looked at the Adept. Her eyelids were half-closed, revealing only the whites of her eyes. Her face, chapped and reddened by days in the cold, had a new, sickly pallor. A sign of the effort she expended, to use her Power this way? Whatever else she felt about the Grona, this she respected. Should she offer—
Oran muttered under her breath, then screamed! The air filled with the miasma of rot, wet and cloying. The Adept’s terrified face stretched until her chin touched the bed and ran below it. The world began to slip sideways, as if they clung to a great rastis as it fell…
“My-ris!” Her voice or Ael’s?
Oran—the blur of color that was Oran to Aryl’s distorted sight—continued to flow away. No, she fell! Aryl threw herself forward to catch the Adept, ease her to the floor. She heard a shout that turned itself to birdsong. Bern, she guessed.
Haxel would keep him out. Had to keep him out. It wasn’t safe here.
For anyone.
Words walked by and shouted themselves at her. “Don’t! Leave! Stay! Stay! Hold!”
Ael.
Leave?
Aryl fastened on the word, remembering what had happened with Enris, what she suspected about the Lost.
Was Myris—her mind—caught in the M’hir?
Without hesitation, without fear for herself, Aryl dove into that inner darkness.
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