Riders of the Storm

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Why? “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Why do you say that?” The Chosen’s voice came out thin and harsh. “There’s nothing wrong.”

  Hardly the way to convince her, Aryl thought, but let it go. It wasn’t her place to question a mother, after all.

  They stood together in the circle of light, eyes half shut against the sting of snowdrops that, in her opinion, aimed themselves at faces, and waited in silence.

  The wall of snow brightened, revealed Syb, the child wrapped in his coat and held against his chest. She squirmed as they approached, her head popping out from its covering.

  HEREHEREHEREHERE!!!

  Syb exclaimed in pain. Aryl’s head pounded. The blissful sending dampened to bearable as Oswa’s shields extended around her daughter.

  Confusion as Yao bellowed—nothing wrong with her lungs—for her mother to carry her, while Aryl and Syb made it clear to both mother and child that this wasn’t about to happen. Between Oswa’s abused feet within Rorn’s big boots, and the terrain? They might have to carry both. Then an exhausted calm.

  “Let’s get home,” Syb suggested, his teeth chattering. He’d refused her offer to take the child. At least, Aryl thought, she made a warm bundle in his coat.

  Yao’s eyes were bright and curious. “Which way?”

  “Hush,” Oswa said quickly, tucking the coat around the child’s head. “None of your silly talk, Yao. You know you shouldn’t go outside without me. Be grateful these fine Om’ray were willing to come out in the cold just for you.”

  Her father hadn’t. Why? Something was wrong. Aryl stared at the child, then her mother. Syb shifted from foot to foot, looking uneasy as well as cold. “Where is Vyna, Yao?” she asked abruptly.

  Haggard and worn, Oswa nonetheless gave her a defiant glare. “Hush!” she ordered her daughter.

  Not to be denied, Aryl reached. Yao’s mind lay protected by Oswa’s powerful shields, but that wasn’t what she sought. The connection between Om’ray went beyond the mind; even the Lost remained tied to all others of their kind. She’d never tried to trace it before, to extend her inner sense to follow it between minds. She’d never had to.

  There. Strong, steady. A bond between Syb and Oswa, from both to herself and back, from all three, reaching outward to every other Om’ray and back.

  From Yao to them all. That as well. She was sure.

  But to Yao?

  Nothing.

  The child existed, severed from everyone else, even from her mother. Blind to the glow of her kind.

  Like Marcus, Aryl realized with horror. Like the Humans. But not.

  On impulse, she dipped into the M’hir.

  Hello.

  Yao?

  The child was a tiny light, calm and assured, as if floating in the wild darkness was perfectly normal.

  Who are you?

  There—there was the connection. Aryl could see it, burned through the dark between Yao and her mother.

  How is this possible? What are you, Aryl Sarc? from Oswa, creating whorls of fear and worry.

  Before she could think of a response, Syb’s plaintive “Roof and a fire, Aryl?” brought her back to the real truenight.

  He was right. Whatever was going on here, no reason to stay in the cold to find out.

  “This way, Yao,” she told the child, pointing to the warm glow of their kind.

  A reassurance no Om’ray should need.

  By the next morning, Sona had been carpeted in a smooth, glistening layer of fresh snow. It clung to every surface and showed no signs of melting, despite the brilliant sunlight. Haxel, ever practical, put the unChosen to work packing snow into empty jars. Hoyon suggested they make piles on the sunless side of upheaved stone, then pile wood on top. While Grona used such for a means of keeping certain foods cold, Sona’s need was for water. This would work as well.

  Not that everyone worked. There was laughter in the sharp cold air. Yao was showing Seru and Ziba the Grona game of shapes in the snow. It involved a great deal of snow being tossed at one another, as well as lying in the stuff.

  As she helped Veca roof their next building, Aryl watched them. By day, the youngest addition to Sona proved to be an ordinary child, delicate of feature and build, with the brown hair and eyes of her mother. At most, six years old. Her truenight ordeal had been washed away by good sleep and food. Yao had been remarkably sensible and dressed properly before leaving on her adventure, however she’d managed that without notice amid the busy Om’ray. She’d told Seru this morning that she’d gone outside to look for her Grona playmates. When Seru related this to Aryl, she’d laughed at the cleverness of the child, to make up such a story.

  Not clever, Aryl thought. The truth and tragic.

  Oswa had begged them not to tell Yao’s secret, to let her do it. Which had to wait. The mother hadn’t fared as well as the child. She was with Oran in what was being called the Cloisters by some; true, it was their place of healing, complete, Aryl grimaced, with Adepts. According to those experts, the cold was more than unpleasant—the Grona insisted in dire tones that toes and fingers could be damaged by short exposure, that Om’ray could die of it.

  Which made the cold, Aryl decided with some amusement, a threat like biters—dealt with by the right clothes and common sense.

  “Need another plank?”

  She eyed the dark gap in front of her. “Do I?” Her job this morning was to stuff dried vegetation into cracks. They hurried to finish the fourth building in the square, as well as improve the roofs. Coats, as they’d discovered overnight, couldn’t hold much snow without support. On the ground, Tilip and others had begun laying down stone for a walkway to connect this home to the others—an innovation Hoyon claimed would keep feet out of the mud that came with the melting of snow in the spring.

  Mud she hoped would grow plants.

  With a chuckle, Veca spanned the distance with her hand. “I’d say so. Unless you want someone’s bed to be wet.”

  “A youth misspent climbing,” Aryl explained. She put down the bag of twisted leaves and picked the top plank from the stack beside her, though “plank” was an optimistic word to describe the ragged pieces scrounged from the wreckage of hundreds of other homes. “I should have helped Costa with the roof tiles.”

  “Feels good to teach the skills again.” Veca helped her fit the wood in place. “Fon has less interest these days.” She grinned at Aryl’s wary look. “Don’t worry. You won’t be working wood forever. Haxel has other plans for you.”

  Not a statement an unChosen could dispute. If she hammered the fastening hook with excessive force, the other Om’ray paid no attention. Instead, Veca asked casually, “Have you shown Hoyon the headdress you found?”

  Aryl missed the hook. “No. Why?”

  “He knows about old things.”

  She’d shown the object to Marcus Bowman, who’d revealed more about Sona from his brief inspection than any Grona Adept could. Or would—if Hoyon kept secrets the way she suspected. “I’ll think about it,” she replied tactfully.

  Veca wasn’t done. “Do you believe him?”

  Aryl looked up. “About what?”

  “About the mountains. That their shaking damaged Sona, not the Oud.” Veca shifted, her rugged features displaying an unusual unease. “Doesn’t that make more sense? Look at this place. What race could do such a thing?”

  To every side, the valley floor was heaved and torn, buildings tipped and knocked apart. What they’d accomplished, the restoration of these four homes, made as much difference to the devastation as the finger-sized hole a stinger chewed into a giant rastis.

  It was a start, Aryl assured herself. They didn’t need more than that.

  “I don’t know about shaking mountains, Veca, but I’ve seen Oud for myself. Trust me. Oud could do this.” She remembered how the creature had moved through the ground as easily as she’d walk a branch, how they tore rock from the cliff. “Does Hoyon explain how a mountain could destroy the village but spare the nekis
grove, stop up the river and take its water, but leave the road between alone? The Oud did do this. To think otherwise is to dangerously underestimate our neighbors.”

  Something Aryl was abruptly sure the Grona did. It explained why they slept so well. They pretended—or truly believed—the Oud were harmless. Enris must have realized it, too. Was that another reason he’d never intended to stay there—being all too aware his hosts were fools?

  “You’re the Speaker,” Veca said cheerfully, as if assigning her to deal with Oud was safer than arguing with a mountain.

  She might be right. Or not.

  “Right now,” Aryl reminded her, “I’m a woodworker. A not very good one. What’s next?”

  She paid attention, but it was hard. Her mind kept wandering.

  How many other exiles were listening to the Grona Adept?

  And why did that make her afraid?

  Veca was right. Haxel Vendan, First Scout and Sona’s distributor of work, did indeed have other plans for her. Aryl sharpened her new longknife—it wasn’t a proper one, a Yena one, but served the same purpose—with hard, straight strokes and considered the potential for disaster in Haxel’s latest one.

  She had plenty of time. They were late.

  She sat on a beam, that beam the only one left on this roof, this roof over a home no one wanted yet, and sharpened her longknife.

  She hadn’t argued either. How could she? When Haxel called her down from the roof to tell her she was to lead Oran and Hoyon to the Cloisters, to see if the Adepts could open its doors, what could she say but yes?

  The wind tore at her coat and teased hair from its net.

  The perfect use of resources. The Adepts weren’t helping to rebuild, Oran’s healing Talent was no longer critical, and, as Haxel smugly put it, the Oud hadn’t shown up, so they didn’t need a Speaker either at the moment.

  Perfect.

  Stroke…stroke.

  If they ever started. Not that she planned to rush whatever preparations had the two former Adepts delayed. More time to think of how to hide any sign Marcus might have left at the Cloisters, to hope the Human would see them coming and hide himself as well, and to think of what to tell the Oud, if it showed up and wanted to go inside, too.

  Perfect.

  Aryl paused. Someone had stopped below. She reached and relaxed. “Took you long enough.”

  “Hah!” Seru scrambled up beside her. “You’ll have to try harder if you want to hide from Rorn’s cooking. It’ll be ready soon. Blue—whatever it is. “As she settled, she puffed, admiring the resulting cloud of breath. A glance sideways. “You’re going to ruin that.”

  Aryl tested the blade on her thumbnail. “It’s Grona.”

  A moment’s silence. Then, “We needed a Healer.”

  She found a section marginally less sharp and spat on it. “We needed a Healer,” Aryl conceded. Myris and Chaun—thus Ael and Weth—would live. For that alone, she’d endure a fist of Orans. She rubbed the offending edge against the stone. “Should make everyone happy.”

  “Juo,” with relish, “won’t let Oran anywhere near her. Said no upstart Grona Adept whelp was to fool with her unborn. Morla was less polite about it.”

  Not a surprise. Morla Kessa’at had been the Councillor most betrayed by Yena’s Adepts, Aryl thought to herself, remembering that day and moment very well. Besides, a broken bone didn’t need Power to cure. Time and a splint would do. Juo? Hopefully she wouldn’t need a Healer when her time came.

  But the rest? “Some must be pleased to have Adepts again.” Gijs for one.

  Exasperation. With elbow. “No one forgets who tossed us off the bridge. We won’t trust Adepts again. From any Clan.” Seru drew her knees up under her coat, fitting herself on the narrow beam. The wind tugged at her scarf; its chill reddened her cheeks. “As ordinary Om’ray, they’re welcome. That’s all.”

  All? “How do you know—” Aryl hesitated.

  “About Kran?” Her cousin gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I know. Trust me. He’s not ready. Just as well. I’d rather not have an Adept against me.” She lowered her voice to a reasonable imitation of Oran’s. “My brother would be an Adept already, but Grona’s Adepts were jealous of his Talent. Kran deserves a Chooser of equal or greater Power, not a mere Parth.”

  The sharpening stone slipped; Aryl caught it before it fell. “She said that?”

  “She didn’t have to.” A grin. “Haven’t you noticed? She won’t let him so much as look my way.”

  Aryl nudged Seru with her shoulder. “I see no reason you’d want him to.”

  “It doesn’t matter what any of us want,” Seru admitted. “What I need is to Choose someone. Anyone.” Another sigh. “Soon.”

  “Fon is nice—” Aryl began cautiously.

  “I helped at his birth.”

  She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “You were four.”

  “And helped. You know my Talent.”

  True. Seru might not be strong, but like her mother she was a gifted Birth Watcher, the one assistance Juo would need. Om’ray unborn were reluctant to leave the womb, to let their inner bond to their mother thin with distance. Without the baby’s courage and cooperation, birth was a grave risk to both. A Birth Watcher could not only sense when a baby should be born, but would contact that young mind to offer reassurance and encouragement.

  “Mother took me with her. All the time.” Sadness leaked through Seru’s shields; she gestured apology.

  “Fine.” Aryl put her arm around her cousin. “Not Fon. Cersi’s a big place, Cousin. There’ll be Choice—the someone you’ve wished for.”

  “Wish?” Seru’s right hand moved restlessly. “It’s not like that, you know. What I feel. What a Chooser feels. UnChosen—we don’t have any idea what’s to come.” She laid her head on Aryl’s shoulder. Almost a whisper. “They should tell us the truth.”

  What had her aunt said…you can’t know what it’s like for Seru?

  Feeling awkward, she sent compassion. “I’m sorry—”

  It’s not grief or longing. Seru’s mindvoice was distant, as if she listened to herself too. My family’s gone, and I miss them every moment. But I can remember good things. Images came and went: parties, chases along a glow-lit bridge, games. Sensations: laughter, the squeeze of baby fingers, warm rain on skin. There’s nothing good in how a Chooser feels.

  She could pull away, close her mind to Seru’s. Be ignorant.

  Instead, curious, Aryl drew Seru closer. Show me, Cousin.

  …emptiness

  …need

  …weary despair

  Aryl slammed down her shields. Too late. Tears froze on her cheeks; words in her throat.

  Seru eased away, dangling her feet over air as if a child again. “When there wasn’t enough dresel,” she offered, “I’d dream about my favorite ways to eat it. Dresel cakes. The sweets my uncles made. I’d imagine the taste—that smell. When I got my ration of powder each day, I’d pretend it was fresh and try to enjoy every mouthful. But after a while, I didn’t care. I needed it so badly, I’d have chewed the spoon and bowl if I thought there was more left.

  “That’s being a Chooser,” flat and sure. “The longer I stay empty, the less I care who fills me.” A shudder. “Even if means I’ll be changed, like Bern—or Joined to someone who despises me, like Oswa. I have to offer Choice.”

  Choice wasn’t supposed to dry your mouth and send a thrill of fear down every nerve, like hearing the footsteps of a predator at your back when there was nowhere safe to jump. It was supposed to be the joyous start of the rest of your life.

  Maybe it was, for most. But wasn’t this also the truth? Aryl asked herself, refusing to flinch. That unChosen took Passage alone, in fear. That Choosers waited in an agony of need and uncertainty. That their union was beyond any control or reason, though it changed both forever.

  Like riding the M’hir.

  “Don’t listen to me,” Seru ordered shakily. “You’re a Sarc. It won’t be like this for you.” She mana
ged to laugh. “You watch—you’ll Call handsome unChosen from every Clan, including Vyna. They’ll arrive all at once and beg for the touch of your hand. And bring sweets. I expect you—” archly, “—to share, Cousin.”

  Aryl chuckled. “The unChosen or the sweets?”

  “Both!”

  “I promise.”

  If the words were less than steady, Seru pretended not to notice. “Good,” she replied. “I’d better get back. Hoyon claims it’ll be a bad storm. The undercoats, you know.”

  “The undercoats,” Aryl agreed fervently.

  Sona’s light, mobile clothing cut the wind, but did little to keep out the deeper cold. Seru had dreamed again last ’night, more productively than Ziba, who recalled only dreams with sweets. The loose white coats they’d guessed were for indoors or spring were meant to go under the windproof outer one. The combination was warmer by far, while easy to move.

  Doubling the number of alterations needed. Sona, Aryl decided, seemed to do that to its new inhabitants. She glanced up the valley, coated in fresh snow. “A shame you don’t have them ready. Haxel’s sending me off again.”

  “I heard. With the Grona. Enjoy yourself.”

  Aryl gave her cousin a shove. “Go.”

  About to drop to the ground, Seru paused. “What do you think of Hoyon?”

  That the most dangerous fools were those who believed themselves right? That if he wasn’t a fool, he was something worse? Aryl settled for, “I think he should talk less.”

  “He doesn’t talk to Oswa at all. Or Yao. Have you noticed?”

  Chosen varied, but to ignore his own daughter? “That’s—” It was more than strange, as was his failure to help search for her. Om’ray parents, Adept or not, were close to their young children, whose maturing minds depended on theirs. “Yao’s different—” she began.

  This gained her a fierce “Aryl Sarc!” A reaction she should have expected, Seru having been forced to leave her beloved baby brother in the care of the Uruus family. “Hoyon’s the one to blame here.”

  “She is different.”

  Deep offense. “A Tikitik is ‘different.’ Yao’s a wonderful child. Any family would be glad of her. You wait till you’ve one of your own.” Seru swung down and landed lightly, then walked away.