Enris wasn’t sure how he knew, but he stared as well.
The float rocked once, gently.
Something approached.
His inner sense. That was it. But how? How could he sense something in the water?
Not with his inner sense, he realized with a shudder, but with what connected him to the M’hir. That was where he felt that cold, strange touch. It wasn’t Om’ray. But real. Alive.
The Vyna had summoned something from the depths, something to terrify the denos into their net.
And now it hunted his voice.
He pulled his knife, gripped the bar with his other hand, and readied himself.
Put that away. For once Daryouch didn’t feel angry. A rumn can swallow three floats with one gulp. Stay still and make no more sound. It should leave.
That was a rumn?
No wonder the tiny swimmers thought leaping into the air was safer.
Enris wanted to join them.
Two days in a row and he hadn’t been eaten.
Enris decided he was pleased. He also decided to avoid extremely large hungry creatures on the premise a third encounter could be his last.
After an endless tenth waiting for the rumn, whatever that was, to choose not to eat them, they returned to the platform. He helped Etleka unload their catch, now fully understanding why the Vyna didn’t care to speak out loud—particularly by the water.
How do you eat them? he asked Daryouch, eyeing the still-flapping denos with ravenous intent. If they said raw, he’d take that plump one first.
Flatcakes. This from Etleka, with an image of white flesh, shredded and spiced, shaped into disks and fried a crisp brown.
Stomach growling, Enris licked his lips. I’ll take a few of those.
Stranger! A harsh summons. The Tuana glanced up at the grim-faced pair on the platform. They could have been Daryouch’s brothers and were dressed like the denos-catcher, except for the green metal rod each carried, about the length of an arm. Tool or badge of office?
An escort, that he knew. Enris gave the dying denos a wistful look, shrugged at his companions—who turned away to become too-obviously busy with their catch—and climbed out of the float. Supper? he asked.
In answer, they pointed the rods left.
Not up? Enris shrugged again and started walking. The pair set themselves one to each side, as if to make sure he didn’t elude them by diving into the mist-covered, rumn-infested water or choose to walk into a rock wall. As he had no intention of harming himself, he projected a mild amusement.
They didn’t respond. He hadn’t expected they would.
The platform met another that turned a sharp corner. One of the bridges loomed ahead, a black tongue tasting the mist. Enris lengthened his stride to get past the dangerous thing. To his dismay, his escort stepped in his way, rods pointing where he least wanted to go. Enris stopped dead. “You—” before they could object, he switched to a sending, a most emphatic one. You can’t expect me to walk on— “OOF!” The sound whooshed out as a rod poked him firmly in the stomach.
Hush!
Enris braced himself to grab the next bit of metal aimed his way, but the two merely waited.
If you plan to feed me to the rumn, he sent, keeping his feelings—which were intense on the subject—firmly behind his shields, you’ll have to pick me up and throw me in. If they tried, he vowed, they’d go in first.
The pair exchanged looks. You’ve been summoned to Council, stranger. We’re to make sure you arrive safely.
He stood a better chance with Vyna’s elders than their odd Choosers, Enris assured himself, feeling more cheerful. He had the right smile, according to his grandmother. Resisting the urge to rub his abused middle, he gave a little bow. Lead the way.
One did. The other motioned him ahead. Enris took a deep breath and followed, taking the smallest possible steps once on the bridge. It was worse than climbing a branch in the canopy. At least there, he could hold on to something. Here he felt as though he tipped from side to side. Not to mention the mist obscured the footing. He slowed. Despite that care, one foot slipped. He stopped.
Take hold.
Of what? His escort? These Vyna, however, were better prepared than those who’d met him on his arrival. Rather than offering a hand, the one in front swung his rod back, taking hold of the rod from his partner.
Railings.
Enris stifled a laugh sure to attract the wrong kind of attention. Clever.
Take hold.
Trust them, or knock them all into whatever lay hidden in mist. Enris locked his right hand around the rod to that side, his left to the left.
Whether their confidence came through that contact, or it was their matter-of-fact strides, Enris soon found himself able to ignore what was—or wasn’t—under his boots. Mostly. But just as he estimated they’d passed the halfway point, his escort slowed, then stopped.
Why? There was nothing here. Just as Enris was about to point this out, and suggest a return to ground wider than his shoulders, he realized they weren’t alone.
Om’ray.
Not ahead…
Below.
The mist ahead blazed yellow, then parted, sliding from the bridge with palpable reluctance. Enris found himself staring down at a familiar pair of metal doors, slowly turning open. Their movement pushed aside the mist, let light from within touch his face.
Vyna’s Cloisters.
The bridge ended here, with these doors. Between them, a set of stairs carved from black rock led down, steeply down. Enris couldn’t see the end of them. Water lapped, unseen. Mist began to slink back around his legs, explored the opening.
The rods in his hands twisted, he let go and their owners reclaimed them. Go. You will be met.
He gestured gratitude. I thank you for your care.
Both Vyna stared at him, their heavy lids half closed. Then, Do not expect a welcome.
He’d expected walls, at least. But the stairs led to more doors. Beyond those had been…this. Windows. Tall arched windows just like those that graced Yena’s Council Chamber. After his first astonished stare, Enris did his best to keep his eyes on anything else. The darkness pressing inward wasn’t the sky. It had no right being populated by stars. Stars that moved with disturbing suppleness or would abruptly gather and still, as if watching.
“Anything else” was only slightly less disturbing. If he thought Vyna’s Cloisters strange, what could he call its Council? No one outside Vyna, Enris thought wryly, was going to believe this.
Instead of the eldest of each family—something he supposed was unreasonable if they all considered themselves members of one—he stood before six pregnant Chosen.
Very pregnant. When his mother had been this large with Worin, he and Kiric had teased her about moving out of the house until she gave birth.
All were dressed in the next-to-transparent fabric Fikryya had worn, as if it was important to flaunt their swollen abdomens and breasts.
He couldn’t have told them apart. This went beyond the resemblance of kin to kin. Any one of them, if not pregnant, could have been older Fikryyas.
As well as the Councillors, there were nine Adepts, attended not by Lost, but by nine unChosen males. Vyna’s Adepts were the oldest Om’ray he’d ever seen, frail and confined to chairs. Fortunately, a judgment he kept to himself, they were wrapped in layers of fine white blankets. He couldn’t have told their sex. He couldn’t tell if the two in the middle were still alive, but assumed the rest knew.
All wore brightly colored caps over their hair; all had tassels of fake hair hanging to their shoulders. The colors varied, but not the style. It was as if they wanted to look alike.
He brushed his straying black locks from his forehead self-consciously.
Enris Tuana.
Disconcerting, not being able to tell the source of the words. Though not as disconcerting, Enris thought, as the tone of boredom. He smiled politely at the Council, quite sure his smile would have no impact on the Vyna Adepts. I
have come on Passage and hope for your welcome.
Strange, how that part he’d never doubted until now.
Tuana bears the stain of Ground Dwellers.
Another mindvoice. And of the Meddlers. An esan dropped him here.
Meddler—that suited the Tikitik. Ground Dwellers? Had to be Oud. He felt a fierce rush of hope. Had he been right? Was Vyna free of the Agreement, safe from the demands of other races?
Does Vyna not have such neighbors? he sent, allowing a tinge of envy.
We are not lesser Om’ray.
The emphasis stung, as the sender no doubt intended. The third Councillor, he decided. The one closest to the Adepts’ row of chairs. There was something in her posture that matched the overbearing pride of the sending, a hint of greater strength. Or ruthlessness.
Careful of that one, he told himself.
I come in search of Om’ray technology. Enris delicately offered his memory of the device the Oud had given him, just its shape, nothing more, not yet. Is this of Vyna?
One of the Adepts slumped forward. The attendant unChosen immediately placed one hand on his or her shoulder. Enris sensed a flow of Power, a giving of strength from the younger Om’ray. The ancient Adept wheezed and sat up again; the attendant, now gasping, removed his hand.
The rest ignored this lapse, their wizened faces intent on him, lipless mouths working eagerly as if he’d offered them a sweet morsel.
These would “scour” his mind? Shaken, he checked his shields.
Show us. Noncommittal, but he sensed interest.
Which was a problem. The device was still in the Mendolar shop, unless the Oud had reclaimed it. If only he’d taken it…
Wait. Enris pulled the pouch from his neck and opened it. I have this, he sent, holding the clear wafer on the palm of his hand. It was old, strange, and Om’ray. He’d meant to leave it with Aryl; a small curiosity of Sona, a bauble of no possible use to an unChosen on Passage.
Of definite use, if it bought him his life.
The wafer rose from his hand and flew to that of the third Councillor. Enris let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. More than interest.
He wasn’t prepared for her to press the wafer over the swell of her unborn and exclaim—out loud—in rapture, “Take her, Glorious Dead! Take her and be born again!”
The other Councillors took up the chant, the Adepts gumming the words. “Take her! Be born again!”
The clear wafer turned milky white and began to glow, pulsing in time with the chant.
It wasn’t the only light to play over the rapt faces of the Vyna. Enris looked at the windows. The stars-that-weren’t swarmed in greater and greater numbers. They pulsed, too, but faster, as if excited.
He rubbed his hand against his tunic. What had he been carrying?
Take him. No telling who gave the order, but Enris stepped back quickly, ready to defend himself. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he’d be willing to throw a few.
You’ll live, Tuana. Too cold to be reassuring. Take him to those already contaminated.
Chapter 13
“THOUGHT TRAVELER SAID THE OUD would come for their machine.”
Haxel raised an eyebrow. “And they needed this?”
“This” being the surprise that greeted them at dawn. An Oud tunnel mouth had opened on the other side of the river, complete with support beams and a ramp leading into the depths. Aryl shrugged. “The machine’s gone.”
Along with the corpse. No Hard Ones in sight, but she didn’t doubt they’d been the first to arrive. As for the tunnel? “Before it died, the Oud told me something was coming here,” she reminded the First Scout. “This could be what it meant. Maybe this is how the Oud establish their presence. A—door. There’s one at Grona.”
“Theirs is tucked under a bridge. Discreet. This is in our way.”
Aryl’s lips quirked. Haxel gave her a sidelong look, then chuckled. “You’re going to tell me to be grateful they didn’t put it through one of our homes.”
“Not in so many words, but yes.”
“Glad you’re the Speaker, Aryl Sarc.”
With that less than comforting statement, the First Scout headed back to the village.
Aryl lingered, trying to see down the tunnel, but the contrast between daylight and the faint glow within was too great to reveal detail. It went down, that was all she knew for sure. She tried the geoscanner. Its red symbol told her what she could see for herself: Oud, here, and active.
A mere five days after Om’ray stumbled on its ruins—ruins they’d caused in the first place—Sona’s Oud were ready, even eager, to resume official relations. Had the creatures been waiting all this time or had they watched them leave Grona? Would any Om’ray have done, or was there something about the exiles they approved?
Disturbing thoughts.
Aryl pulled the small bag from her belt and stared at it. The dying Oud’s “gift.” Probably should open it, she told herself. They might show up at any moment, and ask for it back. Or not. Who could predict what they’d do?
The pendant. The headdress from the ridge. The blade Enris found. Sona itself. Things from the past had an unsettling way of changing the present.
The wonder, she decided, wasn’t that the strangers were interested in what happened long ago, it was that they dared look.
Were they braver than an Om’ray? Aryl pressed her lips together, then untied the bag’s fastener, shaking its contents out on her open palm.
A circle of green metal.
A familiar circle. Her fingers trembled as she brushed dirt from its inner curve.
There. A small square. Inside, six tiny dots. His stars. His name.
Aryl slipped her hand through, pushing the band up her wrist until it was covered by her sleeve. The chill of the metal warmed to her skin. Enris had made this. He’d shown her the memory.
She could guess how the Oud came to have it. An Oud—possibly the same one—had stolen the Tuana’s token and pack, before dragging him for days through their tunnels. But why bring this to her? Why now? There was a message in both timing and gift.
Aryl tasted change, bitter and ominous.
Something was coming.
Despite what she’d said to Haxel, the Oud hadn’t meant this tunnel.
Whatever it was took its time. Their second fist passed, marked by clear skies and bitter cold. Hoyon professed this to be more typical weather. The exiles took full advantage, working outside from firstlight to truenight, using large fires to stretch the day. The Grona might be unused to heavy work, but even they seemed swept up by the enthusiasm to rebuild Sona. It helped that each new structure meant more space and privacy.
Hoyon preferred to work with Gijs sud Vendan, who seemed flattered by the older Chosen’s attention. Juo was not, and continued to avoid both Adepts. Oran and her Chosen took their ease—when they had it—with Chaun and Weth. Kran, not yet accepted by the Sona unChosen, hovered near his sister.
When he wasn’t, Aryl thought uneasily, staring at her.
On the surface, Sona was a unit, working to the betterment of all.
But the Adepts would stop talking when she walked by, and neither volunteered a word to her. Bern barely spoke at all, perhaps because Oran made a point of sleeping with others—to the blunt-spoken dismay of his great-grandmother. Husni, in no uncertain terms, expected babies. Sona needed them. What was Oran thinking?
Oran, Aryl knew, was thinking about being a proper Adept in a real Cloisters, trained and valued. She’d do nothing, yet, to risk her chance of a return to that life.
Nervous, quiet Oswa, little Yao her shadow, went from useless at cooking to useless at mending. Taen, normally the most patient of Om’ray, declared the older Chosen an inept menace following a too-close call pouring hot oil.
There was, however, something Oswa did very well. Aryl discovered it when she entered the meeting hall looking for Veca. The woodworker wasn’t there, but the Grona sat at one end of a long table—the hall now boasted t
wo—Yao beside her paying rapt attention to what her mother’s hands were doing.
Oswa was writing.
She used a splinter and a liquid from a small pot to draw symbols on a length of white fabric. A child’s undercoat, Aryl realized.
“This is me?” Yao asked, pointing at a double curve.
“This,” Oswa replied, touching the ink-free end of the splinter to a series of circles and lines. “See? There is the road. The river. This is where you mustn’t go. This is the way—Aryl. I didn’t hear you.” She laid her hands flat on her work, not to hide it, but hold it, as if she thought it would be taken away.
Perhaps it would, in Grona. Oswa was no Adept. If she knew how to read and write, it was knowledge gleaned through her Joining to Hoyon. Also Forbidden.
This wasn’t Grona. “May I see?” Aryl asked. A way to represent the world that didn’t rely on their inner sense? She’d never heard of such a thing, but she wasn’t the one with a crippled daughter.
Yao climbed into her lap when she sat beside Oswa, snuggling into place with a contented sigh. Aryl put her arms around her, feeling the mother’s shields. “It’s Sona,” the child said proudly. She was a warm little thing, happiest when touching others. The exiles believed it made her feel less alone; even Haxel would put aside her work to ruffle Yao’s fluff of brown hair and smile.
Aryl, who knew Yao could sense them all through the M’hir, thought it just the child’s sweet nature, blossoming under the exiles’ attention.
Young as she was, Yao knew better than to climb in her father’s lap or touch any of the Caraats. Hoyon and the rest treated her as if she was not-real, at best uncomfortable when she was near. Aryl had to believe he’d been willing to risk his daughter’s life to reach Sona because he hadn’t felt there was a life to risk.
If he or Oran knew Yao existed partly in what Yena’s Adepts called the Dark, it would be worse.
Aryl pressed her cheek to Yao’s head. “How does it work?”
“I can’t bear her to be lost again,” Oswa said defensively, her hair lashing. “I can’t.”
None of us could, Aryl sent, putting commitment beneath the words. “Show me. I’m truly interested, Oswa,” she persisted at the other’s look of doubt.
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