Were they waiting for the next Oud?
Aryl trembled and listened. Nothing but faint whirrr/clicks. Nothing but her breathing. Her heart pounding.
She hadn’t asked about water.
The Tikitik—the Hoveny—none of that should have mattered. She’d been there, talking to the Oud’s new Speaker, and hadn’t said a word for her people.
Why?
Her mouth twisted. She’d been afraid. Afraid of what the Oud could do. Afraid to risk it. Like she was now. Willing to leave Marcus to them, while she ran.
Her mother never flinched from her duty. Even when it meant condemning her daughter for the good of Yena.
One handhold at a time. The Oud were in Sona to stay. So was she.
Her toe sank deeper than it should.
Aryl threw herself back and away as the ground in front of her shot upward. Enormous hooklike claws cut through the air, scraped against the rock wall. Pebbles rained down. The whirr/clicks abandoned their perches for the safety of anywhere else.
The hook-claws—there were six, taller and wider than she was—grabbed at nothing one last time, then plunged back under the ground.
She stood up, selected a good-sized Hard One, and heaved it where the hook-claws had disappeared.
The ground shot upward. The hook-claws cut and scraped, one connecting with the Hard One which shattered in a spray of green, black, and glistening yellow. The rest turned in midstrike to plunge into the mess, then sank out of sight again.
Aryl walked very carefully back to the stone road—a construction material that suggested the Sona had known very well what could lurk beneath looser ground. The Oud Speaker must have been shielded, in part, by its vehicle—otherwise, it wouldn’t have left this spot.
So…a natural predator or a cunning trap left by the Tikitik, who used living things as their tools?
At least the hook-claw appeared fixed in place and none-too-bright. The canopy had innumerable such hazards. Once the rest knew, they’d be watchful.
At the thought, Aryl reached, seeking that comfort. There. Her people. After the Oud and Tikitik, even Oran was a welcome taste.
She could be with them before taking another step. All she had to do was picture the warmth and comfort of the meeting hall and ’port herself there.
Who might be watching? A stranger-device, far overhead? A Tikitik, skin matched to stone? What about the Oud…they hadn’t reacted to her use of the M’hir. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
Marcus had been right to warn her.
She began to run again.
Interlude
ETLEKA EYED ENRIS.
Putting his hands behind his head, Enris eyed him right back.
Five days of his best behavior. His parents wouldn’t have believed it. For his trouble, his hands bore new calluses from five mornings of catching the hapless denos, as well as cuts from five afternoons of hauling that catch to be cleaned and cleaning it. He’d endured flatcakes at every meal, by now almost inured to the Vyna’s mouth-burning spice. He wore the clothes they gave him: the tunic and pants were cool and comfortable, if snug. No shirt. From the Vyna he’d seen, there wasn’t a size to fit his shoulders.
Five days of doing whatever he was told, without argument or complaint. Of giving the Vyna time to grow used to his presence. Hopefully, time enough so they wouldn’t feed him to the denos’ unseen nightmare.
Any stranger had to prove his worth. But what Etleka held in his hand?
There was, Enris thought cheerfully, always the moment best behavior ended. “You can’t make me wear it.”
Stop talking out loud. Etleka held out the cap, a sparkling confection of blue and green, complete with yellow tassels. Everyone stares at your head when we go out. It’s embarrassing.
“Doesn’t bother me.” Enris deliberately ran his fingers through his thick hair and added to his list of having behaved very well five days of talking—not talking—to no one but the two denoscatchers, neither of whom communicated a thought that wasn’t about either denos or catching them. Unless it was to complain about his strangeness and having to put up with him.
He tried not to think of the five truenights he’d been left alone in this windowless bedroom. Every ’night, once asleep—he could only stay awake so long no matter how he tried—once asleep, he would hear the chant of Vyna’s Council and Adepts echoing through the corridors of the Cloisters, an incoherent howl like something with teeth and terrible appetite, watched by bodiless eyes that pressed against the windows.
“You have no idea, my friend,” Enris said peacefully, leaning back in the chair and crossing his long legs, “how long I can talk out loud. Let me start with my grandmother. Did I tell you she had a—”
You’re impossible. Etleka placed the rejected cap on the table and flopped gracelessly into the other chair. Those furnishings and a narrow bed competed for what space there was. The other two rooms were no larger.
The Vyna had done more than cut into the island, they’d tunneled completely through it, like Oud. Enris had discovered the massive shard of rock was hollow, as if rotted from within. Where the rock narrowed—at its peak and ends, a single room might have doors to the outside piercing three of its walls. At its thickest, like here, along the lower levels, rooms opened only to other rooms. Vyna had no hallways inside its rock. Workrooms, including the one where he’d gutted denos were on the outside, with windows. Anyone going home had to walk through them first, then continue through whatever other rooms were in the way.
Many of those rooms were empty. Vyna had been more populous once.
I’m not impossible, he sent, inclined to peace now. I work hard. I’m pleasant.
You think that matters? Etleka replied scornfully. You’re lesser Om’ray. That you made it here past the mountains and water doesn’t change anything. You can’t be here, and you can’t leave. You have to die.
Enris grinned. Haven’t yet.
Even a Vyna’s laugh was soundless, a gaping of the mouth, a shake. No. You tossed a rumn into Council, that’s for sure. The younger Om’ray’s mindvoice was decidedly pleased. They’re still in session, arguing. Until that’s settled, you can help with the denos.
Arguing about what?
I shouldn’t talk about such things.
Oh, he knew that look. He’d see it on Worin’s face, when his little brother ached to tell a secret to someone. If they’re going to kill me eventually, Enris sent, with a deliberate hint of amusement, why not tell me? I’m curious.
Beyond curious. Desperate.
Patience, he told himself, keeping his body and face relaxed.
Tarerea Vyna, the High Councillor. She claimed the Glorious Dead for her unborn, used it before the others had a chance. There should have been a vote. Disdain. Not that they’d have agreed on anything.
What’s a “glorious dead”?
Etleka’s eyes widened. You really are lesser, aren’t you? Don’t you know anything?
The Tuana imagined a certain Yena’s response to this and gave his best smile. Maybe not. Tell me.
When an Adept can no longer be kept alive through the gifting—that is my future, the unChosen added with pride—I am strong. One of their servers will fail soon, and I’ll be Called. They won’t Call you. I’ve heard they fear your taste will be sour.
Remembering the unChosen waiting to give their strength to those too-old bodies, Enris was mutely grateful.
When an Adept is close to death, Etleka continued, another scours the memories from her mind and puts them in a Vessel. When an unborn is ready, she receives the Glorious Dead. It doesn’t always work. The unborn can be willful and refuse the gift. If it does work, a new Adept is born, with the memories and Talents of the one gone before.
Vile. Horrible. Enris fought the urgent desire of his stomach to express its own opinion, fought to keep his shields tight and to project only curiosity. How could they do this to the unborn? What were the minds behind those old eyes?
So the argument is about
Tarerea?
Another grin. Etleka had likely never had so eager a “listener.” They argue about you, Enris. You brought a new Vessel to Vyna, the first ever. They want more, badly, but no Vyna would leave and be contaminated by the world beyond. They could send you. You are already ruined. But you can’t be trusted to return. You can see their problem. Some want you dead now. The rest argue for a delay, saying you could be neutered, made useful while they try to find a way.
Neutered? Enris didn’t care for the feel of the word—or the satisfaction that came with it.
Not that any Vyna Chooser would crave a lesser Om’ray, but if it happened? Nothing can stop Choice and Joining. All that can be done to protect the Chooser from her misjudgment is to remove— Rather than send an image, Etleka spread his legs and pantomimed the slash of a knife. Those of feeble Power cannot be allowed to breed.
“You expect me to believe you mutilate Chosen?” The outburst rang against the walls. Enris didn’t care. “I may be new to Vyna, my friend, but I’m not stupid.”
The other jumped to his feet, pale face flushed with anger. Ask Daryouch, then.
“Your father?”
At the door, Etleka gave Enris a scathing look over his shoulder. I had none. Not with grief—with pride.
Once the incomprehensible Vyna was gone, Enris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. If his future was set, this lesser Om’ray needn’t risk his life “helping” catch denos.
What should he do?
The irony didn’t escape him. If there was any unChosen on Cersi the Vyna shouldn’t worry about contaminating their precious Choosers, it was him. He hadn’t come in answer to a Call. To be honest, he found the one Vyna Chooser he’d met as appealing as an Oud and had no higher expectations from the rest. He felt no urge whatsoever to Join any of them.
He fingered the knot of hair at his throat. He’d come here to help all Om’ray and found the only ones who wouldn’t. No wonder Thought Traveler had been amused.
If the Vyna thought he was going to sit here while their strange Council and withered Adepts decided his fate…
He laughed loud and long.
…time to misbehave.
Enris delayed only to change into his own clothes. The Vyna garments, he left lying on the floor.
Now to find something worth taking.
Each truenight, sent to his bed, he’d listen to the door being locked. It wasn’t now, Enris discovered when he went to break it open. Either he’d angered Etleka to the point of carelessness, or the unChosen had no idea how uncooperative a lesser Om’ray could be. Grinning, the Tuana investigated the main room, where Daryouch prepared and served their meals, but its few cupboards contained nothing but dishes, utensils, and clothing. Perhaps the Vyna had no need for preserved or dried foods, going out daily to catch the hapless denos.
Another excellent reason to leave. A steady diet of the things and he’d become as thin as any Vyna.
He wouldn’t be able to leave unobserved. There were four “homes” and a storeroom between here and the outside. Vyna privacy was based on a deliberate turn of the head to not look directly at those already in a room—or those passing through—as if the pretense possibly mattered.
No one home in the first three. Enris opened the door to the next and strode inside. He’d never seen anyone there.
Until now. A smokelike mist, redolent with musk, swirled around the naked Chosen standing inside. She grabbed her cap from the table, fumbled it over her head. No pretense this time. She stared at him as he stared at her.
Who are you?
With a frantic gesture of apology, Enris hurried through, turned the next door, and bolted for the safety of the storeroom.
He slowed, tasting musk at the back of his throat. What had the Chosen been doing? He had a confused memory of…
A Call flooded his mind, pulled at his thoughts, twisted his senses. He stopped with his hand about to turn the door to outside. A Call from…
…the room he’d just left.
No. Impossible. He’d seen her. Too well. The swollen breasts and hips of a Chosen, a body ready to nurture new life. Her exposed hair had been strange, a thin pale fuzz like the coating of a fruit, but it had moved with her emotions.
He’d seen her.
The Call continued, stronger than Fikryya’s, than Seru’s. Despite his revulsion for all things Vyna, Enris hesitated, surprised by longing.
He had only to turn around. Go back through that door.
To what? What was she? A Chooser waiting for completion—or a Chosen half-thing? Or was this another aspect of Vyna, that their Choosers need not wait for Choice to mature?
Etleka claimed no father. Had he meant exactly that? No. Impossible.
Enris licked dry lips. Wasn’t it?
Did Vyna need the unChosen at all?
She did. She wanted him. Her urgent desire ached in his bones, fired his blood. Come back…let me offer myself…offer you Choice… Sweat stung his eyes as he resisted. Her Call, so close and powerful, weakened his shields, shook his hold on reality. The M’hir surged closer, pulled at his sanity, sang destruction…
No! He would not.
Rebuffed, the Call withered and stopped, a triumph of will over passion. He choked back a cry at its loss…turned the door and half fell through it…found himself…
Outside.
And ran.
Morning could be midday could be firstnight. The mist-laden water and clouded sky diffused light, confused all sense of time. His stomach helped, insisting he’d missed breakfast.
His pounding blood said he’d missed something else.
With an effort, Enris forced his thoughts away from the memory of her Call, of his ability to refuse it. She hadn’t sent again, perhaps stung by his rejection—Choosers, he’d noticed, didn’t take well to being spurned—perhaps gathering strength to send it again. If she did, could he resist her again?
Whatever she was.
Wrong to refuse, something inside argued. What was he waiting for? Enris suddenly thought of his cousin Ral, who doubted the next sunrise until he saw it for himself. He’d been fond of stories of unChosen who failed to find a Chooser. Their fate, according to these tales, involved a long and romantically miserable life made bearable by incredible feats of daring and accomplishment.
Kiric had lasted a year before walking off a Yena bridge. There, thought Enris bitterly, was the truth.
His own emptiness? He filled it with determination, with anger, with the need to help others. Made himself remember the pain Naryn had caused, when she’d tried to force him to answer her Call. With the terror of being lost in the M’hir, in that endless insanity of darkness…Should he add a new one? That his own ability might keep him from any Choice at all?
Enris broke out laughing. “Now I sound like you, Ral.” Who, for all he knew, had already Joined with sweet, if hiccup-ridden, Olalla. Besides, if he believed Etleka, he’d escaped a match that would have cost him dearly. He tugged his pants for reassurance.
Whatever else, he had to leave this place. To his inner sense, the Vyna were spread over more than the island. The denos-catchers were heading out in their floats, Daryouch and Etleka among them. Not that he planned an overwater route. Even if he could use his Talent to move one of the craft, the thought of what swam below?
No. A Tuana belonged on ground. Solid, flat ground.
Which meant a bridge. And he’d complained about Yena’s. At least they’d been wide, with rope rails.
Enris paused by one of the Vyna’s always-bright glows, gazed at it thoughtfully. “What powers you?” he asked it. No cell. No oil. But what?
The Vyna themselves? They used Power in novel ways.
Determined, if glad no one watched, he put his hand against its cool outer case. The light shone through his flesh, painting his fingertips pink. Cautiously, Enris lowered his shields, reached with the part of his mind that understood Power and objects, that could sense another’s touch.
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.
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