Riders of the Storm

by Julie E. Czerneda

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  She had no answer for that.

  “That’s it, then.”

  “Seru—”

  Her cousin’s stiff back expressed her opinion as she left the shelter. That, and the way she managed to slam home the stick that kept the door closed against the wind.

  “You can apologize to her later,” Myris said gently.

  Aryl transferred her glare to her aunt. “She’s the one being unreasonable!” They had Om’ray being dragged here—through tunnels, she very much feared, and undoubtedly against their will. They had Tikitik and Oud killing one another—for whatever reason. Marcus was alone with creatures who’d almost killed them both—not that she could share that bit of worry. And she was to apologize for—for—“It’s not as if I want any of them,” she grated out.

  “Do you think that makes it easier to bear when you could have any?”

  Aryl threw her armload of Sona bedding into a corner. Rock for a floor and a roof of blankets. Wind whistled through cracks that could fit her arm. No hearth for a fire. Half a wall on one side. Three oillights gave an illusion of warmth.

  She kept on her coat.

  This excuse for a building was across not one but two roads of tilted stone, with shattered homes and dead fields between. They’d been using it to store the jars of oil, the Grona having warned of the danger of those too close to sleepers.

  Suddenly, without argument or discussion, it was necessary to put her here, even though they had room for the new arrivals in one of the four already restored.

  “I don’t feel any different,” she grumbled. It was true. That episode with Marcus, when she’d been overwhelmed by her senses, had been the only one.

  Myris straightened the blankets into something closer to a bed. “You will.” Her smile was a shade too cheerful. “You know we’re all happy for you. But you’re a Sarc.” A meaningful shrug. “My own time was—let’s say there was a reason I had to stay with our grandparents. Once I started my Call, no one could sleep.” Her smile softened; her eyes grew moist. “It wasn’t long before Ael came in answer. May you find joy soon.”

  Given the options of trying to respond to her aunt, or pound a sliver of wood into a crack to hold her coat, Aryl found a rock and pounded. The wood split under the force, and she stung her fingers on the wall.

  Myris sighed. “This is temporary, Aryl. You have exceptional control—you always have had. But a sleeping Chooser tends to—can be disturbing.”

  “Seru sleeps with the rest.” As soon as she’d said it, Aryl gestured a grudging apology. Parths had less Power; their Chooser’s Call had almost no impact on others. It was the truth, if unkind to mention.

  She envied her cousin. That was the truth, too. “I won’t stay here during the day—I’ve work to do. No one should treat me any differently.”

  Her aunt came close. Her cool fingers brushed a lock of hair from Aryl’s brow, tucked it into its net, rested against her cheek. You may not feel it yet, little Aryl, but you are different. Since we’ve come to this cold place, being near you has been like finding a warm spot in the sun. Now, you’re like a flame. If I ever doubted what Taisal said about your Power… her sending faded beneath waves of pride and love.

  The wind tested the blanket roof. Aryl searched those gray eyes, a mirror to her own. I don’t want this—I’m not ready. With a wrench of honesty. Why am I afraid?

  Because Choice isn’t about control or planning or what you desire. Myris seemed much older in that instant, the gulf between Chooser and Chosen wider than the world. Choice is as inevitable and needful as breathing. When the unChosen who can fulfill you stands where I am now, you will lose yourself. When he takes your outstretched hand, you will be unmade. When your Powers merge and you have Joined minds forever, you will become something new. You will be changed by him, as he will be changed by you.

  This wasn’t what unChosen eagerly whispered to one other about Choice. She’d feared exposing her secrets—now did she have to fear she’d no longer care to keep them? Was that what had happened to Bern? Have I no say in this?

  Only what you are. As a Sarc—an upwelling of compassion— Choice will not come easy. We resist. We fight. We challenge. Only an unChosen able to match his will to ours can succeed.

  “You make it sound like a battle,” Aryl protested, her breath coming fast and hard.

  For those of great Power, it is. Her aunt gestured apology. “You need to know, Aryl. To be prepared. Seru can accept any unChosen, her Choice will be easy. But with you nearby, no one will want her. They’ll turn to you instead—they must. They’ll respond to your Call, to your greater Power, like wastryls scenting fresh dresel.”

  “Now I’m a prize?” She didn’t want to hear this. She wanted Myris to stop.

  No. That wasn’t true. Something deep inside her responded to the words, to what she was being told. Something believed.

  Something rejoiced.

  “Choice cannot be forced on a Chooser. You must offer it. But you can’t complete your Choice with an unChosen who is less in Power. I may be weak for a Sarc,” Myris stroked her cheek again, “but my Power to Choose was not. Ael had to struggle against me at first. I was afraid I’d lose him, that our Joining would fail, that I’d stay incomplete. You can’t imagine how that felt.”

  She could. She’d lost Bern and thought it the worst that could happen.

  Until she’d lost Enris.

  Aryl paced away, then back. “What am I supposed to do, Myris? Walk up to every unChosen in Sona and try to measure their Power against mine, then pick the one I want?”

  “Those of great Power can’t plan their Choice, Aryl, or control it. That’s what I’m trying to explain. Seru’s drive is not as strong as yours will be. It’s let her wait. Parths can be patient.” Her aunt’s hands were restless; she clasped them together. “My sister loved Sian. Did you know? They were heart-kin from childhood. When Taisal became a Chooser, she wanted Sian and he wanted her. But it was Mele who stopped her on that bridge at firstlight, Mele whose Power matched hers, Mele who became sud Sarc.” Myris’ lips twitched. “For which we were all grateful, let me tell you. Taisal was making truenight a misery for everyone.”

  “My parents were happy together,” Aryl countered, tight-lipped. Had this been why Sian visited their home so often? Not to debate with a fellow Adept, or not only that, but to be near someone he could never have?

  “The Chosen are—” Myris seemed to rethink what she was going to say. “You aren’t a child, Aryl, to be told Joining is about love and companionship. Neither of those require Choice. Choice is deeper, wilder. It’s the body’s need: to claim a mate, to mature, to breed. Yes, the Chosen are obsessed with one another—until the urge to have children ends. After that? Our bond remains; what we do with it depends on us. I will always love Ael and he, me. We are partners. But you’ve seen how Oran rules Bern, Hoyon’s disdain for his Chosen. You need to be strong. Sure of what you want. Rule, if you must. You can’t let your Chosen take you from us.”

  Aryl stared at her aunt. “Haxel sent you to talk to me.” The First Scout didn’t wait for events to happen, not if she could anticipate them. “Why?” At the ripple of dismay she felt, she knew. “The Caraats. Haxel actually believes I’ll Choose Oran’s brother?” She laughed; she couldn’t help it.

  Myris looked offended. “He’s the most Powerful unChosen in Sona.”

  “No,” Aryl replied, sure of one thing. “I am.”

  Whatever worries and fears her aunt had managed to increase, not ease, Aryl was relieved when she joined the rest for supper in the meeting hall. No one gave her odd looks or moved aside. As usual, hands lifted to hers as she passed; grateful beyond words, she sent strength back through each touch.

  Not every hand. Oran and Hoyon sat together against a wall, Bern and Kran nearby. Seru managed to be busy serving soup and didn’t look up.

  But tiny Yao reached up from Oswa’s lap and both returned Aryl’s smile.

  Anxiet
y and anticipation rilled from mind to mind, as noticeable as the increasing howl of wind outside. They could all sense those approaching. At their rate of travel, the newcomers should arrive tonight.

  She should be grateful for that distraction, Aryl decided ruefully. Otherwise, the topic of conversation would doubtless be her apparently obvious-to-everyone-else condition.

  Which was on the minds of some regardless. When it was her turn to receive a bowl from Seru, her cousin quickly handed it to Rorn and moved to the far side of the cook fire. Hurt, Aryl stared after her.

  “She can’t help it.” Rorn added a spoon with this matter-of-fact explanation. “Close to you, no one will hear her. Choosers have an instinct.”

  No longer hungry, Aryl accepted the bowl and hurriedly moved away.

  Haxel made room for her at the end of one of the tables. “We’ll need to eat in shifts once they’re here,” she said with no preamble. “Fifteen? You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Aryl watched the steam rise from her soup, toyed with her spoon. She could feel Kran’s eyes on her, but he was, as she’d hoped, easy to ignore. Murmurs of conversation filled the room like glows. This was more than they’d hoped—to have numbers so soon, to be a Clan.

  At what price? We need to tell them about the Oud and Tikitik.

  Haxel made a dismissive sound. Speaker’s business.

  The pendant was stored beneath her tunic. Nonetheless, Aryl felt its weight.

  It wasn’t as heavy as other secrets. She tried a mouthful, made herself swallow. One sending, here and now. She could tell them all about the M’hir, how to move through it. One sending, and she could abdicate responsibility for keeping that ability from the strangers. Make whatever happened willful Ziba’s fault, or earnest young Fon’s, or power-hungry Oran’s.

  Aryl put down her spoon.

  “No appetite?” Morla, on her other side, leaned in. “I was the same as a Chooser. Ate nothing but fresh baked dresel cake for a fist. Hungry for something else, let me tell you.”

  “Leave her be.” Veca gave Aryl a sympathetic look. “Don’t let anyone tell you how you should feel, Aryl. Everyone’s different. I couldn’t stand company—until I found Tilip.” This with a softening of her usually dour features.

  “Rorn found me,” Haxel volunteered. “Not that I objected.” The three Chosen shared a laugh.

  Aryl pushed away her bowl and rose to her feet. “I have to check on the Oud.”

  She didn’t run from the meeting hall.

  She did, however, manage to be out the door before anyone else could comment on Choosing, Choice, and her future.

  Snowdrops played in the wind, the thick fluffy kind Aryl had learned found its way through eyelashes and down necks. Drifts were forming again, white scratches against the dark ground. The fire in front of the meeting hall melted the nearest to black puddles.

  “Hello, Aryl.” Juo was on watch tonight, a pair of eyes and a nose peering from a bundle of coats, scarves, and blankets. “Come to join me?”

  Enris had sensed her unborn was a daughter, a Chooser-to-Be. Aryl felt a sudden rush of sympathy.

  “Haxel sent me to check on the Oud,” she said. Which the First Scout likely would have done, had she not been preoccupied.

  “In truenight?” Juo shuddered. None of the Yena had lost their aversion to the dark. “I thought they’d stay in their tunnels. They have glows down there. Enris said so.”

  Enris. The fire grew brighter, the air colder, the fog of breath from her nostrils detailed and strange. She felt something shift, the M’hir close in, and desperately focused on Juo. “They use glows to work outside with their machines—did you see that at Grona?”

  “True. Are you sure you don’t want to sit with me? Watch for them from here?”

  She didn’t know what she wanted.

  “I’ll be back soon.” Lighting her oillight, Aryl took the road toward the empty river and the Oud. Within a few steps, the snow surrounded her in its dance of white and gray.

  It made her alone, set her apart. She wasn’t sure why that felt a relief.

  Short of the river, Aryl stepped off the road and made her way into the mass of tossed and half-buried beams that marked Sona’s original hall. There, she ducked beneath a lean of stone, out of the snow, and pulled out the geoscanner. Nothing new showed on its screen. The green symbol when she pointed it toward the tunnel mouth meant all quiet.

  Her thumb found the control on the side and pressed. He could hear her now, she thought, or rather his machines could pick up words and sort them into his database.

  The Human claimed not to listen. Still, she mused, shifting her feet under her long coat, he was curious. That above all.

  “I know what happened to the first Oud Speaker,” she told it. Talking to a machine was very un-Om’ray. Naughty. Something her mother would scold her for…

  …Taisal hadn’t wanted Mele?

  Aryl jerked her thoughts back where they belonged. “There was a hunter hidden beneath the dirt—it strikes at whatever touches it. It might have been there by its own will, or a surprise left by the Tikitik. They use living things—make them.”

  She leaned forward, her hood drooping, her eyes locked on the device in her hand. “There are Om’ray coming to Sona. The Oud are bringing them here through their tunnels. I don’t know why. I don’t understand them. I don’t trust them. You should be more careful.” This with a snap of worry.

  Aryl listened for a moment, hearing nothing but the kiss and slip of fresh snow on drifts, the frustrated hiss and snarl of the wind beyond the shards overhead.

  “I wish you were real,” she said at last. “Then I’d know you were alive—where you were. That the Oud hadn’t hurt you or taken you with them. How can you exist like that—not being able to sense one another?” The images of his Chosen, their children, his sister…if the Oud had buried Marcus in the ground, how would they ever know?

  She could go there, find out. Her hand clenched on the device. Should she? Was it wise, to continue a friendship that could lead nowhere, that could be dangerous to both of them?

  Or was it too late? The Oud and Tikitik had seen them together. Her people had Marcus’ image in their minds—she’d given it to them, so they wouldn’t fear him or his help. Now, it exposed him. She gestured a futile apology with her free hand.

  “Aryl?”

  She looked up, startled, then realized the quiet voice had come from the device.

  Curious and prone to surprises, her Human.

  “Aryl, it’s me.”

  She almost smiled. Who else on Cersi would refer to himself as “me?” “I can hear you,” she said. “How—” No, that didn’t matter. “Are you all right?”

  “Tired. Once they decided to show me what they’d found, they kept at it all day. I recorded all I could, but I’ll need more archivalbags. Some will have to be shipped offworld, there need to be tests—I’ll stop now.”

  He’d have that abashed expression on his face, she knew. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your work.” More than glad. Her hands trembled. Moisture chilled on her cheeks. Had she been so afraid for him—or was it the relief of having someone to talk to who couldn’t comment on her “condition?”

  “How about you? You don’t sound right.”

  Now she did smile. “I’m fine. Just cold.”

  “You’re outside?” A note of alarm. “There’s a bad lowpressurecell on the way. The forecast’s heavy snow—colder. You shouldn’t be out tonight.”

  The Human knew the weather? Aryl was torn between amusement and annoyance. She’d never thought to ask him something so ordinary. Of course, here was yet another reason Haxel would want access to stranger knowledge and technology. “I’ll go inside soon—”

  Something caught the attention of her inner sense, a disorientation. The other Om’ray were more than close, they were below! Others were on the move.

  “I have to go. The Oud might be—” As if listening to her, the symbol on the geoscanner’s screen f
lashed red. She finished, “The Oud are here. Good-bye, Marcus.” The path of the Oud underground, their speed, had surprised her—had surprised them all. She had to get to the tunnel’s mouth.

  “Be careful, Aryl.” Quickly, as if he knew she had her thumb on the control: “Leave comlink active. If you need me, need bioscanner, need big help, say: ‘Two. Howard. Five.’ I program to listen for those words. ‘Two. Howard. Five.’ Promise! Say now, I set program your voice.”

  Numbers. His son’s name. Even as Aryl hesitated, she remembered how she’d felt when Marcus and his aircar had arrived, when Marcus had agreed to save the exiles. He was her ally, powerful and wise, in his way.

  “Two. Howard. Five,” she repeated carefully, committing the words to memory. “You promise me—don’t speak from this device unless I talk first and say I’m alone.”

  “Understood.”

  Then silence.

  Aryl tucked the device back in its pocket, making sure it was safe. Why had she cautioned him? This was his technology. He’d know its weaknesses.

  She pulled the Speaker’s Pendant free of her coat and scarf, made sure it was lying flat, and prepared to greet who—and what—was about to arrive.

  Not alone. A solitary figure already stood on the bank, staring into the dark across the empty river, hair loose on the wind.

  Seru Parth.

  “Cousin,” Aryl greeted warily as she approached. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you.”

  Somehow, she doubted that. “You don’t think—I’m not—I mean…” Aryl fumbled and fell silent, thoroughly embarrassed.

  Fingers on her sleeve. Two are pregnant. Their unborn are frightened. They may need me. An undertone of amusement then contrition. “About before. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just…We used to laugh about Choosers and their chancy tempers, remember? I never thought I’d be like that. And never with you.”

  Aryl took her in a one-armed hug, careful of the oillight. You’re my dear silly Seru. Nothing can change that. “Let’s greet our new arrivals.” As they began to climb down the bank, “You’re sure about the babies?”