No wonder they’d scoured every home for relics.
Bern wasn’t the oldest, though most were younger by a M’hir or even two. Seru sniffled loudly and Aryl nudged her to stop. If their families could stand proud and silent, those who’d flirted and dreamed of being Choosers one day had no right to weep.
Once the bustle of gifting ended, the families moved back to join those surrounding the unChosen. The panels of the meeting hall had been turned open, letting the overflow spill out onto the deck and bridge, granting access to all. No one paid attention to the biters who took rude advantage.
Taisal stepped forward, again— or still— in her ceremonial robes. Councilor Sian d’sud Vendan accompanied her, his hands full of metal disks. She stopped before the first in line, Yuhas Parth, and bowed her head to him.
“Receive this token, that you may Pass unhindered to Choice.” With this, she took a disk from Sian and pinned it to Yuhas’ tunic. “Find joy,” she finished.
Was it hard, Aryl wondered, for her mother to wish them what she’d lost?
There was no wasted motion or delay. Daylight was the only safe time to travel; they’d gathered at dawn for this ceremony. The odd wysp trilled its farewell to truenight, a fitting sound. The unChosen had been brought back from the Cloisters, where they’d been given what memories there were of the landscapes beyond Yena. There were Adepts who collected such from each who arrived on Passage, though few made it this far. None had crossed the desert between Yena and Pana, though secondhand information came from other Clans. None had come from Vyna either. The routes to Amna and Tuana were freshest in memory, being the most recent to arrive, but the latter crossed the vast plains of the Oud, alien to Yena in all ways. Those to Grona and Rayna, remembered only by the oldest, would be dimmer and less accurate.
They knew where to go, Aryl assured herself. It was innate. The world was the Om’ray; they could never be lost in it. As for what waited along the way? She suppressed a shudder. Not all were as experienced as Bern; in truth, only he and Yuhas climbed with admirable skill. Some had barely started training, a few seemed bewildered by straps and hooks.
The tokens glinted as their wearers began moving out of the hall, the rest of Yena making way. The existence of enough tokens for all was a surprise in itself. Aryl was glad of the distraction. Had this many come on Passage in the past, leaving their tokens with Council? Or was there a store of new tokens in the Cloisters?
She sighed. Not that it mattered.
Heart-kin. Fingers brushed hers in the crowd. She felt the warmth in his touch. Be well. Then he was moving beyond her.
I didn’t mean it, she dared send, keeping it focused and tight, hoping their connection would protect them among so many. He had to know. About her. You’ll find someone wonderful.
Faint . . . so faint . . . I did.
Heart-kin. Her lips trembled as she tried to smile. Be careful.
Aryl’s wish was being echoed throughout the Yena as the unChosen took their leave. By custom, they would travel separately, to better listen for their Chooser’s call. By plan, they would seek in different directions, aware no one Clan would have so many Choosers to spare. A couple would try to reach distant Vyna, despite the mystery shrouding that path.
It seemed a morning for impossible goals.
She went with the others as they spread along the bridges, looking up to watch Bern climb. They’d use the canopy for their road as long as they could. It had the best light, the most food.
It was marginally safer.
The figures moved quickly, sure on familiar paths, disappearing between one breath and the next. Aryl struggled to see through the crisscrossed fronds of rastis, following the climb in her mind’s eye, knowing each step and reach and pull.
Hear me, Yena.
At the summons, Aryl turned with everyone else to face Taisal and the Council. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, in the main doorway to the meeting hall, their expressions determined and dignified. She would have been comforted, if her inner sense hadn’t felt apprehension from all sides.
“Our unChosen face a difficult trial,” Taisal said. Though it carried well, her voice was hoarse, as if overused. “But by taking Passage, they stand a better chance of survival.”
A startled murmur that died immediately.
“Only those on Passage may leave Yena,” Taisal continued. “The rest of us must stay. That is the Agreement. Neither Tikitik nor Oud will suffer our breaking it. Our Chosen have collected every scrap of dresel, every bit of preserved food, from our homes. Combined with this M’hir’s Harvest, that resource will be shared by all. It cannot sustain all.” She paused, as if to let that sink in, then went on. “We must do whatever we can to find more. Glean what we can from the groves, hunt what comes near.
“Above all,” she said, her voice now loud and sure, “above all, we must preserve the strength of those who will reap the coming M’hir for us, or Yena is doomed.”
* * *
“Are you sure this is what you want, Aryl? To stay here alone?” Taisal sat with hands neatly folded in her lap, but she looked distracted, as if already gone. “There’s no guarantee how long this bridge will last. Myris and Ael have room for you.”
The diminished stock of glows and their power cells was another problem facing the Yena. Council had responded by reducing the area to be lit through truenight. Which, thus far, had meant cutting free bridges and ladders leading to already empty buildings.
They’d been more populous once.
The next step would move people from outlying homes. “Sarc joins the main bridge,” Aryl pointed out. “It’s more likely I’ll need to find room for them. Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”
Her mother’s mind came back from wherever it had wandered, her eyes warm. “Yes, you can. You’ve grown, Daughter.”
Just not enough.
Taisal gestured understanding. Aryl shrugged and collected their dishes. She took them to the basin, automatically reaching for the fastener on the water pipe, but stopped herself in time. Water pumps consumed the same cells that powered glows; Council had decreed only those essential to fill the communal cistern remain in use. Everyone was to retrieve water from that source in gourds or flasks or whatever was available. Already, weavers were busy making biter-proof covers for roof collectors, though the rains wouldn’t start until the M’hir blew itself out.
“Take my room,” Taisal said, rising to her feet. “If my sister decides to move in, her Chosen can fix your old bed.” There’d been a clever catch-and-hinge arrangement to lift the frame after all, something that would have saved time and the bed, had any living Sarc known of it. “I wish I could stay longer,” she finished.
“I know.” Her mother’s duties in the Cloisters now included searching records for any forgotten sources within the canopy with the virtues of dresel. That those duties also included tending those who would weaken first as their rations were cut was an unspoken, but tragic truth. “I’ll be busy myself,” Aryl added more brightly. She was to climb the canopy tomorrow and join the urgent hunt for still-edible pods. Council may not have picked her for the Harvest, but at last they acknowledged her skills were too great to waste plucking fruit with other unChosen.
“Be successful,” her mother said soberly. “A pod means a fist of life.”
Aryl swallowed. She hadn’t thought of it that way. “I will.”
“I expect nothing less.” Taisal appeared to hesitate, then nodded to herself. “And be careful. Aryl, this is important. Do not let any Tikitik see you.”
She blinked. “I thought they couldn’t climb.” And she wasn’t planning to go down to the Lay before next M’hir either.
“Don’t confuse assumption with fact,” Taisal frowned. “We’ve never seen one climb. That doesn’t mean we know what they can do or where they can reach. If one comes near you, hide any pods you’ve found. Don’t tell it what you’re doing.”
“Tell it?” Aryl echoed faintly. “You mean it would talk to me? I’m
not a Speaker.”
“They want dresel. If they suspect we’ve more than we’ve said . . .” Taisal stopped and went on more calmly. “Between us, Daughter, no further.” At Aryl’s nod she continued. “You were brought to their attention— there was no help for it. But Tikitik aren’t as rule bound as Om’ray. They have their factions; these sometimes disagree. A representative from one or another will not hesitate to approach you if it finds you alone. And ask questions.”
Aryl remembered long arms and a repulsive mouth. “Do they— would it try to eat me?”
“Child’s tales.” Taisal shook her head with reassuring promptness. “Harming an Om’ray is against the Agreement. So long as we stay within our groves, we’re safe— from our thinking neighbors at least. Now, I must go. Is there anything else you need?”
What she needed was for life to be the way it was, with Costa bringing his armloads of dripping, smelly greenery through the door, and Bern being annoying.
Without the awareness of the other place always beneath her senses, and a guilt that weighed her heart.
Since none of that was remotely within her mother’s Power, Aryl found a smile. “Good weather in the morning.”
“That, the Watchers promise,” Taisal smiled back. Be well.
* * *
Alone, Aryl found herself doing what her mother or Costa used to do at the end of each day: checking the fit of gauze against biters, testing and replacing cells in the household glows, making sure the door panel was latched in place for the night. They were familiar tasks— when Taisal stayed at the Cloisters, they were hers anyway. But this was the first time she’d done them aware this was her home now.
Growing up wasn’t what she’d imagined, Aryl mused as she dimmed the light within the bedroom. Instead of jumping on her parents’ bed, a romp that typically resulted in doing dishes for a fist, she’d done the dishes without thought. Now, she slid between the sheets and lay as she was, too exhausted to shift to a more comfortable position. Not that more comfort could be imagined, she groaned, her eyes closing against the light from the bridge glows that snuck between the curtains. There was a sensation as though the bed turned under her— a not-unpleasant dizziness.
Though her body was still, Aryl’s mind began to race. Plans for tomorrow’s hunt: equipment, where she’d try first. The Sarc grove would have been scoured already. Teerac’s? She veered from that train of thought to a closer problem: what to do with all the clutter now filling her old bedroom. It could go back into the storage slings, pulled up to the rafters.
No. She didn’t want old things, their things.
She’d host a gathering— her very first— and invite her friends to take what they liked. There couldn’t be a proper supper. Council had ruled that each Om’ray would receive only what he or she needed for the next day’s meal, brought to the meeting hall each morning. That was fine with her, Aryl decided. No dishes.
Picturing herself dressed in something much more mature than yellow, Aryl drifted toward sleep. Her dreams took over from imagination . . .
. . . . She found herself waiting at her open door, a flower in her hand. One by one, her friends arrived, dressed in their best, their faces gaunt and hollow. They begged her to feed them and she refused, though she smelled fresh dresel on her clothes, hands, and hair.
Next came those who’d fallen into the Lay, their bodies swollen and putrid where the flesh hadn’t been torn off in jagged bites. They dripped on her floor, and begged her to free them from the water. Costa was at the front, the stumps of his arms outstretched to her, and she told them they were dead.
Her party ruined, she tried to close the door. A hand stopped its turning, then another, and another. They pulled it open again, pushed through, their arms and legs wrapped in gauze, their booted footsteps loud. Their mouths were open, screaming without sound. They were burned . . . broken . . . bitten . . . starved . . . yet moving . . .
She pushed them away, into the darkness, only to find herself going with them. It was like drowning in black water . . . she had nowhere to go . . .
Aryl found herself sitting up and shaking. Beams of light barred the walls, cracked by shadows. The shadows were of curtains, wall panels, and the gently moving tips of rastis fronds.
Nothing more.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, holding herself in place. Dreams were . . . they were just dreams. The Adepts said so; they should know.
This— it had been more. She wasn’t sure why she believed it, but she did.
Aryl doubted she was the only one having this particular nightmare tonight. Some of those Joined were rumored to share dreams, though there was no need to invoke a mental connection to explain common fears after the events of the last— was it only three days?
But hers— it was more.
Now as restless as she’d been tired, Aryl swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window, her fingers gathering a fold of curtain to let her see out.
There wasn’t much to see. Only scouts would be awake, armed with longknives and watching the bases of the few ladders left connected through truenight. Every building and bridge was strung with glows. She’d delighted in them once. Now, it seemed her world ended at the limit of light.
Bern and the others were beyond, in that darkness. Aryl’s fingers tightened. Few had her reach, whispered something inside.
Everyone knew it was wrong to try and contact those on Passage. They were gone to whatever fate awaited them, as good as dead. A Clan must rally around those left and ready a welcome for any who might arrive, though without Choosers to send their call of longing, Yena would see no strangers this M’hir.
Aryl rubbed her cheek against the cloth. Who would want a stranger?
Was it wrong to try? After all, it couldn’t be done. Once away from the grove, the unChosen were beyond a sending. Weren’t they?
Few had her reach.
And heart-kin shared a bond, the closest possible other than mother/child or between those Joined. She had only to listen to her inner sense—there! Aryl’s head snapped left and up. He was there. The others were flickers, as if seen at the corner of an eye, but Bern’s mind was like the sun breaking through the canopy.
Maybe she could touch his thoughts if she—
Aryl stopped herself, remembering her mother’s warning. The Adepts watched for Forbidden use of Power. She didn’t know how, but it wasn’t worth the risk.
She opened her hand and let the curtain fall in front of her face. With one finger, she traced the fold for a short distance.
Bern wasn’t far, not yet.
Aryl went back to bed, her mind full of plans.
Chapter 10
BY MIDMORNING, THE SUN had become an enemy, this high in the canopy. Aryl’s eyes ached from its unceasing brightness, and she sought shadowed branches as her road wherever possible. It was cooler there, too, however slightly. She could almost wish for the rains to hurry and start again. Almost.
Short-lived as always, the M’hir had diminished to a cantankerous trickster, no longer able to sound the Watchers, muttering to itself through the canopy. It blew in strong, fitful gusts that swept the sky clear of cloud and the air of moisture, then would abruptly die to a breeze— luring the incautious to trust slim branches. While she begrudged the time it took, Aryl kept to wide, strong stalks and those branches unlikely to sway.
She’d found three pods since entering the grove. One had been torn open and emptied. She’d let it drop, listening as it slithered and smacked through fronds until out of sight. The others were whole, hard, and promisingly plump. She’d put both in one of her harvester nets, left that hanging in the open from a straight, bare nekis branch. The nets were impregnated with a foul-tasting compound, the same one used to coat the undersides of bridges to slow rot. It wouldn’t keep all potential thieves at bay while she was gone, but it would discourage most.
As she climbed, her eyes roved the greens and grays, hunting the rich brown of more pods. She was goin
g in the right direction. The rastis in this grove, Teerac’s, had been blown clean, their crowns barren tufts. Downwind lay a wide swathe with red wings draped forlornly over other growths, or waving from threads caught on thorns. It was as if the canopy had been decorated for a party, and then no one had come. Most of the pods were missing, lost below or taken by wastryls and other harvesters quicker to take advantage than Om’ray.
Still, she’d collected two, and the day wasn’t over. Aryl found herself repeating her mother’s words: “a pod’s a fist of life.” Somehow, they made her climb faster than ever before.
For it was a race. Once a pod cracked open to light, its seedlings would grow with incredible speed, sending fine rootlets through the soft dresel to digest and consume it. If a pod landed in shadow, it would stay closed and its contents quickly spoil.
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