Reap the Wild Wind

by Czerneda, Julie E

  He couldn’t think near someone like that, let alone work.

  As for work, he thought, they’d have to be careful. He and Jorg had discussed the next step. Before anything drastic like removing crystals, they’d do more precise measurements and test the metal of the outer casing. They couldn’t risk the object. They had to assume the Oud wanted it back, and in the same condition.

  Which Oud had it been? Enris studied the creatures with new interest. The Speaker was obvious, centermost and facing— or the equivalent— its Om’ray counterpart. Its pendant was affixed to that end, anyway. It crouched in its front-end-up position, ready to talk in turn. The other two had their heads down.

  Maybe they were bored.

  Bored, he understood. He was bored. And anxious. And, above all else, he didn’t want to be here and they couldn’t make him—

  Traud glanced his way and Enris checked his shields for leaks. “Beautiful,” he whispered quickly and was rewarded by a bemused smile.

  Were all the other unChosen that hopeless?

  Other than his location at its focus, this Visitation continued like all the others Enris could remember. Om’ray liked tradition; the Oud didn’t like change. First came the good news: the amount of nost drying in racks; the number of fields freed of various scourges— the most repugnant plants had their pests and Tuana scouts were always busy while the crop ripened; lists of those born and their immediate relations; lists naming those arrived on Passage and any others Joined since the last Visitation— which always produced a rumble of approval from the assembled Om’ray, though Enris doubted the Oud cared; and so on. There would be lists of the productivity of various trades, his and Jorg’s shop among them. In short, all that had been improved by their village’s existence.

  After that came lists related to the village’s impact on the Oud. The area of land used to grow food for Om’ray; the amount of that food harvested; the number of warehouses required. The number of power cells consumed and glows to be replaced; the quantity of other supplies used, from water to cooking oil. The number of blades broken; accidents to equipment; damage to buildings.

  And deaths. When their Speaker reached this list, the Tuana hushed and held their children. They were six hundred and sixteen strong this Visitation, their greatest number in memory. But there had been losses. It was a source of dismay, that the Oud wouldn’t leave the dead in peace, though they didn’t ask for names. They demanded cause, and the Tuana Speaker gave it, his voice flat and even. Ten lost to age. One found ravaged by nocturnal hunters in a field. A child succumbed to wasting fever. The worst— a Chosen who had died during childbirth, the final cost three lives.

  Eryel S’udlaat and her unborn son, followed at once by her Chosen, Mirs sud S’udlaat. Mirs Eathem had come on Passage from Amna Clan, drawn across the world to Eryel’s Call, entranced by her kindness and mirth.

  Enris forced himself to look at the Choosers-to-Be. What would it be like? He tried to imagine being lured, to imagine finding his life’s partner. He made the effort to imagine dying at the loss of his Chosen.

  His imagination wasn’t good enough, he decided. All he felt was queasy.

  All too soon, it was time. The Oud Speaker had begun its statement on the balance between their two peoples, a fancy way of agreeing to supply its share of the predicted needs of the village for the coming seasons, be that power, water, or seed. The Oud had made those calculations while listening to the Om’ray Speaker. It was always accurate, if never overgenerous. A cagey but reputable customer, as his father would put it.

  Soon would come the moment Enris dreaded. With the Oud as witness, the Speaker would reveal those eligible unChosen who’d asked to take Passage and been judged fit by Council to do so. Next, he’d announce those who would be Choosers before the next Visitation. There was, Ridersel had told her sons privately, a fair amount of guesswork involved in the matter, but it let official courting begin.

  Last, and most unnerving, in Enris’ opinion, would be the naming of those already committed to one another, to the joy of all present. The resulting swell of emotion pouring from mind-to-mind had been known to inspire otherwise sane unChosen to bolt across the open floor and fall on their knees in a fit of suddenly discovered passion.

  That was not, he assured himself after another wary glance at the crowd of costumed gigglers, going to be him.

  Startled dismay flooded Enris’ mind. What had the Oud just said? He’d stopped paying attention.

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who needed to hear it twice. “What did you say?” asked Sole, their Speaker. In no pleasant tone either.

  “Too many,” this with emphasis. “Send away.”

  “Our Council decides who takes Passage.”

  “Who decides Om’ray. More decides Oud.” It nudged the creature on its right. “More tokens we. Decide who.”

  From the anxious murmurs behind him, Enris wasn’t the only one taken aback. What was happening? He looked for his family on the stairs, found his father first. Jorg gave a helpless shrug. Ridersel was holding Worin so tightly he should have been squirming. Instead, the youngster stared down at his brother, his face the color of ash.

  “Decide who!” This louder, with that abrupt, agitated body shift Enris remembered all too well.

  Sole was an intimidating figure, well suited to his role, but now he seemed fragile. He glanced back at the Council members as if for help; they looked equally shocked. Turning back to his counterpart, he gave a slow nod. “We will,” he told the Oud. “But we need time—”

  “Decide who! Tokens we!” This with a hard shove against the one next to it.

  As if the blow was a signal, the abused Oud humped toward the assembly of potential Choosers.

  Every Om’ray rose to their feet with a shout, outrage surging from mind to mind. Enris found he’d taken a step forward with the unChosen, his hands now fists.

  “What are you doing?” Sole shouted. “Those are Choosers! Get away from them!”

  The Oud might not be able to tell Om’ray apart, but it understood the shout. It immediately humped backward until Enris was staring at its dusty rear. Then it turned in place, little feet drumming rapidly against the brick, and stopped. It rose to speak. “These are?”

  It looked and sounded like the one in the shop. But he couldn’t tell them apart either.

  “Decide who!” bellowed the Oud Speaker, thrashing its body from side to side twice. The Om’ray on the floor scrambled to get as far away as they could, which wasn’t far. Some climbed the stairs, helped by family.

  The other Oud endured what had to be bruising contact without moving.

  Hear me, Tuana! The sending from their Speaker quieted the room. Sole bowed to Council before coming to stand before the unChosen. His face was pale and set. After a moment, he bowed to them, a respect that dried Enris’ mouth.

  The Speaker moved along the front line of unChosen, his gaze touching each in turn. The silence in the great room was so profound Enris feared the pounding of his heart could be heard.

  Sole sud Serona paused before Irm, then spoke at last.

  “Irm Lorimar shall take Passage.”

  The waiting Oud rose slightly higher. Its limbs rushed in the tidy waves Enris remembered to ferry an assortment of packages from underneath itself. Most were immediately carried back down in a reverse flow almost too quick to see. Sorting through its pockets, Enris thought wildly. Too many packages were caught by limbs near its head and held ready. How many of them had to leave?

  Tuana sent at most three or four on Passage, always those who, like Kiric, had petitioned to find Choice outside their village. Everyone knew who they were. There was time to prepare, for farewells.

  It wasn’t done like this, not by ambush in front of their families.

  Sole took a package from the Oud, opening it to reveal a metal disk. Though smaller and plain, the style resembled that of the pendant around his neck and the one affixed to the Oud Speaker’s head.

  Sole
fastened it to Irm’s tunic. “Receive this token, that you may Pass unhindered to Choice. Find joy.”

  The unChosen looked ready to faint. Mauro, his brother, didn’t hide his relief when the Speaker moved past him.

  Next to receive a token was the eldest son of Serona, who smiled and tipped the disk in his hand to admire it. Obviously, one of those who’d asked for this fate.

  When his turn came, Enris tilted his chin, prepared, he thought, for anything.

  He wasn’t prepared for the grief in Sole’s eyes; his own widened in response. It couldn’t be . . .

  “Enris Mendolar. Receive this—”

  The Oud, showing unexpected reach and quickness, snatched back the token. “Decide other.”

  The Tuana Speaker’s mouth worked without sound for a moment. He looked from Enris to the Oud and then back. “We decide,” he said.

  “Yes. Decide other.”The black claw thrust the token at Traud, who frantically backed into those standing behind him to avoid it. There was a faint squeal from the area of the Choosers. “Decide this.”

  “No!” Enris protested and grabbed the token. It was cold and hard. He closed his fist over it and stared up at the Oud. “I’ll go.”

  “Stop! All of you!” The now-livid Tuana Speaker brushed a hand over his pendant, as if to remind himself and them of his rank. Enris could sense the Power he used to shield his thoughts— which was, he decided, just as well. “You make a mockery of our ways,” Sole said to the Oud, his tone nothing less than forbidding. “And you—” only fractionally milder to Enris, “— remember who speaks for Tuana.” To Traud, who had resumed his position, shaking so hard Enris could feel it. “Your Chooser awaits you here,” still with that edge.

  Back to the Oud. “We decide who.”

  The creature was unimpressed. “Metalworker this. Decide other.”

  Sole drew himself to full height. “No.”

  The remaining tokens began a rapid journey back down its limbs. “Decide none. Goodgoodgoodgood.”

  Enris wasn’t sure what that meant. From his frown, neither was Sole. The Oud Speaker rested its head on the brick floor, either lacking an opinion or deferring to what they’d all assumed was a servant.

  Servant, Enris wondered, or had the Oud brought their version of Council?

  This had to be the Oud who’d come to the shop.

  And the object it had brought was somehow worth risking the Agreement between Om’ray and Oud, that had stood since the world began.

  At least it was to the Oud.

  Chapter 13

  “SIX PODS.” SERU’S LIPS POUTED as she whistled. “No wonder Haxel wants you for a scout.”

  Aryl lifted the spoon, checking that the purple powder came only to the mark carved on the inner curve of its bowl. Perfect. “Not interested,” she muttered, tipping the spoon’s contents into a fold on the square of waxed gauze, one of a stack before her. Taking the gauze, she twisted it into a packet, then secured it with a thread. No dresel cakes this M’hir. The powder was being divided to the last grain. Each packet contained a day’s serving of dresel for an adult, scant but in the opinion of Adepts, enough for survival. They’d feel the effects over the coming fists: growing weakness, aching in their joints, diminished appetite. Two packets for each child— otherwise growth would be permanently affected; half a packet for the very old, a decision they’d made for themselves. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew. Even so rationed, there wasn’t enough for all, not through to the next M’hir. A store must be reserved for the harvesters, Yena’s only hope for the future. When the time came, rations for everyone else would be cut.

  Seru had started with a similar stack. It was now substantially lower than Aryl’s, the other unChosen being as quick with her hands as her opinion. “Why? Father’s all for you being a scout.”

  “He is one,” Aryl pointed out. “And they need more.”

  Seru changed tactics. “You’re the best climber— you love it! You could be First Scout one day. Besides,” she noted, “you hate jobs like this.”

  “I don’t love climbing,” Aryl informed her cousin. Not anymore, she thought. She did her share; the soreness of her muscles reminded her of that. This was another rare day of rest, crucial, if her body wasn’t to betray her in the next climb.

  She gazed around the room. “What’s wrong with this?”

  The heady spice of dresel filled the air, muted from the fresh but able to mask the scent of the flowers nodding by the window panels. They sat at one of several tables gathered at this end of the meeting hall. The click of spoons in gourds, the low murmur of young voices— for this was a task given those who weren’t out hunting meat to be dried in the kilns— the constant flow of Om’ray through the doors, bringing their finds to be sorted by the older, more experienced Chosen at the other end of the room . . . Aryl felt as if she soaked in a warm bath, secure and comfortable, free of demands.

  Every Om’ray was busy: here, in the warehouses and kilns, out in the canopy. Only the looms were silent. Without fresh clean wings, the weavers were set to repair and patch. Aryl suspected they’d all soon wear layers; she hadn’t a shirt free of holes.

  The end of the M’hir would bring the return of the rains, carried on hot heavy air from that part of the world marked by Pana and Amna Clans. Added to the need to repair rooftops and bridges was the new urgency to gather seeds and fruits, to hunt game before climbing became treacherous and the biters hatched anew in their hungry clouds. If they were to put away enough food to last until the M’hir’s return, it would have to be now.

  “Wrong?” Seru gave her an odd look. “Nothing, if you like gossip and sitting all day. Which you don’t.”

  “People do grow up,” Aryl said absently, lifting her next spoonful.

  Her cousin put down her packet and turned to face her, her eyes aglow. “Aryl. You feel it, too?”

  Though Seru was capable of being excited over a new hairnet, for some reason Aryl was uneasy. “Feel what?” she asked, spoon halted in midair.

  “The dreams. The burning. The urges!” In case anyone in the meeting hall had possibly missed her passionate whisper, Seru thrust her right hand out in dramatic emphasis.

  Aryl grabbed her cousin’s wrist and yanked it back down; the blush burning her cheeks deepened as she heard giggles from the Vendan sisters at the next table. “Stop that!” she snapped. “What are you—” Then her eyes widened in shock. Her inner sense had touched Seru.

  And there it was. The wild, exotic Power that flared from even the weakest among them when ready.

  A Power with but one purpose: to summon an unChosen and bind him in Choice.

  * * *

  The irony escaped no one. Council had sent away all their eligible unChosen and, within a fist, Seru and the Vendan sisters were declared Choosers, their inner Call reaching out across the world. It was possible they’d lure back some of their own, but unlikely. Once Passage was begun, an unChosen picked one Call to follow. The one, Adepts promised, that touched closest to his heart.

  Which didn’t, Aryl fumed inwardly, say anything about the shortest distance or most sensible route. There had to be a better way.

  She’d cleared the end of a table in Costa’s room for her work, propping her drawings against pots. It was the brightest room.

  It was the one place left where she could imagine nothing had changed.

  Along with their other tasks, scouts now had to watch for those on Passage to Yena. No one said aloud what everyone knew— that the coming rains would make the difficult impossible. The waters of the Lay would rise to flood the platform below. The higher water meant its creatures could swim among the lower branches; many spawned in this time, trumpeting their warnings to rivals. The high route of the Yena would be the only one.

  But other Clans lived on flat ground; they couldn’t climb.

  “There’s a better way,” Aryl declared, studying her latest creation.

  She’d cleaned the piece of dresel wing she’d collected as
best she could. Yena didn’t use the wings intact— the natural material was tight and strong at first, but naturally broke apart when exposed to moisture and light over time. Weavers cleaned and soaked the wings in vats of soapy water until individual threads became swollen and loose. They’d tease them apart, collect and dry the thread, and only then weave the threads into fabric. Treated this way, cloth made from dresel wing was long-lasting yet soft.

  Aryl’s piece was intact. She’d cut it into various shapes; this triangle was the latest she’d tried. By trial and error, she’d come to use dried hollow stems for supports, and sacrificed old clothing for threads to secure the wing to them. More threads dangled below, attached to a splinter of wood. The wood had little eyes and a mouth inked on it, all shown wide open as if alarmed. “Ready, Fich?” she asked it, grinning at her own joke.