Reap the Wild Wind

by Czerneda, Julie E

  “We,” she said haughtily, her small frame stiff, “will forget you. That is what must be. You go to a new life. Find joy.”

  Seeing the glisten in her eyes and the way she fought her trembling lips, Enris simply nodded. “Yes, Grandmother.”

  * * *

  There was no ceremony when Enris left on Passage, no feast or gathering of well-wishers— Council wanted no witness. No new shirt to wear for his Chooser-to-be, lovingly given by his family— they would learn he was leaving when distance faded him from their inner sense and no sooner. No landscapes or other useful memories had been set in his mind— the Adepts remained cautious of his still-damaged state. There was only this hurried departure from the Cloisters after moons set, the light cut off as doors were turned closed behind, so he made his way down dark stairs to the empty street.

  Well enough. Enris shrugged the pack given him over his broad shoulders and started walking. He hadn’t found a Chooser’s Call to lure him in a particular direction. He hadn’t tried.

  Oh, he had a goal, of sorts. The Om’ray device might be locked in its hiding place at the shop, but it haunted his thoughts. Who could have made it? None of the Clans he or his father knew.

  Suggesting the one Clan no one could claim to know: Vyna. There had never been a Vyna unChosen arrive at Tuana, not in the memory of any Adept he’d asked. Nor had other clans claimed one. Beyond Yena, Vyna was past distant Rayna as well. Some said a broad and dangerous sea lay between, or unclimbable mountains. The Adepts had smiled at him, and told him not to be tempted. Pana was closer, the largest clan other than Amna. Both would offer more Choosers-to-Be.

  But it was toward Vyna that Enris now reached with his inner sense, making sure of its direction. One mystery called to another. Perhaps the device belonged to these unknown Om’ray. If not, perhaps their Adepts would recognize its description. If not?

  He brushed his fingers over the token affixed to the upper left of his leather tunic, aware of the irony. It wasn’t the one he’d kept. They hadn’t allowed him back for his things. The Tuana Speaker, Sian, had produced another, possibly even Yuhas’ own.

  He’d use it and keep it, he vowed. A token meant freedom. If he didn’t find the answer he sought with the Vyna, he’d leave them for another clan, and another after that. It wasn’t Forbidden. Why would anyone want to leave his new Clan and Chosen?

  Someone who would never let Choice or a Chooser dictate his life, Enris promised himself.

  The air was still and cool. While he could wish for his favorite longcoat, they’d given him warm gear. Farmer’s gear. He tried not to think whose it had been. He could hear lopers scurrying in the shadows, their occasional giggles as they found something to their liking, their high-pitched snarls as that something became the object of envy. Otherwise, Tuana slept under the stars. He looked for the set he’d taken for his name. They lay low on the horizon, the faintest one straight ahead.

  A favorable sign, he decided, stretching his legs to cover more ground. He needed what encouragement he could find. Hard, these first steps away from his home and family. Like starting a full cart upslope, he told himself. One step at a time and don’t stop.

  Dim light picked the low oval mouth of the Oud tunnel from the night. Enris gave it a worried look, but there was no sign of life. He disliked leaving the device in the shop. Worse was the thought of his father left to explain to the Oud why they’d made no progress. He consoled himself that he’d had no say in the matter, that even if he could, taking the cylinder would risk setting the anger of the Oud against Jorg and Tuana itself.

  What was that?

  Enris hesitated, sure the faint sound hadn’t come from a loper. He stood where the street split around the tunnel mouth, its left fork leading out to farmland, the right little more than a convenient alleyway to the backs of shops. No homes, not this close to the tunnel mouth. No lights but the tunnel’s. He could hear his breathing, the pound of his heart, the distant sibilance that was the evening’s breeze making its way through the dry, bent stalks of the fields.

  Something held Enris still. He lowered his shields enough to send a thread of thought outward, seeking . . .

  Finding!

  Just as he realized he was ambushed, figures spilled from the shadowy farm lane and through a now-open shop door. They moved with quick, deadly purpose. The first was on him as he struggled to drop his pack and free his arms, a blow to the head sending him to his knees, another striking his shoulder, another a kick to the ribs. He managed to rise to his feet again, arms flailing, but they struck from behind, tripping his legs. This time he landed hard on the packed earth, losing most of the breath from his lungs. Kicks struck his legs, his side . . . he tried to protect his head and get to his feet again. They grabbed him. He sensed their rage and was afraid for the first time.

  They were losing control. What might have started as a parting lesson to someone they despised was turning into something far worse . . . something no Om’ray should have been able to do . . . Enris spat blood and struck out himself, his powerful arms and hands landing heavy, bone-cracking blows. But there were too many . . . they evaded him, took his arms, his legs . . .

  “Yahhhh!!” The furious shriek didn’t come from his silent attackers. Their grips fell away, and he dropped to the dust.

  Yuhas. The Yena stood over him, brandishing his ... Enris blinked his eyes clear . . . his broom.

  It didn’t matter that it was a homely weapon. Yuhas was clearly accustomed to fighting with whatever he could put to hand. Whap! Someone fell with a scream. Whap! Down went another. The shadows, always dim and faceless, melted away into the darkness, dragging their fallen comrades with them.

  “Cowards!” Yuhas bellowed. “May your living flesh be stripped from your bones by the swarms! May your bones drown in the Lay!”

  Sounds messy, Enris sent, unwilling to test his mouth yet. He didn’t try to stem the flood of gratitude and affection that went with the words.

  “You don’t have anything dangerous here,” the other complained mildly, bending down to offer a hand. “Is that why you fight each other?”

  Enris swallowed a groan as he stood with Yuhas’ help. He could move— nothing broken, though his ribs argued the point. He spat more blood and wiped a stream from one eye. “We don’t,” he muttered absently, staring into the darkness. Mauro Lorimar. If he made an effort, he might put names to some of the others. It wasn’t worth it. “You’d think—” spit, “— having me leave would be enough.”

  “On Passage. I know.”

  Enris couldn’t see the other’s face, it was too dark for that. “You were waiting outside the Cloisters. Why?”

  “I’ve seen what happens when a Council has a problem it can remove with its unChosen. Did your Adepts finally tell you? Yena sent ten of us on Passage. All there were.”

  “I—” Enris couldn’t think of anything to say to that. “I’m sorry.” He reached for his pack. It took two tries to bend that far. “You told me this season’s Harvest had failed. That you worried there’d be enough to eat.”

  Soft and bitter from the dark. “There was enough, barely. But our neighbors aren’t so gracious as yours, Enris, and they eat what we must. The Tikitik took almost all we had, leaving us to starve. The unChosen— we were sent away because only those on Passage can move freely. Our Council gave us a chance to escape, to survive. But they were wrong. They should have let us stay. After the Harvest— we were the best hunters— the best gatherers— Yena had. We could have—” a violent whistle-snap as Yuhas broke the broom against the ground. Then, quietly and in pain, “We should have helped.”

  “Maybe you did,” Enris offered, finding the other’s shoulder with his hand. “Fewer to share what’s left has to help. And, no offense,” he added as lightly as he could manage, “but there have to be other Yena who can hunt and gather better than you. I’ve seen you work.”

  Through their contact, Yuhas sent a remembered image. It was of people, dozens of people, most older, a
few very young, all standing on a bridge of some kind that looked much too fragile and slender to hold them. They looked sad and afraid.

  Within the group, though, was one who was neither. She looked back at Yuhas— for this was his memory— with determination written in her large gray eyes and slim, erect body. There was someone who wouldn’t give up, Enris decided. Ever.

  Yuhas snorted. “Aryl Sarc,” he identified, having followed the thought. “You’re right about her. Bern worried she’d—” he stopped, a tinge of embarrassment quickly hidden. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Enris had been testing his legs. Shaky and sore— he’d have livid bruises— but not much worse than the last time the cart had tipped and dropped on him. He’d made his way home then.

  Not home. Not this time.

  Then something made him squint at his friend. “You’re out in truenight. In the dark.”

  A shaky laugh. “Don’t remind me. Now, can we please head indoors?”

  His right shoulder and side protested the weight of his pack, so Enris shifted it to the left. “You’ve been a good friend, Yuhas, and I thank you,” he said. “But nothing’s changed. Naryn’s still here; I still have to go.”

  “You Tuana are all the same,”Yuhas said with amusement. “You realize you’re dripping blood. Even I can smell it.”

  Enris wiped some from his eye. “Nothing that will slow me down.” Much, he added to himself.

  “ ‘Slow you—!’ ” A laugh. “I don’t care how fast you move, my friend. The instant you leave these hard walls of yours you’re prey. Blood draws hunters. If you want to live till the dawn, wash it off, cover any cuts, change to clean clothing. Or you won’t.”

  “I have my knife,” Enris protested stiffly.

  “You’ll have no time to use it. Come, Enris.” A flash of impatience. “How many Yena unChosen do you think survived their first truenight on Passage? You might want to listen to one who did.”

  Enris wavered, staring down the long street. Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m listening. It’s good advice. I don’t doubt it. But— Yuhas, I can feel her,” he confessed what he hadn’t to anyone else.

  “Naryn? Enris— that’s not possible. She’s not here.”

  “The Adepts think they control her—” the words tumbled out, urgent and desperate, “— that she obeys Council. It’s not true. Somehow . . . somehow she’s found a way around them all.” That darkness. Naryn was there. “I still hear her. She doesn’t care what the Adepts or Council says, Yuhas. She’ll never stop Calling me. If I stay any longer . . .” . . . if he dared open his inner sense to that place . . . if he allowed her touch once more . . . she’d have him.

  And he wouldn’t even care.

  “I can’t stay,” Enris said bleakly.

  The Yena shrugged. “Fine. Then take the tunnels.”

  “You hate the tunnels.”

  Yuhas made a rude noise. “I’m not the one bleeding like supper on the table,” he pointed out. “You wear a token— Oud have to allow you Passage, don’t they?”

  His hand flattened over the disk; it hadn’t been torn loose in the fight. Enris gazed at the tunnel mouth, surprised to find himself considering the idea. “By the Agreement, yes,” he mused aloud. “But no Om’ray has taken that route. The fields— overland—”

  “Where there are things with teeth, remember? You’ve talked to an Oud— Jorg told me. You aren’t afraid of them. It’s not as if you could get lost.” This last with unconscious superiority.

  Yuhas made it sound easy. He’d yet to see an Oud. He didn’t know, Enris shivered inwardly, how strange they were, how quick to react. But was there another choice? He was already fighting real shivers— pain was settling throughout his body, pain and reaction. He wasn’t a violent person. No Om’ray was . . . or had been. The tunnel . . . he need only follow it till morning. Rest a bit in safety. Nothing said he’d encounter an Oud at all. Runners did it all the time.

  “I’ll do it,” he heard himself say.

  “Better you than me.” Under the levity, a swell of concern and grief.

  Yuhas had said good-bye to everyone he’d cared about, yet made room in his heart to care for him, as well. Enris sent his own regret and worry, adding: Be careful of Lorimar and his ilk. They won’t forget you helped me. Or forgive.

  A gentle push on his shoulder. “You planning to wait till daylight? Go. Caynen wants me home.” Underneath, grim and sure, I remain Yena. Let them be careful of me. Aloud, “Find joy, Enris Mendolar.”

  There was nothing left to say. Enris turned away from his friend, his Clan, and everything he knew, to limp into the Oud tunnel.

  And began his journey to its depths.

  Chapter 21

  ARYL DIDN’T NEED TO UNDERSTAND the words to recognize an argument with her at its heart. The strangers may have worked together, and quickly, to snag her harness with long hooks and pull her alongside. They’d cut her free of the gourds and helped her up stairs of metal from the water, opening and closing a gate in a formidable railing that ran around the entire floating platform. From its tips of outward-bent spikes, they were well aware of what lived in the Lake of Fire.

  From the gestures and angry tones of the three now in front of her, they didn’t agree on much else.

  Two she’d seen before. The Om’ray-who-wasn’t talked the least, his eyes hidden behind pale green ovals that wrapped around the upper part of his face. The huge creature, neither Oud nor Tikitik, talked the most, its voice like the thunder rumbling in the distance. Tall and wide from front to back, it had round eyes enough for a dozen Tikitik, all busy moving between two halves of black gleaming shell. Its body was covered in more shell, but fasteners had been drilled into it to hold what were either ugly ornaments or an assortment of unknown tools. Or both. It snapped the larger of two sets of claws for emphasis as it bellowed.

  The third was new to her. Pale-skinned and fragile-seeming, it leaned toward whomever spoke, as if physically displaying agreement with one side or the other, or hard of hearing. Leaning was easy; its body was so thin Aryl wondered how organs could fit inside. Its hairless head was long and thin as well, with a pair of large eyes on each side of a prominent, hooked nose. The mouth was prim and disturbingly Om’ray-like. It wore, like the Om’ray-who-wasn’t, pants and a loosely-hanging shirt of that fine, brown fabric. No boots— but its long four-clawed feet would never have fit inside them. When it spoke, it sounded petulant, like a child too long without a nap, and waved its two sticklike arms in agitation.

  Shivering, Aryl tried to make herself less conspicuous, staying hunched and quiet where they’d left her. She hadn’t understood if they’d wanted her to stand or sit— she’d sat anyway, too shaken to trust her feet so soon. Her hands explored the unusual surface that made the floor. Water from her dripping tunic and hair had soaked into it immediately, yet she felt no holes or porousness to the stuff. A cautious inspection from under lowered eyelids showed the same material in use for what she could see of the strangers’ . . . what was this? Too small for a village, too permanent for a day camp. Something between, she decided, sneaking a look at the metal tower. Maybe they thought themselves safe here, while they explored. Her eyes fastened greedily on the flying machine at the tower’s base— likely the same one she’d seen before.

  “Who are?”

  Real words? Aryl gaped, her eyes flashing to the shell-stranger. Real words had come out of it, from somewhere between its eyes. “I’m Aryl Sarc of the Yena Om’ray,” she said eagerly. “The Tikitik sent me. Who are you? What are you? Why—”

  A claw raised slightly and she closed her mouth. “Seekers, we.” This with a sweep of the same claw to indicate the others.

  Real words, but— Aryl frowned— not used properly. “Can— you— understand— me?” She spoke slowly and with emphasis, as if to her almost deaf great-aunt.

  A noise came from the Om’ray-who-wasn’t that sounded exactly like a laugh. It— he— removed the ovals from his face. It was, Aryl saw, a perf
ectly normal Om’ray face, though older and starting to wrinkle around the eyes and mouth. Brown eyes, a normal smile. A nice face—

  With nothing underneath. She flinched back involuntarily as her inner sense repudiated what she saw. “You aren’t real!” she declared, wrapping her arms around her body. “Go away!”

  The smile disappeared. He glanced at his companions. The shell-stranger snapped its claw lightly this time, making a bell-like ring. “Real are,” it said. “Afraid, don’t.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” she corrected, guessing what it meant. She wasn’t— not that she’d admit, anyway.

  Another snap. “ ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Better is?”

  Aryl tilted her head and considered it. Several eyes clustered to consider her in turn. For all its armor and natural weaponry, it didn’t seem threatening. “Better,” she agreed. “Why do you talk like that?” A breeze riffled over the lake; it stole what warmth she had left. Her teeth chattered as she spoke.