The others rose more quickly than before. They all bowed, two with longing looks at the door.
They were done for the day.
Aryl didn’t mind being dismissed as unimportant. In some ways, it made a pleasant change. But she wasn’t done.
“I have a question for Council,” she told them.
Aryl could feel the immediate attention of the other exiles. They’d stayed in the meeting hall, waiting for the decision of Grona’s Council. The youngest were asleep on blankets in a corner. All but Enris. The Tuana had been cheerfully claimed by members of a grandfather’s family and whisked away to inspect the metalworker’s shop.
She had Bern’s attention as well.
He’d sat apart from his former Clan, listening to account after account of the destruction of Yena. The rest of Grona had gone to their fields for the day; if that was his new role among them, he’d ignored it. He was still and quiet, outwardly relaxed enough to rest his heavy Grona boots on a table, but his grief and sullen anger were like a heavy pulse against her shields. Rude behavior from an adult, being too obviously tolerated by those around him. Like Grona, he’d been forced to learn of his family’s fate through words alone.
What did he expect? Aryl wondered. No Yena would share memory with him. It would be sharing with Oran as well.
Whether Bern was too upset to reinforce his shields or wanted everyone to know his pain, the result, in Aryl’s opinion, was unpleasant and unwelcome. She didn’t have sympathy to spare. Now she tightened her shields until the oppressive sense of him through their bond vanished.
“A question?” Efris echoed. The rest of Grona Council froze mid-bow, their dismay almost laughable. But they resumed their seats. “And what might that be, young Aryl?”
Aryl took a steadying breath. She had to sound calm and mature; she felt neither. “My cousin, Seru Parth, comes to Grona as a Chooser. Will you support her right to grant that name to her Chosen?”
The dismay increased tenfold and Aryl clenched her hands into fists within the overlong sleeves she wore. She hadn’t wanted to be right. They didn’t want to deal with this, she thought, not in front of all of Yena. Not now.
She did.
“You’re old enough to know the unChosen leave their family names behind on Passage,” the Speaker’s smile seemed forced.
“Seru is a Chooser, not unChosen. She carries her family’s name. Parth.”
They looked at one another. After an uncomfortable pause, the silence through the meeting hall as thick as mist in the canopy, Emyam sud Caraat shrugged and spoke. “An important issue, Aryl. Thank you. We will discuss the matter in days to come. You’ve only just arrived, after all. There’s housing to settle. We want everyone to be comfortable.”
“And we must get to know one another,” reminded Efris. Her cheerful tone might have worked, Aryl judged, if her gray hair hadn’t been free to twitch over her shoulders. “There’ll be a proper welcome feast in two days to introduce Choosers and unChosen.”
At the word feast, the rest smiled and visibly relaxed. “If that’s all?” Grona’s Council rose to its feet and bowed.
Accepting delay, if not defeat, Aryl bowed back.
* * *
“Seru is the only Parth.” Aryl kept her voice down. The stone and pressed dirt of Grona’s village had a distressing ability to carry sound. “Yena’s families must not end here.”
Morla Kessa’at sighed. “They heard you, Aryl. Be patient. Trust me— Councils take their time, especially with important matters.” The four of them talked as they walked, retracing their steps up and down the straight Grona street. Aryl had noticed she wasn’t the only Yena to find it difficult to sit indoors.
“I don’t see why it’s important,” said Husni Teerac. “They’ve made us welcome. Why don’t we take the names of our new clan— like anyone on Passage?”
“Husni!” They all reacted, even Haxel, who’d so far been quieter than even her habit.
Husni pursed her thin, peeling lips and stared back. She was soft-spoken, to Cetto’s loud rumble; as far as Aryl recalled, she hadn’t ventured an opinion in years. She had one now. “Parth, Teerac, or Sarc,” Husni said emphatically. “Our families will survive us, back home. They’re safe. These are kind Om’ray. We should show our gratitude, young Aryl. They’ve given us a place to live. Work for our hands.”
Like the rest, Husni and Cetto stayed with a host family. There was nothing said about separate homes— perhaps the Grona preferred living atop one another. Most exiles were already busy somewhere, learning the tasks required to produce food instead of finding it. Aryl envied the ease with which the others had settled into place.
“What if our families don’t—” she began, only to be unwilling to finish.
“Of course they won’t,” Haxel growled. “They’ve wrapped themselves in a net and hung it out to dry.” She stalked beside them like a hungry esask. She’d been hard to find these last two days. Aryl guessed the former scout had been busy assessing their new surroundings, uncertain of her knowledge now that the familiar threats were behind a mountain. It wouldn’t take her long to learn the new ones.
If there were any, she thought. The Grona were peaceful, almost docile. Aryl hadn’t decided if she envied their lack of fear, or feared its lack. Surely a village built above the Oud was at risk, always. It was no different from the Lay Swamp. What was below their feet couldn’t be trusted.
“Slow down.” The plea came from Husni again. Not that the old one couldn’t keep up, especially at this easy pace, but the Grona found Yena too quick. They were all learning to move more slowly. The Grona were methodical Om’ray and took their time with everything, it seemed. “The Cloisters is safe, Haxel. Don’t exaggerate.”
Morla agreed. “The Tikitik told Aryl they have dresel to share. Yena need only wait for calm. Negotiate for supplies—”
The four paused as Ziba ran by, each quick step kicking dust. She was followed by a pack of young Grona. Without breaking stride, she climbed a shop’s stone wall and ran up its roof, disappearing over the top.
The Grona stopped in their tracks, then turned as one to walk away. They didn’t look happy.
“Well?” Husni demanded of them, pointing at the shop wall. “What are you waiting for, younglings? A ladder? Get up there!”
Wide-eyed, they broke into a run— in the opposite direction. Doubtless, Aryl sighed to herself, to share this latest Yena oddity with their parents. She shivered, despite wearing all the clothes she’d been given. “We’d better get ready,” she said. “The welcome feast starts soon. It will be a good chance,” this with all the conviction she could muster, “to get to know each other better.”
Haxel studied the deceptively empty rooftops with a knowing eye. “I’ll fetch Ziba,” she said, a smile twisting her scar. “She’s an excellent distraction.”
“Child’s a menace,” Husni muttered, but with a note of pride.
Cold fingers brushed the back of Aryl’s hand. Nothing more about Yena names, Aryl, please. Morla’s sending held an undercurrent of anxiety. Not today. We’re still strangers here.
“I’ll see you in the meeting hall,” Aryl replied aloud.
She understood Morla’s concern. To survive, they needed Grona’s welcome.
But everything inside her warned there could be too high a price.
Aryl shortened and slowed her stride. If she could walk like this, she decided, she could do anything.
Even convince Grona’s Council.
Interlude
ENRIS HAD EXPECTED TO FEEL at home. If being treated well and with kindness mattered, if being welcomed by all, especially Grona’s anxious Choosers, mattered, if having his skills with metal greeted with joy mattered, he would have.
Drums had sounded. An Oud vehicle rolled down the main street, its treads crushing stone to dust, a cloud of whirr/clicks in attendance. He’d yet to see when the small things attached themselves to the Oud above ground. Perhaps they waited around the mouths of wel
l-used tunnels.
The Oud riding on top was dressed as the ones in Tuana had been, a lump under a shroud, with a dome over the end that went first.
He should really, he told himself, feel at home.
Not an official Visitation, he assumed, given the lack of interest shown by Grona. He’d been told they’d always lived in peace with the Oud. Unlike Tuana. No runners to obtain scarce supplies. No sudden destruction as part of their village was reshaped from beneath.
“Enris? Aren’t you going to the feast?”
Rather than answer immediately, Enris considered the clean boots at the end of his clean new pants, then crossed his legs at the ankles before leisurely leaning back against the wall. This bench was in front of the shop Grona’s Council had proposed he take for his own. They had several vacant. There’d been more of them, once. Just like Yena. “I ate already,” he said, finally tipping his head back to look at Aryl Sarc.
Different but the same. Three days of rest and comfort had changed them all. Aryl had lost some of the haggardness around her eyes and mouth; he’d stopped limping. She wore as many clothes as she could and was presently buried under layers of woven tunics and coats. Like Yuhas, the Yena were cold away from their steaming canopy, while he went bare-armed, enjoying the nip to the air. And lack of biters.
She’d found or made a net to confine her hair. A shame, in his opinion, but it was their custom.
“It’s not about eating.” Aryl sat beside him, squirming in her coats until she was comfortable. “You could save me,” she admitted after an easy moment. “They’re frantic to know anything about you. I’ll hardly get to take a bite. And,” as if this settled the question, “without you, I’ll have to make things up. You’ll gain a very romantic past.”
“I’m not interested in their Choosers. I don’t plan to stay.”
“The voice holder.” She fell silent; he waited. Then, “Does it still matter?”
“It wasn’t the strangers’,” he reminded her. “It worked for me, an Om’ray. Yes, it still matters.”
“It could be what they seek.”
Enris turned his head, looking down to meet that clear gray-eyed gaze that, whether she knew it or not, always puzzled at what she saw, always tried to understand it. “Maybe,” he acknowledged. “But what if it’s new, Aryl? Something we made? What if there are Om’ray in the world now who don’t rely on Oud or Tikitik?”
She considered this. “Where will you look first?”
“Vyna.” At her surprised look, he explained. “Think about it. They’re the Clan no one truly knows. I’ve asked here— it’s the same. Never been one on Passage. All anyone knows is that there must be an impassable ‘pick your choice’ landscape in the way. What if there isn’t? What if Vyna unChosen don’t take Passage so their Clan can keep its secrets?”
Aryl caught her full lower lip in her teeth, a habit, he’d noticed she had when thinking. “Interesting,” she said at last.
He pulled the token from its pocket. “I’ve told Grona’s Council I’m being Called there. They’re disappointed— warned me of the dangers— but who argues with an unChosen who hears that special voice?”
A sidelong glance. “For the sake of Grona’s Choosers, I should tell them the only ‘Call’ you hear, Tuana, is curiosity.”
“You could come with me.” The words came out before he’d realized he would say them. “If you’re curious, too.”
She tucked her nose inside her vests. “Is it warmer?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Aryl pretended to shiver, surely impossible under so many layers. “If you can’t guarantee a decent heat, I’ll stay, thank you. Besides,” with a lightness he knew better than to believe, “I’ve my people to look after.”
“They seem to be settling in,” Enris commented. Three days wasn’t long, but he’d noticed a few more smiles among the Yena, less tendency for them to cluster together. The young ones ran the street— mostly. The Oud? He’d watched, but seen no sign they cared about the arrival of new Om’ray. They would, at the next Visitation, when the lists and numbers changed. For now, they seemed preoccupied with mining, the rocks of Grona’s mountainside being the source of their green metal.
He’d like to know more of that; like to, but not enough to draw their attention to a certain metalworker.
He’d like to spend time with his grandfather’s family and ask them where he could find a stream with rounded stones. But not enough to linger.
“Are they?” Aryl said wistfully. “I hope so. They’ve welcomed us.”
“Grona needs you,” he observed. “They’ve barely enough to till the terraces they farm, even with Oud machines. Think they’ll refuse a gift of strong, grateful Yena? You did notice, I trust, the lack of questions about your amazing Oud rescue.” He grinned. “Your lie suits them just fine. They don’t care how you got here. Only that you’re here.”
She looked offended. “Were you always so cynical?”
Enris laughed and leaned back again. “Were you always so responsible, Aryl Sarc?”
“Maybe not. Now I must be. I’ve family here, Enris,” she said more seriously than he’d expected.
“And Bern.” He felt her outrage and laughed louder. “I’m not blind.”
Her outrage faded. “We were close. Once.”
That feeling, he understood. “Choice happens. Doesn’t mean you’ve lost your friend. Think of it as gaining an endless topic of conversation.”
“He’s changed.” His inner awareness of her faded as her shields slammed down between them. Which was, he decided, answer enough.
“As for me,” Enris said casually, “I’m leaving in the morning. The Grona tell me storms will close the mountain passes soon. I’ve no desire to do any more climbing or meet your hungry rocks.”
“So soon?” She sounded flustered. “What about my promise? To try and teach you what I— what I did.”
Enris gestured to the road and buildings. “You want this, for yourself and your people,” he said gently. “I won’t ask you to risk it for what might not even work. Besides. If I do have that Talent—” he made himself laugh again, “— I’ll figure out how to use it on my own.”
Her eyes searched his. “You’re sure?”
For one heartbeat, he wasn’t. Not about this, not about why he was so set on leaving.
The next heartbeat, he was.
“Find joy, Aryl Sarc. And do me one favor?”
“Anything,” she said quietly.
“Don’t tell the Choosers I’m leaving until I’m long gone. Please?”
He was glad to see her start to smile, even though he couldn’t. “I’ll do my best,” Aryl vowed. Then her smile widened, becoming thoughtlessly happy as her head turned.
Enris followed her look. The street had been empty of Oud and Om’ray, but now two figures approached them.
Bern with his Chosen, finally out of the Cloisters.
Not being blinded by Choice, Enris didn’t find Oran di Caraat beautiful. Her pale face was too austere for his taste, with puckers at the edge of her mouth and eyes that would, he judged, age into lines of temper, not laughter. Her blonde hair hung thick and heavy over her shoulders, its ends moving restlessly, as if she were impatient.
They stopped in front of Aryl and himself, so close he had to look up. Bern seemed preoccupied, as usual. Oran was tall and imposing in her white embroidered robes. Adept. It was rare for an unChosen to be elevated to that rank and Enris doubted she let anyone forget it. Least of all— he glanced at Aryl— her Chosen’s former best friend.
He needn’t have worried. Aryl still smiled, if not quite as warmly. “Hello,” she said pleasantly, rising to her feet. “You must be Oran di Caraat. I’m—”
“Aryl Sarc,” the Adept interrupted. “Come with us.”
Enris thought Aryl braced herself; he wasn’t sure why. “Is it time for the feast?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to talk Enris into coming.”
Bern looked at Oran.
; Just that. Normal in all Chosen pairs, an accustomed nuisance to unChosen, left to wonder what was exchanged. Enris had teased Yuhas about it, in what seemed another life. The Yena had claimed it part of being Joined, a joy to constantly gaze at one another. Especially, he’d laughed, with a Chosen as lovely as his Caynen. No secrets.
Bern looked at Oran, and there were secrets between them. Enris felt it, like the chill that slid down the mountain at sunset.
Reap the Wild Wind Page 43