Riders of the Storm (41 page)

And, more practically, for them to come out of their trance before they froze to death.

You should have stopped them.
Almost exhausted.
Who lets a Chooser…a Chooser…
the mindvoice faded.

“Here.” Slipping her shoulder under the other's arm, Aryl took a grip around her waist. The rest were forcing their way through the knee-high snow to the lights and sound; she didn't blame them. “There's a short drop, a climb, then we're home. Don't worry. You'll have help.”

Help now arriving. Too slow. Too late. Taen passed her, heading for Seru, urgency in every step.

“Our Chosen know what to do.”

Too late…

The Om'ray she assisted was taller by a head, though slender. Dressed for warmer weather, Aryl thought unhappily as they labored through the snow drifts. The fabric of her coat was soft and too thin. At least they had Grona-style boots, from what she glimpsed by her light.

Or were they?

The Oud hadn't taken a direct route here. They all been puzzled by the twists and redirections as the others approached, unsure which Clan had lost these members. “Tuana,” she guessed abruptly.

“Yes.” The hoarse voice broke into a cough. She shifted back to mindspeech.
We believed the Oud took us from the world.
A hint of
terrible fear,
quickly hidden.
Thank you. I am in your debt. We all are.

Reeling herself, Aryl took more of the other's weight as the footing grew treacherous. Almost to the others now, to more light, to help. She strained to look back. Another group followed. Seru and Taen, with Seru's Chosen. “No debt,” she managed to reply. The plight of these poor Tuana could well be her fault, something she wasn't about to explain.

Who are you?

“Aryl Sarc.”

I am Naryn S'udlaat. And your friend, Aryl Sarc, from this moment.

T
HE STORM SETTLED IN THE VALLEY, laying down snow, packing it into cracks and crannies with fitful pats of wind. The village became so many lumps in the landscape; what was restored indistinguishable from what had been destroyed. No one stirred outside. A curl of smoke was the only argument for life.

As far as Aryl could tell, no one cared. This latest storm was an excuse for the exiles' first prolonged rest and the arrival of the Tuana, whole if battered, had ignited a celebration that showed no signs of ending.

As for Seru's Joining? With a supple adaptation of tradition, Husni and Taen had whisked Seru away to Sona's third building, home to both Uruus and Vendan families, there to spend her first truenight as a Chosen. Receiving, no doubt, a great deal of unsolicited and highly intimate advice.

There, in relative peace, her body would take its mature form—a mysterious change Aryl, for one, wasn't in a hurry to experience. Imagine the impact on balance, she fussed to herself. Let alone clothing.

She hoped Seru was all right.

Seru's Chosen, meanwhile, could wait. His body would also change over the next hours, but apparently not in ways that required new clothes.

She didn't want to know.

Sona was content.

She was so tired her bones ached.

“You want to know how long we've been here?” Aryl propped her chin on one hand and fingered her thin rope of dayknots. Seru's cleverness. Clever and kind, her cousin. She'd tie the second tassel tonight. “Two fists, tomorrow.”

“Only that?” Naryn wrapped her long white fingers around her steaming cup; she still wore a scarf around her head and the coat they'd provided, as if chilled through, but didn't complain. Her eyes, large, blue, and fiercely bright, darted from hooks to oillights to the newly-made tables. Her voice would be lovely, once its hoarse cough eased. “Well done. You've made a home.”

“We've made a Clan,” Aryl corrected firmly. She wanted no misconceptions about what Sona was, or what they offered.

A dimple appeared. “So you have.”

Aryl yawned, her jaw cracking, and gestured apology. No one suggested sleep; the Om'ray in the packed meeting hall were too aware of each other, too curious and unsettled. Without doubt, the Tuana were too rattled by their experience to relax any time soon.

One hand left the cup to rest warm and strong over hers.
Here.

Strength
flooded
her body from that confident touch, driving back her exhaustion. Aryl blinked in surprise. “I didn't need—”

Naryn clutched her cup again. “You drained yourself for us. A fair trade.”

Trade. Enris had explained the disquieting concept. Tuana was a Clan of such abundance they had time to produce more than the essentials, had individuals and families who no longer worked for the survival of the whole, but instead produced ornaments and goods distributed not by need, but by exchange for objects deemed of equal value. The wristband the Oud had given her, now against her skin, was one such item—not that Enris hadn't worked for his entire Clan.

Yena did not trade; they worked hard and they shared what they had. Sona-that-had-been? Her dream-memories were silent on that detail, but their stored wealth suggested they could have. Sona-that-would-be?

“There are no debts or trades here,” Aryl said stiffly. A hope, perhaps futile. They had so many Tuana now.

So many and in two neat groups. The first, nine strong, were all members of three families: Serona, Licor, and Annk. Different from one another; similar in manner. They sat close together, spoke quietly and courteously to those around them but listened more. Appreciative but cautious. They—and their sturdy, dark clothing—had suffered the least from the rough handling of the Oud. One, Tai sud Licor, was unusual enough even Aryl caught herself staring at his face, skin dappled like the pattern of sunlight through leaves. He'd come on Passage from Amna, where that coloring was common. His two daughters, shy but beginning to smile at Ziba's fascinated attention, were dappled like their father and startlingly tall, with shoulders to rival any Yena male's.

Not yet Choosers. Aryl was dismayed to be sure, just as she was sure the other unChosen, the Seronas' son, was ready for Choice. He kept his head down as if to be unnoticed, his black hair—which reminded her of Enris—tumbling over his eyes.

A group with sensible boots and gloves, used to heavy work by their hands—little wonder Haxel radiated distinct
satisfaction
whenever she looked at them.

She radiated nothing at all when she looked at the others.

Those five sat closest to the hearth, wearing Sona undercoats over the tattered remnants of what had been not-sensible clothing. The fabric—before being dragged through dirt and snow by the Oud—reminded her of flitter wings, brilliantly colored and smooth. Pretty, Aryl told herself, trying to be charitable. Ridiculous, she decided, giving up the effort.

The clothes—completed by ornate, cold-looking footwear—were only the start. These had never worked a day in their lives, as far as she could tell. No calluses. Their movements were awkward and slow, their faces and bodies plump by Yena standards. They sat in sullen silence, although one, newly Chosen from the way she clung to her Choice, wiped fresh tears from her cheeks every time her face left his sleeve and she saw where they were.

Aryl's inner sense persisted in sorting the new arrivals. Of the sullen five, one was a Chooser, pointedly not looking at her. Beko Serona. Another eligible unChosen. He glared at those around them as if the Sona were to blame.

When he wasn't staring at her. Deran Edut was his name, lean for a Tuana, with a pinched face that made Aryl think of sour fruit.

Last of the five, Mauro Lorimar, was the one who rivaled Enris in size, though he moved like something soft. When he noticed Aryl's attention, his full lips spread in a triumphant smile.

Seru's Chosen. Mauro sud Parth.

Aryl found the tabletop of overwhelming interest.

“Never back down from Mauro,” Naryn advised quietly. “He likes it too much. Deran? You needn't worry—he hasn't the Power for you. Ezgi might. The Serona runner.”

“‘Runner?'” Aryl managed.

A nod at Haxel's favorites, and the unChosen a little too obviously avoiding her eye. “They scavenge abandoned tunnels—we don't have the wood you do.” This with an envious pat on the table. “Running's all they can do if the Oud reshape.”

Hence their alert air, Aryl thought. Daring and resourceful. Haxel was going to like them even more once she knew. “The others aren't.”

Her companion chuckled. “Their idea of risk is to trade for what runners bring up. After all, that defies Council edict. As if anyone really obeys it. Though Mauro—he takes bigger chances.” Her lips closed after that and Aryl sensed her withdrawal behind tightened shields.

Naryn didn't belong to either group, she realized abruptly. Not the only puzzle she posed. The other Om'ray might be close to her age, but she wasn't a Chooser—that she could sense, anyway. Not Chosen, surely, though she didn't attempt to
reach
to find that bond. Powerful, controlled. Trained. That she did know. “You're an Adept,” she guessed, frowning.

“No.” This with a flash of some emotion, hidden so quickly Aryl couldn't be sure of more than disturbance. Naryn gestured apology. “It's been a difficult—I don't know how long it's been,” she admitted. “There's no truenight in the tunnels, no dawn. It's all the same. Suen—my uncle's cousin and heart-kin, Suen sud Annk—promised I'd get used to it.” Aryl felt her shiver. “The Oud came first.”

“You're safe now,” she said awkwardly, sending
reassurance
.

“We believed we were being punished,” a low strained whisper. “The Oud forbid trespassing. None of us had tokens. Mauro, the fool, tried sending to Tuana for help—my head still hurts from the Oud's reaction to that.” A grimace invited Aryl's sympathy.

Which she'd give, if she understood. “What reaction? We've never experienced a—problem—with using Power near the Oud here.”

“Imagine running as fast as you can, then stubbing your bare toes on a rock.”

Aryl frowned. “I'd jump it.”

Naryn's chuckle turned to a cough. She took a sip. “Yena. Of course. Though not-
real,
a few Oud have something like an Om'ray's Power. Like, but different enough, believe me. Put them together? Nausea. Headache. Dizzy—”

“Oud have Power?” Not a pleasant thought. Not pleasant at all.

“Not many. Adepts don't like admitting it, but it's hardly a secret. We call them Torments. Tuana has had more than its share lately.”

Making the Oud changeable. Another complication. Aryl gave a resigned sigh. “What do the Oud call them?”

A quizzical look. “Why do you care?”

“I'm Sona's Speaker. I can hardly ask the Oud to keep their ‘Torments' away. I need their word. The right word.” She sounded like the Human, Aryl thought to herself, suddenly amused.

“You'd ask?”

Tired as she was, Aryl grinned at Naryn's startled expression. “Our First Scout doesn't like surprises.”

“She'd best get used to them, then.” The other Om'ray traced the top ring of her cup with a long finger. “The Oud don't give warnings. Not ones we understand, anyway. They simply act for whatever twisted reasons. Look at us. We didn't know where they were taking us…if they'd drop us down a pit and leave us to die…if they'd abandon us past the end of the world where the sun would never shine again.” Naryn's finger stopped. “Then you were there. I knew we were safe. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me.” Was she truly to blame for every ill on Cersi, Aryl thought wearily, or only for those that climbed into her home? “The Oud weren't punishing you. They found and brought you here because—” she braced herself, “—because of us.”

“Of you? Why?”

Where did she start? Aryl looked into Naryn's pale, exhausted face and sighed. Stick to what mattered. “The Oud felt we needed more Om'ray to be a proper Clan. They found you and brought you here. Their Speaker told me. In a way.” She pulled back the sleeve; the wristband caught the light. “It gave me this two days ago.” Before it was killed—something else that didn't matter now. She took it off, reluctantly, and held it out. “It's from—”

“That's mine!” Naryn's eyes fixed on the green metal band. “The Oud surrounded us. Took what we carried. Bags, packs. The others lost more. All I had…clothes, water…that.” Her hand began to reach for the wristband, then stopped in midair. She drew it back, drew within herself until to Aryl's inner sense she was almost invisible. “Keep it. A gift, not a trade.”

Enris had shared his memory of making the wristband, not its owner, but Aryl smiled warmly as she replaced it on her arm. “Thank you. Don't worry about clothing or supplies, Naryn. We've enough for all.” And ample water lay drifted against the walls, the storm's gift. “Sona takes care—”

A furious shout shattered the peace. “We shouldn't be here!”

“Mannerless
igly
.” Deeper, just as angry. “You think it's our fault? We were fine till you came. Uninvited. Unprepared. Fools.”

Aryl rose to her feet; Naryn stayed seated, her hands around her cup.

Two Tuana were standing in front of each other, both red-faced with emotion. She wasn't surprised to find the deep voice had come from the runner, Suen sud Annk. The older, much tougher Om'ray glared down at Deran Edut, one of the complainers. He glared defiantly back—between quick glances to Mauro.

While Mauro Lorimar leaned comfortably on his elbows, apparently at ease.

UnChosen games, Aryl judged it. Trick a fool into stirring a stinger nest, while you watched from a safe perch.

The emotions beginning to turn in the room made it no game. The stolen Tuana were justly upset, ready to blame someone for their plight. She noticed Rorn and Syb easing their way toward the two; Haxel's doing. She'd tolerate no disruption, not when they were all so close.

Not when outside was only the storm.

Aryl climbed on the table and held up her pendant. “If you want to go home,” she said in her best Speaker voice, “I'll try to explain that to the Oud.”

The eldest runner, a craggy-faced Om'ray named Galen sud Serona, stood. Their leader, she judged. “We are grateful to you and to Sona. Including those of us who don't act it—” This with a lash of focused
irritation
that stung even Mauro, by his wince. “But Tuana knows the Oud better than most. There's no explaining that won't make things worse. They start in a direction—” he shrugged broad shoulders, “—and all Om'ray can do is get off the road. If they want us here, here we stay.”

The rest of his Clan looked unhappy, but no one disagreed.

Haxel stepped up. “I don't care who brought you. You're welcome, if you're willing to work.” The two appraised each other for a moment. They were, Aryl thought, amused, as alike as a thin, scarred Yena scout and a bulky old Tuana runner could possibly be.

Rorn diverted to get another bowl of soup, a move that relaxed all the exiles.

Suen eased back, but the younger Tuana wasn't done. “Welcome where?” Deran shouted, waving his arm at the hall. “The tunnels were better!”

“We can take you back to them,” Haxel assured him cheerfully, bringing a smile to more than a few faces.

Not to Oran's. A tingle of apprehension ran down Aryl's spine as she noticed the rapt attention the Grona Adept paid to this exchange.

Kor sud Lorimar, the Chosen from Mauro's group, as Aryl began to call the sulkers to herself, laid his hand on Deran's arm. With so strong a resemblance, they could be brothers. Deran made an abrupt gesture of apology and sat.