Reap the Wild Wind (15 page)

* * *

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.
Hook-nosed Fich, now Chosen and above children’s games, had been a thorn in Aryl’s side in M’hirs past, especially once he discovered she had the ability to sense identity from a distance. She had no sympathy— his favorite trick had been to sneak up and listen to private conversations, then tattle them to anyone he could find. He probably still did— just not hers.
And, rare among Yena, Fich wasn’t fond of heights.
She compared it to her drawing of a wastryl’s wing. The proportions looked right, but there was only one way to find out.
Aryl gently pushed aside a lively vine and turned open a window panel. Leaning out, she held her creation over the black waters of Lay. “Good luck, Fich.”
She let go.
Ignoring the biters attacking her arms and face, Aryl watched the red triangle eagerly. It tipped, slipping rapidly sideways toward a bridge support. She held her breath. At the last moment, it righted and the material billowed into a shape she remembered, slowing its descent. Wooden Fich swung gently beneath.
She lost sight of it in the shadows, but thought she heard a splash. Followed, inevitably, by several other splashes as what lived below fought to see if what had dropped into the water was remotely edible.
The drumming of rain in fronds overhead was enough to make her pull in her head and close the panel. Drops began to land on the roof. It always took a while for rain to get through the canopy.
And, Aryl thought with distaste, it would take even longer for the canopy to stop raining. This wasn’t the start of the rainy season, but it was close. She needed more materials. Tomorrow she’d go out.
She went back to the table, gathering a handful of dried stems and another “Fich.” There was enough wing left for one more model. That initial tilt and slip were a problem. She frowned. Perhaps if she used a wider triangle . . .
Aryl.
Her mother. Out of reflex, Aryl glanced at the doorway, but the summons had been inner. She
reached
to find Taisal, and the stems fell with a clatter from her suddenly numb fingers.
Impossible. It was impossible.
By direction and distance, Taisal was still at the Cloisters. Too far for Aryl to
hear
her mindvoice. Too far for her to
sense
despair in her mother’s thoughts.
Despair?
That, unexpected and alarming, was more important than how. Aryl found herself on her feet, hands braced on the table.
What’s wrong, Mother?
she replied. It seemed to take no effort at all, beyond what was normal to create the words. She was afraid to wonder why.
Aryl?
Recognition followed by confusion.
What are you doing here? Who let you cross the bridge? You shouldn’t have come. I’m in Council Session. Go home.
I’m—
Aryl shied from the truth, that she wasn’t at the Cloisters. If Taisal couldn’t tell, she doubted it would help her mother’s distraught state of mind to know. She began to suspect her mother hadn’t called her, not on purpose, and carefully reinforced her shields to project only calm concern.
I felt something wrong.
Of course something’s wrong. We’re trying to keep Yena alive. Stop distracting me and go home. I’ll see you tonight.
Beneath the rebuff and dismissal, Taisal’s emotions again betrayed her. Aryl sensed something forlorn, desperate. A need.
A need for her?
Raindrops hit the roof. Vines twisted slowly in the breeze through the window gauze. Leaves whispered to themselves as the air stroked Aryl’s cheek in turn.
It should have been impossible to
hear
her mother, to
send
back.
She straightened and closed her eyes, somehow unsurprised to find the
other place
waiting there, its seething darkness so close at this instant it could have been the breath leaving her mouth.
That was how. Her mother’s distress had found her through the Dark, as easily as if they touched hand-to-hand. She’d used it, too, without intent or plan.
Whatever it was, it connected them.
Aryl shuddered and opened her eyes, relieved by the light, then gave a brusque nod. She couldn’t ignore her mother’s summons, even one made unaware.
She’d worry about the details later.

Chapter 14

U
NLESS AN ADEPT OR MEMBER of Council, an Om’ray visited the Cloisters only three times in life: as a newborn, to be dutifully— and quickly— added to the Yena records before being returned to waiting parents; as one of a Joined pair, that union to be affirmed by the Adepts; and to end their days in peace, granted none of the many hazards of the canopy ended it sooner.
Aryl squinted at the tower. She hadn’t thought of it before, but the Cloisters was, beyond doubt, the perfect place to drop and test a model. Had she known she’d be coming . . . not that she had, but still.
Such thoughts were easier than imagining why her mother needed her here, of all places.
There were other reasons a Yena might come here, of course. Those sundered from their Choice and Lost . . . those of damaged mind . . . maybe even those who’d tried to hide a new Talent, to be investigated by Adepts and punished?
Aryl concentrated on planning to fly a fich.
The Cloisters rose from the waters of the Lay on its own gray-green stalk, thick and straight, with three flat sides that met at crisp joins. The canopy closed overhead, but not around it. The nearest rastis set buttress roots well away from its artificial neighbor, though smaller plants had less respect. The lower portion of the Cloisters’ stalk was coated in a thick growth of vine. The growth ended where six clear panels, parallel to the stalk, jutted outward at angles. There was no apparent reason why vegetation shunned these protrusions; why no flitter would perch there and no biters flew close.
Above the panels, the stalk widened into a perfectly shaped crown, as if a rastis after all, but this crown, from below, looked like two giant bowls, one nested within the other. From higher in the canopy, Aryl remembered, the structure looked more like an opened flower: two high-walled platforms encircling an inner curved core, itself topped by a series of overlapped white rings.
The core was a building of two floors, each opening to one of the encircling platforms. The building’s round outer walls were broken by a series of tall wide arches. Within each arch were three smaller ones: the centermost a door, the outer two filled with the same clear material that somehow guarded the stalk from living things.
Inside . . . she had no idea. Aryl straightened her best, though mended, tunic and checked her hairnet. Till sud Parth, the scout guarding the bridge platform, leaned against the stalk to regard her thoughtfully. “I don’t know about this, Aryl.”
She’d hoped for someone who’d be impressed by her being the Speaker’s daughter. Instead, she had Till, Seru’s father and someone who’d bandaged her knees more than once.
As she feared, he pursed his lips, then shook his head slowly. “No. You go home. I’ll keep the drawings here. Contact someone from the Cloisters to fetch them. That’s best, Aryl.”
She pulled the bag of panes closer to her chest, trusting he wouldn’t become suspicious and demand a look. “I drew these for the Speaker,” Aryl said truthfully. All Yena had witnessed her giving a drawing to Taisal for the Tikitik; a minor, if crucial detail that the art she now clutched had been done years ago by a much younger Aryl, and involved more ink than skill. “She’ll have questions about them.” Definitely true.
His keen eyes left her to scan the rain-shadowed canopy, why she didn’t know. Having less of his attention, Aryl took a small step closer to the bridge, slinging her bag over one shoulder, then another. Till didn’t appear to notice until she was almost there. Then, he frowned at her.
Aryl gave him her best smile and patted the bag. “These shouldn’t stay in the rain, Till. Let me go, please?”
“I suppose you’ll be the one in trouble.” With a resigned snort, he waved a hand in dismissal, again intent on whatever he watched.

* * *

The Cloisters’ bridge was a marvel in itself. Not wood, but metal slats. No rails, but true sides and a curved roof, themselves of such closely woven metal threads they really did block the rain. The bridge was attached to that normal platform of wood, girdling a great rastis. Above were other platforms, older ones and no longer of use. A new one would eventually be built to replace this one, as the rastis continued to grow and lift the platform and bridge with it.
For the Cloisters was older than the Lay Swamp, so the Adepts taught, and its remarkable bridge had once reached dry ground.
Aryl started across the bridge, listening to her footsteps’ light echo. She’d always scoffed, to herself, at the stories of its age. What ground? The waters of the Lay had always been below. The grove might change, but it was as old as the world. She’d believed the Adepts— her mother included— made up stories to keep everyone in awe.
They didn’t need to, she thought, fingertips brushing the smooth metal. Unlike other bridges, this didn’t sway with her footsteps. Unlike others, it felt cold to the touch.
How had her ancestors made this place? Aryl asked herself for the first time. Or, was the real question, why? Every Clan had a Cloisters, like enough to this one to be instantly recognizable, although she’d heard Grona’s Cloisters sat directly on the ground, either lacking a stalk or with it buried out of sight.
Why weren’t their homes like this? Why did Yena sit in fear, protected only by the glows the Tikitik gave them, if Om’ray could build this? Only Adepts and the infirm were allowed to spent truenight within the Cloisters. Even members of Council returned to their homes. So it had always been.
The bridge led to the lower of the Cloisters’ two platforms, ending in a massive pair of doors. These were metal— there had to be enough here to satisfy the needs of the entire world— worked in intricate patterns. Not the plain gray-green of the bridge, but a surface ribboned in color to rival any flitter or flower she’d seen. Not ink or paint. Something in the metal itself. Aryl stretched her hand to touch it . . .
The leftmost door turned open without a sound, and she dropped her hand hurriedly. A figure in a plain brown robe stood within the wide gap, face shadowed beneath a hood.
“Welcome to—” The greeting died away as the Adept saw her. “Who are you?”
Aryl was about to ask the same when she recognized the wrinkled face peering from the hood. Pio di Kessa’at? Had it been that long since her great-aunt last left the Cloisters? “Aryl Sarc,” she replied. “Taisal’s—”
“By Mele sud Sarc. Yes, yes. I know the lineage. It’s quite interesting. There are expectations— why are you here? You haven’t Joined.” Aryl felt a deft touch explore her shields. “You aren’t even ready. Go home.”
Expectations? Refusing to be distracted by the old Adept’s rambling, she braced herself to argue. “I was asked to bring—” she began, hand on her bag.
“No, you weren’t. There’s been no messenger.” The Adept shook a crooked finger at her. “We play no games here, child. Go home.” She began to turn the door closed in Aryl’s face. “Children always try to sneak inside,” she grumbled to herself. “Don’t hurry your life away!” This to Aryl, who found herself speechless.
Without pausing to consider, she put out a hand to stop the door. “This is no game, Pio. My mother needs me. I know she does.” She let her shields weaken, hoping her worry for Taisal, her sincerity, would accomplish what words could not.
And received a stern flash of anger back. “Impudent!”
“Desperate, Aunt.” Aryl removed her hand and gestured apology. She restored her shields but stayed where she was.
Pio’s eyes were bright spots within the shadow of her hood. “Your mother was the same at your age. A troublemaker. Bothersome as a biter. She matured into a thorn. Will you?”
Another of those questions better ignored than answered, Aryl decided. “Please. Let me in.”
Pio didn’t answer immediately; she didn’t close the door either. Aryl waited, feeling a draft of warm, moist air from the bridge behind her, making herself as small and insignificant a mental presence as she could.
Then, the Adept stepped back, turning the door wide open with no obvious effort despite its thickness and height. “You can’t wander around alone, you know,” she cautioned as Aryl gratefully stepped through to the open platform beyond. “I’m the gatekeeper. I certainly can’t take you.” Pio finished turning the door closed, its inner colorations aligned perfectly with those of its partner. From this side, Aryl saw that the doors curved inward at the top, that curve matched to the one defining the low wall that edged the platform. “You stay here,” the Adept emphasized. “Right here. I’ll find someone.”
“I won’t leave,” Aryl promised. “Thank you.”
The old Adept’s wrinkles creased deeper. “I’m sure you won’t. Only an Adept can unlock the Cloisters’ doors. In or out.”