Reap the Wild Wind (39 page)

Chapter 3

“W
ILL HE KEEP HIS WORD?”
Aryl shrugged, wincing as the movement involved a part of her shoulder well past sore. Something she’d done during the stitler attack. Nothing rest wouldn’t cure. “How can we know, Enris?” she admitted, eyes locked on the retreating dot of light that carried away Marcus Bowman and the flitter-stranger. “He means well by us. I wish he wasn’t so curious.”
“If he hadn’t been, we wouldn’t be standing here,” with his quiet laugh. “Welcome to solid ground, Yena.”
Surrounded by the few bags that were the exiles’ belongings, they stood before another bridge, but this was of stone, not wood or metal, and rose over light, not darkness. Its upward curve offended Aryl’s sense of proper structure. The light beneath filled a long, shallow hole— she didn’t know what else to call an artificial depression in the ground. Within the hole moved machines of various sizes. Looking down at them, Aryl had yet to see any pattern to their constant movement, beyond that some disappeared into the stone walls while others came out.
“Oud.”
“I know,” she said, taking a deep breath. She managed not to gag on the dry, dust-filled air. “We’d better go.” Aryl reached for a bag.
“Leave it,” Haxel ordered, already moving. “Let’s join the others first.”
The
pull
of other Om’ray was strong and warm. Like Haxel, Aryl was drawn by her awareness of the rest of the exiles on the other side of Grona’s bridge. Them, and others. Many others. Grona wasn’t as large a clan as Yena— as Yena had been— but all were out to greet the new arrivals. She eased her shields the slightest bit more, feeling surprise, welcome, curiosity. Strongest of all, the bone-deep relief of her people, as their pain and shock began, ever-so-slightly, to ease.
There was, she could finally believe, safety in reach. An Om’ray village. A Clan. From here, Aryl could make out well-lit homes along a wide, flat path. Mountains ridged the night sky, like walls of black. Grona itself sat on the lower reach of one, here a gentle slope discernible underfoot, blissfully free of loose, predatory rock. First of the other buildings on the far side of the bridge, their Cloisters rose on a short stalk, more like an improbable blossom than a beacon.
And everywhere, though she couldn’t sense or see them, Oud. They tunneled the mountains, hunting metals and other ores. They were beneath her now. Enris had said so, on their journey here; a turnabout of expertise he gave willingly.
He had said the Oud were unlike the Tikitik, that they asked little of the Om’ray in their midst.
He’d warned they were like Tikitik, in being dangerous if disturbed. That some had a form of Power, disturbing and painful to Om’ray. They should be cautious.
Cautious was fine. Peaceful was fine. Aryl was fully prepared to be the quietest, most peaceful Om’ray ever to walk the world, given she was allowed to rest and soon. She’d asked Marcus to promise never to contact her or other Om’ray again. Not to spy on them, ever. To ignore them.
She hoped the Oud would do the same.
Haxel was halfway across the unusual bridge; Aryl followed with Enris. The worked stone underfoot also made low walls on either side of the structure, smooth and cool under her hands. Polished with care, she decided, like the Sarc’s table.
It wouldn’t burn.
Aryl pushed the thought away. There were no swarms here, no other predators. The Grona were like Enris’ Tuana, living where only the growing of their own food was of concern, their stone homes ample protection against the elements.
Her people were clustered at the base of the bridge; they were surrounded, outnumbered, by unfamiliar faces and shapes. Someone saw her and gave a glad cry. “Aryl!”
She used the downslope to walk faster, eager to be with Myris and Ael, to see Seru and all the rest, to make sure they’d made the trip by air to this new kind of place without being somehow changed.
It was only when Aryl reached the bottom of the bridge, only when the others, smiling despite their tears, moved aside, that she saw who had called her name and who now waited with the widest smile of all.
Bern Teerac.

* * *

“You’ll like her.” Bern dropped to the bench on the other side of the table, depositing a bewildering array of mugs and steaming baskets between them.
He’d gained weight— or she remembered him thinner. Aryl smiled fondly and took something warm and soft in her hand, too tired to eat or even look at it. Enough that he was here. Enough that they were all here.
All around the large room, their version of a meeting hall, the Grona kept pulling out more tables and benches. Their arrival apparently required a celebration.
She wasn’t the only Yena numbed by their hosts’ enthusiasm, though the youngest took it in stride. Ziba, for one, had joined a vigorous game of chase-me. Every so often, Aryl could hear an outraged shout from one of her pursuers, less swift on tabletops or at jumping up the stone stairs set, oddly, around the walls. Her elders watched with bemused weariness. Except Cetto and his Chosen, Aryl fretted to herself, having the news from Myris. Husni had been dizzy after her ride in the aircar. They’d insisted she go to healers in the Cloisters; naturally, Cetto had accompanied her. Nothing serious, he’d proclaimed. The wear of events on an older body.
They took their toll on young ones, too, she thought and yawned.
“Aryl? Are you listening to a thing I say?”
“ ‘Like her.’ I’m sure I will,” Aryl replied. She gestured apology then leaned her chin in her hand to gaze at him. “It’s good to see you.”
Not so thin— and no longer Bern Teerac. She’d immediately sensed the other presence Joined to his; it had stopped her impulse to lower her shields to him, to connect mind to mind. He’d been hurt by her refusal. She’d seen it in his face and was sorry. But she wasn’t ready, not yet, for that.
For now, this close, the warm bond of
heart-kin
was enough.
“I’d like to say it’s good to see you,” Bern replied. His troubled gaze swept the crowd, finding it too easy, Aryl knew, to spot the Yena. Oh, they’d been given clothes, a chance to wash. No rest— they’d been told this welcome feast couldn’t wait. But the ill-fitting Grona clothes only made their difference more apparent, while washing had exposed the red of cuts and burns, the pallor of exhaustion.
They looked, Aryl decided, like the dead from her nightmare. Skeletons come to the table, with eyes that had seen too much. She shivered. They all shivered. It was bone cold here. “Give us a couple of days,” she suggested through her teeth. “We’ll be fine.”
Bern filled their mugs with something white and frothy from a large jug, downing half of his at once, his throat working. She didn’t touch hers. He licked his lips, then gestured apology. “Aryl . . .” His voice shook. “This is horrible. The Tikitik destroy the village . . . you here . . . grandfather, grandmother . . . but not my parents? I don’t understand.” He scowled at her. “I don’t understand any of it.”
A blissfully warm and heavy coat descended over her shoulders. “You look like an icicle,” Enris announced, lowering himself to the bench beside her. On his face, washing had unveiled a wealth of half-healed bruises and cuts. They didn’t affect his wide grin.
“What’s an icicle?” she asked.
Bern shuddered. “Be glad you don’t know. The mountains will soon be much colder than this— I’ve seen memories. Do the plains of Tuana know the cold?”
“We get a frost but not every season. You’re Bern Teerac? Enris Mendolar.”
“Bern sud Caraat,” Bern corrected. His eyes lit and his tone grew almost fervent. “The magnificent Oran di Caraat Chose me. An Adept,” he added unnecessarily, “living in the Cloisters.”
Whatever appetite Aryl might have had abandoned her. She pulled the coat tighter, wishing it covered her legs, too.
“Made Adept, did she? While still unChosen?” Claiming Aryl’s untouched mug, Enris tipped it to Bern’s. “Quite the accomplishment.”
“Oran is powerful.” Bern’s hand, wrapped around his mug, seemed stuck in midair. Like all the newly Joined, Aryl reminded herself, the topic of his Chosen drove any other thought from his head. “And very Talented.”
“Beautiful, I’m sure,” Enris supplied cheerfully.
He was doing it on purpose. She’d done the same to Costa. Aryl put her forearms on the table and considered dropping her head to join them. Maybe her companions would ignore her.
Or maybe, she thought, her head for some reason already resting on her arms, on this remarkably comfortable table, she’d ignore them.

* * *

A feast they’d barely touched, a night’s sleep broken by nightmares, and now this day of polite inquisition. Grona had a right to ask questions, Aryl told herself, rubbing her eyes. It was unprecedented, to have so many from one Clan try to join another. Grona wasn’t unwilling; they were cautious.
They could have waited one more day.
“Haxel Vendan.”
Her turn would come next. Aryl watched Haxel stand where each of Yena’s exiles had throughout the morning, then bow deeper. It was something Grona Om’ray did as part of their greetings. She wasn’t sure why. It looked awkward. Perhaps it had something to do with how they tended their fields. Did living on solid ground make it easier to bend over? Her lips quirked. Her guess? There was nothing here to attack them, so they were willing to be helpless. Haxel looked slightly embarrassed when she rose from her version, but Grona’s Council smiled at her.
Aryl felt chilled inside as well as out when she looked at Grona’s Council, though they seemed placid, pleasant Om’ray. Old, of course, though, being plump, their wrinkles failed to add stern lines to their mouth and eyes. There were no Adepts among them. One wore the Speaker’s Pendant on her chest, but a bright woven vest covered it most of the time. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder along a bench at one of the tables in the meeting hall.
A bench with thick, warm-looking cushions. Aryl wanted her own before she sat this long again.
The First Scout didn’t offer to share her report mind to mind, instead giving a terse, bloodless summary of what everyone before her had said. Yena had been caught in a struggle between Tikitik factions that resulted in the destruction of their village. Not all could stay. She passed over the role of Yena’s Adepts in choosing who would leave, finishing with the truth. There wasn’t enough food left for all; by leaving, they hoped those sheltered in Yena’s Cloisters would survive to rebuild one day. They had no idea why the Oud would come to their aid and offer transport to Grona, but all were grateful.
The truth, but not all the truth.
It made a heroic end to their story, while erasing betrayal. The Yena would do their best to keep it that way— they would avoid contact mind to mind until established here, keep their secrets. There was no reason for Grona to insist. Outside of family, Om’ray normally maintained their privacy unless there was need. Outside of Clan? They could, Aryl thought, make their own rules for that.
She didn’t like partial truth. It had been Taisal’s tactic; Aryl knew firsthand how it felt to be so betrayed. But the exiles had no better choice. Admit they’d been exiled by their own? Brought here by beings from another world?
Grona would exile them, too, Aryl thought, her mouth going dry, and checked her shields.
The Councillors rose and bowed as one. A couple were less than steady; they’d heard from all but Aryl, and old bones didn’t forgive the hours despite cushions. “Our thanks, Haxel,” intoned their Speaker. “Grona accepts your token and yourself with joy. Welcome.” Rote words, perhaps, but said with warmth. The others bowed again.
Given the sluggish look of their own First Scout, Aryl didn’t doubt the warmth. The only other exile to receive such an enthusiastic welcome had been Enris, not only eligible but a metalworker. Then again, he’d blended with these Om’ray from the beginning. Tuana must live a similar life. He’d feel at home here, within these stone walls.
She would, too, Aryl told herself fiercely.
“Aryl.”
Aryl stood and took Haxel’s place. She bowed low as well. They looked at her for a moment. She returned the favor.
Efris Ducan, Mysk Gethin, Gura Azar, Lier Haon, Cyor sud Kaar, and, head of Bern’s new family, Emyam sud Caraat. Instead of proper nets, all Grona Chosen left their hair free to squirm opinion from under the loosest of caps, something Aryl tried not to notice as she faced those on Council. Cyor and Emyam might have been brothers, so closely did they resemble one another.
Their unfamiliar names grated on her ears. Truth be told, she feared them. It was a new worry, one that had stung like a fresh bite this morning, when she’d awakened in a flat unfamiliar bed and lay there, hearing nothing but the grind of foot on stone. Since that moment, the mere thought made her heart pound. Grona’s names.
Efris wore the Speaker’s Pendant. The person to ask about the Oud, Aryl decided. She’d done most of the talking for Grona; she did so now. “We’ve heard from your elders, Aryl. There’s no need to burden the young retelling such tragic events. Grona accepts your token and you, Aryl, with joy. Be welcome.”
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.