Riders of the Storm (19 page)

With reluctance, she took the thing in her hands. Its surface held an image. She'd seen such before: a viewer, tied to the “eyes” overhead. The image showed the other side of the hill. Bones, wood, dirt, stone. The beginnings of the road and river…About to hand it back, she noticed something else.

The road was littered with rocks. Small ones. Big ones. Piles of rocks of every size. Rocks she'd passed lying at the base of the valley walls.

She'd been right to fear an ambush—just wrong about where.

Her pack was likely crushed beneath another pile. “So much,” Aryl said wryly as she returned the viewer, “for my supplies.”

“Alive-rocks stay that side,” Marcus assured her. At her skeptical look, “Promise. Maybe they not like Oud.”

If the Human attempted humor, Aryl was in no mood for it. “You'd better be right. I have to stay here.” She stamped the ground with one foot.

He gazed wistfully at his path through the grove, then back to her. “Aryl sure?”

“Yes.”

Definitely unhappy. “I bring my things.”

A
RYL MADE A FACE. “I don't know how you can eat that.”

With a chuckle, Marcus took back the stick of what he called
e-rations
and offered her a shiny box. “Try this. It safe for your
metabolism
.”

“‘Metabolism,'” she repeated dubiously.

“Means Om'ray body. This good.”

Good, Aryl had to admit, described most of what Marcus had laboriously carried down his path to where she waited. They sat beneath a bright yellow fabric roof, protected on three sides by walls of a similar material. It had been limp cloth until the Human had attached one of his devices to it, then became rigid and strong enough to block the chill wind.

Her feet rested near another marvel. Not fire, but a heatbox unlike any Aryl had seen. Heat radiated from whatever side Marcus chose, to the degree he selected. Better still, the fabric
tent
reflected the heat around their bodies until Aryl was warm to her core for the first time since leaving the canopy. The Human shed his coat and wiped sweat from his forehead, but didn't complain.

There was water, cups whose interiors heated it—without warming the outside—for the dark and fragrant strangerbeverage called sombay, and sitting pads of decadent softness set by buttons. An
accommodation,
as Marcus called it, sat discreetly behind the tent—a marvel of compact tidiness.

And protection. Three small metal rods pushed into the dirt formed a triangle around them. Marcus had fussed over their placement, trying several spots before being satisfied. He'd declared the flimsy things would keep away any threat.

While intrigued by this claim, Aryl kept her knife at hand and hoped for no threat at all.

They'd established their tiny camp in front of the Cloisters, facing the depression into which the Oud had disappeared. Since truenight, two of the stranger-glows hovered in the air to illuminate the disturbed ground. Aryl had argued against them, worried the Oud would refuse to return. Marcus worried more about being surprised and insisted.

Aryl took the shiny box and opened the lid. It was half full of hard green balls, the size of the tip of her littlest finger; they rolled noisily when she tipped it from side to side. “This is food?”

“Full
supplement,
” the Human assured her. “Food, yes. Do this.” He dropped one into his steaming cup, waited a moment, then drank. “Aaahhhhh. Try! All need.”

She sighed. “Don't you ever cook?”

Marcus laughed. “Waste time. Risk local
contamination
. Better this.”

More of his words. More of his ideas. Thoughtfully, Aryl put one of the balls into her cup of sombay, watching as it fizzed then dissolved. She took a small sip. No perceptible change in flavor, but the liquid had thickened to the consistency of soup. The strangers' technology pervaded everything they did; there was no telling what they were capable of, no way to hold them to their word.

“Aryl should not worry. Safe are.”

Marcus had read something from her posture or expression. She studied his face, wishing in vain it wasn't normal and proper and thoroughly Om'ray. The Human was not-
real
to her inner sense, disconnected from her reality of place or self.

But if she touched his skin, she could touch his thoughts. She could read his emotions. She'd done both, once before. Which made Marcus
real,
didn't it? Real and vulnerable in the most devastating way possible to any Om'ray, despite his devices.

“Safe are,” Marcus insisted, blind to the closest threat of all.

Not that she'd ever—she'd never let anyone—

Aryl stopped there, thoroughly disturbed. “I appreciate the shelter, the food,” she said, gesturing with her cup. “But I don't understand why you're helping me.”

He ducked his head then looked up at her with a small smile. “Om'ray need reason to help?”

“No, of course not.” She hesitated. “Not to help other Om'ray. The Oud and Tikitik—they don't ask or need our help.”

“You helped me.”

Aryl squirmed inwardly. “You wouldn't have survived.”

“Ah.” The smile widened. “Good reason.”

“I don't need your things,” she asserted, unsure why she felt off-balance. “I'd be fine without them.”

Marcus nodded his head again. “Know this. Yena don't fall. I remember now.”

Was he making fun of her? Aryl stiffened. “This is my world, not yours.”

The Human moved his hands in a fair approximation of an Om'ray apology. Observant, or a ready mimic? Both, she thought. “Like help, yes.” Marcus turned his face to look sideways at her, his expression grown earnest. “Like you, Aryl Sarc, Yena, Om'ray. Yes yes yes. Like you. Understand?”

She hoped not, suddenly aware of him in a way she hadn't expected. His familiar face and form were too close. His greenbrown eyes, too intent. The slow gentle smile as he waited for her to reply? What did that mean?

She could touch him and find out.

Instead, she eased farther away. “A friend,” she suggested. “Like Janex.”

The reminder—or her avoidance—wiped away the smile. Marcus gave an exasperated sigh. “Janex friend. Good friend. Janex never need help, mine.” During this confusing sequence, the Human palmed a small disk. He held it out and a group of figures appeared on the other side of the heat box, standing slightly above the ground. Images, she realized immediately. Humans, by their stranger-clothing.

Marcus stood and went into their midst, his hand passing through each face as he provided a name, as if he longed to touch them. “These need me. Understand? This Cindy.” A female with a wide smile and cheerful, round face. His voice grew tender. “Howard.” A lanky, intense child, with Marcus' eyes. “Karina.” A younger child, curled in another's arms. “Kelly,” he named her, his hand lingering within the image of a tall elegant female, with flowing red hair.

“You're Chosen?” Aryl blurted. Not only Chosen, but a parent twice over? Maybe he'd attribute her flaming cheeks to the heat. An unChosen couldn't be attracted…like that…to a Chosen. Or a Chosen to anyone but his or her mate. It was the nature of being Joined; no other pairing was possible. She reassured herself. He was not-Om'ray. How was she to know his state?

She should have. He was in charge of others and their machines. He had expertise and training. Marcus Bowman was no unChosen like her, bumbling through lessons and life. He was adult, respected, accomplished.

Claimed.

Then why did she feel…vulnerable?

The Human couldn't read her thoughts. That mercy at least. Although he could be uncannily perceptive for a not-
real
stranger.

“Not understand ‘Chosen.' Oud not have right words. Kelly is me. My heart.
Lifepartner.
” Tucking away the disk, Marcus returned to Aryl. The images took a moment to fade and disappear, leaving rubble and truenight behind. “Far far away,” he said in a faint voice, reaching for his cup. “All.”

How could a family be so shattered? Her father had died, otherwise he could never have left them. It distressed Chosen to be distant. Ael and Myris had been apart for half a day and suffered. Marcus must be in agony. “What happened?” she asked gently.

“Work.” This with a casual shrug. “Send
vids
between. Message on special times.”

She was appalled. No Om'ray would leave his family except to seek Passage. No Om'ray would voluntarily leave their Clan. Even in exile, the Yena families stayed together. Being this far from hers was an ache inside. “How could you leave them?”

His cheeks colored. “Human way,” he said brusquely, as if stung by her disapproval. “Analyst. Triad First. Long time to be this. Opportunity here of my life. Family happy for me. Proud.”

“But to leave them—” Aryl shuddered. She had no idea how far away Marcus Bowman's family was, but she feared it was a distance beyond her comprehension. “Om'ray would not,” vehemently, “could not. It would be impossible.”

A sharp look. “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“Om'ray family. Help me. Need proper words.” A wry smile. “Curious.”

“I've noticed.” Aryl settled herself in the warmth and considered “words.” “I am unChosen,” she began, putting a hand on her chest. “Not yet a Chooser. Your Kelly-
lifepartner
—she Chose you. You are her Chosen. She is yours.”

“UnChosen mean—” he pantomimed someone very small, then pretended to rock his folded arms as if holding a baby.

“No,” she frowned. “UnChosen means unChosen. That's a child. Your Karina is a child. Howard—” the image wasn't much to go on. For all she knew, Humans and Om'ray grew at different rates, like rastis and nekis. “If he can leave his mother, Om'ray would call him UnChosen, not child. Do you understand?”

“What ‘mother'?”

“I thought you had words from the Oud.”

“Life words no. Rude to ask.” Not rude to ask her, apparently. “What is ‘mother'?”

Aryl copied his holding-a-baby motion, then put a hand to herself. “Mother. Kelly?” An assumption.

“Yes yes. Wonderful words, Aryl.” Marcus beamed. “Child. Mother. UnChosen. My childs. What me?”

“Your children. You're their father.”

“I, Father. Aryl, unChosen not child. She can leave her mother. Aryl not can before. Why?”

“Why” was becoming his new favorite question. “Why couldn't I leave her when I was a child?” she corrected, buying time. Some things everyone knew. Didn't they? “That's what a child is—someone who can't leave her mother. It's impossible. There is a bond—” she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, “—that pulls them together, always. Only with age does the bond weaken enough for the child to become unChosen, and go anywhere. Is it not the same for Humans?”

“Same. We not call it bond. What word for more than like? For like most of all?” His eyes glistened. “More than any.”

She sat in a stranger-tent, waiting for a crazed Oud, outside in truenight for the second time in a row, discussing word choices for affection with a not-Om'ray. Aryl chuckled. “Love. The word is love.”

“Good word. I love Cindy—same mother, me. I love my children. Kelly love children. I love Kelly. Kelly love me. Family hold together with love. Human. Om'ray. Same.”

Love was only a feeling, an emotion that could be kept behind shields or shared at will. What did he mean? Curious herself, now, Aryl elaborated, wondering what he'd say. “Love isn't the bond between children and their mother. Or between—” her cheeks warmed, “—Chosen. Love—” led where she couldn't follow. She coughed and continued. “Om'ray feel love,” she told the Human. “The bond is Om'ray.” She stressed the “is.”

To her surprise, he nodded his head. “Is part of how you know where others are. Sense. I remember. Right?”

Clever Human. “Yes. The bond between Om'ray is strongest between mother and child—between Chosen pairs. Less for all others, but there. You don't have this, do you?” However incredible, she'd seen for herself that Marcus couldn't find those of his own kind. To exist in complete isolation…Aryl shivered. “I can't imagine what it would be like—to be so alone.”

“I can't imagine what like for you.” Wistful. “How not-love bond feel.”

He hadn't asked, but Aryl found herself hunting a way. “The heatbox,” she said triumphantly.

“I don't—”

“Close your eyes.” Once he did, she took his hand, careful to stay behind her own shields and away from his thoughts, and positioned it so his palm faced away from the heat. “Where is the heatbox?”

His hand turned in hers to point. “There.” Marcus opened his eyes and looked at her.

Aryl held up her hand and pointed toward the exiles—hopefully safe and within the shelters by now. “There. My people. Every Om'ray has a warmth, a glow, we feel deep inside.”

“Location. Not
telepathy
.” He sounded disappointed.

Another of his words. “What's ‘telepathy?'”

“Talk without words. Mindvoice.” The Human tapped his forehead, then jabbed his finger at her. “Trade Pact has
telepathic races
. Only few. Special.”

Making Om'ray “special.” Making Om'ray potentially interesting to this Trade Pact. Not an interest she deemed prudent in any way. “Strange,” Aryl commented. “Are Humans—are you—telepathic?”

A shadow seemed to cross his face. “No.” Marcus rose and picked up his sitting pad. “Sleep. We talk, morning.” A sharp shake and the pad elongated to a length longer than he was tall. “Aryl need so much heat?” This with a plaintive look at the glowing heatbox.

Aryl copied his negative gesture, turning her head from side to side. “Not if you lend me your coat,” she suggested. As for sleep? She could miss another truenight without harm. This was no place or time to close her eyes. Or company. The Human slept like the dead; he'd be useless. “I'll keep watch.” And wait for the Oud.

“No need.
Perimeterfield.
”

The three sticks? “I'll keep watch,” she repeated. “Your coat?”

Instead of handing it to her, Marcus laid the garment across her back, tucking it against her neck. She felt the pressure of his hand briefly on her shoulder before he went to adjust the heatbox. “Keep warm, Aryl. Need more again, do this.” He showed her the control.

Like a father, she thought abruptly. Was that why the Human offered his help? Not for what he could gain from her—not entirely—but because he missed his own children?

Aryl slipped her arms into the sleeves. The stranger-version of a Grona coat was warmer and lighter than the real thing. Was it wrong to accept his gifts, to enjoy being cared for instead of needed?