Riders of the Storm (42 page)

His shields weren't as tight as they should be. Aryl wasn't the only one to sense the
bitter anger
he sent, not at Haxel or the runners, but at Naryn. Suen slammed his hand flat on the table. “Enough!”

All the other Tuana looked at him then, resentment on their faces; unhappiness on that of Suen's Chosen, Lymin, heavy with their unborn. All but Naryn, who hadn't turned around once. Tension flared, tension that none of the Sona understood.

What sort of mess had the Oud brought them?

Haxel pursed her lips, then threw a glance at Aryl. No need for a sending.

Aryl jumped down from the table. “Firstlight will be here before we know it,” she told Naryn. “Care to share my home?”

 

It wasn't the kindest invitation. Once outside, Aryl discovered lights were useless; there was no watchfire. Someone had secured ropes between the buildings early in the storm. Whether dream-memory or Grona advice, it was the only guide through the bite and howl of wind-driven snow—unless they went back to talk Weth into that service.

Aryl pulled her scarf over her mouth.
This way.

You're sure?

The wry tone made her smile.
Unless the roof's fallen in.

The roof had bulged down at one end, but still held. Someone—perhaps the same helpful Om'ray who'd tied the rope—had brought one of the oilburners for heat. Aryl lit it gratefully, adding its glow to the oillights. Within a few moments, the shelter, sparse as it was, began to warm.

And drip. Snow had blown into the cracks—helping seal out the wind, but now melting in the heat. Naryn helped move the now-larger pile of bedding into the center. There was more than enough, perhaps in anticipation of their new arrivals. Who, Aryl wondered, had they thought would want to sleep with her?

Not any of the unChosen, that was for sure. As for her new companion? “I should warn you. The reason I sleep away from the rest—”

“Let me guess.” Naryn, having made a nest of blankets, burrowed beneath them still in her snowy coat, scarf, and boots. She grinned over the top. “You snore.”

Did she? Aryl let herself be distracted. “I don't think so. No one's mentioned it.” She hung her coat and took off her boots. “Toss me yours. I'll put them where they'll dry.”

Silence.
Apprehension.

Aryl turned, careful to make the motion unhurried. Enris had found Yena movements disturbingly quick; so might Naryn. Instead of seeking her share of the blankets, she crouched by the oilburner, pretended to check its flame. The rough stone was cold on her bootless feet, but she waited. Something was very wrong. Haxel trusted her to find out what, for Sona's sake.

Aryl found herself more worried for Naryn's.

“The Choosers of my family have a reputation for being ‘noisy' in their sleep,” she explained easily. “This will be my first chance to learn if I'm the same. You have exceptional shields, so I hope I can't disturb your rest. You must be—”

“What are you doing here?” Almost an accusation. “You call yourselves Sona but you had a Parth Chooser—a Yena name. You had a home. You had a Clan. Against all custom and the Agreement, you chose to come here, defining this direction for all Om'ray with your presence, drawing Grona here, us. Why?”

Fair question. Aryl chewed her lower lip for a moment as she considered possible answers. But Naryn S'udlaat wasn't any other Om'ray. Power radiated from her—controlled, trained. More than Oran or Hoyon. Likely more than her own. Naryn could be the first to learn to
'port
through the M'hir, to help safely teach the others. She had to believe she was trusted and could trust.

The truth, then. “Yena's Adepts decided to remove those with Forbidden Talent,” Aryl said bluntly. “Those who might risk the Agreement by daring to use their Power in a new way.”

“Remove? You mean exile?” Disbelief. “But you've children here, a pregnant Chosen—”

“Family didn't matter. My own mother was one of the Adepts who tossed us from Yena.” Aryl tightened her shields, holding in the anger and hurt, but her voice was strange to her own ears, old. “They expected us to die. But we survived. We found this place.” And they would continue to survive, she vowed. “We're Sona now.”

Naryn's presence gained an easier
feel,
as if she'd heard something that reassured her—though what that could be, Aryl couldn't guess. “The hoarding of knowledge should be Forbidden, not Power or Talent. Adepts keep too much from the rest of us, stop us from being all we could be. They have no right.”

Aryl looked up. “They protect their Clan.”

Naryn leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Do they? Or do they try to control us? Let me tell you why the other Tuana shun me, Aryl Sarc, because you and I have something in common. My mother—and father—are Adepts. And it was Tuana's Adepts who made it impossible for me to stay there.”

A wet, dirty ball of scarf landed at Aryl's feet, and Naryn's glorious mass of dark red hair seethed with freedom.

Chosen. But not Joined to anyone here. How could that be? Unlike Humans, Chosen couldn't be so far apart, not without agony. Unless—Aryl's breath caught. Was Naryn like Taisal, having survived the loss of her Chosen, wounded to her depths…?

“Our Adepts forbade me to reveal myself.” Naryn rose, shedding blankets, her coat, the clothes underneath. “They called me ruined.” She stood, naked and perfect against the shattered beams and stone of Sona, her face set, without expression. The glows painted her full breasts and hips in light and shadow, drew a hint of curve between. “They don't warn Choosers that if we try and fail our Choice, our bodies will not care. They don't warn us that if we have no Chosen, our Power will seek elsewhere for its completion. They don't warn us we will grow life within, and Join to that life.” Her long white fingers hovered over the faint swell of skin, their shadow partners like a stain. “No Chooser is to know. We would be too afraid…” Her brave voice failed and she began to tremble.

They were both outcasts. Aryl went to Naryn, threw a blanket around her shoulders, urged her down to the warmth of the rest, then held her as she shook. “Are you sure?”

Wasn't it too soon? Those pregnant claimed awareness began shortly before their unborn was old enough to affect others unless shielded. In practice, some were a little slow. She wasn't the only Om'ray to have inexplicable urges to change position or eat raw dresel near a mother-to-be.

Seru had said there were two unborn coming with the Oud.

“I thought it was Choice, at first. My body had changed—what else could it be? I told the Adepts to bring him back…that it had worked, that they had to let me—let us—be together. I begged them, Aryl, but they refused.” Naryn's hair flailed against the blanket and Aryl's arm; her body had grown still, warmed perhaps, or numb. “They already knew. Tuana's Birth Watcher could sense the new life in me, that the bond I felt was a Joining not to another Chosen, but to this part of myself. That I was perverse. Ruined.”

Enris. Aryl trembled, suddenly sure. It had been Enris. Naryn was the Chooser desperate for his Choice. The one he'd resisted. The one he'd fled.

Naryn continued, her voice without emotion, her hair settling limp down her back. “The Adepts ordered me kept in the Cloisters, hidden from anyone else. A kindness to other Choosers. They said the birth would end my life, that if the child somehow survived it would doubtless be Lost, so I should hope it died, too.”

The sounds of wind and storm outside couldn't touch the silence. He hadn't known this, Aryl told herself. He wouldn't have wanted this. No matter what Naryn had done or tried.

Then, with a hint of pride, “As if I'd let them dictate my fate. I went to the Councillor for his family and said I'd expose the truth—how I was going to die because of their unChosen's failure to Choose—unless she helped me escape the Adepts. The old
joop
was glad to see me go. She brought me clothes, a pack, even gifts for my so-called Passage. That wristband. Neither of us could get a token, but she got me out of the Cloisters and arranged for Suen, my uncle's heart-kin, to take me to the tunnels. Where I'd be now, if not for the Oud.” A bitter laugh that became a sigh. “As for the others? Menasel has the Talent to tell one Om'ray from another. The silly fool sensed me underground and convinced her cousin Mauro and the rest of his pack to follow. See where it got them?”

“They came to help you—” Aryl guessed.

“Hardly.” Naryn pulled free. “They thought I was sneaking down to make a trade with the runners and wanted to spoil it.”

“Why?”

“To punish me for taking up residence in the Cloisters, for being accepted as an Adept when they weren't. For refusing to Choose Mauro—as if I could.” A pause. “To hurt me. Maybe that. Mauro has a taste for pain. I—I hope your Parth can handle him.”

Aryl couldn't imagine any of it. She wouldn't have believed any of it, except…she was a Chooser.

The imperative texture of the blankets beneath her hands…the depth of flesh warmed by the oilburner…the knife-sharp edge of every shadow…the music of their breathing…

Without warning, she
felt
everything, including the presence of those eligible unChosen the length of the rope away. Enticing.

Essential.

Her mother had felt this, her grandmothers, their grandmothers, generations stretching back through time she'd once never believed mattered, stretching ahead to create the future. All Choosers felt this…

“Aryl! Control yourself. Unless you want Deran and Ezgi breaking through what passes for the door.”

The slight rasp, the lilting cadence of the voice meant more than the words, meant less than what was building inside her. What had to be
sent
…

“Aryl!” There was pain now. “Show some sense!”

…and so she Called for the first time, a glorious outpouring of
desire
and
longing
through the M'hir, through space, across the world…

Slap!

Aryl's head jerked back with the openhanded blow. Cheek stinging, she stared at Naryn. Embarrassment fought with affront.

“Now that was Power.” Naryn's eyes were fever-bright. “I can't believe anyone thought simply putting you out here would protect their sleep.” She laughed. “They felt that all the way to Vyna, mark my words.”

Embarrassment won. “I can't—I can't do that again.”

“Oh, you can and you will,” the Tuana promised. “But for all our sakes, not until you're ready for Choice. Didn't your mother teach you control?”

“There wasn't—no,” Aryl finished helplessly. Haxel and the others wouldn't let the unChosen rush out into the storm—would she? What would she do if they came? Did she want them to come? Taisal. Her mother. Should she go to her—did she dare?

No. There was no welcome in Yena.

“I don't know what to do,” she admitted.

“I do.” Naryn held out her hand. “Trust me.”
And know this, Aryl Sarc,
she sent.
Yena and Tuana's Adepts will regret every decision that brought us together. We'll make this new Clan greater than theirs, greater than any other. A Clan of Power.

Feeling her
determination,
her
passion
was like that first glimpse of the sky above the canopy, expanding the world beyond its limits, affecting everything she thought she knew.

We'll protect our people,
Aryl vowed, reaching eagerly for Naryn's hand.

 

…dreams were not like this.

Aryl brushed her hand along the frond, palm tickled by its soft down. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the spice of fresh dresel. The air against her naked skin was warm, moist, a caress.

…the canopy wasn't like this. Bare skin was a table set for biters.

“You can come home. As a Chooser, you would be welcome.”

…her mother's voice was not this voice. She'd never want her back.

Her feet were on a floor of cut and sealed fronds, revealed by lovingly polished nekis wood, patterned in grays, yellows, and rich browns. A yellow swing chair spun on its rope, an invitation. The light of glows caught on window gauze, stroked across wall panels.

…her home wasn't like this. It had burned. The ash had fallen into the Lay.

They were all there, all who'd died or left or abandoned her. All smiled. All shared their welcome and love. She had only to take a step…only to reach out her hand…

…dreams were not like this.

Daughter.
A voice without body, a ripple in black water.
Follow me.

Aryl heard a moan.

This is no dream. This is pointless desire. Longing. Foolishness. Stop, Daughter, before you lose us all in it!

Too hot. Why was she under blankets at this time of year? A cool sheet…
the breeze through fronds, laughter, peace…

Hot—but there was snow. Ice and snow. Another moan. Her voice?

ARYL!!!! Please. Stop. You can't be here. I won't be here. You'll drag us with you into the Dark…

…no dream.

Dark. Who was talking about the Dark? Aryl rubbed her eyes, blinked at the oillight overhead.

“Thank goodness.” Naryn sat back with a heavy sigh. Her hair thrashed the air, not as willing to relax. “I thought you'd never wake up. You were right. Sarcs are loud dreamers. Where were we? Yena?”

Aryl shot upright. “What do you mean? What happened…I was dreaming?” Her mother's mindvoice. The M'hir. “What did you see?” she asked with sudden, horrible dread. Everything of her life had seemed to flash by, forced into some childish, improbable wish for only the good in it, only what she wanted. Selfish. Foolish. Her mother had been right to chase her from it. “What did you hear?”