RIDERS OF THE STORM
The Finest in DAW Science Fiction by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:
The Clan Chronicles:
Stratification:
REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)
RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)
The Trade Pact Universe:
A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)
TIES OF POWER (#2)
TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)
Species Imperative:
SURVIVAL (#1)
MIGRATION (#2)
REGENERATION (#3)
Web Shifters:
BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)
CHANGING VISION (#2)
HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)
IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS
RIDERS OF THE STORM
Stratification #2
Julie E. Czerneda
DAW BOOKS, INC.
DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM
SHEILA E. GILBERT PUBLISHERS
http://www.dawbooks.com
Copyright © 2008 by Julie E. Czerneda.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1449.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1557-9
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—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
To Sheila E. Gilbert
There are people you can’t imagine your life without, even though you’d never imagined them part of your life years ago. After all, what would a Canadian biologist and a New York editor have in common?
More than you’d think.
Certainly more than I thought, twenty-two years ago (oh, yes) when I sent out my first novel and began that dream. Sheila Gilbert, after all, of DAW, publisher of my favorite books. If our paths ever crossed, I hoped not to gibber like an idiot.
Fourteen years ago, we did speak. On the phone. Which she answered. Herself. Nothing’s more terrifying on a cold call, believe me. The brain slides off the desk and lands with a splot. There was gibber. Eventually, as we worked by phone, fax, and e-mail, I became immune. Okay, no. I’d freeze at her name like a deer in the headlights.
I was on my second novel for Sheila when we met in the flesh. Huge hotel lobby, mass of intimidatingly famous sorts, and there she was, smiling at me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. You see, I’d worked for years with a tiny, mind-like-a-steel-trap editor who knew everyone and everything in her field, had the work output of thirty normal beings, yet was incredibly gracious and easygoing in person. Sheila? Multiply all that.
I knew then I had a friend on my side, and there was nothing to fear but the writing itself. As I’ve aimed higher and wider with each book, Sheila believes in me before I do. If I soar a little too wide, I can trust her to swat.
What we have in common? A love of family, of the absurd and wonderful, of big ideas. Our labors together are marked by visits and long conversations, puzzles and DAW Dinners™, and by friendship. Sheila’s part of my life.
Wasn’t she always?
© 1997 Michael Gilbert
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Interlude
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Interlude
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Interlude
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Interlude
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Interlude
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Interlude
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Interlude
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Interlude
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Interlude
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
The Om’ray of Cersi
Acknowledgments
An even dozen!!! How fun is that? By such a number does a career continue, and I have many people who’ve helped both career and this book happen.
My thanks to the never-say-it-can’t-be-done folks at DAW for the gorgeous presentation of this book. I’d like to thank Elizabeth Glover for her design and to mention, with hugs, Joshua Starr for his patience and helpfulness throughout. Luis Royo went the distance for this cover and, as always, it’s exactly right. Thank you very much.
Several individuals, through their generosity at charity auctions and other functions, supplied names for characters in this book. I hope you enjoy! (There was no maiming.) My thanks to Cindy Raskin, Howard Slapcoff, Karina Sumner-Smith, and Kelly Scoffield.
These people kindly read manuscript for me: Timothy Bowie, Jana Paniccia, Jihane Billacois, Janet E. Chase, Ruth Stuart, and Shannan Palma. Suffice to say, the finished product is far better for their input. Thank you!
I’ve had wonderful hosts over the past year and would like to thank the concoms of Ad Astra, Eeriecon, and Polaris for their hospitality and support. My thanks to Donna Young of the Wright Center and all those who attended her marvelous educator’s workshop in California. My special thanks to the many involved with LTUE, especially Charlie, Steve, Aleta, Zina, and Josh, for not only a great convention, but for saving me from that northern snowstorm.
My tenth anniversary contained special celebrations: a fabulous launch at Bakka-Phoenix Books (Toronto), a Science Alumni of Honor Award from the University of Waterloo ably hosted by Bonnie Fretz and Sharon McFarlanel, and the best-ever launch party/reception thrown by DAW at World Fantasy for myself and Kristen Britain. Good times!
Which reminds me. I’d like to acknowledge all those Newsgroup Friends who, aided and abetted by it’s-never-enough Jana and whatever-you-need Roger, recorded a DVD of congratulations for that party. Yes, it makes me cry every single time. Fiends, the lot of you.
As our son reminds me, I need to write my Baker’s Dozen novel next. Best get back to work.
Thank you!
Prelude
AN OUD DIED.
As was normal for its kind, this death took place somewhere dark, moist, and warm, where its naked remains would decay to nourish those above. It was alone, also normal, for Oud avoided those ill or wounded or otherwise infirm, even when dying themselves. There were dwellers in the tunnels to take care of any unable to reach a useful deathbed on their own. Nothing would be wasted. All would be reshaped. It had always been thus among Oud.
An Oud died. What was not normal for its kind was that it had crawled and humped to its final resting place with ventral pouches stuffed with treasures, instead of empty as was proper. Treasures which were not Oud. For this Oud had touched the unknown and Forbidden, sought answers only to find questions. Before the end, it had learned certain truths about its world.
In death, it would keep them.
Chapter 1
ARYL SARC LAY AWAKE, disturbed by h
er cousin’s weeping. Soft, the sound. Weary.
Without hope.
Not that Seru Parth was any different from the rest of Yena’s exiles. Despair. Grief. Dread of this unfamiliar landscape. All were kept private behind the mind’s shield; any needful tears hidden by truenight and a blanket’s cover. None wished to burden the others, though they shared the same past and pain. Exiled by their own Clan, who themselves faced a chancy future. Forced to seek a new place to live, to survive on their own. No wonder some wept.
But all truenight?
Soft. Weary. Without hope.
Aryl abandoned the effort to sleep and sat up. She hugged her share of their blanket, careful not to pull it from her cousin, and gazed helplessly at the bump lying beside her. Seru had lost parents as well as home.
Hadn’t they all?
She shivered. Each firstnight, as the sun left them, darkness moved up the mountain ridges like a swarm of shadow, consuming not only light but warmth. Their tiny fire gave the reassurance of a glow but never enough heat, not for twenty-three exhausted Om’ray. The Chosen and families huddled together, sleeping in their clothes and sharing blankets, always cold. Her nose, Aryl was sure, was permanently numb. Was it almost firstlight?
Unlike the others, Seru’s weeping had only started last truenight. A few moments, a hiccup, then peace. This?
“Seru,” Aryl whispered as quietly as possible. The bump didn’t move. The sound of weeping didn’t stop. She lowered her shields and reached ever-so-gently to let her inner sense seek the other’s mind. Cousin…she began to send, then stopped, realizing what she felt.
No wonder Seru didn’t respond. She was fast asleep.
With a sigh, Aryl laid down, pressing her forearm over her ear. Whatever dream troubled the other’s rest was none of her business. They all needed sleep.
There were troubles enough ahead.
Could the exiles take to the air, their route would be a straight line over the mountain ridges that crested one after the other, each higher and more jagged than its predecessor. Sunlight flowed across bare rock, carving harsh, angled shadows that changed shape throughout the day. Clouds caught on the most distant ridge, as if its summit crushed the sky. A fitting end to the world, in Aryl’s estimation, except that the world inconveniently extended beyond. Vyna and Rayna. Two more chances to find a home among their kind. And they couldn’t fly.
Vyna was unknown. Its Om’ray could be felt, of course; they all knew exactly where it was. But could they get there? No one could recall a Vyna unChosen arriving on Passage, implying a barrier too difficult for Om’ray to cross isolated Vyna from the rest of Cersi.
Rayna was their best hope. It was also the nearest Clan to them, the lure of its hundreds of Om’ray like the warmth of the sun on cold cheeks. It wasn’t right, for Om’ray to be separated. Aryl took comfort in every step closer.
Though there were, she thought wryly, a great many steps to go. To reach Rayna meant this too-slow march around the lowest reaches of the mountains. Part of the time, they walked across shadowed valleys. At others, they would top a rise and be able to gaze down toward Amna and Yena, see the broad, glittering darkness that severed the two: the Lay Swamp, here open to the sky. Herds of what Aryl guessed to be osst moved through its bent vegetation. Sometimes their deep grunts carried up on the night breeze, making her shudder. They belonged to the Tikitik. Not friends to Om’ray. Not friends at all.
The solid footing close to the mountains was the only choice. There was a road of sorts, winding with the ridges, if the word applied to an uneven trail free of worrisome boulders. The exiles took it, since it went the way they needed to go. Easier walking, maybe. Monotonous, definitely.
Aryl kept a worried eye on her cousin throughout the morning. During their daily march, Seru stayed back in the latter half of their group, seeming content with the Uruus family. She entertained their precocious daughter Ziba—surely a valuable service to all. Once in a while, the two burst into giggles, startling smiles from those nearby. Aryl might have dreamed the endless weeping.
She yawned. No. Hadn’t slept enough to dream.
“Something wrong?”
Enris Mendolar, the only one of their company not of Yena, matched his pace to hers. Being a Tuana flatlander, he wasn’t as light-footed or quick as the rest; being bigger than any, he could—and did—carry the heaviest pack with ease. Hardly older than she, he’d earned respect from all. Enris had risked his life to save them; his knowledge of similar landscapes helped guide them now. Dark hair, dark eyes, a powerful mind full of secrets. He laughed when she least expected it.
A stranger, by Om’ray terms. An eligible unChosen, as yet more interested in puzzles than any Chooser. Poor Seru had learned not to cast longing looks his way across the evening fire.
A friend to whom Aryl could speak her mind without fear. She looked up with a small frown. “Wrong? Tell me what isn’t.” She gestured to the ridge that loomed beside them. “Rocks that hunt.” Another to the dome of sky above, still strange to the younger Yena. “No shelter.” She finished by patting the rope wound around her flat stomach. “Should I mention food?”
That laugh, deep and amused. “Please don’t. I’m fading away.”
She didn’t point out that there was more flesh on his bones than on any Yena. It was, she knew, not the Tuana’s fault. They’d been the ones living with starvation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten her fill without thought to the next day. The Grona had given the Yena a feast—she hadn’t been the only one to tuck excess in her pockets. “We’ve Grona bread,” she reminded Enris.
They’d left Grona Clan with high spirits, full if not of hope, then the determination to find some. Before leaving, the other exiles had filled packs with supplies, Grona obliged to be generous to those on Passage, even if these were the most unlikely travelers. After three days on this road, Aryl knew she wasn’t the only one to put away most of her ration. This terrain was barren; a barrier to life, she decided, rather than home for it. The grove was a distant line of lush green within the Lay, tempting their eyes.
It wasn’t safe. By day, Tikitik would be watching for them. By truenight?
Truenight in the mountains might be cold but, away from the rock hunters, it was safe. The same could never be said of the canopy. The towering groves of rastis and nekis were home to myriad forms of life, most, in Aryl’s experience, fond of Om’ray flesh, while the black waters of the Lay held the swarms that climbed by truenight to hunt. To be caught away from light by those was to be eaten before you died.
“We aren’t thirsty,” Enris commented.
Aryl grimaced, her feet damp from crossing the last mountain torrent. More strangeness. Where did it come from, without rain? Why was the water numbingly cold no matter if the day warmed? The Tuana’s thick boots at last made sense. Haxel, being no fool, had obtained a similar pair before leaving Grona, as had a few of the others. Her own departure had been more abrupt. Remembering turned her grimace into a real frown.
“Do you feel it? There are Grona away from their village.”
“Fields,” Enris said mildly. “Grains and other crops to reap. They aren’t following us.”
“They” being Bern and his Chosen, the Adept Oran di Caraat. The two were why the exiles were again without a home. Oran had wanted Aryl’s ability to access the other place, to move through its darkness at will. A new Talent, barely under her control, not ready to be shared. A Talent fraught with danger to the user, let alone all Om’ray.
For Cersi, this world, was held in peace by the Agreement. What was, should remain. Change, significant and sudden, in Tikitik, Oud, or Om’ray, would break that Agreement. The consequence? Aryl was quite sure Oran di Caraat didn’t worry about that, safe in her stony village.
She did. So did those with her.
“I could find out.”
A sharp look. Enris knew what she meant. Aryl had the Talent to reach and learn identity. It took Power. “Too risky.” He scuffed the toe of
his boot, raising a puff of dust. “See?”
She dutifully stared down at the road. “See what?”
Haxel Vendan glanced over her shoulder. “Oud. Their machines crush the small stones to powder.”
“Exactly,” Enris said with a nod to the First Scout. “This is their road, not Om’ray. No recent tread marks, maybe, but—” he shrugged, the motion letting him adjust the pack on his shoulders. “It’s not worth the risk. Trust me. Unless necessary, don’t use Power where they might be close.”
By close, he meant under their feet. Oud tunneled. Aryl wasn’t sure what a tunnel would be like; she was sure she didn’t want to find out. Nor was she anxious to find out for herself what he meant by “risk,” though others among the exiles had also heard of this peculiarity of Oud, that a few had minds that interfered—painfully—with an Om’ray’s natural ability if used.
Having joined their conversation, Haxel paused to let them catch up. They moved through this unfamiliar territory with their strongest members to the fore and rear. The First Scout and Syb sud Uruus led the way, with Aryl and Enris next. Rorn sud Vendan, Haxel’s Chosen, came last with the Kessa’ats, Veca and Tilip, as well as Ael sud Sarc. The four eldest, the children, and pregnant Juo Vendan stayed in the midst with the others.
Their only Looker, Weth Teerac, had left a tenth earlier, at firstlight. What her Talent could find out of place in a land none of them had seen before, no one knew. But it was a precaution, of sorts, against being surprised.
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