That was why she’d been passed over? Her outrage faded as Aryl thought of Taisal and the sweetberries. Another small and harmless— even useful— Talent; her mother, afraid to be caught using it outside the Cloisters.
Was Haxel one of the careless Yena her mother and other Adepts feared?
“I cheated at seek,” Aryl said calmly. “Better than some of the others. That’s all.”
Haxel raised one eyebrow, the scar resisting. “Then why did Council overrule me?”
Easy to sound petulant. “Taisal didn’t want me to go. Maybe they listened to her. She said I was too young, the Harvest too dangerous. Mothers are like that.” Not hers— Taisal had alternately encouraged and ignored her adventures— but Haxel wasn’t to know.
She wasn’t someone to underestimate either. First Scout was a position of merit. No Om’ray climbed with Haxel Vendan’s skill, none approached her ability as a tracker and hunter. Yena slept well at night because of the rigor with which she trained those she chose for scout duty. No fool studied Aryl through those narrowed eyes.
She checked her shields and smiled back. “Was there anything else, First Scout?”
“Yes. I want you to join us.”
“Me?” Aryl echoed, her voice cracking on the word. For a moment, she actually considered it. Scouts were the most disciplined of Om’ray, responsible for the protection and defense of Yena. Superb climbers all, they built and maintained the bridges and ladders that made movement through the canopy safe for every Om’ray.
Only a child thought it a glamorous life, she thought. The reality was mapped in scars like those on Haxel’s face. When a scout did his or her job well, no one noticed. That part, Aryl found unexpectedly appealing.
What did it say about her?
“I’m not old enough,” she evaded desperately. “I don’t know how to track or build.” Aryl frowned to herself, unhappy with that list. What was she to do? Be the Speaker’s daughter until Choice? Become an Adept and leave freedom behind?
She hadn’t expected to need those answers so soon.
Haxel’s lips quirked to the side. It wasn’t a smile. “Scouts were lost in the Harvest. Most of those training with me left on Passage. Council will allow me any recruit I can find, believe me. Your ability— to cheat at seek, that is— could be useful.” She hadn’t fooled the older Om’ray for an instant, Aryl realized with a shiver. Suddenly they were playing an adult game, where you used words because you didn’t dare share thoughts and the truth.
“How?”
“Council’s sending everyone who can climb and carry with us to gather whatever we find that’s edible. I can’t argue—” from her sour tone, Aryl guessed she’d tried, “— the rains are coming. By tomorrow I could have fifty such helpers scattered through a grove, a quarter barely able to send beyond their noses. You could help me keep track of them. Know who’s heading toward trouble; who’s close enough to help.” Haxel lifted a callused finger lacking a nail and drew a short line in the air.
Aryl chewed her lower lip for a moment. The First Scout waited, her eyes hooded, her shields as solid as before. She knew the Agreement forbade change that might be noticed— which meant new Talents. Everyone did. The difference, Aryl decided, was that Haxel didn’t care— not when that Talent could offer an advantage.
Adult games. She could play them too. Aryl stood and swept her hands in the gesture of gratitude. Her mother used it regularly to end a discussion. “Thank you, First Scout. I will keep your offer in mind. Be well.”
The other rose, too. There were courtesies when visiting another’s home; departing when told was one. “As I’ll keep you in mind, Aryl Sarc,” Haxel said with a nod, then pulled her gauze over head and face. “Thank you for your time.”
After she closed and latched the door behind her visitor, Aryl listened to her heart pound. There was no reason to feel she’d just made the narrowest escape of the day, here, in her own home. No reason, she scolded herself. Being a scout was an honorable profession; better suited to her solitary nature, she admitted, than most. Yet . . .
It was the taste, she realized. Something was about to change. When she’d first sensed it, she’d assumed it meant the arrival of the M’hir Wind, then the disaster of the Harvest. Maybe even Bern’s leaving on Passage.
But the feeling had never left. It lingered, deep inside, as real as the glowlight making its way through her windows and as hard to hold in her hands.
There was worse to come, Aryl shuddered.
Now she feared it would come from within the Om’ray, not without.
* * *
After a night and a half’s sleep, broken only when Aryl woke long enough to fumble out of her filthy clothing before plunging back on the mattress, the ominous warning in her mind seemed . . .
“Nonsense,” she assured a nodding flower. “I was overtired. People weren’t letting me rest. I ask you— was that nice, considering all the pods I brought home?”
The flower wisely kept silent. Aryl finished pouring water into its pot, careful not to let it overflow on the floor— not that Costa’s floor was in any shape to care— and looked around for more to do.
Leaves on some of the plants were withered and pale. She wasn’t sure they were dead. After all, her brother would hover protectively over desiccated sticks, claiming they would grow. To be on the safe side, Aryl poured water into every container she could find.
She wrinkled her nose when done. It hadn’t improved the smell.
Now what? Her muscles were too sore to trust with another climb this soon. She’d washed her skin and hair, using the same water to soak her wraps. For the moment, she wore only a knee-length shift, loose and comfortable. Breakfast had been slivers of dried fruit, quick and easy to eat with fingers. No dishes, she thought with satisfaction.
The sweetberry vine had conquered one window gauze and was making a concerted effort to reach the nearest rafter, tendrils waving in the air. A gleam of red between its toothy leaves caught her eye. A last few berries. About to pick them, Aryl withdrew her hand.
It hadn’t been her imagination.
Something was wrong.
Haxel’s position as First Scout didn’t make her the Speaker’s peer. Nor, Aryl realized, did it give her the right to summarily dismiss a Council decision in front of the Speaker’s daughter. Om’ray could argue and disagree— she and Bern had fought constantly— but never about matters of Power or its use. Never about what Council declared best for all.
Haxel wanted Aryl to use her Talent— despite it being secret, despite no Council permission for its use. It hadn’t seemed to matter that she’d no proof the gift was real, she’d wanted it. The First Scout must have realized Aryl would tell her mother— she hadn’t said anything to stop her. It was as if she wanted Taisal to know. Why?
Aryl touched a sweetberry with her fingertip. She’d never paid attention to relationships between her elders, other than knowing who was a close enough relative to require her to do dishes during a visit and whose conversations could keep her mother preoccupied so she could slip away and climb with Bern.
All of Yena were relatives, of course. The six families crossed and blended with one another based on Choice alone, though it was rare an Om’ray was called to Join with anyone closer than a full cousin. Those who arrived on Passage brought new blood, their stranger names left behind at Choice, “sud” to a Yena Chooser. Adepts made their cryptic records of births, part of their duty to the Cloisters and Council. Presumably there was a reason, though the only record most cared about was who was Chosen first, since the First Chosen in a family took over the household responsibilities— and the home itself.
Aryl had only a dim idea of how Haxel Vendan might be related to Taisal. There were, she decided, tugging the berry free, a few Uruus and probably a Teerac between.
But they were close in age. She was struck by a novel thought. With few young Yena each generation, Haxel and Taisal must have played together, like she had with Seru, Bern, and other
s of their age. Climb and seek in the canopy. Giggles and secrets.
They might not be friends now; they had to know each other well, nonetheless.
Aryl tossed the berry on the floor and watched it roll. Did Haxel know about Taisal’s Forbidden Talent? Was all this to send her mother a message— that the First Scout rejected the Council’s restrictions and wanted the Speaker’s support?
Having clean knees, she left the berry where it was and picked another to pop into her mouth. The sweet tang burst against her tongue.
Support to do what? Aryl shook her head, feeling as though she climbed a ladder made of threads, not wood. The Chosen were supposed to worry about such things. That’s why they had wrinkles. The thought made her run a palm over one smooth cheek and she grinned. None yet.
The grin faded. She was young, not stupid. What she’d done to save Bern was of an entirely different order than pushing a berry or sensing identity. She didn’t want to do it again— ever— but that wasn’t the point.
Taisal feared her revealing this Talent above all. Aryl found herself wondering if her mother was more afraid of the Tikitik learning of it— or other Yena like Haxel?
She rubbed cold arms and went in search of warmer clothes.
There was nothing she could do about the chill in her heart.
Interlude
THEY RAN OUT OF TIME before questions, and Enris reluctantly locked the object away in a hidden cupboard only he and his parents knew existed. Locking it out of sight, if not from his thoughts.
Om’ray technology to rival that of the Oud and the Tikitik?
What did it mean? How was it even possible?
“Don’t drag your feet, Enris,” Jorg said from the door. “They’ll have other business first— you know our current Council— but the Speaker will read the roll of unChosen soon. You don’t want to miss it.”
Enris froze in place. “Me? Why me?”
His father smiled gently. “Because you’re finally ready. Did you think your mother couldn’t tell?”
Yes, since he couldn’t, Enris grumbled inwardly. He didn’t doubt Ridersel’s ability— but shouldn’t he be the first to know? Feel different? Care about Choice more than the puzzle locked in that cupboard and burning in his mind?
“Come, come. This harvest’s Choosers-to-Be will be named as well.”
Giddy cousins, noxious neighbors, and dull little strips— to become Choosers, the most desirable of their kind?
One of them to intrude on his time in the shop?
Aghast at the mere notion, Enris followed Jorg out the door, waiting while he locked and checked it, trailing behind all the way to the meeting hall. Like his father, he avoided stepping in the tread marks from the Oud.
Unlike his father, he wasn’t in a hurry. His mind had stuck at “eligible.” Shouldn’t that be up to him?
In too few steps, the meeting hall was in sight. Like the other buildings lining the Tuana’s main street, it had been made from materials at hand— a cobbling of salvaged tunnel wood, scrap metal, and flat bricks made from a mix of local sand and surry, a syrup refined from nost peelings that dried clear and hard and impenetrable.
And, like the other buildings, Enris thought with pride, the hall had been built with care and an eye for beauty. The sunset’s glow reflected from intricate brickwork that both bound the structure to the earth and rose past each corner to touch the darkening sky. Precious wood, rich with carving and hand-polished to gleaming smoothness, met the brick. Metal bands, scorched and strained to reveal rainbows of fantastic hues, formed curves and angles. Last, but not least, sheets of surry formed broad windows to admit light.
The Oud vehicles were lined up outside, their attendant whirr/clicks resting in uneven piles. Jorg was about to climb the steps to the open doorway when Enris stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” he pleaded.
Though Enris kept his shields tight, Jorg’s smile faded as he looked at his son. “What’s wrong?”
“Last Harvest. During the Visitation. Everyone seemed to know who they— they just knew.”
Jorg looked relieved. “And you don’t,” this with a nod.
“Of course I don’t!”
“Maybe—” a wink, “— someone inside does.”
If his father had wanted Enris struck dumb, he couldn’t have done better. Jorg seemed to realize it and made a gesture of apology. “It’s harder for you,” he said quietly. “That’s my fault. I kept you working when you could have been making friends, getting to know the Choosers-to-Be. I didn’t think.”
“You didn’t make me work,” Enris protested. “I love the shop. You know that.”
“I know. But while others were—” Jorg paused and shrugged. “What’s done, or not, is done. Relax, Enris.” His voice lightened, as if they discussed tomorrow’s tasks. “It’s only your first eligible Visitation. UnChosen often wait for their second or third before finding a Choice that suits.”
Enris raised a dubious eyebrow. “How often is often?”
His father laughed. “I’m sure at least once before. Come on. Think of them as customers.”
As they went inside, Enris shook his head. “Stop helping me,” he half-joked. “Please.”
* * *
The Tuana meeting hall, like those of other Clans, had started as a simple room, large enough to hold those in attendance. There had been some modifications. To safely host their visitors, the floor was now of metal-reinforced brick. To accommodate a steadily growing population, for Tuana was a prosperous Clan, stairlike seating had been added along its three windowless outer walls. Several times. Today, they sat crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, children in laps, and there was barely room on what floor remained for Council, the unChosen, and their guests.
Enris had heard talk of tearing down the back wall or removing the roof— anything to expand the space inside. According to Ridersel, similar schemes had been brought to Council in the past. All collided with Oud sensibilities. Other than the Cloisters, this was the largest building they would tolerate above ground. The Om’ray were welcome— even encouraged— to dig if they needed more room.
The Tuana Om’ray politely declined to enter the realm of the Oud, and pressed ever closer to their own kind.
Though shields were up, Enris felt the pull of so many together. He didn’t need to look to see where the families were. There was a pattern, as old as the village, and only those who would be the focus tonight stood or sat elsewhere than expected. Jorg gave his shoulder a hearty pat before leaving to squeeze his way up two stairs to where Ridersel and Worin waited with the rest of Mendolar.
The three Oud were gray-brown hills in the middle of the open space. In front of them stood the Tuana Speaker, Sole sud Serona. Behind him stood the six who formed Tuana’s Council, also resplendent in white, embroidered robes. One, Mendolar, leaned on two canes, but her bright eyes flicked to Enris as he passed, her lips pressed thin in disapproval.
Grandmother didn’t miss much, he thought ruefully, hurrying out of range with what dignity he could.
Enris knew where he was to go. The lines of eligible unChosen, suddenly his fellows if he believed it, stood to the right of the door. He nodded a greeting to Ral, somehow not surprised to see his younger cousin; he deliberately looked past Mauro and Irm. The Lorimar brothers viewed themselves as above working with their hands, and enjoyed sneering at those who did— not that they didn’t want the results for themselves. Just as well. Enris wouldn’t trust either with a tool or the responsibility to use it.
The only place left to stand was in front and there was, of course, dust on his boots. He resisted the urge to comb his fingers through his hair. It was thick, black, and almost as unruly as— Enris stopped there.
The unChosen weren’t the focus of the Visitation, not yet. The Speaker was reading numbers— the yield lists, from the sound of it. Enris took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax. It didn’t work, though it gained him a sympathetic smile from his neighbor, Traud Lic
or. Traud was quiet and reserved; like Enris, he had little patience for the few their age who didn’t earn their keep. The Licors were crop tenders, as were most on the stairs. Making those Traud’s numbers, too, Enris thought, sure the other must be enjoying this moment. It had been, everyone knew, an exceptional growing season.
Traud leaned close. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he whispered.
Not the numbers. Enris looked where he carefully hadn’t to this point, at the assembly of potential Choosers: a blur of colorful beadwork and gauze, topped by improbable hair ornaments. “Who?” he had to ask.
“Olalla, of course.”
Another cousin. “Lucky you,” he said, grateful that shields were considered appropriate tonight. Olalla Mendolar, whatever her beauty to Traud, had crooked teeth and a tendency to hiccup when nervous. Which was, he recalled, most of the time. When she wasn’t humming off key.
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