* * *
Despite her unease, Aryl followed Costa’s Chosen through the door in the archway, along a series of hallways, and through rooms unlike any she’d seen before. Instead of glows, light emerged from the curved join of ceiling and wall, soft and white. It hadn’t failed in Om’ray memory, though there were no cells to change. Instead of wood or mats on the floor, they walked on some resilient material for which she had no name, pale yellow and smooth. The damp hem of Leri’s robe whispered as it brushed that surface. She no longer spoke.
Aryl studied her surroundings, to avoid looking at her guide. Frames hung on the walls every few steps, frames that held clusters of disks and lines. These were of metal; most bore markings that reminded her of her mother’s pendant. None formed pictures or shapes that made any sense. Why were they here, in a place where only Om’ray could go?
Though Aryl found little to prove this place was home to her kind. A display of wooden bowls caught her eye; they were lined up along a clear shelf, their carving a match to those on Aryl’s table. But beside them was a tall cylinder of pale green, seamless and smooth; she couldn’t guess its purpose. The air held a hint of dresel, but stronger was a crisp, clean tang, as if there’d been a storm indoors.
There were other Yena here. Aryl was aware of their existence as they would be aware of hers— they were Om’ray after all. She didn’t dare reach to know who was who, not here. There would be the Adepts; Yena boasted thirteen and all lived here. A trio in ordinary brown had hurried past them, their heads close together as they spoke in silence. There would be the elderly. A long, low seat before a windowed arch had contained a pair of sleeping Om’ray older than Aryl believed possible, small and wizened, taking such slow, soft breaths that only her inner sense of their presence assured her they lived.
As for the rest . . . she didn’t want to find more of the Lost.
Each step with Leri eroded days of healing, made the past real and urgent again. Aryl’s eyes stung as she found herself consumed by the memory of Costa slipping away again, reliving the agony she’d sensed as he died.
When her guide finally stopped before an arch, curtained reassuringly like a door at home, Aryl abruptly realized she wasn’t reliving her own memories, but Leri’s. She firmed her shields at once, staring at the other’s passive face in horror. Was all she was an echo of Costa’s death?
Not even her own?
“I will take Aryl to the Speaker,” Leri intoned. This time the beckoning gesture was reversed, indicating the closed curtain.
Aryl restrained a shudder and pushed the thick material aside. She’d loved Leri as the sister she’d never had. Now, she couldn’t wait to be away from her. She’d been right to believe death would be kinder.
The curtain had fooled her into thinking she would enter a simple apartment. Instead, Aryl found herself in an immense curved expanse, standing on a metal floor awash with more of those exotic bands of color.
At first, she thought the only furnishing was a narrow raised dais centered on the longer wall, with six tall-backed seats of the same pale green as the cylinder on the shelf. The wall behind the dais was lined by those windows, three times her height. She guessed they’d offer a spectacular view of the canopy, though now all she could see were gray sheets of rain. Yet no drops marred the clear material.
The Council Chamber. It had to be, though Aryl was astonished by its size. All of Yena could fit in here, with room for a hundred more. Why? The meeting hall, with its benches and tables, was where Council met the rest of Yena. This space was a waste for six alone.
She’d come through a discreet entrance to one side, perhaps the Councillors’ own. The proper, ceremonial doors were at the far end. Leri’s mistake or Pio’s instruction?
“Let be. I don’t need a healer!”
The weak, strained voice made a lie of the words. Aryl found its source.
To her left was a cluster of unusual, though comfortable-looking, chairs, set before one of the windows on a simple woven mat that might have come from any home. There were low tables between the chairs, some crowded with mugs, others with piles of what looked like pod-wood trays, only silver. An Om’ray sat slumped in one chair; six others stood around him, their postures indicated concern. No one turned to look at her or otherwise indicate they knew she was there.
Which, of course, they did.
Until officially noticed, Aryl didn’t dare take a step or make a sound. She glanced desperately around the room. Austere, empty, and utterly lacking in places to be inconspicuous.
Her mother was one of those standing. She’d know her anywhere. From here, she couldn’t be sure who the stricken Om’ray was, although this was Yena’s Council. The Adepts were easy to spot; Tikva di Uruus and Sian d’sud Vendan wore brown robes twin to that of Pio’s, as did Taisal, the gleam of her Speaker’s Pendant muted against the fabric. The rest looked ready for a climb or day of work, their tunics and wraps as oft-repaired as Aryl’s own.
Why would her mother bring her here?
I didn’t.
She winced. No one else reacted to Taisal’s aggrieved sending. Aryl checked her shields, trusting they’d work, and considered whether she could sidle back through the curtain or if escape at this point would only make things worse.
One of the six did turn, then. Her mother. “Aryl Sarc.” Her name bounced from the distant walls. “Come here.”
As Aryl warily obeyed, her feet making their own too-loud echoes despite soft-soled boots— at least she’d remembered boots and wasn’t slapping her way across the magnificent floor bare-foot— the others straightened to watch her approach. One kept her hand protectively on the shoulder of the still-hunched figure and glared at Taisal. “What’s the meaning of this, Speaker?”
It was Morla Kessa’at who chided her mother while comforting the sufferer. Who was, Aryl recognized with a delay that startled her, Yorl sud Sarc, her mother’s great-uncle and acknowledged head of their family. She’d bounced on his knee, learned to draw at his table.
She’d never seen him in such pain, his arms held tight to his chest and his face beaded with sweat and sickly pale. Here was the reason for Taisal’s distress.
“You know what drew her,” Taisal said, beckoning her daughter.
Aryl went to stand by her mother; she couldn’t take her eyes from Yorl. The clinking bag of old drawings on her shoulder now felt anything but clever. She shouldn’t have come. What had drawn her here was nothing she could help.
“The child can’t help,” a too-accurate echo from Morla. “She—”
Yorl’s head lifted, and he reached a shaking hand toward her. A slight turn of the wrist indicated the broad arm of his chair.
Aryl moved to take his thick, chill hand in hers without hesitation, though she sat cautiously. It might be wood, beneath its burnished black finish, but the furnishings here weren’t Yenamade.
She braced herself to share Yorl’s pain across the bridge of their hands, then was startled when all she felt was the dimmest glow of his existence. It was as if his Power had been drained by whatever hurt him.
No, Aryl corrected, abruptly understanding. Yorl’s formidable Power was somehow focused inward; a struggle no less real for taking place out of sight. He fought to heal himself, to strengthen some failing part of his body.
Was such a thing possible?
Aryl sensed another presence and glanced at Morla in surprise. “Perceptive, indeed,” the head of Kessa’at said, her stern expression softening. The weave of family with family showed in her large, wide-set gray eyes, a match for Aryl’s own. She was the smallest here; standing, her netted white hair wouldn’t reach Aryl’s shoulder. Unwise to judge her by that— Morla had ruled her close kin for many M’hirs. One of Yena’s most accomplished woodworkers, she was first on Council as well. “Let her stay,” Morla decided. “She may comfort him.”
“Yorl should go to the healers,” Taisal’s voice had an edge, as if she’d pressed this for some time without result. “Aryl can
go with him.”
The words hardly penetrated. Aryl found herself fascinated by what she sensed within Yorl. Some Om’ray healed from wounds or illness much faster than others. The difference must lie in this Talent.
But it was costly. She could feel Yorl weakening with each labored breath. He wasn’t eating enough dresel, she fumed to herself. He’d been stinting himself, like all the older Om’ray. She cupped her other hand over his. Why won’t you go? she sent, hoping he could hear. You’re worrying my mother. As if she wasn’t terrified for him, too.
His reply was whisper-faint, almost imagined. We decide Yena’s future, here and now. Your future. Sarc must always have a voice. Help me, child.
How? As she asked the question, she felt its answer. Something began draining from her to him. It flowed from shoulder to arm to hand, the sensation of a rapidly moving fluid so vivid Aryl stared stupidly at her wrist, expecting to see blood pumping from a wound.
She began to gasp; Yorl to take easier breaths. Dimly, she heard voices, angry and upset. She heard Yorl answering. She reeled and would have slipped from the arm of the chair if not for his now-strong grip on her hands. She . . .
ENOUGH!
... Aryl was pulled free and pushed, almost roughly, into a chair. She curled within its unfamiliar shape and closed her eyes, hoping the world would stop spinning like a loose ladder in the M’hir.
If it didn’t, and soon, she was quite sure the Yena Council would not appreciate the result.
* * *
“— Yorl’s right! Admit it!”
Aryl realized she’d been listening to the heated debate for a while, listening but until now without hearing the words or caring who said them. She cautiously cracked open her eyes, unwilling to remind those nearby she existed.
Not only that, but her head pounded. The light made it worse. The nausea was gone, but she doubted she could stand without tipping over.
What had Yorl done to her?
The others had taken their seats, leaving those to either side of hers empty. Aryl was happy to be excluded. Fighting a shiver, she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Did it feel the same to her elders— that being huddled together on this homely mat offered little protection in this vast exposed space?
Why, she wondered again, did they use this place? Old people and their habits. An unmistakably deep voice drew her attention. Cetto sud Teerac.
“— we’ve sacrificed, there’s worse ahead, much worse,” he was saying. “We all know.” Cetto was Bern’s great grandfather and Leri’s grandfather, a strong, thoughtful Om’ray whose abilities had always rested in his hands, not his Power. His green eyes tended to water when he was weary or emotional, or when the young ones sat on his lap to tell him stories. Aryl noticed they glistened now.
She also noticed Yorl sud Sarc was sitting straight up in his chair, his face flushed with healthy color. He was watching the others, his eyes hooded; Taisal watched him, her expression one of bewilderment, as if she didn’t know how to act.
For the first time, Aryl was struck by how young her mother was in this company, how out of place.
“Cetto—” Morla began.
“We all know,” the head of Teerac repeated, refusing to be interrupted. “There’s no time for despair or pity. Not if Yena is to survive. We must prepare.” He patted the stack of odd metal squares on the table near his hand. “The inventory lists will be of use to Haxel and her scouts. She’ll need an Adept to read them.”
The lists were pieces of metal? Aryl longed to see one up close.
“Prepare?” Sian steepled his fingers and regarded his fellow Councillor over them, as if over the rail of a bridge. “Surely premature, Cetto, since we still debate Yorl’s original proposal.”
“Then I say end the debate!”
“Oh, on that we agree.” Sian said sharply. Aryl sensed tension between the two Councillors. The slender head of Vendan was elegant compared to Cetto, his skin darker and less worn, his long black hair streaked with bands of silver, not totally gray. She’d always been a little afraid of him. Sian used words the way others used tools, to split ideas apart and rebuild them, and had little patience. On the rare times he left the Cloisters, he spent more time in the Sarc hall arguing with Taisal than he did with his own Chosen. Given warning of such visits, Aryl would escape to climb with Bern.
“Peace, both of you.” Yorl leaned forward to catch the gaze of each of his fellow Councillors in turn, avoiding Taisal. “Yena can’t endure a second year of famine. We can’t risk the future on the hope the coming M’hir will be free of disaster or that our few starving harvesters will reap sufficient dresel for us and the Tikitik. You’ve heard my proposal. All of Yena must seek a new home while we have strength and supplies left. We must leave the grove as soon as possible.”
Aryl’s hand flashed to her mouth, smothering the gasp she couldn’t stop. Leave? Yena was the grove! No Clan abandoned its home. Was it even possible?
“Nonsense!” protested Adrius sud Parth. Oldest on Council, his voice had rotted into a loud rasp, interspersed with spit. The joke was that standing in front of old Adrius when he spoke would get you as wet as the rains. Aryl no longer found it funny. The rasp made each word hook-sharp. “I’m going to die right here,” the head of Parth vowed, bouncing in his chair. “Right here! I’ve earned it. Here, I say!”
“Die, then,” Cetto countered harshly. “No one’s stopping you.”
“Think of our unChosen, Adrius,” Yorl urged, gesturing a tactful apology while giving Cetto a quelling look. “We sent them away to help them survive. How is this different?”
“You know how,” Morla answered before Adrius could. “They had tokens. A place to go. As it is . . . another perished, Yorl. Four of ten failed, despite being young and healthy, despite the best supplies we could provide.”
Aryl felt a wave of guilt-laced grief. It might have come from any or all of them. Or been hers. She knew how it felt to have picked who would live, only to face the consequence of who did not.
Morla continued, “You suggest that our entire clan take Passage— can’t you see it’s impossible? Even if the Tikitik should permit us to move through their groves—”
“It’s impossible to stay. We’ll arrange permission,” Cetto rumbled, his cheeks flushed with emotion. “The Tikitik like to trade. Speaker?”
Aryl shuddered, remembering a mouth of finger-things and moving eyes.
“They do, Councillor,” Taisal agreed, then held up her empty palm. “But we have nothing to offer.”
The head of Teerac looked triumphant. “Yes. Yes, we do.” His strong hand smacked the arm of his chair. “This place. They’ve wanted it for generations. I say we trade the Cloisters for Yena’s freedom.”
From the ensuing pause, during which her breathing— and Adrius’ wheeze— were the loudest sounds, Aryl knew she wasn’t the only one shocked. But was Cetto wrong? she wondered in the safety of her own thoughts. True, the Cloisters was a remarkable structure, but what use was it to everyday Yena?
None, so far as she could tell.
Sian pursed his lips. “The Cloisters,” he said in a reasoning tone, “is the heart of Yena, as it is for each Om’ray Clan. As well talk about abandoning who we are.”
“There’s our heart,” Cetto rejoined, twisting in his seat to thrust a finger at Aryl. She tried not to shrink away. “There. Our young. Our families. Our future. All to starve if we stay here.”
“By the next M’hir—”
“And how many of us will be alive when the Watchers call?” This time it was Yorl who interrupted with passion. “Every day we grow weaker, Sian. Soon, we won’t be able to leave.”
“The time to act is now,” Cetto agreed. “While we can all still climb. Beat the worst of the rains; look for a place in the mountains.”
“And do what? Die on the rock? It’s too dangerous—”
Several began to talk at once; underneath, emotions spilled past their shields. They were like bi
ters, jostling for the same scrap of exposed skin.
Aryl was appalled.
Yena’s Council: the venerable and respected heads of the six families. Yena’s Speaker: a powerful Adept, selected for rare skill with words and diplomacy. She’d come here believing they could do anything, Aryl realized, as if being responsible for the entire Yena Clan somehow made these individuals more than ordinary Om’ray.
Had that been fair?
She’d believed until this moment they could save her, save everyone; that the rationing, the hunt for more food, the heartbreak of sending away their unChosen were parts of a well thought out plan to keep them safe.
Wasn’t it?
Or was this the truth in front of her, in their bickering? Cetto’s desperation. Yorl’s conviction. Sian’s fear. Adrius’ selfishness.
Reap the Wild Wind Page 16
