More pointless tasks. Myris went on hands and knees, running her fingertips along the floor’s finely fitted planks as if hunting dust. Ael, having rolled the carpets, pulled the sling chairs up to the rafters one by one, scrutinizing what was underneath. He freed the fastened one at the table and did the same to it.
Then he eyed hers; she didn’t move.
With a shrug, Ael headed for Costa’s room.
Stop!
Both adult Om’ray looked pained.
Aryl covered her mouth with her hands, as though she could take back that fierce inner shout.
“We’ve a job to do,” Myris said gently. “It’s no easier for us.”
Aryl hurried to the door, where she put herself in Ael’s path. “You can’t touch Costa’s things. Not—not without my mother here,” she added forcefully, feeling on more solid ground. “If there’s something you need, tell me. I’ll bring it to you. Just—wait. Please.”
They exchanged looks. “We don’t know when she’ll be back, Aryl,” sighed Ael. “She’s busy with the—”
Hush!
Even Aryl felt that. She narrowed her eyes, and looked from one to the other. “Busy with what?”
“There are lists to be prepared for Council. Using symbols in ink for things.” Her aunt stopped there.
“I know,” grated Aryl, “what a list is. Lists of what things?”
They looked at one another again. If anything passed between them, it was on that deeper level Chosen used with one another. Ael made a clear gesture of protest before walking away. He went into Aryl’s room, where she could hear him opening trunks. Her trunks.
Oddly, she didn’t care. Her attention was on Myris, who looked suddenly much older than she should. “Lists of what?” Aryl repeated. “Please, Myris. What’s going on?”
“Last night. The Speaker did her best. But we’ve half what we normally need until the next M’hir.”
I was there, Aryl thought impatiently, but didn’t say it out loud. Adults rarely liked correction from unChosen. “What does that have to do with—?”
Rip!
The loud sound came from her bedroom, followed by an alarming: creak . . . SNAP! “What’s he doing?” Aryl protested.
Whatever it was, he was happy about it. Ael’s triumph flooded her mind. “Found it!” he shouted.
Myris almost ran, Aryl at her side. They stopped in the doorway to stare. For Ael stood inside what was left of—
“My bed? What have you done?” Aryl demanded. The sheet was on the floor and the pad beneath had been sliced open with a knife. Flakes of stuffing drifted through the air, tumbling in the light breeze through the window. As for the rest? A line of connected planks stood upright in the middle, as if startled awake. Their ends were splintered and broken. And it wasn’t just her bed—this had been Taisal’s, her grandmother’s, her—Aryl couldn’t remember how old it was.
Clearly, no one would sleep there again.
“I’ll fix it,” Ael promised, though she couldn’t imagine how. “Look what I found! This has to be your great grandfather’s gear.” He held up a strange-looking bag by its straps; the brown material was stained and faded, but intact. The bag itself bulged in several directions, closed with more straps and metal buckles; a rope of some odd woven fiber was fastened to one side.
Ael dropped the bag to pounce on something else in the ruin. “And supplies!” He straightened, both hands full of small pouches. From their look, they were of oiled leather, not woven as was normal.
Which great grandfather? She had, Aryl frowned in concentration, four. No. Eight. Who . . . then it dawned on her exactly what Ael had found inside her bed, what they’d been hunting. “That’s traveler’s gear,” she accused. “For Passage.”
Myris nodded. “These belonged to Dalris sud Sarc—Dalris Sawnda’at. He came on Passage from Amna.”
Unnel Sarc’s father; her mother’s grandfather. Aryl wrinkled her nose, unsure what offended her more: the destruction of her bed; that her family would hide dirty old belongings in it; or not finding them first. She settled for all three. “Then they’re mine,” she declared. “That’s my bed.”
Ael stepped over the bed frame, bringing the pouches and bag with him. “And I will fix it, Aryl. But these? They go to Council.”
And that was all either of them would say.
“Why do I have to put everything back?” Aryl muttered. She’d been tidying the main room since Myris and Ael left with their discovery; the piles on the table, floor, and counters remained daunting. Who knew adults could make such a mess? “And where did they find it all?” she complained, knowing full well but enjoying the freedom to speak her mind with no Chosen about. She left the storage slings hanging like surprised drapes in the middle of the room, their ropes swinging loose. The cupboards had been virtually empty; she might as well fill them. It was besides the point that it was easier.
“Most of this isn’t even mine. Anymore,” she qualified with surprise, holding a tunic better suited to be a shirt against herself.
Why hadn’t Taisal given this—all this, she thought, spotting more too-small clothing that had to be Costa’s—to some other child? The Om’ray passed such things between families. They always had. Unless it had further use . . .
“It can be a hat!” Laughing, Aryl plopped the dress on her head and spun around, keeping it in place with both hands. “Everyone will want—”
Her inner sense told her she was no longer alone. She froze, her back to the door. “You should knock,” she said archly, whisking the little dress into a pocket before turning around. “As you can see, I’m very busy.”
Bern grinned at her. “Is that what it’s called?”
Aryl opened her mouth, ready with a cutting reply. She shut it again. Something wasn’t right. Heart-kin? she sent.
Bern’s pale eyes slipped away; he answered aloud. “This isn’t the only mess,” he informed her, giving a loosened chair a gentle push to set it swinging. “They’re tearing through every home. It’s been going on all day.” As he spoke, he prowled the room as if following a trail—or too restless to stand still—moving around the hanging slings. “Only the Chosen, mind you. They’re taking what they find to the meeting hall.” A glance through her bedroom door made him purse his lips and whistle softly. “Ouch. What are they after?”
“Things on lists,” Aryl offered. “Myris said the Adepts made lists for the Council. They must be gathering what’s on them.”
He paused beside the rolled-up rugs as if she’d surprised him, one hand taking hold of a dangling sling rope. “Like what?”
How should she know? Aryl wanted to say, but something about him subdued the impulse. For the first time, she paid attention to what Bern wore: his favorite heavy tunic, woven from cunningly supple braid, reinforced down the back and front with inlaid slices of polished dresel pod his father had bleached white. It was excellent camouflage within the dappled canopy light. His longknife and hook gleamed at his belt; a fine rope and a set of tightly rolled nets crossed his chest from either shoulder. His legs and arms were sheathed in fresh bindings of gauze; his gloves and hood hung from their clips. She frowned at his boots. They looked scuffed and old, though sturdy, and she’d never seen them before. Buckled instead of tied? What a waste of metal.
Dismissing the boots and Bern’s air of gloom, Aryl focused on what mattered. “You went hunting without me?”
Bern shook his head. He’d left his hair loose and it tumbled, as always, into both eyes. “I’ve been summoned to Council. I should be there now.” He hesitated, then a word slipped into her thoughts. Heart-kin. “I had to see you.”
At first, this made no sense at all. Which fit the day, she decided.