Then it made too much. “Passage.” The word fell out of her mouth. She fumbled for the table, found a grip. Strange time for the rastis to sway, though nothing about the world was as it should be. “That’s silly,” she said desperately. “You’re not old enough.”
Bern shook his head again, this time slowly. “No, Aryl. You aren’t.”
His shields were up, so she searched his face, finding shadows beneath his eyes, harsh lines beside his mouth. There was no fear in it, only a sad resignation. He looked, she thought abruptly, like the stranger, Kiric.
The stranger who’d died.
There was a way to keep Bern here, where he belonged. Aryl surreptitiously rubbed her hands against her thighs, making sure they were free of dust, if not truly clean. She licked her lips, then walked up to him. “We can—” her voice broke and she coughed, avoiding his eyes, her own shields desperately tight. She placed her left hand on his chest, palm flat over the cool lines of inlay. The rope scratched her wrist but she didn’t flinch.
Aryl, no.
She shook her head fiercely to silence him, trying not to feel his pity. She lifted her right hand, hoping it hadn’t started to sweat—her palms grew damp when she was nervous, she couldn’t help it—and captured his. She took a deep breath and said the words.
“I, Aryl Sarc, offer you Choice, Bern Teerac.”
Then waited.
Their hands were callused from branch and rope; his was warmer.
That was all.
Finally, Aryl had to look up. “Am I doing it right?” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t.” Bern’s eyes glistened. “It’s too soon for you, Aryl.”
“No. No. It’s something I’m doing wrong. Tell me how. What do I do!?” she pleaded, tears in her own eyes. “You’re all I want. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. You can’t—you can’t leave.”
His wavering smile was a terrible thing. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Then stay!”
His hand cupped the back of her head, gave it a gentle shake. “You have so much Power, Aryl. I’m not surprised you’re the one to have this amazing ability—can do what maybe no Om’ray ever has before. Me? I’m nothing special,” he told her. “But I’m unChosen and male. We feel the Call of Choice when we’re ready. I feel it. It burns . . .” his voice became hollow as his head turned right “. . . in Grona . . .” left, “. . . in Amna . . . and Tuana . . .” this last looking into her eyes. “But not here. Not in Yena. Not this M’hir.”
“Wait for me.” Aryl rose on her toes, pressed both hands on his chest. “I’ll be old before you know it.”
Heart-kin. Bern stepped away. “It’s not my decision to make.”
Aryl stood very still, feeling the blood drain from her head and shoulders, sensing the wild darkness as if another eye opened without her willing it. His shields didn’t protect him in that realm. Suddenly, she could touch Bern’s innermost thoughts, share the pain so like her own.
And the anticipation. The lust. He might not know it yet himself, but she did. “You want to go,” she accused.
She’d shocked him; she could see it, sense it. Then, with characteristic honesty, he lowered his head. It wasn’t quite a nod. It was, nonetheless, an admission. “I’ve been ready since the last M’hir,” the words said so quietly she almost didn’t hear. “I waited for you, Aryl. I was sure—it doesn’t matter now. Something in me . . . I’m empty. I need . . .”
He never did know when to stop talking, Aryl fumed to herself. “You need someone else, is that it?” she snapped. “Then go.”
Bern gave her a stricken look. “We’ll always be heart-kin—”
“Find your Chooser,” Aryl interrupted haughtily. “I hope she’s stupid and afraid of heights!” She turned and stormed into Costa’s room, closing the curtain behind her.
Once there, she sagged against the wall panel, her fist in her mouth to stifle the sobs shaking her body. She sensed Bern’s sending brush her shields—no words, just an anxious, lonely touch between heart-kin—and retreated inward until she couldn’t.
She’d saved him.
She listened to his footsteps; they grew faint, then were gone.
She could see Bern now, safe on that bridge, and knew she could make the vision real again. Her Power was waiting, ready to use, if she dared.
But she wouldn’t see him, not where he was going.
Were there even bridges?
Aryl slid to the floor and buried her face on her knees, letting despair shudder through her.
How could she save him there?
Interlude
THE DRUMS OF THE WATCHERS announced their guests, that heavy beat vibrating through lungs and hearts as well as floors. Enris lifted his bowl from the table, making a quick grab to capture a mug about to bounce off the near edge.
The drums stopped, but his mother, his height and youthfully slender despite birthing three, hadn’t been quick enough. She glared at the resulting mess. “And what’s wrong with a bell, I ask you?” she muttered. “Worin, get those, please.” While her youngest cheerfully scrambled beneath the table to retrieve errant tubers, Ridersel collected the pieces of what had been her second favorite platter.
Enris met his father’s somber gaze. It wasn’t a question waiting an answer. The Tuana used drums, set into the ground, because they suited other ears than theirs. “I should get to the shop,” he said apologetically. When he went to scrape his share of supper back in the pot, Ridersel intercepted him.
“No need to starve,” she said, taking his bowl. Cutting open a dumpling, she spooned the contents, a rich stew, inside, then wrapped the whole in a square of food cloth.
“This time, don’t forget it by the vat,” Jorg advised around mouthfuls. “Lad gets preoccupied,” he reminded his Chosen. Ridersel smiled fondly.
Enris could feel the warm bond between his parents. Not everyone could, he knew. And not every Joining produced such a resonance between its partners, although it was more common now than in his grandparents’ time.
Kiric, his older brother, had felt it, too. That was why he’d taken Passage so eagerly, hoping to find someone to complete him, as their parents completed one another. Those he’d left behind believed in his success. Belief was all they had.
Except for Enris. He’d never told his family how he’d been roused from sleep, night after night, to his brother’s pain. Night after night after night until . . . it stopped, torn apart by inner screams. He never hinted he knew the truth.
That Kiric had died of loneliness.
And Passage was a lie.
“Don’t listen to your father. Keep it warm,” Ridersel urged, pressing the bundle into his hands. She paused, her eyes searching his, then her silver-streaked black hair stirred from its peaceful fall over her shoulders and back, locks reaching toward him.
Though thick and lustrous and the crowning glory of a Joined Chooser, that hair was prone to opinion. It could also be sensitive to the moods of others, and Enris backed away, very slightly, to avoid its silken touch. Ridersel restrained her hair with what appeared an absent sweep of her slender white fingers. Unlike some, she scorned metal clips. When younger, Enris had argued this was an unfair advantage; his father had only laughed.
“Thank you,” Enris said with unconscious dignity. “I’d better go.”
Worin peered over the table’s edge, blue eyes gleaming. “Do I get your sweetpie?”
“I’ll meet you there, Enris.” Jorg ruffled his youngest’s hair. “With your pie.”
“Be well,” his mother added. Words formed in his mind. Be careful.
“I will,” he said, to both.
Chapter 9
LIKE SO MUCH IN OM’RAY LIFE, there were customs and traditions to be followed when sending an unChosen on Passage. Most made a certain sense, Aryl thought numbly.