“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 others 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?