“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 Licor. 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.
He couldn’t think near someone like that, let alone work.
As for work, he thought, they’d have to be careful. He and Jorg had discussed the next step. Before anything drastic like removing crystals, they’d do more precise measurements and test the metal of the outer casing. They couldn’t risk the object. They had to assume the Oud wanted it back, and in the same condition.
Which Oud had it been? Enris studied the creatures with new interest. The Speaker was obvious, centermost and facing—or the equivalent—its Om’ray counterpart. Its pendant was affixed to that end, anyway. It crouched in its front-end-up position, ready to talk in turn. The other two had their heads down.
Maybe they were bored.
Bored, he understood. He was bored. And anxious. And, above all else, he didn’t want to be here and they couldn’t make him—
Traud glanced his way and Enris checked his shields for leaks. “Beautiful,” he whispered quickly and was rewarded by a bemused smile.
Were all the other unChosen that hopeless?
Other than his location at its focus, this Visitation continued like all the others Enris could remember. Om’ray liked tradition; the Oud didn’t like change. First came the good news: the amount of nost drying in racks; the number of fields freed of various scourges—the most repugnant plants had their pests and Tuana scouts were always busy while the crop ripened; lists of those born and their immediate relations; lists naming those arrived on Passage and any others Joined since the last Visitation—which always produced a rumble of approval from the assembled Om’ray, though Enris doubted the Oud cared; and so on. There would be lists of the productivity of various trades, his and Jorg’s shop among them. In short, all that had been improved by their village’s existence.