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.