“They do, Councillor,” Taisal agreed, then held up her empty palm. “But we have nothing to offer.”
The head of Teerac looked triumphant. “Yes. Yes, we do.” His strong hand smacked the arm of his chair. “This place. They’ve wanted it for generations. I say we trade the Cloisters for Yena’s freedom.”
From the ensuing pause, during which her breathing—and Adrius’ wheeze—were the loudest sounds, Aryl knew she wasn’t the only one shocked. But was Cetto wrong? she wondered in the safety of her own thoughts. True, the Cloisters was a remarkable structure, but what use was it to everyday Yena?
None, so far as she could tell.
Sian pursed his lips. “The Cloisters,” he said in a reasoning tone, “is the heart of Yena, as it is for each Om’ray Clan. As well talk about abandoning who we are.”
“There’s our heart,” Cetto rejoined, twisting in his seat to thrust a finger at Aryl. She tried not to shrink away. “There. Our young. Our families. Our future. All to starve if we stay here.”
“By the next M’hir—”
“And how many of us will be alive when the Watchers call?” This time it was Yorl who interrupted with passion. “Every day we grow weaker, Sian. Soon, we won’t be able to leave.”
“The time to act is now,” Cetto agreed. “While we can all still climb. Beat the worst of the rains; look for a place in the mountains.”
“And do what? Die on the rock? It’s too dangerous—”
Several began to talk at once; underneath, emotions spilled past their shields. They were like biters, jostling for the same scrap of exposed skin.
Aryl was appalled.
Yena’s Counciclass="underline" the venerable and respected heads of the six families. Yena’s Speaker: a powerful Adept, selected for rare skill with words and diplomacy. She’d come here believing they could do anything, Aryl realized, as if being responsible for the entire Yena Clan somehow made these individuals more than ordinary Om’ray.
Had that been fair?
She’d believed until this moment they could save her, save everyone; that the rationing, the hunt for more food, the heartbreak of sending away their unChosen were parts of a well thought out plan to keep them safe.
Wasn’t it?
Or was this the truth in front of her, in their bickering? Cetto’s desperation. Yorl’s conviction. Sian’s fear. Adrius’ selfishness.
The dread none of them—Yena’s eldest and wisest—could fully hide.
Was there no future?
No need to be warned of consequences if she repeated a word from this meeting. If it upset her to hear all this, Aryl couldn’t imagine how Seru or others might react.
Tikva di Uruus, hitherto silent, lifted her hand to catch Aryl’s attention along with the rest. Two of her fingers were wrapped together; from the purpled tip of one, a break. Despite her rank as Adept, the wiry head of Uruus had been among those out hunting before the rains.
“Before we climb to the unknown,” she said, the words crisp and sure, “I suggest we look closer for our salvation. To the Power that lies within us all.”
NO!
That denial slammed through Aryl’s mind, ripping past any shield. She winced. It wasn’t Taisal’s. She found herself staring at Sian d’sud Vendan, who’d surged to his feet.
Not Taisal’s sending, but her mother rose as well, her expression equally defiant as the two faced their fellow Adept.
Tikva raised one brow, seeming unaffected by their protest. “It’s Council’s duty,” she stressed the word, “to consider any and all means to save our people.” She deliberately looked away, focusing on the four Councillors who weren’t Adepts.
Aryl was puzzled. Adepts didn’t acknowledge a leader among themselves, but Tikva acted like one. Did they answer to their eldest member after all, like families? If so, she grimaced, they were lucky Pio di Kessa’at was a season younger.
Then she hurriedly checked her shields.
No one appeared to notice. Taisal and Sian sat back down, though they looked no less angry.
“An option that divides Adepts?” Morla asked. “Now I’m curious.”
Yorl frowned. “And I hope you aren’t wasting our time, Tivy.”
Aryl tried not to squirm at the nickname.
“Then let me be quick,” Tikva said smoothly, “I propose we increase our chance of survival here. Thus.” She lifted her hand once more.
A carved mug floated from the table to meet it.
This demonstration was greeted with an astonished wheeze from Adrius, narrowed eyes by the other Adepts, and a dismissive shrug from Cetto. Aryl wasn’t sure if she should try to look surprised; her mother’s great uncle certainly wasn’t.
Morla remained still, then her white brows knotted. “A skill of Adepts,” she observed.
“One we can teach.” This with a confidence that rang through the immense chamber.
Aryl couldn’t take her eyes from the mug in Tikva’s hand. This was her mother’s Talent. If she could learn it . . . breakfast in bed, she decided without hesitation. Doubtless more significant and important uses would follow, but that first.
“Teach to who?” Cetto growled. “Everyone? Or those with the most Power?” Another shrug of broad shoulders, still well-muscled from a life of climbing. “How many could learn this, Adepts? Do you know? Can you?”
“We know.” Sian glanced sideways at Tikva, as if asking permission. When she did and said nothing, he continued. “Five among the unChosen. More of the very young, but until they mature . . .” Adrius wheezed vigorously at that, likely, Aryl decided, imagining the trouble his already infamous great granddaughters would cause. “Few, if any, of our Chosen—understandable, since those of exceptional Power are already Adepts. Those who didn’t die in the Harvest—or of it.”
“A good start,” Tikva claimed brusquely, pushing aside Sian’s final comment. “The use of Power to move objects will help everyone.”
Yorl rested his chin on a fist, as if deep in thought.
Cetto’s palm smacked his chair arm for the second time. “Help! Instead of Adepts, trained and sworn to work for the benefit of all, we would have those with this ability and those without, choosing to do what they will. Do you not see it, Tikva?” He lowered his voice until it vibrated through Aryl’s bones. “You would stratify our kind, sort us by the strength of our Power instead of family. You would divide us, when we must stay together.”
Tikva made a dismissive gesture. “Power has always varied among Om’ray. Even now, our youngest reach each other over greater distances than before—better shield their thoughts—healers help speed recovery as well as ease pain—”
“This is not the same. You know it isn’t. Those are Talents that bring us closer, help us communicate, one to the other. An ability like this?” Cetto reached as if for something far overhead, then brought his hand down as a fist to wave at the Adept. “To be able to have a thing in your hands, without climbing for it? How long before it becomes the ability to take a thing, without right to it?”
“You are old, Cetto. Old and old-fashioned; our people will die of your ideas.”
“You would have them battle each other because of yours?”
PEACE!
They quieted, but Aryl flinched as anger spilled over shields. The ability to push an object had seemed almost trivial, but the passions regarding its use were, she realized with dismay, anything but. What she’d done, using Power to move Bern and now her thoughts through the other place? If they knew, would they argue about its use like this—or would it be worse?
Best, she glanced at Taisal’s expressionless face, never to find out.
Morla, for it had been her sending, spoke aloud. “It’s time to hear from all. I call a vote on Yorl sud Sarc’s initial proposal. Shall we, as Council, prepare Yena to leave the canopy and seek safety elsewhere? All must agree.”