They’d been angry. At him.
He didn’t need to be an Adept to figure that out. Or to know who. There were footprints everywhere he looked, footprints made by fancy, hard-soled boots. Mauro Lorimar and his friends. He should have realized why they’d been all smiles at breakfast; it hadn’t only been the company of their Choosers-to-Be.
Enris shook his head. None of that mattered. The Oud who brought the new day’s leavings expected the previous ones to be gone. He was already running later than he liked—it would take most of the afternoon to empty the bins.
The cart was made of thick metal, built for heavy loads and rough terrain. On its big wheels, it could be moved with ease, even fully loaded. To flip it like this? He guessed there’d been five of them, maybe more.
Help would lead to questions. There were, Enris decided glumly, too many of those already.
He stood back, concentrated on the cart, and pushed. It was easier than shoving the bench. Once in the air, the cart moved without resistance. He turned it over and lowered it. Slowly. Slowly.
“Nice trick.”
The cart thudded to the ground. Enris groaned. Had he damaged the wheels? He plunged to his hands and knees to check, ignoring Naryn.
She came closer, kicking dust. “Did you hear me?”
He rocked back on his heels and gazed up at her. “The wheels are fine.” No thanks to you, he added to himself, keeping his shields tight.
“Wheels—? What do—” She seemed to collect herself. “So this is why you wouldn’t vouch for me. You wanted to show off yourself!”
Enris got to his feet, brushing dust from his pants. “I’m not the one who ran to Council and the Adepts,” he pointed out.
“I have every right to use my special Talent.”
“No,” he said calmly, “you don’t. Not if you make a display of it where the Oud could find out.” He wrapped his hands around the handles of the cart and heaved it into motion. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late.” She didn’t move; and he was forced to stop. “Naryn—” with exasperation.
“You didn’t pick anyone last night. Why?”
Enris stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You aren’t—” this as though she’d made a startling discovery “—stupid.”
“Thank you. Now get out of my way.”
Naryn put her hands on the cart. “Not until I get an answer.”
“I could push you out of the way,” he suggested almost idly.
She arched a shapely brow. “You could try.”
For an instant, Enris ached to do just that, to pit his Power against hers, to make her stop behaving like the spoiled child she was. It was more than frustration, more than anger. Something deep inside, something he’d never felt before, wanted . . . was trying . . . trying to . . .
To answer . . .
“You!” he accused, dropping the handles and backing away. “What are you doing?”
Naryn tilted her head, as if she needed a different view of him. “How—interesting,” she said, running the tip of her tongue over her lower lip to taste the word. “I suspected. Oh, yes. There was always something about you, Enris Mendolar. Annoying. Addictive. They’re much the same, you know.” She eased out of the cart’s path, but only as far as the wall of the shop. She leaned back against the brick, stretching her slender right arm languidly over her head as if daring him to reach for it. “Go.”
Enris wrapped his big hands around the cart handles and left her there.
By the time he reached the Oud tunnel, he’d almost stopped wanting to go back.
Chapter 15
WITHIN THREE FISTS OF THE M’hir’s weakening, the afternoon rains returned with a vengeance, deafening and deadly. They pounded walls of water between buildings, obscured bridges and ladders. It was impossible to find a grip to climb while they fell; they left every branch and stalk slick and treacherous, encouraged slimy growths that puffed a choking black dust if touched. The brief morning respite swirled with mists and swarms of returning biters. It was, in Aryl’s opinion, the worst season of all.
Council had ended the desperate hunt for dresel pods. There would be none left to find, none whole, that is. They’d done what they could; the precious extra stores were now hidden within the Cloisters. No Tikitik had ever set foot there, though if Yena fortunes held their course, they might.
Aryl made a wry face. Not something to say out loud, even if she dared admit having heard Council debate that very thing. It was too easy to be afraid of the future. She didn’t need to be told how important it was to keep trying. To keep working. If they were to survive as a Clan, it would be because no one gave up.
At least she need no longer worry about those on Passage from Yena. There were no more isolated glows of Om’ray life; all who’d survived had reached their destinations, their presence merged into the larger glow of their new clan. With an effort of will that surprised her by growing easier with time, Aryl resisted the temptation to reach for their identities. She now understood the reasons to be wary of new Talent. It was enough, she told herself, to know these Yena lived.
To know Bern lived.
She wished them joy.
Over the past fists Aryl had discovered, also to her surprise, a talent for coaxing along Costa’s greenery. There had been more sweetberries and, she thought proudly, a quite remarkable set of yellow-and-black gourds—type unknown—continued to ripen on the floor by one window panel. Maybe she’d paid more attention to his work than she realized.
“You’d probably grow without me,” she told the rustling leaves. Her main task was keeping each growth from overwhelming all the others—that, and providing rain water to those pots not under a leak. A drop landed on her head and Aryl glared upward, suspecting her brother had made strategic holes in the family roof.
Costa . . . falling . . . screaming . . .
Taisal told her the sharp bite of loss would fade, that she’d be surprised by its pain for M’hirs to come, but no longer overcome. She wasn’t there yet, Aryl thought helplessly, tears rolling down her cheeks. The world still stopped when she remembered he was gone. Each breath had to fight through her throat and . . .
“Aryl?” softly, from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
There were distinct disadvantages living with someone whose range of accepted Talents included an unsettling sensitivity to the emotions of others. Aryl rubbed her eyes and tried to keep irritation from her voice. “I’ll be fine, Myris.” She didn’t try to lie; if shields hadn’t protected her privacy, words couldn’t. “I was thinking about Costa.”
Myris took this as an invitation to enter, though she moved with caution. Her skin had produced a painful rash in response to one of Costa’s captives. Not knowing which, her only choice was to avoid them all. It wasn’t easy. The rains stimulated growth in the canopy—apparently even that indoors. An entire table had disappeared.
“Ael went for our supper,” Myris told her, tactfully concentrating on the gourds. She pointed at the nearest. “Has anyone decided if we can eat those?”
“First Scout Haxel saw climbers eating a broken one she thought looked the same. She—” Aryl coughed slightly. “Seru told me Haxel chased them off so she could try it herself. Said it wasn’t bad. The Adepts are watching her for signs of poison.”
“Haxel is—” Myris broke off, her face flushed. “There’s no respectful way to say this, Aryl. Anything she’d try, well, no one should. Trust me. No one. She has the sense of a flitter who’s hit a tree once too often.”
Aryl had to chew her lip to stop an equally disrespectful grin. Then, she stopped trying and chuckled with Myris. “How did you do that?” she spoke without thinking.