“Do what?”
Aryl took her turn pretending to study the gourds. They were as long as her arm and starting to thicken. If she squinted and imagined slices, maybe fried . . . they looked like food. Sort of.
“How did you change how I feel?” she asked finally, quietly. She glanced sidelong at Myris. “Through my shields.”
The other Om’ray half-smiled. “You’re too strong for me to influence, if that’s what you think. But you know I’d never do that, even if I could.”
“Then how?”
Myris reached out and gently tugged the lock of hair that always escaped Aryl’s binding. “You and Taisal. Always thinking about how to use your Power, your Talents. You want to change things. Do things. Me?” That mischievous look Aryl knew very well. “All I do is feel. Nothing more complicated. If there’s Power in that, I don’t know how to explain it. I feel what those around me feel. It took Ael a while to get used to it, believe me.” The mischief became something dreamier and distracted.
Sending to her Chosen, no doubt. “You do more than that,” Aryl insisted. “You changed how I felt, just now. You can’t deny it.”
“I didn’t intend to—” The other hesitated, then sighed. “It’s not something I control. But if I’m near someone in pain, sometimes I—sometimes I can ease it.”
She was seeing Myris, really seeing her, as she hadn’t before. This was why her aunt’s expressions were always changing. Some weren’t hers at all. There were those who could use their Power to accelerate a body’s healing, but this? “The Adepts must value your Talent—” Aryl stopped at the flash of misery she couldn’t help but sense. “I’m sorry,” she said, unsure what she’d said.
“It’s all right, Aryl,” Myris said sadly. “They do. But I’ve more limits than use. I can ease the discomfort of close family—I do little or nothing for anyone else. I’ve tried.” This last came out so utterly bleak, Aryl was afraid to ask.
“That’s why you and Ael came to live with me, isn’t it?” she guessed, shaking her head. “Here I thought I was taking you in.”
Myris had a smile that could outshine the glows. “And we’re grateful. Especially me.” She swept up her arms in a grand gesture that just missed the purple vine draped over the glowbead string. “It’s nice being home. This was my room, you know,” as she caught Aryl’s mystified expression. “I lived here until your mother Chose that handsome rascal Mele first and claimed the right . . .” her voice trailed away. “Aie. What am I saying? Poor Taisal.”
That grief belonged to them both. Hers had faded, Aryl realized with a faint guilt. Or maybe newer pain had more strength. “What’s past is past, Myris,” she offered clumsily. “I’m glad you’re here. So is Taisal.” Their eyes sought the doorway at the same time, then they looked at each other. “Ael’s back.” Aryl stated the obvious. “We should eat.” Her stomach gurgled agreement.
Myris laughed. “Glad someone has an appetite these days,” she said. “You’ll need a good breakfast before today’s climb.” Her hand reached out as if to touch Aryl’s arm, then sketched gratitude instead.
Aryl followed her aunt to the main hall, bemused to think she’d been the one to comfort anyone else.
Not my fault . . . not my FAULT!!! . . .
Aryl winced and tightened her shields, already sorry she’d agreed to take Seru’s youngest cousin with her this morning. Seru wasn’t feeling well—she rarely was, these days. Being a Chooser newly ready for Choice was difficult enough. Having no unChosen in reach? Until she settled, Seru was, to put it mildly, difficult company.
Besides, it had seemed a golden opportunity. Aryl’s bag was filled with her latest fiches, as she now thought of them. With the child along, she had a good reason to stay within the home grove instead of foraging during the rainless morning, and climb the sort of straight, open stalks she needed.
NOT MY FAULT!
Aryl winced again. “Will you hush?”
Joyn’s black hair stuck through the gauze of his hood in every direction, making him resemble a startled flitter. Now he gave her a puzzled look. “I didn’t say anything, Cousin Aryl.”
“You’re sending again,” she sighed. His maturing shields were at that awkward stage, new and tight enough to damp most emotions, so he could be allowed away from his parents, but not yet under his conscious control. They should have been barely permeable to mindspeech. Should have. There were a handful of truly gifted Yena children; none were remotely as precocious or strong as Joyn Uruus, barely past eight M’hirs and already giving adults—and her—a headache. No wonder his mother, Rimis, had been doubtful of Aryl taking him.
“Oh!” His blue eyes brightened an impossible amount. “You could hear me? I was thinking about—” His expression fell. “It—”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Aryl finished wryly. Had she ever been this worried about something so trivial as cracking a bowl? Hard to imagine. She gave the thin rope between them a gentle shake. “Pay attention to where we are, little one,” she suggested. “Your parents will not be pleased with me if you—” she caught herself unable to use the everyday Yena expression . . . “drop into the Lay” . . . and substituted “—if you’re lost in the M’hir.”
“Can that happen?” His eyes were wide. “Can the great wind sweep me away?” With the easy balance of the young, he let go of the stalk and stood tiptoe on the narrow frond, flapping his arms like a flitter caught in a gale. “Where would I go? What would I see? How would I get back down again?” this dubiously, with a look past their feet. “Would I fall?”
Falling was a game to Om’ray children, taught to climb as soon as they could crawl. Aryl remembered the willing tumbles, the snatching for holds, the laughter and shrieks, not to forget the ire of any parents who caught them. There would usually be a lecture on how only caution and care would keep them safe. But they played, she remembered that too, because they feared to fall. They felt safer having dared it to happen. Why wait on fate?
Children, she thought, had a special wisdom.
“Save your arms for climbing,” she told him. “Once we’re as high as you can go, I’ve something to show you.”
I can go HIGH! I can go higher than anyone! This sending was accompanied by interwoven images of his age-mates, their faces filled with awe.
She’d never, Aryl decided, been that young. She shook her head and started to climb.
Joyn was a good climber; moreover, as a child he received all the dresel his body needed. Aryl set the pace more to husband her energy than his, though she was careful to choose a route suited to his shorter reach and small hands. All the while, she pointed out signs of danger, whether a weakened strip of bark or lurking stinger, waiting for his nod of understanding each time.
It had become a habit by now to gather what could be eaten. Joyn helped. As they filled a net, she’d leave it hanging to await their descent. They were in the lean season, when white fruits appeared in great numbers from the vines draped everywhere on older rastis, but these were hard and small, too bitter to eat. In the past, the Yena left them alone, knowing by the end of the rains they’d swell and ripen. When that happened, the fruits produced a scent that attracted flitters and climbers in great numbers. That was the harvest the Om’ray wanted, and their nets would fill with meat in short order.
This M’hir, they couldn’t afford to wait a season. The unripe fruits weren’t nutritious but, when added to other food, they improved appetite. It was becoming harder and harder to convince the older Om’ray to eat what they should. Aryl couldn’t remember feeling hungry. What food they had would do no good if they couldn’t bring themselves to eat it.