But it was toward Vyna that Enris now reached with his inner sense, making sure of its direction. One mystery called to another. Perhaps the device belonged to these unknown Om’ray. If not, perhaps their Adepts would recognize its description. If not?
He brushed his fingers over the token affixed to the upper left of his leather tunic, aware of the irony. It wasn’t the one he’d kept. They hadn’t allowed him back for his things. The Tuana Speaker, Sian, had produced another, possibly even Yuhas’ own.
He’d use it and keep it, he vowed. A token meant freedom. If he didn’t find the answer he sought with the Vyna, he’d leave them for another clan, and another after that. It wasn’t Forbidden. Why would anyone want to leave his new Clan and Chosen?
Someone who would never let Choice or a Chooser dictate his life, Enris promised himself.
The air was still and cool. While he could wish for his favorite longcoat, they’d given him warm gear. Farmer’s gear. He tried not to think whose it had been. He could hear lopers scurrying in the shadows, their occasional giggles as they found something to their liking, their high-pitched snarls as that something became the object of envy. Otherwise, Tuana slept under the stars. He looked for the set he’d taken for his name. They lay low on the horizon, the faintest one straight ahead.
A favorable sign, he decided, stretching his legs to cover more ground. He needed what encouragement he could find. Hard, these first steps away from his home and family. Like starting a full cart upslope, he told himself. One step at a time and don’t stop.
Dim light picked the low oval mouth of the Oud tunnel from the night. Enris gave it a worried look, but there was no sign of life. He disliked leaving the device in the shop. Worse was the thought of his father left to explain to the Oud why they’d made no progress. He consoled himself that he’d had no say in the matter, that even if he could, taking the cylinder would risk setting the anger of the Oud against Jorg and Tuana itself.
What was that?
Enris hesitated, sure the faint sound hadn’t come from a loper. He stood where the street split around the tunnel mouth, its left fork leading out to farmland, the right little more than a convenient alleyway to the backs of shops. No homes, not this close to the tunnel mouth. No lights but the tunnel’s. He could hear his breathing, the pound of his heart, the distant sibilance that was the evening’s breeze making its way through the dry, bent stalks of the fields.
Something held Enris still. He lowered his shields enough to send a thread of thought outward, seeking . . .
Finding!
Just as he realized he was ambushed, figures spilled from the shadowy farm lane and through a now-open shop door. They moved with quick, deadly purpose. The first was on him as he struggled to drop his pack and free his arms, a blow to the head sending him to his knees, another striking his shoulder, another a kick to the ribs. He managed to rise to his feet again, arms flailing, but they struck from behind, tripping his legs. This time he landed hard on the packed earth, losing most of the breath from his lungs. Kicks struck his legs, his side . . . he tried to protect his head and get to his feet again. They grabbed him. He sensed their rage and was afraid for the first time.
They were losing control. What might have started as a parting lesson to someone they despised was turning into something far worse . . . something no Om’ray should have been able to do . . . Enris spat blood and struck out himself, his powerful arms and hands landing heavy, bone-cracking blows. But there were too many . . . they evaded him, took his arms, his legs . . .
“Yahhhh!!” The furious shriek didn’t come from his silent attackers. Their grips fell away, and he dropped to the dust.
Yuhas. The Yena stood over him, brandishing his ... Enris blinked his eyes clear . . . his broom.
It didn’t matter that it was a homely weapon. Yuhas was clearly accustomed to fighting with whatever he could put to hand. Whap! Someone fell with a scream. Whap! Down went another. The shadows, always dim and faceless, melted away into the darkness, dragging their fallen comrades with them.
“Cowards!” Yuhas bellowed. “May your living flesh be stripped from your bones by the swarms! May your bones drown in the Lay!”
Sounds messy, Enris sent, unwilling to test his mouth yet. He didn’t try to stem the flood of gratitude and affection that went with the words.
“You don’t have anything dangerous here,” the other complained mildly, bending down to offer a hand. “Is that why you fight each other?”
Enris swallowed a groan as he stood with Yuhas’ help. He could move—nothing broken, though his ribs argued the point. He spat more blood and wiped a stream from one eye. “We don’t,” he muttered absently, staring into the darkness. Mauro Lorimar. If he made an effort, he might put names to some of the others. It wasn’t worth it. “You’d think—” spit, “—having me leave would be enough.”
“On Passage. I know.”
Enris couldn’t see the other’s face, it was too dark for that. “You were waiting outside the Cloisters. Why?”
“I’ve seen what happens when a Council has a problem it can remove with its unChosen. Did your Adepts finally tell you? Yena sent ten of us on Passage. All there were.”
“I—” Enris couldn’t think of anything to say to that. “I’m sorry.” He reached for his pack. It took two tries to bend that far. “You told me this season’s Harvest had failed. That you worried there’d be enough to eat.”
Soft and bitter from the dark. “There was enough, barely. But our neighbors aren’t so gracious as yours, Enris, and they eat what we must. The Tikitik took almost all we had, leaving us to starve. The unChosen—we were sent away because only those on Passage can move freely. Our Council gave us a chance to escape, to survive. But they were wrong. They should have let us stay. After the Harvest—we were the best hunters—the best gatherers—Yena had. We could have—” a violent whistle-snap as Yuhas broke the broom against the ground. Then, quietly and in pain, “We should have helped.”
“Maybe you did,” Enris offered, finding the other’s shoulder with his hand. “Fewer to share what’s left has to help. And, no offense,” he added as lightly as he could manage, “but there have to be other Yena who can hunt and gather better than you. I’ve seen you work.”
Through their contact, Yuhas sent a remembered image. It was of people, dozens of people, most older, a few very young, all standing on a bridge of some kind that looked much too fragile and slender to hold them. They looked sad and afraid.
Within the group, though, was one who was neither. She looked back at Yuhas—for this was his memory—with determination written in her large gray eyes and slim, erect body. There was someone who wouldn’t give up, Enris decided. Ever.
Yuhas snorted. “Aryl Sarc,” he identified, having followed the thought. “You’re right about her. Bern worried she’d—” he stopped, a tinge of embarrassment quickly hidden. “It doesn’t matter.”
Enris had been testing his legs. Shaky and sore—he’d have livid bruises—but not much worse than the last time the cart had tipped and dropped on him. He’d made his way home then.
Not home. Not this time.
Then something made him squint at his friend. “You’re out in truenight. In the dark.”
A shaky laugh. “Don’t remind me. Now, can we please head indoors?”
His right shoulder and side protested the weight of his pack, so Enris shifted it to the left. “You’ve been a good friend, Yuhas, and I thank you,” he said. “But nothing’s changed. Naryn’s still here; I still have to go.”
“You Tuana are all the same,”Yuhas said with amusement. “You realize you’re dripping blood. Even I can smell it.”