It wasn’t hers.
Fearing the worst, Aryl reached.
She was right; Ferna Parth was Lost.
Seru. Aryl made the sending as gentle as she could, buried her own pain so it wouldn’t make the other’s worse. She watched her cousin as she walked through the crowd to Rimis; understanding spread with each slow step, until around her Yena grew still and silent.
Without a word, Seru collected her brother and buried her face in his blankets. His tiny hands grabbed her netted hair.
You saved the rest. Soft, carefully free of pity.
Had she? Aryl sighed and met Enris’ eyes with hers. But not all.
YENA.
At the summons, heads turned to the far end of the room. The other entrance, Aryl thought, and looked with the rest.
In came the Adepts, not in brown but in ceremonial white. Thirteen in total, they walked one behind the other; the assembled Yena parted to make room. There were no words or gestures of greeting, though the Adepts were also family to those here.
Weren’t they?
Aryl found her mother, second from last in the line before Pio. Taisal didn’t acknowledge her daughter’s presence. Instead, with the Adepts, she climbed the dais and took her position standing behind the row of Council seats.
After the Adepts came seven Lost in their long robes, their faces empty, movements eerily identical. Ferna Parth was not yet among them; Aryl let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d held. Each carried a black woven bag. They came to the side of the dais and stopped, faced in whatever direction they happened to be. Other Yena eased away until the cluster of Lost stood alone.
The Councillors took their seats; Adrius brusquely waving off his family. Aryl, like the rest of Yena, moved closer. Here, she thought, were those who governed them. Did anyone else notice that Morla’s hands trembled in her lap until she clenched them together? Did anyone else dare reach for their minds and find how tightly they were shielded?
Something was wrong, she decided with dread. Something more. Enris tensed beside her. Though a stranger, he felt it, too.
Morla Kessa’at collected herself and rose gracefully to her feet. “Greetings, Yena,” her voice calm and serene. “A joy to be together, regardless the reason. We would hear your news. Who speaks for you?”
Catching Aryl’s eye, Haxel tipped her head toward the dais. Aryl pressed her lips together in denial.
The First Scout shrugged and casually stepped on the dais. She held out her hand to Morla. The other Councillors touched finger to arm until all were connected. There was a moment of silent concentration—though Aryl suspected Adrius closed his eyes to nap—while they shared Haxel’s report.
Yena waited. They’d seen this before.
Though they’d likely never seen such ashen expressions on the faces of their leaders as a result. Cetto looked ill, once Haxel returned to the floor. Morla kept hold of his hand, her eyes bright with tears. Tikva and Yorl were grim and pale. Sian—Aryl’s eyes narrowed. The Adept looked remarkably composed, all things considered. He might have known what Haxel would share—or it didn’t matter, Aryl thought suddenly. Why?
Morla rose and made the gesture of gratitude to all, pausing to wipe a tear. “We share the pain and hardship you’ve endured. With you, we grieve for those no longer here. Above all—” this with a warm smile at Aryl and Enris, “—we are grateful to those who came in time to help—”
“Help?” Haxel interrupted. “Where’s the food, Morla? Why did our people spend the night here, on the floor? Where’s the welcome?” Her scar flamed red. “The Cloisters must take us in—that is Council’s decision, isn’t it?” The First Scout curled her lip. “Yena’s as good as dead otherwise.”
There were gasps throughout the chamber. Aryl supposed most had taken their welcome here for granted. She hadn’t, she realized numbly. Maybe it was because her mother had yet to meet her eyes. Maybe it was because so far, she’d had to save herself.
On another level, Aryl admired how the First Scout got to the point. She could sense the hope of those around her. Council had to feel it, too.
But not all minds were open.
“Yena’s survival is our concern, too, First Scout,” Sian d’sud Vendan said smoothly. “We must ensure the village is rebuilt as quickly as possible. The situation must be stabilized. Peace restored.”
“Until that time, will the Cloisters shelter us?” Haxel’s voice rose to the roar she used when training scouts. “Answer the question!”
Confusion and fear spread, mind to mind. Aryl tightened her shields, feeling a superficial calm descend as others did the same.
“Speaker.” Sian gave the summons, not Tikva or Morla. It suggested a shift in leadership. Disquieting, Aryl thought, if so. Sian was difficult to grasp at his most open.
Taisal di Sarc stepped from her place with the other Adepts to stand alongside the Council. “Yena, hear me!” she said, her eyes bright, her voice filling the room. “There is no need for fear. I will negotiate with the Tikitik Speaker. Ask their forgiveness—”
“Forgive us?” someone shouted. “What did we do?”
Other voices rose. Passions flared past weaker shields. Children began to add their own distress to minds already worn and scared, their high-pitched cries to the bedlam.
YENA!
The answering silence was almost worse, Aryl thought.
Sian rose from his seat. “Our Speaker will ask the Tikitik to forgive us for failing the Agreement that has kept our people safe throughout time. We believed—I admit it, even I—that there was no harm in the careful use of a new Talent, no risk in children using more Power than their parents. But there was. By encouraging these changes, we’ve threatened the balance of real power on this world. The Agreement itself is now in peril—not just for Yena, but for all Om’ray. It is our fault.” He paused, as if inviting reaction.
Such was the shock in the chamber that no one uttered a word.
“There is a solution,” Sian continued, matter-of-fact and confident. “We must purge Yena of further temptation. Those who imperil the Agreement must go.”
“What is this?” With that roar, Cetto surged to his feet. “We did not debate such a thing. We would never agree!” Morla looked shocked as well. Aryl noted that old Adrius and her mother’s great-uncle sat quietly, the former half asleep, the latter’s face set in implacable lines. Tikva might have been in a trance.
“This is beyond a Council vote,” Sian informed them in a cold, remote voice. “This is about the future. Yes, First Scout. To answer your impertinent questioning, the Cloisters will provide shelter until the Tikitik agree to rebuild our village. To those who deserve to stay.”
Haxel’s scar was pale and etched; Aryl saw a muscle jump along her jaw. But she said nothing.
“No,” protested Morla, her face turning red. “You can’t—”
“Further,” as if the Councillor hadn’t spoken, “we immediately sanction and exile those who endanger the Agreement and the peace.”
“Exile?” “Send to die, you mean!” Nameless shouts from the hall. “Who goes?”
Haxel looked ready to use her longknife. “Who dares decide?”
“The decision is made,” Sian shouted twice to be heard. When the startled murmurs died away, he continued in a quieter, but no less grim voice. “The Adepts, on behalf of all Yena, watch over the Om’ray and assess new Talent.” He took a step back to fill the space Taisal had left among her peers. Tikva di Uruus, the other Adept on Council, rose and moved as well, to take the end position.
“We let Yena reach this terrible day,” Sian stated. “Never again. We will no longer tolerate danger from within. Yena will endure.”