They took their toll on young ones, too, she thought and yawned.
“Aryl? Are you listening to a thing I say?”
“ ‘Like her.’ I’m sure I will,” Aryl replied. She gestured apology then leaned her chin in her hand to gaze at him. “It’s good to see you.”
Not so thin—and no longer Bern Teerac. She’d immediately sensed the other presence Joined to his; it had stopped her impulse to lower her shields to him, to connect mind to mind. He’d been hurt by her refusal. She’d seen it in his face and was sorry. But she wasn’t ready, not yet, for that.
For now, this close, the warm bond of heart-kin was enough.
“I’d like to say it’s good to see you,” Bern replied. His troubled gaze swept the crowd, finding it too easy, Aryl knew, to spot the Yena. Oh, they’d been given clothes, a chance to wash. No rest—they’d been told this welcome feast couldn’t wait. But the ill-fitting Grona clothes only made their difference more apparent, while washing had exposed the red of cuts and burns, the pallor of exhaustion.
They looked, Aryl decided, like the dead from her nightmare. Skeletons come to the table, with eyes that had seen too much. She shivered. They all shivered. It was bone cold here. “Give us a couple of days,” she suggested through her teeth. “We’ll be fine.”
Bern filled their mugs with something white and frothy from a large jug, downing half of his at once, his throat working. She didn’t touch hers. He licked his lips, then gestured apology. “Aryl . . .” His voice shook. “This is horrible. The Tikitik destroy the village . . . you here . . . grandfather, grandmother . . . but not my parents? I don’t understand.” He scowled at her. “I don’t understand any of it.”
A blissfully warm and heavy coat descended over her shoulders. “You look like an icicle,” Enris announced, lowering himself to the bench beside her. On his face, washing had unveiled a wealth of half-healed bruises and cuts. They didn’t affect his wide grin.
“What’s an icicle?” she asked.
Bern shuddered. “Be glad you don’t know. The mountains will soon be much colder than this—I’ve seen memories. Do the plains of Tuana know the cold?”
“We get a frost but not every season. You’re Bern Teerac? Enris Mendolar.”
“Bern sud Caraat,” Bern corrected. His eyes lit and his tone grew almost fervent. “The magnificent Oran di Caraat Chose me. An Adept,” he added unnecessarily, “living in the Cloisters.”
Whatever appetite Aryl might have had abandoned her. She pulled the coat tighter, wishing it covered her legs, too.
“Made Adept, did she? While still unChosen?” Claiming Aryl’s untouched mug, Enris tipped it to Bern’s. “Quite the accomplishment.”
“Oran is powerful.” Bern’s hand, wrapped around his mug, seemed stuck in midair. Like all the newly Joined, Aryl reminded herself, the topic of his Chosen drove any other thought from his head. “And very Talented.”
“Beautiful, I’m sure,” Enris supplied cheerfully.
He was doing it on purpose. She’d done the same to Costa. Aryl put her forearms on the table and considered dropping her head to join them. Maybe her companions would ignore her.
Or maybe, she thought, her head for some reason already resting on her arms, on this remarkably comfortable table, she’d ignore them.
A feast they’d barely touched, a night’s sleep broken by nightmares, and now this day of polite inquisition. Grona had a right to ask questions, Aryl told herself, rubbing her eyes. It was unprecedented, to have so many from one Clan try to join another. Grona wasn’t unwilling; they were cautious.
They could have waited one more day.
“Haxel Vendan.”
Her turn would come next. Aryl watched Haxel stand where each of Yena’s exiles had throughout the morning, then bow deeper. It was something Grona Om’ray did as part of their greetings. She wasn’t sure why. It looked awkward. Perhaps it had something to do with how they tended their fields. Did living on solid ground make it easier to bend over? Her lips quirked. Her guess? There was nothing here to attack them, so they were willing to be helpless. Haxel looked slightly embarrassed when she rose from her version, but Grona’s Council smiled at her.
Aryl felt chilled inside as well as out when she looked at Grona’s Council, though they seemed placid, pleasant Om’ray. Old, of course, though, being plump, their wrinkles failed to add stern lines to their mouth and eyes. There were no Adepts among them. One wore the Speaker’s Pendant on her chest, but a bright woven vest covered it most of the time. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder along a bench at one of the tables in the meeting hall.
A bench with thick, warm-looking cushions. Aryl wanted her own before she sat this long again.
The First Scout didn’t offer to share her report mind to mind, instead giving a terse, bloodless summary of what everyone before her had said. Yena had been caught in a struggle between Tikitik factions that resulted in the destruction of their village. Not all could stay. She passed over the role of Yena’s Adepts in choosing who would leave, finishing with the truth. There wasn’t enough food left for all; by leaving, they hoped those sheltered in Yena’s Cloisters would survive to rebuild one day. They had no idea why the Oud would come to their aid and offer transport to Grona, but all were grateful.
The truth, but not all the truth.
It made a heroic end to their story, while erasing betrayal. The Yena would do their best to keep it that way—they would avoid contact mind to mind until established here, keep their secrets. There was no reason for Grona to insist. Outside of family, Om’ray normally maintained their privacy unless there was need. Outside of Clan? They could, Aryl thought, make their own rules for that.
She didn’t like partial truth. It had been Taisal’s tactic; Aryl knew firsthand how it felt to be so betrayed. But the exiles had no better choice. Admit they’d been exiled by their own? Brought here by beings from another world?
Grona would exile them, too, Aryl thought, her mouth going dry, and checked her shields.
The Councillors rose and bowed as one. A couple were less than steady; they’d heard from all but Aryl, and old bones didn’t forgive the hours despite cushions. “Our thanks, Haxel,” intoned their Speaker. “Grona accepts your token and yourself with joy. Welcome.” Rote words, perhaps, but said with warmth. The others bowed again.
Given the sluggish look of their own First Scout, Aryl didn’t doubt the warmth. The only other exile to receive such an enthusiastic welcome had been Enris, not only eligible but a metalworker. Then again, he’d blended with these Om’ray from the beginning. Tuana must live a similar life. He’d feel at home here, within these stone walls.
She would, too, Aryl told herself fiercely.
“Aryl.”
Aryl stood and took Haxel’s place. She bowed low as well. They looked at her for a moment. She returned the favor.
Efris Ducan, Mysk Gethin, Gura Azar, Lier Haon, Cyor sud Kaar, and, head of Bern’s new family, Emyam sud Caraat. Instead of proper nets, all Grona Chosen left their hair free to squirm opinion from under the loosest of caps, something Aryl tried not to notice as she faced those on Council. Cyor and Emyam might have been brothers, so closely did they resemble one another.
Their unfamiliar names grated on her ears. Truth be told, she feared them. It was a new worry, one that had stung like a fresh bite this morning, when she’d awakened in a flat unfamiliar bed and lay there, hearing nothing but the grind of foot on stone. Since that moment, the mere thought made her heart pound. Grona’s names.