Efris wore the Speaker’s Pendant. The person to ask about the Oud, Aryl decided. She’d done most of the talking for Grona; she did so now. “We’ve heard from your elders, Aryl. There’s no need to burden the young retelling such tragic events. Grona accepts your token and you, Aryl, with joy. Be welcome.”
The others rose more quickly than before. They all bowed, two with longing looks at the door.
They were done for the day.
Aryl didn’t mind being dismissed as unimportant. In some ways, it made a pleasant change. But she wasn’t done.
“I have a question for Council,” she told them.
Aryl could feel the immediate attention of the other exiles. They’d stayed in the meeting hall, waiting for the decision of Grona’s Council. The youngest were asleep on blankets in a corner. All but Enris. The Tuana had been cheerfully claimed by members of a grandfather’s family and whisked away to inspect the metalworker’s shop.
She had Bern’s attention as well.
He’d sat apart from his former Clan, listening to account after account of the destruction of Yena. The rest of Grona had gone to their fields for the day; if that was his new role among them, he’d ignored it. He was still and quiet, outwardly relaxed enough to rest his heavy Grona boots on a table, but his grief and sullen anger were like a heavy pulse against her shields. Rude behavior from an adult, being too obviously tolerated by those around him. Like Grona, he’d been forced to learn of his family’s fate through words alone.
What did he expect? Aryl wondered. No Yena would share memory with him. It would be sharing with Oran as well.
Whether Bern was too upset to reinforce his shields or wanted everyone to know his pain, the result, in Aryl’s opinion, was unpleasant and unwelcome. She didn’t have sympathy to spare. Now she tightened her shields until the oppressive sense of him through their bond vanished.
“A question?” Efris echoed. The rest of Grona Council froze mid-bow, their dismay almost laughable. But they resumed their seats. “And what might that be, young Aryl?”
Aryl took a steadying breath. She had to sound calm and mature; she felt neither. “My cousin, Seru Parth, comes to Grona as a Chooser. Will you support her right to grant that name to her Chosen?”
The dismay increased tenfold and Aryl clenched her hands into fists within the overlong sleeves she wore. She hadn’t wanted to be right. They didn’t want to deal with this, she thought, not in front of all of Yena. Not now.
She did.
“You’re old enough to know the unChosen leave their family names behind on Passage,” the Speaker’s smile seemed forced.
“Seru is a Chooser, not unChosen. She carries her family’s name. Parth.”
They looked at one another. After an uncomfortable pause, the silence through the meeting hall as thick as mist in the canopy, Emyam sud Caraat shrugged and spoke. “An important issue, Aryl. Thank you. We will discuss the matter in days to come. You’ve only just arrived, after all. There’s housing to settle. We want everyone to be comfortable.”
“And we must get to know one another,” reminded Efris. Her cheerful tone might have worked, Aryl judged, if her gray hair hadn’t been free to twitch over her shoulders. “There’ll be a proper welcome feast in two days to introduce Choosers and unChosen.”
At the word feast, the rest smiled and visibly relaxed. “If that’s all?” Grona’s Council rose to its feet and bowed.
Accepting delay, if not defeat, Aryl bowed back.
“Seru is the only Parth.” Aryl kept her voice down. The stone and pressed dirt of Grona’s village had a distressing ability to carry sound. “Yena’s families must not end here.”
Morla Kessa’at sighed. “They heard you, Aryl. Be patient. Trust me—Councils take their time, especially with important matters.” The four of them talked as they walked, retracing their steps up and down the straight Grona street. Aryl had noticed she wasn’t the only Yena to find it difficult to sit indoors.
“I don’t see why it’s important,” said Husni Teerac. “They’ve made us welcome. Why don’t we take the names of our new clan—like anyone on Passage?”
“Husni!” They all reacted, even Haxel, who’d so far been quieter than even her habit.
Husni pursed her thin, peeling lips and stared back. She was soft-spoken, to Cetto’s loud rumble; as far as Aryl recalled, she hadn’t ventured an opinion in years. She had one now. “Parth, Teerac, or Sarc,” Husni said emphatically. “Our families will survive us, back home. They’re safe. These are kind Om’ray. We should show our gratitude, young Aryl. They’ve given us a place to live. Work for our hands.”
Like the rest, Husni and Cetto stayed with a host family. There was nothing said about separate homes—perhaps the Grona preferred living atop one another. Most exiles were already busy somewhere, learning the tasks required to produce food instead of finding it. Aryl envied the ease with which the others had settled into place.
“What if our families don’t—” she began, only to be unwilling to finish.
“Of course they won’t,” Haxel growled. “They’ve wrapped themselves in a net and hung it out to dry.” She stalked beside them like a hungry esask. She’d been hard to find these last two days. Aryl guessed the former scout had been busy assessing their new surroundings, uncertain of her knowledge now that the familiar threats were behind a mountain. It wouldn’t take her long to learn the new ones.
If there were any, she thought. The Grona were peaceful, almost docile. Aryl hadn’t decided if she envied their lack of fear, or feared its lack. Surely a village built above the Oud was at risk, always. It was no different from the Lay Swamp. What was below their feet couldn’t be trusted.
“Slow down.” The plea came from Husni again. Not that the old one couldn’t keep up, especially at this easy pace, but the Grona found Yena too quick. They were all learning to move more slowly. The Grona were methodical Om’ray and took their time with everything, it seemed. “The Cloisters is safe, Haxel. Don’t exaggerate.”
Morla agreed. “The Tikitik told Aryl they have dresel to share. Yena need only wait for calm. Negotiate for supplies—”
The four paused as Ziba ran by, each quick step kicking dust. She was followed by a pack of young Grona. Without breaking stride, she climbed a shop’s stone wall and ran up its roof, disappearing over the top.
The Grona stopped in their tracks, then turned as one to walk away. They didn’t look happy.
“Well?” Husni demanded of them, pointing at the shop wall. “What are you waiting for, younglings? A ladder? Get up there!”
Wide-eyed, they broke into a run—in the opposite direction. Doubtless, Aryl sighed to herself, to share this latest Yena oddity with their parents. She shivered, despite wearing all the clothes she’d been given. “We’d better get ready,” she said. “The welcome feast starts soon. It will be a good chance,” this with all the conviction she could muster, “to get to know each other better.”
Haxel studied the deceptively empty rooftops with a knowing eye. “I’ll fetch Ziba,” she said, a smile twisting her scar. “She’s an excellent distraction.”
“Child’s a menace,” Husni muttered, but with a note of pride.
Cold fingers brushed the back of Aryl’s hand. Nothing more about Yena names, Aryl, please. Morla’s sending held an undercurrent of anxiety. Not today. We’re still strangers here.
“I’ll see you in the meeting hall,” Aryl replied aloud.
She understood Morla’s concern. To survive, they needed Grona’s welcome.
But everything inside her warned there could be too high a price.
Aryl shortened and slowed her stride. If she could walk like this, she decided, she could do anything.
Even convince Grona’s Council.