Interlude
ENRIS HAD EXPECTED TO FEEL at home. If being treated well and with kindness mattered, if being welcomed by all, especially Grona’s anxious Choosers, mattered, if having his skills with metal greeted with joy mattered, he would have.
Drums had sounded. An Oud vehicle rolled down the main street, its treads crushing stone to dust, a cloud of whirr/clicks in attendance. He’d yet to see when the small things attached themselves to the Oud above ground. Perhaps they waited around the mouths of well-used tunnels.
The Oud riding on top was dressed as the ones in Tuana had been, a lump under a shroud, with a dome over the end that went first.
He should really, he told himself, feel at home.
Not an official Visitation, he assumed, given the lack of interest shown by Grona. He’d been told they’d always lived in peace with the Oud. Unlike Tuana. No runners to obtain scarce supplies. No sudden destruction as part of their village was reshaped from beneath.
“Enris? Aren’t you going to the feast?”
Rather than answer immediately, Enris considered the clean boots at the end of his clean new pants, then crossed his legs at the ankles before leisurely leaning back against the wall. This bench was in front of the shop Grona’s Council had proposed he take for his own. They had several vacant. There’d been more of them, once. Just like Yena. “I ate already,” he said, finally tipping his head back to look at Aryl Sarc.
Different but the same. Three days of rest and comfort had changed them all. Aryl had lost some of the haggardness around her eyes and mouth; he’d stopped limping. She wore as many clothes as she could and was presently buried under layers of woven tunics and coats. Like Yuhas, the Yena were cold away from their steaming canopy, while he went bare-armed, enjoying the nip to the air. And lack of biters.
She’d found or made a net to confine her hair. A shame, in his opinion, but it was their custom.
“It’s not about eating.” Aryl sat beside him, squirming in her coats until she was comfortable. “You could save me,” she admitted after an easy moment. “They’re frantic to know anything about you. I’ll hardly get to take a bite. And,” as if this settled the question, “without you, I’ll have to make things up. You’ll gain a very romantic past.”
“I’m not interested in their Choosers. I don’t plan to stay.”
“The voice holder.” She fell silent; he waited. Then, “Does it still matter?”
“It wasn’t the strangers’,” he reminded her. “It worked for me, an Om’ray. Yes, it still matters.”
“It could be what they seek.”
Enris turned his head, looking down to meet that clear gray-eyed gaze that, whether she knew it or not, always puzzled at what she saw, always tried to understand it. “Maybe,” he acknowledged. “But what if it’s new, Aryl? Something we made? What if there are Om’ray in the world now who don’t rely on Oud or Tikitik?”
She considered this. “Where will you look first?”
“Vyna.” At her surprised look, he explained. “Think about it. They’re the Clan no one truly knows. I’ve asked here—it’s the same. Never been one on Passage. All anyone knows is that there must be an impassable ‘pick your choice’ landscape in the way. What if there isn’t? What if Vyna unChosen don’t take Passage so their Clan can keep its secrets?”
Aryl caught her full lower lip in her teeth, a habit, he’d noticed she had when thinking. “Interesting,” she said at last.
He pulled the token from its pocket. “I’ve told Grona’s Council I’m being Called there. They’re disappointed—warned me of the dangers—but who argues with an unChosen who hears that special voice?”
A sidelong glance. “For the sake of Grona’s Choosers, I should tell them the only ‘Call’ you hear, Tuana, is curiosity.”
“You could come with me.” The words came out before he’d realized he would say them. “If you’re curious, too.”
She tucked her nose inside her vests. “Is it warmer?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Aryl pretended to shiver, surely impossible under so many layers. “If you can’t guarantee a decent heat, I’ll stay, thank you. Besides,” with a lightness he knew better than to believe, “I’ve my people to look after.”
“They seem to be settling in,” Enris commented. Three days wasn’t long, but he’d noticed a few more smiles among the Yena, less tendency for them to cluster together. The young ones ran the street—mostly. The Oud? He’d watched, but seen no sign they cared about the arrival of new Om’ray. They would, at the next Visitation, when the lists and numbers changed. For now, they seemed preoccupied with mining, the rocks of Grona’s mountainside being the source of their green metal.
He’d like to know more of that; like to, but not enough to draw their attention to a certain metalworker.
He’d like to spend time with his grandfather’s family and ask them where he could find a stream with rounded stones. But not enough to linger.
“Are they?” Aryl said wistfully. “I hope so. They’ve welcomed us.”
“Grona needs you,” he observed. “They’ve barely enough to till the terraces they farm, even with Oud machines. Think they’ll refuse a gift of strong, grateful Yena? You did notice, I trust, the lack of questions about your amazing Oud rescue.” He grinned. “Your lie suits them just fine. They don’t care how you got here. Only that you’re here.”
She looked offended. “Were you always so cynical?”
Enris laughed and leaned back again. “Were you always so responsible, Aryl Sarc?”
“Maybe not. Now I must be. I’ve family here, Enris,” she said more seriously than he’d expected.
“And Bern.” He felt her outrage and laughed louder. “I’m not blind.”
Her outrage faded. “We were close. Once.”
That feeling, he understood. “Choice happens. Doesn’t mean you’ve lost your friend. Think of it as gaining an endless topic of conversation.”
“He’s changed.” His inner awareness of her faded as her shields slammed down between them. Which was, he decided, answer enough.
“As for me,” Enris said casually, “I’m leaving in the morning. The Grona tell me storms will close the mountain passes soon. I’ve no desire to do any more climbing or meet your hungry rocks.”
“So soon?” She sounded flustered. “What about my promise? To try and teach you what I—what I did.”
Enris gestured to the road and buildings. “You want this, for yourself and your people,” he said gently. “I won’t ask you to risk it for what might not even work. Besides. If I do have that Talent—” he made himself laugh again, “—I’ll figure out how to use it on my own.”
Her eyes searched his. “You’re sure?”
For one heartbeat, he wasn’t. Not about this, not about why he was so set on leaving.
The next heartbeat, he was.
“Find joy, Aryl Sarc. And do me one favor?”
“Anything,” she said quietly.
“Don’t tell the Choosers I’m leaving until I’m long gone. Please?”
He was glad to see her start to smile, even though he couldn’t. “I’ll do my best,” Aryl vowed. Then her smile widened, becoming thoughtlessly happy as her head turned.
Enris followed her look. The street had been empty of Oud and Om’ray, but now two figures approached them.
Bern with his Chosen, finally out of the Cloisters.
Not being blinded by Choice, Enris didn’t find Oran di Caraat beautiful. Her pale face was too austere for his taste, with puckers at the edge of her mouth and eyes that would, he judged, age into lines of temper, not laughter. Her blonde hair hung thick and heavy over her shoulders, its ends moving restlessly, as if she were impatient.
They stopped in front of Aryl and himself, so close he had to look up. Bern seemed preoccupied, as usual. Oran was tall and imposing in her white embroidered robes. Adept. It was rare for an unChosen to be elevated to that rank and Enris doubted she let anyone forget it. Least of all—he glanced at Aryl—her Chosen’s former best friend.