Seru, sitting nearby, leaned closer to catch the answer. Aryl smiled a welcome. Her cousin’s interest in anything about Choice and being a Chosen was reassuringly normal.
Myris didn’t appear to notice. Her hands clenched on her scarf, then she spoke in a whisper Aryl had to strain to hear. “Afraid. So afraid. He can hardly breathe.”
Seru scrambled back. “I told you we shouldn’t go this way.” Not quite a shout, but everyone looked their way. “I told you!” That was. She lurched to her feet and broke into a clumsy run, but didn’t go far, perhaps daunted by the glowering cloud and dead landscape on all sides. There she stood, back to her kind, head high and free of its hood; the freshening wind whipped desperate locks of her hair from its net, as expressive as any Chosen’s.
Though Aryl ached to go to her, she stayed with Myris. “We’re all afraid,” she told her aunt. “Do you feel anything more? Is he comfortable? Warm? Cold?” She had no idea what Chosen truly felt; she did know each Joining was unique. Myris might not have her sister’s Power—but she had her own sensitivities. “Is he anxious to be with you, or for you to be with him?”
“What an odd—” Myris blinked. “With him,” she stated, her eyes brightening. “Yes. Wherever Ael is, he wants me there. They’ve found a place for us, Aryl!”
Though Aryl smiled with relief, her gaze lingered on Seru.
What did she see, that no one else could?
Chapter 4
“NICE BRIDGE.”
Aryl ignored the comment and the deep laugh that went with it, though Veca gave Enris a dour look. Which was hardly fair. He’d been as good as his word, rejoining them soon after they’d begun to march again. He’d willingly taken a share of Chaun’s awkward weight, too. They’d made better speed with his help.
Just as well. The wind had a bite to it, and smelled of lightning. Sheets of rain obscured the ridge on the other side of the valley; it wouldn’t be long before it reached this one and their coats were still damp. She hoped it wouldn’t freeze on them. Firstnight was upon them, its shadows barely darker than those of the clouds, sure to steal what remained of the day’s warmth.
As Veca blithely predicted, there was a bridge near the mouth of the next gorge, but it was broken. Luckily for the exiles, the riverbed it had been built to span was dry and empty.
Aryl wasn’t sure which bothered her more: the twin arches that ended in midair above a tumble of smashed stone, or the missing river.
No, she was sure. “Where’s the water?”
“Who cares?” Veca pointed to the other side. “Haxel and the others aren’t far now. Let’s go.” She headed toward the riverbank; the others began to follow.
Aryl frowned. “Do rivers disappear in Tuana?”
Enris signaled Gijs he was ready to go, but words brushed Aryl’s thoughts. Show me.
She retrieved her memory of the raging torrent she’d seen from atop the ravine wall. “Veca saw it, too. Impossible to cross. It should be here.”
A flare of curiosity, as quickly damped. “A puzzle for another day,” Enris decided. To Gijs. “I swear he’s gained weight.” He made a show of favoring his right shoulder as he slipped the sling’s rope over what padding his coat and a folded scrap of blanket could provide, all the while careful not to jostle its passenger. “Sure he’s not sneaking food on us?”
Gijs managed a weary smile at this. He’d refused to let anyone else take his share—he and Chaun were heart-kin.
Aryl tucked the unconscious Om’ray’s hand inside his coat, pausing to reach and assess his condition as best she could. Chaun’s pain had eased to a dull ache. She thought she might be able to rouse him, but didn’t dare. Instead, she sent a little of her strength along that contact, more confident this time she was actually helping.
As she stood, she managed to touch Gijs and send him what she could. She thought he stood a bit straighter. Hoped, anyway.
Yawned.
She closed her mouth quickly, embarrassed. They were all bone-tired, but no one else moved like they felt their arms and legs were about to fall off, no one else yawned. She was young and stronger than most. They relied on her.
All of them.
Her fingers found Enris as he passed, but the instant she began to send him strength, his shields slammed in place, making him virtually invisible to her inner sense. Outwardly? He glared at her and jerked away from her touch. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Furious. He was furious.
How? No one else had noticed. Why was he angry? Aryl took a step back, a stinging heat rushing to her cheeks. The step became a stagger, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. She swayed with it as she would with a branch in the M’hir.
What was happening?
Everything pulled away; voices muted, light dimmed, motions were slow and disconnected. She clung to what awareness she could, watching Enris shrug off the sling and come toward her. She put up her hands…he was angry…she’d done something wrong…why was she wrong…what was wrong…
As her eyes closed against her will, her shoulders were gripped with bruising force. Strength flooded her body until she gasped and jerked free, feeling her every muscle on fire. “What?!!” She stared at Enris, dumbfounded.
“We can’t carry you both.” Low and fierce. “Never give what you need. Use more sense!”
He turned and picked up the sling, moving, to Aryl’s restored perception, with his usual vigor.
Impossible.
He had just done for her, much more effectively, what she’d tried to do for her people. Enris Mendolar, Tuana unChosen, metalworker, couldn’t know more about Power and its use than anyone she’d ever met. Couldn’t be more powerful than an Adept.
Could he?
Aryl let several more exiles step in between before she followed, paying little attention to the route Veca had picked to cross the empty river.
She caught herself smiling, and had no idea why.
Beyond the fractured bridge, the valley narrowed and bent sharply toward Grona, as if hiding a secret. Even here, it would take the better part of a day to cross. Anyone doing so would face a wall more cliff than slope, a steep barrier Aryl thought might be entertaining to climb in better weather. Not in this. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves, blinking away snow—that misery having returned with a vengeance—and wondered why any Om’ray would live where the worst of all seasons could pass in the same day.
They were close now. Everyone could sense the others, that one was coming to meet them. Only Aryl—and his Chosen—knew it was her uncle, Ael sud Sarc. She peered through the whirling snow, hoping for a glimpse of the grove of stunted nekis she was sure she’d spotted from the ridge. She’d told no one else, but it must be their destination.
A tug on her sleeve. She glanced down to find Ziba, her face contorted, tears streaming down her cheeks. The child was distraught to the point of invisible, her emotions swamped by the need to return to her mother. Aryl bent to comfort her, to learn why Taen sent her while so upset, but the child spun out of her grasp and ran back down the line of march.
Seru. It had to be.
Aryl reached for her cousin and found…nothing.
She followed Ziba, careful not to run and draw attention. With the promise of shelter, everyone was walking with cheerful faces and renewed energy, including old Husni and Juo, who’d stayed together. Morla smiled at her, her injured wrist cradled to her chest, her solicitous Chosen hovering at her side.
Those coming last weren’t smiling. Taen, Ziba now clinging to one arm. Tilip and young Fon Kessa’at, both looking worried. Together, they surrounded Seru, walking with her, but at a distance. As Aryl neared, she could see why.