“I fail to see anything amusing about this place,” Cetto grumbled.
She gestured apology. “It’s only an idea…”
“What?” demanded the First Scout.
“When the river was full—” Aryl used her hands to mimic that flow, “—it would spill over at that point.” She indicated where the boundary depression cut through the riverbank, what would have been upstream of the meeting hall and village. “Remember the ravine, after the ice rain? Water takes the low path. It would flow into all of these lines.”
“Why?” Haxel asked. Both older Om’ray were frowning. “There are better ways to bring water to a home than this.”
Aryl thought of her brother Costa, and the containers of growing things in his room. How they needed water brought to them to survive. “Not to the homes,” she thought aloud. “To the spaces between them. This is a dry place—too dry for plants.” The rightness of it made her heart pound. “Maybe these Om’ray grew their food like the Grona, but instead of fields and the chance of rain, they grew it here, between their homes, and took water from the river.”
Haxel wasn’t slow. “There are stone ditches like these through the nekis grove.”
Om’ray who grew their own grove? Aryl’s eyes widened. She couldn’t imagine living like the Grona—or Enris’ Tuana, for that matter. But this? “What if we could bring the water back?” she asked abruptly.
Cetto’s deep astonished laugh lifted a few heads their way. “You never think small, Aryl Sarc.”
Haxel didn’t smile or say a word. But as they climbed down to rejoin the rest, Aryl noticed the scout lingered to look up the valley for a good long time, to where the outthrust of cliff hid the river’s source.
Interlude
THEY WERE GOING TO STAY.
Enris stepped onto what had been a narrow, long porch and ducked to enter through what had never been a door.
They were going to make these ruins into homes and stay.
Carelessly he shouldered aside a half beam, dust and debris raining down on his head. His feet crunched something in the gloom.
There was nothing here, he fumed, nothing worth their lives or his to find. Nothing to sustain them, even if they’d be tolerated by the Oud. Broken pots, shattered sticks, anything and everything else rotted or carried away.
There was no future here. No answers.
“Any luck, Tuana?”
Enris bit back what he might have said. Gijs didn’t deserve his frustration. “Not yet. You?”
The other Om’ray joined him, coughing despite the gauze they’d each wrapped over their mouths. Fine dust coated every surface; once disturbed, it hung in the air. “Nothing.” Gijs began poking at a pile at the far end of the room. “Haxel claims we can boil our boots. Not ready for that meal, I tell you.”
Enris’ stomach chose that moment to growl and he was grateful the light was too dim inside to show his blush. “Baked glove for me.”
Gijs laughed. “Don’t worry. You’ve no bones showing, unChosen,” as if this would be a comfort.
What it was? A reminder, Enris thought, of how tough and resilient Yena were. The longer he was with them, the better he understood how they’d survived life suspended in the canopy—and on rations scant for a child, let alone an active adult. But it was one thing to be a survivor and quite another to recognize your own folly. Coming here was bad enough.
Staying?
He had to talk to Aryl—they should be scouting the best way to Vyna together; instead, here he was, choking on dust.
Dust that turned darker as the light from the one window was abruptly blocked by a pair of white-clad legs. The legs were followed by a wriggling form in yellow who dropped to the floor with a cascade of pebbles—and more dust—to stand erect with a grin. “Did you find it yet?”
Trust the youngster to make a game of this grim search. Ziba Uruus was a match for his little brother, Worin, all right: a disarming mix of mischief and innocence. Enris grinned back, dust stinging his cracked lips. “Find what?”
“Breakfast!” With that, the tiny Om’ray marched confidently to a spot on the bare stone floor. She was still an instant, head cocked to the side like a curious loper, then began to move her hands in midair as if shaking something out and pressing the result flat on an invisible, waist-high surface.
Enris looked a question at Gijs. The other Om’ray shrugged and said gruffly, “This is no place to play, Ziba. Go outside. Find your mother.”
“I am not playing,” she retorted. “Everyone knows you have to squeeze the seeds out first.”
Fascinated, Enris watched as her small hands mimed collecting something apparently sticky and then shaking it free over another invisible container. She wiped her fingers on her coat, leaving streaks of nothing but dust. “There.” With relish. “The seeds are for planting,” she explained, pointing to midair. “This is the good part.” At “this” Ziba held up both hands, cupped as if supporting a round mass. “There’s enough fresh rokly for you, too. I’ll share.”
Gijs appeared at a loss for words. Wait till Juo produced their firstborn, Enris thought with amusement. Well used to the antics of the young, he smiled and held out his hand. “Thank you. I’m hungry.”
Instead of playing along, Ziba’s smile faded and she took a quick step back. “You can’t have any. You’re not one of us.”
“Ziba!” Gijs gestured apology at Enris. “She’s repeating old lessons. Don’t be offended. Ziba—” sternly, “—Enris Mendolar is no ‘stranger.’”
A foot smaller than his palm stamped the ruined floor. “He is so!”
An unChosen arrived on Passage was by custom avoided by younger unChosen, watched by Adepts, assessed by all; he remained a stranger until the moment of Choice, when he would assume the name of his Chosen, Joining not only her life, but her family and Clan.
None of the exiles, not even Husni, that stickler for tradition, had made him feel like a stranger. The past fist of days? He’d forgotten his lack of official status. Someone hadn’t, someone whose opinion mattered to Ziba. No need to ask who, he thought unhappily. Seru Parth. She had reason; nothing he could change.
The Tuana dropped to one knee, a move that brought his gaze level with Ziba’s. Her eyes were huge and dark and challenging. “I’m not of Yena,” he agreed. “But we aren’t in Yena any—”
“This is Sona,” she interrupted with scorn. “Everyone knows that.”
Did they now? “What else does ‘everyone’ know, Ziba?”
“The Buas live here. They grow the best rokly of anyone.” The words tumbled out, glib and confident, but Ziba stopped and looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected to have an answer. “I want rokly for breakfast,” she finished less certainly. “That’s why I came through the window. But…there’s no rokly here.” With a glower, as if the empty room was his fault.
“Of course not, young fool,” Gijs burst out. “There’s no such thing. There’s no family named Bua. Don’t waste our time with your nonsense!”
Wait. Let me talk to her, Enris sent urgently, sure there was more going on. Too late. Ziba fled into the bright sunlight. The flash of INDIGNATION she left behind made both Om’ray wince.
“I’ll make sure her parents hear about this.”
“Someone should.” And soon, the Tuana thought, staring out the doorway. This wasn’t normal play. This was something else. “I’ll—”
A pebble bounced along on the stone floor. Enris turned, half expecting to find Ziba back at the window, making faces. But it wasn’t the child, he realized in horror as more pebbles and a choking dust began to rain down. It was the support beam he had so casually shifted from its ages-old rest earlier. A beam about to drop.
No time, no way to know how the beam would fall, or if the entire rotten structure might collapse with it. Grabbing Gijs, Enris flung the smaller Om’ray toward the opening. At the same time, he pushed at the wood and stone overhead with all his inner strength. Wanted it away!