An Oud died. What was not normal for its kind was that it had crawled and humped to its final resting place with ventral pouches stuffed with treasures, instead of empty as was proper. Treasures which were not Oud. For this Oud had touched the unknown and Forbidden, sought answers only to find questions. Before the end, it had learned certain truths about its world.
In death, it would keep them.
Chapter 1
ARYL SARC LAY AWAKE, disturbed by her cousin’s weeping. Soft, the sound. Weary.
Without hope.
Not that Seru Parth was any different from the rest of Yena’s exiles. Despair. Grief. Dread of this unfamiliar landscape. All were kept private behind the mind’s shield; any needful tears hidden by truenight and a blanket’s cover. None wished to burden the others, though they shared the same past and pain. Exiled by their own Clan, who themselves faced a chancy future. Forced to seek a new place to live, to survive on their own. No wonder some wept.
But all truenight?
Soft. Weary. Without hope.
Aryl abandoned the effort to sleep and sat up. She hugged her share of their blanket, careful not to pull it from her cousin, and gazed helplessly at the bump lying beside her. Seru had lost parents as well as home.
Hadn’t they all?
She shivered. Each firstnight, as the sun left them, darkness moved up the mountain ridges like a swarm of shadow, consuming not only light but warmth. Their tiny fire gave the reassurance of a glow but never enough heat, not for twenty-three exhausted Om’ray. The Chosen and families huddled together, sleeping in their clothes and sharing blankets, always cold. Her nose, Aryl was sure, was permanently numb. Was it almost firstlight?
Unlike the others, Seru’s weeping had only started last truenight. A few moments, a hiccup, then peace. This?
“Seru,” Aryl whispered as quietly as possible. The bump didn’t move. The sound of weeping didn’t stop. She lowered her shields and reached ever-so-gently to let her inner sense seek the other’s mind. Cousin…she began to send, then stopped, realizing what she felt.
No wonder Seru didn’t respond. She was fast asleep.
With a sigh, Aryl laid down, pressing her forearm over her ear. Whatever dream troubled the other’s rest was none of her business. They all needed sleep.
There were troubles enough ahead.
Could the exiles take to the air, their route would be a straight line over the mountain ridges that crested one after the other, each higher and more jagged than its predecessor. Sunlight flowed across bare rock, carving harsh, angled shadows that changed shape throughout the day. Clouds caught on the most distant ridge, as if its summit crushed the sky. A fitting end to the world, in Aryl’s estimation, except that the world inconveniently extended beyond. Vyna and Rayna. Two more chances to find a home among their kind. And they couldn’t fly.
Vyna was unknown. Its Om’ray could be felt, of course; they all knew exactly where it was. But could they get there? No one could recall a Vyna unChosen arriving on Passage, implying a barrier too difficult for Om’ray to cross isolated Vyna from the rest of Cersi.
Rayna was their best hope. It was also the nearest Clan to them, the lure of its hundreds of Om’ray like the warmth of the sun on cold cheeks. It wasn’t right, for Om’ray to be separated. Aryl took comfort in every step closer.
Though there were, she thought wryly, a great many steps to go. To reach Rayna meant this too-slow march around the lowest reaches of the mountains. Part of the time, they walked across shadowed valleys. At others, they would top a rise and be able to gaze down toward Amna and Yena, see the broad, glittering darkness that severed the two: the Lay Swamp, here open to the sky. Herds of what Aryl guessed to be osst moved through its bent vegetation. Sometimes their deep grunts carried up on the night breeze, making her shudder. They belonged to the Tikitik. Not friends to Om’ray. Not friends at all.
The solid footing close to the mountains was the only choice. There was a road of sorts, winding with the ridges, if the word applied to an uneven trail free of worrisome boulders. The exiles took it, since it went the way they needed to go. Easier walking, maybe. Monotonous, definitely.
Aryl kept a worried eye on her cousin throughout the morning. During their daily march, Seru stayed back in the latter half of their group, seeming content with the Uruus family. She entertained their precocious daughter Ziba—surely a valuable service to all. Once in a while, the two burst into giggles, startling smiles from those nearby. Aryl might have dreamed the endless weeping.
She yawned. No. Hadn’t slept enough to dream.
“Something wrong?”
Enris Mendolar, the only one of their company not of Yena, matched his pace to hers. Being a Tuana flatlander, he wasn’t as light-footed or quick as the rest; being bigger than any, he could—and did—carry the heaviest pack with ease. Hardly older than she, he’d earned respect from all. Enris had risked his life to save them; his knowledge of similar landscapes helped guide them now. Dark hair, dark eyes, a powerful mind full of secrets. He laughed when she least expected it.
A stranger, by Om’ray terms. An eligible unChosen, as yet more interested in puzzles than any Chooser. Poor Seru had learned not to cast longing looks his way across the evening fire.
A friend to whom Aryl could speak her mind without fear. She looked up with a small frown. “Wrong? Tell me what isn’t.” She gestured to the ridge that loomed beside them. “Rocks that hunt.” Another to the dome of sky above, still strange to the younger Yena. “No shelter.” She finished by patting the rope wound around her flat stomach. “Should I mention food?”
That laugh, deep and amused. “Please don’t. I’m fading away.”
She didn’t point out that there was more flesh on his bones than on any Yena. It was, she knew, not the Tuana’s fault. They’d been the ones living with starvation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten her fill without thought to the next day. The Grona had given the Yena a feast—she hadn’t been the only one to tuck excess in her pockets. “We’ve Grona bread,” she reminded Enris.
They’d left Grona Clan with high spirits, full if not of hope, then the determination to find some. Before leaving, the other exiles had filled packs with supplies, Grona obliged to be generous to those on Passage, even if these were the most unlikely travelers. After three days on this road, Aryl knew she wasn’t the only one to put away most of her ration. This terrain was barren; a barrier to life, she decided, rather than home for it. The grove was a distant line of lush green within the Lay, tempting their eyes.
It wasn’t safe. By day, Tikitik would be watching for them. By truenight?
Truenight in the mountains might be cold but, away from the rock hunters, it was safe. The same could never be said of the canopy. The towering groves of rastis and nekis were home to myriad forms of life, most, in Aryl’s experience, fond of Om’ray flesh, while the black waters of the Lay held the swarms that climbed by truenight to hunt. To be caught away from light by those was to be eaten before you died.
“We aren’t thirsty,” Enris commented.
Aryl grimaced, her feet damp from crossing the last mountain torrent. More strangeness. Where did it come from, without rain? Why was the water numbingly cold no matter if the day warmed? The Tuana’s thick boots at last made sense. Haxel, being no fool, had obtained a similar pair before leaving Grona, as had a few of the others. Her own departure had been more abrupt. Remembering turned her grimace into a real frown.