Veca and Tilip, their woodworkers, stood in front of the mysterious wooden door, radiating frustration. Morla had pronounced it impossible. It wasn’t their fault, Aryl thought. There was no locking mechanism, no rod on which to turn the door if unlocked. And they had only the knives in their belts.
“Have the Tuana open it.”
Voices died away as Gijs left Juo to confront Enris. His face was pale and set. “Open it,” he challenged.
Could he? Aryl wondered. He possessed the Talent to push objects through space. He’d used it to save her life. Haxel had been with them; there was no missing her attention to this exchange.
How did Gijs know?
Enris might have been carved in stone. Her sense of him faded as he tightened his shields beyond politeness.
“There’s no need for the stranger’s help,” Tilip announced. He was a tall Om’ray, vine-thin before the days of scant rations—gaunt, now, with hollowed cheeks. In contrast, thick, fair hair curled at his neck and brow, tumbling into his pale blue eyes. His hands were long-fingered and skilled with any tool, but the Kessa’ats’ tools had burned with their home, Aryl remembered sadly, in the fire she and Enris had set. “Fon can open it. Fon!”
Fon Kessa’at wormed his way through the silenced Om’ray, his head down. Their other unChosen, Cader Sarc and Ziba’s brother Kayd, came with him. The three were always together now. Fon was four Harvests younger than Aryl; thin as his father but with his mother’s coloring. Quiet and painfully shy. A poor climber.
Aryl was ashamed to admit that was all she knew of him.
Stepping past his friends, the young Om’ray peered through his hair at his father and mother.
Something passed among them. Veca’s lips thinned and she shot a hard look at her Chosen before moving from the door. Fon took her place. He spread both hands—long-fingered, Aryl noticed—and pressed them on the door. Then…
POWER!
Someone cried out.
Messy, Aryl grimaced. Fon needed to learn some focus.
The result, however, was before them all—or rather, it wasn’t. The door to the mound, however it had been secured, had disappeared. A puff of mist hung within the opening for an instant, then dissipated into the air.
Tilip ruffled his son’s hair as he looked out at the rest of the exiles. There was pride in that look. Pride and defiance.
Aryl understood. They all did. The Kessa’ats hadn’t been exiled by the Yena Council and Adepts because of Tilip or Veca. It hadn’t been Morla and Lendin. They’d been exiled because of their son. Here was the new Talent deemed too dangerous for Yena. The change.
Curious. Had Fon sent the door somewhere else through the other, or had he merely pushed it into that darkness? Was it some other process altogether?
Haxel, practical as always, strode toward the opening as if doors were supposed to get out of her way, collecting Enris and Gijs with a gesture. The rest settled to wait, Cader and Kayd rushing to Fon with congratulations that made the young Om’ray blush.
Seru whirled and grabbed Aryl’s hands. I know what’s inside!…How can I know?…What’s happening to me?! FEAR!
“Haxel, wait!” Aryl cried.
Haxel paused with a raised eyebrow and no patient feel to her. “Why?”
Not a question she could answer. Not yet. She drew a breath to try.
“Because we need light,” Enris said, smooth and reasonable. “We can carry fire. Lengths of wood—wrapped in cloth. Won’t take long to make.”
His eyes met hers. Go.
Captivated by the Tuana’s idea, no one appeared to notice as Aryl pulled Seru away from the rest. Her cousin didn’t resist.
Aryl didn’t try to contact her mind. “What did you mean, you know what’s inside?”
Seru’s eyes lifted. They were dark with shock. Her voice was low and trembled. “Through the door are steps, like Grona’s meeting hall. Stone. Wide. But they go down, not up. Down, down. Where they end is a flat space. On either side, an archway of stone. The arch toward Amna leads to a long room. It’s full of things. Baskets. Gourds like the Tikitik bring. The other—” she stopped, her hand over her mouth. I don’t want to know this. I can’t know this! Frantic with fear.
Hush! But before she could comfort Seru, Aryl found words spilling from her own lips. “The other leads to a second room, as long as the first, with shelves.” She could almost touch them, the image was so vivid in her mind. “On the shelves are bowls with lids, carved of wood. There are seeds inside, seeds for the next growing season.” She knew their names. Knew which were husked in brown, which were shiny and black, which must be soaked for days or fail to sprout at all.
Seru gasped. “You see it, too! How?”
“I don’t know.” Aryl remembered the whispers in the darkness, her mouth trying to speak another’s words—and fought back her own fear.
They stared at one another. Seru spoke first. “A storage place, like a Yena warehouse. Maybe,” for the first time, her voice sounded hopeful, “there’s food inside.”
If any could last this long. “It’s worth a look.” Aryl wrapped her arms around her cousin and held her tight. Whatever this is, Seru, she sent, making sure the other felt her pride and love, you may have saved us all. When she stepped back, she added, “We’ll go with Haxel—”
“No. I can’t. What if what we—what we see—what if it isn’t there?” Seru’s eyes were bright with tears. “They already think something’s wrong with me. Please, Aryl. Don’t tell anyone that I—about this.” Promise! The sending was as forceful as she could manage.
“I won’t, unless I must.” Aryl gestured apology. Lines of dark smoke rose, bending at the top of the mounds as the wind caught them. “They’re ready. I’ll go. Will you be all right?”
Will you?
She had no answer.
In that short time, Haxel had set everyone else in motion. The Kessa’ats and the Uruus, not coincidentally those with the youngest in their families, headed back to the village to improve the exiles’ shelter before firstnight. The weather smiled on them now, but no one trusted the mountain sky. Weth and Ael had already left, returning to their injured Chosen. Juo, who should have gone, refused. She sat with Husni, Cetto, and Lendin, their backs against the opposite mound. Morla paced, claiming her arm preferred it. Her tightly netted white hair caught the sun.
Rorn stood outside the opening, his longknife in hand. Guarding what, against whom, Aryl couldn’t imagine, but Haxel took no chance she could avoid. Which left Enris and Gijs to enter with her, fire held high in their fists.
Motioning Seru to sit with Juo, Aryl followed hurriedly. She made it to the doorway before Haxel stopped to frown at her. “Wait here, Aryl. We don’t know what’s inside.”
For some reason, Aryl glanced at Enris. Something in her face—for her shields were tight—made his eyes narrow in speculation.
“I do,” she said, facing Haxel.
“You.” The First Scout nodded toward Seru and Juo. “I thought they were the sleepwalkers.”
Feeling her cheeks warm, Aryl stood her ground. “There are stone steps. Two storerooms. If we’re lucky, they’ll contain something still of use.”
“Lead the way.” Haxel sidestepped, motioning Aryl ahead.
With one stride, Enris was beside her. “Light,” he explained, raising his burning stick. With a twist of his lips, I hope you know what you’re doing.
She hoped so, too.
There were steps. To the unsuspecting, without light, the threat of a fall. With light, they were a broad roadway. Aryl took them without hesitation, hearing the others close behind. A bright circle bathed the stone before her feet; Enris’ height gave that advantage here. Other circles bounced and overlapped along walls she could touch, if she reached out with both hands.