“Do you feel it? There are Grona away from their village.”
“Fields,” Enris said mildly. “Grains and other crops to reap. They aren’t following us.”
“They” being Bern and his Chosen, the Adept Oran di Caraat. The two were why the exiles were again without a home. Oran had wanted Aryl’s ability to access the other place, to move through its darkness at will. A new Talent, barely under her control, not ready to be shared. A Talent fraught with danger to the user, let alone all Om’ray.
For Cersi, this world, was held in peace by the Agreement. What was, should remain. Change, significant and sudden, in Tikitik, Oud, or Om’ray, would break that Agreement. The consequence? Aryl was quite sure Oran di Caraat didn’t worry about that, safe in her stony village.
She did. So did those with her.
“I could find out.”
A sharp look. Enris knew what she meant. Aryl had the Talent to reach and learn identity. It took Power. “Too risky.” He scuffed the toe of his boot, raising a puff of dust. “See?”
She dutifully stared down at the road. “See what?”
Haxel Vendan glanced over her shoulder. “Oud. Their machines crush the small stones to powder.”
“Exactly,” Enris said with a nod to the First Scout. “This is their road, not Om’ray. No recent tread marks, maybe, but—” he shrugged, the motion letting him adjust the pack on his shoulders. “It’s not worth the risk. Trust me. Unless necessary, don’t use Power where they might be close.”
By close, he meant under their feet. Oud tunneled. Aryl wasn’t sure what a tunnel would be like; she was sure she didn’t want to find out. Nor was she anxious to find out for herself what he meant by “risk,” though others among the exiles had also heard of this peculiarity of Oud, that a few had minds that interfered—painfully—with an Om’ray’s natural ability if used.
Having joined their conversation, Haxel paused to let them catch up. They moved through this unfamiliar territory with their strongest members to the fore and rear. The First Scout and Syb sud Uruus led the way, with Aryl and Enris next. Rorn sud Vendan, Haxel’s Chosen, came last with the Kessa’ats, Veca and Tilip, as well as Ael sud Sarc. The four eldest, the children, and pregnant Juo Vendan stayed in the midst with the others.
Their only Looker, Weth Teerac, had left a tenth earlier, at firstlight. What her Talent could find out of place in a land none of them had seen before, no one knew. But it was a precaution, of sorts, against being surprised.
“Good advice,” the First Scout asserted. “Besides, the Grona walk like him. We’d hear those big feet long before being in sight.”
Enris chuckled, not denying it. Even in the same kind of boots, Yena were a great deal quieter.
“Besides,” continued the scout, her wicked grin twisting the scar that ran from cheek to eyebrow, “who’d follow us? One of their unChosen lusting for our Seru? Hah! Bunch of diggers. Not one looked worth feeding. She’s a Parth. She can wait for better.” This with a meaningful glance at Enris, who smiled. Haxel laughed, then lengthened her stride to rejoin Syb at the front.
The Tuana raised one eyebrow. “Should I be flattered or insulted?”
Aryl ignored him. The other problem with this too-flat road was time to think—too much of it. “Oran could have told all of Grona by now.”
“She could,” Enris agreed. “But she won’t. I know her kind. They don’t share secrets—not when there’s some advantage. Relax, Aryl.”
She tightened her shields, her cheeks growing warm despite the chill breeze that fingered its way past her hood. Enris didn’t mean her. It didn’t change anything. She hadn’t shared her secret, hadn’t explained to the others why she’d fled Grona with only the clothes she wore, without a word to anyone.
She must. She would. When the time was right. Each ’night, they crowded together, exhausted and worn, staring at a fire smaller than two fists. Yena nerves twitched to the darkness; children whimpered. She couldn’t bring herself to add to their burden.
Only Enris knew the whole truth. He’d left it for her to decide when and what to share. He’d told her people Bern and Oran had made it impossible for her to stay in Grona. The other exiles had followed without hesitation. She owed him for that. She owed them all.
She would find them shelter and food, make them safe.
Then find a way to tell them all this was her fault.
Aryl removed her boots and turned them upside down. Water gushed out, then settled into a steady drip. The stone underfoot was warm, for once; the sun high overhead. No biters or flitters. They were, as far as she could tell, the only living things in this desolate place. Unless she counted the occasional wispy clump of dried vegetation, none of it more than ankle-high.
She wasn’t the only one dealing with the aftermath of their latest crossing. The mountain river had been shallow, but so white with froth there’d been no telling where best to step. Or not step. Enris, who professed to love the noisy, annoying streams, had managed to soak his feet this time as well. Aryl lowered her head to grin.
Some of the exiles took advantage of the respite to lay wet clothing out to dry. They’d learned the hard way how quickly it chilled the skin beneath. On that thought, Aryl untied her leg wraps and squeezed them to merely damp, then spread the gauze strips over a dark flat rock. Bare, her shins and ankles showed the cost of a moment’s carelessness: the pink of new scars showed where her flesh had fed the swarm. No swarm here.
She grabbed a pair of small stones, then stared at them, her skin crawling.
There were other threats.
Feeling the fool, Aryl flattened her palms to give each stone a chance to move, if it was so inclined.
Being ordinary matter, they did nothing of the kind.
She used them to weigh down her wraps, in case the breeze kicked up. Better safe than supper, she consoled herself. She’d shared her memories of the rock hunters with Haxel and the others. The Grona spoke of them, too, but claimed the bizarre creatures stayed to uncivilized slopes, where they could hide among the real thing. Camouflage was their only weapon; they moved too slowly to catch living prey. So Grona believed.
Grona believed truenight was safe, too.
Aryl decided she wasn’t wrong to be wary of loose rock.
After consideration, she kept on her longest coat. The hem might drip, but the sun wasn’t that warm.
Beside her, Chaun sud Teerac slowly straightened to look into the distance, a smile lighting his face. She followed his gaze and saw a figure appear at the rise of the next hill. It would be Weth, his Chosen.
Who was walking toward them. Quickly.
All the exiles rose to their feet, clothing forgotten. “What’s brought her back?” Haxel said for all, and strode off to meet their guide, collecting Ael and Syb—and their longknives—with a look.
“She’s found it, hasn’t she?” Seru came to stand close to Aryl, arms wrapped around her middle. Her hood was down and hair escaped its net, black strands playing against her too-pale cheeks, catching on the cracks of her lips. They all suffered in the dry cold air, soaked feet and legs notwithstanding. “I knew it would be soon.”
“What are you talking about?” Remembering how her cousin had wept in her sleep, Aryl gentled her tone. “Found what?”
Seru’s green eyes were huge and unfocused. “Where they died.”
Who? For an instant, Aryl couldn’t answer, her mind racing through possibilities. There had been Yena unChosen sent on Passage. A couple had taken this route. She didn’t know if they’d survived it.
Or had Seru talked to Grona Om’ray, heard of a misadventure of that Clan? Or…“Who?” she asked, staring at her cousin. “Who died?”
“Sona.” Quick and certain. Seru hesitated then, licked her lower lip before taking it between her teeth. “It’s a name,” she said at last, looking directly at Aryl. “Of something. I don’t know what. I don’t know how I know, Aryl. I don’t!”