“You’re Sarc.” As if that made everything clear. Something in Aryl’s expression must have told Seru it didn’t. “I’m not saying you ever push yourself up the ladder, Aryl.” Another rush of words. “You aren’t like that. But everyone knows. It’s about Power. Always is. To be a Parth, near a Sarc Chooser?” Seru tucked away her loop of hair knots and thread. “UnChosen have to answer your Call first. They can’t help it.”
Fighting back a strange, fierce joy—where had that come from?—Aryl placed her fingers on Seru’s. Not a Chooser yet. With careful reassurance. “Now let’s go find Haxel. I’ve a feeling she’ll be interested in this clever idea of the Parths.”
The First Scout? Interested? Seru pretended to shiver. Oh, no. You show her.
Coward.
Smart. And fast. With that pronouncement, Seru leaped to her feet, scattering dead leaves. “Race you!” A jump, grab, and twist put her on top of the nearest beam.
Aryl laughed and gave chase. The beam, used to vines, not playful Om’ray, creaked and cracked in protest underfoot. A hop took them both to the shelter’s makeshift roof. Which shook and shuddered.
Someone inside shouted a protest.
Seru glanced back, hood down and black hair flying wild, balanced on one foot. Her teeth gleamed in a wicked grin, then she dropped lightly to the porch. Aryl tried to hurry. Too late. Looking oh-so-innocent, her cousin helpfully pointed up as the blanket door opened and a dust-covered head peered out.
Not dignified to leap on her so-helpful-cousin and roll her in the dirt.
But, Aryl decided, hands full of squirming Seru, it was worth it.
“Water’s the problem.”
Aryl nodded. Freed from the threat of starvation for the first time since last Harvest, sheltered and safe, they had yet to find that final necessity. “We could move down the valley,” she suggested with reluctance. The nearest of the mountain streams was a half day away. The three unChosen—Fon, Kayd, and Cader—were there now, refilling every portable container they could carry. The next group—Rorn, Syb, and Veca—would leave soon, to return by firstnight. If the clouds building over the mountains meant another storm, best only their toughest, most experienced Chosen were out in it.
Haxel’s scar whitened with her grimace. By tradition and inclination, she’d be with those after water, but they needed her here. “If we did, we’d have to come back here for supplies and oil. Let’s hope for better. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.” Aryl hadn’t slept, but otherwise judged herself well rested. She checked the ties on her small pack. There’d been no need to discuss who should explore the head of the valley. No one else with any scouting skill could be spared from carrying water or improving their shelter. Also unsaid…no one else had her range to send for help if need be. Haxel held out a pair of ropes and she slipped one coil over her shoulder, securing it with her belt. She declined the second, wishing she could leave the pack, too, but she wasn’t a fool. If necessary, she’d spend her second truenight away from the rest. And there was that brooding sky.
“It may end in a cliff around the corner,” the First Scout warned. “Nothing more.”
Aryl shrugged. “I’ll be back for supper, then. If they’ve finished complaining about Enris.” She’d thought Grona’s infatuated Choosers a nuisance, the way they’d cornered her for any detail about him, but the exiles were worse. Or made her feel worse. Even Husni wasn’t beyond a sly comment on how in her day a sensible Chooser-to-Be would have found a way to keep such a fine catch happily waiting. Had anyone but Seru and Gijs missed telling her, at length, the wonderful qualities of the Tuana and how tragic it was he’d had to leave them to seek Choice?
As if she didn’t know.
“You’d think they’d wish him joy and be done with it.”
A grunt. “They wished he’d found it here. Do you blame them?”
Aryl looked back at Sona. Ax strokes and cheerful shouts gave new life to the ruin; a line of billowing blankets, new movement. The same wind—always a wind here—blew an errant strand of hair into her eyes. She tucked it away, wishing the Sona supplies had included a decent net. “I suppose not. But Enris believes the future—our future—is elsewhere. What he seeks may help all Om’ray.”
“A Clan with its own technology.” She’d told the First Scout that much. Whatever her opinion of his feet, Haxel had been pleased Enris hadn’t abandoned them for, as she’d put it, some useless Chooser on the wind. “He has courage,” the older Om’ray conceded. “Myself, I’d test that limb before I put weight on it.”
“Vyna exists. He’ll find out the rest for himself.” Aryl stirred. “I’d better go, too.” She hefted the thin strand of rope she’d attached to her belt. Seven knots at the top; room for more below. Haxel, who’d instantly grasped the value of such counting, wore its twin. “Two days, then I’ll turn around.”
Fingers brushed her hand. Make sure you do, Aryl Sarc. Concern in the First Scout’s pale, crease-edged eyes, or sudden doubt?
My future is with my people, Aryl promised. It always will be.
Despite the wind and cloud-ridden ridge, the day was bright and warm, for the mountains. As Aryl strode away from Haxel, she left her Grona coat open, its hood thrown back. She followed the road; it followed the dry riverbed. Both bent around an outthrust of unclimbable rock. Despite Haxel’s warning about a dead end, it was unlikely. She found herself taking longer steps and deliberately slowed her pace.
Aryl passed the heap of rubble Cetto thought had been the Sona Meeting Hall. Nothing worth salvaging here, beyond slivers of wood to burn. They’d have to build their own.
If they stayed.
The road crossed the river before heading into the grove of dead nekis. If there’d been a bridge spanning the riverbed, it was gone now. Aryl jumped lightly from the last paving stone that jutted out, landing on fine gravel and dirt. No bent reeds. She gauged its depth by her jump. Two Om’ray here, perhaps two more in the center of the course.
The footing took concentration, if not effort. Larger boulders lay scattered among the rest, along with broken spars of wood. If such were the remains of a bridge, it had been thoroughly destroyed by the Oud. Preventing what?
Aryl kept her distance from any stone of size. They hadn’t seen a rock hunter. Didn’t make the memory any less fresh or her careless.
She tried to imagine the river full of water. Would it be clear, like the Lake of Fire, or impenetrably black, like the Lay Swamp? Would it tumble and roar like the torrent they’d seen up on the ridge? Or be smooth and slow, only dimples in its surface revealing any movement at all?
Aryl picked up a pebble and sent it flying ahead. It didn’t reach the other side. She should, she decided, be glad the river was empty at the moment.
The other bank was an easy scramble to the top. Once there, she found the paving stones flat and in place, spared by the Oud. Dead nekis stalks tilted and towered on one side of the road, separated by more ditches. The grove-that-had-been stretched across the valley, row upon row of old bones.
After that one look, Aryl kept her eyes on the paving stones. The wind whistled through the stalks, unsoftened by leaf or flower. The sun beat down, its light unfiltered by green or brown.
The road turned sharply, angled toward the river until she walked almost on its bank. She didn’t look back, although she sensed those behind her. There were, she realized abruptly, no Om’ray ahead of her at all.
The world’s end.