Get cold? Aryl’s legs were almost numb below the hem of her coat. “We could make a shelter,” she suggested. “Pile rocks into walls, like the Grona do. Use blankets to fill any gaps, shield a fire—” If they could find anything to burn, she reminded herself. Everyone collected what dry vegetation they found as they walked. Twisted into compact knots, each day’s gleaning barely let them heat water and light the way to their blankets. That trick…how to dig holes for their waste—there being no convenient swamp below…sharing their body warmth? All from Enris. She didn’t doubt him. None of them did.
“Good idea—if we had bigger rocks or a cave.” Haxel gazed up the valley for a long moment, her face expressionless, then looked over her shoulder at them. “That way.”
“Up there? What we’ll find are rocks to eat us in our sleep.” Nothing could be trusted, Aryl thought. Not the ground. Not even the sky.
Haxel’s scar twisted with her fierce grin. “One threat at a time. We’ll go ahead. Find and prepare a shelter. You and Enris get them moving and follow as quickly as you can.”
Decision made, the First Scout broke into an easy run, Weth, Syb, and Ael keeping pace. The wraps on their long legs flashed white as they ran parallel to the ridge, then, without slowing, up its slope to avoid the disturbed ground of the valley floor.
Aryl blew out a breath. “She didn’t listen.”
“She did,” the Tuana said with a hint of his deep laugh. “Ravenous rocks or not, we don’t have a choice.” He put one big hand on her shoulder and turned her to face the ridge and its shroud of dirty white. “See what looks like mist dropping below the clouds? That’s snow, Aryl.”
Young Grona had excited Ziba beyond measure with their tales of playing in the fluffy stuff. “I’ve heard of it,” said Aryl impatiently. “Frozen water. So what?” Hadn’t she witnessed Enris’ dismay at a little rain in the canopy? Om’ray like Tuana and Grona probably ducked inside their homes if the weather was anything but perfect. He’d learn. “We’ll manage.”
“Snow can be deadly.” No laughter in his face now. “It can fill the air so we won’t be able to see each other, let alone where we’re going. Or,” Enris hesitated, then went on, his voice grim, “it could be worse.”
“Worse?”
“Winter storms from the mountains sometimes reach the edges of Tuana. What falls from them this early isn’t snow. It’s rain, a hard rain that coats whatever it touches in ice. Imagine being cold, blind, and unable to take a step without falling—”
“Yena,” Aryl said stiffly, “don’t fall.”
“Yena haven’t met winter.” His grip became a push. “Let’s get the others.”
The click and rattle of disturbed pebbles. A deep breath of effort. The creak of a rope strap over a shoulder. Otherwise, the exiles were silent as they made their way along the lower slope of the ridge. Though Aryl kept close to her cousin when they’d first come over the rise, Seru had said nothing more, her face set and grim. Even Ziba remained hushed, making Aryl realize how much cheer her lively babble had added to their journey. She didn’t blame the others, feeling the same. It was hard to find words, faced with the evidence of a force that could stir rock the way an Om’ray might a bowl of dresel.
The storm that so alarmed Enris and Haxel kept its distance. Or, she thought anxiously, her gaze slipping up the mountain to the torn edge of cloud, distance lied. The blue of the sky had turned pale and the sun’s power to warm was gone.
The exiles moved silently, but quickly. The more rugged terrain suited the Yena as the flat road hadn’t. They leaped over small gulleys and cracks instead of wading through the inevitable small stream, and ran up or down any vertical rise worth the effort, rarely touching the gray-and-russet rock with their hands.
Enris let them, choosing his path by flatlander criteria. Though he made what speed he could, he soon fell behind. He’d wave nonchalantly whenever she stopped to look back. At times, he was out of sight.
Aryl didn’t like it.
When she next looked for the Tuana, Cetto sud Teerac paused with her on the ledge. “We should have split his load,” the former Yena Councillor commented in his bone-deep voice. “That pack would do three.”
“It’s not the weight.” Aryl tapped her toe on the rock. “It’s the height. He doesn’t like it.”
“Ah.” Cetto hopped down, nimble as Ziba despite being the oldest of them. “Not much we can do about that, is there?”
She could wish Enris less stubborn, Aryl thought, but to herself.
Something cold touched her cheek. She brought up her hand in surprise, bringing away a drop of water. A fleck of white, like the fluff around some seeds, landed on her open palm. It collapsed on itself, becoming another drop. When she looked out over the valley, she discovered that view now obscured by an oddly bright mist. Snow?
The others had come to a halt where they were, hands outstretched to intercept their own snowdrops. It wasn’t easy. Wind followed the snow, tossing it up, spinning it around.
Much more, she realized, and Enris would be right. It was already confusing to look through the falling stuff over any distance. If it became thicker and continued to swirl in their faces, they’d be in trouble. At that worry, Aryl sent to the rest. Stay close together, she sent, pouring strength into the warning. If it gets worse, move slowly and with care.
Along with the sense of disquiet and firm agreement from all around, a wry amusement touched her mind. Like me?
Busy licking a snowdrop from her lips, Aryl didn’t answer.
Slow and careful didn’t send the exiles to Enris’ flatter ground. Instead of moving independently, they tightened their group so that a couple chose the safest path for all, the Yena way when traversing a dangerous section of canopy. Parents kept their children close; foot-and handholds, however secure in appearance, tested before trusted. The damp left by melting snow might be no worse than during a light rain, but rock was still new to Yena.
New and cold. Aryl’s fingers grew numb, less sensitive to texture. She could see her breath now if she puffed, a phenomenon they’d experienced thus far in the early morning, not midday. She guessed at the time; the sky was heavy with cloud as well as snow, imparting a gloom close to firstnight on the landscape.
Enris. She couldn’t see him anymore.
Here. Strong and sure, as always. Few Yena could match his ability to send mind-to-mind over distance. Unless Chosen, most required touch to keep that sending private. Watch your step.
He was right. This wasn’t a good place to be. She lowered her shields enough to reach, finding where the others were in line. Gijs sud Vendan had taken the lead now, doubtless concerned for his pregnant Chosen, though Juo was the better climber of the two. Gijs was paired with Veca Kessa’at, who was their best.
Other than Aryl herself. She came last, ready to help anyone ahead if they faltered. Or anyone behind. No doubting Enris’ strength and will, but he had no better view of his footing than she did—and would have more trouble climbing out of a gully should he fall.
This part of the ridge was gouged away, its surface scarred by deep ravines, themselves cut by cracks. Loose material collected there, making them treacherous places to step. She noticed any snow that fell within these cavities or in deep shadow didn’t melt, accumulating in deceptively soft piles, cold and dangerous.
To her inner sense, Haxel and her companions were there, farther up the valley and lower down: four warm, distant glows. Too distant. At least one would be coming back to meet them if they’d found or made shelter by now. Aryl began looking for a cave or overhang, something to house them all. She soon gave up.