She might be right. Or not.
“Right now,” Aryl reminded her, “I’m a woodworker. A not very good one. What’s next?”
She paid attention, but it was hard. Her mind kept wandering.
How many other exiles were listening to the Grona Adept?
And why did that make her afraid?
Veca was right. Haxel Vendan, First Scout and Sona’s distributor of work, did indeed have other plans for her. Aryl sharpened her new longknife—it wasn’t a proper one, a Yena one, but served the same purpose—with hard, straight strokes and considered the potential for disaster in Haxel’s latest one.
She had plenty of time. They were late.
She sat on a beam, that beam the only one left on this roof, this roof over a home no one wanted yet, and sharpened her longknife.
She hadn’t argued either. How could she? When Haxel called her down from the roof to tell her she was to lead Oran and Hoyon to the Cloisters, to see if the Adepts could open its doors, what could she say but yes?
The wind tore at her coat and teased hair from its net.
The perfect use of resources. The Adepts weren’t helping to rebuild, Oran’s healing Talent was no longer critical, and, as Haxel smugly put it, the Oud hadn’t shown up, so they didn’t need a Speaker either at the moment.
Perfect.
Stroke…stroke.
If they ever started. Not that she planned to rush whatever preparations had the two former Adepts delayed. More time to think of how to hide any sign Marcus might have left at the Cloisters, to hope the Human would see them coming and hide himself as well, and to think of what to tell the Oud, if it showed up and wanted to go inside, too.
Perfect.
Aryl paused. Someone had stopped below. She reached and relaxed. “Took you long enough.”
“Hah!” Seru scrambled up beside her. “You’ll have to try harder if you want to hide from Rorn’s cooking. It’ll be ready soon. Blue—whatever it is. “As she settled, she puffed, admiring the resulting cloud of breath. A glance sideways. “You’re going to ruin that.”
Aryl tested the blade on her thumbnail. “It’s Grona.”
A moment’s silence. Then, “We needed a Healer.”
She found a section marginally less sharp and spat on it. “We needed a Healer,” Aryl conceded. Myris and Chaun—thus Ael and Weth—would live. For that alone, she’d endure a fist of Orans. She rubbed the offending edge against the stone. “Should make everyone happy.”
“Juo,” with relish, “won’t let Oran anywhere near her. Said no upstart Grona Adept whelp was to fool with her unborn. Morla was less polite about it.”
Not a surprise. Morla Kessa’at had been the Councillor most betrayed by Yena’s Adepts, Aryl thought to herself, remembering that day and moment very well. Besides, a broken bone didn’t need Power to cure. Time and a splint would do. Juo? Hopefully she wouldn’t need a Healer when her time came.
But the rest? “Some must be pleased to have Adepts again.” Gijs for one.
Exasperation. With elbow. “No one forgets who tossed us off the bridge. We won’t trust Adepts again. From any Clan.” Seru drew her knees up under her coat, fitting herself on the narrow beam. The wind tugged at her scarf; its chill reddened her cheeks. “As ordinary Om’ray, they’re welcome. That’s all.”
All? “How do you know—” Aryl hesitated.
“About Kran?” Her cousin gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I know. Trust me. He’s not ready. Just as well. I’d rather not have an Adept against me.” She lowered her voice to a reasonable imitation of Oran’s. “My brother would be an Adept already, but Grona’s Adepts were jealous of his Talent. Kran deserves a Chooser of equal or greater Power, not a mere Parth.”
The sharpening stone slipped; Aryl caught it before it fell. “She said that?”
“She didn’t have to.” A grin. “Haven’t you noticed? She won’t let him so much as look my way.”
Aryl nudged Seru with her shoulder. “I see no reason you’d want him to.”
“It doesn’t matter what any of us want,” Seru admitted. “What I need is to Choose someone. Anyone.” Another sigh. “Soon.”
“Fon is nice—” Aryl began cautiously.
“I helped at his birth.”
She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “You were four.”
“And helped. You know my Talent.”
True. Seru might not be strong, but like her mother she was a gifted Birth Watcher, the one assistance Juo would need. Om’ray unborn were reluctant to leave the womb, to let their inner bond to their mother thin with distance. Without the baby’s courage and cooperation, birth was a grave risk to both. A Birth Watcher could not only sense when a baby should be born, but would contact that young mind to offer reassurance and encouragement.
“Mother took me with her. All the time.” Sadness leaked through Seru’s shields; she gestured apology.
“Fine.” Aryl put her arm around her cousin. “Not Fon. Cersi’s a big place, Cousin. There’ll be Choice—the someone you’ve wished for.”
“Wish?” Seru’s right hand moved restlessly. “It’s not like that, you know. What I feel. What a Chooser feels. UnChosen—we don’t have any idea what’s to come.” She laid her head on Aryl’s shoulder. Almost a whisper. “They should tell us the truth.”
What had her aunt said…you can’t know what it’s like for Seru?
Feeling awkward, she sent compassion. “I’m sorry—”
It’s not grief or longing. Seru’s mindvoice was distant, as if she listened to herself too. My family’s gone, and I miss them every moment. But I can remember good things. Images came and went: parties, chases along a glow-lit bridge, games. Sensations: laughter, the squeeze of baby fingers, warm rain on skin. There’s nothing good in how a Chooser feels.
She could pull away, close her mind to Seru’s. Be ignorant.
Instead, curious, Aryl drew Seru closer. Show me, Cousin.
…emptiness
…need
…weary despair
Aryl slammed down her shields. Too late. Tears froze on her cheeks; words in her throat.
Seru eased away, dangling her feet over air as if a child again. “When there wasn’t enough dresel,” she offered, “I’d dream about my favorite ways to eat it. Dresel cakes. The sweets my uncles made. I’d imagine the taste—that smell. When I got my ration of powder each day, I’d pretend it was fresh and try to enjoy every mouthful. But after a while, I didn’t care. I needed it so badly, I’d have chewed the spoon and bowl if I thought there was more left.
“That’s being a Chooser,” flat and sure. “The longer I stay empty, the less I care who fills me.” A shudder. “Even if means I’ll be changed, like Bern—or Joined to someone who despises me, like Oswa. I have to offer Choice.”
Choice wasn’t supposed to dry your mouth and send a thrill of fear down every nerve, like hearing the footsteps of a predator at your back when there was nowhere safe to jump. It was supposed to be the joyous start of the rest of your life.
Maybe it was, for most. But wasn’t this also the truth? Aryl asked herself, refusing to flinch. That unChosen took Passage alone, in fear. That Choosers waited in an agony of need and uncertainty. That their union was beyond any control or reason, though it changed both forever.
Like riding the M’hir.
“Don’t listen to me,” Seru ordered shakily. “You’re a Sarc. It won’t be like this for you.” She managed to laugh. “You watch—you’ll Call handsome unChosen from every Clan, including Vyna. They’ll arrive all at once and beg for the touch of your hand. And bring sweets. I expect you—” archly, “—to share, Cousin.”
Aryl chuckled. “The unChosen or the sweets?”