The sun was a pale dot she could look at without pain, powerless against the cold that assailed her the instant she stopped moving. Her breath steamed from her mouth; the novelty had worn off. What interested Aryl lay ahead. She balanced the balls of her feet on the thin edge of rock and tried to make sense of the land before her.
Like the ravines cutting its sides, the valley itself narrowed and deepened as they moved toward its source, or rather the mountain ridge that was its far wall surged skyward here. Just as well they hadn’t been forced along its jagged, shadowed face. No further sign of the disturbance caused by the Oud—a relief—but the valley’s floor wasn’t as smooth as where its mouth opened to the Lay Swamp. Traces of snow clung to the leesides of low, even hills, emphasizing the smallest wrinkle of ground.
No wonder Haxel had kept going. There was no shelter here.
Puzzled by a broad depression that wound its way up the middle of the valley, Aryl let her gaze follow its irregular edge. It looked like a giant version of the annoying small rivers they’d crossed, but held no gleam of water, only drifts of snow. Perhaps the Oud had made it. It curled out of sight behind the ridge.
At that curve, she spotted a cluster of straight and crisscrossed lines, stark against the muted brown-gray and whites of the landscape. Aryl’s heart quickened. Only one thing she knew made that shape.
Nekis!
Too small to be the familiar giants that soared above all other growth in the groves. She refused to be disappointed. Possibly these were another kind of plant, or nekis stunted by the cold so high in the mountains. It didn’t matter. Yena could work with wood of any kind.
Aryl shivered. Or burn it for heat.
Haxel would have found that grove, she told herself as she descended after the others, her steps eager and sure. Rather than retrace where the rest had climbed, she moved farther down the ravine to catch up, a more direct path. They’d be busy erecting a shelter for them…there was nothing Yena couldn’t do with wood.
Distracted, Aryl almost stepped into a trap.
Almost. At the last instant, she glimpsed half-buried metal and flung herself away. She slid precipitously, grasping for handholds she’d marked as she jumped, missing the first…the second…There.
Hanging by one hand, Aryl froze in place, her feet suspended in midair. Pebbles continued to fall without her, pinging as they bounced off one another and the rock face. Before the last ping, she’d found a good hold for her other hand, a brace for one knee. A quick squirm and she was on her feet again.
She considered the piece of metal from a cautious distance, absently wiping blood and pebbles from her scraped palm on her coat. They needed to know the hazards here. Gingerly, ready to spring back, she crouched to brush snow, then dirt and small stones from around it, for the piece was set into a pile of such loose material. Some kind of snare, like those Yena hunters braided from wing threads. No. Something else.
Though the metal piece, a strap, did connect with others farther down, the whole was too fine and delicate to hold any prey worth catching.
Her fingers contacted something long and smooth to one side of the metal. She pulled it free, impatient for an answer.
Bone.
She laid it along her forearm, confirming her suspicion.
An Om’ray had died here.
“Some poor unChosen on Passage,” she decided aloud, but didn’t rise at once. The hem of her long coat collected snow as she reached for the piece of metal.
It resisted. Determined, she used the arm bone as a tool, first to loosen the dirt, then to pry at the metal. With a sudden pop and spray of stone, up it came, complete with skull.
Aryl rocked back on her heels. “Not unChosen,” she whispered.
The skull was damaged, the jaw and back missing. The two deep cavities where eyes should be looked at her below a forehead-spanning strap of green metal. The ends of that met fine chain; more straps rose above it and fell behind, trailing down where a neck should be.
Only one type of Om’ray wore such an elaborate headdress. Only one type needed such restraint—designed to tame willful hair.
“You were Chosen.”
Saying it made it no easier to comprehend. Mother, grandmother, aunt…a mature Chosen shouldn’t be wandering alone, shouldn’t be in this wasteland of rock. She’d heard flat-landers disposed of the empty husk by burial, but this lay on a path, as if it were where the Chosen had died.
What had happened here?
Aryl freed the headdress, leaving the bones where they were. She rubbed the front of the strap, feeling a texture suggestive of carving or inlay. It would have to be cleaned and polished, perhaps repaired. Remarkably light, for all its parts. Enris might know which Clan did such work.
Opening her coat, she carefully tucked the headdress inside her tunic. The cold metal stole heat from her skin.
Whatever Seru had experienced…was experiencing…
It wasn’t anything so innocent as a dream.
Perversely, her cousin appeared anything but afflicted by dreams or visions of death when Aryl rejoined the exiles. They’d stopped where a hollow made a welcome windbreak, a few standing, most sitting on packs. Husni leaned against Cetto, only her bright pale eyes showing past the layers of coats and wraps she’d bundled around her body and head. A small waterfall trickled listlessly to one side. Seru was helping Ziba refill water sacs, the two giggling as if the same age.
Aryl watched them as she accepted what Grona’s Om’ray called “travel bread” from her aunt. “How’s she been?”
Hesitantly, Myris touched her tongue to her own piece of the hard, bitter stuff. She gave a resigned shudder instead of taking a bite. “Terrified. Angry. Confused.” At Aryl’s raised eyebrow, she colored. “I didn’t pry, if that’s what you think. Seru’s emotions are—” a wince. “I’m not the only one avoiding her right now. No offense to the Parths, but I wish her shields were stronger.”
“Then she’d be able to hide whatever’s wrong.” Aryl dutifully nibbled the bread, taking her own lack of appetite as a warning. “What if they aren’t dreams, Myris? Some Om’ray can taste a coming change.” She happened to be one of them, though it was a thoroughly untrustworthy Talent. The metal headdress pressed against her waist, its mystery prompting her to press on. “Have you heard of anyone who could taste what happened before?”
“Seru?” They both looked toward the owner of the name—presently juggling an armload of full sacs as Ziba laughingly piled on more—then back at each other. Though her shields were impeccable, Myris’ hair squirmed in agitation within its net. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said after a moment. “I wouldn’t believe it if I did. What’s already been…surely it’s done. Done and gone. What could be left to affect a living mind? Memories flying around?” She tipped her bread through the air like a flitter after a biter. “These fancies of Seru’s will pass. It’s difficult for everyone—worse for your cousin. She must restrain powerful needs and instincts—hard under the best of conditions. I cried for days.” The bread wagged at Aryl. “One day, you’ll know the stress of being a Chooser.”
Impossible to argue with that, though Aryl resolved then and there she’d never cry when her time came. “Seru’s lucky to have you.”
“Maybe I can do more when we reach shelter,” Myris offered bravely. Her Talent to affect the emotions of others might be restricted to very close kin; it still took its toll on her, regardless of outcome.
Aryl gestured gratitude. “What you should do is eat,” she urged.
“I can’t. Not without something to wash it down. Ziba! One of those sacs, please?” Myris left in pursuit of water, a little too obviously avoiding Seru.