All he had to do was find a way to impress the Vyna with his quality.
Tuana’s shops and homes were works of beauty. Intricate brick-work inlaid with precious wood, carved and polished. Metal bands, treated to bring out rainbow hues, at curves and angles. Light welcomed through sheets of clear surry. And what light. Until experiencing Yena’s canopy, Enris had taken for granted that huge arch of sky, with its star-laced dome at truenight. Until stumbling across mountain slopes, he’d given no thought to Tuana’s level roadway: how it connected buildings and fields, made easy the path to the meeting hall or Cloisters, and kept the Oud from driving where they shouldn’t. Usually.
Vyna differed in every way. The island thrust from the water like a jagged shard of metal protruding from a bin. Rooms had been cut from it, or rather into it—how, he couldn’t imagine, unless the Vyna worked rock the way other Om’ray worked wood. The result wasn’t a village but a single building, little more than a room’s width at its narrowest, but tens of levels high. He’d been housed close to the top. Walkways stepped and staggered around its girth, sometimes meeting platforms overhung by arches, at others taking abrupt turns to end at blank walls as if waiting for a forgotten door.
No dirt. No dust. Mist curled in corners, scattered beneath glows, blunted sharp edges. Vines trailed from irregular openings high overhead, self-conscious against the black rock, withered at their tips.
If there were differences between homes, storerooms, or shops, none showed from outside. He could pick any door, go inside…Enris snorted, hearing his mother’s voice in his head. ‘Poor manners make a poor guest.’”
His father wasn’t the only one with sayings.
Still…it could be time for supper. Maybe that was why he’d seen no one. Surely even a stranger under a death sentence being ignored by an entire Clan could walk in and share a family’s meal.
Despite not sensing any Om’ray here, Enris paused and sniffed hopefully near one of the always-open arches. Not food, but…he sniffed again and coughed. Musty. Damp. Like the back corner of a storehouse in spring. Old.
The whole place was musty and old, he decided with a grimace. It didn’t matter how clean it appeared, how perfect. There was rot somewhere.
Up was—he leaned back to see—an appalling number of steps without any change.
Enris picked down.
Down meant around as well. By the time he reached the lowest level, Enris had circled Vyna twice. His feet hurt and he was unhappy, being, as Aryl would doubtless point out, too easily ruled by his stomach. His shrinking stomach. Fine for Yena to starve themselves, he grumbled to himself. None of them were his size.
From above, he’d spotted three bridges connecting the island and wall, each a stretch of black rock barely wide enough for a child. That he’d needed to be led by the hand on his arrival—and almost fallen off every other step—was proof. The mist obscured most of their length, but two ended in tunnel-like openings into the mountainside, lit by glows. The third didn’t come out of the mist. Perhaps it wasn’t finished.
The last step. Enris greeted the platform at the water’s edge with a groan of relief. It stretched to either side, matched to the sharp, irregular lines of the island itself. Beside him, the upraised tips of floating craft pretended to be a forest. Instead of being tossed by a breeze, they rose, leaned, and settled with the water’s movement. Not that he could see the water through the mist. It fingered its way up the sides of the craft, pooled against the black edge of the platform. Steps disappeared into it, as well as the light from the glows.
Plenty of Om’ray here, shadows without voice. They looked at him as they passed with hooks and mesh over their shoulders, sidelong looks without welcome or curiosity. As if to see where he stood, so they could avoid him.
Which only worked if he let it, Enris thought, amused. He planted himself in the path of the next burdened Vyna and smiled widely. “Need help with that?”
This didn’t get the reaction he’d hoped. Every Vyna in earshot stopped what they were doing to glare at him. HUSH! The sending was from more than one.
With an undertone of fear.
Of him? Not judging by the disdain on the face of the Om’ray he’d interrupted.
A familiar face. Deep-set eyes, a prominent chin and heavy cheekbones, skin so pale it reflected the light from the nearest glow. Tall, bone-thin. Like Fikryya, his hair was hidden beneath a tight cap, this one green and blue, with tassels of blue hanging to his shoulders and down his back. Unlike the Chooser, he wore a snug-fitting yellow tunic, overwritten with black symbols, that went to his knees and left his arms bare. Scrawny arms, like a child’s. No, that was an insult to young Ziba, whose arms were ribboned with muscle.
Enris felt thick.
Though he had no idea why his voice upset them, he gestured apology. May I help? he sent, careful to maintain his shields.
The Vyna shrugged the mesh from his shoulder to the platform. Bring that. Once Enris moved aside, he walked to the nearest step and disappeared into the mist. This way.
If there was anticipation and a not-pleasant amusement in the sending, the Tuana chose to ignore them.
He picked up the mesh and put it over his shoulder.
It was a start.
The craft of the Vyna were metal, not wood as he’d expected, and extraordinarily simple. The shape, like a curled leaf, was hammered from a single thin sheet. Enris ran his hand along the side, imagining how it would have been poured and cooled to retain its strength. Folds reinforced the top edge and midline. Wide, lengthwise bars created a floor; he had to be careful not to wedge his boot in their gap. There were two narrower bars across the width. After climbing over the side—in his case, a graceless struggle made worse by the damp footing of the steps—the two Vyna leaned back against one of those bars, mesh bundled beside them, their expressions impassive.
He leaned on the other and smiled. I’m Enris Mendolar.
The silence, inner and outer, was almost painful. Then, Daryouch. The older Vyna, who’d given him the mesh to carry.
Etleka. The other Vyna. UnChosen. A son, he guessed. The similarity between the two, and to Fikryya, must mean close kin.
Of the same family?
Of Vyna. This from Daryouch, with a snap of impatience, as if Enris asked a stupid question. Make no sound once the float begins to move.
Move how? Enris couldn’t see any mechanism or device to—
Power. He sensed it, felt it. But—
The float, as Daryouch named it, slipped away from the steps, mist parting as if to let it through, then closing in behind.
The Tuana almost laughed in amazement. They were using Power to move their float—and themselves—across the water. The control required outstripped anything he’d imagined. He had to learn this. He’d been right to come.
The only sound was their breathing and the slide of water along the metal sides. Mist poured into the float, swirling and damp. At times, it obscured everything below their waists, so they might have been sitting in a cloud. The sky above was masked as well. Nothing to see in any direction. If it hadn’t been for his sense of other Om’ray, Enris would have been lost.
That and the smell. The must of old rot was stronger out here.
The float came to a stop.
Ready the net.
Etleka held out one side of the mesh. The Tuana took it, watching carefully as the other Om’ray demonstrated, with his two-thumbed hands, how to grip a thicker edge rope in one and take a handful of the fine mesh in the other. Raise it like this.