Aryl’s heart pounded. “Why are we—why would Choosers dream?”
The other bent her head, rubbing her cheek against Yao’s soft curls. Her own hair moved restlessly, but didn’t disturb the child. “I don’t know. But…A few years ago,” she said so quietly Aryl had to strain to hear, “a sickness came. It weakened the eldest first, and the children. The Adepts stayed in the Cloisters, searching the records—” while a young mother waited outside, alone, and in fear, Aryl thought with pity.
“One truenight,” Oswa went on, “our Choosers, all of them, dreamed the same memory. A teaching dream, sent out of the Cloisters as well as to the Adepts within. The sickness came from one of our plants. Because of the rain and cold during harvest, it had a growth inside that made a poison. We had only to stop eating it. The Adepts rushed from the Cloisters to save us—” a note of triumph “—but we had already saved ourselves.”
The Sona Cloisters, sealed and abandoned. Could it have been sending dreams all this time, Aryl wondered, trying to save a people who no longer existed?
“I dreamed,” she said, picking up the splinter and reinking it from Oswa’s little pot, “that everyone in Sona learned to read and write. Even unChosen.”
When Aryl looked up, Oswa Gethen was smiling.
“I don’t trust either of them.”
Aryl traded looks with Seru, who gave a pained lift of her eyebrows. Cetto sud Teerac had been a Councillor for Yena, confident of his authority and purpose until handed a token of exile with the rest. Husni had taken the Adepts’ betrayal of her Chosen and family personally indeed.
“We’ve seen it,” she said now, driving a needle through fabric with unnecessary force. “Adepts have their own schemes and plans. None for the good of ordinary Om’ray. You saw that, young Aryl.”
Since her own mother had been one of those Adepts, there wasn’t much Aryl could do besides gesture agreement.
“Oran healed Myris and Chaun,” her cousin spoke up.
“That one?” Husni made a rude noise. “Smaller stitches, Seru,” she ordered, “or the cold will find its way in.”
Aryl slipped to the floor beside Seru, crossing her legs comfortably. Much as it pained her—and much as she inwardly agreed—there was nothing to be gained if Husni continued to speak against the Adepts. “I’m not suggesting you trust them,” she began, sending sincerity through her shields.
Another jab of the needle. “Never will. Never!”
“But Sona is a fresh start for all of us. Including Oran and Hoyon.” Who, despite being worked as never before, showed no signs of leaving. “We should give them a chance to prove themselves.”
Husni, who had no hesitation expressing herself when away from her larger-than-life, outspoken Chosen, made a rude noise. “They talk about you, too, young Aryl, and not words you’d like to hear. ‘Forward.’ ‘Doesn’t know her place.’ ‘Just an unChosen, barely more than a child.’ ‘Who does she think she is, ordering everyone?’ ‘Haxel’s favorite doesn’t have to do real work.’”
Aryl’s lips twitched. “Here I thought that’s what you said about me.”
Wrinkles creased in a wicked smile. “Of course. But to your face. Though you haven’t done badly for a Sarc.” The smile disappeared. Husni laid her hands on the pile of clothing in her lap. “Mark what I say. The two from Grona mean you no good and they’ve found fools to listen. If Sona is a fresh start, is that what we want? Secrets? Spite behind shields? You should do something.”
She had. It had only made things worse. Secrets indeed. Aryl wished she could believe all would be well once she could offer her people the ability to move through the M’hir. If she should. She’d give anything to have someone she trusted to talk to about it.
If only Enris had stayed…
The other two were watching her, Seru with a slight frown. Aryl rose to her feet. “What I have to do is catch up to Haxel. She’s waiting for me.”
“Don’t trust her either,” Husni grumbled, picking up her needle and giving the sleeve in her other hand a dire look. “Upstart Vendan with her notions.”
Aryl smiled sympathetically at Seru as she left.
The First Scout’s notion of a meeting place would have raised Husni’s hackles even more, Aryl thought with amusement as she climbed the rope ladder. Haxel, wanting a better vantage point to watch the valley, had built her own—a platform rising the height of three Om’ray from the top of the nearest mound. That this exposed whomever she assigned to watch to the full brunt of the ceaseless winter wind didn’t appear to bother her.
On second thought, Husni probably approved. Anything that smacked of their life in the canopy brought a gleam to her washed-out eyes. Climb a swinging rope to a perch that, to be honest, shook with every gust of wind?
Just like home.
Aryl swung herself up and onto the platform. Haxel waved at their surroundings from her perch on one edge. An invitation.
From here, she could see the Oud tunnel, the dead grove of nekis, and follow the road and river to the first bend in the valley. The snow that fell no longer melted by day, although the wind scoured it from any rise. The result erased shadows, leveled the landscape. Did snow keep the Oud underground?
Looking across the valley, the snow emphasized the pattern of pebble-filled ditches that led from the empty riverbed, a pretense of water.
Beyond that?
Aryl squinted at the formidable cliff on the other side. Beyond that was Vyna.
Deliberately, she turned. Looking down the valley, she found it easy to tell where the destruction of the Oud stopped and started. Not random. The village, the road from it, the wide open fields. Anywhere a Sona might have run to escape.
“Any sign of our little friends?” she asked. Haxel had become, as she succinctly put it, “familiar” with the Hard Ones. Hammer, ax, or burning fuel oil only made them roll away. Nothing daunted, Haxel had stayed with a group for the better part of two days, finally baiting them close with her rations. Hard Ones, she discovered, exposed a soft body part underneath to feed—what she called their “sweet spot.”
As well as triumph, she nursed broken toes. An unusually large Hard One had managed to pin her foot—an event Haxel dismissed as an excellent opportunity to test if jabbing a knife point up through the sweet spot was how they could be killed. It was.
But she wouldn’t eat one.
“They don’t cross the river,” the First Scout observed. “Or the ditches. My guess is the Sona knew how to keep them away. Have you dreamed anything about it?”
“I haven’t dreamed since coming back.” The others hadn’t either. It would have been helpful to know how to unlock the mound doors—or the Cloisters.
“Our Adepts claim it’s because we have what we need. That these ‘teaching dreams’ are for emergencies.” An undertone of frustration. The First Scout never enjoyed relying on the Power or knowledge of others.
Oran had had a difficult time believing in the dreams; after all, she’d had none. Aryl refused to argue the point. It hadn’t been necessary. Little Ziba had dismissed the Adept as “silly” in front of the entire Clan, then proceeded to demonstrate how to dismantle and clean one of the Sona oillights—a skill she’d never been taught.
Oran had believed then.
“What we need is water.” Aryl gazed up the valley again, feeling the wind redden her cheeks. So far, the road had been passable, though the cart had yet to roll. Morla refused to admit defeat, though the mechanism to let the round wheels turn smoothly remained a mystery. Veca built one design after another; Tilip busied himself with tables and benches, avoiding his wife’s mother as much as possible.
The road was passable—but only until another ice storm, or much more snow on the ground. At least that could be melted for water. “If I knew how to call the Oud,” Aryl said with her own frustration, “I would.”