Did the past leave its trace? Something to touch a mind in the present? If so, Aryl feared she knew where it would be. That darkness between minds, the whirling seductive abyss through which she’d sent Bern and traveled with Enris—whenever she’d allowed herself to enter it, she’d felt it wasn’t empty. There was a sense of being observed, of some intangible presence.
Her mother, Taisal di Sarc, claimed the minds of the dead lingered there, able to lure the living from their bodies. She wasn’t sure she believed Taisal, though it was true the darkness drew as much as terrified her. Just to think of it, standing here on this mountain in the middle of nowhere, brought it swelling into awareness, like the irresistible pressure of the M’hir Wind against her innermost self.
If she let herself go, it would carry her away.
Aryl worried her tongue at a stubborn crumb of bread lodged beside a tooth, studied the faces of those nearby, stamped her worn, damp boots against the ground until her feet were warm. She held to the real, to what was here and now. After a too-long struggle, the other place receded. All was improbably normal.
She shuddered. Dangerous. Deadly. That darkness was part of Taisal since the death of her Chosen, Mele, Aryl’s father; it was part of those less fortunate Lost, whose minds no longer functioned.
And part, Aryl admitted, of her as well.
As for Seru? Was it the source of her dread?
Aryl knew better than to reach for her cousin. This was not the time or place for extra risk. She took another bite and frowned. As for her find? This wasn’t the time or place to spread the news a Chosen had died here either.
She’d show Enris, but he was inconsiderately out of reach. Or…there was someone she could trust to keep this secret.
Aryl tucked away her bread and started to climb.
While the others rested, Veca Kessa’at had climbed to a vantage point to pick out their route. The tall, rangy Om’ray had been a promising young scout, until Joining Tilip Sarc. After Choice, like many, she turned to an occupation posing less risk to both their lives and became a woodworker like Tilip and her grandmother, Morla Kessa’at. Their quiet son, Fon, though younger than Aryl, showed the same interest. A valued, productive family.
Yena’s Council had exiled him with his parents and great-grandmother—why, she couldn’t imagine.
Veca’s teeth bared in what wasn’t a smile as Aryl joined her on the spit of rock. “Got any ideas?” she half shouted, gesturing over the edge.
“That bad?” Coat fluttering, Aryl braced herself and looked down, forewarned by a roar that wasn’t wind.
The sheer drop at her feet wasn’t the problem, though the scar in the rock was fresh and angry. They had sufficient ropes to get everyone down. Once at the bottom, though, they’d be trapped. Instead of the narrow ribbons of water they’d encountered thus far, barely worth a jump, here an angry torrent tore down the ravine. White fists slammed against huge boulders or bullied their way between in muscular currents. Directly below, Aryl watched the water plunge over a rock step. Clouds of spray, like snowdrops, obscured its fate.
And everywhere, the hard glitter of ice. It coated the boulders. It grew from the rocky banks like teeth.
“That bad,” Aryl agreed. They couldn’t cross this.
Veca squatted on her heels and rubbed one hand over her face. Weariness smudged the skin under her eyes; worry tightened the edges of her mouth. “Your friends’ flying machine would be nice about now.”
It was the first time any of the exiles had mentioned the strangers or their help. Aryl copied Veca’s position, then gestured apology with sore, numb fingers. “Do you think I was wrong to tell them to stay away from us?”
Veca had deep-set blue eyes. Now they held a warning. “I’m no Councillor to say what others should do.”
Implying she had? Aryl tucked her hands under her arms to warm them. “The strangers seek old things. They aren’t interested in Om’ray.” Or hadn’t been, until they’d recognized some of their words, words she’d used in their first meeting.
Marcus Bowman, Human, Triad First, Analyst, Trade Pact: all those words named the stranger who’d brought his machine to save the exiles from certain death, carrying them through the air to refuge with Grona Clan. He and those with him were from other worlds, if she continued to believe what seemed incredible now, back among her kind. Om’ray in appearance, unreal to her other, deeper sense.
She’d saved his life. He’d saved theirs.
Friend?
Trouble, Aryl assured herself. Because of the strangers’ curiosity, Yena’s annual Harvest had resulted in the deaths of too many, including her brother Costa. Because of Marcus’ interest in her words, one or more factions of Tikitik had turned on Yena itself. As a result, those deemed likely to cause even more change and disruption had been exiled.
“The strangers are no friends of mine,” she declared finally. “Or of any Om’ray. We’re better off without their machines or attention.”
“Best we join your plodder on the flats, then.” Veca’s move to rise stopped, her eyes riveted on what Aryl held out for her inspection. She sank back on her heels, taking the metal headdress in both hands. “Where did you find this?”
“With the remains of its owner.” Aryl gestured. “On our path, among the stones.”
Veca spread the headdress across one broad, callused palm. Its simple counterpart wrapped her thick brown hair, braids of red thread connected by small wooden rings. Such a flimsy net could never control Taisal’s opinionated hair, or Myris’, Aryl thought, distracted. A Sarc trait. Kessa’ats were more restrained. “Did she die alone?” Veca asked, a wondering finger tracing the tarnished links.
Aryl shrugged. “I didn’t see more bones, but I didn’t stay to look. Have you seen—” she hesitated. What was she asking?
“All I’ve seen, young Aryl, is rock and snow. With more rock and snow. Despicable place. As for this?” The Chosen tipped her hand to pour the metal net into Aryl’s. “A mystery too old to matter to us.” She rose to her feet, Aryl doing the same. Standing, the older Om’ray easily looked over her head, and did so now. “Down it is,” she mused. “That way.” Louder, with a sidelong glance, “Did you show anyone else?”
“No.”
“Don’t.” The word was said heavily. “Confidence is what stands between life and a fall. Might not be the Lay below us. Doesn’t matter. These rocks will do the job just as quick. We can’t afford doubt—not of the next handhold, not of where we’re going. Not until we’re safe for truenight.” A tired smile. “Now, young one. Save my legs and call them for me, will you?”
How strange, to have others know and value her abilities like this, to use them at need. All her life, Taisal had taught her to keep her differences secret. The Adepts claimed new Talent, tested it, and locked it away in the Cloisters to maintain the Agreement. Her mother had wanted her to be an Adept. She’d chosen freedom.
Not that all secrets were out, she thought wryly, then concentrated. Time to go, she sent to the rest, adding with what confidence she could, Veca’s found an easier path.
That worthy laughed. “Downhill, at any rate.”
Aryl closed her fingers over the headdress. “What if Seru’s not dreaming? What if we’re going somewhere Om’ray have died?”
Another laugh, but this one bitter. “Haven’t you noticed by now, Aryl? It’s the living you have to watch out for. You needn’t fear the dead.”
Interlude
ENRIS MENDOLAR STEPPED OVER A tiny stream ribboned in ice and asked himself, again, what he was doing here.
He gauged the dark, roiling clouds with a wary eye. The snow might be done; the storm wasn’t. He refused to look up the horrible cliff. The Yena were beyond comprehension. There was nothing wrong with flat, normal ground. A few more steps, that’s all.