There, in relative peace, her body would take its mature form—a mysterious change Aryl, for one, wasn’t in a hurry to experience. Imagine the impact on balance, she fussed to herself. Let alone clothing.
She hoped Seru was all right.
Seru’s Chosen, meanwhile, could wait. His body would also change over the next hours, but apparently not in ways that required new clothes.
She didn’t want to know.
Sona was content.
She was so tired her bones ached.
“You want to know how long we’ve been here?” Aryl propped her chin on one hand and fingered her thin rope of dayknots. Seru’s cleverness. Clever and kind, her cousin. She’d tie the second tassel tonight. “Two fists, tomorrow.”
“Only that?” Naryn wrapped her long white fingers around her steaming cup; she still wore a scarf around her head and the coat they’d provided, as if chilled through, but didn’t complain. Her eyes, large, blue, and fiercely bright, darted from hooks to oillights to the newly-made tables. Her voice would be lovely, once its hoarse cough eased. “Well done. You’ve made a home.”
“We’ve made a Clan,” Aryl corrected firmly. She wanted no misconceptions about what Sona was, or what they offered.
A dimple appeared. “So you have.”
Aryl yawned, her jaw cracking, and gestured apology. No one suggested sleep; the Om’ray in the packed meeting hall were too aware of each other, too curious and unsettled. Without doubt, the Tuana were too rattled by their experience to relax any time soon.
One hand left the cup to rest warm and strong over hers. Here.
Strength flooded her body from that confident touch, driving back her exhaustion. Aryl blinked in surprise. “I didn’t need—”
Naryn clutched her cup again. “You drained yourself for us. A fair trade.”
Trade. Enris had explained the disquieting concept. Tuana was a Clan of such abundance they had time to produce more than the essentials, had individuals and families who no longer worked for the survival of the whole, but instead produced ornaments and goods distributed not by need, but by exchange for objects deemed of equal value. The wristband the Oud had given her, now against her skin, was one such item—not that Enris hadn’t worked for his entire Clan.
Yena did not trade; they worked hard and they shared what they had. Sona-that-had-been? Her dream-memories were silent on that detail, but their stored wealth suggested they could have. Sona-that-would-be?
“There are no debts or trades here,” Aryl said stiffly. A hope, perhaps futile. They had so many Tuana now.
So many and in two neat groups. The first, nine strong, were all members of three families: Serona, Licor, and Annk. Different from one another; similar in manner. They sat close together, spoke quietly and courteously to those around them but listened more. Appreciative but cautious. They—and their sturdy, dark clothing—had suffered the least from the rough handling of the Oud. One, Tai sud Licor, was unusual enough even Aryl caught herself staring at his face, skin dappled like the pattern of sunlight through leaves. He’d come on Passage from Amna, where that coloring was common. His two daughters, shy but beginning to smile at Ziba’s fascinated attention, were dappled like their father and startlingly tall, with shoulders to rival any Yena male’s.
Not yet Choosers. Aryl was dismayed to be sure, just as she was sure the other unChosen, the Seronas’ son, was ready for Choice. He kept his head down as if to be unnoticed, his black hair—which reminded her of Enris—tumbling over his eyes.
A group with sensible boots and gloves, used to heavy work by their hands—little wonder Haxel radiated distinct satisfaction whenever she looked at them.
She radiated nothing at all when she looked at the others.
Those five sat closest to the hearth, wearing Sona undercoats over the tattered remnants of what had been not-sensible clothing. The fabric—before being dragged through dirt and snow by the Oud—reminded her of flitter wings, brilliantly colored and smooth. Pretty, Aryl told herself, trying to be charitable. Ridiculous, she decided, giving up the effort.
The clothes—completed by ornate, cold-looking footwear—were only the start. These had never worked a day in their lives, as far as she could tell. No calluses. Their movements were awkward and slow, their faces and bodies plump by Yena standards. They sat in sullen silence, although one, newly Chosen from the way she clung to her Choice, wiped fresh tears from her cheeks every time her face left his sleeve and she saw where they were.
Aryl’s inner sense persisted in sorting the new arrivals. Of the sullen five, one was a Chooser, pointedly not looking at her. Beko Serona. Another eligible unChosen. He glared at those around them as if the Sona were to blame.
When he wasn’t staring at her. Deran Edut was his name, lean for a Tuana, with a pinched face that made Aryl think of sour fruit.
Last of the five, Mauro Lorimar, was the one who rivaled Enris in size, though he moved like something soft. When he noticed Aryl’s attention, his full lips spread in a triumphant smile.
Seru’s Chosen. Mauro sud Parth.
Aryl found the tabletop of overwhelming interest.
“Never back down from Mauro,” Naryn advised quietly. “He likes it too much. Deran? You needn’t worry—he hasn’t the Power for you. Ezgi might. The Serona runner.”
“‘Runner?’” Aryl managed.
A nod at Haxel’s favorites, and the unChosen a little too obviously avoiding her eye. “They scavenge abandoned tunnels—we don’t have the wood you do.” This with an envious pat on the table. “Running’s all they can do if the Oud reshape.”
Hence their alert air, Aryl thought. Daring and resourceful. Haxel was going to like them even more once she knew. “The others aren’t.”
Her companion chuckled. “Their idea of risk is to trade for what runners bring up. After all, that defies Council edict. As if anyone really obeys it. Though Mauro—he takes bigger chances.” Her lips closed after that and Aryl sensed her withdrawal behind tightened shields.
Naryn didn’t belong to either group, she realized abruptly. Not the only puzzle she posed. The other Om’ray might be close to her age, but she wasn’t a Chooser—that she could sense, anyway. Not Chosen, surely, though she didn’t attempt to reach to find that bond. Powerful, controlled. Trained. That she did know. “You’re an Adept,” she guessed, frowning.
“No.” This with a flash of some emotion, hidden so quickly Aryl couldn’t be sure of more than disturbance. Naryn gestured apology. “It’s been a difficult—I don’t know how long it’s been,” she admitted. “There’s no truenight in the tunnels, no dawn. It’s all the same. Suen—my uncle’s cousin and heart-kin, Suen sud Annk—promised I’d get used to it.” Aryl felt her shiver. “The Oud came first.”
“You’re safe now,” she said awkwardly, sending reassurance.
“We believed we were being punished,” a low strained whisper. “The Oud forbid trespassing. None of us had tokens. Mauro, the fool, tried sending to Tuana for help—my head still hurts from the Oud’s reaction to that.” A grimace invited Aryl’s sympathy.
Which she’d give, if she understood. “What reaction? We’ve never experienced a—problem—with using Power near the Oud here.”
“Imagine running as fast as you can, then stubbing your bare toes on a rock.”
Aryl frowned. “I’d jump it.”
Naryn’s chuckle turned to a cough. She took a sip. “Yena. Of course. Though not-real, a few Oud have something like an Om’ray’s Power. Like, but different enough, believe me. Put them together? Nausea. Headache. Dizzy—”
“Oud have Power?” Not a pleasant thought. Not pleasant at all.
“Not many. Adepts don’t like admitting it, but it’s hardly a secret. We call them Torments. Tuana has had more than its share lately.”