Making the Oud changeable. Another complication. Aryl gave a resigned sigh. “What do the Oud call them?”
A quizzical look. “Why do you care?”
“I’m Sona’s Speaker. I can hardly ask the Oud to keep their ‘Torments’ away. I need their word. The right word.” She sounded like the Human, Aryl thought to herself, suddenly amused.
“You’d ask?”
Tired as she was, Aryl grinned at Naryn’s startled expression. “Our First Scout doesn’t like surprises.”
“She’d best get used to them, then.” The other Om’ray traced the top ring of her cup with a long finger. “The Oud don’t give warnings. Not ones we understand, anyway. They simply act for whatever twisted reasons. Look at us. We didn’t know where they were taking us…if they’d drop us down a pit and leave us to die…if they’d abandon us past the end of the world where the sun would never shine again.” Naryn’s finger stopped. “Then you were there. I knew we were safe. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Was she truly to blame for every ill on Cersi, Aryl thought wearily, or only for those that climbed into her home? “The Oud weren’t punishing you. They found and brought you here because—” she braced herself, “—because of us.”
“Of you? Why?”
Where did she start? Aryl looked into Naryn’s pale, exhausted face and sighed. Stick to what mattered. “The Oud felt we needed more Om’ray to be a proper Clan. They found you and brought you here. Their Speaker told me. In a way.” She pulled back the sleeve; the wristband caught the light. “It gave me this two days ago.” Before it was killed—something else that didn’t matter now. She took it off, reluctantly, and held it out. “It’s from—”
“That’s mine!” Naryn’s eyes fixed on the green metal band. “The Oud surrounded us. Took what we carried. Bags, packs. The others lost more. All I had…clothes, water…that.” Her hand began to reach for the wristband, then stopped in midair. She drew it back, drew within herself until to Aryl’s inner sense she was almost invisible. “Keep it. A gift, not a trade.”
Enris had shared his memory of making the wristband, not its owner, but Aryl smiled warmly as she replaced it on her arm. “Thank you. Don’t worry about clothing or supplies, Naryn. We’ve enough for all.” And ample water lay drifted against the walls, the storm’s gift. “Sona takes care—”
A furious shout shattered the peace. “We shouldn’t be here!”
“Mannerless igly.” Deeper, just as angry. “You think it’s our fault? We were fine till you came. Uninvited. Unprepared. Fools.”
Aryl rose to her feet; Naryn stayed seated, her hands around her cup.
Two Tuana were standing in front of each other, both red-faced with emotion. She wasn’t surprised to find the deep voice had come from the runner, Suen sud Annk. The older, much tougher Om’ray glared down at Deran Edut, one of the complainers. He glared defiantly back—between quick glances to Mauro.
While Mauro Lorimar leaned comfortably on his elbows, apparently at ease.
UnChosen games, Aryl judged it. Trick a fool into stirring a stinger nest, while you watched from a safe perch.
The emotions beginning to turn in the room made it no game. The stolen Tuana were justly upset, ready to blame someone for their plight. She noticed Rorn and Syb easing their way toward the two; Haxel’s doing. She’d tolerate no disruption, not when they were all so close.
Not when outside was only the storm.
Aryl climbed on the table and held up her pendant. “If you want to go home,” she said in her best Speaker voice, “I’ll try to explain that to the Oud.”
The eldest runner, a craggy-faced Om’ray named Galen sud Serona, stood. Their leader, she judged. “We are grateful to you and to Sona. Including those of us who don’t act it—” This with a lash of focused irritation that stung even Mauro, by his wince. “But Tuana knows the Oud better than most. There’s no explaining that won’t make things worse. They start in a direction—” he shrugged broad shoulders, “—and all Om’ray can do is get off the road. If they want us here, here we stay.”
The rest of his Clan looked unhappy, but no one disagreed.
Haxel stepped up. “I don’t care who brought you. You’re welcome, if you’re willing to work.” The two appraised each other for a moment. They were, Aryl thought, amused, as alike as a thin, scarred Yena scout and a bulky old Tuana runner could possibly be.
Rorn diverted to get another bowl of soup, a move that relaxed all the exiles.
Suen eased back, but the younger Tuana wasn’t done. “Welcome where?” Deran shouted, waving his arm at the hall. “The tunnels were better!”
“We can take you back to them,” Haxel assured him cheerfully, bringing a smile to more than a few faces.
Not to Oran’s. A tingle of apprehension ran down Aryl’s spine as she noticed the rapt attention the Grona Adept paid to this exchange.
Kor sud Lorimar, the Chosen from Mauro’s group, as Aryl began to call the sulkers to herself, laid his hand on Deran’s arm. With so strong a resemblance, they could be brothers. Deran made an abrupt gesture of apology and sat.
His shields weren’t as tight as they should be. Aryl wasn’t the only one to sense the bitter anger he sent, not at Haxel or the runners, but at Naryn. Suen slammed his hand flat on the table. “Enough!”
All the other Tuana looked at him then, resentment on their faces; unhappiness on that of Suen’s Chosen, Lymin, heavy with their unborn. All but Naryn, who hadn’t turned around once. Tension flared, tension that none of the Sona understood.
What sort of mess had the Oud brought them?
Haxel pursed her lips, then threw a glance at Aryl. No need for a sending.
Aryl jumped down from the table. “Firstlight will be here before we know it,” she told Naryn. “Care to share my home?”
It wasn’t the kindest invitation. Once outside, Aryl discovered lights were useless; there was no watchfire. Someone had secured ropes between the buildings early in the storm. Whether dream-memory or Grona advice, it was the only guide through the bite and howl of wind-driven snow—unless they went back to talk Weth into that service.
Aryl pulled her scarf over her mouth. This way.
You’re sure?
The wry tone made her smile. Unless the roof’s fallen in.
The roof had bulged down at one end, but still held. Someone—perhaps the same helpful Om’ray who’d tied the rope—had brought one of the oilburners for heat. Aryl lit it gratefully, adding its glow to the oillights. Within a few moments, the shelter, sparse as it was, began to warm.
And drip. Snow had blown into the cracks—helping seal out the wind, but now melting in the heat. Naryn helped move the now-larger pile of bedding into the center. There was more than enough, perhaps in anticipation of their new arrivals. Who, Aryl wondered, had they thought would want to sleep with her?
Not any of the unChosen, that was for sure. As for her new companion? “I should warn you. The reason I sleep away from the rest—”
“Let me guess.” Naryn, having made a nest of blankets, burrowed beneath them still in her snowy coat, scarf, and boots. She grinned over the top. “You snore.”
Did she? Aryl let herself be distracted. “I don’t think so. No one’s mentioned it.” She hung her coat and took off her boots. “Toss me yours. I’ll put them where they’ll dry.”
Silence. Apprehension.
Aryl turned, careful to make the motion unhurried. Enris had found Yena movements disturbingly quick; so might Naryn. Instead of seeking her share of the blankets, she crouched by the oilburner, pretended to check its flame. The rough stone was cold on her bootless feet, but she waited. Something was very wrong. Haxel trusted her to find out what, for Sona’s sake.