“The inner doors and levels open in the same way, but only to those bearing the ‘di.’ ” She paused. “So all of us will.”
Enris had preened, however insincerely. Seru had been dismayed. Haxel frowned thoughtfully. “A change.”
The words were profound. The Agreement that kept the peace between the races of Cersi forbade change. Yet nothing stayed the same. Not and survived. An unseen ripple of dread passed through them all. Could they taste it?
Aryl squeezed her Chosen’s hand, then released it, taking her Speaker’s Pendant in the same still-warm palm. “A change,” she agreed, her voice ringing. “For the better. For our future.” She could see it all, clear and certain. Could they? “We claim a new closeness with one another. We claim the same rights and responsibilities as each other. We refuse to let Power divide us! We are all Sona.”
“Sona!” Eyes gleamed. Shouts echoed throughout the hall. “Sona!”
Words slipped into her mind, heavy with conviction. Now who’s the fool?
When Aryl looked for Naryn, she’d vanished into the jubilant crowd.
“A full fist and we’re still finding new rooms.” Haxel perched on a step, taking a cup with an absent gesture of gratitude. The morning was crisp and they kept a pot of sombay—a gift from Marcus—warm by the watch fire. She squinted at Aryl through whorls of steam. “Empty ones.”
“Oran—”
The First Scout’s grin whitened the scar that ran from eye to jaw. “Ah. Our illustrious Keeper. Dreamed anything of use yet?”
Aryl grimaced. According to Hoyon, his niece—the relationship abruptly worth announcing at every opportunity—had indeed been accepted by Sona’s Cloisters. For what good it did. “No. They tell me it’s normal for a new Keeper to have trouble sorting the dreams, to learn fine control—”
“Empty rooms and an empty head.” Haxel snorted. “We should let your Human help search.” A sly look. “I’d like to see what he’d find.”
Not the first time the First Scout had made such a suggestion. She should have realized nothing would keep those too-keen eyes from studying Marcus Bowman and his camp. Aryl stiffened, prepared to argue.
With a warmer smile, Haxel raised her cup. “Don’t worry. I know better than to trouble peaceful neighbors. Speaking of which,” all innocence, “when’s your next meeting with the Oud?”
Nothing innocent at all. So far, the most successful outcome of Aryl’s negotiation with the Oud had been their absence. She’d insisted they refrain from tunneling beneath Sona itself, and remove their existing tunnel entrance on the far side of the river. There hadn’t been a Visitation since, which was fine with Sona’s Speaker. “I did tell them to stay away,” she pointed out.
“Helping me sleep through truenight.” Unlikely. Haxel brought up a booted foot and rested her arm on one knee. Her gray hair was always quiet, as if cowed by her will. A secret she’d like to learn, Aryl thought as hers tested its net. But the long-ago Sona crafted well. A larger version, Enris averred with his usual tact, would hold a Tikitik esask. A shame it left the fall down her back free to express itself. “There are always,” the First Scout mused, “Oud around the Stranger camp.”
Visit Marcus? Aryl did her best to look serious, but doubted she fooled the other Om’ray. Between her duties as Speaker and work in the fields—and his frequent visitors—there’d been too few chances to see her Human friend. For he was that, a friend.
Sure enough, Haxel drained her cup and showed it to her, empty. “Just don’t forget to ask about the river.”
Sona’s road to the waterfall showed little signs of use. Haxel and her scouts patrolled the valley, but stayed to the shadowed walls. She had four, now: their Looker, Weth Teerac—di Teerac, Aryl corrected to herself—and Aryl’s uncle Ael d’sud Sarc were of Yena, along with two Tuana Runners: the di Licor sisters, Josel and Netta. The Runners, according to Haxel, showed rare aptitude for the work. Enris, amused, thought it more likely the way their remarkable dappled skin matched the local rock. No others could be spared, not yet. Their patrols were also hunting expeditions. Being Yena, Haxel deemed it prudent to keep the valley clear of large predators and free of ambush. The hook-claw that buried itself in loose dirt was easily found, if less easily killed. The rock hunters?
They showed prudence of their own, and were now scarce on the valley floor. Scarce wasn’t the same as absent. Aryl watched the shadows for movement.
“I’ve an idea.” Enris slipped his arm around her waist as they walked. “Why don’t you relax and enjoy all this?”
Aryl blinked up at him. “Enjoy what?”
His free arm waved expansively, as if it were necessary to include the entire world in the gesture. “This. Time.”
Time. “We should have ’ported,” she said, wondering again how she’d lost that argument. “Walking leaves us less time with Marcus.”
His hand tugged at her belt. “While I enjoy his company, too, I think you’re confused, my dear Chosen. Walking means—” he nuzzled her ear, “—we have more time together.”
We’re always together.
“But rarely alone.”
Aryl slowed her pace. They hadn’t brought packs, only longknives and flasks of water at their belts, a small bag with a gift for Marcus. She eyed the rough rock and dusty paving stones dubiously. “Can’t you wait?”
Enris roared with laughter and swept her up despite her protest. Holding her over his head, big hands easily spanning her waist, he brought her down for a quick kiss, then put her lightly—and now breathless—back on her feet. “Conversation, my wild little Yena. Though” a flash of heat “I’d be a most happy mattress.”
“ ‘Conversation.’ ” Not about Marcus and his healing machine. She hated to disappoint Enris, but this she couldn’t—“You already know what I think—”
“About visiting other Clans?” He took a longer stride, then turned to walk backward, facing her. Fine on a flat stretch. “No, I don’t.”
“Visiting . . . why?” Enris had visited more Clans than any other Om’ray, having been to Yena, Grona, and distant Vyna. Two of the three had almost cost him his life. “We aren’t ready to find others who could learn to ’port.” Mealtimes, around the communal fire, the notion regularly spun itself around, only to waft away like smoke. How could they contain the secret if it spread? What if such Om’ray came to Sona, who couldn’t feed more, not yet? Worst of all, what if they offended the Oud or Tikitik before they could negotiate a change—that word—to the Agreement? “It’s too dangerous.”
“Of course it is.” He almost tripped on a tilted stone and hopped instead. She restrained herself. Far be it from her to dissuade him from being lighter-of-foot. “But we could trade.”
Aryl stopped. Trade was a Tuana concept; she forced aside her Yena aversion for his sake. “Trade what?”
“We’d have to open the rest of the mounds, assess what we could spare. Coats. Baskets. We could hunt for more metalwork.”
They did, she admitted reluctantly, have an overabundance of coats. “And what would we trade for?”
“Food. Tai said Amna catches more swimmers than they can eat—other Clans may have extra. New boots from Grona before next winter. Tools. My father—I’ve heard Rayna does fine metalwork. If we had such tools—and the Oud would build a furnace—I could work metal again. Yuhas is willing to learn the skill. Improve our blades. Replacements! Think of it, Aryl.”
He’d omitted Vyna because its Om’ray rejected contact with any others. He’d omitted Yena because . . .
Because, Aryl thought sadly, her former Clan had nothing left.