Reap the Wild Wind (18 page)

Chapter 15

W
ITHIN THREE FISTS OF THE M’hir’s weakening, the afternoon rains returned with a vengeance, deafening and deadly. They pounded walls of water between buildings, obscured bridges and ladders. It was impossible to find a grip to climb while they fell; they left every branch and stalk slick and treacherous, encouraged slimy growths that puffed a choking black dust if touched. The brief morning respite swirled with mists and swarms of returning biters. It was, in Aryl’s opinion, the worst season of all.
Council had ended the desperate hunt for dresel pods. There would be none left to find, none whole, that is. They’d done what they could; the precious extra stores were now hidden within the Cloisters. No Tikitik had ever set foot there, though if Yena fortunes held their course, they might.
Aryl made a wry face. Not something to say out loud, even if she dared admit having heard Council debate that very thing. It was too easy to be afraid of the future. She didn’t need to be told how important it was to keep trying. To keep working. If they were to survive as a Clan, it would be because no one gave up.
At least she need no longer worry about those on Passage from Yena. There were no more isolated glows of Om’ray life; all who’d survived had reached their destinations, their presence merged into the larger glow of their new clan. With an effort of will that surprised her by growing easier with time, Aryl resisted the temptation to
reach
for their identities. She now understood the reasons to be wary of new Talent. It was enough, she told herself, to know these Yena lived.
To know Bern lived.
She wished them joy.
Over the past fists Aryl had discovered, also to her surprise, a talent for coaxing along Costa’s greenery. There had been more sweetberries and, she thought proudly, a quite remarkable set of yellow-and-black gourds— type unknown— continued to ripen on the floor by one window panel. Maybe she’d paid more attention to his work than she realized.
“You’d probably grow without me,” she told the rustling leaves. Her main task was keeping each growth from overwhelming all the others— that, and providing rain water to those pots not under a leak. A drop landed on her head and Aryl glared upward, suspecting her brother had made strategic holes in the family roof.
Costa . . . falling . . . screaming . . .
Taisal told her the sharp bite of loss would fade, that she’d be surprised by its pain for M’hirs to come, but no longer overcome. She wasn’t there yet, Aryl thought helplessly, tears rolling down her cheeks. The world still stopped when she remembered he was gone. Each breath had to fight through her throat and . . .
“Aryl?” softly, from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
There were distinct disadvantages living with someone whose range of accepted Talents included an unsettling sensitivity to the emotions of others. Aryl rubbed her eyes and tried to keep irritation from her voice. “I’ll be fine, Myris.” She didn’t try to lie; if shields hadn’t protected her privacy, words couldn’t. “I was thinking about Costa.”
Myris took this as an invitation to enter, though she moved with caution. Her skin had produced a painful rash in response to one of Costa’s captives. Not knowing which, her only choice was to avoid them all. It wasn’t easy. The rains stimulated growth in the canopy— apparently even that indoors. An entire table had disappeared.
“Ael went for our supper,” Myris told her, tactfully concentrating on the gourds. She pointed at the nearest. “Has anyone decided if we can eat those?”
“First Scout Haxel saw climbers eating a broken one she thought looked the same. She—” Aryl coughed slightly. “Seru told me Haxel chased them off so she could try it herself. Said it wasn’t bad. The Adepts are watching her for signs of poison.”
“Haxel is—” Myris broke off, her face flushed. “There’s no respectful way to say this, Aryl. Anything she’d try, well, no one should. Trust me. No one. She has the sense of a flitter who’s hit a tree once too often.”
Aryl had to chew her lip to stop an equally disrespectful grin. Then, she stopped trying and chuckled with Myris. “How did you do that?” she spoke without thinking.
“Do what?”
Aryl took her turn pretending to study the gourds. They were as long as her arm and starting to thicken. If she squinted and imagined slices, maybe fried . . . they looked like food. Sort of.
“How did you change how I feel?” she asked finally, quietly. She glanced sidelong at Myris. “Through my shields.”
The other Om’ray half-smiled. “You’re too strong for me to influence, if that’s what you think. But you know I’d never do that, even if I could.”
“Then how?”
Myris reached out and gently tugged the lock of hair that always escaped Aryl’s binding. “You and Taisal. Always thinking about how to use your Power, your Talents. You want to change things. Do things. Me?” That mischievous look Aryl knew very well. “All I do is feel. Nothing more complicated. If there’s Power in that, I don’t know how to explain it. I feel what those around me feel. It took Ael a while to get used to it, believe me.” The mischief became something dreamier and distracted.
Sending to her Chosen, no doubt. “You do more than that,” Aryl insisted. “You changed how I felt, just now. You can’t deny it.”
“I didn’t intend to—” The other hesitated, then sighed. “It’s not something I control. But if I’m near someone in pain, sometimes I— sometimes I can ease it.”
She was seeing Myris, really seeing her, as she hadn’t before. This was why her aunt’s expressions were always changing. Some weren’t hers at all. There were those who could use their Power to accelerate a body’s healing, but this? “The Adepts must value your Talent—” Aryl stopped at the flash of misery she couldn’t help but sense. “I’m sorry,” she said, unsure what she’d said.
“It’s all right, Aryl,” Myris said sadly. “They do. But I’ve more limits than use. I can ease the discomfort of close family— I do little or nothing for anyone else. I’ve tried.” This last came out so utterly bleak, Aryl was afraid to ask.
“That’s why you and Ael came to live with me, isn’t it?” she guessed, shaking her head. “Here I thought I was taking you in.”
Myris had a smile that could outshine the glows. “And we’re grateful. Especially me.” She swept up her arms in a grand gesture that just missed the purple vine draped over the glowbead string. “It’s nice being home. This was my room, you know,” as she caught Aryl’s mystified expression. “I lived here until your mother Chose that handsome rascal Mele first and claimed the right . . .” her voice trailed away. “
Aie
. What am I saying? Poor Taisal.”
That grief belonged to them both. Hers had faded, Aryl realized with a faint guilt. Or maybe newer pain had more strength. “What’s past is past, Myris,” she offered clumsily. “I’m glad you’re here. So is Taisal.” Their eyes sought the doorway at the same time, then they looked at each other. “Ael’s back.” Aryl stated the obvious. “We should eat.” Her stomach gurgled agreement.
Myris laughed. “Glad someone has an appetite these days,” she said. “You’ll need a good breakfast before today’s climb.” Her hand reached out as if to touch Aryl’s arm, then sketched gratitude instead.
Aryl followed her aunt to the main hall, bemused to think she’d been the one to comfort anyone else.

* * *

Not my fault . . . not my FAULT!!! . . .
Aryl winced and tightened her shields, already sorry she’d agreed to take Seru’s youngest cousin with her this morning. Seru wasn’t feeling well— she rarely was, these days. Being a Chooser newly ready for Choice was difficult enough. Having no unChosen in reach? Until she settled, Seru was, to put it mildly, difficult company.
Besides, it had seemed a golden opportunity. Aryl’s bag was filled with her latest fiches, as she now thought of them. With the child along, she had a good reason to stay within the home grove instead of foraging during the rainless morning, and climb the sort of straight, open stalks she needed.
NOT MY FAULT!
Aryl winced again. “Will you hush?”
Joyn’s black hair stuck through the gauze of his hood in every direction, making him resemble a startled flitter. Now he gave her a puzzled look. “I didn’t say anything, Cousin Aryl.”
“You’re sending again,” she sighed. His maturing shields were at that awkward stage, new and tight enough to damp most emotions, so he could be allowed away from his parents, but not yet under his conscious control. They should have been barely permeable to mindspeech. Should have. There were a handful of truly gifted Yena children; none were remotely as precocious or strong as Joyn Uruus, barely past eight M’hirs and already giving adults— and her— a headache. No wonder his mother, Rimis, had been doubtful of Aryl taking him.
“Oh!” His blue eyes brightened an impossible amount. “You could hear me? I was thinking about—” His expression fell. “It—”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Aryl finished wryly. Had she ever been this worried about something so trivial as cracking a bowl? Hard to imagine. She gave the thin rope between them a gentle shake. “Pay attention to where we are, little one,” she suggested. “Your parents will not be pleased with me if you—” she caught herself unable to use the everyday Yena expression . . . “drop into the Lay” . . . and substituted “— if you’re lost in the M’hir.”
“Can that happen?” His eyes were wide. “Can the great wind sweep me away?” With the easy balance of the young, he let go of the stalk and stood tiptoe on the narrow frond, flapping his arms like a flitter caught in a gale. “Where would I go? What would I see? How would I get back down again?” this dubiously, with a look past their feet. “Would I fall?”
Falling was a game to Om’ray children, taught to climb as soon as they could crawl. Aryl remembered the willing tumbles, the snatching for holds, the laughter and shrieks, not to forget the ire of any parents who caught them. There would usually be a lecture on how only caution and care would keep them safe. But they played, she remembered that too, because they feared to fall. They felt safer having dared it to happen. Why wait on fate?
Children, she thought, had a special wisdom.
“Save your arms for climbing,” she told him. “Once we’re as high as you can go, I’ve something to show you.”
I can go HIGH! I can go higher than anyone!
This sending was accompanied by interwoven images of his age-mates, their faces filled with awe.
She’d never, Aryl decided, been that young. She shook her head and started to climb.
Joyn was a good climber; moreover, as a child he received all the dresel his body needed. Aryl set the pace more to husband her energy than his, though she was careful to choose a route suited to his shorter reach and small hands. All the while, she pointed out signs of danger, whether a weakened strip of bark or lurking stinger, waiting for his nod of understanding each time.
It had become a habit by now to gather what could be eaten. Joyn helped. As they filled a net, she’d leave it hanging to await their descent. They were in the lean season, when white fruits appeared in great numbers from the vines draped everywhere on older rastis, but these were hard and small, too bitter to eat. In the past, the Yena left them alone, knowing by the end of the rains they’d swell and ripen. When that happened, the fruits produced a scent that attracted flitters and climbers in great numbers. That was the harvest the Om’ray wanted, and their nets would fill with meat in short order.
This M’hir, they couldn’t afford to wait a season. The unripe fruits weren’t nutritious but, when added to other food, they improved appetite. It was becoming harder and harder to convince the older Om’ray to eat what they should. Aryl couldn’t remember feeling hungry. What food they had would do no good if they couldn’t bring themselves to eat it.
They were becoming thin, even the harvesters, now given slightly more dresel per day. Last fist, Council had declared all the strong climbers— all those left— to be harvesters. It gave Aryl no joy to be one of them at last, only purpose.
When she thought of her childish outbursts at being passed over last M’hir, of her blind envy, she was ashamed.
“Why are you sad?”
“Don’t
sense
others,” Aryl snapped, reaching for another hold, then shook her head again. How many times had she been scolded for the same ability? He was younger than she’d been, too young to understand. She glanced down. “Do your best, Joyn,” she said firmly but with sympathy. “I know it’s difficult. I had to practice and sometimes I still sense more than I mean to.”
Easy to
sense
the child’s state of mind— an interesting blend of unconscious pride and very aware contrition. He hadn’t meant to pry; he did care why she was unhappy. He had, she decided with a rush of affection, a good heart.
Just as well. There was more Power in that tiny frame than in most adults; Aryl tightened her shields. “You’re right,” she admitted freely. “I am sad. It’s all right. It’s not about you, or being here.”
“I understand. Everyone’s sad,” he said matter-of-factly. “And scared.”
Little more than half her age, and growing up too fast. They all were. Maybe, she thought wearily, they had to. Aryl hooked her leg over a branch. At this indication they were to rest, the child did the same. “Do you know what history is, Joyn?” she asked, offering him a drink from her flask.
Neither wore their gauze hoods over their faces, so she could see his freckled nose crinkle with disgust. “The stories grandparents tell you when you’ve been bad. About your parents when they were children. They aren’t,” this with profound feeling, “fun.”
“True,” she chuckled. A flitter— the blue-and-red kind— landed nearby. It bent its head to turn one, then the other of its large green eyes at them, as if gauging how dangerous they were. Apparently satisfied, it began snapping at the cloud of biters that had settled over the branch at the same time as the two Om’ray. A good neighbor. “But I mean stories that are about all the Om’ray in a Clan, not just a family.”
He looked astonished. “Do the Tuana have stories? The Vyna? The—”
Aryl interrupted what was sure to be the full list. “Every Clan has its own. That’s another reason Passage is important. Those who come here tell us their stories and any they’ve heard from other Clans. Those who,” she took a breath, “leave Yena take our stories with them.”
Joyn frowned. “I hope they didn’t take my grandmother’s stories.”
Her lips quirked. “Not that kind. Bigger stories. And those stories are put together into the history of all the Om’ray, of the entire world. We’re in one of those stories, you and I, right now.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “We’re in a rastis.”
Aryl gazed back, nonplussed. “I thought children had great imaginations,” she said finally.
“For playing,” Joyn informed her with great dignity. “We aren’t playing. You,” he clarified, “are too old to pretend.”
“Maybe I am,” Aryl agreed. “But this is a story, Joyn. One that will be retold everywhere there are Om’ray.”
“What’s it about?”
Death and disaster? She shifted the bag at her hip. “It will be about the brave Yena Clan,” she began. “How everyone was a little sad and a little afraid— because we faced a time of danger and trouble, worse than any before it, worse than any to come. Every other Clan will know.”
Joyn grew still. “How does the story end?”
“That’s the good part,” Aryl assured him. “It ends with the best Harvest ever. We’ll have so much fresh dresel cake that everyone could eat themselves sick— but they won’t—” that for his parents, “— and there’ll be a party that lasts until the next rains. Everyone will be happy.”
He smiled, just a bit, then rolled his eyes. “You made that up.”
“I thought you said I was too old,” she responded archly. She shooed away biters. “Time to go.”
They climbed in silence to the next whorl of fronds. As they eased past more thorn-shooters, Joyn spoke again.
“You don’t believe our story will end that way. With everyone happy.”
So much for shields against this one, she told herself ruefully, not that it couldn’t have been simple perception. Somehow, though, she doubted it. Joyn was going to be a force to be reckoned with in future M’hirs. He was now.
“I don’t know,” Aryl said honestly. “No one does. But that’s the ending I want.”
I want everyone happy, too . . . I want everyone happy, too . . . I WANT EVERYONE HAPPY, TOO . . .
She didn’t try to silence him.
She did, however, wince.