Reap the Wild Wind by Julie E Czerneda Page B

wasn’t Bern’s fault! We can’t let them believe that! Aryl protested. I won’t.

Taisal stopped near a gauze panel; its soft curtain lifted in a breeze, whispered against her robe. After a long moment, she nodded. Best to keep attention on the cause, not the result. She drew the image of the airborne device to fill both their minds. It wasn’t Oud. That we know.

For the first time, Aryl was glad her memories of that day rested behind her mother’s eyes, too. She relaxed slightly. What can I do?

Be unnoticed. Taisal lifted the curtain and gazed outside, speaking aloud as if this she wanted heard. “Council sent lookers to collect salvageable pods as well as any remains of the device. With luck, they’ll bring something worth showing our neighbors.”

It was an uncommon, but highly valued Talent: the ability to precisely sense what was new or didn’t belong in a place. Lookers were always scouts, marking fresh stitler traps— not all biters were small— and other hazards. Aryl might sense when something around her was about to change, but such inner warnings were too personal and vague to be useful. Adepts warned against trusting them.

Hadn’t she believed she’d sensed the M’hir coming? Instead, it had been disaster.

“If they don’t?” she asked with an effort, pulling out of memory.

“You have skill with ink. Can you draw me the shape of it, any details you recall?” Under the words, caution. We don’t dare send this memory mind-to-mind. They’ll know what you did.

Aryl stared at her mother. What did I do?

“I’ll get a pane for you.” This time, beneath the words, a thrill of fear. What no one ever has. I’ll search the records. Make discreet inquiries. But it doesn’t matter if this is a new Talent or a rediscovered one, Aryl. This is no little push , easily hidden. Worse, it involves the abyss we rightly fear. What you did threatens all Om’ray, let alone the Agreement. The Tikitik must never know. Do you understand?

Aryl swallowed bile and managed a half nod. She’d never do it again. Didn’t that count? Shouldn’t it be enough? Questions she didn’t dare ask as her mother went to the door.

“Now hurry and do as I’ve asked. Truenight will be on us soon.”

     
    * * *

     
    Aryl waved her hands over the finished pane, wishing there was a Talent that dried ink. It would probably be Forbidden, she thought morosely. She ignored the shift in her sense of place as more and more adult Om’ray descended from Yena. They made their preparations for the pending Visitation. This was hers.

Not bad, she thought, passing a critical eye over her work. The process of putting splinter to fabric had brought details from her memory she didn’t recall seeing, yet trusted. She added a symbol at the top, a tiny curve and dot she imagined as her name, as if names— the essence of an Om’ray— could be captured in mere ink.

The drawing didn’t portray anything dangerous, unless the series of disks on the underside could be dropped on someone’s head. Aryl studied it more closely. How did it fly? There were no engines spouting flame, such as she’d heard lifted the Oud’s machines. And no wings.

She waved the pane again, feeling the draft it sent through the air, like a wingbeat.

Wings were necessary, weren’t they?

Not the way she’d sent Bern to the bridge . . .

Aryl gagged and almost dropped the pane. Her mother’s warnings, her fear, didn’t matter. What she’d done— it had made her forget her brother, made her pick one to live over others. Remembering how it had felt to do what she’d done made her sick inside. It brought the churning wildness of the Dark up behind her eyes until she had only to close them to be lost in it. Her mother was right. It was dangerous.

“Wings,” she told herself, keeping her eyes open. “I need wings.”

To go where?

Her hands wanted to tremble as they cleaned the splinter she’d used, then resealed the ink pot. It was a simple