Read Online Riders of the Storm by Julie E. Czerneda - Free Book Online Page B

had to puzzle which “him” Veca meant. “Enris?” She reached . He wasn’t far from them now. “He’ll be glad. We took most of the food.”
    â€œHe can help carry Chaun.”
    Her fellow exiles had a distressing tendency to value the Tuana’s strength over any other of his virtues. Aryl hid a sympathetic wince.
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    The gorge opened without warning, its rocky walls plunged into the soil of the valley like longknives, its now-exuberant little river absorbed by a deeper, wider channel half choked with the stalks of some tall thin vegetation. Those stalks bent with the current, taming it, silencing it. On the shore, to either side, similar stalks lay broken and flattened to the ground by, Aryl assumed, falling lumps of ice. Why had she thought the valley would be spared?
    The storm itself rumbled in the distance. Not done, but not immediate. The rocks and pebbles of the mountain ridge, like the river, disappeared beneath dirt, showing as scattered mounds in what was otherwise flat terrain. Flat terrain covered, away from the water, by a messy carpet of dead leaves and smaller stalks, none over knee height. The Grona spoke of winter as a time when their plants slept beneath the ground; spring as a time of regrowth.
    She hoped they were right. It all looked dead to her.
    Ziba left Seru to skip through the sodden leaves. The improvement in footing cheered them all. For once, Aryl admitted, she could appreciate what Enris saw in walking on flat, boring ground. Not that she’d tell him.
    Thinking of the Tuana, she started to reach for his location, only to realize it was unnecessary. Instead, she let the others go ahead, to a slight rise Veca had indicated as a place to stop, and waited expectantly.
    Enris appeared around the wall of the gorge a moment later, a distant figure her inner sense recognized. She thought he raised a hand in salute, as if he’d seen her, too.
    We’ll wait for you, she sent.
    Don’t. I’ll catch up. Despite the heavy pack she knew he carried, Enris was indeed approaching at a steady, distance-eating lope. We can’t be caught in the open, not with injuries. Who was hurt? How badly?
    Aryl wondered how he’d known; she hadn’t thought Chaun’s flash of pain that strong. Myris. Morla. Chaun’s still unconscious.
    And you? You don’t feel right.
    Offended, she tightened her shields to be sure whatever the Tuana felt was what she intended to share and nothing more. There’s nothing wrong with me but having to walk on your dirt.
    Knew you’d see sense one day. Beneath the amusement, real concern. Keep them moving, Aryl. The storm’s not done.
    Thunder rolled down the valley, as if on cue.
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    No one argued, though the exiles delayed to let Veca and Rorn rig a sling for Chaun from ropes and a blanket. Gijs stretched out on his back while they worked, eyes closed. Like several of the others, Aryl forced herself to chew methodically on the Grona bread. Her aunt, who sat beside her, did not.
    Aryl snapped off a piece, offering it to Myris. “Trust me. It tastes better now.”
    â€œI couldn’t.” Myris tried to smile. She fussed with her prized Grona scarf, its bright blue and yellow—dyes being one of that Clan’s skills—now liberally stained with blood. The rain had washed most of it from her face, exposing a deep gash above her right brow. The eyelid below was horribly swollen and black. She was too pale, the darks of both eyes too large. Nothing they could help here, Aryl thought anxiously, refusing to believe it might be nothing they could help at all. “Stop worrying,” her aunt ordered, nothing wrong with her perception. “You’re as bad as Ael.”
    She considered her aunt, struck by an idea. “He’s with Haxel. How much can you sense from him?”
    Chosen were Joined. That permanent connection didn’t make them more able to send words to one another