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mouth. “Your friends’ flying machine would be nice about now.”
    It was the first time any of the exiles had mentioned the strangers or their help. Aryl copied Veca’s position, then gestured apology with sore, numb fingers. “Do you think I was wrong to tell them to stay away from us?”
    Veca had deep-set blue eyes. Now they held a warning. “I’m no Councillor to say what others should do.”
    Implying she had? Aryl tucked her hands under her arms to warm them. “The strangers seek old things. They aren’t interested in Om’ray.” Or hadn’t been, until they’d recognized some of their words, words she’d used in their first meeting.
    Marcus Bowman, Human, Triad First, Analyst, Trade Pact: all those words named the stranger who’d brought his machine to save the exiles from certain death, carrying them through the air to refuge with Grona Clan. He and those with him were from other worlds, if she continued to believe what seemed incredible now, back among her kind. Om’ray in appearance, unreal to her other, deeper sense.
    She’d saved his life. He’d saved theirs.
    Friend?
    Trouble, Aryl assured herself. Because of the strangers’ curiosity, Yena’s annual Harvest had resulted in the deaths of too many, including her brother Costa. Because of Marcus’ interest in her words, one or more factions of Tikitik had turned on Yena itself. As a result, those deemed likely to cause even more change and disruption had been exiled.
    â€œThe strangers are no friends of mine,” she declared finally. “Or of any Om’ray. We’re better off without their machines or attention.”
    â€œBest we join your plodder on the flats, then.” Veca’s move to rise stopped, her eyes riveted on what Aryl held out for her inspection. She sank back on her heels, taking the metal headdress in both hands. “Where did you find this?”
    â€œWith the remains of its owner.” Aryl gestured. “On our path, among the stones.”
    Veca spread the headdress across one broad, callused palm. Its simple counterpart wrapped her thick brown hair, braids of red thread connected by small wooden rings. Such a flimsy net could never control Taisal’s opinionated hair, or Myris’, Aryl thought, distracted. A Sarc trait. Kessa’ats were more restrained. “Did she die alone?” Veca asked, a wondering finger tracing the tarnished links.
    Aryl shrugged. “I didn’t see more bones, but I didn’t stay to look. Have you seen—” she hesitated. What was she asking?
    â€œAll I’ve seen, young Aryl, is rock and snow. With more rock and snow. Despicable place. As for this?” The Chosen tipped her hand to pour the metal net into Aryl’s. “A mystery too old to matter to us.” She rose to her feet, Aryl doing the same. Standing, the older Om’ray easily looked over her head, and did so now. “Down it is,” she mused. “That way.” Louder, with a sidelong glance, “Did you show anyone else?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDon’t.” The word was said heavily. “Confidence is what stands between life and a fall. Might not be the Lay below us. Doesn’t matter. These rocks will do the job just as quick. We can’t afford doubt—not of the next handhold, not of where we’re going. Not until we’re safe for truenight.” A tired smile. “Now, young one. Save my legs and call them for me, will you?”
    How strange, to have others know and value her abilities like this, to use them at need. All her life, Taisal had taught her to keep her differences secret. The Adepts claimed new Talent, tested it, and locked it away in the Cloisters to maintain the Agreement. Her mother had wanted her to be an Adept. She’d chosen freedom.
    Not that all secrets were out, she thought wryly, then concentrated. Time to go, she sent to the rest,