Riders of the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page B

unChosen,” she whispered.
    The skull was damaged, the jaw and back missing. The two deep cavities where eyes should be looked at her below a forehead-spanning strap of green metal. The ends of that met fine chain; more straps rose above it and fell behind, trailing down where a neck should be.
    Only one type of Om’ray wore such an elaborate headdress. Only one type needed such restraint—designed to tame willful hair.
    â€œYou were Chosen.”
    Saying it made it no easier to comprehend. Mother, grandmother, aunt…a mature Chosen shouldn’t be wandering alone, shouldn’t be in this wasteland of rock. She’d heard flat-landers disposed of the empty husk by burial, but this lay on a path, as if it were where the Chosen had died.
    What had happened here?
    Aryl freed the headdress, leaving the bones where they were. She rubbed the front of the strap, feeling a texture suggestive of carving or inlay. It would have to be cleaned and polished, perhaps repaired. Remarkably light, for all its parts. Enris might know which Clan did such work.
    Opening her coat, she carefully tucked the headdress inside her tunic. The cold metal stole heat from her skin.
    Whatever Seru had experienced…was experiencing…
    It wasn’t anything so innocent as a dream.
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    Perversely, her cousin appeared anything but afflicted by dreams or visions of death when Aryl rejoined the exiles. They’d stopped where a hollow made a welcome windbreak, a few standing, most sitting on packs. Husni leaned against Cetto, only her bright pale eyes showing past the layers of coats and wraps she’d bundled around her body and head. A small waterfall trickled listlessly to one side. Seru was helping Ziba refill water sacs, the two giggling as if the same age.
    Aryl watched them as she accepted what Grona’s Om’ray called “travel bread” from her aunt. “How’s she been?”
    Hesitantly, Myris touched her tongue to her own piece of the hard, bitter stuff. She gave a resigned shudder instead of taking a bite. “Terrified. Angry. Confused.” At Aryl’s raised eyebrow, she colored. “I didn’t pry, if that’s what you think. Seru’s emotions are—” a wince. “I’m not the only one avoiding her right now. No offense to the Parths, but I wish her shields were stronger.”
    â€œThen she’d be able to hide whatever’s wrong.” Aryl dutifully nibbled the bread, taking her own lack of appetite as a warning. “What if they aren’t dreams, Myris? Some Om’ray can taste a coming change.” She happened to be one of them, though it was a thoroughly untrustworthy Talent. The metal headdress pressed against her waist, its mystery prompting her to press on. “Have you heard of anyone who could taste what happened before?”
    â€œSeru?” They both looked toward the owner of the name—presently juggling an armload of full sacs as Ziba laughingly piled on more—then back at each other. Though her shields were impeccable, Myris’ hair squirmed in agitation within its net. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said after a moment. “I wouldn’t believe it if I did. What’s already been…surely it’s done. Done and gone. What could be left to affect a living mind? Memories flying around?” She tipped her bread through the air like a flitter after a biter. “These fancies of Seru’s will pass. It’s difficult for everyone—worse for your cousin. She must restrain powerful needs and instincts—hard under the best of conditions. I cried for days.” The bread wagged at Aryl. “One day, you’ll know the stress of being a Chooser.”
    Impossible to argue with that, though Aryl resolved then and there she’d never cry when her time came. “Seru’s lucky to have you.”
    â€œMaybe I can do more when we reach shelter,” Myris