Free Riders of the Storm by Julie E. Czerneda Page A

Impossible to cross. It should be here.”
    A flare of curiosity , as quickly damped. “A puzzle for another day,” Enris decided. To Gijs. “I swear he’s gained weight.” He made a show of favoring his right shoulder as he slipped the sling’s rope over what padding his coat and a folded scrap of blanket could provide, all the while careful not to jostle its passenger. “Sure he’s not sneaking food on us?”
    Gijs managed a weary smile at this. He’d refused to let anyone else take his share—he and Chaun were heart-kin.
    Aryl tucked the unconscious Om’ray’s hand inside his coat, pausing to reach and assess his condition as best she could. Chaun’s pain had eased to a dull ache. She thought she might be able to rouse him, but didn’t dare. Instead, she sent a little of her strength along that contact, more confident this time she was actually helping.
    As she stood, she managed to touch Gijs and send him what she could. She thought he stood a bit straighter. Hoped, anyway.
    Yawned.
    She closed her mouth quickly, embarrassed. They were all bone-tired, but no one else moved like they felt their arms and legs were about to fall off, no one else yawned. She was young and stronger than most. They relied on her.
    All of them.
    Her fingers found Enris as he passed, but the instant she began to send him strength, his shields slammed in place, making him virtually invisible to her inner sense. Outwardly? He glared at her and jerked away from her touch. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Furious. He was furious.
    How? No one else had noticed. Why was he angry? Aryl took a step back, a stinging heat rushing to her cheeks. The step became a stagger, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. She swayed with it as she would with a branch in the M’hir.
    What was happening?
    Everything pulled away; voices muted, light dimmed, motions were slow and disconnected. She clung to what awareness she could, watching Enris shrug off the sling and come toward her. She put up her hands…he was angry…she’d done something wrong…why was she wrong…what was wrong…
    As her eyes closed against her will, her shoulders were gripped with bruising force. Strength flooded her body until she gasped and jerked free, feeling her every muscle on fire. “What?!!” She stared at Enris, dumbfounded.
    â€œWe can’t carry you both.” Low and fierce. “Never give what you need. Use more sense!”
    He turned and picked up the sling, moving, to Aryl’s restored perception, with his usual vigor.
    Impossible.
    He had just done for her, much more effectively, what she’d tried to do for her people. Enris Mendolar, Tuana unChosen, metalworker, couldn’t know more about Power and its use than anyone she’d ever met. Couldn’t be more powerful than an Adept.
    Could he?
    Aryl let several more exiles step in between before she followed, paying little attention to the route Veca had picked to cross the empty river.
    She caught herself smiling, and had no idea why.
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    Beyond the fractured bridge, the valley narrowed and bent sharply toward Grona, as if hiding a secret. Even here, it would take the better part of a day to cross. Anyone doing so would face a wall more cliff than slope, a steep barrier Aryl thought might be entertaining to climb in better weather. Not in this. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves, blinking away snow—that misery having returned with a vengeance—and wondered why any Om’ray would live where the worst of all seasons could pass in the same day.
    They were close now. Everyone could sense the others, that one was coming to meet them. Only Aryl—and his Chosen—knew it was her uncle, Ael sud Sarc. She peered through the whirling snow, hoping for a glimpse of the grove of stunted nekis she was sure she’d spotted from the ridge. She’d told no one else, but it must be their