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

a—”
    Crack!
    Enris accepted Haxel’s teasing about his feet—hadn’t he teased his Yena friend Yuhas? But, though big, he wasn’t clumsy by Tuana standards. He’d stepped on something that didn’t belong.
    A piece of broken wood protruded from the pebbles, worth more than the handfuls of grass he’d been dutifully collecting for tonight’s camp. He bent to retrieve it, delighted when it took all his strength to wiggle it free. “Good size…” the words turned into a whistle of surprise.
    Not a stick.
    His hand fit perfectly around what had been a carved and finished staff, almost half his height. The wood was dark red and unfamiliar, its polish scratched and dulled by exposure and the rocks of its bed. Enris put it aside and dug for the rest of it.
    Not a staff.
    The remaining piece was a blade, long as his forearm and fitted to its bit of shaft so securely the wood had snapped under his foot, not that junction to metal. Enris grinned with triumph as he examined his treasure. “Aren’t you the beauty?” The Oud’s metal, right enough, but reworked by someone with skill and patience into a most unusual shape. The wide, thin blade, once razor sharp along both outer edges, ended in a forked tip. One portion of the tip was longer than its mate; not a break but made that way. Impractical for harvesting any crop he knew. Dangerous, that was certain.
    Under the dirt, he discerned a line of ornamentation along the flat of the blade. A spit and hard rub revealed nothing so simple. A series of small, intricate symbols marched in a tidy row, some close together, some apart. Unique in design; not beautiful. He knew to a twinge in his shoulders the time and meticulous effort it took to inscribe metal. Why bother, if the result didn’t enhance the finished work?
    Pride, perhaps. Hadn’t his father taught him to identify what he’d done? Not the everyday work, but those special pieces made after the routine blades and tools were finished, the adornments and art meant for Om’ray pleasure, not Oud—their creator should be known. Enris had chosen his favorite stars, hammering that tiny pattern discreetly into whatever was, to him, his best.
    Nothing discreet about these symbols. He ran his thumb over them, achingly curious. Were they a metalworker’s personal mark? He’d show Aryl. She’d seen the symbols the Tikitik used to represent words and those of the strangers. If they weren’t the same…he felt a rush of hope. Could these represent words?
    There were Om’ray who drew lists of names, crop yields, and such: Adepts, responsible for maintaining the Cloisters’ records. The skill to write and read was provided only to those who accepted that role for life, to be used exclusively within the Cloisters, for the concerns of the Clan as a whole.
    Ordinary Om’ray had no need. Surely a metalworker, even if an Adept, wouldn’t abuse the knowledge simply to name his or her work.
    More than pride. A message?
    Enris shrugged off his pack and swung it to the ground. He went to one knee and untied his coat from the top. With a struggle—the pack already bulged in all directions—he managed to store the blade and its end of broken wood safely inside. The longer piece? He hefted it and grinned. No more wet boots.
    As he reached for his coat, he spotted a pale speck among the disturbed pebbles by his foot. He brushed at it, hoping for more metal or wood, but it was only bone.
    The bone itself didn’t trouble him. Tuana carried their dead to the end of the world—namely as far from their village, and any other Clan, as was comfortable to go—across the wide nost fields to where the flat land of the Oud gave way to low, rolling hills. Though he’d heard some Clans practiced burial, Tuana’s empty remains were sensibly left accessible to scavengers, present in abundance when the noisy clouds of delits