They looked empty. Didn’t mean anything, he told himself. The cavity stretched beyond those moving racks, disappearing into the dark bowels of the ship. For all he knew, the racks weren’t filled until ready to drop down—
—through the space presently occupied by his head and shoulders. The First Scout hastily pulled himself clear. “I imagine it will reset itself before breakfast, during shipnight.” He waved his hands to imply that complex but surely normal process.
The youngsters smiled trustingly.
Gurutz looked skeptical but didn’t argue. How could he? The Om’ray knew even less than he did about machines. What they needed down here was the Human.
Failing that? Well, he’d one more trick, as Morgan would say, up his sleeve. “Gurutz. You and the lads report to Holl.” Barac gestured gratitude, finishing with a bow. “Well done.”
They bowed back, Arla’s eyes glistening with pride. His brother patted him on the shoulder.
“Will you make your own?” the Sona scout asked, no longer smiling.
“Only,” Barac said honestly, “if I’ve one to make.”
Once they’d disappeared, the Clansman sat on the floor, choosing a spot in the middle, his back to the maw. Wrapping his arms around his calves, he dropped his forehead to a knee.
Cleared his mind.
Waited.
Discipline, he had. It only felt as though the walls were as thin as issa-silk, the deadly twisted space outside as apt to consume him as the M’hir itself.
It only felt he could, for all he really knew, be buried beneath dirt instead, running out of air.
Barac waited. He’d the Talent to taste change. A flinch rather than insight, but a reliable warning nonetheless.
Even if, half the time, such tastes arrived too late for him to do more than pull his blade and duck.
CLANK!
“Seventeen Hells!” Barac scrambled to his feet and whirled to face the dispenser, heart pounding in his ears. His hand reached for his force blade—
—stopped short.
The machine looked the same. Was the same. He took a deep breath. Resetting, that was all. Not that he’d stick his head in again to see for himself. And what was that? Faint, steady—grindgrindgrind—barely louder than his pulse at first.
Getting louder.
A sound like that, Barac decided, came from a machine too busy to be bothered.
Time to leave.
Barac, could you come here? Ruti. I’ve a situation—
CHANGE! He staggered, the taste overwhelming.
Gone again.
—need your advice. Is everything all right?
Yes.
Nothing was. He’d his warning: a strong one. But was it about the noises, his Chosen’s “situation” . . .
Or some trouble yet to reveal itself?
Barac laughed at himself. Not all was his concern. Morgan could take care of the machine; his powerful cousin, the unknown future.
He concentrated. Coming, Ruti.
The taste still rank in his mind, Barac picked his way through a maze of children. Given the freedom of the galley between meals, they whooped and laughed, some running between tables, the rest ’porting ahead to surprise them. Their mothers were gathered around a table of their own, outwardly unaware; bonds sizzled, connecting each with their child. The need to hold on to one another burned Power through the M’hir so long as their bond lasted, be it days or months—or Sira di Sarc’s incredible years.
Only three of the eighteen so bonded were M’hiray: Andi sud Prendolat and two toddlers. All had been with their mothers, by chance safe during the Assemblers’ first attack.
They’d lost the rest. M’hiray children were fostered, taken as far as possible from their mothers. The strain on their bond produced passages, those scars through the M’hir that made it easier for others to ’port between those points. The M’hiray, forever turning instinct to advantage.
It had put everyone at risk. Fosters died with their hosts, the bond dooming distant mothers; or mothers died first, dragging their children behind. Chosen died worlds apart and the M’hiray left were pursued—
To their deaths. Yes, the Om’ray had died as well, but not like this, Barac thought bitterly. When the Oud reshaped the ground beneath them, families rushed to the safety of each Cloisters and survived, together.
Unless the Vyna found them—
Don’t think about them. Ruti hadn’t turned; no need. You’ll scare the children.
As if they’re listening to me, he scoffed. They were too busy playing their new games, M’hiray games, like those he’d played as a child with his brother Kurr and their cousins. ’Port and seek while young and unaware; the more tantalizing Chooser/Loser once old enough to look ahead and wonder.
Outside games. Confined in a room, even a large one, the combination of laughs and squeals was close to deafening.
Could be worse. A mother stood, gesturing apology to her companions, shielding everyone else in range from the urgent inner DEMAND of her not-yet-verbal offspring.
“Risa.” Barac stepped aside to give her room, bowing as their eyes met.
She inclined her graceful head. “First Scout.” A weary but accepting smile. “Duty calls.”
“Our turn’s coming,” he replied, earning a dimple. Risa hadn’t known him before they’d met on Cersi, a lack of recognition for which Barac was grateful.
Council had arranged for him to be a Candidate for her Choice. By warning him of Risa’s greater Power, Rael di Sarc had saved his life, however reluctantly he’d taken her advice.
After a Choice made elsewhere, Risa di Annk had Commenced into the fullness of her adult beauty. However, like too many M’hiray, her Joining with the Clan Healer, Jorn di Lorimar, now Jorn di Annk, was loveless. They’d met once more to do their Council-appointed duty, producing a son, and might never have occupied the same planet again if not for the Assemblers. Forced into proximity on the ship, they avoided one another—at least in public—civil in their mutual dislike. Jorn avoided their son, too, though Noson was a delight and favorite among the other children, with chubby cheeks and a sunny disposition.
His loss. Barac intended to spend every waking moment cuddling their daughter, once she was born. Except for those moments—
An elderly Om’ray shouted as two mischievous children appeared in front of him, almost dropping his drink and packet. Before he could draw breath to scold them, they giggled and vanished. He gestured forgiveness to thin air, smiling himself.
Children’s laughter. They’d come too close to never hearing it again. Anything joyous helped the mood on the ship. Gurutz wasn’t the only one to stalk around with a grim face; each ship morning, Barac thought, more Clan, both M’hiray and Om’ray, shielded their emotions rather than share them. The weaker, like himself, could only be grateful.
For more than that. Lovelier than Risa, than the stars of any sky, Ruti di Bowart raised her eyes at his approach, her pleased smile finding his heart. Love soared between them, wiping away the taste, and Barac stepped forward eagerly.
Stopping short as his practical Chosen bent to lick her thumb, using the moistened digit to remove a smear from a small nose. “There you go.” The nose, and the smiling face it belonged to, disappeared with a giggle.
Barac snuck a kiss, then grinned down at his Chosen. “I owe Holl a report,” he reminded her. “What’s this ‘situation’ requiring my always-sage advice?”
If about the children? The Sarcs had hired tutors; he’d be useless. Ruti had grown up on Acranam, where children were combined in a crèche until unChosen. With matter-of-fact competence, she’d taken charge of the children before anyone else thought to, and would, he was certain, have swept up the younger unChosen had they let her. Her determination they be happy and protected was a kindness to their parents and, he’d been told frequently, a
credit to his Chosen.
Other than the part where they hadn’t had their chance in the Happy Place since arriving on the ship. He’d felt no guilt whatsoever at interrupting Sira and Morgan’s private moment.
“You’re not arguing with Dre’s grandparents again, are you?” he asked. There’d been a spectacular disagreement between Ruti and the Amna Om’ray, Ghos and Worra di Eathem, the pair far from ready to have their descendant “play” in the M’hir.
“Of course not.” Smug. “They’ve come around.”
Who could resist her? “So?”
Her sweet round face turned grave, dashing any hope he’d had this would be easy. “It’s Andi. I promised Sira I’d talk to her parents.”
Surely an easy conversation. Nik and Josa were friendly and kind, if absentminded; Nik tended to mutter numbers under her breath and when together, the pair would miss meals if not reminded, busy building unClan-like devices. As far as Barac could tell, they spent just as much time dismantling what they’d built.
“And?” he prodded patiently, knowing better than to rush his Chosen.
Unhappiness leaked through. “I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Why not?”
“They didn’t believe me. That something’s wrong with Andi.”
Was this what he’d tasted, a warning about the Birth Watcher? Which could only mean—Barac tensed. Is something wrong with Sira’s baby?
Why would you think that? With sudden alarm. What’s WRONG?!
Wincing, Barac held up his hands. “I asked you first.”
Sorry. Ruti stooped to toss back a fabric bag being used as a plaything. She took a breath, then looked up at him, eyes moist. “You know how I am when I’m upset.”
Ferocious.
Fragile. Those of Acranam had been more connected than other M’hiray. They’d died all at once, Ruti linked to that devastating loss. He’d almost lost her.
She’d pulled herself through it. Barac rested his chin atop Ruti’s head, her hair winding around his neck, and folded her in his arms and Power. Let others underestimate her; in her way, his Chosen was as strong as Sira.
He let go, drawing her with him to sit on the nearest bench. “Start at the beginning, my love.” When she glanced anxiously at the clusters of children, he refrained from mentioning the other dozen or so capable adults.
Ruti sat, the ends of her hair twitching. “Andi told Sira she promised Rasa she’d find his grandmother.”
“His dead grandmother.” He knew Andi had the Om’ray Talent, to sense the physical location of other Clan, but this? “A cruel trick.”
Disapproval. “You know Andi wouldn’t do that. She believes she hears the dead. Sira—and Aryl—were worried enough to ask her to stop listening in the M’hir. I’m not certain she has, or can.” Ruti’s lower lip trembled. “Barac, is it even possible?”
It wasn’t.
He held in the words, thinking hard and fast. Kurr had read the works of Clan philosophers, the more obscure the better, and would, if provoked, happily quote passages at his lesser-read brother. Most had been over his head, but Barac tried to remember. Clan minds created the M’hir, or was it that the M’hir created part of the mind? Existence was mind more than flesh, or some weird blend of both. There’d been something about death being transformative—
But no less final. That was a point of rare agreement.
Because the dead became ghosts. Everyone knew it, because anyone could hear them. A ghost was the final trace of a mind before it dissolved in the M’hir. An incoherent ramble. A scream. A last cold sense of Power.
Ghosts were tied to a place, as much as the M’hir could be said to have location, and were uncomfortable to encounter at the best of times. The more powerful lingered; he’d met a few himself, serving as object lessons for those learning to ’port. This will be you, if you overestimate your strength.
They were a potentially fatal distraction, as if the M’hir needed more.
There’d have been hundreds of ghosts in Trade Pact space. Around Cersi. Reason enough to stay out of the M’hir in either location till they faded to nothing.
Nik and Josa traveled by starship, not the M’hir; they thought in terms of physical distance. They’d know Sona had left Clan-touched space behind.
No wonder they’d dismissed Ruti’s concern. “It’s not possible,” Barac said heavily. “We’ve moved too far. It has to be Andi’s imagination.”
“That’s what Josa said.” Ruti’s little chin lifted, firmed. “They’ve told me to stop talking about it, but I must—someone must. I’ve been with Andi since we lifted, Barac. She’s a kind child and thoughtful. She isn’t capable of making this up, not on purpose. I believe she hears something.”
“Not ghosts. Not here,” Barac began. “Not unless—” He stopped, mouth gone dry.
—unless they’d dragged the dead with them, hooked into the ship’s engines with the M’hir—
Now whose imagination was out of control? He held in a shudder. “I’ll take a look.”
Barac opened himself to that other space, anchored by his link to Ruti. Darkness boiled and dropped and heaved. He sensed but couldn’t see the lines of light that connected the Clan—the living Clan—one to another. That wasn’t within his Power.
He had heard a ghost before. He listened, but all he heard was a low, rising growl. His agitation come to life, building, being echoed back even louder—
Time to leave. He pulled out, reassured. “No ghosts, Ruti.”
She made a rude noise. “You think I didn’t check right away? I don’t hear them either.” Taking his hand, she worked her fingers between his and squeezed, hard. When she spoke, her voice was low and troubled. “There’s worse. Andi doesn’t understand the meaning of death. Or doesn’t want to. She insists everyone is still—out there.”
Barac looked for the child, spotting her cross-legged on a table with her Om’ray friend Dre. They clapped a complicated rhythm, Andi laughing when she failed to keep up and their fingers tangled. Implausibly normal.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “Other than it may take time—”
He felt Ruti tremble. What if Andi’s mind is failing? Like those of Luek and Nyso—like poor Eloe.
Could a child be stricken by madness—and no ordinary child, but Sira’s Birth Watcher? He refused to think it.
Barac kissed his Chosen’s cheek. “You asked for my advice.”
She nodded, eyes wide.
If this was what the taste warned of, there was only one option, Barac decided. If it wasn’t, well, he refused to take that chance. “Stay with Andi and the other children. Have Jacqui come and help you—” Jacqui was their Birth Watcher, who might sense what others couldn’t, who at the very least would protect Ruti and her unborn. “I’ll talk to Sira.” With what confidence he could muster.
And find Morgan, who understood the workings of the mind, even a Clan one.
They’d need him, if the worst were true.
Chapter 6
SONA’S COUNCIL GATHERED in the Star Chamber, members answering with a promptness that told me my mental summons had been expected.
The best shields couldn’t stop rumor—or worry.
The day had started too soon and poorly, with Eloe’s troubles. I’d a feeling it wouldn’t end much better. Still, watching them arrive, gesturing respectful greetings Morgan and I returned, I allowed myself a moment’s satisfaction. This group had come together our first shipday without me; met since, most often without me, although any one might have me summon the others. After all, I was the ship’s Keeper, responsible for communication. They weren’t the most powerful of select families—a couple of members could barely ’port—but I’d put this Council against any I remembered. Experience, compassion, skill. We’d do well, if these were the ones who guided us in our new home.
Five Om’ray represented the Clans of Cersi: Odon di Rihma’at and Teris di Uruus from Sona, by cruel fate now the most populous; Ghos di Eathem from Amna, a gifted Healer, though not of minds; from Tuana, Kunthea di Mendolar, and Rayna, Hap di Annk. All but Ghos had served on their respective Councils.
I’d heard Ruis di Nemat had been Rayna’s first choice, as that Clan’s sole surviving Adept. She’d declined. Perhaps, like me, she’d been glad to relinquish authority.
As Morgan asked, I’d brought her to this meeting; she chose to sit down the curve, at some distance from the rest, her face set in tight lines. Hap went to her, offering a palm for private communion; Ruis refused with a Human shake of her head.
Being here for Morgan’s purpose.
There were three M’hiray on Council: Degal di Sawnda’at, once Councilor in the Trade Pact, and Tle di Parth, the powerful Chooser who’d held the same post and was certain to show up, invited or not, plus one more.
Nik sud Prendolat, representing our four scientists, stood a little apart, not because the tall, brilliant Clanswoman was among the weaker here but because her nature was to observe, giving opinions when asked for them. I suspected she’d been Morgan’s quiet suggestion, a good one.
Aryl di Sarc would have been mine—Om’ray as much as M’hiray, aware of our past and present—but I knew better than to suggest it. While she allowed these Clan to know of her, my great-grandmother refused to reveal herself to the ship’s entire company. Her decision, but in this Aryl and I agreed. An adult consciousness within an unborn would affront the M’hiray and be a dark reminder, to the Om’ray, of the Vyna.
I trust I’ll have your excellent advice, Great-grandmother, I sent to her at a level no one else would sense. A benefit to my unusual pregnancy.
I may have none to offer. We’ve left the worlds I know. A flash of anticipation. I hope for wonders.
I hoped to arrive in one piece, but that I kept to myself. Do you wish to look through my eyes?
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