This Gulf of Time and Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “What we need for our homes,” I said, fighting a growing uncertainty. “We brought—there should be materials.”

  “I assure you, nothing’s been removed—”

  “Stop this nonsense, Destin.” Another stranger Om’ray spoke to the first, pointedly ignoring me, his voice low and angry. “I tell you these are Vyna. Thieves—”

  “With children? Impossible!” countered this Destin, as quietly but without the anger. To me, “Forgive my impertinence, Speaker, but who are you?”

  I drew myself up. “Someone with the right to be here which you do not have. Let us leave—” for a couple had taken up posts at the doors, refusing to let any of us out, “—and begin our homes!”

  Something I’d said startled them speechless. The angry one recovered first. “It’s truenight. Whatever you intend must wait for dawn.” As if I was a fool.

  “Then we will wait,” I replied evenly.

  “Should we remove the not-real?” asked a third.

  The term meant nothing to me, but I knew who they meant. I felt what wasn’t my name, but me, an identification more complete than any word could be. Itch.

  Trying for my attention. Again.

  My eyes went to the dais and the “not-real.” They’d stripped him of coat and shirt. Discovering the clever knives strapped to his arms, they’d searched the rest of him thoroughly, taking both footwear and belt, then tied his arms and pushed him to sit by the now-quiescent Maker. This, instead of killing him, because we were Joined.

  Despite it being impossible. I was Om’ray. He was not.

  “Leave him here.” Itch.

  The link, however implausible, was there. I could touch it; I would not. The link made us a pairing. Another proved us fertile. Sona’s Birth Watcher had fussed over me upon waking, assuring me the baby was in fine health.

  Despite being impossible, too.

  Itch.

  I tore my eyes from him. “While we wait, please bring us food and drink. My people have traveled a great distance.”

  The strangers exchanged troubled glances. “Surely you brought your own, Speaker,” the first ventured. “Better than we could offer.”

  Itch.

  “There wasn’t time,” I replied. My people shifted closer, smiles fading.

  “Something for the children, at least,” insisted Nik sud Prendolat.

  “Why? You are all fat. You won’t need to eat for days.”

  It was true, the strangers were the thinnest Om’ray I’d ever seen; if muscle hadn’t corded their limbs, I’d have thought them struck by some wasting illness and near death. “I am Speaker for Sona.” Though the reminder should have been unnecessary. And more POWERFUL.

  Perhaps that, they’d needed. The two male Chosen left without a word, including the one who’d thought we could wait.

  It left a foul taste regardless. My eyes wandered back to the dais.

  He wasn’t fat either. Healthy muscle crisscrossed his chest, defined strong shoulders and arms. Healing bruises covered his ribs with yellow. His otherwise pale skin was tanned at the wrist, face, and neck.

  As was mine. Itch.

  His eyes, an unusual blue, locked on mine. His face bore the same expression I’d seen on his face since they’d sat him there: calm concentration. He was powerful; I could feel him against my shields.

  Where he belonged, I told myself, looking away. I considered the stranger Om’ray, unsure where they fit in all this. “Why have you come here?”

  “When we sensed your presence, we came to—” the one named Destin hesitated briefly, “—meet you.” A gesture of apology. “Forgive our surprise. We weren’t expecting—”

  “Visitors,” another supplied, when she hesitated again.

  Whatever was wrong here, at least they hadn’t interrupted our dreaming. “We are not visitors,” I corrected as graciously as possible. “We are Sona!”

  My people stood straighter, smiling. “Sona!” they repeated cheerfully.

  The strangers looked aghast. “But—we—”

  Their fingers brushed, doubtless a sending. I hoped it encouraged better behavior.

  It seemed so when the one called Destin bowed and said, “A matter for our Speaker and Council, who will wish to greet you as soon as possible. I am Destin di Anel, First Scout.”

  Itch.

  These Clanless Om’ray claimed a Speaker and Council? A First Scout? A ploy of some kind, and only now a name, when they’d refused that common courtesy before. I wasn’t inclined to share mine. I sent a quick summons. “This is Barac di Bowart, Sona’s First Scout,” I introduced blandly when he joined us, not needing touch to send my message. They have secrets. I want them.

  My able cousin gestured a polite greeting. “I look forward to sharing any information you have on our new home, Destin,” with his charming smile. “And to having your guidance outside, come daylight.”

  “You can’t go out.” Flat and rude, from the as-yet unnamed male. As I stared at him, he flushed, then muttered, “Gurutz di Ulse, Speaker.”

  “The not-real could leave,” Destin qualified, gesturing apology. “The Tikitik won’t count him.”

  “They count everything—”

  “Which matters not to Sona,” I interrupted, wondering what they were talking about. “The Oud are to be our neighbors, not the Tikitik.” A Clan didn’t establish without knowledge of its neighbor. Who were these Om’ray, to be so ignorant?

  Itch.

  If I turned my head, I’d meet the regard of those impossible eyes.

  I did not.

  Interlude

  THEY’D SPRUNG A TRAP—or he had, picking up the necklace, giving it to Sira. Something in the simple action had triggered the machine, in turn changing the M’hiray. How could wait. What mattered was getting free again.

  Morgan had an idea about that; fortunately, it did not rely on recovering the coat and other belongings they’d piled on the far side of the green pillar.

  Sira’s eyes found him, each time with a puzzling in their depths. He’d seen that look before, when he’d reinstated the blocks in her mind. Then, they’d worked together to restore her full memory and self.

  This time, she had the ability to keep him out and used it. Painfully so.

  That didn’t mean he was alone. Aryl.

  Grumpily. What makes you think you can fix what’s been done to them? For all we know, this change is permanent and they’ll never remember us.

  Because he wouldn’t accept that. Couldn’t.

  Morgan flexed his wrists, keeping blood flowing to his hands. The bindings the Om’ray employed were disturbingly like those used to truss prey. The old Clanswoman was just as trapped, not only in flesh but equally unable to communicate with anyone else.

  Aryl di Sarc neither wanted nor deserved pity. Like him, she wanted freedom.

  The M’hiray arrived on Stonerim III without memory of this world and its language, he sent. Without memory of why you had to leave. From this very chamber, with its abundant evidence of sophisticated technology, alien and potent, from the pillar machine to the lighting.

  If not the dress of those native here.

  A question for another time. Marcus Bowman knew why the M’hiray left. He sent a recording—his legacy—to Stonerim III with you. Do you remember? He held his breath.

  Silence. Then, with great weight, I remember giving it to his daughter Kari. I remember how the Bowmans had suffered for our secrets. I made it the Speaker’s role to watch over them. We owed Marcus that and more. What do you mean, he knew why we left? How do you know any of this?

  The Bowmans have been watching over you. Here. Morgan brought forward his memories of Lydis Bowman, of their meeting.

  Then, he allowed Aryl di Sarc to see, once more, the friend who had died saving her.

  Naryn feared death. Feared entering
the M`hir alone. I don`t know where or how she learned the method to put herself into a crystal instead, only that Sira`s birth was part of her plan. Naryn wanted to produce a Vessel of immense Power in which to be reborn. She didn`t care about the consequences, not by the end. Enris and I—we talked about my foreboding, about Naryn`s ambition, about where she was taking the M’hiray. Wry affection. Always ready to charge ahead without looking, my beloved. It was his plan to stop Naryn before she could instill herself in that rock. Neither of us guessed this would be the only way. That I’d take her place. That we`d lose each other, forever.

  At some unremarked moment, she`d become as real to him as anyone else in the chamber. Closing his eyes, Morgan could believe this special Clanswoman stood before him, unbowed despite her age, as strong and beautiful as his Sira. As determined and brave. I`m sorry this happened, he told her, going on honestly, but I`m glad you`re here.

  The M’hiray were my mistake. I haven`t fixed that, not yet. A glimmer of warmth directed at him. I`m glad of your company as well, Jason Morgan, if not what you’ve told me. A pause, then. You believe my memory was altered, my life here stolen, by this machine.

  I do. And now it’s done the same to Sira and the M’hiray, Morgan assured her. It can’t be coincidence. I’ve been able to free memories before, Aryl. Let me try. If this doesn’t work, at least we`ll have that answer, a start.

  The warmth grew, soothed. You won’t give up.

  He shared the merest hint of his determination.

  Well enough. Let us do this now, before they move us apart.

  Having only done this when in physical contact, Morgan knew they could be too far apart already; a detail not worth mentioning. Confidence, he reminded himself. How many times had Sira encouraged him, saying “Limits should be given a nudge.”

  Along with a terrifying wealth of cautionary tales about that nudging, mind you, but he was in no mood for those.

  So when Aryl lowered her shields, Morgan immediately sent himself along the connection between them.

  A shock, as if he’d plunged into ice water, yet all around was clarity, clarity and space.

  She welcomed him into the core of her thoughts, keeping nothing back. Beyond the order and calm intelligence he glimpsed a curtain red as blood, rippling with menace. Do not go there, Aryl warned gently.

  Her Chosen, Enris—his loss—lay behind it, Morgan guessed, and obeyed. He began his search elsewhere . . .

  Swimming back through a lifetime of memories, acquired before he’d been born. Tantalizing glimpses at what had been, of history lived . . . but he dare not pause.

  There.

  Do you see it? he asked, for she’d come with him, standing by his shoulder.

  The mind interpreted what was unseeable. To Morgan, what he’d found appeared to be a round container, the span of his arms in circumference. Its fine weaving was coated with a clear gloss, as if intended to keep water out.

  Or memories in.

  Tidy, Aryl commented, a new edge to her calm. How do we get inside?

  Sira’s blockage had appeared a smothering, as though portions of her mind were wrapped in thick blankets. In a sense, he’d pulled those aside.

  Morgan studied the container, finding nothing to show how to open or break it.

  So be it. For the first time, he risked imposing his will on what he saw. A lid, here. A handle to grab it, here.

  Draining, that effort. Finally the image obeyed, showing what he wanted, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t touch the handle or lift the lid.

  My turn, Aryl said.

  And did.

  Morgan left her alone, respecting the Clanswoman’s right to her own past. He pulled back into himself, the arduousness of that return a warning. Limits? He’d shattered them.

  The Human shivered as the sweat coating his skin began to dry, stealing what heat he’d left. A shame they’d distrusted his clothing, though in their place he’d have done the same.

  He looked for Sira, found her by one of the windows, standing with a pair of the Om’ray. She was easy to spot. Faded blue spacer coveralls. Hair like a red-gold waterfall to her waist.

  Rare grace.

  Unconscious dignity, be it the lift of her head, her posture, or in the careful regard of eyes that had beheld far more than the age she appeared would suggest.

  Yet forgot him.

  He refused to believe it was permanent, that anything could separate them after all they’d been through together, were together.

  Aryl?

  No reply. Had he found a cache of stolen memories, or exposed Aryl di Sarc to what she herself had hidden, for her own protection? Every time he entered another’s mind to heal it, he feared causing more harm than good.

  No choice, Morgan told himself. He’d know if he’d made a difference soon. If what he’d done for Aryl di Sarc would work for his Chosen.

  Or if he was now truly alone.

  Chapter 36

  ITCH!

  The prickle in my mind kept intensifying. If I could have pulled open my head like an aged Eifla and scratched, I would have.

  An Eifla?

  . . . ITCH! A Keeper knew how to dream safely, how to open minds to receive what the Cloisters needed its Clan to learn so gently most non-Adepts wouldn’t even be aware. How could I have failed so badly?

  “—Oud aren’t welcome.”

  I gave myself an inward shake, focusing back on what these strangers were trying to say. While making no sense, they appeared in deadly earnest.

  Destin agreed with Gurutz. “Oud may not come here.”

  Appearance was all I had to go by. Their minds were behind shields of unfamiliar configuration; I somehow doubted these knife-bearing strangers would grant me the moment to discover how to breach them.

  “What we live near is not for an Om’ray to say,” I cautioned sternly. Or even think. The neighbors who awaited our arrival were in every sense independent of us. Ours was to be a relationship built on mutual respect and collaboration. We were farmers—

  ITCHITCHITCH!

  —though I wouldn’t have believed it, to look at us. None of my people looked to have worked outside or hard, surely what farmers did. We’d adapt, I reminded myself. That’s what a Cloisters did: prepare us to thrive outside its walls.

  Protect us when we couldn’t.

  As I might have predicted, the two exchanged yet another look. Destin said, as she’d said a tedious number of times already, “Such matters are for Council. They will come in the morning, Speaker, to meet with you.”

  They’d be awake now, by my estimation, and doubtless well-briefed, but the hour had nothing to do with the availability of their so-called Council. Power struggles I understood, even such petty ones. Unfortunately, short of attacking our hosts and forcing our way out, this struggle was one I couldn’t win. We all knew it. They were polite; I would be no less in return. “I await their convenience.”

  They bowed, I thought gratefully, and left me, taking the other strangers with them. Barac checked the door that turned closed behind them, shaking his head as a signal when it couldn’t be reopened.

  The rest of my people had made themselves little nests along the windowless wall, families and unChosen clustered. I’d asked a silent question; the answer had taken some of the joy from our safe arrival. None of us having seen another part of the Cloisters, we’d no locate for a ’port. Despite our marvelous Talent, despite our long journey to this new home, we were trapped in the Council Chamber until one of us stepped through a door, or the sun rose to reveal what was outside the windows.

  Which shouldn’t be.

  . . . itch. Why couldn’t I picture another place? Even if we didn’t know Sona, yet, we’d come from—from somewhere. Straining to remember intensified the ITCH until I had to pace or scream; it didn’t stop my efforts.

  Nor could I st
op glancing at the not-real. He should be miserable, shivering and bound, but he sat without moving from where they’d pushed him, his gaze steady and ever on me.

  Was that pride on his face?

  Destin and Gurutz judged him dangerous. He was, I’d no doubt. But to whom?

  The stranger Om’ray kept us prisoner, too, as surely as if they’d tied us with ropes. They did this though we belonged in Sona and they did not. As for their Council?

  I recognized no authority but the entitlement of my greater Power. If what these strangers would say after this needless wait didn’t suit me?

  They had strong shields. We’d see how long they lasted.

  Uneasy, such thoughts, ones I shouldn’t have; my growing outrage was even less helpful. My hair writhed around my shoulders in unseemly display. With no other outlet for my anger, I let it.

  Seeing my mood, my own people carefully avoided me.

  I needed a task. The strangers had provided gourds of water, distributing those along with flat disks of bread studded with bits of dried meat. I’d taken my share more to appease my Birth Watcher than because of appetite.

  Nothing had been offered to their prisoner—my Chosen; cruel to him, potentially deadly to me.

  Two could play that game. Gourd and bread in hand, I strode to the dais with an air of confidence.

  An air harder to maintain as I approached him, caught by what I couldn’t name. Was it the darkening of the blue in his eyes, fixed on me?

  The tiny creases at the corners of his lips, as though ready to smile?

  Heart pounding, I knelt beside him, offering the water. Though unable to understand my voice or inner speech, he grasped my intention. When I lifted the gourd to his mouth, he swallowed eagerly.

  My eyes wouldn’t leave the movement of his throat. My hair, ever-willful, sent a curious lock to touch it . . .

  Finding the pulse of blood beneath skin . . . exploring the curved junction of shoulder to neck . . .

  Sliding down his chest, as if drawn by lines of drying sweat.

  I tore my eyes away, meeting his again. They contained a message, intense, powerful. But what? I took a frustrated breath and the scent of him, sharp and familiar, filled me.