What he could see were their reflections looking back. They’d dressed to meet Quessa on Plexis an eternity ago, clothes they’d cleaned on the Fox and donned to leave the ship.
The minor addition of Morgan and Sira’s extra coats and, in Ruti’s case, flat slippers, didn’t make them ready for what was waiting outside. Nothing, he feared, could. “The Sona live over there,” he pointed. “You can see their lights if you put your face to the window.” In trees, if he was to believe it.
He didn’t know how to live in trees or with Tikitik. The machine that raped their minds had been tragically wrong, preparing them for fields and brick homes and Oud. Ruti could repair a harvesting machine she’d never seen. His mind was stuffed with details about brickmaking, of all things. Brickmaking and foods he remembered tasting—and had never put in his mouth.
Barac’s stomach roiled. All he knew for certain was that outside this Cloisters, anything could be deadly.
“You worry too much, my dear Chosen. I grew up in Acranam’s jungles,” Ruti reminded him. “I know all about them.”
“And that will be helpful,” he replied gently. “But this isn’t Acranam. What might look the same, won’t be.”
She made that little, you-haven’t-convinced-me, sound that reserved her right to argue, ever brave and determined.
A combination ripe for danger. “Ruti—”
“Our pardon, but are you the First Scout?”
Not if he could help it, Barac sighed to himself, but nodded at the two who’d approached.
“Our parents sent us, First Scout. To be useful.”
Enjoy yourself, Ruti sent with a grin as she left them. Jacqui needs us.
He’d no right to feel deserted. That there’d been no incidents—yet—was remarkable. The shock of their arrival had helped. The three unChosen stayed together, surrounded by family, waiting with that delicious blend of terror and urgent need Barac had no trouble remembering.
Having been drawn, time and again, to the alluring Power-of-Choice of a Chooser. He remembered knowing he’d die; it hadn’t mattered. Such was the nature of their kind.
He’d been lucky. The only thing saving these unChosen was the unnatural self-control of the Choosers forced to share the chamber.
Full credit to his Chosen, keeping Jacqui apart and preoccupied. Tle di Parth, thus far, had shown unusual good sense, avoiding Jacqui and remaining in the midst of the Chosen of her group. As for the third Chooser swept to Cersi? Ermu sud Friesnen’s minimal Power, an embarrassment to her father Crisac, made her no threat to the others. Ironically, if not for the presence of Jacqui and Tle, her lesser strength would guarantee a successful Choice.
Perhaps with one of the youngsters waiting respectfully for him to speak, the elder brother as yet oblivious as to why the eyes of all three M’hiray Choosers followed when he passed by. He’d pay attention soon. He’d be unable to help himself.
“Call me Barac.”
“I’m Asdny di Licor,” the elder introduced himself with a very proper bow. “This is my brother Arla. How can we be of use? Barac,” he finished, greatly daring. His brother looked at him with admiration.
Barac carefully didn’t smile. “You’ve skills? Of your own,” he added, not ready to trust the rest.
Arla stood straight. “I’ve studied—”
“He means for out there,” his brother interrupted. “We’re good climbers. And Arla’s a Looker.”
Blushing accentuated the dappling on Arla’s cheeks. “Not much of one,” he muttered.
“Arla’s always right,” Asdny boasted. “You can’t trick his Talent by switching what he’s seen, not even once.”
Doubtless a trick he’d tried to play, often. Barac was intrigued. Lookers of substantial Power were uncommon—just as well, their intense memory of a place or person at odds with the slightest variation in it. He’d heard it said they dared not visit anywhere subject to change more than once. Putting Plexis definitely off limits.
No one here would be going to Plexis any time soon, he reminded himself. Not with the Assemblers waiting.
Would any of them, ever again?
“Will you teach us to be scouts, Barac?”
“Please?”
He’d been this young and eager once. Barac smiled. “If you’ll teach me how to climb. My brother said I was hopeless at it.” The words came out free of pain. He supposed it was all the new losses.
“We will,” Arla promised, eyes aglow.
“And soon.” His brother pointed out the window. “Look!”
Dawn.
Chapter 40
WHAT DAWN REVEALED, rain mercifully hid behind a curtain of gray.
Aryl was the only one who’d responded with joy to finding ourselves engulfed by giant trees, their girth rivaling a starship’s, their whorls of mighty branches overlapped to leave no room for a sky. Branches coated in vines and other growth.
Most with thorns.
Looking down hadn’t improved matters. Aryl remembered Sona’s Cloisters as sitting half buried in the ground. Now it drowned, water like ebony lapping against what had been the railing to an upper level.
Things lived in that water, she assured us, her fear ample warning not to ask what.
The Maker having programmed us to be farmers, the lack of ground was disconcerting. My people busied themselves as best they could, a little too casually avoiding the windows in case the rain let up.
I chewed and swallowed the last of my bread. “Here’s hoping they realize we’ll need more than this.”
“You said they weren’t happy to share.” Morgan gazed at the rain-slicked window. “I wonder why. It’s not as if they don’t have enough out there to eat.”
Everything out there, I judged wryly, busy eating everything else.
He went on, “This much biomass? If the population is as clever at living here as Aryl describes, I can’t see food being a problem.”
“It might be.” Holl joined us. Her delicate features were drawn with worry. “I’ve analyzed what they’ve given us. Several key nutrients are missing. If our diet consisted solely of this bread, we’d starve to death, and quickly.”
Dresel.
The word came with such longing my mouth filled with moisture. A special food, moreover a necessary one, that the stranger Om’ray hadn’t offered. “Something else for their Council.” A growing list. I shrugged. “That’s if they’re in a talking mood.”
Let me deal with them.
I glanced suspiciously at Morgan. He’d not shared his reaction about being tied up by the Om’ray; not sharing didn’t make him in a forgiving mood. There were weapons in his pack, as well as those returned to his clothing.
His mouth quirked. “We’re traders, chit, remember? Negotiation’s our specialty.”
When had I started thinking more like a Clan Speaker than myself? “One problem. You don’t speak the language.” Yet, I added to myself. Morgan had begun to add Om’ray words and phrasing to his comlink. On noticing Andi’s interest, he’d enlisted the child to walk around and collect as much as she could. The M’hiray might not have employed such tech, but they quickly understood its importance to Morgan.
Having remembered Morgan’s importance not only to me, but to all of us.
“I’ll be in your head,” my important Chosen said, smiling at me. “Here’s what I suggest we put on the table to start.”
When he told me, I smiled for the first time since dawn.
“You want to—to live in our Cloisters?” The words barely made it through Teris di Uruus’ tightened lips.
I spoke to be heard by everyone. “All we ask is living space until we find another home.” Aryl’s memory of how they’d housed a bulging population in this same building had been extremely helpful. “The upper levels would be sufficient. You’d be welcome to keep using the rest, of course.”
Sona’s Council had been late, suiting themselves. I’d greeted them graciously, the extra delay suiting me. We’d need the time to prepare, as best we could.
They were five, including their Speaker, and all Adepts: three female, two male, Chosen and elders of their families. Elders? Eand di Yode and her Chosen Moyla were shockingly aged, faces so deeply wrinkled they were impossible to read, hands gnarled into claws. Whether advanced in years or worn by life, they moved with much the same vigor as the rest.
Other than the robes and their bearing, they were as diverse a sampling of our kind as I’d ever seen in one place. Nyala di Edut was the tallest, the irises of her eyes and her netted hair colored like a rainbow. Teris and Moyla had the heavier builds, neither as tall as Ruti, but the former’s skin was as dark as the lake outside. At a younger age, Eand could have passed for my father’s kin, having the same hooked nose and angular jaw.
None claimed the role the Maker had assigned me, to be Keeper and in charge of dreaming. It might be they had none, Aryl thought, or considered the matter private among their Adepts. Regardless, it was high on my list to find out; we wanted nothing more to do with those automated memories, helpful or not.
Sona’s Speaker, Odon, wore a pendant identical to mine on his chest. His finely drawn features and thick black hair would make him strikingly handsome, I thought, when he didn’t look ready to strike someone.
As for the extra finger on each of his elegant hands? I reminded myself I had dear friends more alien than this and managed not to stare. Harder to ignore were names I’d seen only on parches, families left behind on this world when the Om’ray and M’hiray divided one from the other.
Sona’s Council had dressed for the occasion in white ceremonial robes that might have hung in Tle’s closet or mine. The robes made their desired impression. My people had bowed with respect; now they hung on every word with rapt attention.
Words they could only understand because a machine had reset their minds to take Sona from these people.
Other Om’ray had accompanied their Council, bringing wooden stools for them and one for me. Tables and cups for them, nothing for me. The stools were arranged, not on the dais, but directly in front of the door they’d used. The Council sat in a curve with me at its focus.
As planned, Morgan stood behind me, as did Tle di Parth, from my brief reach by far the most powerful Chooser in the area, and Barac. First Scout, I’d learned from Aryl was a highly significant rank here.
By their glowers when they’d sat, we weren’t what the Om’ray expected to face.
Good.
As any Clan might do, during our introductions we’d acquainted ourselves with one another, the discreet touch of Power to Power widening their eyes as they assessed mine.
I hadn’t known what to expect of them. When the M’hiray left, they’d stripped Cersi of Om’ray with Talents that used the M’hir. From what I sensed of the Sona, that hadn’t diminished the strength of those who remained. Did they possess Talents now rare or extinct among us? I looked forward to learning more about them.
If they let us stay.
Odon was the strongest Sona by a slight margin, the aged Eand second. Sona’s First Scout, Destin, rivaled them both. I’d given her a nod of recognition, making her shift uneasily at her post behind the Speaker.
Then I’d made what Morgan called our opening offer, and no one had been at ease since.
“The Cloisters belongs to Sona.” Odon made a dismissive gesture. “You are not Sona and not welcome. Use your foul Vyna tricks and leave!”
“‘Vyna’?” I echoed.
“Do you deny it?”
Aryl supplied an image of beings I could scarcely credit as Om’ray, letting me feel her repugnance.
A Clan who lived apart, refusing Choice, reproducing without mates. In Aryl’s time, the Vyna prevented contamination by killing any unChosen lured to their Choosers. They stored the minds of their Adepts, pouring them into their empty unborn. Vessels.
Here was the source of the myths.
Anaj di Kathel lived in Naryn’s womb until—Aryl’s sending stopped as though cut. When she continued, quickly, it was of something else entirely. The dream of how to enter the M’hir would have reached their Adepts, she said, dread beginning to grow. None of them joined the M’hiray. Sira, what did they become?
A problem for us, apparently. “I say use your eyes as well as your Talent. We’ve Chosen here. Families. We are not Vyna.” I spread my arms. “We are the M’hiray, yes, and strangers, but the blood in our bodies is the same as in yours. We’ve lost our homes. What we ask is a chance for a new one.”
Though we were carefully keeping our inner distance from one another, I’d sat at trade tables. Attitudes were shifting—some, anyway.
Moyla’s pale eyes shone, as if close to tears. His lips worked. “Our families, too—”
“Hush,” his Chosen snapped. “We agreed to dispense with these intruders. I say they leave now or be removed!”
“And the Tikitik?” I countered.
Teris regarded me through lowered eyelids, her restless hair white against the dark of her skin. Her attention shifted to her fellow Councilor. “A valid point. Eand?”
“What happens within these walls is of no concern to our neighbors.”
Aryl had been translating for Morgan. He leaned forward, an urgent hand on my shoulder. Sira, she’s threatening to have us killed.
Who wasn’t? I thought wearily. “Are there so many Om’ray here,” I argued, keeping my voice even, “you would waste our lives?”
“See? Proof! She doesn’t know our number. A Vyna would know. Anyone would.” Eand looked at the others on Council. She climbed to her feet, voice rising. “We feel them. Can these M’hiray not feel us? Are they blind to the world? Are they not-real?”
The others erupted from their seats, the First Scout not the only one dropping hands to knife hilt. Shouts overlapped. ANGER and FEAR drove outward. “These are all not-real, like her Chosen!” “Don’t belong!” “Be rid of them!”
“Thirty-three!” A child’s voice rang out, high-pitched and unexpected. As the others fell silent, in and out, Andi looked at me in triumph.
“Thirty-three,” I repeated as calmly as possible. What’s going on?
An Om’ray trait, Morgan told me quickly. They sense one another at any distance. They—an incredulous pause—Aryl says they navigate by it, that the shape of their world is defined by where Om’ray exist. A sense those who became M’hiray lost.
Andi’s antiquated Talent, to know at all times where another was without expending her strength. Thirty-three Sona. Fewer than I’d thought.
Aryl says it was rare in her time.
Clearly rare no more.
“M’hiray you call yourselves,” Odon proclaimed. “Om’ray you are.”
Eand stayed on her feet. She was the key, I decided. Protective of those in her care. Ruthless, yes, but not needlessly so. We were alike in that, and more.
“I want what you do,” I told her.
The wrinkles of her face deepened. “And what do you think that is?”
“A future for our children.”
She huffed at that, eyes locked with mine. After a long moment, she settled back on her stool and gave a curt nod.
“Then allow us to live here, within your Cloisters, for a time.” I looked from one to the other. “We can help one another, as Om’ray do.”
Approval, from Aryl, if tempered with a certain skepticism. Our kind, I gathered, hadn’t changed that much.
“Even if we agreed,” Odon said heavily, “we haven’t lied. We cannot feed you. The harvest was a poor one—”
“Be truthful, Odon,” Teris interrupted. “We can’t feed ourselve
s. We’d too few to ride the last M’hir Wind. After the Tikitik took their share, we’ve glows enough, but we’ll starve to death before the swarm takes us.”
Nyala’s gesture of apology seemed meant for her people, not mine. “You picked the wrong Clan to join, Sira. Teris is right. Sona won’t last the rains.”
Their despair was as sincere as it was mute. A great deal became clear to me in that moment. These were proud people, facing a situation they’d no hope of surviving alone, ashamed at what they viewed as their failure.
However we’d come here, this was the right place, at the right time, for us all.
Holl, I sent, are you certain? We can’t be wrong about this.
Confidence came back. We can find what they need—what we need. I promise, Sira.
Good enough.
“We should be able to help with that,” I told Sona’s Council, and proceeded to explain.
Sona’s First Scout lingered to see her Council safely out of our clutches. Not that I believed she considered us a threat, but distrust seemed her nature, one Aryl approved.
Something’s on her mind. I’d say it’s not good news.
Morgan was right. The door closed, Destin di Anel came to us, her expression an interesting mix of reticence and determination. “Can you do what you say?”
“Yes,” I said, equally blunt. “How soon depends on what you bring us to analyze.” The word came out in Comspeak, so I clarified: “Test with our devices. The more the better.”
“Your samples are coming.” Her eyes went to Barac, I thought assessingly, then settled on Morgan. “These two have weapons.”
“Which they haven’t used,” I pointed out, unsure where this was going. I translated for Morgan, felt his curiosity. “Why?”
“Weapons and the Vyna’s cursed Talent. When were you planning to rob us?” Destin whipped out her longknife, resting the tip against my neck, then froze—
—Morgan’s blade resting along hers.
The chamber fell silent. I sent reassurance. “We call what we do ’porting,” I said as matter-of-factly as possible while not daring to move. “We travel through the M’hir to any place we remember being. We can use someone else’s memory of a place. Some of us can ’port to a person, especially heart-kin.”
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