Last spring, she’d known a Cloisters was where Adepts practiced their Talents, safe from observation by Tikitik or Oud, aloof from the rest. A Cloisters was where Adepts added to a Clan’s record of names and Joinings, and where the aged and the Lost could live out their days in peace.
Was that illusion, too? Did Clans have Cloisters for no other reason than Om’ray were frail things and some must survive each change in their neighbors, Tikitik or Oud?
“Why?” Aryl asked. “What use are we to them? Why is there an Agreement at all?” The words rebounded from pale yellow walls and closed doors, hung at the ceiling as if searching for answers. Died into silence.
A silence broken by distant footsteps.
Abandoning questions about the past, Aryl sped in pursuit. Oran, at a guess. She favored the lighter footwear they’d found among Sona’s supplies. Hoyon preferred his Grona boots.
She knew her way. Like Speaker’s Pendants, every Cloisters followed the same design; she’d been in this part of Yena’s. As Aryl ran for the closest door to the corridor outside, she kept her shields tight, though she doubted either Adept would welcome contact with her mind. They’d tried to force the secret of ’porting from her once. Tried. That day, she’d discovered her mind could be a weapon as deadly as a longknife.
Naryn hadn’t been wrong about the fear between them, only in who felt it most.
A knife was clean, honest. What she could do—Aryl shuddered inwardly—what she could do if rage gripped her, if she lost all decent control, was an abomination. To rip apart who someone was and toss the terrified fragments of their aware mind into the M’hir . . .
She’d never do it again. She’d never let another Om’ray learn how.
A promise she couldn’t expect Oran and Hoyon to believe.
The corridor was lit by glows lining the junction of wall to ceiling, glows with no power cells to replace, as ordinary lights had. The floor, smooth and resilient underfoot, was of no material known to Om’ray. Every so often, the plain walls were broken by closed doors of metal, clear unbreakable windows, or by small metal frames surrounding disks and squares of unknown purpose.
Advanced technology.
A thought impossible before she’d met Marcus and seen the devices and buildings of the Strangers.
Om’ray had built this and forgotten.
Another impossible concept. Until the Human had told her of other worlds and how cultures changed over vast lengths of time. Of how the Hoveny Concentrix had covered more worlds, with technology superior to the Trade Pact’s, only to collapse to ruins long before the Cloisters existed.
He’d gladly bring his devices inside this one, if she gave him the chance. He’d pore over every part, babbling his Comspeak to himself, making vids and records and drawing Human conclusions about Om’ray that would change them even more.
Some risks she wouldn’t take.
Aryl turned the corner and stopped in her tracks.
Empty corridor stretched ahead.
Oran must have ’ported away. Coward. Aryl lowered her shields the merest amount and reached.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered aloud.
Not one, not two, but seven Om’ray—below, on another level. Furious, she reached to learn who else shirked their responsibilities.
Oran. Hoyon. Oran’s brother and shadow, Kran Caraat, as yet unChosen. Bern. No surprise.
Two former Tuana: Deran Edut, another unChosen, and Menasel Lorimar, cousin of the twisted Mauro, dead by Haxel’s ever-pragmatic knife.
Gijs sud Vendan, who should keep better company.
Oran had a gift for finding weakness.
Poor Gijs. She sighed to herself. When he wasn’t careful, anyone nearby could taste his fear, but only those of Yena understood. His Chosen, Juo, would give birth to their daughter any day and in the canopy, Gijs had been sure of himself and his ability to keep his family safe. On Sona’s dirt? It didn’t matter how well he could climb or hunt. Against the Oud’s unstoppable force, what use were Yena skills to repel the swarm? No surprise Gijs turned to Power instead, driving himself to learn whatever Talents he could, from anyone with something to teach him.
From Oran.
Whom Juo detested. The resulting schism between Chosen was a discord racing along her nerves, if Aryl let down her shields when the two were together.
No doubt the shirkers were aware of her presence. If Bern hadn’t sensed her, Menasel had the same Talent, to know identity.
The level above was reached by a corridor that gradually wound upward. How to reach the one below? Aryl chewed her lower lip. The Adepts knew more of the inner workings of the Cloisters than they’d revealed. Not a comforting thought.
Knowledge Sona needed. Maybe they’d been wrong not to let the Adepts have their haven here.
They’d made one anyway.
Haxel would—Aryl shrugged. What Haxel would or wouldn’t do counted as much as a biter’s opinion unless she found the way to the next level. She went to the nearest door and turned it open, finding the empty room she’d expected. On to the next. And the next. A set of chairs. A lonely table. No purpose remained here, only remnants.
They were entertained by her search. Smug. She didn’t need to feel their emotions to know. An adult game, this, a test of her worth against their secret.
A game she couldn’t win, Aryl realized abruptly. Fail to find the way down and she’d lose any respect they had left for her. Find the way, confront them, and they’d cling tighter to one another. Neither helped Sona.
There was another way.
She took the corridor that led up, following it to where the Cloisters walls became layers of white petals, neither metal nor wood. No windows here, but at the very top, where the petals met, an irregular slice of cloud and sky could be seen. The light here was warmer than the corridors and rooms, the air fresher.
Whatever the purpose of this uppermost level, there was seating. Long benches curved in rows along one side, facing a span of empty floor.
Aryl sat on the nearest, poked a rebellious strand of hair, and settled her mind. Anger had to go. Resentment with it. Fear of failure, pointless. She focused on the life within, its faint yet growing warmth. She thought about the future she wanted for this child, one of peace and security, the one she wanted for all Om’ray—friends or not—and built it in her imagination.
This new Talent, to ’port from place to place. The next time the Tikitik and Oud traded lands, mightn’t it prevent the cost in Om’ray lives? Speakers from each race could inform the others. There could be negotiation, an evacuation planned that didn’t violate the rules of Passage.
As for Passage itself, no more would young unChosen face a difficult, deadly journey alone. They’d already learned a shared memory was enough for a ’port. Locates for other Clans could be shared, mind-to-mind, through the M’hir. Those able would simply ’port to a waiting Chooser. If that match wasn’t suitable, they could as easily return home.
A perfect future. Once the Strangers finished groping at the past and left Cersi forever, Aryl reminded herself. Before that, they must be careful, secretive. Oh, she believed the Human’s warning not to reveal themselves as anything but simple villagers. “Remnants,” he’d called the Om’ray, of no interest to the Trade Pact. She earnestly hoped to stay that way. Nothing good came of the interest of others.
“What do you want?”
The future trembled on her lips, gone as Aryl stiffened, looking up at the angry Om’ray who’d appeared before her. In Grona fashion, Oran’s hair was free beneath a token cap. Its golden locks writhed with temper. She wore the white embroidered robe of her office as Adept, in clear defiance.
Or as defense, Aryl thought, forcing herself to stay calm. Oran had courage, whatever their disagreements. “We need to talk.”
Oran tightened her shields until she almost disappeared from Aryl’s inner sense. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”
There were dark circles beneath Oran’s eyes; her mouth was pinched with exhaus
tion. Why?
Aryl gestured to the bench between them. “Sit with me, Adept di Caraat.” A peace offering, to grant the other her title for the first time in their stormy acquaintance. “Tell me what you hope to accomplish here. Perhaps I can help.”
The derisive snort was pure Oran, but the other did sit, her body sagging with relief despite her attempt at composure, hair abruptly still. Something had drained her Power to the point of risk, Aryl concluded, holding in her own alarm. What?
Though exhausted, Oran was all pricklish pride and disdain. “What we will accomplish, Speaker Sarc,” she stated, “despite no support from our own Clan, is to restore our Cloisters to its full and proper function.”
Glows lit every corner. Doors unlocked and turned. The air stayed a comfortable temperature—for Yena in light coats. Aryl doubted the Adept referred to anything so comprehensible. “And you do that by living here . . .”
“No. By dreaming here.”
“ ‘Dreaming?’ ” Aryl sat straighter. “You mean you’ve been learning about this place? How to tell the weeds, what to do to help the food grow . . . the seasons?”
“You think so small. A Cloisters contains the knowledge of all its Adepts. I could continue my training as a Healer. Learn to protect myself from fools like you.”
Aryl accepted the rebuke. None of them had realized how dangerous it would be for Oran to try to heal Myris Sarc, whose head injury had damaged her mind as well. That she’d stepped in and completed the task hadn’t helped endear her to Oran. But what mattered was the future. The knowledge of Sona’s Adepts could help achieve it.
Shadow lapped across the floor, grayed Oran’s robe, dulled her hair. A cloud passing.
“Have you dreamed?” Aryl asked, guessing the answer.
Oran’s lips pressed together.
Which meant no. She resisted the urge to shake the other. The Grona Adepts’ hoarding of secrets made everyone’s life more difficult, including their own. Her hair slithered restlessly over one shoulder. She mollified her tone—the hair being another matter—and allowed sincerity and concern past her shields. “How can the rest of us help?”
“The others can’t.” Oran smoothed the robe over her knees, traced a curl of embroidery in the fabric, her gaze intent on those actions. “You might,” she said after a long moment.
Aryl carefully tightened her shields, particularly those which—sometimes—kept her dear and ever-vigilant Chosen from sensing her reactions. Amazing, the self-control their Joining had taught her. Among other things.
She coughed and focused. “How?”
Oran turned her hand. Its calluses were hardened now, no longer red and swollen. She’d learned their value. “Come with me.”
Courage indeed. Without hesitation, Aryl touched her fingertips to the other’s palm.
The chamber disappeared . . .
. . . to be replaced by chaos.
Aryl blinked and stood. Oran remained seated, head down, face in her hands. She’d used the last of her strength in the ’port.
A ’port into a stinger nest, Aryl decided. One just prodded with a stick. Her. Angry voices crossed from every side. Suspicion and fear rilled from mind to mind. “Fool! Why did you bring her here?” “She found us!” “Can’t trust her! Send her away!” “Oran, did she hurt you?”
The last, from Bern as he dropped to his knees before his Chosen while giving her a scathing look, was more than enough. Aryl sent a snap of irritation. Deran cried out. The rest fell silent and stared at her.
In the respite, doubtless brief, Aryl surveyed the strange room. What was this place? As large as the Council Chamber. An entire Clan could fit in here. The construction matched the rest of the Cloisters, plain yellow walls and resilient floor, but the windowless walls were broken by narrow doors, five evenly spaced along each long side, two on each shorter one. The lighting came not from ceiling strips but from panels behind knee-high platforms.
The platforms. Oran and she had ’ported to sit on one; there were more. Far more. Oval in shape, they lined the walls, each topped with a soft pad of some brown material she’d never seen before. Beds, Aryl decided. For the Adepts? She’d believed her mother had had her own room, sparse but comfortable. Had she been wrong?
Yena had thirteen Adepts. There were beds here for many times that number.
The two closest bore additional blankets, familiar ones. They’d come from the storage mound. As had, Aryl frowned, the incongruous pile of dishes, pots, and—yes, that was one of the oil heaters used for cooking—on the floor. The bulging sacks leaning against the wall doubtless contained food as well as extra clothing. The Tuanas’ doing, she guessed. No Yena would take from his own.
Yet two were part of it. Gijs had the grace to flush a dark red. Bern, preoccupied with his weary Chosen, paid no attention. Fools. She restrained her temper. “How can I help?”
Hoyon sank down on the bed behind him. His hands trembled. “You can’t.”
“You don’t belong here.” This from Menasel.
Aryl smiled her mother’s smile. “Neither do you. Them—” with a nod to exhausted Adepts, “—I can understand. Why are you here? Or you, Gijs. Kran. Deran. Bern. Someone else does your share of the work right now.”
Deran scowled fiercely. “I’m no digger in dirt.”
“What do you plan to eat next winter?” Aryl found herself honestly curious. The Tuanas of Sona shared a past and future, but remained distinct: Naryn and the Runners, who worked as hard as any Yena, and Deran and his once-privileged kin, who had the oddest notion they should be entitled to not work at all. The two groups spared no words or kindness for one another.
Oran lifted her head, golden hair flooding over her shoulders. “Peace, Aryl. They work here, for us. We must concentrate on our task; we are helpless while dreaming. Without any Lost—” A shrug.
As if it was a detriment, not to have mind-shattered Chosen to serve her. And she never would, Aryl hoped fiercely, though what she could do against a fact of Om’ray life was beyond her imagining. The death of one of a Joined pair meant the loss of the other’s sense of self, if not another death. The only exception had been her own mother, Taisal. “You brought me here, Adept,” she stated grimly, regretting that decision. Though now she could return to this sanctum of theirs at whim; from the unsettled feel of their Power, the others realized it too.
Hoyon scowled. “Why, Oran?”
Oran gestured a perfunctory apology. “You need more than I can give you.”
That was it? Oran wanted her to restore Hoyon’s strength with her own. Aryl’s hand wanted to find the hilt of her longknife. Not helpful. She rested her fingers on her belt. “Strength for what?”
“The Cloisters must accept him—” Oran flinched and fell silent, but her eyes were hot.
Aryl had felt it, too. A crack of Power, stinging even to those not its target. Oran wasn’t the leader of this pair, as she’d believed. Hoyon d’sud Gethen was.
Leader of nothing else. Don’t think to challenge me, she sent to the Grona Adept. She’d kept it private, but his defiant glare at her didn’t fool anyone. Fear spilled past his shields, thick and cloying. The others exchanged troubled looks.
Aryl felt unclean.
“Explain yourselves,” she pressed. “Now.”
“He’s tried and failed.” Bern was clearly pleased to have Hoyon put in his place. “A gift of strength won’t help. The Cloisters doesn’t want him.”
Would none of them make sense? “The Cloisters is a building.”
“It’s much more.” Oran gestured at the room. “This is the Dream Chamber. Here, we can learn whatever we need. Once the Cloisters accepts Hoyon as its Keeper.”
“You talk of what’s forbidden to non-Adepts!” Hoyon subsided at Aryl’s lifted brow, though he looked as if he’d bitten into a rotten fruit.
“ ‘Keeper?’ ” she repeated. “What’s that?”
“Not what. Who.” As if goaded by Hoyon’s warning, Oran spoke quickly. “The Keeper
is the one Adept given the ability to open the dream records for the rest. But Sona’s hasn’t listened to Hoyon.”
Adept babble. Aryl decided to leave the question of how a building could listen alone, though she did approve this one’s taste. “Will it listen to you?”
A reasonable question. Hoyon jerked as if she’d hit him.
From the joyous lift of Oran’s hair, this wasn’t the first time she’d considered stepping into Hoyon’s place. However, she schooled her face and bowed very properly toward the other Adept. “I would not presume. Hoyon d’sud Gethen is my senior. My teacher.”
A poor time for Oran di Caraat to exhibit humility, false or real. Aryl was conscious of their audience: the pair of Tuana, Kran and Bern, Gijs. Nothing that happened with such wit nesses would be secret for long.
Which worked both ways.
She smiled. “I’ll ask Naryn, then. She’s had Adept training—”
“No!” from Hoyon.
“She can’t,” from Oran, whose lips twisted. “Even if she were a full Adept, there’s what grows inside her. The Cloisters won’t accept a pregnant candidate.” She rose to her feet, shaking off Bern’s solicitous hand. “I will make the attempt, with Hoyon’s permission.”
“But you’re pregnant,” Aryl protested.
“I’m hardly so careless.”
“You were seen opening the lock—”
Before Oran could reply, Menasel spoke up. “We all can,” the Tuana Chosen boasted. “They added our names to the records—”
“Only yours?” Aryl cut in.
In the ensuing silence, she looked at each of them in turn. Gijs lowered his eyes. “Only yours,” she repeated, sure now. Poor Juo.
Games and secrets. They destroyed bridges. They left Om’ray stranded and alone. They risked everything. Sona had forty-six Om’ray. Barely enough to plant and tend a crop. There would soon be babies needing care. The eldest among them could fail in the coming winter.
The river had yet to flood.
The blood pounding in her ears was louder than their breathing. A presence filled her mind—Enris, alerted, not yet alarmed. Aryl sent a pulse of reassurance she most assuredly didn’t feel, then tightened her shields.
Rift in the Sky Page 3