The Human’s real Talent, Aryl decided, was to make anything strange.
New River was little more than a stream. That word she knew. When they’d first come here, climbing the mountain ridges, they’d crossed innumerable such: most no wider than her foot. The one of any size had been stolen by the Oud as well.
Why? A question to make Marcus, knower of too much, shake his head in frustration. She grinned to herself.
The water at her feet babbled and bubbled, frothed white and felt cold. They’d dug into its narrow bed to make a deeper spot for filling jars and laid flat stones alongside. Not even hardy Grona boots took daily soaking well. To complicate things, New River was prone to change its course, abandoning both flat stones and deep spots without warning.
Ezgi d’sud Parth rose with a sloshing jar and grinned at her. “Sure you want full ones?”
Aryl flexed her hands on the stick across her shoulders. “I’ll spill less than you.”
Laughing, he slipped the neck of the jar within its noose. The match to it was on Aryl’s other side. She braced herself, then straightened in a smooth motion.
Balanced, the weight wasn’t a problem. The nature of the load was where a Yena had the advantage. On the flat, she took uneven steps, just as she would to cross a rope bridge, preventing any swing of the jars from growing beyond her control. Going up the crumbling riverbank was straightforward. She simply placed her feet with care and . . .
... stone shifted.
Without thinking, Aryl jumped to the side. Unfortunately, what would save her from a breaking branch was worse than useless where everywhere she stepped began to slip and slide apart.
She was not going to drop a jar. Or spill a drop.
With a growl, she bent forward and ran up the slope at full speed, pebbles flying, feet sinking with each drive of her legs. Almost at the top . . . faces peered down at her. Disbelief. Someone bent to offer a hand and was quickly pulled out of her way by someone wiser. Her legs burned, but she didn’t slow down. One . . . more . . . thrust . . . down . . . a . . . push . . . up . . . there.
Aryl stepped calmly up and onto the flat edge, smiled at the Om’ray now very busy going down the slope with their empty jars—all but one—and began to walk toward the field, her jars full.
“I’d take those, but you’re enjoying them too much.” Enris fell in step. “You realize you almost ran over my uncle.”
“What was he doing in my way?”
“Probably wondering how a such tiny Yena could carry more than his nephew. Uphill.”
“Then,” she grunted, shifting the stick, “he should take up climbing.”
What was it like?
Sweat stung her eyes. The birth? Aryl gave him the memories. “Quicker than I thought,” she added. “You’d best be nearby.” Avoiding the topic of Yao and the new babies, she continued cheerfully, “Now Lymin and Juo can help water the fields. They aren’t so tiny,” this with a sly look.
“My uncle will be relieved. However,” a bubble of distraction, “no one may have to soon.”
“You’ve an idea.”
“I’ve an idea.”
One he had no intention of sharing. “Fine.” Aryl lifted the stick and its jars over her head. “So you can’t say you didn’t take your turn.”
When Enris cooperated by stepping close to lower his head for the load, she planted a quick kiss on his forehead and stared into his deep brown eyes. “Haxel is sending Oran home. If the rest of Grona leave, that’s four less to carry water. We may have to try your trading.”
His hands met hers on the stick, took the weight. “Good thing I only have brilliant ideas, isn’t it?” He grinned.
Insufferable Tuana.
For the first time in this too-long day, Aryl began to feel hope.
Forty-two Om’ray crowded into Sona’s Meeting Hall. Two sets of new parents, and their babies, were absent. Good thing, thought Aryl, feeling a tinge of HUNGER that wasn’t hers. Lymin’s newborn was as loud as Juo’s.
And he was, according to Seru, as detached from other Om’ray as Yao. Oswa would be in demand.
Despite the babies’ appetites, Aryl had none of her own. Not for the thick stew Rorn had prepared for them, nor for what had to be done.
Despite open windows and door, the air was rank with sweat. They were all weary but, from most, satisfaction. They could see the results of their labor in new growth. Only this afternoon, Ziba had declared a nondescript green thread to be her beloved rokly, a favorite dried and preserved. None of them had tasted it fresh.
The births dispelled the pall of grief, or at least pushed it aside. They’d mourn Myris and Ael tomorrow, with the ringing of the Cloisters’ bell. Then, the new babies would be given names from those in the Cloisters’ list—Sona names. Seru would preside. For now, she sat with Husni and Morla, accepting congratulations, and looking every bit as proud as any parent. Ezgi stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.
They should be proud, Aryl told herself. Children were Sona’s future.
Children who would never meet Myris or Ael, only hear about them. A cautionary story told by their elders: The M’hir is dangerous. It killed Ael d’sud Sarc and his Chosen. Because he did this—we think. Whatever he did, don’t you do it.
She snorted to herself. As if stories ever prevented a fall. She’d share her own memories, good ones, when the children were older. As for what killed Ael? They might never know. Or it could happen during the very next attempt to ’port . . .
Beside her, Enris lowered his bowl. Trouble.
Bern d’sud Caraat was easing his way through the others, pale eyes on her, stopping to exchange courtesies with his grandparents, Cetto and Husni, continuing on.
Until he stood in front of Aryl and gave the slightest Grona bow. “Heart-kin.”
Affront surged from Enris. Bern flinched and those near enough to feel it glanced around uneasily. But the Tuana smiled and got to his feet, brandishing his bowl. “Need more stew. Take my seat, if you like.”
The courtesy—and desertion—was because he believed Oran and her Chosen would soon be gone. Exasperated, Aryl did her best not to frown as Bern sat beside her and kept her shields tightly in place. “You shouldn’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. “What do you want?”
“Your help.”
A light touch on her hip made her drop her gaze to the bench. His hand was there, between where no one else could see. It turned palm up. An invitation.
There’d been a time she’d have accepted without thought. A time when their private sendings held mystery and thrill, when they’d spent hours in each other’s minds. He’d waited for her, she knew. Hoped their bond would make her ready for him.
They’d both Chosen otherwise.
Aryl looked at Bern, about to refuse, but he spoke first, a whisper. “Send us away.”
“Why?”
“Oran can’t stay here. Find a reason. Now!”
All of which would make more sense, Aryl thought with some disgust, if the Om’ray in question wasn’t sitting beside her brother, eating with a healthy appetite, and, if not smiling, then certainly looking as if she would, given the chance.
She’d regret this.
Aryl touched her fingertips to his palm.
She’d guarded herself against an intrusion of emotion, any attempt at old intimacies. For Bern’s sake as much as her own. Enris might be across the room by the cook pot—in no way was he inattentive or beyond reach.
But Bern’s mind was as finely controlled as she’d ever felt it. Only words came through their contact. Let me show you.
A memory. He wanted to give her a memory. Of what?
What it does.
It?
As if her curiosity was permission, Aryl began to see what Bern had seen, earlier this day. She didn’t resist.
Though his emotions were muted, safe, she shared his grief over Myris and Ael, felt his urgent need to be with his own Chosen. She saw the Dream Chamber, was in it with him. He’d �
�ported directly there—something, Aryl recalled, Oran and Hoyon had been adamant no one should do while the Adept dreamed. That it could be dangerous.
That Bern ignored the warning didn’t surprise her.
What he’d seen, what she now saw, did.
... Oran, alone in the chamber. Everything as it had been: the platforms with brown pads, the light behind each, the closed doors.
Except for the platform on which Oran lay. It rose high above the rest on a stalk, halfway to the ceiling. From the ceiling hung long threads of metal, close and densely packed, reaching to almost touch her. Almost. The threads echoed her form, moving like a Chosen’s hair in waves that reflected light.
An echo, because Oran wasn’t still. Straps of the same metal held her at shoulder and ankle as she struggled violently. Her eyes closed tight, her mouth open in a soundless scream, and, all the while, the threads followed her movements, lowering as she sagged, rising up as she strained.
Perspective changed. Bern climbing the stalk to reach his Chosen. The threads curling away as if he was fire, disappearing into the ceiling with no mark or opening to show where they’d been. Before he could touch her, the straps slipping away, too, vanishing within the platform, the platform itself plunging down to rest beside the others so quickly only a Yena would have landed safely at its side.
All as it had been.
Oran’s eyes, opening. Her face, at first slack, then forming an impatient frown. “You! No wonder I can’t dream. You can’t be here. Go.” A hand up when he started to protest, to demand an explanation. “Go!—”
Frustration. Fear . . .
The memory ended there.
I tried to show her—she can’t see the memory. Tried to tell her—she doesn’t believe me. She remembers lying down and falling asleep, nothing more. Something’s wrong in there, Aryl.
Skin crawling, she couldn’t disagree. What did you sense from her while she lay there?
The M’hir was too close. Too . . . he hesitated . . . interested. Oran was a presence, nothing more. Helpless. This wasn’t her doing.
Aryl lifted her fingers from his palm, blew out a long slow breath. “Did she tell you what she wanted to dream?” Quietly, though their nearest neighbors gave them what distance they could. Which would last until Ziba or Yao started their post-supper chase along the benches.
Bern put his hands together on his lap. Made them fists. “About birthing.”
Not what she’d expected. “Why?”
A grudging nod to where Seru sat in a place of honor.
“Adept and Keeper and Birth Watcher.” Aryl lifted an eyebrow. “I suppose next she’ll want to be Speaker. All at the same time, of course.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You have to admire her ambition.”
No, she didn’t. In any way. But Aryl could understand it. The Grona Adept didn’t trust anyone else to be competent; perhaps she couldn’t. It made her dangerous, if only to herself.
Whatever was happening in the Dream Chamber, whatever was sending dreams to Yena’s Adepts or other Clans? It didn’t appear to be Oran’s doing. Not consciously.
What that said about the Cloisters left her cold.
“Leave this with me, Bern,” Aryl decided, rising to her feet.
“You’ll send us away?”
Aryl glanced at Oran, who was staring at them. With a frown. “It’s been a difficult day for all of us,” she said gently, looking down at Bern. “Let’s leave it for the morning.” Keep her away from the Cloisters, she sent, only to him.
He pressed his lips together and gestured gratitude.
Thank you, she added. For trusting me with this.
The startled warmth in his eyes was almost familiar.
Now to convince Haxel to wait.
Cold stew. After Bern left, Aryl poked the lumps around and around with her spoon; they left trails through the thickening liquid. She should eat. On their journey here, she’d urged Myris to take bites of the dry tasteless Grona bread. When Myris lay injured, she’d been proud of her ability to coax mouthfuls of soup between her lips. Why couldn’t she do the same for herself?
Sorrow takes the shape we give it.
A shape she could see. The Meeting Hall usually emptied before truenight. Tired Om’ray, seeking their beds, the company of their Chosen. A habit considered sensible by the Yena; the seemingly endless darkness and star-pierced sky remained unsettling to many. Tonight, though crowded and too warm, no one had left. Instinct, to stay close. To their inner sense, Sona was smaller, less important. The loss of Myris and Ael was more than of two people. It diminished Cersi itself.
For now. Already, the effect faded, like a bite whose itch only returned when touched. She had, Aryl grumbled to herself as she rubbed her forearms, too many of those. The sorrow would remain. She was glad of it. Though for how long? Too few Om’ray were left who’d heard Ael’s quick laugh. Who’d seen Myris smile.
Enris bumped her shoulder with his. “Eat.”
From profound to annoying. Restless as a whirr/click chasing an Oud. When the Tuana was unhappy, he was like Haxel, who had to do something, anything. Preferably loud or violent. At least the First Scout was being productive; though no one came close to the end of the long table where she sat, rewrap ping the hilt of her favorite longknife. Something in the wistful way she gazed at the blade for long intervals, as if making a promise. She’d agreed to a delay.
Tomorrow was going to be . . . interesting. Another bump. “Leave me be,” Aryl said, this time pushing back. Was a moment’s peace too much to ask? “Check on your brother.”
“Worin.” As if the name was new to him. Enris straightened, peered at the nearest window. “It’s truenight. You’re right.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I’d better make sure he gets home safely.”
Her turn to blink. Tuana were ridiculously confident in the dark. “What are you up to?”
Enris surged to his feet. “I’ll let you know.”
Aryl watched him leave. He collected Worin with an affectionate touch. Their departure was a signal to other unChosen, likely unsure when to leave the midst of such grim adults. First the Yena threesome, Fon, Cader, and Kayd. Then Kran and Deran, too carefully ignoring Beko. Netta and Josel, the dappled sisters.
Naryn went out the door next, wrapped in the longcoat she’d made, alone and without looking at anyone else. Seru, watching her, sighed and said something softly to Husni, who shrugged.
If only Oran had succeeded—maybe Sona’s Cloisters held a dream about saving a Joined mother and child. Could they let her try again?
What had happened to Oran, left alone?
Aryl was distracted by a flash of yellow and red between the brown of dusty leggings. Wristbands. Yao, too young for sorrow—or to sit for long—wormed through the interesting maze of legs and bodies. No one laughed. Hands dropped to her shiny head to share affection.
Catching sight of Aryl, Yao came to her.
“I didn’t eat my stew either,” she announced with a grin, climbing on the bench beside Aryl. “It was too hot.” Her little nose wrinkled. “And Rorn put in the white things. I don’t like the white things.”
Aryl poked one of the offending “things” with her spoon. The preserved meat—from whatever it had been—wasn’t her favorite either. It had a pungent smell.
Mustn’t encourage a child to waste food.
“Mine’s too cold,” she admitted. As Chaun walked by, she passed him her bowl and spoon with a gesture of apology, then lifted an arm in invitation.
Yao snuggled close, then looked up at Aryl. “My mother says Myris isn’t coming back. Or Ael. Because they went into the M’hir.” A not-so-childish frown creased her small forehead. “They should come back. They make everyone sad. I wouldn’t do that.” Likely a promise enacted by an anxious Oswa, given how Yao loved to play ’port and seek.
“They can’t come back. They—” Aryl made herself say it, “—they are no longer real.” How could Yao understand what she c
ouldn’t sense?
“Yes, they are. I can feel them.” Another frown. “No. Not Myris. Ael. He’s thin. And he doesn’t make sense.”
Astonished, Aryl could only stare.
“I’m not playing a game,” Yao insisted.
“I believe you,” Aryl said quickly. The child might not sense other Om’ray as they could sense her, but she had ability in the M’hir. “Can you show me? Show me Ael?”
Small fingers wrapped around her thumb and squeezed. “We can’t stay with him,” the child warned solemnly.
... As quickly as that, they were there. Aryl tightened her sense of self, checked on Yao only to be amazed at the child’s confidence. The M’hir heaved and slapped and stormed, but she simply rode with it.
There he is.
Yao didn’t—couldn’t point. Instead, part of the M’hir settled, pulled away from a shape. No, not a shape, Aryl realized, but a voice. A voice of shadow rather than sound. Words billowed outward, like a curtain’s tattered edge . . . Myris . . . where I . . . hands . . . Myris . . . I . . . I . . . where I . . . Myris . . . hands . . .
Words and nothing more. Sickened, Aryl pulled back. That’s not Ael.
Yes, it is.
The child had no way to sense his loss. The voice, to her, must seem real.
It’s only an echo, Aryl sent, frantically offering memories of mountains and shouts and laughter. Don’t follow it. Never follow such things.
The glow beside her brightened.
... the murmur of voices, real voices, was a welcome shock. Aryl hugged Yao, pressed her face against her soft, fine hair. “Clever, clever Yao,” she praised, making sure only approval and affection passed her shields. Inside, her stomach twisted. What lay ahead for Yao, for Juo’s baby, for Lymin’s? For her own? To only sense each other through the M’hir . . . to hear a voice and not know if it came from the living or dead? “We’ll have to spend more time together.”
“I could show you how to play ’port and seek!” Yao offered, squirming free. “I’d let you catch me sometimes. I let Ziba. She says I don’t, but I leave her a trail sometimes.” Aryl was shocked by a tugging, deep in her mind—no, in the part that could reach the M’hir. “Or I do this.”
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