Footsteps rang in the ensuing shocked silence. Everyone turned as Taisal walked quickly through the crowd to stand beside Aryl. Her face was like ash. “The Tikitik have left Yena.”
“And Rayna!” Karne shouted. He followed at a run, skidding to a halt in front of the dais.
Rayna’s Speaker, Gur di Sawnda’at, leaped to her feet with a look of horror. “What do you mean?
“Karne and I ’ported to Yena to examine its Maker,” Taisal said quickly and firmly, a scout making a report. “The Adepts confronted me, demanded to know if the Tikitik had left because of us. I sent Karne to Rayna, while I went to the Tikitik grove nearest Yena to see for myself.” Her eyes flicked to Haxel, then back to the Council. “It was deserted.”
“There are towers of dirt all around Rayna.” Karne tried to match Taisal’s tone, but his voice quivered. “Everyone’s locked in their homes or Cloisters. No one knows what to do! What does it mean?”
The Oud. Comprehension burned from mind to mind. Oud. Oud. Oud.
A memory shivered through her mind, leaving ice behind . . . a mug struck the floor, splintered on contact, fragments sliding in all directions, connected by a spray of dark liquid that was the Om’ray . . .
“It means the Agreement has broken,” Aryl said quietly. “It means the end of the world.”
“Whatever plan you had to leave this place,” her mother told the M’hiray Council, “start it now, before Om’ray die because of us.”
It wasn’t until several moments had passed—moments during which the Councillors rushed down from their seats, during which voices and emotions and sendings surged like waves against sand until those with experience in running for their lives, Haxel foremost, began to bark orders—it wasn’t until order began to shape itself from terror that Aryl realized Naryn di S’udlaat wasn’t with them.
There was only one place she could have gone.
Aryl concentrated with furious speed . . .
Interlude
“WHAT’S... GOING ON?”
Enris turned and went under the blanket roof, giving the Human his best smile. “A difference of opinion between our new Council and Aryl. She’ll win.”
“About me.”
Never underestimate Marcus, he reminded himself. “We have a small problem,” he evaded, testing the crate the others had used as a chair. When sure it would hold his weight, he relaxed and sat. “It seems there are now two kinds of Om’ray. Those who can—” he fluttered fingers as Marcus would do to refer to ’porting, “—and those who can’t. It wasn’t just the three of us pulled to Sona. It was all the M’hiray. Over seven hundred. It’s a bit crowded right now.”
“Stratification.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve a word for it?”
Marcus smiled. “Not exactly . . . If you put . . . different things together . . . in water . . . shake hard . . . let all settle . . . layers of the . . . same kind . . . form. Stratification.”
Probably the best description he’d heard, Enris decided. Especially the “shake hard” part. As for settling? “This layer,” he commented dryly, “has a problem.” He waved at the flood beyond the open doorway. “No home.”
No smile now. “What say . . . Oud? . . . Tikitik? . . . Where you go? . . . What say, Enris!” with a rasp of urgency.
The Human knew their world. Enris shrugged. “As I said, we have a problem. Aryl did her best, but the Tikitik are in a panic—and the Oud?” If any were left in Sona who weren’t floating corpses. “We don’t know. They have their own ideas about where Om’ray should and shouldn’t be.”
“M’hiray—you—” a stab with a too-thin finger, “—can escape Oud. . . . Rest Om’ray can’t.” His eyes were like dark pits. “Danger . . . like your Clan . . . like Tuana. Everywhere.”
There was nothing he could say to that, no evasion, no clever argument. Lost in fear, Enris dropped his head and shuddered.
A hand touched his, cold and dry. Shields tight, he looked up to meet a gaze as warm and compassionate as any real-Om’ray’s could be. “I can . . . help, Enris,” Marcus offered, the words gentle; the gasp for breath to speak them almost an afterthought. “On rest of . . . planet . . . on Cersi . . . no Oud . . . no Tikitik. Only . . . here. With Om’ray. . . . Do you understand? . . . Only here.”
How could he possibly understand that? The world—he could feel its extent, know it—there was nowhere else.
Marcus saw his battle. “Enris. Trust me . . . what I know . . . Most of Cersi . . . empty . . . Safe places . . . Better places. I . . . have been to many . . . seen planetarysurveys . . . Trust me.” He touched his temple with one finger. “All in here . . . for you. For Aryl . . . for Sweetpie. Take it.”
Om’ray or M’hiray—his kind was tied together; to damage another’s innermost self would endanger every mind in range. Madness would spread like thought itself. They couldn’t do to one another what the mindcrawler Stranger had done to the Human.
Not to another of their own . . .
The Human understood what he suggested, better than any Om’ray could. Enris had never imagined such courage, never expected to find it here, in a creature who fought to breathe yet looked at him with such tranquillity in his eyes he was ashamed of his own fear.
“We’ll find another way.”
“Not in time . . . M’hiray need my . . . help.”
Wiser. Older. Braver. He had to ask. “Are all Humans like you?”
“Better . . . same . . . worse. Like any . . . people.” The hint of a smile. “Take what you . . . need, Enris. . . . My gift.”
Better? Enris shook his head in disbelief, then gestured profound gratitude. “Thank you, Marcus. But no.” He fought to keep his voice even. “Aryl’s gone before our Council to make sure no one touches your mind again. She won’t allow it.”
“Someone must . . .” As if he was the only one being reasonable. “Aryl wrong . . . Can you?”
Enris was on his feet and almost backed into the wall of crates—which would have brought them down on their heads and be a fine way to care for their friend—before he could stop himself. “No!”
Marcus nodded. “Naryn can. You . . . bring . . . Naryn here.” He moved his fingers on the blanket.
He’d rather be in an Oud tunnel beneath a shaking mountain.
“Trust me,” the Human urged. “Let me help.” His throat worked and a fresh stain of red marked the bandage. “Before I’m . . . not so brave.”
Or in the canopy, with the swarm eating his knees.
The swarm. He’d burned homes to save Yena that ’night. Watched the smoldering wreckage fall into the dark, chased by embers like dying stars. The question in his mind hadn’t been if he’d die. He’d been sure of that. No, Enris remembered vividly. He’d worried if he could bear to wait with Aryl to be eaten alive, or would his courage fail him and he’d jump like his brother.
It hadn’t failed. But this? This was worse, so much worse.
Naryn. Through the M’hir, as tight and focused as he could. NARYN!
He had her attention. Now isn’t the best time—
COME TO MARCUS, NOW. Would she feel his desperate grief? Would she . . .
She did. The sun coming through the doorway turned Naryn’s hair to flame. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, stepping inside.
What are we doing here? Go back to Council at once!
Hush, Anaj. “Enris?”
His voice wouldn’t obey him.
“Take safe . . . place for M’hiray.” Marcus offered his hand. “Take everything . . . to help. Hurry.”
For the second time, Enris saw Naryn vulnerable. “No. Aryl—”
Do it. The Old Adept’s sending contained compassion and respect.
“Do it for Aryl,” the Human said, as if he’d heard.
Enris edged out of Naryn’s way, brushed fingertips along her wrist as she passed him. No words; he couldn’t speak. Only support.
She paid attention only to Marcus. Sat on the bed. Took his right hand in hers
as if offering Choice. When her hair slid down her arm to touch his skin, he smiled in wonder.
She closed her eyes.
He closed his.
Enris held his breath, his shields.
And when the Human began to scream, Naryn bowed her head.
Chapter 13
THE WORLD, ITS END, HER LIFE . . . nothing mattered as Aryl ’ported except speed. Something was wrong. Something was wrong . . .
... the shelter took the place of the frantic crowd in the Council Chamber . . .
A horrible scream filled her ears! Her longknife leaped to her hand, and she struck without waiting for a target. Hands gripped her arm, deflected its movement. There was a flash of pain, then a grip like stone.
On one arm.
Without pause, Aryl brought her second knife up to kill.
IT’S ME!
Enris?
Both knives dropped with a clatter as her eyes snapped into focus. Blood ran down his cheek. A superficial cut; she’d missed the eye. “You shouldn’t get in my way,” she reminded him calmly.
He grabbed her other arm. “Aryl—”
Another SCREAM, this ending with a rasping sob.
From somewhere, she found the strength to push her giant Chosen out of her way, or he let her pass.
Then . . . she saw.
Naryn was holding Marcus! He writhed in agony, and she held him against her!
“No!” Aryl lunged forward. Naryn’s hair tried to evade her—whipped at her face to blind her—but she was too quick and grabbed handfuls, heaved to pull the other to the floor. “What were you doing?!”
But she knew. Even as she dropped to her knees beside Marcus—too still, too quiet—even as she didn’t dare touch him but leaned close to use her open mouth to wait for his breath—she knew.
And there were other weapons than knives. The M’hir boiled behind her eyes; hers to command, waiting like the swarm.
Take her away, she begged Enris with her last shred of control, trembling on the brink. Kill a friend, for a friend?
She’d lose both.
As you love me, take her away. Go.
Because he did, because they did, Enris and Naryn vanished.
Aryl couldn’t move.
Dark lashes bridged hollows of shadowed skin. Drying tears left a crusted stream.
Then. Warmth in her mouth. A stomach-sour taste.
A breath.
Life. What remained of it.
Blinking away tears of her own, Aryl eased back. She adjusted the blanket that had fallen. Her hands shook and left incomprehensible symbols on the fabric. Blood. Naryn’s hair had sliced her skin. A clatter on the floor. The image disk. She bent to retrieve it, tried to think.
“He’s not dead.”
Aryl straightened so quickly the small form across the bed instinctively stepped back. But Yao wasn’t daunted. “He isn’t,” the child insisted. “Look.”
The Human’s eyelids had partially lifted, exposing red-stained whites. Lips peeled back from his teeth in a rictus of effort, as if another scream tried to escape, but he refused it. His hands clenched spasmodically, his body shuddering each time. The bandage around his neck wept blood.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Aryl sat on the bed, carefully distant, and stared at him. “What can I do? I don’t know what to do.”
She hadn’t expected an answer, but Yao offered solemnly, “I have a song. It makes me feel better. Marcus likes it. I could teach it to you and we could sing together.”
Aryl didn’t look at the child. “He wouldn’t hear it,” she said, lips numb.
“That’s because he’s thinking of bad things. You should make him stop. He’d feel much better.”
She lifted her head. Huge eyes in a small face gazed back. “What a wise person you are,” Aryl said gravely. She gestured gratitude. “I need you to leave us alone, Yao. Please.”
The child walked to the doorway, then turned to look at Marcus. I wish he was my father. Then was gone.
Wise, indeed.
Aryl put the disk, warmed by her flesh, on the table. She covered the Human’s hands with her own.
And dropped her shields.
... The mind, fraying along every pattern, memories dissolving into chaos. PAIN . . . rushing to fill every empty space. Worst of all, awareness.
Marcus knew what was happening to him.
That was all he knew.
“Hush. Think only of your world,” Aryl urged gently, her inner sense focused on him, sharing his agony. “Your home, Marcus. That special place . . . a place you want to show me.” Impossible to cause more pain than he felt, so she poured Power into the demand, forced him to listen.
With an effort, he responded. He may have uttered words aloud; she didn’t hear, preoccupied with catching memories as they surfaced, holding them before they fractured and were lost.
She’d expected Marcus to think of home and family. Instead, her mind filled with darkness . . . then a sudden light.
Lights hanging from wires. Lights attached to walls. Lights on poles. Together they fought to illuminate a too-vast space, angled and rising away in polished steps. Steps with—another memory—carved seats for those who’d never be mistaken for Human. One wall was lit, its surface dancing with more carvings, with eyes and forms, and postures that were and weren’t beautiful but which—another—must have meaning to a different kind of mind.
Here—another—purpose. Here. Stand here, and whispers lift to the farthest corner, heard as if spoken by the one next to you. Whatever had been here, made this, had spoken, and listened. Commonality. A place to start understanding.
All this, buried and ignored. Not of interest or value—another memory—an old door, an older passage, then, all alone, a wall fell away.
To reveal what flooded a young mind with the thrill of the past . . .
Peace settled around the memories. Happiness. It had been the best time of his life. This was his Yena. His canopy.
Aryl watched the memories transform his face: how the jaw lost its taut line, the eyes softened, then closed. She waited until he breathed more easily, more and more slowly.
And when she was sure Marcus Bowman had forgotten everything else, when there was no more pain or awareness, when he believed himself back there and had no sense of here or her, Aryl swept her knife clean and deep across his throat.
Chapter 14
BELLS RANG FOR THE DEAD. Aryl listened, but heard only the rustle of a blanket and the lap of water against the platform.
What was a Cloisters made of? she wondered idly. Not metal. Not wood. Another question of so many she’d meant to ask him.
Not Om’ray, not M’hiray, to linger by an empty husk, to lay her cheek against cold flesh, her hair still over her face. Was it something a Human might do, being unable to sense the disappearance of self?
Another unaskable question.
Aryl. Her mother’s mindvoice. Her presence. Waiting.
Questions. Questions. Lacking bells, she picked one. Why is his loss the hardest?
Because it is. Grief adds to grief, Daughter, like the weight of vines on a rastis. His is not one loss. It’s every one. Your father and brother. The Yena UnChosen. Seru’s father. The Tuana. Myris and Ael. It’s every grief you’ve known. It’s every grief you know will come.
Not every rastis endured. Yena knew it. Add any weakness, be it damage from crawlers or rot, to the weight of vines? A canopy giant would bend to the M’hir Wind . . . and fall. Killing everything that lived within its fronds.
A warning to heed, for the life inside her, for the mind Joined to hers, for everyone she cared about. Aryl found herself sitting up. I am not weak. To herself as much as Taisal.
You never will be. Which is why we depend on you, Daughter. A burst of warmth, quickly replaced by urgency. Are you ready? It’s almost time.
Aryl rose to her feet. “Yes.”
She turned from the Human’s husk and walked outside.
And fo
und Naryn.
She stood alone, half shadowed by the wall of crates. Her hands were at her sides. Her hair, free of any restraint, had confined itself in a coil around her neck. Red, like blood.
Naryn, here’s Aryl! She can help! Beneath Anaj’s mindvoice surged desperation. Aryl, something’s wrong.
Aryl couldn’t move. She didn’t dare. Rage choked her. Blinded her. Naryn had betrayed Marcus.
Hadn’t they all?
Those who’d come in their starship to kill and destroy. Those who’d taken his trust and tried to steal his life’s work. His friends. Who hadn’t failed him?
Aryl. LISTEN! You have to help Naryn.
Who didn’t move. Perhaps didn’t dare. The edge was that close, Aryl thought with her own desperation. If either of them moved, there’d be no stopping—
FOOL! Harsh, with all the Power and fury of a full Adept. Aryl gasped at the impact, her thoughts scattered. The Human was no victim, not in this. It was his will to be scanned. He told Enris you were wrong. Insisted it be done for the good of the M’hiray. For your good.
“He was out of his mind!” Aryl couldn’t take her fingers from her longknife. “He was dying!”
Naryn had to hear, but there was no change in her face, cut in half by light. Her visible eye gazed into the distance, glittered blue with the lake’s reflection. It was as if Aryl wasn’t there at all.
Dying, he made more sense than the entire Council. Don’t waste his courage.
“Why are you here?” She’d begged Enris to take Naryn away, to keep her away.
Because we need you! Naryn’s trapped in the Human’s memories. You have to help. It’s your fault, Aryl di Sarc. You pulled them apart. What were you thinking?
“I wanted to kill you.”
And almost killed your Chosen, Anaj chided. What good would that have done, I ask? Bad as a Xrona, hands first and head second, if you use heads at all. Help Naryn out of this tangle. Or will you waste what Marcus Bowman suffered to give us?
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