Rift in the Sky

Chapter 2

“ENRIS D’SUD SARC.” Enris stretched out his long legs, put his hands behind his head, and grinned. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

What she thought, Aryl told herself grimly, she’d keep to herself. She concentrated on sharpening her knife. There’d been almost no reaction to her news about Oran and Hoyon, and the Cloisters. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be. Sona’s Om’ray tended to consider before they spoke. Meanwhile, Deran and Menasel, along with Bern and Kran, carried water. Gijs escaped that duty to finish his new home’s roof under the baleful eye of his Chosen. Oran and Hoyon remained at the Cloisters to prepare.

Whatever that meant.

Seru, bent over her sewing, glanced through a restless curl of black hair. “Seru di Parth.” Her nose wrinkled. “Doesn’t make me an Adept.”

That deep chuckle. “What I want to know is when we get our robes. There’d best be one my size.”

Aryl put down her knife and tossed an empty mug at his head. It disappeared mid arc.

“ ‘A waste of good dishes!’ ” The Tuana’s excellent imitation of Husni’s frequent complaint to those practicing their Talent made her lips quirk.

“You could have caught it,” she pointed out. To Seru, “The Cloisters answers to names it knows. Don’t ask me how. But only those with the “di” of Adepts are allowed into certain areas. Only they are free to learn through dreams.” She had no more desire than Seru to be an Adept and none to live within the Cloisters, but to learn? Her breath quickened. To be able to read and write . . . to discover the past of this place . . . “We could become so much wiser,” Aryl said earnestly. “All of us.”

“Not all.” Morla entered the Meeting Hall, shook dust from her jerkin, then took a seat at the table with them. She gestured gratitude as Enris poured her a mug of water. Her still willful white hair was tamed by a tight net. That hair and those wide-set gray eyes were Sarc traits; her diminutive size and clever hands? Pure Kessa’at. She’d been an outspoken Councillor of Yena, leader of her family, before the betrayal. At Sona, she plied her first trade again, woodworker, and rarely offered her opinion on anything else. Until now.

“Why not?” Aryl asked.

“There’s a reason Adepts are selected for their Power, why they are tested. The teaching dreams are risky. Few Om’ray have the strength to endure them.”

“According to the Adepts themselves. Convenient.” She gestured apology for her harsh tone—the elderly Om’ray didn’t deserve it. “We’ve dreamed. Seru and I. We were fine.”

A shiver of dread. No doubt of the source. Seru had been sent dreams of Sona’s death, full of screams and pain. A warning not to approach.

“They were useful dreams,” Aryl insisted. “We’ll be careful, of course, but—”

WE?? Enris’ sending made her wince. You mean to try this?

Don’t you?

Shields slammed between them. Outwardly, her Chosen appeared preoccupied with the packs hung from the rafters. Perhaps, she grumbled to herself, he searched for the mug he’d pushed. Given his Power, it was probably in Grona, if it left the M’hir at all.

So much they didn’t know.

“The ceremony will be a tenth after truenight,” Aryl said aloud. The dark wasn’t yet a friend, but it would hide the disappearance of Sona from any non-Om’ray observers. They’d ’port to the Council Chamber, the stronger taking the weaker. There, Oran and Hoyon would add their names to the records.

For Husni, their keeper of tradition, had insisted there be a proper ceremony. In Yena, there would be flowers and dresel cake once a baby received its name, or a Chosen arrival was granted his new one. Tuana and Grona—no surprise—believed in feasts. Tai sud Licor, from Amna, spoke wistfully of boiled swimmers and dancing.

“About that.” Morla leaned forward on her elbows, eyes somber. Both wrists were wrapped with colorful cloth—a habit she’d kept after the broken one healed. Many of Sona’s new Om’ray had taken to the harmless fashion, that warmed arms and left hands bare. The Yena had adopted Tuana-style boots. The Tuana and Grona Chosen liked Yena hairnets, except for Oran. So quickly, they became different from other Clans. “Being together, not working for once. We could ring a bell for Mauro.”

Every Cloisters contained deep-throated bells; by tradition, one was rung for each death. Aryl glanced at Enris. He pursed his lips and gave that small headshake the Human used for “no.” Their habit now. As for Seru . . .

Her cousin hunched over her work, applying needle and thread with unusual force considering she sewed baby clothes.

Mauro Lorimar had come to Sona with his fellow Tuana, bringing with him a dreadful, un-Om’ray joy in the pain of others. At home, he’d led a group against Enris, beating him severely. Here, he’d tried to Join Seru, dragging her mind into his madness.

He’d deserved his fate, Aryl thought grimly. As did Seru, happily Joined to Ezgi, once of Serona.

Morla waited, the image of patience. She hadn’t, Aryl realized abruptly, come to suggest this on her own. “Haxel sent you.” The First Scout’s quick knife had saved Aryl, trapped in the M’hir by Mauro’s attempt to Join with her instead. No Om’ray was known to have killed another before, though to be fair, Mauro had hardly seemed one of them by the end. She shuddered inwardly. “She shouldn’t regret what she did.”

“That one?” Morla’s face wrinkled. “Haxel’s only regret is that she didn’t move faster.”

Enris dropped his feet to the wooden floor. “Rorn,” he declared.

Haxel’s Chosen? “Why?”

“Haven’t you noticed? He’s her conscience.”

“It might help Menasel.” They all looked at Seru, who blushed. “Mauro was her cousin,” she went on, determined, if hesitant. “It might help—everyone. We’ve done nothing to mark the passing of Tuana.”

Aryl was jolted by grief. Enris gestured apology as he tightened his shields, his eyes hooded. She laid her fingers on his arm. We are one, she sent gently. Never fear to share your pain.

“How can we ring bells for Tuana?” Morla asked. “We don’t know—I’m sorry, Enris—but we don’t know how many died there, or who.” She gestured apology, but went on, “Surely the survivors have rung their own bells.”

“This isn’t about their grief, but ours,” Seru insisted, her voice growing firm. Whether pregnancy or a blissful Choice, something had brought out the strength Aryl had known lay in her cousin. “You can reach that far, Aryl. You can tell us who lives. Then we’ll know who to mourn.”

No one had asked this of her. Not even Enris, who looked at her with sudden hope.

An Om’ray who left his Clan was as if dead to that Clan. It had always been so. UnChosen took Passage to find Choice and a new home, or die in the attempt. The family and friends they had in the past never spoke of them again. It was the way of the world.

A way her Talent could change forever. Aryl swallowed. Is this what you want?

Not for myself. His eyes fixed on hers. I have my new life. But for Worin’s sake. For the others. They didn’t choose to leave their families. They should know what became of them.

Aryl’s fingers strayed to the metal bracelet she wore, turned it on her wrist, explored the smooth ripples that mirrored a mountain stream. It was of Tuana; Enris had made it there before he’d left. Before they’d met. “Stay with me,” she said out loud, then closed her eyes.

She relaxed, let herself be attracted to the glow of other Om’ray, moved past Sona’s cluster of life to touch Grona’s, moved farther and ignored all between, until . . .

Tuana.

Having reached the here-I-am, she relaxed further to allow each glow to become who-I-am . . . Names filled her mind . . . more than names. Identities, full and rich and connected one to the other. No Om’ray existed alone, whole or Lost. Their bonds were threads of light through the darkness.

Too few.

Enris. With her. She shared her awareness of Tuana’s Om’ray; in return, she couldn’t escape his despair and anguish. She took his pain into herself, soothed it, helped him past it. Showed him.

There. Mendolar. A connection that stretched, however tenuous, to him and back. Other names. Serona. S’udlaat. Edut. Licor. Annk. Other connections. Faint, too faint. But real.

If she let herself, she could trace them between every living Om’ray, see the world’s shape as it truly was, know her place in it.

With an effort, Aryl shrank her awareness to her own body and opened her eyes.

“Dama Mendolar,” Enris said wonderingly. “I should have known. My grandmother,” he clarified for the rest of them. “It’s not the first reshaping she’s survived.”

“Could you—?” Aryl found herself unable to say it.

Enris seemed to fill the room as he rose to his feet. Only his uncle, Galen sud Serona, rivaled him in size. “I have the names of the living. I’ll tell the rest.” Then he paused to gaze down at Seru. “But there aren’t enough bells for the dead.”

In the end, Sona’s bells were silent. Instead, when everyone had gathered within the Cloisters’ Council Chamber, dressed in their finest—or at least cleanest—clothes, the Tuana stepped upon the raised dais. Murmurs and sendings stopped. The dark of truenight pressed above the gray dirt piled outside the windows. It reflected the glowstrip that banded the ceiling, so rivers of light appeared beyond the Tuana, meeting at some unimaginable distance.

Enris stood in the midst of his new Clan, at the center of his old, the focus of all eyes. He was magnificent, Aryl thought, holding in a rush of pride that had no place here and now. Straight-shouldered, serious, with a lift to his head that gathered attention and kept it. Nothing of uncertainty or youth. Everything of strength.

“This truenight, we will give our names to Sona. So doing, in the way of our people, we become Sona and leave our past Clans behind.” His deep voice carried through the room. Through their bones. “Yet we need not.”

Naryn stepped forward. Though freed, her glorious red hair cloaked her shoulders in calm, obedient waves. In her hands was a stack of the metal plates Adepts used for their records. Enris gestured. “Here are the names of those who died in the reshaping of Tuana. We who remember them as the living ask that they be given to Sona with ours. We ask that they not be forgotten with our deaths, but remain here to touch the future. Forever real.”

To keep the past. A concept he’d learned from the Human.

The others hadn’t expected this. Aryl lowered her shields and tasted their puzzlement. They weren’t unwilling; they simply didn’t understand. How could the past stay real?

Something was rising in the M’hir. Could the others feel it? Aryl wondered. Surely they must.

Then . . . like a flood . . . memories burst into her mind. Vivid, crisp.

... A roadway. Buildings of wood and colored metal and a kind of block that wasn’t stone. Strong, sturdy, elegant shapes. A Meeting Hall with stairlike benches that rose to the ceiling.

Faces. Voices. Om’ray she’d never met or known. Hands busy at work. Metal melting and flowing into shapes. Fields that stretched to the horizon. Immense machines, blades slicing through stalks.

Voices. Faces.

The smell of baking. Something sweet and fragrant. Her mouth watered.

Laughter, ease. A life so different from that of Yena she felt unmade. Stars overhead. Glows in a tunnel. Ramps and twists and beams of heavy wood.

Everywhere, life. People. Connected and whole. They had names . . .

Names she could hear because all around her they were being spoken aloud, as if in greeting. Her mouth was moving, too.

The memories faded . . . the echoes died.

The Om’ray of Sona stared at one another, then at Enris.

There was a sheen of sweat on his face. The sharing had come with effort. Beko Serona wept silently beside him. Stryn Licor’s daughters supported their mother. The Tuana were shaken, if triumphant.

Naryn started, then smiled as the metal plates lifted from her hands, rose into the air over their heads, then came to the outstretched hands of Fon Kessa’at. The unChosen hugged them to his chest, as if relieved by his own control. His friend, Cader Sarc, squeezed his shoulder, looking askance at Veca and Tilip, Fon’s parents. They merely smiled at him. So, Aryl thought with approval, the younger generation understood.

“We’ll enter them into the record,” Oran said quietly. Aryl.

Ah, yes. The original reason for the clothes and clean hair, for the rokly cakes cooling on the tables of rough wood they’d had to bring with them, for the tables themselves. She took her place on the dais, the Tuana quietly stepping aside. When Enris would have gone with them, she captured his hand in hers but didn’t look at him.

“This truenight,” Aryl told her people, consciously following the pattern he’d set, “we give our names to Sona.” Smiles. A sense of relaxation. This, they’d expected. “Each and every one of you will be shown how to open the Cloisters’ doors.”

Not expected. She hadn’t prepared the rest for this.

A few exchanged looks. Husni’s mouth hung open. Haxel spoke. “Only Adepts open a Cloisters. We’re not Adepts.”

“You don’t need to be.” Hoyon’s face was impassive, but Oswa flinched. Aryl paused to frown at him. “Secrets,” she said pointedly, “have no value here. We are too few, too far from any other safety. Sona’s Cloisters must open for anyone. The outer doors are a simple trick of Power, easily done by anyone whose name is recorded here.”

Or by an unknown bearing a child conceived in Sona, if she had Power enough to impress the Cloisters; a less-than-tactful speculation of Oran’s Aryl preferred not to mention.

“The inner doors and levels open in the same way, but only to those bearing the ‘di.’ ” She paused. “So all of us will.”

Enris had preened, however insincerely. Seru had been dismayed. Haxel frowned thoughtfully. “A change.”

The words were profound. The Agreement that kept the peace between the races of Cersi forbade change. Yet nothing stayed the same. Not and survived. An unseen ripple of dread passed through them all. Could they taste it?

Aryl squeezed her Chosen’s hand, then released it, taking her Speaker’s Pendant in the same still-warm palm. “A change,” she agreed, her voice ringing. “For the better. For our future.” She could see it all, clear and certain. Could they? “We claim a new closeness with one another. We claim the same rights and responsibilities as each other. We refuse to let Power divide us! We are all Sona.”

“Sona!” Eyes gleamed. Shouts echoed throughout the hall. “Sona!”

Words slipped into her mind, heavy with conviction. Now who’s the fool?

When Aryl looked for Naryn, she’d vanished into the jubilant crowd.

“A full fist and we’re still finding new rooms.” Haxel perched on a step, taking a cup with an absent gesture of gratitude. The morning was crisp and they kept a pot of sombay—a gift from Marcus—warm by the watch fire. She squinted at Aryl through whorls of steam. “Empty ones.”

“Oran—”

The First Scout’s grin whitened the scar that ran from eye to jaw. “Ah. Our illustrious Keeper. Dreamed anything of use yet?”

Aryl grimaced. According to Hoyon, his niece—the relationship abruptly worth announcing at every opportunity—had indeed been accepted by Sona’s Cloisters. For what good it did. “No. They tell me it’s normal for a new Keeper to have trouble sorting the dreams, to learn fine control—”

“Empty rooms and an empty head.” Haxel snorted. “We should let your Human help search.” A sly look. “I’d like to see what he’d find.”

Not the first time the First Scout had made such a suggestion. She should have realized nothing would keep those too-keen eyes from studying Marcus Bowman and his camp. Aryl stiffened, prepared to argue.

With a warmer smile, Haxel raised her cup. “Don’t worry. I know better than to trouble peaceful neighbors. Speaking of which,” all innocence, “when’s your next meeting with the Oud?”

Nothing innocent at all. So far, the most successful outcome of Aryl’s negotiation with the Oud had been their absence. She’d insisted they refrain from tunneling beneath Sona itself, and remove their existing tunnel entrance on the far side of the river. There hadn’t been a Visitation since, which was fine with Sona’s Speaker. “I did tell them to stay away,” she pointed out.

“Helping me sleep through truenight.” Unlikely. Haxel brought up a booted foot and rested her arm on one knee. Her gray hair was always quiet, as if cowed by her will. A secret she’d like to learn, Aryl thought as hers tested its net. But the long-ago Sona crafted well. A larger version, Enris averred with his usual tact, would hold a Tikitik esask. A shame it left the fall down her back free to express itself. “There are always,” the First Scout mused, “Oud around the Stranger camp.”

Visit Marcus? Aryl did her best to look serious, but doubted she fooled the other Om’ray. Between her duties as Speaker and work in the fields—and his frequent visitors—there’d been too few chances to see her Human friend. For he was that, a friend.

Sure enough, Haxel drained her cup and showed it to her, empty. “Just don’t forget to ask about the river.”

Sona’s road to the waterfall showed little signs of use. Haxel and her scouts patrolled the valley, but stayed to the shadowed walls. She had four, now: their Looker, Weth Teerac—di Teerac, Aryl corrected to herself—and Aryl’s uncle Ael d’sud Sarc were of Yena, along with two Tuana Runners: the di Licor sisters, Josel and Netta. The Runners, according to Haxel, showed rare aptitude for the work. Enris, amused, thought it more likely the way their remarkable dappled skin matched the local rock. No others could be spared, not yet. Their patrols were also hunting expeditions. Being Yena, Haxel deemed it prudent to keep the valley clear of large predators and free of ambush. The hook-claw that buried itself in loose dirt was easily found, if less easily killed. The rock hunters?

They showed prudence of their own, and were now scarce on the valley floor. Scarce wasn’t the same as absent. Aryl watched the shadows for movement.

“I’ve an idea.” Enris slipped his arm around her waist as they walked. “Why don’t you relax and enjoy all this?”

Aryl blinked up at him. “Enjoy what?”

His free arm waved expansively, as if it were necessary to include the entire world in the gesture. “This. Time.”

Time. “We should have ’ported,” she said, wondering again how she’d lost that argument. “Walking leaves us less time with Marcus.”

His hand tugged at her belt. “While I enjoy his company, too, I think you’re confused, my dear Chosen. Walking means—” he nuzzled her ear, “—we have more time together.”

We’re always together.

“But rarely alone.”

Aryl slowed her pace. They hadn’t brought packs, only longknives and flasks of water at their belts, a small bag with a gift for Marcus. She eyed the rough rock and dusty paving stones dubiously. “Can’t you wait?”

Enris roared with laughter and swept her up despite her protest. Holding her over his head, big hands easily spanning her waist, he brought her down for a quick kiss, then put her lightly—and now breathless—back on her feet. “Conversation, my wild little Yena. Though” a flash of heat “I’d be a most happy mattress.”

“ ‘Conversation.’ ” Not about Marcus and his healing machine. She hated to disappoint Enris, but this she couldn’t—“You already know what I think—”

“About visiting other Clans?” He took a longer stride, then turned to walk backward, facing her. Fine on a flat stretch. “No, I don’t.”

“Visiting . . . why?” Enris had visited more Clans than any other Om’ray, having been to Yena, Grona, and distant Vyna. Two of the three had almost cost him his life. “We aren’t ready to find others who could learn to ’port.” Mealtimes, around the communal fire, the notion regularly spun itself around, only to waft away like smoke. How could they contain the secret if it spread? What if such Om’ray came to Sona, who couldn’t feed more, not yet? Worst of all, what if they offended the Oud or Tikitik before they could negotiate a change—that word—to the Agreement? “It’s too dangerous.”

“Of course it is.” He almost tripped on a tilted stone and hopped instead. She restrained herself. Far be it from her to dissuade him from being lighter-of-foot. “But we could trade.”

Aryl stopped. Trade was a Tuana concept; she forced aside her Yena aversion for his sake. “Trade what?”

“We’d have to open the rest of the mounds, assess what we could spare. Coats. Baskets. We could hunt for more metalwork.”

They did, she admitted reluctantly, have an overabundance of coats. “And what would we trade for?”

“Food. Tai said Amna catches more swimmers than they can eat—other Clans may have extra. New boots from Grona before next winter. Tools. My father—I’ve heard Rayna does fine metalwork. If we had such tools—and the Oud would build a furnace—I could work metal again. Yuhas is willing to learn the skill. Improve our blades. Replacements! Think of it, Aryl.”

He’d omitted Vyna because its Om’ray rejected contact with any others. He’d omitted Yena because . . .

Because, Aryl thought sadly, her former Clan had nothing left.

She started walking again. He fell in beside her. “Well?”

They crossed one of the arched bridges. Echoes fooled the senses; the insignificant trickle of water allowed them by the Oud sounded like distant rain. She licked dry lips. “It’s too great a risk. Tikitik trade. Oud do. Clans never have. We’d be ignoring the Agreement. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Oh, he’d been thinking, behind those perfect shields. His face lit up as if she’d already agreed to . . . what? “We start too small for the Oud or Tikitik to notice. I’d go to Amna with Tai. He remembers where. A coat for a basket of fish, from someone he trusts. That’s all. Gradually work up to more.”

The Tikitik, splashing through the darkness on their beasts, ready to trade, insistent on amounts and compensation. The Oud, with their compulsive lists of everything, not only what they themselves needed. “There may be nothing too small to notice.”

“You may be right. But—Aryl, it’s best we do something and soon.”

“Why?”

“Because—” his voice roughened, “—not all of us are Yena. It wasn’t unheard of for a Tuana to try and take what wasn’t hers. Nor a Grona. With this Talent you’ve given us, nothing is beyond reach.”

Enris was serious. The hairs rose at the back of her neck. He thought Om’ray capable of this.

“Ask Naryn, if you don’t believe me. You saw the children. Today it’s a game. Tomorrow? We need an outlet for the adults who won’t be playing. They’ll take risks. They’ll push the limits of their Power. Without Passage as a challenge?” Enris lifted both hands. “Trade with a hint of danger. It might be enough for some.”

Cetto d’sud Teerac had feared it, so long ago. His words welled up in memory and Aryl shared them. “To be able to have a thing in your hands, without climbing for it? How long before it becomes the ability to take a thing, without right to it?”

“A wise Om’ray.”

Aryl shook her head. “I see a better future.”

I know. Enris touched her cheek, sent a rush of affection. “Just keep in mind some of us who don’t always look where we’re going.”

He spoke to her Yena-self, well aware what she’d take from it.

That some would fall.

The stone of pavement and bridge, the jagged arch and plunge of bare rock, gave way at the head of Sona’s valley to ruin and riotous growth. The Oud had done this, Aryl thought. They’d heaved corpses and buildings and gardens into a mound to dam the mighty river; dug a pit into the depths to divert its source, the sky-touching waterfall beyond; and refused to share more than a trifle. Even now, she didn’t know why.

A curiosity she’d leave to others.

“Our waterfall.” Enris nodded to where a single metal pipe cracked the paving of the roadway at the base of the mound, aimed down the valley. By chance or Oud design, the gush of water coming from it splashed on a tilt of rock that directed it to the side, where it disappeared into the chasm of the river’s original course.

Though the water came out with force, Enris could touch the top of the pipe with an upraised hand. Their share. Compared to the abundance that roared down the cliff and sent spray into the clouds? As well call a sigh the M’hir. “They can’t mean this to be all we get,” Aryl said, as much to herself as her Chosen. “Their Speaker agreed we’d have more than the Oud.”

“More than. Less than. Past that, who knows what they mean?” But he didn’t move immediately, instead shading his eyes and staring at the mound. She felt the distance between them she’d learned was her Chosen lost in thought.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Enris looked self-conscious. “A notion.” With that highly unsatisfactory response, he began to climb the slope, boots crunching bone. Impossible not to step on remains, though Aryl tried to move lightly over the loose material. The rock hunters, able scavengers elsewhere, refused to risk any chance of water.

From the top, they followed the trail the scouts had made. Like the new Sona, it blended their habits. The Yena had thrown a swaying bridge over the froth-filled abyss, anchored to the largest of the stalks leaning inward; the Tuana continued it with a wide flat swath cut through the grove, avoiding as much of the Oud-bared space before the Cloisters as possible before swinging to meet the ramp over the Cloister wall. Aryl ran along the bridge, enjoying the spray hitting her face. Enris, to his credit, no longer clung to the hand ropes. He did, however, give an exaggerated sigh of relief once on solid ground.

Aryl grinned. “You know it can hold all of Sona plus Veca’s cart, fully loaded.”

“But one of me? That’s the question.”

He had no complaint as they took the path through the nekis. Yellow-throated flowers littered the ground, like a carpet of sunshine. Leaves and stalks glistened with spray. Droplets shook free in miniature rainstorms, complete with bows of color in the air.

Lovely. She shuddered. Leaves shouldn’t be perfect. Flowers shouldn’t fall without making fruit. There should be other plants here: vines and thorns and—weeds. More sounds than footsteps and the drumming of the waterfall. “I miss biters.”

Enris chomped noisily and gave her a hopeful look.

She shoved him with her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Tell me what’s wrong with keeping one’s skin intact and blood where it belongs.”

“And there should be flitters.” The clear-winged ones, with bright blue bodies. They hovered over the flowers, like blooms themselves. Others sang or danced in the air. In the canopy, senses were flooded with movement, color, sound. Smell. This grove, she decided with disgust, was as barren as Oran.

“Cader saw a wastryl on the cliff last fist.”

The black-and-white gliders soared over the valley, never more than two. Haxel believed they searched for carrion wherever the rock hunters were less. Only during the M’hir Wind did they gather in numbers and head for the canopy. “Dresel thieves,” she snorted.

Dresel. Her mouth watered. Something in the Sona diet satisfied her body’s need for it; nothing replaced Yena longing for the taste. Maybe this M’hir, she’d go to Yena, help with the Harvest in return for . . . aghast at the turn of her thoughts, Aryl rushed to hide the idea from her Chosen.

Too late. “Craving dresel?” To her relief Enris laughed. “Feel free to get it for yourself,” he assured her, an arm around her shoulders. “You won’t catch me waving a hook with nothing below but swamp.”

When they reached the opening, they fell silent. Enris let Aryl go first; he stayed close. Their practiced caution was likely unnecessary, she knew. Nonetheless, she surveyed the edge of the grove, checked the dirt around the Cloisters for new disturbance, and glanced at the sky before taking the step that exposed her to non-Om’ray watchers.

“We could surprise our Adepts. See how they’re coming.”

Aryl eyed the Cloisters. “Hardly a surprise.” The Om’ray hadn’t wasted strength to dig the lower portion free of the Oud’s dirt, so no one could look out the windows and watch their approach. Even so, she restrained a childish impulse to make a face. “The instant Oran has any success, be sure everyone will know.”

“Some feel it should be you.”

Be trapped in the Dream Chamber with Hoyon, his entire being sour with envy? “I’d rather,” she told him testily, “dig waste pits.”

Satisfaction. “That’s what I said.”

The path to the Stranger’s camp was hidden. A screen blocked it, covered by a projection of another dense portion of the grove, nekis stalks too close together for easy passage. In truth, all one had to do was approach the screen from one side, and it became nothing more than a white sheet strung across a path every bit as wide and open as the Tuana’s.

Simple and effective. She approved. The last thing Sona needed was for a curious Om’ray—and they had their share, starting with Enris’ brother Worin—to roam where curiosity ran around on more legs than two. Or had none at all. One of Marcus’ new Triad was unable to move on land and floated above the ground in a tiny version of an aircar. Why such an unsuitable creature would come here puzzled her, although she hoped for a better look at it.

But first . . . She stopped and turned to face Enris. “If we see an Oud, let me do the talking.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re the Speaker.”

Which meant she was the only Sona permitted by the Agreement to talk to non-Om’ray, and then only to her counterpart. She’d learned neither Oud nor Tikitik cared overmuch for the rules. And her Chosen, for all his matter-of-fact demeanor and charm, was incapable of not caring about Oud.

Already the M’hir between them sizzled with pent rage.

Enris.

Don’t worry about me. His remarkable shields strengthened until all she could sense was the warmth of their bond. “You remember not to use Power. Some of these Oud could be Torments.”

The Tuana name for Oud with Power. There was no evidence the beings used their Power to any purpose, but it did affect Om’ray. To use their abilities near such Oud produced pain and disorientation, increasing with greater Power. Aryl, having felt the effect for herself, agreed completely. “Once was enough, thank you.”

The path opened on another clearing in the nekis grove, this one smooth and circular. At its far side stood three long buildings of the plain white material the Strangers favored, a white usually disguised behind more illusion.

Not that it would matter at the moment, considering the crowd of beings in the clearing itself. That was the worst of non-Om’ray, Aryl thought with disgust. You couldn’t feel them before you found them.

They’d been found, too. Marcus hurried toward them, pushing by an Oud with Human carelessness, his smile wide beneath the dark eye coverings he insisted on using during the day. He wore Stranger pants and a shirt with his name in Stranger lettering. Both looked new.

Why?

“Welcome! Welcome!” She could barely hear his shout above the grind of Oud machine treads into the stony ground. There were four vehicles, each pulling a pair of flat-topped carriers loaded with crates. In typical Oud-fashion, the slumped drivers appeared not to care about collision, imminent or occurring, or risk to their cargo. Aryl and Enris stayed near the grove and let the Human risk his life to join them.

The building to the left was where Marcus stayed and worked. The other two, one new this spring, she’d been told were for storage. The door of the middle one gaped open for the first time. Inside, over the brown-cloaked humps of Oud, she could make out tables covered in objects. Two figures, disappointingly Human-shaped, stood to one side, busy sorting.

As for the Oud, whenever one stopped its vehicle near the open door, other Oud grabbed the crates from the carriers and tossed them onto a growing, haphazard pile. Maybe the Humans were sorting what didn’t break under this treatment.

What Aryl didn’t see was the Oud Speaker. Or rather, an Oud with a pendant. The beings were too alike otherwise: massive quivering lumps beneath brown, tentlike cloaks. One end was covered by a dust-covered, transparent dome and non-Oud treated that as a “head.” To an Oud, this didn’t always matter. They could move backward as readily as forward.

After one last swerve to avoid an Oud machine, Marcus joined them, coughing at the dust. “Welcome,” he said again. His lean body, tousled brown hair, and green-brown eyes, edges crinkled by his cheerful smile, might be those of an Om’ray Chosen of middle age; the not-real of him to her inner sense was proof he was anything but. Aryl shrugged inwardly, and the customary confusion passed.

His hands reached for theirs; Humans touched, Aryl had learned, when Om’ray would not. She and Enris allowed it. In fact, such were their feelings for this one Human, they reached out as well.

Greeting done, Aryl waved at the activity behind Marcus. “Should we come back another time?”

Marcus shook his head vehemently. “This is good time. Best. Very best. Glad you are here.” He slapped Enris on the shoulder. “Hungry?”

The Tuana slapped him back, careful not to rock the slighter being off his feet. “Starving.”

She’d look for the Oud Speaker later, Aryl decided.

“Sorry for the mess.” Objects flew in every direction as the Human burrowed to what should be a table. “Don’t spend much time in here. Oops! Thanks.” As Enris intercepted the flight of what looked fragile and gently deposited it on a crate. “Mustn’t break another densitometer this early in the day. It is early, isn’t it?” He looked uncertain. “Breakfast?”

“Lunch,” Enris supplied willingly, despite knowing full well the Human ate reheated rations from small boxes. He’d eat anything, Aryl thought fondly. She wouldn’t. She offered the small packet of baked turrif she’d obtained from Rorn: sweet, crispy, and his latest triumph using Sona’s stores. Best of all, the ingredients were ones that wouldn’t make the Human, in his words, turn green and die.

Marcus Bowman, Triad First, Analyst, Human, took it with a glad expression that needed no translation. “You’ve picked a very good time,” he assured them again, hunting a clear space to put the treat. “No one needs me. Vogt and Tsessas are cataloging.”

Fewer of his words were unfamiliar. It wasn’t that she’d learned them, Aryl decided as she helped toss clothing from the benchlike chairs that sprouted from the floor. Marcus spoke less about his work each visit, preferring to ask about Sona, about their fields, about her.

Well, not her exactly.

“May I?” There he was again, bioscanner held hopefully to his chest. It had been on the table. “See baby?”

Aryl sighed and sat down, arms wide. “Humans.” Her fond, if exasperated, use of the name always made Marcus smile.

Enris leaned forward, eyes intent. Noticing, Marcus offered him the ’scanner. “You see?” Now there was an Om’ray smile to dazzle the sun.

They conspired against her. Aryl grumbled to herself, but didn’t object as first Enris, then Marcus, waved the device over her abdomen and made various approving noises.

Until Marcus frowned distractedly at the ’scanner, and played with its lighted buttons.

Enris frowned, too. “I thought it said Sweetpie was healthy.”

“Yes. Oh, yes. Very healthy. Perfect.”

“And not a dessert,” Aryl muttered.

The Human ducked his head to look at her in that sidelong way he had when he wanted to ask an awkward question. “How much longer?”

“Until she’s born?” Aryl shrugged. “Up to her.” Mother and unborn were tightly bound. When physically mature, the baby must relax her grip on that link for birth to take place. Not all had the courage or will, leaving it to a Birth Watcher to convince the unformed mind that freedom did not mean loss. Theirs was Seru.

“Human mothers, nine monthgestation.” He smiled at her frown. “Sorry. Three seasons, Cersi.” A lift of the bioscanner. “This says your baby grows quicker than Human. How long for Om’ray?”

Three seasons? That, she didn’t envy his Chosen. “This summer. Why?”

“Oh.” He looked unhappy. “I wanted to be here.”

Both Om’ray stared at the Human. “You’re leaving,” Enris said at last.

He couldn’t leave, Aryl assured herself, swallowing hard. Her belief in other worlds was a fragile thing. Easier to believe in Marcus slipping into the abyss of the M’hir than taking flight beyond the sky. “I thought the Oud had found your Hoveny ruins. Didn’t they?”

“They did,” the Human said in such a bleak tone Enris came to sit beside Aryl, sought her hand. “So I must go home. Stonerim III. Present preliminarydata to fundingcommittee. Orders. No one else qualified.”

No one else could be trusted. That’s what he meant.

She hadn’t guarded the thought. Aryl sensed agreement from Enris. This Human knew about the Om’ray, what they could do. He knew and cared.

Would anyone else?

She gave him back his question. “How much longer?”

“Soon.” His hand floated toward the sky. “Starship coming. Special, for me. Cersi to be priority site.” There was a wry twist to his mouth. She understood. If he hadn’t met her, if they hadn’t become friends, he’d be celebrating. “A fist, less, then I go. Don’t worry. We’ll close site, temporary shutdown, pack all this. I won’t allow work here while I’m offworld. No one will disturb you.”

“You’ll come back.” She didn’t let it be a question. Beside her, Enris nodded in Human fashion.

“Bet on it! Yes,” to their uncertain looks. “They can’t keep me away. But I don’t know how long all this will take.” A shake of his head. “My people like to talk.”

She’d noticed. To distract them all, Aryl reached for the turrif and broke it into equal pieces. “Then we must celebrate, Marcus.” At his blank look, “You’ll be with your family again.” He’d shown her the images he carried: his Chosen, Kelly, their son Howard and the baby Karina, his sister, Cindy. To be so far from them—she’d had trouble imagining it. Better to think of their joy. “They must be glad—”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he interrupted gruffly. “Here. I have something for you.” Marcus tugged a white crate from one of the upper shelflike beds and dropped it on the table, Enris rescuing his piece of turrif just in time. “You should take this. Keep it safe.” The Human broke some kind of sealing material with his thumb. “The Oud have sense of how old things are. These are not old enough—not Hoveny artifacts—so they discard them. Not worth show me.” He lost words when excited. “They right. Not Hoveny. But I find. I know what they must be. The tracecontaminants confirm it. These—” he bowed at them and threw open the lid, “—are yours.”

Enris understood first. “Om’ray devices?!”

“We can’t be sure,” Aryl cautioned, wary of the eagerness bubbling through their link. Before she’d met him, an Oud had brought something to Enris and his father, curious about its function. Enris had discovered that the small cylinder, torn from a larger device, had technology he could affect with his Power. It contained voices, talking in a language he hadn’t understood. At the time, it made little sense. Having met the Strangers and learned something of Cersi’s past, he’d become convinced Om’ray had once possessed devices to do much that the Strangers could now. “Wait.”

But Enris leaned to look in the crate.

Disgust!

He flung himself back, knocking a precariously balanced stack and scattering the Human’s belongings to the floor. As Aryl and Marcus stared, Enris collected himself. “Where did you find them?” he demanded in a strained voice.

The Human, anxious, looked at Aryl then Enris. “What wrong? What do wrong?”

“Nothing. You’ve done nothing. It’s—” Enris ran his fingers through his unruly black hair, then gestured apology. “Where?”

Aryl, puzzled, reached for the crate.

Her Chosen barred her way with his arm. “Don’t get close.”

Annoyed, Aryl tried to see past him.

NO!

“What wrong?” Marcus repeated. He put his hands into the crate and lifted them full of clear wafers, like smooth chips of ice. “These harmless,” he insisted. “No energysignature.”

“They aren’t harmless to the unborn.”

“Enris?”

He looked right at her, and Aryl’s heart pounded at the foreboding in his eyes.

“The Vyna call these the Glorious Dead.” His mouth twisted. “You wanted to know what happened to Sona’s Adepts? They’re here. Right here. Waiting for their chance to live again.”