Rift in the Sky

Chapter 3

TO SPEAK INTELLIGIBLE WORDS, an Oud had to rear and expose its limbs. There were many, most with hooks or claws, but a clustered few worked together—somehow—to produce sound.

Making sense of those words, Aryl thought impatiently, was the hard part. The Oud Speaker, it turned out, believed the Om’ray had received exactly what they’d been promised.

“No, we haven’t,” she told it again. “The Oud still get more. You haven’t sent enough to Sona. You promised we’d get most of the river!”

“Did! YESYESYESYES!” It reared higher, rocking back and forth to emphasize its point. Having descended from its vehicle—she assumed to knock on the Human’s door—the rocking made it sink slightly into the ground. Rather, mud. Wherever Oud treads hadn’t torn up the dirt, small plants sprouted, a single leaf curled just so. Nekis, most likely. The waterfall’s spray reached this far with the right breeze. Water was everything, Aryl thought with longing. She even missed the rains that drove Yena under roofs for days. “Sona enough.”

“No.” She tried to think of a more mature response. “No. Not enough!”

“Sent share. Sent enough. YESYESYES. Oud good. Sona waste.”

“ ‘Waste . . . !’ ” Aryl bit her lip, holding back a satisfying but likely useless retort. The accusation made no sense. How could they be more careful with the trickle that arrived at Sona? They took turns filling buckets for the plants and spared little for themselves. She couldn’t remember her last proper bath. If the rest of her Clan hadn’t been suffering, too, she’d have leaped into the Human’s marvelous fresher device. With Enris.

A tendril of hair tickled her ear, expressing its opinion.

Aryl poked it into the net. “We don’t waste a drop,” she told the Oud. “We must have more than you send us!”

It reared and fell silent. A few lower limbs fidgeted. Throughout the clearing, other Oud stopped moving, as if she’d said something remarkable. Well, not all. One vehicle ran into the carts towed by another, both drivers unconcerned by the collision. But otherwise, she felt their attention. Eyes or not.

What had she said?

“ ‘More than,’ ” the Speaker said at last. “Why?”

“To grow food.” Oud lived with Tuana, who’d been farmers. The Grona, also neighbors to Oud, planted fields. The concept couldn’t be new to this one, Aryl thought, exasperated.

“Not fill courseways.”

Courseways. That was what the Tikitik called the shallow stone-lined ditches that crossed the valley floor. The only value they had, so far as Sona’s Om’ray could tell, was to deter rock hunters, who avoided them.

Because in the past they had filled with water.

Water the Oud clearly didn’t want them to have. Was this why it had gone back on its promise, that Sona would have the greater share? Had it realized—or been told by other Oud—what might happen?

What the connection might be—if there was one—she had no idea. Aryl drew herself up and lifted her pendant. “As Speaker for Sona, I promise we won’t fill the courseways if you return more water to the river.”

“Not fill if not water more than.” The creature managed to sound smug.

The not-real were different, not stupid. She usually didn’t forget, having Marcus as an example.

She winced inwardly. So much for her negotiation skills. “We’ll starve!” An exaggeration, given the stores at Sona, but the Oud might not be aware of those. “I thought you wanted us here.”

“Food enough. Water enough. Sona waste.” The cluster of limbs it used for speech folded into a tight knot.

No mistaking the end of a conversation.

I’m done, she sent to her Chosen, keeping her disappointment to herself. They could share the details on the walk home. A slow walk, she decided, in no hurry to explain her failure to Haxel. Finished your snack?

But before she could turn back to the Human’s shelter, the Oud Speaker lowered itself and approached her, slowly. Almost in reach, it hurriedly backed away, a flurry of small stones and mud hitting her legs. Before Aryl could protest, it did the same again: a slow approach, then hasty retreat, but not the full distance. This continued until it came to rest where she could have stretched out her hand to touch it—not that she would. She watched it rear, slowly, as if to assure her of its good intentions.

No, she realized suddenly. Despite its swollen bulk shading her from the sun, it was wary of her.

This was different.

The new Humans, or Human-shaped Strangers, gave up any pretense of ignoring what was happening and leaned in the doorway of the storage building to watch.

Enris?

Our Human’s being his confusing self.

He’s not the only one. She trusted Enris to deal with Marcus—or was it the other way around? Sometimes, Aryl thought distractedly, she wasn’t sure which of them she could trust to be sensible.

From this proximity, she had a too-good view of the Speaker’s underside. The flesh was glossy and pale, flushed in places with blue. The black limbs, hard and jointed like a biter’s, were in rows. Most were folded, like rows of neatly aligned utensils, though a few jutted at odd angles as if forgotten. Or broken. This close, it smelled of dust and the oil they used on their vehicles.

And decay.

Whirr/clicks settled to the ground around it—and her. She eyed them uneasily. The small black things were too like biters to be trusted, though none had shown an interest in Om’ray flesh. Yet. They clung outside tunnel entrances until an Oud came out, followed that particular Oud in an annoyingly noisy cloud, and would wait like this, occasionally milling around, unless another Oud moved nearby. Then they’d desert the first in a flurry of whirrs and clicks. Not that any of the other Oud in the clearing were moving.

She was stuck with them.

Worry that wasn’t hers.

Enris?

It’s complicated.

And he was fascinated. That couldn’t be good. Aryl glared at the Oud, as if it were to blame for her Chosen’s curiosity and the Human’s unlimited ability to provoke it. Say no. To whatever it is.

He immediately tightened his shields, letting her feel only a vague reassurance.

As if that helped.

Then she forgot all about Enris and the dangerous allure of Human technology as the Oud Speaker brought together two limbs and made a sound that was no sound at all.

Because she heard it in the M’hir.

It rang along her nerves and through her mind, like a distant bell. Once only. Larger than the world, smaller than a breath. Undeniable.

Aryl wasn’t sure what startled her more: that this Oud could make a sound in the M’hir, or that it did so as if expecting her to hear it.

Good thing her Chosen was distracted.

“Oud tunnel. Under. Safe is. Goodgood,” the Oud Speaker said next, word-making limbs working quickly, hunched as if to keep those words private or in a bizarre—and unsuccessful—attempt to whisper. “Sona Om’ray tunnel. All ways. Safe is. Secret. GoodgoodgoodGOOD.”

The Oud Speaker had been present for one ’port: when she’d been forced to save herself and Marcus from being buried alive during the Oud attack on the Tikitik. When the Oud had said nothing on the matter, she’d assumed they’d been too busy committing murder to notice how she and the Human survived.

If they had proper eyes . . . but who knew what they could or couldn’t sense?

Who knew what they thought?

“Good we talk. GoodgoodgoodGOOD!” The Oud Speaker swayed toward her as if about to topple. Aryl flinched but stood her ground. “Careful. CareCareCare.” Again the unheard bell. “Tikitik. Count. Follow. Measure.”

Not attention she wanted. “Tikitik here?” She tried not to look obvious as she searched the encircling edge of the grove for their lean shapes. The creatures were adept at skulking, their skin able to match their surroundings, but Haxel’s scouts knew what to look for—surely trespassers would have been noticed.

“Nonononono. Balance. Agreement.”

Something she’d find comforting if she didn’t know exactly what “Balance” meant to both Oud and Tikitik. Bad enough this Oud appeared able to comprehend their movement through the M’hir. At least it didn’t seem upset. Aryl was quite sure the reaction of the Tikitik would not be as calm. “How—?” She stopped.

Even the question felt dangerous.

The folded limbs opened along one side, moving with blinding speed in sequence to convey something from the lowermost part of its body. Aryl frowned. Oud had pouches of some kind down there. She’d yet to have a gift from one that didn’t come with trouble attached. “I don’t want—” She closed her mouth.

A Speaker’s Pendant came to rest, dangled from an upper limb. It was attached to a scrap of filthy fabric patterned black and white in the fashion of its former bearer, the Tikitik Speaker killed before her eyes by the Oud. The gruesome relic wasn’t offered to her. Instead the Oud shook it vigorously. “Count.” Another shake. “Follow.” Again. “Measure.” Then it passed the pendant to the opposite row of limbs. Each set went into opposing motion; when they stopped, the pendant had been replaced by something else.

A token.

What did it mean? Tuana’s Oud Speaker had given Enris his first; another Oud had taken it. Could this be the same one? Not that they were rare. A token was given to each Om’ray unChosen who took Passage, granting the right to trespass through the lands of Tikitik and Oud. The Yena exiles had had tokens when they arrived at Grona; only Enris had kept his, intending all along to seek Vyna. He’d brought it back with him, along with a handful collected from one of Vyna’s traps, to prove no unChosen should go there again.

Enris? she sent, this time sharing her confusion.

“Count. Follow. Measure.”

All of Cersi’s races had the pendants. Only Om’ray wore tokens. If she assumed she understood the Oud—which was like stepping on an untried frond over the Lay—then it was claiming the Tikitik somehow used both pendant and token to keep track of . . . what?

Count. That was easy. One Speaker per Clan, one Speaker per neighbor. Eight Om’ray Clans, seven with neighbors, meant no less than fifteen pendants. Tokens? Every Clan knew how many it sent out, how many arrived. Easy to believe the Tikitik, being inclined to spy on others, kept track of such movements between Clans.

Follow. A Tikitik had followed Enris to Vyna; it had found him afterward. So it could be done. But how could a token help?

As for “measure.” That made even less sense. Tokens and pendants were metal ornaments, not devices like the geoscanner presently riding her hip in a hidden pocket. And what would Tikitik measure if they could?

Profoundly annoyed, Aryl shook her head. “You’re making no sense at all.”

“YESYESYES.” As if the Oud were made desperate by her inability to understand. “Tikitik do. All life. Tikitik count. All life. Tikitik follow. All life. Tikitik measure. All.”

Biters, too? The silliness of it restored her confidence. The creature might be confused—and confusing—but she made the gesture of gratitude. It was trying, in its way, to convey a warning. “That should keep them too busy to be trouble,” she suggested.

“Trouble. Tikitik trouble. Tikitik other. Not Makers! Notnot not!! Not First. Not Only. Tikitik Least Is!” The words made no sense, but the Oud flung itself backward in a paroxysm of emotion, limbs writhing. Somehow its cloak remained attached to its back. Whirr/clicks threw themselves into the air and hovered, like a cloud of interested bystanders.

Aryl, having jumped in the other direction, gazed worriedly at the creature.

“I’m going to guess this means no more water.” Her Chosen came to stand beside her. If amused by the spectacle of the Oud Speaker flat on its back, Enris kept it to himself.

“It claims we have enough now, that we’re wasting it.” Aryl let him sense some of her frustration. “I don’t see how.”

They’d kept their voices quiet, though the sound didn’t appear to bother the Oud Speaker. However the creature, finished whatever display it required, rolled back to its feet and reared, stones and dirt sliding off its cloak, whirr/clicks settling to the ground. “Waste,” it agreed, as if the other matter—of Om’ray “tunnels” and Tikitik and care—had been forgotten.

Then it made the sound again, to prove her wrong.

“What was—” Enris gripped her arm, stared at the Oud. “Is it a Torment?”

“No Power I. Speaker.” The Oud lowered itself slightly. A conciliatory posture, Aryl decided. Hoped. “Balance good. Peace good. Om’ray, Oud. Best is. Us. Best is. Tikitik. NononoNO. Water more than?”

It couldn’t mean what she feared, could it? Their two races, somehow working against the third . . . Enris?

And you worry we’ll break the Agreement?

He was right. The mug would shatter on the floor. The world would end. Taisal had warned there’d be no safety for Om’ray if the Oud and Tikitik weren’t at peace. None for the life inside her.

“Sona abides by the Agreement,” Aryl said calmly, though inside she trembled. Rage or terror? They felt the same. They were the same. “You will abide by the Agreement, you will keep the peace of Cersi, or I will tell the Strangers to leave, now. You will never know about your past.”

The Oud sank lower and lower until it was flat against the ground.

She took a shaky breath. “Good.”

Good guess. Enris loosened his grip on her arm, turned it into a brief caress. Best we don’t have to test that.

He was right, of course. Now that Hoveny artifacts had been found, not even Marcus could stop his people from coming. He could stop them cooperating with the Oud. Say they were dangerous. He’d do it for us.

And it wouldn’t be a lie.

“I—”

Every Oud in the clearing suddenly reared and turned to face in the direction of Sona. The Speaker rocked back and forth, uttering that sound, over and over. The M’hir surged closer, pulled at her conscious mind.

“Stop—” she pleaded. The sound ended; the Oud continued to sway back and forth. “Why did you do that?”

“Sona Om’ray less than.”

Enris stiffened. “Who!?”

She reached, uncaring about Torments or the M’hir. Reached and was trapped by waves of PAIN and NEED and . . .

ARYL! Enris had her, held her body and mind. Stay with me. Stay. Don’t follow . . . don’t follow . . .

Eyes shut, she buried her face into his chest and closed her mind until all she could feel was her place in the world and his presence, until she no longer heard the echo of DESPAIR through the M’hir.

Until she knew it was over.

Everything became too quiet.

“Someone’s gone into the M’hir. Gone in and not—not come out.” She’d never heard his voice break before. “Who?”

The quiet trapped the name, protected her for a heartbeat, let her breathe. Once. Again.

Then, she knew.

Ael d’sud Sarc.

Her uncle, with his bright eyes and clever wit. Fostered with Haxel’s family. Connected to everyone . . .

Aryl clung to Enris with all her strength; his arms were like bands of metal, keeping her safe, keeping them together. They had to be; there was no other Choice. She didn’t care if Oud or Human watched or wondered. They were not-real. They could never understand, never experience the full implication of being Joined, one mind forever linked to another.

Only Om’ray knew their fate, should their Chosen die.

Ael was gone.

And Myris, his Chosen, was Lost.

The First Scout burst into the Meeting Hall. “What happened?” The scar was drawn stark and white against her reddened skin. Aryl wouldn’t have been surprised to see a knife in her hand.

For what good it would do.

The others looked up, weary with grief, unsettled by Haxel’s barely contained fury. No one spoke. Morla looked to Aryl.

“There’s no way to know,” Aryl said gently. Beside her, on a bench covered with blankets, lay her aunt. Her hair hung limp as a child’s. Her eyes were closed. She might have been alive.

She was not.

Her mind had followed Ael’s. According to Oran, assigned the task of making sure, not enough had been left to keep her body breathing.

Aryl wasn’t sorry to be grateful.

Three long strides brought Haxel looming over her. “There must be. Ael doesn’t—didn’t—he was strong. Capable. We have to know what happened!”

Such pain. Aryl felt it, shared it, as she did from all around. It bound them together, Sona to Sona, as nothing else could have done. She wasn’t Myris, to ease another’s suffering, to turn grief into acceptance. But she understood Haxel’s desperation. Beyond the grief of losing her foster brother, training and instinct made the First Scout need to identify the threat, find a way to counter or avoid it.

“We can’t,” Aryl said, lifting her gaze to Haxel’s. “I named the Dark the M’hir because it’s like that wind. It can tear the best climber from a branch, snap the strongest rastis, without warning. When we ride it, we take that risk.”

“You think Ael was careless.” Clear threat.

“How?” From Enris, leaning against the wall nearby. His arms were folded, his face in shadow. “The M’hir is new to all of us. We can only explore it by trying. We’ve learned a shared memory is enough for a ’port. But can I ’port to another Om’ray? Can I follow a trail through the M’hir? Someone has to try first. Some ideas will work. Some won’t.”

“And some will kill.”

“And some will kill.”

“No. No more ‘firsts.’ ” Haxel looked at them all in turn, her face as grim and set as Aryl had ever seen. “Do you understand me? There’s only us. We were barely keeping up with watering before losing these—these two. If we lose anyone else, we could all die.”

Galen rose to his feet, equally grim. “I agree we should use caution. But make no mistake, Haxel, this ability we have will save more lives than it risks. Let the Oud reshape the ground. Sona will ’port to safety. Let our crops fail. We’ll ’port to another Clan and trade for food. This is the most important Talent ever discovered by Om’ray and we must never fear to use it.”

Agreement. Emphatic from some. Aryl hoped Haxel missed the faint glee coming from their unChosen. Though to be callous, those were best suited to trying “firsts.”

UnChosen died alone.

“Doubt causes falls.” Her voice sharpened. “So does carelessness. I suggest we leave the risks to our daring unChosen—” so she had sensed them. Haxel’s eyes flicked to the body. “Why is this still here?”

She was right to ask. Om’ray only felt the presence of the living. The body on the bench was no longer Om’ray, but simply a problem.

“There’s no swamp.” Husni clenched her gnarled hands in distress. “There’s no proper water below.” Her Chosen, Cetto d’sud Teerac, tried to soothe her, but she’d have none of it. “We have traditions for good reason,” she snapped. “The husk must be removed from the village.”

“We could bury it in the ground,” Oswa offered carefully. “It’s the Grona way.”

From too few voices to too many. “No!” “Don’t disturb the Oud!” “It’s dangerous!” The objections came from Tuana and Yena both.

Oswa sank back and hugged Yao. Aryl caught her eye and gestured gratitude. It wasn’t the Grona’s fault others had had worse experiences with the Oud.

Before anyone suggested feeding what remained of Myris to the rock hunters, which would entail carrying the sad husk a day’s journey across the exposed valley, she sent a quick plea. Enris.

And what was left of Myris di Sarc disappeared. The blanket sighed to the bench and lay empty.

It was done.

In the following hush, Juo di Vendan’s ragged gasp drew everyone’s attention.

“The baby!” Gijs shouted, leaping to his feet to hover anxiously over his Chosen who, for her part, looked more embarrassed by the attention than in distress.

Seru was already on the move. The room began to hum and sizzle with words spoken and not, everyone’s attention shifting from death to life.

It was their way.

Aryl pressed her hand to the blanket beside her. Still warm. She and Enris had run into the nekis grove, out of sight—that much sense—before ’porting here. Her legs were coated in flecks of drying mud from the Oud. She could, if she wasn’t careful, hear the dreadful sound it had made in the M’hir. How could the creature know of Ael’s loss before they did?

Despite that warning, they hadn’t been in time. The breath had fled Myris’ lips with her Chosen’s name; she’d fallen into Rorn’s arms, already gone. It had been that quick. It often was.

What was she to do without Myris and Ael?

Comfort waiting; strength if she needed it. No words.

They should never have been exiled. Aryl felt a tear trace her cheek, curl along her jaw. Her mother had claimed Yena’s Adepts dreamed who should go, choosing those who could survive together. Myris and Ael had no new Talents, no unusual strength or Power. Only compassion and courage.

Is Yena safer?

“No.” The room seethed with emotion. Easier to form words aloud. “No, it’s not.”

Her mother had sent them. Because of a dream.

Adepts dreamed to a purpose. A purpose set by their Cloisters’ Keeper.

“I’ll be back.”

ARYL . . . his protest vanished with her surroundings.

The M’hir taunted, sang of death and insanity, tried to confuse. These were her reactions to the roiling darkness, not the truth. Not that the truth belonged here. Nothing real did. Aryl concentrated on where she should be . . .

... and was.

The Meeting Hall had been humid with breath, warmed with bodies and cookstoves, fragrant with the remains of the morning meal. Crowded with the living and the dead.

This was no place as peaceful or safe. Overhead, green metal had been woven into a mesh tight enough to keep out the rain. She stood on metal slats, raised the height of a grown rastis above the black water of the Lay. To either side, the mesh widened to allow the hot, heavy air of the canopy to caress her, thick with the scent of flower, fruit, and rot. There was no sky, no ground, no rock. Only that which struggled to live, and that which failed and died.

Home. This would always be home.

Mother.

Driven through the M’hir, the summons couldn’t be overheard or ignored. How long Taisal di Sarc would let her daughter wait on Yena’s bridge—that was a question.

Biters arrived first. The mountain spring encouraged bare arms and hands during the heat of day, bare legs made it easier when filling buckets. Aryl gritted her teeth, accepting the bites as deserved. Not that Enris would let her forget it. Despite the distance between them, their link was as strong as ever. He kept his shields in place. Let her have this.

Aryl scratched the rising welts on her forearm. Maybe they wouldn’t all swell.

Yena’s Cloisters rose on its own massive stalk. The bridge met the paired doors to its lowermost platform, the level buried at Sona by the Oud. Aryl faced them, not seeing the lovely colors coaxed from the metal, or their size.

If she lowered her shields and reached, she’d know who was on the other side. The solitary presence at her back would be the scout assigned to the bridge platform. He wouldn’t have sensed her arrival, so close to the rest of Yena. Few Om’ray had her ability to sense exact numbers within the glow of their kind.

That glow was potent, alluring. Almost two hundred, mere steps away. It made Sona’s few more precious.

Mother.

Here.

The doors turned open, spilling light, creating new shadows. A slender figure in a hooded brown robe stepped through. Another pulled the doors closed again.

The locks reset.

She had their secret. These would open to her knowledge, to her name in the records of this Cloisters—unless they’d stripped it.

Not that she’d be welcome.

The figure stopped and threw back her hood, revealing a netted mass of black hair and a pale face as closed as the doors. Taisal di Sarc. For the first time, Aryl could see the resemblance between sisters. The wide-set eyes, the high forehead, the graceful line of throat were the same. The differences had always mattered more. Myris would have been incapable of this intimidating glare. Her Power would never have tested Aryl’s shields like this.

“Mother.”

“Come to explain yourself ?”

“Explain myself?” Hard to frown with dignity while biters feasted on her ears, but Aryl did her best. “It’s your turn for that. I know Yena’s Cloisters has a Keeper; someone who controls the dreams of your Adepts. Why dream to exile us? Don’t tell me it was to protect Yena from the Tikitik. There had to be an Om’ray purpose. Why?”

The very essence of dignity, Taisal lifted an eyebrow. “While I, Daughter, want to know why Yena’s Adepts now dream of Sona.”

Her heart thudded in her chest; could her mother hear it?

Oran.

It had to be. She’d succeeded after all, but told no one. Instead of controlling Sona’s Cloisters to dream of what might help her own Clan, somehow she was reaching out to others. But why? Aryl swallowed bile. “What do you dream?”

Distaste. “Walking on dirt. Cold. Darkness. Oud.” Taisal’s shields tightened until she seemed to disappear. “And what you can do. All of you.”

Not the time to admit “all” was an exaggeration. Not the time to vent her fury at Oran di Caraat or try to comprehend what the Adept might have hoped to accomplish.

“It wasn’t our doing. But—”

Her mother knew. Everything.

Relief made Aryl shake. She found words spilling out, urgent, important. “It means safety for everyone. Once every Om’ray can ’port, unChosen won’t have to risk Passage. We can travel wherever we want as easily as breathing. Share with each other. Once the other races accept it—”

“They won’t. They can’t.”

“The Oud have—”

“Some Oud—” disgust, “—Sona’s Oud. You’re a Speaker, Aryl. You of all Sona should realize just because the not-real look alike doesn’t make them the same. And what of the Tikitik? What of the Strangers? Will they let Om’ray become independent? Let us ascend to a power of our own? Shatter the Agreement?” Every word calm, measured. Aryl could hardly breathe. “Even if they do, for reasons of their own—” Taisal paused. Her hand grasped air and threw it aside. “Om’ray won’t.”

“Sona—”

“One Clan. What of the rest? What of those Om’ray who can’t do this—this ’porting? What of those who will not? Who rightly fear the Dark. Would you force them? Is that why you’ve made us dream?”

“I didn’t—” To Aryl’s dismay, her voice came out sullen, like a child’s. She did her best to modify it. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Those who can’t—others can do it for them. Those who won’t—” she didn’t finish.

Taisal did it for her. “—will if they must? Do you hear yourself? You would split our kind in two. Not Yena.” The words echoed along the bridge. “We will protect ourselves. Sian spent much of his life searching for ways to protect Om’ray from the Dark. Now he works to help us resist the urge to step into it, awake or asleep. We will keep even those who might be tempted safe from your—” her lips twisted, “—M’hir.”

Sian d’sud Vendan. Her mother’s heart-kin, before they’d Chosen otherwise. He’d come to the Sarc home regardless, stay till firstlight with Taisal debating this or that obscure detail about the Power and its use. She should have listened, Aryl thought desperately. Here was expertise, where she least expected it. Someone to guide their exploration of the M’hir. “We could use his help,” she began, unconsciously fingering her Speaker’s Pendant.

“To stop this?” Taisal stepped closer, her eyes alight. “Is that what you’re saying—is that the reason for the dreams? That Sona calls out for help, before it’s too late? Or is it already too late?” She lifted her hand to trace the curve of Aryl’s cheek in the air, then let it fall to her side. The relief in her face became something else. Dread. “Who?”

“Ael.”

Myris . . . ? They’d worked together to save her once; Taisal had helped pull her sister’s mind from the M’hir . . .

GRIEF howled through it now. It tore at them both—or did they feed it, mind-to-mind, for an endless moment, until it united them . . . the who-I-am of mother and daughter blurred together . . .

An echo. Enris, carefully distant. Carefully present.

Aryl reached for their link, used it and his strength to pull away from her mother. But not completely. She looked at Taisal, blinked tears to see her more clearly, and finally saw the truth.

Taisal di Sarc, who’d held to life and sanity when her Chosen died, hadn’t escaped the M’hir at all. She existed there. Only a constant outpouring of Power kept her here, too, and whole. It wove a net of connections that held Taisal’s mind together, connections on a level Aryl had never sensed before. She doubted her mother even knew. But they were there, binding Taisal to Aryl, Taisal to every Yena. More tenuous, still strong, Taisal to the exiles.

Immense Power, so much that the small fragment free of the struggle was enough to make Taisal an Adept. But if she weakened, if she gave up, she would be Lost.

And along came her daughter, romping through the M’hir like a child swinging on vines, playing with death. Causing it. A son, now a sister. Ripping Yena apart. Now, risking it again.

Was there any way she hadn’t failed her mother?

“Forgive me.”

Hush, child.

Sian knew, Aryl realized suddenly. He must. His study of the M’hir was no idle curiosity; he wanted to help Taisal. Were all Yena’s Adepts involved? Had her daughter’s exile been forced on Taisal for her own protection?

Was it her fault, as she’d believed?

They held no shields against one another; thoughts mingled. Aryl was surrounded by compassion and a hint of irony. “It’s not about us, Daughter,” Taisal said gently. “Other than Sian, it never was. It’s about saving the Chosen. Don’t you see? The rest think if they understand me, they’ll be able to prevent others from being Lost. Myris—” a flare of heartrending sorrow, “—might have saved herself, if she’d been able to break her Joining to Ael in time.”

NEVER!!! Throwing up her shields, Aryl clung to Enris with all her strength, rejected any thought of life without their bond. Without him.

Here, he sent, confused and alarmed. I’ll always be here.

Taisal’s smile was the saddest thing Aryl had ever seen. “Which is what I’ve told them—so very many times. They’re fools. Who would want to be as I am?”

Aryl took a shuddering breath, then another, easier one. The instinct to protect their Joining had her heart hammering in her chest, but she fought to overcome it. This was her mother. The words weren’t a threat. The idea—her breath caught, but she forced herself to continue—was important. To make a second Choice: follow a Chosen to his or her fate, or decide to survive. The loss it would spare a Clan . . .

Could she?

Her hands pressed over the life within her. For that life, Aryl realized with an inner shock, she might. She gestured a profound apology. “I’ll stop the dreams. Whatever happens to Sona, Yena shouldn’t be forced to face the same decisions—or risks.”

Taisal’s eyes glittered. “Do that, Speaker, and we will share whatever we know to help you protect yourselves.”

“Why were we exiled?” Aryl said softly. “Will you share that?”

A shadow seemed to cross Taisal’s face. “We don’t know,” she admitted at last. “A Keeper doesn’t control the dreaming, Aryl. Only makes it possible. Tikva could say only that the dreams came from the Cloisters itself. Ours . . . were terrible. Yena ended. The Cloisters, empty. You and the exiles survived, we could see that, but we had no way to know which was cause, which effect. We were being warned, that was all. Was it something to do with the Agreement? Perhaps. About the Dark—the M’hir? That’s what I believe. Still believe. You must stay out of it.” Fear. “If not for yourself, then for her.” Her hands reached, as if to gather Aryl close.

Safer to ’port back to Sona than risk climbing the canopy. Safer to stay distant, than risk the touch of an Adept. Aryl kept those hard thoughts private. This caring between them, this honesty, was an untried rope. I’ll be careful, Mother, she sent instead, and concentrated.

Yena disappeared . . .

... and she was gathered close by someone else, who seemed determined to prevent her taking a full breath.

Which was fine by her.

Oran.

Aryl had shared her memory of Taisal with Enris as he’d cradled her in his lap. Now, she felt the rumble of his voice through his chest. “That, we do together.”

She stiffened. “I made her Keeper.”

He laughed gently. “Oh, I’m sure she’d have found her way around Hoyon somehow. But it’s not our Adept who troubles me, Sweetling. It’s what she can do. Dreaming between Clans? Either it’s a new Talent, or the Adepts of Cersi have more in common than their attitude.”

Not a comforting thought. Aryl sighed. “Let me deal with one problem at a time. Sona’s—”

“Aryl. Are you in there?” Seru’s voice.

“That’ll teach you,” Enris whispered in her ear.

Aryl squirmed with sudden guilt. We should be hauling water.

We will. His fingers found a ticklish spot and she stifled her giggle against his warm skin. That’s better.

Better than the grief and melancholy that had overwhelmed her when she’d returned. There still, but deeper, freeing her thoughts. What about the M’hir? she sent.

“Enris—I saw you come in here.” An impatient creak as Seru pushed at their closed door.

The M’hir is a tool like any other, he replied. We’ll learn to use it safely. We must. It’s too important to abandon. You know that.

“Is Aryl with you? I need her.” Another, firmer creak.

She let him feel her doubt. As she rose from his lap her hair lingered on his shoulder, drew soft whorls along his neck. Their eyes met. Out loud, she said, “I’m coming, Seru.” Beneath,

What I know is our ignorance. What’s important is our children never suffer because of what we do.

Seru took her arm the moment Aryl stepped outside, waves of worry and consternation pouring through the physical contact. “Over here,” she said urgently, not apologizing for the familiarity. In fact, she used her grip to tug Aryl away from the building, in the direction that led . . . well, Aryl thought, puzzled, it led nowhere. They didn’t travel down the valley anymore.

“What’s wrong?”

Seru let go, but kept walking at a brisk pace. “A little farther.” She took Aryl to where the paving stones of the road lay heaved and tossed—where the Oud had set up barriers to trap any Sona trying to flee—then stopped to sit on one of the larger stones. Her hair squirmed under its net. “It’s about the baby. She’s coming too soon.”

This, on top of Taisal’s warning, brought Aryl to sit beside her cousin. “Mine?” she asked anxiously.

“No.” Green eyes widened. “Why would you think so?”

Never rush Seru, especially when she was agitated, as now. “Forgive me, Cousin,” Aryl said, fighting for patience. “What did you come to tell me? And why here?”

“Here is where I can’t hear the baby.”

“Which baby?” She’d been gone less than a tenth. Aryl vaguely remembered Juo’s gasp in the meeting hall, but birthing couldn’t be that fast. Could it? “Juo’s?”

“Of course, Juo’s. The baby’s impatient. It’s the wrong time.”

“Are you sure?”

Seru shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I believe—when I tried to convince her to relax and wait, that’s when I discovered something.” She drew up her knees and looked miserable. “The baby won’t listen to me!”

“Are you doing it right?” Whatever “it” was. Aryl had to admit she knew almost nothing about Seru’s special Talent. Oh, everyone knew Om’ray births often required a Birth Watcher to convince the baby to relinquish its tight hold on its mother. Otherwise—there was no otherwise. The baby had to be willing to be born. Or, apparently, not to be born. “It’s your first time—”

This drew a withering look. “I’ve helped my mother since I was four, Aryl di Sarc. You know that. This is . . . Juo’s baby is different.”

“Different?” Did being pregnant herself explain why the word twisted inside her? “Is she all right?”

“Healthy, yes. But the baby—Aryl, she’s only aware of her mother. She can’t sense other Om’ray. She can’t believe me. What do I say to such a child? How do I tell her she won’t be all alone when she leaves her mother, when she always will be?”

Another one?

Aryl shivered, though the slanting sun was warm on her skin. “We need Oswa,” she told Seru.

Oswa di Gethen, who’d given birth to a daughter with the same affliction.

Yao.

By dint of hard work—and a plentiful supply of weathered wood and rock—Sona could boast that each pair of Chosen, and their children, if any, had a home of their own. The Yena unChosen—Cader, Fon, and Kayd di Uruus—shared one building and had invited Worin Mendolar to join them, much to the young Tuana’s joy. Oran’s brother, Kran, stayed with Deran di Edut of Tuana, when not with his sister. The di Licor sisters would have happily moved away from their parents also, but when they were not scouting with Haxel, their mother kept them close. Not Choosers yet—but soon.

Myris would have known, Aryl sighed to herself. Beko di Serona would be first, already prone to such wild swings of mood that Husni suggested she move to the other side of the valley until Chosen. Instead, she lived with Menasel and her Chosen Kor d’sud Lorimar.

Only Naryn lived alone. She had kin. Her cousin Caynen di S’udlaat was Joined to Yuhas, once of Yena. But the invitation to live together hadn’t been offered. Aryl wasn’t sure if it was Yuhas, who was Enris’ closest friend at Sona, or Caynen, with her own reasons.

The homes were small by Grona standards, adequate by Yena. Aryl didn’t know what the Tuana thought, though Enris muttered about improvements—usually after he bumped his head on the lowest end of their roof. As “improvements” required materials they didn’t have at Sona, she tended to ignore him. Every home had the essentials: a door, walls, and roof. Some had a window opening; all had a hearth for a fire and a hole in the roof for its smoke. Floors were dirt or uneven paving stones. Better floors could wait until they had food growing between their homes.

Gijs and Juo had built a bed platform and roughed a table and bench. For the baby, Haxel, being Juo’s closest relative at Sona, had given the Chosen her cloak. The cunning fabric, tightly woven from wing thread, was both light and waterproof. It made a fine hammock.

A touch of home in a place not yet one, Aryl thought, de terminedly looking away. Four of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder by Juo’s bedside: she and Seru, Naryn and Lymin di Annk. All pregnant and offering support.

All worried this might happen to them next. That, they didn’t say.

Here. The door opened, cooler air swirling around their ankles. Oswa and Gijs. She looked ready to bolt the other way; he looked desperate.

Juo’s eyes were half-shut, her face beaded with sweat. Her hair, freed of its net, lashed futilely at the mattress. She was conscious. And afraid. Her fingers crawled toward her Chosen; he went to his knees and caught her hand in his.

After a quick glance at Juo, Oswa looked to Aryl. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.” Her hands twisted in the folds of her jerkin. “I’m no Watcher.”

“You survived Yao’s birth,” Naryn said coolly. Her shields were in place; only a trickle of compassion came through. And an unsettling curiosity. “Tell us how.”

“How?” Under its Grona cap, Oswa’s hair fretted.

“Was there anything the Birth Watcher did?” Seru asked eagerly. “Anything you remember could help.”

“She left us to die.”

Terror. That, from Lymin. She was furthest along. Seru had predicted she’d give birth with or before Juo.

Juo’s eyelids snapped open. “Seru—?” She grunted with pain, half sitting up. “What’s happening?”

Dread. That from Seru, her shields almost nonexistent under the wash of emotions. “It’s time.”

“We’re here,” Aryl said promptly, taking her hand. Courage, Cousin, she sent privately. Tell us what to do.

Seru’s fingers tightened fiercely, then released. “Juo, listen to me. Your baby intends to be born. Now. Gijs, help her stand. Remove her clothes. The rest of you, be ready.”

Lymin and Naryn each took a clean square of cloth. Aryl took one as well. They crouched.

Juo stood, legs spread, her distended abdomen rippling with powerful contractions. She threw back her head, teeth clenched in a rictus of effort. Her hair lifted like a cloud. Gijs and Seru stood behind. Her Chosen gripped her shoulders. Seru ran her fingers down Juo’s sides, doing her utmost to calm the baby.

With a rush of clear fluid, the birth sac slipped from between Juo’s legs. Lymin caught it with a low cry of triumph and wrapped it in her cloth. She carried it to the hammock and laid it gently within.

Seru left Juo to Gijs and Naryn, who each took an arm. Aryl stood by the hammock, looking down with wonder.

The squirming sac was as black as truenight, flecked with starlike patches of pale, torn skin. It steamed in the cooler air.

“Her turn,” Seru said, moving to the other side. This was the moment. The birth sac could only be opened from within, the first independent act of all Om’ray. Fail to take that risk, and the baby would suffocate and die.

Seru’s fingers hovered above the sac, then touched gently. The sac went rigid. Little one. The joyful sending was the most powerful Aryl had felt from her cousin. Come out and join our world.

Nothing happened. Seru frowned and tried again. More squirming, this time wild and desperate. The hammock swung; Aryl steadied it.

“Call her, Juo,” Oswa whispered urgently. “She wants to find you. She knows your voice, your mind.”

“Do it,” Seru ordered. Juo staggered forward, leaning on Gijs and Naryn. Her breaths were ragged and too shallow. She shivered uncontrollably, despite the blanket they’d thrown around her. It wasn’t the effort of birth. Aryl’s eyes met her cousin’s somber ones. Juo was reflecting the baby’s state. If the mother went unconscious . . . only the mother would wake again.

Seru guided Juo’s hand to the sac, pressed them gently together. Juo looked up, tears in her eyes. “She’s too afraid. She’s not listening to me.” The squirming slowed. Despair! “We’re losing her!”

“No, we won’t. Gijs, take her.” Seru placed her hand on Aryl’s. Show me how you reached Yao. A command.

Aryl sought the M’hir, feeling Seru’s mind with hers. Instead of the heave and tear of a storm, the darkness was a smothering pressure. About to pull back, to protect her cousin, Aryl suddenly realized it was the other way around—that somehow, Seru’s confidence, her serene belief in herself, extended into the other. That she was doing this.

There. Aryl spotted the glow of another mind in that darkness. Like Yao. It floated easily, as if it belonged and the M’hir was as natural a resting place as a bed.

Or a womb.

Little one, Seru’s summons rippled outward. Come with us. Come to your mother. The wider world is safe. Bright. Fun! We all want you in it.

The glow pulsed with each word, began to rush toward them. Continuing to call, Seru drew herself from the M’hir. Aryl followed, opening her eyes in time to see the sac split open down its middle.

A tiny foot pushed through; a chubby fist unfurled like a flower.

HUNGER!

“Thank you, Aryl. Thank you.”

Aryl hugged her cousin. “Sona has the finest Birth Watcher of any Clan.” Seru’s answering laugh held a sob of relief.

Breathing easily now, Juo scooped her baby from the sac, and brought her to a full breast.

JOY! MOREMOREMORE!

Wincing, Aryl took an involuntary step back and strengthened her shields. Babies. Gijs couldn’t grin any wider without cracking his jaw. For everyone’s sake, he and Juo would have to shield their daughter’s emotions until she matured. But for now, she allowed him his pride in her obvious Power.

So long as she didn’t have to be too close to it.

Happiness and relief spilled outward, warmth reflecting back from the rest of Sona. Their first birth. And, from the gusto with which the baby nursed, a determined one.

Seru, who’d started cleaning away the fragments of the sac, paused to smile. She glanced up at Lymin. “Someone else is eager to arrive.”

“Mine? I’m not ready yet. Suen’s not. You must mean—” with a cheery laugh, the very pregnant Tuana turned to look behind herself, a hand out in a sweeping wave.

At Naryn.

The silence was as thick as smoke. Before Lymin could gesture apology, before anyone could offer reassurance, Naryn was gone.

She left a trace. Like a distant bell, tolling for the dead. Grief.

Sona’s Birth Watcher went back to tidying the new baby’s bed. “Trust me, Lymin, it will be before firstnight. Let Oswa take you home. Tell Suen he will have to try hard to be as helpful as Gijs and that I’ll come as soon as I’m finished here.” Aryl noticed the others took comfort from Seru’s assured and confident tone, the calm anticipation she felt. Her cousin had indeed come a long way.

“Don’t worry, Lymin,” Seru went on. “This is why we attend each other’s birthings. To see there is nothing to fear.”

Except for Naryn.

Their eyes met. Aryl wasn’t surprised to see tears glistening in Seru’s.

There were some in her own.