Rift in the Sky (4 page)

Not so.
His big arms drew her close.
I love my Chosen to distraction, but when you're wrong—
Aryl felt his deep laugh—
I'm the first to tell you.

A rush of
heat.
“How right you are,” he murmured into her hair, which squirmed joyfully against its net. His hands began exploring.

Insufferable Tuana. “I'll see you later,” Aryl told him, then concentrated and
pushed . . .

Aroused, the M'hir's heaving
darkness
was wilder than usual. No surprise, Aryl thought wryly in the brief instant before she emerged.

So was she.

Sona's Cloisters didn't rise on a stalk, like Yena's, but rather sat on the ground like a discarded flower. Oud had thrown dirt against its windows and filled in the lowermost platform. They'd sought a way inside . . . curious about what none of their kind had seen.

Marcus Bowman was curious, too, but knew better than to attempt such trespass. He might hope for an invitation, but even if she could bring herself to consider it, her Human friend was no longer alone.

For the Oud had made a discovery in their cliff, drawing what Haxel and Aryl glumly considered too much attention to Sona's remote valley. First had come the rest of Marcus' new Triad, for the Strangers worked in threes, each with a specific task. In his words: Analyst, Scantech, and Recorder. Aryl had seen them from a distance. Not Human, unless they came in a wider range of body shapes than she'd appreciated; he'd explained once that each Triad had to have different species.

Only a few, those who were or looked Human, stayed past truenight; in that, Marcus managed to keep some order in his camp, or the prohibition against non-Humans too close to Cersi's own races continued. A third building had gone up. More aircars came and went, even in storms, as if what had been found here mattered more than personal safety.

Not, Aryl thought with a sigh, that she'd noticed much concern for that in Marcus Bowman either. The Human made Ziba seem cautious, not to mention he could be distracted by a biter.

She delayed the inevitable.

Aryl brushed imaginary dust from her tunic. She'd 'ported inside the Council Chamber. Windows stretched to the high ceiling, their lower two thirds obscured by gravel and dust thanks to the Oud. The floor, which should gleam, was dull. No dust, as if the inside of the Cloisters cleaned itself, but no feet or cloth had burnished its surface for long years.

Eighty-three years, according to Marcus, had passed since Sona's destruction by the Oud. That was his skill: to follow trails through the past as a hunter would prey by the bend of a frond or an impression on bark. What Marcus and his fellows sought lay so long ago that—if she believed him—lakes and mountains had swallowed the remains of those who'd once lived on this and other worlds.

The Hoveny Concentrix, he called them. A vast civilization blending thousands of different kinds of beings that had failed long before the current blend of races, the First, laid claim to this part of space. Most recent of all, his kind,
Humanity
, with their far-flung Commonwealth. At this edge, a Trade Pact had formed with the First. Layer upon layer of civilizations, stretched through time as much as distance.

Enris found the concept fascinating.

Aryl found it troubling, if she thought of it at all.

Though it was hard not to think of the past, here, standing where unknown Om'ray had stood. Her sleep was no longer visited by their memories, the dreams a Cloisters sent to inform Choosers and Adepts at need. On the journey here, Seru had dreamed the death of Sona's Om'ray, a warning to keep away. When they'd refused to take heed and settled in the ruined village, new dreams had shown them where to find food, as well as images of how the Sona had lived.

This had been a prosperous, advanced Clan. Every Sona, not just Adepts, could read and write. They'd lived in peace with their Tikitik neighbors, trading certain crops for wood for their homes, for the knowledge of how to make a difficult land fruitful. Numerous, too. Cetto estimated Sona's village could have housed over a thousand Om'ray, and there had been a second settlement, outside the Cloisters, devoted to the aged and infirm.

No Clan boasted such numbers now. Pana came closest, at over seven hundred.

The dreams had ended—as if they should somehow have learned all that was necessary. But they hadn't, Aryl thought, gnawing her lower lip in frustration. Was the purple plant a weed? Would summer here be hot and dry, or turn cold too soon? How did they preserve any food that grew? They didn't know how the mounds worked, or if their once-opened doors could be resealed.

All of Sona had died when the Oud moved in to reshape their valley. Aryl's darker imaginings suggested a second disaster, because the Tikitik and Oud lived in Balance, trading Om'ray Clans like baskets of fruit. No one knew of another lost Clan, which meant nothing. None had known of Sona either. When she'd led the exiles here, the Oud had claimed them. It hadn't been long before the Tikitik had demanded and received that terrible compensation: the Oud reshaped Tuana, leaving only its Cloisters, and those sheltered within, unharmed.

Only the Cloisters.

Like Sona.

Aryl stilled, the way she would if she'd heard a strange sound in the canopy and waited to see if it was something with a taste for Om'ray flesh.

Last spring, she'd known the world was defined by Om'ray.

An illusion. Om'ray did not travel beyond their sense of one another and inhabited just this small corner of Cersi. Cersi herself was but a single small world; the stars overhead shone on more than she could count in a lifetime.

Last spring, she'd known a Cloisters was where Adepts practiced their Talents, safe from observation by Tikitik or Oud, aloof from the rest. A Cloisters was where Adepts added to a Clan's record of names and Joinings, and where the aged and the Lost could live out their days in peace.

Was that illusion, too? Did Clans have Cloisters for no other reason than Om'ray were frail things and some must survive each change in their neighbors, Tikitik or Oud?

“Why?” Aryl asked. “What use are we to them? Why is there an Agreement at all?” The words rebounded from pale yellow walls and closed doors, hung at the ceiling as if searching for answers. Died into silence.

A silence broken by distant footsteps.

Abandoning questions about the past, Aryl sped in pursuit. Oran, at a guess. She favored the lighter footwear they'd found among Sona's supplies. Hoyon preferred his Grona boots.

She knew her way. Like Speaker's Pendants, every Cloisters followed the same design; she'd been in this part of Yena's. As Aryl ran for the closest door to the corridor outside, she kept her shields tight, though she doubted either Adept would welcome contact with her mind. They'd tried to force the secret of 'porting from her once. Tried. That day, she'd discovered her mind could be a weapon as deadly as a longknife.

Naryn hadn't been wrong about the fear between them, only in who felt it most.

A knife was clean, honest. What she could do—Aryl shuddered inwardly—what she could do if rage gripped her, if she lost all decent control, was an abomination. To rip apart
who
someone was and toss the terrified fragments of their aware mind into the M'hir . . .

She'd never do it again. She'd never let another Om'ray learn how.

A promise she couldn't expect Oran and Hoyon to believe.

The corridor was lit by glows lining the junction of wall to ceiling, glows with no power cells to replace, as ordinary lights had. The floor, smooth and resilient underfoot, was of no material known to Om'ray. Every so often, the plain walls were broken by closed doors of metal, clear unbreakable windows, or by small metal frames surrounding disks and squares of unknown purpose.

Advanced technology.

A thought impossible before she'd met Marcus and seen the devices and buildings of the Strangers.

Om'ray had built this and forgotten.

Another impossible concept. Until the Human had told her of other worlds and how cultures changed over vast lengths of time. Of how the Hoveny Concentrix had covered more worlds, with technology superior to the Trade Pact's, only to collapse to ruins long before the Cloisters existed.

He'd gladly bring his devices inside this one, if she gave him the chance. He'd pore over every part, babbling his Comspeak to himself, making
vids
and records and drawing Human conclusions about Om'ray that would change them even more.

Some risks she wouldn't take.

Aryl turned the corner and stopped in her tracks.

Empty corridor stretched ahead.

Oran must have 'ported away. Coward. Aryl lowered her shields the merest amount and
reached.

“I don't believe it,” she whispered aloud.

Not one, not two, but seven Om'ray—below, on another level. Furious, she
reached
to learn who else shirked their responsibilities.

Oran. Hoyon. Oran's brother and shadow, Kran Caraat, as yet unChosen. Bern. No surprise.

Two former Tuana: Deran Edut, another unChosen, and Menasel Lorimar, cousin of the twisted Mauro, dead by Haxel's ever-pragmatic knife.

Gijs sud Vendan, who should keep better company.

Oran had a gift for finding weakness.

Poor Gijs. She sighed to herself. When he wasn't careful, anyone nearby could
taste
his fear, but only those of Yena understood. His Chosen, Juo, would give birth to their daughter any day and in the canopy, Gijs had been sure of himself and his ability to keep his family safe. On Sona's dirt? It didn't matter how well he could climb or hunt. Against the Oud's unstoppable force, what use were Yena skills to repel the swarm? No surprise Gijs turned to Power instead, driving himself to learn whatever Talents he could, from anyone with something to teach him.

From Oran.

Whom Juo detested. The resulting schism between Chosen was a discord racing along her nerves, if Aryl let down her shields when the two were together.

No doubt the shirkers were aware of her presence. If Bern hadn't sensed her, Menasel had the same Talent, to
know
identity.

The level above was reached by a corridor that gradually wound upward. How to reach the one below? Aryl chewed her lower lip. The Adepts knew more of the inner workings of the Cloisters than they'd revealed. Not a comforting thought.

Knowledge Sona needed. Maybe they'd been wrong not to let the Adepts have their haven here.

They'd made one anyway.

Haxel would—Aryl shrugged. What Haxel would or wouldn't do counted as much as a biter's opinion unless she found the way to the next level. She went to the nearest door and turned it open, finding the empty room she'd expected. On to the next. And the next. A set of chairs. A lonely table. No purpose remained here, only remnants.

They were entertained by her search. Smug. She didn't need to
feel
their emotions to know. An adult game, this, a test of her worth against their secret.

A game she couldn't win, Aryl realized abruptly. Fail to find the way down and she'd lose any respect they had left for her. Find the way, confront them, and they'd cling tighter to one another. Neither helped Sona.

There was another way.

She took the corridor that led up, following it to where the Cloisters walls became layers of white petals, neither metal nor wood. No windows here, but at the very top, where the petals met, an irregular slice of cloud and sky could be seen. The light here was warmer than the corridors and rooms, the air fresher.

Whatever the purpose of this uppermost level, there was seating. Long benches curved in rows along one side, facing a span of empty floor.

Aryl sat on the nearest, poked a rebellious strand of hair, and settled her mind. Anger had to go. Resentment with it. Fear of failure, pointless. She focused on the life within, its faint yet growing warmth. She thought about the future she wanted for this child, one of peace and security, the one she wanted for all Om'ray—friends or not—and built it in her imagination.

This new Talent, to 'port from place to place. The next time the Tikitik and Oud traded lands, mightn't it prevent the cost in Om'ray lives? Speakers from each race could inform the others. There could be negotiation, an evacuation planned that didn't violate the rules of Passage.

As for Passage itself, no more would young unChosen face a difficult, deadly journey alone. They'd already learned a shared memory was enough for a 'port. Locates for other Clans could be shared, mind-to-mind, through the M'hir. Those able would simply 'port to a waiting Chooser. If that match wasn't suitable, they could as easily return home.