Rift in the Sky (5 page)

A perfect future. Once the Strangers finished groping at the past and left Cersi forever, Aryl reminded herself. Before that, they must be careful, secretive. Oh, she believed the Human's warning not to reveal themselves as anything but simple villagers. “
Remnants
,” he'd called the Om'ray, of no interest to the Trade Pact. She earnestly hoped to stay that way. Nothing good came of the interest of others.

“What do you want?”

The future trembled on her lips, gone as Aryl stiffened, looking up at the angry Om'ray who'd appeared before her. In Grona fashion, Oran's hair was free beneath a token cap. Its golden locks writhed with temper. She wore the white embroidered robe of her office as Adept, in clear defiance.

Or as defense, Aryl thought, forcing herself to stay calm. Oran had courage, whatever their disagreements. “We need to talk.”

Oran tightened her shields until she almost disappeared from Aryl's inner sense. “I've nothing to say to you.”

There were dark circles beneath Oran's eyes; her mouth was pinched with exhaustion. Why?

Aryl gestured to the bench between them. “Sit with me, Adept di Caraat.” A peace offering, to grant the other her title for the first time in their stormy acquaintance. “Tell me what you hope to accomplish here. Perhaps I can help.”

The derisive snort was pure Oran, but the other did sit, her body sagging with relief despite her attempt at composure, hair abruptly still. Something had drained her Power to the point of risk, Aryl concluded, holding in her own alarm. What?

Though exhausted, Oran was all pricklish pride and disdain. “What we will accomplish, Speaker Sarc,” she stated, “despite no support from our own Clan, is to restore our Cloisters to its full and proper function.”

Glows lit every corner. Doors unlocked and turned. The air stayed a comfortable temperature—for Yena in light coats. Aryl doubted the Adept referred to anything so comprehensible. “And you do that by living here . . .”

“No. By dreaming here.”

“ ‘Dreaming?' ” Aryl sat straighter. “You mean you've been learning about this place? How to tell the weeds, what to do to help the food grow . . . the seasons?”

“You think so small. A Cloisters contains the knowledge of all its Adepts. I could continue my training as a Healer. Learn to protect myself from fools like you.”

Aryl accepted the rebuke. None of them had realized how dangerous it would be for Oran to try to heal Myris Sarc, whose head injury had damaged her mind as well. That she'd stepped in and completed the task hadn't helped endear her to Oran. But what mattered was the future. The knowledge of Sona's Adepts could help achieve it.

Shadow lapped across the floor, grayed Oran's robe, dulled her hair. A cloud passing.

“Have you dreamed?” Aryl asked, guessing the answer.

Oran's lips pressed together.

Which meant no. She resisted the urge to shake the other. The Grona Adepts' hoarding of secrets made everyone's life more difficult, including their own. Her hair slithered restlessly over one shoulder. She mollified her tone—the hair being another matter—and allowed
sincerity
and
concern
past her shields. “How can the rest of us help?”

“The others can't.” Oran smoothed the robe over her knees, traced a curl of embroidery in the fabric, her gaze intent on those actions. “You might,” she said after a long moment.

Aryl carefully tightened her shields, particularly those which—sometimes—kept her dear and ever-vigilant Chosen from sensing her reactions. Amazing, the self-control their Joining had taught her. Among other things.

She coughed and focused. “How?”

Oran turned her hand. Its calluses were hardened now, no longer red and swollen. She'd learned their value. “Come with me.”

Courage indeed. Without hesitation, Aryl touched her fingertips to the other's palm.

The chamber disappeared . . .

. . . to be replaced by chaos.

Aryl blinked and stood. Oran remained seated, head down, face in her hands. She'd used the last of her strength in the 'port.

A 'port into a stinger nest, Aryl decided. One just prodded with a stick. Her. Angry voices crossed from every side.
Suspicion
and
fear
rilled from mind to mind. “Fool! Why did you bring her here?” “She found us!” “Can't trust her! Send her away!” “Oran, did she hurt you?”

The last, from Bern as he dropped to his knees before his Chosen while giving her a scathing look, was more than enough. Aryl sent a
snap
of irritation. Deran cried out. The rest fell silent and stared at her.

In the respite, doubtless brief, Aryl surveyed the strange room. What was this place? As large as the Council Chamber. An entire Clan could fit in here. The construction matched the rest of the Cloisters, plain yellow walls and resilient floor, but the windowless walls were broken by narrow doors, five evenly spaced along each long side, two on each shorter one. The lighting came not from ceiling strips but from panels behind knee-high platforms.

The platforms. Oran and she had 'ported to sit on one; there were more. Far more. Oval in shape, they lined the walls, each topped with a soft pad of some brown material she'd never seen before. Beds, Aryl decided. For the Adepts? She'd believed her mother had had her own room, sparse but comfortable. Had she been wrong?

Yena had thirteen Adepts. There were beds here for many times that number.

The two closest bore additional blankets, familiar ones. They'd come from the storage mound. As had, Aryl frowned, the incongruous pile of dishes, pots, and—yes, that was one of the oil heaters used for cooking—on the floor. The bulging sacks leaning against the wall doubtless contained food as well as extra clothing. The Tuanas' doing, she guessed. No Yena would take from his own.

Yet two were part of it. Gijs had the grace to flush a dark red. Bern, preoccupied with his weary Chosen, paid no attention. Fools. She restrained her temper. “How can I help?”

Hoyon sank down on the bed behind him. His hands trembled. “You can't.”

“You don't belong here.” This from Menasel.

Aryl smiled her mother's smile. “Neither do you. Them—” with a nod to exhausted Adepts, “—I can understand. Why are you here? Or you, Gijs. Kran. Deran. Bern. Someone else does your share of the work right now.”

Deran scowled fiercely. “I'm no digger in dirt.”

“What do you plan to eat next winter?” Aryl found herself honestly curious. The Tuanas of Sona shared a past and future, but remained distinct: Naryn and the Runners, who worked as hard as any Yena, and Deran and his once-privileged kin, who had the oddest notion they should be entitled to not work at all. The two groups spared no words or kindness for one another.

Oran lifted her head, golden hair flooding over her shoulders. “Peace, Aryl. They work here, for us. We must concentrate on our task; we are helpless while dreaming. Without any Lost—” A shrug.

As if it was a detriment, not to have mind-shattered Chosen to serve her. And she never would, Aryl hoped fiercely, though what she could do against a fact of Om'ray life was beyond her imagining. The death of one of a Joined pair meant the loss of the other's sense of self, if not another death. The only exception had been her own mother, Taisal. “You brought me here, Adept,” she stated grimly, regretting that decision. Though now she could return to this sanctum of theirs at whim; from the unsettled feel of their Power, the others realized it too.

Hoyon scowled. “Why, Oran?”

Oran gestured a perfunctory apology. “You need more than I can give you.”

That was it? Oran wanted her to restore Hoyon's strength with her own. Aryl's hand wanted to find the hilt of her longknife. Not helpful. She rested her fingers on her belt. “Strength for what?”

“The Cloisters must accept him—” Oran flinched and fell silent, but her eyes were hot.

Aryl had felt it, too. A
crack
of Power, stinging even to those not its target. Oran wasn't the leader of this pair, as she'd believed. Hoyon d'sud Gethen was.

Leader of nothing else.
Don't think to challenge me,
she sent to the Grona Adept. She'd kept it private, but his defiant glare at her didn't fool anyone.
Fear
spilled past his shields, thick and cloying. The others exchanged troubled looks.

Aryl felt unclean.

“Explain yourselves,” she pressed. “Now.”

“He's tried and failed.” Bern was clearly pleased to have Hoyon put in his place. “A gift of strength won't help. The Cloisters doesn't want him.”

Would none of them make sense? “The Cloisters is a building.”

“It's much more.” Oran gestured at the room. “This is the Dream Chamber. Here, we can learn whatever we need. Once the Cloisters accepts Hoyon as its Keeper.”

“You talk of what's forbidden to non-Adepts!” Hoyon subsided at Aryl's lifted brow, though he looked as if he'd bitten into a rotten fruit.

“ ‘Keeper?' ” she repeated. “What's that?”

“Not what. Who.” As if goaded by Hoyon's warning, Oran spoke quickly. “The Keeper is the one Adept given the ability to open the dream records for the rest. But Sona's hasn't listened to Hoyon.”

Adept babble. Aryl decided to leave the question of how a building could listen alone, though she did approve this one's taste. “Will it listen to you?”

A reasonable question. Hoyon jerked as if she'd hit him.

From the joyous lift of Oran's hair, this wasn't the first time she'd considered stepping into Hoyon's place. However, she schooled her face and bowed very properly toward the other Adept. “I would not presume. Hoyon d'sud Gethen is my senior. My teacher.”

A poor time for Oran di Caraat to exhibit humility, false or real. Aryl was conscious of their audience: the pair of Tuana, Kran and Bern, Gijs. Nothing that happened with such wit nesses would be secret for long.

Which worked both ways.

She smiled. “I'll ask Naryn, then. She's had Adept training—”

“No!” from Hoyon.

“She can't,” from Oran, whose lips twisted. “Even if she were a full Adept, there's what grows inside her. The Cloisters won't accept a pregnant candidate.” She rose to her feet, shaking off Bern's solicitous hand. “I will make the attempt, with Hoyon's permission.”

“But you're pregnant,” Aryl protested.

“I'm hardly so careless.”

“You were seen opening the lock—”

Before Oran could reply, Menasel spoke up. “We all can,” the Tuana Chosen boasted. “They added our names to the records—”

“Only yours?” Aryl cut in.

In the ensuing silence, she looked at each of them in turn. Gijs lowered his eyes. “Only yours,” she repeated, sure now. Poor Juo.

Games and secrets. They destroyed bridges. They left Om'ray stranded and alone. They risked everything. Sona had forty-six Om'ray. Barely enough to plant and tend a crop. There would soon be babies needing care. The eldest among them could fail in the coming winter.

The river had yet to flood.

The blood pounding in her ears was louder than their breathing. A presence filled her mind—Enris, alerted, not yet alarmed. Aryl sent a pulse of
reassurance
she most assuredly didn't feel, then tightened her shields.

She looked at the Grona Adepts. “Every name. By truenight.”

Oran's hair flailed, but she didn't argue.

“Everyone to see this place and understand what you would do here.”

Hoyon opened his mouth, then closed it.

“And if you succeed—anyone who wishes dreams with you.”

That was too much. “Only Adepts dream to order!” Hoyon shouted.

“Then,” Aryl told him calmly, “when you correct the records, make everyone an Adept.”

She concentrated and
pushed
herself through the M'hir before they could react.