This Gulf of Time and Stars (27 page)

T
HERE
WERE TASKS TO DO
, proper for an Om'ray and important. I was the Keeper, responsible for . . .

. . .
itch
. Why did I hold the Speaker's pendant in my hand? I was the Keeper, my role to stay in the Cloisters and guide the dreams of . . .

. . .
itch.
My Clan—Sona—who stood around me, well rested, their eager faces filled with smiles. Why was I confused? I'd guided their dreaming and mine. We were ready to start our new lives.

. . .
itch.
Here? Not here, of course. I shook my head at the thought. Only myself, Sona's Adepts, and those needing their care—the aged or Lost—would spend our lives within the Cloisters.

. . . Cloisters? Another
itch.
It was becoming maddening, this
prickle
of discomfort as I thought of what was right and proper, such as proper homes for the rest of my people. We, the Sona, would build them, with help from our new neighbors. We'd brought everything necessary.

None of which were here, I realized with sudden alarm, seeing only a few scattered bags. “Where are the materials we brought with us?”

The stranger Om'ray who'd greeted me eyed the pendant in
my hands, then replied diffidently. “Speaker, we do not understand. What materials?”

I had no idea.
Itch.
I wasn't the Speaker.
Who is our Speaker?
I sent urgently, to my people.

Confusion.

You hold the pendant,
said one.
You must be.
Dozens more added their
agreement
. From others,
Weren't you?
as if they struggled to remember . . .

. . .
itch.
Had I been? Having no better answer, I accepted their will and put the chain over my head, settling the pendant between my breasts where it could stay until Council chose . . .

. . .
itch.
We had no Council. How could we have no Council?

“Speaker?” the stranger Om'ray prompted.

“What we need for our homes,” I said, fighting a growing uncertainty. “We brought—there should be materials.”

“I assure you, nothing's been removed—”

“Stop this nonsense, Destin.” Another stranger Om'ray spoke to the first, pointedly ignoring me, his voice low and angry. “I tell you these are Vyna. Thieves—”

“With children? Impossible!” countered this Destin, as quietly but without the anger. To me, “Forgive my impertinence, Speaker, but who are you?”

I drew myself up. “Someone with the right to be here which you do not have. Let us leave—” for a couple had taken up posts at the doors, refusing to let any of us out, “—and begin our homes!”

Something I'd said startled them speechless. The angry one recovered first. “It's truenight. Whatever you intend must wait for dawn.” As if I was a fool.

“Then we will wait,” I replied evenly.

“Should we remove the
not-real
?” asked a third.

The term meant nothing to me, but I knew who they meant. I
felt
what wasn't my name, but me, an identification more complete than any word could be.
Itch.

Trying for my attention. Again.

My eyes went to the dais and the “not-real.” They'd stripped him of coat and shirt. Discovering the clever knives strapped to
his arms, they'd searched the rest of him thoroughly, taking both footwear and belt, then tied his arms and pushed him to sit by the now-quiescent Maker. This, instead of killing him, because we were Joined.

Despite it being impossible. I was Om'ray. He was not.

“Leave him here.”
Itch.

The link, however implausible, was there. I could touch it; I would not. The link made us a pairing. Another proved us fertile. Sona's Birth Watcher had fussed over me upon waking, assuring me the baby was in fine health.

Despite being impossible, too.

Itch.

I tore my eyes from him. “While we wait, please bring us food and drink. My people have traveled a great distance.”

The strangers exchanged troubled glances. “Surely you brought your own, Speaker,” the first ventured. “Better than we could offer.”

Itch.

“There wasn't time,” I replied. My people shifted closer, smiles fading.

“Something for the children, at least,” insisted Nik sud Prendolat.

“Why? You are all fat. You won't need to eat for days.”

It was true, the strangers were the thinnest Om'ray I'd ever seen; if muscle hadn't corded their limbs, I'd have thought them struck by some wasting illness and near death. “I am Speaker for Sona.” Though the reminder should have been unnecessary.
And more POWERFUL.

Perhaps that, they'd needed. The two male Chosen left without a word, including the one who'd thought we could wait.

It left a foul taste regardless. My eyes wandered back to the dais.

He wasn't fat either. Healthy muscle crisscrossed his chest, defined strong shoulders and arms. Healing bruises covered his ribs with yellow. His otherwise pale skin was tanned at the wrist, face, and neck.

As was mine.
Itch.

His eyes, an unusual blue, locked on mine. His face bore the
same expression I'd seen on his face since they'd sat him there: calm concentration. He was powerful; I could feel him against my shields.

Where he belonged, I told myself, looking away. I considered the stranger Om'ray, unsure where they fit in all this. “Why have you come here?”

“When we sensed your presence, we came to—” the one named Destin hesitated briefly, “—meet you.” A gesture of apology. “Forgive our surprise. We weren't expecting—”

“Visitors,” another supplied, when she hesitated again.

Whatever was wrong here, at least they hadn't interrupted our dreaming. “We are not visitors,” I corrected as graciously as possible. “We are Sona!”

My people stood straighter, smiling. “Sona!” they repeated cheerfully.

The strangers looked aghast. “But—we—”

Their fingers brushed, doubtless a sending. I hoped it encouraged better behavior.

It seemed so when the one called Destin bowed and said, “A matter for our Speaker and Council, who will wish to greet you as soon as possible. I am Destin di Anel, First Scout.”

Itch.

These Clanless Om'ray claimed a Speaker and Council? A First Scout? A ploy of some kind, and only now a name, when they'd refused that common courtesy before. I wasn't inclined to share mine. I sent a quick summons. “This is Barac di Bowart, Sona's First Scout,” I introduced blandly when he joined us, not needing touch to send my message.
They have secrets. I want them.

My able cousin gestured a polite greeting. “I look forward to sharing any information you have on our new home, Destin,” with his charming smile. “And to having your guidance outside, come daylight.”

“You can't go out.” Flat and rude, from the as-yet unnamed male. As I stared at him, he flushed, then muttered, “Gurutz di Ulse, Speaker.”

“The
not-real
could leave,” Destin qualified, gesturing apology. “The Tikitik won't count him.”

“They count everything—”

“Which matters not to Sona,” I interrupted, wondering what they were talking about. “The Oud are to be our neighbors, not the Tikitik.” A Clan didn't establish without knowledge of its neighbor. Who were these Om'ray, to be so ignorant?

Itch.

If I turned my head, I'd meet the regard of those impossible eyes.

I did not.

T
HEY'D
SPRUNG A TRAP
—or he had, picking up the necklace, giving it to Sira. Something in the simple action had triggered the machine, in turn changing the M'hiray. How could wait. What mattered was getting free again.

Morgan had an idea about that; fortunately, it did not rely on recovering the coat and other belongings they'd piled on the far side of the green pillar.

Sira's eyes found him, each time with a puzzling in their depths. He'd seen that look before, when he'd reinstated the blocks in her mind. Then, they'd worked together to restore her full memory and self.

This time, she had the ability to keep him out and used it. Painfully so.

That didn't mean he was alone.
Aryl.

Grumpily.
What makes you think you can fix what's been done to them? For all we know, this change is permanent and they'll never remember us.

Because he wouldn't accept that. Couldn't.

Morgan flexed his wrists, keeping blood flowing to his hands. The bindings the Om'ray employed were disturbingly like those used to truss prey. The old Clanswoman was just as trapped, not only in flesh but equally unable to communicate with anyone else.

Aryl di Sarc neither wanted nor deserved pity. Like him, she wanted freedom.

The M'hiray arrived on Stonerim III without memory of this world and its language,
he sent
. Without memory of why you had to leave.
From this very chamber, with its abundant evidence of sophisticated technology, alien and potent, from the pillar machine to the lighting.

If not the dress of those native here.

A question for another time.
Marcus Bowman knew why the M'hiray left. He sent a recording—his legacy—to Stonerim III with you. Do you remember?
He held his breath.

Silence. Then, with great weight,
I remember giving it to his daughter Kari. I remember how the Bowmans had suffered for our secrets. I made it the Speaker's role to watch over them. We owed Marcus that and more. What do you mean, he knew why we left? How do you know any of this?

The Bowmans have been watching over you. Here.
Morgan brought forward his memories of Lydis Bowman, of their meeting.

Then, he allowed Aryl di Sarc to see, once more, the friend who had died saving her.

Naryn feared death. Feared entering the M`hir alone. I don`t know where or how she learned the method to put herself into a crystal instead, only that Sira`s birth was part of her plan. Naryn wanted to produce a Vessel of immense Power in which to be reborn. She didn`t care about the consequences, not by the end. Enris and I—we talked about my foreboding, about Naryn`s ambition, about where she was taking the M'hiray.
Wry affection.
Always ready to charge ahead without looking, my beloved. It was his plan to stop Naryn before she could instill herself in that rock. Neither of us guessed this would be the only way. That I'd take her place. That we`d lose each other, forever.

At some unremarked moment, she`d become as real to him as anyone else in the chamber. Closing his eyes, Morgan could believe this special Clanswoman stood before him, unbowed despite her age, as strong and beautiful as his Sira. As determined and brave.
I`m sorry this happened,
he told her, going on honestly,
but I`m glad you`re here.

The M'hiray were my mistake. I haven`t fixed that, not yet.
A glimmer of
warmth
directed at him.
I`m glad of your company as well, Jason Morgan, if not what you've told me.
A pause, then.
You believe my memory was altered, my life here stolen, by this machine.

I do. And now it's done the same to Sira and the M'hiray,
Morgan assured her
. It can't be coincidence. I've been able to free memories before, Aryl. Let me try. If this doesn't work, at least we`ll have that answer, a start.

The
warmth
grew, soothed.
You won't give up.

He shared the merest hint of his
determination.

Well enough. Let us do this now, before they move us apart.

Having only done this when in physical contact, Morgan knew they could be too far apart already; a detail not worth mentioning. Confidence, he reminded himself. How many times had Sira encouraged him, saying “Limits should be given a nudge.”

Along with a terrifying wealth of cautionary tales about that nudging, mind you, but he was in no mood for those.

So when Aryl lowered her shields, Morgan immediately
sent
himself along the connection between them.

A shock, as if he'd plunged into ice water, yet all around was clarity, clarity and space.

She welcomed him into the core of her thoughts, keeping nothing back. Beyond the order and calm intelligence he glimpsed a curtain red as blood, rippling with menace.
Do not go there,
Aryl warned gently.

Her Chosen, Enris—his loss—lay behind it, Morgan guessed, and obeyed. He began his search elsewhere . . .

Swimming back through a lifetime of memories, acquired before he'd been born. Tantalizing glimpses at what had been, of history lived . . . but he dare not pause.

There.

Do you see it?
he asked, for she'd come with him, standing by his shoulder.

The mind interpreted what was unseeable. To Morgan, what he'd found appeared to be a round container, the span of his arms in circumference. Its fine weaving was coated with a clear gloss, as if intended to keep water out.

Or memories in.

Tidy,
Aryl commented, a new
edge
to her calm.
How do we get inside?

Sira's blockage had appeared a smothering, as though portions of her mind were wrapped in thick blankets. In a sense, he'd pulled those aside.

Morgan studied the container, finding nothing to show how to open or break it.

So be it. For the first time, he risked imposing his
will
on what he saw. A lid,
here.
A handle to grab it,
here.

Draining, that effort. Finally the image obeyed, showing what he wanted, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't
touch
the handle or
lift
the lid.

My turn,
Aryl said.

And did.

Morgan left her alone, respecting the Clanswoman's right to her own past. He pulled back into himself, the arduousness of that return a warning. Limits? He'd shattered them.

The Human shivered as the sweat coating his skin began to dry, stealing what heat he'd left. A shame they'd distrusted his clothing, though in their place he'd have done the same.

He looked for Sira, found her by one of the windows, standing with a pair of the Om'ray. She was easy to spot. Faded blue spacer coveralls. Hair like a red-gold waterfall to her waist.

Rare grace.

Unconscious dignity, be it the lift of her head, her posture, or in the careful regard of eyes that had beheld far more than the age she appeared would suggest.

Yet forgot him.

He refused to believe it was permanent, that anything could separate them after all they'd been through together, were together.

Aryl?

No reply. Had he found a cache of stolen memories, or
exposed Aryl di Sarc to what she herself had hidden, for her own protection? Every time he entered another's mind to heal it, he feared causing more harm than good.

No choice, Morgan told himself. He'd know if he'd made a difference soon. If what he'd done for Aryl di Sarc would work for his Chosen.

Or if he was now truly alone.