Rift in the Sky

Aryl was reasonably sure none of them knew what that meant. She didn’t. This would be a leap into the M’hir with no way to know its end. They had no other choice. She wasn’t the only one with the taste of change souring her inner sense. Either they took this chance, or stayed to witness the devastation sure to come.

Haxel had sent scouts. They’d ’ported to Yena. To Rayna. Everywhere but Vyna. They came back quickly, gasped worrying reports. Tikitik weren’t to be seen. Oud continued to trespass: throwing up their mounds, flying low over villages in their noisy air machines. While Om’ray—Om’ray waited, helpless, while their world prepared to change its shape again.

The M’hiray made what preparations they could. Most wore coats and boots. Knives and hooks hung from the belts of those who knew their use. Mostly. Aryl noticed a pair of Amna unChosen admiring the Yena longknives they carried. “Those will remove fingers,” she said as she passed by, “before you feel the cut.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Enris complained.

“Because you’re ‘extraordinary,’ ” she reminded him and smiled at his smug.

Extraordinary was the sight awaiting them. The dais had been transformed. The chairs were gone, replaced by a smooth pillar of green taller than those beside it. Sian and Taisal. Oran and Naryn. The other Councillors were on the floor like the rest, complete with their burdens.

A tidy stack of familiar white crates were to one side. Worin and Fon stood self-consciously in their midst, hands on the nearest. Aryl slowed, scowled. “Why are the artifacts here?”

“They’re too dangerous to leave behind. I did suggest sending them to the Vyna.” Enris shrugged. “But no one listened.”

Better still, Aryl thought, drop them in the M’hir. Not something she’d say aloud. She’d felt a stir of resentment when the others heard Naryn had pushed the Human’s husk into the M’hir. As if the M’hir, no matter how dark or perilous, belonged to the M’hiray.

A foolish attitude, in her opinion. As well claim the sky and air. But with minds and tempers barely holding to calm, she’d no wish to stir an argument.

Enris gave her a quick kiss. “See you over the mountain. I’m to help Worin and Fon.”

“But—” Taisal beckoned, so Aryl gathered her dignity. She didn’t need to hold her Chosen’s hand to feel his presence. Though, she thought wistfully, it would be nice. “See you soon,” she finished. Be careful.

You, too.

Aryl stepped up on the dais. “The Maker,” her mother said, gesturing to the featureless pillar.

It didn’t look like much.

Though this close, Aryl saw it wasn’t green—or was more than green. Colors played in its depths, subtle dark strokes that flickered and moved, brighter spots that pulsed like beating hearts.

Not hearts. She stepped back, startled. “It’s a machine.”

Sian gestured agreement. He seemed, Aryl thought numbly, to take all this as normal. “To use the Maker on one mind,” he explained, sending the words through the M’hir to everyone, “it’s left in its room. But as you can see,” he pointed to the base, “it is also meant to be used here.”

The base fit neatly into a depression in the dais, one that hadn’t been there before. Or had it? She’d thought the differently textured shapes on the dais floor to be decoration. If each sank down to receive . . . something . . . what else could “fit” here?

And why?

Questions again. Meaningless ones. If there were no Om’ray where they were going, there’d be no Cloisters or “Makers.” Aryl found she liked that thought.

“Is it time?” Taisal asked.

A flow of assent. They were willing.

Emotions flowed. Aryl felt suspended in courage and determination . The M’hiray sought a future. They sought to preserve those they would leave behind.

However they’d come to this, she’d never been so proud of her Clan.

Hear me. Anaj. We don’t know the full consequence of using the Maker.

Understandable, Aryl thought wryly, if Adepts had only used it before killing those of damaged mind.

The Oldest Adept of all continued. Our connection as Om’ray does more than define the shape of the world and where we are within it. It holds our names, for those who can read them. It holds our past, for only those minds we’ve touched do we remember as real. Once the Maker breaks that connection, we don’t know what will be left.

“The M’hir. It will stay,” Oran said firmly. “The M’hir will keep our Clan together and take us where we must be.”

Admirable confidence. Aryl wished she shared it. Though to Oran’s credit, she was Sona’s Keeper. She could be trying to encourage all those looking up at them.

Or herself.