Rift in the Sky

Despite the babies’ appetites, Aryl had none of her own. Not for the thick stew Rorn had prepared for them, nor for what had to be done.

Despite open windows and door, the air was rank with sweat. They were all weary but, from most, satisfaction. They could see the results of their labor in new growth. Only this afternoon, Ziba had declared a nondescript green thread to be her beloved rokly, a favorite dried and preserved. None of them had tasted it fresh.

The births dispelled the pall of grief, or at least pushed it aside. They’d mourn Myris and Ael tomorrow, with the ringing of the Cloisters’ bell. Then, the new babies would be given names from those in the Cloisters’ list—Sona names. Seru would preside. For now, she sat with Husni and Morla, accepting congratulations, and looking every bit as proud as any parent. Ezgi stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.

They should be proud, Aryl told herself. Children were Sona’s future.

Children who would never meet Myris or Ael, only hear about them. A cautionary story told by their elders: The M’hir is dangerous. It killed Ael d’sud Sarc and his Chosen. Because he did this—we think. Whatever he did, don’t you do it.

She snorted to herself. As if stories ever prevented a fall. She’d share her own memories, good ones, when the children were older. As for what killed Ael? They might never know. Or it could happen during the very next attempt to ’port . . .

Beside her, Enris lowered his bowl. Trouble.

Bern d’sud Caraat was easing his way through the others, pale eyes on her, stopping to exchange courtesies with his grandparents, Cetto and Husni, continuing on.

Until he stood in front of Aryl and gave the slightest Grona bow. “Heart-kin.”

Affront surged from Enris. Bern flinched and those near enough to feel it glanced around uneasily. But the Tuana smiled and got to his feet, brandishing his bowl. “Need more stew. Take my seat, if you like.”

The courtesy—and desertion—was because he believed Oran and her Chosen would soon be gone. Exasperated, Aryl did her best not to frown as Bern sat beside her and kept her shields tightly in place. “You shouldn’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. “What do you want?”

“Your help.”

A light touch on her hip made her drop her gaze to the bench. His hand was there, between where no one else could see. It turned palm up. An invitation.

There’d been a time she’d have accepted without thought. A time when their private sendings held mystery and thrill, when they’d spent hours in each other’s minds. He’d waited for her, she knew. Hoped their bond would make her ready for him.

They’d both Chosen otherwise.

Aryl looked at Bern, about to refuse, but he spoke first, a whisper. “Send us away.”

“Why?”

“Oran can’t stay here. Find a reason. Now!”

All of which would make more sense, Aryl thought with some disgust, if the Om’ray in question wasn’t sitting beside her brother, eating with a healthy appetite, and, if not smiling, then certainly looking as if she would, given the chance.

She’d regret this.

Aryl touched her fingertips to his palm.

She’d guarded herself against an intrusion of emotion, any attempt at old intimacies. For Bern’s sake as much as her own. Enris might be across the room by the cook pot—in no way was he inattentive or beyond reach.

But Bern’s mind was as finely controlled as she’d ever felt it. Only words came through their contact. Let me show you.

A memory. He wanted to give her a memory. Of what?

What it does.

It?

As if her curiosity was permission, Aryl began to see what Bern had seen, earlier this day. She didn’t resist.

Though his emotions were muted, safe, she shared his grief over Myris and Ael, felt his urgent need to be with his own Chosen. She saw the Dream Chamber, was in it with him. He’d ’ported directly there—something, Aryl recalled, Oran and Hoyon had been adamant no one should do while the Adept dreamed. That it could be dangerous.

That Bern ignored the warning didn’t surprise her.

What he’d seen, what she now saw, did.

... Oran, alone in the chamber. Everything as it had been: the platforms with brown pads, the light behind each, the closed doors.

Except for the platform on which Oran lay. It rose high above the rest on a stalk, halfway to the ceiling. From the ceiling hung long threads of metal, close and densely packed, reaching to almost touch her. Almost. The threads echoed her form, moving like a Chosen’s hair in waves that reflected light.