Rift in the Sky

An echo, because Oran wasn’t still. Straps of the same metal held her at shoulder and ankle as she struggled violently. Her eyes closed tight, her mouth open in a soundless scream, and, all the while, the threads followed her movements, lowering as she sagged, rising up as she strained.

Perspective changed. Bern climbing the stalk to reach his Chosen. The threads curling away as if he was fire, disappearing into the ceiling with no mark or opening to show where they’d been. Before he could touch her, the straps slipping away, too, vanishing within the platform, the platform itself plunging down to rest beside the others so quickly only a Yena would have landed safely at its side.

All as it had been.

Oran’s eyes, opening. Her face, at first slack, then forming an impatient frown. “You! No wonder I can’t dream. You can’t be here. Go.” A hand up when he started to protest, to demand an explanation. “Go!—”

Frustration. Fear . . .

The memory ended there.

I tried to show her—she can’t see the memory. Tried to tell her—she doesn’t believe me. She remembers lying down and falling asleep, nothing more. Something’s wrong in there, Aryl.

Skin crawling, she couldn’t disagree. What did you sense from her while she lay there?

The M’hir was too close. Too . . . he hesitated . . . interested. Oran was a presence, nothing more. Helpless. This wasn’t her doing.

Aryl lifted her fingers from his palm, blew out a long slow breath. “Did she tell you what she wanted to dream?” Quietly, though their nearest neighbors gave them what distance they could. Which would last until Ziba or Yao started their post-supper chase along the benches.

Bern put his hands together on his lap. Made them fists. “About birthing.”

Not what she’d expected. “Why?”

A grudging nod to where Seru sat in a place of honor.

“Adept and Keeper and Birth Watcher.” Aryl lifted an eyebrow. “I suppose next she’ll want to be Speaker. All at the same time, of course.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You have to admire her ambition.”

No, she didn’t. In any way. But Aryl could understand it. The Grona Adept didn’t trust anyone else to be competent; perhaps she couldn’t. It made her dangerous, if only to herself.

Whatever was happening in the Dream Chamber, whatever was sending dreams to Yena’s Adepts or other Clans? It didn’t appear to be Oran’s doing. Not consciously.

What that said about the Cloisters left her cold.

“Leave this with me, Bern,” Aryl decided, rising to her feet.

“You’ll send us away?”

Aryl glanced at Oran, who was staring at them. With a frown. “It’s been a difficult day for all of us,” she said gently, looking down at Bern. “Let’s leave it for the morning.” Keep her away from the Cloisters, she sent, only to him.

He pressed his lips together and gestured gratitude.

Thank you, she added. For trusting me with this.

The startled warmth in his eyes was almost familiar.

Now to convince Haxel to wait.

Cold stew. After Bern left, Aryl poked the lumps around and around with her spoon; they left trails through the thickening liquid. She should eat. On their journey here, she’d urged Myris to take bites of the dry tasteless Grona bread. When Myris lay injured, she’d been proud of her ability to coax mouthfuls of soup between her lips. Why couldn’t she do the same for herself?

Sorrow takes the shape we give it.