Didn’t it?
Uneasy, she turned the bracelet around and around on her wrist.
The proof passed beneath. She could see for herself. The world continued . . .
Didn’t it?
Aryl . . . something’s wrong.
I feel it.
Like a branch with hidden rot, the floor of the aircar suddenly grew soft, untrustworthy. She lifted her feet with a cry.
The air she breathed turned too warm, then too cold.
The Human takes us past the end of the world! Naryn, fear leaking past her control. “Turn around!” she shouted. “Take us home!”
Marcus didn’t look around. “Almost there.”
Aryl had walked away from her kind before this—so had Enris. They’d been able to leave other Om’ray behind, prided themselves on their strength.
They hadn’t gone far enough. Hadn’t gone this far . . .
Too far . . .
“Marcus,” she gasped. “Naryn’s right. You have to take us back.”
“Site Three here.”
Mountains rose beneath them, the sky squeezed downward, there was no room to breathe, no room for them.
Somehow, she managed not to grab for the controls or the Human’s neck. “We—can’t—be here!” Hard to form words. To think. “Turn around!”
He turned then, something rousing in his eyes, a spark. “Aryl? What’s wrong?” Even as the Human spoke, she knew it was already too late . . . another instant . . . any further . . . they would become . . . nothing.
NOOOO!!!!!!!!! the inner scream came from them all. No. It came from outside. It came from everywhere.
She knew that sound.
The M’hir Wind was coming. It blew through the great pipes of the Watchers, set into the mountain. Time for the Harvest. Time for change. She could hear their moaning, feel it through her flesh . . .
Calling her HOME.
Aryl threw herself into the M’hir . . .
Interlude
A LIVE. THAT WAS GOOD. Surrounded by the warm glow of Om’ray. That was better. A head thudded against his chest, small arms wrapped around him, strong enough to threaten his ribs. Aryl. All was right with the world, then. But . . . how?
The Watchers. He’d heard the drums, felt them. Hadn’t he? Had to answer. Hadn’t he?
Enris took a shuddering breath. He didn’t know about the others, but he most definitely hadn’t formed a locate before that desperate ’port HOME.
Which was . . . where?
He cracked open his eyes, careful not to move. There could be branches involved. And heights, knowing his Chosen.
He sighed with relief. A floor. They were on a floor. In a room.
More than a room.
Enris blinked, and the size and platforms formed into sense. Aryl had shown him images of Sona’s Dream Chamber. She must have directed them here, to the safety of the Cloisters.
Where—another blink—they were surrounded by Om’ray.
Too many Om’ray.
Drowning in the glow of his own kind, dizzy with belonging, he closed his eyes and fought for calm.
The world had changed shape.
Someone stirred against him. He stretched back a hand, found a knee that pulled itself away. We’re all right. Naryn, shaken, but aware. And amazed. Do you feel it? The Power here?
Anaj: Speak for yourself, child. I’m not the least all right. What’s going on?
WE LEFT HIM!
Aryl. Hush! Enris winced. We have company—
WE ABANDONED MARCUS!
He took Aryl’s shoulders; moved her so he could see her face. Oh, he knew that fierce look. It usually preceded an act of spectacularly careless bravery. He tightened his grip. “We can’t help him. Not now. He’s—” Where did someone go, when they left the world behind? He hadn’t understood. None of them had. Human and Om’ray were not the same. The Human’s world wasn’t theirs.
Couldn’t be.
Enris took a deep breath, steadied himself, offered strength to his Chosen. “He’s gone. And we have company.” Then, as if she was as deaf to other Om’ray as Yao. “Look for yourself,” drawing her to her feet with him.
The chamber was meant to hold an entire Clan.
It now did.
Hundreds stood and stared at one another. No one spoke. Shields were slammed tight.
Not any Om’ray, Enris realized with a jolt. Naryn was right. Power. The white robes of Adepts were everywhere. Even those who weren’t shielded their inner selves with confidence.
The fierce look turned to a safer wonder. What’s happened? “I’m the Speaker,” Aryl muttered aloud. “I suppose I have to say something.”
Enris couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good. What, exactly?”
She dug an elbow into his ribs, but the feel of her eased slightly. “I’ll make it up.” With that, Aryl jumped on the nearest platform.
Everyone turned to look at her. Too small. Too young. Unknown to most. Aryl shouldn’t have seemed impressive.
That she was, standing there waiting for their full attention, made him smile.
“Welcome to Sona,” she began. The words—he felt as well as heard them. Aryl was sending through the M’hir as well, making sure everyone heard and understood. Preventing panic. Good. Beyond the pleasure of being within so many of his kind, Enris was reasonably sure panic would be his next feeling.
Because they shouldn’t be here at all. The Sona, maybe. Having the advantage of height, he’d spotted them already, at the near end of the room, a tight knot with Haxel at their core. Perhaps Aryl’s desperate ’port had somehow drawn them, too.
Which didn’t explain the group of dappled Amna closest to him. Or any of the rest.
Aryl spoke again. “Are there other Speakers here?”
Not what he’d expected. Why?
Later.
Points of movement among the rest, Om’ray stepping aside to let three approach Aryl.
One with a familiar fierce look on her face.
“Hello, Mother,” Aryl di Sarc said, seeming not surprised at all.
Over seven hundred Om’ray had arrived in the Dream Chamber of Sona’s Cloisters at once. They’d come from every Clan but Vyna, including three from Tuana who carefully avoided Naryn. Everyone told a similar story: they’d been about their normal affairs when overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness, a need to go HOME. They’d heard the Watchers in whatever variation existed for their Clan. Descriptions of the M’hir itself varied too; some hardly noticed their journey through it, a few were still shaking. Others thought it a calm and peaceful place.
It might have been, compared to here, Enris thought wryly. Who’d have thought there was such a thing as too many Om’ray in one place? Even Husni had appeared daunted by the bewildering array of strange voices, faces, and clothing. Briefly. Before she and Haxel had taken charge of what they called “the necessities,” enlisting the rest of Sona—more accustomed to dealing with strangers—to assign others to tasks.
There’d been no arguments, no attempts to leave, no fear. Strangest of all, he had to admit, everyone felt they belonged here, in Sona. This was their Cloisters, Om’ray whose names they’d yet to learn were their Clan, this was . . . this was home.
Which was fine and natural for Sona’s few, but he had yet to grasp why it was so for the hordes of strangers peacefully milling through their Cloisters. They didn’t speak of families left behind or of a future anywhere but here. It was as if the assortment of young, old, unChosen, and Chosen had arrived on Passage, committed to live with their new Clan, dead to their old one.