Chapter 9
ARYL SHOOK HER HEAD, a gesture without meaning to her present companions. She shouldn’t be here. Marcus needed her—she was sure of it. Whatever he’d find at Site Three, it wouldn’t be help. She could call him. The geoscanner sat in its pocket at her waist, turned off as he’d ordered. If the Strangers could talk across the unimaginable void between worlds, surely this could reach the mountains beyond this one.
It might as well, she thought glumly, be at the bottom of the Makers’ Touch in Tikitna. The existence of a Human, of others capable of attacking him, of other worlds and races and languages was easier to believe than this, that she sat cross-legged on the floor of Sona’s shabby Cloisters with her mother and Sian d’sud Vendan, while Yena’s Adepts seemed completely at home and argued M’hir terminology with Oran.
As for their audience?
If there were any Adepts left with their Clans, it was hard to tell from the hordes in white in Sona. Twenty-seven surrounded her, argued with one another as much as with her. The twenty-seven possessed shields so strong they almost disappeared from her inner sense, except for the Power they pressed against each other when making a point, like nirts baring teeth when they met on a frond until the smaller closed its mouth and sidled away. The rest pretended disinterest, sitting in small groups. They waited for commands, she guessed. Games of Power. This was how Adepts ruled themselves.
How they’d always ruled their Clans.
She should have seen it before, but she’d believed what she’d been told. About too much.
Three Speakers in this circle: her mother, for Yena, and those for Amna and Rayna. As she’d feared, each wore their pendants. If the Tikitik could detect those, they’d know what had happened.
Of course, she told herself grimly, all they’d have to do was count. The shift in their numbers had been anything but subtle.
Every Om’ray—except Yao and the babies—would have felt the extraordinary change in the shape of the world. The other Clans had diminished to Sona’s gain. Gain? Their names alone . . . it was like listening to Marcus babbling in his own tongue. Bowart, Nemat, Paniccia, Eathem, Prendolat, Friesnen. On and on they went. Sona’s handful were overwhelmed.
These new Om’ray didn’t need her. Didn’t care for her opinion, once gathered in numbers. They took on their accustomed role as Adepts, mighty hoarders of secrets. Did it reassure them to be equally ignorant?
She grimaced inwardly. Oran might enjoy this pointless babble, but surely even she knew they wasted time debating if ’port was a useful word. The Adepts left the larger questions to fester in the space between minds: what had happened? Why were they here? What might be the consequences? What should they do next?
As far as the newcomers were concerned, next would be the establishment of a proper Council for Sona. Her Sona. Theirs, for all they asked her advice. A Council, and plans to expand the village to receive their numbers. As if they were welcome to stay and the world would let them.
Aryl drummed her fingers silently on the floor. Why did they want to stay? These were no unChosen on Passage; these were individuals who—a few tenths ago—had been part of larger families, who’d had roles within their Clans. Most had never left those homes before. Why did they feel that home was here, in Sona’s stripped Cloisters and a mountain valley yet to feed its few Om’ray?
Each time she broached those questions, the others looked at her as if she’d grown a Tikitik’s extra eyes.
They were the ones grown bizarre. Something about them had changed, whether the Adepts admitted the possibility or not.
Convenient, she thought, that the present discussion ignored her completely.
Aryl loosened her shields and dared reach for her own answers.
Names became familiar.
Deeper. She found and followed the bonds between Chosen, between mothers and children. They were intact. It would have been more of a surprise if those had stretched to allow one to ’port here without the other. Deeper . . .
... the M’hir encircled them all, like the swarm waiting for truenight, impatient, eager, hungry . . .
No. There was no threat.
... they were trapped . . .
No. They weren’t confined.
... the M’hir was held as it was . . . strings of glows against the swarm . . . a net to hold a Chosen’s hair . . . the sun against truenight . . .
Aryl fought to comprehend . . . Power? No. And yes. Nothing aware, nothing of effort. But every mind she touched was . . . connected!!
She pushed free of the M’hir and stared at those around her, seeing them for the first time. No wonder they felt at home, that they weren’t strangers.
Quickly, she reached again.
The bonds connected her to them and back. Enris, Naryn, Anaj, Seru, Haxel, Worin . . . every glow she knew had become tied together.
Aryl paused in the M’hir, its tumult nothing more than noise in the distance. She’d seen such a weaving before . . .
Her mother.
Part of Taisal had been left in the M’hir when her Chosen died; she’d bled Power ever since to keep from being drawn into it. Power that wove connections with other minds, connections she could hold, like the hand lines of Harvesters that ran between the great rastis of a grove.
Thinking of Taisal brought them close in the darkness. Aryl looked. Surely these stronger connections would help—
—instead, Power poured from Taisal as if from a death wound. She’d been wrong. The new connections weren’t holding her mother from the M’hir—they helped ensnared her, pulled her deeper!
Her Mother used Power to resist, but for how long . . .
Aryl jerked back to herself with dismay. “Mother!”
Taisal turned to look at her, her frown at the interruption fading. “What’s wrong?” She looked slightly weary, nothing more.
It wasn’t fair, Aryl cried to herself. Others of Sona were comforted by their visitors, families reunited when such a thing had been beyond anyone’s imagining. There’d been tears of joy. And of disappointment. There were children, babies in arms—only natural that Seru would hope for her little brother. But no other Parths had left Yena, and Seru had buried her face against her Chosen.
No other was put at risk like her mother.
“Aryl?” a softer question, concern in those eyes, so like her own.
“It’s—I don’t know.” They sat together. They hadn’t had a moment to speak in private; private sendings except between Chosen wouldn’t be tolerated by this group.
How long could Taisal hold?
Not the question that mattered most. Not a problem Taisal would accept as more important than their Clan. She couldn’t worry, couldn’t interfere. Their bond was real, their love, but her mother, Aryl thought with a pride like sorrow, had taught her well. “It’s about the links between us, between Om’ray,” she said instead. “Can you sense them?”
“No.”
Who can sense the links between Om’ray? Aryl sent loudly.
The rude interruption drew frowns and a few puzzled looks.
“I can,” Sian replied.
“Me,” offered Dann d’sud Friesnen of Pana. Murmured agreement from several more.
“Look at ours.”
Silence. She sensed Power reaching. Aryl waited, aware of her mother’s wary curiosity. These were the best of their kind.
Would they see it? Could they?
It wasn’t only the world that had changed.
“We’re linked to one another,” Sian declared. Even in Yena, he’d stood out: more slender, darker, with thick lines of silver through his black hair. His eyebrows drew together; there was worry in the look he gave Taisal. He knew, Aryl thought. “Somehow, our minds remain connected within the Dark.”