Rift in the Sky

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.

It wasn’t possible, Enris decided firmly. None of them had planned this; none of them should have accepted such a drastic change without question.

Not that everyone had. The new Adepts might feel Sona as their home as much as any other arrival, but they were curious. They’d gone to the Council Chamber almost at once, to “discuss” the new Sona and discover what had brought them together and how. A discussion that had been going on for tenths.

With Aryl di Sarc.

“. . . scan me if you don’t believe what I say. We had nothing to do with this.”

“You had everything to do with it. Maybe it wasn’t your intention,” as if a huge concession, “but who here doubts we’d be still in our original Clans if not for your reckless behavior?”

Enris tried not to listen. Chairs. Anything to sit on. That was his job. As if the precious Adepts needed anything more than their rears.

Not his problem.

Aryl depended on him in other ways right now, including keeping his frustration to himself.

“Fools,” he grumbled once safely past the Council Chamber doors. “If they’d listen instead of making accusations, they might learn something.”

Of course, most of the Adepts were no longer doing that much. They’d sorted themselves, how he couldn’t guess, until the majority sat in their Clans as far from those with Aryl as they could. Which made no sense.

Except for one who’d nipped through the doors after Enris and Naryn, Rayna, by his appearance. While some wore the stiff white robes of their rank, others were dressed in soft layers of bright fabric, with twists of more tied to the bottoms of sleeves and hems to flutter when they walked. Aryl thought it ridiculous to wear something that would not only catch on every twig, but draw attention. A shame, Enris decided. She’d look lovely.

The Rayna themselves were small and slightly built, with skin darker than a Yena’s, striking against their fair hair and pale blue or yellow eyes. Their female Chosen left their hair free, but had somehow convinced it to hold colorful fabric twists in loose knots.

Somehow, he couldn’t wrap his mind around Aryl’s hair being that cooperative.

As for the Rayna Adept himself? Enris scowled. “Why aren’t you staying?”