Rift in the Sky

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?