Aryl gave him her best smile and patted the bag. “These shouldn’t stay in the rain, Till. Let me go, please?”
“I suppose you’ll be the one in trouble.” With a resigned snort, he waved a hand in dismissal, again intent on whatever he watched.
The Cloisters’ bridge was a marvel in itself. Not wood, but metal slats. No rails, but true sides and a curved roof, themselves of such closely woven metal threads they really did block the rain. The bridge was attached to that normal platform of wood, girdling a great rastis. Above were other platforms, older ones and no longer of use. A new one would eventually be built to replace this one, as the rastis continued to grow and lift the platform and bridge with it.
For the Cloisters was older than the Lay Swamp, so the Adepts taught, and its remarkable bridge had once reached dry ground.
Aryl started across the bridge, listening to her footsteps’ light echo. She’d always scoffed, to herself, at the stories of its age. What ground? The waters of the Lay had always been below. The grove might change, but it was as old as the world. She’d believed the Adepts—her mother included—made up stories to keep everyone in awe.
They didn’t need to, she thought, fingertips brushing the smooth metal. Unlike other bridges, this didn’t sway with her footsteps. Unlike others, it felt cold to the touch.
How had her ancestors made this place? Aryl asked herself for the first time. Or, was the real question, why? Every Clan had a Cloisters, like enough to this one to be instantly recognizable, although she’d heard Grona’s Cloisters sat directly on the ground, either lacking a stalk or with it buried out of sight.
Why weren’t their homes like this? Why did Yena sit in fear, protected only by the glows the Tikitik gave them, if Om’ray could build this? Only Adepts and the infirm were allowed to spent truenight within the Cloisters. Even members of Council returned to their homes. So it had always been.
The bridge led to the lower of the Cloisters’ two platforms, ending in a massive pair of doors. These were metal—there had to be enough here to satisfy the needs of the entire world—worked in intricate patterns. Not the plain gray-green of the bridge, but a surface ribboned in color to rival any flitter or flower she’d seen. Not ink or paint. Something in the metal itself. Aryl stretched her hand to touch it . . .
The leftmost door turned open without a sound, and she dropped her hand hurriedly. A figure in a plain brown robe stood within the wide gap, face shadowed beneath a hood.
“Welcome to—” The greeting died away as the Adept saw her. “Who are you?”
Aryl was about to ask the same when she recognized the wrinkled face peering from the hood. Pio di Kessa’at? Had it been that long since her great-aunt last left the Cloisters? “Aryl Sarc,” she replied. “Taisal’s—”
“By Mele sud Sarc. Yes, yes. I know the lineage. It’s quite interesting. There are expectations—why are you here? You haven’t Joined.” Aryl felt a deft touch explore her shields. “You aren’t even ready. Go home.”
Expectations? Refusing to be distracted by the old Adept’s rambling, she braced herself to argue. “I was asked to bring—” she began, hand on her bag.
“No, you weren’t. There’s been no messenger.” The Adept shook a crooked finger at her. “We play no games here, child. Go home.” She began to turn the door closed in Aryl’s face. “Children always try to sneak inside,” she grumbled to herself. “Don’t hurry your life away!” This to Aryl, who found herself speechless.
Without pausing to consider, she put out a hand to stop the door. “This is no game, Pio. My mother needs me. I know she does.” She let her shields weaken, hoping her worry for Taisal, her sincerity, would accomplish what words could not.
And received a stern flash of anger back. “Impudent!”
“Desperate, Aunt.” Aryl removed her hand and gestured apology. She restored her shields but stayed where she was.
Pio’s eyes were bright spots within the shadow of her hood. “Your mother was the same at your age. A troublemaker. Bothersome as a biter. She matured into a thorn. Will you?”
Another of those questions better ignored than answered, Aryl decided. “Please. Let me in.”
Pio didn’t answer immediately; she didn’t close the door either. Aryl waited, feeling a draft of warm, moist air from the bridge behind her, making herself as small and insignificant a mental presence as she could.
Then, the Adept stepped back, turning the door wide open with no obvious effort despite its thickness and height. “You can’t wander around alone, you know,” she cautioned as Aryl gratefully stepped through to the open platform beyond. “I’m the gatekeeper. I certainly can’t take you.” Pio finished turning the door closed, its inner colorations aligned perfectly with those of its partner. From this side, Aryl saw that the doors curved inward at the top, that curve matched to the one defining the low wall that edged the platform. “You stay here,” the Adept emphasized. “Right here. I’ll find someone.”
“I won’t leave,” Aryl promised. “Thank you.”
The old Adept’s wrinkles creased deeper. “I’m sure you won’t. Only an Adept can unlock the Cloisters’ doors. In or out.”
Aryl didn’t move from the shelter of the great doors. Though the deserted platform swept intriguingly away in both directions, and windows in the wall beckoned, she wouldn’t risk disobeying Pio di Kessa’at.
Plus, it was pouring. She stuck her hand beyond the overhang to catch drops for a drink. There were no real puddles. The platform sloped to the inside, the water disappearing into a series of channels. She wondered if it rained down along the stalk from there, or was collected.
Aryl had run out of such questions by the time two figures appeared in the archway across from the doors. They were faceless in their robes, robes colorless through the curtains of rain. She swallowed her curiosity and didn’t reach for their identities. One hurried toward her; the other followed at a more deliberate pace, as if the deluge was beneath notice.
The one in a hurry was Pio. The old Adept tossed back her hood, showering Aryl with drops. As she blinked to clear her eyes, the other pointed. “I brought a guide.”
The second figure was dressed in dull red, without a hood. As she stepped from the rain into their shelter, she spoke, her voice oddly flat. “I will take Aryl to the Speaker.”
A familiar voice, nonetheless.
“Leri!” Aryl greeted Costa’s Chosen with a glad smile, a smile that died on her lips.
At first glance, Leri Teerac looked as she had before the M’hir, save for the plain red robe that smothered her from neck to ankles. She was still slender and tall, with those high cheekbones and startling green oblong eyes. But Leri’s thick golden hair, Costa’s particular joy, was no longer secured in a metal net. It lay sodden and limp over her shoulders and back, as if what gave it life had died.
It had.
Costa’s Chosen beckoned. “I will take Aryl to the Speaker.” There was no impatience to the gesture, no expression to her face. Her features might have been composed by an artist who worked from corpses. As for the inner sense . . . Aryl withdrew instantly. All she felt where Leri stood was that familiar roiling darkness. Involuntarily, she stepped closer to Pio.
Lost. Aryl swallowed bile. She hadn’t known it meant lost in the Dark. Was this what her mother had somehow escaped, while remaining connected to it?
What did that make her?
Pio didn’t seem to notice anything strange about the other Om’ray or Aryl’s reaction. “What are you waiting for, Aryl?” she demanded querulously. “The rain to stop? You won’t melt. I’ve wasted enough time. I’m today’s gatekeeper. Go.”
“I will take Aryl to the Speaker.” The same words; the same beckoning.