Aryl kept very still, hoping to continue unnoticed. A Council vote? Only Councillors and the Speaker attended such. It would be full of ceremony, she knew. Dignified. The result was vitally important . . .
Adrius staggered to his feet. “To the Lay with everyone else!” This with a spew of droplets that just missed his fellows. “I’m dying in my chair.” With this, he sat, wheezing soundlessly to himself.
“Parth votes no,” Morla said, giving the older Councillor a weary look. She rose. “Kessa’at votes—no.” She gestured apology to Yorl and Cetto as she sat.
Sian and Tikva, however divided on other issues, voted no.
“You doom us,” Cetto said when it was his turn. “Yes. For what it matters.”
Leaving Yorl. He rose to his feet, standing as tall and erect as a much younger Om’ray. The weakness Aryl had sensed might never have been, except for her own now. He spoke with passion and resolve. “We sent our best from Yena to save their lives. Our future, loose on the wind. Do you remember that day, my friends?”
A pause during which he studied the others, including Aryl. She made herself gaze back without flinching; she thought she saw a familiar warmth light his eyes before his expression turned implacable again.
“We told our grandsons and great grandsons there was hope away from here. All of us agreed that was so. All of us.”
There was no answer to this.
“I will not abandon that hope,” Yorl insisted. “We will not.” He gestured gratitude to Aryl, included Taisal, then flattened his hands over his chest. “Sarc votes yes. We should follow our unChosen and soon.” He sat.
“Council is not agreed,” Morla concluded, rising to her feet again. “Your proposal is not accepted. Yena will stay and wait for the next M’hir.”
Yorl closed his eyes briefly. Aryl glanced at Cetto. He showed no reaction. She sighed with relief, as inconspicuously as possible. The mere idea of leaving . . .
Morla bowed her head to the others. “Firstnight approaches. I suggest we end here for today.”
“Wait,” Tikva stayed seated. “I ask a vote on my proposal. Let the Adepts teach those capable the Talent to move objects—to begin immediately.”
“No vote without debate,” Cetto insisted, his thick brows in a frown.
“Which I can start and end with one question to our Speaker,” Sian offered smoothly.
Morla hesitated, then returned to her seat. “Ask it.”
He gestured gratitude, then looked to Taisal. “Speaker—when the Tikitik see pods floating through the air into Yena nets—what will you tell them?”
Tikva scowled as Taisal stood, the fingers of her right hand drifting across her pendant—to remind herself or her elders, Aryl wondered.
“I need tell them nothing,” her mother began. “They will see for themselves the Agreement has been broken. They will have proof for the Oud that Yena Om’ray have adopted a new and potent ability. Such reckless change will disrupt the peace across Cersi, a peace that has held longer than any memory. You would doom not only Yena, but all Om’ray.”
She’d begun to see her mother as powerless and vulnerable, least among the others. Aryl sank deeper into her chair, understanding at last that Taisal di Sarc was none of those things.
“What would they do?” Morla asked, her face bloodless.
Tikva’s eyes locked with Taisal’s. “What could they do?” she countered acidly. “The Agreement is clear. The three races share the world in peace. The Tikitik and Oud may not like the Om’ray gaining Power. They can’t do anything to stop us.”
“And you believe that?” Aryl knew that note in her mother’s voice; it didn’t bode well for Tikva.
“I do.”
“Then let me remind Council exactly how we three share this world. May I?” She reached for the mug in Tikva’s hand; the other Adept gave it to her with a puzzled, not-yet-angry look.
“Cersi,” Taisal named it. She tapped its polished wood with a fingernail. “The Tikitik.” Another tap. “The Oud.” A final tap. “The water beneath us, the sky above, all that grows between.”
Aryl swallowed, unsure why she suddenly felt afraid. Unless it was something from her mother she sensed but couldn’t name.
With a violent sweep of her arm, Taisal dashed the mug to the metal floor. Aryl jumped as it splintered on contact, fragments sliding in all directions, connected by a spray of dark liquid.
Taisal walked to the mess and bent to touch a fingertip to the liquid. “This,” she told them, straightening to hold up that one dark speck, “was the Om’ray.
“Om’ray are the shape of the world,” she continued, the flat calm of her tone more chilling for what it said. “But we are not what binds it together. We are not needful to this world. Om’ray exist at the whim of Oud and Tikitik. If either of those races fails, we fail. If either abandons us, we fail.”
Tikva looked defiant. “You assume the worst. The Tikitik haven’t cared that we speak mind to mind over greater distances. Why? Because they care how much we harvest, not how we do it. Think the Oud care we can better heal ourselves? It’s the number able to work that matters, not why they’re healthy. This new Talent will be no different, mark my words.”
“You’d risk our lives on their indifference?” Cetto growled. “I need proof.”
Yorl’s mocking laugh startled Aryl and tightened Taisal’s lips. “What proof do you expect from Adepts?” he said. “They can’t agree how to tell if the other races are real, let alone if they have the ability to detect Power or its use.”
“They’ll detect this.” Taisal swept her long white hands together. In answer, the splinters and spilled liquid hurried back to the point of impact with muted, urgent slurps, until only a small, messy pile marred the Council Chamber floor.
Aryl was not surprised when Morla Kessa’at declared the debate and Council session over.
Taisal di Sarc escorted Aryl to the massive doors leading to the bridge. Neither spoke. Aryl didn’t know what to say. She suspected her mother’s thoughts were of other things besides her errant daughter.
When they arrived, she was relieved to find the rain had stopped. The climb home would be easier; she was still weary. Overhead, the canopy was more gray than green, with long shadows reaching beneath. Morla had been right; firstnight was close.
With a wave of her hand, Taisal dismissed Pio di Kessa’at from her post. The old Adept gave Aryl a curious look before she left.
As for Aryl, she hefted her bag over one shoulder, happier to take it home unopened than to reveal the full extent of this disaster to her mother, and waited patiently for Taisal to open one of the doors—however an Adept accomplished that feat. With luck, she’d escape without the scolding she deserved. Never meddle in the business of any Chosen, she reminded herself. Especially her mother’s.
Instead, Taisal hesitated with her hand on the door, staring at her. Aryl did her best not to squirm. “Do you understand what happened?” her mother asked after an agonizing pause.
Memories, too many and too fresh, tumbled through Aryl’s head: the smashed mug that was the world, the alarming notion to abandon their homes, the Cloisters traded to the Tikitik, never being able to summon her breakfast with a thought. She, Aryl thought with some self-pity, now knew far more than any unChosen should and it wasn’t anything to help her sleep at night . . .
“You mean Yorl,” she said at last, recognizing the bewilderment in Taisal’s eyes. “No. But,” she added, “he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He asked for my help.” Taking it before she could answer, she finished to herself.
A flash of anger. “All so he could stay for the vote. Stubborn, opinionated, difficult . . . his only virtue is being harder on himself than anyone else. Still,” the anger faded, “I’d rather keep him around than lose him. Thank you, Daughter. He would have happily died trying to make his point—you did help him survive that misjudgment.” Taisal touched Aryl’s wrist, sending a flood of warmth and caring.