Wait for me, she sent.
She’d spent the day avoiding the darkness, but it was always there if she dared look for it. The M’hir. The instant Aryl turned her perception inward, she found herself fighting to keep her place within its now-familiar confusion. She concentrated, then reached.
Enris.
Here. Unmistakably his inner voice. The link formed between them as effortlessly as a smile. She saw his presence, a bright, distinct whirlwind in the darkness. It suddenly rushed toward her; she instinctively kept her distance, though there was no true movement here. Only the surge and conflict of the M’hir itself.
Listen to me, she sent, feeling the exchange forge tighter the connection between minds, perversely calming the M’hir. There. Good. Very good. Enris was as able here as anywhere. Somehow, Aryl wasn’t surprised. Welcome to the M’hir.
You look like the inside of our vat. With the unflattering description came an image of metal melting into glittering pools.
Could be worse. Pay attention, she warned. See what’s here, but stay with me.
She felt the shift in his attention by the attenuation of their link. She poured more of her own strength into it, letting him be. He was confident, curious…
Horrified.
I know this!!!
On that recognition, the M’hir became a storm, lashing out. Aryl fought to hold Enris, but he was being ripped away…she felt him scream…or was she an echo…
PAINPAINPAIN…
…hidehidehide…
He was coming apart…dissolving into the M’hir…pieces of Enris began to scatter…she fought to hold them…
…can’t let her…don’t let her…hidehidehide…DIE FIRST!
PAINPAINPAIN!!!
Somehow, Aryl struggled free of his agony. She concentrated. She had to hold what she sensed was Enris. He was like a wing fraying at the edges, threads come loose in the wind. The touch of him burned, but she wouldn’t let go, couldn’t let go.
The M’hir itself stirred. She felt others…Felt…interest…
They had to pull free of the M’hir. Now. They had to…
They did.
The fire snapped and crackled cheerily; the dark of truenight outside its circle was silent, almost soothing. Stars winked above. The wind caught a spark and swirled it out of sight.
Aryl savored the smoke-scented air, relished the chill of tears on her cheeks. Her hands ached. They were tightly clenched—on what? After an odd delay, she realized she was lying on top of Enris, as if she’d flung herself over his prone form. Her hands still gripped both of his with all her strength.
She let go, gently, and eased to sit beside him. The rise and fall of his chest matched his ragged breaths, as if he dreamed he ran. From what?
Her first experience in the M’hir had been filled with the screams of the dying.
What had happened to Enris there?
And who was “her?”
Enris went from unconscious to his feet. Aryl hurried to save the blanket she’d placed over him from the fire. “What happened?” he shouted wildly, staring at her. “Where are we?”
“Not that far from Sona. Hush.” She patted the solid ground. “Sit.”
He sank down, crossing his long legs. “Aryl.” Distantly, as if he had trouble remembering her name. Then in a more normal voice: “Are you all right?”
“I’m not the one who—” Aryl decided “fell to pieces” wasn’t tactful, “—who slipped. How do you feel?”
“Hungry.” With a rueful smile. “Foolish.” He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Guess I panicked. Lost control…was careless. Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll—”
“There’s no ‘next time’!” He couldn’t be serious. “Don’t you remember? You were almost Lost, Enris Mendolar. Lost! I had to pull you back together. I barely managed to free us both. I—” she struggled for calm, to be convincing. He had to listen, had to believe her. “Enris, you’ve been in the M’hir before.”
“Of course I have.” He looked more puzzled than concerned. “When you moved us through it, to Yena. But I didn’t see anything like—” He stopped abruptly. His shields tightened until he faded from her inner sense; all expression left his face. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and deliberate. “I didn’t see what I saw tonight. Why?”
“You weren’t aware of it then,” Aryl guessed. Her fingers sketched an apology against her coat. He had to understand. “This time you were. When you stop and notice the M’hir, it—it notices you. Things become…complicated. It’s easy to be distracted, confused, to forget who you are. I know. Strong emotion—” She had to explain, to warn him. “Strong emotion makes it much worse. Enris, you were safe until you recognized the M’hir. Until you remembered what happened to you there, and why, and mixed before with now. You felt…what you felt then.” She shivered, having shared that terrible pain and dread. “That’s how the M’hir almost took you.”
“I know.” His big hands shook as he stretched them to the fire’s warmth. He stared at them as if surprised, then drew them inside his coat.
Enris had met the strangers, flown in their aircar, traveled the M’hir with her. He’d fought the swarm and climbed—however badly—high in the canopy. What could disturb him like this was beyond her imagining.
Aryl sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the fire, and waited. The silence between them grew desperate.
Finally, she pulled the metal headdress from her pocket and ran it through her fingers. Though dull, its links and straps glinted rich green in the firelight. It must have been beautiful once. “I found this high on a ridge.” Easy, quiet, not looking at him. “With a Chosen’s bones. I suppose she thought she could escape that way.” A dangerous climb, for someone used to flat ground. Or maybe the daring Om’ray had made it that far, Aryl thought with a rush of sadness, only to be doomed by the loss of her Chosen in Sona. She laid it flat on her hand, rubbing her thumb over the forehead band. “There are marks in the metal.”
Enris rose to his feet, but not to leave her. He went to his pack and brought something from it to the fireside. “I found bones, too. And this.”
“This” was a strangely deformed blade, point divided into two, one tip longer than the other. It was attached to a broken wooden shaft. Enris had also brought the two sticks he carried tied to his pack, the ones he’d refused to donate to the fire. He fitted the three together and demonstrated the original length against himself. The tips reared over his head.
Awkward to carry. “What was it for?”
“I’ve no idea,” he said, sounding remarkably pleased. He tossed the sticks at his pack, then squatted beside her and held out the blade. “There are markings.” He wet his finger and ran it over the metal. “Like the ones carved into the Sona wood.”
At least he was talking again. Aryl dutifully glanced at the thing, then took a second look that developed into a stare. She didn’t realize she’d reached for it until she felt its weight in her hands.
“These are words.”
“I knew it!” A definite resurgence of the Enris she knew. “Can you read what they say?”
She sent him an annoyed look from the shadow of her hood. “Of course not. I’m no Adept.”
“But you’ve seen writing.”
True. She’d seen the plates used in the Cloisters, glimpsed from a distance the lines and circles that made sense, somehow, to those with that skill. She’d seen the writing used by the strangers—sharper lines and angles—and thought she might be able to reproduce a word or two. The Tikitik used all manner of wild swirls and lines, some to decorate—or label—the door panels they made for Yena homes, and wore their names on wristbands of cloth. From Thought Traveler, she’d learned there was no Talent needed to read, only a knowledge of what each symbol represented. He’d shown her his name, then what he took to be hers from the little drawing she’d used for herself. A bowl containing a small dot, neither touching.