She felt giddy, a reaction probably due more to terrified exhaustion than the thrill of discovery. No, she admitted, the thrill was there, like leaping for a chancy hold. “If,” she dared, “Om’ray have believed Cersi—the world—is only where we can sense one another, maybe that is why Om’ray history is only about those who are real—who we can sense.”
“What do you mean?” he echoed, eyes shadowed and intent. “What is Om’ray history?”
“Stories. We tell each other what’s happened to us. UnChosen on Passage take their Clan’s stories to their new one.” She felt foolish and hesitated.
“Same for us,” Marcus offered immediately. “Stories important. How else know long ago time? Stories live after we dust.” He lifted and released another handful of dirt, then held out his tight fist. “Stories live forever.”
“Of course not. Not ours,” Aryl corrected hastily, seeing the difference. The air around them seemed to listen. She shuddered but continued. “Ours stop.”
With a puzzled frown, the Human lowered his fist. “Why? Not understand.”
How to explain what she barely grasped herself? “Costa. The others. The ones who died during the Harvest. You remember them?”
This softened his eyes. “Sorry, Aryl. Will always remember.”
“Always?” Her envy at that easy promise thickened her voice. “Om’ray will not. Cannot. Once everyone who ever sensed them as real has also died, they will no longer exist to other Om’ray. Their story will be tossed aside and forgotten, like the empty husk of a body. For us, history is bound to the living, Marcus. That’s why the Eldest of each family is on Council. They connect us to all there is of our past.”
She’d upset him somehow. “History is more,” Marcus protested. “History is all who lived, ever. All they did, ever. Our work here—we make vidrecordings so others will know. Vital. Important! Can’t forget!”
“Why?”
From his stricken expression, she might have asked him why he kept breathing.
“If we don’t live in a place, why should we care if it exists?” she went on, perversely enjoying playing the Adept. “If we can’t sense for ourselves someone is real, why should we care if that person ever existed?”
“Aryl not believe this. Not!” He bounced up and down on the thermobed.
Aryl almost smiled. “When I’m with you, Marcus,” she brushed her fingers along his sleeve, “I don’t. But my people do. They always have.”
Though mollified, he wagged his finger in her face. “Ah, but you not know that. If no Om’ray history before elder’s experience, how can know that?” Definitely smug.
“Our Adepts teach us that nothing has changed.” She didn’t add that the Agreement between Om’ray, Oud, and Tikitik held that nothing should. A new problem: what to tell someone who would remember always.
An eyebrow lifted. “Truth or what they decide is truth?”
Ideas were dangerous. This one, Aryl was quite sure, would be Forbidden. “The Adepts are trusted,” she assured him, despite the sour taste the words left in her mouth. “They keep a Clan’s Record. Who was born, who was their Choice, their children.” Who caused trouble…who did the Forbidden…who was exiled to die…did Yena’s Adepts write those words, too? “I’ve had—” said with determination, “—no reason to doubt what they teach.”
“Evidence here—” Marcus waved his hand at their surroundings. “Sona change. Maybe Om’ray not care and forget,” this as if a huge concession, making her frown. “Adepts write record. Maybe they not care and forget. Record—never forget.”
Her frown lifted in surprise. But the Human wasn’t wrong. If any Sona Om’ray had come to Yena on Passage, his arrival and Joining would have been recorded by Yena’s Adepts.
Had long-ago Adepts recorded Sona’s death, too? They would have felt it. Part of the world would have suddenly ceased to exist; every Om’ray would be disoriented, the way she’d been when her father died, then afraid, as she’d been.
So afraid.
Lost.
Marcus leaned back, hands clasped around one knee. “Where these records?” Oh so casual. “In Cloisters?”
Never for strangers!!! But he couldn’t feel her sending, could he, no matter how furious or forceful. Marcus Bowman wasn’t real.
All Om’ray could die and nothing would change for this Human or his kind. They would make their own kind of record and go about their work. They would travel anywhere, not only where they felt existed. They would remember anything they chose, long after an Om’ray would forget.
“Sorry, Aryl,” he said quickly, sitting straight. “Not mean harm. Curiosity too much. Sorry.”
They were the same outside, Aryl thought, staring at his too-familiar face.
They were not the same within.
She leaped to her feet and ran into the dark.
“Aryl! Please stop!”
She’d do nothing of the sort, Aryl vowed as she staggered forward, hands out to break a fall, if not prevent one. Behind her came the Human, too quickly. He shouldn’t be catching up. She tried to hurry and tripped on the uneven ground.
They were both fools. She knew it. Knew it was sheer folly to be out in the dark of truenight, let alone to run over unfamiliar ground. But she couldn’t bear it—couldn’t bear him. All that mattered was getting away. She climbed to her feet to run again.
“Aryl—Ooooffph!” Another gasp and grunt. He fell more often. “Stop!”
How could he be gaining on her? She risked a look back. No light. They’d left the campsite behind. She’d wanted to find the grove, to lose herself among its stalks. Where was it? Sona was behind her…so dim she might be dreaming the glow of Om’ray. She was losing her sense of direction…
If she went too far this way, she’d fall out of the world. She’d be nowhere…
Not if the Human’s ideas—not if her new ideas—not if the world was more than Om’ray…
…then what was she?
Aryl sobbed, wiping blood from her nose, and staggered on. She was too alone. Only the M’hir was close by. If she could lose the Human, she’d be able to stop, to concentrate. Use it to find her mother. Find anyone. Go anywhere but here.
“ARYL!!! Look out! Danger!” His shout was louder than the waterfall’s drone.
A trick. She slowed anyway, hands pushing truenight from her face. Slowed, but didn’t stop.
Her next step threw her into empty air, down and down to suffocating darkness that pulled and tumbled and bit…her scream cost the last breath from her lungs…she tried to inhale and ice-cold water poured into her mouth and nose…the darkness was like the M’hir, overwhelming and endless…she surrendered and fell…
“Aryl.”
She spasmed awake, then held on as the world tilted around her. Held on…? Aryl looked down to find her hands clenched on Marcus’ arms. She let go and pushed herself away with frantic kicks until her back hit something solid and she couldn’t move.
“Safe.” His voice was strained and hoarse.
There was light. Daylight, not one of his devices. Firstlight. His face was dreadfuclass="underline" gray-tinged and badly scratched, a bruise starting below one eye and a swollen lower lip. His hair and clothes were soaking wet; the color leaked from his pretend-Yena tunic to stain the dirt. Hunched and shivering, he watched her without moving.
She was wet, too, Aryl discovered, dragging her hands up to her face. Wet. Cold. Achingly sore. Her ribs…a knee. “What—?” She stopped. She’d been in water before. He’d saved her from it before.
She looked around, blinking to focus. They were beside the waterfall. But its lake had been a dream, a Sona memory. Now its water poured into a deep pit—“Nooo.” The terrified moan couldn’t be hers. Aryl fought to control herself. “Tell me I didn’t fall into—into that.”