And he was, according to Seru, as detached from other Om’ray as Yao. Oswa would be in demand.
Despite the babies’ appetites, Aryl had none of her own. Not for the thick stew Rorn had prepared for them, nor for what had to be done.
Despite open windows and door, the air was rank with sweat. They were all weary but, from most, satisfaction. They could see the results of their labor in new growth. Only this afternoon, Ziba had declared a nondescript green thread to be her beloved rokly, a favorite dried and preserved. None of them had tasted it fresh.
The births dispelled the pall of grief, or at least pushed it aside. They’d mourn Myris and Ael tomorrow, with the ringing of the Cloisters’ bell. Then, the new babies would be given names from those in the Cloisters’ list—Sona names. Seru would preside. For now, she sat with Husni and Morla, accepting congratulations, and looking every bit as proud as any parent. Ezgi stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.
They should be proud, Aryl told herself. Children were Sona’s future.
Children who would never meet Myris or Ael, only hear about them. A cautionary story told by their elders: The M’hir is dangerous. It killed Ael d’sud Sarc and his Chosen. Because he did this—we think. Whatever he did, don’t you do it.
She snorted to herself. As if stories ever prevented a fall. She’d share her own memories, good ones, when the children were older. As for what killed Ael? They might never know. Or it could happen during the very next attempt to ’port . . .
Beside her, Enris lowered his bowl. Trouble.
Bern d’sud Caraat was easing his way through the others, pale eyes on her, stopping to exchange courtesies with his grandparents, Cetto and Husni, continuing on.
Until he stood in front of Aryl and gave the slightest Grona bow. “Heart-kin.”
Affront surged from Enris. Bern flinched and those near enough to feel it glanced around uneasily. But the Tuana smiled and got to his feet, brandishing his bowl. “Need more stew. Take my seat, if you like.”
The courtesy—and desertion—was because he believed Oran and her Chosen would soon be gone. Exasperated, Aryl did her best not to frown as Bern sat beside her and kept her shields tightly in place. “You shouldn’t call me that,” she said in a low voice. “What do you want?”
“Your help.”
A light touch on her hip made her drop her gaze to the bench. His hand was there, between where no one else could see. It turned palm up. An invitation.
There’d been a time she’d have accepted without thought. A time when their private sendings held mystery and thrill, when they’d spent hours in each other’s minds. He’d waited for her, she knew. Hoped their bond would make her ready for him.
They’d both Chosen otherwise.
Aryl looked at Bern, about to refuse, but he spoke first, a whisper. “Send us away.”
“Why?”
“Oran can’t stay here. Find a reason. Now!”
All of which would make more sense, Aryl thought with some disgust, if the Om’ray in question wasn’t sitting beside her brother, eating with a healthy appetite, and, if not smiling, then certainly looking as if she would, given the chance.
She’d regret this.
Aryl touched her fingertips to his palm.
She’d guarded herself against an intrusion of emotion, any attempt at old intimacies. For Bern’s sake as much as her own. Enris might be across the room by the cook pot—in no way was he inattentive or beyond reach.
But Bern’s mind was as finely controlled as she’d ever felt it. Only words came through their contact. Let me show you.
A memory. He wanted to give her a memory. Of what?
What it does.
It?
As if her curiosity was permission, Aryl began to see what Bern had seen, earlier this day. She didn’t resist.
Though his emotions were muted, safe, she shared his grief over Myris and Ael, felt his urgent need to be with his own Chosen. She saw the Dream Chamber, was in it with him. He’d ’ported directly there—something, Aryl recalled, Oran and Hoyon had been adamant no one should do while the Adept dreamed. That it could be dangerous.
That Bern ignored the warning didn’t surprise her.
What he’d seen, what she now saw, did.
... Oran, alone in the chamber. Everything as it had been: the platforms with brown pads, the light behind each, the closed doors.
Except for the platform on which Oran lay. It rose high above the rest on a stalk, halfway to the ceiling. From the ceiling hung long threads of metal, close and densely packed, reaching to almost touch her. Almost. The threads echoed her form, moving like a Chosen’s hair in waves that reflected light.
An echo, because Oran wasn’t still. Straps of the same metal held her at shoulder and ankle as she struggled violently. Her eyes closed tight, her mouth open in a soundless scream, and, all the while, the threads followed her movements, lowering as she sagged, rising up as she strained.
Perspective changed. Bern climbing the stalk to reach his Chosen. The threads curling away as if he was fire, disappearing into the ceiling with no mark or opening to show where they’d been. Before he could touch her, the straps slipping away, too, vanishing within the platform, the platform itself plunging down to rest beside the others so quickly only a Yena would have landed safely at its side.
All as it had been.
Oran’s eyes, opening. Her face, at first slack, then forming an impatient frown. “You! No wonder I can’t dream. You can’t be here. Go.” A hand up when he started to protest, to demand an explanation. “Go!—”
Frustration. Fear . . .
The memory ended there.
I tried to show her—she can’t see the memory. Tried to tell her—she doesn’t believe me. She remembers lying down and falling asleep, nothing more. Something’s wrong in there, Aryl.
Skin crawling, she couldn’t disagree. What did you sense from her while she lay there?
The M’hir was too close. Too . . . he hesitated . . . interested. Oran was a presence, nothing more. Helpless. This wasn’t her doing.
Aryl lifted her fingers from his palm, blew out a long slow breath. “Did she tell you what she wanted to dream?” Quietly, though their nearest neighbors gave them what distance they could. Which would last until Ziba or Yao started their post-supper chase along the benches.
Bern put his hands together on his lap. Made them fists. “About birthing.”
Not what she’d expected. “Why?”
A grudging nod to where Seru sat in a place of honor.
“Adept and Keeper and Birth Watcher.” Aryl lifted an eyebrow. “I suppose next she’ll want to be Speaker. All at the same time, of course.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You have to admire her ambition.”
No, she didn’t. In any way. But Aryl could understand it. The Grona Adept didn’t trust anyone else to be competent; perhaps she couldn’t. It made her dangerous, if only to herself.
Whatever was happening in the Dream Chamber, whatever was sending dreams to Yena’s Adepts or other Clans? It didn’t appear to be Oran’s doing. Not consciously.
What that said about the Cloisters left her cold.
“Leave this with me, Bern,” Aryl decided, rising to her feet.
“You’ll send us away?”
Aryl glanced at Oran, who was staring at them. With a frown. “It’s been a difficult day for all of us,” she said gently, looking down at Bern. “Let’s leave it for the morning.” Keep her away from the Cloisters, she sent, only to him.