“To live.” The unChosen flinched, wide-eyed, at Naryn’s voice. The rest, Aryl noted, did not.
The Councillor didn’t look at Naryn. This close, Aryl could see blood pulse beneath her skin. Sparkling dots lined where she should have eyebrows. The bones of her face jutted like stones through snow, and her lips were the blue of death.
Om’ray to her inner sense.
Stranger than the Human, in every other way.
If we help this one, you will give us the Glorious Dead. You will leave. You will never return in this or any way.
There were hunters in the canopy from whom you couldn’t back away, who attacked any weakness. Like this Vyna, decided Aryl. Take them. A gesture to Enris sent the pack sliding across the floor to the Councillor’s feet, spilling its contents. When she looked up from it with dismay, Aryl smiled her mother’s smile. Help Naryn di S’udlaat, she sent, or I will take you to meet the Clans of the unChosen dead in your traps.
The deep-set eyes narrowed. The glows pressed to the windows pulsed, their light shifting the shadows.
Coming to a decision of her own, the Vyna held out her hand. A hand with four fingers and two thumbs, each bearing paired rings of green metal.
Aryl, no. From Naryn, not Enris. Her Chosen was quiet, a brooding presence deep in her mind. Aryl pitied the Vyna if she meant betrayal. She calmly laid her scarred, callused palm over the other’s cloyingly soft one and waited.
I will show you what binds your friend and her unborn. This sending was shockingly intimate, delivered to a layer of her mind where Aryl had only felt Enris before. And, she admitted, Bern when he’d been heart-kin. Though repugnant, Aryl endured it. This must be how the Vyna managed private conversation when all spoke mind-to-mind.
There. The Vyna thrust her through Naryn’s shields as if they were gauze, and with as little care. How was it possible? Aryl fought to remain calm, to learn what she must and no more. Worst of all, the Tuana was blind to her intrusion, focused on the Vyna, her concern for Aryl, her fear for herself. Do you see it?
Aryl had traced the links between Om’ray before; it was a Talent she rarely noticed or used. When Naryn had first revealed her condition—her mind Joined to that of her unborn instead of an unChosen in proper Choice—she’d touched their link only enough to assure herself it was true.
What the Vyna showed her now was something else. The link wasn’t between two minds. It was between Naryn’s and nothing. Aryl heard her own gasp. The Vyna pulled her out again.
She was not Watched properly. A powerful Chooser can become pregnant without a father—as if this were unremarkable—but what must be prevented is a Joining before the new vessel has been filled. If that occurs, they will both die, as even lesser Om’ray know.
Vessel? She had to mean the baby. Filled by what? How? The Vyna, Aryl thought with disgust, sounded like the Oud—or worse, like Marcus. She pushed confusion aside. Help her!
The Vyna Councillor’s hand dropped to her side and she stepped away. One of the wafers rose from the floor. The other Councillors rose from their seats, hands outstretched as if it was being offered to them. But the wafer flew to hover before Naryn.
Press it over the vessel. Over the unborn. DO IT!
Naryn, as if stunned by the Power of that sending or seeing no harm in it, took the wafer.
“No!” Enris shouted. “Wait!”
Too late. Pressed against the swell of her baby, the clear wafer turned milky white and glowed.
The Adepts began to chant, thin, unused voices breaking with the words. Spit ran down their chins. “Take her, Glorious Dead! Take her! Be born again!”
The other Vyna chanted as well. More and more stars-that weren’t jammed against the windows, distorting the colors within the room.
Naryn’s face changed, mouth opening as if to scream. But no sound came out.
Wrong! This was wrong! Aryl reached for Naryn and Enris, concentrated on being away . . .
... But the M’hir was impenetrable, woven through by lines of seething force that disrupted Aryl’s every effort to hold her locate . . .
She flung herself free of the M’hir, grabbed for Naryn. They’d run from this place.
The wafer turned black and fell from Naryn’s limp hands. It shattered on the floor, spreading a dust that glistened in the light.
The chanting stopped.
Naryn looked at Aryl, blinked, then the oddest expression settled over her face. She cupped her abdomen in both hands. “Her name—her name is Anaj. Anaj di Kathel.”
What have you done? Enris’ mindvoice held an undertone of horror.
What we were asked to do. The Vyna Councillor beckoned and the unChosen scurried forward to collect the wafers from the floor. They ignored the pack and picked each one up in two hands to carry to their particular Adept. Slowly. Tenderly.
The ancient creatures stroked the wafers with their bent hands, cuddled them in their laps, heads bent so the tassels of their caps hid their faces.
They were probably drooling on them, Aryl thought with disgust. I can’t ’port, she sent to Enris, felt him concentrate, saw him shake his head as his effort failed, too.
Something’s wrong.
What wasn’t?
Why are you still here? The Councillor demanded.
It wasn’t the Vyna somehow stopping their ’port?
A touch on her arm. It’s them, Enris sent, just to her. The rumn. They’re partly in the M’hir.
The windows were full of them, whatever they were, their luminous markings almost pretty. A good disguise, Aryl decided, unable to make out any identifiable body parts. No gleam of teeth, but life in the canopy taught that not all threats came with an obvious mouth and jaws.
She did not reach for them.
The other Councillors gathered beside the Adepts, like eager children forced to wait on their elders for their share of dresel cake. Except for the one still confronting Aryl. You are not welcome here, lesser Om’ray, she sent, with a flash of cold impatience.
Aryl scowled. “We are not lesser Om’ray—”
We’ll find our way out, Enris broke in, making an extravagant gesture of gratitude. To her: Once we’re above the water, maybe we can ’port. Unless you want to stay here?
Anything but that.
Aryl took Naryn’s arm, gently; urged her to follow Enris through the ceremonial doors. She appeared dazed, blue eyes large and unfocused. They had only the Vyna’s word she’d been helped, that this “Glorious Dead” inside Naryn would mean both would survive childbirth. She wouldn’t risk checking that link here. She’d risk nothing here, where Om’ray invaded one another’s minds as casually as she’d swat a biter.
Instead, Aryl looked over her shoulder at the Vyna, saw her standing tall and superior, her hands folded just so, mouth pursed with pleasure. Enjoying the spectacle of the three “lesser” Om’ray running away, was she?
Aryl drove into the M’hir and forced a connection between their minds. As the other fought and wailed, her terror of the darkness threatening them both, she sent a promise.
If Naryn dies, this is where I’ll leave you.