Advanced technology.
A thought impossible before she’d met Marcus and seen the devices and buildings of the Strangers.
Om’ray had built this and forgotten.
Another impossible concept. Until the Human had told her of other worlds and how cultures changed over vast lengths of time. Of how the Hoveny Concentrix had covered more worlds, with technology superior to the Trade Pact’s, only to collapse to ruins long before the Cloisters existed.
He’d gladly bring his devices inside this one, if she gave him the chance. He’d pore over every part, babbling his Comspeak to himself, making vids and records and drawing Human conclusions about Om’ray that would change them even more.
Some risks she wouldn’t take.
Aryl turned the corner and stopped in her tracks.
Empty corridor stretched ahead.
Oran must have ’ported away. Coward. Aryl lowered her shields the merest amount and reached.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered aloud.
Not one, not two, but seven Om’ray—below, on another level. Furious, she reached to learn who else shirked their responsibilities.
Oran. Hoyon. Oran’s brother and shadow, Kran Caraat, as yet unChosen. Bern. No surprise.
Two former Tuana: Deran Edut, another unChosen, and Menasel Lorimar, cousin of the twisted Mauro, dead by Haxel’s ever-pragmatic knife.
Gijs sud Vendan, who should keep better company.
Oran had a gift for finding weakness.
Poor Gijs. She sighed to herself. When he wasn’t careful, anyone nearby could taste his fear, but only those of Yena understood. His Chosen, Juo, would give birth to their daughter any day and in the canopy, Gijs had been sure of himself and his ability to keep his family safe. On Sona’s dirt? It didn’t matter how well he could climb or hunt. Against the Oud’s unstoppable force, what use were Yena skills to repel the swarm? No surprise Gijs turned to Power instead, driving himself to learn whatever Talents he could, from anyone with something to teach him.
From Oran.
Whom Juo detested. The resulting schism between Chosen was a discord racing along her nerves, if Aryl let down her shields when the two were together.
No doubt the shirkers were aware of her presence. If Bern hadn’t sensed her, Menasel had the same Talent, to know identity.
The level above was reached by a corridor that gradually wound upward. How to reach the one below? Aryl chewed her lower lip. The Adepts knew more of the inner workings of the Cloisters than they’d revealed. Not a comforting thought.
Knowledge Sona needed. Maybe they’d been wrong not to let the Adepts have their haven here.
They’d made one anyway.
Haxel would—Aryl shrugged. What Haxel would or wouldn’t do counted as much as a biter’s opinion unless she found the way to the next level. She went to the nearest door and turned it open, finding the empty room she’d expected. On to the next. And the next. A set of chairs. A lonely table. No purpose remained here, only remnants.
They were entertained by her search. Smug. She didn’t need to feel their emotions to know. An adult game, this, a test of her worth against their secret.
A game she couldn’t win, Aryl realized abruptly. Fail to find the way down and she’d lose any respect they had left for her. Find the way, confront them, and they’d cling tighter to one another. Neither helped Sona.
There was another way.
She took the corridor that led up, following it to where the Cloisters walls became layers of white petals, neither metal nor wood. No windows here, but at the very top, where the petals met, an irregular slice of cloud and sky could be seen. The light here was warmer than the corridors and rooms, the air fresher.
Whatever the purpose of this uppermost level, there was seating. Long benches curved in rows along one side, facing a span of empty floor.
Aryl sat on the nearest, poked a rebellious strand of hair, and settled her mind. Anger had to go. Resentment with it. Fear of failure, pointless. She focused on the life within, its faint yet growing warmth. She thought about the future she wanted for this child, one of peace and security, the one she wanted for all Om’ray—friends or not—and built it in her imagination.
This new Talent, to ’port from place to place. The next time the Tikitik and Oud traded lands, mightn’t it prevent the cost in Om’ray lives? Speakers from each race could inform the others. There could be negotiation, an evacuation planned that didn’t violate the rules of Passage.
As for Passage itself, no more would young unChosen face a difficult, deadly journey alone. They’d already learned a shared memory was enough for a ’port. Locates for other Clans could be shared, mind-to-mind, through the M’hir. Those able would simply ’port to a waiting Chooser. If that match wasn’t suitable, they could as easily return home.
A perfect future. Once the Strangers finished groping at the past and left Cersi forever, Aryl reminded herself. Before that, they must be careful, secretive. Oh, she believed the Human’s warning not to reveal themselves as anything but simple villagers. “Remnants,” he’d called the Om’ray, of no interest to the Trade Pact. She earnestly hoped to stay that way. Nothing good came of the interest of others.
“What do you want?”
The future trembled on her lips, gone as Aryl stiffened, looking up at the angry Om’ray who’d appeared before her. In Grona fashion, Oran’s hair was free beneath a token cap. Its golden locks writhed with temper. She wore the white embroidered robe of her office as Adept, in clear defiance.
Or as defense, Aryl thought, forcing herself to stay calm. Oran had courage, whatever their disagreements. “We need to talk.”
Oran tightened her shields until she almost disappeared from Aryl’s inner sense. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”
There were dark circles beneath Oran’s eyes; her mouth was pinched with exhaustion. Why?
Aryl gestured to the bench between them. “Sit with me, Adept di Caraat.” A peace offering, to grant the other her title for the first time in their stormy acquaintance. “Tell me what you hope to accomplish here. Perhaps I can help.”
The derisive snort was pure Oran, but the other did sit, her body sagging with relief despite her attempt at composure, hair abruptly still. Something had drained her Power to the point of risk, Aryl concluded, holding in her own alarm. What?
Though exhausted, Oran was all pricklish pride and disdain. “What we will accomplish, Speaker Sarc,” she stated, “despite no support from our own Clan, is to restore our Cloisters to its full and proper function.”
Glows lit every corner. Doors unlocked and turned. The air stayed a comfortable temperature—for Yena in light coats. Aryl doubted the Adept referred to anything so comprehensible. “And you do that by living here . . .”
“No. By dreaming here.”
“ ‘Dreaming?’ ” Aryl sat straighter. “You mean you’ve been learning about this place? How to tell the weeds, what to do to help the food grow . . . the seasons?”
“You think so small. A Cloisters contains the knowledge of all its Adepts. I could continue my training as a Healer. Learn to protect myself from fools like you.”
Aryl accepted the rebuke. None of them had realized how dangerous it would be for Oran to try to heal Myris Sarc, whose head injury had damaged her mind as well. That she’d stepped in and completed the task hadn’t helped endear her to Oran. But what mattered was the future. The knowledge of Sona’s Adepts could help achieve it.
Shadow lapped across the floor, grayed Oran’s robe, dulled her hair. A cloud passing.