“Hold still” had been excellent advice, for she stood on a ledge, one of many, one of—a glance up—the highest. At her feet, more and more ledges descended; they shortened and converged, like a three-sided staircase too large and awkward for use, scarred surfaces littered with crumbled debris and ash. Opposite, three facing walls, not as wide, similarly angled. Centered at the bottom, where the dim light had been, was a flat area covered in neatly separated stacks of—something.
Above was a pool of deep shadow. Where its edges met light, the darkness pulled away from shapes carved into the walls, shapes she didn’t know, one supporting another all the way down, until they seemed not walls but crowds of watchers eagerly looking back at her.
At them. She wasn’t alone. The lights—hanging, leaning, everywhere lights—shone on figures shaped like her. They stood on ledges, amid debris, looking as startled by the bags in their hands as they were to be . . .
Where?
Abruptly, where didn’t matter as much as who. A visceral shock, the need to know one another again, a need more necessary than her next dusty breath. She joined the mutual reach for identity through the M’hir. Identity and connection.
There . . . Chosen to Chosen.
There . . . baby to mother, children to parents.
There . . . as more subtle connections overlapped the rest: family, heart-kin, friendship . . .
Above all, Power. Within the M’hir, the Watchers remained silent as the lesser M’hiray slipped aside while the stronger held their place, a natural sorting without word or conscious thought. And once they knew one another . . .
Everything became real.
Aryl di Sarc shuddered back to herself. Enris!? All around, a general shifting as everyone set aside burdens and hurried to be with their Chosen and family.
Here. Always. He was at her side that quickly. They touched each other with trembling hands. She worried at the angry scratch down his cheek, then forgot as their lips met.
Enris pulled away and smiled. Then, with growing wonder as he looked around. “Here being where, exactly?”
“Aryl!” A small figure jumped from ledge to ledge toward her. “We did it!” Yao di Gethen thudded into Aryl’s hastily raised arms. “We did it! We’re here!”
The next question. Aryl put the child down, tugged a curl gently. “Yao. Do you know where we are?”
“No,” with a child’s equanimity. “But it’s not where we were. That’s what everyone wanted, wasn’t it? To go far?”
“It was.” Another figure approached, one ledge below. “A new life, for all M’hiray. Welcome, Aryl! Enris!” Golden hair rose in a joyous cloud.
“Oran.” Her heart-kin’s Chosen. Aryl smiled a warm greeting, feeling better by the moment. “And Bern?”
“Here.” From above.
Enris crouched by Yao to point. “There’s your father.” Hoyon d’sud Gethen was hurrying in their direction. Yao gave a happy cry and ran to meet him.
“Any idea where we are?” This to Oran and Bern as well as Aryl.
“Council will know.” Bern shrugged. “The main thing is we’re all here and safe.”
Oran went to Enris. “Let me fix that,” with a Healer’s insistence.
“Nothing wrong with an impressive scar,” he protested with a grin. Oran tsked at him before laying her hand on his cheek. She took great pride in her Talent. There’d be no scar, impressive or otherwise.
They were together and safe, Aryl thought, content, but where? She knew this place, she realized suddenly. Or a version of it. The lowermost carvings shouldn’t be smeared with colors and black soot. None should be chipped away. The ledges were empty of all but refuse, but there should be—seats, she remembered triumphantly. Seats, oddly shaped seats, lining every ledge. The ledges should be polished.
Her content faded. How could she remember this, and nothing of where they were?
“What’s Naryn doing?”
Enris wasn’t the only one to notice the Chosen who’d left everyone else to walk to the flat area at the foot of the walls. Conversations quieted.
After peering into the nearest stack, and taking a quick step away, Naryn turned to face them.
“Welcome to Stonerim III.” The words were as clear as if the other stood beside her.
That name . . . Aryl’s brief sense of familiarity was washed away by the flood of confusion and dismay from those around her. “Where is that?” “What kind of place is this?” More shouts. “How do we get out?!” “We’re trapped!”
Hush! The same mindvoice that had held them still in the dark, that had kept them safe until she turned on the lights. Lights she’d known were there. Because Naryn di S’udlaat knew this place.
She’d led them here.
Hadn’t she?
The others calmed. Aryl’s own uncertainty faded as Naryn continued to speak. “We aren’t trapped. We’re in Norval, the Layered City, on the highest of the pre-Arrival layers. This place—locals call it the Buried Theater. There’s access to the surface.” At this, a stir of eagerness traveled mind-to-mind. “Not yet. We can’t leave until we’re ready.”
They couldn’t stay. Why had she felt at peace here, in this ruin? What could possibly make a M’hiray happy here? Aryl controlled her impatience. Naryn was right. To rush into the unknown made no sense either.
A second figure dropped easily from ledge to ledge to join Naryn. Haxel di Vendan. Why the “di?” Aryl wondered. Her Power was less. She dismissed the puzzle. Power was a matter for Council, not ordinary Chosen.
“Naryn is right,” Haxel said. “Scouts will go ahead, find a safe locate for the rest. Before that, let’s get belongings and supplies on the highest ledge, at the back where they won’t be easily seen.”
No one moved.
Naryn’s hair rose and snapped. “Do as Haxel says. She’s First Scout of the M’hiray and responsible for your safety.”
Shouldn’t the full Council take charge? Enris sent privately, as they gathered their packs and climbed to the top with the others. Why is Naryn giving orders? And why are we listening to them?
Aryl met her Chosen’s dark eyes. “Naryn knows what’s outside this place.”
“We don’t. Why?”
It wasn’t just outside they didn’t know, she realized, feeling her heart pound. “Where did we come from?”
“From our home—” She watched Enris struggle to find more to say, then give up. “We had to leave,” he said at last, frowning in earnest. “I’m sure of that. For the good of everyone.”
“We were better than the others,” Oran offered. “More powerful. We didn’t need them anymore, so they made us leave.”
“If we were more powerful,” countered Aryl, “how could they make us do anything?”
Bern chuckled. “Then we must have wanted to go. Home was too small for the M’hiray. We wanted something better.” Oran smiled at him.
Aryl felt . . . doubt. She couldn’t explain it. The words were right. They’d had to leave. They hoped for better.
They weren’t the only ones speculating, Aryl noticed. Heads were bent in conversation, verbal or silent, as the others climbed with their burdens.
Enris. What do you remember?
Remember? His foot caught a loose bit of stone and he stumbled, a too-large pack not helping matters.
Aryl shoved the pack hard with her shoulder to restore his balance. “Careful!”
“You, too.”
“I—” Aryl closed her mouth. After a look ahead for the best route, she could have run to the top with her eyes closed. Most of the others moved with excessive care, helped one another, lifted awkward bundles together; a few leaped from ledge to ledge with fluid grace. Why?