Nothing would be the same.
“It won’t be the same.” Seru threw herself awkwardly into Aryl’s arms. The two managed to hug despite their growing bellies.
The M’hir connects us. It always will. “Besides, I expect you back for my birthing.”
“Then be thoughtful and time it for a Council Meeting.” They both laughed.
The door chimed and opened. Haxel leaned in. “Enris, you ready?”
He glanced hopefully at Aryl. Sure you won’t come?
To sort the remainder of the M’hiray’s belongings in the Buried Theater?
Quite sure.
The artifacts had been removed a month earlier and moved to safekeeping within the Tower. All but one. Naryn had given Enris the very first. A start to their new history, she’d called it. So long as he kept it out of her sight, Aryl thought. The rest—hard to imagine a use for the tattered things they’d brought with them. Hard to imagine a life where they’d been useful. The hairnet yes, but though she missed wearing it, such wasn’t a fashion that suited Norval society. No one wore knives here.
The force blade, however, she refused to leave in a drawer.
Once Seru and Ezgi left, once Enris was gone, Aryl found herself unsettled. She went to the roof and sat in her spot.
Nightfall. The Towers of Lynn outshone the stars, reflected in the white caps that danced over the ocean. Their exterior lights could be turned off at whim, senglass set to keep the interior from shining through, but Aryl liked the glitter. Safer, she thought, hugging herself. Always safer to have glows at night.
A thought as useless as the packs beneath Norval. She tried to ignore it. Sometimes it was easy.
Sometimes, like now, everything became not-real, from the taste of the air in her mouth to the words in her mind. Everything but having her toes over an edge. Everything but Enris and . . . and . . . she cradled the swell at her waist.
They’d given their baby a name.
Hadn’t they?
Aryl rested her chin on one knee and stared at the methane breathers’ Tower.
Were they this confused by life here?
“Other than the somgelt Sian wanted—he says the Humans should be able to culture it—there wasn’t much of value. We left the rest.”
Value? The gleaming inlaid floor of the Sarc gathering chamber was covered in rags and dirty tools. Aryl sighed as she picked her way around gourds of unrefined lamp oil. “You couldn’t have left those, too?” She pointed to the bags of seed. “Stonerim doesn’t look kindly on exotics.”
Enris laughed. “Husni worried about vermin. I told her we’d store everything properly. But you have to admit the parches were a find.”
“So long as we don’t have them here.” Which they wouldn’t. Dann d’sud Friesnen had pounced on the rolled lists of names and ancestors, happy to offer his House as the keeper of M’hiray history. Though how history could come from names for people no one remembered, she didn’t understand. All she knew was that their existence reminded her of what they’d lost and endangered what they’d kept.
He held out a pack. “Yours.” With a little shake. “Might be something nice inside.”
“I have closets of nice things,” Aryl reminded him. Naryn enjoyed shopping. Or rather spending, which was the same thing.
“Which you don’t wear,” he observed. “Maybe you’d prefer what’s in here.” The suggestion was only half in fun. Enris watched her, waiting for a reaction.
Because he thought her old things might stir memories. Aryl glowered. We agreed not to try and remember. That our former lives were gone.
Are they? You cry in your sleep.
“I—” She closed her mouth, taken aback.
“Every night.”
“Why don’t you stop it? Wake me?”
A gentle smile. “Because I’m asleep, too, Beloved.”
Chosen shared dreams. Not always, not all, but the emotional load, that passed from mind to mind.
Aryl gestured apology then shook her head. “I won’t sleep again.”
“I’m no Healer,” Enris chuckled. “But I think it’d be easier to find out what’s upsetting you.”
“I’m not—” she glared, “—upset!”
He slid the bag across the floor to her feet, then sat in the closest chair and stretched out his long legs. Smiling all the while.
Annoying, irritating . . . She grabbed the bag and dumped its contents on the floor, nudging them apart with the toe of her slipper. Nondescript scraps of fabric, not all of it clean. Had she had no access to a fresher? Boots worn and patched. Because she’d liked them or been forced to live in them? “As I thought. Nothing useful. I—” Aryl stopped.
“What is it?”
Something that didn’t belong. She bent to pick it up. “An image disk.”
“Ordinary enough.” Enris put his hands behind his head.
“Here,” Aryl emphasized. “Has anyone else found a Trade Pact device in their gear?”
Oran and Bern appeared near the doorway. The Adept noticed the clutter on the floor. “Redecorating?” Oran asked with a sly smile. “I thought you’d wait till we’d all left.”
“Aryl found a Trade Pact image disk in her things—from the Homeworld,” Enris offered, being a little too helpful, Aryl thought, closing her hand over the palm-sized device. Her Chosen loved a puzzle.
For no reason she could name, she couldn’t share this one. Not yet. “Is everything settled with Yao?”
As she’d hoped, the change of subject made both frown. “No,” Oran snapped. “The child’s being difficult.”
Enris chuckled. “Haven’t found her yet, have you?”
Not helping. The Powerful child’s ability at ’port and seek was becoming a problem. Though Aryl sympathized. When Council had insisted the unChosen be tested for Talent, Yao had turned out to be the only potential Healer. Each of the M’hiray’s adult Healers had been considered as her teacher; Council and Yao’s parents had picked Oran di Caraat.
No one had asked Yao. Who’d been hiding ever since.
Aloud, “I’m sure Yao’s grateful for the opportunity you’ve offered, Oran—”
“You’re First Chosen,” Bern interrupted. “Can’t you control those in your own House?”
Any desire Aryl had to be conciliatory vanished. “M’hiray don’t control one another, Bern d’sud Caraat,” she told him, hair billowing over her shoulders.
“Excuse my Chosen,” Oran replied smoothly and Bern subsided, looking sullen. “He doesn’t appreciate the burden of our new responsibilities. As First Chosen of the House of di Caraat, I’m sure I, too, will have the occasional—difficulty—to handle.”
Smooth, dignified, and with a flick of Power. Perhaps unintended.
Perhaps not. Aryl let her own swell past her shields, saw with no satisfaction how the other’s mouth tightened in response. Games. Did Oran not see how pointless they were? How destructive they could become?
“Feel free to leave this particular difficulty to the House of Sarc,” she suggested. “I appreciate how much work you have ahead of you.”
The two disappeared without another word.
Enris raised an eyebrow. “Husni’s right. ’Porting could use some manners.”
Aryl gazed at the place where they’d been. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she sighed. “Bern’s . . .”
He stopped being your heart-kin the moment he let Oran control him. Beneath, something cold. Enris wasn’t about to forgive Bern.
“She’s more Powerful—”
“Since when did that matter between Chosen? Between any of us?”