Rift in the Sky (41 page)

Understandable, for a broken mind to dream of danger and flight, Sian had told her. He'd relinquished his bedside place with reluctance. Her mother's former heart-kin, like Yao, saw not a Stranger or a not-Om'ray, but someone in pain he couldn't help.

She'd gestured gratitude with a sincerity the Yena Adept appeared to find startling. She should have trusted Taisal's judgment, Aryl thought, embarrassed by her younger self.

Sian hadn't left her much to do. Aryl rearranged the Human's belongings on the crate-table: the sum of his possessions. A couple of small devices of unknown function, an ordinary-enough comb, a handful of the Human's dreadful rations.

She pulled his image disk from her pocket. “I promised,” she whispered. Not that any of them were safe.

“What's that?” Yao's chin lifted from her knees. She sat on a pillow in a shadowed corner, so quiet and still Aryl had almost forgotten her presence.

“It holds images of his family.” Not knowing how to make it work, Aryl set it carefully by the comb. “His sister. His Chosen. Their young son and daughter.” His Chosen, being Human, wouldn't die or be Lost when Marcus was gone. She'd have to live with her grief, and raise their children alone.

“Karina and Howard,” Yao said promptly. “Marcus told me. Howard gets into mischief all the time, like Ziba. Karina behaves. Like me.”

How well a baby could behave was an open question, Aryl thought, smiling to herself, but didn't doubt the affection between Human and child. Or why Yao stayed by Marcus tenth after tenth, instead of playing with her friends.

Healers were rare among Om'ray. That important Talent showed itself first as an ability to
sense
who was injured or ill, a need to be near them. Costa's Chosen, Leri, had been drawn to an injured scout, when only a child herself. Even if distressed their daughter was drawn to a Human, Yao's parents should be glad for her future.

If Hoyon looked beyond his hooked nose, Aryl grumbled to herself. “You missed lunch,” she commented.

“Lunch?” Yao leaped to her feet, then looked at Marcus. “I'm not hungry,” she said bravely, sinking back down.

Unlikely. “Go.” Aryl made a shooing motion with her hands. “I'll be here.”

The child disappeared with a grin.

Going back to the crate-table, Aryl laid out the scraps of fabric Enris had given her, the ones with words in Comspeak on them:
Archivist Second Class Tomas Vogt, Archivist Second Class An Tsessas.
She agreed with her Chosen; Marcus would want to know about them. She added the geoscanner. It was his, too.

“Don't turn . . . on here, Aryl.” An urgent whisper. Brown eyes watched her. Had he been asleep at all?

Anxious eyes. “You're safe,” she soothed. Something made her collect the fabric scraps before she sat beside him. “Those who took you are dead, Marcus. All of them. Their machine exploded like the vidbot.” If louder.

“Good,” with venom. “Thieves . . . killers.” Marcus made an effort to calm himself. “The machine is . . . called a starship. Aircar that . . . flies between . . . worlds.”

“Starship.” He'd used the word before. Aryl wasn't sure she liked the sound of it, stars being among the untouchable confusions the Human so casually added to her life. “It wasn't the starship you expected—the one to take you home?”

Definite offense. “No! Not mine!” A terrible cough. “
Pirates
!”

His language might sound
right
to her ears now. That didn't, Aryl thought with some frustration, give her every meaning. She left the topic of “pirates,” sure it was a word to give Haxel later, and put the 'scanner on the bed. “Can you use this to call for help?”

“No one . . . to call. All dead . . . Artrul. Tyler. Their Triads. P'tr sit 'Nix . . . He tried for . . . Site Three . . .
shotdown.
” He strained to get the words out. “Site Three . . . attacked first, Aryl. First . . . to stop . . . offworld alarm . . . should have known . . . I found . . . They died in their beds, Aryl! . . . Josen and Meen . . . my—my new Triad . . . Harmless! Helpless! . . . No need to kill—” He began to cough.

She gave him a drink from his cup. “Easy.”

He swallowed, eyes dull. “Try to fix . . . com. No time . . . Pirates followed . . . they find me . . . they take . . . they take . . .” His lips worked in silence and he gave her a helpless look.

“I know.” No need to explain, she thought. The swarm might eat you alive, but theirs was honest hunger. The mindcrawler? “The pirates are dead,” she reminded him.

Marcus rallied. “Site Four . . . still intact . . . Vogt? Tsessas? You save . . . them too?”

“We were too late.” She opened her fist and let the scraps fall on his blanket. “I'm sorry, Marcus.”

He fingered the names gently, smoothed them flat, then sighed. “They died to . . . save history.” With a gesture to the crates that walled him on three sides.

She didn't correct him; he deserved better memories than their suspicions. “The Runners went back for the artifacts when the water began to rise. Some Tuana,” her lip curled, “can't resist what might be of value.” A “value” that had done this to Marcus. At least the others hadn't allowed the foul things inside the Cloisters. She couldn't help but add, “They should have left them to rot.”

“Aryl.” The Human gave her a distressed look. “History . . . not to blame. These . . . these are important. These . . . yours now. Keep . . . safe.”

“If you say so,” she said to please him. She'd trade them all for his survival. “What about your starship? Can you contact it?”

“Local com only . . . starship too far . . . but . . .” a sudden gleam in his eyes, “. . . when they get here . . . they'll send down . . . search parties.” Marcus reached for the 'scanner, only to pull back. “Not here. You take . . . to my camp. Close as water allows . . . Set distress beacon.” He showed her how to turn the dome, then press it down. “Away from Om'ray,” he insisted.

Even now, he wouldn't draw the attention of his people to them.

There were cracks in the cliff—better still, she'd climb the Hoveny structure and put it on one of its wide ledges. Aryl took it and stood. “We'll watch for an answer,” she promised. “Bring you to them as soon as—”

“Aryl. No hurry.”

“What do you mean?” she bluffed, knowing full well. “The faster we get you help the better.”

“There is no help.” This with such calm certainty, she sat back down, the 'scanner clutched in both hands. “I know this,” Marcus brushed trembling fingers across his forehead, “can't be . . . fixed. Best my people . . . do . . . is keep me . . . breathing. Not enough. . . . Not enough . . . Already I don't . . . always know where . . . I am or . . . who. I . . . can't taste . . . can't smell. Things . . . things I know,” with a hint of desperation, “. . . slip away. To speak . . . hurts . . . to think . . . hurts . . .” His gentle brown eyes pored over her face. “Aryl. Only one . . . thing left . . . I need you to . . . do it.”

She'd known this, too.

With a heavy heart, Aryl drew her longknife and laid it across her lap.

Marcus pressed back into his pillows and raised both hands to fend her off. “Not that . . . !” He didn't relax until she sheathed the blade. “Should know better . . . what I ask . . . a Yena,” he said, making a croaking sound and wiping his eyes. A laugh?

“Your choice,” she told him, trying not to show her relief. “How can I help?”

“I . . . want to . . . leave a message. To put with . . . the beacon . . . for my family.” He pointed to the image disk on the crate.

She gave it to him and waited, curious. Marcus half smiled. “Alone.”

“Of course.” Sensitive as an osst, Aryl chided herself. He wanted to say good-bye to his Chosen, his children. “I'll be outside. Call when you're done.”

“Then . . . you can tell . . . me all about . . . you and Enris and Sweetpie. I want to . . . know the . . . future of my other family.”

Aryl managed a smile.

So did she.

Water was more trouble than winter. Aryl glared at the flood. The dirt-heavy waves rolled a bloated Oud corpse past the Cloisters, one of many. Nothing feasted on them. She never imagined she'd miss underwater hunters. Maybe a rumn or two would . . .

“How is he?”

Aryl glanced at Naryn, then put her chin back on her crossed arms. She was watching a particular nekis stalk, hoping to see the water level go down. It hadn't, as yet, cooperated. “Leaving a message for his family.”

Her friend joined her at the wall, shoulder against hers. After a long moment, “So he knows he's dying.”

“Marcus isn't a fool!” Aryl snapped, then gestured apology. “Yes, he knows,” she sighed, counting corpses. Three. Five. “Did they agree on a Council yet?” Decision makers. She'd wanted to be free of that responsibility, Aryl reminded herself. Another good reason to be here and not in the Council Chamber.

“Done.” Naryn snapped her fingers.

“That was—” too fast. “How?”

“The Adepts. They sort themselves by strength and desired Talents. When they proposed that reasoning for our Council, argued it was the M'hiray's best chance for survival, no one objected.”

She'd have objected. Power wasn't everything. “Adepts, then.”

“Some. They wanted the Speakers. Gur di Sawnda'at and Dann d'sud Friesnen agreed. Your mother declined. You,” with a nudge at her shoulder, “weren't there.”

“Which would be declining,” Aryl nudged back. The Speakers were obvious choices. Adepts who knew how to talk to other races, they would understand the difference between sensible risk and outright folly. As for Taisal?

Her mother was more concerned with the M'hir than the M'hiray.

“Who else?”

Distaste.
“Two from Tuana. Ruis di Mendolar, Mia d'sud Serona.”

Both powerful Adepts. Mia had come on Passage from Amna, so he knew that Clan as well. But . . . Aryl frowned and kept her voice low. “Weren't they the ones—?”

“Who declared me ruined?” Naryn's shields opened to share
irony.
“They had to accept me if they wanted who I carry.”

“Anaj.”

They insisted.
The Old Adept sounded more pleased than otherwise.
Quite flattering, considering the state I'm in.

Considering the strength and experience of that mindvoice, Aryl thought, they'd have been fools not to.

“And a final two, from Yena.” Naryn watched for her reaction. “Cetto and Seru.”

So Power wasn't the only factor. Good for them, Aryl thought, feeling better by the moment. Cetto d'sud Teerac, the former Councillor from Yena, had always been a bold and courageous thinker. As for her cousin? “What happened when Seru heard her name?”

“I thought Ezgi would have to pick her up off the floor,” Naryn chuckled. “But she's our only Birth Watcher. The Adepts felt strongly about including her knowledge.”

“She'll surprise them all,” Aryl predicted. Easy words, but when she finished, something felt . . . wrong. She turned to Naryn, who no longer smiled. “Something I should know?”

“Seru di Parth made the first proposal to the M'hiray Council. One they accepted unanimously.”
Heart-kin, I'm so sorry.
“It concerns you and the Human.”

If it involved Seru, Aryl assured herself numbly, it should be about the naming ceremony, or better slings for their babies. Shouldn't it?

Not when the new generation was threatened. She'd felt it; Seru must.

“What's the proposal?”

We cannot survive inside this Cloisters. The M'hiray must leave Sona,
Anaj sent.
The
not-Om'ray
will help us find a place of our own.

Of all M'hiray, Seru was the last one she'd expect to share her Chosen's high hopes for Stranger technology, or to convince others. “How?” Aryl countered reasonably. “He has nothing left.”

“Of course he has—” Aryl stopped, understanding at last. “No.”

Naryn's hair whipped her shoulders. “Everyone's afraid for the future, Aryl. Afraid of what we might have to become. If we stay here—there's been talk of taking what we need from other Clans.”

“No.”