Others took to the sky, for the M’hir was both opportunity and signal. The great rastis unfolded their tops, exposing seed pods ripe and ready to open. Touched by the hot, dry wind, they cracked, their interiors uncurling in spirals of red, wings unfolding.
As happened every M’hir, Sona Om’ray took to the canopy, hooks ready.
For the M’hir would end, and only while it blew could they harvest what they needed to survive.
To endure.
For whatever time they had left.
Chapter 33
..SLIDING . . .
Childhood it was, this letting go, this heedless joy . . .
Which part of me resisted. The Passage didn’t carry us; we fell, and I’d never cared for that sensation.
But we—for I was far from alone—were going somewhere, and the M’hir couldn’t stop us. Falling was less than effortless; it would have taken more Power than I had or all of us together to leave the Passage now . . .
Which part of me distrusted. The Passage didn’t lead us; we were taken, and I’d never allowed another force to rule me.
But the weakened and weak could use their strength to hold together and stay safe . . .
So I let myself fall and be taken.
Though I did wonder what Morgan thought of it all . . .
Interlude
...DROWNING . . .
His mind knew he didn’t breathe, didn’t need to breathe.
What the mind knew was irrelevant. There was no doubt he was drowning . . .
. . . what had been a beach underfoot having vanished, replaced by this ferocious boiling sea. Did it sweep him anywhere or merely suck him down? No way to know . . .
No way to stop . . .
. . . drowning . . .
Something bumped him. Curiosity or hunger? His mind knew—too well—there was life in the M’hir.
Bad enough he was drowning—he’d no intention of being eaten at the same time. He twisted and kicked, or whatever was the equivalent here. Nothing.
Bump.
He welcomed anger, it being safer than fear, and kicked again and again.
Nothing. He’d driven it off, he thought, wondering why he felt afraid again.
Then . . .
That crawling sensation, as if something watched, as if he’d gained the attention of what he most certainly didn’t want to meet.
. . . drowning . . .
Might be best.
Chapter 34
...HERE.
As my heart resumed beating, I strained to see anything but darkness. Had we left the M’hir or been immured there?
“Lights, anyone?” Nothing could have sounded so good at that moment as Morgan’s voice, however breathless.
I heard a fumbling.
And there was light, low and gentle, increasing as our eyes adjusted. I’d not appreciated portlights before, I told myself, feasting my eyes on my Chosen’s dear face. “We did it!” I noticed the pallor of his skin, a wildness in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Morgan’s lips quirked, and the wildness faded. “Glad to be breathing. Now,” he went on briskly, “comes the fun part. Where are we?”
“Where are we?” echoed someone else, with a hint of fear.
I looked for myself, more than curious.
Whatever I’d imagined, it wasn’t this. Scraps of leather, gourds and knives, rope—nothing brought to the Trade Pact by our ancestors belonged in this place. The gleaming floor beneath our feet appeared metal yet felt resilient. It was banded with color, the result as beautiful as it was unlike anything I’d seen before.
The portlight strengthened and rose, revealing more floor and more bands, drew walls from the shadows.
“How big is this—?”
“Big,” I heard someone answer.
Finally, the dimensions of the chamber became clear. Five times our number could have stood here. Longer than it was wide, the room curved along what must be an outer wall, for our images reflected in tall arched windows. Black, beyond those windows, as though the M’hir pressed against them.
“Night,” Morgan pronounced it. Whatever had unsettled him having passed, he looked around with the same avid curiosity we all shared.
No furnishings, but close at hand a narrow raised dais was centered on the windowed wall. It looked oddly familiar.
“For a Council,” Tle exclaimed. I supposed she was disappointed there were no chairs.
Instead, something unfamiliar stood in the center of the dais. The tall smooth pillar was featureless and green—no, more than green. At a closer look, I could see other darker hues in it, as if pieces of a—
“A machine,” Morgan stated. “It fits in this slot.” He pointed to the base, then indicated similar shapes marked by texture in the surface of the dais. “There’s room for more.” He looked around the chamber. “Nothing that’s here.”
Here being . . . where?
Near the pillar’s base lay an incongruous pile of brown fabric, like laundry forgotten. Morgan glanced at me and I nodded gratefully, unwilling to touch whatever it was. Whoever it had been.
My Human stepped up on the dais, the soft tread of his boots and their echo the only sounds other than our breathing. We were drawn closer, those with burdens setting them down. He went on his heels by the pile, moved some of it gently. “Just clothing,” he reassured. “A robe. Shoes. This.” Morgan stood, holding up a pendant and chain. He came back, bringing it to me. “Can you tell if this is Om’ray?” he asked.
Because we didn’t know, yet, where we were.
What did he find?
I shared what I was seeing with Aryl. The pendant was pale and green, its shape organic, like a hardened leaf. There were markings etched into it, more like lettering than adornment. There was a chain, implying it went around a neck; the links were sturdy rather than delicate.
There’s something—I’ve seen this, Aryl said suddenly. But where?
That was promising. I held out my hand.
“Heavier than it looks,” Morgan advised, letting the pendant and chain drop onto my palm.
The lights went out.
Interlude
THE INSTANT THE NECKLACE touched Sira’s palm she went limp. Morgan hurriedly caught her in his arms, easing her down. “Sira!” He reached along their link.
She was—she was asleep. That was all.
He looked around to find the rest of the Clan lying where they’d collapsed. Their faces were peaceful, despite their awkward positions. Asleep, too, he guessed, swallowing hard. Why?
The pendant seemed harmless. Nonetheless, he gave it a grim look and left it where it had fallen. “Witchling, wake up,” he coaxed, running his fingers through her hair. The locks quivered, recognizing his touch, then went still.
Honest exhaustion, after the Passage and all else, he’d have understood. This was something else. Making Sira as comfortable as he could on the floor, Morgan went from one Clan to another to do the same. With each, he tried a gentle shake, then reached. All were in a deep sleep. To his dismay, none had shields in place, leaving their minds open and vulnerable.
Not everyone was a stranger. He was overjoyed to find Enora and Agem; less happy to see Degal di Sawnda’at, head of the old Council and among those made uncomfortable by a Human’s presence.
He’d leave the past behind if they would.
None were aware of him. Eyes roved behind closed lids, flitting side-to-side in uncanny unison. They dreamed; he couldn’t help but believe it was the same dream.
A quick perimeter check revealed one door, its ornate panels immovable by any means at his disposal. Cupping his hands, Morgan pressed his face to one of the windows. Outside wasn’t completely dark. A faint glow marked what might be a rail running parallel to where he stood.
He spotted a cluster of lights, barely discer
nible in the distance. Another building? The edge of a city?
Sunrise would tell him. About to turn away, a flicker of light caught his eye, closer.
Too close! He spun around.
The pillar was no longer green and black. Brighter areas moved and pulsed beneath its surface. Fleeting sparks coursed from side to side, met to spawn more, then faded.
The machine was alive.
Morgan grabbed his scanner from his pack, running the device up and down the pillar, walking around to cover every part of it. Unknown material. Unknown energy source. Unknown function.
How wonderfully useless.
He hurried between sleepers to reach Sira, setting the scanner to its med function. Her vitals were normal, for Clan, something his inner sense had told him. He’d have been entranced by readings for the baby within, if not for it being Sira’s great-grandmother.
Who’d been here before. In fact, she’d left with the M’hiray from this very spot, if he understood anything about passages through the M’hir. Morgan stared at the pillar. Had their return activated it? Was this unnatural sleep some sort of defense?
He’d ask Aryl, but as far as he could tell, she slept, too.
His thoughts darkened. He could destroy the machine easily enough; hadn’t he brought what he’d need? No. Not unless it became clear they were being harmed. Nothing for it, the Human decided with a heavy sigh, but to wait—wait and hope they’d wake up and be able to explain.
Morgan positioned himself to face the door, using his belongings to support his back, his chest and arms to cradle the one who mattered most. It was night. There’d be day.
He’d stood watch before, if not like this.
Surely there’d be day.
Before dawn, Morgan came alert. Some of the M’hiray were stirring, their sounds reassuringly peaceful. At last. He checked Sira. Was she waking? He couldn’t tell.
One change. The junction between the walls and ceiling had begun to glow. The illumination grew in intensity until the chamber might have been bathed in sunlight. Because the sleepers were waking?
Or, Morgan tensed, had someone noticed their presence?
It seemed so. After a moment, a section of wall farther down spun silently on its length, letting through a single figure. She uttered an astonished, “~@#~%. ^!^~!” before noticing him.
And heading his way.
The long knife—make that two knives—belted at her side gave him pause, but she didn’t draw them as she approached. Leaving his own weapons where they were, Morgan slowly spread his arms in greeting. “Hello.”
Her limbs were tightly wrapped in white gauze; more hung in folds around her neck as if otherwise used to cover her head. Her thigh-length leather jerkin was coated with overlapped black scales. Clothed to a purpose, though for what he couldn’t imagine. She moved with light, fluid steps. Morgan modified his opinion: a hunter.
Chosen, by the net confining her black hair and the proud set to her scarred, still lovely face. Her skin was dappled, not as a Human would bear freckles, but with splashes of rich brown on cream. Unusual coloring. He’d seen it before only in the di Licor brothers and their mother, though much fainter.
Making this the Clan Homeworld, if he’d doubted, and this his first Om’ray. Success of a sort. Maybe she’d know why the new arrivals slept. Sira. We’ve company. She snored gently, oblivious.
The Om’ray spoke another string of fluid, incomprehensible syllables. Her tone, if related at all to the Clan he knew, expressed extreme displeasure. The comlink in his pack had a translate function, the best he could afford—there being those species who’d switch to their language at the trade table to discuss an offer, thinking to be secretive—but it required data; at minimum, a dictionary with rudimentary grammar. A dictionary Marcus Bowman probably had included in the records his daughter had destroyed.
Another planet. He had to deal on this one.
Where the situation couldn’t look good to a stranger, Morgan admitted. Helpless recumbent forms, himself the only one awake and armed. If she could tell he wasn’t Clan, well, that made it worse, didn’t it?
More words, slow and menacing.
An ultimatum.
When you don’t know what not to say, went the Trader axiom, say nothing at all. Or—on impulse, Morgan made the Clan gesture of greeting between equals.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed in consideration. She spoke again.
A lock of hair wound around Morgan’s thigh; Sira, beginning to stir.
Faster than he’d have thought possible, the longer knife was out. The Om’ray indicated Sira with it, swept to include the others, then aimed the tip at him, flicking the blade to one side.
Move away, that meant.
Morgan shook his head. If Om’ray couldn’t sense their connection as Chosen, maybe a demonstration? He brought his hand to his leg. Strands of living red-gold slipped up and around his wrist.
Sira wasn’t the only one rousing, he saw with relief.
The knife tip came nearer. Businesslike weapon, that, with a well-maintained edge, runnels for blood, and a small, very nasty hook at the end. “^!^~!”
“~@#~%?” The same language from—Morgan tore his eyes from the very nasty hook to stare down at his Chosen. Though Sira’s eyes were barely open, she was struggling to her feet, as were others. “~@#~%?” she repeated sternly, looking at the Om’ray as he helped her.
He sighed with relief. There’d been no hint his Clan spoke anything other than Comspeak, the common tongue of the Trade Pact, and how Sira understood this new language was something he’d love to discuss—later. First, “How do you feel—”
The edge he’d admired rested against his throat. Morgan ignored it. Sira. Talk to me.
~%. ^.
Their link was intact. The feel of her voice in his mind hadn’t changed. Why couldn’t he understand her? He saw her pick up the pendant. SIRA!
She grimaced at him. @`^^~%&/^
Again, he heard only gibberish. “Sira. Please. Speak to me.”
Sira took a step back, her wide gray eyes filling with unease.
At him?
The edge pressed. Morgan tensed, ready to rid himself of the distraction, then felt the snap of a powerful connection through the M’hir.
Human Chosen. It was Aryl. What’s happened?
As quickly as he could, he supplied the image of the pillar machine and the roomful of Clan overcome by sleep, then, Sira’s talking like an Om’ray. A word Aryl didn’t remember. He sent the image of the Clanswoman holding a knife to his throat. This is an Om’ray. We’ve arrived to an interesting welcome.
Other Clan—M’hiray—were rising. They spoke to one another instead of sending, which normally he’d have taken for a sign they felt safe enough to be social except that they, too, were speaking in the other tongue.
Sleepteach. Feeling his surprise, Aryl seemed almost amused. We lived on your worlds, Human. I don’t remember this machine, but perhaps it’s the Om’ray version, to help us settle in our new home.
It made sense. Of course it did. He should have been the one to see it. They’d dreamed to learn, though Human-made sleepteach only added to what was already learned. Certainly being fluent in the local tongue would be a huge advantage to newcomers.
As not having a clue put him at considerable disadvantage. Do you understand it? he asked her hopefully.
No. With a touch of asperity. This body has but begun to grow. I’m fixed within its potential.
Information Morgan tucked away to consider later. When he didn’t have a knife at his throat.
And Sira looking at him so strangely.
What need for words between them? Confident, he sought their link, poured love and his own concern along it.
Only to slam into a shield stronger than anything she’d put between them before.
The
closed panel door opened and more Om’ray poured into the chamber. Two grabbed his arms, and Morgan let them, too stunned to fight.
Watching Sira turn away, as if she no longer cared.
Chapter 35
THERE WERE TASKS TO DO, proper for an Om’ray and important. I was the Keeper, responsible for . . .
. . . itch. Why did I hold the Speaker’s pendant in my hand? I was the Keeper, my role to stay in the Cloisters and guide the dreams of . . .
. . . itch. My Clan—Sona—who stood around me, well rested, their eager faces filled with smiles. Why was I confused? I’d guided their dreaming and mine. We were ready to start our new lives.
. . . itch. Here? Not here, of course. I shook my head at the thought. Only myself, Sona’s Adepts, and those needing their care—the aged or Lost—would spend our lives within the Cloisters.
. . . Cloisters? Another itch. It was becoming maddening, this prickle of discomfort as I thought of what was right and proper, such as proper homes for the rest of my people. We, the Sona, would build them, with help from our new neighbors. We’d brought everything necessary.
None of which were here, I realized with sudden alarm, seeing only a few scattered bags. “Where are the materials we brought with us?”
The stranger Om’ray who’d greeted me eyed the pendant in my hands, then replied diffidently. “Speaker, we do not understand. What materials?”
I had no idea. Itch. I wasn’t the Speaker. Who is our Speaker? I sent urgently, to my people.
Confusion.
You hold the pendant, said one. You must be. Dozens more added their agreement. From others, Weren’t you? as if they struggled to remember . . .
. . . itch. Had I been? Having no better answer, I accepted their will and put the chain over my head, settling the pendant between my breasts where it could stay until Council chose . . .
. . . itch. We had no Council. How could we have no Council?
“Speaker?” the stranger Om’ray prompted.
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