Rift in the Sky

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.

“Have you dreamed?” Aryl asked, guessing the answer.

Oran’s lips pressed together.

Which meant no. She resisted the urge to shake the other. The Grona Adepts’ hoarding of secrets made everyone’s life more difficult, including their own. Her hair slithered restlessly over one shoulder. She mollified her tone—the hair being another matter—and allowed sincerity and concern past her shields. “How can the rest of us help?”

“The others can’t.” Oran smoothed the robe over her knees, traced a curl of embroidery in the fabric, her gaze intent on those actions. “You might,” she said after a long moment.

Aryl carefully tightened her shields, particularly those which—sometimes—kept her dear and ever-vigilant Chosen from sensing her reactions. Amazing, the self-control their Joining had taught her. Among other things.

She coughed and focused. “How?”

Oran turned her hand. Its calluses were hardened now, no longer red and swollen. She’d learned their value. “Come with me.”

Courage indeed. Without hesitation, Aryl touched her fingertips to the other’s palm.

The chamber disappeared . . .

. . . to be replaced by chaos.

Aryl blinked and stood. Oran remained seated, head down, face in her hands. She’d used the last of her strength in the ’port.

A ’port into a stinger nest, Aryl decided. One just prodded with a stick. Her. Angry voices crossed from every side. Suspicion and fear rilled from mind to mind. “Fool! Why did you bring her here?” “She found us!” “Can’t trust her! Send her away!” “Oran, did she hurt you?”

The last, from Bern as he dropped to his knees before his Chosen while giving her a scathing look, was more than enough. Aryl sent a snap of irritation. Deran cried out. The rest fell silent and stared at her.

In the respite, doubtless brief, Aryl surveyed the strange room. What was this place? As large as the Council Chamber. An entire Clan could fit in here. The construction matched the rest of the Cloisters, plain yellow walls and resilient floor, but the windowless walls were broken by narrow doors, five evenly spaced along each long side, two on each shorter one. The lighting came not from ceiling strips but from panels behind knee-high platforms.

The platforms. Oran and she had ’ported to sit on one; there were more. Far more. Oval in shape, they lined the walls, each topped with a soft pad of some brown material she’d never seen before. Beds, Aryl decided. For the Adepts? She’d believed her mother had had her own room, sparse but comfortable. Had she been wrong?

Yena had thirteen Adepts. There were beds here for many times that number.

The two closest bore additional blankets, familiar ones. They’d come from the storage mound. As had, Aryl frowned, the incongruous pile of dishes, pots, and—yes, that was one of the oil heaters used for cooking—on the floor. The bulging sacks leaning against the wall doubtless contained food as well as extra clothing. The Tuanas’ doing, she guessed. No Yena would take from his own.

Yet two were part of it. Gijs had the grace to flush a dark red. Bern, preoccupied with his weary Chosen, paid no attention. Fools. She restrained her temper. “How can I help?”

Hoyon sank down on the bed behind him. His hands trembled. “You can’t.”

“You don’t belong here.” This from Menasel.

Aryl smiled her mother’s smile. “Neither do you. Them—” with a nod to exhausted Adepts, “—I can understand. Why are you here? Or you, Gijs. Kran. Deran. Bern. Someone else does your share of the work right now.”

Deran scowled fiercely. “I’m no digger in dirt.”