Rift in the Sky полностью

She didn’t care. She clamped a hand on Enris’ wrist and concentrated . . .

. . . as she’d hoped, the petal-roofed chamber was empty of all but sunlight.

“ ‘The M’hiray,’ ” she repeated acidly. “No more surprises, Enris.”

“Promise to stay still longer than a moment, then.”

“I—” Aryl deliberately sat on a bench and put her hands together, though every nerve screamed to move. Which worked much better as a way to find answers, she thought ruefully, in the canopy. “I promise.”

This gained her a doubtful look, surely deserved, but her Chosen sat across from her and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. His face was thinner than she remembered. A lock of black hair shadowed his dark eyes. Or was it something grim she felt?

“After the explosion, the water rose quickly,” he told her, sharing images at the same time. “Within tenths, we were trapped inside. There was no choice. We had to ’port for food. That was what everyone was waiting for—proof the M’hir was safe. Since then?” A laugh without humor. “I thought I was used to Ziba popping in and out. Wait till you’re in a room and fifty Chosen appear out of the air. ’Porting’s become—” his lips curled, “—remarkably casual.”

She’d ignored the oddly quick shifts in her sense of place; she had, as her Chosen said, been too close to an explosion. But they were real. The newcomers were ’porting from room to room instead of walking! Frivolous, wasteful . . . Aryl kept her temper with an effort, concentrated on turning her bracelet around and around on her wrist. “You’d think,” she said more calmly, “some would have gone home.”

“Apparently this remains home,” with a shrug that invited her to share the irony. “But you’re right. Once in a while, someone ’ports to their former Clan. For belongings, to check on those left behind, curiosity. Whatever the reason, no one stays long.”

“Aren’t they welcome?” She’d been afraid of that. How did ‘M’hiray’ appear to ordinary Om’ray?

And when had she accepted the distinction, too?

“Welcome?” Enris looked thoughtful. “No one’s said. That’s not why, though. It’s the connection you discovered, through the M’hir.” His hand sketched a link between them. “Turns out to be stronger than the link to other Om’ray. Anyone who leaves is drawn back.”

“You tried.” He wouldn’t take another’s word for something this significant.

“Yes.” His face turned bleak. “At first, I thought it was simply the instinct to return to my Chosen—not that I had to worry about your getting up to risk yourself anytime soon.”

Aryl snorted.

“But it was different,” Enris went on. “At Sona, with the others, I felt—it was like being back in the aircar. I needed to return. Though not as strong. Nothing,” he said soberly, “could be.”

That moment, that feeling. Aryl caught her breath. Was that when Om’ray had split in two?

“It has to be,” she said aloud.

“Has to be what?”

She could see it as surely as his dear face. “Stretch a rope too far and it becomes weak. When Marcus flew us over the mountains—what if it weakened our connection to other Om’ray? Enough so this new bond took over when we fell out of the world and were about to be—” What? Lost? Was that what lay beyond the world? Nothing but minds and selves dissolving in the M’hir? Aryl forced away the terrifying image. “When we went too far,” she finished, proud of her steady voice. “Without a strong link to other Om’ray, only our connection through the M’hir could save us. And it did. By pulling us together. All of us. Here.”

His eyes lit with comprehension. “Of course. The Cloisters where we practiced ’porting. Where Oran was the Keeper.”

“The Cloisters that shared her dreams with all of Cersi.” Aryl shook her head, but it wasn’t denial. “My mother told me a Cloisters affects the binding within a Clan. Sona’s is the only one tied to the M’hir.”

“Meaning we’re tied to it?” Enris shook his head. “I hope not. As it is, we’ll have to keep ’porting for supplies. We’ve nothing to trade with other Clans.” An abrupt, bitter laugh. “We’ll need those coats.” He hesitated. “Any chance you can tell the Oud to drain the lake?”

Aryl didn’t bother to point out that only her Chosen would think she’d remain Speaker with three older ones already vying for that position. Or that they had no idea if any Oud survived to do the repair. “If they don’t,” she told him, “we’ll have Tikitik for neighbors.”

“Tikitik?” He scrunched his face. “Wonderful. I doubt they’d let us go back to the old ways here—fire, living on the ground. Oh, no. There’ll be climbing. Next there’ll be biters. You know they prefer my skin to yours.”

He kept it light for her sake, Aryl thought. She moved to sit beside him, rested her head on his chest, and wrapped her arms around his middle. Her fingers didn’t meet. Their minds did, a deep mingling that couldn’t hide the truth.

If they were now M’hiray, not Om’ray . . . if their children would be . . .