Rift in the Sky (45 page)

Hear me.
Anaj.
We don't know the full consequence of using the Maker
.

Understandable, Aryl thought wryly, if Adepts had only used it before killing those of damaged mind.

The Oldest Adept of all continued.
Our connection as Om'ray does more than define the shape of the world and where we are within it. It holds our names, for those who can read them. It holds our past, for only those minds we've touched do we remember as
real
. Once the Maker breaks that connection, we don't know what will be left.

“The M'hir. It will stay,” Oran said firmly. “The M'hir will keep our Clan together and take us where we must be.”

Admirable confidence. Aryl wished she shared it. Though to Oran's credit, she was Sona's Keeper. She could be trying to encourage all those looking up at them.

Or herself.

Naryn stepped forward, head high, face and hair perfectly composed. Her shields were impenetrable. “We will not forget the gift of Marcus Bowman to the M'hiray,” she announced, then looked to Aryl. “I will need your help with the Human's memories.”

Aryl nodded. His gesture.

Sian spoke next. “The two of you will choose where we will go. When you have the locate, hold that image. Oran, Anaj, and I will add our strength so all will
share
it. We 'port when—” he faltered. For some reason, he looked at Taisal.

Who finished smoothly, “—when the Maker completes its task and we are free.” She turned gracefully and lifted her hands to the pillar.

“Wait.” Aryl heard the word before she realized she'd said it, before she knew why.

Taisal glanced over her shoulder and smiled the most beautiful smile.
I did, Daughter. I waited for you to become who you are, who our people need. I need wait no longer.
“Don't let them fall.”

She couldn't move, couldn't think.
Mother . . .

A hand took hers.
An Adept must control the Maker. The locate, heart-kin. They're waiting.
Naryn dropped her shields. Sent image after image of rock and water and empty spaces.

“Then who'd pull up the ladder?”

Taisal di Sarc pressed her hands to the Maker and it began to glow. Brighter and brighter and brighter. Until . . .

...
the world flowed away,

All she could hear was a voice.
The locate . . . Aryl . . . where do we go . . .

All she could see was rock and water and strange twisted growths like bone . . . rock, water, bone . . . over everything crawled numbers and lines . . .
Site report 58323 . . . Site report 58324 . . . Site report 58325 . . .
rock and water and growing bone . . . numbers and lines . . . rocks . . .

...
none of it was
real.

More voices.
Where do we go . . . ? Where can we go? DESPAIR.

No more despair. She wanted peace. And happiness. Anything familiar. She
reached
with all her strength and will . . .

And there it was.

Aryl di Sarc poured Power into that image, felt others do the same, felt
confusion
become
purpose.

With the others of her kind, she concentrated and let the M'hir take her . . .

...
a bracelet turned around and around,

As the M'hiray disappeared, Watchers roused to follow, became voice and force and purpose.

...
While a mind became voice,

T
HE M'HIR WIND BEGAN out of sight, out of mind. It stirred first where baked sand met restless surf. It became fitful and petulant as it passed over the barrens, moving dunes and scouring stone. Sometimes it sighed and curled back on itself, as if absentminded. But it never stilled.

It only grew.

It roared over the mountains and brought Sona a storm of hot, dry dust. Ditches hid their moisture beneath pebbles. Low walls and sturdy buildings protected the fields. But the harvest spoiled on stems and rotted in the ground.

The M'hir gave thunderous voice to Yena's Watchers. But no one danced among the rastis groves or lifted gleaming hooks to the sky. Dresel flew free on its wings, the prize of wastryls.

Cersi was not to change.

Everything had.

 

An Tsessas (Archivist Second Class, Undetermined)

Artrul (Triad First, Site One, Undetermined)

Janex Jymbobobii (Triad Third, Site One, Carasian)

Josen (Triad Second replacement, Site Four, Undetermined)

Marcus Bowman (Triad First, Site One, then Four, Human)

Meen (Triad Third replacement, Site Four, Undetermined)

P'tr sit 'Nix (Pilot, Site Two, Tolian)

Pilip (Triad Second, Site One, Trant)

Tomas Vogt ( Archivist Second Class, Undetermined)

Tyler Henshaw (Triad First, Site Two, Human)

A
FIVE-FINGERED HAND, thick and spotted with age, brushed over plas sheets, tipped a mem-cube on its side, then turned palm up. “That's it?”

“Yes. Everything portable was gone. We searched for remains with orbital scanners and midlevel vidbots with no success. We're contacting next of kin based on staff records. Members of an indigenous population, the—” a slim, delicately scaled finger tapped a screen, “—the Oud, may have been involved although there's—ah—distinct possibility of scavengers. You saw the last annual report, I'm sure.”