This Gulf of Time and Stars (28 page)

I
TCH!

The
prickle
in my mind kept intensifying. If I could have pulled open my head like an aged Eifla and scratched, I would have.

An Eifla?

. . . ITCH!
A Keeper knew how to dream safely, how to open minds to receive what the Cloisters needed its Clan to learn so gently most non-Adepts wouldn't even be aware. How could I have failed so badly?

“—Oud aren't welcome.”

I gave myself an inward shake, focusing back on what these strangers were trying to say. While making no sense, they appeared in deadly earnest.

Destin agreed with Gurutz. “Oud may not come here.”

Appearance was all I had to go by. Their minds were behind shields of unfamiliar configuration; I somehow doubted these knife-bearing strangers would grant me the moment to discover how to breach them.

“What we live near is not for an Om'ray to say,” I cautioned sternly. Or even think. The neighbors who awaited our arrival were in every sense independent of us. Ours was to be a relationship built on mutual respect and collaboration. We were farmers—

ITCHITCHITCH!

—though I wouldn't have believed it, to look at us. None of my people looked to have worked outside or hard, surely what farmers did. We'd adapt, I reminded myself. That's what a Cloisters did: prepare us to thrive outside its walls.

Protect us when we couldn't.

As I might have predicted, the two exchanged yet another look. Destin said, as she'd said a tedious number of times already, “Such matters are for Council. They will come in the morning, Speaker, to meet with you.”

They'd be awake now, by my estimation, and doubtless well-briefed, but the hour had nothing to do with the availability of their so-called Council. Power struggles I understood, even such petty ones. Unfortunately, short of attacking our hosts and forcing our way out, this struggle was one I couldn't win. We all knew it. They were polite; I would be no less in return. “I await their convenience.”

They bowed, I thought gratefully, and left me, taking the other strangers with them. Barac checked the door that turned closed behind them, shaking his head as a signal when it couldn't be reopened.

The rest of my people had made themselves little nests along the windowless wall, families and unChosen clustered. I'd asked a silent question; the answer had taken some of the joy from our safe arrival. None of us having seen another part of the Cloisters, we'd no locate for a 'port. Despite our marvelous Talent, despite our long journey to this new home, we were trapped in the Council Chamber until one of us stepped through a door, or the sun rose to reveal what was outside the windows.

Which shouldn't be.

. . .
itch.
Why couldn't I picture another place? Even if we didn't know Sona, yet, we'd come from—from somewhere. Straining to remember intensified the
ITCH
until I had to pace or scream
;
it didn't stop my efforts.

Nor could I stop glancing at the not-real. He should be miserable, shivering and bound, but he sat without moving from where they'd pushed him, his gaze steady and ever on me.

Was that pride on his face?

Destin and Gurutz judged him dangerous. He was, I'd no doubt. But to whom?

The stranger Om'ray kept us prisoner, too, as surely as if they'd tied us with ropes. They did this though we belonged in Sona and they did not. As for their Council?

I recognized no authority but the entitlement of my greater Power. If what these strangers would say after this needless wait didn't suit me?

They had strong shields. We'd see how long they lasted.

Uneasy, such thoughts, ones I shouldn't have; my growing outrage was even less helpful. My hair writhed around my shoulders in unseemly display. With no other outlet for my anger, I let it.

Seeing my mood, my own people carefully avoided me.

I needed a task. The strangers had provided gourds of water, distributing those along with flat disks of bread studded with bits of dried meat. I'd taken my share more to appease my Birth Watcher than because of appetite.

Nothing had been offered to their prisoner—my Chosen; cruel to him, potentially deadly to me.

Two could play that game. Gourd and bread in hand, I strode to the dais with an air of confidence.

An air harder to maintain as I approached him, caught by what I couldn't name. Was it the darkening of the blue in his eyes, fixed on me?

The tiny creases at the corners of his lips, as though ready to smile?

Heart pounding, I knelt beside him, offering the water. Though unable to understand my voice or inner speech, he grasped my intention. When I lifted the gourd to his mouth, he swallowed eagerly.

My eyes wouldn't leave the movement of his throat. My hair, ever-willful, sent a curious lock to touch it . . .

Finding the pulse of blood beneath skin . . . exploring the curved junction of shoulder to neck . . .

Sliding down his chest, as if drawn by lines of drying sweat.

I tore my eyes away, meeting his again. They contained a
message, intense, powerful. But what? I took a frustrated breath and the scent of him, sharp and
familiar,
filled me.

ITCH ITCH
The gourd dropped from my numb fingers.

I drew closer still, because I must. Shut my eyes and pressed my face into his neck, because I must. Felt my hair cloak us both, because this was where I had to be.

And tasting the salt on his skin was beyond me to refuse.

S
IRA!
Feeling her lips on his skin, Morgan closed his eyes, his heart singing.

Now!

Aryl. He fought to think. She was back and that meant—

A tongue tasted, the nip of teeth following. Hair, heavy and smooth, heated his bare shoulders and he reeled with a flood of desire even as hands—

Sira hasn't remembered
you.
Chosen mate.
Dry and cold.
Is that what you want?

No.
Yes. How could he not? This was Sira! Blood boiling with anticipation, he sought their deeper connection, the one that let every sensation flow back and forth in exquisite, maddening harmony until—

—there was none. Her shields were locked against him. Instead,
NO!
What she was doing, in front of—she pushed him over on his bound arms, straddled him—

Now. Or lose her.

Morgan used the agony in his arms and hands, his revulsion, his overwhelming fear of, yes, that loss, to regain control. He would do this. Save Sira. But how? Aryl had let him into her mind.

Sira guarded herself against him.

Not against us,
Aryl said.
Jason, thanks to you, I do remember; everything, to the beginning. Sira deserves no less.

Trusting her, Morgan drove himself against the most powerful mind he'd ever known.

Hoping to find the person he loved.

I
T
WAS SAID HATE
was no barrier to Choice and Joining, that Om'ray life pairings must be managed with care or this would be the result. Rutting as loveless and driven as fish spawning in their season.

I didn't hate the
not-real
. I just didn't care. So when the attack came, part of me refused to disengage from what was more urgent than defense.

But when the attack came, it wasn't one mind against me, but two.

I
F
EVER HE'D WONDERED
what had changed in the generations of M'hiray culminating in Sira, Morgan was answered now. What Aryl sent against her great-granddaughter's precise and layered protection had never been structured by training or honed in Clan duels.

It was raw, unadulterated
FORCE.

Morgan rode it—or was he part of it? Sira's defenses parted as if they were gauze and he a knife—

Finding himself in a stranger's mind, one where he existed solely as an object of lust.

He wouldn't look. Wouldn't
feel.
They didn't have time. Already, he sensed her surprise at their invasion turning to rage.

She might not remember him, but he knew the shape of her thoughts better than his own.

The shape, if not this. Morgan ran on floors banded with color he couldn't name, along corridors that rose and fell as if breathing. He closed what weren't eyes, trusting he knew the way.

RAGE!

He ran faster, knew Aryl did the same. What pursued them couldn't be fought or escaped. Not if they were to succeed.

There'd be no second chance, no second moment of surprise.

So he ran, and ran . . . until he crashed into a wall.

Morgan opened what weren't eyes. Not a wall, a door, like those in the chamber. One that hadn't been in Sira's mind before arriving on Cersi.

Locked, of course.

Morgan!
Aryl shared the image of a hidden latch.
Hurry!

Try as he might, he couldn't
touch
it. Couldn't
affect
it.

The wrong door, he realized.
It's the wrong door!

The mind around him shuddered.
ITCH!
The body pressing against his was gone, as if Sira had thrown herself clear of him, but that ominous
RAGE
closed in—

What do we do?

Show her the right one, he thought.

Morgan looked at the Om'ray door, rejecting it with all his
will,
accepting Aryl's strength, adding it to his. Not
this!

Not
this . . .

This.

The cargo hold door from the
Silver Fox.

R
AGE!!!

How DARE they!? I pursued the interlopers. They may have tricked their way into my mind, but mine was the greater POWER! Mine, the WILL! I would tear their minds apart, scatter them in the M'hir.

They fled; I chased. I almost had them when—

I came to a stop. What was this?

ITCH!!

The mind showed what it knew.

How could I know this?

A door, tall and wide, like a flat panel. No handles, no—there was a pad with symbols to the side. There was a—

The minds I'd chased faded before I could grab them. Ah! They'd put this image here to trick me, to hide behind.

All I had to do was open the door. I punched symbols at random.

A second panel slid down in front of the first, equally impenetrable, and a sound roared in what weren't ears, like wind.

DANGER!

How did I know? How did I know time was running out, that the air around me was venting into—venting into—

Not a trap. I'd made a mistake. It wasn't the first time. I'd survived by—by—there was a sequence, a code. I'd known it once.

ITCH!!!
Impossible. How could I know this door or any code to open it? I'd never seen such a thing—

The pad softened at the edges, began to sink into the wall. The door stretched, as if growing taller.

I couldn't seem to fill my lungs now, no matter how I tried. Could barely stand, if I stood at all. Ridiculous, that their illusion could defeat me.

I would solve this.

With what weren't fingers at all, I keyed in the code I shouldn't have known and couldn't forget.

The wind stopped. Reversed. No air could be better than what I breathed in great gasps, feeling my strength returning.

One panel whooshed up. The first still barred the way, more solid now. Tantalizingly familiar.

I keyed the code a second time, the pad now bright and glowing. The panel lifted more slowly than it should, resisting my will.

What was behind it? Who?

. . .
itch . . .

There was only one way to find out.

The moment the door opened, I stepped through.

“S
IRA?”
Morgan rolled over.

There, on the dais near him, her hair spread like sunset. He worked his way to her, leaving skin on the floor as he squirmed, fighting to see her face.

There.

Her eyes were closed, but expressions played across her features, emotions passing like flickers of firelight, too quickly for any one to be read.

Morgan let his head drop, content to watch and wait.

Please. Show her to me. My great-granddaughter.

He did.

Why—she has his brow, his—
her
pleased surprise
faded.
I'd
felt
Naryn in her—something of myself. Enris would be proud of her—and of you, as I am.

It may not have worked,
he cautioned, to himself as much as Aryl.

We'll know soon.

M
Y
FIRST COHERENT THOUGHT
was I should have lubricated the hold door when I did the galley's, the
Fox
being a thirsty ship.

I opened my eyes on the second. “Morgan!?”

We were lying, face-to-face, on our sides. He smiled, not lifting his head. “Hello.”

Which would have been fine if we'd been in bed, and possibly led to something delightful, but we were lying on a floor, in an alien building, with him trussed like a fowl and me—

“Oh.” I couldn't have blushed any hotter. I sat hurriedly, drawing together my clothing along with what dignity I could muster, the others in the room studiously looking elsewhere. What had I—

First thing, free my poor abused Chosen.

The next being to apologize, forever, I focused on the first.

Morgan drew on his shirt, closing the fastening one-handed while I finished putting medplas over the abrasions. I felt him watch me; felt his smile.

Morgan . . .
I choked on
remorse.

Hush.
He bent and kissed me.
Remember that?

How could he tease me, after I'd abandoned him to strangers, after I'd—

Witchling, you weren't the only one to have your past stolen by this thing.

“It's called a Maker.” I traced the line of Morgan's jaw with a finger that caught on stubble, gazed into eyes showing the strain of the past hours and events. I imagined mine looked no better.

My restored memories hadn't erased those forced into my mind; I supposed I should be grateful and not simply nauseous, but the sensation was deeply unpleasant. “I am—I remember—” I fought for words. “I believed myself the Keeper, the Adept assigned to the Dream Chamber. But this is the Council Chamber and the Maker shouldn't be here, not according to—” I tapped my head. “The Maker's a Healer's tool, used to stop a damaged mind from contaminating those Joined to it.”

By severing what binds Om'ray to one another,
Aryl told us both.
The M'hiray brought it to the Chamber to sever our binding to Sona, so we could leave this place and prevent further harm. We didn't realize it would cut us from our past.

“Which makes me wonder if its original function was forgotten.”

I blinked at him.

Morgan shrugged. “The Maker left you believing you were newly arrived and where you should be, ready to build the Sona Clan. Complete with a new language and roles. Recruiters would love it.”

‘Recruiters' being slavers who trafficked skilled labor to other worlds, kidnapping and stasis boxes being their methods of choice. “Is that what this is?” I asked, horrified.

“I doubt it's anything so simple, Sira.”

I rubbed my face, then looked to the silent throng around us. Tle should have accused me of being unable to lead by now—Barac showing concern over my very odd behavior—Degal making disapproving faces. Our Birth Watchers, young and adult, should be fussing over Aryl.

None should be sitting, eyes absent of thought, lips relaxed in
gentle smiles as though the prospect of building shacks on the ground and farming was the best of all possible futures.

I'd no problem with shacks, ground, or farming. This? This I would not abide.

You know what to do. We'll help.

Great-grandmother.
Private from Morgan, I added,
thank you.

Amusement.
Then, her mind voice turned grim.
Repay me by finding out what all this means. It can't be to the good of Om'ray.

Night—truenight—leaned on the windows still, but it couldn't be much longer before dawn and the return of the Om'ray who—as I now knew—did belong here. “Let's get to work,” I decided, pulling away from my Chosen.

At the same time, I widened my awareness of him, and his of me, until our hearts filled as one and I knew beyond doubt there was no need for guilt or forgiveness.

Though, knowing my Human, I could expect to be teased for an interminable time.

Morgan and I went from person to person, freeing the section of memory the Maker had suppressed. We began with those most able to help us: the three Healers, including Holl di Licor, and their Chosen. Two of the six went aside to be quietly and thoroughly sick. I managed not to join them, but it was close.

To my relief, the Healers took over the task, one of them sharing a technique to ease the blending of imposed and restored memories, while keeping clear which were which. Morgan and I left them to it, sitting together on the edge of the dais. Possessing a refined ability to nap anywhere, my Human leaned against me, eyes soon closed.

Parents helped their children, their shields one and the same. The older Chosen stayed close, as we did. I watched awareness enter each face, troubled to see what had been joyful—if false—acceptance turn back into confusion and dread.

We were all affected, regardless of Power or Talent,
I told them, with undertones of
confidence
and
hope
.
The machine sought to make us
into farmers.
With a note of
wry humor
that brought heads my way and won a few rueful smiles.
We've gained knowledge and a new language to help us understand the Clan already on this planet.

Then, because those Clan had mistreated him, I added,
We survived this first test because we did not come to Cersi alone. We came with Jason Morgan, a Human these Om'ray dismiss as “not-real.” What would you say to him?

They rose to their feet. As the outpouring of
trust
and
gratitude
reached him, as Morgan stood, his face pale and working, the M'hiray bowed, offering him the gesture of deepest respect, holding it—even the ones who'd wanted him dead in the past—longer than I'd ever seen.

And, for the very first time, we were one.

We waited, more or less peacefully. Many busied themselves comparing their rather uncomfortable new knowledge, however old that knowledge might be.

“Anything to eat?” Morgan asked brightly.

I broke my bread disk, offering him the larger piece. “Try this.”

“And turn all purple and die?” he chuckled, taking it.

I nibbled mine as he rummaged through his pack, unsurprised when he pulled out an older model scanner to run over the bread. Careful, my Human. Sure enough, he sat back down with a tube of e-rations in his hand, returning the bread to me. “Definitely in the ‘all purple and die' category.”

I stopped chewing.

“For me.” Morgan grinned, wagging the tube. “It's fine for you and Aryl.”

Chewing once more, if with less appetite, I considered the significance of what he'd done. We'd arrived with resources of our own, and expertise. Some of it stood nearby, my mother's group having reformed.

“You're thinking.”

I leaned my shoulder into his. “What I've been—taught—about this world is limited. I imagine it's the same for all of us.
This—” I patted the dais, “—is a Council Chamber. Every Clan has a building like this, called a Cloisters.” A building any Om'ray could enter, the “di” designation part of every name regardless of Power; it was a change from the past that made Aryl uneasy, not that she'd explain.

“With tech you don't understand.”

I nodded. The sud Friesnens had named their home “The Cloisters.” At the time, I'd thought it because I'd come to live there, sequestered from any unChosen. Now I had to wonder how often a buried memory had resurfaced, out of context and beyond comprehension. But some hunted those secrets. “They might.” I indicated Deni and Holl. “And you.”

His eyebrow rose. “Curious I may be, but we've seen the danger here. My preference is to get everyone out, as soon as possible. Trade for supplies and guides, then make our own home, away from here.”

We cannot,
Aryl sent.

“I didn't say it'd be easy,” Morgan began.

“That's not what she means.” I rested my hand over his. “The Om'ray share their world with two other intelligences, the Oud and the Tikitik. Resources aren't simply divided between the three, they're controlled, down to the number of Om'ray and where they may live. And to them, we're Om'ray.”

His face lost all expression. “Go on.”

Aryl answered.
Only unChosen ready for Choice may take Passage between Clans. Other travel is forbidden. This is
why
the M'hiray couldn't stay on Cersi. When we—when I—learned how to move through the M'hir, we changed the Balance among Clans. Om'ray died for it. The only solution was to leave.

“Generations ago,” Morgan pointed out. “The situation could be different now.”

I shared with them what Sona's First Scout had said.

Clans change neighbors,
Aryl replied.
Sona was Tikitik before it was Oud. When we left—
inexpressible grief—
the Tikitik had begun to reclaim it.

I aimed a thumb over my shoulder at Maker. “This thing prepared us to live with the Oud. Why?”

“Interesting question.” Morgan rose and went to the pillar, walking around it. Shaking his head, he lifted the brown robe. “No clues here.”

I shared what I saw with Aryl.

My mother's.
Free of emotion.
Someone had to stay to operate the Maker. Why—shouldn't there be a husk?

Morgan had
heard
. He ran his scanner over the fabric, then around the pillar's base. “No trace of remains. Maybe she left these behind.”

No. I felt Taisal's death. If she didn't die here, she went—
with wonder, now—
she went into the M'hir. I wouldn't have believed it.

Gently replacing the robe, my Human waved me to join him.

“What is it?”

He turned his back to the others in the chamber, speaking quietly. “This—” he shook the device “—isn't much use on inorganics. I can tell you we're alone in this building. Out there?” He nodded to the still-dark windows. “Life off the scale.”

Confirmation, if we'd needed any, that Sona was within a grove, dependent on the Tikitik.

We'd come seeking refuge.

This was about as far from safe as my combined memory contained.