MORGAN FOUND HIMSELF inside another Council Chamber.
With Sira.
And only Sira.
He winced, thinking of those they’d left behind, let alone facing them again—especially Barac. But this was her call and he’d trust it.
Especially with—he stepped forward, staring out the tall arched windows, so like those of Sona’s Council Chamber, seeing a clear night sky, filled with stars—
—if stars wheeled in formation, creating the outline of something very large and disturbingly curious. Morgan squinted. Somethings, he decided, tapping a finger on the pane. “What are they?”
The rumn, Aryl informed him. It’s unfortunate they’ve been attracted. With them close, we may not be able to ’port.
Given that was how they’d arrived—and would leave—Morgan looked at Sira. “They part of the plan?”
She gazed at what swam past the windows with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know. What are Rugherans doing on Cersi?”
Rugherans? He found his mouth open and closed it. This complicated matters. The species existed, partially, within the M’hir. They’d encountered them on a couple of occasions, the last he’d thought with success.
There’d been sex. Of a sort. Some type of happy conjunction had taken place, though on a planetary scale. The details were a bit hazy. It was often the case when Drapsk were involved.
Morgan watched the nearest moving constellation, trying to make out tentacles or a head—not that Rugherans had heads. “Sure it’s them?”
“Yes. No, but they feel—alike.” Her gray eyes clouded. “I hadn’t noticed the M’hir was unsettled here, at least no more than usual. That’s where we’ve found them before.” She chewed her lip. “They aren’t talking, not to me.”
The rumn can talk?
They aren’t always here, or aware of us, Sira explained. Let’s hope that continues.
Unaware and not here would suit him too. Putting aside the chill such otherworldly beings gave him, Morgan looked around the chamber. The Vyna Cloisters was underwater—completely, from the memories Aryl shared—and accessed by an enclosed staircase. The Clan’s living space was carved into a spire of black rock rising from the lake.
A lake of something other than water, the whole was ringed by tall cliffs of more black rock. Morgan guessed they stood within a volcanic crater, itself surrounded by a sere landscape of once-molten stone. A fortress, without Oud or Tikitik.
Or reason. “Why?” he asked suddenly. “What’s here worth protecting?”
We are.
As quickly as that, five of the six tall backed chairs on the dais were filled with Chosen, so alike to the corpse in Sona they might have been clones.
All pregnant. Councilors, Aryl supplied.
One problem resolved. If the Vyna could ’port near the rumn, so could they. Maybe they’d come to an agreement.
He was, the Human thought, doing rather well not to be terrified at the thought.
The door had swung open at the same time. In floated four quite different chairs, these each filled with the oldest Clan Morgan had ever seen. They were wrapped in blankets and two unChosen accompanied each.
Adepts. This with utter loathing.
Compared to these Vyna, Sira was life incarnate, the red-gold of her hair burnishing the walls and floor, the healthy glow of her face like the sun, the lush curves of her body making those in the chairs look skeletal.
I love you too, she sent, with a warm sidelong glance, then became all business. I’ve found our people, the children. They’ve been put into a false sleep. It won’t take much to wake them. First things first.
She stepped forward, hands by her sides, waiting for the Adepts to settle into place.
Be watchful, Aryl warned him. They can’t be trusted.
Oh, he was sure of that. Morgan surreptitiously checked various pockets, items he’d promised to use on only one condition.
If Sira failed.