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preoccupied with the packs hung from the rafters. Perhaps, she grumbled to herself, he searched for the mug he’d pushed . Given his Power, it was probably in Grona, if it left the M’hir at all.
    So much they didn’t know.
    â€œThe ceremony will be a tenth after truenight,” Aryl said aloud. The dark wasn’t yet a friend, but it would hide the disappearance of Sona from any non-Om’ray observers. They’d ’port to the Council Chamber, the stronger taking the weaker. There, Oran and Hoyon would add their names to the records.
    For Husni, their keeper of tradition, had insisted there be a proper ceremony. In Yena, there would be flowers and dresel cake once a baby received its name, or a Chosen arrival was granted his new one. Tuana and Grona—no surprise—believed in feasts. Tai sud Licor, from Amna, spoke wistfully of boiled swimmers and dancing.
    â€œAbout that.” Morla leaned forward on her elbows, eyes somber. Both wrists were wrapped with colorful cloth—a habit she’d kept after the broken one healed. Many of Sona’s new Om’ray had taken to the harmless fashion, that warmed arms and left hands bare. The Yena had adopted Tuana-style boots. The Tuana and Grona Chosen liked Yena hairnets, except for Oran. So quickly, they became different from other Clans. “Being together, not working for once. We could ring a bell for Mauro.”
    Every Cloisters contained deep-throated bells; by tradition, one was rung for each death. Aryl glanced at Enris. He pursed his lips and gave that small headshake the Human used for “no.” Their habit now. As for Seru . . .
    Her cousin hunched over her work, applying needle and thread with unusual force considering she sewed baby clothes.
    Mauro Lorimar had come to Sona with his fellow Tuana, bringing with him a dreadful, un-Om’ray joy in the pain of others. At home, he’d led a group against Enris, beating him severely. Here, he’d tried to Join Seru, dragging her mind into his madness.
    He’d deserved his fate, Aryl thought grimly. As did Seru, happily Joined to Ezgi, once of Serona.
    Morla waited, the image of patience. She hadn’t, Aryl realized abruptly, come to suggest this on her own. “Haxel sent you.” The First Scout’s quick knife had saved Aryl, trapped in the M’hir by Mauro’s attempt to Join with her instead. No Om’ray was known to have killed another before, though to be fair, Mauro had hardly seemed one of them by the end. She shuddered inwardly. “She shouldn’t regret what she did.”
    â€œThat one?” Morla’s face wrinkled. “Haxel’s only regret is that she didn’t move faster.”
    Enris dropped his feet to the wooden floor. “Rorn,” he declared.
    Haxel’s Chosen? “Why?”
    â€œHaven’t you noticed? He’s her conscience.”
    â€œIt might help Menasel.” They all looked at Seru, who blushed. “Mauro was her cousin,” she went on, determined, if hesitant. “It might help—everyone. We’ve done nothing to mark the passing of Tuana.”
    Aryl was jolted by grief. Enris gestured apology as he tightened his shields, his eyes hooded. She laid her fingers on his arm. We are one, she sent gently. Never fear to share your pain.
    â€œHow can we ring bells for Tuana?” Morla asked. “We don’t know—I’m sorry, Enris—but we don’t know how many died there, or who.” She gestured apology, but went on, “Surely the survivors have rung their own bells.”
    â€œThis isn’t about their grief, but ours,” Seru insisted, her voice growing firm. Whether pregnancy or a blissful Choice, something had brought out the strength Aryl had known lay in her cousin. “You can reach that far, Aryl. You can tell us who lives. Then we’ll know who to mourn.”
    No one had asked this of her. Not even Enris, who looked at her