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Home of Clouds

"If everything is coming your way, then you're in the wrong lane."

Since she was nine, Sabra had gone to Griffinly Girls Academy. Her mother had taken her away from her sibling, and her alone, to attend the boarding school. What had become of her sisters and brothers she could only guess at, for a couple of them visited her once when she was ten, and her only family member she had seen since was her mother, who occasionally took her home through the arch in the basement of the library, and those were always Sabra's favorite times.

But her mother was dead now, and had been for years, ever since Sabra was thirteen. That was when she'd stopped speaking English. She'd never known her father, and her only family was the statue of the black horse that had been passed down for generations, now stored in her single dormitory.

Sabra was now fifteen, and friendless but for one faithful younger girl. Not that she was mean to the other girls, or them to her. She simply didn't speak. When she was younger, they had come over to eat with her or speak to her, but they had given up. Top of her class, Sabra spent most of her time in the library.

The teachers were just as bewildered by her lack of speaking—for they knew she was not mute—as they were by her origin. Her mother had often disappeared for days, weeks, or even months at a time, occasionally taking her daughter with her, and nobody knew where she went. Sabra, now a young woman herself, also sometimes vanished when she should have been in the library.

Sometimes experts—medical and other—came and tried to interview her. When questions like "what's your name?" "How old are you?" and "What are your favorite subjects?" failed to receive an answer, the interviewers weren't half as puzzled or shocked as when the question, "Where are you from?" arose.

This one Sabra always answered. She would think for a moment, gathering the word in her mouth. The interviewer would begin to repeat, "Where—" and be cut off as Sabra spoke, in a soothing hiss,

"Aastæveristikemaera." She always answered, not because she wanted everyone to know where she was from, but because she loved to say the name of her homeland, to feel it roll off her tongue and slid so effortlessly through her lips. And she enjoyed the look of astonishment on the receiving end.

For Sabra was not from the land where she grew up, as far as she knew. Her disappearances were to this other land, though she told no one where she went, and the only person who asked was Meera.

Meera was fourteen, a year and a grade younger than Sabra. She was shy around the other kids, but nothing could stop her from trying to get Sabra to open up. In her free time, she followed Sabra around as much as the older girl would tolerate. She studied with Sabra, ate with Sabra, chattered nonstop to Sabra, and sometimes snuck down the corridor to sleep on the floor of Sabra's room. Sabra thought Meera must find it a haven to have someone she could speak to without fear, since she seemed so scared of other kids. Sometimes Sabra spoke to her in her native language, and Meera just nodded and spoke as though she understood every word, which Sabra knew she didn't. Sometimes Sabra found the younger girl a nuisance, but for the most part she was happy to have a friend, even if she did have to slip away to visit her homeland.

"Someday," Meera declared as they sat in the library, studying, "you're going to have to take me to that hideaway of yours."

"Ega si me nista ves," Sabra said with a slight smile, the equivalent of "but then I would never get away from you."

Meera laughed as though she shared the joke. "Then I'll become invisible and creep around after you." Sometimes Meera sounded eerily as though she really understood the Tongue of the Serpent.

Sabra had just begun scribbling an equation when the bell rang. She gathered her books together and started toward her English classroom, Meera turning off to her own grade's wing.

They were starting a new book, Sabra saw. She glanced at the cover: Vanisher: A Biography of Abby Winston. Sabra began to read. She loved books. This one proved interesting, too. It was about a young woman, Abby Winston, who had grown up in England and disappeared on her twentieth birthday, turning up ten years later in Paris, wearing a thin red dress and carrying a silver bottle. What she had been doing those ten years was anyone's guess, for she was put in a mental care institute for six years, until she disappeared again and never returned. Sabra was fascinated with the author's opinions of what had happened to the woman and finished the book in one night.

The next day was Saturday, with no school. Sabra woke early, before they were allowed to be out in the corridors, and let herself slide sideways into a brighter, clearer world. She walked directly past Mrs. Fairfield without the teacher so much as glancing at her, and continued into the library on a direct route, not even pausing to follow the corridors around walls or to turn handles and open locked doors. She came to the basement of the library, where nobody ever went—she suspected nobody else even knew it was there, as there were no doors leading to it that she knew of. It was a huge chamber, with walls, ceiling, and floor inscribed with thousands, possibly millions, of runes and symbols. No doors led into it, and it was empty save for the tall stone arch that stood in the middle of the room. The marks on the arch weren't stationary as the ones around the room were—they were constantly in a moving stream, like snakes twining lovingly around the stone. It was through this arch that Sabra stepped.

The world beyond was blindingly bright, until Sabra stepped sideways out of the lines of power that had concealed her. She blinked several times, and shook her long black hair back to survey the fields of grass and wild flowers that spread out before her, changing abruptly into a roaring river several hundred yards away. Even from this distance, she could hear the background hum of its coursing waters, and they swept towards the ocean.

Sabra folded her legs and sat Indian-style in the long grass, hands on her knees, as she relaxed into a meditation state, soothing the magic that had coiled within her during the crossing. She drew in deep breaths of a cool, soft breeze, reveling in the clean air after having breathed the choked, polluted air from the school. Her keen ears, which used to be made fun of because of their slight points, picked up the distant screech of a bird of prey wheeling high above.

Sabra removed her hands from her lap. A word whispered in her mind, a symbol formed by her hands, and a bright red apple materialized in her palm. Smiling, Sabra stood and began wandering toward the river, taking a bite of the apples as she walked.

This was what she loved about her homeland, never worrying about schoolwork or other kids and teachers, simply enjoying the wildness of it. And because the time passed differently here from at school, she could spend hours under the soft sunlight here and be back after only a few minutes. Sometimes, however, she came here from home to find several weeks had gone by here when only several days had passed on Earth. She kept track of the days and moons on a miniature calendar that changed constantly, which she had acquired from a merchant dwarf.

Pausing before taking another bite of the apple, Sabra said, "Is that mouse particularly speedy or what?" in her native language.

A muffled reply came from about ten feet to her right. "No, just stringy to chew."

The long grass rustled, and a small grey cat leapt out of it to settle itself comfortably on her shoulder. Sabra flicked the mouse it dropped on her shoulder back into the grass.

"Hey!" the cat protested. "It was work to catch that."

Sabra sighed. "Paelo, how many times to I have to tell you not to drop dead rodents on my shoulders?"

Paelomean flicked his tail. "At least once more than the number you've already said."

"Why must you always be so useless?"

"Because I'm a cat." Balancing precariously, Paelo began the serious business of scrubbing his ears. After a moment, he said, "you know, I get so lonely when you're in that other world."

Sabra snorted. "Of what, being small and irritating animals? I like you in your form there, thanks very much."

"I don't," Paelomean sniffed. "It's much harder to get you to do to what I say."

"I don't do what you say anyway."

"You should." The cat fell silent.

When they reached the river, Paelo leapt down from her shoulder and dropped into a hunting crouch, continuing his search for prey. Sabra sat on a rock near the water's edge and gazed out over the rushing river.

"You know," she said aloud, looking as though she were talking to the river. "I find it hard to believe how much trouble goes on here, when I'm in a place as peaceful as this."

Only because this is a crossing point, came Paelo's voice, in her head. All of them are peaceful, except when they're destroyed. And I suppose some of the ones leading to unpleasant places are a bit more unpleasant. Just theory, of course, since we've never been to one.

"What goes on out there, anyway?" Sabra asked, for she had never ventured beyond the river.

Paelo yawned. "Who knows?"

"Are there crossings on Earth to other places?" Sabra wondered, not bothering to persist. "And where do the other ones here go to?"

"To the first question, not that I know of," the cat mewed, twining himself around her legs before plopping unceremoniously to the ground. "And I didn't hear the other question, you'll have to repeat it."

"What do you mean, you didn't hear? Of course…" But she stopped, because Paelomean had fallen asleep.

Sabra tilted her head back, her lips twitching in a smile. "Stubborn little sowel." Still, Paelo had to have heard her question. He could have heard her if she had spoken so softly she couldn't hear herself, for he could hear even her thoughts. He was her sowel, and she was his familiar, united from the day they were born.

Sabra didn't know how long she sat gazing at the river before she turned back. She wasn't sure why she never ventured past the river. She knew there was a bridge about a mile East of here, though she had never seen it, but she had no desire to cross it. A small part of her mind whispered that it was because her mother had died here, but Sabra shook it away. Why would that discourage her? She had seen her mother before she crossed through the arch to her death. She had been there when she crossed. Her mother had known her time had come, young though she was. She had gone through the arch, and never come back. Surely her mother would have liked her daughter to venture into the land she had loved?

Shaking thoughts of her mother from her mind, Sabra stepped back through the arch.

Breakfast was just starting. Sabra met Meera on her way over, and listened with half an ear as Meera went on and on about some party that evening that Sabra hadn't even known about. She barely touched her breakfast and pointedly ignored the strong urge to go back through the arch, knowing that Paelomean once again wanted her to cross the river.

After breakfast, she and Meera wandered outside. North of the school, Sabra knew, a river rather like the one in her homeland ran. Beyond it lay a mountain range, and Sabra gazed in that direction for a moment, until Meera tugged on her sleeve and pulled her around toward the pond.

While Meera scampered about searching for frogs, Sabra sat on a rock and watched a couple of newts floating in the water. Below the edge of the water, Sabra could sense an injured frog that had narrowly escaped a hungry seagull. Without thinking, Sabra reached into its mind and healed the gash on its back from inside out, as though doing so was second nature to her.

Meera wandered over to her. "What's up? Why are you so gloomy?"

Sabra shrugged, and smiled slightly, wondering why herself.

"Let's go back to the dorms," Meera suggested. "I'll help you pick out something to wear to the party. It's a dance and all."

Sabra sighed and allowed herself to be dragged back up to the school, thinking through all her dress clothes. As far as she knew, she had nothing suitable. Maybe she could borrow something of Meera's. Quiet though she was, she loved dancing. When she was younger, her older sister, Mae, would play the lyre and a set of pipes or harmonica simultaneously, the pipes (or harmonica) supported by a framework around her neck so her hands were free to strum, while her many siblings, including Sabra's twin Ryna, danced to the music she made.

Meera took a while on deciding outfits for them both. Sabra ended up in a black skirt that flared when she twirled and a flattering red top that was laced in the back, showing several inches on tan skin criss-crossed with red and complimented her long black hair. Meera deftly added a red rose to her hair, which a tied partially up in the back, and a gold necklace and bracelet. Then she let Sabra apply her own make-up while she dug out a light pink dress for herself.

On the whole, with Meera fussing at every bit of her, it took Sabra over and hour to finish, and then she had to wait another half hour while Meera finished herself. She didn't mind, though. She liked being able to just sit and think for long periods at a time.

Finally, Meera came over and said, sternly, "This evening, if anyone asks you to dance, you say 'yes'. In English. Got that?"

Sabra smiled.

"And if you won't speak English," Meera plowed on. "Then don't say anything. No offense, but you'll scare people if you speak your language. It sounds—well, kind of snake-like."

Sabra appreciated that Meera made that connection. She knew most people in this world related serpents to dark and evil, but she knew that the Serpent was truly represented by the Sun.

By the time the music began that night, Sabra was feeling distinctly nervous. Meera had stationed her at a table with some lemonade and rushed off to dance with the first boy who caught her eye. Sabra was content to watch the musicians, playing on a raised stage in the middle of the large gym. One of them, a guy about her age, she guessed, with curly brown hair, didn't seem to be doing much. He was watching the lead guitarist strumming with great concentration.

When she could no longer resist the temptation to dance, she turned her eyes away from him and joined Meera and the boy she was dancing with. They fetched another guy for Sabra so quickly it was as though they had conjured him out of thin air. When he took her hands and twirled her so that her skirt flared at the edges, she startled. It was the curly-haired young man from the stage.

Without thinking, she asked in her native language, "Aren't you one of the musicians?"

To her complete astonishment, he answered in the same language. "Oh, you saw me?" She thought she saw curiosity, and maybe even recognition, in his bright green eyes, but he laughed through it. "I was studying them. Music, you know. I'm a Singer."

"Do you play an instrument?" she asked.

"Yes. Guitar, piccolo, and cello. And I sing, of course."

"Why aren't you playing with them? Aren't you in the band?" They weren't dancing very much, with just an odd twirl here and there.

He laughed again. He had a nice laugh, she noticed. "Oh, I'm not in the band," he said. "Why? Would you like to hear me sing?"

Sabra realized that she would, very much. He grinned, and disappeared into the crowd. The next minute, he was on the stag, speaking to the lead singer. The band singer was frowning. Then he nodded, and laughed loudly. He handed his guitar to the Singer and stepped away from the microphone. He spoke quickly to the drummer and other guitarist, and they started.

Dancing! With tears in my eyes

Weeping for the memory

of a life gone by

Dancing! With tears in my eyes

Living out a memory

of a love that died

He had an incredibly good voice. Sabra found herself dancing wildly along, with couples moving out of the way to watch her. She spun and leapt and got completely carried away. She wasn't aware that the entire assembly had formed a ring around her to watch her dance. The skirt flared and whirled, and her hair, with the red rose in it, flung outward dramatically.

She only noticed when another girl came out of the crowd and joined her. Her hair was as pale as Sabra's was dark, and her skirt was white, but she too had a rose in her hair—a white one—and her pink shirt was laced the same way Sabra's was. She matched Sabra's dance step for step. All of Sabra's awareness was focused on this strange girl and the Singer on the stage, who looked as immersed in his own music as she was.

Then the song ended, and the spell was broken. The Singer gave the guitar back and thanked a wordless rock star, and then took Sabra's arm and propelled her past the staring party-goers, with the pale girl following behind.

Outside the school, under the pale moonlight, the three clustered onto the first bench they came too. The curly-haired Singer looked across Sabra to the pale girl and said, still in the Tongue of the Serpent, "I think we found her, Ryna."

Sabra whipped around to stare at the pale girl so quickly she cricked her neck. "Ryna…?" The pale girl smiled tearfully, and held out her arms. Sabra hugged her tightly, tears spilling down her own cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered. She hadn't seen her twin for over five years.

"We came for you," Ryna said, pulling back and studying Sabra's face. "To bring you home. We need you."

Confused, Sabra said, "We who? Home through the arch, you mean?"

Ryna was shaking her head. "No, to the City. We, your siblings. We'll explain it all properly there. The important thing was to get you away from here."

"What—? Why—?"

Ryna took her arm and stood up. "Later. Where should we do this, Aaron?"

The Singer, Aaron, led them around the side of the school, up a slope to a large, flat hill. "This should do."

Ryna and Aaron raised their arms to the heavens. Feeling slightly odd, Sabra copied them. The next moment, she was rising straight into the air. Strangely, it did not alarm her. She closed her eyes and felt the wind rushing down at her. And suddenly, she was standing on the firm cement of a road.

She opened her eyes and looked around. She seemed to be on a main road in a small town, though in the distance she could the bigger and more crowded buildings of a city. She glanced around. Behind her was a wall of puffy cloud.

"Where are we?" she whispered. It seemed right to whisper, at midnight in a small, seemingly deserted town, though she assumed everyone was sleeping. "It's like a town in the clouds."

"That's exactly what it is," Ryna said, giving her an approving look. "We're on the outskirts of the City of Singers."

"And you live here?" Sabra said, awed.

Aaron pointed to a grand house on a knoll off to the right. "We live there."

Sabra looked around at him. "You, too?"

Ryna smiled. "Sabra, this is your older brother, Aaron."

Sabra blinked. "Brother? Brother? He's—but—"

"Two years older than you," Ryna said. "In fact, you have rather a lot of sibling you've never met."

"I do?" Sabra said, nonplussed.

"You won't meet them now," Ryna said, leading them toward the big house. "They're all in the City, dancing and singing and playing their instruments. You'll meet them tomorrow. For now, I'll show you to your room."

"But—what's going on here? Why did you have to take me away from school?"

"We'll explain tomorrow," Aaron said, opening the door and motioning for them to go in past him. Sabra gazed around at the huge manor. Straight ahead was a magnificent, curved wooden stairway, and beyond it were the kitchens and dining room. To the right was what seemed to be a living room of some sort, and to the left were hooks for coats, a closet, and a bathroom.

Ryna and Sabra went upstairs so that Ryna could show her the room, but Aaron went back outside, saying that he wanted to join the Singing in the City.

"He doesn't look anything like me," Sabra ventured to say as they jogged up the stairs. Ryna was pale and fair-haired, but the rest of her features were identical to Sabra's.

Ryna shrugged. "We all look different. It's just our Singer heritage."

"You're a Singer too?"

She nodded.

Struck by a sudden thought, Sabra asked, "Then am I a Singer?"

Ryna hesitated. "Well, no. That's why you haven't grown up here like the rest of us."

Sabra sighed and resigned herself to waiting until the following day to get her explanation. Ryna showed her into a nice, light blue-walled room, with a big bed, a closet, and a desk. The walls were decorated with tapestries and posters of past Singers, instruments, dancers, and animals. A large, ornate guitar was propped in one corner.

"I hope you like it," Ryna said, turning on the lamp on the desk. "I put your old guitar in here, if you want to play it. There are books in the closet if you want, and some clothes we got for you. They might seem a little strange, but they're the style here." She smiled at Sabra and left, closing the door behind her.

Sabra sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress sink with her weight. She reached up and pulled the rose out of her hair, turning it over in her hand and knowing that her life was going to take a big turn.