Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

  They showed prudence of their own, and were now scarce on the valley floor. Scarce wasn’t the same as absent. Aryl watched the shadows for movement.

  “I’ve an idea.” Enris slipped his arm around her waist as they walked. “Why don’t you relax and enjoy all this?”

  Aryl blinked up at him. “Enjoy what?”

  His free arm waved expansively, as if it were necessary to include the entire world in the gesture. “This. Time.”

  Time. “We should have ’ported,” she said, wondering again how she’d lost that argument. “Walking leaves us less time with Marcus.”

  His hand tugged at her belt. “While I enjoy his company, too, I think you’re confused, my dear Chosen. Walking means—” he nuzzled her ear, “—we have more time together.”

  We’re always together.

  “But rarely alone.”

  Aryl slowed her pace. They hadn’t brought packs, only longknives and flasks of water at their belts, a small bag with a gift for Marcus. She eyed the rough rock and dusty paving stones dubiously. “Can’t you wait?”

  Enris roared with laughter and swept her up despite her protest. Holding her over his head, big hands easily spanning her waist, he brought her down for a quick kiss, then put her lightly—and now breathless—back on her feet. “Conversation, my wild little Yena. Though” a flash of heat “I’d be a most happy mattress.”

  “ ‘Conversation.’ ” Not about Marcus and his healing machine. She hated to disappoint Enris, but this she couldn’t—“You already know what I think—”

  “About visiting other Clans?” He took a longer stride, then turned to walk backward, facing her. Fine on a flat stretch. “No, I don’t.”

  “Visiting . . . why?” Enris had visited more Clans than any other Om’ray, having been to Yena, Grona, and distant Vyna. Two of the three had almost cost him his life. “We aren’t ready to find others who could learn to ’port.” Mealtimes, around the communal fire, the notion regularly spun itself around, only to waft away like smoke. How could they contain the secret if it spread? What if such Om’ray came to Sona, who couldn’t feed more, not yet? Worst of all, what if they offended the Oud or Tikitik before they could negotiate a change—that word—to the Agreement? “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Of course it is.” He almost tripped on a tilted stone and hopped instead. She restrained herself. Far be it from her to dissuade him from being lighter-of-foot. “But we could trade.”

  Aryl stopped. Trade was a Tuana concept; she forced aside her Yena aversion for his sake. “Trade what?”

  “We’d have to open the rest of the mounds, assess what we could spare. Coats. Baskets. We could hunt for more metalwork.”

  They did, she admitted reluctantly, have an overabundance of coats. “And what would we trade for?”

  “Food. Tai said Amna catches more swimmers than they can eat—other Clans may have extra. New boots from Grona before next winter. Tools. My father—I’ve heard Rayna does fine metalwork. If we had such tools—and the Oud would build a furnace—I could work metal again. Yuhas is willing to learn the skill. Improve our blades. Replacements! Think of it, Aryl.”

  He’d omitted Vyna because its Om’ray rejected contact with any others. He’d omitted Yena because . . .

  Because, Aryl thought sadly, her former Clan had nothing left.

  She started walking again. He fell in beside her. “Well?”

  They crossed one of the arched bridges. Echoes fooled the senses; the insignificant trickle of water allowed them by the Oud sounded like distant rain. She licked dry lips. “It’s too great a risk. Tikitik trade. Oud do. Clans never have. We’d be ignoring the Agreement. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  Oh, he’d been thinking, behind those perfect shields. His face lit up as if she’d already agreed to . . . what? “We start too small for the Oud or Tikitik to notice. I’d go to Amna with Tai. He remembers where. A coat for a basket of fish, from someone he trusts. That’s all. Gradually work up to more.”

  The Tikitik, splashing through the darkness on their beasts, ready to trade, insistent on amounts and compensation. The Oud, with their compulsive lists of everything, not only what they themselves needed. “There may be nothing too small to notice.”

  “You may be right. But—Aryl, it’s best we do something and soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” his voice roughened, “—not all of us are Yena. It wasn’t unheard of for a Tuana to try and take what wasn’t hers. Nor a Grona. With this Talent you’ve given us, nothing is beyond reach.”

  Enris was serious. The hairs rose at the back of her neck. He thought Om’ray capable of this.

  “Ask Naryn, if you don’t believe me. You saw the children. Today it’s a game. Tomorrow? We need an outlet for the adults who won’t be playing. They’ll take risks. They’ll push the limits of their Power. Without Passage as a challenge?” Enris lifted both hands. “Trade with a hint of danger. It might be enough for some.”

  Cetto d’sud Teerac had feared it, so long ago. His words welled up in memory and Aryl shared them. “To be able to have a thing in your hands, without climbing for it? How long before it becomes the ability to take a thing, without right to it?”

  “A wise Om’ray.”

  Aryl shook her head. “I see a better future.”

  I know. Enris touched her cheek, sent a rush of affection. “Just keep in mind some of us who don’t always look where we’re going.”

  He spoke to her Yena-self, well aware what she’d take from it.

  That some would fall.

  The stone of pavement and bridge, the jagged arch and plunge of bare rock, gave way at the head of Sona’s valley to ruin and riotous growth. The Oud had done this, Aryl thought. They’d heaved corpses and buildings and gardens into a mound to dam the mighty river; dug a pit into the depths to divert its source, the sky-touching waterfall beyond; and refused to share more than a trifle. Even now, she didn’t know why.

  A curiosity she’d leave to others.

  “Our waterfall.” Enris nodded to where a single metal pipe cracked the paving of the roadway at the base of the mound, aimed down the valley. By chance or Oud design, the gush of water coming from it splashed on a tilt of rock that directed it to the side, where it disappeared into the chasm of the river’s original course.

  Though the water came out with force, Enris could touch the top of the pipe with an upraised hand. Their share. Compared to the abundance that roared down the cliff and sent spray into the clouds? As well call a sigh the M’hir. “They can’t mean this to be all we get,” Aryl said, as much to herself as her Chosen. “Their Speaker agreed we’d have more than the Oud.”

  “More than. Less than. Past that, who knows what they mean?” But he didn’t move immediately, instead shading his eyes and staring at the mound. She felt the distance between them she’d learned was her Chosen lost in thought.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Enris looked self-conscious. “A notion.” With that highly unsatisfactory response, he began to climb the slope, boots crunching bone. Impossible not to step on remains, though Aryl tried to move lightly over the loose material. The rock hunters, able scavengers elsewhere, refused to risk any chance of water.

  From the top, they followed the trail the scouts had made. Like the new Sona, it blended their habits. The Yena had thrown a swaying bridge over the froth-filled abyss, anchored to the largest of the stalks leaning inward; the Tuana continued it with a wide flat swath cut through the grove, avoiding as much of the Oud-bared space before the Cloisters as possible before swinging to meet the ramp over the Cloister wall. Aryl ran along the bridge, enjoying the spray hitting her face. Enris, to his credit, no longer clung to the hand ropes. He did, however, give an exaggerated sigh of relief once on solid ground.

  Aryl grinned. “You know it can hold all of Sona plus Veca’s cart, fully loaded.”

  “But one of me? That’s the question.”

  He had no complaint as they took t
he path through the nekis. Yellow-throated flowers littered the ground, like a carpet of sunshine. Leaves and stalks glistened with spray. Droplets shook free in miniature rainstorms, complete with bows of color in the air.

  Lovely. She shuddered. Leaves shouldn’t be perfect. Flowers shouldn’t fall without making fruit. There should be other plants here: vines and thorns and—weeds. More sounds than footsteps and the drumming of the waterfall. “I miss biters.”

  Enris chomped noisily and gave her a hopeful look.

  She shoved him with her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong with keeping one’s skin intact and blood where it belongs.”

  “And there should be flitters.” The clear-winged ones, with bright blue bodies. They hovered over the flowers, like blooms themselves. Others sang or danced in the air. In the canopy, senses were flooded with movement, color, sound. Smell. This grove, she decided with disgust, was as barren as Oran.

  “Cader saw a wastryl on the cliff last fist.”

  The black-and-white gliders soared over the valley, never more than two. Haxel believed they searched for carrion wherever the rock hunters were less. Only during the M’hir Wind did they gather in numbers and head for the canopy. “Dresel thieves,” she snorted.

  Dresel. Her mouth watered. Something in the Sona diet satisfied her body’s need for it; nothing replaced Yena longing for the taste. Maybe this M’hir, she’d go to Yena, help with the Harvest in return for . . . aghast at the turn of her thoughts, Aryl rushed to hide the idea from her Chosen.

  Too late. “Craving dresel?” To her relief Enris laughed. “Feel free to get it for yourself,” he assured her, an arm around her shoulders. “You won’t catch me waving a hook with nothing below but swamp.”

  When they reached the opening, they fell silent. Enris let Aryl go first; he stayed close. Their practiced caution was likely unnecessary, she knew. Nonetheless, she surveyed the edge of the grove, checked the dirt around the Cloisters for new disturbance, and glanced at the sky before taking the step that exposed her to non-Om’ray watchers.

  “We could surprise our Adepts. See how they’re coming.”

  Aryl eyed the Cloisters. “Hardly a surprise.” The Om’ray hadn’t wasted strength to dig the lower portion free of the Oud’s dirt, so no one could look out the windows and watch their approach. Even so, she restrained a childish impulse to make a face. “The instant Oran has any success, be sure everyone will know.”

  “Some feel it should be you.”

  Be trapped in the Dream Chamber with Hoyon, his entire being sour with envy? “I’d rather,” she told him testily, “dig waste pits.”

  Satisfaction. “That’s what I said.”

  The path to the Stranger’s camp was hidden. A screen blocked it, covered by a projection of another dense portion of the grove, nekis stalks too close together for easy passage. In truth, all one had to do was approach the screen from one side, and it became nothing more than a white sheet strung across a path every bit as wide and open as the Tuana’s.

  Simple and effective. She approved. The last thing Sona needed was for a curious Om’ray—and they had their share, starting with Enris’ brother Worin—to roam where curiosity ran around on more legs than two. Or had none at all. One of Marcus’ new Triad was unable to move on land and floated above the ground in a tiny version of an aircar. Why such an unsuitable creature would come here puzzled her, although she hoped for a better look at it.

  But first . . . She stopped and turned to face Enris. “If we see an Oud, let me do the talking.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re the Speaker.”

  Which meant she was the only Sona permitted by the Agreement to talk to non-Om’ray, and then only to her counterpart. She’d learned neither Oud nor Tikitik cared overmuch for the rules. And her Chosen, for all his matter-of-fact demeanor and charm, was incapable of not caring about Oud.

  Already the M’hir between them sizzled with pent rage.

  Enris.

  Don’t worry about me. His remarkable shields strengthened until all she could sense was the warmth of their bond. “You remember not to use Power. Some of these Oud could be Torments.”

  The Tuana name for Oud with Power. There was no evidence the beings used their Power to any purpose, but it did affect Om’ray. To use their abilities near such Oud produced pain and disorientation, increasing with greater Power. Aryl, having felt the effect for herself, agreed completely. “Once was enough, thank you.”

  The path opened on another clearing in the nekis grove, this one smooth and circular. At its far side stood three long buildings of the plain white material the Strangers favored, a white usually disguised behind more illusion.

  Not that it would matter at the moment, considering the crowd of beings in the clearing itself. That was the worst of non-Om’ray, Aryl thought with disgust. You couldn’t feel them before you found them.

  They’d been found, too. Marcus hurried toward them, pushing by an Oud with Human carelessness, his smile wide beneath the dark eye coverings he insisted on using during the day. He wore Stranger pants and a shirt with his name in Stranger lettering. Both looked new.

  Why?

  “Welcome! Welcome!” She could barely hear his shout above the grind of Oud machine treads into the stony ground. There were four vehicles, each pulling a pair of flat-topped carriers loaded with crates. In typical Oud-fashion, the slumped drivers appeared not to care about collision, imminent or occurring, or risk to their cargo. Aryl and Enris stayed near the grove and let the Human risk his life to join them.

  The building to the left was where Marcus stayed and worked. The other two, one new this spring, she’d been told were for storage. The door of the middle one gaped open for the first time. Inside, over the brown-cloaked humps of Oud, she could make out tables covered in objects. Two figures, disappointingly Human-shaped, stood to one side, busy sorting.

  As for the Oud, whenever one stopped its vehicle near the open door, other Oud grabbed the crates from the carriers and tossed them onto a growing, haphazard pile. Maybe the Humans were sorting what didn’t break under this treatment.

  What Aryl didn’t see was the Oud Speaker. Or rather, an Oud with a pendant. The beings were too alike otherwise: massive quivering lumps beneath brown, tentlike cloaks. One end was covered by a dust-covered, transparent dome and non-Oud treated that as a “head.” To an Oud, this didn’t always matter. They could move backward as readily as forward.

  After one last swerve to avoid an Oud machine, Marcus joined them, coughing at the dust. “Welcome,” he said again. His lean body, tousled brown hair, and green-brown eyes, edges crinkled by his cheerful smile, might be those of an Om’ray Chosen of middle age; the not-real of him to her inner sense was proof he was anything but. Aryl shrugged inwardly, and the customary confusion passed.

  His hands reached for theirs; Humans touched, Aryl had learned, when Om’ray would not. She and Enris allowed it. In fact, such were their feelings for this one Human, they reached out as well.

  Greeting done, Aryl waved at the activity behind Marcus. “Should we come back another time?”

  Marcus shook his head vehemently. “This is good time. Best. Very best. Glad you are here.” He slapped Enris on the shoulder. “Hungry?”

  The Tuana slapped him back, careful not to rock the slighter being off his feet. “Starving.”

  She’d look for the Oud Speaker later, Aryl decided.

  “Sorry for the mess.” Objects flew in every direction as the Human burrowed to what should be a table. “Don’t spend much time in here. Oops! Thanks.” As Enris intercepted the flight of what looked fragile and gently deposited it on a crate. “Mustn’t break another densitometer this early in the day. It is early, isn’t it?” He looked uncertain. “Breakfast?”

  “Lunch,” Enris supplied willingly, despite knowing full well the Human ate reheated rations from small boxes. He’d eat anything, Aryl thought fondly. She wouldn’t. She offered the sm
all packet of baked turrif she’d obtained from Rorn: sweet, crispy, and his latest triumph using Sona’s stores. Best of all, the ingredients were ones that wouldn’t make the Human, in his words, turn green and die.

  Marcus Bowman, Triad First, Analyst, Human, took it with a glad expression that needed no translation. “You’ve picked a very good time,” he assured them again, hunting a clear space to put the treat. “No one needs me. Vogt and Tsessas are cataloging.”

  Fewer of his words were unfamiliar. It wasn’t that she’d learned them, Aryl decided as she helped toss clothing from the benchlike chairs that sprouted from the floor. Marcus spoke less about his work each visit, preferring to ask about Sona, about their fields, about her.

  Well, not her exactly.

  “May I?” There he was again, bioscanner held hopefully to his chest. It had been on the table. “See baby?”

  Aryl sighed and sat down, arms wide. “Humans.” Her fond, if exasperated, use of the name always made Marcus smile.

  Enris leaned forward, eyes intent. Noticing, Marcus offered him the ’scanner. “You see?” Now there was an Om’ray smile to dazzle the sun.

  They conspired against her. Aryl grumbled to herself, but didn’t object as first Enris, then Marcus, waved the device over her abdomen and made various approving noises.

  Until Marcus frowned distractedly at the ’scanner, and played with its lighted buttons.

  Enris frowned, too. “I thought it said Sweetpie was healthy.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Very healthy. Perfect.”