Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The Adepts settled into place, a line before the platform. An instant’s shifting and rustling, then they were still.

  And all the Vyna looked directly at them. Without surprise or question on their faces.

  Oran’s dreams.

  So. Their Adepts had received them, too. Aryl glanced at the row of nine seated before the platform and dismissed them. If they valued their lives so much as to spend others’ to keep them, they wouldn’t risk the M’hir.

  Keeping her eyes on the Vyna Councillors, she grasped her Speaker’s Pendant and took a firm step ahead of Enris and Naryn.

  Keeping her mouth firmly closed, too. Manners first. Greetings.

  You are not welcome here, lesser Om’ray.

  They believed she wouldn’t know one sending from another. Few could. Aryl quite deliberately turned left, to face the Councillor second from that end. We don’t intend to stay. We have what you want. Enris?

  He slipped off the pack and opened it. The clear wafers sparkled.

  The glows in the water outside the window went into wild motion, swirling into clusters as if their owners would peer over the shoulders of the Vyna. The Councillors leaned forward; the lips of the wizened Adepts worked, as if they longed to speak. Lust and greed and envy flooded past their shields.

  Aryl’s stomach twisted.

  Enris deliberately closed the pack and hung it from his shoulder. As if any here would try to take it. Compared to her Chosen, these Vyna were brittle twigs to snap in one hand.

  The Councillor who’d rebuked their presence rose and came down from the dais, every step graceful despite her swollen abdomen and breasts. She stopped in front of Aryl. What do you want in return?

  “To live.” The unChosen flinched, wide-eyed, at Naryn’s voice. The rest, Aryl noted, did not.

  The Councillor didn’t look at Naryn. This close, Aryl could see blood pulse beneath her skin. Sparkling dots lined where she should have eyebrows. The bones of her face jutted like stones through snow, and her lips were the blue of death.

  Om’ray to her inner sense.

  Stranger than the Human, in every other way.

  If we help this one, you will give us the Glorious Dead. You will leave. You will never return in this or any way.

  There were hunters in the canopy from whom you couldn’t back away, who attacked any weakness. Like this Vyna, decided Aryl. Take them. A gesture to Enris sent the pack sliding across the floor to the Councillor’s feet, spilling its contents. When she looked up from it with dismay, Aryl smiled her mother’s smile. Help Naryn di S’udlaat, she sent, or I will take you to meet the Clans of the unChosen dead in your traps.

  The deep-set eyes narrowed. The glows pressed to the windows pulsed, their light shifting the shadows.

  Coming to a decision of her own, the Vyna held out her hand. A hand with four fingers and two thumbs, each bearing paired rings of green metal.

  Aryl, no. From Naryn, not Enris. Her Chosen was quiet, a brooding presence deep in her mind. Aryl pitied the Vyna if she meant betrayal. She calmly laid her scarred, callused palm over the other’s cloyingly soft one and waited.

  I will show you what binds your friend and her unborn. This sending was shockingly intimate, delivered to a layer of her mind where Aryl had only felt Enris before. And, she admitted, Bern when he’d been heart-kin. Though repugnant, Aryl endured it. This must be how the Vyna managed private conversation when all spoke mind-to-mind.

  There. The Vyna thrust her through Naryn’s shields as if they were gauze, and with as little care. How was it possible? Aryl fought to remain calm, to learn what she must and no more. Worst of all, the Tuana was blind to her intrusion, focused on the Vyna, her concern for Aryl, her fear for herself. Do you see it?

  Aryl had traced the links between Om’ray before; it was a Talent she rarely noticed or used. When Naryn had first revealed her condition—her mind Joined to that of her unborn instead of an unChosen in proper Choice—she’d touched their link only enough to assure herself it was true.

  What the Vyna showed her now was something else. The link wasn’t between two minds. It was between Naryn’s and nothing. Aryl heard her own gasp. The Vyna pulled her out again.

  She was not Watched properly. A powerful Chooser can become pregnant without a father—as if this were unremarkable—but what must be prevented is a Joining before the new vessel has been filled. If that occurs, they will both die, as even lesser Om’ray know.

  Vessel? She had to mean the baby. Filled by what? How? The Vyna, Aryl thought with disgust, sounded like the Oud—or worse, like Marcus. She pushed confusion aside. Help her!

  The Vyna Councillor’s hand dropped to her side and she stepped away. One of the wafers rose from the floor. The other Councillors rose from their seats, hands outstretched as if it was being offered to them. But the wafer flew to hover before Naryn.

  Press it over the vessel. Over the unborn. DO IT!

  Naryn, as if stunned by the Power of that sending or seeing no harm in it, took the wafer.

  “No!” Enris shouted. “Wait!”

  Too late. Pressed against the swell of her baby, the clear wafer turned milky white and glowed.

  The Adepts began to chant, thin, unused voices breaking with the words. Spit ran down their chins. “Take her, Glorious Dead! Take her! Be born again!”

  The other Vyna chanted as well. More and more stars-that weren’t jammed against the windows, distorting the colors within the room.

  Naryn’s face changed, mouth opening as if to scream. But no sound came out.

  Wrong! This was wrong! Aryl reached for Naryn and Enris, concentrated on being away . . .

  ... But the M’hir was impenetrable, woven through by lines of seething force that disrupted Aryl’s every effort to hold her locate . . .

  She flung herself free of the M’hir, grabbed for Naryn. They’d run from this place.

  The wafer turned black and fell from Naryn’s limp hands. It shattered on the floor, spreading a dust that glistened in the light.

  The chanting stopped.

  Naryn looked at Aryl, blinked, then the oddest expression settled over her face. She cupped her abdomen in both hands. “Her name—her name is Anaj. Anaj di Kathel.”

  What have you done? Enris’ mindvoice held an undertone of horror.

  What we were asked to do. The Vyna Councillor beckoned and the unChosen scurried forward to collect the wafers from the floor. They ignored the pack and picked each one up in two hands to carry to their particular Adept. Slowly. Tenderly.

  The ancient creatures stroked the wafers with their bent hands, cuddled them in their laps, heads bent so the tassels of their caps hid their faces.

  They were probably drooling on them, Aryl thought with disgust. I can’t ’port, she sent to Enris, felt him concentrate, saw him shake his head as his effort failed, too.

  Something’s wrong.

  What wasn’t?

  Why are you still here? The Councillor demanded.

  It wasn’t the Vyna somehow stopping their ’port?

  A touch on her arm. It’s them, Enris sent, just to her. The rumn. They’re partly in the M’hir.

  The windows were full of them, whatever they were, their luminous markings almost pretty. A good disguise, Aryl decided, unable to make out any identifiable body parts. No gleam of teeth, but life in the canopy taught that not all threats came with an obvious mouth and jaws.

  She did not reach for them.

  The other Councillors gathered beside the Adepts, like eager children forced to wait on their elders for their share of dresel cake. Except for the one still confronting Aryl. You are not welcome here, lesser Om’ray, she sent, with a flash of cold impatience.

  Aryl scowled. “We are not lesser Om’ray—”

  We’ll find our way out, Enris broke in, making an extravagant gesture of gratitude. To her: Once we’re above the water, maybe we can ’port. Unless you want to stay here?

  Anything but that.

  Aryl took Naryn’s
arm, gently; urged her to follow Enris through the ceremonial doors. She appeared dazed, blue eyes large and unfocused. They had only the Vyna’s word she’d been helped, that this “Glorious Dead” inside Naryn would mean both would survive childbirth. She wouldn’t risk checking that link here. She’d risk nothing here, where Om’ray invaded one another’s minds as casually as she’d swat a biter.

  Instead, Aryl looked over her shoulder at the Vyna, saw her standing tall and superior, her hands folded just so, mouth pursed with pleasure. Enjoying the spectacle of the three “lesser” Om’ray running away, was she?

  Aryl drove into the M’hir and forced a connection between their minds. As the other fought and wailed, her terror of the darkness threatening them both, she sent a promise.

  If Naryn dies, this is where I’ll leave you.

  Let the Vyna remember that.

  Black stone stairs, steep and beaded with moisture, led up from the Cloisters. Enris led the way, taking the first few three at a time. Aryl stayed with Naryn. “I should take this off,” Naryn muttered, awkwardly holding the stiff panels of Oran’s robe as she climbed.

  Enris slowed and glanced back. “No time. Do your best, Naryn. The doors above are open. We have to hurry. They won’t let us go if they can help it. And . . . there’s a bridge.” As if some final doom awaited them instead of a path.

  Aryl shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll help—”

  A gasp as Naryn staggered, her hands clenched against her middle. Aryl caught her before she could fall. Beneath her hands, the robe flared, then flattened, its panels twisted over a swelling that moved as if trying to force its way through. As Aryl stared, Naryn gave an involuntary grunt of pain. “It’s Anaj! Help me—”

  Aryl had her arm around Naryn; now she poured strength through that contact, all she could spare. Enough to steady Naryn on her feet, put some color in cheeks that were too pale.

  “We have to hurry,” she agreed, meeting Enris’ worried look.

  Smash, BANG!

  Clatter, clatter . . . something ahead . . . something that rolled and bounced down the stairs. Enris shouted a warning, and dodged to one side. Aryl drew her longknife and put herself in front of Naryn.

  Down, down.

  Ping!

  Aryl frowned and put away her knife, placing the sound. “It’s only a rock.”

  A rock of fair size that bounced into view, then careened off the wall behind Enris and flew over Aryl’s head. She didn’t bother moving, but watched it come to rest in front of the door below. “Why a rock?” she puzzled out loud.

  Enris, who’d flattened himself against the wall, laughed as he pushed away. “Because the Vyna prefer their visitors dead. Can we hurry, please?”

  Aryl kept frowning at the rock. “It’s not black.” She drew her knife again. “I thought all the rock here was black.”

  Smash, BANG!

  Clatter, clatter . . .

  Another rock, similar in size. This time, Enris held his ground, but Aryl pulled Naryn to the side. She watched it land beside the first. Watched both tilt, tip, and roll toward them.

  “Not rocks,” she announced unnecessarily.

  Smash. Smash. Smash. BANG!

  Even Naryn managed to run up the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  VYNA WAS AN ISLAND of black rock within an encircling mountain, like a rough-edged seed inside a pod. Sturdy bridges connected the two, but the water between—

  Aryl drew back from the edge, pulled Naryn with her.

  —the water was vile. A musk of rot, like that of the Lay Swamp, but what she’d glimpsed through the billowing mist suggested nothing as natural. Its smooth surface glistened like metal, flaring purple and red when disturbed.

  And it was being disturbed.

  SPLASH!

  A surge of motion, hints of stars against darkness, and the curved back—or whatever—of the rumn disappeared below again. They, at least, were enjoying the rain of rock hunters.

  And other things. As their feet hit the platform beyond the Cloisters bridge—a crossing the normally height-wary Tuana had managed at a run, cries echoed behind them in the mist, desperate and horrified.

  Enris sighed.

  Aryl tried not to feel as the Vyna caught in their floats died.

  The next SPLASH was followed by a hideous, drawn-out scream from overhead. “Esan!” Enris shouted to be heard over it. “It’s the Tikitik!”

  Which makes no sense at all, Aryl sent, not straining her voice. Why would Tikitik attack the Vyna?

  Though their method was effective, if wasteful. Vyna rose in a great vertical spiral, low-walled ramps wrapped around its core of buildings like a wing around dresel pods. Most rocks bounced off walls or rooftops into the water. Those that arrived on ramps or skidded against an edge began a slow grind and roll away from water to the safety of shadows. Since Vyna had almost no doors, most of those shadows were inside their buildings. She’d already watched several rock hunters roll through a nearby arch. It would take time for the Vyna to find and remove every one, time when they’d be wise not to fall asleep or leave babies untended.

  Unfortunately, the rumn remained at the surface, attracted by the splashes. Impossible to tell if they ate the rocks or merely milled around in hope of more tender flesh. The effect was the same. The M’hir remained impassable.

  As long as the rocks kept falling, the bridges—though wide and perfectly safe, in her opinion—were, too.

  Mist billowed downward again, propelled by something above. Another, more distant scream.

  Aryl looked up. They’d taken what shelter they could beside a wall. “I can’t see it,” she complained. Enris had shared his memories of immense size, claws, and unusual wings, but with woefully inadequate detail—being more interested in the ground below at the time.

  “Good,” he asserted, back against the wall. “Trust me, if you could, you’d be too close.”

  Aryl made a noncommittal noise. She wanted to see one. Especially in flight.

  “No more running,” Naryn said weakly, and eased herself to the ground. She let out a small moan. Immediately, a trio of rocks that had been aiming at a shadow changed to tilt in her direction. Aryl kept her eye on them. They’d be easy to push into the water—it was how close she dared get to the water to do the pushing that was the problem.

  She could see one feeding pile of rocks; the unfortunate Vyna beneath hadn’t made a sound. Doubtless the mist hid more. Those out in their floats had fared the worst. The rest of Vyna—she reached—most sheltered deep in their island or stayed within the Cloisters. Had the Councillors and Adepts noticed their Clan was under assault, or were they still huddled over their prize?

  Would their metal doors hold?

  More screams from an unseen creature. Another series of rocks clattered to the pavement, to stop and begin to roll toward them.

  “Is it me,” Enris asked mildly, “or are they starting to aim them at us?”

  Whether they were or not, Aryl thought grimly, there were too many rock hunters nearby for comfort. “Maybe they’ll run out.”

  “We could go back to the . . .” Naryn’s voice faded in and out. “Aryl . . . I . . .”

  You wore the pendant here, didn’t you? Fool.

  “Naryn?” Aryl knelt by her, put an anxious hand on her sweat-chilled brow. Naryn? What did you say? Why the pendant? She hadn’t told anyone, not even Enris, what the Oud had said. It had made no sense, anyway, babbling about Tikitik counting all life, waving a pendant and token at her.

  I said you were a fool. Are you mind deaf, too?

  Not Naryn. Aryl glared at the rock hunters, who, being noticed, pretended to be a natural heap of rocks in the middle of perfectly smooth pavement. She reached.

  Naryn’s mind was closed behind her strong shields, other than a whisper-thin presence. She saved her strength, was close to unconscious.

  And was not alone.

  Of course she’s not alone! Now get me out of here.

  Aryl rocked bac
k on her heels. “Enris?”

  “I heard.” He came to Naryn’s other side. All around, the splash and clatter of rocks being dropped.

  The sendings were powerful.

  More than that, Aryl realized with dismay.

  They were not from a child.

  Anaj?

  Unfortunately. A hint of amusement. I hope Teso put himself in one of those things, too. Serve him right. He convinced us only our knowledge would be stored. Not who . . . nothing amused now . . . not who we are . . . grimmer still . . . Kynan? The sudden overwhelming awareness of LOSS was as quickly buried under layers of shielding. Aryl might have imagined it, if not for the tears spilling down her own cheeks. Naryn curled as if to protect what she carried.

  Enris said gently, “Your Chosen.”

  Dead. Flat and cold and final. They’re all dead. As we’ll be if you don’t start acting like a Speaker instead of cowering here. A snap of authority. Think rocks are all they can drop? An image, terrifyingly clear, of baskets filled with what belonged to truenight, to the utter dark, to the nightmares of Yena.

  The swarm.

  Aryl shuddered.

  “What’s wrong?” Enris demanded. He hadn’t heard?

  Negotiate, young Speaker, before it’s too late.

  “Aryl—”

  No time to explain. Aryl looked desperately at Enris. “Protect them!” Then she slammed down her shields and began to run.

  Up the ramp, jumping rocks, stepping on them. Too slow. Too slow. More screams, more CRASH.

  Aryl grabbed the next light pole and swung herself atop the railing wall. Better. She hit full stride, leaping across where the wall angled back on itself as it climbed. Higher and higher. She passed heaving piles of rock hunters, doorways choked with them as too many tried to enter at once, and knew it could be worse.

  The swarm hated light. That wouldn’t save anything in their path.