Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

All four eyes, Enris told himself. Blind it. Then kill it.

  I have my knife. Aryl’s pragmatic offer startled him to sanity.

  What was he thinking? Kill Thought Traveler for the truth?

  Kiric wouldn’t live again.

  Om’ray violence here would end any hope of negotiating with the Tikitik.

  No. As much to himself as his fearsome Chosen. More calmly, though I do appreciate your willingness to slit throats for me.

  “We’re falling behind,” he told the waiting Tikitik, and turned back to follow Naryn.

  Watch your step.

  The sending from Aryl came before they caught up to her.

  “What—?” Naryn’s foot skidded sideways. Enris lunged for her, only to have his boot sink deep, black mud bubbling over it. Bubbles that released fresh rot.

  I told you to be careful.

  You call that a warning? Naryn sent indignantly, pulling free to take a second lurching, sliding step. Her boots sank in as well. After a few steps, the white hem of her Adept’s robe was thoroughly stained. You get to explain this to Oran.

  Mild dismay fading as Aryl’s concentration shifted.

  No Aryl-sized footprints marred the path ahead. Enris glanced up at the branches and shook his head. “She cheated.”

  Thought Traveler passed them, barking good humor, its long-toed feet spread wide and not, Enris noticed, sinking at all.

  Leaving him alone with Naryn. “Wait.”

  She looked at him, raised one dark-red eyebrow.

  Enris dug into his inner pocket and drew out the sleepteach device. “Take this, Naryn. Put it somewhere safe.”

  He might have asked her to touch an Oud. “What is it?”

  “We don’t have time.” He thrust out the hand with the device. “Keep it safe. And don’t let them see it. Or Aryl,” he added.

  If anything, the eyebrow went higher, but Naryn took it in her long-fingered hand. He wondered belatedly where she could put it, but she simply slipped it within what had looked a seam. Why was he surprised? Adepts needed pockets, too.

  They were still alone—but not for long, he was sure. Aryl would take what risks she must; he was only as safe as his Chosen. Someone else had to know, be able to use it. He offered his right hand. “Naryn, please,” as she hesitated, her expression strange. “I have to show you how it works.”

  She crossed her arms, rejecting any touch. Of course, he realized, chagrined. He’d offered the hand of Choice. Cold, distant. It’s from the Human, isn’t it? Just to him.

  Yes. It can teach us their words. If his feet hadn’t been stuck in mud, he’d have bounced from one to the other with impatience. Not a good idea, with Naryn.

  Show me, she sent at last.

  Enris shared the memory of how the device was used. Not enough, he realized. He lowered his shields to let her feel his conviction , his urgency. Naryn, if anything happens to us, ’port to Sona. Warn them. If the Tikitik come after you, use this. Go to Marcus for help—

  Her revulsion hit like a blow. Never!

  Impossible, stubborn Om’ray. Shields back, Enris grabbed her hand, ignoring her wince. Do you think an empty Cloisters can save us? Naryn tried to pull free; he held tighter. She had to listen. The Strangers have technology beyond anything on Cersi. Marcus is the only hope left if the others turn against us. You can trust him—

  The only one I trust is Aryl! She threw PAIN at him. LET ME GO!

  Enris opened his hand and she flung herself back, glaring at him. With an effort, he made himself not glare back. Aryl trusts Marcus—

  The stir of concern, from a mind occupied elsewhere. He sent a quick reassurance and felt Aryl’s focus ease and shift away.

  What I know, Enris, still with force, is I will not risk Sona. I will not reveal our ability to the Tikitik. I will not run home and draw them after me. I will not—will not!—trust Sona to a being who isn’t even of our world. I’ll die first.

  And she would. Hair lashed against her shoulders. Her dark eyes defied him.

  Aryl, for all her fondness for Marcus Bowman, refused to add any of his technology to their daily lives. Now here was Naryn, ready to die before seeking the Human’s help.

  Was he the only one to grasp the superiority of the Strangers’ technology? The only one to see it might be better to reach beyond Cersi?

  Then let’s hope all goes well. Enris held out his hand for the sleepteach device.

  No. Naryn smoothed the panel over her pocket. Aryl must know about this. You can’t use it without her consent.

  She was right and he knew it, much as the realization galled him. “Keep it, then,” he said aloud, unwilling to trust inner speech. “But I tell her when I’m ready, not you.”

  If Naryn felt the warning beneath the words, she didn’t react to it. “You’re her Chosen.”

  Which wasn’t a promise, but the best he’d get. Enris gestured ahead.

  Without another word, Naryn turned and left.

  Enris followed.

  Tried.

  His right foot wouldn’t move.

  He pulled.

  And pulled.

  Finally, his boot came free with a splot, mud flying in most directions. Enris heaved that foot forward, relieved, only to find his other foot glued to the ground. How much of this is there? he sent to Aryl, dismayed.

  You’re almost here. A sense of awe.

  Enris stopped struggling and looked up, trying to see ahead, but the path took another of its twists. What?

  Hurry up.

  He muttered to himself about Chosen who didn’t have to walk the ground like normal Om’ray, about the additional layer of mud his boots accumulated with every step, about the appalling STENCH, while Naryn, somehow less attractive to mud and stench, vanished around the twist. Sweat stung his eyes.

  The harder he tried to move, the deeper each step sank.

  On the bright side, Enris told himself, he no longer wanted to wring a certain Om’ray’s delicate neck.

  A loper carrying a bright blue bag ran by, its tiny feet not breaking the surface, and stopped to chirp at him. A laugh, person or not. Enris fumed and made it three whole strides before his boot went too deep again.

  Don’t be startled—

  A scream, from Om’ray lungs!

  Somehow, Enris found the strength to break into a sloppy, halting run. He followed the path around the corner, leaving ruin behind him.

  He broke into sunlight and came to a stop beside Naryn, who wasn’t moving at all. Her hands covered her mouth, and she stared ahead.

  At . . . he didn’t scream.

  But only because Aryl stood grinning in reach of what was, most certainly, a monster able to swallow her with one gulp. “Look what I found.”

  Four monsters. With more moving knee-deep along a muddy stream, a muddy stream that splashed over each time one lifted a foot and dropped it down again.

  A muddy stream that stank.

  Why was it always monsters? Enris took a second, calmer breath, wiped sweat from his brow, then looked down. Black mud coated his pant legs to the thighs and liberally streaked everything else. He didn’t remember getting any on his left arm, but the evidence was there. His boots looked like strange growths and he casually kicked one against the other, spraying mud on Naryn. “You said hurry.”

  Beneath, through the M’hir, only to his Chosen: They measure your will. That’s what this place is about. That’s why no direct questions are allowed, only hints and statements. Be careful.

  Games. With a resigned disgust that made Enris smile. I hate games. Aloud, “These are esask.” As she might have said “rastis” or “dresel” or any other word that meant more to Yena than anyone else on Cersi. “Young ones. I think.”

  Young? Something as tall as two Om’ray?

  Like the esan, these had six legs and narrow bodies, with heads carried low on a curved neck. The head boasted the same four large eyes, but the nostrils were wide and open and there were two curves in the neck, the first lumpy.


  Fed, he hoped.

  Only the upper half of the body was covered in hair: thick, shaggy, and pale brown; the rest, including the legs, bore heavy black scales. A short brush of stiff hair followed the neck, to end at the snout. One esask yawned, displaying twin rows of needle teeth.

  The heads of those waiting moved restlessly from side to side. Others passed, going upstream, disappearing around more branches and foliage. They had riders.

  Thought Travelers.

  The Tikitik sat astride, their thin legs dangling. They paid no overt attention to the three Om’ray, though they hissed at one another. If it was conversation, one guess, Enris decided, about the topic.

  “His” Thought Traveler appeared perfectly content to stand on the shore and be passed by.

  As was Aryl. All she said to it was: “I will wait for you.” I’m sorry, Enris, Naryn. Anaj. Patience. I ask your patience. This could—a hint of irony—take a while.

  What’s she up to? Anaj, a hint of frantic in her voice.

  She didn’t know them, Enris reminded himself. She had nothing to trust. Aryl is Sona’s Speaker, but she’s of Yena. She’s dealt with both Oud and Tikitik before. She won’t let us come to harm.

  He eyed the tall, narrow esask and sighed inwardly.

  Of course, insisting on the uncomfortable and terrifying wouldn’t bother Aryl di Sarc at all.

  Chapter 7

  THE ESASK POUNDED ITS FOOT into the water, splashing the backs of her legs. They could move silently; this was a display, of temper or warning. Or both. Aryl didn’t react, her eyes on the Thought Traveler who’d brought them to “lunch” and then followed them here. She was gaining a feel for this place and its rules, enough to test it. The Tikitik wouldn’t impede her movements; they wouldn’t direct them. As usual, they waited to see what others would do.

  To some consequence. That, she didn’t doubt. It had goaded Enris, possibly to discover the extent of Om’ray self-control. Had that sparked his dispute with Naryn? UnChosen Yena who clung to anger were put on a branch to resolve their differences. Maybe this was the Tuana version. She’d kept her distance. They weren’t shouting anymore, at least.

  The impatient esask was part of the Tikitik’s game, there to take them wherever they must go next. She could easily scale its side; so could Thought Traveler, his kind being marvelous climbers. Naryn, unlikely. Enris, with his greater bulk? He’d likely pull the poor creature’s hair out trying.

  The esask she’d seen before knew to crouch for a rider to dismount or mount. What signaled this convenient cooperation was a Tikitik secret. So. Wait. Watch. Without looking away from Thought Traveler, not even to feast her eyes on Enris or check on Naryn, already weary. If it wanted a contest of will, Aryl smiled to herself, she was ready.

  Child, do you know what you’re doing?

  No.

  That set the Old Adept back for an instant, but only an instant. Are you a fool?

  Sometimes. Not this time, she sent, keeping it private as the other did. Power granted such fine touch. It waits for me to break the rule here, to ask a question. Or to abandon you. It tests my resolve. The Tikitik were Sona when you were its Speaker, Anaj. You know them. Can I afford to appear weaker?

  No. Immediate and sure. Never back down from them. Never allow them to ridicule or offend you. They respect determination, when used to a purpose. Something eased between them. I knew a Yena, once. Fierce, like you. Strong. I remember he made a room smaller by being in it. Her sending expanded to the others, became light. You wouldn’t be from Pana, would you, giant Chosen of Sarc? My cousin’s son took Passage there. Big, too. Bit of a dreamer. Good at making things, but always eating.

  Sounds right, this from Naryn, bravely trying to keep the conversation going. Her shields were tight. But Enris and I came from Tuana.

  Thought Traveler’s smaller eye cones had begun to track the esasks and riders moving down the river. Aryl didn’t need to look to know they were now fewer, with longer intervals between. The sun beat down on her head. Nice to be warm for a change.

  I had a great uncle from Pana, Enris added cheerfully. Chosen by my grandmother’s sister. Dama claimed he ate so much they had to make a new door to the metal shop.

  Aryl made a point of shaking her head. To joke about food—sometimes she didn’t understand these Om’ray.

  Images, then, from Enris. A very large door, wide to allow a cart full of fragments of green metal scavenged from the Oud, a short ramp into a vat that burned with fuelless flame. The metal, melting, flowing, becoming what was new and useful. The images abruptly stopped. It was a good door. Despite shields, his grief tolled through her mind.

  No more Tuanas, Aryl vowed, no more Clans destroyed. If it took staring at this Tikitik until her legs collapsed under her, so be it. She’d know every bump and knob of its skin soon. Blue-black skin, white spines and cones. Bold, unique coloring. Why? Not for Om’ray benefit. What did it mean to other Tikitik? Importance? Age? Or was it their neutrality, for Thought Travelers insisted they belonged to no faction and spread their news to all. To help Tikitik decide what to avoid, she remembered. To stay away from any course likely to be wrong. A Thought Traveler had told her that.

  This one was scarred. Fractures crossed several of the hard knobs. Perhaps old, for its kind. A survivor. The wristbands were of the finest weavings she’d ever seen, as was the sash across its shoulder. Important. Or particular.

  There were tiny hairs on the protuberances that obscured its mouth, hairs like those on the backs of her fingers. Sensitive. She’d had such thrust into her mouth to suffocate her into unconsciousness; she’d had them feed her dresel.

  Of course, the Tikitik stared back. The large hindmost eyes never left hers. Without eyelids, it didn’t blink, but the eyes themselves rolled back and forth in their sockets, replenishing their moist coating.

  Remind me to tell you how beautiful you are.

  Aryl smiled, shared it inwardly.

  Chosen could do that.

  At some point, no more esasks traveled by; their own waiting mounts were sound asleep, lips loose and backs sagged in two places. Enris made a nest of sorts of sticks to keep Naryn out of the mud and took turns sitting with her or pacing where the ground was firmer, careful not to cross Aryl’s line of sight. If there was a will stronger than hers, she thought fondly, it was his. Stubborn, that was her Chosen.

  He’d never let her leave alone.

  He and Naryn were busier than they looked. Anaj was full of questions. Who were the Sona now? What did they mean, the river had been emptied? Which buildings were rebuilt? Why hadn’t they trimmed the nipet vines to encourage more blossoms? As for rokly, everyone knew it started underground each new season.

  And the purple plant was a weed. Naryn laughed out loud at this.

  Harder questions; Adept questions. What was the M’hir? How had Om’ray come to use it? How did Yao manage, blind to her own? What were the Lost?

  They didn’t tell Anaj about the Strangers or Marcus; they couldn’t help it, Aryl thought. A Speaker, an Adept, an elder—she’d read the awkward gaps, understand there was more to know. Perhaps she waited for a time Aryl wasn’t preoccupied.

  Preoccupied. She was that. Tikitna told her there was more to know about the Tikitik than she’d imagined. Their control over beasts was nothing compared to what they could do with plants. The wood here grew as the Tikitik required. It explained the pieces they used to build Yena’s homes, shaped rather than cut.

  That was only the beginning. The buildings here, for they were true buildings, were a blend of many different plants somehow convinced to grow together without choking. She’d seen sweetberry vines growing in polite rows, recognized flowers that opened to glow through truenight, but here arranged to form symbols, even small round balls of tasty plethis—a scarce find in the canopy—in easy-to-harvest clusters.

  Costa would have loved this place.

  As for the life that ran, crawled, or scurried everywhere? This was more than a bargain to
carry a rider or provide blood. This was technology, every bit as impressive as the Strangers’, if not more so. The plants were meticulously cared for, not by Tikitik but by a host of crawlers and biters. Some were familiar, normally fond of Om’ray flesh. Some were rare, in her experience, or ate one another. Here they worked together, gathered to a purpose other than their own survival.

  For all Thought Traveler’s talk of will, here theirs was imposed on everything else.

  What did that mean for Om’ray?

  The world moved around them, the world as she could feel it. An unChosen made the journey from Rayna to Amna. She wondered what he thought, sensing Om’ray where no Om’ray should be, and wished him a safe Passage.

  Shadows crept over the esasks, dulled the reflections in two of Thought Traveler’s eyes. No chill yet, as there would be in the mountains. Anaj slept. Naryn and Enris argued silently about how best to improve their dam. At some point, this involved building small dams in the mud to make some point.

  Before today, she’d accepted there’d be no more than cold courtesy between the two closest to her heart, for Naryn was that. Oh, she loved her family, had close friendships within the Sona, but Naryn . . . ? They were of a kind. If things had been different, they’d be heart-kin. If her Chosen hadn’t good reason to despise her friend . . .

  At this rate, maybe they’d all eat at the same table one day.

  Fool! You wouldn’t know a good idea if it cracked your thick skull!

  One day.

  Aryl hid her amusement and watched Thought Traveler.

  Had it shifted?

  She braced herself, knowing the not-Om’ray quickness of its kind. Stiff, she’d be slower than usual, though she’d tried to flex what muscles she could.

  But Thought Traveler merely swiveled its eyes to the esask, took a leisurely step as if it hadn’t stood motionless for the better part of an afternoon, and smacked the first leg. The tall creature shuddered awake, then bent all six knees until its belly touched the muddy water. The Tikitik gracefully stepped on a knee, grabbed a handful of hair, and swung itself astride. A smack on the neck and the esask thrust itself up and began to walk upstream after its fellows.