Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Because we hope they can help us,” Haxel said grimly.

  Because they were friends . . . Aryl kept the words to herself.

  In too short a time, the Tuana were ready. Aryl stood where she could watch. Galen went first, eldest and most experienced—and toughest, in Haxel’s estimation. Instead of trying to climb, he simply sat on the side of the hole and let himself slip down with the crumbling mud. She reached through the M’hir. Galen had the Power to answer. As I thought. There’s a proper tunnel in sight and a nice easy-to-follow mess where they’ve dragged the bodies. And there’s some good wood down here.

  Enris’ uncle. She shouldn’t be surprised, Aryl told herself, that her Chosen’s family was every bit as blithely cheerful going into danger as he was.

  As if he’d heard her thought, Enris laid his palm against her cheek. Back soon. Then, with a ridiculous “Whoop!,” he jumped and slid into the darkness.

  The twins went together, holding hands. Suen last.

  Don’t make me come down there to save you, Aryl sent.

  We’ll ’port from the merest sniff of trouble, I promise. Despite his light tone, she knew better. Enris wouldn’t leave Marcus or anyone else with the Oud. And he believed in the Strangers’ superior technology.

  “And now we wait,” Haxel said grimly.

  “We wait,” Aryl agreed.

  She went to the open door and leaned her back against the frame, taking deep breaths of air free of the stench of dead Oud. The others gave her space.

  Because, she thought wearily, they believed. They believed she’d calm the Tikitik, return Om’ray where they belonged, and prevent the Oud from reshaping the world.

  What she’d give to throw one of Ziba’s tantrums, to scream at her elders and demand they find their own solutions. To be . . .

  To be young again and home.

  Self-pity. And she called herself Yena? A Sarc? Would she rather be ignorant and powerless?

  Aryl’s lips twisted.

  She’d fall first.

  Waiting was pointless. She dove into the M’hir, and reached.

  Naryn.

  Aryl. Their connection locked at the instant of recognition. The Tuana appeared like lightning, an eye-burning brilliance within the storm. Not peaceful, in any sense. Naryn never would be.

  It didn’t help that she was furious. Good thing you left. Rayna and Amna are arguing about the seniority of their Speakers, as if any of them could do better.

  She’d love to hand the job to either, Aryl thought. She couldn’t. Listen, Naryn. My mother talked of a device in the Cloisters, called a Maker.

  Yes. Anaj’s been discussing it with the Adepts. A fleeting wonder, supplanted by dread. To cut an Om’ray’s binding to the rest? If it weren’t for Yao and the babies, I wouldn’t believe it possible.

  Can the Maker do anything else?

  That isn’t enough? She could almost see Naryn’s eyebrow lifting.

  Can it remove a memory? An idea she hadn’t shared, not even with Enris. Wrong, desperate, doubtless Forbidden.

  A chance.

  Their connection thinned as Naryn fell silent; Aryl poured Power into it to keep their minds together. Can anything? she insisted.

  Faint. Troubled. You want the others to forget the M’hir.

  Yes. Then we send them home to their Clans. They’ll have questions, but no way to learn the truth.

  This isn’t what you wanted for us. For all of us.

  She’d wanted too much, too soon. Now, Aryl thought bitterly, she’d settle for survival. The Oud and Tikitik will be at peace. Sona will keep apart from the rest. Safe.

  Like Vyna. A lash of scorn. That’s good enough for your daughter?

  She flinched. The grove in front of her, across the clearing, was stunted and unhealthy. Vyna was a worse blight on the world. Then what? Aryl demanded angrily. What would you have me do, Naryn? Give up, like the Tikitik?

  Use the strength around us. For us.

  What do you mean?

  You saw what the Strangers did to each other. They could easily destroy Tikitna. They may have killed Oud already. As Aryl hesitated, stunned, Naryn went on. Her Power reinforced their link now. Do you want to live in fear? Enris was right and I hadn’t seen it. These would be formidable partners. Last truenight, I learned the Strangers’ language. An image formed of a device Aryl had seen before: the machine Marcus had claimed taught him Om’ray words as he slept.

  We learned, a caustic mindvoice intruded. Anaj had attached herself to their thread. Not that I had a choice, you understand.

  Naryn pushed her aside. I can talk to them now. Any of them. Ask for their help.

  Though the other couldn’t see it, Aryl shook her head violently; her hair lashed her shoulders. It won’t work. Marcus had told her the Trade Pact wouldn’t let the Triads interfere; he wore his costume and pretended to be Om’ray, rather than draw attention. As for those who’d attacked the Triad sites? The Strangers won’t help us.

  They would for the ability to travel through the M’hir.

  Tuana were traders.

  She hadn’t realized, until now, that they could make anything a commodity.

  No, Naryn.

  Spread their problems across countless worlds and races. What had Marcus called it?

  War.

  Aryl . . .

  NO! Don’t mention this to anyone again. Either of you.

  Aryl severed their connection so violently, the M’hir slapped back at her as if she’d tossed a mountain into the ocean. Stung, she fought to see reality, to hold her sense of self. Finally, the waves ended and released her. She hoped Naryn and Anaj hadn’t felt that. Not all of it.

  Enough, Aryl thought grimly, to help them understand.

  The Oud, wanting her help against the Tikitik. The Tikitik, against the Oud. Now Naryn, proposing Om’ray and the Strangers against both.

  Never, Aryl vowed, while she lived.

  “Anything I should know?” Haxel asked in a quiet voice.

  Checking her shields, Aryl made herself relax as she turned. “We’re in trouble, and the Adepts argue about my age.”

  The First Scout chuckled. “They don’t know you.” Her smile faded. “What does that mean?” She pointed at Aryl’s hand.

  Which still held the geoscanner. Startled, Aryl raised the device. A blue light pulsed beneath its clear dome. “Something new,” she admitted.

  Haxel stiffened. “Dangerous?”

  The blue pulse flickered faster and faster.

  “Not the Oud.” She could think of only one thing to try. Aryl lifted the device near her mouth. “Marcus? Are you there?”

  A loud burst of jumbled sounds answered, none understandable. The voice—was it a voice?—was shrill, higher than any she’d heard. Shrill and threatening.

  Aryl turned off the ’scanner, shoved it in its pocket, and met Haxel’s pale eyes. “Not a friend,” the First Scout decided. “Inside.”

  The hole was, if anything, darker and scarier than ever. Aryl avoided looking at it as Haxel began to speak. “Syb, you and—” The rest was drowned out by a deep rumble, rushing toward them.

  Closer . . . closer. On them!

  The building shook.

  Mud loosened around the hole, sliding down but not filling it.

  Enris!!!

  We’re all right. Are you?

  Last time it had been Naryn, digging out the riverbed.

  This? Was the mountain shaking? Should they ’port to safety? Before she could do more than consider it, the sound and vibration passed overhead and diminished.

  It’s leaving, she sent, astonished.

  “Find it!” Haxel ordered. “Stay out of sight!”

  Be careful! This from her Chosen, with a certain irony.

  The rumble went behind the buildings, to where the Oud toiled to disturb what some Tikitik called the “Makers’ Rest.” Om’ray didn’t go there, not anymore. Aryl followed the sound, running close to one wall. She stopped before breaking into the open, paus
ed to sense Haxel and the rest nearby in the grove.

  They would let her take the lead; she was their Speaker, and there were no other Om’ray here. What might be here, Aryl thought with an odd catch in her breath, none of them could guess.

  The Oud had been busy since she’d last been here. The landscape was torn open—not torn, she realized with amazement. They’d stripped away what had lain on top to uncover roadways and stone stairs. A set lay before her, winding and worn, and of no use to Oud, which likely explained why they’d continued to dig deeper to either side. Aryl could imagine Marcus being grateful to have something easier for his feet.

  Easier and better cover. She took the stairs, careful to keep to shadows. The rumble was coming back toward her.

  Aryl showed her teeth. Good. Now to see. She eased around an exposed rock wall.

  Busy indeed. A structure had been partially freed from the cliff face, curved and elaborate, as flawless as those she’d seen beneath the Lake of Fire and uncovered by the Strangers at Site Two. Hoveny ruins.

  Things left by the long-dead didn’t concern her.

  What came toward her, its low rumble vibrating through the soles of her feet, did.

  She’d made fiches the size of her hand glide through the air, of dresel wing, thread, and sticks. She knew the amazing aircars of the Strangers, the noisy winged flyers of the Oud, had been carried by an esan’s doubled wings.

  How could anything like this fly?

  Aryl clutched her pendant, almost deafened. The machine descending before the cliff was larger than the buildings behind her. Twenty—more—aircars could have fit inside it. Like the Oud flying machines, fire came out of it. Like the Humans’ aircar, there were no wings.

  Her eyes narrowed. Scars marred its skin. There were objects fastened to it, or protruding from it. Along its underside, what must be feet. On its back? Those objects were sharp and aimed forward, like horns or knives. Best to assume they were as dangerous as they looked.

  The fire ceased, as if turned off like a glow; with that, the rumble ended, but the machine wasn’t silent. It whined as it came to rest, feet adjusting to the uneven ground with a series of metallic clangs. Suddenly, even the whine stopped.

  Silence. Aryl’s ears buzzed.

  A ramp extended like a tongue to taste the dirt. Above it, a door opened into the belly of the machine.

  And out they came . . .

  Interlude

  UNTIL THIS MOMENT, STANDING TOO CLOSE to the sky in Yena’s canopy or on a mountain ridge—closely followed by dangling from the claws of an esask over a mountain ridge—had been the former Tuana’s idea of situations to avoid repeating at all costs. Enris dropped his hand from the now-stable tunnel wall, tested his legs, and moved being underground when the ground itself shook to the top of his list.

  Trust Aryl and the Yena to chase after the cause.

  Be careful, he’d sent, as if she could. Or would.

  “That was—unpleasant,” he commented.

  “That?” His uncle chuckled, not unkindly. “Always happens when Oud run their machines in nearby tunnels. Shakes up some dust, nothing worse. Josel?”

  The hole had opened into a well-lit tunnel; a tunnel which promptly and unhelpfully branched in four directions, all strewn with Oud gore. Not for long, Enris noticed queasily. Normally skittish iglies clustered around the larger splots of green, paying no attention to Om’ray and their boots as they crowded to get at the stuff, shoving one another vigorously with their jointed legs. Those pushed out of place flashed alarm and complained with wet-smacks before jumping back in.

  “Through here,” the unChosen announced, pointing to one of the identical tunnels.

  All Josel had done was quickly step inside each tunnel mouth and back again. Having been lost among the Oud once, Enris hesitated. “Why that one?”

  Netta bumped him forward. The twins, also identical, were his height and strongly built, even for Tuana. “She knows.”

  “She does,” Suen assured him. “Josel’s Talent tells her where there’s been movement lately—and how much. This was the busiest tunnel.”

  A useful Talent for a Runner, who would normally avoid any space in use by Oud. Enris gestured gratitude and was rewarded by a shy smile.

  Galen waved Josel ahead; the rest of the Tuana followed. But Suen delayed a step to let Enris come beside him. “I want to thank you.” He spoke quietly. A Runner habit, not to risk mindtouch near Oud.

  “Thank me?”

  “For what you did for Naryn.”

  Suen d’sud Annk was once S’udlaat. The family resemblance was there, in the fine lines of his face, the thick red-brown hair. The difference was in the openness of his face. Suen was not an Om’ray of secrets, though he had Power. And he was the closest family Naryn had left, cousin to her mother, heart-kin to her father’s brother. The closest she’d ever had, Enris thought. Suen had not only sheltered Naryn when she’d fled the Adepts; every time she’d had run off in tears, furious or petulant or both, it had been to him.

  Enris shrugged. “Glad I could help.” However complicated the result.

  A frankly doubtful look. “She doesn’t make friends.”

  A not-question, like the Tikitik. “Not easily,” Enris agreed, but something made him add, “She’s found one in Aryl. You know that.”

  The feel of Suen grew warmer. “I know. But, no offense, they’re two of a kind. It’s having you take her side that’s made the difference. Naryn’s life in Sona will be better for it.”

  Not pleasant, hearing his dislike might have influenced the rest. Not that he need accept all the blame, Enris told himself more cheerfully. At her friendliest, Naryn was as safe to approach as a starving esask.

  They walked on a rough floor, their way lit by glowstrips hanging from temporary supports. How new was this tunnel? Enris wondered suddenly. That the Oud might have dug it to reach the artifacts quickly was not reassuring. Not reassuring at all.

  Neither, he thought, was that smell, and wished the iglies could slurp faster.

  Iglies.

  But no Oud. Rock or adult.

  “Where are they?” he whispered. Voices echoed here, found their way back from unexpected directions.

  “Where they need to be,” Netta said. “I’ve watched—” her wary look at Galen’s back suggesting a lack of Chosen permission for this activity “—Digger Oud. Only one starts a tunnel, but it doesn’t take long before there’s a crowd of them, pushing and shoving to get at the work. They don’t notice us at all.”

  “Until the Minded one showed up.” Her twin.

  “There’s no need to—” Netta closed her mouth quickly as Galen glanced over his shoulder. Her lips were as dappled as her skin. An Amna trait, making it easy to pick out those newcomers from that Clan, if not foolproof. Some were so thoroughly speckled their skin looked dark.

  Aryl liked the effect. She’d told him it made her think of sunlight filtered through leaves.

  Aryl. The tingle along his nerves wasn’t fear of this place, though he could, Enris grimaced, do without dead Oud goo on his boots or the squirt of it when he couldn’t help stomping an iglie. The tingle came from Aryl’s state of mind. It affected his; she couldn’t help it. Hunter. Her outer senses were incredibly alert; her thoughts, if he let himself reach too deep—as had happened once or twice—an emotionless sequence of decisions, rapid and sure. This far. Step there. Ignore these. Danger!

  While such focus revealed much about a Yena’s ability to survive, he preferred not to share it. Probably, Enris reminded himself with a rueful inner grin, Aryl preferred that too.

  He himself was more distractible. He liked to think as he walked. Not that he had anything in mind at the moment, but it had been his habit to wander through the fields at home, ponder designs, look to the world for ideas.

  They passed an opening; Josel didn’t turn aside but Galen stopped. “Wait.”

  Josel looked a question at the older Runner, who pointed to the floor. Enris felt a sudden chi
ll.

  A small puddle, without iglies. A puddle of dark red, thickened but still reflecting light.

  Suen squatted for a closer look. “Om’ray,” he said grimly.

  Enris shook his head. “Human.”

  A different kind of day, sitting in the sun by the waterfall, a too-curious finger on Aryl’s longknife, a moment of shared wonder at a drop of innocent red.

  Nothing innocent about this puddle on the floor of an Oud tunnel.

  Without waiting for the rest, Enris walked through the opening beside the blood into what he found wasn’t a tunnel, but a circular room. The ceiling was twice as high and more openings pierced the walls above, a reminder that Oud had no trouble running underneath a ceiling or down a wall.

  The floor of this—was it a room, or another kind of tunnel?—was what mattered.

  The floor, and what the Oud had dumped on it.

  There was no other word for the shambles. Crates of the Strangers’ white material formed a jumbled pile higher than his head; its base almost filled the room. Some had toppled and rolled to lie with what weren’t crates, but fragments of bodies.

  Not Marcus. Not Marcus. Enris said it to himself over and over as he searched, his shields as tight as he could make them to protect Aryl, hand over his nose against the reek. Strangers. Of varied shapes and sizes. Cut into bits.

  Once sure, he relaxed. Strangers, yes. Two . . . he spotted another piece of head . . . three. But none dressed as if pretending to be Om’ray.

  “This one’s different.” Galen rolled a limp torso over with his boot. “Look at the clothing.”

  The torso had its head. It was Om’ray-like—or Human—save for short yellow bristles where ears belonged. What remained of the body wore a one-piece blue garment with no fastenings or seams. A nearby leg bore the same fabric.

  The other two wore Triad work clothes, complete with a line of symbols on their shirts. Names, Enris thought, and used his knife to cut the scraps free. He tucked them deep in a pocket. Marcus would want names.

  There was nothing to identify the bristle-eared Stranger. Enris stared at its face, hoping the memory would be enough.