Riders of the Storm

Interlude

ETLEKA EYED ENRIS.

Putting his hands behind his head, Enris eyed him right back.

Five days of his best behavior. His parents wouldn’t have believed it. For his trouble, his hands bore new calluses from five mornings of catching the hapless denos, as well as cuts from five afternoons of hauling that catch to be cleaned and cleaning it. He’d endured flatcakes at every meal, by now almost inured to the Vyna’s mouth-burning spice. He wore the clothes they gave him: the tunic and pants were cool and comfortable, if snug. No shirt. From the Vyna he’d seen, there wasn’t a size to fit his shoulders.

Five days of doing whatever he was told, without argument or complaint. Of giving the Vyna time to grow used to his presence. Hopefully, time enough so they wouldn’t feed him to the denos’ unseen nightmare.

Any stranger had to prove his worth. But what Etleka held in his hand?

There was, Enris thought cheerfully, always the moment best behavior ended. “You can’t make me wear it.”

Stop talking out loud. Etleka held out the cap, a sparkling confection of blue and green, complete with yellow tassels. Everyone stares at your head when we go out. It’s embarrassing.

“Doesn’t bother me.” Enris deliberately ran his fingers through his thick hair and added to his list of having behaved very well five days of talking—not talking—to no one but the two denoscatchers, neither of whom communicated a thought that wasn’t about either denos or catching them. Unless it was to complain about his strangeness and having to put up with him.

He tried not to think of the five truenights he’d been left alone in this windowless bedroom. Every ’night, once asleep—he could only stay awake so long no matter how he tried—once asleep, he would hear the chant of Vyna’s Council and Adepts echoing through the corridors of the Cloisters, an incoherent howl like something with teeth and terrible appetite, watched by bodiless eyes that pressed against the windows.

“You have no idea, my friend,” Enris said peacefully, leaning back in the chair and crossing his long legs, “how long I can talk out loud. Let me start with my grandmother. Did I tell you she had a—”

You’re impossible. Etleka placed the rejected cap on the table and flopped gracelessly into the other chair. Those furnishings and a narrow bed competed for what space there was. The other two rooms were no larger.

The Vyna had done more than cut into the island, they’d tunneled completely through it, like Oud. Enris had discovered the massive shard of rock was hollow, as if rotted from within. Where the rock narrowed—at its peak and ends, a single room might have doors to the outside piercing three of its walls. At its thickest, like here, along the lower levels, rooms opened only to other rooms. Vyna had no hallways inside its rock. Workrooms, including the one where he’d gutted denos were on the outside, with windows. Anyone going home had to walk through them first, then continue through whatever other rooms were in the way.

Many of those rooms were empty. Vyna had been more populous once.

I’m not impossible, he sent, inclined to peace now. I work hard. I’m pleasant.

You think that matters? Etleka replied scornfully. You’re lesser Om’ray. That you made it here past the mountains and water doesn’t change anything. You can’t be here, and you can’t leave. You have to die.

Enris grinned. Haven’t yet.

Even a Vyna’s laugh was soundless, a gaping of the mouth, a shake. No. You tossed a rumn into Council, that’s for sure. The younger Om’ray’s mindvoice was decidedly pleased. They’re still in session, arguing. Until that’s settled, you can help with the denos.

Arguing about what?

I shouldn’t talk about such things.

Oh, he knew that look. He’d see it on Worin’s face, when his little brother ached to tell a secret to someone. If they’re going to kill me eventually, Enris sent, with a deliberate hint of amusement, why not tell me? I’m curious.

Beyond curious. Desperate.

Patience, he told himself, keeping his body and face relaxed.

Tarerea Vyna, the High Councillor. She claimed the Glorious Dead for her unborn, used it before the others had a chance. There should have been a vote. Disdain. Not that they’d have agreed on anything.

What’s a “glorious dead”?

Etleka’s eyes widened. You really are lesser, aren’t you? Don’t you know anything?

The Tuana imagined a certain Yena’s response to this and gave his best smile. Maybe not. Tell me.

When an Adept can no longer be kept alive through the gifting—that is my future, the unChosen added with pride—I am strong. One of their servers will fail soon, and I’ll be Called. They won’t Call you. I’ve heard they fear your taste will be sour.

Remembering the unChosen waiting to give their strength to those too-old bodies, Enris was mutely grateful.

When an Adept is close to death, Etleka continued, another scours the memories from her mind and puts them in a Vessel. When an unborn is ready, she receives the Glorious Dead. It doesn’t always work. The unborn can be willful and refuse the gift. If it does work, a new Adept is born, with the memories and Talents of the one gone before.

Vile. Horrible. Enris fought the urgent desire of his stomach to express its own opinion, fought to keep his shields tight and to project only curiosity. How could they do this to the unborn? What were the minds behind those old eyes?

So the argument is about Tarerea?

Another grin. Etleka had likely never had so eager a “listener.” They argue about you, Enris. You brought a new Vessel to Vyna, the first ever. They want more, badly, but no Vyna would leave and be contaminated by the world beyond. They could send you. You are already ruined. But you can’t be trusted to return. You can see their problem. Some want you dead now. The rest argue for a delay, saying you could be neutered, made useful while they try to find a way.

Neutered? Enris didn’t care for the feel of the word—or the satisfaction that came with it.

Not that any Vyna Chooser would crave a lesser Om’ray, but if it happened? Nothing can stop Choice and Joining. All that can be done to protect the Chooser from her misjudgment is to remove— Rather than send an image, Etleka spread his legs and pantomimed the slash of a knife. Those of feeble Power cannot be allowed to breed.

“You expect me to believe you mutilate Chosen?” The outburst rang against the walls. Enris didn’t care. “I may be new to Vyna, my friend, but I’m not stupid.”

The other jumped to his feet, pale face flushed with anger. Ask Daryouch, then.

“Your father?”

At the door, Etleka gave Enris a scathing look over his shoulder. I had none. Not with grief—with pride.

Once the incomprehensible Vyna was gone, Enris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. If his future was set, this lesser Om’ray needn’t risk his life “helping” catch denos.

What should he do?

The irony didn’t escape him. If there was any unChosen on Cersi the Vyna shouldn’t worry about contaminating their precious Choosers, it was him. He hadn’t come in answer to a Call. To be honest, he found the one Vyna Chooser he’d met as appealing as an Oud and had no higher expectations from the rest. He felt no urge whatsoever to Join any of them.

He fingered the knot of hair at his throat. He’d come here to help all Om’ray and found the only ones who wouldn’t. No wonder Thought Traveler had been amused.

If the Vyna thought he was going to sit here while their strange Council and withered Adepts decided his fate…

He laughed loud and long.

…time to misbehave.

Enris delayed only to change into his own clothes. The Vyna garments, he left lying on the floor.

Now to find something worth taking.

Each truenight, sent to his bed, he’d listen to the door being locked. It wasn’t now, Enris discovered when he went to break it open. Either he’d angered Etleka to the point of carelessness, or the unChosen had no idea how uncooperative a lesser Om’ray could be. Grinning, the Tuana investigated the main room, where Daryouch prepared and served their meals, but its few cupboards contained nothing but dishes, utensils, and clothing. Perhaps the Vyna had no need for preserved or dried foods, going out daily to catch the hapless denos.

Another excellent reason to leave. A steady diet of the things and he’d become as thin as any Vyna.

He wouldn’t be able to leave unobserved. There were four “homes” and a storeroom between here and the outside. Vyna privacy was based on a deliberate turn of the head to not look directly at those already in a room—or those passing through—as if the pretense possibly mattered.

No one home in the first three. Enris opened the door to the next and strode inside. He’d never seen anyone there.

Until now. A smokelike mist, redolent with musk, swirled around the naked Chosen standing inside. She grabbed her cap from the table, fumbled it over her head. No pretense this time. She stared at him as he stared at her.

Who are you?

With a frantic gesture of apology, Enris hurried through, turned the next door, and bolted for the safety of the storeroom.

He slowed, tasting musk at the back of his throat. What had the Chosen been doing? He had a confused memory of…

A Call flooded his mind, pulled at his thoughts, twisted his senses. He stopped with his hand about to turn the door to outside. A Call from…

…the room he’d just left.

No. Impossible. He’d seen her. Too well. The swollen breasts and hips of a Chosen, a body ready to nurture new life. Her exposed hair had been strange, a thin pale fuzz like the coating of a fruit, but it had moved with her emotions.

He’d seen her.

The Call continued, stronger than Fikryya’s, than Seru’s. Despite his revulsion for all things Vyna, Enris hesitated, surprised by longing.

He had only to turn around. Go back through that door.

To what? What was she? A Chooser waiting for completion—or a Chosen half-thing? Or was this another aspect of Vyna, that their Choosers need not wait for Choice to mature?

Etleka claimed no father. Had he meant exactly that? No. Impossible.

Enris licked dry lips. Wasn’t it?

Did Vyna need the unChosen at all?

She did. She wanted him. Her urgent desire ached in his bones, fired his blood. Come back…let me offer myself…offer you Choice… Sweat stung his eyes as he resisted. Her Call, so close and powerful, weakened his shields, shook his hold on reality. The M’hir surged closer, pulled at his sanity, sang destruction…

No! He would not.

Rebuffed, the Call withered and stopped, a triumph of will over passion. He choked back a cry at its loss…turned the door and half fell through it…found himself…

Outside.

And ran.

Morning could be midday could be firstnight. The mist-laden water and clouded sky diffused light, confused all sense of time. His stomach helped, insisting he’d missed breakfast.

His pounding blood said he’d missed something else.

With an effort, Enris forced his thoughts away from the memory of her Call, of his ability to refuse it. She hadn’t sent again, perhaps stung by his rejection—Choosers, he’d noticed, didn’t take well to being spurned—perhaps gathering strength to send it again. If she did, could he resist her again?

Whatever she was.

Wrong to refuse, something inside argued. What was he waiting for? Enris suddenly thought of his cousin Ral, who doubted the next sunrise until he saw it for himself. He’d been fond of stories of unChosen who failed to find a Chooser. Their fate, according to these tales, involved a long and romantically miserable life made bearable by incredible feats of daring and accomplishment.

Kiric had lasted a year before walking off a Yena bridge. There, thought Enris bitterly, was the truth.

His own emptiness? He filled it with determination, with anger, with the need to help others. Made himself remember the pain Naryn had caused, when she’d tried to force him to answer her Call. With the terror of being lost in the M’hir, in that endless insanity of darkness…Should he add a new one? That his own ability might keep him from any Choice at all?

Enris broke out laughing. “Now I sound like you, Ral.” Who, for all he knew, had already Joined with sweet, if hiccup-ridden, Olalla. Besides, if he believed Etleka, he’d escaped a match that would have cost him dearly. He tugged his pants for reassurance.

Whatever else, he had to leave this place. To his inner sense, the Vyna were spread over more than the island. The denos-catchers were heading out in their floats, Daryouch and Etleka among them. Not that he planned an overwater route. Even if he could use his Talent to move one of the craft, the thought of what swam below?

No. A Tuana belonged on ground. Solid, flat ground.

Which meant a bridge. And he’d complained about Yena’s. At least they’d been wide, with rope rails.

Enris paused by one of the Vyna’s always-bright glows, gazed at it thoughtfully. “What powers you?” he asked it. No cell. No oil. But what?

The Vyna themselves? They used Power in novel ways.

Determined, if glad no one watched, he put his hand against its cool outer case. The light shone through his flesh, painting his fingertips pink. Cautiously, Enris lowered his shields, reached with the part of his mind that understood Power and objects, that could sense another’s touch.

Nothing.

What are you doing?

He tightened his shields and turned to face the sender, startled to have to look down. The mindvoice hadn’t felt childish. The shield he gently explored was as firm as any adult’s, yet this was a child too young to be away from her parent’s protection.

What are you? A miniature Fikryya, complete with the same haughty tone. She wore a shift, bright yellow, that went to her knees. A cap—also yellow—covered her head, answering his curiosity of whether all Vyna wore the things, although hers was adorned by black knotted fibers bound by wire in a tuft on top. Her slim wrists and ankles were covered in bands, not of metal, but of black thread strung through the eye sockets of white skulls, smaller than her fingertips. They were tied so they wouldn’t click against one another.

He went to one knee. My name is Enris Mendolar. What’s yours?

Tiny eyebrows collided. That’s not a real name.

Enris sensed her disapproval, as if he tried to make fun of her. He carefully didn’t smile. It’s not a Vyna name, he agreed.

A flare of curiosity, again with that unnatural control. You’re the one the esan dropped on the bridge. She eyed him up and down. You don’t look hideously deformed. This with distinct disappointment.

Very young, he decided, with growing concern. Let me take you to your mother.

Her eyes widened; he sensed alarm mixed with longing and a bitter resignation no child her age should be able to feel. I’m a fosterling. I’m not allowed near my mother.

Enris couldn’t contain his dismay at this; he didn’t try. That can’t be. Even as he protested, he reached.

The bond was there, between the child and her mother. It wasn’t the one he’d known, or what he’d felt between his new brother and Ridersel. Instead of that fierce, protective closeness, this burned with Power, as if ignited by the tension of distance, or as if both minds fed it strength to keep it alive.

And it felt like the connection Aryl had forged between them, in the M’hir.

Wrong. Like everything else here. You should be together, he sent desperately. Let me take you home.

A hand, light and cool as mist, rested on his. It’s not for long. She slips from me if I’m not careful. Soon I’ll be of no use. Then I can go home.

Enris stared into the child’s patient, weary eyes. I don’t understand.

You’re lesser Om’ray. As if he should accept this.

As if he could. Mist curled over stone, muffled even their breathing. You shouldn’t be here alone. It was all he could find to send.

A shy smile. I think you’re nice, Enris Mendolar. And I’m not alone. Look, here comes Jenemir. Jenemir Vyna, she added formally. My name is Nabrialan Vyna. He can’t send very far. With pity.

Enris rose to his feet and turned to face the oncoming Om’ray. Like the Adepts, Jenemir was older than any Om’ray he’d met outside Vyna. He shuffled more than strode, one hand locked around a staff pressed with care to the pavement, its well-wrapped end preventing any sound.

Much longer here, Enris told himself, and he’d long for Olalla’s hiccups.

The child rushed to the old Om’ray’s side, looked up adoringly as she grasped his free hand. It took Enris a moment to realize the ferocious creasing of Jenemir’s face was a smile. This is Enris, Jenemir. Nabrialan’s sending was powerful enough. He’s nice. For a lesser Om’ray.

Eyes that were slits beneath thick lids gazed at him. A puckered hand wedged the staff under an arm, then was offered.

Enris didn’t dare hesitate, taking Jenemir’s cold and twisted fingers in his. The child is without her mother, he sent immediately, with undertones of urgency and concern. We must take her home.

Nabrialan lives with me. The sending was labored as well as faint. Had too many years sapped Jenemir’s Power as well as his body? It is Vyna’s way. Why are you here? His fingers twitched; Enris could feel the other’s mind fumble at his shields. Strong. Very strong. Shame you are lesser Om’ray.

The corner of Enris’ mouth quirked up, and he restrained a laugh. The Vyna were consistent, he’d give them that. Which is why I’m leaving, he informed the other, once I understand what powers your glows.

Nabrialan looked at the nearest fixture, then back at the Tuana. Powers the glows? Her sending was perplexed, as if Enris had asked why the sun bothered to shine above the mist. They light Vyna.

Jenemir’s face creased into its smile again. And well they do, little one, or we’d have rumn crawling the streets at night.

He hadn’t wanted to know that.

There’d been pride in the other’s sending to the child. You know how they work, he sent to Jenemir.

Definitely pride. Of course. Those who cannot gift the worthy or offer Choice still have their place in Vyna. I worked for many years on the fire below. Important work. Valued work.

You can’t be still unChosen. Enris hadn’t meant to share the thought, but Jenemir’s creases only tightened.

Of course, the Vyna sent again. Only the weak can survive alone. The Power’s need—it eats the powerful from inside. You can feel it, can’t you. A mercy to let them spend themselves to maintain the lives of their betters. The most powerful… He stopped there.

What about them?

If they are Vyna, they are Chosen. Our Choosers refuse any less. A hint of apprehension beneath his mindvoice; the gnarled hand trembled in Enris’. You shouldn’t be here. Your Power will tempt them. It’s Forbidden to Choose a lesser Om’ray. You must go.

Enris forced a smile. I’ll be gone as soon as you tell me about these glows. What is the fire below?

The other thought to refuse, but his shields were thinner than the gauze of Yena’s windows. Memories surged through his mind, memories of a lifetime spent working within an immense cavern, sensations so vivid Enris could feel the searing heat from its floor of molten rock on his skin, imagine his legs cramped with the effort of climbing stairs, his throat rasped by fumes.

A cavern. The Oud, he concluded with disappointment.

We have nothing to do with lesser races. Ground Dwellers dare not enter our cavern. Meddlers dare not cross our lake. The Vyna—this with overwhelming conviction—are not part of the outside world.

Molten rock explained the too-warm lake water, and the mist above it. It didn’t, as far as Enris was concerned, explain glows with no power cells. There had to be more. Something he could learn or take with him. What makes the glows work? he insisted, careful not to tighten his larger hand. Those old bones would break.

Why do you care? Nabrialan broke in, impatience under the words. Come, Jenemir. I’m hungry. Let’s go home.

The old unChosen looked down at the child. Go ahead, little one. I will make sure this lesser Om’ray goes where he belongs, then cook you a fine supper.

Enris watched the tiny figure in yellow skip down the roadway, the only life and color to be seen, her footsteps smothered by the mist. What will happen to her? he asked.

Nabrialan? She will sit on Council one day. Her unborn may even receive a Glorious One. She has great Power. As if this mattered most of all.

To the Vyna, maybe it did. If it led to this? A Council that squabbled over the memories of the dead, their greatest ambition for their children to bring those memories back to life? Om’ray who died were supposed to stay that way.

Vyna was as foul as its air.

The glows? Enris sent gently but firmly. In my Clan, I’m a metalworker. There are many things I can do with fire, Jenemir, but powering light from glows isn’t one of them. Tell me about them, please.

Vyna’s Heart. Instead of more words, another memory, this time deliberately shared. Enris was Jenemir as he stood before a machine larger than a Cloisters. Its lower surfaces took their color from the molten rock lapping against its base, reds and oranges, swirls and eddies of searing white against the black. There were moving parts, none of which made sense, most larger than an Om’ray. Some spun, some turned, others came and went through openings he couldn’t see.

What didn’t move was just as incomprehensible. Five massive “arms” had been driven up and into the ceiling of stone, or the stone had formed around them. Curls of pipe entered the molten pool, unaffected by its heat or seeking it. Openings that couldn’t be reached without wings.

And Om’ray, stripped to the waist, carrying cubes of black rock on their bent backs down long, narrow staircases. Cubes that were stacked by other Om’ray atop a wall of other cubes that ran along the near border of the molten pool, holding it back. From the height and breadth of that wall, the Vyna had been doing this longer than Enris dared imagine.

Not all the Vyna, he realized. Those without Power to give an Adept, or attract a Chooser. Their weakest unChosen.

Their expendable fools.

The glows? he sent, somehow keeping his disgust from Jenemir, though he no longer hoped for an answer. Even if he could understand the workings of this machine, even if he could build another—where else on Cersi was a cavern that melted rock itself?

Jenemir’s tongue worried at a solitary, yellowed tooth. They shine as long as the machine floats on the molten lake. So was made the Promise.

Adept prattle, Enris judged it, to make the carrying of rocks important. Glows can be powered by other means, he offered, unsure why.

We need nothing from the outside world. Where you belong, lesser Om’ray. The Vyna pulled his hand free, moved his staff, moved his feet, and made his slow way after the child.

Enris made the gesture of gratitude. Jenemir was right.

He didn’t belong here.

Mist butted the black stone like a mattress of lies. Layers of it were above him, obscuring the sky, cutting the light until the glows to either side were the brightest source. When he kicked out with one foot, the mist shied away, then curled back, as if enjoying the game.

The bridge had to be here. Somewhere.

Enris stood at the edge of the platform, reached with care. There were no Om’ray ahead—or below. This wasn’t the bridge to their Cloisters.

Nor was it a game.

There were stairs to the water here. Somewhere. This might be where they’d brought him, the first day. He vaguely remembered doing more congratulating than paying attention, grateful to have been saved.

Saved. Enris would have laughed, but the mist covered the water, and the water held what he especially didn’t want noticing him.

Especially when he had to walk out on the bridge, surrounded by water.

The bridge he couldn’t see for mist.

Enris sat down, his legs hanging over the platform. His fingers toyed with the knot of hair as he considered the problem. The mist swallowed his feet and ankles, tasted his knees. He reached down with his foot. Nothing. A shift to one side, a reach. Nothing. Shift, reach. Shift, reach. Shift…there. Just as he felt a thorough fool, the side of his boot struck what he couldn’t see—a solid surface. The bridge, or a stair to it.

When would they try to stop him? He reached. No one nearby. Enris frowned thoughtfully. Were they letting him go?

Or did they know something about his planned escape route he didn’t?

Not that it mattered. He was leaving and now.

Enris cautiously descended what proved to be stairs, feeling his way. It wasn’t slippery, but he loathed the mist even more as he sank into its damp warmth, its stench. He tried not to think about it or the bridge, instead concentrating on the feel of real sunlight and a proper, cleansing wind.

The third step was the last. The bridge. Mist engulfed his body from the waist down. It would rise higher by truenight. Ahead—an appalling distance ahead—rose the smooth black rock that encircled the lake, the opening that led inside. To what?

He’d worry about that if—when—he got there.

Wishing for Aryl’s effortless balance, Enris slid one foot ahead of the other, making sure each was on a solid support before shifting his full weight to it.

Water lapped, unseen. Vyna craft moved across it, unseen, unheard.

Nice to have company, he decided, licking sweat from his upper lip. Step, step.

Though Enris tried to move in a straight line, too often his next step would slide off the edge of the bridge and he’d freeze in place to keep his balance. After the fourth close call, he glanced over his shoulder at the island.

What island? Mist had consumed the platforms, slipped under the lights. All he could make out was a rumor of height.

He clung to his sense of other Om’ray—without it, the world had no up, down, or sides. There was nothing but mist.

Time for a different strategy.

He lowered himself to his hands and knees. Mist pressed soft and wet against his face; he closed his eyes. It wasn’t as if sight was helping.

Better. He believed what he touched; his movements didn’t need grace, only patience.

Enris measured the bridge by the growing soreness of his knees and palms, unused to supporting his bulk. He vowed to eat less, although with a certain self-pity, since he didn’t see how that was possible. His last meal of denos seemed a feast in memory. He had nothing in his pockets or pouch but his Oud firebox. And the knife in his belt.

The Vyna weren’t used to having captives, he mused as he crawled forward. Just as well. None he’d seen, all modesty aside, would be a match for his big hands and strength. He didn’t want to hurt them.

Warn other Clans, yes. He’d find a way. There was no welcome for those on Passage here, despite Vyna’s abundance of Choosers. No one else should come here.

Enris paused, shaking his head like a beast. Droplets flew from his hair. Something wasn’t right.

He wanted to laugh. Crawling along a thin bridge of stone through impenetrable mist to an end he couldn’t be sure existed? What could be right about that?

No, he told himself, rocking back to sit still and listen. It was something else.

Something within.

A Call.

As he braced himself to resist, he heard a sound. A little splash, only that. Then another, and another.

Denos.

The Call wasn’t from a Chooser—it was the summoning the Vyna used to bring up the rumn!

Enris drew and held his knife, eyes blind in the mist, and began to crawl again, as quickly as he could with only one hand free. As quietly, too. He tried not to breathe.

The Vyna approached the bridge. They made no sound either. Denos began to land on the bridge, silver bodies wriggling and slapping in their struggle to return to water. One thudded into Enris, and he grunted with surprise. More landed in his path, and he swept them aside rather than risk putting a knee on their slippery sides.

The rumn.

It was coming. The denos knew. His inner sense knew.

Enris moved faster. Once beyond the splash and smack of denos, he put away the useless knife and pressed himself flat against the bridge, breathing into a sleeve, wishing his heart to slow. He’d wait it out. Surely a deepwater dweller couldn’t stay near the surface for long. It couldn’t find him if he was quiet.

A shape loomed from the mist and collided with the bridge beside Enris. Bang! One of the Vyna floats—empty. It rocked back with the force of impact, out of sight.

From the other side—a second empty float hurtled toward him. Bang!

Simple, Enris thought with disgust. He couldn’t see them in time to fend them off with his own Power. And they made enough noise to summon the entire lakeful of rumn.

Time to go.

He crawled as quickly as possible, no longer worried about noise. It followed him, the Vyna precise in their aim. Presumably they’d run out of empty floats soon.

Another shape loomed beside him. Enris braced himself for the sound, but there was none. The shape didn’t collide with the bridge—it turned and began to slide alongside. A glistening darkness, the curved sweep of a back.

Not entirely dark. There were faint whorls and patterns of light embedded in it, as if the stars had become stuck in the rumn’s skin. If it was skin and not a hole in the world…

Perverse. Wrong. Like everything here. Enris spat and kept moving. The bridge couldn’t go on forever. Once on land, he’d take his chances against anything alive.

The rock bridge shuddered under his hands.

And again.

The rumn was alive, wasn’t it? Despite its terrifying extension into the M’hir…its feel in his mind…it had to be a living thing…

He wasn’t sure why that was vital, but it was.

Crunch!

From ahead. He knew that sound—a careless foot on loose stone—and launched himself to his feet, desperately running toward it.

His foot lost the bridge, struck what was firm enough to support it, something that rose.

Enris didn’t look down, didn’t dare. He pushed off with all his strength, regained the bridge, ran through the mist…

…and into another Om’ray, who fell back with a startled “Ooof!” The Tuana kept running, now on pebbles. A soundless wail burned through his mind, hungry and enraged. Then a scream from behind, cut short…

The mist fell back. He found himself on a ramp, treacherous with loose stones. Ahead, the tunnel mouth he’d seen from the island.

And what he hadn’t seen.

Its massive, closed door.

Something moved behind him. Something hungry.

Enris lifted his hands, concentrated, and pushed.

With a shriek of stretched, abused metal, the door gave way.

He ran through the opening and never looked back.