Rift in the Sky

Interlude

THERE WAS LUNCH. Too much of it, Enris thought queasily. The sinuous stepped construction that was the Tikitik version of a table was crammed with bowls of varying shapes and sizes. Bowls of the revolting dresel jelly, shiny and purple, that Aryl and the Yena prized, bowls of swimmer flesh floating in a brown sauce exactly as his uncle from Amna had remembered for him, bowls of what Anaj proclaimed to be fresh rokly, bowls of this and that, even a bowl of denos cakes, steaming hot.

Sweetpies that might have been his mother’s. He tried not to look.

Favorite foods from different Om’ray Clans, some he didn’t recognize. Proof the Tikitik knew more about his kind than he did.

Of course, it wasn’t only the food and its implications that ruined any appetite he’d had.

It was the audience.

Tikitik surrounded them, silent, attentive. Most squatted on wide branches, branches that curled down to a convenient height, that aligned to provide the best view, that made easy steps to upper levels, that walled away secrets. Overhead, finer growth interlaced to make roofs, with short, stubby leaves tilted to direct sunlight where it was wanted and shade everywhere else.

They’d seen the Tikitik buildings from the air, Enris thought with disgust, and not known it.

These Tikitik were hard to recognize as well. He’d expected them to be mottled mauve and brown to match their surroundings, or black like the Thought Travelers. Instead, their knobby skins blazed with color. Yellow pulsed along pendulous throats. Heads were bright blue and more of that color flared along the short spines of each arm. Eye cones were more variable.

Did they have to come in fleshy pink?

Fur brushed his hand and Enris managed not to flinch. Another loper. The things had no fear or caution. And weren’t alone. Everywhere he looked, something moved. All to a purpose. Lopers used their clever paws and teeth to carry objects. What he’d at first thought were biters after his blood—and promptly swatted, to the amusement of the Tikitik—turned out to be busy picking up wastes. An assortment of them had almost finished removing a spill near the denos bowl, flying off with flecks of yellow on their tiny limbs.

Another reason he wasn’t hungry.

“Mothers must be strong.” Thought Traveler—the one who’d accompanied them here—stretched its fingers toward the bowls. “Any of these contain what your bodies require. You should eat.” This close, its skin wasn’t black, Enris noted, but a blue so dark as to lose its color. The cones were startling white, the eyes themselves black beads sitting on top. To draw attention where it looked? Its mouth protuberances, like those of the rest of its kind, were gray.

As far as he was concerned, those looked more like a meal trying to escape than body parts.

Another reason.

“Something more familiar, perhaps.” A tall gourd stood beside one bend of the table. The Tikitik lifted its lid and indicated Enris should come closer. “Young Oud? These are quite fresh.”

The gourd was full of small pale rocks. Moving rocks.

Young . . . Oud?

Familiar indeed. Remembering that taste, Enris swallowed bile. Never eating again, he decided. Ever.

Naryn eyed the selection, then chose rokly. Enris guessed Anaj had a share in that choice. Aryl merely lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know what we need?”

“We know what everything needs.” Thought Traveler lifted its head. Its smaller rear eyes moved ceaselessly, as if it was as important to keep watch on its fellows as on them. “And that is the last question I will answer in Tikitna.”

By the look on Aryl’s face, it wouldn’t be the last one she’d ask. Enris kept his smile and his pride to himself. It would take more than all of Cersi’s Tikitik to stop his Chosen if she saw a path for her people. She didn’t seek to lead others—didn’t believe herself capable of it. She didn’t need to; her vision and courage, the pulse of her extraordinary Power, these drew Om’ray to her, gave them strength.

Other than the Vyna—and maybe, given time, them as well.

If Om’ray were metal, Aryl would glow like a finely crafted knife being tempered by flame. Beautiful, stronger by the moment, deadly if necessary. A sensible Chosen would fear for his life, she so willingly risked hers. Unlike Anaj’s sister, he wouldn’t survive to Choose again.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Except . . .

Enris strengthened his shields. Fear for Sweetpie would choke him, then spread to smother them both. Aryl fought her own constant battle with instinct; he could sense it. All he could do to help her was control himself and keep shields between them at the deepest level.

Though something must have leaked through. She glanced up at him with those wide gray eyes, a softness in their depths. A loose strand of hair tempted him to touch it.

“Don’t miss the sweetpies,” he ordered gravely and took three for himself. He ate them without tasting, enjoying far more her hesitant yet trusting nibble, then dazzling smile as she reached the filling.

“You were right. These are good.”

He brushed a crumb from her chin. “I’m always right.”

The Tikitik stirred around them, hissing softly, some giving their bark. Naryn came back to stand with them, looking uneasy. “Something’s happening.”

Aryl nodded. Enris could see nothing but branches and squatting Tikitik. “Lunch” had been waiting for them in an area otherwise identical to where they’d walked from the esan’s landing. Paths no wider than his shoulders wound between the low branches, and nothing of the sky could be seen. It was like being inside a living tunnel. A crowded one. And the smell? Between the musk of the Tikitik, the fresh and plentiful droppings of the lopers, and the food, his nose should have been unable to smell another thing.

But it did.

Enris turned his head toward the source, only to find Aryl already gazing the same way. A path, like the others, twisted so they could see very little of where it led. “What is it?”

“Rot. The kind that lies beneath dark water. Something’s stirred the bottom.”

The Tikitik surrounding them were no longer restless. Thought Traveler was also still, except for the slide of its eyes. If he had to guess, they waited for the Om’ray to do something. What?

What are they waiting for? Anaj sounded annoyed. Why are they keeping us here?

Aryl’s full lower lip was between her teeth, her habit when puzzling through a problem. Usually Enris found it set him thinking of things that weren’t problems at all; here and now, he felt sudden anticipation.

The lip came free. “I don’t believe they are,” she stated. Then, Come, as she started walking briskly.

How did he know it would be the path with the rot?

“It could be worse, Naryn,” he assured her as they trailed behind. “There could be climbing.”

There were Tikitik in Aryl’s way, their shoulders towering over her head. Enris tensed as she simply walked straight at them, but at the last possible instant, they took a step to the side, raising their heads sharply as if offended.

“You need not accompany Apart-from-All.” Thought Traveler pranced up beside him, clawed feet silent on the soft ground. “Here will is measured, not imposed or opposed. You could stay here and wait in comfort.”

“Our will is to follow our Speaker,” Naryn snapped.

“That is up to you.”

“Alone,” Enris suggested.

A soft amused bark. “But that is up to me, Enris Once-of-Tuana. I find myself with the will to follow. I admit to being curious how Apart-from-All will explain herself.”

Knowing his name didn’t make it the same Thought Traveler who’d dropped him in the midst of the Vyna . . .

“As it is my will to return this.”

... the thin leather strap dangled from its three clawed fingers, twisting as the fingers rolled it to and fro did. A knot of hair was tied to it.

The thong was from his pouch; the hair Aryl’s gift, a Highknot, as she’d explained it. Yena children, on their first climb away from their mothers, would tie one to the highest point they reached. Accomplishment and a promise to return.

Definitely the one. Enris took the thong from the smug creature and tucked it in a pocket, sensing Naryn’s curiosity. Or Anaj’s. No questions, was it? “I hope you had a better reason to drop me on the Vyna than the fun of watching me die.”

A bark. “This is why I so enjoy our conversations. Consider it a test of Vyna’s will. I knew you’d be a temptation.”

He hadn’t missed Tikitik gibberish.

“I’m gratified you survived, despite refusing my excellent advice, Enris Now-Sarc,” Thought Traveler continued. “The opportunity for your stimulating company shouldn’t be wasted.”

Meaning there’d be no getting rid of the creature. Enris gestured a grim apology to Naryn.

They entered the path. Like the others, it was too narrow to walk side by side, though lopers squeezed past, carrying or dragging bags. Enris let Naryn go first, then put himself ahead of Thought Traveler. Underfoot, a dense twisted growth, like a mat, deadened all sound; its faint spice when trodden on did nothing to counter the miasma of decay. The path’s center was lower—worn, he guessed. Otherwise, there was nothing to give a sense of age.

The plants to either side met over their heads. They were inhabited. He could hear Tikitik voices, distant, sometimes moving. Once, the clatter of what could have been dishes. Rustling. The living walls were inhabited, too. More biters-with-tasks; something that seemed to swim through the foliage, stopping to stare at them with its triplet of stalked red eyes; what he assumed were yellow flowers until one jumped to the path beside him in a flurry of limbs and teeth to pin a squealing loper and drag it away to the shadows. Aryl, ahead, didn’t turn around. Naryn flinched and walked faster.

“It’s necessary to cull the old ones,” Thought Traveler volunteered, raising his voice to be heard over growls and squeals. “They forget their routes.” Crunching.

Wonderful place. His skin crawled as he imagined all four of the Tikitik’s eyes watching for any reaction.

The path kept twisting. All he could tell after the first few turns was that they most often walked toward Amna, its many Om’ray a comfort, if out of reach. Aryl set a quick pace: confident or happier in motion, no matter where she was going. Both, Enris thought fondly.

Maybe their unwelcome companion could be of use. “Is this the way we’re supposed to go?”

“Questions are forbidden in Tikitna. They impose will.”

Or maybe not.

What would Aryl do? Though it rankled, with this Tikitik especially, Enris decided to apologize. “I meant no offense. This is an unfamiliar—” ridiculous and highly annoying, “—constraint on our conversation.”

“We don’t expect Om’ray to know our ways.” Its head appeared over his shoulder, the nearest cone eye almost touching his cheek, fleshy protuberances brushing his jaw like soft moist fingers. With an effort, Enris managed not to leap away or, what would doubtless be worse, swat the things. “You’ve never been curious about them before.”

Not a question, Enris realized. Yet it could express interest. He tried to look the other in the eye, without tripping over his feet. “To most Om’ray,” he admitted, “you aren’t real, so your ways don’t matter.”

Another eye swiveled his way. This close, the movement made a sound like chewing on ice. His stomach protested. “You, like Apart-from-All and this other one, no longer need to adjust to our presence. You consider us real, then.”

Another not-question, he was sure of it. He began to see what compelled Aryl to try and understand not-Om’ray. The slightest success was rewarding.

Though he could have done without the head over his shoulder.

And it was right. He couldn’t point to the moment he’d stopped fighting his inner sense, when he’d accepted the not-Om’ray as being—as being people, too. The Human? No doubt there. Oud? He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. That they had their own will and desires that affected his kind and their survival?

That he believed, Enris thought grimly.

“We’re learning,” was all he said.

“Another dangerous choice.” Thought Traveler’s head bobbed, then retreated. “You continue to entertain, Enris Mendolar.”

“Enris d’sud Sarc,” he corrected, turning to look over his shoulder at the creature. Its use of “Choice” was no accident. What had it said, that day outside Vyna? “You told me, ‘This would not be a match we favor.’ Sorry to disappoint you.” Quite the opposite. Could the Tikitik grasp the nuance?

That amused bark. “Far from disappointed, Chosen of Aryl di Sarc. Your match was not favored because we deemed you unfit. We would never be in favor of a lesser mate for Apart-from-All, an Om’ray of such . . . interesting . . . potential. I’m gratified you exceeded yourself.”

Thought Traveler excelled at mixing flattery with insult. Enris dismissed both. There was a truth here. Something he should know. He stopped and faced the creature; the narrow path forced the Tikitik to stop as well. “It couldn’t have been my hair,” Enris commented mildly. “My mother claimed it was my best feature. Of many.”

Not humility?

He ignored Naryn.

“This is Tikitna, where explanations may be given.” Four eyes regarded him; something rustled in the shadows. Another something squealed in pain. “Consider, Enris Chosen-of-Sarc,”Thought Traveler said at last, “that some are best not received.”

“That’s my choice,” Enris informed it, and crossed his arms. “I’d like to know.”

“We deemed you unfit because of your birth-sib.” The Tikitik held out a hand and turned it palm down. “We observed him fail to adapt.”

Falling felt like this, Enris decided numbly. As if the ground beneath his feet had been ’ported away, leaving him over nothing at all. Words forced themselves through his lips. “You’re telling me you watched my brother die.”

“Yes.”

Enris?? Aryl, alarmed.

Blood pounded in his ears. He couldn’t answer her, dared not.

“Another Mendolar for your entertainment?” Hands balled into fists, Enris advanced on the Tikitik. “Did you laugh at him? Did you?”

Enris!

Instead of retreating, Thought Traveler squatted, knees higher than its head, and spread its arms. “A blow to my neck would cause the most pain,” it advised calmly. “Though if you prefer permanent damage, strike any eye.”

Enris froze.

“We did not laugh when Kiric Mendolar stepped off the bridge,” the Tikitik continued. “That which would survive must be strong. Your brother was. He completed an arduous Passage. He endured the canopy until we believed he would adapt and find a mate, but we were wrong. There are peculiarities in how Om’ray interact with one another that we do not and probably cannot comprehend. We concluded Kiric’s inability to find a Yena mate made it unlikely you could succeed.”

“Wrong again.”

Thought Traveler’s head lifted slightly. “Which does amuse me.”

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.