Rift in the Sky

Chapter 14

BELLS RANG FOR THE DEAD. Aryl listened, but heard only the rustle of a blanket and the lap of water against the platform.

What was a Cloisters made of? she wondered idly. Not metal. Not wood. Another question of so many she’d meant to ask him.

Not Om’ray, not M’hiray, to linger by an empty husk, to lay her cheek against cold flesh, her hair still over her face. Was it something a Human might do, being unable to sense the disappearance of self?

Another unaskable question.

Aryl. Her mother’s mindvoice. Her presence. Waiting.

Questions. Questions. Lacking bells, she picked one. Why is his loss the hardest?

Because it is. Grief adds to grief, Daughter, like the weight of vines on a rastis. His is not one loss. It’s every one. Your father and brother. The Yena UnChosen. Seru’s father. The Tuana. Myris and Ael. It’s every grief you’ve known. It’s every grief you know will come.

Not every rastis endured. Yena knew it. Add any weakness, be it damage from crawlers or rot, to the weight of vines? A canopy giant would bend to the M’hir Wind . . . and fall. Killing everything that lived within its fronds.

A warning to heed, for the life inside her, for the mind Joined to hers, for everyone she cared about. Aryl found herself sitting up. I am not weak. To herself as much as Taisal.

You never will be. Which is why we depend on you, Daughter. A burst of warmth, quickly replaced by urgency. Are you ready? It’s almost time.

Aryl rose to her feet. “Yes.”

She turned from the Human’s husk and walked outside.

And found Naryn.

She stood alone, half shadowed by the wall of crates. Her hands were at her sides. Her hair, free of any restraint, had confined itself in a coil around her neck. Red, like blood.

Naryn, here’s Aryl! She can help! Beneath Anaj’s mindvoice surged desperation. Aryl, something’s wrong.

Aryl couldn’t move. She didn’t dare. Rage choked her. Blinded her. Naryn had betrayed Marcus.

Hadn’t they all?

Those who’d come in their starship to kill and destroy. Those who’d taken his trust and tried to steal his life’s work. His friends. Who hadn’t failed him?

Aryl. LISTEN! You have to help Naryn.

Who didn’t move. Perhaps didn’t dare. The edge was that close, Aryl thought with her own desperation. If either of them moved, there’d be no stopping—

FOOL! Harsh, with all the Power and fury of a full Adept. Aryl gasped at the impact, her thoughts scattered. The Human was no victim, not in this. It was his will to be scanned. He told Enris you were wrong. Insisted it be done for the good of the M’hiray. For your good.

“He was out of his mind!” Aryl couldn’t take her fingers from her longknife. “He was dying!”

Naryn had to hear, but there was no change in her face, cut in half by light. Her visible eye gazed into the distance, glittered blue with the lake’s reflection. It was as if Aryl wasn’t there at all.

Dying, he made more sense than the entire Council. Don’t waste his courage.

“Why are you here?” She’d begged Enris to take Naryn away, to keep her away.

Because we need you! Naryn’s trapped in the Human’s memories. You have to help. It’s your fault, Aryl di Sarc. You pulled them apart. What were you thinking?

“I wanted to kill you.”

And almost killed your Chosen, Anaj chided. What good would that have done, I ask? Bad as a Xrona, hands first and head second, if you use heads at all. Help Naryn out of this tangle. Or will you waste what Marcus Bowman suffered to give us?

Stung, Aryl opened her mouth to protest, then abruptly closed it.

She knew better than anyone the Human’s ability to persuade others, to convince them the very world wasn’t what they believed. She knew his courage.

Enris and Naryn would have worried not only about harm to Marcus, but about her reaction.

Which, she flushed, came close to as thoughtlessly violent as the Old Adept said.

I am a fool, Anaj.

Yes. But apologize later, with an undercurrent of fear Aryl couldn’t ignore. Whatever held Naryn in this state, it was beyond the Old Adept’s ability.

Hopefully not beyond hers. Aryl took Naryn’s limp hand in hers and reached carefully, lowering her own shields. Nothing of Naryn blocked her way.

Nothing of Naryn could.

For her mind was crowded. Blurred faces, bodies pressed one to another, voices overlapping in confused shouts and whispers. Too many to count. Too many to exist. There couldn’t be this many Humans in the world, Aryl thought in horror. There wouldn’t be enough air to breathe! Not only Humans. Other kinds of faces and bodies tumbled and oozed and insisted they be remembered.

ENOUGH! Aryl shouted. Somehow, she pressed them back, sent them away! They tattered and spread apart, like spray from a waterfall, to disappear into the depths.

Until a single form remained, standing alone. Before he could turn, before she had to see him again, Aryl retreated, rebuilding her shields.

“Aryl?” Sanity in Naryn’s eyes at last. And an understandable caution.

“It’s all right.” Aryl threw her arms around her friend, who stiffened as if expecting to be thrown to the platform again by a maddened Yena. “It’s all right.” You did what I couldn’t have done, she sent. Marcus was right. Heart-kin.

Arms crept around her, tentatively squeezed back.

Sorry about the hair, Aryl added.

You should be. Naryn pushed away, but gently. “He saw beyond the mountains, Aryl. I have those memories.” She rested her hand on the crate wall. “And these.” This with innocent wonder. “The Hoveny.”

If she remembered that, but not the unsettling mass of Humans, Aryl decided, well enough. “We’re needed,” she said quietly, feeling Anaj’s emphatic agreement. “But first—” she nodded to the shelter.

“He’s gone, then.” Naryn’s hair loosened from her throat to hang in limp waves. She touched the bloodstain on Aryl’s tunic. “You didn’t kill him, heart-kin. We all did.”

Together, they went into the shelter. Aryl wrapped his few belongings in the Human’s Om’ray-shirt, and put that in his hands. All but the image disk. Answering an impulse she didn’t try to name, she tucked the device in her pocket.

Then Naryn pushed the husk of Marcus Bowman, their friend, into the M’hir.

As the blanket slumped flat, Aryl concentrated . . .

The urgency she’d sensed from Taisal and Anaj was everywhere. When Aryl appeared in the Dream Chamber, she could feel it pulse against her shields. Urgency, but no panic. The minds around her brimmed with purpose and determination.

The M’hiray were leaving.

She’d gone first to the small room with their belongings to change clothes, careful to transfer Marcus’ image disk to a safe pocket. Now, she needed Enris. He was here, her inner sense told her.

And he was.

Complete with an angry red line scoring his left cheek, every bit as long as the scar on Haxel’s.

“About that—” Aryl began as he approached.

The rest was lost against his mouth. They held each other as if they’d been apart years instead of moments, emotions surging back and forth between their minds until they blurred into one, filled with grief and sympathy . . . remorse and understanding. Love, most of all.

When they finally moved apart, Enris regarded her somberly. “You told me Marcus could change the world with his words. And he did. He said there were no Tikitik or Oud beyond the mountains. No Om’ray. Aryl, he knew where we could go. He knew we should. We owe him whatever future we have.”

“A future he died for.”

Her Chosen’s dark eyes held hers. “There are worse deaths than the hand of a friend. A very quick friend,” he added with a slight shudder.

“You were there?”

“For all of it.”

Aryl scowled. “Prying.”

“Being the Chosen of Aryl di Sarc.” The hint of a smile. “Something that requires extraordinary ability and courage.”

He could add good reflexes, she thought. Without them, that slice would have been something far worse. Aryl leaned her forehead against his chest for an instant of mute apology, then stood back. “What happens now?”

“Like everyone else, we,” Enris laid his arm over her shoulders, “must pack. The M’hiray are leaving. Before,” with regret “supper.”

Within a tenth, they’d assembled in the Council Chamber. Anyone could ’port what they carried on their person, so every adult had bundles in their arms as well as packs on their backs. Children carried what they could manage. Those who could push through the M’hir stood beside the bulkier items that would be their responsibility. Baskets of food and seed. Gourds of fuel for oillights and cook stoves. Stacks of tools to work the soil. They’d plundered Sona.

Because they weren’t coming back. That was the new Agreement. The M’hiray would leave Cersi and its Om’ray—its Oud and Tikitik—forever and seek a new life.

Aryl was reasonably sure none of them knew what that meant. She didn’t. This would be a leap into the M’hir with no way to know its end. They had no other choice. She wasn’t the only one with the taste of change souring her inner sense. Either they took this chance, or stayed to witness the devastation sure to come.

Haxel had sent scouts. They’d ’ported to Yena. To Rayna. Everywhere but Vyna. They came back quickly, gasped worrying reports. Tikitik weren’t to be seen. Oud continued to trespass: throwing up their mounds, flying low over villages in their noisy air machines. While Om’ray—Om’ray waited, helpless, while their world prepared to change its shape again.

The M’hiray made what preparations they could. Most wore coats and boots. Knives and hooks hung from the belts of those who knew their use. Mostly. Aryl noticed a pair of Amna unChosen admiring the Yena longknives they carried. “Those will remove fingers,” she said as she passed by, “before you feel the cut.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Enris complained.

“Because you’re ‘extraordinary,’ ” she reminded him and smiled at his smug.

Extraordinary was the sight awaiting them. The dais had been transformed. The chairs were gone, replaced by a smooth pillar of green taller than those beside it. Sian and Taisal. Oran and Naryn. The other Councillors were on the floor like the rest, complete with their burdens.

A tidy stack of familiar white crates were to one side. Worin and Fon stood self-consciously in their midst, hands on the nearest. Aryl slowed, scowled. “Why are the artifacts here?”

“They’re too dangerous to leave behind. I did suggest sending them to the Vyna.” Enris shrugged. “But no one listened.”

Better still, Aryl thought, drop them in the M’hir. Not something she’d say aloud. She’d felt a stir of resentment when the others heard Naryn had pushed the Human’s husk into the M’hir. As if the M’hir, no matter how dark or perilous, belonged to the M’hiray.

A foolish attitude, in her opinion. As well claim the sky and air. But with minds and tempers barely holding to calm, she’d no wish to stir an argument.

Enris gave her a quick kiss. “See you over the mountain. I’m to help Worin and Fon.”

“But—” Taisal beckoned, so Aryl gathered her dignity. She didn’t need to hold her Chosen’s hand to feel his presence. Though, she thought wistfully, it would be nice. “See you soon,” she finished. Be careful.

You, too.

Aryl stepped up on the dais. “The Maker,” her mother said, gesturing to the featureless pillar.

It didn’t look like much.

Though this close, Aryl saw it wasn’t green—or was more than green. Colors played in its depths, subtle dark strokes that flickered and moved, brighter spots that pulsed like beating hearts.

Not hearts. She stepped back, startled. “It’s a machine.”

Sian gestured agreement. He seemed, Aryl thought numbly, to take all this as normal. “To use the Maker on one mind,” he explained, sending the words through the M’hir to everyone, “it’s left in its room. But as you can see,” he pointed to the base, “it is also meant to be used here.”

The base fit neatly into a depression in the dais, one that hadn’t been there before. Or had it? She’d thought the differently textured shapes on the dais floor to be decoration. If each sank down to receive . . . something . . . what else could “fit” here?

And why?

Questions again. Meaningless ones. If there were no Om’ray where they were going, there’d be no Cloisters or “Makers.” Aryl found she liked that thought.

“Is it time?” Taisal asked.

A flow of assent. They were willing.

Emotions flowed. Aryl felt suspended in courage and determination . The M’hiray sought a future. They sought to preserve those they would leave behind.

However they’d come to this, she’d never been so proud of her Clan.

Hear me. Anaj. We don’t know the full consequence of using the Maker.

Understandable, Aryl thought wryly, if Adepts had only used it before killing those of damaged mind.

The Oldest Adept of all continued. Our connection as Om’ray does more than define the shape of the world and where we are within it. It holds our names, for those who can read them. It holds our past, for only those minds we’ve touched do we remember as real. Once the Maker breaks that connection, we don’t know what will be left.

“The M’hir. It will stay,” Oran said firmly. “The M’hir will keep our Clan together and take us where we must be.”

Admirable confidence. Aryl wished she shared it. Though to Oran’s credit, she was Sona’s Keeper. She could be trying to encourage all those looking up at them.

Or herself.

M’hiray. Lower your shields and trust your Council. No matter what happens, wait for the locate. Go together to the future!

TOGETHER!

Naryn stepped forward, head high, face and hair perfectly composed. Her shields were impenetrable. “We will not forget the gift of Marcus Bowman to the M’hiray,” she announced, then looked to Aryl. “I will need your help with the Human’s memories.”

Aryl nodded. His gesture.

Sian spoke next. “The two of you will choose where we will go. When you have the locate, hold that image. Oran, Anaj, and I will add our strength so all will share it. We ’port when—” he faltered. For some reason, he looked at Taisal.

Who finished smoothly, “—when the Maker completes its task and we are free.” She turned gracefully and lifted her hands to the pillar.

“Wait.” Aryl heard the word before she realized she’d said it, before she knew why.

Taisal glanced over her shoulder and smiled the most beautiful smile. I did, Daughter. I waited for you to become who you are, who our people need. I need wait no longer. “Don’t let them fall.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Mother . . .

A hand took hers. An Adept must control the Maker. The locate, heart-kin. They’re waiting. Naryn dropped her shields. Sent image after image of rock and water and empty spaces.

MOTHER! You can come with us!

“Then who’d pull up the ladder?”

Taisal di Sarc pressed her hands to the Maker and it began to glow. Brighter and brighter and brighter. Until . . .

... the world flowed away,

Om’ray became as sand,

and there opened a rift in the sky . . .

All she could hear was a voice. The locate . . . Aryl . . . where do we go . . .

All she could see was rock and water and strange twisted growths like bone . . . rock, water, bone . . . over everything crawled numbers and lines . . . Site report 58323 . . . Site report 58324 . . . Site report 58325 . . . rock and water and growing bone . . . numbers and lines . . . rocks . . .

... none of it was real.

More voices. Where do we go . . . ? Where can we go? DESPAIR.

No more despair. She wanted peace. And happiness. Anything familiar. She reached with all her strength and will . . .

And there it was.

Lights hanging from wires. Lights attached to walls. Lights on poles. A vast space, angled and rising away in polished steps. Steps with carved seats . . . a wall danced . . . more carvings, with eyes and forms, and postures that were and weren’t beautiful but which had meaning to a different kind of mind.

Happiness.

Peace.

Safe.

Aryl di Sarc poured Power into that image, felt others do the same, felt confusion become purpose.

With the others of her kind, she concentrated and let the M’hir take her . . .

... a bracelet turned around and around,

became rock etched by water,

became metal again and turned. . . .

As the M’hiray disappeared, Watchers roused to follow, became voice and force and purpose.

... While a mind became voice,

Daughter,

to be lost on the wind . . .