Rift in the Sky (16 page)

Cold stew. After Bern left, Aryl poked the lumps around and around with her spoon; they left trails through the thickening liquid. She should eat. On their journey here, she'd urged Myris to take bites of the dry tasteless Grona bread. When Myris lay injured, she'd been proud of her ability to coax mouthfuls of soup between her lips. Why couldn't she do the same for herself?

A shape she could see. The Meeting Hall usually emptied before truenight. Tired Om'ray, seeking their beds, the company of their Chosen. A habit considered sensible by the Yena; the seemingly endless darkness and star-pierced sky remained unsettling to many. Tonight, though crowded and too warm, no one had left. Instinct, to stay close. To their inner sense, Sona was smaller, less important. The loss of Myris and Ael was more than of two people. It diminished Cersi itself.

For now. Already, the effect faded, like a bite whose itch only returned when touched. She had, Aryl grumbled to herself as she rubbed her forearms, too many of those. The sorrow would remain. She was glad of it. Though for how long? Too few Om'ray were left who'd heard Ael's quick laugh. Who'd seen Myris smile.

Enris bumped her shoulder with his. “Eat.”

From profound to annoying. Restless as a whirr/click chasing an Oud. When the Tuana was unhappy, he was like Haxel, who had to
do
something, anything. Preferably loud or violent. At least the First Scout was being productive; though no one came close to the end of the long table where she sat, rewrap ping the hilt of her favorite longknife. Something in the wistful way she gazed at the blade for long intervals, as if making a promise. She'd agreed to a delay.

Tomorrow was going to be . . . interesting. Another bump. “Leave me be,” Aryl said, this time pushing back. Was a moment's peace too much to ask? “Check on your brother.”

“Worin.” As if the name was new to him. Enris straightened, peered at the nearest window. “It's truenight. You're right.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I'd better make sure he gets home safely.”

Her turn to blink. Tuana were ridiculously confident in the dark. “What are you up to?”

Enris surged to his feet. “I'll let you know.”

Aryl watched him leave. He collected Worin with an affectionate touch. Their departure was a signal to other unChosen, likely unsure when to leave the midst of such grim adults. First the Yena threesome, Fon, Cader, and Kayd. Then Kran and Deran, too carefully ignoring Beko. Netta and Josel, the dappled sisters.

Naryn went out the door next, wrapped in the longcoat she'd made, alone and without looking at anyone else. Seru, watching her, sighed and said something softly to Husni, who shrugged.

If only Oran had succeeded—maybe Sona's Cloisters held a dream about saving a Joined mother and child. Could they let her try again?

What had happened to Oran, left alone?

Aryl was distracted by a flash of yellow and red between the brown of dusty leggings. Wristbands. Yao, too young for sorrow—or to sit for long—wormed through the interesting maze of legs and bodies. No one laughed. Hands dropped to her shiny head to share affection.

Catching sight of Aryl, Yao came to her.

“I didn't eat my stew either,” she announced with a grin, climbing on the bench beside Aryl. “It was too hot.” Her little nose wrinkled. “And Rorn put in the white things. I don't like the white things.”

Aryl poked one of the offending “things” with her spoon. The preserved meat—from whatever it had been—wasn't her favorite either. It had a pungent smell.

Mustn't encourage a child to waste food.

“Mine's too cold,” she admitted. As Chaun walked by, she passed him her bowl and spoon with a gesture of apology, then lifted an arm in invitation.

Yao snuggled close, then looked up at Aryl. “My mother says Myris isn't coming back. Or Ael. Because they went into the M'hir.” A not-so-childish frown creased her small forehead. “They should come back. They make everyone sad. I wouldn't do that.” Likely a promise enacted by an anxious Oswa, given how Yao loved to play 'port and seek.

“They can't come back. They—” Aryl made herself say it, “—they are no longer
real.
” How could Yao understand what she couldn't sense?

“Yes, they are. I can feel them.” Another frown. “No. Not Myris. Ael. He's thin. And he doesn't make sense.”

Astonished, Aryl could only stare.

“I'm not playing a game,” Yao insisted.

“I believe you,” Aryl said quickly. The child might not sense other Om'ray as they could sense her, but she had ability in the M'hir. “Can you show me? Show me Ael?”

Small fingers wrapped around her thumb and squeezed. “We can't stay with him,” the child warned solemnly.

... As quickly as that, they were
there.
Aryl tightened her sense of self, checked on Yao only to be amazed at the child's confidence. The M'hir heaved and slapped and stormed, but she simply rode with it.

Yao didn't—couldn't point. Instead, part of the M'hir settled, pulled away from a shape. No, not a shape, Aryl realized, but a voice. A voice of shadow rather than sound. Words billowed outward, like a curtain's tattered edge . . .
Myris . . . where I . . . hands . . . Myris . . . I . . . I . . . where I . . . Myris . . . hands . . .

Words and nothing more. Sickened, Aryl pulled back.
That's not Ael.

The child had no way to sense his loss. The voice, to her, must seem
real
.

It's only an echo,
Aryl sent, frantically offering memories of mountains and shouts and laughter.
Don't follow it. Never follow such things.

The glow beside her brightened.

... the murmur of voices, real voices, was a welcome shock. Aryl hugged Yao, pressed her face against her soft, fine hair. “Clever, clever Yao,” she praised, making sure only
approval
and
affection
passed her shields. Inside, her stomach twisted. What lay ahead for Yao, for Juo's baby, for Lymin's? For her own? To only sense each other through the M'hir . . . to hear a voice and not know if it came from the living or dead? “We'll have to spend more time together.”

“I could show you how to play 'port and seek!” Yao offered, squirming free. “I'd let you catch me sometimes. I let Ziba. She says I don't, but I leave her a trail sometimes.” Aryl was shocked by a
tugging
, deep in her mind—no, in the part that could
reach
the M'hir. “Or I do this.”

Aryl winced.

“Sorry.”

No one else reacted to the mind-numbing
shout.
Aryl knew what that meant. It had been sent to her through the M'hir, with a precision few matched in normal sending. “Thank you, Yao,” she said numbly, gesturing gratitude. “Now go tell your mother I said you were clever and helpful. She'll be pleased.”

The child disappeared with a giggle.

To reappear in front of her mother, who let out a not-so-pleased shriek before gesturing apology to her startled neighbors.

Too late, Aryl abruptly realized, to debate whether Om'ray belonged in the M'hir or not.

Their children were already there.

W
ATER GLINTED IN THE LIGHT from the oil lamps, black and slippery. Enris boldly stepped in and lowered his. “See?”

“The wet boot or the foolish Om'ray in it?” Yuhas asked. He'd caught up to them on the roadway.

Worin snickered.

“The water. See how it builds up behind the boot.”

“And over it.”

Enris smiled to himself. “Because the boot's not big enough.” Before his brother found this funny, too, he sent a fond
Behave, youngling.
“That's why you're here. All of you.”

The Om'ray he'd summoned stood with him on the dry pebbled floor of the river, each carrying as many small lamps as they could manage, doubtless wondering if he'd lost his mind. Worin. Yuhas. Fon, Cader, and Kayd. Kran with Deran, leaking
distrust
through their shields. Though they'd come. Anything to do with secrets and Power, Enris thought ruefully. The Licor sisters, Josel and Netta.

Steps away, in the dark, Naryn di S'udlaat. Uninvited. He spoke knowing she listened.

“We'll use lights to mark our line. Put them on the ground, spread out. We don't have very—” The unChosen, delighted to be out when most of their elders were heading for bed, bolted to the opposite bank, lamps waving. “Watch for moving rock,” Enris shouted after them. Not that the hunters would risk the water, but he felt a twinge of Chosen responsibility.

A small twinge.

He resisted the urge to look up; clouds obscured his stars. He'd have to trust Marcus had been able to give them privacy. There was no way to know.

Enris took his lamps and placed them on either side of the narrow New River, splashing across and back with noisy relish. Yuhas met him, having placed his.

“What now?”

The unChosen returned, led by Worin, and stood waiting. From their
anticipation,
they'd decided this was a game worth playing. “Now,” Enris said, ruffling his brother's hair, so like their mother's, “Sona stops wasting water.”

Some things were better shown than told. Having picked his prize beforehand, he walked to it as briskly as the loose footing allowed. Confidence. That was the key. This would work.

Or he'd look like a fool.

Wouldn't be the first time.

The chunk was a broken piece of Sona's bridge. A disturbing reminder of the Oud's strength. Enris patted it, stepped back, put his fingertips together, and concentrated. You, he told it unnecessarily,
there.
And concentrated.

Power answered.

The chunk quivered, then moved. Not through the M'hir—he didn't dare risk where it might reappear—but through the air, graceful and slow. Larger than it first looked, having dug its own hole in the riverbed. He tried not to grunt with effort. Confidence.

When over the water, he let go. The chunk dropped and tilted and came to rest with a grind of rock to rock. And, he thought with glee, a much bigger splash than his boot.

The river spread and spread, before it found the way around.

“That's the idea,” Enris added unnecessarily.

“Like the vat in our shop,” Worin said excitedly. “How our father—” his voice faltered, but he recovered. “It's how we kept the melted metal flowing where we wanted. Into the right molds.”

“Or stopped it altogether.”

Yuhas leaped to the top of the chunk and let out a whoop that echoed out into the surrounding darkness. “This time we stop the river!”

Hush,
Enris sent hastily. He'd prefer not to have the rest of Sona—and Aryl—arrive until this worked. The Yena couldn't move a pebble with Power; on the other hand, nothing would move nearby he wouldn't notice.
Go be our scout.

To the rest: “Line them up on this side of the—” A loud
chink!
“—lights.” Enris turned with the rest to see a second chunk of stone, big as a home, sitting where one of the oil lamps had been.

“Sorry,” Fon said.

“Try to save some of the lights,” Enris suggested. “Husni will count them tomorrow.”

They moved the largest chunks and boulders first. Josel was steady and controlled; Netta's rocks tended to swoop from side to side, prompting the others to dodge out of the way. Kran, silent and determined, worked as hard as anyone, but Deran's control was worse than Netta's. For the sake of everyone's toes, Enris soon moved him to the far bank.

As he should have known, it quickly became a contest between Fon and Worin. Cader and Kayd, without this Talent but there because Fon was, busied themselves running through the dark to find the biggest possible hunk of bridge for him. Worin, Enris noticed with an inward grin, wisely picked smaller ones, so he moved more. There was laughter and a good amount of teasing. Kran edged closer while this went on, something wistful about him. Enris, between his own efforts, told himself he should speak to Worin and Fon, help the young Grona find a place.

His sister wasn't his fault.

All the while, water found its way between the chunks, as if to mock them.

When they ran out of broken bridge, they began
pushing
smaller boulders into line. Many were still half the size of an Om'ray. Not so many laughs now. Enris wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve, wondering at Fon. The slight young Yena stood in the circle of light from one lamp, face composed and peaceful, while rock floated toward him from the darkness.