Rift in the Sky (24 page)

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.”

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?”

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.