Rift in the Sky (43 page)

Wiser. Older. Braver. He had to ask. “Are all Humans like you?”

“Better . . . same . . . worse. Like any . . . people.” The hint of a smile. “Take what you . . . need, Enris. . . . My gift.”

Better? Enris shook his head in disbelief, then gestured profound gratitude. “Thank you, Marcus. But no.” He fought to keep his voice even. “Aryl's gone before our Council to make sure no one touches your mind again. She won't allow it.”

“Someone must . . .” As if he was the only one being reasonable. “Aryl wrong . . . Can you?”

Enris was on his feet and almost backed into the wall of crates—which would have brought them down on their heads and be a fine way to care for their friend—before he could stop himself. “No!”

Marcus nodded. “Naryn can. You . . . bring . . . Naryn here.” He moved his fingers on the blanket.

He'd rather be in an Oud tunnel beneath a shaking mountain.

“Trust me,” the Human urged. “Let me help.” His throat worked and a fresh stain of red marked the bandage. “Before I'm . . . not so brave.”

Or in the canopy, with the swarm eating his knees.

The swarm. He'd burned homes to save Yena that 'night. Watched the smoldering wreckage fall into the dark, chased by embers like dying stars. The question in his mind hadn't been if he'd die. He'd been sure of that. No, Enris remembered vividly. He'd worried if he could bear to wait with Aryl to be eaten alive, or would his courage fail him and he'd jump like his brother.

It hadn't failed. But this? This was worse, so much worse.

Naryn.
Through the M'hir, as tight and focused as he could.
NARYN!

He had her attention.
Now isn't the best time—

COME TO MARCUS, NOW.
Would she feel his desperate grief? Would she . . .

She did. The sun coming through the doorway turned Naryn's hair to flame. “What's wrong?” she demanded, stepping inside.

Hush, Anaj.
“Enris?”

His voice wouldn't obey him.

“Take safe . . . place for M'hiray.” Marcus offered his hand. “Take everything . . . to help. Hurry.”

For the second time, Enris saw Naryn vulnerable. “No. Aryl—”

Do it.
The Old Adept's sending contained
compassion
and
respect.

“Do it for Aryl,” the Human said, as if he'd
heard.

Enris edged out of Naryn's way, brushed fingertips along her wrist as she passed him. No words; he couldn't speak. Only
support.

She paid attention only to Marcus. Sat on the bed. Took his right hand in hers as if offering Choice. When her hair slid down her arm to touch his skin, he smiled in wonder.

She closed her eyes.

He closed his.

Enris held his breath, his shields.

And when the Human began to scream, Naryn bowed her head.

T
HE WORLD, ITS END, HER LIFE . . . nothing mattered as Aryl 'ported except speed. Something was wrong. Something was wrong . . .

... the shelter took the place of the frantic crowd in the Council Chamber . . .

A horrible scream filled her ears! Her longknife leaped to her hand, and she struck without waiting for a target. Hands gripped her arm, deflected its movement. There was a flash of
pain
, then a grip like stone.

On one arm.

Without pause, Aryl brought her second knife up to kill.

Enris?

Both knives dropped with a clatter as her eyes snapped into focus. Blood ran down his cheek. A superficial cut; she'd missed the eye. “You shouldn't get in my way,” she reminded him calmly.

He grabbed her other arm. “Aryl—”

Another SCREAM, this ending with a rasping sob.

From somewhere, she found the strength to push her giant Chosen out of her way, or he let her pass.

Then . . . she saw.

Naryn was holding Marcus! He writhed in agony, and she held him against her!

“No!” Aryl lunged forward. Naryn's hair tried to evade her—whipped at her face to blind her—but she was too quick and grabbed handfuls, heaved to pull the other to the floor. “What were you doing?!”

But she knew. Even as she dropped to her knees beside Marcus—too still, too quiet—even as she didn't dare touch him but leaned close to use her open mouth to wait for his breath—she knew.

And there were other weapons than knives. The M'hir boiled behind her eyes; hers to command, waiting like the swarm.

Take her away,
she begged Enris with her last shred of control, trembling on the brink. Kill a friend, for a friend?

She'd lose both.

Because he did, because they did, Enris and Naryn vanished.

Aryl couldn't move.

Dark lashes bridged hollows of shadowed skin. Drying tears left a crusted stream.

Then. Warmth in her mouth. A stomach-sour taste.

A breath.

Life. What remained of it.

Blinking away tears of her own, Aryl eased back. She adjusted the blanket that had fallen. Her hands shook and left incomprehensible symbols on the fabric. Blood. Naryn's hair had sliced her skin. A clatter on the floor. The image disk. She bent to retrieve it, tried to think.

“He's not dead.”

Aryl straightened so quickly the small form across the bed instinctively stepped back. But Yao wasn't daunted. “He isn't,” the child insisted. “Look.”

The Human's eyelids had partially lifted, exposing red-stained whites. Lips peeled back from his teeth in a rictus of effort, as if another scream tried to escape, but he refused it. His hands clenched spasmodically, his body shuddering each time. The bandage around his neck wept blood.

Not dead.

Not alive.

Aryl sat on the bed, carefully distant, and stared at him. “What can I do? I don't know what to do.”

She hadn't expected an answer, but Yao offered solemnly, “I have a song. It makes me feel better. Marcus likes it. I could teach it to you and we could sing together.”

Aryl didn't look at the child. “He wouldn't hear it,” she said, lips numb.

“That's because he's thinking of bad things. You should make him stop. He'd feel much better.”

She lifted her head. Huge eyes in a small face gazed back. “What a wise person you are,” Aryl said gravely. She gestured gratitude. “I need you to leave us alone, Yao. Please.”

The child walked to the doorway, then turned to look at Marcus.
I wish he was my father.
Then was gone.

Wise, indeed.

Aryl put the disk, warmed by her flesh, on the table. She covered the Human's hands with her own.

And dropped her shields.

... The mind, fraying along every pattern, memories dissolving into chaos.
PAIN
. . . rushing to fill every empty space. Worst of all,
awareness
.

Marcus knew what was happening to him.

That was all he knew.

“Hush. Think only of your world,” Aryl urged gently, her
inner
sense focused on him,
sharing
his agony. “Your home, Marcus. That special place . . . a place you want to show me.” Impossible to cause more pain than he felt, so she poured
Power
into the demand, forced him to
listen
.

With an effort, he
responded.
He may have uttered words aloud; she didn't hear, preoccupied with catching memories as they surfaced, holding them before they fractured and were lost.

She'd expected Marcus to think of home and family. Instead, her mind filled with
darkness
. . . then a sudden
light
.

Lights hanging from wires. Lights attached to walls. Lights on poles. Together they fought to illuminate a too-vast space, angled and rising away in polished steps. Steps with—
another memory
—carved seats for those who'd never be mistaken for Human. One wall was lit, its surface dancing with more carvings, with eyes and forms, and postures that were and weren't beautiful but which—
another
—must have meaning to a different kind of mind.

Here—
another
—purpose. Here. Stand here, and whispers lift to the farthest corner, heard as if spoken by the one next to you. Whatever had been here, made this, had spoken, and listened. Commonality. A place to start understanding.

All this, buried and ignored. Not of interest or value—
another memory
—an old door, an older passage, then, all alone, a wall fell away.

Peace
settled around the memories.
Happiness.
It had been the best time of his life. This was his Yena. His canopy.

Aryl watched the memories transform his face: how the jaw lost its taut line, the eyes softened, then closed. She waited until he breathed more easily, more and more slowly.

And when she was sure Marcus Bowman had forgotten everything else, when there was no more pain or awareness, when he believed himself back
there
and had no sense of here or her, Aryl swept her knife clean and deep across his throat.

B
ELLS 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?

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.