Rift in the Sky (15 page)

What that said about how Tuana—or Grona—dealt with their world, Aryl wasn't sure.

She dug the toe of her sandal into the gray pebbles, finding a layer of finer stuff beneath. Bigger rocks, some larger than an Om'ray, lay scattered around as if forgotten. The largest, fractured and showing the marks of tools, were the remnants of the bridge that once connected Sona's road to the head of the valley and its Cloisters. The many smaller, rounded stones were what the river—when it had flowed with all its force—carried down from the mountains. So Marcus said.

The Human's real Talent, Aryl decided, was to make anything strange.

New River was little more than a stream. That word she knew. When they'd first come here, climbing the mountain ridges, they'd crossed innumerable such: most no wider than her foot. The one of any size had been stolen by the Oud as well.

Why? A question to make Marcus, knower of too much, shake his head in frustration. She grinned to herself.

The water at her feet babbled and bubbled, frothed white and felt cold. They'd dug into its narrow bed to make a deeper spot for filling jars and laid flat stones alongside. Not even hardy Grona boots took daily soaking well. To complicate things, New River was prone to change its course, abandoning both flat stones and deep spots without warning.

Ezgi d'sud Parth rose with a sloshing jar and grinned at her. “Sure you want full ones?”

Aryl flexed her hands on the stick across her shoulders. “I'll spill less than you.”

Laughing, he slipped the neck of the jar within its noose. The match to it was on Aryl's other side. She braced herself, then straightened in a smooth motion.

Balanced, the weight wasn't a problem. The nature of the load was where a Yena had the advantage. On the flat, she took uneven steps, just as she would to cross a rope bridge, preventing any swing of the jars from growing beyond her control. Going up the crumbling riverbank was straightforward. She simply placed her feet with care and . . .

... stone shifted.

Without thinking, Aryl jumped to the side. Unfortunately, what would save her from a breaking branch was worse than useless where everywhere she stepped began to slip and slide apart.

She was
not
going to drop a jar. Or spill a drop.

With a growl, she bent forward and ran up the slope at full speed, pebbles flying, feet sinking with each drive of her legs. Almost at the top . . . faces peered down at her.
Disbelief.
Someone bent to offer a hand and was quickly pulled out of her way by someone wiser. Her legs burned, but she didn't slow down. One . . . more . . . thrust . . . down . . . a . . . push . . . up . . . there.

Aryl stepped calmly up and onto the flat edge, smiled at the Om'ray now very busy going down the slope with their empty jars—all but one—and began to walk toward the field, her jars full.

“I'd take those, but you're enjoying them too much.” Enris fell in step. “You realize you almost ran over my uncle.”

“What was he doing in my way?”

“Probably wondering how a such tiny Yena could carry more than his nephew. Uphill.”

“Then,” she grunted, shifting the stick, “he should take up climbing.”

Sweat stung her eyes.
The birth?
Aryl gave him the memories. “Quicker than I thought,” she added. “You'd best be nearby.” Avoiding the topic of Yao and the new babies, she continued cheerfully, “Now Lymin and Juo can help water the fields. They aren't so tiny,” this with a sly look.

“My uncle will be relieved. However,” a bubble of
distraction,
“no one may have to soon.”

“You've an idea.”

“I've an idea.”

One he had no intention of sharing. “Fine.” Aryl lifted the stick and its jars over her head. “So you can't say you didn't take your turn.”

When Enris cooperated by stepping close to lower his head for the load, she planted a quick kiss on his forehead and stared into his deep brown eyes. “Haxel is sending Oran home. If the rest of Grona leave, that's four less to carry water. We may have to try your trading.”

His hands met hers on the stick, took the weight. “Good thing I only have brilliant ideas, isn't it?” He grinned.

Insufferable Tuana.

For the first time in this too-long day, Aryl began to feel hope.

Forty-two Om'ray crowded into Sona's Meeting Hall. Two sets of new parents, and their babies, were absent. Good thing, thought Aryl, feeling a tinge of
HUNGER
that wasn't hers. Lymin's newborn was as loud as Juo's.

And he was, according to Seru, as detached from other Om'ray as Yao. Oswa would be in demand.

Despite the babies' appetites, Aryl had none of her own. Not for the thick stew Rorn had prepared for them, nor for what had to be done.

Despite open windows and door, the air was rank with sweat. They were all weary but, from most,
satisfaction.
They could see the results of their labor in new growth. Only this afternoon, Ziba had declared a nondescript green thread to be her beloved rokly, a favorite dried and preserved. None of them had tasted it fresh.

The births dispelled the pall of
grief,
or at least pushed it aside. They'd mourn Myris and Ael tomorrow, with the ringing of the Cloisters' bell. Then, the new babies would be given names from those in the Cloisters' list—Sona names. Seru would preside. For now, she sat with Husni and Morla, accepting congratulations, and looking every bit as proud as any parent. Ezgi stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.

They should be proud, Aryl told herself. Children were Sona's future.

Children who would never meet Myris or Ael, only hear about them. A cautionary story told by their elders: The M'hir is dangerous. It killed Ael d'sud Sarc and his Chosen. Because he did this—we think. Whatever he did, don't you do it.

She snorted to herself. As if stories ever prevented a fall. She'd share her own memories, good ones, when the children were older. As for what killed Ael? They might never know. Or it could happen during the very next attempt to 'port . . .

Beside her, Enris lowered his bowl.
Trouble.

Bern d'sud Caraat was easing his way through the others, pale eyes on her, stopping to exchange courtesies with his grandparents, Cetto and Husni, continuing on.

Until he stood in front of Aryl and gave the slightest Grona bow. “Heart-kin.”

Affront
surged from Enris. Bern flinched and those near enough to feel it glanced around uneasily. But the Tuana smiled and got to his feet, brandishing his bowl. “Need more stew. Take my seat, if you like.”

The courtesy—and desertion—was because he believed Oran and her Chosen would soon be gone. Exasperated, Aryl did her best not to frown as Bern sat beside her and kept her shields tightly in place. “You shouldn't call me that,” she said in a low voice. “What do you want?”

“Your help.”

A light touch on her hip made her drop her gaze to the bench. His hand was there, between where no one else could see. It turned palm up. An invitation.

There'd been a time she'd have accepted without thought. A time when their private sendings held mystery and thrill, when they'd spent hours in each other's minds. He'd waited for her, she knew. Hoped their bond would make her ready for him.

They'd both Chosen otherwise.

Aryl looked at Bern, about to refuse, but he spoke first, a whisper. “Send us away.”

“Why?”

“Oran can't stay here. Find a reason. Now!”

All of which would make more sense, Aryl thought with some disgust, if the Om'ray in question wasn't sitting beside her brother, eating with a healthy appetite, and, if not smiling, then certainly looking as if she would, given the chance.

She'd regret this.

Aryl touched her fingertips to his palm.

She'd guarded herself against an intrusion of emotion, any attempt at old intimacies. For Bern's sake as much as her own. Enris might be across the room by the cook pot—in no way was he inattentive or beyond reach.

But Bern's mind was as finely controlled as she'd ever felt it. Only words came through their contact.
Let me show you.

A memory. He wanted to give her a memory.
Of what?

As if her curiosity was permission, Aryl began to
see
what Bern had seen, earlier this day. She didn't resist.

Though his emotions were muted, safe, she shared his
grief
over Myris and Ael, felt his urgent
need
to be with his own Chosen. She saw the Dream Chamber, was in it with him. He'd 'ported directly there—something, Aryl recalled, Oran and Hoyon had been adamant no one should do while the Adept dreamed. That it could be dangerous.

That Bern ignored the warning didn't surprise her.

What he'd seen, what she now
saw
, did.

...
Oran, alone in the chamber. Everything as it had been: the platforms with brown pads, the light behind each, the closed doors.

The memory ended there.

Skin crawling, she couldn't disagree.
What did you sense from her while she lay there?

The M'hir was too close. Too . . .
he hesitated . . .
interested. Oran was a presence, nothing more. Helpless. This wasn't her doing.

Aryl lifted her fingers from his palm, blew out a long slow breath. “Did she tell you what she wanted to dream?” Quietly, though their nearest neighbors gave them what distance they could. Which would last until Ziba or Yao started their post-supper chase along the benches.

Bern put his hands together on his lap. Made them fists. “About birthing.”

Not what she'd expected. “Why?”

A grudging nod to where Seru sat in a place of honor.

“Adept and Keeper
and
Birth Watcher.” Aryl lifted an eyebrow. “I suppose next she'll want to be Speaker. All at the same time, of course.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You have to admire her ambition.”

No, she didn't. In any way. But Aryl could understand it. The Grona Adept didn't trust anyone else to be competent; perhaps she couldn't. It made her dangerous, if only to herself.

Whatever was happening in the Dream Chamber, whatever was sending dreams to Yena's Adepts or other Clans? It didn't appear to be Oran's doing. Not consciously.

What that said about the Cloisters left her cold.

“Leave this with me, Bern,” Aryl decided, rising to her feet.

“You'll send us away?”

Aryl glanced at Oran, who was staring at them. With a frown. “It's been a difficult day for all of us,” she said gently, looking down at Bern. “Let's leave it for the morning.”
Keep her away from the Cloisters,
she sent, only to him.

He pressed his lips together and gestured gratitude.

Thank you,
she added.
For trusting me with this.

The startled warmth in his eyes was almost familiar.

Now to convince Haxel to wait.