Rift in the Sky

What we were asked to do. The Vyna Councillor beckoned and the unChosen scurried forward to collect the wafers from the floor. They ignored the pack and picked each one up in two hands to carry to their particular Adept. Slowly. Tenderly.

The ancient creatures stroked the wafers with their bent hands, cuddled them in their laps, heads bent so the tassels of their caps hid their faces.

They were probably drooling on them, Aryl thought with disgust. I can’t ’port, she sent to Enris, felt him concentrate, saw him shake his head as his effort failed, too.

Something’s wrong.

What wasn’t?

Why are you still here? The Councillor demanded.

It wasn’t the Vyna somehow stopping their ’port?

A touch on her arm. It’s them, Enris sent, just to her. The rumn. They’re partly in the M’hir.

The windows were full of them, whatever they were, their luminous markings almost pretty. A good disguise, Aryl decided, unable to make out any identifiable body parts. No gleam of teeth, but life in the canopy taught that not all threats came with an obvious mouth and jaws.

She did not reach for them.

The other Councillors gathered beside the Adepts, like eager children forced to wait on their elders for their share of dresel cake. Except for the one still confronting Aryl. You are not welcome here, lesser Om’ray, she sent, with a flash of cold impatience.

Aryl scowled. “We are not lesser Om’ray—”

We’ll find our way out, Enris broke in, making an extravagant gesture of gratitude. To her: Once we’re above the water, maybe we can ’port. Unless you want to stay here?

Anything but that.

Aryl took Naryn’s arm, gently; urged her to follow Enris through the ceremonial doors. She appeared dazed, blue eyes large and unfocused. They had only the Vyna’s word she’d been helped, that this “Glorious Dead” inside Naryn would mean both would survive childbirth. She wouldn’t risk checking that link here. She’d risk nothing here, where Om’ray invaded one another’s minds as casually as she’d swat a biter.

Instead, Aryl looked over her shoulder at the Vyna, saw her standing tall and superior, her hands folded just so, mouth pursed with pleasure. Enjoying the spectacle of the three “lesser” Om’ray running away, was she?

Aryl drove into the M’hir and forced a connection between their minds. As the other fought and wailed, her terror of the darkness threatening them both, she sent a promise.

If Naryn dies, this is where I’ll leave you.

Let the Vyna remember that.

Black stone stairs, steep and beaded with moisture, led up from the Cloisters. Enris led the way, taking the first few three at a time. Aryl stayed with Naryn. “I should take this off,” Naryn muttered, awkwardly holding the stiff panels of Oran’s robe as she climbed.

Enris slowed and glanced back. “No time. Do your best, Naryn. The doors above are open. We have to hurry. They won’t let us go if they can help it. And . . . there’s a bridge.” As if some final doom awaited them instead of a path.

Aryl shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll help—”

A gasp as Naryn staggered, her hands clenched against her middle. Aryl caught her before she could fall. Beneath her hands, the robe flared, then flattened, its panels twisted over a swelling that moved as if trying to force its way through. As Aryl stared, Naryn gave an involuntary grunt of pain. “It’s Anaj! Help me—”

Aryl had her arm around Naryn; now she poured strength through that contact, all she could spare. Enough to steady Naryn on her feet, put some color in cheeks that were too pale.

“We have to hurry,” she agreed, meeting Enris’ worried look.

Smash, BANG!

Clatter, clatter . . . something ahead . . . something that rolled and bounced down the stairs. Enris shouted a warning, and dodged to one side. Aryl drew her longknife and put herself in front of Naryn.

Down, down.

Ping!

Aryl frowned and put away her knife, placing the sound. “It’s only a rock.”

A rock of fair size that bounced into view, then careened off the wall behind Enris and flew over Aryl’s head. She didn’t bother moving, but watched it come to rest in front of the door below. “Why a rock?” she puzzled out loud.

Enris, who’d flattened himself against the wall, laughed as he pushed away. “Because the Vyna prefer their visitors dead. Can we hurry, please?”

Aryl kept frowning at the rock. “It’s not black.” She drew her knife again. “I thought all the rock here was black.”

Smash, BANG!

Clatter, clatter . . .

Another rock, similar in size. This time, Enris held his ground, but Aryl pulled Naryn to the side. She watched it land beside the first. Watched both tilt, tip, and roll toward them.

“Not rocks,” she announced unnecessarily.

Smash. Smash. Smash. BANG!

Even Naryn managed to run up the stairs.

Chapter 6