Rift in the Sky

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?

Hurry up.

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.

Don’t be startled—

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.