Rift in the Sky

Which one? She felt him grow distant and waited. A moment later, Anaj says you know what to do, and I should leave you in peace. Also that she’s most emphatically not interested in what’s happening at the moment so long as Naryn sits up straight, so would I leave her in peace, too. There was a growing fondness to his sending, as if something about the Old Adept’s feisty nature appealed to him.

Naryn?

She’s not as strong as she wants us to believe, but she won’t fall off while I’m watching. You could ask about me, you know. I’m stuck on one of these towers of flesh too. Did you see those teeth?

Rather walk?

She imagined him looking to the side, where very few paths broke the solid vegetation. Up was the same. The sun shone through the occasional gap, a gap that revealed the plant buildings had more than tripled in height. The water itself was sluggish with mud and scraps of floating vegetation. With the occasional v-ripple against the current she didn’t bother mentioning.

I’m fine riding.

“We approach the Makers’ Touch.”

Aryl started, having grown used to Thought Traveler’s silence. She swallowed her question and waited.

An eye swiveled her way. “The Makers’ Touch is where Cersi’s name was carved into the world’s skin by its creators. All Tikitik come here at least once. It’s supposed to encourage strong progeny. Some believe . . .” A pause.

She could swear it looked smug. The despicable creature knew how hard it was for her not to ask. Aryl gritted her teeth.

“. . . most do not,” it continued. “But we won’t kill each other here, which makes it a useful place. Tikitna was built over the generations to house those who come to trade, to exchange information, and, of course, what’s most important of all, to explain themselves in such a way that those listening won’t kill each other upon leaving.”

From no information to an ominous tangle of it. Thought Travelers were consistent. “I’d rather know what you want from me,” she pointed out, keeping her voice level with an effort, “than the consequences.”

“The consequences stay the same,” it countered, “while only you, Aryl of Sona, know what needs explanation.”

It had her trapped; by the serene cant of its head, it knew. By not asking questions, by giving her nothing more than the opportunity to speak, the Tikitik left her no way to judge how much explanation would be enough.

Aryl fell silent, inwardly and out, watched the stream for ripples, and wondered for the hundredth time if they wouldn’t be better to ’port home now, admit the reality of it, and be done. What stopped her?

Taisal’s reaction. Her mother refused to accept moving through the M’hir, for herself, for Yena. She’d warned trying to spread this knowledge would divide Om’ray into those who could and those who could not—and worse, those who would not. They needed a place like this, Aryl thought desperately. A place where she could explain her ideas and others would have to listen in peace.

Have to? That was the other lesson here, she thought suddenly, staring at Thought Traveler. What gave her the right to impose her will on all Om’ray? Was she so sure ’porting through the M’hir was the only possible future?

Nothing . . .

And yes.

The plants that encompassed the stream abruptly spread apart, creating an entry every bit as impressive as the ceremonial doors in a Cloisters. Flowering vines framed it—not flowers, Aryl realized, as the bright red suddenly dropped away, to reveal themselves as flitters rising and circling into the vast opening beyond.

To announce their arrival?

The esask continued forward, its feet silent in the water. For water floored the space ahead. Living wood, taller than any she’d seen here yet, arched high above and met in a weave of branches tight enough to bar the sun. Glows provided light, glows like any at Yena—except these were underwater.

Dark, murky water flowed around the outside edge, blurred, and escaped through the weave of plant structures that surrounded the open space. It was kept from mixing with the water in the center by a barrier of—she had no name for the material from which it was made. The top edge, the width of her hand and polished, barely rose above the water. What she could see of it was as clear as a Cloisters’ windows. The water in the center—“It’s like the Lake of Fire,” she said involuntarily.

Thought Traveler bobbed its head. Agreement or surprise—she couldn’t tell.