Rift in the Sky

A feathery touch across her eyelids, then the Tikitik drew back slightly. “You continue to impress, Aryl di Sarc. I wonder if you could possibly grasp the source of our delight at Sona.”

Another Clan? A restored Clan? That wasn’t it, Aryl thought, frustrated. The Tikitik had lost Sona to the Oud.

It said they watch for change. What’s Sona if not the biggest one of all?

You’re brilliant, she informed her Chosen, receiving a thoroughly deserved smug in return. Aloud, “It’s not only differences between Om’ray you care about. It’s differences between our Clans, too.”

This brought its head bobbing upward in its double nod, then down to stare with all four eyes. She could hear hissing above, but didn’t dare look away. “Astounding. Few of your kind could reason thus. Fewer still would trouble themselves to try.”

She bristled. “If you talked to us, instead of pushing us into ‘difficult’ situations for your amusement, you’d find we reason as well as you.”

“Point taken. Though to be fair to my predecessors, you’re the first Om’ray to endure our attempts at serious conversation.” A chill ran down her spine. “We do indeed care—a great deal—about the differences between Om’ray Clans. Every one is unique. Every one must stay distinct to promote the diversity of your kind. Your understanding is not required—” proving it could read her gathering scowl. “Your cooperation is.”

A promising turn. Cooperation implied a future, didn’t it? “If it means we can live in peace . . .” she let her voice trail away.

“It means you have become dangerous, Little Speaker. Your people now walk the name of the world, as we did here, and to either side is death. For the first time in our shared history, Om’ray could disturb the Balance. By accident. By design. And we cannot survive without one another.”

Like the stupid Oud, she decided in frustration. Trying to enlist her, or Sona, or both, against a rival. “Then leave us in peace—”

It pushed her. Quick and hard.

Even as she cried out and slipped toward the brown water, Thought Traveler caught her arm in a grip that hurt. It pulled her upright again, held until she tugged free. “None of us,” it insisted, “survive alone.”

Aryl!

She sent reassurance to Enris, to the others, wishing she could do the same for herself. She was missing something here. Something vital. The Tikitik wasn’t trying to annoy or scare her. It was—it was trying to make her understand. What?

Words. Words weren’t enough for Om’ray. How could she get more from such a being?

The Yena game. The trust game.

Using her left hand, Aryl took hold of Thought Traveler’s left wrist, below the band of cloth with its name. It didn’t avoid her touch; it didn’t resist when she tugged the wrist toward her. Their balance so connected was precarious; both had to use their opposing arms to compensate. “Cooperation,” she said.

“Yes.”

The Tikitik’s skin was cool and dry, almost pebbled. More like stone than the covering of flesh, except for the pulse beneath her forefinger and thumb. Too quick.

Might be normal. Hers raced, too. She’d never imagined playing with it, nor any game for such stakes. The world itself? What could it want from her?

They, not it. Thought Traveler spoke for more than itself. So must she. How could Om’ray be dangerous?

It had taken them from Vyna, said it was to protect the Vyna.

Why?

Unless . . . “Our new Talent lets us travel to other Clans, not just at Passage. Or instead of Passage. That’s the danger,” Aryl guessed with a surge of triumph. “You want us to stay away from each other, to keep the Clans as different as possible.” So much for Enris and his plans for trade. “We can do that.” She’d be glad to keep Sona to itself. They’d have to be sure Oran’s dreams truly stopped, but she’d be glad of that, too. Life would be simple. Peaceful.

Thought Traveler moved its left arm outward; Aryl adjusted automatically. “Vyna knows it must not be contaminated by other Om’ray, Little Speaker. For the rest, change is essential. We would not impose restrictions on your Talent, even if we could.”

Bubbles disturbed the brown water beside her, as if something hung below the surface and laughed at her. “The Vyna can drown in their own poison,” she said coldly. “They’re hardly Om’ray anymore. But if you don’t care about our Talent or what we do with it—” how she wished her mother listened to this, “—I don’t know what else you could want.”

“Stability. Numbers matter, Little Speaker. Your numbers. Clans are supposed to stay together. An unChosen here or there is accommodated by the Agreement. You’ve seen the result when several Om’ray move from one Clan to another at once. The Oud react in reckless fashion. The Balance changes. Too much change and—”