Rift in the Sky

She was ready, barely, for its sharp pull. Knew to bend her knees and resist, to ease the pressure as it suddenly moved toward her again. Thought Traveler played the game well, for all it was something Om’ray, something Yena. She didn’t let go. She didn’t dare.

“Sona won’t happen again,” Aryl protested. “We prefer to stay with our Clans, with our families. We must. Like Chosen, we’re linked to one another, inside.” Except Yao, she thought suddenly. Except Yao and the new babies.

Tomorrow’s problem.

Today? If all the Tikitik wanted was for Om’ray to live as they normally would, of course she’d agree. “If we’re left in peace, I promise we’ll stay where we are.” She offered her right hand, her left still locked on Thought Traveler’s wrist. The final stage of the game: commitment.

The bubbles increased, as if what watched them from beneath sensed they would fall any moment.

Aryl. More than her name. Everything Enris saw in her, believed about her, felt for her. Hair caressed her neck, slid over her shoulders.

Rippled down her arm to where the Tikitik’s clawed hand closed gently over hers, and explored that black strangeness, its shining red gold like a glove. Thought Traveler canted its head to watch, eyes swiveling in their cones, until her hair relaxed to lie against her body as hair should.

All four eyes lifted. “Then we understand one another, Aryl di Sarc, Speaker for Sona and all Om’ray of Cersi.”

A loud rustle overhead made Aryl look up. The branches had emptied. They were alone.

Thought Traveler, its balance as sure as her own, released her hand. She let go its wrist. Then it barked. “Congratulations, Apart-from-All. You’ve exceeded every claim I made on your behalf, and I was most extravagant in my belief. There were those,” in a confiding tone, “sure you’d try to kill me on the way here, a breach of Tikitna that—it doesn’t bear mentioning, now.”

Oh, there’d have been no “try” about it.

Not a thought she’d share when all was going well.

More than well.

Aryl felt giddy as she stepped back. The future she’d imagined as a dim possibility was here. Now. They could ’port without fear. Be whatever they were to be. Stay together? What could be easier to promise?

Being together was life to Om’ray.

She’d done it!

Her joy

threw itself to the others, came back threefold. Joy with an underlying distrust doubtless from Anaj. The old Speaker thought she knew the Tikitik. But she’d admitted this wasn’t her time.

It was theirs. Hers. She’d done it!

Now can we go home? Naryn asked.

Home it is. Aryl gestured gratitude to Thought Traveler, then drew the locate of Sona in her mind and . . .

NO!!! The hysterical protest broke her concentration. She almost fell into the water.

It’s safe, Anaj. Naryn shared her sending with the rest of them, as well as her own weary longing. Relax. You don’t have to do any—

NO!!! You can’t know it’s safe!

It doesn’t hurt our babies, Aryl interjected. She felt Enris keep his distance from the conversation. Coward.

I am not one of your babies! NO!!!

Naryn shared her loathing of Tikitna, all things Tikitik, and of sitting on a branch over filthy, swimmer-infested water. Do you want to stay here? Memories of soft Sona blankets, fragrant soup, and crisp mountain air.

Walking was good enough for your parents. It’s good enough for me.

With real fear.

Justified, Aryl decided ruefully. They couldn’t promise travel through the M’hir was safe, not for Anaj, not until they knew more of what she was. At any rate, they couldn’t ’port if the powerful Old Adept continued to resist Naryn’s efforts to concentrate. Or leave Naryn behind.

Aryl sighed and looked at Thought Traveler.

“We need a ride.”

Chapter 8

THE WHITE SAND WAS WARM and soft and glistened in the sun. Enris sprawled on his back beside her, one big arm over his eyes and his feet—free of his ruined boots—buried to the ankles in the stuff. Naryn paced where the water frothed up on the beach, her Adept robe dragging. Aryl supposed this was her way of protesting what they were doing; it wasn’t going to wash the mud stains from Oran’s robe.

She licked her lips, savoring the hint of dresel that lingered. Thought Traveler had pressed food upon them before they left, insisting mothers-to-be must eat. Enris. Dresel. Warmth without rain or biters. The future—the right future—within reach. What more could she want? She stretched luxuriously. “I could stay here all day.”

“That’s good. We may have to,” her Chosen commented, his voice muffled. “Or longer.”