Rift in the Sky

The warming was controlled, too. As befitted an Innersystem world, Stonerim III had civilized weather, thoroughly planned and implemented. Necessary rain was scheduled during sleep cycles, unless other arrangements had been requested. For a fee—there was always a fee—a rousing thunderstorm could be supplied to order, or an evening kept summer warm and dry for an outdoor party.

“No one else is coming.”

Aryl met Seru’s troubled look, then hopped off the sill to sit on the end of Naryn’s bed. “Who else do you need?” she asked lightly. “You’ve our Birth Watcher and me. I can call Enris if you like.”

“That big oaf?” Naryn almost smiled. “No, thanks.” She grimaced as another powerful contraction rippled over her abdomen. The sheets were dark purple na-fiber—nothing but the best for the M’hiray—but she’d tossed off her coverings. “Hurry up, will you?”

Don’t you listen, Aryl sent inwardly, her hand on the so-far quiet bulge at her waist. The presence within acknowledged this attention with a cheerful ticklemeticklemeTICKLEME that she quickly shielded from the other adults, then obliged, fluttering her fingers against a protruding foot. Conversation would come eventually, she supposed, but babies were all about needs and wants.

There should be others here. A birth was attended by the other pregnant Chosen. Should be celebrated by family and friends.

And the father.

Which was the problem. Aryl gazed at Naryn, filled with her own curiosity. No one, not even Naryn, could explain how she’d Commenced and become pregnant without a Joining. At first, they’d assumed she’d somehow survived when her Chosen had failed to make the journey from the Clan Homeworld, or been left behind during the Stratification.

A place and event with names now, the beginnings of M’hiray history, kept with care.

But none of their Healers, not even Sian, with his ability with the mind, could find any trace of a Joining. Worse, they’d found no trace of a mind within the developing child.

No one else was here, because no one, Aryl thought sadly, expected a live birth. The M’hiray respected Naryn too much to be witness to her failure.

Not that Naryn di S’udlaat admitted the possibility.

“Oh,” she said suddenly. “Oh. I think something’s going on,” in a strangely calm voice. “Seru?” That, not so calm.

Seru bent over Naryn, ran fingers lightly over the distended skin.

“OH!”

“We’ll help you stand. Aryl?”

They eased Naryn to her feet. Her abdomen flexed in and out, each powerful contraction driving air from her lungs. Her hair lifted in a blinding cloud and Aryl batted it away with her free hand, holding her friend tight with the other.

If her hands were busy . . . Seru, how are we going to catch—

Before she could finish, the birth sac slipped free with a rush of clear liquid, landing on the pillows her more experienced cousin had wisely put in place. Easing Naryn into Aryl’s arms, Seru went to her knees to pick up the sac in a towel.

Welcome . . . The sending died away. “There you are,” her cousin said aloud instead, cradling the sac. She turned her back to them, hair limp to her waist.

“Let me see her.” Aryl, please!

She slipped an arm under Naryn’s shoulder and helped her to where Seru stood before the hammock.

The sac was as black as Seru’s hair, flecked with starlike patches of pale, new-grown skin. It steamed in the room air.

It didn’t move. It should move.

“Naryn—” Aryl began, her heart thudding in her chest.

“She knew,” Naryn said, the strangest look on her face. She reached a trembling hand to the sac, touched it lightly. “She couldn’t come with us. All along, she knew but didn’t say a word.”

“Who knew?”

“This wasn’t her time.” Naryn staggered, and both Aryl and Seru supported her.

Fingers brushed Aryl’s. Get her back to bed. I’ll look after this.

Wait! She knew what—who—Naryn meant. Didn’t she? Someone old but strong, someone . . .

The memory slipped away, no matter how hard Aryl tried to hold it.

“To bed,” Seru insisted. “You’re getting cold.”

Naryn didn’t move. “The vessel is empty. Look in the M’hir. See for yourself. Please, Aryl!”

The M’hir? Aryl eased into that other place, rested in its steady motion, then tried to see what Naryn meant.

Their glows—Naryn, her cousin and her baby, the life within her own body—lit the darkness. The glorious pulse of Power that was her Joining to Enris, his comfort there if she needed it. Always.

Nothing more.

But something made her keep looking, though the M’hir reacted to the effort and became turbulent and distrustful. Looking, looking until . . .

Something looked back.

Something interested.

A Watcher. Or more than one. No M’hiray was sure of their number, only that they’d brought with them from the Homeworld a presence—or more than one—that existed in the M’hir and nowhere else.