Rift in the Sky

“There’s no way to know,” Aryl said gently. Beside her, on a bench covered with blankets, lay her aunt. Her hair hung limp as a child’s. Her eyes were closed. She might have been alive.

She was not.

Her mind had followed Ael’s. According to Oran, assigned the task of making sure, not enough had been left to keep her body breathing.

Aryl wasn’t sorry to be grateful.

Three long strides brought Haxel looming over her. “There must be. Ael doesn’t—didn’t—he was strong. Capable. We have to know what happened!”

Such pain. Aryl felt it, shared it, as she did from all around. It bound them together, Sona to Sona, as nothing else could have done. She wasn’t Myris, to ease another’s suffering, to turn grief into acceptance. But she understood Haxel’s desperation. Beyond the grief of losing her foster brother, training and instinct made the First Scout need to identify the threat, find a way to counter or avoid it.

“We can’t,” Aryl said, lifting her gaze to Haxel’s. “I named the Dark the M’hir because it’s like that wind. It can tear the best climber from a branch, snap the strongest rastis, without warning. When we ride it, we take that risk.”

“You think Ael was careless.” Clear threat.

“How?” From Enris, leaning against the wall nearby. His arms were folded, his face in shadow. “The M’hir is new to all of us. We can only explore it by trying. We’ve learned a shared memory is enough for a ’port. But can I ’port to another Om’ray? Can I follow a trail through the M’hir? Someone has to try first. Some ideas will work. Some won’t.”

“And some will kill.”

“And some will kill.”

“No. No more ‘firsts.’ ” Haxel looked at them all in turn, her face as grim and set as Aryl had ever seen. “Do you understand me? There’s only us. We were barely keeping up with watering before losing these—these two. If we lose anyone else, we could all die.”

Galen rose to his feet, equally grim. “I agree we should use caution. But make no mistake, Haxel, this ability we have will save more lives than it risks. Let the Oud reshape the ground. Sona will ’port to safety. Let our crops fail. We’ll ’port to another Clan and trade for food. This is the most important Talent ever discovered by Om’ray and we must never fear to use it.”

Agreement. Emphatic from some. Aryl hoped Haxel missed the faint glee coming from their unChosen. Though to be callous, those were best suited to trying “firsts.”

UnChosen died alone.

“Doubt causes falls.” Her voice sharpened. “So does carelessness. I suggest we leave the risks to our daring unChosen—” so she had sensed them. Haxel’s eyes flicked to the body. “Why is this still here?”

She was right to ask. Om’ray only felt the presence of the living. The body on the bench was no longer Om’ray, but simply a problem.

“There’s no swamp.” Husni clenched her gnarled hands in distress. “There’s no proper water below.” Her Chosen, Cetto d’sud Teerac, tried to soothe her, but she’d have none of it. “We have traditions for good reason,” she snapped. “The husk must be removed from the village.”

“We could bury it in the ground,” Oswa offered carefully. “It’s the Grona way.”

From too few voices to too many. “No!” “Don’t disturb the Oud!” “It’s dangerous!” The objections came from Tuana and Yena both.

Oswa sank back and hugged Yao. Aryl caught her eye and gestured gratitude. It wasn’t the Grona’s fault others had had worse experiences with the Oud.

Before anyone suggested feeding what remained of Myris to the rock hunters, which would entail carrying the sad husk a day’s journey across the exposed valley, she sent a quick plea. Enris.

And what was left of Myris di Sarc disappeared. The blanket sighed to the bench and lay empty.

It was done.

In the following hush, Juo di Vendan’s ragged gasp drew everyone’s attention.

“The baby!” Gijs shouted, leaping to his feet to hover anxiously over his Chosen who, for her part, looked more embarrassed by the attention than in distress.

Seru was already on the move. The room began to hum and sizzle with words spoken and not, everyone’s attention shifting from death to life.

It was their way.

Aryl pressed her hand to the blanket beside her. Still warm. She and Enris had run into the nekis grove, out of sight—that much sense—before ’porting here. Her legs were coated in flecks of drying mud from the Oud. She could, if she wasn’t careful, hear the dreadful sound it had made in the M’hir. How could the creature know of Ael’s loss before they did?

Despite that warning, they hadn’t been in time. The breath had fled Myris’ lips with her Chosen’s name; she’d fallen into Rorn’s arms, already gone. It had been that quick. It often was.

What was she to do without Myris and Ael?

Comfort waiting; strength if she needed it. No words.