Rift in the Sky

Her lips were dry. They’d rested on the rooftop too long. She’d best check on the small field separating their home from its neighbor. All of Sona was laid out this way, tiny fields surrounded by low stone walls, those walls linking one building to the next. Protection for the crops, they guessed, though from what no one knew. Shelter from the wind, that for sure. There was always wind here. Not like the M’hir, but lips chapped and what didn’t receive water daily withered before their eyes.

This field, like the others, wasn’t much yet. They’d chipped holes in the hardened soil and planted seeds from Sona’s marvelous storage chambers. Green, blue, and yellow had sprouted in a confusion of shapes and sizes. Some were sprigs of life too tender to trust, apt to drown in the tiny puddles of their water ration. Others writhed up where no seed had been buried, growing sideways to flop over on themselves, ever reaching as if determined to choke out the rest.

Aryl watched where she put her feet. The Oud—perhaps hunting Om’ray—had left the fields intact, destroying buildings and roadways instead; years of neglect and drought had encouraged some plantings to take over. Sona’s abandoned vines, for one, had spent their last growth wrapping around any upright scrap of wood and were a particular nuisance even dead. Their Grona lamented the lack of neat rows, but the Tuana insisted on planting seeds only in soil free of withered remains.

She and the other Yena, used to plants that looked after themselves, thought both ideas peculiar, but kept that opinion to themselves.

The Tuana were partly right. Given water, specks of pale red had appeared at each vine tip and some of the withered stalks showed yellow at their bases.

Rebirth or rot? Aryl wasn’t convinced which she watered daily. What did grow would most likely prove to be weeds, to be removed. A future problem. The dreams from the Cloisters hadn’t shown what to nurture and what to discard. She knew the names of seeds and how to plant them, not the food they’d produce. For now, they could only let everything grow and wait to see what water inspired.

Though that, she decided, eyeing a thick purple leaf girdled in thorns, had to be a weed. How many seasons had she helped hack and pull free the plants growing in riotous abandon on Yena’s bridges and rooftops? Those had had thorns, too. And prickles. Not to forget the ones with stinging spines.

This one might sting, too. She squatted to examine the purple growth, fingers pressed to the dry ground. Ground. Grit. Dust. Sometimes mud. The still-unfamiliar feel of it distracted her. Solid—or was it? The Oud promised not to be below. Marcus had given her a device that would warn her if they trespassed.

Tuana had had no such warning. Hundreds of Om’ray had died; an uncounted, unmourned number of Oud. The deaths had reshaped the world. The few survivors, those Adepts and Lost and aged in Tuana’s Cloisters, hardly made a difference. Aryl closed her eyes and reached with her inner sense. Cersi no longer expanded to Tuana and beyond, but instead stopped short at Pana, bulging to where the sun rose behind populous Amna.

“It’s not right,” Aryl muttered. Enris had rescued his young brother Worin and Yuhas and his Chosen Caynen S’udlaat from the disaster. The Oud had inadvertently saved more, bringing fifteen Tuana they’d found in their tunnels to Sona. The Tikitik claimed all who remained, taking Tuana for their own in some bizarre trade with the Oud.

Tuana, now Tikitik.

What was it like, to stand on the platforms of Tuana’s Cloisters and watch the Tikitik flood the ground, plant their wilderness of rastis and nekis? Did the swarms already climb during truenight, to eat anything alive and exposed to their jaws?

Enris and his people had never dealt with danger like that. He’d told her their greatest risk, other than the whim of Oud, was of accidents around harvesting machinery.

“Not right.” Aryl took her knife and stabbed at the roots of the purple thorn plant.

“For all you know, that’s our one and only rokly. Leave it be.”

“Rokly grows on some kind of vine.” Knife poised for another strike, Aryl scowled up at Naryn S’udlaat. “I think it’s a weed.”

Her friend laughed. “Because it has thorns? Many fruiting plants protect themselves. You Yena think everything’s a threat.”

Everything was, if it could be. But Aryl shrugged peacefully, conceding the point. Yena skills weren’t of use in this—only their strength. She wished, not for the first time, for Costa. There’d be one Yena the ground dwellers couldn’t mock. Only her brother had stuck clippings into jars and tried to grow plants on purpose. “We’re all Sona now,” she countered. “We’ll learn what we must.”

Naryn gestured apology, though her blue eyes continued to sparkle. “True, though some of us learn faster than others. I’m glad I found you.”