Rift in the Sky

“Not yet. Haxel suggested, strongly, we continue the hunt. In case your friend runs in the right direction.” As if she could stop you, he added with affection.

Aryl grinned.

They both stared at the doors for a long moment, then Enris laid his palm against one. “Feel that.”

A vibration against her palm. “Machinery,” she hazarded.

“More like—” his voice became uncertain, “—drums.”

“Drums?”

“I—it’s gone.”

“What is?”

Enris ran his fingers through his hair, the way he did when frustrated. “I don’t know. Something I thought I remembered. It was almost words this time.” A sudden grin. “Doesn’t matter. Knock or go right in?”

“Wait.” Aryl put her hand on his chest, felt her hair slide restlessly over her back. “I’ve been having moments like that, too. As if the past is a dream I’ve almost forgotten, but not quite. How can that be? What’s wrong with us?” How can we exist without a past?

“By leaving such questions for a more suitable time.” He kissed her forehead. Before she could object, reassurance filled her mind. We don’t remember being carried in our mothers either. Maybe this was a choice we made when we left our home—to save us from regret and make us look to the future. “Which includes,” a light rap on the door with his knuckles “this.”

Aryl stood on tiptoe, took his shirt in both hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

A rush of warmth. “What was that for?” Enris asked with a small smile.

“I’ll tell you later,” Aryl replied, smiling back. She looked at the doors. “We go right in.”

Her Chosen put out both hands and pushed.

The doors swung inward to reveal a disappointingly small, plain space and another set of doors. They stepped in. The vibration of machinery—or drums—was more pronounced here, as was the smell. Enris shoved the next set of doors.

“Careful there!” a loud voice complained. Its owner stepped out of the way of the still moving door, balancing a tray of drinks on four hands, a fifth carrying a rag.

Loud it had to be. The vibration here was a heavy pulse that hurt her ears, accompanied by other sounds. Singing. Maybe. Loud, regardless. Aryl and Enris glanced at each other. She put her longknife away. We’ll have to walk around.

That won’t be easy.

Enris was right. It was impossible to see any floor through the crush of people filling every available space. A second level ran around the outside edge of the room, also, from what she could see, crowded. She shuddered inwardly. Not only at the risk of such close proximity to unknowns, but at the thought of being touched—and worse, by not-M’hiray.

Their quarry could hide here, without doubt. It could be standing next to them and they’d miss it.

Giving up? with a hint of challenge.

Follow me. Only three areas had any opening at all, so Aryl braced herself and headed for the nearest.

It was worse than she’d imagined. Not only touch, but the stench of strange breath and the heat of other bodies. Her feet were in constant danger and she found herself unable to force her way through. Before she had to resort to a technique she saw a tray carrier use, namely several elbows applied with force to unsuspecting body parts, Enris took her by the arms and turned them both around. Let me go first, he suggested.

That did, Aryl had to admit, work better. Her Chosen was larger than most and had a gift for finding the right pair of beings to push between. Not that he had to push most of the time. The Humans, especially the females, responded to his smile with their own. At least until they saw Aryl right behind him.

Friendly place.

Aryl poked him in the ribs.

The open area was surrounded by a rail. Enris edged his way to it and made room for Aryl by scooping her alongside.

While the rest was dimly lit, large lights were aimed into the rectangular pit. Deeper than she was tall, the bottom was filled with sand. Blue-stained sand. There were holes along the side across from her, holes with eyes glistening in their depths. Aryl’s hand went for the hilt of her longknife. Enris intercepted it with a low chuckle. “I believe this is an entertainment.”

“If you like pox fighting,” the Human female on his other side volunteered. She leaned into Enris, red-gold beads rolling back and forth over her large chest. Aryl had noticed a wide variety of clothing and styles of hair among the Humans here, much of it brightly colored, making their M’hiray clothing inconspicuous, if drab by comparison. This female’s face was colored in patterns that changed with her expression. At the moment, her cheeks pulsed with pink-and-blue spirals. “I prefer more—personal—pleasures myself.”