Rift in the Sky

Seru’s fingers tightened fiercely, then released. “Juo, listen to me. Your baby intends to be born. Now. Gijs, help her stand. Remove her clothes. The rest of you, be ready.”

Lymin and Naryn each took a clean square of cloth. Aryl took one as well. They crouched.

Juo stood, legs spread, her distended abdomen rippling with powerful contractions. She threw back her head, teeth clenched in a rictus of effort. Her hair lifted like a cloud. Gijs and Seru stood behind. Her Chosen gripped her shoulders. Seru ran her fingers down Juo’s sides, doing her utmost to calm the baby.

With a rush of clear fluid, the birth sac slipped from between Juo’s legs. Lymin caught it with a low cry of triumph and wrapped it in her cloth. She carried it to the hammock and laid it gently within.

Seru left Juo to Gijs and Naryn, who each took an arm. Aryl stood by the hammock, looking down with wonder.

The squirming sac was as black as truenight, flecked with starlike patches of pale, torn skin. It steamed in the cooler air.

“Her turn,” Seru said, moving to the other side. This was the moment. The birth sac could only be opened from within, the first independent act of all Om’ray. Fail to take that risk, and the baby would suffocate and die.

Seru’s fingers hovered above the sac, then touched gently. The sac went rigid. Little one. The joyful sending was the most powerful Aryl had felt from her cousin. Come out and join our world.

Nothing happened. Seru frowned and tried again. More squirming, this time wild and desperate. The hammock swung; Aryl steadied it.

“Call her, Juo,” Oswa whispered urgently. “She wants to find you. She knows your voice, your mind.”

“Do it,” Seru ordered. Juo staggered forward, leaning on Gijs and Naryn. Her breaths were ragged and too shallow. She shivered uncontrollably, despite the blanket they’d thrown around her. It wasn’t the effort of birth. Aryl’s eyes met her cousin’s somber ones. Juo was reflecting the baby’s state. If the mother went unconscious . . . only the mother would wake again.

Seru guided Juo’s hand to the sac, pressed them gently together. Juo looked up, tears in her eyes. “She’s too afraid. She’s not listening to me.” The squirming slowed. Despair! “We’re losing her!”

“No, we won’t. Gijs, take her.” Seru placed her hand on Aryl’s. Show me how you reached Yao. A command.

Aryl sought the M’hir, feeling Seru’s mind with hers. Instead of the heave and tear of a storm, the darkness was a smothering pressure. About to pull back, to protect her cousin, Aryl suddenly realized it was the other way around—that somehow, Seru’s confidence, her serene belief in herself, extended into the other. That she was doing this.

There. Aryl spotted the glow of another mind in that darkness. Like Yao. It floated easily, as if it belonged and the M’hir was as natural a resting place as a bed.

Or a womb.

Little one, Seru’s summons rippled outward. Come with us. Come to your mother. The wider world is safe. Bright. Fun! We all want you in it.

The glow pulsed with each word, began to rush toward them. Continuing to call, Seru drew herself from the M’hir. Aryl followed, opening her eyes in time to see the sac split open down its middle.

A tiny foot pushed through; a chubby fist unfurled like a flower.

HUNGER!

“Thank you, Aryl. Thank you.”

Aryl hugged her cousin. “Sona has the finest Birth Watcher of any Clan.” Seru’s answering laugh held a sob of relief.

Breathing easily now, Juo scooped her baby from the sac, and brought her to a full breast.

JOY! MOREMOREMORE!

Wincing, Aryl took an involuntary step back and strengthened her shields. Babies. Gijs couldn’t grin any wider without cracking his jaw. For everyone’s sake, he and Juo would have to shield their daughter’s emotions until she matured. But for now, she allowed him his pride in her obvious Power.

So long as she didn’t have to be too close to it.

Happiness and relief spilled outward, warmth reflecting back from the rest of Sona. Their first birth. And, from the gusto with which the baby nursed, a determined one.

Seru, who’d started cleaning away the fragments of the sac, paused to smile. She glanced up at Lymin. “Someone else is eager to arrive.”

“Mine? I’m not ready yet. Suen’s not. You must mean—” with a cheery laugh, the very pregnant Tuana turned to look behind herself, a hand out in a sweeping wave.

At Naryn.

The silence was as thick as smoke. Before Lymin could gesture apology, before anyone could offer reassurance, Naryn was gone.

She left a trace. Like a distant bell, tolling for the dead. Grief.