Rift in the Sky

A short while later, she found herself waiting by what the Sona optimistically called the New River. “River,” Enris had informed her, was not the right word for something she could leap across. Or that Ziba could wade without getting wet above her knees. But the Yena had no other word for traveling water, the Grona didn’t care, and those Tuana with an opinion—other than Enris—thought if it was supposed to be a river, it should be called one.

Whether it was or not.

What that said about how Tuana—or Grona—dealt with their world, Aryl wasn’t sure.

She dug the toe of her sandal into the gray pebbles, finding a layer of finer stuff beneath. Bigger rocks, some larger than an Om’ray, lay scattered around as if forgotten. The largest, fractured and showing the marks of tools, were the remnants of the bridge that once connected Sona’s road to the head of the valley and its Cloisters. The many smaller, rounded stones were what the river—when it had flowed with all its force—carried down from the mountains. So Marcus said.

The Human’s real Talent, Aryl decided, was to make anything strange.

New River was little more than a stream. That word she knew. When they’d first come here, climbing the mountain ridges, they’d crossed innumerable such: most no wider than her foot. The one of any size had been stolen by the Oud as well.

Why? A question to make Marcus, knower of too much, shake his head in frustration. She grinned to herself.

The water at her feet babbled and bubbled, frothed white and felt cold. They’d dug into its narrow bed to make a deeper spot for filling jars and laid flat stones alongside. Not even hardy Grona boots took daily soaking well. To complicate things, New River was prone to change its course, abandoning both flat stones and deep spots without warning.

Ezgi d’sud Parth rose with a sloshing jar and grinned at her. “Sure you want full ones?”

Aryl flexed her hands on the stick across her shoulders. “I’ll spill less than you.”

Laughing, he slipped the neck of the jar within its noose. The match to it was on Aryl’s other side. She braced herself, then straightened in a smooth motion.

Balanced, the weight wasn’t a problem. The nature of the load was where a Yena had the advantage. On the flat, she took uneven steps, just as she would to cross a rope bridge, preventing any swing of the jars from growing beyond her control. Going up the crumbling riverbank was straightforward. She simply placed her feet with care and . . .

... stone shifted.

Without thinking, Aryl jumped to the side. Unfortunately, what would save her from a breaking branch was worse than useless where everywhere she stepped began to slip and slide apart.

She was not going to drop a jar. Or spill a drop.

With a growl, she bent forward and ran up the slope at full speed, pebbles flying, feet sinking with each drive of her legs. Almost at the top . . . faces peered down at her. Disbelief. Someone bent to offer a hand and was quickly pulled out of her way by someone wiser. Her legs burned, but she didn’t slow down. One . . . more . . . thrust . . . down . . . a . . . push . . . up . . . there.

Aryl stepped calmly up and onto the flat edge, smiled at the Om’ray now very busy going down the slope with their empty jars—all but one—and began to walk toward the field, her jars full.

“I’d take those, but you’re enjoying them too much.” Enris fell in step. “You realize you almost ran over my uncle.”

“What was he doing in my way?”

“Probably wondering how a such tiny Yena could carry more than his nephew. Uphill.”

“Then,” she grunted, shifting the stick, “he should take up climbing.”

What was it like?

Sweat stung her eyes. The birth? Aryl gave him the memories. “Quicker than I thought,” she added. “You’d best be nearby.” Avoiding the topic of Yao and the new babies, she continued cheerfully, “Now Lymin and Juo can help water the fields. They aren’t so tiny,” this with a sly look.

“My uncle will be relieved. However,” a bubble of distraction, “no one may have to soon.”

“You’ve an idea.”

“I’ve an idea.”

One he had no intention of sharing. “Fine.” Aryl lifted the stick and its jars over her head. “So you can’t say you didn’t take your turn.”

When Enris cooperated by stepping close to lower his head for the load, she planted a quick kiss on his forehead and stared into his deep brown eyes. “Haxel is sending Oran home. If the rest of Grona leave, that’s four less to carry water. We may have to try your trading.”

His hands met hers on the stick, took the weight. “Good thing I only have brilliant ideas, isn’t it?” He grinned.

Insufferable Tuana.

For the first time in this too-long day, Aryl began to feel hope.

Forty-two Om’ray crowded into Sona’s Meeting Hall. Two sets of new parents, and their babies, were absent. Good thing, thought Aryl, feeling a tinge of HUNGER that wasn’t hers. Lymin’s newborn was as loud as Juo’s.

And he was, according to Seru, as detached from other Om’ray as Yao. Oswa would be in demand.