Rift in the Sky

A shape she could see. The Meeting Hall usually emptied before truenight. Tired Om’ray, seeking their beds, the company of their Chosen. A habit considered sensible by the Yena; the seemingly endless darkness and star-pierced sky remained unsettling to many. Tonight, though crowded and too warm, no one had left. Instinct, to stay close. To their inner sense, Sona was smaller, less important. The loss of Myris and Ael was more than of two people. It diminished Cersi itself.

For now. Already, the effect faded, like a bite whose itch only returned when touched. She had, Aryl grumbled to herself as she rubbed her forearms, too many of those. The sorrow would remain. She was glad of it. Though for how long? Too few Om’ray were left who’d heard Ael’s quick laugh. Who’d seen Myris smile.

Enris bumped her shoulder with his. “Eat.”

From profound to annoying. Restless as a whirr/click chasing an Oud. When the Tuana was unhappy, he was like Haxel, who had to do something, anything. Preferably loud or violent. At least the First Scout was being productive; though no one came close to the end of the long table where she sat, rewrap ping the hilt of her favorite longknife. Something in the wistful way she gazed at the blade for long intervals, as if making a promise. She’d agreed to a delay.

Tomorrow was going to be . . . interesting. Another bump. “Leave me be,” Aryl said, this time pushing back. Was a moment’s peace too much to ask? “Check on your brother.”

“Worin.” As if the name was new to him. Enris straightened, peered at the nearest window. “It’s truenight. You’re right.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I’d better make sure he gets home safely.”

Her turn to blink. Tuana were ridiculously confident in the dark. “What are you up to?”

Enris surged to his feet. “I’ll let you know.”

Aryl watched him leave. He collected Worin with an affectionate touch. Their departure was a signal to other unChosen, likely unsure when to leave the midst of such grim adults. First the Yena threesome, Fon, Cader, and Kayd. Then Kran and Deran, too carefully ignoring Beko. Netta and Josel, the dappled sisters.

Naryn went out the door next, wrapped in the longcoat she’d made, alone and without looking at anyone else. Seru, watching her, sighed and said something softly to Husni, who shrugged.

If only Oran had succeeded—maybe Sona’s Cloisters held a dream about saving a Joined mother and child. Could they let her try again?

What had happened to Oran, left alone?

Aryl was distracted by a flash of yellow and red between the brown of dusty leggings. Wristbands. Yao, too young for sorrow—or to sit for long—wormed through the interesting maze of legs and bodies. No one laughed. Hands dropped to her shiny head to share affection.

Catching sight of Aryl, Yao came to her.

“I didn’t eat my stew either,” she announced with a grin, climbing on the bench beside Aryl. “It was too hot.” Her little nose wrinkled. “And Rorn put in the white things. I don’t like the white things.”

Aryl poked one of the offending “things” with her spoon. The preserved meat—from whatever it had been—wasn’t her favorite either. It had a pungent smell.

Mustn’t encourage a child to waste food.

“Mine’s too cold,” she admitted. As Chaun walked by, she passed him her bowl and spoon with a gesture of apology, then lifted an arm in invitation.

Yao snuggled close, then looked up at Aryl. “My mother says Myris isn’t coming back. Or Ael. Because they went into the M’hir.” A not-so-childish frown creased her small forehead. “They should come back. They make everyone sad. I wouldn’t do that.” Likely a promise enacted by an anxious Oswa, given how Yao loved to play ’port and seek.

“They can’t come back. They—” Aryl made herself say it, “—they are no longer real.” How could Yao understand what she couldn’t sense?

“Yes, they are. I can feel them.” Another frown. “No. Not Myris. Ael. He’s thin. And he doesn’t make sense.”

Astonished, Aryl could only stare.

“I’m not playing a game,” Yao insisted.

“I believe you,” Aryl said quickly. The child might not sense other Om’ray as they could sense her, but she had ability in the M’hir. “Can you show me? Show me Ael?”

Small fingers wrapped around her thumb and squeezed. “We can’t stay with him,” the child warned solemnly.

... As quickly as that, they were there. Aryl tightened her sense of self, checked on Yao only to be amazed at the child’s confidence. The M’hir heaved and slapped and stormed, but she simply rode with it.

There he is.

Yao didn’t—couldn’t point. Instead, part of the M’hir settled, pulled away from a shape. No, not a shape, Aryl realized, but a voice. A voice of shadow rather than sound. Words billowed outward, like a curtain’s tattered edge . . . Myris . . . where I . . . hands . . . Myris . . . I . . . I . . . where I . . . Myris . . . hands . . .

Words and nothing more. Sickened, Aryl pulled back. That’s not Ael.