Rift in the Sky

Aryl went to wait by the ceremonial doors, her eyes fixed on the hollow portion of wall.

Her stomach suggested it was after the midday meal before any Vyna came toward them. At last. She’d begun to fear Etleka had gone back to cleaning pipes instead of taking their message. “Someone’s coming.”

Several someones.

“The Council,” Enris guessed.

Naryn unfolded and rose to her feet, smoothing the panels of her robe. Aryl resisted the impulse to do the same. Thanks to her impulsive Chosen, she hadn’t had time to grab a flask of water, let alone change into anything remotely impressive. She wore her favorite, thus well mended, blue tunic, of a loose comfortable fabric from Sona’s storerooms and deep pockets. A belt held her knives. Her feet were in a tough pair of the light Sona footwear she found didn’t interfere with climbing. At least the tunic was clean and her hair was inside its metal net. Most of it. What expressed itself behind her back she couldn’t worry about.

The Speaker’s Pendant—she’d meant to leave it behind. Aryl started to tuck it inside her clothes. Clans didn’t talk to one another through delegates. Unless it would help the Vyna deal with her. On that thought, she left it out.

Be careful. From Enris to both of them.

Your idea, Naryn snapped back. Then added, For which I thank you, Enris d’sud Sarc, in case there’s no chance later, with the faintest possible touch of hope.

Enris looked at her and gave his slow smile.

Aryl resisted the impulse to drop her hand to the hilt of her longknife as the section of wall cracked along four lines and silently turned open. These were Om’ray, she told herself firmly.

But shared memory hadn’t prepared her for who came through the doors.

First came six Chosen, all in transparent robes that showed the swell of pregnancy on their too thin bodies, their hair shaved or absent, replaced by caps that sprouted colorful threads and beads. Vyna’s Council. None matched Enris’ memories.

As they took their seats, sparing not a word or look for the three Sona, another group entered. Aryl hid her astonishment. Nine chairs, each floating a hand’s breadth above the floor, their occupants the oldest Om’ray she’d ever seen. Vyna’s Adepts. They were wrapped in white blankets and attended by unChosen males, ready to give them strength. The future Etleka had wanted so badly.

Yorl sud Sarc, her mother’s uncle, had taken her strength to heal himself. Had Vyna begun thus? Aryl shuddered.

Like the Councillors, Vyna’s Adepts paid no attention to them, though Aryl guessed this had something to do with the concentration needed for such Power. For Power was here. She could feel it, knew from the stiffness of Naryn’s body beside her that she did, too. Enris, on the other hand, looked relaxed and welcoming. From his shields, he was neither.

The Adepts settled into place, a line before the platform. An instant’s shifting and rustling, then they were still.

And all the Vyna looked directly at them. Without surprise or question on their faces.

Oran’s dreams.

So. Their Adepts had received them, too. Aryl glanced at the row of nine seated before the platform and dismissed them. If they valued their lives so much as to spend others’ to keep them, they wouldn’t risk the M’hir.

Keeping her eyes on the Vyna Councillors, she grasped her Speaker’s Pendant and took a firm step ahead of Enris and Naryn.

Keeping her mouth firmly closed, too. Manners first. Greetings.

You are not welcome here, lesser Om’ray.

They believed she wouldn’t know one sending from another. Few could. Aryl quite deliberately turned left, to face the Councillor second from that end. We don’t intend to stay. We have what you want. Enris?

He slipped off the pack and opened it. The clear wafers sparkled.

The glows in the water outside the window went into wild motion, swirling into clusters as if their owners would peer over the shoulders of the Vyna. The Councillors leaned forward; the lips of the wizened Adepts worked, as if they longed to speak. Lust and greed and envy flooded past their shields.

Aryl’s stomach twisted.

Enris deliberately closed the pack and hung it from his shoulder. As if any here would try to take it. Compared to her Chosen, these Vyna were brittle twigs to snap in one hand.

The Councillor who’d rebuked their presence rose and came down from the dais, every step graceful despite her swollen abdomen and breasts. She stopped in front of Aryl. What do you want in return?

“To live.” The unChosen flinched, wide-eyed, at Naryn’s voice. The rest, Aryl noted, did not.

The Councillor didn’t look at Naryn. This close, Aryl could see blood pulse beneath her skin. Sparkling dots lined where she should have eyebrows. The bones of her face jutted like stones through snow, and her lips were the blue of death.