Rift in the Sky

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Interlude

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Interlude

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Interlude

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Interlude

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Interlude

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Interlude

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  The Om’ray of Cersi

  STRANGERS OF CERSI

  Teaser chapter

  The M’hiray—Clan of the Trade Pact

  Author’s Note

  The Finest in DAW Science Fiction by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:

  The Clan Chronicles:

  Stratification:

  REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)

  RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)

  RIFT IN THE SKY (#3)

  The Trade Pact Universe:

  A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)

  TIES OF POWER (#2)

  TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)

  Species Imperative:

  SURVIVAL (#1)

  MIGRATION (#2)

  REGENERATION (#3)

  Web Shifters:

  BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)

  CHANGING VISION (#2)

  HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)

  IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS

  Copyright © 2009 by Julie E. Czerneda.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1480.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-13317-0

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Inter-net or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, July

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Luis Royo

  There are moments in life you remember with such clarity, merely closing your eyes brings them rushing back. The moment I laid eyes on Luis Royo’s art for the first time is like that for me.

  I’m sitting in a small room at the back of our house, the only spot with sun at three on a wintry afternoon. It’s not the cold draft down my neck that makes me shiver as I gaze at the envelope in my hand. My editor’s forewarned me. This is the cover art for my first novel.

  Forewarned. The cover can’t be changed. I can make minor changes to the final draft of A Thousand Words for Stranger to suit, if I wish.

  Roger stands beside me. Our kids are in school. I take a deep breath. “All I want,” I assure him, “is not to have a bimbo in a zipped-open spacesuit.” I’m brave. No, not really, but I intend to be professional.

  My hands shake as I rip the tab. Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper. I grasp a corner carefully, close my eyes, and pull out the print. Then I look.

  I see.

  Tears well up so quickly the image blurs. I hand the print to Roger, grab for tissues, look again.

  It’s a masterpiece. There’d been a lilt in Sheila’s voice, and now I know why. Suit my story? It’s better than any dream. To think, an artist of such surpassing skill has seen this in my words.

  I love writing, but that was the moment I first understood the joy of being read. To have another mind be inspired by my words. To have another mind and hands produce something so wonderful from them. I remain in awe.

  Thank you, Luis, for that moment and for every one since. As I begin each new story I look forward more than I can say to seeing your vision of it. Each time I do, I happily admit, there are tears of joy.

  Usted toca mi corazón. Usted siempre.

  Acknowledgments

  Lucky thirteen! It’s a popular number in our family, being my Poppa’s birthday. Even better, he now lives close by, so my breaks while writing this book included our frequent Timmies’ Runs. Our thanks to all who’ve sent stamps and encouragement this past year. As Poppa would say, you’re the best. (And Yum!)

  Among those who helped us the most this year are the wonderful folks at DAW. I appreciate all you did (and suffered!) to publish this book in a timely fashion, and make it beautiful too, I might add. Sheila, I will never forget your phone call during the second period of the Leafs/Canucks game. You’d finished Rift, and wanted to reassure me immediately it was not only done, but very well done. What a relief that was!

  Several individuals supplied names for characters, many contributing substantial sums to charity for the privilege. I hope you like what I’ve done to “you.” My thanks to Karen Witthun Gould (congratulations!), Cindy Raskin, Howard Slapcoff, Kelly Scoffield, Karina Sumner-Smith, Jana Paniccia, Kristen Britain, Gene Maynard, and last, but not least, the real Lawren Louli! (Who looks great in that hat.)

  My thanks to Jennifer Czerneda for being my alpha reader for this book. Couldn’t have managed without you. Merci, Jihane Billacois, for your thoughtful comments. Thank you, Mike Gillis, official first reader. Glad you enjoyed it! Thanks to my BF and fellow writer, Janet Chase, for coming through as always.

  In 2008, I had to cancel most of my public appearances, and I apologize to any who were inconvenienced. 2009 should see me all over the world, so hopefully we’ll catch up. I must thank the marvelous concom of Ad Astra 08 and staff of Bakka-Phoenix for more stunning book launches. And Necronomicon 08? You rock. Hugs to Heather (and family), Rick, Ann, and Cap’n Kendall! Our thanks to Janny Wurts and Don Maitz for giving us a very special break from it all when we most needed it.

  Rift is in many ways about the power of family. May it be a gift, from ours to all of you.

  Cersi

  Prelude

  MOTHERS SCREAMED.

  Tikitik listened for the sound, harkened to it, drew pleasure from it. None other could be mistaken for the wondrous mo ment of birth.

  When the screams died, echoes fleeing through the dark mists of the Lay Swamp, Tikitik would press their necks against the trunk of the great, fertile rastis and strain to be first to hear the soft sizzle and pop of its tissues bursting within, proof of life unleashed.

  That the rastis die too was only fitting.

  When the newborn Tikitik exhausted their food supply, they would drum the empty husk of the rastis with feet and hands, begging for release. Others listened, too. Outside, creepers tapped their antennae, searching for weakness in the wood, a way into the bounty. Inside, somgelt erupted, lacy white tendrils racing down the ruined vessels of the rastis to seek the defenseless flesh. Only the strongest—and loudest—young would be freed in time.

  All Tikitik understood the Balance. That which lived must be consumed by that which would live.

  And that which would live must be strong.

  Chapter 1

  OLD, THESE MOUNTAINS. Their gray eroded fingers stretched out and down, as if greedy for the lush land far below. Between plunged valleys, graveled and scarre
d and barren. Winter storms scoured what life was left after the M’hir Wind roared through and cracked stone.

  Spring meltwater gifted the valleys with gentler sounds. The burble of streams. The rustle of breezes through thin stems and leaves. For hardy plants emerged from the ground with the return of warmth and moisture.

  Quickly followed by the rattle as rock-that-wasn’t found any plant that dared grow too far from a stream and crushed it into tasty goo.

  Old, these mountains.

  And life here dared many things.

  “Of course they made a game of it.”

  “It’s not safe!” Aryl Sarc’s hands flattened possessively over the faint swell at her waist. “What if—” She stopped, chagrined. “I sound like Husni.”

  Enris sud Sarc chuckled. “Never.” The two shared a smile as much inside as out. Chosen, Aryl thought happily, could do that. “Trust the young ones,” he suggested. “They’re already better at it than we are.”

  “It” being the Om’ray’s newest Talent, the ability to use Power to move from place to place through the black tumultuous storm that was the inner M’hir, to travel within one heartbeat and the next anywhere the mind remembered. The Human, Marcus Bowman, had given them his word: teleportation, something no other beings could, according to his cautious search through databanks, do.

  Though why Humans had a name for what they believed impossible, Aryl couldn’t imagine.

  She rocked back on her heels, comfortable on the slope. Enris gave her a look and kept his grip on a protruding beam. He tried, but the former Tuana would never be at ease perched on a roof. Especially one that creaked under his bulk.

  To one born in the canopy, this roof was as boringly safe as the flat motionless ground, but it did provide a better view. “There’s Yao.” Aryl pointed at the small shadow beside the Meeting Hall. “Gone again,” she said as the shadow vanished.

  “Ziba’s catching up.” The second, larger child appeared out of nothing in the same spot, then scampered to the Meeting Hall roof in a blur of yellow and blue. Once there, she waved a cheerful greeting to Aryl and Enris . . . “There she goes.” Enris chuckled. “Taen said they call it ’port and seek. Each tries to arrive first to surprise the other.” A shriek and crash of pots erupted from the small building the Sona used for preparing food. “Like that.”

  Aryl winced. Husni Teerac was not fond of surprises; their eldest Om’ray wasn’t fond of this new Talent either, calling it frivolous. “They’ll be doing dishes for the next fist.”

  “If they don’t hide.”

  She didn’t worry on that score. Not yet. Aryl could, if she lowered her shields the slightest amount, feel where any of her people were at the moment. Taen and her daughter, Ziba, would soon lose their tight bond, but not yet. Yao . . .

  “Yao will be fine.”

  She pretended to frown at him. “Don’t pry.” Chosen were Joined, mind-to-mind, Power-to-Power. They weren’t, thankfully, one and the same mind or Power.

  Where would be the fun in that?

  His laugh rumbled the roof boards. “I didn’t need to. Your face scrunches adorably when you worry about our youngest. You’ll do it over Sweetpie, too, I’m sure.” A surge of caring under the words, directed both at Aryl and the tiny form within.

  “Must you call her a dessert?” she protested absently. Not yet aware, the life inside her. Not yet of a size to affect her movement or balance. Yet, she grumbled to herself. Seru Parth, Sona’s Birth Watcher, was sure the birth would come at summer’s end, with the M’hir Wind. Others were due sooner.

  Much sooner.

  “Speaking of dessert—” A relieved creak of boards as Enris disappeared from the roof, only to reappear on the road below.

  Bad enough the children do it. Aryl added a warning snap. We don’t know who might be watching! The Strangers had brought a wealth of technology designed to satisfy their endless curiosity. While the Om’ray of Sona weren’t their goal, Enris knew better than to risk exposing what they could do. They all did.

  Why should they have all the fun? She could see, feel, his impish grin. Look up, Aryl. There’s nothing in the sky but sky. An image filled her mind: a shady grove of nekis, complete with a nest of soft vegetation and stolen pillows. ’Port and seek with me, my little Yena. No one will miss us.

  Hush. But wistfully. Go find your dessert.

  The truth was, everyone would miss them. A moment on the roof was all the time anyone could spare while the plantings were so young and fragile.

  Aryl rose to her feet, took a long stride to the edge, and jumped lightly to the ground. All around her Sona bustled, guided by dreams left by the dead and scraps of knowledge held by the living. This was spring, an urgent season in the mountain valleys. No more snow, no more ice storms, though truenights remained bitter. The wind lifted dust into wispy towers. Green promised growth only where water touched.

  Water that trickled in a narrow ribbon within what had been a vast river. Nothing like the flood they must have to overflow and fill the gravel ditches of Sona’s unique fields. The Oud promised it would come.

  At least, she thought they had. Never easy, deciphering the others who shared Cersi. The Oud mangled the few words they used. The Tikitik were accomplished speakers, but what they said was rarely, in her experience, what they meant. As for the Strangers?

  Only one spoke to Om’ray, and to his credit Marcus Bowman did his earnest best to speak properly. Which was fine, until he became excited and threw in words of his own—that disturbing notion, a language not of Cersi.

  For now, starting each firstlight, they carried water to what sprouted in the fields nestled between their homes, homes rebuilt from the destruction the Oud had caused here, generations past. Until new Om’ray arrived, Sona had been dead and forgotten.

  While Tuana’s death was fresh in every mind.

  For how long?

  Aryl stepped along a walkway of boards, once part of a wall. No one remembered who had lived here before. Why should they? It was the way of Om’ray that only the living and those directly known to the living were real.

  Because only those could they feel.

  Humans weren’t real to Om’ray senses. They lacked this sense of one another. They existed alone, apart, solitary. She’d seen it—had to believe.

  Like Yao Gethen. The child had been born unable to feel other Om’ray, though they could all feel her. She was normal otherwise. Bright, affectionate, brimming with Power and Talent. Her disability seemed not to trouble her, however much it appalled her father, the Adept Hoyon d’sud Gethen.

  Though Yao could get lost. Other Om’ray knew their location within the world; wasn’t Cersi defined by their innermost sense of one another? Enris might tease, but he’d be among the first to chase after the child if she wandered too far from Sona.

  Her lips were dry. They’d rested on the rooftop too long. She’d best check on the small field separating their home from its neighbor. All of Sona was laid out this way, tiny fields surrounded by low stone walls, those walls linking one building to the next. Protection for the crops, they guessed, though from what no one knew. Shelter from the wind, that for sure. There was always wind here. Not like the M’hir, but lips chapped and what didn’t receive water daily withered before their eyes.

  This field, like the others, wasn’t much yet. They’d chipped holes in the hardened soil and planted seeds from Sona’s marvelous storage chambers. Green, blue, and yellow had sprouted in a confusion of shapes and sizes. Some were sprigs of life too tender to trust, apt to drown in the tiny puddles of their water ration. Others writhed up where no seed had been buried, growing sideways to flop over on themselves, ever reaching as if determined to choke out the rest.

  Aryl watched where she put her feet. The Oud—perhaps hunting Om’ray—had left the fields intact, destroying buildings and roadways instead; years of neglect and drought had encouraged some plantings to take over. Sona’s abandoned vines, for one, had spent their last growth wrapping around any
upright scrap of wood and were a particular nuisance even dead. Their Grona lamented the lack of neat rows, but the Tuana insisted on planting seeds only in soil free of withered remains.

  She and the other Yena, used to plants that looked after themselves, thought both ideas peculiar, but kept that opinion to themselves.

  The Tuana were partly right. Given water, specks of pale red had appeared at each vine tip and some of the withered stalks showed yellow at their bases.

  Rebirth or rot? Aryl wasn’t convinced which she watered daily. What did grow would most likely prove to be weeds, to be removed. A future problem. The dreams from the Cloisters hadn’t shown what to nurture and what to discard. She knew the names of seeds and how to plant them, not the food they’d produce. For now, they could only let everything grow and wait to see what water inspired.

  Though that, she decided, eyeing a thick purple leaf girdled in thorns, had to be a weed. How many seasons had she helped hack and pull free the plants growing in riotous abandon on Yena’s bridges and rooftops? Those had had thorns, too. And prickles. Not to forget the ones with stinging spines.

  This one might sting, too. She squatted to examine the purple growth, fingers pressed to the dry ground. Ground. Grit. Dust. Sometimes mud. The still-unfamiliar feel of it distracted her. Solid—or was it? The Oud promised not to be below. Marcus had given her a device that would warn her if they trespassed.

  Tuana had had no such warning. Hundreds of Om’ray had died; an uncounted, unmourned number of Oud. The deaths had reshaped the world. The few survivors, those Adepts and Lost and aged in Tuana’s Cloisters, hardly made a difference. Aryl closed her eyes and reached with her inner sense. Cersi no longer expanded to Tuana and beyond, but instead stopped short at Pana, bulging to where the sun rose behind populous Amna.