Rift in the Sky by Julie E. Czerneda Page A

scavengers elsewhere, refused to risk any chance of water.
    From the top, they followed the trail the scouts had made. Like the new Sona, it blended their habits. The Yena had thrown a swaying bridge over the froth-filled abyss, anchored to the largest of the stalks leaning inward; the Tuana continued it with a wide flat swath cut through the grove, avoiding as much of the Oud-bared space before the Cloisters as possible before swinging to meet the ramp over the Cloister wall. Aryl ran along the bridge, enjoying the spray hitting her face. Enris, to his credit, no longer clung to the hand ropes. He did, however, give an exaggerated sigh of relief once on solid ground.
    Aryl grinned. “You know it can hold all of Sona plus Veca’s cart, fully loaded.”
    â€œBut one of me? That’s the question.”
    He had no complaint as they took the path through the nekis. Yellow-throated flowers littered the ground, like a carpet of sunshine. Leaves and stalks glistened with spray. Droplets shook free in miniature rainstorms, complete with bows of color in the air.
    Lovely. She shuddered. Leaves shouldn’t be perfect. Flowers shouldn’t fall without making fruit. There should be other plants here: vines and thorns and—weeds. More sounds than footsteps and the drumming of the waterfall. “I miss biters.”
    Enris chomped noisily and gave her a hopeful look.
    She shoved him with her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
    â€œTell me what’s wrong with keeping one’s skin intact and blood where it belongs.”
    â€œAnd there should be flitters.” The clear-winged ones, with bright blue bodies. They hovered over the flowers, like blooms themselves. Others sang or danced in the air. In the canopy, senses were flooded with movement, color, sound. Smell. This grove, she decided with disgust, was as barren as Oran.
    â€œCader saw a wastryl on the cliff last fist.”
    The black-and-white gliders soared over the valley, never more than two. Haxel believed they searched for carrion wherever the rock hunters were less. Only during the M’hir Wind did they gather in numbers and head for the canopy. “Dresel thieves,” she snorted.
    Dresel. Her mouth watered. Something in the Sona diet satisfied her body’s need for it; nothing replaced Yena longing for the taste. Maybe this M’hir, she’d go to Yena, help with the Harvest in return for . . . aghast at the turn of her thoughts, Aryl rushed to hide the idea from her Chosen.
    Too late. “Craving dresel?” To her relief Enris laughed. “Feel free to get it for yourself,” he assured her, an arm around her shoulders. “You won’t catch me waving a hook with nothing below but swamp.”
    When they reached the opening, they fell silent. Enris let Aryl go first; he stayed close. Their practiced caution was likely unnecessary, she knew. Nonetheless, she surveyed the edge of the grove, checked the dirt around the Cloisters for new disturbance, and glanced at the sky before taking the step that exposed her to non-Om’ray watchers.
    â€œWe could surprise our Adepts. See how they’re coming.”
    Aryl eyed the Cloisters. “Hardly a surprise.” The Om’ray hadn’t wasted strength to dig the lower portion free of the Oud’s dirt, so no one could look out the windows and watch their approach. Even so, she restrained a childish impulse to make a face. “The instant Oran has any success, be sure everyone will know.”
    â€œSome feel it should be you.”
    Be trapped in the Dream Chamber with Hoyon, his entire being sour with envy? “I’d rather,” she told him testily, “dig waste pits.”
    Satisfaction. “That’s what I said.”
    The path to the Stranger’s camp was hidden. A screen blocked it, covered by a projection of another dense portion of the grove, nekis stalks too close together for easy passage. In truth, all one had