“Rift! Rift by the tetheryard!”
13
Tear in the Sky
Imove the brush, one stroke at a time.
A soothing rhythm at odds with the war beyond the tetheryard.
The horses hear the screams, but I feel them in my bones. They tear through the air beyond the fences. Steel rings out, wild and ragged, against shrieks not meant for this world. The sky darkens as if anticipating death. The ground shudders—something massive has hit the western perimeter.
My hands are steady.
Brushing Astenos.
One stroke.
Then another.
Each pass of the brush down his flank is deliberate. Rhythmic. Calm.
I sing the song of the Serevyn, the great river that winds through the mountains and remembers the ages of the world. A low, steady melody—half lullaby, half spell. A song for the other horses. They gather close, nostrils flaring, ears pinned back—their wide eyes full of faith and trust.
I must be steady now. For them. For the song. But my heart wavers.
It’s all right. He’s all right. I’ve seen Kailorien’s strength with my own eyes. A mountain’s stamina to stand against the mightiest of winds. Nothing could move him. Nothing could hurt him.
Even now, I feel him. Somehow. Perhaps it is the runes—those brands of power etched into his skin. The way they burn when he moves. The way I can whisper to them sometimes—and how they whisper back.
Another stroke. Another breath. In my other hand, I hold Astenos’s reins with a firm grip. The war steed stands still. Too still. Every shriek from the distance makes his ears twitch back, but he stays with me—ready, alert, coiled.
“It’s all right,” I tell him, eyes on the horizon. “You can feel him, can’t you? Your Resh’Agar. Mine, too, when he allows himself to be.”
Astenos snorts, his breath misting the air in great gusts.
“He sees everything. He’s strong. Nothing can surprise him.”
I soften my voice, hoping none of my worry taints it.
The wind changes. Astenos shifts beneath my hand, muscles snapping taut. His massive body trembles. Not in fear. In anticipation.
My brush falters in its rhythm—palm falling to my side as gooseflesh shivers across my arms.
A beat of silence.
Then a tear. Not in sound, but in presence.
I look up, and the ground gasps and shudders beneath my bare feet.
A gash rips through the sky high above.
Astenos rears, trumpeting a war-cry.
A rift. The world screams in agony at the raw wound. Silver at its edges. Black at the center, a hole into nothing and everything at once.
Misshapen limbs claw through the tear—slick with rot and blood, grotesque and many-jointed. Deformed bodies follow; eyeless faces, red tongues, twisted bone. Voices like shattered lullabies scream into the yard.
“Maaammaaaa…”
