No unique gigantic heads. No sparkly fire, no air of mystique, just a shimmery green barrier across the Dryanflow, several vessels of various sizes docked on both sides of the river, and the spread of buildings along the banks.

Vantra folded her hands on the top of the railing, set her chin on the back of her fingers, and studied the western shore from the bow’s starboard side. To the south, a long rectangle stretched far into the land, filled with water and docks. Large ships of unknown purpose sat among cargo carriers still being unloaded and loaded by dockhands, despite the lateness of the day. Flags denoting who owned the vessels flapped happily in the twilight breeze, which carried loud sounds and shouts to the Loose Ducky.

To the north, a smaller marina held elegant, motorized boats that looked more for show than sailing. Gold bling, silver shine, and bright white shone against the darker greenish-brown of the waves, and she wondered how often they zipped along the river, or if they remained at the dock, pretty but unused. Just north of the eroded white pillars marking the entrance were piers where rowboats and small sailboats lined up along the wooden edges.

The buildings in between the dock and the marina reminded her of Merdia’s dockmaster structures, and enough individuals milled around them, she assumed they served the same purpose. They looked like they were whitewashed brick, with upkeep a distant third, fourth, maybe fifth thing on employees’ minds.

Beyond the port was a tall white stone wall dividing the river from the rest of the community. West Sel, Dough said, but if she preferred, she could call it what the locals did—Westel. A broad arch with Kanderite elfine words provided entry into the city proper. Few buildings rose above the wall’s height, but she noted a caramel spire with perforated sides peeking over the top, gleaming in the dim light.

Fyrij cheeped, unimpressed. She glanced at the little caroling, who stood on the railing next to her, ruffling his wing feathers. His black fur, which covered his head and body, flitted about in the breeze, making him seem far puffier than normal. He lifted his wet, black nose, opened his mouth, and created a dissonant sound that echoed off the large tooth that ran from the center of his upper lip to his chin.

She winced. When he chose, he made sounds more beautiful than waterbells. If disgusted, however, he reflected that in his song.

“Not impressed, eh?” Lorgan stopped on Fyrij’s other side and gazed at the shore. He kept to Physical Touch, so the wind danced with his shoulder-length brown locks and ruffled his blue, wide-sleeved scholar’s robe. The avian looked up, black eyes meeting hazel, and cheeped a negative.

Vantra slid her finger down the caroling’s head and back. “Not much has fascinated him since we left Fekj.”

“I suppose not. What’s there to see? Riverbank road and gnarled rainforest on the east, mountains to the west. The Shoals were nice, though.”

She loved the crimson color of the sand at the Red Flower Shoals. Vibrant and sparkly, compared to the dull water lapping at the edges, and each one overrun with a myriad of short blue, red, and purple flowers. Fish of radiant hues and rainbow glints swam in the muddy swirls, and from the number of people standing on the railed rise overlooking the area, they appreciated the beauty.

“Selaserat is much the same at Westel,” Lorgan continued. “White walls surround the city. They’re built to withstand another flood, though I doubt upkeep’s been consistent. Inside, mostly faux-Hethetor architecture. That tower?” He pointed to the one rising above the wall. “That’s the style. Ancient, weathered, not as grand as it once was. Hethetor and the Kanderites loved to decorate everything, and buildings were no different. Most of that has faded away due to erosion, and only the Gubs and wealthy elfine habitations retain any of it.”

Vantra wrinkled her nose. “Why do they call the administrative center the Gubs? It seems so . . . disrespectful.”

“The snootier elfines refer to it as the Seat,” he offered. “But yes, everyone else is a bit more insolent, even those who work for the Greenglimmer District or the Selaserat Council. It stems from Anmidorakj and Hrivasine’s corruption, and how neither the Elfiniti nor the Dryanflow Regional Administrators will rein them in.” He half-laughed. “So they continue as they always have, within pristine, decorated towers, all painted in a soft tallow that gleams in the light and represents their elevated status, while sludging mud over everything else. Eyesores, if you ask me.”

While alive, she had some experiences with elfine and nymph conceit. They took pride in physical things; buildings, art, jewelry, and made special rooms to hold inherited items. She had asked her mother about it after a visit to the Grand Sela temple when she was twelve. Priestess Tilhara had spent the entire day leading them from room to room, showing off extravagant artworks and statues and relics coated in gold and jewels, some glowing in ethereal Sun magic.

Her mother smiled, hugged her about the shoulders, and prodded her into the over-fluffed white bed stacked high with unwanted blankets. She then explained that elfines and nymphs, due to their long lives, often existed untold years without the warmth of their dearest friends or family. They needed comfort, so they clutched their riches close, for inanimate objects would never desert them—and if they did break, were replaceable.

She asked if that was simply a polite way to say they were selfish. Her mother laughed and told her no, that she would understand better when she was older.

Vantra did not think she understood better, as her eyes drifted to the shimmery green obstacle barring ships from upriver. “And what do you think about the barrier?”

Lorgan lifted his lip. “A typical construction by a typical greedy whizan.” He flipped his hand. “I’m surprised Hrivasine bothers to allow the fish and water through, as obsessed as he is with the tolls. Why, someone might swim under the thing and bypass his river tithe!” He turned and leaned his elbows on the railing, looking at the distant, twinkling lights of the eastern shore. “I don’t know what it says, that so little has changed in the thousand years since I last visited. I know, it’s an elfine ghost community, so that’s expected, but still . . .”

“The heads were grander,” Vantra agreed. Fyrij cheeped his agreement.

A galleon as large as the Loose Ducky sailed past, heading for the barrier. A square cloth waved on the tip of the bowsprit, glowing a brilliant aquamarine. Once it reached the magic, a bright flare of greenish-blue light erupted from the fabric and raced across the hull, up the sails, and under the bottom, coating the entire vessel in a Water-tinged shield. A swirl in the barrier formed opposite the cloth and expanded, as if the bowsprit were a drop of water and the splash from it raced across the surface. The ship passed through, and the swirl spun into nothing, not even leaving a ripple.

Other bursts of aquamarine caught her attention; more than one boat slipped through a spinning oval, though, considering the backup of ships, not as many as probably should.

“Did you know that Kjiven, when he first created the barrier, triggered the openings with a Light spell?” Lorgan asked.

“I read your notes,” Vantra reminded him. Three crates worth—and while she fought to retain what she skimmed, she remembered the history of the barrier toll. “You’ve seen Red’s comment?”

The scholar chuckled. “Yes! That he was there for the momentous breaking of the barrier by Talis amazes me. I can’t say I blame Light for putting a whiny elfine in his place, but to speak with someone who witnessed it, who saw the syimlin shatter not only Kjiven’s pride, but the barrier with a flick of his finger, and . . .”

“Don’t get him started.” Kjaelle wandered up, swinging her hips so her long, filmy grey skirt flipped along behind her. Fyrij raised his wings and chirped a greeting before flying to her shoulder and rubbing at her jaw. She smiled and ran her fingertips over his chubby belly. “Even hiding in your grave won’t protect you from the glorious thousandth retelling of the event. He’ll even mimic Kjiven’s sad duck face because he finds it hilarious the elfine’s boasts about his magic prowess did not live up to a syimlin’s barest touch.”

“It’s amazing to me, he’s old enough to have met Kjiven,” Lorgan said, awe creeping into his tone. Kjaelle shrugged.

“Kjiven was a typical wildelfine whizan. Nothing much when confronted by a greater power, but his ego said otherwise.” Her watery green eyes drifted to the far shore, as more and more lights blinked on near the water’s edge, then focused on the Westel port. “I’d have expected them to be back by now. It’s been half a day.”

Vantra had assumed the same, especially considering Katta’s reluctance to divulge anything to Inspector Yothwan. Red seemed too amused, and it made her wonder about previous visits and the trouble the two got into.

Lorgan nodded, then jerked his chin to the boats that also waited for their envoys to return from the dockmaster’s building. “That may not be what’s keeping them. I’m betting there’s a line to get docking privileges in Selaserat.”

“There always is, even if there’s more space than boats,” Kjaelle grumbled. “If they don’t hurry, there’s going to be a crowd at the Dead Light, and it’ll be annoying to get settled.”

“Is it that popular of a place?” Vantra asked. While she knew a Light-blessed named Leeyal owned it, and that it served as a tavern and an inn, the mini-Joyful had not said much about it as they sailed the Sea of Winds.

“Yes. It’s not only tourist-friendly, but they also have an elfinberry wine-infused fountain so that ghosts can get as loopy as their living companions.”

Lorgan perked up while Vantra frowned. “Elfinberry wine?” she asked. Elfinberries were a Talin fruit, not an Evenacht one.

Kjaelle smiled, an anticipatory gleam in her eyes. “It’s one of the finest ways to get a ghost drunk. Haven’t you ever sat with an alcohol-infused fountain?”

Vantra shook her head. She had never heard of such a thing, but her Finder studies had taken precedence over any free time and socializing.

“Well, we’ll fix that.”

“But how does that work?” Most ghosts absorbed the ryiam within mist for energy and did not look outside that source. Few wanted to complete the rigorous course of Physical Touch study, or undergo the years of training, to absorb energy from food and drink as if they were alive. Those that undertook the endeavor were either ghosts who wished to become chefs or bakers or whatnot and needed to taste their creations, or powerful Mental Touch users who desired to appear as alive as possible.

“Magic,” Lorgan supplied. “It requires a skilled hand and a specialized knowledge of Water spells to infuse ryiam with alcohol. Wines work best, and the fruit used has an outsized impact on potency. Elfinberry wine, as far as I know, has the strongest kick—but it’s difficult to come by, since elfinberries are a plant that grows on Talis rather than in the Evenacht.”

“Which is why the Dark Light is an exclusive destination,” Kjaelle said, refusing to elaborate on how the tavern imported the fruit from the land of the living to the land of the dead.

Foreboding prickled Vantra’s chest. Not a dark, dreadful feeling, but one of uncertainty mixed with excited trepidation because she would be doing something different, something new, in a unique place. She had spent the last five years adhering to Nolaris’s strict rules concerning conduct outside the vaunted Finder halls, and now that the opportunity rose for her to further degrade those shackles, she wanted nothing more.

Shouts from below caught her attention, and a motorized boat whisked past, manned by a ghostly faun. His passengers made rude gestures at a trailing vessel with West Sel Port Patrol glowing on the side. Their laughter ricocheted off the hulls of larger ships as they wove between them, heading for the barrier.

A midyear-green ball that swirled with leafy patterns shot from the bow of the boat. It struck the barrier, flared, and dissipated, leaving nothing behind, not even a smudge. Panicked, the faun screamed and attempted to change direction; the craft rammed into the obstacle, crumpled, and a fireball erupted from the back, casting all in a yellow glow. The sharp crack of explosion filled the air.

Fyrij screeched and dug his body into Kjaelle’s neck, shuddering. She detached his talons from her dress and cuddled him to her chest.

“It’s fine, they’ll be fine,” she whispered. “No fear, little one.” She turned to head below, Lorgan with her; Vantra followed, in no mood to watch ghostly essences swish about in waves and hope the patrol rescued them before the water tore them apart and sent them to the Final Death.

Red and Dough shared the same wide grins, the same glint in their eyes, the same eager rubbing of hands. Vantra flicked a look at Katta, but his resigned amusement gave her no reason to think this first introduction to the Dead Light would prove anything but embarrassing.

The tavern sat along one side of a brown cobblestone square deep in the Aristarzian District, open shutters letting honey-yellow light and laughter into the tiled sidewalk. The bottom walls were whitewashed, the second and third stories a mix of half-timbers, wood, and white plaster. A few of the closed shutters on the other floors had a dim glow surrounding them, the only indication someone spent the night inside.

A double door sat in the center of the building, propped open to allow mist to gently waft outside, capturing the attention of passers-by. From the numbers Vantra glimpsed through the windows, the place already had a full crowd, with standing room only—and here they were, bringing over a dozen more.

Yes, ghosts in Ether form took up little space, but that did not mean she wanted to float inside another being for the rest of the night.

Fyrij cheeped and peeked out of her hood, shivering. She put a calming hand on him as her non-existent tummy flopped about. How could her ghostly essence get butterflies? She had no physical organs, so why the nausea?

Maybe she sympathized with Laken. His reluctance to join them in this outing met with stubborn Red dumping a Passion cloak on his head and pointing out that anyone who saw him floating with no feet would assume him a ghost. And since he was a ghost, just not a fully functioning one yet, it was not even a lie. Glares and grumbling did not change the ancient spirit’s mind as he pushed her Chosen down the ship’s gangplank.

She readjusted her pack’s straps and firmed her resolve to enjoy the night, rather than squeak and flee back to the ship. Laken already thought he embarrassed the mini-Joyful because he was UnRedeemed. She refused to give him a reason to retreat to the Loose Ducky and hide for the rest of their stay.

With Dough on the left and Red on the right, they marched through the door, shoulder to shoulder, wisps of mist swirling away from their boots. Just inside the dusky interior, they flung their arms wide in a grand show of exuberance.

“Leeyal!” they shouted together.

The entire place quieted. Vantra felt the heat rise from the pit of her essence and flow through her; Katta sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, before pushing her after them.

“NO!” the human ghost behind the counter opposite the door said, flabbergasted, eyes bulging. “You know each other? OH, nononononono.” He waved his hand, as if to brush away the distressing news.

“Qira!” A spattering of calls echoed from the crowd, then a chant rose. “Qi-ra! Qi-ra!”

“And Dough!” a couple yelled in ecstatic laughter.

The barkeep made a production of collecting himself, with a humongous sigh and an over-dramatic brow wipe of concern—a hint that his shock, while genuine, was more fun than serious.

A few patrons appeared confused, but the majority raised whatever they drank in salute of their arrival.

“You know Dough, Qira?” A ghost dressed in a thigh-length white tunic and black pants walked to the counter and leaned on his elbow, grinning a welcome. Vantra studied him, then the crowd, disconcerted; despite the warning that the Dark Light catered to Light-blessed, seeing so many red-haired, blue-eyed men in one place, knowing they failed to survive the Aristarzian gauntlet, unnerved her.

How many died over those long-ago centuries, to please a society obsessed with creating avatars of the syimlin Light? Dozens amused themselves in the tavern, and she knew the number paled against the final count.

“We’re mates now, Jare!” Dough proclaimed in exuberant pride. Leeyal pulled his mouth down in a sob, pricking her curiosity about previous visits.

“Together we’ve sailed the oceans deep, together we’ll traverse a rainforest.” Red smacked the pirate’s shoulder. “And together, we’ll have a grand time within these storied walls.” He raised a hand. “But it’s not all for fun.”

“Not chasing another scam artist, are you?” Jare asked, bemused.

“Nope.”

Kjaelle brushed past, making a line for the table being pushed next to the bar by cheerful lads. “We have a more serious endeavor,” she admitted. Rayva and Salan padded after her, as cheers rose for the three of them. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at the vulfs, then leaned over the shiny countertop.

“Water, meat, sweets?” he asked. Rayva barked and nodded, agreeing to everything. Fyrij sailed to Salan’s head, ruffled his wings, and hopped all over the canine’s soft fur while tweeting to attract attention. Vantra felt the heat of embarrassment course from her toes to the top of her head, and she was certain the avian did not feel the same.

She needed to speak with him about politely asking for food.

“You want something, too? Not a problem,” the barkeep said, desperately attempting to smother laughter as Salan snorted, his eyes rolling up in exasperation.

“Meet Fyrij,” Red said, waving at the caroling. “Believe me, you’ll know when he wants something.” He stepped back between Vantra and Laken and placed his arms around their shoulders. “He’s quite taken with Vantra, our resident Sun acolyte and adventurous soul. This is Laken, captain extraordinaire, and they’re the reason we’re here.”

“We’re still in the doorway,” Mera called.

The crowd laughed as they headed for Kjaelle and the table she plunked down at. Cheers for Katta, Mera, Tally, and Vesh rose, as boisterous as those for the others. Vantra found it strange that the patrons seemed so enthusiastic about their arrival; she almost felt like a star, even though none of the excitement was directed towards her!

“Meet Lorgan,” Red continued, gripping the taller ghost’s shoulder. “He’s a scholar who trained at Reddown under Lake.”

Jare pursed his lips as if to whistle, while the crowd oohed at the information.

“And yes, he’s even given me and Katta materials for magic study.”

The crowd stared, then broke into gales of laughter. Vantra had the feeling she missed a joke, and by the red spreading across Lorgan’s cheeks, so did he.

“And we’re not all ghosts this time!” Red whirled behind the four nomads. “Meet Kenosera, Dedari, Lesanova and Tagra. They’re Nevemere and Voristi from the Snake’s Den. They, too, are in search of adventure, and lucky them, they found us.”

“Welcome all to the Dark Light,” the barkeep said as Vantra and Laken accepted chairs from jolly patrons. “We’ve food and drink, and a fine elfinberry wine fountain that delights ghosts from all corners of the Evenacht.” He jerked his chin at Dough. “It’s why pirate captains and their mates are so fond of our establishment.”

Dough chuckled as he stopped next to Jare. “No place better,” he admitted, hooking his thumbs on his belt and rocking back on his heels. “I’m certain me mates’ll pay a visit after they get the Loose Ducky in order.”

“It must be a story, you two meeting,” Jare said, his blue eyes traveling from the pirate to Red, who greeted eager others with a more personal clap on the shoulder and a broad smile.

“It is,” Red agreed. “Resplendent with Finder evilness and Hallowed Collective intrigue, attacks and defenses, big snakes and little egos. And a bit of wild magic.”

“Wild magic?” Leeyal asked as he leaned over and tossed menus onto the table.

Katta raised a hand to halt further questions. “It would not do, to sully a joyous night. Maybe we’ll destroy tomorrow’s mood.”

Jare pursed his lips. “You’d leave us with that sentiment?”

“Not leave, just go upstairs.”

“You’re in luck,” Leeyal said. “I just installed a new fountain up there. Plenty of mist, and scented like a fresh rain shower, too.”

Katta snagged a multi-paged menu while Kenosera spread another out on the table so the other three nomads could see. Vantra peeked at one, curious; the amount of edibles and drinks shocked her. Places that catered to ghosts rarely had such things because so few could eat and imbibe. They had mist-producing fountains, maybe snacks if living friends joined their wispy companions, but nothing as extravagant as what she skimmed.

Mera and Tally explained Aristarzian-specific terminology, which mostly concerned the herbs and spices used as flavoring. Vantra wished she could eat; stuffed mushrooms, grilled steak with berry muffins and fruit puree, thick white sauce pastas with a touch of heat, flaky, cream-filled pastries . . .

She needed to add eating and drinking to her magic studies.

“You’re getting quite the reception,” Lorgan said, interested in the growing number of ghosts surrounding Red.

Kjaelle shrugged. “It’s always like this when we first arrive,” she admitted as she accepted thin squares of paper and pens from Leeyal and settled them in the center of the table.

“Don’t underestimate the bonds of the Light-blessed,” Katta murmured. “Each one of them experienced a lifetime of agony before dying, and the knowledge that another being understands their most intimate pain is precious.”

“And Qira is Qira.” Jare pushed a chair next to Katta and sat down. “I’m sure you can understand that.” He shook his head and looked at Dough, who had a few friends laughing along with him. “I’m not sure this place is up to those two together.”

“Just remember, I have nothing to do with it,” Katta said.

“Hmm.” Jare lounged back, sank his elbow on the back of the chair, and put his head in his palm. “You and Resa do quite well in keeping him from jumping into mischief.”

Kjaelle leaned forward, squinting. “He has a new spell,” she muttered. “Produces a stink both living and dead can smell.”

Jare winced and Leeyal, who leaned over the counter to ruffle the coats of Rayva and Salan, made a face, his dark blue eyes shimmering.

“I’ll boot him upstairs if he even thinks to try that down here.”

“It’s come in handy,” Tally said, wagging the pen before she returned to scribbling the nomads’ order on a sheet of paper.

“You weren’t saying that when he used it,” Kjaelle grumbled. “And where is Resa? He’s usually the first to greet us when we arrive.”

Grimness fell on the local ghosts, and the mini-Joyful who knew them frowned.

“He’s . . . investigating,” Jare finally said. He leaned forward onto his elbows, and Vantra fought not to squirm under his intent stare. “There’s been some odd goings on in Selaserat—and not associated with Hrivasine’s criminal baggage. I don’t want to ruin your arrival, and it’s late, so we’ll talk about it tomorrow. But things are not as they seem, in our dear city.”

“The last time you said that, Katta and Qira took out one of Hrivasine’s lieutenants,” Mera said, squinting one eye and pursing her lips.

“Lighting up the underground,” Vesh laughed. Jare chuckled along.

“He is handy in blinding the shadows.” The ghost swept his hand across the dinged surface of the table. “The truth is, we expected you. Leeyal got a visit from a local Sun priest, Lokjac. He said Light and Darkness would once again walk hand in hand through Selaserat before the Sea of Winds blew warm.”

Vantra perked up. Lokjac? He was the Sun priest friend the Snake said had disappeared. Considering what the Knights of the Finders did in the Snake’s Den to interfere with Laken’s Redemption, the giant reptile worried ill had befallen him. She promised to look into the matter, and could not believe her luck, that the local mentioned him.

Annoyed anger darkened Kjaelle’s face. “Did he now.”

“There was more to it,” Leeyal said, straining to grab the order page from Tally. “About the daughter of the sun and corrupt knights. We laughed and thought of you because you focus on eradicating fortunetellers, but then Lokjac vanished.”

“Vanished?” Vantra shocked herself, that she dug for more information while her insides twisted into hard knots at the mention of the Daughter of the Sun. Laken hunched and looked at her, and she imagined his reaction mirrored hers.

Had the Snake gotten the reference from Lokjac? He insisted she was the Daughter, despite her denials, and if a dear friend told him that, he would have listened.

“The Raining Sun Temple isn’t concerned. They’ve reminded anyone who asks that Lokjac takes trips into the Labyrinth of Trees all the time and reappears hale and whole. But, well, we thought it odd. Something seemed off about his sudden departure without telling his acolytes he was leaving.”

“Not that we care about priests,” Jare said. “But Lokjac and his acolyte Xafane do a lot of charity work in Selaserat. They’ve made an impression because so many of the religious elfines are . . .” He swirled his finger in a circle.

“Elfines,” Lorgan said. Kjaelle leaned over to smack his arm, which elicited a grin from the unrepentant scholar.

Clomp clomp clomp.

Red and Dough, in high spirits and with arms around each other, stood on a table that rocked under them, and started a pirate song resplendent with the footwork. The crowd sang with them, a thunderous sound of joy, and Fyrij’s voice spiraled over them, more than eager to prove himself their equal.

“Any bets on when they fall?” Jare asked. Katta plunked down a handful of Evenacht coins, and Vantra sank back. Part of her wanted to fade into the background, embarrassed at their egregious attention-grabbing, but another wanted to join in the gaiety. When Vesh decided to clap in rhythm, she joined him.

Weariness and over-stimulation struck long before the two extroverts reined themselves in—and she was not the only weary one drooping. Had the elfinberry wine affected her? No one had mentioned it during the meal and while she assumed the mist floating at floor level came from the fountain, no one confirmed it.

Mera and Tally guided her and the nomads up a wide stair positioned behind the counter and to the third floor. Vantra’s curiosity about their accommodations sharpened as Tally opened the dinged wooden door leading from the landing, but the large room held no light. Mera created a small, shimmery ball before showing them to two rows of gold-blanketed beds on the left. Many more than their number stood there, and she pondered who else Leeyal expected.

“Choose whichever you want,” Mera said, plunking her pack onto the top of the first one. “We can worry about a more permanent arrangement tomorrow.”

Kenosera flopped down and spread his arms. “These are soft.”

“Only the finest, for Qira,” Tally murmured. “Come on, we’ll show you the washrooms.”

Vantra did not care about washrooms, she needed a place to rest. She set her pack on the floor, curled up on a bed, and fell into deep meditation.