The Snake’s enormous head wavered back and forth as he regarded her, unblinking. Vantra looked up, fighting the prick of worry that he wished to speak with her before they left the safety of the ruins. No one accompanied her but Fyrij, and he thought prancing about on top of the serpent’s hood rather than sitting on her shoulder a worthwhile activity.
Kjaelle told her, when the caroling beheld the serpent for the first time, he rushed to Katta, shoved himself down his shirt, and shuddered. Seeing him now, she had difficulty believing the tale, especially considering how the Nevemere, when faced with the presence of their beloved snake deity, fled in fear and sought shelter above ground.
That was why she agreed to meet with him in his private chambers. She assumed he felt more comfortable in them, where no one stared in horror because he was not an idealized, insubstantial myth the naro vi-van told stories about, but an enormous living entity with fangs.
“Young one, you face a daunting Redemption,” he said, his tone low, somber. “Unexpected enemies have muddied the waters and blocked the way. I never thought a Finder would violate a Candidate in such a way, and I caution you, to proceed with care if you confront other guardians. There is no guarantee they have no ill intent towards you.”
She nodded, not certain how to respond.
“Happenstance normally attracts random beings to act as guardians. They choose to live in a cave where an essence hides, or they take one as a trophy and display it for religious purposes. Not so, with Laken’s original caretakers. We were purposeful. Five of us heeded the call, but only two remain. What became of the other three, I know not, and I hope they did not run afoul of the Hallowed Collective.” He stretched high, then lowered himself to the ground so the tip of his tongue nearly touched her.
“Heeded the call?” The Finder texts spoke about accidental guardians, who, as the Snake declared, discovered an essence through happenstance. She had never heard of them being called to service. Considering thousands of years could pass between placement and discovery by a Finder Redeemer, who would agree to guard an essence that long?
The Snake, apparently.
“Death calls to those who would act as caretakers for essences as part of the sundering spell. Most Condemned attract none, but some do. It is an ancient oath, bound to the elder way of Redemptions. How much Redemption history do you know?”
“What I’ve read in Finder texts, but Nolaris suggested materials and approved all my studies.”
“Hsss.” His tongue flicked out several times. “Not surprising, I suppose. Let me elucidate. Before the Hallowed Collective dictated their full control over the Fields, they were a staging ground, if you will. They did not exist as the punishment for a life ill-lived, but as a place to wait until someone took the Condemned on their Redemption journey. It was the quest that was the penance, so to speak, where the Candidate would learn and grow through hard experience—the true Redemption. Most ghosts were better beings after their Recollection and became valued members of Evenacht’s ghostly society. Some were not, and they returned to the Fields soon enough—which gave rise to the current state of things. A shame, truly, for what does a being learn, trapped as a head on cold soil for millennia on end? But Fields imprisonment served Æshren Gerant, and it served the Beast, so it has remained. It is sad, that Erse Parr had such pushback in attempting to return to once-was, because so many think harm is justice.”
Vantra’s thoughts swirled. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t Death just dictate how she wants things run? She is Death, after all.”
“And Death must have acolytes willing to follow her dictates for them to succeed. When she first set foot in the Evenacht and proclaimed her desires, the ghosts in seats of power refused to change. Instead of returning to the once-was, Gerant stopped Redemptions entirely. He caused great harm, and Death, new to her calling, and without the backing she needed, withdrew the charge. Now . . . well, let’s just say, the Hallowed are not hallow.”
If he realized she struggled with the information, he did not voice it. Death was Death, the ultimate voice in the Evenacht, revered and feared. How could anyone ignore her dictates? Why not send them to the Fields to suffer their indignity? Or did she assume the corrupt would Redeem the corrupt, flipping the punishment into a useless gesture?
“The elden ways of Redemption are why guardians initially existed. They created difficult challenges for the Condemned, something that would guide them into understanding, something that would help them realize the kindness and compassion they previously lacked. This worked until the Hallowed Collective sanctioned exterminating guardians in the course of a Redemption. For obvious reasons, those willing to take on the responsibility of caretaker dwindled.
“Which leads me to the favor I wish to ask. Another who heeds Death’s call is Lokjac, an elfine whizan of the deep Elfiniti. We communicate in regular fashion, but when the Sea of Winds became the Sea of Hurricanes this passing season, I received word from a companion he had disappeared. I am concerned for his wellbeing.”
“Why not tell us earlier?” The mini-Joyful, as a whole, would gladly check to see if his friend was alright.
A hissy sigh escaped. “He believes Machella speaks true, and the mini-Joyful are not so kind to those who see the future smiling through her. I ask, that you meet with a sprite Sun acolyte by name of Xafane and also discreetly make inquiries. If he is safe, then there is no need to trouble your companions. If not, you will decide to inform with them or no.”
Vantra’s mind tumbled over his words. “You trust me to do this?”
His tongue flicked out several times, accompanied by hissy laughter. “Yes. You are Daughter of the Sun, a beacon among the earthen weeds. Xafane will recognize you for who you are.”
She gripped her skirt, uncertain how to take the statement, uncertain whether to ask the questions bubbling up from the center of her essence. “You told Lorgan and Laken you waited for a Daughter of the Sun.”
“So I did. Our meeting was not as I envisioned, but you are a Daughter of the Sun and Laken’s Redeemer.”
She pressed her lips together and bowed her head, annoyed. Yes, she attached Laken to his torso, but the ensuing cost was too dear. She was not so much a Redeemer, as a failure. “The Golden Sun Temple did not think I’m a daughter of the Sun.”
“Have you ever wondered why the Sun temple in Evening is not Ga Son’s Evenacht religious center?” the Snake asked. “That honor belongs to Sun’s Touch, in the Sun Plains. Think on it, and you shall have your answer as to why.”
Fyrij fluttered and sang a sweet note before popping up from the Snake’s head and zipping to her shoulder. He tweeted at Lorgan, who strolled across the floor, a small smile spreading his lips.
“Are you ready?” he asked. “Rils wants to leave before Kenosera exchanges more than words with Netalli.”
The Snake rose, his head weaving back and forth. “A wise precaution. Both are dor-carous stubborn. Safe journey. We will meet again.”
Vantra bowed her head to him. He, as a deity, deserved more than her petty thanks, but she had nothing to offer him. “Thank you, for guarding Laken’s essence for so many years.”
Laughter swam around her. “Of course.”
Tagra sat with the driver of the lead wagon, eyes wide and eager for his first sight of Merdia in the bright midday light. Vantra could not catch his enthusiasm; during the trip back to the town, she remained alert, anticipating an attack by Dychala and Velcross. As far as she could tell, only Nolaris accompanied the Knights when they fled, which left the other two and their caravan somewhere in the desert.
Rest never came, as she waited for the enemy to appear and finish their essence-sundering. And, if she were truthful, rest never came because she replayed events at the ruins—killing the snake beings, keeping Laken propped up for Nolaris to violate—and she could not quell her anguish long enough to clear her mind for repose.
Agitated, but unwilling to share why, she drifted back from the driver’s seat and floated through the wagon’s wall, intending to check on Fyrij. The caroling had kept her company, as alert as she, but had drooped as they neared the town. He now sat on Salan’s head, asleep, a chubby ball of fur and fluff, while the vulf dozed.
She triggered Physical Touch and scooped him up. She cuddled him to her chest as she sank onto the bench; the vulf raised his head and eyed her.
“I’m certain it’s more comfy to sleep without him on your head,” she said. Salan whuffled and stretched out, filling the entire floor, before nosing at her legs. With a sigh, he snuggled his head into her feet.
That could not be comfortable, could it?
Both began to snore in unison. Annoyance zipped through her agitation, but she resisted the temptation to transition to Ether Touch and find another wagon. She should have realized why no one else sat with them; she had ample experience with Fyrij’s sleepy noise. Too late now.
Tap tap. Lorgan floated through the door, settled on the opposite bench, then winced at the thunderous sound.
“This isn’t conducive to rest.”
She shrugged. “They seem to be sleeping just fine.”
“Not them.”
Oh.
Lorgan folded his arms and lounged down on the hard wood, his gaze lingering on the vulf before regarding her. “I just finished a schedule for you. I don’t have all the books I’d like, but if Merdia doesn’t carry them, Selaserat will.”
Her non-existent tummy fluttered at the pronouncement. “Schedule?”
“Yes. I realize you aren’t interested in becoming, say, a mafiz, but I can lay a foundation for Mental Touch that will make it simpler to experiment on your own and figure out what techniques work best for you.” A smug smile brightened his façade. “I collated materials for everyone else, if that’s any consolation.”
“You made a schedule for Katta and Qira?”
“Yes.”
“That’s . . . ludicrous. You remember they helped funnel magic away from the land and into Verryn at Black Temple, right?”
“Yes.”
What was he thinking? “How did Kjaelle take that?”
He drew his jaw down so his mouth formed a sad horseshoe shape. “She told me I was lucky. She didn’t elaborate, maybe because I have suggestions on how Vesh might create a Grand Seal that draws us to one place—and they are excellent suggestions. I can’t say whether they will work, but that’s what experimentation is all about.”
She nuzzled the caroling. “Did you hear that, Fyrij? He wants to give you study materials.”
The little avian cheeped sleepily at her.
“Don’t laugh. I think his voice can be a weapon few will successfully fight.”
She could not hide her shock. “Really?”
“That piercing shriek of his? Get that loud enough, he might damage hearing.”
“And how are you going to practice that?”
“With earplugs.”
He teased. Didn’t he? “So what are you going to teach our living companions?”
“How to deal with magic without wielding it. There are times, when an exhausted ghost can’t employ Touch effectively, and a living being can take advantage if they know how. Our companions are clever, and this will guide them into a more structured response during conflicts. Imagine what Kenosera might have done to Nolaris, had he a better understanding of ghostly behavior.”
She closed her eyes rather than submit to a flabbergasted stare. “Rayva and Salan.”
“They, I admit, were the most difficult. I haven’t been around them long enough to guess what they need to practice, so I asked Katta.”
Salan growled, deep and menacing. Lorgan grinned, unintimidated.
“He said to focus on tactics that reserve power in a fight, rather than punching through at the first opportunity and hoping it takes down their opponent. For the common ghost, that’s plenty, but for our enemies, not so much.”
The vulf muttered at the scholar and rolled so his back was to him and flipped his tail, as if he had quite enough of the upstart ghost. Of course, after Vesh’s description of Salan doing just that at Sunbright, Vantra understood the concern. Rezenarza, after all, was an ex-syimlin who would not fall after a single strike.
She expected a nasty intrusion from the nymph for the thought, but emptiness remained.
“I even wrote up a course of study for Verryn.”
Her mouth dropped. “He’s a syimlin!” And Death’s consort! How did he plan to educate such an illustrious man? She wanted to sink into the bench and hide from her embarrassment over the proclamation.
“Who only gained his power a hundred years previous. It takes intent and practice to hone abilities, and as we’ve seen, he’s not there yet. Yes, he has plenty of verve, and no finesse.”
“But . . .” Vantra had traveled with Verryn long enough to know he would not feel insulted at Lorgan’s assessment, but a part of her thought he should. The scholar’s amusement at her response did not sit well, either. What hubris, as a mortal, to dictate lessons to a syimlin.
“Don’t think I left out Laken.”
“Condemned can’t use Mental Touch.”
“No, but there’s stuff he can do with Physical. Most Condemned don’t realize they can manipulate their form because the Finders are so wed to keeping them ignorant.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“Not surprising. I didn’t learn of it until I read ancient accounts of non-Hallowed Collective Redemptions. Think about it. What if Laken controlled his hair and used it to trip an enemy, or wrapped it around a living being’s neck?”
“He could do that?”
“All ghosts can, with the right education.” He fluffed at his shoulder-length locks. “Of course, some of us prefer the shorter look. If that isn’t to his liking, we can work on making his bite more effective. Using such attacks in conjunction with the prohibitions placed on Condemned that negate magic harm will make it less likely the Knights are going to abscond with him.” He sighed. “Well, most magic harm. Those protections should have prevented Nolaris from using the fake Death’s Mark to sever his essence. They didn’t. That’s . . . concerning.”
Concern was not how she viewed it; terror described her mind better. If they snagged a part of Laken, they could snag his whole self—and perhaps even send him to the Final Death. She overheard Red and Katta speaking of it late one night, and their worry infected her.
Their enemy held the power to bypass Death’s magic, and they did not think Rezenarza was the one who created the mark.
“Vantra, now that we’ve a moment alone, we need to talk about what the Snake—”
Tap tap.
Red opened the door and stepped up, but not into, the interior, his free leg stretched out behind him. “A runner intercepted us, and we’re making a detour,” he informed them, his normally cheerful smile absent. Both he and Katta had sunken eyes and cheeks, a concerning look since they excelled at hiding their dead state. The Snake’s Den had taken a toll on them, though she suspected guilt played as large a role as simple exhaustion. They believed they should have made better choices, which would have affected the outcome at Black Temple and Snake’s Den. She did not think events would have ended differently because the dor-carous, the naro vi-van, the Knights, had already chosen their paths long before the mini-Joyful’s arrival in the desert.
“Where to?” Lorgan asked, frowning.
“The lawful fort Trevel runs. Seems Nuban already carted Dychala, Velcross, and their Finder buddies back, and all three decided to be barbs in Dough’s ass. It doesn’t take a genius to know they’re waiting for us.”
“Tagra’s going to be disappointed,” Vantra said. Having witnessed his growing excitement, not entering the town would be a letdown.
He flashed a grin. “He can see the town from here. And I have the impression something’s going on at the fort that will make up for it.”
Fyrij tweeted in his ‘of course there is’ tone, and sank his head even deeper into his back.
Vantra’s picture of stout grey stone walls, somewhat charred from the mock battles, square watch towers, and a central structure with hand-sized slits acting as windows, crashed into the reality of a tourist fort.
Rather than solid fortifications, the law-and-order spot welcomed visitors with a tall stone gate equipped with a hanging wooden sign. Fort Merdia, painted with drippy black strokes, filled the surface. Looking through it and down the slope, she glimpsed a guarded, orange-stone garrison sitting closer to the bay, but that seemed the extent of the defenses.
Lining the cobbled road was a collection of one- and two-story shops and homes with striped awnings, benches pushed against the whitewashed walls, gardens and frond trees. The largest building, identified as Trevel’s Tavern by the humongous, fat-lettered sign, sprawled across one side of the central square. Magical lanterns hung from awnings attached to the second story, the light reflecting off the shiny strings of tropical-colored flags that circled the place. Paintings of chubby, child-sized pirates doing pirate things decorated the orange walls, and some of the ridiculous images, like the one where Dough strained to hold the mouth of a dragon open with his entire body while his comrades carried away its treasure, made her smile.
The caravan rolled past, the drivers avoiding groups of tourists who laughed and danced around outdoor players while sucking in the mist drifting from the large fountain in the middle of the square. The sculpture of Dough and Trevel on top, arms linked as they joyfully raised foamy mugs that rained water down to the pool, had a ridiculous air about it that instilled delight rather than derision. Dough’s oversized hat flopped down on Trevel’s slicked hair, and the other man’s too-wide trouser legs tangled with the pirate’s boots, a silly depiction in keeping with the feel the two wanted for their tourist trap.
Salan panted as he dangled his head out the opposite window, regarding everything with happy curiosity, while Fyrij dug his talons into his head fur and fluttered his wings. Vantra imagined the two, accompanied by Kjaelle, getting into a lot of trouble indulging in their inquisitiveness.
They continued towards the garrison but took a dirt road to the left which led up a hill and to another orange stone building concealed by an oasis’s worth of bushy flora. The bright red and yellow blooms enchanted her, and she pondered whether the spread existed before the storm dumped magic-infused snow on everything.
Standing in front of the iron gate leading to the entrance was Kjethelwyn, large sunhat bending down far enough to hide her eyes. The ghosts joined her while the nomads remained in the back with Laken, their eyes raking across the lush foliage in awe. The enterprising caravanners had attached spare wagon wheels to the chair from the ruins, creating a makeshift wheeled chair for the captain until Red had regained enough energy to form a larger base for him, and he needed help in moving it.
That everyone willingly aided him around the wagons and campsites astounded him. Not being stuffed into a bag to while away the days in loneliness and silence confused yet invigorated him, and Vantra noticed he spoke more often, and with a stronger voice.
Rils walked to Kjethelwyn, smacking his hands together. “What’s up?”
“The ship refurbisher accepted the job.”
The pirate rocked back on his heels. “Really?”
“The modifications to the Loose Ducky are almost done, but not quite.” She raised the brim of her hat and smiled at them, though her eyes widened as she recognized Rayva and Salan. “Dough’s wanting to show off,” she admitted. “And, well, the Ducky is looking very fine. It’ll be faster and better able to navigate terrible weather, which, as he declared, is a good thing since you lot tend to trouble.”
Katta pursed his lips. “He believes we’ll hire him for our traveling needs?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not wrong,” the Light acolyte laughed, elbowing his friend.
“The storms interfered with the progress, but Zhedeç says two more days before you can sail. You should make up the time even in the seasonal blustery weather.”
“Zhedeç?” Red raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Zhedeç Zhaun. He runs Re-ship, a business headquartered in Badeçasyon, as you’ve likely guessed.”
Badeçasyon? He was an interstellar invader? Immediate distrust danced a jig through Vantra’s thoughts. She had grown up in a world seeped in Gabridarço hate. A hundred years after the invasion, Sensour still held seething animosity towards the Flayn Monarchy and its Gabridarç-based empire, fueled by the long-lived faelareign who survived the attacks and remembered the aftermath. After arriving in the Evenacht, she met ghosts who fell during those battles, who loathed any mention of the beings who slaughtered their friends and kinfolk, destroyed their communities, and left ash as a parting gift—and who never experienced the Fields because of their off-planet origin. How could Evenacht spirits trust one of them?
She helped Kenosera steady the chair as they followed Kjethelwyn down a well-used but bumpy path to the shore, struggling with the revelation. The mini-Joyful did not seem concerned about it, and why not? The invaders had wanted to annihilate their descendants! Did it not infuriate them, that extra-planetary beings desired to send every soul to the Evenacht and claim Sensour for themselves?
“Are you alright?” Kenosera asked. She shrugged; she did not feel like discussing her twisting thoughts. Her emotions plummeted into an abyss of numbing darkness, and even Fyrij’s comforting tweet and head rub against her chin could not yank her from it.
“What is that?”
The eager awe in Tagra’s voice caused her to look up.
Landing gear sank beneath the waves, holding up a round aircraft with a pointed nose and a hoop of green-lit metal rotating around the tip. The panels were black, outlined in glowing green, and shined to have a mirror-reflective quality. Large, circular windows reflected the ever-cloudy sky. The craft’s hollow lower half acted as a drydock for the Loose Ducky, curving around the platform upon which the ship sat and keeping it above the water using metal clamps the size of a horse.
Dozens of workers labored under a rectangular yellowish light that ran the length of the ship, using tools with flashing green lights that produced sparks and greyish fumes. Many had welding helmets and other protective gear, looking like the misunderstood robotic monsters in outer space horror pictures.
The entire sight reminded her of the spaceship scenes in Death Comes, a typical, explosion-oriented action picture with little thought but lots of BOOM. Supposedly the director received permission to shoot on the ships still floating in orbit, making it a must-see for gullible Sensour audiences.
“My friends! Welcome back to Merdia!” Dough crowed, throwing his arm wide and high. He stood beneath a fluttery striped tarp with Trevel and a being unknown to her. They had faun-shaped legs and a flippy tail peeking out from their split skirt, long arms ending in four-digit faelareign hands, and a face that looked as if a human had half-changed into a burgundy deer before stopping. Their sleek magenta hair gleamed, a look only glossy fashion images, or a heavy manipulation of Physical Touch, could manage.
Red raised his arm. “Hey, Dough. I see you’ve put the time since we left to good use.”
“Not me, my friend! Meet Zhedeç Zhaun. I sent a request to outfit the Loose Ducky, and they accepted!” The pirate beamed and smacked the Flayn on the shoulder; they turned to stare, unblinking, at the mini-Joyful, then tipped their head to the left side.
“A greeting pleasure,” they said. Their voice was mild, satiny, in its timbre.
“Much so,” Red said while Katta placed his hand on his chest and nodded his head.
Dough planted his fists on his hips. “While newly arrived spirits know about advances in Sensour technology, the Evenacht doesn’t have many equivalent materials to make the sophisticated stuff. But Zhedeç and their crew have worked to find alternatives since their arrival, and their upgrades for sailing ships are the best I’ve encountered!” His gaze jumped around, lingering long enough on the two vulfs and Tagra for an all-smiles welcome, and nodding in approval for Laken’s new state. “The courier from Black Temple who came to get Ci Carrde mentioned something of what happened there. Verryn isn’t back?”
“Not yet,” Red said with a half-grin at the pirate’s curiosity. “It’s a tale, and involves all the betrayal, magic, battle and heroics you could want.” He rubbed at his stomach. “Maybe after we see the ship, we can grab some mist, some food, and tell you, our newly minted escort, all about our Snake’s Den adventures.”
