“I still can’t believe they rushed to catch us,” Kjaelle grumbled as they aimed for the door leading below deck while keeping out of the crew’s way as they prepared to cast off. “They could have told the Light-blessed. They have faster means of reaching you.”
Katta smiled and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “A prayer is quicker, but doesn’t make the same impression. Besides, the enemy would not think to monitor a Sentry platform for a clandestine meeting between a syimlin and the rivcon’s sister.” He rubbed at his chest, wrinkling the soft black fabric. “The residue within that vial is . . . vile.”
Kjaelle glared at him as Vesh chuckled. Vantra supposed adding humor to the otherwise dire situation softened it, but it did not make her feel any better.
“A sense of desiccation infused it,” the syimlin continued. “But I could not tell if that was the essence of the one casting the spell, or a deterioration component added to degrade the residue.” He sighed. “I poured over the library, and I now wonder if the caster added a deflection element for scries, because I sensed nothing of the sort when there. That I grasped it now, semma after the fact, makes me suspect that was the case.”
“Lorgan sensed nothing, either,” Kjaelle said. “He would have mentioned it.”
“That’s worrisome, we have an enemy powerful enough to deflect you,” Jare said, brows knit.
“It means I haven’t been careful enough.”
“Do you think the Wiiv’s deity had a hand in it?” Vantra asked. Desiccation described the feel of his aura and disposition.
“No. The Rotting One, when faced with a true deity, crumbled quickly and completely,” Katta said as Vesh opened the door and they entered the short hall, lit by a single electric lamp. “If greater power backed him, Navosh, having newly regained his mantle, would have had more difficulty subduing him.”
“If we’re talking about waterdome components, Skerezahn might have cast it,” Jare said, his tone acidic.
“He might have; he has the power and knowledge to manipulate a waterdome spell. But the seething rage flavoring the residue is not his. Yes, he’s forever angry Qira defeated him for Light’s mantle, but his is a shallow stream compared to an ocean of fury. That is this enemy’s strength—but also their debilitating weakness. Their continued failures will play on their mind, and force them into unthinking action. They will expose themselves; we just need to wait.”
“That’s terrifying,” Vantra said. The description reminded her too forcefully of the entity that targeted her in the dark where ghosts reformed after discorporation, and she never wanted to encounter them again.
Vesh gripped her shoulder in comfort, and both Jare and Kjaelle gave her reassuring smiles.
“While the unknown is frightening, you won’t face it alone,” Katta said. We’re here to catch you when you fall, and lift you higher when you succeed.”
Mica trotted to them from the far side of the underdeck, calm, with a hint of a smile.
“We moved Qira to Dough’s cabin,” he said. “You need to make the meeting quick. I don’t think he’ll be awake much longer.”
Katta nodded. “Mica, can you grab Lorgan? We’ve questions for him as well.”
He bounced his fingers off his chest in a salute and headed down the stairs to the next level.
Katta took one look at his friend and smacked his hands onto his hips. “Qira, I told you we don’t have to meet right away. You’re not up to this.”
“I am.”
“You look grey.”
“Katta, I’m perfectly capable of listening to a briefing.”
Darkness pursed his lips at his stubborn friend, then sighed and hefted himself onto the shined ruby-brown desktop next to Kjaelle. With Joila’s help, Qira sank back into the fluffy sky-blue pillows upon which he lounged, rubbing at the heavy, charcoal smudges under his eyes. His cast, from sunken cheeks to limp hair to his too-thin frame, hinted at weariness and constant pain. He needed a potion and sleep, and by Joila and Resa’s annoyed expressions, they had not convinced him of the necessity.
Vantra did not envy them the task of forcing him to rest. Mera and Tally said that Zibwa instructed them on care, and he was a daunting taskmaster.
A sheen of Darkness coated the cabin’s warm, red-stained walls, dimming the golden light from the five wall sconces; a precaution against scrying naughtiness. Their enemy had proven sly and resourceful, and she shuddered at the thought of them casually listening in on her conversations. She understood spying in that manner took time and a great deal of energy; one had to find the target first, then pour power into a spell that transferred sight and sound to either one’s head or an exterior object like a crystal sphere. She had the impression most failed because discovering a moving mark was not simple, and staying in a scry too long had detrimental effects on power reserves. Living beings could be sick for days after depleting their magic, and ghosts might discorporate.
Uneasy at the trail of her thoughts, she studied the watercolors of ships at sea, and the various décor Dough had hung between the paintings. Like in his home, he displayed items collected on his journeys: a spear with a giant crab claw on the end, knives with vastly different hilts and blades, precious metal objects that looked ritualistic, a board with Naning painted on it, and a half-circle, lacy golden lattice hooked to the wall behind his desk chair. It had missing lines and deep divots, and she wondered what ruin he pulled it from.
Knock knock.
“Come,” Katta called as all eyes shifted to the door. Lorgan slipped inside with Mica and Salan. The vulf padded over to Darkness, waited for a pat, then settled beneath the table, panting.
“You wished to see me?” the scholar asked as the Light-blessed closed the door. His gaze flicked over those in attendance, and he raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Katta said. “We’ve questions about waterdomes and a seaweed called uthorkevelen.”
Lorgan’s eyes widened at the mention of the seaweed. “Uthorkevelen?”
“We just met with Embrez’s sister, Adine, and Chisterdelle. Adine’s investigating the library materials’ disappearance, and scraped spell residue off the shelving. It contained uthorkevelen.”
Lorgan folded his arms and leaned against the wall, serious and pensive. “I didn’t sense that when we investigated.”
“Neither did I, but something nasty was in the vial she presented. I wonder if a deflection spell lingered.”
“That would make sense, in the context of a waterdome spell. Deflection is an integral part of the outer layers. Plus, our enemy enjoys hiding behind such things.” He scratched his cheek stubble. “I assume you have no idea what uthorkevelen is.”
“No.”
The scholar tapped the back of his head against the shined wood. “By the time I studied at Reddown Under Lake, uthor’s properties had been long-known and long-abused. For the most part, nymphs kept its magical use quiet because of government dictates. No nymph ruler wanted the general populace to know about it because it came in so handy when they targeted their rivals. It’s the reason Nilzefeleth stayed giyoten despite disdain of his leadership.”
Katta narrowed his eyes. “We cheered when Weather ended his rule. He disappeared from the Fields five centuries ago, and Erse never received a satisfactory explanation from Gerant about it.”
Bad news congregated into one humongous pile of worse-to-come, did it not? Vantra sagged at the thought, worry and anxiety flitting through her. When she first followed Laken’s call, she never anticipated their journey going from awful to catastrophic in so short a time, with extra badness added as a horrifying diversion.
“Huh. I remember when that happened. Nolaris bragged about Redeeming him, but after the failure with Laken, he stuck to heads from the Mendacity or Plaintive, so no one believed him. He lost some of the respect he wallowed in after his most impressive feat because newer Finders thought him disingenuous, but the Hallowed Collective always loved him. I wonder if he knows where Nilzefeleth is.”
“Wait, ghosts have gone missing from the Elden Fields?” Vantra asked, aghast, sitting straighter. “That isn’t just a tale the Knights are using to hunt me down?”
Lorgan rolled his head to look at her. “Yes, it happens. Not often, but when it does, it’s usually a high-profile being who caused a lot of harm during life. Someone pays thieves to kidnap the heads and rid the Evenacht of them. They discover one can’t end a Condemned, which they should have already known, and then they desert them, prompting their return to the Fields. A few vanish, and Nilzafeleth is one.” He shrugged. “The Finders hate talking about it because it calls into question their security.”
Other than the Evengate guards and Finders wandering the hillsides caring for the punished, security did not exist. An easily breached defensive wall spanned the Fields, one meant to warn the local living residents that they trod too near. Most ghosts, after racing through the thousands of Condemned heads on their way to Death’s Gate, refused to return. That lack had served her well when she answered Laken’s call; the Finder who attempted to stop her had no one to summon for aid.
“How did Nilzafeleth use this seaweed to keep himself in power?” Kjaelle asked, setting her hands on the edge of the desk and leaning forward.
“His mafiz created a concoction with the leaves, shavings of cilcathium, and a few other ingredients that changed over the years, depending on climate and time of year.”
“What’s cilcathium?” Vantra asked, feeling out of her depth and lonely. Her ignorance blazed bright, as the others had nodded along to the list.
“A tasteless, odorless reagent to trigger magical reactions in potions. The amount added equals the amount of time it takes to trigger. Add a lot, the reaction is immediate; add too little, and it can take days to mature to the point it activates—which is one of the ways Nilzafeleth used it. The uthor, once triggered by cilcathium, drew poison into the stomach of beings based on average digestion for each faelareign subspecies. It only worked half the time, but often enough, his most pressing rivals died in agony.”
Vantra winced and set a hand to her stomach, memories of her death flashing through her mind.
Lorgan paused and ran a hand through his bangs. “Sorry,” he said, guilt lacing the word, his brows knitting together. “Um, I’ll use another example. His people would coat hard surfaces like saddles or bedframes with an oil made from uthor, cilcathium, and jaiodine. Those sitting or lying within the circle disappeared when the cilcathium triggered the spell. That disappearance was caused by uthor. It draws something to it or repels it away. That’s why so many mafiz use it in waterdome creation. Add it to the interior-facing enchantment to repel warmth, and when the emergency spells are triggered, the uthor sends everything with warmth away from the dome to a predesignated place.” He eyed the room. “I only detected the remnants of a water spell when I investigated the library, and guessed it related to dome evacuation. I didn’t sense any component that commonly accompanies it that would have solidified my guess.”
“Adine said it was hard to detect,” Katta said.
“Considering how clean the surfaces were, it must have been.” He slowly shook his head. “I wouldn’t have looked for it anyway. It’s not on the list of Talin plants that can be shared with the Evenacht, so it shouldn’t even be here.”
What shared plants? Vantra had thought Death outlawed trade between the living on Talis and the dead, and while Darkness-leaning guards and a handful of scholars could traverse the border, no one else did. That was why so much technology from the living continent did not function as well in the Evenacht; materials plentiful there were non-existent in the evening lands, and substitutes did not always work.
“What do ghostly nymphs use in its place?” Jare asked. “Another seaweed?”
“No. Since ghosts are the main inhabitants and they aren’t warm, something like uthor doesn’t work for waterdome evacuations. Smaller domes link the evacuation spell to above-water ryiam poles. Once triggered, those poles pull everything with a certain amount of ryiam into a predefined space around them. Makes for a crowded receiving dock and a lot of intermingled essences. Larger ones use grabble paint.”
“That’s expensive,” Kjaelle said, raising an eyebrow and wincing.
“Which is why only the larger settlements use it. They need quite a bit to coat the interior of the dome, but when triggered, it sets beings on a pre-determined length of shore. It’s never failed as far as I know, which is why cities purchase it despite the cost.”
“Cost?” Vantra asked in a small voice. She had only seen a small chunk of the teal, glassy material in the Finder’s museum; ghosts refused to brave the Voidlands to retrieve it, so relied on umbrareign to mine it. As the Voidlands were not conducive to the living, either, those mines never produced much.
“It normally takes a settlement ten years to pay off one coat. Ten to twelve are needed for the full effect.”
Oh. “So reapplication is spendy.”
“Yes, but it lasts several centuries with preservation spells, so the expenditure isn’t a constant thing.” Lorgan tapped his fingers against his robe’s dark green sleeve, then waved his index finger back and forth. “Uthor isn’t an ancient nymph magical component. Some credit Nilzefeleth with discovering its properties, and according to histories, that’s the right timeframe, around 5200 years previous. I doubt a nymph older than, say five-thousand years, is using it. It wouldn’t have been in their repertoire, and I’m sure we all understand how wed to tradition most nymphs are.”
They all murmured assent.
“So not Skerezahn,” Jare said with pursed lips. Qira lifted his lip at the name, and Joila slipped her arm around his shoulders and hugged him.
“Likely not. He’s far too ancient, and he preferred land-living to underwater.”
“Ancient?” Qira asked, his snarliness falling to humor. If Skerezahn was ancient, so were Qira and the Light-blessed, and it seemed disrespectful, somehow, to remind them of it.
Lorgan blushed; he was not having a good debriefing, was he? He cleared his throat and pushed on. “And because it’s a smuggled magical item, it will be expensive. That should narrow down who might have access to it. Using it to steal some maps and histories doesn’t equal the payout, so we’re looking at someone with means and a lot of money to waste.”
“The Shades and the Shadow Cave guards don’t catch everything,” Katta said with a sigh. “I wonder what rift the scholars and smugglers are exploiting now.”
“Another thing we need to check,” Qira said, rubbing his eyes. “Since the Shades are busy, I can send a few Light priests to help the Shadow Cave search for a tear. Between them, they should discover it quickly enough.”
Katta eyed Qira, then nodded. “Good. For the second bit of business, we need the others. Mica, would you?”
The Light-blessed phased through the wall, and they waited, watching Joila badger Qira into drinking a tall glass of grass-yellow liquid. Vantra’s anxiousness grew; what else needed their attention, and so late? True, the injured syimlin was awake, but was that the sole reason? As Katta pointed out, they had an entire journey to the Windtwists in which to have this meeting, and the deity looked more and more ill the longer they spoke.
Mica opened the door and let the rest of the mini-Joyful slip inside. Kenosera and Yut-ta looked as if they had been shaken awake, and she felt terrible for the interruption of their rest. They came to stand next to her as the others crowded in. Laken, a grumpy Fyrij on his shoulder, took the spot on her other side, frowning deep enough she realized he expected foul news. Rayva squeezed next to Salan under the desk, her tail whisking back and forth as if the vulf caught her nervousness.
Her essence prickled as the door finally closed, and she realized she disliked being surrounded by so many individuals in the close quarters. The sensation of slow suffocation wormed through her, an asinine reaction to the situation. What was wrong with her? She no longer had to breathe; why feel like she could not stuff air into her lungs? She clenched her hands together in her lap and hoped no one noticed her unease.
Katta’s gaze flicked around the room. “Thank you for joining us. I know it’s late, but our esteemed Light was up.” Qira hmphed, which his friend ignored. “So. Before we left Selaserat, we apprehended the Finder who threw the mephoric emblem at Qira.”
Lightning-fast anger zipped around the room, and darkness, born of desperation, anxiety, and love for Qira, created a blanket that warmed them all. It disappeared quickly, but not before Vantra realized the Light-blessed and Katta played off each other. Light and Darkness walked hand in hand through the Evenacht, and seemed to include more individuals than just the two syimlin.
“When did this happen?” Lorgan asked, eyes wide in shock.
“The night Qira showed up. The Light-blessed caught her and her companions spying on the Dark Light and arrested them in the name of the Shades. They marched them to the enclave headquarters we set up.”
That explained the acolytes’ extended absence from the party. Vantra had wondered on it, but after Kenosera snagged her attention, she had other, warmer things to contemplate.
“She was lucky Kjaelle and Vesh reminded Jare we need information,” Resa muttered, his voice thick with hate.
“I doubt she feels that way.” Katta leaned back on his palms. “I’ve already instructed the Shades to extract what they can from her before sending her to the Elden Fields.”
“She attacked Qira!” Vantra protested. “She deserves the mausoleum!”
“That’s what I said.” Fire gleamed in Resa’s eyes, and Qira nudged him with his right foot, then gave her a warm smile.
“What did Erse say?” the injured syimlin asked.
“She believed the mausoleum was too lenient a punishment.”
Vantra reared back, stunned. How could that be? Death sent the ghosts who had no prayer of Redemption to the mausoleum. They swam in evil, their souls so consumed with hate and malice, resetting their ways, regretting their acts, would never happen. When those heads accepted their fate, they passed directly into the Void. Not many rested there, but the worst reprobates called it home until they gave up.
It normally did not take long before they saw the Void as a longed-for release.
“But there’s more to it, isn’t there?” Lorgan asked. He stroked his ragged goatee, as if debating something, then pressed on. “Every so often, a head would appear in the Elden Fields without having spent time in the lesser rings. Those attracted interesting parties. When I was still an official Finder, Æshren Gerant would send out a periodic reminder to those of us who Chose Elden candidates to leave those heads alone. I had the impression something spooked him about them, but he never enlightened us. They had an odd aura surrounding them, so I did as he asked.
“Eventually, there would be a commotion, and the heads would disappear. Rumors would rage through the Finder halls, but no one seemed to know what happened to them.”
“They’re a lure,” Katta said. “As is our syimlin-attacker. If she’s sequestered in the mausoleum, it will be more difficult for the enemy to retrieve her. As is, her compatriots should have a simple time discovering her whereabouts and planning a rescue.”
“And her companions?” Lorgan asked.
“Already scattered throughout the Fields,” the syimlin said. “They insisted they didn’t belong, and the Shades told them they should count themselves lucky they didn’t end up in the Elden Fields like Gisdrelle. If the enemy finds them first, they will tell them where to look.”
“You think they’ll attempt a rescue?” Qira asked. He sounded weary, not angry, as Vantra anticipated. His pallor had increased, his eyes drooped, and he would need to find his bed soon.
“I do. Tying up loose ends seems like an obsession, don’t you think?”
“However much it’s a bad idea?” Qira nodded slowly. “Who do you think they’ll send? Lackeys or Knights?”
“Knights. They’ve easy access to the Fields through the Finders. Erse hopes we can discover who in the Hallowed Collective knows about them.” He sighed. “It’s weighing on her, she can’t find Gerant or Imparik.”
“Can’t find them?” Qira asked, frowning. “It’s been centuries since she failed a scry.”
“I know. Her last attempt nearly shattered her bauble, so she reluctantly stopped. Whoever hides them has enough power to interfere with Death in her own demesne.”
“That should concern us all,” Jare said as fear pummeled Vantra. Their enemy, the one targeting her, equaled Death in skill? How was she supposed to confront them, when the time came? She was a once-Finder Sun acolyte without much ability. She would fall, and when she did, what would happen to Laken and the sphere?
“It does.” Katta stuck the toe of his boot behind his other one and lifted it up. “This is why we need to be more careful in the Windtwists. It’s hard for us to hide in Selaserat, as so many Light-blessed know who Qira and I really are. Gisdrelle, however, didn’t realize Qira was a syimlin. She thought he was a Light-blessed sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and paid for it. It could be, those who guide the Knights haven’t told their underlings we’re deities.”
“That’s interesting,” Lorgan said. “Does Gisdrelle realize Qira survived?”
“No. The Light-blessed apprehended her before she saw him. She thinks he was blown to the Void—which means so, too, does our enemy.”
“And she doesn’t think her existence is forfeit?”
“No. She believes the Knights act in Death’s stead.” Kjaelle’s wide smile held a vicious edge. “She and her associates will discover differently.”
