Vantra’s tummy dropped to her feet, despite not having a physical one. Everything turned upside down and spun. She shrieked as she fell to the top of the shield, losing her hold on Laken as she thumped into it. He tumbled away, bouncing, then flew up as they struck the black shielding. Their momentum slowed before the confinement sizzled and broke, and they hurled into the darkness beyond.

Wood breaking, the enclosure spinning. They hit the ground with a thud and careened. One last jolt, a sharp crack of timber, before they stopped.

Vantra slid down the shielding. The protection lay on its side, the wagon still sunk into the bottom and hanging over her. The carolings filled the side pointing up, screeching and racing about. Laken rolled to a rest, his base clicking across the magic, and she scampered on her hands and knees to him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, hoarse, picking him up.

“NO,” he wheezed. Nothing looked askew or broken, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Condemned, after all, could not manipulate their appearance like other ghosts, and she had no idea whom to visit outside of the Finder organization to heal damage.

She noted Verryn, who lay a few steps away. She struggled to her feet and trudged to him, unsteady. “Verryn? Are you all right?”

Movement above; Lorgan peeked out of the wagon, glancing at the looming, dead-quiet forest surrounding them. Mist hung lightly between the trunks, illuminating the thick, heavy-barked foliage in a soft blue. They sat against a tall tree that slowly tore from its trunk and toppled onto their enclosure, branches shuddering and hissing and leaves rustling against the protection as it slid to the side and thumped to the ground, shaking the nearby plants. Twigs and leaves, jarred loose from the jostling, floated down to lay across the transparent surface.

“The wagon’s a mess,” Lorgan said. She assumed so, after the tumbling about. Hopefully nothing important broke.

“How is the one we saved?”

“The bauble’s fine,” he assured her.

She glanced at Verryn, who still had not moved, and padded over to him, marveling that he had created a shield stout enough to withstand the abuse of being thrown. She had a lot to learn about Mental Touch.

She froze. “Verryn?” she whispered. She set Laken down, and he slid slightly.

“Vantra,” he growled, annoyed.

“Lorgan!”

“What’s wrong?”

“He—he’s bleeding!”

“WHAT?”

Vantra grabbed Verryn’s shoulder and rolled him over; his head lolled to the side, blood racing from his nose and down his cheek, wetting his hair, pooling on the shielding.

“How can he be bleeding?” Laken demanded. As if she knew! Taking the guise of the living was one thing, but being an actual living human in the Evenacht? And if he fought in the same war that Laken did thousands of years previous, how could he still be alive?

He had lied.

Lorgan settled next to her and set his fingers below his nose. “He’s breathing,” he said quietly.

“Was he knocked unconscious?” Vantra asked, strained, disbelieving. Living humans did not walk the Evenacht. Was he a native, who somehow altered his appearance? She supposed a gifted Mental Touch practitioner could spell him to appear human, creating an illusion difficult to break. That sounded like something Katta or Red could do.

“Yes,” Lorgan said. He glanced down the body, then focused on his chest. “I’m not a medical expert. I’d say everything looks fine, unbroken, but I don’t know. He seems to be breathing OK.”

“Should we move him? What if he’s hurt his neck? Or has a concussion?”

Verryn groaned.

She and Lorgan leaned back as he raised a hand and touched his forehead, wincing.

“Verryn,” Vantra said, anxiety rushing through her chest and making her voice tremble. “You’re bleeding.”

He blinked several times. “Bleeding?” he asked in a foggy tone. He touched his nose, looked at the crimson-stained fingertips, and blinked a few times more. “Shit,” he breathed.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Verryn,” he replied firmly. “Dammit, I’m never going to live this down.”

“You can’t be alive.”

He focused on her, then gathered himself and, with Lorgan’s help, sat up with a pained hiss. “I am alive,” he said. A fine shudder coursed through his muscles.

“You’re not from the Brindle Wars,” Laken accused, tense, disgusted.

“I am,” he snapped. “I have the Gift of Life. It keeps me alive, but damn if it doesn’t hurt.”

They stared. The Gift of Life? But that was only bestowed upon . . . syimlin.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Verryn,” he insisted, then closed his eyes and stilled.

Verryn. And Red said he was an acolyte of Passion and Death. So . . . Passion. A syimlin. What was a living deity not Death or Darkness doing in the Evenacht? Well, he was Death’s husband, so did he walk here on her behalf?

Why had she not realized she interacted with a syimlin?

Disconcerted, she picked up Laken, who eyed the man with contempt. “Leave it to a lying Keel,” he snarled.

Verryn’s eyes snapped open, and he regarded the captain with raging heat.

“I’ve lied about nothing. But if you’re going to get nasty, do it after.” He pointed. “Whatever grabbed us is attacking the village. We need to help.”

He retrieved his sword, which lay a few steps away, and staggered to the shield opposite the fallen tree. Glancing up at the carolings, he set his hand against the protection, and a hole expanded into a door, sparkles ringing the edge. “Stay,” he sternly told them. The command struck Vantra to her core. Their fluttering and chittering died, and they soared, an eerie quiet only broken by the creaking of branches.

“You’re Passion,” Lorgan said, apprehensive.

“Yeah.” He walked through, then planted his hand against the side to steady his gait.

Vantra’s mind whirled as she followed.

“What are you doing?” Laken asked, outraged.

“I’m going to help the village,” she told him. “I can leave you here—”

“No!”

Bright light from the right and smoke oozed into the air.

A long, agonized shriek echoed through the trees. Lorgan ran, and Vantra streaked after him.

They reached their previous confinement; the black shielding had completely shattered, giving a good view of the enormous, smoking crater. While clumps of earth and plants continued to fall from the sides and into the darkness below, it seemed to have stopped growing.

Just beyond the tips of the crater sat a thatched wooden hut village. The housing spanned the breadth of a gentle slope and down into a vale with a small stream trickling through. Toppled homes created a trail to the largest structure, which burned fierce, puffing smoke into the air as chest-high beings with a humanoid torso, goat legs, large fox ears and stubby noses, tried futilely to extinguish the blaze. Sparks drifted from it, setting nearby roofs on fire.

Throughout the streets, the legless ghosts battled machete-wielding residents. Vantra glimpsed non-skeletal spirits wielding swords who helped the natives, but they blinked in and out, and she could not get a good sense of who they might be.

Lorgan whisked to the fight, but a shield snaked around Vantra, and she staggered after smacking into it. A cloaked, hunched skeletal ghost holding a tall staff painted with symbols that glowed an eerie blue watched, an irritated frown warping their skull. Flanking them floated several other ghosts, all with the same appearance as the group who originally attacked them; hooded, long arms and necks, no legs, glowing red eyes.

The warped skull’s annoyance turned to glee, and the face bones shuddered as they ground into a smile. “Well, now. Our scorsh knew the elden head and the fallen Finder were with the false declares.” They shook the staff; twigs attached to the top with leather straps rustled about, taking on the ominous glow.

“False declares?” she asked, as Laken hissed.

“The two who claim Light and Darkness.” They forced a laugh, sounding as if they expected punishment for voicing the sentiment. “They assert they are avatars. They lie.”

“They don’t.” Not that Vantra had experience with many, Katta and Red being the only ones, but their knowledge, their skill, and the fact they knew Verryn and treated him as an equal, made her confident they were.

The skeleton pointed their staff at her, and the ghosts shot to her, chittering, shrieking, hands out, grasping.

“Anznet emi!” Shields swirled around her, just inside the enemy’s defenses. The ghosts thumped into them, knocking her back but not downing her. They raised bony fists and struck, pummeling her protections, and she saw nothing beyond the whirl of motion.

Her mind raced across the offensive spells she knew; while she studied more diligently as a Finder, she did not have a vast repertoire to draw from. That needed to change, and if she continued with the Joyful Caravan, then she could ask any of them, or Lorgan, for aid.

If. Why did they hide Verryn’s identity? Betrayal pricked her, and she tamped down on the unhelpful emotion. Who was she, to question a deity? If he wished to keep his presence secret, why should the mini-Joyful tell her? Why should she protest? They had far many more concerns than one ex-Finder trying to Redeem her Candidate.

The last shield broke, and she squeaked, reforming them before the enemy struck her. One fist caught in the formation, and the ghost tugged frantically; she firmed her lips and tightened the hold until the being gave up and let its essence fall to the ground. They would reform the hand, but with dwindling reserves.

In rapid succession, she planted layer after layer, her mind whirling across her offensive spells. She had the most familiarity with Sun-based ones, which typically dealt with heat, light, flame. As a fiery sort, those leanings came naturally to her mother, but she tended to a quieter existence, one without the drama. One acolyte told her she was a stumpy candle to her parent’s fire, flickering and ready to extinguish. She should have listened because that man helped murder her. Instead she muttered about nasty old people and avoided him.

She formed a shield under her feet, set Laken down, and held out her hands, palms facing each other. “Pa onpe. Us. Is.”

A tiny bubble of flame sprouted, to the wailing laughter of the ghosts. “What is that?” the skull asked. “So you think you practice Mental Touch? Typical, overestimating your ability.”

“Us. Is,” she whispered, concentrating. The flame grew, but only enough to fill the space between her palms. The ghosts aggressively thudded against her shielding, screaming, scratching.

“Vantra, the skull’s doing something,” Laken warned.

She peeked; the being waved the tip of the staff in the air, the blue glow creeping up to the top and coalescing into a large ball. She had thought to form a fiery layer to her protections to drive the ghosts surrounding her away, but it appeared she needed to intercept an attack, instead. Good thing they thought her so incompetent, that they lazily completed their spell.

“Us. Is.”

The blue glow sizzled towards her. She threw the flames; a pause, before the explosion shredded the legless ghosts circling her, the shields created by the staff bearer, her protections, and the earth at her feet. The impact of air hefted her back; someone snagged her waist and set her down. Laken tumbled to them, and she grabbed him, holding him close.

“That was impressive,” Verryn said, studying the enemy, sword pointed to the ground. “You have raw talent but no finesse. Kinda like me.”

The skull took a step back, focused on his face. “You bleed, human,” they said, outrage sizzling through their tone.

He wiped the back of his hand over his nose. “Yeah, it happens from time to time.”

“Living Talis are denied the Evenacht,” they hissed.

“Unless they’re a syimlin,” he replied.

“A syimlin?” The skull took another step back, wavering between disbelief and acceptance of the obvious evidence, as the wisps of ghosts dragged across the ground in retreat, leaving bits of their essence behind. Some discorporated into still lumps of dimming, oozy essence. “Why do syimlin bother us?”

“Because you bothered me first,” he reminded them. He raised his head, studying the treetops in the far distance. “Death judges,” he said, his voice stark with anger. “You forget her heavy hand.”

“I forget nothing,” they hissed.

“You were Redeemed too early,” he said. Vantra’s eyes bugged at the statement. “You had no regrets, other than you’d been caught. Deximchil walks dangerous paths, relying on you.”

“You know them?” Vantra whispered.

“She is the Voidbeast, the Tormentor. She served the Nymphic Rebellious for the blood she could spill. Hers was a path bathed in crimson, but Finders looked past her unsuitability and found a pawn.”

“I am no pawn!” she shouted, her voice echoing as if ripped from the depths of the Sunderlands. The blue glow erupted from the top of the staff, like a fountain. She pointed the tip at them, and a simmering ball of ill-blue lightning surged from it. Verryn’s shields intercepted the attack, and the spell burst apart in a puff, bits of essence fluttering to the ground before evaporating.

Attack after attack, as Verryn walked forward, sidestepping the goopy essences. She became frantic, the projectiles off-target as she released too fast or too slow. Her fellows melted away, heading for the forest's dark shadows, and she screamed at them, high, panicked. Unheeded, she whirled to follow.

A magenta tentacle with barbs shot from the ground and sank into her; she shifted to Ether form and her staff clattered to the ground as she flew in the opposite direction, across the crater. The other ghosts scattered, like a flock of birds away from a dog. Two more grasping tips erupted from the earth, pointed towards Verryn, then the barbs latched onto his shield.

“Vantra, get the staff!” he called.

“No!” Laken protested. “Vantra—”

She plunked him on the ground, coated him in shielding, and sent hooks down to prevent one of their attackers from sneaking in and snatching him. Forming more around herself, she scurried around the fight to the object.

She should not be doing this. She knew that. What was she thinking? But a syimlin asked. Humming in worry as the tentacles tore at Verryn’s protections, she snagged the staff, pivoted, and raced back to Laken.

A magenta blur bounced off her shields, taking a layer. Two more snaked up through the ground and slammed into her, the barbs sucking at the energy.

Shimmery red slashed through the tentacles, and the ends slid off her shield and flopped about, spewing bluish-magenta everywhere. She glanced at Verryn as the earth rumbled, rocking them. Tentacle after tentacle burst from the ground and targeted them. She rushed to Laken and grabbed him; Verryn set a shield, but the impact shattered it. Cursing under his breath, he erected another, raised his sword, and swept it in front of him. A red arc spun from the blade, tearing through the limbs, inky bluish-magenta blood spraying the landscape. What he neglected to shred initially fell to his second attack.

“Do you know what that is?” Vantra asked, tears welling. Why was she so afraid? She stood next to a syimlin! But one she did not trust.

“It’s a lackershell,” he said. “They breed where mists are heavy, in the thick, dank rainforests, around the Meereph River, in both southern Csadarling and Carewelde. The trap spell must have released it, because they aren’t native to the Dark. Too bad we can’t study it, because it’s gone now. We’ll see what her staff has to say.”

Vantra glanced at the enormous crater to their right, smoke rising from the depths and hanging in the air, then at the weapon she held. “You know, when Laken and I were fleeing Evening, I was in the sewers. Someone placed a lot of boxes down there, and they contained these spears with symbols on the shafts, and twigs tied to the top by leather strips, just like on this staff.”

Verryn frowned and regarded it. “Odd magics swirl in it. Don’t nose about until Katta or Qira can look at it.”

The limbs plunged down into the soil, and the earth rumbled in response. Vibrations coursed under her feet before the tentacles popped back up and planted the stubby, bleeding ends on the surface of the shield. The flesh jiggled as if pulling a great weight, and the ground caved upwards, cracking, and tumbled back down, revealing a shimmering white nautilus-type shell as pretty as moonlight, pastel colors racing down the grooves and to the belly. The tentacles came from the large front-facing opening, and far more than the number Verryn slashed. The curved shell uncurled, exposing a black hole in the tip. A thick blue skin popped out like an umbrella, sharp magenta spines where the tips of the ribs would be. Two red gleams brightened behind it; eyes, perhaps?

Hissing and bright white steam erupted from under the umbrella, and it lunged.

Tentacles whipped around and battered Verryn’s shields. Some curved over the top and attempted to penetrate the back, and five even dove underground and tried to thrust through at their feet. The raw, oozy ends sucked against the protection, acting like glue, and slowly tugged them towards the creature.

“Does it feel pain?” Laken asked.

“It should.” Verryn winced at the bluish-magenta blood racing from the wounds. “Usually when they’re injured, they bury deep in the earth to rejuvenate their arms. I don’t know why this one hasn’t. Maybe a side effect of the trap spell?”

Several tentacles with their tips impacted the shield near Vantra, in a line mimicking how she held the staff. She glanced at the syimlin, who noted it and shook his head.

“I suppose the Voidbeast might control it in some way. On Talis she used many spells to manipulate the mind, though she’s forbidden to use them here.”

“How do you know she’s the Voidbeast? I mean, she’s a skull.”

He grinned. “All Condemned have a mystical tag that forms during the Recollection ritual. If you know how, you can read about their history, why they sat in the Fields, and who Redeemed them. And, well, the evening lands knew of the Voidbeast before she died. She had a habit of summoning creatures and spirits to Talis to fight for the Nymphic Rebellious. She snagged one too many and alerted authorities here, and Death put a stop to the abuse permanently.”

Oh.

“She must know, after exposing herself, she’s on the shortlist for a trip back to the Fields.”

The tentacles jerked away, then slammed into the nearest huts. The villagers raced from the attack and into the smoke, arms over their heads to protect from flying debris.

Verryn raised his sword as terrified screams and the shattering of wood rent the air. Red swirled around the blade and rushed to the tip, then coursed down the edge. Bloody fire erupted from the gleaming line before he slashed crosswise.

The arc zipped to the lackershell, slicing through tentacles as if they were soft cheese. It struck the opening and sailed inside.

“Shit.”

Bluish-magenta goop splatted against the shield. Vantra could see nothing beyond the stuff creeping to the ground and pooling around the base. Streaks appeared, and the coating thinned to the point she could see the remains of the lackershell.

Or not. There were no remains, as far as she could tell. Instead a wide splat of bluish-magenta stained the nearby trees, huts, soil. The crater’s opposite side dripped the stuff into the darkness. Even the cut tentacles had turned into goo. Clumps slid to the ends of branches, down the sloped roofs, and flumped onto the earth with squishy plops.

“Verryn, that’s . . . really messy.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he growled, glaring at Red, who regarded the splat with exaggerated disgust, rocking back and forth on his heels as he floated knee-height off the ground.

“Ew.”

The syimlin hissed through his teeth and brought the shields down; Red arched out of the way, lifting one leg as if he had seen a rat.

“EW!” he squealed with magnified revulsion as the goo slid down and splatted in large gloppy chunks in a circle about them, spraying outward.

“I said I don’t want to hear it.”

Red squinted at him, humor leaking through before he dropped the charade. “Are you all right?” he asked, focusing on the bloody cheek.

Verryn sighed and wiped at his nose. “Yeah. I’d shielded us, and the lackershell picked us up like a ball and threw us. I got knocked out, but I’m OK.”

Red’s deep skepticism faded, and he nodded before glancing about.

“Where’s the wagon, then?”

“It’s back in the forest. Listen, Qira, Deximchil is working with the Voidbeast. She used a trap spell linked to a ghost to bring the lackershell here. That ghost is in bad shape.”

Red frowned. “That’s going to screw with their essence.”

“Yeah.” Verryn motioned to the staff. “The enemy fled, but Vantra grabbed her weapon. She says she’s seen similar designs before.”

Red focused on her, and she shifted, uneasy at the intensity of his gaze. “In the sewers, when I escaped Evening,” she said. “There were crates of spears that had the same symbols, and twigs tied to the tops with leather strips. Someone came to view them. I didn’t see who was yelling because I was hiding, and I couldn’t understand what they said. After the yellers left, I peeked at who remained. I saw hunched natives wearing short cloaks embroidered at the shoulder, like some of the older eastern Talis seaboard ghosts wear, which I thought odd. I also thought, if they were Yon smuggling something, I didn’t want to get involved. There was a ladder in the same room, so I climbed out and ended up in the Merchant Mounds.”

“I’ll get someone to check on that,” Red murmured, thrumming his fingers on his hips. “It might be artifact smuggling—that’s popular. But I’m betting not.” He jerked his head. “Let’s get to the wagon, and I can look at the ghost.”

Verryn and Red hastened away, burning a trail through the gunk. Vantra trailed them, disconcerted, annoyed, uncertain what to think or feel, and peered at the village destruction. In the middle of the smoky debris, the beings clustered around Katta, heads bowed in respect, as he spoke to one with a crown that had shiny beads dangling from the jutting twigs that formed it. Lorgan stood with Kjaelle and Vesh, who flanked the ancient ghost as they had before.

The soft glow of near-depleted essences littered the soil, but, she assumed, only of the attacking Vallic. The group who had helped the residents congregated near a mostly intact hut, watching the proceedings with folded arms. They wore billowy shirts, vests, comfortable pants, and had a wide variety of hairstyles and piercings that would make any Talis underground music scene proud.

“Where’s Mera and Tally?” she asked, realizing the two stood nowhere nearby.

“With the other wagon.” Red cleared his throat. “They’re waiting for Greyshen’s people. Um . . . Katta was very nice to the ghosts after you got snatched, in that he didn’t shred them into mist. But they aren’t going to be ghostly for a long while yet, and need someone to care for them until they regain enough energy to reform.” He shook his head. “This is madness. Someone’s been stirring up resentment for years, but this escalation is ridiculous.”

“They’re underestimating Katta,” Verryn said.

“I don’t understand that, either. Greyshen and Caury and Lominol are going to have a fun time figuring it out, too.”

“How nice of you to heap it on their head,” Verryn commented with subdued sarcasm.

“Hey, they swore oaths to their syimlin. Suffer accordingly,” he said, waving the concern away with a flip of his hand.

The two chuckled, though Vantra did not find amusement in the proclamation. She had read enough tales of syimlin tasks to know those who endured them did not always finish them unscathed—or alive.

The carolings were still flying silently in the shield’s top, as quiet as the surrounding forest. Verryn set his hands on the wall and tugged, pulling the structure away from the tree gradually enough the avians could adjust their flight without harm. He cautiously settled the wagon upright before dropping the protections.

The little creatures alighted on every viable surface the roof possessed, their gaze riveted to Verryn.

“Thank you,” he told them. The words broke the silence, and they tweeted and chitted at each other again, the sounds roaring around them. Woodland creatures screeched and hooted in answer, and distant calls and peeps rose in response.

Red glanced in the wagon and laughed, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You’re telling Kjaelle,” he said.

“I’m not telling her shit,” Verryn muttered as he retrieved the bauble.

Red accepted it and sank onto the top step of the wagon as he regarded the essence inside. The syimlin inspected the exterior, prodding and poking things, while the ghost probed the object. Vantra stood awkwardly, Laken smashed into her chest and the staff over her shoulder; she had nothing to do and wondered why she had followed them to the wagon. She should have remained at the village, seeing if she could help.

The unwanted extra, as usual.

The ancient spirit sighed, dejected, and lowered the bauble. “I wish Katta or myself had been with you,” he said. “If you had more training in magic, you could have helped, Verryn, but a hundred years isn’t enough time to learn the fundamentals you need, let alone the advanced techniques to combat this nastiness.”

“It’s that complicated?” he called.

“Yeah. Purposefully so. The residue I sense hints at a trap spell referred to as a feed cage, because whatever gets confined inside only has access to the energy attached to it—in this case, the ghost. You’ve done a good job of cleansing them, but it’s going to take a while for them to absorb enough essence to reform. They have to take it slow or the energy might tear them apart.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised, someone as depraved as the Voidbeast using a ghost as a meal.”

“Who was tracking her?”

“I thought the Tialach Mountain group was. I’ll have to check into it. The Evenacht’s promise is not for her to abuse.”

Death tracked Field spirits? Was that what the tags were for? She glanced at Laken; after his Recollection, would he, too, have a tag, and suffer the indignity of eyes always watching his step? Or did they reserve tracking for dangerous spirits?

“This ghost isn’t up to a ziptrail or any other form of magical transport,” Red said. “They must be physically taken to a Shades enclave.” He glanced at Vantra. “They have the sense of Sun about them. Would you mind, coating the bauble with some energy? Not much, just a fine dusting on the interior. The link should help them absorb it more easily.”

“I’m not certain how to do that.”

He smiled reassuringly. “Have you ever lit a candle with Mental Touch? Good. Use the same technique, only push the magic into the bauble. Verryn makes stout things, so you won’t hurt it.”

“Thanks,” the syimlin said drily as he rounded the corner of the wagon.

“Makes sense, from your warrior’s point of view.”

Red accepted the staff and continued to tease as Vantra settled her hand on the bauble. The surface felt sleek and cool, but zaps of magic prickled her palm. What had the ghost done to prepare the object for her power? She drew energy into the tips of her fingers, then puffed it through the barrier; it hung inside like extra perfume. A minute show, but the tickling of weariness accompanied the expenditure.

Bang.

She jumped, Laken gasped. She whirled; the Voidbeast staggered and collapsed after impacting a Light-heavy shield Vantra never would have neared if she encountered it without knowing Red. She looked at the ghost; his lack of expression, combined with the shing of rage glinting in his eyes, terrified her.

“Well, now,” he said, low and deadly. “What have we here? A little lost Voidbeast come to play.”