Vantra needed fresh air. The inside of the tent was stale, however many piles of books awaited her attention—all courtesy of Lorgan, and surprisingly few magic texts. He told her she needed a bit of sweet, because after she fully recovered, life would taste too bitter to enjoy.
That concerned her, but no one would speak to her about it. Her mind worked fine—she did not need the coddling! Lorgan just smiled and added flavorful mist courtesy of Leeyal to the portable fountain pumping extraordinary amounts of the stuff into the enclosed space.
Fyrij twittered at her and fluttered his wings, noncommittal when she rose from the bed, pushed the single chair out of her way, and headed for the tent flap. The last two times she wanted to leave, he threw such a loud fit, Kjaelle came running. She almost wished he had remained at Lokjac’s new temple rather than return to play nursemaid, a task he took too seriously, but she would miss him, if he did not cuddle against her neck making chirpy remarks while she flipped through a book.
Happy he believed she had the energy to step into the warm rainforest air, she slipped through the slit, closed it before much mist leaked through, and looked around.
Unknown beings walked the dusty pathways between the matching red tents, carrying items she either did not recognize or assumed had healing purposes. The colorful liquids looked milky enough to be some sort of medicine. Kjaelle said a lot of medical supplies stored in the tents found their way into the forest, to the beings who needed to rebuild their tribe and their home.
She stroked her throat; no visitor would tell her much about the recovery efforts, assuring her that they progressed, however slowly. Her mind filled in the destructive details, and she cried over the loss of life and home. How terrible, for those caught in the flood and fire.
The fire was her fault. The uneasy way her visitors looked at her when she mentioned it, they blamed her, too. Katta and Qira lied to her about their identities, but they had not accidentally burned down a forest, either. Who was the worst being?
She turned, distressed, and froze. Two Light-blessed stood at the end of the row, spears in hand, guarding the way to an enormous ship—a true floating ship, and not a motorized aircraft.
The top contained six levels, each one a shiny metallic black divided by brilliant silver horizontal strips. Blue and purple lights on the strips repeated a pattern as they flashed on and off, a pretty display. Rising from the four corners were pipes that led to mushroom-shaped, segmented balloons, though she could not tell whether they were black metal or fabric painted that way. The center one resembled an upside-down tree with blinking lights running along the border between segments.
Chains as wide as she ran from the bottom of the corners and attached to giant anchors sunk deep into the soil, a chain-link fence surrounding them to keep animals and beings away. More fencing circled a four-sided, shimmery silver column with glowing blue edges that extended from the belly to the ground. A ramp as wide as the largest tree trunk provided access to a giant arched entryway. Beings walked up and down it, though not as many as she would think, given the size.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
She jumped and looked at Kenosera, who stopped at her side. “Where did it come from?” Considering ghostly snobbery concerning modern Sensour technology, and the stereotypical native Evenacht disregard for most mechanized things, she wondered who maintained such a large, tech-advanced craft.
“Badeçasyon.” Yut-ta halted next to the nomad, hands on hips, studying the ship. “The Gabridarço with Lokjac sent word to the city, and they sent recovery ships, supplies, and enough souls to help search for survivors and clean up.” He hmphed and rocked back on his heels. “I never would have thought they’d care enough, considering, but their leader is adamant about helping.”
If they helped with rescue and rebuilding efforts, that was more important than lingering ghostly hate.
“They’ve given more help than Selaserat,” Kenosera agreed. She frowned. Had they?
“No one’s told me much,” she said.
“Because you needed to recover,” the nomad said. “You’d worry about all this.” He waved his hand to the forest beyond the cleared space around the tents and ship—which was not much of a forest anymore. The pointy tops of leafless trees twisted into the sky, their blackened branches a stark contrast to the softer grey clouds. In the distance to her left, beyond the ship, greener forest grew, the trunks hidden by stacks of logs cut from trees uprooted by the raging flood waters.
Fyrij landed on her shoulder and sing-songed at her. She no longer understood him, which did not bother him, but it pricked Katta’s curiosity as to why. It did not seem like an ability that should come and go at random intervals. Wishing she still could, she leaned in as he ran his head across her chin, fighting sorrow and guilt.
Kenosera pointed at the ship. “The Gabridarço have the technology to help with finding affected tribes and offering aid, but Fyrij’s been just as helpful. He visited rainforest carolings and they’ve been telling him where to find tribes that need help. Not all are happy when rescuers show up, but most are grateful for the unexpected assistance.”
“That’s wonderful Fyrij,” she said. He sang, as happy as a being could be. She smiled before the weight of events brought her back down. “I can’t imagine the clean-up,” she murmured.
“For the flood? It’s slow. So many uprooted trees and plants, so many re-set boulders, so many pieces of ruins from the interior now sitting in shallows along the Dryanflow. So much displaced soil, so many bodies, too.” Sadness flavored the air around the nomad. “Every Wiiv, whether outcast or not, has gone into hiding. The forest peoples want revenge, and since everyone thinks the Wiiv blew the dam, they’re the target.”
“It’s difficult to ignore a command from your deity,” Vanta said, rattled by the unfairness. “Especially if fear of his punishment drove them.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Yut-ta snapped, then clacked his beak and ruffled his wing feathers as if to ground his anger. “They knew it was wrong and did it anyway, uncaring who got hurt. Some wonder if they set the fire, too, but most don’t think so because the vine monster Strans sent was burned. They don’t think the Comkada did, either, because Kjaelle was hurt.”
“Wait, Kjaelle was hurt?”
“The flames didn’t harm her,” Yut-ta soothed. “But the smoke carried the contamination into the Comkada, and that wasn’t good for her.”
“She’s not said anything about that!”
Kenosera slipped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “No, because a healer from Zibwa’s Circle saw to her and obliterated the corruption,” he whispered. “But the less we speak of it outdoors, the better. The rainforest dwellers are sensitive about ghosts right now because Two Rivers was not quiet about the attack. They don’t know who the enemy was, just that they were spirits, and that’s put much of the ghostly population under suspicion.” He half-smiled. “Qira saved them from a worse fate, so the mini-Joyful’s safe from retaliation as long as we stick around here.”
She swallowed. “How is he? No one’s told me.”
“We don’t know. Katta and Kjaelle haven’t shared, and don’t ask the Light-blessed,” Yut-ta said, shuddering. He jerked his head towards the tent, and even though she did not want to return to it so soon after stepping out, she followed him back inside. He settled in the chair while Kenosera joined her on the bed. Fyrij hopped from her shoulder to her lap, raised his wings, puffed out his chest, and sang proudly at her.
The nomad reached over and ran a finger down his back. “Qira wouldn’t wake up,” he said. “Everyone was afraid he’d died and Zibwa kept an empty shell alive—but Fyrij snuck into his healing room. We don’t know how, but he did. He planted himself on his chest and shrieked off-key and loud enough to bring the dead from their graves, or so Kjaelle said. Qira had to wake to shut him up.”
“Very sneaky, Fyrij,” she said. He puffed up even prouder.
But . . .” Kenosera bit his lips together. “We know his injuries were bad. We know he swallowed what energy he could from the explosion to save everyone on the hill. No one from the mini-Joyful or the Light-blessed will say how bad, but he must have suffered a horrific injury. That Zibwa, the Healer, has yet to get him on his feet . . .”
That said enough.
“Katta’s been in a state. I never understood why he was Darkness. Rezenarza brimmed with it, and the taste I had of his power was deep, dark, almost unfeeling. It never seemed to me that Katta held the same within him. But now I’ve seen it. He’s terrifying when provoked—and Qira’s slow recovery has left him there.”
Had it? She had not gotten that impression when he saved her from the red marring the darkness.
Yut-ta sighed. “I think all of us are there.” He slid down in the chair, his eyes growing sad. “When you walk around, stick to the red tents. They’re guarded by the Light-blessed and only Gabridarço and us can come and go without an escort. And the Light-blessed are fanatic.”
“You mean feeling guilty,” Kenosera said with pursed lips.
Yut-ta rolled his eyes and rocked his head. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Guilty?” Vantra asked. “Why?”
“They are his guards in the Evenacht. Every one of them believes they should have taken the hit, not Qira.”
“What hit him?”
The two glanced at each other, and her essence churned; did she really want to know? Kenosera sighed with heavy reluctance. “A mephoric emblem.”
She gaped at them. “But—”
“The knights had to have brought it with them,” Yut-ta said, an emotion uglier than hate woven through his tone. “Katta’s at a loss as to why neither he, Qira nor Verryn noticed it. They should have, considering its strength and the power of its corruption, but Verryn thinks the fight to knock down the defenses provided enough of a distraction . . .” He shook his head, bird-quick. “And the Light-blessed think someone recently recharged it because it didn’t behave like an ages-old artifact triggered to explode.”
“He survived a mephoric emblem strike?” She covered her mouth with her hands, nausea welling. Fyrij hopped up and down on her lap and made conversational twitting, unconcerned. Since he had seen Qira, she took that as a sign not to worry, even if she did anyway.
“In any case, there’s nothing we can do to help him right now,” Yut-ta said. “But we can do things like guard the supply tents to make sure no enemies sneak in and tamper with them. That’s why Katta turned some of the red tents into storage. Red ones are reserved for the syimlin and their companions, so they’re the safest place in the camp because the Light-blessed patrol them.”
“If you have to go outside their border, take a Light-blessed with you,” Kenosera cautioned. “Everyone’s on edge, but the living won’t stop someone in a Light-blessed uniform because of Qira’s sacrifice. All other ghosts are suspect.”
“They know Qira’s a syimlin?”
She could not keep the resentment out of her voice, and by the look they exchanged, they heard it.
“Yes. It’s not like we could hide the amount of blood on the ground,” Yut-ta said.
She swallowed; maybe she did not want to know how badly he had been hurt.
“Katta says it won’t make a difference.” Kenosera shrugged. “Anyone not personally involved will hear a tale and think it’s just that—a tale. Or they will assume Talis worked through a vessel, like Qira. Few will believe a living, breathing syimlin appeared in the Evenacht to save a bunch of random beings on a flood-surrounded hilltop. That’s the kind of thing syimlin do for heroes, not those of dry sand.”
What did that say of Qira’s sacrifice, that Katta did not expect people to recognize it? Of course, she believed the syimlin’s love of the Light-blessed and the original mini-Joyful prompted his act, not a need to save average beings from a terrible fate.
The flap brushed aside, and Laken floated in, annoyance deepening his frown. The expression disappeared when he realized she was not ensconced in a blanket, half-conscious. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
He always asked that, and she had the impression it was not just because he wanted her to hurry and heal so she could attach his arm. She reminded him that Kjaelle or Katta could do it so he did not have to wait, but he refused, and she could not fathom why. Why delay when others could easily perform the Recollection?
She sagged. “Been better. Been worse.”
He quirked his mouth to the side. “I don’t think anyone is in good shape.”
“When I left the desert, I thought only of adventure. It’s sobering, to see that mingling with destruction and devastating sorrow.” Kenosera leaned over on his knees and clasped his hands. “I don’t know how Kjaelle, Vesh, Mera and Tally do it. I can’t visit a village that’s no longer there and not scream in rage. So many died for this false Strans’ pleasure.”
“They’ve had years of practice with the unfairness of existence.” Yut-ta tapped his chest with a talon. “Lokjac told me that after a few centuries of ghostly life, views on death tend to change. His did. He no longer sees a stark division between the living and the dead, just a natural progression of existence. The shells we inhabit—bodies or essences—aren’t ‘us’, so to speak. If they were, they would transfer with us when we died. What is ‘us’ is our soul, for want of a better word. Bodies and essences can be manipulated and discarded, but our souls? Not so much. So death is just a long-distance move where you get to meet ancient members of your family and wait for your loved ones to join you.”
“That sounds theoretical,” Vantra said, not certain what to think of the pronouncement.
“Maybe, but he believes it to his core.”
She did not want to have such a discussion; maybe later, when her emotions had stabilized. Remembering her death only made her cry. “Laken, I think I’m ready to bind your arm to your torso.”
Their surprise annoyed her, and Fyrij twittered something that sounded cautionary.
“Are you sure?” Laken asked, suspicious.
“I’m feeling guilty enough, leaving it this long.”
Yut-ta rose. “The crate’s in camp,” he said. “Lokjac has it in his tent.”
Good. She wanted to feel productive, and not remain an invalid stuck in a bed because she could not control her Mental Touch.
The walk to the tent was uneventful, which Vantra appreciated. She did not need a confrontation with someone concerned she overtaxed herself. Once she completed the Recollection, she could discuss options with Laken concerning his next essence—ones that did not include the mini-Joyful.
Yut-ta strolled into the tent without announcing himself, which she thought rude, but it did not matter; the whizan was absent. He whisked behind a plain wooden screen and to the sturdy crate tucked into its corner. He snagged the linen cloth covering it and dropped it to the ground, then he and Kenosera slid the lid off. Fuzzy green blankets packed the box, and Vantra lifted them out to reveal a neatly wrapped triangular item. She did not have to touch it to know it was Laken’s arm; it loudly screamed its identity.
Nerves struck, and she reminded herself that Nolaris was not going to appear in the camp and steal this arm. The numbers of Light-blessed made an infiltration dangerous for him, for any knight. She unwrapped the light green cloth, hoping she did not hurt Laken too much when she—
She stared as the loose strips slithered off to land in a heap on the ground. “What is this?”
The elbow was bent, the hand holding the end of a wooden shaft that looked like the ashy butt of a lit cigarette, the shoulder pressed against a plain iron spearhead. A red cloth wrapped around the socket, a decorative rather than functional touch. The head flared out into wide wings a hand length above the cloth, then ran two hand lengths before sharply tapering to the point.
She hesitated, then touched the shaft; it was warm with slumbering energy. “Laken?”
When he did not answer, she looked at him. Horror filled his over-bright blue eyes. “I thought it was a dream,” he whispered.
