Vantra’s fingers dug into her skirt, preventing her hands from shaking. Why could the Finders not let her go? What was so horrifying about her Redeeming Laken, that they hounded her across two continents to force her to put him back?

Vesh handed the captain to her. She took him and slid her arms around the base, holding him close, helpless anxiety descending. The wagon had no place to hide him that was as convenient as Kjaelle’s fortune-telling ball. No place to hide him that a motivated Finder could not snoop into and discover.

Fyrij cheeped at them, then completed a tremendous hop to land next to her on the bench, fluttering his wings to stay balanced. Once settled, he carried on a one-sided conversation that sounded as if he calmed her unwarranted nerves.

Mera flexed her fingers and glanced at Vesh, then scanned the rest of them. “I’m still recovering,” she admitted. “There just hasn’t been enough mist to re-energize properly.”

“None of us are in good shape,” Vesh murmured. “Katta and Red are hiding it, but Black Temple hit them hard.”

“Katta’s been out for days,” Kenosera reminded them.

Mera sucked in a breath. “Yeah.” Vantra thought she wanted to say more, but clammed up and shook her head instead. “So do you want to hide, Laken? Or shall we face the Finders boldly?”

Her Chosen rumbled. “Neither is optimal.”

“No.” She rubbed at her forehead, frowning. “I hope Tally and Kjaelle can keep Red calm. He associates these Knights of the Finders with Mimeriqette, and, well, that’s not good.”

“Mimeriqette?” Kenosera asked.

“She’s the religious authority who began the Aristarzian Light gauntlet,” Mera said. “Her corruption ultimately led to the deaths of thousands of young boys, all so she could wallow in wealth and privilege. He’ll never forgive or forget.” She tapped Vesh’s leg. “Is he even up to this?”

“No.”

“So Rayva and Salan are going to show their ugly side.”

“Yep. I don’t think their promises to Erse concerning Evenacht behavior will hold them back, either.”

Vantra’s heart twittered at the declaration. Ugly side? She recalled the snarly growls, the feints, the glowing gold and blue eyes, as she raced through the Tunnel of Memories. She did not want to see ugly.

Calls caught their attention. The words did not set in her mind, but the anger, the sharp snapping disdain, the malicious undertone, did. It seemed Finders in the field neglected their training, which stressed diplomacy and understanding when interacting with beings, rather than haughty snipping. Why had she not heard of the Knights before joining the mini-Joyful? Their terrible behavior should have elicited shocked gossip in Evening social circles.

She jumped as something banged against the outer wall of the wagon. “By command of the Hallowed Collective, all faelareign need to vacate the wagons and speak with a Finder representative.”

Fear pummeled her chest, raced to her head, and spread across her arms, as low vulf growls responded to the declaration. She needed to protect Laken. She needed to keep the mini-Joyful safe from harm. They suffered because of her and the dangers that trailed her heels. Once the Knights saw her, saw her Chosen . . .

She had hidden from Nolaris. He was a sage, a prominent Collective member. He had not sensed her. She had enough energy to do the same thing, as long as the time she remained undetectable was short.

“Don’t say a word,” she whispered in the captain’s ear, and slid down, curling her legs up, keeping Laken cushioned at her chest. She closed her eyes and concentrated, thinning her essence to near breaking, praying the darkened interior hid any stray, non-translucent bit.

She flinched when the door slammed open, but she could not focus on the words, just her essence. Emotion flowed around her, over her, hot and low, throbbing tones. Anger, arrogance, the flavor of curiosity mingling with a burst of animosity. The bench rocked, gently, and she gathered the wisps of herself as they attempted to flee. Cool air blew through, and she tightened her grip, holding, holding . . .

“Vantra, they’ve left.”

She blinked as the soft words penetrated her blankness. She raised her head; only she and Laken remained.

And Fyrij, who trilled with anxious worry, hopping back and forth.

“What happened?”

“They demanded everyone vacate. They’re going to bring some kind of magic something or other to scan the wagons.”

“We need to leave, then.”

He huffed with laughter. “I doubt I’ve seen ghosts so shocked. You’re going to be answering a lot of questions if we make it out of this.”

“They can ask.” But she had no answers.

She uncurled, her essence throbbing, as Fyrij hopped down the bench and to the open door. Chill accompanied the wind that blew through the interior, and she shuddered as it nipped at her. What was it about the desert’s winds that they penetrated her ghostly shell and left heat and cold behind? She had experienced a few uncomfortable days in Evening after draining herself in magic practice, but never something as extravagant as this sensation.

The pulsing worsened, and she winced. With the mini-Joyful, she constantly probed the edges of her abilities, and that did not make for comfortable existing. She glanced around, but only confirmed what she knew; they had emptied the canisters in the wagon. She thought the vehicle in which she left her pack held the remaining full ones, and she needed to retrieve that anyway.

So much for recharging those at the temple.

Faint voices reached her; she scurried down the stairs and onto the sand-blasted paving stones.

Peeking around the corner, she spotted a group of green-robed beings speaking with an elfine clad in gold and white, her wispy robe and golden hair wavering in time with the furious jerking of her arms. They stood behind an unfamiliar trader’s wagon that had bright, tattered cloth draped from the roof and tassels waving in the breeze. Where had her companions gone?

“What are you doing?” Laken hissed.

“I have to get the altar and shard,” she whispered. “Those mark a Sun acolyte, so they’ll know I was with them. They might get nasty in their interrogations.”

He hmphed. “Katta and Qira are avatars. Do you really think these Knights can lay a finger on them?”

She looked for the vehicle in which she left her things. “Syimlin don’t hold hands with their acolytes. They have other duties to attend to. And since they both drained themselves protecting Black Temple and seem stubborn enough not to pray for help . . .”

“Prayer never helps much, does it? Look at the stories about favored followers getting murdered despite desperate pleading for salvation.”

There. It stood last in line, to her left, with a snorting ronyx who did not appear happy to remain in the center of the road. While the growing twilight did not lend well to easy perception, she did not see anyone else who might call for a Finder.

She peered around again, then hustled to her target, Laken bouncing awkwardly about. She doubted he liked that, and she silently thanked him for not complaining.

Fyrij whisked past and around the back; she nearly smacked her Chosen into the sharp edge of the corner as she followed, then stumbled to a stop. Rayva stood on the other side, eyes towards the confrontation, her tail twitching, ruffle-growling. The caroling sat on her head, rocking back and forth, wings wide. Vantra set Laken down, trusting the vulf to watch over both should an unexpected enemy catch them, and hefted herself inside.

The floor had items strewn across it, but whether done on purpose to hide her bag, or whether the Finders dug through the cabinets and made a mess, she could not say. She pawed through the objects, finally finding the pack, with the altar and shard ensconced within, shoved under the lower bunk, behind a cracked crate holding one half-full mist container. Brimming with worry at the time she took, she snagged it and her things, hopped over the mess, set the pack down, and did her best to stuff Laken inside without bumping him too badly.

He hissed, and she paused. Rayva vibrated the air in warning, her growl containing simmering anger. She padded across the threshold and to the other side of the wagon. Vantra yanked the ties closed, catching Laken’s hair—she needed to stop doing that—and hefted the pack over her shoulder. She bounded down, grabbed the canister, and with a quick peek around the corner, shuffle-ran in the opposite direction of the vulf.

“Glaive Makerid—”

“Do you really believe they are Rayva and Salan, Neffala?”

“What other vulfs do you know who stand shoulder height—”

“Illusions, my dear. Remember, these faelareign are a tricky sort.”

Illusions? Vantra smiled at Rayva’s rumbling response. Let this Glaive Makerid underestimate the vulf. He might end up in the Fields, wondering what went wrong. She filed the names away and hopped down the edge of a muddy embankment that led down to a series of ragged bushes lining a lively stream. Enough of the bank had washed away in clumps that her trip down the side, bent over and fighting for balance, did not make an obvious impression in the earth. With the settling darkness, hopefully the Knights would not notice if she hid behind the brown limbs with the first hints of green budding on them.

“Vantra, let me see.”

She crouched at the base of the thickest-limbed plant, fought for a better foothold, planted the canister in the mud, and slipped the pack from her shoulders. Happy that Red created a clear panel for Laken to view the world through, she turned him around so he could see and clutched him to her chest, just in time to watch three armored beings carrying torches speed to the back wagon.

“Glaive Makerid!”

“What?” came the surly reply.

“The soltress says the vulfs are Ray—”

“The soltress is upset we have a reason to interrogate travelers,” Makerid snapped. He, apparently, did not have much care for those who disagreed with him.

“You should tread carefully, Glaive Makerid,” Neffala said, quietly enough that Vantra needed to concentrate to hear her, a feat since her throbbing essence distracted her. “Elfine religious leaders are not known for their goodwill towards the disrespectful.”

“Had she shown due deference, she would not be scrambling to repair her embarrassment.”

“She might well complain to the temple in Evening,” the woman said.

“Let her.” The man’s breezy dismissals set Vantra’s teeth on edge. “The Great Temple of the Golden Sun has more important issues to occupy their time.”

Vantra could not see features, and the names gave her no indication of which faelareign they belonged to, which would hint at the kind of magic they wielded. She would also like to know who to avoid if she needed to face them again.

“I don’t know!” The frustrated call grabbed her attention. “It keeps pointing to the desert. I think it’s broken.”

Vantra crouched down further. Was the unknown being using the magic device Laken mentioned? If it pointed to her, even if they could not see her in the dark, they might still investigate. The brushes would not protect her from a thorough snooping.

“Broken?” Makerid sounded pissed. “Do you know how much that costs to fix?”

“Glaive Makerid!” came another, fainter shout. “We have them confined, but the acolytes aren’t happy about it. You need to talk with the soltress before she releases them!”

The group turned, and with grumbling, exited the area. Vantra slipped the pack onto her back, yanked the canister from the mud with a schluck, and crept away from the bushes. She skimmed the water’s edge, heading south from the wagons. When the light faded to pinpricks, she crossed the road and slid down the embankment. That western side did not have a stream, just a series of deep puddles scattered among uprooted plants and dislodged boulders.

The storm hit the place hard, too. Had the entire Snake’s Den fallen to it? Had the weather blown into the surrounding waters and continued to the Ulven Islands and the Jaw?

She paused and popped the canister’s top, sticking it into her mouth. She needed as much as she could get, and letting wisps flee into the darkness would not help her.

“Vantra?”

“Recharging,” she mouthed over the lid.

“What?”

“Re-char-ging.”

“Oh. Doing that invisible thing took it out of you the last time, too.”

It had. Too bad she did not have the mists of the Nectar to imbibe.

“Can you turn around so I can see the temple?”

She did so before concentrating on absorbing the mist.

“I can’t see much from here, but at the bank, I noticed part of the western wall has collapsed. We might get into the temple that way.”

She withdrew the canister; empty. Not near enough mist to recharge, but at least she had stopped throbbing. “You want to go in?”

“Do we have a choice? You’re not planning to walk to the ruins alone, are you? Do you even know the way?”

No, and no and no.

Glints in the dark, gold and blue sparks dancing up and down. She froze. Had they found her? The Mark on the Knight’s palm glowed blue, and it instinctively repulsed her.

The gruffle of vulfs seized her fear and calmed her whiplash desire to flee. They padded to her, their growls sounding like conversation, answered by Fyrij’s confident tweets. Both canines nosed her hands and curled around her back while Fyrij hopped from Rayva and clambered up her arm to plant himself on her shoulder. Salan nudged her into motion as the other vulf took the lead.

Did they have a plan?

They trotted to the fallen wall Laken pointed out, keeping their distance from the wagons. The wind carried voices to them, mostly unintelligible, but she could not mistake Makerid’s furious screaming. What upset him so? The device? The soltress? Salan snorted and shook out his fur; Rayva yipped, a soft reply, and sped up.

The wall section, made from orange stone stained a desert-gold, lay in a crumpled heap between two pilasters topped by round suns. The rock scattered beyond the collapse reminded her of structures damaged by spellcasters, not by storms. She had seen similar pictures and illustrations during her studies, especially from the cautionary texts the Finders taught from. They wished to scare foolhardy acolytes into reining in their more destructive impulses, but she did not think it worked as desired.

She crept to the edge of the opening opposite that of the flickering torches, keeping as far back from the touch of flame as possible. The vulfs did not share her inhibition, but she hesitated to ask them to keep away from the light. Who was she, to speak to them about such things?

“I think this happened after the storm,” Laken said. Fyrij tweeted a soft agreement as she paused.

“Why do you think that?”

“The debris is too clean. If it fell during the storm, it should be covered in mud and brush, and if the winds held true here, the smaller bits should have blown away.”

She looked at the stone. The exposed broken tops did not even look wet, another sign that magic played a role in the damage. Had the Knights anything to do with it? Makerid did not seem the type to care if a spell of his went poorly. If so, he had enough power to take out a section of stout wall.

Rayva jumped over the jagged bottom lip without bothering to check for the enemy. Exasperated, Vantra followed, eyeing the interior as her essence prickled in warning. They stood behind a series of small, orange brick buildings that she guessed were acolyte housing, with narrow side yards divided by a short wooden fence. Scattered windows held dull yellow light, but the illumination stayed behind curtains and did not penetrate the darkness between the structures and wall. The fronts blazed too bright, and from her vantage, she could not see a way past them while remaining hidden.

Salan nudged her to the left, and she trotted to keep up with Rayva, squelching through puddles and mud. She frowned at her legs; splattered, and the bottom of her dress fared no better. Purple peeked through, but not enough to make her feel less grungy. The mini-Joyful all hoped to take a bath if the temple allowed—so much for that.

The vulf led her to a nondescript, greying wooden shed with half the roof vacant. She beheld nothing on the fallen shelves, and squinted, wondering what attracted them to it.

Voices! She scampered in and crouched towards the back; both guardians squeezed in with her and stilled. Two forms plodded past, in no hurry to reach their destination.

“This is stupid,” a woman muttered. “She’s not with them.”

“I don’t know what he expects,” another said. “She wasn’t in the wagons, so why go through them with a scry detect? What, does he think she hid under a bed and we didn’t see her?”

“They must have wised up and realized the trouble she brought,” the first said. “They dumped her along the road somewhere. He should force them to tell us where, and we can go find her.”

Dumped her? Had these Finders done something similar to a past companion, to even suggest it? Dislike roared through her, adding some energy to her dwindling reserves.

“She’s probably not even extant,” the second said. “That storm would have torn her apart. I suppose we still need to find her Candidate.”

The first hmphed. “Leave him. He’s not worth the effort if he didn’t transition to the Fields after her demise.”

“Just leave him in the desert? Isn’t that breaking our oaths?”

They squelched out of hearing. Vantra snarled. Leave Laken in the desert? Had they no heart?

“Asshole,” Laken muttered with ugly hate. She agreed.

Rayva left the confines before she would have, and she scurried after her, quivering with sudden, sustained fear. More voices drifted to them, but the vulfs remained unconcerned. Her grip on the pack’s straps tightened, as if the bendable leather could provide stability. Unease squirreled up her essence as they reached the side of the temple proper, a many-storied, gold-washed affair with a jutting, thin pole topped by a sun whose brightness penetrated the deep shadows despite the late hour.

Rayva wove through the buttresses and skimmed the flat stone wall with decorative protrusions running the length of it. Did Rayva head for the back? Doorways to side altars and alcoves would give them a way inside, though she had no idea where to go, what to do, from there. How hard was it going to be to find a caravan’s worth of people?

If they were in the temple. No, she did not think the vulfs would lead her there, if the mini-Joyful and Rils’ people were somewhere else.

As with other older temples, a door led into an out-chapel with a small, candle-bedecked altar and a cloth-swathed bench hidden behind a plain white screen. She thought it amusing that Evenacht religious structures dedicated space for a mourning ritual, considering they all were ghosts. Most modern remembrances for those who exhausted their want to exist and chose the Final Death, took place in secular spaces like the Recollection Plaza, not at a location that reminded beings of their own demise.

The screen divided the alcove from the nave, a vast space with wall and floor mosaics of Sun myths parading from the front doors to the public altar. Unlike living temples, this one held no benches. Instead, plump lounging pillows lined the margins between the images. The cushions nearest the entrance were black, and they changed to blue, purple, red, and deep gold before reaching the altar—the colors of sunset, a representation of dying and being revitalized as a ghost.

Doors littered the opposite wall, and she assumed her side had the same, though none had signs. Vantra rubbed at her mouth as her gaze trickled over the familiar golden decorations that Evenacht temples of the Sun possessed; gold disc fetishes representing long-deceased saints, cloth wrapped around the gallery balusters, ceiling carvings depicting Sunly events from both Talis and the evening lands, the setting sun blazing over the flat-topped stone altar. Which one should she choose?

The Finders said they had confined the entire caravan. Where might they do that? It was not as if a Sun temple needed a jail, like a Shades of Darkness post. Some of the old, old temples on Talis had them, though, meant to hold the blasphemous and profane. She recalled only a few survived because Ga Son disliked the intent and obliterated them when high priests got too greedy for blood.

An elfine swept into the nave, wispy robe sleeves flowing behind her. Her height and elegance, reflected in the long white nails, golden jewelry, and towering hennin swathed in a gold veil, hinted that she held a rank among the acolytes. Several others in loose white gowns and braided hair followed her, heads bent to show respect.

“Soltress—”

She flipped up an imperious, multi-ringed hand. “I realize remaining in the Collective’s good graces is a necessity, but they have violated our temple. Where did you put the dogs?”

The dogs? Vantra glanced at the doorways opposite her. The temple might not have a jail, but it likely had Sun Shepherd kennels, and probably ones with shielded cages to keep the magical dogs out of mischief. They must have confined everyone there.

“We took them to the northern Ascendancy. Galelle tied them up to that twisted tree so they won’t get down into the passage and escape into the ruins. It took us days to find them last time.”

“I don’t understand their attraction to the ruins.” The soltress shook her head. “I doubt the Snake would enjoy their company.”

Vantra blinked. Had they just given them a way to get to the Snake’s Den ruins without their enemies the wiser?

“Soltress Candara!”

The elfine whirled at the commanding shout from Makerid. He marched into the nave, trailed by disapproving Finders who wore green cloaks with the hoods pulled low. Vantra hid further behind the screen, but kept one eye on the confrontation. She needed to know her enemy.

Ah. A human faun, with a thick black beard, bushy brows, and flat, uninspired hair with flared tips. He must hail from the ancient Heverds, a shape-changing people inspired by Nature to guard the Chamborn meadows. Numerous high-altitude, rare flora grew in the alpine valley, and their entire culture had developed around their sacred charge. Their descendants, the Mokaverds, continued the long tradition, but with modern technology rather than the potent nature magic that defined their ancestors.

“This is unacceptable,” Makerid announced, jabbing his finger into the air.

“What is unacceptable is your demands,” she snapped, looking down her nose at the shorter man. “We have communities in the Den to help after that terrible storm, and you claim you need our acolytes, our time, our energy, to hunt for this elusive Finder. She is but one, compared to many.”

“She’s not a Finder,” he growled, his voice deepening to un-human levels. “She’s a disgraced ex-member who stole an UnRedeemed from the Fields.”

“So you say.” Candara turned her back on him. “What care have we for your inter-Collective squabbles? There are more pressing issues confronting us than a once-Finder.”

“This isn’t a request.”

“And I said no.”

Makerid lunged, thrusting his hand towards her. His beard lengthened, his lower face elongated, his fingers curled, and Vantra thought claws emerged. Magic flared in his palm, and a circle resembling a Grand Seal encompassed his hand. The temple acolytes screamed as a blue beam tore through them, obliterating what it touched, leaving ghosts half-formed and frantically sucking up their fleeing essences.

It struck the soltress in the chest; her scream cut off as she discorporated, falling into a heap of glimmery gold as the beam continued, striking the altar. Gold and stone burst apart and showered the ground with small, sharp bits.

Vantra froze, hate punching so hard her sight wavered. How dare he. How dare he! Too fast, she should have tried to stop him, should have—

Salan leapt from the screen and barreled to the Finders, howling loud enough to wake the stars. Fyrij dug his talons into the thick fur and howled with him, his higher tone louder, breathier, more menacing. The enemy turned, and one raised his hands, the glimmerings of a spell forming around them. The magic broke, and he shrieked and flung his head back.

His arms jerked to the sides and ripped from the body, the legs ripped from the body, trailing glitters of essence that trickled into nothing. The torso vibrated as the parts disappeared in a swirling flash of black. Salan barked, sharp as a knife, and the man’s head, still swathed in the green hood, tumbled back from his shoulders. The torso collapsed, breaking in two and discorporating into a pile of whitish ash before disappearing into more swirling blackness. The head landed with a flump, somersaulted, and faded away, the agonized screaming left to echo through the nave.

The Finders squealed in terror, facing a beast who had the true Mark of Death.

“What’s going on?” Laken asked in a tiny voice so no one other than she could hear him.

“Salan just used the Mark to send a Finder to the Fields.” Her voice quivered, and she chastised herself for her fear. He had not targeted her, after all.

“Oh.”

How could he sound so blasé about that?

Makerid slipped into his changed form, a canine nearly as large as the vulf, and roared. A Grand Shield spun into existence, throbbing a violent green. A purple-tinged, over-bright shield rose between them and spanned the nave, protecting the discorporated acolytes from attack.

Vantra sprinted from behind the screen, heading for the soltress, brilliant flares semi-blinding her. She rammed her knees into the mosaics and blinked white from her perception as she dropped the pack. The canister clattered to the floor and tumbled away as she dug for the shard. Ga Son had to help his acolytes. He had to.

She held it over the wavery soltress’s essence, tears fleeing down her cheeks as she looked up at the setting sun over the destroyed altar.

Please, help.

Sound diminished, soft light surrounded her. She thought she felt a warm touch against her shoulders, the same sensation she recalled from her childhood. As a kid, it made her feel safe; now, it proved she had attracted Sun’s attention.

Heat and brilliance filled the nave, brighter than the battle’s magic. She squeezed her eyes shut and bent over, her hand trembling. She concentrated on firming her energy so she did not drop the shard despite her growing exhaustion; how embarrassing would that be, to ask to help the soltress, then disperse her essence by dropping something in her?

The light dimmed, leaving only a single torch flickering in a sconce and the altar’s sun to provide illumination. No shield. Fear trickled through her—what happened?—and a wet vulf nose pressed into her ear.

Rayva whuffled and licked her cheek. Rayva, but not Salan. She did not see the Knights, either.

A flare of blue magic from beyond the front door caught her attention. Spooked, she reached for her pack, but the vulf snagged it instead and raised Laken up, facing a doorway two towards the altar from the middle. Was that the way to the kennel?

“I’m . . . whole?”

The soltress pressed a chip-nailed hand to her breast, looking down, shocked, bewildered. Her fine ornaments of office were gone, replaced by a simple robe. Her hair cascaded down her back, wavy, beautiful in its simplicity. The other acolytes stared at arms, waists, shoulders, all harmed by Makerid, all healed by Ga Son’s touch.

“A miracle,” one blubbered.  Vantra followed their gaze; the altar, remade, shimmered with a healthy golden gleam.

Rayva growled and whuffle-snarled, unimpressed, before trotting to the doorway. Vantra scrambled to follow, clutching the shard to her chest. The temple shook and small bits rained down from the ceiling. Acolyte terror swam through their cries as she glanced at the front, hoping Salan and Fyrij remained safe. She did not think Makerid, however powerful, could defeat a Darkness-blessed guardian, but she never anticipated what happened at Black Temple, either.

Rayva yipped. She turned back to her as the vulf picked the pack back up and raced into the darkened hallway. She needed to free the mini-Joyful before things got worse.