The scraggly, leafless bushes that lined the cliff overlooking the gorge entrance to Black Temple did not provide the cover Vantra wished. The taller trees, with their needle leaves and crooked trunks, provided even less. While evening shadows grew long, true darkness did not hide their interest, either.

Not that anyone milling about the bottom paid heed to anything above their heads. Extensive lines of shouting Nevemere wound down the gorge floor, all wanting entry into the cliff-side crack that led to the underground city of Black Temple. Vi-van, accompanied by assistants with torches, books, and badges, stood next to the congested wooden stables and directed the new arrivals where to go—or turned them away.

The nomads allowed entry handed their beasts of burden to the stable hands, who hurried around and shouted at one another and attempted to keep a semblance of order. The overflow of animals hinted at the number of nomads already inside, and Vantra wondered if they had enough supplies to feed them all.

Kenosera winced and withdrew. She and the rest of the mini-Joyful followed suit and returned to the campsite, where their wagons sat next to three other traveling groups. Two women cooked a pot of stew over the merry campfire, planning to share it with everyone who stayed at the spot.

“Told you,” the elder who led a Kaeok trader caravan said as they wandered up to the fire. Evening did not have a large Kaeok population, so his people were the first of the mountain dwellers Vantra had seen. They were shorter than humans, with forked antlers above their large, dark eyes, deeply tanned skin, a short, deer-like muzzle, and tufts of fur along their jaws, elbows and calves. They had four fingers and cloven-hoofed feet with sandals strapped to them. They wore a green uniform of rib-length fringed tank tops and a split skirt that allowed their fluffy tail to flit freely.

“And the dor-carous’s private guards have the gorge blocked off?” Kenosera asked.

“Yep. They’re not allowing anyone except Nevemere to enter it. They’re splitting families up, saying it’s for safety reasons, but truthfully, they don’t care.” He waved his index finger back and forth, parallel to the dusty road that ran near the gorge’s edge. “Those turned away are up here at every campsite, waiting for their loved ones to return. Who knows when that will be. Most don’t have enough supplies to last a few days. Don’t know what they’re going to do when their food runs out, because I don’t see Black Temple giving them any, and all the small stands that usually sell supplies to travelers are empty.”

“We need more information,” Kjaelle said, hands on hips, her eyes traveling to the next visible fire two rises over.

“The guards won’t speak to anyone not Nevemere,” the elder said. “They take a jab or two with their spears to run them off.” He rubbed at his rump for effect.

“Fear drives them,” Lorgan said, his voice sad and heavy.

“Yeah,” the elder agreed. “We were at a Voristi village when the Nevemere went mad. They were trussed up until they regained their senses, then ordered to leave. They were lucky, their neighbors kept them alive. In other places, they died and their bodies thrown to the scavengers.”

Vantra did not think either Watermarket or Grindal Oasis had done that, but how would she know, if they did? Her loathing of Rezenarza grew, for he had to have expected the death and pain he caused and had not cared.

Red and Kenosera filled bowls with the stew; Vantra wished she could derive energy from food, for the mists in the cold packs felt as stale as dry bread. Kjaelle and Tally watched them, then skiddled up and accepted a bowl from the startled cooks.

Vantra looked at Lorgan; he eyed her, then pursed his lips into a disagreeable frown and trudged to the wagon to retrieve a cold pack. She followed, her spirits beginning a slow, spiral descent into depression.

She wanted to savor spices and sweets again, to bite into the juiciest steak and tangiest fruit, lick the sweetest frosting, gulp the coolest juice and warmest soup . . .

She stopped at the supply wagon and dug for the dried fruit Fyrij ate; the little avian liked the berries and drank more than his fill of water at meals. Then he curled up on her shoulder and snored loud enough to wake the earth from slumber. Resting became a longed-for luxury. Removing him ended with him flying back to her shoulder, scolding her, and curling up again.

The four joined them and the two drivers in the back of the riding wagon; they, too, stared in envious disgruntlement at the bowls. Boring stew, but warm food warming a night-chilled essence sounded wondrous.

Kenosera stirred the stew, sipped, raised an eyebrow, but continued to eat. “The gorge entrance is the main one,” he said between mouthfuls. “But there are several others I know about. I don’t know how many have guards, though.”

“Probably most,” Red said. “They’re eager to keep all non-Nevemere out, which makes sense. They don’t want a repeat of the death they caused because that will drive their reputations further into the ground.”

The nomad firmed his lips. “I saw a friend of mine working the stables. He’ll know what’s going on, and he won’t tell anyone I’m here.” He half-laughed. “He almost came with Dedari, Lesanova and me when we left. He must wish he had done so, now.”

“How do you propose to speak to him?” Lorgan asked.

“The River of Darkness runs through Black Temple. The stable workers bring the animals to the northern banks to drink when the stables are full, like they are now, because there isn’t enough room at the troughs. My friend was looping lead ropes through harnesses, so he will take them to the watering hole soon.” He waved his spoon to the north. “There’s a dry river bed that is dotted with large holes that allow light into the caves below. Farmers grow crops there. They’ve diverted water for irrigation, and we can follow the canal to the river proper, then head for the northern banks.”

“What about patrols?” Kjaelle asked.

“The river’s underground the entire way. That far north, guards don’t bother because there are no outside entrances nearby. And, well, they don’t see the fields as important enough to bother with.”

Vantra found that odd, since food was a precious commodity in the desert. “Why not?”

“Class distinctions,” Lorgan said. “Nevemere are very conscientious of who is and is not a dor-carous family member.”

“Basically, there are dor-carous, and everyone else,” Kenosera said. “Except for water hunters. We revere them more than the dor-carous because they bring the rains.”

Vantra disliked such distinctions. She had them used against her at the Spiral Temple because the daughter of so popular and blessed a high priestess should behave in a manner befitting her station. The nasty priests did not elucidate on what behavior they thought appropriate; instead, they mocked her attempts at pleasing them.

“How late do the farmers stay in the fields?” Red asked.

“Not much after dark. We can go after we finish eating.”

Torch-bearing guards patrolled the roads on ronyx, spears and long knives strapped to the saddles. They snarled at beings clustered around campfires and threatened any who still traveled, and Vantra felt grateful she and the other ghosts could employ Ether Touch to avoid notice. Kenosera scurried off the road and hid, far enough away that torchlight did not illuminate him.

She expected more guards at the river bed, but no one walked among the large holes dotting the earth. Wooden stakes with pointy spikes and netting strung between circled each one, which she assumed kept animals from falling to the cave below. She peeked into one, noting the tops of golden wrent waving in the dim ambient light. The distant rush of water drifted to her, and she tried to find the canal from her vantage point, but failed. Soft white mists wafted through the grain stalks and hid the ground from view.

Kenosera hastened to a hole that sat next to the embankment. Larger than the others, it had two arm-sized poles with worn circles around the base. He touched the smoothed wood and sighed.

“This should have a rope ladder,” he said.

“Looks like you’ll need to slide down the one we brought,” Lorgan said, leaning over his knee and peering into the shadows below. Kjaelle had overstuffed a pack with equipment, including a long length of rope. Vantra needed to remember the contents because she might require a similar bag in the future.

“I see a flicker of light coming our way,” Tally warned.

Not good.

Kjaelle tied the knot and Kenosera grabbed the rope, made a loop for his foot, and slid down. Vantra winced for the burns he would have on his palms. Red hissed at her, and she dropped Laken’s pack down another hole, jumped in, and floated down to the mist-shrouded ground. She had to shove her hands through the mists and search for the item, which Lorgan found. Smiling her thanks, she employed Physical Touch and slipped it over her shoulders, attempting to ignore its lack of weight. Her Chosen would fill it soon enough.

The rope thumped to the ground, the equipment pack followed, and Kjaelle and Tally glided down, two brighter wisps against the shadowy rock walls. A sparkle of Light zipped past them, hovered above the wrent, and Red solidified from it. The equipment pack made such a dent in the crop, the elfine easily recovered it and the rope.

Kenosera hissed, waving his hand, and they trotted after him, hugging the wall and skirting the field. Sparse light came from the holes, illuminating what lay directly beneath them, but little beyond. At least no torchlight would give them away, though Vantra did not think tripping over stones and shuffling through discarded chaff all that wonderful.

The rush of water from the mist-concealed canal grew louder. Kenosera stumbled into it with a deafening series of splashes and growled, annoyed. They clustered around him, a barely discernable smear against the rising fog. Vantra could not help but absorb the energy buzzing through the air, a potent meal of cool-tinged power. The Nectar produced mists with an equal punch, and to find a similar water source in the desert startled her.

“The mist is thick,” Kjaelle whispered.

“It always is at night,” Kenosera said. “The farmers don’t work when it rises, because they can’t see what they’re doing.”

“Good for us,” Red smirked.

Kjaelle held up the rope. “Kenosera, take the lead. Everyone, hold on to the rope. We won’t get separated if we do. If anyone sees a light, yank on the rope. We can hide in the canal then.”

Vantra never would have thought of using the rope in that manner. Depression pricked her chest; the mini-Joyful showed, again and again, how ill-prepared she was to Redeem Laken. Reminding herself that the beings had thousands of years more experience than she did not salve her wounded self-esteem.

Resentment followed. Nolaris purposefully neglected her training, and what she thought sufficient was laughably inadequate. He wanted her stunted, ignorant, and she wondered why. He had a large acolyte following who seemed well-equipped for the rigors of Finder Redemptions. What made her so different in his eyes?

Her thoughts batted back and forth as they crept along the bank, the natural flow of water concealing their movement sounds. Flashes of neon-bright pinks and greens finally broke through her bitterness, and she concentrated on them. They waved about like a fish swimming before zipping away. Lorgan’s notes said that fish lived in the river, so some must swim up the canal as well.

Mushrooms appeared, growing around clusters of small stones, though they did not provide enough illumination to see by. The mists diffused the light, creating a pastel watercolor effect against the white puffs. She swept her fingers through the colorful display, wishing she could stop and savor the calming sight.

The rush of faster-flowing water drowned the sounds of the canal. Yellow light filled the atmosphere, penetrating the mists and revealing a wide, torch-lined river with shallows near the banks and a deep interior. Mossy rocks poked up through the current, some so tall that a boat would need to carefully navigate around them. Glowing reeds grew in clumps along the sandier parts of the shore, and colorful neon flicks darted between them.

Kenosera veered to the darker area on their right, but instead of wrent, boulders sat in the space between the water and the rock wall. He hunched down behind one and waited for them to join him.

“They water the animals on this side of the bank, further north,” Kenosera said. “It keeps them from trying to eat the crops.”

Tally hissed and put a finger to her lips. They quieted, glancing about, alert.

Grumbly nomads walked by, lugging handcarts loaded with elongated, woven sacks. Kenosera shook his head as they passed them and waited until they were hazy blurs down the path before leaning closer.

“They’re complaining about needing to feed more Nevemere,” he whispered. “They’re digging into their winter stores, and they think it’s a bad idea.”

“How many extra mouths do you think showed up?” Red asked.

“From the looks of the lines, thousands. The smaller villages wouldn’t send anyone because of rural pride, but any Nevemere in a town with non-Nevemere inhabitants probably fled here for safety. I’m betting it will be like the Dark Blessing Festival, when thousands come to celebrate Darkness.”

Another reminder that Rezenarza took advantage of the Nevemere, forcing them to behave against their will. How terrible to discover a cherished religious bond harmed rather than blessed.

“Let’s go, and be alert,” Kjaelle whispered.

They plodded past small mud shacks with no windows built between the boulders, which Kenosera said were food storage buildings, and taller metal silos. Those dwindled in number the further they walked, and once the shoreline transitioned from earthy embankment to flat sand, they disappeared altogether. Forceful grunts, whistles and snorts reach them, along with a shout or two from a Nevemere.

Kenosera left the path and hunched down, the mists covering him but for the top of his head. They neared a place with a more expansive sandy beach and reed-heavy shallows, lit by numerous lanterns hanging from strings tied between tall poles. Stable hands moved in and out of the mixed herd, trying for a semblance of order but failing as the more eager beasts surged ahead and shouldered others out of the way. Nipping and kicking ensued.

Kenosera led them away from the excitement, skimming a fence made from posts and knotted twine, and to a cluster of rocks that hugged the cavern’s wall. He stood up, viewed the group, and hunkered back down.

“Which one is your friend?” Red asked, squatting next to him.

“He’s wearing a blue chocki and has green paint on his face. He is standing in the path, looking bored.”

“I’ll get him,” Red said.

“But—!” Kenosera’s protest landed on a sparkle of light that whisked away.

Kjaelle sighed heavily, and Tally nudged her with her shoulder. Lorgan sat, legs crossed, and planted his elbows on his knees and his chin in his upturned palms.

“He never hesitates, does he?”

“No,” Tally muttered. “The gauntlet training instilled fast thinking and action, and despite the thousands of years he’s existed, he hasn’t shaken it.”

“I don’t understand this gauntlet,” Kenosera said. “The vi-van speak of it when they pray to Darkness, but they never say what it is.”

“Was,” Tally gently corrected. “To represent a deity was the highest Aristarzian honor, so the priests created a difficult rite of passage and only the strongest and brightest survived. Qira lost all his friends during the training and tests, and he’s never forgotten, or forgiven, those who promoted it. They only saw wealth and privilege in the gauntlet, and they did not care how many innocents died to achieve it.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes. It didn’t end until Talis destroyed the main temple. The Aristarzian have thousands of years of restitution to suffer, though most don’t understand why. They assumed what they did was holy, so the cruelty didn’t matter.”

The crunch of footsteps alerted them; Kenosera rose and grabbed the arm of the skeptical new arrival, who brightened in disbelief and smacked his shoulder. His friend wore skin-tight shorts and a vest, with a blue, dusty robe hanging open, belt trailing behind, and splotchy brown boots. Green vertical stripes lined his cheeks, and horizontal ones decorated his nose. A single stripe ran from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. His dusky brown tresses brushed his shoulders in thick strands.

Red slipped around them and sat next to Tally as the two living beings hunkered down. They spoke in hushed tones in their native tongue, then the friend glanced at the rest of them. “You want to rescue the head?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s my Candidate,” Vantra said. “The vi-van kidnapped him.”

“He is not so bad,” Kenosera said. “A bit grumpy, but I would be, if I were only a head.”

His friend’s amused incredulity almost made her laugh.

“They took him to the temple,” he said. “Right before the Darkness came and took our sense.”

“It was not Darkness, Tagra,” Kenosera stressed. “It was his predecessor, Rezenarza.”

Tagra reared back, startled. “Rezenarza?”

Red cleared his throat. “Rezenarza took advantage of the generalized Darkness blessing bestowed upon Nevemere in their youth and used you as puppets.”

“The blessing,” Kenosera said. “We thought it connected us to Veer Tul. It didn’t. It was a fishing line dancing in the waves, open to any fish to snag it.”

“That . . . well.” He bit his lip, anger descending. His fingers clenched, the knuckles popping, before he shoved them into the dirt. “When we lost sense, not all of us did. The elder Nevemere did not. Those over fifty years, they remained sane. Some tried to rescue us, but they could not.”

“That sounds like they didn’t have the bond,” Lorgan said.

“No, they did,” the friend said. “My grandmother told me that Kenosera’s grandmother changed the ritual when she became the naro vi-van. She asked after the shicoursa blessing because the one given my mother was not the same as the one given her. Kenosera’s grandmother assured her that Darkness spoke to her and told her to change the shicoursa to better suit modern needs.”

“So Rezenarza’s fingers have dug deep over long years.” Red lifted his lip in a snarl. “He hid his intent well. Veer visits to renew the temple’s blessing, and he would have said something if he sensed anything amiss.”

Tagra’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

Red grinned. “Light and Darkness walk hand in hand through the Evenacht. My companion Katta and I are quite aware of syimlin happenings in the evening lands.”

“He is vo-tivan of Light,” Kenosera whispered. The friend’s eyes popped.

“What else can you tell us about what’s going on?” Kjaelle asked.

He shook himself and glanced nervously at Red. “There is panic and fear. Those not from Black Temple want reassurance, and the vi-van are not giving it. They speak to no one outside the dor-carous and his advisors. No one knows what’s going on, the guards threaten everyone who asks, and it makes everything more frightening. The inns are overrun, and visitors sleep in the streets or find refuge in the blood-stained homes of the dead.”

“Do you know where they’re keeping Laken?” Vantra asked. Dread filled her, darkening thought and essence.

“My sister is a temple caretaker, and she overhears much, though she cannot vouch for all of it. She said that the older vi-van blame the head for the blight and the shattering of the Darkness bond because it happened right after he arrived.” He huffed a laugh. “She says that Kenosera’s grandmother tried to use magic on him to punish him for the evil he caused, and she failed. The rebound knocked her unconscious, and she has not woken, which frightened the vi-van more. She says the head bites any who near him, so no one wishes to touch him.”

“Good for him,” Tally said with approval. Kjaelle grinned, her eyes glinting like emeralds.

“My sister also said the vi-van returned with a golden shard. They put it in the relic room to keep it away from him. It gleams until a vi-van walks in, then it extinguishes. They have tried to rekindle the light, but cannot. They are envious and upset that a caretaker who cleans up after them, like my sister, can enter without problem, but that the light dies when they get near.”

“Interesting,” Red said, stroking his chin. “Vantra says it’s a Sun artifact, and that behavior reminds me of Divine Glass.”

Vantra perked up. “You think it’s a Divine Glass?” Ancient Sun acolytes used the shards to denote the holiest among them—or so the Spiral Sun priests claimed. The glasses had long ago vanished from Talis, leaving only a scattering of tales behind.

“That would explain why you hear its call, and why it’s so desperate to get away from what it considers corrupt.”

“I thought Divine Glass was a purity of faith marker,” Lorgan said, tapping his fingers in front of his lips.

“I’m not talking about the nymph-created mirrors. The Tassiniz elders warped the initial intent of the Divine Glass, creating fake holy items that conveniently targeted their political enemies as being immorally lax in their religious convictions. It’s sad nymphs continue to use them because they’re trash.” Lorgan’s eyebrows shot up, astounded at the sentiment. Concern for those who offended the divine shifted through Vantra; should Red, even as an avatar, voice such a provocative thing? “Sun blessed the original Divine Glasses and handed them to acolytes who fought the long reach of religious and political corruption. The objects would dim or extinguish while in the presence of those who bowed to immoral and unethical acts. They had other features, but acolytes used that one the most. It did not take long before the corrupt targeted anyone who carried them, because power and wealth were more important than a few zealots’ lives. They ended up in the Fields, whining about their fate.”

“We need to rescue it, too,” Vantra reiterated. She could not leave the shard among those who thought to subject their people to Rezenarza’s debilitating touch.

“Yeah, we do.”

“Where is the head?” Kenosera asked.

“They have him in the Black Light altar room, confined by magic,” Tagra said.

“That’s nowhere near the relic room.”

Tagra sucked in a breath. “Kenosera, are you really going to sneak into the temple? Your kin are searching for you. Your father is desperate to have you back. He says the vi-van claim you are Dark-blessed, and you must return to your people or ill luck will befall them.”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “And then I’m going to lead the mini-Joyful to the ruins.” His friend’s shock rolled off him like water. “And then I’m leaving the desert. Me and Lesanova and Dedari are going to work for a Fading Light caravan. We can travel new lands, meet new beings.”

The friend dropped his eyes, then ran his hands over his face, dislodging some of the green paint on his cheeks. “My grandmother, she told me I should have gone with you,” he whispered. “She said the winds have changed in the desert, that wickedness sucks the life from the hopeful and young. She says leaving will save me.”

“TAGRA!”

Both nomads looked up, frowning, at the scream.

“Is that your sister?”

“Eem catsh? Masaqui dor-carous leve adra!”

Tagra gasped and surged up, rushing away.

“She said guards took his grandmother,” Kenosera said, then firmed his lips and followed. Vantra rose; she did not think they had a choice but to follow his lead and protect him from any who thought to return him to his family. Red leapt after him, a queer glint in his shimmering eyes.

The sister sobbed, a hand on her brother’s arm, talking fast, other stable hands surrounding them, distraught. She choked when Kenosera appeared out of the mist, and the others gasped, shocked. He spoke, fire sizzling through his tone, commanding attention until they caught up to him. Eyes darted to them, and hands strayed to knives and hefted animal prods. He raised a hand, said something stern, and they calmed, though distrust narrowed eyes and firmed mouths.

He turned to them. “Memmi says the dor-carous guards are arresting the elders who did not lose sense and have spoken out about the change in the ritual they think led to the blight. Too many respected voices made the connection between that change and what happened, and the vi-van want them silenced. She says that they claim the elders’ bonds did not break as others did, and this proves they are against the Nevemere.”

“Quite convenient,” Red said. “They have someone they can readily blame for your grandmother’s mistake, and frightened people accept anything, including lies, if it makes them feel safer.”

Tagra said something, the sister replied, and Kenosera’s fury descended. “She says the vi-van plan to re-bless the Nevemere with Darkness and punish the elders during the ritual.”

“Veer Tul will renew the bond, and no other,” Kjaelle said, slashing her hand through the air. Those who understood the Reckoning snapped their attention to her, divots in their brows. “The Darkness ritual Kenosera’s grandmother used did not link you to Veer. It’s a general blessing with no intent, which allowed Rezenarza to slip into the workings and take control of it. To avoid becoming his puppet again, you need a specific bond to Veer, or forgo it completely.”

Kenosera placed his hand over his chest. “It is different,” he admitted.

“You already have this link?” a stable hand asked, rubbing at his forehead beneath his wrap.

“We were at Watermarket when I fell to the terrible ex-Darkness. Vesh, an acolyte of Veer Tul, created a Touch of Darkness within me, a link to the syimlin. It is . . . softer. More expansive.” He said more words in his native tongue. The sister sniffled and spoke to him. Tagra gritted his teeth; Kenosera set a hand on his shoulder, not to comfort, but to keep him stationary.

“Memmi says their uncle is going after the dor-carous guards. This has tipped the Fort’s hands. They are religious rebels, and they hate the vi-van, think them corrupt, and they will see this as a justification for an attack. There will be bloodshed.”

Vantra tightened her grip on her pack’s straps. No. They had to stop further death. Could she conduct another Clear Rays?

Red puffed his lips out. “Not if we get to the temple first,” he said.