Climbing the flat stones to the sculpture irritated Vantra. The bushes slapped wet leaves against her cloak and stuck their twigs into her essence, and while she did not feel pain, the pokes vexed her. Fyrij rode on her shoulder, digging his talons into her when she bumped him around too much, and twittered his disapproval, though whether of the obstacles or her progress, she did not know.

If he wanted things speedy, he could fly to the sculpture while she floated after, but he refused to leave her. He perceived her as safe, and the thought brought a burst of happiness mingled with unease. She was not a grand syimlin, a Light-blessed, a mini-Joyful, or Lorgan. She had sparse training in Touch. Yes, she could raise a shield, but considering how many she broke protecting those she cared for, she could not say she was good at it. Could she protect him as well as he assumed?

She nuzzled the top of his fuzzy head, more to reassure herself, and he nuzzled back, inundating her with soft, satisfied tweeting.

The Sun brilliance ebbed as she reached the stone upon which it sat, and disappeared completely once she stood in touching distance. Pondering why, she smoothed the sleek green segments that formed the arms, then ran her fingertips over the rougher, tan-colored joints. Nothing unusual stood out other than the molded shape, but that was an intentional design. She touched the glass; it was pitted and cold, with a hint of Sun bubbling within.

She pressed the shard against it, but it refused to relight.

She inspected the base; the legs stood in holes, and the fit was snug. Greatly daring, she tugged on an arm; it did not budge. Fyrij hopped from her shoulder and conducted his own inspection, tapping at the glass with his large tooth, sniffing the grass and wrinkling his pudgy nose in distaste, and batting the top of his head against the stout poles. Hoping he discovered something with his unorthodox methods, she poked, shook, shuffled back until the light glowed, then approached again. Why did it have a spell to detect a being’s presence so it could fade?

Unease replaced her curiosity. She had read Lorgan’s notes concerning his initial retrieval of Laken’s essence. The arm had sat within an above-ground temple draped in mosses. Stately columns rose out of a swampy, bowl-shaped depression and above the treetops, which he noticed and followed to their origin. He happened upon the complex near Lake Deccavent, which was nowhere near Two Rivers—unless Rezenarza threw her that far.

No. If he had, the Finders would not have discovered her trail so quickly.

She set her hands on her hips and gazed across the pool at the flat rocks, water, blue-green mist and golden motes. Did she find the same place? She did not think so. Even with drastic changes over a thousand years, the pool did not strike her as being at the bottom of a bowl-shaped depression, and she should have noticed ruins of some sort, like fallen column drums.

The forest on the far side sat in darkness, and the bushes and low limbs hid the embankment. Maybe the temple ruins were there? Or maybe a secret entrance rested there, and the glass pointed to it. There must be one; even if she phased through the shore and drifted within the ground until she found the essence, she still needed to carry it through a proper exit. A Condemned’s severed essences remained as Physical as their heads, so she could not turn Ethereal and cart his arm through the dirt.

And all of that would require leaving Fyrij at the pool by himself. She refused to do that, knowing the enemy hunted them.

Fear squirreled through her; they had to hurry. “Fyrij, we need to find an entrance,” she told him. He stopped his hopping and looked up at her, chattering. “There must be a cave or some doorway. We need to find it before the Finders track us here.”

If they tracked them to the pool. The forest might prove a daunting labyrinth for them, and if they lost her trail due to the twisty turns? All the better for her and the caroling, though she suspected that hope was futile.

Fyrij shivered at the mention of the enemy, and tweeted a soft, fearful tune. The glass flashed briefly, and he squawked and zipped into her hood. Soothing him with a gentle touch, she tapped at the shiny surface with her other hand. Why had it reacted to his voice?

The caroling twittered, his notes shaking, and the glass flashed again.

“Fyrij, keep tweeting.”

He chirped, confused.

“Can you sing a song?” She hummed the starting stanza for a song he and Qira would perform on stormier nights, when the Loose Ducky rocked back and forth in frothy waves. He peeked out from her hood to join her but zipped back in at another, longer flare.

“Fyrij, I think your singing triggers the light.”

He warbled and crept down her chest, then hopped to the sculpture and dug his talons into an arm section. He leaned over and sang at the glass, and it flashed twice. Looking up at her, he twittered.

“It’s responding to certain notes. I bet if you sing the right song, the glow will activate. We just need to find which one. Maybe one related to Sun?” She hummed The Waxing Sun.

Fyrij made a conversational reply, listened to her, then joined in. The glass flashed after several notes, gleamed for a short phrase, but nothing else happened. Glad Fyrij could sing true, she continued through the ancient melodies she learned as a child. Once they struck The Wish of Daughters it did not dim.

Of course not. Sourness welled; this daughter of the Sun thing annoyed her.

The rock beneath her feet jerked.

Vantra gasped and fought for balance; someone snagged her upper left and kept her on her feet. Terror filled her as Fyrij’s frantic notes cracked and he fluttered and hissed.

“Sikta ça.”

A second being cupped the caroling and squashed him against their chest. They gripped a thin, black, metal object shaped like a half-circle bent in half. A thinner piece jutted out of the center, between their first and second fingers, and curved over the knuckles, much like a sword’s guard. The wing edges glowed a violent magenta. Was that a weapon?

Fyrij flapped harder, tweeting in desperation.

“Little one, quiet. The enemy comes,” the second warned as the first hauled Vantra off the stone and towards the bushes that ringed the back of the rock. The enemy? Did they mean the Finders or someone else? She hopped over the crack that grew as the rock slid from its resting place and crunched into the foliage, thoughts swimming.

She did not fear these strangers despite their sudden appearance. Why?

The first tugged her into a crouch and released her as the second joined them. She reached for Fyrij; they handed her the avian, then stretched their deer-like neck high, attention on the broader pool. Whispering in a heated tone to their companion, they hunched down and then put a finger to the tip of their muzzle in a shushing motion. They pressed a button on the right-hand side of their weapon and the magenta flow disappeared.

“You were following that thing.”

“I WAS NOT!”

Vantra winced at Gisdrelle’s furious shout. The Finders had already found her. Her heart sank, and she settled her lips onto the top of Fyrij’s head. “Shhh,” she whispered. He gulped at her and buried himself in her chest.

“It’s glowing with Sun’s Light.” She recognized the barking one’s testy voice. The last bits of her bravery wobbled, and she hunched lower, covering her mouth with her fingers. The first being put a clawed hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a comforting, not intimidating, act.

“That ball didn’t tromp through the forest, Dreth. That was the ghost.”

“That’s Drethaniel, Gisdrelle.”

“Oh, you don’t enjoy a lack of respect? As you constantly mock others, I’m shocked you find it unappealing.”

“That’s enough.” Magic backed the command, and Vantra fought against its pull. “Gisdrelle, find her trail.”

“Easier said than done,” Gisdrelle grumbled. “Sun’s Touch fills this place.”

They were going to search the pool. Vantra clawed at her non-existent courage, but it did not budge from the niche it buried itself in. She needed it, to function, to think!

“Abadaçe,” the first whispered. “Solee sezta.”

“They don’t have the blessing,” the second said, shaking their head.

“But they followed you to this pool.” The first eyed Vantra, and she nodded. She attempted to speak twice before the words pushed past her lips.

“They chased me into the forest.” She held up the shard, which remained blessedly dark. “The shard leaves a Sun trail behind.”

“How did you find the pool?”

She responded despite her wavering suspicions concerning the two; her instincts told her they helped, but she had too many recent, nasty surprises to follow them without question. “I followed the pull of my Chosen. His essence is beneath it; I can feel it.”

“You have the blessing,” the second said. “Otherwise, the trees would have sent you astray, despite the pull.”

“They didn’t send them astray,” the first muttered, motioning to the ghosts who spanned along the shore, searching for signs of her.

“They owe fealty to the twisted one.”

“Not to Strans.” She had to defend Navosh, however much she doubted they would believe her.

“No, to the false one. In madness, he sucked the power away, and it rained through his fingers. He didn’t notice, and thought his bowl remained full.”

They knew that someone usurped Navosh’s mantle? “Are you acolytes?”

“No. We are here to protect the Guardian,” the first whispered. He pointed at the rock. “Little one, can you fit through the opening? We can become wisps and enter, but you can’t.”

Fyrij, shuddering, looking back and forth between the two strangers with bird quickness. She rubbed her nose against his head, cupped him in her palms, and held him out. He flew to the stone, hopped to the crack, and peered inside. He straightened, ruffled his feathers, took in a huge breath, and slowly released it, producing a quiet thrum from his tooth.

“No! Fyrij!” she hissed.

The two guards stared blankly as she shoved her fingers in her ears. Fyrij hopped to the top of the rock and shrieked off-key.

The notes resounded off the rock, giving them a painful, echoey ring that added to the dissonance, and she imagined, if she did not know what made the sound, she would become a shuddering puddle of essence swimming in fear. She heard shouts for calm and screams of panic, nothing intelligible. The caroling’s voice filled the pool, as if it came from something large and menacing—a feat, for a palm-sized avian.

The second turned Ethereal and thinned their essence so only a bare hint of whitish wisps remained. Hugging the ground, they wafted beneath the bush branches and into the gap. The first snagged her arm, and they followed; as soon as she entered, Fyrij screamed. The sound vibrated her essence, and she snatched her wisps back to her core as she flowed down the rough-hewn stairs and into a landing lit by a single torch. Had Lorgan taught him that? A moment later, he glided through the gap. She triggered Physical Touch, and he darted into her hood.

Pain wrinkling their nose, the second guard pressed a panel at the bottom of the stairs. The opening ground to a stop, then slowly closed. Had the enemy heard that, or had they fled at Fyrji’s menacing voice and were not close enough to notice? If so, they would not realize that the stone upon which the sculpture sat was a doorway.

“How does one such as you produce a sound so large?” the first asked as Fyrij popped his head out of the hood. She kissed the side of his head and he preened, pleased with himself. He chatted back at the being and puffed out his chest.

“A traveling companion taught him,” she said. “He thought Fyrij could use his voice as a weapon.”

“If I heard that in the middle of an unknown forest, I would think I lived my last,” the second said. They paused, then sighed. “Existed my last.”

“A living being might lose their hearing.” The first rubbed at their large, pointed ears.

Now that the light illuminated them, she realized they both had the dainty appearance of sleek, fast grasslands deer. They had wide, dark eyes, a nose that narrowed at the end, and thin but shining dark brown fur. The first had black hair, the second a deep emerald, which lay in three braids down their backs. Glinting fangs peeked out from under their upper jaw. A leaf-shaped flippy tail stuck out of a slit in their vest-like, knee-length black shirt, and flitted back and forth with their movement. Were they fauns? No; they might dress in the baggier, large-pocketed pants those with goat-like legs wore, but neither gave her that sense, especially since they only had four fingers, not five. They were not chavosine, either; those umbrareign were alive, not ghosts. Who were they? Shape-changed elfines?

“Come.” The second motioned to the tunnel opposite the stairs. It, too, was roughly carved from the native stone, and dim but for a flickering torch further down the way. “We don’t trust the enemy to remain above.”

“They can track me down here because of the shard,” she said, newly worried, as she followed them.

“Whatever Sun Touch the shard trails, the glass blazes stronger.” They shrugged. “As it’s the focus of the pool, they will probably think it holds the key to finding you, but rather than solve the puzzle, they will destroy it.”

“That’s terrible.” She imagined they would, after listening to their arguments.

“We will be away by then,” the first said.

Away? What did they mean by that?

The tunnel curved and sloped down. She rubbed at her chest; traversing the last few tunnels had not ended well for her. Dreading another encounter with corrupted roots or vines or squiggly darkness, she fought to keep her stride steady and her essence primed for attack.

They passed doorways into empty rooms. Had essences once resided there? Black-claw took care of more than one, after all. But if so, where were they? The one she sought lay ahead, and the pull of it grew with each step.

The tunnel turned into a square hallway, and while the floor remained packed with dirt, the walls and the ceiling had the carvings she expected in a grand essence house. Figures retrieved various ghostly parts from a variety of landscapes, and she saw references to the major syimlin as well as a few minor ones. Sun, represented by a circle with stick-like rays, played a prominent role, which, she supposed, should not surprise her.

Fyrij warbled and peeked further out of her hood to study the passing artwork. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asked. He chirped in agreement.

“The guardian carved them,” the first said. “Boredom sets in, when one waits for a Finder to find an essence. They will remain as they are; he’s abandoning this temple.”

She gasped. What?

“It’s the corruption,” the second told her. “He tires of keeping it out. There are other parts of the rainforest where he can build a new temple without the danger.”

“What does he know about the corruption?”

“Ask him. He’s more mindful of it.” The second sighed. “Not that we can’t sense it. We can; it’s a darkness unfulfilled, and that will damage all it touches.”

“It doesn’t like Sun.”

“No, which is why we’ve been able to transfer the essences without much difficulty. A Sun priest is a mighty foe to it.”

A Sun priest? Did they mean Lokjac? Hope bloomed through her; if she found Lokjac, she could tell him how worried Yut-ta and Xafane and the Snake were!

They reached a circular room with several intersecting tunnels reminiscent of Black-claw’s temple; they took the same route the rufang did to reach the kitchen. Were the two structures of a similar age and layout? How many places in Greenglimmer had identical designs?

How often did guardians switch locations? Did that account for the troubles Finders had in locating essences? Would the Sun priest answer questions, if she gained the courage to ask?

They passed an empty kitchen that smelled of cleaning solution, the oven and firepit devoid of charcoal logs and ash. Yut-ta said Lokjac was very neat, and she decided this was another hint the Sun priest was the missing elfine.

They entered a room lit by a floating bauble of Sun magic. In a rocking chair sat an elfine with a long enough white beard that she knew him to be an ancient ghost. A braid that looked like it had a dozen strands held his hair from his face, which allowed him to read the thick volume in his hands without brushing his bangs behind his multi-hooped ears. He had on a simple, sleeveless tan shirt laced down the middle and wide brown pants, humble attire for an important priest. Rings decorated his fingers and toes, and loose chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

He looked up and smiled; Vantra tried not to stare into his light blue eyes ringed by darker teal. They were striking against his deeply suntanned skin. “I see you made it,” he said, closing the book.

“Um, yes?”

Fyrij chittered at him. His smile softened as he regarded the caroling.

“Yes, I heard you. Hard not to. Half the group following you ran into the forest, terrified. We’ll see if their patron deigns to help them return to the pool. If not, they’ll wander until they turn into greddels.”

She shuddered at the matter-of-fact, pleased statement; from the beginning of their studies, Finders were taught to watch out for greddels. The misty remains of ghosts who met the Final Death were nothing more than energy suckers, and they could drain a ghost into the Final Death within moments and hunger for more. Habitations hired hunters to find and destroy the ones who threatened their communities, but the vast lands devoid of umbrareign or faelareign presence? Those held too many.

“This is what is left?” the first guard asked.

Vantra looked at the crates stacked on a wheeled contrivance and knew Laken’s essence sat in the one on top. She walked to it and set her hand against the wood; the pull nearly overwhelmed her.

“I packed the arm,” the efline said, apologetic. “I thought you’d make it here before the enemy, but I wanted to hedge on the safe side.”

“They want to take it.”

“Yes, because it has something they desire.” He rose from the chair and carefully settled the book into the last open crate.

She frowned. “What do you mean? They want to interfere with Laken’s Recollection, I know that, but—”

“You’ll see,” he said as he heaved the top into place and sealed it with a magic ring. “Right now, we need to cart these to the wind rider.”

The what?

He picked up a black box resting on a crate and handed it to the first guard. “Kie, from me to you, I am terrible at guiding this thing.”

“If you were not so allergic to technology, you would be better at using it,” the being chided as they accepted the device.

“I’m not allergic to it,” he muttered.

Both looked at him with enough angst, Vantra guessed he possessed the deep-seated distrust of modern advancements common among ancient faelareign. “Elfine whizen tend to prefer magic,” she said.

The second laughed as they settled the chair upside-down on a crate. “He does, and reminds us often that off-world flying whatevers are no match for the might of a spell.” They quirked their mouth to the side in a resigned smile. “We found that out, didn’t we?”

Vantra froze, alarmed. Off-world? They were Flayn invaders?

“Yes, but I still am using those flying whatevers, aren’t I?” the elfine sighed. “Each has its place and its moment. And don’t discount how grateful I am for the help, Nuçya.”

Kie pressed a button, and the contrivance moved back, turned, and headed out the door. Vantra stepped aside for it, and Fyrij chattered before hopping out of her hood and fluttering to the front crate, where he proudly stood as captain of the vehicle. Laughing, the invader followed. She hesitated, and the whizan motioned to the door.

“Please.”

With a half-smile, she shuffled through.