Vantra held the mist hose to her chest, staring at the surface of the bar, the threat of tears turning everything into a blobby smear. She did not understand why she warped such a wondrous spell, why Clear Rays destroyed instead of healed in her hands. She curled further over the tip, knowing she needed to re-energize to make the numbness recede, uncertain if she deserved to.

At least Yut-ta arrived safely at the healing house so Mozarin could properly attend him. Jare stayed as a guard, promising that, as long as he hinted Qira desired it, an Aristarzian contingent would protect the place until the hooskine left. Katta agreed to the arrangement and, upon returning to the tavern, whispered to Leeyal about it before heading upstairs for quiet time.

She raised the tip to her lips, caught herself, and lowered the hose.

Someone brushed her, reached over, and tapped the metal. “You’re not absorbing.”

She swiveled her eyes to glare at Kenosera, then returned to her intimate study of the shined wood. Who told him about her curling into a ball and demurring company, and decided his brand of polite guilt trip suited the situation? He used it effectively, during the voyage to Greenglimmer; he even reined in Fyrij a time or two with softly spoken but hard-hitting words.

“Vantra.” He grabbed a stool and sat, uninvited, and leaned over on his elbows. “Do you remember, you used Clear Rays on me?”

She blinked tears down her cheeks, then slowly nodded. How could she forget? The taint symbol Rezenarza plastered on his back had broken apart, but her intonation had not been the sole cause. Kenosera, despite lacking magic, so viciously wished to rid himself of the ex-syimlin’s Touch, he screamed the spell, shoving his desperate plea into the phrase. His desire, more than her Sun Touch, shattered the darkness that forced him into violent servitude.

“I’m not going to say it felt good, but you saved me.”

“No,” she whispered. “You cleansed yourself. You spoke the words, and your desire became the driving force, not magic. I—”

“I wouldn’t have known to say them, without you. You guided my intent.” She could feel his compassion piercing her essence, and she tried to shove a mental wall between them. She did not deserve sympathy. “Vantra, you prevented me from dealing death that night. You showed me the way to shatter Rezenarza’s Touch and reject his manipulation of my body and mind. And then you rescued the Nevemere of the Snake’s Den by doing the same for them. You refused to relinquish us to him.”

“I . . .”

“You—not Katta or Qira, not Kjaelle or Vesh or Mera or Tally. Not Verryn. You. And that’s what you did today.”

She turned to him, ugly denial rising, but before she snarled, Salan stuck his wet black nose between them and whuffled. He shook his head, muttered, and barked loud enough, she started. Leeyal deserted his cleaning cloths on a far table and hurried over, grinning. He headed down the stairs behind the bar and reappeared quickly, holding a plate filled with raw meat coated in a liquidy orange sauce and a bowl with rolls and fruit. He placed both on the counter, and, without a word, tapped the mister, sternly stared, and returned to his work.

Kenosera snagged the plate and set it on the ground; Salan tore into it with excited snuffles. Smiling, he selected a fat roll and took a bite.

“You need to learn how to eat, quick,” he told her after swallowing. “The food here is really good.”

“I don’t think I learn anything quick,” she grumbled. Had she invited him to dine with her? She wanted to be alone! Maybe she should take the mister and find a cubby to curl up in. Or leave the mister and—

Fyrij flew to her, making cute sing-song sounds, then landed next to the shiny purple apparatus. He looked at it, looked at the tip held at her chest, and hopped back and forth, tweeting. Patting the sleek glass with his wing, he looked at her, then leapt to her shoulder and stuck his head under her chin before fluttering to and nudging the back of her right hand.

“Fyrij thinks you need some mist, too.” Kenosera motioned to the device.

Had they planned this, a dual-guilt trip? She closed her eyes, defeat stamping through her. Why could no one leave her alone? Why did they badger her?

Brightness from the door illuminated the interior. The nomad turned, his grin fading. Now what? She glanced over her shoulder; Xafane hustled to them, rubbing his hands together in worried relief.

“How is Yut-ta?” she asked, lowering the hose to the bar. Fyrij snagged her clothing and walked up her bodice, pulling the cloth from its customary position. Exasperated, she settled him and rearranged as the Sun acolyte reached them, stopping at Salan’s side.

“He has yet to regain consciousness, but Mozarin healed him,” the sprite said with a brief grin and bow. “Thank you for rescuing him. I’m sorry to stop by without notice, but I’m hoping you can shine sunlight on what happened.”

“I don’t have much sunlight to share,” she admitted. “He told me I’d be in danger if I helped him. I told him that was OK, but he passed out before he said anything else. The ghosts who harmed him are changeling elfines employed by Hrivasine.”

He frowned. “Changelings? That sounds like members of the Ombriel mercenaries.” He shook his head. “What was he thinking, becoming involved with them? He’s a good-natured lad, not one to find anything of worth in the underground.” His expression slowly fell into a dark scowl. “Unless he thought they had something to do with Lokjac’s disappearance.”

Vantra took an instinctual puff and the zing of magic through her was as much a reprimand as the ones Kenosera and Fyrij gave. She needed to absorb mist if she were to do something other than mope. She preferred to reflect in sad morosity, but another ghost’s existence might be in danger, and she would be a poor Sun acolyte if she neglected to help.

“I think we should talk in a more private place,” she murmured.

Kenosera hopped off the stool. “I’ll see if Leeyal can help.” He whisked to the tavern owner; Xafane shook his head in glum self-depreciation.

“There once was a sprite who was as lively as that. Then he grew old and became a ghost and now worry plagues him into slow steps.”

Vantra smiled and set the hose on the counter. “You don’t seem slow to me.” She cupped the caroling in her palms. “Fyrij, can you go get Katta, please?”

With an agreeable chirp, he took off for the stairs. She hoped he did not make too much ruckus at the door, since half the mini-Joyful enjoyed a quiet afternoon doze.

“You’ve more information?” Xafane asked, his frown forming a deep divot over the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, but not what you think.”

Leeyal walked up. “There’s a room we use for business,” he said, tipping his head to the left. “Come with me.”

Kenosera grabbed the bowl and the mister; she followed the Aristarzian ghost, surliness swimming through her. She did not know why the kind act irritated her, but from the nomad’s amusement, he noticed her reaction and thought it funny.

Leeyal led them down a side hall and opened a door at the end. He reached around the jamb and brushed his hand over the nearest sconce. Soft light illuminated a windowless room with a long, golden wood table and matching chairs pushed under it. Wide landscapes of the Dryanflow filled the walls, each shimmering with magic; did it protect the artwork or have another purpose? Coolness rose from the floorboards and enveloped her, and she wondered what spell interacted with Physical Touch so readily. She selected a chair two down from the entry; Kenosera slid the mister in front of her and chose the one next to her. Xafane sank into a seat opposite them, and Leeyal closed the door with a soft click before sitting at the end closest to the exit.

“Katta and Qira made certain nosy others can’t invade our peace,” the Aristarzian ghost said, making a circle with his index finger. “It’s not been necessary for several years, but habits formed under duress don’t revert easily.”

“Hmm,” Xafane said, nodding in agreement. “Though you must admit, Hrivasine learned from Kjiven’s mistakes.”

“Yeah, learned to keep his underhanded dealings underground so he doesn’t overtly offend Talis. There’s a reason you still can’t light a candle, let alone anything else, in the elfine Light temple here.”

The door opened and Katta walked in, Fyrij on his shoulder and chirping at him as if in deep conversation. He wore baggy pants and a soft tunic, and guilt washed through Vantra for waking him from his nap.

“Thank you for coming.” Did she sound as uncertain as she felt?

He smiled at her, pulled the chair next to her out with his boot, and sat down. “Fyrij is most insistent you have something important to say.”

“Maybe.” She fiddled with the mister hose, then pushed on before she lost her nerve. “The Snake asked me to do something for him when we arrived in Greenglimmer. He said that he corresponded with another essence guardian, but their communication had gone silent, and after what happened at the ruins, he was concerned for the spirit’s safety. He said that his friend’s name was Lokjac and requested that I speak with his acolyte Xafane before I mentioned it to anyone else.”

Katta frowned while Xafane’s eyes bulged.

“Lokjac’s an essence guardian?” he asked, stunned.

“That’s what the Snake said.”

“And why did the Snake want you to remain quiet on the matter?” Katta asked, a darker look crossing his features. Had he directed his displeasure at her and not the absent Snake, she would have wilted, intimidated.

“If Lokjac was well, then telling you would be moot. If not, he left it to my discretion.”

“And he thought Xafane would willingly speak to you on such a tender subject?”

“He was insistent that the Sun acolyte would recognize me for who I was and answer my questions.”

Xafane rapidly blinked. “A beacon among the earthly weeds, yes.”

A shiver coursed through her. The Snake used those exact words! Where did they come from? Machella’s oracle?

“But . . .” The sprite settled his hands on the table and stared at her, nonplussed. “May I ask, who is this Snake?”

“Lokjac never mentioned him?” Katta asked, snagging the heel of his boot on the seat of the chair and folding his fingers over his raised knee. His undivided attention flustered the Sun acolyte, and he rocked back, gripping the table’s edge to keep from tipping over.

“No, though he corresponds with numerous beings across the Evenacht. I believed it mostly for research, as he is a renowned scholar of the Elfiniti. He lived here before Kjiven took root, and is on fantastic terms with most of the rainforest dwellers except for the Wiiv. I’ve helped him gather reference materials for write-ups to send to academics. But, well.”

“My people have worshipped him for as long as they’ve looked to Darkness,” Kenosera said. “He is a humongous snake who lives beneath the Snake’s Den ruins, a once large and prosperous city. The Snake’s Den, the Snake’s Head Peninsula, are named for him.”

“Ah. That Snake.” Xafane nodded, looking impressed. “I didn’t realize he was more than myth.”

Katta eyed the nomad as he selected another roll. “Did you know the Snake guarded essences?”

He shook his head. “No, but the vi-van must have. That may explain their wish to deny access to the ruins for the common nomad.” He blew his breath forcefully between his teeth. “My grandmother kept us ignorant, and look at the price we paid.”

“This puts so many things into a new light.” Xafane’s shoulders sagged. “I know he keeps secrets—all ancient ghosts have them, including me—but I never thought he hid a charge from Death. It’s not surprising, I suppose. He’s an exceptional whizan, even if he rarely shows it. He outshines Avarelle, and she dislikes the reminder that her position came through guile, not power. And Rudarig is even more resentful.”

“Nymphs tend to fall to jealousy where whizan are concerned,” Katta said.

“There is more to his envy. During his lifetime, his father’s court denied him mafiz standing because of his mother’s elfine heritage. He resents Lokjac found awards and accolades before and after death, while he struggled for recognition beyond the treaty his dual bloodlines wrought.”

“The joys of infighting.” The Darkness acolyte sounded as if he could take the whole of schemes and power-hunger and toss them into the nearest body of water. Vantra understood the want; her mother had felt the same way when dealing with injudicious rivals. “And what does a ‘beacon among the earthly weeds’ mean?”

“Oh, it’s an ancient part of Sun Oracle Machella’s oracle. It was one of her original proclamations and never got as much attention as her later declarations. She said the Daughter of the Sun would shine as a beacon among the earthly weeds, her rays revealing the faults of ages previous and exposing the rot of lies within the ancient cracks.”

Kenosera patted her back, and she wondered if she looked as flabbergasted as she felt. He and the Snake thought that referenced her?

“And what makes you certain that Vantra is the Daughter?”

“Well.” Xafane cocked his head and groped for the words to explain. Fyrij fluttered his wings and sung a sweet, loving note.

“She just is, eh?” Katta asked. Fyrij chirp-chirped and settled back down on his shoulder.

“When did Lokjac disappear?” Leeyal asked, tapping his upper arms with his fingers and looking troubled.

“I’m not certain. My family elected my great-great grandmother as Cherished Ancestor and I was told to attend if I wished to remain recognized kin.” Xafane wormed his lips to the side in disdain. “Unpleasant as always,” he grumbled. “All they wanted was a Sun blessing. My attendance was hardly desired.”

The words struck Vantra, and sadness welled. While the Spiral Sun Temple as a whole disliked her, her mother always made room for her, no matter how busy her schedule was. To have family turn away while simultaneously demanding his loyalty must hurt.

“After a semma, I bid farewell. I was ready to go, they were ready for me to go, so I went—and returned to an empty study. Yut-ta said he had seen Lokjac an yilsemma previous, but Avarelle had sent him on an errand to Dryanthium. When he got back, he could not find him. He said books were left out—and Lokjac never leaves books out—and a paper half-scribed on the desk. The letter was for the Dryanthium Shades enclave representative about a ghost who’s sought refuge with the Iyat tribe outside of the Hoop.”

“Who’s the rep?” Katta asked.

“Medeiryl.”

“Ah. So she’s tracked Yed Jecarsen to where he’s hidden.”

“Yes. But the Iyat are more Wiiv-friendly than other tribes and have shown no interest in a trade. I find that odd, since Wiiv allies shun ghosts. That they even took him in . . .” He waved his hand to brush away the perplexing act.

“Do you think the Jecarsen chase has anything to do with Lokjac’s disappearance?”

“No. He was providing advice on navigating their customs, nothing more. I think he was interrupted by something else.”

“Was Yut-ta looking into the disappearance?”

“Yes. He refused to believe Lokjac walked into the forest without telling anyone. He knew we’d worry if he didn’t leave a note.”

Knock knock.

Leeyal rose to open the door as the rest of them glanced at one another. He murmured to another, then looked over his shoulder. “It appears an esteemed guest wishes to speak with you, Katta. Rivcon Embrez.”

Dread circulated through Vantra. Katta hmphed and gained his feet, unconcerned. She looked at Kenosera; they stood together and trailed the Darkness acolyte as he strode to the commons room.

The rivcon stood at the bar, eyeing Salan as the vulf stared back, snarling without sound. Unlike their meeting at the dock in Fekj, he wore a severely tailored green and gold uniform with large shiny buttons and high collar. His badge, a palm-sized, stitched patch of blue wavy lines over a green tree, sat over several vertical lines of varying shades of blue and green. Tall black boots reached his knee, the shine bright enough magic likely coated the footwear.

He looked restricted and uncomfortable, which Vantra decided caused his stern demeanor and stiff posture. The guards behind him wore looser pants and jackets made for easy movement, but they appeared even stiffer than their commander as they regarded the vulf. Intimidated by Salan?

The few patrons waiting for a meal or mist watched with guarded expressions, hunched shoulders, and silence.

“Salan,” Katta said with a dry sigh. The vulf trotted to him, turned, and stood in front of him, a giant protector the locals could not ignore. The ancient ghost stopped at his side, settled his hand on his back, and regarded the nervous rivcon. “I see you’ve introduced yourself.”

“Salan?” Embrez asked, his tone carefully composed to not offend. “Death’s Guardian?”

“Yes. Rayva’s upstairs with Qira.”

“Qira.” His distaste in speaking the name irritated Vantra. However he might feel about them, avatars deserved more respect. “I must speak with you both.”

“Must you?” The humor lacing the words pricked the rivcon; his eyes glinted, his mouth firmed, his nose twitched.

“Mokosie Hrivasine demands it. Retrieve him. Now.”

Hrivasine demanded it? Vantra’s essence quivered as Fyrij sang a sour note, unimpressed with the declaration. Embrez winced and his guard flinched in response. Katta ran a finger over his furred back.

“Fyrij, please retrieve Qira. I’m certain he’ll be eager to speak with Rivcon Embrez.”

He zipped away, flying low enough the rivcon ducked to avoid a face-to-face introduction to the caroling. Vantra vowed to speak to the little avian about manners, but considering Kenosera’s amusement, she doubted it would stick. He had too many who saw fun in his antics.

At least Leeyal’s concern reflected her own. Xafane’s distrust deepened her anxiety; she did not want Fyrij punished for brazen behavior. Even with his piercing, pain-inducing voice, he would not make a fierce enough foe to deflect the guards if they came for him.

Unease grew into anxious dread as Katta and Embrez eyed each other, but neither moved. What seemed an eternity later, a white-robed individual plodded down the stairs.

Red looked like death. As an ancient ghost, he crafted his appearance for life-like display, but now dark marred his under-eyes, a greyish hue tinged his skin, and his eyes teared. Fyrij flew around his head, tweeting his concern, as the spirit snugged his robe around his torso and shuffled to the interlopers. Embrez’s frown as he watched him near would make the deepest river proud.

Red stopped in front of the contingent, wobbled, leaned over, and puked on the rivcon’s shiny boots.