Vantra could not pull her gaze away from the sparkling white to answer Mera’s breathy words.
Her hometown of Winsun had a mild climate, so the times it snowed there, Vantra remembered them as momentous occasions with business closures and no school. She had gone skiing in the mountains, the totality of her living interactions with the white stuff. Evening got snow, but never too deep, never too cold.
Staring at the expansive drifts before her, she shuddered. This was going to mire them down.
Tally nudged her, and she looked at the glass float. The tentacles waved back and forth, but it remained stiff, unyielding, with a ridge of snow lining the top of its bell. “Do you think that means the storm’s over, or it’s just a break?”
“I don’t know.” She really should have paid more attention to Lorgan’s research when she had the chance. Now, in the thick of travel, she did not have the time or energy to read, as she anticipated.
“I hope it’s over,” Mera murmured. “If not, I think the Finders are going to find their essences scattered to the winds.”
Tally huffed and Vantra wobbled between laughter, disgust, and dread.
The nomads had rallied around Kenosera once they found out about his dor-carous connection. The Finders tried to intervene, with Velcross having the bright idea to bribe the lot in the effort to get them to kidnap and hand her over to the Finders—and discovered the usual veneration of Evening did not translate into respect on the peninsula.
They should have realized that after Verryn discorporated Velcross. Did they learn nothing?
“Even if it’s over, it’s going to be difficult to travel, considering how deep the snow is.” Tally set her hands on her hips and thrummed her fingers.
When they arrived, darkness covered the land, and Vantra had not gotten a good look at the landscape. Now that she had, her flicker of hope in reaching the ruins threatened to snuff out. They sat beneath a rocky ledge that was part of a series of cliffs interspersed with canyons; the walls spanning north beyond their lee-side protection had the white stuff blown halfway up to the top. The expanse of desert opposite them, sprinkled with buttes and jutting rock formations and sparse, bushy flora, had clear ground in spots, drifts taller than her in others. The road, which wound around the edges of the cliffs, had similar patches.
“I wish we had our wagons,” Mera groaned. “I don’t think Rils has skis for his.”
Skis?
She grinned at her. “It’s much easier to pull a wagon with runners in snow,” she said. “It’s a necessity if you’re traveling around Fading Light.”
That made sense, especially in more mountainous regions of the continent. She had been lucky, to this point; when it snowed in Evening, the city kept the streets clear, and the Hallowed Collective used spells to clear the road to Death’s Arch and the Fields. She never had to deal much with the stuff, considering how infrequently she traveled.
Nolaris never visited the Fields during the colder seasons, so she never had to worry about prolonged exposure to nasty weather. She snarled; just another way he neglected to prepare her for her first Redemption.
“Fuuuunnnn.”
They glanced at Red, who stood behind them, eyeing the white mounds with a wrinkled mouth and annoyed acceptance.
“How’s Katta?” She had to ask. He had not roused in the three days the storm took to dwindle, and while the mini-Joyful did not think it odd, she could not help but worry.
“He’s fine.” Red rolled his shoulders. “Seen the Finders?”
His pushing the conversation in another direction irritated her, but what else might she say? They kept telling her Katta was fine, and even Kjaelle remained unconcerned, but she had the suspicion they hid something from her about the why of it. It caused anxiety, one they could not salve with their assurances because they never explained how they knew he was OK.
“They’re still hiding,” Tally said with a smirky gloat.
“Nolaris isn’t a snow person.” Vantra sounded lame, even to herself, and she winced.
“No?” Red grinned wide. “Good.” He pulled his coat collar and adjusted the scarf firmly wrapped around his face. It looked like he wore a fluffy white sheep, and while she thought it ridiculous, she could not fault its warmth. He had offered it to her when she could not rest; the cold seeped into her essence and scraped at her, preventing any rejuvenation from the mist. Basking in the heat spell it radiated embarrassed her, but she still enjoyed it.
“Do we wait until it melts, or try to leave early?” Mera asked.
“I don’t know. There are problems either way.” His gaze trailed the road across the open space. “But that’s why we have Rils.”
“Like I know what to do.” The caravan ghost wandered up, eyes for the expanse of white. “I’ve been on the Snake’s Head since I came to the Evenacht, so, near eighteen hundred years. It snows as often as a Moon’s Blessing appears, but nothing like this. You need to have a cold night with storm, and the rain turns to snow.” He shook his head. “When it snows, it’s usually a dusting, and the stuff melts the next day. This? If the weather returns to normal, we’re going to have mud and flooding when all this melts. We’ll be lucky if the roads stay intact.”
“So we need to move quick,” Mera said. “Can we makeshift skis?”
“I . . . don’t know.” He winced and shrugged. “I don’t think we have anything to break down, other than a wagon.”
“Don’t do that,” Red said. “We’ll come up with something.”
“Grrrffff.”
What was that? A ronyx had not gotten free, had they? Vantra blinked, and looked over.
She froze. Rayva. She could not forget. Would never forget. Scary scary wild canine vulf. Should she run? Hide?
Mera clucked. “Oh, Rayva,” she cooed. “Katta will be fine.”
Rayva flicked her ears and whuffled. Her head, with long snout and golden eyes, reached Red’s shoulder, so she did not have to look up far to meet his gaze. The top of her head and back shimmered a Lightish yellow beneath the patches of black and brown. Her neck, belly, and tip of her tail had fur as white as new snow, with a glittery sheen. Her gold eyes gleamed with intelligence, far more than a typical vulf carried.
If she stood next to them, where was Salan?
Red rubbed at his nose. “Verryn’s condition scared you, eh? Did you come to check up on Katta?”
She barked, and he wrapped an arm over her neck and squeezed.
“Mera’s right, though. He’ll be fine.” He waved his hand at her. “Rayva, this is Vantra. We’re helping her Redeem Laken. That’s Rils, the head of the caravan we’re using.”
Vantra took comfort that Rils froze as well, eyes bulging. No ghost since the Tunnel of Memory’s inception could forget the vulfs and their company during one of the most frightening experiences of their existence. The two made certain the newly deceased entered the Tunnel and relived their memories, the pre-judgment to Death’s own. If a remembrance proved too horrible, too devastating, they did not let the spirit remain to digest, to weep, to cry out in agony. No, they snapped at their heels and forced them further down the rough, rocky way.
They must have grave concerns, indeed, to vacate their post and enter the Evenacht in search of the Darkness acolyte.
“We’ll introduce you to the rest of the caravan, too.” He held her gaze. “And NO going after them.”
The disappointed gruffle only made Red sterner.
“Them?” Vantra whispered.
“The Finders,” he said. “She and Salan are, first and foremost, Guardians of Darkness. They will consider any hostility a threat until Katta—” He sneezed.
Oh. Right. He was allergic to them. How, again, did a ghost become allergic to anything?
Poor Red. He looked as Red as his name. With a hug to both, he took himself to the wagon where Laken, Vesh and Fyrij rested, sneezing and dripping and tearing up. Lorgan eyed the reaction, eyed the vulfs; questions swam through his eyes, but he, like Vantra, did not have the bravado to ask them.
The two filled the wagon with Kjaelle and Katta, leaving no room for the ghosts who did not want to phase through them, let alone anyone else. Vantra worried about that; she had not seen the four nomads and did not want them dying of shock when they opened the door and beheld the vulfs within. Where had they gone?
“Poor Red,” Tally said, morose, reflecting her thoughts.
“How . . .” Tally raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, and by her stubborn expression, no answers would leave her mouth anytime soon. Lorgan shook his head, exasperated. “Nevermind. Are they coming with us to the ruins?”
“Hey, guys, are you coming with us to the ruins?” Mera asked. The affirmative yap sparked unease in Vantra, though the two Light acolytes appeared satisfied. “Of course they are.” She picked up Salan’s night-black tail and settled it inside. He flipped it about before curling it around his back legs. Were they comfortable? The half-on, half-off the benches looked painful.
“You know how worried they get,” Kjaelle said. She sat cross-legged on the top bunk, eyeing the new arrivals as they nuzzled at Katta’s still form on the lower. Salan rumbled a reply, his eyes glowing ice blue, as the interior darkened by Mera closing the door.
“I know you’ve never experienced them just showing up,” Tally said. “But Kjaelle’s right. When they get concerned about Katta, they’ll pop into the Evenacht and keep us company.”
“Does that happen often?” Lorgan asked.
“More often than you think.” Mera snickered. “I think they just want a little vacation sometimes. We usually don’t have much trouble with ghosts when they’re with us.”
Vantra understood why.
Dedari rocketed around the corner of the wagon with fierce delight. She grinned and motioned for them to follow her before she twisted on her heel and returned the way she had come. They looked at each other, then Mera, Tally and Lorgan zipped after her. Vantra hesitated, but the shing of fear that the Finders might discover her out of company prompted her to catch up.
Her companions insisted she needed at least one of them with her at all times because no one thought her safe with Nolaris freely nosing about. Laken, especially, held dark views concerning attempted kidnapping.
The nomads were with the glass float. Kenosera, Lesanova and Tagra cautiously pulled at a broken tentacle that had fallen beneath the others, constantly searching for a better handhold as their grips slid off the slick surface. It looked as hard as the non-broken ones and left a deep line in the dirt as they crept backwards with their bounty. The stiff part of the float did not react, and the thinner tentacles remained in motion above them, grasping bits from the cold air.
“Look look!” Kenosera crowed, beaming.
Mera knelt and tapped at the surface. “It’s still hard?”
“It will stay that way,” he said. “Bordican lose limbs during harsh storms, and this one is no different. But.” He held up his index finger. “Red was talking about skis earlier. That reminded me of bordreedesan. There are parts of the desert, where nomads put bits of bordican shells on the bottoms of flat platforms. With the slick surface pointing down, they can slide across sandy areas. We should be able to attach pieces to the wheels of the wagons and use them in the same way.”
“How do we break it apart?”
“We wait for pieces of the hardened shell to fall off. After storms blow out, the bordican shed their hardened exteriors. This one, being so large, should give us larger pieces. If we find one with a sharp enough edge, we can saw the tentacle up. Between this and the shell, we should have enough shards to put on the bottoms of the wheels. I don’t know about attaching them, though. It’s usually done using an adhesive made from wreestan, but the plant doesn’t grow around here.”
“How are you going to use a piece like a saw?” Vantra asked. The difficulty they had in pulling the tentacle out meant the shell would be too slick to hold properly.
“The shell connects to the bordica with something like a tendon. It falls off with the shell, and because it is on the inside, it is bumpy and rough, making for a decent handhold.”
“We should ask Rils about chains or something,” Tally said. “Or talk to Qira. He’s good at coming up with unique ways to use outdated magick to solve problems.”
Vantra looked at the large creature. “How long does it take for them to shed?”
“It comes all at once,” Dedari said, making a swooshing motion down with her hands. “It’s a signal the bad weather is at an end. Bordican won’t move until it is.”
Convenient. Now all they had to do was wait.
Another storm moved through that afternoon, light on snow, colder, but it ended before night fell. When the last flake flitted to the drifts, a tinkling of hard objects striking hard objects resounded off the cliff walls. Vantra rushed with the nomads around their wagons and to the glass float; below it, a pile of frosted glass-like shards coated the ground. Its tentacles reached for the top of the cliff, and it snaked over faster than she expected; it must be eager to reach home.
“I’d expect they’d slow down in the cold,” Lorgan said, walking to them as he followed its progress, his hand stroking his stubbly beard.
“Temperature never affects them,” Dedari said as she snagged a larger shard away from the pile. “Our desert gets very hot and very cold. They have adapted, so even when it snows, they don’t notice.”
“Is there enough for the other caravans?” Vantra asked as she, too, gripped a shard and pulled it from the pile.
“Be cautious,” Kenosera said. “The edges are sharp, and I’m not certain if they will harm your essence.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you for the warning.” A part of her wished she had a fraction of his graciousness as a teen. He would have made a good leader, one that cared enough to put himself in danger for those he led, but his heart remained set on joining the Joyful Caravan, and she doubted anything would dissuade him.
“There should be,” Tagra said, eyeing the pieces. “That was a large bordica.”
Sniff sniff.
Salan stuck his nose in the pink bits and rummaged about, Fyrij planted in the center of his forehead and chirping advice. His and Rayva’s curious investigation of the camp astounded her and frightened half the nomads until Kenosera walked with them and introduced them to the various beings. She thought their softness with the children, more than anything, won over the adults. The little boy who was impressed Laken was a pirate captain even rode on Salan’s back, which excited him and scared his parents.
She wondered at the lack of fear in so many. Tagra shrugged and reminded her that, as followers of Darkness, they knew about Rayva and Salan. They saw them as guardians, rather than scary creatures meant to hound them to Death’s Judgment.
That they stood watch over Katta did not go unnoticed, especially by the upset Finders who had no idea why the large beings disliked them so much. Nolaris, after a timid attempt to speak to Rayva, and her vicious snarling response, fled to a wagon and remained inside.
Funny, how he did not have such reservations about badgering Verryn. The vulfs must frighten him far more than an actual syimlin.
“I’ve read desert peoples use the shell as saw teeth,” Lorgan said as he squatted down and ran a finger over a larger one. Vantra studied the bit in her hand; the outer surface was slick and shinier, the inner one hazier with small bumps. Neither seemed conducive to easy attachment to anything else.
“Yep. And we make knives, arrowheads, and needles from them,” Lesanova said as she toed a particularly large piece from beneath a scattering of smaller ones. “There are special grinders to sharpen the edges. It’s more difficult to make anything large because you need to chip the shells rather than mold them. You can’t uncurve them, and the bits from smaller bordican are, well, smaller. Sometimes you can find a larger piece from the bell to place on a shield, but that’s rare.
“Some landed settlements use them in glass windows. It adds a nice color to the interior. Some of the landed clans attach pieces to cloth and cover supply caches during rockstorms. You still need shelter, but that can keep the wood from being decimated by small rocks. A lot of it goes to jewelry.”
“It’s hard to collect, though,” Kenosera said. “The bordican only drop their shells after rockstorms. Anyone with sense is in a shelter, and by the time they leave, the winds have blown the bits away. You’ll find scattered pieces, but never something like this.”
“If we were going to sell these, we’d make good money,” Tagra breathed. “Pieces this large?” He held up the corner of the one he dragged from the pile. “Some dor-carous leaders would jump to purchase it.”
“But it is more important to leave,” Kenosera reminded him. “And I’m not sure how well they’ll work for anything else once we attach them as runners.”
Rils and his crew shuffled up, a lopsided grin hinting at mischief. “Qira spoke with the other local caravans,” he murmured as he stopped to eye the bounty. “We’re going to move their wagons just enough to let ours through between them and the cliff. Since Nolaris insisted on being in the center of things, his group’s trapped until the others decide to leave.”
“What did he promise to achieve that?” Lorgan asked, planting his hands on his thighs and rising.
“Darkness Blessing?” Kenosera hazarded.
“Yep. Katta blessed them with small bushes that would always remain full of berries. The spells are attached to jewelry, so they can take the bushes with them when they change wagons or settle down. There’s little more important in the desert than finding food, and he’s made certain they won’t starve in hard times.”
“Black Temple’s on his mind,” Lorgan said.
“Hmm. Qira told them whatever we don’t use of the shell, they’re welcome to it.”
Kenosera smiled while Tagra grumbled. Vantra did not care; the quicker they left the Finders behind, the better she would feel.
Unfortunately they knew where the mini-Joyful headed, and knew the route they took. She doubted Nolaris would rush to Black Temple for a pass when they could more easily intercept them in the open, before they even reached the ruins.
