Nothing special, her hands. Average, just like the rest of her. Vantra sat on the fourth-story balcony of Dough’s home, legs crossed, studying them as her mind whirled down into dark depths, noting every crease, every imperfection, because she reflected her living self rather than an idealized façade.

She did not have the power for perfection. It was difficult enough to keep her hair purply red. It was difficult enough to keep herself whole. Why did she believe she could Redeem Laken? What hubris drove her?

Hubris? No. Just annoyance at Tieron, for trying to steer her away from the call that imbued her soul.

Laken still called, too, as clear and insistent as the day she Chose him. Once enough energy raced through her essence, she followed the link between her and her Chosen, a fine line of magic heading south. Not a surprise, Dough and Kenosera said. They fled to Black Temple, their haven. Black Temple, which rested a couple yilsemma’s travel from Merdia, in the opposite direction of the Snake’s Den. She had to rescue Laken from the Nevemere, which meant sneaking into the underground city, then retracing her steps to the ruin.

Time wasted, because of her failure. And what if she compounded that by failing to rescue him?

She squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the peaceful bay in blackness. The link behaved as it should, the only thing that had not failed. Everything else—including her form—had fallen apart. She had lost her home, her Finder position, now Laken and the golden shard . . .

Fyrij arrived in a rush of flapping and plopped into her lap. He looked up at her and produced the most melancholy tweet, then over at the ghost who settled on soft, earthen-tone pillows next to her.

Lorgan stared through the railing at the lapping blue waves, at the ships moored at the docks. The barrier reminded Vantra of a stairwell handrail conscripted for a new purpose, because the wooden balusters bulged in the middle, with a thinner top and round bottom. That seemed to be Dough’s home; a mishmash of items, as if he saw something he liked and displayed it without caring whether it fit the rest of his décor.

He eyed her somberly. “Are you getting enough mist?”

She hesitated, then nodded. The evening fog trickled up from the water, too little to absorb in earnest from that height, but once night fell, it would blanket Merdia in a comforting haze. He half-smiled, then nodded with the back of his head towards the shadowy doorway leading into the interior of Dough’s abode.

“Qira infused the fountain. It will do you good to soak up that magic.”

She knew that. She had spent the past yilsemma absorbing power, and still had not regained the whole of it. She also knew she did not deserve the honor bestowed, of having an ancient ghost animate her form.

He leaned on his palms and crossed his legs in front of him so he could tap the railing with his toe. He, too, visited the balcony towards sunset, when the clouds turned pale pink and orange and greyish purple. Late day in Evening might have a tinge of color to the clouds, but here in the Snake’s Den, the pastels were vibrant reflections of Talis’s beautiful sundown colors.

Was that why the Sunbright Temple stood in the middle of the desert? To let Sun acolytes view brighter sunsets? She certainly felt closer to Ga Son as she experienced the beautiful hues.

“Laken’s fine, Vantra.”

Her eyes snaked to him and back to the bay before nodding; if she responded in any other way, the suspicious scholar would press, asking annoying questions about her health. She had enough issues without his nosiness.

“I know you’re worried, but he’s got fire in him. He has a sullen outlook, but once he’s riled, he’s a nightmare. The Nevemere aren’t going to know what to do with him because they won’t be able to harm him.”

“What if they end up throwing him away?” she asked, clenching her hands. Searching for him among orange rocks and sand dunes, hoping her link held true, frightened her.

“They already would have, if that’s what they planned. They’re taking him to Black Temple, because he, and the gold shard, might buy them out of syimlin punishment.”

She wanted to snarl but kept her emotions bottled. Had those who fled Merdia even realized two syimlins triggered the destruction? She assumed they knew something strange happened because black mists rose from newly created fissures, but why would they know a clash of deities caused it? They escaped long before Trevel carted Ci Carrde and his people to the fort’s cells.

While reserved for play-acting when the ‘law’ side of the sea battles captured ‘pirates’, the Keel captain built them so the confined had a hard time escaping, adding authenticity to the experience—and those cells served as a legit jail now. Dough admitted the detention would cause problems for Merdia in dealing with Black Temple and the Nevemere, but the nomads attacked a syimlin at his docks in his city, and releasing them after a day or two behind bars would not punish them for the dire offense they committed. He required a representative from Black Temple to meet with him and broker a trade.

She assumed one of the ancient ghosts or Verryn made certain the vi-vans could not escape using magic, because otherwise, preparations were moot.

“If they are so wed to Darkness, why do they have a Sun-touched shard in their possession?” Not that he would know the answer; neither Verryn nor the mini-Joyful had an explanation, so why would Lorgan?

“I think it’s a bargaining chip,” he said. “I’d be very interested to know how many relics the Sunbright has lost to thieves because I believe that shard was among them. Considering the liberties Ci Carrde took to seize control of Dough’s ship and force him to sail to Voledanthes, I’d say it’s much in character for them to steal something they think will meet their dor-carous’s desire, and use it as a hammer against their enemies.” He tapped the railing with his worn leather boot, sinking into melancholy. “They’ve changed,” he whispered.

“Changed?”

“I can’t say the Nevemere were ever gracious towards outsiders, but the vi-vans I spoke with a thousand years previous were not fanatics who attacked places like Merdia for a leader’s pleasure. They possessed firm backbones and dropped wisdom on your head like raindrops. This capitulation to the dor-carous and Rezenarza?” He tapped faster. “The older generations honored Veer Tul. Why bow to a defunct syimlin now?”

Katta said that Darkness renewed the blessing on Black Temple’s main altar every five years, so neglect did not explain it.

“Are Verryn and Katta back yet?” Not that the question would distract her thoughts but it would focus Lorgan on something else.

“They just arrived. They said the residue’s gone, so it should be safe to inspect the new canyon.”

She did not understand exactly how, but the vi-van used spells associated with Rezenarza, and the ex-Darkness moved through the natives by way of the magic and attacked Verryn and everyone with him. The clash between him and Passion formed the canyon, with the tip starting at the docks and zooming past the hollow, to end at an orange rock outcropping called the Sentinel. The Sentinel now had a blackened divot in its lower extremities, and Lorgan snickered at the tourist plans Dough had for the syimlin-created landscape.

He may have calmed down since his seafaring days on Talis, but a pirate’s greed still infused him.

Rays peeked through the clouds, a rare phenomenon in the Evenacht; the Finders insisted the event only happened when either Sun or Moon wished to bless a ghost, so most never experienced it during their time in the evening lands. The yellow light touched the water mid-bay, which gleamed as it waved towards the shore. So beautiful, so bright. The beams dwindled and disappeared as clouds drifted across the opening, returning the sky to pastel sunset colors.

“A sun blessing.” Vantra looked back at Kjaelle, who wandered to them with a small smile. “Good luck shines on us.”

It had not so far.

“Come. Dough acquired the last of the supplies, so we’ll be off tomorrow. You need to re-energize before we do.”

Vantra scooped Fyrij up and obediently rose, somber and pensive. Why did the mini-Joyful still want to help her? Why bother with a failure? She mulled the possibilities of asking Katta to transfer Laken’s link to Lorgan, who had a previous connection, or Kjaelle, who would care for him until they discovered his sundered essences.

Both were strong enough, they would never lose their Chosen.

Lorgan paused, and both she and the elfine looked at him. He spied something on the street, and they followed his gaze.

Finders. And they entered the wrought-iron arch that decorated the flower-lined brownstone walkway leading to Dough’s home. Nolaris led them, Dychala and someone unknown to Vantra at his side. She took in his teal skin, half-shaved head, frail countenance, and dark blue Hallowed Collective operative robes, but did not recall Nolaris introducing her to the sprite. The scholar hissed and hurried into the house.

“Lorgan?” Kjaelle asked, her brittle tone echoing off the dark wood paneling as they trotted down the stairs.

“The sprite with him? Velcross?” Lorgan shook his head.

“I haven’t heard of him,” Vantra whispered.

“Not a surprise. He’s the Hallowed Collective’s expert on the Snake’s Head Peninsula. He’s a desk-glued scholar who rarely steps outside the libraries and only interacts with Finders when they need information on the peninsula—for a fee of course. That’s why he works for the Collective rather than the Finders; he makes more money. I doubt he came willingly.”

“Everyone’s in the basement with Dough,” Kjaelle said as they continued down the four stories. “We’ll need to warn him of his guests.”

The basement was a single, wide-open room with earthen-toned benches, chairs, tables, pillows, nothing fancy but padded for comfort. Mosaics of the ocean filled with ships and a busy dock lined the walls, lit by soft white ceiling lights encased in contemporary Talis metalwork designs.

In the center sat Dough’s pride; a knee-deep cement fountain the size of a swimming pool, constructed with an evaporation system that pumped mist into the air just as well as any spell. Lorgan questioned the pirate on it; he just smiled, as if he possessed a trade secret only he knew. No doubt, visiting spirits found the luxury of an on-site fountain of that size and strength enchanting.

The setting reminded Vantra that the scholar wanted to discuss something with her at the Shades’ enclave, but Kjaelle interrupted them, and he never followed up. Should she ask after it? Why would he chat about anything with her now, anyway?

Verryn waved them over to couches someone had pushed together to form a more intimate arrangement. The rest of the mini-Joyful, the three natives, and Dough sat there, animated and enthusiastic.

“Guess who showed up,” Lorgan began, just as footsteps clattered down the stairs. Kjethelwyn. The amber-haired, brown-eyed elfine had stayed at the place after the attack, more to keep the pirate captain settled than any need for protection. Vantra had the impression they cared deeply for each other, but swore no commitment beyond that—though several of his crew gossiped about expecting a change. Dough was skittish, but watching the nomads manhandle her ripped his timidity apart, leaving behind a sweet desperation for her presence.

Listening to his first mate wax poetic about “sweet desperation” unsettled her, but she refused to mention it. They had permanently warped her understanding of ‘pirate’, and she needed to accept her half-formed ideas gleaned from the odd history and fantasy books held little relevance in dealing with them. Well, at least in dealing with their ghosts.

“Not a dull moment with you lot around,” Kjethelwyn grumbled. “Dough, the esteemed Sage Nolaris wants to see you.”

“Esteemed?” Kjaelle bit out, fury lighting her eyes.

“So he said. The Finders with him are all very serious and concerned about something, and they think yanking their status around is going to impress us.”

Dough smacked his hands on his thighs and rose, annoyed. “They’ve been in town a few days. Why the sudden visit?”

Kjethelwyn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, maybe the opening of the canyon to tourists? The Hallowed Collective will see a grand opportunity in this miracle.”

He gurgle-growled, tipped his head back, and snarled before striding to the stairs.

“Nolaris eh?” Red asked, tapping his fingers against his crossed knee as he dug his elbow into the arm of the couch and propped his cheek up on his palm.

“Yeah,” Lorgan said. “Dychala and Velcross are with him. Velcross is the Collective’s Snake’s Head expert and prefers his desk to travel. They probably dragged him kicking and screaming onto the ship. He’d rather stay in Evening and charge Finders fees for info.”

“Has he been here?” Katta asked. He lounged down on the couch, arms folded over his tummy.

“I don’t know. I assume so because he’s an authority, but he’s not visited within the last few thousand years I’ve known him.”

Red popped up. “Fun! Let’s go listen!”

Kjethelwyn opened her mouth to protest, but the Light acolyte bustled to the stairs, radiating delight. The mini-Joyful watched him, none expending the effort to prevent him from eavesdropping; the twins even looked at each other, lips pursed, eyes half-lidded. Ugly worry filled her, so Vantra hastened after him, Lorgan on her heels. Fyrij happily tweeted, content to stay in her palms, but his perky excitement coursed around him.

Dough’s first story had one long hallway leading to the stairs, with rooms positioned off it. The set-up reminded Vantra more of an office suite than a ghost’s home, and he used it for formal interactions. Red stepped into the pirate’s ‘office’, a den-like room with comfy, dark brown furniture, dim lighting, and walls decorated with replicas of his battle spoils. She found the weapons, navigation devices, and ship’s tack interesting, but thought the floor-length portrait of the Keel conderlabolan, Mokrant, a hideous example of courtly painting from fifteen-hundred years previous.

The royal stood in front of a white-tiled, yellow-flowered wall, the painted blooms clashing with his attire. The too-small gold fitted jacket with dozens of gold-leaf buttons on the chest and running down the forearms, the over-tight white leggings, the garish gold shoes with black heel, the resplendent cloak poofy with fur and a dyed an unnatural golden hue, made her wonder if Dough had not taken a few liberties with the duplicate. She could see it, considering how the conderlabolan’s fleshy head bulged out from below the tiny coronet shoved onto his forehead.

Red tapped her arm, amused, and she dutifully turned from the monstrosity and planted herself behind him, hidden from the hallway by the dark-stained wall.

“I’ll do no such thing!” Dough blared, flabbergasted anger bordering on rage snipping through his voice. From the sound of it, Kjethelwyn had ushered the Finders into the blue-hued, sparsely decorated reception room nearest the door, the one the pirate captain used for unwanted guests.

“This is not negotiable,” Nolaris said, his contempt blazing through his muffled words. “It’s a holy site created by Death’s Consort and only the Hallowed Collective has the experience to manage it. We have—”

“I don’t care who you represent,” the pirate snapped. “This is my town, and Merdia’s borders go well past the Sentinel. I’m not giving up part of it because you lot think ‘holy’ and ‘Hallowed’ are synonymous.”

“That’s outrageous,” Nolaris fumed. “You have no idea how to care for a holy site!”

“Holy? It’s a scar from a syimlin battle. Hardly holy, now, is it?”

Red’s wide smile proved he appreciated the argument. Lorgan shook his head and leaned against the wall, troubled. Vantra sided with him; the ancient ghost did not understand the weight the Hallowed Collective carried outside of Evening. They, through the Greeters, had a hand in every spirit’s introduction to the Evenacht, and the newly deceased never forgot the ones who brought stability to a time of confusion and grief.

If the Finders made a fuss, Dough may experience more unwanted attention than he expected from acolytes concerned he disrespected Death’s Consort. Unless Verryn marked the site to disabuse religious conviction, he would find a constant influx of followers intent on punishing him for his insult to their sensibilities.

“This isn’t a request,” Dychala purred. Vantra shuddered, Lorgan glared at a net filled with a stuffed fish dangling from the ceiling, and Red rolled his eyes. “The Hallowed Collective will send a representative to define the site and place restrictions—”

“If the Hallowed Collective sends a rep, I’ll dispatch them right back to Fading Light,” Dough vowed. “You think me mates and I care what asses a spanse away think? Most of us were Redeemed. Finders don’t intimidate us. They’re basically useless—”

“How dare you!” Nolaris flared.

“Dare what? Tell you to piss in your own mouth?”

Vantra gagged on that one, while Red silently roared. Lorgan did not crack a smile.

“The Finders at the docks said you accompanied the syimlin,” an unfamiliar voice said. Velcross? The nasal whine scratched at Vantra, though she could not explain why. “And he disappeared after.”

“Passion didn’t disappear,” the pirate gritted. “He stayed to cleanse the Rezenarza Darkness from the scar.”

“Come now.” The condescension thickened. “You expect us to believe Passion fought Rezenarza? Our Finder compatriots spoke of nomads, not deities.”

“And how did they explain the Darkness coating them? Bad case of gas?”

“Then where is he now?”

“In his room, and he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“He’s here?” Nolaris laughed.

“Finest abode in Merdia,” Dough said with pride. “I put up important people from all over the Evenacht!”

And now he could brag about Passion staying with him. How much might he charge for others to use the same room?

“Let’s have a look, shall we?”

The nasal declaration coincided with a burst of magic. Vantra pressed herself against the wall while Red wobbled his head back and forth and flipped his hand.

“A heat scry,” he said. “I suppose that’s a decent choice, considering he’s looking for a syimlin, not a ghost, but it kinda doesn’t tell him much about his surroundings.”

“Velcross isn’t a Finder or a Hallowed agent,” Lorgan said. “He doesn’t think like one.”

“Sound would be better, when ghosts are around. Think he’s talented enough to perform a compass scry?”

“Maybe,” the scholar murmured. “Experts in the Collective come from the most powerful Hallowed adherents.”

Vantra looked down at Fyrij, too late to shield him from the scry. Red winked at her, and her self-esteem took another dive. She had not anticipated the magical search, but Red had, and—

“Velcross!” Dychala’s panicked shriek made her jump. Muffled voices erupted, shock and anxiety evident, though she could not understand the words. “No! Don’t step in him!”

“Guess Passion didn’t like his look,” Dough declared, his arrogant aplomb propped up with hot resentment.

“How dare you!” Nolaris squeaked.

“I didn’t dare anything. You should leave, before Passion takes further exception to you.” Rustling commenced. “I think I have a bag. Or you could just use that vase.”

Red much appreciated the reference to funerary urns, though neither Vantra nor Lorgan did. Perhaps too many years rested between his death and his current existence, to find funeral imagery disheartening. Fyrij rubbed his head across her hand and made high, peeping noises to soothe her distress. She touched her nose to his soft fur, wondering at his ability to understand her silent reactions.

Kjethelwyn moved past the doorway, intent on the reception room. She swung a nondescript linen sack back and forth, of the kind Kenosera, Lesanova and Dedari used for shopping, and Vantra wanted to plug her ears against sage outrage when he spied it.

“How dare you!”

Nolaris’s new favorite phrase? The pirates dared quite a lot, especially towards those they considered disrespectful.

“It’s not my idea,” the elfine said, in tune with the crackle of stiff fabric. “Passion stuck enough energy inside to help him reform in two days. So you can take the sack, or you can do without. And no, he’s not going to meet with you. He’s busy planning a trip into the interior, and he says he doesn’t have time for foolishness.”

That sounded more like Katta than Verryn.

“We are devoted followers of Death,” Nolaris gritted. “Passion would never shun us.”

“Um, considering his mood, you really don’t want to test that theory. Something about mortals prying into syimlin affairs.”

Red shook his head, amused. “Verryn has leave to act in Erse’s stead,” he said. “Which includes using the Mark and sending a spirit on to the Final Death. The Finders should know that.” Something Vantra could not make out, but that he heard, brought a wide grin to his face. “That will stick in Nolaris’s throat, won’t it? Verryn refusing to meet with them, then striking a colleague down because he had the insolence to search for and demand his presence.” He raised an index finger. “He’s getting better at this syimlin stuff.”

“Nolaris knows he’s going into the interior now,” Lorgan fretted. “He’ll be watching for us.”

“Not if he’s smart.” Red set his fists against his waist. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” They heard movement, resentful muttering laced with fear, and the loud chuckle of the pirate captain.

“Remember, two days to reform!” he called, then slammed the door shut.

Red bustled from the room, and Vantra and Lorgan rushed after. He squatted next to the essence the Finders left behind; the ghostly bits dug into the midnight blue carpet like ashes, smearing a line away from the rest and to where the bag’s lip had rested. How sloppy!

She knew Kjaelle had not shoved her essence into a bag and left traces behind, but took care to make certain to retrieve all of her. That the Finders did not extend the same care to their associate spoke loudly to their disregard of even simple niceties.

The ancient ghost held up his hands and the soft substance whirled into a loose ball before disappearing in a flash of Light.

“Sent to the bag,” he announced. “No sly spying through remaining essence.” He smacked his hands together and rose, beaming, while Dough and Kjethelwyn eyed him, aghast.

“Can you sense anything around you while discorporated and separated from your main essence?” the elfine asked. Vantra shuddered; no. Darkness reigned during the terrifying ordeal.

“No, but Nolaris clumsily placed a scry spell within the essence. He really has no idea what it’s like, to experience a syimlin’s anger, and just keeps poking at it. I’d nudge Verryn into a confrontation, but he shouldn’t honor the man with a visit.” He patted Dough on the arm and grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll teach you how to drink beer in honor of your defeat of Collective nosiness, and Verryn will come up with some mark to link Merdia to the canyon. Then we’ll talk about this desert navigator whose caravan we’re hiring. Rils, was it?”

“Beer?” Dough perked up like a schoolboy whose parents promised him a puppy. Kjethelwyn narrowed her eyes, sternly regarded Red, then slipped her arms around his.

“Let’s discuss this,” she said with prim firmness, leading him to the stairs.

“Nononononononono!” Dough ran after, waving a hand. “Me first!”

Vantra clutched Fyrij close. Should she worry about the offer? The pirates told enough outlandish beer-drinking stories to last two lifetimes, and she wondered at the wisdom of creating more.

“Has it ever occurred to them to take the Hallowed Collective seriously?” Lorgan asked. He attempted nonchalance, but frustrated heat bubbled beneath. He shook his head, disgusted, and followed, leaving Vantra to trail behind.

Why ask? Nolaris’s previous interactions with Kjaelle, Katta and Qira paved the way for the disrespect, and the ancient ghosts nor their companions seemed enamored of his position or past deeds. They had no care he Redeemed the Rival. They had no care, his reputation proceeded him through the Evenacht because of that achievement.

She glanced out the eight-paned window that let the fading light of day into the room. On impulse, she pulled the soft cloud-blue drapes closed and exited, hoping she could keep her mind on whoever Rils was and ignore the dread as she recalled the Darkness of discorporation.