Lightning flared through the shutters and illuminated everything in the wagon with stark whiteness, and did not fade before the thunder roared. Vantra huddled down further and wrapped her cloak as tight about her as possible, while Fyrij bore into her neck.
How she hated such storms. How she hated showing her childish fear to her companions.
A knock, and Rils peeked in. He wore a black, buttoned duster, and a cloak with hood over it, both shimmering with water and magick. Vantra guessed spells to protect essences from nights like these infused the material, because bad weather played havoc with both Ether and Physical Touch.
“The wind’s getting fierce,” he said. “Unless a ghost has appropriate protection, they need to stay inside.”
“We can check on the ronyx and tour the wagons to make certain all’s well,” Kenosera offered, motioning to the other nomads.
“Good. Even with these,” and he held up his arms, “the wind’s getting through.”
Red winced at the admission. “How secure are the wagons?”
“They’ve got waterproofing, windproofing, and sandproofing enchantments. We’re hidden from the worst of the wind by the overhang, but from the looks of it, tonight’s going to be rough despite preparation.”
“And still no bordican?” Kenosera asked.
His mouth pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not that we can tell. Even in this dark, we should see their lights, and there’s nothing.”
“Hopefully it will remain that way,” Dedari murmured, chafing her hands. “Out-season rain is bad enough.”
Rils dug a round object from his inner duster pocket and slid it across the floor to Kenosera. “Check on the ronyx in another two clicks,” he said. “And bundle up. It’s getting cold enough, the rain might change to snow. There should be gear under the bunk.”
He closed the door and Vantra peeked out from her hood. Snow? Did deserts get snow? “Is the rest of the Snake’s Den experiencing this storm?”
Red cocked his head as Katta thoughtfully regarded her. “However far the edges of the magic waves reached, they will experience something,” the Darkness acolyte said. “The nearer Black Temple, the worse the weather.”
“I’ve read about spells affecting the weather, but I’ve never experienced it.”
“When I was alive, stronger mafiz, lorels, mystics and whizen dedicated to Nem Halla keep most magic-inspired events in check,” Lorgan said. “They used several caches to vacuum in the residue so things remained civil. I don’t know if they still do.”
“They do,” Red said, wagging a skewer at him. “But they no longer store it. There was an explosion at the Shell Wind Temple, what, two thousand years ago? It obliterated the temple and everyone inside, and caused a storm of terrible viciousness. After that, instead of storing the magic and basically taking it out of circulation, they replenish the natural world, finding bereft areas and revitalizing them.” He leaned over and cupped his hand to the side of his mouth as if he related a conspiracy. “You’d think that’d be the obvious thing to do,” he said in an exaggerated whisper.
Vantra swore the next crack of thunder sounded before the lightning flashed. She did not take comfort in all others jumping with her, or the self-mocking laughter that followed. Would it rage all night? She cuddled Fyrij close and prayed that it would not. She needed rest, and that would not come if the sky kept shouting at them.
“Anyone up for ghost stories?” Red asked. He howled at the looks they gave him, and his infectious amusement even penetrated her shuddering fear. “I’ll go first. Once upon a time, the wind, with a mind of its own . . .”
“Red,” Kjaelle groaned.
“What? OK, if you don’t want to hear a ghost story, why don’t you get your cards and tell a fortune?” He waved his fingers at face height, to the side, as if a crystal ball lay between them. “Oh mysterious mystery something something, heed my plea.”
“That will convince others of your sincerity and sight,” Kenosera agreed. The dry comment, combined with Red’s mopey face, lifted Vantra’s spirits a tad.
“You’ve not seen him do a cold reading,” Kjaelle told the nomad. “He’s exceptional at picking up on what people don’t say, and running with it.”
“I thought you disliked fortune telling.” Vantra studied Red, confused.
“I do. Part of it comes from those cold readings. I can make up ludicrous stuff, and some people are so desperate, they’ll believe whatever comes from my mouth.” He paused, then frowned. “I hear shouting.”
Everyone hushed; after the thunder, Vantra heard the frantic calls.
“I bet they’re headed here,” Tagra said. “The overhang’s hard to miss.”
Another pounding on the door, before Rils opened it. “I need you four,” he said, eyeing the living. “Spotted a large caravan, and they’re making for the overhang. Can’t make out the mark on the sides, so be cautious while interacting with them.”
The nomads dug into the cabinets and pulled out items that unfurled into oversized but warm-looking gear. They shrugged into the outerwear and hurried out. Hopefully the arriving caravan was not filled with fear-inspired, hostile beings. She saw the results of furious fear, with the attack on the poor Nevemere at Grindal Oasis. She easily pictured beings, stretched to their emotional breaking point, shattering and acting in ways anathema to their normal selves.
“How long, do you think, it will take for word about what happened at Black Temple to reach other Snake’s Den habitations?” Kjaelle asked, her attention on the shutters as if she could see through them.
“Depends,” Lorgan said. “Just from what we’ve experienced, the nomadic peoples of the interior don’t bother with modern ghostly communication devices. The Astri might, but we have no idea whether Levassa took the entire lot with him when he left. Traditional methods shared by both the Nevemere and the Voristi mostly consist of couriers, runners, and tall poles with a dried glass float bell on top. These bells have several transparent balls of various colors that magic users trigger through a light spell. They’re bright neon, too, so others can’t mistake the light for something natural. Yellow means help, blue means all’s well, green means battle. They use fifteen different colors and sometimes combine them with rhythmic flashes. I didn’t see any poles surrounding Black Temple before the explosions, though. Maybe they no longer use the system.”
“So it might take days before communities further away learn what happened.” Kjaelle nodded. “The Nevemere in Watermarket and Grindal Oasis fled on foot to Black Temple, and I don’t have the impression they contacted family or authorities first. I bet they still rely on couriers and runners for distance communication. I doubt this caravan knows about Black Temple, only that an unseasonal and violent storm is raging.”
Red wrinkled his nose. “If the light poles still exist, they might get info out faster, but I doubt the local magisti can light them.” He held out his hand and the light he created in his palm flickered and flashed. It held together, but Vantra realized a ghost with less ability would never keep it actualized. “Even simple spells are affected.”
“Not unexpected,” Katta said. “We released a great deal of energy into the atmosphere, and that will play havoc with the weather system. But it was either that or create a crater to Watermarket. We didn’t have time to prep for else.”
“And how drained are you, Red?” Kjaelle asked.
He sighed and did not respond.
The boom startled Vantra, and she folded into a tight ball, miserable. Fyrij shuddered against her neck, a fluffy little puff of fright. She felt a Touch on her back—Red—and felt even worse, that her fear garnered sympathy.
She sunk into her gloom, hating her lack of backbone, but emotionally unable to strengthen her bravery. She felt depleted, in mind, in Touch, in essence, and she pondered how Katta, Red and Kjaelle even continued to function, considering what they had done to keep Black Temple from becoming a crater that reached to Watermarket.
She still could not comprehend the potential destruction caused by objects that looked like tourist trap spears. How had the Beast imbued them with such lasting nastiness? Syimlin potency, indeed, to remain so powerful over six millennia after their creation.
“We are Finders!”
Vantra jerked up, aghast. She knew that imperious voice! Nolaris? How . . . why . . .
“Shit,” Lorgan said with venom, turning to the shuttered window nearest him. “Was he not headed to the interior?”
“Let me guess.” Red finished his last skewer and tossed the stick onto the empty plate. “Nolaris and his cronies.”
“But they were going to the interior!” Vantra protested. While she could only guess at their reasons for touring the peninsula, she assumed they wanted to enter the Snake’s Den ruin and prevent her from recovering Laken’s first essence. If the Finders followed the well-used routes that Rils had initially suggested to Verryn, they should have reached Sunbright Temple in six days, with another four more to the ruins, depending on how hard they traveled and if they stopped at Kepher. They should be nowhere near Black Temple.
“Since the Nevemere went senseless, there are many reasons for his caravan to have changed course,” Kjaelle said. “Red! Where—”
“Everyone needs to be reminded not to speak about us to them,” he said, snagging a cloak the nomads had not used. “The storm’s bad enough; we don’t need to fight Finders right now.”
Terror wormed through her. Nolaris. Ill luck tumbled after them, filling their footsteps with foulness. What would he do, if he realized she sat in the camp? Try to end her again? Who else would he harm to stop her?
Katta finished his skewer and leaned back, calm, content. Why? Did Nolaris not bother him? Just because Kjaelle discorporated Dychala did not mean he would succumb to the same attack as readily. He was a sage, after all!
“Make certain you don’t say hi,” he cautioned. Red, with a grin as wide as a river, flumped the hood over his head and pushed the door open against the roaring wind. Everything not tied down flew around the interior, and Vantra helped Lorgan and Kjaelle secure the items and stuff the skewer sticks into a receptacle. So, so many skewer sticks. How much food had the eaters ingested?
“Nolaris is a sage,” Lorgan fretted as he shoved the ends of bedding beneath the bottom mattress of the bunk bed. “I realize you lot don’t consider that impressive, but he has power backing him.”
“Sages are political titles, not earned ones,” Kjaelle said as she popped open a cabinet and settled loose sheets of paper inside. “Nolaris accepted the gift because it raised his standing. He had no reason to become a sage, otherwise. His magic is mediocre, his Finder skills even less. You’ve even admitted that.”
“He Redeemed the Rival.”
“So? Every soul in the Fields deserves to be Redeemed, and the Rival is no different. Well, other than the fact he remains in the Evenacht rather than traveling on to the begestern evening lands. And who advocated for that privilege, but Nolaris?” Her nose twitched as she regained her seat next to Katta. “We don’t need another Beast, and that is what the Rival would become, if given the opportunity. Nolaris paved the way. He shouldn’t be honored, but condemned.”
“It was an exhaustive Redemption.”
“And how much of that Redemption, do you think, he performed?” Kjaelle raised an eyebrow at the scholar. “I put up with his stink for a semma. He incessantly bragged about his successes, but his details on the actual Redemption are sparse. I doubt he completed it himself, just like I’m positive he refused to acknowledge those who aided him.”
Vantra considered her words. Nolaris did brag incessantly, that was true, but now that the elfine pointed it out, she could not recall specific elements concerning his exploits. He continuously promoted the grand accolades he received after his Redemptions, but detailed explanations on how he retrieved the essences never made it into retellings. He even glossed over well-documented retrievals, so perhaps he did so on purpose, to cover up the fact he sent others to do the job and then took credit. If he relied on Finder acolytes like herself, they would never whisper a word about it, too afraid he would destroy their own career.
Lorgan slid down the side of the lower bunk, slumped down, and tapped at his knees. “Finder rumors about his successes vary,” he admitted. “There are several who think he’s overrated and underachieving, but they keep their views to themselves.”
“Are they all Clastics?” Katta asked, a half-grin accompanying the words.
Lorgan shook his head. “No. But they do happen to run younger than the Hallowed Collective in general. They weren’t around during the Rival’s Redemption, and they don’t understand why they should revere him for it. They point out he’s not Redeemed another of such import since, though they’re quickly shushed by the Finder’s mandates.”
Vantra admired him, but not because of a deep understanding of the trials in Redeeming a begestern the Beast had sundered into a hundred separate essences. She did so because Nolaris and those who looked to him for inspiration and advice held up that achievement as the epitome of what an acolyte should aspire to. Her experience with the few Finders outside his circle only strengthened her awe of his accomplishments.
She sighed and leaned her head back on the bench seat. Except for Jheeka, who warned her not to trust him. Too bad, she never took her words as seriously as she should have. Of course, if she had, she never would have met the mini-Joyful, and despite the myriad of problems and complications that rose around her Redemption of Laken, they remained a bright and beautiful spot of hope and support for her dull, fumbling self.
Chill slunk over her fingers. She glanced down at the tips and the mists that tickled them. Despite being shuttered, the wagon still let some within. Her essence absorbed the energy, and she closed her eyes, letting the trickle of power dance across her. The lightning and thunder had lessened, so perhaps she could get some elusive rest.
