A ghostly cloak shimmered and fell around Kjaelle as she shoved the door open and bounded down the stairs, keeping the item closed with one hand. Katta followed, a cloth-textured protection surrounding him and hiding his face. He nearly ran into her, because she stopped only three steps from the wagon, staring up at the overhang. He turned and stared, too.

The rest of them looked at each other, and the two Nevemere scampered out first, Lorgan on their heels. Fyrij chirped in worry, and Vantra stroked his head before reluctantly forcing herself after the braver beings. What had happened? Had part of the cliff collapsed? Just what they needed, the earth crumbling overhead as they tried to hide beneath.

 She joined her companions and followed their gaze along the arch of the overhang and to the edge.

The top of a glowing, transparent pink, sea jelly-looking bell loomed past the fringe, rippling like ocean waves under the touch of wind. If that was proportional, the creature was at least three times the size of the nine combined wagons in Rils’ caravan. A thick, sleek tendril snaked over the edge and under, sinking into the stone next to an already planted one. Clumps of rock careened down and bounced off the wagon beneath, which rattled as the canvas shuddered but held.

One had a shredded tarp fluttering over broken ribs, and an orange clump of shattered rock lying next to the crushed side; that must have been the terrible sound they heard. Good thing, it had not hit one of their living companions.

More tentacles slid under the overhang, tearing apart the bottom in search of a firmer grip. Dislodged stone plummeted and bounced after striking the ground, trailed by a patter of dirt and dust.

“It’s going to bring down the cliff!” Kenosera shrieked, his voice blending with the increased wind.

“Do they grow that big?” Dedari asked, slapping her lower arm over her mouth to keep it free of debris.

Rils hustled up, terror flitting through his eyes. “We need to move it!” he yelled. “We don’t have anywhere else to go, with a rock storm coming!”

“How do we do that?” Katta called as Red trotted up, eyes wide enough to rival dinner plates.

“WHAT IS THAT?”

Vantra was certain the scream came from Nolaris. Lorgan must have thought so, too, because his head dipped down, and he peered beyond the edge of the circled wagons.

“Prepared as always.”

Kjaelle chuckled, though her gaze remained on the giant.

“Heat the ends of the tentacles and arms before it solidifies in a place, guide the limbs to where you want them to plant, then stop,” Kenosera said. “That’s how they moved the larger ones at Black Temple.”

Lorgan pointed to the right, where the jutting cliff protected them from the harshest gusts. “If we can get it to plant itself along the side with the bell close to the ground, it should extend far enough to shield everyone from the rock storm,” Lorgan said.

Kenosera worried his hands together as he observed the animal. “But we need heat to move it. Torches and lanterns aren’t going to work.” A light tremble colored his words.

More tentacles snaked over the edge, grasping for better holds.

Red cupped his hand and threw; a ball swirling with Light flew to the largest tendril, missing, and splattered against the rock. As soon as the splash touched the tip, it jerked as if burned, and wriggled about to dislodge what seared it.

He stretched his fingers, wincing. “That didn’t feel good. We’re going to have to go up top, get closer to the arms, to limit storm interference in the spells.”

“Rils, are there magic users other than the Finders among the new arrivals?” Katta asked as the tendril wormed to the right of the impact zone and sought a hold further down, where the curve of the overhang met the vertical rock face.

“A magisi’s with one trader group, but she’s young. Mid-teens, maybe. The others are all with the Finders.”

The tip of the overhang crumbled and fell, larger stones breaking apart upon impact, and showering the area in sharp bits. The ronyx screamed and Dedari streaked over to help Tagra and Lesanova calm the overwrought beasts.

“How far did it travel to get here?” Kenosera asked as more of the bell inched over the cliff edge. “Tagra said all the entrances in the area are small, fit for typical bordican, not this big one.” He shoved a hand through his bangs. “That’s probably why we haven’t seen smaller ones. They avoid the really big ones because they get smooshed and eaten.”

Magic flew at the bell, striking it and sending shudders through the gelatinous surface. Thin, whitish-pink strings that glittered with a dusting of goldish-magenta shot over the edge and down, targeting whatever harmed it. Panicked shrieks, from humans and animals, rose above the pounding strikes of rain mixed with hail.

“What are you doing?” Lorgan screamed. Vantra attempted to snag his arm, but missed as he charged over the wagon chains. No, no! Revealing himself to Nolaris was dangerous! He had the backing of Dychala, and who knew what Velcross could do?

“How many tentacles might it have?” Katta tapped at his chin, collected, almost breezy. Did he not care Lorgan was going to out them?

“I’d guess at least five curled arms, and maybe twenty of the larger ones, with several thinner tentacles?” Kenosera shook his head. “I don’t know. The older they get, the larger they grow, the more they need to stay in place during storms. You’ll need more heat to get thicker tentacles to move, too.”

“I can still create heat.”

Vantra whirled, realizing the other mini-Joyful had joined them, Mera holding Laken. Her Chosen did not look as if he desired to be out in the storm, staring up at the humongous creature. Tally held up her hand and pointed to her palm. “How strong does it need to be?”

“Strong enough to get the tentacles to unplant and move somewhere else,” Kenosera said. “Lorgan suggested we use the bell to extend the lee side of the cliff. If we can walk the bordica there, it will shield us and not bring down the overhang.”

“Tally, concentrate on the tentacles already in the rock,” Red said, pointing up. “Kjaelle, Vesh, go help Lorgan keep the Finders in check. Kenosera, Laken, Fyrij, stand as the center point. Everyone reports to you, and you’ll get info to the rest of us if we need the update.” He raised an eyebrow. “Go.”

Laken’s blank look, then fierce acceptance, warmed Vantra. How often did the Finders who attempted to Redeem him stuff him in a bag and abandon him there with his thoughts? The little avian sang a song that sounded like an agreement as Mera handed Laken to Kenosera, and flew to them. He landed on the nomad’s shoulder and hopped up and down, wings out, chirping.

“If the air turns orange, you need to leave the cliff,” the nomad cautioned as he adjusted Laken. “That is the rock storm. I don’t think we have much time before it hits in force.”

“We’ll be moving the wagons, getting everyone as close to the cliff as possible,” Rils said. “Even with the boulders coming down, it’s safer under here than out there.”

Tally held up her arms; Light formed around her hands, throbbing with a strong beat, before sailing to the tentacles. One snuffed out, the other struck the smooth skin. The tip tore from the rock, shuddering.

“Try to stay out of the Finders’ way,” Katta advised. Red smacked his back and headed for the far end of the camp. Nausea wormed through Vantra, twisting her essence enough that, had she lived, she would have made a mess of things. Nolaris was going to find out that she and Laken rode with the mini-Joyful. He was going to harm her, take her Candidate, and if she drained herself to the point of discorporating while attempting to move the bordica, she would fail to stop him.

She grabbed the Sun shard from Laken and looped it about her neck; she did not think she could create heat, but the Sun-touched object could. How might she trigger it?

The cliff beyond the overhang sloped down, but did not come near the ground. Rain poured down the face, making handholds impossible. How were they going to reach the top? Vantra registered the thought, then stood on the surface, wind bouncing rain mixed with hail off her, the Light surrounding her dissipating in a twinkle.

She needed to remember to delve into Red’s mode of travel, in a moment of relative quiet. How handy, to not need ziptrails to move about, especially in places like the desert, where magic energy was sparse.

She did not know what bordica might mean in the Nevemere language, but she understood why Lorgan called them glass floats. The creature looked like a transparent, pink glass, sea jelly sculpture, with human-width, murkier arms, thinner but still hefty tentacles, and thousands of finger-thick strings dancing in the wind. Arms that looked as if someone ran scissors over gift ribbon and curled them tight, propped the ginormous bell up. The bell’s edges had lacy white ruffles, and the central, milk-white tube running from the top to the bottom was the size of a lighthouse and as bright. It throbbed in unison to the wind, sending ripples of light across the outer skin.

The overhang sloped gently up and melded with a taller cliff that had lengthy gouges guiding rivulets down to them, making footholds treacherous and creating puddles in deeper depressions. The only light came from the creature’s glow, which reflected off the flowing water rather than illuminating what lay beneath.

A gust tore through, and Mera hissed and bent over; a small tendril had struck her, leaving a glowing pink welt across her cheek and neck.

“Mera! Are you alright?” Red called. She nodded, favoring her right side. “We need to be more than careful, if it can affect essences that way. Vantra!” He pointed to the curly arms. “Use the shard on those; it should heat them up enough they unplant from their spots.”

“How do I do that?”

“Sun Touch.”

That was not as helpful as he thought.

She splashed through the unplanted arms, reaching the curled appendages without falling into a puddle. They wobbled from strain, though whether because they kept the float in place despite the wind, or for another purpose, she could not say. She held her forearm to block the wind-blown downpour, and shoved the shard at the glassy skin.

“Onpe a pe frandiu.”

Nothing happened.

She shook the golden object, which flickered but not with the warmth needed to move the curl. She knew heat intonations—every acolyte of Sun did—and murmured them at the shard, in quick succession. Only Retravigance had an effect. The spell, named for a Sun acolyte who enjoyed playing with ancient castings rather than learning more modern usages, sizzled in her hand and triggered the same in the shard. She almost dropped it as pain worked its way from her fingers and into her chest.

Pain? She was a ghost! What was it, with the float and the shard?

“Not me, the glass float!” she snarled at it. Annoyed, she planted a small Sun sigil on the animal’s arm, to show the spot she wanted the shard to heat. She intoned again, and the curl jerked away, wringing its tendril as if it burned the tip on a hot stovetop. It attempted to re-plant in the same place; she slid the shard over the skin, and the entire float shuddered, jiggling about like gelatin.

It searched for another spot—in the opposite direction of where she wanted it to move.

The remaining heavy drops gave way to hail, the balls growing in size as the wind strengthened. Vantra winced as they pelted her, forceful enough her essence shook. If the rocks did not get them, the hail would.

She clenched the shard and hustled to the curl farthest from the jutting cliff. Flicks of magic from the other three did not seem to motivate the tentacles, and she pondered why. As Light acolytes, both Red and Mera had numerous heat spells at their disposal, and she was certain Katta knew the Darkness candle invocations. How badly did the storm interfere with their magic? Should she worry about the shard fizzling?

Crack, and a boulder the size of her torso rolled past her. It wobbled to an awkward stop when it struck a tendril, which did not move. Was a rock storm like a tornado, picking up things and throwing them through the air? Winds in those could drive a stick of straw through wooden beams. Imagining the damage a huge rock careening through her might do, she whimpered as she slid the shard across the skin, opposite of where she needed it to move; the arm jerked away. Before it could re-plant next to her, she grazed the tip with a swipe; the entire float shuddered, and the arm moved away from her. The bell leaned away, though not quite in the right direction.

Yes! She could herd it!

She ran to the next one, which was a sports field away from her. As far as she could tell, six curled arms anchored it to the surface, glowing and dimming with the gusty wind, while at least twenty others sought better grips on the surrounding rock. If she targeted three curls, then the other three, she thought she could get it to move towards the leeward side.

How hard would it be, to get it to attach to the side of the cliff instead of the top?

She slid into the arm, unable to keep her footing; it broke away, leaving a wriggling bit in the stone, and she tumbled to the drenched surface. It did not bother to re-plant near her, and the float turned, all six curls stepping towards the leeward jut of the cliff, and spanning wider. Did they react to the forced move or the intensifying wind?

She pushed from the stone, rose, and windmilled to keep her balance as she skidded around. Was the rock really that slick? Or did the bell secrete something onto it? Wishing she knew, she slipped and slid to the nearest curl, her cloak catching the wind and blowing back, protecting nothing but the ground behind her. Grumbling, she snagged the hood and held it in place; she knew Physical Touch clothing played with the environment the same way as regular items, but at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to have it behave and stick to her. Too bad the wind would just blow her essence away if she employed Ether Touch.

She set a sigil and tapped the curl with the shard, which shuddered and zipped upwards, a curve knocking her back. She fell and slid further down the slope. A straight arm that was searching for a space to root intercepted her, and she bounced off it, spinning through a dangle of small tentacles. They stung like nettles and slowed her momentum enough that, when she hit another straight arm, she stopped. She wrapped herself around it; it wriggled to dislodge her, then shot back when it could not, and much further than she expected. It stiffened and sunk into the rock, scraping her off.

Red whipped by, a flutter of Light trailing him, hanging onto the tentacle like he would a rope that swung over a pool. It anchored much nearer the lee side, which overbalanced it. The other arms uprooted and shot into places to keep it from falling over.

The thin tentacles trailed the movement, and Vantra gritted her teeth as a couple straggled over her. How did the creature interact with ghosts like that? She needed to ask Lorgan about it, because in her limited experience, nothing in the Evenacht could cause physical pain in an apparition. She enjoyed that aspect of being a ghost.

She rolled as a curl punctured the stone next to her head, fear shooting through her at the thought of it tearing through her essence. Light flared behind her; Mera struck the three long tentacles still attached to the furthest spots, and they whipped upwards shuddering. Katta leapt up and sank his hands into one; it did its best to dislodge him before flumping to the ground. He scrabbled to get a footing and yank it towards the lee side.

Light shot past, and Red materialized to snag another, using it as a swing. The swaying kept the float unbalanced, and it tottered where they wanted it to go. Vantra shuffled on hands and knees to the nearest curl, used the shard to uproot it, then tried to use her weight as the two ancient ghosts had—what there was of it. Even in Physical form, spirits were ethereal beings, so weight was a trick using energy to anchor whatever essence touched the ground. She did not have the knack of forcing attachment while she was high in the air.

The overhang crumbled under the curl that sat nearest the edge, and the float tipped over. Arms, tentacles, shot into whatever rock they could reach, and Vantra lost her hold on the slick surface as the arm she clutched swung out and down. She tumbled through the air, dark and glowing pink flashing. She had no idea where the cliff was, and a burst of latent fear struck before she hit the ground. Her essence quaked but did not discorporate, though her senses jangled about and perception blurred.

“Vantra!” Lorgan hustled over, kneeling.

“I’m fine,” she croaked, too embarrassed to say more as trickles of tears blended with splats of hail to race from her outer eyes and down her temple.

“Vantra?”

Oh no.

A flare of white against Darkness purple.

“You ass,” Kjaelle gritted, slipping her arm under her shoulders and helping her to sit.

Vesh stood in front of them, a Grand Seal spinning, the rose’s thorns wavering as if waiting to strike. Nolaris, hand planted on chest and sagging into Velcross, glared daggers at them.

“Try to attack again, and the rain will wash your discorporated essence away.” Vantra’s eyes widened at the ominous loathing beneath the words. She considered Vesh a likable sort, with smiles and easy laughter. She glanced at Kjaelle, whose malicious, pleased smile reflected his voice.

“Attacking Finders is a Fields-punishing offense.” Vantra recognized Dychala’s silken tone.

“I’m not the ass,” Lorgan gritted as he aided Kjaelle into helping her stand.

“Too late now. She has—well, had—a stage name.”

“I don’t remember what it was,” the scholar said, defensive.

Yes. Stage name. Crimson. Vantra had forgotten about it, because she had not needed it other than her initial escape from Evening. Had they even told Lorgan? Did not matter, now.

“We’d make terrible spies,” Kjaelle muttered as she raised her chin. “We didn’t attack you,” she called. “Nolaris’s spell rebounded off the Seal. That’s hardly us attacking him, but him attacking himself.” Her smile widened. “And, if you thought him in danger, why didn’t you interfere, Finder ‘Assassin’?”

Dychala snarled at the sarcastic reminder of the meaning of her name, hands clenching, but before she uttered a word, the wind died down and the blown hail fell in soft pitter-patters.

Katta and Qira, Tally and Mera, had moved the bell into position. It jutted out from the lee side of the rock face, providing an added wall of protection against the storm. The wiggling jelly stilled, solidified, the attached arms and tentacles becoming opaque magenta with a frosted glass look, while the thin, glittery ones whipped wildly about. It glowed a brighter pink.

Head-sized rocks bounced off the bell.

“We don’t have time for your shit!” Rils screamed.

Before Vantra collected her thoughts, the caravan leader deposited five wary children and a lantern into her care. Kjaelle shooed them all towards the circled wagons, as the Finders looked on in angry hate. Vesh dropped the Seal, and she suspected weariness rather than Rils’ admonition prompted it.

Lanterns lined the way to the center. Ronyx and spits milled inside, spooked, whining, but too close together to cause mischief. Lesanova and Dedari, with a handful of others, moved through them, speaking in calm tones, handing out suet-coated sweet treats. Tagra and one other manned a makeshift trough with feed, and rotated the animals through. Buckets with water sat to the side, likely filled before the rain turned to hail.

She sidestepped round, dust-caked waste, glad she could not smell.

Glancing behind her to make certain a Finder did not follow, she prodded the children to Kenosera, Laken and Fyrij, who sat on the edge of the communal wagon speaking of something. Kenosera smiled a greeting, but their eyes snaked to Laken rather than returning it.

Oh no. That was not what she meant to do, frighten children with Laken’s appearance. She should have remembered how unnerving the sight a singular head was.

Fyrij tweeted at them, rubbed his head against the captain’s chin, and settled, content.

“There was a flash of purple and white,” Kenosera began. She nodded and slumped.

“I fell off the cliff,” she whispered. “Right in front of Nolaris. Vesh protected me and Lorgan from his attack.”

The nomad glanced beyond the crowded space, then spoke to the children, who squeezed together and listened intently, but still paid more attention to Laken. She expected horror rather than uncertainty and wondered if they previously met a Finder and their Chosen. That might explain the reaction. Her rush from the Evengates to Death’s Gate, past the Fields and the moaning Condemned, had frightened her into thoughtlessness, but subsequent interactions had not.

A boy of maybe eight by human standards perked up, animated. “You’re a pirate captain?” he asked Laken, enthused at the prospect.

“Yes,” Vantra said drily as he floundered for a response.

“I met Dough!” he intimated, bouncing. “He took my dad and me out on a ship to see fish at a sunken boat! You can dive down with this huge helmet,” and he flung his arms wide, “and the fish are really pretty!”

No fear in this one. That was good, to buoy the other children.

“Sunken ships make a good home for fish,” Laken agreed, his normal hard edge absent.

A gust, much fainter than previous, filtered to them, carrying the touch of cold and mist. The children shuddered. Vantra retrieved blankets and wrapped them up, then settled them inside the wagon. Kenosera helped her with snacks and cups of water, though by that time, heads drooped. The youngest three claimed the bunk, and the other two curled up on the side benches. Sleep claimed them quick.

Kenosera hopped down and stood, hands on hips, observing the float. Fyrij flew to his shoulder and rocked back and forth, chirping at the show. “Nice and solid,” he murmured. “When they stiffen, usually the only way to remove them is when the storm ends. By that time, they’ve filtered enough food from the blown debris that they just want to go back to their cave and sleep.”

“I didn’t see a cave opening,” Vantra said. “But it is dark up there.”

“Bordican crawl across cliffs and hang on the top edges so the wind can freely blow through their tentacles. They usually feed nowhere near their den. This one must have traveled far, to reach this overhang.” He nodded to the clumps of cracked rock they had made their camp around. “I bet it’s used this place for a long time. That’s why all these larger rocks are on the ground; it knocked them down.”

Vantra grabbed Laken so he could see the impromptu protection against the rock storm. A boulder bounced off the bell and broke into thirds before striking the ground just beyond the last trader’s wagon. Nomads hurried through the cramped openings between the wooden sides, looking for their own shelter; had Rils got everyone settled?

She looked up. And where were Katta, Red and Mera? She did not notice Tally, either.

“How big of rocks does a rock storm carry?” Laken asked. He sounded so calm, as if he spoke of a hot midyear day, rather than a deadly natural event.

“I’ve seen them pick up boulders twice that big,” Kenosera said. “But with the strength of this one, it might tear away whole clifftops.”

Vantra’s neck prickled. She turned as Velcross wormed through the ronyx, his goal obvious. She clutched Laken closer, and Kenosera stepped to her side, arms folded, unimpressed with the ghost confronting them.

“I’ve a deal to make,” the spirit said, casting the nomad a scathing look before meeting Vantra’s eyes. His shone hard as sapphires. “You return to Evening with us, we won’t send you to the Fields.”

Fyrij screeched his rejection. Startled, the ghost stepped back, bumped into a ronyx, and jerked away as if burnt.

“No.” She refused to return Laken to the Fields, to wallow away in dire misery while the Finders willfully ignored his pleas.

“You’ve no choice.”

“I do have a choice, and I’m rejecting the offer.” Hopefully her dread did not filter into her voice. She did not want him to know her terror.

“You’re no longer a Finder. Only Finders may Redeem Candidates,” he said, silky smooth and grating. A smug smile marred his full lips. “You must return him to the Fields. What you do afterwards is of no concern for us.”

“No.”

“Think very hard on this,” he said, lowering his voice to sound menacing, though his tone held more squeak than bite. “The Hallowed Collective has a long reach. We touch all corners of the Evenacht. There will be no place for you to stay, that you will not be driven from, if you defy our will.”

He jumped at the snarly bark of laughter behind him.

“Surely you remember Merdia?” Kjaelle asked. Velcross arched back from her and into the ronyx’s hindquarters. The beast snorted and stepped away, the brushy end of its tail flipping into his face. He wrinkled his nose, as if he smelled the stink of the animal waste, and rubbed at his skin. His cheeks darkened from teal to a peacock purple, though from anger or embarrassment, Vantra could not say.

“Drowned Dough doesn’t have much respect for authority, including the Collective’s.” The elfine raised an eyebrow at him. “And neither does the mini-Joyful.”

“Mini-Joyful?”

“How many Redemptions have you completed?”

He frowned deeper. “I conduct research. I assure you, my contributions are worth that of field Finders.”

“Oh? Funny, because I’ve completed one, without all that research the Finders brag about.”

He choked on a disbelieving laugh. “You?” He eyed her up and down, a degradation interrupted by his wet magenta bangs flopping into his eyes. He clenched his teeth and yanked the hair behind his pointed ears, which did not hold the too-short strands in place.

“Ask Nolaris about Dowl. He was his Candidate.”

“That’s absurd!”

Crack!

Another boulder careened off the float, which did not look to have noticed the strike. Velcross rubbed the tips of his fingers together and took a step back into the same ronyx; the beast snorted and kicked, missing him. It turned, lowering its head so its long, spiral horns pointed at the sprite. He pivoted in distaste, looking for escape, then glared at Vantra. “We will come for you in the morning,” he snapped before scampering away.

“Will he, now?” Red asked. Vantra pivoted, startled; the Light acolytes and Katta stood behind them, menacing in their nonchalance. A hot glint brightened Red’s eyes, one reflected by both Mera and Tally. Velcross must have decided they, and not the ronyx, too intimidating to banter with.

“Now now,” Katta said, raising his hand as he strode in front of them, breaking their line of sight. Water dripped from his elbow, reminding Vantra that she, too, was wet. As if triggered by the thought, cold seeped into her, dulling her energy. “I’m exhausted, I doubt you’re any better. We know Nolaris isn’t going to lay a hand on Vantra or Laken, so we might as well get some rest. Sup from the mist caused by the storm, see if the hail turns to snow.”

With a grating rumble, what looked like an entire cliff skidded past the bell, pieces breaking off and being caught by the wind. They swirled up, disappearing into the darkness high above. The thin, glittery tentacles chased them, leaving a dusting of whitish-pink behind on the muddy earth.

“Death’s Hands,” Laken whispered in disbelief. Vantra gaped until Kjaelle turned her around and prodded her to the wagon.

If the storm was so terrible, what was going to happen to the unsheltered at Black Temple? She tamped down on the thrill of fear and sent a silent prayer to Veer Tul. He must know those who worshipped him needed his aid, so she felt silly doing so, but offered the words anyway.