“Deceiver!” The Voidbeast discorporated then reformed, floating above the spot where her Physical form collapsed. Eyes the crimson color of fresh blood blazed in hollow sockets as she pointed a thin-boned finger at Red. “Lies of syimlin favor!”

“And what syimlin favors you, that you feel justified in screaming that?” he asked. Verryn crossed his arms and leaned against the wagon, content to allow the ancient ghost the lead. Vantra’s mind whirled; he, as divine, should take charge. Should he not?

“Blood lies,” the spirit hissed, her gaze riveting to the deity.

“Not in the Evenacht,” Verryn stated, annoyed. “But, I suppose, you would see it that way, as you’ve manipulated it so often yourself.”

Red shook the staff, and the Voidbeast reached for it, an act of instinctual distress, before she pulled back and clutched her hand to her breast. “You came back for this?” he asked, studying the weapon. He shook it again, and she whined a protest.

“You meddle in ignorance,” she declared, her essence billowing in anxiety. “You know nothing of what you handle.”

“Oh?” Red cocked his head at the object, held it out, turned it sideways, then pointed it at the skull. She whisked backwards, only to hit another shield of light. She clawed at the barrier, leaving gouges behind, but could not break it.

“She’s that afraid of the staff?” Verryn asked, skeptical.

“It’s a mephoric emblem, so yes, she is.”

The Voidbeast stopped mid-scratch and slowly faced them, eyes still hot, the rest of her still as death.

“I can’t say I’ve seen everything in the Evenacht, but I’ve been around twenty-one thousand years,” Red pointed out, his words crisp with crackling anger. “I know what a mephoric emblem is, and I’m betting you used it to imprison this ghost in the trap spell because you didn’t have the power to do it yourself.”

“Dangerous,” she warned, her voice trembling.

“Yes.” The symbols burst to life in a blue glow, and the tip flared, flames of intense cobalt wafting into the air from the blaze.

“What do you do?” the skull shrieked. She whirled, scratched the shield, frantic, a bloody enchantment encasing her fingertips and smearing the pale yellow with crimson streaks.

“When my magic impacted the attack from the staff, there was an explosion,” Vantra said, unable to take her gaze from the panicking being.

“Hmm.” Red pointed the tip at the space next to the skull and dropped the protections around the wagon. A whirling mass of blue whisked to the target.

The blast broke the shield and the earth about it, the blow-back rocking trees and cracking branches, shattering rock and root. A rain of dust and leaves coated them while the carolings shrieked and scolded and beat their tiny wings. Haze filled the air, marring the view of the shadowy forest beyond.

Vantra looked down at Laken as clumps of earth and bits of wood continued to shower them; he wheezed and coughed, which she thought excessive since he could not breathe. Powder poured from her hair and onto him, larger chunks of earth tumbling across his scalp and to the ground.

“Sorry,” she whispered as he choked.

“Heh.”

Vantra looked over; Red, pristine, bit his lip and smiled widely at Verryn, who looked as grimy as she felt. The syimlin raised his chin, and her essence quivered at the incensed resentment. The ancient ghost’s grin spread even wider in breezy unconcern before turning back to the Voidbeast. She lay in a heap, not discorporated, high-pitched whines issuing from between broken teeth. “And I only triggered a surface spell, nothing intricate.”

“You,” the skull cackled.

“Not much of a playmate, are you?” Red said, tapping the end of the staff into the earth. “One little ol’ mephoric explosion, and you’re in the dirt.”

“You will feel pain for this, I promise,” she threatened with simmering hate.

He snickered. “Will I? I suppose that’s possible, but not by your hand.” He passed the staff to Vantra and gently handed Verryn the rescued ghost, before rising and padding over to the Voidbeast. He grabbed her arm and hauled her up.

She slipped his grasp and rushed for the weapon.

The skull wrapped her bony hands about the staff and yanked; Vantra dropped Laken, slapped her other hand on it, and held on, pulling back. Her enemy swiped at her, a fast swish and she jerked back, the fingertips missing her face; she did not let go, because she suspected the damage the Voidbeast would do with the staff’s magic would not only destroy the wagon, but harm Verryn and send the rescued ghost to the Final Death.

The symbols lit, and the tip burst into flames much brighter and hotter than before. The enemy tried to force the top towards the wagon, but Vantra shoved her shoulder into the wood and staggered her opponent with the pushback. The Voidbeast recovered and bit at her, the skull warped into a grimace of mad delight; she avoided her teeth, but without the prop interfering, the enemy aimed the staff at the syimlin.

The eruption of power discorporated Vantra’s hands. Hissing, she fell back and bumped into a newly erected shield. The magic rebounded, and the Voidbeast shrieked as the whirling mass of poisonous cobalt flew over her hood, leaving scorch marks behind, and struck the boughs above Red’s head. A light shield shot around them before the ball expanded, obliterating the tops of the trees.

The ground shook, the blue light blinded, and Vantra covered her eyes with her arm, though she could not block the shuddering of her essence in response. She reformed her hands and grabbed Laken, whisking him away from the Voidbeast’s kick.

How dare she attack a helpless head?

Red snagged the enemy’s cloak and wrenched her away from them. The skull snapped back and the flames in the staff’s tip flared to heady life before bursting apart and dissipating, leaving behind a smoky haze.

Cracks raced down the wood; the ancient ghost hissed, annoyed, and grabbed the weapon. The Voidbeast lunged from him, ripping her essence to free herself. She turned and slammed into the shielding, tumbling back and rolling on the ground with a whimper, wisps pouring from the tear in her head. Vantra stared beyond her, appalled.

The nearby forest at the point of detonation had disappeared. Nothing but a burned, shallow indenture of cracked earth remained; no hint of trunk or twig, or rock or bird or small animals. The circular destruction ranged a hundred horse lengths in all directions. Smoke rose from the soil, thicker than the natural mists, hiding the full extent of the damage. How horrible. Tears for the loss of plant and animal life streaked down her cheeks, and she snuffled.

Red handed the staff to Verryn; the strength of the light spells fusing the weapon together shocked her. He stormed to the Voidbeast and snagged her arm, his hand coated in his power. She screamed and scratched at him, yanking and yanking to free herself, but remained confined.

“Rive eucton!” Her attempt to trigger Ether Touch failed. She sagged, refusing to walk; Red dragged her towards the village with the same speed and implacable expression, uncaring whether her body left a gouged trail behind.

Verryn settled the rescued ghost’s container on the bed of the wagon, shielded it, and glanced up at the carolings.

“We’ll be back,” he told them.

They chittered at him and jiggled their bodies free of dust. He grabbed his sword, which leaned against the wagon’s side, shook the dirt from the tip, and motioned for Vantra and Laken to precede him.

The natives and ally ghosts maneuvered around the destroyed huts, smoking holes, scattered debris, starting clean up, removing bodies, aiding those injured in the attack. The leader issued orders to several who scampered to complete them, flanked by menacing guards holding spears. Shouts, calls, and weeping rose from the thick haze, interspersed by the sharp crack of wood and stone against stone. While unable to smell, the smoke filled the mists, making Vantra feel as if she stepped into a reeking bar.

Katta, still guarded by the mini-Joyful, spoke to a spirit that reminded Vantra of a fairy tale pirate king found in Talis tales from a thousand years previous. Loose blue shirt, glaring vest, black pants and boots, gold rings in ears, nose, wavy dark golden tresses that fell to his chest, all topped by a humongous hat whose brim sagged down to half-conceal his bearded face. He seemed out of place in the forest.

The ancient ghost’s gaze snicked to Red and his captive, and Vantra froze, terrified. His eyes gleamed and refracted fury like chipped bits of pale blue gemstones reflected light, the only emotion apparent on his otherwise expressionless face. Wrath became tangible, a mountain-weight suffocating her. The pirate stepped back, surprised and wary, while the others stayed true, eyeing the enemy with loathing.

Red released the Voidbeast and wiped his hands on his thighs, disgusted. Her body jerked up and hovered; she thrashed her legs and rocked her head, but her hands remained plastered to her stiff sides. The Darkness acolyte raised a hand, a long, sharp silver curve of magic forming between his index finger and thumb. He threw it at her; she screamed as it sliced her head from her body. She hit the ground, but before her quivering essence fell back, Katta curled, then flicked his fingers.

A rush of Dark air slammed into the chest, sundering the form into so many pieces Vantra could not count them before they shot high above them and soared in multiple directions, and, like fireworks, leaving a trail of silvery dust behind that twinkled out.

“I’m not going back!” the Voidbeast shrieked.

Katta snagged the top of her hood and held her at eye level before blowing air into her face. Her façade disappeared, replaced by a striking, middle-aged countenance with shimmery blonde hair and furious fox-brown eyes, high cheekbones, and luscious lips. Vantra easily pictured her as the cover model for a high-class fashion magazine, though hate, rather than fake lust, rode her.

“You named yourself the Voidbeast, laughed as your enemies called you the Tormentor, thinking those titles would strike fear in the hearts and minds of your victims,” he said, the dark weight of righteous anger coating all within his voice’s reach. Ghost and native halted what they did, crouched, and watched the confrontation in agonized dread. “You thought nothing of the death you caused, you thought nothing of the pain you caused, as long as you slaked your bloodlust on them. As with Deximchil, you see nothing wrong with your depravity, so you mislead, you lie, you target those you think can’t fight back, because your strength is illusion, and only illusion keeps it viable.

“You will go back and suffer because you will refuse a worthy Redemption. You will assume those who Recollected you too soon will repeat their help. Yours will be millennia in wait, for they will decide that discovering two hundred essences is not the time-consuming slog they want to undertake.”

Two hundred? Vantra’s mouth dropped, and Laken’s small sound of agonized protest died just past his lips.

“It is a bond you and Deximchil share. You’ll have years to discuss it.”

“You can’t send Deximchil to the Fields!” she screamed.

“Too late,” he seethed, then reared back and threw her. The beautiful blonde tresses tangled around her face as she tumbled through the air, her rage-filled curse cutting off mid-word as she disappeared.

Vantra had never witnessed a sundering. Terror quivered through her essence, and tears welled. How quickly he accomplished it. Her essence, gone. No chance to escape, just a straining of spirit desperate to remain whole but bursting apart . . . A fight every ghost would lose.

“Do you really think she’ll be much of an information source?” Red asked, displeased.

“No, but there is another reason not to send her to the Final Death,” Katta replied, the heat in his words a dire warning. Red raised an eyebrow, disagreeing, but did not press the point.

“Verryn! Are you OK?” Kjaelle’s abrupt concern cracked the still air of frightful disbelief shared by the natives and their ally ghosts.

He sighed, exasperated, and rubbed at his nose with his sleeve. “I’m fine,” he grumbled. “Better than your wagon, in fact.”

“My wagon isn’t going to string me up by my heels if something happens to you,” the elfine snapped, rushing to him and patting at the dust coating him.

Verryn glared. “You know damn well Erse would sympathize with you over my obstinacy and difficulty,” he muttered.

“But where are you hurt? There’s blood!”

Red grinned, if forced. “Quite the Gift,” he said before striding to Katta. He leaned close and said something soft, delicate, soothing, and while Vantra could distinguish no words, the sense of calm cocooned her, breaking apart the heavy weight of divine wrath and molding it into a gentler touch. The natives relaxed, shoulders sagging, and the ghosts who aided their defense straightened, stood confidently, rather than cowering away from the consuming rage.

Katta set his forehead against his friend’s, and they remained silent as random talk from others filled the quiet, smoke-infused space and the beings returned to their tasks. Lorgan hastened to them, Vesh trailing, unaffected by the terrible punishment.

“Does Katta send many to the Fields?” the scholar asked, strained.

“No.” The driver glanced at the ancient spirits, then back to them. “He, as the Shades, prefers to take them to Death’s Judgment. But this was such an egregious evil, the outcome would be the same. Veer’s will is done.”

“And Deximchil?” Vantra asked, so quiet she did not think the ghost heard her.

“The same. His excuses for his vile behavior no longer ring true.” The chill in his eyes faintly echoed that which poured from Katta, but she still felt the impact of icy wrath to her core. “They’ll have a way to shorten their stay. Whether or not they take it is up to them.”

“Which is?” Lorgan asked, anger rippling through his tone. Vantra understood it; did not an early Redemption lead to the destruction surrounding them?

“To impart what they know of the Nymphic Rebellious and their links to whatever entity targets Katta and Qira and Laken and Vantra,” he said. “Their fear of meeting the Final Death at ally hands will keep them silent and suffering.” He shrugged. “It’s their choice.”

“Whoever Redeemed them before might try again, even if it takes millennia,” Lorgan said.

Vesh laughed, an unhappy sound. “You underestimate the drive in Finders,” he said. “Why do you think so many heads reside in the Elden Fields?”

Vantra’s immediate rise of shame dwindled; she no longer represented the Finders. Their failure was not her own, especially since her Candidate came from the Elden Fields. Lorgan pursed his lips, not thrilled with the statement, but he knew, as she did, the truth of it.

“It may not matter.” Verryn and Kjaelle walked up, the elfine still concerned, the syimlin annoyed. “If the ghost she used in the trap spell succumbs to the Final Death, her existence is forfeit.”

“What?” Kjaelle asked, aghast.

“They brought a lackershell here, used the spirit to feed it.”

Vesh’s revulsion wafted from him in licks of dark essence. “Where is the spirit?”

“Still with the wagon. Qira had Vantra infuse a bit of Sun-touched magic into the shield I made, saying they could absorb that easier, but they’re in bad shape. If they’re stressed, they might not reform.”

“And the lackershell?”

Verryn sighed, deeply despondent, and Kjaelle batted his arm with her shoulder. “Are you getting better, at least?”

“Better, but it’s still overkill, even when I’m trying to be more delicate.”

“That’s what the splatter is?” the driver asked.

“Yeah.”

Vesh closed his eyes, as miserable as Verryn. Kjaelle gave him a warning look he did not see, then shrugged.

“You can practice with Katta and Qira as long as you’re with us.”

“Practice with them?” Lorgan asked.

“They’ve years more experience,” Verryn reminded him. “Over twenty-one thousand for Qira, fifteen for Katta. They’re more skilled than babies like me.”

“Babies?” Vantra asked, shocked at the reference.

“Everyone from the Joyful is older than me,” he told her. “And I obtained my Gift only a hundred years ago. In comparison, I have no experience whatsoever using magic.”

“Baby steps are important, too,” Kjaelle said, holding up her index finger. “And you don’t have bad habits to break.”

He winced while Laken growled.

“You knew he was a syimlin,” he accused.

“Yes, and we’re not free with the information,” she said. “Death and Passion have their share of enemies within the Evenacht, and it’s best not to tantalize them into attacking. He hides in the open, uses his birth name because it’s so common among the Keel, and prefers to battle with his sword rather than a spell.”

“Why are you in the evening lands, then?” Lorgan asked.

“Erse doesn’t have a lot of free time.” Kjaelle raised her eyebrows at that, and Verryn ignored the sarcasm. “So when something needs attention in the Evenacht, I take up the task. I’ve done that for over four thousand years.”

“But you have duties, too,” Vantra protested.

“Some, but not what the other syimlin have—and those are in flux because modern Talis has changed enough that some are outdated while newer responsibilities have risen. This is an uncomfortable time for the older syimlin because their set ways are not necessarily needed. Many turn to the Evenacht and interact with ghostly followers because the ancient traditions are still valid and practiced here.” He thrummed his fingers on his waist and sighed. “Besides, answering a prayer for acing a test in a subject a student is really passionate about, they swear, isn’t exactly an exciting endeavor that needs me in the realm of sunlight.”

“Poor Verryn,” Kjaelle giggled. Vantra blinked; did people ask for help for so minute a thing? She understood prayers for the sick and injured, or ones to end war or grow crops, but getting good grades? Why bother a syimlin with that? Surely they realized deities had more important things to do, like fighting Voidbeasts and rescuing spirits.

“Yes, poor me,” he grumbled. “And it will be even poorer me once you see the wagon.”

“The lackershell threw us,” Vantra said, needing to defend Verryn, uncertain why.

“The carolings?” the elfine asked.

“They’re fine,” Verryn assured her. “They’re hanging with the wagon until we can get them back home.”

She relaxed, relieved, then pointed at the staff. “And this?” she asked, uncertain.

“The Voidbeast was using it. Qira called it a mephoric emblem.”

Vantra felt low, as all registered shock. Was she the only one who did not know what a mephoric emblem was? No, neither did Laken, who frowned without the light of recognition. Of course, spending millennia in the Elden Fields did not translate into a broad knowledge of the Evenacht.

“He said he thought she trapped the ghost using it,” the syimlin continued.

“Verryn, do you know what a mephoric emblem is?” Kjaelle asked, regarding the staff with cautious dread.

“Uh, no.”

“It’s based on the emblem battle staves of the Relic elfines. The Beast warped them to suit his own purposes. He would trap those who defied him in a particular place, anchoring the shields with a mephoric emblem. When it exploded, everything within, and oftentimes outside, the shields would evaporate. Erse outlawed them, and Death and Darkness acolytes on Talis and in the Evenacht spent the next thousand years destroying what we could find, including the plans and written incantations to create them, but the criminal elements in the Evenacht hoarded what they could. There are rumors that the Astri still have several, some even made by the Beast’s hand, but no definitive proof of their duplicity exists.”

“So what we saw in the forest is normal?” Vantra asked.

“Explosion-wise? I’d need to see the results, but probably.” Kjaelle tucked her hair behind her ears. “I wonder if she planned to use that on whoever escaped the lackershell’s attack, though we still don’t understand why the Vallic targeted this village. The leader said they’ve had no contact with them or the Nymphic Rebellious, and I believe him. Why would they? They’re a peaceful people without much interaction with the outside world, except for the Merdia representatives.”

Verryn raised an eyebrow at that, then focused on the pirate who ambled to them, a pleasant smile lighting his features.

“I remember you,” the ghost said, waving a finger in the air before shaking his head. “You were in Merdia during the Nevemere Offensive.”

“I was,” he admitted.

“The Voristi still sing songs about you protecting the il aban’s son throughout the attack. They’ve embellished the tale a bit, but what’s a battle song without a mighty hero?”

The syimlin shrugged. “A tragedy?”

The pirate chuckled, over-amused, dark eyes twinkling with undue merriment. “Fine wit, I say.” He swept his hat to the side and bowed low. “I go by Drowned Dough, founder of Merdia, the first, and last, destination for sea battle re-enactments. Me mates and I were updating the agreements we have with the Baka for ship-building timber. Didn’t expect the excitement to accompany it.”

“I could have done without,” Lorgan said drily. “It was good of you, to help.”

The ghost laughed gaily and straightened. “A battle worth fighting,” he said, patting the cutlass at his side. “Though I’m accustomed to being on the other side of a conflict.”

“If you call fake sea battles a conflict,” Verryn said.

“They are not fake!” he protested, put out, slamming his fists into his hips and taking a confrontational stance. “They are very much real, as attested to by the numerous sunken ships in the bay. The fish and coral much appreciate it, too!” He waggled his eyebrows. “Just because we have tourists on board doesn’t mean the fight is any less intense.”

Vantra recalled Verryn mentioning something about Merdia and re-enactments, but her attempt to focus on the conversation met with a growing fuzziness around the edges of her consciousness. The battles, the shielding, the fear, had exhausted her. No other ghost appeared to have the same difficulty, and she admitted she needed to figure out a rest schedule to absorb mists and recharge, rather than continually run until her essence collapsed.

The pirate jerked his thumb at the two ancient ghosts. “Katta there said you need to sail to the Snake’s Head Peninsula.”

“We do,” Verryn agreed.

“Me mates and I can take you,” he said. “For a modest fee, of course, but it’ll save time arriving at a port in Uka’s Lament and taking caravans up into the interior. Merdia is far closer to the Snake’s Den than any other major port.”

Vantra perked up. “Have you been to the ruins?” If so, she could ask him questions about the Den. He might have insights not found in Lorgan’s notes.

“Decades ago,” he admitted, accompanying his words with a flourish of his hand. “Before the Nevemere became so overprotective they cut off all outsider visits.”

Lorgan raised an eyebrow. “They’ve always had tight security, but when did they stop allowing visitors into the Underruin?”

The pirate squinted, thinking. “Hmm. Not sure. Let’s see, I was there, about a thousand years previous. We were just building up Merdia, nothing special yet. I took a break to explore the desert. Never did meet the Snake, but had a grand time in the ruins. Lots of traps, you know. Quite exciting. Me mates continued to visit from time to time, making a vacation of it. The last hundred years, they’ve met with more and more resistance. Then maybe twenty years previous, a group came back early, and said the nomads had blocked the roads and trails into the Den, and the only way in was through the Acid Baths. A strong spiritesti guarded the main gate, and they decided it wasn’t worth tangling with them.”

“A spiritesti?” Lorgan’s asked, surprised. “The vi-van are not the most accepting of magical schools outside their own.”

“I know it. We’ve butted heads with them for centuries. But there’s a spiritesti there—and me mates think they’re an Astri.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Verryn grumbled.

“The Voristi aren’t pleased, either. They don’t think the Nevemere should lock the Snake away and there have been scuffles about it at Grindal Oasis. Vi-van from Black Temple are visiting and riling up the local Nevemere with some religious nonsense about an oracle, then telling them the Voristi pose a threat.”

“An oracle?” Vantra asked, frowning. Her companions looked troubled as well.

“They say false promises of Darkness hidden in light will destroy the Snake. That’s why they’re refusing to allow anyone other than Nevemere into the Underruin.”

“Is this a Sun Oracle?” True divination, whether in the Evenacht or on Talis, rested with the Sun Oracle and no other. She did not like the thought of any group using sacred traditions as a religious hammer to lie about a future event.

“No, but they won’t say who saw it, either. Some nomads just assume it’s a declaration from Sunbright Temple, but the elfines there say no, and I believe them.” He wobbled his head about. “They’re using the proclamation as an excuse to tamp down on the younger lot leaving the desert and forcing them to be guards and watchers at the ruins, which I think is the actual purpose behind the oracle.” He laughed, though with less humor. “We have a couple of dor-carous kids at Merdia who desperately want to leave the peninsula, but threats from Black Temple keep the caravans and ships from taking them. No one wants to fall on the wrong side of the ruling families, because their revenge is nasty.”

“What about guides to the Den?” Lorgan asked.

“Most Voristi will take you as far as Kepher, but they’ve gotten skittish about going beyond their traditional nomadic routes near the Den. There’s always been animosity between them and the Nevemere because they vie for the same desert resources, but it’s become worse. The guards at the ruins will shoot anyone as soon as they see them. Doesn’t hurt ghosts, but the native guides and caravan animals die.”

“Sounds like we’re in for a fun time,” Kjaelle muttered, folding her arms and thrumming her fingers on her biceps.

“If you want to visit the ruins, yes.” His gaze flicked to Laken; Vantra supposed it did not take a genius to realize why they needed passage to the Snake’s Den. Hopefully he had not heard of the fallen Finder and her charge, and planned to hand them over to the first Hallowed Collective agent they met.

“You’re being very helpful,” the elfine remarked, not suspicious, but skeptically curious.

He tipped his head back and howled, brash and long. Vantra did not think it was an affectation, either. “Blood speaks loud in the Evenacht. So do Gifts.”

Was she the only one who found a syimlin's presence intimidating?

“I am never going to live this down,” Verryn grumbled, dejected, rubbing at the mix of blood and dirt marring his face.

“Probably not, especially since Qira saw it.” Kjaelle turned to the forest and firmed her shoulders. “Well, the leader demurred our help because of Katta’s association with Darkness; he didn’t think it was right to ask. So let’s go see the damage.”

The nervous energy between Verryn and Vesh decided her; Vantra did not want more excitement that night. She stood next to Katta and Qira, head bowed, and listened as Laken and Dough discussed the finer aspects of sailing, wondering what it felt like, to have her essence rent apart.

Wondering how to accept that an amiable ancient ghost companion sundered and sent an enemy spirit to the Fields. Wondering about interacting with a seemingly congenial syimlin. And wondering why a pirate king called himself Dough.