Sneaking into Black Temple? Not with a caravan’s worth of wagons.

Vantra stared at her dusty boots as Rils cheerfully informed Verryn about the details of the trip. Too early for lighthearted banter, though the syimlin chuckled back.

Not early enough, to avoid the gaggle of Finders who chose a guide company on the same row as Rils’s for their desert travel needs. Nuban, the ex-pirate guide said—and the wary disgust in which he voiced the name upset her. Unsurprising, Nolaris would happily deal with an underhanded ghost, if he thought the being would help achieve his goals.

Kenosera, Lesanova and Dedari huddled together under the stable awning, heads bowed to better hide beneath their hoods, doing their best to attract no attention to themselves. An easy task, considering all of them wore the same Passion cloaks they arrived with.

Except for her.

Her humor swirled down into the guttural depths of despair. How much longer would the mini-Joyful put up with her?

“Let’s go.”

She raised her head as Kjaelle waved her to a wagon. Unlike the ones for cargo, which had white canvas tightened over wooden ribs and tied to the bed, with two openings closed by drawstrings, this one resembled the mini-Joyful’s travel vehicles. The interior had benches lining the walls, a bunk with two sleeping accommodations set behind the driver’s seat, two tables that folded from the wall, and cabinets near the curved roof and under the seating that contained various supplies.

She plodded over and joined the Darkness acolytes in one wagon, while Verryn and the other ghosts took another. The natives had one to themselves. Their surprise when Passion told them they would ride rather than care for the ronyx or stand as guards amused everyone. They were personal guides, not caravan employees, and he would treat them as such.

Rils and his crew, overjoyed at the honor of carting a syimlin about the desert, did not care. Kenosera thought they should.

The nomad underestimated the greed that drove the ghosts. Vantra did not have to think hard to imagine the advertising the group would produce, bragging that only they had the travel experience worthy of meeting a syimlin’s specific needs.

She set her pack on the far edge of the bench and curled up on the seat; Vesh leaned his against the bed and sank down next to her, Katta and Kjaelle opposite. The elfine ran her hands over the carved cabinet faces, studying the travel scenes depicting various points in the desert. Fyrij flitted to her, and together they sifted through the interiors, discovering medical kits, living-oriented objects, emergency mist stores, pillows and blankets of a plain but soft quality. She held up a few odd contraptions, confused at their purpose, and the caroling tweeted his thoughts in an ‘of course I know’ manner.

Shouts echoed through the air. Kjaelle knelt on the bench and pushed the shutters to her side’s window open. She peered outside, then leaned further out; Fyrij paraded up her back and took a gander while digging his talons into her hair. She ducked back in, huffy, snagged the little avian, and flumped next to Katta.

“The Finders are yelling at Rils for something,” she grumbled. “They’re leaving, and their wagons are taking up the entire roadway.”

“A poor attempt at superiority,” the Darkness acolyte murmured as he discarded his cloak on the bench, which slid half onto the floor. “They must feel they have something to prove, after their colleague fell apart under syim anger.”

“Getting back at Verryn for nailing Velcross?” Kjaelle cupped Fyrij to her chest, grumpy; Katta slipped his arm around her and she laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m surprised they’re still leaving. Are they taking him or not?”

“They may have badgered someone into re-energizing him quickly,” he said. “Remember, Dough said Merdia has several healing houses for both ghosts and natives because the sea battles are injury-prone events. They might well have tools that help get a spirit back to Ether form faster than normal.” He wiggled about for a decent slouch while remaining a comforting prop for the elfine. “It’s not our worry.”

“What if we encounter them in the desert?”

“What if we do? If they get aggressive, Verryn can remind them he’s Death’s Consort and a syimlin in his own right. The Finders, however much they believe themselves sacrosanct due to Hallowed Collective links, are not the faithful acolytes they promote.”

Kjaelle eyed him, then leaned closer. “Verryn refused to say. Did Erse visit?” she asked.

Vesh laughed while Vantra stared, shocked. Death visited? When? Sick embarrassment wormed through her at the thought of the deity seeing her discorporated, a failure of Elden Fields proportions.

“Yes,” Katta sighed, grouchily exasperated. “You know she did.”

“When?” Vantra asked, strained, dreading the answer.

“When Verryn and I went to study the canyon after I helped you reform. She was a bit peeved he was that careless.”

“But he was fighting an ex-syimlin,” she said, her mind whirling. The religious texts highlighted multiple stories concerning syimlin conflicts and the damage they caused; destruction was not a surprise.

“Yes, which prompted her visit. You see, there’s an older-than-ancient agreement that Death is bound to, which allows syimlin who give up—or lose—their mantle to retain the Gift of Life and the Gift of Power, if they so choose. Rezenarza lost nothing but his title—and has millennia of practice and resentment propping him up. Verryn, despite developing an extremely strong gift, hesitates because he doesn’t have the training to control the power he wields. Our enemy does, and he’s never faltered in using it as a hammer. She knows it, and she’s worried.”

Kjaelle poked his side when he did not continue. “What did she say?”

He closed his eyes. “Call her next time.”

Kjaelle’s shocked countenance reflected Vantra’s own.

“Verryn won’t,” the elfine said.

“No. He’s as stubborn as she when it comes to asking for aid. We’ll see what Qira and I can cram into his brain concerning advanced magic. It’s complicated stuff, and even when properly understood, that doesn’t mean implementation is easy. He’s fighting a syimlin with thousands of years of experience in the same mechanics, putting him at a severe disadvantage.”

“You and Red aren’t going to allow him to fail.”

He half-grinned. “No. How embarrassing would that be for us?”

Vantra did not know what to expect when the wagon finally lurched into motion, but the realization that the trip to Black Temple was going to be an oppressive and boring one came within a few hours of departure.

The desert overflowed with orange rocks, yellow-orange sand, and hardy plants sheltered beneath crags, all touched by the hearty wind—and she perceived nothing more, other than the creak of wood, the snorts of ronyx, and the calls of drivers.

And one—one!—squat, flat-faced, black-scaled lizard basking in the heat of the day on top of a solid orange rock. After spying it out the window, she half-expected it to scurry underneath its chosen spot, but it ignored them in favor of warmth.

She rarely felt lucky she no longer lived, but the thought of experiencing the temperature as a sweat-drenched living being when it affected ghosts who normally did not experience such Physical things, made her so. The lizard might enjoy it, but the stifling stillness of it, akin to how an oven felt when one reached in to withdraw cookies, caused her to shudder. Without companions, she would have panicked.

How silly, she once planned to traverse the Snake’s Den on her own.

The roof clicked and a puff of cooler air burst into the space. The contraption did not work like the air conditioning Vantra knew from her time on Talis, but it provided a bit of relief from the oppressive atmosphere within the wagon. It bothered her that she even noticed.

Vesh must have, too, because he raised a hand and grinned. Small pleasures, she supposed, but that did not make putting up with it for an yilsemma to Black Temple, then another yilsemma to the Snake’s Den, tolerable. And Rils said conditions during winter rarely favored travelers. Of course not. Why would they?

The rest of the mini-Joyful took all in stride, like the wind that blew earthy bits through essences, the heat, the freeze at night, the slow steps of the ronyx as they labored up hills, and the speed at which they trotted down them. She resented the cheer at the nightly fires, the hurry to suck up energy from the sparse mists they encountered while Lorgan stuffed books into their hands concerning magic. She thought his crates only contained his research—how droll.

On the fourth night, they arrived at a tree-circled, lantern-bedecked oasis filled with travelers. Vantra peeked out of the window, scanning the various groups as they retrieved water from a stone well situated beneath shuddering fronds, stood by ronyx and spits as they sated their thirst in the shallows, and bustled around, cooking the evening meal.

How many Nevemere rested among them?

Campfires spanned away from the central pool. Some had wagons, some had tents, some had animals, some did not. One opulent, metallic green, multi-level carriage with silver-tasseled green banners rested between two large fires and creaked mightily in the icy wind. The banners had an upside-down half-moon over a spear that glowed with magic; the symbol belonged to a native religion that followed a deity called Hum. Clustered around the flames in low chairs sat ramrod-stiff individuals wrapped in heavy robes, waving their hands to keep the smoke from their faces. Armed guards circled them while servants attended the ronyx eating from wooden troughs, their blankets shimmering with silver and green threads.

Hopefully they camped far away from the group who eyed the new arrivals with ugly contempt.

Vantra sighed in relief that the caravan moved past the wealthy travelers, plodding up a sandy rise on the other side of the water, and to the remains of an ashy campfire that had a red-bannered pole sunk into the ground next to it. Beyond the rise, rock outcroppings towered above them, looking like humongous shadows against the gently lit twilight clouds.

Once their wagon halted, she hopped out with the rest and strode to the center, where the other mini-Joyful congregated.

“This is a Voristi mowant,” Kenosera said. “A small trade group runs the Watermarket here for nearby communities.”

“How many Nevemere come here?” Katta asked.

“Some younger dousi. Older generations dislike Voristi enough to avoid this place, but when cold falls, the smaller mowantta sometimes run out of water. It is better to come here.”

“So you need to stay put,” Red said, thrumming his fingers on his hips. “We don’t want you recognized.”

Rils floated up in his Ether form, then triggered Physical and crunched the last steps to them. “The caretakers gave us permission to camp,” he said. “But they said a group of dune cats is on the prowl. They usually avoid the population centers, so they’re not certain why they’re stalking the perimeter, but they are.” He focused on Kenosera, Lesanova and Dedari. “That means you’re going to need to use the wasterooms down by the market. We’re too far out, and there’s no reason to take chances.”

All three winced.

“I can handle a dune cat,” Kenosera muttered resentfully. The women nodded in affronted agreement.

“No chances,” Rils stressed. He eyed the rest of them. “Dune cats are an easy tell. Tad smaller than a gyirindi, black to orangy-brown spotted coats, glowy eyes. If you see one, you’ll know. They can suck up energy from essences, so they hunt ghosts just like they hunt the living. They can drain you dry for the power rush. If you need to walk around, go down to the market. Don’t chance the dunes or the rocks.”

“I’m up for the market,” Red said cheerfully. “Who’s coming?”

Vantra tried to say no. Tried. Kjaelle shoved her Passion cloak into her hands, slipped an arm about her shoulders, and drug her after Red. Why? The rest of the mini-Joyful remained behind with Katta. Why not let her stay?

As she fluffed out the cloak to don it, Fyrij slurred his tweet and flew from her shoulder to the Darkness acolyte, snuggling into his neck and falling asleep. Even he deserted her!

The living needed the wasterooms, so they stood in line, waiting for doors in the two long rows of wooden structures to open. They sat at the edge of the first hump past the market, well away from the water, and from the glimpses Vantra caught, had pits in the center covered by knee-high rings of stone. On top of the stone were boards with a gap between them and a ceramic half-bowl at the far end that sloped down into the gap. The roof rested on thin slats with wide spaces in-between for ventilation.

The set-up reminded her of outhouses in wilderness areas and looked just as sanitary. At least someone built a basin at the end of the corridor, where beings washed their hands. Most of the outdoor restrooms on Talis had nothing of the sort.

They received a good bit of attention for their cloaks, and gazes lingered on the patches without recognition, though the beings whispered about them. Having grown up in a temple, memorizing the symbolism for all the syimlin, greater and lesser, was not optional, and she did not understand why Evenacht natives refused to learn the ones surrounding Death and her family. That seemed like an important thing to know.

Kenosera, Lesanova and Dedari did not linger, but Verryn accompanied them. Vantra had avoided him since her discorporation, too embarrassed about her lack of ability to be in his presence. Syimlin looked into souls, and how could he not find her wanting? She desperately wanted to retreat with the three nomads, but Kjaelle’s firm grip did not slide away.

Why was she so insistent?

The market, despite the late hour, bustled. Merchants on blankets and sequestered in stalls sold raw foods that did not require a cooking flame, small jewelry pieces made from shiny rocks and claws, flasks and travel equipment, repair kits for wagons and bedding. Tents stood further from the water and housed larger items like bulk supplies, animal tack, replacement wheels and wagon canvas. Beyond those were square clay buildings with colorful awnings positioned over open doorways, and from the sounds, provided drink to weary travelers.

While Evenacht coins exchanged hands, more customers paid with thin rectangular money that looked like polished bone. Some of the Evening markets accepted similar currency, but she did not think they had the symbols she noted etched into the surfaces.

“That’s Voristi li-manstil,” Verryn said as they moved through the crowd. He must have noticed her interest. “Most of the nomads use rockrill bones for currency, and the more elaborate the decoration, the more money it represents. The last time I was here, li-manstil was the most popular because the Voristi ran the trade centers. It doesn’t look like that’s changed.”

“What about barter?” Kjaelle asked.

“There’s some of that, but you’ll find it in larger communities, where the population is stationary. It’s too easy to promise something at an oasis, then leave before you follow up.”

The market was larger than Vantra thought and wandering through the aisles passed the time until the first trickle of mist rose from the central pool. Natives hurried over to bask in the touch, some splashing into the water to more fully submerge themselves. The mist drifted over the dry bushes that grew between the trees; the pale green leaves darkened into a rich early-year color. Tree fronds brightened as the wispy clouds trickled up their trunks, following channels in the bark to reach the tops.

The mist continued to expand, touching the fires beyond the water, and drifting up the rises to coat the travelers who remained at their camps. It reached the caravan, though it did not seep further. Good. The ghosts there could absorb energy without visiting the water.

The power within the mist contained a dusty tang, a sensation that was reminiscent of the desert surrounding the oasis. While not as potent as the fog found around Evening and in the Dark, the soft touch reminded Vantra of freshly baked sugar cookies; subtle taste, but satisfying.

A hunched nomad hurried to them, rubbing his hands together. He wore a folded blue cloth over his brow and knotted on the side, exposing a sunburned, balding top. A vest embroidered with a travel scene hung to his knees, drawn closed to hide the shorts desert natives wore. A leather band wrapped around his leg just above the calf, and silken blue cloth flowed down to caress his bare feet.

He smiled, his teeth bright against his tan. “Welcome to Watermarket,” he said as two others caught him, both younger and exasperated. “The market is a sight, is it not?”

“It’s very nice,” Verryn agreed. Vantra noted the wariness, though she doubted anyone who did not know him would notice.

He nodded. “Very colorful. Welcoming.” He kept nodding. “We even welcome the Nevemere.”

“Do you?” Red asked, bored, crossing his arms. Vantra’s emotions plunged, and trepidation squirreled through her essence.

“They always have tales,” he said. “Strange tales, about strange beings in wine-red cloaks bearing a knotted symbol.” He made a circular motion with his index finger.

She unwittingly looked at the Passion badge; an oval linked with another that was crosswise and twisted in the middle. It contained a faint luminescence, the mark of Verryn’s power.

“Strange beings, huh?” Red smirked, but not with his typical gaiety.

“Hmm. Strange to Nevemere. Not to us. We Voristi never shun the stranger.” He raised an eyebrow. “Especially those who battle vi-van and their nasty patron.”

That caught their attention. “Patron?” Verryn asked.

“He is subtle, filling the desert with blight,” the nomad said, his smile dwindling. “Conflict where one never existed, a darkness within crags and valleys, drowning the unwary.” He motioned to the market. “Even here, there is bad blood oozing through tongues and into souls.”

He had a pretty way with words.

“We Voristi reject the old Darkness,” he continued. “The power is sour to taste and embitters the blood. But it still creeps through the air, the soil, infuses the water. How can we protect ourselves from this encroachment?”

So the attack at the docks was not an aggrieved ex-syimlin taking advantage of a situation. Vantra’s concerned trepidation grew; how horrible, for Rezenarza to force his Touch on those who rejected it.

Verryn studied him, then dipped his head once. “I see. And do you have a felwan?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, perking up while the other two natives remained skeptical. “Come, come, you are welcome to our shert.”

The shert was a square, orange clay structure with blue swirl decorations. Two windows on either side of the open doorway illuminated the single room, which had a dusty carpet spread before a jagged orange rock rising from the earthen floor. White bowls rested at its base, containing colorful liquids with a fan-shaped shell floating in the center.

Unlike other altars in Vantra’s experience, the felwan seemed devoid of blessing and magic. Verryn touched the top, slid his finger down the bumpy surface, then looked at the nomad.

“How long have you been the yelrawn?” he asked.

“Many switches of dry to wet,” he said. “We here are landed Voristi and generations of our extended families maintained the market. My family swore our loyalty earliest, so the leadership passes down from parent to child through us. So yelrawn I am, but to you, I am Toraphen.”

“Toraphen, then. When was the last time anyone purposefully re-energized the felwan, rather than let the mists do it?”

“Hmm.” He squinted in thought. “A shem wanderer did so, maybe seventeen switches ago. Our shem-towry passed without successor, and none of the youngsters want to visit Grindal Oasis or Kepher to learn the trade.”

The trade. Vantra never thought of religion as a trade but as a deep-seated spiritual need. She pushed down the rise of offense, since her companions did not seem upset, and Verryn only smiled. How could he and Red not feel the insult?

“Alright. If you want a syimlin miracle, you’ll have to wait outside.”

Toraphen might have protested, but the two with him hurried him out. Vantra turned to leave, but Kjaelle snagged her arm and kept her in place as a shimmery dark red veil descended over the door and windows, blocking out curious native eyes.

Red held out his hand to the stone, all humor absent. “I don’t think this contamination is old,” he said. “No more than a year or two.”

Before Vantra could ask, Katta stepped from the shadows of a corner. She stared; how had he done that without a ziptrail or an overt spell, to a place he had never seen? Incredible.

“There is much wrong here,” the Darkness acolyte said. “Beyond Rezenarza’s touch on the vi-van from Black Temple.”

“It’s insidious,” Red agreed. “But subtle. I’m surprised Toraphen noticed.”

“Once visible, deep darkness is hard to ignore,” Katta said. “Just like the brightest light. Something happened, and he looked closer.”

“He said the younger lot isn’t interested in a religious leaning,” Verryn said. “But I don’t understand why he didn’t just ask for help from Kepher or Sunbright, unless he thinks they’re contaminated as well.”

“We need to ask Kenosera, Lesanova and Dedari about some of the politics,” Red said. “I’d be surprised if he contaminated Sunbright. Elfines are quite possessive about lands under their control.”

“They’re not the most understanding when it comes to undermining their authority,” Katta chuckled, before glancing at Kjaelle and reddening. Vantra peeked; she narrowed her eyes, pushed her lips out slightly, and enhanced the glint in her orbs with magic. She agreed with the assessment but decided taking his side might earn her a glare, and she did not want that fiery look searing through her.

“The corruption’s stronger to the south,” Verryn murmured. “Around Grindal Oasis. It has a larger, landed population with half hailing from the Nevemere, so more beings to infect.”

“This isn’t all Rezenarza, either,” Katta said. “Another Touch tempers his, makes it more palatable.”

“I could swear I’ve felt it before, but I can’t place it.” Red dug his fists into his waist, tapped his foot, and shook his head, annoyed.

The discussion tempted Vantra to peer at the altar, curious. Viewing magic that others wanted hidden was no simple task, and Nolaris had chastised her for her poor ability to Sense. Knowing she needed a firmer grasp on the lessons Lorgan provided, she concentrated, whispering ‘Blavre fe pra, flut fre vrulandian nomen’ as she unfocused her external vision. She saw a faint wisp of shadow that disappeared upon inspection.

The two ancient ghosts and Verryn looked at her; Kjaelle blinked, confused, then looked at her, too.

She took a step back, disconcerted, and dropped her head. She knew better than to tamper with things she knew little about. She whirled and raced through the veil, startling the nomads who had their ears pressed to the magic, struggling to listen, and fled towards the caravan. She wanted to leave the oasis, but she needed to absorb the mist. That would not happen if she streaked down the sandy road, into the night, hoping the same route took her to Black Temple and Laken.

She dug her knuckles into her forehead, her essence trembling. She knew better than to meddle with syimlin affairs. What was wrong with her, interrupting a scan from a deity?

“You run fast.”

She jumped. Red laughed and settled a hand on her back as she staggered, the burst of fear refusing to dispel.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding anything but. “Why’d you leave?”

She smashed her lips together, sarcasm and sourness and bitterness vying for supremacy in her answer.

“The contamination didn’t like your touch,” he continued. “It avoided you like you were fire. That gave Verryn and Katta a path to pursue to cleanse the area.” He hmphed. “And might explain why those elfines at Sunbright haven’t taken affront at Rezenarza’s underhanded presence. They haven’t been specifically looking for it, and if they did, it flees from the Sun’s Touch.”

Had . . . had they found her intrusiveness helpful?

“Kjaelle’s having fun bantering with the Voristi about spying on us,” he snickered. “Quite the revealing day, don’t you think?”

Whatever he read in her face when she looked at him, sadly aghast, made him soften.

“Kjaelle was looking too, you know. She and Vesh, when they’re traveling on their own, happen upon all sorts of places with problems. Identifying them, getting help when necessary, is important. Considering Rezenarza’s made an appearance, you need to know his Touch, his subtleness.” His mouth twisted. “Veer prefers a kinder approach towards him and towards his Darkness, but I think it’s past time he buried his residual guilt and confronted him.”

“Residual guilt?”

“He feels guilty about winning the Darkness mantle. When Rezenarza attacked, he defended himself, but he didn’t mean to win. He just wanted to stay alive. He respected the syimlin who wore the mantle, and hasn’t forgiven himself for upsetting the balance as he did.” He trailed off, frowning. “Something’s up.”

What? He snagged her and drew her to him, and their next step, the outer edge of the caravan materialized before them, a line of caravan crew facing the cliffs, weapons ranging from handguns to swords and knives drawn. Vantra felt her essence shimmer and tingle with Light, but had no opportunity to study it.

Red dropped her hand and strode between Mera and Tally, who had their halberds pointed at two large black-furred cats crouched in the ashen shadows between the light from the wagon lanterns and the night beyond.

Their eyes glowed a menacing green, and darkness magic swirled over them like the flutter of butterfly wings. They growled together, a low rumble that vibrated the air.

“Those aren’t normal dune cats.” Kenosera, knife in hand, kept Lorgan company as he watched the beasts curl their claws into the sand. He glanced at her, further back, then returned to the pressing threat.

Vantra looked as well; Lesanova and Dedari stood with two crewmembers on top of a wagon, bows drawn, ready to strike.

“Well now,” Red said. The same sharp anger he directed at Mimeriqette sliced through the air, and the cats flinched, their chests brushing the ground as they took two steps in retreat. “Aren’t we privileged, you came to check on us.”