Chapter 33: Wind-blown

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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.

The door banged open without warning; Vantra and Fyrij squeaked together as cold shuddered through their essences. Red hopped in, slammed it shut, and jerked the hood from his head.

“It went well?” Katta asked drolly, as if he already knew it had not.

Red’s snarl would make any cat proud. “Four separate groups, including the Finders, ended up traveling together from some Black Temple checkpoint on the edge of the Dryan Lakebed. The weather caused them to look for shelter, and someone remembered this overhang. That’s all fine and good, but Nuban reminded Nolaris that Passion hired Rils as a guide, so he told the other groups a syimlin was going to protect them from the storm. Kenosera told them Passion isn’t with us, and Nolaris called him a liar. To prove it, he’s trying to break into every wagon to find Verryn and make him deal with the storm.”

The interior became darker, and the flash of lightning did not illuminate much beyond the white faces of the deceased. Vantra glanced at Lorgan, but his attention remained on the Darkness and Light acolytes, his fingers gripping his knees.

“He’s also screaming about how Rils needs to undo all the ties and wagon chains and let his caravan circle on the inside, because Finders are on an important mission and deserve the shelter more.” He mimicked taking a deep, cleansing breath. “Tally is running interference.”

“Did you find out why they’re here?” Lorgan asked. “They should have hit Sunbright and progressed to the ruins by now.”

“Apparently a different Black Temple checkpoint told the Finders they had to get permission from the vi-van at Black Temple to enter the ruins, or the spiritesti would take care of them permanently.” Red ran a hand through his damp hair and snagged it behind his ears. Vantra touched her own tresses, reminded that she needed to make certain they glowed a purplish red. Would the color change fool Nolaris? He never paid much heed to her appearance. The tiny hope plummeted; even if he neglected to recognize her, Dychala would.

The sound of rain striking the ground changed and became sharper, a drumming rhythm. Thunder brashly rolled past, and the drum intensified.

The door burst open and Kenosera and Lesanova bustled in, dripping, shivering and pissed.

“Rils said to ignore the Finders,” Kenosera gritted. “I think he’s wrong, but he and his ghosts are busy helping the other wagons settle, then moving their animals into the middle of the circle.”

Lesanova growled, as unhappy as Red, and grabbed the knob to pull the door shut. “He told Kenosera to hide—”

She stumbled forward as the door jerked from her hand and remained open. Stray hail shot inside, pelting them and bouncing across the floor, as Nolaris filled the entrance, Dychala and Velcross attending. They had bundled against the elements, coats and cloaks keeping their essences protected, but neither Dychala nor Velcross looked as if they appreciated their role as support in terrible weather.

“Where is Passion?” Nolaris roared. “I demand—”

“Get out.”

Darkness weighed the interlopers down with the malicious silence that hid within a grave’s shadows. Terror uglified Dychala and Velcross’s features, and Nolaris looked as if he faced a furious Death after a life ill-lived.

“But-but Passion—”

“Did I whisper?” Katta asked. “Get out.”

Fyrij stopped shuddering, and peeked out from Vantra’s hood, the shadows filling his voice an attractant rather than a repellent for the avian. She thought she should shrink and cower away from the violence that lay just below a thin veneer of enraged calm, but she did not believe the Darkness acolyte would harm her—just as she believed the Finders were not safe from him.

She glanced outside; the caroling had attracted Dychala. Anxiety ricochetted through her. Would the Finder recognize her?

Red gently clasped Lesanvoa’s shoulders and moved her away from Nolaris before shoving the frozen ghost outside and slamming the door shut; the interior gloom melded with light, and while everything still sat in shadows, the finality of tomb-darkness flitted away.

“I’d expect that from Qira,” Kjaelle said, mourner-quiet, and slipped her hand into Katta’s. His fingers curled around hers, his only reaction.

“He should feel lucky getting shoved out the door is the only thing that happened to him,” Red sighed. “Jackass. I guess he now knows we’re accompanying Passion. Is he smart enough to make the connections with Vantra?”

“I think Dychala saw me, but didn’t recognize me,” Vantra told him. He raised an eyebrow.

“Hair colors change a person.”

“I thought ghosts respected those Touched by syimlin,” Lesanova said, her voice trembling. Kenosera set a hand on her back, but showed no outward signs of fear. Of course, as a man who knew the touch of Darkness his entire life, even if that Darkness was Rezenarza, an ominous voice backed by a syimlin’s wrath would not affect him.

“Ghosts respect those who bring them power through religion,” Red told her. “Vantra’s the exception, not the norm.”

She gaped at him. Exception, and not the norm? Her?

“For those like Nolaris, devotion is only relevant if power is in play.” Katta narrowed his eyes at the door; good thing it held no consciousness, or it would have shriveled into nothing. “Where are Tagra and Dedari?”

“They offered to stay with the ronyx and guard the other wagons,” Kenosera said. “Rils doesn’t trust Nuban’s ghosts or the Finders to not cause trouble.”

“Well, if they attempt magic mischief, they will regret it,” Red said.

“I doubt they’d get more than a simple spell to function,” Lorgan agreed.

“They could damage the wagons in other ways,” Vantra pointed out. “Break the wheels, tear the tarps over the supplies.” She looked up at the nomads. “Tagra and Dedari really shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

“No, but better that, than waking to dead ronyx and no supplies.” Kenosera motioned to the wall. “We promised to take our turn doing so. It’s not so bad. Cold and rain and hail, but the wind strikes the wagons, and only thin fingers make their way inside. The drops blow to us, but not so many. Besides, we nomads are accustomed to the frozen desert nights.”

Red stretched and tipped his head back. “I’ll keep them company,” he said. “There’s no reason to leave two young living beings to suffer miserable conditions alone.” He smirked. “And I DARE Nolaris to take exception.”

“Ghosts don’t do well in strong winds,” Kenosera protested.

“True, but I’ll be fine, even if I’m tired. And it’s better that Cranky stays here. If he goes outside, Kjaelle will sit with him, and if Nolaris shows his face inside the circle, he might no longer have a face to show anywhere.”

“Thank you for the confidence in me,” she muttered. “I would not turn him into a pile of essence to be blown away, no matter how angry I was with his past insults.”

“Cranky?”

Red wrapped himself up with a flourish, oblivious to Katta’s huffiness. Why did he tease? His friend obviously was in no mood to suffer it. He opened the door and hopped downstairs, ready to confront anyone who thought bothering them was a good idea. No Finder remained in sight.

Good, though Vantra suspected Nolaris planned something to revenge the humiliation he just suffered. He, sage of the Finders and beloved of the Hallowed Collective, froze when a Darkness acolyte confronted him with only words. Believing that Verryn still traveled with them would not stay his hand.

“He should be careful,” Kenosera said as he slipped his outdoor gear off and set them near the door to dry. “With the cover of getting the new arrivals settled, Nuban can sneak a ghost into the circle to cause difficulties.”

“What is Nuban like?” Katta asked.

“He is . . .” Kenosera paused, searching for a word.

“Sly, bordering on devious,” Lesanova supplied. “Merdia has many pirates, and not all are as good-natured as Drowned Dough and his crew. Nuban is one. He seeks his betterment at the expense of others. We were told that he spent the longest in the Fields, and many don’t believe he should have been Redeemed when he was. He shows no remorse for any act, no matter the harm.”

That sounded more like the pirates that Vantra expected, when she first learned of Merdia.

“So there is reason to suspect, if Nolaris pays him, that he and his will damage this caravan,” Kjaelle said.

“Yes.”

Kenosera nodded and held up two fingers. “He returned to the Fields twice since his arrival in the Evenacht. Dough says this is rare.”

Fyrij cheeped and snorted at the revelation, and Vantra’s shock shot from her head to her toes. Who purposefully behaved so awfully, they returned to the Fields twice? What terribleness did he do, that Death believed he needed to spend more time there? Would that prompt revenge on his part, if he thought that Death’s Consort rode with them?

“Dough’s correct,” Kjaelle said. “I’ve not met another ghost who wants to return, who spent any time there. When it happens, the deceased have usually continued illicit business they began on Talis. Death hates to send spirits back, though she will if the crimes are heinous enough.”

“Or the ghost has tried to meddle with the Condemned.” Katta shrugged. “Some think revenge on the punished is equal to the penalty if they get caught. It isn’t, and they learn that through hard experience.”

Gell popped into mind, and Vantra’s revulsion obliterated the shock. The ghost had brought spell components to the Fields and mixed a potion he thought would mutilate the essences of spirits he hated in life. He sprinkled the contaminate onto their unprotected heads and waited for their essences to wilt, believing that sitting in the Fields was not punishment enough for what they did to him in life.

His glee turned to rage when he realized the potion did not work, and his attempt to flee the Finders who discovered him ended in his head joining the thousands of others, his essence rent apart and flung throughout the Evenacht. He sat at the entrance to the Fields, a warning to all newly deceased who passed the gate, if they dared to do the same thing.

How long had Nuban spent in the Evenacht? Why had he yet to learn the lesson?

“Well, let’s get some rest,” Katta said, to a flash of lightning. His remaining words drowned under the boom of thunder.

Vantra grumbled to herself as a shudder coursed through her. Good luck to them; she doubted she could rest, too worried about retribution and the storm.

BOOM!

Everyone jerked up.

“That wasn’t thunder,” Lorgan said.

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