They were animals. They did not have the capacity of thought or the same sympathy that faelareign and umbrareign possessed. Then why must she agonize over the greol and their timid companions sending ghosts to the Final Death?
Vantra folded her arms on the foredeck’s railing, set her chin on them, and stared at the Bask-ilisk shore; pristine yellow-gold sand glimmered against the rich cyan hue of the water, and tiny black dots moved about on the beach and in the waves. Up a gentle slope beyond them were several squat, domed buildings that sat in front of deep emerald-green trees that leaned to the east. Such a beautiful view, but the scintillating natural splendor did not drown her sour thoughts like she wanted it to.
Ghosts could change. That was why the long-ago Death created the Fields of the UnRedeemed. Perhaps it had grown in a different direction than originally intended, but the reason for its existence remained. Beings, having spent their living years in ill pursuits, could reflect on the acts that sent them there during their first years in the Evenacht. They could accept what they did was wrong, they could alter their course, complete a Redemption and reap the benefits of the evening lands after their Recollection.
None of that was possible, if their spirit met the Void before they chose to go. And Darkness had behaved so unconcerned about the travesty!
“Qira!” Joila’s firm exasperation meant the deity had again done something to prolong his already-lengthy healing. “No xu o Ayešt ma no bašu ta zā!”
“Še grašu ʾi zā ʾi šiz rond.” Vantra looked over her shoulder; the wayward syimlin flipped his hand he climbed the starboard stairs, dressed in a baggy white shirt and oversized black pants, barefoot. He used the railing for support, and she did not think the clothing would keep him warm against the wind that sapped the watery heat from the air.
He walked to her and flumped back against the railing with heaviness rather than aplomb. Joila hastened to them, holding her slipdress down as the breeze frolicked with it, then looked at the beaches. Her frown softened, and she set her hand on his lower arm.
“Harmāe šekekendurjā, eh?”
“Buaq,” Qira agreed. He patted at his breastbone. “Sālurtā fārs ayešt.”
“No in hā-zaj zāg fārs šerez.”
“Še o’r xeft.”
Joila folded her arms and leaned on the top pole next to him. “Have you seen such a wondrous brightness in the Evenacht, Vantra?” she asked.
“No.” Not that she had much to compare it to; she had only left Evening after Nolaris drove her out. Her training had kept her to the Finder’s quarter and her small, insignificant hut. It had not been much, but it had been hers. She fought the reactionary tears; semma had passed since her ex-mentor burned her home, and missing the tiny space was silly. Her outlook, her experience, had broadened since those first dark days. “Did Lorgan ask you about—”
Joila’s gales of laughter proved that yes, the scholar had asked his impudent question. Qira sighed, then chuckled.
“I’m not sure what he wanted as an answer, but blinking at him wasn’t it.”
“We just dosed him good, and he wasn’t in a thoughtful frame of mind,” Joila giggled. “It’s just as well, ern šeyaz. You now have time to figure out what you’re going to say.”
He pursed his lips and rocked his head in disgruntlement, but the expression drifted away as he turned around and peered at the docks beyond the largest beach. “Huh. Nem’s here.”
Vantra froze. Weather? Weather was at the docks?
“Is she?” Joila asked, startled, and stared in the same direction.
“I wonder if the battle caught her attention.”
“Maybe.” Joila frowned and rubbed her moon-pale cheeks, leaving smears of reddish color behind. “Or she just returned to the Grace and someone told her of the fight. She normally handles nastiness so near the temple isle.” She glanced at her and smiled warmly. “I’m certain you’ve read much on Nem’s adventures, however few of the stories reflect reality. I find it strange, how so many focus on her rage, when it’s her gentle side that promotes life.”
“Uka’s the one with the fiery temper,” Qira said. He hooked his hair behind his ears, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I hope she isn’t here to talk to Katta.”
Joila lolled her head over, then hmphed. “And what would she say? Nature broke with him, hurt him, and she can’t change that. He had every right to seek another love afterwards. Attempting to push them back together will only end in sorrow for all concerned.”
“You would say that, as you like Kjaelle better.”
“So do you.”
“Yes.” The wind continued to snag his hair, and with a wrinkled nose, he straightened and placed his hands on top of his head. The errant strands divided into three parts and formed a braid that fell and bounced into place along his spine. He dropped his arms, turned, and leaned against the railing again. “I liked Maed Enne when she first accepted the mantle. She had spark, fire, a love for nature in all its forms. The interstellar war changed her. Fear made a home within her, and it eats at her confidence and security. Her fire is nothing more than ash.”
“Do you think she should give it up?” Joila asked.
Qira regarded his friend with sad softness. “Yes. As she is, she’s incapable of completing her charge. I don’t want to punish her, but after her neglect in Greenglimmer, I don’t see how she can satisfy her mantle and lead her followers. Forestcat may not be her primary temple, but that shouldn’t matter, when followers are in danger like that.”
“There have been times when other syimlin have neglected their duties. There have been times when other syimlin have failed.”
“Yes, and they lost their mantles, often to upset followers. It doesn’t happen like that anymore.” He pursed his lips. “Her acolytes had to have prayed to her about the desecration, and she ignored them.” He stared at the deck boards, then at Joila, a stern fire within his eyes. “And what did you do, when you realized the temple was corrupted?”
Joila dropped her gaze, regarding the lapping waters in unhappy resignation. “I prayed.”
“And received no answer?”
She shook her head. “And it wasn’t just us. Favored acolytes and clergy begged, and she ignored them. Perhaps it was too many voices, all at once.”
“She wouldn’t have to pay attention to every prayer, just the numbers,” Qira reminded her. “Believe me, when the Light-blessed have issues, I KNOW about it, not from individual thoughts, but the volume of them.”
“My mother taught me that syimlin don’t involve themselves in natural disasters,” Vantra said. “She might have thought the forest overrunning the temple was local neglect.” She thought that plausible, since the corruption hid beneath the overt plants and if one did not pay much attention from a distant scry, it would be difficult to detect.
Qira lifted his left cheek in a half-snarl. “It’s true, we don’t halt nature’s course, but that isn’t the problem.” His head fell to the side as he looked at her. “I’m surprised your mother mentioned it. It’s an old prohibition that hasn’t found footing in modern temple strictures. I know about it because the Aristarzian Light priesthood taught that Sun made a pact with the essence of Sensour to leave nature’s impact alone, and Zibwa says his people had a similar tale. Seems silly to think on it, considering the ravages modern construction has on environments. You’d think, if it existed, its anger at us little bits scraping away centuries’ old forests and making huge, contaminated pits to mine metals would trigger some revenge. Then again, maybe that’s why it didn’t help during the Flayn invasion.”
Joila hmphed. “The Flayn would have done worse,” she muttered. “I read Eyne Dorsteldyn’s book. The Flayn’s evil goes deeper than the surface skin. Leaving ravaged planets behind, no hope of ecological recovery, to feed another’s insatiable energy hunger is beyond a villain’s playbook.”
Vantra had not read the book, though the first-hand account of the Flayn Monarchy and the Gabridarço lust for conquering had sold phenomenally well when Dorsteldyn first released it. The curious newly deceased still bought it, which had kept it on Evenacht must-read lists for decades. “I haven’t heard the tale about a pact with Sensour—and I read a lot of religious texts growing up.”
“If you look at the ancient histories—and I mean the ones so crumbled with age they’re nearly undecipherable—it was an integral part of worship,” Joila said. “It fell out of favor when the syimlin did, and it hasn’t returned as a part of modern religious thought. I was curious about the ignorance surrounding certain tales I thought of as foundational, so I spoke with some of the older ex-syimlin about beliefs during their time, then hunted for information to fill in gaps. I personally believe that the pact explained why deities could not interfere in disasters, when in reality, the mantles had yet to develop the strength to mitigate them.”
“That’s part of it,” Qira agreed. “Another is our hesitation. Unexpected outcomes happen when we act. Sometimes the people and places and creatures you meant to save end up in an even worse predicament, and instead of them overcoming a disaster, finding community and prospering despite the difficulties, they’re wiped off the planet.”
Joila touched his arm, sadly empathetic, and Vantra wracked her memory, searching for the event he spoke about. She recalled nothing in his myths about a disaster he interfered with that ended up with an even more devastating outcome than the original calamity.
He put his hand over the acolyte’s, and she set her other one on top. “Oracles like to pretend they can see the future, but it’s all a muddy mire of guesses and patchwork assumptions,” he said, his voice quivering. “They never point out a single act can save one civilization, and the unknown cost is the future destruction of countless more. They never seem to share that the good king they promote would have a great-grandson who would become evil incarnate, and if you didn’t help him rise to the throne by saving him from a nature-inspired avalanche, the Pedigree Wars would have never existed.” He regarded Vantra, his fingers tightening on Joila’s. “That’s what happened to Rezenarza. It was the first big act of his charge, and the one with the most dire consequences. He watched his people, the Yozene Nymphs, get slaughtered. Everything he did to help became twisted, and so many died, their population cratered, and the few left found other nymph communities to join. He was the destroyer of his own people, all because he diverted an avalanche after an honorable man called for help. He didn’t take it well, and all other decisions he’s ever made stem from that.”
“And on that cheerful note, you need to get back to bed, Qira.” Joila squeezed his hands and tugged him into motion.
Vantra watched them go, tears trickling down her cheeks, and she wiped them away. How horrible. The guilt Rezenarza carried must weigh so heavily. No wonder Katta held sympathy rather than rage for him.
Her tears continued, and she buried her face in her arms. What could useless tears do, for nymphs long dead? What could they do, about the men and women who saw destruction and death as the foundation for their ambitions? She had met several in the Fields, all of them shouting souls insisting that their perverse twist on morality was syimlin-blessed and they deserved a hero’s welcome into the Evenacht, not a punishment.
Nothing. She could do nothing but wait until they broke under the strain of condemnation, and hopefully a Finder would Choose them as a Candidate for Redemption. It was that, or get dumped into the Elden Fields.
Morose, she returned to her lonely watch of the gorgeous shoreline and the gentle waves, her mind refusing to focus on nice, but rather haunted, memories.
Vantra did not remain lonely for long. Within moments of her thinking it, Fyrij landed on her shoulder and twittered at her before rubbing his head against her chin. The wind, a constant companion, had dwindled as they sailed on the lee side of the short, stout eastern mountains, and he felt more comfortable keeping her company on deck. She kissed his furry crown, warmed by his care, and together they watched the docks grow larger and larger as they neared the southeastern side of the island.
The sea grew shallower and shallower, too. She leaned over the railing as far as she could, to view the rippling blur of landscape below. It held a wondrous array of bright corals and brighter fish, all dancing together beneath pristine cyan waters.
Fyrij hopped to the top of her head, dug his talons into her scalp, and did the same. He chittered with growing excitement as his wings flapped around for balance. It did not surprise her when he slipped, and his plummet ended mid-squawk as Kenosera caught him. He grinned at her and winked as the caroling made sing-song comments at him.
Yut-ta leaned over with her, a smile of delight pushing the edges of his mouth up. “Look at all the colors!” Fyrij chirped in agreement and flew to his right wing, settling on the top curve for an unparalleled view.
“Merdia has reefs you can dive, but the coral and fish are not so bright,” Kenosera said, pulling himself up so he could arch over the top pole on his belly. “Or so near the surface.”
“It’s why the waters around Half-Moon, Broken Shell and Bask-ilisk are called the Shallows. They aren’t that deep.” Mera walked to them, holding Vantra’s plain silver spyglass. “Do you mind?” She shook her head, and the acolyte turned to sea-watching. “If you like fish, the shoals have incredible diving. And a nosy strake.”
“Strake?” Yut-ta asked, surprised, blinking in shocked-bird style.
“If we see her, I’ll introduce you,” she said. “Sea strakes are quite the sight, and Bask-ilisk is lucky, she’s a calm and kind individual. Considering her size and ability in magic, she could decimate the island if pushed.”
“You know a sea strake?” Kenosera asked. “I’ve heard of strakes, but I’ve not met one.”
“The Snake is a strake,” Mera said. “He doesn’t define himself that way, but according to the Elder Nunce books, the single trait that confers strake status is an oval pupil. That overrides all other characteristics.” She lowered the glass and raised a thin eyebrow. “Which is why goats are considered strakes.”
Vantra giggled. She found the relationship between goats and their larger, fiercer cousins amusing, but strakes took goats as seriously as they did the fire-breathing giants with wings. Their communities raised the animals for wool and thanked their little brothers in elaborate ceremonies for providing a needed commodity.
The Light acolyte stuck the spyglass under her armpit and readjusted the soft pink scarf that kept her aqua hair from bouncing against her coppery-brown cheeks; the gusts enjoyed playing with her airy curls, and she had prepared accordingly. Satisfied, she peered through the glass again. “I miss many things about the isles, but not the wind.”
“When was the last time you and Tally visited?” Kenosera asked, his gaze trailing the distant, watery horizon.
“A few years ago, for my youngest grandbaby’s renewal of her marriage vows.” Mera sighed in joy at the memory. “They held it in the Orange Gardens, and the bright petals against the green leaves were gorgeous. They had a cascading flower lattice behind the platform that complemented her coral dress, and she wore a matching amora crown and she was . . .” She raised her shoulders, squeezing them towards her neck as if she had eaten something delightfully sweet, and her grin widened. “She was so beautiful and beaming!” She dropped them, lowered the glass, and looked at the two men. “The love of her life wore shorts and a flower necklace that matched her crown. And no, the shorts were not traditional. He’s from the Naue islands, so needed a woven reed tomma and a long jorra that would wrap around the arms like a vest. But no, he wore surfing shorts because that’s how he met her.” She hmphed. “I still like him despite his deplorable fashion sense.”
As she wore a warm pink tank, shell-and-bead earrings and necklace, tropical blue, calf-length pants with lacy bottoms, and woven sandals with pink ties, Vantra understood the fashion part. Both she and Tally had a wondrous wardrobe of fairy tale fancy, often looking like the small, winged beings from mythology. That they carried poleaxes in protection of Qira added to the mystique.
“But back to your question,” Mera said. “We may not visit often, but we send letters, and the Light and Darkness temples contact us when our relations send something back. The younger lot love getting postcards. The older generations tut-tut that we haven’t settled down yet.”
Vantra cocked her head. “But you’re married.”
Mera nodded. “Yes. Me to a wonderful man named Gedall, Tally to a wonderful man named Redaun.” She lowered the glass and swished the air with her arms. “Gedall swept me off my feet the first time we met. I told him he was too bold. He told me he had to be, to catch my eye.” Her dark brown orbs twinkled at the memory. “We danced the night away, and Tally had to drag me home.” She placed a hand over her heart. “He’s always been the romantic. Redaun is a bit more sensible. He kept the three of us out of trouble numerous times—and he recalls every single one.” She tapped the eyepiece at them. “Every. Single. One.”
“Is he a tut-tut, then?” Yut-ta asked. Kenosera elbowed him for the impudence, but Mera laughed.
“No. He knows traveling with Qira means a lot to us, and he supports our decision. Not that he doesn’t miss Tally, and she misses him, but for now, we exist in different spheres. That’s where the tut-tut comes from.” She sucked in a deep breath, shoved her shoulders back, and raised her chin. “We were great-grandmothers when we passed,” she said in a snooty voice. “We should be far beyond the need for adventure and excitement and settle into an afterlife of doing exactly what we did while alive—care for children.” She sagged. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. We raised our own, and we love them. But Redaun founded a home for children who die young and now need nurturing and care as they grow into adult ghosts. Most of our relations help, more or less, and childcare was expected of us.” She threw her arms wide. “It’s a farmstead at its soul. They have gardens and an orchard of yerange fruit and raise a variety of domestic animals. It’s quiet, peaceful, a rural existence not far from a major metropolitan area.” She sighed and lowered her hands. “Not quite how Tally and I pictured the afterlife, which is why, when we saw Qira, we knew we were going on adventures with him.”
“And you knew he was Light?” Vantra asked. She had not guessed, but she never anticipated meeting syimlin, either. That was her mother’s thing, not hers.
“Our families have a long history worshiping him. My very ancient great-who-knows-how-many-times grandmother was a priestess during the Time of Nights. Recognizing Light is my birthright.” She tapped her extra-long pink nails against the glass and pursed her lips. “I was hoping Timos was out today. I wanted to talk to him before we made our report about the attack, but I don’t see his patrol.”
Vantra winced at the reminder. Dough was in a mood, as the Island Beach Authority demanded he make a report about the incident. Not that he had not planned to refuel and resupply at Bask-ilisk, but he disliked being civil to yet another water-related authority. He was a pirate, after all—and grouched to everyone on board about that salient, and obvious, fact. Vantra did not understand the disgruntlement, but the crew shrugged it off.
“Who’s Timos?” Kenosera asked. “An IBA sailor?”
“Yes, but he’s also my great-grandson. He was a year old when I died, so we didn’t know each other on Talis, but we’ve grown close in the Evenacht. He decided he didn’t much like the farmstead and joined the IBA for a bit of adventure while still being somewhat near home. It makes sense; his mother’s a dryan, and he inherited her love of water.” She looked up the snake-shaped bowsprit and immediately bowed.
A woman hovered above the serpent’s nose, dressed in an emerald-hued, belted tunic with wispy flowing sleeves and a layered skirt of chiffon. She wore slippers that parted at the arch of her feet and curved up and around the back of her heel, the sole so thin, it would not provide protection during a walk. Her shadowy brunette curls had streaks of fern green, and her skin, the shade of rich warm brown clouds during a fiery sunset, had a sheen of the same green. White, conical seashells dangled from her pointed ears, matching the necklace with a coral pendant that hung low on her breast.
Vantra recognized her from numerous religious texts. Nem Hala. Weather. She bowed too, nonplussed she had not realized a syimlin had arrived.
Fyrij trilled and jetted from Yut-ta’s wing to the stranger, who held out her hand. He landed on the fingers and chirped, fluttering his feathers.
“Well met, Fyrij,” she said. “And from Fading Light? You’re a fair distance from your home, young one.” He twittered, and she chuckled. “I see.”
She pushed from the sprit and landed lightly on the deck before nodding to Mera. “I just saw Timos at the docks,” she said, her voice as warm as a mid-year sunset. “He’s worried.”
“He must have heard about the attack.”
“He did. The entire dock is abuzz—and not just about this Revenant threat. Avatars, sailing with pirates?”
They laughed together. Fyrij hummed, enjoying the mirth, and Vantra struggled with whether she should politely join in or remain respectfully quiet. Kenosera and Yut-ta bowed, though not with the reverence she experienced.
“They would not be so shocked, if they knew Talis and Veer.” Nem Hala looked at the three of them, her hazel-green gaze intent. “And I assume adventure has drawn you to their sides, as it has this caroling?”
“Our meeting was happenstance,” Vantra said with another bow. “I’m on a Redemption.”
“Hmm. But not a typical one, otherwise our intrepid Light and Darkness would be sprinting into danger in another part of the Evenacht.” Her eyes narrowed, and she stared beyond them. “You look like a drowned cat, Talis.”
Qira squinted one eye and returned the glare, his displeasure at the assessment evident. He wore a light blue fuzzy lounge robe despite the air’s suffocating wet heat, and the grey tinge to his skin hinted he should not have wandered about deck earlier. Concerned, Fyrij leapt from the woman’s fingers and flew to the wayward syimlin, tweeting his concern. Instead of alighting on his shoulder, he settled on Joila’s and scolded him from a safer perch.
Katta raised a brow, and he and Weather sighed together.
“And unsurprising, he’s stubbornly sailing rather than recovering,” she said.
“I can recover on a ship just fine, Nem,” he insisted.
“You’d recover better under Zibwa’s care.”
The entourage that accompanied the two syimlin voiced agreement, and Joila’s pointed glower emphasized her annoyance at his obstinacy. Qira fish-frowned in sourness, stubbornly refusing to take the sound advice.
Nem Hala’s gaze drifted past them, and her smile warmed. “You must be Captain Drowned Dough.”
Dough took his hat off and bowed with a flourish; behind him Janny and Llellenwyn did the same, without the flare. “I am delighted to welcome another esteemed syimlin aboard the Loose Ducky,” he said, brash yet respectful.
“You’ve quite the reputation in the Isles,” Nem Hala said. “For victory in sea battles like the one you just won.”
“As much as I would love the honor of the Wind Revenant defeat, I must leave that for the greol and timids who accompany us. They broke the ship apart—quite the spectacular act, and worthy of a Merdia pirate.”
Nem Hala laughed with everyone else, though Vantra could not prod herself into sharing their mirth. They stood in the presence of Weather—how could they all behave with such nonchalance? How could she so casually accept that?
“Greol and timids are odd fighting companions,” the syimlin said.
“They’ve followed us since we left Fading Light for the Snake’s Den,” Katta said. He wore a sleeveless, open-front, black tunic held together by a belt and scruffy cut-offs, a style not quite as laid-back as Qira’s, but not one she associated with meeting another syimlin, either. “They’re taken with Vantra.” He motioned to her, and she froze. Had the floor just dropped from under her feet?
“Her rays reach far,” she agreed. “Though I’m shocked a greol recognized her. They’re stubborn creatures—much like a certain Light we know.”
Qira thumped his chest. “I am not greol-stubborn. I’m not! Why are you all looking at me like that?”
Resa stuck his arm around his friend’s neck and squeezed, knocking their foreheads together. That did not placate the exasperated syimlin, but Vantra had the feeling it was not for support, but to keep him from saying something foolish.
Nem Hala folded her arms and regarded Qira with wry amusement. “Well, Syimlin of Stubbornness, I’m inviting you and everyone on board the Loose Ducky to the Bask Palace Wind Festival. It’s running another yilsemma, and I think you’ll enjoy the delights. You’ve had little of them during your current quest, and it will give Talis some time to relax without admitting he needs rest.” She raised an eyebrow at the disgruntled syimlin. “And there are plenty of elfine leafcakes to spare.”
Qira eyed her. “The ones flavored with leron and jime?”
“Of course.”
His immediate shift to enthusiastic attendee made Vantra sigh. Did they not have a Redemption to complete?
