Qira looked better after his nap, though Vantra would not say healthy. He lounged against a red-padded chaise, feet curled beneath him, a plate of fruit on his lap that he slowly consumed. Katta sat with him, Nem in another seat to his left. Towering over them was Zeeya, who held an entire spit like a skewer and ripped meat off it with her pointed teeth. They murmured in low tones, light with laughter.
She wanted to bask in the quieter atmosphere like they did, but worried instead; Mera and Tally had yet to return, and she did not see Vesh around. Qira and Katta did not seem concerned—and why not?—and the rest of them took that cue to have a good time. Except for her. She fell to brooding instead.
Attempting to reverse her sourness, she ran her fingers through the trickle of water that circled them and the white-and-red ceramic pool. The cool air traveling with it produced swirls that tasted like sweet fruit drink, and combined with the mist pouring from the fountain’s leaf sculpture, the atmosphere had a pleasant, zingy touch.
The breeze rustled the leaves hanging over the edges of the running water, creating a calming, fluttery sound. The orange and red flowers had gleaming droplets of water resting on the head-sized petals and the yellow stamens that rose from a bumpy center. She warned Fyrij about snagging one, and he took off, refusing to listen. If she found a shredded bit of red or orange in the pack, she would have a talk with her little caroling about mutilating Weather’s blooms.
Or maybe something else caught his attention. The banquet hall was a literal garden surrounded by white columns with red-and-gold leaves at the top, which held a lattice tangled with dangling vines. Over-bright specks of golden magic danced among the greenery like fireflies. She could see him snitching a speck and expecting it to retain its gleam after he shoved it in his special pocket. The entire area rested within a brown, rocky hollow, with bioluminescent plants growing on the surface; could he resist snagging the rainbow petals? Probably not.
She adjusted her seat and winced as her essence wobbled. Her companions had guessed she depleted her energy, since Jare made certain she sat near the largest pool so she received a continuous, heady dose of ryiam. Lorgan joined her, not so much for the mist, but to monitor her absorption.
Yes, she had felt a little woozy just before they reached the banquet, but she kept quiet about her difficulties. Their accurate guess about her condition annoyed her.
Kenosera and Yut-ta found her after meeting the contestants and congratulating the finalists, food in hand. They stuffed themselves with roasted bird and red vegetables, medallions of fish fried with blazing orange spice and stringy green leaves all on skewers, and numerous fruits of various shapes and colors, all washed down with cool fruit juices.
She envied the ghosts who could consume the meal. Sucking in mist was not the same as filling her belly with warm goodness. Alas, she did not want to embarrass herself by attempting it and having the food fall through her and stain the red pillow upon which she sat.
“This reminds me of firelight nights in the desert,” Kenosera murmured after swallowing a mouthful of the fish and washing it down with the juice. “After the first rain breaking the dry season, families get together around a large fire the next night and share a meal and stories of the past year. The food stores are usually down to their last dregs, so everyone brings some of what they have left, and it’s all put into a stew and dished into hand-sized bowls. The bowls are small enough that we can easily mill around and speak with each other while eating.” He set the glass down with a soft plunk.
“I’ve been to Voristi firelights,” Lorgan said. “Theirs have water dancers perform to ensure further rain.”
“Dedari and Lesanova always thought it strange that we Nevemere had a separate festival dedicated to water dancing. I don’t know why. Other nomads throughout the desert have different days for the firelight night and the first water dance.”
A server appeared with a beaded pitcher and smiled, not faking the warmth. “Would you like more to drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” Kenosera said. He handed her his glass. “I have a question. Is this garden a dining hall?”
She laughed as she filled the vessel. “Yes. It’s the ancient way the Uzahna nymphs conducted official dinners. The plants and water produce calming scents, the food and drink relax mind and soul, and having a meal in one’s hands while mingling means attendees are not drawing swords or casting fireballs at the host.”
Kenosera’s startlement as he accepted the glass made her laugh. “Don’t underestimate the violent nature of elden nymphs.” She set the bottom of the pitcher in her palm and shook her head. “Power and riches attracted them like moths to flames. It’s why so many were syimlin before the Banquet, and why so many failed to obtain a mantle after. Or so Cacarolisse says. I’m far too young to have known those days, but she lived through them.”
“That’s incredible,” Vantra said. “There aren’t many ghosts left who are that old.”
“No. Most tire of this existence and wander to the Void. I think she still exists because she has always had a purpose; serve Weather. It’s her calling, and it has led her for thousands of years. I believe that’s why Weather brings her into confidence; she has seen it all, from the Banquet to this year’s wavedance, and offers advice based on experience.” With that, she looked beyond their pool and floated away.
The councilors sitting at the next one over had summoned her by gripping the tops of their glasses and rocking them back and forth above their heads, which Vantra thought rude. What if they dropped one? The glass would shatter on the red and gold tiles, splattering the pillows with dark crimson juice.
One caught her eye and glared, and she turned away, shoulders slumping. The sour two had badgered the other officials to sit with them, but no one appeared happy with the arrangement, especially the ones who wanted to meet the winners.
The contestants had a grand time keeping the pirates company, as the lot made noise and sang rowdy songs with abandon. Was that where Fyrij had gotten to? She pictured him sitting on Dough’s shoulder, singing happily along.
Lorgan idly stared at the pool’s shimmery surface. “I’ve met ancient ghosts. The Hallowed Collective has several members older than many of the current syimlin. Cacarolisse doesn’t have that ancient sense about her.”
“What do you mean?” Yut-ta asked before he stuffed a skewer into his beak.
“There’s a heaviness around very ancient ghosts. The years weigh them down, and they bend under it. Despondency rules them, and they expect failures rather than successes, to surround them. They warn about hope, because it only brings sorrow.”
Nolaris had never favored Vantra, so her interactions with the Finder ancients were few. She experienced something else in their company; dismissal. She, the unimportant acolyte, held no value for them. Lorgan, once the darling Finder of the Hallowed Collective, held distinction, so she assumed they presented an alternate face to him.
“Oh Weather oh Weather, where art thou?
Dangling by one hand from a bough
Oh Weather oh Weather why art thou?
Because a slip down a side—”
“Mica, don’t you dare finish that!” Weather called, more laughter than annoyance in her tone. Vantra’s group around the pool perked up; what was going on?
“But I haven’t gotten to Qira’s part yet,” he called back.
Vantra regarded Lorgan as the back-and-forth continued. “Did you expect Weather to be like, well, this?”
Kenosera and Yut-ta laughed as the scholar rocked his head side to side. “Yes and no. I doubted she was the angry deity so many painted her as because of her love of calm meadow breezes, but I expected a sterner, older syimlin.” He rubbed at his chin fuzz. “Katta and Qira are nothing like I imagined, either. The years weigh differently on them than ghosts. Or maybe they started off angry and mellowed.”
Qira had talked about the rage that drove him to destroy the Aristarzian Light temple and its town. Katta, Erse, even Verryn, had anger in their past that carried them into their mantles, so angry to mellow fit.
Another server floated to them, but he did not have a pitcher. “Jare wants you to join him at the waterfall,” he whispered, pointing towards the far end of the hollow hidden by the mist rising from the pools. “Be discreet.”
She and Lorgan rose. Kenosera and Yut-ta glanced at one another, but the scholar shook his head and motioned for them to stay. Their concern trailed them to the walls of the garden.
Discreet was easier than Vantra anticipated; everyone focused on Weather and Mica’s banter rather than each other. She bet he made a production to draw attention to himself and away from those who skirted the scattered groups attendees clustered around the pools.
The cascading water careened over a ledge taller than the lattice and coated everything in a misty haze, from the smooth rocks outlining the pool to the flowers and ferns bending low under the constant strike of drops. Kjaelle waited for them at a rock jutting out from the fall’s side, her Ether form thinned to the point only a hint of color denoting her presence remained. She waved them behind the flow and into a short, mist-shrouded tunnel that ended in a small, rough-carved room with several pillows situated around a bowl of burned incense sticks.
Cacarolisse and Jare floated towards the back, arms folded, already in deep discussion, worry wrinkling their faces.
“I take it Mica’s sung that song before?” Lorgan asked drily. Cacarolisse laughed with muted amusement as Jare smiled.
“He wrote it to needle both Nem and Qira,” the priest intimated. “They got themselves into trouble while pretending not to be syimlin, and they stubbornly refused to enlighten the crowd.”
The crowd?
“Let’s just say, when they are alone together, they make asinine decisions that may entertain the Light-blessed, but make my essence shudder.” She pursed her lips. “I’m certain he’ll sing it for you later. It’s quite the epic.” She raised a hand and whirled it around her head; gusts whipped along the walls, blocking entry to the space and sucking the stray wisps of mist into their fingers.
“Then let’s not waste his distraction,” Kjaelle said, folding her hands in front of her.
“Of course. As I told Jare,” and Cacarolisse motioned to the ghost, “Bask-ilisk isn’t known for discontent. Not like the Wrecks. But in the last few years, murmurs and rumbles underlie conversations. I’m tempted to say they began when the Wind Revenants first took sail, but it might predate them. I wrote of the first instance I heard, but several acolytes say complaints rose years before.
“Overall, the Windtwist residents like ghosts and technology from Talis. They have always implemented shiny new things the recently deceased have brought with them, powering them by windmills and ingenuity. You heard the cheer for Shockjocket. Talin technology is key to their sound, and few see that as strange. They have modern receivers and players, lights and stoves and heated water in their homes, and most refuse to do without them. But those who dislike ghosts, who see us as invaders and destroyers, they are speaking louder than before.”
“Like the councilors?” Lorgan asked. “They didn’t seem happy that Weather entertained us.”
“The grumblers come from influential families, and the other members don’t want to step on them and end up losing their positions. Few like their views, but no one confronts them, either. Truthfully, I find it odd, because I doubt they will give up their Talin luxuries if forced to choose.”
“Is the sentiment widespread?” Jare asked.
“As widespread as it ever was, just louder.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Too many live in the waterdomes and see nothing wrong with nymph magic or faelareign as a whole. That doesn’t mean a power-hungry few won’t attempt to take advantage and promote minority voices over the majority.
“Public sentiment isn’t the sole concern. The floating red has been more abundant. The bacterium have always laid waste to the Sea of Winds; it’s a natural occurrence, however terrible it may be. But the last three or so years, the blooms have grown larger and affected more islands. Years previous, the ones on the edges of the chain rarely experienced the outbreaks, but now they suffer far more. The waters haven’t grown warmer, so why it’s happening is a mystery. But it seems to happen more frequently near outposts associated with the Revenants.”
“And you’ve never seen the gunk before,” Jare said, tapping his upper arms with his fingers.
“No.” She shuddered. “What that container held was vile. Some of the escorts got sick being near it. I shielded it, but whoever studies it needs magic protection.”
Kjaelle glanced at Jare, then chewed on her lower lip. “I’ve been thinking, since Adine and Chisterdelle caught us and showed us the results of tests done on the Selaserat corruption. We need Sojavan.”
Cacarolisse’s eyes widened as shock struck Vantra. Sojavan? Erse and Verryn’s son?
“He studied forensic magic at Elkendethel Academy and works for Zibwa’s healing temple in Maj Bi-an. He’s sent all over Sensour and the Evenacht to test magic residue and has seen more strange things than all of us put together. We need his expertise.”
“I always think of Sojavan as a little boy with messy hair and a heart-stopping smile,” Cacarolisse admitted, waving her hand waist height. “But little boys grow up.”
“He’s over a hundred years old,” Kjaelle reminded her mournfully.
“Has it been so long, since we helped him brush Rayva and Salan?” Cacarolisse asked. Kjaelle nodded, and they both shared a moment of sadness for cherished times now gone.
Vantra knew Erse had given birth to him ten years before the interstellar invasion. Syimlin and priests expected him to inherit strong magic, and he did, but he gained more when his mother sucked the souls of the invaders from their bodies. She soaked in so much energy, she shared with other syimlin—and the power entered Sojavan as well. Unable to manipulate it as the older syimlin, he absorbed the raw essence of it, like his father did. A new mantle formed, and Verryn became Passion. The energy swallowed by his son did not coalesce into a similar divine power, though rumors through the Talin temples hinted that he might be a deity without the extra trappings.
If so, he would be the first one to lack a mantle since the Banquet.
Her mother had met him, said he was a nice boy. As he was older than she by decades, Vantra thought that an odd way to phrase it. Or maybe syimlin children aged a bit differently than normal faelareign? She had never heard of Sojavan becoming old, which, without divine parents, he would have wrinkles and a bent back, if he still walked Talis. Humans were not elves or nymphs, with lifespans in the thousands of years. They were the shortest-lived faelareign, which accounted for the numerous human ghosts in the Evenacht.
“Verryn should be at Tempest when we arrive,” Jare said. “He won’t like it, but Sojavan’s our best ally in this. He’s incorruptible by our enemy.”
“Someone who stinks of beghestern death magic will not influence him,” the priest agreed. “Shall I contact him, or will you?”
“I’ll get in touch with Greyshen,” Kjaelle said. “He’ll send word through the Shades. He’s already familiar with what’s going on.”
Cacarolisse nodded, hesitated, then slumped. “There’s another thing we must discuss. It’s . . . uncomfortable.”
The elfine raised an eyebrow. “Howso?”
“Nature visited.”
Her face smoothed, and Vantra wanted to hug the distress away. “I see.”
“What did she say?” Jare asked, lifting his lip in annoyance.
“She wants Nem’s help in returning Veer to her side.”
“No.”
Kjaelle’s blatant pain turned to startlement at Jare’s immediate, resolute response.
“That’s what I said,” the priest intimated, somber, tense. “Katta has found love with Kjaelle. She wishes to deny him happiness because she remains miserable, trapped in her own dark thoughts. I told her she must seek help from Zibwa if she ever wants to wield her mantle to its full potential again, let alone care for another being with the love they deserve. She yelled at me and Nem took her for a walk. Afterwards, she said she believes that Maed Enne fractures more and more.”
“She let her temple in Selaserat fall to Kjiven’s corruption,” Jare ground through clenched teeth. “She ignored the prayers and obvious signs that something was deeply wrong. Qira’s wondering if she no longer has the ability to care for it and hides her shame.”
“She flails, Jare. Something happened during the Flayn battles that scarred her, and she has yet to acquire the help she needs to heal them. Nem’s spoken with Zibwa. He says her mind is fragile. He senses her cracking, and her mantle cracks with her.”
Vantra gasped as the others reared back, eyes wide, mouths agape in shock.
“Sun wishes to proceed most carefully. The current mantles have grown through the millennia, along with their bearers. If it breaks, he can create a new one, but it won’t have the magic the others do. Nature will become a lesser syimlin, and that will have catastrophic effects for magic related to the natural world.”
Jare slapped his thigh. “Mica’s right, then.”
“Mica?” Cacarolisse asked, frowning.
“He believes the syimlin are losing their strength,” Lorgan said quietly. “And they may not be aware of the weakness.”
The priest frowned deeper, her Ether form undulating faster. “How is that possible?”
“Erse shattered Life’s Gift,” Jare growled.
Cacarolisse froze mid-wave. So many emotions, so many realizations paraded across her face, Vantra could not name them all. She stared at the ground, grasping for calm. “That explains . . .” Her eyes darted about as she digested the news. “What has Sun to say?”
“He helped her,” Kjaelle admitted.
“To what end?”
“Machella convinced them it was necessary.”
“Erse hid the parts with a Condemned,” Jare told her, his tone fiery enough to convince Vantra he hated the decision. “Vantra’s Redeeming him, but until he’s whole, the spear remains broken. And it might be, the syimlin’s power broke with it, and the effects will persist until Laken’s Recollected.”
“How could they . . .” Cacarolisse lips pressed so firmly together, they looked as small and wrinkled as a dried grape, and her eyebrows jutted down, wrinkling her nose. “He’s playing games, too.”
“Sun?” Jare asked, confused.
“No. The Lord of Pineapple.” Fire lit her, a raging inner flame, and wind coursed around her, reflecting her rage. Relief poured through Vantra, that she was not the source of the priest’s anger, because she would end up discorporated—or worse. “We are having a chat,” she declared, before zipping to the ceiling and phasing through the rock.
They all gawked at her departure as the wind broke apart and stray bits of stone tumbled to the earth.
“Uh-oh,” Kjaelle said.
