Vantra walked with Jare through rain-swathed streets filled with wagons, riders, and beings hustling to destinations carrying shopping baskets and umbrellas. They traversed a neighborhood that struck her as a middling merchant ghost area; the inhabitants had enough coin to live in nice but not resplendent abodes above their businesses, and to purchase fine clothing and knick-knacks.

She did not understand why the Aristarzian wished to accompany her. He knew the mini-Joyful members far better than she, and she would have assumed he was eager to catch up. Instead he kept her company, pointing out sites and places and murmuring about people associated with each. She enjoyed the history, his wit, and the humorous tidbits he dropped concerning her companions, and hoped she did not embarrass herself too much with her replies.

“So how did you come to know the mini-Joyful?” he asked as they entered a square where buskers surrounded the central fountain, playing songs beneath unsteady tarps while a few brave souls danced or sang in the rain.

Vantra smiled at the intense curiosity she heard in his words. “By accident,” she admitted. “I was escaping Evening with Laken and happened upon their campfire. Kjaelle took exception to those chasing us, and since they needed to leave quickly, we ended up traveling with them.”

He laughed. “If you upset her, Kjaelle’s temper is legendary. Otherwise, she’s sweet, curious and kind.”

“I think that’s why she and Fyrij get along so well. They stick their noses into everything.”

“And how did Fyrij come to be with you?”

“We were passing through the dark and a flock of carolings decided to join us. Odd things happened, and Fyrij refused to leave. I think he likes the excitement.”

“I’m certain Qira will tell the tale in coming days—he loves his stories. And we love hearing them. He brings the greater Evenacht to our small space in Selaserat—and he never skimps on the adventure.” Jare pulled his coin purse out from an inner breast pocket. He dropped several D coins into the busker bowls already filled with a collection of metal money, flat yellow pebbles with one or two waves etched on the surface, and tickets to some place called Katararie.

Some of the previous donations still held a transparent form, which she found rude. Normally, items kept in Ether Touch so ethereal ghosts could interact with them regained their Physical attributes once they left their presence because the living peoples could not handle them otherwise. A number of the buskers were alive, and she doubted they had spiritesti abilities so they could touch the money.

Jare shoved the coin purse back into his pocket, checked the shield over their heads, and headed for a wide, busier street that did not have awnings over the sidewalks to protect walkers from the downpour. She drew her thoughts back to their previous conversation because, other than talking about the rainy evening, she did not know what to say. “It’s been nothing but adventure since I met the mini-Joyful.”

“Exploration and danger attract Qira and Katta like sweets attract a child.” He lifted his chin for emphasis. “Dough’s like that, too. He and his mates have worldly experiences we would never dream of seeking out.”

Red and Dough were buddies in that. “You know Qira well, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Mera said you put the crown on his head?”

He smiled, his eyes lidded, as if he stared upon sad memories. “Yeah. He defeated the temple’s champion and the high priest was so shocked he survived, he couldn’t move. So I snatched it from his hands and crowned Qira. We all knew he wanted to obliterate the temple after he beat the final gauntlet, and we Light-blessed vowed to help him. We guarded him so he could reach the throne room and kept the acolytes busy while he sucked energy from the crown’s gems for the strike.” He laughed, an ugly but satisfied sound. “That gauntlet training was good for something.”

“You must be close, then.” She really was not good at the small talk, was she? She felt lame, sounded lame, and she doubted she impressed him much with her words.

Gusts blew rain into them and picked up his tresses, bouncing them around his shoulders. He grumbled and created a thin shield to act as a hairband before answering. “Yeah. For so many of us, Qira’s our Light. He was born Light-blessed like us, so knows our pain. He had the strength and drive and determination to become Light-Ascended because he wanted to set us free of the temple and our torture.”

A heartbreaking failure, yet he planted hope for the future because he defined the way for Talis. “It’s hard to think of him as serious and intent like that.”

“I know.” Light danced in his eyes over a remembrance. “I never realized the trouble he and Resa got into until I died. True terrors, and now that he has an eternity, he’s reverted to that.”

“Is that why he and Katta get along so well?”

His laughter filled the street, attracting attention and raising her own droopy emotions. “Katta likes to pretend he’s the serious one, but don’t let that fool you.” He raised his arms, as if highlighting a momentous act. “And here we are, at Chisterdelle’s shop.”

Embarrassed she had not realized they reached their destination, Vantra stared at the building in front of them.

A yellow sandstone square wall provided a base for the rest of the structure, which, by the numerous styles, had additions influenced by several millennia of Selaserat architecture. The sandstone with green-painted door gave way to stone walls, one side small rounded brown stones with thick grout, the other close-fit, black-stained rectangles. Each shutter had flowers painted in a different style, and lay flat against the wall, allowing light through the glass panes. The second story reflected Aristarzian influence, with white walls and dark brown half-timbers carved with floral motifs. The third’s right-hand side had dark wooden walls with a sunset motif burned into the wood, the left-hand side had a mottled pinkish-orange paint job with no windows and a high shine despite the evening’s dimness.

Gargoyles lined the eaves, and the abundance of styles and attitudes confused her. Some appeared tall and menacing, with pointed wings and fangs for hunting prey, while others’ varicolored appearance leaned towards cavorting at a jester’s ball.

The grey wooden sign, which looked as if it had hung in the same place since its creation, had faint gouges spelling Maps.

“That’s . . . something.”

Jare snickered and clapped her shoulder. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard spoken about it.”

“Why does it look that way?”

“Chisterdelle enjoys her status as ‘eccentric’.”

An eccentric whizan was nothing unique, but if the outside reflected her personality, Vantra did not have high hopes of convincing her of anything.

Jare opened the door; a bell rang, a punch of sound that died quickly. The dim entry was small and plain, with two worn benches positioned on either side of the door and a counter separating them from the rest of the shop. The space felt chill and abandoned. Vantra’s essence tingled; fingers of corruption rose through the floorboards, scratching at her.

“Dammit,” Jare hissed, punching the contaminated magic with a ray of Light. They both triggered Ether Touch, floated above the nastiness, and raised shields.

“Where are her maps?”

“Basement.”

Vantra swallowed, squeezed her arms close, and phased through the floor. She would not regret her hasty act, no she would not.

Blackness met her gaze; she felt the brownish-red coating everything around her, but she could not see it. Light flared to her left; the reflection off Jare’s shielding brightened the room. She added a gleam of Sun, and the corruption shuddered and retreated, flowing into the floorboards as if it were water draining away. He ran through the doorway that led to the center of the building, the roots that arched over the hallway jerking as if burned.

Burned. Yes.

“Ri fin frandiu an om prutre eucton a per.”

The intonation for Retravigance swirled on her tongue like honey. She wished she had used it instead of Clear Rays in the square because she wouldn’t have discorporated Yeralis. Clear Rays, though, occupied her thoughts, so was foremost in her mind when she needed a spell.

Smoke puffed from the roots; she whispered the words again, intent and terror behind them, and her power raged through the hall. Fire bit and roared high, then fell to the ground and snuffed out when the roots disappeared. They did not recede, but vanish. What did that mean?

An orange glow came from the end of the hall. Jare whisked through the remaining roots and did not stop before entering the room. Typical Light-blessed rushing into trouble, Vantra decided, as she followed.

Orange bathed the entire room, the searing color coming from the shielding an elfine held against the strikes of pointed roots. She wore a resplendent robe that Vantra associated with older elfine whizen, the rich material decorated in gold lame curl designs—Chisterdelle, then. A pile of books, sheets, and other materials surrounded her; she must have sucked them all to her for protection.

“Vantra, Clear Rays!” Jare yelled. “I’m shielding the building.”

Good. No accidental discorporation. “Muevre pueplon virche!”

An added weight rode with her intonation, one that did not originate with her. The roots burst apart, the remains of magic burning into nothing.

“Shit!” Jare shouted in a joyful and stressed voice.

The rays shot through the ceiling and floor, circling her as their center. They swept every stray wisp of corruption away, leaving a feeling of fresh-squeezed citrus in their wake.

Shimmery Sun blanketed everything and soaked in, adding a protection that Vantra did not think the contaminated magic could bypass again.

The orange shielding dropped, and the elfine bent over her knees, shuddering. “From me to you, it’s about time someone showed up.”