Vantra cracked an eye open, her essence shuddering in the chill. Chill? She glanced around the room, unable to distinguish much in the shadows. The beds had lumps of nomad, vulf and ghost, and nearly all else sat in darkness. A glimmering of light brightened the edges of the curtains spanning the side of the room to the right of the door; daytime, then.

A sleepy chirp and feathers brushed her cheek; she looked over at Fyrij, who had made a nest in the soft pillow and settled into slumber. He blinked his eyes, then returned to sleep, making muted mememe sounds. Worn himself out singing, had he? She ran a finger over his back and rose.

Triggering Ether Touch so she would not awaken those resting, she floated over the wooden flooring to Laken. His eyes remained closed in a meditative state, and he did not react to her nearness. Satisfied he rested, she wafted to the door, hoping she did not disturb anyone.

She passed through and winced at the burst of brightness bathing the landing. A plain copper lamp hung from the center of the ceiling, the magic light illuminating the stairwell to the bottom. Squinting, she flowed down the stairs and to the ground floor, her fingertips lightly brushing through the undecorated panels that made up the walls.

Ghosts chatted as they wiped down tables, righted chairs, swept the floor, and checked the sconces to make certain the golden baubles remained lit. She did not want to bother them, so hovered at the end of the bar, studying the room now free of the crowd.

Deep brown paint coated the walls, matching the shutters that covered the windows. The tables were a softer honey brown, with shorter ones in the center and taller ones circling them. Mismatched chairs kept them company, as if generations of décor had added one or two to the lot. Scuffed wooden planks made up the floor, and despite their age, still fit snug.

Each wall contained double-wide closed doorways. If she saw them in a Talis establishment, she would assume two led outside, one to the kitchen, and one to the bathrooms. While the place had facilities for the living, she doubted the space reserved for a drunk’s business was very large.

The bar ruled the roost from the center of the floor. Brown leather wrapped around the lower part, and held scuff marks from beings who banged it with their footwear. A gold footrest with dings and dents ringed the bottom, looking unstable but functional. The countertop gleamed a glossy black, though a few random nicks marred the otherwise pristine beauty.

Alcohol sat before mirrors, the glass bottles reflecting a dazzling array of color and blinding light into the homier atmosphere. The shelves curved around a wall that protected a stairwell leading downstairs; a white and red sign in a language she did not know filled the landing’s wall and had an abundance to say.

A scattering of people lounged to her left, in a section cordoned off by short poles stuck in round weights which held soft brown, fabric ropes. They ate or absorbed mist from vase-like containers and talked in subdued voices, much at odds with the boisterous night previous.

“Ah, welcome.” Leeyal exited the stairs holding a couple of cloths, and smiled at her as he dumped them on the counter. His mouth wrinkled, giving him the appearance of a middle-aged man leaning older; a deliberate presentation choice, considering most Light-blessed died in their teenage years. “I’m surprised to see any of you before midday.”

“It was a late night,” she agreed. Her companions had a grand time joking and snickering with him, but since her conversation skills with acquaintances wallowed in a mire at her feet, she hesitated to speak openly with him. And what if he minded, that she had attempted a Redemption outside the precepts of Finder directives?

“It always is, when the mini-Joyful visit,” he admitted with rueful certainty. “You probably already know that, though. How long have you been traveling with them?”

“Since the mists started getting cool on Fading Light,” she said.

“Ah, so you’ve experienced their peculiarities.” He motioned to the bar. “Have a seat. Being a ghostly establishment, we’re always open, so if you want anything to eat, drink, or absorb, wave down one of the staff. We’ll see you set.”

Brief panic stressed her, followed by embarrassment. How could she delicately explain that after the Finders cut her off, she had no money?

Leeyal held up a finger. “And don’t worry about a tab—at least here. Qira and Katta will pick up everything.” He cupped his mouth and leaned forward. “Which means the nearest Light Temple gets the bill. They send a correspondence to the Temple in Evening and get reimbursed.”

“Oh.” She triggered Physical touch and slipped onto a stool. It seemed unfair, for a Light temple to pick up her tab, but she did not doubt, Red gleefully dumped the charges into the priesthood’s lap. “I don’t know how to eat, so I would like some mist.”

His disbelieving smile almost cracked his face. “Qira and Katta haven’t taught you yet?” He clucked his tongue. “For shame. Well, they’re of the opinion ghosts should enjoy the bounty of food and drink, so it’s just a matter of time.” He patted his tummy. “It’s odd, getting used to lumps within your essence, and switching from Ether to Physical Touch can be, um, messy, but once you’ve experienced your favorite meals again . . .” He shook his head. “Absorbing mist, while prudent and easier, just doesn’t have the same satisfaction.”

“It would be nice, to taste food again.”

He slid the cloths to the side and settled his elbows on the bar, leaning over. “Some ghosts think it’s too much of a living thing and we should behave in a more spirit-y manner, but I disagree.”

“They must like Ether Touch, then.”

He laughed. “They’re just like the rest of us, as apt to walk around as float, but we’re in luck, since they rarely visit the Dark Light. We’re a bit too uncouth for them.” He craned his neck to look at the shelving below the alcohol bottles. “I think we have four different infused mists. We ran out of Milkcandy.” He turned to her and pursed his lips. “Milkcandy is our most popular flavor. The lads tease the lasses who like it, and the lasses point out the lads absorb it as often, they just do it in secret to save embarrassment over enjoying something so sweet.”

Vantra smiled, surprised. If available, she would have tried it. The name reminded her of the soft, caramel milk candies she loved as a child. She once stuffed her cheeks with the treat, to the point she looked like a chipmunk with an abundance of nuts. Her mother caught her trying to sneak the candy out of the kitchen in that manner, and forever after called her sweetcheeks to tease her, and always with a mischievous grin.

“I’ve never had infused mist, so I don’t have a favorite.”

“No? Ah, we’ll get the elfinberry wine fountain going tonight, then.” He wrinkled his face and rocked his head. “Not that I wouldn’t have anyway. Qira’s visiting and we’ll have an overfull crowd celebrating.”

“He’s that popular?”

Leeyal chuckled. “Qira’s a hero,” he told her. “For those of us forced into the Light Gauntlet training, he’s the example that Light can be good, not just a thin veil used to blind others to its inherent Darkness.” He paused, then waved a hand. “I say that, but we know Katta, too. And he’s nothing like Rezenarza’s lot.”

She shuddered. He raised an eyebrow and she could not smooth the depression leaking from her. “He caused problems in the Snake’s Den,” she said.

“Hmm.” Leeyal’s eyebrows jutted down to the curve of his nose and his fingertips drummed on the countertop. “Then it’s just a matter of time before Veer and he clash again. One would think, since he’s made another existence for himself here in the Evenacht, he’d try to rebuild, but resentment drives that one. A shame, too; older nymphs and elfines would flock to him if he started a cult.”

Clank clank. Vantra looked at Jare, who lined up four thin, round metal containers on the counter. Each one had an image and a color to accompany it; wild berries were red, spiced tea was brown, sourbread was tawny, peppered meat was orange.

“You can absorb plain mist, but if you’ve never experienced infused mist, try one of these.” He ran his fingers through his bangs and the red strands stood up then bent over, as if he had yet to wash styling product from his hair. “Not that they really ‘taste’ like their name when you absorb them, but the flavors are nice, anyway.”

“Do you even remember what living tasting is like?” Leeyal asked, eyeing him with hefty skepticism.

He refused to answer.

“Sourbread sounds nice.” Vantra wanted to intercept the argument before it started.

“His fav,” Jare said, whapping Leeyal on the arm. “I’m a pepper ghost, myself.” He withdrew a round, purple-stained glass sphere with gold edging from the lower shelving of the bar and set it in front of her. He hunted for a warped scoop and dumped two helpings of powder from the sourbread tin into the bowl. He filled the container three-quarters of the way up with water from a square pitcher, then fastened a stem the size of his forearm into the top’s opening and screwed two purple-striped hoses into their respective places. They drooped onto the counter and curled four times, ending in finger-length, golden tips.

He handed her a hose and ran his fingers over the glass. Within a moment, the water bubbled, and steam puffed up through the stem. She stuck the tip in her mouth and inhaled.

No, not sourbread, but the flavor that filtered through her being was delightful nonetheless. A tad sour, a tad sweet, more like a fried food coated in sugar and sour citrus juice. Neither man commented on her reaction, but their smiles spoke loudly enough.

“This is nice,” she said. She had a myriad of questions for them, but did not feel a breakfast setting conducive to prying. She desperately wished to understand Red’s popularity, though. Did it rise solely from his being the avatar of Light? If so, why did faelareign harmed by the Aristarsian Light gauntlet look to him at all, since Talis’s predecessor oversaw their harm? Did his flamboyance have anything to do with it? His friendly demeanor?

“We’ll be getting in some better infusion, since Qira’s here,” Leeyal told her. “That might spoil you on the typical stuff, but some of the higher-quality powders are sublime.”

Jare winked at her before he grabbed the second tip and stuck it in his mouth. “So are you planning a rest from your trip? Sailing from Merdia to Selaserat isn’t an easy voyage during the Sea of Winds’ tantrums.”

“We don’t have a lot of time to rest,” she said.

“Qira said something to that effect.” Jare withdrew the mouthpiece and swirled it about in the air. “What happened? Something with Verryn?”

“Verryn—Passion—”

“Just call him Verryn,” Leeyal advised. “He’s not that wed to Passion, believe me.”

She had gathered that, from the short amount of time they traveled together. “Verryn, then. Black Temple’s dor-carous attacked Katta and Red—Qira—”

Both cracked up. “Using Kjaelle’s nickname?” Jare chortled, tapping the tip at her. “Good for you.” He took a long drag, beaming.

Oh. Why did that amuse them so? Vantra sucked in some mist to collect her thoughts. “Well, the dor-carous and his people used magical items called mephoric emblems—”

“What?” Jare asked, the tip dropping from his mouth as Leeyal’s humor died.

“Mephoric emblems? Are you certain?”

“Yes. We don’t know who, but someone sold him mephoric emblems made by the Beast’s hand. The dor-carous ordered his people to attack Katta and Red with them. The magic rebounded off their shielding. The Nevemere . . . didn’t survive the backlash. The magic rebounded again off the outer barrier and spun into a spiral collapse. Katta and Red used the rest of us as points in a Great Seal to create a shield that kept the energy contained, then funneled it to Verryn. He stood as the anchor until he could hold no more, then released it into the air above. Tally painted a picture of it, if you’re interested.” She took another breath of the mist. “The release of that much energy affected the weather. It snowed, in the desert. Plants no nomad had seen bloomed.”

“A miracle or a catastrophe?” Leeyal asked, then laughed in derision as he rubbed his jaw. “Well, both usually are just odd uses of magic.”

“Verryn’s OK?” Jare asked. “He may be a syimlin, but he’s not had many years with his new abilities. He’s all punch, no finesse.”

“Zibwa came and took him back to the Forest Temple for healing,”she said. “Red and Katta say he’s recovering.”

“Probably itching to get back here,” Jare said. “He’s one of action, not lounging in bed. We’re hitting the season of Death, so Erse is busy. He’ll not have much company, especially if Rayva and Salan are with you.”

“Mephoric emblems?” Leeyal smashed his lips together. “We’re old enough to have survived the Beast. His depravities harmed too many. That the Shades didn’t find all the extant relics after Erse sent him to the Final Death is terrible. The harm from even one is extraordinary.”

“I wonder if the Astri had a hand in that,” Jare said, looking at his friend. “There’s always been rumors they hunted for every remaining wand after the Beast’s demise.”

The Evenacht’s native Death had asked the Astri at Black Temple if they brokered the agreement for the mephoric emblems with the dor-carous, and Vantra did not think Levassa’s question was idle. Something made him suspicious of a link, and she wondered what events sparked his wariness.

“That’s not all, is it?” Leeyal asked. “I had the impression Qira could spend days on the retelling.”

“There’s much to say, beyond the emblematic collapse.” She lowered the hose as unease coursed through her. Perhaps she should wait for those who knew the tavern ghosts to impart the story; she did not want to tumble over her words and confuse them.

While she did not dislike the discussion, Vantra appreciated the lull as she and Jare absorbed mist while Leeyal swiped a cloth along the counter, humming.

Fyrij shot to her, dropping her Sun badge in front of her before stuffing himself into her hair and cheeping in distress. The gold-rayed, setting sun divided in half by the black foreground glowed an ominous, dark ruby. She picked up the patch as both men frowned.

“This only glows when there’s danger,” she whispered. She glanced around the room, then at the door; ghosts entered, and by Leeyal’s hiss, they were unwanted guests. She shoved the badge down her bodice and hunched over, her purplish-red hair slipping over her shoulders to hide her face. She had changed nothing but the color, a simple way to alter her appearance and make her less recognizable to the Finders hunting her, and she hoped her thick tresses kept her in shadow.

Leeyal straightened and returned to Jare’s side. The other ghost eyed the approaching spirits with distrust as he stuck the tip in his mouth and bit down with agitated aplomb.

Her essence prickled as she heard the group approach the bar, and continued sucking in mist to give her something to do. Heat surrounded them, and Fyrij stilled; hopefully he stayed quiet until they left.

“Leeyal.” The ghost who spoke had a silken tone that reminded Vantra of the Knightly sprite in the Snake’s Den ruins. A perfect face, a perfect voice, a perfect expression, all combined to make it seem as if he had no soul. “Have you a moment?”

“No. I’ve got to get this place shined and ready for the midday rush.”

“Please,” a woman said, then clicked her tongue with impatience and darker annoyance. “It will take little time. We are asking, if a pirate captain enjoyed this house last night.”

“I told you, I don’t gossip about my patrons,” the tavern owner said, snagging the cloths. “If you wish to know more about a pirate captain, perhaps a visit to the docks?”

The ghost set her long-nailed hands on the counter and leaned over the bar; Vantra caught the deep green of her cloak out of the corner of her eye. A Finder? Oh no. “It is a small ask,” the stranger said. “I realize, as an ancient ghost, you hold little worth in the Hallowed Collective, but we are vast numbers and influence.”

“This tavern existed long before Gerant thought to form the Collective, and it will exist long after its demise,” Leeyal said, so dry and matter-of-fact Vantra did not doubt he believed it. “Yours isn’t the first organization to pop up as self-proclaimed saviors of the Evenacht, and you won’t be the last.”

“The Sunrays,” Jare said, settling his cheek in his hand while he waved the hose around. “Lights in the dark, they said. And their light died in the darkness of indifference.” He dropped the tip down for emphasis.

“And the Mistseekers, who dwindled and broke apart shortly after I arrived here. Then there’s the Mendercane, who originally created the network to reunite ghostly families before Gerant stole their idea and destroyed the order.” Leeyal laughed. “They thought I’d want to connect with my family. I told them where to shove their false concern.” He waved his hand to the door. “Now leave, before I evoke the blessing Light bestowed on this place. However much you think of your abilities, you aren’t up to combating a syimlin’s spells.”

“You expect us to believe Talis protects this hole-in-the-ground?” the first speaker asked with thick, aristocratic distaste.

Leeyal shrugged. “Talis has a fondness for us Light-blessed, and we understand him in a way no other can.” His blue eyes held the warmth of early morning frost. “Perhaps you should read accounts of him breaking Kjiven’s barrier across the Dryanflow.” He held up his hand, put his middle finger under his thumb, then flicked. “That’s all it took, to destroy the shield a renowned elfine whizan erected. Talis anticipated retaliation, so he placed protections on the Aristarzian quarter. We’ve welcomed his visits since, and he’s gifted this tavern with quite the number of defenses, mostly in case of flood, but not all.” He widened his eyes, then settled into a malicious smile. “Not all.”

Jare chuckled in dark glee, and Vantra wondered at his reminiscences. In the myths she had studied while alive, Talis, a normally easy-going and amusing syimlin, had a vicious temper he directed at those he considered betrayers and abusers. Their punishments inspired nightmare tales from storytellers who wanted fear ravaging their listeners and readers.

“And what does Hravisine have to say on this?” the first speaker asked.

“Not much. He’s not going to make his grand-da’s mistake in underestimating a syimlin. Too much money’s at stake.” Leeyal shrugged, snagged a cloth, and proceeded to shine the counter. The woman jerked back to avoid being mopped over.

Vantra could feel fiery holes drilled into her head by sudden, unwanted attention. “And does Passion not find it uncomfortable, for his to dine here?”

“No.” She had nothing else to say. “Why would he?”

“Is not Light and Death a secret affair?”

Vantra blinked and lowered the tip. “It’s not so secret, if you know about it,” she said, unable to hide her laughing disbelief. She thought that line of religious thought died centuries ago! Then she reoriented herself, and sternly issued a reminder that the Evenacht housed ghosts from multiple millennia, and not all viewed the syimlin as modern Talis adherents did. Of course, she knew Verryn personally, and he never expressed a hint of dislike or hatred towards Talis. Besides, Kjaelle would have warned her about voicing a potential misstep. She cautioned her about mentioning Red’s Aristarsian roots and how neither he nor Katta enjoyed speaking of their histories.

The dismissive hmph and the withdrawal left a coolness behind she appreciated. Fyrij peeked through her hair, then jumped to the counter, puffed out his chest, and fluttered his wings at the exiting ghosts. She clicked her tongue against her teeth—what if they turned around and noticed—but he decided Jare might like his show of defiance and hopped to him, cheeping.

“You’re quite the brave one,” the ghost laughed.

When all three visibly relaxed, she peered over her shoulder; no interloper remained. “Are they Finders?” she asked.

“Yeah. They say they’re here on a Redemption, but I’ve not seen any hint they have an UnRedeemed with them,” Jare said. “And they’ve been nosing about, asking odd questions that don’t seem to have anything to do with discovering a sundered essence.”

Not good. “When did they arrive?”

“Just before the Sea of Winds got really nasty. They complained about the early storms.”

So the Hallowed Collective likely sent them to interfere with Laken’s Redemption.

“Is that the more Qira was referring to?” Leeyal asked, careful but kind in expression.

“Yes.” She bowed her head, setting the hose and tip on the counter. “The Finders don’t want me Redeeming Laken. I heard his call, I answered, and then my mentor tried to send me to the Final Death. I’ve been running from them ever since.”

“I see why. A true Finder, not one of the acolytes riding the tails of their sage.” Jare patted her hand. “No one here will look at you strange for that. Qira brings companions often, but it’s only a select few he announces, as he did for you. He means for us to know you’re with him. It’s a claim of companionship and protection none of us will ignore. It doesn’t matter, what the Finders or the Hallowed Collection think about you. His is the opinion that matters.”

“You respect him that much?”

“Qira, for want of a better term, is our heart,” Leeyal said. “Not all Light-blessed believe that. Many have changed their appearance, their name. They've drifted into obscurity and attempted to redefine what compassion, kindness and hope mean in a new existence that does not recognize the old. Or they threw themselves into the Final Death, eager for the Void. But we who reside in Selaserat, we adhere to Light, and hold the Destroyer of the Temple dear.”

And Red, as avatar, embodied all of it.

The badge grew warm against her chest, and Vantra settled her hand over it. “I need to visit the Sun Temple here.” She may not have another chance to speak with Xafane without someone accompanying her, and the Snake wished the first meeting to be secret.

“Raining Sun’s an easy spot,” Jare said. “You’ll see a beam of light shooting into the air. It rises with day’s break and disappears with day’s end. There’s a ziptrail leading east from the fountain outside to Starjhen Square. The temple’s just off it.”

“If the elfines at the gate get obnoxious, ask for Xafane,” Leeyal advised. “He meets with most of the tourists for Sun’s blessings.”

Just the person she needed to see. “Thank you.” She slid from the stool and ruffled her purple, flower-petal skirt. That it remained in good shape after the adventures in Snake’s Den surprised her. She needed a varied wardrobe, but she had no coin to purchase one.

Fyrij tweeted, sad and plaintive, and raised his wings.

“You can ask for food,” she told him. Keeping his wings up, he hopped in a circle to face Leeyal.

“He’s fond of fruit,” she said. “The juicier, the better. Fyrij, thank you for bringing me my badge.”

He chirped and fluffed up, proud and confident, and she left him in the company of the amused ghosts.

Vantra expected to walk to the brown stone central fountain, take the ziptrail, and reach the temple within a few moments. Instead, strangers hailed her, welcomed her to Selaserat, and asked after Red. Had all of them been present the night before? She did not think so, but she had no other explanation for how they knew of her association with the ancient ghost.

When she inquired about the ziptrail, two women showed her the end, which hooked into a square ornamental post on the round, three-tiered fountain, and assured her the trip would be quick.

Not one thought it odd, that a companion to Light’s avatar asked the way to the Raining Sun Temple.

She triggered Ether form, double-checked that her ghostly clothing and the badge transitioned with her, then phased into the ziptrail. She winced as the lighting-hot sensation of being ripped apart seared through her, and sped along the magic line, arriving before a typical faelareign breathed five times. Were the trails faster in Selaserat, or was Evening simply that much bigger? Both?

She hit the shielded end and popped out, zinging above the brown-tiled rooftops before gently wafting to the earth. She brushed at her skirts, placed her hand over the Sun badge next to her heart, and looked to the sky; the beam, as promised, rose into the clouds, shimmers and sparkles raining down from it.

The new, tawny-stone square contained building styles Vantra associated with wealthier ghosts; towering, three-story structures with pilasters and sculpture, doorways topped with a half-circle of stained glass and vine designs, sidewalks lined by clipped bushes and precisely placed flowers. Not much changed for the longer-lived faelareign after they arrived in the Evenacht, did it?

A mixture of ghosts and living passed her. Many sported deep tans and wore Sun religious robes of gold and white, some outfits so bell-bottomed Vantra fought not to laugh. The ear-brushing collars and fake, curled blonde hair piled high on both men and women, topped by even taller, lacy hats with feathers, reminded her of the ecclesiastical paintings in the archives of the Spiral Sun Temple. Those replicants of elfine and nymph portraits from over fifteen-thousand years ago made her giggle in her youth, and she had a difficult time in the present stifling her amusement.

Did they laugh at her plainer attire? She found she did not care. She pulled her hood low, kept her head bowed, and scurried towards the beam.

Heat flared from the badge, corresponding to ethereal ghosts whisking past. A living local bumped her, spinning her around. Frowning, she stared after their panicked flight, then pivoted to continue on her way. More ghosts raced towards the square, leaving a loose group that looked down upon a stricken being, who propped himself up on one arm, the other protecting his bleeding waist.

The attackers dressed in nondescript brown cloaks with deep hoods, and wisps of magical flame swirled around them. The being they faced looked like a bird-like hooskine, one of the nine living, sentient species of the Evenacht. He had hair, wings, and a fox-like tail that blended from red to white, blue-tinged eyes, an ashen beak, reddish skin, and three fingers ending in talons. A broken short wand with empty gemstones at the top and bottom lay against a wall behind him; the sword strapped to his side remained sheathed.

A Sun badge glowed on his rib-length, midnight-blue vest.

They attacked a Sun acolyte?

Vantra zipped to him. “Anznet emi!”

A dome formed over them, and the brown cloaks hissed, reacting too late. Their magic bounced off her shield and they ducked, cursing. She threw layer after layer underneath, padding the defense.

“How badly are you hurt?” she asked. The enemy issued another attack, and the two outer layers disintegrated.

“You’ll be in danger, if you aid me,” he whispered, agony quieting his voice.

“Then I’ll be in danger.” She glanced at him; he sat in blood, which meant he needed a healer.

“And who is this?” one purred, holding up a manicured hand. They had the deep rumble of a mountain cat, but Vantra did not get the sense of faun from them; shape-changed elfine, perhaps? “You should leave while we’re still in a good mood.”

She glared. “Anznet emi.”

More shields formed as she closed her eyes to pray.

Light, please, a Sun acolyte is being attacked and needs healing!

She may not know any Sun Temple adherents near enough to help, but she knew two avatars who would.