Along the largest village road, a scant few sellers stood beneath brown tarps held up by poles, fruits and vegetables, cups of rice and drinks spread out on tables or mats for purchase. By evening, the stalls would have nothing left, and those who had not bought food would ask for a meal at the supply tent.
That anyone still had money to buy anything shocked her. The town proper, with its round reed homes and sturdier yellow sandstones abodes, had survived due to the protective barrier, but everything outside had either washed away or been buried in mud. Farmers no longer had houses or equipment, let alone crops to harvest, and while they had replanted as quickly as they could, it would still take time for the fields to mature. Scrounging in the rainforest brought food, along with the fear that the foragers would get lost and never return.
The Labyrinth of Trees was still a labyrinth, after all, and the trust in Strans’ Blessing to safely guide them shaken.
Halfway through the village, they reached the trail leading up the rocky hill to the Light temple. Lamps lined the graveled way, a few knocked akilter by those who had taken shelter there during the flood. The villagers, travelers, and animals had trampled the grass and ferns into oblivion, and the plants had just their return to glory.
Towards the top rested a circular, yellow sandstone building with black roof tiles and a metal pole sticking out of the roof; like the elden temples on the continent of Talis, the rod caught lightning and fed the power into a holy vessel inside. Its subsequent glow metaphorically drove the darkness of storms away. Vantra had assumed the villagers, upset at current events, would withhold offerings considering the failure of that belief, but they honored Qira because he intercepted the magic that would have killed them all, if the attack had succeeded.
They saw his sacrifice as that Light.
She and Kenosera stepped through the doorless entry and into the single room. Cool met them, and the nomad sighed, tipping his head back and basking. Heat in the desert was different from heat in the rainforest, and despite being from a people whose ancestors swam in oceans and deep lakes, the water in the air bothered him. He wore a vest without a shirt, loose pants, and sandals, and he still cooked in the heat.
Vantra glanced at the mural of Talis breaking the Dryanflow barrier, Kjiven on shore, hands clenched at his sides, furious. Next to it, a local artist had begun another; a storm raged, and Qira leapt between the huddled villagers and the hooded enemy attempting to kill them with an over-bright mephoric emblem spear. Rays burst from his arm and chest where the magicked tip struck.
She doubted he would enjoy the reminder, if he ever saw it.
Kenosera stopped at one of the small altars that sat on either side of the humongous, glowing bowl that filled the center of the room. On top of each was a shallow offering basin that resembled six flower petals, a golden protrusion rising from the middle, the combination representing Qira’s strike on the unholy and the cascade of destruction that followed.
Unlike her visit before the flood, the altars overflowed with offerings of pretty stones, flowers, candles, incense, beaded necklaces and bracelets, ceramic cups and plaques painted with flames.
Kenosera lay the hefty scroll on top of the nearest basin; the sides jutted over the edge, and she wondered what Katta had to say that was so important, that he sent a correspondence that large.
He brushed at his pants and stepped back. “Now what?”
She sucked in a breath and settled her palms over her chest. “Qira—Talis, Syimlin of Light,” she said, fighting a blush. Official prayers needed official names. “Veer Tul, Syimlin of Darkness, asked Kenosera to send this scroll as an offering because he’s entertaining local listeners and he couldn’t send it himself. It’s a fat scroll, too, so you’ll be well occupied while you recuperate.”
Kenosera dug his elbow into her ribs as a fizzy light encompassed the scroll, and it disappeared. She stepped away, clapping her essence and glaring at him; what?
Fun times.
They both jumped as the syimlin’s weary voice echoed in their heads.
Tell him I received it.
Vantra frowned as worry prodded her. “How are you doing? You sound exhausted.”
His mischievous chuckle was strained. Well enough. Bored enough, too. Don’t worry; I’ll rejoin you soon. There’s only so much bedrest they can expect from me. So, is this good news or bad news?
“Probably bad.”
Always entertaining with the mini-Joyful, isn’t it? A short pause preceded a startled laugh. Are those offerings?
“Yes,” Kenosera said. “You risked your life to save them, and they’re grateful. They don’t have much, but most have given something as thanks.”
I wish they’d kept them, used them for recovery, but that’s never how this works, is it? With sparkles, the items disappeared. The giant bowl in the center lit and brightness followed the metal that connected it to the lightning rod. Vantra winced away; the nomad slapped his hands over his eyes.
Not as bright as it should be, but I’m a bit spent, Qira murmured. Thank them for me, will you? She swore he clucked his tongue, an impossibility, as he spoke mentally. And now I need to rest. Zibwa’s giving me his signature ‘you’re a naughty boy’ look. I didn’t do much, just light a bowl.
By the brightness, he had done far more than that, and probably deserved a scolding. She headed out before Zibwa chastised them for prodding the expenditure, Kenosera on her heels. He looked up then squinted away, his eyes watering.
“He doesn’t consider that bright?”
“I visited the Jero Senae temple while I was alive. On festival days, you have to wear protective glasses or goggles, or you will hurt your eyesight. This is bright, but not Jero Senae bright.” She clasp her fingers above her eyes to shield them. “He can’t do much else right now to thank them for the gifts.” The opposite side of the cliff had a path to an overlook, and Vantra whisked down the flower-lined way to view the surrounding land without the trees in the way.
As she suspected; the rays spread far in all directions, a beacon, a promise of protection. The farmers turned from their beast-pulled plows and raised hands to shield their eyes, and she noted that villagers did the same below. They now had a sign that their gifts meant something to the syimlin who intercepted the attack meant to end them.
Hopefully the touch of Light would aid the crops’ growth. The hardy braved strange magic residue and displaced animals to plant the mud-covered fields because the town had to eat. The remnants of corrupted magic posed enough of a threat, the local whizen cleared the areas designated for planting, a time-consuming undertaking that had not yielded the amount of land needed to keep the people fed.
It might help with the nasty residue, too.
Kenosera sat on a de-barked log with a flat top and leaned over on his knees. “Everything looks so lush under the Light,” he murmured. “Do you think the corruption runs away from it?”
“Maybe. If it doesn’t like the illumination of Sun, it won’t like the light of Light.” She triggered Physical Touch and stuck her hair behind her ears as a breeze ruffled her long strands. She had not sensed Kjiven’s hand since arriving back at the camp. Whatever lingering Touch the whizan left within the rainforest, it did not approach Two Rivers or the surrounding area. Maybe Navosh taking back the mantle eradicated it.
But the Rotting One was still out there, causing harm.
“Rezenarza asked your mother for Sun-enriched lights,” Kenosera told her.
“He did?” Why had her mother said nothing about that?
“For Strans’ Bargain. The corrupted roots want to break through and harm the yondaii within. He felt Sun would strengthen his defenses.”
“They haven’t returned to the Nest?”
He shook his head. “They fear Esentiz. He’s their warleader, so that makes sense. What happened at the citadel was their failure to protect Kjiven, and they believe he’ll punish them for it.”
Esentiz. Zepirz had mentioned him in passing, unease underlying his melancholy. He would not receive a warm welcome upon return—if he returned. If those like Mojek were in charge, he would lose his place, his title, perhaps his life, for choosing Navosh over Kjiven. She suspected, from his devotion, he planned to remain at Strans’ side, a faithful yondaii wishing to redeem himself, instead of heading back to his home.
She flumped next to Kenosera and pursed her lips. “She tells you more than she tells me,” she grumbled.
“The only reason I know, is that I was delivering a note. I think Kasoris doesn’t want to worry you. Greenglimmer hasn’t been kind to you, and you need rest more than you need to fret about minute details.”
“I wouldn’t fret.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she slumped. He smiled with soft humor and nudged her shoulder with his own. “It’s because you care,” he said.
“You mean feel guilty.” Setting the forest on fire was not the way to ingratiate herself to the Labyrinth.
“That, too. But if care did not fill you, there would be no guilt.”
“Look what you wrought.”
Vantra jerked at the snappish tone and twisted to stare behind them. Yissik swept their arms wide, the gold and red beads wrapped around their wrists and ankles jangling as they planted their lower torso’s paws for a stout, intimidating presence. The wind picked up, ruffling their white-spotted, dark cerulean fur and black hair; their tall, blue-tipped crest feathers rose, stout against the gusts.
Zepirz clacked his black beak, his dark eyes glinting like flint, but he said nothing as the other listeners drifted down the path behind them, eyes to the landscape beyond.
Grass grew in spurts in the earth, alongside trees ripped from the soil and boulders deposited in random places. Clumpy dirt and bits of upstream buildings lay in mounds where the flood shield had sat, a rough road running to the side. The residents had cleared a lane wide enough for a single wagon, but only to Greve Road, the passage to Lake Deccavent. Workers from habitations downstream attempted to bridge the way from Two Rivers to Fekj, but the going was slow.
Some joked, perhaps they could create a road further from the river, now that the waters had cleared the trees away. The rest worried that the winding magic of the Labyrinth would affect the attempt, and travelers would get lost, despite the obvious passage.
Vantra sighed internally at the thought. She had wandered the Labyrinth without Strans’ Blessing, but the pull from Laken’s essence led her. Normal traders and pilgrims would not have the same luck, and she still pondered if the rainforest was angry enough at the harm caused by flood and fire, it would return the favor to other beings.
Navosh assured her, no. The Labyrinth was not a living being in that sense. It had a far too distant outlook to care much about immediate concerns, no matter how devastating, except for Kjiven’s Touch. That could end its existence and, despite nonchalance in other areas, it did not wish to disappear.
She still assumed it was upset with her.
The dwellers turned from the view, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. After Kjiven’s defeat, Vantra expected the group of captured leaders to travel to Luck’s Hold, the place they received Strans’ Blessing and Tenathi’s healing. Instead, they arrived in Embeckourteine, met with an escort of unhappy locals and river controller guards, and made their way to Lake Deccavent by way of Badeçasyon flying convoy. After meeting with the dryans, they flew to the syimlin’s camp outside Two Rivers because that was where Strans was.
She had the impression from the evaki listener Seja that they wished to confront the Wiiv in a place the yondaii and warriors could not harm them—and a village filled with deities, however foreign, met their requirement.
The call went to all surviving Wiiv leaders; the yim of the Imtri, led by Keevo, and the mel-le of the Leyan, led by Seja, demanded they attend for adjudication. Only Zepirz, however foolish, braved their wrath. He listened, but had nothing to offer in response to their berating. What could he do, since his warleader and peers refused to accept responsibility for their acts?
Upset at the lack of respect shown them, the dwellers focused on the one who stood for all the Wiiv, demanding Navosh punish him. They received no sympathy for their petition, so Zepirz ignored them and threw himself into being an attentive helper as the deity regained strength. Ayara, with stiff shoulders and beak-lifted pride, remained at his side and spent their time badgering the divine into drinking healing brews that he initially refused but desperately needed.
“Destruction follows the Wiiv as closely as their footsteps,” Keevo muttered. The elder rufang, aided by a cane made from a discarded tree branch, slowly walked to another log, adjusted his blue shoulder wrap, and knelt in the soft dirt next to it. The last Vantra had seen him, a crack in his blue-tipped black beak pained him, but whatever healer helped him, they knit the bone so not even a line remained.
Ayara smacked their clenched hands into the place where their hips met their lower torso’s shoulders, their burgundy eyes chilling. “You were not so inclined when Esentiz promised to rid the rainforest of the ghosts. You spoke to him, accepted Strans’ mark as proof of your support.”
While most eyes focused on the healer, more than a couple stared at Vantra. She turned back to the view; the dwellers did not hide their dislike of her, and in their presence, she felt it to her core. Kenosera put his hand on her back and glared, as if that ever did much good.
“A false dream is a false dream, no matter who voices it,” Keevo replied, his long, faded blue crest feathers smoothing down before springing back up. “He claimed Strans walked with you—he lied.”
“He did not lie,” Zepirz snapped. He clapped his palm against the center of his chest, where a swirl of brilliant silvery-green rested against his skin. “And I have his Blessing to prove so.”
The reminder wrinkled faces, and the rufang clacked their beaks while the evaki lifted their long chins and frowned.
“And where are your yondaii, Zepirz? The ones who also claimed the Blessing?” Eno asked. She stood with Yissik, her muscular arms folded, the edges of her beak drawn down in anger, her green eyes narrowed to slits of fire. She wore armbands and legbands, the tasseled ends of the beaded knots dancing like flames against her pale grey skin and fur.
Zepirz eyed her, his shoulders stiffening.
“They’re dead,” she said with stout pomposity.
He flinched and quickly hid the brief flicker of pain. A soft, weary sigh drifted from Katta. The syimlin of Darkness smoothed his ebon hair and bound it in a tail as he walked to a boulder at the left of the overhang, one that rested beneath the rustling leaves, and hefted himself to the top. He claimed to be an unobtrusive presence that would keep the peace, but the task actually fell to Salan, whose towering presence intimidated the dwellers into civility. The vulf had changed his size before the leaders’ arrival, and having a large, black-furred canine arching his head over them as they argued kept things civil—mostly.
He looked over at the syimlin, his sky-blue eyes glowing, but Katta shook his head and leaned back on his palms. His orbs dimmed, and he padded over and sat next to the rock, panting.
“They were misled,” Ayara insisted, breaking the suspicious silence of those who had intently followed the vulf’s movements. “As were we. We sought the light of Strans’ Blessing, we thought he led us to victory against the ghosts.”
“How could you believe that?” Seja asked, her tone sharp. “You, of healing hands, knew the light was actually darkness. How did you justify promoting a false blessing?”
“If it were so easy to tell, why did you accept it?” they retorted. “You claimed to see the dawn in his Touch.”
The evaki lifted her lip, her golden-green eyes narrowing at the reminder. Whatever she had thought before arrival at the camp, as soon as she beheld Navosh, she rushed to him and prostrated herself, asking if he might replace the Blessing of the false one. Tears raced along her long, thin nose and down her gold skin, creating a stream from her elongated chin to her breast as he settled his palm over the stylized sun symbol on her upper arm.
The pale gold mark evaporated, as if it had never existed. He meandered among the others as they begged for his Blessing, and did not deny one of them his Touch.
Zepirz straightened, tipping his beak skyward, the light catching on the blue tip and reflecting with a metallic gleam. “You all accepted the false mark. The only one standing here who did not was outcast before they could.”
Yissik clacked their beak and stamped their front legs; the colorful beads jangled a bright tune as their beak’s magenta tip brightened. “I would not have, even if I remained in the leaves,” they proudly stated. “I made my way to the sacred pool as a youth, and I knew his Touch. If you had not feared the leaves and braved the forest to visit the holy places, you, too, would have known to reject the false one.”
Zepirz slapped his chest again, drawing attention to his silvery green mark. “I braved the forest and braved the holy places, and I have his Blessing to prove so.”
The leaders simmered in their annoyance; while they did not like Zepirz, not one thought Yissik deserved the honor Strans bestowed upon him either. Vantra hated such arguments, for Sun priests used them to discredit her and her mother. She felt a kinship to the ex-yim over it and fought not to resent the other dwellers. Ghosts had brought harm to their communities, the current Kjiven-inspired flood and displacement just another in a long line of ills faelareign had visited on them. They deserved recompense, though she doubted the spirits who had called the rainforest home would agree to their demands and leave.
Ghosts had resided for millennia in the rainforest. They did not see themselves as interlopers, but inhabitants.
“Still at it, are you?”
Everyone jumped at the calm, amused voice. Navosh stood next to Salan, hands behind his back, regarding the group with mild interest. Most bowed their heads in reverence, hands settling against their upper chests. Yissik, Zepirz and Ayara did not, and neither did Seja—an interesting reaction from one who claimed deep devotion for the Twisted One.
“Well, if you are so keen to help, then I have a task for you.”
Each perked up, but for Yissik, Zepirz and Ayara. Their wariness reflected her own, though she could not say why. Something about his casual tone, his easy stance, combined with a sharp glint in his emerald eyes, pricked unease.
“Accompany me to the Bendebares.”
Zepirz swallowed and Yissik sucked in a breath as Ayara winced. The others’ reactions ranged from confused to suspicious, but none said no.
“Esentiz has forbidden all but the Wiiv from the Bendebares,” Eno stated, her voice blaring over the creaking of tree branches. “Even for adjucation.”
“Hmm. Yes. So I’ve been told.” Navosh cast her a soft smile. “But Esentiz does not rule there, the Labyrinth does. He claims his acts sanctified, but the Bendebares were never meant to be a holy place monitored by the Wiiv. The Bendebares were never meant to be a holy place at all, but it was easier to care for the trees that way.”
“The Bendebares are sacred,” Keevo said, the edges of his beak pulled down in a tight frown, a deep divot between his feathery brows, his pupils thinner than normal. “We who dwell within the leaves know this, from the moment we take our first breath.”
“They are sacred because the dwellers of the leaves would not have cared for them otherwise. There must be some greater meaning, some spiritual gain, for the generations to continue doing so. Without the prod, they regard them as simply a stand of trees.” He shrugged. “The Labyrinth has been through both, a dearth of care, an overabundance. It prefers how things were before Kjiven stole my mantle, and it wishes to return to them. So we shall help its soul regain its heart.”
The listeners bowed and agreed, their soft murmurs a combined prayer.
“We shall leave in two days. If you are so inclined, the Dance of Leaves will set you in the right frame of mind. As Yissik already knows where to find the fruits of the forest, they are my chosen padii. Speak with them so they know how much to collect.” His gaze drifted over the assembled group, no condemnation, just mild curiosity.
Salan barked, and the deity raised an eyebrow. “If you want,” he said, looking up to meet the vulf’s pale gaze. “You’ve been a staunch protector these past days, and I would welcome the company, but this is also not your mess to clean up.”
The vulf snorted, and Katta laughed. “Salan’s helped clean up his share of messes,” he said. “Did Tenathi agree?”
“Yes,” Navosh sighed. “By reminding me that older sister figures tend to fix the problems the younger brothers create.”
“Subtle of her.” He slid from the boulder, effectively breaking the meeting apart. The leaders clustered around Yissik except for Zepirz and Ayara, who hustled to the trail and headed down the hill. Vantra rose as well; no reason to remain staring at muddy rivers, farmers, and a scant few villagers moving through the streets below. Any delight in Kenosera’s company had faded at the interruption.
Vantra.
She jerked and looked at the two deities.
I would have a word with you, away from the listeners, Navosh said, his mental voice soft. I’m afraid they will hate what I have to ask, and there is no reason to excite them.
She nodded, confused as to what he needed from her. She was not a healer, so could not help him recover his energy, and other than that, what else might she do for him?
Kenosera glanced at her, at the deity, then patted her arm and proceeded after the Wiiv without comment. Had he spoken to him as well?
