The wide path that greeted them astounded Vantra; she had not seen a way so large through the trees. The dwellers stared, shocked, as if they, too, had never encountered a generous Labyrinth passage.
Navosh strode confidently on, vines reaching for him and brushing against his arm before retreating. They reminded her of pets who wished to nuzzle their caretaker, unlike the terrifying plants she confronted in other parts of Greenglimmer.
The branches hung low, flowers nestled in their twigs. The blooms wrapped their roots around the bark to hold themselves in place, with fat, tapered petals of reds and purples displaying a center that shimmered with prickly golden stamens.
Good thing Fyrij was not with them. He would pluck those golden globes, and who knew how the Labyrinth would react?
The way slowly darkened as the foliage thickened, and the dwellers looked beyond the tree trunks, uneasy. Yissik and Zepirz glanced at each other, and both shook their heads before eyeing the droopy ferns. Ayara clasped their hands over their chest, their brows and eyes wrinkled in tearful concern.
Vantra did not like the feel, either. She had navigated vibrant foliage sitting in gentle mist and oppressive heat when she sought Laken’s essence. True, the heat bore down, but the mist? No whitish wisp hovered near the ground, and since both the living and the dead needed the magic energy contained within, the absence of it boded ill.
A gnarled pole decorated with green beads and feathers stood to the side of the passage, a rough, glittery blue stone strapped to the top with reddish leather. The embedded crystals presented dull faces, any sparkles or shimmers absent.
Salan drew his lips across his teeth; Katta set his hand on his back and glanced at the Light-blessed; they grimly held spears, their bright blue eyes flicking back and forth in agitated anticipation.
They passed several poles, each adorned with items that matched the stone on top. All used some combination of beads, shells, feathers, twigs, cloth, and string, and all looked faded, worn, brittle.
A line of withered ferns and sagging branches ran across the path before it widened further, revealing two taller, fatter, pockmarked poles standing to the sides. Rope made from shriveled green reeds and decorated with dangling chains of grungy beads and desiccated blooms hung between them. A brush of red stained them, but the vibrancy had dulled to a dried-blood color. The surrounding ferns and trees had a hollow sense to them, as if something had sucked away their greenness.
The listeners cried out in disbelief, Ayara whimpered, and Zepriz sucked in a pained breath. Yissik clenched their hands, and their glare at the yondaii could have melted iron.
Navosh continued through the poles with a stiffer posture.
The path wound around scraggly trees whose top branches arched over their heads, creating a shadowy canopy. Limp strands that must have been vines hung from them in glumpy masses; a subtle breeze touched them, and bits detached, landing with a flump in the dry dirt. The living winced and covered their mouths, so bad air must have reached them afterwards. Grit pattered against Vantra’s essence, leaving a dark, rotting green smudge behind.
Tenathi cupped her nose and mouth, then looked at Navosh; he stood, face blank, hands clenched. One tear raced down his cheek, drying to nothing before it reached his chin.
“What have the Wiiv done, Zepirz?” he whispered.
“When I departed for the citadel, it was not like this,” he choked, eyes brimming with tears. “It had many plants, many colors, and the wet leaves’ scent filled the entrance, inviting all to enter.”
“When did you leave for the citadel?” Katta asked, his tense, somber tone a crack of sound that did not blend with the rustle of leaves.
“When the mists grew thicker in the morning and did not wash away until the afternoon rains, a cycle ago.”
“So a year and a couple semma previous,” Jare murmured.
“The rot began before I left the leaves,” Yissik declared, snapping their beak. “Something wrong hung in the air, hid in the water, and that was fifteen years previous.”
“The ghosts’ influence,” Zepirz stated softly, the words fading away.
“This holds no ghostly touch,” Keevo denied, his voice quivering. “Even they are not so putrid and bleak.”
Navosh took a step; the earth crunched under his boot, as if it had not drank water in many years. A glint of metallic sheen fell from his heel, and Vantra shuddered. Insects, large, small, coated in dust, littered the path, a carapace sticking up here and there, a hint of brilliant butterfly wings beneath the dull brown. Broken beetle horns pointed straight up, and the crook of long, spiked legs peeked above the powdery blanket.
How had the Wiiv, who claimed this place holy, allowed it to suffer like this? She knew Zepirz was not solely to blame, but he, as an influential yondaii, had a voice. He could have protested.
How afraid was he of Esentiz, of his fellow yondaii, that he raised no objection? Or was his hate for ghosts so strong, he ignored the signs for an unattainable promise?
“Vantra, your shields,” Katta said. His eyes gleamed a brilliant sunset blue, and after glancing up at him, Salan padded after Navosh, emitting a low growl. Dread prickled her essence, combining with the unease that already infused her.
She spun shields around each of the dwellers. The dark fled, and the plants reared back, retreating from the glare. Jare tipped his chin after the deity; Light-blessed trotted to the sides of the straggling line and blazed bright with Light, sending the foliage into shudders that ended with them splayed on the ground. He set his hand in her back and pushed her on, so she followed the twisted one, leaving him and Katta to bring up the rear. No one else could; the dancers needed to recover their composure before they began the ritual to help the Bendebares.
Whatever holiness once resided in the entrance, it had fallen to the rot. What would the grove look like, if the way in held such nastiness?
The path broadened and disappeared into a glade. The ground lay under a myriad of desiccated insects, small birds and tiny frogs, a tangle of roots in the center, disintegrating cloth wrapped around the bends. Vantra guessed they once held color, but now fluttered in faded, ashen-grey strings.
The twisted trees surrounding the glade towered above them, their branches entwined with their neighbors. Wide leaves drooped from cracked twigs, so fragile a slight breeze might sever their stems and send them to join a myriad of brown-spotted others at the bases. Bark peeled from the trunks, the resulting patches containing splotchy red marks. The same glumpy vines dangled from the upper story, but most had stretched in half, their lower parts lying on the ground below.
Each tree had a sash, the remains of beading and other decorations scant. Bits gleamed in the litter like glass, catching the greenish light from dozens of torches stuck into the dirt between them and the roots. They, too, had rope hanging between them, just as nasty as the previous ones.
Navosh tipped his head back and screamed.
Vantra clapped her hands over her ears, though the sound was as much mental as physical. The listeners stumbled, some pitched into the rotting litter, and the Light-blessed rushed to help them, wincing in pain.
Salan nudged the deity with the flat of his forehead, knocking him off balance and ending the lonely, agonized shriek. Huffing, he bent over, and the vulf nuzzled the side of his head, making concerned whuffling sounds.
“How could they?” Tenathi whispered, dragging her wrapped boots as she entered the glade. “I knew something was amiss, but I never thought they would harm the Bendebares.”
“This is no Wiiv hand,” Katta said with disgust as he stopped one step inside. “Nor is it the Beast.”
“You are right,” the healer agreed. “He was of blood, not rot. He hated that he died, and he hated his decaying corpse reminding him of it. Did he not clear the Forest Temple of the deceased syimlins’ bodies?”
“He did,” Katta said. “He wanted to dispose of them, but Sun interfered. If he feared any during his rule, it was Ga Son. They now rest in a special field, their accouterments with them to honor their tenure.”
“He feared Talis, too. The two Lights to illuminate his Deathness.” She stroked her neck and briefly closed her eyes, helplessness peeking through the attempt at calm.
With a small cry, Zepriz rushed to a tree that had not wilted as badly as the others, holding a trace of green within its leaves. “My tree.” He reached for the bark; the vines moved towards his hand, but the bottoms fell and splattered against the ground. The Sun shield blocked the gunk from coating his legs, and it flamed as it slid to the soil. He backed up, then retreated, quaking, gasping. Ayara slipped their arms around his waist and held him as he folded his fingers over the top of his beak and bent over, his mental agony a physical weight.
“We must hurry, before the faint remains of life fade from the heart,” Tenathi said, putting her palms together and pointing them at the knotted roots, then flinging her hands wide. The small animal bodies whirled away in a brush of air, piling into the leaf litter at the edges; the dancers hopped towards the center to avoid being struck. “Strans.” No answer. She eyed him. “NAVOSH.”
He jerked up, wild, eyes glazed, the devastation marring his face having no equal.
“Do not mourn what we have yet to lose. Eyea deeth nedai.” She clapped her hands, the crack breaking through the unnatural silence. “Shoka vye-al.”
The dwellers, sick, resolute, trotted to the roots and circled them, clapping in time with Tenathi and her breathy song. Yissik grabbed Zepirz and dragged him to his place, then glared at him as they joined the beat.
