“I don’t understand. Why—”

“I’ve made it clear. What is left to understand? I’m continuing on with the mini-Joyful.”

“Sera,” Dedari snapped. “You promised to stay with us until we were settled.”

“And you don’t think staying in Selaserat, helping the Shades and learning the caravan trade, is settled?”

“Well—”

The fight continued in lower tones and in the Nevemere’s language. Vantra snarled silently at the tent flap; could they not yell somewhere else? She had enough annoyance in feeding a grumbly Fyrij. He, inspired by the dwellers’ ritual, wanted to practice, and Kasoris told him to wait until the group traveling to the Bendebares returned. He flapped and fluttered, to no success; her mother would never cave like Qira did. So the little caroling sped to her and made it her problem, too.

She pressed her fist into her chest, wincing, before she finished breaking apart the soft, fleshy fruit for Fyrij to consume. She had assumed the rhythm from the ritual would fade, but it had not. It remained, overrunning her attention, her thoughts, so no studying, no practicing, no stuffing herself into conversations that might lead her into yelling at the unwary victim.

She started as the tent flap flew open and Laken whisked inside, carrying a pretty lavender bottle. A sullen Kenosera followed, and no sign of Dedari.

“Katta suggested this,” the captain said, holding up the container. “The fruit deadens the sensation for the dwellers, but you can’t eat.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s why they’re eating the fruit?”

He nodded. “And Jare thinks that’s why Navosh has yet to dissipate the bark skin. Experiencing the constant beat of another being’s heart can be distracting, but more than one? It overwhelms. He has a lot to prepare for that requires intense concentration, so he needs to mute it.”

“So I’m the only one they forgot,” she muttered, feeling ungrateful and guilty over it.

“They didn’t forget, but it took time for Katta to prepare this.” He dumped the entire bottle into the mister. Fyrij chittered at him and flapped as heavy clouds rose from the pool and stuffed the tent with their cool, white puffs.

“It smells nice,” Kenosera said. “Some of the mists are a bit dusty.”

“If you want to know what’s in it, you need to ask Katta,” he said. “Salan’s in a mood, but as soon as he sucked in the mist, he calmed down. It might hit you, too.”

“I don’t have much else to do right now.”

Laken raised an eyebrow at the sharp edge of annoyance in his tone, then cocked his head. “Do you still feel the rhythm?”

He frowned, then settled a hand against his chest. “I do,” he slowly admitted, confused.

“I don’t think they meant for the heartbeat of the forest to linger in those observing outside the circle,” Laken said. “But Katta thinks it’s a good idea for him and Salan to attune to it.”

“It’s more than that,” Vantra said, raising her fingers and brushing them through the air. “I now have the flavor of the rainforest, the wind, the water, the soil, the Labyrinth. I can distinguish their Touch from the Rotting One, so I know who and what to target.” She rubbed between her eyes as a forced calm settled in her head. “That’s potent. Thank you for bringing it.”

“I knew you needed it.” Her Chosen laughed. “I don’t think you can see anything in Katta’s tent but the haze. Even Navosh took refuge there, though he doesn’t seem as bothered by it as the rest of you. Maybe Jare’s right about the skin.”

“He’s lived with the rhythm for as long as he’s worn the mantle. It’s a part of him, as much as the twisted vines.” She sank back, her hands propping her up. “Beneath it all, I can feel the desperation of the Labyrinth, and that must be a stronger pull for him. That might be what he needs to dampen.”

Kenosera sank onto the bed and leaned over, hands between his legs, as his gaze drifted to Fyrij. The avian puffed up with deep breaths, and issued cute, chirping whispers as he exhaled. “I don’t feel the desperation, but I can nod along to the beat, and so can Dedari. It’s very different than our own.”

“My people had priests called solethic,” Laken said. “They conducted prayers to the natural world to attract fertility and large harvests. They always claimed they could hear the earth’s heartbeat during rituals. I thought they smoked too much yigo, but maybe that opened the door for them to peer into a being unlike them.”

“The desert has its own living beat.” Kenosera tapped his forefingers together, keeping time to the rhythm. “It’s in the wind, the river, was even in the stones of Black Temple. It doesn’t match this. I wonder why.”

“I think it makes sense, that different environments have a different song. The ocean waves lapping against a ship’s hull sing a different tune that the ones rivers and lakes produce.” Laken glanced at the flap. “Lorgan might know.”

“If he doesn’t, he’s brave enough to ask Katta about it,” Kenosera said wrily.

“Katta’s approachable and won’t turn away a question.” Laken moved his floating base to a chair and settled on the padded seat. “That’s so odd. When I was alive, our priests taught us to fear deities. They were vicious, cruel, self-centered, and if we didn’t appease them, they would punish us—which was why the solethic first performed that ritual.” He licked his lower lip, his eyes glassing over. “All the fear, all the pain and suffering of war, for a deity that didn’t exist.”

Kenosera jerked up, startled. “But there are many syimlin!”

“There are—and our primary divine, Audek the Mountain, never existed. I talked to Lorgan, and we looked at the books he brought listing syimlin. He’s not in them.”

Vantra hoped her surprise did not show; that he asked the scholar for help shocked her. He still brimmed with anger over the fact Lorgan sent him back to the Elden Fields to wait for her. Another thousand years of lying in the dirt, desperate for a Finder to notice his true desire for Redemption, destroyed any goodwill he might have had towards the man. It did not matter that he had discovered the resting places for all his sundered body parts; that effort did not equal the suffering.

“Then I asked Katta about it.” His nose twitched in a snarl. “So the Keel were right about that. My people followed a fake deity for centuries, all so the royals had an excuse to swallow land that wasn’t theirs.” He dropped his gaze. “My family died for greed, not ideals.”

“I’m sorry,” Vantra whispered. How horrible, to give so much, and then realize the sacrifice was pointless. How would she react, to discover Sun never existed, that her death was a meaningless bid for power to honor a false syimlin?

He waved his hand. “It’s hardly your fault.” He met her gaze, his eyebrows knit, his eyes narrowed in pain, not sarcasm. “The Keel of my time played on their people’s ignorance and prolonged the fighting, and I mocked them for it. I never realized Gaithen’s leaders did the same. Orders I didn’t understand but completed anyway make more sense, now that I realize their corruption. It’s why I sympathize with the Wiiv.

“They, too, feel the generations of harm to their core. The desperation to mitigate it led them into the arms of a being too happy to take advantage of that pain. It’s what my people felt, why we so eagerly followed our king into war against the Keels. We didn’t realize the greed or the lies about divine support since so many religious leaders backed him, and he played on our ancient grievances to further his ambitions.”

“There’s much lying when it comes to religion.” Kenosera’s tapping quickened. “I found that out with my grandmother.”

And Katta. And Qira. And Verryn. And their acolytes, who kept their identities secret. Vantra grew up believing the divine was so much more than she, and to understand them, was to understand the universe. Now . . .

Now she had no idea what to believe about syimlin and other deities. While she did not think they were as manipulative as Rezenarza, that did not excuse their going undercover in the Evenacht and not telling her, even if she should have guessed their identities.

Her mother warned her as a child, that the syimlin were faelareign before they donned the mantle. They were not perfect, they were not omniscient. They just had more magic power. As she aged and studied the myths surrounding how syimlin gained their mantles and how horrible some of their experiences were, she developed a much different opinion of what it meant to be divine. But she never stopped believing they earned their charge, that Ga Son preferred them at his side because they had something more special than typical faelareign.

Didn’t they?

“I’m going to get more bottles from Katta,” Laken said, drifting from the chair. “We should be able to keep this tent nice and hazy until you leave.”

“Thank you, Laken,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I’m probably going to be in here with you, so save your thanks for after you survive my grumpiness.”

She pursed her lips as he whisked through the tent flap. Grumpiness had plagued him the entire Redemption, and she had survived it so far.

“I think I’d like to stay as well,” Kenosera said, his words breaking through memories of Snake’s Den. “And I might suggest it to Dedari.”

“Both of you are welcome. We’ll need to find some more bedding, because I doubt you’ll be able to sleep without the calming effect.”

“I’ll talk to your mother,” he said. “She’s become the default supply manager.”

“That’s very unlike her.”

“The Evenacht has new experiences around every corner.” He winked at her as he rose and gave her a small, sweet smile, before leaving.

She placed her hands on her breast as she tingled.