“I’m dead.”

Her mother flinched. “Yes.”

“And I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“Yes.”

“So what are you hiding about him? Is he dead?”

“No.”

“Mom!” Vantra folded her arms and glared at Kasoris as she scratched a mark on the top page of her enormous pile of supply documents.

“Vantra, I already told you, you aren’t ready.”

“I’m twenty-five! I went through Finder training, I’ve retrieved two of Laken’s essences and helped return Strans’ mantle. How can I not be ready?”

Her mother pursed her lips and dropped the thick, golden dip pen, which created a small splash of ink on the paper. She leaned back in her rickety, woven chair and met her gaze. “Sweetie, with everything else going on, you don’t need an added burden.”

“So knowing who my father is, is a burden?”

Her parent’s nose twitched, and she rubbed at the curved bridge before running her fingers through her golden hair. She followed the knots down so she could fluff the strands out, then winced at her fingertips. She had chewed her typically elegant nails into unpainted stubs, and combined with the brush of grey under her droopy blue eyes and the paler cast to her tanned features, she looked like she needed a long sleep.

“Mom, you’re wearing yourself out.”

She blinked, surprised, then half-smiled. “I suppose, but there’s so much to do. We’re sending shipments to the villages that lost their warriors at Kjivendei. Yissik knows a yim who’s not closely associated with the Wiiv. Other dweller communities respect her enough to act as an intermediary, so the supplies aren’t being turned away. They do, however, need to be sorted.” She waved her hand at the tent flap. “While the councilors’ abandonment of their government posts means help from official channels is sporadic, charities and communities are sending goods. We’ve wagonloads of grain and produce from the farmers around the port and West Sel. They’re happy to help their ancestral villages, even if they left to pursue a life outside the leaves. What they haven’t sent is documentation listing the amounts and types of foodstuffs. That’s what I get to sort out.”

Vantra rubbed at the divot between her eyes, guilt playing through her thoughts. She had been a part of the death and destruction at the citadel. Her essence fluttered as she remembered the unlucky listener and his entourage who confronted her on a ruin’s rooftop, all of whom had families, friends . . .

“Sweetie?”

She jerked up and shook her head. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

Her mother rose, dusting at the billowy, thigh-length white shirt and comfy golden pants, and gave her a warm hug. “I know it’s been hard,” she whispered. “You did terrible things you never wished to do. But you helped sever Kjiven’s hold on Strans’ mantle. That saved Greenglimmer and its people from a twisted fate.”

“I didn’t do much.” She laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. How odd, to hold her living parent as a dead daughter; her heartbeat, her warmth, felt different as it brushed against her colder, mistier essence. She was still her mother, but—

“Navosh thinks you did plenty.” Her mother pulled back and cupped her cheek. “Especially after setting the healing vines. You were unconscious for three days!”

“I slept,” she reminded her. “Ghosts sleep to recharge, just like we did while alive. We just don’t do it as often, especially when we have access to mist.”

“In any case, you need more rest, too.”

Perhaps, but her restlessness, tinged with mindless terror that the Beast had returned, kept her wary and alert. “I wish I could drink a warm cayocayo and snuggle under blankets, but I can’t drink anything, and it’s too warm for any bedding.” She may be a ghost, but the sodden heat of the rainforest still penetrated her essence and made activities outside her tent uncomfortable.

“I know,” Kasoris said, rubbing at the back of her head. “Rainforest is heat and rain. And more heat and rain, day and night.”

“That’s why you haven’t been sleeping?” Vantra squinted at her, then glanced around the tent. A rumpled cot piled with padding and brown blankets, and a wardrobe sat in a corner, but the rest of the place had tables filled with notebooks and sheets, cabinets, crates with non-perishable supplies like beads, thread, scissors, and the like. “You need the cold spell recharged?”

“I’m not going to bother a syimlin for that.”

“You bother them for everything else.”

The unamused glare made her regret the sentiment. “I see you haven’t lost your perspective.” She stretched, then sagged. “Desyai and Kuç should be getting back soon. I’ll try to nap then.”

Something about the admittance, the way she said the words, pricked Vantra. “You’re afraid, too.”

Her mother stared at the dingy brown carpet, then nodded, her eyes brightening, her mouth firming. “Vantra, if the Beast has returned and you’re his enemy, how could I not be?”

“You’d be in more danger.”

“I can sing that corpse back into the Void,” she said, her voice deepening, taking on the tamber she used when she sang in Sonkowtrow, the holy language. Could her mother force the ex-Death back into the bleakness of non-existence?

Or what was supposed to be non-existence?

“But I can’t hover over you, protect you, as much as I want to.” Tears slid down her reddening cheeks. “And it’s those times I’m afraid of. I lost you once, Vantra.” She settled a hand against her breast. “I carry that here, an agony that will never disappear. I’m not going to watch you erased by a . . . a monster that never should have wielded Death’s mantle.”

Vantra slipped her arms around her mother and held her tight, wishing fruitlessly she could take the pain of watching her die away, wishing vile power hunger and greed had not separated them. But she, the brown-haired, dark-eyed, dull-skinned daughter of a beauteous, Sun-touched high priestess, did not have enough worth in the other priests’ eyes to keep alive. Too plain in appearance, too average in intellect, too—

Her hair slid into her eyes, and she brushed it away with her shoulder so she could continue holding her sobbing mother. She now had purplish-red strands, a small bit of ghostly Touch that set her apart from her ex-Finder self. It did not feel as if it were a part of her—yet. She liked the vibrant hue, liked how she felt more confident, more inspired, without the constant remembrance of past mockery.

The tent flap opened, and Kenosera stepped through, holding a tray filled with sliced, gleaming red and yellow fruits, buttered sugarbread, two skewers with thick chunks of meat shoved onto them, and a water bottle.

“The listeners are eating, and I thought you might like some,” he said with a smile and a twinkle in his green-brown eyes as he slid the tray onto the table.

Her mother straightened, wiping at her eyes. “Thank you, Kenosera. I let time get away from me, and I think I missed the midday meal.”

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Vantra scolded.

“I know.” Kasoris snagged the water and downed the entire bottle. “They’ve finished with the Badeçasyon ship tour?”

“Yes.” The nomad’s sardonic expression piqued her curiosity. “Seeing the larger vessel, knowing the smaller ones are flying to affected villages, I think they want to ride with the shipments and meet the displaced.”

Her mother hmphed and plopped into the chair. “They’re covering their own asses,” she muttered. “They let the fake Strans infiltrate the leaves, and now they need to pretend they care to soothe their guilt.”

“Mother!”

“Honey, I was a high priestess. I met with countless religious leaders just like them. Wars, strife, conflicts, so many could have been avoided if they paid more attention to the people they claimed to lead than to the gold in the temple coffers.”

“I’m not certain riches drive them,” Kenosera said, arching a thin brow as he adjusted the strap holding a long leather scroll case to his side.

As far as Vantra could tell, ridding Greenglimmer of ghosts motivated them.

“Then ask them why, when presented with evidence that Strans was no longer the Strans they knew, they didn’t bother to investigate, just went along with increasingly problematic behavior.” She selected a juicy, red fruit and bit into the soft flesh. “Ask them why his mark interfered with the previous ones. That should have tipped them off.” She waved the end of the slice at him. “It tipped Yissik off, didn’t it? And what did the listeners do to them?”

The listeners exiled them, true, but clashing personalities might have had more to do with it.

A deep ringing shook the tent canvas. Vantra rushed through the flap, Kenosera and her mother right after.

The tent sat just outside the entrance to the shielded syimlin’s camp, and since the flood ripped trees and bushes from the ground, the view to the river was unobstructed. They watched as the white-scaled ankis rose from the watery depths, its head towering above the elfine whizen on shore casting spelled nets to subdue it.

Two Rivers had ankis protections before the flood, but the rushing waters and tumbling debris had shredded them along with everything else, and the intricate spells needed to keep the snakes away from the habitation without killing them had yet to settle. Until they did, whizen toured the shores, catching the stray reptiles before they made it onto land and devoured someone.

“It wasn’t just the dwellers of the leaves that Kjiven harmed,” her mother said, watching the capture with melancholy eyes. Considering the black marks on the scales, the emaciated appearance, the slow attacks, the snake had not eaten in days. Because corruption marred it? She knew the vines Navosh planted sent healing magic into the waters, but it would take years for it to seep from the streams and rivers into the foliage, the animals, the peoples. Kjiven had too much time to wreck the rainforest without hindrance, and a complete reversal would not happen for decades.

Kenosera nodded sadly. “So, too, in the Snake’s Den.” His gaze drifted to the herders driving the frightened cattle from the shore and stayed a moment too long before the breeze snatched his tresses and he tucked his deep, golden-brown hair behind his ears. What caught his attention?

Dedari, Lesanova and Tagra were with them. The nomads enjoyed learning to care for animals and expected to take that knowledge with them when they joined the Joyful Caravan on Fading Light, but they often neglected to invite Kenosera along. He pretended it did not bother him, but Vantra knew it pricked something within him, to be left out.

He narrowed his eyes, then tore them away from the action. “Katta’s still with the listeners, so he asked me to pray to Qira and send this along,” he said, holding up the scroll case. “He told me to place it on the altar so Qira would receive it, but I’m not sure what to say to catch his attention.”

“Call his name,” her mother said. “That alerts him, and then tell him you have a package for him. Even if he can’t draw it to him, Zibwa can.”

“I can go with you,” Vantra said. “I’ve prayed my whole life.” Not that it mattered, as the syimlin often ignored them, but what else did Qira have to do other than heal?

Kenosera cast her a quick grin, his teeth flashing bright against his golden-brown skin. Her parent sighed as if a years’ long argument weighed upon her. She must have sounded sarcastic, which she felt, but she did not want others to realize the depths, especially considering they traveled with deities.

“I should get back to work.” Her mother tapped Kenosera’s upper arm. “Make certain you drink something when you get back, Sera—and make certain Vantra absorbs some mist.”

“Mother!”

She did not respond, just stepped back inside the tent.

Kenosera jerked his chin. “Let’s go, before the cattle get in the way.”