“Merdia, the jewel of the Snake.” Dough threw his arms up and out as the glimmer of light on the horizon brightened against the dark grey clouds of the late morning sky. “Black Temple nor Sunbright shine as beautiful.”
Vantra smiled, setting her face to the brisk breeze. While she could not smell the salt air, she still experienced the wind and the eagerness of docking at a strange place, of viewing buildings and beings she had never encountered before. While she lived in Winsun, she rarely ventured past the seat of Ga Son’s priesthood to explore the wonders of Talis.
Too bad, for she would never again have the opportunity to see the Shadow Cave, the most important temple for Veer Tul on Talis, or swim in the cyan waters of Arstet’s Pool, or visit the crowded but fantastical Resplenderie Markets, where nymphs still alive from ages past sold exotic spices and items. So many wondrous places, remaining forever out of reach of her fingertips.
Refusing to succumb to gloomy regret, she focused her spyglass on the lighthouse to the north, at the entrance to the docking area. It blazed bright white with orange stripes and had a flat wooden top containing glass windows that protected the lamp, which turned and flashed at regular intervals. A purple flag danced a merry jig above it, a crude, smiling skull painted in the middle.
A touch of the old with the new, and one the tourists appreciated, considering the numbers she noted meandering at the bottom of the structure.
Further in the distance, buildings of near-neon red, green, blue and purple ran up a gentle slope and between orange cliffs before continuing down the other side. Between Merdia proper and the crowded dock, stood white-painted structures, shining through the Evenacht’s haze, brighter blues and purples and cyans decorating roofs, trimmings and doors. Orange paving-stoned streets that matched the orangish soil wound through them, busy with foot traffic and cattle pulling large wagons laden with cargo.
A few bushes grew in wide ceramic containers in the center of the streets, unimpressive next to the tall, segmented brown trees that towered above them. The blue-green fronds crowning them waved with excited frenzy in the sea breezes while the trunks leaned back and forth. Had any ripped from the earth and fallen in heavy winds? They looked bulky enough to crush a home or two.
A straggling stream of beings headed south from the docks and to a mistier area where dilapidated wooden buildings rested. Some were open sheds filled with something or others hidden in shadows, some were huts with sizeable gaps in the walls, the exteriors greying, bits of roofs absent. A flat-topped tower that resembled the lighthouse, but shorter and without the bright paint, stood tall above them. No glass protected the lamp in the middle, and as far as Vantra could tell, it was not lit.
Regular metal lanterns illuminated the area, rather than the modern street lighting that stood amidst the white buildings. Rays peeked through the crooked shutters and holes of the structures, falling on a jumble of wood piles, metal tables, saw horses, and random tools. Scattered benches and stools sat between the buildings, and she thought she saw buckets with flowers planted within, bright petals blaring against the solemn grey and brown of the place.
At the furthest end, a sheltered, half-constructed ship stood, the side open so beings could see the decorated interior. Interesting. She imagined museums would love such a display.
Was that the original Merdia? Ghosts did not need protection from much, but hiding from heavy winds protected essences. So why the gaps? Or were those for show? The beings who wandered through the area looked more prosperous than those who would reside in such a quarter. She could see tourists oogling less-than-pristine enclosures and tsking about the ‘early days’.
Water blew into the air; the greol churned the waves ahead of them, the timids in grand play. The large whale-like creature continued to accompany the Loose Ducky, its adventure in sinking the pirate ship no deterrent to swimming with them. She wondered how it kept up with the Merdia pirates, considering they had an advanced propulsion system; Dough shrugged, but she sensed discomfort with the question.
Despite the absurdity, she waved.
Dough’s first mate trotted up, holding a collection of loose pages. “Kjethelwyn responded and said all our ships know we’re syimlin-laden,” he said. “And to leave the greol alone.”
“They know, tangle with a greol, sink to the bottom,” Dough said, accepting the sheets.
“Yeah, Kjethelwyn put a hold on all tourist activity ‘til we come in. Being on the safe side.”
Red chuckled at that and leaned on the railing, his eyes exploring the town. Vantra’s depleted state did not lend for much movement, and he stayed nearby to provide a boost. None of the mini-Joyful thought it odd for the ancient ghost to express such kindness, and that, in her mind, explained why they put up with his stink spells and trickster-y behavior.
“Safety’s the priority.” Dough nodded in approval as he scanned the sheets. Vantra thought, for being pirates, the crew was quite the safety-infused, regimented lot. Perhaps their time in the Evenacht had dulled their youthful outrages; the tales they told of derring-do, with much chortling and glee at their raids and sword fighting, did not reflect the disciplined team who worked in tandem and rarely had disputes.
And Dough arbitrated those within a few moments.
Kjaelle and Kenosera joined them, she with anticipation, he with a mixture of dread anxiety and darker failure. He distrusted his return, and they had not eased his expectancy of a rough time. She asked Red about his skepticism, and he said the nomad viewed Verryn’s insistence on having a Shades of Darkness enclave interrogate the nymph-hired pirates, instead of delving into their minds and rooting about for the information himself, as a weakness. They did not know why he assumed Verryn had that ability in the first place, but it appeared unshakable.
Vantra suspected blaming the syimlin hid his anxiety over a dreaded return to Canyonway. Both the mini-Joyful and the pirates had monitored him during the voyage, in case rashness overruled common sense.
The conversation caused her to ponder her own assumptions concerning syimlin, and wondered what she mistakenly thought obvious abilities and which she knew nothing about. Of course, she also knew Verryn needed more training before he did anything as delicate as rooting about in some being’s head, and she doubted the mini-Joyful trusted a stranger enough to mention that.
He still heard prayers, though. How did that work?
“The sea is pretty here,” Kjaelle said, smoothing her wind-blown hair behind her ears. The water had a cool blue tint, paler than cold ocean, but not the brilliant cyan tropical shores enjoyed.
“It’s the reason we came,” Dough admitted. “We had docked at Luth Port, which is on the side of the jaw, and they talked about the beauty of this bay. Enchanting, it is.” He grinned. “There’s quite the painterly and photographic community who captures the splendor. We’ve also had an influx of divers over the last few hundred years. The wrecks attract sea life and are prime locations for underwater photography. We move the battles around the bay to give them a chance to do their thing without the threat of a ship crashing into their heads.”
Merdia had much more to offer than Vantra ever anticipated, in a pirate town.
“Right, 45.” She glanced down at the top of Laken’s head. Red had created a plate-shaped spell that sat on the railing, acting as a turning mechanism for his base. If he told the magic left or right, and a degree, it turned in that direction for him. He had a pair of binoculars strapped to his head, so he, too, could view the distance; he grumbled with brash loudness about the absurdity, but immediately perused the shoreline, barking out coordinates. Red just smiled and left him to it.
“How long did you want to stay in Merdia, Vantra?” the elfine asked, leaning on the railing next to Red and eyeing her Candidate. “With Dough’s help and Verryn’s presence, we shouldn’t have much trouble getting supplies.”
“And we already have a guide,” Red said, grinning.
“I think we need to stay until both of us have recharged,” she said. “According to Lorgan’s research, the desert is not heavy with mist. Why rush our recovery and cause problems later?”
“It’s true,” Dough said. “There isn’t much in the interior. Traveling by night helps, and knowing where the oases and hopper hares are will help even more. Fate’s hands, though, if you get caught in a rockstorm. They can whip essences into nothing within moments.”
“Or skin,” Kenosera said. “It isn’t great for a nomad, either.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I won’t miss those, after I leave.” He narrowed his eyes at the shore. “I won’t miss anything, except Merdia.”
Dough laughed and slapped his shoulder. “Glad you feel that way.”
“There is little kindness or compassion in the desert. I hope to find it elsewhere.”
“It depends on the cultures you encounter,” Red murmured. “Kind natures wax and wane over the centuries. Societies that don’t value things like helping those in need exist both here and on Talis, and those deep-held beliefs carry over into the afterlife.” His sarcastic humor darkened his tone. “Funny, how beliefs that took only a few years to place can take untold millennia to unravel, if then. That’s why we see so much strife between natives and ghosts, between ancestors and descendants.”
“And how long did it take to unravel your culture?” Kenosera asked.
Red’s bark of sharp, brittle laughter made them all shudder. “I burned it down before I ever stepped foot in the Evenacht. There was nothing worth salvaging in a people willing to sacrifice the vulnerable to attain divine glory. I consider those who perpetuated it as evil, and I won’t stop believing that.” He lifted his lip. “And I don’t care if I’m forever tainted by that conviction.”
Vantra returned to the waves, her joy seeping away. Would she rinse away the heavy weight of betrayal against those who poisoned her? Should she? When she first arrived in the Evenacht, when the Finders told her about her demise, she wanted revenge, even if she did not have the burning will to act on it. Now, having experienced the agony of the Fields, she assumed they would, eventually, regret their act. Should she still despise them, after their Redemption? How could she not?
What if they admitted to their acts, but still hated her despite being Redeemed?
“Sorry,” Red mumbled. She glanced at him; he cupped his chin in his hand, his fingers hiding his face. Kjaelle smiled at her as she batted his shoulder with hers.
“We can’t control when memory interferes,” she said. “But how we act despite it says more.”
“Always the philosopher,” he grumbled, without bite.
Did it? Thoughts mattered, though. Internal mud became external, squelching up at odd intervals, covering everything and hiding beauty beneath its slop. Vantra assumed a part of her would remain buried, unable to rise above the sludge of half-formed revenge and the knowledge she brought her mother little other than pain.
“There’s something going on at the docks.”
All eyes riveted to Laken. Dough set his own glass against his eye.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Dread wormed through her at the sharpness in his tone.
“Canyonway and Black Temple guards.”
“What?” Kenosera reared back, aghast, then leaned further over the railing, as if to see into the distance. Vantra handed him her glass, and he focused on the docks. “I see Ci Carrde’s banner,” he said, the words trembling.
“Ci Carrde?” Red asked.
“My grandfather’s bodyguard,” he said. He frowned and lowered the glass, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “He leads the guard when my grandfather sends them on missions where shows of strength are considered diplomacy.”
“I’ll be back,” Dough said, hastening away.
“Can I see the glass?” Red asked. Kenosera handed it over, and the Light acolyte peered through the eyepiece. “Hmm. Is there any other reason for them to be on the docks?” he asked.
“No. Nevemere from Black Temple avoid Merdia. They think it corrupt.”
“How do they know you’re on board, then?”
He shook his head, blinking as he thought. “I don’t know. Dough would never tell them; he hates them more than you may guess.”
“He put you up to spite them, so I can guess,” Red said.
“Black Temple’s pissed most of us off,” the first mate said. He, too, peered at the shore with a glass, one with a sailing scene on the wooden grip. “They’ve blocked the ruins, caused problems at oases during our trips inland, made nasties with Voristi because they made niceties with us. But something’s up. Dough said it earlier; Kjethelwyn was hinting at something when he told her about Verryn. He didn’t mention Kenosera’s on board, though.”
“It may be, they want to talk with Dough about his disappearance.” Kjaelle straightened and tapped her fingers against the railing. “If they overheard him, then they know Verryn’s sailing with you. Did he say how many mini-Joyful there are?”
“No. He told her to start looking for inland transport for him and his companions, but no hard numbers.”
“That will work for us. How easy is it to hide on this ship?”
“Easy, if you stay below deck and they don’t come on board.”
Vantra had the irrational urge to laugh at the wet-dog look Kjaelle gifted the oblivious pirate.
“But Dough will go to the Final Death rather than let them board the Loose Ducky.”
“So we need a plan to make certain that doesn’t happen.” Red stretched and scratched at his cheek. “Maybe just have Verryn get huffy with them.”
Kenosera glumly looked away. “They will not be intimidated,” he said.
“You’ve some odd ideas about syimlin,” Red replied, unruffled. “Verryn is Death’s intermediary, and he’s phenomenal in that role. I doubt this Ci Carrde has dealt with anyone like him.”
Kjaelle smoothed her hair back. “In this, we have an advantage. If they don’t realize Kenosera is with us, he is the only one we must hide.”
“There’s someone else, standing to the side of the Nevemere,” the first mate declared.
“Finders,” Laken muttered, heat infusing his words. “The green cloaks are a giveaway.”
“Get below,” Red ordered.
Vantra snagged Laken, taking the binoculars off before hustling to the cabin, Kjaelle and Kenosera on her heels. The rest of the mini-Joyful but for Verryn had crammed into the room, and their light-hearted conversation died once they beheld her face. The caroling—Fyrij, she reminded herself—tweeted anxiously and flew from Katta to her, tangling with her hair as he settled on her shoulder.
“Finders and Nevemere are waiting at the docks,” Kjaelle said.
Katta raised a concerned brow. “That’s odd.”
“Someone told my father about my return,” Kenosera fretted, wrapping his hands around his upper arms.
“Perhaps.” Katta’s gaze drifted to Vantra. “And we have an unobtrusive way to find out.”
They did?
“Fyrij, come here.”
The little caroling squeak-tweeted and fluttered over to the Darkness acolyte, landing on his outstretched fingers. He stroked the soft-furred back, murmuring something, before the avian ruffled his wings and sang a sweet note. He took to the air and careened out of the room, trailing a sparkly mist behind.
“And?” Kjaelle asked, her eyes lingering on the open door.
“Fyrij will listen and return,” he said.
Red swung around the door, irritated. “Dough says he thinks the Nevemere have taken over the dockmaster’s headquarters because he can’t get Rilla or Kjethelwyn to answer their distalk. He’s never had that difficulty except in extreme weather, and even then, they had static between them. No one’s there to pick up.”
“I asked Fyrij to spy for us. He’ll return quickly.”
