The single-file passage was dusty, something that did not bother Vantra, but the living sneezed and covered their noses and mouths with their hands in a vain attempt to keep from breathing the particles they kicked up. She hoped the dust did not retain pieces of corruption, because that might cause problems for them if Kjiven took advantage.
They passed brightly lit, open doorways, and she continuously peeked over her shoulder to make certain no one wandered out of them, noticed intruders, and rushed after them, spears raised. She wanted to place a barrier, but taking it down and replanting it after every intersection would attract the wrong kind of attention. As paranoid as Kjiven was, she assumed he monitored the citadel, especially since the spintops exploded.
The line paused, and she frowned as she heard echoes of calls, but could not see beyond a curve in the path. Ayara clasped their hands over their chest and looked back at her, eyes wide in worry, their longer, glistening umber head feathers flattening against their scalp. They crept to the exit, and Vantra made her step as light as possible.
The chasm was a crossroads of sorts. Illuminated ramps curved around the sandstone walls of a humongous cylinder, whose open space contained no bridges. Figures rushed up them, but they were all on the other side and not near enough for an accurate identification of their little company.
“They should not be here,” Zepirz fretted, his hold on the staff tightening. “There are no rest areas, there is no storage.”
“Kjiven calls all to his defense,” Navosh said. “Perhaps this is the quickest way from down-mountain to the heights.”
“Who will they fight against? Those we encountered at Deousem? They numbered but nine, and three walk with us.”
“I think you underestimate the damage the Light-blessed can do as a singular being, and two doubles it.”
“And the damage unaccompanied pirates can do,” Kenosera piped up. Navosh chuckled while Zepirz looked confused.
“There is no railing, so stay near the wall,” Ayara told them. “Many fall from the edges as the stone crumbles.”
“Follow me, do nothing else.” The yondaii whisked onto the ramp and headed down.
Vantra peered up, then peeked over the edge; the chasm went deep, and she saw a brown haze caused by torches rather than a bottom. Had it always been a crossroads? If so, why no railings? Why no bridges?
As they proceeded, several groups looked over at them, and some shouted, pointing up; Zepirz waved his staff and then ignored them. One larger group, led by an evaki with a spear twice their height, hastened onto the ramp above and in front of them, then stopped and stared. The chasm echoed with his question; Zepirz looked up, and whatever he said upset the evaki. He pointed up, his face wrinkled in anger as he yelled, but the yondaii shook his staff at them, yelled one last thing, and hastened his step. Slamming the bottom of his weapon against the rock, the leader waved, attempting to regain attention. Another smacked his upper arm, and he returned to the passage from which they came.
She had a bad feeling about that.
“They said he must go to the surface,” Ayara whispered. “They will force him to heed the call to defend the Dark Pool.”
Now she had more reason to worry.
They did not reach the bottom before Zepirz took a wide side corridor with gleaming green gems embedded in the arch. Corrupted roots threaded through the walls, producing a smoky haze as they sizzled under the touch of the anti-darkness torches. Vantra kept her arms to her side and squeezed her essence close; she did not want to touch the magic-roughened plants. Ayara especially looked ill, and Kenosera kept them company, carrying on a soft conversation that distracted them from the stress of walking through wafting death.
When she deemed them far enough from the chasm, she placed a Sun barrier. Someone might sense it, but she needed to keep the nosy combatants away. As it settled to block the way, she realized someone had dampened the dust to keep the fine particles grounded instead of airborne. She wished she had thought of that for the other passage, but she had no access to water.
Another stop. Vantra stood on tiptoe, peering over the others. They had reached a circular room whose original purpose she could not guess; the sandstone had what looked like benches carved from it, but they had melted with age. Between them lay guards, unconscious, arms and both pairs of legs wrapped in confinement magic.
Who had done that?
Navosh shook his head at something Zepirz said and proceeded into the room. He bent to study a bound being as the yondaii trotted to him, behaving more like a bodyguard than a companion, then smacked his hands together. “That is Lorgan’s magic,” he said as he straightened.
Lorgan! He was already down there? She cautiously entered, hyper-alert. Nothing but the rustling of her companions and the breathing of the stricken interrupted the silence, and the shard did not warn of danger, so she bent over the nearest bound rufang and touched the watery rope; definitely Lorgan. It was as if he had left his essence within the spell, so his companions would know he came that way.
She looked at the front of the room; roots had barred access, but now arched away from the opening. He must have used a spear to get through, and it had not closed.
Zepirz regarded the guards with a blank stare, though worry knit his brow. Ayara hurried to one and held their hand over his head, then their head feathers popped up.
“They sleep,” they said, cocking their head in a jerky, bird-like motion. “There is no harm, only slumber and shame.”
The yondaii relaxed. “There is another door, of thick vines and dark magic, a processional hall, and the Underground River Passage. The river will lead us to the false one. Let us go.”
Vantra’s tummy churned at the thought of a contaminated river, but quelled her need to whimper. She hoped they encountered Lorgan before they reached a waterway; as a nymph-trained scholar, he understood the intricacies of a watery Touch and the magic that could manipulate it.
The roots disappeared, leaving a doorless, straight corridor of sandstone and wet dust. They did not walk far before reaching the vine-blocked door and its circular entry; it remained closed, glowing with an otherworldly green. No sign of Lorgan, either. Vantra’s heart sank.
A shiver crawled up her neck. She slapped her hand over it, shuddering. What caused that sensation? She heard a low rumble, and the ground gently rocked.
Zepirz looked at the ceiling as small bits of dust wafted down, and Ayara whimpered.
“These ways are not stable,” they said. “Many have collapsed. We must hurry.”
Kenosera and Yut-ta exchanged looks, then peered at Vantra. What did they expect her to do? She would shield them if necessary, but she had no experience reinforcing tunnels or digging through the earth with spells.
The yondaii hastened to the barrier and struck the seal with the tip of his staff; smoke erupted from the shield Vantra placed, the only reaction. He took a step back, his grip tightening, and swung it again; more smoke, nothing more.
“Are the staves linked to specific shaman?” Navosh asked absently, leaning closer to examine the twisted vines.
Zepirz looked at his staff, his eyes wrinkling in angry fear as he clacked his beak. “I had not thought so, though each of us brought our own to the blessing ceremony.”
“Paranoia was his closest ally before the flood,” Navosh told them as he straightened. “It would not surprise me, if he keyed every staff, and will cut off those who displease him.”
“So this staff is useless,” Zepirz spat.
“No, it’s still our key inside.” Navosh smacked his hands on his thighs and then touched the gnarled top; flowers, dark with a purple, shimmery edge bloomed across the surface. Zepirz’s beak fell open, and he had not recovered before the ex-deity cupped the blooms and pushed them against the vines. They snaked back, revealing a dimly lit passage of chunky rock and chipped tiles.
Vantra jerked, and the shard flared red, as she felt her barrier shatter. “Someone just took down my Sun shield, and they weren’t subtle about it.”
Everyone hurried through, leaving the yondaii and Navosh to step together over the threshold. The vines re-linked behind them and stilled.
“That went smoother than I expected,” the ex-deity said with a soft smile. “Unfortunately, those who follow us will have as simple a time gaining entry.”
Zepirz took the lead with Araya, and the rest of them trailed. Vantra wanted to place another shield, but whoever chased them had such an easy time with it, why waste the energy? But maybe try something else? For every step, she planted an over-bright Sun light along the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. She knew it would only slow their stalkers down, but hopefully by enough that they could reach Kjiven first.
They passed several other doorways, all barred by the vines. She eyed them, skeptical that they did nothing. In Selaserat, the roots took on an animated life of their own; here, the vines sat, waiting for someone to interact with them. Why?
The ground rocked, and everyone stumbled as the stone rolled in waves. The vines shot back into the walls with a schink, only returning to their role when the movement ceased.
Navosh hmphed. “Kjiven doesn’t control the rainforest as tightly as he believes.” He looked at his hand and curled his fingers. “I feel the call for the true holder of the Twisted Vines—and so must Kjiven, though I doubt he understands why.”
Something to remember, though Vantra had no idea how to weaponize that against their enemy.
They proceeded, the quiet broken by breathing and the crunch of feet on debris, until they reached sandstone walls and white tiled floors, grungy with age, not use. The short passage led to a reception hall; columns lined the walkway, tapestries hung between, and every sconce appeared to have a small bauble of Light in the cup. Zepirz stopped steps before the entrance and raised a hand.
“The changeling of the forest is there,” he whispered.
“Changeling of the forest?” Navosh asked.
“She met the Labyrinth’s challenges in the name of Nature, but Kjiven stole her glory,” the yondaii said. “We Wiiv respect those who traverse the leaves and twisting ways without the blessing of passage, for they rise above the average forest dweller. She did so, and we honored her despite her ghostly nature. Stra—Kjiven named her kin and gave her a second blessing, planted atop the one she received at the Fingers’ altar. I have always thought it weakened her, but the other yondaii say that is not so, that it allowed her to change into sacred ankis form.”
“She had the marks you had on her insides,” Vantra told them. “We saw them after she swallowed us.”
Navosh narrowed his eyes. “Named her kin?”
“She’s a descendant,” Yut-ta said.
His eyes narrowed further, then he whisked into the hall.
What was he doing? The rest of them exchanged startled looks before Zepirz trotted after him. Well, if they had to fight Daunifen again, at a divine would be on their side, and she could swallow him instead.
The aisle had a long, checkered runner of red and gold, which marked the way to three semicircular steps and a raised dais. Two stone thrones sat upon it, each carved to resemble a twisted tree with textured bark. Lounging in one, right leg draped over the arm, was Daunifen, in elfine form.
She looked like someone had scraped her out of the Void. While her tight black leather pants and droopy Security tank looked pristine, her essence flickered, and the sunken darkness around her brown eyes and under her cheeks had deepened to the point they looked like gaps in her presentation.
She snarled, her canines elongating into fangs, her toes curling into paws, but her transformation ended there. She sank back, clenching her hands as wisps of essence floated away, unable to remain attached to her core.
“You are not ready for battle,” Navosh said in a quiet, nonchalant tone. She silently lifted her lip, then knocked her head back against the wood, deflating.
“I was sent to defeat you,” she said, her voice soft, echoing. “My state is of no consequence.”
“You, who conquered the Labyrinth, give up so easily?” he asked.
Anger flashed across her face, and color flooded her essence, before she shuddered and deflated, greying out. “What I was then is not what I am now.”
“That is obvious.”
Another flash of anger, and Vantra did not understand why he provoked her.
“Does Kjiven know where we are?”
She blinked, confused. “You know he’s Kjiven?” She studied the deity, her fingers thrumming on her raised knee. “I thought he was Strans,” she whispered. “I thought I impressed the Twisted One. Instead . . . instead I find an honored ancestor is not so honorable.”
“Finding the Fingers is a monumental feat,” Navosh said, halting at the bottom of the stairs. Other ghostly elfines wafted from the darkness behind the thrones and spanned the edge of the dais, all in flowing white tunics or gowns, all with sandy yellow hair and narrow blue eyes, though individual features remained their own. Their appearance reminded Vantra of old religious paintings hanging in the Spiral Sun library, the ones depicting ancients worshipping at the Verdant Plains Light Temple. They wore similar attire, and every acolyte bleached their tresses to a soft, ocean sand. The adherents would circle an outdoor reflecting pool and sing praises to Light and Water for brightening the day.
But these elfines were probably changelings, so looked to Nature, not Light and Water. Or maybe Water and Nature? The ankis were water snakes, after all.
Daunifen’s gaze landed on Zepirz, then sat up, agitated, her leg sliding from the armrest. “You got rid of the marks? How?”
“The true Strans blessed me,” he said, standing proudly, chin raised.
Her eyes drifted over them all, then focused on Navosh as she leaned forward, her elbows pressed into her thighs. “And what did he have to pay, for you to Touch him?”
“Nothing,” Navosh said with a shrug. “He knew me when he beheld me and asked. I rinsed Kjiven from him.”
“It’s not Kjiven you must worry about,” she said through clenched teeth, her elongated nails digging into the backs of her hands as she clenched them between her knees.
“Because of Hrivasine?” Vantra asked.
“Or maybe the nymph with him?” Kenosera added.
Daunifen stared, opening and closing her mouth several times. Her companions looked at one another, frowning. “How do you know about the nymph?” she asked, aghast.
“He cannot hide his vengeances.” The ex-deity shrugged again. “Illumination can never inhabit the eyes of the willfully deceived, but we are not inhibited.”
She pursed her lips, then looked at her feet, flexing her fingers. “You strike swift and true.”
“It’s not pain I wish to bring. Too much of that swirls within the souls here. To that end, I would ask you to leave us be. You don’t have to help us find him, but don’t interfere, either.”
“My payment will be the Final Death.”
“No. Your payment will be your honor.”
She laughed, a hard sound, and looked directly at Vantra. “She strikes swift as well. They fear you, Sun-blessed. I’ve recognized nothing in you that might provoke terror in the hearts of ancients, yet you do.”
“Then you mistook your opponent—and paid for it.” Navosh twirled his finger in the air. “Which way is out?”
Daunifen laughed bitterly. “From me to you, I would ask a favor in return.”
“I can rid you of the marks—and grant what you earned.”
Vantra thought that was a terrible idea. The changeling could turn around and claw the hand that helped her; as her relations proved, honor was not a family trait. Zepirz and Ayara stood as attendants while she remained well back from the action, wary and distrustful, upset that he would take too long and the enemy would catch them.
Kenosera studied the tapestries as he wandered to her. Each one had a line drawing done with black paint, depicting various pointy individuals and landscapes, and he seemed enchanted. Wishing Kjaelle was there to read the words beneath the images, she managed a wan smile for the nomad.
Yut-ta joined them, and by his glance at the dais, his distrust ran as deep as hers. “There’s something odd about this nymph,” he said. “You can hear it in their voices.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s a mafiz,” Vantra said. “Nymphs and elfines traditionally don’t get along well, and they may not like it that one of them is so close to Hrivasine.” She wished Lorgan were there to ask, but she noticed no hint of him in the room.
“It doesn’t sound like she cares about Hrivasine,” Kenosera reminded her, then his gaze riveted to the shard. While not strong, it produced a faint warning red glow.
“Navosh, we have to go!” Yut-ta called.
“I know,” the ex-deity said, and did not move his hand from Daunifen’s forehead. “Vantra, Clear Rays, please.”
Oh. Yes. They were designed for just such occasions. The changeling’s eyes bulged, showing white around her irises, but before she could protest, Vantra triggered the spell.
It rushed to the stage, and the women fell, screaming, shocked, as the marks dissolved. The rays struck the tapestries, and they disintegrated—she felt terrible about that—and continued on. She yanked them back—she could not alert the enemy!—and the beams broke, the ends thinning, then disappearing.
Had she stopped them in time?
Daunifen had fallen back, unconscious, waves of lush leaf green coursing over her. Navosh withdrew his hand and glanced at the entrance they had used; vines now filled the void. He stepped down the steps, and more of the plants created a dome over the changelings. “Come. We must hurry. Something rises, and it’s not Kjiven.”
