Vantra clutched the arm tightly to her chest as she padded through the red tent pathways, following Kenosera as he led her to the community fire. Dust rose from their footsteps, and the orangy-brown haze hung in the air, coating everything below waist height in a dusky gloom.

She did not want to speak with Katta, wanted to avoid him as long as possible, but her and Laken’s questions were too pressing to ignore. Her Chosen deserved an answer to the reality of an event he believed was a dream—if the syimlin had any idea what the spear half belonged to.

Did Lokjac? She wished they had found him, but he and his Badeçasyon friends were not around, and Yut-ta did not know where he might have gone other than to the giant ship—and that, he told her, was an annoyance due to security. Rather than wait and have something terrible happen, as with Laken’s torso, she followed his suggestion to ask Katta.

Kenosera did not slow when they hit a wall of emotion; dark, distrustful, seething frustration simmering beneath. The air dimmed to a deep twilight grey, desaturating the red of the tent fabric, and random rays of light filtered through the dusty dimness, making visual identifications difficult. Fyrij peeped and huddled in her hair, shuddering enough she settled her hand on his back, hoping to calm him.

Yut-ta did the same for her, and pushed her forward, as if accustomed to the sensation and unbothered by it. She looked at Laken; he seemed intent, rather than uneasy. Why did the change not concern them?

An earthen, open space surrounded by red tents held the community fire. Rather than a pleasant blaze meant for mild heat while chatting with friends, the center contained a pit with unlit logs large enough for a small bonfire. Tree trunks roughly smoothed into benches rested in crooked angles at the edges, as if hastily shoved to the side. On one end sat Katta, in a plain chair of rough blackwood with a purple sheen flickering over the surface. He regarded the contingent across from him with lidded, sparking midnight blue eyes and a façade blank of all emotion—he did not need a furrowed brow and ugly grimace for all to know a wrong word would light an explosion of terrifying rage. He stroked Salan’s back; the vulf, sitting, was taller than the chair, a menacing snarl lifting his upper lip.

Five Light-blessed ringed them, Jare in the center, all holding spears and ready to defend the syimlin from attack.

Vantra recognized the rivcon, and noted that, unsurprisingly, his support stood far back from him, as if expecting this to be his last confrontation and unwilling to be caught in the bloody splash. Embrez’s balmy-blue braids, instead of standing in a tall row down the middle of his head, curled down towards his neck, and his nervous nose and hand twitching hinted that he thought the same.

“And no one knows where he is?” Katta asked, too mild for his soft voice to be pleasant. Embrez licked his lips, then shook his head.

“No. Anmidorakj said she last spoke with him before—” He stopped, his gaze flicking to them, and his stiffness relaxed. “—before your caravan left Selaserat.”

“Hmm. And no one thought this odd?”

“N-no. Hrivasine takes long vacations.”

“That’s what you call it? A vacation and not a vacating of duty?”

He did not answer.

“And who does he take these vacations with?”

“I’m not privy to—”

“Come now, Rivcon. You expect me to believe you have no idea? He, after all, placed you in charge of the port. He would not have done so, if he felt you were unable to keep secrets.”

Salan growled, a rolling sound that vibrated the air around the fire. While the guards grabbed their chests, stressed, Embrez did not, but Vantra did not think the show of bravery would matter. The stories she had read about his midnight temper left a lasting impression.

Mild and sweet, until pushed, then terror hounded his target’s steps.

“I grow weary of asking. If you don’t know his destination, Anmidorakj does. Pull her out of her luxuries and tell her that I’m not averse to a personal meeting—and we’ll see if her information is substantial enough that I don’t send her to the Fields when we’re finished.”

Embrez’s eyes bulged. Veer’s gaze bore into him, then he looked at them, and Vantra wanted to sink into the soil to avoid the penetrating midnight blue stare.

“We’ve a question to ask,” Kenosera said. The syimlin’s eyes flicked to her and her linen-wrapped package and nodded.

“Salan, escort the rivcon and his people to the ship,” he said.

“That’s not—” Embrez began, then took a step back, his short grey fur standing on end. His people cowered behind him, refusing to look at the syimlin. “Thank you for the escort,” he squeaked.

Vantra clutched the arm closer, hoping she did not tremble as badly as the rivcon.

Salan padded to the Selaserat contingent, barked, then pulled his lips back in a silent snarl. He turned to the pathway her group stood in, and they moved aside as he brushed past them, heading for the ship. Embrez, intent on leaving Veer’s presence, trotted after the vulf, his people at a far distance.

Two Light-blessed trailed them, satisfied smirks bringing humor to a dire situation.

What would Darkness do to the rivcon, if he failed to prod Anmidorakj into telling him what he needed to know? Send him to Levassa?

“Come.” Veer rose and strode through the remaining Light-blessed. Kenosera and Laken hastened after, and Yut-ta had to push her into motion. Vantra could not fathom why they did not fear him to the point they cowered; she busily plotted how to avoid angering him further.

Jare winked at her before he and the other two took positions behind them. What did that mean?

Darkness led them to a cluster of three gigantic red tents with wooden poles propping up awnings that circled the exteriors. Did the syimlin sleep in one? Probably, since each was large enough to house a stage performance. That left one for Verryn, and the last? Maybe for Talis?

While cords secured the tent flaps to the sides, a shimmery greyish-purple barrier blocked the doorway. Veer whisked through, Kensosera and Laken on his heels. Waves of lavender rolled from them across the magic’s surface, breaking apart on the fabric. She reluctantly followed, expecting a severe temperature change or a sticky touch of recognition, but nothing prevented her from entering.

The interior was lit with lamps, casting soft golden light onto plain black screens blocking off the rest of the interior. A table and several chairs sat on a thick black carpet, and she pondered where the décor came from. Not Two Rivers or the wagons. Leeyal, perhaps?

Veer leaned against the table, hands on the edge, legs crossed at the ankles. His anger drifted away, as intangible as a breeze, and he relaxed, appearing more like Katta than an angry syimlin.

“What’s your question?” he asked softly.

Vantra hated all eyes fixed on her. Fyrij readjusted himself on her shoulder and tweeted, then hopped down to the package. “I wanted to attach Laken’s arm. But there’s something strange.”

“I thought it was a dream,” Laken said, choked.

“A dream?” Katta asked, cocking his head. “What do you mean?”

“When I arrived for Judgment, I was annoyed that the Keels were right about the afterlife. I walked the Tunnel of Memories, realized my people’s beliefs were not housed inside, and wondered if the terrifying Death we’d heard of would punish me for it. I reached a circular room and she sat in a chair, waiting for me. I wasn’t sure what would happen, but she gave me a spear.”

Katta’s eyes narrowed.

“She asked me how strong I was, then told me ‘she will come’. Then she sundered my essence, and I ended up in the Fields.”

“That seems more like a nightmare,” Jare said, frowning.

“It was, for millennia. Then Lorgan attempted to Redeem me. He found my arm essence first, here in Greenglimmer—but the spear wasn’t with it. I thought I dreamed the whole encounter, but—”

Vantra stepped to the table; Fyrij fluttered off his perch and hopped around on the wooden surface as she set the arm next to him and unwrapped it.

Katta stared, his eyes wide, a mixture of disbelief and growing anger swirling across his face. He touched the top of the spear with trembling fingers, shaking his head.

“Katta?” Jare asked, concerned. Kjaelle appeared from behind the screens and whisked to him, slipping her hand under his hair so it rested on his upper back.

“This . . .” Katta ran a hand through his bangs, agitated. “It’s been missing for . . . I don’t know how long. Since the Beast. I thought he’d hidden it as a last insult, but I had no idea where. I’ve been looking ever since.”

“What is it?” Kjaelle asked with a gentle, throaty hum.

“Life’s Gift.”

“What?” Vantra asked, stunned.

“I don’t know what that is,” Angry frustration tinged Laken’s tone.

“The official symbol of Death’s office,” Katta told him. “Ga Son gave it to the Death who first granted the Gift of Life to the syimlin, and it cemented the pact. Through the ages, whoever held the mantle of Death held this spear. I never saw Erse use it, and thought the Beast. . .”

Verryn zipped through the barrier, intent on the arm. He wore leather pants and an untucked brown shirt, muddy boots and a stunned expression. “I don’t know, Katta,” he said. “I’ve heard the temple priests talk about it, but I’ve never seen it.”

Darkness raised his eyes, a sharp warning glint hardening them. “We’re going to talk to her. Vantra, go ahead and attach the arm. Nothing ill will happen, but don’t leave this tent until we return.”

The two vanished, his last word an echo.

Silence fell, broken only by the soft breathing of the living.

“Life’s Gift?” Jare finally asked, staring at the spear. “And the other half?”

“In my left hand,” Laken said. “It broke when Death sundered my essence.”

“Why would she do that?” Vantra asked, aghast. “This is a sacred object! It represents Ga Son’s gratitude that the Divine Wars ended because Death chose immortality for the syimlin. How could she break it like this? How—”

“She must have a good reason. Her respect for Ga Son is undeniable,” Kjaelle said, touching the spear before grasping the non-pointy end and tugging. The arm moved but the hand did not loosen its grip. Fyrij jumped onto the fingers and tapped at the weapon with his tooth, but it did not react.

“You should attach his arm, Vantra,” Jare said. “He’ll be able to release it then.”

“I don’t understand how I have it now, but I didn’t when Lorgan discovered my essence.” Laken’s frustration rang through the room.

Jare jerked his chin at the Light-blessed nearest the door. “Go get Lorgan and Lokjac. We’ll see if either noticed anything strange.”

“Lokjac wasn’t in his tent,” Yut-ta said.

“Then check the ship. He’s probably there.”

The man phased through the barrier, intent on his task. Vantra grasped the arm, flipped it so the back of the hand faced up and pointed the shoulder at the edge of the table. Rubbing her hands on her skirt, she looked at Laken, who sat stiffly, resolute.

“Are you ready?”

“No.” His matter-of-fact, you-remember-the-last-time sort of way made her quiver.

“Nolaris isn’t going to make a sudden appearance and cause more harm,” she said, more to remind herself than to comfort him.

“No one gets in this tent except those Katta wishes inside,” Jare assured them. “That means the mini-Joyful and the Light-blessed, Verryn and Navosh. Everyone else gets to knock.”

Knock? On what? A flap? Or maybe that was the point.

Kjaelle stepped away from the table, giving them room. She clasped Laken’s chest and positioned him so she could reach through him and grab his right arm. Kenosera looked from him to the appendage, then grabbed it, made sure it faced the right direction, and held it up to the socket. He had watched her the last time, and apparently that did not frighten or squick him enough to leave the essence be. She smiled her thanks, readjusted Laken, formed her fingers into a point, and met her Chosen’s gaze.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Ifre an vrote!” She shoved her arm through his left shoulder; his essence, while viscous, did not protest as mightily as it had previously. He screamed, and she pushed further inside; poor Laken. Why did this hurt so?

“Nanfla on pa a brulo fin.” His essence parted, not quite enough for her to reach the other side. “Nanfla on pa a brulo fin!” Her hand burst out, her shoulder ramming into his socket. Kenosera shoved the essence into her grasp; her finger sank into the cold, squishy arm.

It was as squelchy as the torso. Why?

“Ifre insque ig. Trible.” She pulled back; the arm felt as if it weighed as much as a temple stone. “Ecune ceupre ifre fin ceupre no.”

It sucked into place and Laken shrieked. Light flared, and she tumbled back, losing her grip as the shoulder hit a solid barrier. Yut-ta caught her while Jare and Kenosera stabilized Laken; his chin dropped to his chest, shuddering.

“I think it’s on,” Kenosera said, eyeing the attachment from several directions.

She needed Katta to check, but hopefully it was as well-melded as the torso. “Thank you,” she whispered to Yut-ta. He righted her with a nod, the edges of his mouth forming a smile, then focused on Laken. Her Chosen moved his arm—his arm!—and unfurled his fingers.

Wait. Where did the spear go?

Kjaelle bent, then rose, the broken weapon clasped tightly in her fingers. Fyrij winged to her shoulder and observed it with her, making soft twitters. “Life’s Gift,” she said. “How did she break it without breaking the pact?”

“Ga Son knew,” Jare said. “He had to. Otherwise, the pact would have sundered.”

“It would have,” a voice from the flap’s direction agreed. Lokjac?

Vantra looked at the barrier; both he and Lorgan stood there, enchanted with Laken and the spear. The whizan joined Kjaelle and touched the weapon with cautious fingers while the scholar inspected the essence meld. Yut-ta released her, and feeling woozy, she sank to the floor, wondering if she should have waited until she had re-energized more. Hollowed out did not do her emptiness justice.

The whizan took the spear and prodded at the broken edge. “Sun texts make clear, that once the spear breaks, the pact, too, falls. The syimlin lose their Gift, and chaos again takes root.” Lokjac shook his head and touched the tip. “So he had to have known, to prevent that from happening.”

“Qira survived,” Jare pointed out. “So we know the Gift is still active.”

“Erse would never endanger her fellow syimlin without telling them,” Kjaelle said. “But there must be a dire reason for her to break this, of all weapons. She’s meticulous and compassionate when it comes to her mantle and all that entails.”

“That spear wasn’t in his hand when I found it,” Lorgan said. “Lokjac says he never noticed it, even when he wrapped it up for the move. But the Snake had to have known.” He patted Laken on the shoulder; her Chosen looked ill, but his delight as he moved his fingers proved it would not last.

“Why do you say that?” Lokjac asked, eyeing the scholar.

“He told me he knew I wasn’t Laken’s Redeemer. He was so certain, and now I wonder if the reason was because the spear didn’t appear for me.”

“How would he know about the spear, if Lokjac didn’t?” Yut-ta asked, squatting next to Vantra and setting his hand on her back. His concern made her feel better. “Wouldn’t Death have told the keeper of the arm and not the torso, if it were so important?”

“The Recompense.” The whizan rubbed at his face and looked up at the ceiling, before weighing the weapon in his hand. “It must be something within the Recompense. The Snake told me ages ago he corresponded with Machella; she must have mentioned something to him about the Spear.”

A shudder raced up Vantra’s essence. Had Death told the oracle, or had she seen it in her visions? What had Laken to do with all this? He had died nearly five thousand years ago! How could Death have known that an ex-Finder would Redeem Laken and the spear would re-appear for her?

And now that the Oracle had sundered, what did that mean for her, her Chosen, and the spear?

She scanned the troubled visages around her. “Am I supposed to put it back together?” If she fused Laken, should she mend the spear? How would she do that? Use the same words?

“I don’t know,” Kjaelle said. “It might become whole once Laken does. Lorgan, where’s his left arm?”

“With the typical ‘it’s been a thousand years’ caveats, I think it’s in the Sheint.”

Lokjac frowned. “But the map should show—”

“Nolaris burned it.” Vantra attempted to tamp down on the emotional sludge of sadness the statement caused. “When I Chose Laken, he showed up at my home and demanded I return him to the Elden Fields. I refused, so he destroyed the map and everything else I owned.”

“And chased us,” Laken continued when the pain of losing her past silenced her. “Vantra hid us with her invisibility spell so he didn’t find us, and we happened upon the mini-Joyful right after.”

“So he desperately wanted to stop your Redemption.” The whizan’s frown deepened.

Laken laughed, an edge to his tone. “It’s why Katta suggested Vantra re-attach my essences when we find them.” He raised his arm and flexed his fingers. “Our bond’s strengthening because of it.”

It was? She sought their link; yes, it seemed stronger, thicker, shimmering with the faint touch of magic.

A soft thump caught her attention. She roused and looked at the table; Jare and Kenosera situated a portable mist fountain on it, which looked like a miniature waterfall cascading over jutting stones and into a pool below. Wisps wafted from it, and absorbing them packed enough punch, she wanted to jump up and race around even though her essence refused to budge.

Laken sighed; he likely needed to re-energize as well. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like I need to sleep for a decade,” he said. She understood that.

“Both of you expended a lot of energy,” Jare said. “I see why Katta wanted Vantra to regain some strength before attempting it.”

“I think that’s why the Finders perform the Recollection in an energy-rich environment that takes much of the burden,” Lorgan said. “Imagine the personal drain when fusing all essences at once.”

Kenosera joined her and Yut-ta on the carpet. The plush padding made for a soft seat, and she wondered why Katta and Qira slept on the same beds, sat on the same benches, hunkered down around the same fires, as the rest of them. If they could install lush carpet in a tent, why not bedeck their wagons with luxurious items?

“That’s not the point, Verryn!”

A whirl of a woman brushed through the barrier, whisked to a startled Lokjac, and took the spear with a thankful smile. Her ethereal umber eyes roamed the weapon, searching for something.

Death.

Vantra could not forget her. Skin nearly as pale as a ghost’s, with ruddy lips and a sweep of pink across her full cheeks. Her black hair fell to her calves, held back by a sturdy band, a few strands wafting around her in the subtle breeze caused by the fountain. She wore a form-fitting top with thick shoulder straps and loose black cotton pants whose bottoms brushed wrap-around, black leather sandals—a leisure, not a work, outfit.

“Then what is the point?” Verryn huffed into the tent, Katta on his heels, both looking as pleased as a faelareign needing to use the outhouse in a blizzard. The lighting dimmed, responding to Darkness’s presence and mood.

The syimlin pursed her lips at him, then righted the weapon and proffered it to the room. “Laken was strong enough to ensure its safety. This piece is fine.”

“Strong enough?” Laken asked in whispery disbelief.

“I asked,” she reminded him, her gaze gentling. “I knew, when you floated into my Judgment chamber, that you had the strength needed to keep my artifact safe. And you have.”

“I didn’t even know I had it!” Laken protested, though his voice was higher than his normal throaty timbre.

“Not specifically, but you knew you had a spear.”

“Then why didn’t I see it when I found his right arm?”

Death looked at Lorgan, who folded his arms and regarded her with stern intensity. “Because it would appear only for the one meant to Redeem him.”

“Which is why the Snake was so certain?”

“Yes.”

“And why was he so certain?”

Her gaze flicked to Verryn and Katta, and she shifted her weight. “Machella—”

“I knew it!” Katta exploded, his hand slicing the air. “The Oracle sundered, Erse.”

“No, it didn’t.”

The room silenced.

She took a breath to steady herself, then met the enraged glare of Darkness. “There were two paths, equally probable, one of life, one of death. Death won.”

“Surprise,” Veer snarled.

“You didn’t tell me?” Verryn bit out, shaking, more than rage wrinkling his expression.

 “The fewer who knew, the less likely it was to be discovered.”

“And how did Machella convince you of this?” Veer asked.

“She didn’t. Ga Son did.”

Another, more shocked silence; Vantra felt the electric incredulity to her core.

“So he knew his daughter would die.” Veer’s softer, uglier question ricochetted off the screens and echoed through the room. Tears pricked Vantra’s eyes; how horrible. If he could not save his child—

“No, he didn’t,” Death stressed in a hard voice. “She should have lived, and we all doubted at that point, but the Recompense did not turn on her life or death, but on Laken’s Redemption.”

“And what did Ga Son say, to convince you to hide this from me?” Verryn asked.

“The resurrection of the Beast—”

“He’s in the VOID, Erse!” Veer shouted. Lights flickered, and suffocating Darkness filled the room. “I watched him shatter and dissolve. I KNOW there’s nothing left of him!”

“This Beast isn’t a single entity, but an idea of rulership,” she snapped back, unruffled by the terror Vantra felt to her quaking core. “Whoever holds the spear holds Death in their hands. What happened, Veer, when the Beast held it? What did the syimlin do?”

He did not answer but stared, midnight fire leaking from his eyes.

“What did they do?” she asked again.

Nothing. The syimlin did nothing. Despite the flowery excuses peppering the passages, Vantra had read in religious texts that the syimlin did not halt his abuses because he held their Life in his hands. Veer creating the Tunnel of Memories was a risk for that reason, but the Beast, focused on Talis while neglecting his charge, did not notice the lack of spirits arriving for Judgment. The inattention was likely why he was still Darkness and not a spirit in the Evenacht—or a forgotten wisp in the Void.

“Veer, Ga Son broke when his daughter died. He still walks in shattered dreams, mourning what should have been. He blames himself because he arrived too late to perform a miracle and watched her die instead. That weight will never leave him. He sees it repeated for the syimlin if our enemy gains the spear.”

“And that worked out so well for Qira,” he said, thick shadows of resentment darkening his voice.

“I would have found another way if I had known about that attack,” she said, clenching her teeth. “And so would have Ga Son. He’s feeding him Light because he doesn’t want to lose him!”

“If the spear’s so secret, why are you telling us now?” Verryn asked, his gaze plastered to the carpet, arms folded and hands scrunching his sleeves, his boot tapping in a frantic rhythm.

She swept her hand to the rest of them. “How do I hide what others have seen? They need to know because the wrong question at the wrong time will alert the enemy that the Recompense is not what they think.”

“Another thing Machella didn’t See,” Veer muttered.

“The Spear’s still hidden. It will remain so, until you find Laken’s left arm.”

“I figured out the general location of his other essences,” Lorgan said. “The enemy only needs to read my notes at the Hallowed Library. They might get to the rest of him before we do. Can you tell us, so we can get there first?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, no. I’m hesitant to follow any of his links because they’re tenuous and might snap. If that happens, I’m not sure we can perform the final Recollection, which will not only leave him bereft of Ether and Mental Touch, but the spear might remain broken because I bound it to his Recollection, just as I did his essences.”

“Tenuous?” Veer asked.

“A side effect of breaking Life’s Gift.”

Vantra looked at Laken; that did not bode well for discovering his heart. He did not seem or feel upset, but overwhelmed, and she struggled to find the right words of support.

“Does the enemy know Laken is the focal of the Recompense?” Veer asked.

“I don’t think so. They’ve always focused on the Daughter of Sun.”

“That’s why they’re still chasing us?” Vantra asked. Those ember eyes drilled into her, and she felt like a small insect under the shadow of a shoe. “Because my mother was a high priest of the Sun?”

Death hesitated, her defensiveness leaking away, and Vantra’s mind shuffled through their first meeting. The woman had regarded her with the same soft expression and told her that the promise of the Evenacht was not for all and that ancient wrong needed surcease. Had she meant more than a subtle hint to join the Finders?

“Vantra, they’ve always viewed you as the Daughter of Sun. It’s why they targeted you as a child and continued their assaults in the Evenacht; the Recompense did not shy away from the connection, and their assumptions led them to you.” She walked to her Chosen, took his hand, and settled the spear into his palm. “You’re my Champion. That hasn’t changed. The Evenacht’s Redemption rests in your hands.”

Laken clutched the spear, looked up, questions swirling.

“Veer Veer!”

Vantra started and gaped as a woman with long, golden curls pulled into a bouncy tail, a filmy, grungy, white unfitted robe over a dusty white, long-sleeved shirt and tight golden-brown pants hopped into the tent, excitement zipping through her bright blue eyes. She wore no makeup, her freckles unhidden across her peachy cheeks, her skin a natural sun-touched golden tan—as perfect as always.

“Mom?!”