“Raise your spear and your beer and CHEER!”

Vantra winced as the brown-stained rafters of the dimly lit Dark Light tavern quivered with the roar. The interior had so many beings, ghosts and living alike, standing room only was a misnomer.

Fyrij hopped from her shoulder to the worn, honey-brown tabletop and shook in imitation of the vulfs, his black fur and feathers poofing out, a bit of fluff floating away from him. He stood proud and, with his large front tooth enhancing his singing, his voice soared over all others.

Leeyal punched the air with his forefinger, his dark blue eyes glowing like embers. “Again!” he shouted.

The enthusiastic response made Katta smile and nudge Kjaelle, who had tucked her long black strands behind her ears and planted fuzzy purple earmuffs firmly over her sensitive organs.

She smiled prettily back at him, her large, watery green eyes bright with amusement, and sucked in energy-rich mist from the hose attached to the glowing blue mister in front of her. Leeyal had the fountains going to put clouds of elfinberry-flavored ryiam into the air, but their table had a special glass contraption with a multitude of tubes attached to the long neck so the ghosts among the mini-Joyful could share in the bounty.

The potent magic zinged through Vantra, and for the first time in yilsemma, she felt recharged. Kjaelle must have experienced the same, since the dark purple slip dress she wore brightened with every draw. She had never considered how a ghost’s attire reflected their energy levels, and pondered whether Lorgan had a book with him about the connection.

Of course he did. Lorgan had a book about everything. That’s why he carted six ginormous crates around with him.

“Too bad Qira’s missing this,” Vesh said before taking a long drag of the mist.

“He’s not the only one who should be resting.” Kjaelle tapped the metal tip of the tube at him. He shrugged; the Aristarzian healers had told him he needed rest rather than join the going-away party, and he replied that he would do so when he was dead.

Their lack of amusement at a ghost speaking those words had made the members of the mini-Joyful chuckle—except for Fyrij. He had blubbered, and while not quite guilting the Darkness acolyte into staying in bed, elicited the promise that, if he started feeling drained, he would retire.

Vantra assumed he would make excuses to stay, considering how faded his dusky blond locks and blue eyes already appeared. Perhaps that was why he wore the sparkly black tunic; it gave the avian a star-sprinkled sky to pay attention to rather than his health.

Leeyal floated into the air behind the central bar, raised a glass, and tapped the side; the ringing pierced the air, and quiet slowly spread through the rowdy crowd as he continued the rhythm.

“As you know, this is the last night we’ll be entertaining the mini-Joyful,” he said when the place simmered down to hushed tones. “As there’s never a dull moment when they show up, we’re sorry to see them go.”

Laughter followed as Katta sighed. Salan lifted his head from the humongous meat dish the Dark Light’s cook had prepared for him and yipped in agreement before shaking out his black fur and returning to the food.

Seriousness fell on Leeyal like a sudden storm, and dwindling talk deadened. “Without them, we would not know the danger Selaserat was in, that our watchful eyes had focused elsewhere, that we made excuses for oddities. We Light-blessed, in the name of Talis, pledge to do better. He nearly ended his life because of our neglect; it won’t happen again.”

The Light-blessed raised their voices in unison, singing a song in their native tongue Vantra did not understand, but which battered her essence. In life, each one had suffered under the weight of emulating a deity, and their pain threaded through their chant, a reminder of the lives lost for the unachievable. After several verses, their notes rose in a brighter, uplifting promise, a reflection of what Talis brought to them through his sacrifice.

Fyrij ruffled his feathers and looked at her; she shook her head. This was not his song to sing.

Vesh winked at him. “Don’t worry, we’ll sing later,” he whispered. The avian perked up and hopped over to him, settling on the table near his hose.

“You better keep that promise,” Kjaelle told him. He just grinned.

“Is this the Valiant Light?” Lorgan asked as he set his hose down and closed his gold eyes, his curled index finger rubbing at his dark stubble. “It sounds religious.”

“It’s their call to duty in Talis’s name,” Katta murmured. “Resa wrote it.” He swished his wine around in his glass before finishing the last bit.

“He based it on Valiant Light, but with Talis-specific wording,” Vesh said. “It’s their personal pledge to him, and when they sing it, they will go to the Final Death to keep it.”

The melody reminded Vantra of the call to worship that Light temples performed on the first Light Day of Light’s Glow, the first semma of the year. It meant more on the continent of Talis, as sunlight graced the land of the living, but the evening lands held their own version, with songs of promise that the snow would give way to rain, and crops would grow strong once more.

Kjaelle snagged the carafe and refilled Katta’s wineglass with a soft, sad smile. “Qira’s going to hate that he missed this.”

“If anyone needs more rest, it’s him,” Katta reminded her. “Besides, he’s probably listening in, considering how many times Leeyal called his name.”

Vantra shrank down, not liking the thought of Qira peeking in without her realizing it. She had yet to become comfortable with her trickster companion being the syimlin of Light. She still thought of him as an ancient avatar, not the deity himself—and she could say the same of Katta. That they lied about being Light and Darkness chaffed her, even though she understood the myriad reasons why they did not blare the information to the clouds.

She closed her eyes and sank back into her seat. The revelation of their identities was the least of her internally churning worries, and the party had not drowned out her despair.

As a Finder acolyte, she had studied the dangers inherent in Redemptions, but never believed she would face them. Now that she had sent souls to the evening lands, the trickle of unworthiness grew into a rushing river of anguish. The memories replayed as she desperately sought ways to avoid what she had done—too late, for those she harmed.

The song ended, and the crowd erupted into gleeful clapping and shouts. The barmaid who served their group had to twist herself into a vine to dodge the rambunctious. She and a helper set the meals for the living members of the mini-Joyful on the table, then eyed the mister.

“All good?” she asked. “The pirates have already gone through one.”

“We’re not that greedy,” Kjaelle assured her drily as Vantra glanced at the far end of the three long tables shoved together. The pirates swung their hoses and cheered—and Laken did so with them, his cheeks rather bright red for a ghost. He must be having fun keeping Dough and his crew company, which was good; fun was not going to chug along with them to the Windtwist Isles. Their journey to find his next essence led there, an island chain known for destructive winds and devastating whirlpools.

Which was why the nomads chose to remain in Selaserat, and why Kenosera should stay there with his friends.

She looked in the general direction of the bathrooms; the living members of the mini-Joyful had squeezed their way through the crowd to use them, and had yet to return. She did not envy them the trip back; as a ghost, she could float through the air and reach the table without problems. They could not. Hopefully they wormed their way to their seats before their steaming meals grew cold.

Derailing her darker thoughts to ponder food, she promised herself she would learn how to eat. Then the next time the living enjoyed a special meal, she could join them.

She regarded the tip of her hose before sticking it in her mouth. Of course, if the mists in the Windtwists tasted like warm honeycake, she doubted she would forgo them for edibles that would become nasty lumps in her essence after she absorbed the ryiam from them, sitting heavy until she released what remained.

Everyone raised a glass or the tip of their hose; Vantra rushed to do the same.

“To Qira!” Leeyal yelled.

“TO QIRA!” everyone chanted back.

“May the mini-Joyful meet success quickly and without hardship,” he continued.

“Iya ya!” the crowd howled.

“May the Loose Ducky ride the winds and avoid the whirlpools!”

“Iya ya!”

“May the weather refuse to sour!”

“Iya ya!”

“May the recovery of Laken’s essence be swift!”

“Iya ya!”

“And may they all return to Selaserat, and enjoy their victory among friends!”

“Iya ya!”

“I’d have thought you’d be tired of us by now,” Katta said as regular noise returned to the crowd. He scooped a giant portion of rice and flavored orange-stained meat onto a spoon and into his mouth, and smiled large at the taste.

“Not a chance.” Wry amusement filled Leeyal’s tone. “Every time you visit, excitement hides behind the corners. It gives us a break from the dreary normal.”

“Well, the Light-blessed who travel with us will have adventure as a constant companion.” He turned around in his chair. “How many volunteered?”

“We all did,” Mica said. He leaned on the counter with his elbows and folded his arms, a sparkly smile brightening his face. “The others drew straws. I’m going, and that’s that. I’ll sneak aboard the Loose Ducky if I have to.”

“It’ll be good for the guards.” Leeyal nodded at the increasingly boisterous crowd. “They can have a larger role in leadership decisions. Then, when those of us who want to travel do, it won’t leave a hole in how units operate.”

Mica squinted at him. “We rotate.”

“Yes, but you, Jare and Resa have final say, whether you’re officially the edom or not. And we’ve fallen into complacency because of it.” He lifted his shoulders, the joy leaking from his visage. “We failed to keep this place safe for Qira’s visits.”

“That’s too harsh a judgment,” Katta said, as serious as the barkeep. “I have the feeling the enemy would have grown in influence far faster if the Light-blessed had not graced Selaserat with their presence. Hrivasine would have acted more hastily because he would have had no opposition. It’s not like the Gubs or the rivcon ever kept him in check.”

“QIRA?!”

The tavern silenced at Leeyal’s shocked bark. Katta leapt to his feet and steadied the wildly swaying red-haired, blue-eyed man who had shrunk into a stick and whose skin had an unhealthy grey tinge.

“I was bored,” Qira said as he bent over, hand pressed into his right shoulder. The white shirt, one that would have fit snug a few semma ago, hung on him like an oversized cloak and slid down, revealing a thick line of scar tissue that curved over where his neck met his shoulder, reached a large star-shaped mark, and continued down his chest.

Vantra slapped a trembling hand over her mouth. How . . . how much of his body had he . . . and why had Zibwa not . . . HOW HAD HE LIVED?

“I don’t care if Zibwa sat you in a corner and ordered you to stare at the ceiling all yilsemma!” Katta snapped. “You shouldn’t be here!”

Qira pitched forward, and the other syimlin caught him while everyone gasped. With a swirl of grey-purple, he hefted him up and carried him to a wide, padded seat that materialized next to his, made solely of Darkness magic. He fell into it, keeping the man in his arms, glaring at his in-pain but not-contrite friend with stormy eyes.

Jare joined Mica, and both Light-blessed glowered disapproving darts at him. “Qira—”

A mahogany-haired, blue-eyed man and a black-haired, smoky quartz-eyed woman wafted to the side of the table; Resa and Joila. Their expressions of anguish, Vantra was certain, were meant as a hammer to guilt the wayward deity into returning to his sickbed. How had he eluded them? She had the impression they had sat with him the entirety of his stay at Zibwa’s healing temple, attentive caretakers when he most needed the help and company.

Mera popped into view and slammed her halberd’s butt onto the tavern floorboards. The angry crack reverberated through Vantra’s essence, and the entire tavern shook. “Qira!” she snarled through gritted teeth.

Tally faded into view next to her; her deep brown gaze could scorch a desert. Both had their aqua hair pulled back in tight tails with braids dangling down, a severe look that matched their rage.

An elfine with a dusky complexion, ginger hair and green eyes stepped from a swirl of green behind them, wearing a simple sleeveless blue shirt and darker pants, without footwear. Rayva growled at his side, her ears flat against her golden-brown head, her gold eyes flashing with vulfen fury.

Vantra had only seen him once before, but she could not forget his countenance; Zibwa, Syimlin of Healing.

“Qira,” Zibwa said, and disapproving power backed the word. The syimlin flinched, and his stubbornness intensified.

“I. Was. Bored.”

Rayva barked her displeasure with Salan. He started to laugh, winced, and laid his head on Katta’s shoulder, his hand rising to press into his monstrous wound. “And since everyone’s having a grand time here, it’s the perfect place to visit.”

Sympathetic pain washed over his companions’ countenances, and Mera lowered her halberd, her lower lip trembling. With a sigh, Zibwa squeezed her arm, slipped around her, and settled his hand over the one plastered against his shoulder. Green filled the air, as thick as pollen from evergreens. Qira sagged in immediate relief.

“It was a matter of time,” Leeyal said, resigned, tapping at the bar counter with his fingertips.

“I know. I’m surprised I kept him prone for as long as I did.” The healer stepped back. “But this means, Qira, you’re taking Light-blessed guards with you. You aren’t up to this journey, so they need to carry you until you are.”

“We’re going,” Resa and Joila, Jare and Mica, said together.

“Good.” The healer nodded his approval while Qira lifted his lip in ungrateful annoyance.

Fyrij hopped across the table, situated himself on top of Salan’s head so Qira could not help but see him, and large tears rolled down his little face. The syimlin’s eyes misted in turn; Vantra’s initial urge to scold the caroling disappeared, and when she met Kjaelle’s satisfied smirk, she supposed he deserved the reminder that, even as a syimlin, grievous injuries could kill him and some beings would be devastated if that happened.

“Fyrij, you might be our best hope in forcing Qira to rest,” Zibwa said, pulling at the cluster of earrings in his long, delicate right ear. The caroling raised his wings and tweeted matter-of-factly, as if he already realized that and planned to use it against the still-healing Light.

“Menu?” Leeyal asked, raising one. Zibwa grinned and accepted.

“I think having a nice meal after dealing with my dreadful patient—”

“I’m not dreadful! I’ve been the very model of a good patient.”

“You slipped out of the healing temple and zipped here without telling anyone where you were going,” the healer said. “That is dreadful. It made us worry.”

Qira wrinkled his face. Fyrij fluttered to him and hopped up his chest. He snuggled between his head and Katta’s neck, chirping, and nuzzled his chin before settling down.

“Fyrij,” Vantra sighed. The little one cheeped and sank so far down, his face barely peeked above the fluff of his chest fur.

“Missed you too, Fyrij,” Qira whispered.