The wagon rocked like a hobby horse before crashing back down. Vantra checked on the carolings, who ruffled their feathers in fear but suffered no injuries, and rushed to the doorway, peering about for Verryn; he rose from the ground, brushed at his pants, and glanced about.
No one else had transitioned with them.
Rock pylons smoothed to a shine surrounded them, the sparkling grey matrix emitting a pearlescent shield magic that concealed all outside the confinement. A roaring bonfire sat in the middle, tall poles lashed together at the top and the interior filled with burning logs, sparks flaring up and disappearing into the smoke. No grass grew within, but divots throughout the space marked where clumps of foliage once grew.
“Shit,” Lorgan breathed, worried.
“You can say that again,” Verryn grumbled, annoyed. “Pissing off Katta and Qira isn’t smart, and this is going to infuriate them. What was Deximchil thinking?”
“Deximchil?” the scholar asked.
“The ghost who sent us here. He and Katta have a terrible history, but he’s not powerful enough to win a confrontation that relies on magic—and yes, he’s tried. If he plans to hold us captive to get the upper hand, he’s going to find out that Darkness and Light walk hand in hand in the Evenacht, and if they end up sundering ghosts who refuse to move out of their way, so be it.”
“You underestimate our scorsh.” The cackling voice sounded echoey, as if the owner spoke from inside a canyon.
“No, I don’t. Who are you?”
The clucking of displeasure answered Verryn’s question. Vantra moved back so he could settle on the edge of the wagon’s bed, more to hide her quivering than to provide room. How far had they traveled from the other wagon? How long would it take them to reach the stones? How long could her shields hold against a protracted assault? How long could Lorgan’s hold after hers broke?
What would happen to them when their protections failed?
“I suppose that’s wise, not to say, but thinking you can hide in Darkness from Darkness is a little silly.”
“I do not hide.”
“Oh? Then why weren’t you with Deximchil during the attack?”
“Impertinence,” came the hissed response.
“Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?”
Cautioning Verryn in front of their enemy seemed like a bad idea, but Vantra did not think provoking them well-advised, either. She did not understand the confidence of the mini-Joyful; terrible things happened to ghosts, too, but they behaved otherwise, as if ill fortune never touched them. The myriad of unlucky souls sent to the Final Death through mishap would beg to differ, if they had any existence left to communicate with.
“These are odd spells,” Lorgan said, settling himself against the wall, knees up, elbows resting on them, hands clasped loosely in between.
“The Vallic aren’t known for their ingenuity.” Verryn leaned back on his palms, dropping his voice so only they heard. “So I doubt they constructed this confinement. During their living existence, they borrowed what other cultures designed and smashed the magics together. They created some intriguing offenses by happenstance, but most other stuff never worked right. It’s why they tried to use the Nymphic Rebellious to pave inroads into Talis for them. They didn’t have the base understanding they needed to defeat magic-wealthy peoples with long histories of spell-casting scholarship.”
The scholar squinted at the stones. “They may associate with the Nymphic Rebellious, but I know nymph magic, and this doesn’t strike me as something they’d create. They’re as pedantic about elegance in enchantments as elfine sages, and this isn’t.”
“No,” Verryn agreed. “The glow’s too strong. They’re hiding something beneath.”
The weight of silence descended, only broken by the crackle of flame and the carolings, who cheeped at each other in short bursts and loudly fidgeted. With a thought to the horses she could not hear, Vantra handed Laken to Lorgan and crawled onto the bed. She slid the back open; the shattered tongue had flipped back to the center of the driver’s seat, but she did not see the animals or anything else but the scarred earth and shield.
“What’s there?” Verryn asked.
“The same; bare dirt and the shield.” She peeked at her companions. “I don’t understand. How did they send us here?”
“A lock chain,” Lorgan answered immediately. “The ghosts’ combined energy formed a lock, and the leader commanded that lock find its twin, sort of in the way Finders bind the essence of a Candidate during the Recollection. Then the chain formed between and yanked us away. It’s a complicated, energy-hogging spell, one I never would have thought could activate with just an intonation.”
“I’ll be right back.” Verryn hopped down and rounded the corner, intent on the driver’s seat.
Vantra resettled opposite Lorgan and accepted Laken, making certain he could see the fire and stones, before settling her hand on the wagon’s wooden floor and layering the shields.
“This feels like a douse trap,” her Chosen murmured.
“What’s that?” she whispered, hesitant to speak into the oppressive silence.
“You don’t know? The Keels used them all the time against us Gaithen.”
She would not have asked, if she did. She sucked her lips into her mouth, embarrassed at her ignorance. Verryn rounded the other corner, interrupting her half-formed, ashamed but snarly replies, hands in pockets, eyeing the blaze with contempt.
“I don’t know the purpose,” he said as he set his leg up on the wooden floorboards, leaving the other to bear his weight. “That darkness spell surrounding this clearing is tied to the night. Once day breaks, it’ll break too, so whatever they have planned, they need to complete it before then.”
“A douse trap,” Laken said.
“It resembles one, doesn’t it? That would explain a ritualistic fire, but I don’t sense the typical associations like Blaze or Earth or Sun.”
The bonfire snapped loudly and intensified in temperature and light. Vantra pressed herself into the wagon’s wall, trembling, while the men studied the flames. She sensed the oddness Lorgan spoke of, a deep darkness swirling with oppressive heat. The magic coiled around the cone poles, sucking energy from the blaze as a ghost absorbed mists. True, Light walked with Darkness, but the reliance of one on the other was absent, and she knew the touch of Sun intimately. The fire relied on another source of mystical creation.
“The Sun is absent,” she whispered. “But a dark weight wraps around the poles and eats the flame.”
“And it’s pretty hungry,” Lorgan said as a shower of sparks burst into the air above the tip of the cone, embers floating in their direction but not reaching the wagon before snuffing out. “There are hundreds of summoned creations with a base formed of Darknesss. I don’t know how many can handle absorbing energy from flames, though maybe they’ve starved it to the point any source is acceptable.”
“The dark spell is keeping the mists from seeping into this space,” Verryn said. “They want the summoned to eat what’s inside.”
“So, us,” Lorgan sighed.
“Is that how douse traps work?” Vantra asked.
“Pretty much. The constructor builds an energy source amid an otherwise magic-absent place, then forms a magical construction to absorb it. It devours the source, then starves to the point that, when anything living enters the circle, it jumps on them, desperate for sustenance. The trap lasts as long as the construction, which, when denied energy for a long enough time, dissolves into magical ash.” Verryn shook his head and glanced at Laken before he met her gaze. “Keels hate talking about it, but our past drowns in monstrosity and death. The Aristarzian influence, I think, even if we won’t admit that, either.”
The captain hmphed, sarcastic.
“The Gaithen had their own monstrosities,” the other ghost snapped. “Between them, they created a vicious circle, serving no purpose other than to send souls to Death, with the commoner trapped between noble ambition. That hate has lasted longer than the individuals who first promoted it.” He smacked his hands together. “Well, let’s see if we can interfere with their set-up.”
Power and temper filled the sphere he created, then he flung the mass at the confinement.
Splats of red and black flared sun-bright, and the shield absorbed it, taking on a shadowy luminescence. He set his hands on his hips, drumming fingers while fear skittered up Vantra’s neck. The power behind the attack should have shattered the wall; instead, it ate it.
The loudest crack issued from the fire. Flicks of flame coalesced, forming the nebulous outline of something. Vantra strengthened the shielding, shudders racing from her fingers and up her arms to her body, a whimper sticking in her throat. Lorgan settled his hand on her leg, his smile strong and confident and meant to boost her spirits. She timidly returned it, hoping to emulate his composure.
Verryn hefted himself into the wagon proper, the scholar moving to give him space, and he settled against the wall. “Well, there’s obviously more to this than a douse trap,” he said.
“They take days to dissolve,” Laken said. “If the shield about us goes down at dawn, they either don’t know how the traps work, or they’re targeting something outside the shields.”
“So they want to feed us to whatever construction they’ve created, then send it on a rampage.” Lorgan made a face and rocked his head from side to side. “I suppose, as plots go, that’s as good as any. If they have a history with Katta, did they mean to snag him, and we’re here by accident?”
“I’m not certain why they only snagged this wagon,” Verryn said. “I’m betting it’s Deximchil’s mistake.” He waved an index finger in the air. “The shield is interfering with dark and death spells, and impeding Death’s Sight, so the designer purposefully targeted magic Katta would employ.”
“You can use Death’s Sight?” Vantra asked, stunned.
“It comes with being a Deathly Passionate,” he muttered. “So yes, I can sense things in the Evenacht others can’t.” He blew his breath through his teeth. “That’s such a silly title for acolytes of Death and Passion. I’ve got to come up with something else. It sounds like a fruit drink or something.”
Vantra giggled at the outrageous statement and slapped a hand over her mouth to prevent further mirth. Fruit drink? She thought not.
The fire flared, and smoke billowed from the charred exteriors of the poles. Heat and flame sucked into the flickering body and swirled into smaller waves of orange and red. The surface solidified as the last meager finger of fire on the cone snuffed out, leaving behind embers that burst apart into ash.
The entity twisted and curled into a tight ball of red with orange flickers, then exploded, the wisps spiraling into the black shielding and scraping crimson welts across the stones. Layers surrounding the wagon disintegrated, and Vantra reformed them, refusing to look at the construction until she had. She did not need the distraction.
“What do constructions look like?” Lorgan asked, strained.
“That’s . . .” Verryn trailed off, then hissed in consuming rage. “That’s not a construction, at least how the Keels employed them. I think that’s a ghost being used as a trap spell. Dammit.”
Vantra glanced up and wished she had not.
A burning yellow mass in the shape of a human twice her height stood at the foot of the cone, hunched over, hands clenched. Eyes, nose, mouth played across the face, flickering in and out as if hidden in shadows, then illuminated by a cozy household fire.
Sobbing lay under the crackling cries. The agony of a lost spirit in need stabbed at her, as insistent as Laken’s call. Lorgan slapped his hand over his breast and rubbed, stressed, wincing.
“They need help,” she said, strained.
The body bent backwards and a fierce scream tore from the throat. A geyser erupted upwards from the chest, almost as if the humanoid guise was a cocoon, the inferno the morphed creature inside. Agonized wails mingled with hungry roars, a horrid cacophony.
Verryn snagged the sword still nestled in Kjaelle’s wagon and slid to the ground. He unsheathed it and stood between the vehicle and the changed one, legs apart, holding his weapon up and ready.
“They need help!” Vantra yelled.
“I hear their call, too,” Lorgan said, his voice low and trembling.
The fire curved like a snake, pointing a lamprey-like round mouth with white teeth circling the interior at them. It bit into her shielding and sucked, as if she provided a cool drink to quench its thirst.
If she created more shielding, it would gorge. If she did not, it would reach Lorgan’s and again, gorge, until it tore through and targeted them. She formed layers as quickly as it ate them, and it glowed as bright as a morning sun with the consumed energy.
“We can’t continue feeding it,” Lorgan cautioned.
“What am I supposed to do?” she flared, frustrated, afraid. “Let it eat us?”
“No. But perhaps we can make the meal less appetizing.”
“How?”
“Do you know any kinds of spells outside of Sun’s leaning?”
“Not many. Nolaris thought I needed to cement the fundamentals in Ether and Physical Touch first.” And she could not recall a single one. She cursed her useless mind.
“Alright. Let me layer shields on top of yours. I have a couple that might make it think twice about targeting us.”
Lorgan’s magic whisked through hers and the intense feeling of water flowed across her shield—an obvious leaning, for one taught by water-dwelling nymphs. The spell lapped against its head and the construction reared back, shaking stray wisps away, before returning to the feast. The mouth bit the shield and it jerked, shrieking loud enough to wake a rock. It spun away and wiggled about, yellow tufts falling from the length and splatting against the ground. The dirt puffed where they landed, leaving burnt divots in the powder.
The construction shuddered and rose high above them before striking. Lorgan’s single layer shattered, and it again gorged on Vantra’s shielding.
“It likes your magic,” the scholar told her.
“Yeah.” That did not make her happy.
“Form another shield after this one breaks, and I’ll slip beneath and begin watery layers. If it spends more energy breaking them than what it can devour, that’ll be good for us.”
A ray of hope. Vantra strengthened the upper crust, giving Laken as much time as possible to assemble his strata.
The construction flared, and curved spines erupted from its back, molten black coating them and solidifying, the tips dripping energy onto the back. They sizzled where they dropped, like bacon grease. The ghost anchoring its lower region collapsed, their form discorporating.
They needed to save the spirit.
Her shield broke. The creature sank teeth into Lorgan’s new layer and shrieked, vibrating her essence. It tore away, leaving a round circle of yellow fire that flared and blackened before sliding down and landing in wet clumps on the ground. It quivered, which shook some of the fallen ghost’s essence from them, and lunged. The mouth smashed into the shielding and rebounded, unable to penetrate the water-infused magic. Black, glumpy masses fell from the head to land in steamy lumps on the dirt.
An attack from outside the black shield slammed into Lorgan’s top layer, shattering it in a windy strike that blew dust in all directions. Another took the next, and he swore as the construction attempted to devour the water shielding a third time and failed.
The unknown ghost screamed as the entity sucked at the remains of their essence instead.
Verryn held up his sword; dark magic encompassed the blade, red streaks shining bright against the base. “I can cut the construction loose,” he said.
Vantra glanced at Lorgan, who dipped his head in abrupt agreement, and she set Laken next to him.
“Vantra!” the captain hissed in warning, but she hopped out of the wagon and stood expectantly next to the other Keel, shoving her hands under her arms to keep him from noticing her trembling.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, his voice smooth, calming, infusing her with his confidence. “The constructor tied the construction to the ghost’s essence, so if you try to re-energize the spirit, it’s going to absorb that, just like it did your shielding.”
She nodded, trepidation replacing all else. “How long will it take to sever it?”
“Depends. Not long, but it might reattach itself. You need to collect the ghost and get under Lorgan’s shields before it can.”
“How?”
Verryn paused, then held out his left hand. A bauble formed, glowing a soft red with black stripes curving up from the bottom. “Set this in the middle of their essence,” he instructed. “Wait until the construction is completely severed; if you don’t, bits of it might ride along with the spirit. Intone “Puin fa, elque e om stan. Euque an ecu a om mua rive euctom. Strin cra reup. Do ui douitre. Do you know how to use an essence link? Good. Plant one on the outside of the bauble; that should finish drawing them inside.”
She accepted the bauble, mentally repeating what he said.
“This construction feeds from magic that leans to both dark and light. I’m going to set a shield about you that’s more Passion-oriented. And Vantra, if this doesn’t work, get back to the wagon. You can’t come up with another way to help if you’ve already fallen to the Final Death.”
Red streaks coursed around her; she had never experienced a shield like it before. He had added something else, something vibrant yet deeply silent, to the mixture of magic, but she needed to reserve her questions until later. He surged through the shields, and she scampered after.
