Vantra did more stumbling over roots, jutting stones, and low-hanging bush branches than she did walking—or it felt that way. After slamming her head into a thick branch, reeling back, and nearly crashing into Jare, she, despite the danger, waded in the flatter, less obstacle-strewn shallows, sullen and grumpy. The two men joined her, and she silently thanked them for not laughing at her misfortune.
They proceeded slowly, Navosh’s step wobbly and uncertain. He held onto Jare’s arm for support, though his grip slipped often. Being confined to the rock had not helped his physical health.
To keep from worrying about her dwindling energy and the increase in fiery trees tumbling into the pool and burning their way to the stream blockade, she pondered his situation. Minimal exercise explained some of his weakness, but what had he consumed? She could not picture a man who stole a deity’s mantle wanting to keep said deity alive, so she doubted his captor gave him food. Had he caught fish? She glanced at the pool but could not tell if it swam with life. Fruit hung from the branches of several trees, but impossible to reach with the vines and darkness confining him to the middle of the pool.
Of course, the mantle thief must have known he remained alive and under guard for the duration of his captivity, so maybe he had fed him. Why not rid himself of a rival? Religious histories, in both the Evenacht and on Talis, and especially the more ancient ones, spoke of violent battles for titles and the death wrought in honor of a power-hungry bid for supremacy. It seemed strange, for the thief to rip magic and title from Strans then let him continue breathing.
“Vantra!” Jare called. She paused and looked behind; Navosh pointed at a dark niche framed by two tall trees. Water trickled from it into the pool, enough to wet the toes of her boots. She pivoted and crunched up the brown-pebbled left-hand bank.
The ambient illumination from the fire did not penetrate the deeper shadows that hid the way, and she touched the side for an anchor. Wet met her fingers and she hissed, wringing her hand. The shard flickered to life, illuminating vines hanging over the edge three stories above her head, with damp ends brushing the ground and fire fraying their tops. Thick smoke trickled down, hiding the path in front of her. Thank Sun she did not have to breathe! She picked her way around pack-sized rocks while Laken whispered updates on Jare and Navosh’s progress. She knew they slowed; the ex-deities’ coughing increased, and she doubted he moved much while hacking.
The incline rose, and she stopped to wait for them every twenty steps or so, wondering if they should not have ridden out the fire at the pool, a convenient water source. But no; if the darkness remained after the flames died, without the ability to use Touch, they could not protect themselves. She knew that, but how was walking into a smoky mess of a flaming forest going to help?
Wind coursed from behind her, fluttering her clothing and breaking apart the smoke. The gully widened, only to end at a dark opening fifty steps in front of her, the vines that once hid it from view on fire or collapsed into ashy piles on the ground. To the immediate right, water that fed the small stream tumbled over the top of the gully, the orange fire glow highlighting the droplets of water spraying wide as they struck rocks below. Next to it rested overgrown, grey stone niches with carved basins and topped by a mossy statue of an elfine lad looking downstream. To the left, a dull white stone head twice her height stood as sentry. Cracks and gouges coated the face, and parts of the nose, beard, and hair were missing.
The eyes blazed a dark, churning red. She stopped, quivering.
“Who steps to the Hallows?”
The deep voice rocked her essence, and Laken hissed in pain.
“I do, you broken stone devie,” Navosh snapped.
The red blaze immediately died.
“Go go,” Navosh said. She whirled; he shooed her into the opening.
“What is that?” Laken asked, awed.
“The head?” The once-deity snorted loud enough for the stars to hear. “A Labyrinth sentry with a bad memory.”
“Dou ya ketesh,” the voice boomed in a tone more peevish than Navosh’s. The eyes flashed a warning.
“You heard me, you dried-out stump.”
Vantra met Jare’s gaze; he shrugged, and she firmed her lips. Did he not think an upset sentry would hurt them, especially now that Strans was no longer Strans?
At least Navosh’s annoyance energized him long enough that they quickly reached the interior.
The tunnel beyond dripped water onto dark stone stairs, making a foothold difficult. Vantra slapped her hand against the wet wall and continued with caution. From both Jare and Navosh’s subdued curses, they found the slickness made for treacherous travel.
“Babba dorray?” The sentry’s voice echoed to them.
“You didn’t notice the fire?” Navosh asked, his voice little more than a soft rasp.
“Mu mu,” the sentry muttered.
“It brought rescuers to my rock. And it has brought them to you.”
“Memek sheshte. It is not only fire and a usurper’s battle that brings them to my bosom.”
“One of the Deccavent dams failed,” Jare said. “Probably destroyed by the Wiiv to purposefully flood downriver.”
“They did what?” Navosh asked. Darkness born of disbelieving loathing swirled from him and dimmed the shard’s light.
“The usurper led them astray,” the sentry said.
“They were already astray. Heads facing backwards never see the danger ahead.”
“They think water is their salvation. They always have.”
Navosh sucked in a grumbly breath, coughed, and unhooked a string so the mask dangled from his left ear. “They drown more than their sense.”
“Come to the mosi.”
Mosi? Vantra wished to ask for a translation but did not think the ex-deity was in the mood to respond. Why bother him when she would find out soon enough? Now that the immediate threats appeared gone, she could not ignore that she walked in the presence of a divine. True, he had lost his mantle, but that did not mean she should neglect respect for him.
Her shoulders slumped. She should feel awe, to meet Strans of Twisted Vines. Instead, she felt too tired to care.
And would you feel awe for me, if we met?
Great. And Rezenarza was back, too. Could her night get any worse?
Don’t sound so enthused.
Laughing, was he? She pictured herself rearing back, clenching the shard tighter, and smashing it into the smug, shadowy face she had seen in several histories. The shard flared. With a startled yelp, he fell away and vacated her mind.
She studied her clenched hands and the Sun object, which winked and shimmered at her. Could she strike him a second time? Probably not, since surprise worked in her favor. She continued glumly on, head down, fog creeping around the edges of her sight.
Whatever the mosi was, she hoped it had mist and a place to rest.
