Peep peep.

Vantra brushed at her cheek and met with a dribble of water.

Peep peep.

Frowning, she looked at the moist earth in front of her nose and turned her head. Where was she? Mist hid most of her surroundings from view.

A piercing call vibrated her essence, and she slapped her hands over her ears.

“Fyrij,” she snapped. And froze. “Fyrij?”

The little caroling hopped back and forth upon a rock that poked just above the water, waving his little wings and excitedly chirping. She pushed from the corner of the waterfall, winced as her clothing twisted around her, and stood, water rushing from her.

“Fyrij, you found me,” she whispered. He winged to her, landed on the wrist of the hand that held the shard, and made one of the saddest trills she had heard from him. She kissed the top of his head, then waded to the mist-shrouded shore so she could check that he remained unsigned.

A shimmery shield coated him, and one that recognized her, so a mini-Joyful must have created it. Lorgan, perhaps? She sat on a stone surrounded by burnt bushes and poked and prodded, and when he peevishly protested, she clucked her tongue at him.

“I need to know you’re OK,” she told him.

He grumbled and burbled, but let her finish her inspection.

“Alright, love,” she whispered, sticking her nose on top of his soft head and fighting the urge to cry. “I need to turn Ethereal to get rid of this water.” She settled him in the center of a new, blackened stump, and triggered Ether Touch. Water fell from her and splashed onto the rock and the ground, creating puddles in the muddy earth. She returned to her Physical form, and while she still felt soggy, the fabric was dry to the touch.

Fyrij cheeped at her and hopped in a circle on the stump, then pointed his wing at the cloud-swaddled pool.

“I’m fine,” she told him. She must have absorbed it while she slept, because energy zipped through her.

Slept. She must have fallen asleep, because she remembered nothing after the terrifying presence. What if that danger had returned? Or had it? Maybe the shard reacted as it had before, and she, unconscious, had not noticed. Finder texts reiterated the need to find a secure resting place when one’s essence demanded slumber, but what counted as safe in a freshly burned forest?

What if Rezenarza had found her?

Her hands trembled, and she gripped her fingers together. Rezenarza. He . . . he . . .

“Fyrij, how far away are we from the river?”

The caroling sat, threw out his wings, and chittered at her.

“Can you get us back?”

He hopped up and down and took to the air, flying in a circle before landing. She had no idea what to make of that, but realized, until the fog lifted from the pool, she should sit tight. Wandering around a labyrinth, unable to see due to thick mist, was a doubly bad idea.

Melancholy unease knotted her essence. She did not want to see the charred remains of the forest in the daytime.

She scrounged for unseared, fallen fruit on the pool’s shore, and enough that Fyrij could stuff himself. She did not know when he would next eat, and she did not want him to go hungry too long.

They sat together on the stone and watched as the fog slowly dissipated. Fyrij snuggled into her, content, as fear, worry, and the sense of betrayal tore through her. She ran a finger over his back, more to comfort her than to pet him, fighting to set her thoughts in order now that she had time to do so. Instead they raced every which way, lapping Jare’s tale, Rezenarza’s anger, Qira and Katta’s lies, her hurt, her impulsive act. She hated the churning but could not settle.

“Fyrij?”

He cheeped at her and rubbed his cheek against her chest.

“Kjaelle changed back, didn’t she?”

He shuddered and buried deeper into her. She imagined the Comkada, a frighteningly large monster to her, was even more terrifying to an avian as small as a caroling.

“And . . . and Qira? Is he . . .”

He raised his head; his lower lip trembled, and tears raced down his furred face. She bit her lip and curled over him, adding her sorrow to his.

The fog had not completely lifted by the time Vantra moved on, but she no longer wished to remain at the pool. Fear about navigating the labyrinth ripped through her until she remembered her link to Laken. Her turmoil affected more than just her sense of betrayal.

Fyrij had another meal while she sank deep into concentration, slipping along the connection. Its thread-thinness concerned her; how far had Rezenarza thrown her, to stretch it so? She clenched her teeth and reached for Laken’s flickering essence. His response, whisper-faint, gave her something to latch onto. She poured energy into the link to strengthen it; however long it took, she would make it back to him, if the mini-Joyful did not leave Two Rivers.

What if they did? What if they left her and Fyrij behind? Their existence was far less important than Qira’s—Talis’s—when put on scales.

Fyrij winged to her shoulder before she fell into quiet despair, huddled down, and kept up a random chitter. He rubbed his head along her chin whenever her emotions wobbled, a reminder that, no matter what happened between her and the syimlin, the caroling liked her.

She passed through brush that broke into black particles as she brushed against them, stepped over fallen trees and huge branches, and waded through charred leaves and twigs. She avoided the lumps that had horns, hooves, or the glint of claws or teeth, choking on the remorse that so many animals had perished. If the corruption infected the flora, had it sickened the fauna, too? Poor beings.

The still-standing, charcoal trees groaned in the wind, which no longer had thick rainforest foliage to block its gusts. The fingers of the breeze picked up ash and flung it around, creating a ground-hugging smoky dust. Silence reigned over the devastation but for the noise her movement made.

Fyrij squawked, and she stopped. While a few trees had black branches and seared foliage, they had reached the stark line between what had burned and what had not. Green meant an active Labyrinth, and she hesitated to wander into it even if that was the direction of Laken’s essence. She wavered but chose to skim the charred border rather than follow straight towards Laken. They, after all, had been washed downstream, and she assumed Jare and her Chosen would return to the caravan and await her arrival.

At least the Light-blessed could get Laken back to safety. She had no doubt he would; jumping into flood waters after him when he had no reason to, proved he had courage and conviction in abundance. He helped her with Navosh, and even when Qira’s injury wracked him with concern, he worked to mend shattered bridges.

And she left him to deal with Navosh and Black-claw. Why had she latched onto Rezenarza? Would he really have hurt Kjaelle? He snagged and threw her into a forest fire, so she supposed that answered her question.

What was wrong with her?

She sank into dark thoughts and darker emotions, and only the shard’s flash knocked her from them. Fyrij quieted and wormed into the back of her hood, a clear indication of something amiss. She stopped at the side of a large, charred tree, and studied the haze-filled, blackened trees, then the green growth. Bird and animal chatter came from the green side, but why should that trigger the shard? Unease skitted through her, and she crouched. Broken trees crisscrossing one another rested near her, and she scurried into their center, sending puffs of fine particles into the air as her cloak brushed the ground. She wrapped it around herself and curled over her knees.

Grumbling voices drifted through the burnt trees. She huddled down further. Who trekked through the forest’s remains? Fyrij’s trembling grew, and she settled her fingers on his back.

“I don’t know!”

That was loud and furious.

“Quiet!” another barked, just as loud, just as furious.

“He turned on us,” the loud one said.

“So? He doesn’t matter,” the barking one snapped.

“Why are we out here again?”

“I said quiet!”

Vantra peeked through the branches but saw no one.

“I don’t understand why he burned the forest down,” the loud one grumbled. “Doesn’t he see it as a refuge?”

“I don’t think he did.” Vantra frowned at the uneasy words. That smoker’s growl voice—it belonged to the Finder they confronted before the Two Rivers’ guards sounded the alarm. A shudder raced through her; the woman promised to capture her by force. “I think the one we seek sent Sun to deliver retribution.”

“That’s an old myth,” the barking one said.

“You saw the glyphs,” the Finder rumbled.

“We have no idea what they said,” the barking one reminded her. “We have no reason to think they started the fire.”

“The fire was Sun-touched,” the woman insisted. “And so were those glyphs.”

“Good thing I can’t breathe,” the loud one said in peevish disgust, and more than one companion hushed them. They sounded closer. “How far away is she?”

“Near enough,” the woman said, dropping her voice.

Vantra pulled Fyrij from her hood and brought him to her chest, pressing her mouth into the side of his head. “Keep quiet.” She curled over him and the shard and thinned her essence into invisibility, the need to hide overwhelming.

How many hunted her? She sensed at least ten unique presences, maybe more. And they had followed Sun’s Touch to her? They must have detected the shard. How might she conceal it from discovery?

“The Touch lingers on the twigs she passed,” the woman said. “How powerful is she, to leave a trail like this?” Fear tinged her words.

“She’s an acolyte barely out of training,” the barking one said. “There’s no power, just luck.”

“Luck isn’t what I sense,” the woman muttered.

“Nolaris proved, without those two holding her hand, she’s easy prey.”

Vantra clenched her teeth. Did they refer to Laken’s heart? She fought the irrational urge to jump up and scream at them about it; she was not a confident mafiz or whizan, but a young ghost with little skill and a bubble of fear expanding through her chest.

“There’s more to them than you say,” the woman snarled. “They broke my cover. They—” She trailed off. “Mimeriqette knows, doesn’t she?”

“She’s hiding something,” the loud one agreed. “So is Skerezhan.”

Skerezhan? The name sounded familiar, but Vantra could not recall where she had heard it. Recently, though.

“Ow! Something bit me!” A shocked voice blared through the trees.

“You’re a ghost, Tadden,” the woman snapped, as if he hit her last nerve.

“Yes, and I felt something bite me, Gisdrelle!”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . the roots.”

“The roots?” the woman asked, irritation replaced by fear.

“The flames burnt—” the barking one began.

“We let them get washed away. It’s retribution—”

“What is it with you and retribution?” the barking one asked. “Find her!”

“I—”

“NOW.”

Grumbling, the woman’s voice faded. The Finder had not sensed her? A reprieve, but likely a short one. If they followed the way Vantra had ran the previous night, they would reach the pool and discover the path she now walked. A path very near to the one they followed. Why had this Gisdrelle not noticed her and the shard, if she were sensitive to Sun’s touch?

Why question her luck?

She waited until she no longer sensed them, then retuned herself to Laken’s link; she had to flee, now, and faster.

There were two pulls.

Two pulls? How . . . his arm essence. She felt the tug of his arm essence. She looked at the majestic green growth, which hid a twisting and turning Labyrinth that confused those who traversed the trees. Was Navosh’s blessing still with her? Would it matter?

“Fyrij.” He chirped and rubbed at her fingers. “I feel Laken’s arm.”

He perked up and squirmed enough, she released the invisibility and let him go. He hopped onto her shoulder and sang a sweet note of encouragement.

“Do you want to come with me or return to the mini-Joyful? The essence is in the green part of the forest.”

Squint-eyed exasperation from a caroling was a unique experience.

“Alright. But Fyrij, if anything goes wrong, head back to the caravan. I mean it.”

He made a conversational tweety reply, and she doubted he agreed to anything. Kissing her brave little avian on the head, and his return snuggle, settled her, made her choice seem palatable rather than reckless.

She had enough impulsive decisions that ended poorly to last the rest of her existence.

Stiffening her shoulders, and hoping that the forest twisted her trail as well, she strode into the forest.

Fresh, deep green flora surrounded her. Emerald hues and moisture filled the air, vines dangled from the high branches of trees, the understory grew between the enormous trunks. Humongous ferns provided ground cover, and a narrow game trail led away from the edge. She turned; the burnt forest had disappeared, and the trail ended at the tips of her boots.

No wonder people got lost. Fyrij looked up at her and cheeped, apprehensive.

Unease settled as she followed the trail over mounds coated in leaves and ferns, down into tumble-rock ravines, across clearings so choked with tall grass, she could not see above the tops. It aligned with the pull, so she kept to it, though she shuddered when she looked behind and did not see the dusty length she had already trod.

Snuffling snagged her attention, and she almost bumped into a waist-high mammal with thin brown fur, cloven hooves and a broad snout as it pushed through the ferns. The animal squeaked, tangled with her legs, and escaped into the underbrush, grunting. Fyrij stretched up on her shoulder, waving his wings and singing off-key notes after it.

“Fyrij,” she sighed. He puffed out his chest, proud he had driven the beast away. She ruffled his head fur and returned to the trail.

The further they proceeded, the darker emerald the understory’s atmosphere grew. Unease might have turned to fear, had she not noticed the dimmest recesses held the brightest, glowing orange blooms. A beautiful sight, the contrast between light and dark. The thought caused her mind to drift to Katta and Qira—Veer and Talis, and the memory of Fyrij’s tears hit her. She did not think the syimlin had died—what else was the Gift of Life for?—but he must have suffered a horrible injury.

Fyrij flew from her shoulder and paraded down mossy logs that had tiny purple flowers on top; his movement joggled the petals and a pink gas hissed from the center. He zipped back to her hood, and his distressed tweets caused her to wonder how nasty-smelling the stuff was. She calmed him and made certain to walk away from similar blooms.

Mushrooms grew everywhere, some flat as a slice of bread, some as puffy as a cloud. Some glowed, some were dingy white, a few had grimy, wet blobs protruding from red tops. One group looked so green-brown and slimy, she had the urge to wretch—an impossibility. Unless ghosts who trained to extract energy from food could puke just like the living? Who might she ask about that?

The trickle of a stream caught her attention. It ran down the center of a ravine, too shallow to cover the rocks sticking up from the tiny rapids. During storms, it must roar to life, since no plants grew along the moist shore. The trail followed the water, however, and lucky her, so did the essence’s pull.

She paused on the embankment to shoo a collective of pudgy, red-headed, black-winged birds from a berry bush, and prodded Fyrij from her hood. He gulped down some berries and shredded a few more with his center tooth as she studied the area. The sense of peace tickled her, and she pondered why. The other parts of the forest had not affected her in the same way. Was it because of the stream?

After the caroling finished his meal, they continued downstream. They had not traveled far before the smaller intercepted a larger stream. The water took on a blue-green hue, and wispy mist saturated in ryiam rose from it. Her essence absorbed the magic; only after the initial punch did she realize how much she needed the boost. Hiding from the Finders took too much energy.

The stream entered a pool—a common site in the Labyrinth, it seemed. Golden motes accompanied by glowing insects danced through a dark blue-green, ethereal mist, creating a soft, dim atmosphere. To her right, limbs of thick bushes dangled over the pool, and to her left, a tree four times her width stood as sentry. Just past the tree were flat, black rock steps that created a multi-tiered waterfall.

At the edge of the second tier, a sculpture of hand-sized, segmented grass with a transparent glass ball rose from a smooth-topped boulder. Each side had lengths wrapped around the straight legs, which then jutted out and up, crossing one another at the base of the glass before curving around and crossing again at its back, then coming to the front, where they made a third crossing at the top. Instead of ending, they twisted together above the center, then split, the ends curling behind two more pieces that, taken together, reminded Vantra of a chair’s armrests. Carved, pointy leaves decorated the ends.

She took two more steps towards the pool, and the glass blazed to brilliant Sun-infused life. Wincing at the throbbing the sudden brightness caused after the soft darkness, she shielded her eyes; Fyrij chirped and raised his wing to mimic her.

“Pretty bright, isn’t it?” she asked softly. He tweeted in agreement and turned his back to the scintillating light.

She parted her fingers to take another peek. What was it doing there? What an odd place to stick a Sun-touched object.

Or did it mark something? She stared at the middle of the pool; did she mistake the pull? No; it led to the center of the water, then down.

She had reached the essence’s resting place. Now all she had to do was find it.