Katta took apart a beaded necklace and flipped the sand cookie to decide who remained with Qira. The scandalized side of Vantra found the act blasphemous, but no one else seemed upset, so buried her shock and hoped Weather took no offense.
Mica and Resa lost so stayed with Qira, while Jare and Joila joined the mini-Joyful’s trek to the beach. With the rest of the Light-blessed divided, Katta led the way, Kjaelle and Vesh at his side.
Or he attempted to lead the way. Both vulfs accompanied them, and their energetic puppy antics of racing back and forth through the hall, Fyrij riding on Salan’s head and fluttering his wings for balance, kept Vantra on edge; what if they struck a table displaying a delicate vase and flowers? How would they explain the accidental shattering to the acolytes? To Weather?
She was not the only one; ghosts and living beings, wearing a white tunic with one sleeve, tight blue pants with wrapped calves and feet, winced at each rush, but said nothing. They did not possess Nem Hala’s Touch, though they wore a circlet with three progressively long grey stormbird feathers dangling over the ears on each side, a symbol of Weather. Were they the city guard Katta warned about?
The hall was long, lined by a tropical floral carpet with a darker blue background. Crimson doors with metallic, flower-carved frames stood at regular intervals, all closed. Vantra studied them, certain the design was not ancient nymph in origin, until the vulfs hit rainbow-hued, sandstone tiles and slid into the balcony keeping beings from a plummet over the landing’s edge to the next floor. The excitement, and Katta’s grumbling sigh, broke her interest away. The guards at the double-doorway looked at the beasts, at their group, at each other, and had no idea how to proceed.
Someone must have told them of Katta’s status, since they refused to issue warnings. Or did he and Qira visit the temple often enough, those associated with Weather knew them?
Two crimson-stained wooden staircases led to the ground floor. The finials were golden flowers that came together at the top, the ends of the petals curving out, and an undulating wave rising from the center. A wind enchantment swirled from them, cooling the steps and fluttering the tasseled curtains that delineated tall, stylized, frontal depictions of Nem Hala exhaling gusts and acolytes kneeling in profile view. Everything was a line drawing, and Vantra could not tell whether the hints of color were intentionally sparse, or if age corroded the paint.
The foyer contained the same rainbow-hued tiles the vulfs slipped on. Thick, smooth crimson columns with golden stripes that curled around the drums filled the open space, allowing the water-heavy warmth from the mist-laden gardens to filter inside. At the front, steps lined by red-flowered bushes and tall, fern-leafed trees, ran to a pale yellow, sandy beach.
Guards and acolytes manned the entry. The acolytes had no uniform symbolic dress, only the beaded necklaces with sand cookie pendants. From religious texts, Vantra had the impression that Weather, as a syimlin who had worn her mantle for over twenty-six thousand years, was a stricter deity who preferred order and everything in its place, but the varied styles her followers wore hinted at a more relaxed persona.
Nem Hala’s visit to the ship was not stiff and structured, either, so maybe the texts spoke of her in ceremonial settings?
A raised platform with filmy blue curtains at the back and sides towered over the back of the beach. Two acolytes drew apart the middle opening, letting them into a cozy space cooled by pots containing smoking ice and mechanical fans that sent the chilled air into the attendees. A scattering of adherents sat on padded benches, while Nem Hala lounged on a flower-patterned chaise, sipping a drink from a long, cold-infused glass. She wore a simple, layered red slip dress and nice, but not extravagant, makeup and beaded jewelry, which Vantra took to mean she wanted to have fun rather than stand as a stiffly formal officiary.
And they all had dressed their finest. Should they have toned it down?
Perhaps; the crowd, who sat on blankets that protected them from the sand as they watched the turquoise waves roll in, dressed in everyday attire, though several wore colorful straw hats decorated with feathers and flowers.
Weather nodded at them. “Welcome to Windwave Temple and its beach. The windwave dancing is about to begin.” She smiled at the Light-blessed. “Not wanting to watch Qira sleep?”
“At least he’s resting,” Jare said while Joila laughed softly.
“I’m sure as long as he gets his elfine leafcakes, he’ll be fine,” Katta remarked as he sank onto the chaise next to Nem Hala, Kjaelle with him, Vesh to her side. He motioned to Joila to join them.
“If we run out, I can send for more.” Nem Hala looked back as the curtain fell, sending shadows across the chairs. “The drinks and food are to the right, find a seat anywhere. There will be a few more dignitaries joining us.” She stared at the vulfs. “You won’t like them, but no growling.”
They whuffled and laid their ears back, but did not protest. Fyrij, still atop Salan’s head, warbled at her, and she firmly shook her head; his wings drooped.
Vantra chose a plumply padded folding chair behind Darkness, hoping the proximity kept her away from nosy officials who had no right to ask intrusive questions, but who would get offended over her reluctance to answer them.
The Light-blessed stood in guard positions, and Laken floated with them, holding a Light spear and appearing more confident than she would have expected. Of course, his Aristarzian-blue cloak covered the base, and no one would question a ghost as to why they hovered over the ground. It was a typical ghosty thing, of no consequence.
Hiding with the Light-blessed was a fantastic way to enjoy the event without attracting attention to his UnRedeemed status. If any Knights sat in the audience, they would never guess he was anyone else.
Of course, the Knights knew that Darkness and Light acolytes traveled with her. Or did. They assumed Qira had perished. What would they do when they realized a being they thought sent to the Final Death was, in fact, alive and well? Would that draw out those of higher rank, or would they send underlings to investigate? What would happen, when the Light-blessed took exception to their nosiness? Would they apprehend them, like Gisdrelle, or do something more drastic?
Could Bask-ilisk handle the more drastic? Qira was not the most generous of syimlin, having destroyed the Light temple and the nearby town during his ascension, and the Light-blessed were now extra-fanatic about his protection. Picturing the beach pitted with holes from missed attacks, the crowd fled, grew into a pitched battle in her mind.
No, no, Katta would say something before it came to that. Or Nem Hala would.
Kenosera and Yut-ta settled next to her, plates in hand. The variety of fruits and pastries pricked her disappointment that she had yet to resolve her Physical difficulties surrounding eating. She wanted one of the dark, sweet cakes swimming in grainy honey frosting. And the juicy red pomes and purple drupes with shiny skins, and the cookies with nuts, and the—
Yut-ta set a small dish on the seat next to him, and Fyrij leapt from the black-furred vulf to the chair, twittering in excitement. He tore into the fruit, his enormous front tooth ripping the flesh before his long tongue wrapped around the bits and drew them into his mouth. Hopefully in his haste, he did not accidentally bite the tiny sand cookie dangling from his Weather necklace; that would hurt.
“Fyrij, don’t choke,” she warned. He garbled at her, mouth full, and made a show of slowing down when he, in reality, did not.
Acolytes brought dishes with raw meat intended for the vulfs. They barked their thanks and happily consumed the food while sitting at Katta’s feet, though the movement of their heads proved they studied the crowd more than they paid attention to the meal.
More beings arrived, ghosts and living alike, all in their ceremonial finest. They eyed the mini-Joyful with subdued curiosity, which sharpened as Nem Hala introduced the avatar of Darkness to them. Two of the Bluewind Harbor councilors appeared less than enthused, but as their interest drifted to the vulfs, Vantra decided that had more to do with disapproval concerning who Weather considered companions. Whatever the reason, they refused to voice it.
The pirates arrived in a rush, ushered to the roped-off log benches in front of the platform by bemused acolytes. They bowed to Weather and Dough joined them, after which their noise drowned out the rest of the crowd. Nem Hala shook her head and eyed Katta, who shrugged and returned to his plate.
“You invited them, after all,” he reminded her.
“I did. Don’t underestimate the star power Dough and his crew bring to the event. Plus, they’ll be entertaining.” She sipped her drink and smiled, amused at the aghast disgust the dignitaries expressed at the rambunctious lot. Had she invited the pirates just to dig at official pompousness? That sounded like something Qira would do.
Vantra glanced to the side, then behind her; Lorgan had a notebook on his lap, paragraphs scribbled down, his pen in the air as he stared over her head. She leaned over to get a better view of the words.
“You’re taking notes?”
He jerked and looked down. “Yes. How else am I to keep an accurate record?” His eyes briefly rested on her badges before returning to the clouds. Vantra looked down; faint red glowed around the edges of the Passion badge.
Oh no! The Sun badge’s warning!
Dark clouds encroached on the beach from all directions, bringing a dimmer haze with them. A rainstorm? That would dampen the festivities. Was that what her badge warned about? She glanced at Nem Hala, thinking Weather would care for the unfortunate deluge before it dumped drops on everyone.
The syimlin stared at the clouds, unblinking, her fingers tight enough on her raised glass they trembled. Katta eyed her, then the sky. Kjaelle and Vesh tensed, and Joila joined Jare, who stood to the right side of the chaise, both scanning the crowd with greater interest.
“Bonaki bena! Welcome to Bluewind Harbor’s Windwave Dance!” a voice blared, with a squeak at the end that echoed from all speakers spread around the beach. “We’ve an exciting day set, with amateur and professional competitions back to back! Whether your first time at the Dance, or your hundreth, the wavedancers will entertain and mystify you! Now’s the time to get a meal or a snack at the beach vendors, as you don’t want to miss the first round! First call for round one of the amateur competition. If you haven’t already, make your way to the beachfront kiosk. First call for round one.”
Fast-paced, catchy music blared from the speakers, nearly drowned out by the increased noise of the crowd as several rose and headed for the colorful booths to the east.
The atmosphere dimmed as more clouds crept into view. The gritty textures within them were not sky-like, but akin to ash-infused smoke. Vantra looked back at Nem Hala; she had not moved. Had she even blinked?
Lightning sparked, but no thunder rolled across the beach. Green-tinged strikes illuminated the sky, the clouds glowing an oily green after impact. Oily green. She recognized it; the same Touch infused the gunky rain in Selaserat.
The wind howled, the gentle breeze rushing into a heady blast that snagged the curtains and beat them around. Sand swirled, pelting the audience with stinging bits. They hunched over, but no one seemed shocked at the sudden gusts.
Two more strikes sizzled down then burst apart like fireworks, and the gunky clouds exploded, fresh, tropical bluish-green rays filling the space. The darker wisps disappeared, and the bluish-green brightened before fading, leaving the late midday sky a typical Evenacht bright grey.
Nem Hala took a sip of her drink, minute trembling coursing through her hand and fingers. Sweat beaded on her forehead and rolled down her cheeks; the reaction was not heat-caused, as the fans continued to blow icy air into the seating. Katta studied her, and she shook her head once, her earring beads barely moving with the motion.
Vantra put a hand to her chest; the red glow had disappeared. Had the danger passed? She looked for confirmation; Kjaelle held the vulfs back, the Light-blessed relaxed but remained alert, and Joila and Vesh spoke with an anxious priest to the side, all in Ether form, inconspicuous.
The pirates continued their boisterousness, Fyrij wrangled the fruit, and Yut-ta and Kenosera snickered together over something. The other beings on the platform ate, talked, laughed, and tinged glasses in celebration.
She craned around. Lorgan’s bulging eyes stared at his lap, the hand that held the pen over the paper tense. She frowned, and he looked at her with only his eyes; disquiet darkened their golden depths. They slid to his left; she mimicked him.
The two offended city council dignitaries glared blades at Weather while their oblivious compatriots reveled around them.
Lorgan handed her the notebook and pen, and floated to Jare.
