The Synod willed in unity, commanding him. He felt the strike of it like a dhar hammer. His hand tensed, gripping the haft of Klotig's Gift.

Fall on your spear.

Had it not been for suffering Findel's assault for so long, he might have obeyed in an instant. But he had learned; instead of trying to refuse outright or countering with a command of his own, he relaxed. He made no decision, no demand. It was an option. He might yet obey, but this moment was nothing.

Fall on your spear.

From afar, Findel had been strong, but face to face with the six, Faro felt the fractures forming in his will. It would be easier to obey. He had struggled for so long. It would be so much easier.

He was slipping.

Faro reached for the living steel. Within, the Current of Isecan's Wellspring still pooled along with that of the dhar vent. It reminded him of places far away, where no Synod commanded.

It was hot in the grove. Steam billowed from the Wellspring's disturbed water, yet the heat was not the Current. It was like any heat, filling the grove. The six standing beyond the hedge of thorns wore thin robes of light silk.

Fall on your spear.

Faro grasped it—everything within the living steel that was not Findel's Current, condensing the heat, sparking it in their robes and in their flesh and in their eyes.

Their command failed as they reeled from the sudden attack. Flames leapt from their robes, and they screamed in mind and body, grasping at the Current and drawing the cooled water toward themselves from the air.

In his panic, Inan of Tlorné drew water from the pool, itself. It surged toward the vien in a stream, encasing his body. He spasmed and fell as the Change took him, tearing and sprouting.

Faro felt the shock of it along with the Synod. The pressure of their assault weakened, and he reached for Findel's Current, so close and so strong. Pain seared through his shoulders from the exertion of his first assault.

Fear.

He pressed it into their minds with all the Current he grasped, even as his pain bloomed. He leapt forward, thorns parting with a flash of his will. Though blind in body, Shelte saw him leap, but she stumbled in pain and fear. Faro rammed the spear home. Veroi fled, even as Lira tried to encase the Synod in thorns, tangling him in error. Unlike Faro, the fools sought to survive, rather than kill. The thorns tore his burnt flesh and lifted his feet from the ground. Veroi cried out. Faro's neck burned like fire, but he ignored it.

A root burst upward, spearing Faro's leg, but he met the will of Yene. The unity of the Synod had fallen to confusion, and his was a double portion.

The root's growth faltered, its tip protruding from the flesh of his thigh. He sent his will down the fibers of the root, meeting her within. The struggle was brief. The root sprouted beneath her like a spear, rising so quickly that her body did not fall.

Namian was mere yards away, but his attention was elsewhere—with the companies. He spoke low words, driving the sound outward, trying to reach them. Faro threw the spear. It plunged into the High Liel's chest.

Tangled in thorns, Veroi's mind was a nightmare of pain and fear, lashing out like a wounded quthli. Faro reach out a hand that he could not feel. A vine lashed around Veroi's throat. Blood spurted from arteries and the High Liel gasped through his open neck.

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Faro tried to walk, forgetting that he was pinned in place by the root jutting through his thigh. He stumbled, tearing the flesh of his leg. In all the pain that coursed through his body, he did not feel it, but blood pulsed. Seeking in his will, he found the artery and drew in heat, burning it shut. With a thought, the root withered to dust.

Lira reached out to the Wellspring pool. Faro could see her intent. She wished to do to him what Tlorné had done to himself, siphoning water in an arc.

No.

For a brief moment, she struggled, but her will could not contend. The water fell onto the mossy rocks. She stood, breathing hard. She was naked, her robe burnt away, her skin blistered, her eyes fouled. The Change veined across her skin, its pigments vibrant. She was young even by the standards of the Synod, and before Faro had burned her, she might have been a lovely vienu. Now, she looked monstrous. He felt the pain that filled her, but she resisted it with great resolve despite the despair.

How he wished he could heal her and comfort her in that moment. Her mind was laid bare before him. What was she but another slave?

Faro's whole body burned, or froze, or peeled, he could not tell. His fingers had fused. Growths jutted from his arms, and his face felt heavy. He did not know if he could survive killing her with his will. When he tried to take a step, his leg gave out beneath him and he fell. Even his chest felt heavy and stiff. It took effort to breathe. He looked at Lira again.

"Get the spear," he commanded her.

She pulled it from Namian's body and faced him, meeting his gaze. Hers were courage and despair in equal measure. They were truly hers, but they were not greater than her slavery. He was breathing hard, trying to fill his recalcitrant lungs.

What are you doing? she asked. Why are you waiting?

He saw it in her mind. She expected him to give her the same command the Synod had given. To fall on the spear.

"Bring it to me."

She faltered. Faro drew on the Current, crying out as pain jutted up his neck and across his back. The High Lielu of Lira planted the butt of the spear in the moss in front of him. Carefully, he reached out and took it. She let go, taking a step back.

It was quiet in the grove, but for the churning of the water. Twilight reigned, and fireflies flitted among the malir.

You must obey me, Faro willed. He felt her acquiescence. The power of the double blessing was too much for her to resist alone.

Draw on the current, and burn the great malir

He felt Findel slam against her the moment he uttered the command. She cried out.

Do it.

She turned to the malir and doubled over as if struck.

Do it now! Faro willed.

She raised a trembling hand toward the tree. Faro felt her mind break in an instant, like a twig underfoot. She screamed, clawed at her face, and flung herself into the hedge, trying to tear through, fleeing in blind confusion and terror. The thorns tore her as she wept and screamed. Despite his weakness, Faro extended a branch, piercing her heart.

That was it. It was up to him alone. He pointed the spear toward the malir, though it made no difference. Barely any trace of the power of the dhar vent and even Isecan remained within the living steel, like faint scents on a passing breeze. Yet the Current was all around him, almost overwhelming in its power.

He directed his will toward Findel's malir. There was so much heat in the air. He would burn him. The eucalyptus in this grove were ancient, oils stored up in their bark and flesh for thousands of years. The grove would burn, and take everything within it.

He felt it, the potential. There was still strength enough in him to do it, to use the living steel. . . Pain tore through his mind. He stretched his will, but the edges of his vision clouded. He felt the fibers of his mind bending under the strain. Gasping, he dropped his head onto the moss. Once more he tried, until his mind nearly broke, and tremors ran through his frame.

He couldn't. Before he could ever burn Findel, even light the grove, his mind would break, as the Lielu of Lira's had, like the riders he had commanded in the Mingling. Some wall stood in Faro's mind, an injunction of the spirit. Findel rose there, roots in the water, branches spreading out in the steam, made as much of Current as stem. While a tree drew water and life from the soil, the malir drew the Current. It was its sap and its strength.

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