Lielu Andalai of Talanael remained beside the hammock until Teram's departure the following night. Lielu Andalai left as abruptly as she had come, leaving Jareen to close her sister's eyes and wash her body. She wrapped Teram's body in silk. It was taken by servants to be buried outside of the city. Through letters, Jareen had tried to convince the Synod to burn the bodies, but she had been met with silence. The Vien did poorly with smoke, and she did not doubt the idea of the smoking remains of the departed was appalling to them.

Coir never knew that the Lielu of Talanael had been in the house—or at least he said nothing about it, and neither did Jareen. She found it hard to believe he could have kept himself away if he had known a member of the Synod was present.

"When is the last time you had an actual meal?" Coir asked a few days later. Jareen was sitting cross-legged on a woven rug, holding a glass of hot ginger-and-lemon water and breathing the steam in through her nose.

"I have eaten."

"Today?"

"Not yet."

"Here." Coir slid a bowl of sliced kiwis toward her. "I had them bring it for you. Eat them."

Jareen wrinkled her nose. It was odd; she normally liked kiwis.

"I'd rather we just review the new reports."

Coir pursed his lips but reached for the papers, stretching his neck from side to side as he did so.

"I have recorded the new afflicted," he said. "Mostly they are in the east, but the Tree of Aelor has been afflicted." Coir sighed. "It is a shame. My heart goes out to Tirlav if he yet lives. He was a friend to me."

"How many?" Jareen asked. Her heart, too, turned to Tirlav somewhere in the Mingling, alive or not. At least he had not learned his Tree was afflicted. For his sake, she hoped he would not.

"The High Liel Elnael and the third heir, Reniel Son of Aelor. So Far."

So far, Jareen chorused silently. She hoped it would stay with them.

"Who is the next heir? Is it Lielu—" Jareen grasped for her name. She was tired and feeling slow of thought.

"Eldre. Lielu Eldre," Coir said. "No. There is an elder son."

"They were fools to send any heirs to the Mingling," Jareen said.

Coir glanced at the door.

"Careful," he said in a hushed tone. "You may be at liberty to speak ill of the Synod, but I'm sure they would not like to hear it. The servants serve them more than you."

Jareen shrugged. It was hardly likely the servants would venture into the halls that housed the afflicted without being summoned, except to bring meals at intervals.

"If they wanted warriors so badly, they could have raised more companies," she said.

"They are." Coir pulled out another page and placed it on the top of the sheaf. "Unprecedented, from what I can tell."

"I know. They called Tirlav's company sooner than usual, and then a second."

"That isn't what I mean. They have called eleven more companies."

"What?"

Coir didn't respond. He knew well enough that she had heard him. It was just that she couldn't quite comprehend it. One company every twenty years was closer to normal. At least, it had been in her childhood.

"Why are they calling so many?" she asked.

"Of that, the reports do not speak. But if I may offer my unexpert advice, I would say it appears to be the breaking out of open war with the Inevien."

It took Jareen a moment to remember what Inevien meant: Canaen. Coir had told her once that they called themselves the Inevien, the free people. The man continued. "From what I have gathered from the servants, it has been nearly seven hundred years since anything more than skirmishes occupied the eastern companies."

Jareen didn't give much weight to such reports. It was hard to say what occupied the eastern companies. Precious few stories came from there, and precious few veterans returned. Coir could call the war skirmishing if he wished.

But eleven companies! In the traditional numbers, that meant 36,663 vien. She had a hard time fathoming that, and more than ever she wanted a census of the population of the heartwoods.

"When are they to be raised?"

"Already raised," he answered. "And ordered to march east. All within a week's time."

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The destruction of Drennos, the marching of thousands of warriors. It did sound like the conflict with Isecan had erupted into fresh fire, but she feared worse. If the Malady was rampant in the Mingling, then the companies might be replacements. If that were true. . . She tried not to think of Tirlav. Coir did not help her.

"It is notable that they have sent eleven." He said. "Tirlav once wrote to me about the significance of that number. Findel appointed eleven High Liele that there could be no even disagreements. To honor Findel's wisdom, your people eschew even numbers. But eleven companies. There is a message there."

Jareen was hardly interested in Vien numerical proclivities. She didn't respond, for she had failed; her thoughts were in the Mingling. Silence fell for a time.

"I'm. . . worried about you," Coir said.

"I am not marching east," she answered.

"I mean. . . are you feeling well?"

"What, do I look pale?" Jareen laughed at her own joke.

"No, actually, the opposite. You looked flushed."

Jareen's smile drained away.

"Flushed?" She held up her glass mug and tried to find her reflection in it, but it was too clear, the warm tea not dark enough. "What do you mean, flushed?"

Unlike the Noshians, the vien did not keep mirrors. Even looking at oneself in a pool of water was considered vain and tawdry, though the reflection of stars in water was the highest beauty in the minds of some. One of the greatest of the Vien woodcarvers spent over five centuries attempting to capture in ebony the light of the stars as reflected in water. He produced a masterpiece, but the vien still argued over whether he succeeded.

"I mean you look flushed. I don't know how else to say it," Coir replied.

Jareen must have looked upset, because he raised his hands and added: "I'm not saying it's ugly. It gives you a kind of rosy glow, as Geramon of Nosh said in his ode to—"

"Spare me Noshian poetry," Jareen said. She reached for the bowl of kiwis and popped a few slices into her mouth, tasting the tartness of the juice. It didn't taste right to her. What she'd really like would be hazelnuts, which was odd, because she had never cared much for them before.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" One of the servants leaned in.

"Lielu," he said. "Something has arrived for you."

"What is it?" she asked, standing and setting her glass down on the table. This was a welcome distraction from Coir's concern.

"It is a harp."

Her heart fluttered. Had Tirlav sent her a harp? Why would he send her a harp?

"From whom?"

"It is from High Lielu Andalai of Talanael," the servant said, his hushed tone reflecting the dignity of the High Lielu's station.

"Bring it to my room."

Jareen was confused. Why would her mother have sent her a harp?

As the servant ducked away, Jareen stepped into the hallway and headed to her own room, glad to be away from Coir and his unsettling comments. She needed time to think.

The servant returned shortly after, carrying the sizeable instrument in a bag of vibrant yellow silk.

"Set it here," Jareen said, motioning to the center of the room. The servant squatted, setting it down delicately. Jareen put a hand on the instrument to steady it. "Thank you," she said, and the servant retreated from the room. There was a drawstring at the top of the bag, and she loosed it, pulled the bag open, and let the silk fall away.

The harp was the finest instrument she had ever seen-not that she was an expert. It was made of ebony, with such an interplay of light and dark grains that the wood itself was art, let alone its flawlessly shaped and carved form. The sweep of its harmonic curve, the simple, elegant twist of the pillar, and the curves of the soundboard were wrought with such skill that it was difficult to imagine it had been carved by hands and not grown that way as a tree. There was a piece of paper tucked into the strings. She pulled it out, hearing the vibrations as the paper rasped against the silk strings. She set her fingers against them to still the sound, then lifted them, evoking the barest of vibrations. Feeling braver, she took her thumb and ran it down a flight of notes. She knew the instrument was not quite in tune—not after its journey—but the sound was deep and clear. The harp had thirty-three strings, the number of a full vien harp.

With great care, she leaned the instrument against the wall, making certain it could not fall. The paper she had pulled from the strings was folded, and she opened it.

Lovniele, Daughter of High Lielu Andalai of the Tree of Talanael, from Andalai: Findel's blessing.

This harp belonged to my grandfather. He was High Liel before my mother. It was the only possession he treasured, made by Voriel of Shéna,

one of the finest instruments in the Embrace. The Change afflicted his hands first, and he struggled to play. Though he knew his fate, he did not stop, and he played it until he could not move his fingers. I wish I had understood that lesson, earlier.

Play it, if you wish.

The calligraphy was blotched, the lines shaky. It dawned on her that her mother had written the letter with her own disfigured hands. Tears blurred Jareen's vision. Andalai had addressed her by her place in the Tree of Talanael, but of herself she had written only her own name, dispensing with formality as could only be appropriate among the intimates of a Tree. Even with nothing else, Jareen understood the message.

She sat down on her hammock-bed, staring over at the harp. She rested her hand on her belly, then drew it away as if it burned.

Insensitives matured faster than other vienu. That was no secret. She had gotten her flow of blood at the age of twenty-one when other vienu might not bleed until closer to one hundred. She had developed her breasts young as well. It had made her feel so wrong when those her age remained childlike. She had fled to Drennos the following year. There, no one questioned her age or maturity. When the Noshians stared, it was because she was an elf, not because she was a precocious Insensitive child with a bosom.

A vienu becoming pregnant before a century of age was unheard of, but it wasn't common to marry so young either. Jareen was eighty-five. No—eighty-six. She'd passed that age there in the House of Lira. If Insensitives matured sooner. . .

She had not considered the risks. She should have known. Like a fool she had thought only of Tirlav's dark eyes and the pressure of his body, the strength of his arms embracing her. How often had she inwardly scoffed at some Noshian girl swollen with the fruit of her indiscretion?

Maybe she was overreacting. This might be an unfounded fear. When had she last bled? She had her flow of blood frequently, whereas other vienu might only bleed once a year or less. It was another burden of the Insensitive. When was her last? It had been months. . . But she had been under great stress, and she had lost weight. That might delay it. When had it been?

It was before. . . it was before her night with Tirlav.

She stood up, struggling to breathe. With one hand, she grasped the edge of the hammock-bed and placed the other on her belly. Was she not alone?

Was she not alone?

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