Tirlav stood next to the Wellspring, though he was once again barely aware of his body.

"Should we make them drink, anyway?"

"No." It was the Lielu of Yene, the oldest member of the Synod now that Liel Namian had also succumbed. "The blessing does not rest on them. It is clear. Neither is the first scion of Talanael."

Thoughts and images came in such rapid succession, often embedded in the idiosyncratic mental pictures of the other members of the Synod, that Tirlav was still struggling to make sense of their communication.

"Are they not her sons?"

"They are. They consume like scions. That much is clear. Yet the blessing is not theirs."

"There is something we do not understand. Something is missing."

"There is another daughter."

"She is Insensitive. The blessing cannot pass to an Insensitive."

"Are we sure?"

"It has been fourteen hundred years since a High Tree birthed an Insensitive. The records are clear. The blessing skipped him. There is no doubt."

Up to this point, Tirlav had been listening, trying to understand the situation. He knew that while rare, Insensitives were born from time to time. He had not known that one had ever been born in a High Tree, let alone the Tree of Talanael.

"I observed her when my daughter was lost to the Malady." It was the Lielu of Lira. "She is invisible to the Current, barely in this world." The barest flicker of a memory flashed upon Tirlav's consciousness as Lielu Lira remembered—a familiar face. Was that from Lielu Lira's mind, or was Tirlav simply inserting his own memory of Lovniele?

"What became of her after we cleansed the Malady?"

"My servants say she survived," Lielu Lira willed again, "along with the human, but I do not know where they are, now."

Tirlav did not intend to communicate, but horror radiated from him. He had not known. He had not known!

The strength of his emotions could not be hidden. The wills of the others turned toward him as panic radiated outward. If he had been aware of his body, he might have fled, or fallen to his knees and covered his face, but there was no escaping the collective gaze of their consciousnesses. The weight that always bore down at the Wellspring changed, threatening to crush him, stabbing him with anger.

"Mercy."

"This cannot be."

Emanations of shock and dismay filled his awareness—a barrage of thoughts, feelings, and exclamations. He knew they were searching in his mind, his memories, but he could not resist their unified will. Perhaps, if he had more presence of mind, if he was not reeling from the shock, he may have vied against them.

"It is explained."

"Now we know what is to be done."

"This is a terrible crime."

"He did not know who she was, nor expect to survive."

"It is indiscretion and condemnable, but she was not under the injunction of the Wellspring. She is free."

"She did not initiate."

"Our hold was weaker. It is stronger now."

"It matters not. We will send for her execution. It must be done."

Tirlav roused. The danger to Lovniele gave him strength to resist.

"No. It cannot be."

"She carries your child."

"It must be."

A great confusion of darkness had welled up in Tirlav's mind. The certainty of the others, the shock and embarrassment of the discovery, the horror of the Synod's intentions nearly paralyzed him.

"No," he managed, finding his will to exert. "No. She cannot be killed."

There was a struggle, and Tirlav felt how weak he was, alone against the others..

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"No. No. No!"

"I burned my son. You are not special."

"No. Jareen has cared for the people. She should not be treated thus."

"Many die for the people."

"No!" He clung to shreds of his will, reaching for every dredge of the fight left to him. For a moment, he pictured himself back in the Mingling, with quth and Canaen arrayed against him, charging into their ranks to wreak death. Fear and violence woke in him. "No!" he exerted again, stretching forth his will like a weapon in his hands. He had cut down many foes, and he would not succumb. He had exerted his will before, grasping the Isecan Current without even realizing. Two of the members of the Synod were older, marred deeply by the Change but strong of will, but the others, like Tirlav, had only recently joined the Synod, replacing those who had succumbed to the Malady or the Change.

"He is strong."

"He is a warrior. He has faced Canaen sorcerers and overcome."

"He cannot resist us. It must be done. We cannot risk another scion of two Trees."

They made another concerted assault. Tirlav felt like his mind might be rent, or bludgeoned into a pulp, yet one of the wills faltered:

"We need not slay her." It was Lielu Lira. "Only the babe cannot live."

There was a pause as the others hesitated.

"I cannot see the babe. I cannot sense it."

"She hides it. The Current does not flow through her."

"It must be done by the hand."

"We should not wait. Slay both now and we may bring in the next heir."

"No!" Tirlav struggled again, taking advantage of the pause to collect himself.

"He is fragile. We risk his mind."

"That would complicate the situation. The next scion of Aelor is over young."

"It was dangerous for a veteran to join us. There has been too much strain already."

"It was a mistake to send scions into the Mingling."

"We did not know of the Malady then, and close scions consume more of the Current than others. Such is the blessing." It was Lielu Yene. "This was decided before you."

"The babe will be born in months. Let the son of Talanael be wed. If he is needed sooner, the Insensitive can be killed with her babe."

"This is unnecessary delay. Is there no way to slay the babe now?"

"The vine may be cut, but the fruit on the vine is sacred till plucked."

"We decide what is sacred."

As they conferred, Tirlav had wrapped himself in resolve. He let memories of the Mingling well up, finding strength and instinct therein. The Synod had taken him from his harp and made him a killer. They had sacrificed his company. They had joined him to themselves. He was the product of their own devices, and he would fight them.

"You will not harm the mother or the babe."

He felt as they regarded him. He let memories of carnage flood his mind and flow outward—memories that haunted him, that before now he had tried to avoid. They should see them, too. They should feel them.

"We will spare the mother for now. The babe cannot live."

Tirlav lashed out against them.

"You risk your own destruction if you resist," Lielu Yene warned.

"No."

"So be it."

The combined wills of the Synod came against him like a sea storm.

***

Tirlav stopped halfway up the spiraling stair to catch his breath. Not even after battle in the Mingling had he ever felt so battered. Fireflies danced around him, and someone sang high above, a wordless lilt accompanied by a flute. The air was laden with the scents of flowering vines and ripe fruit. There was little sense to harvest and blossom so close to the Wellspring, unlike in the Aelor Woods. There was no delight in any of it for him.

He could not see through the trees to the eastern side of the city, but he stared that way. Jareen was there and a babe in her womb. How hateful was life? Thoughts came only sluggishly, but he remembered that Coir was there with her, too.

Tirlav had once looked forward to Coir's letters and would have relished the idea of meeting the man in person. He'd had many questions about Drennos, the Noshian language. He would have coaxed the man to sing a human song, to hear what they considered music. Now, he felt only dull weight. What did he care about Drennos? He was not that vien anymore. Gripping the banister of the stairway, he looked down at fingers marred by the Change. Could he even play a harp, anymore?

"Liel?" Glentel approached down the stairs. Tirlav glanced up at him and then back into the east. "I have been watching for you. Do you wish—" Glentel stopped as he came close. "Liel, what. . . Are you well?"

Tirlav didn't respond, too tired to muster an answer. Glentel waited. Eyes blurred with fatigue, Tirlav stared without seeing.

"Liel," Glentel said after a long time, his voice laden with hesitation. "Perhaps—"

"You are to go the House of Hormil. The Insensitive is there. You are to watch her without fail. She is not to leave the house. No harm is to come to her. She is with child. When the child is born, take it out of her sight and slay the babe without delay." Tirlav grasped the Current, feeling its sting. "This is the will of the Synod." Tirlav had never ordered a vien to do something he would or could not. Yet this he could not do.

Glentel recoiled, and Tirlav could see confusion and revulsion battle against the decree of the Synod, but the Current was strong and the fight was short. Glentel's will retreated inward, subsiding deep below the Synod's command. Glentel's eyes showed less of himself. They were duller, somehow.

What must his own look like, Tirlav wondered?

"Liel, to kill a babe," Glentel began, but trailed off. His will was subdued, but his mind still suffered.

"The Synod has decided it in its wisdom, for the sake of the Embrace. The child is a danger. Fulfill your duty. Go now."

"Liel," Glentel said, bowing and slapping his chest. The vien started down the stairway.

"Glentel," Tirlav said. "You may delay to gather your things."

"Liel," Glentel said, turning back up the stairs. As always, Glentel was wearing mail and his swords and knives, but Tirlav knew he had a few other necessities. The servants of the Synod had supplied them both with silks, combs, oils and ointments, and Glentel meticulously cared for his armaments with a portable wallet of tools.

Why should he care for Glentel's comfort? They were such small meaningless things. What did anything matter, when they could not make their own choices? The will of the Synod always prevailed. He had resisted until he was a dry well, until he felt the fractures pulling apart. The worst of it was knowing that the Synod was right. The babe was a danger to Findeluvié.

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