Tirlav climbed the circling stair up the trunk of the eucalyptus, following after the long strides of the servants. They had found him sifting through Eldre's records with his younger brothers, trying to make sense of vaela herds and steel reserves. Hormil had run screaming through the lower city, the servants had reported. He had sprinted naked through the east gate. A group of vien orchardists had wrestled him down, but he was raving and strong. Hormil had belonged to Shéna, and news had reached High Lielu Shelte before Tirlav, for all the members of the Synod had remained in the High Tir. Lielu Shelte had already ordered Hormil bound and carried away by servants of her Tree. Others had gone to Hormil's house and found Glentel in a stupor and Jareen and Coir gone.

"There is something for you there," one of the servants had told him. "We did not disturb it."

Coming around yet another turn of the tree, they arrived at the landing of Hormil's house. The air barely moved that day, and the garden pots hung motionless. Tirlav strode through the door and heard a snore. Looking in the dining room, he saw Glentel lying upon the table with a servant beside him. Tirlav approached and held his hand out over him, grasping the Current. He had already felt outward for Jareen and Coir, knowing he could not find them, but Glentel he could feel, as well as the stupor that pulsed in the rider's veins. There was the beginning of a struggle there, as some part of Glentel fought to rise from the torpor.

Jareen had done this. Tirlav knew of her tinctures, potions of Nosh. It was obvious enough that he rebuked himself for not having anticipated it.

"What did you say was for me here?" Tirlav asked the servant.

"This way, if you please, Liel," the servant answered, extending a hand and leading him back into the hall and further into the house. They entered one of the small bedrooms. It was dim, but for a lit lamp. The windows were shuttered. The servant motioned to the wall. Leaning there was what Tirlav instantly recognized as a harp bag. A folded paper with "For High Liel Aelor" written on the outside was affixed to the bag with a hairpin. He slid the pin away, opened the paper, and read:

Tirlav, I leave this harp to you. If there is any love in you, let us go. Lovniele

Loosing the drawstring at the top of the bag, he let the silk slide down. It was a masterwork of ebony, the scrollwork a triumph of subtlety, the lines flawless. Upon its crest the mark of Voriel of Shéna was deftly incorporated into a motif of falling leaves and wind.

"Leave me," Tirlav said. "And close the door." The servant left, closing Tirlav within. He sat in the chair. No doubt Jareen had often sat there. He stared at the harp. It was a work of highest art. There was a time. . .

It was the note that drew his eyes away again. He touched the name inscribed there in Jareen's hurried calligraphy, but he could not feel the texture of the paper. There was no feeling in his fingertips, anymore. He lowered his head into his hands and wept, raising his voice in wails that cared not who heard. The Synod might command his will, but they could not stop his grief.

***

The Synod ringed the pool of the Wellspring, the radiating power of the Current flowing through them.

"We cannot see her or her human. They are invisible to the Current."

"Once the babe is born, we will see it. For now, she hides it."

"Not if she leaves the flow of the Current."

"Where could she go?"

"There is nowhere."

"She will try to escape, somehow."

"She has fled by sea before."

"Let no ships depart."

"No trade has left Talanael since the destruction of Drennos, and no human vessels may harbor."

"Keep the pleasure craft and kelp harvesters ashore as well. Have the boats guarded."

"She would be mad to take to the sea."

"What else could she do?"

"What if she went east?"

"To the Mingling?"

"It is burning yet. Fires still rage. Miret is yet befogged with its smoke."

"It has fouled the air in Lishni and Yene as well, despite the breeze we raised."

"Nevertheless, we should notify the company on the coast, and those yet in the east."

"If she flees east, the Mingling may settle the matter for us."

"We can hope."

Tirlav absorbed this wordless exchange of thought and image. His mind was exhausted, and his will radiated only pain. The others must have felt it, but he did not care. How he wished to be done with the Synod, yet every moment of every day, no matter where he was, his will was bound to exertion with the others as they upheld Findel's Embrace by the power of the Current. Every day, the Change took more of him. The effect of that steady duty was imperceptible by days or months, but over decades it would consume him as it had all the High Liele before.

If only he had ordered the charge a little sooner, there before the eaves of the Charth.

***

Glentel was rousing when the servants carried him out of the house. That much Jareen could tell by listening. They heard the door latched, and then all was quiet. Still, they waited in silence for what felt like hours more before either of them dared whisper, even though they lay near enough to hear the barest sound of each other's voices. Jareen was fairly certain no one had remained below, but she could not be sure.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"How long should we wait?" she asked.

"Nightfall at least."

That was still a few hours away, judging by the light coming in through a missing knot in the timber near the eaves.

"Then what?"

"I have an idea. Hormil rarely slept in his room."

"Yes?"

"I snuck in there once."

"Why?"

"I was hoping to find a map or documents about the Mingling."

"Did you?"

"No. But I did find armor and weapons. Enough probably for both of us."

"Neither of us can fight!" At least, she didn't know how, and nothing about Coir told her that he could, either.

"I'm not saying we fight, but maybe we could ride. But it would be easier for two riders to move east to the Mingling, looking like we belonged there."

Jareen grasped Coir's point.

"I do not know how to command a vaela, and neither do you."

"I have ridden horses before."

"They are not horses. Horses don't impale you on three foot spikes. And vaela move by sung commands and the balance of the rider. Anyone would see we don't know what we're doing."

"You are a Daughter of Talanael. Did you never learn?"

"No," Jareen answered. She did not want to get into that history.

"Surely we could figure it out."

"Young vien are taught for decades," Jareen said, catching herself growing louder.

"Do you have a better idea?"

She didn't, so she didn't respond. It wasn't like they had vaela, so she wasn't about to argue the point further.

***

They waited until well after dark before Coir slowly slid the hatch open and they climbed down. They had to jump from arch support to arch support again on the rotted walkway. The front door was latched but it was not locked, for locks were relatively unknown in Vien houses. It was dark inside, but they knew the way and moved down the hall to Hormil's room at the back. They couldn't see much of anything, so Jareen used a double-folded silk sheet to cover the oval window and lit a beeswax candle.

Coir was right. Hormil's room was a small armory. Well-maintained weapons and armor were wrapped in oiled cloth and laid out upon shelves. There was likely enough to fit four or five vien warriors, and a few of the helmets had plumes of various colors and sizes. Jareen was not sure what all the distinctions were, but she knew that liele within the companies wore plumes to be seen in the fighting.

"These things will be too big for you," she said, looking at Coir. The human was shorter than almost all vien, though he was tall enough for a Noshian. It was fortunate that he was a lanky human, for the Vien tended to be thinner than the broad-chested humans, and longer-limbed as well.

"It would not be so noticeable atop a vaela," he said, already trying to pull a fine mail shirt over his head, its oiled rings glistening in the candlelight. There was even a breast-piece of plate steel, and he picked it up and began fiddling with straps.

"No, not that," Jareen said. Coir squinted at her and frowned by way of question. "Only a liel would wear such a thing," she explained. With all steel and other metals needing imported, the use of plate was not common among the Vien—she knew that much. Even among humans, it was costly. Many Noshian soldiers wore a boiled leather rather than steel, but no vien would so desecrate a creature or defile themselves by wearing the flesh of an animal.

"Very well," Coir said, laying the plate aside. It would not have fit his chest, anyway. Even the mail shirt hung awkwardly, extending well past his fingertips. He made a comical figure. There was no hope this disguise would serve beyond a casual glance at a distance, but if the absurd costumes could see them out of the High Tir in the night, they would have served some purpose, at least.

"You'd better find something," he said. Jareen nodded. Unlike Coir, she was not wearing silks suitable for the purpose, so she found a suit of Hormil's silks and changed in her room first. Upon returning, she found Coir walking around the room, trying out the greaves and vambraces he had donned. They stuck up well above his knees and elbows, poking out as he walked.

"Take those off," she said. "They will never serve."

He sighed but acquiesced.

Thankfully, he found a helm without a crest that covered most of his face and did not appear too absurd upon his shoulders. Jareen pursed her lips. She had to admit, a helm was a better disguise than simply tying a scarf around her head. As she slid into a mail tunic, she was surprised at the weight of it upon her shoulders. Being a little slighter than Hormil, at least her belly had enough room. The vambraces and greaves would serve her well enough, and with a sash at her waist and helm on her head, she faced Coir:

"It is done," she said, feeling like a fool.

Coir had picked up one of the oiled swords. He drew it from its wooden scabbard, raised the blade, and flicked it with his fingernail. It rang like a fine bell.

"So it's true," he muttered, and glanced at Jareen. "You had better wear a sword."

"What would I do with a sword?"

"The Mingling is not a kind place. And it goes with the costume."

Jareen had seen the riders with their twin swords and knives, scabbards slid in their sashes and hooked there. She had to find the scabbards that went with the various blades, for the weapons were kept separate and wrapped in oil cloths. It took her a while to arrange the scabbards in her sash, Coir watching to see how she did it, and she wasn't sure they managed correctly.

"This is just like Emperor Timar," Coir said.

"Who?" Jareen asked.

"Emperor Timar? From the Epic of Timar? It's one of the pre-colony Senno-Torich epics. He famously disguised himself in the armor of the San of Torich. Did you not read the epics?"

"I did not have time in Nosh to read epics."

"Shame. It is a fascinating work. The authorship is unknown, and it was believed to have been transmitted orally for at least two hundred years before—"

"Coir," Jareen said, sorry she had asked. "We need to finish here." She had no idea how he could act so cheerful at such a time.

"Right," he said, sliding a third knife into his sash, though Jareen had no idea what the man intended to do with it. He turned and squinted at Jareen.

"You look every bit the Vien warrior," he said. "But I would tuck your hair down the back of your mail, and perhaps wear the scarf under your helm. Your face is bright."

Jareen took his suggestion, tucking her hair and wrapping her lower face, but it would not prevent discovery upon close inspection. Not that Coir would pass, either, with his human features, but at least his skin was much darker, a boon at night.

"Now," Coir said. "About the vaela and the gates."

"Forget the vaela."

"The gates then."

"I don't know how we'll get through." She put her hand to her head. She should have stuck with her first plan—to drug Hormil and Glentel and flee before any alarm was raised, hoping the sentinels at the gates would not know to waylay them. It was a thin chance, but Hormil's madness had complicated the situation, and Coir had persuaded her to hide.

"About that, I've got an idea as well," Coir said. "But I will need your hand at calligraphy."

"Calligraphy?"

"It shouldn't take long. I have pen and ink."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.