Within the house of the weaver sisters, Jareen and Coir each had their own sleeping closet, but rather than hammocks, it appeared the Canaen slept on long cushions lying upon the floor. At least, that is what they were provided. Jareen lay awake at night feeling the subtle sway of the house in the wind. At least the Canaen had blankets of heavy fabric to keep warm, and when the second night turned especially cold, the sisters lit thick candles in ornate glass cases that dulled the bite of the chill.

The sisters worked diligently at their loom and wheel, spinning and weaving flax into fine linen cloth. They sang as they worked, ballads and rhythmic ditties that Jareen had never heard. Jareen watched them, in part due to a lack of anything else to do. She knew nothing of the trade, but she marveled at the intricacy of the loom's operations and enjoyed the soothing pulsing hum of the wheel.

By the third day, Jareen felt rested enough to agree to accompany Coir on a walk around the tir. The sisters assured them they were free to move about the city and surrounding groves, only warning them not to attempt to flee the enclave. Jareen and Coir climbed down the long stair, passing other houses and a few divergent walkways. At the base of the trunk, they descended the tir itself. They walked in silence for some time. The walk down the hill was easy, though Jareen did not look forward to the climb back up.

Coir led the way at the foot of the tir, following the undulating edge of the slope. Jareen glanced behind them and saw what she expected; a Canaen sentry followed at a distance, bow in hand, the left side of his face marred by the Change. Other Canaen came and went, along paths or walkways, many of them unblemished vienu carrying baskets of fruits and vegetables. One balanced a stack of three jars upon her head, a graceful arm extended upward to steady them with fingertips. Most of the inhabitants of the tir and groves ignored Coir and Jareen, thankfully. A few stared, some with hostility. Jareen remembered what the sisters had said about the losses the enclave had suffered.

When Coir spoke, it was in Noshian and in a tone low enough not to be overhead.

"What do you think they will do if they know the nature of the child?"

"They have no reason for harm. We are away from the Synod."

"Do you think they won't know?"

"I don't know how it works," she said. "I cannot feel the Current. Perhaps I carry an Insensitive."

"I made inquiries before we left the High Tir," Coir said. "Few Insensitives have ever born children. Even so, the blessing did not pass to your brother."

It was true, and Jareen hated to be reminded of it. The whole reason she was discovered was because the blessing had not passed, and if the Synod was able to determine that it hadn't passed to her brother, then who could say what the Canaen might be able to sense? She hated the Current.

"They might kill the child to spite the Synod," Coir continued. "But then, the blessing would pass to your brother, and they gain nothing. It may be useful to make that known, somehow."

"I don't wish to speak of it."

"Wish or not, it must be faced. I think it most likely they will try to use the child as some kind of bargaining tool."

"The Synod does not bargain with the Canaen," Jareen snapped, and then wondered why she was so certain. What did she know of their doings? She knew they were capable of horrors, and they did not let truth flow freely.

"It is not my goal to upset you," Coir said, turning to her and offering a faint smile. "But we need to consider our situation well."

Was his determination to involve himself in her troubles a means of self preservation, or was he simply attached to her some reason? He looked thin—thinner even than when he first arrived in Findeluvié. She had never known him as anything other than thin, and he had lost more weight than he could probably spare.

"What can we do?" she asked. "I fear whatever they choose will be little better than the Synod."

Coir was quiet for a while.

"I'm out of ideas," he said. Jareen stopped walking and looked at him. Somehow, that simple statement shocked her. Ever since she had met him, he'd been scheming, and she had assumed he still was. How much had she been relying on him? She glanced back at the Canaen who followed them. He had stopped as they had, watching.

"What will you do?" she asked, starting to walk again. Coir fell into step.

"I will seek Vah'tane before I die."

"Must you obsess over Vah? You could have a peaceful life here."

"How much do you know the teachings of Vah?" he asked.

"Just what I was taught as child. He wanted to stop the war. He wanted the followers of both Findel and Isecan to go with him to some new life where they could know peace. Few cared to follow him into the Mingling, but he and those who did never returned."

"That is more or less the gist of it."

"So, why care so much?"

"There are many disagreements among your people about the old legends," Coir said, "though I presume the Synod does not permit the circulation of any ideas it might consider dangerous. It is clear that here, the Inevien believe Isecan the hero of the tale, and not Findel. That should come as no surprise. Yet every source I ever found, and everyone I have ever asked, even among these Inevien, all tell the same tale about Vah. It is rare to find such consistency."

"What tale is that?"

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"That he truly did it. After the death of Isecan, when war had raged for over a hundred years, Vah led followers from both Findel and Isecan into the Mingling, and they were never seen again. Not a single one. And he did this even though the Synod forbid any to follow him.

"So?"

"So. . . How? How could he lead souls out from the Synod's grasp, and convince them to join with Canaen? Can you imagine such at thing happening?"

Jareen thought about that.

"The Synod must have permitted them to go."

"But the Synod didn't. Every story says the same thing. The Synod could not command Vah, and they would not harm the brother of Findel, but they forbid all others to follow him."

"Then. . ." Jareen paused, thinking. "How can you know that it's all true. It was thousands of years ago."

"Do you know that the Synod permits no one to go to the Mingling, except for the companies and their suppliers?"

"Yes."

"It is declared law, is it not?"

"It is."

"Then how can any among your people decide to seek Vah'tane, to simply get up and walk into the Mingling?"

Jareen had no answer to that, and Coir went on:

"Vah preached that Vah'tane would remain open to those who wished for peace, and not just peace from war. Peace."

She shook her head.

"I just can't. . . We don't know enough about how the Synod's control works. Do you really find this plausible?"

"I'd like to know," Coir said. "And to follow if I can."

"Do you even think it would. . . work. . . for a human, anyway?"

Coir shrugged.

"Vah was Insensitive. All humans are so far as I know. Life is life, is it not?"

Their conversation lulled, until at last their walk took them around to the eastern side of the great tir. There, another ascending stairway led up the slope. Jareen was walking lost in thought with her head down, eyes upon the ground. The sound of pounding vaela hooves brought her back to her surroundings. Tearing into the grove from the east came three riders, each bearing the marked distortions of the Change upon them. Seeing Jareen and Coir, the riders sang their vaela to an abrupt halt. A motion beside Jareen startled her; it was their trailing sentry stepping beside them and facing the newcomers, arrow on the string. He glared at the riders as the riders stared at Jareen and Coir.

"Up the stairs," the sentry commanded in a tone that brooked no argument, and Jareen turned and obeyed. Her legs ached before she had even climbed a hundred feet. The sentry followed after her, but the riders had not pursued. From the tir top, two more sentries rushed down the steps, but when they reached Jareen, they turned and joined in the ascent. She looked back and caught Coir's eye, arching an eyebrow. The man shrugged.

Without speaking, the sentries escorted them back to the house of the weavers, but instead of leaving them there, one of them remained sat cross-legged outside the door, bow in his lap with arrow nocked. He watched the stairway without turning his head, without hardly the rise and fall of his shoulders with his breath.

Inside, Jareen was covered in cold sweat and her heart was beating hard as she lowered herself on a cushion. The longer she was with child, the less her strength for climbing, and they had traversed hundreds of feet in short order from the base of the tir to the treetop. The sisters had stopped singing as they arrived, but once Jareen and Coir were settled at the table with refreshments, they started their song again.

"What was that?" she muttered in Noshian.

"All is not well in Isecan," Coir replied.

***

Jareen slept that night piled under blankets, for the sisters had insisted on opening their windows despite the cold wind, saying that the northeaster was the halest wind of all, and soothed the lungs. It would help her more readily climb the stairs, they said. The next morning, the sun rose in a salmon blaze across the eastern horizon, and with a blanket draped across her shoulders, Jareen stepped out onto the platform to gaze upon it. A sentry sat beside the door in a heavy robe, though it was not the same from the day before. His presence irritated her, though he neither moved nor looked in her direction. For a time, she watched the sunrise and he the approach from below.

Out of curiosity, Jareen moved toward the stairs.

"You may not descend," the sentry said.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"It is for your safety. You may not descend."

"Why would I be unsafe in your tir?"

The sentry did not reply, nor did he make eye contact. He stared fixedly down the stairway. Jareen returned to the house. She had not actually wanted to descend. She wasn't sure what it was, but something was afoot.

Normally during the day, one or the other of the sisters would leave, returning with a basket of fresh fruits and vegetables and a large pitcher of cider or wine on her head. For water, the Canaen houses had rain cisterns, the same as they did in Findeluvié. This day, though, when Tase returned with their provisions, she set her burdens upon the table and went to the loom, whispering to her sister. Yiren set down the shuttle and the two sisters left without a word, heading back down the stair outside. Jareen watched them make the first turn through an open window.

"Any idea for how to find out what is going on?" Coir asked in Noshian.

"No," Jareen said. "I think the sentry will keep his own counsel."

Coir nodded, walking to the table and staring down at the apples and various brassicas. He lifted the pitcher and poured himself a cup, draining it straight away and pouring another. With the wine in hand, he rummaged in the basket again and sighed.

"What I wouldn't give for a shank of lamb," he said. "I swear if anything that doesn't talk comes within arms reach I am killing it and setting that loom on fire to roast it, Inevien be damned."

"That might lose you your welcome," Jareen said.

"If I am going to find Vah'tane, I cannot starve to death."

Jareen wished she had something to do besides eat and drink and lounge on pillows, though she tried to remember her condition just a few days before, dying on a hilltop of thirst and exposure, blood running from her nose and cracked lips. She should have appreciated the rest and sustenance more, but every turn and twist of the babe in her womb reminded her of danger, making her restless. The sisters returned in the evening but despite Coir's leading questions, they refused to speak of the goings on in the tir, instead suggesting that they all go to sleep early.

"There is a strong wind from the south tonight," Yiren said, opening the windows that Jareen had closed in their absence. "Even here, you can smell the sea. We will sleep well."

The wind turned strong indeed, and the house swayed. She had grown up in the House of Talanael, the residence of the High Tree. It was a multi-storied dwelling built upon the side of the tir overlooking the harbor of Talanael. Its corner's were supported by high conifers, but the structure rested upon the ground. She had never spent many nights in the true treetops. Even Hormil's house was lower to the ground, and such winds were rare in the High Tir. She did find the motion soothing, and the southerly wind was marginally warmer, but through the wall, she heard Coir curse at every shudder and creak of the swaying house. In the morning, he had dark rings beneath puffy eyes. He looked miserable. The wind had not let up, and it had veered eastward, bringing the chill back with it. Coir sat clutching the edge of the table so that his fingers were white.

When both of the sisters left early in the morning, Jareen closed the windows again. Though it helped against the chill, it somehow made the buffeting only more noticeable. Coir did not eat, and he drank little. Jareen feared he might vomit.

"This is worse than sailing," he muttered. "If I am to be imprisoned, I would rather a good solid Noshian jail."

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.