After fleeing east for a few miles, Faro and Vireel crossed the path taken by the quthli accompanying Jareen and Coir, the soil disturbed by the passage of many feet. Vireel used the Current to start a brushfire, and directed her quthli to trample the ground and discard scraps of bloodied hide, as if they had paused there. It was difficult to tell how many of the quthli had survived. Faro took the chance to estimate their numbers. He judged there to be just over two hundred, many of them wounded. Vireel gave them no time to truly rest, and they made a clear path north as they left, all to encourage any force of the Nethec to pursue them rather than Jareen and Coir.

Day dawned upon them marching in single-file along a narrow Mingling path. Their pace was brisk, and they had held it for hours. Vireel had not allowed them to halt to tend to injuries or get an accurate count. She was determined to put as many miles between themselves and the Nethec forces as possible. The path they followed was made more by the movements of wild beasts than vien or quthli. They often had to duck to move through. It was afternoon and roughly fifteen miles farther before they actually halted in a clearing—or what could be considered a clearing only in the Mingling. There was space enough for the quthli to sit huddled beneath a canopy of vines that clung to the lower branches of dense trees with fissured bark. Barely two score miles from the glade where he had grown up and Faro didn't even recognize their species.

The first thing Faro did was count the quthli. There were one-hundred and eighty-seven, far fewer than his estimate when Vireel had lit the fire.

"We have lost some," he said to Vireel.

"Wounded. They were too weak to keep up," she answered. She moved through the quthli, looking at their hurts but not stooping to touch. More than a few had broken-off arrow shafts protruding from their flesh. Others had lacerations or punctures from spearheads, blood congealed in the silver-grey hair around the wounds. Vireel stopped by one.

"Faro," she said, motioning him over. He came to stand beside her. One of the quthli lay on its back, grunting and holding the shaft of an arrow protruding from its gut. Its hair was stained with blood. How it had managed to come so far, Faro could not conceive.

"This one will not make it further," she said.

"Can anything be done for him?" Faro asked.

She shook her head.

"The arrow appears to be in its liver. It will die."

"Is there no power in the Current to help?"

"It is far easier to break a thing than to heal it."

"So what now?" he asked, looking down at the creature. He thought he recognized him. Faro did not know all the quthli; they did not have names in the way of Vien, scent and some other awareness serving for them. But he recognized many by sight, despite the similarity of their faces and physiques.

"Put it down," Vireel said.

"What?"

"Take your spear and put the creature from its pain."

"Why not let it be?"

"It is the merciful thing," she said. "It is suffering."

Faro looked around at the other quthli. Many were watching. He leaned in to whisper.

"In front of the others?"

"These creatures are under my will," she said. "Leave that to me."

Faro stared down at the dying quthli, and it met his eyes. The pain was clear. Until the night before, Faro had never killed anything. Yet all that day he had not shaken the remembrance of the vien plume he had slain, and the silent unprotesting manner of his death. That had been in the chaos of battle, but this. . . felt different.

"Do you wish me to teach you the ways of the Current and how to fight for the freedom of your people?"

"Yes."

"Then give my quthli the mercy it deserves."

Faro looked away from the quthli's face. He rotated his spear so that the blade would pass cleanly between the ribs. Taking a breath, he plunged it quickly and deeply. The quth made no sound, its heart spitted. Faro felt the slightest tremor through the haft. The smell of the hot blood offended his nostrils, and he turned away. The other quthli no longer watched, thankfully. He did not feel he could bear their gazes.

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"Mercy is not always beautiful," Vireel said. "Come." She took Faro by the arm and led him away from the body. At the edge of the small clearing, she stopped and handed him a wooden drinking cylinder. He opened it and drained away the few gulps of wine remaining. Vireel had ensured that some of the quthli carried sustenance fit for Vien, as well as their own foul meats and liquor.

"To attack someone directly with the Current takes great effort and brings upon the Change," Vireel said, "for one must contend with the will of the other. It is best not to use the Current in that way. To alter the mindless elements of the world is far easier. For tasks such as that—" she motioned back toward the slain quthli —"it is best to use one's own hands."

"If contending with the will is so difficult, how can you control them?" Faro asked. "Does that not take great effort?"

"It is one thing to brutishly overcome their will. It is another to direct it, to offer them what they want in such a way that they cannot resist."

"What do you mean?"

"The quthli want safety, meat, fire, mates, and territory of their own. It is nearly impossible to make them deny those desires. It is far easier to convince them that serving you is the best means of attaining them. The same is true of any weak-willed or weak-minded creature sensitive to the Current."

"And they believe this even when you slay their own in front of them?"

"They would have done it themselves if it meant their survival."

Faro did not respond to that.

"Do not fret," Vireel said. "I will teach you. You will learn to control them as well. It is far easier than you might think."

Faro looked again at the huddled quthli forms, but even as he did so, he saw the dying gaze of the vien plume. In his memory, the night was brighter, and the plume's eyes locked with his own as the spear pierced his throat. He made no cry of despair or fear. Was that how it had been?

"Is their bravery false?" he asked. "Those controlled by the Current? Or are they truly courageous?"

"I do not know," she said. "Using the Current is not the same as understanding it."

***

Tirlav wearily climbed the spiraling stairs to the Aelor house in the High Tir. He looked forward to quenching his thirst and falling asleep in his hammock. He had arrived back in the city two days prior to meet with the Synod. Since his marriage, he had spent little time in Tir'Aelor with his bride, and that was acceptable to him. She stayed in the heartwood while he returned to the High Tir. He did his duty by her; he had no choice. But he could not rest in her presence. The little house in the High Tir where only Glentel attended to his safety felt far more comfortable, so far as comfort was possible, anymore. He would sleep better there, alone.

He opened the door and found that Glentel had anticipated his arrival back from the grove, as usual. Food and wine were prepared on the table. The smell of cinnamon and baked peaches filled the house. Glentel set his cup down and rose.

"Liel," he said, placing a hand on his chest.

"Good morning, Glentel," Tirlav answered, walking to the table and lowering himself into a recline. He picked up the full cup waiting for him and drank. It was fresh pomegranate. Sometimes, he still expected the sour taste of the Mingling. He even thought he actually tasted it, now and then. He had spent so little time there, yet his mind frequently returned.

"Is there anything you need, Liel?" Glentel asked. Tirlav shook his head.

"No. Not unless you can persuade the Synod better than I." Tirlav surprised himself by speaking so freely. It was unexpectedly easy.

"Of what do you wish to persuade them?" Glentel asked, after a moment's hesitation.

"I believe the Synod tries to exert too much control over the strategies of our companies in the Mingling. Our plumes need adaptability, skill, and the freedom to make decisions according to the needs of the moment. Just because the Synod can command a warrior doesn't give the High Liele the skills and knowledge of war."

"Few of the Synod have ever fought in the wars. You are rare in that."

"It is best to set a goal, yet allow a competent commander to choose the path to reach it."

It was hard to perceive and control so far away in the Mingling. Sometimes, one or two High Liele traveled close to exert more will and see more clearly, but mostly they had to rely on messages more than the Current to organize the front. It took effort to constantly maintain the embrace, and the embrace also maintained their control. With so few High Liele, it was hard to exert enough will and power so far.

Tirlav did not speak to Glentel of the other side of the problem; they needed to lose their own warriors as well. Balancing victory with losses was far from intuitive for those in the Mingling. He knew it firsthand. It made maintaining control much harder. The current High Liele would not survive the Change long, and the next scions would inherit the blessing even younger than they had. The crisis would accelerate.

"Why would the others resist such wisdom?" Glentel asked.

Tirlav poured more wine and drank again, in part because he did not want to answer Glentel. None in the Synod believed that the war was winnable. Battles were winnable, but not the war. They could not control the companies if they passed into Isecan where the flow of Findel's Current was subsumed. Even so, the border could be defended far better than it was. The Canaen sorcerers posed a far greater threat to the Embrace than the Synod's companies did to Isecan.

"Is there anything you wish to do, Glentel?"

"I'm sorry, Liel?" Glentel asked, squinting. "Is there something lacking?"

"No, comrade. Nothing lacks. But do you wish to visit your home? See your family? Friends?"

"I. . ." Glentel paused. "Maybe."

Tirlav nodded. Glentel was the only person in his life with whom he was comfortable—the only one with whom he approached anything like friendship. Yet the vien called him "liel," and served out of duty. How much of it was compulsion? What choice did either of them have?

"What about a bride?" Tirlav asked. "Do you want a bride? You could choose, and the Synod would grant it."

"Thank you, Liel," Glentel answered. "Maybe some day."

Tirlav nodded again, and they both drank from their cups.

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