"Liel?" a voice called. It was distant. Tirlav wasn't sure if he heard it with his ears or if it floated upon the Current. "Liel?"

It was Glentel's voice. The rider was near.

"Glentel," Tirlav said. His lips were stiff and his tongue sluggish. He tried to rise, but his legs would not move. "Glentel."

Tirlav had thought he was dying, that the Change would entirely overtake him. Though the rest of the Synod had lent him strength, they forced him to exert far beyond the rest as they tore the embrace from Miret. The pain of the Change had nearly enveloped him, and when he thought he was slipping away entirely, the curtain of the embrace had finally rolled back. That hostile weight pressed down on him so that he thought it would crush him.

Time passed, and he grew aware of his body again, but not as it had been. He lay on his back near the Wellspring, and he could not move his legs to stand. He still did not know how he had survived. The Lielu of Yene was gone, overtaken by the Change. She had been the oldest among them, but how she had succumbed and he hadn't, Tirlav couldn't understand.

"I cannot enter the grove," Glentel shouted. "It is not permitted."

Glentel stood outside the tunnel that led into the grove. Tirlav could see him clearer than other Vien; few veterans of the Mingling were entirely unmarked by the Currents. The rider appeared in Tirlav's awareness like an iridescent spirit.

"Enter," Tirlav tried to call, but his voice was hoarse and soft. He sensed Glentel's will faltering. He could not hear Tirlav.

The other Liele had left Tirlav there. It must have been no short time, but Glentel had come for him. It was difficult to breathe. His lungs were not expanding as they ought. Searing pain shot through Tirlav as he reached out with his will. He knew far more of the Current than he had when first he drank of the Wellspring. It was not like knowing the words to a song, but more like knowing its melody. Less like knowing a person's name, and more like knowing their voice.

The air could carry his words, his meaning, by the Current that tortured his body.

"Enter," Tirlav commanded.

Glentel sprang into the tunnel, rushing into the grove and down its rock-strewn slope, between the distorted growths of centuries upon centuries. Tirlav knew what they were. They ringed about the Wellspring pool and up the slopes. Yene was among them, now. How long before there would be no room left in the grove?

"Liel!" Glentel knelt beside him, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders and lifting him up. Movement was difficult. The muscles of his lower body were frozen in rigor. Even though Tirlav could barely feel through his hardened skin, he knew that Glentel struggled beneath his weight. Glentel let Tirlav lean back against his bosom.

"Why did they leave you here?" Glentel asked. "The rest of the Synod departed two days ago."

"Please," Tirlav said, forcing the words through his hardened lips. "Her harp. Bring it." His tones were wrong, but Glentel understood. Tirlav had never taken Jareen's harp to Tir'Aelor. He feared that his wife or her children might touch or damage it, and he could not stand that thought. The harp was the only possession that still meant anything to him.

"I will carry you back," Glentel said.

"No," Tirlav answered. He doubted Glentel could lift him now, anyway. "Bring it to me."

"Please, let me carry you home."

"The harp," Tirlav said again, exerting his will despite the pain.

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"Let me help you sit at least," Glentel said. Tirlav did not protest, and Glentel put his arms under Tirlav's armpits and dragged him toward a moss-covered rock. He had to be careful of the hardened growths that had burst from Tirlav's shoulders. Propping him up so that he would not fall, Glentel raced from the grove. Tirlav was hardly aware of the time that passed. His legs were splayed out before him, if legs they could be called. The wafting steam of the Wellspring filled the grove.

He saw Glentel's return without the aid of his eyes.

"Here it is, Liel." Glentel hesitated in front of Tirlav, unsure, holding the instrument in its bag. Tirlav had kept it in tune whenever he was in the High Tir, though he never played melody upon it.

"Bring it to me," Tirlav said. "Lean it against me."

Carefully, Glentel leaned the smooth wood of the harp against his liel's inner thigh, though Tirlav could not feel it. He settled the upper soundboard against Tirlav's shoulder, keeping a steadying hand on the post of the instrument.

Jareen had given Tirlav this instrument—a wooden masterwork of surpassing loveliness resting in his deformed bosom, but nothing like the loveliness she had been in his arms.

He had never forgotten her touch across the dismal years. He tried to embrace the harp, but he struggled to extend his elbows. Two of his fingers were fused together, the others gnarled and stiff, the tips sprouting horny growths. They scraped the strings with a rasping sound. He tried to flatten his hands, to grasp the strings to play, but he could not. His arms were little more than clubs, now, if they were even as useful as that.

Tirlav hung his head, resting his cheek against the soundbox. He could barely feel it. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest would not expand. Oh, if he could play the harp one last time, lost in music. He had not treasured life, back when he did not know its outcome. How much longer? How much longer before the end?

Was there another chance beyond this world? A chance to hold the harp again, or see Jareen or his son? Were the stories of Vah'tane true? If they were, he had lost his chance to seek it. Rest was all he could hope for.

"You may go, Glentel," Tirlav said, his eyes closed.

"Liel," Glentel said, "we must get you back to the house. I can carry you."

"Thank you, my friend, for all your service and care. Take a mate and settle, raise sons and daughters. Walk in the light of the stars. The Synod will grant you your request."

"Liel—" Glentel began.

"Go," Tirlav said, adding will. Each touch of the Current hurt, now. "I wish to be alone."

"I will be right outside." Glentel moved to take the harp away.

"Leave it," Tirlav said.

He heard Glentel pause, felt him remove his hand from the post of the instrument. It nearly toppled, but Tirlav managed to steady it in a twisted embrace. Glentel's footsteps retreated up the grove.

Once again, Tirlav tried to raise his hands and touch music, and once again the strings rasped at the hardened texture of his hands. He felt the disordered notes through the soundbox against his cheek, and with his eyes closed, he saw the vibrations dissipate.

His arms shook. He did not have the strength to hold them up. Jerking his torso to try to keep the harp from falling, he only toppled with it, landing on the moss with his face still against the soundbox. His useless hand slapped the strings when he fell, a discordant clash of notes.

He could see it in the Current, the vibration passing through the air, the hum of the strings, the pulsations traveling up and down the wood of the harp. The strings were taut with energy and anticipation.

He reached out with his will, ignoring the pain. A clear note rang out, like light in the darkness, filling the grove with its shimmering color. He did not need his useless hands. The strings were already full of energy, waiting to sound. He called forth another note.

Something pressed on him. It was the heaviness, the will. It did not belong to the Synod. He ignored it. No longer did he fear the Change. What care had he for pain? He willed to the harp again. Another note rang out, a perfect tone. Anger rose in his breast, anger and joy and sorrow mixed. The harp lay nestled against him, and his marred cheek upon its smooth wood.

And he played. He played music like he had never played it, pouring himself out through the instrument, liberated from all hindrance, without need for intermediary of muscle or skin or bone. The harp sang and wept for him, the vibrations alight with all the lost years of his life. Every crushing melody that had not escaped him joined in one, pouring forth in a single rhapsody of will. He saw Jareen, and he saw his son, and he played for them. Played all his apologies and love, even as he slipped away. Even as he Changed.

***

In a little alcove far underground, Faro awoke. He had seen his father wrapped in the vibrations of melody and harmony, bound in aching beauty. As his father played, he had grown, spreading a canopy. And Faro wept for him in the dark.

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