Coir sat in a low chair, his hands atop the knob of his cane and his chin atop his hands. Even he looked hungry now that the quth had moved on. Jareen heard that the troop had tried to convince Coir to go with them, and Coir admitted that they had nearly kidnapped him to be part of their troop, yet out of respect to his age, they heeded his wish to stay.

When the quth had realized the Vien would keep coming, they had decided to leave. The wild beasts in the vicinity of the camp were already slain, anyway, they said. One morning, Jareen woke up and they were gone. After a week without their fires, Jareen was able to breathe through her nose again. It was odd, but she missed them sometimes—the beasts of the Mingling were never as frightening when they were near—but she did not miss the reek of burning flesh.

"In another few months, there may be more food," Coir said. "But until then. . ." He shrugged. The weather had lightened a little, and some hoped the worst was past.

The Enclave of Vah, they called it. Many still bore the marks of the Malady, others the marks of both the Malady and the Change. They sought her counsel for decisions of this and that—where to build this house, to plant that garden, how to order the distribution of the meager food. She wanted nothing to do with ruling these people, but they looked to her as something she wasn't. So she had named a few of those who had come early, Liethni among them, to form a council for such matters. She put Coir on the counsel as well, and kept herself as far away as possible. Perhaps her time among the humans had lent her more humanness than she had thought, but the idea of sitting in an oval with the deliberating Vien was not appealing. A Vien council could sit together and meditate on a question for an hour without a word spoken and still think a minor decision rushed. Coir insisted on filling her in on the counsels, but better that than the alternative. At least she was used to him. He was closer to family than anyone but Faro.

"Would it be possible to send some back for food?" Jareen asked.

"That was discussed, but it is unclear that the enclaves will allow it. They have not interfered with the afflicted coming to you. They expel them, anyway. But now that so many unafflicted are coming, some of the enclaves have forbidden it. They have to flee in secret."

With hope and rumors of a cure, whole Trees had come with the afflicted, rather than suffer them to go alone. Less than a quarter of those in the camp had actually suffered from the Malady. At Coir's suggestion, all newcomers were asked for news of Faro or Vireel. Nothing new was heard. Coir was certain the enclaves had spies among them, but as yet they had discovered none.

"If not, we will be hungry for some time," Jareen said.

"The other question is whether we should remain here or seek a more suitable location. Perhaps a tir. They say there are tirs in the Mingling as well."

"And what were the council's thoughts?"

"The same as yours. That we should remain here, so that those who seek aid can find us. The location is already known in the enclaves."

A handful of the Canaen had raised a small embrace over the clearing. Within it, the cold had eased and Jareen walked in a simple pale-grey robe given to her by a newcomer. It was sleeveless, and her arms were bare. Once, she would have been self-conscious about her colorless skin, but that felt meaningless, now.

Outside the embrace, the cold had wrought its strange alterations upon the jungles. After the leaves had flared with colors, they had turned brown, grown crisp, and fallen to the ground. The trees raised bare branches into the air, and the sky had taken on a steady grey visage.

Snow had fallen for months on the outside. Many of the wild edibles outside the Mingling bolted, allowing them to harvest the seeds. The fruits tasted strange, but some of the Canaen were veterans of the war in the Mingling and knew how to detect the poisonous varieties. Other seeds they found in the fare that the newcomers brought. The clearing itself had more than quadrupled in size, and now vegetables, herbs, and fruits grew in neat oval beds of turned soil.

The Canaen could sprout the plants by the power of the Current, but they informed her they could not grow them to ripening, for the toll of the Change was too heavy. Jareen hated the idea that the vien and vienu who had raised the embrace suffered for her sake, but they assured her that this was the way of every enclave. Some sacrificed to make the land fruitful, otherwise all would be blasted waste. Done right, the burden would be spread among them and the Change slow. These were not new ideas, though she hated them. She settled her mind by reminding herself that she forced no one. These Canaen at least had a choice.

In just a few months, over two hundred vien and vienu had streamed to her from the enclaves, Trees carrying their stricken, seeking her for healing. Some died along the way. One group had come upon a scene of horror, finding the remains of another group that had been torn apart by beasts. There was little left but blood, torn clothes, and cracked and scattered fragments of bone . The idea of the afflicted dying on the way or being torn apart haunted her.

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She had announced her intention to return to the enclaves, to tell them about Vireel's preventive dosing of the quthli fungus. When she explained it to the council, the expressions of disgust on their faces foretold the reception her message was likely to receive. Nevertheless, she told them she would go.

It was Liethni who convinced her to stay and allow a hardy group of experienced vien make the journey back with her message. If the enclaves captured her, how could she help the afflicted? What of those already on their way to her? They would arrive only to die. Five vien set off eastward with the message, but neither they themselves nor word of them had yet returned. She felt guilt for that, too.

And so she gave herself no rest in looking after the afflicted. During the plague in Drennos, she was young and strong, but now she felt weak and tired. She tried to drain as little of her blood as possible. Once, she had given too little, and the Malady had returned on that young vien after only three days. Nothing she did—not even giving far more of her blood—could save the lad. That too, rested heavy on her mind in the quiet hours. She dreamed more than she used to, and she wished she didn't.

"The blessing of Vah did not rest on him," Coir had said to the others when the lad had died. In the moment, Jareen had remained silent, but later she told Coir in no uncertain words that he must never repeat such a lie. She would not have his loved-ones thinking him somehow at fault. That night, she went to the lad's mother and told her it was not his fault; it was Jareen who had failed. The vienu had the gall to try to comfort her. She felt guilt for that, too.

A few others had died for reasons she did not understand, but most were cured. After the death of the lad, she did not spare her blood. Coir insisted she eat far more than her fair share of the food. When she was not with the afflicted, he made sure she was resting in a little house the vien carpenters had built for her. It was rough hewn timber, but tightly fitted. In the center of the clearing, they had erected what reminded her of a Noshian shrine, at least from the outside. It was hardly surprising, as she was sure Coir had his hand in the planning. It was a long windowless structure with a single door that could be barred from the inside. Woven hammocks hung in two rows within, and the afflicted lay upon them unconscious as she worked their healing. Three brave Canaen veterans had actually returned to the outskirts of Forel to bring back the dried herbs and seeds that Jareen needed to make more tinctures. One of them was badly mauled by a beast on the return trip. He was cheerful, but she felt guilty for him, too.

So far as she knew, no one but she and Coir knew of the true nature of the cure. She had even forbidden Coir to write about it in his notes, whether in Vienwé or Noshian. He had started his record-keeping again in a little single-room house that stood next to Jareen's, so close you could almost stretch out your hands and touch both. The Canaen saw him as some kind of servant of Jareen's and a devotee of Vah, and they treated him with respect—enough to answer many of his questions, especially about Vah'tane. They thought he asked on her behalf, and for his sake she did not disabuse them of the notion. Lethnie asked Jareen if Coir had yet discovered the location of Vah'tane, and if Jareen would lead them there.

"Is that not what you seek?" she said.

By all reports, the Malady was raging in Isecan, and she wondered with growing concern how long this could go on. The Synod had not restored its embrace, and no news had reached her from Findeluvié, though it was said that Canaen scouts had tried to penetrate the Nethec and were repulsed. How dire was the situation in her homeland? What of her brother Velnir? Was he a member of the Synod with Tirlav, or had the Malady taken them as well?

Someone knocked on her door. Coir's eyes jerked open as he lifted his head from off his hands. He'd dozed, as he so often did, now.

"Enter," Jareen called out. It was Liethni who opened the door. She wore a robe of simple grey similar to Jareen's.

"Daughter of Vah," Liethni said, bowing her head. "Newcomers have arrived."

"How many afflicted?"

"None."

"What?"

"It is a Tree of seven souls. None are afflicted, but. . ." Liethni lowered her head again. "One is a Son of Vah."

Jareen rose from her chair. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She had never met another Insensitive. There were so few. Coir pushed himself upright with the help of his cane. Without needing a command, Liethni turned and led the way. Many others were already heading toward the edge of the clearing near the southeastern trail. In such a small camp, word traveled quickly.

All around the edges of the clearing, Canaen sentinels watched both night and day, arrows ever upon the string. Even though beast sightings had lessened, whether hunted out by the quthli or slain by the cold, it was still the Mingling. A few of the sentinels stood around the group of arrivals at the mouth of the trail. The newcomers were still dressed in heavy robes and cloaks; they had just entered the embrace only fifty yards before. All turned to watch Jareen's approach.

Where was the Son of Vah? She looked at the faces of the newcomers, but she saw no Insensitive among them. As she arrived, the vien and vienu pressed their hands to their chests and bowed.

"Daughter of Vah," one of the vien said. "We seek permission to join your enclave. We wish to honor Vah." Jareen squinted over at Liethni. Where was the Insensitive? Liethni nodded at a vienu who held a child in her arms. The child was wrapped in a cloak too big for it, with hood up and face pressed into the vienu's breast as if frightened or shy.

Jareen ignored the vien who had spoken and stepped toward the child. The vienu tried to turn the child to show Jareen its face, but the child burrowed away again. The vienu reached up and pulled the hood away from the child's head.

"No!" he shrieked, grabbing at the hood, but Jareen had seen him: a little vien, hair and skin translucent, an Insensitive no more than six or seven years old.

"Shh, shh," the vienu said. "Look, Mleni, look!"

"No!" the little vien struggled to reclaim the hood even as he pressed his face into the vienu's chest.

"We're here. She's like you, sweet. She's like you."

Without taking his face away from her bosom, the little vien rolled his head to peer with one pale eye at Jareen. He saw her looking and hid his face again.

"Come with me," Jareen told the vienu. "You and the child." She turned to Liethni. "Get the rest settled in somewhere."

Liethni bowed her head.

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