The woods on the border of the Mingling were uninhabited, uncultivated, wild, full of strange and twisted trees and thorn hedges unfamiliar to Tirlav's eyes. They were not merely species that did not grow in the heartwoods of the Embrace, they were strange in their pattern of growth. Branches turned at odd angles, trunks spiraled, thorns bristled from the stems of leaves, and here and there veins of pigments shot through bark and branch, hues of indigo and violet and aureolin. It gave Tirlav a sense of wrongness, like nothing grew quite as it was supposed.

The vien guide who had met the company as they approached the Mingling led them along a narrow path barely wide enough for one rider to pass at a time.

"Has the Mingling begun?" Tirlav asked, realizing as he did that he was breaking the hush. It wasn't a true quiet; the fall of the vaelas' cloven hooves and birdsong were audible all the while, but the birds only added to the uncanny sensation. The birds were different both in song and plumage. He did not recognize the species of the few he saw. It had been decades since he had seen any creature or plant which he did not know by name.

The guide looked back at Tirlav.

"We are in it," he said. Tirlav thought there was a boredom in the vien's voice, but it did not verge on disrespect. Perhaps weariness was a better assessment.

Tirlav knew that the Mingling was nearly fifty miles wide, and the strange phenomena said to occur there were most pronounced in the center. The woods had only begun to change that day, so they could not be far into the outer edge. Apart from the unusual species of plant and bird, he had seen nothing alarming as yet.

The woods around them grew denser, the thick canopy filtering the light. Soon, it seemed that thorns grew out of every stem, and if the path had been any narrower, the vaela would have torn their flanks on them. The dimness made the light ahead stand out, and Tirlav saw a vien step into the path with drawn swords. Behind him, the beginnings of a clearing could be seen.

No words were exchanged between the guide and the sentry as they reached the opening. The sentry had revealed himself alone, but plenty of others watched from webs and platforms in the trees above. Their foreheads were wrinkled as they squinted, their mouths locked in grimace-like frowns. There was no welcome offered. The abrupt sunlight of the clearing made Tirlav squint as well.

It was truly a massive clearing cut into the forest, at least a hundred yards wide stretching much farther north to south and curving eastward, clearly one portion of a ring. There were vien at labor in the clearing, hacking away vines and weeds with thick-spined blades. A massive grove of cypress—those at least he recognized—and other trees stood beyond, ringed by stakes and earthen berms. The trees were heavily webbed with ropes, the lower branches cut away. Archers sat within the foliage, bows across their laps and their legs dangling into the air.

Tirlav knew that the clearing was a field of death for any that would assault the camp.

Selnei rode up beside Tirlav.

"Here ends my duty to you, other than as any rider in the company. I go to my contingent." With that, Selnei placed a hand to his chest, nodded, and rode back along the emerging line of riders. turned his vaela and rode back. Tirlav watched him go. The veteran's presence had steadied Tirlav's nerves during their trip. He'd known it could not last, but he felt bereft without Selnei near at hand.

"I will take you to Liel Sholrodan," the guide said. "The rest of your company will be taken to its resting place for tonight."

"Where is that?" Tirlav asked, turning back and seeing that some of the sentries were walking along beside the company as they continued to file out into the clearing.

"Do not worry. It is within the grove, and this spot is well guarded. There are two companies here already."

"Go with them and make camp," Tirlav said to Glentel, who had ridden up during this exchange. "Keep a double guard," Tirlav said.

"It is the custom in the Mingling," the sentry interjected, "that no more than half our number sleeps at any time."

Tirlav frowned, but he nodded, and Glentel understood the command.

"If you'll follow me, Liel Commander," the sentry said, and then sang his vaela into a trot, heading toward the grove. The narrow path continued up and over the first bristling berm, across an uncomfortably narrow bridge of bound logs over a ditch, then up a second berm, passing between sharpened stakes that nearly gouged the flanks of the vaela.

The webbing in the trees of the grove was unlike anything Tirlav had seen before. There was hardly any space between branches that was not webbed, except for intentional gaps leading to different layers, never more than one gap in a layer. The amount of rope and cordage required for such dense workings was astounding.

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"Why so much?" he asked aloud as they rode beneath.

"Beasts," the guide answered.

Tirlav had heard of the beasts of the Mingling, but if these were truly defenses meant to deter them, then he had not taken them seriously enough before. The stories that reached the heartwoods about the Mingling were few and hushed. It was a place where loved-ones were sent never to return, a place of grief and old rumors of horror. Whether by choice or command, the few veterans who returned spoke little of the place, and songs of courage rarely dwelt on the details. It occurred to Tirlav that Hormil and Selnei had told them remarkably little of the Mingling, itself.

At length, the guide slid from his vaela's back.

"I will see to your mount, liel," he said. "Lord Sholrodan is above." It felt strange to be called liel by one whose expression bore sign of hard life and service.

Tirlav did not bother to dismount, for a knotted line hung down, and grasping it he pulled himself upward, passing through a gap in the webbing. Above, he saw the floor of a wooden structure, the first he had seen there. The rope led him to a landing. Rather than a house, it was a simple deck of split timber above which a canopy was draped. The trees were not empty; he saw sentries—or simply vien resting, for what difference was there to those who looked so grim—in the trees around at various levels.

Removing his helm and tucking it under his arm, his long plume pointing behind him, he squared his shoulders and approached the opening of the draping canvas canopy.

The inside was startlingly bare. He wasn't sure what he had expected—some allowance for the comfort of a liel, at least. There was a usual hammock like all the riders carried, a shallow basin of water, a low table, and a shelf full of ledgers, inkwells, and pens. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the tent upon the rough planks was a warrior who must have been Liel Sholrodan, the high commander of the Findelvien in the Mingling. His eyes were closed, he wore his armor, and his helm sat next to him, its tri-color plume trailing on the planks. His left hand was missing, yet it was his face that most captured Tirlav's attention. The entire left side was matted with scars, running from the bare top of his head and down his neck to disappear beneath his armor. Veins of violet pigmentation spider-webbed throughout the scars.

"Welcome, Son of Aelor," Sholrodan said, opening his eyes only after he had finished the greeting.

Tirlav bowed, placing his left hand on his chest.

"Blessing of Findel to you, Liel High Commander," Tirlav answered, slapping his chest and bowing. Sholrodan observed him with an emotionless, flat expression.

"Why the Synod sends more riders, I do not know. I have asked for companies of foot, yet they insist on sending riders. Their wisdom is opaque in this."

Tirlav didn't know how to respond to such a statement, so he kept his mouth shut. It was strange to hear anyone come so close to criticizing the Synod.

"I understand that you are part of the Tree of Aelor, a lesser heir. I hope Hormil had the good sense not to keep any of you as plumes for the sake of your birthrights."

Again, Tirlav did not respond.

"Establish a line of succession," Sholrodan said. "Let everyone in the company know who will take your place when you fall, and who will take his place, and his, and so on. It should start with your plumes, and it should rotate through the contingents. Have your plumes establish the same for themselves within each contingent. If all the rest of you die, the last two living should know without doubt who is in command."

"Yes, liel," Tirlav answered.

"It is my experience that riders are best held in reserve at the rear," Sholrodan continued, "to be sent at speed to reinforce where needed. However, the Synod has ordered that you be placed at the Meadow."

The Meadow was a twenty-mile long stretch of open ground in the southerly portion of the front. More than that, it was the only significant stretch of open ground in the Mingling—ground that had known so many battles and so much bloodshed that calling it such a pleasant name felt like a cruel joke. All in Findeluvié knew of it, for more than one song told of battles there. Tirlav knew a belabored lament that spent twelve stanzas trying to make a metaphor of the meadow flowers being the souls of the dead heroes of the Embrace. It had a pleasing melody, but little else. Eldre had forced him to memorize it whole.

"Yes, liel."

Sholrodan stared at Tirlav for an uncomfortable time.

"There is a remnant company of riders at the center grove of the Meadow now. You will be relieving them. They have been there for forty-three years. They have been led these past years by a competent soldier and a brave tactician. I was going to redirect them to ride protection for our supply lines, but perhaps I will put him in command of your company. He has experience and would likely put your vien to better use."

Tirlav felt both relieved and stung at the same time, but he was more relieved than stung.

"As you say,liel," he answered. "I think it would be wise."

"I did not ask your permission nor invite your comment on the wisdom of my plan," Sholrodan snapped.

"As you say, liel. I beg your pardon." Tirlav bowed his head.

"I will send them to ride protection," Sholrodan said, calm again. "You will keep command of the company."

"Yes, liel."

"Tomorrow morning, I will give you a guide to take you to the Meadow. As I indicated, the center grove will be yours. You are not to allow any servant of Isecan to claim any blade of Meadow grass, but do not approach the eastern eaves. How is Hormil?"

Tirlav was taken aback by the question. How was Hormil? He didn't know what to say.

"I don't know, liel," Tirlav answered.

"He was your commander. Did you not see him?"

"I saw much of him, liel."

"Stop it with the 'liel' business every time," Sholrodan snapped again. "So long as you obey me as such, you will please me to stop cluttering the conversation."

"Yes, l—" Tirlav stopped himself and lowered his head.

"You saw much of Hormil but you do not know how he is?"

"It is true." Tirlav fought the urge to say liel.

"That is perhaps the most believable answer you could have given me," Sholrodan said, a thoughtful notation creeping into his voice for the first time. "Is Selnei truly among your company?"

"Yes, as a rider in the contingent of Lishni."

"Bless the fool by Findel's hand." Sholrodan motioned toward the entrance to the canopy. It was the first time he'd moved his hands from his knees. "Go and tell him that I wish to see him at once."

"As you say." Tirlav bowed with hand on chest, took three steps backward, and turning left the tent. He half expected Sholrodan to say something else, but he didn't. Once out of sight, he took a deep breath of the strange, humid Mingling air.

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