It took far longer to cover distance when riding through the narrow paths of the Mingling. To make it worse, their guide led them west again for many miles before turning north. It was to keep them safer from the risk of a Canaen ambush, the guide said:

"The quth love to take riders in single file. If you are called to reinforce a battle in the woods, go on foot if it is nearby."

Tirlav could see the reason in it. The woods of the Mingling were dense—far, far denser than the spacious groves of Aelor. From dirt to sky, branches, thorns, leaves, and trunks formed such a tangle that one had to crouch or crawl to move through, whether in the trees or on the ground. How any orderly war could be waged inside that mess was incomprehensible to him.

"Why not cut it down?" Tirlav asked.

"It hinders them as much as us," the guide said. "They say the Synod would rather keep the Canaen from moving quickly in force."

Tirlav was still thinking about this answer when the guide drew in his breath in a whistling note. His vaela halted, and Tirlav's vaela nearly rammed into its rump. The guide sat stock still, head to the side. Tirlav wanted to ask what was happening, but he knew the guide was listening. At first, the only sounds Tirlav could discern were the breathing of the vaela, the flicking of their tails, and the occasional stamp of cloven hooves.

Something shook branches up in the trees to their right.

"Bows," the guide said.

Tirlav spun his short spear and slid it beneath his thigh, pulling his recurve bow from its sheath at his side, and sliding an arrow free with his other hand. From the sounds behind, others followed his example. The commotion in the branches continued.

"Loose at whatever you see," the guide said. The guide still grasped his short rider's spear, for it was apparently a practice in the Mingling that the foremost and hindmost riders always bore such spears. By the sounds, there were more than one of whatever moved through the trees, progressing toward them from the east. The foliage and branches above were so dense that even as the sound moved overhead, he could see nothing. His heart beat rapidly, and sweat trickled down from beneath his helm. The first branches above the path were not three feet from his head, though he could see a bit farther.

The rustling in the branches ceased just above them. Tirlav strained to hear and see, half-drawing his bow. A few flutterings told him that something still moved above, but more carefully now.

Along the trunk of a shaggy sycamore, something dark moved. Tirlav loosed his arrow before he even had time to make out what it was. He wasn't alone, for other strings sang. There was a high-pitched scream and the branches shook. Tirlav had another arrow nocked before the vibrations of the first shot left the string, and he let fly, aiming higher into the foliage, though he had no sight of a foe.

Something crashed down through the canopy, screaming and twisting. Tirlav's vaela jumped back, slamming its hindquarters into the chest of Glentel's vaela behind. The dark mass landed mere feet away, and his vaela lowered its head and slammed its horns into the creature. With powerful sweeps of its neck, it twisted the thing back and forth. Tirlav had never ridden an attacking vaela before, and the suddenness of the violence nearly unseated him.

"Well placed!" cried the guide.

Tirlav's attention was drawn back overhead by a renewed commotion. He fitted another arrow. The sound of movement was now accompanied by short yips and chortles, and it moved away to the west. His vaela stabbed the body once more, then freed itself with the aid of a cloven hoof. Dark yellow blood stained the grooves of the spiraling horns. Tirlav looked back down at the body lying still on the ground. Two arrows blossomed from the creatures body, though it took Tirlav a moment to make sense of what he saw. The beast was at least six feet long, not counting a cord-like tail nearly as long again. Its hind paws looked as much like hands as its forepaws, and a great ruff of dark brown fur ringed its naked head—a head that looked far too like a face for comfort. The mouth was like a circle ringed by tiny razor toothlets. Its torso was wide but thin, not unlike the tiny flying squirrels that often glode through the glades of Aelor. Tirlav had never seen an uglier creature than this.

"What is it?" Tirlav asked. "Is it one of the quth?"

"No," the sentry said. "It is a beast only. Stranger things hunt in the Mingling. We call these ones Suckers. It was young and too curious. Do not trust the trees by day or night."

With that, the guide sang his vaela on. It took Tirlav a note thrice sung to urge his agitated vaela to step over the carcass and follow the guide, and in the end his mount chose to jump it instead, forcing Tirlav to duck to avoid hitting his head on a branch.

In the open groves of home, they could have covered the distance to the Meadow in a single day, but along the narrow path they were not yet half way when the perpetual dusk deepened to night. The forest around them erupted in the calls of nameless creatures that Tirlav could only imagine. The canopy above blocked out stars and moon, and instead of cool night breezes a repressive heat descended. Tirlav asked if there was a place they could camp, but the guide refused. They could not stop moving. There was no space to rest. It was safer to press on, and the guide sang his vaela into a trot. Tirlav and the rest of the line sang to keep up. Thorns snagged at Tirlav's legs, and were it not for his greaves, his flesh would have been torn.

The guide did not flag, short spear at the ready.

"Why are the paths not made wider?" Tirlav asked in exasperation after they had ridden thus for hours more. He could smell the blood on the flanks of the vaela.

"They grow back faster than you could believe. We cannot always be mending paths." He had barely finished speaking when someone screamed far behind them, and the scream was followed by shouts of alarm.

"Hold!" Tirlav called.

"Keep riding!" the guide shouted.

"Hold!" Tirlav called again, and sang his vaela to a stop. "What goes on back there?" He tried to turn his mount, but the path was not wide enough. He could not make out the words being shouted from behind.

"We are ten miles from safety, liel," the guide said. "Do not stop here. If someone is taken, there is nothing to be done, now."

"Taken?" Tirlav asked. "Taken by what, where?"

"Anything."

Tirlav turned and called back again. The woods were too loud. Too loud. With over three thousand in the company plus the extra vaela, their single file line stretched for miles.

"Liel," the guide said, a rising note of distress in his tone. "I know you care for your vien, but you are new here. I beg you to trust me and ride on with haste."

Every bit of Tirlav's instincts told him to stay until he knew what had transpired, but there was no room for anyone to ride down the line and bring news. He did not even know what to be afraid of. Why were they so unprepared? Wasn't Hormil supposed to prepare them?

"Liel, I say this for the sake of your lives," the guide implored.

"Move on!" Tirlav shouted. "Stay close! Ride with arrows nocked!"

With that, they rode on. They had already been riding with arrows nocked, but it had given him something to say, some command to shout into the frightful dark. Tirlav's heart beat in time with the fall of his vaela's hooves. They pressed the gait even faster, nearly cantering.

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At last, a whistle sounded from ahead. The sharp tone was unmistakable, cutting through the night like an arrow. With no warning, they rode through an arch of branches and into open ground. He saw the shapes of many vien guarding the opening, blades drawn and gleaming. The starlight looked bright after the darkness of the forest, and the movement of air felt like life after the stillness of the Mingling woods.

The clearing was not as large as the one where Sholrodan had his fortification, but it was more full of stakes, many of them overcome by mats of vines. The guide led them on through the clearing, and over an embankment constructed in the same fashion as in Liel Sholrodan's grove. Beyond the earthwork, the grove of gnarled trees was clear of underbrush and lower branches, giving the vaela room to move.

"Call to formation," Tirlav commanded Glentel, who raised his whistle to his lips and blew the three long blasts. Riders were still pouring into the clearing through the narrow gap in the forest hedge. It would take the thousands a long time to make their way through to the grove. Tirlav watched as the contingents assembled before him, slowly forming as they arrived. It was dim, but he could make out their shapes well enough. The guide stayed beside Tirlav and watched in silence. It was most of an hour before all were assembled.

Tirlav called for roll by exception. The plumes began to call out to their contingents, figuring out if all were accounted for. The contingents, while led by a plume, were subdivied into cadres each with a leader responsible for keeping track of those within, so the accounting did not take long. It was Efle, plume of Tlorné, who rode up to Tirlav first.

"One missing," he said.

"How?" Tirlav asked.

"Something took Sherali." Efle shook his head. "Right off the back of his vaela. It had him in the woods before we could do anything."

"What did the creature look like?"

The plume shook his head again.

"A dark shape."

Tirlav looked at the guide.

"Do you have any idea?" Tirlav asked him. "What could do such a thing? One of those Suckers?"

"Did it come from above, or from the side?"

"From the side," the plume said."

The guide gave the slightest shrug.

"Not a sucker. Could have been. . ." he trailed off, raising his hand as if to say "anything."

One by one, Tirlav's plumes came with their reports. Two more vien had been taken at different points during the ride, so far back that word had not even reached Tirlav and the others had no choice but to keep riding or become separated.

As Tirlav listened to the reports, he noticed that someone stood nearby, a short vien wearing a plumed helm, flanked by two others without distinction of rank. Even in the dark, Tirlav could tell the plume was that of a company liel, not the plume of a contingent. Seeing that he was observed, the vien placed a hand on his chest in salute but did not bow.

"Welcome to the center grove," he said. "May Findel's blessing show you mercy."

Tirlav placed his hand on his chest.

"My thanks."

"How did you fare on the passage?"

"We have lost three riders," Tirlav said.

The commander nodded.

"Poor luck, so soon," he said. "But the Mingling is never idle. May I ask your name?"

"I am Tirlav, Son of Aelor."

"I am Linneyn. I command here until tomorrow. If you would honor me with your presence, we should speak when you are finished. My riders will assist yours to settle for the night."

Tirlav looked around the open grove. Above, the trees were heavily webbed. Beyond the circling clearing, the Mingling clamored with its unfamiliar calls. Besides the trees and nets, there was little to speak of within the clearing. What did it even mean to "settle" there?

"See to your contingents," Tirlav said to his plumes, and then slid down from his vaela and motioned for Glentel to see to the beast.

"Well done, Tlaene," the commander said to the guide. "You're still with us."

The guide slapped his chest and inclined his head.

"Liel," he said.

Commander Linneyn motioned for Tirlav to follow. Linneyn led to a tree near the center of the meadow. Within its middle branches, it held a simple platform not unlike Liel Sholrodan's, with a draping canopy of canvas above it. Inside was a low table and no chairs. Linneyn sat cross-legged on the far side of the table and poured wine from a pitcher into two wooden cups.

"Please, share a drink," Linneyn said, motioning. Tirlav reclined and picked up the carven mug. The vessel was of the barest simplicity, without artifice, serving only its function. It was an oddity for the Vien. He took a sip and grimaced in surprise.

"I know," Linneyn said.

"I'm sorry," Tirlav answered. "Forgive my manners."

Linneyn chuckled.

"There is no point in asking for good wine. If I had better, I'd give it. The Mingling does something to it all."

It wasn't that the wine was entirely bad, but it was different. He could still tell it had been fermented from mango, but it was as if other aromas and notes had mingled therein.

"You get used to it," Linneyn added. "So you're from Aelor you said."

"Yes."

"We lost our entire Aelor contingent ten years ago. May you fare better."

"How many riders yet remain to you?"

"Four-hundred and thirty," he said. "There are remnants of foot here as well, numbering one hundred and seventy-six, all long veterans. They will be yours to command as well, and their plume is competent."

Tirlav was exhausted—far more than lack of sleep and the distance ridden could account for—and so did not guard his thoughts:

"Why should I command experienced veterans?"

"Ask Findel," Linneyn said with a shrug, surprising Tirlav with his irreverence. "But it is the way here. The remnants guard the grove, and they know their business. But the riders are the reason for the grove. Less than three hundred yards to the east of our clearing are the eaves of the Meadow. In the morning, the center is your responsibility."

Tirlav lifted his helm off his head and raked fingers through his hair.

"I don't know what I'm doing. I was not prepared." Why had Hormil told him so little? They were trained to chase sails, fight pirates. How was he supposed to be responsible for the Meadow. What did that even mean? The anger against Hormil rose in him afresh.

"No you weren't," Linneyn said, taking another drink. He topped off their cups from the pitcher as he continued. "We ride as fools into the Mingling so that those fortunate sons and daughters of Aelor and Shéna and Namian and all the rest can live their lives and sing their songs and drink their decent wines and begat their babes without hearing of the horrors found here. That, I believe, is what the Synod wishes."

An impulse stirred in Tirlav, an unfamiliar ill feeling about the Synod, and he pushed it aside before it could fully form.

"How should I guard the Meadow?"

"It was long my practice to split my riders in two, sending half to ride the night and half the day. I have not had the strength of numbers for such a strategy for years, now. Instead, we watch from the eaves for movement, and ride patrols by day or night, seeking to never have a pattern. Avoid routines." Linneyn pressed a finger onto the table top to emphasize the point. "Avoid patterns."

"And what of sorcerers?"

Linneyn looked down into his cup and paused.

"Ignore everything else until you kill it."

This was not much different than the answer Selnei had once given. It had felt unsatisfactory then, and it felt the same now.

"You brought axes, yes?" Linneyn asked.

"Yes. They sent us with axes, saws, and other supplies."

"Keep the eaves back from the grove as much as you can. Every so often, you will need to tend the paths as well."

"Why has not the forest overtaken the Meadow?"

Linneyn raised his palm upward.

"Who knows, truly? Some say it is Canaen sorcery, but I think not. They prefer the dense woods for their sneaking."

Tirlav knew a song that said the trees refused to grow there because of the foul blood of the quth shed by Findel's riders. He found that hard to believe. He had so many questions.

"Why are there not greater fortifications here? Are nets and embankments enough?"

"The Mingling is fearful, but live in fear of it, and it will devour you. Accept that you are dead and be bold. The struggle is over who has the initiative, not the ground. They will harass you at night when they can, but in the Meadow, strive to be the attacker. We are riders, after all. In numbers alone, the Meadow is the least defended section of the frontier. It is the speed and ferocity of the riders that guard this margin."

Tirlav reached for his cup again and drank. As he did, Linneyn glanced at the mail sticking out from Tirlav's silk at the wrist.

"Blacken your blades, Son of Aelor. And cover all your metal. Gleaming blades may delight the eye of maids at home, but the quth see them here. You will fight much at night."

Tirlav glanced at his mail. He had kept the company ceaselessly busy with tending all their harness and weapons. They wore dark silks overtop their armor as it was, but who was he to contradict a veteran? Why had Hormil not told him? He felt a blush returning, not entirely from embarrassment.

"I will see it done," Tirlav said. "Thank you."

They talked and drank the strange wine for some time more, and Linneyn did not appear to begrudge Tirlav his many questions. Dawn broke, and the sun rose over the grove before they left the canopy. Linneyn gave introductions to the plume of the remnant contingent of foot who would remain at the clearing, and in the daylight Tirlav realized that the grove was not quite as undefended as he had thought. The complex of embankments and ditches was wide, with thorn hedges ringing them in, all lower branches stripped from the outer trees. Even so, there was no way the mere remnants of foot could hold the eves of the grove against concerted attack from a significant force of foes. . . Tirlav saw that Linneyn could be right. They were riders, and in the Meadow their greatest defense might be as an aggressive mounted force.

At last, Tirlav watched Linneyn call his own remnant of riders to assemble. With a brief salute to Tirlav, the previous Liel of the Center Grove led his reduced company of riders into the same narrow gap in the trees from which the Sail Chasers had emerged the night before.

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