Tirlav lay in his hammock listening to the drizzle on the canvas canopy above him. Each vien in the company had a waxed canvas cover for their hammocks to keep out the rain, but the covers were humid and hot. It was often preferable to allow the rain to fall, although it made the mold grow faster. Hormil had not allowed them to use the covers in the Embrace, but they had packed them on their trip east. It was so humid in the Mingling that the ground never felt truly dry. Tirlav's canopy stank, and he considered removing it, but it did shield the rain. Otherwise, it would be his hammock that stank. Some of his vien built canopies of branches and leaves above their hammocks, but even those rotted after a time. If it wasn't the damp from rain, it was the damp from sweat.

"Liel Commander Son of Aelor." It was Glentel speaking.

"Enter."

The vien stepped inside the canopy. After two months, the wounds were finally closed, leaving ridged white scars with odd green pigmentations. His left eye too was scarred.

"A rider from Liel Commander Kelnere," Glentel said. "He calls for all riders. The messenger has ridden on to the North Grove as well."

"What is amiss?"

"He would only say that the South Grove calls for aid."

"Did he say where to join?"

"At the South Grove."

"Then I will blow the whistle," Tirlav said, tightening his sword-sash and taking up his bow and quiver.

The camp sprang into life at the signal. Two contingents already rode patrol away from the grove, and Tirlav dispatched five riders to find them, bearing a message to meet the rest of the company on the ride south. He glanced at the sky. There were two hours before dawn. The patrol was likely heading back already. The delay should not be great.

Was this usual, to call the riders of all three stations to the aid of one? No one had ever mentioned that to him, but then, he'd been told so little about what had gone on here before. Even when he spoke to the remnant plume, he hardly knew what to ask. This was a question he'd never considered, and the veterans offered little on their own. Who wanted to remember? Whether memories of the Mingling or the Embrace, there was pain in recollection.

Few signals were needed to rouse and prepare the contingents. No one grumbled at being roused. They moved with rote precision. The vaela snorted and groaned. Over seventy riders had to be left behind for lack of mounts, but Tirlav and the plumes had already determined who would remain—mostly those who had suffered severe wounds in the previous battle.

A wide swath of the trees was kept cut back from the north end of the clearing, a communicating passage to the Meadow. At the end of the gap, a single watchtower stood, its four corners supported by massive thorny trees with variegated bark. It was the most formidable structure Tirlav had seen in the Mingling. Sharpened stakes ringed it for many yards on every side. The sentries there touched their chests in salute as the riders passed in the darkness. A drizzle of hot rain had fallen all night, and the vaela and riders were already soaked.

Weary as they were, the vaela could move quickly, especially over short distances. It was still dark when he heard the whistles of Kelnere's company wafting their echoing tones in the night. Tirlav raised his own whistle and sounded the approach. It was answered with the notes of the "all clear." Soon, Tirlav saw the silhouettes of rows of riders arrayed on the Meadow. There was no sign of the foe.

Tirlav was at the head of the column, and Kelnere himself rode up to greet him.

"Findel's blessing upon you, Son of Aelor," Kelnere said. "Your haste does you justice."

"What is amiss, Liel?"

"A host of Isecan marches against us," he said. "My scouts track their movements."

"How great a host?"

"They are between five and six thousand quth pikes, with some Canaen bows among them, and more than seven hundred Canaen riders."

Tirlav looked to the east. That was too many. Kelnere's company was now barely eight hundred riders. The northern station boasted little more than five hundred and fifty. Even with Tirlav's whole company, they could not hope to ride down such a number of well-armed foes, but perhaps if they held the grove.

"If you would have told me, I would have put the remnants on the move as well," Tirlav said. "Is there still time? How far are they?"

"Leave the remnants. We will settle this in the field. I trust your other contingents are on the way? The North Grove should arrive before the enemy. We can strike them from all sides."

"That is madness. We won't win."

"Our duty is to fight. We win if we can. I have never heard of such a host marching as one in the Meadows. When the northern company arrives, we attack. We will not allow them one step closer to our eaves than that."

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Tirlav glanced at Glentel. Even in the dark of night, he could see the blank stare of resignation on the vien's marred face.

"I will not commit my company to a charge," Tirlav said.

"Our orders are to prevent the foe from crossing the meadow. This is our purpose."

"Glentel, send three riders back to our station and tell the remnants to rush here. Tell the remnant plume to keep along the eaves and to be wary but make haste."

Glentel wheeled and was gone.

"If you leave your station empty, it could be overrun," Kelnere said.

The loss of a few moldy bits of canvas hardly mattered, and they were due to receive new provisions in a few days. There weren't many supplies left to capture, and if the companies of riders were obliterated, the remnants would be overrun, anyway. Kelnere was not making sense. Linneyn had told Tirlav to be aggressive, but where did it become foolishness?

"They will fall if we throw away our companies."

"We are to keep Isecan from taking the Meadow!"

"We will dismount and hold the tree line. Their riders will be useless and their pikes would need to break formation to enter. Or we can hold your station. Surely you have defenses, as well?"

"You would give them the Meadow?"

"They will have the Meadow and the stations both if we charge!"

"It is our duty to stop them from crossing the meadow!" Kelnere shouted back. Tirlav felt the eyes of the contingents resting on him.

"Stop saying that," Tirlav begged, lowering his voice.

"The Synod has ordered us to keep the enemy from crossing the meadow," Kelnere answered, his tone suddenly flat.

"Did not the Liel High Commander tell you to give no blade of Meadow grass to the foe?" a voice behind Tirlav said. "Is that not the Order of the Synod?" Tirlav turned and saw that it was Menlane, plume of the High Tir contingent.

"The Liel High Commander speaks for the Synod here," Kelnere said.

A great wave of confusion washed over Tirlav. They should charge—a glorious charge. What did the outcome matter? They were already dead. Why prolong it? Perhaps they would win a great victory?

Yet they were tasked with preserving the Embrace. If they threw away their lives, it would take too long for others to come and keep the Canaen from taking the entire western eaves. The tips of Tirlav's fingers tingled, and he found himself clenching his hands. Surely, the Synod did not mean for them to blunder. It felt like Tirlav's mind was pulling into two pieces, but in his gut, he knew they stood a better chance of victory holding the trees. Victory would serve the Synod best.

"It is better for the Embrace if we defeat this host. We will not charge."

"It is not up to you to decide what is best for the Embrace," Kelnere said. "You shame your plume." Kelnere looked past Tirlav and shouted: "All those who seek to be true to the Synod, follow me!" The liel wheeled his vaela and tore back to the head of his company.

Tirlav raised his own voice.

"I am Liel of the Sail Chasers by Order of the Synod, and until the Liel High Commander orders otherwise, I remain so. Stay in your places."

"Liel?" Menlane asked. "It is our duty."

How did any of this make sense? The Synod—Findel bless them—were wise. Everyone knew they were wise. Why was the front such foolishness? He thought of Jareen. How had she so blithely disregarded the Synod? Menlane still stared at him, expecting a response, the anxiety in his expression shared by the riders behind who were close enough to hear the exchange.

"It is my duty to adhere to the Synod's commands," Tirlav said. "It is your duty to adhere to mine until I fall. The Canaen must hold the grass to have taken it."

Tirlav had obeyed Sholrodan in that every vien in the company knew the line of inheritance if Tirlav fell, down to the uttermost. Another urge to join Kelnere in a fated charge welled up inside him. It was hard to think. Sweat rolled down his back, and his vaela stamped and swatted its flanks with its tail. He would wait for the rest of his company. That's all he could do for now. He could put off a decision until they arrived.

It didn't take long. The whistle of the other contingents sounded and soon the rest of his company had joined the column. The plumes of Veroi and Talanael rode straight to him.

"Liel," said Yealn of Talanael. "The north company will not ride. There is fighting near the North Grove."

Tirlav cursed Isecan under his breath.

"Wait here," he said, and sang his vaela toward Kelnere. The liel watched his approach with a passive gaze, his anger apparently gone.

"Son of Aelor," he said as Tirlav arrived.

"The northern company is engaged. They will not come."

"Then it is left to us."

If it was madness before, it was even more so now. They could not contest such numbers. Even a defense of the grove could prove difficult. Surely, no purpose could be achieved by throwing away their lives against pikes. The Synod could give orders, but they were not there in the Mingling. They did not know what Tirlav knew. He flexed his fingers again. Why did his fingers hurt? His toes, too. In the dimness, he thought of Jareen's bright face, her skin and hair clearer than moonlight. She made her own choices. The air was thick and humid, but there was the hint of a stirring breeze out of the east.

"I will hold the eaves," Tirlav said. "Join me. Do not waste your company."

Kelnere stared east. The faint grey of dawn had begun to lighten the horizon.

"I can't," Kelnere said. "I wish. . ." The liel trailed off, still staring. "Do you think Vah'tane is out there somewhere?"

Tirlav squinted. How was he thinking of Vah'tane now?

"Don't ride, please," Tirlav said, his voice low so that others might not hear.

Kelnere turned his vaela, showing his back to Tirlav. Kelnere only had three plumes, and they waited in silence.

"Let us ride," Kelnere said, raising his whistle and singing it into the coming dawn as his vaela sprang forward. His riders followed, the only sound the fall of cloven hooves.

As he watched them go, Tirlav's muscles spasmed, and he raised his voice in a wordless cry of pain and frustration. He wheeled and rode back to his own plumes. He saw their searching eyes watching him.

"Do we ride with them, Liel?" Yealn asked.

"No. Follow me."

With his company behind him, Tirlav rode toward the gap in the trees that served as the passage leading to the Southern Grove. As at the Center Grove, a watchtower stood at the opening, upheld by stout trees. From its platforms, sentries watched the oncoming dawn.

"Liel," one said, slapping his chest and looking down as Tirlav approached.

"Liel Kelnere is gone," Tirlav told him. "I am your liel commander in his absence. You will obey me as the Synod has directed."

The sentries inclined their heads.

"Bring me your plume with all haste."

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