A few more cases of the Malady were discovered the following day—one among the wounded and two among those working on the fortifications, yet Tirlav allowed them to continue their labors. More Canaen riders were glimpsed in the Meadow, and a scouting party that Tirlav sent out beyond the clearing was driven back by quth with the loss of two lives. He had to acknowledge that though the foe had yet to mount a concerted assault, they were effectively under siege. There was no way to tell what numbers the enemy commanded. All they could do was work feverishly on the defenses while their supplies of food ran low. A supply detachment would have arrived any day, but with so many quth about, there was no hope of a regular resupply without substantial reinforcements or loss of life. At least they had water. Each of the groves had access to water. The sites had likely been chosen for that reason. A natural cistern of rock supplied the South Grove, but it had rained unusually little in the past weeks. The water level of the cistern had actually lowered.

Day followed day. More of the wounded succumbed to their injuries, and more cases of the Malady crept through the camp. Tirlav formed a small cadre for sentry-duty comprised just of those suffering from the Malady, keeping them separate but allowing them to serve rather than languish.

"We must prepare for the likelihood that help won't come," Menlane said. His right arm was useless, hanging in a molded sling, and he sat cross-legged beneath Tirlav's pavilion.

"What is it that you would prepare?" Tirlav asked him.

"I would not merely sit here and let them starve us. Once the food runs out, we can only weaken."

"I have considered this," Tirlav said. By halving rations, they could go another week.

"Our vaela are rested."

Tirlav saw the temptation. He also felt it difficult to consider leaving the Meadow entirely. With great losses, they might be able to cut their way back to Sholrodan, or west to the edge of the Mingling, but. . . It was as if the impulse sickened his stomach, despite the logic.

"So long as we were here, the Canaen must think twice about moving beyond us."

"Consider it at least," Menlane said. "Would it not be better to die riding into the enemy than starve here? We have already failed the Synod's command. We have given up the Meadow. Would it not be better dying to retake it?"

Tirlav stared at Menlane.

"You mean attack?"

"Of course."

Tirlav tried to hide his surprise. He had thought the plume was discussing a retreat.

"I will consider it."

How many of his riders would have thoughtlessly followed Kelnere, he wondered? Yet they had held to his order, just as they followed his commands, now. Why? It all made so much less sense, here. At least to him.

Thankfully, relief came on the fifth day after the battle. Canaen riders streamed north past the grove, pushing their vaela hard. Within an hour, a company of riders approached through the Meadow at the canter. Rather than riding up to the grove path, they halted on the crest of the hill to the east, drawing up in line and staring at the opening.

One of the sentries found Tirlav in the grove, having run from the eaves of the wood. As yet, they had not been driven out of the narrow strip of woods between the grove clearing and the Meadow, allowing them to keep eyes to the east.

"Liel," the sentry said. "They have blown the signal to ask for a meeting."

"A meeting?" Tirlav asked. "And they appear to be Findelvien?"

"As near as we can tell at this distance, though their steel is not darkened and their silks look fresh."

"Newcomers, then."

"I think they are wary. We have not yet shown ourselves."

That made sense, at least. Still, Tirlav was not less wary.

"Let them see you and respond that they may approach the grove with a single contingent."

"They might want to meet you in the open, Liel."

"Let us see how wary they truly are."

The sentinel slapped his chest and left at a run, heading back to carry out Tirlav's order.

Not wary enough, Tirlav thought as a contingent of riders trotted into the clearing from the path, heading for the grove. A liel whose long plume shone fresh and yellow led them. As the sentry had reported, the newcomers' clothes and gear were clean, unblackened and still shining in the daylight. Their eyes were wide as they approached the grove's new fortifications of stakes, barricades, and pitfalls. Tirlav met them at the rough gate, a movable obstruction of logs bristling with sharpened spikes.

"Findel's Blessing on you," he called to the company liel as he approached.

"And on you," the liel replied. "I am Liel Commander Caelo of Tlorné, sent by Liel High Commander Sholrodan. I bring a message for the Liel Commander of this Grove."

"I am Liel Commander Tirlav, Son of Aelor," Tirlav replied, then turned and looked at the plumes of his company who had come to the gate to observe. He picked out Neyel, new plume of the Tlorné survivors.

"Neyel, do you know this one?" he asked, quiet enough that the newcomers could not hear.

"I do not know him, liel, but I am kindred to vien behind him."

Tirlav nodded. Seeing them up close had calmed Tirlav's suspicion already. Most of the Canaen he had seen showed sign of the Change, and the accoutrements of the company were Findelvien or his eyes had failed. Yet it was no harm to make sure.

"Open the gate and let them in."

The Liel of the new company dismounted, leaving his vaela and approaching the gate on foot. Beyond him, his riders stared with expressions of mingled fear and surprise. No doubt Tirlav's remnants, looking down from the trees and through gaps in the barricade, appeared a worn and rough lot to them. Had Tirlav looked like these new riders, just a short time ago. . .

The new liel met Tirlav in the gateway and slapped his chest. Tirlav returned the dignity to one of equal station.

"High Liel Sholrodan has directed me to put myself and my company under your command," Liel Caelo said, holding out a sealed tenae.

"You are new to the Mingling?" Tirlav asked, taking the tenae and thinking how he himself had little claim to be anything but new. He had been there only what . . months? He found it hard to discern the time.

"Yes, Liel. We arrived eight days ago."

"Who is guarding the coast, if you are here?"

Caelo tilted his head to the side, confused.

"I'm sorry, Liel. We never guarded the coast."

"Were you not the company raised after us?"

"I do not think so. We are one of the eleven companies raised by the Synod only weeks ago."

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"Eleven companies?" That arrested not only Tirlav's attention, but the attention of all those near enough to hear.

"Yes, Liel. The companies have been sent to different points throughout the Mingling."

"Are they all riders?"

"No. There were not enough vaela trained. We are the only riders. The rest of the companies were foot. But we have brought many remounts, and your supplies."

Tirlav took a deep breath. He was not sure whether this new strength of numbers would be sufficient to retake the other two Meadow groves, but their situation had certainly improved. They could take the fight into the open ground, now.

Twisting the end of the tenae to break the beeswax, he popped off the cap and slid out the rolled paper, knowing that it must hold some sensitive knowledge that could not be entrusted to the voice of a messenger.

Liel Commander Tirlav, Son of Aelor, or whoever leads the remnants of the Meadow, from High Liel Commander Sholrodan: Findel's blessing.

The dispatched riders reached me. We have received new orders from the Synod, who have reinforced us with fresh companies. There will be an assault on Canaen fortifications in the north, an attempt to turn the Canaen offensive. Do not concern yourself with the other groves. You are to ride with all your command and assault the eastern eaves of the Meadow as one. Drive a spike as far into Canaen territory as your sword arm allows. Spend your lives dearly without reserve. Every bit of Canaen strength you divert could turn the balance of the greater assault. Do not look for return.

On the 7th morning of Teliel, let it be done.

This is the will of the Synod.

Tirlav re-read the message three times before looking at the new liel. The vien observed him with thinly veiled curiosity, revealing that he did not know the contents of the letter. Tirlav felt an impulse to tear it up, to burn it, to ignore he had ever received it, but that could not be. The Synod had commanded it. This was a direct order. Sweat broke out on his forehead. How could they survive such a command?

They were not meant to. Sholrodan had made that clear. And these new riders. Had he said they were raised weeks ago? They were not even given time to train?

Was disobedience possible? Sweat rolled down his neck, and his fingertips tingled. What was the point of disobedience? When Sholrodan found out, the outcome would be the same. Tirlav would be removed from command, killed or placed in the fore of an assault, and all these would ride east under someone else's command. He could not disobey the Synod and go home. . .

He could not obey them and go home, either.

They were already dead.

He glanced at the new liel again. Some survived the Mingling for decades. A few served out their hundred and eleven years. He shook his head. Two companies would die before they'd served even a year in the Mingling. . . one before they'd even served a fortnight.

"Liel?" Glentel asked. He alone of those standing in the gateway did not wear a plume. He remained a rider of the Aelor contingent, but a competent one whom Tirlav depended on, like Tereth. . . except Tereth could not walk.

"Shelith," Tirlav said, looking around for the new remnant plume of the South Grove. He had been in the Mingling for thirty-odd years.

"Liel?"

"What would you say is the weakest point along the eastern eaves?"

"The eastern eaves?"

Tirlav nodded. He knew the vien had heard. Shelith shrugged and chuckled.

"There is no weak point. The Canaen have fortified the eastern eaves for a thousand years and more. They have built with stone, woven trees, and cultivated hedges of thorns half a mile thick."

"And why have we not done the same? Why should we defend against them without fortifications?"

Shelith frowned. "Liel, we have not defended against them for centuries."

"What do you mean?"

"Until now, we harried them. The stations are staging points for our riders, not fortresses."

"Still, it was—" Tirlav caught himself. He had almost said it was foolish not to build defenses, but he couldn't speak such criticism aloud. It would amount to criticism of the Synod.

"Liel?"

"You say we have been attacking them for centuries and yet they still hold the eastern eaves? Have any of our attacks been successful?"

Shelith shrugged.

"I do not know, Liel."

Tirlav took of his helmet and tucked it under his arm, wiping away sweat from his forehead with his free hand, darkening the cloth of his gloves. The 7th morning of Teliel was the day after next. He looked at the new defenses and sighed.

Many yards of new open ground had been added to the clearing. Around the grove, they had erected a haphazard wall of spikes, logs, and branches. The new ditch was still only half-finished. They had labored to the extreme to fortify, and now they were ordered to attack.

***

Tirlav hardly slept. He was a servant of the Synod. . . could he refuse a duty just because he wanted to live? He thought of Jareen. She never seemed to care about the Synod, and yet she served her people. How could he show his craven face again in the Embrace if he refused his duty? There was no going back—not in any way worthy of living.

The battle he fought in his will was like a battle of the body, and he rose exhausted when the morning came. Tirlav himself rode with the entirety of the new company, crossing the Meadow to within sight of the eastern eaves of the Charth woods, daring to approach almost within bowshot. A few small cohorts of Canaen riders fled before them, but they saw no great body of the enemy. He stared as they rode along the eaves, trying to perceive any gap in the wood-line or any sign of fortification, but for all he could see, it was just a forest of twisted trees, with here and there the undulation of a wooded hill.

When he had questioned Hanle, Shelith, and the other veterans remaining, they had all affirmed the same; the eastern eaves were fortified, a death trap to enter. Yet of specifics, they knew little, and they reported what they had heard from others before them. They had all served most in other parts of the Mingling, only sent to the Meadow to aid the riders when their respective companies were so reduced in numbers as to effectually cease to exist. The disparate remnants had joined together as guards for the groves, a duty considered easy among them.

They covered at least ten miles of the Charth eaves before turning back, meeting no resistance and learning little. They saw the openings to a few narrow paths that appeared to lead further into the forest, but they turned a short distance into the woods, revealing little of what lay within. By late afternoon, Tirlav and the new company of riders returned to the grove. The next day, Tirlav was ordered to lead the attack. As yet, he had not told anyone of the order he had received. Somehow, keeping it hidden felt like having more time.

But he didn't have more time. If he was going to go through with this, he would have to give orders tonight, best while there was still daylight. He had ridden through the day, thinking in circles. Once back at the grove, he had retreated to Kelnere's old canopy.

How could he do anything but order the attack and ride at the fore? That familiar compulsion wrenched his gut—obey, obey, obey. He had never been so aware of it before—not until he'd come to the Mingling. It was like a force within him, contending with his own mind and his own selfishness. Again, he thought of Jareen, like a light shining outside of all the horrors his life had become. How was it that she disregarded duty so easily—and yet, still she served.

"Liel?"

Tirlav looked up. He had been kneeling on the bare planks of the platform, his forehead, his body clenched, the sweat that never stopped in the Mingling rolling down beneath his silks and mail. He struggled to his feet, picking up his plumed helm from where it lay next to him.

"What is it?" he asked. It was Glentel.

"Some are wondering what your orders are, now?"

Tirlav nodded. How many plumes—and even a company liel commander—were in this clearing and still it was Glentel who came to inquire. It was better that way.

"Gather the plumes and all but those on watch to meet me before the gate," Tirlav said. Glentel nodded and retreated. Tirlav took a moment to drink water from a gourd. He had started to grow used to the strange flavor of the water in the Mingling. Or at least, he was always too thirsty to care.

Soon, a whistle from the north edge of the grove sounded assembly. Vien would be streaming there. He slid to the ground and headed toward the gate. Did he put his helmet on with its liel plume to show authority, or keep it tucked beneath his arm? He kept the helm under his arm. There was already a crowd at the gate, with the plumes standing behind the log barrier. More vien were streaming, but they moved aside for Tirlav to pass through. The liel of the new company approached, and seeing Tirlav, took his helmet off and tucked it beneath his arm. The plumes all followed suit as their commanders arrived. Soon, thousands of vien filled the grove both in the branches and upon the ground, the fresh and the weary together. He glanced at the tree line beyond the clearing and kept his voice low. There was no telling how closely they were spied upon. Only the new commander and the plumes truly needed to hear him, and they would disperse the orders from there.

"The Synod has ordered an attack. We are to move with our whole strength against the Charth eaves."

At this, there was much shifting of weight and looking amongst each other, especially from the remnant veterans nearby. Tirlav continued:

"We must assume we are spied upon, so relate these things to those on watch in whispers and away from the embankment. We do not ride in vain. We are to draw attention away from a great assault elsewhere, so that our fellows might succeed and the Canaen advance on Findeluvié be stemmed. We will cut as far into their woods as we can before we ourselves are brought down. Kill all you can. There is no return. We move from here three hours before the dawn in silence, and we strike at first light. Be prepared."

Tirlav turned to face Hanle and Shelith. This was the only concession he had wrestled out of his will. Sholrodan had commanded he ride with all those under his command as one. They still had many wounded who could not ride or fight. He could not ride with them as one, and the remnants were not riders.

"The remnants are to take the wounded and bear them to the nearest safety. Shelith and Hanle, this is your charge." He struggled to get the words out, sweating and feeling ill in his stomach. Yet he did it.

The two plumes bowed and struck their chests.

With that, Tirlav raised his helm and placed it on his head, sliding the strap beneath his chin. Liel Caelo of the new riders was the first to follow suit, placing his helm on his head. The plumes followed.

"Set about your preparations," Tirlav said. "But keep your whistles silent. We need not announce our intentions quite yet."

With that, the plumes dispersed and the vien onlookers hurried to join with their contingents and receive their orders. It did not feel right, that they should obey without question. None of it felt right.

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