Tirlav awoke to birdsong and the music of a nearby harp. When he realized what he was hearing, he tried to sit up but found himself fighting the silk sheets tied in place. He clawed at them before remembering and sliding out the side of the hammock-bed.

The room was small but well appointed, its carved wooden beams fashioned from timbers grown specifically for the purpose. The finest of Vien structures used grown wood, farmed into certain shapes over decades so that the finished, polished form would avoid any incongruities and limit joints.

What was he doing in such a place? He reached up and felt his face. How must he look? What might Jareen think. . .

Jareen. Was she still in the High Tir? He must find out. He stepped toward the door and paused.

He was a High Liel, a member of the Synod. She was an Insensitive. He would be forced to marry, given a bride from some unrelated tree of another heartwood to bear as many children as possible before the Change overtook him. Jareen, too, would die young. What they had shared was a fleeting sunset.

He could take her into House of Aelor. High Liele did not marry for love, anyway. It was a duty, that was all. They were the servants of Findeluvié, pouring out their lives for their people. There might be scandal. The scions of the Synod could not be shrouded in confusion. Surely an Insensitive would not give birth? He tried to think if he had ever heard of such a thing. Could not two doomed to die share something in their short years?

He would go to her. Throwing open the door, he stepped into the outer room. Glentel sat in a corner with his back to the wall, his gaze absently forward. He was arrayed in his armor with new silks. The steel had been meticulously cleaned, and his helm sat on his lap atop his sheathed bow and quiver. At his side hung his knife and sword.

"Liel," he said, standing and slapping his chest.

"Findel's blessing," Tirlav said. "I do not think you need go about in arms."

Glentel took a breath.

"Liel, I. . . If it please you, I would."

Tirlav nodded, looking down at himself. He was wrapped in the silk robe from the night before. It was a loose thing, and he did not feel dressed in it. After so long with the familiar weight of mail and weapons, even with the silk he felt naked. He could understand Glentel's wish. He realized that he didn't want to go like this to Jareen.

"Perhaps there is other attire for me as well," he said.

"There is, Liel." Glentel nodded at a basket sitting upon a chair. Within it Tirlav found fresh silks and mantles of Aelor burgundy. "They brought them while you were gone," Glentel added. "And there is food. You have eaten little for days."

It was true, the table was laden with caramelized fruits, baked vegetables, and a variety of wines. He still felt the urge to go see Jareen straight away, but he was hungry and thirsty, too. It was also true that the longer he was awake, the more the urge to see Jareen mixed with a strange fear of seeing her, as well.

"How many days is it since we left the Mingling?"

"This is the sixth, Liel."

Six. He could not remember them all. His fingers tingled, and he could sense the Current tugging at him. Once a year, his father had made his scions reach out to it, to sense its presence without grasping. Now, it was as if the Current pooled in his fingers and lips.

"Please, eat," Glentel said, extending an arm toward the food.

"Yes, we will eat together," Tirlav said.

"I have done little but eat for days, Liel."

"Then you will drink with me, comrade."

"It is best if I wait upon you. I could help you dress."

"Do not be a fool. We did not survive the Mingling to act like strangers or pretend I cannot dress myself."

Glentel stiffened, as if the reminder hurt him.

"I'm sorry, Glentel," Tirlav said. "I would have ridden with them, too."

Glentel lowered his head to acknowledge the words.

"Come. I will eat and drink, and you will drink."

Together, they sat at the table and Tirlav surprised himself with his own appetite and thirst. Nevertheless, he ate quickly. Jareen filled his mind like the fear before battle.

"Alright," said Tirlav, still chewing and rising from his chair. "I have eaten and fortified myself with wine. There is someone I wish to see at the House of Lira."

Glentel rose.

"You need not come," Tirlav said. He did not want a witness.

"Liel, I was to be your attendant."

"I think I will be safe in the High Tir," Tirlav said, trying to smile. "Stay and rest. You have earned it."

"Not as much as three thousand three hundred and thirty-one others," Glentel said, a sharp edge in his voice—an edge that cared not for authority or position. "If you will not permit me to serve the dignity of the Synod, then you should have ordered me to die with our company."

Tirlav abandoned his forced smile. In his comrade's scarred face, something became obvious to Tirlav. Glentel had no Jareen and no Synod. He had been taken from the company and plunged back into Findeluvié with only this meager duty to anchor him, full of the knowledge that he had escaped a doom that had swallowed the others. There was fortitude in Glentel, but his strength threatened to turn on itself if given no object. It was odd how clear it was to Tirlav; he did not usually perceive others so clearly.

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"Come," he said. Outside the door, they started down the stairway and had completed a full rotation of the great trunk of the redwood when they came face to face with the chief of the Synod servants who had retrieved them from the Mingling.

"Liel Aelor," he said, bowing. "I have come to bring you to the grove. The Synod is assembling."

"Now?" Tirlav asked.

"Yes."

Tirlav gritted his teeth. But what choice did he have?

"So be it."

The servant led them down the rest of the stairway as it spiraled thrice more before reaching the ground.

"Is the House of Lira still used to house the afflicted?" Tirlav asked the servant.

"It is."

"Who cares for them there?"

The servant glanced back at Tirlav, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"An Insensitive and her human," he said. "And three servants from the House of Lira."

"And to which house do you belong?"

"I was the steward of the household of Lira," he said.

At the first boundary of the Wellspring Grove, the servant and Glentel left Tirlav to go on alone. At least this time, Tirlav was not asked to strip. The great grove felt different in the daytime. Though a dusky shade prevailed beneath the canopy, he could see up to the branches of the great eucalyptus and ebony trees, their bark deeply fissured with age. The long tunnel was not so bewildering in the half light, but as he stepped into the domed chamber formed by the trees around the Wellspring, his eyes had to adjust to even deeper shadows. Oddly enough, he did not feel he truly needed to see. He could sense the rising steam. He was aware of the wills that awaited him. He knew where they stood beside the pool upon the slope of the ancient ground. It was clear to him that those wills also knew his presence. There was no need for greetings. As he approached the pool, it was as if he sensed more by the Current and less with his body.

The other seven were spread out around the pool, facing the waters.

"Grasp the Current," Lielu Andalai said, "and reach out with your will toward us."

Tirlav raised his hand as his father had taught him. He wasn't sure he even needed to. The Current practically pounded against him like waves on the sands, threatening to draw him down into the flood. He reached out with his will. His bodily senses grew dim. He was aware of each of the wills gathered there, and another—something above and around them, like a great weight. Thoughts and emotions poured into him from the others, not in words, but in impulses that he could comprehend.

Lielu Talanael turned her will to him, wishing to show him something.

"Do not." It was the will of Liel Namian. "Do not overwhelm him. We must do this now."

"His is a High Liel and deserves to know that which he does. He does not yet understand."

"Our action is already decided."

"Without knowing, his will may be too weak."

A struggle ensued, wills vying against each other. It was the first Tirlav witnessed the struggle of the Synod. He had heard of it from his siblings, but nothing could have explained it. Wills struggled with wills for mastery, and in the end, Talanael's desire was supreme. The others were not defeated, they were subsumed until all was one and all conflict ceased.

Tirlav saw Findeluvié as if he was far above and looking down. At its heart was the Wellspring, and flowing up from it was power. It burst aloft like a great plume, spreading out and falling like rain at its borders. In the east was the storm, the mixing of the Current of Isecan with their own. He felt the force of the embrace fighting the elements, blocking winds and changing currents in the waters, letting in sunlight and holding down heat. He felt the will of the Synod exerted in constancy, holding the embrace aloft, maintaining it even as the Change ate at them over the decades. Tirlav's own will was intermingled there with the others. Now he could feel it. It would consume him in the end, too.

But there was more. It was like the dream he had dreamed in the night. Souls—tens upon tens of thousands of souls—feeding on the power. The souls multiplied, and more of the Current was drawn to them. The borders of the embrace slowly contracted as more and more souls emerged. But some of the souls came together in flocks, moving eastward into the storm. There, they started to vanish, snuffed out. As more went, less of the Current was consumed, and the embrace grew strong again.

The truth struck Tirlav like a blade, and his soul cried out in pain. His will lashed out at those around him, but they were ready in unison. He was powerless against them.

"They too are the sacrifice for our people. They are the offering of the embrace." Talanael's will came to him like a mother speaking to a child. "Without their sacrifice, the land would wither, and our people would be scattered and destitute. They are given, so that others may live in peace."

Tirlav's will writhed, but to no avail. The first exertion of anger gave way to radiating pain.

"Isecan?" he asked. "Is the war real?"

"Isecan is a true foe," willed Liel Tlorné.

"Is it the same for them?"

Silence met the question. It was the silence of ignorance, for he knew that deception was not possible. Their wills were exposed to him as his was to them.

"There is more," Talanael willed.

Tirlav saw again, looking down upon the Embrace, but this time his attention was drawn to something else. It was more feeling than sight, a revulsion, like boils upon the land.

The Malady.

"It threatens us. We did not have enough of the Current before."

Tirlav saw the sweeping movement of tens of thousands heading east, a great surge into the storm, flashing and extinguishing. It was a memory.

The attack.

The companies.

His company.

It was not a distraction. They were meant to die, to stop feeding on the Current with their lives. Company after company had done the same. And Tirlav had nearly been among them. He tried to resist again, but the great weight of presence pressed down on him. He could do nothing. It was the weight of that presence and the will of the Synod.

"It is the secret burden of the Synod," willed Liel Tlorné. "The truth is for us to carry, and no others."

"It was for no less a cause than to make way for a cure to the Malady," spoke Lielu Talanael.

"Does Isecan even matter?"

"If we could destroy them, their Current might feed many more of our people."

"Is it possible?"

Again, there was silence of the wills, but Tirlav knew. He could sense it to the east, among and beyond the storm. The Current of Isecan was strong, vying against them, and the Malady ate at the Findelvien from within. Memories and thoughts poured in, too jumbled for Tirlav to understand.

"We must burn it. We could not do it before. The sacrifice of the companies will allow it."

Tirlav saw a great searing heat bursting out against the Malady, and in the east, fires rising from the forests. The drought in the Mingling was no accident, no mere serendipity of the Mingling's weather. The Synod had vied for months, exerting their will by the Current. Now the forest was dry. Tirlav could almost sense a will to the east. From the Charth woods, it questioned but did not discern their intent.

"Will it work?"

Even as he questioned, the understanding came flowing from the others. They were not sure, but it was their best attempt. They must try before the Synod was destroyed, its scions wiped out, and the embrace of Findel collapse. There was a ripple of contention in the will of the Synod, and Tirlav saw it. The exertion to accomplish their purpose would be great. Fear stirred in Talanael and Lira, but it was subsumed by the others. Nearly overcome by the Change already, Lielu Talanael could not survive the endeavor. Liel Lira expected the same for himself. Yet the resolve of the Synod held. Like the companies, the sacrifice would be made. It was their purpose, and it must be now—now before more of the scions were afflicted. The weight of presence pressed down on Tirlav, and the Current moved through and around them.

It must be done.

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