It was dusk and fireflies danced in the greensward. Tirlav thought back to when his contingent had first ridden from Aelor to the High Tir and met the rest of the company for the first time. Hormil had stood on the edge of the fountain to address them. Now, vien and vienu lounged and strolled in the cool of the night, and someone with a clear high voice sang one of the old courtship ballads.

Without stopping, he followed the path north with Glentel stalking in silence a few paces behind him. Those on the path moved to the sides and bowed. He was not yet used to such behavior. A hooded mantle might help him move more discretely in future.

Tirlav found the familiar stairway and circled upward. The old door was carved in the motifs of a cinnamon grove. Tirlav raised his hand to knock, but hesitated.

"Wait here for me, Glentel," he said, then pulled the latch and entered unannounced. No candles or lamps lit the entry, but he did not need them to find his way to the dining room. There, a few thick beeswax candles sat on the table clustered together, connected by congealed wax at their bases. Beside them sat two wine pitchers and a nearly-empty glass drinking cup. Liel Hormil sat on a cushion, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as if asleep but somehow upright. Tirlav folded his legs and sat upon the cushions directly across from Hormil. He leaned over and poured wine into the only cup, smelling the fruity bouquet. Lifting the cup beneath his nose, he inhaled. How much wine had he drunk in this room? Had any of the plumes from those evening repasts survived among the wounded he had sent away? No, he didn't think so. He was the last. With that thought, he took a long drink. Hormil had always favored the fruity wines, and this one was especially sugary.

"Findel's blessing to you, Liel Hormil," he said.

Hormil startled awake, raising his hands in front of his face as if expecting a blow. He stared at Tirlav for a few moments, eyes wide. There was a delay before recognition came. Tirlav didn't blame him; his looks had changed. Lowering his hands, Hormil glanced to the cup that Tirlav held and then down to the empty space on the table before him. He took a deep breath, then gave a single chuckle.

"And to you, High Liel Aelor."

"Tell me, Hormil," Tirlav said, swirling the wine in his cup and looking into it. "Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"Know why our side of the Mingling is not fortified? Why eleven more companies were raised? What you were really training us for?"

"I don't understand what you mean, Liel."

"I just can't figure it. You made sure we trained so hard. You made sure we knew how to act as a fighting company. And yet there was so much you never told us or prepared us for."

Hormil stared at Tirlav, his mouth closed. The muscles along his jaw flexed and released.

"Speak truth to me," Tirlav said. "Did you know? Do you know?"

Hormil opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, and opened it again. He sighed.

"It is possible to know a thing, yet not be allowed the memory. . . or the use of it."

With great effort, Hormil rose from his cushions. He walked down to the far end of the low table where another cup lay overturned on its side. He returned and poured himself a drink before sitting back down and taking a long quaff. It was only with this fortifying drink that he looked up and met Tirlav's gaze.

"I did everything I could for you," he said. "And now you have more power and knowledge than I ever did or ever will. What will you do?"

"It is not up to me," Tirlav replied.

"If not you, then who?"

"The Synod."

"You are the Synod."

"The Synod is not a person. It is not even eight persons. You know that."

"So all will be the same."

"You do know," Tirlav said.

The corner of Hormil's mouth spasmed upward.

"It is like the sun. I know it is there, but I cannot look at it." He took another drink. "I think that is how it is with all the servants of the Synod. Those who have seen too much. Did they take one of the riders for you?"

"What?"

"As a servant."

"Yes."

Hormil nodded.

"The High Liele have long been attended by veterans. It was the same with Selnei. The servants of the Synod often outlive the High Liele, but—" he motioned to his head "—it does not. . ." Hormil trailed off, as if struggling to find words. At last, he shrugged.

Tirlav looked toward the front of the house, thinking about Glentel waiting there in the dark.

"Why seek me out, Liel Aelor?" Hormil asked. "I have not drunk of the mysteries that now mark you. What can I tell you? Or did you merely wish to drink with an old commander once again?"

Tirlav emptied his cup, and Hormil did likewise.

"Maybe I did," Tirlav said, looking at the pitcher and considering a fresh pour, but he thought again of Glentel standing outside and felt a pang of guilt.

"I am sending two others to stay here in this house," Tirlav said. "The Insensitive who cared for those afflicted by the Malady, and her human servant. They will come this evening."

"Where am I to go?" Hormil asked.

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"You may remain. They are not servants and are to be treated well." Hormil was known as a servant of the Synod, as was Jareen. It should not be any scandal for her to remain there a short time. The oddity of a human presence may be more interesting for busybodies than anything else. With his young brothers now in the High Tir, it was the best arrangement he had thought of at short notice.

Hormil bowed his head.

"As you say, Liel."

Pushing against the cushions, Tirlav rose.

"May your years outstrip the redwoods," he said without thinking. It was a common courtesy. Hormil smirked.

"You are joined with the Synod, now, High Liel. You must be more careful with your curses."

***

Glentel set down the harp in its silk bag and gently leaned it against the wall. He had carried it all the way for Jareen, careful to hold it away from the metal of his mail. The room was dim, only illumined by the single beeswax candle that Jareen had carried in with them. There was a rider's hammock hung there, and a dusty stained glass window that faced westward. The house itself was lovely, without a single right angle, all its lines mimicking the growth of plants, yet it had not been well kept. Everything was dusty, there was the smell of old food and wine, and some of the outer timbers and roof shingles were rotting.

Tirlav had sent the message through Glentel that she would not be bothered there, nor need to explain herself. For that she was grateful. Once she had slept, she would see about getting the place in order.

"Thank you," she said. Glentel turned to face her and paused. She waited for him to say something, but he only stared.

"Is something wrong, Glentel?" she asked. He remembered himself and shook his head.

"I am sorry, Lielu. I. . . I have never seen an Insensitive before." A flush rose to his cheeks. "I am sorry again. It is rude for me to say so." He turned to leave.

"It is alright," Jareen said. "Let me ask you a question before you go."

"Lielu?"

"Were you with Tirlav—Liel Aelor—in the Mingling?"

"I was."

"Was the Malady there?"

Glentel opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. After a few moments, he grunted, then shrugged.

"Can you talk to me about it at all?" she asked.

He shook his head and then changed the subject, as if her question permitted his own:

"Is it true that you cannot sense the Current? That it has no effect on you whatsoever?"

"It is true. For many years I did not believe the Current was real."

Glentel didn't respond at first, staring past her at the wall. Jareen couldn't tell what he might be thinking or feeling.

"Rest well," he said at last. "Servants bring food for Liel Hormil twice a day. They will now bring enough for you and the human as well."

With that, Glentel left. Jareen closed the door, checked the dusty hammock for bugs, and finally blew out the candle. With no afflicted to tend, she lay down to sleep.

***

Jareen woke often through the night. The first two times she struggled out of the unusual rider's hammock and swung her feet to the floor before realizing she was in a strange place, and there were no afflicted to check on. The third time it happened, she wept. She could not even sleep undisturbed. Toward morning, she managed to sleep for a few hours straight before waking with a terrible thirst. There was no pitcher in the room. She dressed and opened the door. It was a single story house. Patterned light streamed in through stained glass windows at the end of the hall, dappling the floor.

Able to see much better in the morning light, she realized that the layer of dust and neglect was worse than she'd thought. Pretty much every surface would take scrubbing and water to set it to rights. She had glimpsed a table in what she supposed was a dining room the night before. If there was something to drink, it would be there, or in a room attached to it.

"Jareen?"

She turned and saw Coir peaking out from a doorway.

"Good morning, Coir."

He stepped into the hall, his hair disheveled.

"I did not wish to wander alone," he said. "I have found that some vien react poorly to seeing an unexpected human."

Jareen managed a grin.

"Come along, then."

Not far from the door at the front of the house, an arch opened from the hall into a wide room with a table. On the table, three platters of vegetables and honeyed fruits were set, with pitchers and cups at each, along with the sticks and spoons that the Vien used for dining. As she stepped through the door, she was startled to see a vien sleeping on the far side of the low table, reclining on a pile of cushions, his head down on his chest.

"Breakfast!" Coir said as he looked into the room. He had not seen the sleeping figure. The vien startled awake at the voice, squinted at them, and then reached for a pitcher.

"Findel's blessing," Jareen said.

"Findel's blessing," the vien answered, pouring wine into a cup in front of him.

"I am Jareen, and this is Coir," she said.

The vien squinted at them again.

"Don't expect me to repeat those names," he said. "They have all the melody of a rutting quth."

Jareen frowned.

"Wait," Coir said, looking at Jareen and speaking Noshian in his excitement. "Was that. . . Was he being vulgar? Is that vien vulgarity?"

"Yes," she said.

"Fascinating!"

"I'm sorry if I offend you," Hormil said, rising. "I am not at my best in the mornings. My name is Hormil."

Jareen bowed her head.

"Come," Hormil said, extending a hand toward the food. "Breakfast was served, it would appear."

Jareen sat down, hungry and ready to eat. The honeyed melon looked fabulous. She could smell the sweetness.

"You are a veteran," Coir said, sitting down and sliding his platter toward himself.

"I am a veteran of being a veteran," Hormil answered, taking a drink.

"How old are you?"

"Coir—" Jareen said, but Hormil waved her off.

"I am. . . " He paused. "Somewhere beyond seven hundred years, I should think."

Coir's eyes went wide.

"You are the oldest vien I have yet met."

"I doubt it. There are many older. But we don't often speak our ages."

"And yet you did."

"A keen observation. Here is an observation of my own. You are a human."

"Noshian."

"I had heard they allowed a human onto our shores. Under the protection of Aelor, yes?"

"So it is."

"Well, here is to our new High Liel Aelor," Hormil said, raising his cup and drinking again. He hadn't touched his food, yet.

"You were in the Mingling?" Coir asked.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"I'm fairly sure that I'm still there." He smirked at Coir's confused squint.

"You were the Liel Commander of Tirlav—High Liel Aelor's company, were you not?" Jareen asked.

"I was."

"Was?" Coir asked. "What do you do, now?"

"Little enough. I find myself a liel in name only, without a company."

"Will you tell me about the Mingling?"

"Will you pour the wine?"

"Gladly," Coir said, rising.

"Keep my cup full and you can ask your questions. I cannot promise I will answer, but it will pass the time until the Synod calls another company. They hardly let me see the last eleven, or the wastrels on the coast. But you must answer my questions about the humans, as well. I had a comrade who served in the embassy in Nosh."

"What was his name?" Coir asked. Jareen looked up from her food.

"Gyon," Hormil replied. "He once wrote to me. He said that he had never thought so clearly as when he was in Nosh, nor felt so weak, as if the frailty of humanity was seeping into him."

Jareen pictured the face of Gyon as he died.

"I knew him," Coir said. "Or rather, I tried to."

"His death was a shame," Hormil said.

"Oh. I had not heard of his death," Coir said. "Was it in the Mingling?"

"No. Fighting human pirates off the coast. If there is one thing that gives me joy of life, it is the thought of human pirates dying. They are worse than any quth."

"Why worse?"

"The quth have no choice. They are slaves to the sorcerers of Isecan. Foul though they be, the quth would be little concern to us were it not for their masters."

"Have you seen sorcerers?"

"I have killed sorcerers."

"Excuse me, if you would," Jareen said, picking up her plate. One of the pitchers on the table held water, and she took that as well. Hormil rose from the cushions out of respect as she left.

"Tell me what they are like," Coir asked as Hormil sat back down and Jareen left the room. She did not wish to listen to tales of killing over her breakfast. Death did not unsettle her. She simply did not want to hear of the killing. Not right now.

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