Tirlav reclined at festive table in the same greensward where the Sail Chasers had first assembled. That time that felt at once impossibly distant and near. His mind returned there often as he endured the feast. Next to him reclined a golden-haired maiden chosen by the Synod from among the woods of Namian. She would bear his heirs. Tirlav had fought the Synod's collective will to no avail. He had little strength left for fighting. Jareen's fate and the fate of their babe remained unknown. The blessing had still not passed to the next scion of Talanael. Nevertheless, the Synod would not wait. Additional scions must be produced—safe ones from unmingled Trees. The Malady had badly damaged the High Trees. Already, two of the new High Liele had been married. With the Tree of Talanael lacking a Liel, the Synod was reduced to seven, making the burden of upholding the embrace that much greater.

The wedding was everything a wedding was supposed to be, except joyful for the mates. On the first night of festivities, the maids of Namian had danced the bride into the greensward, and so Tirlav first beheld she upon whom he must beget scions by command. This was the third night of the elaborate ceremonies, and it had culminated with the pair standing together as the sacred oaths were sworn before the High Liele.

There was nothing displeasing in her visage, if the empty eyes of a soulless union were discounted. Whether to assuage him or merely demonstrate their status, the Synod had chosen a true beauty. Her every curve spoke of grace and fruitfulness. The silks of Namian blue complimented her countenance perfectly. She was the ideal of vienu. She noticed his gaze and proffered a smile, though he could not tell if it was sincere or the defense of a fearful creature showing its teeth. It did not reach her eyes, he thought. What did she hope or fear, this night? Did he have the strength to care?

The music of flutes and harps filled the greensward. Stately figures of Vien in festal garments danced around the tables. The high table was set upon a dais near the fountain. For Tirlav, the sound of the water partly drowned out the voices and music, but he did not mind. Colored glass lanterns and a copy of fireflies lit the scene. Vien in the hundreds and thousands feasted in the greensward and along the adjoining paths. They were strangers to him. His younger brothers and his mother were there, but what did they know of each other, either? They had dwelled in Lishni until recently, and his mother still dwelt there. For most of Tirlav's life, she had met his father only at predetermined visits in the High Tir. The High Liele, along with their spouses, reclined at the next tables, and beyond them Glentel sat with Tirlav's brothers and mother. She watched him, her face expressionless. She was free, now, at least, a harbinger of the loveless life to which he and his bride were condemned. All others found their mates from the heart, but not the High Liele or those condemned to marry them.

The life would be short for Tirlav, at least, and the marriage would be short for his bride. Remarriage was forbidden for a Synod widow, though. If she ever hoped to mate for more than forced duty, the hope died tonight. The knowledge that she would submit to his embrace not of her own will but by the will of the Synod disgusted him. Even though he was a High Liel, in this his will, too, was subsumed. Tirlav drank freely, his cup kept ever replenished by servants who hovered incessantly. The memory of Hormil's deep attachment to his cup returned to him. He understood, now. Whatever help the wine could give in quieting himself, he would embrace. Next to him, his mate also drank freely.

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"It is time," called the Lielu of Yene. Tirlav hadn't even seen her rise from the table, and he found that the music and dancing had ceased.

On cue, a retinue of young vien and vienu in flowing silks approached the high table to escort the mates. Tradition held that these would be the closest companions of the groom and bride, but Tirlav knew none of them, and could only suppose they were young. What close companions did he have, apart from Glentel? Maybe the vien were of Namian, known to his mate. He rose, extending a hand to her. She took it, her skin soft and smelling of coconut. Amidst cheers and toasts and the glissandos of harps the entourage led the bride and groom away into the groves, passing through smiling revelers.

In the oldest of traditions, the bride and groom would be sent into a small house—the smaller the better—in a tree and provided sustenance for three months. The ladder or stair would then be removed, leaving them to drink of each other. In the High Tir, few of the ornately carved stairs were made to be removed, and the custom lingered only in remote groves of the Embrace. It was still expected that the pair would not show their faces for many days.

The entourage led the pair through the city to the western margins where the fresh-swept city-house of Aelor waited festooned with blossoms. With laughter and suggestive songs, they were ushered up the stairs and through the door.

With the door shut behind, the songs and laughter of the revelers withdrew down the stairs and along the path as the entourage returned to the feast. The festivities would continue until dawn, only to resume at sunset, and so until the eleven nights of revelry were fulfilled.

Lamps burned with low light, filling the dining room with dancing shadows. His bride's skin and hair shone with oils and perfumes and cinnamon. The smell of myrrh was strong. He stared at her, unspeaking, trying not to think of Jareen and of their babe. If they had perished, he hoped it was painless and not at the hands of human slavers or quth. Yet the blessing had not passed on. He did not know what to think of that.

The maid reached out and took his hand, looking up at his face. There was no choice. It had to be done, but he was finding it difficult to move. The same weight he felt in the grove of the Wellspring pressed down on him. She turned and led him across the room. Only one of the inner doors was open, lamps lit within. Into this, she led him. It was Tirlav's room, hardly recognizable now. His riders hammock was gone and in its place waited a wide hanging hammock-bed strewn with flowers. Here too, all was perfumed. The maid turned and closed the door.

"Are you well" he asked. She turned back to him and reached up behind her neck to untie her embroidered robe.

"Yes, Liel."

"I am sorry for this," he said.

She shook her head.

"Please. Let us do our duty."

The robe slid away. She had no more choice than he. Did she even know that? He had followed the will of the Synod into the face of death, not even knowing the choice was not his own. The weight was intolerable. He could not resist that will. She stepped near, and he reached out to take her.

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