It was worse at night. During the day, Faro kept himself occupied as best he could, tending to the orchards and gardens, pressing fruits into cider and wine, helping Coir make paper. . . He had learned languages and the lore of far countries from Coir, and he helped the old man catalog and re-catalog, organize and re-organize his notes and manuscripts.

Physical exercise helped more than anything else, and he had devoted himself to the practice of the bow, the short-spear, and the knife. Vireel had once brought Faro a fine bow from the enclaves, as well as arrows of the heavier Inevien variety. From studying them, he had reproduced some of his own making. Each morning, he spent hours loosing feathered shafts at targets of varying distances in the glade, letting his mind slowly empty.

It was Coir who had convinced some of the quthli to assist him in training, and they had agreed readily, after their fashion; when Coir asked, they had simply said, "we hear." After many years and many bruises, no single quthli could defeat Faro with consistency. They started to arrive in twos and then threes, and Faro was not the only one bruised, anymore.

Yes, Faro filled his days as best he could. The nights that troubled him the most. Sometimes, he would roll out of his hammock and wander in the glade, humming the melodies that came to him, anything to distract him from the constant pressure that prodded the edges of his awareness. It was the Current, he was sure. From both Wellsprings, perhaps, there in the Mingling. He had promised Vireel and his mother that he would not reach, that he would ignore them. They had told him enough to know that all their lives may rest upon it. He could not ignore the awareness, though; he could only seek distraction, and in the dark of night especially, strength of will.

That night was such a night, and he abandoned his hammock. The dew on the cool sourgrass and soft moss felt refreshing to his feet. His bruised muscles were sore from his bout with the three quthli. He walked between the pear and apple trees and the ripening pomegranates—fruits that should not grow together, but did beneath Vireel's embrace.

At the border of the jungle, Faro turned to follow its margin. Much like the Current, the edge of the glade was an ever present irritation. Coir had told him stories of grand vistas on the coasts of Drennos-that-was, where one could see for miles upon miles and the waves roared and crashed against cliffs of basalt topped with coarse grasses the shade of emeralds that rippled with silver waves in the wind. Faro had never seen emeralds, but he imagined they must be marvelous.

It wasn't that he never went into the jungle. Often he accompanied Coir to the huts of the quthli built in the dense thickets and hedges of thorns that encircled the glade. One could hardly depart the narrow paths that the quthli labored to maintain with axes and thick-spined cleavers. The thorns of the Mingling grew in bristled clusters, and some species left foul wounds that must be well-cleaned to keep from festering.

The sounds of the Mingling night filled his ears—the buzzing and chirping of insects and the calls of the night birds. The Mingling was quieter in the daytime than at night. He had circled the glade one full time and begun a second orbit when Vireel's form approached him out of the darkness, falling into step beside him. This was now the second time she had sought him out since returning that day. She must be working up to something. He did not greet her. She would speak when she was ready. It wasn't until they had begun the third circuit of the glade that she did:

"What do you wish to do, Falo?"

Faro knew that Vireel did not mean that night in particular. She did not ask such mundane questions or discuss matters of day-to-day life.

"I wish to see the width and breadth of this land, and behold the sea, and. . ." He trailed off, not wanting to say what was on his heart. Vireel did not reply. She walked beside him in silence, the sound of her footfalls nearly imperceptible. She would wait, he knew, until he finished his thought—even if it took him a month.

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"I wish to do something for our people. . . for those enslaved."

"Is that why you practice so much with your weapons?"

"Perhaps in part," he said, "but you yourself say we are always in danger." It was also a means to occupy himself.

"What would you do to help them?"

"I'm not sure. The enclaves fight against the forces of the Nethec."

When speaking to Vireel, Faro always called Findeluvié by the Inevien name, the Nethec, even though his mother referred to it as Findeluvié when she spoke to him. Similarly, to Vireel he took on the affectations and melodies of the Inevien speech, and with Jareen, he spoke with her inflections. As for Noshian, Coir assured him that, if there still lived refugees from that land, they would not know Faro for a foreigner from his diction, though the timbre of a Vien voice was different from a human's.

"And you would join the enclave warriors?"

"No one should be a slave."

"You will not free them by killing them."

"No." Faro agreed. When his mother spoke of it at all, she said much the same and had always reminded him that the Findelvien were his people and not guilty for their enslavement.

He had not known Vireel to broach such subjects, nor answer freely, and he did not want to lose this opportunity. "Should the enclaves cease fighting?" he asked.

"If they did not," Vireel answered, "the Synod would destroy us all."

"So there is value to it."

"There is, but not to free the slaves of the Nethec. Strength of arm cannot win the war. The enclaves do little more than mount a perpetual defense."

"If enough of the enclaves rose up, and enough of the Inevien rode out, might they not break through? The warriors of the Nethec do not wield the Current."

"No, they would not. The Inevien would be powerless beyond the Mingling. The Current of the Nethec is foreign to them and dangerous. In the same way, the slaves of the Synod would be helpless among the enclaves. No true victory can be achieved by either side. If it were not so, the war would have been a mere memory a thousand years ago."

"You grasp both Currents. Could not others do the same?"

"Some could. You could. But if you grasped the Current of the Nethec, I believe you would be seen, and they would come for you without a doubt."

"Do you know that for certain?"

"There can be little doubt."

"Then why have they not come for you?"

Vireel hesitated.

"I merely grasp the Current of the Nethec. You are of the Nethec. You are one of theirs."

"Then teach me to only grasp the Current of Isecan."

"The Change would come upon you as quickly as it does the rest."

"That is why it has not come upon you quickly?"

"Here in the Mingling, I bathe in both Wellsprings at once, and give neither the mastery."

"Teach me to do this."

"I told you already, the Synod would see you. I fear that even if you left the shade of my embrace, they might see you, whether or not you grasped the Current."

"If I fought with the warriors of the enclaves, the Synod would have to defeat all to take me."

"What makes you think you would be able to resist the enslavement of your will?"

"Would not the Current of Isecan protect me?"

Vireel stopped walking and turned to face him. Her presence was both intimidating and alluring. It was hard not to hang onto her words. She spoke so little, normally.

"Maybe. But you might grow weary. Or see a vienu of great beauty, hear a melody that strikes your heart. In the moment your mind would open. . ."

"But—"

Vireel raised a hand to stop him.

"Tell me, Falo. How long before you cannot endure it? How long before you must leave this place?"

In the dark, her violet eyes looked black, and the signs of the Change were harder to differentiate from the shadows that the tree cast upon her skin.

"I—" he paused. It was getting harder and harder. He simply did not know how long, nor had he fully confronted the growing sense that the time was coming—the time when he could not remain. He did not know what to answer.

Vireel paused and held something out to him.

"Here," she said. "The scent will help rest your mind."

Faro took it and held it to his nose. It had a strange sweet pungence.

"It is well," Vireel said, nodding and turning away. "It is well." With that, she strode off into the grove and left him.

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