The first riders of the High Tir found them in the morning, racing up the trail from behind. The River-Tir was already many miles behind. Faro, the scions, and a guard of River-Tir warriors had just crossed over into the Aelor heartwood. Faro rode at the fore atop a three-horned grey vaela, but at the sound of whistles he turned and cantered to the rear, followed by a group of the older scions. There were several paths Faro could have taken towards the High Tir, but he had chosen to enter Aelor. No doubt, the pursuit had learned of their path quickly and pursued from the River-Tir.

By sight, there were over a hundred riders in the pursuing cadre, and their liel had drawn up short, facing down a line of opposing riders obedient to Faro's will. Their vaela were in a lather, foam dripping from their mouths. The pursuers clearly outnumbered Faro's escort, but the riders of the High Tir were no doubt dispatched with all haste long before the Synod learned of Faro's intent with the scions. With a note, Faro slowed his vaela to a halt a few yards from the liel. He squinted at the riders, not from brightness, for it was dim and cool beneath the trees, but from the pain in his mind from the weight of Findel.

"I am Faro, High Liel of Aelor and Talanael," he said. Faro was growing used to watching the gradations of confusion that passed over the faces of those who heard. "What is your purpose here?"

"I am dispatched to protect the scions against any threat by a Canaen pretender to the Synod."

"He is no pretender," one of the scions said.

The liel looked at the speaker, recognized him, and lowered his head.

"Liel Telmor," he said. It was the scion of the High Tree of Lira. "I do not understand. Are you in danger? Is your elder sister here?"

"There is no danger to those who obey," Faro answered. "These recognize my authority."

The youngest scions had obeyed him quickly, barely resisting his command to grasp the Current. It was the oldest who struggled. Faro had relied on the aid of the younger, directing their wills to grasp the Current with him. The elder sister of Lira and a few others had resisted to the last, their minds finally breaking. They had screamed and stripped and fled. It was not Faro's wish, but it was a danger.

"It is true," Telmor said. The liel and riders stared, as if unable to comprehend.

"I go to meet the Synod," Faro added. "Join us, and if the Synod disapprove, you will be there to aid them."

The liel appeared to relax, his shoulders lowering. At last, he nodded.

"So be it," he said.

"Fall in," Faro said, wheeling his vaela to return to the front. As he did, he saw the scions flinch, as if they had all been stung by the bees that swarmed the nearby fruit trees. Faro felt it then, the reach of the Synod, pressing upon their minds.

Leave them be. If you try to take them, I will break them, he willed.

What do you want?

I ride to take my rightful place among you.

It wasn't entirely a lie, but it was not his final goal. With them or without them, he sought Findel.

We are more than you, cursed scion.

Faro did not respond. Their thoughts and the vying of their wills were muddled from so far, and unclear, but he could discern that they thought him arrogant. That was well.

The Synod was gathered at the Wellspring, and he knew they could see all the scions, now. He hoped they would remain at the Wellspring. Their strength would be greatest at the Wellspring, but if they sallied and challenged him before he reached it, his purpose could be more readily thwarted.

The attack of the Synod faltered, and Faro sang his vaela forward at a trot, followed by his growing entourage. Ragged thoughts reached him from the High Liele.

You cannot imagine that you will succeed by force.

It was Findel, this time.

I will not go without a fight. Press me to breaking, and I will break those with me. Send sentinels to slay me, and I will slay with my final heartbeat.

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The lineages of my people are two thousand years deep. As long as there are Vien in the heartwoods, there will be a Synod.

Faro did not respond. This is what he feared—that the Synod and Findel would not even care to preserve their own scions.

You may come. Look upon what I have made, and realize what you are.

All at once, the pressure lifted. The sudden absence of pain was dizzying, and Faro grabbed a handful of the vaela's mane to steady himself. He allowed the vaela to slow to a steady walk. Faro allowed his eyes to open fully. He clung to Klotig's Gift, still on guard.

Tall groves of eucalyptus towered skyward, the many-hued bark vibrant even in the dim light. Orchards and vineyards and gardens intermingled on either hand, where vien and vienu sang as they labored. Music lilted through the trees, whether voice or the sound of flutes and occasionally even a harp.

By midday, they were deep within Aelor, his father's home, the home of his ancestors back to the first arrival of the Vien in the land. He regretted not seeing the harbor of Talanael where his mother was born, but the sloop had stayed far beyond the reach of the Current risking the open sea until they neared the Strait of Shoals, and slipping through the southernmost passage. There was a letter tucked in a tenae in his sash—a letter written by his father in this heartwood long before the Synod took him. He was thankful that at least he could ride the heartwoods of Aelor, regardless of what lay ahead.

A few vien passed on the path, coming and going from groves and gardens, carrying baskets and harvesting sickles and burdens of many kinds. Their singing stopped as they saw the column of riders, and they inclined their heads and stepped from the path out of respect. Faro stared at them. What life was it that these people led?

The Vien concentrated most of their labor around dawn and dusk. It was the same in Isecan. Even though he did not see them, he knew the woods were full of souls. Tended fruit hung from arbors along the paths—pomegranates, papayas, mangos, limes. Once, the path passed beneath huge arbors of kiwi vines, their downy green and pink leaves casting a dappled light below. He picked and ate as he rode. The flavor was sweeter than anything he had ever tasted in the Mingling. Everything felt tended. Having grown up surrounded by the Mingling, nothing felt truly wild, here. Fat muntjacs browsed beneath the fruit trees, and the birdsong was unhurried. The constant hum of honeybees lulled him—gentle creatures, not the vicious hornets of the Mingling.

Evening approached when the path turned and a massive tir rose ahead of him. Mammoth eucalyptus trees ringed it about. There was no fortified embankment here—just ancient groves and the slopes of the tir rising high. The path wound up the slope of the tir, but to either side of the path stood sentinels. Their posture was straight and still, each pair spaced a few yards apart, continuing up the rise.

Faro shifted his weight and the vaela halted. None of the sentinels looked at him or his entourage. They stood perfectly still, staring across the path at each other. The silk of their flowing robes was dyed a deep maroon and glistened in shadow and light. Swords in wooden scabbards were tucked in their sashes. Their bows were strung, but with no arrows nocked.

Trusting Findel to grant him safe passage to the Wellspring had not felt reasonable, but there was hardly any way to prevent interference. He would have to deal with it in the Current if it came. The Synod remained at the Wellspring. While he did not like the idea of riding through those sentries, if they had wanted to strike him with sword or arrow, there were better ways to spring the trap.

Singing his vaela on, he moved up the ascent, tensing as he passed between the first two sentinels. They slapped their chests and bowed in perfect unison, and he flinched. The sentinels held their bows in perfect stillness. Each pair of sentinels performed the same salute as the column climbed the winding path to the tir-top.

The path leveled at a broad courtyard flagged in ancient stone. The light of the fading day still reached the tir-top, shining sideways through the trunks of circling eucalyptus. To preserve the view of the sky beyond, the lower branches were carefully cropped. To one side of the courtyard stood a massive house of carven wood and colored glass. It rose to a peak among the trees.

The courtyard was full of vien and vienu and children. Rows of sentinels stood shoulder to shoulder, marking out a narrow path that led across the tir. As soon as his vaela stepped upon the flagstones, music erupted from above, flutes and harps and singing.

"Life to the Synod!" the sentinels shouted, and the crowd joined in, an eruption of cheers and cries: "life to the Synod!"

The colors and beauties of the garments, the crowns of leaves and flowers in the vienu's hair, some real and some fashioned of silver and gold, the smell of cinnamon, the music and the crowds were overwhelming. His vaela snorted and sidestepped, but Faro laid a hand upon his neck to steady him, though he himself trembled. Never had he seen such a display. Singing his vaela on, he proceeded on as the sentinels bowed and slapped their chests in salute.

Do they suffer? Findel asked.

Faro did not respond. Riding through the heartwood, he had seen plenty and peace. Far from coast or Mingling, the children of Aelor lived without fear. What had they ever suffered?

What was Findel's cunning? Where were the vien sent to the Mingling? Faro's own father was of Aelor, and his thoughts repeated in Faro's mind.

"Please, it is suffering."

The shouts, the music, and the salutes of the sentinels accompanied them through the courtyard and down the far side of the tir. They descended into the twilight below the rays of the sinking sun. The shouts ceased as the last riders passed beyond the last two sentinels at the base of the tir. Ahead, fireflies glid among the trees. The loamy path was soft beneath the vaela's hooves. Did the crowd atop the tir know what Faro was? This pageant was not theirs.

He would not succumb to Findel's subterfuge. Riding into the twilight, he left behind the place that should have been home but never was. The Synod awaited.

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