Jareen was in the room of a Departing, turning the young vienu on her side so that the build-up of secretions would drain from her mouth. The vienu's ability to swallow had gone. She had only hours left. The discoloration of her veins now traced around her lips and eyes. Jareen wiped her mouth with a damp cloth and laid the vienu back, straightening her head on the pillow and smoothing her damp hair. It was beautiful hair, thick and black and fine as silk. Despite the Malady, the vienu was yet beautiful. Jareen couldn't help but think of her as young—she had spent too many years among the humans where age was visible—but it was hard to guess the vienu's age. She could be hundreds of years old, who knew? Mere weeks ago, she had been flawless, the type of beauty that would have stopped all movement and sound on the streets of Nosh.

Why was it that beauty in a Departing touched her so? It always had. The dying of a youth touched her in a similar way, and she understood that prejudice more readily. A young human had lived so little, had tasted only the barest morsels of life. It was hard to feel the same pangs of compassion for the grizzled dock worker or the portly baker who smelled of too much wine even in illness.

Were they less deserving of care?

No.

It was simply that she felt death to be a transgression of the world, and so was the corruption of beauty—like one of Tirlav's songs stopped too soon.

She was thinking of him when she stepped back into the hallway. She looked up and cried out. Standing there with sweat dampened brow was Teram, Daughter of Talaniel, Jareen's older sister. Teram wore a sleeveless silk dress, as was usual for a vienu, but she had covered her shoulders and upper arms with a silk wrap of deep indigo, but it did not cover the pigmented veins running from her hands up her forearms. Her shallow, rapid breaths told Jareen the Malady had already affected Teram's lungs.

Beyond her sister, one of the servants stood watching through the open door to the hallway. When he saw Jareen's looking, he lowered his head. He had left her sister to walk down the hallway alone, afraid of the Malady.

"Teram," Jareen said. If it were a stranger, she would have hurried to her, put her arm around her, and led her to a free hammock. Instead, she hesitated.

"Lovniele," Teram answered. If there was any doubt before, there was none now. Jareen stood with bare face, easily recognized despite the signs of age that had come upon her in the decades since her flight from Findeluvié. "Mother wouldn't let me leave at first, but. . ." Teram's speech faltered, but she held up her hands, looking at the swollen veins standing out, stark violet against her almond skin.

The sight jarred Jareen into action. She strode to Teram and put an arm around her. It was her sister. Though her feelings tumbled in confusion, she knew what actions to take and what duties to perform. Training and discipline was ever the companion of a Voiceless Sister when emotions could not be trusted. She led Teram into a room at the end of the hall where hung a freshly-laundered hammock and a small oval window filtered light through viridian stained glass. Teram ignored the hammock and sat down on a carven chair against the wall. Jareen did not need to lay her head against Teram's chest to hear the crackling of fluid in her lungs. At least there was no veining yet on Teram's neck.

"How long ago?" Jareen asked.

"Six days," she said, and as if by way of explanation added: "I did not ride fast."

Six days. Jareen tried to keep her face placid, her muscles relaxed. She had yet to see anyone with such a quick progression survive. Even many slow progressions died.

"You came alone?"

Teram gave the slightest nod.

"No reason to risk anyone else," she said.

"Is anyone else. . ." Jareen didn't finish the question.

"Just me."

Jareen and Teram had two other siblings, both boys younger than Jareen. One had been born after Jareen had left for Drennos, and she had only learned of him by way of her written reports. It was a surprise; Jareen didn't realize that their father had continued making trips back to Talanael from his home in Yene. Lielu Andalai had preferred him to live away.

"I wish to bathe," Teram said. Jareen nodded.

"I will return." Jareen slipped from the room, making a mental list.

Jareen's younger brother Velnir was next in line to be Liel of Talanael. Born eleven years after Jareen, she had not seen him since she left for Nosh. What was he like? As Liel, he too would likely die young by vien standards. She stepped into the office where Coir was sitting at the table, re-reading reports. Next to him was a plate of half-eaten melon that looked like it had sat there since morning if not before. A wave of revulsion passed over her. She must have made a face.

"I will admit," Coir said, looking at the melon. "I would very much like a steak."

The thought of a steak was even worse. Jareen turned her face away.

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"When is the last time you've eaten?" he asked. "You must remember to take care of yourself."

"My sister is here."

Coir looked startled.

"I did not know you had a sister."

"I do."

"I would be pleased to meet her."

"She is afflicted. It is. . . not good."

Coir rose from his chair, grasping his hands in front of him. His vien silks hung awkwardly on his frame; no one had bothered to tailor the vestments to the human.

"I'm sorry," he said. "What. . . can I do anything?"

"No," she answered.

"It is alright to ask for help," he said. "I assume I am immune to this just as you are."

"I know. I am alright for now."

Coir pursed his lips.

"Truly," Jareen added.

"Are you from the east, then?"

"The east? No. Why?"

"Your sister," Coir said, sitting back down and shuffling through a stack of pages. Finding the page he sought, he picked up one of the glass pens scattered atop the table. "What is her source of infection?"

Jareen did not respond. The blood rushed to her face. Coir looked over when she didn't reply. He set down the pen and stood back up.

"Please, take a chair," he said. There were a few chairs in the room, and he motioned to the one closest to Jareen. "We do not have to do this right now. Let me bring you wine."

Coir picked up a cup from the table, looked inside, held it upside down, shook it, and then glanced at Jareen.

"I will go get a clean one," he said, moving to the door.

"Water," she said. "Heated, with lemon shavings and ginger, please. Have the servants bring it."

"Water, lemon, ginger, hot."

Coir left the room.

When he returned, Jareen had composed herself and made a decision.

"Sit," she said.

Coir obeyed, putting his hands on his knobby knees and raising both eyebrows at once.

"My sister's source of infection comes from being the first heir to the High Tree of Talanael."

Jareen could practically see Coir's thoughts through the gradations of realization that passed over his face.

"You. . . are the daughter of the Lielu of Talanael?"

Jareen inclined her head. Coir's jaw hung open for a few moments, and then he began to chuckle, shaking his head.

"The daughter of a High Lielu, an Insensitive, left Findeluvié to go live among humans?" He laughed again. "How did they ever allow it?"

"They didn't," Jareen said. "I ran away."

Coir squinted.

"I don't believe it."

"I did. I didn't tell anyone. I bribed the captain of a Noshian ship with silk."

"Maybe you fled on your own," Coir said. "But they knew eventually. I told the embassy about you many years ago. Did Liel Gyon know who you were?"

Jareen hesitated.

"He did," she answered.

"And you think he did not tell the Synod?"

If he had, then Jareen's mother knew about her—where she was, and what she was doing. That meant that her mother had known who she was when she had sent her away from Talanael before Gyon's feast.

"I do not wish to speak of this more," Jareen said. "Now you know the source of the infection. Make the record." She rose to go, but as she stepped into the hall, she met the servant coming, holding a large glass cup with two arms. Steam wafted up from it. She smelled the lemon and ginger.

"Lielu," the servant said, lowering her head.

Jareen sighed. The servants knew, now.

"Thank you." Jaren took the cup. It was so large she had to use both hands to hold it. Its warmth was soothing. The servant bowed and hurried out of the hall. Jareen sipped the drink and let out a deep breath. She had not eaten more than a few bites in days. Her appetite was poor, and the only thing that didn't revolt her was bitter roasted cocoa beans.

***

Two days later, Jareen sat in an elegant wooden chair next to her sister's low hammock. All the chairs in the House of Lira were elegant, carved by masters who'd had centuries to hone their craft. Each joint in the house was fitted without nails, for the traditional joinery of the Vien used no fasteners, only cleverly designed joints. Each curve was perfect, carved with intricate detail, chosen to best display the natural timber grain.

She had been watching her sister sleep after dosing her with tincture, but she herself had dozed for some time. The Malady was creeping up Teram's neck, tracing the lines of her jaw. Even though she had never been close with Teram—or any of her Tree—she felt obligated to be with her as much as she could, so she had abandoned napping in her own bed.

If she had been close with any of her Tree, would she have left? All it would have taken was one person she was not willing to leave behind. . .

Tirlav had left her behind to obey the Synod, or as he would say, to defend Findeluvié from the monsters of the east. It didn't matter the reason. He was gone, and Jareen was alone.

Jareen's eyes had drifted shut again when her sister spoke.

"I always assumed I would watch you die. I never imagined it would be the opposite. Liele don't live long, but. . ."

Jareen blinked at her, unsure of what to say.

"I watched your birth, you know," Teram continued. "Mother had only just become Lielu. She was still so young, but you have to marry young as a Lielu. Did you know I married? Three years ago."

"I didn't know," Jareen answered. Teram shrugged, the barest hint of movement.

For the vien, it was as if the centuries had taught them to distill gesture down to the least motion.

"The Change had barely touched her then. There is nothing as beautiful as watching birth. I'm sure you know."

Jareen felt a muscle move in her face. She tried to think back. Had she ever watched a birth? She couldn't remember seeing one. She had heard one in the back of a brothel on the harbor of Nosh, through a thin plank wall of a closet where she tended a Departing. The dying whore had laughed. "One in and one out," she had said.

"Was it obvious what I was?" Jareen asked, motioning toward her own face. Teram coughed once, wet and bubbling.

"Some of the older vienu were whispering. They handed you to me and ushered me out of the room while they spoke with mother. I thought that was odd, but I had never been to a birth before. You were beautiful, like I could see right through you, and you were quiet. I thought you were born in your sleep. After a time, they brought us back, and I handed you to mother to nurse."

Jareen had never heard this story. Her throat felt tight. She waited to see if Teram had more to say. It took a while, but when Teram spoke, tears dropped down her cheeks.

"I just wish Velnir did not have to be Liel."

"No one gets to choose their destiny," Jareen said.

Teram smiled.

"Not in Findeluvié," she said. "Except maybe you."

"I am not here by choice," Jareen answered. "And the humans hardly choose their fates, either." She thought of the little girl in the Wards who had asked her about elfland. That young one had precious little choice in her brief life. It occurred to Jareen that the girl had likely received a far more peaceful death in the Wards than would have awaited her had she lived to see the wave. There was a strange comfort in that.

Teram didn't respond to Jareen, closing her eyes instead. The fluid in her lungs was getting worse, and when Teram swallowed, the muscles in her neck flexed lopsidedly. There was paralysis setting in.

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