Sholrodan's riders and the servants of the Synod pushed the vaela hard. They headed southwest through the Meadow, ignoring the South Grove. Near the southern eaves, they entered a narrow trail at the gallop, heading south toward the main supply path into the Mingling. Miles slipped behind them. Once, they saw one of the great panthers devouring some kind of multi-horned deer alongside the path, but it fled from the pounding of the hooves. Glentel rode at Tirlav's side. The vien's presence was a comfort, even though Tirlav's thoughts remained confused, as if he had received a blow to the head.

They reached a re-supply and re-mount encampment at the edge of the Mingling that evening. They had not halted. There, they ate a few kiwis, drank wine already tainted by the Mingling, and exchanged for fresh Vaela. Sholrodan's riders left them, leaving only the five servants of the Synod, Glentel, and Tirlav to continue west at the same driving pace.

The first tree he recognized was an ebony tree, old and scarred, but more and more the trees grew familiar and the air drier. The last true glimpse of the Mingling he had was when he looked back once and saw one of the great wrapper beasts of the Mingling gliding silently after them, its body half his own size. At last, it swerved away into the trees.

By the next morning, they were nearly through the mostly empty heartwood of Miret. They switched vaela twice more. Tirlav must have slept as he rode, for they did not stop longer than to take a few bites, drink, and switch mounts. Scores upon scores of miles slipped away beneath them in ground torn by cloven hooves. Vien songs haunted them as they rode deeper into the Embrace. The melodies felt strange, dizzying. A steady nausea filled Tirlav's belly. He had heard so little music, and now every note reminded him of the horrors where no one sang. What had befallen his company?

He knew what had befallen them. How long could they have lasted? It felt like a crime to be alive.

They arrived at the High Tir in the night. The eucalyptus rose like columns holding up a heaven of foliage, and between the columns floated clouds of fireflies held aloft upon the music of the Vien. The servants rode through to the far side of the city. There they dismounted and led Tirlav up a winding stair around the outside of a Vien redwood. His legs felt strangely weak. Beneath the foliage of the redwood, they entered one of the encircling houses. They stripped Tirlav of his silks and armor and bathed him with cool water. He tried to resist when the servant attempted to remove his gloves.

"You are going before the Synod," the chief servant said. "They already await you. Our arrival was expected. You will go unclothed before them."

Tirlav pulled his hands away and took the gloves off, himself. The servant glanced at his hands but said nothing. Another brought a basin of water scented with eucalyptus, and Tirlav washed his own hands. It was the cleanest he had felt in months. A servant put a silk robe on him, and others cleaned and combed his hair. Glentel watched, still in his soiled armor and torn silks, smelling of the Mingling. Fatigue was plain on his face, but he did not complain or say any other word. Tirlav met his gaze. By now, they might be the only two survivors, apart from the wounded he had sent with the Hanle and Shelith. They had also cursed Glentel with that burden—the burden of survival.

The door to the room opened and more servants entered, wearing long viridian silk robes.

"Go with them," the chief servant said. "My duty is done."

Tirlav followed. There was no use resisting this. He was too tired, and his will was too weak. Through the long hours and days of the ride, he had tried to order his thoughts, to grasp the situation, the loss of his siblings, but it remained difficult to think.

Eldre. . . he kept thinking of her. Her death didn't feel real—she was supposed to be living her life in the woods of Aelor. It was he who was dead, not her. Vien in the Embrace were not supposed to die. That was for the Mingling.

Glentel started to follow Tirlav, but a servant raised a hand to stop him.

"You cannot come where he goes, now," the vienu said. "Wait here."

They led Tirlav back down the stairs. At the bottom, they were joined by others who walked beside them holding shaded glass lanterns. Paths bordered by rhododendrons led them west. Tirlav knew where they were going. He had never been there, but everyone knew what lay west of the High Tir. They climbed the slope on stairs cut into the rock. The music of the High Tir faded behind them until the only sound came from the distant soughing of the night breeze in the branches. At the top of the ridge, a dense wall of woven thorns cut them off. Within it was a small archway wide enough for one to pass through. The servants stopped, and one grasped the robe at Tirlav's shoulders, pulling it away. He reached for it.

"You enter as you are," the servant said, folding the robe over her arm. Tirlav stepped through the archway, as much to be away from them as to go forward. Through the thicket, the path ran down the slope to the west. He had seen many great trees in his life. Those in the High Tir were among the greatest, and yet here the trees grew like nowhere else, the bases of their trunks as wide as the House of Aelor, and in the dark he could not perceive the foliage above that blotted out the stars. Fireflies provided the only light as he walked down the slope. Of all the groves of the Embrace, this was the most inviolable.

Near the bottom of the hill, he came to another wall, formed as if many trees and branches had fused together into a leafy and impenetrable mass. A tunnel opened in its side, and he entered. It was long, dark, and close. At the end he saw a silver gleam, and the sound of water reached him.

Stepping out of the tunnel, he beheld the heart of Findeluvié. A great dome of interwoven limbs and tree-trunks rose up above the glade. In the center, a pool of water bubbled beneath a cloud of rising steam. The water rippled outward to the edges, but it did not overflow. He shuddered for the glade was dotted with scores of strange growths, like shrubby trees. They reminded him of the Canaen sorcerer he had first faced, who had transformed in death. At one margin of the pool rose one greater than all the others. It was like a tree, twisted in around itself, with sweeping boughs reaching upward as if to support the high dome of branch and foliage, yet falling short.

Seven figures draped in loose silk waited along the near margin of the water. He knew who they were. The marks of the Change were evident upon them. Naked he approached, almost too tired and broken for shame.

"Welcome, Aelor," one of them said. He couldn't tell who. A few yards from them, he stopped and stood in silence.

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"He has touched Isecan's Current," one said.

Tirlav flexed his hands.

"Come." A vienu extended a hand. Her face was marred by the change, leaving only one eye visible, and her robe rose in strange projections above her shoulders. "This will be unpleasant, but you will live."

Unpleasant? What unpleasantness was left for him?

She took his hand and led him toward the water. The steam hung in the air, dampening his skin. The others followed after them. At the pool's edge, someone dipped a curved ladle into the water.

"With this drink, you join us," one of the vien said. "With this drink, you safeguard Findeluvié. With this drink, you join our will."

"Take and drink," the marred vienu said. He reached out and took the bowel of the ladle with both hands. It was still wet, and a sensation like cold, or pain, or fire, brought his hands to life or killed them. Somewhere, deep within, he screamed. He writhed to be free, to escape, to shout "no!" and fight.

The scream did not reach his body. He lifted and drank.

***

There came a time when Tirlav knew that he was. Thought woke in him, and awareness of the presence of the Current flowing all around him, pulsating through him, like ice and flame. He did not know his body, but gradual awareness of other things came to him. He was not alone. There were other minds present, or other wills. They were communicating—not with words as much as with meaning, intent, images and impressions. Each will was unique, identifiable, and yet he saw nothing and heard nothing by eye or ear.

"He is here, now."

"Then we are nearly ready."

"It will take him time."

"I will teach him."

"The assault in the east is complete."

As this was said, the impression of great space and numerous souls rushed upon him, lights and shadows and sweeping movements. He couldn't make sense of it.

"It is enough. It must be enough."

As these thoughts passed through him, Tirlav became aware of an immense pressure bearing down on his will, as if a great weight leaned on him. Ideas and images swirled and pummeled like a sea storm upon a rocky shore, awareness expanding and contracting. He was the size of Findeluvié. The Current poured up and outward and fell like rain at the edges of the Embrace. The Mingling rose high above the land like a storm in the east.

"Enough."

Tirlav gasped and sat up. Seven figures in their long silks stood around him. The vienu with only one eye unmarred by the Change knelt down and spread a robe over him.

"Welcome, High Liel Aelor," she said. The awareness of the Current faded a little, and the weight lifted off him somewhat. He felt his body, his mouth and throat tingling. His fingers felt strangely numb, and he looked down at his hand. The fingertips remained distorted with violet pigments, but streaks of yellow stretched up to the knuckles with a rough texture. "Here, let me help you," the vienu said, taking his hand and lifting him. He knew her for who she was, though he had never met her—High Liele Andalai of Talanael. He grasped the robe with his other hand, and she helped him slip it on.

The other High Liele left the side of the pool, walking toward the tunnel to depart. Tirlav reached up a hand and felt his face. His lips felt numb. The Change had come upon him. He could feel the hardened texture on his lips and veining back from his mouth.

"Come," Andalai said. "You are weak and must rest." Holding his arm, she led him away from the pool. As they walked, she spoke. "You will only slowly come to understand much of what you have seen, and what it means. The Wellspring will show you, and the intentions of the Synod."

"What have I seen?"

"We showed you much. But you need to rest. Awareness comes slowly at first. You are now a part of the Synod. The future and safety of Findeluvié is bound to our will, and our will to it. We will have need of you soon. Too soon."

"What happened in the east? Was the attack a success?"

Lielu Andalai was silent for a moment, looking ahead as she led him by the arm through the ascending tunnel of tree boughs.

"Yes. . . it was a success, according to our purpose. It was enough, I hope. We will know soon."

"And my company?"

"All companies are your company, now, High Liel, none more important than another. The sacrifice of our people knows no favoritism."

"You said you would teach me," Tirlav said. "What are you going to teach me?"

"Nothing else tonight."

Lielu Andalai walked with him back to the spiraling stair that led up the Vien redwood.

"The house where they prepared you was set aside for the Tree of Aelor long ago. You may consider it a haven for you when here with the Synod. The night is yet young. Rest. Tomorrow, we will struggle."

"What do you mean, struggle?"

"You will see. Rest for now."

She pushed him gently toward the stairs, and Tirlav climbed, holding the carven banister for support. He entered the house and found Glentel sitting at a table with food and drink before him. The vien rose.

"Liel Aelor," he said, bowing. Glentel was clean, no longer in his armor but in fresh silks, with washed hair plaited back from his head. His healed wounds and white-cast eye stood out all the more.

"Glentel," Tirlav said, sitting down heavily on another chair at the table. He sighed, putting his head in his hand. "You needn't have waited up."

"Liel," Glentel said. . . "I. . . I have slept."

"It is yet night. We both need more than a nap."

Glentel shifted.

"It is the second night since you left, liel."

Tirlav stared at him. Was he so long in that place?

"Are you hungry?" Glentel asked.

"Thirsty, perhaps."

Glentel poured him a deep cup of dark wine. Tirlav raised it to his Change-crusted lips and tasted. The freshness was like old memories made new. It had been so long since he had enjoyed a wine not turned by the Mingling. He drank deeply. Glentel refilled his cup, and he drank again.

"I wish to sleep, now," Tirlav said, rising and gazing around at the interior of the house. It was simple—simpler than the House of Aelor in Tir'Aelor, at least. Was this where his father and brother had stayed when they came to the High Tir? Tirlav had never seen this place, before; it was not large enough to house the whole Tree of Aelor. Glentel led him to a sleeping room further into the house. Many-paned windows showed dark patterns of colored glass. A hammock-bed hung in the center, open above. Tirlav stared at it for a moment.

"Is there a. . ." he paused, turning to Glentel. "Is there a cover?"

Glentel pressed his lips together.

"I tied sheets. I will get you some."

Tirlav waited in a chair until Glentel returned, carrying folded silk sheets. These, he tied to the corner-ropes of the bed, forming a tightly enclosed canopy.

"Thank you," Tirlav said. Glentel nodded and exited the room backward, closing the door behind him. Tirlav knew he should take off his robe, but he had not slept naked since. . . He slipped into the hammock, the sheets hanging just above himself. The idea of sleeping without cover horrified him. Even now, he wished for the tight enclosure of his rider's hammock, moldy as it had been. When he closed his eyes, his mind conjured the sound of wrapper's wings.

It was foolish. Nothing foul would assail him in the High Tir. He knew he could push the silken sheets away and sleep naked like a normal vien.

What he knew did not matter. In the morning, he would send Glentel to find rider hammocks.

***

Tirlav saw many lights—thousands, tens of thousands, spread out over the land like candles. From the Wellspring pool, life flowed toward them, drawn to them, and over all Findel's Blessing weighed down. More lights sprang up, and more. They doubled, then tripled. The power of the Current flowed toward them, absorbed by the lights, and Findel's Blessing grew weaker, and the lights grew dimmer as they consumed the Current faster than it flowed from the Wellspring.

Some of the lights merged, forming together like swarms of fireflies, fluttering east into the storm. There they vanished, and the rest of the candles burned brighter.

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