Jareen sat on her chair, hand on her stomach, listening to Coir mumble over the reports. She was still reeling from the news. The High Liel of Aelor was dead, as were three of his heirs. There still remained the younger children of the late High Liel, Tirlav's younger brothers. Even the oldest of them was barely seventy. Even for a High Liel, that was young to ascend to the Synod. The members of the Tree of Aelor had refused to come to Jareen when they fell ill, blaming the distance. Eldre had written with her own hand before the Malady had taken her: they would isolate and see to each other. She wrote in calligraphy that would have been flawless but for the slightest shakiness.

Their Departure must have been gruesome, watching each other fill with fluid and drown. Jareen could have helped them. She would have done it for anyone, but in their case, she would have done it for Tirlav. She wondered if her previous interaction with Eldre had anything to do with their decision. As horrible as it was, Jareen took a sliver of comfort in thinking that if Tirlav was gone already, he would never know that his Tree had followed him in such a manner. Of all the Departures she had watched and forgotten, she remembered her own sisters' dying faces—both Teram and her Voiceless Sisters lost to the plague. It was different when it was your own, and Tirlav was much closer with his Tree than she ever was with hers.

"There is nothing besides that," Coir said.

"Hmm?" Jareen asked.

"Besides the new afflicted in the east. There is nothing else of note. No new afflicted in Aelor reported, but the other scions are in Lishni."

"That is well," she said. She reached over and picked up her bowl of honeyed melon. It was her third bowl that day. For some reason, she wanted honeyed melon constantly now that her appetite had returned. "So that brings us to?"

"Two thousand seven hundred and eighty-three total, with eight hundred-forty-four cases currently."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She nodded. What she would have done for a dozen of her Sisters. Most of these afflicted were dying without help or care in quarantine houses spread throughout the heartwoods. The Synod was sending her members of the High Trees and anyone afflicted in the High Tir. She could not hope to care for all, even if the Synod sent them.

She had considered asking the Synod to search for refugees from Nosh to press into service, but she decided against it; she would not see them made slaves. Besides, it would take too long to teach how to care for the afflicted. Then again, even the simple acts of cleaning and bringing water would be better than nothing for those dying unaided, lying in their own filth because the Vien were too afraid of death to face infection. In those houses of death spread through the heartwoods, the afflicted still able aided those in worse condition until they too could do nothing but suffer.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Jareen said, turning. One of the servants bowed her way over the threshold.

"Lielu Daughter of Talanael," she said.

"Yes?"

"You asked that we relay any news we heard."

"I did?" Jareen asked. She had only requested official reports from the heartwoods.

"Yes, you did," Coir said, and then looked at the vienu. "Go on."

"The new High Liel of Aelor was joined to the Synod."

Jareen shook her head.

"A child joins the Synod."

Even though she had counted herself grown by the time she reached forty, having lived in Nosh for nearly two decades, she still thought of a seventy-odd year old vien as a child.

"Lielu," the servant said, frowning. "He has been the Liel of a company of riders and was recalled from the Mingling. He is no child."

Jareen's stomach lurched.

"What?" Coir asked, standing up. "What is his name?"

"High Liel Aelor," the servant said.

"No!" Coir snapped excitedly, waving a hand at the vienu. "What was his name before!"

"Tirlav, Son of Aelor," she said.

"Hah!" Coir clapped. "He lives!"

The servant took a step back toward the door, confused by Coir's enthusiasm. It was well, for Jareen turned her back to the servant and covered her face in her hand to hide the tears.

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