Tirlav did not knock or announce himself. The four denizens of the house sat at table. Even Coir and Hormil had sunk into a period of silence as they ate their morning repast. When Tirlav entered the archway, Glentel rose from the table and saluted. Jareen sat with her back to the arch. She turned to see who it was and her stomach clenched.

Tirlav's face had erupted with the Change; nodules and hardenings spread back from his eyes and mouth and streaks of gold and green ran through his hair. One ear was more of a lump than an ear. He wore a long-sleeved robe, but Jareen could see the terrible distortions of his hands and wrists. It looked as if he had been a High Liel for a hundred and fifty years. Hormil recovered himself from obvious surprise, rose, and saluted.

"Liel Aelor," he said. "Findel's blessing to you."

Tirlav looked at Hormil for a moment as if he didn't recognize him, then nodded. His eyes were irritated as if he had not slept. He turned his attention to Jareen.

"Lovniele," he said. "Are you well?"

"Yes, Liel Aelor," she answered. He grimaced.

"Liel Aelor," Coir said, rising from the table and mimicking Glentel and Hormil in a Vien salute. "It is an honor to finally meet you. I am Coir of Nosh, formerly Arch Archivist of Drennos."

Tirlav turned to him. With his marred lips, it was difficult to know if the twitch was a grimace or the flicker of a smile.

"Coir," he said. "I had thought you lost with your home. I am grateful you are safe. The Synod will strive to make Isecan pay for its crime."

"I must express myself gratified at the opportunity not only to meet a fr—correspondent, I mean, but a High Liel of Findeluvié," Coir said. At least, that is what Jareen figured he meant to say; he was speaking Vienwé, and his intonations were horrible, garbling the statement into semi-coherence. Jareen supposed the man was nervous, because he was usually clearer. Tirlav squinted, apparently trying to work out the full meaning.

"You are welcome here, Coir of Nosh," Tirlav said, speaking now in his own broken Noshian. "You always have a home here."

"Those may be the first words of Noshian ever spoken by a High Liel of Findeluvié," Coir said, his smile beaming. Tirlav nodded to him.

"Jareen, let us speak in the garden for a time?"

Jareen pushed back her chair and rose. What choice did she have? At least there would be fresh air. Glentel made to follow them out, but Tirlav raised his hand to stop him.

Together, Tirlav and Jareen stepped outside. It was late morning, and the beam of sunlight once again reached the bench. She walked to it and sat down, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on her skin. She could never tolerate the strength of the sun for long. It hadn't been a problem in the heavy garments of the Voiceless Sisters, but in her childhood she had always preferred the mornings and evenings to avoid burns. Yet since she had been with child, she found the sunlight soothing.

"How are you feeling?" Tirlav asked, remaining standing.

"Why are you keeping me prisoner?"

"It isn't me."

"Why is the Synod, of which you are a part, keeping me prisoner?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were a Daughter of Talanael?"

Jareen opened her mouth, but found she had no words. Veeries sang in the boughs of a gildenleaf sapling that grew in a neglected pot hanging at the back of the garden. She could hear them fluttering in the branches.

"What did you tell the Synod?" she asked, rather than answer.

"Your Tree will take you back to Talanael," Tirlav said. "Once this is all over."

"Once what is all over?"

Tirlav didn't answer, but his eyes flitted to her belly, and she knew. The urge to spring up and run was strong, but she stayed seated, her hands in her lap. Without a plan, a mad dash was futile.

"Your needs will always be met. Maybe I can visit you there someday."

"Thank you," she said by sheer strength of will. Tirlav nodded.

"I must go. I will walk you back inside."

"Wait," Jareen stood. "Glentel has not let me out into the garden. May I pick some of these herbs? It will ease my. . ." She put her hand on her belly, as if she didn't want to say it out loud.

"That is fine," Tirlav said. "In future you can have Glentel tell the servants to bring you whatever you require."

Tirlav watched as Jareen quickly plucked burdock leaves, then pulled tlna and yarrow in great clumps. Closer to the door, some Scullery Girl grew, as the Noshians called it, and she pulled a few stalks up by the root, shaking the dirt away. She cradled the bouquet of plants in the crook of her arm.

"Alright," she said. Tirlav opened the door for her, and she entered, heading straight back to her room. Glentel waited in the doorway of the dining room and watched her pass, falling into step behind her in the hall until she reached her door and closed it behind herself. Inside she sat down in the shuttered dark.

She had fled once when she was yet a child. If she had not, she could have lounged about the House of Talanael, never lacking for anything, never contending with the world or her own capabilities. Yet she had chosen otherwise. She sailed to a foreign land, not knowing the language or whether she would even be safe.

She did not need to obey the Synod. Whatever power they had over the minds of her people, she was free. If she did not use that freedom, now, then she was a fool.

But where could she flee this time? Slavers prowled the coast, and she had more than an inkling of what would be in store for her with them. There was nowhere to hide in Findeluvié. There were no more ships to Drennos. Any choice felt doomed, but she felt her babe in her womb day by day; its kicks and turnings.

She had spent her life serving those in Nosh and now Findeluvié, even when their own people would not. She had poured herself out. Anger surged within her. What thanks had she ever received? During the plague in Nosh, officials had called the Voiceless Sisters the Heroes of the Departing. The Vien called the companies of soldiers heroes when they sent them east to the Mingling. They only called you a hero when they were ready to sacrifice you. For decades, she had willingly laid herself up on that altar.

But she would not lay down her babe.

Stolen novel; please report.

The Synod be accursed. It might cost her her life, but what life could she have, otherwise?

How she wished she had not lain with him. She thought of his marred face. He could have remained a memory of light to her, a beauty in the passing shadow of her short life. She could have pitied him without reservation. Instead, he was a memory of pain.

There was no undoing the past. She was not alone, even there in her dark room.

***

The next day at table, Jareen sipped wine from her cup and with as much air of unconcern as she could muster, she turned to Coir:

"Bring the documents to my room after the meal." She spoke in Vienwé to show that she was not hiding anything. "I'd like to review some of the reports. I've had a thought."

"Very well," Coir answered.

At the end of the meal, they retired and Glentel followed. When Coir appeared at Jareen's door, Glentel stepped into the hall. When Coir attempted to close the door behind himself, the vien stayed it with a hand.

"I guess we'll leave it open," Coir said, smiling at the warrior. "What is it you wanted to review?" he asked, turning back to Jareen. "And would you mind speaking in Noshian? I do not think I can keep up in Vienwé"

This was uncharacteristic, for it was often Jareen who moved their discussions to Noshian. Coir's enthusiasm for speaking Vienwé far outstripped his faculty.

"That's alright," Jareen said in Vienwé, and then changed to Noshian. "Come in and lay the papers out on the table. Get your pen ready and sit like we did in the House of Lira."

"Of course." As was typical in vien sleeping rooms, there was a small side table and a three-legged chair. The use of stools and chairs was a newer fashion in Findeluvié, only a few hundred years old and probably originating with the humans, though the Vien might be loath to admit it. The furniture had still not found its way into mealtimes.

The table held an ornate glass basin for water, and Coir slid this to the side to give him room. The lamp was lit to provide light, for Jareen's window remained shuttered. Coir laid out a sheaf of papers, separated them into three piles, and prepared his inkwell and pen. After carefully straightening the edges of the papers, he turned:

"Yes?"

"Nothing I say should appear startling or out of the ordinary. This conversation should appear as any other." She kept herself from glancing at the form of Glentel leaning against the doorframe.

"Of course."

Jareen looked around the sparse room. It was tempting to lay down on her hammock, but she would not do so in company. There was no other chair.

"Glentel, would you please bring me a chair?" she asked in Vienwé. "I am weary."

He hesitated. "I promise not to say anything until you get back," she said, "and I will stand right here." Glentel furrowed his brow but ducked away, returning in a moment with the chair on which he had been sleeping for days.

"Thank you," she said, sitting down. "You may stand in here if you like, or bring another chair for yourself?"

Glentel nodded, but stepped into the hall and leaned against the wall across from the door.

"So," Jareen said to Coir in Noshian. "Do not react with surprise. I am pregnant."

"Yes, I know."

"How do you know?"

"Not all scholars are idiots."

Now it was Jareen who needed to keep from looking surprised. Coir examined the papers, slid one out, and held it up for Jareen.

"This paper says things," he said, pointing to it. He handed it over to Jareen. She glanced at the old report from Veroi briefly before handing it back. He shuffled it back into the pile. It was clear to Jareen that he understood the subterfuge.

"I'm leaving," she said.

"Where are you going?" Coir scratched a note on the paper.

"I will sail. There are canoes on the coast among the kelp harvesters. I will steal one if I must, and let the sea decide my fate."

"Well, that is a stupid plan. It is the start of winter beyond the Embrace."

"If you knew the situation, you would know why I risk it."

Coir raised a finger.

"Just a moment, I might have something about that." He shuffled through and produced another sheet of paper. "The Tree of Talanael and the Tree of Aelor both suffered catastrophic losses of scions to the Malady, and yet so far as I have heard from Hormil, no new High Liel of Talanael has been announced." As he said these things, Coir strategically spelled out the names of the High Trees and of Hormil in Noshian rather than pronouncing the recognizable sounds, and he continued to do so. "The quiet fellow in the hall said he was here to protect the Daughter of Talanael, yet treats you as a prisoner. Our mutual acquaintance arrives to speak with you in the garden, looking at you as if he had a spear in his guts. You have obviously met, and you could have cut the air between you with a knife. You are pregnant and unwed. Need I go on?"

Jareen gaped at him.

"Less surprise," Coir suggested, scratching another note on the paper. Jareen caught herself.

"They intend to kill the babe," she said.

"Undoubtedly."

"That is why I must try, even if it is hopeless."

"There is only one place where the Synod might not be able to find you."

"Where?"

"The Mingling."

She'd thought of it herself, of course. The idea was crazier than the sea.

"The Mingling is full of soldiers, monsters, unknown forests, sorcerers, and the groves of Isecan beyond."

"Yes, yes. But there is more to the Mingling than that, and if you knew your stories you'd remember."

"What?" Jareen asked. Coir pulled a paper from the pile and leaned over toward her, holding it up for her to see, his back to the doorway.

She squinted. It was a map, drawn with fine strokes and minute notations.

"What is this?" she asked.

"A map of the Mingling, so far as I have deciphered in all my studies and interviews." He leaned back and slid it into the middle of the pile.

"I did not realize you were doing that."

"Of course not. You may keep your secrets close, Jareen, but it is clear that you have them. I learned long ago that it is much safer to appear a foolish nuisance than a clever one. It kept me alive in Nosh, and if we have Findel's blessing, it will keep us alive here."

"Damnation to Findel," she said, indulging in Noshian profanity, "and his cursed blessing."

"Cursed blessing? Is that a Vienwé construction? Because on the surface it appears a self-contradiction, but there is a function to it. . ."

"Is this more of the foolish nuisance act?"

"Anyway. . ." Coir looked at her askance. "Based on everything I have learned, I believe that Vah'tane must be in the northeastern stretches of the Mingling."

"Vah'tane is a myth," Jareen said. Coir waved a hand at her.

"Yes, of course. Just like the Wellspring, the Current, the Synod's control. . . Do you still doubt those?"

"There is a life inside of me. A living soul who is not me, who wasn't here before. I cannot feel the Current, but I feel this babe. I can believe much, now."

"Then perhaps instead of running from the Synod, I could convince you to come with me and run toward something."

Jareen frowned.

"Come with you?"

"Of course. Would you have me sit in Tir'Aelor like a kept pet for the rest of my life?"

Jareen remembered her mother's words. Pets.

"They will kill you if we're caught," she said. "You were commanded to remain or die."

Coir shrugged.

"I never intended to honor their command. I did not come to Findeluvié for shelter. A scholar of my degree would be welcome in the courts of any of the human kingdoms, backwards though most of them are. No, I came to seek Vah'tane, and to know if the teachings of Vah are true. If the Synod suspected my intentions, well, who knows what they would do? Better to be thought a fool. I don't suppose we'll survive the Mingling, anyway. But Vah'tane is there somewhere. It has long been my dream to seek it, and it's a better goal than getting tipped out of a canoe by a crocodile."

"I'm not going to seek Vah'Tane. I must try to survive."

"I know. And I will try to help you. Once you are safely in Isecan, I can search for Vah'tane."

"In Isecan? What part of survive isn't clear?"

"You underestimate the bargaining power you carry in your womb," Coir said, scratching more notes. Jareen reminded herself to breathe, to remain calm.

"Never. They would kill the babe, or find a way to use it against Findeluvié."

Coir shrugged.

"They are the same as you, you know. They are Vien. Their language would be intelligible to you. I believe they have Insensitives among them, too. I learned more from the records of Tir'Aelor than Eldre thought."

"They are murderers. They destroyed Drennos." Jareen struggled to hide her emotion, and so she feigned a coughing fit and held her belly.

Coir grimaced.

"Yes," he said. "I grieve my people, too. I had a niece."

"I'm sorry," Jareen said. "I didn't know."

Coir shook his head.

"The Inevien are not mindless. They warned us twice. I grieve for my people, but they could have destroyed Nosh for helping Findel without allowing fifty years. Isecan is your best hope."

"Surely there is another way."

"I cannot force you, Jareen. But please consider coming with me. The sea will slay you more surely than the Mingling. Or worse."

What if she could be picked up by a ship? Would slavers let her babe survive? It was a terrible risk, either way.

"How would we get to the Mingling? It is a long journey. Longer than the sea."

"That I have been contemplating. A more immediate question is how to get you out of this house?"

"That I have been working on," she answered. "Remember to write notes."

"Ah yes," Coir said, pulling out a new sheet.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.