Tirlav walked back from the Wellspring grove, Glentel trailing behind him. Lost in thought and tired as he always was after the striving of wills, he passed the stairway to the Aelor house in the High Tir, lost in thought. In truth, there was nothing for him to do in the house but sit and think—occupations he no longer enjoyed. He had sent his brothers home after many long meetings to sort through the situation in the Aelor heartwood. Much of their store of arms as well as their vaela herds were depleted after the eastern assault, though trade reserves of cinnamon and myrrh were plentiful. With nowhere to send the excess, storehouses were overflowing. Before long, he would have to return to Tir'Aelor to bless a few weddings, but with his young brothers now assigned their duties, there was not much that he needed to manage. The day-to-day management of the heartwoods was traditionally shouldered by the siblings, children, or servants of the High Liele, leaving the High Liele to slowly succumb to the Change.

He always felt it; even as he walked, the labor of supporting the embrace Changed him, twisting one fiber of his being at a time.

Harp music drew him along the path without him realizing. It was evening, and the fireflies drifted between the eucalyptus trees. As was so often the case, he found a cluster of vien and vienu around a flowing brook shaded by vines. On a smooth rock sat a harper, plucking a melody that flowed like the brook. Tirlav paused, watching the movement of the harper's hands.

The vien had skill, but Tirlav's had been greater, once. . . he curled his stiff fingers. The music stopped, and Tirlav realized that those gathered had turned toward him.

"Findel's blessing to you, Liel Aelor," the harper said, bowing at the waist. "I am honored by your hearing."

Tirlav almost forgot to respond, but he recalled himself and inclined his head in acknowledgment. The harper turned to those listening.

"In honor of Liel Aelor, I would like to sing the ballad composed by Levshien of Namian, telling of the heroic charge of the Sail Chasers as they pushed back the Canaen assault."

Tirlav flinched to hear the name of his own company. He glanced at Glentel, who also stared wide-eyed at the harper. Surely there was some mistake.

"When the High Liel of Namian himself told the tale to Levshien and requested the composition of the ballad, this song poured forth from the singers lips, and he taught it to me."

Tirlav hated the furtive glances of those gathered, but he stood transfixed. The harper laid his fingertips to the strings, and a melody flowed as the hackberry vibrated to life.

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How could this be? The Synod limited what news could return from the Mingling to hide the realities there. Sometimes, they allowed some heroic half-truths to filter back, to inspire the people and raise their ire against the foe. Tirlav had not been told of any such allowance in this case.

"Fresh into the east they rode yet not unblooded, for beneath their blades the humans fell whose sails marred the horizon.

A Son of Aelor led them there, whose proof of valor and strength of arm no human tongue was left to tell.

Not alone of High Tree lineage he; not sparing their own from bravest deeds, sons of Namian and Piev to the east were born."

Verse followed verse, cataloging the names of the plumes who rode to the assault, though more than a few were wrong, dead before that day. Tirlav's chest burned hearing the names of his comrades. He smelled the mold and felt the humid air, tasted the foul wine as if he lived again those days, each remembrance a dark and cruel counterpoint to the adulation of the song.

"To heed the Synod's call brave Aelor led: 'Arise riders, for today we sell our souls that others live to turn the foe.'

No mother knows our resting place. No friend our cries will hear. Yet hold we fast to fell deeds.

Plumes of pride with manes and tails streamed in the breeze of their passing. Rumbling hooves shook quth hearts.

In dawn mist the riders merged— a wedge of death to drive the storm of nightmare foes foul and fierce.

To shield! To shield their homeland fair Three thousand shining helms they bore, while to their back all hope they fled.

Faced they proud with shining eyes the fore where glory beckoned, theirs forevermore, while banners stirred in morning breeze.

In streaming hair flowed they on a river of years, brave trees of Findel. Fierce the foe, but fierce the song.

He remembered that day, the way the eaves of the Charth looked like a looming shadow ahead, the shifting and stamping of the host of vaela behind him. The heavy hair of the Mingling pressing against his face as sweat trickled down his back. The woods had showed no sign of foe, and the narrow trail opened ahead of him like some serpent's gullet. What charge could be made against that? He swam up from memory. How much of the song had he missed?

Five thousand blades of spears like grass, a forest of barbs as the quth rose up. Yet not a vien swerved, undaunted they.

A hand grasped Tirlav's shoulder, and he spun around, reaching to his side for a sword that was not there.

"Liel," Glentel said. "Liel, please."

Tirlav shrugged away his hand. Sweat dampened Glentel's forehead.

"One last moment free and fair before the clash of steel. One last note of song unmarred."

The harper thumbed a glissando, bringing the melody briefly upward before crashing down to a final note that rang in the evening air. It was over. The vibrations of the harp died away, and only the burbling of the brook remained. All faces regarded Tirlav.

"What happened?" Tirlav asked.

"Liel, please," Glentel implored again.

"What happened!" Tirlav repeated, louder this time, staring at the harper.

Glentel grasped his arm, pulling him away.

"My liel?" the harper asked.

"What happened in the battle?"

"It's not real, Liel," Glentel said. "It wasn't like that. Come away."

"What happened?" Tirlav shouted, even as Glentel succeeded in turning him, pulling him away down the path back to the house.

"What happened to my riders!"

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