There was a rhythm to harvesting pomegranates. There didn’t have to be, but for the Vien it was natural to find the music. The stems made a light snick when the curved harvest knife cut it. Even in the cool of night, Tirlav felt when the stems had dried, when the angles of the fruit showed it was ripe. Climbing in the branches of the spreading trees, Tirlav moved with the rhythm of the singing, the snick of the stems falling on the accents of the song, his limbs moving in time, Tirlav loved such work, for to the Vien nothing was devoid of music, nothing without beauty.

  This harvest was bound for wine-making. Just this grove of hundreds of trees would take days to harvest. All gardens and groves within Aelor theoretically belonged to the liel of the heartwood itself, but thousands of years ago, every bit of forest, gardens, and groves had been divided up between the Trees and lineages of the Aelor. These Trees cultivated their own woods, and tribute was paid to Tir’Aelor from the excess, for the growing season of Findeluvié never ended. Tirlav might be a son of the Tree of Aelor, but his presence at harvest was not conspicuous or unusual.

  Make yourself useful to our people, his father had said once Eldre grudgingly acknowledged that Tirlav had adequately memorized the great ballads and histories and had accomplished a dignified hand at calligraphy. It did not bother Tirlav to make himself useful in this way, and he knew the goings-on of the harvests well, to join in the labors.

  There was a ripple of hesitation in the song, and Tirlav looked around, seeking to gauge what had caused it. In the trees just to the south, the singing had fallen away and movement had stopped. The quiet spread, and he heard a greeting:

  “May the wine bring laughter and the songs gladness!”

  The voice belonged to Tirlav’s brother Reniel.

  “And may the lights of the heavens gladden your eyes,” the answer came from many lips.

  Tirlav climbed down from the upper branches, balancing his half-full basket of ripe pomegranates. The lowest branch was only six feet from the ground, and he dropped without a sound.

  “There you are,” Reniel said, approaching.

  “Brother,” Tirlav said. “What brings you here?”

  “Walk with me in the cool,” Reniel said.

  Tirlav laid his basket at the base of the tree and called up to his fellow harvester to take it to the press for him.

  It was the coolest portion of the night, with the crickets and other insects buzzing and chirping and the breeze rustling the tops of the trees. Stars shone down through scudding clouds. It was perfect, as so many Vien nights were. The smell of the breeze told Tirlav that in another hour, a pre-dawn rainshower would fall. In the Embrace, the rain almost always fell just before dawn, so that the sun rose on leaves laden with glistening beads of water.

  Reniel led him out of the grove and down a row of freshly harvested cinnamon trees, their light red under-bark looking pale in the night.

  “I have word from the Synod,” Reniel said.

  Their father was a member of the Synod, as all High Liele were. The heartwoods existed around the Trees that comprised the Synod. But when a directive came from the Synod, it came not from individual liele, but from the whole. They did not debate with words, and their rulings were incontrovertible. Tirlav remained quiet, and Reniel let the appropriate time pass to show the gravity of the word. In the distance, the harvest singing had begun again. At last, Reniel continued:

  “Aelor is to send three hundred and three vien to the High Tir to form a company of riders.”

  “A new company? Did not the Synod raise three just last year?”

  “They did, but the Canaen press hard from the east, and another insurgence of humans was made on the coast in eastern Talanael.”

  “More slavers?”

  “And more sails on the waters.”

  “Is Drennos not keeping them at bay?”

  “They claim these ships are faster than theirs.”

  Tirlav frowned. It was part of the trade agreement with Drennos that their massive navy would keep all others at bay from the Findeluvié shores.

  “Why do we put up with it?” Tirlav asked, even though he knew the answer. Metal was scarce. The human steel gave them great advantage over the quth of Isecan.

  Reniel did not bother to answer, looking up through the branches of the trees at the sky. Most of the Vien spent their first hundred years or more with an attitude of care-free celebration and frolic while their elders worked hard to enforce the strict training, memorization, and inheritance of skills deemed necessary in youth. So far as Tirlav knew, Reniel had never gone through the stage of frivolity. Always, a weight lay on his brow. How he would last in the long centuries of their people, so laden and yet so young, Tirlav did not know. It worried him. Reniel was not yet three hundred.

  “The people will not be joyous at this.”

  “The purpose of this company will be to guard the coast to repel raiders.”

  “Still. . . It is so soon after. . .”

  “Yes. I know. And as you know, I must rule while father is with the Synod.”

  “I understand.”

  “There was more to the Synod’s word,” Reniel said.

  “What?”

  “From now, only the first two heirs of the High Trees are exempt.”

  “The first two?” That meant that Reniel was no longer exempt.

  “I received another message, this one from Ireli. It came by the same rider as the ruling of the Synod.”

  Tirlav waited, noticing how Reniel hesitated. Wild thoughts filled his mind. Had Reniel been called to serve?

  “I say this so that you know it was not of my devising,” Reniel said.

  “What was it?”

  “You are to be among the number.”

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  Tirlav stared at Reniel. His brother still watched the sky. They had stopped walking, and Tirlav only just noticed. He opened his mouth, but he found no words. Reniel went on:

  “With another levy so soon, the people must know that all are affected, even the Trees of the Synod. I did not make this decision. . . but it is right. I see the truth of it. Our Trees were chosen to serve. But Irlav has commanded that I remain to serve in father’s place. You are to go as an example.”

  “But the Synod Trees. . . " Tirlav stopped himself from saying it. Arguing felt cowardly, but. . . maybe he was a coward? The Synod Trees had been exempt for over a thousand years. Until the blessing passed to the next generation, all heirs were exempt. So long as his father was in the Synod, none of Tirlav’s generation could be levied to the war. Even once Irlav became High Liel, the same remained true until he had his own heirs. At least, so it had been since ancient times.

  “I would have gone, were it up to me,” Reniel said.

  “I know,” Tirlav replied. It was true. Reniel would have gone. He would have gotten himself killed in glorious struggle against Isecan.

  “I have made the selection of the other three hundred two,” Reniel said. “Runners went out this evening, but. . .”

  But he wanted to tell Tirlav, himself. That was obvious.

  “Thank you,” Tirlav said. Reniel sighed. “You will assemble at Tir’Aelor by noon tomorrow. From there, you go to the High Tir.”

  ***

  Tirlav had not set foot inside his small room within the House of Aelor for what felt like a year. He had taken to using it only as storage, preferring to sleep in a high shelter a mile or two from Tir’Aelor, in a preserve of wilder trees that their father kept as a sanctuary for songbirds and the little pronged deer that browsed in the shade. It was there that Tirlav usually kept his harps, but now he left the instruments sitting near the wall in a row: his lap harp, his lever harp, and his two-row harp, each made exquisitely from different woods—hackberry, cherry, and gildenleaf.

  “Tirlav,” Reniel said, coming into the small room carrying a wrapped bundle under one arm, and a brace of swords in their wooden scabbards. “Here,” he said, holding out the swords. Tirlav took them and set them on a little table against the wall. They were in the style of the liefel blades which were merely adaptations of the hooked sickles used to harvest fruit. Though the form had changed over the years, the blades had never lost their pronounced outward curve. This pair had single edges with thick spines, weighed to deliver wicked downward chops. They were of the longer style of blades favored by riders.

  “There is a spear as well with your vaela,” Reniel said. “And knives here.” Reniel knelt with the bundle and opened it. Within was a new suit of robes—burgundy silk, the color of Aelor—and a mail hauberk of rings fine and glistening. Tirlav had never worn one before—such steel was the purpose of the trade with the humans, and it was reserved for true war.

  “I’ll be right back. Get changed.”

  “I can change with the others once we get to the High Tir,” Tirlav said.

  “No, you will appear before them today as a proud Son of Aelor attired for war.”

  “Am I still counted so, if I am sent to war?”

  Reniel paused at the door. Tirlav knew that he too, was not one of the first two heirs, but he was too valuable to the Aelor heartwood to send.

  “You are what you show yourself to be,” Reniel said. “Put it on.”

  Tirlav did not have the heart to argue with his elder brother. He never did. What was the point? There was no use arguing in the House of Aelor, for if ever they had a disagreement, their father would give a command, and obedience would come without fail.

  It wasn’t that Tirlav wanted to rebel, it was just that obedience didn’t feel. . . meaningful? When his father spoke—when the Synod spoke—there was no question, not for him or any other. Such was the way of the Vien. When Reniel returned, Tirlav stood attired in the burgundy silk robe. Like all robes worn by vien or vienu, it was split to the thigh to make it easy to climb or to gird the loins.

  “Put the mail on,” Reniel said, returning with vambraces, greaves, and a helm in his arms. Sweeping emboss-work decorated the helm, flowing back over its curves like hair blowing in the wind. At the peak of the helm was a socket, empty now, but made to hold a vaela-hair plume. Tirlav lifted the mail over his head and shook it down over his chest. It was long, but split in the front and back to separate for riding vaela. Without a word, Reniel strapped the greaves and vambraces in place and then lifted the helmet and lowered it over Tirlav’s head. He nodded at the sight.

  Last of all, Reniel tied a plaited silk belt around Tirlav’s waist. He tucked the knives and sabers within, hooking them securely. All was of the finest make that elven smiths could fashion, working the steel provided by Drennos. The human smiths had not yet perfected the art of fitting to the vien body or taste, nor did they take the time; vien smiths tuned their blades so that when struck, they rang pure notes. The hardened steel had the luster of blue slate, and it caught the morning light shining through the lattice-and-glass window.

  Tirlav hadn’t touched weapons for decades. Once the training of his youth was over—a training every Vien male underwent in their first hundred years—he had given himself over to music and gardening. Now, he felt the awkward weight of the human steel and hated it. Nevertheless, he tried not to show his discomfort to Reniel.

  “Thank you. These are fine gifts.”

  “Your bow is with your Vaela as well,” Reniel answered.

  Of all the weapons, the bow was the least repulsive, for archery was a common amusement among the vien, encouraged by the Synod. He even partook from time to time in the sporting matches held in the woods.

  “Thank you,” he said again, and felt the danger of tears. Reniel saw him glance over at his harps, neatly stowed in their silken carrying bags.

  “There is beauty in music,” Reniel said. “There is beauty too in duty, for without it, our people would fall to the quth, to the dark sorcery of Isecan. . . or to the humans. It is duty that preserves all other beauty.”

  Tirlav looked at his brother, at his pale green eyes and dark hair, the proud curve of his ears and the hardened muscle of his shoulders. Reniel had never given up training at arms. Always he looked to the good of their people, a constant aide to their father and eldest brother. For the first time in Tirlav’s life, he saw jealousy there, and he realized that Reniel wished it was him, instead of Tirlav, not just for Tirlav’s sake, but for his own. Reniel was disappointed.

  “I’m sorry,” Tirlav said.

  “For what?”

  Tirlav couldn’t bring himself to say more than that. He only shook his head. “We should go.” Forcing himself to turn away from his harps, he left the room.

  The House of Aelor was built between three massive eucalyptus trees, their variegated bark pigmented in bright colors as the outer layers peeled away and the inner layers slowly dried, a slow but constant shift of hues. The three great trees formed the supports of the three-cornered house that rose between them in sweeping arches of carven wood. In their buildings and art, the Vien cared little for symmetry, preferring flowing, asymmetrical designs. What was a house but an opportunity for sculpture and decoration, and the display of skilled glasswork and carving? Windows and ornaments of intricate glasswork matched the palette of the eucalyptus and filled the house with light. The rails of the twisting stairway they descended were carved to mimic fruiting branches replete with finely carved pomegranates.

  Massive smooth flagstones provided a pavement for the ground level of the house. The brothers passed through the wide door with the arching lintel fashioned in the form of intertwining roots and stepped into the sunlight. The eucalyptus grove that ringed the tir-sides towered above them, and standing on the greensward were three hundred and two Vien. They stood in orderly rows while other Vien moved among them, distributing the same fashion of equipment of war that Reniel had given Tirlav.

  It was each heartwood’s responsibility to raise and arm contingents when called upon by the Synod for the defense of the Embrace. Aelor must arm them, and in this case, Aelor must provide them with mounts of vaela. This was more an administrative convenience than anything else, for each High Liel was a member of the Synod, and there was no disagreement among them. The cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, fruits, silks, glassworks, and other such staples that the humans so coveted departed from the heartwoods to the harbor of Talanael. Steel and weapons flowed back. Among the groves, herds of vaela were tended to provide mounts for the riders. Thus, Findeluvié provided for itself the means of repulsing its enemies.

  If only the weapons could wield themselves. The constant war bled their people with each new levy of companies. Were it not for Isecan, they would be blessed.

  “Were not for your war, the long lives of the elves would cause your shores to overflow. Your people would spread to every land,” Coir had written him once. If it were not for the war, it might be so.

  All present had already given their farewells to their Trees. From below the slopes of the tir, Tirlav heard the sounds of lament. Even the birds sang different songs, and the sun shone with a weaker light as three hundred and three Vien arrayed themselves for war.

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