The weather over land in Findeluvié varied a little between the two halves of the year, with one half being slightly cooler and rainier and the other hotter and dryer. In the northern heartwoods, the difference was more dramatic; in Piev, a few trees even dropped their leaves. But starting a number of miles offshore, the weather changed drastically. In the winter, blizzards, floating ice, and powerful storms lashed the seas, sending cool waves crashing even to the southern shores of the Embrace. Because of these conditions, shipping from Drennos all but stopped for half of the year, as did the imminent threat of raids.

  As the season changed, marked by longer rains and stronger waves, Hormil ordered a rotation of the contingents, always leaving half strength along the shore while survivors of the Mingling led the rest for training. Hormil himself took a more direct part in this than he had yet, and their days and nights were spent riding pell-mell through the vien groves, loosing arrows at targets dragged behind galloping vaela, or sword and spear work. The spears of the Vien were short, barely as long as a vien’s own arm, wielded in one hand. Any longer, and the weapons were useless in dense thickets, but they allowed a greater reach during rare fights from atop vaela, or for thrusts among branches. Hormil even pitted the contingents against each other at night in thick woods with padded, headless arrows and blunted blades. Bruises, swollen eyes, and broken fingers were received by many.

  The vien veterans who drilled them did not comfort Tirlav at all. Each of them had that Vah’tane gaze, the look of those whose spirits had already begun their journeys of abandonment. Few vien ever returned from the Mingling. Of the veterans who trained them, half berated new company with relentless ferocity for any failure, and half just shook their heads with despairing expressions. With more than a little disdain, the veterans began calling the company the “Sail Chasers.”

  Hormil rotated the training contingents between different tirs and Vien habitations, giving them a reprieve at least in scenery, food, and wine, though not in ease. He made sure the plumes remained with whatever parts of their contingents were training, to bind them together. Tirlav’s contingent now numbered only two hundred and seventy-eight, as two of the wounded from the battle on the shore had succumbed. Another of their wounded had a crippled hand, unable to so much as curl his fingers. Hormil allowed Tirlav to give no reprieve, except in archery. “A blade in one hand, then” he said. Tirlav always put the crippled vien in the ground party, for his ability to climb was hindered, and battles in the forests were fought both in the trees and upon the ground. The long arms and legs of the Vien were strong and lithe, allowing them easy movement between close-growing trees. But they were no longer harvesting fruits from the canopy; they were training to harvest lives.

  Hormil often left their training to other veterans—like a haggard vien named Selnei whose face was traced with fine scars—and went to watch the shore or drop in on other contingents training elsewhere. Hormil did not allow any contingents to return to their home heartwoods, which meant that the company could never train as a whole. Nor were the contingents allowed to sleep indoors. Hormil wanted them used to sleeping in their hammocks and suffering the privations of hasty shelters, the damp rains, and mists before dawn. Most vien slept in hammocks, anyway, but the hammocks of the contingents were those used in the Mingling, made of extra thick canvas which could fold over and close on top. To keep them from getting comfortable, he made sure the contingents moved to new groves or thickets every few days. In truth, Tirlav had often slept out in the groves of Aelor, and there was little enough privation for them in this; it was the constant movement and the keeping of strict watches that weighed on them and dulled their songs.

  When Hormil was present, he invited the plumes to dine and drink with him alone, normally in the home of some local Tree. Food and drink were some of the only comforts he afforded them, and drink in particular Hormil relished. Whatever veteran had drilled them that day would often recline at table with them. As weeks passed, Tirlav watched the faces of the other plumes grow thinner, tauter, and dim-eyed. Three had been replaced, now. It was a shame Tirlav felt determined to avoid. The memory of his former life—when there was so little he could have done to bring dishonor on his Tree—felt fainter and fainter.

  At the end of one meal where the plumes had sat and eaten in silence, Hormil waved at them and said:

  “You may go.”

  The five plumes present had little enjoyed the fine honey-baked fruits, the breads, and the pomegranate wine. Hormil and Selnei, the veteran who sat beside him, talked between themselves of places in the Mingling that the plumes did not know or were too tired to take interest in. A few of the plumes sported dark bruises or blackened eyes. Tirlav himself was sore, and his eyes blurred, for he had not slept the nights before. The Aelor contingent were kept awake in mock raids and then drilled through the days because one of his contingent had fumbled and dropped a spear. In his stupor of fatigue, with a full belly drawing him toward sleep, he did not hear Hormil’s dismissal.

  When the others rose to leave, he remained seated, staring down at a cup thrice-emptied. Once, any moment of stillness would have allowed the music to flow into his heart and mind. Now, the dumbness of its absence.

  How long it was before Tirlav realized that Hormil and Selnei had fallen silent, he couldn’t say. He looked up and found both watching him, their faces flushed with wine.

  “Forget where you are, Son of Aelor?” Selnei asked with a smirk.

  “Forget?” Tirlav asked. “No. Where else should I be?”

  “Do you hear that, Selnei?” Hormil asked. “He delights in our company.”

  “A vien of impeccable taste,” Selnei replied. “No wonder he has distinguished himself.”

  Tirlav squinted at Selnei. Distinguished himself? The rare praise only irritated him, for he felt little love of his commander after the battle on the shore. Hormil laughed at Tirlav’s expression.

  “I have to say, I was quite interested to see how these lesser heirs of the Synod would fare. It has been an eon since any were sent to war.”

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  “And what have you found?” Tirlav asked. The speech had roused him, and his tone was cool.

  “The Son of Namian was worthless,” Hormil said. He had been removed as plume early on and now served as a member of the contingent under a plume of Hormil’s selection, a former cinnamon grower. “The Son of Piev has some sense. At least, I have not seen fit to remove him yet.”

  “And then there’s you,” Selnei said.

  “Do you know why I make the plumes dine with me and not with their contingents?” Hormil asked before Tirlav could reply to Selnei.

  Tirlav shook his head.

  “It isn’t for the pleasure of your company. I don’t suppose you all enjoy mine any more than I enjoy your sour visages—” here Selnei laughed—“I do it to separate you in the minds of your riders. To ensure you are not merely one of their number.”

  Still chuckling, Selnei tried to refill his cup from a pitcher, but finding it empty, he stood to reach for one further down the table.

  “Being an heir of the Synod helps with that, however so far removed. It is a shame the Son of Namian was incompetent at war. No instinct for it, but there is no helping that. It was fate’s cruelty to take him from the night dances. His heart is mild, and he has not given up his life. He will not last long in the Mingling.”

  “Are we to be sent to the Mingling?”

  “I cannot say for sure. No company has ever been raised to guard the coast before. Yet there is convenience in it. It gives you time to train and harden, and then after a time you could be shifted east and a new company formed. The Synod will realize this, I doubt it not.”

  Tirlav felt an ache in his stomach, but not from food or wine. He had hoped that perhaps they would stay on the coast permanently. It might be possible to survive such a duty. Selnei had sat back down with a full cup, and now Tirlav stood and reached for the pitcher, pulling it to his side of the table and pouring vessel to the brim.

  “How did you both survive the Mingling? You were both riders, were you not?” He took a long drink of wine. Vaela riders had the poorest odds of survival, everyone knew. They were sent wherever the fighting was fiercest.

  “Riders, yes,” Selnei said, his voice sounding wet from the wine. “Fourteen vaela died beneath me. My comrades fell on right and left, front and back, above and below. I despaired of life long ago, but death scorned me.”

  “That is all,” Hormil said. “Death has scorned us.”

  “It toys with us like a cat, is all,” Selnei added. The commander leaned into the table, working to focus his wine-bleary eyes on Tirlav. “A company is never greater than its leaders,” he said. “And fifty survivors are better than a thousand untried children of the glades.” Hormil pulled the glove from his left hand. Tirlav had always thought the gloves were a quirk of his, perhaps a strange habit kept over from the Mingling. Now he stared at Hormil’s left hand and the streaks of dark violet pigment that crept up his hand from his thumb to the hem of his sleeve. “Things happen in the Mingling that cannot be easily fought with swords. Harden your heart and your mind. In this way you safeguard the groves of Aelor from darkness.”

  Hormil replaced his glove and stood, bracing himself for a moment with both hands planted on the table. “It grows late,” he said. “Let us empty our cups to Findel. There will be more drills tomorrow.”

  ***

  In this way, the rainy season passed. In the last weeks before Tirlav expected the full force of the company to return to the coast, Hormil had relocated his contingent to Shénalen, the home of the High Tree of Shéna. The habitants of Shénalen numbered in the thousands. Like many of the heartwoods, the folk of Shéna had their own distinct habits that influenced architecture and clothing and food. The folk of Shéna loved their stained glass, and the homes were full of massive mosaics that shone in the sunlight, often telling stories of Findel or Vah or the finding of the Wellspring. The constant hum of the many beehives hanging in the trees made the city feel sleepy. The folk of Shéna had even used stained glass in the making of the hives.

  So, Tirlav found himself in one of his few moments of reprieve walking the fragrant paths of Shénalen, breathing in the evening blossoms and staring at the beautiful mosaics lit from behind by lamps and candles. It was evening after the plumes had eaten together, and he was wandering back out of the city toward the bivouac of his contingent.

  Before he realized it, he found himself staring at a mosaic light from within by lamps. He stood in the path as the light fell on his face. The mosaic depicted a harper cradling his harp and staring at an azure sky full of flying birds. The lowest floor of the building sat upon the ground, completely encircling the trunk of a tall conifer. The walls were made of red cedar, masterfully carved so that barely any surface was left without artifice. Letting his eyes lower, Tirlav saw that there was a clear bit of glass below the mosaic. On the other side of the glass, three harps stood upon a cushioned dais. He immediately recognized the maker’s mark. It was Voriel, the master luthier of Shéna. His harps were among the finest in all Findeluvié. He produced only one every ten to twenty years. Much of that time was spent in meditation upon the instrument as it took shape, and those which did not meet his standard he destroyed. The building must be his workshop.

  Tirlav stared at the harps, the curve of their shoulders and arches, the perfect grain of their soundboxes and sweep of their pillars. Even the detail on the pins showed mastery. Voriel never used levers or cast pins. Instead, each of his harps was perfectly carved for harmonic resonance in individual, specific keys. Such masterworks had no price.

  The use of brass, bronze, silver and other metals for harp-making was new, the result of the trade with Drennos, and Voriel had not taken to the new materials. Some Vien traded in human silver, others in necessities only. The basic needs of life were not in short supply in Findeluvié. Those who wished to master a craft over hundreds and hundreds of years brought honor to their heartwood and were well-patronized by the High Trees, themselves, lacking nothing.

  Tirlav had heard Voriel’s harps played. Such instruments were given only to the finest of harpers, and the finest musicians often traveled to visit the High Trees of the heartwoods. Tirlav had dreamed of one day being found worthy of such a masterwork. He had not touched a harp since the day he had ridden from Tir’Aelor. Had a song even crossed his lips? Yes, even Hormil had them sing while riding or drilling, but those were songs of fierceness, of rhythm for coordinating movement, or of old battles. They were not the songs that Tirlav had loved—songs of the woods, songs of rain and dew and leaf and bough and birdcall.

  Tears ran down Tirlav’s cheeks. The desire to take up one of those harps, to cradle it in his lap, to feel the strings beneath his fingertips. . . For a moment it almost overwhelmed him. He imagined throwing open the door to the workshop, striding in, and laying the harp on his lap with a bare sword—the harp for music, the sword for whoever came to take him away.

  How could he want something so badly and yet resist? How could his life be this madness it had become? Yes, someone had to do it. Hormil may wish to send a message to the humans to dissuade their raids, but the Canaen would never relent. To preserve their folk, some must be sacrificed. He was dead. . . he was already dead. Yet his heart still longed for life. He never knew he possessed such willpower, the strength to submit to this fate, yet it was like something else undergirded him, holding him to duty with an iron resolve. He turned away from the window, from the harps, from life itself, and strode down the path back to the Aelor contingent.

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