Hormil informed the plumes that word had reached him from the Vien embassy in Drennos. The humans of the fractured eastern kingdoms lusted for anything belonging to Findeluvié, especially for animals or vien, themselves. Strange powers lived in their blood and bones, they believed. The embassy suggested that the Canaen put the humans up to it. Tirlav found that easy to believe. The Canaen sorcerers had the flesh-eating Quth for servants, and even worse things dwelt in the Mingling, if the stories were true. Hormil and the other veterans who had trained them through the rainy season only whispered of such things, even when deep in their cups.
Hormil had rearranged the contingents, and now Tirlav held the Tlorné shore, the westernmost heartwood on the southern coast. The Crossing Isles lay in broken fragments in the channel, and the reefs made any passage treacherous. Few of the humans bothered to go so far. Twice they spotted sails from the eastern edge of the heartwood, but none approached the shore or braved the channel. The contingent was only instructed to watch the south-facing coast, unless a sail should manage to traverse the channel. Once more, Tirlav sent out fifteen riders to aid the Veroi along the Talanael shore, but they returned unblooded; the humans had pulled away before landing.
Tirlav did not know why Hormil had relegated the Aelor contingent to the safest and most remote portion of the coast. More out of an attempt to stave off the ill-spirit of idleness, Tirlav committed to following Hormil’s directive to keep his vien from laziness or slack. Tirlav continued the drills, copying the methods and standards of the veterans. Ever in camp, their hands were busy with the fletching of arrows, the cleaning of arms and armament, and the tending of the vaela. Where before Tirlav had been lithe, now he was sinew and muscle drawn upon bone. He was not alone. The sharp angles of their faces grew sharper still, and the warm gleam that once shone in the eyes of vien from Aelor had grown into a cold glint. Some yet sang while keeping watch upon the waves from the branches of high trees, but their songs were laments or the melodies of war learned from Hormil and the other veterans.
Tirlav did not begrudge the other contingents their fights with the humans. One more plume was removed from his position that season, but only a half-moon later, the demoted plume was killed in an assault on a human landing party—the only vien casualty of the engagement. The former plume had charged into the human line, singing and slashing and hewing all before him—until his throat was opened. Tirlav wondered often about him. He had eaten with the fallen vien many times at Hormil’s table. Had shame driven him to despair? Had the desire to redeem himself driven him to death? Would Tirlav have found a way to go on, so dishonored? It was a fate that could yet find him. Though he did not begrudge the fighting, the season passed slowly so far west, no matter his efforts to keep the Aelor busy. That much, Tirlav begrudged.
***
At last, the surf grew rough, and the rains lasted longer through the night. The turn of the seasons was upon them once again. White breakers tore across the channels, and the black sand that had been deposited on the shore through the summer slipped back into the sea, leaving bare cobbles heaped at the high water mark. Tirlav spent countless hours standing on that shore, his silks blowing in the breeze as he stared out to sea. He awaited the rider who would come to order the start of the seasonal rotation and the rainy-season drills. The commander had only visited them twice since they were stationed to Tlorné, and both visits were early in the season. Few vien lived along that shore, favoring the fertile inland groves more. The Aelor contingent had to make do with dried fruits, the kelp and seaweed that washed up on shore, the wild fruits of the nearby groves, coconut milk, and what little wine the locals would occasionally bring them.
At last, Glentel found Tirlav where he stood on the seashore. A rider had come. The messenger stood in the midst of the Aelor in camp when Tirlav arrived. A vien camp was barely noticeable from the forest floor, apart from the grazing of the vaela. The vien preferred to hang their hammocks in the mid branches of stout trees, and if they remained in one place long, they wove nets and webbings between trees and branches to allow them to lounge and rest hidden above. So it was in the trees where the contingent cleaned their arms and laid up a store of arrows beyond any need, and it was from the trees that many faces watched when Tirlav addressed the messenger.
“What news?” he asked.
“Hail, liel plume Son of Aelor,” the rider said, and held out a tenae. Tenae were hollow cylinders of wood, capped on one end, and able to be sealed with beeswax and silken thread to keep watertight. Tirlav frowned, taking the tenae and breaking the seal. He pulled the rolled paper from within the tenae. The roll was sealed with an unfamiliar mark.
“From whence?" he asked.
"From the Liel Commander."
"When was it dispatched?"
“Six days ago,” the vien said. Tirlav looked at him, trying to place his face.
“What is your contingent?”
“I am of Yene, liel.”
“Yene?” he asked.
The Yene contingent was stationed all the way in Miret that season, abutting their forces at the edge of the Mingling.
“I have ridden the entire shore, liel, delivering such as this to each plume.”
Never before had Tirlav received a written communication from Hormil. He glanced up at the curious faces of his vien. Any news would be of welcome interest in this far flung place, but this was clearly not just any news. He nodded and stepped a few paces away, breaking the wax and unrolling the paper. The calligraphy was terrible. Tirlav's sister Eldre would have scoffed at it, but Hormil was not the Liel Commander because he was from a High Tree, but because he had survived the Mingling.
Plume Son of Aelor, from Liel Commander: Findel's blessings. Keep your contingent in Tlorné. Redouble your training. Do not embrace idleness. I am recalled to the High Tir to wait upon the Synod. A nodroth comes upon us from the Mingling, some sorcery from Isecan. Be prepared to move at a moment's notice.
Tirlav read the letter twice.
“What can you tell me about this?” he asked the messenger, holding up the letter.
“I do not know its contents,” the rider answered.
“What is this nodroth that spreads from the Mingling?” It was the Vienwé word for a blight or malady of crops, whether a mildew or an insect pestilence.
“It is like the Change,” the rider said, then held up his hands. “I have not seen it. But they say it is like the Change."
“Like the Change?” Tirlav asked, confused. "Does it affect fruit?"
"No, liel. It is a nodroth of Vien."
Tirlav stared. A Nodroth of Vien? The messenger saw his confusion.
"It begins at the hands and feet like the Change, moving up the body. It brings death. . . they say. . . it is gruesome before the end.”
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The Change only came upon the members of the Synod—his own father endured its spread. But it could take two centuries before it overtook the members of the Synod. Their early demise was a sacrifice they made on behalf of the people.
“How many have been so afflicted?” Tirlav asked.
“I do not know what is true.”
“What have you heard?”
“I have heard it is only a handful, and I have heard it runs rampant through the High Tir. I have even heard. . . some of the Synod are ill.”
“Which members of the Synod?” Tirlav demanded.
The rider held up his palms again.
“I do not know.”
“Has it spread among our company?”
“No. Not that I know. It has been six days since I left my contingent.”
Tirlav turned his attention back to the letter and read it for the third time, but there was little more to glean from it.
They provided the messenger with what little repast they could—plentiful but plain—before he insisted he must return forthwith to his contingent, waving away the questions of the Aelor who gathered around him. There was little to know in far Miret, either. Tirlav watched him ride off, the vaela’s hoofs pacing in pairs as they cut dark loam on the narrow path.
And so, within the span of half an hour, Tirlav’s hope of moving from there to some other heartwood was dashed. It was not so much that he disliked the sea as that he hoped for the distraction of change. Now he would spend the rainy season in this remote position, as harsh waves pounded the Crossing Isles. They would practice drills that they had performed day after day throughout the summer to keep themselves occupied, and the rains would soak them. The wind felt abnormally strong, rocking the tall palms that grew with the thorns along the beach outside their grove of unruly rubber trees.
Tirlav did as best he could to keep his contingent active. He divided them into two groups, one led by Tereth and one by Glentel. One group kept up watch upon the shore, while Tirlav led the others in mock raids and sorties through the glades, often pitting groups against each other with headless, padded arrows, or ordering one group to assault a stand of trees against the other. At other times, they hung narrow rings from trees along a course, and riders wove among the groves at the gallop, collecting rings onto their short spears. The groups rotated each week.
Such sport served a dual purpose of distraction and preparation. Skill was beloved by the vien, and the Sons of Aelor had grown in skill since their formation as a contingent. The competition gained the interest of the local vien of Tlorné as well—at least those few who dwelt near the coast. They often gathered to watch such contests from the trees, showering favor of fresh fruits and wines on the victors and the victims both.
There was little enough news to be had from the locals, even when Tirlav asked. He was most interested in the nodroth, but what few rumors he heard often conflicted. In some tales, whole habitations had succumbed, and in other stories, the affliction was random and rare. Even the vien of far Tlorné stared in disquiet when news of the nodroth was whispered. More than ever before, Tirlav missed his family. He wished to hear what Reniel and his sister, not to mention their father and eldest brother would say of the matter. From them, he would have learned the true danger. Certainly, they would know much more than the kelp harvesters.
Tirlav had never known such a desire for time to pass, at least not since he had suffered under his sister's tutelage, a trial that now gave him feelings of wistful longing if he allowed himself to remember. The season could not last forever, the waves would calm, and the risk of sails would return. Tirlav wondered if Hormil would allow the contingents to switch shores, again. He did not wish for more battle, but the thought of remaining in such an interminable watchfulness was also a sore trial. The waiting made him long for a harp, and the longing angered him.
***
One evening Tirlav stood, watching as his contingent rode a course through a palm oil grove. He usually took part as well to keep himself active, yet today he had decided to inspire his vien to greater achievement by offering the prize of a fine cask of wine, donated to the cause by the folk of a nearby tir. It was unfitting that the plume would compete. Many locals had come out to watch, and the event had turned into a kind of festive occasion, with the smells of bread and honeyed fruit filling the air, as well as the music of harps. Tirlav tried to keep his focus on the skills of his vien.
“Liel Son of Aelor,” someone said. Tirlav turned to see Teleran, one of the elder vien from the tir and the gift-giver of the wine. Next to him stood a second vien who Tirlav did not recognize. Tirlav placed a hand on his chest and bowed.
“My thanks again for the prize,” he said.
Teleran nodded.
“It is little compared to the sense of safety your presence gives us along the shore. We give thanks to the Synod for such a defense.”
Tirlav pressed his lips together in a semblance of a smile, then turned to watch as one of his vien raced by, spear leveled, taking a series of dangling rings upon his blade to the chanted praise of the onlookers. It was a good finish to the course, and the shining face of the warrior showed that he knew he had a chance to take the wine back with him that night—no doubt to share with the rest of the contingent regardless. But the trials would last through the evening, and there was time for an upset.
“Will your company remain on the shore next season, or will others take your place?” Teleran asked. Tirlav turned and glanced at him. He was tall, and his long blond hair fell freely down to his waist. It was clear that he was old, but it was impossible to tell how old, and such questions were improper to ask an acquaintance.
“It has been our Liel Commander's practice to rotate the contingents."
"But will a new company come?" Teleran asked.
Tirlav shook his head.
"Our company is yet new. We may hope it will be some years until another company is raised,” he answered. Teleran’s brow knit, and he opened his mouth but hesitated.
“What is it?” Tirlav asked.
Still, Teleran did not speak, but the vien by his side did, bowing.
"We had hope you knew something beyond. . . The Synod has called for the raising of a company. Riders, like yours.”
"Liel Son of Aelor, may I present to you my son, Fila," Teleran said. Tirlav was too distracted to properly acknowledge the introduction.
“I. . . I had not heard.”
“I see," Teleran answered. "I had hoped. . . My nephew is chosen, the son of my sister.”
Tirlav paused. What did one say?
“I do not know where he will be sent," he replied at last. Teleran nodded.
“Did the Synod give a time for their raising?” Tirlav asked.
“At the zenith of this moon.”
That was in only five days. That meant that the company could be raised, gathered, and in place for the turning of the wind, when the dry season began. He felt his heart beat faster as he watched the next rider race past them, his vaela tossing bits of soil into the air as it galloped.
It had only been two years since the Sail Chasers were raised. It had only been a year before that when the Synod raised three companies, though none had been riders. Such a frequency was rare and boded ill of the Mingling, for no new company was needed to secure the coast. News did not come from the Mingling, except in the barest of hints. Not even the veterans spoke freely. The Synod simply raised companies and sent them according to their wisdom. It could be the new company of riders would be sent straight to the Mingling, but Tirlav remembered Hormil's words. It was more likely they would be sent to the coast first, and the Sail Chasers would be sent to the Mingling instead. Yet he did not wish to give Teleran and his son such hope.
If only he were with Hormil, he could ask the Liel Commander outright. When this news reached his contingent, they would all realize the same possibility. He glanced over and saw some of his competitors standing next to their vaela, speaking with locals who had approached them. Judging from the expressions, the topic was serious. He sighed. The raising of a company of riders would be on everyone’s tongues.
There were myriad thousands of vien in the Embrace. The Synod did not take census, or at least not openly. He had once heard his sister estimate that there were thirty thousand in Aelor. Out of so many, a contingent of vien could easily be missed, but when it was your child or beloved, it did not matter how many; only one mattered, and it mattered more than anything else. All knew stories of those who went in search of Vah’tane not because they were chosen, but because one whom they had loved was sent to the Mingling and never returned.
Youch won the contest that day, though Glentel was a close second. It hardly mattered for the thirsty—Youch shared the wine with all.
***
Tirlav refused to alter their routine despite the gloom that followed news of a new company being raised. Until they received orders, nothing would change. Expressions were sullen, but no one asked him about it directly. Glentel and Tereth were quieter than usual, and those most accustomed to sing had fallen silent again. No one expected Tirlav to know more than they, for no messengers had come since they had received orders to stay along the shore.
That dearth was short-lived. Only four days after the competition, a rider arrived at their camp wearing the livery of the High Tir. Without dismounting the messenger saluted Tirlav with hand on his chest and spoke:
"Plume Son of Aelor, from Liel Commander Hormil, Findel's blessings. Proceed with your contingent to the High Tir. Make no delay. I await you here."
It took effort to relax the muscles of his face, to let his expression remain flat and not display the grimace that he felt inside. But when he raised his eyes and saw the faces of those looking down, he knew there was no hiding from them the truth. They would suspect exactly the same, that a new company would replace them upon the shore, and there was only one other place for a company of riders to go. Despite the blow the news brought, there could only be obedience. He could contemplate nothing else. Anger he could harbor—fear, doubt, sorrow. . . but not disobedience.
“Sorelai, ride west and notify our sentries to make haste to join us. We leave tonight for the High Tir.”
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