Despite turn for the worse, the Son of Lira remained conscious and able to speak, and he did not like Jareen doting on him. Nor would he accept any tincture. His sister had fought until the end, and he too was determined to survive. Jareen knew nothing that could be done to slow his decline, other than to encourage him to breathe deeply, cough frequently, and sit or stand when able.
Yet another member of the Tree of Lira, a cousin, had yet to show signs in the lungs; the Malady had marked only her right foot, oddly enough. Jareen marked the extent of the discoloration twice a day to track any change. The disease made slow but steady progress up the ankle.
Jareen had now tended the ill in Shéna and the High Tir for. . . she had lost count of the days. Fatigue was taking its toll upon her, and she needed to attend to some of her own needs. She had asked for hair combs in Shéna, but when she found a servant in the House of Lira and asked where she could go to wash her clothes, she was instead presented with three new dresses, a new pair of sandals, and a variety of patterned scarves and shawls. Her other clothes were taken, washed, and brought back smelling of blossoms. To her delight, they even gave her coconut oil for her skin. She rubbed herself with it from head to toe, breathing in the fresh scent. She washed her hair with crushed soapwort, rinsing it in a basin of water and eucalyptus oil.
By custom, the Vien ate only one hot meal in the cool of the evening, but they ate fruits or drank wine throughout the mornings and afternoons. Unlike the humans who cooked with flame, the Vien did not tolerate smoke. Food was usually eaten fresh, but breads and bakes had become popular, cooked in hanging ovens heated by sunlight focused through fine Vien glass high in the canopy.
The servants of Lira kept a constant supply of fresh fruit and drink in Jareen’s room, and they brought a more substantial meal in the evenings. She did not mind that she received no invitation to dine with the rest of the household. In her years in Drennos, she had never been one of the more social Sisters, especially since the plague had killed so many of those she had trained with. Still, she missed the fellowship of the Sisters and the comraderie she had felt, even as a Vien among the overly loud humans. She had no desire to socialize with those of the High Tree, and thankfully no one had shown any sign that they knew her for a daughter of High Lielu Andalai.
As she ate her evening meal alone in her room, sitting cross-legged upon the woven rug, she thought with regret that she had not met again with Tirlav. He had curiosity, and a perspective outside of the heartwoods.
Jareen reached over to the satchel that Gyon had given her back in Drennos. She slid the letter from within and found her favorite passage.
[. . .] I think it is the fading of beauty, the inability to grasp it and hold it—truly to become one with it—that after centuries upon centuries drives some to seek Vah’tane. If the stories are true, and the gate leads to the Wellspring of the Current, then I must believe it is there where all melodies exist in their purest form, where we become one with that which we desire, with beauty, with life, the final consummation and slaking of our unquenchable thirst.
I have seen one among my people mourn the death of a beloved eucalyptus for ten years. The Horned-Ones live only forty or fifty years before they succumb to the dust, and so many will barely look upon them for fear of loving them. Many still carry in their hearts and memories the wound left by the love of a short-lived creature. It is best avoided.
And yet at the same time, many refuse to marry and join in union with a mate in the most sacred covenant of life, for who can fathom the promise of a thousand years? Only those who cannot abide otherwise make such oaths. This I feel in myself.
Reading the letter only made her rue missing the meeting more. She had never known anyone else to speak—or write—like that. She had imagined Tirlav as a youth, perpetually young, holding his harp in the shade of the Aelor eucalyptus, seeking after eternal melody. That was the image that had sprouted in her imagination from the seeds of the letters. To have met instead a rider, a warrior of Findeluvié, a plume no less. . . it was incongruent. To think that the one who felt so deeply may be sent to die in the Mingling, it was wrong. Death was no stranger to her, but it should remain a stranger to Tirlav. He should remain a youth cradling a harp long centuries after her own death. He certainly should not die before her.
Jareen put the letter away and stepped out of her little room. Night had fallen, and the stained glass in the oval window at the end of the hall looked dark like old blood. She listened, but all was still. She had kept the doors cracked to each of the rooms where the afflicted rested, and she passed quietly along, checking on each, watching and listening for any sounds of distressed breathing.
Sleeping would be the responsible thing to do. Rest while you can, was a byword among the Voiceless Sisters. But after she was satisfied that the afflicted were resting, she flitted through the house to the small side door. The night was fragrant with the nightblooming jasmine growing in the gardens that surrounded the house. Fireflies flitted along the path. She hesitated. Was it weak to go down the same path, hoping to find Tirlav again?
“Jareen.”
She spun around. Rising from a stone bench beneath the shadow of a magnolia tree was the silhouette of a warrior. He strode forward, placed a hand upon his chest, and bowed.
“Son of Aelor?” Jareen asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I am sorry for startling you.”
“What are you doing here?”
That question appeared to catch him off guard. He shifted his weight.
“I heard. . . about the death of the heir of Lira,” he said. “I heard that you were caring for her, and. . . I do not know what is right to say on such occasions.”
“To say to the Tree of Lira?” she asked.
“To anyone.”
The first thing Jareen thought of was the Noshian phrase, please accept my condolences, but she did not know how to translate condolences.
“I do not know of anything in Vienwé, but the Noshians might say I am sorry for your loss, or please accept my condolences,” she said, speaking the phrases in Noshian. This was hardly an answer for why he was sitting in the dark outside the House of Lira.
“I do not know condolences,” Tirlav answered, butchering the Noshian word, “but I do know loss. But I don’t understand why I would take responsibility for it.”
“You do not take responsibility. You show you feel empathy. Condolences is similar.”
“I see. Please accept my condolences,” he said.
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Jareen couldn’t help but smile. Gyon had teased Jareen about speaking Vienwé in a flat hum like a Noshian, but Tirlav spoke Noshian like Vienwé, singing the notes and shaping the tones. In Vienwé, even the pitch of the word had meaning, shading and coloring the meaning and making it melodic. Vien poetry and song played upon this so that the words joined the music. Noshian, on the other hand, was rapid and staccato. There was little variation of tone, yet much in rhythm.
“My pronunciation is laughable,” Tirlav said, lowering his head.
Jareen raised a hand.
“I am sorry. I do not mean to mock. My own Vienwé has suffered after so long.”
“Only a little,” Tirlav said. “But I like it. It has a different music.”
What a silly comment to make Jareen blush, but it did. She was thankful for the dark to hide it, for her translucent skin hid no blushes.
“So you came here to learn what to say to the Tree of Lira?” Jareen asked.
Tirlav looked over at the house, then extended his head aloft, taking on the posture of a Vien warrior again.
“No. That would be a lie. I realized you might have missed my invitation because you were tending the stricken.”
“I was,” she said. “I did. I went the next night, but. . .” She shrugged.
“If I had known, I would have been there. Would you care to walk, tonight?”
Jareen smiled, inclining her head. Tirlav turned with his palm open, and she moved beside him. As they walked through the house garden, neither spoke, but when they reached one of the wider paths that wound away from the tir itself, Tirlav looked over at her.
“Coir. . . That is, a human who used to write me letters. He told me that human names have meanings, like words. That names mean something. Does Jareen have such a meaning?”
“It does,” Jareen answered. “But the humans rarely think of the meaning of their names. They reuse them, handing them down to others, and they forget what they meant.”
The Vien did not pick names with meaning, only sound, for a name was just music. What words could hold the essence of a soul, and what meaning would not change over thousands of years? An elf in their youth was not the same elf who reached seven hundred years. Time was not weak in its effect on the mind and soul, even if the body remained unchanged.
“What does it mean?”
“Jareen is made of two words,” she replied. “Ja means pale, and reen means stem. It is a flower that grows upon the shores of Drennos. They called me that, when first I joined the order.”
The flower had petals so fine that you could see your hand beneath them, yet they withstood the sea winds. She didn’t mention that part, but she had always liked the name—at least once she found out what it meant.
“Jareen,” Tirlav said, trying to pronounce it like she did.
“Ja-reen,” Jareen responded, emphasizing the Noshian r and double e.
“Jareen.”
She couldn’t help but smile again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I will work on it.”
“It is alright.”
“Did you have a Vien name?”
“I do not wish it known.”
Tirlav did not speak for a moment, and his shoulders stiffened.
“Then I will not ask again.”
For a few more strides, there was silence but for the calls of the nightbirds.
“Lovniele,” she said. “But do not share it.”
“I will not.” He met her gaze. “Thank you.”
The sound of music grew louder, and soon the path led onto an open greensward,with a bubbling fountain and the flickering lights of oil lamps. The lamps had stained-glass panes that cast varied hues into the night. Vien and vienu sat, lounged, or walked around the sward in the cool night air, listening as a group of harpers seated on the edge of the fountain played and sang. Some of the listeners ate and more drank fresh wines. Such gatherings were not unusual in the habitations of the Vien.
The song was well-suited to the night, neither fast nor slow, and there were no lyrics, only the sweet sounds of voices raised above the vibrations of strings. She paused, watching and listening. How different were the folk of Findeluvié from the Noshians. Long she had lived with the humans, and she respected their strength and fortitude in the face of hardship, but here was a scene fairer than any in Nosh.
Looking over at Tirlav, Jareen was surprised to see that he frowned, his forehead furrowed. He stood rigidly, his hand upon the hilt of one of his swords as he stared at the harpers.
“Would you care to keep walking?” he asked, his voice also stiff.
“If you wish,” Jareen said, and kept pace with him beyond the greensward. She had imagined him as tall and fair, but he was not of exceptional height, and his hair was dark, his skin like oiled cedar. Rather than the callow look of a child of luxury, his frame had the taut vigor of a warrior.
“Do you have time to play your harp now that you are a rider?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and then squinted. “How do you know I play the harp?”
Her mistake gripped her throat. What lie could she tell? She felt short of breath.
“Didn’t you say something about it?” she managed to ask.
Tirlav thought about it.
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Oh,” she said.
They were quiet again for a time as they walked. His nostrils flared, his neck tense again. Jareen wondered if this had been a mistake. He would not seek her company again. Then he took a deep breath, releasing it slowly and relaxing his shoulders.
“Are you glad to be back in the Embrace?” he asked.
“I did not come of my own will,” she answered.
“They forced you?”
“Yes, Liel Gyon of the embassy. They took me from the Order.”
“We all serve the Synod,” Tirlav said.
Jareen didn’t reply to that. She did not care about the Synod.
“Perhaps they will let me return, if this Malady ends,” Jareen said. “I would lie to say I was never homesick. But I would have stayed in Nosh,”
Tirlav stopped abruptly. His mouth hung open, and his wide eyes spoke alarm. What was it now, she wondered?
“Return?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. It may be that my usefulness to the Synod will end. With the embassy’s permission, I could return to the Order.” It was unlikely, but part of her hoped they would be thankful for her ministrations to the High Trees.
“Lovniele,” Tirlav said. “Jareen.”
“What?”
“Have you not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“I wish that I did not know this thing, so that you would not hear it from me.”
“Just tell me.”
“Drennos was struck by a great wave. It wiped the surface of their land. I have heard there are few survivors. Nosh was destroyed.”
Jareen stared at him.
“What?” she said. “No.”
“It is true. I wish it weren’t.”
“No.” She stepped back, shaking her head. With blooming horror, she thought of Coir’s warning.
“I’m . . . sorry for your loss,” he said. She could have slapped him. At least he didn’t say it in Noshian.
“It is an exaggeration, surely,” she said. Drennos is miles wide.”
How could a wave cover the entire peninsula?
It had come true. Coir had tried to help people, but they wouldn’t listen. Had he escaped? She had barely helped him. How could it be true?
If it was true, then so much else might be true—things she had determined to believe were false. Her heart raced, and she turned around in confusion. It was too much.
“Jareen,” Tirlav said. “Would you like to sit?”
“No!” she snapped, spinning toward him. “How do you know this?”
“Ships of refugees arrived with the news,” he said.
“Where are the refugees being housed?” Jareen asked. She would go to them, somehow. She would help them however she could.
“The. . . the Synod did not permit them to land. They have sent them east, to the human kingdoms.”
“But they are allies of Findeluvié.
“The Synod will never let so many set foot upon our shores.”
“They came to us for help. They are in distress.”
Tirlav raised his palms.
“I speak only as I have been told,” he said. “I too grieve it.”
“What do you know of grief!” she shouted. She put a hand to her forehead. There must be something to be done. What could she possibly do?
She bent over and clutched her thighs, struggling to breathe. She had to focus, but she could not. Coir had known. Somehow he had known. Her panic welled up into a wailing cry as she sank to her knees. Tirlav knelt down beside her and steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. She grasped her head in her hands and screamed again. The sound cut through the night like a serrated knife. Tirlav looked around, making sure they were alone. The music in the distance faltered.
Silesh, Noreen, Coir, all the Sisters. Everyone. Everyone she had known for decades. An entire city she had cared for, labored for, suffered for. . . This could not be. It must be an exaggeration. As she tried to breathe, strange sounds gurgled from her clutching throat, like stridor from the dying. She was weeping. Tirlav crouched there beside her, his arm around her shoulders.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “I am sorry.”
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