Jareen could hardly believe that she had actually met Tirlav Son of Aelor. Tucked away in her satchel, she still had the letter she’d taken from Coir. She had imagined meeting him, of course, but those had been merely idle daydreams. The House of Lira was the biggest Vien building Jareen had ever entered, but only a few lamps burned at this time of night, so she moved down the hall as a silent shadow. She was barefoot, wearing one of the light silk gowns the Tree of Lira had given her upon arrival. The Tree of Lira had welcomed her with a modicum more consideration than Shelte Daughter of Shéna—or at least, the servants of the Tree of Lira had, for few of the actual members of the High Tree so much as looked at Jareen. She’d been given three changes of clothes and a small room to herself.

  The High Tir was the only heartwood not called by the name of its High Tree but rather by the name of its city. It was said that this was because Findel founded the High Tir before he passed his blessing to the first Synod, and so the city was older.

  Unlike at the House of Shéna, in the House of Lira the afflicted were kept in separate rooms along the same hall where Jareen was housed. It made it more difficult for Jareen to watch all five of them. The Son of Shelte had grown stronger day by day. While his skin was still discolored, the inflammation of the veins had receded. She thought he may recover.

  She could not say as much for three of the others, all members of the Tree of Lira. Two were children and heirs of the current High Lielu. Jareen heard from one of the servants that there were a few other sick in the city, but she could not get a confident answer as to how many.

  “Some say a few, others many. I know of two for certain,” the servant had said, but that was the last patience the vien gave for Jareen’s questions.

  One of the heirs would likely die within the next few days—a willowy maid of only forty years, still a child by the standards of their folk. Childhood had confused Jareen after witnessing how the humans treated their young like adults before they reached their second decade. Even some boys barely ten years old sailed as crewmen on ships. Jareen herself was barely twenty-two when she ran away, and she had managed.

  Her heart was still beating fast as she checked in on each of the afflicted, and she found it difficult to concentrate, though her practiced eye took in much on instinct alone. Jareen had thought the vien plume was a sheriff or guard patrolling the night like they did in Nosh. She had assumed, wrongly, that he would know of her presence and purpose. She was clearly not as important as she thought herself, and for that she was grateful.

  Instead of a guard, it was the Son of Aelor. Had she understood him aright, there at the end? Was he inviting her to walk with him again? She flushed at the thought, feeling the prickling of sweat on her brow. He was no stranger to her. How could she tell him that she had essentially eavesdropped on conversations not meant for her, read his letters in secret, and knew the thoughts of his heart? In Nosh, the letters had felt so distant. The idea that she might meet Tirlav face to face had not even crossed her mind as she devoured his letters in the Manse. They were merely a reminder of a lost home she never expected to see again, a guilty indulgence.

  Jareen reached the Son of Shéna’s door and paused, considering whether to check on him or leave him to rest. Old habits and strictures won, and she opened the door swiftly to keep it quiet. He was asleep. As was true with most illnesses, those suffering from the Malady had great fatigue. The lad’s chest rose and fell in slow, easy inhalations. She had listened to his lungs that morning, and the crackling sounds of fluid had continued to dissipate. It was a relief that at least some may survive, confirming Gyon’s report.

  Jareen heard a light footfall behind her. She turned and flinched. Shelte stood in the doorway, but it was not the vienu’s presence that caused her to flinch. Even in the dim light from the single lamp burning in the hall, the Change was visible on Shelte’s face, her lips a dark indigo blue with veins of calcified pigmentation running back across her cheeks. Jareen had not seen Shelte since they left Shéna days ago, and she had shown no sign of the Change then.

  A shiver of fear raced through Jareen. This could be no coincidence. Shelte was now the High Lielu, and within days the Change had come upon her. Her mind clawed to find a natural explanation for such a rapid manifestation.

  “How is he?” Shelte asked, stepping into the room.

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  “He continues to improve,” Jareen managed to say.

  “You think he will recover?” Shelte asked.

  “I am hopeful. But I have never seen the course of recovery before.”

  Shelte stood beside the edge of the hammock-bed, placing a hand on her son’s leg atop the silk sheet. Her fingertips also bore marks of dark pigments, looking black in the dim room. Shelte noticed Jareen’s gaze and withdrew her hand. Jareen wanted to ask so many questions, but the rigid posture of the vienu suggested discretion.

  “Leave me,” Shelte said in a voice tired but firm.

  Jareen turned without a word and left, closing the door quietly behind her. She would go to her own room and try to sleep for a couple hours before rising and checking on her afflicted again.

  Despite her intent, it was naive to think she could sleep. The hanging hammock-bed was more comfortable than any bed she’d slept on in Nosh, but it didn’t matter. Thoughts of Tirlav alternated with the stark image of the Change upon Shelte’s mouth and fingers. Sweat beaded on her brow, and for a moment she considered fleeing the house again, seeking the movement of open air. Could a hereditary disease cause Shelte’s rapidly developed condition? Would she try to meet Tirlav again?

  After an hour, she arose to check the afflicted without having slept.

  ***

  Tirlav’s eagerness to meet Jareen again made him early to his dinner with Hormil and the other plumes, as if that would speed up time. He found his commander and Selnei sitting outside the house on the garden platform, surrounded by hanging pots of asters and herbs, a pitcher of wine next to each of them and cups in their hands. Despite the pleasant surroundings, they did not look pleased.

  “Son of Aelor,” Hormil said. “I take it you have heard the rumors?”

  “I hear little of rumors, liel,” Tirlav answered.

  “Disaster has befallen Drennos.”

  “What kind of disaster?”

  “A great wave.”

  “A wave?” Tirlav asked. “They are. . . on the coast, are they not? Waves are not unusual.”

  “They are a narrow peninsula,” Hormil answered. Tirlav knew that, but he did not wish to seem overly knowledgeable about Drennos. His correspondence with Coir he kept to himself. “It was no usual wave,” Hormil said. “A few ships have made it to our shores seeking refuge.”

  “I do not understand,” Tirlav said.

  “They say the wave burst over their land from one shore to another, sweeping all before it. Their capital city was destroyed.”

  Tirlav couldn’t understand what he was hearing. He heard the words, but. . . How could a wave do such a thing?

  “It is sorcery from Isecan,” Selnei grumbled.

  Hormil shrugged and drank.

  “Whatever it is, it will mean less steel for the war. We should be thankful that Gyon brought us that armada in time. Such a shipment should last for some years.”

  “May he feed the land,” Selnei said, raising his cup before drinking. “At least he need never return to Drennos.”

  “Could Isecan reach so far, with such power?” Tirlav asked.

  “I do not pretend to understand,” Hormil said. “It may be a. . . natural occurrence.”

  Selnei grunted.

  “Either way,” Hormil continued. “Our trade with the humans is broken, as is the protection of the Noshian navy.”

  “They already failed to guard our shores,” Selnei said.

  Hormil shook his head.

  “We were dealing with the raiders who evaded the Noshians. Even the might of the Noshian navy could not crest every wave at once. Now, every vile human ship can stalk our shores.”

  “We can only hope the lack of trade will reduce their chances of profit,” Selnei said.

  “They want us as much as cinnamon.”

  “Do you think they will keep two companies on the shore, now?” Tirlav asked with a sudden surge of hope.

  “I do not know,” Hormil answered. “I had expected the company would already be in the Mingling, but the Synod has sent me no word. It could be that this news from Drennos—”

  The Plume of Shéna turned the curve of the stairs, helmet tucked beneath his arm. He gave each of them his greetings, bowing respectfully. Hormil and Selnei stood and ushered them inside. The meal was already prepared and waiting. Before long, the other plumes arrived and Hormil shared the news with them all again. Many more questions were asked, and speculations on the disposition of their company went on for hours, covering the same ground again and again. As interesting as it all was, Tirlav found his mind wandering to Jareen, eager for the meal to draw to a conclusion. The Plume of Namian questioned the Synod’s delay yet again, wondering what might be causing it. The conversation dragged further down over-trodden paths. His fellow plumes irritated Tirlav that night. He could not leave before Hormil released them from table. The liel commander had already given them recommendations for how to drill their contingents the following day, a company-wide exercise assaulting tree canopies. Now, Hormil drank quietly as the plumes talked amongst themselves.

  At long last, the dismissal came. Tirlav rose, forcing himself to appear nonchalant. He told himself he merely wished to talk to her more about Nosh. Certainly, amidst all his constant labors, conversation was not a crime. It took little to convince himself of the harmlessness of meeting her again, though he would not have breathed it to his comrades. It was as if, within a dark night, the clouds had parted to reveal the unexpected light of the moon. Once down the winding stair, he followed the paths toward the spot where he had met Jareen the night before.

  There was no sign of her yet. Singing drifted down from high above in the towering redwoods, and he waited. Unable to stand still, he paced up and down the path.

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