Someone knocked at Jareen’s door. She sat below an oval glass window stained such a dark blue that she had to burn a coconut-oil lamp to read even in the daytime.

  “Enter,” she said, not looking up from the narrow table that served as her desk. It was piled with papers.

  “Here are the reports you requested,” a servant of the House of Lira said, making a stiff and shallow bow as he entered.

  “Thank you.” She reached out her hand and took the sheaf, setting it down atop a stack of other papers on the table. She had a headache from all the reading, and she rubbed her neck as she stretched her head back and forth.

  “Is there anything else you need?” the vien asked.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “There is one other thing, orvu.” Orvu was a word of respect, falling short of lielu but still showing some deference. If they knew who she was, they would likely say “lielu” instead, and it pleased her that word had not gotten out.

  “Yes?”

  “The Lielu Eldre, Daughter and Second Heir of Aelor, wishes to meet with you.”

  Jareen caught her breath. She knew, by title alone, that this was a sister to Tirlav.

  “Why?” Jareen asked. The servant winced, but returned his features to a placid expression. The Vien were not used to the terseness that Jareen had learned from the Noshians.

  “She did not tell me that,” the vien said, not entirely hiding the accusation of impropriety in his tone. “Only she requested the honor to meet with you in the garden at noon on the morrow.”

  Requested the honor. Jareen had left Findeluvié long ago, but she knew that coming from the second heir of a High Tree, such a request was not intended to be negotiable. Jareen’s eyes fell on the top sheet of the sheaf of papers the servant had brought her. Where was Tirlav? Somewhere in the Mingling. And now his sister. . . Her heartbeat pulsed in her throat. She had thrown herself into her work to find some semblance of placidity, but now it had fled. Did Eldre know about Jareen somehow? Did she bring some news of Tirlav?

  “Orvu?” the vien asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Your response?”

  “Of course I will meet her.”

  “As you say.”

  She knew the vien bowed before backing out of the room and closing the door, but she paid him no heed. She did not care for the deference she garnered from the servants, for at the bottom of it she suspected only the utilitarian purposes of the Synod, not any true respect. She had been in the House of Lira for over six weeks. The members of the Tree of Lira had abandoned the house, leaving a few of their servants to wait upon Jareen, and Jareen to wait upon the afflicted who remained there. One of the servants had taken ill and died only days ago. It was the first time Jareen had seen an afflicted from first symptom to death.

  The High Lielu of Lira had lost her first two heirs, but she had seen the soothing effects of Jareen’s tinctures at work. She had come alone in the night.

  "How do the humans contain their plagues?" she had asked.

  "Isolation," Jareen replied, not having a direct Vienwé translation for quarantine. "And they will burn clothes, possessions, even houses where especially dangerous illness has been." Jareen did not mention the burning of bodies. Such an idea may be too much of an affront to the Vien, and she did not want to scare the High Lielu away. Even some efforts were better than none.

  "Fire?" the lielu asked. "Fire can kill it?"

  "It can help halt its spread." The Vien disliked fire, mostly because of the smoke. Their main concession was the use of coconut-oil lamps for light.

  “You who have studied plagues among the humans. What would you do?”

  "I would isolate the afflicted and study the spread of the Malady through reports from the heartwoods. Who is tracking the afflicted, and recording its spread?"

  "There is no one."

  There was no system in place to track the Malady’s spread or to seek for a treatment. The Synod believed the Malady to be a curse from Isecan, some weapon unleashed against them. Up until now, they had bent their will to discovering how Isecan had sent it among them, but without result. All this, the High Lielu divulged before departing the house again.

  Since the High Lielu had come herself rather than sending a representative, Jareen suspected the Synod did not want their concern know—if the actions of one member spoke for the whole. To Jareen's surprise, the Synod had heeded her. Now, the House of Lira was full of the afflicted—those near enough to the High Tir to be brought safely. Others were held in seclusion wherever they had fallen ill, when the journey was too far. The Synod sent her more servants, and she pitied them. They had no choice. Beyond that and in some ways more importantly, the Synod had granted her permission to ask questions—by written paper cleansed with incense, for the quarantine was strict. Armed guards patrolled the gardens. Only Jareen was permitted free of the house, for the Synod still believed that being an Insensitive made her immune. Jareen had tried to explain to the High Lielu that such diseases had natural mechanisms.

  Yet her assurance in strictly natural mechanisms was shaking. She spread the new papers out, but the first page took the most of her attention. Pretending that the question had to do with the Malady—and it might—she had asked how many in Findeluvié showed signs of the Change. Suspecting that the question might return a lie, she had also asked how many in Findeluvié showed any inconsistent skin pigmentations. This, among many other questions, had finally been answered. The reports came from all the heartwoods, compiled by their scribes in immaculate calligraphy.

  According to all reports, only the High Liele showed signs of the Change. Of pigmentation, there were a few other cases, mostly occurring in veterans returned from the Mingling, though a few vien and vienu living closest to the Mingling also reported discolored fingernails. She had asked for a report on pigmentation changes of any kind in the heirs or extended relatives of the High Trees, ostensibly to monitor for early signs of Malady. Yet no changes of pigment were reported in any not afflicted with the Malady.

  Seven new cases were reported so far that week. She slid out her hand-drawn map of the heartwoods and carefully plotted the locations of the new cases. It only reinforced what she’d already known; the cases were clustered around the High Trees, veterans, and the the easternmost heartwoods, particularly the remnants of Miret and the sparsely populated eastern reaches of Yene and Lishni. She had requested information about cases among the serving companies along the front, but there she had met with total silence. The Synod, apparently, would share no information from out of the Mingling itself. She feared for Tirlav. He was there, somewhere. Rumors had reached her that the Synod was raising an unusual number of companies. Might it be because so many were dying of the Malady?

  Was Tirlav already dead?

  The servants the Synod had sent to her were only to attend to her needs and not the Afflicted. They wouldn’t even go into the rooms of the afflicted. They prepared meals for the ill, but Jareen delivered them. There were thirty-one afflicted in the House of Lira, now, a few of them close to Departing. It was too much, and it made her think of Silesh. Had her novice been working in the Wards, surrounded by the afflicted, when the wave came?

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  Jareen pushed back her chair and went to make her rounds on the ill, administering tinctures to sooth the pain and breathing among those nearing the end. Study and documenting had to come in short bursts between care. Even as she gathered together the information sent from the heartwoods, she was also attempting to find some treatment to aid recovery, not just ease suffering, but that had never been a focus of the Voiceless Sisters. She had tried a number of incense mixtures, purges of various herbs, and she had even tried to debride the early signs of the Malady on a willing vienu, dosing her heavily with tincture and cutting away the discoloration on her foot before searing the arteries above with hot iron. It had failed. The discoloration and hardening had continued above the debridement. Amputation might be an option, but no one had allowed her the attempt, and she wasn’t sure she could do it.

  She tried to fix her mind on her work and not dwell on Tirlav or the upcoming meeting with his sister.

  ***

  The next day, Jareen had no appetite. She felt sick to her stomach waiting for noon to arrive. She did her work by rote, trying to concentrate as she drew out doses of tincture. The Vien were so sensitive to the drops that she had to be especially careful. All morning, she glanced out the windows, watching the shadows move in the half-light beneath the trees. For generations, the Vien had cultivated vines and flowers and fruits that could grow in such umbrage, and blossoms hung at the windows of the House of Lira.

  At last, Jareen stepped out of the house through the same side door she’d used to meet Tirlav. It led into the gardens. A guard stood on the same path where Tirlav used to appear. He glanced at her, then turned back to watch for anyone who might venture too close to the quarantine house. The gardens wrapped around the whole house, and she followed a winding path toward the front where a shallow pool full of striped fish reflected the canopy in its waters. She could have left the house through the great arching from door, but she did not like the grandeur of it. The main entrance was even more extravagant in its spreading beams and carven conceits than her childhood home in Talanael. There was a nearby bench beneath a low arbor of morning glories, and she took a seat there to wait, watching the main path for the approach of Lielu Eldre.

  When a vienu approached soon after, there was no question who she was. Besides the obvious familial resemblance to Tirlav, she walked—nearly glode—with the staid poise of one who knows themselves uncommon. It was a carriage Jareen knew from her earliest memories. The vienu’s clothing was immaculate, silver threads woven throughout, and the curve of her neck could have been carved by a master. Jareen stood, her heart racing, and the movement caught the vienu’s eye.

  “Findel’s blessing to you,” the vienu said, approaching. Her glance swept up Jareen from the ground and back, taking in everything. Jareen recognized the keen observervation.

  “Good morning,” Jareen said with an inclined head, translating the human greeting to Vienwé.

  The vienu glanced around as if making sure they were alone. Two guards stood near the door of the house, obviously able to see them, but they were far enough for calm speech to go unheeded.

  “I am Eldre, Daughter of Aelor,” she said.

  “Jareen.”

  “Ja-reen.” Eldre attempted the name, unable to sound the Noshian r and long e. Eldre smiled. “My brother was secretly fascinated by the Noshians,” she said. “He could even read their language. He would have asked you many questions.”

  Jareen took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I am happy to answer him what I can,” she replied.

  “He is unable to visit.” Whether a shadow truly flickered across Eldre’s gaze or Jareen just imagined it, she wasn’t sure.

  “It is related to my purpose today, though,” Eldre said. “Are you. . . aware of what has happened in Drennos?”

  “The wave?” Jareen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I was informed.”

  Eldre nodded and glanced back at the guards.

  “Refugee ships came to harbor in Talanael. When turned away, a few even attempted to land on the shore.”

  Jareen couldn’t help but frown. The cruelty of the Vien toward their former allies. . . toward her adopted people. It tempted her to refuse aid to the Vien ill, do to her what they may.

  “One particularly reckless human leapt overboard along the coast and swam to shore,” Eldre continued, “clinging to an inflated skin of some beast. He somehow made it past the shore and was found nearly fifteen miles inland. What’s more, he spoke Vienwé. Badly, but still. . .”

  “What happened to him?” Jareen asked. She knew of a human who spoke Vienwé. She found it hard to believe it could be the same.

  “The Synod sent the order to execute him for his trespass, but he invoked the friendship and patronage of a certain Son of Aelor, my brother. The man was a correspondent with our Tree for some years.”

  Jareen’s heart was beating faster, but she held her tongue and tried to keep the muscles of her face relaxed, wanting to know where this was going without betraying emotion.

  “To my surprise, the Synod spared him on the condition that the Tree of Aelor take him as a ward. If he attempts to leave the Embrace or is found unworthy in any other way, it is to be at the expense of his life.”

  “That is merciful,” Jareen said, though in her mind she added: for the Synod.

  “The Synod is wise,” Eldre answered, her tone flat. “Yet I now find myself in keeping of a particularly inquisitive human of insufferably coarse speech. It occurred to me that he may be immune to the Malady as well, and beyond that, he appears to have been some kind of scribe in the fashion of the Noshians. It also occurred to me that he may be of some use to you. Findel knows he is none to me.”

  “Send him to me, then. I will put him to use.”

  “I brought him to the city. I will send him at once.”

  Jareen nodded. It looked like Eldre might turn to leave, but she spoke again:

  “I wrote the Aelor report in response to your inquiries about the Malady. I deduce that you seek to isolate its origins and possibly its cause. It should have been done sooner, though I do not know what the Synod in their wisdom might have already done without my awareness. Is there anything else that might aid you?”

  “The help of this human will take a burden from me,” Jareen said. “That is . . . if he can write and record as you say, and read reports.”

  “Have you come upon any theories as to how the curse develops?”

  “I do not believe in curses,” Jareen said. “Such things have natural causes.”

  Eldre actually laughed.

  “Nature encompasses curses,” she said. “And blessings. Do we not live in Findel’s Embrace by the power of the Wellspring?”

  An artifice occurred to Jareen and she went with it:

  “I lived among the humans,” she said, leaning slightly forward and trying to sound confidential. “I know as well as you that such things are tales to keep folk in line.”

  Eldre frowned.

  “I have touched the Current, myself. My father ensured that his heirs knew how. It is my birthright. It is as real as you or I. Does being Insensitive also make you a fool, or was it your years among the humans?”

  Jareen was startled by the ferocity of Eldre’s response. Bluntness might work better.

  “Tell me honestly, have you seen anyone suffer from the Change who is not a member of the Synod?”

  “Of course not. The Change is caused by the grasping of the Current, the sacrifice of the High Liele for the people.”

  “Sacrifice?”

  “Were you an ignorant child when you left to go be a human? High Liele rarely live to three hundred years because of it. To join the Synod is to be doomed to an early death by the Change.”

  Jareen knew that the Change overcame the members of the Synod, but she had not realized it happened so quickly. Her mother had never mentioned it. How old was her mother? Jareen realized that she did not know. She must be younger than Jareen had assumed. Jareen wasn’t sure how to respond, but Eldre gave her little opportunity:

  “I do not have time to bandy about with the ignorance of an Insensitive human-lover,” Eldre snapped, brushing back her hair with a trembling hand. It was clear Jareen had truly upset her. “I will send you the man.”

  With that, Tirlav’s sister turned and strode away, her silks shimmering.

  Jareen sat back down on the bench. A wash of relief, anxiety, and fear flowed over her in waves. Coir was alive, she was certain. It was like he had come back from the grave, that odd irritating man. But she also found Eldre’s reaction unsettling. She had seen the human clerics arguing over doctrine, adhering to the Erthrusian or the Old Noshian rites. They’d been passionate, angry, bellicose. . . Yet Eldre’s reaction unsettled Jareen. There was an earnestness in the Daughter of Aelor that presented like pain, not dogma. Could it be true? Could it all be real?

  What else could account for the fanatical obedience of the Vien to the Synod? What could take a vien like Tirlav and turn him into a warrior willing to ride to almost certain death in the Mingling? She had not doubted he wanted to stay with her—at least not when they were together—and yet he had gone. Could the Current be real?

  Sweat beaded on her forehead as Jareen realized that she was afraid, truly afraid, that it might be real. She remembered when she stopped believing in it all during the schooling of the Order in Nosh. It had felt like awakening to freedom. If it was all false, then what did it matter to be Insensitive to it? Far better to have a hereditary disease than to live in a world of sacred power and never taste it, isolated from its wonder and devotion. She had buried away the fear of its truth, embracing the Noshian way of understanding disease and death. But if the Current was real. . . what else could be? Anything could be. The old terror closed in on her again.

  She lurched up from the bench. She had the afflicted to tend to, the old comfort of work and distraction to protect her from fear. Movement and care could once again serve as her refuge.

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