After seeing to the vaela and giving Glentel and Tereth the few directions necessary to settle the contingent in the trees, Tirlav set off afoot to the High Tir, wearing his plumed helm and full silks. The silks had seen better days; they'd been replaced at the beginning of the season but the nightly rains took their toll. Hormil had forbidden the contingents to create any permanent shelters, demanding that they stay acclimated to living outside. The long drizzling nights of the rainy season did not make for comfortable rest or for longevity of silks.
The High Tir guards at the tunnel gate bowed and slapped their chests in complement to Tirlav as he entered. As always, the High Tir was full of music, the aromas of flowers and spices heavy on the air. The hum of bees was constant, and a score of different species of butterfly flitted beneath the trees, fanning their wings on every branch. Only dappled light reached the soft paths beneath towering eucalyptus and gildenleaf. Walkways criss-crossed at varied heights above. Here in the deep heartwoods and the High Tir especially, season did not matter.
Tirlav had come to the High Tir for the first time as a small child, following along behind his siblings and father. How marvelous it had seemed! It was still marvelous. Nothing had changed about the place. Yet everything was different for Tirlav. Passing through the ebony gardens, he retraced the path to the circling stair that spiralled up near the base of one of the great many-hued eucalyptus. There was no one stationed at the door of the house when he reached it, so Tirlav took off his helm, tucked it under his arm, and let himself in. He heard voices and proceeded to the dining room. Stepping through the archway, Tirlav saw Hormil and Selnei standing beside the table, but there was no food or drink before them. Selnei had completed his service to the Embrace, yet he stood in full armour next to Hormil, who was also arrayed for war. Their helms sat on the table, but their curving swords were at their sides. Unrolled before them lay a map. Hormil looked up as Tirlav stepped in.
“Ah, Son of Aelor,” Hormil said. “I have no repast with which to greet you. You will have to make do with what there is back in the camp.”
Standing in the archway with his helm beneath his arm, Tirlav did not respond; he was looking at Selnei. Why was the veteran arrayed for battle? Remembering himself, Tirlav bowed and placed his free hand on his chest.
“You have ridden hard,” Hormil said. “I expected your arrival tomorrow. It is well, though. When something is to be done, it is better done.”
“What is to be done, liel?” Tirlav asked.
“Isecan presses our companies hard in the Mingling. Now that you are here, I expect the Synod to dispatch you at any time. They are raising a new company to take your place on the shore.”
This did not come as a surprise, so Tirlav did not respond.
Selnei pointed at the map.
“I would think that we will be sent here,” he said.
“So you said,” Hormil answered him. “But we both know guessing the mind of the Synod is the game of new conscripts.” Hormil glanced up at Tirlav and squinted.
“What is it?” Hormil asked.
“It is not my concern,” Tirlav answered, lowering his head.
“And yet you look concerned. Speak.”
“Why is Liel Selnei arrayed thus?”
Hormil looked over at his fellow veteran and raised his eyebrows. Selnei shrugged.
“I am riding with you.”
“I thought your service was complete,” Tirlav said.
“You were not mistaken,” Selnei replied.
“I. . .” Tirlav began, but stopped. He wasn’t sure exactly what to ask.
“Our world demands fools, and we play our parts,” Selnei said with the merest grin. Tirlav didn’t respond.
“You may be unfortunate enough to understand some day,” Hormil interjected, returning his attention to the map. “Although the odds are not good.”
“I could seek Vah’tane, but who would that help?” Selnei asked.
Tirlav did not know, so again he did not speak.
“Besides,” Selnei went on. “With this Malady besetting us, I’d rather die doing some good.”
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The word Selnei used was nodroth.
“Has it grown worse?” Tirlav asked. “The tales I have heard were inconsistent.”
Selnei looked to Hormil. Sensing his gaze, Hormil looked up at his comrade. He shrugged with one shoulder. Appearing to take this as some kind of permission, Selnei continued:
“Most afflicted are those in the Mingling and veterans who have returned home. But it also strikes at random, or appears to, anyway.” Selnei hesitated, as if considering whether to say something. After a moment, he made up his mind. “The families of the High Trees seem to be at peculiar risk.”
Tirlav took a deep breath. Hormil looked up at him, but Tirlav held his tongue once more.
“Your silence does you credit,” Hormil said. “The Tree of Aelor is not afflicted. Yet the Tree of Shéna was badly harmed, and some of Namian and Yene suffer now, all kept in solitude. I do not understand the spread, though the Synod might.” Hormil glanced down at a tenae sitting on the table. “By the way,” he added. “A Daughter of Aelor came five days ago and inquired after you. Your sister, I believe. She brought you some. . . letters.”
Tirlav squinted. Eldre had come to ask after him? This time, he broke silence.
“Is she still in the High Tir?”
“That is irrelevant, Son of Aelor. You may not see your Tree.” Hormil paused. “But no. She is not. The families of the prefects are staying as isolated as possible. I do not know what business brought her to the High Tir, but no heirs of the Synod are allowed to travel to another heartwood now except in direct service to the Synod.” Hormil touched the tenae with a finger. “Although this was not it, I think.”
“Shall I take the letters, liel?” Tirlav asked. “Or would you like to dispose of them?”
Hormil and Selnei both grinned at that.
“Do not grow wise, Son of Aelor,” Hormil said. “But you may as well take them. Be prepared to move at any moment.”
***
Tirlav lay in his hammock that night, staring up into the branches, waiting, and thinking. He held the tenae in his hand. His swords and knives lay upon his belly, as was custom for the riders. At last, the edge of the moon slid into the opening in the mango trees overhead. He had purposefully stretched his hammock there, knowing that he would get at least half an hour of moonlight that night. He had read his sister’s letter once in the High Tir, stopping on his way back to the encampment. It was difficult to hide his emotion when he reached camp, but he did not want anyone to suspect he had the letters; such communication with heartwood and Tree was against the usual practice of the company. Yes, Tirlav was the plume, but he did not want to engender a sense among the contingent that he had it easier. Why had Hormil made this exception, now? It took him far longer to master his tears than it had to read the letter.
Now, in the shelter of his own hammock, he opened the tenae and unrolled his sister’s missive again. The silver light of the moon illuminated her clear hand. The vien believed that much of a person’s character and quality could be deciphered through calligraphy. Eldre’s hand told of a meticulous determination to achieve perfection. . . although Tirlav may have been inferring that from years of observing her. The seals on Coir’s letters were always broken before Tirlav received them, searched by who knows who before they reached his hand, but he had broken the seal on his sister’s note, himself. It was an unexpected gift from Hormil, or perhaps a courtesy to Eldre, an heir of the High Tree of Aelor.
Son of Aelor, Plume of Riders, from the Daughter of Aelor: Findel’s blessings.
I have read the reports that your liel submitted to the Synod on the actions along the coast. I also know that you will be sent to the Mingling. Some more of that human’s letters arrived. I know that you loved receiving them. You were never good at hiding it. I do not know if your liel will allow you to receive them, but I wanted to attempt it in the hopes that this too would reach you: All serve when called, but the Synod cannot command wisdom into the breast of a fool. You bring honor to our Tree. May the blessing of Findel go with you.
Tirlav let the tears run down his cheeks. He read it a second time, but he knew he had only a short time to take advantage of the moonlight. He took out the two letters from Coir that had been tightly rolled inside his sister’s letter. One was two years old, no doubt a response to Tirlav’s last letter. It was sealed in the Noshian manner, broken of course. The second letter was a single page, date to the previous dry season—if he remembered his Noshian months aright. Curiosity drove Tirlav to open it first. To his surprise, it was written in Vien, though obviously in Coir’s hand. The calligraphy was terrible by Vien standards, but legible. The greeting mimicked the Vien custom of blessing.
To Tirlav, Son of Aelor, from Coir Arch-Archivist of Drennos: blessings to you.
I am afraid that ill has befallen me. When this letter reaches you, I might be dead, or if not, I am on my way to Findeluvié. I hope your people will receive me, for I can no longer remain in my native country. I may have the fortune to seek Vah’tane after all.
Tirlav frowned and read the letter twice more. What was he to think of this? Coir had never given him any intimation that he was in danger, before. Why would he come to the Embrace? Only humans with special permission of the Synod could set foot on the shore of Findeluvié and live. Even the Noshian ships that harbored in Talanael were unloaded by vien, so that the humans did not set foot ashore. It had been over a decade since any Noshian ambassadors were given leave to land.
What kind of danger could Coir be in, and had the Synod given him leave? Tirlav realized he was sweating. He was worried for his. . . friend. If one could be friends with a human he had never met. How could he find out more, or give him aid? If Coir’s words were true, no letter sent to Drennos would reach him, and surely if Coir had landed in the Embrace, Eldre would have said something in her letter. Was the man dead, then?
In the last of the moonlight, Tirlav read Coir’s first letter, written in Noshian according to their agreement. Tirlav felt a little rusty in the reading of the human language, not having practiced in two years. The letter included many more questions about Vah’tane and Isecan. Tirlav had told Coir before that he would not write of Isecan; he had directed the man to speak to the Vien embassy on that topic. On the topic of Vah’tane, Tirlav had tried to tell what he could, but there was little enough he knew, or anyone for that matter.
The moonlight passed, and Tirlav rolled the letters again and slid them into the tenae. Two years, and Coir had never received a response. Tirlav should have written him something when he was called to the company, but he had been so distracted. No doubt Coir waited in vain. Something had happened in the interim, and still Coir had written to him—a courtesy Tirlav had not given Coir. The thought grieved him.
The sun rose above the treetops hours later. Tirlav had not slept. Even before the sun breached the hidden horizon, he was silently moving through the camp, ensuring all was as it ought to be.
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