Findel's Embrace

It was the wooden pipes he heard first, calling and answering around the clearing and beyond, further away into the Mingling both north and south. It could mean only danger. Faro had barely slept. His body had drifted while he wrapped his mind in the Current of Isecan, trying to ward the away the Nethec. He knew he could not continue like this for long, but now the pipes blew, and he rose to the welcome distraction.

He had lain with his spear in the crook of his arm, and now he unsheathed it, feeling the Currents pooled within the living steel. Throwing the door open, he stepped into the night. The sky was clear, and though the moon had set, the stars were bright. He breathed in the cool air and looked upward. The Mingling smelled different, now, and the air was far dryer than ever before.

Across the clearing, he saw his mother open the door of the oval shrine. Sentinels were jogging westward through the clearing, carrying bows and swords and daggers. A door opened nearby and Coir stepped out of a small house, leaning on his stick.

"Coir," Faro said. "What is amiss?"

"Warning notes," Coir said. "An enemy approaches, I think."

The night was full of the piercing notes.

"Do you have so many sentries, and so far afield?" Faro asked. Some of the notes sounded remote.

"No. But the enclaves have sentries up and down the border, and we are near the Meadows. This will be their warning."

"So the Nethec comes," Faro said. The Synod was coming for him. They had moved far faster than he thought possible.

"Come," Coir said. "The council must speak." With his walking stick, he shuffled across the clearing, Faro in tow. Jareen met them at a little open pavilion. Other vien and vienu had gathered there.

"They come by way of the Meadows," a vienu said as they approached.

"How many?" Coir asked.

"By the signals, a company entire."

"Only one?" Coir asked.

"Only one?" said a vien. "A half company would overrun this camp and barely know it was here."

"I am surprised they would send only one company for so great a purpose," Coir responded, his tone calm.

"I doubt the Nethec considers us a great purpose," the vienu said. "They cannot care for the ways of Vah if they attack us."

"I doubt they know what we do here," Coir said, "but I was thinking of something else."

The other assembled ancients—for so Faro assumed them to be—looked at the human as if they were unsure if he was confused.

"The sentinels will form a screen," one of the vien said, looking to Jareen. "The rest can escape with you. I would advise you head north toward Elth. They are a small enclave, and may receive you best."

"No," Faro said.

At first, the others did not hear Faro's quiet word, but Jareen and Coir did.

"Wait," his mother said, raising her hand. She turned to Faro. "Why no?"

"Give me three of your sentinels," Faro said. "The rest of you wait here. Prepare to retreat, but wait."

"A whole company approaches," one of the vien said. "We cannot wait."

"It is clear that you are known to the Daughter of Vah," said another, confused. "But who are you? You only arrived yesterday."

Faro hadn't realized that his identity was unknown. Jareen raised a hand to stop him, but it was too late.

"I am her son," Faro replied.

"It is said that her son is scion to a High Tree of the Nethec," one of the vienu said. "Is this true?"

No doubt, everyone in Isecan knew of the Daughter of Vah by now, especially if she could heal the Malady. They would know of their capture by Vireel as well.

"There is nothing here but some houses," Jareen said. "We can leave."

"Is it a company of riders or foot?" Faro asked.

"Riders," a vien said. More notes sounded, and a sentinel broke from the western path. He came sprinting across the clearing straight for them. He was breathing hard, and he bowed to the council.

"They are five miles to the west and heading straight for us."

"What of the enclaves?" Coir asked.

"They have not engaged the foe."

"You must leave now, Daughter of Vah."

"You cannot outpace riders," Faro said. "Give me three sentinels, and I will go."

"What is your plan?" Coir asked.

Faro forced a smile.

"I simply wish to talk to them."

"Absurd," the same vien said.

"No," his mother said. "Faro, they will kill you."

He sighed.

"I will not argue longer." He turned and headed west at a walk.

"Faro! Stop!" his mother called. He paused. He had never outright disobeyed his mother before—at least not that he could remember. But she was not there when the Nethec attacked Vireel's glade. She was not there to aid him in the north. She could not defeat Vireel. And she would not escape the riders of the Nethec.

"I love you, mother," he said, and kept walking without looking back.

"Have the sentinels stop him!" he heard his mother yell behind.

"No, Jareen!" Coir said in Noshian.

Faro's pace was quick, and he did not hear what came next. Before he reached the edge of the clearing, footfalls approached from behind, but no one laid hold of him. He did not fear them, anyway. Fresh pipe-notes blew in the clearing. The flow of both Currents was strong there, eddying together. Vireel was right; the Mingling was not a place to fear. It was a place of strength. Even so, the weight born by the Nethec Current, the constant pressure, the steady, unending assault continued to worsen. He welcomed this interruption, welcomed any distraction from the presence that weighed down on his mind like hatred.

Faro hardly noticed his surroundings as he walked down the western path. The Mingling had changed so much. Many of the trees and the undergrowth had died in the winter, leaving bare tangled branches. The thinned canopy let the light of the stars shine down to the path. It was quiet, as well. In his childhood, the Mingling had thrummed with life—birds and beasts called by day and night, and insects made a constant thriving undertone. But they were birds and beasts and insects that had never known winter. He thought about the cold on the isle of the dhar. What could survive? In such cold, it was as if the air itself wanted to kill.

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"Hold!" someone said. A vien stepped out on the thick branch of an ancient Mingling tree now dead and bare of leaves. He held an arrow to his bowstring. "Where are you going?" he asked. "They are coming. Go back!"

Faro ignored the sentinel and walked on. He heard others speaking in hushed tones behind him. He hadn't looked back once to see who or how many followed him. Not that he felt ill will, but it was difficult to think about anything but the presence that bore down on him. He had to focus hard on the task he had set himself.

He felt the low drumming of thousands of vaela hooves. The vibrations moved through the ground. Now, he turned. There were at least twenty sentinels following him, fear plain on many of their faces and arrows on every string.

"Stay here," Faro said to them.

"The Daughter of Vah told us to go with you," one replied.

Jareen, Coir, and he had lived for decades in hiding, and now these vien walked toward death at her bidding. Faro felt a surge of compassion for them. He needed to find out more of what had happened. His mother had pressed him for answers so much that he had not inquired enough about her.

"We are not here to fight them," he said. "If anything happens to me, flee back to the camp and tell the rest to scatter. They should not stay together. Flee in every direction."

"Orve—"

"Obey me," Faro said, irritation slipping into his tone. It was hard to be patient under such strain. The sentinel closed his mouth and watched him in silence.

When had he become someone who commanded a troop of sentinels to obey? Were it not for the constant assault on his mind, he might not have spoken so tersely. He drew on more of Isecan's Wellspring, trying to ward off the pressure. "Stay here," he said again, and leaving them behind, he walked on another hundred yards along the path. If something happened, the sentinels should be able to slip into the trees. Riders would keep to the paths unless they had good reason.

Starlight shone on the dark shapes of the approaching riders. He wanted to see better. Stretching his hand out to one of the dead trees nearby, he drew on the warmth in the summer air, drawing it to the dried bark and concentrating it there. With a crack, the tree ignited. Fire raced up the trunk, and light spread out in a wide circle. Now, he could see the riders, and they could see him.

A great vibrant plume of dyed vaela-hair rose from the helm of the lead rider. The flickering light cast weird shadows in the dead trees around and gleamed in the vaela's eyes. The riders wore only hardened silk armor, and their arrowheads looked knapped from stone. Once, the riders of the Nethec rode forth in finest Noshian steel. The enclave of Theniel had put a stop to that.

The riders slowed to a stop twenty yards from Faro. On the narrow trail, he could not see far down the line, but he knew the column must continue for a mile or more, if a whole company followed. The hearty smell of vaela sweat mixed with the acrid smoke of the burning of the tree.

"What are you?" the plumed rider called in the accent of the Nethec.

Faro grasped the Current of the Nethec together with Isecan's. He felt all those wills turn toward him afresh. He remembered Vireel's words; he burned bright for all to see, like the tree that sent a flurry of sparks skyward. It was in the midst of all those wills, pressing unceasingly. Yet they were far, and he was right there, alone on the path.

"My name is Faro. Who are you?"

"I am Glentel, Liel Commander of this company. Why do you stand against us alone?"

"I am scion of the Trees of Aelor and Talanael. The blessings of Findel are rightfully mine. You will go home. You will leave the Mingling and return to your heartwoods and your Trees and leave the ways of war."

The burning tree cracked and popped, flinging an ember onto the path. The flame-light pulsed across the fierce countenance of the plumed rider. His face was scarred, his eye socket mangled, not by the Change but by old wounds. A spasm contorted the muscles of his jaw.

Vaela shifted, pawed at the ground, tossed their heads. Their violent horns glinted in the night. Faro tried to steady his breathing, but not for fear of the company. Over the great distance of the Mingling, across the eastern heartwoods to the Wellspring grove, the will of the Synod raged against him. They flung their purpose from afar, and all their mind distilled into one purpose:

Kill.

Like the hammers of the dhar it fell blow after blow, command after command.

Kill. Kill.

Faro turned his mind back to the plume, fighting against the Nethec Current.

Home. Music. Laughter. Mates. Children. Friends. Home. Peace. Home.

The Synod was unbalanced in its struggle against Faro. All they had was the Nethec Wellspring far away. Faro had Isecan as well, mingled with the Nethec.

Home. Dancing. Harvest. Peace. Home. Freedom. Go home.

He felt the company falter, felt their confusion, their immobility, stuck in the cataract of two overwhelming streams. The plume hung his head as if in pain.

Someone screamed. Vaela shuddered up and down the line. Near the front, a vien leapt down, throwing his bow away and tearing at his armor. He ran into the night, shrieking. Further back, another scream, and then another. Frightened vaela trumpeted in fright at the confusion, harrowing notes cutting the darkness beyond the light of the burning tree. Faro faltered, startled by the sudden outcry.

At the fore, the plumed rider slipped off his mount. Slowly, as if each step was painful, he approached Faro, hand on his sword. When he spoke, his words came in rasps.

"I was commanded. . . to kill you. . . long ago."

"What?" Faro said.

"I served your father." The warrior stopped mere feet from Faro.

"He commanded you to kill me?"

The plume nodded. Faro tried to remember the plume's name. He had introduced himself.

"Why?" he asked.

"To protect the Synod. To protect Findeluvié." The vien's breathing steadied. He drew two curved swords. "Fight me fairly, sorcerer. Not with Canaen wickedness."

Faro was having trouble concentrating. The vien's mind was so closed, he could barely sense it, as if seared by great heat. Behind, more of the riders were breaking, like twigs snapped over a knee. Others sat rigidly in place.

"Do not fight me," Faro said. "Be free."

"I came to be free."

Home. Rest. Music. Love. Think of your comrades.

"Your father."

The vien moved with such speed and ferocity that Faro nearly lost his throat, surviving only with a great leap back. The warrior did not slow. Faro raised his spear as he nearly ran backwards, trying to ward the blows, but it was apparent from the first strikes that he faced a martial skill far surpassing his own. The tip of a sword lacerated Faro's hip, grating off his pelvis. Faro focused his mind on the spear, on the living steel. He saw the next attack, but he did not parry with his body, but with the Current within his weapon.

A flicker of surprise crossed the vien's face as Faro's arm lashed out with the spear, glancing off one sword and redirecting the next. Shifting his weight for another strike, the plume brought one blade up from low guard and another down from high, but Faro's spear was faster, sliding through his grip and extending into the vien's chest, puncturing the hardened layers of silk and biting deep.

The vien gasped, his shoulders curling in and his strikes collapsing. He fell to his knees, staring up at Faro. A thrum of vibration ran up the haft of Faro's spear, a heartbeat.

"It's leaving," the vien said. His face smoothed. "It's leaving." His head lolled back, his body slid off the blade, and he fell.

Chaos had taken the column of riders. The night was full of shouts and screams as vien fled into the Mingling, on foot and in any direction. Some still sat their frightened vaela, staring at him.

"Go home!" he shouted. His voice cracked, and tears flowed down his face. "Go!" Still, the far off Synod resisted. Faro reached hard for the Currents, both Nethec and Isecan. His body trembled as he drew on them. His lips tingled. "Go home!" he shouted. Dead branches snapped. Treetops bent in a sudden gust of wind. A chorus of howling screams rose from the column. Faro grimaced at the piercing pains in his hands and feet. The pressure on his mind eased.

Beasts. Pursuit. Fangs. Claws.

Vaela forgot their training, jostling and kicking as they turned on the narrow path and pierced their haunches with dead thorns. They tore away, helpless riders still atop. Pounding hooves faded into the night.

The path was empty, but for Faro and the body of the company liel. Firelight illumined his blood. The screams in the Mingling grew distant.

Leave. Leave our land, or I will destroy you.

Faro shook his head. He was so tired.

Leave me alone.

I am the guardian of my people. I will keep them safe. I will protect them. You are danger.

"Quiet!" Faro yelled aloud.

"Orve?"

Faro spun. His mother's sentinels approached up the path. He had not been aware of their arrival. They hunched over, arrows still nocked.

"Are you. . . well?" the sentinel asked. Something crashed through dead branches to their right. The sentinels dropped into low crouches. They were afraid, and as they looked to him for direction, he saw they were afraid of him, too.

"I am going back," Faro said, rubbing his forehead. His hand felt oddly numb. He pulled it away. The marks of the Change had spread and thickened. Streaks of violet and viridian stretched up his forearm. He had drawn deeply on the Currents. He flexed his fingers. They were stiff. His head throbbed with every pulse, and his nose ran from the smoke.

"You should set sentries," he said. With that, he stepped around the cluster of sentinels and left them behind. A burning limb fell from the tree, landing in a thicket of dead thorns. Sparks swirled into the night.