It was not until all their wounded and dead were off the beach that Tirlav followed the narrow track through the thorns and into the hackberry grove. He felt more tired than he had ever felt in his life. He had already sent Tereth to the nearby tir in search of their best healers. When he reached the grove, he found Hormil moving among the wounded. Anger surged again when he saw his liel, but he clenched his jaw and kept about his duty, checking on each of the wounded in turn. The injuries turned his stomach. Some were minor, but others would clearly die. One of the High Tir vien lay with his arm over his stomach, holding in his guts, staring fixedly at the branches above but still breathing.

  They had wrought a great slaughter among the humans, but was such a slaughter worth the lives of vien? In his heart, Tirlav could not think it so. They could have done this another way. Why had Hormil taken no part? Could one who had fought so long in the Mingling be a coward? Despite his questions, he did not address his liel, nor did Hormil address him, both giving what aid they could to the wounded, whether it was wrapping a wound or lifting a head to give wine.

  By noon, a swarm of local vien from the nearby tir descended on the grove, and with Hormil’s nod of assent, Tirlav gave them leave to carry the wounded back to the tir to be tended. In the afternoon, they lit the pyre of humans on the beach, and with vaela pulling the vien fallen on litters, their contingent headed back to their main camp while those of High Tir returned west. Of the dead, twenty-three were from Tirlav’s contingent, as well as most of the wounded. With so many miles of shore to watch, they would feel the loss, and Tirlav hoped they saw no more landings.

  Hormil rode among them in silence, leaving Tirlav to lead the quiet return to their bivouac. Those few sentries who had remained at the camp gathered around, waiting to hear the news. It was then that Hormil spoke, raising his voice loud enough for all to hear.

  “Brave sons of Aelor,” Hormil called. “These our fellows did not fall this day. They fell with us the day we were called from our heartwood to ride with the dead. Already the children of Aelor mourned them, and we will not mourn them again. This eve, we drink wine, we sing, we dance, and we return their bodies to the soil that life may grow again in these woods. Such is the way of the shining companies of the Embrace. This is how we honor their victory.”

  And so it was. Somehow, the contingent found the strength, fueled in part by the breaking open of wine casks, to sing and dance and laugh. Tirlav drank, but he could neither sing nor dance. He threw himself into the interment of the bodies and the strewing of the seeds gathered to take root in the turned loam.

  Only the companies at war practiced funerals with any regularity. The folk of Findeluvié mourned those few who set out to search for Vah’tane—or were presumed to have gone when they disappeared—or who, like Tirlav and the others, were called to fight for their people. But they did not see the still bodies of the beloved slain. Death dwelt far away in the Mingling or now on the beaches. Accidents sometimes occurred in the heartwoods, but they were rare.

  Tirlav let all those who had fought in the battle sleep, while those who had stayed at their posts along the shore stood a double watch. The fireflies danced beneath the grove when Tirlav awoke again. Despite his fatigue, he had only dozed a short time. He wandered down to the strand to look out at the sea and listen to the waves. Son of the woodlands though he be, it had become a common practice for him since their arrival. The undulations of the sea calmed him.

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  Hearing soft footsteps approaching on the gravel, he turned to see Hormil approaching. Tirlav was surprised; he had not thought the commander had remained in the camp, he had grown so used to the liel slipping away.

  “Son of Aelor,” Hormil said.

  Tirlav bowed and placed a hand on his chest, though he did not welcome his Liel Commander’s presence. Hormil arrived to stand next to him and gazed out across the sea, taking a breath of the salt breeze.

  “You acquitted yourselves well," Hormil said. "You have honored Findel and Aelor.”

  Tirlav didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to shout his questions, but instead he stared at the waves. He did not trust his own voice.

  “You could have taken the ship with few losses and burned it to the waterline,” Hormil said, his tone as flat as if he was commenting on the spread of a vaela’s horns. “Then you could have taken your time with the nereth’vanel on the beach. It may have taken days, but you could have avoided an assault and the losses.”

  Tirlav swung round on Hormil.

  “Then why did you command me to attack?” he hissed, enough in command of himself to keep his voice low so no sentries heard. He glanced toward the trees to see if they were alone.

  “It is good that you obeyed me, despite your feelings and confusion. You did not show disrespect before your contingent, and you led in the attack.”

  “Why did you command it?” Tirlav asked again, his teeth clenched. Hormil did not turn to look at him.

  “There were humans aboard that ship who watched a group of vien assault a fortified position in clear daylight against twice their numbers after ambushing the landing party and stranding them ashore. The survivors will tell of how deadly and fearless are the folk of the Embrace. And maybe next year fewer sails will harry our shores.”

  “You wanted survivors?”

  “Yes. And I wanted a show of force. I wanted the humans to know that we will kill without mercy or fear.”

  “And you hung back,” Tirlav said. It was the blindness of his anger that let him make such an accusation, implied though it be. At last Hormil looked at him, a flash of annoyance in his squint. The flash faded, and the liel sighed.

  “Yes, I hung back,” he said. “I am. . . under orders. Orders that are mine and not yours. You should be pleased with your contingent.”

  “And what if we had lost? They were so many. Had they kept their wits. . . If their final charge was to kill and not to flee. . .”

  “Then I wouldn’t have to satisfy your curiosity.”

  Tirlav frowned, jutting his head backward, but the liel saw his expression and smiled.

  “How many years were you forced to train at arms in your youth?”

  “Fifty.”

  It was a strange question; fifty years was common among all the heartwoods, and Hormil knew that.

  “And how old were these humans who assailed us?”

  “A hundred?”

  Hormil grinned and shook his head.

  “I have never heard of a human living to such an age. They are counted old at fifty, and those who died on our shores were likely much younger. Before you came to this company, you had forgotten more skill at arms than they had ever learned. In truth, while your contingent fought with courage, you lacked in skill. Veterans from the Mingling would have put down that filth like it were sport. We will make your contingent far deadlier yet.”

  “Not the twenty-three we buried this night.”

  “No,” Hormil said. “Never them.”

  “So you ordered their death for this message to the humans?”

  Hormil turned again and looked Tirlav in the eye, his smile gone. “They were already dead, Son of Aelor. So are you. Accept it.”

  With that, Liel Hormil strode back up to the tree-line, leaving Tirlav alone on the strand.

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