It was afternoon when they rounded the Arm of Dusk and beheld the only true port of Findeluvié. Jareen stood at the prow as they slipped into the harbor. It was difficult to approach their native land because of the numerous shoals, reefs, mangroves, and hazardous rocks that characterized so much of the coast, but here the deep bay swept up onto black sand beaches flanked by rocky hills upon which massive Vien Redwood trees spired. Berms of rock and soil, covered in hedges of flowering thorns, formed protective barriers to the sea, but within the city—for this was what constituted a Vien city—the trees and gardens rose thick and tall, with winding paths and spiraling staircases of intricately carved wood leading to levels upon levels of houses high in the canopy, painted and carved with the colors and shapes of all the forest flowers. Among that panoply, the viridian and indigo beloved in Findeluvié stood out, with the twining white of painted and carven vines.

  Fruit grew there too, flowering vines, trees, and gardens of every delicious thing, for the Vien paved nothing in rock, and their paths were not straight but wound through vistas of carefully cultivated wildness. Some of the oldest trees had been woven over centuries as they grew, forming spreading edifices of branch and stem and umbrage that cradled homes and workshops. She heard the music of Vien voices floating over the water, for where many of her people gathered, music never truly ceased.

  The humans called it the Port of Elfland, but the Vien called it Talanael. The name was a shortened form of talan'anael, which translated to: “where the stars moor.” Behind the Arm of Dusk, the waters of the harbor were still, sometimes so still that the stars shone in them as in a mirror. It was from Talanael that the Vien had long taken to ship to gaze at the stars above the sea, and later to search distant coasts for new fruits and plants to bring back to the heartwoods. As a child, Jareen had heard many tales of brave seafarers, like Fana of Talanael who brought the seeds of the pomegranate from the far south, and the cinnamon tree from a land full of flesh-eating monsters, and who never returned from his last voyage.

  Some Vien said that the High Tir—and more truly the Wellspring—was the heart of the Embrace, but that Talanael was the jeweled eye. Many were not pleased when the Synod first permitted human ships to moor there. Jareen wondered how the inhabitants would react when the armada arrived, or had they grown used to it? It had been sixty-three years since she had hidden away on a Noshian ship in that harbor.

  No Vien eye would fail to notice that the craft slipping into the harbor had spliced stays and a rent sail, or that her pavilion was stained and cut. Soon, numerous faces watched their approach and numerous hands waited to receive their lines and pull them to the wharf. The vien and vienu were arrayed in vibrant silks, their long arms bare, their hair in lustrous braids. It had been long since Jareen had seen so many of her people—how different than the visages of a human crowd! A sense of embarrassment came upon her, and she realized her hair and face were uncovered. They would know her for what she was, or worse. She retreated to the opening of the pavilion.

  “What tale bring you, shipmaster Firnel?” a voice called out.

  “Pirates,” Firnel replied. “Well-armed and numerous. And grief! We have six dead, and among them is Gyon, Liel Ambassador to Nosh.”

  A cry of dismay rose among the gathered people.

  “Bring the Lielu of the Harbor,” someone called, and two vien sprinted up the path.

  With rapid steps, Jareen fled to the screen where she had her hammock. Rummaging through her satchel, she found the Sister’s wimple and veil and donned them, leaving only a narrow gap for her eyes.

  Not knowing what else to do, she resorted to long habit and kneeled next to the bodies she had bathed and bound and laid in a circle. There she waited, her heart pounding. Though voices and cries continued without, no one entered the tent for some time. At last, Firnel pulled aside the canvas flap, letting a tall vienu duck inside. Behind her came a second vienu. Both had lustrous hair in long tresses, and simple silk robes of indigo wrought with silver-wire embroidery—an embroidery Jareen recognized at once as the result of trade with the humans, for the Vien did not mine. It was a style unknown when she had dwelt there.

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  The differences between the two vienu were of greater note than the similarities, for the first woman’s dark hair was streaked with a blue so dark that it was almost black, and the left side of her face marred by the Change, calcifications of greens and blues distorting her cheek and running down her neck. Her left arm and hand were also overtaken by the Change. This was the Lielu of the Harbor, one of the High Liele of the Synod.

  Anyone could tell that last part, even if they had never seen her before, for the Change came only upon the Synod, yet Jareen knew the vienu for more. The vienu was her mother, High Lielu Andalai, and the first who had entered was Jareen’s eldest sister Teram. Though the Change had spread and intensified upon her mother, there was no discernible change in her sister. Jareen’s stomach fell at the sight of them. Without meeting their gaze, she remained kneeling beside the bodies, watching over the dead. Gyon’s brow was clear and bright above closed eyes, his nobility shining in death, his complexion paled. She gazed upon him, hoping by sorrow to control the trembling of her body at being in the presence of her mother after so long.

  “He fought with absolute nobility,” Firnel said, “and it was he, himself, who overcame the enemy vessel, though he had received his mortal wounds.”

  “Did any humans survive?”

  “Their ship and boat were sunk, and unless some swim like seals, they are gone, Lielu.”

  “This is a grave loss. This was a noble rider of the Embrace and servant of the Synod. We will mourn him long.”

  There was a pause, but Jareen did not look up.

  “Who is this who covers herself among the dead?”

  “This is an Insensitive who has lived among the Noshians as a member of an order of healers,” Firnel said.

  “What is your name?” the lielu asked. Jareen did not look up or respond. She did not know if she could master her own voice, and in her fear, she again resorted to the old habits of the Voiceless. The pause extended. Such disregard for a member of the Synod was unheard of, but she would not face her. The pause extended, like a deadly weight.

  “Lielu,” Firnel said, anxiety clear in his voice. “If you permit me to speak.”

  “Speak.”

  “I heard from Gyon that it is a custom of their order that they do not speak while performing their duties. It is sacred to them. She has lived long in Nosh and has barely spoken during our voyage. The only name Liel Gyon told me was Jareen.” Firnel struggled and failed to produce the Noshian “r.”

  “That is a human name and you speak of human customs.”

  “Yes, Lielu.”

  “Why is she here, if she abandoned her own name and people?”

  “Liel Gyon told me that she is an Insensitive, and yet trained in the care of the sick. He thought to provide aid to the Trees. . .”

  Jareen felt her mother’s uncertainty in the long pause that followed. Was she wondering? Did she care? Jareen had left a letter in the impeccable calligraphy that her mother had required of her. Only a child, yet Jareen had no longer been able to bear the burden of life in Findeluvié, a daughter of the High Tree of Talanael and yet an Insensitive, doomed to life so short. Who saw her with anything but pity or distaste? Who saw her as anything but a disease?

  “My life is short,” she had written to her mother. “I must die, so I go to seek Vah’tane. Do not seek me. This is my sacred right.”

  Even then, Jareen cared little if Vah’tane was real or not. But it would throw them off her trail. Instead of setting off toward the Mingling, she bribed a Noshian shipmaster with silk. Whether her mother had believed her lie and pursued her east or had simply let her go, Jareen never knew. Surely, Lielu Andalai must now suspect. Or had she left all thought of Jareen far behind? Did it even matter to her?

  Jareen heard Lielu Andalai turn.

  “We will prepare a mourning feast in the manner of the riders,” she told Teram. “Inform the Synod.” Turning back to Firnel, she added: “I will send a rider to take the Insensitive to the Tree of Shéna.” With that, Lielu Andalai left the pavilion.

  Jareen tried to control her breathing and keep her body from trembling. She did not know what hurt more; being again in her mother’s presence, or that her mother did not even check if it was her own daughter beneath the veil. Jareen was not the only Insensitive; there were a few in each generation, but they were rare enough. The presence of an Insensitive in Nosh should have drawn greater interest from a member of the Synod, especially from her. . . Unless she already knew.

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