It was a three night ride to the High Tir from the Aelor Woods. The first day passed in silence. Like the use of bow and saber, all young vien were trained in the handling and riding of the vaela. The herds were tended with care, when healthy specimens grew old enough to grow their second or third horns, they were selected for use by the companies of riders. Not every company formed was mounted upon vaela. Most of the companies called by the Synod went to war afoot, but the job of patrolling the southern coast was one for a quick-moving mounted force.

  It was said to be an honor to ride a vaela to war, but the crestfallen expressions of the young Vien as they rode south did not show pride. They rode in silence, a grim spirit upon them. Riders were called upon to respond to incursions, racing to support the thin lines of the Mingling when attack came, rather than forming defensive garrisons. To be called to fight on foot meant a seventy-seven year service. To be called to ride meant one hundred and eleven. The numbers hardly mattered; few ever returned. They rode as sacrifices for the defense of their people.

  It was the second night from Aelor. They had ridden well after sunrise, taking a rest only for a few hours' sleep in the heat of the day. Now, they took a second rest in the dark of night. They were still within the Embrace, so there was no need for wariness, except to watch over the vaela. The forest provided a perpetual array of forage for the creatures, and so the vien need not pack fodder.

  Tirlav lay on his cloak, staring up into dense branches that blocked out the stars. Crickets chirped around them, and the pre-dawn drizzle began to fall, nourishing the ground for another day. The moisture strengthened all the smells of kiwi blossoms, mahogany leaves, and a hundred other scents of the forest.

  Then, a voice rose in song, the first any of them had sung on their journey.

  

  “Let the maids of Aelor

  Weep for us this eve.

  Let the maids of Aelor weep

  for babes that will not be.”

  It was an old vien warsong, sprung from centuries and millennia of the ceaseless stalemate with Isecan. More voices joined in the slow melody, and tears ran down Tirlav’s face, lost in the gentle rain that dripped from the leaves above and the mist rising from the damp ground. Would he ever touch a harp again? Would they truly just patrol the coast for a century and more, or was it a matter of time before the Synod sent them to the Mingling, to confront the horrors there?

  He tried to raise his voice to join the song, but his throat had tightened. So, he lay and listened, slowly drifting to sleep as high clear voices sang:

  

  “Let the maids of Aelor—

  As we go to war—

  Let the maids of Aelor weep

  for babes they never bore.”

  ***

  It was hard to tell by sight alone whether the earthworks were natural upthrusts of soil and rock bound by thick roots, or whether they were raised there by hands over thousands of years. Such was the way of Vien construction through the layering of rock and earth and the cultivating of the massive trees that dominated the top of the tall dikes. The walls had been built ages ago with an eye to natural beauty and the interplay of soil, rock, and root. Flowers of all kinds grew on the slopes, so that the walls of the city rose up in a panoply of color, shaded by the dense crowns of the tall eucalyptus and gildenleafs above.

  All around the city lay a spreading meadow full of ripening grains and yellow-blooming sunchokes, so that there was a gap in the canopy, making the height of the city even more startling. Walkways and platforms curved, sloped, and intertwined among the upper branches.

  The front gate was a great tunnel carved through the center of a massive gildenleaf grown to a size that none could attain by natural means. Leaving their vaela in the care of the High Tir herders, the three hundred and three young Vien conscripts walked in double file through the tunnel. The heart of the tree was carved in swirling reliefs of gardens and vines. Beyond it, they stepped into the perpetual twilight beneath the towering grove. The music of a great Vien city filled the air, wafting down to them from above. Paths wound through the roots and trunks. Massive multi-story houses of carven wood, with tiered lattices laden with fruiting vines rose against, around, and between the tree trunks, with circling stairs rising upward.

  This was the High Tir, the oldest city of the Vien. Tirlav had been there before with his father, and so he led the way. Theirs was only a single contingent of what would comprise a company of three thousand three hundred and thirty-three, and they were to meet the others at the greensward at the foot of the High Tir itself.

  The greensward formed a long oval a hundred yards long at the heart of the city, with a fountain at its center and terraced gardens at either flank. Tir’Aelor was at the western side of the Aelor heartwood, and so by the time they arrived, many of the rest of the contingents were already bivouacked in the greensward. Vienu maids moved among the vien, carrying baskets of fruit and jugs of wine, and they swept toward the newcomers, offering refreshments and false smiles. Tirlav led the Aelor to an unclaimed portion of the greensward, and they sat down upon crossed-legs in the shade and the fragrant scents of the blossoms, eating kiwis and drinking coconut wine. Considering there appeared to be around two-thousand vien in the greensward, it was strangely quiet. It remained so, despite the songs wafting to them from the branches of the city above and down the many branching paths.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Unseen by them, the sun was setting when the final contingent arrived from Tlorné. The company was assembled. Still, they waited. Twilight never departed from beneath the dense trees of the High Tir, but night gathered. From the direction of the rising tir, a warrior strode into the greensward, followed by two attendants bearing lamps and three more with bundles in their arms. The warrior wore a helm with a tall crest of bound vaela-mane hair dyed viridian hue.

  It was clear he wore mail, but atop it he wore a silk riding robe that fell to his greaves, and silk gloves extended up his forearms. A pair of curving Vien sabers and knives hung at each hip. He strode to the center of the greensward followed by his attendants and leapt atop the edge of the fountain. From this vantage, he turned in a circle to view all the contingents assembled there.

  “Rise and form ranks,” he called in a voice of command that was not a shout yet rang with notes that carried clearly through the greensward. All rose, and each contingent formed into lines. Once again, the plumed warrior turned in a circle, pausing before he spoke.

  “I am Hormil. Eight years ago, the Synod recalled me from the Mingling where I served for seventy-nine years. They have appointed me as your Liel Commander, to instruct you in the ways of war.”

  Tirlav stared at Hormil with rapt attention. To have survived and served in the Mingling for so long was a feat of skill, endurance, or luck that could hardly be fathomed, if the stories told were true. There was good reason to believe the stories; so few returned after their service, and those that did sang little, and often sought Vah’tane well before their time.

  “Let each of your plumes step forward,” Hormil commanded.

  Tirlav’s heart beat as he obeyed, his footsteps not even rustling the soft grass. Hormil waved his hand, and the attendants separated, approaching the leaders of the contingents, those selected as plumes. When it was his turn, the attendant held out a horsehair plume. Its base dye was viridian, but a streak of bright yellow ran through its center. Tirlav held out both his arms and let the attendant lay the plume across them before moving on.

  “Tomorrow, we depart the High Tir,” Hormil said. “Plumes, come with me. As for the rest of you, eat and drink and sleep. Sing if you can.”

  With that, Hormil stepped lightly down from the fountain wall and strode north toward the tir. Tirlav and the rest of the plumes hurried to follow him. Hormil led them a short distance up a path and then climbed a carven staircase built around the base of a massive eucalyptus. The trees of the High Tir, like in other Vien cities, rose to unnatural heights and grew with such density that their roots formed a single web, holding them firmly in place. The stair spiraling around the prodigious trunk split into other walkways that stretched between other trees. They passed between branches laden with fragrant leaves until they reached an old house of fine-carved mahogany. A garden of vessels and woven netting hung beside the doorway. Through the door and then beneath a curving archway opening out of the inner hall, Hormil led them into a long dining room. A low ovular table surrounded by cushions dominated the center of the space. The table was laden with delicate dishes and vessels of Vien glasswork that held a fine repast. Tirlav was hungry, and the smell of honeyed fruits made his mouth water.

  Hormil ordered them to sit and took a seat himself at the far end of the table. No one touched the refreshments, waiting in silence for their new liel to direct them. Hormil, for his part, stared at each one in turn, examining them—for what, Tirlav could not say. He felt horribly exposed to the veteran’s gaze when it was his turn. Surely he must look like the soft harper and harvester that he was, a relative youth who had luxuriated his life away in music and orcharding while others of his Tree took responsibility.

  “You have been chosen as plumes by your heartwoods,” Hormil said at length. “But that does not mean you will remain as plumes. You belong to the company, now, not the High Tree of your heartwood. The company belongs to me, and I belong to the Synod. You may remember how to wield a sword, but you know nothing of war. I was the same way once, but I was not the first plume of my contingent. Nor was I the second or the fourth. The company I rode with into the Mingling is gone, and its survivors are joined with the remnants of others. Those few left remain in the Mingling, yet I am here.” Hormil paused, looking at the gathered plumes. He took a drink from his glass of wine. No one else dared.

  “I understand that a few of you are the lesser sons of High Trees. That does not make you brave or wise. The beginning of bravery and wisdom will be to do as I command. Your contingents will look for you to set an example. They will follow the sight of your plume in battle. They will rally around you. If you are craven, they will be craven. If you are foolish, they will be foolish. When you die, another will raise the plume, and the fight will continue without a second glance.”

  Hormil looked across the table laden with fruits and wines, nuts and breads. He motioned to it with his hand.

  “I think they wish to remind us why we fight,” he said in a quieter tone. “But this is not why I fight. There was a maid in a vale of Shéna, and to her I would have sworn my eternal oath. Her beauty is like the light of the stars mirrored in a forest pool.” Hormil’s gaze softened, and Tirlav knew he did not see the laden table anymore, but a beauty elsewhere and years past. “I will never look upon her again, no matter how long I live.” His sight returned, and he looked to the plume from the heartwood of Shéna. “I command you by the authority of the Synod not to speak of her, or tell me news, nor let any other do so.” After a deep breath, he went on. “I have given up her beauty. Yet still I fight for it. I will die for it, if the opportunity comes.” Hormil looked around the table at the eleven plumes there before him, meeting the gaze of each. “Whatever you had and whatever you knew, give it up in your hearts now. Lock it away in your memory to remain untarnished. It does not die. Only we do. Remember it as you love it. Let it be the reason for your fighting. But give up on yourself. From now on, you are already dead. It will be easier that way. We die, so that what we cherish may live forever.”

  Patreon. The support is appreciated.

  The Mine Lord and the rest of the series. It is not necessary to have read those stories to enjoy this one).

  https://discord.gg/JtJYdhmsVp