It had been a week since Jareen and Coir had reached the Forel enclave. As Vireel had promised, their arrival was expected, but rather than accepting them into their own groves, the ancients of Forel had settled them at the western edge of the enclave in a copse that looked like it belonged more to the Mingling than the enclave, itself.

Their shelter was a small timber house that looked like it had served more as a guard-post than a home. It was built around the base of a massive silver-leafed barberry along a path leading into the Mingling. Vireel's quth had already erected lean-to shelters all around the little house. While Jareen had never felt comfortable with the quth, she did feel far safer with them ringing the little house around, considering how close they were to the Mingling. At night she could hear the wild beasts in the distance, but she knew the quthli kept perpetual watch for such dangers, which also served them as opportunities for hunting.

"In any group of quthli," Coir had once told her, "there is never a time when even a slim majority of them are asleep. They fall into natural rhythms of resting and waking that ensure there are always more on watch than not. They are remarkably able survivalists."

Beyond their watchfulness, the quthli hunted in packs, bringing back mangled and gutted beasts like the large cat-like creatures that they carried into camp suspended on poles. They used long blow-pipes to hunt the noisy four-armed animals that scurried through the trees. Sometimes, one or more of the quth would return injured, though they did not appear prone to infection.

This and much more Coir had told her about the quthli over the years. She had always listened and nodded, often wandering in her own thoughts, thankful that the man's curiosity was directed elsewhere than her own heart and mind. Now, though, she observed the doings of the quth up close, for their camp surrounded her, and the Canaen appeared more than satisfied to leave Jareen and Coir on the margins. The smoke of the quthli fires was a constant irritation.

Every other day, a vienu from the enclave brought a basket of fruit and bread and jars of some wine or other. Jareen found that if they kept anything around for longer than two days, its taste would turn, tainted by the strange flavors of the Mingling. It was not always the same vienu who brought them their nourishment, but none of them were eager to linger or speak with the Insensitive and the human dwelling on the edge of their enclave. Coir feasted on the flesh of beasts with the quthli as often he ate the Vien fare with Jareen.

Jareen turned the little hut into as much of a home as she could, with little help from Coir, who was more concerned about finding places for his tenae than anything resembling comfort. There was hardly room to unfurl two hammocks, and the old man snored. They hung a sheet to provide some privacy to Jareen, but she had no fear of Coir. He kept his tenae stacked all along the walls. It worried Jareen that even after a few weeks, he had not resumed writing. He often sat on a fallen log amidst the quth and stared into the trees. She suspected he watched his own thoughts more than the eaves of the jungle.

It rained. It rained more than Jareen had ever known rain. In the Embrace, it often rained in the predawn hours, a gentle shower that refreshed the plants. In Drennos, the showers were both fiercer and more sporadic. Yet on the edge of the Mingling, it often rained all day and all night in unbroken pour. Their hut was tight enough, but even the air was damp, and sometimes she couldn't help but feel pity for the quth. They were always soaked during such rains, for even though they had constructed their smoky water-tight huts with roofs of pelts and sides of bark and resin, they did not stay within them, going about their hunts and keeping their watches regardless of weather, their long hair hanging lank and dripping from their bodies. If anything, the huts were used most for keeping dry firewood.

Now, it was the absence of rain rather than its presence that arrested attention. The idleness of their lives these past decades had often tormented her, leaving her too much with her thoughts, but she had tolerated it for the sake of Faro, and she had worn paths in Vireel's glade by her walking. The rain kept her inside, now, with too much time for sleep, so that often she lay awake into the night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain and Coir's snoring, her mind roving through the past or reaching out in worry toward Faro, wherever he might be with that bitch who'd stolen him. Not even at the Synod had she ever felt such burning hatred.

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After a few such days of deluge, Jareen heard the rain abruptly stop as she lay on her hammock. She waited a short time, listening to see if the rain would resume, but it didn't. She felt the urge for fresher air, and so she slipped out of the hut and stood in the little clearing. Overhead, a small patch of sky could be seen through the branches, though it was still dark with clouds. The songs of the nightbirds strengthened, glad of the end of the shower.

Along the trail to the enclave, she heard grunts from the quth. She had become familiar enough with their doings to notice a stirring. Many of the quth were awake, watchful. Some engaged in the grotesque task of preparing the skins of living things to make their clothing and blankets. Now, their attention shifted. She didn't know why at first, and she had almost she turned away when something caught her eye. A vien emerged down the trail from the enclave. His tread was light and quick. The figure was shrouded in a cloak despite the warmth and humidity, no doubt to protect from the rain. He bore no sign of spear or sword or bow or other burden. Apart from the cloak, he was dressed as if for a stroll through the tir. The vien looked neither to the right nor the left as he passed her. The quth watched as he moved amidst their huts, continuing down the narrow path into the Mingling beyond.for thre

The next day, a vienu from the enclave brought Jareen and Coir their food and drink. As she handed Jareen full jars and took the empty ones from her, Jareen spoke:

"I saw a vien pass through here in the evening and follow the path toward the Mingling," she said.

The vienu met her gaze, surprised. She placed the empty jar atop her head and dipped down by her knees to pick up the empty basket. "Do you know who he was, or why he would do that?" Jareen asked. The vienu half turned to ago, as if she would ignore Jareen, but then she hesitated.

"The afflicted must go to the Mingling," she said, and started away.

"Wait," Jareen said. "Why?"

The vienu did not turn or stop as she replied.

"To keep it from spreading." She picked up her pace, hurrying along the path to the enclave with the jar balanced upon her head.

***

Vireel led due north, though it appeared that the quthli led, for she and Faro walked in the midst of the line and not from the fore. Faro did not doubt she led, for he had inklings of the subtle will she exerted. For three days they marched with no occurrence of note besides an attack by a surprised Mingling panther. It lacerated a quthli's back but also provided their kind fresh flesh. They ate it raw and on the move. There had been no sign of pursuit from the Nethec companies, but Vireel did not slacken the pace.

Coir had convinced Faro to attend a quthli feast before, even though Faro would never think of eating flesh. He had never grown accustomed to the smell of the cooking flesh, though somehow the sight of the quthli eating it raw was more provoking. Vireel was unwilling to deprive them, and it was unsafe to draw too far apart, despite her presence, so they suffered through it.

When morning came on the fifth day, the air was cool—far cooler than Faro could ever remember. The woods had grown more spacious, with less undergrowth and fewer thorns. A little before noon, they came upon a grove of tall, slender trees whose bark was a flaky white. The leaves had a blue-ish tint to their undersides, but the tops were golden, and when the breeze fluttered them, the canopy shimmered. Long green rippled in the moving air. Faro stopped and gaped at the sight, and Vireel paused to let him.

"It's beautiful," he said.

Looking up into the branches, she nodded.

"Yes. They only grow in this part of the Mingling. I believe they are some kind of distortion of the birch trees that grow in Isecan."

"My mother's stories always described the Mingling as a nightmarish place. Coir's as well, except when he spoke of Vah'tane."

"The Inevien think the same, but we are far in the north. Here a peninsula juts into the sea. It leads nowhere and neither the Inevien or the Nethec pay it much heed. The Currents are also weaker here."

"Why does the Mingling of the Currents cause such. . ." Faro searched for the word. Thankfully, Vireel appeared to know what he meant.

"I do not believe it is the Mingling. It is the malice of the Synod and of my own people. The hearts and wills of all Vien within the Mingling are turned to war and fear. For thousands of years, it has known little else."

"So left alone, the Mingling could be like this?"

"Maybe," she said.

"You said the peninsula leads nowhere. Where are we going? "

"To the end."

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