Faro hardly needed the paths. The Current was sign enough, and the heartwoods were not like the Mingling. There were no choking thorns or impenetrable jungles. Even its wildness felt cultivated, for patches of woods were deliberately and clearly left to appear natural. Songbirds nested and the diminutive muntjacs fled their approach in herds. Nothing of the sort could have survived in the Mingling. Faro could have ridden the vaela through even the natural groves without trouble.

Another night fell, and he let the vaela graze as they walked, for he would not allow the column to stop. He barely allowed his eyes to close, fearing a renewed attack, and constantly he searched the path and trees in the Current for any sign of ambush. They drank from streams and pools along the way. All the while, he felt the strengthening of the Current. He was nearing it. He had always associated the Nethec Wellspring with the weight that he now knew as Findel. With that weight removed, and closer than he had ever been to a Wellspring, he experienced it afresh. What might be possible with so much? It was already stronger than standing beside the dhar vent.

Vien and vienu tended their gardens and orchards in the cool of the night. He heard singing and feasting. A soft rain fell before dawn, warm and slow. The closer he drew, the less he noticed all these things, and the more he saw the current that swept over it all.

The High Tir rose to the east, framed by the dawn; he could discern its shape in the Current as easily as with the eye, but it had lost its interest. He left the path, drawn inexorably toward the Wellspring, itself. Behind him, the others followed, many sleeping as they rode. At last, the vaela stopped, refusing to go forward. Without realizing it, he had been guiding the beast with his will rather than his voice, but now it resisted. Faro opened his eyes. He hadn't even realized they were closed. In the morning light, he saw a wall of thorns so thick that nothing was visible beyond. It rose toward the canopy above, arching inwards as if to form a dome. The thorns were long and cruel, but in their midst, white flowers blossomed against dark leaves. Their fragrance greeted him.

On instinct, Faro turned eastward, following the hedge toward the High Tir. It was not long before he found a path through an arched gap in the thorns. The tunnel was long and dark, too low for the vaela to proceed. Faro slipped to the ground. Patting the beast's neck, he left it there to graze, paying no attention to the scions or the riders who watched in silence. None made to follow.

The tunnel of thorns continued for many yards, sloping downward, before opening into a grove of massive ancient eucalyptus. So thick was the canopy that deep twilight reigned within, despite the morning sun shining outside.

Great moss-covered rocks lay strewn about the slope, some split by roots wider than the body of the vaela Faro had ridden. The smell of eucalyptus mingled with a mineral scent and a humid mist. He recognized the smell from the dhar vent. The slope leveled out in a basin, encircled by trees even mightier than those he had seen at the River-Tir and Tir'Aelor. The great branches sloped inward to form a dense leafy roof, and in the heart of the grove he saw the Wellspring, a great bubbling pool. Around it stood an array of malir, branches twisting in unnatural contortions. At the edge of the pool rose the greatest of them all, a monstrous tree, as thick as any of the eucalyptus, its roots reaching down into the water of the Wellspring itself.

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Faro knew who it was, and in seeing him, he felt a rush of despair. Findel was rooted in the very waters, a massive being as ancient as their people. He could feel its presence, could feel it feeding on the Current, an inexorable will. What could he do against him?

"You are not welcome here, cursed scion."

Faro's attention turned to the small figures who stood around the pool in the gaps left by the malir. There were six, and they looked insignificant among all those motionless beings. Faro approached, drawn to the water. With a surge of power, a tangle of thorns erupted from the ground, blocking Faro's path. The six Liele of the Synod converged, facing him on the far side of the sharp bramble.

"There are six of us," a vienu said. "What do you hope to accomplish here?"

Faro recognized her, though he had not seen her before with his eyes; it was Shelte, High Lielu of Shéna. Knobbed protrusions jutted up from her pigmented hair, and her jaw appeared to be fused with her neck. Her eyes had scaled over.

"You may have the blessing of two Trees," another said, "but that is not enough." It was Inan, High Liel of Tlorné. He was barely ninety. The Change was heavy on them all, but it was heavy on Faro, as well. He tried to flex his fingers, but two on his right hand had fused together below the knuckle.

Faro wasn't sure if they had spoken to him with lungs and tongues or merely conveyed their thoughts; it meant little there.

"Why have you come? You cannot hope to defeat us."

Faro felt Shéna's mind flicker toward his spear.

"I come to take my rightful place," Faro said.

"A cursed scion has no place. It is an abomination that you even set foot here."

"Did Findel not invite me?" Faro asked.

The Synod did not answer him directly, but among themselves they communed.

"What does he mean?"

Faro heard the thought as it passed between them.

They didn't know.

"He has gone mad from the double portion."

"It is what happened to Daela long ago, driven to madness and murder."

Faro shut out their thoughts.

They cannot see you, he willed to Findel.

No. It is the double portion that lets you perceive me. The awareness is kept from them. Only Daela ever knew it.

It is the double portion that lets me resist you.

Findel did not respond.

Faro could hardly believe the Synod didn't know. Again, he felt their attention flicker toward his spear, though they strained to hide it.

"Do you truly not see Findel?" he asked aloud.

"Findel has been gone for millennia. All that remains is his malir. You are a desecration in its presence."

What was the point of hiding? Faro looked around the grove. There were many malir there—maybe all the High Liele since the beginning of the Synod. They were scattered around the Wellspring and up the slopes. Was his father's there?

"Why did you want me to come?" Faro asked. The Synod thought he spoke to them.

"He is mad," Tlorné willed.

Faro felt their confusion. A few had vague memories of sending a messenger to Tir'Aelor, but even that welcome was not of their own design.

"Should we strike?"

"He cannot defeat us all together."

"What is his plan in coming here?"

"It is his madness."

"It is time."

Faro had expected an attack directed toward his body, either more thorns or fire, or weight like that of Findel. Instead, they united in a command, all six joined together to impress their will upon him:

"Fall on your spear."

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