Rather than keeping all together in one company, Liel Hormil spread the contingents out, dividing the southern coast into eight sections, starting at the eastern edge of Miret and continuing west along the shore to the Strait of Shoals, the remnants of the old land-bridge. There, jagged islands separated by dangerous shoals and hidden reefs kept ships at bay. Each contingent was responsible for one of the eight sections under the direction of their plume, though Hormil made sure that the contingents from the coastal heartwoods did not patrol their own groves.

  This all meant that Tirlav and the Aelor contingent was responsible for roughly thirty-five miles of the Yene coast. Their section was in the western portion of the heartwood, only seventy miles from the start of the Mingling. Yene was not as well populated as the Aelor Woods, but it was known for its cinnamon and nutmeg groves. Yet the groves were inland, away from the sea. Mangroves and thickets dominated the coast.

  “How should we order the patrolling?” the plume from Talanael had asked Hormil.

  “Go look upon your coast and decide yourselves, and I will come and see how you fare,” Hormil replied. The plumes had looked at each other with concern. What did they know of such things? They had expected Hormil to give them orders to be obeyed. But they held their tongues.

  Tirlav knew nothing of the sea or of sailing. He was a son of the Aelor Woods, not a son of Talanael or the other coastal heartwoods. The thought of Hormil arriving unexpectedly and demanding a report dampened his brow with nervous sweat. Tirlav was a harper, and though he had no less skill with a sword and bow than the others, he had never led or made decisions for others. How much more suited Reniel would have been! Yet the thought of the shame Tirlav would bring to his Tree should Hormil remove him as plume for incompetence kept him awake, planning.

  Only four days after first meeting with Hormil, the Aelor contingent arrived upon its section of the coast. The first thing Tirlav did was speak to some of the local inhabitants of the heartwood. He had no use of the growers of nutmeg and cinnamon and the mangos so beloved by the winemakers of the southern Embrace, but he found a Tree of Yene Vien that combed the coast for seaweed and kelp to dry and cover with sea-salt. They welcomed the contingent of riders happily, for the sails of the humans had increased in number upon the horizon of late. From this Tree, Tirlav learned that just over half of his section of coast was impenetrable mangrove, populated by saltwater crocodiles and pythons.

  The legends said that the land of Findeluvié had once been a desolate and cold place until Findel blessed it. In the millennia since, the Vien had sailed the seas and returned with fruits and seeds to fill their land with all good things. Yet the crocodiles and snakes were a recent introduction from only two hundred years prior, to dissuade interlopers along the coast. The beasts had thrived, and some of the crocodiles had grown to over twenty feet in length, able to kill with terrifying power. Even a few of the Vien had fallen victim, sadly.

  The local Vien assured him that it was impossible for a ship to anchor beyond the mangrove and get through by smaller boat. Nevertheless, there were inlets that approached firmer ground, and Tirlav did not want to take anything for granted. The more westerly section of coast was protected by a coral reef that prevented any ship from approaching near, but smaller boats might cross above it. In that section, the shore was rocky, except for one small sheltered bay where westerly currents deposited sands during the rainier half of the year. A freshwater stream flowed into the sea there, the course of its estuary ever shifting with the changing sand. This section as well as a goodly distance of coast to either side could be observed from a narrow point that extended a quarter of a mile out into the sea.

  Tirlav pointed out to sea. The salty wind blew against his face.

  “And you see the sails emerge over the horizon, heading toward us?" he asked.

  One of the vien kelp harvesters shook his head.

  “No,” he replied. “They cruise the coast east to west most often, a few miles out to sea, unless the wind is contrary.”

  Tirlav squinted. If that was the case, then perhaps the human sails could be tracked.

  After speaking with the kelp harvesters and riding as much of the coast as he could, he sent messages to the plumes to east and west, requesting that a rider be sent ahead for warning if any sail was seen heading in their direction. If they all did this for each other, then they could track sails moving up and down the coast. Tirlav hardly slept the first few days and nights, determined not to show himself as much a fool as he felt.

  The sea breeze was warm out of the southeast, carrying humidity inland. Even the cries of the seabirds sounded languorous. The weather varied little enough throughout the Embrace, but even so it was cooler in the Aelor Woods than on the southern coast. Tirlav found himself sweating every day beneath his mail and silks. He rode tirelessly up and down his section of coast, arranging and re-arranging his riders, trying to anticipate Hormil’s objections and criticisms.

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  It was at twilight two weeks after their first arrival on the coast when Hormil rode in to their bivouac upon a proud dark-haired vaela with three mighty sweeping horns. Tirlav and the others in the camp rose to their feet and slapped their hands to their chests, heads bowed. Hormil alighted soundlessly from his vaela.

  “Walk with me, Son of Aelor,” he said, then turned to the narrow path running down to the sandy cove beyond the thickets. Tirlav followed, breaking out into a sweat even though the cool of the evening had arrived with the onshore breeze. Hormil led him out onto the beach as if he knew the path and where it would take them. The tide was out, and the beach was wide, smelling of seaweed and salt and fish. The sand was still warm from the day.

  “Where is the rest of your contingent?” Hormil asked.

  “I have a few sentries along the mangroves,” he said, then pointed at the spit of land. “Others at the end of this point. There are riders at the east and the west of our section, ready to receive word of ships moving up or down the coast. Other sentries are stationed at intervals. All rotate, and those not in place are in camp here.”

  Hormil came to a stop at the edge of the estuary stream.

  “And you deem this the most likely landing place?”

  “Yes, liel,” Tirlav said, hoping he had not done something foolish.

  “I heard that it was agreed within days for the contingents to send riders if sails were spotted.”

  “Yes, liel.”

  “The Namian plume refused, saying it was the responsibility of each contingent to watch their coast, not rely on others to do it for them. What do you think of that?”

  Tirlav hesitated.

  “Are we not one company?” he asked.

  “I heard it was your idea to send messengers between the contingents. Is that so?”

  “I suggested it to the contingents bordering us. I know not if they continued it beyond.”

  The High Tir contingent held the coast just to the west, while to the east lay the section belonging to Piev.

  “They did, all but the former plume of Namian.”

  Tirlav glanced at Hormil. Former plume. They stood in silence as the surf washed across the shore. Unused to the sea, Tirlav found that he could stare at it long, enraptured by its sounds, sights, and smells. Oft he had wished for his harps. What music he could play with the surf! Now, though, all he could focus on was the discomfort of standing next to Hormil, trying to discern the liel’s feelings.

  “I ride on tonight,” Hormil said at last. “When next I come to your bivouac, make sure no hands are idle. If nothing else, make new arrows. Always be making arrows. Even if you have more than you need. Always be making arrows, or mending, or cleaning.”

  “Yes, liel.”

  Hormil sighed.

  “Do not grow weary or comfortable. Give no time for mourning.”

  With that, Liel Hormil turned and strode back up the path. Tirlav followed after. Back at the camp, Hormil mounted and left without another word, while the Aelor bowed and slapped their chests. When their liel had ridden, the eyes of those gathered turned to Tirlav, hoping for some sign of how the interview had gone.

  “We must make arrows,” Tirlav said. “Arrows in great store. Our hands must never cease. And let all our harness be inspected, oiled, and polished.”

  ***

  In the weeks spent patrolling the coast, Tirlav’s body strengthened and hardened as he rode the coast daily. Always lean, now he was turning to sinew. Hormil visited twice more at random, and in obedience, Tirlav made sure the contingent had little time to think and mourn their former lives. Sentinels on watch could clean mail and fletch arrows. Those bivouacked ready to respond to an incursion drilled in arms and archery. Hormil saw to the delivery of sacks of steel arrowheads—long bodkins and broad warheads. Were it not for the constant activity of their hands, the tendency to brood upon their lost lives would have been worse than it was. Still, Tirlav found his mind wandering to music, or wondering if any letters had arrived to Tir’Aelor from Archivist of Drennos. He wished for the chance to send a letter, to notify him that their correspondence must end. But there was no paper, and no opportunity.

  Sails they saw, moving up and down the coast. Vaela riders cantered between contingents. The sightings, though separated by long days, became welcome moments of increased attention and activity. The duty of riding to alert one of the other contingents became a sought after respite from monotony.

  In addition to the dried fruits and vegetables that came at intervals from the High Tir, the local Vien kept the company in wines and fresh fare, for all were glad to have a screen from the flesh-eaters that threatened their shore.

  In the fifth week, news came of the first landing—or attempted landing. It had come forty miles west of Tirlav’s western boundary. A ship anchored and three boats rowed by armed men had pulled for shore. The contingent of Lishni had repulsed the approaching boats with volleys of arrows, killing or wounding an unknown number before the humans pulled back out of range. They had never touched the shore.

  The same ship weighed anchor and continued to cruise along the coast over the following weeks. So far as Tirlav knew, Hormil did not mention the landing attempt to anyone either in praise nor any other fashion, though he continued to appear at random among them. The plume of Yene was taken and given to another, though Tirlav did not hear why. It filled him with fear. What foolish mistake might he make to bring shame? He thought of what his brother Reniel would think, if he heard that Tirlav was stripped of his plume. Nothing of the sort would happen to Reniel, were he there instead. In secret, Tirlav wished he was not the plume, just one of the contingent, with no expectation beyond that of any other rider. Yet he worked to please Hormil as much as he knew how, for fear of shaming the Tree of Aelor.

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