The Tir of Shéna was a small hill by the standards of Findeluvié, but it and the surrounding slopes were known for some of the finest grape vines and olive orchards in the Embrace. It was an hour after sunrise when finally the vien sang the vaela to a halt at the foot of the tir. The trees around the tir were mostly olives, old and thick but too short to build structures within their branches, so the structures around the bottom of the tir were built atop trained olive trees that had been trained and espaliered to form corner posts and walls to hold aloft the structures. Motifs of grapevines were carved skillfully upon lintels, and open-air oil presses stood in the groves. The top of the tir was dominated by eucalyptus and ebony trees, but the Vien of Shéna were known for the fineness of their carven olive-wood sculpture, and such carvings filled many of the houses held aloft by the taller trees.

  The vien rider dismounted and offered a hand to Jareen, but she ignored it and slid down the side of the vaela on her own. He pointed toward the path leading up the tir, indicating she should precede him. A number of vien looked out of windows or gave them wide berth along the path, staring at Jareen unabashedly. Jareen knew her wimple and veil would draw attention, but she left it on. She did not want them gawking at her Insensitive hair and skin.

  Atop the hill was the home of the High Tree of Shéna, a three-story structure with two asymmetrical additions, full of gabled windows, carved lattices, and climbing vines. Despite its size, the artifice of its builders made it look light and natural. Rather than resting entirely within the trees, it was built around the massive trunks of towering ebony trees.

  Jareen always liked Vien architecture more than the Noshian structures of brick and stone—even more than the grandest Noshian edifices of buttresses and spirals and columns. Such human buildings lasted longer than human lives. She always sensed that the Noshian moves about their city as if it had always been there. The vien might rebuild their homes any number of times over the centuries, each iteration an artwork of itself. The trees, carefully tended, could last much longer than the houses.

  As they approached the central arching doorway of the House of Shéna, a tall vienu stepped out into the morning sunshine. She wore a long robe that fell nearly to her bare feet, and her hair fell to her waist, dark like the ebony of the lintel above her.

  “I have brought her,” Jareen’s nameless guard stated. “Will you take her in your charge?”

  “I will,” the vienu said.

  Without another word, the vien warrior turned on his heel and headed back down the hill, apparently eager to be away. Jareen hoped he would rest his vaela or switch for a different one rather than riding straight back to Talanael.

  “I was informed of your coming,” the vienu said. “What is your name?”

  “Jareen.” Jareen made sure to pronounce the “r” and the vowels with the hard human accent.

  “That is a foreign name.”

  Jareen didn’t respond.

  “What is your true name?”

  “You may call me Jareen.”

  “I command you to tell me your true name.”

  Jareen did not reply, meeting the vienu’s gaze. She was too tired and irritated to be cowed.

  “I am Shelte, Daughter and First Heir of Shéna. I speak as a representative of my mother, the High Lielu Arna.”

  “I will care for your ill,” Jareen said. “But I do not care for your title.”

  This response clearly surprised Shelte, who leaned back as if retreating from it. She caught herself and smoothed her expression again. Disobedience to the Synod or one of their representatives was unheard of. Yet Jareen had learned as a child that she could simply choose not to obey. If she hadn’t learned that lesson, she never would have run away.

  “You know the punishment for disobedience to the Synod?”

  Jareen didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure she had actually ever heard of a punishment for disobedience, except for those rare instances when someone grasped the Current. The punishment for that was being sent to the Mingling. What could they take from her that they hadn’t already taken, except perhaps her life? Jareen would not put it past a member of a High Tree to order such a thing. How far did Jareen want to take her rebellion? It occurred to Jareen that she could reveal herself as a member of the High Tree of Talanael to put this Shelte off her balance, but she would not use that to her advantage, not after she’d hidden from her mother.

  “Where are your ill?” Jareen asked.

  Shelte sighed.

  “Your name you may keep for yourself, but remove your covering. It will not enter this house.”

  Jareen hesitated, then reached up and unwound her wimple and veil. It was a loss for the sake of a greater victory. Shelte took in her skin and hair but did not look surprised. Turning, she re-entered the house. Jareen stuffed the cloth into her satchel and followed. Shelte led through the ground story of the house and to a curving stair wrapped around the trunk of an ebony tree. They proceeded to the third landing, where Shelte led through one of a series of arching doorways into a great room with sweeping curved beams and carven window seats. It was full of vien and vienu sitting or standing around three hammock-beds suspended from the ceiling beams. Propped up on many silken pillows were two vienu and a vien lad who did not yet look mature.

  It was clear that the vienu in the first hammock was the High Lielu, for she had the telltale Change spreading from her mouth across her face. Her hands and arms were distorted with pigmented calcifications of blues and greens, gnarled lumps and knobs. But in addition to the Change, something else was at work, darker lines of violet and black, appearing to follow the blood vessels, the tissues around spreading with what looked like a blooming bruise. The maid and lad did not show the same marks of the Change, but the same dark lines of violet and spreading duskiness moved up their extremities.

  The three diseased looked in varying conditions of illness. The lad’s face was unmarked, and his eyes were open and clear, and he had been talking to some of those standing nearby until Jareen walked in and brought a hush with her. The vining discoloration had reached the second vienu’s neck. Her eyes were closed and her breathing looked quick and shallow at a glance. As for the High Lielu, her breathing was labored, her stomach and sides moving with the tell-tale signs of fatigued muscles, causing unusual muscles to take up the strain. Her condition was clearly dire. For a moment, Jareen thought she smelled gangrene, but the windows were open and a fresh breeze blew through the room, carrying with it the scent of eucalyptus. It was customary for the windows to be opened during the day and closed at night against the heavy dew.

  Even as she took in the condition of the sick with a practiced eye, she was aware that everyone else was looking at her. Her hair was no doubt messy after riding through the night with the wimple on, and she could feel the red dryness of her eyes from lack of sleep. Yet she knew it was what she was that caught their attention, not how rested or kempt she appeared.

  “How long have they each been ill?” she asked.

  “My mother for five weeks, my sister for nearly four. My son showed the signs last week,” Shelte said.

  Jareen glanced at Shelte, feeling a fleeting sensation of pity.

  “And who are all these?” Jareen asked quietly, indicating the room. There must have been over twenty Vien present.

  “These are our Tree,” Shelte replied.

  Jareen frowned and squinted, already forgetting her face was exposed. So far as she knew, the mechanism of transmission was still unknown, and here was a room full of potential victims who could spread the disease even further. Even if there was a hereditary predisposition to the spread of the illness, it would be a predisposition shared by those present. Had they no sense of risk?

  But then, such matters were completely foreign to the vien folk.

  Her stomach fluttered as she remembered that as a member of a High Tree, she might be predisposed to the illness as well, or at least capable of catching it if it was generally transmissible.

  “Was your mother around anyone else who had this?”

  “I. . . I do not know.”

  That was not helpful, but if the High Lielu had given it to her daughter or to Shelte’s son, then the disease might take a week or more before it showed itself. If it was contagious sooner than symptoms appeared, then it might already be impossible to limit its spread.

  “How many cases are there now?”

  “Just these.”

  “I mean in all of Findeluvié.”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who would know?”

  Shelte looked at her mother.

  “I am not sure if the Synod knows,” she said.

  “All of those present and everyone who has been near the afflicted should stay separate from all others for two weeks at least,” Jareen said.

  “What?” Shelte asked.

  “To see if any come down with the disease, and to limit the chance that they may spread it.”

  “That is absurd,” said a vien from among those assembled. He was reclining in a seat in an open window.

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  “I do not understand,” Shelte said. “None of them are ill.”

  “They may not show it yet, but the disease might be present in them.”

  “It might be present in anyone,” Shelte said, “regardless of who is here.”

  “It is a. . .” Jareen searched for a word to use. Vienwé had no word for contagion or a similar idea that she knew. “It is given from one person to the next by being close to them,” she said. That was about as specific as she could be, for she did not know whether this disease came from the fouled air or the excretions of the body.

  “How do you know that?” Shelte asked.

  “It is how such things happen,” Jareen said, struggling with the lack of words to make herself understood.

  “This is the one sent by Talanael, she who lived among humans,” the vien from the window said. “We do not suffer from such things as the humans do.”

  “This is Canaen sorcery,” Shelte added.

  Jareen rolled her eyes before she caught herself. It was a human mannerism, thankfully, and Shelte only squinted, confused. On the ship, Gyon said he had brought Jareen back because she would be immune to the sorcery as an Insensitive, but it had also seemed that he had some understanding of contagion. Was that because of his years among the humans? Did he have knowledge the others did not? How stupid could they be? Yet it was true that a contagious illness had never been known among the Vien.

  “You call it a nodroth, yes?”

  “Some have called it that, but it makes no difference. It is an attack from the Canaen, clearly.”

  “You know how a nodroth spreads to trees and plants nearby, yes?” Jareen asked.

  Shelte hesitated.

  “Yes.”

  “So will this.”

  The heir of Shéna stared at Jareen, her shoulders slowly going rigid.

  “But many of us have been with them for weeks, and none of us show signs.”

  “Was your son one of them?” Jareen asked.

  “Are you saying it took weeks to spread to him?”

  “It might take weeks to show the signs of having spread. It could have been within him much longer.”

  There was a stirring in the room at that.

  “What if the Canaen have devised to let you corrupt yourselves,” Jareen added. She hated to play into their fanciful ideas of sorcery, but if it meant keeping the disease from spreading, it might be worth it.

  “The disease shows first with dark lines beneath the skin,” Shelte said. “We can check these before we let them go.”

  “It is not enough. No one should come or go from this house. Separate these into other rooms.”

  “You were not brought here to order our Tree, but to care for the sick,” Shelte said, an edge in her voice. Jareen sighed.

  “Then let me examine these in privacy, at least,” Jareen said, nodding toward the three hammocks and their occupants.

  “Examine them?”

  The Vienwé word that Jareen had chosen to use was the word used by orchardists to describe inspecting a crop for pests.

  “I must see the malady and how it affects them,” she explained. “And I must check their bodies.”

  Shelte paused, but in the end she waved the room clear. All obeyed her, and it was obvious why; she might soon be High Lielu, herself. As the room emptied, Shelte stayed in place, clearly not intending to go anywhere. Jareen moved to the High Lielu first. Despite her request, Jareen didn’t want to get close, and she didn’t want to touch the afflicted. The sensation of vulnerability—that she might actually be susceptible to the disease—was new and frightening. In all her years as a Voiceless Sister, she had taken for granted her immunity to human ailments. Yes, she had imagined what it must be like for the human Sisters to face contagion, but she had never felt it before.

  Nevertheless, she would not show such fear in front of Shelte, nor would she dishonor the memory of her departed Sisters by refusing to care for the Departing, even though the Order had given her up, and she had little joy in her own people.

  Jareen felt the High Lielu’s pulse. The vienu grunted a little as she felt the touch of Jareen’s hand, but she did not open her eyes. The pulse was thready and rapid. The texture of the Change was rough and hard, but the duskiness around the lines of the new malady felt strangely soft, and the blood vessels had taken on a violet pigmentation. As a child, Jareen had seen the Change closely in her own mother. It was said that the Change caused violet pigmentation in the Canaen, but never the Synod. She was not sure if that was more than a story, but no doubt it encouraged the belief that the Canaen had caused the new malady.

  Laying her ear against the High Lielu’s chest, she heard irregularity in the heartbeat, and the lungs were full of crackling and wheezing. Even as she had been speaking with Shelte, she had watched the vienu’s breathing slow, pause, and then start again. In a human so afflicted, Jareen would expect death within hours to a few days. She wondered if the signs would hold true for a vienu.

  As she expected, the symptoms of illness varied between the other two Departing. The second vienu’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked surprised at Jareen’s face. It was an understandable reaction to suddenly seeing an Insensitive standing over her, but she did not speak to Jareen during the assessment. The lad did not want Jareen to touch him, saying he was fine but coughing as he spoke. It was clear the disease was affecting the lungs of all three.

  “Is there pain?” Jareen asked the lad.

  “I am fine.”

  “You must tell me the truth. It may help others.”

  The lad glanced at Shelte, who nodded to him.

  “There is some pain,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He lifted his arms, turning them to show the darkened veins.

  “It burns,” he said. “And when I breathe deeply.”

  “What can you do for them?” Shelte asked.

  “I can try to ease their pain.”

  “Might there be a cure?”

  “A cure?” Jareen asked. “I know nothing of cures.”

  “Why did Talanael send you to me, then?”

  “It is my task to ease their suffering.”

  Shelte looked unconvinced.

  “There might be no cure,” Jareen said, “but you can prevent others from the same fate. Isolate those in this house.”

  “I will not imprison the Tree of Shéna, nor have it said that we fear to live as others in our heartwood.”

  “It may protect your heartwood. I have dealt with disease for many years. In Nosh—”

  “You have not been alive for many years!” Shelte interrupted, her tone gone shrill. “And you won’t be.”

  Jareen clenched her teeth.

  “The humans know of such things.”

  “We are not nereth’vanel.”

  “Yet your mother is dying,” Jareen answered.

  Shelte’s face had flushed.

  “You speak of a High Lielu!”

  “If you fear the truth, I can hide it from you,” Jareen answered.

  “You will be silent and minister to their needs, or I will have you sent to the diseased in the Mingling. This is a curse from Isecan, not one of your human afflictions.”

  Shelte turned and started to leave the room.

  “Wait,” Jareen said. “There is something you should see.”

  Jareen stepped to the High Lielu and with practiced hands, she rolled the vienu onto her side, freeing the stench that Jareen had detected earlier. The back of the High Lielu’s dress was soiled, stained dark with her own filth. She had obviously been laying untended for a long time—perhaps since she became too weak to tend herself. She looked over at Shelte, feeling her anger rise at the daughter who had left her mother to rot.

  Shelte’s eyebrows rose, and she raised her hands.

  “I did not know,” she said.

  “Did you not smell it?” The reek was foul, now that the vienu had been raised on her side, and Jareen knew from the tang that it was not merely stool.

  “Not like this,” Shelte said. “And what indignity would you have me commit? She is my mother and a High Lielu of the Synod!”

  “Whom you have left in her filth,” Jareen said. “Bring me rags, water, and clean silks for body and bed.”

  Shelte did not move, staring.

  “Or would you prefer to tell me where to look while you hold her?” Jareen asked. That got her moving. The first heir of Shéna hurried from the room. “And bring eucalyptus oil,” Jareen called after her.

  While she waited, Jareen slipped the vienu’s silks down off her shoulders.

  “Wait, I cannot be here for this,” the lad said, rising up on his hammock with a grimace.

  Jareen looked over her shoulder at him. To be honest, she had not considered his discomfort at this.

  “You can turn away.”

  “I cannot be in the room,” he reiterated, obviously distressed. Jareen sighed.

  “Can you walk? I cannot carry you.”

  “I think I can walk.”

  Jareen carefully laid the High Lielu back down and stepped over to the lad, lending him an arm. Beyond the archway, there was a carven window seat of smoothed wood at the top of the stairs. From there, the lad could not see his grandmother’s hammock, and so Jareen left him on the silk cushions and returned.

  The lielu groaned as Jareen rolled her again. Thick white drool dripped from the corner of her mouth, but she never opened her eyes. By the laxity and bogginess of her skin, the lielu had lost weight, and she likely had little weight to lose. The skin over the lielu’s shoulders had started to break down. Pulling her silks further down, Jareen used the clean upper folds to wipe away filth and expose the extent of the damage. Her lower spine, hips and tailbone—every bony prominence where she had rested for so long—had broken through her skin, but the worst by far was the tailbone. By the smell alone, Jareen knew it had turned purulent. The wound was deep, down beneath the fat, exposing the bone in a collapsed cavity, the tissue at the edges spongy and befouled.

  Shelte hurried back into the room, carrying a bundle of silks, a glass vial, and a basin of water. She gaped at the sight of her mother’s back.

  “Oh mother, forgive me,” she whispered, frozen in shock.

  “You could help me by holding her,” Jareen said, but Shelte looked like she might be ill. The vienu raised her hand to her mouth and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. No. I can’t.” With that, she rushed from the room. Jareen shook her head and got to work, propping the lielu up with pillows so that she could use both hands. With damp plant-fiber towels, Jareen cleaned her well, fully exposing the wounds. The lielu groaned as she worked, and Jareen regretted that she had no tincture with which to dull her pain and ease her breathing. The wound on her tailbone was draining, and so she positioned a clean towel beneath it after changing the hammock silks. She dressed the lielu again and positioned the pillows to reduce the pressure. Once done, she washed her hands and carefully rearranged the matron’s hair, noting the oiliness. She would need to wash it. In the meantime, she anointed the outer-ropes of the hammock with the eucalyptus oil that Shelte had brought in a little glass vial.

  Her anger at Shelte had drained away a little. She had seen humans run as well. It was not unusual, truth be told. But the Vien had never seen someone in this condition. They had never witnessed death like this. The humans knew it far more, yet they still hid it away when they could, letting the Voiceless Sisters attend to it so they could preserve their ignorance. What did the Vien know of such things?

  Arranged for the time being, Jareen assessed the lielu again, laying her head on her chest. Her breathing was more labored after the activity of being rolled back and forth. If only she had materials for a tincture. Would it work on the Vien?

  Next, Jareen checked the second vienu—Shelte’s sister. She too had soiled herself, but only with urine. Jareen would need more silks and fresh water and towels. Jareen walked to the archway and found Shelte in the window-seat with her son. She sat with her legs folded beneath her and her arms wrapped around the lad. His head rested on her shoulder. She had been crying. So much for separating the ill.

  “I need silks for your sister, more water and towels.”

  “Alright,” Shelte said, nodding. She stood, smoothing her robe.

  “I also need herbs.”

  “What herbs?”

  Jareen was about to list off a series of herbs, but she realized once again that her medicinal knowledge had been imparted to her in the Noshian tongue. She did not know the Vienwé names for all of the plants she needed, or even if they all grew in Findeluvié. Some she remembered from her childhood, but of others she could not be sure.

  “I will need to speak with one who is knowledgeable about plants.”

  Shelte squinted.

  “I will send for such a one.”

  Jareen nodded and returned to begin stripping the soiled silks from the hammock of the second vienu. When Shelte returned, she appeared relieved that her mother was covered and set to some semblance of rights. Her sister had not suffered for so long, and though her skin had flushed red in places, she had obviously been strong enough to shift herself until recently.

  After setting her to rights, Jareen returned the lad to his bed. Jareen found some incense on a shelved wall and burned some in the room. This done, she began her watch, using pillows to turn the two vienu at intervals, positioning their heads and necks to ease their breathing. She encouraged the lad to sit up in a chair as much as he could tolerate, or to take steps around the room. Some of those who had left returned, her warnings unheeded, and Shelte cut her off when Jareen tried to broach the subject again.

  Those gathered spoke or sang in low voices, watching over the afflicted. In between her ministrations, Jareen kept out of the way. No one had any more interest to spare for her. Indeed, they pointedly ignored her. Jareen kept wondering how contagious the disease was. She still did not know the number of cases. If there was an accurate count made at intervals, she could estimate of how rapidly it might spread, or how easily it could be contained. But if Shelte was any indication, it would be difficult to make the Vien take the risk of natural spread seriously.

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