When last we left our heroes... the second morning of the festival found them still beneath the roof of House Neras, seeking what strength and counsel might be gathered before the stars opened the Bridge of Jade. Ineia searched the household's stores for remedies and brewed purple sorrel for Fjalenar, whose gift of blood had left him pale and weary. The draught brought the colour back into his face, and she thanked him for the courage with which he had tried to save a stranger whom neither of them had known.
Restored, Fjalenar asked Vianrei what swords her house might lend. Her husband's blade was no light thing to surrender, she answered; if the hour came and no worthy suitor stood beside her, she herself would wield it. When Fjalenar questioned her skill, she drew his own sword, turned it in her hand with a grace and strength beyond his people's, and brought its point to rest a finger's breadth from his breast. Then she laughed, returned it, and gave him leave to take a spare blade of her retainers. He was armed at last with Treian workmanship, though the weapon of her dead husband remained hers.
Meanwhile Herek and Inayin climbed toward Rinsos's shrine, speaking of Panathfei, the forge-oath, and the strange years through which its burden must pass. At the summit they met Akdhēras's carriage already descending; he called a reminder of their noon appointment and went on. A nervous acolyte kept the shrine's gate shut, saying that his master must rest. Yet as Inayin watched him, the young man's face became for an instant a death-mask, maggots crawling from beneath his scalp and eyes. The vision passed, and Rinsos himself called them in.
Inayin warned him about the acolyte, Anertsu. Rinsos would not condemn a faithful servant upon a vision granted by an evil power, and urged caution. Of the Bridge he would say little: his order guarded its opening, but he had never crossed it. Of the blood-weeping eyes he was plainer. A remedy for the body might leave the soul's hurt untouched; the thirteenth convergence offered their best chance to shut the window, though he could not promise that its scars would vanish. Akdhēras had already come asking after his activities during the night. The warning his friends had climbed the hill to bring was late.
Ineia, Tenuyala, Fjalenar, and Talari went to the palace, leaving a note for Herek. Through courtyards crowded with servants, festival guests, fountains, and stone trees, they were led to Anaris, who greeted them gladly. But their mention of the treasure she carried made her reserve return, and before they could speak privately another guest joined them: Parbeas, open-handed, whom their people's songs named as the Giver before they named him Orkon. He welcomed the visitors, noticed Treian blood among those taken for Sothbori, and spoke pleasantly of the city's coming emptiness, when the children of Feihoth would begin their journey home.
He left them with a toast to things lost and things yet to be gained. Anaris spoke of his kindness and his learning, of the lost arts of Fateweaving he had already begun to restore. She doubted some of the Homeward's claims, yet could not permit strangers to speak contemptuously of a lord sheltered by the king's bread and salt. Alone with her, the companions tried to warn of danger to her and to the Anvil. Ineia spoke of friendship, and Tenuyala showed the wound in Fjalenar's arm as witness to the night's labour over the dying courier. But their words did not win the trust they needed. Anaris asked them to leave. She would consider another meeting, she said, and they gave her the name of House Neras; neither her company nor the Anvil was promised.
At House Neras, Akdhēras had laid out fragrant remedies and pressed Inayin to accept an ancient healing rite. Inayin asked what it would heal, whence its songs came, and whether his companions might be present. His hesitation drew anger instead of reassurance. Akdhēras demanded to know who had poisoned the guests against their hosts, and spoke pointedly of those who came too frequently to the house. Vianrei defended Inayin's right to refuse. The lord departed, and no healing was done. When the others returned, their hostess heard the failures of both errands and wondered whether the surviving histories of their age had told them the whole truth. Their alarm had not yet saved anyone; it had made Rinsos's danger more immediate.
Then came the Feast of the Descent. White and green lamps shone above dishes recalling the world the Western Stars had longed to tend: herbs and fresh cheese, fish in fragrant leaves, goat and pears upon barley, bitter greens, and at last the sweets of a little garden. Herek sang Feihoth's part beside Vianrei's Reinfal; Inayin spoke the Maker's unseen voice; and companions joined the Seventy's chorus. They told how love had brought the Stars down to mortal stewardship, accepting gift and chastisement together. Not every voice answered surely, but Herek carried his part well, and Fjalenar found enough of the poet's art to join the chorus honourably.
When the song was ended, Akdhēras rose to praise their fathers' love of the green isle and deny that the scattered children of Feihoth must remain scattered forever. Cups were raised in answer. The song had named the cost of mortality; the toast offered the hope of return, and that hope won the room. So the second night ended beneath the same full moon, with House Neras still welcoming the companions, the Anvil still beyond their reach, and two nights of the festival yet to come
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