Although he should not have jumped through headfirst, his second time through the barrier was not quite as painful as the first. Rolling to his feet, he had raised his arms in victorious glee, spinning madly round and round. He spoke low the word of power; he spoke it to himself to strengthen him against the sting.

“Daoine! Daoine! A heart to plant my courage in.”

Objects sped before him, turning in tightly packed bands of white, red, green, and yellow. Again and again, he chanted the word of power, pumping his heart with courage against the sting of the barrier. Round and round he spun, the chant becoming a ragged song. And then it came: a voice from nowhere. It was a question housed in a laugh.

“Well, who are you?”

Zamani was shocked and surprised. He was shocked that he had been surprised and so surprising was the shock that he tripped on his feet and went sprawling flat on his back into the berribits, there to gape at the revolving visage of a cleg bound girl.

With a smile at once both warm and mocking, the girl asked again, “Who are you?”

“I’m . . . I’m the . . . my . . .” he stuttered, climbing to his knees.

A new and disturbing sensation swept through him as he looked up at the girl - too long; too intently, he realized. From the corner of his eye, he noted that his color had changed, and he silently cursed his weakness. The neutral blue, so rigorously maintained by the power of his will, had been swept aside by the flooding of embarrassed crimson.

The girl watched him intently. Did she know? No, he told himself, she did not. How could she? To scan the rainbow was not a gift given to the common Sith. Zamani knew it because he had learned it in secret at the school of Phrava. She did not know, but Zamani's wrath welled up in him all the same. How poorly he had controlled himself!

Zamani taken by surprise? Zamani at a loss for words? It left a vile taste in his mouth. From the crimson of embarrassment, from the dark reds of wrath, he fought his way back to blue, just as from his knees, he climbed to his feet.

“Urrgh!” he spat in self-disgust.

“Am I not pleased to meet you, Urrgh?” sweetly sang the girl, spinning into sudden dance. As the dance ended with a deferential bow, she added, “My name is Xarhn. Are you pleased to meet me?”

“That’s not my name,” Zamani corrected.

“I know,” she giggled. “May I hear it?”

“Yes,” he said, wondering at the game she played.

“Yes is your name? How strange.”

“No.”

“No? But did you not clearly say . . .”

Suddenly weary of her banter, he said decisively, “No. Listen and learn. Yes, you may hear my name. My name is Zamani.”

Xarhn spun into another dance. She laughed an annoying accent upon each graceful step. Abruptly she stopped, arms high, fingers locked. A sweet smile spread across her gentle face.

“Zamani. Zamani. Must you be so long to answer a simple question?”

He eyed her with interest as, once more, she broke into dance. Her dance seemed particularly graceful: a spinning, swaying sort as if the body had a mind of its own. She spun in tight circles, rising to her toes and hurling herself side-wise foot first. The entire movement completed a larger circle where the ending was the commencement of swaying motions best accomplished by the female body.

Through the seasons, Zamani had watched all the girls - but, from a distance. This grand spectacle, so close, was new to him.

Colors flooded; her head rolled; a smile dawned upon her sweet face; her lips glistened in the new light. The arms and hands of this girl were of such exquisite expression as to quite nearly speak.

Was she dancing a message? The light brown of her joy melted into the fiery red of passion that all but glowed upon her throat and fingers. This girl from the cleg throbbed with the inner pyre of excitement, and her cheeks flushed from the warmth of it.

Suddenly, the dance ended. Xarhn drew the toe of her right foot up the opposing leg, sinking magnificently to a seated position upon the cleg. Zamani had been in the center of Xarhn's dance; he had turned with her to keep her in his sight.

Now that he stood still, he felt dizzy; he felt his eyes moving of their own will. He released the air from his chest, only then realizing that he had been holding his breath. He dropped to his knees before the girl, and she opened large black eyes to meet his riveted gaze.

She said, “You must not be much of a dancer.”

He smiled and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Because,” she answered with a mirthful grin, “I can dance circles around you.”

Zamani drank in the image of this strange girl as he would the dew of the forest. Upon her high pait, Xarhn wore a simple paitcap of interlocked nechsta petals of a white much brighter than milksap. He noted that her neutral blue had returned. As his eyes wandered, he saw that her skirt was bravely adorned with the bright green of nechsta leaves rather than the traditional use of the flower's petals.

Her bare breasts, well along for a girl of so few middays, rose and fell as she exhaled the exertions of her dance. The nips were erect, and passion's waning glow gave them a purplish cast.

He confessed, “You dance as if the Maker of all gave dance to you alone.”

At that, she fairly beamed. “Well, of course, he did. Brag!”

“Do you answer every compliment with an insult?”

“No,” she answered, smiling innocence. “Just yours.”

They laughed, and Zamani loosed the shroomsack from the waistband of his trousers. He crossed his legs, seeking a comfortable position, and pulled the shoulder strap over his head, careful not to muss his blue quill cap.

Xarhn followed his moves with evident curiosity. Setting it slowly to his side, he watched her shining eyes follow it down. Beneath the nechsta paitcap, he thought, her temples must surely be orange. With his hand yet on the sack, he crossed it over his lap and set it on the cleg by his other side. Capriciously, he returned it to its original position.

Xarhn looked up with a frown upon her face. “You mock my interest.” An earnest pout replaced the fleeting frown.

“Yes.”

After a moment the frown returned, accompanied by blazing cheeks. She sat up straight and narrowed her black eyes.

“Peck!” she said.

He countered with an imitation of her stony voice: “Curious!”

Zamani watched as the fire in her cheeks swept toward her hands. He watched her struggle for control. Her reds faded to blue, but yellow could easily be seen above her eyes, and he knew that thoughts arose in her even as she looked between him and the shroomsack in his hand. Then she broke the long silence with sweet words and a smile.

“Did you truly like my dance?”

“Yes.”

“It was a gift.”

Zamani nodded deferentially and answered, “I do thank you.”

Xarhn's yellow was momentarily replaced with brown. The smile drifted away, and the yellow swatch above her eyes returned.

She spoke in a low steady voice. “And do you have a gift for me?”

He could have answered immediately. He chose not to. With a practiced blank face, he looked her in the eye. Inwardly, he reveled in the coming conquest. He would tease her anticipation until purple turned to red.

Expectantly, Xarhn gazed at the strange new boy, so unlike the others. He had glanced up into his thoughts as if mentally raking through the treasures that lay hidden within the mysterious bag. His lips began to speak and were stilled as, perhaps, he remembered some more nearly perfect object he wished to give her.

What was it? What?! She wanted to know. She needed to know. Why did he take so long? Had he fallen asleep like Yagi, his large black eyes looking directly into her face? She squirmed irritably, but then he focused and his hand moved upon the strange container.

Zamani had been watching the girl lean closer, and closer still. The smell of her was in his nostrils. Her large eyes had narrowed to slits of focused concentration. Her skin was almost entirely purple. Now was the time.

He shrugged and shook his head: “No.”

“No? No?!” she cried, her reds all but burning him.

Zamani was quite pleased with himself. What high fun! He could not help but grin the wider as the more darkly she blazed. Though her lips still worked, she had no words. She was as silent as stone, and Zamani relished it. She could not speak, nor did she need to; her searing colors spoke volumes. While Zamani struggled not to laugh outright, he found it easy to appreciate the sheer effort it took Xarhn to return to her neutral blue. He amended his answer.

“Just kidding. Of course, I have a gift.”

“Peck,” she pouted.

Smiling, he asked, “Would you like it this morn or the next?”

“This. Now.” she declared.

“First, you must guess what it is,” he teased.

“Tell me,” she pleaded impatiently.

“Very well,” conceded Zamani. “My gift to you will be magic.”

She searched his abysmal eyes to no avail. She simply could not read the strange new boy; she resorted to name-calling.

“Brag!” she said. “Taran! Spunkie!”

“Magic,” he repeated, nodding.

“Are we not all aware that only the wog know magic?”

“Have you ever seen a wog,” demanded Zamani?

“No,” she admitted.

“So there you are. If you want my gift, fetch me a berribit.” As Xarhn jumped to brown feet and strode toward the overhang, Zamani called after her. “Choose a green berribit and not a ripe.”

She returned to find him standing, a smile upon his blue face. She proffered a green berribit half the size of her head. He took it in both hands.

“Now,” he declared, “watch as I command it to fly. I will try to hold it with my hands, but because magic has more strength, it will break free and fly away.” He then spoke to the berribit

directly, “And now, you berribit, take wing. Fly!”

Zamani strained at the large green fruit. His hands pulled left and down. He grunted and bared his teeth to show the effort it took. Veins stood out on his neck, running widely toward his shoulders.

Xarhn followed every movement with unblinking eyes. Again, he grunted, hands pulling right and up, then level.

He gave the unripened fruit a stout squeeze; the pulp exploded through broken skin. Straight as sedge, it flew into Xarhn's bewildered face. She touched the sticky spot on her forehead where the pulp had struck her; it was more than white with her surprise. She gazed in utter disbelief between the boy's broad grin, and the glistening pulp that lay upon the cleg.

Zamani removed a filament from his blue quill cap and pressed it to her sticky forehead. Her white forehead turned yellow; her toes turned pink. She lifted dark red fists, and Zamani knew it was time to run.

He kept easily ahead of the girl, dodging this way and that to avoid her wild blows. He led her round and round the cleg. Xarhn bore down on him, determined to make contact.

She called names after him that were sharp as chipstones. “You Spunkie!” she yelled. “You privy bred Peck! You’ll beg mercy when I bend your Taran pait!”

Zamani fell to the cleg near his shroomsack and gasped for air. Xarhn fell close by and faced him sourly. There they stretched upon their bellies, breathing laboriously, and kept their eyes locked. Their hard exhalations alternated, and soon, it seemed they were but taking turns blasting each other with their breath. They laughed. How could they not?

When there was silence once again, and nothing was left save neutral blue, a single orange finger made stealthy inroads toward the light brown shroomsack. Zamani took it and retreated.

“What is it?” She asked.

“Shroomsack.”

“Does it hold treasure?”

“No.”

She took a new direction, stating, “Well, it’s likely only old things no one really wants.”

Zamani conceded, “Very well, girl. I’ll show you.”

He crossed his legs and placed the bag in his lap. Upon her knees, Xarhn attended the ceremonious unfastening of the bag with absolute interest. On the dull green cleg between them,

Zamani set out his three spice bags, each but a small scrap of shroom tied with twine. He placed them in a neat row and set the shroomsack aside.

He said, “These are my three tasters. I put them in food for more taste. You may not open them, but I will let you smell them.”

Xarhn, watching for Zamani's approving nod, lifted the first bag to her nose and sniffed cautiously. The spicy aroma assailed her as an angry zeo might. Disapproving, she set the bag quickly back and rubbed her nose.

Zamani said, “I call that one zeeda. It makes the mouth burn with unseen fire.”

She next took up the middle bag. She sniffed with feigned boldness and returned it.

“That one, I call Moost,” said Zamani. “That one is my favorite. The taste is sharp, like a knife.”

Xarhn drew the third bag to her nose. The aroma of sweet flowers excited her.

“Ooh!” she exclaimed. “I like this one.”

“That one is anik,” he answered. “It tastes sweet, but it isn’t. Not really.”

Zamani then drew a small brown pot from the heavy sack. It was crafted from the carish seed and polished to reflection. The rough, conical lid was held in place with a tight length of shroomstrap. He set it on its flat underside, just before her knees. The morn light gleam piqued her interest.

“This pot holds a dew much sweeter than honey,” he sagely informed her.

She asked, “What do you call it?”

“Sweet.”

“Sweet?” she snorted. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He untied the tight gray strap and lifted the lid. He held the pot out to her and commanded, “Dip in your finger.”

Xarhn inserted a finger; she placed her finger upon her tongue, and her face lit up with the browns of delight.

“Ooh!” she cried out.

She drove her finger deep and tasted again. Zamani watched her lovely face become lovelier. He watched her tilt back her head as he did when he spoke to his father. He could almost taste the sweet with her. She drilled the pot a third time and glowered when he withdrew it.

He sat with the sack in his lap, raking through his treasures. To one side sat the tasters and the sealed pot of sweet. He set the shroomsack aside, and let fall the cover. He opened his hand before her face. In his palm were two gray stones. A question in Xarhn's onyx eyes answered the proud smile on Zamani's face. Her blue brow flooded white, and her full lips sought to form words, but Zamani could await no prompting.

“Firestones!” he proudly proclaimed.

Xarhn gasped, “Flynts? But . . . aren’t they just a myth? I mean, Teller has taught of them, but who has ever seen them?” She snorted disbelievingly and asked, “Are they real?”

With a wide smile, Zamani answered, “Watch!”

He struck the stones together, causing a heavy red spark to fly into the cleg.

“Ooh! Again!” Xarhn was beside herself.