They followed the path toward Mithal-Moun. Zamani had left his mantle, cap, and shroomsack hidden at Tinokta-mon, Takax’ home. He pulled behind himself the two large baskets which his new friend had quickly fashioned from old pyre caging. He marveled at the strength of the boy, how easily he had bent the old iron with his hands. The short length of twine that connected the baskets was looped securely in Zamani's hand. This, too, had Takax made quickly and with ease.

As he pulled the baskets over the cleg, they jangled - a noise that had long ago become wearisome. He rested his free hand on the cool ruby handle of his knife. He brought it as a precaution, for who knew what they might find in the mine? It's solid presence made light of the uncertain future. Takax had been surprised when it was pulled from the bag. His normally steely eyes had widened momentarily - just long enough to show the awe he felt for the finely polished iron and intricately crafted handle.

His ally walked silently beside him, back straight and jaw set. Takax carried the new light. It had impressed Zamani how skillfully the Sith had removed the gem from its cage and mounted it atop a handle of tied slats. He was filled with his new adventure, and his mind far from home when Takax dropped the question.

“Is your soul at ease among us, or will you return to the nholas?”

Zamani answered, “I am at ease . . . save for Yagi.”

Takax laughed, “Ha! We learn from him, but at least we have enough sense not to take him seriously.”

Zamani scowled at the side of his friend's head. “I should be so strong,” he answered.

The barb was wasted on the stocky Sith. He replied, “You are strong, and your heart is good.” He looked quickly toward Zamani, then as quickly away again. “I’m glad you’ve come to us, glad for Xarhn, that she has her own at last.”

How many times must he tell these simple folk, he wondered? “Zamani belongs to no one,” he argued. “I am my own.”

“Try explaining that to Xarhn,” Takax challenged.

“Xarhn is a silk-headed girl. I just let her tag along.”

At that, Takax laughed robustly. “Silk-headed, that’s rich. Nothing under the pait, right? My girl, now, there’s the true silk head. You met her, only. I, however, know her all too closely. All bluster and hot air. Goes in three directions at once. She goes so fast at times, all I can do is step aside and watch her bounce from wall to wall.”

He added noises for effect, “Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!”

Zamani could not help but laugh. He said, “That must be something to see.”

“The trouble with girls,” Takax continued, momentarily waxing philosophic, “is that they think they know what they’re doing. Perhaps they do - I’ll be big - but we sure don’t, you and I. We can never be sure what they will say or do next.”

“Sure you can,” Zamani assuaged, “I do it all the time.”

Takax appraised his new friend with a question in his slack face.

“Scan the rainbow,” Zamani explained.

Takax stumbled over the unfamiliar phrase and queried, “What the who?”

“Scan the rainbow. That means read their colors.”

“Colors are colors,” dismissed the larger of the two as if swatting a zeo. “They come; they go.”

“In this you are wrong, my friend. Knowing what each color means is the second Phrava.”

Takax’ pointed ears all but pricked forward. “You have my attention,” was his earnest response. “Tell all.”

Zamani confided, “I know what Ragezeg teaches. When he is in his garden, I am there. What Yagi learns, I know. What Vreatt learns, I know. Mithal teaches some to Yagi and some to Vreatt, but not all to either.”

Takax grunted sagely, encouraging Zamani to continue.

“I hide and listen,” he said with an easy smile, “and learn what even Yagi does not. I know all the words of power; Yagi knows three, and Vreatt but one. I know all the colors; Yagi knows some, Vreatt none. Mithal withholds for his own advantage.”

After a brief pause, Takax responded, “I would not have guessed.”

“Much there is you know nothing of; the Mithal is not all good,” said Zamani, stressing the word ‘not’ before concluding, “The Shee would benefit from knowing the colors.”

“So, tell me a color,” Prompted Takax. He stopped and faced Zamani.

Zamani said, “When you see brown, there is joy or peace. Blue is neutral. Reds are the passions.”

Takax rubbed his chin thoughtfully and responded, “Shabani has many reds . . . I must learn of this.”

“I will explain at length, as time permits.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Takax, resuming his march, “is why the Mithal would keep secrets.”

Zamani answered earnestly, “He is not all good. If you knew, you would have power as he does. If you knew when he lied, you would have power over him.”

“Why should the Mithal lie?”

“I’ll tell you a secret, and you’ll know,” offered Zamani. “Rikchi and Charchon have a child this midday. This even, the Shee will celebrate with procession and revelry. But, I was there at the conceiving. I hid in my glamor and watched. You know not of this, but only that two must stand before the Mithal. This is what happens: at the conceiving, the two must sleep by the first Phrava, that is the Mithal's will. The portal is opened for the male and they are placed together. The young must come this way.”

“I understand; I’m smarter than I look, so, just give me the short version.”

Zamani stopped and turned to Takax. He said flatly, “Ragezeg fathered Rikchi's child.”

Takax stared hard into Zamani's eyes. Jaw muscles clenching like fists, he flooded from white to red in uncontrollable splashes of emotion.

“But . . . that’s wrong!” bellowed the stocky Sith. “That’s wicked!” He lifted fists to the silvery sky, and grated, “If I find this to be so, I’ll . . . I’ll twist off his head and hand it back to him.”

“No!” commanded Zamani. “Calm yourself and hear me. This must remain between us. Live on as if I never said a thing - you must promise.”

Takax reeled in his turbulent thoughts; his flooding skin roiled with hot reds, and yet, through might of will, he returned blue. In his eyes, the flash of polished iron faded to the rough constitution of cold stone. He made the promise, set his jaw, turned, and began to walk.

Despite the rattle of towed cages, a silence filled the short distance between Them. Takax, at length, spoke to free himself of it.

He asked, “Are you sure we’ll find gems in the mine?”

Zamani played to his rekindled spirit. “No,” he answered, “but, you’ll give up looking before I do.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “Not Likely.”

Zamani bolted away, calling back over his shoulder, “Race you!”

They fell, deeply winded, to the cleg. A short distance from them arose the dour visage of Mithal-Moun, a large stone edifice besieged on two sides by the overhang. It's cold, gray face glared at them suspiciously. As they rolled and wheezed in the unkept cleg, laughter was sparingly wrung from their belabored chests. Takax rolled to his back and threw wide his arms.

“I just did beat those long legs of yours,” he exalted.

They laughed, rested, sat up, and breathed heavily as if in a competition of stabbing winds. Then, they laughed the more. As breathing eased, Takax eyed the cold edifice of Mithal-Moun. Zamani could see the hatred in his friend's eyes, and he regretted having told him the secret.

Takax caught Zamani's eye and inclined his head toward Mithal-Moun, asking, “So, you’ve been inside, then?”

“Yes. There is great treasure within.”

“Have you seen Rasha's Thumb?”

“No.”

“Say,” changing the subject, Takax said, “the old Peck boarding lies above the hels. Want to see it?”

Zamani waded into the ease and camaraderie of his friend. “Very well,” he said, “Just don’t make me chase you there.”

The ghostly boarding reared before them. Nothing could have prepared Zamani for the eerie foreboding this place of death and decay evoked in him. It wasn’t his fault he never looked out past the Moun in this direction. A prickly sensation crept up his back as sight of the twisted, desolate boarding clawed at his eyes. Halls sat upon halls at impossible angles. Ancient gray sedge had come undone in many places, and black holes, like twisted maws, gaped at him.

Takax pointed to a large round construction guessing, “That must have been their Norsey. What do you think?”

“I think it knows we’re here.”

“Nonsense. Come on.”

Zamani followed him into the cavernous interior; a large arm extended, and the torch lighted wall and floor. He could almost imagine the long-dead, gray Pecks that once lived here. Their footsteps thumped in his ears - or was that his heart? His hand moved involuntarily from his tightening chest to the cool reassurance of his ruby handled knife. He had dropped the baskets at the entrance and followed his friend into the unknown past.

From the narrow hallway, they emerged into a small empty room. A ragged, gaping door was set in each of its walls. Takax walked through the door directly before them, into a large circular intersection at the heart of the building. Old empty pots littered the creaking planks of the dusty floor.

“Look!” Takax called over his shoulder as he pointed with the torch.

Ahead of them, winding sedge stairs led up into the blackness of the Norsey's top floor. Takax held the torch above his head and tried to get a glimpse beyond the balcony. Zamani stooped to retrieve a pot. It disintegrated in his grasp.

Takax mused, “Wonder what’s up there?”

Zamani answered dryly, “I’ll know when you return.”

The stairs protested loudly as Takax warily eased himself upward, testing each new surface with cautious toes. Zamani stepped back and bit his lip, tensing at each deeper, more ominous groan of the ancient sedge.

Takax paused at the middle point to whisper back, “Almost there.”

It happened then. The spiral stairs snapped, surrendering with a low grating growl to the weight of the intruder.

“Whoa!” cried the helplessly tumbling Sith.

Torchlight vanished in a shower of splintering slats, and Takax hit the floor with an awful crunching thump. Much of the top walkway came too and buried the hapless youth. Takax punched through the floor, buried both by the balcony and the spiral stairs. The quick, grinding collapse seemed an eternity long to Zamani and crawled along his nerves like the barrier's sting. Last of all to snap and fall away was the slow advance of the moment; with fear came alacrity.

Zamani leapt to the heap, raking furiously to uncover his friend. The darkness surrounded him, but he raked it aside with the rest.

He called out, “Takax! Takax!”

Through the suffocating dust came the indication of an answer. It was something less than a sound. Then the debris surged upward and a hand pushed through, seeking purchase. It took Zamani's wrist in a mighty grip and pulled him into the musty heap.

“Help!” came the muffled cry.

“I’m with you!” Zamani called back.

Freeing himself with great difficulty, Zamani set about in desperate earnest. Slats flew in all directions. As debris fell, it made the thin noise of substance sucked dry by time. His efforts were soon rewarded, as Takax thrust through his other hand. A moment later, Zamani found his friend's two feet - sticking straight up. Last of all, he exposed Takax’ head. A hint of gem light came from beneath.

Zamani wiped the dust from his friend's face and asked, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” was the answer, “but, I’m sitting on the torch, so hurry it up.”

Zamani redoubled his efforts. He pulled tightly wedged slats free from the hole his friend had made and threw them over his shoulder. Takax kicked, and flailed his arms, causing cave-ins that hampered progress.

He cried out, “Hurry! I’m cooking!”

Then, at last, one long plank broke in half, and Takax fell through to the cold dirt below the floor. He sought the torch and hoisted it up to Zamani, with an embarrassed smile upon his face. He rolled to his knees with a grunt and stuck his head up through the hole.

He said, “If it can be done, I can do it.”

“I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

“I do fall well,” appraised the youth. “Do you agree?”

“We should leave now.”

“Wait. Bring the light closer,” said Takax, lifting an old knife rough and brown with age. “I think I found something, after all.”

They stepped from the Norsey into the midday light, Takax fingering the broken slats of his loincloth. He held the iron between the two of them and grinned.

He said, “It has no handle, but I shall keep it I think. I’ll make it shine like yours.”

Zamani took up the baskets and handed the torch to his friend, saying, “This place does not like us. We should leave before it sets on us once more.”

From within the ancient Peck Norsey, there arose a low wailing groan. They stepped away, facing the door in absorbed fascination. The groan became a mourner's shriek of settling struts and snapping sedge. Then came the airy ‘thump’ of crashing parts that sent spewing from the doorway a gust of cold, musty breath. That foul breath was thick with splinters. The boys crouched and threw their arms across their eyes for protection. They could not see around their arms, though they tried. Then the dust and debris settled; they looked into the Norsey's black maw. Each turned to his friend with wide eyes and yelled as one.

“Ahhh!”

Laughing, they raced away.