The blue-black stones towered over them. Midday light reflected from their cool polished sides. On the coarse gray hels, nothing grew save those four monolithic stones. Zamani scanned the dead, rocky surfaces of the hels to no advantage. There was not a clue. Kicking morosely at loose rocks, he wondered if the back door was under one of the unmovable pillars. Could Takax push one over with his great strength? He doubted it. He cast about for anything that would bring a thought to his mind, and his eyes fell upon a rock shoulder halfway between the hels and Zhereen.

As the floater forest bent toward the silent Zheren fortress, there near the overhang and jutting through the torn fabric of the cleg: there was the mine, a large rocky scab sealing the wound of its entrance. In his mind, Zamani traced an imaginary line from the mine to the nearest of the black stones. He looked down. The line should end where he stood, in a broad flat space between three hels, and to the right of the Zheren-most stone. As Zamani zeroed in, Takax watched, in self-indulgent patience from a nearby mound.

Zamani stooped to rake aside loose rocks; Takax, forsaking all patience, leapt from his perch to assist. His broad hands scooped away large quantities. Their combined effort soon revealed, not dirt, but a large slate cover. Takax used the old iron knife to work at the edge of the slate. He chiseled away enough of the surrounding dirt to insert his hands. Having done that, he laid the knife aside, raised the slate, and leaned it against a blue-black stone.

“We were right,” said Takax, returning Zamani's triumphant grin.

“I was right.”

“I opened it.”

“Could anyone but the mighty Takax?”

“No, and that’s why I must constantly remind you - if it can be done, I can do it.”

Excitement faded to wary awe. Before them, a black tunnel opened into the unknown. A faint, but disturbing stench assailed their nostrils. They wrinkled their noses but squared their shoulders. Adventure called them by name.

With torch in hand, Takax descended first. Zamani took the baskets and followed close on his heels. Small, loose rocks gave poor footing as they hazarded the rough gray tunnel floor. The orange glow of Takax’ torch bled into the surrounding darkness and returned to their heightened senses a dreary, unnameable hue.

Then, bare feet slid upon rounded gravel, and Takax rode the tunnel floor on his slatted seat. At the end of his descent, he stood straight in a level tunnel that was twice as broad as the entrance. The torchlight reached only a short distance ahead of him, but it afforded sight of rich, multicolored veins within the walls.

Zamani stood at his elbow and said quietly, “You sang a new and distinct tune for each small rock your bottom polished.”

“Funny. I’m laughing. Here, put this in your baskets.”

Zamani received a slat that Takax had picked from the passage floor. Twine had been tightly wrapped around it. It was old, but both agreed upon its serviceability. They looked down the tunnel, side by side; they staunchly appraised its beckoning hand, then sighing as one, they stepped forward into the bowels of their world.

Xarhn knelt in the path-side cleg. She fingered the pretty flower that covered her so richly, wishing it could last forever, yet knowing it would ultimately bruise and wither. The wearing would be lost, but the gift was hers for all time. In a pot, she thought, small and stout, would she seal her prize. In her father's back field, she would place it in a hole beneath the cleg. On that spot, she would weave her milksap; a mon would be raised and a home made. There, she would raise her young with Zamani.

She had raced through the birthing, then she had raced through Thletix, all for the sight of her love. In every door had she put her head, in every nook, room, and corner, she called his sweet name.

“Zami . . .Zami . . .”

But, her love was not to be found. She had so hoped that she might quickly return to his side, and perhaps help him with his chores. She would do anything for him, anything he asked. She would do it gladly, with a song in her heart and dance in her feet.

Sadly, his chores had taken him from Thletix, and from her. She pined to be with him, to kiss his cheek, to wrap herself in his protecting arms - arms that would save her from the pinching loneliness of her heart. She sighed, and her sigh cried out: ‘Oh Zami, come back to me; I am here.’

She had known loneliness so very long. Daily, had she watched the other couples. Her heart was heavy with the weight of her solitude. Takax laughed with Shabani; Voytk rejoiced with Tosh; Vreatt and Shirpa rose up together. Their joys were full. Their communions were sweet. She watched from her emptiness, always wearing a brave mask, enduring polite pity.

It was in dance that she found release; cares and sorrows were swept aside. She found relief in the tender love of her father and mother, without whom she would surely not survive.

Everyone loved ‘poor Xarhn.’ Pitied would be more accurate. Without her own, she was but half a Sith. It had seemed she was fated to stand apart; the seasons had erased all memory of Acklik so that only his name remained.

Then, in a single joyous morn, her emptiness had been filled; her wanting heart had been saved. The Maker of all sent her a boon through the barrier, a boy like no other, a gift named Zamani. Her love was tall, and bright, and charming. He came from another world, with strange ways and wonderful gifts. He was a boy who dared to fight for her. How she loved him.

What fear she had known when his eyes filled with tears and he fled her arms. But, father had returned with comforting news - Zamani was not leaving her. He could not leave her, he simply couldn’t! She would die.

And then, there was mid meal at his side; how large, how alive she had felt. Strengthened and renewed, she had gone to her mother's side; all chores suspended, she was allowed to help in the birthing. Shabani and Shirpa comforted the laboring mother; Teefa performed the midwife duties; Zivith, sagely nodding, pointed to the proper silks, herbs, and pots that Xarhn should hand up as her mother called for them.

Then, Rikchi's swollen belly spat forth a child. Xarhn had received her first startling glimpse of the gaping female portal, which only the Mithal's Phrava could shape. Through that portal, whimpering, came new life. The dew pot was handed up for the washing, and the child was laid to its mother's breast. Rikchi had a girl, and mingled with her joy, Xarhn felt sorrow for another mateless soul.

Xarhn recalled the Mithal's grand entrance, his pointed green cap, and ornate mantle. He was splendid, and all met him with the proper deference. He stepped up to the birthing bed; he placed a hand on Rikchi's moist brow. A lingering, loving smile crossed his regal features. Then, he took the child in his arms and held it as if it had been his own - and the girl child received her name. Xarhn was warmed by the memory; there was joy in new life.

She slipped from her reverie to find Pax and Teefa kneeling before her in tender attention. Each kissed her cheek. How she loved them. How she needed them.

Pax prompted, “Shall we go home?”

She answered sadly, “I was hoping Zami could go with us.”

“Zamani will come back to us,” soothed her father. “You must remember that in our lives his flower is but one day old, barely more than Rikchi's child. His heart is a newly opened bud, while his roots remain hidden beyond the barrier. You must warm him with the light of patience, and nourish him with the dew of understanding.”

“I will, father.”

Teefa said softly, “Xarhn, my dearest, your help in the Norsey was priceless. I am so proud of you. But now, we must away, for we’ve the even to prepare. Our celebration will lift all hearts into the Maker's hands. We must bring forth lof and tay; our clothing must be sewn. We must practice the dance, and do you know why? Our Mithal wants you to head the procession.”

Xarhn, at once wide-eyed, called delightedly, “Oh, mother! Oh, father!”

“Come,” said Pax, taking her by the hand. “Come.”