Midday was nearly done. The lights were retracing their earlier flight, in hopes of abysmal rest. Long purple shadows crossed the cleg, and a slight breeze was at hand. Zamani helped his strong friend replace and cover the slate door of the mine. They eyed the twelve searing gems that rested in the two metal baskets; these would elicit cries of wonder from the Shee. Takax and Zamani would return as heroes to Thletix. Their tale would be told, and retold, throughout the even's long celebration.

Leaving the hels behind, the laughing heroes strode mightily toward the reception, recounting their battles between them. When the merriment faded to a warm glow, conversation found new paths, and Takax pressed Zamani for an explanation of scanning. Zamani patiently led him through each color, each combination of colors, each meaning. Surprisingly, the stocky Sith absorbed the telling with more alacrity than Zamani found needful.

“And now, one important matter,” concluded Takax. “How will I know when Shabani speaks a lie? There are things I must judge of her.”

“Too easy,” said Zamani, glad to share. “While all else is blue, note the eyes. The outer corners flood darkly red.”

Zamani then gave tips on bending colors: which clues to pick up on, which response best suited which purpose. The telling felt good. He very much enjoyed sharing truth with his new friend, and he hoped that Takax would stand beside him in future quests. On an impulse, he tried Takax with the word of shielding. He instructed how the mind should be funneled through the word, and his adventurous friend was eager to try. The first attempts were futile, hilarious at best. Takax took offense at Zamani's unchecked laughter. Pulling the face straight just barely worked, and the larger of them laughed as well. Zamani advised him to practice every day.

Then Thletix came into view. The Norsey rose darkly through the distance and gathering eve. They rounded the peninsular overhang and made for Tinokta-mon. Takax’ mother rushed from the mon at their approach. Breegah had plain features, and while ice was just another myth, still there was ice in her eyes for the lateness of her son. Her lips curled in readiness to impart pointed reproofs until their manner caught her attention. The victorious gate of their advance, the long shadows running before them, and the bright light behind them gave Breegah a start. The ice melted.

“Love!” she called excitedly. “Tinokta, come quickly!”

Tinokta stepped from the mon, his chiseled face expressed awe for what the boys dragged toward him. He advanced; they stopped. Tinokta circled them, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the gems. Before him, twelve pyre gems blazed in two makeshift baskets. The smile on his son's face was just as bright.

His deep voice reverberated, “By the Maker! New gems! But, how?”

Takax, if such was possible, smiled the more broadly. “Mother, father,” he said, “there is much to tell, but first we must deal with these, for the cleg bakes.”

Then, as his parents noticed Zamani as one who had just appeared from thin air, Takax named him. “My friend, Zamani.”

Breegah nodded, speaking even while entranced of the gems, “Yes, the boy from the nholas.”

“Pleased,” Tinokta added absently. He found it hard to draw his eyes from the brightness of the gems. “Gems,” he said. “By the Maker . . . we have no words.”

Then Breegah spoke sternly to her son, “I should wallop you for being late.” She added with a sly grin, “But, I’ll not.”

Her excitement overflowing all boundaries, she grabbed her own and danced around. She cried in joyous abandon, “Oh, still, my soul! Tinokta, we have gems!”

Having guessed this would happen, Takax and Zamani shared a youthful smile. They watched as Tinokta swept Breegah from her feet. He held her in hardened arms and swung her around in jubilant circles. They hugged, they laughed; they put on quite a show. The boys were thoroughly entertained.

Then, just as abruptly as he had taken her up, Tinokta set Breegah aside and stepped up to the baskets. Gem light washed his face, and the weight of urgency rested upon his eyes. “We must hurry to Thletix,” he snapped decisively. “The Mithal must know. Most likely summon all heads,” he added absently as he pulled on his chin. Then his eyes narrowed, and he said to his son, “Fetch the tongs, boy.”

Takax had brought the matter thus far, but he was not exempt from his father's newfound zeal. He caught it like a tossed ball. Leaving his parents staring helplessly into the light, Takax took Zamani by the arm and hurried him behind the mon, to the work area, where he quickly found the tongs and turned to leave.

He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be with father.”

Zamani smiled inwardly. Takax would be caught up in the general excitement. No matter; Zamani had foreseen it. He took his bag from beneath the table where he had hidden it. The table was a common slate nearly buried in odd-looking tools, scraps, and pieces of . . . things. He would take his time dressing, for he knew that haste was no guarantee of speed. Still, he would be done and waiting before Tinokta took his first step toward Thletix.

An urgent knock rattled the door. Ragezeg arose, with difficulty, from his meditations. He donned the green cap of his office and slid back the rough iron bolt of the door. Before him stood Breegah, Tinokta's helper. She bowed nervously, and took his extended hand, touching it to her brow in the customary show of respect. As he had done for ages, Ragezeg quietly accepted the homage, but her nervous manner struck him pointedly. His mind, at once, was loud with curiosity.

Indeed, he had expected no visitors this close to procession. Her presence was troubling, and yet, he was not altogether displeased. He hated the isolation of his office. Breegah danced excitedly from toe to toe. She had news, and if he did not ask for it, it would spill forth nonetheless; female Shee were that way.

He put on his official smile and said, “Breegah, your interruption of duties is most pleasing.”

“Your pardon.”

Ragezeg examined her. Yes, her mysterious, underlying joy would boil over. Respect of his office was all that held it in check. His smile broadened from official to genuine, which called on seldom-used muscles. Breegah was plain, but something in her manner had always aroused him.

He said, “Tell me your mind before you burst.”

She sang excitedly, “You must come and see. Something most wonderful.”

“Then I shall come,” he answered, and he closed the door behind them.

Urgently, Breegah took the Mithal's hand and led him to the market. He entered the broad boulevard, not knowing what to expect. By all standards, the market should be empty. It was not. Tinokta and his son, Takax, occupied the center of the boulevard, waging a mock battle with long poles. By the mid meal bench, a strangely dressed boy watched them fight and laughed at their show.

More amazing than finally seeing the forest boy everyone had been speaking of, was the bright pyre light between them. This was not the dim light he was used to, but the burning light of new gems. He had not seen such in ages. As Breegah brought him near, his chest pounded with unaccustomed excitement. The father and son came close to pay homage, but his mind was not on them. The bright pyres had wholly captured his attention.

Tinokta and his son, in turn, took his hand. Absently, he allowed it to be drawn up to them. He gathered his wits, focusing his attention away from the gems, only to find another surprise. His wandering eyes noted the pointed iron atop the two poles. The picture was clear - the old mine had been breached. He would calm himself and know more.

With returning presence, Ragezeg scanned their rainbows. A great joy flooded their skins, and it was a joy he shared. “I see someone has entered the mine,” he prompted. “I see that ingenuity has garnered a timely harvest.”

Takax stepped to Zamani's side, resting a heavy arm upon his shoulder. “It was all Zamani's doing,” he said. “We owe him the respect.”

“Indeed.”

Ragezeg had been made aware of Zamani's presence earlier. He had learned of him from a seething Teller. Yet, for all his meditations, he was not prepared to see the strong resemblance that Zamani bore to the half-remembered Rasha. From the restraints of age, painful emotions surfaced, but he would not have them known. He held to his neutral blue. Civil he could be, and he found his hand opening to the stranger. After all, Zamani was an innocent. The tears of former times had not fallen on this child.

“Lord of the nholas, I presume,” said Ragezeg, extending his hand.

Zamani was unmoved, unmoving, his face a mask of stone. He stared out at him through penetrating eyes. How like his father. The moment stretched into embarrassment and his hand grew heavy; he dropped it to his side.

He asked the boy, with some amazement, “Can you not show respect?”

Takax shoved him forward, snapping, “Show respect!”

Zamani answered in even tones, “Some have earned my respect.”

“Foolish youth!” hissed Tinokta.

The Mithal soothed, “Be calm, Tinokta. This boy may be right, for I have earned the respect of the Shee, not so this youth from the nholas.” He turned back to Zamani and asked, “So then, how may I earn your respect? What may I barter, if indeed you have respect to give?”

Zamani's most charming smile overspread his face. He was well versed in the machinations of the Mithal; he would not get caught up in word traps. He answered simply, “Let time prove us both.”

“Well said. I hope that, later, we may sit together and speak at length. Your presence has sparked in me a keen curiosity.”

“We shall.”

Ragezeg turned, in his most official manner, to the gems. He cleared his throat, knowing that someone would speak.

Tinokta, standing in Breegah's embrace, answered the prompt. “We thought,” said he, “you would want to call the mon-Shee.”

Takax quickly added, “Zamani asked that they be given freely to all.”

Ragezeg eyed the undoer's son with admiration. Here was a boy who had lived his young life apart from the values of family ties, yet, within him, virtue shone as brightly as the newly mined gems.

“Quite right,” said the Mithal. “Zamani's open hands bring light to Phar Sheeth. There shall be joy this eve, indeed. New life have we to celebrate, new light as well. Run swiftly, then, young Takax. Draw the heads together. Bid them bring their cages. Go, now.”

Takax darted off into the deepening eve. Breegah called after him, “Be late again, and I’ll wallop you well.”

Came the distant reply, “Yes, mother.”

Ragezeg turned on his heels and headed down the dark alley to his lodging; Tinokta fell in at his side, Breegah trailing. Zamani watched them walk out of sight; he heard their voices become small.

“They say,” said Tinokta, the mine is filled with Dirt monsters.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” The Mithal's voice was thin and empty.

Breegah chimed in, “What a wonder they found a way in.”

“Indeed.”

The shadows swallowed them; their voices dwindled to silence. Zamani was left alone in the boulevard as if to guard the bright new gems. Since early morn, he had been in the company of one person or another. Now, the sudden abandonment added only the ache of familiar loneliness. He turned and wandered up the boulevard, leaving the gems behind him.

Having made so many new friends, his solitary steps now rang hollow. As he followed the curve of the Norsey's wall, he noted light issuing from its door. He stopped and turned to it. An elderly female stood in the half-opened doorway. She leaned against the rough sedge frame in contemplation of the rising lights beyond the barrier. She became aware of him, starting at his sudden presence. She clutched the handle of the door and drew it against her protectively.

She searched his face with dull black eyes and sighed, “So like your father.”

However she knew, her words had no place in him; they rubbed abrasively. He answered quietly, “Rasha has no place in me.”

He had hoped to assuage her, to bring the matter finality, but she went on. “Please forgive my foolish Yagi. Time cannot heal his wounded heart. Pity him, as do I, but do not take him from me.”

The door closed against him. Her plea had come as such a surprise that, for a long moment, he simply stood with open mouth. The night pressed in on him, prickling his skin.

When at last he found his voice, he called through the heavy door, “I am no one's enemy. I am not Rasha.”

There was no reply, and suddenly he felt very tired. His shoulders bent beneath the weight of their damnable Shee world. He turned to the nholas where a thousand star gnats winked beyond the barrier, and in the door behind him, a solid bolt slid home.