Ragezeg's ancient voice called from within, “Come in, Zamani; the door is unlocked.”

Startled, Zamani wondered how the Mithal knew of his presence. Were his old ears so keen he could hear a boy's quiet footfall from within? Curiosity gripped him, pulled him through the door.

Ragezeg was lifting a metal pot from the pyre cage. The table upon which it sat seemed

ready to fall. The Mithal placed steaming dew in two identical nut pots and turned with one in each hand.

“I’ve made tea,” he said. “Will you have some?”

Zamani stepped in with a shrug and closed the door. The long, dim room contained the one table, a neatly made cot, and a small bench set between the cot and the door. Drawing ancient skin back into a smile, Ragezeg pressed a warm nut pot into Zamani's hand. Zamani drew it up to his nose and inhaled the aromatic steam. As he did so, Zamani wondered if he had been hearing things, for when Ragezeg had smiled, he thought he heard the crackling of dry leaves. Had he heard a smile? Yet, Ragezeg was no dry, dead leaf. For all his antiquity, his force of life was almost tangible. He looked even more alive than Yagi, who was his junior.

“I do thank you,” said Zamani, sipping the tea. “How did you know I stood without?”

Ragezeg sat on his cot with a weary sigh, and said, “Pardon my age, but I must sit.”

The Mithal drew tea into his mouth, holding the pot with both hands. He closed his eyes to savor the hot dew, which Zamani only then realized was Anik. He sipped again and watched the Mithal. He was absorbed with the person of the Mithal. Zamani had never been in the Mithal's presence outside his glamor. Well – there was the time in the market, but all other times in the garden at Mithal-Moun, he remained unknown to the Mithal. He felt, now, as if he was meeting the old Sith for the first time.

Ragezeg's eyes sprang open, having in them the glint of unsheathed iron. “When I met you in the market, it was not the first time,” said the Mithal. “I noted a feeling, if you will, which I have often felt in my garden at Mithal-Moun. You’ve been near me often enough that I knew you stood without.”

That did not quite explain the two teas, but Zamani accepted it. He seated himself on the bench as the Mithal sipped more tea and continued speaking.

“I’ve not always felt you near. Sometimes, I imagined you nearby, but I was wrong. Let us say that I have ever looked forward to my . . . ‘invisible student’.” Ragezeg smiled indulgently. “While I have had to content myself with poor, simple Yagi, and Vreatt, devoted though they be, I have found comfort in the notion that someday my invisible student would appear and outshine both of them.”

Zamani took his next question from its sheath, as if it was a knife, and plunged its point into the Mithal's heart. “Were you disappointed to learn my name?”

“Surprised,” conceded the ancient. “Your father is but a dim memory, but you – you are something quite special, I hear. I am most eager to learn of you. Let your father remain in the depths of Zhereen. Let you and I talk, now, face to face at last. What say you?”

Zamani spoke over the nut pot. “Very well. Speak.”

Ragezeg sat forward eagerly. He said, “I wonder if I might see your pait?”

Zamani was puzzled. “Why?”

“You are first-generation Gathorne, are you not? Your mix has the rainbow, but the head remains rounded. And yet, Yagi tells me you have a pait. Please indulge my curiosity.”

At such close range, the Mithal's smile was, somehow, warming. He removed the cap from his head and watched the Mithal's eyes widen.

“Amazing,” marveled Ragezeg.

Zamani felt compelled to confess, “It isn’t real.” Setting the cap aside, he rubbed the pait until his head was once again round.

“Marvelous,” said Ragezeg. “Glamor, form change, color control . . . your special skills, along with what you may have gleaned from my classes, make you superior to either branch of the Shee. Yagi speaks true. If you chose, you would be a formidable enemy.”

“I am no one's enemy,” countered Zamani. “My hands are open.”

“Indeed,” replied the Mithal. “Yagi fails to see your potential.”

Zamani dismissed the Teller, saying, “Yagi no longer troubles me.”

Ragezeg sipped more tea, smiled his crackling smile, and said, “Tell me, if you will, what you’ve learned from your visits to my garden.”

Zamani answered flatly, “Everything.”

The Mithal paused, perplexed, but smiled pleasantly.

Zamani continued, “What you teach in your garden, I know. I know your garden as well as I know my home, that is how often I’ve been there. No part of Mithal-Moun is hidden from me. Not even your private chamber.”

Ragezeg's smile fell from his face.

Zamani said without bragging, “I know all three Phrava.”

Ragezeg bowed his head. “Well,” he said, you are quite accomplished for your seasons. Tell me, how often . . .” his throat closed around his words; he sat up straight and began his question again. “How often have you been to my chamber?”

Zamani declared calmly, “I know your secret.”

Ragezeg looked into Zamani's still face. The greens of unchecked shame colored ancient skin, as old, thin lips worked around silent words. But really, what could the Mithal say? Zamani studied the elder's face: the face of one guilty of grievous wrong. The Mithal knew his guilt, and his wrong-doing rested on his tired shoulders like a heavy mantle. To Zamani, the forlorn and penitent visage of the Mithal was no different from that of the hardened and bitter Teller. How hateful and despicable they both seemed to him. It was hard for him to imagine that he once looked up to Ragezeg.

Then, there were the eyes of Pax; they seemed to float in the air before Zamani's face. The eyes of Pax were as black as the eyes of any other, yet, they bore a unique quality that had earned Zamani's respect. The eyes of Pax did not mock, they comforted. The eyes of Pax did not accuse, they consoled. Yagi had found forgiveness in the eyes of Pax. Could his own black eyes afford such light? Could he forgive the Mithal? Zamani considered the import of his thoughts and made a decision.

Had someone but spoke it a moment before, he would have sneered, but now, he looked into himself deeply. He stared into the abyss that was himself awaiting whatever answer might arise. His own face rose up to meet him, only his eyes were not his; they belonged to Pax.

“My hands are open,” he said to the Mithal. “My soul is pure; I am not your enemy.”