Iksthanis strode down the long hallways and out across the open courtyard, intent upon his mission. Zenír had eaten almost nothing in the past twenty-four hours and hadn't eaten properly for who-knows-how-long before that. Before he told any more of his undoubtedly sad tale, Iksthanis meant to be sure he had some food in him.

In the dining hall, the evening meal was already well under way, and Iksthanis joined the back of the quickly dwindling line. When he reached the front, he grabbed two bowls from the stack and prepared to defend himself, for there was a strict rule that each person was allowed only one. It seemed that word traveled fast in the Haven, however, and the man on serving duty greeted him only with a smile.

"Greetings, honored one," the man said, using the formal terms for addressing guests. "How is our dear Zenír this evening? He is ever so sweet-tempered, and yet I fear he is frightfully hard on himself. He carries a heavy pain, I think."

Iksthanis frowned. Who did this fellow think he was, to speak of Zenír in such a way? Or to claim him with such a casual 'our?' Zenír belonged to no one; and if anyone could claim him, then that one was he.

"Is everything all right?"

Iksthanis realized he was scowling and that he had not responded to the man, who now watched him uncertainly.

"Zenír is well," he said. "He just needs to eat something."

"Ah, well, it is good he has such a friend as you, then, to take such good care of him." The man smiled and added an extra scoop of berry salad to Iksthanis' tray.

With an effort, Iksthanis managed to thank the man for the food without growling at him, and retraced his steps towards Zenír's room. He understood his friend's frustration with being treated differently, and that he was guilty of treating him so himself. What had Zenír said? That he was being too high handed — doing things without being asked. And what was he doing now but exactly that?

He paused in the hallway outside Zenír's door, laden tray in hand, and shook his head at himself. He would do better from now on, he decided.

And yet when he entered the room and found that Zenír was not where he had left him, he was surprised. He shook his head again at his own presumption, which had been that the other man would have waited for him in exactly the place he had seen him last, as if he were an obedient child, or an object one could trust to remain where it had been placed.

He set the tray aside and called out.

"Zenír? Are you bathing? I've brought food."

When he got no answer, he moved toward the bathing room, but found it likewise empty.

"Zenír? Where—"

A pair of large, window-like doors opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the courtyard below, and it was there Iksthanis spotted his friend. Zenír stood with his hands rested upon the rail, the wind playing with his tousled brown curls, and something in the set of his shoulders made Iksthanis' gut clench. It was something only one who had known true despair would recognize, and as Zenír shifted his weight and leaned forward, the terrible idea that he meant to throw himself from the ledge flashed through Iksthanis' mind.

Dashing to the door, he threw it open and rushed out, catching Zenír around the waist and hauling him back with a cry.

Zenír uttered a cry as well, though his was one of surprise as, together, the pair fell back in a tumbled heap.

-✵-

After Iksthanis had left, Zenír had sat without moving for some time, but at last he got up and went into the washroom, where he splashed some water on his face.

The ice-cold dousing cleared his mind, and after drying his face with a clean, soft towel, he inhaled deeply and released his breath.

He should have known better than to reveal the truth; he had promised himself he never would; but in the heat of the moment, it had seemed like the only thing to do. In Thanis' voice, and words, and in the way he treated him with kindness and care, Zenír had imagined that the time had finally come for him to be truly honest.

And then, once he had said more than he had ever meant to say; once it was too late to take back the words, the thing he feared most had come to pass, and he had lost the thing he valued most — Iksthanis' respect.

He should have known, and he couldn't blame anyone for thinking that the son of a monster would be a monster himself and for treating him accordingly; and when the others inevitably learned the truth as well, he would not blame them for abandoning him, either.

Suddenly in need of fresh air, he moved to the windows, opened one of the door-like panels, and stepped out onto the balcony. From the sounds and the scents on the breeze, he knew the evening had given way to night, and hugged himself against the chill.

He had hoped to stay here — had hoped to know the peace of a permanent home — but it seemed this was not to be. His father had been right when he had told him that his gift would bring him nothing but misery and pain, though not in the way his father had promised it would.

The vision he had glimpsed of a future in which he and the man he loved shared a happy, peaceful life, had given him faith when that man had seemed to be lost to him forever. And yet the future was ever changing, each choice a fork in a winding road, and it seemed that he had made a choice that had taken him off track.

The future yawned before him, bleak as a barren plain, and he shivered at the thought of facing it alone.

Something brushed his cheek, light as a feather, and then again. Curious, he leaned forward and held out his hand, only to be startled by a loud noise at his back.

Before he could ascertain the cause, he was caught from behind and lifted off his feet. For one terrible moment, he thought that someone meant to toss him over the balcony's edge, and then he was hauled back and away from it, wrapped in a pair of massive arms.

Iksthanis' familiar scent surrounded him as the pair fell in a heap on the floor, and Zenír found himself trapped beneath the larger man.

"Thanis! What are you doing?" Zenír gasped. "Have you lost your mind?"

"That is my question," Iksthanis growled. "What were you thinking just now?"

"Nothing! I only came out for a breath of fresh air!"

"Must you lean so far over the parapet to breathe?"

"No; I thought I felt something falling."

"Other than yourself, you mean."

"I didn't fall," Zenír said. "And I wasn't about to."

"Because I stopped you."

Zenír frowned. "Is that what you think of me? That I would give in to despair in such a way? I have lived with my burdens long enough. I know how to bear them."

"And I know the aspect of a man who feels he has nothing left to live for," Iksthanis argued.

Zenír was silent for a moment. The thought of ending himself over it had not crossed his mind, but it would be a lie to say Iksthanis was mistaken in what he saw.

"You left without saying anything," he said quietly. "I thought you were not coming back."

Iksthanis sat up and inhaled deeply. When he spoke, his voice carried hints of self-censure and regret.

"Forgive me," he said. "That is my Edraxi upbringing, I fear. We believe actions speak louder than words. I only left to fetch our suppers, and to show that I don't care if you are the son of the devil Molog himself; I would love you no less for it."

Zenír sniffed and sat up as well, wiping the tell-tale moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I had just revealed the thing I most feared to reveal about myself. Forgive me if I believe words would have served you better, in this case."

"You are right," Iksthanis agreed. "And I shall both show and tell you how sorry I am for it, if I may."

He shifted closer to Zenír, but did not touch him, waiting patiently for a sign of welcome.

Zenír's face grew warm, and once again he wondered what Iksthanis saw in him. Whatever it was, he decided he was glad of it.

"You may," he said, and Iksthanis kissed him.

Enveloped in the other man's heat, Zenír realized how badly in need of such comfort he was, and allowed himself to absorb it like thirsty land soaks up rain.

"You are trembling," Iksthanis remarked, when at last he broke from their kiss.

"I am cold," Zenír murmured, resting his head on the other man's shoulder.

"Is that all?"

"And relieved," he admitted.

"Nothing you could tell me will change my heart, Zen," Iksthanis said, "but neither must you tell me anything, unless you wish."

Zenír allowed himself a moment to respond, letting his thoughts and feelings settle. As he did, he felt another light brush upon his cheek, as he had before.

"It is ash," Iksthanis said, having noticed it as well. "Perhaps from a fire. Sometimes the forests burn after a storm."

"Not a forest. A town," Zenír said. "It has already begun."

"What has?"

Zenír sighed; the choice was made for him. "The war," he said. "But let us eat first: then I'll tell you everything."

-✵-

The savory stew, tangy soup, and hearty bread went a long way towards warming him up, and Iksthanis did the rest. By the time they finished eating, Zenír was sleepy and content, and in no rush to ruin the mood, but there were things Iksthanis needed to know: things everyone in the Haven needed to know.

At last, he shifted where he lay in Iksthanis' arms, and spoke.

"My father is about as close as one can get to the hierophant without sitting in his lap," Zenír began, "and he holds that position jealously. As his only son, my primary purpose was to increase his influence and power by marrying well. Unfortunately, the defects in my nature made themselves known early, for which my father blamed my mother's impure blood. She was half Pyrran — a shortcoming my father overlooked in favor of her fortune, but regretted once he learned she had passed the 'pollution' of magic on to me. She died of an unknown illness when I was young, but I would not be surprised to learn my father had a hand in it. At any rate, by the time I began having dreams that came true, and knowing things I could not possibly know, she was dead, and there was no one to shield me from the poison my father poured daily into my ears. Magic, he said, was a corruption of nature, and so those who wield it are naturally corrupt."

Zenír grimaced as unpleasant memories flooded his mind.

"Worse yet was my failure to embody the image of virility and strength he desired in a son. I enjoyed boys' games, but I enjoyed girls' games, too; and as I got older, my interests veered towards music, poetry, and art, which my father considered womanly pursuits. Most egregious, though, was the way I looked at other boys; my gaze, he said, was filled with sin."

"I don't think I like where this is going," Iksthanis said.

Zenír smiled. "Don't worry. While I won't say it isn't his fault, my father was not directly responsible for the loss of my sight. The worst he did was to keep me secluded, confined to our estate. Rather like a trained pet, he paraded me at parties and at state events, where I knew to perform the part of a young man in the market for a bride, but otherwise you might not have known that Archdeacon Valentim had a son."

"I did not," Iksthanis admitted.

"His greatest fear was that someone would discover it: that he, Valentim di Hespera, who had made it his mission to rid Sakkara of unholy power, himself had a child tainted by magic."

Zenír's voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"He was in Pyrr for a reason; he was looking for something. I was too young, and then too cut off from outside affairs to understand it then, but in the time since, and especially over the course of our most recent journey, I have come to believe that he was looking for the p'yrha."

"Galen?" Iksthanis' voice rose in surprise.

Zenír nodded. "His fate and mine are more entangled than I imagined, it seems; and if before it was merely a suspicion, now I am certain. More than likely, my father is responsible for the circumstances that led to him being left an orphan abandoned in the woods. If he did not personally have a hand in it, then he at least signed the edict that ensured it."

Silence settled in the room, but Zenír did not speak, knowing that Iksthanis needed time to compose his thoughts.

When at last he broke the silence between them, he did so gently.

"I sympathize with Galen and his people, of course," he said, "but what of yourself? I understand how the persecution of mage-born led to Galen's predicament, but not yours."

"Do you not?" Zenír ducked his head as his lips curled in a bitter imitation of a smile. "Well, let me elaborate, then. When I was seventeen, I was betrothed to a lovely girl I'd never met and had no interest in. Her name was Seralah, and by all accounts she was lovely. What my father really cared about, though, was her dowry. Her father promised him something that he claimed would tip the balance of power in the Temple's favor and help him win the war in Pyrr."

"A weapon?" Iksthanis asked.

"If a living artifact with the power to reshape the world can be called a weapon, then yes."

"You're talking about the Heart of Sakkara, aren't you?"

"Yes; or, rather, a piece of it. If I've interpreted the Dweller writings correctly, there is only one, but it has been in pieces since the Dweller kingdom fell to ruin. That's the story the carvings seem to tell, anyway. The images are all jumbled in my head, but from what I gather, the Heart was originally a magical tool, whereby almost unimaginable amounts of power could be gathered and channeled to a single purpose. They did not carve these halls, nor the greater ones beneath the mountains; they molded them from the stone with magic."

"Sounds dangerous," Iksthanis mused.

"So the Dwellers would discover. It seems as if they went too far, tipped a balance, and unleashed some sort of cataclysm." Zenír took a breath. "Afterward, those who were left gathered here. This was their last stronghold, where they hoped to preserve their people. Eventually, their numbers dwindled to the point the few who remained decided to scatter themselves across the land, doing what they could to share their knowledge among the various tribes of Sakkara. Choosing not to destroy it for fear they might someday need it again, they took the Heart with them, each carrying a piece of it for safety."

"And you got all that from touching a wall?"

Zenír heard the trace of incredulity in Iksthanis' voice, and smiled. "Well, more or less."

"Actually, you may be on to something," Iksthanis said. "I recall a story — an Edraxi legend that my father liked to tell — about how the seven races of Sakkara sprang from seven gods, who came out of the mountains to dwell among men. Edrax was the mightiest, naturally."

"Naturally," Zenír agreed easily, and shut his eyes as he leaned his head against Iksthanis' broad chest.

"Alright," Iksthanis said, absently rubbing Zenír's back with one hand. "So the pieces of the Heart were scattered across Sakkara, the Order got its grubby hands on one, and the father of your betrothed claimed to have another. Then what?"

Zenír sighed. "Then I fell in love."

"With the girl?"

Zenír laughed. "With her brother. Selah was sent as an emissary; to bring the two houses together, I suppose. It wasn't appropriate for his sister and I to 'enjoy' each other's company before the wedding, apparently, but no one imagined there was any reason Selah and I shouldn't be left alone for hours at a time. We became friends, and then lovers.

"Selah was a few years older and far more experienced than I. Some might say he took advantage of my naivety, but I was far from innocent in my desires. Still, most of what we did was talk. Selah would make such wild plans for us — for how we would run away and start a life together, free of our fathers and their selfishness. We would be spice farmers in Yuthraka, or fishers in Naqqir. Neither of us really believed it, of course, but it was fun to pretend, while we could. Soon enough we were reminded that reality was not so kind."

He fell silent, and Iksthanis waited patiently, giving him time to think, and to arrange unpleasant memories into words.

"My father chanced upon us one afternoon," he said quietly," and all hell broke loose. Selah was sent home in disgrace and I was beaten within an inch of my life and confined to my room once more. To save face, my father claimed that I was gravely ill, and that he had sent Selah home for his own safety, but Selah's father was not so easily satisfied. He demanded to know if his daughter was to marry an invalid, and to allay these suspicions, my father arranged for a grand ball, at which I was meant to show off just how virile and virtuous I was."

"It did not go to plan, I take it?"

"No. Selah had his own plans for the evening; but in the end, neither he nor my father would get their wish. I hadn't expected him to be there," Zenír said. "My father had done a good job instilling fear in me by that point, and I did my best to avoid him, but eventually Selah succeeded in getting me alone."

He paused for a breath and went on in a soft, slow whisper.

"There were things I didn't know about Selah," he said. "While I had thought all his wild plans to be mere fantasy, he had been quite serious in the intent. That night, he asked me to run away with him — steal a pair of horses from the stables and ride hard for the coast; board the first ship that would have us as a pair of hands, and sail whither the wind would blow."

"You didn't go with him?"

Zenír shook his head. "I was a coward, too scared of my father to dare his wrath again. I refused, and tried to offer Selah the only future I could imagine for us: one in which I wed his sister, and he and I contented ourselves with the love of friends." He sighed. "The other thing I didn't know was how truly desperate Selah was: desperate to be free, and despairing that he should ever be so. When I refused to go with him, he accepted it with surprising ease. 'Let us share one last drink as lovers, then, and one last kiss,' he said. He poured us each a glass of wine; we drank together, and we kissed. 'If we cannot be free in this life, we must put our hope in the next,' he said, and it was then I realized he had poisoned us both. The last thing I ever saw was his face, and the last thing he ever saw was mine; but while I survived, he did not."

Zenír took another breath.

"Ironically, it was my father who saved me. I was still recovering from the beating, and his physician had given me something so I could dance unimpeded by pain. The herb was also a common antidote, and for that reason alone I was spared. Still, Selah knew his business, and the poison he'd dosed us with was a potent one. My recovery was long and far from certain. And in the meantime, my father had greater concerns. Selah's father remained unaware of the nature of my relations with his son, and knew only that Selah had, for whatever reason, made an attempt on my life and ended his own. Eager to make amends and avoid suspicion, he was willing to give my father whatever he wanted."

"The Heart?"

"Indeed. My father still had one problem, though: me. My father never broke my spirit entirely, but Selah's death and the loss of my sight left me crushed. It is difficult, when you are taught that the corruption in your soul will lead to grief and ruin, not to believe it is your fault when grief and ruin are visited upon you. I had no desire to disobey him again, but this was not assurance enough, it seemed. I had caused him such trouble already, who knew what greater damage I might do? My 'sinful proclivities' aside, it was my gift that worried him; for as I began to recover, it was already clear that the loss of my sight had strengthened it.

"Maybe Selah gave him the idea; maybe I'm lucky he didn't have the heart to kill me himself. I don't know. All I know is, one day, when I was just well enough again to walk, I was taken from my bed in the hours before dawn and bundled into a carriage. The driver refused to speak to me, and when he finally stopped, he threw me from the coach and drove away. I was very confused, and entirely lost, but at last ascertained that I was in a part of the city known as the Dregs, where beggars and cripples and prostitutes, and other abandoned people lived. At first, I thought it was some test my father had devised — a lesson to teach me humility and shame — and I began an attempt to make my way home.

"I would hardly have been better off with my sight than without it, though, and was soon more hopelessly lost than ever. Eventually, I stopped to rest near the door of a tavern, the enticing scents of which awakened me to the fact I had no money. It was then I heard the bells in the temple begin to ring with the slow, solemn tolling that signaled someone of importance had died.

"A man walked by, and catching the scent of expensive perfume — one I recognized from my father's soirees — I reached out and caught at the hem of his cloak. With an oath, he kicked me roughly, and walked on.

"A different man, one who smelled of fish and unwashed flesh, stopped to help me. 'Ah, zenír, you are new to this life,' he said, in a harsh, accented voice. 'Why, your clothes are still clean! Don't worry; you will soon learn which sorts give coins, and which give only kicks.'

"'I did not want his coins,' I said. 'I only meant to ask for whom the bells toll.'

"'Ah, a sad story, zenir,' he said. 'More tragedy for house Hespera. The archdeacon's son is dead.'

"Shocked, I said nothing. Blind, and with only the clothes on my back, no one would believe me if I told them who I was. No one was likely to recognize me, either, outside of the circles my father traveled in; and even if I could find one of them, they were more likely to kick me than to listen to anything I had to say. My father had killed me without killing me, quite effectively.

"'Here,' the stranger said, and pressed a coin into my hand. 'Little as I can spare it, you look as if you need it more. Buy yourself something to eat, and let the rich mourn the rich. The rest of us have enough sorrows. What's your name? I'll drop a word 'round. There's groups of us what pool our takings, so's none go hungry. Maybe some are takin' new recruits.'

"'What is it you called me?' I asked. 'Zenír?'

"Ah, that's Abbaran,' he said. "My mother tongue. Means 'stranger,' but respectful, like.'

"That is my name, then, I said. 'Zenír.'

"The man laughed. 'I like you, zenír. You may call me Darwa.'

"Darwa is a feminine Abbaran name, and so I had my first lesson in survival on the streets, which is never to assume anything about anyone. Anyway, that is where I remained, scraping an existence in the Dregs, until I tried to pick the pocket of the wrong man, and met Sevhalim."

Iksthanis was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was soft and rough with strain. "You mean to tell me this whole time I have not even known your real name?"

"You have; it is Zenír," said he. "It has been for years. Since the day the death bells rang for Alec di Hespera."

"You do know that none of that was your fault, don't you?" Iksthanis whispered. "Selah, your father — none of it. You were a victim, and blameless."

Zenír shrugged. "I do; and yet it is difficult not to imagine how things might have turned out if I had only been the son my father wished I was. He said my nature would bring me nothing but misery and pain, and..."

"And has it? Is that all you have known?"

Zenír lifted himself and turned, though he could not see Iksthanis, he wanted the other man to see the honesty on his own face.

"No. Since I met Sevhalim, and you, and our friends, I have known wonders. You, especially, have taught me how to love selflessly, and without fear."

"Then why are you trembling, and why do you weep?" Iksthanis asked, brushing the back of his hand against Zenír's cheek.

"Because this war that is coming — the war that is already here — it is for the Heart of Sakkara, in more ways than one. We're going to need every piece of it, including the one in the Temple vault. Someday, Thanis, I want this for us — a peaceful, safe home, where we can simply live and love; but we can't have it yet. Not if we want to help our friends — especially Galen. Now, I think that Alec di Hespera must rise from the dead, and at long last, go home."

"For vengeance, I hope," Iksthanis growled.

The corners of Zenir's mouth twitched with a mix of emotions. "He would need help with that, I think."

"He shall have it," Iksthanis said, "if a man called Zenír will have me."

"I will," Zenír whispered, and smiled as he was pushed into the pillows with a kiss.