Galen had seldom experienced the luxury of a hot bath. At home, the best he could hope for was a basin of warm water heated on the stove. There were the bathhouses, of course, but as he often got more attention than he wanted there, he'd learned to avoid such places. The stone pool was all his for the moment, though, and he did his best to enjoy it despite the worries fluttering about his head like a flock of restless birds.

The clear water steamed in the cool air, and as he stripped out of his clothes and slipped into its welcoming warmth, he took stock of his body for the first time in weeks.

He had grown leaner and hardened up a little from the constant exercise of travel, the daily exertion leaving his muscles lightly toned. He wondered if he'd gained a little height, as well; and as the heat of the water sank through his skin and he watched the shadows in the courtyard slowly shift, he realized that the year must have turned it's quarter some time in the past week or so.

He'd never been sure of the exact date, of course, but Harrald had estimated Galen to be about three months old when he'd found him in the snow. That had been closer to the end of the year, so they had always celebrated his birthday at the fall equinox. As it seemed that this had come and gone, Galen supposed he must now have entered his eighteenth year.

If he were still in Dern, he would be considered a full-grown man and expected to enter service with the Guard in one capacity or another, as every able-bodied Thrynian must for the first three years of their adulthood. He had expected, and hoped, to be assigned to the medics, but there was no guarantee. He might have ended up holding doors for nobles at the palace, or as a scout, or as arrow-fodder on the front lines. There was no way to know until one presented oneself for service, and then as much depended on the whims of the recruiting officers as it did on one's own skill.

Behn had hoped to be assigned to the mess—to kitchen duty—while Triss, of course, had been snapped up by the Watchers the moment she came of age. But none of that mattered, now.

Now, Triss was a deserter, and Behn would be marked a coward when, or if, he ever returned—as would Galen, if he were not put to death as a witch. The thought of what his friends had given up for his sake sat heavy on his heart, as did the thought of never seeing his home or Harrald again, and as he studied the fast-healing traces of bruises and scrapes marring his skin, he wondered if he was worth such sacrifice.

He was certainly not worth the sacrifice of a life, he thought, and his resolve to help Iksthanis if he could hardened even as as his muscles relaxed in the heat of the natural bath.

Clean and refreshed, he emerged and dried himself with a towel from a pile set nearby for that purpose, and dressed himself in the soft, loose clothes with which they had all been provided—a pair of cotton trousers, a sleeveless undershirt, and a robe-like outer garment secured with a cloth belt. Rejoining the others in the large, circular chamber, he found them gathered around a table laden with food, serving themselves portions in generously sized wooden bowls. There was a deep pot of hearty vegetable stew, fresh-baked bread with butter and honey, and a platter of berries, fruits, and cheese.

Those who had served themselves already sat about on the beds or on the floor, enjoying the meal, looking more relaxed and happy than they had in weeks. Here, at last, was a place they could rest without fear, and while Iksthanis's fate remain uncertain, there was enough joy in knowing he still lived to lighten their hearts.

Anira had returned as well, and stood a little apart, speaking with Sevhalim in a low voice. Galen frowned as he approached, wondering if he had missed his chance to eavesdrop already, and determined to ask his questions directly if need be.

Sev turned as he approached and opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead drew a quick breath as his expression went briefly blank with surprise. Recovering himself, he blinked and offered Galen the ghost of a smile.

"Galen. You look... refreshed," he said.

"The waters are very restorative here," he replied, inclining his head in Anira's direction. "Thank you for your hospitality."

The gray-haired woman raised a brow at him, the skin of her forehead creasing with lines.

"I would say that you are welcome here, but the decision does not rest with me alone. As I have just been explaining to Sevhalim, a council of four—of which I am one—governs this sanctuary. My counterparts request an audience at sunset."

Galen nodded. "I will be honored to meet them."

Anira smiled. "And you shall; but this meeting is for Hands alone. There are things of which we must speak that are not for the uninitiated. Only Sev and Rea may attend."

Galen turned to Sevhalim and frowned. "What of Iksthanis?"

Sev met his gaze briefly, his mercurial eyes a dark gray, before he looked away again. "Let me speak with the council, first. When all is known, the path before us will be clear."

"The path is clear already," Galen argued, lifting his chin. "If I don't help him, Iksthanis will die, and that is not a choice I will make."

Drawing a slow breath, Sevhalim nodded. "I know. Give me but a few hours, and then... Well, then we shall see."

He turned away as Rea joined them, and with a few brief words, the three Hands departed.

Galen stood in the arched doorway and watched as they walked up the path through the trees, back the way they had come.

"What will you do?" Triss asked, coming to stand at his side.

Galen glanced at her, then over his shoulder to where Behn lay, already asleep on his chosen bed.

With Rea and Sev gone, and Zenír with Iksthanis and Obi in the infirmary, the three friends were alone for the first time in weeks. Galen longed for the opportunity to speak with them unguardedly, to voice his worries and fears, and to perhaps form some plan for the future, but he had other priorities.

Except in the vaguest terms, no one had told him exactly what it meant to be a p'yrha, and what the Order at Jana Val might want with him. Over the course of their shared journey, he had come to suspect that this was not so much because his companions wished to keep him in the dark as because they, themselves, did not know.

Anira, though, seemed well-informed, and intent on informing Sevhalim and Rea in turn. Galen did not want to miss the opportunity to be likewise educated, fearing that, if left in the dark, vital decisions might be made without his knowledge or consent.

I'm going to follow them," he said. "At least, I'm going to try."

"Good," Triss said, patting his shoulder. "Behn and I will cover for you, if anyone comes looking. You'd better get moving, though; this place is a maze."

Nodding his agreement, he slipped away down the path after the three Hands, moving swift and silent on bare feet. If they stayed in the forested areas, he would have plenty of cover, but if they were bound for the upper region, where the colossal house was carved into the cliff, he would have a harder time following them unseen. Fortunately, as he crested a small rise, he glimpsed them up ahead, turning down a stone path flanked by leafy vegetation. He followed cautiously, keeping his distance. The path twisted and turned in its descent, and the cover was nearly too good: it kept him well hidden, but he couldn't see more than a few paces ahead, and proceeded with care.

Rounding a bend, Galen came upon an arching stone bridge spanning a small tumbling stream, and just glimpsed Rea's back as she turned down an adjoining path on the other side of it. Dashing lightly across in pursuit, he paused at the bend and peeked through the foliage.

A set of stone steps led down to a paved, circular area below. At the center of this, a fire crackled merrily in a large stone bowl, around which benches were arranged. Hugging three sides of the stone platform, the tumbling stream burbled and rushed, and on its further bank the land rose in sheer rock clothed in clinging ferns. It was the perfect place to hold a secret meeting. The stream would drown out voices, and with everyone seated in a circle there was no direction from which an interloper—like Galen—might approach unseen.

Three people were gathered there already, dressed in finer versions of the sort of clothes Galen now wore—long robes loosely belted over free-flowing garments. They stood as Anira, Rea, and Sevhalim approached, and greeted them with soft words and gestures of welcome.

Galen swore beneath his breath. They would surely spot him at once if he descended the path; there was no way he could get down the slope through the brush without making a racket, and from his current distance, he couldn't hear a word they said. Then, as his eyes were drawn upward by the vertical lines of the cliffs, he saw his chance—a great tree with gnarled, overhanging limbs. If he could make his way around to it, and out on one of the limbs, he would be situated directly above the speakers and—he hoped—would be able to hear what they said.

Retreating back up the path, he picked his way around the top of the cliff to the base of the tree, and thanked Thrynis for his good luck when he saw the lowest branches were within reach. Clambering carefully onto the largest of these which overhung the grotto below, he inched his way out along the horizontal limb. The smooth bark offered little grip, but thankfully the girth was great enough he was in no danger of easily slipping off.

When he was almost directly above the group gathered below, he paused and strained his ears, and picked up a thread of conversation.

"...thought you had all been killed," Sev was saying in a wondering tone.

"Sorry to disappoint," a smooth, male voice answered. "Being marked as dead has its advantages. People tend to see what they expect, and no one expects to see a dead man walking."

"You understand why your arrival is concerning," a gruff, female-sounding voice said. "Our existence here has remained a secret for nearly a century. We would like it to remain that way."

"You need fear nothing from us," Sev said. "Your business is your own; I merely wish to understand, and to get on with my own."

"You say that now, but with understanding, your mind may change," Anira said. "And so we will have your word as a Hand that whatever is said in this place remains here."

"You have it," Sev said immediately.

"And mine," Rea agreed.

"Very well." Anira looked to her companions. "As fellow Hands, we accept your word, and bind you to it. Moreover, before we trust you with our story, we ask that you reveal yours. What is it you are doing here, Sevhalim, and how do you find yourself in such strange company?"

Sevhalim cleared his throat. "As you well know, the Order has long sought the next p'yrha. In recent years, all Hands have been given orders to seek him or her. If we suspect we have found such a one, all other orders are rescinded. Our top priority is to bring the p'yrha to Jana Val. Some months ago, while returning from a mission in Thryn, I stumbled upon a boy in the forest. My mind was on other things at the time, but he wore a pendant I recognized, and he appeared to be about the right age. I took the pendant back to Cloud Haven, seeking counsel. I received a scolding instead. Apparently, I should have taken the boy on sight, and let the Order sort out the rest."

"What did you do?" Anira asked.

Sev shrugged.

"I returned to Thryn with companions, to the nearest town to where I had encountered the boy. As luck would have it, we arrived just in time to rescue him from the fate of many gifted with magic in Thryn these days. He was bound for the gallows or the pyre, if not for Jana Val."

Anira snorted. "You think a better fate awaits him with the Order?"

Rea spoke up next. "The p'yrha is the most honored among mages. Of course he will be treated well."

"Indeed," the Hand with the deeper voice agreed. "For his whole life, no doubt; short though it shall be."

No one spoke for a moment, and Galen realized he was gripping the branch so hard his limbs shook.

"What do you mean?" Sev asked slowly. "The p'yrha is honored and protected from the moment of birth until—"

"Until what?" Anira interrupted. "Why, if there is only one, does a new search commence every twenty years or so? Where do you imagine they go, Sevhalim?"

Sev shook his head. "I don't..."

"You are, what? Twenty-five? That is old for a Hand, already. But look at me—look at Tyr and Ukoni, and N'goris. How old do you imagine that we are? Older than twenty-five, I can assure you. The Order uses people up, Sev. They harvest children like fruit, and they use the p'yrha like a magical well. They aren't interested in balance, except the 'balance' that they have created. Their 'order' is artificial, and doomed to crack and fall. The thing is, they've held it together for so long, patching it with blood and magic—this 'empire'—that when it breaks it will break catastrophically. But such is the natural way of things."

"So, you would see the world burn, just to find out what sprouts from the ashes?" Rea asked.

Anira turned her way. "We are not agents of chaos," she said. "We do not desire destruction. But the Order... What we have told you is but a splinter compared to the great tree of their deception. Just know that if you bring that boy to Jana Val, you bring him to his death. From the way you look at him, Sev, I think you might have a problem with that."

"I don't know what you mean," Sev said. "Galen is my responsibility and my charge; nothing more."

"Then you will lead him as a lamb to slaughter?" one of the Hands asked. "And you will let one of your own die here, having sacrificed his life for your sake, to uphold your duty and loyalty to an Order that 'gifted' you with a demon's curse?"

Sevhalim scoffed and turned his head aside. "You think we have not heard these arguments before? That is nothing new to me. That 'demon's blood' courses through my veins, and that the 'Order' is called such because they have imposed their will upon the world through magic? I know this. We are taught as much."

"Yes," Anira agreed, "we are. And so my question to you, Sevhalim, is this: would you kill the thing you love most in the world, to save the world itself? And would you let a friend die for a 'greater good?'"

Silence fell in the circle below, the burbled song of the little stream the only sound besides the soft whisper of his own breath in Galen's ears.

"I would," Sevhalim said at last. "If—"

Abruptly, he stopped and glanced up, and Galen gasped.

He'd become so absorbed in listening, he had not noticed when he had started to sweat from the strain of keeping himself balanced on the branch. A drop of moisture had fallen from the tip of his nose and landed on the back of Sevhalim's hand.

They locked eyes, and in an instant, Galen's choice was made for him.

He scrambled back up the branch even as the voices below broke out in a chorus of alarm and argument. Gaining solid ground, Galen dropped from the tree and set off at a dead run for the infirmary. He had understood less than half of what he'd heard, and clearly there was more to be said, but Sevhalim had said enough: he would not let Galen heal Iksthanis if he thought it would delay his mission, and Galen had already resolved that he would heal Iksthanis if he could.

For months—since the moment Sevhalim had taken his pendant by force—Galen had felt his control over his destiny grow tenuous. So much depended on chance—on circumstance, on the whims, love, hate, and beliefs of other people—that he wondered if his own will mattered anymore. Unless it was taken from him, though, his life remained his own, and he would risk it as he saw fit. He would risk it for a friend, who had all but thrown away his own for the sake of another. As much for Zenír as for Iksthanis, he would do what he could.

And maybe, he thought, as he flew down the path and into the 'Healing House,' knocking the pretentious Hadrix aside and causing him to spill a bowl of liquid of some kind, he could buy all of them a little time in the process.