"Galen! Galen, wait!"

Sevhalim's call reached him from a distance, but Galen knew he had only moments before he lost his chance. Bursting into the room where Iksthanis lay, he dashed to the unconscious man's side.

Startled by the sudden commotion, Zenír leaped up from his chair.

"Galen? Is something wrong?" he asked, reaching for the polished wooden staff someone had given him to aid his movements.

"You could say that," Galen gasped as he pulled the sheets covering the injured man aside.

"What has happened?"

"There is no time. Listen, Zenír — if you want Iksthanis to live, then let me work, and keep the others away as long as you can."

Zenír nodded slowly, his unfocused gaze troubled but determined. "You have a good heart, Galen," he said. "I will trust it."

Taking up his staff, he went to the door and stood with the length of wood held lightly in his hand. Though sightless, he was no invalid. His staff was weapon as much as walking-aid; yet Galen doubted he'd be able to hold Sevhalim off for long. Thus, he wasted no time, and turned his attention to Iksthanis.

As Sevhalim himself had taught him to do, he let his focus sink deep while the rest of the world fell away, until there was nothing but the bright star burning at his core.

Opening his eyes, he looked upon Iksthanis. The man's body appeared almost translucent, the brightness of his life flickering with the fragile light of a candle burning low, while areas of darkness showed where injuries lay. Shadow shrouded one side of his chest, much of his abdomen, his left leg, and a portion of his skull.

One glance told Galen it was too much; they had waited too long already, and if he healed Iksthanis now, the effort would consume him.

If he could control it, though, perhaps he might ensure the other man's recovery while holding back enough to sustain himself as well. It wasn't a perfect solution, and he wasn't certain he could manage it, but it beat the alternatives, and he had to try.

Shouts and rapid footsteps told him he was out of time, and he heard Zenír raise a brave challenge in the hall, answered by Sevhalim.

"Get out of the way, Zen!" Sevhalim demanded. "He isn't ready for this! I'm telling you—"

Shutting out the sounds, Galen concentrated on the power resting within him like a banked fire, and stirred it to life with an indrawn breath.

Answering magic pulsed hot at his core, and Iksthanis's need called to it like thirsty roots craving rain.

He breathed in again, and the heat intensified, flowing down his arms to his hands and gathering there as if eager to be poured forth upon the injured man. He felt a sense of fullness in his heart and in his whole body — like an irresistible urge to shout or move or run — and the only way to satisfy it was to release the magic and pour forth into Iksthanis.

More shouts and a soft 'thud' in the hallway signaled Zenír's defeat, and Sevhalim appeared in the doorway, wild-eyed and breathless, and froze at whatever he saw on Galen's face.

"Galen," he gasped, reached towards him. "Galen — wait. Please, trust me!"

Oddly, Galen felt no sense of urgency at all, and regarded him with calm dispassion. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I don't."

Shutting his eyes, he let the magic go.

It seemed almost to delight in its release, and Galen saw at once that his plan was no good: he had as much chance of controlling the flow of power as he did of damming a river with his hands. It was all or nothing, and so he gave himself over to the fire.

As if from a slight remove, he watched the power at his heart flare with the brightness of a star; and when someone screamed, he realized, distantly, that it was himself. His vision went white, and although he felt nothing, he had the sense that every nerve in his body lit with agony.

Distantly, he saw himself: the pretty Pyrran boy named Galen, now a young man beautiful of form; but beneath this fragile façade of flesh, he was something else entirely.

The magic within him — the fire that burned him — was not his own. It belonged to Sakkara: world-mother and world-father, creator and destroyer, whose vast power lay at his fingertips.

He was as a lightning rod, he saw; a sacrificial offering through which immense power might pass from one medium to another, sparing the destruction of lesser forms: a living conduit whose life was the price of transference. This, he understood even as all understanding fell away, was what it meant to be a p'yrha.

And yet, even as he surrendered to pure immolation, a different sort of fire, cool and blue as water, embraced him, caught him in gentle arms, and held him safe.

The blue fire rose around him like a protective cage, and Galen felt the flow of magic slow and then equalize. Peace and stillness filled him, as if he stood at the center of a vast, calm sea. Opening his eyes, he saw Iksthanis's body glowed with the soft light of life and health, while his own form remained miraculously whole and unharmed.

Oddly, the glow of blue fire remained; and then, as his senses returned to him in full, Galen understood.

The blue fire that had mingled with his own belonged to another, and the arms that held him were real.

He just had time to understand this — that it was Sevhalim that held him, and that he had used the power of the Hand to save him — before he fell into the waiting dark.

-✵-

He lay in the darkness for a long time, the pieces of his mind drifting like leaves on the surface of water, blown about by a fitful breeze. At last, like dawn gradually brightening the morning sky, he woke from a deep slumber and found himself lying in a large, comfortable bed. It was far more luxurious than the little cots in the guest house, and as he blinked into full wakefulness, he saw he lay in a circular room with tall windows. These admitted ample rays of slanting golden light, illuminating marbled walls and a high, arched ceiling of ornately carved stone.

"Gale!"

The softly gasped word made him turn, and he saw Behn sat in a chair beside the bed, a large book in his lap and a plate bearing the remnants of a meal on the table at his side.

"You're awake!"

"Apparently," Galen rasped. His voice sounded cracked and dry, and a stale taste filled his mouth, as if he'd gone to bed without cleaning his teeth. "How long was I...?"

Behn squinted, doing some quick calculations with the aid of his fingers. "About three days, I think."

"Is that all?" He'd expected to be laid low at least a week.

"That's long enough!" Behn said, laying aside his book, which appeared to be of recipes. "Hadrix was getting worried."

"Iksthanis?" Galen asked.

Behn grinned. "Woke up yesterday. Hadrix says it'll still be awhile before he's fully recovered, but you did it, Gale: you saved him."

Galen sank back against the pillows, relieved. "What about Sevhalim? Is he very angry?"

Behn's expression shifted, and he got to his feet. "Hang on. I should get Hadrix."

"Oh, joy." Galen sighed, and waited while Behn left the room.

A moment later he returned with the tall, frown-prone healer in tow.

"Ah, the impetuous patient awakens, I see. How are you feeling?" he asked, coming to stand beside the bed.

"Alright, I guess," Galen said. "A little lightheaded. And thirsty."

Hadrix nodded as he measured Galen's pulse and pressed his hands to his brow and the sides of his throat.

"Good. I'll have some tea and broth sent up. Something easy on the stomach to start."

"Thank you," Galen murmured.

Hadrix shrugged. "My training is good for that much, at least."

"Don't mind him, Gale," Behn said, rolling his eyes. "He's still crisped 'cause he was wrong about your magic."

"He didn't mention he was a demigod," Hadrix said, raising a sardonic brow. "If he had, I'd have placed my bets differently."

Galen blinked. "A demi... what?"

"A human link to the divine," he said, completing his examination. "A p'yrha, in other words — one who seems bent on destroying himself. You're lucky Sevhalim was there to stop you."

Galen winced. "Can I talk to him? I mean... will he talk to me?"

Hadrix shrugged. "Who knows. He's certainly not talking to anyone else."

"Why not?"

"Because he's locked up, for one thing."

Galen sat up more quickly than was good for him. "What? Why?"

Hadrix sighed and pushed him back into the pillows. "Relax. He's not hurt, and there's no sign he's been taken by the Hand. It's just a precaution, but it seems he's been fortunate, this time. Another day or so and he'll be released."

"I don't understand," Galen said.

Hadrix nodded. "I know, and you deserve to, but I'm not the one who owes you explanations. Rest and recover. Once you've had something to eat and drink, and taken care of yourself a bit, I will take you to him myself."

-✵-

A few impatient hours later — once, with the help of food and drink and a refreshing wash, Galen's strength had returned — Hadrix kept his promise and led him from his room and a short ways down a wide, colonnaded hall.

From what he'd seen through the windows, Galen realized they were in the great house carved into the cliff. Pausing before a pair of large doors, Hadrix opened them to reveal a room similar to Galen's but more fully furnished, with bookshelves, a table and chair, a washstand and a small chest of drawers.

Sevhalim stood by the tall windows, looking out. He wore simple, soft robes of plain gray, and his black hair fell in a long cascade down his back. He made no movement as they entered, and did not turn.

"Leave it on the table, Hadrix" he murmured. "I will eat when I am hungry."

"I haven't brought food," Hadrix said. "I don't know why anyone bothers when you refuse to eat."

"What, then? If the Hand takes me, you will be the first to—"

Turning at last, he stopped at the sight of Galen, surprise and then uncertainty clouding his features. His face looked pale and drawn, as if he hadn't slept in days, and it seemed he'd lost weight.

"I'll leave you," Hadrix said, bowing slightly. "Shut the door on your way out, Galen; it locks on its own."

He retreated, and Galen stood uncertainly, waiting for the other man to speak first.

Recovering himself, Sevhalim smiled. "Hadrix said you were alright, but I'm glad to see so first hand."

Galen nodded. "Are you?"

Sev shook his head, but smiled. "Somehow... yes, I am. Thanks to you."

Galen blinked. "I thought you saved me."

"Perhaps we saved each other," Sev said. The hint of a smile touched his lips, but it faded as he turned back to the windows once more. "I don't blame you for not trusting me," he went on, "but you need fear no more; if ever you reach Jana Val, it will not be because I brought you there."

"The pass is closed, then?" Galen asked, a note of hopefulness creeping into his tone.

Sev laughed under his breath. "The pass has been closed for some weeks. Anira told me so, probably right before whatever you overheard."

Galen bit his lip, but joined Sev at the windows, standing at his side. A small balcony lay beyond the glass, and past this, a view of the bowl-shaped valley stretched below. A flock of doves flew past, the setting sun tinging their wings gold.

"I heard you say you'd kill what you loved, and let a friend die for a greater good," Galen said quietly.

Sev turned to him with lifted brows. "You wouldn't? If you knew that, for the price of one life — your own, or another's — you could save many, would you not make that sacrifice? It seems an odd thing to take issue with, for one who casts himself into the fire so readily."

Galen frowned. "I had to help Iksthanis, and I knew I could."

Sev looked back at the view. "And that is the difference, and what you did not hear me say. To make such a choice, one must be absolutely certain of it. If I ever was, I am no longer certain that delivering you to the Order serves any good at all."

"Why did you try to stop me, then?"

"All I wanted was for you to wait, and to be careful. The more I learn of what you are, the more I understand how dangerous it is for you to use your full power; and in that... how much alike we are."

Galen studied his profile — the curve of high cheekbones, the straight slope of his nose, the flash of silver eyes beneath winged black brows — and beneath the noble veneer saw a trace of bleak despair.

"I'm sorry I didn't trust you," he said. "I wanted to, but I didn't understand. So tell me, Sevhalim: tell me what it means to be what you are, and to be... whatever it is I am. If we saved each other once... maybe we can do it again."

Sev looked over at him and blinked slowly, as if seeing him for the first time. He didn't smile, but a warmth like hope lit his eyes, and just as quickly faded again. He nodded nonetheless and took Galen by the hand. 

"Alright," he said. "That is only fair; though I admit I am afraid. Once you know everything, you will understand why a creature like you should have nothing to do with a devil like me."