Arik enters the youth hall in his usual way, climbing up the wooded slope to its southmost corner, stopping just outside to take stock of the situation before stepping in. Since there are no walls - only hide screens to the side that can be pulled against the weather if needed - this is quick work. He leans against the low railing by one of the corner posts supporting the roof and lets his eyes sweep across the area.

This is where all the youths, from thirteen to just shy of seventeen years of age, have their gatherings. Mostly meals of course, but also sermons and sometimes dances. As usual, the youngest stick to the outer rim, huddling in close groups while they study their elders for clues on how to behave. Arik smiles as he remembers his own green days - excitement chasing anxiety around his stomach so there was barely any room for food in it.

A low-built fire crackles and smoulders on the central hearth, keeping the food hot in cauldrons and on stone slabs suspended over or arranged around it. Arik takes in the faint whiff sneaking out from it, but can't quite make out what the meal is tonight. But some sweans in their middle years have already fetched one of the low trestle tables that are stowed around the sides of the hall and begun to laden it with today's dishes. It looks like steaming corms of boiled kolo wrapped in their leaves, a stew of some sort of meat which is probably goat, flat bread, cheese and fruits on the side. Plain, common fare, but Arik's mouth waters and there's a grumble of anticipation from the pit of his stomach. Spear practice has left him with an appetite.

As he watches, his own group of sweans marches in and confidently occupies the centre of the hall. They are accompanied, as usual, by the older of the weydis - the girls who have chosen to train as warriors. They have a different training regimen more suited to the female physique, but once or twice a week they spar together with the sweans, who all know better than to underestimate them.

Defying his hunger, Arik decides to hang back until the mairdins and mairtans start arriving. Their training isn't as physically taxing so as a rule, it goes on for a little bit longer. Most of the mairdins, the girls who have chosen unwarrior training, will be drawn towards the group in the middle, trying to get a good view and perhaps get noticed, while there are still quite a few who prefer the more peaceful company of the mairtans, who usually cluster in smaller groups wherever they find places.

A group of youngsters carrying a table are heading for the corner where Arik is standing and he quickly jumps the railing and casually claims the spot, leaning against the inside of the railing instead of the outside. The youngsters take the hint and look around for another place. This is the corner where Arik and Ealwin at least sometimes have a chance to find themselves undisturbed and tonight would be a good night for a private chat with his best friend. Absently, Arik fetches a couple of trestles and then starts manoeuvring one of the smaller boards in place to set up a table for them.

A flash of fond humour touches his lips as he ponders how he and Ealwin are so different and yet so alike. Ealwin with his undying curiosity about the world and all its little ways, ever attentive to what goes on around him. Arik instead ceaselessly ruminating on the deeper meaning of all that happens, his eyes ever lost in the unseen beyond, only noticing the bare necessities of the physical world.

But for Ealwin, he would have learnt precious little of the world, while his friend in turn would never have stopped to reflect on higher things if it were not for Arik. And they are both grateful for the exchange - the thing that unites them is the insatiable hunger for greater understanding of matters great and small. That is what makes Ealwin an unusually promising mairtan and himself a... well, a not very promising warrior. Unless he could make up his mind, as Egder pointed out.

Arik knows that Egder is right about the other thing, too. He would make a just as promising mairtan. But the sacrifice, the sacrifice...

Ealwin used to push and prod him about it until he realised that Arik wouldn't answer him before he felt ready. It must have been at least a couple of years since he last mentioned it. But time is running precious short and perhaps talking about it could help him make up his mind.

Perhaps he is ready to talk about it after all.

At last Ealwin appears in the group of waterseer pupils. His tousled hair and dishevelled clothing stand out among the otherwise well-groomed youths. One glance towards their favourite corner is enough. Seeing Arik there, he smiles, exchanges a few words with his mates and hurries closer.

The urge in Arik suddenly becomes almost unbearable. Yes. He is ready.

After securing a meal, they sit down on their cushions, spend the customary quiet moment in thanks for the food, then dig into the food, still in silence. Three bites before talking, so the saying goes and today, Arik is grateful for it, not quite knowing how to begin. Meeting his friend's eyes, he realises that they both feel the same.

Ealwin is first to break the silence.

"Not much longer now, taking our meals in this place."

"No," Arik agrees, then sighs. "What's so damned special about turning seventeen anyway?"

That triggers Ealwin and he snaps his fingers.

"You know, Ainiran told me something about that. Something about seventeen being an unbreakable number. Oh, I wish I could remember it! I really don't have her sense of numbers."

"Well," Arik mutters into his clay mug, "who does?"

Ainiran is the third part of their inseparable childhood trio, but since they came into their youths, they dwindled to two and a half. She is two-thirds of a year younger than Ealwin, who is in turn about a month younger than Arik, so they went on to youth training ahead of her. The time apart knitted the two elder closer together while she, the younger, tied other bonds. And then when she gained her youth, she was drawn more into the world of numbers, devoting almost all her time to the mastery of treasure and time, a discipline that never appealed to either of her old friends.

They are always fascinated at her tales of that abstract world and the near-magic you can make in it, perhaps all the more since they know they could never master it like she does. As if she can see into a world which is neither Ealwin's here-and-now nor Arik's beyond-the-seen, but somehow nestles in-between everything that is. Like a tale but with numbers instead of words, connecting this with that, here with there and now with then, binding the world together and giving it direction.

And while her peers struggle with getting their numbers right, Ainiran has raced ahead, asking the masters - pestering them, some say - about the deeper meaning and connections of the different numbers. So much so that she has gained the attention of the very grandmaster of Treasure and Time, one of the most influential of the unwarrior masters.

Yes, she will definitely be able to answer the question about what is so special about seventeen. The question is rather whether they will be able to follow her when she does.

Before Arik has time to voice that opinion, a voice as familiar as unwelcome intrudes.

"Why am I not surprised that the company of us mere mairtans is not good enough for you?"

Ealwin looks up at Berdek, even his customary smile strained, while Arik is content to put his mug down with no more sound than a hard clonk of ceramics on wood and a heavy sigh through the nose.

"Why do you keep taking it so personally?" Ealwin replies. "You know Arik and I have been friends for... well, forever, really!"

"Maybe," Berdek sneers, "but perhaps you should consider making other friends as well. That one might not be around for much longer, from what I hear."

That's too much for Arik. He slaps his palm against the table and rises, fingers stinging and eyes glaring. "Really, what is your problem?"

Bardek glares back defiantly. "Do you think you scare me just because you're a swean? Think again!"

Arik doesn't know whether to laugh or groan, so he settles for neither. "I don't expect you to be scared. I did expect you not to be downright rude. I guess that's too much to ask. But it was an honest question, because I really don't get you. So I'll ask again. What is your problem, Berdek?"

With a visible effort, Berdek regains his usual disdainful composure and smiles sourly.

"My problem? I wouldn't say I have much of a problem next to yours. I guess I'll just leave you two to deal with them, if my company is such a problem to you."

Arik just stares after him as he swaggers off towards his entourage, the same three mairtans that had accompanied him under the date tree, all clearly mimicking his style as best they are able.

"Oh, just forget about that prat," Ealwin says, tugging at Arik's sleeve to make him sit down. "He's just like that because I turned him down. And then that facial study on top of that. He just can't take it."

Breathing deeply to release the tension of his sudden anger, Arik seats himself again on the cushion and shakes his head, then frowns. "What do you mean, turned him down?"

At that, Ealwin blushes furiously, waving his hand dismissively. "Never mind. What were we talking about?"

"Numbers, I think," Arik says, then it dawns on him. "Oh! You mean he asked you... he invited you to..."

"Well, yes," Ealwin admits. "If you need to know, he invited me for some fun, as they call it. Griphs know why, he's got enough of that sort of company with his handsome friends and I know I'm not much to look at."

Arik punches his friend's shoulder.

"You're not fair on yourself, Ealwin! You look good. You're clever and fun. And who can resist that smile of yours?"

"Ach!" Ealwin waves it aside again. "I won't bother to argue, it doesn't matter anyhow. In a few months it will all be sand in the wind. Then neither girls nor boys will have a reason to ask things like that, thank the stars. With you, it's another matter."

Now it's Arik's turn to blush. "What do you mean?"

Ealwin smirks. "Oh, come on. Berdek might be a jerk, but he's not stupid. He was pretty spot on with Nirah, don't you think?"

Deep inside, Arik knows exactly what Ealwin means. But admitting it, even to his best friend, is something he can't bring himself to. So he just mutters something unintelligible and busies himself with the food.

"Alright then," Ealwin goes on, all but chuckling, "I'll spell it out for you. Nirah - and plenty others, mind you - are looking at you as the sire of their future children."

"Ealwin!"

Ealwin spreads his arms wide and raises his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, but it's just the way of the Pact, isn't it? Sweans like you will be men and then sires. Mairtans like me will be igmen and never sires. Mairdins and weydis alike will be women and someday most of them will want to be mothers and find a sire. A man, not igman. Who was once a swean, not mairtan. Of course they look differently on us!"

"Yes, but..."

Arik glares at the food, his mind numb. It's not that he is shocked by what Ealwin says. It is all in accord with the Pact of the griph after all, of the clan of Leawar. The way that has led the clan to greatness, to dominance over all this region, to prosperity.

It's just that he hates it in all its crass practicality and spelling it out loud like that seems like filthy language.

Ealwin sighs. "We've never talked about that. About girls and all. I know you don't like to and you know I don't care that much. I look forward to never having to bother about mating and all that goes before it. All that frustration..." he shudders. "No, time is better spent on the arts... well, you know my mind."

"Perish the man, forth the mind," Arik quotes absently. When they turn seventeen, mairtans make the Sacrifice and become igmen, not men, having the parts that enable men to sire a child ceremoniously and carefully removed for the glory of the clan. They seem at peace with it, often even glad to be rid of all troublesome feelings of lust that keep distracting the warriors, the men.

Only warriors sire children to the clan. And only those who are good enough to survive the Circle of passing become warriors. Hence the greatness of the warriors of the clan.

It makes him sick.

"I guess it's not your lineage that troubles you?" Ealwin suggests quietly. Arik looks up with eyes narrowed.

"You know I'm proud of my mother. And my father."

"I know!" Ealwin hastens to add. "I'm not saying you shouldn't be. I think your mother is amazing. But she is still an outclanner, even though she's been here for... what, twenty years? And she did keep her outclannish ways and got your sire... sorry, your father in on it. You know I don't care but others do and to them, you're half outclanner yourself. But..."

Ealwin seizes his friend by the wrist, looking deep into his eyes.

"I just want you to know that those girls like Nirah, they don't care either. They see a soon-to-be man with great talents, who would sire talented children. To them, that counts a lot more than lineage. Trust me, I've heard them talking!"

Arik lowers his eyes. In a corner of his beating heart, he is relieved and a little proud to hear that they think of him that way. Still it only underscores his real discomfort. Seeing himself as a future sire, making talented children for the glory of the clan like a stud, he shudders.

"Thanks," he says quietly. "But that's not it."

Ealwin bites his lip and sighs. Slowly, his grip on Arik's wrist loosens but his hand still rests next to it on the table, the fingers drawing obscure figures on the rough surface, his eyes following their movement. Arik watches his face, wondering again how to explain the difference between a sire and a father so that one who isn't even interested in who sired him would understand. Ealwin is firmly enmeshed in the bonds he was brought up to cherish, all the clan his family, all his yearlings his siblings, some closer than others but none with a greater claim to loyalty... or love. In this, as in all else, Ealwin is devoutly practical.

He has yet to find any suitable words when his friend speaks again, still looking down.

"You know, the reason I didn't want to tell you where I got the inspiration for my facial study was... well, you remember you said that it looked afraid?"

Arik slowly nods. "I can't say why, I just got that feeling."

"Well," Ealwin says and his eyes rise to meet Arik's, round with gravity. "I got the look from you."

A silence falls between them like night. The hubbub of youth eating and chattering about them seems suddenly far away. Closing his eyes, Arik finds himself alone on a mountain top, a steel-gazed griph bearing down on him from a dark sun. Every limb is frozen within while searing flames lick them without.

It is the dream he has woken from lately, a dozen times in a month in the silent hours before dawn, quaking and dry-mouthed. Only the night-wardens have witnessed him rising out of bed to go to the pool. Its soothing waters help him wash off the residue of terror enough for another dozing hour. The night-wardens don't tell anyone unless another one reports some girl walking away at the same time, rousing the suspicion of an illicit tryst.

And he has told no one, not even mother. It seems too much like a premonition. The eyes of a griph are said to strike you numb unless you are without fear of death. That, Arik is decidedly not. For him to be stone-struck by the griph's gaze seems like a dead certainty.

If he were an unwarrior, an igman, he needn't submit himself to that failure, he could live a long and interesting life in pursuit of arts or crafts. But never with children of his own. And that seems like a long, slow death to his heart.

Trapped between a careening rockslide and a bottomless mire, where is there a way out for him?

He opens his eyes again and takes in the concern in Ealwin's. Now he knows what the look that he used for his eye study means, but he has yet to learn what's at the root of Arik's fear. He might have talked about it with mother and perhaps with his sisters, they would understand. But they are powerless to help him. What could Ealwin possibly say about it that he hasn't already thought a thousand times, in the locked dungeons of his mind?

And there's another conundrum in his dream that ties his tongue, that he can't even begin to explain - the dark sun behind the griph. Within the dream, it seems perfectly logical that the sun radiates darkness instead of light. In the waking world, he can set those words to it, but they fall far short of relating what he sees before his sleeping eye. And what it signifies is entirely beyond him.

Then, as from the deepest valley, Ealwin's voice reaches him.

"Arik?" it asks, like a memory of a ghost. "What are you afraid of?"

Watching that deadly, ferocious, beautiful beast plunging, lusting for his heartblood, seeing it as clearly before his inner eye as he can still see his friend opposite him, Arik slowly shakes his head.

"I'm not afraid," he whispers, not sure if the words leave his lips or only echo in his mind. "I'm terrified."