The evening enveloped Old Varoonya in darkness, mist and rainclouds. But in the Singing Phoenix, the magic of a vast mountain landscape had opened up, with a bright sky holding mysterious colors and the long grass weaving patterns of oracle and destiny. A beautiful elven prince sat in a glade, glistening tears running down his cheek. The dead girl at his feet suddenly woke, shook the diamond off her brow and rose up to wrestle fate and power.

A mythical tale of courage and wonder, of fairies and humans, of suffering and struggle unfolded, growing in a fulminant crescendo until it bombastically exploded into release and resolution.

Music flowed across the room. People let out a deep breath, leaning into the embrace of their companions, savoring the balm of well-being offered after heart-wrenching excitement. They clapped and sighed, singing their approval to the stage. As the curtain rose once again, Yoor appeared with a ravishing bow, a blown kiss and a promise: He would join them later in the foyer to talk about his art, his life, his time in the Mountains.

So people stayed. Sipping spicy tea, they made themselves comfortable in the weathered elegance of old furniture. They talked and ambled around the room, letting themselves be drawn into a conversation by some youths at a side table.

Nin held her position with sparkling eyes. Her passion followed on seamlessly from the opera of magic that had just rolled out over the stage. "Who would want a diamond!" There was a contemptuous curl to Nin's lip. "It would make you look like a Feudal." Her voice was trembling with suppressed emotion. "Actually, you are like a Feudal, in that moment. You are wearing the visible sign of a power: the power to oppress and exploit others. To make them crawl into darkness and danger, just for your amusement." Nin shook herself. "And the Feudals thought that would make them look good." She nearly spat on the ground. "So despicable. Embarrassing. Who would want to be like that?"

The young man in front of her picked up a small linen pouch and pensively fingered the round budge.

"Exactly!" Nin pointed her finger at the pouch, or straight at the man's chest. "Because now there is something better! A way! Not only the Mountain grouping, but also this. We can change the structure directly! Get the children out of the work cabins, right now! What could be more important? More natural? Than to make sure all children can grow up well?"

The young man could not come up with an example. And with no further resistance either. His heart had been won, and his mind too. Yes, of course he would share with the children of Shebbetin, every moon. How could he not? We all live here together, after all.

* * *

Torly jerked awake. It was pitch dark. A thick cover of clouds still hung over Varoonya, making the night air full and heavy.

"Yoor!" Torly whispered, urgency in her voice.

"Hmm." Yoor indicated that he was asleep.

Torly fretted, tense and anxious.

Yoor felt it and agreed to wake up. At least a little. Enough for an indistinct mumble. "Hmm?" He reached out a hand toward her.

Torly grasped it immediately. "I have completely forgotten! I got so tied up with the grouping, with only a few days left and all—that I forgot about the most important thing!"

Yoor tried to open one eye. Torly's body was an indistinct shape in the dark. But her voice came through, carrying so much worry it practically shook Yoor by the shoulders.

"We forgot the people! They've never been included. Will they be, this time around? Will there be a Choosing in Shebbetin at all?"

* * *

The owner's cabin was tucked into the mountain slope, off to one side. It had a clear view of the mine entrance and all the comings and goings, even though it was half-hidden by shrubbery itself.

The last of the miners pocketed his coin for the week, then lumbered out, ducking beneath the low lintel. But Joonster stayed on. In Naydeer's service, he had learned when to linger. And how to read people's poise.

Slowly, meticulously, Joonster closed his books, arranged them neatly into a stack, stowed them away one by one. He swiped a speck of dust off his desk. He peered into a small mirror, making sure that not a hair on his head was out of line.

Then the knock came. On the back door, the one that could be reached unseen through an abandoned tunnel of the mine.

Joonster opened. It was the miner he had expected.

"I have been to two of their gatherings now," the sturdy woman mumbled, her eyes downcast. "And they have said pretty much the same thing at each. How exactly they are planning to prepare for the Choosing."

Joonster fished an extra coin out of his bag.

* * *

The Mansion was cold. Herun's breath left little clouds in the air while he checked the warmlings under the duvet. They were all still radiating pleasantly against his palm.

But Quinetopu's face was gaunt and gray. His eyes seemed very large, sunken into the sockets, his cheeks hollow. A ghost come home from the mine. He had not spoken for days, nor caught his children's gaze. He was lost in a dream, or a void. Quinetopu looked thin, ethereal, a shadow of his former self. A being of the otherworld, about to drift away.

Both of his boys had snuggled up in bed with him, kissing his cheek, burying their faces in the crook of his neck. Herun was with them, sitting on the bedside, his large hands on the children's backs.

Quinetopu's breath was shallow and uneven. A slight rattle had crept into it. He tried to cough, but his body was too weak. It only shivered with the effort.

His little boys nestled in more closely, holding him tight, pressing their warm chests against his frail figure. Sending the strength of their hearts, of their longing, of their pain. Hot tears fell onto Quinetopu's cheek. Herun began to sing, a slow, soft lullaby, a wordless greeting, a mourning.

And Quinetopu heard them. He felt his children's love, their need and their youth. But he had nothing left to give. He knew life would go on, without him. He could do nothing more now than trust it. He let go.