from burning. It created a self-feeding cycle that made the pain more intense than if her feet had begun to burn.
Her body went rigid, but she forced herself to relax. She recalled all of the impure thoughts she’d had since her last cleansing a week before: joy when she’d heard of a fishing ship lost at sea, rapture when she’d learned of a small family that had succumbed to the famine, jealousy when an old friend had taken the wind for further shores.
Lust for a man she knew she could never have.
She shook the thoughts of him away and instead focused on the pain. It washed over her and intensified as she fed it with renewed energy, and though the heat climbed higher than the stars, she never screamed, never allowed it beyond her mortal frame. This was her penance, the cost of the decisions she had made during her life. Her only hope was that she could atone for them in later lives.
She would, she muttered through the veil of pain.
She would.
The pain became so intense it was all she could think of, and still she pushed herself to keep her feet in place, to allow them to burn longer.
She deserved every second of it.
She opened her eyes and drew her legs to her chest as a long moan escaped her lips and tears slipped along her cheeks. Flames the color of the ocean shallows flickered along her ankles and feet, and for long moments, she rode the crest of the wave, swallowing hard, coughing, fighting the urge to snuff the flames as the heat bore deeper and deeper beneath her skin. She would not relent so easily; she would take what it would give, purify as much of herself as she could.
Finally the heat and the pain faded. When her feet had cooled enough to set them back upon the carpet, she curled into a ball and began to sob.
She wished she could fly on the winds and visit distant shores. She wished, only for a moment, that she had been born of the Landed, so she could do as she wished, when she wished. This was yet another thought that she would pay dearly for the next time she placed her feet to the flames, but for now, for now, she cherished it like a jewel in the nest of a rook.
The village of Iramanshah contained a celestia-an open air dome supported by thick pillars of clay-colored stone. Concentric steps led down to a floor that was complicated by a vast collection of lines and circles-indicators of various constellations and their positions at certain, significant days of the year. Dozens of Aramahn men and women, scattered like seeds, stood or sat, speaking softly with one another, sharing their experiences, their loves, their fears. It was a thing that Rehada missed dearly, and for a time she simply stood and watched, wishing she could take part in their conversations. She recognized a man she had met years ago on her second crossing of Mirkotsk, and she realized that she couldn’t remember his name. Had it been so long that she had begun to forget the names of those she’d met? And if she had forgotten him, what else might be lost to her? This was her history, her life…
She was pulled from her reverie by a golden voice.
Nearby, the seven mahtar-the village elders-were standing around a man with tousled brown hair. He wore an alabaster gem within the circlet upon his brow. On his wrists were tourmaline and opal, worked into beautiful golden bracelets, and though she could not see his ankles, she had no doubt there were two more gems: jasper and azurite.
This must be him, she thought. Ashan Kida al Ahrumea. As she stared- longer than she should have-one of the mahtar, a woman named Fahroz, noticed Rehada. She gave Rehada a look of disapproval while the others guided Ashan to an area free from prying ears.
“Have you reconsidered, then?” Fahroz said as she came near.
“Forgive me, but I have not.”
She allowed her gaze to roam the celestia. “Then please, why have you come?”
“Am I forbidden to speak to my people?”
“Play what games you wish. You know you are not welcome in Iramanshah.”
“Until I cross the fires for you.”
Fahroz frowned, causing the heavy wrinkles around her forehead and mouth to deepen. “It is not for me that you would cross the fires, Rehada. It is for you, for the lives you have lived and the lives you have yet to live.”
“Then perhaps I am here to contemplate.”
One of the other mahtar called to Fahroz. She turned, waved, and then returned her attention to Rehada. “That, I doubt, but I hope in my heart it is true. Think on what I have said, Rehada. Come to me if your thoughts change.”
“I will.”
Fahroz joined the others in their low conversation with Ashan. Rehada felt conspicuous as she made her way down the steps to the floor and to a boy that was lying down, arms and legs spread wide, near the center. She should probably not have come, but after Soroush’s sudden visit-and the news from Nikandr that Nasim had landed on the island-she could not help herself. This was a boy that held the hopes and dreams of the Maharraht in the palm of his hand, and she would know more of him, Soroush’s permission or not.
Nasim was staring up at the underside of the dome, which was layered with a dark mosaic of the nighttime sky at winter solstice. As she neared, she could see that his eyes were moving from constellation to constellation. His eyes would thin, and he would mumble something as if he were conversing with the stars, and then he would move on, his eyes widening. She sat cross-legged nearby, hoping he would take notice of her, and when he didn’t she simply watched, curious how long it would continue. “Can you hear me, Nasim?” she asked. “Are you there?”
Nothing.
She continued to speak to him, but in the end decided it was a fruitless tack. Soroush had been unable to speak with him reliably in the years that he’d held him. How could she in mere minutes hope to do any better?
Instead of trying, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the suurahezhan she had bound to her the night before. She let the world around her fade and bid the fire spirit to come. She could feel it on the far side of the aether, and as she communed with it, she asked it what lay nearby within the spirit world of Adhiya. But bonding with the hezhan was a wholly different thing from communicating with them, and it was not a skill with which she was particularly gifted. She tried for a long time, learning nothing.
She was startled by a tapping on her shoulder. Looking up, she realized that Ashan was standing over her.
Immediately she stood and bowed. Her heart was beating madly. “I am grateful our paths have crossed.” She had hoped to speak with him on this foray into Iramanshah, but she had had no idea she would be so cowed by his presence. Again she regretted she had never met one of the arqesh while she had been on the path of peace. Why was it only now, when she had tied her fate to that of the Maharraht, that the fates decided she should meet one?
She would contemplate this later, and hopefully learn from it, but for now she pushed the thoughts away and gave all her concentration to the task at hand.
Ashan bowed his head, smiling a wide, crooked smile. “I am Ashan Kida al Ahrumea.”
“My name is Rehada Ulan al Shineshka, and you are known to me.”
“I see you have met my young charge, Nasim.”
Rehada was surprised that he used his real name, but then again, he was arqesh, and would find it difficult to lie. Plus, no one on the island, except perhaps her, would know anything about Nasim. It was the unfortunate nature of the Aramahn and their ceaseless travels that so many of them were strangers to one another, even if they did have long memories.
“I can’t say that I’ve truly met him,” she replied. “He seems like a contemplative boy.”
Ashan chuckled. “I’ve heard him called many things before, but contemplative hasn’t been one of them.”
“What would you call him, then?”
“I would call him lost.”
“Lost.”
“Lost within the confines of his mind, constantly trying to find his way out.”
Rehada looked down at the boy and considered this. He continued to study the mosaics above. His lips
