FEYŪNHAḤ took them to other sights across the city, for she knew if she were to take them to the palace now, they would likely not have time to tour. They saw numerous statues of valiant kings and officials, walled-off trees that towered above, and various smaller temples built on the eastern side where they prayed before the many Fiyukthi and figures of the Gods.

Many of the soldiers and residents gave their respects to the princess as they traveled from sight to sight. But there were also many officials who would give her odd glances, and perhaps thought to themselves how the princess was shirking her duties. It seemed at certain moments that they sought to engage her, but whenever their eyes met Iḷēhaḥ’s, whose expression seemed quite normal, they became fearful. And they thereafter kept their distance, as if an invisible force prevented their approach.

Feyūnhaḥ had done her best to ignore them, not realizing they had left because of the maiden. Iḷēhaḥ had by this point already taken notice, but she wondered why Feyūnhaḥ suffered such behavior.

As they were walking through the center of a city, they saw that there was a standoff between some of the residents and the various officials, with a retinue of soldiers behind. The three stood back, watching. It seemed the residents protested against a tax increase, and one of the officials stepped forth and said, “Understand, my fellow Autirsāh, that we do not raise the taxes idly. The demon has done much to hurt our members and our ranks, and the price that has been paid is too high. We can expend no more than is necessary to help our soldiers and the many Servants assailed by it on their way to the Western woods. And you cannot deny that the great Lord Zūryaṃār in ages past, asked us to see to the protection of the cave that holds that most sacred treasure.”

Yet the residents would not have it and lashed out, proclaiming, “Why should we have to pay for your mistakes? Do your jobs officials, soldiers! Lord Zūryaṃār is long dead and we shall not have our money taken even on expense of a demon! Can you not take coin out of your own deep pockets, which we know you and your members to well be hoarding?”

Those last few words enraged the official and he got ready to draw his sword. And it seemed as if at any moment, blood would be spilled. Feyūnhaḥ knew the demon was less of an issue, for the stratification between the aristocrats and the commoners led to much unrest, something she had seen time and time again, yet to a much lesser extent here. It was a system that she greatly reviled.

Tūmbṃār was all too familiar with this, even among the villagers. Though they all looked to him with endearing hearts, there was still much contention between them. Perhaps he himself would have suffered this had the sage not made him his disciple, being as he was of the lowest rung known as the Yōzhdaṛ, ones tasked to be no more than servants and farmers and menial laborers. It would not have been a problem had it been by choice, but most unfortunately, it was not so. His parents and indeed all the villagers never sought to rise above this, complacent and in some cases even prideful of their position. There had been a time when such people—and all peoples for that matter—had been regarded with an equal eye regardless of occupation, but such fondness had vanished in days long passed.

And as they continued to watch this, Iḷēhaḥ became frustrated and said, “Have these people gone mad? They would let a wretched being continue to assail them all on account of keeping some coin? These fools! That demon shall be the end of them!”

“Don’t speak such things, Iḷēhaḥ!” said Feyūnhaḥ. “You will be dealing with it in one way or another. I’ll end this feud now and we can be on our way.”

She marched and stood in front of the crowd, and facing the officials, she bowed and said, “Relieve them of the burden, officials. Athruyam and I will handle this matter. We can secure coin by other means, such as through the guilds which are still very much in debt to us. Let us ask them to pay it now in partial amount. That alone should be enough to cover expenses.”

And while this seemed reasonable, the official’s face contorted in rage, and he seemed about to lash out at her. But he held himself back and averted his gaze with a face of abject displeasure.

He turned to the retinue and other officials and said, “Let us leave!”

They walked away, and the residents thanked the princess before leaving in turn. Iḷēhaḥ did not much like how Feyūnhaḥ seemed to care little for the demon, but she could not help but feel pity and even anger for her. The way the officials had treated her was abominable, and not something one of her position should have to endure. Tūmbṃār, however, did not know what to think, unable as he was to tell if the officials were in the right or wrong.

And after a few moments, she lifted her head with a smile and looked to the others, saying, “Let’s continue on our tour!”

On their last stop, they made to the southern end, taking a long bridge that trailed along the perimeter of the mountains. Upon arriving, Iḷēhaḥ and Tūmbṃār lifted their heads high to gaze at the twelve great wooded towers standing before them. They coiled about each other like constricting snakes and held metallic platforms that crept along their edges.

Many Autirsāh, dressed in formal attire of long robes, passed in and out across the large bridge that led to the entrance. Tūmbṃār ran across it with the two ladies in tow.

Inside were numerous spiraling stairs, as many as a hundred, that all led to a different portion of the tower. Lined along the walls were roots, vines, and metal fixtures used to balance the platforms. They took to a path on the left side and climbed the stairs illuminated by flowers on the ceiling.

When they reached the top, they were outside on an elevated platform high above the ground, where the wind was calm. They faced toward the east, where they saw various sections of the city gradually come alight in time with the sun’s fall. And when it had fully set, the lights brightened, and they could see streams of it cascade in the air trailing to the Fiyukthi. A blast of fire erupted from each of the roofs of the towers, and the embers, ashes, and lights coursed along the flames. Within moments, they blazed with rapid ascent as it pushed the mass of fire over the clouds. It then burst and spread itself across the sky, releasing a brilliant array of lights, like grand fireworks, that all too quickly vanished into the air.

Feyūnhaḥ clapped her hands and whistled. “It was a nice display, wasn’t it?”

“It was beautiful! Never have I seen a sight quite like it!”

“First time I’ve seen something like this too. The dazzling lights and awesome flames! I’d have never dreamed something like that was possible. I wish I could’ve shown this to the villagers. They would have gazed at it wide-eyed!”

Feyūnhaḥ smiled to Iḷēhaḥ and patted the boy. “Perhaps they will one day.”

She then placed her hands in prayer, and with her head lifted and her eyes closed, she sang:

Se Dehaḥhrdhunangyumān

Se Dehaḥgethamadyashu

Se Dehaḥeshalvaramān

Shraovuhyati se pat getham

Nagasryit se chngyati

Yurvuz datam vreshat Svyam

Ārhmaht tāste Puhrtan-ranghyu

Vimaho Santatehvārhaḥ

Svalfvorah Ishvhaḥ Arhaḥṃār Gods of my heart and of my mind;

Gods of my being and of my heaven;

Gods of my universe and of my cosmos;

Hear my call, for living have fallen and dead arise.

Paying obeisance (to you) I plead thus;

Raise them (to your halls), showering Delight.

May the souls be at rest so my mind be at ease;

For all that comes of That shall one day go back.

Gratitude be given to That Most Respected! ĀḤṂ, ĀḤṂ, ĀḤṂ

Iḷēhaḥ looked to her, surprised, and asked, “Why do you sing The Prayer for the Dead?”

“These towers are funerary structures. The people who do come and go from here have brought their dead to cremate. When enough are brought, then the towers ignite the corpses and erupt the flaming ash. And with the powers, they stream it toward the Fiyukthi to disperse itself in the air. Such is the way that we honor the dead.”

“Don’t you mourn?” asked Tūmbṃār. “In my village, we all sing that song, then mourn – well, they mourn, not me – for at least a fifth-week.”

Feyūnhaḥ laughed and said, “People across the world deal differently with their dead. We usually celebrate rather than mourn, and let their ashes fall on us. It doesn’t mean we don’t cry, but it hardly lasts long. We more often face them with joy for we’ll all eventually meet one another again, either here, in the Heavens, or at That which is above all else, of which I must admit I understand little, as do many of the other Ṃārhaḥn.” She then looked to Iḷēhaḥ with a smile. “What of you, Iḷēhaḥ? Do your people mourn?”

Iḷēhaḥ kept a solemn face as she sat down. She gazed into the distance and answered, “We do, but not very often; indeed, very rarely as far as I can tell, though I have never seen it. There was only one time when all the residents of my place came together to do so, but it was during a time I cannot remember.”

And both the boy and the princess were puzzled.

“What do you mean by rarely?” asked Feyūnhaḥ. Her curiosity grew with more and more of Iḷēhaḥ’s odd responses.

Iḷēhaḥ curled her hair about her finger and softly bit her lip, thinking it better if she kept her mouth shut. She remained silent for a while as she pondered on whether to answer or not.

After a few moments, she said, “’Tis not something I very much like to discuss, but we have only done such for only a few of us have thus far died, the greatest of whom happened to have perished all on the same day.”

Feyūnhaḥ gave a surprised look. “Are you a Daivhaḥhō then? It sounds as if they were killed. Some are said to be gifted with long lives that could persist if not fatally wounded, but I have not met any as of yet who possess that trait.”

Iḷēhaḥ gave a soft smile and simply answered, “I leave that to you to figure out.”

Feyūnhaḥ was displeased, and Tūmbṃār whispered to her, “At least she said something,” which she could not deny.

She sighed, yet smiled and patted the boy. It would be hard to get much out of Iḷēhaḥ. She knew that her brother knew certain details about the maiden’s identity, but he would not dispense of any of it to her due to orders from some higher source of which she again knew little. She would just have to wait to have her curiosity sated. Tūmbṃār and Feyūnhaḥ then sat on that platform and gazed at the dimly lit sky. The moon and stars peered above the receding clouds with silence about them.