FEYŪNHAḤ once again scoured the southern district, and as Nakthaḥm had mentioned, there was a shop selling pastries or at least what looked like such from what the princess could see through the glass panes. The torches were not lit, but she moved toward the stone section of the wall and concentrated her hearing. She could hear the flow of air, the scurrying of small rodents, the pouring of liquid, and two voices in the upper section. Tūmbṃār was there and he was talking to someone, most likely the owner, she thought.

She looked toward the top and could see a window, but closed and with thick curtains. Feyūnhaḥ then moved into the space between the buildings and hopped lightly from wall to wall until she was atop the roof of the shop. On it was a flat, smooth surface with another glass pane and a chimney near the side. She sat and listened to the two.

“So, that is what happened,” said Lı̄vana, pouring another glass of tea for Tūmbṃār.

Tūmbṃār remained sullen on his way to her shop, and just as before, she took notice of this while sweeping and brought him inside. She thanked him for saving the kidnapped individuals and gave him a whole host of sweets—though she would likely have done so regardless—and he unashamedly gorged them down. He talked at length about his problems with the others and even the lord, much to her surprise.

When night came, they moved to her bedroom where they continued the conversation. There was hardly much there: a wooden floor, the stone wall, a bed, and a dresser, a quaint little space with a single lantern lighting the interior. While she was not looking at it, the boy flicked his finger at the small flame, and it grew great and large yet did not consume any more oil than it had before. Large enough it was that the space became much brighter but not enough to escape the reaches of the lantern’s casing.

She smiled and said, “My gratitude to you, child.”

But the boy feigned ignorance and said it was not him, and she laughed.

“So, tell me what it is you wish to do?” asked Lı̄vana.

Now knowing the situation between Tūmbṃār and Feyūnhaḥ as well as what had occurred in the hall, she wanted to help him. Quite a burden was placed on him, but he was the one who chose it, and so he would have to come to a decision on his own. What little help she could give would be through wisdom.

“I wish to make peace with Feyūnhaḥ,” said Tūmbṃār, “but I don’t want to go against what I said to her. I don’t believe I was wrong in that. Why should people have to die for such things? Is it so hard to forgive?”

The owner sipped some tea, and as she put down the glass, she looked toward the window at the top. The clouds moved away from the moon and its light poured through the space to make the edges of the room just a little brighter than it had been before.

“For some people, yes, but you must also understand the position of the lord. It’s not as if he does this out of wantonness, and as you said of the punishments in your village, there, it’s even more important that such things are handled with as correct a decision as can be made, for the few residents who live will all likely be affected by it. He has his duties to uphold and justice to dispense as is expected of him, and whether he forgives or doesn’t is of little concern when Khāryaḥ is involved.

“Yet aside from that, there’s little that can be done by one who doesn’t possess the power to enact change. Though you’re quite strong physically, emotionally you’re still quite immature—though it isn’t much of a surprise given you’ve just entered boyhood. Seeing as you’ll have to travel quite far and long, your attitude toward this may change, but at least with that time shall come wisdom, and you’ll better be able to discern what it is you must do.” She then looked him straight in the eyes. “In my opinion, neither you nor anyone else is right or wrong in this regard for it’s just a matter of whether a person wants to be strict or lenient. Both stances stand justified, even though one does seem crueler than the other.”

He understood what she meant, but still could not resolve to allow things to be as they were. Thinking for a bit, he peered into the flame. And after some time of looking at it, he stood up, now with some newfound resolution and bowing to Lı̄vana, he thanked her. He bid her well and ran out of the shop, much to her surprise, and she tried to catch up to him without avail. He had made it past the entrance quicker than she expected and ran off toward the northern district. She hoped he would not do anything rash and prayed to the Gods to guide him.

Upon reaching the gates, he saw that the guards were still posted around the perimeter, ever watchful of intruders. He skirted around it under cover of darkness, and when a blind spot could be found, he made a light step and jumped high, scaling the wall, whereupon he fell into a flower bed and petals scattered about him. He lay there for a while, listening for the footsteps, and when they moved far enough away, scampered along the upward path.

Now at the top of the steps, Tūmbṃār could see guards still walking about, many more situated at the castle than where he was. And so, he made sure to keep toward the edge of the fence, taking cover behind trees or bushes, his small stature making it mighty easy to blend in. When each patrol’s line of sight was shifted, he switched from foliage to foliage until there was no more at his side. When there were at least a few hundred yards between him and the pillars of the castle, he focused air to the soles of his feet, and took a light step to thrust himself forward. Within a moment, he was behind the pillar, but the shock of his movement ruffled the trees and bushes, and the guards took notice and moved cautiously toward the movement. With the guards preoccupied, he took his chance to make his way inside quickly.

Without a servant to help him this time, he would need to navigate the large and vast halls on his own, and made a few loops around the exterior, hiding from the servants on their night shift. Along the way, he saw many more paintings of the Gods, and it seemed as if there was a whole story playing out on the walls. But he found himself with little time to marvel at it. Many twists and turns he took, looking through each and every room as clandestinely as he could until he came at last to a wide set of descending stairs, hidden behind an equally tall door. Due to the position of the castle, the stairs most likely led to the dungeons, and one could see the barred openings from the other side were they to sail around the town.

He made his way down the spiral steps but soon heard footsteps coming from the other side. Though the passage was wide, there was hardly any place to hide, and he soon saw a light nearing him. With little thought, he took a pebble out of his pocket and tossed it around the corner, high above. It landed some steps away, but the sound was quite loud. The footsteps then moved in the other direction, and Tūmbṃār took his chance to walk behind the guard. Bending low behind him, Tūmbṃār tiptoed in relation to the guard’s footsteps. The guard, however, sensed something amiss and quickly turned. But he saw nothing. He walked up the stairs as Tūmbṃār, still crouched, made his way slowly down the stairs.

At the bottom of the steps, he saw a series of narrow halls, each housing a set of cells. Most—if not all—within were asleep, and it seemed that there were no other guards posted. Tūmbṃār made his way down the halls, but as he did so, a soft voice could be heard. He followed it, and in the last row spotted a cloaked person shining under the moonlight, speaking to someone in a cell. Tūmbṃār could make out the person’s distinct voice in the cell, but the cloaked figure remained a mystery to him. He stayed in hiding, simply listening for a while.

“Do you not wish to be free, high priest? I do not bear any ill will toward you, and I know the boy who saved me would much wish you to be free. My father will not allow for your release; he is much too stubborn, and even I would be saddened over your death,” stated the soft voice.

From the words that Tūmbṃār could make out, it seemed to him that she was the daughter of the lord, the girl whose exquisite clothes and sickly disposition he had noticed when he had moved her away from the summoning circle. But it was quite peculiar that she had a similar intention to Tūmbṃār, for he too wished to set the man free.

“I am sorry, my child, but I cannot assent to this,” said Furutham. “Truly have I wronged you, the other captives, and this town, out of a selfish desire to rid myself of any lingering notion of the Gods – Gods I know now to remain, watching us, but remaining ever silent. It is only proper that I do not cause any more trouble here. Even if I lived and journeyed with the boy, the guilt that now racks me would be too great to bear. Fitting, I suppose, that I should perish tomorrow.”

“But did you not listen to the words of the boy? You would have a chance to redeem yourself; I have forgiven you, and would think the same of the others that you had captured.”

“So, you were watching the trial,” said Furutham, and she nodded. “Well, in any case, that is but a thought of yours; you do not know for sure that that is what they have resigned themselves to.”

She remained silent, and the head priest chained to the wall had enough leeway to pat her on the head. “Go, child, it is late. I wish to trouble you no further. Know that I am at peace, and whatever decision the lord, your father, shall make tomorrow, gladly shall I accept it, in life and death.”

He looked to his side and directed her. She turned and saw Tūmbṃār’s silhouette.

With a smile on his face, Furutham said, “Tell him precisely what I have told you, and make sure to escort him out of here. It would be quite awkward for him to end up in a cell after stopping me and saving you.”

She did as he bade, realizing she could no longer convince him. She ran to Tūmbṃār, grabbed his hand, and scurried away from the halls with light steps. They made their way to the other side and in front of the stone wall, she trailed her fingers across it much like Nakthaḥm. When she stopped, a passage appeared in front of them, and she hastened down the steps with the boy in tow as the entrance closed behind.

They had emerged from the other side in an alleyway, and she and Tūmbṃār made to a small stone wall sitting underneath a tree not far off the main road. He looked about him and saw it was the path he had taken toward the castle, and looking north, could see it in the distance. When they sat down, the girl dropped her hood and gazed into his eyes as if inspecting him.

When she dropped her gaze, she said, “You are Tūmbṃār, They who shall Overcome, and the one who saved me, are you not?”

“Yes – at least I think that’s what my name means,” said the boy as he nodded, “and what’s yours?”

She bowed to him and said, “I am the daughter of the Lord Prelūshyodhaḥm, Jūtihiḥ, for I should always Lead myself to Brightness. I heard from the high priest Furutham, that you also planned to set him free, though I am unsure as to how he knew that to be the case.”

“He must’ve known I would do something like this. Or he found out as soon as he noticed I was there,” said the boy as he laughed. But his expression quickly turned to sadness, and he asked, “He’s going to die tomorrow, isn’t he?”

She did not respond, and Tūmbṃār took that silence to mean affirmation. He sighed and slapped himself in the cheeks.

He turned to her and asked, “So, why did you want to free him?”

She paced back and front, looking toward the stone-laden floor, coughing a bit, before speaking. “He may not look it, but he took care of me for quite a long while and was my teacher for the better part of my life. Though he kidnapped me and attempted to take my life, I do not feel any shred of hatred toward him. Instead, all that abounds in me is sadness, much as for you, but of a more personal nature. I saw him much like a father. When no one else was there for me, he stayed by my side, taught me, and healed me.

“You must have noticed that my complexion is much paler than that of even the fairest aristocrats. Even some strands on my hair have turned gray, nay even white, and have become quite brittle. Unfortunately, I was born frail and have since then been stuck with a sickly disposition. Even now, it is hard for me to stay out here as long as I have. The air and even the sunlight burn my throat and sting my skin, though it is a blessing that I should only have to bear one for now.

“In any case, one could say that Furutham betrayed me, but I would much rather say that I did not know him as well as I should, and perhaps if I had, I could have prevented this. With time shall my maidenhood end, and then I shall be the lady of this town. With that responsibility, I should see it only proper to protect individuals in all regards, even from themselves. Ever should I be watchful and ever should I be attentive, for that is what a wise ruler would do. Such were the things that Furutham taught me, and it pains me that I could not put into practice this and help him before all this occurred.”

Tūmbṃār was surprised, for this was the first time he had met a person of similar age who consigned to their duties. “Don’t you wish to be rid of such things? To go and venture out to see the world? Even if you’re sick, you have just this life to live as you, so why waste such an opportunity and be stuck in the castle? Surely there’s someone there who could help you leave that place?”

She laughed and said, “There was a time I thought like that, yes, but I learned quickly to set aside such desires and do what I must. Even if I were to do as you said, there is no one now to help with my sickness. We all have our purpose in this world, and though we can choose what it is we should do, there is also a part of us that knows where our place is. As the God Vshephaḥ knows our fate, so too does each of us as the Ārhmaht, no less by the bestowal of the Goddess Ārhmahthaḥ; and I feel now that I should do as I must – and that alone is enough to satisfy me. Do you know what it is you must do, Tūmbṃār?”

He shook his head. “I had a similar talk with an old smith in the mist but he didn’t speak of the souls, but more so the ‘purpose’ you spoke of, Zvokhāryaḥm. I’ve yet to really understand what he truly meant by it, but what you’ve said has helped me just a little more in making sense of it.”

She smiled and took up his hands, saying, “Well, glad am I that I could at least help the one who helped me. It has grown late, and I must head back; I shall likely see you again tomorrow, Tūmbṃār, my savior. Good night!”

He gave an embarrassed laugh, and she bid him well, walking back to the castle. He continued to sit on the bench in contemplation long after Jūtihiḥ was out of sight. And after some time had passed, he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked up and saw it was Feyūnhaḥ.

“What’re you doing here, Feyūnhaḥ?” asked Tūmbṃār, surprised.

She sat beside and embraced him.

“What’s going on, Feyūnhaḥ?” asked Tūmbṃār even more surprised at this.

“I searched high and low for you and waited until you were done talking to her. I thought you would head back to the inn after your conversation with the shopkeeper ended. Little I suspected you of trying to free the high priest, much less with the daughter of the lord with whom you spoke.”

“Oh. So, you heard what I said to them? Well, I shouldn’t have expected good manners from a drunk like you.”

She laughed and shook the boy’s head, much to his annoyance. The two then walked south, descending past the stairs that marked the division between the northern and central districts.

“I apologize for what I said to you, Tūmbṃār,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “I was perhaps asking you to change for my own benefit without carefully thinking what it was you wanted. However, I still wish you to be more mindful of the actions you take, though I suppose this little escapade of yours has taught you something.”

“I’m sorry too; I shouldn’t have caused you so much trouble,” said Tūmbṃār, “but I still don’t want the priest to be executed. But if I have to bide it, I will.”

She ruffled the boy’s hair and said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to find out tomorrow what Vshephaḥ will do.”

The night was young, and the moonlight that shone through the stars in that black sky lit their path back to the inn.