ROUGHLY two weeks had passed with the group’s travels on the flat plains, having already entered a new year. They had ridden far along the path and eventually came to its end close to the edge of the desert where the flora seemed to creep in to its confines. As was expected Tūmbṃār said nothing to them and they, in like, could say nothing to him. And between themselves, they hardly talked to one another.

While the situation itself was awkward, it was indeed the most troublesome for Vrihkhaḥ, for with Tūmbṃār riding on his back, he could not even sing. They had also to leave the camels at the desert, for they would not take one step outside its domain, and when they had disembarked, the camels gave a shout to the group and went on their way.

There were scarcely any hills, though the path through the ground from where the tall grass grew was quite bumpy. The rain clouds were at last coming by them and, oddly, seemed to move around the direction of the desert. And while at the beginning it seemed refreshing, it quickly became a nuisance for with no cover to be had and scarce any sites of note—except for a few villages that turned them away—they were often thoroughly soaked. They had expected much more hospitality along the way, but given the nature of their group, it was hardly surprising that the level of distrust would be ever higher toward them. Not even leaving Vrihkhaḥ some miles away and taking up disguises allowed them entry.

With the torrential downpour, the ditches would often fill to surface and create little ponds in which many mosquitoes would flourish and assail the group. And to make their matters worse, the soil would wane in strength from the overabundance of water, and would collapse beneath their feet. And during the night, the storm clouds would pass once more and soak them. With no cover, they had to bear the onslaught.

Tūmbṃār himself had still many large pieces of cloth and tapestry within his sack, but out of stubbornness, he would not take them out—not even for himself. All of them, at one point or another, caught colds and even developed fevers and all recovered from this, except for Aiṛth.

Her fever persisted for long, but they had not the means to heal it. Even with Iḷēhaḥ treating her with the little knowledge and practice she had, they could only seek to reduce it, where not long after it would return. Tūmbṃār, however, seemed oblivious to this, and this angered Iḷēhaḥ greatly. But as she made her approach, she would stop and turn back and feel sad. This was much the case for the others who agreed among themselves to let him be and stick to their own business.

They could not wait or sit around for Aiṛth’s fever to pass, and so they hastened along the plains. Within a few days, they at last reached a town that surprisingly had a hill and sparse trees growing in and around it, many of them being tall and wide banyans. Oddly, they did not have any branches that dug into the soil, spreading far enough that one should think that the branches would have collapsed by now. But aside from that, the sky, at least for that day, was clear.

The town’s name was Freṛdataram and, as likened to its name, the ground was quite wet, but not loose or weak. There was no gate, let alone a wall that would bar entry and no soldiers or guards to speak of, which seemed quite odd to them.

They made their way through the streets on the dirt paths as all the townspeople gazed at the group with wonder, especially at Vrihkhaḥ, whom, instead of backing away from in fear, they approached with great interest. The children that played about ran along by his side, petting his fur. Vrihkhaḥ then began to sing, much to the group’s annoyance, while the children laughed and scampered away.

Before long they made to the center of the town where stood the tower for the Fiyukthi. Nakthaḥm took hold of Aiṛth and they ascended the stairs. Tūmbṃār looked to his side and could see the endless plains in the distance, with not a mountain in sight. But on the other side, he could see the singularly large hill that stood at the town’s edge, and this piqued his interest.

When at the tower’s zenith, they took Aiṛth to the Servants who looked over the group with similar interest to the townspeople. But seeing the priestess brought forth to them, they hastened to her and could at once tell it was a fever.

“She has suffered as such for several days,” said Nakthaḥm. “Do you have time to look at her?”

“Yes! Of course,” said one Servant. He put her hand upon Aiṛth’s mask. “He fever is fierce. Bring her quickly with me! We shall have her rest at our lodge.”

They followed him down the steps and made their way toward the northern edge of town, where at the very end stood a tall arch and a path leading up the hill. Not far off, however, was a complex that seemed more maintained than the rest of the town: a stone floor of smooth tiles, a cylindrical brick structure of three levels with a large garden and many burning lamps surrounding the lodge.

Vrihkhaḥ stayed outside while the others proceeded into the lodge. Within its confines were many pillars and images of the Gods, and a spiraling stairwell hidden behind the walls. He brought them to an empty room that seemed to have been recently cleaned, with not a speck of dust or dirt to be seen, and laid Aiṛth on a soft bed. He quickly left and came back with a mortar, pestle, and some herbs.

“I’m sorry to ask of this, but would you mind leaving?” he asked. “I must take off her mask.”

And the group left the room while the priest closed the door.

“Do you suppose her illness has worsened?” said Sanyhaḥmān. “I’d have thought she only needed rest if it weren’t for the fever coming back.”

“’Tis something I do not know,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “But it does seem to be more than a fever. Strong in some ways and weak in others, I suppose, is her story. I am more surprised she did not become sick when we were journeying through the desert! I would have been sure to suffer from a heat stroke wearing what she does.”

“It could have to do with their training,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “They are known to hone the use of their powers to protect them against the elements. Maybe she hadn’t yet finished when she escaped with us. It should’ve been trivial otherwise for her to block the rain; and it is not as if she has to conserve her power to fight with us.”

“But she does need to heal,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “And that, I can assure you, is not trivial. There is also the matter of her situation in Vālukyāvaḷūr. As I am sure you all heard, the lord cried that her father had ordered her execution. I had meant to ask further on it, but ’tis best we deal with it when she comes to, and is in better frame of mind.”

“That would indeed be best,” said Feyūnhaḥ.

Nakthaḥm walked out into the open where the sun shined peeked over the edge of the opening. “Well, seeing as it is such a nice day and that Aiṛth shall most likely be bed-ridden for the rest of the day, what say we take a stroll about the town. There might be something of interest here. We can discuss her situation at a later reprieve.”

“Agreed! And I’ll come,” said Sanyhaḥmān coming nearby him. “We must get some supplies as well.”

“I shall have to pass,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “I will wait here for Aiṛth to recover.”

“As will I,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “Sanyhaḥmān! Beware you do not waste what I’m lending you.” She gave him a glare before handing him the pouch and he assured he would do no such thing—it was not as if there were any places to gamble around the town.

And so Nakthaḥm and Sanyhaḥmān left, with Tūmbṃār following behind them. It was strange that they could barely acknowledge Tūmbṃār by this point, but he remained unaffected by the self-imposed isolation. The three walked outside and called for Vrihkhaḥ, who joined them, and together they walked out of the garden onto the dirt trail.