SHE bathed alone in the palace baths. A wide assortment of cleansers and remedies lined the walls, and having the baths all to herself, she used them all with delight, foaming the water and releasing a fragrant odor that filled the space. She soaked herself for many hours, and when she felt thoroughly refreshed, she exited and decided to groom her hair. But just as she was about to put the comb in it, she stopped. She looked to it and, recalling what she had done before, laid the comb down. Though she was in a different position, she desired to keep her promise to Tūmbṃār.
She did not wish for him to find the Dvhaḥṣhtro if he had to face the demon. The thought of it lurking nearby held in the depths of her mind, kindling a deep-seated rage that until that point was dormant. Enough for her to want to seek it out and destroy it herself were it not for the fact she possessed little power. It would become all the more vital that she train herself, if she so desired to remain beside the boy.
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She walked around the palace, attired in a silver mantle that hid her dress, and took sight of its many grand spaces and halls. Hung from the ceilings of most of the rooms were self-illuminating flowers, able by nature to spread their lights across a vast area whenever the sun receded.
The palace itself was constructed of marble, and the symbols of the Gods adorned all its walls. The structures of tall pillars, vast halls, and decorations bore a semblance to the ones of her home. But she did not want to dwell on such things and rushed outside through the main entrance.
Outside stood three large fountains with statues of Daivhaḥhō upon them, each constructed in the likeness of the Pysefyhaḥṃār. These were the aquatic celestials said to dwell deep in the ocean, far from any habitation of the other Ṃārhaḥn.
Walking past them, she stopped at the balustrade. From there, she could see evenly distributed trees that stretched for miles into the distance, all with dwellings situated about their trunks. And in the center, she saw their temple and Fiyukthi, radiating brilliantly under the moonlight.
She looked below and saw there were more platforms scaling down the edge of the mountain, where at the last layer was the series of numerous bridges she took to reach the palace. Taking the stairs on the side, she ran down to the lowest platform and walked along one of the bridges to the nearest dwelling.
There were people about the streets, scaling up and down in their paths, going from bridge to stairs to ground level to boats. An odd arrangement it was for much of the city. And though many people were traveling the paths, it was not dense in the slightest nor was it too loud; in fact, the only things audible were the soft steps of the inhabitants and the low murmurs and whispers of their voices, a pleasant and quiet night.
It was strange to her how optimal the landscape was to provide for all the inhabitants. Perhaps she overestimated how many there were, or maybe the many layers of paths eased the flow of traffic. As she walked along the streets and bridges, loneliness set within her heart, for even with all these people about, she had no one to engage with. Though a blessing it was to her that she had now Tūmbṃār and the wolf as companions after having journeyed alone for so long, it would not help for that night. She wished to herself that Tūmbṃār were beside her – even if only to pester her relentlessly, as he was wont to do.
She took to a trail that ascended through three levels of bridges, back down through three levels of stairs, to a boat that dropped her off next to the temple. She took off her sandals and ascended the long spiral staircase, and when she reached the top, she could feel the traces of warmth that the moonlight emitted upon herself. The moon was well and bright for that night.
She then entered the space where priests and priestesses—all covered from head to toe with not a speck of skin showing beneath their long robes and masks—approached and bowed to her. The smell of incense covered the room, the ringing of bells and myriad chants pleased her ears, and the beautiful artistry and architecture brought wonder to her eyes. Thirty-three statues encircled the Fiyukthi, paying homage to it. She bowed to the Servants of the Gods with folded hands, knelt before the fire, and prayed.
The Servants then passed oblations and recited:
> Arahvim frsṛdīyathvahm
> Pravizt saominth Zayagñavahm
> Yastrigadā maryez Svyam
> Arhviṃār Gethaṃārmahaḥn
> Sahyukvahm Dehaḥṃār Svyam
> Himyapath Yavhaḥṃār fraovit
> Hradkuyent ahvahm tvish duhkṛa
> Uksepāna sadājumne Svydoṣhavahm
> Īzhṛāvahm se ekashchthat
> O One to whom we look; O All who pervades us;
> Enter into us, and set alight the Immortal Flame;
> Let the journey begin in preparing the Delight!
> Being that is One and That which is All;
> Together, we yoke the Delight with the Gods;
> (Who) travel your path, protecting (us) from Demons.
> (They) illumining within us, vanquish the Evil;
> Pouring (to them) the Delight, we exhaust the Good;
> (Through them) we aspire to (your) many manifestations!
> ĀḤṂ, ĀḤṂ, ĀḤṂ
When they had finished their hymn, she stood and bowed once more to the Servants who sprinkled basil water atop her hair and tapped the top of her head with the base of a golden crown. And she gave some final prayers to the fire before taking her leave.
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As she walked along the path back to the palace, she noticed some markets beside the rivers that were still open, and decided to look at their wares. Food, liquor, cosmetics, weapons, clothing; just about any item a person could want lined their racks, and droves of people amassed in front of the stalls, all perusing for the best deals. It would seem that the markets sucked in the traffic from the main streets. She had money on her person and approached one of the stalls to buy some milk wine. At that moment, two hands grasped the bottle, Iḷēhaḥ’s and an Autirsāh’s, and they looked to each other with menace.
The stranger stood a few inches taller than Iḷēhaḥ, possessed of a temperament that waxed with spirit, though she looked visibly different from the rest of her kin. Her complexion was light, and her gray eyes blazed with vigor, her dark hair tied with ribbon resting gracefully upon her shoulders. White horns crowned about her forehead with their tips at the back of her head pointed heavenward, while her confident bearing and tight garments bore a regal elegance unmatched by even the lord of the city.
But aside from the oddities, she could not help but feel that the way this stranger presented herself seemed forced in a way.
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The stranger looked to Iḷēhaḥ with a grin and said, “Ah! You must be Iḷēhaḥ!”
Iḷēhaḥ gave her an odd look, and then upon realizing said, “Oh! You must be Athruyam’s sister!”
“Indeed! But forgive me for now, for I wish to have that bottle. It’s on nights like these, where the moon shines in full at its zenith, that I drink to contentment, and I can do so with no other drink. So, if you please, kind maiden, let go of the bottle.”
With a solemn face, Iḷēhaḥ responded, “Perhaps you would be willing to share; I could also purchase some Svyamhaḥ to go along with it.”
“Ho! So, you can handle your liquor well?”
“Indeed, I can.”
The princess was surprised yet happy. She smiled and did as Iḷēhaḥ said. She purchased the milk wine as Iḷēhaḥ bought the Svyamhaḥ, and they made to a balcony on top of a tall cedar overlooking the rivers and mountains, sitting cross-legged upon some low-rise seats with a curved backrest and padded armrests. The Svyamhaḥ soothed their nerves, and the milk wine excited them into a stupor. The aroma of the liquor filled the air, and the sweet scent wafted all around them.
Svyamhaḥ has a very nectar-like quality to it, with its brown-golden flair that lines the edges of the liquid and spirals into the center. Its consistency is thick but smooth, and of all types of alcohol are its scent and taste the sweetest. Meanwhile, milk wine tends to be base and runny, its only use to throw a person into a stupor instantly. So raw is the essence that as the alcohol is imbibed, it stings the tongue and throat, absorbed directly therein with instant causation to flush the face and warp the senses.
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Under amused hysteria, they cackled and spilled many a drink on the ground.
Iḷēhaḥ twirled her glass about her fingers, swirling the liquid about. She desired to release the aroma so as to inhale it.
“I cannot smell this liquor. My! Perhaps, we have drunk too much,” said Iḷēhaḥ.
“Oh, surely not!” said the princess, “there be at least, I think, as far as I can see, more than half the bottles left! Much a waste it would be to leave them.”
Iḷēhaḥ downed her glass and spun it in front of the princess as she swayed her head from side to side.
“Then all the more should you refill the glass!”
“Of course!” As Iḷēhaḥ’s attention shifted, the princess took hold of both the bottles and poured them into the glass, mixing their potent contents into a white stream of terrifying delight—at least to most reasoned folk, it would seem the case.
Iḷēhaḥ sniffed the liquid but still could not make out the smell. She turned to the princess with a glint of suspicion in her eyes. The princess kept a large grin and nodded her head. Iḷēhaḥ twirled the glass up high and opening her mouth wide, let flow the contents down her throat. A beautiful sight that it was, the sparkling beads of liquor suspended in the air, reflecting the light of the stars as if the Gods themselves showered it from the Heavens. When she had fully imbibed it, her face shot red, and her eyelids rested halfway closed. A large smile spread across her face as she slumped into her seat and dropped the glass into her lap.
“So, how be the drink?” asked the princess.
“The most delightful ambrosia—indeed, of course!—that I have ever consumed!” said Iḷēhaḥ as she sprang upright and fell to the arms of the princess’s seat. “O! I nearly did forget. We have not yet formally introduced ourselves; we should do so now. I am Iḷēhaḥ. What is your name, princess of the Autirsāh, sister to the Lord Athruyam, and drunkard of the waxing night!”
Still laughing, the princess responded, “I’m Feyūnhaḥ! Ah, maiden who sparkles like the stars, dressed in glowing silver, who shines like Svyamhaḥ herself! You are indeed the most peculiar person I have yet met! You look like the Laukṣhramās, yet you seem not like any of them. It is as if that silver hair, and scarlet eyes, and pale skin are as a facade covering you. From where do you come?”
Iḷēhaḥ lifted her hand above her head. “All the way there! High above where no Ṃārhaḥ here has ventured for a long while.”
“Ho! So, you come from the stars?”
“Nay! Even higher! Past the stars, past the suns, past the very cosmos itself, to a place where only mirth and happiness abound in such plentiful delight as to make even the average layman drunk from their nectar!”
“I cannot make sense of that! You seem to be speaking nonsense, maiden.” She lifted the glass high and brought her other hand to her chest. “But nonetheless shall I trust you!”
And she put her hands together with glass between, and bending toward Iḷēhaḥ, spilled all her milk wine upon her.
“I soiled the maiden! I soiled the maiden! Forgive me! But it’s too humorous!”
And Iḷēhaḥ laughed again in return. “Then, might I ask from where do you come? You look so very different from all your people here. I know you would live in the palace, O great princess of the Autirsāh, but you—bearing such pale skin, gray eyes, and such white horns lighter than even my hair, and such rich black hair—you seem all too different. Where are your people really?”
“Well they surely came from here!” responded Feyūnhaḥ, and then she seemed to become sad. “But they have since left, far off,” and then she remained quiet for a bit, shifting her gaze to the sky, and Iḷēhaḥ gave her a curious look with a grin. And soon after, the princess suddenly cried, “And I should not know if I should ever see them again! Ah, my people whom I have not yet met, and still wish to, where have you gone? Why will you not see me?”
Feyūnhaḥ bawled, and Iḷēhaḥ could not help but become sad in likeness and consoled her newfound friend, though she at points could not help but still laugh as if she carried some sort of disease. Iḷēhaḥ’s eyes then opened wide and she once again sprang upright, splashing the liquor onto Feyūnhaḥ. She grabbed her hands and said, “I shall stay there tonight, and for longer! No less on invitation! Be not sad, friend who is dear, sister to a lord, Autirsāh of inverted qualities, for we shall be merry the rest of the night! And, I do hope, for much longer thereafter!”
The princess, almost in an instant, halted her tears, and the two friends stood from their seats and together walked to the palace as they swung their hands and sang the whole way merrily. The cacophony of their voices was heard from afar, to the dismay of the locals. And to add to their troubles, the spilled liquor flowed across the floor, and the mixture it produced released a noxious odor that encased the ladies. The people fled from them but not without shout and protest. Yet the two drunks could neither hear nor smell on account of their dulled senses. And for a long while after, they continued to laugh, sing, and be in high spirits.
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Iḷēhaḥ cried and vomited by a tree near the palace. Feyūnhaḥ rubbed her back, telling her it would be fine, but it only made Iḷēhaḥ wail even more loudly.
“You were fine just moments ago.” Then she thought for a bit and added, “Well, I suppose that isn’t very much true, given you cried along with me. But why do you now cry as if the world ended?”
Iḷēhaḥ looked to her with a reddened face flushed with tears. “To home I desire to go! I miss my kin and my family! I miss our palaces and our gardens that are so bright! I miss the Svyamhaḥ and the kine6 whose milk and liquor flow everywhere and covers all in white! I miss the many tall mountains that have not an end to their heights! I miss the stars that pierce the endless sky and bask all in radiant light with not a shadow in sight! O, how I miss you my home, how I miss you so!”
“Ho! Would I ever desire to be there!” said Feyūnhaḥ laughing, “Though what you speak of sounds more like the Heavens than a place here. No matter, you should be fine in the morning; to my home and your temporary residence we now go!”
Feyūnhaḥ strode up the side stairs toward the palace with the crying, soiled maiden in tow. She passed by the officials and ministers taking their leave, and she stopped for a moment to bow to them with folded hands as they did likewise to her. And upon leaving, they started whispering gossip to one another, no doubt to have her hear. She paid it little mind, though often it would make her sad. Yet with a newfound friend at her side, she had little reason to mull over it. She quickly strode up the stairs, taking many twists and turns through the vast halls until they reached the bath.
“Off with your raiment, maiden, and into the bath you go!”
Iḷēhaḥ relented and loosened the strings that held her garments. When they fell upon the smooth surface, her friend moved her gently into the water. Then Feyūnhaḥ tossed aside her clothes and jumped inside, splashing the water onto her troubled friend. It, however, did not bring cheer to the maiden’s face. Taking soap and cleansers, she washed Iḷēhaḥ, and for every few scrubs, she would rinse the foam off of her and let it drain to the sides with the muck.
As she scrubbed her friend’s back, Feyūnhaḥ asked, “Feeling better now?”
The maiden belched and nodded but dropped her head in sullen mood.
“Your expression would say otherwise.”
But Iḷēhaḥ remained silent. Feyūnhaḥ looked to her face and saw it still flushed. She waved her hand in front but no response. The maiden swayed side to side and, within moments, tipped forward into the water and gargled with drooping eyes.
Feyūnhaḥ, amused by the drunk display, said, “Liar, you don’t handle your drinks well at all!”
She dragged her out of the water and dried her with some thick towels. Taking a closer look at her clothes, she noticed that they bore a striking resemblance to a wedding raiment. Yet realizing how casually Iḷēhaḥ had worn it, she cast aside the thought and dressed her in a nightgown. Feyūnhaḥ then brought a comb to Iḷēhaḥ’s hair, but she grabbed her hand and shook her head. The princess was confused.
“Don’t you wish to be groomed?” asked Feyūnhaḥ.
Iḷēhaḥ murmured, “’Tis not that. I wish to keep my promise to the child. I shall not groom myself.”
Feyūnhaḥ smiled. “I don’t know who this child is, but it isn’t you who is doing the grooming, but me. Is it not fine if someone else performs the deed?”
Iḷēhaḥ remained silent but relented by nodding her head. Feyūnhaḥ combed through her smooth hair, cleaning up all the knots and tangles that had surfaced in it.
The heat of the space tired Iḷēhaḥ and she slowly dozed into a slumber. When Feyūnhaḥ finished, she called to her but heard no answer. She saw her asleep and sighed. She hoisted Iḷēhaḥ upon her back and brought her to her chambers. Laying the maiden into her bed, she sat on the floor and stared at her. Gently, Iḷēhaḥ slumbered, making not a peep, but with tears still flowing down her cheeks.
She then broke the silence, muttering in her sleep, “Why forefathers, will you not send for me?”
Feyūnhaḥ looked to her amused and said, “What an odd, sad lady you are, Iḷēhaḥ.”
She reflected on herself and held a melancholy smile.