The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [33]
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