THAT evening, the group spent their time in the quarters that the lord had set for them; their things being brought from the hotel by the royal guards, much to the surprise of the innkeeper. The lord had apologized profusely for his behavior. It seemed for sometime he had been struck by what he called, “A Disease of the Heart,” in which it seemed only the presence of gold or its luster could soothe his senses and covetous urge.

The group did not believe this, but said little more on the matter, handing over their gold save a few coins, much to Sanyhaḥmān’s dismay. They were at least glad they would not have to escape. Now, they had to rethink how they should present themselves in other places, for the allure of divine artifacts seemed all too powerful to those who, at all cost, should not bear them.

The incident in the throne room was not spoken of, and the group was kept as far apart from the envoy and his retinue. Yet rumors did circulate, and it did eventually reach his ears, and he thereafter sought council with the lord. But it would not be granted till the following day due to the lord’s fatigue, which made him all the more suspicious. For he knew the lord had summoned some rather interesting persons. He let the matter rest, for he, like many others, had suspected the group to have perished in the desert and only gave word of them as a formality. He would remain in the city for two more days, and the group, in that time, would do their utmost to evade his sight and hearing.

Aiṛth was still unconscious. Feyūnhaḥ, Iḷēhaḥ, and the servants discussed among themselves what should be done. They had tried to clean the blood through her clothes, but to no avail. And they would not disrobe her until she had awakened. This particular cycle seemed to give cause for concern, for she had lost quite a bit of blood. Priest and priestesses from the city were called and attended to her, but they too would not disrobe her or clean off the blood. The Servants had a particular inclination to keep themselves pure and, under normal circumstances, they would not even approach one in such a state. But at the very least, they had said that, though she abnormally held in the blood by the use of her powers, her condition was fine, and given a few days of rest she would be normal—although with some minor pains and numbness—much to the relief of the group.

When they had freshened themselves, Sanyhaḥmān, Nakthaḥm, and Tūmbṃār sat outside in the courtyard, surrounded by the many trees and plants gazing at the Stars and the Moon. They said little among themselves, as they sat in their reclined chairs resting. Before long, they could hear some chatter. It was Erezuri and Hirmān, who walked into the courtyard in a heated debate of sorts, though seeming very one-sided.

“Ah! You are here!” said Erezuri. “There is something I wish to ask you.”

“Ask away,” said Nakthaḥm.

She cleared her throat and said, “As you heard in the throne room, this place will be consumed by the desert. When I cannot say, but soon. Though it may not look it, the oasis is also drying up. There has been little rainfall as of late in this part and I can only say it is because of the expansion of the desert.

“With that said, I heard from the others that you are journeying across Ārhmanhaḥ seeking aid for an impending invasion by the Demons.” She then knelt before them and said, “Will you accept this city’s aid?”

The three looked to each other, unsure of what to say. Nakthaḥm sighed and said, “Well, we would gladly accept, but in what position would that leave you? Would this city survive for twelve years in time to aid us? And if not, would that not leave you and your people at the mercy of the elements?” She remained silent. “Would it not be better to assent to Rṭyāshphaḥ’s request? Surely he would give shelter to your people.”

“He would not,” she said with surety. “He has not the heart to help others other than himself. Ever since the disappearance of his son, he has changed, and as you well know, for the worse. Perhaps had his son taken the throne, we would not have to worry, but as it stands, that cannot be. Rṭyāshphaḥ only seeks our soldiers and though our force may be strong, we have not many. And those that are here are needed to maintain order. Were they to go, we should invite much disorder and chaos.”

“It sounds as if you are just making excuses,” said Nakthaḥm, to her surprise. He turned to her brother and said, “Hirmān, is it? What do you think of all of this?”

“I am unsure,” he said with his hung held low. “Even I have my doubts of whether we can hold for twelve years. Perhaps we should perish in the sands.”

“Say not such things, foolish brother!” shouted Erezuri.

“But what more can be done!” lashed Hirmān. “Are we not at the end of our options? I know you to be against the war with Pedyṃhaḥ, as am I, but we also cannot wait for our friends here to finish their journey.”

Tūmbṃār then said, “Why not ask the Gazhigam for help?”

Hirmān scoffed. “The Gazhigam? They have helped us much, but I doubt they shall give shelter to the people here; after all, even they are planning to leave.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask,” said Sanyhaḥmān. “We’ve helped them much already. Perhaps you can send one of your own to see them: both Ashphaḥhyēma and his son Yūrmatṛtha are reasonable persons. I think if you just mention us, they should give you all the aid you need. Besides, even Yūrmatṛtha told us he desired to speak with the lord’s son, Hirmān,”

Hirmān face lit in joy, but he pondered. The two remained silent for some time. They still had reservations concerning the Gazhigam, but they knew that their best chance lay with them.

“I have doubts,” said Erezuri. “The Gazhigam envoys that come every so often do not much like our father nor us, for that matter. We had made quite the blunder when last they come with Yūrmatṛtha, and we have not heard from them since. While what you say may be true, Sanyhaḥmān, there is still little reason to believe that they should help us. The caravans themselves have also reduced in number and continue to do so as the months pass. It seems they are slowly cutting off their relations with us.”

“Well, I shall not pry for details,” said Nakthaḥm, “but best it would be for you to seek council with them yourselves. Not a bad idea for one of you to ride on a caravan to Gazhigashrahthya and seek an audience that way. If the envoy will not assent to it, best take matters into your own hands, stow yourself away, and apologize directly to the King and the prince.”

Erezuri mulled over this. “While not very befitting of ones of our stature, I suppose that could be done.” She turned to Hirmān. “Will you travel to meet them, brother?”

His face showed a great degree of displeasure. While he wished to see Yūrmatṛtha and seemed to understand his responsibility, he had little inclination to engage with it. And to take the road through the desert seemed rather harsh to him, no less on a caravan, even if a small retinue were to follow him.

He sighed and said, “Things here have gone rather out of hand because my neglect and idleness. You win sister! I will journey across the desert and meet with them. I hope Yūrmatṛtha is not ambivalent toward me, much less hateful.”

Her face lit up in joy and she embraced him, much to his embarrassment. “Stop that, sister!”

“My brother has sense in him left! And here I was, worrying that you would run away from this task as well.” She then looked to the others and said, “My gratitude to you for telling us of this—hope now yet remains. Might I ask how long you shall stay here?”

“Until, whenever, Aiṛth shall fully recover,” said Nakthaḥm. “We cannot very well journey into the desert while she is ill. Quite a sorry state that the women of the Mānuzhhaḥ are left in with their bleedings. The female demons of the Lower Realms suffer not from such things.”

“You speak as if you are one of them,” Erezuri said as she laughed. “But no matter, I appreciate your sentiment.”

She then bowed to the group and went on her way, leaving her brother behind.

“I see that was what you were hiding when we met yesterday,” said Sanyhaḥmān grinning. “To think you’re not just any aristocrat, but the lord’s son! Yet I wonder why you don’t take the throne; there’s no reason you can’t live the way you are now, while also dealing with the duties as a lord.”

“That alone is the problem,” he said, sighing and shaking his head. “Were I to take the throne, I must be married, no less to one of the aristocrats’ daughters. I do not mind them. In fact, many of them are quite lovely, but I would rather not be chained in my youth. Having lived only twenty-four years, it seems too short to give up the pleasures of the world for the sake of duty.”

Tūmbṃār then jumped off his seat and smacked Hirmān’s back while laughing.

“What are you up to, child?” said Hirmān, confused, rubbing his back. The boy’s smacks were quite hard.

“There’s a girl I met in Viprūtaram who thought in the exact opposite way to you,” said Tūmbṃār with a lonesome smile. “She said that there are things we have to consign ourselves to, for that’s where our purpose and calling lays. I kind of understood what she meant, but I’m still a boy and want to see much of the world before I make my mind up on such things. But you’re already an adult and seem to be running away. I like pleasure as much as anyone else, but even I know it can’t go on forever.”

“You speak strangely, child,” said Hirmān, “what makes you so sure of this. Why should we not seek after the pleasures of the world forever? Is that not why our souls have come down: to enjoy whatever it is the world has to offer.”

“I thought the same too, until I met my teacher,” said Tūmbṃār. “Though he taught me much of the religious precepts—however much I dreaded those lessons—often enough, he’d ask me to fast or sit still especially when I desired to do something. If I succumbed, he’d hit me! But if I succeeded, I’d get nothing in return. It was weird to do it in the beginning, but there slowly came a point where if I remained disciplined, I’d feel much more relaxed, as if to see and feel a oneness with the world. A very minor feeling, yet enough for me to get the point of what he wanted me to understand. He’d say, ‘Pleasure is transitory, but bliss attained by the right means is everlasting. This is but one of the many things you should look to achieve.’ I haven’t meditated all that much since I left home, but every so often, when I gaze into the fire, I feel that connection even if it’s faint. A great joy comes from it if I could only do it long enough!”

“Ah! So that is why you spend such long nights gazing into it,” said Nakthaḥm as he got up from his seat. He cracked his neck and fingers and sat back down with his legs outstretched.

“Wisdom I had not not thought to get from a child!” said Hirmān, surprised but happy. “It is good for you to ponder and speak about such things at your age and, more so, to have a Gruvhō. Yet even still, I shall not just yet give up on my life,” he said with bravado. “Sorry, Tūmbṃār.”

The boy shook his head and pointed to the desert. “You needn’t be sorry, do as you wish! Yet it’s good you’re going to see Ashphaḥhyēma and Yūrmatṛtha—maybe in time you’ll understand what I mean, and maybe I too will understand fully what my master meant.”

Hirmān laughed and patted the boy’s head. He took up a chair, and sat beside them, gazing at the Moon and Stars and the sifting sands beyond the wall. The air was gentle and cool, and the fragrance of the trees and flowers soothed their minds. The noise of the city lessened as time passed. The torches were slowly extinguished except in the red-light district of which was but a speck in their view. Closing their eyes and remaining silent, they lulled off into a slumber. The sky was clear all that night.