than the kiss of the sun on a warm, windless day.
The ritual was complete, but she did not stand. There was still work to be done.
She created a bond between herself and the fire, allowed it to run the length of her body, allowed the heat to lick her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, her lips. It suffused her frame, some of it pooling in the place between her thighs at the mere remembrance of Nikandr. She grit her jaw, angry over her lack of will, and lay down close enough to the fire so that she could feel the heat not only through her tourmaline, but through her natural senses as well.
When her mind was once more clear, she placed her feet into the flames. “I give of myself,” she said, “that I might be cleansed.”
And with that she lay back and closed her eyes. At first, she felt only gentle warmth on the soles of her feet, but like the sun upon the obsidian shores of the north the heat built steadily, her link to the fire preventing her flesh from burning. It created a self-feeding cycle that made the pain more intense than if her feet had begun to burn.
Her body went rigid, but she forced herself to relax. She recalled all of the impure thoughts she’d had since her last cleansing a week before: joy when she’d heard of a fishing ship lost at sea, rapture when she’d learned of a small family that had succumbed to the famine, jealousy when an old
friend had taken the wind for further shores.
Lust for a man she knew she could never have.
She shook the thoughts of him away and instead focused on the pain. It washed over her and intensified as she fed it with renewed energy, and though the heat climbed higher than the stars, she never screamed, never allowed it beyond her mortal frame. This was her penance, the cost of the decisions she had made during her life. Her only hope was that she could atone for them in later lives.
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
The ritual was complete, but she did not stand. There was still work to be done.
She created a bond between herself and the fire, allowed it to run the length of her body, allowed the heat to lick her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, her lips. It suffused her frame, some of it pooling in the place between her thighs at the mere remembrance of Nikandr. She grit her jaw, angry over her lack of will, and lay down close enough to the fire so that she could feel the heat not only through her tourmaline, but through her natural senses as well.
When her mind was once more clear, she placed her feet into the flames. “I give of myself,” she said, “that I might be cleansed.”
And with that she lay back and closed her eyes. At first, she felt only gentle warmth on the soles of her feet, but like the sun upon the obsidian shores of the north the heat built steadily, her link to the fire preventing her flesh from burning. It created a self-feeding cycle that made the pain more intense than if her feet had begun to burn.
Her body went rigid, but she forced herself to relax. She recalled all of the impure thoughts she’d had since her last cleansing a week before: joy when she’d heard of a fishing ship lost at sea, rapture when she’d learned of a small family that had succumbed to the famine, jealousy when an old
friend had taken the wind for further shores.
Lust for a man she knew she could never have.
She shook the thoughts of him away and instead focused on the pain. It washed over her and intensified as she fed it with renewed energy, and though the heat climbed higher than the stars, she never screamed, never allowed it beyond her mortal frame. This was her penance, the cost of the decisions she had made during her life. Her only hope was that she could atone for them in later lives.
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
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