Who am I?
Beat of her heart. One, two.
Losing herself was a risk she would have to take.
This was her realm. Her path. The place where the echoes of the dead lay within her soul, still.
She remembered the bodies of the Amrithi dead upon her desert. Her desert, which lay beneath her. She pressed her hands deep into the sand, lowered her head, and breathed in.
The ash rose from the desert to meet her. Filled her dreamed lungs, her soul’s flesh.
Dozens of memories. Thousands. The nightmare skittered toward her, with a menacing click of its limbs. She was screaming, somewhere where she was flesh. Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Zahir was holding on to her tight, fumbling for something on the ground. Ceramic shattered.
She was—
She was not—
“You’re stubborn,” Ushan said. “Just like your mother.”
Hands clasped on his knees. He was leaning against a rock, sun blistering overhead. “But you need to learn, Iria. You’ll thank me one day.”
She rose up onto her elbows. Spat out sand.
“Why,” she said, “is it always you?”
He was silent for a moment. The memory wavered. Then he straightened, and stood.
“One day,” he said, “you’re going to understand that not all daiva are as benevolent as my progenitor.”
“They’ve made vows,” Iria said. “I don’t see why—”
“Iria,” he sighed. “Darling. Not all people are blessed as we are.”
“I don’t see why that matters.”
“It matters because they matter,” he said gently. “If not to you, then to someone. And they need someone to help them survive when a death-spirit enters their village, or when a daiva takes more than people can bear to give. You will be needed then to protect them. And you’ll need a powerful rite. Something old and strong.”
“I don’t know see why it has to be me.”
“It may not be. Consider this a… broadening of your options.”
He kneeled down beside her.
“Father,” she said. “Must I?”
“It’s a simple rite,” he said gently. “Not difficult at all. Now, Iria. Let’s begin.”
She sat up. “Fine,” she said. “I’m ready, Father. Show me.”
“Its name,” he said, “is the Rite of the Cage.”
She rose out of the memory, was dragged, red roots drawing her home. She sucked in great gouts of air. The world spun around her, half-ash, half-mortal, but Zahir was holding her, clasping one of his hands tight against her. She realized he’d cut his hand and her own and clasped them together. The feel of their shared blood was terribly hot.
“I’d hoped it would be enough to draw you back somehow,” he said raggedly. “Blood and flame, if not—sleep.”
“Zahir,” she said shakily. “There is too much in my head.”
“I know.”
