The sun was just rising as she reached the fire temple. Compared to the grandeur of the palace, the temple seemed misplaced in its simplicity: a round, domed roof over four stone columns forming a square, with an arch on each side. Soraya rarely came here, not only because of the location, but because of what had happened the last time she had come to the fire temple.
Shortly after the butterfly incident, Soraya had come by herself to the temple to pray—to apologize to the Creator for harming one of his creatures. The high priest at that time overheard her talking about her curse, and he told her that the Creator would not hear her prayers, because she did not belong to him—that anything venomous or deadly belonged to the Destroyer. His logic was too sound for her to disagree, and so she had never returned. It gave her some comfort to know that the priest had later been found guilty of some treasonous act and had been scheduled for execution, though he had escaped in the end, never to be heard from again. Even he knows where the feather is, Soraya thought bitterly.
The current high priest did not know about her curse, and so when she stepped into the temple, he simply smiled at her and bowed his head, his hair as white as his long robes. He and another, younger priest stood beside the Royal Fire, which burned in an urn on top of a stone pedestal in the center of the temple. There were many other sacred fires in many other temples throughout Atashar, all honoring the Creator, but only the Royal Fire had been ritually created from several sources, including lightning sent from the Creator himself. An iron grate enclosed the pedestal, and only a priest was allowed to open the grate and tend to the Fire, which never went out. The younger priest poured some esfand onto the flames now, and the smell of it filled the air.
Soraya stood uncomfortably near the temple entrance, still hearing the former high priest’s gravelly voice confirming all her worst fears. You don’t belong here in this temple, he had told her. You belong somewhere like the pit of Duzakh, where the Destroyer dwells among wicked spirits. Or even better—the dakhmeh, where the yatu seek refuge, where the vultures fly overhead, hungry for human flesh, where the div Nasu spreads death and corruption. Because isn’t that what you do, shahzadeh? Aren’t you made for death?
The words kept playing over and over again in Soraya’s head, and she was thankful when she heard Sorush’s steps behind her.
Sorush approached the high priest and spoke to him in a low voice. The priest looked from Sorush to Soraya, then nodded, and he and the other priest stepped outside the temple, leaving the two of them alone.
With the priests gone, Soraya was better able to relax, and she came to join Sorush in front of the iron grate, the fire crackling inside it.
“Did you learn anything new?” Sorush asked her quietly, his eyes locked on the fire.
Soraya had already decided what she would tell him—and what she would omit. “I think there may be some kind of animosity between the pariks and the other divs—or at least between this parik and the others,” she reported.
Sorush nodded. “That could be useful. I thought it was strange that I’ve never seen a div like her before on the battlefield. But if they’re not all aligned with one another, that would make sense.”
“There’s something else,” Soraya said. “She said it’s true that the divs are more united now than they have been, but that the question we should be asking is who united them. She might be lying, though. She guessed that I was digging for information.”
Sorush frowned in thought as he stared deep into the fire. “Did you learn anything else?”
“I tried asking what she meant by that, but she wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
“No,” Sorush said, turning to look at her. “I meant about your curse.”
She had hoped he wouldn’t ask, so she wouldn’t have to lie directly. But she couldn’t tell him what Parvaneh had asked for, because then he would always wonder if she would accept those terms and betray him for her own sake. “No,” she said, looking away from him. “I don’t know if there’s any point in going back.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod. “I understand if you don’t. But if you do, and she tells you anything else, please send word to me.”
“Of course,” Soraya said, and to her surprise, she found herself disappointed that her mission would be over so soon. She would miss feeling useful.
Sorush began to walk away, their exchange having ended, and Soraya felt strangely cold, as if he had taken the fire’s warmth with him. “Sorush?” she called to him. He turned, and before she could stop herself, she asked, “Do you remember the man who was high priest when we were children—the one who escaped execution? Do you know what ever happened to him? Why was he arrested?”
“He was caught trying to put out the Royal Fire,” Sorush answered. “It turned out he was secretly a yatu posing as a priest. Why? Do you think he might be the one the parik was talking about?”
“No,” Soraya said. “Being here again reminded me of him, and I was curious.”
She remained in the fire temple until after Sorush left, even after the priests returned, staring into the fire until her eyes burned. The former high priest had been a sorcerer, then. He had told her she belonged to the Destroyer, and she supposed he would know, being aligned with the Destroyer himself. But she couldn’t afford to hold a grudge against him now, because he knew where to find the feather—and Soraya was fairly certain she knew where to find him.
* * *
From different parts of the roof, Soraya could look down at the entire city surrounding Golvahar like it was a map. Her eyes swept over the flat roofs of houses and shops, at the orderly streets that separated the city into its different districts. For years, that was how shahs had maintained a stable rule, with everything and everyone in its proper place. No wonder, then, that Soraya had to be hidden away like a stain on a tapestry or a weed in a garden. There was no place for her within these walls—just as there was no place inside the city for the dakhmeh.
Even without the memory of the false priest’s words in her mind, Soraya would have avoided looking directly at the roofless, cylindrical shape of the dakhmeh where it loomed on a hill outside the city walls. It wasn’t a choice so much as an instinct born out of fear and revulsion, the same way she would try not to look at a decaying animal. It was the same instinct, she imagined, that made her family avert their eyes from her. No one wanted to look at the face of death.
But Soraya had been caught unawares once. She had been on the roof, a few hours before sunset, and seen a funeral procession. She had watched as a family followed their dead to the dakhmeh, a priest leading the way with a brazier of esfand for protection against Nasu and other demons. The corpse-bearers took the body inside the dakhmeh—they alone were permitted to go inside, and they had to perform a rigorous cleansing ritual afterward. That day, Soraya had watched until she saw the first sign of vultures overhead, and then she turned away, wondering if the corpse-bearers would return later for the bones.
The dakhmeh—where the vultures fly overhead, hungry for human flesh, where the div Nasu spreads death and corruption.
Where the yatu seek refuge.