“I CAN do it, I can finally do it!” cried Tūmbṃār, as he went flying around the passage.

Four days had passed and having ventured through four more grand halls replete with exquisite architecture and forms, they now came into another long stone passage, lit by tall lamps, with inscriptions lining its surface and the wall itself acting as a shield from the magma that flowed outside.

In the nights when they rested in each hall Tūmbṃār had sparred with Nakthaḥm, Feyūnhaḥ, Sanyhaḥmān, and Yūrmatṛtha who were more than surprised over his sudden growth. Aiṛth, who cared little for such things, not pleased with the liberal use of his powers, could not help but feel happy over the boy’s giddiness when he issued them.

The night before, the four questioned him as to how he was able rectify his problem so quickly and he pointed to Iḷēhaḥ, who hoped that he would not mention her. The four then went to her while she was training with Aiṛth and questioned her.

Iḷēhaḥ spoke of the training that Feyūnhaḥ had given her and, using the same exercise, she had Tūmbṃār course the elements down the length of his body.

“Perhaps you’re a better teacher than me,” Feyūnhaḥ had said, sighing.

“Oh Feyūnhaḥ, be not sad,” Iḷēhaḥ had said, doing her best to cheer her up, “I would not have been able to teach him as such if you did not give me that exercise before. It is also partially my fault for disappearing on all of you. Perhaps had I remained, then you would have been able to teach him properly.”

The princess had sighed again, and said, “Perhaps I should have asked this earlier of you, but promise me now you won’t disappear again. At least not of your own will.”

And with a zṣhṭya, Iḷēhaḥ had sealed the pact, saying, “As long as my life shall persist on this planet, let it be so!”

“You done yet, Feyūnhaḥ?” Tūmbṃār had said, impatient. “You’re supposed to be my sparring partner next.”

She had apologized and, after giving a tight embrace to Iḷēhaḥ, she went with Tūmbṃār and the others to continue with his training for the rest of the night.

“Don’t waste your powers like that!” shouted Feyūnhaḥ, trying to grab a hold of him.

Tūmbṃār was much too excited and kept hopping around with ease, continuously coursing the air above and below his feet. And in his acrobatics, he would unleash a flurry of elements from all parts of his body. It was not long before he became tired and fell to the ground, panting and sweating all over.

“I didn’t think I’d become so tired,” said Tūmbṃār with a weak voice as he tried to drag himself atop the snake. Feyūnhaḥ pushed him up, and he spread himself upon Hvesykhiḥ’s back.

“I’m sure your teacher already told you of this,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “but I suppose now you understand one reason liberal use of our powers is frowned upon.”

“There are more reasons?” asked Tūmbṃār.

Aiṛth, having remained silent until then, said, “Aye. Usually this is only told to the other Servants, for other persons wielding powers are rare to come by. The powers you wield were bestowed to us by the Gods, and though we rarely invoke their names or ask their permission to use them, it does not mean they do not watch over its use. Our liberal use of these powers is one reason they have slowly faded from our world.

“Yet there is something I have always felt strange about these abilities. The powers seem to course through every individual. Of the many people I have healed, in each one, it seemed the powers rested inside, dormant, unable to be unlocked as it were, as if bound by lock and chain.

“The Vādrunṃs speak of Arhaḥṃār, That One and All, as bestowing the knowledge of the powers to Ishvhaḥṃār, who, in turn, gave it to the Dehaḥṃār, who, in turn, gave it to us. Had that being chosen to keep our powers as such? What is it I wonder, for it seems all knowledge of it has disappeared. The Gods refer to it as like themselves and yet, at times, say that it is greater and beyond. As Iḷēhaḥ had mentioned before: truly something I and many others cannot comprehend.”

“The sage had told us of it,” said Sanyhaḥmān, “but I don’t think any of us understood it either. As it stands, I don’t think any would argue that the Gods are the last of things that can truly be comprehended—though since their abandonment, even that makes little sense.”

“Would you know anything of this, maiden?” asked Nakthaḥm.

“It is not my place to speak of such things,” she said, to their surprise. “Many things I have been told relating to it by the Dehaḥṃār, but even I cannot understand much of what is said. Bound are we to not relate any knowledge concerning That for it was agreed to keep such secrets safe from the privy of mortals. A binding stronger than even the use of my powers. And given what Ishvhaḥṃār had told me, not just that one time but many times before, the matter concerning it most surely eludes even them.”

“Well, if the Gods won’t speak of it, let alone have knowledge of it, I suppose we’re doomed to never understand,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “And I assume Hvesykhiḥ is bound by the same oath that Iḷēhaḥ is.”

Hvesykhiḥ did not respond, nor did Yūrmatṛtha, and they afterward remained silent on the issue, feeling it would be useless to speak any further on things they themselves did not understand.