Cheese.
Weird when you bite it. Old ones hard and crunchy, new ones soft and gooey. Some spicy, some bitter.
Still, mmmmm...
Adam's toes curled inside his boots. He wanted outside. For once Mithra wasn't hiding the sun from the north. A rare thing when the other yazata—Tir, spirit, angel, whatever folk called that damp horse—just waited for an excuse to piss the green grass into mud.
Not that it mattered. He was stuck in a roadside fire temple, waiting for God to speak. Same Ahura Mazda whose followers called him daeva yesterday. Or the day before that. All his life, really. Nothing else. Nothing ever.
And guarding the exit, naturally, was the only thing bigger than his luck.
Uncle Babak. Filling the doorway like a bull—broad, mean, daring Adam to bolt.
Same look he'd worn every time Adam begged for this.
Last year. Year before. Any year since his parents got carted off to the Tower of Silence. Adam had sworn he was ready. Swore remembering every phrase, every word...
But there was always something! Bad omen. Sick goat. That time Aziz swore a crow shat on the temple steps and called it a sign from above.
But lo and behold, Aziz—grandmother, who could out-argue the dead—just… gave in.
Babak, of course, added nothing. Just his usual grunt and: 'Become a man.'
Adam knew better. He was twelve. Chanting a dozen words wouldn't beat the man out of him.
Didn't matter. Navjote was finally happening. He'd be sworn to Asha and counted as a good guy whether others liked it or not.
At least, that was the promise. But looking around, Asha felt foreign here. Way too fine for this drafty hall, and wasted on the bitter old goat glaring at him. Herbad Mansour, stuck at the bottom while high mobeds wore white turbans in temples that didn't smell like dung.
Sacred fire chewed sandalwood. Snap. Spit. Shadows leapt across the plaster, a winged king with his bow drawn, locked in battle against a serpent with a lion's face.
Yeah, yeah. Good beats evil. Even the bad guys must've believed it by now.
Still, old herbad couldn't stop raving about it. Like Mansour himself needed convincing.
Adam squinted at the mural.
Seriously, why'd it look like two drunks scrapping over cheese?
His stomach growled, loud enough for deaf people to hear.
Mansour cleared his throat. "Ahem!"
Adam blinked. "What?"
"…Ahmī — Mazdayasnō…"
"Oh, right." Adam cleared his throat. "Ahmī Mazdayasnō, a follower of Mazda, and a, uh—"
"—foe of the daevas."
"Right, foe of the—" Which word was which? "Ahurō drujō—drujō ahurō vi–rāzaṇtō?"
Mansour froze.
Babak froze.
The fire stopped crackling mid-spit.
"NO!" Mansour said, "Ahurō drujō? AHURŌ DRUJŌ?!" His hands shook. His arm twitched toward Adam—then he sucked a breath and steadied. "The green earth under your feet, the waters that give it life—those are the Yazatas, Ahuras, the Wise, Mazda's chosen!" He whirled on Babak, trembling."He insults the holy spirits… no mobed would accept this—least of all from him!"
Adam's fists clenched.
Babak's grin stayed well away from his eyes. "First-time jitters." His fingers clamped Adam's collarbone hard. "He knows the words. Don't you?"
Uncle's glare said: Swallow it. Adam's pride said: Choke on it.
"Can't wait to get this—" Babak's grip twisted. "—started."
Mansour sighed. Probably weighing if two bronze coins were worth this trouble. Still, he kept chanting, words turning sour in Adam's ears.
"I profess myself a worshipper of Mazda…"
"…a foe of the daevas…"
"…a supporter of the Lord…"
"…He who stands eternal enemy to the Lie…"
Incense bit his eyes. Aching feet. An empty belly. And somewhere behind him—a sound he'd never heard before: Babak, begging.
"…We renounce Ahriman, the Deceiver…"
Adam jumped in before the old man could drag it longer.
"We renounce Druj."
If only saying made it so.
Maybe it would work. Maybe the words meant more. Maybe when Mansour tied the kushti, Adam would feel... different. Clean. Like he could finally keep his clothes white.
Mansour fetched the sedreh—white, thin as cobweb, practically see-through. Adam poked at the little pocket stitched into the neck.
"Gireban." Mansour said, "purse of righteousness. Good deeds inside, to lighten the scale when comes judgement."
A quip gathered on Adam's tongue. Babak's earlier pinch reminded him otherwise.
Then came the part Adam had waited for.
The Kushti.
Limp cord of lamb's wool. Mansour's face sagged as trembling fingers guided the ties around Adam's waist.
Once—Humata. Good thoughts.
Twice—Hukhta. Good words.
Thrice—Huvarshta. Good deeds.
Mansour fumbled the final knot—once, twice—before yanking it tight against the small of Adam's back.
"Sealed… Evil behind you now. May you be faithful to Ahura Mazda. Faithful to… Asha."
That was it.
Adam stood there in his thin white shirt, the belt already slipping down his hips. Was he changed or cheated?
He waited for something—heat, light, that weight Babak always got when he prayed.
Nothing. Just the draft and old incense.
Maybe it needed time. Maybe…
Adam turned, hand out like a proper man—ready to thank the Herbad, prove he could do this right—
Mansour was already sanding his palms raw. Like Adam's touch carried plague.
Adam's fingers twitched. His grin stiffened.
Even in white, the filth didn't wash off.
Why'd everyone think priests were nice?
A meaty THWACK between his shoulder blades knocked the wind out of him. Babak's arm hooked him into a rough half-embrace.
Adam blinked up.
Uncle was smiling.
A real one. Crooked, but alive.
"You looked like your Baba. Ugly scowl and all." Babak's voice dared anyone to disagree.
Adam's lips twitched. His throat pinched. His eyes burned. Smoke. Had to be smoke.
He coughed it down. "This mean I can skip the next ceremony?"
Mansour snorted. Babak nudged him toward the fire.
"You wish."
Flames hissed as Adam caught himself, reflection bending in polished brass — shirt crooked, belt slipping, face smudged black.
It'd pass.
So what if most people hated him? He had people.
Babak.
Aziz.
One at home. One…
Adam's eyes darted toward the temple entrance, scanning heavy wooden pillars. He looked for a mop of curly hair. A scrawny neck. A boy who'd promised he'd sneak out to watch, even if his Baba forbade it.
'I'll be there, Adam. Promise!'
The doorway was empty.
Adam's gut twisted.
Course he didn't come. Fareed was a chicken. A stupid chicken, but… probably still taking care of his sister.
Adam turned back to the fire, jaw tight.
Two.
Babak and Aziz.
Two was enough.
Humata. Hukhta. Huvarshta.
Adam stepped through the doorway into cold mountain.
Finally outside.
Fresh air hit his lungs breezy and clean. Green slopes tumbled toward the sea below. Should've felt like freedom. Instead, sun kept ducking behind clouds like even Mithra couldn't stand to see him.
He crushed a fallen leaf underfoot.
What was the point of any of this?
Adam wanted Aziz beside him. Wanted her squinting at his white sedreh, grumbling how it'd be brown by supper. But the damn herbad wouldn't let her in the same room as a holy fire.
He wanted his mama's smile. Baba's proud nod…
Wind answered. Nothing else.
Maybe Mansour was right to scrub his hands.
But hey. Least his pocket didn't have to stay empty.
Adam looked at Babak. "Ahem." He coughed twice, loud. "Ahem!"
Babak didn't slow. Big shoulders rolling, grass screaming under his boots.
Adam trotted after, hand out. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"You pay, I pray. So pay up!"
"You prayed?"
"Well… my lips moved?"
Babak snorted. "Sounded more like a crow choking on shit."
"Still holy shit—"
"Mind your tongue." Babak's eyes cut sideways.
"Why? The yazatas might fall out of the sky?"
"No. But words do. They turn crooked. Especially yours."
They took the path down from the shrine. Adam frowned. "You heard him in there. Like I spit on the fire. Mansour's a—"
"A shepherd," Babak said, too quick. "Call him that!"
"He bites harder than his goats!"
"Better a shepherd with bad teeth. Listen to the words, not the man, Adam. We get what we get."
"His words was 'get this daeva-brat out of my temple.'"
Babak flinched like it landed. Then fixed his eyes on the track.
"He didn't say that."
"Meant it loud enough."
"Enough."
A few steps into the woods, Babak lifted his chin, sniffed the air, squinted at the clouds. "Sky's cleaner. See that front rolling in? Rain's coming—"
A fat raindrop splatted against Adam's forehead. Another slapping his cheek.
Babak stopped in it. Tilted his head back, closed his eyes, lips moving—praying.
Adam smiled. "Tir's piss hit nice enough, huh?"
Babak raised a brow.
"Just thinking how you must've reeked on them warships, sailor. Bad enough making an ahura step in."
"Oh ho! Said the boy drenched in bull's piss last week." Babak hooked him in a headlock and ground knuckles through Adam's hair.
"S-submit! I submit!" Adam gasped between laughter, rain filling his mouth.
"There. Now you know better than to waste your breath." Babak let go, smiling — until it wavered. "Past's past. Don't waste yourself in it."
There he went again. That look. It crept up whenever old days did.
"Boy…" Babak said. "Don't… don't judge old Mansour too harsh."
Adam stared. Maybe the old bull was right. Or maybe he wasn't. What mattered: Uncle still hadn't paid him, and was getting all philosophical to dodge it.
So Adam stuck his tongue out.
"You little—!" Babak lunged. Adam bolted, laughter spilling as rain and mud slowed his uncle's charge.
When their lungs burned past running, Adam doubled over, hands on knees, watching raindrops splatter the mud between his boots. "You going to teahouse?" he panted.
Babak shook his head. "You going home. That woman would skin me else."
Didn't like how Babak evaded Aziz's name, but his empty stomach forced him into giving in.
…
Far from the village, their path wound through thinning trees toward the cliff's edge, where Aziz's hut perched like a stubborn old hawk.
They stopped where they always did—near the grey, half-rotted trunk, a hundred meters from home.
"Aight." Babak slapped Adam's hand, pressing metal into his palm. "Care for yourself, right? Rich man now. Don't waste it all at once."
Huh. Bastard paid up. The pashiz shone—sacred fire on one side, the Shahanshah's royal beard on the other. Not worth as much as an ashrafi, but it jingled. "Thanks."
Babak nodded, eyes flicking toward the hut like shadows moved behind it. Then he melted back into the rain.
Adam watched him go. At least Uncle still came around. Others didn't.
He stood at the door, peeling off muddy boots, lining them up just how Aziz liked.
"COMING IN, OL' WOMAN!"
The room greeted him.
And so did an old friend.
His bringer of pain.
His wooden doom.
Aziz's clog, flying to kiss his forehead.
Adam let go, shoulders hunching, eyes squeezing shut—
THWAP
The wooden clog skidded across the rug, flopped on its side like a beached fish.
Adam opened one eye.
She'd missed.
Aziz frowned, but her eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Tch. Useless boy. Can't even stand still to be hit."