Chapter 18 #4
“A temple worker?” The Khatti Ugalans seemed to have little in the way of organized religion. When I asked other locals about festivities and faith, many seemed perplexed by the question, saying only that they honored their queen and community. “What sort of temple?”
“It’s where our garments are created. Like I said, textiles are bestowed upon us as gifts from the queen.
But we consider them sacred, and the place where they are crafted is a blessed one.
A private one.” Orinth glanced over her shoulder, and I didn’t miss the warning in her expression.
“Foreigners are permitted nowhere near it. Not even ordinary citizens are. Only those Khatti Ugalans initiated into the temple are allowed inside.” Her voice seemed to falter. “And they are . . . different.”
I let that all wash over me, scarcely knowing what to question first. I might not have found the spindle in the Chamber of Mysteries, but this—this was even more promising.
“It sounds like a very special place,” I remarked as Orinth adjusted a skinny ladder against the shelves.
As I watched her climb, I couldn’t help but notice that Orinth didn’t sport one of the colorful cloaks virtually every other palace official did.
“Do those gifts include the dyed capes many of your people wear? I heard they are given when someone receives ‘rites,’ but I got the impression it was also a private affair.”
Orinth had been leaning out with her notes, clearly trying to shove the scroll upon a too-distant shelf, but she paused at the question.
“Yes, the receiving of rites and granting of a cloak is one of our most hallowed traditions. It can also be fraught, so it is something we typically do not discuss with outsiders.”
Fraught? Perhaps there was significance to this thoughtful scholar of a woman choosing not to wear a cloak. But before I could question her further, Orinth’s ladder wobbled.
Hurrying to steady it, I asked, “Would you like some help?”
“Nonsense,” she dismissed. “I am not as frail as I look. But could you hand me that one as well?” she asked, pointing to the scroll on her desk across the room.
A bit hesitant to step away in case she fell, I nonetheless did as she asked. “Still, the cloaks are beautiful,” I continued. “I’ve never seen such colors. Your dye sources must be most unusual. Is this the one?” I asked, picking up a lead-sealed scroll.
“Yes. And yes, I know little about the creation of textiles, but all Khatti Ugalans know the importance of the dyes. When someone is . . . ready to receive rites, they are visited by a temple worker who gathers all the elements that best represent them. Perhaps they were a midwife, using the petals of the sky lily to ease pain—we might incorporate the flowers along with the red of the bassi crabs she liked to gather.”
“That sounds like a beautiful tradition.” But then I paused; Orinth had spoken of a person going through the rites in the past tense, almost as though it was something done after they died.
Her Arabic was imperfect, but . . . “May I ask, what makes one ‘ready’ to receive rites? I cannot help but notice that you are one of the few palace officials who doesn’t wear a cloak.
” When Orinth stiffened, I hurried to apologize.
“Forgive me, I did not wish to be rude.”
“No forgiveness needed, Captain.” She sighed.
“Trust me, a curious soul recognizes another, and I’m used to my family pestering me enough.
” She reached up again, standing on her toes as she grasped for another text.
“They say it is better to choose to receive rites while in the flush of one’s life rather than—ahh! ”
I dashed back across the room. Still holding an armful of scrolls, I reached out to seize the ladder with my left hand before it sent the scholar crashing to the tiled ground.
“Oh!” Clutching the ladder and now level with my eyes, Orinth gave me a sheepish glance. “I suppose I should have taken your advice.”
I helped her down. “A stubborn soul recognizes another.”
“Then it is fortunate you were here.” Orinth brushed the dust from her ivory clothes. “My, you move quicker than lightning. What do they feed the children in your country to give them such uncommon speed and strength?”
“A great deal of oily fish.”
She laughed. “I doubt that very much.” Her eyes twinkled. “You know, there is much talk of you in Khatti Ugal. People are whispering that you must have received a boon.”
A hint of concern trickled over me. “A boon?”
“Ay, a gift from the spirits. Like in the old tales from our ancestors’ lands: stories of mortals who did a favor for such-and-such demigod, or won a contest against some celestial being. Even Her Resplendency is intrigued, and she is a hard woman to impress.”
That was what I had wanted—to impress the queen, to stay in her favor until my ship was repaired and I could snatch the spindle away—and yet something about the way Orinth had phrased that slid under my skin.
“Using what the sea washed in” might be a tradition in Khatti Ugal, new blood in the kingdom’s veins, but I was determined to leave, my spell of hopelessness back in the Chamber of Mysteries aside.
“Then it is good I am merely human,” I replied, hating that it felt like a lie.
Orinth didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. “Eh, I always felt like most of those stories were fabrications, dreamed up only to exaggerate and entertain.” She offered her arm. “Come, I’ll guide you back. This palace is a maze even to me and I’ve been dashing about its halls since I was a child.”
“I would be most grateful,” I said, taking her arm. I had interrogated her enough; to continue would be suspicious. Besides, I had my first true lead to the spindle, a promising location if I could discover a way to sneak around the palace.
I should have been hopeful. And yet Orinth’s words stayed with me. Magic always had a price. And I feared that whatever unseen transaction was going on in Khatti Ugal might not make itself known until it was too late.