Chapter 31 #3
Yes, a sign that you intend to ritually murder my friend and garb her corpse in a pretty shroud.
It didn’t sound as though being initiated into the Khatti Ugalan faith meant the receiving of the rite of those death cloaks, but if it did—that would be where Dalila’s supposed scheme would be coming to an end.
“Simply curious. I wasn’t sure what sort of formalities might be involved. ”
Lab laughed. “Very few, I’m afraid. We are not a people obsessed with ritual and ceremony, the boundaries that would have divided us in our ancestral lands.
Being initiated into our mysteries is merely a matter of trust. Acceptance.
Those born here grow up being inoculated with these values, the truth of life in Khatti Ugal slowly revealed as they mature.
But with foreigners, we find it can be tricky.
Some wish to join us immediately; some stay apart until their death, a regrettable but necessary final parting.
Those who are not initiated are not prepared to receive our last rites. ”
I tried to parse that out. Dalila was staring over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze. “And on whose part does it require trust?” I asked, attempting to sound na?vely curious.
The queen offered a blandly condescending smile, the kind a disapproving teacher might grant an obtuse student.
“It involves a simple exchange: an oath of loyalty for a sacred gift. But first we celebrate, we enjoy ourselves and the blessed, privileged existence we savor here.” When the doubt must have still been writ on my face, she chuckled.
“Did you imagine blood sacrifices and intoxicated chanting?”
Yes. But I didn’t let the insolent reply slip my lips. “I am here to support my friend.”
“How loyal.” Lab rose to her feet with a touch upon my shoulder that felt like ice. “Doctor, there are people I would introduce you to. Captain, why don’t you mingle?”
I would rather drink rotting fish guts. But again, I held my tongue as the queen led Dalila away.
It was a painfully awkward affair. I hadn’t enjoyed wrestling griffins to the death, but at least that was straightforward.
Small talk with my extremely limited Khatti Ugalan and the few locals’ stilted Arabic was even more challenging when it was obvious none of us really wanted to speak to the other.
My sole positive encounter was with an elderly man obsessed with squid and I stuck by his side until even he tired of me.
It was enough to make me almost wish for Raksh’s company; then I at least would not be alone.
I did, however, very much need to speak to Dalila—a desire she was clearly aware of and thus far evading successfully, shadowing Lab or remaining encircled by small groups of laughing scholars. Finally I nabbed her, all but pouncing as she attempted to move to another knot of locals.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” I hissed into her ear with a smile, entwining my arm with hers before she could scamper away.
Dalila smiled placidly at a couple giving us curious looks. “Stop that,” she said, gritting her teeth. “You will draw suspicion.”
I was beginning not to give a damn about suspicion. “You don’t need to do this,” I pleaded. “I know how important your faith is to you.”
“This doesn’t require any forsaking of my own religion,” Dalila defended, but she sounded ill. “I will always be Christian. I will die a Christian. This is . . . different. But necessary.”
“But how can you just—”
“Don’t.” Her voice was harsh. “I know that I’ve wronged you, Amina. But this? I won’t hear judgment from you. You will never know what it’s like to be in my position. That is not the world we come from.”
There was such bitterness in those words that it broke my heart.
I glanced around, wishing I could pull her somewhere quieter.
“I won’t judge you, Dalila. But this isn’t what you think.
This initiation? It’s a farce. There’s magic in the garments that Lab has you spinning and weaving, and those cloaks that people receive—”
Dalila dug her nails into my wrist, the bite of pain stealing the rest of my words. “Stop talking.”
I stared at her, but there was nothing but grim knowing in Dalila’s expression. “So it’s true?” I reeled, not realizing until this moment how desperately I had wanted to be wrong. “Everyone here—”
“Everyone here is in a state you will be joining if you do not shut your mouth,” Dalila warned. “Except there will be no cloak bringing you back. But that’s not what’s happening tonight so don’t overreact and start stabbing things, understand?”
My desire to stab things was increasing by the moment. “Please,” I tried once more. “You needn’t be part of this. You cannot want to be part of this.”
She pulled her arm from mine. “I’ve made my decision.” And then she grinned, cheerfully smiling at someone past my shoulder, and I realized the chance had been lost. “Just trust me,” she said softly. “I know I’ve no right to ask that, but I am.”
And then, Dalila was gone, rejoining the crowd.
Cursing silently, I forced myself to do a few more rounds of the room, offering bland smiles I suspect resembled a grimace, considering how deftly the rest of the partygoers turned away from me.
Which was fine—I felt similarly about them.
But soon enough, the time for stilted conversation with the resurrected dead drew to an end.
The musicians stopped playing and Mitanni motioned for people to gather in loose circles around the dais.
The queen and Dalila were already there.
Dread snaring my heart, I lingered in the back.
Lab smiled at her people. “Thank you for celebrating with us tonight; I believe we are all in agreement that Dalila, our doctor from Mosul, would be a most welcome blessing to Khatti Ugal.” She seemed to repeat the words in Khatti Ugalan and there were murmurs of assent from the crowd.
Then she turned to Dalila, placing a hand upon hers.
“Dalila, I know we have spoken about this at length, but I ask again: Do you desire to make a home here, to give up dreams of departure for all the opportunities we can grant you? To serve Khatti Ugal in whatever manner that may be?”
Dalila didn’t hesitate, her voice steady. “It would be my honor, Your Resplendency.”
“Then I offer you a gift.” The queen reached for an enameled box that Mitanni had been holding. She opened it, revealing the contents to both Dalila and the crowd.
Nestled inside was a brilliantly woven belt.
No wider than three fingers—similar to the one Raksh had been either granted or forced to don—the colors on this belt were different and far more vivid.
It was striped with the rich dark blue of a desert river and the crimson of blood, of Dalila’s ribbon cap of poisons she no longer wore.
Embroidered triangles of green—the green of life, of growth—and silver, brilliant as a shining scalpel, decorated the edges like bared teeth.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying. Dalila took a deep breath, pausing for the first time, and I pushed through the crowd, halving the distance between us.
Maybe that belt wouldn’t kill her, but the one Raksh wore had muzzled my husband to the point that he didn’t even seem to be the same person, and I’d be damned if Dalila was going to follow his path.
She begged you to do nothing. To trust her. But how could I trust her after she’d lied to me?
Dalila lifted the belt from its silken bed.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, sounding humbled. “I am hardly worth such a thing.”
Lab tutted. “You are worth all this and more.” The queen took the belt from Dalila, motioning for her to stand so she could put it on, and I took two more steps forward.
My fingers itched for my dagger, my mind screaming warnings.
I wanted to rip that thing from Lab’s fingers before it so much as grazed my friend.
Dalila shot me a look, a brief and silent warning, before she blushed and met the queen’s gaze. “I can never thank you enough.”
The queen smiled more gently, an understanding between them that I couldn’t parse. “To new beginnings,” she said softly. “Better ones.” Then Lab was wrapping the belt around Dalila’s waist and securing it with a golden pin. Her hands lingered on Dalila’s hips, a possessiveness that petrified me.
Dalila took a deep breath and then . . .
she brightened. Her cheeks flushed with healthy color, and she straightened up and spread her arms, seeming to marvel at them.
There was a giddy madness in her eyes, triumph—the kind I was more used to seeing in Dalila when she blew up her black powder or knocked a man out with a new gas.
“It suits you,” Lab said, kissing Dalila’s brow. “Welcome to your new home.”
The Khatti Ugalans around me cheered, clustering forward to embrace Dalila and kiss her cheeks. I stared at my friend, not sure if I was seeing a stranger or simply a charlatan at the height of her craft.
But Dalila never looked my way.