Interlude 10 #2
You glance again at the tapestry and it comes together.
The servants are compelled by their woven cloaks to tend only to their work.
There is no fraternizing, no rest—only work.
They shear the livestock and wash the wool.
Card the fibers and dye the threads. They weave the patterns you command.
They know nothing beyond this temple and its labor, but they know it intimately.
They would know precisely where to place those poisoned strands.
Amina al-Sirafi might not have even realized it, but she was not working alone.
How many other Khatti Ugalans have betrayed you?
Even loyal Orinth was swayed by her friendship; have others been influenced by the chatty pirate’s tall tales?
Could there have been other servants, other ensorcelled guards unable to directly revolt, but capable of silently turning a blind eye or offering quiet aid?
Bitterness washes over you. You have done so much for your people, for these castaways, and they have repaid the favor by desecrating your home.
Fury—vengeance—catches alight in your fractured soul like the tantalizing caress of an old lover.
This is not a problem you can mend, seams that can be ripped out and resewn. These people want their freedom?
Then let them have it.
You cross to one of the bubbling cauldrons of dye and thrust a distaff stick into the flames below. Then, torch blazing, you stride over to the rebellious textile worker with her hate-filled gaze. Commanded only to work, she stays rooted to her station.
You set her shroud alight.
She cannot scream, cannot flee, only manages a haunting high-pitched moan as she burns. You light up the great heaps of wool, torch the tools, and set ablaze the walls. Then you hurl the fiery missile at the tapestry you have worked on for centuries.
It goes up like dry tinder.
The workers are trying to scream, trapped. Mitanni trembles.
“Do not fear, dear one.” Those closest to you have never been knit into the tapestry; for as comfortable a home as you have made Khatti Ugal, you’ve spent too many eons running from annihilation.
Mitanni, Pares, and a handful of your most beloved companions sport far more intricate shrouds.
They shall be fine. “Find Pares. Pares and the others. Cross the river and go with them to the city, it will be safer. I will find you when this is over.”
“And you?”
“I will take care of the pirates.”
You leave the workshop after him, barring the door behind you. You are mournful but steadfast. By the end of the day, Khatti Ugal may be nothing but ashes, but it can rise again. You will have your closest followers and whatever living citizens survive the blaze. That will be enough.
But not until you deal with these latest sea raiders.
A view from one of the upper parapets confirms Mitanni’s warnings.
The illusion concealing the graveyard of ships that litters Khatti Ugal’s harbor has been peeled away with the rising sun.
Great hulks of sunken cargo vessels and war triremes burst from the choppy surf amid sharp rocks and bobbing debris.
However it isn’t only ruined boats in the harbor.
A half-dozen carefully constructed skiffs are being poled through the lethal water with a skill even you can appreciate.
The men are armed with everything from swords to makeshift spears and they move with a deadly grace. With determination.
Pirates. But it isn’t only plunder they seek, for you recognize the man in the lead skiff—it is Amina al-Sirafi’s navigator. These men are here for their shipmates.
You curse your mistake for you should have dealt with them long ago.
But you were intrigued to see a vessel survive the cursed sea with so many of its crew alive.
It was enough for you to wonder, to contemplate testing the bars of your cage.
Not you, of course, but a few of your people and theirs once you’d put down their captain and sorted out their lies.
Now it is too late. Watching these boats, these raiders, is like seeing your first home annihilated all over again.
They must have been waiting for a slip, for a weakness in the boundary they could exploit.
Such foul brigands have no place in Khatti Ugal.
But not even you can take on this many men yourself, not from a distance.
Your magic is not limitless, and confronting Amina al-Sirafi and battling the hostile presence in your head has taken its toll.
You will need to get close, to be welcomed.
How fortunate, then, that you are already wearing the face of their Mistress of Poisons.
This thought provokes Dalila in your mind all over again. She surges to attack and your body lunges for the terrace. With great effort, you grab the railing before she can pitch you over, fighting for control. You shove Dalila back into your memories and she starts to scream.
Let her scream. Let them all scream. For it has been a very long time since you’ve bonded to a new host with an act of vengeance and you intend to savor this.