Chapter 37
There were just so many shrouds.
Some had fallen alone and others in pairs.
Some were clearly child-size, others nestled alongside scavenged jewels and ornaments; whatever had been shipwrecked upon Khatti Ugal remaining while everything spun and woven by the spindle had collapsed.
And though I’d known for some time that the vast majority of locals were dead, it was different seeing the cloaks they’d left behind, their accessories, their shoes.
The palace was gone, reduced to crumbling ruins and bits of scavenged cargo between soaring trees and sun-dappled meadows.
The fierce river had turned into a meandering creek, its fine bridge now nothing more than a scattering of stones, and the throne room a tidal cove in truth.
I looked for Pares’s shroud as I walked, hoping to return it to the place where his mother had fallen, but it was nowhere to been seen and in a dark part of my heart, I was relieved to be spared the sight.
Dalila quietly peeled away. I had confirmed with my crew only the most necessary of assurances: they were all still alive and repairs had progressed on the Marawati.
Any lengthier explanations could wait until I returned from the city.
My shipmates may have thought me mad, but I couldn’t be sure the kingdom wasn’t done folding up on itself and I wanted to persuade any Khatti Ugalans who’d survived to escape while they could.
Majed and two other men accompanied me, but our conversation was faltering and awkward, my navigator clearly avoiding the subject of his apparently miraculous recovery and I too overwhelmed by the magnitude of Khatti Ugal’s fall to comprehend anything beyond my crew and ship being safe.
Still, I felt some relief when Majed trailed after Dalila; he’d been trying to explain something about time that didn’t make sense and buzzed about my head like an irritating fly.
Raksh, of course, stayed with me, unerringly correcting my path and occasionally picking through the ruins to examine fallen treasure.
Finally we arrived at the Chamber of Mysteries, what remained of it anyway—towering piles of shipwrecked artifacts piled in a shady glen.
Arno waited there beneath the trees with five other Khatti Ugalans, all looking shocked and covered in dust.
He rushed to greet me. “What happened?”
Your world was spun on a lie and it finally unraveled. “I don’t know,” I said instead, and that somehow also felt like the truth, the brutal book of fables we’d all been trapped in slamming closed. “But I think we should leave this place.”
It took all day for our small party to traverse what was left of Khatti Ugal.
I wish I could say that was because we found so many survivors it took time to recover them all, but that would be false.
In the overgrown wilderness that had consumed the once neatly swept streets, the fallow fields where markets had stood, and the stone circles marking homes, we discovered fewer than fifty souls.
In a kingdom of thousands, there had barely been three score living subjects.
And while the survivors seemed more shocked than grieving, I could only guess at their emotional state—and wondered if a time would come when they would blame me.
As it was, it took little convincing for them to join us and to retreat from the ruins for at least a few days in case further magic was to strike.
They packed up what belongings remained and our motley caravan pressed on through the forest that had swallowed the city.
From the thickets of trees, occasional animal eyes gleamed.
Frightened, Khatti Ugal’s infamous livestock seemed to have retreated to the wilderness; and though I caught no more than a glimpse, their numbers appeared unchanged.
Perhaps not all of Lab’s magic could be undone.
The realization broke my heart for Orinth all over again. All I could do was pray they ultimately found peace.
Still we continued. The sun was sinking toward the horizon by the time I spotted Dalila and Majed amid a pile of shrouds in the remnants of a plaza.
They’d clearly found what remained of the apothecary and collected several bags filled to bursting, including a few containing entire plants.
But all that had been set to the side. Majed had a shovel in his hands and appeared to have just finished digging a shallow hole.
Dalila knelt in the dirt beside it. My head swam as I approached them, a great wave of weakness sapping what little remained of my strength; canvassing Khatti Ugal probably had not been the wisest decision if I wished to remain upright.
“Are you ready to return to the beach?” I asked, my voice coming out in a raspy wheeze. The sight of the plaza pierced my heart. There were several dozen shrouds, some of the most colorful and ornate I’d seen, as though a group had gathered here and perished together.
Majed held his tongue, glancing at Dalila. She didn’t respond, and I looked to see what she’d laid in the shallow hole. It was a plain white shroud—intricately embroidered—alongside what appeared to be an animal hide. She pressed her palms against them, as though doing so hurt her.
“What is that?” I asked.
“What I owe her.” Dalila didn’t explain further, and when I stepped closer, I realized she didn’t need to.
That was Pares’s cloak, along with Mitanni’s wrap.
Dalila removed a silver chain from around her neck, the rosary that Lab had given her, and laid it upon the ancient garments before sitting back.
Majed wordlessly took the cue and none of us spoke as he began filling the hole.
Or rather, the grave; what little grave we could offer.
Finally Dalila stood up. Her gaze was bright with unshed tears, but she stared at Majed as clear-eyed as I’d ever seen her. “Thank you, my friend.” Then she glanced at me. “Now I’m ready.”
We headed back to the beach. But as though my abused body had known rest soon beckoned, it decided to go ahead and give in to both my injuries and exhaustion.
I went from stumbling along with a makeshift walking stick, to leaning on two Khatti Ugalans, to lastly just being carried by an impatient Raksh, whose jostling likely hurt as much as helped.
I was vaguely aware of being lifted onto one of the skiffs but then I slipped into darkness, occasionally resurfacing to the splash of an oar, the chill of a salty breeze.
It was dusk by the time the skiff made it around the curve of the island, carefully hugging the coast. A hand shook my shoulder, rousing me from my pained sleep. “Nakhudha, look.”
There, in the soft glow of the dying sun, was my Marawati. And it was . . . repaired?
Fully awake now, I gawked at the impossible sight of my ship.
It was still in a cradle of timbers, but it had a new mast and replaced rudders; the belly of the hull no longer slumped.
Surrounding it were a half-dozen well-constructed huts.
It was the work of six months, no less, and it made not a lick of sense.
Our skiffs were quickly noticed by the rest of the camp. Credit to the Almighty for creating me so uniquely because it took no time at all for Maslama, one of my rowers, to spot me in the shell of a skiff and cry out, “God be praised, it is the nakhudha!”
“The nakhudha!”
Tinbu rushed from the Marawati’s hull, tools still at hand. He dropped them in the sand and then ran to the returning boats, splashing into the water.
“Amina! Dalila!” He pulled up short, his eyes widening with shock. “Raksh?”
I opened my mouth—to greet Tinbu, to exclaim how happy I was that they were all alive—but what I croaked out was, “What the hell did you do to my ship?”
Tinbu was incredulous, glancing between the Marawati and my face like he was missing something. “We fixed it?”
“How?” A dozen new worries swirled in my head. “It’s been hardly two months since we arrived. You didn’t use some sort of magic or—”
Tinbu appeared flabbergasted. “Amina, it’s been eight months since you disappeared.”
It’s been what? I felt the blood drain from my face, prompting a new wave of dizziness. Oh. Suddenly some of faltering things Majed had been trying to explain about time back in the ruins of Khatti Ugal made more sense.
I cleared my throat. “I think . . . I think we all have a great deal to discuss. But for now, I would very much like to lie down.”