Four Ships from Tyre

Four ships sailed from Tyre, their oars cutting silently through the water under a thin crescent moon, a good omen for new beginnings. Admiral Bitias commanded the royal flagship Arbiter at the head of the fleet. The ship’s navigator set a course by the Pole Star that guided them as it would seafarers for thousands of years to come. The tillerman steered northwest, following the prevailing sea currents and taking advantage of a favorable wind. Following the Arbiter were two merchant vessels, the Nebula, and the Sage, each led by an able captain and impelled by a skeleton crew of skilled oarsmen. Last came the Phoenix, smallest and fastest of the fleet. Like the Arbiter, she was a war vessel, and it was she whose orders had been to wait for Amaal and the Lieutenant at the edge of the harbor.

With no lamps lit and only a sliver of a moon, darkness loomed over the deck of the Phoenix. The huddled passengers watched Amaal come aboard, some pressing a finger against their lips to remind her—and themselves—to stay quiet. No one sneezed; no child whimpered; barely a breath was taken. The Phoenix passed King Hiram’s stone jetty in unnatural silence and pulled free of the harbor. A few minutes later she joined the fleet under full sail on the Great Sea. Tucked between bundles and blankets, the refugees took their first few breaths of freedom. Escape from Tyre brought a sense of relief to a people who had suffered under the heel of a tyrant for too long, but the hollow space in their hearts reminded them that they could never return so long as Pumayyaton was king. Under a dome of stars, they let their guard down and allowed the steady motion of the ship to lull them like babes in a cradle.

Not so for Amaal. Her arms and legs surged with adrenalin. Her skin crawled with perspiration. Her hands stung from the rough cargo netting. She sat with her back against a wooden box, her flute in her lap, her heart beating in her chest. The sailor on watch walked by.

“Is the Princess safe?” Amaal asked quietly.

When he nodded, yes, tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them away and laughed to herself. She had done it. Everything had worked out. The Princess was safe. Amaal replayed the events over in her mind, incredulous that she had been a part of it. She had helped save a whole fleet of refugees, yet she felt oddly alone. No one else, not even the ones who conceived it, had witnessed her execution of the plan. She rested her head against the box and gazed up at a million stars. Today I was a princess, she thought. Now I’m just a girl on a ship going who knows where? No answers came, but she felt the adrenalin drain from her body and a merciful wave of exhaustion take its place.

Below deck aboard the flagship Arbiter, a lamp is lit. Princess Elishat, alone in the privacy of her royal chamber, has been restored though there are still streaks of white powder in her hair, adding years to her appearance. She lifts the lid on the finely carved circular box that holds her magnificent, golden crown. In a quiet voice, she speaks to the gods. She asks their guidance and makes a solemn vow: she will not wear the horned moon crown again until she has secured a new land for her people. She promises that her life, however long or short it may be, will be dedicated to the building of a city of which they can be proud. She pledges that she will earn the crown not because of the legacy she has left behind but because of what she will accomplish for her people in the days ahead. She goes to the window and pulls the widow’s veil around her shoulders against the cool sea air. She looks aft, in the direction of Tyre, then turns her eyes upward to the brilliant, star-filled sky. She remembers that moment standing on the shore as a poor old widow and wonders if she will ever again feel so free. She pulls the shutters closed, and, after a few minutes, the light is extinguished.

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