Gozo

By the time the lookout on the Arbiter spotted Gozo, the Sage had sunk so low in the water that the waves were flooding her rowing deck. The crew stood ready to cut the tethers, but Bitias held out hope that she could be raised and restored. In the end, though, the weight of her cargo—amphorae of fresh water and good wine, dozens of untested grinding stones, jars of precious grain—pulled her further under, and Bitias ordered the crew to sever the ropes. Her passengers, still in shock from the storm, let her go without protest.

The Arbiter entered Gozo through a deep-water channel that lay between cliffs on one side and a wildflower-covered hill on the other. Oblivious to the beauty around them, the sailors dropped anchor at the end of the channel where a small fishing village hugged the shore. The sailors spoke gently—no need to rush, easy now, the worst is over—as they helped the weary and wounded passengers into the rowboats. It took a while to ferry everyone to the beach where they collapsed, relieved to be alive but too devastated to speak.

The local fishermen peered out from their stone cottages and wondered what the gods had laid at their doorstep. Word spread quickly that the beach was awash in refugees from a storm. The locals brought wood and built warming fires. They brought blankets and hot herbal tea sweetened with honey. They were astonished to discover that among the castaways were an admiral, a general, a priestess, and a queen, though every face, regardless of rank or station, wore the same blank expression. There was no hum of life, just stunned silence interrupted by moans of pain.

Amaal helped a weakened Uru to the nearest warming fire. A village woman gasped when she saw Uru’s purple arms. Amaal explained that the color was not from the cold. But, the villager insisted, her blue lips most certainly were. The woman wrapped Uru in a blanket and sat with her in front of the fire until the tired little seafarer leaned her head against the woman’s shoulder and fell asleep.

Amaal watched Barca and the Lieutenant help Queen Elishat step out of a shore boat. The sight of her people scattered like broken shells across the beach brought tears to her eyes. Amaal watched her wipe them away. Barca offered her an arm, and she took it. Amaal pretended not to listen as she overheard their conversation.

“What have I gotten them into? The gods have truly brought their judgement down upon us. Upon me.”

“Come, Princess,” Barca said quietly, helping her find steady footing on the pebble beach. “Are you injured?”

“No, no, just bruised…and terribly distraught.”

“Then we have work to do.”

She twisted her disheveled hair into a thick braid and tucked her gown up under her sash. With Barca and the Lieutenant by her side, she moved among the people, offering words of encouragement, acknowledging the terrible ordeal, asking if they had found their loved ones, and praising their bravery. She gently urged the less injured to help those in greater need, but the great storm had wrung the last drop of resolve out of the passengers. They waved her away. They ignored her appeals. They bluntly questioned not only the purpose of the voyage, which was bad enough, but the gods whom they said had forsaken them. Amaal watched the Queen pause from time to time to observe the heartbreaking scene. In the midst of the chaos, she appeared lost and very much alone.

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