The City in Mourning

The people of Qart-hadasht descended the hill in a stupor. Like disembodied spirits, they wandered the half-built city searching for a means to turn back time and right the terrible wrong that had taken their joy and left them in despair. They felt no wind and heard no birds. No one worked. No one talked. They barely put food and drink on the table much less on their home altars. They could not understand why the gods had taken their beloved queen.

Ta’am dismantled the cauldron piece by piece, every lock, rivet, handle, and hinge, and hauled it back to the forge. When the temple maidens arrived to take the Queen’s ashes, he helped them fill the burial urn from the ones that lay at the bottom of the pan. The gold from her crown and staff had melted into a solid mass that vaguely resembled a swan with its head tucked under its wing. Ta’am said they should bury that with her, too. The curled horns of the sacrificial ram he set aside for himself.

Twilight, with its sadness of colors, descended over the city. The mourners, at a loss for where to go and what to do, formed small groups across the hillside to console one another and contemplate how they had arrived at this woeful point. Amaal and Uru and Hannu found their friends from the Phoenix—the Oarswoman, the Tillerman, the captain, Vohu Manah, and the others, sitting in a circle as if they were still on the ship. After a long silence, Hannu said he’d like to play a song for the Queen. Everyone agreed. He put his pipes to his lips and started to play. Thankfully, the tune that emerged was neither sad nor somber. That, they couldn’t have endured. Instead, it was a sweet refrain that let them hear the queen’s laughter and see her flowing black hair, her quick step, her flashing green eyes. Their tears flowed into an ocean of heartache. They stayed though no one had much to say except to wonder why, as day merged into night and night into day in one endless nightmare.

 No one slept. Bitias and Barca disappeared into the shadows, overcome by unbearable grief. They blamed themselves for letting Elishat think that they would have condoned such a horrible decision. They thought back on her suggestion that she leave the city and wished that they had understood then what she had really meant so they could have dissuaded her from taking her own life. Their deep sorrow was interrupted only by bouts of immeasurable rage against Iarbas, the source of the Queen’s dismay, who had fled the city for good. The two faithful advisors knew the city depended on them to move forward, but each secretly wondered whether the people could go on without their beloved Queen.

Three days later, while the people still walked in sadness, Ta’am brought Amaal the papyrus he had promised her. The moment he saw her troubled face, he wanted desperately to reveal the secret of Elishat’s death, but he kept it to himself and said only, “The Priestess wants a papyrus to mark the Queen’s urn until a stone can be arranged. I think you should write it.”

Amaal hesitated.

Ta’am said calmly, “I think she would have wanted you to write it.”

“Of course, I’ll do it.”

“The Priestess wants you to write:

‘Bow not to me but to my people.

It is they who have led me.’”

He stayed for a few minutes while she laid out her writing kit. “You’re the scribe now, Amaal.”

She looked over the tools and said softly, “I never knew anyone could feel so proud and so sad at the same time.”

Ta’am paused and said, “I doubt we’ll ever get used to it.”

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