The Library of Fates(36)

Thala narrowed her eyes at me. “I didn’t trick you, and I didn’t lie. Oracles don’t lie, I told you that. I know you’re upset because you lost your father and Mala and Arjun, but I’m not the reason all of that happened.”

I angrily tugged at the scarf that covered my face, making sure it was secure. “Actually, you are the reason Arjun isn’t with me right now.” My voice was sharp. I couldn’t help it; the cruel words simply tumbled out of my mouth without any thought. I just missed Arjun, horribly. The truth was, I didn’t blame Thala for his capture. I blamed myself. I hoped he was all right.

Meena Amba’s words had given me some comfort, but more than that, they had given me direction, a mission. Thala’s obsession was clouding her judgment, and I couldn’t rely on her help. But I needed to take the matter of my kingdom into my own hands. The only thing that mattered to me right now was getting to the Sybillines. Once I got there, I could figure out a plan, maybe even find a way to communicate with Arjun and rescue him from Sikander. And then the two of us would devise a plan to take the throne back. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t let Sikander simply seize what he wanted.

If Thala was right about one thing, it was this: As long as I was alive, there was a chance that my people would remain safe.

I looked away from Thala’s piercing eyes, too angry to say anything.

“Fine, don’t believe me then.” She simply turned on her heel and walked ahead of me.

“I don’t,” I scoffed, but I made sure I was a few paces behind her so I didn’t lose her.

I felt a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow. What if she was right? The idea of never seeing my father again was unthinkable, and it made every ounce of my heart ache. Every time I thought about what had happened, the way I had simply left him, I had to fight the urge to stop in my tracks, get down on my hands and knees, curl myself up into a ball, and cry.

But I willed my feet to keep walking. I thought about the way Thala had cleaned them for me by the well, the way she had carefully reached her hands down into the tunnel to retrieve me, the things that she had confided in me.

I thought about how she must have felt when she was ripped away from her family and taken into slavery. I wondered again about the cuts and bruises on her body, and my heart ached for her too, for an entire world of suffering I had never before encountered or experienced. Before today, I hadn’t even known this kind of pain could exist.

I walked faster till I was just behind Thala. She turned to me, her face a mask of stone. “I’ll go to the temple with you, but we’re going to the Library of All Things,” she insisted. She hesitated before she added, without emotion in her voice, “Otherwise, we should consider parting ways.” She quickly cut ahead of me again.

I was too hurt to respond. The prospect of a lone three-fortnight expedition on horseback through the desert to a place that no one had been able to access for centuries terrified me, but I would simply have to find a way to do it. I wondered about my own will. Thala had pushed me past my own limit in that tunnel. What would happen when there was no one there to tell me I had to go on when I didn’t have it in me?

¤

The stone road to Mount Moutza was filled with people from all walks of life. There was the occasional procession of monks, some of them with shaved heads, others with long hair and beards, all of them draped in red and orange robes. They walked quietly, wordlessly, carrying nothing but the wooden bowls in their hands, with which they begged for their morning rice.

Every now and then, a merchant caravan traveled down the road too, drawn by horses and camels, large burlap satchels hanging off their flanks. The ones leaving Ananta carried bags of tea, indigo, spices. Those coming in toward Ananta held reams of colorful silk shining in the sun—reds and indigos, oranges and greens. The men and women on these caravans wore beautiful robes made of the same silk.

Bedouins carrying all of their belongings on mules marched past us, their faces weathered and creased like stories told again and again. In their hands, they held mirrored patchwork bindles.

Entire families walked together on foot—children chasing one another down the road, their carefree voices pitched into the air above us like kites, fathers holding babies in their arms, speaking to them in soft voices, coaxing them to sleep.

They were headed east toward the sunrise, toward lands that my father had told me about, places that Mala had woven into the fairy tales she recited to me and Arjun when we were children.

There was a time when the whole world had come to me through their voices, through their words and experiences, and now I was walking that very world with my own feet, and all I could do was wonder where they had gone, where people go when they depart this life, this plane. I had never before even considered that question.

¤

Before long Thala was many paces ahead. The tension between us was thick and heavy. She was one of the few people in the world who could understand how I felt right now, and yet I had driven her away.

I tried to distract myself. A cool breeze caressed my face and rustled the leaves on palm fronds. I walked under the blue tile archways that lined the road every few hundred paces. Along the stone road was a whitewashed wall with pink vines crawling across it, more bloom than wall. Colorful prayer flags flapped in the soft breeze, and the smell of jasmine permeated the air.

“Looks like you’re having a rough day,” I heard someone behind me say and snapped around, my heart racing, half-expecting to see one of Sikander’s men.