The Edge of the World by Kevin J anderson 
	Criston unlashed himself and swung down, clinging to ratlines that were slick from the pounding rain.
	With hands that were strong and callused, he worked his way to the first yardarm, hooked his arm through the ropes for stability, and looked out again. Yes, the beacon was still there--and brighter now. Surely other crewmen had noticed it! He stared, yearning for that light, knowing what it represented. He wasn't looking down at the sea. Even if he could have sounded an alarm, it was far too late.
The monster that rose from the black depths was impervious to the storm, greater than ten sea serpents. Its bullet-shaped head was as large as the Luminara's prow, and when it opened its maw, Criston saw row upon row of sharp teeth, each one as long as an oar. It had a single round squidlike eye in the center of its forehead, and spines like a mane around its neck and ringing its gills. Armfuls of tentacles sprouted from each side, lined with wet suckers, each with a barb in its center. The tentacle ends were blind sea serpents, opening to show fang-filled mouths.
For a moment, Criston could not speak, could not breathe. He found his voice and bellowed with all his strength and all his soul, projecting his voice with enough power to call the attention of the sailors on deck. "Leviathan!"
Books by Kevin J. Anderson 
	TERRA INCOGNITA
	The Edge of the World
	THE SAGA OF SEVEN SUNS Hidden Empire A Forest of Stars Horizon Storms Scattered Suns Of Fire and Night Metal Swarm The Ashes of Worlds Veiled Alliances (graphic novel)
Terra Incognita BOOK ONE 
	Kevin J. flnderson
	The Edge of the World
	orbit
	www.orbitbooks.net
	New York London
Copyright (c) 2009 by WordFire, Inc.
Excerpt from The Map of All Things copyright (c) 2010 by WordFire, Inc. 
	All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
	Orbit
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com 
	First Edition: June 2009
	Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.
	The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
	Map by Patrick Simmons, simpaticoartstudio.com
	Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Anderson, Kevin J. The edge of the world / Kevin J. Anderson.-- 1st U.S. ed. p. cm. -- (Terra incognita ; 1) ISBN 978-0-316-00418-3 I. Title. PS3551.N37442E34 2009
813'.54--dc222008051025 
	10 987654321
	RRD-IN
	Printed in the United States of America
To Neil Peart, 
	A friend for nearly twenty years, and his music has given me tremendous inspiration for much longer than that. Without those lyrics triggering a cascade of ideas, many of my stories would never have been conceived.
"When you reach the edge of the world. --The Book of Aiden
you can fly.' 
	-L
	Part 1 
Off the Coast of Uraba 
	These foreign seas looked much the same as the waters of home, but Criston Vora knew the lands were different, the people were different, and their religion was contrary to everything he had been taught in the Aidenist kirk. For a twenty-year-old sailor eager to see the world, those differences could be either wondrous or frightening--he wouldn't know which until he met the people of Uraba, which he was about to do.
The Fishhookhad made this voyage several times, and Griston's captain, Andon Shay, was confident in his abilities to negotiate another trade deal with the Uraban merchants. The young man kept his eyes open and studied the unfolding coastline as the ship sailed far, far south of everything he had known.
From his fishing village of Windcatch, he had always felt the call of the sea, wanting to see what lay beyond the horizon, yearning to explore. Though he had signed on for only a short trading voyage, at least he was seeing the other continent: Uraba. A place of legends and mystery.
Though connected by a narrow isthmus, the world's two main continents, Uraba and Tierra, were separated by a wide gulf of history and culture. Ages ago, at the beginning of time, when Ondun--God--had sent two of his sons in separate sailing ships to explore the world, the descendants of Aiden's crew had settled Tierra, while those from Urec's vessel colonized Uraba. Over the centuries, the followers of Aiden and the followers of Urec developed separate civilizations, religions, and traditions;
despite their differences, they were bound together by ties of trade and necessity.
On a bright sunny day with a brisk breeze, Captain Shay called for the sails to be trimmed for a gentle approach to the city of Ouroussa, where they hoped to find eager customers. The hold of the Fishhook contained barrels of whale oil from Soeland Reach, large spools of hemp rope from Erietta, grain from Alamont, and, in a special locked chest in the captain's cabin, beautiful metal-worked jewelry made by the skilled smiths of Corag Reach. Though the bangles and ornaments would be sold to the followers of Urec, the Corag metalworkers had subtly hidden a tiny Aidenist fishhook on each piece of jewelry.
Captain Shay would sell his cargo at prices greatly reduced from what the other Uraban merchants and middlemen could offer. With fast vessels, intrepid Tierran sailors braved the uncharted currents and sailed directly to Uraba's coastal cities, bypassing the much slower overland merchants (much to their consternation).
Near the ship's wheel, Criston paused to look at the two compasses mounted on a sheltered pedestal, a traditional magnetic compass that always pointed toward magnetic north and a magical Captain's Compass that always pointed home. The silver needle of the Captain's Compass came from the same piece of precious metal as an identical needle in the Tierran capital city of Calay. These twinned needles remained linked to each other by sympathetic magic, as all things in Ondun's creation were said to be linked.
Now, as the Fishhook closed in on Ouroussa, the crew saw a flurry of activity in the distant harbor; a ship with a bright red sail set out to meet them, sailing toward the open water. Captain Shay gestured to Criston. "Go aloft and have a look, Seaman Vora." Shay's dark hair ran to his shoulders, and instead of
wearing a full bushy beard like most ship captains, he kept his neatly trimmed.
Nimble and unafraid of heights, the young man scrambled up the shroud lines to reach the lookout nest. During the voyage, Griston had enjoyed spending time high atop the main mast overlooking the waters; he had even seen several fearsome looking sea serpents, but only at a distance.
As the Uraban ship approached, Criston noted its central painted icon on its square mainsail, the Eye of Urec. He spied additional movement in the harbor, where two fast Uraban galleys launched, their oars extended, beating across the water at a good clip. They spread apart, approaching the Fishhook from opposite directions.
Captain Shay called for a report, and Criston scrambled back down the lines to relate what he had seen to Captain Shay. "I couldn't see many crewmen aboard the main ship, Captain. Maybe they just want to escort us into port."
"Never needed an escort before. These aren't waters that require a pilot." Shay snapped orders to his crew, and all twenty eight men came out on deck to stand ready. "Once they know what we're offering, they'll welcome us with open arms, but don't let your guard down." He turned back to the young sailor. "This could be a very interesting first voyage for you, Seaman."
"It's not my first voyage, sir. I've spent most of my life on boats."
"It's your first voyage with me, and that's what counts."
Criston's father, a fisherman, had been lost at sea, and Criston himself had served aboard many boats, working the local catch but dreaming of more ambitious voyages. Though young, Criston owned his own small boat for carrying cargo up to the Tierran capital of Calay, but the prospect of paying off the moneylenders seemed daunting. So when the Fishhook had passed
through Windcatch on her way south and Captain Shay asked for short-term sailors to accompany him on a two-month trip to Ouroussa, offering wages higher than he could make on his own boat, Criston had jumped at the chance.
Not only would it help him pay off the debt, but it would give Criston a chance to see far-off lands. And when he returned to Windcatch with his purse full of coins, he would finally be able to marry Adrea, whom he had loved for years. Once the Fishhook unloaded her cargo in Ouroussa, Criston could be on his way home
As the scarlet-sailed Uraban ship closed to within hailing distance, he spotted a man standing near the bow dressed in loose cream-colored robes, his head wrapped in a pale olba. Only five crewmen stood with the man on the foreign vessel's deck. The robed man shouted across to them in heavily accented Tier ran. "I am Fillok, Ouroussa's city leader. What goods have you brought us?"
Shay lowered his voice to Criston. "Fillok... I know that name. I think he's the brother of the soldan of Outer Wahilir, an important man. Why would he come to meet us?" He frowned in consternation. "Men who consider themselves important sometimes do brash things, and it's rarely a good sign." The captain raised his voice and called back across the water, "We are on our way to port. I can give your harbormaster a full list."
"It is my right to inspect your cargo here and now! How do we know your boat is not filled with soldiers to attack Ouroussa?"
"Why would we do that? " Shay asked, genuinely perplexed.
If Fillok did not change course, his ship would collide with the Fishhook within minutes. Captain Shay eyed the two swift war galleys coming toward them from both port and starboard. "This doesn't feel right, Vora. Go up there and have another
look." The young sailor slipped away and scrambled back up the ropes to the lookout nest.
Tierran traders often made great profit from selling to Uraban cities, but many vessels vanished, more than could reasonably be accounted for by storms and reefs. If Fillok were an ambitious and unprincipled man, he could have attacked those traders and seized their cargoes. No one in Tierra would know.
When Criston reached the lookout nest and peered down at the foreign ship, he was astonished to see far more than just the five Uraban sailors standing at the ropes. At least a dozen armed men crouched out of sight behind crates and sailcloth on the deck; the hatches were open, and even more Uraban men crowded below, holding bright scimitars. Criston cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Captain, it's a trap! The ship is full of armed men!"
Shay shouted to his crew, "Set sails! All canvas, take the wind now!" Already on edge, the men jumped to untie knots, pull ropes, and drop sails abruptly into place.
Criston's warning forced Fillok into abrupt action. The Ouroussan city leader screamed something in his own language, and hidden men burst into view, lifting their swords. Shrill trumpets sounded a call to battle. Ropes with grappling hooks flew across the narrow gap between the two ships; several fell into the water, but three caught the Fishhook's deck rail. Answering horns and drumbeats came from the two closing war galleys, and the rowers picked up their pace.
Shay reached down to grab a long harpoon stowed just below the starboard bow of the Fishhook. The Tierran men armed themselves with boat-hooks, oars, and stunning clubs. Criston clambered back down to the deck, ready to join the fight. He held a long boat-knife to defend himself, though its reach was much shorter than that of a Uraban scimitar.
Griston ran to the straining ropes that bound the ships together, just as five Urabans jumped across the gap with an eerie inhuman howl. Ducking the wide swing of a Uraban sword, he sawed at the first rope until it snapped and immediately set to work on the second one.
The Fishhook's sails were fully extended now, giving her a much greater canvas area than Fillok's small Uraban ship. The ropes creaked as the Tierran vessel tried to break away. One of the Tierran sailors went down, bleeding from a deep gash in his head.
Ignoring the mayhem around him, Captain Shay cocked his arm back and let the long harpoon fly toward the other ship. Where its sharp iron tip plunged directly through Fillok's chest. The Ouroussan city leader staggered backward, grabbing the harpoon's shaft in astonishment, before he collapsed into a pool of blood on his own deck.
The Uraban attackers howled in rage upon seeing their leader killed. They piled against one another, preparing to leap across and slaughter the Tierrans. Racing in from shore, the two war galleys closed in a pincer maneuver.
Criston sawed with his knife until he severed the third grappling rope, and like a freed stallion, the Fishhook lunged free, separating from the Uraban ship as many of the enemy fighters leaped across. A dozen men tumbled into the deep water, and only two managed to cling to the side of the Fishhook, clutching nets and an anchor rope. Leaning over the rail, Criston lopped off fingers with a knife slash, and the screaming men slid into the water.
Though he was as white as a sheet, Captain Shay's voice did not waver as he shouted, "All speed--head north! Out to open sea!" The Fishhook began to pull away.
Only three enemy soldiers remained on the deck. Captain
Shay's crew quickly dispatched them and dumped the bodies overboard.
With Fillok killed--the brother of the local soldan!--the remaining Uraban sailors were in a frenzy aboard his ship. The drums of the approaching war galleys beat furiously, but the Fishhook's sails pushed the cargo ship faster. The coastline began to dwindle in the distance, but Criston knew the uproar would not die down. "Captain, what just happened? Why did they do that? We came only to trade."
"They wanted our cargo, and now they'll want our hides as well." Shay looked sick. "Fillok's brother will go to Soldan-Shah Imir and demand blood. I suppose the blood of any Tierran will do. We have to get to King Korastine as quickly as possible." He gave the young sailor a weary smile as he turned the wheel and aligned the course with the Captain's Compass. "When we pass Windcatch, I can drop you off, Mr. Vora. But for the rest of us..." He shook his head, still frowning. "I think we just started a war." 
	Zt The Royal Cog, Sailing to Ishalem
	Three Months Later
	The royal ship sailed southward through the night, following the Tierran coastline. She was a single-masted cog with her square sails trimmed so that she made slow headway under the stars. Because the route down to the holy city of Ishalem was so well charted, with lighthouses to mark hazardous stretches, the captain was comfortable with proceeding in the dark.
Even so, King Korastine of Tierra could not sleep, caught between hope and anxiety about the upcoming meeting with Soldan-Shah Imir. After the disastrous clash between Captain Shay's trading ship and the Uraban privateers, he could just as easily have been leading warships down to ransack Ouroussa and sink enemy ships in the harbor.
Instead of leaping headfirst into war, the Uraban leader had dispatched his best ambassador, a man named Giladen, to search for a peaceful solution. Though neither leader would admit it, both knew that Captain Shay should not have gone where he did; they also knew that Fillok should not have attacked a peaceful trading ship, and that a harpoon in the heart was exactly what he deserved. Though their respective populations were inflamed, both the king and the soldan-shah believed they had a chance to salvage the situation.
Long past midnight, Korastine stood on the raised bow platform and gazed into the misty shadows that lay ahead, imagining their destination. Ishalem. The sacred city built on the narrow isthmus that connected the continents... the most ancient settlement in the known world, considered holy by both the Aidenist religion and the rival Urecari religion.
Korastine wrapped weathered hands around the wooden balustrade. He was a thin man, wise-looking, barely forty. His long hair and neatly trimmed beard were light brown, salted with graying strands. He could already see what he would look like when he grew old, and times like these aged a man more swiftly.
In Ishalem, he and the soldan-shah would sign a treaty blessed by the Aidenist prester-marshall and the head sikara priestess of the Urecari church. After so many years of turmoil, they would divide the known world in half, clearly defining the two spheres of influence. That would settle the matter for all time, and at last there would be peace.
11 
	So why couldn't he sleep? Why did his stomach insist upon knotting itself with doubts? With a heavy sigh, he tried to convince himself that he was just being a fool, stung by too many disappointments, too many misplaced dreams.
The mist intensified the salt-and-seaweed smell in the air. The whispering laughter of gentle waves against the hull planks was soothing. Though there were hammocks below, most crewmen chose to sleep on the open deck. A puff of breeze luffed the sailcloth, making the masts and rigging creak.
Korastine barely heard the soft barefoot tread ascending the steps to the forecastle platform. He turned to see his beloved eleven-year-old daughter rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Are we almost to Ishalem, Father? "
"We'll be there in the morning." He reached out to hug her, and she comfortably folded herself into his arms.
Princess Anjine had straight brown hair, parted in the middle. When she was at court in Calay, she brushed her hair many times nightly, as her mother had once insisted, but on the five day voyage, the girl didn't bother with such silliness, and the king couldn't blame her.i
Though Queen Sena had been dead from pneumonia for half a year now, Korastine and his wife had often disagreed on the raising of their only child; the queen insisted that Anjine ought to be ladylike and courtly, while Korastine wanted the girl to focus more on leadership--while also being allowed some measure of her own childhood. As an uneasy compromise, the princess had learned both.
Knowing how much was at stake with the upcoming treaty, the king insisted that Anjine accompany him now. He could never forget the responsibility he had to his people and to his daughter. One day, he would leave Tierra in Anjine's care, and he did not want to give her a broken, war-torn land.
Korastine glanced around for his daughter's constant companion. "Where is Mateo?" One year older than Anjine, the young man was Korastine's ward by virtue of a heartfelt promise made when Mateo's father, a captain of the royal guard, had died in the line of duty.
"Oh, he has no trouble sleeping." Anjine lounged back against the rail. "Should I go splash a bucket of seawater in his face?"
"Let him sleep. We're going to have a busy day when we reach port."
As the royal cog had sailed out of Calay Harbor, Anjine and Mateo had chattered with excitement about the exotic things they were going to see. Neither had ever been to Ishalem, though they had heard plenty of stories from sailors, presters, and teachers. By the second day, however, the excitement of the voyage faded, and Mateo made it his personal mission to entertain Anjine. After the king had scolded the two children for scrambling up the mast and hanging on the rigging, Mateo devoted himself to playing strategy games with her. They hunkered down together on the deck boards, sketching out a chalk grid and making their marks. Korastine noted, proudly, that Anjine won more often than the boy did.
Queen Sena would have argued against bringing Mateo Bornan along at all, claiming that the king had gone far beyond the requirements of his promise to care for the boy. Though he did not like to think ill of the dead, stuffy Sena was no longer with them, and Korastine could raise his daughter as he pleased.
Now, wide-awake and eager as the ship sailed on, Anjine stood next to her father. Though her head barely came to his chin, he could think only of how tall, how mature his little girl was becoming. Where had the years gone? He felt a hint of tears welling in his eyes. By signing the Edict, he would leave her--and all his people--with a better, safer world.
Anjine strained to see through the fog, then pointed. "Is that Aiden's Lighthouse?"
Korastine did see a flicker, like an ember suspended in the air. "If it isn't, then we're far off course." The tall tower of sturdy rock had been erected on a jutting point of land outside oflshalem. Its light burned constantly, not just to warn ships of the reefs that lay farther south, but to represent the light of Aiden's wisdom.
A groggy Mateo hurried across the deck, and the twelve-year old sprang onto the forecastle platform to stand between Anjine and Korastine. So full of energy, like his father had been! The dark-haired young man would make a fine soldier someday--a high-ranking officer, if Korastine had anything to do with it.
Before long, they could see a silvery fringe of dawn on the eastern horizon. The off-watch crewmen began to awaken, and the cook stoked his stove in the galley to begin cooking breakfast. Men worked the rigging, pulling ropes to stretch the sails, now that the captain could see his heading. Ahead and to port, the shore loomed out of the shadows.
Korastine stared at the western edge of the isthmus that separated the vast Oceansea from the calmer Middlesea. He remembered the first time he'd sailed down the coast at his own father's
side, being trained to lead TierraHe had made the voyage
six times now, always on matters of state, always in response to a major or minor political emergency. After this time, though...
Finally the warm sun burned off the rest of the morning fog, and the whitewashed buildings of sprawling, majestic Ishalem came into view. Ah, he remembered the amazement and wonder with which he had first viewed the holy city. Anjine would be seeing the same thing now, through the clarity and optimism of youth.
On the Aidenist side of the city, the architecture showed familiar Tierran influence, similar to what one might find in any
coastal village, while in the Uraban District on the opposite side of the isthmus, the buildings looked alien, with unusual curves and angles, stuccoed rather than timbered, the roofs tiled rather
than thatched.
On the highest hill in the center of Ishalem stood the ruins of the Arkship, little more than a skeletal hull with one broken mast, like a giant beached sea beast, lying far from the water. Anjine pointed as soon as she spotted it. "That's the ship! Aiden's ship."
Korastine uttered an automatic awed prayer. "Yes, the actual 
	one."
Prester-Marshall Baine appeared on deck, wearing a long, dark brown robe trimmed with purple silk. An Aidenist fishhook pendant hung at his throat, nearly covered by his unruly red beard. King Korastine not only revered the energetic religious leader, he respected Baine as an intelligent, thoughtful friend. Though he was only in his mid-thirties, Baine had reached a high position of authority and responsibility, thanks to his forceful personality and his persuasive words. The prester-marshall closed his blue eyes as he bowed in silent prayer. "The holy Arkship."
"But how could such a big ship get so far from the water?" Mateo asked pragmatically, and Anjine gave him a brisk kick in the shin.
The prester-marshall chided her. "Some presters might tell you never to question, but that is tantamount to telling you not to think. Ondun created us to explore, to experience. There is no harm in raising questions, and Mateo has asked a good one. That conundrum has puzzled scholars for many generations."
Mateo flashed a vindicated grin at Anjine, but the prestermarshall didn't exactly answer his query. "Now would be a good time to reflect upon where our people came from. You have
heard the story all your life, but when you gaze upon Ishalem, you can see in your heart that it is more than just a story.
"At the beginning of the world, Ondun created the continents and the seas and the skies. He made His own perfect holy land, which He called Terravitae, and Ondun filled the land with crops and orchards, forests, animals, birds, and insects. He populated it with His own people. Then He made other people and scattered them across the remaining continents. When He was finished with all His work, Ondun created three special sons--Aiden, Urec, andjoron.
"Satisfied with all that He had done, Ondun bequeathed stewardship of the world to His heirs, for He had other worlds to create, and He would soon depart. Ondun instructed Aiden, Urec, andjoron that they must keep this world intact, improve it, make it thrive. While the youngest son, Joron, remained behind to rule Terravitae, Ondun commanded that His two older sons go out in separate ships to explore His creation."
Baine related the tale to Anjine and Mateo with an earnestness that village presters could never match. Korastine smiled: No wonder the man had risen so quickly in the church hierarchy. "Before the voyage, Ondun gave Urec a special map to show him how to find the mysteries of the world, and the key to creation. To Aiden, he gave a special compass to facilitate his return to Terravitae, for its needle was charmed always to point home."
"Like a Captain's Compass," Mateo interrupted.
"The very first Captain's Compass," Anjine corrected.
"Aiden and Urec each constructed a giant Arkship, and taking their crews and families with them, sailed away from Terravitae on separate routes. But Urec was arrogant and sure of himself. He would explore the world, but considered the map an insult to his bravery, a way of cheating. Urec threw the chart overboard and chose his own course." Baine raised his bushy red
eyebrows for dramatic effect. "Now, the Urecari will tell it differently, because such foolishness does not reflect well upon the man they consider their prophet! But we have the Book of Aiden to tell us the truth."
The prester-marshall looked up as the cog sailed toward the crowded maze of wharves. "We know that one of Aiden's crew members was secretly a spy for Urec, though the Urecari deny it. As soon as Aiden's ship passed well beyond sight of Terravitae, the Urecari spy damaged the sacred compass so that Aiden, too, became lost.
"After voyaging aimlessly for years, Aiden's ship came to rest here. The crew intermarried with the people of Tierra, and their descendants now populate half the world. When Urec's ship landed, he, his crew, and their children settled in Uraba to the south."
As the royal ship pulled into the harbor, Korastine saw the buildings clustered like devout worshippers kneeling before the many-spired Aidenist kirk built on the western side of the Ark ship hill. The cog drifted up to a long dock festooned with pennants and garlands. Gulls greeted them with a raucous fanfare. Ishalem looked so glorious that Korastine could almost believe that their meeting was blessed by Ondun.
Anjine glanced up toward the gigantic wreck on the hill. "So how do we know that's Aiden's ship, instead of Urec's--as the Urecari say?"
"Because we know. Yes, we know."
3 The Soldan-Shah's Galley, on the Middlesea 
	A sea serpent rose up in front of the gilded ship before SoldanShah Imir could reach Ishalem, and the crew prepared for an attack.
The silken mainsail tilted on its yardarm to capture crosswinds as the narrow galley, a dromond, cut across the Middle sea. Imir stood at the pointed bow, where he could feel the salt spray, straining to see the low coastline of the isthmus, though he knew they were at least half a day from their destination.
The huge sea serpent rose up barely a spear's throw from the bow, startling Imir out of his thoughts. The monstrous head breached the waves on a long stalk of neck covered with shimmering blue and silver scales; seawater sheeted down from the sinuous form. A jagged line of fins coursed the neck like an aquatic mane, and the serpent's reptilian jaws parted to display curved teeth and a forked tongue. The gleaming eyes were the black of the Middlesea's greatest depths; two long horns curved from the skull, deadly enough to gore a whale. The creature flared a set of scalloped gills and emitted an ominous bellowing hoot, as though challenging the dromond's right to cross the open water. A shrill jet of steam blasted from the blowhole on the back of the beast's head, vapors that were said to be poisonous.
The galley's captain shouted orders, drums goaded the slaves to pull their oars faster, turning the ship. But this monster was a demon of the sea, created by Ondun Himself to be a sleek, fast
predator on the open waters. No matter how swiftly they rowed, this ship could not outrun the serpent.
The dromond's crew gathered spears; some ran forward with shields to protect their leader. Imir glowered at the beast. Though the creature could have plucked him from the deck like a honeyed date from a serving platter, he dared not show fear in front of the crew. "I am the soldan-shah! Allow me to pass!"
The lead sikara priestess strode boldly to Imir's side. UrSikara Lukai's long hair was the dark brown color of scorched wood, and her scarlet robes whipped around her slender body in the brisk wind as if she were engulfed in fabric flames. Her dark eyes could be quite beautiful when her expression softened, but her expression was not soft now. "Begone!" She raised her hand to the silvery-blue monster. "In the name of Urec, I cast you back to the depths. We are on the holy business of Ondun. Begone!" She leaned across the prow, both arms extended, and her voice rose to a fearsome screech. "Begone!"
The serpent regarded her curiously. Its enormous body undulated as it swam to and fro, still blocking the dromond's path, and another jet of spray came from its blowhole. The rowers had finally turned the ship so that the mainsail could catch the wind fully, but the serpent casually kept pace, emitting another strange bellowing hoot. Finally, bored with its unusual prey, the scaled monster circled the vessel once more, then submerged, its sharp dorsal fins tracing a sawblade pattern through the water as it swam off.
Ur-Sikara Lukai seemed satisfied with the demonstration of her powers. "You are fortunate to have me here, Soldan-Shah. I drove the monster away."
He regarded her wryly and kept his voice low. "I am even more fortunate that it was a silver-blue serpent, for I know those rarely attack."
Lukai was surprised by his comment, but she admitted nothing. "Sea serpents are unpredictable. It is wise to have Urec's shield."
As the galley turned toward Ishalem, Imir shuddered to imagine what might have occurred between Tierra and Uraba if he were unexpectedly killed here, like this, in the Middlesea. He had left his older son and heir, Omra, back in the capital city of Olabar to make decisions and to manage the various soldanates in his absence. Omra was an intelligent man and a good leader... but he might have been forced into action.
King Korastine would have been blamed for some treachery, and the resulting war would have been worse than if they had never tried to make peace at all.
Fillok, younger brother of the soldan of Outer Wahilir, had been arrogant and brash, and he failed to think of the consequences of his actions. He had probably considered himself brave to provoke the Tierran trading ship, and all he had received was a harpoon through his chest.
Though the soldan-shah did not sanction Fillok's foolish action, once the man had gotten himself killed, Imir was unable to ignore the provocation. But knowing that both sides benefited far more from trade than from open warfare, he refused to let himself get drawn into further conflict. Now that Ambassador Giladen had worked out terms, Imir and Korastine would put an end to the tensions.
The soldan-shah's head and cheeks were clean-shaven, his scalp oiled. Years ago Lithio, his first wife, had fretted so much over the appearance of his beard and hair that one morning Imir had shaved himself clean in hopes of silencing her. Instead, Lithio had told him he looked handsome that way. He didn't believe that she actually thought that, but Lithio had a talent for frustrating him. After she had borne the requisite son and heir,
he had been happy to "allow" her to return to her native soldanate of Missinia, where she'd lived a quiet and comfortable life for the past twenty years.
His second wife, Asha, who divided her time between her private villa near the Olabar palace and the soldan-shah's guest residence in Ishalem, was much more adoring and attentive... but utterly obsessed with her pets. Any animal that Ondun had seen fit to place upon His world, Asha wanted to keep and adore. Imir had not seen her in months and looked forward to their reunion in Ishalem, though he did not relish the prospect of all the noise from the hounds, songbirds, cats, peacocks, and whatever other creatures she had managed to acquire in the meantime.
As the burning coppery sun settled to the horizon, Imir could see the distinct line of the isthmus like a barrier against the setting sun. As they neared the eastern curve of the sandy harbor, pelicans wheeled overhead. Fishing boats plied the waters, bringing in the day's catch; small sailing craft dipped out to deeper water, then circled back in toward the coastline. Though the day was clear and bright, the smoky torch of Urec's Lighthouse had been lit as soon as spotters saw the approach of the soldan-shah's dromond.
Even from far away, Imir could see the great hulk of the Ark ship, Urec's ship, washed high and dry upon the tallest hill. The prime Urecari church, a lovely construction comprised of a central dome surrounded by tall, thin spires, was an unmistakable landmark on the eastern hillside below the wreck.
Ur-Sikara Lukai rejoined him, pointed to where a slow moving passenger barge emerged from the city's main canal and proceeded toward them. "Look, Asha is coming to welcome you." Her tone dripped with disrespect.
Imir hardened his voice. "Asha means well, and you will be polite to her. That is my command."
The ur-sikara gave him a sour look, but he insisted, and she finally bowed slightly. "As the soldan-shah wishes."
Though she had her own power as the church's lead priestess, Lukai was also close friends with Villiki, the soldan-shah's third wife and mother of Imir's second son. Villiki stridently expressed her opinions of her husband's leadership and complained frequently to Lukai. He supposed he was lucky, in a way, that only one of his three wives was so obviously ambitious. Men had their wars, but women had their schemes.
Asha never harbored an unkind thought toward anyone, and it was her childlike innocence that had endeared her to him in the first place (as well as her exceptional body). Her welcome barge approached, and Imir realized he was smiling. She must have spent days festooning the barge with garlands and ribbons. Now she stood waving at him, accompanied by three small dogs that yapped constantly. But even that did not discourage the soldanshah; he hoped Asha had prepared a private--quiet--room for the two of them... someplace without her pets. He needed a good night's sleep before the all-important Edict ceremony. 
	Olabar
	Zarif Omra loved to study maps of the world--not out of mere intellectual curiosity, but in order to understand the resources, boundaries, and limitations of Uraba. "Tactical geography," he called it. Sitting in the palace throne room, Omra traced his finger along the lines on the chart spread out on his mahogany side table while he waited for the first supplicants to be shown in. He needed to familiarize himself with the entire continent he would
one day rule. He was only twenty-four, but there had never been any doubt he would succeed the soldan-shah.
Uraba was defined by sea and sand, anchored in place by Ishalem, and divided into five soldanates. The lands north of Ishalem were much sketchier, since few details of Tierra were known to Uraban cartographers. Zarif Omra did not worry about those unfamiliar lands, however. When his father retired, Omra would have enough work simply managing his own people.
Now that Imir had sailed off to Ishalem, Omra got a taste of the work that lay in store for him. He wore a loose purple chalwar and a sleeveless tunic; he rested comfortably upon the cushions piled upon the dais, from which he would listen to supplicants. A gold earring hung from his left ear in the fashion of the Missinia soldanate, to honor his mother. While his father had gone soft and heavyset, Omra was fit and muscular, his lean face edged by a neatly trimmed black beard. His hair was long and oiled, and sometimes he let his beloved wife, Istar, plait it for him. Teasingly, he threatened to shave his head as his father had done, but Istar had convinced him how much she liked his hair. She was now pregnant with his firstborn child, and he could deny her nothing.
Istar would arrive soon to join him, since she loved to hear the people present their issues before the dais, even though Omra found her to be distracting when he most needed to show his strength. Anxious to get started, he clapped his hands to summon the first visitor.
Dressed in dyed linen garments, a'young man entered--his cousin Burilo, the eldest son of Xivir, the soldan of Missinia. Burilo was the same age as Omra, but gangly and awkward, since his growth spurt had occurred much later than Omra's. The zarif welcomed him warmly. "What news have you brought from Arikara? Is my mother well?"
"Lithio is quite comfortable and happy, though she'd be happier if you visited her more often."
Omra chuckled. "Yes, whenever I can break away from my obligations here in Olabar." His mother often asked him to make the trip down to the capital of Missinia, and he suspected she did it more as a teasing way to annoy his father than because she had a heartfelt desire to see him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
"I bring you a joyous gift, Zarif." Burilo called his servant, who entered the throne room carrying a large square box. Burilo lifted the lid and reached in to withdraw a decapitated head that had been smeared with tar. The dead man's lips were drawn back to reveal crooked and yellowed teeth; dark tattoos showed on the skin even through the preservative coating. In disgust, Burilo tossed the head to the floor, and the tar from the head stained the polished driftwood tiles. "One less desert bandit to prey upon our villages and farms. Our soldiers killed the leader of the band."
Omra leaned forward to inspect the head. Years ago, SoldanShah Imir had declared a bounty on the ruthless bandit tribes who lived in the inhospitable sands of the Great Desert. The bandits emerged like a sandstorm on swift and sturdy horses to harass small Missinian villages. After stealing, raping, and pillaging, they vanished back into the dunes faster than Soldan Xivir's armies could respond. Whenever a military force pursued them into the sands, the bandits ran circles around the soldiers, picking them off until they were lost.
Omra's expression darkened. "I doubt the bandits will be deterred by their loss. They are like a demon serpent--cut off one head, and two more grow in its place."
Burilo gave a strange, cockeyed grin as he answered. "Then there will be more bandits to kill, and more bounties to earn."
Omra told his chamberlain to pay Burilo the promised reward, then directed servants to place the head in a trophy case. Two silent slaves hurried forward to clean the tar stain from the polished floor.
Beautiful Istar entered the throne room. After bowing formally before her husband, she sat on a pale green cushion below the raised dais. He reached out and took her hand. At five months, her pregnancy had begun to show, though draping Yuarej silks covered her. In private, he loved to run his palm over the swelling curve of her belly. Istar's dark hair hung in a single braid interwoven with gold ribbon. As a secret between the two of them, she had decided to wear her hair in one braid for the first child she would bear; when she gave birth a second time, it would be two braids, and so on. They often joked about how many braids her lovely head could sustain. Omra wondered if other Urabans would adopt the tradition.
"Before your next visitor, I have called for tea and almonds," she told him demurely. The treat was as much for herself as for him.
Istar was the daughter of one of the most powerful merchants in Olabar, a man whose ships ran the coast of the Middlesea to trade with Sioara and other ports of Inner Wahilir. Omra had fallen in love with Istar and married her. However, since Istar's blood wasn't noble, the zarifs choice of her as his first wife raised eyebrows among the extended families of the other soldans; conversely, his selection pleased the merchant families.
His half-brother Tukar also entered the throne room, finding a seat in the back where he could observe quietly. A stocky young man two years younger than Omra, Tukar rarely participated in the discussions--in fact, he usually appeared bored--but his mother Villiki insisted that he watch and learn from court politics. Villiki had great plans for him, though the young man him
self showed no signs of being dissatisfied with his subordinate role.
Merchants from the soldanate of Yuarej entered next, carrying bolts of the finest silk, which they spread out to display dyed patterns of the unfurling fern, the Urecari religious symbol representing rebirth and potential. Istar delighted in the brilliant green, blue, and scarlet fabrics. "We can have garments made for Sikara Fyiri, since she made such a wonderful blessing for the baby."
Omra squeezed her hand. "It was a wonderful blessing, indeed."
With the church's main sikara accompanying the soldan-shah to Ishalem, Omra and Istar had enlisted the service of a young priestess with no obvious political agenda, though the zarif was sure she would develop one in time, as sikaras usually did. Fyiri had come for the sunset ceremony, bringing her copy of Urec's Log and ribbons of colored paper on which she would write prayers before tying them to sticks to flutter in the wind where Ondun could read them.
"We accept your offering of the silk," Omra said to the merchants. "My wife certainly approves." He ate one of the warm almonds roasted in sea salt, while Istar poured cups of sweet tea for both of them. At the back of the room, Tukar employed a piece of chalk on a square of slate, writing a note to himself.
Omra called the next visitor, knowing that this was what his father did every day. No wonder Soldan-Shah Imir had been so eager to make the voyage to Ishalem.
1 
	Ishalem, Urecari District
	Prester Hannes wore dirty clothes in the Uraban style, shapeless rags draped over his shoulders to make him look like a beggar, because beggars drew very little attention. The people he encountered on this side of Ishalem automatically assumed he was a follower of Urec. Though that meant his disguise was perfect, he still resented being confused for one of the loathsome heretics.
But he had to be convincing, had to fit in. "Consider yourself a spy for God," Prester-Marshall Baine had told him more than a year earlier, before sending him to Ishalem. Fortunately, Hannes's faith in Aiden was unwavering, and Ondun Himself knew the difference between truth and lies.
Head down, he wandered the streets in the Urecari District, noting how the merchants cheated their customers, listening to the gossip and the delusions. These people went about their lives without even realizing their sins. As a prester, he was a kind and compassionate man, doing the work of Ondun, but sadly none of these Urabans could be forgiven.
Beneath the gigantic wreck of the Arkship--Aiden's ship, though all these people pretended it was Urec's--devout Urecari made pilgrimages up the switchbacked path to stand in the shadow of the ancient, ruined hull. Pilgrims petitioned sikaras, paying fees to climb the hill and even touch the holy wood of the enormous beached vessel. Prester Hannes had been up to the Arkship many times since arriving in Ishalem. He climbed the hill at night and slipped past the church guards, just so he could have private time with his prayers.
Now, as thin brass bells pealed in the minaret towers of the prime church, he moved along the streets, blending into the crowd of worshippers called to sunset services. The outside of the monumental heathen church bore carved stone stations, each panel depicting part of the story. Some images were correct, in order to lull the faithful: Ondun and his sons in Terravitae... Aiden and Urec sailing off in their separate vessels, leaving Holy Joron behind... Urec with his map, Aiden with his sacred compass.
Then the deception began: Urec and his ship arriving on the shores of Uraba... battles with the natives who viewed them as enemies... Urec's decision to take multiple wives for himself, a rule that all Aidenists despised... then an aged Urec planting the golden fern before wandering off to become the Traveler.
Hannes had seen these images many times, had heard the lies in the sermons given by the sikaras. He still felt the knot of anger each time he witnessed the dissemination of such blatant untruths. Aiden had become the Traveler, not Urec. Unable to build their own religion, the Urecari had obviously co-opted the tenets of Aidenism. And yet they were blind to their delusions. He both pitied them and reviled them for it.
With the sunset services about to begin, Hannes followed the crowd, steeling himself. "The truth of Aiden is the truth of God," he muttered, reciting a well-known prayer that Prester-Marshall Baine had taught him. "And the truth of God is the truth for all, even those who refuse to hear it." Hannes squared his shoulders and, still wearing rags, approached the church.
Outside the large stone-and-wood building, numerous banners hung down, swirled with the unfurling fern symbol. Vendors sold trinkets to visiting pilgrims; a majority of the vendors were Saedrans, "Ondun's stepchildren," who believed that their people had left Terravitae at a later time and were not descen
I 
	28 Kevin J. Anderson
	dants of either Aiden's crew or Urec's. As a people, Saedrans kept to themselves, but their craftsmen created mementos, candles, or prayer ribbons, which they sold outside the kirks and churches, catering to both great religions.
Prester Hannes didn't hate the Saedrans for their lack of belief; at least they weren't as completely wrong as the Urecari. The truth of God is the truth for all.
Taking that command to heart, Aidenist missionaries had ventured into Uraba. The Book of Aiden gave all of his followers the freedom to trade wherever they wished, to correct Urecari misconceptions wherever they encountered them. But the followers of Urec had not received the missionaries well, and many were killed for daring to speak of their religion. Hearing such stories made Prester Hannes hate them even more.
As he paused before the prime church's tall wooden doors, Hannes saw a Saedran vendor behind a small table displaying beautifully molded candles, all of which burned with tiny protected flames. The candlemaker had a balding head, long white hair, and a square-cut gray beard. "Candles! Candles for the faithful." He lifted up a dark red wax cylinder that bore the fern spiral. "Ten coppers apiece. Show your flame to Urec. Burn the light of his words in the church."
Hannes recognized the candlemaker as Direc na-Taya, a man who alternated his wares as trade dictated; today he had come to the Urecari church, and tomorrow he would be selling fishhook candles to Aidenists. Seeing Hannes's ragged clothing, the vendor ignored him, assuming a beggar would never buy his candles.
Hannes brushed past the Saedran and entered the church. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of their pressing bodies, their oils and perfumes, even the odd stink of their cooking and spices. Inside the vast nave, banners hung from stone arches in the
vaulted ceiling, each one covered with a written prayer, as if Ondun would bother to read them... but He was off creating other worlds and had neither the time nor interest to read notes from the subjects He had left behind.
The worshippers entered on a spiraling path of dark tiles inlaid on the floor, walking around the central altar. The track was designed to imitate the unfurling fern, though it forced the crowds to stand in an unnatural coil, all striving to see the sikara in the middle of the chamber. The orderly wooden benches in an Aidenist kirk made so much more sense.
The head priestess had recently arrived in Ishalem, just as Prester-Marshall Baine had come with King Korastine. Usually other sikaras led the service, but for this ceremony Ur-Sikara Lukai herself delivered the homily. As the red-gowned woman stepped up to the long wooden altar crowded with goblets, urns of fragrant oil, braziers, tall candles, and other talismans, Hannes scrutinized her.
Lukai wore necklaces of beaten gold; bangles hung from her ears and wrists. To most of the crowd, she appeared statuesque and beautiful, but his discriminating eye could see that her face was covered with thick makeup, her eyes outlined with heavy kohl. He saw past the trappings to the signs of age on her face, the faint wrinkles that could not entirely be concealed. The wearisome burden of deception and lies must have aged her prematurely.
Among the worshippers, Hannes stood silent and uncomfortable, listening as Ur-Sikara Lukai invoked chants and read passages from Urec's Log. Though Hannes pretended to listen, his mind was closed down. He recited a litany of his own prayers and quotations from Aiden to protect him from the heresy surrounding him.
As a special commemoration of her visit to Ishalem, the ur
sikara presented an ancient medallion of gold inset with chips of lapis lazuli and encircled by small topaz stones. She held it up, and the trophy gleamed in the light of the candles and braziers around the altar. Lukai was rewarded with a chorus of awed gasps. "This amulet was worn by Urec himself on his voyage. He gave it as a gift to his wife, Fashia, upon their arrival in Uraba. It belongs here, at the altar of our prime church."
With obvious reverence, the sikara placed it between two massive candles, each as thick as Hannes's thigh, then spread the heavy golden chain on a blue velvet pad in the center of the altar. "Ondun Himself gave this amulet to His son. And now we give it to the church."
Hannes narrowed his intense gaze. If Ondun had indeed created that amulet, He would not want it to remain in the hands of heretics.
Throughout the remainder of the service, Hannes wrestled with his thoughts, trying to decide what he should do. Outside once more after the service's conclusion, Hannes crouched at the mouth of an alley, leaning against the whitewashed wall of a potter's shop that had closed for the church services. Wrapped in his thoughts as well as cloaking rags, Hannes gave little consideration to the picture he must present.
A rich Urecari merchant walked past, still glowing from the service. The man paused when he saw Hannes, reached into the purse at his waist, and retrieved three cuars. He tossed the silver coins at Hannes. "These are for you, my brother. God has hope for all of us. Your life, too, will shine with the blessings of Ura."
Hannes muttered automatic thanks to the man and picked up the cuars. With the blessings of Urec.
As soon as the man was out of sight, he cast the coins into the alley shadows in disgust, afraid they might burn his skin.
O Calay, Saedran District 
	With the thick curtains drawn and the candles lit (though it was bright daylight), Aldo na-Curic sat at a table in the main room of his family's house in Calay. He faced his nemesis, his teacher, his tester. He knew what was at stake.
Aldo, a clever young Saedran man of eighteen, had always admired the gruff, stern elder. Sen Leo na-Hadra had a deep voice, a lined face framed by a long thick mane of gray hair, and an equally thick gray beard. His pale blue eyes were fearsome, and they did not blink as he leaned closer to Aldo and mercilessly fired questions, one after another. "Name the eleven main Soeland islands, their villages, and the village leaders--in order from smallest to largest."
Aldo did so without even blinking.
"List the nineteen coastal villages from Galay to Ishalem."
"There are twenty-three coastal villages."
Sen Leo smiled. That detail had been part of the test. "Then name all twenty-three."
Aldo did so. This was too easy.
The old teacher wore dark, shapeless robes that masked his body. Aldo suspected the older man was somewhat heavyset, but he could never know for sure. Sen Leo slid a blank piece of paper forward, gave Aldo a lead stylus. "Now draw, as exactly as you can, all the stars in the Loom as seen from far Lahjar."
Aldo had expected questions like that. Taking up the stylus, he quickly made marks, needing no tools, estimating the angles
and distances with an expert eye. Lahjar was the city farthest south on the outer coast of Uraba; no known settlements lay beyond, since reefs and intense heat blocked the passage of ships. Aldo had never seen the constellations from that distant corner of the world, but the details had been reported reliably by Saedran chartsmen.
Their libraries held thousands of volumes written in a coded language that required expertise to read; no outsiders could decipher their complex letters. Every Saedran home, including Aldo's, held dozens of heirloom volumes, luxury items that most Tierrans could not afford.
Finished, the young man slid the hand-drawn constellation map back to Sen Leo, who glanced at it, then brushed it aside. "Describe in detail the streets in Bora's Bastion, the capital city of Alamont Reach. Tell me in particular what the houses look like, and list the merchant stalls in order, as one would encounter them walking clockwise across the central district from the riverport."
Aldo painted the picture in his mind as vividly as if he had seen these things himself. He did as the old teacher asked. He had never been to Lahjar, nor to Alamont Reach, nor to any place other than the city of Calay, yet his answers didn't waver.
Sen Leo watched him intently; Aldo hoped for a smile of approval, but did not expect to receive one. With each question, the examination was bound to get much harder.
Among Saedrans, occasionally a child would be gifted with perfect recall, the ability to memorize details at a glance and retain them without flaw. Saedran families carefully tested their children, watching for any hint of the valuable skill. Anyone who demonstrated a particularly sharp memory was marked for special teaching, in hopes that he or she would become a chartsman. Aldo had been developing his talent for so many years that he
could answer all the instructor's questions as a matter of course. After today, he would he a chartsman.
As navigators aboard sailing ships, Saedran chartsmen were highly prized and highly paid. The captain of any large cargo vessel desiring to take the fastest course needed a chartsman aboard; otherwise, he wouldn't dare lose sight of the coastline. Skilled chartsmen, however, could navigate theoretical courses and locate a ship's position by esoteric means. They knew how to use astrolabes, sextants, and ship's clocks to determine the precise latitude of sailing vessels. Their intricate sealed mechanical clocks allowed them to tell time with sufficient accuracy to calculate longitude. Only Saedran chartsmen understood how to do it, and they carried no documents, no books or tables; they had to have every coordinate memorized.
Though their population was small, Saedrans were crucial to Tierran society as well. Even those who did not have perfect recall served vital roles as astronomers, alchemists, cartographers, apothecaries, surgeons. They did not follow the Aidenist religion, but they were not persecuted. Even so, his people drew no attention to themselves. It would not do for other Tierrans to realize just how wealthy the Saedrans were, or how much political influence they wielded.
Sen Leo forced Aldo to keep demonstrating what he knew, asking him to recite passages verbatim from random pages of obscure volumes. Aldo sat back, closed his eyes, and spoke the words as requested. The teacher had chosen one of his favorite passages--unintentionally, Aldo was sure--a story about the Saedran origins, the continent his people had discovered and settled, which had tragically vanished beneath the waves, sinking forever to the ocean's bottom. Perhaps it was actual history, perhaps only a myth.
Finishing his recitation, Aldo looked expectantly at Sen
Leo na-Hadra. His throat was dry, his voice hoarse, and gauging by the thin line of orange sunlight that seeped between the gap in the curtains, he had been at his examination for several hours.
Sen Leo extended a cup of water, and Aldo gulped. The old man smiled. "I welcome you to the ranks of chartsmen, Aldo na-Curic. We Saedrans have one more mind and one more set of eyes to see the world."
After everything he had just spoken, Aldo found that he had no words. His mouth opened, closed, and finally settled into a relieved grin. Sen Leo strode to the door and flung it open. In the next room waited Biento and Yura, Aldo's father and mother. The old teacher held on to the doorframe, as if he were exhausted as well. "He has passed."
His mother drew a delighted gasp, and his father beamed, stepping away from the easel that held the painting on which he had been working. Aldo walked on unsteady legs into the outer room.
His younger brother, Wen, heard the news and beamed. "I'm going to be a chartsman someday, too!" Wen, though, changed his mind every other week, and showed no inclination for the long and tedious study required to memorize so much data.
His little sister, Una, sat at a table drawing crude sketches, imitating her father's work. "We're proud of you Aldo!"
"But he still has much to learn," Sen Leo cautioned. "He must acquire a greater breadth and depth to his knowledge, but he does have the skill--perfect recall. He is a chartsman."
Aldo straightened his back and said formally, "I pledge to do my best."
Sen Leo gathered his robes and departed, marching out into the narrow streets of Calay's Saedran District. The teacher had not brought a single book, map, or reference catalogue with
him. He, too, had every one of the words, maps, and numbers memorized.
"We should celebrate!" Biento scrubbed a hand through his son's curly brown hair, an unruly mass that made him look years younger than he actually was. Right now, Aldo's flush of embarrassment at the attention made him seem even younger still.-,;
"This celebration should be for him," Yura replied. Her long straight brown hair was bound in a scarf. Her face was smudged with flour, since she had been baking small round loaves of bread during Aldo's lengthy examination. "Let him go down to the Merchants' District and buy something for himself. He deserves it, and you know how he loves to watch the ships."
His father put away his paintbrushes, with one last appraisal of the commission he had nearly completed--a portrait of a minor nobleman, a vain old man whose villa was a bit too close (or so he always complained) to the smells and noises of the Butchers' District.
Since the Aidenist religion forbade artistic expression for the glory of any individual person, even Saedran painters like Biento na-Curic were not allowed to create private portraits. The presters insisted that the only proper subjects for a painter were scenes from the story of Terravitae and the voyage of Aiden. Obeying this restriction to the letter, though not the spirit, noblemen found ways to make themselves appear in the religious paintings. Biento had completed a work that showed sailors on the prow of Aiden's ship as the lookout sighted the coastline of Tierra for the first time. Most of the figures were vague and shadowy in the background, but filling much of the painting was one "crewman"--who happened to look exactly like the commissioning nobleman.
Biento made a good living for his family by doing such work.
He frequently traveled so that he could do his painting inside noble households or merchant offices, and sometimes he disappeared for days at a time, with no one knowing exactly where he was, but he always returned home looking satisfied.
Wiping his hands with a rag, Biento withdrew a small box hidden between two thick volumes in the family library and took out ten silver coins, more money than Aldo had ever held for his own use. "This is for you--treat yourself."
"I appreciate your faith in me!"
"How can we not be proud? You've brought honor to all of us--and once you start voyaging, you'll be able to pay us back tenfold in no time."
"I'll be a chartsman, too," Wen declared.
"Only if you study," his mother said. The boy did not appear to be excited by the prospect.
Aldo couldn't think beyond today as he left the house and bounded down to the merchants' quarter, imagining all the things he could buy. 
	Aldo walked past the goldsmiths, the gem sellers, the weavers. His nose was drawn to the confectioners' tents, where sweet treats were made with honey and cane sugar. Other vendors roasted savory skewers over low smoky fires. His mouth watered... but buying food seemed a waste of his money. He might be satisfied for a few hours, but then his stomach would demand more the next day. For such a momentous occasion, he wanted something permanent, something special.
A lanky man with intense brown eyes and a narrow, weathered face sat upon a splintered barrel, ignoring the bustle and chatter of the merchant stalls. He leaned forward, bony elbows on the patched knees of his breeches, spreading his hands as he told a tale with great vehemence and enthusiasm, though to only
a few listeners. The man saw Aldo and called out, as his other listeners wandered away. "Boy, you should hear my story. You will find it of value."
"I'm not a boy." Aldo squared his shoulders. "I'm a Saedran chartsman. A chartsman" It was the first time he had said it, and the title felt very good.
The lanky man smiled. "And I am a sea captain without a ship. But I do have a tale. Listen." He beckoned Aldo closer.
Now that he was a chartsman, Aldo realized, part of his responsibility was to gather information from sailors and explorers. Even though he hadn't gone to the edge of the world himself, eyewitnesses could provide details that might not yet be known. He had heard tales about enormous sea serpents of any stripe or color, ocean witches, nettleweed that could reach up and sting a sailor so that he never woke up, stories of terrible storms and the more terrible Leviathan.
This man, who introduced himself as Yal Dolicar, spoke with passion and intensity, conveying indisputable truth. "I captained a ship bound for Ishalem with a cargo of hemp rope and cured hides from Erietta. She was a two-masted cog, twenty years old but well caulked, well rigged, her sails patched but intact--until we encountered the storm. Hellish storm! For five days the winds blew us far from the coast. We had no Saedran chartsman aboard, mind you. Hah! We could have usedj>o "When the weather cleared, leaving the sun as bright as a gold basin and the waves as smooth as a mirror, we had come to a cluster of islands not marked on any chart! Swimming creatures circled our battered ship, sleek gray fish that could transmute themselves into human forms. They dove beneath the waves, playing with us, leading us on. And when we looked
down through the water, we saw cities deep below--towers made of coral, houses and kirks built from mother-of-pearl. And mer-people swimming with lumps of gold and coral in their outstretched hands, pearls as big as your fist."
Aldo caught his breath. This sounded like the story of the sunken island continent of his people! What if this man's storm driven ship had truly found the remnants of the lost Saedran civilization? What if those people really had found a way through alchemy or sorcery to transform their bodies into sea-dwellers who could survive even after their land sank into the depths?
"No one has seen the things I've seen," Yal Dolicar said. "The mer-people towed us back into a strong current, and we eventually drifted to land, where I was rescued... but my ship sank in another storm, and I lost most of my remaining crew." Dolicar leaned forward, grasping Aldo's wrists to show his earnestness. "I can't go back there, because I have no ship. But you could. You're a Saedran chartsman. Perhaps you might lead an expedition?"
He reached into his loose shirt and pulled out a rolled strip of paper. "I drew a map by estimating the course and distance the storm blew us. I sketched the outlines of the islands. I marked the location of the undersea city here." He held up the tightly rolled paper. "Would such a map be worth something to you?"
Aldo's eyes were wide, and his heart pounded with hope. He couldn't entirely believe this man's story, nor could he entirely dismiss it. "Let me see the map."
Dolicar waggled a finger. "Ah, but you've already revealed that you're a chartsman. One glimpse and you'll memorize it all; then I'd be cheated."
Aldo held his ground. "And why should I purchase something I haven't seen? "
Dolicar gave a quick laugh. "I like you, young man. Perhaps a bit of trust is warranted here. I'll show you a corner." He unrolled
the paper just a little, displaying crude coastlines, the perimeter of one oblong island--territory that did not match anything he had previously committed to memory. Aldo fingered the coins in his purse. If accurate, this map was a better investment than any treat or trinket.
"I have ten silver pieces," he said. "No more."
Dolicar's brow wrinkled. "A small price to pay for access to a whole new continent. Perhaps fifteen silver pieces would be more appropriate?"
"This is not a negotiation." Aldo crossed his arms over his narrow chest, trying to sound tough. "I have ten silver pieces. That is all I will pay you." The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he needed to have that map. His father and Sen Leo would both be proud of him. On his first day of becoming a chartsman, he could expand the wealth of Saedran knowledge.
"Very well, I can see that you wouldn't try to cheat or lie, young man," Yal Dolicar said. "The map for your coins. And I promise you, every scrap of payment goes toward commissioning a new ship of my own."
Aldo took the map and unrolled it, staring eagerly at the drawn islands, the coastline, the estimations of distance. This information would be invaluable. He took a few steps along, wandering through the Merchants' District but engrossed in the chart. Recalling his manners, he turned to thank the sailor... only to find that the barrel was now empty and Yal Dolicar was gone.
Rolling up the map once more, Aldo hurried home.
Ishalem 
	On the morning of the Edict ceremony, Anjine dressed in her finest court gown, which had been packed in a cedar chest for the trip from Calay. When she emerged from the guest room, King Korastine stared at her with a mist of tears in his eyes. "You look like a little queen."
She laughed. "I am a little queen."
Anjine had wanted to rush up the hill to see the holy Arkship as soon as they arrived in Ishalem, but the king had told her to wait until it was time. All the previous afternoon, she had looked out the open windows of the royal residence, watching pilgrims march up to behold the shipwreck.
Now, when the ceremony was set to begin, bells rang out from the main kirk. On the opposite side of Ishalem a similar campanile answered from the Urecari church. King Korastine extended an arm, which his daughter took, and they emerged together from the residence to join the formal procession with an honor guard of lower-ranking presters hand-picked for the event.
Mateo Bornan was already there, very handsome and looking quite mature for a twelve-year-old in a modified royal guard uniform, just like the one his father had worn. Prester-Marshall Baine had combed back his flaming red hair and donned midnight-blue vestments adorned with the fishhook symbol. Spectators waved pennants and shouted the king's name; Anjine even heard a few calling out to her.
Though crowds lined the streets below, the Pilgrim's Path had
been cleared. This meeting between the king and the soldanshah, the prester-marshall and the ur-sikara, was a private matter between the rulers of Tierra and Uraba, under the eyes of distant but all-seeing Ondun.
Following Baine, who led the procession up the winding path, Anjine watched in awe as the rising sun silhouetted the Arkship's single broken mast and winked through gaps in the crumbling hull. The rest of the ancient vessel had weathered into dust and fragments of wood. A new rope ladder hung down the intact part of the hull to the Arkship's bow, on which a special altar had been constructed. A golden rail ran along the slanted gunwale. The hilltop and the skeletal vessel carried an aura of majesty, a corona of holiness; Anjine glanced at Mateo and saw that he felt it too.
A hush fell as Prester-Marshall Baine and King Korastine moved to where ribs and hull planks lay scattered like bleached bones. Turning back to gaze upon their followers gathered on the Aidenist side of the hill, both men raised their hands so everyone in the streets below could see them.
On the prow high above, two figures appeared in traditional Uraban garb, Soldan-Shah Imir and Ur-Sikara Lukai. Moving nimbly, like the captain of his kingdom, Korastine scaled the ladder to stand on the reinforced deck. Prester-Marshall Baine ascended behind him, carrying one beautifully illuminated document: a copy of the Edict. Ur-Sikara Lukai carried a similar one. Each document bore the same content, written in both languages.
Aboard the ancient ship, the holiest site of both the Aidenist and Urecari religions, the two political leaders and two religious leaders faced each other and spread out their documents. Anjine held her breath and listened.
King Korastine read in a booming voice: "This Edict removes
all cause for future conflict between our two lands. By drawing this line along the meridian of Ishalem, we split our world into equal halves, Tierra and Uraba, Aidenist and Urecari. All lands, known or unknown, to the north of this latitude shall fall under the purview of Tierra. All lands, known or unknown, to the south shall be encompassed by Uraba."
The sikara came forward to speak, as if she wanted to upstage the plump soldan-shah. Ur-Sikara Lukai's pronunciation of the Tierran words was rough, but understandable. "This is as Ondun wished it, the world split equally between the descendants of Urec and Aiden, while Terravitae--wherever it is--remains in the hands of Holy Joron."
Then she and Imir repeated the speeches in Uraban.
Having studied the maps of the known world, Anjine understood the consequences of this division. At first glance, the split did not seem particularly fair: The northern half of the Middlesea was above the latitude line, in Tierran territory, but the impassable mountains of Gorag Reach blocked access from that direction. The only way to reach that coastline was by water, and the Urabans now controlled the Middlesea ports on the other side of the isthmus of Ishalem.
On the other hand, great portions of the map remained blank, unexplored. The islands of Soeland Reach hinted that there might be valuable lands to be found if one simply sailed farther west into the Oceansea. Urged on by Prester-Marshall Baine, Korastine had already decided to expand exploration, commissioning a special ship to sail beyond all charted territories.
Korastine spoke in the rich, resonant voice he had cultivated over a lifetime of speaking before crowds. It was paternal and sincere, and he lifted his eyes as if addressing distant Ondun rather than the gathered listeners. "This Edict is not merely a
document. It is not a piece of parchment. It is not a list of words. It is my promise, as the king of Tierra, in the name of Aiden--a promise to be kept in calm seas and storms, an irrevocable vow." Korastine was a direct descendant of Aiden, and Imir traced his ancestry back to Urec. This treaty could never be broken, no matter what happened in the future.
Soldan-Shah Imir gathered his copy of the document and read the same words that Korastine had spoken, but in the Uraban language. Anjine could hear cheers and exotic musical fanfares from the Urecari side of the city.
After the terms of the Edict had been read aloud in both tongues, and the prester-marshall and the sikara each offered a prayer, Korastine took a small dagger, pricked the end of his thumb, and squeezed out a ruby drop of blood, which he pressed into the weathered wood of the Arkship's prow. "This agreement is sealed with the blood of Aiden."
He passed the dagger to Imir, who likewise cut his thumb and made a dark red smear next to Korastine's. "Sealed with the blood of Urec."
Each leader turned to his side of the hill and raised his hands to the crowds. "Let the celebrations begin!" 
	After the signing of the Edict, the two peoples began to accept the fact that there would be peace, but they didn't know how to rejoice together. King Korastine and Prester-Marshall Baine extended an invitation for Ur-Sikara Lukai to say a prayer with them inside the main Aidenist kirk--a prayer to Ondun, calling for His return, hoping that their demonstration of resolve was the final piece in the puzzle God was waiting for. No mention would be made of either Aiden or Urec.
Looking stiff and out of place, Lukai came into the kirk wearing her bold scarlet gowns. The prester-marshall and the
ur-sikara stood together before the gilded fishhook in the worship area under paintings of Sapier and the sea serpent.
Though this was supposed to be a brief and private moment for the leaders of the two continents, Aidenists crowded the doors for the service. Soldan-Shah Imir was curious to see the architecture of the foreign kirk; clearly, neither he nor the ur-sikara had ever set foot inside an Aidenist house of worship.
King Korastine, with a thin scholar at his side who served as an interpreter, talked with his Uraban counterpart. "I'm glad we came to terms, Soldan-Shah. I have learned as a king that when you cannot win, you should cut your losses and compromise. The person who will not compromise in an untenable situation is a fool, not a leader."
Imir waited for the translation, then smiled and nodded. "We have finally found a way to peace."
King Korastine had already suggested building a Tierran harbor on the northeastern shore of Ishalem, which was technically above the Edict Line (although the soldan-shah seemed extremely uncomfortable at the prospect).
The two men agreed that their Edict was binding beyond any possible breach, because they had sworn in blood on the prow of the holy Arkship.
Across the city, Tierran merchants went to the eastern neighborhoods, meeting their counterparts in Uraban markets. They gazed at the Middlesea shore, which had traditionally been cut off from them. The people on both sides of Ishalem would celebrate far into the night.
When the prayers were finished inside the kirk, Ur-Sikara Lukai felt obligated to reciprocate, inviting King Korastine to the main church of Urec, so that he could walk the unfurling spiral to the altar. The services would be over well before sunset when the main worship began. The Tierran king was exhausted
and drained, but triumphant about what he had accomplished for the world. 
	Direc na-Taya had never sold so many candles in a single day. The feasting, dancing, and singing had lasted through the heat of the afternoon and now past sunset. As the streets of Ishalem grew dark and the people were sated with food and fuzzy with drink, pilgrims became belatedly pious. They made donations to their respective churches, buying and lighting candles to shine a thousand lights up to heaven, so that if Ondun ever chose to return to the world, He could see His way back to Ishalem.
Within an hour, Urecari worshippers purchased everything the Saedran candlemaker had prepared beforehand. Now, in a crowded backstreet not far from the prime church, his small shop was filled with pots of melted beeswax and bubbling tallow; a framework dipped wicks into the wax, layering tapers, while larger molds held thick candles that hadn't hardened completely because the workshop was so stifling. Direc stoked his fires to keep the liquid bubbling, pouring molds as quickly as he could, splashing them with water so the wax would solidify.
As soon as he had another dozen candles ready, he cracked them free, used a small craftsman's trowel to whittle away the marks of the mold and to smooth the curling fern symbol. He had similar candles cooling that displayed the Aidenist fishhook, but he doubted he'd have time to run to the other side of the city and sell them. Direc na-Taya was having a very profitable day, indeed. These finished candles would fetch the unheard-of price of a cuar each.
Leaving his workshop behind, with vats of wax and tallow bubbling over low fires on stands precariously balanced amongst the molds, he rushed to the front of his shop and opened the slatted door to find a crowd clamoring for his candles.
"I don't have many," he cried. "Only twelve."
The customers offered handfuls of coins and shouted outrageous prices, which startled Direc. He realized that he would not be cheating them if they offered him that much money. He raised one candle, displayed the unfurling fern design. "Here is the first--who will bid for it?"
Someone shouted, "Two cuars!" Another cried, "Three!" The price finally stopped at five, and he took the money, unable to believe his good fortune. He raised the second candle, listening to another round of bids. At least by drawing out this process, his new batch would have more time to cool.
He sold the dozen candles and told the customers to wait, promising to return with more as soon as possible. "Please be patient--such work cannot be rushed. Pray or meditate while you wait."
Direc closed the door and took the time to lock his embarrassingly heavy pouch of coins in a safe cabinet next to his books before he hurried to his workshop. By now, maybe some of the tapers would be solid enough, though the thicker candles were definitely still too soft. But if he gently wrapped them, told the people to be careful, they might serve the purpose
Wiping sweat from his brow, Direc opened the door to his workshop, and an unexpected blast of furnace heat enveloped him. A wax block had melted, a brazier tipped over. Aromatic oil had splashed across the bench top, and flames had caught. He staggered back, eyebrows singed, hair smoking. He drew in a gasp, and the heat burned his lungs. He couldn't shout.
The back of his shop was crowded against many homes and vendor stalls, and the building quickly became an inferno.
The flames escaped into Ishalem.
8 
	Ishalem
	The soldan-shah relaxed in his residence that evening with his beautiful wife. After enjoying a victory feast and drinking good Abilan wine, Imir lounged on cushions and stroked Asha's long hair. The caress tickled her, and she laughed like soft music. Imir felt languid and content. His wife was sweet and oh so lovely....
Caged songbirds produced a chirping cacophony without regard for whether anyone wanted to hear them sing. At least minstrels and court singers could be commanded to withdraw when he wanted a moment of peace.
Roaming freely throughout the Ishalem estate, more than a dozen cats had to be kept separate from the ever-present temptation of the caged birds. Asha possessed six little dogs that loved to sit upon her lap, trot from room to room behind her, bark incessantly, and chase the cats.
Then there were the four large and rambunctious hounds kept in a run outside the residence. These hunting dogs barked and bayed throughout the night, craving exercise, but Asha was no hunter; she simply liked the idea of having them. In a separate conservatory, a dozen potted mulberry trees fed Yuarej tentworms. Though Asha had silks enough, she delighted in the fluttering moths that emerged from the tentworm cocoons.
Imir's wife Villiki complained about Asha's privilege in having a separate home here in Ishalem, in addition to a private villa near the palace in Olabar. Villiki claimed he was spoiling his second wife, to the detriment of herself, his third. But it wasn't a matter of spoiling her. Imir was compelled to provide Asha's
separate residences for his own protection, and his very sanity. He simply couldn't abide all the animal noise, the excremental debris, and the smells.
Now, as he relaxed with her, Imir felt pleased with the signing of the Edict. By the strict terms of the agreement, he could not prevent King Korastine from building his own shipyards and port on the eastern side of the isthmus. The soldan-shah no longer had any legitimate reason to deny them, though the uneasy Uraban merchants would not be keen to offer their cooperation. Aidenist ships on the Middlesea would fundamentally change the seafaring trade, but by the same token, Aidenist captains could no longer sail south of the Edict Line and trade with Uraban ports. Perhaps there would be some sort of balance
The street celebrations rang out even louder than the noises from Asha's animals. Tierran merchants roamed the streets on the eastern side of the city, singing boisterously, calling out to their new friends and business partners. Many new deals would be made in these heady hours as the golden possibilities occurred to former rivals.
Imir doubted he would get much sleep tonight. But because he was with a beautiful woman for the evening, he didn't want to sleep, anyway....
Then, like the arrival of a sudden squall, the celebratory sounds changed outside. He detected a note of alarm amidst the music and cheering--outcries, then loud bells tolling. Next to Asha, he propped himself on an elbow, furrowed his brow.
A guard yanked aside the hanging doorway curtains without regard for ceremony or propriety. "Soldan-Shah!"
A breathless crier stood next to the guard, his robes disheveled, his face white with fear. "Soldan-Shah, the Urecari district is burning, and the prime church is in flames!"
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
49 
	Ignoring Asha's startled cry, Imir sprang naked from his cushions. The crier pointed toward the open balcony, where gauzy silk curtains whipped a bit more strongly than in the earlier breeze. Imir threw a sheet around himself and cinched it in a knot at his waist as he ran barefoot across the polished stone floor with Asha at his heels. They both gazed at a terrifying vista of flame rolling across the canals that wound through the Urecari District, a fire that leaped over the rooftops toward the holy shipwreck on the hill.
In the crowded Merchants' District near the prime church, fiery strands draped like spectacular gold necklaces flung in all directions. Flames licked up roofs, consuming the wood and awnings of the stalls of salt sellers, sandal makers, and leather craftsmen. Hot dry winds goaded the sparks and embers, and a veil of black smoke wafted into the air.
While Imir regarded the sight, speechless, Ur-Sikara Lukai pushed into the room past the guard, her face as angry as the spreading fires. "It was a trick, Soldan-Shah. Aidenists have set fire to our church! They mean to burn Ishalem! The Edict was simply a ploy."
Imir whirled, his fear giving way to anger. "Do you know this? Where is your proof?"
Lukai stalked onto the balcony and gestured toward the view. "The Aidenist District is not aflame--only ours!"
The courier added, his voice high and piping, "There was a brawl down by one of the wine sellers, an Aidenist merchant smashing bottles. King Korastine's soldiers joined in... and now the same area is on fire."
Imir's throat was dry. Everyone else down there would be drawing the same conclusions. Throughout the Urecari section of Ishalem, the flames continued to intensify... as did the outrage of the people.
Hearing the alarms and seeing the orange glow that silhouetted the majestic Arkship from the eastern side of the city, King Korastine summoned help. With the furious sirocco winds of the season, fire would race through the crowded, tinder-dry houses that were adorned with celebratory trappings and cloth banners.
Prester-Marshall Baine met the king outside the Ishalem royal residence, and the two moved into the streets at the head of a swiftly growing crowd. Roused from their beds, Anjine and Mateo hurried after them. Korastine bellowed commands to rally the people. "Get pumps to the canals! Bring buckets and washbasins! Hitch horses to wagons so they can haul barrels of water! There is no time to lose. We have to work together, or we will all be lost."
The prester-marshall used the passionate voice that had inspired thousands of followers, calling for faithful Aidenists to save their brothers under Ondun. Only if the people of Ishalem put aside their religious differences could they conquer the flames.
As the hastily gathered procession hurried across the city to the Urecari District, Korastine watched the increasing firestorm, which began to curl along the Pilgrim's Path up the hill, following the waves of dry grasses. Soon, flames would reach the sacred wreck of Aiden's Arkship.
Volunteers rushed through the narrow streets, shouldering wash buckets and half-full casks, driving carts barely balanced with heavy rainwater cisterns. But as the men and women raced toward the Urecari District, Korastine heard a rumble of iron shod hooves and defiant shouts. Horsemen wearing the blue head coverings of the Urecari guard and wide white sashes of Yuarej silk across their tunics, brandished long scimitars and charged
I
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 51 
	headlong into the foremost Aidenist water bearers. They bellowed challenges in the Uraban tongue and struck down the first disbelieving people.
Korastine did not understand the shouted words, but hatred required no translation. His people screamed as weapons fell toward them in shining arcs, hacking them to pieces. The Aidenists dropped their buckets, spilled their water into the streets, and scattered in panic. "No!" he shouted. "No!"
Behind the first line of riders came other men bearing torches, which they flung onto the roofs of Aidenist buildings. Prester-Marshall Baine yelled for his followers to retreat, but they had already fled into alleys where the Urecari hunted them down.
Anjine grabbed her father's arm and pulled him back as the vengeful riders wheeled about and veered toward him. "Father, we've got to find shelter!"
Mateo balled his fists. "I wish I'd brought a sword from the residence. I'll protect you, Anjine. And you, too, Majesty." Taking action, he found the door of a sturdy warehouse and kicked it repeatedly until he knocked it open. He grabbed Korastine's sleeve. "Anjine, get inside. Majesty, hide here until the riders are past."
They all ducked into the building as the Urecari attackers passed them in a blind and senseless rampage, hurling torches to set the Aidenist Merchants' District alight. Inside the questionable shelter of the wooden building, Korastine clenched and unclenched his hands, watching in despair as the fire spread on both sides of the city.
Ishalem, Urecari Main Church 
	The flames were deadly, yet beautiful. The fires of faith, the test of truth. Prester Hannes saw it as purification rather than destruction. The vendor tents, craftsman shops, weaver stalls, calligraphers' shops, streaming banners, and crowded dwellings were nothing more than tinder piled up around the Urecari prime church. A bonfire for God! Perhaps, Hannes thought, Ondun needed to cleanse the world and remove the blight from His sacred city of Ishalem before He would return to His people.
Comfortably disguised in Uraban rags, Hannes hid in the alleys and watched the panic and chaos. He kept no fishhook pendant on his person, fearing that someone might see, but he always carried the symbol in his heart, along with the prayers he had memorized from the Book of Aiden.
While many of the Urecari fled down to the nearby harbor on the Middlesea shore, some people stayed and tried to fight the flames, beating desperately and ineffectually at the blaze with brooms and rags. Buckets of water sloshed onto stucco-and-wood buildings were mere thimblefuls against a conflagration. Orange fire washed up the building walls and caught on the rooftops. A basket maker's stall under a patched brown awning collapsed into blazing embers.
Shallow canals wound along many of the main streets, but this far inland, upslope toward the shipwreck hill, the water was stagnant and shallow, covered with fetid scum. These canals were mainly wide drainage gutters used for sewage and waste water and were not deep enough for the firefighters to use hand pumps.
The air was so hot Hannes could not breathe, and he covered his mouth with a dirty rag as he worked his way with determination to the prime Urecari church, heedless of his own safety.
Glancing over his shoulder, Prester Hannes watched in disgust as the Urecari fled before the blaze. Though their church was on fire, they did not stand and fight for it. How could they simply abandon their primary house of worship, leaving it to be consumed by the fire? While he had no love for the religion, the people, or their relics, he was most disturbed by their lack of faith. Were they not willing to give their lives to save their church?
Hannes, on the other hand, was afraid of neither pain nor death.
He circled the prime church and found a side door left ajar by some foolish acolyte who had run away. Hannes kicked it open the rest of the way, ducked his head, and rushed into the smoke filled chamber. Fire had already climbed into the main worship center and begun to feed. The lead channels holding myriad bits of colored window glass had melted, and the jewel-like mosaics crumbled to pieces.
Inside, cloth pennants hanging from the high ceiling were wreathed in fire. One of the support timbers overhead had already burned out of its joint and collapsed in a great crash onto the spiral-path area where Urecari worshippers would wave the ribbons upon which their pleas were inscribed. With everything on fire, Hannes wondered if they still believed that Ondun could read the messages in the smoke
Hannes stared ahead through stinging eyes and pressed forward to reach the altar in the middle of the spiral. He could think only of the amulet of Urec that the priestess had presented as the most sacred relic of the church, the amulet that Ondun Himself had supposedly given to Urec. Why had He not given it to Aiden?
Hannes would save the object from the flames and make his way back to the Aidenist kirk on the other side of the city. He would find Prester-Marshall Baine and present the most sacred object to his mentor. After spending years among them, Hannes had completed his mission here. He had learned much about the enemy.
On the wooden platform, the thick candles had melted in the heat, and he spied the amulet, surrounded by flames. On either side of the display stood ewers of sacred oil, which the sikaras used to fill their braziers. With a crack and roar behind him, another rafter tumbled into the nave, spraying flaming debris. Hannes knew he had to move quickly.
He tore part of his cloth sleeve to protect his hands and wrapped the fabric around the amulet; even so he could feel its heat burn his fingers... or perhaps it was a tingle of holiness. If Ur-Sikara Lukai's words were to be believed, Ondun Himself had touched this medallion.
Hannes took his prize, tucking the object securely into his belt. But when he turned to leave, he saw that the fire had advanced deeper into the church, catching all the structural beams on fire, melting the metal hinges on doors and windows. A heavy block broke loose from the arch above, triggering an avalanche of stones that crashed down onto the altar. The carved platform splintered and collapsed, sending the ewers of scented oil flying toward Hannes. He crouched to shield himself, but the oil dowsed his clothing, and the flames quickly caught the new fuel.
Screaming as the fire licked his skin and ignited his hair, he rolled on the floor, but the oil had covered his skin and soaked through his garments. Unable to put out the flames, he staggered back to his feet and ran blindly. He hit the stone wall hard and reeled along, beating his clothes with his hands until he reached a window that had already halfway collapsed. Unable
55 
	to think, he plunged through the remaining glass, knocking the softened lead tracks free.
Outside in the alley, Hannes shoved himself away from the church, striking the walls of close-packed buildings. He didn't know where he was going, could not run from the pain. He pitched forward as the ground disappeared beneath him, and he slid down an embankment into one of the stagnant canals of brackish water. He splashed and rolled into the stinking sluggish current, desperate to extinguish the flames.
But even when the fire was out on his garments and skin, agony continued to scream through his nerve endings and his mind, never fading away. 
	10
	Olabar Palace
	The priestesses called it a bad moon over Olabar, hanging low in the sky with an orange cast caused by thin dust blown in from the Great Desert. A bad moon. From the sky, it seemed to threaten Zarif Omra like a raised fist.
He stood on the tower balcony, gazing across the many-tiered city, but not seeing it. He gripped the balustrade until his knuckles whitened, so engulfed in his thoughts and worries that he could barely breathe. His eyes burned until he remembered to blink. Still he continued to stare. Far off, he could see the deceptively calm waters of the Middlesea
Istar had spent the day in an uneasy malaise, which had transitioned to nausea, horrific cramps, and crippling muscle spasms. While Omra was walking her up the long marble stairs to their chambers, letting her hold on to his arm, Istar had suddenly
collapsed, moaning in pain. The silken skirts swirling around her legs began to seep a rich red.
Omra had shouted for doctors, demanded assistance, set the entire palace on alert. Now, as he stood outside in cold contemplation, he realized that the sikaras had not mentioned the omen of the moon until after Istar had been brought into her bedchamber, after the complications were painfully apparent. Now the sikaras pointed at the moon and nodded knowingly. What good was an omen if the priestesses could not warn him beforehand?
Omra closed his eyes against the stinging tears. He could not block the sounds from the bedchamber, the urgent whispered discussions of sikaras and midwives, the sudden sharp cries of his beloved. Istar had been on the bed for hours, but the women would not let him inside to see her.
He wrestled with impatience, terror, and anger. As the zarif of Uraba, he could have ordered them aside and pushed his way into the room, but if there was any chance the sikaras and midwives could help Istar or save the baby, Omra would do exactly what they said. He, the son of the soldan-shah and heir-apparent to all of Uraba, could do nothing but stand by and wait.
And wait.
The moon taunted him with its ruddy colors, hanging there against the midnight sky. A Saedran astronomer could have explained the phenomenon by saying that dust storms often muddied the skies, adding spectacular colors to sunsets, playing tricks with the eye. But Omra didn't care. Reasons and explanations did not matter to him.
Behind him, unmuffled by the silk hangings across the entryway, came another sharp scream, followed by a long and even more unsettling moan... then a silence that was infinitely worse. Hearing the approach of sandaled feet, the rustle of fabrics, he turned to face a sikara who held her news like a defensive

	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 57
	weapon. Her elegantly coiffed hair hung in disarray, the strands dampened with sweat; her complexion was ashen.
In her arms, she carried a small object wrapped in cloth. Omra saw only the blood. "Your son has not survived, Zarif Omra. I am sorry."
He didn't know the sikara's name, didn't care. Omra stared at the crimson-splotched wrappings. The priestess hesitated, unsure, then moved the folds aside to show him the tiny head, small arms and legs, the twisted back, blotchy milk skin covered with a film of blood. His son--no larger than his hand.
It seemed unreal. Urgency flooded through him, and Omra shoved aside the priestess with her grisly offering and charged into the bedchamber. He ripped the hangings away as though they were phantoms, tearing them entirely from the hooks and casting them in a pile on the floor.
Desperate hope pulsed through him like a hot storm wind. Istar was his first wife, and this his first child, but they were both young. He and Istar would have other sons, as many babies as she liked. As the future soldan-shah, Omra needed to have many heirs. He would show Istar his love. He would nurse and watch over her until she regained her strength.
But when he saw her lying on the bed like a broken doll propped up by cushions, the sharp sword of reality ran him through. The death of the unborn infant was not the worst thing this bad moon had brought him. So much blood covered the sheets, the silks, the pillows, everywhere. The sikaras and midwives hovered over a motionless Istar like carrion birds expecting an imminent feast.
She was breathing, but just barely, her breaths thready and fast. The chief midwife looked at him, more disappointed in her own failure than stricken by genuine grief. Omra fell to his knees beside the bed and took Istar's hand. She stirred a little, eyes
flickering as though she were summoning the last of her strength just to lift her eyelids.
One of the sikaras bent close. "There is nothing to be done, Zarif. The rest will be peaceful now. The pain is over. The child was just..."
Enraged, Omra pushed the red-robed woman backward and focused entirely on Istar. Sweat dotted her brow, and her face was oddly pinched. She breathed out a long sigh and just barely managed to form words. Only he could hear the voice that came from her bluish lips. "My love..."
Omra squeezed her hand and whispered to her, reassured her, lied to her. Istar didn't seem to hear. She did not open her eyes again, nor did she attempt to speak.
He remained there for more than an hour, willing her to hold on, until she finally passed the threshold into death. Still kneeling at Istar's side, he realized that he was alone. 
	11
	Saedran District, Calay
	Engrossed in the exciting new map he had purchased from Yal Dolicar, Aldo leaned against crates full of raisins from Erietta. He held the paper up to the sunlight so he could study the hand drawn lines and mysterious landforms, coasts, islands, reefs. He absorbed everything in his perfect memory.
The information on this map would open a new window to the world and shed light on Ondun's secrets. As a chartsman, Aldo had already begun his sacred duty of illuminating the world; he could hardly wait to show the map to his father and take it to Sen Leo at the temple. With a spring in his step, he hurried home.
Aldo entered the house with a secretive smile and the rolled map tucked into his shirt. "I met a sailor at the docks," he blurted to his parents. "He's had an amazing adventure." His brother and sister came close as the young chartsman summarized what Yal Dolicar had told him; as if unveiling a great treasure, he spread the map on the wooden kitchen table, which was still dusted with flour from his mother's baking.
Biento slid the easel and canvas out of the way and set aside his paints to bend over the map. While Aldo could barely contain his excitement, his father frowned, his eyes darting over the drawn coastlines, reading the words written in an unsteady hand. The creases deepened around his mouth.
Aldo kept talking to counteract his father's unexpected reticence. "See, these islands--nobody knows about them, but with this chart, a good captain could find them again. Using them, we could step our way even farther across the oceans, expand our horizons, maybe even find the sunken continent. This could lead us to the original land of the Saedrans!"
Biento shook his head. "This map is a fake, son. You have been cheated."
Aldo had expected skepticism, but not such outright denial. "I heard the man's story. If he saw this with his own eyes--"
"You have been cheated."
His father's voice held such flat conviction that Aldo grew angry. He averted his eyes out of respect, but spoke assertively. "Sen Leo says that Saedrans should try to discover new knowledge, no matter what its source. This man was an unusual reservoir of information, and this map is unique. We should at least consider it, not just discard it outright."
"But you have let yourself be deceived." Broad shoulders slumped, Biento touched his wife's arm. "I'll take him to the temple. There is something Sen Leo has to show him."
Confused but insistent, Aldo held up the map. "But how can you know?"
Biento took his arm. "I will show you." 
	Deep in the Saedran District, the buildings crowded together and the close-knit people kept themselves apart from the Aidenist majority. The Saedran temple had a nondescript sandstone facade with engraved letters written in their private language. Outside visitors in the district wouldn't give it a second glance.
Inside the temple Aldo followed his father along a narrow hallway and down a short set of steps to a circular fellowship chamber where Saedrans attended weekly services. Now the place was empty; all the benches were bare, the floors scrubbed, and the book-laden shelves dusted for the next gathering.
Biento did not stop in the fellowship chamber, though. The far wall held a large mosaic showing the sunken land of the Saedrans. He ran his fingers along the tiles and pressed a particular garnet-colored square, which released a latch. A thin crack appeared along the line of the mosaic.
Aldo had been here countless times before, but now he was astonished. "What is this?"
"A secret only a chartsman can know. Few Saedrans have ever seen this room."
"But you aren't a chartsman."
Biento pushed the mosaic panel inward to reveal a hidden passage from which came the yellowish orange glow of oil lamps. He looked sideways at his son. "And where do you think you got the gift?"
From behind the secret door, Aldo felt a cool breeze, smelled dry air with a hint of mustiness and old papers. He followed his father down a sloping ramp. When they rounded a corner, Aldo stopped in awe.
The chamber was huge. In this hidden vault beneath the Saedran temple, maps covered the walls, and painted constellations sparkled across the curved dome of the ceiling. Such detailed paintings! Aldo saw the careful outlines of Tierra, the streets of Ishalem, the currents in the Oceansea, even the boundaries of the Middlesea on the other side of the isthmus. Densely written notations marked the landforms, uncertain outlines followed sketchy reports of possible islands, seasonal whirlpools, barrier reefs that had been sighted out near the horizon.
It looked nothing at all like the map Yal Dolicar had sold him.
He noticed sturdy mahogany tables piled with charts, logbooks, and diaries. Compasses and protractors lay next to ink pots and paints. Staring at the dome overhead, he recognized the familiar constellations visible from Tierra, and as his gaze moved onward, he noted other star patterns, groupings he had seen only in books but never with his own eyes. One set of stars continued from another to another in a clear progression all across the painted sky.
Aldo turned slowly around, drinking in the impossibly magnificent work of art. He tried to take in everything at once. He marveled at the network of rivers leading from the highlands to the sea, the hills of Alamont, the plains of Erietta, the Soeland islands, the dense and cold Iborian forests, the impassible mountains of Gorag. He felt as if the breath had been stolen from his lungs. He was looking at the whole world.
Belatedly, he noticed Sen Leo sitting in the room, watching him with a bemused expression on his face. The old scholar turned to Aldo's father. "Are you certain this isn't too soon for him?"
"He's a chartsman, after all," Biento said, then added, "And it was necessary. He needed to know what we already know. He's still very young and gullible." He nudged his son.
Aldo was not certain what to do or say as he sheepishly extended the fanciful map. "I... I bought this from a sailor."
Sen Leo glanced at it for only a moment before shaking his head. "Completely inaccurate. A fantastical representation, with just enough known details to fool the unwary." He narrowed his eyes. "People like Aldo."
Holding Dolicar's fake map up to the landscape on the temple wall, Biento used a paint-stained finger to trace the outlines of real islands and the extended coast, pointing out how the two did not match. "Can you see now that this is completely fictitious? Look here, and here." He strode over to a different part of the wall. "And look, no islands exist in these waters. And where is this reef, and the two large islands here? The man who sold you this map was simply fabricating a story."
Aldo flushed. "It's so obvious." He turned his shame toward himself for being so easily fooled, but even that could not diminish the sense of wonder that surged through him now. He went closer to the walls, staring at the names of specific rock outcroppings, small patches of forest, lighthouses, villages. "But this--all this--is known and verified?"
"This is our Mappa Mundi," said Sen Leo, "the manifestation of the most sacred quest for all Saedrans--to discover the world, to map and record what we see. When our chartsmen return from far lands with new observations, we draw more lines on the map. Once we have succeeded in charting all of creation, Ondun will reward us by raising our sunken homeland."
"Is this the only Mappa Mundi?"
"Every Saedran temple has a secret map room." Biento looked at his son. "I am a cartographer. I don't sail off to far ports, but I have a chartsman's memory and knowledge, and I travel around the countryside to paint a perfect copy of the map in each temple. That's how we share information."
"But you said you painted commissioned portraits of nobles!"
Biento gave him a coy smile. "Oh, that merely provides a good excuse for me to travel so widely. Your mother knows the real reason."
Aldo couldn't tear his eyes from the map of the world. He saw the precise details in the Tierran continent, but noted the sketchier outlines of Uraba and the many blank areas beyond. "And we have no better information about this half of the world?"
"Parts of it, but not enough," Sen Leo said. "There are Saedrans in Uraba, but the Urecari won't allow us to interact with them. Their maps of Tierra are probably just as sketchy. With the signing of the Edict, maybe we can share information and work together at last." 
	12
	Ishalem, Urecari District
	Thickening smoke worked its hazy tendrils through the streets of Ishalem. The animals inside Asha's residence were disturbed, some frantic; the songbirds flapped against their cages, the hounds bayed. Most of the cats had already fled, and Asha couldn't find them, though she looked everywhere.
The soldan-shah burst back into their private quarters, his face flushed, eyes red and irritated from the smoke. Perspiration sparkled on his shaved scalp, and his voice cracked with alarm. "Asha, tell your servants to pack your things! Grab only the possessions you value most and get down to the docks--hurry! I have already sent men to prepare your ship for immediate departure to Olabar."
Asha was bewildered. "How can I possibly take everything? I'd need days to --"
"Mow. Only what you need, only what you value the most, only what you cannot replace. You have less than an hour." Throughout their marriage, Imir had done his best to keep her happy. He denied Asha nothing and had never raised his voice to her--she'd given him no cause--but now he was brusque. "With the winds whipping up, nothing can stop this fire. Ishalem will burn to the ground."
Asha gasped. "But that's impossible! This is... this is Ishalem.r'
Imir headed for the doorway. "One hour, Asha. Be on the boat, or be left behind."
"But if it all burns--"
"It will all burn. One hour." He marched into the corridor, and guards quickly folded around him.
Her small dogs wouldn't stop barking, and she shooed them away as she called for her handmaidens. The serving women had already recognized the danger and started throwing their own possessions into trunks and baskets. Now they flurried about gathering her silks and jewels with a grim efficiency.
From the balcony, Asha saw the fire advancing like a golden army, orange flames moving from street to street, sweeping up the side of the hill to the sacred Arkship. In the streets outside the residence, horsemen galloped, people shouted or screamed. Seeing that the Aidenist side of the city was also on fire, she was surprised that sparks could blow so far and so swiftly. Even the Saedran houses and shops had caught fire. The entire city! Imir had not exaggerated the danger, and she realized how little time they had.
"Forget the silly possessions! We must take my pets. Grab the bird cages. Put leashes on the hounds, and bring my little dogs in their baskets. Oh, how are we going to catch the cats?"
Asha turned around, desperate for help. "Get carters, find wagons--we'll make a procession down to the harbor. Our boat is waiting in the main canal."
The handmaidens were startled, their arms heaped with bright cloth, embroidered cushions, ornate golden ewers. "Go!" Asha cried. "The pets!" They burst into motion, though a few of them pocketed jewels and gold chains, not even bothering to be surreptitious about it. Asha didn't care, so long as they rescued the animals.
Asha joined the women, carrying two cages of shrieking birds out of the main entrance to a waiting cart. Despairingly, she called for her cats, but they did not respond. The little dogs yapped, poking their heads out of the baskets, but handmaidens nudged them back down. Well-muscled manservants struggled to lift the larger animal cages onto carts. The hounds pulled against the leather leashes, straining at their collars; one of the straps snapped, and the dog raced into the streets. Asha shouted after him, but the hound vanished into the smoke and chaos. The manservant looked at the frayed end of the leash. "Shall I catch him, my lady? "
"We cannot wait, Lady Asha," cried one of the handmaidens. Tears filled Asha's smoke-reddened eyes, and she knew the woman was right. Two wagons had already departed into the tortuous and crowded streets toward the harbor.
Nearby, the Urecari prime church was a towering bonfire, fueled by the sacred pennants and tapestries. Asha mumbled a prayer to herself for the church, for Ishalem; she couldn't believe Ondun would let this happen. How could Ishalem, the holiest city in the world, be allowed to burn to the ground? Only an hour before, she would have asserted that Imir's guards and soldiers could extinguish the flames, and that would be that. Now she doubted any man, even the soldan-shah, could save the city.
q 
	66 Kevin J. Anderson
	They fled the residence as the flames encroached. Making their way downhill toward the docks, they followed the choked drainage canals, until they reached a shallow-draft boat with a man aboard waving to them from the anxious crowds on the edge of the canal. "Lady Asha! Soldan-Shah Imir commanded me to wait for you. You and some of your party can ride with me!"
With her closest handmaidens, she crowded aboard while the rest of her servants took the heavily laden carts directly to her barge. She kept the voluminous birdcages with her. The manservants and two armed guards had to beat away desperate people who clawed and pushed, trying to board the small boat. Asha hated to leave them behind. "But... all these people! We should save them."
The manservants and guards were momentarily speechless; finally, one of the men gestured around to indicate their single small boat. "My lady, we cannot! Our orders are to save you."
Asha felt her heart lurch in her chest. The desperation of these poor people called to her. The people of Ishalem, faithful to Urec. They were only trying to escape the fire, having left every possession behind. But the guards were right--the boat had no room, not with her pets in their bulky cages and baskets. Two bright green parakeets squawked and fluttered against the bars. She was surprised to see that one of her cats had been caught after all, and now it yowled piteously, fur bristling.
Uneasy with the angry crowd, one of the soldan-shah's guards untied the painter, even as Asha tried to think of a solution. Before she and her handmaidens were fully settled, the boatman used a pole to shove his craft into motion, leaving the shouting crowd behind. Some of the people even cursed her!
"Wait!" Asha yanked out her birdcages. "I'll make room. We can save somebody." Since she and the soldan-shah had had no
sons or daughters of their own, her pets had always been like her children. Now she opened the cages, shook the bars to force the squawking and frantic birds into the air, ignoring her deep sadness as they flew off into the smoky night. She knew she would never see them again. Asha tossed the cages overboard. "There, now take some children perhaps." She looked to the side of the canal, reached out her hands as they drifted past the terrified people.
But the guards ignored her. "I am sorry, my lady. We have to get you down to the docks." They refused to obey! Continuing to push the boat along the canal, the boatman picked up speed. The heavily laden craft scraped bottom from time to time, and two men had to push with poles to free them.
Barely able to breathe, she looked over the side of the boat as it drifted along the canal, forlorn. What would happen to all those people? If the whole city was going to burn, as Imir said, where would they go? She began to grasp the horror of just how many might die here this night. "No!"
Though the canal deepened as the boat drifted, the water was cluttered with debris and coated with an oily scum. Asha spied a burned man floating amongst the flotsam, his head above water, arms clinging to the side of the canal. His clothes were singed and in tatters, his face and hands covered with soot. Much of his hair was gone. And she saw he was alive.
"Wait! That man needs help!"
"We've already told you, Lady Asha. There is no time." The boatman looked up as a shower of sparks glittered above them in the night sky. "We cannot save him."
The man feebly lifted a hand, eyes closed, face drawn in agony. The cooling water of the canal must have saved him, but he would die soon unless a healer tended him.
"Stop! That is my order! We must save someone." The unwav
68 Kevin J.Anderson 
	ering command that charged her voice sounded new and completely foreign to her servants. "We will take him. So many are being left behind, we can at least rescue this one."
"But, my lady," said one of her handmaidens, "if you save this one, you must save all of them, and you cannot."
"So I should just give up on everyone?" Asha straightened on her unsteady seat. "Urec would never forgive me for that--and you should pray for days to cleanse your mind of what you have just suggested!"
"I will pray that others will help them."
"He will likely die, Lady Asha," one of the guards warned. "He is badly burned, and these waters will have poisoned him."
Stubborn, she commanded the boatman to nudge the limp figure with his pole so that Asha's servants could reach him. Guards hauled the burned man over the gunwale, and Asha snapped imperiously to her horrified handmaidens, "Help them--we don't have much time!"
With clear distaste on their faces, the women clutched at the muddy black tatters that clothed the man's body. He groaned as they pulled him aboard, but he was deeply--and mercifully-- unconscious. He retched, having nearly drowned in the shallow water. His skin was raw, red and black, but he breathed.
Asha thought of all the pets she had saved in the past, the animals she'd rescued--birds with broken wings, dogs with splinters in their paws, scrawny cats that had been tormented by evil boys--all of them lost causes, and yet she had healed them. "We will take him to the ship. We will tend him. I have doctors to heal his injuries."
"My lady, your physicians know how to care for animals. This man--"
"This man will survive," Asha stated bluntly.
Though the fire raged through the streets and the great church
burned, she fixed her attention on this poor human being who needed her help. She could save this one man. It wasn't much, but it was a symbol of hope. Even if he healed, the pain would be terrible, the damage great, the probability of infection certain.
Nevertheless...
Picking up speed as it entered the wider canals, her boat finally reached the harbor, a scene of further chaos as every ship tried to depart at once, wide cargo barges, narrow galleys, fishing boats, small one-person pleasure craft. The soldan-shah had his own dromond loaded with soldiers and salvaged possessions.
Imir had arranged for Asha's ship to be waiting and ready for her at the dock, and she stepped onto the pier, rocking the shallow-draft boat. "Carry the pets' cages! Watch that the cat doesn't escape. He's the only one we rescued." She looked anxiously up the streets, searching for the carts loaded with her other pets. They should be arriving soon.
While her handmaidens and guards rushed to follow her instructions, Asha devoted her attentions to the poor burned man. She needed to get him aboard, bathe him in cool water, and use whatever salves her physicians had. Looking down at his grimace, his shut eyes, she could tell very little about the man, whether his burned clothes had been the rags of a beggar or the vestments of a rich merchant. Thanks to the soot and dirt, she couldn't even tell the true color of his skin or hair.
Aboard Asha's ship, her handmaidens gathered cushions in a pile so extravagant that even a dying man would have found them comfortable. They laid him out, careful of his wounds.
She leaned over the man and whispered, "You'll be all right. I will take care of you." She began to sing one of her favorite songs, soothing him with a ballad of Urec as her boat sailed away from the fires of Ishalem.
Ishalem, Aidenist District 
	Across the Aidenist section of the city, Urecari raiders raced at a gallop as they cast their torches at buildings, but the fire was a living being now and needed no help. Instead of fighting the conflagration, Korastine's soldiers struck down the Urecari attackers with spears, clubs, and arrows, killing hundreds.
The main Aidenist kirk was fully engulfed now. When its roof collapsed with a groan and a roar, flames belched from shattered stained-glass windows.
As guards rushed them out of Ishalem in an urgent procession to the harbor, Anjine's throat was raw, her heart heavy. They had abandoned the few things they'd brought with them from Calay. Mateo was anxious to fight the fire or kill the Urecari, but King Korastine refused to let either the young man or Anjine out of his sight. "This is not a game we play in the castle. Tonight we are witnessing what may be the beginning of the end of our world."
More and more people ran down from the streets, trying to get to the water as a refuge from the spreading flames, giving up on the city. Brisk, parched winds played across Anjine's face, swirling her light brown hair.
As soon as Prester-Marshall Baine and her father were escorted aboard the royal cog, with Anjine and Mateo following close behind, sailors struggled to raise the gangplank, pushing back any refugees who tried to crowd aboard. So many people swarmed on the docks that the boards creaked, and several people tumbled off the sides. One sailor swung a boat hook, knock
ing a man into the water. The shouting crowd grew louder and angrier.
With a voice already hoarse from the thick smoke in the air, Korastine ordered his men to stop. "I am their king! Take aboard as many of these people as the cog can carry. Bring their injured, their children."
A sound like a rush of relief passed through the crowd. Then their voices surged louder as they clamored for the limited spots aboard the king's ship, showing very little regard for giving priority to the wounded or the young. The panic and desperation on their faces was raw, palpable. Protectively, Mateo moved Anjine to the meager protection of the raised forecastle platform. During the chaotic few minutes while frightened, moaning people spilled aboard and packed the deck, Anjine looked at the lines of refugees searching for safety at the harbor's edge; she didn't think their numbers had diminished at all. Every one of them wanted to escape from Ishalem.
Now the king had no choice but to turn the rest away. Anjine could feel the weight in his voice as he told his men, "Detach the gangplank--we can take no further passengers." When the people on the docks refused to let go, still struggling to climb aboard, the sailors had to use axes to sever the ramp itself, letting it fall into the harbor. Crewmen slipped the knots from the pilings, used poles to push off, and the cog drifted out into the deeper water.
Already, people were streaming away from the city center into the scrubby hills or rushing along the coastal paths to flee the fire. Others climbed aboard any boat they could find. Suddenly orange flames rose along the docks as well. Many of the fishing boats that were crowded in slips began to blaze from spilled oil and thrown torches. Urecari raiders were intentionally burning the docks, cutting off any escape. Whistling and cursing, they rode off, though the wall of fire cut them off from the opposite side of Ishalem.
72 Kevin J. Anderson 
	"They are so bloodthirsty and hateful!" Mateo seethed, watching them. "How could we ever have tried to make peace with animals like that?"
Anjine felt just as furious, although she wondered if vengeful Aidenists had done the same thing on the other side of the city, racing in to torch any Uraban boats in the Middlesea harbor.
The fire roasted the night sky with a coppery glow. On the steep and sacred hill, bright flames silhouetted the lines of the Arkship. Aiden's ancient vessel had rested there for all of history. Now it was dying in one night. Anjine could not tear her eyes away. A great gasp went up from all the rescued people aboard the royal cog as the remaining timbers of the huge Arkship collapsed in a burst of embers and flame.
"May the Compass guide us," Baine said in a low whisper.
Anjine took Mateo's hand, and he was too angry to be embarrassed about it. "We're the last ones to have seen the glory of Ishalem."
The unpredictable winds, combined with fire-borne gusts, propelled ash into the air to land all about the cog and its passengers. The world was now muffled, transformed into an eerie otherworldly landscape by the falling soot. There was no sound but the wind and the fire and the distant screams.
She realized she was weeping. She turned to the king, searching for some hint of hope and reassurance. How could she ever face such terrible events when she became queen? "We can never fix this, can we, Father?"
Korastine stared past the bow into the inferno. He kept his voice low, as if he didn't want the rest of the refugees to hear him. "No, we can never fix it." He looked haunted. Pale ash settled into the lines of his face and on his hair, making him seem a much older man. His voice was scratchy and rough. "Now there will be generations of war... the worst war our world has ever seen."
Part II 
	Two Months Later
Outside of Calay Harbor 
	The small boat scudded northward up the coast, dancing across the white-capped waves, a square sail straining on her single mast. The salty breeze was invigorating, full of speed rather than storms. At the tiller, smiling as the wind whipped the brown hair from his face, Criston Vora pointed out the mouth of the harbor ahead, which was mostly hidden by headlands.
"There's the entrance to Calay, Adrea. Once we're past the lighthouses and inside the harbor, then you'll see it for yourself. .." He let his silence fill in the rest of the details.
Standing close to him on the rocking deck, Adrea smiled back. "You've made Calay sound as magical as Terravitae. Now I'll see if my husband is an astute observer of details, or just a teller of wild stories."
"Which would you prefer? "
"Hmm, each has its advantages. I'd like a dash of both."
Adrea's hair was a shade darker than yellow; her delicate cheekbones, pointed nose, and narrow chin gave her an ethereal presence. When Criston had first noticed the girl in Windcatch, he had thought she was a water spirit washed up on shore. Adrea had laughed when he'd called her that during their courtship, and he had loved her laugh.
Before his brief voyage to Ouroussa with Captain Shay, Criston had taken his small boat on several trips from Windcatch to Calay, delivering loads of preserved fish, processed seaweed, or kelp liquor. Each time, he'd returned home with stories about the capital city.
Coming home after the Uraban attack on the Fishhook, Criston had finally married Adrea, pleased with his sailor's pay and worried about the possibility of war against the Urecari. Although large-scale politics did not affect the daily life of the Windcatch villagers, Criston still needed to support his family. He had made three more trips to Calay in his cargo boat in the four months they had been married, and this time he had promised to take Adrea along.
Now that he'd made the difficult decision to sign aboard a new sailing vessel, with Adrea's blessing and encouragement, he was going to be gone from home for a long time--if Captain Shay would have him again. He wanted her with him for every possible moment.
Of course, they weren't exactly alone. Adrea's brother worked his way out of the cabin, where he'd been napping. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and looked around in surprise. "Are we almost there?" He moved across the deck with the balance of a seasoned sailor on a rolling sea, despite his heavy limp.
"We were planning to wake you up before we sailed home," Adrea said.
Ciarlo, two years Adrea's junior, had suffered a severely broken leg when he was nine years old. The bones had never set properly, and now he walked with a pronounced limp. He dreamed of being a sailor, as did all young boys from Windcatch, but his movements were so ungainly that no fisherman wanted him aboard. They needed agile sailors to scramble up the rigging and stand balanced on narrow yardarms; one fisherman had rudely opined that he did not need another anchor aboard his boat.
Criston could understand the young man's dream. He had spent most of his life on the sea, aboard boats, learning the nuanced language of sail, current, and wind, but he longed for
adventure rather than simply going out to the same waters and coming back every day. The sea had called to him most of his life, and even his unsettling encounter with the Urecari pirates had not made him want to stay home.
When he had asked Adrea to marry him, flush with his payment from the Fishhook voyage, she had accepted on the condition that he take her brother into his home as well. Upon learning what his sister had done, Ciarlo was extremely upset. "I don't want to be a burden to you! I can find work."
Adrea did not let him sway her resolve. "You are not a burden--you're my brother." She and Ciarlo had raised themselves with very little help from their mother; Adrea knew how to keep her family together.
Ciarlo had accompanied them on this voyage for practical reasons. If Criston did manage to secure a place in the new ship's crew, he'd have to sell his boat so that Adrea would have enough money for the year he'd be gone, and he didn't want her to make her way back south to the fishing village alone. She and her brother were perfectly comfortable traveling together.
Now Criston tied off the sail and adjusted the tiller. He had built this craft himself, staking his catch and cargo against the large debt he had incurred purchasing the materials. He had named the boat Cindon after his fisherman father, who had vanished in a storm at sea, his boat lost with all hands. His mother, Telha, was a sea widow, like so many others.
At the mouth of Calay Harbor stood a pair of identical lighthouses built from stone blocks and each etched with a massive figure, the northern lighthouse showing Aiden and the southern tower depicting Sapier, grandson of Aiden and the founder of the Aidenist religion. The two lighthouses showed the light of Aidenism, and the sight was quite awe-inspiring for visitors to the capital.
The sheer number of fishing boats, sloops, and cogs indicated that a populous city lay within, like a hidden treasure. He noted at least six military ships with long, sharp beaks at the bow for ramming enemy vessels. "I've never seen so many patrol boats."
Adrea shaded her eyes, scanning the waters. "After the burning of Ishalem, who knows what the Urecari will do?"
When the Cindon entered the sheltered bay, the water suddenly grew calmer. Calay was a perfect harbor: Like splayed fingers, inlets of deep water protruded inward, offering countless safe anchorages. Spits of land between the inlets divided the city into separate districts, making Galay a mosaic of different architectures, colors, and smells. The districts were connected by bridges, each built uniquely by the merchants, the rivermen, the farmers, the Saedrans, or the military.
In the Royal District, atop a rise overlooking the harbor, stood the stone castle of King Korastine. Covered with barracks, armories, and parade grounds, the Military District watched over the northern peninsula, while the Merchants' District comprised the southern peninsula, a place for incoming traders to unload exotic cargoes. Warehouses crowded the wharves at the waterline.
Criston was pleased to watch the expressions of Adrea and Giarlo as they sailed into the colorful bedlam. "You underestimated the wonders by half," she said. "I never imagined the size, or the number of people, or all the buildings!"
Her brother added, "The whole population of Windcatch would vanish into one district here."
Criston did not immediately guide the Cindon to a public marina in the Merchants' District, where he could rent a slip, tie up the boat, and unload his cargo of salted fish. "I've got something else to show both of you first."
He passed under the bridge that linked the Saedran District
to the Royal District and entered the narrow Shipbuilders' Bay. Stripped logs floated against the shore, and up on land sawmills whined. Four different dry docks held the keels and ribs of ships under construction. Many piers extended into the water, piled with lumber, ropes, barrels of caulk and tar, and wooden derricks, blocks and tackle, cranes.
On his previous trip to Calay, Griston had learned of a great project begun by King Korastine and inspired by PresterMarshall Baine. To launch a golden age of exploration, ship designers had crafted a new type of vessel for long voyages, with three square-rigged masts in contrast to the single masts used for sloops and fishing boats, or the two-masted cogs that were adequate for coastal trade. The new ship was named the Luminara, "to shine light on the dark corners of the map."
The Luminara's charter was to voyage outward and return in a year, to explore the unknown and discover new lands for Tierra. Since the Edict divided the world in half, King Korastine hoped to find uncharted islands, perhaps even new continents that lay above the latitude of Ishalem. In the aftermath of the great fire, the need was even greater, the necessity for hope undiminished.
The king guaranteed high pay for all seamen aboard the Luminara--enough to make Criston a wealthy man when he returned to Windcatch. He had talked with Adrea, and though it pained them both to be parted so soon after being married, Adrea was a wise and practical woman; she could read his dreams as easily as he could read the currents in the sea.
"You can't pass up this opportunity," she said. "Let's consider it an investment. Ciarlo will take care of me."
"We'll take care of each other," her brother said.
"And I need you both to take care of my mother," Criston said.
He loved Adrea all the more because she could see how much
this meant to him. The Luminara was the first purely exploratory ship Tierra had ever launched. If this voyage proved successful and they did find rich new territories, there would be other such expeditions... but there would be only one first voyage. And Cris ton wanted to be on it so badly that his heart ached.
As his small boat passed deeper into Shipbuilders' Bay, Cris ton saw the breathtaking ship under construction. The Luminara looked like music on the water, a graceful sculpture of curved wood and soaring masts. Teams were laying the rigging and stretching the shrouds like a delicate cat's cradle of ropes, ratlines, and pulleys. Mountains of white sailcloth lay folded on the decks as sailmakers cut and stitched large rectangles of fabric, adding eyelets, threading ropes. Though the three-masted carrack was huge compared to the fishing boats Criston knew, the Luminara was also delicate, a ship poised to glide across the Oceansea.
"She's beautiful," Adrea breathed.
"We didn't arrive any too soon." He was amazed at how far the construction had come. "It looks like the Luminara will be ready to sail within a week." 
	15
	Calay
	Two months after the burning of Ishalem, the last of the Uraban diplomats and merchants were evicted from Calay. A wave of raucous jeers and threats came from the people crowding the wharves and docks of the city.
Feeling both angry and sad, King Korastine watched as royal guards escorted the foreigners from their holding barracks.
Some departing Uraban merchants already stood on the decks of the two ships ready to cast off. The soldan-shah's diplomats ignored Korastine's escort, ignored the hurled insults from the crowd, and walked along the wooden pier to the waiting ships. They looked happy to be leaving Galay.
"By my command and by the Grace of Aiden," Korastine announced to the Urabans, "your lives have been spared." The king stood on the docks, wearing formal robes and his crown. "Tell your soldan-shah that we can neither forgive nor forget what the Urabans have done, not the deaths of my people, not the burning of Ishalem."
The diplomats shouted a response in their own language, which no one bothered to translate. Korastine didn't care to know what they were saying; the meaning was clear enough. He had hoped for such an entirely different outcome when he and Imir had signed the Edict. But after what he had seen that night, there could be no turning back
His ship had sailed back to the capital, while to the south the smoke remained like a giant pillar in the sky for days afterward. On the voyage, Korastine had begun to form plans to fortify his defenses. Sitting on the deck for hours, he talked with Anjine, telling her ideas as they formed in his mind. Though she was still young, he considered it imperative that she understand the difficult decisions a leader must face.
His advisers, the people, the presters, the traders, all of them made the same demands. As king, he should have been able to make the choices he wanted, not the choices that circumstances pushed him into. Korastine could no longer abide trade with Uraban merchants, and the five reaches of Tierra would have to look to their own mines, farms, rivers, and grazing lands in order to produce what the people needed.
Immediately upon reaching Calay, Korastine issued orders
for his guards to round up all Uraban diplomats in the Royal District. The news of the fire had not yet spread throughout the city, but from that day forward, every follower of Urec had to be considered an enemy and a potential spy.
City guards isolated indignant and confused Uraban merchants, herding them to a separate area in the Merchants' District. Korastine ordered their goods "temporarily" confiscated, their ships impounded until he could make his decision. He did not want to keep these men in Galay, but he feared he might need hostages. Soldan-Shah Imir was sure to do the same--or worse--as soon as he got back to Olabar.
The stuffy veteran leader of the Tierran military, Comdar Delnas, dispatched the available warships to turn back any vessels showing distinctive Uraban sails. Many such merchants had been sailing for weeks from ports in Outer Wahilir, working their way northward from one stop to the next, unaware of the destruction of Ishalem. When their ships were boarded and King Korastine's proclamation was read to them, the Uraban merchants expressed disbelief and outrage, sure that the Aidenists were to blame.
Their cargoes could just as easily have been taken as prizes, but the king issued orders that the men were to be sent home, unharmed, in hopes that the soldan-shah would follow the same rule. He feared, though, that any Aidenist trader who pulled into a Uraban port city would suffer a harsher fate.
In the following weeks, Korastine dispatched scouts down to Ishalem, and they reported news as grave as he had expected: The out-of-control fires had burned Ishalem virtually to the ground, eradicating the shrines, the main Aidenist kirk, the merchant districts, the royal residence. Nothing but charred fragments remained of the Arkship. The Urecari side of the city was also destroyed.
Now, on the day of the final eviction from Galay, when the
last foreigners had boarded their ships, Korastine gave orders for the exotic-looking vessels to cast off. Hooting crowds followed the drifting boats, throwing horse dung and rotten fruits at the decks. Though they were clearly furious, the departing Urabans held on to their dignity as their ships headed toward the mouth of the harbor, closely escorted by Tierran military vessels until they were out in the open sea.
Korastine had hoped to feel relief now that the decision had been made and implemented. But his heart remained heavy and unsettled. 
	Returning to the castle, Korastine passed through the gauntlet of courtiers, functionaries, and servants, and headed to his withdrawing room. Through long habit, he wanted some time in private after his public appearance and prior to his afternoon meetings.
For the rest of the day he would sit with representatives of the destrars, the leaders of each of the five reaches, all of whom brought their local problems and complaints--none of which could match the far greater crisis that faced their entire world. Unable to see the potential wealth that exploration could yield, the destrars complained about the increased taxes Korastine had levied to pay for constructing the Luminara. They also complained when he built houses for the healers and shelters for poor dockworkers. In some things, he could impose his will.
Construction of the exploratory ship had begun well before the signing of the Edict. Some might have said that after the burning of Ishalem, the terms of the Edict were no longer in force, but Korastine refused to think that way. He and SoldanShah Imir had sworn an oath. They had pressed their blood into the helm of the Arkship. Their promise was sacred before God and binding upon their souls.
Prester-Marshall Baine had preached a "new revelation" from the Book of Aiden to the hundreds who gathered for services in Calay's large Aidenist church. Holding up Aiden's command that all people should "learn and remember Ondun's glory," Baine interpreted the Law of Laws to mean that humans should engage in discovery rather than rote memorization.
Many presters were uneasy with this shift in focus, wanting to stay in their small village kirks and preach what had always been preached, what they themselves had memorized. But Baine's enthusiasm was infectious. "For the longest time, we believed that Aiden's arrival at Ishalem was the end of our journey. But what if this is only the beginning? What if our whole continent is merely a stopping point on the great voyage of destiny?"
With his forceful personality, he excited a sense of wonder in his listeners. He made people dream again. And he had the ear of the king
Korastine removed his crown and set it on his writing-desk, then pulled off his heavy embroidered robe, though an army of servants would have liked to assist him with the dressing and undressing chores. His ruffled linen shirt was formal enough for the rest of the day.
His bedchamber had seemed quiet and empty since the death of Queen Sena. Now, hearing a rustle in the library alcove, he called out, "I am ready for you, Sen Leo. Advise me before the destrars come and harry me like birds fighting over a sunflower head."
The Saedran scholar emerged from the alcove, absently carrying one of Korastine's books. Though Sen Leo had thousands of volumes of his own, he was always engrossed in Korastine's books when he came to visit. The king enjoyed speaking with the
1 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
	85
	Saedran scholar both before and after difficult meetings. He was one of the wisest men Korastine knew.
"The Luminara is nearly ready to launch, but the destrars will resent their share of the cost until they actually see gold come back into their treasuries," the king said. "It'll be a year before the ship is due to return."
"Destrars complain--it is a fact of life," Sen Leo said with a snort. "They look at their crude maps, and because they see no islands or coastlines, they assume nothing is there, just the edge of the world."
Korastine slumped into his high-backed chair. "Don't belittle their concerns. Because of the Ishalem fire, we'll have to build up our military, construct a more powerful navy, recruit many more soldiers. Perhaps they are right that we can ill afford such an expensive discretionary venture now."
Sen Leo was alarmed. "We can ill afford to forsake it, Majesty! As you say, the ship is nearly done. Further expenditures will be minimal." He shook his head and extended a large-knuckled finger, as if scolding imaginary listeners. "Besides, their investment paid for barely half of the expedition. Without the help of my people, you would never have begun the project in the first place."
Private Saedran treasuries had secretly funded a large share of the Luminara. Though quiet and unobtrusive, the Saedrans had amassed huge fortunes, and Korastine was amazed at how easily Sen Leo delivered chests of gold for the project.
Now he leaned forward and met the old scholar's eyes. "Why are your people so interested in a voyage of exploration? You cannot hope to recoup your investment. You aren't a merchant."
"Ah, but we will profit in knowledge. Who can place a price on the new things we might learn?"
Korastine frowned. "Now you sound like Prester-Marshall Baine."
The scholar gave him a mysterious smile. "Where do you think Prester-Marshall Baine got the idea in the first place?" 
	16
	Calay Harbor
	The next morning, freshly shaved and wearing the best clothes he had brought from Windcatch, Criston made his way to Shipbuilders' Bay and the construction dock that held the Luminara. The spicy fragrance of fresh Iborian pine clashed with the bitter lacquer and caulking tar. Once aboard, he made his way to the stern and knocked at the door of the captain's cabin. He heard a man's voice call for him to enter.
Captain Shay sat at a small writing desk crowded with books and charts, a measuring stick, an ink pot, and several quills. The cabin walls held numerous sketches, detailed anatomical drawings of dissected fish, plump aquatic worms, unusual undersea plants. One intricately drawn picture showed a seagull's wing with its feathers splayed, each type labeled. A collection of unusual seashells lined one of the narrow shelves, tacked down with wax.
He stacked his papers and turned to look at Criston, smiling in surprise. "Ah, Mr. Vora! You've come back." Ink stains covered his fingers.
"I would like to sail aboard the Luminara, sir." He stood ramrod straight. "I'm glad you remember me from the Fishhook."
"And I'm glad to see that our little adventure didn't turn you into a landsman. We won't be seeing many Urecari pirates where we're going this time."
"That would be fine with me, sir. We'll see other interesting places."
The captain motioned for him to take a small wooden stool. "This isn't a week-long voyage, like the other one. Tell me why I should let you join my crew."
"Because I'm a good sailor and a hard worker. I understand currents, I know how to weather storms, and I can catch the faintest breath of breeze in a dead calm."
"Impressive." A smile quirked Shay's lips. "Maybe you should be the Luminara's captain instead of me."
Criston wondered if he had bragged too much. "My father was a fisherman, sir. He died in a storm."
"Many fisherman die in storms, and we're bound to encounter plenty of storms ourselves, as well as things we can't even begin to imagine."
Criston nodded. "I'm ready for the storms, sir, and anxious to see what else the seas have to offer."
Shay rocked back in his chair. "Aren't you terrified of the unknown? Most people are."
"The unknown doesn't have to be frightening. There'll be wonders, too."
The captain chuckled. "I'd say that qualifies you to join the Luminara's crew. And, as I recall, you were the first to spot Fillok's plot as we approached Ouroussa, so I could certainly use you. But what does your family think? You'll be gone a whole year--ifihe voyage goes as planned. Your father's dead, you say. What about your mother? I can't remember from before--are you married? Any children?"
"I have a wife, and I have a mother. They both support my decision." Leaning forward on the stool, Criston put his elbows on his knees and spoke in an earnest voice. "When I was only thirteen, my father bought his own fishing boat. He'd worked for
most of his life as part of another man's crew, and he wanted to be a captain himself, to have something of his own. He went into a great deal of debt to have his own vessel, but I saw how happy it made him. He was on top of the world!" Criston glanced at the colorful shells, the naturalist drawings, the unrecognizable potted plant hanging from a hook near the latticed window of the cabin. "And one night the fishing boat vanished. It might have just been a storm, or it might have been the Leviathan.
"The loss of that boat left us nearly destitute. We had no way to pay back the loan, so I lied about my age and signed aboard other boats. I worked hard, I took care of my mother, and eventually--seven years later--I commissioned my own boat. When I told my mother what I intended to do, she didn't want me to follow in my father's footsteps. She didn't want me to be lost at sea."
"I doubt any mother does, young man."
"To save money, I did most of the work with my own hands. And now we'll sell the boat so that my wife and mother can live on the money while I'm gone. Then, when the Luminara returns, I'll buy an even bigger boat."
"Very ambitious."
"I can do it."
The captain opened a large logbook on his desk, dipped a quill in the inkwell, and handed it to Criston for his signature. "Welcome to my crew. We sail in six days." 
	While Criston went to the Luminara, Adrea and Ciarlo attended to business of their own. Though Calay was a strange place to them, Adrea wasn't afraid to ask questions, and she could be bold when she needed to. She talked to dockworkers; she stopped at taverns; she asked about captains who were without ships. She searched for men who might want to buy the Cindon.
Before departing to present himself to Captain Shay, Criston had taken a long slow walk around the deck of his boat, touching the rails, the Captain's Compass, the hatches. He ran his ringers along the sailcloth, tugged on the secure knots, as if saying goodbye. Adrea knew how much effort and love he had put into this boat, how he had spent his nights sanding the hull, pounding in caulking ropes, lacquering surfaces exposed to the weather. But sailing with the Luminara meant even more to him. She had no doubt in her mind that he would secure a position on the crew, and if he did he would have to sell the boat.
After Adrea and Ciarlo had made many inquiries, three men came to see the Cindon. One was a drunkard, and Adrea doubted he had enough money to buy a sail, much less a boat. He poked around and made insulting comments, gave a rude scowl to Ciarlo, as though to convince himself that he didn't really want a boat that he couldn't afford anyway.
The next was a gaunt older man with long hair and a full beard. He had been a sailor in his youth, but when his older brother died, he'd been forced to stay home and manage the family pottery shop. Now his own sons were old enough to do the work, and the old man still felt the call of the sea; he wanted a boat of his own, but he could not afford Adrea's terms.
The third man was a rich merchant searching for an investment. She haggled enthusiastically to reach an agreement with him; then she talked him into business terms with the wistful old sailor. The sailor would be the captain, and the merchant would take a share of the profits. As part of the deal, Adrea insisted that the old sailor grant her and Ciarlo passage back to Windcatch--if Criston was accepted as part of Captain Shay's crew. She had all the details taken care of. The high selling price further eased the sting of having to surrender the boat. Her brother was quite pleased with the result.
When Criston rushed back to the Cindon's slip in the marina, he was grinning, his boyish face extraordinarily handsome. Adrea kissed him before he could even tell her his news. "I knew the captain would accept you."
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "And how did you know? Even I wasn't sure."
"I knew, because you belong there." 
	17
	Olabar Palace
	The death of Istar so devastated Zarif Orara that he had little grief to spare when word arrived about the burning of Ishalem. The soldan-shah's galley had arrived in port, bringing the terrible news. In the streets of Olabar, the people shouted their fury at the Aidenists and flocked to the churches to hear the sikara priestesses demanding retribution.
Omra did not feel that passion, though. He could think of nothing beyond the loss of his wife.
He had declared a week of mourning in the city and spent a full day in silent vigil at his wife's side, holding conversations with her that she could not hear. Istar's body had been washed, perfumed, and wound in Yuarej silk dyed orange, her favorite color. The small half-formed baby was cradled in her arms, also wrapped in silks.
With the heat of the season, the funeral could not wait. The young sikara Fyiri--who had previously blessed the pregnancy--completed the rites, lighting the pyre that rapidly consumed Istar's lovely body. Omra was barely able to see through the tears in his eyes, but when the smoke finally cleared
and nothing remained of her but ashes, he had dried his eyes and emptied his heart
Barely settled in back at the palace, Soldan-Shah Imir called an immediate war council. He summoned representatives from the soldanates of Missinia, Yuarej, Inner and Outer Wahilir, and Abilan. Ur-Sikara Lukai spoke for the church, her words sharp and strident, for this was to be a religious war (or so she insisted). The merchant families demanded to know what was to become of them if they could no longer trade in Tierran goods.
As the heir to the soldan-shah, Omra was required to participate in the intense discussions, but his thoughts were obscured by the veil of his grief and the sharp pain of his loss. He saw the palace around him, the city of Olabar, the whole world, in a different light. Details were sharp, but the colors had faded.
The zarif dutifully sat by his father's side at the long table, saying nothing even as voices were raised, shouts layered upon shouts. He gave the appearance of listening to the debate, his expression cold, but he could not bring himself to care. When the spokesman for Outer Wahilir demanded that a large portion of the treasury be diverted to his soldanate, since a new Uraban fleet must be built there (and because the murder of city-leader Fillok by the Tierran captain had not yet been avenged), the representatives of the other soldanates nearly came to blows. Still, Omra did not rise from his seat.
His father looked at him, growing more and more disturbed. Finally, Imir rose and bellowed, "Leave! All of you. I must speak with Zarif Omra."
The delegates were shocked, and an indignant Ur-Sikara Lukai insisted on staying, but the soldan-shah shooed them all out of the room. Preoccupied with their own worries, none of them had noticed any difference in Omra's demeanor.
When they were alone, Imir resumed his seat, folded his
ringed fingers together, and spoke sternly to his son. "You are my heir. You will be the next soldan-shah. Do these matters bore you?"
For Omra, even raising his head felt like lifting a great weight. "Few matters interest me. My wife is dead."
"So get another wife. Countless women would be happy to marry you. You should have had more than one wife by now anyway--then you wouldn't be moping around so uselessly."
His father's callousness ignited a flicker of anger in Omra's chest. "I said, my wife is dead. My son is dead."
"It is a sad fact of life, my son, but women die in childbirth all the time, just as men die in battle. You can have more sons, but only if you have more wives. Remember the story of Urec and Fashia. It is your obligation."
Omra's throat was dry. Yes, it was his obligation. As the son of the soldan-shah, he had many obligations.
Although Urec's wife Fashia had accompanied him on his voyage from Terravitae, she was unable to conceive a child. Since he was the son of Ondun, Fashia insisted that Urec take other wives so that he could spread his family when they reached the new world. But Fashia did not surrender her role as his first wife.
When his exploration ship landed on a new continent and Urec tried to befriend the original Urabans, those natives did not know Ondun, and they received the newcomers with violence. They tried to murder all the people on the ship, and Urec's sailors fought back. After much killing on both sides, the surviving natives finally accepted the word of Ondun and made peace.
Because there were so many more women than men after the slaughter, Fashia suggested that all of Urec's surviving crewmen also be allowed to take more than one wife, provided that the women were willing and provided that the men could care for
their wives. Only that way could they populate the land that Ondun had promised.
But Zarif Omra could not think of other women. His thoughts were haunted by memories of Istar whispering in his ear, Istar coming to watch him hold court during his father's absence, Istar braiding her hair. She had loved Omra not because of the power and wealth he embodied, but because of who he was. All the reasons for taking multiple wives seemed cold and political to him, having little to do with love.
And yet he would be the next soldan-shah. Obligations... 
	His father was actually in a jovial mood. Imir had declared a halt to further council meetings, much to the consternation of the other participants, insisting that he needed to take care of other matters first. Omra suspected that his father was glad to apply himself to a problem with a real and immediate resolution.
Though Omra could hear whispers and the rustle of clothing in the tiled corridor outside his opulent private quarters, the soldan-shah sat on a cushion in front of him, holding a private conversation with him. "I have not told you this, Omra, but your mother suffered two miscarriages as well. I commiserate with the pain of your loss. But eventually Lithio gave birth to you--and you were definitely worth waiting for."
Imir lounged back. "Your mother was my best choice when I was young, and she is still very special to me, though I haven't seen her in years. All three of my wives are special to me. Asha, who is so sweet and beautiful... Villiki, who knows so much about court politics that she could have been a soldan-shah herself. She has already spoken to me twice since I've returned, stating that because of your grief you are no longer fit to be zarif and that our son Tukar should take the role instead."
Omra made a scoffing noise. "She always speaks like that."
His father continued, as if he didn't want to lose track. "You must make similar choices, my son. Hundreds of women across Uraba would claw one another's eyes out to be your next wife."
"I don't want women who would claw one another's eyes out to have me."
"You have a point--that may not be the best criterion. But if you choose several wives, one of them may make you as happy as Istar did. I know you don't think that now, but trust me, when you've been with enough of them, most women are very much the same."
The soldan-shah clapped his hands, and the hangings stirred with a clicking rush of beads. Two silent guards ushered in a petite young woman followed by three smiling and self-satisfied looking officials. The young woman had large brown eyes, perfect skin, and elegant dark hair. As she walked, numerous gold bangles, necklaces, anklets, and bracelets jingled. She wore a rainbow of silks, scarves, and wraps dyed the brightest colors imaginable, and her face was exquisitely painted with makeup as if she were a living work of art. She demurely averted her eyes.
Soldan-Shah Imir stood from his cushion. "I've taken the liberty of choosing someone I believe should be your next wife. When you married Istar, you ruffled a few feathers by choosing a merchant's daughter rather than a child of a noble family. This lovely child will quiet the lingering ill will and strengthen the bonds among the soldanates."
"Does she have a name?" Omra asked sourly.
"Oh, yes, of course. This is Cliaparia, only daughter of Soldan Andouk in Yuarej." Imir lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've owed him a favor for a long time."
Cliaparia extended her hands to her sides and slowly pirouetted so that her silken garments fluttered about her like butterfly wings.
"See-- she is intelligent. She is beautiful. She is talented in music. And most of all, she wants to please you. What more could a man want?"
"Indeed," Omra said, feeling nothing. "What more could a man want?"
Taking that as acceptance, the soldan-shah clapped his hands again, and a sikara rushed in. "Good, we can marry you right now." He seemed afraid Omra would change his mind. "Later, we will announce a joyous reception. The people will be happy for some cause to celebrate after all the recent dire news."
Omra remembered everything he had been taught, the purpose behind all his training, and he saw how he had withdrawn from the world. In his mind, he could imagine Istar scolding him for allowing his sorrow to weaken Uraba. He could not do that. "As you command, Father."
The sikara held a gilded scroll containing passages from Urec's Log along with the wedding ritual. Soldan-Shah Imir stood proudly next to Omra and pulled Cliaparia closer to his son. "Let's have this over with, so we can get on with our work." 
	18
	In Darkness
	Even in his blackest pain-filled dreams, Hannes was surrounded by fire. He lay in delirium, wrapped in ointment-soaked bandages that felt like chains. His skin burned, his eyes burned, his lungs burned. He was lost in the depths of nightmares and memories. But he found no refuge in his past; he was trapped there, as well. He'd been a young boy when his mother abandoned him. She hadn't particularly cared for Hannes and had despised his
father, a man named Bartho, who was quick to anger but slow to consider consequences. Hannes remembered little about his mother except for her shrill voice, her tears, and how often she had struck him (usually after Bartho had beaten her). When she was no longer around, Bartho simply turned to Hannes as the next convenient target.
The man's attitude toward his son was not so much hatred as indifference. Bartho was not the type to think even two days into the future; he did not plan how he might better his situation, how he might find another wife who could raise Hannes or even bring in more food or income. Bartho lived each day and complained about each day, letting himself drift like a rudderless boat rather than trying to steer away from jagged rocks.
In their small dockside home in the Butchers' District of Calay, the wind from the tanneries brought a constant stench and the sounds of terrified livestock being slaughtered. Hannes and his father rarely had enough money for food, yet Bartho could always afford a jug of grain beer or occasionally something stronger. Fortunately, when he drank, Bartho did not become more violent, simply more lethargic. When the man finally fell asleep grumbling, Hannes could slip out of the house and make his way through the streets.
After one particularly severe beating, the boy had run away, vowing never to return. He'd done the same thing several times previously, but always came crawling back a few days later. Bartho never seemed to notice that he'd been gone. This time, though, instead of trying to beg for scraps from the food vendor stalls or earn a few coins mucking out the offal trenches at the slaughterhouse or using buckets to splash away the blood on the ground, Hannes took refuge in an Aidenist kirk.
He had always found the architecture to be graceful and beautiful, the pictures intriguing: proud Aiden on his Arkship with
his crew, the first landing at Ishalem, even a painting of the mysterious old Traveler, who was Aiden in his later years wandering the world. As a dirty young boy, unlettered and quiet, Hannes sat in the back of the kirk and listened to the presters.
One compassionate young prester named Baine noticed Hannes and took him under his wing. Prester Baine taught the boy how to read by using the Scriptures, and also taught Hannes how to pray. During prayers, the boy silently cast his words out, hoping Ondun would hear him from where He had gone to create other worlds... or he prayed to the spirit of Aiden, who might still be alive, wandering as the Traveler. Prester Baine did not know what the boy prayed T-' With his eyes screwed shut and lips moving faintly to the words that he shouted inside his head, Hannes had prayed for revenge, begging for something terrible to happen to his father.
One day his prayers were answered. A bull about to be slaughtered broke loose from its handlers and gored Bartho, ripping open his stomach. Men in the Butchers' District added gruesome details as they told and retold the story, how Bartho had stared down at his intestines spilling out of the gash, trying to hold them in place, the other animals going wild, already terrified from the smell of death around them. Bartho had tripped on his own entrails, and the animals had trampled him. According to one story, Bartho's body had been so broken and mangled that one of the disreputable butchers threw it into a rendering bin, where the man had later been made into tallow.
Certain that Ondun had performed a miracle, Hannes gave his life to the church from that day forward. He declared to Prester Baine that he wanted to be a prester and showed a strong devotion to the rituals and sacraments. He read the entire Book of Aiden, and studied the many stories of the Traveler. Then he read the Book of Aiden again. And again.
Once Hannes was formally ordained in the Aidenist church, Prester Baine took him aside. "I have a great plan for you, Hannes. This is an assignment that I would trust to few others."
"I will do my best." Hannes did not even ask for details. "I swear on my life, for the memory of Aiden and the glory of Ondun, that I will do as you ask."
Baine handed him a copy of Urec's Log, and Hannes jerked his fingers back, as if the volume contained pestilence. "Do you want me to burn this? It is blasphemy."
"It is information," Baine corrected. "I don't want you to burn it. I want you to read it. Study it."
"No!"
Baine looked angry. "Did you not just swear that you would do as I asked? Did you not vow before Ondun?"
Hannes flushed, ashamed that he had been so quick to break his oath. "Perhaps... if you explained to me why."
"Is your vow conditional upon my reasons?" Baine had often challenged him with such conundrums.
"I will obey. You have my promise." Hannes drew a ragged breath. "But will I not be damned forever if I read this?"
Now Baine smiled. "Though these may be lies, you will not be tainted, so long as you don't believe what you read. Think of it as strategy. Know your enemy, so that you can see weaknesses, since the enemy is too blind to see his own flaws. Learn from Urec's Log. Tell me what you find in these writings." The redheaded prester smiled, tapping the cover of the thick book. "This should strengthen your faith, not challenge it."
And Hannes did exactly as he swore to do. He learned the Uraban language. He read Urec's Log with a scornful and skeptical eye. He noted so many errors and contradictions in the passages that he found the whole book laughable. How could the
ignorant fools in the Urecari church believe such nonsense? They must either be gullible or stupid.
Years later, when Baine was elected prester-marshall of the Aidenist church, he had secretly dispatched Hannes to Ishalem. Hannes at first considered this his reward, the most important posting in the church. But rather than becoming the prester assigned to the central kirk in the shadow of the holy Arkship, he was told to live among the Urecari, to disguise himself, to learn their ways, and to watch them.
"Consider yourself a spy for God," said Prester-Marshall Baine. "Your discoveries will be vital to the church of Aiden."
And Hannes did, letting himself be swallowed up in their foreign culture. He spoke their language with barely an accent. Since Ishalem had many pilgrims from all the scattered soldanates of Uraba, no one gave him a second glance
Thrashing now in his delirious dreams, the languages combined in confusion. He dreamed of the fire in the church, and he remembered grasping the sacred amulet--what had happened to it? Like a punishment from Ondun, he felt the flames pour over him, smelled the stinking canal whose waters had provided little relief.
And now, as he thrashed, passing in and out of consciousness, he babbled hateful memorized verses from Urec's Log. As if from a great distance, he felt people tending him. He heard a woman's voice, speaking Uraban. Trying to escape his dreams, Hannes struggled toward consciousness, but he awakened only to pain.
So he released himself and plunged back into darkness.
19 
	Calay, Saedran District
	Now that he had been accepted as a chartsman, Aldo was eager to see the world. He dreamed of visiting exotic places, of voyaging farther than anyone else so he could add details to the Mappa Mundi--accurate details, unlike the embarrassing map he had bought from Yal Dolicar.
He knew the mathematics of navigation and how to recognize the stars in every known constellation. He understood the currents in the Oceansea and the prevailing winds from the frozen seas of the far north down to the isthmus of Ishalem and all the way past far Lahjar, where the heat and reefs blocked further passage.
A chartsman could tell his captain to set a course in a seemingly nonsensical direction until the ship caught a swift current or encountered favorable winds; a chartsman could guide them safely away from reefs or shoals, maelstroms, or doldrums. Saedrans allowed none of their maps to be published or disseminated outside of their own people, and only the most foolhardy or overconfident captains would sail far from the coastline without a chartsman.
As part of Aldo's education, he had studied the numerous tales of the Traveler, descriptions of journeys made by a nearly immortal man. The Aidenists said that the Traveler was Aiden himself, who had struck out on his own to explore unknown lands after establishing himself in Tierra. For their own part, the Urabans claimed that Urec was the Traveler. Rumored sightings of the Traveler had continued from one generation to the next, and villagers always gave hospitality to wandering hermits,
treating them kindly because any one of them might be the Traveler himself.
According to tradition, the Traveler kept notes about the places he'd been and things he'd seen, and whenever he filled a volume of writings, the old man gave it to the first person he encountered. Thousands of these logbooks had appeared in villages and Aidenist kirks across Tierra.
Looking at the documents objectively, Aldo could see that the handwriting varied wildly from volume to volume, and it seemed clear to him that most of the books were hoaxes written by tricksters--like Yal Dolicar, he supposed--but perhaps some I of them were true. Regardless, the descriptions of distant lands were vivid and detailed, and might contain accurate information. Until verified, however, the data could not be permanently painted into the Saedran Mappa Mundi.
While Aldo pored over the written tales in his continuing daily studies, Sen Leo entered the temple vault and was pleased to find the young man so diligently working. "The Luminara is about to sail, and we have chosen our chartsman to join the expedition."
Aldo's heart leaped as a giddy yet unrealistic hope ran through his head. What if, despite his youth and inexperience, he had been selected to voyage to those lands unknown, to accompany Captain Shay and crew, far out on the Oceansea?
"Sen Nikol na-Fenda is gathering his materials even now."
Aldo was crestfallen, though he tried not to show it.
"Sen Nikol is a very knowledgeable and talented chartsman. He is also objective, and his observations will be accurate. The Mappa Mundi requires accuracy above all things. When the Luminara returns in a year, our mission might be complete." Sen Leo sounded like an excited boy; he had spent his entire life dreaming about the expansion of knowledge. "We may finally possess a map of the whole world."
"Someday I hope to see it with my own eyes," Aldo said.
Sen Leo pulled out several thick volumes from the temple's bookshelves, setting them down with a heavy thump on the table. "That is what we all hope--but you have more studying to do before we can turn you loose on the world." He tapped the hard leather cover of another log of the Traveler. "You must learn what we already know before you dream of discovering something new." 
	20
	The Luminara
	After the Luminara was fully rigged and loaded, Criston Vora stood on the dock in Shipbuilders' Bay, not quite ready to board. Crowds had gathered for the launch of the magnificent threemasted carrack. Griston saw King Korastine himself standing with Princess Anjine and Prester-Marshall Baine, who had blessed the ship and its historic quest.
Jerard, the bearded old ship's prester assigned to the Luminara had come aboard after the dawn services, bearing his holy books, sacramental vestments, and relics. Behind him came an intense man about thirty years of age, who hurried past them and up the gangplank to the deck. He had short dark brown hair and was clad in Saedran clothing; he carried several intricate and ornate navigational instruments in his arms, refusing to let a porter bear them.
Criston drank in the noises of the city, the smells of people, the play of boats in the numerous bays--but he was focused on Adrea. His fellow crewmen hurried up the boarding ramp with bundles of clothes to last them during the year-long voyage.
With his back to the ship, he held Adrea, not wanting to let
go, his arms wrapped around her like anchor ropes. "I'll think of you every day. I will write letters to you."
She laughed. "How do you expect me to get your letters if you've sailed beyond the edge of the world?"
"I'll throw them overboard in bottles, and the currents will take them to you." Griston had no doubt that sympathetic magic--the strands that connected all things in Ondun's creation--would be strong enough. "Let me have a lock of your hair. If I put a strand in with each letter, it'll be drawn back where it belongs."
Adrea separated out a small bunch of her golden-brown hair, and he used his knife to cut it off, leaving a ragged, prominent missing patch. Criston lovingly twisted the strands, then tucked the lock into his pocket. "We'll be like a Captain's Compass, bound together. The currents of the sea will feel the magic and bring the bottles back to Windcatch."
"It's a pretty thought... pretty enough to believe in." She toyed with the gap in her hair. "Now every time I see myself in a looking glass, I'll be reminded that part of me is with you."
Her brother limped forward, extending his hand. "I'll take care of everybody while you're gone."
Criston ignored the younger man's hand and gave him a sturdy hug. "You'd better. Don't just sleep all the time!"
The ship's bell tolled, and the Luminara's crew manned their stations. First Mate Willin shouted orders, and Captain Shay look his place at the prow, wearing full colors and fine garments, hat in hand against his chest; a broad white plume from an exotic bird waved jauntily in the breeze.
Criston refused to release Adrea. "One more kiss." He touched his lips to hers and lingered there. This kiss would have to last a year. When he finally let go, he felt his knees weaken, as though he had suddenly lost his sea legs.
"Goodbye, my love," she said.
He tried to answer her, but the words caught in his throat. He hurried up the gangplank, the last man aboard. Sailors loosed the hawsers and pulled the plank back onto the deck.
On the docks, Prester-Marshall Baine raised his hands and intoned, "May the Compass guide you." The crowd of onlookers set up a loud cheer. King Korastine lifted his hands and called, "Ondun watches us all!"
Heaving on pulleys, the men raised the yardarms to unfurl the sails, and the sheets grew taut. Slowly, the Luminara eased away from dockside, drifted into the main channel, and rolled out of Calay Harbor on the departing tide.
Criston stood by the rail, his eyes never leaving Adrea's as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The first mate clapped him on the shoulder, startling him. "We've all left someone behind, sailor. Get to work!"
Abashed, he ran toward his station, grabbing a rope and helping to pull and set a sail. He turned away from the crowded city to face the bowsprit, looking out to sea. 
	Once past the lighthouses at the mouth of the harbor, the Luminara headed due east in open water. Captain Shay set course for Soeland, the group of islands that formed the most distant reach of Tierra, where they would take on whale oil and a few last provisions. The chartsman could have headed directly into the unknown, but Soeland was like a stepping-stone, the farthest point explored by Tierrans.
Captain Shay took meticulous notes of their speed, the winds, the color of the water. Though numerous ships had plied these waters between Calay and the Soeland islands, he began the voyage by testing his own powers of observation. He dropped lines overboard tied to weighted cylinders with tallow on the ends that
sank to the bottom. He recorded the depth to the bottom and the composition of the seabed--sand, clay, crushed seashells, pebbles.
He asked Criston if he might like to help with some of the naturalist activities. "Most of my sailors do not have the abundance of curiosity you do, Mr. Vora," Shay said. "Not even First Mate Willin. I think I should make use of your skills." The young man jumped at the chance.
The Saedran chartsman, on the other hand, simply watched the activities around him, keeping himself separate. Sen Nikol na-Fenda stood at the side of the vessel, gazing at the waves as though the reflected sunlight sent him secret messages. Other than his ornate navigation instruments, Sen Nikol carried no charts, no maps, no logbooks.
Criston could not figure out what fascinated the Saedran so. When Criston wasn't occupied in holystoning the deck and washing down the planks with buckets of seawater, he struck up a conversation with the man. "Shouldn't you keep track of this voyage? Why aren't you making records?"
Sen Nikol regarded Criston with heavy-lidded eyes. "I am keeping records. I remember every detail." Then he turned to look out at the waves again.
Over the next few days, Criston learned that until recently Sen Nikol had a fairly lucrative career guiding ships down past Fshalem to the distant coastal cities of Khenara and Tener, but he had seen them as mere destinations, not wonders.
"Those routes are closed to us after the burning of Ishalem, so my expertise is no longer needed," Sen Nikol said. "Perhaps when the Luminara returns in a year, the conflict will be resolved and trade restored between Tierra and Uraba. Then I will have my old job back."
"You expect the conflict to be resolved that quickly?" From
what Criston had heard, he was sure the bloodshed would last for generations.
The Saedran shrugged, speaking as though he were explaining a simple concept to a child in school. "In the long run, the demands of commerce will outweigh the demands of religion. Both continents need the trade, so the king and the soldan-shah will find some compromise. And then the world will go back to the way it was."
Criston didn't believe it. "But you are thinking logically."
Sen Nikol shrugged. "Yes, yes I am." 
	Soeland Reach was called the "Thousand Islands," though Captain Shay's maps showed no more than eighteen named patches of rocky land, some of them barely large enough to support colonies of migratory birds. The hardy Soelanders were an isolated and independent people, but they were also devout Aidenists and called themselves Tierrans.
The Luminara wove a course through the clustered islands in a procession from one small harbor to another, so that the people in the bleak, windy fishing villages could watch, wave, and remember them. They had never seen such a vessel before. Most Soelanders had never heard of Prester-Marshall Baine's revelation and were unaware of the Luminara!% mission. Many of them apparently didn't know (or didn't care) about the burning of Ishalem, which seemed like a distant tragedy to them.
The Soeland destrar, Tavishel, did not think of himself as royalty. Although the man lived in a large blocky house in Far port, the capital of the innermost island, he still sailed his own large fishing boat and raised his children to hard work; he had no patience for pampering. As destrar, Tavishel did not tax his people any more than was absolutely necessary, proclaiming that their lives were already hard enough. They didn't need to
freeze and sweat, he said, just so the nobles in Calay could buy luxury items.
The Luminara pulled close to shore at Farport and dropped anchor, since the small docks could not accommodate such a large ship. The anchor--cast in the shape of two joined Aidenist fishhooks--sank to the bottom and caught hold.
Captain Shay, Sen Nikol, Criston, and four burly sailors took one of the two ship's boats over to the docks, to haggle with a local shipper for a dozen casks of whale oil. When they agreed on a price, a flatboat was dispatched to the Luminara, where sailors used a block and tackle to lift the barrels up to the deck, then stored them below in the holds.
The Saedran chartsman sought out local fishermen as they repaired their nets and patched the hulls of overturned dinghies and pressed them for details about the islands, the depths of channels, the preferred routes. Criston was surprised to see that not even the chartsman knew much about the outer Soeland islands. Some of the passages, while adequate for shallow-draft fishing boats, would make a vessel the size of the Luminara run aground.
After returning to his cabin and weighing anchor again to set off, Captain Shay spread out his maps and charts, studied drawings of the known islands, and plotted his course to the edge of I he windswept archipelago.
For the next two days, as the ship passed through safe channels, the islands became more rugged. Criston noted Sen Nikol studying the coastlines as they passed, memorizing everything he observed.
Nobody lived on the outermost islands; they were simply rook cries filled with squawking gulls, and the immense racket carried across the waves. The sheer cliffs were white and beige, streaked with ochre. Guano ships anchored close to the cliff, while island
ers went ashore with shovels and pickaxes to harvest the layers of stinking fertilizer, which was transported in sluggish barges to Calay. With grim pride and not a hint of humor, Soelanders claimed their main exports were whale oil, salted fish, and the highest-quality shit in Tierra.
Though this was the last land they would see for a long while, the stench was so terrific that Captain Shay ordered the Luminara to steer clear, and the carrack sailed past the boats anchored near the guano-encrusted islands, leaving the filthy workers to stare at them without waving.
A day later, out on the open sea, they did encounter a whaling ship. After hailing them, Captain Shay pulled alongside the long and sturdy vessel, and the other captain came aboard, marveling at the ornate complexity of the exploration ship. Shay told the whaler's captain of their historic mission, and the other man was astonished by the audacity of the Luminara's quest.
"The weather gets worse the farther out you go," the whaler captain warned. His face was weathered and windblown, with craggy eyebrows that now drew together. "You don't belong out there." He pointed to some undefined point westward. "Treacherous currents, whirlpools that will suck down even a ship like this, sea serpents -- and the Leviathan. Nobody has ever sailed beyond and returned."
"We will," Captain Shay said with aloof confidence. "This is the finest ship Tierra has ever built. I've already seen most of the fearsome things the sea can throw at me."
"Suit yourself." The whaler captain shrugged. "But I warned you. I warned all of you." He climbed back aboard his ship, and the two vessels separated. The whaler headed back toward the islands, while the Luminara, all sails set, cruised off across the open waters, leaving the known world behind.
21 
	King Korastine's Castle
	Something had to be done about Ishalem.
Anjine sat with her father, listening in on the private tower room sessions with Prester-Marshall Baine and Sen Leo naHadra. King Korastine consulted his small cadre of advisers when he had difficult decisions to make. As he rested bony elbows on bony knees beneath his gray robe, Sen Leo said, "We cannot leave the city in ashes."
Baine added, "Do we let the wound fester, or do we help it heal?"
The windows had been thrown open so the fresh breeze could circulate around the room, and a pool of bright sunlight warmed the rugs covering the wooden floor. A buffet of cold beef, fresh bread, pastries, cheeses, and red apples had been spread out in a casual feast, and the men picked at the lunch as they talked. They drank mugs of fresh-pressed cider.
Korastine sliced off a chunk of beef, put it on his plate, then used the same knife to cut and core his apple, though he showed little appetite. "Are you sure the wound isn't already mortal?"
"We must make the gesture, Majesty," Baine said. He quoted from the Book of Aiden: '"It is better to fix than to break, better to stitch than to tear, better to caress than to strike, better to build than to knock down.' We should return to Ishalem, bring a reconstruction crew of carpenters, stonemasons, farmers. We cannot replace, cannot forget, but we can rebuild."
Anjine's father looked very tired. "Ishalem will never be the same."
"No, it will not," the prester-marshall agreed, showing some of the zeal that had so inspired his followers, "but what we propose will not only benefit the Aidenists, it will show the Urecari our good intentions. Maybe we can avert a war after all."
Since seeing Ishalem on fire, Anjine felt as though a large part of her childhood had gone up in smoke. She had always thought Tierra would be the same when she was queen as it had been for her father, and for King Kiracle before him, but in a single year she had seen her mother die, Ishalem burn, and the holy Ark ship destroyed. Tierra and Uraba were poised to collide in a war that might not end until one continent or the other was utterly devastated. Her life was no longer certain, and her instruction in statecraft was no longer an esoteric exercise.
Prester-Marshall Baine was relaxed next to the old Saedran scholar. The two were obviously friends, not religious rivals; Aidenists had long ago given up trying to find converts amongst the Saedrans, and the Saedrans themselves never proselytized.
"But how can we rebuild Ishalem?" Sen Leo sounded quite pragmatic, as though the decision had already been made. "Ishalem has few forests. All the trees in the surrounding hills were cut down long ago. Our crew will have to bring everything with them." He ticked off a list on his fingers. "Tools, workers, materials, food. We can order a raft of logs straight from Iboria, commission bricks and rope from Erietta. With ashes, lime, and sand we can make mortar."
Though Anjine could not forget the images of the city in flames, her imagination gave her other visions: new homes built on the charred ground, pilings installed in the waters, new docks erected... and a rebuilt primary kirk to take the place of the one that had burned.
A seemingly small event could have tremendous consequences;
a pebble could start an avalanche... a spark could start a fire. Nothing was certain.
Anjine recalled the story of how Korastine himself had unexpectedly come to the throne. King Kiracle, her grandfather, had loved to ride his horses, and while visiting Erietta he had gone out on an impulsive ride, ignoring the dark thunderclouds. When Kiracle had stopped on a hilltop to survey the reach, a bolt of lightning struck him. The horse miraculously lived and bore the dead king back to the stables of the Erietta destrar. Thus, Korastine had come to the throne.
Anjine spoke up for the first time during the meeting. "Didn't Aiden write that the air smells freshest after a storm? His Ark ship may be gone, but the memory is still there, the truth is still there--in Ishalem. The spot is still there."
Sen Leo chuckled. "We have indeed been through a terrible storm."
Prester-Marshall Baine said, "Your daughter will be a wise queen one day, Majesty. Perhaps reigning over many new lands, if the Luminara's voyage is successful." He glanced at the intricate model mounted on a firm wooden shelf.
The perfect scale replica of the Luminara was held in this secure tower room--a detailed copy down to the last rigging rope and sailcloth, every piece made from counterpart materials on the ship herself so that it was connected by sympathetic magic. The wood of the model's hull had been cut from the same planks; the sails were swatches trimmed from larger sailcloth; the ropes were strands taken from the thick rigging ropes. Through careful observation of the model, Korastine's advisers would have some inkling as to what was happening to the actual ship. The model was a thing of beauty in itself.
Anjine knew all about chasing dreams. In Calay, with its mixture of cultures from the five reaches, as well as being the cen
ter of trade for exotic Uraban goods, her upbringing had been asparkle with myths and stories. Anjine had always seen them as possibilities. Sometimes, Mateo lured her away from her tutors and diplomatic teachers so the two of them could explore the city. "Practical learning instead of book learning," he'd told her with a grin. "A queen needs both."
Wanting to see the city as average people did, without anyone recognizing Anjine as the king's daughter, Mateo had scrounged a drab but comfortable outfit from one of the serving girls; a smudge of hearth soot on Anjine's left cheek and a yarn hat pulled down over her golden hair completed her transformation into a scamp. After Mateo picked suitable clothes for himself, the two appeared to be street urchins out running errands or causing mischief.
To amuse them, one of the washerwomen had spun tales of two lovable scamps, an orphaned boy and girl named Tycho and Tolli, who had all sorts of adventures: being shanghaied aboard Urecari ships, running afoul of pickpockets, discovering buried treasure along a riverbank, or rescuing children even less fortunate than themselves.
Whenever the two of them went out into the sunny streets of Calay, Mateo and Anjine took those names for themselves. Tycho and Tolli. It was a perfect disguise because, Anjine later realized, the washerwoman had modeled her stories after the two of them anyway.
She remembered their first secret outing so clearly. Jewelers called out their wares, offering abalone pearls of the darkest luster, web-fine golden chains said to be spun from undine hair, masculine pendants crafted of gold-plated sharks' teeth. Scruffy merchants offered pilgrims' badges from Ishalem, so that any worshipper could pretend to have made the journey to the holy city.
The disguises worked so well that most of the traders had chased them away, sure the two were thieves. Anjine sat down on a crate in an alley, wiping sweat from her brow and adjusting her yarn cap. She said with a sniff, "What I'm looking for won't be set out among all the other wares. If it existed, then everyone would know about it." "Oh? What are we looking for?"
"Aiden's Compass," she said in an awed whisper.
"That was lost centuries ago!"
"It was broken centuries ago. But Ondun created it to guide Aiden on his voyage. Do you really think it can't be fixed?" His brow furrowed. "If it could be fixed, wouldn't somebody have done it by now?"
b "Maybe it's just been hidden away, waiting for the right time. Maybe Aiden locked it away somewhere, left it for some later generation... like us." Though intrigued by the idea, Mateo remained skeptical. "Like Tycho and Tolli, you mean? And how do you expect to find it?" "By looking, of course. You can't expect to accomplish something difficult the first time you try. We'll just have to keep sneaking out of the castle and exploring." Mateo had completely agreed with her. Not the first time you try...
Now, bringing herself back to the discussion in the castle tower room, Anjine turned to Korastine. "You don't want to be known only as the king who reigned when the city burned, Father. If you rebuild Ishalem, you will become a legend." The king turned away, but not before she saw unshed tears sparkling in his eyes. He said, "Tierra will throw its resources into the holy city. I will command all destrars to send workers and materials to Ishalem. And to show how important this is,
Prester-Marshall Baine, you will lead the construction mission. Maybe Soldan-Shah Imir will see what we are doing and help us rebuild the city to the greater glory of Ondun, rather than continuing strife between the brothers." 
	22
	Calay, Saedran District
	Though he had already spent months studying volumes and maps in the Saedran libraries, Aldo still waited to be assigned his first mission. Whenever Aldo expressed impatience to go off to sea, the old scholar simply sent him back to the tomes. "Before a Saedran chartsman can leave home, he must build a perfect map of the known world in his mind."
When he wasn't studying books, Aldo took it upon himself to acquire knowledge in other ways. Down in the Merchants' District he watched arriving vessels tie up to docks and unload their cargoes to a flurry of eager merchants and curiosity seekers. Aldo studied the ships' profiles and forms, the length-to-beam ratios, the varying arrangements of rigging, the square-rigged or lateen-rigged sails, or a combination of both.
He talked to sailors returning to port, whether they were captains or regular seaman, pumping them for information. He became an astute observer of human expressions, watching how the men's eyes would light up or flicker away. He learned to distinguish when they were telling the truth from when they were deceiving their listeners. He did not forget how Yal Dolicar had duped him with his fake map. When he smelled the salt air, watched the shifting tides, and saw seabirds wheel
ing overhead, Aldo felt the invisible currents and tides of the Oceansea.
He waited with all the patience he could muster, longing for the day when Sen Leo would send him out on an exploration of his own. Finally, one morning the old scholar came to him in the underground temple vault with rolled-up hand-drawn blueprints. "I have a mission for you."
Aldo was diligently reading the last few books he had not yet memorized in the Saedran library. His face lit up, already imagining forgotten shores and exotic seaports.
"I am sending you inland," Sen Leo said. "I have work for you in the mountains of Corag." The scholar spread his drawings on the table, moving the open books aside. Aldo could not hide his crestfallen expression, but Sen Leo gruffly kept his attention on the matter at hand. He tapped the blueprints, which showed intricate gears and graduated metal arcs, angles and dials to be calibrated and set by the stars. "These are new navigation instruments for Saedran chartsmen. The workings are complex, and the manufacture must be precise. There is little tolerance for error."
He revealed another drawing, a set of gears, springs, and spinning counterweights. "This is a sealed navigation clock, vital for determining longitude. A variation and improvement on our other models. If our designs are followed properly, the clock will be accurate enough for a chartsman to pinpoint his position, latitude and longitude."
Aldo could not make sense of the designs, but Sen Leo dropped a bag of silver pieces next to the blueprints. "Sophisticated metalworkers in Corag Reach can make these instruments with the required accuracy. If you promise not to spend this money on another silly map of imaginary lands, I entrust you with this
mission to Corag Reach. See that these instruments are made precisely according to design." 
	Though he was disappointed that he would not be going off to sea--yet--Aldo turned his mind eastward, looking at the rivers, imagining the open lands of Tierra. For Aldo, the whole world, not just the sea, was unexplored territory. He resolved to fill his mind with sights of cliffs and crags, rather than islands and waves.
His mother helped him pack for the journey, while his younger brother and sister seemed more excited than he was. With his satchel in hand, Aldo followed his father to the shallow interior basin at the far end of the Butchers' District, into which one of the primary rivers emptied. There, upon locating a flat riverboat designed for hauling both cargo and passengers, Biento bargained with its bearlike captain, who smelled of cloves and sweat, booking passage for his son. Aldo said goodbye to his father and stepped aboard with his pack of clothes, the drawings Sen Leo had given him (rolled up and sealed inside a special locked cylinder), and carefully hidden coins to pay for the instruments.
Grinning, Aldo found a spot for himself on the wide deck. With all the space belowdecks reserved for cargo, the handful of passengers had to spend their time out in the open air or under fabric awnings. At this time of year, though, the weather was fine, and he didn't mind. When he was settled, he turned to wave farewell to his father; Biento stood on the dock, waving back.
The itinerant rivermen pledged loyalty to no particular destrar and claimed no individual reach as their own. They plied their trade up and down the rivers, always moving; their homes were their boats. The flatboat was broad and sturdy, its construction entirely different from the oceangoing vessels Aldo had studied.
A mast and sails could be set out to take advantage of a favorable breeze, or the muscular men could use long oars to row against the current. In shallow waters they could push the craft with long poles.
Every man wore a beard; all the women covered their heads with scarves that were dyed and embroidered in a riot of colors, and the women looked just as powerful as the men, bred for heavy labor.
Aldo stared at everything, drinking in details as the boat pushed off and began to make its way upstream. It did not take him long to notice that the rivermen laughed a great deal more, and over more trivial things, than Saedrans did. They broke into song for no reason whatsoever, and each riverman carried some sort of musical instrument, either a jangling tambourine, a raucous-sounding squeezebox, a shrill flute, or a fiddle. They played whenever they felt like it, whenever a tune struck them. They made no attempt to coordinate as a symphony, but the conflicting strains of music made a song all their own.
Over the next hour, Aldo watched Calay diminish into the distance, vanishing as the river curved around a line of hills. Never in his life had he been away from the great city, and now the open lands of Tierra swallowed him up.
After speaking with them, Aldo learned that the rivermen were bound by family ties. The barge captain was a man named Sazar, a leader of several interconnected clans. A bearlike dark bearded man with a gold ring in each ear, he called himself the "destrar of the River Reach." The big captain took Aldo under his wing, chatting with him during the slow voyage.
"We don't often get a Saedran chartsman on the river. Some would say you're going the wrong way." Sazar laughed. "My clan has mapped all the rivers and streams, the tributaries, the (ixbows and the mud shoals, just like you Saedrans know the way
of the oceans. If you tell me all your secrets of the sea, lad, I'll tell you the secrets of Tierra's rivers."
Aldo had seen the serpentine blue lines drawn on the Mappa Mundi, so he knew that Saedrans had already charted the inland rivers. "This is the first time I have ever left Calay. What makes you think I know any secrets of the world?" As a chartsman, he had sworn to keep their proprietary knowledge from falling into the hands of any outsider.
The burly river-destrar let out a booming laugh. "Because you're a Saedran. And Saedrans know everything." He lowered his voice and leaned forward. "Except how to lie. Lad, the truth is as plain as a mud smear on your face."
Destrar Sazar had his own violin, and he stood at the bow of the barge gazing upriver. He sawed his tunes--sometimes mournful and beautiful, other times reminiscent of a tortured cat. He launched into a deep-throated song, making up words that rarely rhymed, with a tune that did not match the music he played. Sazar sang about the wealth of the people of the River Reach, about mysterious stashes of treasure that the clans stored in uncharted swamps, caches of supplies that only a river man could find. Aldo didn't know whether to believe the tales, though, for Sazar sang with equal gusto about the beauty of their women, and so far Aldo had seen little evidence of that.
At night, the barge pulled into a calm oxbow; crewmen lit lamps around the barge, and food was served--cold smoked fish, beets, and a mush of overcooked greens. Aldo didn't care for the peculiar spices, but he ate and listened and watched.
Sitting alone under one of the awnings, he worked the intricate seal at the end of the watertight cylinder that held the blueprints. The lock was keyed to Saedran symbols and could be opened only by someone who understood the code. Aldo unrolled the drawings of the navigation devices and leaned forward to study
them by the light of a lantern, intent on grasping the secret workings. This would be a very complex task for even a highly skilled metalworker, but his brow furrowed as he tried to understand the design.
Though Aldo had studied numerous Saedran treatises on mathematics and mechanics, he could not fathom the reason for half of the gears and curves and angular measuring levers. He understood the Saedran notations marked on each gauge, but they didn't make sense to him. He traced with his ringer, imagined how the pieces fit together, which component did what.
With a start, he realized that the mechanism had many extraneous and needlessly complicated pieces--intentionally so. The added components served no purpose, except to confound anyone else who might try to copy the design. Now it all made sense: merely another way for the Saedrans to maintain their secrecy.
Aldo rolled the blueprints again and huddled under a blanket that Destrar Sazar had given him. Listening to the slow lap of the river, Aldo fell into a contented sleep. 
	' Three days later, the riverboat made its way into the highlands, lighting through narrower channels and swifter waters. They arrived at the outskirts of Corag Reach. The barge had stopped at river villages along the way, unloading cargo, dispatching passengers, taking on new items. An hour after daybreak, the barge pulled up to a wide wooden wharf that ran along the bank. Nine people stood waiting with their packs for passage back downstream to Calay.
Aldo rubbed his eyes and stretched. He looked past the landing to the stark and towering mountains beyond, a wilderness of black and white and gray, crowded crags that looked impassible.
"This is as far as the river can take you, lad," Sazar said. With a thick finger, he pointed past the landing to a dirt path
that wound through grassy meadows and up into the forbidding peaks. "From here on, you are on foot."
Thanking the riverman, Aldo shouldered his pack and stepped onto the wharf. Nobody else disembarked from the barge, so he would have no walking companions. Setting his feet upon the narrow path, he trudged away from the boat and the river. 
	23
	Uncharted Seas
	Once past the fringes of Soeland, the Luminara sailed along without seeing any sign of land. Criston, with his sharp eyes, took many shifts up in the lookout nest, gazing at the endless water in all directions, clouds scudding through the vast open sky overhead. For more than two weeks, the sea remained unbroken and unending.
Criston couldn't remember the last time he had seen a bird. This ship had voyaged much farther than any Tierran had ever sailed, and he could not imagine how much more distance they had yet to cover. Captain Shay anticipated a journey of one full year, and they had been gone from Calay barely a month.
All alone atop the mainmast, Criston had hours to let his thoughts wander, with Adrea prominent in his heart and mind. He wondered what she was doing now, whether she was thinking of him, how she and Ciarlo were managing without him. If he continued to think like that, he knew he would drive himself mad, so he concentrated on the waves, keeping watch... until his thoughts drifted back to Adrea again.
Other times, Criston helped Captain Shay with his experiments. An amateur naturalist, the captain kept dozens of pot
ted plants, herbs, and flowers that grew in baskets rocking back and forth as the ship swayed in heavy seas. Every day, the captain gave orders for the men to cast nets overboard and bring up the haul, dumping a variety of unusual fish onto the deck. Like a child playing a game of marbles, Shay would bend over the creatures, prodding with a toe or finger, sometimes using a stick if the fish looked particularly fierce. He sketched any unusual specimen in intricate detail. Some of the smaller oddities he preserved in jars; the rest of the catch he turned over to the cook, a portly man of few words named Orico, who added any fish that looked and smelled edible to the stewpot. He dumped buckets of offal over the stern, and sharks began to trail the Luminara, looking for a free meal.
Once, when Criston helped empty the bucket of guts and scales, the sharks suddenly scattered. A green-scaled sea serpent rose up, it's head as large as a cargo crate, to snatch a mouthful of chum, then dove under; its sinuous form rolled and curled in the wake for several long minutes until it finally vanished. The crewmen let out such a cry of alarm that Captain Shay rushed onto the deck, disappointed to have missed the spectacle. He insisted that Griston describe the serpent as best he could, then asked Sen Nikol na-Fenda to add more specific detail as he took notes for his journals.
Over the next two days, they sighted three more serpents, each with a distinctly different appearance. One red-and-copper specimen had spiky fins and long whiskers about its fanged mouth I ike the barbs of a catfish. A blue-and-silver one had a rounded, stubby head and a small vestigial dorsal fin, making the creature look like a very large earthworm. The third serpent was black with gold spots and two large frontal fins that extended to the sides like wings as it reared out of the water. All of them had I >lowholes, which they evacuated upon breaching the surface.
Though these monsters unsettled the crew, the sea serpents simply swam around the ship, more curious than ferocious. Captain Shay, intrigued, offered a gold coin to the next man who saw a new species of sea serpent
At sunset in calm seas, Criston assisted the captain inside his cabin. "Why are you so interested in drawing sea serpents?" he asked.
"When we return, I intend to publish a book. On this voyage, we'll see more wonders than we can possibly catalogue, but I have it in my mind to develop a naturalist's guide to sea monsters. If King Korastine launches more long voyages, such a book could be of great practical use to other captains."
"I never thought about that before." Criston scratched his chin. "But I agree. I'll definitely keep my eyes open for unusual specimens."
"Mr. Vora, you are possessed of a curiosity that I admire. Oh, the rest of my crew do their work and they do it well--I am, after all, a well-respected captain." His lips quirked in a smile. "But they don't see a fundamental difference between this voyage and any other long haul, except that their pay will be significantly higher when we get home."
As he talked, the captain sketched a fierce-looking spiny fish that had startled even the cook when the net was dumped onto the deck that afternoon. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. I'm glad to have someone I can rely on. We've had smooth sailing so far, but that won't last."
"We can trust our luck, sir."
"I'd rather be pragmatic. In an emergency, I've got to know how my crew will react. You never know..." The captain put his quill aside and stoppered the bottle of ink. "Ten years ago I faced a terrible storm when I was outbound from Erietta. The winds whipped up just as the sun went down, and I watched the clouds
charge in like stampeding horses. We tried to reef the sails in time, but the blast hit us. We could only hold on and wait for the skies to clear. My Saedran chartsman was thrown overboard. I lost twelve of my crew in that awful storm."
His gaze was distant. "I swear to you, Mr. Vora--in that storm, through the bursts of lightning, sheeting rain, and explosions of spray, I saw something. I saw something. A large bearded man in a boat like a chariot being drawn by two sea monsters. It was Holyjoron, I know it. I'll believe that to my dying day."
The captain took a breath. "By the time the storm cleared, we'd been blown so far off course we had no way of knowing where we were. In the distance I saw low clouds that must have been strange coastlines, uncharted islands... but our ship could barely limp along. We had lost many of our supplies. We headed due east, hoping we'd eventually hit the Tierran coastline.
"I brought my men home, which is what a captain should do. But I've never stopped wondering what might have been on ihose shores I glimpsed. Could it have been Terravitae? Were we so close to Holyjoron's land that if I had just sailed a little far I her..." He shook his head.
"And that's why you wanted to captain the Luminara? That's why you were chosen?" Criston asked.
Captain Shay chuckled, embarrassed. "That--and for more pragmatic reasons. After our last little misadventure at ()uroussa, King Korastine wanted me to leave Tierra. I don't suppose it matters anymore, but before the signing of the Edict, In: had already made up his mind to send me away... to the edge < >! the world if necessary." 
	"I he Luminara's Aidenist priest, Prester Jerard, performed services each dawn, calling the men on deck and raising his voice in prayer as the sun rose. Other than that, the prester had very few
duties. Busy with their own chores, the sailors were polite and respectful to him, but tended to avoid the religious man.
Prester Jerard was far friendlier, however, than the aloof Saedran chartsman who stared at the sea day after day. Whenever he had the opportunity, Criston sat with the soft-spoken prester. The only thing the humble and unassuming man was vain about (though Griston was sure he would deny it) was his long, flowing beard, which Jerard claimed not to have cut in more than nine years.
Jerard was earnest about his faith, unlike the village priest in Windcatch, Prester Fennan, who merely read from the scriptures and followed the service without any particular imagination or interest. Jerard, on the other hand, seemed genuinely enthusiastic about his beliefs--not fanatical, but confident.
Like all presters, Jerard wore a simple fishhook pendant at his neck. To strike up a conversation, Criston asked him about it, and the old prester happily recited the familiar story of the founding of the Aidenist church.
"Sapier was the grandson of Aiden, the founder of our church. Long after Aiden departed to become the Traveler, young Sapier wanted to build his own ship and find his way home to Terravitae, so he could tell Holy Joron what had happened to his brothers, Aiden and Urec. Sapier's ship sailed for months, far beyond any charts, and the crew grew frightened. When they began to run out of food and water, they mutinied and threw Sapier overboard, then sailed off, heading back home.
"Stranded in the water, Sapier had only a few pieces of discarded wood, a fishhook, and a line. He floated for days in the great emptiness. He prayed for Ondun's guidance, hoped for rescue, but a great sea serpent came for him. Instead of giving up, Sapier threw out the fishhook, which caught on one of the
monster's scales. Stung, the sea serpent pulled Sapier along at a furious pace.
"Astonished, he arrived back at Tierra even before his treacherous shipmates did, and when the cowardly sailors told the lie that Aiden's grandson had been eaten by a giant monster, Sapier came forward to confront them. Seeing him alive, the mutineers were stricken and ashamed. Some of them threw themselves into the sea to drown, and others were driven out of Tierra.
"But during his long privation at sea, Sapier had a revelation that became the basis for the church of Aiden." Jerard held up the pendant. "Sapier said, 'This fishhook and line are like I my faith that pulls me through life and secures me to the truth.' Thus the fishhook became the symbol of the church."
Criston had heard the tale many times, but he was pleased to listen again, and Jerard certainly enjoyed telling it. "You're a good teacher," Criston said.
Jerard seemed embarrassed. "I suppose the quality of my students speaks to the quality of my teaching. A long time ago, when I was just a prester in a small kirk, I taught a very skilled young man named Baine."
"You mean Prester-Marshall Baine?" Criston asked.
"Well, he wasn't prester-marshall then, merely an acolyte. But lie rose quickly in the church, and now he chose me for this voyage." Jerard spread his hands as the two of them looked out to sea. "If we do find ourselves facing Holyjoron and the people of Terravitae, someone aboard had better be conversant with the Book of Aiden."
I 
	24
	Windcatch
	Over the next few months back home in Windcatch, Adrea's life settled into a new routine without her husband. She had not imagined Griston's absence would feel like such an emptiness. She wondered if this was like what an injured fisherman experienced when he lost an arm but continued to feel ghost sensations from the missing limb. But she had promised that she would be all right without him. Adrea had made him swear not to worry about her. With the money from the sale of the Cindon, she could run their household for more than a year. Now, though, everything had changed... and she couldn't even tell him the news herself.
Instead, she had to rely on her family. As she helped Criston's mother, Telha, cut up vegetables and slice strips of dried seaweed from the last year's harvest, she smiled to herself, drew a breath, and announced, "I have news, Mother Telha. Exciting news. I waited until I was sure." Telha raised one eyebrow, as was her disconcerting habit. "News?" She continued to wash green mussels and throw them into a boiling pot of salted water, while Adrea added the vegetables. "Is it the news I've suspected for days?" "How did you know?"
"I've seen a difference about you. I can tell."
"What news?" Ciarlo sat surrounded by ropes and cords, the tools of his trade.
"Criston and I are going to have a child."
"That's wonderful," Giarlo said, then muttered, "But he picked a fine time to go away."
Telha drew a deep breath. "You'll have all the help you need here. Ever since my Cindon was lost at sea, I've been looking forward to grandchildren."
Ciarlo grunted as he shifted his stiff leg to a different position, then pulled a large ball of string from the basket beside his wooden chair. He made his living repairing nets for the town's fishermen. Though he could walk only with great difficulty, Ciarlo's fingers were nimble, and he knew a thousand different types of knots. His hands were always busy. Even when he had no net to work on, he used short scraps of string and thick threads, tying them together in intricate spiderweb sculptures. Virtually every home in Windcatch had one of Giarlo's sculptures hanging from the rafters inside.
Now it appeared that the young man had another career ahead of him. Prester Fennan had taken Ciarlo on as his acolyte and made no secret of the fact that as soon as he wanted to move into the small kirk, Adrea's brother could become the town's assistant prester.
As the vegetables and herbs simmered with the mussels, fish, and pungent seaweed, Adrea added a pinch of coarse black pepper she had purchased from a spice merchant in Calay. She wanted to extend her supply for as long as possible, but she imagi ned that Criston would return with treasure chests of exotic spices from his extensive voyage. In a year.
Prester Fennan arrived just as Telha was removing the pot From the fire. He seemed to know exactly when dinner would be served. At first it had been a quiet joke in the family, and then I hey accepted his arrival at mealtime as a matter of course. Fen Man generally paid for his supper by instructing Ciarlo how to read the Scriptures in the original archaic language.
111 
	128 Kevin J.Anderson
	At the crowded dinner table, the prester offered the blessing and Giarlo mouthed the words, practicing the ancient tongue. For his contribution, Fennan had brought half a loaf of old bread one of the parishioners had given to him. They shared the stale bread around, dipping chunks into the soup to mop up the broth. Afterward, satisfied, Telha busied herself in the kitchen, while Giarlo and the prester sat with the open Book of Aiden by the soft glow of a whale-oil lamp.
"We must learn the Scriptures," Fennan said. "We must be prepared. Ondun has left us here with a quest, and we dare not disappoint Him when He returns."
"But... I don't understand the quest," Ciarlo said.
"I have taught you the words. We must improve the world, by the grace of God. Ondun created this place. We are its caretakers, its artisans."
"Prester-Marshall Baine says that we've got to explore and learn," Adrea interrupted. She thought of Criston, far off beyond the horizon in uncharted seas. "That's how we improve the world and ourselves."
Prester Fennan frowned, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. "That is an ambitious interpretation, but we cannot all be explorers. Most people can improve the world just by being good, by taking care of one another, and spreading the Word of Aiden."
Some presters believed that people should use the world Ondun had given them, by planting crops, mining metals, fishing the seas, and hunting in the forests. More ambitious followers wanted to build kirks and monuments to prove to Ondun's all seeing eyes that they remembered and appreciated Him. Adrea liked to think that Criston was doing great work by seeing every aspect of creation, for perhaps Ondun had left majestic secrets behind as a gift for the faithful.
Prester Fennan opened his worn Book, which had served the
129 
	last four presters of Windcatch. "Read with me, Ciarlo. I know it's a tale you like--the story of the Leviathan."
Adrea stood behind them, trying to be unobtrusive as she looked over their shoulders. She'd been present at all of her brother's lessons, deciphering the obscure letters of the strange old language. Adrea found to her surprise that she had more of an aptitude for the studies than her brother did.
"When Ondun created all the creatures," Ciarlo read aloud, struggling with a few of the words, "He also made the Leviathan, a giant and hungry creature with a cavernous mouth, tentacles, a single glowing eye, and a blowhole that belches poison. But when Ondun saw how monstrous the creature was, He wisely decided not to make a mate for it."
He looked up at Prester Fennan, who nodded in encouragement. He continued reading. "For if the Leviathan were to propagate, its progeny would devour all the fish in the sea. So now the world remains intact, but the Leviathan is lonely and angry, for it is the only one of its kind."
Adrea pressed her lips together. She was terribly lonely, too, but she didn't feel angry and destructive. She only wanted Cris ton to come home
She lost herself in the memory of him on the last night before I he Luminara's departure, those sweet hours aboard the Cindon with the portholes open to let in the fresh night air. Adrea and Criston were alone in the small private world they made for I hemselves. Outside, the darkness was lit by thousands of lanterns and candles aboard boats and ships, bright windows of dockside taverns and inns, torches carried by watchmen and revelers. She iind Criston had no interest in going out to experience the bus I ling nightlife of Calay; they wanted only to hold each other.
It seemed as if Adrea had known him forever, that they had always belonged together, and yet--on that final night, con
|Ill 
	130 Kevin J. Anderson
	fined in the hot and stuffy cabin with a gentle breeze whispering in--it felt as if they were discovering each other for the first time. While her brother snored softly out on the deck, letting them have privacy in the small cabin, Adrea had held Criston, warm skin touching warm skin, and fingers meeting each other with a sense of wonder. She was sure that was when she had conceived his child. "I wish I could go with you, Criston."
"You will be with me--in my heart... all the way to the edge of the world." He kissed her ear, her neck. |.|'||| "To the edge of the world--and back."
"Of course I'll be back." He pulled her down onto the bunk so abruptly she let out a laugh. "And think of the stories I'll be able to tell you! Just you wait." That night had been more than lovemaking; rather, it was a heartfelt goodbye, a collecting and treasuring of memories that would have to last for a year Now, months later, Adrea savored the memory.
That night, after Prester Fennan departed, Adrea lay awake in bed, smiling, wondering what Criston was doing. Despite her loneliness, she was content and not afraid. Everything seemed right with the world... except for the fact that he wasn't with her. 
	25
	Olabar
	Once again, Hannes awoke as a prisoner of burning, bandages, and pain. He had no idea how much time had passed, or where he was. He could see nothing because of the coverings on his eyes. He didn't know how often he had struggled back to acid
stained consciousness, only to be confused and overwhelmed by agony before diving deep into the blackness, clinging to the anchor of his faith.
Each time, like a tempting seductress, he had heard the sweet woman's voice, her soothing songs, the delicate music. He felt cool water on his lips, tasted lightly spiced food, sweet fruit juices, figs covered with honey. He wanted to believe this was his reward for a lifetime of devotion, but for now he had to believe this was a trick. He could not let down his guard.
Finally when the nightmares subsided, leaving him with the staccato firing of raw nerves and furious itching of scabs on his skin, he listened carefully to the voice. He was so familiar with the language that he did not at first realize she was speaking Uraban. "I know you're awake. Gome back to me. I took care of you," she whispered close to his ear. "Come back to me."
Only rough animalistic sounds came out of his throat. His mouth was dry, and he felt fingers touch his chin, part his lips. Lukewarm tea slithered into his throat, and he swallowed, then coughed.
The woman wiped his mouth and said, "Rest. I see you growing stronger every day."
He tried to talk again, but could not find the right words. Language was a confusion in his mind, but he seized upon one word. "Where?" Then he asked again, gaining strength, building confidence. "Where am I?"
"With me--Asha. You are safe here. I rescued you from the (ire."
He tried to see, but his vision could not penetrate the bandages over his eyes. He felt a touch of cool, moist cloths; she was bathing him, wiping his rough cheeks, his hands and arms. He could hear birds singing and a breeze rustling fanlike leaves-- palms? -- outside an open window.
"Why can't I see?" Hannes spoke Uraban, just as the woman did.
"It's time I removed your bandages. Just wait; it will get better. The doctors say your vision should be safe. For a while they thought you were blinded, but I didn't lose faith."
Hannes felt the cloth pull away with an extra tug. Blood, scabs, and salves had fused the threads to his face, but that little pain was nothing compared to what he had already endured. Asha gently peeled away the gauze, flooding his eyes with light.
He could see nothing but a blinding whiteness so different from the awful orange flames that had consumed him. Colors seeped into his awareness, but he was slow to focus; everything was blurry and shifting. Then a dim figure--the woman Asha--dabbed a cloth against his stinging eyes. "You are crying!" she said, her voice touched with awe.
In the background, Hannes heard barking dogs, the rustle of birds in cages, and now he sensed perfumes and flowers. Smoke and soot had filled his nostrils for so long that he'd been able to smell nothing but the burning, but now his whole body seemed to be awakening.
Hannes was wary, even more suspicious that this might be a trick. If he were indeed in heaven, why did the woman speak Uraban? Blinking and blinking, he began to discern the hangings in the chamber, saw the ewer of water, a tray of food. Bird cages hung on either side of his bed.
The woman was beautiful, in the Urecari way. She smiled when she saw him focus on her. "This is my private home, a villa near the soldan-shah's palace. I made him promise to let us care for you until you are better." Asha touched his cheek, then ran her hand over the brittle stubble of hair on his head. How long had he been unconscious and recovering? "We are amazed
the burns did not scar you worse than they did. I applied the unguents and salves myself. And now you've come back!"
"Why?" he croaked. "Why would you do this?"
Asha held her hands together as though she revered him. "I made them care for you, because Urec himself said we must tend the sick and wounded as our human duty, but when I discovered you had saved the golden amulet, the medallion of Urec, I knew you must be a sacred man!"
She hurried to her table and returned, holding the amulet. Its edges had been blurred by the immense heat, the ancient embossings softened but still prominent. "You must have been guided by Ondun Himself to preserve the sacred relic for us. UrSikara Lukai will place it here in the Olabar church. She'll want to meet you, when you feel up to it."
Hannes sat up with a jolt. Olabar! So she had brought him as a hostage into the heart of the Urecari continent. He felt dizzy, ready to faint. This was a terrible, ironic trick! He had stolen that amulet away from the church of Urec, and now it had fallen back into the hands of heretics. He should have let it burn with the rest of Ishalem.
An angular, sour-faced physician scuttled in with a basin of tepid liquid that smelled of pungent herbs. He had a sharp pointed black beard, and his head was wrapped in the pale green olba traditionally worn by Urecari scholars. Pleased to find Hannes awake, the doctor moved forward while Asha dipped cloths into the fragrant liquid, dabbed at the still-healing scabs. The physician spoke anxiously. "He can see? His vision is restored?"
"I told you his eyes were not gone. I told you I prayed," Asha said, "/was the first thing he looked upon."
"What is your name?" Asha prompted. She always seemed to be chattering. "Tell us who you are. Are you a pilgrim? A merchant?"
The doctor bent over him, touching, prodding, testing. Hannes flinched, but he clenched his jaw, refused to say anything. He loathed the very touch of these people! Hannes did not intend to tell them anything. Feigning deep weariness, he refused to speak, shaking his head.
The doctor scolded Asha. "He must rest, but this is truly a good sign."
Hannes lay back and closed his eyes, wanting these people to go away, willing himself to sink back into sleep. He preferred his own nightmares to thinking about what the Urecari might secretly have done to him. 
	26
	Ishalem
	The prester-marshall's expedition to Ishalem departed from Calay with great fanfare: a dozen boats and barges full of carpenters, bricklayers, stonemasons, and other artisans, holds packed with tools, forged iron nails, bricks, and glassmaking materials--everything necessary to restore the holy city.
Baine rode at the prow of the lead ship, which sailed down the Tierran coast until they reached the ugly black blot that had once been Ishalem. When he saw all that was left of the magnificent city, he wept. Dry winds whipped across the isthmus, and blown ash left a lingering gray fog in the air. He could not tear his eyes from the shockingly barren and empty hilltop where no sign of the sacred Arkship remained. The tears on his cheeks left tracks in the light dusting of ashes that clung to his face.
But he drew strength from his faith, quoted aloud from the Book of Aiden, and granted himself only a few moments of per
sonal sorrow. When Baine watched the somber mood spread among the workers and sailors, he stepped UP on the forecastle and spread his arms. His raised voice carried to the other boats that edged closer to the shore.
"The fire has swept Ishalem clean, and we have a blank canvas. Our mission, as all the faithful know, is to improve the world by the grace of Ondun. Has there ever been a more clear challenge for the devout? We have brought our tools, our materials, and our willing bodies. Shall we make Ishalem a glorious city again?" He listened to the resounding cheer, then called even louder, "When this task is completed, even Ondun Himself will take notice. Perhaps He will find our offering worthy and He will return to us."
The small construction fleet painstakingly worked their way through the sunken wrecks in the harbor. Ships had burned down to the waterline; the piers and wharves were nothing more than twisted black planks, and lonely pilings thrust up from the waters. Some of the workers, desperate to set fdegot m the holy land--especially now that they saw the wounds of Ishalem--lowered themselves over the sides and swam to shore, while dinghies shuttled more volunteers. Workers offloaded heavy materials onto flat rafts and poled them to shore.
The Iborian shipwright, a weathered and meticulous man named Kjelnar, directed the establishment of a construction camp after leaving instructions for the placement of the drifting fresh-cut pine logs that he had ushered all the way from the northern forests. His first command was to erect the sawmills so that he and his burly northmen could process the logs into lumber.
Kjelnar spoke in a low accented voice to Baine as they watched crowds swarm into the wreckage of the city to see what ihey could salvage. "The volunteers are anxious to get to work,
Prester-Marshall, but if we are going to rebuild a city, we should start with a plan."
"Ishalem originally rose without a plan," Baine pointed out. "Houses and churches sprang up around the Arkship atop the hill. Pilgrims came and settled over the centuries."
Kjelnar raised his bushy ash-blond eyebrows. "Yes, and those people stripped all the wood from the surrounding hills, which has left the area barren and eroded. The dwellings they built were cramped, and the place was a firetrap. This time, we'll do better. We can improve it. Isn't that what the Book of Aiden says to do?"
Baine took heart from Kjelnar's confidence. "You are the master builder. You create ships--now create a city that will be the ship of our faith. May the Compass guide you."
The shipwright gazed up at the hills, the blackened streets, the maze of pathways and canals that were now choked with debris and charred timbers, and the tumble of skeletal frameworks that had once been houses and kirks. Kjelnar squared his shoulders, hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "As you command, Prester-Marshall."
Their volunteers cleared out the old wells, and soon had fresh water to drink. Every day, people cast nets for fish or walked among the rocks below Aiden's Lighthouse to harvest mussels and catch crabs. Without trade, Ishalem had no other food supply.
A handful of original inhabitants lingered like ghosts at the site of the obliterated city; many had fled into the surrounding hills, living like hermits, with little to eat. Prester-Marshall Baine determined that they were scavengers who had remained to pick through the wreckage. They fled whenever members of the reconstruction crew came near.
The ruins were full of bodies, blackened horrors trapped by
the blaze, their clothes and features torn away by fire and leaving only bones and staring skulls. Whether Aidenist or Urecari, they all looked the same. Workers gathered all the corpses they found, dragged them off to a barren hillside that they made into a cemetery, and gave each one an Aidenist burial in a separate grave. The prester-marshall felt it was best to be safe and give them all the correct blessings.
For days, while bricks and tools were unloaded from the waiting ships, the people rebuilt the piers so that the Tierran ships could dock. Some pilgrims went to the top of the hill, hoping to find remnants of the Arkship, but though they returned with blackened lumps of old wood, no one could say if those were the true remains of the Arkship, or other fallen timbers.
One dedicated work party excavated the wreckage of the Aidenist kirk, which had burned to its foundations, and PresterMarshall Baine decided that they would rebuild the kirk first. Sawmills began to whine, cutting the Iborian lumber
During the first month, the crew made a great deal of progress, and the prester-marshall was pleased with what he saw. Fresh pine frameworks outlined the walls of a new kirk. The temporary camp tents were replaced by new barracks and a communal hall, so that the volunteers could live comfortably after an exhausting day at work. Each dawn, the prester-marshall gathered the workers and praised Ondun. Ishalem began to rise from the ashes.
Then the Urecari raiding party swept down upon them.
Fifty lean soldiers, covered with dust and riding powerful horses, charged up the coast from Outer Wahilir. Across their chests, they wore bright red battle sashes emblazoned with the unfurling fern symbol of Urec; white silk olbas covered their heads to reflect the hot sun. Seeing the encampment, the new buildings, and the unarmed workers, the raiders let out a howl
of challenge, drew their long sharp swords, and rode in. Soldan Attar himself, the leader of Outer Wahilir, rode at the front of the scouting party, damning the Aidenists for returning like parasites to the city they had burned.
Prester-Marshall Baine understood some of the Uraban language, but not enough to speak it. It was clear, though, that Attar had no interest in communicating as his men encircled the camp.
The prester-marshall stepped up to the soldan, a sour-faced man with a thin scar on one cheek and deep wrinkles around his dark eyes, who sat high on his black horse. Baine touched the fishhook pendant at his throat and raised his hand in a gesture of peace. He spoke slowly, pointing to the new buildings and the piled fresh lumber and stacks of bricks. "We came to build, not to harm."
Astride his horse, Soldan Attar gave no sign that he understood.
"Not to harm," Baine repeated. "To build."
The volunteer workers had gathered close, either offering protection or seeking reassurance. Other men, seeing the group of mounted soldiers, rushed down from the site of the half constructed kirk, clutching their hammers, shovels, and axes, though they were not fighters.
The prester-marshall spread his hands, a pleading expression on his face. "You can help us," he continued in his most soothing voice. "Your men can help restore Ishalem for the glory of Ondun--Aidenist and Urecari together."
Wearing a sneer of disgust, Soldan Attar raised his sword, turned the blade flat, and brought it down hard on the prestermarshall's forehead. As he collapsed in an explosion of pain, Baine heard screaming, the horses neighing, the charge of hooves--and more screaming. Then he sank into blackness.
He did not awaken until most of the slaughter was already done.
Blood crusted his forehead and eyes, and he choked on a stench in the air as thick and as foul as the Butchers' District on a hot summer afternoon. His hands were tied, but he could turn his head to see red-splattered bodies all around him: severed limbs, stumps of necks, lifeless eyes staring from loose heads that had been piled on the ground.
Baine made a strangled noise. What had they done? He heard a pounding sound against wood, as though workers were driving piles for a new pier. He saw that he had been dragged to the construction site of the new kirk.
Laughing, their fine uniforms covered with blood, the Urecari soldiers were erecting posts in the ground, at least fifty of them. They had used logs of Iborian pine brought in from the harbor. That wood had been meant for new buildings, but the prestermarshall felt ice in his chest as he saw other captives and guessed what lay in store for them. They moaned and wept, each one as bound and helpless as he was.
Unbidden, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he felt an even greater sorrow than he had experienced upon seeing the burned city. The fire could have been an accident, flames blown out of control by the winds. But this massacre was deliberate, the work of human hands.
"Why are you doing this?" Baine said, his voice a dry croak, as if his throat had filled with ashes. Nobody answered. The sol dan's men gave no sign that they understood him.
With their horses tethered, the Urecari raiders walked about kicking dead bodies out of the way. Baine made a rough count of the corpses and the remaining captives, and realized that many of his people must have escaped, either into the hills or on the ships in the harbor. But not all of them..,'||||
He turned his gaze toward the coast, looking at the bright sunlight that flashed on the Oceansea, and saw one of the Iborian boats--Kjelnar's craft--withdrawing from the harbor. Soldan Attar's soldiers stood on the newly built piers and fired flaming arrows that fell short of the ship.
"Ondun protect us," Baine muttered. He hoped the shipwright had gotten away. Maybe he would make it back to Calay and tell King Korastine what had happened here
When all the wooden posts were erected in a circle around the framework of the kirk, Soldan Attar walked among the prisoners, shouting at them. He took Prester-Marshall Baine first, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet. He spoke in an angry tone, but Baine understood little of what Attar said.
"We wanted to build," Baine said, his voice carrying an kimmense weight of weariness.
IThe soldan brought one of his soldiers forward. The man
spoke in barely comprehensible Tierran. "We want no Aidenist help. You destroyed Ishalem. Heretics must be punished."
Using blacksmiths' tools and anvils that the reconstruction crew had brought from Calay, Attar's people had previously fashioned thick, sharp fishhooks in a cruel mockery of the Aidenist symbol, each the size of a man's hand, which they strung with rope.
Carrying the captives forward to the fresh posts pounded into the ground, the Urecari raiders suspended the poor victims on the hooks, jabbing barbed points into throats and letting the bodies dangle against the posts, struggling and gurgling briefly.
Baine begged the soldan to not kill any more of his people, but Attar pretended not to understand. Another captive was hooked through the throat and suspended with feet just barely touching Ithe ground, then another and another. Some of the victims died
Iimmediately, but as the Urecari soldiers grew more practiced in
their torture, they were able to keep the luckless captives alive for longer.
They saved Baine for last, making him watch. Soldan Attar's men were very careful as they thrust the sharpened hook under his jaw, avoiding his major blood vessels, catching the barb on his bones. Then they hoisted him up and tied off the ropes. Slow blood flowed down his chest in a thick stream, and he dangled kicking his feet, twitching like a hooked fish.
Baine knew he would be a long time dying. And though his voice would no longer work, he mouthed a prayer for forgiveness a hope that Ondun would welcome these poor Aidenist souls who had never imagined they might become martyrs. Against the wooden post, his back was to the partially built kirk and the hill that had once held the Arkship. He could not turn his head, could not even look back to what he most wanted to see.
Instead he simply stared with burning eyes, and all he could see were the ashes of Ishalem. 
	27
	Olabar
	In the center of Olabar, crowds gathered to answer the priestess's strident call. The humid air made the sunlight sparkle off of whitewashed buildings and cobblestoned streets. Clad in brilliant red robes, Ur-Sikara Lukai raised her arms and finished her benediction. Her loud and angry prayer made the crowd even more restless. Everyone felt the pain of Ishalem, the outrage and fervor against the Aidenists.
Soldan-Shah Imir wished it had not come to this.
He stood with his son Omra in the shadow of the tower
ing bronze statue. The handsome and muscular figure of Oenar, Imir's great-grandfather (and probably not an accurate representation of the man's features), stood as tall as three men. As a leader of Uraba, the former soldan-shah's only memorable accomplishment had been to commission this giant statue of himself, a towering work of cast bronze eclipsed only by the statue of Urec on the other side of Olabar's central square. Urec's statue was an arm's length taller, since it would be blasphemy for any soldan-shah to elevate himself above Urec.
Imir had never paid much attention to the grandiose statue, the shape of Oenar's nose, the stylized beard, the metal draping of his regal robes. Even so, all of Olabar was going to miss it once it was melted down.
Ur-Sikara Lukai turned to bless the giant metal figure. "This statue was a gift so that we might remember a great man and our great heritage. Now it is another gift, a gift that will serve in the cause of war, a gift that will grant us a thousand swords!" The people cheered.
"We will need more than a thousand swords," Zarif Omra muttered, just loudly enough for his father to hear. The soldanshah knew his son was right, especially after the news he'd recently heard. He'd been outraged to learn what Soldan Attar had done to the Aidenist reconstruction crew in Ishalem. Attar had crowed about his accomplishment, expecting cheers and praise... and many Urabans had rejoiced at the first decisive blow being struck against the enemy.
Imir, however, thought it an indescribably foolish thing to do. Attar had always been a hothead, and he'd wanted any excuse to take revenge on the Aidenists for killing his equally foolish brother Fillok at the beginning of this mess. Now, thanks to the provocative act--made even worse by the fact that one of the
victims was Prester-Marshall Baine himself--Imir had to prepare a full-scale army for the conflict that would likely escalate.
As soldan-shah, he had expected to rule a rich land in times of prosperity, facing and solving problems that were by no means insurmountable. He did not want to fight a war, although his people, his priestesses, his advisers all cried out for blood, excited by the idea of a crusade against the Aidenists without guessing the harsh reality of it.
After a courier had brought news of the massacre in Ishalem, Imir raged against Attar privately in his quarters, smashing pots, tearing down hangings, shouting at the walls. When he had finally calmed enough to consider the possibilities, he summoned Giladen, the ambassador who had already helped to broker the Edict treaty with King Korastine. After Fillok's ill-considered attack on a Tierran trading ship, the Aidenist ruler would have been within his rights to go to war, and yet Korastine had been willing to stop the sparks of hatred before they burst into a raging fire. The burning of Ishalem, an even greater conflagration, was now eclipsed by the slaughter of those Aidenists, including the leader of their church. Imir's stomach lurched at the thought of it.
But he had to hope there was still a chance for peace. Giladen rushed off to present himself in Galay, insisting that the Urabans did not want a war, that Soldan Attar had acted on his own... begging the Tierrans not to retaliate. If the price of peace included Attar's head on a pike, then Imir was willing to pay it.
Though he looked doubtful, Giladen had read the soldanshah's written plea and nodded. "Korastine is a reasonable man, Soldan-Shah. He will hear your words, though I cannot guarantee what he will decide. His people will certainly be outraged about the massacre."
"As am I," Imir said. "Make sure Korastine knows that."
After Ambassador Giladen departed with the carefully worded parchment, Zarif Omra had come to Imir in his quarters. In the month since his marriage to Gliaparia, the zarif had gradually emerged from his depression; time and personal strength had more to do with the change, however, than his new wife did.
After learning of the slaughtered Aidenists and his father's attempt to salvage the disaster, Omra had finally shown the hardness the soldan-shah always knew his son possessed. The zarif stood before him, jaw clenched. "If this does not work, Father, we need to be ready for the worst. If there is to be war, then it must be our war. We must prepare to do more than just defend ourselves--we've got to make certain that we win."
The soldan-shah knew his son was right.
Equipping an army required more than just anger and enthusiasm. Across the five soldanates, he could find plenty of willing fighters and warhorses, but the continent had very little metal for swords and armor. Bordered by the desert and the sea, Uraba had always counted on trade. All of their copper, tin, and iron came from Tierra, but now that trade had been cut off, Soldan-Shah Imir did not have sufficient resources to equip the army that this war would require. Uraba needed metal. They had to take it, somehow.
A decade earlier, across the wide Middlesea on the northern shoreline of stark cliffs, the Urabans had established secret mining operations at Gremurr. The coast was part of Tierra, the far edge of Corag Reach, but the forbidding mountains made the region inaccessible from the north. Since Tierrans could not cross Corag to the Middlesea, they were completely unaware of the Gremurr mines. After the signing of the Edict, it was even more vital that the Uraban presence remain undiscovered. With the advent of war, the soldan-shah would have to turn those mines into a far more extensive operation.
Now, in the crowded square, Zarif Omra wore a pained, hun
gry look as he stared at the sunlight reflected from the bronze statue. Bare-chested workers came forward to throw ropes up around Oenar's proud figure, securing loops to the metal arms and neck. The crowds drew back to allow room, and Imir could do nothing but stand and watch.
With straining muscles and taut ropes, the labor teams pulled down the huge statue, balancing it with ropes and pulleys. When the enormous bronze figure lay on the ground, blacksmiths and metalworkers set up an incredible clamor as they broke apart the statue, which they would melt down and recast into swords, shields, and armor plate.
It made Imir sad to see such a piece of Olabar's heritage lost, but he did not hesitate to give the order. This one statue would yield enough weapons to win an entire battle, perhaps capture a city. It was the right thing to do.
Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw his son staring at the even taller bronze statue of Urec with a calculating look. Melting down the other figure had not yet been suggested. However, if battles continued longer than expected and Uraba's need increased, Soldan-Shah Imir knew he might soon have to make another extremely difficult choice. 
	28
	Calay
	When King Korastine heard Kjelnar describe what the Urecari raiders had done to Prester-Marshall Baine and the innocent workers in Ishalem, he felt physically ill. He turned white, his hands clenched, and his eyes burned, but he said nothing. He had no words.
Marching up from the wharf in the Royal District, the Iborian shipwright had refused to speak to anyone until he saw the king himself. The audience in the throne room gasped and moaned; some dashed out into the halls, spreading the horrendous news.
This was truly the end of the world. Prophecies from the Book of Aiden resounded in his head, and he no longer had PresterMarshall Baine to advise him. Were these the end times? Had Ondun decided to abandon humanity after all? The king closed his eyes. He could think of no other answer.
Finished with his tale, Kjelnar bowed, obviously shaken. "With your permission, Majesty, I will return to Iboria and tell this sad news to Destrar Broeck, so that Iboria can begin to prepare."
Korastine raised his head heavily. "Prepare?"
"We will summon our shipbuilders. We will cut down many trees. We must arm all existing Tierran ships and build new war vessels."
Korastine nodded. Of course he was right.
The leader of Alamont Reach, Destrar Shenro, was already in Calay on other business. When he presented himself at the castle that same afternoon, he demanded an immediate private audience with King Korastine. The king knew what the man was bound to say.
Alamont was the only landlocked reach of the five that comprised Tierra. A spacious land of rolling hills that received plenty of rain, Alamont was perfect for raising crops. The everyday people were well-muscled from their work in the fields, and Destrar Shenro had often made the comparison that wielding a scythe was little different from wielding a sword.
At Shenro's request, the two men met in the castle armory. Destrar Shenro, a thin man in his late twenties and decidedly lankier than most Alamont farmers, had a wife and three healthy
sons. His storehouses and treasury were well stocked--yet he was an impatient man, always feeling incensed, looking for something suspicious. With a tablet in hand, Shenro had already begun making a tally of the swords, halberds, spears, and shields available to the Tierran army. He shook his head as Korastine arrived. "This won't be enough."
The armory chamber was dim and cramped. It smelled of oil, leather, and metal. Outside, sparks flew from a grinding wheel as one of the city blacksmiths sharpened a long-unused sword. His mop-headed young apprentice sported a colorfully bruised black eye that had swollen so nearly shut that he had to squint at the daggers in his hands as he used a whetstone.
"We have enough weapons for all of our trained soldiers," Korastine said. "That is all we have needed."
"Then we don't have enough soldiers," Shenro said gravely. "In both, you are probably correct."
"Good. Then you agree we should increase our conscription? Alamont will double its number of soldier-volunteers. All the other reaches are bound to do the same once they hear Kjelnar's report."
The king's first instinct was to wait, to send an angry ambassador to demand apologies and reparations from the soldanshah. But Korastine couldn't think of any concession that would prove adequate, and he doubted his outraged people would ever believe Urecari promises anyway.
"Again you are right, Destrar. Better to have a large army and not need it, than to be caught defenseless."
Every year, in order to maintain Tierra's standing army, five hundred conscripts came from each of the five reaches, and one hundred from the district of Calay; the mixed groups served one year in each reach, so that at the end of five years they completed their tour of Tierra in Calay as part of the city guard. 
	The military training camps in Alamont were larger than in other reaches, not because Shenro had plans to go to war with his neighbors, but because he had what Korastine called "soldier dreams." Shenro listened to tales and songs of battles, studied his military history, and glorified heroic warriors. Because Alamont was landlocked, Shenro and his people could not simply sail off to sea, although the call of the wind and waves was in the blood of every Aidenist. That, Korastine thought, must be the reason Shenro felt so frustrated.
As they talked about plans for defense, Destrar Shenro continued to set aside swords, marveling at the intricate metalwork done by Corag swordmakers, while the blades fashioned by Calay blacksmiths looked sturdy but plain. Shenro made a disappointed sound. "We should dispatch messengers to Corag, tell Destrar Siescu that we will need many, many more blades."
Korastine was about to step off a cliff, but once the fire had consumed Ishalem--and even more so, now that PresterMarshall Baine and his followers had been martyred--Tierra had gone over the brink, and now they were all falling headlong into infinity.
"I will call the other destrars," Korastine said. "Because we all represent Tierra, we must all make sacrifices and fight the Urabans together. Before the sun sets today, I will issue a decree calling for twice the number of soldier-volunteers from the people of Tierra. We must build our army immediately." 
	Since her mother's death, Anjine had rarely gone into Queen Sena's quarters. But a year had passed, and she and Mateo decided to open the doors and windows, to clear the dust. She wasn't sure whether or not her father would be angry at the intrusion.
Inside the queen's chamber, the red drapes, red cushions on the furniture, and red diamond-shaped panes in the windows
were all marks of Queen Sena. Some had called her the Crimson Queen during her life. Anjine missed her mother, as any child would, though Sena had always treated the girl more as an embodiment of expectations and obligations than as a beloved daughter. Korastine, though, treated her as a real person, someone he genuinely liked.
When she was younger, Anjine's upbringing had been a source of friction between the king and queen. The king had let her and Mateo run about the castle, play with the staff, spend days out in the city, while Sena wanted her brought up like a proper lady. Korastine had always assumed that there was no need to rush the princess into her responsibilities
Now Anjine and Mateo opened the leaded windows to let the breezes in. She picked up one of the cushions and pounded it, sending up a dust cloud that made her cough.
"Tolli," Mateo said, using her nickname since they were alone, "do you think your father will ever marry again? "
Anjine had pondered the question herself many times. "That depends on whether he falls in love."
"Did he fall in love the first time?" Mateo had known Sena too; in fact, Anjine's mother had often looked frowningly at him, certain the young man--who was not even of noble blood--was a bad influence on her daughter.
Anjine answered his question with a shrug. Political reasons usually trumped romantic ones. She was sure that the destrars had been urging King Korastine to marry again, though to no avail thus far.
Sena had not shown an overabundance of warmth toward her daughter, nor toward Korastine, as far as Anjine could tell, but she had thoroughly accepted her role of helping the royal heir to be trained as a leader. Anjine carried the blood of Aiden in her veins, and her mother wanted to make sure the girl lived up to
her expectations. Sena showed a glimmer of pride when Anjine completed each portion of her studies: religious education, history, politics, and geographical knowledge.
Queen Sena had always considered it unseemly for a ruler to learn the rough dialects of the far reaches. "They are your subjects, Anjine," Sena once said in a scolding tone, as if the answer should have been obvious. "It is their obligation to speak formal Tierran, or to send an ambassador who can."
Anjine knew that her father, contrary to Sena's objections, had tried to become conversant in several dialects, but had learned only a smattering of words. At his age, tackling a new tongue was a daunting prospect.
Sena had been the younger sister of Mayvar, an influential noble from Alamont, and her selection as queen had been the result of many convoluted political wranglings. Korastine had been in a rush to take a wife to cement his hold on Tierra after his father's death. The marriage to Sena was the choice least likely to cause frictions, and the aged prester-marshall had blessed the union so wholeheartedly that he quashed any grumbling before it could gain strength.
Not quite overbearing but certainly protective, Sena did not appreciate the king's loose attitude of letting their only daughter enjoy part of her childhood as a child. Conceptually, at least, Sena respected the king's promise to raise Ereo Bornan's son, Mateo, in the castle, but she disapproved of the boy's close friendship with Anjine and the casually paternal warmth that Korastine extended toward him.
Mateo and Anjine had continued to dress up as the street scamps Tycho and Tolli, to make up their own adventures in the streets of Calay. Though Queen Sena knew about this, the two were nimble enough to evade her, and often came back excited and dirty, much to Sena's consternation.
The queen barely tolerated Mateo's presence in her daughter's classes, even though Korastine insisted he should be allowed to participate. "You may listen and you may learn, young man," she had said, frowning, "but the knowledge will do you little good. Anjine will rule Tierra, but your aspirations must be much more limited. The best you can hope for is to be captain of the royal guard."
Sena had expected Mateo to be crestfallen, but he had simply grinned. "No, the best I can hope for is to be the smartest captain of the royal guard.":
Destined to be the next queen, Anjine supposed she would be flooded with marriage offers herself when she was older, though Tierran nobility tended to marry late. She knew the choice of a particular husband wouldn't entirely be hers, but she expected at least to be consulted in the matter. She thought of the giggly women at court who swooned over any handsome guard who deigned to smile at them. She promised herself she would never be like that.
Now Anjine turned, startled to see her father at the doorway to Sena's chambers. Korastine's expression was unreadable, his eyes red. She didn't know how long he had been there, watching the two of them. Mateo quickly spun, ready to defend Anjine if trouble threatened, but he relaxed quickly when he saw who it was.
"They told me I'd find you here," Korastine said evenly. "We have to talk."
Anjine blurted, "We just wanted to let some fresh air into Mother's room. We were thinking of her, honoring her memory."
Mateo interjected, "Please don't be angry with us, Majesty."
Korastine looked slowly at the young man. Anjine realized that her father had barely noticed where they were at all. "I'm not angry...not with you. There has been terrible news from Ishalem."
"Ishalem?" Anjine shook her head--the city had already burned down. What could be worse?
Korastine told them.
"I came to speak with both of you, because today our lives have changed. I foolishly hoped that tempers would die down and cooler heads would prevail as the leaders realized how much we all have to lose. I always considered the soldan-shah to be a wise man, and I believed he respected me. But now we have no choice." He heaved a long, cold sigh that sounded like a winter wind. "Mateo, your father was one of my bravest soldiers, a captain of the royal guard--and I daresay, even a friend. I promised him I would raise you in a way that would make him proud. Now it is time for you to make all of us proud."
Anjine had heard the story many times and at first assumed that Mateo was embellishing it, but her father insisted it was true. Despite the hurt Mateo had suffered, Anjine was glad that it had brought them together.
Ereo had been the captain of King Korastine's personal guard. After the death of King Kiracle, while people thought Korastine was weak, several merchant families demanded to have their taxes reduced and certain types of shipping declared tariff free. Korastine refused, and the incensed merchants set a trap for him in the streets on his way back from the launch of a diplomatic ship. They hired thugs dressed as Urecari sailors to assassinate the king.
Ereo fought like a whirlwind to defend his ruler. Two other royal guards were killed. Though Ereo managed to defeat the last of the would-be assassins, he suffered a mortal wound himself. While he lay dying in the street, Ereo begged Korastine to take care of his five-year-old son, Mateo, whose mother had died three years earlier from fever. The grateful king swore to do so.
Despite their disguises, the assassins turned out to be local Calay men, and the plot of the merchants was exposed. Korastine had them all executed and seized their assets, and Mateo grew up in a special position in the castle. Though not a noble, he had the king's blessing.
Mateo looked much older now as he glanced at Princess Anjine, then turned back to the king. "How do you need me to serve, Majesty?"
"I always thought you were too young, but that is because I saw you as the boy you were, not the man you are becoming. You are old enough." He looked at his daughter. "You are both old enough. I'm afraid you'll have to become adults sooner than I intended. From this day forth, Mateo, you must be a soldier. And you, Anjine"--Korastine wrapped his arms around her--"you must prepare to be queen." 
	29
	The Luminara
	That night, on calm seas, Criston drew the deck watch. It had been months since they'd seen any sign of land.
Although there seemed little chance the Luminara would strike rocks or a reef out in the middle of nowhere, this was uncharted territory. On this moonless night, Captain Shay had ordered the sails tied up, and the ship drifted gently for hours. Most of the crew was asleep. Up in the night sky, Griston saw constellations that did not match the star patterns he had long ago memorized.
Carrying a whale-oil lantern, he slowly made a circuit of the ship, always alert. He peered overboard at the ghostly out
1 
	154 Kevin J. Anderson
	lines of waves, but no sea monsters came up to feed at night. He had seen many wonders since the beginning of the voyage and couldn't wait to get home and tell Adrea all about them. Now he placed the lantern atop a barrel, sat down on a crate, and took out a sheet of paper Captain Shay had torn from one of his journal books. With a lead stylus, Criston scratched out a letter--the twelfth one he had written since his departure from Calay.
On the paper he expressed his thoughts, his love, writing for Adrea's eyes alone; he would trust the merciful tides to bring the letter to her. Orico, the cook, relinquished empty glass bottles to Criston for his odd obsession.
True to his parting promise, Criston filled his letter with the things he had seen, the places the Luminara had gone. So far, he had discovered that the empty ocean was anything but empty. Right now the night-dappled sea was aglow with luminous plankton that skirled just beneath the surface like a silvery blue storm, an ethereal light that drifted and twitched, flushed into intense brightness in the ship's wake.
A glowing swarm of bubble jellyfish drifted alongside the Luminara. Whenever the jellyfish bumped into each other, they released a crackling spark in a discharge that drove them apart again. The creatures had floated along with them for the past three nights, sinking to the darker depths when the sun rose.
Criston wrote about them, imagining Adrea was there beside him. "Captain Shay was so excited the first time he saw the jellyfish that he ordered specimens drawn up in a bucket, but the moment he touched the creature's membrane, his hand was so severely stung that he still wears a bandage, days later."
After he filled the page, telling Adrea again how much he missed her, how much he hoped that she was safe and
healthy--and that he hoped she thought of him as often as he thought of her--Griston rolled the letter and slipped it into the empty bottle. Before sealing the cork to the end, he carefully withdrew a single strand of Adrea's golden-brown hair from the lock she had given him, which he kept protected in his pocket at all times. He pushed the strand in with the letter, blew gently inside, and whispered, "Find your way back to her." Sympathetic magic would reunite the hair with its owner... or so the legends said. He had to trust it to the sea.
Criston went to the port-side rail, closed his eyes, and pictured Adrea as vividly as he could, then tossed the bottle overboard. He heard the faint splash and saw the bobbing glass glint in the starlight, drifting away as the Luminara moved on. Of his twelve letters so far, at least one of them had to find its way to her.
Feeling tired but not sleepy, he walked toward the stern where the captain's wheel stood next to the two compasses on their stands. Another hour remained on his watch. The magnetic compass showed that the Luminara, after a long trip west, was heading south now, having picked up a strong current, like a river in the Oceansea. Since Captain Shay had no particular course in mind other than to explore the unexplored, he had let the current guide them. The Captain's Compass, as always, pointed its needle back toward Calay, just like the legendary compass Ondun had given Aiden before the first voyage.
Following its pointer, Criston looked off to sea, imagining Tierra, Calay, Windcatch... and Adrea, somewhere beyond the horizon.
Prester Jerard joined him so silently that he startled Criston. Since the old man often had trouble sleeping, he came to keep (Mston company and tell him stories. The two men stood by the wheel, listening to the creak of the rigging, the whisper-slosh of
waves against the hull, the snoring of a dozen sailors who preferred to sleep on deck rather than in the stuffy bunks below.
"I saw you throw another bottle overboard," Jerard said. "A letter to your sweetheart?"
"It always is. How much farther do you think we will sail?"
"How much farther can we sail? Ondun is great, my friend, but even I never imagined Him capable of creating a world so vast. Any day now, I expect to hear the roar of falling water, feel the whoosh of spray, and see the edge of the world. But it's just more and more open sea. I come out at night hoping to see a distant spark, a glimmer of the beacon. Then at least we'll know where we are."
"A beacon?"
Jerard stroked his long beard. "The Lighthouse at the end of the world."
Griston frowned. "I don't know that story. Is it from the Book ofAiden?"
"In some texts. Others include it as part of the Apocrypha. It's just a story, maybe no less true than all the rest." Griston waited for the prester to continue.
Jerard touched his fishhook pendant and looked out to sea. They began to walk slowly around the deck. "The Lighthouse was built on a tiny island, far from Terravitae, to hold an exiled man who committed a terrible crime. Holyjoron sentenced him to live for all eternity, so that he could keep watch for Ondun's return. When God comes home, the cursed man must be the first to see Him and ask for forgiveness. And so, the Lighthouse keeper shines his light across the ocean and waits and watches, peering through his giant lens so he can see everything that happens in the world, everything that is denied him."
Criston gazed out at the waves, but saw no glimmer of light other than the ethereal luminescence of the plankton. "If we see the beacon, that means we're close to Terravitae?"
Jerard smiled. "If we see it, that means many things... not the least of which is that the story itself is true." The old man touched the pendant and with the same finger touched Criston's forehead. "You have faith. I have seen it. Every time you write a letter to your beloved and throw the bottle overboard, you show your faith."
Griston smiled wistfully back at the old prester. "I have a certain amount of faith in the ocean currents, but I have complete I faith in Adrea." 
	30
	Windcatch
	At the beginning of each autumn, migratory seaweed arrived in Windcatch, carried on warm currents and blown by changing winds. Three days earlier, fishermen returning to port had seen the approaching kelp, and the villagers bustled to prepare for the year's harvest. Fishermen tied up their boats and stayed ashore, some grumbling about the fine weather they were missing out at sea, while others were glad for the change in the daily routine.
Windcatch had been built around a small harbor bordered by steep hills. With the approach of autumn, the wind and water patterns formed a gentle whirlpool that drew in the drifting seaweed.
All the villagers came together to meet it, since the harvest provided much of their yearly income. Men went inland and loaded carts with wood for shoreside bonfires; others scrubbed out huge cauldrons to prepare for the rendering. Women set large baskets out on the piers, and eager captains emptied their boats, anxious to take the first haul of seaweed up to the Calay
markets. Bottle makers washed their brown glass bottles to hold the distilled kelp liquor.
Adrea, Telha, and Giarlo were ready for the chores. Criston would have been there beside them, with the Cindon scrubbed and ready for a profitable trip, and Adrea realized with a pang that this was the first year she had harvested the seaweed without him.
Dressed in a brief swimming shift, Adrea waded out from the gravelly shore beside her brother. Both of them carried baskets slung over their necks and shoulders. Buoyed by the water, Giarlo's limp no longer bothered him. When they met the outlying tendrils of the seaweed, they withdrew long knives and pushed their hands among the leathery, greenish brown straps to find the bulbous bladders, which they sliced off. The kelp nodules were the first and most valuable part of the harvest, but the villagers also used everything else.
She and Ciarlo kept a count, each trying to outdo the other's tally. As Adrea waded deeper into the seaweed tangle, the thin fabric of her wet dress pressed against the rounding curve of her belly. Her pregnancy had started to show, but she did not let that slow her.
Ciarlo cut off a pink kelplily and presented it to her with a flourish. Its petals stretched out wider than the span of Adrea's hands. "Since your young sailor isn't here, allow me to give you this bouquet."
She wrinkled her nose. "It smells like fish."
"When the seaweed starts rotting, you'll think this smells like a moss rose by comparison."
Having filled their baskets, they sloshed back to the shore, where chattering workers punctured the bladders and squeezed out the liquid, which was easily fermentable into a briny, strong drink for which Windcatch was well known.
As migratory seaweed filled Windcatch harbor, the warm calm waters triggered its reproductive cycle. Kelplilies bloomed in great rafts of color, and floating pollens fertilized the seaweed. Seedlings floated free, and the rest of the large mass died and broke apart. Over the next month, as the seaweed rotted, most villagers remained inside their homes, burning candles and incense to mask the stench. When the weather changed and the autumn storms picked up, currents pulled the decaying seaweed back out into the ocean. At sea, the drifting seedlings would form new clusters and grow into larger rafts, circulating in the currents before returning the following year to continue the cycle.
Hard-muscled fishermen dragged large nets full of thick kelp fronds back to the shore. The tender fleshy ends would be sliced and salted. When eaten fresh, the seaweed was delicious; when dried and preserved, it formed a long-term staple of the Wind catch diet, though most people were sick of it by the time summer came. The fibrous remnants of kelp fronds could be beaten and felted into a durable fabric--another item for which Wind catch was famous.
Old Telha decided that she'd spent too many years of her life doing the messy work. This year, she set up a reed chair in some shade and readied a flat rock and mallet, so she could beat the kelp fronds to prepare the fibers for cloth making. She talked with the other fishermens' wives and widows, gossiping, laughing, complaining. Children splashed in the water, eager to help, while their young mothers tried to work on the harvest.
The same as every year.;
With her basket emptied and her brother limping back into I he waves, Adrea waded out once more, always looking at the < >pen Oceansea. Shielding her eyes, she gazed toward the horizon, thinking of Criston and wondering what he was doing just I hen. She hoped he was thinking of her.
31 
	Off the Coast of Uraba
	The sturdy, thick-hulled ships of Soeland Reach were designed for rugged seas and cold storms, but they had sleek lines, the better to pursue and kill whales. Now, though, the Soeland ships hunted an entirely different quarry.
Destrar Tavishel clung to a slick shroud rope as cold spray splashed him and dripped from his square-cut beard. Ignoring the wet and the chill, he wiped the mist away from his eyes so he could see. They were closing in on the Urecari ship.
"Looks like a diplomatic vessel," Tavishel yelled out in his rough voice. "No match for us, men!"
One of his well-muscled sailors came up to him, also drenched. He held a battered spyglass. "No sign of any military escort, Tav--but we're in Uraban waters. They probably think they're safe. Hah!"
"If there's a military escort, we'll sink them just the same." Tavishel had to shout above the rolling roar of the waves. "We have harpoons to spare."
The silken sail of the enemy ship billowed, the Eye of Urec staring out from the scarlet fabric. If nothing else, Tavishel wanted to gouge out that hated mark and blind the ship. And that would only be the first step in their revenge for what the Urecari animals had done to Prester-Marshall Baine and the innocents who had gone to rebuild Ishalem.
The hearty and self-sufficient Soelanders were distant from the politics of Galay. They swore their fealty to King Korastine, provided volunteers to the Tierran army, and trained recruits
each year, but not until he learned of Baine's martyrdom did Destrar Tavishel understand what it meant to be part of a larger, unified land. His people were members of a fold so much greater than one reach. Now, as he envisioned the prester-marshall slowly dying on a fishhook, he felt the greater glory of surrendering to the needs of the kirk for the benefit of all Tierrans, not just people from the Land of Sunken Mountains.
And because of their zeal from this new revelation, Tavishel and his Soeland fighters would not let the heinous Urecari remain unpunished. The destrar had decided it was his holy mission to shed the blood of those vile monsters. Korastine would be pleased when Tavishel sent his report of their accomplishments here off the coast of Tener.
Foregoing fishing and whaling, the Soeland ships had sailed away from their islands in order to hunt Urecari below the Edict Line. And now they had intercepted this single diplomatic ship working its way up the coast toward Tierra. A worthy prize!
The foreigners had no chance against the bulky Soeland ships that closed in. Destrar Tavishel shouted orders for his zealous men to arm themselves with the stunning clubs and harpoons that they used to kill giant whales before butchering and rendering them. The Soelanders stopped the enemy vessel, threw ropes and grappling hooks, and swarmed aboard the lone ship.
One of the Urecari, who wore ornate robes of green and blue, looked like a diplomat of some sort. His shaved head glistened with both aromatic oils and nervous perspiration. The foreign ship's captain tried to make a defense as Tavishel's men surged onto the deck, but the soldiers aboard were merely an honor guard--enough for show but not enough for war. The captain shouted in his gibberish language until one of Tavishel's men
thankfully struck him on the head with a club, cracking the man's skull.
The colorfully robed diplomat was beside himself with panic and desperation. He gathered his voice and spoke in erudite Tierran. "No, no--peace mission! I am ambassador. Giladen! My name is Giladen! I go to speak with King Korastine! We sail for Calay!"
"You will never get there," Tavishel growled.
Giladen fumbled with a rolled parchment tied to the braided belt at his waist. "No, no! Listen!" He unrolled the document, which was covered with neat words in formal Tierran as well as the birdlike footprints of Uraban writing. "Negotiate! We come to negotiate on behalf of Soldan-Shah Imir! No war!" He waved the document. "I bring message to your king!"
But Tavishel could not banish the image in his mind of the holy prester-marshall strung up on a hook... of the ruthless Urecari spilling more Aidenist blood on the already sullied ground of Ishalem. It was all he needed to remember.
He withdrew his curved gutting knife and slashed across Ambassador Giladen's plump throat, putting an end to his trickster words. The rolled treaty fell to the deck boards from his limp and quivering fingers.
Tavishel raised the bloody knife and shouted to his men, "They deserve no more mercy than they showed PresterMarshall Baine! Kill them all!"
The Urecari sailors fought back, but they were outnumbered. The Soeland men had long experience butchering whales in a huge mess of blood, slime, and grease, with bubbling rendering pots and decks slick with gore. When they finished, the Urecari ambassadorial vessel was covered with just as much thick red fluid as there would have been after a whale hunt. To Tavishel, it seemed fitting.
After the killing was done, the destrar remained aboard the Urecari ship with a skeleton crew, turning it about and sailing on favorable winds back toward Tener, the nearest Urecari port. One of his young crew members clambered up the mainmast to the yardarm, where he dangled on a rope, took a dagger, and cut a hole in the sail, gouging out the Eye of Urec. The ship sailed onward like a blinded cyclops.
Soon the group of ships was within sight of the bustling harbor city. Tavishel and his men kept close watch, but the only ships they saw were far off. The colorful sail of Giladen's diplomatic ship would have drawn no attention in these waters, regardless.
As he guided the ship closer to the foreign port, Tavishel made preparations. Dismembered enemy corpses lay strewn about the deck, beginning to bloat and stink in the warm sun. He had his men tie the ambassador's body to the mast, and the Urecari captain's body dangled from a hook on the bow. This was a death ship, a slaughterhouse. He would give the Urecari a sight they would never forget.
One of his Soeland ships pulled close alongside, so that the men could jump back across, ready to sail away. Alone aboard I he foreign vessel, Tavishel unrolled the document that Giladen had been so desperate to deliver to King Korastine, spread it on t he deck in the midst of a large bloodstain, and skewered it to the boards with his gutting knife, so that the dead, glassy eyes of the I Frecari ambassador could forever stare upon it.
The uncrewed diplomatic ship caught the currents and began lo drift toward the harbor, and Tener drew closer each moment. As a last rude gesture, Tavishel dropped his trousers, squatted, and left a steaming pile in the middle of the parchment, obscuring the words the Soldan-Shah had written. Let the Urecari read (hat!
Finished, Tavishel swung back aboard his own ship and took command, while the ghost ship sailed onward to Tener, crewed only by corpses. Unguided, it would crash into the docks.
Destrar Tavishel smiled as his two ships sailed northward to the safe waters of home. 
	32
	Corag Reach
	As Aldo na-Curic made his way up the ever-steepening path (which the locals called a "road"), the Corag mountains became ever more magnificent around him. All his life he had gazed out to sea and imagined far-off lands, but he had never thought to look inland.
The alpine meadows were bedecked with bright flowers and silvery streams. The cliffs and peaks seemed to grin with jagged teeth of gray rock whose couloirs held snow even late in the summer. In Calay, Aldo had never seen snow.
The people were hardy and independent, renowned across Tierra as talented workers of gold, silver, and iron. They extracted, smelted, and worked ores from their metal-rich mountains, then delivered completed work to the rivermen, who sold it to Calay merchants.
Deep in the trackless highlands, many tribes and villages had never been counted in any census or labeled on any map--a fact that intrigued Aldo. These isolated people paid no taxes to King Korastine, and the Corag destrar left them alone. On the other side of the impassable mountains lay the Middlesea itself, but if any Corag native had ever found the route, it was not widely reported.
For four days he trudged past villages and accepted local hospitality, on his way to Stoneholm, the reach's largest city and the seat of the Corag destrar. Aldo arrived at the mountain city at sunset, clutching his satchel of possessions and blueprints as he stared at the sight.
Stoneholm was surrounded by tall granite cliffs that provided shelter from the worst blizzards. The front of the city was built into an elbow of rock, a huge overhang above the stone block facades. Under the cliff overhang, fine stonework graced I; the building fronts: hideous gargoyles, scaled sirens, and beauEi tiful women--all iconic figures from the Book of Aiden. A benevolent-looking stone man held out a fishhook, Sapier himself. The city's interior penetrated the mountain, with streets and chambers tunneled deep, converting the original mine network into a well-settled, and well-fortified, metropolis.
Three men in high-collared black woolen jackets lined with thick white fur came out to greet him as the dusk deepened. "The destrar sent us," said one. His voice had an odd accent, the consonants harder, the vowels more nasal and flat, than typical Calay speech. "He is anxious to hear why you have come on such a long journey. You're not one of the usual merchants."
Aldo was surprised. "How did he know I was coming? "
The men smiled and glanced at one another. "Word travels quickly. We've been waiting for you."
The great stone house of Destrar Siescu was fronted with giant hewn blocks, then the back was expanded into a manmade grotto that penetrated the cliffside. Ventilation shafts had been drilled upward, and cold air circulated with a thin whistling sound. Colorful rugs and thick pelts covered the bare stone (loor in the main chamber.
Against the wall, Siescu sat in a large chair from which he could look across his great hall. A fireplace enormous enough to
hold an entire ox crackled with a roaring fire made from several thick logs. The enclosed chamber felt extremely hot to Aldo, but Siescu wore thick furs and covered himself with a woolen blanket. The destrar was not an old man, but his translucent skin was stretched tight across the bones of his face. His eyes were set deep in their sockets.
Seeing Aldo, Siescu sat up straighter and removed his hands from beneath the blanket. Aldo saw that he also wore leather gloves. "You are a curious visitor. A Saedran?"
"Yes, sir. From Calay."
"Come closer to the warmth so that you're more comfortable." The destrar gestured to Aldo. "It always feels so cold here in the mountains."
Until now, Aldo had not believed the stories he'd heard about this man. In one legend, Siescu had been wounded in a practice session with a fine Corag sword, and when his skin was cut, ice water ran out rather than blood. An old miner in an outlying village Aldo had visited whispered that Destrar Siescu kept ordering his men to dig tunnels deeper and deeper into the mountain, hoping to find the embers of the Earth, the dying fire of Creation, so that he could at last be warm.
Aldo bowed formally, made his greetings, and thanked the destrar for his hospitality. "I am here to commission work from your best metalworkers."
"Are there no metalworkers in Calay?"
"Not Corag metalworkers. I wanted the best and most precise work done. These devices cannot tolerate even the slightest error."
Aldo's comment elicited a proud smile from the destrar. Siescu leaned forward, and (reluctantly, it seemed) peeled off his leather gloves. He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Let us look at your drawings. I want to see this great challenge you have for my metalworkers."
Aldo unrolled the plans and briefly explained the purpose of the navigation devices and the sealed clock. Siescu made a gruff sound. "We have made Saedran instruments before. We can do it again." He narrowed his eyes. "It will be expensive." "I have money." Aldo hoped it was enough.
The destrar shouted four names, promising Aldo that these were the best craftsmen in the reach. The young man felt relieved and pleased. "How long will it take, do you think? " When the destrar frowned, the lines deepened on his face. "Your devices will be finished when our artisans are satisfied. You did ask for accuracy, did you not? Or are you in a hurry? Which is it?" Sen Leo had not told Aldo how soon he must return. He bowed again nervously. "I will give your people all the time they need. And while I wait, I would like to explore Corag Reach." "Oh, there is not time to see all of it. Our craftsmen are not so slow."
Aldo was surprised that the sullen-looking destrar actually had a sense of humor. "Then, when I am not overseeing the work, I'll try to see as much as I can." 
	33
	Unnamed Island
	For the first time in months, the Luminara sighted land.
High up in the lookout nest, Criston spotted clustered clouds on the horizon that suggested a landmass. His unexpected shout startled the listless men below. The sharper-eyed members of the crew rushed to the sides and squinted into the distance. High up in the sky, someone saw a bird.
l
Within two hours, there was no doubt that a shoreline lay ahead. The conversation thrummed with speculation that this hitherto-undiscovered land could be Terravitae itself. First Mate Willin, stern and businesslike as usual, tried to keep the now excited sailors concentrating on their duties. Soon, however, it became apparent that this was merely a heavily forested island.
Criston wondered if it was an outlying island in a whole archipelago, like Soeland, or an entirely isolated speck in the middle of the Oceansea.
Since his mission was to explore the world, Captain Shay intended to go ashore himself. Prester Jerard would serve as a representative of Aiden to speak with any natives and learn what they knew about Ondun and his sons. The Saedran chartsman also insisted upon observing the details, so that he could mentally record the interior topography of the island.
For more pragmatic reasons, the cook Orico asked to go ashore and acquire victuals. The Luminara still had many stores of salted meats and preserved biscuits, and they had supplemented their diet with the daily catch of fish, but fresh game, vegetables, and fruit would be a welcome addition and necessary for the health of the crew. Rainstorms had replenished the Luminara's drinking water, but the casks could certainly do with refilling from island springs. Captain Shay would take the ship's two boats ashore with several parties to hunt, forage, collect fresh water, and explore.
The Luminara cruised along the coastline, looking for a place to anchor, but found only inlets bounded by abrupt cliffs that made the interior inaccessible. The crew spotted many rushing waterfalls, fresh streams that spilled directly into the surf. They remained alert for smoke from villages, any signs of life. Criston hoped the natives would speak Tierran, and dreaded that they might be followers of Urec.
The Luminara sailed halfway around the island until at last, startlingly, they encountered a stark sign of human habitation: a towering stone wall, built from immense volcanic blocks. The sailors chattered amongst themselves, some superstitious, some merely puzzled. Captain Shay stared, amazed. "It must be twelve feet tall!"
"Fourteen," Sen Nikol corrected.
The wall reached all the way down to the waterline, where combers crashed against the rocks, and extended inland to where the lush jungle had already overgrown many of the blocks. As the ship cruised slowly past, they saw no footpaths, no break in the jungle on either side. Though the captain was deeply intrigued, he saw no place for the Luminara to put in, or where her two boats could safely reach the shore.
"We will keep sailing, circumnavigate the island," Shay announced to First Mate Willin, who directed the crew to heel around the tip of the island and head down the windward side. But the terrain remained unchanged. Still they saw no fishing boats, no harbors, no docks. By late afternoon, they discovered the opposite end of the wall, which lay like a sash across the waistline of the island. The man-made barrier neatly cut the landmass in half--but why?
A few miles beyond this, the Luminara finally found a natural cove with a rushing stream that tumbled down from the jungle. The sun loomed large and orange upon the horizon like an ember about to be extinguished in the sea. Night would fall swiftly, as it always did out on the ocean, and Captain Shay called for the crew to drop the fishhook anchor for the night.
All the crew was anxious to go ashore the next morning, and Criston got little sleep. With the first light of dawn, men lowered I he two small boats over the side for the members of the exploratory teams. Criston rode with Captain Shay, accompanied by
I 
	170 Kevin J. Anderson
	Prester Jerard, who had combed his long gray beard and donned his best robes as Aiden's ambassador. Sen Nikol na-Fenda seemed amused and intrigued, but kept to himself on the bench.
The cook also joined them in the boat, carrying empty cloth sacks for gathering fruits, berries, and roots, expecting a cornucopia of island delights. Four other sailors came along, armed with swords and ready to fight wild animals or suspicious natives.
The second scout party came ashore with empty casks; they would spend the day shuttling fresh water back to the Luminara. Hunting parties with spears and crossbows would try to acquire fresh meat. Shay, though, turned his gaze inland, and Criston knew what their destination would be. The captain wanted to see the wall.
After they put ashore and the two groups parted, Shay took the lead, pushing through the dense undergrowth in the direction of the wall, then directing the four burly sailors to clear a path with their swords. The jungle resisted their efforts, and the party made slow progress. Each man took a turn wielding a blade.
Along the way, Captain Shay had ample opportunity to study flowers and colorful beetles, and he collected several specimens. Orico plucked mushrooms, sniffed them, but did not risk taking the unusual species back to the Luminara's larder. He found a bush filled with bright purple berries, tasted one, and spat it out. "It's either poison, or it's so bitter it may as well be." The cook did, however, find a tree laden with bright orange fruit. When he peeled the thick rind and bit into the juicy pulp, he pronounced the fruit good to eat. Criston and the others filled their bags with the harvest and foraged on.
They saw the first skeleton when they were less than an hour from the wall.
Picked clean of flesh, the bones lay like a collection of ivory pieces in the undergrowth. Oddly, though, the rib cage was
not entangled with weeds and vines, as if someone had recently dumped the skeleton there. The bones still wore a kind of leather uniform studded with tarnished metal bossets. The armor was nicked and scraped, as though the skeletal soldier had seen many great battles. The skull's empty eye sockets stared upward, its teeth green with a dusting of moss. The rusty sword in its bony fingers had been notched many times.
Criston bent down to pick up the sword, but the skeleton would not release its grip. "It looks ancient. How did it get here?" Nobody could offer him an explanation.
Prester Jerard muttered a quick prayer, and they pressed on until they reached the wall, where great blocks of chiseled volcanic rock towered higher than any person could scale. At the base of the barrier, the jungle undergrowth was packed and trampled.
And the ground was strewn with hundreds of additional skeletons. Each one carried a sword and each wore the same foreign looking armor.
"There must have been a great battle," Captain Shay said. "But who, or what, were they fighting?"
Complex friezes and hieroglyphics adorned the blocks, but the written language was not comprehensible to either Prester Jerard or Sen Nikol; neither saw any resemblance to known languages. The prester shook his head. "These were not carved by children of either Aiden or Urec."
"Or Saedrans," the chartsman added.
They had spent most of the day fighting through the vegetation, and now it was late afternoon. Because the captain wanted lo poke further into the mystery of the inhabitants, he suggested I hat they make camp and spend the night. They chose a spot not far from the wall, away from the fallen skeletons.
Two of the sailors joined them at their camp, having shot a large bird similar to a turkey, much to the cook's delight. Orico
built a fire and began plucking feathers, preparing to roast the bird for dinner.
As the sun sank toward the horizon and a nearly full moon began to climb the eastern sky, a breeze rustled the jungle foliage. Several strange birds set up a raucous din and winged away from the wall, leaving the area shrouded in eerie silence. In such a lush jungle, Griston thought, the night should have been alive with buzzing insects.
Weary from the day's efforts, the men settled down to rest. When Orico pronounced the bird roasted and ready, Prester Jerard intoned a quick prayer, the Saedran chartsman muttered his own blessing, and they all sat together to eat. The moon grew bright as the sky deepened to indigo. A few silver stars began to sparkle overhead.
A faint clatter came from the shadows of the ancient battlefield. Criston heard the scrape of a rusty blade, a hollow sound of bones clacking, hard leather armor shifting over dry bones. The skeleton warriors came alive.
The sailors cried out, jumping to their feet. Prester Jerard grasped his fishhook pendant. "What sort of magic is this?"
Captain Shay commanded them all to silence. "Watch yourselves, and be on your guard! Look!" He pointed toward the skeleton warriors, and Griston calmed himself long enough to notice that the corpse-soldiers were not preparing to attack them. In fact, the skeletons paid no attention to the newcomers at all.
Instead, they lifted swords, adjusted shields and body armor, and formed ranks facing the wall, blank eye sockets staring toward the top of the barrier. Mandibles clacked open and shut in a silent shout of defiance, a challenge that was impossible to hear because the long-dead warriors had no vocal cords, no breath.
"What are they waiting for?" Criston whispered.
With a bizarre and frightening clatter, another group of skeletal warriors scrambled up the wall from the opposite side and stood on the top, waving their own swords and shields. The new wave of warriors wore a different style of armor and had different markings on their shields--obviously an opposing army.
The bony fighters leaped from the high barrier upon the first group, and with a great clamor, swords and shields crashed together. Skulls were lopped off of vertebrae, arm bones severed. Criston could hear the loud crack of bones--but no other sound.
Prester Jerard swallowed hard. "They must have built the wall to separate themselves, but that did not stop them from fighting."
"But if they're all dead--" Criston started.
"Their bodies may be dead, but their hatred is not," Captain Shay said.
The Saedran considered for a moment, then made a dry pronouncement. "This is fascinating. We saw no other settlements on this island. Their civilization must be extinct--yet they still fight."
I "I don't think we should be here," muttered Orico. "This isn't our war. We don't want any part of it."
"I believe you're right," the captain said. "Why is it that a cook should have to state the obvious? Let's go, quickly! If they notice us, they may decide to fight anyone who gets in the way."
They abandoned the rest of the roasted bird, and Criston kicked dirt and ashes over the fire. Then they ran, stumbling through the underbrush by the light of the bright moon. Though the shadows were deeper and they tripped often, they still made better time now that a path had already been cut through the jungle.
Before long, they came upon the first skeleton warrior they had found, all alone, far out in the jungle. As the moonlight filtered through the thick canopy, the ancient soldier also rose up
and lifted its notched sword. Orico was in the lead, pushing his way forward at a fast run. When he came upon the warrior, startled, the undead soldier thrust its notched and rusty sword deep into the cook's belly.
Orico's momentum drove the blade in to the hilt. He fell forward, knocking the flimsy skeleton to the ground. Criston and Jerard cried out and rolled Orico away. The skeleton pulled the blood-slick sword from the cook's belly and clambered to its feet to fight again. But before it could regain its tottering balance, Criston knocked it to the ground once more and, without thinking, delivered a sharp kick to the skull, knocking it loose from the spine, so that it flew off into the weeds. The two sailors behind him fell upon the rest of the skeleton with their swords, smashing ribs and hacking the arm bones.
Prester Jerard and the Saedran knelt over the moaning cook and studied the wound. Sen Nikol shook his head. "We take him with us regardless," Captain Shay commanded. "Get him up and drag him along. We've got to get back to the boats."
Orico was in extraordinary pain and bleeding profusely. None of the men spoke. Criston threw one of the cook's meaty arms over his shoulder and another sailor took the other arm. Together, they stumbled onward. The journey seemed endless.
By the time they reached the cove, the second exploratory group had returned to shore and built a large bonfire while waiting for the captain and his party. When they spotted Criston and the other sailor hauling the blood-covered cook, they held torches high and set up an alarm. Orico's legs barely moved now, and he had stopped moaning, but still clung to his last few breaths of life.
"Into the boats!" Captain Shay shouted. "We have to leave this island, now!"
Already spooked by the quiet and mysterious island, the sail-
I
ors rushed to obey the captain's order without asking questions. Criston and his companion lifted the cook into the nearest boat and settled him, while Sen Nikol and Prester Jerard jumped aboard. The others, just as eager to be away from the strange island, pushed the boat into the deeper water as soon as the captain stepped aboard. Scrambling in, they took up the oars and plied them with all their strength. The second boat was already making its way toward where the Luminara lay anchored, peacefully unaware of what had happened.
Criston realized that the cook would be dead before they reached the ship, but the sailors grimly pulled at the oars. The dark silhouette of the macabre island was ominous and weirdly silent behind them.
Orico twitched, spasmed, coughed once. His last breath came out in a long gurgling rattle. Prester Jerard clutched the fishhook pendant and said a quiet prayer. The captain sat astern, like a statue. Orico was the first crewman they had lost on their long voyage.
"Keep moving," Shay said.
In the moonlight, they could see the stark line of the barrier wall, like the backbone of a gigantic fossil draped across the island. Though it might have been his imagination, Criston thought he could see the skeletons scuttling about, still fighting. He felt safer with every oar stroke that drew them farther from the cursed island.
Sen Nikol let out a yelp of surprise, an uncontrolled reaction that startled Criston. Though the cook was drenched in blood and his body had lain motionless in death, he now jerked and twitched. His elbows bent, and both hands rose up as if to flail at i m aginary enemies.
"He's alive!" Criston said. "Captain--Orico is alive!"
But the cook's hemorrhaged eyes were blank. Thick dark
blood still oozed from the wound in his stomach. The dead man sat up and grasped the gunwale with one hand.
Prester Jerard blessed himself. "He was dead. I'm sure of it!"
"He still is," Sen Nikol mumbled. "The island calls him."
Criston tried to pull Orico back down; one of the sailors released his oar and grabbed the cook's other arm, but Orico shook them off with inhuman strength, pulled himself to his knees and then to his feet, nearly capsizing the boat. "What is he doing? Stop him!"
But the dead man did not hear them. He saw nothing but the island, and the wall, and the skeleton armies there. He threw himself over the side of the boat with a great splash. Criston shouted after him. Orico bobbed to the surface again and began to swim, making his way back to the strange shore, mindlessly determined. With the oars stilled, the boat drifted and the men sat in uneasy silence, terrified and not sure what to do. Criston felt the sticky blood on his hands and clothes. Shay clenched and unclenched his fists, staring into the water. "The island has him now." "It's not the island that has him," Sen Nikol corrected. "It's the war. He is part of that endless battle now. He will never rest." 
	34
	Khenara, Outer Wahilir
	On the Uraban coastline south of Ishalem, Zarif Omra inspected the new and heavily armed bireme war galleys being constructed in Khenara. The attack ships could not be built fast enough, as far as he was concerned. The Aidenists' appalling response to Ambassador Giladen's peace overture could not be ignored.
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 177 
	Long oars extended from the sides of each war galley. Beaten sheets of bronze plated the hulls. The melted-down statue of Oenar had provided enough metal for sixteen ships and two hundred curved swords. A sharp bronze beak thrust forward from each prow, ready to splinter the hull of any enemy vessel. Brightly dyed square sails of reinforced Yuarej silk were emblazoned with the Eye of Urec, which was no longer a benevolent guide, but the angry eye of a vengeful demigod.
Praying together and interpreting one another's dreams, the sikaras said they had received clear guidance, granting them not only Urec's permission but his blessing to melt down the second giant statue in Olabar. The spirit of Urec would live within the metal--so their dreams said--to guide the resulting weapons to shed Aidenist blood. Crowding the churches for sunset services, Urabans cheered and gave thanks, but Omra watched them in cynical silence. He knew the priestesses were simply being practical in announcing their revelations. Uraban armies needed the metal.
The surreptitious Gremurr mining operations had also been dramatically expanded and stocked with hundreds of new slaves. Iron from the mines was used to make adequate steel, which would produce the best swords.
In order to launch this swift attack fleet from Khenara, Omra had ridden long and hard from the capital city, following the caravan route from Inner Wahilir, over the pass, and down to Outer Wahilir, where Soldan Attar was still drunk with self-satisfaction at how he had "defeated and punished" the Aidenist pilgrims in the ruins of Ishalem.
Omra despised the other leader for that stupid act. Inexorable tides had thrown Urecari and Aidenist against one another in this deadly clash, but Attar had forced Uraba into battle before they had time to prepare adequately. Fool!
178 Kevin J. Anderson 
	Pointing to the offense against Ambassador Giladen, Attar felt vindicated in his actions. "You see--they are all animals!" All Urabans had recoiled at the story of how the emissary had been murdered, the proposed peace document skewered to the deck and covered in excrement, the corpse-filled ship left to crash clumsily into the harbor of Tener. The Tierrans had given their answer.
Though his father was sickened by the news, Omra had found the inner steel to make the necessary decision. "You tried, Father, but now a new course has been set for us. If this is to be war, we have no alternative but to crush the Aidenists. In the name of Urec and Ondun, we have to wipe them out. All of them."
He gathered his armies and departed from Olabar immediately, leaving his wife, Cliaparia, behind in the palace, barely remembering to say farewell to her. For several months, she had doted on him and given him gifts, but she had not secured a place in either his heart or his mind. Though a skilled lover and certainly beautiful, Cliaparia lived only in his peripheral vision.
Omra occupied his thoughts with war, violence, bloodshed; it was the surest way to distract himself from the loss of Istar. In the past, whenever he'd had to leave sweet Istar behind, their parting had been difficult, and he had missed her every day. By contrast, although he had not seen Cliaparia in weeks, it took him a moment to recall exactly what she looked like
Soldan Attar came up to him, accompanied by sixteen guards that made him appear important. After giving a formal bow, the leader of Outer Wahilir gestured toward the harbor, where the warships were being provisioned. "We can launch by the next full moon, Zarif. The autumn winds will pick up, but the storms will not yet have set in. We can overwhelm the Aidenists."
"I believe that this war will not be won by a mere clash of
I
weapons and soldiers," Omra said. "The Tierrans have armies too, but we must be smarter. We must follow my plan."
He was not naive enough to think that their enemies would surrender easily or be defeated within the first year--or even the first five years. Urec's Log stated that each life had more than one possible course, and the bravest navigator considered all paths. So Omra had already developed an unusual scheme. When raiding the coastal villages of Tierra, his soldiers had very explicit orders.
"Our men are trained and ready," Attar continued. "All those who rode with me to Ishalem, who helped to punish the Aidenist H prester-marshall and his followers, wish to join this attack and bring pain and ruin to Tierra. I, myself, shall captain one of the ships." The soldan's chest swelled. "Thus I avenge my brother's death."
"You have had your revenge," Omra said icily. "You will stay here."
"It is my right! These are my ships."
Omra did not raise his voice, but it was as sharp as a newly forged sword. "These ships belong to the soldan-shah, my father. They will serve the cause in whatever way I see fit. You are the soldan of Outer Wahilir. You will stay here and manage your lands, operate your shipyards, and prepare to receive the hostages we bring back from Tierra. That is the course I have set for you. If you cannot follow the map, then perhaps Outer Wahilir should have a new soldan."
Attar took an involuntary step backward, quickly raising his hands. "Please forgive me, Zarif! My emotions run high with thoughts of battle, and I forget myself."
Omra was sincere when he added in a faintly conciliatory lone, "This is but the first battle--the first of many, Soldan.
Before this war is over, there will be enough blood spilled to slake the greatest thirst. That is my promise."
He did not add that his prediction was also his greatest fear. 
	J !3 Calay
	After the Urecari atrocities, Mateo knew it was time for him to become an adult. Once he entered the Tierran army, he would leave his current life and set a new course, far from everything he'd ever known--from Calay, from the castle, from Anjine.
Before returning home, he would have to complete a year of service and instruction in each of the five reaches. By the time he finished five years of training, he would be almost eighteen. That seemed so far off, he wondered if Anjine would still remember him.
Mateo spent the next several days in the Military District watching the royal guard drill. He saw the soldiers' families, watched their children playing around the barracks. No matter how hard he tried, he could not imagine what his life would soon be like. Although he had always dreamed of serving as a uniformed member of the royal guard and protecting King Korastine, just as his father had done, he had never given much thought to the training process.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tiny, plaintive squeak. Glancing around, he spotted a stray kitten in an alley, looking up at him and mewing. Mateo bent down to play with the kitten, whose mud-crusted fur was mostly white, with large patches of black and highlights of tan. Its ears were nearly as large as its oversized head. The kitten appeared very young, very alone, and
181 
	very hungry. It could not have been weaned for more than a few weeks--if that. Yet when he bent down and extended a hand, the kitten seemed to burst with joy, butting Mateo's palm with its head, rubbing against him, and purring with great exuberance. It mewed with a shrill, earnest plaintiveness.
"What are you doing here? Where's your mother?" He picked up the kitten, and it curled against him, settling into a perfect pocket between his arm and chest. It showed no intention of ever detaching itself from him. Since Mateo would soon depart for training, he could not keep a pet. But he knew exactly what to do with it.
Cradling the kitten in the crook of his arm, he made his way back to the castle. There, in the kitchens, he scrounged a bowl of milk from the cook staff. While they all adored the cute kitten, two flour-dusted women commented that the scrawny thing would not live another week. But the kitten ravenously slurped the milk, then finished a second bowl more slowly before it licked its chops, immensely satisfied with itself.
The kitten was less pleased, however, when Mateo scrubbed at the caked mud with a wet rag. After it was nearly clean, the kitten look over and contentedly groomed itself. When the kitten--a male--was fully presentable, Mateo carried him off to Anjine, where she sat at her studies in the solarium of the castle.
"My going-away gift to you." Mateo felt strangely awkward. "Someone has to watch over you and keep you entertained while I'm gone."
With an indrawn breath of delight, Anjine accepted the kitten, which seemed as contented to be in her hands as in Mateo's. She scratched the back of its head until the kitten released another I mrst of loud purring. "What's his name?" The castle had plenty | if cats to keep down the mouse and rat population, but Anjine had never adopted one as her own.
With a mischievous wink and his best courtly bow, Mateo said, "The honor of naming His Royal Furriness is yours, Princess Tolli."
Anjine grinned, regarded the kitten with its black, white, and light tan fur for a moment, then touched its little pink nose. He batted her finger with a paw. She giggled and gave Mateo a warm smile. "Sinceyou're going away, I'm going to call him Jycho. He and I will have to make our own adventures while you're gone."
A warmth spread through his chest. "I wanted to give you something to help you remember me"
"Of course I'll remember you!" She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and he blushed furiously, but Anjine, engrossed in playing with Tycho, seemed to think no more of it. 
	In the large Soldiers' Hall in the Military District, Mateo joined the other new recruits--the first hundred young men gathered from the districts of Calay. The call for new soldiers had gone out across the five reaches, and more recruits would be trickling in soon.
A square-jawed man with a long shock of gray hair that looked like the crest atop a warrior's helmet bellowed for them all to be silent. Comdar Delnas, who had been in charge of the Tierran military for many years of relative peace, bellowed, "You must serve a year in each of the five reaches, and at the end of that time some of you may wish to sign up for a further year of service in the Calay city guard. By moving from one end of the continent to the other, you will become familiar with every land and every people, every hardship and living condition. Not only is this good for you, it is good for Tierra, for in this way our continent's army is perfectly mixed, and every battalion understands that we are five reaches but one kingdom."
Mateo observed the recruits around him. Some of the young
men were nervous, some excited; most wore prominent fishhook pendants at their throats. Two young boys argued in whispers about whether they preferred to go to Erietta or Alamont first. The general consensus was that Soeland and Corag were the most miserable reaches. Since he would have to serve in each place, Mateo didn't particularly care where he started.
Two veteran soldiers came forward with stiff steps. One man held a tablet and stylus, the other a large beaten-copper pot. Delnas announced, "Each of the five chits inside this pot is inscribed with the name of a reach. Come forward, speak your name so it may be recorded, then draw a chit, which will tell you your first assignment."
Though many of the soldiers had known his father, Ereo Bornan, Mateo expected no special treatment, nor did he receive any. As a soldier, he might eventually distinguish himself by his own skills or I >ravery, but for now he was the same as all the others.
The young men formed a line and came forward, each speaking his name for the first veteran to inscribe on the tablet, and reached into the pot to withdraw a chit. After all five disks had been withdrawn, they were thrown back in and the process started again. Occasionally, one of the young men cheered or grumbled about his assignment.
Mateo drew Alamont. He nodded without comment. He was issued a standard pack and a weapon. The Alamont destrar would provide the armor and uniform during his year of service
Ihere.
Now that he knew his assignment, Mateo had one day to get
I1is (hings in order. Returning to the castle at dusk, he found Aiijine playing with Tycho, who already seemed much healthier. She had fashioned a toy from a scrap of cloth tied to a length of tiring, which she wiggled above the kitten's head. Tycho seemed h> find it endlessly entertaining, jumping again and again to
catch his "prey." Princess Anjine smiled uncertainly at Mateo. "When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow--forAlamont."
She shook her head, marveling at him. "My friend Mateo... a brave soldier." He thought he saw a shimmer of tears welling in her eyes. He gave her a wry smile. "I do it for my king, and for you--my friend and future queen." He winked. "Long live Queen Tolli." 
	36
	Corag Reach
	Inside the workshops of Stoneholm, Aldo watched the finest Corag metalsmiths use tweezers, delicate saws edged with diamond chips, and fine files to fashion intricate gears and precisely measured gauges, following each step exactly according to the blueprints. Sen Leo had given him an important charge, and the young man insisted on monitoring each step of the progress--making a pest of himself--even though it gave him precious little time to explore the Corag countryside. The craftsmen grudgingly tolerated his presence. Hovering over them, Aldo peered through their magnifying lenses, wanting to inspect everything. Finally, in his enthusiasm, he bumped a metalsmith who was attempting to slide a tiny axle into a minute hinge. The man spoke to Aldo with little anger, but implacable certainty. "Leave. We will deliver these instruments when they are done, and we do not wish to see you again before then." "But I'm paying for it!"
"Yes, you are the customer, and we are the craftsmen," said
the man. "You do your part, which is to pay us. We will do our part, which is to create the finest possible instruments--without interference."
Since he was only a guest among these gruff and isolated people, Aldo had no choice but to obey. He was far from his people, his parents, his home; to the best of his knowledge, there was no Saedran temple in this entire reach. Standing beyond the cliff overhang outside of Stoneholm, he looked westward, imagining the rivers and the Oceansea, picturing it all on the Mappa Mundi. Destrar Siescu had given him leave to explore wherever he wished. It would be foolish not to take advantage of his great opportunity.
While the metalworkers continued the fabrication project in their underground workrooms, Aldo had spent some of his remaining coins to buy a sheet of paper and a lead stylus, and then he went outside.
The mountain air was cold with a stiff breeze, but the shining sun offered enough heat that he could stay outside for a short while without shivering too much. He climbed a well-worn path to the huge stone Ship's Prow chiseled out of the living rock. 1 )uring an evening meal of hot soup and warm bread, Destrar Siescu had told Aldo that generations of workmen had carved I hat gigantic sculpture to remind them of their origins from Aid en's Arkship.
Now, from the cold platform of the granite forecastle on the immense prow, Aldo had the best view of the rugged mountain range. He smoothed the sheet of paper, weighted down the cornrrs with small rocks, and studied the craggy landscape. He carefully aligned key marks with specific reference points and meticulously began to draw the nearby peaks. Across the dirty patches of snow, he saw thin and winding paths that spread out toward other high meadows and lost villages.
Concerned with the sea, Saedran chartsmen had little need to understand deep and mostly uninhabited mountainous terrain, but now he saw the subtleties of low passes, steep couloirs, snow-filled cirques, hanging valleys, avalanche chutes, high alpine meadows, and sheltered basins. The details of the Corag wilderness and possible paths to the Middlesea beyond that barrier of crags were not on the Mappa Mundi. Though Sen Leo had sent him here on a specific mission, Aldo could accomplish more than simply obtaining new navigation instruments.
Excited by his new project, he went inside and bundled up in warm clothing before returning to his sketching platform, where with intense care, he charted all the peaks in sight. Each mountaintop was distinctive, with a special character all its own... like an unexplored island.
He was so intent on his drawing that he did not notice the man approaching the stone Ship's Prow. He was surprised when Destrar Siescu, wrapped in a bulk of thick furs with a hood and padded mittens, appeared beside him. "My Saedran friend, they tell me you enjoy staring at our mountains."
"I am mapping them." Aldo couldn't recall that he had ever seen Siescu outside his sheltered city, certainly not so far from a roaring fire. The man looked painfully cold out in the open. "I'll explore this range, just as sailors explore the sea."
Siescu stared out at the mountains and drew in a breath of the thin mountain air. "We don't need the ocean. Our people are descendants of Aiden's crew, but just as Aiden sailed away from Terravitae, so we have left the sea and come ashore on this rugged new land. Some might see a place of harsh rocks, but I see the beauty of these mountains. Each of those peaks has a name, you know." Siescu pointed with his mitten vaguely toward one of the mountains. "That is the Raven's Head. To the left is
1 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 187
	I! the Sentinel. To the left of that is Thunder Crag. The three tallest mountains are named after the brothers--Aiden,Joron, and Urec. Those over there are named after the five reaches."
This sort of information was exactly what Aldo needed. "I'd like to know the names and any information about the paths and passes. Has anyone reached the Middlesea from here?"
Siescu rubbed his mittened hands together. "Oh, there have been explorers, shepherds, travelers who made their way to the cliffs. Some say there are difficult paths that lead down to the water, but why would we want to go there? The people of Corag left the sea behind. We are content here."
B'' The destrar shivered, though Aldo didn't feel particularly cold in the bright sunshine. Siescu said, "I will send men here to help you identify the mountains. We know to respect your people, since Saedran knowledge has saved many ships from being destroyed against the rocks or lost at sea."
He paused in his shivering, turned his face up to the sky, then back to the giant stone prow. "King Korastine has announced plans to go to war and asked for many more soldier-volunteers from Gorag. I will see that he gets them. When you go back to Calay, tell them that we are loyal Aidenists and furious at what (he evil Urecari have done."
Pulling his furs tight, Siescu trudged away, leaving Aldo both excited and unsettled. Within an hour, a gruff old miner came to stand with him, looking at the sketched map and comparing it to I lie distant peaks. As Aldo added details, the miner pointed out hidden paths, canyons, villages, roadways.
The next day, a different man came and offered additional details. Aldo was thrilled with the sheer amount of information I ic was compiling. He took extra time to embellish his drawing, ndding detail lines, drawing birds in the sky, fluffy clouds, rushing torrents along the slopes. This was more than mere informa
tion; it was a work of art. He had never seen such a gloriously beautiful--and accurate--map.
He lost track of time and was surprised when, within a week, the metalsmiths announced that they had completed all of the instruments according to the blueprint specifications. Aldo inspected the ornate clock, the astrolabe, sextant, and the combination instruments, and pronounced each one satisfactory.
The instruments were packed in crates to protect them from damage in transit. Aldo sealed and preserved his map, rolling it tightly to fit in the specially locked cylinder that had held the original blueprints. Aldo wanted to make sure the embellished map was not damaged, torn, or waterstained en route. With the tube's clever seals, Aldo knew that if anything happened to him, the Corag map could be opened only by one of his people.
When he was ready to go, Destrar Siescu offered him a guide and two shaggy pack ponies to carry the boxes down out of the mountains to the river, where Aldo waited to catch the next boat, anxious to return to Calay. 
	37
	The Luminara
	The great storm built for two days before it threw its full fury against the Luminara.
The seas turned gray, and the clouds overhead became a clotted blackness, like smoke over Ishalem. The waves grew higher than the cliffs around the harbor that sheltered the village of Windcatch.
Early yesterday, Captain'Shay had ordered the sails tied up and the crates and barrels battened down. The ship climbed
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 189 
	the rolling waves, teetered, then crashed down into the troughs. Spray washed over the decks. Most of the crewmen huddling belowdecks were knocked against bulkheads or beams. Barrels and kegs broke loose from their ties and rolled across the floor. Loose objects became projectiles.
Up in the lookout nest, strapped to the mast so he wouldn't be flung to his death by the tossing vessel, Criston tried to peer through the sheeting rain and upflung spray. Despite the limited visibility, he kept watch for swaths of white foam that might indicate reefs or rocky shoals, but even if he sighted something, he doubted his warning shout would be heard above the din.
Lightning crackled overhead, flashing like a momentary torch across the churning waves. The ship's masts swayed like inverted pendulums, dipping toward the water until he was sure the Luminara would capsize, but each time her well-built hull righted itself, and she pushed on for her very survival.
Since clouds had blocked the sky for two days, Sen Nikol had not been able to use the stars and his instruments to determine their position. During those two days, the current had whisked them along in one direction, while the breezes pushed them at an angle. At times they had made enormous speed, while at other times Criston thought they were being pushed back the way they had come. They had sailed in a great circle--west, then south, and now east again. As the bad weather continued, crewmen had struggled to cast nets overboard for the daily catch--but inexplicably all the nets came up empty. It was as though all the fish in the Oceansea had vanished.
Pelted by rain and shivering, Criston remembered tales the sailors had exchanged about the Leviathan, a single creature so enormous and deadly that even Ondun had feared to create a mate for it. According to legend, all fish fled in terror when the Leviathan was near.
Down on the deck, spray continued to gush over the rails and a limited crew of deck workers held fast to their ropes. Captain Shay clung to the wheel, trying to keep the Luminara under his control, wrestling with the course. The frightened sailors sent Prester Jerard topside, so he could pray to Ondun for their safety. The old man did so with great vehemence, but Criston saw no slackening of the ferocious weather.
Sen Nikol staggered across the deck, the winds blowing his pale robes. Holding one of his navigation instruments, he struggled toward the captain's wheel, where he studied the magnetic compass to get his bearings to north, then the Captain's Compass to align their direction to Calay. But the Luminara was thrown up and down so wildly that both compass needles wavered, making them virtually useless.
With his instruments, the Saedran chartsman made his way to the side of the ship and tried to find any star that might provide a position. A tall curling wave capped with a crest of white rose silently, like a predator, smashed across the deck of the Luminara, and swept Sen Nikol overboard into the turbulent waves.
Criston screamed down to the wheel, and Captain Shay bellowed for help. But none of the sailors could leave their ropes. Sen Nikol was gone. A smaller wave curled over the rail where the Saedran had stood, washing away even his lingering footprints from the wet deck.
The deck crew was in a panic at the loss of the chartsman. Without Sen Nikol, they would not know where they were or where they had gone.
Captain Shay held fast to the wheel, soaked, battered by the driving rain. Criston heard a loud crack, and saw the top of the mizzen mast snap, then tumble over in a tangle of rigging. The bunched sails sagged, and under the weight, the second yardarm broke free.
I 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 191
	The ship heeled about and bore the brunt of the waves amidships. The captain could no longer steer. Criston had to tighten his lashings to keep from being thrown out of the lookout nest; at any moment even the mainmast could break in half, and he would crash to his death--or vanish into the water.
Terrified, he suddenly understood what his father must have felt just before his fishing boat sank. He thought of Adrea and hoped she was safe. :
But in his instant of greatest despair, Criston saw a glimmer of light off in the distance. It grew brighter, then dimmed, then brightened again... like a beacon. The dazzling light stabbed through the furious storm, and Criston pointed and shouted, "A light! A light!" over the howl of the wind, but he didn't think anyone heard him.
Could this be the Lighthouse at the end of the world, from the story Prester Jerard had told? Where the cursed man kept endless watch for Ondun's return? If the Luminara could reach that place, they would be saved. The island with the Lighthouse was not far from Terravitae!
He called out again but could not make himself heard. Captain Shay needed to know about this. Criston unlashed himself and swung down, clinging to ratlines that were slick from the pounding rain. With hands that were strong and callused, he worked his way to the first yardarm, hooked his arm through the ropes for stability, and looked out again. Yes, the beacon was still there--and brighter now. Surely other crewmen had noticed it! He stared, yearning for that light, knowing what it represented. He wasn't looking down at the sea. Even if he could have sounded an alarm, it was far too late.
The monster that rose from the black depths was impervious to the storm, greater than ten sea serpents. Its bullet-shaped head was as large as the Luminara's prow, and when it opened its
|
maw, Criston saw row upon row of sharp teeth, each one as long as an oar. It had a single round squidlike eye in the center of its forehead, and spines like a mane around its neck and ringing its gills. Armfuls of tentacles sprouted from each side, lined with wet suckers, each with a barb in its center. The tentacle ends were blind sea serpents, opening to show fang-filled mouths.
For a moment, Criston could not speak, could not breathe. He found his voice and bellowed with all his strength and all his soul, projecting his voice with enough power to call the attention of the sailors on deck. "Leviathan!"
Alongside the Luminara, the Leviathan rode the waves as though they were mere ripples. Lightning lanced out, flashing an otherworldly white glow upon its scales. The monstrous tentacles smashed into the foremast, breaking away the yardarms with unreal ease, plucking the white canvas sail like a petal from a flower before casting it into the water. The tentacles' fanged mouths snapped down, splintering the ship's rail. Two snakelike appendages snatched hapless crewmen and tossed them into the Leviathan's maw.
Captain Shay charged to the prow and grabbed a harpoon from its hooks. While other sailors were screaming, Shay stared at the monster as though mentally cataloguing its interesting aspects, then hurled the harpoon directly at its single eye. Criston had seen him throw a harpoon many months ago, skewering the Uraban pirate Fillok, but because of the ship's lurching, his aim was not true. The harpoon's jagged iron tip struck the side of the milky eye and glanced off, skittering along the scales with a flash of unexpected sparks. Captain Shay cursed the beast, raising his fists in the air.
The Leviathan reared high, opened its great mouth, and bit down, splintering wood, taking the Luminarah bow--and swallowing Captain Shay along with it.
if
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 193
Fighting for balance, desperate not to lose his grip, Griston struggled down the mast. Belatedly, sailors on deck sprang back into action. They ran to the other harpoons to attack the Leviathan. The monster's fanged tentacles lifted crew members into the rain-whipped air and tore them apart.
When a hastily thrown harpoon stuck in one of the Leviathan's heaving gill slits, the creature let out an unholy roar, halfway between the sound of thunder and the bellow of a hundred dying whales. It submerged, but it did not go away. After a few tense seconds, it rose again, this time smashing the Luminara from below, fatally breaking her keel and lifting the entire hull from the water. Planks sheared off like chaff in a thresher.
% Crewmen screamed. Many fell overboard, while others, still struggling up through the hatches to join the fight, were smashed or seized by tentacles. First Mate Willin finally made it to the deck, only to be crushed by a falling yardarm.
Criston could barely hold on. He grabbed a rope, still trying to make his way down to the deck, while the monster continued its attack.
Water poured into the large holes in the hull. The ship's foremast was uprooted like a weed. The Leviathan broke the deck and folded the mortally wounded Luminara in half. The great sailing ship fell into pieces on the sea.
Finally losing his grip on the rain-slick rope, Criston was thrown into the churning waves, which lifted him high and pounded him back down again. Choking, spitting water, he struggled to the surface, but the rushing sea whisked him far from the wreck. He could still hear the other crewmen screaming.
A yardarm floated by, tangled with thick rope and a scrap of sail. Criston clung to the wood, holding on with the desperate instinct of survival, but he knew he would be dead soon. As the
Luminara sank and the Leviathan hunted the last few screaming, struggling sailors, the currents and the storm swept him away. 
	38
	Off the Coast of Tierra
	With sixteen armored war galleys and hundreds of angry warriors at his command, Zarif Orara launched the raiding party from the docks in Khenara. All sails were set to show the vengeful Eye of Urec. Their journey past the blackened scar of Ishalem only served to motivate the fighters further. When they entered Tierran waters, the fighters continued up the coast in search of Aidenist fishing villages. They attacked every one they found.
With such an overwhelming force against undefended towns, each Urecari strike was more a massacre than a military engagement. Their scimitars were invincible and their victories dramatic, and the zarif learned that his most effective weapon was despair. The Aidenists could not deny that the followers of Urec were far stronger, that their faith was an anchor that held Omra and his men, while the rival religion was cast adrift.
After two easy conquests that left smoking towns and destroyed harbors behind them, Omra had lost only five fighters, and their bodies had been wrapped up and cast overboard with proper ceremony. The murdered villagers were simply left behind to rot. Captive Tierran children already filled the hold of one of the war galleys. The crew of that ship complained about babysitting when they should have been fighting, but a stern reprimand from Omra silenced their talk.
Gliding farther up the coast, the war galleys encountered and
attacked two fishing boats. Omra put every Aidenist crew member to the sword, then scuttled the boats before sailing onward. He left no one alive to spread a warning as his fleet moved along like hunting sharks.
Omra spied an opening in the coastline guarded by a low K wall of rock that formed a small natural harbor. With the breeze in his face, the zarif could smell the lingering stench of rotting seaweed. As he stared at the village nestled within the cove, he ordered the war ships to blockade the harbor. According to the questionable maps Uraban traders had provided, the name of this place was Windcatch. 
	From the broad open windows of his kirk, which sat on a small rise on the outskirts of the village, Prester Fennan spotted the approach of foreign war galleys. He grasped the rope and furiously clanged the bronze bell normally used to call worshippers to his dawn services.
Urecari attack boats swarmed into the harbor, and raiders disembarked at the town docks or sloshed onto the shingle beach. The men set fire to overturned dinghies, slashed fishing nets hung out to dry, then surged into the small village.
Fennan continued to ring the bell, hoping that some of the people would stand and fight, knowing that others would flee into the hills. Either way, he had raised the alarm.
That morning, Ciarlo had been studying with the prester inside the kirk, helping him prepare for the next dawn's prayers. Immediately upon seeing the sign of Urec on the raiders' bright sails, however, they both knew the Aidenist kirk would be a target. Fires had already been started down by the wharves, and black smoke rose from boathouses and the harbormaster's office shanty.
From the hill, Ciarlo watched dock workers grabbing boat
poles or oars to defend themselves, but the attackers struck them down with scimitars and moved onward, attacking everyone from old women to overweight shopkeepers. "They are coming here, Prester. We have to fight for the kirk!"
"The Urecari will not respect the fishhook, boy. They'll burn this place down," Fennan said, still panting from his bell ringing. "You have to survive. We can rebuild the kirk, but they can't destroy our faith." Frustrated, Ciarlo moved away from the altar with an exaggerated limp. "I'm not going to be running very far." "Go into my office. Look for a trapdoor beneath my writing table. We keep our service wine there and some precious artifacts down in the root cellar. You will be safe enough." "No--I will fight with you!"
"This is not a fight we can win, boy. And you"--Fennan glanced at Giarlo's damaged leg--"you are not a warrior." "You aren't a warrior, either--you're a prester! I'll stand with you and die with you, if we both must die." "But we both don't have to die. Go and take shelter."
"You don't have to die either."
Loud shouts rang out in the yard in front of the kirk. Fennan ran to the wooden main door and pressed his shoulder against it just as heavy fists began pounding. He threw his weight to stop the raiders from crashing inside, but it wouldn't hold long. As a kirk, it did not have a crossbar to lock the door. "Go! Ciarlo, go now--I can't delay them more than a few minutes." Wrestling with his thoughts, Ciarlo lurched toward the door to help Fennan, but the prester roared at him. "Do as I say! I am giving you a chance." "No!"
Fennan strained against the door that rattled and shuddered
as the Urecari men threw themselves against it. One of the planks cracked. "I command it! You are my acolyte--obey me!"
Biting back a useless response, Ciarlo staggered off, still defiantly trying to show that he could run, but failing miserably. Prester Fennan was right. He got to the back room, found the hidden trapdoor underneath the table, and used the fingerholes to lift it.
The Urecari raiders hammered the door with the hilts of their scimitars and smashed the colored windows, hurling curses in their looping, glottal language. Prester Fennan yelled as the kirk doors splintered open, and a swarm of Urecari men rushed inside, bowling him over. Terrified, Ciarlo ducked into the back room just in time, as a freezing chill washed through his bones. Those men would murder Prester Fennan, and they would destroy the kirk.
We can rebuild the kirk, but we can't rebuild our faith. '; Fennan was still trying to buy him time, knowing that Ciarlo could not move swiftly. In the back room, struggling to get into the hiding place, the young man cursed himself, cursed his old injury.
Backing to the altar, the village prester seized his thick Book of Aiden and lifted it as a shield, but one of the foreign invaders struck him down with two brutal blows of a scimitar. Then they began to ransack the kirk.
Terrified, Ciarlo understood now that fighting the Urecari here could serve no purpose and would only get him killed. He dropped into the dark root cellar beneath the kirk and pulled the trapdoor shut, praying he wouldn't be found.
He heard battering sounds above, the clomp of booted feet, shouts, smashing glass and splintering wood. After a long moment, they fell silent.
Then Ciarlo smelled smoke.
Running through the streets of Windcatch, Adrea pulled Cris ton's mother with her toward their home, hoping to barricade themselves inside. The raiders were smashing into shops, setting roofs on fire, seizing screaming children and dragging them back to their boats, killing virtually everyone else.
Her pregnancy was showing now. It would be another two months or more before Adrea delivered her baby, and her swollen belly made it difficult to run or fight. Telha was a scrappy woman, yes, but she would be easy prey for these awful men--Adrea had just seen well-muscled fishermen and strong dockworkers fall under a flurry of flashing swords. She and the old woman had no chance.
And the invaders kept coming. Another boatload of raiders landed on the beach, and large warships bottled up the harbor.
Ciarlo was with Prester Fennan, and the kirk was one of the sturdiest buildings in Windcatch, but as she reached the house, Adrea looked up the hill and saw the kirk burning. She felt a stabbing pain in her heart, knowing her brother was probably trapped, and he might already be dead. Telha abruptly pushed her daughter-in-law into the shelter of their house. "Whether he's alive or dead, you can't do anything for Ciarlo now." She slammed the door, and Adrea helped pile furniture against it. They built additional barricades by the windows, breathing heavily, listening to the sounds outside, looking at each other's fearful eyes.
Summoning her determination and hatred against these strangers who had come like a storm to her village, Adrea took up a heavy cast-iron pan and a long gutting knife. Telha grabbed another pan and a broomstick that she could wield as a club.
They waited together, praying that the raiders would lose interest and return to their ships. But parties of men were systematically going through the streets of Windcatch, smashing
doors and murdering everyone they found. At the beginning of the raid, Adrea had seen villagers abandon their homes and flee into the hills; now she wished that she and Telha had done the same, for the raiders were on all sides.
Adrea brandished her makeshift weapons as men hammered on the plank door, shouting in a language she didn't understand. Hearing no answer, the raiders crashed through, splitting the 11 hinges and pushing their way inside.
Telha thrust her broomstick into the gut of the first one, knocking the wind out of him. As he staggered forward, she used the I heavy pan to split his skull, and he dropped to the floor. Three I more men surged in, raising their scimitars. Emboldened by her first victory, Telha let out a yell and swung the pan at another man's face.
But this seasoned warrior had no compunction about killing an old woman. He thrust the sword point directly into her chest, just below the heart, paused, then rammed the blade all the way through, up to the hilt. He jerked the sword free and let Telha drop to the floor.
Adrea let out an animalistic scream, vowing to sell her life dearly. She flailed with the pan, slashed with the gutting knife, and cut a severe gash in a man's arm. A fighter wrenched the pan out of her hand, and she whirled to cut him as well.
Another Urecari man entered, and she saw he was dressed in the finery of a prince, but he too was spattered in blood-- Windcatch blood. Blinded by her rage and despair, Adrea thought only of killing him. 
	Omra had witnessed enough death and destruction in one day to make him stop seeing it all. He had decreed that these people must die, and he moved methodically to witness the purge of this Aidenist village. He didn't count the deaths; instead, he counted
the number of children taken away as trophies, but he felt only a faint glimmer of satisfaction. It had been a long time since he'd felt any real passion. Not since the death of Istar.
As his fighters burst into one particular home, he saw a young woman, her old mother killed before her eyes. She fought like a desert cougar, her fear abandoned. His soldiers overwhelmed her, wrested the cast-iron pan from her hand, and ducked her slashing knife (though two men were cut).
Something about her spirit moved him--and when he suddenly realized that she was pregnant, and further along than Istar had been when the miscarriage had claimed both her and his unborn son, Omra was stunned into unexpected paralysis. He could not drive away the bright image of sweet Istar and their lost child.
"Stop!" he shouted before the raiders could kill her. The woman wielded her knife and had raised her chin, ready to die. "Stop, I said!" Omra moved to intervene. "Take her with us." They had already gathered a few other women from the previous raided villages, either to be sold as slaves or to tend the captive children.
One of his men, a brash soldier from Soldan Attar's army with adrenaline-bright eyes, challenged him. "She is one oithem. She's already cut--"
Omra wasted no time with hesitation and no breath on threats. He drew his own dagger and in a swift arc, as if slicing open a fish, he slashed the other man's throat, opening wide a second mouth beneath his jaw. The man staggered back, eyes wide, palms going to the wound as if he could catch the gushing scarlet fluid and push it back into his veins.
"Who else questions my orders?" Omra glared at the others.
The dying man collapsed with a wet thud on the floor, still twitching, still pouring out blood. The pregnant woman did not
I
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 201 
	stare in shock at the murdered raider. Instead, her gaze was cold but uncertain; she didn't tear her eyes from Omra's.
	KHe looked at her face rather than her rounded belly, confused as to why he had done this. "This woman is to be spared, I said. Take her back to the boats with the other prisoners."
As the raiders seized her, the woman struggled. As far as Omra could tell, she was not particularly pleased that he had saved her life. 
	39
	Calay
	As reports of Urecari depredations reached Calay, Anjine realized just how unprepared Tierra was for war. The Iborian shipwrights had only just begun to construct a full-fledged navy, and all seasoned soldiers were being rushed aboard any military ship that Tierra could muster.
Four coastal towns had been attacked, people slaughtered, homes burned, boats sunk. Survivors claimed that the Urecari had taken many children and some women as prisoners, dragging them off to their war galleys. Some believed the children would be roasted and eaten in heathen rituals, since the followers of Urec were said to love the taste of tender young flesh. Anjine had never heard such stories before, despite reading the Book of Aiden and listening to the sermons of presters. Now, however, those tales had become common knowledge.
After Mateo departed on a riverboat for his military training in Alamont Reach, Anjine had too much time to herself, and she missed having Mateo around to keep her company. No more adventures disguised as Tycho and Tolli, no more childhood.
King Korastine wanted to spend many hours patiently instructing her in statecraft, but one emergency after another sapped his energies. Every day, her father looked more weary and red-eyed as he planned his response to the latest Urecari outrages. He was convinced that the world had only begun to see the first droplets of a much larger storm.
Anjine made her way through the castle looking for her kitten. "Tycho!" But he did not yet know his name, and the castle offered a wealth of rooms and crannies for him to explore. The kitten had become extremely energetic, and he discovered countless hiding places. Each time she found him, he let out a thin, delighted meow and sprang toward her with gold-green eyes bright, ears pricked, and tail aloft. As she held him and petted him, Tycho set up a loud purr until he became restless again, squirmed out of her arms, and raced off to play.
Now she couldn't find him, and she worried he might have gotten hurt. "Tycho!" she called again, heading up the steps to the higher levels of the castle. Each riser was tall, but the kitten could bound up one step after another, until he reached the next floor, where he would find new hiding places.
Anjine discovered Tycho in the tower room where she'd once met with the king, Sen Leo na-Hadra, and Prester-Marshall Baine, when they had decided to send a reconstruction crew to Ishalem. "There you are, little mischief-maker!" She gathered the kitten, scratched under his chin, stroked the top of his head. Tycho looked at her with a curious expression, as if wondering why she had taken so long to find him. Anjine laughed at how silly he looked.
Then her gaze lifted to the shelf, where the detailed sympathetic model of the Luminara rested. The replica lay destroyed, smashed to splinters.
Tycho squirmed in her arms and jumped down to the floor, wanting to play, but Anjine stared dumbly at the model. Everything was broken apart. The Luminara had been wrecked!
She raced from the chamber and bounded down the stone stairs three at a time. She had to tell her father the awful news. 
	40
	Olabar
	Recovering his strength by faith and sheer force of will, Prester Hannes had healed sufficiently that he could get out of bed. But he did not let Asha know how strong he had become. Every day trapped in Olabar, and tended by the soldan-shah's wife, pained him like a knife tip worrying at his wounds.
Asha treated him like one of her pets: coddling him, feeding him. She prayed over his bed, expecting Hannes to join in as she attempted to sell his soul to a false god. He bided his time.
When she left him alone in the beautifully appointed chambers of her residence (along with three cages of birds that would not stop singing), Hannes climbed out of bed and found a loose green robe among other garments in the room. Hissing in pain but clamping his lips together to stifle any sound, he struggled to get dressed. He had no thought for what he would do beyond escaping. Nothing else mattered now.
Hannes whispered a heartfelt prayer, asking Aiden for deliverance from this place, then grasped the bedpost and swayed, gathering his energy. Yes, his body did function. Yes, he could get out of here.
Then Asha bustled into the room, saw what he was doing, and
let out a gasp of worry and delight. She rushed forward to take his arm. "Let me help you! I'm so glad you're up. Come with me to the balcony."
Despite his reluctance, he leaned on her, and they walked with small, slow steps across the tiled floor. He felt his muscles reawakening from long dormancy. His vision seemed blurred by the burns and the healing salve; his left upper eyelid had healed awkwardly, heavy with scar tissue, but it worked well enough.
Asha tugged the loose hangings aside to let Hannes step into the bright sunshine and fresh air. Much too bright. From her private villa, he gazed at the foreign city's towers, cupolas, and minarets, the winding streets that led down to the crowded marketplace near the docks, the long low ships that filled the harbor. The many-turreted palace of the soldan-shah stood not far away. Immediately beneath the balcony, Hannes saw Asha's personal gardens, colorful flowers and a small orchard of mulberry trees.
"You are still such a mystery to me. We found you in Ishalem, but we don't know where you came from." Asha paused, waiting for him to answer, but Hannes remained silent. She continued to chatter. "You've been through a terrible ordeal, but you're so much stronger now. What is your name? When do you think you can tell me more about yourself? I want to know it all! Soon Soldan-Shah Imir will invite us to the palace. I told him about the man I rescued--a holy man." She beamed at him, her dark eyes sparkling. "All the priestesses are praising you for rescuing the amulet of Urec. You have done a great service to the church."
What foolish assumptions Asha was making--or perhaps it was all part of a carefully planned deception. Hannes seethed, barely able to control himself; his vision turned red.
Suddenly Asha looked worried, as if she sensed his volatile mood. "The joy of Ondun must be filling you right now, but
please do not strain yourself. Let me take you back to bed. After the sunset services, I will return with your meal. We'll talk some more then." She guided him back across the floor.
He didn't want to collapse onto the cushions piled on the bed;
he wanted to strike Asha and curse her for what she had done to
him. "Until evening," he managed to say. His words came out
in a croak, and he suddenly realized that speaking Uraban had
become even more natural to him than his own Tierran tongue.
She left him a pot of sweet mint tea and a dish of cut oranges with rosewater. "This afternoon the soldan-shah has asked me to attend him as he tells of Zarif Omra's wonderful raids against the Aidenists, and after that we will attend the sunset services. In the meantime, a sikara could read with you, pray with you. Shall I send one to minister to you?" Oh, Asha was so devious!
Hannes could be devious, too. "No. Only you," he said, and Asha brightened at that. He lay back to lull her suspicions. Without revealing any important details about himself, he tricked her into telling him things about Olabar, about the Urecari preparations for war. Unfortunately, the soldan-shah's wife knew and cared little about politics, and she could give him few specifics about what had happened in far-off lands.
After she departed, he had several hours to plan.
At sunset, he heard shrill bells ringing from the many churches in Olabar. He was surrounded by enemies, perhaps the only faithful Aidenist in this entire city. This must be a test of his faith, an ordeal he would have to endure. And he vowed to show his strength and do what was necessary. Even now, he knew that the soldan-shah and his wives would be finishing their heretical worship services.
When Asha returned, she wore colorful scarves draped around formal garments; her face had been painted, and a smell of sandalwood incense clung to her. Looking breathless, as if she
had rushed, she entered the room carrying a golden plate upon which rested a goblet and small strips of translucent paper. A tray of food sat on the side table.
"I wish you could have gone with me," she said. "Ur-Sikara Lukai wants to give you her personal blessings."
Hannes sat up in bed as Asha curled onto the sheets, setting the golden plate next to him. The balanced goblet was half full of a dark red wine. Hannes looked down suspiciously, and she explained. "I've brought you the Sacraments. How fine it will be to have you awake for them! You weren't aware of what was happening, all those other times."
All those other times?
From a bedside table, Asha withdrew the ever-present copy of Urec's Log and flipped open its illuminated pages. She ran her fingers down the lines of looping Uraban text until she found the verses she wanted.
"What did you mean, I wasn't aware of what was happening?"
Asha blinked at him, then smiled once more. "Oh, while you were unconscious, we had to minister to you. We prayed over you. Though you slept, we presented the Wine and the Name." Asha read her verses and picked up one of the pieces of tissue thin paper, upon which had been written the name of Urec. "Swallow this, and take the spirit of Urec inside you."
A thrill of disgust went up Hannes's back like a line traced by a hot spike as he realized what she had done. While he had lain writhing in delirium, struggling through the pain of his horrific burns, she had pried open his lips, forced the abominable thing into his mouth, made him swallow. "You gave this to me while I was.. .sleeping?"
"Four times," Asha soothed gently. "We were very diligent;
fear not. We did not let you miss any of the holy days." She lifted the goblet of wine to him. "We safeguarded your soul."
Rage overwhelmed him. He wanted to vomit out all of the hateful corruption she had forced into his body, but he was already damned. She had stolen his soul during his nightmares.
He slapped at the goblet, splashing its contents in her face. Startled, Asha drew back. Her hair and swirling scarves dripped with bloodred wine. "What is it? What have I done?"
Hannes had tested himself that afternoon, lifting objects, walking around the room, flexing his muscles. He was much stronger than Asha suspected, and now he knocked aside the platter with the scraps of paper bearing the name of Urec. He threw himself upon Asha, grabbing her scarves and wrapping them around her thin, smooth throat. "You defiled me!"
She beat at him with hands that fluttered like the birds in their cages. He needed to kill this demon masquerading as a benevolent woman. She had tricked him, forced him to participate in rituals that were anathema to him.
He twisted and tightened the scarves until Asha's eyes bulged and her tongue protruded from her mouth. Her wine-damp hair clung to one cheek. She shuddered, her struggles more feeble now. Just a little more. Her right ankle twitched in a last spasm, faintly jingling the tiny silver bangles there.
Hannes's heart pounded, and sweat trickled from his pores. I The songbirds were agitated in their cages, chirping, fluttering
I;
around. He had listened to their incessant noise for too long. They never stopped--never. He opened the cages and killed each of the birds, strictly out of spite.
The time had come to leave Asha's villa and get away from Olabar. Hoping that no one had heard the noise of their struggle, Hannes quickly dressed himself, then ate the food Asha had
brought with her. He had to hurry, and he had to be smart. He would need money to survive.
With a vicious yank, he tore off Asha's silver anklet, searched her body and stripped away her jewels. With one of her scarves that lay loose by her head, he formed a makeshift satchel, which he filled with other useful items from the chamber. The balcony butted up against a low hill that descended into the gardens. With slow, painful moves, Hannes swung himself off the balcony and stole away into the shadows of the mulberry trees. Finding an unwatched gate at the garden wall, he darted through. Soon, he found himself in the tangled streets and anonymity of the Uraban capital. By the time he heard the first wails of grief and cries of alarm ring out, he had already reached one of the many alleys. Asha's pet hounds set up a loud baying. Hannes glanced at the commotion and smiled, content with what he had done as he vanished into the city streets. 
	41
	Position Unknown
	Drifting among the wreckage, Criston awoke coughing and shaking, soaked in salt water--but alive.
The sky above him was mockingly clear and blue. The waves were calm, as though the storm's fury had been spent once the Leviathan destroyed the Luminara. Apart from the sloshing of waves and slap of water on debris, the world around him was utterly silent. He was alone.
Criston clung to a splintered yardarm tangled with ropes and
I 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
209 
	I
a scrap of sail. All around him the water was cluttered with flotsam and jetsam from the smashed ship: hull planks, sailcloth, leaking crates, bobbing kegs. And bodies. His shipmates.
"Hello!" He listened in the watery stillness for any response. "Hello?"
The debris was spreading apart, drifting away, and Criston realized that if he was to survive--even for a little longer--he had to gather whatever he could. Something out there might be vital.
Releasing the yardarm that had held him afloat throughout the stormy night, he swam to the nearest crate, grasped it and, kicking and splashing, pushed it back toward the yardarm, to which he secured it with a length of waterlogged rope. He swam out again, farther this time, and retrieved a keg of salted meat. Next, to his great relief, he found an intact cask of water; thirst would be his worst enemy out here... unless the Leviathan came back.
Criston kept calling out as he swam in wider and wider circles, but he heard no answer.
The corpses floating facedown were sailors with whom he had worked during the long months of the voyage. Many bodies were smashed and battered, their faces bloated; a few had already been gnawed by predatory fish. Unfortunately, he recognized all of the men.
He retrieved another yardarm and another long tangle of rope, to which a grappling hook was secured. He brought everything back to his ever-growing cluster of salvage, including a waterlogged package wrapped in oilcloth. Back on his meager floating shelter, Criston gingerly unfolded the coverings and found a leather-bound book: the journal in which Captain Shay had made his notes and drawings of sea serpents.
Criston stared at the smeared ink on the pages, not even real
izing that he was sobbing. He rewrapped the volume and set it among the pile of rescued possessions. Then he set out on his search again.
At last, he did find one survivor--Prester Jerard. The old man was caught in a torn sheet of sailcloth and a splintered spar just buoyant enough to keep his head above water. Jerard was stunned, groggy, but he responded when Criston clasped him. "Prester! You're alive!"
The old man coughed, spat out water, and ran trembling hands through his tangled gray beard. "For now."
Criston wrapped his hands under the prester's arms and stroked back toward his makeshift raft. After Jerard balanced himself aboard two adjacent crates, he gazed about, taking a long time to realize where he was. "Where are the other survivors?"
Criston hung his head, "/am the other survivor."
Jerard touched the fishhook pendant at his neck and uttered a quick, automatic prayer. The old man came out of his daze long enough to note--in a distracted way--that he had a broken wrist and a deep cut on his forearm. With a strip of cloth, Criston bound the prester's wound and set the broken wrist as best he could.
But the scent of blood and bodies had sent out a silent call in the sea, and sharp gray dorsal fins appeared among the wreckage. With splashing and tearing sounds the circling sharks continued to devour the floating corpses of the Luminarah crew. They had plenty to feed on. Criston and Jerard could only huddle together, and watch, and listen to the sickening sounds as darkness began to fall. The makeshift raft drifted along throughout the endless night.
The Luminara had sailed far beyond all known charts. Criston and Jerard had no hope of returning to any place they knew, even the empty island of skeleton warriors. In recent weeks,
the swift currents had carried the ship in a great circle, and the storm winds had driven them blindly eastward. But they were still nowhere. Their only chance was to stumble upon another shore.
At the height of the storm's fury, Criston had spotted a beacon
that might have been the Lighthouse at the edge of the world,
but he had seen no further sign of it since. He had no way of
finding it again... if indeed the vision had been more than his
I. imagination.
The two ate sparingly of the food Criston had recovered. The next morning he lashed the components of the raft together securely with pieces of frayed rope. The grappling hook tied to I a long, loose cord proved particularly useful, for he could cast it to nearby pieces of wreckage and haul them in, like a fisherman. With so many sharks circling now, he did not want to swim about as he had done the day before.
For his own sanity, Prester Jerard told stories and recited from the Book of Aiden as they huddled under a makeshift shade that Criston fashioned from a piece of sail and a thin spar. The wound in his arm continued to soak the salt-encrusted bandage. Criston changed the dressing, but the prester was in such pain from his broken wrist that he could not pull the bindings tight.
As the sun dazzled overhead, Criston kept an attentive watch over the waters around him, looking for any sign of land on the distant horizon, maybe some last miracle from the Luminara. Most of the flotsam had drifted far away by now, but Criston spotted a reflected glint floating in the water that was probably something made of glass. He stared for the better part of an hour, but the intriguing object drifted no closer, apparently pacing them.
Finally, curiosity so consumed Criston that he dove off the raft and swam toward the object. Jerard kept a sharp eye out
for triangular dorsal fins, while the young sailor retrieved the object--a glass bottle, firmly corked. He grabbed it and stroked back toward the raft.
The prester cried, "Shark! Shark!" Criston swam faster, not daring to look, until he finally reached the questionable safety of the raft and threw himself aboard, swinging his feet onto the wet crates and thick yardarms. Panting, blinking bitter water out of his eyes, he glanced back to see a large shark veering off, having lost its quarry.
As his heartbeat slowed, Criston picked up his prize, hoping it would be something useful. The glass was dirty. Drops of water sloshed around inside from a leak where a piece of the cork had broken off. He uncorked the bottle, withdrew a tightly rolled letter: one of the messages he had written to Adrea and cast into the sea. The last time he had thrown a letter in a bottle overboard had been the day before the storm... and it had drifted back here.
Criston extracted the golden strand of her hair and just stared at it, longing for her. He still had the remnants of her lock of hair tucked into his pocket, secured there with a brass clip. He was sure now that would be all he'd ever see of her again
Over the next two days, more sharks gathered, their knifelike fins gutting the surface of the sea, endlessly circling. Criston and Prester Jerard could do nothing more than watch.
He read the water-stained letter again and again, thinking of Adrea, remembering what he had thought when he'd written it. Everything was different now. He would not be coming home as he had promised
On the fourth day, most of the circling sharks disappeared, their fins vanishing into the depths. Criston stood on their wobbly raft, scanning the water, wondering what could explain this odd new change.
Suddenly, with a tremendous splash, the dragonlike head of a sea serpent rose up, scarlet fins extended, spines outthrust. It snapped up a large gray shark that wriggled in its fang-filled jaw like a minnow seized by a pelican. The sea serpent tossed the H shark into the air, opened its maw wide, and gulped it down.
B; Looming high, dripping runnels of water, the creature looked down upon the raft and the helpless men, but it did not attack. I After a blast of steam from its blowhole, the serpent gradually submerged. Criston andjerard blinked at each other in awe.
For the rest of that day, no shark returned, but a second sea serpent rose up to regard them. It was joined by a third, then a fourth. The scaly monsters hissed and hooted at one another, contemplating this intriguing object. With an ache in his chest, Criston thought that Captain Shay would have taken copious notes in his journal. The serpents circled the raft, drawing closer.. .just like the hunting sharks, but worse. 
	42
	Urecari Slave Ship
	Despite her circumstances and her despair, Adrea refused to think of herself as a captive. But that did not mean she was free. The ruthless Urecari raiders had shouted at her, threatened her. They tied her arms and threw her aboard one of their longboats, along with many captured children from the village. They rowed out to the war galleys waiting at the mouth of Windcatch Harbor. The children wailed and shuddered, cowed into submission after having seen their parents murdered. The few female cap
tives from other villages were frantic, begging their unresponsive captors for mercy. Adrea, though, didn't say a word. She didn't think she had any words left in her, so she sat back with her lips pressed together, refusing to make a sound. When the whole world was out of control, this was one thing Adrea could control. She would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her say anything.
The Urecari men didn't seem to notice, or care, whether or not she spoke.
Watching her village recede, Adrea recalled how the day had dawned so brightly. Now it ended in smoke, blood, and pain. She saw the smoldering kirk on the hill, and realized that Ciarlo must indeed be dead along with Prester Fennan. She had watched these men murder Telha, and if it weren't for the baby she carried, she would rather they had killed her as well. She would live for the child, but even if she escaped, even if she returned home to wait for Griston in the ruins of Windcatch, how could she ever tell him that his mother had been slain? She could have done more, fought harder, run faster.
The men put all the new captives aboard the nearest war galley, where Adrea again saw the haughty Uraban prince who had killed one of his own soldiers and commanded that she be taken alive. He shouted orders from a captain's platform. Only a few women had been taken from other villages, and none but herself from Windcatch. She didn't understand why he had singled her out, why he had taken her alive, but Adrea did not let herself believe that she was safe; the man must have something far worse in store for her.
With the colorful sails stretched taut and the oars pulling against the current, the war galleys moved off. Adrea trapped a silent moan at the bottom of her throat. When Criston returned, he would never be able to find her
Satisfied with the destruction they had caused, the Urabans turned south again. Seeing the ruins of Ishalem, Adrea realized that they had left Tierra and entered enemy territory. Now she truly knew that she would be a prisoner forever.
The other captive women whispered to one another, imagining worse and worse fates. Adrea held her rounded belly, felt the baby there; the thought that her child would be born in enemy hands terrified her more than anything else. Criston's son or daughter would either be killed at birth, clubbed to death because the Urabans didn't want it, or raised among the enemy. Adrea wasn't sure which was worse.
She couldn't understand why the Uraban prince wanted so many captive Tierran boys and girls. With their light complexions and blond, red, or brown hair, they would never fit in among the other Urabans. She feared they were all doomed to a life of slavery.
The mysterious prince had come to see her only once. He stood tall over her and spoke in Uraban. Though Adrea recognized a few words derived from the old language, which Prester Fennan had taught, and caught the gist of his expressions and sentences, she did not answer him. She gave no sign that she comprehended. She refused to speak.
Later, one of the swarthy crewmen spoke to her in a gruff voice, using heavily accented Tierran. "Zarif Omra demands to know your name."
Adrea merely stared at him, renewing her resolve. arifOmra. So that was the prince's name. She clamped her lips shut.
"Name!" he shouted. She turned her head away. He slapped her. Her head jerked to one side, but she gave him only a murderous glare in reply. She actually welcomed the pain, which was trivial compared to the suffering the rest of her village had endured. She had survived relatively unscathed. So far.
The crewman raised his hand to strike her again, and seemed disappointed when she did not flinch. "Omra says you must live, but he did not say I can't hurt you." The sailor gave her a cold smile. Adrea turned away, ignoring him. He struck her on the back of the head so hard that her teeth clacked together. She clamped her jaws and refused to speak. Angry, the sailor stalked off. The other captives stared at her, but Adrea focused only on her own thoughts.
At night, she huddled close to her miserable companions, listening to them moan and beg. She expected the raiders to drag the women one by one to an open area of the deck, rape them repeatedly, then throw their abused bodies overboard. But they did not touch the women, or the children.
Making sure none of the Urecari men saw her, Adrea lowered her voice to a bare whisper, trying to find out who had been taken from Windcatch, which other villages had been raided. Already, her voice sounded hoarse and strange to her. She learned little from the other women, and sailors came by, growling at the captives to keep them quiet.
During the fifth day out of Windcatch, one of the women threw herself overboard, taking a young child with her, and both vanished into the water. From that day forward Zarif Omra ordered all the women and children to be tied together and secured to iron rings on the deck. Adrea hunkered down and returned to her defiant silence.
The war galleys finally docked in a coastal city south of Ishalem. Adrea heard the name Khenara spoken, a place out of exotic stories. Now she was actually seeing it. She hated the sight.
The buildings were strange and foreign-looking. The people spoke a language she could not understand, though again she recognized a few words. Shouting sailors ordered all of them to disembark from the war galleys. Standing with her fellow cap
tives on the sandy beach of Khenara, Adrea wondered if they would be sold here in a slave market, until she realized that this city was not their final destination. The raiders hastily built an extensive camp and prepared for a much longer overland journey.
The air was warm and dusty, and the women and children slept out in the open on grassy slopes leading down to the beach. They rested for a day while Omra and his men rounded up horses and pack animals for a caravan.
]- Looking at the sea, Adrea wanted to call out to Criston, who was out there, far beyond the horizon, but her voice would not come. She simply sent her beseeching thoughts out to him.
The next day their captors led them away from the Oceansea, away from Tierra, and hopelessly far from anything Adrea had ever known. 
	43
	Olabar Palace
	Since Asha was preoccupied with her latest project--not a bird with a broken wing or a stray cat this time, but an injured man she'd recovered from Ishalem--Soldan-Shah Imir had his choice of returning to the quarters of his second wife, Villiki, or spending the night alone.
While Villiki was pleased to have more of his time and attention, she often found excuses to avoid his physical advances, suggesting a game of xaries or just conversations about court gossip (along with her advice on how he should handle certain political matters). Still, it was better than spending the night alone in a cold bed.
Imir went to her quarters and lounged on the cushions while Villiki ordered her handmaidens to bring him tea, which she would probably lace with soporific herbs so he would be too sleepy to attempt a drawn-out seduction. Villiki was still a fine looking woman, despite her age. (Imir knew he wasn't being entirely fair, since he himself was seven years older than she.) She took great care to maintain her beauty, preserve her skin, and wear perfectly fitting clothes.
Before he could relax in her presence, a servant came to the door, delivering a letter with due deference. The soldan-shah frowned to see that it was the latest missive from Lithio, brought in by a horseman from Missinia.
Seeing the letter from his first wife, Villiki turned cold, and Imir felt his chances for sex vanish in an instant. With a sigh, he read the letter, knowing what Lithio would say--how much she missed him, though she had never much cared for his company when she had it. She asked again when he would come to visit her and bring their son, Omra. Imir knew she really didn't want to see him, and she knew he wouldn't make the journey; by making her request, she merely made him feel guilty. Her letter went on for more than two pages with descriptions of her thorn hedges and flower gardens, a fountain that had broken, new well-blooded yearlings that had just been brought to the Arikara stables. None of the news was the least bit interesting to him.
When Villiki rubbed his shoulders invitingly, he knew that she wanted something. Maybe he could negotiate a better night after
allBut before she could utter her request, a red-faced guard
burst into the chamber. The last time Imir had seen one of his soldiers so distraught, Ishalem had been on fire.
"It is Asha! Lady Asha! She's been murdered!"
Imir lurched up from the cushions, not sure he'd heard properly. "Asha? But she's--"
"Strangled. Someone murdered her in her villa, then fled."
Disbelief erupted in his heart and mind. He felt as though someone had struck him in the head with a heavy club. Who would kill Asha? Why would anyone want to hurt Asha--sweet, beautiful Asha, who cared only about everyone and everything else, every lost cause? "Who? Who has done this?"
"We think it was the man in her care, Soldan-Shah. The burned man who came from Ishalem."
Imir moaned, knowing only too well how she took care of her pets. Asha would have wanted to tend the man herself, as though he were the child she had never had.
"Oh, Asha!" He fell back on his automatic response, not daring to think further. He was the soldan-shah of all Uraba; he should be able to solve any problem. "Call Kel Rovik--call all of my guards! I want horsemen in the streets, men to search every house, door to door! Who was this man? What does he look like? What is his name?"
"We have no description, Soldan-Shah. He told no one his name. Even the doctors only saw him burned, covered with salves, bandaged. Asha gave him the Sacraments herself, and fed him."
No name, no appearance... the man had been a nameless victim from the city fire. A sudden chill went through his heart, freezing even the horror and outrage. "What if he is a shadow man, an evil spirit unleashed in the burning of Ishalem? What if he still wanders Olabar, seeking other victims?"
Villiki strode over and yanked a cloak about herself. "I will go immediately to the church, have all the sikaras write and burn prayer strips."
A second thought fell into place for Imir--not supernatural, but just as frightening. "Or he could be an Aidenist assassin, sent to infiltrate us so he could kill my wife--my wives. How many
disguised murderers did King Korastine unleash among us after he killed Ambassador Giladen? We must find them!"
Kel Rovik burst into the room, accompanied by ten of his guards, all with scimitars drawn and ready.
"Hunt him down, Rovik!" Imir's voice cracked. "Hunt down the murderer, bring him to justice! But don't kill him--I must question him." After pacing around the room, Imir sank back to the cushions and placed his hands over his face as grief thundered through him. "Oh, my Asha!"
Villiki was at his side with a whisper in his ear. "My love, my Imir. I am not afraid. You still have me. I will always--"
It took every scrap of his control to keep from striking her. Imir pushed her roughly away, then staggered out of her quarters. He needed to be with his guards, hunting through the streets for the murderer. 
	44
	Position Unknown
	During a brief squall on their fifth day adrift, Criston feared that another horrific storm would whip up and smash the makeshift raft to pieces, that the Leviathan itself would chase away the sea serpents and devour them in a single gulp. A drenching rain fell. Pockets in the bunched sailcloth captured water, with which they refilled the small keg. Criston and Prester Jerard scrambled to fill an empty cask--and even the glass bottle that had held Criston's letter to Adrea--with fresh water. They turned their faces to the sky, mouths agape like hungry hatchlings, soothing their parched throats and drinking their fill. The rain passed by midday.
The men ate the last of the food Criston had retrieved, then created makeshift nets from pockets of cloth to catch a few small wriggling fish, which they ate raw and whole. Jerard even dangled his fishhook pendant over the side of the raft with a scrap of bloodied bandage as bait. Though the symbolic hook was not sharp, they caught several fish that way, but when the thread grew frayed, the prester feared he would lose his beloved pen, dant and placed it back around his neck.
The old man's face was gaunt, his eyes shadowed with ever worsening pain; Jerard shied away from changing the bandages, but Criston finally removed the cloth and saw that the wound was swollen, bulging with pus and black strands of gangrene working their way up Jerard's arm. Griston said nothing, nor did the prester, but they both knew the old man would not survive long.
Keeping his face turned away from Jerard, Criston tightened the ropes because parts of the raft had begun to loosen, leaking water. He still had the rope and the iron grappling hook, but nothing to fasten it to. To distract himself and the old prester, he took out Captain Shay's journal and studied the sketches and descriptions, but they offered no help, merely a reminder of the captain's thoughts and dreams.
Criston could see nothing in any direction as baking sun reflected off the waves, and the monotonous light began to make him delirious. He tried to sleep, but the cool shelter of night seemed far away. He came back to his thoughts, confused and disoriented.
Fumbling with one hand, Prester Jerard slid the fishhook pendant over Criston's head. The old man patted him, pressing the symbol against his chest. "Take this. I don't want the Leviathan to have it."
"The Leviathan? What do you mean?" Criston blinked. "What are you doing?"
Jerard muttered a brief benediction. "You have a long journey ahead, but mine is at its end. I have longed to see Terravitae all my life, and now I realize that I cannot get there by any earthly ship. I will find a different route to the land of Holyjoron."
He rolled himself off the side of the raft and into the water.
With a shout, Criston lurched after him and nearly fell off the creaking structure.
"May the Compass guide you," the old man called as he stroked away. Reeling, Griston prepared to jump in and retrieve him.
As though Jerard had summoned it, a huge black sea serpent rose from the water, mottled with swirling patterns of golden scales. It opened its mouth and made a sound that was partly a bark, partly a bellow. Steam whistled from its blowhole. Jerard raised his hands from the water as if to fend it off--or to pray.
Griston yelled, trying to draw the serpent's attention, but it had seen its prey. Like a striking viper, the sea serpent flashed down to the water, mouth open wide. It grabbed the prester in its jaws and swallowed the old man in a single gulp.
Crying out in horror, Criston hurled the glass bottle, which shattered against the black scales, making the sea serpent flinch. The monster twisted around, its gills flaring, its sharpened fins rising like bristling fur on the back of a cat.
Seeking something else to use as a weapon, Criston seized the grappling hook and twirled it over his head, letting the rope play through his palms. He threw the sharp hook at the serpent, hating the creature for what it had done to his friend and companion.
The serpent turned away, and the sharp iron hook caught and snagged in its blowhole. Startled, the serpent thrashed, which only set the barbs deeper--then bolted, trying to flee. With the hooks in place, dug into the opening on the back of its head, the creature could not submerge.
The rope paid out, burning Criston's palms, but he could not hold the serpent back. Astonished, Criston recalled the story of Sapier and his sea serpent
Working urgently, he found the other end of the rope and secured it to the yardarm at the heart of the raft, gambling all his hope on this one perilous possibility. If he were going to die, he might as well choose the time and place. The slack in the rope suddenly ran out, slamming tight and making the whole raft shudder. Criston grabbed the edge to keep from being thrown overboard.
The frantic sea monster reared up out of the water, keeping its blowhole above the surface, black and gold scales glittering in the afternoon sun. With a great roar, the serpent plunged forward, churning up a furious wake and tugging the raft along at breakneck speed. 
	45
	Calay, Sacdran District
	Returning from the high mountains of Corag Reach, Aldo looked with a new eye upon the once-familiar buildings, waterways, and bridges of Calay. He had not previously realized how seeing new landscapes could give him a different perspective on everyday things.
When he arrived in the Saedran District with his crated navigational instruments, Aldo gave a young boy one of his few remaining copper coins and told him to go find Biento and Yura na-Curic with the news that he had returned from Corag.
Knowing his main duty, he set off for the Saedran temple, eager to deliver the new instruments to Sen Leo. Inside, the
scholar came forward with a gleam in his eye. "So my young chartsman has passed the first test. You reached your destination, found workers to do your bidding, managed the project to its culmination, and... paid a fair price, I presume?"
Sen Leo led them through the secret doorway, down the narrow steps, and into the vaulted underground chamber. Once they were in the Mappa Mundi room, he helped Aldo to pry open the small crates, pulled aside the packing, and looked at the fine devices. "I see the Corag craftsmen have outdone themselves. Again."
"The fabricators wouldn't allow me to look over their shoulders to monitor their work. They said I was disturbing them."
"No doubt you were." Sen Leo removed the first delicate instrument, adjusted the hemispherical gauges, and aligned the Saedran markings. "Mmm, the armature moves smoothly. The calibration lines match perfectly." He adjusted a lens, sighted along a graduated line, and nodded. He set down the instrument and chose the sealed clock instead. "We will test this one against our own perfect clock in Calay for months before we allow a chartsman to take it aboard a ship."
Just then, his father bustled through the door of the upper temple. Glad to see his son, Biento threw his arms around Aldo, patting him heavily on the back. "I missed you! Wen and Una have been constant pests since you've been gone. Your mother could barely keep her sanity."
"I missed all of you, too, but I saw many wonderful things, and now I can add my observations to the Saedran library." He looked up at the great map of the known world drawn on the temple walls and ceiling. Aldo saw the sparse details of Corag Reach, where the sketched mountain peaks were symbolic rather than topographic.
Very pleased with himself, Aldo unslung the cylinder, deftly worked the combination seal, and reached inside to pull out the
rolled paper on which he had drawn all of the known mountain peaks, gorges, valleys, passes, and villages. "These are new details. Let us compare them to the Mappa Mundi."
His map of Corag was exceptionally beautiful, perhaps even worthy of gilding. He had scribed the labels in perfect penmanship, the artwork so detailed it looked like a painting of the landscape. He was sure his father would be proud of his artistic skill. :'..' Aldo offered the paper to his father. "I took careful measurements, aided by the Corag destrar. I spoke to the people in the mountains and learned the names of every peak." Grinning, he pointed to the Mappa Mundi on the wall. "This is not accurate enough. I have filled in the blanks."
Sen Leo frowned, deep in thought. "It's true, Saedrans have sent explorers far out to sea, hoping to find some sign of our sunken homeland, but we have not given equal attention to looking inland." He tapped the mountains Aldo had drawn with such lush detail. "This could be vital information."
'"Knowledge is always vital,'"Aldo quoted. "Isn't that what you taught me in one of our first lessons?"
The scholar chuckled. "So you were listening even then."
Biento traced the details of Aldo's map with a fingernail, committing everything to his perfect memory. "Aldo, you haven't even made your first seagoing voyage yet, and already you have added to the Mappa Mundi." He pulled over a stepstool and a measuring line, then used a charcoal stick to sketch in the topography his son had brought back. He did not need to refer to the drawn map again.
Aldo beamed. He could tell Sen Leo was pleased with what he had accomplished, both in obtaining the instruments and making these observations. The old scholar took the paper with the meticulously drawn details and lavish artwork. He rolled it up, handing it back to Aldo. "There. It has served its purpose. Now
take it to the brazier over there." He pointed to a brass dish on a thin pedestal. "Burn it."
Shocked, Aldo thought of how much time he had spent, how much effort he had put into capturing all the lines and details. The art, the calligraphy, the landscape details, the perspectives. "But I worked--"
Sen Leo cut him off. "Do not forget that the chartsman is the map. It must reside in your head and nowhere else. If we leave items such as this"--he pushed the map into Aldo's hand--"others might gain access to our knowledge. We commit nothing permanently to paper. The knowledge is what matters, not the... frippery."
Aldo hung his head. "I understand."
Sad and disturbed, he went to the empty brazier, where he crumpled the map and used a sulfur-tipped match to set fire to the edges. While the yellow flames turned the paper brown, Aldo could not tear his gaze away as the paper curled and the ashes fell away. 
	46
	Olabar
	After killing Asha, Prester Hannes moved like an oily shadow through the streets of the Urecari capital. His heart pounded, and his instincts screamed at him to run.
But nobody knew his name, and few people could identify him. The soldan-shah's wife had kept him in a separate part of her villa; the physicians and sikara priestesses had seen him wrapped in bandages. Asha had tended him herself, washing him, applying salves and perfumes, administering the vile Sacraments. Hannes had never felt so filthy in his life.
Fortunately, she was dead now. Her soul would face Aiden and the truth before being sent to damnation.
Hannes slipped through the bent and twisted alleys. Most of the people were asleep, but some came to their windows to see the cause of all the commotion back at the villa, where lantern carrying guards hunted through Asha's gardens. Two riders clattered past on the cobblestoned streets, heading to the soldanshah's palace.
Hannes hoped the death of Asha would be a great blow to Imir, but he doubted it. Heretical Urecari beliefs allowed a man to own as many wives as he liked, as though they were no more than pairs of shoes. Hannes had done Asha a favor, freeing her from that sin.
He found a street of merchant shops that were shuttered for the night, their awnings withdrawn, their flimsy doors barred. At an olive seller's stall, Hannes splintered the weakest plank so he could undo the door latch. Inside the dark shop, clay jars full of olives lined the shelves. He scooped out handfuls and ate ravenously, spitting out the pits. He took some preserved lemons from a large jar, then a handful of dates from another tub, eating a few now and filling his pockets; he also carried off a small jar of olives. A ragged brown robe hung on a peg beside the door, and Prester Hannes took that as well, adding to his disguise.
Leaving the broken door wide open, he scuttled through the streets, ducking into doorways whenever he heard approaching voices or footsteps. He kept moving, though he had no idea where he might go. His knowledge of the world's geography-- particularly here--was sparse. He did not know the city's layout, which sections were dangerous, which would be safe places lo hide.
The alleyway opened into a wider street, from which he had a good view of Asha's villa. All the windows were alight, and he
saw figures moving about. The soldan-shah's palace was also lit up, as the alarm was sounded.
Prester Hannes found a sheltered stone step and sat out of sight, where he could watch. Asha had shaved him every day, but now he scratched the stubble on his chin and decided to grow a beard, made patchy by the waxy burn scars on his cheeks. Feeling content and safe for the first time since he'd awakened, glad to be free from the clutches of that woman, Hannes ate a few more dates, then casually plucked olives from the jar, sucking the tender salty flesh and spitting out the sharp pits.
He didn't think about the charity Asha had shown in rescuing him from the fires, in nursing him back to health. He had not asked to be placed under that obligation, and he knew that Asha must have had some devilish scheme in mind. She had given him the Urecari Sacraments when he could not fight back, when he could not defend himself. He felt no remorse over killing her.
Ever since Prester Baine had taken him as an acolyte and taught him his mission in life, Hannes had attempted to be pure and devout. Now, though, in the eyes of Ondun, he was corrupt. He cursed Asha for contaminating his soul.
A rider clattered by in the street outside the alley where Hannes hunkered on the stone step, wearing his nondescript stolen clothes. Nobody noticed him. He ate another olive. He wanted to flee Olabar, make his way out of this cursed land, and return to Ishalem and Tierra. He and Prester-Marshall Baine could pray together and begin the work of cleansing his soul.
Suddenly Hannes realized that he wasn't seeing the greater picture. Such grand events did not happen by accident. There must be a purpose. Ondun and Aiden would not have made him suffer so unless they had a plan for him.
He straightened in the darkness as he realized that, yes, there must be a way to redeem himself. Aiden loved him. Prester
I 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 229
	Marshall Baine had set him on this course, explaining how he must infiltrate the enemy and understand them to improve the fight for Aidenism. His heart swelled with joy.
Maybe the role he was meant to play did not bring him immediately back to Tierra after all. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Ondun had an important mission in mind for him here. 
	47
	Position Unknown
	As the frenzied sea serpent pulled him across the waves, Criston lay lashed to his makeshift raft. Like a wild bull dragging a broken cart, the black-and-gold creature hurtled along at great speed. The hook caught in its breathing hole still prevented it from submerging--thankfully, or else it could have dived deep, taking Criston with it. He hung on, helpless, and the journey went on endlessly, throughout the dark night and the next day And he endured. | Criston was sickened, bruised, and also starving. He had a little fresh water left in one of the casks, and when he fumbled himself free enough to move, he drank it. As the raft surged and crashed along, frightened fish were thrown onto the tangled wreckage--and he grabbed them and ate them raw. When it rained that afternoon, he captured a little more water. He thought of Adrea, and when that became too painful, he thought of nothing at all.
He lost track of the burning days and black nights. The sea serpent continued its headlong plunge toward the rising sun, growing more and more sluggish, obviously exhausted, maybe dying, but it could not dislodge the grappling hook.
Finally, so unexpectedly that Griston was not sure what had happened, the hook tore free, leaving a bloody gash down the monster's back like a sucking wound. The sea serpent thrashed and splashed, glad to be free; then it dove far out of sight beneath the waves, putting as much distance as possible between itself and the raft.
Criston untied himself from the raft and collapsed, weeping. He had no idea where he was or how far he had corne, and now without the sea serpent pulling him along like Sapier in the legend, he was cast adrift, still in the middle of the empty Ocean sea, with no land in sight.
And this time he was entirely alone. He had hated the blackand-gold creature because it had killed Prester Jerard, but now that it was gone and he sat becalmed, Criston almost longed for the serpent to come back.
The breeze picked up, and he realized he was in a current, still drifting in the direction the sea monster had taken him. He used the cloth that had shaded them from the sun and rigged a sail to catch the wind, pushing him onward
He slept. 
	The raft continued to drift, caught in a current that pulled him silently along. On the open water, Griston had no reference point, no way of judging how fast he drifted or where he might be heading. He was lost.
He pulled in the rope and grappling hook and saw a gobbet of flesh torn free from the edge of the sea serpent's blowhole. Ravenous, Criston devoured the meat, but it was pungent, salty, and unsatisfying. His queasy stomach tried to reject the meal, but he managed to hold it down, knowing he needed the meager nutrition. He cast out the hook once more, letting it trail behind the raft. He yanked and jerked, in hopes that he might be lucky. The
hook snagged a few strands of seaweed, which he ate, remembering the annual harvest at Windcatch
He drifted into nightfall and looked up at the sparkling stars that pierced the darkness in diamondlike patterns that, he realized with a start, were familiar again. The constellations hung lower in the sky, but he recognized the Fountain, the Compass Needle, and the nebulous patch of Sapier's Beard. Maybe he was drifting closer to home after all... or maybe it was some sort of cosmic trick.
He remembered sitting with Adrea on the beach after they'd built a fire and baked a bucketful of fresh-dug clams. Content in each other's company, they had walked along the rocky shore, then out onto one of the empty Windcatch docks. They let their feet dangle as they stared up into the night sky. Criston had pointed out the constellations to her, explaining how the stars were guideposts for sailors. "They can always bring you back home." As she'd stared upward, he was more interested in the stars sparkling in her eyes.
Like a chartsman with a carefully plotted course, Criston had set his sights on Adrea. He had known her as a gangly girl in the village, along with her good-natured but limping brother. Criston had never paid much attention to her until one day he noticed she'd matured into a young woman. Thunderstruck, Criston realized she was the most beautiful girl in all of Windcatch.
Adrea's father had been a crewman on a merchant ship, and fie spent many months away from home. When he did come back from his trips, he often fought with Adrea's mother... and then one year, he simply didn't return home. The village gossip was undecided as to whether he'd been lost at sea or simply chose a different port--and a different family--for himself. Whatever I lie answer, Adrea's mother was always miserable when he was home, and also miserable now that he was gone.
To make a living, she baked bread and sold it to the villagers, but only intermittently. She barely had enough wherewithal to feed herself and her children, which basically left Adrea and Ciarlo to fend for themselves.
As soon as he was old enough, Criston worked aboard local fishing boats, sometimes with his father, sometimes by himself. After they came back at sunset, Criston sorted through the catch. One evening, realizing that the catch was more than his family needed, he took the two best fish to Adrea's home. Holding them like trophies, smiling with embarrassment, he offered them to Adrea. "We had extra. I thought maybe you could use them."
A frown creased her brow. "Are we beggars now?"
"No, but you're practical. You need to eat."
And she had smiled. "Yes, Criston Vora, I am practical." She thanked him, took the fish, and Criston had found himself standing outside with the door closed in his face, not sure whether to feel elated or discouraged.
As often as he dared, but not so often as to make an obvious habit of it, Criston brought fish to Adrea's family. As far as he could tell, her mother never knew where the meals came from. The older woman drank too much kelpwine in the village taverns, and Adrea prepared the meals for the family. Her mother merely accepted the fish as part of "Aiden's bounty."
Before long, though, neither Adrea nor Criston could deny the obvious fact that he was courting her. And she let him continue.
One day, a merchant ship sailed into Windcatch, unloading its goods for the villagers. Seeing that the vessel was one of the ships on which her husband had served, Adrea's mother ran out to greet the crew. But he was not aboard, and none of the crew even remembered the man.
Afterward, her mother grew deeply depressed and drank more than before. Two weeks later, during a storm, she left their
house in the middle of the night, and next morning was found floating facedown in the harbor, tangled in a few early strands of migratory seaweed. Nobody knew what had happened to her, though many had their guesses.
A week later, Griston had asked Adrea to marry him. She understood him, understood what he had to offer, and knew he would be a good husband. But she also recognized the call of the sea in his eyes and knew he would forever look outward. Adrea had always known what she was agreeing to. Criston was sure of that.
Until now, Criston hadn't seen how brave she was to stay home and wait for him, never knowing whether he would come back. Criston had always been so confident, so cocky, giving insufficient deference to the dangers of the sea. And now he was floating, lost, a sole survivor in the middle of nowhere
His heart ached as he thought of Adrea looking out to sea every day, just as her mother had done, hopeful each time a ship came to port. Would she wait and wait... for years?
Because Criston did not believe he would ever hold her in his arms again, he became resigned to knowing that the merciless sea would be his last embrace. He forced himself to think of Adrea as he closed his eyes, hoping she would come to him in his dreams.
But he slept the sound sleep of exhaustion. If her spirit kissed him while he slumbered, he did not wake to it. 
	The following dawn, as he leaned over the side to splash salty water on his face, he looked up and saw the tiny but distinctive shape of a sail in the distance.
Criston stared in disbelief for many minutes, before he stretched his makeshift cloth as tight as he could, catching the breeze, and used a flat piece of plank as a rudder to steer toward the sail. When he tried to shout, his voice was so hoarse that
I
|I 
	I
sound barely came out. But his raft did move closer, and the sailing ship was no illusion. He prayed to Aiden that someone would notice him, that his course would intersect that of the other vessel.
He could tell that it was a large black-hulled whaling boat rigged with a bright sail. He flailed a scrap of white cloth to and fro, still trying to shout, hoping one of the whaler's crew would see him.
At last, he discerned tiny figures on deck. He saw them set the sail and turn toward him, and Criston collapsed to the uneven surface of the raft, having no further energy. Soon he could hear the answering calls of shouting crewmen. Three burly whalers jumped overboard and swam toward him.
It had been so long since Criston had seen another human being that they seemed strange to him. "Who are you? What ship are you from?" one of the sailors asked as he pulled himself up onto the raft, speaking Tierran with a strong Soeland accent.
The men had brought a flask of water with them, and Criston drank deeply, gaining strength. "I am Criston Vora... all that's left of the Luminara expedition."
The whalers were shocked to hear this. After he was taken aboard and fed an indescribably delicious fish stew, Criston gained enough strength to tell his story, and listen to theirs. He showed them Captain Shay's journal with the drawings of fantastical sea serpents; these men had seen enough on their own voyages that they did not doubt him.
They were a long-range whaling crew, sailing beyond the boundaries of Tierra, past the last islands in Soeland Reach and heading south in search of rich waters. They had a hold full of rendered blubber, barrels of whale oil, and had been about to turn back when they saw the drifting raft.
I 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 235
	Criston closed his eyes and touched the fishhook pendant at his throat, seeing the hand of Aiden in it all.
	While he rode with the whalers, seeing that their course would take him to the southern coast and Windcatch, Griston borrowed sheets of paper from the captain, torn from his cargo ledger. He wrote, My name is Criston Vorafrom the village of Windcatch. I am the only survivor of the Luminara expedition.
He filled the pages with descriptions of places they had sailed, the island with the battling skeletons, the new sea monsters, the months of empty ocean as they sailed for league upon league, and how the Leviathan had destroyed them all... then, as with Sapier himself, how the sea serpent had pulled Criston back into local waters.
"Please have this delivered to King Korastine." He handed the folded sheet to the whaling captain. "That is all the information he needs to know. Someday, I may go to Calay to tell the story in person, but I cannot promise it."
He could not promise anything, until he saw Adrea again.
"He may not believe you," the captain remarked. "/ find it improbable, and I've seen your raft. I've looked into your haunted eyes."
'Just tell the king where you found me adrift. Let him draw his own conclusions."
I! 
	I
	48
	Alamont Reach
	Mateo rode with his fellow soldier-recruits on the river barge for the trip upstream to Bora's Bastion, the central city of Alamont Reach. As they traveled toward the destrar's capital and stronghold, he admired the lush grassy hills dotted with grazing sheep. Cornfields spread out in long rectangles, the orderly stalks nearly chest high. He saw fruit orchards, nut orchards, even a few vineyards. Alamont wine had never been particularly prized, since the best vintages came from Uraba; now, however, this wine was all Tierrans would have to drink.
These were the lands he must defend.
When they neared Bora's Bastion, the recruits grew restless to see their new home. Around the destrar's city, large areas of fertile cropland had been cleared to serve as training fields for practice maneuvers, marching exercises, and military parades. As the boat eased past, Mateo saw soldiers in matching uniforms with swords at their sides marching in perfect ranks around the empty fields. Rows of archers followed foot soldiers, while cavalrymen rode in the front. Mateo realized this performance was likely for the benefit of the new recruits, to let them see how well the Alamont destrar ran his contingent of the Tier ran army.
Overlooking the river, Destrar Shenro's main house had high battlements and thick walls, though Mateo could not conceive of an attack occurring so far inland. Blacksmiths with riverside forges fashioned more swords with a constant rhythmic clang. Leatherworkers stretched hides over wooden frames for shields,
then added metal plates for protection. All of the workers glanced | up as the barge pulled up to the main dock.
The recruits began to disembark, led by their training instrucH tors. The destrar had come down to greet them, wearing a military uniform of his own. Standing on the dock, Shenro measured the trainees with a calculating eye, then leaned over to whisper questions to the training instructors. The destrar walked the lines of new recruits, assessing them. He stopped before Mateo B and regarded the young man for a long, uncomfortable moment, then said, almost accusingly, "You are the favorite of King Korastine?"
"I am a soldier-recruit for the Tierran army," Mateo answered.
"Good. Then I am happy to receive you, soldier-recruit." The destrar turned away and issued orders for the quartermasters and supply sergeants to direct the young men to where lines and lines of tents had been pitched on the open cleared fields. One of those would be Mateo's home for the next year. 
	For the next two weeks the soldiers exercised until their bodies ached, then they exercised more, since recruits needed to have physical strength before they could acquire skill with weapons. For hours each day, they observed the older soldiers fighting mock combats; they watched the play of master swordsmen. In the evenings, Mateo tried to find time to write letters to Anjine, but so far he had completed only one; he was simply too exhausted to think of anything interesting to say.
In the rare times when the recruits were allowed to go into I he town of Bora's Bastion, some of the older soldiers introduced Mateo and his fellows to the drinking establishments, places for musical performances, interesting local games; several strikingly
ll 
	238 Kevin J. Anderson
	lovely young ladies caught Mateo's eye, but he had never been very good at flirting.
Destrar Shenro also insisted that a good soldier needed to know the details of military history, to memorize the significant battles that had taken place in Tierra's history. Shenro taught this portion of the curriculum himself. Instead of discussing tactics and time lines as concise facts, he related the historical events as though he were a prester or storyteller, enamored of adventure tales.
In Tierra, occasional feuds had occurred between reaches, destrar fighting destrar. Alamont and Erietta in particular shared a great deal of rivalry. But the first major skirmish--a genuine insurrection against the king in Calay--had happened many centuries ago, when the Corag destrar attempted to declare independence from the other reaches and from King Yaradin.
"The other destrars were horrified," Shenro said from his open-air teaching platform. "They viewed Corag's rebellion as a mutiny against the captain of their government. Such a thing had never occurred before, and King Yaradin knew that he must change the relationships between the destrars and their fealty to him. He was a strong king, and he took on the mantle of captain, reminding them of his direct blood connection to Aiden."
Mateo and his fellow recruits stood in ranks, sweating and weary under the hot sun. By now, they had learned to remain at attention for hours without being restless, just waiting.
Shenro leaned forward, engrossed in his own story. "Yaradin unified the destrars, so that they all marched on rebellious Destrar Olacu and ousted him, replacing him with his nephew Miros, who swore loyalty to the king, to Calay, and to Aiden. To prove his sincerity, Miros ordered his uncle hurled from a cliff, so that his body was dashed on the rocks far below. Afterward,
as added insurance, many of Destrar Miros's family members were sent to live among the other destrars as hostages. No further trouble occurred."
Shenro nodded to himself as if thinking through his lecture. "King Yaradin was wise enough to study the root cause of the Corag destrar's rebellion. Olacu was not just a power-mad man who had flagrantly abandoned centuries of tradition and law. Corag Reach was isolated, receiving little benefit from the taxes it paid to the rest of the kingdom. Olacu had not considered the ruler in Calay to be necessary or relevant. And he was not entirely wrong--Yaradin saw that.
"The king decided to increase trade among the reaches. He concluded--correctly--that if all the destrars were prosperous, they would want to maintain the status quo. Thus, Yaradin forged a much stronger kingdom, rather than a loose collection of allied regions."
As he listened to Destrar Shenro's lecture, Mateo realized he had never heard such a blunt interpretation of history before. He knew the facts, and the legends, but had never looked for the subtleties or underlying principles. Mateo had always been taught that the king was a royal personage whose throne came by divine right, but Shenro had a compelling way of describing the concepts. Mateo decided he needed to think about it for a while.
When the destrar finished his tale, he gazed out at the recruits and raised his voice so that even the back rows could hear him clearly. "I have told you a story. You all know many stories, and you will hear plenty more during your instruction. But your training is no longer a theoretical exercise.
"You must be the first of a new breed of soldiers. The threat to Tierra is real. The followers of Urec have demonstrated their brulality. We watched them burn Ishalem, and we know how they

	I
	240 Kevin J. Anderson
	martyred Prester-Marshall Baine." He paused to shudder, then continued in a hoarser voice. "Understand that as soon as you are trained, you may be called upon at any moment to spill the blood of the Urecari. And you must do it without hesitation."
	49
	Windcatch
	Resting and recovering aboard the Soeland whaling ship, Cris ton finally felt human again. At last, the big vessel arrived at a fishing village well north of Windcatch. After suggesting once again, unsuccessfully, that he go directly to King Korastine with his story, his rescuers bade him farewell. Criston could think only of Adrea, and his duty was to her first. With a wry smile, the whaler captain gave him a small amount of money--a fraction of the profits from the catch--to help him book passage home. They all wished him luck.;
Criston's heart tugged him southward. Though battered and weary, he drew strength from thoughts of Adrea, Telha, and Ciarlo.
When he arrived at Windcatch, though, everything had changed. Half of the familiar buildings were gone. Some were only burned-out shells; others had been torn down completely, and no attempt had been made to reconstruct them. Something terrible had happened here.
A sick dread filled Criston as he disembarked from the small ship that had given him passage; he hurried along the docks, past the oddly subdued and quiet merchant wharves. He ran, breathless, not wanting to waste a second. He stopped no one on the streets, couldn't bear to ask for an explanation. As he
approached the whitewashed half-timbered home where he had lived much of his life, he called out.
Finding the door of his house broken and hanging off its B hinges, he rushed inside, trying to see in the dimness. "Adrea! Mother! Ciarlo!"
The house was silent. Cupboards had been smashed. Some of the shelves had been torn down and scattered across the floor. Hi He saw bloodstains, dust, but no sign of his family. Nobody had _ been here for a long time.
| He stumbled back out of the house and walked away in a daze, making his way through the strange streets. Belatedly, he noticed that the kirk had burned down as well.
On the outskirts of town, covering an area more than twice its former size, the village cemetery had sprouted dozens of new grave markers. He stopped, stunned, to look at all the new stones, reading names that he recognized--friends and acquaintances, shopkeepers, fishermen, wives, bachelors--people he had always known. All of the new grave markers bore the same date.
Criston could not grasp what he was seeing--so many dead at once? He could only think that it must have been a horrific plague or a fire. But that wouldn't account for the additional destruction he had seen, or the blood.
One of the markers bore the name of Telha Vora. The sight of 1 it hit him like a physical blow to his stomach, and his shoulders sagged. He found it hard to breathe, and words would not come out of his mouth. His mother was among the dead. After losing all of his crewmates on the Luminara, and Captain Shay, and Prester Jerard... he had come home to this.
His heart began to pound in panic. He looked around frantically, scanning the additional markers and dreading what he would find. Name after name, some of them scrawled with paint, some lovingly chiseled into the rock. The graves were staggered
and haphazard, as if the burials had been rushed, the diggers overwhelmed. Too many bodies.
Then, at the edge of the cemetery he saw a group of wooden posts set too closely together, without enough room between them to bury a body. A fishhook had been carved into each wooden post, letters scratched but not deeply, as if the carver had grown too weary of a seemingly endless task.
On one post, the letters spelled out Adrea's name.
He stopped there in the dirt, his legs as stiff as old masts, and after what felt like hours, he crumpled to his knees. Though tears washed in like the tide, even his blurred vision did not change her name on the marker.
Other people noticed him now, and several came up from the town to see him. The cemetery held many mourners who walked among the markers, reciting the names of the fallen as if afraid to forget them.
After his own ordeal, Criston had changed as much as they had. His expression was drawn, his face etched with many lines. He had trimmed but not shaved his beard. Even so, several people recognized him; his return from the long voyage seemed no more impossible than the events that had already taken place around them. "What happened?" he finally brought himself to ask. He raised his voice to a shout and demanded answers. And they told him of the Urecari raid in scattered recollections, disjointed snippets.
"Ciarlo is alive," said an old woman who had been a friend of his mother's. "Up at the new kirk. He can tell you more."
Leaving the graveyard, Griston ran up the hill toward the foundations of the ruined kirk, to where a small new building had been erected. A man limped out, wearing the robes of a prester, though they fit him poorly. He looked up--a young man with very old eyes--without recognition.
1
"Giarlo, it's Criston." He stood there, his knees locked, but still swaying. "The Luminara was shipwrecked, but I made it home." When Ciarlo merely blinked at him, Criston could not hold his questions inside any longer. "Where's Adrea? What happened to her? What happened toyou?"
The young man took a deep breath. "I'm Prester Ciarlo now. Prester Fennan was killed in the raid. He made me hide in the root cellar, and now I'm the only one who knows the services. I do the best I can." He absently touched the patched loose robes. "These were Prester Fennan's old robes that he had stored in the cellar. I didn't have any of my own. Windcatch had nobody else. So I became the new prester. I had to."
Griston seized Ciarlo by the shoulders. "Tell me." He felt his voice grow dead, afraid to hear the answer. "Tell me, Ciarlo--what happened to Adrea?" Her brother nearly collapsed, but Criston held him up, hugging him. "Tell me," he said again in a hoarse whisper. Ciarlo began to sob. 
	50
	Uraba
	The caravan made slow progress as they left the port of Khenara and followed a track up into the hills, passing across the isthmus from Outer Wahilir to Inner Wahilir. The younger children were placed on pack animals or in carts that jostled along the well-traveled road; the older ones had to walk. The few women and all of the children had been fed, but Adrea's pregnancy often made her feel ill, sluggish, and clumsy.
As they moved onward, day after day, she maintained her silence whenever the captors could hear her. She would not give
them the satisfaction of hearing her beg... or hearing her speak at all. While other women moaned in fear and despair, Adrea just felt angry. These raiders had destroyed or taken everything she knew. She would never see her husband again, nor her brother, nor her home. Even if she survived long enough for the baby to be born, Criston would never see his child.
Twice more, the gruff Uraban sailor tried to talk with her on the zarifs behalf, but she gave no response, further infuriating him. The sailor asked other prisoners about her, but apart from the young captive children, Adrea was the only female prisoner from Windcatch in their group. Because she had not shared her name or background with her fellow captives, no one could tell him who she was, and Adrea hoped the rude man would receive punishment for his failure to learn more. Before long, though, Zarif Omra apparently lost interest in her.
As they traveled overland, she listened intently and learned what she could. When she could safely whisper to the other women without being observed, she tried to make a connection, but most of them were paralyzed with despair. The children, having lost everything, huddled in shock. Adrea turned her attention to her captors, watching them, gleaning information. She quickly picked up words in their strange language, though she gave no outward sign of understanding.
After journeying inland for five days, the track began to wind downward, and the terrain opened up. Looking ahead, Adrea saw a broad blue expanse of water that had a different color and character than the Oceansea. The Middlesea.
The shoreline was white and sandy, the water turquoise. At another port town--Sioara, she heard someone call it--the Urecari soldiers herded their captives into a large enclosure that had obviously been built for horses. When strangely garbed people from Sioara came to stare at the Tierrans--cursing, spitting,
throwing things--Adrea ignored them. The prisoners slept out B in the open, without shade, and she forced herself to rest.
Next morning, when faint colors of dawn tinged the sky, guttural-voiced soldiers rousted the prisoners out of the corral enclosure and led them down to the harbor, herding them toward another group of ships, single-masted galleys that looked entirely different from the normal sea vessels with which she was so familiar. The Middlesea ships had a shallower draft and a broader deck made to carry people out in the open rather than heavy cargo in the hold.
Their captors marched them double file up the gangplanks, filling first one galley, then two more, mingling the children and women. Adrea followed without speaking and found herself on the same ship as Omra. The zarif had bathed and obtained fresh garments in Sioara; she still felt filthy, her dress torn and stained. Whenever he looked at her, she glanced away so he would not see the poison in her blue eyes.
Uraban men took their places on benches, each grasping an oar, and rowed the galleys away from Sioara. Once they reached open water, they unfurled the sails, the center of each showing the Eye of Urec. Gentle easterly breezes pushed them onward. When she looked over the side into the Middlesea, Adrea saw fish darting alongside the hull.
They never left sight of the coast. With each stroke of the oars, each gust of wind, they were propelled farther and farther from Windcatch, and from Criston
After three days' voyage, they reached a large and beautiful city boasting tall towers and white buildings constructed of limestone and marble, rooftops that were tiled instead of thatched. The sunshine was so bright that the foreign skyline seemed to sparkle with haze.
The galleys slid toward the docks and tied up against wait
ing wharves. The prisoners were herded out, destined for a slave market, Adrea was sure. But Zarif Omra separated her from the rest, keeping her on deck after the others had left. He stood at her side and pointed to the city and the tall palace in the center. "Olabar," he said. "Olabar. Your home now." She comprehended what he said, but didn't respond to him, refused to break that bargain with herself.
"You will work in the palace. Do you understand? In the palace." He searched her face, but Adrea averted her eyes. She flinched with a twinge of surprise as the baby kicked inside her. Omra saw it, and showed a glint of something that seemed almost like compassion. "You are home now," he repeated.
Adrea would not acknowledge him.; 
	51
	Windcatch
	Criston felt as hollow as an abandoned ship.
He stayed in Windcatch and tried to sleep in his own home, but nightmares haunted him. After surviving the Leviathan attack and being preyed upon by sea serpents, the silence and shadows and ghosts inside his house were too much to bear. Ciarlo had explained what he remembered, what he knew. The Urecari had attacked the village without warning or mercy, burning buildings, cutting down men and women with their scimitars. Telha's body had been found in the house, alone, without Adrea. "We never found her, not for sure, but there were so many burned ones in the streets and inside buildings, we didn't always know who..." Ciarlo hung his head. "Many people ran into
the hills and escaped, but Adrea never came back. So we put her name on a post and said the evening prayers for her. The worst part is all the missing children, dragged off to the Urecari warships." "Why would they take children?" Criston asked, but all of the horrors now blended together, sounding like thunder rumbling in the distance. "Nobody knows, but they're gone. Maybe the Urecari cap1 tured some of our women, too, but... I don't know."
Criston caught his breath. "Could Adrea have been one of them? Could she still be a prisoner?" He knew how achingly i beautiful she was. The thought of those monstrous men taking her--
1 "Idon't know! "darlo's ragged cry showed he had been haunted by that question for a long time. "I don't know... And would that have been better? It's more merciful to think that she's not alive. At the time of the raid, her pregnancy was showing. Maybe they wanted the baby." "Baby?" Criston lurched to his feet. "She was with child?"
Ciarlo began to sob again. 
	Windcatch was empty for Criston. His home was no longer home. How could he make a life in this place again? He wished I he Leviathan had simply swallowed him as well. He heard that the predatory war galleys had ventured up the coast, and several other fishing towns had been ruined. In Calay, King Korastine was using Tierra's resources to build his navy and arm his soldiers, launching patrols to stop further Urecari raids. The stricken villages scrambled to rebuild. By now, Criston knew that the Soeland whalers would have delivered his letter, telling King Korastine of the Luminam's fate, hut he felt no desire to go to the capital city. The king would
be preoccupied by the war, and Captain Shay's voyage seemed irrelevant now. All of Criston's dreams to see exotic far-off lands had turned to ash.
As a seasoned sailor, he considered enlisting in the Tierran navy, to fight against the Urecari, but he wasn't driven by vengeance or bloodlust. The people of Windcatch were trying to rebuild, struggling to recover from their shock and grief in the smoky wake of the raid. They tried to put the nightmares behind them, to erase the scars of the attack, and move forward. They wanted him to do the same. He looked at the once-familiar faces, now all stricken.
While Ciarlo toiled daily to finish the small kirk, Criston helped him, though neither man spoke much. A third of the town's population had been lost in the massacre. Most of their supplies were gone, and they had little with which to pay visiting traders. Eleven fishing boats had vanished that day, presumably sunk by the Urecari, and the daily catch was drastically reduced. Windcatch was on its own, and the people required his help. They needed the extra set of strong arms. He had to stay here, at least for a little while.
When the villagers offered him a boat free and clear and asked him to take up his old trade, Criston realized how much had changed inside him. He had gone to the edge of the world and back; he had survived by clinging to his love for Adrea--all for nothing. He didn't dare to imagine that Adrea could still be alive.. .but it was the only hope he had left. The call of the sea that had once been so strong, the tug that made him look out to the water, had vanished within him. Criston was no longer a man of the ocean; he was immune to it.
Nevertheless, he and a small crew went out fishing each day, bringing back a catch to be distributed to the villagers. On land, workers tore down the wrecked shops and dock buildings, then
reconstructed them. Whitewashed walls were repainted; roofs were rethatched. His boat returned each sunset, and men hauled out the nets. He always had enough to eat. He remembered his courtship, when he had brought fish to feed Adrea, Ciarlo, and their mother.
B How could he ever have thought that sailing the uncharted sea was more important than staying with his beloved wife? He had gone away for adventure, to secure his future with Adrea... only to lose her entirely.
He lay awake at night, staring into the darkness, dead to the sea. He felt like a piece of driftwood that had once floated on the waves and now lay discarded by a high tide, cast up on a shore.
Day after day, he did the same thing, beginning to fall into a routine. After several months of hard work, the villagers managed to rebuild Windcatch. To a casual observer, the town looked the same as it always had. Life was getting back to normal. The people--his friends and acquaintances--had an aversion to talking about the raid, as if they wanted to forget it all.
Criston found himself falling into the same trap, and one night he woke in a cold sweat, shouting into the empty house. Never! He would never forget!
The next morning, packing only a few possessions, he trudged off to the kirk to say goodbye to Ciarlo. "I'm going inland. The ocean has nothing for me anymore. Windcatch doesn't need me."
Ciarlo was shocked. "But this is your home!"
"No... not anymore. Give the fishing boat to the crew. They know how to use it."
He needed solid ground under his feet, not a swaying deck. I Ie needed to be far from the waves, from the smell of salt, from the cold winds and storm clouds that blew in from the ocean. He did not care if he ever looked upon the waves again. The sea had
lured him away and taken everything from him--his home, his hope, his love
Criston shouldered his pack and looked eastward to the hills that extended as far as he could see, knowing that he could find open land there, unexplored mountains, a place where he could be by himself, to heal... or at least to survive.
The rutted road out of town was dotted with puddles from a thunderstorm that had passed two days earlier. He stopped once to look back at the harbor and ocean for the last time, but he felt no glimmer of regret, no need to reconsider. He was still a young man, with his whole life ahead of him, but his heart felt incredibly old.
Woodcutters and farmers brought laden carts down to the Windcatch markets. Word had spread inland, and producers brought supplies to the coast, hoping to help. On the lonely, winding track Criston encountered a man riding a cart full of apples, pulled by a shaggy horse. Criston felt obligated to stop and talk with him, though he was in no mood for conversation. He answered the man's questions, told him that Windcatch did indeed need the food. "But I am leaving," he said. "I'm going far into the mountains, to find a place somewhere for myself."
The farmer seemed sad to hear this. "All alone?"
"Yes... I'm all alone."
Brightening, the man reached behind him to pull aside a woolen blanket that covered a basket in which four puppies had curled up together. Exposed to the light, they blinked and lifted their heads curiously. One gave an extraordinarily large yawn.
"If you're a man alone, you need companionship. I was planning to give away these puppies in town, but you need one. I can see it in your eyes."
"No. I have a long way to go."
"You said you didn't know where you're going."
I 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 251
	The puppy that had yawned got to its feet and wobbled, leaning forward to sniff Criston's hand. Then it began to wag not just its tail, but its entire body.
"No man should be alone," the farmer reiterated. "Trust me. This puppy will make all the difference now, and the dog he grows into will be a more faithful companion than you've ever had. They're fully weaned--you won't regret it." The farmer scooped up the puppy and thrust it into Criston's arms, refusing to hear any protestations.
Criston reluctantly held it, and the puppy licked his face. He tried to hand it back, but the dog seemed to call to him. With his life spent on boats, going out to sea every day, he'd never owned a pet, and now he didn't know quite what to do.
"He is obviously yours," the farmer said with a nod. "You just don't realize it yet."
For some reason, this observation made perfect sense to Criston, and he found himself agreeing. "I'll take him." Criston thanked the man, who clucked at the shaggy horse, and the cart rolled slowly down the path toward Windcatch.
Holding the puppy in one arm and his satchel of belongings over his shoulder, Criston walked on, turning his back on the village, on the shore, and the sea.
1 I
part III 
	Four Years Later
	Five Years After the Burning oflshalem
52 
	Ondun's Lightning
	Four years after his return from Gorag Reach, fully accepted as a Saedran chartsman, Aldo na-Curic set off on another sea voyage--his twelfth. The young man had proven himself to be a reliable navigator; he understood the workings of complex astronomical instruments, and his mind held a detailed map of all known ocean currents. Once he knew the captain's desired destination, Aldo could plot the best course far from shore where the ship would find favorable winds and swift currents, trimming days off their expected travel time. Merchants bid for his services, and he guided their ships to far-off ports.
He would always return home to his parents, his brother, and his sister. By tradition, Saedran chartsmen remained unmarried until later in life. It was their duty to serve aboard ships for many years, guiding numerous voyages and adding wealth to the treasury. Given the respect Aldo earned with his wide travels, many young women had taken an interest in him, flashing flirtatious glances in his direction, though they'd never looked twice at him before. Someday, he supposed he would choose a wife and have a family, but for now, he wanted to see the world.
Currently, rather than exploring unmarked territories and expanding the Mappa Mundi, Aldo drew his excitement from running dangerous waters and avoiding Uraban pirates. He assisted brash Tierran captains who dared to sail below the Kdict Line and trade illegally with the coastal cities of Outer Wahilir.
For this twelfth voyage, Aldo served aboard a small fast ship,
Ondun's Lightning, loaded with leather goods from Erietta, finely worked jewelry from Corag, and mammoth ivory and scrimshaw work from snowy Iboria. Such items commanded a premium in the distant south, since they could be obtained only from privateers and blockade runners willing to ignore the Edict and risk the wrath of Ondun. A single successful voyage could make a captain and crew fabulously wealthy.
The Lightning's, captain, Jan Rennert, had already returned from two successful voyages, but wanted more. He had a contact in Ouroussa deep in Uraban territory, a merchant who was just as hungry for the easy profits, and the two men had an arrangement to distribute a shipload of luxury items.
But a ship that hugged the shoreline could easily be seen and attacked by Uraban corsairs. Therefore, Captain Rennert needed a chartsman's help. Taking the risk again, Rennert had offered Aldo an extravagant amount of money to guide him, to plot a clever course safely far away from coastal raiders. Ouroussa was halfway down the coast of Outer Wahilir, well beyond any journey Aldo had ever made.
"Because it is so far away," Captain Rennert pointed out, "our profits will be larger. I've already laid the groundwork--you'll see."
So Aldo guided the Lightning out to sea, following currents he had memorized from the Saedran records. Many leagues below Ishalem, the winds became hot, and the ocean turned silty and shallow. Over the next week, four sailors fell sick with a fever they were sure came from poison fish, strange ugly things that had supplemented their meals. Heading farther southward to the fabled city of Lahjar would have been unconscionable, even to Rennert, despite the obvious profits.
Aldo directed the captain to tack east toward shore where, if his calculations were correct, they would catch a swift current
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 257 
	to bring them in to Ouroussa from the south. As expected, and to the cheers and thanks of the crew, the ship did approach the reefs on the outskirts of the foreign city at dusk, and Captain Rennert contemplated how best to go ashore and sell their valuable cargo. The crew was in a celebratory mood.
Two swift Uraban war galleys appeared unexpectedly, bearing down on them with long oars extended and drumbeats pounding. Captain Rennert sounded the alarm. "I had hoped to be discreet about this," he said, his expression tight. "My merchant friend must have sold us out." He ordered the sails set, planning to run out to sea. "Can you get us out of this, chartsman?"
"Those warships are between us and the best course, Captain, but I'll try to find another way." Aldo closed his eyes and summoned up his knowledge about the reef hazards around the Ouroussa coastline, but details were sparse. He didn't see a way out. The obstacle course of shoals now cut them off. B>> Another warship came toward them, dispatched from the city harbor itself. Then two more. Ondun's Lightning tried to beat a hasty retreat, but came up against a line of submerged rocks that even Aldo hadn't known about, and only a frantic heeling to port kept them from shearing open their hull.
Familiar with the local hazards, the Uraban corsairs boxed them in against the reefs. With a sick feeling in his stomach, Aldo watched the vessels closing in, cutting off all hope of escape. Captain Rennert ordered his men to arm themselves and stand ready. As the sun sank to the horizon, the outcome seemed inevitable.
It was nightfall by the time the ships came together in the anticipated clash. Uraban rowers brought their war galleys alongside Ondun's Lightning, and fighters threw grappling hooks to secure the vessels. "They don't look as if they intend to take prisoners," Rennert said, seeing the curved silver scimitars. Before
the first enemy boarding party could leap onto their deck, the captain howled for the battle to begin.
Corsairs swarmed aboard, their colorful outfits making them easy to differentiate from the drab garments of the Lightning's crew, even in the fading light. With swords, clubs, axes, and harpoons, the Tierrans fought furiously to protect their cargo and save their lives.
But the numbers against them were overwhelming. Instead of running for safety belowdecks, Aldo seized a sword from a dead sailor's hand and brandished it to defend himself. The bloody mayhem on the deck of the ship was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.
One of the corsair captains spotted Aldo and bellowed in Uraban, which the young man had learned in his studies, "Save the Saedran chartsman--he's valuable!" Aldo swung his borrowed sword gracelessly from side to side, trying to keep them at bay. He called out for help, jabbing and slashing at the men as they advanced on him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Rennert go down, clubbed unconscious by a crowd of fighting men. In dismay, Aldo let his attention flicker for just a moment, and the largest Uraban fighter struck the confiscated sword, numbing his wrist. The hilt slipped out of his fingers, and the sword clattered to the deck. He balled his fists to fight, but the pirates surged forward to grab his arms and tie him up.
Dragged to the side of the boat and bound to a rail, Aldo was forced to watch as the attackers hauled a groggy Captain Rennert to his feet. Without ceremony or accusations, one of the Uraban captains ran him through with a scimitar, then tossed his body overboard. Aldo vomited, then tore his gaze away as the first officer was also executed and dumped unceremoniously into the water to feed the fish.
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 259 A few closely guarded and terrified Tierran deckhands were
i
forced to wash the blood from the deck, and a small crew took control of Ondun's Lightning. After being put in irons, the rest of the Aidenist captives were transferred to one of the Uraban galleys, where they would be sold as slaves.
| But it seemed the Urabans considered Aldo a prize even more ; significant than the Tierran ship. He felt dazed and miserable as the Urabans dragged him aboard their lead war galley and separated him from his companions. 
	53 Uraba
	The Teacher stood as tall as Zarif Omra, but opaque black robes covered his entire body, black gloves wrapped his hands, and a featureless silver mask sheathed his face, leaving only slits for eyes and mouth. Since disguise was the nature of his work, the Teacher shielded his identity from everyone. But the students in I his isolated camp would wear no masks; rather, they would hide in plain sight until it was time for them to strike.
The Teacher's voice was muffled and genderless behind the mask. "They are prepared for their first test, Zarif."
Omra stood with the dark figure on the outskirts of a hidden settlement an hour's ride outside of Olabar. "It has been four years, Teacher. Time for more than a demonstration."
"Patience is a weapon as mighty as the sword. Observe." The ' I eacher gestured with a gloved hand, and one of the male tenders down in the village let out a shrill whistle.
The village was a perfect replica of a Tierran town. The I louses were half-timbered cottages with white plaster walls,
| I
brick porches, thatched roofs. A stone-lined well stood at the middle of a gathering square. The bell inside the town's Aidenist kirk began to toll in response to the man's whistle.
Figures emerged from doorways to stand in well-practiced lines out on the dirt streets. All were children, many of them teens, laughing and joking with one another. Their Tierran clothing was a motley of browns, blacks, and even a few dirt smeared whites; most of the children did not wear shoes. Tousled blond, coppery, or brown hair hung moplike from their heads, though a few of the girls had tied their hair into ponytails with strips of cloth. They spoke perfect Tierran. For four years, the captives had remained here in a world that the Teacher kept carefully separate from the rest of Uraba.
"Have they completed their exercises for the day?" Omra asked.
The Teacher nodded again. "And they were exceptional. I am confident in how they will serve you."
Two lagging boys fell into a tussle in the dirt, then sprang to their feet and ran to meet the others in the square. The older teenagers kept the younger children in line, scolding the rambunctiousness; all were perfectly aware of the Teacher's presence. When the black-robed man lifted a gloved hand, they all fell silent, as though in awe.
The Teacher called out to them in his own language, "They are your first test. Are you ready?" Laughing, the children shouted their answer, and the Teacher turned his silver mask toward Omra. "You may call your guests forward now, Zarif."
Guards on horseback ushered in four Tierran sailors who had been held out of sight of the village, pulling them by ropes bound to their wrists. Omra explained to the Teacher, "These are surviving crewmen from an illicit trader recently captured off the coast of Ouroussa. The captain and officers were slain, but we
did manage to seize a Saedran chartsman. My father will make use of him." Omra smiled coldly as he turned to watch the proceedings. "These sailors, though, are for you. Show me what you have achieved."
When the beaten and exhausted captives saw the familiar looking village, they brightened. One man praised Aiden, and the offended guards cuffed him. Omra's men slashed the bonds around their wrists and pushed the men forward.
The four captives hurried into the village, where the pale skinned children greeted them enthusiastically, calling the men i farther into the square. The captured sailors, laughing or weeping with joy, threw their arms around the Tierran children and stood, heaving great breaths. B The Teacher shouted a single order in Uraban.
The children moved like a dance troupe, their reactions perfectly coordinated. From their ragged clothes they produced knives. Each child, down to the smallest boy and girl, was armed.',||,
The captive sailors were surprised, perplexed. One blurted out a question. The children fell upon them in a frenzy of stabbing, pushing forward, flashing their knives, each one wanting to feel the bite of a sharp blade into flesh and bone. Before long, the four dead sailors were no longer recognizable as human.
"No hesitation," the Teacher pointed out. "They are completely loyal, completely trained. They may have been born in Tierra, but their hearts belong to Urec. Your plan will succeed, Zarif."
Unable to tear his eyes away Omra felt great satisfaction. "We will call them ra'virs." Omra took the name from a rare bird, the ra'vir, which had a habit of laying its eggs in another bird's nest, so that its offspring would be raised among other species. But ra'virs often killed their fellows to eliminate competition.
"An excellent name."
Omra's ra'virs, these captive children, would look and act exactly like Aidenists, but would always be loyal to Uraba, ready to perform destructive missions when they received orders.
"I'm pleased with this demonstration, Teacher. Continue your work. Soon we can start sending them north to infiltrate Tierran society." 
	54
	Olabar Palace
	Inside the Olabar palace, Adrea worked silently, unobtrusively. Some days, the guards let her out into the gardens to scrub flagstones and pull weeds. Today, she toiled in the spacious quarters of Soldan-Shah Imir's third wife, Villiki. Using rags and brushes, she scoured dust and dirt from cracks in the tile floor. She polished statues, cleaning the stone faces of arrogant-looking men whose names she did not know. She used her spit to moisten the rag. A fresh dove dropping stood out on the man's sculpted head, and she took pleasure in smearing it all over the implacable face before wiping the filth away.
Uraban handmaidens with gaudy clothes and ripe perfumes twittered as they moved from room to room, fawning upon the soldan-shah's wife. Imir's second wife had been murdered four years ago, not long before Adrea was brought here, and the first wife -- Omra's mother--had lived apart from her husband for more than a decade.
Like creatures settling into a fresh tide pool, a group of scheming handmaidens surrounded Zarif Omra's only wife, Cliaparia.
Gliaparia was Adrea's age, dark-haired and beautiful, though with an arrogant self-absorption that diminished her charm.
As a mere palace slave, Adrea was immune to all politics. To the members of the court, she was invisible, a disguise she had carefully cultivated during her years here. When she was first captured, she had expected to be raped and abused, passed from I one Uraban soldier to another, regardless of her pregnancy. At the very least, she had been sure she'd be forced into Omra's , personal harem, since a Urecari man could supposedly take as many wives as he pleased. But to her surprise, she had not been harmed; in fact, Adrea had been given her own simple quarters, and was fed and clothed.
K When it was time for her baby to be born, a Uraban mid wife tended her, spoke soothingly, gave her medicines and herbal tea to ease the delivery. Without Griston at her side, Adrea had given birth to a baby boy, whom she named Saan. She had even been allowed to keep him, to raise him. Adrea didn't understand these people. > Saan was now four years old, a perfect blond-haired, blue eyed boy, and his face showed hints of her beloved husband. Every time she saw her son, she ached for what she had lost in Windcatch--Griston, her family, her life. By now, he must have long since returned home from his voyage. She imagined the Luminara sailing into Calay Harbor in triumph. Criston had likely received a fortune for serving on such a brave expedition... only to come home to a devastated Windcatch, his mother dead, Adrea gone. In the fire and slaughter and confusion, she doubted anyone had seen her captured. If anyone had seen it, they had probably perished that day as well. y
How could Criston not assume she was dead? Her heart felt heavy as she wondered if he had married again. Criston would
I
still be young and handsome. He would probably never learn that she had carried his child--much less that the boy was alive
Now, as she worked to make the marble of the statue gleam, tears sparkled in her eyes, but she wiped them away before anyone could see. In all her time here, she had refused to let her Uraban captors see a hint of emotion from her, and she had not uttered a word to them. They all believed she was mute, nothing more than a beast of burden--and a rather stupid one at that. Such attitudes worked to her advantage, and she clung to her shield of silence while she did her tasks in the soldan-shah's palace.
Although Adrea had no desire to please her captors, she worked hard because she couldn't risk being punished. She had too much to lose. In her precarious position, if anything happened to her, then Saan would pay the price. Adrea knew she could no longer count on Zarif Omra's help; over the past several years, he had paid little attention to her. By eavesdropping, she had long ago learned that Omra's first wife died during a miscarriage, and she concluded that a moment of weakness had caused Omra to protect her. Perhaps he had felt some empathy for her and her unborn son. But not anymore.
Each morning before Adrea left her quarters, Saan was taken away to a nursery school in one wing of the palace. She could not object, but it disturbed her to know that her son was being indoctrinated in Urec's Log, taught things that she found hateful.
Her own protective silence had laid a trap for her. Though Adrea longed to teach him his own language and heritage, Saan spoke only Uraban. The four-year-old did not understand his situation. Even when she held him in their quarters at night, clinging to him like one last possession that couldn't be taken from her, she feared that if she gave him words in his own language, told him the name of his father, described the village of Wind
265 
	I catch and the wonders she had seen in Calay, Saan might blurt something to his teachers, and her secret would be exposed. So when she whispered to him in the night, soothing him r making him feel loved and comforted, Adrea spoke in Uraban,'
I but made him swear never to tell anyone that she could talk. The
I boy had given her his word with all the earnestness of a child and for four years she felt as if she had been holding her breath.
Each day, when she finished her work in Villiki's quarters and most Urecari were preparing to go to their churches for sunset ceremonies, Adrea waited for Saan to be released from the school and led back to their quarters. Out in the long, open-air corridor, she moved on to the next statue, polishing it in the daylight that filtered through the corridor's vine-covered windows. Bees buzzed around the trumpet shaped yellow flowers. She looked up, hearing a rustle of sandals and robes. While Adrea disliked ambitious Villiki, the mother of Imir's second son, she had come to resent the Urecari priestesses even more. Ur-Sikara Lukai flaunted her superiority over any Aidenist captive, but since Adrea did her assigned tasks reliably, the sikara heaped scorn on her merely out of habit Today, red-robed Lukai herself brought the boy out, clutching his small hand. Adrea knew something was wrong. The priestess smiled at her with a face as hard as the statues Adrea had seen all day. Out of habit, Adrea lowered her head respectfully. Ur-Sikara Lukai spoke in broken Tierran, sure that Saan couldn't understand her. "Your son...soon he will change.
When he is five years old, we take him from you. We train him."
Adrea looked up, suppressed an involuntary cry of alarm, bit
I >ack the words she wanted to hurl after her.
Lukai seemed to enjoy her reaction. "He have the honor of being trained among ra'vir." Adrea didn't know what that meant,
but she grabbed Saan and pulled him close. The sikara laughed. "Soon now, he is old enough."
The priestess turned with a sweep of her red gown and stalked away. Saan had no idea why his mother was so emotional. She held him, her thoughts in turmoil, at a loss as to how she could protect her son. 
	55
	Corag Highlands
	High in a mountain meadow at the edge of Corag Reach, Cris ton Vora sat on a lichen-spattered boulder. The black and gray peaks above the meadows were frosted with thick snow that would not melt even at the height of summer.
He watched his small flock of sheep graze contentedly on the lush spring grasses. Magenta, white, and yellow flowers splashed color like daubs of paint across the greenery. Silvery meltwater streams trickled down from the highlands, gathering into larger brooks, all of which flowed into valleys and eventually to the sea.
But he no longer thought about the sea. Griston preferred the solidity of the mountains to the rocking deck of a ship.
His dog, full grown now, bounded after a rusty-furred marmot. The pudgy rodent clambered up a lump of rock, out of reach, while the barking dog circled. The marmot slipped into a crack to safety, though the dog would persist for hours, without losing hope or interest, though still remaining aware of the sheep all around the meadow.
At the edge of the sparse forest stood two enormous talus boulders beside a cozy cottage built from fieldstone, timbered with
wood he had cut from the patchy trees below. On sunny days like this, he left the plank door and window shutters open, so the breeze would air out the lingering smoke from his fireplace.
Criston sat in silence, comfortable and reasonably content. These days, he asked for nothing more. He no longer expected to I be happy. The world seemed quiet and still around him, and that I was enough.
He whistled. "Jerard! Come!" The dog let out a disappointed bark, looked back at the boulders where the marmot was hiding, then bounded across the meadow to his master.
For the first year, Criston had called him nothing more than "Dog," but since this steadfast creature was his only friend here in the wilderness, he eventually decided the animal deserved a name. So he named it after Prester Jerard.
Now an experienced sheepdog, Jerard came up to him, tongue lolling. Criston patted the dog's head and rubbed his muzzle, then turned him loose to circle the meadow once more, ensuring that the aimless sheep did not stray.
In the four years since leaving his old life behind, Criston had become skilled at avoiding his thoughts. He walled off his memories and could sit for hours watching his sheep, thinking of nothing. Now he pondered only what he would have for dinner. Perhaps he could go down to the stream and catch a trout or two; he had discovered that freshwater fish had an entirely different taste, and many more bones, than ocean fish. Criston kept a vegetable garden near the cottage, and knew where to find mushrooms and wild onions nearby. The dog might even catch that marmot, which would provide gamey but satisfactory meat.
With the nearest village a day's walk away, Criston's routine was unharried and unambitious. He had stepped off the path of life and now watched the rest of the world from the sidelines.
Sitting on his favorite boulder, he took up his knife and
began to whittle a chunk of wood. The sunshine was warm, and his fingers were nimble. When he first began carving his small sculptures, he had let the shape of the twisted wood determine his subjects: his dog, birds, indistinct humans. Soon he branched out into sea serpents, mermaids, fierce-looking sharks, and the exotic fish that Captain Shay had studied. He based many of his designs on sketches in the captain's battered scientific journal, which he kept close at hand to read in the long, solitary evenings.
Eventually, Criston's creativity drifted toward the creation of small ships. He carved models of boat after boat, though he didn't know why. He did not want to think of those days, but the wood seemed to speak to him. He crafted little vessels that reminded him of fishing craft from Windcatch, or of the Cindon. Getting more ambitious, he re-created the Luminara, adding twigs for masts.
When he finished another small carving, he realized it was already late afternoon. He whistled for the dog, which expertly rounded up the sheep. Criston had completed more than a dozen new carvings; it was time to make a trek to the village
The following morning, with his whittled sculptures gathered into a square of cloth, he set off with Jerard trotting beside him, leaving the sheep to graze in the open meadow. They would be all right for two days until he returned.
The high mountain village in Corag Reach was isolated and self-sufficient, located beside a deep, cold glacial lake that sparkled an uncanny shade of turquoise in the sunlight. During his first year, the villagers had regarded him with suspicion, not knowing why Criston was there or where he had come from. But he was quiet and friendly, offering no threat, and eventually they accepted him. He obtained a handcart, with which he carried wool sheared from his sheep to trade in the village. He also
269 
	began trading his carvings for salt, flour, and other essentials. He had enough to get by.
Now, when he arrived in the village, people came forward to see what he had to offer. The children stared at his wood carvings with delight as he produced them from his makeshift sack and handed them out for inspection. Since the villagers had spent their entire lives far from the sea, surrounded by mountains and trees, the ships were strange, exotic objects to them.
Griston distributed his carvings, and the boys took the boats to the lakeshore to set them afloat. The dog also splashed in the water, barking happily, chasing some of the floating craft and scaring up water birds.
The villagers traded Criston the supplies he needed. Though only yesterday he had felt a need for human company, after a few hours Criston needed to be by himself again. And so he whistled for Jerard, took his pack with the items for which he'd traded, and set off for home once more. 
	I
56 
	Iboria
	The northern ice fields of Iboria stretched out in front of Mateo. Fog curled from his mouth when he exhaled. The sky was an empty, crackling blue. Everything else was painfully white, in spite of the landscape's rugged lines, fissures, and hills. The only breaks in the monotony were pale blue shadows in the deep ice, the sparkle of blown dry snow.
Somehow, he and his fellow soldier-recruits kept their bearings. Mateo still didn't know where the group was going, but they followed hearty, bearded Destrar Broeck, who seemed far
more at home out on the frozen wasteland than back in Calavik, his stockade-surrounded town nestled in the dark pine forests.
Broeck raised a mittened hand, and the trainees stopped their slow march. The destrar sniffed the cold air, squinted into the bright sunlight, then grinned, showing teeth nearly as white as the snow. "We are close. I can sense the ice dragon." He trudged off in fur-lined boots toward a distant line of sheer ice cliffs.
Many trainees gasped in awe, though the destrar had made similar claims four other times. Mateo saw no difference in the landscape they had been looking at for days.
He was seventeen now, much tougher and stronger than when he went to Alamont Reach in his first year of service. After twelve months with Destrar Shenro, he spent his second year at Farport in Soeland Reach, where he served on different islands, facing cruel storms that blew across the Oceansea, learning how to swim in cold waters, how to perform sea rescues. He had stroked his way from one island to the next as his final test. Three of his fellow trainees had drowned in the passage, but the rest had emerged more prepared for naval warfare.
When any of the young men grumbled about the hazards of the training, Destrar Tavishel had reminded them of what the Urecari had done to the reconstruction crew in Ishalem. He remained unrepentant about how he had responded to the soldan-shah's ambassador.
After Soeland, Mateo went to mountainous Corag, learning to scale cliffs and find his way across rugged alpine passes. Then he spent a year in the scrubby rangeland of Erietta, best for raisins cattle where he learned horsemanship, how to find water in the desert, how to survive the heat, and how to make rope from the tall, woody-stemmed species of hemp, since the demand for strong rope had increased so sharply during the hostilities between Tierra and Uraba.
f
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 277 
	Over the years, he sent regular letters to Anjine, telling her of his progress, expressing his admiration for Tierra's military, though he left out certain harsh parts of his experiences, such as the time he caught a severe fever and lay delirious for four days, or when he received a long gash in sword training and needed to grit his teeth while a surgeon sewed up the cut. He didn't want her to worry about him.
During his year in Soeland he had fallen deeply in love with a fisherman's daughter--every girl in the islands was a fisherman's daughter, it seemed--and he had spent his days in a dreamy state, thinking about her. Uishel. Long, light brown hair that hung to her waist in thin, tight braids like fine ropes, a funny smile, bright blue eyes. He had daydreamed about her so much that his training had slipped, his fighting skills plummeted, and he broke his wrist in a stupid accident because he could not focus on his work. The training commander, recognizing the debilitating symptoms of a first love, had restricted Mateo to the military camp during the entire time it took for his wrist to heal and until he caught up on his training. Afterward, when he came out to find her, Uishel had already set her heart on someone else.
Devastated, Mateo had written Anjine all about it, pouring out his heart. He didn't ask for her advice, but she wrote back and consoled him anyway. He had eventually gotten over Uishel and found another young woman who caught his fancy in Erietta, and again in Gorag.
When Anjine's missives found their way to him, he devoured the words about home, imagining her voice when he read the letters. She spent more time talking about the cat Tycho than she dwelled on the politics of the kingdom. She also explained that, without him there to keep her company, she had taken it upon herself to turn a few of her handmaidens into true companions, particularly Smolla and Kemm, but that the girls had very lit
tie curiosity for its own sake. They didn't see how learning new things would ever help them marry a young guard. He could tell that Anjine was frustrated.
Mateo had two months left in Iboria, the northernmost reach, where much of the wilderness was covered with dense pine forests. Since Iboria was in no danger of Uraban attack, Destrar Broeck used the soldier-trainees as a ready labor force. Instead of training with his sword, Mateo wielded both ax and saw, cutting down the tall trees, which were then dragged downslope to the rivers.
The Iborians had domesticated woolly mammoths from the open steppes to the north, and the gigantic russet-colored beasts could haul even the mightiest trees down to the frozen water; when the ice thawed in spring, the logs floated downstream to the open bay. From there, "log herders" used coastal currents to usher timber rafts down to the lumber markets in Calay.
Now Mateo was one of a dozen young men chosen to accompany Destrar Broeck far to the north, on what the bearded leader called a "vision quest."
"I have been on twelve of these in my life," Broeck had stated. "There's nothing like it. Out in the emptiness, you are forced to depend on your own skills and strength." He grinned at the trainees. "I have chosen you, because I think you will relish it as much as I do."
Mateo and his companions wore thick furs and carried heavy packs; each young man grasped an ivory-tipped spear for hunting. After years of training--especially the months of hard labor in the dense Iborian forests--he had developed significant body strength.
Broeck had provided them with the best furs, tools, and weapons before they set off from Calavik. In the settled forests of Iboria, the people rode plodding musk oxen, but after the destrar
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 273 
	took them up to the edge of the snow fields, they used large sleds pulled by dog teams, which carried them many, many miles beyond the trees. The sled drivers let them off at the edge of a crevasse, then turned and raced back home.
Mateo had never felt so alone, but over the next few days of I plodding and shivering, he realized that he did feel exhilarated. During the few hours of darkness each day, the aurora sparkled '>: overhead, shimmering silken curtains of light that danced hypnotically as the constellations circled around their cosmic pivot point.
Broeck taught the recruits how to find stable ice. They crossed a deep blue lake by riding on broken ice floes to the opposite shore, from which point they could see a herd of wild mammoths thundering across the distant tundra. Even Destrar Broeck seemed intimidated by the immense beasts.
They hunted seals and ate the fresh meat, which Mateo found disgusting but nourishing. With no fuel to build a fire, they were forced to consume everything raw and cold. Water sacks inside their thick coats melted ice to provide liquid water.
Broeck had raised his left hand to show that two of his fingers were gone. For some time, the trainees had imagined the battles or monsters that had cost him his digits, but finally, as though revealing a grand joke, Broeck admitted that he had lost his fingers to frostbite while out hunting narwhals.
"Dangers don't have to be exciting to be dangerous," he said. "And don't underestimate the cold. The blowing snow here is hungry, and the wind can eat you alive. I lost my wife in a snowstorm that came up on a clear blue day. She went out to pick frostberries in the bogs and didn't see the blizzard coming. She never came home"
Mateo looked at the white expanse all around him, thinking of how swiftly the weather could turn. The bleakness offered little shelter.
I
He knew some of his companions were miserable, but he was enjoying the adventure himself. Destrar Broeck sensed it and spent more time with him. Even so, Mateo was greatly looking forward to returning to Calay, where he would volunteer to serve a final year in the city guard. He also wanted to see Anjine again
Now, as the group neared the line of blue-white cliffs, the destrar stepped more cautiously, holding his ivory-tipped spear in one hand. He knelt and spread his other palm flat to the ground as if he could sense vibrations.
"Yes...yes, the ice dragon is nearby." He raised his voice to shout a challenge. "Raathgir! We have come to see your horn!"
The young soldiers muttered. One rapped the butt of his spear on the snowy ground. "We have all been trained in fighting, Destrar. Together we can kill the ice dragon and take a fine trophy to the king!"
Broeck turned in quick anger, his bushy eyebrows drawn together; frost lined his beard. His chapped lips showed no hint of a smile. "You want to kill the ice dragon?" He let out a loud laugh. "Nobody has ever killed an ice dragon. Don't be a fool--the ice dragon provides protection. His horn is blessed, and he shields Iboria. Do they not teach you the stories down in Calay?
"Raathgir was once a sea serpent who came close to Aiden's ship, but Aiden reached out from the prow and touched the monster's horn, saying, 'Do not delay me in my voyage. If you leave the sea and do not harm me and my people, I will give you a new land.' So Raathgir swam away and came up here to the ice, where he swims inside the frozen glaciers rather than the oceans. And because Aiden touched his horn, it still carries his magic. Some say that Raathgir's horn could protect any ship from sea
p 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 275
	monsters... but I would rather keep this protection in Iboria. We certainly aren't going to kill him!"
"Then why have we brought these spears? Why were we trained--"
"The spears are for you to protect yourselves, and to hunt. But the ice dragon... no, we won't be killing him. Save your bloodlust for the Urecari, when you get your chance to fight them."
As he studied his surroundings, Mateo saw light glinting in the smooth ice of the cliff face, possibly a reflection from high scudding clouds. Mateo wasn't entirely convinced that the ice dragon existed at all, suspecting instead that it was just a story Broeck liked to tell.
The ground beneath their feet began to vibrate, building to a larger rumble. The soldier-trainees scattered, looking to the destrar for answers or orders. Broeck had a childlike smile on his face. "I was right!"
The shaking grew more intense, and Mateo feared the ice would split at their feet. Heavy chunks of petrified snow calved off of the frozen bulwarks, dropping in a slow roaring avalanche that sprayed snow crystals like mist to expose a clean, unblemished vertical sheet of ice like a watery window.
Broeck stepped back and raised his mittened hand. His voice sounded small, blanketed in awe. "Behold what few men have ever seen."
Behind the prismatic wall of ice, Mateo saw a glint of silver and white, a flash of green scales. The angled planes of the frozen cliff might have distorted the view, but he did discern an enormous slithering body behind the ice wall.
"A tunneling ice dragon!" Broeck cried, "and a big one at that!Ho,Raathgir!"
None of the trainees now suggested killing the creature. The
rumbling stopped, and the gliding serpentine form slipped away, leaving a hollow cavity in the wake of its passage. The packed ground became still, and no further ice chunks sloughed from the cliff.
"Even I have seen that only once in my life," Broeck whispered. "Consider yourselves blessed."
The thirteen of them remained silent for a long time; then Broeck turned abruptly, coming to a decision. "Gome. It is time to go home." 
	Back at Calavik, they passed through the towering gates in the stockade wall, where villagers greeted them in their complex northern dialect, which Mateo still did not understand even after almost a year in Iboria. A domesticated mammoth stacked trimmed logs outside the fence to replace those that had been damaged by heavy snow drifts the previous winter. Barking dogs ran up and down the muddy streets. Blue-gray woodsmoke curled from the stone chimneys of the closely packed cottages inside the stockade wall.
The destrar's main house was a structure of dark lapped wooden shingles and rough planks carved with an intricate repeating pattern of fishhooks. A rustic steepled kirk had been built beside the main building. Destrar Broeck strode toward his home, leading the select trainees on their triumphant return.
The dark plank doors opened, and Broeck's daughter, Ilrida--a beautiful young woman, twenty-seven years old-- came out smiling. Ilrida had hair so fair and blond it looked like silvery snow. Her skin seemed translucent, her eyes the palest blue, like the glacier wall behind which the ice dragon had tunneled.
For her own part, Ilrida could not speak standard Tierran, and Mateo didn't at first grasp the news that had made her so
excited, but Broeck was certainly grinning. Mateo heard the others talking, picked up something about Calay and the king, and finally the destrar raised his voice so that all the soldier-trainees could hear.
"We announce a betrothal!" Broeck raised his daughter's ; delicate hand in the air. Ilrida's silvery-blond hair blew in the faint breeze, and she looked very content. "Six years after the death of Queen Sena, King Korastine has finally agreed to wed again--and he has chosen my beautiful daughter to be his wife." The destrar wrapped his arms around the young woman, swallowing her slim form in a large hug. "King Korastine is kind and wise, my dear. I know he will make you happy."
Broeck stalked toward Mateo and pounded the young man on the back. "It is time for you to go back to Calay. Your training here is finished. As your last duty, I ask that you be part of the escort to bring my dear Ilrida to her new home in Calay." 
	57
	Olabar, Asha's Villa
	After four years of living a shadowy existence in Olabar, Prester Hannes knew all the back streets, tangled alleys, and souk labyrinths. He had found the best places to steal food and beg, the public wells and fountains that provided fresh water. Most of all, lie remained invisible.
Though he could have stolen finer clothes, he preferred the rags and hood that let him pose as a beggar or, worse, a leper. The patches of healed but slightly waxy burn scars on his hands ;ind cheek furthered that impression. Few people looked twice at a miserable man they did not particularly want to see.
111
Obligated to demonstrate charity, the devout Urecari gave him brass coins, even an occasional cuar, and he gladly took their money. He made a habit of showing his scars, adjusting his filthy hood so that the burned part of his face showed, while carefully hiding the unblemished skin, and he silently mocked the Urabans for their gullibility.
Each day he hoped for a sign from Aiden, while he watched for weaknesses that he could use against the enemy. No other Tierran knew so much about the followers of Urec, their cities, their culture--or their blind spots--as Hannes did. Part of him wanted to rush back to Calay to tell Prester-Marshall Baine everything he had learned. But not yet. He still felt that Ondun had far more important work for him to do.
His favorite spot to sleep, both for its abundant comforts and for the sheer irony of it, was Asha's abandoned villa. He bedded down under the overgrown mulberry trees where she had once kept her tentworms.
After Hannes killed her and fled, the grieving soldan-shah had ordered her private villa boarded up, and Imir had never set foot in the place again. The superstitious Urecari now believed the place to be a haven for ghosts and evil spirits, and even squatters avoided it. Asha's home would never be purged of its demons... and Hannes felt he might never be clean, either, after what that woman had done to him.
Hannes had always tried to lead his life as Aiden would have wished, but it was difficult in this foreign place, with the entire culture against him. Asha had contaminated him with Sacraments that he could not vomit out, though he had tried--finding emetics in an apothecary shop and puking until he was so weak he could barely stand. He still felt the stain from within.
All alone in the moonlit mulberry orchard, he tore a thorny branch from one of Asha's dying rosebushes and shed his cloak to
bare his back. Breathing hard, he leaned forward and thrashed with the thorny branch. He winced and hissed and struck harder, whipping repeatedly. He could feel the blood running down his back, but he thrashed again and again. By flagellating himself, he could at least show his heartfelt desire to be cleansed.
In all these years here, and previously in Ishalem, Hannes had
i been quiet and furtive, as Prester-Marshall Baine had instructed
; him. But now he wondered if he had truly done enough to improve the world by the grace of Ondun, as the Book of Aiden's Rule of Rules instructed.
| He whipped himself until blood flowed so freely and the pain was so great he became delirious. Even then he did not stop.
I Feverish, swimming in his thoughts, listening to the pain and silent screams in his head, Hannes continued to beg for forgiveness. He hoped that his dripping blood would purify this ground, make Asha's villa a tiny foothold for Aiden against the heresy of Urec. Hannes knew he remained tainted. If he was so corrupted, maybe his blood was poisoned too, and Ondun would never accept this sacrifice.
But he could try, and he could hope. Somehow he would know. When he was weak almost to the point of unconsciousness, Hannes cast aside the mangled rose branch and sank into a pain-filled stupor beneath the mulberry trees. Fearing sleep but needing it, he clung to his faith and hoped that one day he would fulfill his mission and serve Ondun in the way he was meant to.
I 
	58
	Olabar Palace
	I
Tukar, the half-brother of Zarif Omra, watched his mother's glee when she sank his ship. "Diagonal move," she said. "War galley rams cargo ship." She snatched an intricately carved piece from the game board. "You need to watch more carefully, my son. You always fail to prepare for the unexpected."
"I didn't know that move was allowed," Tukar said, abashed.
"Then you should spend more time learning the rules. Spend more time learning everything. You're the son of the soldan-shah, not a normal man."
Tukar assessed his remaining pieces: He had his captain, six sailors, and a small dromond warship, but Villiki still possessed her coveted sea serpent, a rogue piece that could attack whatever and whenever it wished.
Xaries had complicated rules, and though Tukar had played dozens of games with his mother, he had never won. She scolded him for his lack of strategic prowess; she had even slapped Tukar once when he dared to suggest that xaries was only a game, and that winning and losing mattered little. "It is not a game. It is a test--which you keep failing miserably."
Tukar would rather have been outside watching Uraban soldiers drill, the mounted warriors racing about the field in mock skirmishes. Soldan-Shah Imir continued to build his armies against the Aidenists, though thus far he had been reluctant to launch them all in a full-scale crusade. Shipments of armor plating, spear heads, arrow tips, and sharp swords arrived regularly from the Gremurr mines on the north coast of the Middle
281 
	t
sea. This morning, when the heavily laden barges had docked, Tukar had gone to help unload the swords, planning to take one weapon as his own. But the curved blades with rough hilts were brutish weapons, mass produced by the hundreds and "utterly unbefitting a prince," his mother said.
Afterward, Tukar had spent the morning on a hunt in the forested hills south of Olabar, running with the hounds he had claimed as his own after Asha's murder. Tukar liked to occupy himself away from the palace... away from Villiki. His mother had expectations and demands for him that he did not have for himself.
"You still smell like those dogs," she said, finding something else to criticize. "And you're sweaty. From now on, before you play xaries with me, please bathe yourself."
"Yes, Mother."
Before marrying Soldan-Shah Imir, Villiki had been a sikara dedicated to the church of Urec. Priestesses often took many anonymous lovers, calling it a part of rejoicing, but they rarely married. In deciding to take Sikara Villiki as his third wife, Imir had caused something of an uproar. Everyone knew that sikaras were almost certainly not virgins, and by tradition the soldan-shah was expected to take a virgin bride. But Imir had found something intriguing about Villiki, so he insisted. And when the soldan-shah insisted, that was the law. Deaf to the protests of his advisers, he pointed out, "My wife is not getting a virgin husband, either, so we approach this marriage on equal footing." The Urecari Church had blessed the union, mainly because the priestesses acquired greater influence by having a sikara wed the soldan-shah.
In the years since the burning of Ishalem, the sikaras had been using their leverage to demand a violent response to the Aidenists. Now they complained--primarily through Ur-Sikara Lukai but also through Villiki--that Imir was not prosecuting I he war with enough enthusiasm.
282 Kevin J. Anderson 
	III
The soldan-shah had responded by requesting clear guidance from God, and the sikaras scribbled a flurry of questions on strips of paper, which they set blowing through the streets and out to sea. They wrote bold inquiries to Ondun and Urec on long ribbons, which they flew from the towers of the churches, so the ribbons could flutter in the brisk winds to be read by divine eyes. Though Tukar had dutifully studied Urec's Log and listened to the sikaras, he didn't recall that any such question had ever been answered directly and clearly. Priestesses were good at raising questions, but offered few answers. Imir must have realized the same thing.
By sending His two sons to explore the world, Ondun had meant to test them. Aiden and Urec had been ordered to accomplish a certain unknown task... which apparently had not yet been achieved. Had Ondun sent the brothers out because He was disappointed in them? Had He wanted the two to find something--a new Terravitae, perhaps? The Key to Creation? What had their goal been? For generations, the Urecari had seen signs everywhere, in an oddly shaped cloud, a freak storm, or an unusual fish pulled up in the nets. But no one really knew the answer.'
Now, studying the xaries board with more intensity than he felt, Tukar picked up his dromond warship and aligned it to protect his remaining captain and sailor pieces. He planned his next several moves and developed an excellent strategy, but Villiki grew bored and impatient. She picked up the sea serpent piece and devoured his captain, abruptly ending the game.
"Learn that you cannot plan for disasters." She always found a way to lecture him. "Though some disasters can work to your advantage. Be prepared to become the next soldan-shah, no matter what."
"Zarif Omra will be the next soldan-shah," Tukar said.
"As I said," Villiki retorted, her voice as harsh as a desert wind, "you cannot plan for disasters."
H It was no secret that the time rapidly approached when Imir would hand over the rule to his elder son. Since Omra's wife, Cliaparia, remained childless, the political machinations inside the Olabar palace were becoming more intense. Even Tukar had noticed the shift, though he remained assiduously aloof from such things, despite his mother's demands. Tukar did not want to become soldan-shah, and took no part in his mother's scheming. He admired his half-brother and felt that Omra would be a good leader.
Weary of her constant berating, Tukar stood from the game table, ignoring the scattered pieces on the xaries board. "I know who I am, Mother, and I accept my place. I am content with my
: lot. Why can't you --"
m Villiki lurched to her feet and slapped him, a sharp, vicious
1 strike that made a sound like cracking wood. "Only the lower
classes can afford to be content. As the son of the soldan-shah, 
	i you are not meant to be content. You are meant to strive. I have i
done so much for you, and yet you continue to fail me!" 
	P Villiki knocked the xaries board to the tiled floor in disgust. The bejeweled pieces clinked and bounced away as though flee: ing her wrath. "While you amuse yourself with hunting dogs, I am planning great things on your behalf. Someone has to do it, ; or you will never get your due." Her eyes were smoldering coals fanned to life by a gust of wind. "And you, Tukar, better be ready to act when it is time."
59 
	Iboria
	At the mouth of the wide river near Calavik, Kjelnar and his dedicated shipwrights worked to adorn a special wedding ship for Destrar Broeck's daughter. Using chisels, mallets, and rasps, the Iborians carved a benevolent bearded face on the prow: Holy Joron. The wondrous stories about Ondun's last son and the tropical land of Terravitae had always been Ilrida's favorites.
Since Mateo and his fellow trainees were neither skilled woodcarvers nor artisans, Broeck recruited them to tie ribbons on the masts and yardarms, sweep sawdust and wood shavings from the wedding ship's deck, paint the balustrades and cabin doors, and polish the stylized fishhook anchor.
Wood-cutters from the thick forests cut hundreds of pine trees and floated the logs downriver to the Calavik bay and the waiting wedding ship. Log herders would guide the cluster of Iborian pines to Galay as his daughter's dowry.
When the wedding ship was decorated to his satisfaction, the destrar walked the decks and inspected the well-appointed cabin where Ilrida would spend the passage and the clean but crowded berths reserved for the returning soldier-trainees.
When Broeck pronounced the ship ready to depart, his daughter came forward, preceded by five young female companions. Bearded Iborian men pounded on round-bellied kettle drums, making a thunderous sound like charging mammoths. Broeck proudly took Ilrida's arm and accompanied her across the gangplank to stand on deck. The young woman expressed her delight in the beautiful ship, the colorful ribbons, and the painted carv
285 
	ings, talking quickly in the northern dialect, still unable to speak formal Tierran. In Calavik, Ilrida lived among locals who were fluent in the Iborian tongue, and she had never found a knack for languages.
Mateo, placed in charge of the young soldiers who would return to Galay as the wedding escort, let out a sharp whistle and marched his men on deck. In short order, the ropes were cast off, the sails were unfurled, and the barge rode the current out of the bay into the cold northern sea, with a train of pine logs in its wake. The strong southerly current would sweep them down to Galay.
As they entered the Oceansea, a brisk wind gathered gray clouds that presaged rain, turning the coastline into a dim blur. Mateo stood on deck with the destrar as cold droplets splashed down on them. Mateo pulled up his hood for warmth, but the big destrar let his hair blow back in the breeze and smiled into the sloppy sleet. Ilrida joined them, watching the gray-shrouded shore slide by. Though at first glance she appeared as delicate as an ivory carving, the cold and wet didn't bother her, either.
The ocean remained choppy for three days, and the rocking of the ship made many of the recruits sick. Broeck urged them to come out in the open, but they huddled belowdecks, vomiting and groaning. When the weather calmed as they sailed past Erietta Reach, the recruits finally emerged on deck looking gray and shaken, breathing gulps of fresh salt air in an attempt to recover. Unafflicted by seasickness, Mateo preferred to be out in the cold open breeze, rather than in the close vile-smelling hold below.
Kjelnar, who had also accompanied them aboard the wedding ship, kept an anxious watch on his raft of logs. After the days of rough seas ended, he lowered a rope ladder over the side and dropped down onto one of the floating logs. From there, he skipped from one floating trunk to another, inspecting the chains
that held key logs together. Mateo watched him incredulously, knowing that any slip would bring the shipwright between the logs, where he would be crushed. But Kjelnar did not slip.
During the storm, some of the outlying pines had broken loose and drifted free, and Kjelnar barked instructions for Iborian workers to lower the ship's boat over the side and row out to retrieve them. Not only were these pines valuable, but any rogue logs would pose a sailing hazard for future ships. Besides, he intended to use all the wood for constructing new warships in Calay Harbor. After what he had seen the Urecari do to PresterMarshall Baine and his crew in Ishalem, Kjelnar did not ever want to stop building attack ships.
Ilrida stood on deck all day long, her pale blue eyes wide with wonder. Broeck's daughter was twelve years Mateo's senior, yet she seemed more innocent than he was, having lived a sheltered existence in Calavik... possibly because the destrar was afraid of losing her, as he had lost his wife in a snowstorm.
Broeck told Mateo to keep her company, which Mateo did awkwardly, since he was not fluent in the northern dialect. "Talk to her in Tierran," the destrar suggested with a shrug. "She'll have to learn it sooner or later."|'|< | j
And so the young man stood with her on the open deck, telling her stories, describing Calay. He talked about the kitten he had given Anjine as a going-away present. He also shared snippets from Anjine's letters about how she had raised Tycho as a veritable feline prince. Most important, Mateo told Ilrida how kind and generous King Korastine was. He described how Korastine had given his word to Mateo's dying father and had never turned from his vow. "He will be a good husband, I promise you."
Looking wistfully at the coast, Mateo smiled. "And wait until you meet Anjine. She will make you feel at home. I'm sure you'll be great friends." He told her the stories of the things the two of
them had done together as younger children. He laughed aloud at the memories.
Ilrida smiled at him, but Mateo could tell by her puzzled expression that she didn't understand much of what he said. Still, she seemed to enjoy his company and his voice, and he knew she picked up some basic words. Telling these stories had increased Mateo's own homesickness. He watched the coastline and knew they were almost home. 
	60
	Olabar, Saedran District
	1
Under house arrest in Olabar, Aldo na-Curic was considered a particularly valuable captive. The barred windows of his small, sparsely furnished cottage afforded him a view of the soldanshah's palace and the nearby Urecari church. He still didn't know what would happen to him or what the Urecari wanted from him. Two guards were posted outside the main door, another in the rear, although Aldo had made no attempt to escape. Where would he go?
Each day, as he paced his room, his thoughts knotted as well as his stomach, he listened to the sikaras sing their call to the sunset services. He heard a cacophony of merchants shouting to customers who were bidding against one another, which made Aldo conclude that he must be near the main souks. He missed his parents, his brother and sister, and stern old Sen Leo.
No one seemed surprised that Aldo could speak passable Uraban, and he concluded that Saedran chartsmen were so rare here on the foreign continent that they seemed like sorcerers. As he brooded in his locked home, Aldo considered how to use that
perception to his advantage. Maybe he could bargain his way home, or at least to freedom.
After a week of not-unpleasant captivity, during which Aldo realized he was more curious than terrified about his future, he resigned himself to learn what he could from his strange situation. Even in Sen Leo's large library, descriptions of Olabar and the Uraban interior were sketchy at best, the details unverified. After his ordeal, if he did get away, Aldo was determined to return to Calay with a useful report. It would make all his tribulations worthwhile if he could sketch in another blank area on the great Mappa Mundi.
On the morning of his sixteenth day, after being fed a lovely breakfast of papaya and fire-roasted eggs, Aldo was surprised when a quartet of flatulent-sounding Uraban horns blasted a fanfare in the street outside his house. The guards yanked open the door for a bald, plump man who wore orange robes, decorative golden chains, and a bright yellow sash tied across his belly.
"I am Imir, Uraba's soldan of soldans," he said. "Welcome to my lovely city of Olabar. It is not often we have Saedran charts men as our guests."
The soldan-shah's words took Aldo aback, and he could not stop himself from blurting, "Your guest? My ship was attacked, my crewmates killed by Uraban pirates, and I was kidnapped. We were just peaceful traders!"
Imir's expression turned sour. "Your captain was a black marketeer running cargo in our territory south of the sacred Edict Line. You're no fool, Saedran. If a Uraban ship were to sail north and secretly trade with Tierran coastal villages, King Korastine's navy would attack us, capture or kill our crews, and sink our ships." He took a seat at the small table, sliding aside the dishes that held the remnants of Aldo's breakfast. "We could just as easily have let you join the others, but you can help us." His
full lips curved in an ingratiating smile. "We'll make it worth your while."
Aldo was too upset to be tactful. "My services aren't for sale."
"Of course they are. And I am your new customer. We need to have a conversation, you and I." A servant hurried in from the street, carrying an ornate silver tea set and left again just as quickly. "As a Saedran, you have no stake in the religious clash between Urecari and Aidenists. Why show them any more loyalty than you would to me? I wish to hire you as a chartsman. Help our merchants and sailors, maybe even our navy. As a Saedran chartsman, you should be objective." ft Flustered, Aldo sat at the table. Imir regarded the tea service as if wondering whether to wait for some servant to fill their cups, then picked up the silver pot and splashed steaming minty liquid into the cups, serving himself first. "Although Uraba has plenty of wealth, we do not have a large population of Saedrans. Very few are chartsmen. You know about Tierran waters, the coastline, the cities, the winds, the currents. You'd be very much appreciated among us. Why not settle down here? We'll find you a wife, pay you well, give you anything you need."
Aldo reached forward to take his cup of tea, unconvinced. "I'd rather go home to my own family."
Imir's brow wrinkled. "You already have a wife? You seem quite young."
"I have a mother and father, a sister and a brother."
The soldan-shah made a quick, dismissive gesture. "They will be fine without you."
"They must be worried sick about me! Everyone knows what the Urecari do to their enemies."
Imir slurped his tea, burned his tongue, and quickly set his cup down on the table. "You aren't the only one who has endured tragedies, young man. Tierran pirates have attacked coastal vil
lages in Outer Wahilir. They sank our ships, stole our cargoes." He stopped himself and sighed. "Ah well, I thought you might be intractable, so I brought someone who can tell you more about us and our lands, and our needs." He signaled to the guards at the open door.
A broad-hipped woman stepped tentatively into the house, wearing a Saedran-style dress and traditional scarves tied at her neck. In her late forties, with curly sepia hair that fell to the small of her back, she had generous lips, kind eyes, and a studious demeanor.
With a warm smile and a bow in her direction, Imir said, "This is my dear friend and companion, Sen Sherufa na-Oa, one of Olabar's most prized scholars and a chartsman, though an untraveled one. I'm one of the few who recognizes both her intelligence and talents. I cannot fathom why men do not line up at her door with marriage proposals."
"I turned them down," Sherufa said. "I've got too many other things to do." She turned her attention to Aldo. "However, I am delighted to see a fellow Saedran chartsman. I may not have made voyages of my own, but I have read plenty of books. We can learn much from each other."
"I'm more interested in what you can learn from him, my dear." Imir leaned forward to kiss Sen Sherufa on the cheek, and she flushed. The guards studiously turned their backs, staring into the street as though an invasion might be about to happen. "I'll leave you two alone." He pulled out a chair for Sherufa. "Have some tea, get to know each other. Offer him anything... within reason. He could be very useful to us."
The soldan-shah strode out, leaving the two Saedrans together, and Sen Sherufa seemed as embarrassed as Aldo. "This is interesting," she said.
"And unexpected." Aldo cautiously studied her to see if he
4 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
	291
	could read any hidden agendas. "I have nothing against you, ma'am, but after watching them capture my ship and murder my captain and crew, I am not... objective about the Urabans." "Oh, you've got nothing to fear from me." Sherufa picked up the soldan-shah's half-finished cup of tea and drained it. "And Imir is right in one respect--Saedrans don't have to choose between Aidenists and Urecari. We do have a lot to learn from each other."v:
	61
	Olabar Palace
	Saan was gone.
On his fifth birthday, her son was seized and taken away, exactly as Ur-Sikara Lukai had threatened. The priestess arrived with six palace guards, all of them armed, as if they expected her to resist, but Adrea knew how useless that would be. Turning her head aside, Adrea bottled up her tears and allowed herself one last wordless embrace with her son before they pulled the surprised and upset Saan away with them.
"He will be taken care of," Lukai promised in heavily accented Tierran. "He will serve the followers of Urec. Be proud of him."
With great effort, Adrea held her tongue and kept her expression stony. Ur-Sikara Lukai swirled her red gowns and followed the guards ushering the boy away. Adrea could hear the echoes of Saan crying down the halls| 
	In the following days, from the blank expression on Adrea's face, no one in the Olabar palace could have guessed the depths of her fury. For more than five years of slavery, she had endured in
silence, remained in her place, and performed her duties--all to keep her son safe.
Now, given the slightest opportunity, she would have poisoned them all, from the soldan-shah himself to the lowliest Uraban servant. She considered stealing a knife from a serving tray and going from room to room in the dead of night, slaying as many Urabans as she could before someone stopped her.
Only the slender hope of doing something for Saan restrained her. Without Adrea, the boy would be utterly lost. She needed to find some way to fight back, or he would be forever trapped in his fate.
She had failed him, and she had failed her beloved Cris ton. Saan might even be turned into a soldier against Aidenists--unless she could find a way to free him. If anything happened to Saan, if she learned that he'd been harmed in any way, then nothing would stop her. Adrea would kill them all.
For now, she would bide her time, always alert, playing the role of the silent servant.
Adrea entered Villiki's quarters carrying a tray with the evening meal: skewers of roasted songbirds smothered in honey and sesame seeds and a salad of bright flower petals. She was tempted to spit on the food before bringing it to Imir's scheming wife, but if she were caught doing that, she would be severely punished. Adrea was not afraid to surrender her life if it meant freedom for Saan, but she wouldn't do it for an empty gesture. No, she would act only when she was certain she could accomplish something.
Inside the chamber, Villiki and Ur-Sikara Lukai lounged on cushions, facing each other across a low table. Intent on their conversation, the two women began to eat without so much as acknowledging Adrea. She unobtrusively went on with her work, tying back the silk hangings around Villiki's bed, preparing Villiki's pillows for evening, watering each of Villiki's eleven pot- 
	I
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 293 
	ted ferns, whose fronds unfurled in a perfect embodiment of the Urecari religious symbol. The two women continued to speak in low tones, hushed but intense, and quickly forgot her presence.
"It will be easy to administer the poison," Lukai said.
Bending over a potted fern, Adrea froze, then forced herself to keep going through the motions of her task.
"Gliaparia's so desperate for his affections that she continues to buy aphrodisiacs, hoping to ensnare Omra's love." The ursikara's tone was rich with scorn. "She'll administer our poison without even realizing it. She'll think it's another love potion."
Villiki lounged back on her cushion, chuckling in her rich, deep voice. "Wonderful! That way, Cliaparia will be blamed for Omra's death since she will give him the poison, an added benefit. But we've got to move soon. Any day now, she could claim to be pregnant, and then Tukar's challenge to become heir would be even weaker." She snorted. "And it is weak enough as it is."
The two women ate their meal, crunching the delicate bones of the skewered birds. Villiki looked up and took notice of Adrea. "You, slave! Bring us some figs."
Adrea blinked unresponsively, pretending not to understand. Lukai let out a loud disgusted sigh, muttering in Uraban. "She is as stupid as a stone." She raised her voice in rough Tierran. "Figs! Bring them. We command it."
Adrea hurried toward the door of Villiki's chambers.
"When Omra returns from Yuarej in three days, Cliaparia I will insist on spending the night with him," Villiki said. "Can I you do your part by then?"
The sikara chuckled. "Oh, that will be a simple matter. She has already asked Fyiri for assistance. I had Fyiri tell Cliaparia that this new love potion must be added to every dish of food." 
	r Adrea slipped through the door, ostensibly to fetch figs from the kitchens. She had heard everything she needed to know, and
it gave her a spring in her step and hope in her heart. She had a weapon.
This was going to be a dangerous game. Villiki would murder her if she discovered what Adrea had in mind--but Adrea would take the gamble. She did not intend to be caught. These women had much to learn about the lengths to which a desperate Tierran mother would go. Their schemes were amateurish in comparison. 
	62
	Calay
	On the day the wedding party was due to arrive from Iboria, Anjine was glad to see excitement in her father's face for the first time in years. Though he had previously seen only a small plate 11 Ipainted with Ilrida's likeness (in the pose of a young female crew-
II Iman on Aiden's ship, naturally), Korastine was infatuated with
Iher. Destrar Broeck had described his daughter with any proud father's lack of objectivity, and the king trusted him.
This was not strictly a political marriage, Anjine knew; Korastine honestly wanted to be happy. After her mother's death, he often asked Anjine to sit next to him by the fire and read aloud from the Book of Aiden. When he thanked her with tear-filled eyes, she could see the heavy hunger of loneliness within him. While they waited for the wedding ship to pull into the har Ibor,
Anjine helped to finish the banquet preparations inside the castle, inspecting the platters of roast sturgeon, the herbed root vegetables, soups made from dried peas, and dozens of sweet quince tarts. Her cat, Tycho, insisted on following her, wanting her attention--as well as some of the fish. Her two handmaid
f 
	THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 295
	ens, Smolla and Kemm, fussed about with colors and banners and flowers.
The flagstoned floor of the banquet hall had been swept clean, and lace-edged linen tablecloths were spread out on the long plank dining tables. The tables were set with a wedding gift from the Corag destrar, new pewter goblets that bore the specific crest of each destrar.
The Iborian wedding ship arrived on schedule, trailed by a raft of valuable pine logs. A runner came to inform King Korastine that the passengers had disembarked and were making their way through the Royal District. Her father came to fetch Anjine, grinning and anxious. Side by side, the two emerged through the castle's arched gates, where they waited to receive the wedding party.
Tumblers and jugglers rushed out for an impromptu show, followed by musicians with flutes and tambourines. Nothing about their performance was coordinated, but the diversions were colorful and entertaining. Each of the entertainers longed to be singled out as a court performer.
But King Korastine had eyes only for Ilrida as she approached, holding the arm of her bearlike father. The destrar's ethereal daughter looked captivating and sweet, halfway between Anjine's age and Sena's. Korastine went forward to greet his bride-to-be, bowing deeply.
Behind them, Anjine saw a familiar but barely recognizable face--Mateo, tall and mature. His dark hair had recently been shorn, and his Iborian-style uniform looked a bit small for him. Why, he looked grown up! Anjine realized that she herself had flowered into womanhood since she had last seen her best friend. She was no longer an eleven-year-old girl, and he not a young boy. The gulf of years and puberty had changed them greatly. I Anjine drew herself up to look as regal as she could, while Mateo stood at attention at the head of the soldier-trainees, his
face unreadable. Their eyes met and locked, and Anjine could no longer contain herself. Her lips curved in a grin, just as Mateo smiled, showing her a flash of his boyhood again, and it warmed her heart.
The group moved inside the castle amidst a welcoming chatter. While the party members were escorted to their rooms by castle retainers, the returning soldiers set off for their barracks in the Military District, where many of them would be fitted with the uniforms of the city guard for one last year of service. Mateo had already written her that he'd decided to opt for enlisting in the city guard, anxious to stay closer to home.
Anjine whispered in her father's ear, pulling his attention from Ilrida. "May I have Mateo help me with preparations for this evening? The city guard can get by without him for an afternoon."
The king was startled, as if he hadn't realized who the young man was. "Mateo! Welcome back to us. Military service has certainly matured you!" He embraced the young man. "Go with Anjine. I'm sure the two of you have much to talk about."
The pair slipped away from the hubbub of visiting dignitaries. Mateo looked around him, as if seeing the castle's familiar halls and chambers for the first time. "So much has changed in Calay. When was the old Tinkers' Bridge torn down?"
"It collapsed when a barge full of cut limestone hit the pilings," Anjine said. "People have had to walk all around the bay or take ferry boats for months, but it'll be rebuilt in the next year."
Mateo continued in a rush of words; he seemed to have so much to say. "And when our ship sailed in, I saw that the military barracks have expanded all the way up the spit of land. Looks like they'll soon edge out part of the Butchers' District. And I've never seen so many warships on patrol at the mouth of the harbor!"
"With good reason." Her voice turned hard. "You know what the Urecari have done to our villages." She led him into a west facing upper room where afternoon sunlight streamed in to warm the velvet-upholstered window seat. There she found Tycho sprawled out to sun himself. The cat lifted his head, glanced at Mateo, and gave a curious meow, obviously not remembering the young man from so many years ago. Nevertheless, Matteo went over to scratch Tycho's chin.
"It'll be different now," Mateo said. "While I'm serving in the city guard, at least we can talk in person, so we don't have to write so many letters." She had enjoyed his letters, though... read each one dozens of times.
"Unless you go out on a patrol boat. Some of the city guard are being assigned as crew."
"Makes sense. There's more trouble on the sea than in Calay."
She hoped, though, that he would stay here in the city.
The two fell into an awkward silence. They hadn't seen each other for five years--during which Mateo had served in all five reaches, and Anjine had learned more about politics and leadership than most men learned in a lifetime. There was so much to tell that neither of them could think of how to begin. 
	In the weeks after the wedding, Queen Ilrida adapted to her new life and happily settled in as the wife of the king. Korastine adored the Iborian princess from the moment he first saw her, and Anjine was glad to see that her father seemed young again, as if a hard decade had melted off his face.
Destrar Broeck remained in Calay for as long as he could make excuses to do so, but eventually he had to head north before the weather changed. Kjelnar remained behind with the new shipment of logs, and King Korastine put him in charge of the entire shipbuilding district for constructing naval ships.
I 
	Anjine took her new stepmother under her wing, making sure Ilrida felt welcome and comfortable. Although the Iborian woman was full of wonder and definitely wanted to please, she had great difficulty speaking the Tierran language. Anjine knew that while children acquired languages easily, many adults were not so adept at it. She asked Smolla and Kemm to work with Ilrida on her letters (secretly hoping that the two handmaidens would learn something as well). Anjine longed for more intelligent conversation in the castle.
Right away, she helped Ilrida memorize a few key words and phrases, and sat with the other woman in her own rooms; while her Iborian ladies-in-waiting snipped lace or sewed garments, she told stories about Queen Sena, assuming that Ilrida would want to know more about Korastine's first wife. The Iborian ladies were already fitting into their new home, a few even flirting unabashedly with the castle guards.
One day, when Anjine joined her in a private drawing room, Ilrida reverently opened a locked wooden chest, rustled among fabrics and garments, and withdrew an object that she obviously valued greatly. The pale Iborian woman held up a round icon in a frame the size of a small plate. The image had been assembled from minute pieces of colored tile and polished stone, a detailed mosaic of a bearded man, his head surrounded by a golden halo, his face filled with peace and compassion.
"Holy Joron... is my favorite story," Ilrida said. The words sounded rough and unnatural when she spoke them, but she seemed proud of her ability to communicate. She had worked hard to memorize the names of the tales.
"You like the story of Holy Joron and the land of Terravitae?" Anjine asked.
Ilrida smiled and nodded. "He wait for Ondun."
"I know many Joron stories--the Silver Waterfall, the talking
storm, and the lost flock of sheep in the whispering grove. Let me tell them to you to help you learn our language."
Ilrida listened with rapt attention as Anjine related the familiar descriptions of the calm animals, the orchards laden with fruit, the streams so full offish that a person could cross by stepping on the backs of trout. She didn't think Urida's eyes would ever stop sparkling. 
	63
	Olabar, Saedran District
	Though he was released to accompany Sen Sherufa na-Oa, Aldo found it hard to believe he was no longer a prisoner. He glanced about furtively as Sherufa guided him through Olabar's Saedran District, sure there must be eyes watching him, to inform Soldan-Shah Imir of his every move. If Aldo bolted toward the harbor and stowed away on a ship bound for the far shores of the Middlesea, would they cut him down in these strange, foreign streets?|:, But nobody paid him any particular attention. The guards were gone.
Aldo couldn't believe it. "I won't be going back to the prison house?"
Sherufa's brow furrowed. "Why, no. Imir released you to me. He wants me to talk with you and learn from you."
'Just like that?"
'Just like that. Imir trusts me." She chuckled. "Besides, if you run, where could you go? You're on a different continent, among strangers. Since you're a chartsman, I assume you are an intelligent and logical person. Your best choice is to stay here with me.
I always have a spare room. Everyone in the district knows it, and I've had more than my share of unexpected guests."
"Other captives like me?"
She laughed. "Oh, no! More often it's angry wives who stay with me to leave their husbands with a cold bed for a few nights. Sometimes it's out-of-town travelers with nowhere else to stay. They're always welcome, so long as they're courteous and can offer some interesting conversation."
Sherufa strolled ahead of him as though this were any other day and she had simply gone to the market--to pick out a Saedran chartsman rather than fresh fish or a sack of grain.
"Is there a library here? " he asked. "I'd like to study your volumes. They must be different from the ones that Sen Leo used to teach me."
"It wouldn't be much of a Saedran District without a library, now, would it?" She shrugged and he sensed that she was slightly introverted and quite a bit more curious about him than she wanted to show. "All of the volumes belong to me, however, so you can read them from my own shelves. I'd love to share them with someone. Chartsmen are rare here, and the soldanshah needs them for his warships. Most are taken overland to the Oceansea. Chartsmen don't stay here in Olabar--except for me."
; The streets and dwellings around Aldo had a familiar look of Saedran architecture and decorations: apothecary shops, alchemists, portrait painters, physicians and astrologers, all of the usual professions. The people wore familiar garments, as well.
"I have the perfect memory, and I've studied records, charts, and tales of the Traveler, but I've never actually left Olabar. I prefer to travel in my imagination, safe at home."
Remembering the dreams from his youth, Aldo could not understand a person uninterested in seeing the wonders of the
world. Why, he had practically begged Sen Leo for his first assignment. But perhaps Saedrans were different here in Uraba, surrounded by an altogether different culture.
Seeing Sherufa in the street, groups of children ran toward her, calling out together in a good-natured harmony, asking for sweets. Aldo didn't know what to do, but the children were uninterested in him. From pockets hidden in the folds in her skirt, Sherufa brought out wrapped candies and tossed them into the air with flickering birdlike movements. The children jumped and scrambled to catch them. She beamed contentedly.
Aldo's people kept a culture unto themselves, and the Saedrans in Uraba were as insular as they were everywhere else. Here, they lived in the shadow of Urecari churches rather than Aidenist kirks, but their situation was similar. It was true--as the soldan-shah had declared--that Saedrans had neither Aidenist nor Urecari sympathies. The goal of all trained Saedran scholars was to complete the Mappa Mundi. By fulfilling that destiny, his people would be allowed to return to their sunken homeland that had vanished long ago.
They reached the door of a small stuccoed house with a tile roof, her residence. On her stoop, someone had left a basket of bread and three fresh eggs tucked into a folded cloth. She picked up the food without wonder or surprise and opened the door to her home, stepping aside so Aldo could enter first, as an honored guest. He had nothing of his own.
"You have no garments? No belongings?" she asked.
"I didn't have much chance to pack while the Urabans were attacking my ship," he said with a bitter edge in his voice.
"I'll put out the call. Don't worry. We'll find everything you need. We take care of our own."
Sen Sherufa certainly seemed warm-hearted, charming, and well liked, though she had never married. When he asked her
I
302 Kevin J. Anderson 
	about it, she said, "I spent too much time with my nose in books, documents, and chronicles. I rarely looked up long enough to take notice of a potential husband, and I never felt the need to have children."
Aldo chuckled. "You don't need a family of your own. Everyone here treats you like a favorite aunt."
Inside her home, Sherufa showed him her library, the valued books she kept on her shelves. Aldo studied the spines and read the titles. Sen Sherufa owned quite an eclectic mix of tomes, and he knew he could offer her a great deal of information... if he decided he could trust her.
"Because I kept to myself, always studying, but never flaunting my knowledge, no one discovered until relatively late in my life that I had the perfect recall," Sherufa explained. "Belatedly, I memorized maps, constellations, and stories. My mind is full of details about things I've never seen, places I've never visited." She smiled--wistfully, it seemed. "When the soldan-shah learned of my skills, he brought me into his palace."
"Why did he need a chartsman in the palace?" Aldo slid another volume back onto the shelf and removed the next one, which was not a proper book at all but merely a ledger of all the merchant ships that had come into port over a five-year oeriod.
"Imir wanted to hear my stories. He would sit back with his eyes closed, a goblet of wine in his hand, and ask me for one tale after another after another." She took a seat, turning her chair so she could look at him. "I'm good at recounting other people's adventures. I just don't wish to have any of my own."
"It's not the same," Aldo said in a low voice. "I promise you that."
"Maybe so, but so it is."
"And that's how you came to be friends with the soldanshah?"
303 
	Sen Sherufa's gaze was distant. "He wanted to take me as his wife--his fourth, I believe--but I refused."
Aldo didn't know whether to be more surprised that the soldan-shah wanted a Saedran wife or that Sen Sherufa had turned him down. "Was he angry with you?"
"Oh, Imir still maintains his hope, and I let him keep that hope, but my calling is elsewhere. Because I remain a virgin, the sikaras find me laughable, but what does their derision matter to me? They'd have no respect for a Saedran woman even if I were promiscuous!"
Aldo could see how Imir would find her attractive, though Sherufa did not bother to make herself traditionally beautiful. Her skirts were trimmed with color and fitted just tightly enough to show some of her generous figure, but not in a seductive way. The fact that she was exotic and unattainable had probably made her even more intriguing to the soldan-shah.
"Imir grants me anything I ask of him... but then, I've never made any difficult requests. He knew that I'd love to speak with another chartsman. I think he was more glad for your capture because it would put the two of us together, and make me happy, than because of any strategic knowledge you might have."
"But he does expect you to pump me for information." It wasn't a question.
"Maybe." Sen Sherufa walked into the kitchen, where she poured them each a drink from a water pitcher in which floated sliced lemons and flower petals. "He wants you to tell me stories, so I'll have more tales to entertain him."
"I'd like to learn something as well," Aldo said cautiously. "We can exchange information. Do you have... any maps of Uraba?"
"Maps." Sen Sherufa's eyes lit up. She met Aldo's gaze as she handed him a glass. "Oh, you mean the Mappa Mundi?"
"You know of the Mappa Mundi? The great project?"
"I'm a Saedran, am I not? A chartsman, even if I don't travel--I told you that. Because we are so isolated, I'm sure my poor map is quite out of date. I have little opportunity to gain more information."
Aldo's heart pounded. "Now you have that opportunity. We both do."
Sherufa went to one of her cupboards and furtively removed a stack of fired clay plates and bowls to expose a wooden backing. "Nobody else knows about this.. .well, not many. Since I'm the only scholar and chartsman here, I keep my own copy so that I can make tentative additions and corrections as I read my books."
She slid out the thin boards so she could unfasten a broad sheet of yellowed paper. On it, Aldo saw the outlines of the world, intricately detailed landforms, the coastline, rivers and hills, Uraban villages, the boundaries of all the soldanates. In one quick glimpse, Aldo learned more about Uraba than he had ever known before.
The northern half of the map, however, showing the continent of Tierra, was both sketchy and inaccurate. Some features of the coastline were exaggerated, others nonexistent, particularly in the isolated reaches of Iboria and Soeland.
Aldo drank in the lines and markings, reading the Saedran characters, committing every detail to memory. He followed the outlines of the Middlesea, and was surprised by the especially thorough mapping of the northern coast, which was blocked from Tierran exploration by the rugged Corag mountains, as he had seen himself. Aldo marveled as he meshed these details with what he already knew.
The soldan-shah had hoped Sen Sherufa would make Aldo want to stay in Olabar and offer his services. Seeing this version
305' 
	of the map, however, produced the opposite reaction. He felt a fiery determination to get back to Calay. He had to bring this knowledge to Sen Leo!
But he also had an obligation to Sherufa, to share his knowledge with the ultimate goal of completing the Mappa Mundi. Aidenist and Urecari politics did not matter to them.
"I can help you fill in the blanks," he said. "Together you and I can make the most complete map of the world that Saedrans have ever produced." 
	64
	Olabar Palace
	Though Adrea averted her gaze, as a slave should, her heart was determined. She carried a lacquered tray bearing a bowl of cool yogurt mixed with mashed mango to the zarif's chambers. Few people in the palace recalled that Zarif Omra had shown her favor years ago during the raid on Windcatch, and he had paid no special attention to her since then.
Now, though, she prayed that he remembered. She was risking everything.
She walked forward with silent grace, maintaining the appearance that she belonged here. It would be a long while before anyone noticed that she had abandoned her regular tasks.
Having just returned from an expedition to the Yuarej soldanate where he inspected military encampments and staging fields, Omra now sequestered himself in a private chamber to look over military maps and tally his troops, ships, and weapons. Adrea knew that Cliaparia planned to hold a private feast for him that evening. The zarif's wife would oversee the prepara
tions and had given very specific instructions to the kitchen staff. This would be Adrea's one chance.
She entered with the tray and set it on the low table beside his desk. Without looking up, Omra merely gestured her away as he scribbled his figures, added his sums, but she remained, her throat working, her lips moving as she tried to remember what it felt like to form words and speak openly after so long.
Omra glanced at her, his dark eyes narrowed with impatience; then he paused as recognition flickered across his face. After five years, he still remembered her.
Before he could say anything, Adrea astonished him by speaking in perfect Uraban. "There is a plot to kill you, Zarif Omra. You will die tonight, unless you listen to me." Her voice sounded completely foreign to her, but it strengthened with every word.
Omra stared at her and stroked his dark, pointed beard. "So you can speak, after all."
"More importantly, I can listen. A slave overhears things. I know all about the plot."
Omra seemed more amused than frightened. "Very well, tell me."
Adrea shook her head. "Not yet. I will reveal what I know only if you grant me something in return."
His brows lifted in amusement. Really?" He laughed. "I remember how scrappy you were when we captured you. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that your spirit was never broken, no matter how well you've cooperated during your time here."
"I require something from you, Zarif," she repeated coldly. "If you don't agree, then they can kill you, for all I care. You have the blood of my friends--my family--on your hands."
Intrigued now, he leaned back, pushing his papers aside. "Then why bother to save me at all?"
I
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 307 
	"Because I do have a great love for my son. He has been taken away, and I want him back. You can help me. I want your guarantee that he will stay with me. Is that worth your life?" He crossed his arms, regarding her, but Adrea didn't flinch.
"Tell me what you know," Omra said. "Then I will decide."
"No. Your word first."
"And how much is my word worth, if it is given only to a slave?"
"The word of the soldan-shah's son should be worth a great deal to whomever it is given."
"Very well, then I give you my word." He smiled thinly. "But I will decide whether to keep my promise after you reveal what you know." He seemed to be toying with her, but not in a cruel way. He was amused by her boldness. Dismayed, but knowing this was the best promise she was likely to get, Adrea had to push forward. So she explained how Villiki intended to poison him that evening, how the drug was to be administered in a "love potion" his wife, Cliaparia, would put into the food. She watched Omra's expression darken, for her words had the ring of truth. "I know of Gliaparia's love potions, because they often make me ill. I also know how much Villiki wants her own son to take my place." Omra fell silent as thoughts rushed through his head, colliding, making him more and more angry. "Which priestess was she scheming with?" "Ur-Sikara Lukai." She answered without hesitation, without regret. Though the lead priestess had taken too much pleasure in tearing Saan away from her, Adrea did this not for revenge, but for her son. He nodded. "And is Cliaparia involved? Does she want me dead?"
"I saw no evidence of that. What would she have to gain? I
think the others mean for her to be blamed, if their poisoning plot succeeds."
The zarif rose, his expression dark. "It's best you leave now. I must speak with my father."
But Adrea made no move. She waited, silent and expectant. Preoccupied as he was, it took Omra a few moments to remember her request. He took a breath and nodded. "Yes. If this is true, then it is indeed worth the price of your son." 
	65
	Uraba, Abilan Soldanate
	Improving the world, by the grace qfOndun.
Prester Hannes had lived those words all his life: the Rule of Rules that God had given his sons, and that they in turn had given their followers. Such a task would never end, and all good Aidenists had to look for ways to follow the rule, to please Ondun.
But for all his contemplation on that command, Hannes had never before understood the breadth of the charge. He, hadn't felt the genuine meaning of that instruction--improving the world--until now. It had become his mission in life.
After so many years in Olabar, preying upon the enemy in small ways, he slipped out of the capital city and made his way along the southern coast of the Middlesea, following a path that would eventually take him back to Tierra. But he was in no hurry. He had work to do on the way.
The Urecari were willful heretics. Before the burning of Ishalem, Aidenist missionaries had traveled across the isthmus to Urecari settlements to spread the word. But these people
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 309 
	knowingly followed the wrong path, stubbornly refused to listen. Why, then, should Prester Hannes have any sympathy for them? Though the Book of Aiden was widely available, they ignored the truth, and so they had to face the consequences. The world could not be pure again while so many followers of arrogant Urec lived, and Ondun would not return until the blight was removed.
It was so obvious.
After walking for days on a stony road across an open grassy landscape, Hannes arrived at a small coastal village. The locals were tanned, the men shirtless, and they all moved about in an unhurried fashion, gathering mussels and oysters from beds along the breakwater. Fishing boats plied the calm shallow seas, their crews spearing sharks or netting sardines. In evenings, with a festive air they roasted their catch in great ember-filled beds, with smoky dry-seaweed fires right on the beach.
At the small church in the center of the village, the old half blind sikara spotted Hannes as he entered town at dusk. She moved forward, favoring her left leg, and asked him to join them in the communal meal on the beach. He hesitated at first, but he was very hungry and finally came forward to accept a pile of black mussels from the ash bed. The shells yawned open, and as soon as they were cool enough to touch, he slurped out the rubbery meat.
He explained that he came from Olabar, but refused to answer more, though the sikara pressed him for details. She offered him shelter, saying that he could sleep in the church if he wished, but Hannes was not willing to do that. In this temperate climate, he would be comfortable sleeping outside.
He was sure that the compassion of the half-blind priestess was just an act, and he detected a buried hauteur beneath her manner. Like any sikara, she probably wanted to corrupt him. As Asha had done. He kept his distance.
The village housed its consumable stores inside a large permanent tent. Salt and spices were sealed in clay jars. Casks of lamp oil were stacked high.
Hannes watched these people furtively for more than a day, but the community was so small and tight-knit it was hard for him to remain unobtrusive. The sikara invited him to join them for their sunset services, but he begged off, pretending to be polite, knowing what the woman really wanted.
The sikara sang out her call in a reedy voice that projected far. The fishermen had tied up their boats and joined their families, and everyone came to the church building that was made of clay, stones, and driftwood. The sikara announced that she would provide the Sacraments that night.
Hannes knew what he had to do. Improving the world, by the Grace qfOndun.
When everyone had entered the church and the old woman began intoning memorized passages from Urec's Log, Hannes stole one of the barrels of lamp oil from the storage tent and broke it open. When the unison prayer began, he used it to cover the noise of his actions as he barricaded the door from the outside.
He splashed the fragrant oil around the windows, the door, and soaked the driftwood and porous walls. With his niit and steel, he set a spark that caught on the lamp oil, and his eyes glowed as he watched the eerie blue ignition corona race across the oil's surface, all over and around the church like holy fire. Hannes stepped back from the rising heat and listened to the crackle of the flames.
The blaze grew more vigorous at the door and windows, climbing the structural walls, until it reached the sun-dried wooden roof. From inside he could hear cries of alarm that changed to frantic screaming as the people tried to get out. But with the lamp oil and the dry wood, the structure went up like a