The Edge of the World (19 page)

But he had to hope there was still a chance for peace. Giladen rushed off to present himself in Calay, 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 soldan-shah’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 Cliaparia, 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, hungry 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.

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 Prester-Marshall
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 soldan-shah.
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 Prester-Marshall
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.