The Edge of the World (32 page)

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. He 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.”

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.

Four Years Later

Five Years After the Burning of Ishalem

Four years after his return from Corag 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 Edict 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
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.

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.

A few closely guarded and terrified Tierran deckhands were 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.

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 this 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 Teacher 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 houses were half-timbered cottages with white plaster walls, 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.”