The Edge of the World (43 page)

Looking around the crowded banquet hall, he was surprised not to see his mother. Unlike scheming Villiki, Omra’s mother did
not revel in the fact that her son was now the soldan-shah; she had never been particularly enamored with Imir’s power and
riches either.

Lithio delayed just long enough that her entrance drew everyone’s attention in the banquet hall—exactly as planned, Omra was
sure. He stood from his place at the long table, embraced his mother, and kissed her on the cheek.

But they were strangers to each other. He visited Arikara only rarely, and Lithio never came to the court in Olabar. Now he
smiled at his mother, regarding her as she regarded him. She wore her extra years like a fine, sheer garment that added only
the subtlest of wrinkles and weight.

“Although I’m sure Xivir wants to talk business with you every waking moment,” Lithio said to him, “I hope you’ll let me be
the doting mother.” The seats next to Omra were occupied, but she chased away one of the men, telling him to find a different
place. After scanning the guests, she frowned. “I don’t see any beautiful women here. Where are your wives? Did you not bring
them? And my granddaughters? I hear that I have three, and I’ve seen none of them.”

“The journey was arduous, Mother.” He knew she wouldn’t accept the excuse. He had indeed wanted to bring Istar, but that would
have required him to bring Saan—and the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy would have raised too many questions. Besides, if he brought
his second wife to Missinia, then Cliaparia would also insist on coming, and she and Istar would not make good traveling companions.
In fact, one of them might kill the other before journey’s end. So he had left them all in the palace. Already, he missed
Istar, and he had no doubt that Cliaparia was pining for him. “If you want to see them, you could always visit Olabar.”

“Or you could bring them here.”

He surrendered. “I will. I promise.”

As the meal wound down, Soldan Xivir summoned a group of lovely female dancers and court musicians. As they began to perform,
his uncle leaned forward to whisper loudly to Omra, “The four in red are my own wives, but I dressed the others in blue to
let you know they are available.”

“I’m not in the market for wives,” Omra said.

Xivir leaned back, not convinced. “A customer in the bazaar does not always
intend
to buy—until something catches his eye.”

In the middle of the dance, four Missinian guards burst into the banquet hall, shouting, “Soldan! Soldan!” The dancers stuttered
to a halt in a whirling clash of blue and red silks as both Omra and Xivir rose to their feet.

Behind the first guards, a second pair supported a bedraggled stranger, a large man whose ragged clothing, shaggy hair, and
sunburned skin were covered with dust and dirt. “We found this man at the edge of the Great Desert, Soldan. He is unlike anyone
we have ever seen.”

Xivir began to speak, but caught himself and deferred to Omra, who said, “Where did you find him? Is he one of the bandits?”

“No,” Xivir answered after a mere glance. “And he doesn’t look Tierran either.”

The stranger’s hair was a shaggy mixture of reddish brown and black. His face was broad, his eyes widely set. A long, thin
mustache drooped on either side of his mouth in a style unfamiliar to Omra. The man could barely stand as they brought him
into the hall. His voice came out in a croak, and his words were utterly foreign, resembling none of the dialects among the
soldanates.

Xivir ordered servants to offer him food and drink. The exhausted newcomer looked at the food set before him as if he had
never seen such exotic victuals, then tentatively began to eat. After his first bite, he proceeded to devour the rest of the
food on the plate; one of his front teeth was missing, but the gap seemed to give him no difficulty as he ate.

The first guard continued his report. “He was crawling across the grasses when we found him. When we asked where he was from,
he kept pointing back toward the dunes.”

Soldan Xivir made a gruff, disbelieving sound. “No man can cross the Great Desert. Nothing lies on the other side.”

Sitting beside her son, Lithio said in a matter-of-fact voice, “And yet the man is here.”

Omra wanted to learn much more. “Have him bathed, given fresh clothes, and a place to sleep. We will take him with us to Olabar.”

Whenever Adrea gazed upon Saan, the ten-year-old looked every bit the Uraban prince. He had been raised, trained, and presented
to the public as the soldan-shah’s adopted son, though his features and coloration were an unforgettable reminder that the
boy was not Uraban.

By marrying a man she did not love, but whom she had grudgingly come to respect, Adrea had meant only to make sure her son
was not taken from her. Omra kept his word, and Saan grew up in luxury, not slavery. He was safe, and that was all she needed.
Adrea—
Istar —
could live with the bargain she had made. She even braided her hair the way Omra wanted.

Though handmaidens and palace boys were available to help Saan dress, Istar cared for him herself, since it was her job as
a mother. She brushed the hair away from his forehead and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They both spoke perfect Uraban. Saan was taught by the sikaras all his life, and Istar forced herself to learn the basic tenets
of the Urecari religion. She had given up on the hope of keeping the boy’s Tierran heritage alive within him and secretly
instructing him in the Book of Aiden. She was no prester.

Istar and Omra’s two young daughters, aged four and two, were already being eyed by the priestesses for recruitment. The girls
had been provisionally accepted to become acolytes when they were older and finished with their conventional schooling; Istar
dreaded the possibility that her daughters would be taken from her—not as a punishment, but simply as Uraban tradition.

Mothers brought their baby girls to the revered priestesses for careful inspection. Any infant daughter deemed perfect was
marked for later consideration. Both Adreala and Istala had passed that test—not surprisingly, since no sikara would dare
turn down a daughter of the soldan-shah. At the age of seven, the chosen girls were brought to the priestesses again for a
second testing. The sikaras accepted only one from every dozen, the smartest and most beautiful, to be raised in the church
schools. Once they reached maturity, only the best were culled to become actual sikaras, but even the rejected young women
became courtesans or valued wives of noblemen; some remained with the church to serve in other ways.

Almost certainly, both of her girls would enter the church, and stay there at least until they reached marriageable age. Istar
felt a pang of guilt, scolding herself to imagine that she did not care for the two daughters as much as she cared for Saan.
The boy was all she had left of her true husband, of her home. Each time she looked at him, she saw echoes of dear Criston…

She deftly tied a bright orange sash around his waist, adjusted his billowy tunic, and pronounced him ready to go play in
the gardens. “Are you anxious to search for the Golden Fern next month?” All the children of Olabar ran into the forested
hills for the annual spring festival to search for the prized object.

“I am ready,” he said, “but I’ll be more ready if you tell me the story again.”

Istar chuckled. “You already know the story.”

“I also eat my meals every day, yet I eat again the next day. That is how I am nourished. I’d like to hear the story again.”
Istar could argue with neither his request nor the inexorable logic.

Prior to coming here as a captive, she had never heard the tale, though it was a key religious legend that explained the origin
of the Urecari symbol. Now Istar had the tale memorized.

“When Urec was old, he gathered his children and grandchildren before him and brought out a chest that contained a special
fern frond from Terravitae, which he had kept all his life. Urec told them that he intended to spread these fern spores out
in the forests of Uraba, and the winds would carry them all across the land.

“Long ago on the voyage he lost the map that Ondun had given him, and the Golden Fern was the only item that remained of magical
Terravitae. ‘The fern will grow only once every year,’ Urec said, ‘and whoever finds it will be blessed by Ondun. That person
will be blessed with a great destiny.’ And so Urec left his family and went out to spread the fern spores. Afterward, he walked
the four corners of the continent, spreading his tales as the Traveler, and we have been searching for the Golden Fern ever
since.”

Satisfied that his mother had told the story properly, Saan squared his shoulders with resolve. “I’m going to search and search
and search. And if I find the Golden Fern, then Ondun has something special in store for me.” His blue eyes sparkled. “Will
that make you love me even more, Mother?”

“No, because it’s not possible to love anyone more than I already love you. But I’d still be very proud of you.”

Though Princess Anjine remained in Calay, her mind wandered to thoughts of the other reaches as the army of Tierra continued
to expand. She was twenty-two now, and had been preparing all her life to lead Tierra, especially in these troubled times.

The king had once wearily told Anjine, “By avoiding contact or trade with Uraba, I hope to keep from being pushed into a full-scale
genocidal war. I pray to Aiden that the soldan-shah feels the same way. Neither the Aidenists nor the Urecari can survive
such a conflict.”

For years, Uraban attacks had continued on coastal towns, and many Tierran ships went missing despite the increased patrols
of the king’s navy. Repeated sea battles took place, warships sinking warships on both sides of the Edict Line. Now Anjine
thought of Mateo out there, currently assigned to one of the guardian ships, defending the continent in the name of Aiden.

King Korastine had aged visibly in the eleven years since the burning of Ishalem, but he endured, moving forward one day,
one month, and one year at a time. He found joy wherever and whenever he could, particularly in his wife Ilrida and their
young son.

In the spacious, well-lit playroom, Anjine sat with her two-year-old half-brother Tomas, who had very pale hair, fair skin,
and a silly laugh; the boy’s delight in the smallest of things was infectious. Ilrida was an exceptional mother, and Anjine
found herself smitten with the boy. Tomas was such a wonderful child that she reconsidered her own doubts about having children
in such a time of crisis. Old enough to be wed, Anjine had received many subtle and not-so-subtle invitations from suitors,
but she’d taken none of them seriously. Right now she was more concerned about the war with the Urabans. Tierran royalty often
married late, and she was in no hurry.

Tomas sat on a rug, reaching out for the carved and painted figures scattered around him: soldiers, sailors, merchants, horses,
ships, and evil-looking Urecari. The boy clacked them together with abandon, holding them upside down. In recent months, he
had finally given up his habit of thrusting each one into his mouth.

Tomas, the only child of King Korastine and Ilrida, was born three years after their marriage. The baby brought a much-needed
sense of hope to Tierra not long after a raider attack that had cost a heavily loaded cargo ship and a navy warship. The captured
Aidenist sailors had been taken to the nearest Tierran shore and strung up with fishhooks through their throats. Local fishermen
found the bloated corpses pecked into horrors by hungry seabirds. After receiving the news, King Korastine had spent days
locked in grim discussions with the destrars and Prester-Marshall Rudio, asking for guidance.

Like a drowning man clutching a lifeline, King Korastine came to see his little son after each council session. By playing
with Tomas, he reminded himself about life and hope.

Now Anjine held up the figurines and explained to the boy what they were, though the two-year-old didn’t understand much of
what she said. She found it sad that at such a young age Tomas had to be prepared for the realities of a war that would probably
surpass his own lifetime.

Tycho wandered in, tail upright and twitching. He strolled toward Anjine but remained an inch or two out of reach as she extended
a hand to pet him. Giggling, Tomas grabbed for the cat, and Tycho patiently let the boy pound him, mess up his fur, and gently
tug on his tail. Tomas tried to balance a ship figure on Tycho’s back, as though it belonged there. The cat tolerated the
indignity for a few moments before jumping onto a window ledge from which he stared out at the sparrows flitting around the
eaves.

Anjine watched as Tomas turned a toy ship upside down, and it gave her the unsettling thought of a capsized ship. She went
to the window, stroked Tycho, and looked out past the Royal District to the harbor and the Oceansea beyond. She hoped Mateo
was safe, hoped his patrol ship would be sturdy, and hoped he would come home soon.

After his patrol, Mateo sailed back to Calay, looking forward to resupply and a few days’ furlough. Captain Illiom—a man only
four years older than Mateo—had commanded the ship that cruised up and down the coast, and they had encountered no Uraban
raiders, no illicit cargo ships. Tierra was safe—for now.

The patrol ship was a shallow-draft vessel with an armored hull, designed for speed and agility. The
Raven
’s prow contained a long saw-edged point of cast iron for ramming, and oarlocks were in place so the sailors could row, increasing
speed to smash into enemy vessels. Boarding grapples shaped like Sapier’s fish-hook could be thrown as soon as the
Raven
came alongside a Uraban vessel. Weapons were stored on deck for quick distribution during an engagement: spears, swords,
and arrows dipped in pitch.