The Edge of the World (6 page)

“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 used
you
!” He jabbed a finger at Aldo. “We were at the mercy of the waves and currents. We were lost.

“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.

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 soldan-shah,
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 Corag 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.”