The Edge of the World (60 page)

“Ah, Ishalem,” she said in a long breath, as if reciting a chant from church. “How I long to have the holy city under our
control. Ondun must be displeased that we abandoned it, but we will soon show the power of our faith.”

Omra regarded her skeptically. “Did you ever visit the city before it burned?”

Fyiri frowned. “No, but I know we belong there. That is why you must take it back.”

Omra continued to press. “With the Arkship gone and the city burned to the ground, nothing is left.”

Anger flashed in the sikara’s dark eyes. “It is holy land! It is
our
land—
Urec’s
land.” That was what the people truly believed, and the sikaras had stoked their righteous anger to a blazing intensity.

And yet if they were genuinely doing Urec’s bidding, in the name of Ondun, why had there been so many tragedies? Shouldn’t
victory be easier for the faithful?
It is not God’s obligation to give us an easy victory,
he told himself.
Victory must be mine
.

“Yes, Fyiri—we will throw out the Aidenists,” he promised her.

Seeing the hard look on his face, the hawkish sikara finally appeared satisfied.

Studying his tactical maps, and missing Saan’s curiosity and earnest advice, Omra calculated the time it would take for all
parts of his plan to come to fruition, issued a final schedule, and sent fast riders to ensure that each kel understood the
importance of his own role.

Omra promised himself that by the time Saan and Imir returned from their journey across the Great Desert, he would be able
to show them a clear Uraban victory in Ishalem. He launched this new phase of his crusade because it was
necessary
and
right
. He also did it because he needed to restore the future for his people. Omra knew his father would rest more quietly in his
retirement if he saw a return to the calm security of his reign.

But there would be much more thunder before the storm dissipated…

After planning his troop movements and dispatching foot soldiers to meet the waiting war galleys in Ouroussa, Omra called
his cavalry together in the fields outside of Olabar. When Kel Unwar summoned them, they rode overland to the capital city,
where they would board the ships to Sioara. Over the past several years, Omra had positioned many
ra’virs
in Calay, and they, too, could strike during the attack on Ishalem. From all directions, this whirlwind would sweep the Aidenists
away.

The operation’s three prongs would strike on the night of the full moon, two months hence. All of Tierra would be thrown into
turmoil, and he expected a complete Uraban victory. Afterward, he prayed this nightmare would be over.

While farriers shoed his blood-bay mare for the long overland ride, Omra dutifully went to say goodbye to Cliaparia and their
daughter, Cithara. The little girl was crying, and Cliaparia was theatrically distraught to see him go. He treated both of
them with courtesy and formality, kissed the little girl on the forehead, then did the same to his wife, much to Cliaparia’s
disappointment.

“I must remain focused on the battle plans,” he said.

“I will miss you, and as First Wife I’ll be the first to welcome you home. Then we will celebrate your victory together!”
She clutched his loose white sleeve and fussed with the clean olba wrapped around his head. “I’ll count the days until you
return.”

“I’ll return when I’ve accomplished what I need to do.” He could tell she wanted him to say something endearing, but he had
no honest words that would have satisfied her.

Next he went to see Istar and their two daughters, as well as their baby son Criston. Adreala and Istala both hugged him.
“You have everything you need?” he asked Istar. “The hand-maidens and the guards will take care of you until I return.” He
gave her an understanding smile. “And Saan will be back soon, too. I hate to see you sad.”

“How can I
not
be sad?” Her response was surprisingly stiff, reminding him of how much he had forgotten about her past—and how much she
had not. “You are leaving in order to kill Tierrans. You may be killed yourself. Whatever happens, I cannot celebrate.”

He remembered the attack on her village, when she had been so young, her son unborn, her life set on a different course. That
woman—Adrea—remained a stranger to him. “I am only going there to win this war. When I succeed, then I can stop the bloodshed.”

“But you
will
shed Aidenist blood to do it.”

“Yes.” He had never lied to her.

“Then at least come back alive and unharmed.” This, Omra knew, she meant sincerely. She kissed him, but she seemed fragile,
fighting with turbulence inside her.

Finally, in his third wife’s quarters, he embraced young Naori, feeling the swell of the baby in her belly as he pressed against
her. She was due in less than two months. By the time he returned from the battle of Ishalem, she would have delivered her
child, maybe another son, another heir.

Yes, many things had changed in the past year. Perhaps peace and prosperity would finally dawn on the Uraban continent.

Outside the Olabar gates, crowds gathered to celebrate the army’s formal departure. The soldan-shah mounted his blood-bay
mare, adjusted the white olba around his hair, and raised his gloved hand to a thunderous roar of cheers.

Cliaparia and Naori waved pennants, standing close to each other. Demonstrably apart from them, Istar held the baby boy and
watched Omra go, but he could not read the emotions on her face.

The soldan-shah faced west and a mounted standard-bearer raised a large scarlet flag bearing the symbol of the unfurling fern.
Kel Unwar whistled, and the mounted army of Uraba set off for Ishalem.

Saan, Imir, and Sen Sherufa spent two weeks among the nomadic Nunghals, following the buffalo herds eastward. Since Asaddan
had given the travelers his approval, the nomads were friendly, boisterous, and very loud. They rose at dawn to do their work,
then stayed awake late around campfires, playing a game with black and white marbles on a polished board with indentations.

Long thought dead, Asaddan was received as a hero among the Nunghal-Ari. His comrades gave him a golden earring to reward
him for his wonderful stories, though they still teased him about his missing tooth (apparently he had lost it in an embarrassing
accident when a buffalo kicked him in the face). Though Saan could not speak the language, he listened to Asaddan tell his
tale, watching his gestures, noting the tones of his voice, and began to pick up a few words. Sherufa, having already learned
some Nunghal vocabulary from her intensive time with Asaddan, used it now. For his own part, Imir had no interest in learning
another language, claiming he was too old.

The breeze never stopped blowing, constantly rustling the dry blades of grass. At this time of year, the only greenery came
from prickly plants that scratched Saan’s bare legs when he ran. He played with Nunghal boys his age, having fun with tasks
that they considered their daily chores and tending the buffalo.

For her own part, Sen Sherufa took a great interest in the Nunghal religion. She often sat preoccupied at night in her open
tent, scribbling notes. Saan joined her and asked what she had learned. “The Nunghal religion is very interesting,” she explained.
“There are certain mythic similarities to—yet striking differences from—what is familiar to us.”

“Mythic similarities? Does that mean Urecari missionaries came here in times long past?”

Sherufa smiled at him, as if he had missed the point. “Nunghals believe they are descendants of two brothers who left their
paradise home long ago. When they were lost at sea, both brothers cursed God for not watching out for them, and then both
of their ships crashed. One brother took his people inland—his descendants became the nomadic tribes that call themselves
the Nunghal-Ari. The people from the second brother’s ship built themselves new ships and boats, remained at sea, and kept
their traditions. The seafaring clans call themselves the Nunghal-Su.”

Saan was suspicious. “That sounds a lot like the tale of Urec and Aiden.”

Sen Sherufa nodded. “There might be a single mythic foundation from which the tales were garbled over the generations.”

“Then we can tell the Nunghals the tale of Urec, give them the truth, and explain the real story.”

“They would not thank you for that, Saan. Besides”—Sherufa raised her eyebrows—“how do you know that
your
version of the story isn’t the garbled one?”

Saan was taken aback. For that he had no answer.

The aimless buffalo herds moved in a general direction, day after day, and the animals arrived at their destination just as
Asaddan’s clan friends had promised.

The city of the Nunghal khan started out as a nomadic camp made of expansive tents, yurts, and colorful pavilions, but it
remained in place for so long that it became a permanent city. The tents were dyed ochre, orange, and brownish green, so that
the encampment looked like a traveling carnival. Fabrics stretched from pole to pole to pole, joining one section to another.
Separate thick-walled yurts were private dwellings, the largest of which was reserved for Khan Jikaris himself.

When they entered the settlement, Asaddan led Imir, Sherufa, and Saan to the largest yurt. “A rider went forth yesterday to
tell the khan, and he is very anxious to see you,” he explained. “Jikaris probably didn’t believe half of what the rider told
him.” The hangings jingled with a fringe of gold and brass bells as Asaddan pushed his way into the yurt.

Inside, the khan hurriedly settled himself upon a wide wooden chair upholstered in dyed hides. When they entered, he was still
tugging on wrapped-leather gauntlets and adjusting his stone-encrusted crown—a crown that looked as heavy as an old kettle.
Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, but atop his head, most of the hair had fallen away to leave only a bare and leathery
scalp.

Khan Jikaris assumed a relaxed posture, trying to pretend that he sat slumped on his throne awaiting supplicants all day long.
Though he tried to look powerful and intimidating, two plump women—presumably his wives—went about the business of straightening
rugs and lighting candles as if this were any other day.

The khan eyed the visitors with a demeanor that suggested both power and boredom, as if amazing things were a regular occurrence
to him. Asaddan stepped forward and gave a rapid-fire speech in his tongue, to which the khan gave a brusque response before
heaving himself from his chair. Jikaris was a head shorter even than Saan’s grandfather. The khan studied Imir’s unusual features,
then moved to Sen Sherufa with greater interest, touched her long thick hair, and spoke appreciative comments to Asaddan.
When the khan’s fat wives snapped at him with clear displeasure, Jikaris hurried to Saan, intrigued by the young man’s blond
hair and blue eyes.

“He thinks you are either an angel or a demon,” Asaddan said with a chuckle. “He wants to know if someone worked a spell on
you, to turn your hair to gold.”

“I suggest you correct that impression,” Sen Sherufa scolded, “so that no one has ideas of cutting off Saan’s head to acquire
a treasure.”

Asaddan took the threat seriously and spoke with the khan. Showing excessive friendliness, Jikaris slapped Imir on the back,
then did the same to Saan and Sherufa, startling all of them. He pushed past, threw open the jingling flap of his yurt, and
shouted into the din and bustle of the large camp.

“What’s happening?” Imir asked.

“Khan Jikaris announces a great celebration to show off Nunghal hospitality to his strange visitors.”

Saan glanced around. A few passersby paused to listen, but the mood of the encampment changed little. “They don’t seem overly
curious.”

Asaddan laughed aloud. “The khan orders so many celebrations, the people are no longer impressed by it.”

That night the open-air feast served a main course of buffalo meat, along with heavy breads, preserves of tart purple berries
and honey, and a murky, odd-tasting beverage supposedly made from fermented mare’s milk. A group of deep-voiced men played
clangorous musical instruments and sang songs with clashing harmonies that Saan found too strange to be enjoyable.

Another man sat at the khan’s side. Though he was clearly a Nunghal, his clothing was of an entirely different cut. His tunic’s
billowing sleeves were cinched tight at the wrists, while most of the other Nunghals had bare arms. Rather than fur trimmings,
intricate knots decorated the man’s clothing like an odd sort of embroidery. His leggings were reinforced by stiff, tough-looking
strips of fabric: cured sharkskin, Saan realized, as he studied it more carefully.

Asaddan talked with the khan’s strange companion, then made introductions all around. “This man is Ruad, a representative
of the Nunghal-Su. He has come to spend a year with the tribes of the Nunghal-Ari, to exchange information and news.”

Saan could not imagine such an arrangement between Aidenists and Urecari. Asaddan lowered his voice and continued his story
in the Uraban language, so that none of the other listeners could understand him. “The truth, my friends, is that Ruad was
sent here as a sort of punishment. All the Nunghal-Su have their own seagoing vessels, but Ruad lost his ship in a storm.
Worse, the poor man had the bad fortune to survive when most of his crew was lost. Now he is considered something of a”—Asaddan
waved his hand as though trying to summon vocabulary from thin air—“an outcast among his clan.

“Ruad, as one of the many nephews of the khan of the Nunghal-Su, is supposed to be braver than other men. His clan has exiled
him among the land-dwellers, herders, and wanderers whom—I shall be honest with you, my friends—the Nunghal-Su do not respect.
Ruad believes that the sea spat him out onto dry land, and he must remain here until he learns his lesson.”

Saan regarded the outcast, trying to gauge his mood. Ruad did not seem to be in sparkling good humor, but rather withdrawn
and resigned.