The Edge of the World (63 page)

He moved toward the structure, nearly dead, but the cottage did not seem to grow any closer. He heard a dog barking, a strange
sound that reminded him of Asha’s villa. He fell down again.

The dog began barking around him, but it did not attack. Hannes opened his eyes, lifted his head, and saw a man there, dressed
like a shepherd. “May the Compass guide you!” he gasped, barely able to speak the traditional Aidenist blessing.

Like a song of angels in his ears, the man responded, “And the Compass guide you. Where are you from? How did you get here?”
The man helped Hannes to his feet and held him as he swayed, weaker than he’d ever imagined he could be. “Who are you?”

“Hannes, Prester Hannes… I escaped… from the Urecari.”

The shepherd picked him up as if he were no more than a sack of grain, and placed him over his shoulder. “My name is Criston
Vora. My cottage has a warm fire and nourishing food. You look like you could use both.”

Hannes had already collapsed and was beyond responding.

During the Nunghal gathering, Saan spent many days exploring tents and stalls, playing games with other Nunghal boys, learning
about the crafts and traditions of the different clans. He was a sponge, absorbing their dialects, their stories, their bawdy
jokes; he was eager to find some way to use the new information to help Soldan-Shah Omra, when he and his companions returned
home to Olabar.

Saan was interested in the rounded ships of the Nunghal-Su anchored in a hodgepodge floating metropolis in the natural harbor.
Constructed of dark iron-hard wood, these were more than sailing vessels: They were
homes
for the Nunghal families, with decks stacked several levels higher than Saan had ever seen on Uraban vessels. The rigging
was an incomprehensible cat’s cradle of ropes, and the arrangement of sails formed a mosaic of fabric.

The Nunghal-Su believed that their god had given them the oceans of the world as their domain. They lived on the seas and
came ashore only when absolutely necessary; the clan gathering was the longest time the ships remained anchored all year.
Now the clustered ships looked like a city of sails and masts.

As he walked along the shore, staring out at the conglomeration of vessels, Saan came upon Ruad. Now that he’d returned to
the southern ocean, the shamed Nunghal-Su was vibrant and restored. The gauntness of his face had filled out, erasing the
shadows around his eyes. He had unbound his long hair so that it flew in the salty breezes with an exuberance that matched
his expression. He stood next to a dinghy he was about to take to his clan ship, which lay at anchor in the deeper water.

“Ah, Saan! Are you not tired of having your feet in the dirt? Come with me—we can dine in my cabin and imagine we are out
on the open sea.” He shaded his eyes to look out at all the vessels. “I can’t wait to set off once more.”

Saan couldn’t conceal his grin. “Your ships are fascinating… though I don’t know how you can tell which is which.”

“That is like asking a mother how she can recognize her own child.” Ruad let out a snort, and Saan helped him push the dinghy
into the water. “Our ships are our homes—and, oh, I am so glad to be
home
. Climb aboard.” He gestured toward the small boat. “But you’d better be willing to do some of the rowing.”

“I’ll do all of it, in exchange for your hospitality.”

The harbor waters were calm, and Saan pulled at the oars, threading a path through all the anchored ships, going where Ruad
directed him. The clusters of ships reminded Saan of the herds of buffalo on the plains. “Where do you
go
with all these ships? How do you keep from running into one another?”

“When you walk among the crowds back there at the clan gathering, do you constantly worry about crashing into other men and
women? We are master sailors!”

“Well, I still admire your ability,” Saan said.

At the compliment, Ruad appeared crestfallen, however, and his voice fell quiet. “The Nunghal-Su would not say that of me,
since I did lose my ship and many of my crew.”

Saan frowned. “But you survived.”

“Please do not remind me of my crimes. I am glad to be allowed back onboard.”

They butted up against the storage barrels floating at the side of Ruad’s clan ship at the waterline. Saan swung out of the
dinghy, climbed onto the barrels, then scrambled up the rope ladder to reach the main deck, with Ruad close behind.

Saan studied the workings of the ship as Ruad showed him the decks, the storage compartments and complex rigging. Aboard,
families hung tapestries and beaded curtains across private cabins. Women fed their children, men tossed sharp daggers at
a target painted on a mast, boys scrambled up the rigging and swung from high ropes.

Remembering what he and Sen Sherufa had postulated after looking at the charts of the southern coastline, Saan asked, “What’s
the greatest distance the Nunghal-Su have sailed? How far have you gone?”

“Far enough, but not so far that we would sail off the edge of the world. Any fool who risks
that
deserves his fate.”

“Is there really a precipice, a watery cliff that plunges into nowhere?” Saan had always been skeptical of such tales. “If
that’s true, why haven’t all the seas drained away to nothing by now?”

“It is not for me to explain the intentions of God—but I do not doubt what I have heard. I will never doubt it again.”

“But what if, instead of finding the edge of the world, you find the port city of Lahjar, and then the rest of Uraba?” Saan
couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “Would you be willing to make the attempt?”

“I would not.” Ruad tersely shook his head. “It is not for us to go so far. People could not survive it.”

Saan was disappointed. “Most would not have survived crossing the Great Desert, either—but Asaddan did. And then we did—so
it can be done.” He imagined how the war with Tierra would change if all these imposing Nunghal-Su vessels sailed up in a
great fleet to swarm the Aidenist coastal villages. With this incredible navy
and
firepowder, the enemy would stand no chance.

“Just consider it, Ruad. After you’re back at sea, when you feel the call of the far horizon… think about where else you might
go.”

“The world is a big enough place, and the sea is vaster than my imagination. I don’t have to see all of it.”

“But
I
would like to,” Saan said, gazing out over the crowded ships and harbor to the sea beyond.

After a dozen years of self-imposed isolation in the mountain meadows, Criston Vora barely remembered what it was like to
have human company. He had forgotten how to be a good host, but he had not forgotten his humanity. The terrible privation
that this skeletal, frostbitten man had endured tugged at his heart. He recalled when he’d been cast adrift on the
Luminara
’s wreckage with Prester Jerard, barely surviving. Criston knew how to help.

First he put the man by the fire, wrapped him in woolen blankets and covered him with a thick fleece. Even so, Hannes shivered
uncontrollably, thrashing in internal nightmares and frigid delirium. The man’s hands and part of his face bore a waxy sheen
of scars that suggested another horrific but old injury. His severely frostbitten skin had large areas covered with purplish
patches marked with white spots and blisters.

Criston heated water and added aromatic herbs for a weak tea, then forced the prester to drink it. He prepared a broth with
chunks of mutton, carrots, and wild onions, and when his visitor was awake enough to take food, Criston strained out the solid
parts and gave him the hearty broth.

The man would likely lose several of his fingers and toes to frostbite, but Criston was no Saedran physician, nor even a village
herb-wife. Hannes could not be moved until he regained some of his strength, so Criston cleaned the blisters and wounds as
best he could, hoping the poor man would not suffer and die of gangrene before Criston could get him to help.

The dog, now old and limping, sat beside the cot where Hannes rested. For years, good Jerard had helped tend the flocks, but
lately his joints and muscles ached too much for vigorous activity, and Criston was glad to let him keep the guest company.
Stirring from his cot, Hannes occasionally reached over to stroke the dog’s head, though he did not seem to know how to be
comfortable around a pet.

“My dog has scars like you do.” Criston said when Hannes was awake but still resting. He pointed out the white line along
Jerard’s left flank from when he’d defended the flock against a wolf. Criston had patched him up, but at times the dog still
whimpered in his sleep. “Jerard can’t tell me his story, but I saw him get those wounds. You, Prester Hannes, will have to
tell me your tale.”

Hannes took a long time to gather the strength to explain how he’d been a pilgrim in Ishalem, where Urecari slavers had captured
him and taken him to the Gremurr mines. The prester talked of how he escaped into the mountains, but he couldn’t remember
many details of his grueling trek. “It is with Aiden’s blessing that I finally found you. I might have died the next day up
there, but Ondun arranged another miracle, and I am here to continue His great work.”

As he listened to the story, Criston sensed that his guest kept many secrets, but after what the prester had been through,
Criston didn’t have any right to press him for further details. Besides, he didn’t want Hannes inquiring into
his
reasons for withdrawing from the rest of humanity and living alone. The battered and water-stained volume of Captain Shay’s
journal sat on a rickety shelf on his wall; he often reread it during the winter nights, but right now he called no attention
to the book or the sad history it embodied.

He guided the conversation to a safer subject. “I’ve never heard of Urecari mines down there. Even if the mountains of Corag
are impassable, that coast is above the Edict Line and therefore belongs to Tierra.”

“Urecari lie and cheat,” Hannes said. “They do not abide by treaties.”

Criston sighed. “The Gremurr mines may as well be on the other side of the world. No one can travel through the mountains.”

“I did. On Tierran soil, the Urecari are mining metal to make weapons and arm their soldiers against good Aidenists.”

Though he had cut himself off from politics and the world, Criston felt anger bubble up within him. He thought of innocent
fishing villages like Windcatch, raiders sweeping in to set fire to houses and kirks, killing people, taking away children…
and Adrea.

Hardening his resolve, Criston decided to tell the prester his own tale after all, the first time he had spoken of such things
since turning his back on the sea. When he was finished, Criston felt exhausted and drained, and cathartic tears slid down
his cheeks.

Hannes stared at Criston’s fishhook pendant, the now-tarnished but deeply prized emblem that Prester Jerard had given him.
He rose from the cot, touched the fishhook and blessed him. “I must go back to Calay,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I need
to report to the prester-marshall.”

“You’ll need a doctor sooner than that. I’ve done all the healing I can here, but caring for your frostbite is beyond my skill.”

“Ondun will keep me whole,” Hannes said.

Criston made preparations, packing food and fashioning a walking staff for Hannes. Leaving the sheep to tend themselves in
the big meadows, they set off at dawn, proceeding at a slow pace. Old Jerard refused to be left behind; his tail wagged with
determination though he plodded along with a stiff-legged gait, instead of bounding.

Hannes would let a doctor tend him at the river settlement while they waited for the next riverboat to arrive. When they reached
the small town and rickety wharf on the bank where barges stopped once or twice a week, Criston assessed the current flowing
to where it would empty into the Oceansea and felt a faint longing to go aboard with Prester Hannes.

He could accompany his guest to Calay, or he could return to Windcatch and reclaim a normal life. Once a year, he still wrote
his letter, placed it in a bottle, and made the pilgrimage to the sea. Occasionally, he visited Ciarlo back at his old home.
But that was all. There would never be a normal life without Adrea.

“I can’t go with you,” he said to the prester. “Not yet.”

“I understand, my son.” Hannes gave him another blessing. “You have your faith and your own mission in life, as I have mine.”

People came to the docks to see them. The local prester, both overjoyed and dismayed to see Hannes, told Criston, “I will
take care of him and get him a doctor.”

After the two men said their awkward farewells, Criston whistled for slow-moving Jerard. He did not want to stay for a warm
meal, because being around so many people made him uncomfortable. He and the dog headed back to the calm emptiness of the
mountains.

To signal the end of the annual clan-gathering festival, the anchored Nunghal-Su ships fired off their immense cannons, belching
orange blasts and resounding booms into the sky. Standing on the deck of his large vessel in the heart of the cluster, Ruad
whistled and waved his arms. Saan’s grandfather was so delighted by the explosions that he looked ten years younger.

With careful deliberation, Sen Sherufa had kept an accurate tally of days since their crossing of the Great Desert. Taking
her makeshift calendar to Saan and Imir, she pointed to their schedule. “Half a year has passed, and the winds will be turning
northward any day. We have to start making our plans very soon. We’ll need the khan’s help to fix the damaged sand coracle
in time. We’ll need supplies, too. We’ve got to find coal or something to burn that will keep the balloon inflated. There’s
a lot of work to do, Imir.”

Though he felt completely at home among the Nunghals, Saan agreed. “We need to get back to Olabar so we can tell my father
everything we’ve learned.”