The Edge of the World (64 page)

“Firepowder and Nunghal navies will change his plans for war, that is certain,” Imir said. “Maybe it’ll be enough to make
the Aidenists surrender quickly and end this constant conflict.” Saan knew his grandfather had never wanted to go to war in
the first place.

“I wish you would stay longer among us, but I certainly understand your desire to go home,” Asaddan said, crossing his arms
over his chest as he gazed at the rocking Nunghal-Su ships in the harbor. He scrubbed Saan’s blond hair with his hand. “Maybe
you should let this one stay with us. I’ll teach him a few more things!”

Saan swatted at him, laughing. “I need to get back to my mother—and Soldan-Shah Omra. How do you expect him to fight a war
without me?”

The big Nunghal chuckled. “How, indeed?”

While the departing Nunghal-Ari clans fanned out from the seacoast, Khan Jikaris dispatched workers and supplies to the site
of the grounded sand coracle at the edge of the desert, giving his blessing to their return home, so long as they sent more
emissaries back. More organized and practical than the lackadaisical khan, Asaddan knew where to get supplies of coal, reeds,
and wood, as well as thick, smelly tar to seal and protect the outer surfaces of the basket and the silk balloon sack. He
sent a group of young men northward at a fast pace.

By the time Asaddan, Saan, Sherufa, and Imir reached the site in the north, the seasonal winds were already brisk. Their coracle
lay battered but undisturbed where they had left it; the silken sack deflated, folded, and anchored with large stones; the
splintered wicker basket tied down and sheltered. The young Nunghals Asaddan sent ahead had set up work tents for the large
project. Several baskets of coal had already arrived.

Saan worked hard with his Nunghal companions to patch the odd vessel. Though he was not quite thirteen, the clans considered
him an adult, and he was pleased with what he had achieved among them. When he returned home, he would convince Omra to let
him participate in the real war planning against the Aidenists.

He teased Asaddan. “This trip will be easier than the last. Without you taking up so much room in the coracle basket, we can
carry a lot more coal.”

The Nunghal flexed his large bicep. “I’ll find my way back to see you again—wait and see.”

Imir took him at his word. “If you do, I will have a goldsmith make you a new tooth, so your smile can dazzle even the khan.”

“Then how would I whistle?” He let out a shrill tone that startled the nearby buffalo.

Sen Sherufa watched the preparations, often testing the wind. Her thick hair blew in disarray until she tied it back. Imir
remained close beside her, touching her shoulder from time to time, and she did not object. “This voyage will not be as frightening
as the last, since we
know
it can be done. After we get back, we can build an entire fleet of bigger coracles and begin trade across the Great Desert
with the Nunghals.”

“We should also try to sail ships past Lahjar and around to the southern sea, to see if my theory is right,” Saan decided.

“Or maybe I will convince Ruad to make the voyage from this side of the world,” Asaddan said. “I would like to join him in
that.” When Saan stared at him in surprise, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “It can’t be any more difficult than walking
across the Great Desert!”

With the coracle repaired and the balloon sack inflated, the three Urabans waved goodbye as whooping Nunghals disconnected
the ropes. The straining balloon lifted them higher, until they could see the panorama of extensive grasslands, the herds
of buffalo, the nomadic riders—and the sea of dunes. Riding brisk air currents, their coracle raced north across the expanse
of sand.

Although he would miss the land of the Nunghals, Saan carried a great contentment within him. He had experienced a tremendous,
life-changing adventure and had learned about the world, the Nunghal culture, their beliefs, and their simple yet intricate
way of life. He had a different perspective now, an exciting breadth of knowledge and imagination. Though the waste-land stretched
on and on, Saan knew that the Great Desert was
not
the edge of the world. He couldn’t wait to tell Omra and his mother the things he had seen…

Several days later, nearing home, they passed over a desert bandit encampment, different from the oasis they had seen on their
outbound journey. Imir scowled down at it. “Always in the past, the bandits have vanished into the sands like desert ghosts,
but if we build more sand coracles, our archers can attack their encampments from above—wipe them out like the vermin they
are.” He drew obvious satisfaction from the idea. “That, at least, will be a decisive war… one we can win.”

They finally passed the edge of the Great Desert back into Uraba and continued to drift across Missinia, traversing many more
leagues before the baskets of fuel gave out. When the sand coracle gradually settled to the ground and Saan and his companions
climbed out of the basket onto solid land, he felt quite happy to be home.

By now, his little brother Criston would be almost a year old, and his sisters had probably grown by several inches. By now,
the Uraban armies might have defeated the Tierrans once and for all. He couldn’t wait to hear the news from Soldan-Shah Omra.

Prester Hannes wept when he finally caught sight of Calay from the riverboat. Returning to it now after so many tribulations,
he felt that the blessed capital city of Tierra was as sacred as lost Ishalem. Hannes had been trapped in the purgatory of
Uraba for thirteen years after the burning of the great city, and before that he had hidden among the Urecari, watching, learning.
A spy for God.

Now, reaching Calay was his true reward for long and faithful service, saved from the jaws of hell itself. How could any pilgrim
to any shrine feel more blessed than he did right now?

His frostbitten hands and feet were bandaged, and the pain had dulled to the point where he could ignore it. Under the ministrations
of the local healer, he had lost only three toes and two fingers; no gangrene had set in, and the stumps were healing nicely.
He felt invigorated and whole, ready and able to do much more for the cause of Aiden. But first he had to report to the prester-marshall
all that he had done and all he had seen—particularly the extensive Gremurr mines in Tierran territory.

After Hannes disembarked from the riverboat, he walked in a daze along the docks in the Farmers’ District. His new clothes
fit him poorly, because the rivertown prester had been a broader-shouldered man, but at least they weren’t Urecari clothes.
At least they weren’t a slave’s clothes.

No one knew who he was. He wandered through the various districts, drinking in the smells, sounds, and sights. Home.
Safe
. It was a miracle. When people talked around him, the buzz of conversation sounded alien, yet wonderful—the Tierran language
was music to his ears. Tears sprang to his eyes as he saw pennants and wooden business signs that unabashedly displayed the
fishhook symbol.

The rivertown prester had given him a new pendant, and Hannes clung to the symbolic fishhook even when he slept, swearing
to himself that he would never again be deprived of the outward sign of his faith.

On his way to the Royal District and the city’s main kirk, he was pleased to see another small kirk with beautiful Iborian-style
architecture, built in the name of King Korastine’s second wife, who had died several years before. Hannes felt sad at the
reminder of how long he had been gone, how much he had missed. He hadn’t even known King Korastine had married again. Little
Princess Anjine was fully grown and ready to become queen, and now the king had a young son, as well.

But those were temporal matters, and Prester Hannes was more concerned with spiritual things. He touched the fishhook in the
hollow of his throat, whispered a quiet prayer, and headed toward the magnificent towers of the main Aidenist kirk, near the
castle.

With reverent gratitude, he passed through the tall, always-open doors into the voluminous interior. Most worshippers came
for the traditional dawn service, but even in the afternoon some of the faithful had come to pray, to study the relics and
paintings, or to converse quietly with the attending presters.

One man in clean white vestments came forward, smiling a welcome to Hannes. “May the Compass guide you.” He hesitated upon
seeing Hannes’s scarred cheek, his missing eyebrow, but then he recognized the pendant, saw the trappings of office that the
village prester had given him.

In a gruff voice, Hannes said, “I need to see Prester-Marshall Baine. For many years now, I have been on a holy mission that
he commanded. He must hear my report.”

The kirk prester was flustered. “Prester-Marshall… Baine?”

“Tell him it is Hannes. He will remember me well.”

“But… surely you mean Prester-Marshall Rudio?”

“Rudio?” Vaguely remembering a prester of that name, Hannes felt a growing dread rise in his chest. “Has something happened
to Prester-Marshall Baine?”

In halting words, the prester explained how Baine and a reconstruction crew had been horribly martyred in Ishalem. “But that
was a dozen years ago, sir, and the Urecari have committed many more crimes since.”

Hannes reeled, entirely unbalanced by the news, his grief and anguish transformed to an even deeper hatred of the Urecari.
While he had continued his good works in the name of Ondun across the soldanates, the evil Urecari had been committing even
more heinous acts. It seemed the heretics had balanced out every triumph Hannes had made with an atrocity of their own. He
lowered his head, and his shoulders convulsed as he struggled to contain his emotions.

The other prester was deeply alarmed by his reaction. “You have been gone a long time, haven’t you, sir?”

“An eternity. And I have a terrible story to tell.” Feeling a resolve like steel harden within him, he straightened. He had
never expected his work to be done. “But now I’ve returned, and I will do anything necessary to protect, preserve, and strengthen
the true faith.”

The prester said, “Let me take you to the prester-marshall. He and the king need to hear your tale.”

* * *

After Prester-Marshall Rudio checked in the church records and verified that Hannes had indeed been sent on a secret mission
by Baine, years ago, the old religious leader hurried him to the castle and asked for an immediate audience with King Korastine.

When he stood in the private conference chamber, Hannes was shocked to see how much older the king appeared as he came in
limping, rubbing a gouty knee. The weight of the long, simmering war and the death of Ilrida had exhausted him. Now the only
true spark in his life was the nearly completed Arkship on which he would soon depart in search of Terravitae.

When Hannes repeated his long tale, Korastine nodded sadly, his eyes tinged with nostalgia. “Prester-Marshall Baine was a
good friend and adviser, a true visionary. He changed our attitude toward exploring the world. I credit him with the goal
we now have. The Arkship will succeed in finding Holy Joron, mark my words. I—the King of Tierra and descendant of Aiden himself—have
his True Compass, which will guide us back to Terravitae.”

“Yes, I saw your ship,” Hannes said, tears brimming in his eyes. “It reminds me of Aiden’s holy Arkship, which I watched burn
to ashes in Ishalem.”

“May the Compass guide us in our quest for Terravitae,” said Prester-Marshall Rudio.

Hannes nodded, but that was not enough. “Now, let me tell you about the mines at Gremurr, how you can reach them… and why
you must destroy them.”

With Soldan-Shah Omra gone so long on his campaign to recapture Ishalem, Istar knew that Cliaparia was still scheming to do
them harm. She kept a close watch on her daughters and rarely left little Criston; she also missed Saan terribly, and hoped—
expected —
him to return soon.

When Omra’s youngest wife went into labor, the entire mood in the palace changed. An army of doctors and midwives came to
attend Naori, making sure that nothing went wrong with the birth. A group of sikaras led by Fyiri burned prayer strips and
set ribbons into the wind, offering blessings to Naori and the baby.

Though the young woman thrashed and wailed in pain, the birth was uneventful. The midwives handed her a pink and healthy infant
boy—Omra’s second son, next in the line of succession. In the meeting square, from the empty platforms where the two giant
bronze statues had once stood, criers shouted out the news that the soldan-shah had a new heir.

Safe in her own quarters, Istar felt relieved and satisfied to hear the announcement. Now even if Cliaparia did manage to
get pregnant again, she had become irrelevant.

During the last few weeks of Naori’s pregnancy, Cliaparia had become the young woman’s closest friend and companion, worming
her way into Naori’s confidence by plying her with obsequious attention. Istar had always been on cordial terms with the third
wife, but she let Cliaparia play her transparent games, while she attended her own daughters and little Criston.

Istar waited a suitable time for Naori to rest and recover before going to her chambers to see Omra’s other son. Adreala and
Istala were taken to their morning classes, where the sikaras taught them how to write and inscribe prayers. Altiara, one
of Istar’s handmaidens, volunteered to put Criston to bed for a nap before the sunset religious ceremonies began. The young
woman had watched over Criston many times before, and Istar kissed the boy’s smooth forehead before she left.

Wrapping fine silk scarves and sashes about herself, Istar went to Naori’s chambers. She bowed her head respectfully as she
entered the third wife’s bedroom. The new mother lay in bed, propped up with many pillows, holding the newborn in a blanket
as it suckled on her breast. Naori’s dark brown eyes sparkled. “Oh, Istar—I knew you would come! See the baby, he’s beautiful,
and healthy, and perfect.”