The Edge of the World (65 page)

Cliaparia sat like a guard dog at Naori’s side, not bothering to hide her flash of resentment. She poured a cup of lukewarm
herbal tea. “Here, Naori, drink this. It will help you regain your strength.”

Obviously Cliaparia wanted the young mother to be indebted to her, but Naori was oblivious. “You are so sweet, Cliaparia.
Could you please empty my washbasin? The water is dirty, and I’d like to refresh myself.” In that instant, Cliaparia’s role
changed from that of a dear companion to little more than a servant, and she knew it. Istar tried to hide her smile, but did
not succeed.

“I think I am going to name him Omra after his father, or maybe Imir. But it hasn’t been decided yet,” Naori bubbled to Istar,
aglow with the happiness of new motherhood, expecting everyone to be as overjoyed as she was. “Would you like to hold him,
Istar?”

Taking the baby, Istar looked appreciatively down at the infant. He was indeed beautiful. “Someday he and my little Criston
will play together.”

“They will be great friends,” Naori vowed and took the baby back. Lingering long enough to see Cliaparia return with the washbasin,
Istar bowed again to Naori and took her leave.

As she approached her own quarters, she heard screams.

The usual guard was gone from the corridor. Istar began to run, her sandals slapping on the tiles. A baby was wailing—screaming.
Little Criston! She pushed through the beaded curtains so violently that strings tore, scattering colored glass spheres all
over the floor. Altiara was frantic, holding her face in her hands in horror. The guard had smashed something on the floor
and ground it furiously under his boot heel.

In his crib, Criston lay shrieking, and Istar ran toward him. “What happened!”

In disgust, the guard looked down at the tiles where a hairy multi-legged mess lay in a pool of its own splattered ooze.

“What happened?” Istar rounded on Altiara. “Answer me!” She shook the handmaiden back into reason.

“S-sand spider! In the crib! It bit.—”

Istar heard nothing more as she tore away her baby’s blankets to see two angry red punctures in his side. Sand spiders were
as deadly as they were rare, and their poison had no known antidote. The large desert creatures sometimes came into the city
hidden in baskets carried by caravans. Her gaze jerked toward the dead creature. A spider, larger than her splayed hand… the
venom in that one bite would have been sufficient to kill ten grown men. Her baby—her precious baby boy…

She held Criston. He was already twitching with convulsions. Angry red splotches covered his pale skin.

“I don’t know how it happened, my lady!” Altiara wailed. “I checked his bedding. I was sure it was safe. I screamed for the
guard as soon as I saw…”

Istar did not care about how or why—not now. The spider had been killed, but it was too late. Her little boy didn’t have a
chance.

Istar could merely hold and rock him, weeping as he convulsed. His pale skin turned bluish black from internal hemorrhaging
as the poison spread through his system. She caressed his cheek, told him to hush, to rest. But when his wails finally faded
into silence, she took no comfort from his peace.

Her searing cry of grief was as sharp and painful as the bite of a scimitar. Altiara collapsed to the floor, striking her
forehead against the tiles and sobbing.

The guard looked deeply shamed. “I could not act more quickly, my lady. I came as soon.—”

A harsh, low moan continued to come not just from Istar’s throat, but from the depths of her soul, and she didn’t think it
would ever end. As the commotion drew alarms and curiosity seekers from around the palace, Istar looked through the liquid
vision of tears to see shocked people crowding, staring. She refused to let go of the baby, though he was already dead. More
guards arrived, led by Kel Rovic himself, much too late to do anything.

Among the onlookers, only one face showed no grief at all. Cliaparia looked smug and not particularly sad. “I see you are
no longer the mother of the soldan-shah’s heir.” With that she left, back straight, head held high.

In that instant, Istar knew. Cliaparia had murdered her son.

Alone in his cottage, Criston could feel winter coming on. For weeks now he had been stockpiling firewood: chopping dead trees,
splitting logs, and piling the wood against the side of the stone-walled cottage. He needed enough fuel to keep him and Jerard
warm throughout the season.

Each day as he went out to gather wood, old Jerard plodded alongside him, never letting his master out of sight. Inside the
cottage, the dog sat dutiful and patient as Criston struck a spark to light the fire; when the blaze was going, the dog stretched
out to let the heat warm his bones. His dark fur had become frosted with more and more silver, and when the dog slept, he
twitched and stirred, dreaming of chasing fat marmots or fending off wolves.

The trek down to the rivertown with Prester Hannes had exhausted the dog, and after they returned to the high meadow, old
Jerard no longer had the energy to run among the sheep. Instead, he lounged all day in the grass in front of the cottage,
watching his master do the daily chores.

While he fixed his own dinner, Criston talked to the dog, halfway convinced that Jerard could understand him. The dog’s teeth
had gone bad, and so Criston cooked meat and cut it into small pieces that Jerard could chew and swallow; Criston didn’t mind.
Jerard had been his faithful companion for thirteen years.

After they finished their meal, he sat in his large creaking chair with his whittling knife and a block of wood to make another
ship model. His life was content, solid, and unremarkable, though sometimes—when he opened his emotional wall by a thin crack—he
did miss the sea.

As the fire burned low and full dark fell outside, Jerard stirred from the hearth, shook his head, and looked up with his
soulful brown eyes. Criston said, “Good boy,” out of habit.

Jerard heaved himself to his four paws and limped over to Criston’s chair. He sat on his haunches, tail wagging vaguely. With
a plaintive whine, he put his head in Criston’s lap. Criston petted him, frowning, sure that something was wrong. Jerard’s
tail thumped twice on the floor. His lungs expanded as he heaved one long breath and let it out like a sigh.

Then, from one instant to the next, the dog was dead. Quietly and peacefully, his spirit floated away like smoke up the chimney.
Criston felt the sudden heaviness as the dog slumped against him.

He could only stare, unblinking. In shock, he petted the dog’s head once more, then lay his brow against the warm black fur.
He couldn’t move. Criston had known this time was coming and, aware of the dog’s pain and weariness, had both dreaded it and
bitterly prayed for Jerard’s release and peace.

But it didn’t matter how much he had prepared his heart—it could never be enough. Criston held poor Jerard, and the tears
poured from his eyes like a sudden monsoon. Without conscious volition, he slid out of the chair to the floor beside the dog
and held him all through the night until the fire went out, sometime before dawn.

He buried Jerard under a towering cairn, tearing rocks from the wall of his cottage and stacking the heavy stones high and
deep so that predators could not reach the dog’s body. The task took him most of the day. With the partly dismantled cottage
in a shambles, Criston slept out in the open that night, wrapped in a blanket next to the cairn.

“You were a good dog, Jerard,” he said before he slept. “Faithful and true. I hope Ondun has fields for you to run in and
other dogs to play with.” Criston stroked one of the smooth stones as though he were petting his friend one last time. “I
hope I was as good a companion to you as you were to me.”

In the morning, he rose, stiff and sore in the chill of dawn. From inside the cottage he retrieved the few things he thought
he might need, a few carvings, Captain Shay’s old sea monster journal. On his trek, he would inform the mountain villagers
that he had left his sheep and cottage behind; someone from the village could claim and care for the flock. With Jerard gone,
that part of his life was over.

He removed the fishhook pendant from his neck, the pendant Prester Jerard had given him so long ago, and draped it lovingly
between the stones of the dog’s cairn.

Criston had had enough of the mountains, enough of solid ground beneath his feet. Feeling the call again for the first time
in years, he set off on foot and left the Corag highlands behind him. At long last, Criston Vora headed back to the sea.

Many Urabans had seen the sand coracle as it flew over the southern edge of Missinia. Riders came out to greet the returning
travelers, escorting Saan, Imir, and Sen Sherufa to the city of Arikara, where they were welcomed with excitement and disbelief.
Soldan Xivir and his sister Lithio had, with heavy hearts, concluded that they were lost and would never come back from the
Great Desert.

Imir was happy to report the location of the desert bandit encampments, and explained how sand coracles could be used to hunt
them down. Saan took two separate baths just to get all the grit from his pores and hair. The Nunghal clans traditionally
scrubbed themselves in streams and lakes, or swam in the cold ocean; they had never heard of a heated and perfumed bath. Saan
enjoyed returning to civilization.

That evening, facing the banquet Xivir’s kitchens had prepared for them, Saan realized how much he’d missed the taste of good
Uraban food. They savored pies stuffed with minced pigeon, eggs, cinnamon, and walnuts, and he ate an entire bowl of salt-cured
olives. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten meat other than buffalo or fish.

Lithio had saved a seat at the table for the former soldan-shah, but he chose to sit next to Sen Sherufa. His wife seemed
more amused than jealous. She made much of Imir’s appearance now that his hair and beard had grown back; just to be contrary,
she claimed that she had liked him better bald.

After enjoying the hospitality of the Missinian soldan, the companions were anxious to return to Olabar. Sen Sherufa wanted
to be back among her own people, and Saan longed to see his mother and sisters again, but he was most enthusiastic to tell
all his adventures to Omra. His father would be proud of the things he had learned and experienced.

“That may have to wait, young man,” Xivir answered. “The soldan-shah departed with his armies to recapture the isthmus of
Ishalem, once and for all.” Hearing this, Saan was crestfallen to have missed such a grand opportunity to fight with the Urecari
armies on such an important conquest.

The next day, Xivir provided a caravan to take them overland back to the capital. Swift riders were dispatched to carry the
news of their imminent arrival to Olabar, and by the time Saan and the group reached the capital city, banners had been hung
and ribbons fluttered on poles to welcome them.

But Saan noticed a subdued mood, the remnants of black crepe and drooping flags that marked a time of mourning. Olabar was
a confused mixture of extreme emotions. Kel Rovik and a group of uniformed guards came to greet them before the palace’s main
arch. The guard captain saluted formally to Imir, then showed respect to Saan, as Omra always ordered the guards to do.

“Something is wrong,” Saan blurted. “What’s happened?”

Rovik frowned, hesitant. “It is not my place to.—”

“Give us the news,” Imir said, sounding once more like the soldan-shah, though he was nearly unrecognizable with his gray
hair and beard. “I order you.”

“Soldan-Shah Omra has a new son by his third wife, Naori. But.—” Rovik drew a deep breath, as though facing a battle. “His
other son, the heir, died from the bite of a sand spider.”

Saan reeled. His baby brother was dead! “I have to see my mother.” He ran past Kel Rovik and the guards into the familiar
halls. He found Istar in her quarters, kneeling in her best garments, scrubbing the floor cracks between the tiles with rags,
polishing, as if she were once again a slave. She looked up at him with empty eyes and stared, as if he were a ghost or hallucination.
Then she got to her feet. “You’re back! Saan! Safe and
alive
.”

When she threw her arms around him, he hugged her tightly. “I came back to you, Mother. I promised I would. But…” He didn’t
know what else to say, how to speak to her.

With a sob, Istar said, “Criston is dead.”

Saan could sense that a great darkness lived within her, a heavy shadow that had fallen on her heart. She pressed her face
against his shoulder, and her damp tears felt cool as they evaporated on his skin. “I love you, Mother,” he said. Her body
was racked with shudders. Istar cried and cried, and he tried to soothe her.

Then, oddly, she just
stopped,
as if she had run out of grief, run out of tears. She released her hold on Saan and stood back, straightening her garments,
squaring her shoulders, and wiping her face. He was afraid to ask what had caused this abrupt change in her.

“You returned. You came home,” his mother said quietly, as if she still couldn’t believe it. “But I need to be alone for a
while.”

She bent down and continued her frenetic cleaning.

When Sen Sherufa returned to her home in the Saedran District of Olabar, she could barely contain her excitement. She still
had the Nunghal map that showed the detailed coastline of the southern sea. Ever since looking upon the great unexplored waters
and studying the charts in the mapmaker’s stall, she had been planning how to disseminate the information to other Saedrans.
Such a world-shaking revelation had to be added to the Mappa Mundi. It was the best information they had. The news needed
to be shared, but privately.

Aldo na-Curic had given her so much information about the Tierran continent that now she wanted to return the favor—if only
she could find a way to deliver a copy of the new map to him.