The Edge of the World (66 page)

Alone in her home, with the doors and curtains closed in the vain hope that her neighbors would not interrupt her—not yet—she
took out fresh sheets of paper and began to copy the map. Sooner or later, she would have to decide how to describe her exploits
to her eager neighbors. She was accustomed to repeating tales of other heroes, but she’d never done anything herself that
warranted retelling.

A knock came at her door, the kindly clockmaker who lived across the street, pleased to see she had come home at last. But
Sherufa deflected his questions. “I will talk to the entire congregation during the next temple meeting—I promise. But first
I need to rest and think.”

She spent the night with oil lamps lit as she hunched over her papers, making copies of the Nunghal map and writing a letter.
To Aldo na-Curic.

The next day, she went to a clever Saedran engineer two streets away who, following her instructions, fabricated an ingenious
double-locked cylinder as intricate as any Saedran navigation device. He engraved the combination and instructions right on
the outside shell, using the coded Saedran language that no one else could read, so that only a Saedran would be able to open
the cylinder.

The craftsman demonstrated the finished device for her. Satisfied, Sherufa rolled up the map, sealed the ends of the container,
and put out the word that she was looking for a man willing to travel swiftly and secretly away from Uraba, up to Calay.

She finally found a wiry-looking man who looked eager and earnest, a man who claimed to have made the journey several times
before. He swept off his hat, revealing dark hair, dark eyes, and a smile designed to set her off guard. With his nondescript
features, he could pass for either Uraban or Tierran—which was good.

“It is a long and difficult journey, Lady Saedran,” he cautioned. “My fee will not be small.”

“Your fee will be adequate. I’ll pay you up front, but this sealed cylinder contains clear instructions to the recipient that
you are to receive an even greater amount when you reach your destination and deliver the cylinder to a Saedran chartsman
in Calay, preferably one named Aldo na-Curic.”

The man pursed his lips. “And how am I to find him?”

“Go to the Saedran District and ask.”

He tapped the cylinder, looking at it curiously. “And what does this contain? Will I be considered a spy?”

“You are not a spy, and the contents do not concern you. It is locked with a cipher you cannot defeat.” Realizing that he
needed more of an explanation, Sen Sherufa added with a sigh, “It is a Saedran religious matter. It would mean nothing to
you, even if you did break open the device.”

“As you say, Lady Saedran.” The man described how he had guided caravans of pilgrims across the Wahilir mountains to Ishalem.
“You can count on me. Yal Dolicar is at your service.”

Sen Sherufa entrusted the map into his hands. He packed up the sealed cylinder, took the money she offered, and departed for
Tierra.

Destiny demanded it—Ishalem would be his.

For the first time in history, the holy city that had held Urec’s Arkship would belong entirely to the Urecari. The conquest
would allow no further intrusion from Aidenists, Saedrans, charlatan merchants, sellers of fake relics, or heretics. Ishalem
rightly belonged to the followers of Urec.

Tomorrow, Omra and his armies would take it all back.

As he made his preparations, the full moon shone down upon the ruins of the city. His scouts rode hard under the silver light,
skirting the squalid pilgrim settlements that had sprung up in the ruins.

Their long journey had taken the better part of two months. Omra and his mounted troops had ridden across Abilan, through
Yuarej, and into Inner Wahilir. With Kel Unwar leading the cavalry, they rode up the Middlesea coast from where they had disembarked
at Sioara until they reached Ishalem. Racing across the isthmus, they made contact with the captains of the waiting war galleys
anchored down the western coast. Meanwhile, Kel Zarouk’s fleet of armed ships had sailed up from Khenara and now lay at anchor
out of sight, waiting for the appointed time.

Omra spent the entire night pacing the fireless camp, thinking of the following dawn when the Aidenists would be at their
sunrise services. That was when they would be most vulnerable.

His scouts returned, bowing before the soldan-shah. “We found a dozen or so Aidenist encampments, Soldan-Shah. One holds a
small group of Tierran soldiers, but they do not seem well armed or well fortified. They are not prepared for our assault.”

Omra nodded. The capture of Ishalem would be the first full-scale battle in many years, and afterward neither side could ever
go back to the previous level of tensions. Nor did he want to. Although he expected to encounter little resistance, the soldan-shah
was determined to make a spectacular mounted assault. Ishalem was an important spiritual victory, and conquering it must be
an overwhelming affair, because the glory of Ondun demanded it.

A second group of scouts reported that they had found eleven groups of Urecari pilgrims on the southern and eastern ends of
the ruins. Omra frowned. “In the frenzy of battle, they might become unfortunate victims. Have our men move them to safety
in the hills. Tell them to rejoice, for when this day is done, we can begin to rebuild Ishalem.”

In the blackest hour before dawn, he roused his men from their blankets on the hard ground, telling them to mount their horses.
They cinched the saddles tight and drew their sharp scimitars, waiting for the sun to appear. On the opposite side of the
isthmus, soldiers from Kel Zarouk’s warships would be marching up the coast.

When dawn spilled over the horizon, Omra raised his hand and brought it down in a chopping motion. A blaring horn played an
abrupt call to arms. His horsemen charged forward with a thunder of hooves that stirred up the weathered old ash, as though
the ground itself had begun to smoke.

On the opposite side of Ishalem, foot soldiers charged into the Aidenist camps. A handful of astonished Tierran guards scrambled
for their weapons and shouted a warning, but Omra’s army cut them down and rode after the screaming, fleeing pilgrims. The
well-coordinated Uraban military assault could have wiped out an entire garrison of Tierran soldiers; instead, it was merely
a slaughter of pathetic mendicants, squatters, and pilgrims.

Kel Zarouk’s war galleys set sail and raced to the old Ishalem harbors, where several Aidenist ships had already cut their
ropes and fled out to sea. Omra’s warships pursued them, but managed to trap only two of the many Tierran vessels; the other
ships slipped away into the morning fog. Undoubtedly, they would rush back to Calay and inform the king of what had happened
here.

But if all had gone according to plan in the Tierran capital, Korastine would have his own tragedy to deal with.

The sun had been up for less than two hours when Omra declared his victory. He was the undisputed conqueror, and Ishalem had
fallen without much of a fight. Before the Aidenists could respond, he would set up a fortress and mount patrols. His war
galleys would remain in place to secure his hold on the holy city.

Ishalem would never again fall into enemy hands.

His soldiers rejoiced, riding their mounts up and down familiar streets that were now little more than burn scars among the
collapsed remnants of buildings. Scrub grass, weeds, and thorny shrubs had grown in the cracks, leaving an appearance of overgrown
bleakness.

The men unfurled their banners and planted the fern symbol of Urec to mark their territory. Some took great joy in thrusting
their pennant poles through the dead bodies of Aidenist pilgrims, leaving the colors to flutter defiantly; others pitched
their tents and claimed land for themselves, already planning to build homes and become new noblemen in a new city. The Urecari
pilgrims, frightened by the carnage they had just witnessed, emerged from their hiding places with trepidation rather than
triumph.

Omra, though, stood among the ashes and felt the burning dust sting his eyes. Alone, he ascended the hill in the center of
the city, where the ruins of Urec’s Arkship had rested. From here, he could survey the shadowed remnants of what had once
been the greatest, holiest city in the world.

Instead of grandeur and blessings, this scabbed ghost of Ishalem spoke only of disappointment and loss.

Omra took a deep breath. The air had fallen eerily silent. He rubbed the soot and blood from his hands onto his tunic, feeling
troubled. This was victory?

When King Korastine retired for the night, he felt a contentment and anticipation that had been absent from his life ever
since the death of Ilrida. The Arkship was finished. Within weeks, after supplies were loaded in the hold and the last members
of the crew were chosen, she would be ready to set sail.

Kissing his young son good night, Korastine felt both an overwhelming joy and longing. “I will see you in the morning, Tomas.”
At times, the king was sure he could see Ilrida’s spirit moving behind the boy’s pale face. Tomas had a quiet, loving innocence,
and Korastine hoped the boy wouldn’t lose it as he grew older. Tomas threw his arms around his father’s neck. “Will I watch
you sail away in the big ship soon? Can I go, too?”

“You can watch me, but you have to stay here. Anjine will take care of you. She’ll be Tierra’s queen, and you will be the
little prince. Our land needs you.”

He had already let Anjine step into the role as much as possible, knowing that she would make a formidable queen. The Urabans
would rue the fact that they had continued their war.

Though it was a warm night, servants had built a fire in his bedroom hearth. The gout in his knee bothered him more and more,
especially in damp weather, but he struggled not to let it show, fearing that someone—Anjine, probably—would try to talk him
out of taking the Arkship voyage. He had waited years for this, and he wasn’t going to let a sore leg deter him.

By candlelight, he turned his attention to the precious relics he kept here in his private rooms. With the upcoming voyage
in mind, Korastine looked at the sea-turtle shell with its mysterious carved map that hinted at the wonders of the unknown
and all the open sea that the new Arkship would need to cross.

The Saedrans were supplying a talented chartsman for the voyage, a man who would not only interpret the turtle-shell map,
but decide how best to take advantage of currents and prevailing winds. Sen Leo had highly recommended Sen Aldo na-Curic.
The rest of the Arkship’s crew had already been selected, including the captain, a prester, and many competent seamen, as
well as Korastine and Destrar Broeck. This would be a voyage unlike any in history.

Considering the loss of the
Luminara,
Korastine had feared he might have trouble obtaining volunteers, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. The Arkship’s very
size promoted great confidence; if such a design had been good enough for Aiden and his crew, it would protect the men of
Tierra as well.

Craftsmen in the main Aidenist kirk had meticulously etched verses and prayers into the glittery surface of the ice dragon’s
horn, and Kjelnar would install the imposing shaft before the ship’s departure, to confer magical safeguards onto the vessel.

Next to the turtle shell on the shelf, Korastine looked at the lustrous icon of Holy Joron, the image Ilrida had loved so
well. He closed his eyes and longed to be transported to that mysterious land of Terravitae. Would she be waiting there for
him? If the Arkship ever did reach its destination, he knew with bittersweet sadness that he would not be returning to Calay.
Korastine would stay with Holy Joron and perhaps find peace there. That was what he really wanted.

The ancient Captain’s Compass, polished and repaired as best as his instrument makers were able, also sat in his room, its
gold polished to a gleam, its crystal face clean and transparent. The needle wavered uncertainly, as though trying to remember
its way back home. Korastine would carry Aiden’s Compass on board himself and install it next to the magnetic compass.

Lastly, his gaze fell upon the detailed sympathetic model of the Arkship that Sen Leo had so carefully crafted—the twinned
counterpart to the actual vessel. To his surprise, he saw a tiny curl of smoke rising from the hold, and fire flickered from
the waist hatch. Flames scurried like fiery mice up the ropes of the rigging.

Still in his robe, Korastine burst through the door into the corridor and shouted. “To the Arkship! Fire!
Fire!
” Limping on his sore knee, he hurried down the hallway in bare feet, his nightclothes flapping behind him. “To the docks!
The Arkship is on fire!”

He was not the first to see the disaster. Bells from the kirks were already ringing, and he heard an outcry in the streets.
Townspeople were rushing down to the docks in Shipbuilders’ Bay, carrying anything possible to help fight the fire. Korastine
had a horrific memory of that terrible last night in Ishalem.

As soon as he saw the enormous vessel engulfed in flames, the shrouds a fiery spiderweb with curls of greasy black smoke winding
up into the night air, Korastine knew it was too late. And he realized that this was no ordinary, accidental fire.

Some young men were fleeing the docks, fighting through the crowds away from the vessel. He recognized many of the youthful
workers who had volunteered to build the Arkship and couldn’t understand what they were doing or why they ran in the opposite
direction.

Then he saw what had been painted in bold red on the Arkship’s hull:
the unfurling fern of Urec
.

Pitch and whale oil had been poured across the decks and into the Arkship’s hold, then ignited by thrown torches so that the
fire quickly spread. Water crews hauled up buckets from the bay to splash water on the flames, but the pitch and oil made
the fire inextinguishable. Several clear-thinking men rushed to adjacent ships in Shipbuilders’ Bay to keep the fire from
spreading across the docks.