The Edge of the World (68 page)

A man disembarked from a boat in the Merchants’ District and began to ask around Calay, even in the uproar of the city after
the burning of the Arkship. “I am looking for a Saedran chartsman named Aldo na-Curic.” The traveler pretended that he could
not give any answers, yet he dropped enough hints to intrigue his listeners. “I have something for him—a special gift I brought
from the far corners of the world.” He lowered his voice. “He will want to have it, believe me.”

Since Aldo was a chartsman for hire, he was easily found. Many of the ship captains knew of him, and they directed the stranger
to the Saedran District, where he stopped in at various shops, talked to an apothecary and a woman who made intricate wind
chimes. Finally someone pointed him to the house of the painter Biento and his wife, Yura, where Aldo still lived.

Before Aldo heard the persistent knocking, he had been feeling sick and stunned about the loss of the great vessel on which
he would have served as chartsman. Now it would be years before he’d have such an opportunity again—if ever.

Even though his thoughts were preoccupied, when he opened the door he recognized Yal Dolicar immediately. Thirteen years had
passed since this man had cheated him, but with his perfect memory as a Saedran chartsman Aldo never forgot a face. He froze.

The man’s smile was warm, his greeting exuberant—and he did not recognize Aldo at all, nor did he notice anything amiss. Aldo
was no longer a wide-eyed and gullible young man who had just passed his test. Instead, he’d traveled from one continent to
another, seen many things he had only dreamed of before. He was considered a Sen among his people.

Yal Dolicar was leaner and older, too, and his dark, curly hair hung longer, but he was the same. No doubt about it. He carried
an aura of earnestness and sincerity, which he had cultivated well over the years. This time, though, Aldo was not fooled.
“I am Aldo.” He made no move to let the visitor inside his home. “And you are Yal Dolicar. What is it you want?”

The other man was startled. “You know my name?” Then he gave a foolish-looking, embarrassed grin. “Ah! You must have heard
me asking around Calay for you.”

“No. We have met before.” Aldo was pleased to keep Dolicar off guard. “What is it you want of me? I have much work to do.”
He didn’t go into further detail about how the man had taken advantage of him, duped him with a counterfeit map, made Aldo
excited about possibilities that were, in fact, a lie.

Recovering with a proud flourish, accustomed to pressing ahead in spite of his listeners’ suspicions, Dolicar produced an
intriguing metal cylinder from within his tunic. “I have traveled from the soldanates of Uraba and survived many perils to
bring this to you. I accepted this dangerous mission from a Saedran woman named Sen Sherufa na-Oa—and here I am.”

Aldo blinked. Sen Sherufa! How could Dolicar know her name, and Aldo’s connection to her, unless there was some kernel of
truth to what this man said?

He reached out for the cylinder, and Yal Dolicar pulled it back. “A certain financial arrangement was made. I received a partial
payment for expenses before I departed from Olabar, and Sen Sherufa promised me an additional one hundred silver pieces upon
delivery of this item.”

“One hundred silver pieces—did she, now?” Aldo was no longer the gullible man Dolicar had once duped. “Then let me see what
I am paying for.”

Grudgingly, the man handed him the cylinder. Aldo read the engraved markings and deciphered the instructions on how to work
the locking mechanism along with its carefully set combination. The inscription in Saedran characters convinced him the message
was real. He smirked. “Forgive me, Yal Dolicar, but this says I am to pay you
fifty
silver pieces, not one hundred.”

“That’s not true!” Dolicar protested, but without much conviction.

Aldo pointed to the incomprehensible letters, and he could tell by Dolicar’s face that he would not further argue the point.
“Wait here.” He left Dolicar standing on the threshold. When it looked as if he might presume to step inside, Aldo closed
the door in his face. The man wouldn’t leave without his money.

Aldo’s family kept some of their own funds in the house, and he withdrew the appropriate number of coins, put the rest back,
and rearranged the books and furniture, so that an observant man like Dolicar would not guess where the money was hidden.
He opened the door, and Dolicar held out his hand, patient and content. Aldo counted out the coins. “There—forty silver pieces.”

“We agreed that I am to receive fifty!” Dolicar sounded annoyed.

“Yes, fifty silver pieces—but I have deducted ten silvers for the false map you sold me when I was a young man.”

Dolicar blinked, drew a quick breath and recovered himself. “I sold you a map? I am sure you are mistaken.”

“I’m sure I am not. You made a fool out of me then, but you also taught me a lesson.”

“Ah, I vaguely remember it now.” He ran a finger along his lips. “So that map was false? I assure you, the man who gave it
to me was quite believable.”

“You said you drew it yourself.”

“Then perhaps the lesson I taught you was worth ten silver pieces?” He sounded unreasonably hopeful.

“No.”

Dolicar shrugged. “All right then, forty silver pieces, damn you. You’ve taught me a lesson, too—never deal with Saedrans.”

Aldo took Sherufa’s sealed cylinder, and the man walked away in a huff. Once he was alone, Aldo followed the instructions
and worked the container’s clever mechanism. He noticed numerous tiny scratch marks around the side and the seal, which suggested
that Yal Dolicar must have tried to foil the locks himself.

Aldo opened the cylinder and reached inside, his pulse pounding. He drew out a few pages of tightly rolled parchment and unfurled
them to reveal a map showing the coastline of a strange land, as well as a letter that Sen Sherufa had written him.

She described her journey across the Great Desert, the discovery of the new land to the south, and the unexpected coastline
and another whole sea! Aldo stared, taken aback. It was too fantastic to be true. The continent of Uraba was far larger than
anyone had ever guessed.

He and Sherufa had already redefined their perception of the world and greatly expanded the Mappa Mundi, but this discovery
went beyond anything he had ever dreamed. Now that the Arkship had been destroyed, he would not be going on his long-awaited
voyage of discovery… at least not soon.

But this sketch changed everything. Aldo rolled the map, reinserted it into the cylinder, and sealed the end. Then he ran
to the Saedran temple to see Sen Leo.

Not caring that she was covered with blood, Istar turned on the dock to face all the frightened fishermen, merchants, customers,
and the horrified handmaidens who had accompanied Cliaparia. She felt cold, impenetrable, and utterly justified in her actions.

She looked down at her hands, saw the red wetness coating her blade and her fingers. Almost casually she tossed the knife
into the water, where it sank near the net-wrapped body of the treacherous woman.

Istar had killed more than her baby’s murderer—she had killed the anger and grief within her. She had purged herself of vengeance,
hatred, all emotion whatsoever, like a torch that had flared brightly in a wind gust, then flickered and died. The woman she
truly was, a woman named Adrea, had perished long ago in a raid on Windcatch. The best part of her had not survived that day.

All the subsequent years in Uraba had a strange dreamlike quality. She had made hard choices to protect Saan, but he was a
strong young man who could fend for himself and make his own decisions. He had a life, thanks to her, though it was not the
life she would have chosen for him. From now on, Istar did not, in fact, feel she had any stake in what might happen to him.

Leaving the horrified audience and the bloody stain in the water beside the pilings, she walked back off the pier to be enfolded
in the winding streets of the bazaar. She realized how ruthless she had become, and it made her feel hollow.

Far behind her, one of the handmaidens screamed again. Istar turned a corner and walked deeper into the labyrinth.

Over the years, she had learned from Omra; he had taught her to accept the requirements of survival without regard for her
passions or her heart’s voice. She had learned how to protect herself and her family… except that she had failed baby Criston.
She had just discovered that she could commit murder without hesitation and without remorse, when necessary. Both Altiara
and Cliaparia were dead at her hands, within the space of hours.

That would have been inconceivable to the bright-eyed young woman named Adrea, who had waved goodbye to her brave young sailor
in Calay.

Hushed voices followed her through the marketplace, rumors spreading with the speed of a furious squall. Her golden-brown
hair was unkempt. Crimson stains covered her clothes. She wandered like a lost woman, seeing little, as she headed in the
vague direction of the Olabar palace. People shrank back into doorways as she passed. Merchants ducked into the shadows beneath
their awnings.

Istar stopped next to a purveyor of exotic items to get her bearings, to think. The man looked at her nervously but did not
speak, did not offer his wares. On the table beneath his purple silk awning, he displayed odd trinkets, mystical pieces of
twisted driftwood, coral-encrusted artifacts retrieved from sunken ships, all manner of flotsam and jetsam tossed up by the
vagaries of the sea.

Her eyes were drawn by one particular item—a rolled-up, water-stained letter inside a chipped and dirty glass bottle. Something
tugged at her—the handwriting was in the Tierran language, words that had become unfamiliar to her for so long. She reached
out to touch it. The mostly dried blood on her fingers left a faint red smudge on the side of the bottle. She removed the
cork, pulled the brittle papers out and unrolled them.

Stammering but falling back into his old habits, the merchant said, “It is a letter found floating in the sea. But it hasn’t
been translated, since nobody can read the Aidenist scrawl.”

Many of the words had faded with time and the elements, but she could read what it said. She saw a strand of golden hair clinging
to one of the pages.

She knew the hand that had written it.

Swept away, her mind floated in even greater disbelief. She was stunned. She drank in the longing thoughts that Criston had
written to her—
to her!
Her long-lost dear sweet Criston. According to the date, the letter had been written only three years earlier. Three years!
He still remembered her.

She picked up the letter, holding it, reading the lines over and over again.
Criston!
The ice in her heart shattered and melted. The hollowness in her chest was filled by a sudden crashing tide of emotion.

As abruptly as she had lost everything, surrendered everything, Istar—
Adrea —
realized how much she had truly lost, how much had been
taken
from her. She clutched the papers to her breast and closed her eyes as tears trickled out from beneath her eyelids, tears
of both sadness and joy. Tears of longing. Tears of hope.

When he arrived back in the capital city, Criston Vora felt as if he had emerged newborn and infinitely changed from a long
sleep within a chrysalis. He made his way to King Korastine’s castle, carrying only his satchel with a few belongings. He
had trimmed his beard and hair and washed himself, but it was the expression on his face that captivated the eyes of those
who saw him, like a lodestone’s hold on a floating needle.

He squared his shoulders and stood unhurried and unconcerned as he presented himself to the guards at the gate. “I seek an
audience with King Korastine. My name is Criston Vora, and I sent a letter to the king years ago. I am the last and only survivor
of the
Luminara
expedition. And I have a tale to tell him. I think he would like to hear it.”

Wandering through Calay, he had seen the burned wreck of the Arkship and learned of the king’s continued dreams of exploration.
Criston considered it a sign. So the dream did not die with the
Luminara
.

He was led into the castle’s throne room, where the weary-looking king sat on his blockish throne beside Princess Anjine in
a gilded chair that had been raised to the same height on the platform. On her lap sprawled a mottled cat, whose golden eyes
watched the activity in the room.

Criston formally bent his knee and bowed his head. People from the castle rushed into the chamber, chattering about who the
mysterious stranger claimed to be.

“Majesty, a dozen years ago, I set sail with Captain Andon Shay aboard the
Luminara,
but our ship was destroyed by the Leviathan.” An astonished reaction rippled throughout the room, but Korastine merely watched
him. “The crew was lost, but I was eventually rescued by Soeland whalers. I made it back to my village of Windcatch, only
to find that Urecari raiders had wrecked my life at home, killed my friends. My wife was gone, either taken or killed.”

Anjine spoke up. “Where have you been all this time? We knew from our ship model that the
Luminara
had been destroyed, and we received a letter.—”

“That was my letter, a long time ago.” Criston hung his head. “I could not bear to come to you in person, until now.” He didn’t
elaborate.

“We have all been scarred in many ways.” Korastine called for food and wine, then shouted, “Send for Sen Leo na-Hadra. He
will want to hear this as well. We read your letter, but didn’t know how much to believe.”

“Believe all of it.” He reached into his pack and removed the battered, leather-bound book of Captain Shay’s sea-serpent sketches.

Criston had known he would need to recount his story of the voyage, the sea serpents, the island of skeletons and their never-ending
war, the Leviathan. He would have to tell about being cast adrift with Prester Jerard, then being pulled along by the black
sea serpent. He had rehearsed his words many times, and now he was prepared to lay them out like a supplicant offering a confession.
There would be time, and there would be many questions.