The Map of All Things (2 page)

At the southern boundary of Uraba, at the edge of the Great Desert, a strange man staggers in from the dunes, speaking no tongue that anyone can understand. The Saedran woman Sen Sherufa eventually learns his language. His name is ASADDAN and he has crossed the Great Desert; his people, the Nunghals, live on the other side of the expanse of dunes. Asaddan becomes a court sensation and convinces Omra to sponsor an expedition so he can return to his side of the desert, using a balloon-borne sand coracle to ride the winds. Saan, now twelve, accompanies him, along with the retired soldan-shah Imir and a reluctant Sherufa (who would rather stay home and read about adventures). The group crosses the desert and is received among the Nunghals. As guests of KHAN JIKARIS, they travel to a large clan gathering on the coast of the southern ocean, a body of water that Sherufa never even guessed existed. From seafaring Nunghals, she obtains maps and begins to suspect that the southern ocean may in fact connect with the coastline of Uraba, far to the north. Sherufa, Imir, and Saan return home with their exciting news.

Prester Hannes continues his depredations against the followers of Urec, leaving a path of death and destruction behind him as he makes his way back to Tierra. He reaches the burned ruins of Ishalem, which have remained uninhabited for more than a dozen years, and he weeps to see what has become of the holy city. Before he can leave the ruins, though, Hannes is captured by a Uraban patrol, and he is sent with other prisoners to work in the Gremurr mines. They do not know he is the man who has caused them so much harm; they just need more slaves. Hannes toils for a long time, always looking for a way to escape, and finally slips away from the mines into the supposedly impassible mountains that lead to Tierra. No man has ever survived the trek, but Hannes is not like any other man. Frostbitten, starving, and near death, he stumbles into a high mountain meadow, where he is rescued by the hermit Criston Vora. Criston nurses him back to health, and then helps the prester make his way to Calay.

As the Iborian Kjelnar constructs Korastine's new Arkship, Destrar Broeck goes out into the northern wastelands to track down and kill the fabled ice dragon, whose horn supposedly has magical properties. Broeck returns to Calay with the shimmering horn, which will be mounted on the prow of the Arkship. Both Broeck and Korastine intend to sail on the vessel, and Aldo na-Curic will be the chartsman. Before the new Arkship can depart, though,
ra'virs
strike in the night and burn the ship in the harbor. The Tierran dreams are dashed.

Soldan-Shah Omra decides to recapture the barren city of Ishalem for his people and puts together a major assault. His wife Istar gives him a son at last, whom she names Criston, which only increases the jealousy Cliaparia holds toward her. Omra has recently taken a third wife, NAORI, who is also pregnant. The soldan-shah bids them all farewell, and heads off with his armies to conquer Ishalem. His operation works perfectly. Before the Tierran army can respond effectively, Omra destroys the enemy military outposts and kills all the Aidenist pilgrims. He claims the ash-strewn ground in the name of Uraba.

Back in Olabar, Cliaparia schemes to oust Istar, but she fails… which only forces her to try even darker treachery. After Naori gives birth to a baby boy—another heir for the soldan-shah—Cliaparia slips a poisonous sand spider into the crib of Istar's year-old son Criston, and the boy dies. Saan returns from the land of the Nunghals to discover that his mother has been nearly driven mad by the death of the baby, while Cliaparia remains smug. When Istar learns that Cliaparia was the murderer, she does not hesitate. Thinking of nothing but revenge, she goes to the market, where she finds Cliaparia laughing with her ladies-in-waiting. She stabs the hateful woman to death in broad daylight and dumps her body into the harbor, then staggers away in shock, covered in blood. As she wanders through the market stalls, Istar is stunned to discover a merchant selling a letter found sealed in a bottle. One of Criston's letters to her.

Having saved Prester Hannes, Criston at last decides to return to his former life. Over the years living alone in the mountains, he has dabbled with making models of sailing ships, exploring different designs. King Korastine and all of Calay are reeling from the heinous burning of the Arkship, but Criston presents himself to the king with new models and offers his services to create, and captain, a new ship.

On the Map of All Things, each life is a kingdom.

—Tales of the Traveler

Part I

Six Years After the Burning of the Arkship

1
Shipbuilders' Bay, Calay Harbor

Suspended in a rope cradle abeam of the vessel, a grizzled craftsman used mallet, chisel, and rasp to fashion the ornate lettering. He followed charcoal lines drawn on the sanded surface, coaxing the ship's name from the wood.

Dyscovera
. The word embodied everything that the magnificent new ship was meant to be, evoking the hopes pinned on her mission and her captain.

Criston Vora stood on the dock in Shipbuilders' Bay, regarding the whole ship.
His
ship. Soon, she would sail across the unexplored seas to find the lost land of Terravitae. And he would succeed this time.

Using hooks and a block-and-tackle, seasoned workers scurried up the shroud lines, stringing a cat's-cradle of ropes to support the masts and spars. From inside and outside the curved hull, caulkers hammered oakum between boards to prevent saltwater from leaking in; carpenters sanded and planed the golden wood that furnished the cabins, while painters and gilders added finishing touches to the exterior, making every detail as beautiful as possible—for Holy Joron.

Even under the bright sun, the late spring air remained crisp and cool. Work progressed on the three-masted carrack, six years after hateful Urecari saboteurs had burned the new Arkship that King Korastine had commissioned. A few blackened hull timbers could still be seen at the bottom of Shipbuilders' Bay, where the ruined exploration vessel had sunk.

But this new ship proved that hope was not gone, merely delayed. This wasn't the first time Criston Vora had resurrected hope from the ashes….

The bare-chested Iborian shipwright, Kjelnar, walked up and down the deck, indifferent to the chill. For a man who had grown up in the cold northern reach, this was a balmy day. Waving to Criston on the dock, he yelled over the bustling noise of construction work. “The fittings are ready, Captain! The ice-dragon horn will have its home on the
Dyscovera
's prow.”

Criston cupped his hands around his mouth and called back, “Let's hope your Iborian legends are as reliable as your craftsmanship. We need all the protection we can get.” The horn had originally been meant for Korastine's first Arkship; fortunately, the relic had not been installed when the ship burned in the harbor. Now the horn would be kept under guard inside the main Aidenist kirk, until just before the
Dyscovera
sailed.

Feeling a tug on his sleeve, Criston looked down to see his young companion. “Are we going aboard, sir? I want to see what they've finished in your cabin since yesterday.”

Criston gave Javian an indulgent smile, feeling a bond with him. He remembered when he himself was fourteen, excited to sail out on fishing boats with his father. He would stare out to sea, imagining mysterious lands just beyond the horizon. “You'll have more than enough time to memorize every splinter and every knot in every deckboard. I suggest you spend your time on dry land while you can, take advantage of what Calay has to offer.”

But Javian could not take his eyes off of the ship. “The sea has more to offer, sir.”

The young man had lost his mother in the last major gray fever epidemic that scoured the streets of Calay and had run away from his desperate and abusive father. Javian had told Criston how, since the age of ten, he had haunted the docks and eked out a living by doing odd jobs, begging afternoon scraps from fishmongers' stalls.

The young man was curious, determined, and—most important of all—made himself
useful
. During the
Dyscovera
's construction, if one of the craftsmen grumbled about an unpleasant task, Javian bounded off to do it without being asked. After observing him, Criston had offered to make Javian his personal cabin boy for the voyage.

So much like me, when I was his age…

It had been more than eighteen years since the
Luminara
sailed under Captain Andon Shay with similar dreams and determination. Back then, Criston and his crewmates had gone beyond the boundaries of any known map… and he had lost everything. Though he survived the shipwreck, his life was forever changed. After many quiet years as a hermit, Criston had decided to face life again and return to the sea. He'd been back among humanity for six years now, but he never stopped feeling alone. His focus, his obsession, set him apart from others: Criston was sure that the
Luminara
had been close, very close, to her sacred destination. With the
Dyscovera
, he intended to go back and search again.

A hush drifted across the docks like an unexpected breeze. A group of blue-uniformed royal guards escorted an old man in plush maroon robes. King Korastine leaned on a carved walking stick, though he seemed embarrassed to be using it. The king had closely watched the progress of the
Dyscovera
, from the laying of the keel to the setting of ribs and the mounting of hull planks. Criston knew how badly Korastine wanted to sail away from Tierra. Years ago, the king had planned to go aboard the new Arkship, along with Destrar Broeck, both of them hoping to find peace from the tragedies in their lives. But that was not meant to be.

At Korastine's side walked a smiling ten-year-old boy, blond-haired and thin-faced. Equally fascinated by the ships in the harbor, Prince Tomas often joined his father in Shipbuilders' Bay. The boy's pale hair and eyes reflected those of his Iborian mother, who had died when he was but four.

The king hobbled after his son, favoring his left knee. In recent years, the gout had become so bad that he could barely walk, though he refused to be carried on a palanquin. “What news today, Captain Vora? Are we on schedule?”

Criston bowed formally. “With Kjelnar as our shipwright, Majesty, of course we're on schedule.”

Korastine ran his wistful gaze over the lines of the vessel. With a forced smile, he patted his swollen leg. “Much as I'd like to be part of your crew, Captain, I will stay here and await your reports.”

Prince Tomas took a step ahead of his father. “
I
want to go along.”

Korastine smiled at him. “I don't doubt that would be more amusing than court functions, but the voyage will be too dangerous. You have to stay here in Tierra, where it's safe.”

Criston pulled his jacket tight as a cold breeze wove through the docks. By sailing in early spring, the
Dyscovera
should have months of good weather to take them farther than any man had ever gone. “We depart in three weeks, Sire, when the winds should be most favorable for a long westward voyage.”

Korastine caressed his beard. “I have high hopes for you, Captain Vora.” He squeezed Tomas's shoulder, resting some of his weight on the boy. “Find Holy Joron. We need his aid in the crusade against the evil followers of Urec.”

2
Ishalem

The great wall across Ishalem blocked the isthmus from the Aidenist enemy. Behind God's Barricade, the holy city would at last be safe in Urecari hands, and on the other side Tierra would wither and die like a branch broken from a tree.

From the high hill where once had stood the ancient wreck of Urec's Arkship, Soldan-Shah Omra watched his construction workers and Tierran slaves continue their labors. The sweating men used log rollers lubricated with mud to pull blocks into place. In the western harbor, a barge rode low in the water, carrying heavy blocks hewn from cliffside quarries.

In charge of the project, Kel Unwar had nearly completed a towering barrier seven miles long, stone after stone after stone, now that the Uraban army had recaptured the blood- and ash-encrusted land. Though trained to be a military leader, Unwar was more gifted as an engineer and organizer, commanding work teams instead of armies. When Omra first challenged him to build the wall, Unwar had stared off into the distance, then slowly nodded. “No man has ever attempted such a task, Soldan-Shah. It will be magnificent.”

Over the years, the enemy had tried—and repeatedly failed—to breach the defenses, and Omra had no intention of ever allowing the 'Hooks to set foot on this sacred ground again. Wearing clean sashes and carrying bright scimitars, soldiers patrolled the rocky landscape north of the boundary line to watch for Aidenist forays. Warships patrolled the harbor and the coast. As the wall neared completion, the enemy grew increasingly desperate—and the soldan-shah felt increasingly secure.

Soon he would be able to go back home to the capital of Olabar, to his family and the palace. But not yet.

His goal was to restore the true glory of Ishalem. The pilgrim camps and the last ruins of burned homes had been replaced by new dwellings made of white and tan stone. Sturdy Uraban horses dredged the debris-choked canals so that water flowed again; small boats could travel inland from the harbors on both the Oceansea and Middlesea coasts. The air resonated with the noises of construction: the clink of hammers, the creak of ropes and rattle of pulleys, the grunting calls of hardworking men. It was a joyful sound, a satisfying racket.

Perhaps Ondun Himself would notice and decide that the people He had left behind were once again worthy….

Riding up next to Omra, Soldan Vishkar from Outer Wahilir slid down from his dapple-gray stallion and somehow managed to bow at the same time. The stallion's showy tack was made of ornately tooled leather, the bit cheekpieces stylized with plated golden ferns and deep purple tassels.

“A fine afternoon, Soldan-Shah.” Twenty years Omra's senior, the new soldan of Outer Wahilir had a square face and barrel chest. His delicately pointed noise and the quirk of his smile always brought a brief sadness to Omra: the man looked so much like his daughter Istar—Omra's first wife and first true love—who had died in childbirth long ago.

Vishkar extracted a long cylinder from his saddlebag, unrolled the paper, and looked around for a place to display the drawing. Finally, he used his horse's flank as a makeshift table; the stallion grazed on patches of grass, unconcerned. “And the day will be even finer once I show you these plans for my church. My Saedran architect has outdone himself. This building will be far more impressive than Huttan's.”

“I knew you were up to the challenge. Let me see your designs, even if they were drawn by a Saedran.” Vishkar often tried to coax forth details about his competitor's plans, but Omra would not say. “Wouldn't it be better to have a
follower
of Urec design the
church
of Urec?”

Instead of looking abashed, Vishkar shook his head. “No, Soldan-Shah. It is best to use the most talented architect, regardless of his beliefs. And Sen Bira na-Lanis is the best. I intend to win this contest.”

In the city's glory days, two churches had dominated Ishalem—an Aidenist kirk on the western side and the main Urecari church on the eastern side. After the great fire, the soldan-shah commanded that the two churches be rebuilt, but this time
both
would be raised to the glory of Urec, and both would display the unfurling fern symbol. The new Ishalem had no place for the Aidenist fishhook.

The neighboring soldanates of Outer and Inner Wahilir had always been rivals, and Omra had challenged each of the two soldans to rebuild one of the grand churches. Stodgy Huttan had complained, while Vishkar vowed to demonstrate his worthiness for such an important project. As the newly installed soldan, Vishkar felt he had much to prove.

Several years ago, after the former leader of Outer Wahilir and his entire family were poisoned by a heinous Aidenist assassin, Soldan-Shah Omra had caused an uproar among the nobles by installing
Vishkar
in the vacant ruling seat. An unexpected choice, but he was a wealthy and stable Olabar merchant—and, as the father of sweet Istar, he was a man Omra respected. Much to the consternation of old-guard noble families, Vishkar ruled the entire rich soldanate with its major coastal cities, its shipyards, and its trading ports.

While his Inner Wahilir rival Soldan Huttan grumbled about the expense of building a new church, Vishkar enthusiastically set to work. Now, pointing to the parchment spread on the grazing stallion's flank, he indicated the turrets and minarets, the vaulted worship chamber with a spiraling walkway. Numerous windows would admit a flood of light. From the highest balconies, sikara priestesses would shout out the scriptures or burn prayer ribbons in braziers. Although this plan was far more ambitious than anything Soldan Huttan had suggested, Omra allowed no hint of reaction to show.

Suddenly, the stallion's head jerked up, ears pricked, as a thin man ran up the Pilgrim's Path toward the top of the sentinel hill, as if a host of demons were on his heels. Covered with dust, dirt, and powder, he carried a rolled object in his hand. Guards raced behind him, in shared excitement rather than pursuit. Panting and gasping, the man reached the hilltop, bent over, and coughed, resting his weight on his knees.

Vishkar blinked in surprise. “Sen Bira? I hardly recognized you! Sire, this is my Saedran architect.”

Bira shook dust out of his tangled hair and tried in vain to neaten his appearance. He gulped a breath of air. “I… I should have taken a horse.”

The guards arrived quickly beside the Saedran, embarrassed that he had outrun them. “Soldan-Shah! This man has made a discovery—”

“He was about to explain himself.” Omra nodded to the man once more. “Go on—my curiosity is piqued.”

With an effort, Sen Bira na-Lanis caught his breath and composed himself. “We have been excavating the ruins of the old Aidenist kirk that burned to the ground in the great fire. Today, we broke through a stone wall deep in the catacomb levels and discovered a vault that has remained untouched for centuries.” He raised the cylinder—an ancient letter container made of varnished leather.

Vishkar snatched the leather tube and, without opening it, passed it to Omra. The soldan-shah withdrew a well-preserved sheet of parchment, unrolling it with painstaking care, and saw glorious illuminated text. The chart was of a land he had never seen before: islands and reefs along a strange coastline, floating mountains of ice, along with fanciful illustrations of sea serpents and tentacled things. The writing was so ornate and archaic that Omra had trouble deciphering the letters.

With surprising reverence, Sen Bira said, “It's the Map, Soldan-Shah—
the original Map
. The information it contains, the wonders…” He pointed a dirty finger at the coastline but took care not to touch the parchment. “See here, it says TERRAVITAE.”

Omra looked at Vishkar, then back at the Saedran. “
Urec's
original Map? The one given to him by Ondun Himself before the two brothers sailed away? The one Urec used in his search for the Key to Creation?”

Sen Bira nodded. “I believe so, Soldan-Shah. It has been sealed in a catacomb, undisturbed, for an impossible amount of time.”

“But Urec supposedly lost his map,” Vishkar argued. “We know all the stories. That's why he could never find his way back home.”

Sen Bira's eyes traveled over the document. “The legends are so old, who can say what is true and what is not? Tales change over the years.”

“The truth doesn't change,” Vishkar said.

Omra marveled at the map, breathing quickly as his suspicions grew, his sense of wonder shifting to anger. “If this is indeed Urec's original Map, then why was it hidden beneath an
Aidenist
kirk?”

In the city below, war horns sounded from the wall, a fanfare that made the workers pause in their labors. Omra looked up from the ancient relic in his hands, instantly on edge. Vishkar slid a spyglass out of its loop on his stallion's saddle and extended the embossed brass cylinder to the soldan-shah.

Omra passed the newly discovered Map back to the Saedran. “Take this to my residence for safekeeping, but tell no one until I have had time to contemplate it.” Without waiting to hear the architect's answer, he pressed the spyglass to his eye, focused, and saw a scout rider on the other side of God's Barricade, galloping along the rough and overgrown old road that had once carried Aidenist pilgrims to Ishalem. The rider raised a fern banner so that archers from the top of the barricade would not shoot at him.

“It's one of our scouts returning, riding hard.” Omra swiftly mounted his horse while the guards and Sen Bira milled around in alarm. With an effort, Vishkar climbed back into his own saddle, and the two men kicked their mounts into a trot, making their way down the steep path, whistling and shouting for others to move out of the way.

They reached the uncompleted gap in the tall stone wall, where more Uraban soldiers converged to meet the scout. “Make way for the soldan-shah!” Vishkar bellowed, and the uniformed men shifted aside.

As he pulled up his horse, the scout was flushed, his eyes shining with excitement. Seeing Omra, he sketched a quick bow from his saddle, but wasted no time on formalities. “It's the Tierran army, Soldan-Shah! Ten thousand strong—cavalry and footsoldiers, the largest force they have ever sent against us.”

Omra received the news without surprise. “They must be serious this time. When will they arrive?”

“Within days, Sire. Three at the most.” A ripple of excitement spread through the people gathered at the wall.

Omra stroked his dark beard. “Then we will be ready for them.”