The Map of All Things (36 page)

86
The Border of Uraba

After Prester Ciarlo had walked for days across untracked lands, he did not let the old pain in his leg slow his pace or diminish his determination. The pain merely reminded him that he was alive, and Ondun wanted everyone to experience both the good and bad things in this life. With prayers and resolve, Ciarlo kept going. In His mercy, Ondun could always take away the pain.

Ciarlo carried his abridged Book of Aiden, but he had already memorized all the inspirational parables he needed. He wanted to share the wonders of his beliefs with the people of Uraba—those who, in their innocence, had not yet heard the truth.

Leaving the Pilgrims' Road and crossing grassy hills to the east, he stayed with Tierran farmers or shepherds he encountered. As he traveled down the narrowing isthmus, the small cottages became harder to find. Living so close to the Uraban border, those who did offer hospitality were increasingly suspicious, but when they saw Ciarlo's fishhook pendant, they welcomed him and asked for his blessing. Later, he set off once more, limping toward Ishalem and beyond.

As soon as he saw the holy city shining under the sun like the contents of an open treasure chest, Ciarlo approached with more caution. He traveled only at night now, working his way through the hills, as he came toward the towering wall that extended to the edge of the land. The barrier was tall enough and the water deep enough to block any large army, but a lone man could find his way around it.

After midnight, when the moon had set, Ciarlo walked down to the white sand beach, secured his shoes and belongings in an oilskin pack, and waded out into the warm Middlesea. He had never touched the legendary waters before, but now he could think only of bypassing what the Urecari had named “God's Barricade,” as if Ondun would ever approve of separating faithful Aidenists from the holy city.

Ciarlo swam out into the deeper waters, beyond the stone wall. Having grown up in Windcatch, he was a strong swimmer. Though his leg hindered him on land, he could make good progress in the sea. Through the hours of darkness, he drifted and swam with the currents, gliding past the city and the boats docked there. His calling pulled him onward, to the heart of Uraba.

As a lone prester preaching the word of Aiden, Ciarlo decided that Ishalem itself would be too dangerous; instead, he would begin his work in outlying villages, talk to small groups, plant seeds so that the common folk would know Aiden and better understand the tribulations that Sapier had endured before founding the church.

For two more days he traveled along beaches and paths until his supplies ran out. His faith had sustained him thus far, but he would need food. Ciarlo's greatest barrier would be language. Having studied the most ancient scriptures of the Book of Aiden, he knew the old forms of the language, from which much of the foreign tongue was derived. Over the years, he'd taught himself a few important Uraban words and phrases, but he would have to become much more fluent in order to inspire these people.

He met a small family camped next to a beached fishing boat. Though they couldn't understand much of what Ciarlo said, they offered him some fresh fish, which he ate thankfully. After he was done, he showed them his fishhook and tried to communicate his important message. The family suddenly turned cold and scowled at him, and after the father made threatening gestures, Ciarlo got up and limped away.

The next morning, he reached a coastal village composed of drab huts and a small church built out of twisted chunks of driftwood. Most of the people were at work, but a few toiled near their homes. Ciarlo grasped his pendant, held his book in the crook of his right arm, and walked boldly among the curious villagers. He spoke with great sincerity, using his few Uraban words and expanding on them, telling familiar stories from the Book of Aiden. The Urabans quickly grasped who he was and what he was saying. When their mood turned dark and they shouted at him, he responded with a peaceful smile.

A plump, square-faced sikara emerged from the driftwood church and regarded him. Upon seeing their priestess, the townspeople grew more vociferous, throwing things at Ciarlo to drive him out of town, and he had no choice but to limp slowly toward the hills, discouraged.

Long after he left the outskirts of the village, in the middle of the afternoon, he spotted a figure riding up behind him on a small pony. He heard the plodding hoofbeats and stopped, knowing that he couldn't outrun mounted pursuit. But the pony was just a working beast, not a warhorse, and the rider appeared to be a woman. He soon recognized the sikara from the village he had just left, and he supposed she had rallied the people against him, to beat or perhaps murder him. Remembering what had happened to Prester-Marshall Baine and the martyrs in the ruins of Ishalem, Ciarlo feared they might string him up on a fishhook and leave him to die in the sun.

But the sikara's expression was kindly. When she drew up next to him, Ciarlo saw wonder and concern on her face. She shook her head. “Apologies. Bad welcome from people.” Her Tierran was as rudimentary as his Uraban.

Ciarlo held up the Book of Aiden. “I came to preach, to tell your villagers about Aiden.” After several attempts, he and the sikara understood each other well enough.

She shook her head. “Do not want this.” She extended her hand to touch his pendant, hesitating briefly, as though afraid it might burn her. She pushed the Book back against his chest, firmly shaking her head. “Go home. No fishhook here.” She untied a sack from her pony's saddle and offered it to him. It contained dried fish, dried fruits, and a small wineskin. “You brave. But be careful.”

“Why are you doing this? Everyone else afraid, angry.” He was frustrated that they could not communicate more freely.

The priestess turned her pony back toward the village. “Don't hate you,” she said, then gave him a very warm smile. “All are children of Ondun.”

87
Calay Castle

When the unlikely Urecari courier sailed back to Calay with his answer from Ishalem, Guard-Marshall Vorannen intercepted him at the docks, surrounded him with city guardsmen, and then marched Khalig directly to the castle.

For two weeks, Anjine had lived in anger and anxiety while awaiting word from Tomas's abductors. She could not sleep, imagining her brother being held prisoner in some awful dungeon. No one in Tierra would have inflicted such treatment on a noble Uraban captive, but she expected no less from those animals. In a way, she was glad that her father had not lived to see such a disheartening moment.

When a nervous Khalig was presented to her, Anjine sat on the throne and glared down at the haggard Uraban man. His clothes were dirty, and he looked terrified; he clenched a leather satchel in his left hand. His skin had a grayish cast; she could smell his sweat from where she sat.

As the man came forward on shaking knees, she was ready to respond to any demand. Preparing herself for an outrageous ransom payment, she had already met with her treasurers; she had also asked Comdar Rief to develop a military plan should it become necessary to send troops to rescue her brother.

She raised her voice. “Speak your message! What word do you bring from Ishalem? I demand to know the ransom for my brother.” Anjine had resigned herself to pay whatever was necessary to bring Tomas back safely.

She watched the man's Adam's apple bob up and down. He visibly steeled himself, then swirled his faded brown cape to one side. “I have been commanded to deliver a second message from Kel Unwar, provisional governor of Ishalem.”

Annoyed that Soldan-Shah Omra himself could not be bothered with such an important matter, Anjine gestured irritably for him to go on. “I want my brother back. What is Kel Unwar's response?”

Trembling, Khalig closed his eyes and uttered words mechanically. He had memorized a speech, word for word. “He says… he says, that this is just the smallest retaliation for the monstrous acts Aidenists have perpetrated on Fashia's Fountain and the innocent sikaras there.”

“Fashia's Fountain? I've never heard of it. Explain what you're talking about. What were Unwar's words, exactly?”

“He says… ‘While we negotiate these complex matters, we are sending back part of Prince Tomas as a good-faith gesture.'”

With a drunken slowness and wooden fingers, Khalig opened the satchel at his side and tipped it to spill out a rounded, discolored object the size of a large melon. An abominable stench filled the air. Bloody clumps of blond hair. Open eyes stared at Anjine.

Someone screamed. The guards rushed forward. A man vomited at the side of the chamber.

Anjine felt all life flood out of her, like blood from a severed artery. She couldn't blink, couldn't tear her eyes away from the ghastly object.

Khalig threw himself to the floor, weeping for mercy, and the guards dragged him away. Marshall Vorannen tore off his own cape and threw it over Tomas's face, but the appalling image would be forever burned into Anjine's mind and heart. At the rear of the throne room, Enifir began wailing.

Anjine could not feel her own heartbeat. She seemed to have stopped breathing. Her warm blood had turned to icy meltwater in her veins. She was unable to cope, unable to accept what she knew and saw. She couldn't process the truth… but she had to be the queen. The queen!

Tomas…

Even though the guard-marshall's cloak left only a shapeless lump on the floor, she still saw her brother's face. Shouts of anger filled the throne room along with cries of grief and shock, but Queen Anjine could hear none of it. She could not react.

As if she were no more than a wooden marionette, she raised herself to her feet, refusing to let the horror and grief show. Without a word, she walked out of the throne room, returned to her private quarters, and locked the door behind her.

It seemed that only an instant had passed before she heard a loud pounding, a man's shouted voice. “It's Mateo—let me in!” How could he have heard so quickly? “Anjine, open up!” She sat on her bed, staring at her hands as though she'd never seen them before. “Tolli, it's me! Please open up!”

She moved like a wraith, but it seemed to take her forever to reach the door; she had no energy, no knowledge of what she was doing. When she lifted the crossbar, the door burst inward and Mateo pushed his way into the room. He flung the door shut once more, stood before her.

His reddened eyes bore witness to tears already shed. “Oh Tolli, I'm so sorry, so sorry…” For a long moment she didn't understand what he meant. “I should have gone with… I could have guarded him! I needed to—”

“No!” She trembled, wrestling with the idea, forcing the words out in a hoarse whisper. “Then I would have lost both
of you.”

Mateo threw his arms around her, drawing her close. He kissed her hair. She saw the image of Tomas's face again, the horrible trophy the Urecari courier had brought.

… part of Prince Tomas as a good-faith gesture…

Sobs flowed out of her like a sudden squall, a hurricane powerful enough to wreck ships, but nothing could sink the juggernaut of her despair and regret. Mateo held her tight, muffling the long, guttural sounds that seared like branding irons into his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head again.

She choked out the words when she could breathe. “Tomas was a candle of innocence.” Mateo stood there, an unbreakable sea wall, steadying her, letting her cry. “Damn, damn,
damn
them all!” She pounded her fists against him. Her legs collapsed, but he held her upright.

He began trying to comfort her, making soothing sounds, guiding her back to reality. “Oh, Tolli, this world has become a terrible place for us.” He couldn't think of his duties, nor of Vicka, nor the
ra'vir
threat, nor the wall of Ishalem. He thought only of Anjine. He held her for what must have been hours.

Finally, when she finished unleashing her sorrow, Anjine drew a deep breath and straightened, completely drained.

And now it was Mateo's turn to grieve, for Anjine had become like a statue in his arms. She pulled away from him gently, composing herself. She dashed away the remaining tears and walked over to her basin. She heaved another shuddering breath, poured water, and pressed a cold towel to her eyes and face.

Anjine looked at him from across an impassable distance, her expression cold, her face blotchy and red. She looked like a stranger—and perhaps she was, fundamentally and forever changed. Mateo stared at her with his dark expression, but she let no warmth into her own gaze. “I'm finished, Mateo. Don't ever speak of my moment of vulnerability. I can't afford to show weakness. The Urecari must never know how deeply they have hurt me.”

Mateo opened his mouth, thought better of it, and came forward to place his hands on her shoulders for one moment longer, before the woman he had known slipped away forever. “You're human, Anjine. That doesn't mean you're weak.”

“I can't afford to be human when we face enemies who are such monsters. I have to be
queen
, and that is all I can be.”

Mateo nodded. “I will keep any and every secret you ask of me, my Queen… Tolli.”

“Never call me that again. Tolli died today, along with Tomas.” She stepped away and sat at her bureau, where she arranged her toiletries in a mindless distraction of her hands. She needed something, even something trivial, to keep her hands busy.

“I am the queen. I wear the crown. I surrendered the soft part of me when I became the ruler of Tierra in the midst of this terrible war. Now leave me.” She swallowed hard. “I need time to think of an appropriate response.”

Part IV

88
Olabar Harbor

Shortly after his son's seventh birthday reception, the soldan-shah took Omirr on a walk to the docks, just the two of them. Lookouts in the watchtowers had already sighted the approaching sail from Gremurr, discerning through their spyglasses that this was a different sort of ship. Omra couldn't wait to see what Tukar had accomplished.

The zarif was bouncy and full of energy, pulling on his father's hand to make him hurry. “Saan always used to take me down to see the ships. When will Saan be back?”

“It depends on how big the world is and how soon he finds the Key to Creation.”

“I hope it's soon. I want him to be here.”

“I miss him too.” Sometimes when Omra realized how much he loved Istar and how he had tried to do right by her son, he also remembered that bloody day in the village of Windcatch. If she hadn't been pregnant—like his original wife Istar—Omra never would have spared her life, never would have felt a moment of mercy or pity for a mere Tierran woman. That split-second decision had changed his entire life and led to his happiness. But had she ever truly forgiven him? And did she truly love him? He knew there were holes from her first life that he could never entirely fill.

Istar seemed content as First Wife, though it had taken her a long time—years—before any sort of warmth melted the ice of her resentment, and even longer still before she actually began to show feelings for him. By now, Istar had accepted her new situation. Twenty years in Uraba! While Saan was the son of her long-lost Tierran husband, she also loved her two daughters by Omra, and she even showed genuine compassion for Cithara—a fact that still astonished him. Perhaps it was something one learned from the Book of Aiden? Omra couldn't recall any
sikara
ever preaching such acceptance or unconditional forgiveness.

And though she did not speak of it, the soldan-shah knew Istar had never forgotten about her first love….

That noon, there had been a special feast for the boy in the palace courtyard. Naori was aglow with excitement for her son, holding Irec against her hip. All the handmaidens circled around, celebrating Zarif Omirr's special day, and Istar had helped with the celebration. Afterward, during their walk down to the harbor, the boy preened beside his father as if he were also a man of some importance. Omra found it particularly charming.

They reached the harbor and watched the ironclad vessel sailing toward the dock, where spectators waved and cheered. Seeing the majestic warship, the soldan-shah envisioned a whole fleet of such armored ships sailing through the isthmus canal. The
Golden Fern
. What a perfect name.

Omra squeezed the boy's shoulder. “Look, my son. This is your birthday present from all of Uraba.”

The boy looked at his father in awe. “That's my ship?”

“Not yours alone. But I want you to be the first to board it with me.”

Curious fishermen and dockworkers crowded close to see the unusual vessel. As soon as the boarding plank was laid, the soldan-shah and Omirr walked up to greet the captain, who seemed embarrassed by all the attention. “Soldan-Shah, my Lord, you honor us.”

“And you honor all of Uraba by bringing this magnificent ship. How did she sail?”

“Beautifully. She is like an indestructible creature of the sea. I would pit the
Golden Fern
against the Leviathan.”

“I'd rather you pit her against our true enemies. How goes the armoring on the other ships for our new fleet?”

“Work has begun on all seven. Your brother Tukar and Workmaster Zadar have dedicated crews of slave laborers to this project. You won't be disappointed, Soldan-Shah.”

The
Golden Fern
's deck, masts, and rigging revealed her origins asa Middlesea cargo ship. Eventually, Uraban shipwrights would have to design new vessels capable of sailing comfortably on both bodies of water, with a hull configuration built to withstand the weight of the armor plates.

Delighted to be aboard the ship, the boy ran up and down the deck, greeting the sailors, all of whom indulged him. “Saan should have taken this ship to go exploring! That way he could fend off storms and sea monsters. I wish I could have gone with him.”

It always warmed Omra's heart to remember how well Saan and the zarif got along, like true brothers. Yes, that was how brothers should act toward each other. The same thought gave him a pang about how faithful Tukar had been for all these years at the mines. He couldn't wait until his brother returned from his exile. It made no sense any longer.

As soon as the other seven armored ships were dispatched from the Gremurr mines, Omra would bring Tukar back himself, if his brother did not return immediately. It was something he should have done years ago….

Leaving the
Golden Fern
, Omra headed back toward the palace with the young zarif at his side, moving through the marketplace as guards cleared the way. With a clatter of hooves, a courier on horseback rounded a corner and tore down the narrow street to intercept them. “Soldan-Shah, I bear a message from Ishalem!” He held a rolled document in his clenched hand.

Omra was immediately on his guard. Though Kel Unwar often dispatched reports on the progress of the canal excavation, none were so urgent that a courier had to rush through the streets to find him. Perhaps the Aidenists had attacked the wall again, or maybe they'd committed another atrocity like the one at Fashia's Fountain.

He snatched the paper from the man before the horse had come to a halt. When he broke the seal and unrolled the document, the news within drove a blunt dagger into his chest.

Unwar's dispatch proudly described how—on his own initiative—he had intercepted the Tierran royal cog, killed or captured all the crew members, and taken the young prince prisoner. The final sentence seemed to blaze off the parchment: “In retaliation for the recent atrocities at Fashia's Fountain, we have executed the boy and sent his head back to Queen Anjine, so that she may know the cost of her terrible actions.”

His fingers went numb, and the dispatch fell to the street.

Omirr bent down and grabbed the paper. “You dropped this.”

The soldan-shah merely walked along without seeing or hearing, staring ahead as a whirlwind rushed through his mind. This was too much like what had happened after ambitious and foolhardy Soldan Attar had massacred the prester-marshall and his builders in Ishalem.

Frustrated by the lack of attention, the zarif tugged at his father's arm. Omirr looked so innocent, so bright-eyed. Looking down at his beloved son, Omra tried to imagine the pain Kel Unwar had just inflicted upon Queen Anjine.

No matter what the Book of Aiden taught about forgiveness, he knew what Anjine would think. And the Tierrans would never,
never
forgive such an act.

He had to sail for Ishalem immediately.