The Map of All Things (39 page)

93
Olabar

With all the sand coracles destroyed, the annual merchants' voyage to the Nunghals was canceled. Imir was glad simply to have Adreala back safe, though the girl remained disappointed. “When will I see the Nunghals?”

“You wanted to come on an adventure, girl, and I gave you an adventure. Granted, it wasn't what you expected, but haven't you had enough excitement? An adventure is
supposed
to be unexpected.” As they headed back to Olabar, he realized that he himself would be glad to be back at the palace.

Upon entering the capital city months earlier than expected, the former soldan-shah paid a few
cuars
to boys who ran through the streets to announce his return. Soldan-Shah Omra had recently left for Ishalem to deal with yet another emergency, and once again Imir did not regret for a moment that he had retired. He was happy to present Adreala to her mother, safe and sound. Even so, he had plenty of explaining to do.

Istar came to greet them in the main reception hall, accompanied by a breathless Naori with her two little boys in tow. Despite the obvious relief on Istar's face, she propped her hands on her hips and gave Imir a stern but silent reprimand. “I thought you would be on the other side of the Great Desert by now! What happened?”

Before Imir could soften the explanation, Adreala piped up, sounding as enthusiastic as Saan once had. “Bandits raided Desert Harbor, Mother! They burned the camp and the coracles. They dragged me off into the desert, but my grandfather saved me. Look, I have a bandit's knife.” She held it out, beaming.

With a disingenuous smile, Imir resigned himself to her mother's hard, questioning gaze. He shrugged ruefully. “We'll have time for the full tale later. For now, take heart from the fact that Adreala experienced a fine adventure! The most important part is that she has returned to Olabar safely.”

Istar folded the girl in her arms, but Adreala soon pulled away and took up a firm bargaining stance. “I need to go again next year, Mother. I didn't get to make the full trip to the land of the Nunghals. My father appointed me an emissary in training.”

Not wanting to think of how Omra would react to the news of his daughter's ordeal, Imir changed the subject. “Has there been any word from Saan and the
Al-Orizin
… and, uh, Sen Sherufa?”

Istar averted her face, but not before he saw her troubled frown. “The sikaras receive occasional messages through a sympathetic journal, but Sikara Fyiri says very little in her reports. The ship is safe and continuing the voyage, but I know none of the details.”

“Priestesses don't usually offer details,” Imir groused.

Once back in his private quarters, he changed into clean, comfortable clothes; because of his travels, Imir no longer had the patience for royal finery or gaudy trappings.

Wanting fresh air, he stepped out onto a high balcony and looked out upon beautiful Olabar. His peace was disturbed by the roar and murmur of a crowd. Down below, Ur-Sikara Erima was giving a sermon, and the words wafted up to the high balcony. Imir rarely listened to sermons, having no interest in the droning petulance and superiority. He'd been married to Villiki, a former sikara herself, and knew all too well the poisonous internal politics of the church.

The dark-skinned woman continued her speech, and it took him a moment to realize that she was not inflaming the people against Aidenists; rather, Erima was disappointed in
Urabans
, saying that they were cursed because of the “foreign temptress and stranger to the Truth who exerts too great a hold on the palace.” How ridiculous!

He remembered hearing Istar complain, but the former soldan-shah was shocked to hear such an obvious challenge to Omra's First Wife. He doubted the priestesses spoke out so sharply when the soldan-shah was in the palace, but the ur-sikara was apparently emboldened by his absence.

Imir listened for a few more minutes, deeply disturbed. Istar/Adrea may have been an Aidenist captive taken in a raid long ago, but such things were in the past, and as First Wife she had certainly proved her worth. She had given the soldan-shah two fine daughters—not to mention the baby son murdered by Cliaparia, who was a follower of
Urec
. Treacherous Villiki was also a follower of Urec. Thus, the ur-sikara could not say that foreigners were the root of all evil. Imir doubted Erima understood the irony.

The more he thought about it, though, the more troubled he became. This was not right at all, and something needed to be done. The priestesses needed to be reprimanded. As soon as Omra returned from his latest emergency, Imir would insist that his son seriously look into the problem. The church had definitely gone too far.

94
Olabar, Main Urecari Church

Cithara's special training was complete.

As Villiki sat in her office deep within the main church, she noted the difference in the girl's dark eyes, the shine of determination that had not been there a month earlier. The child's features reflected her mother's beauty, but that was not sufficient.
Cliaparia
, despite her striking beauty, had been unable to hold on to Omra's heart. Some people said that Istar had worked an evil Aidenist love spell on the soldan-shah, but Villiki didn't believe such nonsense.

Cithara would be better than her mother was, thanks to Villiki's careful teaching and coaching. Best of all, Istar would suspect nothing.

The girl stood before Villiki, attentive and pliable, yet supported by a steely inner strength. The older woman folded her fingers together. “It's time for you to return to the palace for a visit, child. Your mother Istar misses you very much.”

Cithara's voice was cold. “She is not my mother.”

It had been a test, of course. Villiki smiled. “Do not forget that. She will lie to you and try to trick you, just as she has done to your father.”

“I understand what to watch out for, my Lady. You warned me of Istar's tricks.”

Villiki felt warm satisfaction in her heart. This girl was perfect. “Traditionally, acolytes are allowed to visit their parents before they embark on the next stage of their training. Istar expects this and looks forward to seeing you. Now will be the perfect time, since Soldan-Shah Omra is in Ishalem.”

The girl lowered her head in perfect submission. “Will my sister Istala accompany me home to the palace?”

“No, it isn't yet her time. You will go alone.”

Cithara paused for a moment. “I hear that Adreala has returned from the Great Desert. Will I see her?”

Villiki began to grow impatient. “Adreala is irrelevant.
You
are the special one, Cithara.” She unwrapped a bundle on her desk. The blade of the small dagger shone silver in the light of the oil lamp; the edge had been ground so fine that it trembled with sharpness. “This dagger was a gift to the church. I give it to you now to aid you in your holy work. You
know
that Istar murdered your mother. You
know
how Istar hunted her down in the souks and stabbed her before dozens of witnesses, yet never paid for her crimes.”

Cithara flushed. “You told me the story many times, Lady Villiki.”

“Istar is a blight upon the Urecari faith! She has brought much pain and trouble to our land…” She caught her breath and calmed herself. “This is what you must use, child. Slip into your false mother's chamber when she least expects it. Stab her, as she stabbed your own dear mother. It is the only way to make Urec pleased with us again.”

Without further encouragement, Cithara accepted the special dagger, looked at it with detached curiosity, then rewrapped it in the blue cloth. “I look forward to my return to the palace, Lady Villiki.” She bowed and left the chamber.

After Cithara left, the older woman sat back in her chair, content. She still had a large sack of innat seeds reserved for Ur-Sikara Erima. She considered consuming a few herself, to foster this inner glow, but decided against it. Revenge would create a much stronger euphoria.

Two days later, after being welcomed back to the palace with great warmth, Cithara moved through the darkened corridors toward her adoptive mother's private quarters. The moon was full, shining silver through the arches and windows, but few lamps or candles were lit at this late hour. Cithara's shadow was long, and her footsteps entirely silent.

Her mother Istar had been full of questions about the girl's religious instruction, about how the priestesses were treating her, and about Istala. All smiles, Naori had come to greet her as well, asking many questions of her own, but Cithara had always been a quiet girl. Fortunately, exuberant Adreala wanted to talk and talk about her experiences with the desert bandits, and Cithara was able to avoid answering.

Walking in the shadows, the girl encountered Kel Rovic as he patrolled the corridors. The guard captain, though always alert for treachery or secret invaders, simply smiled at the girl. “Restless night, Cithara?”

“In the church, we learn to do without a lot of sleep, and I know that my mother Istar is often awake at this hour.”

Rovic shook his head. “I saw her lamps extinguished two hours ago.”

“I'd like to see for myself. If she's asleep, I'll be careful not to wake her.” Rovic bade her goodnight and left her as he continued his patrol.

Istar's doors were neither barred nor guarded, and Cithara was able to slip quietly inside. She had been here so many times that she could have worked her way to the bedchamber with her eyes closed. The balcony curtains were open, stirring in the faint breeze like gauzy specters.

Istar lay peacefully on her bed, alone because Omra was gone. Her head was propped on a silken pillow, her golden-brown hair spread out and mussed by sleep. Cithara approached without a sound and drew Villiki's silver knife from where she had hidden it in her garments. She stood over Istar, the hilt of the blade cold in her hand.

Istar stirred, muttered in her sleep, and let out a long, soft sigh… a contented sigh. Cithara realized she was about to change everything, perhaps in all of Uraba.

“Mother Istar, please wake up.”

The woman's eyes flew open, reacting as she spotted the dagger. “Cithara?” Her blue eyes focused on the blade.

“There is something you need to know.” The girl extended the dagger with a gentle motion, turning the hilt to hand it to Istar. “The sikaras are plotting against you, and they tried to train me to murder you in your sleep. They want you dead.” She paused. “They are controlled by Villiki.”

Istar bolted upright in bed. “
Villiki?
” She took the blade from the girl's trembling hands. “How can that be? She was banished, turned out—”

“She is in the church, Mother Istar. The priestesses are shielding her. She controls the ur-sikara. Villiki says terrible things about you.” Cithara started to cry softly. “I pretended to be convinced, but I did not believe what she said.”

Istar felt a great wash of love for the girl, and knew also that this was a crucial turning point. She faced Cithara calmly. “Some of her claims may be true. I have never denied that I killed your mother. You know what she did to my baby.”

“I know. The events may be true, but you have always been my true mother.”

Without any hesitation, Istar pulled the girl close into a tender, sincere embrace, kissed her dark hair, then drew a deep breath to slow her pounding heart. She pulled on a robe and shouted for Kel Rovic. With a great clamor, guards bounded into the First Wife's chambers, scimitars drawn, expecting assassins, but they saw only Istar and Cithara.

With exaggerated care, Istar began lighting lamps around the chamber. “Call your men, Kel Rovic, and summon the former soldan-shah. We have important work to do this night.”

95
Ishalem Wall

His face ashen and his thoughts heavy, Mateo led a grim convoy under the hot noonday sun. In the distance, out at sea, thickening clouds hinted at a storm to come—a large one—but the darkness hanging over the travelers was more oppressive than any storm.

Weeds had overgrown the rugged Pilgrims' Road because so few traveled it any longer; ruts and rocks made the cart wheels thump and wobble as they groaned forward under their heavy loads. The horses were restless from the cloying stink.

At least they were away from the sounds of the hungry, desperate, and terrified Urecari captives.

The accompanying soldiers shambled along in a self-protective daze that numbed them to their own memories. There were no words here. To a man, they were appalled by their own actions, and the necessity that had driven them. Only another hour before they delivered their gift to the soldan-shah.

Mateo felt queasy, suffocated by his own responsibility in this. Though the worst was over, he doubted he would ever again sleep without nightmares… if he slept at all.

By the queen's command
…

In desperation, he tried to think of sweet Vicka. She would be back in Calay at her father's smithy, scolding and supervising their numerous young apprentices. She would have dinner with her father, without Mateo, but he knew she would think of him. Vicka would be managing the constant production of weapons and armor. When she stood beside the flying sparks of the grindstone, did the thought cross her mind what those fine Sonnen blades would be used for… sharpened to a well-honed edge that could chop through the neck of any Uraban prisoner who had the misfortune to be captured at the wrong time?

He forcibly drove Vicka's face from his memory, because he did not want to associate thoughts of her with
this
. He moved forward in solemn silence.

Destrar Shenro had ridden down from Alamont to join this mission, to honor the martyred Alamont horsemen who had bravely—foolishly—died in an ill-conceived attempt to recapture the holy city. But his drawn face showed clear regret. He already bore guilt for executing hundreds of work-camp prisoners in retaliation for the betrayal at the Ishalem wall.

And then there was poor Tomas.

And now these Uraban victims.

Would the cycle never end? The momentum of hatred swept them along like the foamy waters of an uncontrolled flood. This war had changed both Tierran and Uraban, followers of Aiden and followers of Urec alike. It left scars so thick and ugly that not even victory could make them fade….

With hopeless dread, Mateo knew that today's actions would not stop further vengeful bloodshed. But there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could change… perhaps nothing he even
wanted
to change….

Before setting out from Calay Castle, he had met with Queen Anjine and begged her to reconsider. “I understand your sorrow and your hatred… but if you do this, you step over a precipice. You can never take it back.”

He expected her anger to flash, but her eyes remained oddly dull. “Take it back? Can they take back what they did to Tomas? They murdered him in cold blood, took that poor sweet boy and chopped off his head.A thousand Urecari are not enough to pay back that pain, but I will be merciful.”

He had raised his eyes with a glimmer of hope. “Mercy?”

“Yes… I will stop at one thousand. That is all the mercy I'm prepared to show them.” Anjine had looked up at him, her expression softening to reveal a hint of the woman he had once known so well. “My decision is made. I
need
you. Mateo. I need you to do this for me.”

He had bowed, partly to hide his face. “I have always sworn my heart and my life to you… my Queen.”

He had tried not to see the faces as he carried out his orders: men begging, women wailing, children crying, all pleading in a language he didn't understand. He had tried to see Tomas instead of these victims, to remember why he was doing this.

As commander, he was not required to bloody his own sword. He could have ordered his soldiers to do all of the killing. But that would not have kept his hands clean. He was a part of this. Mateo had killed thirty-seven captives himself, with strong, clean strokes of his own sharpened sword… the one that Vicka had given him. With each death, he hoped it would make up for Tomas, but it didn't.

And it didn't.

Nor did the next…

Ahead now, they could see the towering stone wall that barred faithful Aidenists from Ishalem. God's Barricade, the Urecari mockingly called it. Within clear sight of the imposing barrier, Mateo called a halt to the procession.

A commotion occurred atop the wall as soldiers took up bows and waited to see if this was some sort of enemy attack. Next to Mateo, Shenro covered his nose. “Let's be done with this, Subcomdar, and get far from here.”

“Not yet. Give them time to call the city governor or the soldan-shah, if he's there.”

When all the carts were pulled forward into a line, Mateo gestured to the soldiers. “Abandon the wagons and cut the horses free. We'll have to ride swiftly, once the Curlies see the harvest we brought them.”

“There he is!” Destrar Shenro pointed out a man wearing pale robes, with a clean white olba wrapped around his head and a glint of gold at his neck. Clearly, a person of some importance.

Mateo nodded grimly. “Good enough.
Now
.”

The men strained as they rocked the wagons and overturned them to spill their contents on the ground. Cartload after cartload of severed Uraban heads rolled like lumpy, rotten gourds into the dirt outside the Ishalem wall. Men, women, children.

One thousand of them.

Even at that, Anjine did not consider it sufficient payment for what these monsters had done to the prince.

Mateo wheeled his horse and whistled to his men, as howls of outrage erupted behind them from the Ishalem wall. Soon the gates would open and war chargers burst forth. Mateo did not have the army to fight them. They rode away at a gallop along the old Pilgrims' Road, to where ships awaited them at the temporary prisoner camp, miles north.

In front of them, at the now abandoned camp, towering clouds of black smoke already rose into the air, marking the huge pyres that burned the headless bodies. Mateo hoped the Tierran ships were ready to depart as soon as they arrived at the anchorage. He wanted to go home, to Calay, to Vicka, and to the queen.

But he would never leave these memories behind.