"The point?" Omra pounded his fist on the table. "/ am the point! /am the Soldan-Shah! /decide!"
"Yes, you are the point, Soldan-Shah," said Kel Rovik, speaking in an even voice. "Your people believe in you. But they also pray you will become the point... of a sword."

102

The Edge of the Great Desert

The Missinian work teams quickly assembled the sand coracle according to Sen Sherufa's detailed plans: A sturdy framework of hard wooden slats formed a large bowl, wide and deep enough to carry the four passengers along with water, supplies, food, clothes, and weapons. As workers wove reeds to form the basket's walls, Soldan Xivir expressed grave doubts about the mode of transportation. "You travel to a strange land, Soldan-Shah. There could be many enemies, great armies to kill you. You should take guards and soldiers--a whole fleet of these sand coracles." "Maybe I should," Imir answered, "but if I did, we would never be finished in time for the winds to carry us. One thing I learned during my reign is that such projects take on lives of their own. We would not depart for years! Besides, if we brought along an invading army, what would the Nunghals think?" "We will rely on our wits," Saan said. "I always have."
Asaddan smiled, showing the gap of his missing tooth. "There are things to fear everywhere. Do not be too afraid." "Oh, I'm not afraid," Saan said.
"Neither am I." The big Nunghal clapped the boy on the shoulder.
The large balloon sack of Yuarej silk had been stitched together and thoroughly sealed with pitch to make it both air and water-tight. To test its integrity, workers staked out the sack in an open clearing, where they built a large fire. The hot air inflated the colorful silk bag like the bladder of some enormous beast, swelling the balloon until it strained against the ropes that kept it tethered to the ground.
Meanwhile, heavy crates of dense black coal from Missinia were loaded aboard the coracle. The coal would burn long and hot enough to keep the balloon inflated, provided that the embers did not spill out of the large iron brazier and set. the wicker basket aflame.
As the sun set that evening, Saan walked with Asaddan to the edge of the dunes. The Nunghal tilted his head upward, and his nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. "The winds are already shifting. Feel the breeze picking up."
Saan wiped his stinging eyes. "Does that mean it's time?"
"Yes, it is time... time for me to go home." He gazed out at the dunes with a longing expression. "You'll get used to the grit in your teeth."
After the first night, having spoken her piece to Imir, Lithio had departed with a group of nobles, preferring her own comfortable quarters back in Arikara. Saan, though, didn't mind being away from the luxuries of the city. He was quite content to camp out in the open, making plans for the adventure to come.
After they bedded down and the last campfires burned low under the bright wilderness of stars, Saan could barely sleep. He lay on his cushions listening to the rustle of tent fabric, feeling the breezes gaining strength out in the desert, as if the dunes were calling him. Thoughts of the upcoming great journey prevented him from falling asleep, though he knew he needed to
rest. He couldn't imagine it would be easy to find a comfortable spot in the coracle's cramped wicker basket.
Just as he began to doze, Saan heard a stirring outside the small tent, a rustle, then a pounding of hooves. He sat up and shook the shoulder of Imir, who slept next to him. "Grandfather, I hear--"
Whoops and screams cracked the night. Guards shouted, "Desert bandits!"
Saan scrambled out of the tent on his hands and knees, looking from right to left; Imir struggled off of his cushions, sputtering. In the dim glow from the campfires, Saan spotted a dozen veiled men on agile mares charging around the camp. Brandishing swords, they slashed at the tents and ropes. One raider snatched a log from a campfire pit and threw it, still blazing, against a tent.
Saan ducked as one of the raiders rushed by, howling. The man chopped at him with his sword, but Saan rolled and sprang back to his feet, on his guard.
Imir finally burst from the tent, arms spread out to his sides and ready to grapple any opponent. On the other side of the camp, Soldan Xivir bellowed for his guards, who were already grabbing swords and pikes to drive off the attack. The desert mares easily swirled by as the bandits stole provisions, ruined piled supplies, and set another tent on fire.
Asaddan, who slept out under the stars with no need for a tent, stood like a contained thunderstorm. He let out a shrill banshee whistle through his missing tooth, ripped out a tent pole, and used the makeshift staff to knock a bandit from his mount. Spinning around, the Nunghal thrust the blunt pole into a second bandit's stomach, making him drop his sword, and a follow-up punch knocked the invader from his horse.
Riding past, another bandit slashed the ropes of Sherufa's
tent and tossed a naming brand onto the fabric. Still inside, the Saedran woman cried out and struggled beneath the weight of the collapsing canvas. As the tent caught fire, the bandit thundered past and thrust his long sword into the cloth, but Sherufa squirmed away from the point.
Two bandits, grinning as they heard the female voice, converged on her tent and began cutting their way inside. One man reached in, grabbed Sherufa by the arm, and tried to drag her out. The tent was fully on fire now. The second bandit seized the woman's hair and pulled. She thrashed and fought, but she was no match for them. They tried to throw her onto the back of a horse.
With a roar, Imir snatched up a fallen sword from the ground and--without hesitation, barely looking where he was going--charged forward and thrust the curved blade right through the first bandit's back. "Leave her alone!" He shoved hard until the point emerged from beneath the desert man's sternum.
As Imir fought to pull the sword free, the second attacker knocked Sherufa back down onto the burning tent. Turning to face the former soldan-shah, he laughed at the plump old man standing there, sword drawn.
With a vicious stroke of the razor-edged blade, Imir lopped his head off.
He watched the man collapse, his neck spouting blood. Imir sniffed. "I ruled all the soldanates of Uraba. You think I don't remember how to fight? "
Imir pulled Sherufa off of the flaming tent ruins. The Saedran woman flailed at her singed hair, while he swatted out the smoldering spots on her nightclothes. When Sherufa wavered, he steadied her. "You're all right now."
But the bandit attack continued around them.
Saan grabbed a curved sword from the first man Asaddan had unhorsed and brandished the heavy scimitar, two-handed, to defend himself. Soldan-Shah Omra had trained him to be a fighter, and now that he was in a real fight, the young man felt his blood pounding, adrenaline racing through his veins. He realized he was not frightened at all. If only his father could see him now!
One bandit chuckled at the boy's audacity and swung his scimitar, but Saan met the blade with his own, surprising the man. With a parry, he slashed the bandit's inner arm, and the man yelped as blood spurted. He wheeled his horse about, pressing his other hand against the pulsing wound.
At the edge of the camp, the bandit leader shouted through the scarf that covered his face, "Take what you can, and go!" The invaders snatched food and weapons as the Missinian guards »rallied to defend themselves. Xivir's men struck down two more
bandits before the rest of the raiding party thundered back into the starlit dunes, leaving their fallen behind.
Three camp archers launched a flight of arrows after the retreating men. One shaft plunged into the bandit leader's meaty shoulder, and he slumped over his horse but did not fall. He kept riding.
Soldan Xivir rallied the men. "Prepare for pursuit!"
Standing protectively close to Sen Sherufa, Imir stared at the burning tents, at the damage that had been done. "Leave them! We have few enough men, and they could ambush us out there. Our priority is to protect the sand coracle."
Xivir reddened, but he obeyed without voicing a complaint.
Flushed and breathless, Asaddan waited near the wicker basket and silk balloon sack, tentpole still gripped in his hands. He had been ready to die to defend their vessel, so great was his desire to go home. Saan grinned at the Nunghal, who responded
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with a gap-toothed smile of his own. They understood each other.
The night wind had picked up, and Saan could feel the increasing breezes. The camp lay in disarray, many of the tents ruined, their supplies gone or scattered. But, all in all, disaster had been averted.
- Imir announced, "We'd better depart as soon as the sun rises."

103

Gremurr Mines

Prester Hannes sat on deck in the blistering sun amid a group of huddled prisoners. The slaver dromond worked its way up the rugged northern coast of the Middlesea; even from a distance, a smear of smoke marked their destination, the Gremurr mines. The men chained beside him were sweaty, dirty, and miserable. They complained incessantly. "We are innocent! We have committed no crime!" "We do not deserve this. Free us!" "I know many nobles. The soldan-shah will punish you if you don't release me."
But they were lying. The Urecari always lied. Hannes knew that not a single person here was innocent, and they all had unforgivable heresy in their hearts. He remained quiet, watching, learning... and hating.
He had nearly made it home, within sight of Tierra... and then this setback. It could not be an accident: Ondun was showing Hannes that he had further work to do, so he did not complain. He was merely a vessel of flesh created to serve the needs of God.
Nevertheless, he did not like the idea oflaboring in the mines.
As the dromond carried its prisoners toward a forbidding, rocky shore, Hannes liked the place even less. The mountains formed impenetrable bastions with sheer cliffs pockmarked by mine tunnels. Mounds of shattered rock debris and tailings lay strewn about at the base of each mine opening. Shirtless, filthy men worked with sledgehammers and pickaxes, breaking the rubble, digging out veins of ore. Heavy barges rested against the reinforced wharves, weighed down with processed ingots or finished metal sheets and swords. Additional barges lay at anchor farther out, waiting to be loaded with cargo.
Flatboats mounded with coal pulled up to smelters, where more sweaty men shoveled the black rock into bins. Hannes heard the incessant clink of tools and crack of whips. Too thick for the sea breezes to scour away, a pall of smoke clogged the air, caught in the valleys, and clung tenaciously to cliff faces. Upwind from the smoke, a small palace and several permanent-looking homes belonged to the highest-ranking officials.
On the flat rocky shore were tents and wooden shacks, squalid shelters for the prisoners and slightly better barracks for the soldier-guards. Hannes had lived in worse places, and he knew he could endure hard labor in the name of Ondun.
The slaver dromond tied up at a separate set of docks, where two men waited to meet the new arrivals. The first was a husky man of about thirty years, well dressed and with somewhat effeminate features--obviously not a man accustomed to physical work. Beside him stood a man of nearly the same height, but older and meaner looking, exuding implacability. His body was hard muscle, his face rigid.
The pampered-looking man spoke up as crewmen unlocked the prisoners' chains. "My name is Tukar, brother of SoldanShah Omra." He sounded proud of the fact. "I hold your lives
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 471

in my hand. I am your master here. You will help us to create weapons and armor for the glory of Urec." He paused, as though expecting applause or cheers. The slave ship's captain snarled, and the prisoners mumbled their obligatory support as they shuffled toward the disembarkation ramp. Hannes made no sound at all.
The hard-looking man took one step forward. "And I am Zadar, the slave master. Tukar may hold your lives in his hands, but /control your level of misery. Your life in Gremurr will never be pleasant, but there are varying degrees of pain. I am the man who makes that decision. I am the one you must impress."
Hannes studied the two men and decided that Tukar was harmless; Zadar was the man to watch out for.
"Many hours of daylight remain," Tukar said. "Zadar will issue your assignments. It's time for you to get to work."

After a week, most slaves surrendered any thought of resistance. Hannes did not. He settled into a routine of exhausting labor, but a routine gave him the ability to plan. A routine allowed him to find weaknesses. He took his time. In his years in Uraba, moving from village to village, he had learned patience.
He ignored the ache in his arms as he shoveled crushed ore into the open hatch of a reinforced cargo barge. Gremurr's five smelters processed some of the metal, but they did not have the capacity to produce all the copper, tin, and iron Uraba required. Since the rugged rocky coastline offered little wood for making charcoal to fire the furnaces, heavily laden barges sailed across K the Middlesea with coal mined from rich veins in Missinia.
When the day's shift ended, all the prisoners filed back to the encampment. There were no sikara priestesses here, no sunset services, no prayers to Urec--no religion whatsoever. The mines were a harsh and godless place. These people were all fol
snpi
lowers of Urec, but they had no faith--not the prisoners, not the guards, perhaps not even the administrators. Prester Hannes wondered, quite seriously, whether Aiden preferred men to be entirely godless or to follow the wrong religion.
In the evenings, Hannes sat at long tables with the other prisoners, who were too exhausted for conversation. He ate his bowl of watery fish stew, accepting the food without comment, but finding irony in the fact that his captors were giving him the nourishment he required in order to turn on them. When he sat to eat, Hannes always chose a bench that faced toward the mountains, so he could constantly study the cliffs and canyons, in search of possible passes that would lead him out of here.
The guards insisted that there could be no escape, that the cold and rocky wilderness would kill them. His fellow prisoners were convinced that no one could survive the impassable mountains, but those men, Hannes knew, were weak, meek, and beaten. He had the faith of Aiden in his heart. He had the strength and blessing of Ondun.
He also knew that those mountains were part of Corag Reach. On the other side lay Tierra. The crags seemed to pose an ominous challenge, but Prester Hannes had done the impossible before.

104

Iboria

Another vision quest in the arctic wastes--his thirteenth such journey--and this time Destrar Broeck went alone. He took his furs, mittens, and eye protection against the stinging snow and blinding whiteness; he carried dried food, and he could add snow
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to a water pouch inside his coat, where it would melt for drinking water. Broeck needed nothing else for his body, yet he needed so much more for his soul.
He left Calavik abruptly, having awakened at night after an unsettling dream. For most of his life, he'd been a hale and hearty man who loved people, loved noise, and loved his memories, but now Broeck realized that his heart was hibernating like a brown bear from the deep forests. So he packed his things the next morning and announced his intentions. Iborians were accustomed to a man's need to be alone and face the challenges of a self-imposed quest.
Broeck journeyed north to the tundra, where he joined a family of itinerant mammoth herders, who occasionally drove mammoths down to Calavik, where the beasts were domesticated and put to work hauling logs down to the rivers. Broeck accepted their quiet hospitality for three days before setting off for the distant white lands even farther north. He thanked the mammoth herders, then said, "I have hunting to do. A private hunt."
In all his life, Broeck had seen an ice dragon only twice. Now he stalked it. He had to hunt the monster, had to defeat it with the three long sharp iron spears strapped to his back. He trudged in fur-lined boots across the packed snow and ice, skirting ominous dark areas that hinted at fragile fissures. He knew how dangerous and unpredictable the north could be.
When his wife, Wilka, had vanished in the snowstorm, her oss took him completely by surprise. She had lived her life in Iboria, and she knew the vagaries of its weather. She should have watched the shapes of the clouds, noticed the changing taste of the winds. Broeck had never thought he needed to worry about her. Wilka...
He'd always had a fondness for frostberries, and though it was late in the season, Wilka had gone out by herself, wandering far
to find unpicked bushes. She shouldn't have been so far from home, from shelter, but the anniversary of their wedding day had been nigh. That evening, when she didn't return, while Broeck had huddled in their house from the blizzard outside, holding his five-year-old daughter, he had noticed the makings of a pie that Wilka had begun. She had gone out to pick the berries for him.
Ilrida had cried in his arms as the wind howled, and he had hoped against hope that Wilka had seen the brewing storm in time and made her way to a cabin or a hunting camp. The next morning, as the storm continued, he and ten searchers--against their common sense--had trudged out through the howling white gale, shouting her name, but the words were snatched away by the jaws of the blizzard. They had not found Wilka's body until the spring thaw
Despite the legend, the ice dragon certainly hadn't protected her.
As he raised his daughter, Broeck had thought he would eventually heal from the emptiness. He devoted himself to ruling his reach, knowing his people, working hard in the forests, and wandering out on his vision quests. He had survived, and had gradually become himself again.
And then a single scratch from a rusty nail...
For three years now he'd waited for the pain of losing Ilrida to abate, for the sadness to lift from him like a freezing fog on a winter's day. He had missed his daughter when she left to marry King Korastine, but that was nothing compared to the cold wound left by her death. At first he doubted that even Korastine's anguish could match the chasm in Broeck's own heart, yet when he saw the utterly lost expression in the king's eyes, he knew he was wrong.
The ice dragon's protection no longer seemed to benefit Iboria.
I
By contrast, the king's new Arkship project gave them all a beacon of hope, a beacon far more significant than the safety of his cold and sparsely populated reach. Though many people complained about the enormous and costly construction project, Destrar Broeck understood the need for a ruler to create works greater than himself. If there was a chance to find the land of Holy Joron, Ilrida would have insisted on going herself.
The Arkship could not truly be completed until Broeck contributed a vital, yet mystical, part to its construction. If Raathgir's horn could indeed protect a ship from other sea monsters, then Aiden's blessing could be conferred on King Korastine's bold giant vessel
It was the time of the brief thaw in the great white north, the season when the ice dragon was most likely to surface. As he made his way toward the mountains of snow and ice, Broeck removed his mittens and knelt to touch the ground so that his sensitive fingertips might feel the vibrations. The stumps of his missing, frostbitten fingers throbbed, as if with a sympathetic connection to the cold. Concentrating, he listened for the rumble, then followed lightning-bolt cracks in the ice, tracing them to their origin.
Knowing he was close, he looked up at the snowpack, the fissures in the icy cliffs. He sipped meltwater from the pouch inside his coat, chewed on dried meat to fortify himself. When he reached a solid ice cliff, Broeck thrust his three spears, points upward, into the packed snow so they stood ready and available.
Drawing deep, cold breaths, he unslung the iron ice hammer from his waist and swung it with all his strength into the frozen wall. A spiderweb of cracks radiated from the impact point. Broeck pounded again and again, knowing the thunderous sound would attract the ice dragon. "Come to me, damn
you!" he shouted into the cold wind. He slammed the mallet a final time, and the crack went deeper into the ice cliff. "Ho, Raathgir!"
Behind the smeared barrier, he saw a reptilian slither, a blue silver blur shifting and moving. The cracks in the ice wall widened, and Broeck staggered back, seizing the first spear just as the cliff split open. Behind the crack the enormous serpentine body glided through a slick-walled tunnel, like an adder crafted from frozen metal.
Boulders of ice calved away, falling all around him. Broeck dodged and ducked, then stood his ground with the first spear, fitting it into his full-fingered grip. The ice dragon's triangular head burst out, glaring with pearl-white eyes, its fangs flashing like silver icicles. A single knurled horn protruded more than two meters from the center of its bony-plated forehead. It lunged out, breathing a gust of freezing mist. Broeck dodged, feeling the impenetrable shattering cold ripple past him.
He hurled his first spear at the base of Raathgir's throat. The sharp point smashed into the creature's hard scales, and silver and blue shards tinkled from the serpentine neck, leaving a bare patch on its throat. Roaring, the ice dragon lunged down at Broeck and sent the destrar sprawling as it smashed its head into the snow.
When Wilka was lost out in the blizzard, did the howl of the storm winds sound like the ice dragon's roar?
He scrambled up, grabbed his second spear, whirled. When the ice dragon reared up and opened its fanged mouth, Broeck threw the second spear into its throat, where it stuck.
The ice dragon thrashed in agony, smashing its head against the cliff, snapping the cold-brittle spear shaft, but leaving the iron point embedded. Broeck seized his third and last spear, spread his booted feet, and cocked his arm back, waiting for Raathgir
to turn toward him. When it did, he let the spear fly directly into the naked patch on the dragon's throat. Deadlier than a scratch from an iron nail...
Steaming black blood sprayed out. The ice dragon gave a dying roar that sounded like the harshest blizzard of the year. Broeck scrambled away, taking shelter among the blocks of ice and snow that had collapsed from the cliff, and waited while the creature thrashed in its death throes. Finally, with a great sigh, Raathgir slumped onto the packed ice. Black blood stained the pure white snow. It twitched once more, and its long snakelike body oozed the rest of the way out of its warren of cliff tunnels.
j Broeck stared at the magnificent beast, feeling great sadness now as he had second thoughts about what he had done. But he hardened himself and remembered his purpose. He drew his ax and stepped forward.
I The immense knurled horn of the ice dragon would be perfect I for the prow of the Arkship. Iboria may have lost the aura of ' Raathgir's protection, but King Korastine--and the hope of all Tierra--would gain it.

105

The Great Desert

After the excitement and terror of the bandit attack, Saan was ready to go as soon as dawn's glow graced the desert. The southH erly breezes would whip up with the rising heat of the day, and they wanted to take advantage of the strongest gusts to whisk them across the expanse of dunes.
Soldan Xivir clapped his hands to rally everyone in the camp.
"The soldan-shah has spoken. Come, let us get these travelers on their way."
"Precipitous decisions often lead to mistakes," Sen Sherufa cautioned as the men rushed about making final preparations. She was still rattled by the raid. "Are you sure you aren't being rash, Imir?"
The former soldan-shah brushed aside her concerns. "We have been ready for days, my dear. It is time to go!"
Asaddan crossed his arms over his big chest. "Yes, it is time to go." He had taken the time to replait the braids in his ebony hair, which now hung like dark ropes around his head.
While Sherufa circled the base of the coracle for a final inspection, Saan and Imir filled the iron brazier inside the basket with coal from the camp's supply; Saan lit the fire, stoking it until the black rock glowed bright orange. The heat rose, puffing breath into the colorful silken balloon tied to the basket, swelling it into a spherical shape that stretched the guy ropes and the support netting. The coracle's wicker body creaked and groaned like the rigging on a sailing ship.
Saan tested the taut hemp ropes from outside the basket. "I'm ready as soon as the balloon is."
"You'd better be." Asaddan nudged him into the basket. "The balloon will not wait for you."
Imir graciously assisted Sen Sherufa, though she seemed perfectly prepared to climb in without help. Asaddan stood, feet apart, as though savoring the last few moments of solid ground. He raised his voice to address Soldan Xivir, the guards, the camp workers as equals. "People of Uraba, I promise to keep my companions safe--with Saan's help, of course!"
"Yes, Asaddan, I will protect you, if need be." Saan quickly realized how crowded the coracle would be, at least until they consumed some of the salvaged supplies, drank the water, burned the coal.
When they were situated aboard, old Imir gave a signal, and the Missinians released the ropes from the wooden stakes. Like a freed stallion, the sand coracle leaped into the air, making its passengers clutch the wooden frame for balance. Saan felt dizzy and worried that they might keep falling up into the sky and never come down. From the basket, they waved and shouted their goodbyes, listening to the ever-fainter return cries from Xivir and the camp workers as the buoyant ship soared high. Like an oceangoing vessel leaving port, the sand coracle drifted out across the expanse of sand, pushed southward by the breezes. Saan moved from one side of the basket to the other, bumping into his fellow passengers, peering in all directions.
"Think of all the stories you'll tell about this!" Imir said to Sherufa, hoping to evoke an expression of delight identical to his own, but she appeared seasick. m Even up here, the winds spat sand and dust at them. Asaddan "squinted into the glare. For the most part, because the coracle drifted on the air currents, they seemed surrounded by silence, hearing only the crackle of coal burning in the brazier. The horizon shimmered outward.
I Early in the first afternoon, they passed over a sheltered dell in the dunes, an unexpected patch of greenery. Tracks extended in several directions, and Saan could see tents, tethered animals, groups of men by fire pits. "That must be where the bandits live!"
Imir made a low sound like a growl in his throat. Still shaken by her ordeal the night before, Sherufa tried to sound analytical. "An oasis in the desert--a seep of water that they've dug into a well--enough for them to survive."
Seeing the remarkable silk balloon high overhead, the bandits pointed upward, shaking their fists, and Asaddan bellowed a challenge down at the desert men. Saan just chuckled. "They can't bother us up here."
L
I

The bandits began shooting arrows, and with a soft "thunk," one struck the bottom of the sand coracle and another whizzed 1 by. Sherufa shouted, "If those arrows puncture the silk, we'll crash."
"How do we make this thing go higher?" Imir asked.
Saan and Asaddan frantically added more coals to the brazier, and as the heat blazed brighter, the silk of the inflated balloon stretched tighter, and the sand coracle rose out of range of the arrows.
Encouraged by Asaddan, Saan whistled down at the bandits,
[taunting them. Great anger showed on his grandfather's face.
"We must remember the position of their base. When we return,
my son can send an army into the desert to wipe out those
vermin."

For three days, stoking the coal in the brazier, they floated along undisturbed through sunlight and darkness. Here in the air, unlike on a sea voyage, there were no treacherous reefs or uncharted shoals to pose hazards. Because the southerly prevailing winds set their course, the passengers had nothing to do but talk and wait, amusing or distracting themselves. Asaddan insisted that the Great Desert would eventually end; Saan could see nothing but dunes upon dunes upon dunes extending to a hazy horizon. "Now I understand the ordeal you endured when you crossed that expanse on foot," Saan said to Asaddan.
"You may think you do." The Nunghal flashed him a hard smile. "I hope you never have to find out for sure."
To pass the time, Asaddan told them stories as they watched dusty whirlwinds churned up by crosscurrents blowing across the desert. "Those are sand dervishes, small demons that live in the dunes and disguise themselves as beautiful women to fool unwary travelers. They hunger for love and for flesh. They sing to men
w
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on the fringes of campfires and lure them out to the dunes. The dervishes are so desperate for love, so alone, that they embrace their victims in a cyclonic wind and bury them in sand."
With a shiver, Saan sat up straight, blinking his blue eyes. Sherufa wore a skeptical expression, and Asaddan looked at the Saedran woman. "We know this because mummified bodies are found out in the sands, all the water and life gone from them."
"We don't have to worry about them up here," Saan said.
Imir pointed behind them. "We have other things to worry about, though." From the north, a gray-brown hammer of whipped-up dust lumbered toward them; sparkles of lightning flashed inside the cloud, which moved faster than the sand coracle.
"Should we land? Find shelter down there somewhere?" Saan scanned the dunes, but could see no place to hide in the sands, no rock outcroppings, no cliffs.
"We will have to ride it out," Asaddan said. "Up here."
Sherufa could not keep the anxiety from her voice. "I suggest that we cover ourselves so we don't choke on the dust. And hold on."
Saan stoked up the brazier's coals. The looming fist of the storm closed the distance, and they were at the mercy of the wind. As the first breezes knocked against the basket, the travelers huddled down, covered their noses and mouths with scarves, and waited as the storm engulfed them. He had wanted an adventure, to see and experience things that few other people had. In the storm's embrace, he felt a thrill of fear.
The scouring winds shrieked over them, scraping against the wicker, buffeting the inflated balloon. A few loose items--an empty water pouch, one of Imir's dirty tunics, Sen Sherufa's green scarf--blew away, never to be seen again. As Saan hunkered against the wooden frame, he felt the uncertainty of the
reeds beneath him that were being eaten away by the abrasive sands.
"Keep the fire burning," Sen Sherufa yelled. "If it goes out, we lose our buoyancy, and the coracle will crash." Trying to shield the edges of the brazier from the winds, they added more coal from their mostly diminished supplies.
Caught by gleeful handfuls of wind, loose embers scattered onto the wicker and began to smolder. Asaddan swept some of the hot coals over the side with his bare hands. Saan shouted and snuffed one out, burning his palm. "We're also lost if the wicker burns!"
When the storm finally began to fade the next day, leaving them battered and caked with grit, they were able to shake the dust from their clothes, from the water sacks, and from the packaged food. Saan laughed at the crusting of dirt on his grandfather's brown face that made the man's bright eyes look startlingly white against the dust. The sky turned maddeningly clear and bright.
Swirling breezes loosened dust that had clogged the wicker. Saan rubbed his stinging eyes and looked ahead to where he discerned a different color of brown against the undulating tan dunes. "Are those...hills?"
Asaddan raised both hands above his head in celebration. "The golden grasses of the steppes!" In his excitement he poked his foot against the side of the coracle, and sand-scoured reeds splintered. Saan grabbed his friend's muscular arm to steady him.
Imir brushed at the grit on his arms and face. "Tell me, Asaddan, do the Nunghals have baths?"

Limping along and losing altitude from many small leaks in the treated silk, the sand coracle crossed the last dunes and drifted
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over the tan hills. They added the last lumps of coal to the brazier, but the fire remained low so that the sand coracle skimmed not far above the ground now.
Scanning the landscape for familiar features, Asaddan spotted the dark shapes of a herd moving across the grasses. Below, several brown-clad men astride ponies reacted with excitement to see the strange balloon drifting overhead. The riders chased them, and Asaddan leaned over the edge of the basket, bellowing in the Nunghal language. The herders circled, shouting back. Their ponies kept up with the drifting coracle as it dropped gently to the ground.
"I know this clan!" Asaddan called.
The basket scraped the grass, but the still-buoyant balloon bounced and carried them along for another substantial distance. The Nunghal riders laughed and shouted as they chased along. Asaddan taunted them to catch him.
The wicker coracle hit the ground again, and Saan held on, careful not to be thrown overboard; his teeth clacked together in the jarring rebound. Imir said with a gasp, "I will be very glad to be on solid land again."
Finally, the sand coracle came to rest, and the Nunghal herders circled, regarding them curiously. Saan could only imagine what an odd picture their group posed: coated with dust, their facial features strange. Asaddan swung himself over the side of the basket, splintering more of the reeds. Trying to gain his balance on solid ground, the big Nunghal stumbled like a drunken man, which made the herders laugh uproariously.
They came forward to clasp hands with Asaddan, who wore an expansive grin on his face. "Welcome to the land of the Nunghals, my friends. I know these men and their clan. We are safe now, and at home."

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106

Gremurr Mines

Prester Hannes had little difficulty escaping from the Gremurr mines. When all was said and done, he simply walked away.
Cowed by overseers' threats and the imposing snow-capped mountains, few slaves had bothered to try. Hannes, though, made his own plans, his own decisions. As he performed his daily labors, he paid attention to which guards were lax, which ones were attentive. Work master Zadar was confident that no slave would be foolish enough to defy the rules... and Hannes considered him the fool for believing this. It made his escape easier.
A fresh shipload of prisoners arrived at Gremurr, and Hannes watched as the new slaves marched off the boat. Tukar and Zadar delivered the same speech as before, threatening severe consequences if the slaves did not work, did not obey the restrictions.
The guards focused their attentions on the new arrivals, because fresh prisoners were more likely to take impulsive actions. As a consequence, they loosened their vigilance on seasoned slaves who had resigned themselves to their fates. Hannes looked for his opportunity.
The season was late spring, and streams from the high country swelled with the snowmelt. Since he knew he had a long journey ahead, Hannes did not want to miss the high summer in the mountains. He quietly prepared, telling no one else of his plans. They were, after all, Urecari. He made a habit of stealing dry lumps of bread from the trays of other prisoners who were too
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weary and confused to notice. He hoarded strips of cloth he could use for wrapping his hands and fingers to prevent frostbite.
Finally, one night Ondun gave him a clear sign that it was time to go. A weak old man chained to the bunk beside him died in his sleep with a low gurgle. As part of his preparations, Hannes had secreted a bent iron nail he'd found in the ground. Now he used its point to pick the lock on the shackle that bound his ankle to the bed. He stripped the clothes from the old man's corpse, stealing the dead man's blanket as well as his own. Hannes would need them for warmth in the mountainous wilderness.
The barracks door was locked with a crossbar, but the walls were made of stretched canvas. Hannes moved past the snoring, unconscious slaves and bent to the base of the far wall. He poked the nail through the cloth and made a rip large enough to fit his fingers through. The canvas tore with an unexpectedly loud sound. He froze. Other prisoners stirred but did not awaken. He squeezed his head and shoulders through the gap in the canvas and, holding the spare blankets and his stockpile of stolen bread, sprinted into the moonlight.
All around him, the Gremurr mines stank of smoke and chemicals. Reddish glows came from the banked fires of the smelters. Bright lamps lit the fine houses of Tukar and Zadar. As he took his last glimpse of this place, Hannes felt a great disappointment in his heart. Before he escaped, he was tempted to wreak such havoc here! He could set fire to the homes, damage the smelters, wreck the ore lines. By spilling oil across the decks, he could destroy the weapons barges or the ingot-laden galleys. He could kill every one of his fellow slaves in the barracks--since they were chained to their beds, he could have gone from bunk to bunk, strangling them.
But Hannes knew his most important mission was to escape, to return to Tierra. One slave slipping off into the night might
not cause much furor, but if he created the holocaust he imagined, they would never let him get away. No, he had to listen to Ondun's greater calling.
He also remembered that while these people paid lip service to Urec's Log, they had no faith. Because they were not devout in the Urecari heresy, killing them would be almost like murder. And he could not do that.
So Prester Hannes merely walked off into the night. He left the slave camp behind and found a path into the rugged mountains. He had his faith as his armor and his weapon, and that was all he needed._ ¦

107

Abilan Soldanate

"We should never have abandoned Ishalem, Soldan-Shah," said Sikara Fyiri. "The place is not shunned by Ondun--it is ours." The two stood on a hill overlooking the Middlesea, watching the constant battle training below. Warm breezes blew in their faces, bringing the smell of horses and the sea.
Now that Omra had finally set plans in motion, he had expected Fyiri to relent. He was wrong. "We will make up for it, Sikara. The Aidenists will not expect such an ambitious move from us--not after thirteen years."
"Your war has wasted too much time without focus," Fyiri scolded. "Skirmishes here and there, raids of villages, acts of piracy--for years! We are like children scuffling on the beach. This is a war, a holy war against the Aidenists... and you are the leader of Uraba. In the name of Urec, we must crush the enemy,
defeat the followers of Aiden, whom God despises, and reclaim what is rightfully ours. Ishalem."
With Saan and Imir gone off on their adventurous journey, and with his new son and heir waiting in the palace, Omra realized that he did not want to leave any of them with this war. The conflict was like an aching tooth that could only be cured by the sharp pain of a complete extraction. Sitting in the bedchamber with Istar and his baby son Griston, he had cobbled together a sweeping military plan to reconquer Ishalem, writing on long rolled sheets of paper and drawing diagrams, as she looked over his shoulder, concerned. He had made up his mind. After so many years of preparations, Uraba had all the weapons, ships, soldiers, and horses they needed for this assault.
In the war room of the palace, Omra explained the war plan to his kels, showing them how he intended to take advantage of the terrain. He calculated how swiftly he could move the components of his army to converge at Ishalem for a decisive, concerted strike
Now, in the broad fields above Abilan's open beaches, hundreds of infantry archers drew back their bows to loose flights of arrows toward targets. On the flat beaches at low tide, hundreds of mounted cavalrymen rode hard, the horses' hooves pounding the sand as they charged straw-filled dummies that had fishhook symbols painted on their ragged tunic coverings. The cavalry soldiers hacked with their scimitars as they rushed past. Kel Unwar guided them, shouting commands, criticizing every flaw in the maneuvers.
Meanwhile, Omra's new fleet of war galleys was ready in the shipyards of Ouroussa, south of Tener, sixty armored vessels that would glide up the Oceansea coast to reach the isthmus. They would be commanded by Kel Zarouk. Groups of foot soldiers

FT
were being ferried across the Middlesea to the port city of Sioara; from there, they would march over the Wahilir pass to crew the war galleys. Very soon, Omra and Kel Unwar's cavalry would ride up the coast of Inner Wahilir and arrive on the eastern side of Ishalem at the same time as the war galleys arrived on the western shore. In an enormous pincer maneuver, they would close in on the barren holy city and recapture it in the name of Urec.
Watching the military plans finally set in motion, Sikara Fyiri looked more bloodthirsty than ever rather than satisfied. Omra regarded her out of the corner of his eye. She had dark brown hair, stained red lips, and a face as smooth as ceramic... so different from the young woman who had blessed his first wife, Istar, and their unborn child so long ago. Terrible events have shaped us all, Omra thought, twisted us like driftwood into something that would have been unrecognizable to us at another time. As Fyiri observed the training exercises now, her imagination seemed full of grand scale battles with screaming Aidenists falling to the sword. She relished it.
"Ah, Ishalem," she said in a long breath, as if reciting a chant from church. "How 1 long to have the holy city under our control. Ondun must be displeased that we abandoned it, but we will soon show the power of our faith."
Omra regarded her skeptically. "Did you ever visit the city before it burned? "
Fyiri frowned. "No, but I know we belong there. That is why you must take it back."
Omra continued to press. "With the Arkship gone and the city burned to the ground, nothing is left."
Anger flashed in the sikara's dark eyes. "It is holy land! It is our land-- Urec's land." That was what the people truly believed, and the sikaras had stoked their righteous anger to a blazing intensity.
And yet if they were genuinely doing Urec's bidding, in the name of Ondun, why had there been so many tragedies? Shouldn't victory be easier for the faithful? It is not God's obligation to give us an easy victory, he told himself. Victory must be mine.
"Yes, Fyiri--we will throw out the Aidenists," he promised her.
Seeing the hard look on his face, the hawkish sikara finally appeared satisfied.

Studying his tactical maps, and missing Saan's curiosity and earnest advice, Omra calculated the time it would take for all parts of his plan to come to fruition, issued a final schedule, and sent fast riders to ensure that each kel understood the importance of his own role.
Omra promised himself that by the time Saan and Imir returned from their journey across the Great Desert, he would be able to show them a clear Uraban victory in Ishalem. He launched this new phase of his crusade because it was necessary and right. He also did it because he needed to restore the future for his people. Omra knew his father would rest more quietly in his retirement if he saw a return to the calm security of his reign.
But there would be much more thunder before the storm dissipated
After planning his troop movements and dispatching foot soldiers to meet the waiting war galleys in Ouroussa, Omra called his cavalry together in the fields outside of Olabar. When Kel Unwar summoned them, they rode overland to the capital city, where they would board the ships to Sioara. Over the past several years, Omra had positioned many ra'virs in Calay, and they, too, could strike during the attack on Ishalem. From all directions, this whirlwind would sweep the Aidenists away.

n«P
The operation's three prongs would strike on the night of the full moon, two months hence. All of Tierra would be thrown into turmoil, and he expected a complete Uraban victory. Afterward, he prayed this nightmare would be over.
While farriers shoed his blood-bay mare for the long overland ride, Omra dutifully went to say goodbye to Cliaparia and their daughter, Cithara. The little girl was crying, and Cliaparia was theatrically distraught to see him go. He treated both of them with courtesy and formality, kissed the little girl on the forehead, then did the same to his wife, much to Gliaparia's disappointment.
"I must remain focused on the battle plans," he said.
"I will miss you, and as First Wife I'll be the first to welcome you home. Then we will celebrate your victory together!" She clutched his loose white sleeve and fussed with the clean olba wrapped around his head. "I'll count the days until you return."
"I'll return when I've accomplished what I need to do." He could tell she wanted him to say something endearing, but he had no honest words that would have satisfied her.
Next he went to see Istar and their two daughters, as well as their baby son Criston. Adreala and Istala both hugged him. "You have everything you need?" he asked Istar. "The handmaidens and the guards will take care of you until I return." He gave her an understanding smile. "And Saan will be back soon, too. I hate to see you sad."
"How can I not be sad?" Her response was surprisingly stiff, reminding him of how much he had forgotten about her past-- and how much she had not. "You are leaving in order to kill Tierrans. You may be killed yourself. Whatever happens, I cannot celebrate."
He remembered the attack on her village, when she had been so young, her son unborn, her life set on a different course. That
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I woman--Adrea--remained a stranger to him. "I am only going there to win this war. When I succeed, then I can stop the bloodshed." "But you will shed Aidenist blood to do it."
"Yes." He had never lied to her.
"Then at least come back alive and unharmed." This, Omra knew, she meant sincerely. She kissed him, but she seemed fragile, fighting with turbulence inside her. Finally, in his third wife's quarters, he embraced young Naori, feeling the swell of the baby in her belly as he pressed against her. She was due in less than two months. By the time he returned from the battle of Ishalem, she would have delivered her child, maybe another son, another heir. Yes, many things had changed in the past year. Perhaps peace and prosperity would finally dawn on the Uraban continent. Outside the Olabar gates, crowds gathered to celebrate the army's formal departure. The soldan-shah mounted his blood bay mare, adjusted the white olba around his hair, and raised his gloved hand to a thunderous roar of cheers. Cliaparia and Naori waved pennants, standing close to each other. Demonstrably apart from them, Istar held the baby boy and watched Omra go, but he could not read the emotions on her face. The soldan-shah faced west and a mounted standard-bearer raised a large scarlet flag bearing the symbol of the unfurling fern. Kel Unwar whistled, and the mounted army of Uraba set off for Ishalem.
108

Nunghal Lands

Saan, Imir, and Sen Sherufa spent two weeks among the nomadic Nunghals, following the buffalo herds eastward. Since Asaddan had given the travelers his approval, the nomads were friendly, boisterous, and very loud. They rose at dawn to do their work, then stayed awake late around campfires, playing a game with black and white marbles on a polished board with indentations.
Long thought dead, Asaddan was received as a hero among the Nunghal-Ari. His comrades gave him a golden earring to reward him for his wonderful stories, though they still teased him about his missing tooth (apparently he had lost it in an embarrassing accident when a buffalo kicked him in the face). Though Saan could not speak the language, he listened to Asaddan tell his tale, watching his gestures, noting the tones of his voice, and began to pick up a few words. Sherufa, having already learned some Nunghal vocabulary from her intensive time with Asad- I dan, used it now. For his own part, Imir had no interest in learning another language, claiming he was too old.
The breeze never stopped blowing, constantly rustling the dry blades of grass. At this time of year, the only greenery came from prickly plants that scratched Saan's bare legs when he ran. He played with Nunghal boys his age, having fun with tasks that they considered their daily chores and tending the buffalo.
For her own part, Sen Sherufa took a great interest in the Nunghal religion. She often sat preoccupied at night in her open tent, scribbling notes. Saan joined her and asked what she had learned. "The Nunghal religion is very interesting," she
explained. "There are certain mythic similarities to--yet striking differences from--what is familiar to us."
"Mythic similarities? Does that mean Urecari missionaries came here in times long past?"
Sherufa smiled at him, as if he had missed the point. "Nunghals believe they are descendants of two brothers who left their paradise home long ago. When they were lost at sea, both brothers cursed God for not watching out for them, and then both of their ships crashed. One brother took his people inland--his descendants became the nomadic tribes that call themselves the Nunghal-Ari. The people from the second brother's ship built themselves new ships and boats, remained at sea, and kept their traditions. The seafaring clans call themselves the Nunghal-Su."
Saan was suspicious. "That sounds a lot like the tale of Urec and Aiden."
Sen Sherufa nodded. "There might be a single mythic foundation from which the tales were garbled over the generations."
"Then we can tell the Nunghals the tale of Urec, give them the truth, and explain the real story."
"They would not thank you for that, Saan. Besides" -- Sherufa raised her eyebrows--"how do you know thatyour version of the story isn't the garbled one?"
Saan was taken aback. For that he had no answer.

The aimless buffalo herds moved in a general direction, day after day, and the animals arrived at their destination just as Asaddan's clan friends had promised.
The city of the Nunghal khan started out as a nomadic camp made of expansive tents, yurts, and colorful pavilions, but it remained in place for so long that it became a permanent city. The tents were dyed ochre, orange, and brownish green,
so that the encampment looked like a traveling carnival. Fabrics stretched from pole to pole to pole, joining one section to another. Separate thick-walled yurts were private dwellings, the largest of which was reserved for Khan Jikaris himself.
When they entered the settlement, Asaddan led Imir, Sherufa, and Saan to the largest yurt. "A rider went forth yesterday to tell the khan, and he is very anxious to see you," he explained. "Jikaris probably didn't believe half of what the rider told him." The hangings jingled with a fringe of gold and brass bells as Asaddan pushed his way into the yurt.
Inside, the khan hurriedly settled himself upon a wide wooden chair upholstered in dyed hides. When they entered, he was still tugging on wrapped-leather gauntlets and adjusting his stone-encrusted crown--a crown that looked as heavy as an old kettle. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, but atop his head, most of the hair had fallen away to leave only a bare and leathery scalp.i
Khan Jikaris assumed a relaxed posture, trying to pretend that he sat slumped on his throne awaiting supplicants all day long. Though he tried to look powerful and intimidating, two plump women--presumably his wives--went about the business of straightening rugs and lighting candles as if this were any other day.
The khan eyed the visitors with a demeanor that suggested both power and boredom, as if amazing things were a regular occurrence to him. Asaddan stepped forward and gave a rapid fire speech in his tongue, to which the khan gave a brusque response before heaving himself from his chair. Jikaris was a head shorter even than Saan's grandfather. The khan studied Imir's unusual features, then moved to Sen Sherufa with greater interest, touched her long thick hair, and spoke appreciative
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comments to Asaddan. When the khan's fat wives snapped at him with clear displeasure, Jikaris hurried to Saan, intrigued by the young man's blond hair and blue eyes. "He thinks you are either an angel or a demon," Asaddan said with a chuckle. "He wants to know if someone worked a spell on you, to turn your hair to gold." "I suggest you correct that impression," Sen Sherufa scolded, "so that no one has ideas of cutting off Saan's head to acquire a treasure." Asaddan took the threat seriously and spoke with the khan. Showing excessive friendliness, Jikaris slapped Imir on the back, then did the same to Saan and Sherufa, startling all of them. He pushed past, threw open the jingling flap of his yurt, and shouted into the din and bustle of the large camp. "What's happening?" Imir asked.
"Khan Jikaris announces a great celebration to show off Nunghal hospitality to his strange visitors."
Saan glanced around. A few passersby paused to listen, but the mood of the encampment changed little. "They don't seem overly curious." Asaddan laughed aloud. "The khan orders so many celebrations, the people are no longer impressed by it."

That night the open-air feast served a main course of buffalo meat, along with heavy breads, preserves of tart purple berries and honey, and a murky, odd-tasting beverage supposedly made from fermented mare's milk. A group of deep-voiced men played clangorous musical instruments and sang songs with clashing harmonies that Saan found too strange to be enjoyable. Another man sat at the khan's side. Though he was clearly a Nunghal, his clothing was of an entirely different cut. His tunic's

Fira
billowing sleeves were cinched tight at the wrists, while most of the other Nunghals had bare arms. Rather than fur trimmings, intricate knots decorated the man's clothing like an odd sort of embroidery. His leggings were reinforced by stiff, tough-looking strips of fabric: cured sharkskin, Saan realized, as he studied it more carefully.
Asaddan talked with the khan's strange companion, then made introductions all around. "This man is Ruad, a representative of the Nunghal-Su. He has come to spend a year with the tribes of the Nunghal-Ari, to exchange information and news."
Saan could not imagine such an arrangement between Aidenists and Urecari. Asaddan lowered his voice and continued his story in the Uraban language, so that none of the other listeners could understand him. "The truth, my friends, is that Ruad was sent here as a sort of punishment. All the Nunghal-Su have their own seagoing vessels, but Ruad lost his ship in a storm. Worse, the poor man had the bad fortune to survive when most of his crew was lost. Now he is considered something of a"--Asaddan waved his hand as though trying to summon vocabulary from thin air--"an outcast among his clan.
"Ruad, as one of the many nephews of the khan of the Nunghal-Su, is supposed to be braver than other men. His clan has exiled him among the land-dwellers, herders, and wanderers whom--I shall be honest with you, my friends--the Nunghal-Su do not respect. Ruad believes that the sea spat him out onto dry land, and he must remain here until he learns his lesson."
Saan regarded the outcast, trying to gauge his mood. Ruad did not seem to be in sparkling good humor, but rather withdrawn and resigned.
Asaddan touched his chest, keeping his voice low. "I think,
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however, that this incident will teach Ruad many things--things that the Nunghal-Su don't know they should value. Either way, he will be a stronger man for it when he returns to his ships. Ruad can become a valuable adviser to both Jikaris and the khan of the Nunghal-Su." Impatient with all the talk he did not understand, the old khan interrupted Asaddan and issued an abrupt command. In the full dark of the moonless night, the people fell into an anticipatory hush. Saan heard a hiss, then saw a streaking tail of fire rise into the sky, like an inverted shooting star, which suddenly exploded into a dazzling flower of orange, yellow, and sparkling white. The Nunghals cheered and applauded. Astounded, Saan traced the colorful light, wondering where the flames came from. Was it magic, alchemy, some sort of natural eruption? Another rocket streaked upward into an extravagant fireworks display, as if the heavens themselves were at war. "What is that? It flies, it burns, and explodes!" Imir exclaimed.
"It is firepowder, a mixture of chemicals that makes flames." Realization dawned on Asaddan's face. "Ah, in Uraba you do not have firepowder!" The former soldan-shah was fascinated as another rocket exploded in the sky. "This is magnificent."
Asaddan shrugged. "It is firepowder."
"I would like to learn more of this," Sen Sherufa said. "Can you show me how it's made?"
The big Nunghal laughed. "If you think these fireworks are interesting, then you should see the cannons on the ships of the Nunghal-Su." "Cannons?" Imir said. "What are cannons?"
"You want to know everything!" Asaddan let out a loud laugh

oni?
from deep in his chest. "It is good that you will stay here for half a year."
Breathless, Imir turned to Saan and Sherufa, lowering his voice. "Think of how we could use this firepowder against the Aidenists!"

109

Olabar Palace

Only days after Omra departed, Gliaparia made her move.
The soldan-shah and his army would not return for months, and by then--regardless of victory or defeat--he would be long past caring about a squabble among his wives. Cliaparia had her alliances, her schemes, and her hatred for Istar, but it was her obsessive anger that made her predictable. Istar was ready for her.
She kept to her spacious chambers in the palace, occupying the rooms closest to Omra's own, because those were the rooms the soldan-shah had chosen for her. During the afternoons, Istar taught and entertained her two young daughters, seven-year-old Adreala and her sister Istala, two years younger. Adreala was a precocious girl, so full of questions that her mind was never filled with enough answers. The girl was also brash and impetuous, playing with the boys and enduring scrapes and bruises that would have brought any other child her age to tears. Istala, quieter than her older sister, preferred listening to stories and drawing pictures instead of roughhousing. Istar was teaching her older daughter a simple game of colored stones that she had often liked to play in Windcatch, though
she did not reveal, even to her daughters, the game's Tierran origin. Istala found amusement enough in watching her mother and sister play. Baby Griston slept in a padded basket. Cliaparia appeared unannounced at the doorway accompanied by four grim-faced palace guards. "We have come to move you from your quarters," she said without preamble. Istar placed herself between her daughters and the door. "By whose authority? "
"Mine--as First Wife."
"And you issue orders on behalf of the soldan-shah?" Istar's tone was even. "I think not."
Gliaparia spoke over her shoulder to the silent guards. "I told you she would be difficult."
Istar bent to speak quietly to Adreala. "Run--this is what I told you about! Find Kel Rovik and tell him to bring his men." The seven-year-old understood perfectly. She dashed into a side room, slipped out another door, and raced down the corridor. Istar faced Cliaparia once more. "These specific rooms were given to me by Soldan-Shah Omra because he wants me closest to him. He wishes to protect me and my family." "I am First Wife. I should be closest to him," Cliaparia said. "By the time he returns, he will be happy to see me."
"And what quarters did you have in mind for me?" Istar asked, with more curiosity than anger. Beside her, a frightened Istala clutched her leg. The white-robed guards strode into her chambers, their scimitars obvious in sashes at their hips. The men acted intimidating, but Istar knew they would never dare touch her. Cliaparia shrugged. "I want you out of the palace. Go stay in the haunted villa that once belonged to Asha. It's been empty
for so long, you may need to help your handmaidens do the cleaning."
"I'm surprised you haven't already prepared it for me, if you're so anxious to have me gone, Cliaparia." She chuckled. "Would you have gone on your knees to scrub dirt and mildew from the tiles?"
Cliaparia bristled. In his crib, baby Criston began to cry, startling them all. Turning her back to show how unimportant she found the indignant woman, Istar went to the crib and gathered up the baby in his blankets. When she held him against her breast, he calmed immediately. "This is the soldan-shah's heir," Istar said, looking at the guards instead of Gliaparia.
"Naori is also pregnant," the other woman said. "She might have a son--a Uraban son."
"Will that matter to Omra? " Istar asked. How could Cliaparia know so little about her own husband? "You delude yourself."
Cliaparia was not sure what to do now that Istar had defied both her demands and the threat of the guards. Obviously, this hadn't gone the way she'd expected.
Outside in the corridor came the sounds of a commotion: the jangling of armor, the thud of boots, a swirl of cloth, and the metal whispers of drawn scimitars. "Mother, we're here!" called a girl's voice. Adreala burst in ahead of the twelve breathless guards, astonishing Cliaparia and her four men.
"What is the difficulty here?" Kel Rovik said. He flashed a glance at the four guards--his own men--standing with Cliaparia.
As kel of the palace guard, Rovik was reluctant to take sides among the soldan-shah's wives, but he did know Uraban law and traditions. While forging her alliances, Istar had never insulted his honor with bribes; instead, she had softened his stoic
mood through respect and courtesy, remembering to address him by name. She had taken the time to bring baby Criston before all the guards, to let them look into the face of Omra's true heir. Cliaparia had not thought to do any of those things. "There is no difficulty. I am First Wife. Help us move this woman's possessions out. She will find her own rooms." "These are her rooms," Rovik stated.
"And now they are mine. I insist. I am First Wife, and you will obey me."
Avoiding the guards, Adreala ran to her mother and sister. Istar folded her into an embrace.
Rovik remained troubled. "I was present when Soldan-Shah Omra gave these chambers to Lady Istar. You are asking me to perform a deed that I know is against the soldan-shah's express wishes." "The soldan-shah is not here. You cannot know his current wishes."
Kel Rovik was not moved. "And when I receive word from the soldan-shah himself that he has changed his mind, my men and I will be pleased to follow his command. Until then, his orders remain unchanged, and the Lady Istar remains where she is. As the soldan-shah wishes, so Urec wishes." Cliaparia recognized that she had been defeated. Without bothering to call the four guards after her, she slipped past Kel Rovik's men like a raven frightened from a fresh carcass. But Istar could tell that this was not over.

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110

Calay, Shipbuilders' Bay

King Korastine's Arkship was an enormous vessel unlike any other Tierra had ever built. When the Iborian shipwright declared that his work was complete, all the riggings strung, the sails mounted, the deck boards and hull waterproofed, the bulwarks carved and painted, and the double-fishhook anchor hung, the Arkship was finally released into Shipbuilders' Bay.
Though King Korastine and Destrar Broeck had both insisted on having a place aboard the Arkship for the voyage, neither man would serve as the actual captain. After much discussion in chambers and reviewing the records of other skilled seagoing captains, Korastine had made his choice. Kjelnar himself would be the captain. No one knew more about the Arkship than he did, and King Korastine trusted no one more.
On the day of the christening, most of Galay's population lined the bridges and streets in excited celebration. The nearby docks were reserved for all of the young craftsmen who had worked on the great vessel and now gathered to watch. These young men had been drawn from all walks of life and had worked tirelessly to build, rig, paint, and supply the Arkship for its maiden voyage.
Aldo na-Curic stood among his fellow Saedrans to marvel at the glorious ship, especially since he would be joining the crew, once King Korastine set sail for parts unknown. For most of the people in Calay, the ship had a deep religious significance, an echo of the marvelous wrecked vessel that had watched over
Ishalem. And if Aiden--or Urec--could sail such a giant vessel across the empty seas from Terravitae, then surely a similar design would suffice for King Korastine's exploratory crew.
For Aldo, though, the new Arkship signified the chance to discover the mysteries Ondun had left in the world, the breathtaking possibilities that waited in the unmarked portion of the Mappa Mundi, and the chance, at last, to complete the great work of the Saedran people. And he would be the one to record it all, as the master chartsman.
More than at any previous time since the burning of Ishalem, the people of Tierra had come together on the same quest. Over the past year, the work crews in Shipbuilders' Bay had swelled with enthusiastic young men, many of them orphans; without parents and growing up on the streets of Calay, these young men wanted to do something grand and tangible with their unsettled lives, perhaps even sail off on the Arkship when it was completed.
Eager to get a better look at the beautiful ship, a vessel that would be his home for uncounted months or years, Aldo worked his way to the edge of the dock, where he could study her graceful lines. His brother and father tagged along, though Wen clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Aldo wondered whether looking at the new Arkship reminded Wen that he had not passed his chartsman examination.
The crowd cheered with a renewed roar as King Korastine ascended the gangway accompanied by Prester-Marshall Rudio. The two men walked to the prow, and the king raised his hands. Aldo strained to hear the distant words as the religious leader opened a heavy old volume of the Book of Aiden and began to recite. When Rudio finished his passage, he closed the book and shouted to the sky, "We beseech Ondun to bestow His blessing on this new ship."

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504 Kevin J. Anderson

In a well-rehearsed performance, Korastine called, "Help us to sail safe and true, for I am of the blood of Aiden."
The prester-marshall raised the king's hand and drew a gilded blade. "By the blood of Aiden"--he cut a small slash on the king's palm--"we ask Ondun to consecrate this ship." As blood welled up, he pressed Korastine's palm against the wood of the bow.
Korastine raised his voice to add, "And by the blood of Aiden, I beseech Ondun to help us find our way home to Terravitae."
The crowd stirred at the end of the dock as several men came forward. Aldo stood on his tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the broad-shouldered Iborians marching forward in what was obviously an unexpected addition to the christening ceremony.
Kjelnar and Destrar Broeck led a group of northerners, who strode onto the deck of the grand vessel, carrying a long fur wrapped package. "Wait, King Korastine. We have a priceless contribution to the Arkship!" Broeck bellowed.
The king looked curiously at the package. "And what is this, Destrar?"
"Safety, Majesty." The bearded destrar removed the covering with a flourish to reveal a long, sharp shaft made of a milky blue substance. "This is the horn of the ice dragon Raathgir. Blessed by Aiden himself, proof against sea monsters, protection from storms. Immediately before we depart, Kjelnar will install Raathgir's horn on the Arkship's prow--a rare and fearsome ornament that will also impress Holy Joron when you see him."
The shipwright smiled. "As the captain of the ship, I agree."
Prester-Marshall Rudio touched the smooth pearlescent ivory surface. "First let me bring this back to the main kirk, where our master craftsmen can etch the five prayers of Aiden into its shaft."
King Korastine smiled. "Then the Arkship will surely be invincible."
Broeck was immensely pleased by the idea. "That gives Kjelnar time to craft a socket in the prow for the ice dragon's horn."
From the crowd, Aldo listened, curious. He had heard only obscure mentions of the ice dragon legend; now he would have to look into the Saedran libraries to discover more about the tale. As the chartsman accompanying the Arkship on its voyage, he had to know everything possible, to organize and file it in his perfect memory. Aldo would have to make the most of this journey. When he came back home, Sen Leo would probably insist that Aldo marry one of his daughters and settle down.
Beside him, his father was enthralled by the ceremony, though Wen fidgeted. Aldo could tell that Biento longed to paint a mural of this scene, though Aidenist practice forbade the creation of any artwork that did not come from the great story. Quirking his lips in a smile, Aldo leaned close to his father. "Maybe you could paint the christening of Aiden's original Arkship before its launch from Terravitae? It would look very much like this scene."
"Ah, yes," Biento nodded. "And since Korastine is of the blood of Aiden, his features must be very similar to Aiden's, wouldn't you say? The painting would look almost exactly like this."
Aldo could already see the wheels turning in his father's mind.
Ill

Nunghal Lands

Saan and his companions lived for two months as guests in the great camp of the Nunghal khan before Jikaris announced it was time to begin the procession down to the sea and the clan gathering festival.
While learning to speak the Nunghal language passably well, the young man also participated in the sport of buffalo wrestling, a dangerous game that depended on agility and speed rather than brute strength. Saan was wiry and light on his feet, and he loved to confuse the buffalo bulls by flailing a bright red kerchief before them, his arm extended to one side so the animal attacked the wrong target. He astonished the other Nunghal boys by springing onto the beast's back and riding it briefly before dropping off and running back to safety.
He taught himself to play their games of chance, discovering a strategy that depended more on trickery and bluffing than on actual luck or skill. He even flirted with some of the girls his age, though Nunghal standards of beauty tended more toward muscular and squarish women than the willowy lovelies of the Olabar court.
During these months, Imir--with Asaddan as his interpreter--spoke to Ruad and Khan Jikaris, describing Uraba's long-standing war against the Aidenists. Ruad in particular collected these nuggets of information as if they were coins with which he could buy his way back among the Nunghal-Su. When Imir wasn't discussing a possible alliance with the Nunghals, he spent his time with Sen Sherufa.
For days before departure, the Nunghals packed their belongings and prepared their mounts, drawing lots to determine who would stay behind and who would drive the buffalo herds down to the sea. Saan asked his new friends what was happening, and they explained the clan-gathering festival, an annual event among the tribes, at which they would trade goods and arrange marriages between the Nunghal-Ari and the Nunghal-Su. In addition, the separate branches would exchange young men so that nomads would learn to sail ships, while seafarers discovered the ways of the land, hunting and herding.
Khanjikaris would join the procession, as he always had, so he could meet with his counterpart among the Nunghal-Su, a much younger khan who had taken the place of his dying father two years prior.
Sen Sherufa spoke to the khan at yet another banquet complete with fireworks. In slow, careful Nunghal, she said, "My companions and I crossed the Great Desert to see your land after hearing Asaddan's stories. I ask now for permission to accompany your party to the south, so that we might gaze upon this vast new sea you have spoken of."
The khan slapped his hand on the table surface, jarring the goblets and rattling plates, delighted by Sherufa's boldness. "You must come! I will show the khan of the Nunghal-Su these people who fly like birds in a basket, who tell of strange lands, and whose hair is made of gold." He reached out to scrub Saan's blond hair vigorously, a gesture to which the young man had grown accustomed (though he did not particularly enjoy it). Saan always found the khan's words difficult to understand, not because his grasp of the language was weak, but because the man had a pronounced lisp.
Imir was annoyed to be left out of the joke. He asked repeatedly, "What? What's happened?" until Asaddan took pity and explained it to him.

The khan's procession was a great, slow-moving parade. The buffalo drovers left early and maintained a fast pace, but Jikaris was in no hurry. Since the clan-gathering festival lasted for months, traders rarely offered their most valuable and exquisite merchandise early on, preferring to wait for larger crowds so that prices could go higher.
Days after the herds were out of sight, the khan would stop at mid-afternoon to set up camp and prepare for a large meal; the next morning, it took them hours to break camp and move out again. Scouts rode ahead to report on the terrain, the weather, and any other clans they sighted.
Saan was walking beside Sen Sherufa when they finally crested a rise of grassy hills and saw a hazy blue expanse that spread infinitely far to the south. The Saedran woman stopped in the middle of recounting one of her favorite tales of the Traveler. The refreshing smell of salt air and the unexpected sea breeze stole the words from her throat.
"It's the southern sea!" Saan blurted.
Asaddan joined them, and Sherufa said in amazement, "You didn't lie, Asaddan, nor even exaggerate. This ocean..." She shook her head. "This entire continent exceeds all the boundaries of my imagination."
The big Nunghal looked at the expanse of water as if it were a strange landscape even to him. "You know the Middlesea's boundaries, but here storms come up from the south and batter the coastline. The Nunghal-Su have sturdy ships. Ruad is very proud of them, though his own vessel was wrecked by a storm. I would rather place my faith on dry, solid land."
Puffing, Imir joined them to stare at the sight before them. Since their time in the sand coracle, the former soldan-shah had stopped shaving his scalp and face, and now his whole head was
I

gggg;
fringed in a fuzz of tightly curled iron-gray hair. Looking out at the water, his expression dawned with wonder. "No Uraban has ever before gazed upon this sea!" "Well, Sen Sherufa and I saw it first," Saan teased.
Riding behind them, Khan Jikaris topped the hill, drew a deep breath, and let it out as a sigh. His companion Ruad seemed transfixed as he stared at the ocean with immense longing. Saan remembered the same expression on Asaddan's face after he stepped from the sand coracle onto the grasslands of his clan. The khan, though, was far more interested in the hundreds of colorful tents and stalls that filled the meadows and pastures above the beach. The Nunghal-Ari procession trampled the grasses in the pristine meadow that the early riders had reserved so that the khan and his party could establish their camp there.

The following day, full of excitement to see the stalls, vendors, and representatives of the Nunghal-Su, Saan accompanied
I Sen Sherufa out to explore. He looked down into the harbor at if a hundred strange, thick-hulled ships with stout masts and an unfamiliar arrangement of sails and rigging. He hoped one of the seafaring Nunghals would take him aboard so he could study the design and learn their nautical skills, which he could bring back to Soldan-Shah Omra.
The khan gave Saan's grandfather a sack of coins to spend, and Imir told the young man in a conspiratorial whisper that he intended to buy "something very special" for Sherufa. Jikaris also gave coins to Saan and to the Saedran woman for their own needs. As the morning warmed, Saan and Sherufa walked among the gathered Nunghals. Clan leaders sat across from each other at low tables as they shared drinks and conversation. He could
easily spot the seafaring Nunghal-Su by their distinctive dress, similar to the clothes Ruad wore. Their harsh dialect was difficult to understand, but the two strangers made themselves

understood.
Fishermen sold smoked carcasses of a large spiny fish that Saan had never seen before. Nunghal-Su stalls offered shells and coral necklaces while the nomadic clans sold polished chunks of rose quartz finely ground crystal lenses for spyglasses, tanned hides and worked leather goods, and barrels of salted and cured

buffalo meat.
Sen Sherufa stopped at a rriapmaker's stall, intrigued by the charts displayed there. She perused the details of the southern coastline with arrows marking strong currents; the blank areas of water were decorated with fanciful depictions of sea serpents
and storm patterns.
"How accurate is this map?" she asked the mapmaker. He bristled as if she had insulted him. "Nunghal-Su navigate with these charts. Our clans have explored every inch of the coastline as far as we can. Our lives depend upon maps." He had a long mustache that drooped past his chin and a stubble of beard that had been shaved no less than a week before. "Where are you from? Your appearance is strange."
The mapmaker scoffed when they told him about Uraba and the soldanates, how they had crossed the Great Desert and became guests of Khanjikaris. Facing his disbelief, Sen Sherufa remarked "You asked us to believe in you. Now believe in us."
With a lifetime on the sea, the mapmaker had only vaguely heard of the Great Desert. He showed Sherufa his charts, asking her to point out its location. Since the Nunghal-Su were concerned only with the coastline and the sea, he had little information about the land's interior, where the nomadic clans herded buffalo. The Saedran woman used her finger to sketch out the
general border of the Great Desert, then farther north she traced the soldanates of Uraba and finally the Middlesea. Saan, however, was intent on the contours of the southern coastline, which he had never before seen. He compared this with what he remembered of Uraban geography from Omra's tactical maps, extended the Nunghal shoreline in his imagination ... and made an intuitive leap. He spoke in Uraban, so the mapmaker would not understand him. "Sen Sherufa, see here. As the coastline extends to the west, it curves northward to the limit of Nunghal-Su explorations. By my guess... isn't our southernmost city of Lahjar not far from here?" Sherufa was automatically skeptical. "No one can sail south beyond Lahjar. The heat and the reefs block all passage." Saan gave her a wry smile. "Yes, and no one could cross the Great Desert, for that was the edge of the world. Apparently, our information is flawed."
Sherufa asked the mapmaker in his own language, "Why have your ships not traveled farther north, here?",¦¦¦;
The Nunghal shook his head. "Reefs. Shoals. Bad currents."
Saan excitedly extended the coastline with his finger. "If the southern sea is indeed the lower half of the continent of Uraba, wouldn't the coast connect all the way around here? To Lahjar?" Sherufa muttered as her thoughts tried to catch up to her words. "And if this is a true representation of the coast of the southern sea, then we know the shape of the whole continent! Think of what that means." . Saan felt his excitement build, thinking as Omra had taught him. "If my grandfather can form an alliance with the Nunghals, then their navies could sail up this coast, round the cape, and travel north to Lahjar. They could join us in our battles with kthe Aidenists!"

wu
"That wasn't exactly what I meant." Sherufa's expression showed how deeply preoccupied she was. "It is a Saedran thing." She paid the Nunghal merchant his asking price for the chart, too engrossed in the discovery to haggle.

112

Corag Reach

Frozen. Starving. Lost.
Hannes's mind was as numb as his feet, as his hands. His body continued to move without conscious volition, plodding through this forsaken wilderness. The mountains around him were like monstrous jaws ready to grind him into pulp. He did not know how long it had been since his escape from the Gremurr mines.
The endless nights had been black, freezing, and windy; the mockingly clear days were so cold that the air itself felt as if it might shatter. The watery yellow sun shone down without warmth. Even both blankets wrapped around him--now sodden, frozen, and tattered--barely kept him warm.
His toes had burned for a long time, but now they were frozen. Wrapped in spare rags, his fingers were as stiff as wood; he could bend them only when he concentrated, and with a great deal of agony. The cold reawakened his old scars, first a tingling, then a throbbing, then excruciating pain.
Gorag Reach should have been a promised land, but Prester Hannes saw it only as a land of broken promises. The slave masters in Gremurr had been correct: Any man of lesser resolve, or with less faith in Ondun, would have perished long ago. He no longer felt any energy or joy from the fact that he was back in Tierra. He was going to die here.
On his journey, he made his way over passes that funneled the harsh winds, then he stumbled down into steep valleys. He forded silvery rushing streams, with water that was indescribably cold even on feet that had seemed too numb to feel anything more. On hardy bushes he found handfuls of berries--it seemed like a miracle, and they tasted delicious, though he suffered stomach cramps for hours afterward. For the past several days, Hannes had eaten nothing but snow and lichens chipped from boulders.
No words had passed his chapped lips for a very long time, 1 but in his mind he uttered prayer after prayer, recited scriptures from the Book of Aiden, begged for some sort of guidance to take him home. He staggered along, anchored by his faith, and propelled forward by his instinct to stay alive.
He sought any way through the heart of the mountains, trying to work his way downhill. If he passed out of the snow line and found the tundra again, and after that the forests, he might discover people in far-flung villages who could help him and feed him. True Aidenists at last.
Finally the snow and scree and endless rivulets of meltwater gave way to patchy grasses, then expansive alpine meadows with a riot of brilliant wildflowers. Stupefied, Hannes gazed at the colors, drawn to them. Ahead, through his tears, he saw cream colored dots, moving shapes that his weary and disoriented vision finally identified: sheep!Dozens of them.
Hannes left the rocky pinnacles behind, stumbling, falling, and sliding over a last patch of snow into the steep meadow. He rolled onto the cushioning flowers and grasses, breathing hard, sobbing. Eventually, he got to his hands and knees and looked up. Like a miracle, he spotted a cottage built from fieldstones. A tiny curl of smoke rose from the chimney.
Hannes lurched to his feet and stared. Surely he was halluci
W3%?
nating! But the cottage remained there, surrounded by languid sheep.
He moved toward the structure, nearly dead, but the cottage did not seem to grow any closer. He heard a dog barking, a strange sound that reminded him of Asha's villa. He fell down again. The dog began barking around him, but it did not attack. Hannes opened his eyes, lifted his head, and saw a man there, dressed like a shepherd. "May the Compass guide you!" he gasped, barely able to speak the traditional Aidenist blessing. Like a song of angels in his ears, the man responded, "And the Compass guide you. Where are you from? How did you get here?" The man helped Hannes to his feet and held him as he swayed, weaker than he'd ever imagined he could be. "Who are you?" "Hannes, Prester Hannes... I escaped... from the Urecari."
The shepherd picked him up as if he were no more than a sack of grain, and placed him over his shoulder. "My name is Criston Vora. My cottage has a warm fire and nourishing food. You look like you could use both.":, Hannes had already collapsed and was beyond responding.

113

Nunghal Clan Gathering

During the Nunghal gathering, Saan spent many days exploring tents and stalls, playing games with other Nunghal boys, learning about the crafts and traditions of the different clans. He was a sponge, absorbing their dialects, their stories, their bawdy jokes; he was eager to find some way to use the new informa
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tion to help Soldan-Shah Omra, when he and his companions returned home to Olabar.
Saan was interested in the rounded ships of the Nunghal-Su anchored in a hodgepodge floating metropolis in the natural harbor. Constructed of dark iron-hard wood, these were more than sailing vessels: They were homes for the Nunghal families, with decks stacked several levels higher than Saan had ever seen on Uraban vessels. The rigging was an incomprehensible cat's cradle of ropes, and the arrangement of sails formed a mosaic of fabric.
The Nunghal-Su believed that their god had given them the oceans of the world as their domain. They lived on the seas and came ashore only when absolutely necessary; the clan gathering was the longest time the ships remained anchored all year. Now the clustered ships looked like a city of sails and masts.
As he walked along the shore, staring out at the conglomeration of vessels, Saan came upon Ruad. Now that he'd returned to the southern ocean, the shamed Nunghal-Su was vibrant and restored. The gauntness of his face had filled out, erasing the shadows around his eyes. He had unbound his long hair so that it flew in the salty breezes with an exuberance that matched his expression. He stood next to a dinghy he was about to take to his clan ship, which lay at anchor in the deeper water.
"Ah, Saan! Are you not tired of having your feet in the dirt? Gome with me--we can dine in my cabin and imagine we are out on the open sea." He shaded his eyes to look out at all the vessels. "I can't wait to set off once more."
Saan couldn't conceal his grin. "Your ships are fascinating ... though I don't know how you can tell which is which."
"That is like asking a mother how she can recognize her own child." Ruad let out a snort, and Saan helped him push the dinghy into the water. "Our ships are our homes--and, oh, I am so

glad to be home. Climb aboard." He gestured toward the small boat. "But you'd better be willing to do some of the rowing."
"I'll do all of it, in exchange for your hospitality."
The harbor waters were calm, and Saan pulled at the oars, threading a path through all the anchored ships, going where Ruad directed him. The clusters of ships reminded Saan of the herds of buffalo on the plains. "Where do you go with all these ships? How do you keep from running into one another?"
"When you walk among the crowds back there at the clan gathering, do you constantly worry about crashing into other men and women? We are master sailors!"
"Well, I still admire your ability," Saan said.
At the compliment, Ruad appeared crestfallen, however, and his voice fell quiet. "The Nunghal-Su would not say that of me, since I did lose my ship and many of my crew."
Saan frowned. "But you survived."
"Please do not remind me of my crimes. I am glad to be allowed back onboard."
They butted up against the storage barrels floating at the side of Ruad's clan ship at the waterline. Saan swung out of the dinghy, climbed onto the barrels, then scrambled up the rope ladder to reach the main deck, with Ruad close behind.
Saan studied the workings of the ship as Ruad showed him the decks, the storage compartments and complex rigging. Aboard, families hung tapestries and beaded curtains across private cabins. Women fed their children, men tossed sharp daggers at a target painted on a mast, boys scrambled up the rigging and swung from high ropes.
Remembering what he and Sen Sherufa had postulated after looking at the charts of the southern coastline, Saan asked, "What's the greatest distance the Nunghal-Su have sailed? How far have you gone?"
"Far enough, but not so far that we would sail off the edge of the world. Any fool who risks that deserves his fate."
"Is there really a precipice, a watery cliff that plunges into nowhere?" Saan had always been skeptical of such tales. "If that's true, why haven't all the seas drained away to nothing by now?" "It is not for me to explain the intentions of God--but I do not doubt what I have heard. I will never doubt it again." : "But what if, instead of finding the edge of the world, you find the port city of Lahjar, and then the rest of Uraba?" Saan couldn't keep the excitement from his voice. "Would you be willing to make the attempt? " "I would not." Ruad tersely shook his head. "It is not for us to go so far. People could not survive it."
Saan was disappointed. "Most would not have survived crossing the Great Desert, either--but Asaddan did. And then we did--so it can be done." He imagined how the war with Tierra would change if all these imposing Nunghal-Su vessels sailed up in a great fleet to swarm the Aidenist coastal villages. With this incredible navy and firepowder, the enemy would stand no chance. 'Just consider it, Ruad. After you're back at sea, when you feel the call of the far horizon... think about where else you might

go-"
"The world is a big enough place, and the sea is vaster than my imagination. I don't have to see all of it."
"But /would like to," Saan said, gazing out over the crowded ships and harbor to the sea beyond.

114

Corag Highlands

After a dozen years of self-imposed isolation in the mountain meadows, Griston Vora barely remembered what it was like to have human company. He had forgotten how to be a good host, but he had not forgotten his humanity. The terrible privation that this skeletal, frostbitten man had endured tugged at his heart. He recalled when he'd been cast adrift on the Luminara's wreckage with Prester Jerard, barely surviving. Criston knew how to help.
First he put the man by the fire, wrapped him in woolen blankets and covered him with a thick fleece. Even so, Hannes shivered uncontrollably, thrashing in internal nightmares and frigid delirium. The man's hands and part of his face bore a waxy sheen of scars that suggested another horrific but old injury. His severely frostbitten skin had large areas covered with purplish patches marked with white spots and blisters.
Criston heated water and added aromatic herbs for a weak tea, then forced the prester to drink it. He prepared a broth with chunks of mutton, carrots, and wild onions, and when his visitor was awake enough to take food, Criston strained out the solid parts and gave him the hearty broth.
The man would likely lose several of his fingers and toes to frostbite, but Criston was no Saedran physician, nor even a village herb-wife. Hannes could not be moved until he regained some of his strength, so Criston cleaned the blisters and wounds as best he could, hoping the poor man would not suffer and die of gangrene before Criston could get him to help.
The dog, now old and limping, sat beside the cot where Hannes rested. For years, good Jerard had helped tend the flocks, but lately his joints and muscles ached too much for vigorous activity, and Criston was glad to let him keep the guest company. Stirring from his cot, Hannes occasionally reached over to stroke the dog's head, though he did not seem to know how to be comfortable around a pet.
"My dog has scars like you do." Criston said when Hannes was awake but still resting. He pointed out the white line along Jerard's left flank from when he'd defended the flock against a wolf. Criston had patched him up, but at times the dog still whimpered in his sleep. "Jerard can't tell me his story, but I saw him get those wounds. You, Prester Hannes, will have to tell me your tale."
Hannes took a long time to gather the strength to explain how he'd been a pilgrim in Ishalem, where Urecari slavers had captured him and taken him to the Gremurr mines. The prester talked of how he escaped into the mountains, but he couldn't remember many details of his grueling trek. "It is with Aiden's blessing that I finally found you. I might have died the next day up there, but Ondun arranged another miracle, and I am here to continue His great work."
As he listened to the story, Criston sensed that his guest kept many secrets, but after what the prester had been through, Criston didn't have any right to press him for further details. Besides, he didn't want Hannes inquiring into his reasons for withdrawing from the rest of humanity and living alone. The battered and water-stained volume of Captain Shay's journal sat on a rickety shelf on his wall; he often reread it during the winter nights, but right now he called no attention to the book or the sad history it embodied.
He guided the conversation to a safer subject. "I've never
520 Kevin J. Anderson

heard of Urecari mines down there. Even if the mountains of Corag are impassable, that coast is above the Edict Line and therefore belongs to Tierra."
"Urecari lie and cheat," Hannes said. "They do not abide by treaties."
Criston sighed. "The Gremurr mines may as well be on the other side of the world. No one can travel through the mountains."
"I did. On Tierran soil, the Urecari are mining metal to make weapons and arm their soldiers against good Aidenists."
Though he had cut himself off from politics and the world, Criston felt anger bubble up within him. He thought of innocent fishing villages like Windcatch, raiders sweeping in to set fire to houses and kirks, killing people, taking away children... and Adrea.
Hardening his resolve, Griston decided to tell the prester his own tale after all, the first time he had spoken of such things since turning his back on the sea. When he was finished, Criston felt exhausted and drained, and cathartic tears slid down his cheeks.
Hannes stared at Criston's fishhook pendant, the now tarnished but deeply prized emblem that Prester Jerard had given him. He rose from the cot, touched the fishhook and blessed him. "I must go back to Calay," he said in a hoarse voice. "I need to report to the prester-marshall."
"You'll need a doctor sooner than that. I've done all the healing I can here, but caring for your frostbite is beyond my skill."
"Ondun will keep me whole," Hannes said.
Criston made preparations, packing food and fashioning a walking staff for Hannes. Leaving the sheep to tend themselves
in the big meadows, they set off at dawn, proceeding at a slow pace. Old Jerard refused to be left behind; his tail wagged with determination though he plodded along with a stiff-legged gait, instead of bounding.
Hannes would let a doctor tend him at the river settlement while they waited for the next riverboat to arrive. When they reached the small town and rickety wharf on the bank where barges stopped once or twice a week, Criston assessed the current flowing to where it would empty into the Oceansea and felt a faint longing to go aboard with Prester Hannes.
He could accompany his guest to Calay, or he could return to Windcatch and reclaim a normal life. Once a year, he still wrote his letter, placed it in a bottle, and made the pilgrimage to the sea. Occasionally, he visited Ciarlo back at his old home. But that was all. There would never be a normal life without Adrea.
"I can't go with you," he said to the prester. "Not yet."
"I understand, my son." Hannes gave him another blessing. "You have your faith and your own mission in life, as I have mine."
People came to the docks to see them. The local prester, both overjoyed and dismayed to see Hannes, told Criston, "I will take care of him and get him a doctor."
After the two men said their awkward farewells, Criston whistled for slow-moving Jerard. He did not want to stay for a warm meal, because being around so many people made him uncomfortable. He and the dog headed back to the calm emptiness of the mountains.

C7
115

Nunghal Lands

To signal the end of the annual clan-gathering festival, the anchored Nunghal-Su ships fired off their immense cannons, belching orange blasts and resounding booms into the sky. Standing on the deck of his large vessel in the heart of the cluster, Ruad whistled and waved his arms. Saan's grandfather was so delighted by the explosions that he looked ten years younger.
With careful deliberation, Sen Sherufa had kept an accurate tally of days since their crossing of the Great Desert. Taking her makeshift calendar to Saan and Imir, she pointed to their schedule. "Half a year has passed, and the winds will be turning northward any day. We have to start making our plans very soon. We'll need the khan's help to fix the damaged sand coracle in time. We'll need supplies, too. We've got to find coal or something to burn that will keep the balloon inflated. There's a lot of work to do, Imir."
Though he felt completely at home among the Nunghals, Saan agreed. "We need to get back to Olabar so we can tell my father everything we've learned."
"Firepowder and Nunghal navies will change his plans for war, that is certain," Imir said. "Maybe it'll be enough to make the Aidenists surrender quickly and end this constant conflict." Saan knew his grandfather had never wanted to go to war in the first place.
"I wish you would stay longer among us, but I certainly understand your desire to go home," Asaddan said, crossing his arms
over his chest as he gazed at the rocking Nunghal-Su ships in the harbor. He scrubbed Saan's blond hair with his hand. "Maybe you should let this one stay with us. I'll teach him a few more things!"
Saan swatted at him, laughing. "I need to get back to my mother--and Soldan-Shah Omra. How do you expect him to fight a war without me?"
The bigNunghal chuckled. "How, indeed?"

While the departing Nunghal-Ari clans fanned out from the seacoast, Khan Jikaris dispatched workers and supplies to the site of the grounded sand coracle at the edge of the desert, giving his blessing to their return home, so long as they sent more emissaries back. More organized and practical than the lackadaisical khan, Asaddan knew where to get supplies of coal, reeds, and wood, as well as thick, smelly tar to seal and protect the outer surfaces of the basket and the silk balloon sack. He sent a group of young men northward at a fast pace.
By the time Asaddan, Saan, Sherufa, and Imir reached the site in the north, the seasonal winds were already brisk. Their coracle lay battered but undisturbed where they had left it; the silken sack deflated, folded, and anchored with large stones; the splintered wicker basket tied down and sheltered. The young Nunghals Asaddan sent ahead had set up work tents for the large project. Several baskets of coal had already arrived.
Saan worked hard with his Nunghal companions to patch the odd vessel. Though he was not quite thirteen, the clans considered him an adult, and he was pleased with what he had achieved among them. When he returned home, he would convince Omra to let him participate in the real war planning against the Aidenists.

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He teased Asaddan. "This trip will be easier than the last. Without you taking up so much room in the coracle basket, we can carry a lot more coal."
The Nunghal flexed his large bicep. "I'll find my way back to see you again--wait and see."
Imir took him at his word. "If you do, I will have a goldsmith make you a new tooth, so your smile can dazzle even the khan."
"Then how would I whistle?" He let out a shrill tone that startled the nearby buffalo.
Sen Sherufa watched the preparations, often testing the wind. Her thick hair blew in disarray until she tied it back. Imir remained close beside her, touching her shoulder from time to time, and she did not object. "This voyage will not be as frightening as the last, since we know it can be done. After we get back, we can build an entire fleet of bigger coracles and begin trade across the Great Desert with the Nunghals."
"We should also try to sail ships past Lahjar and around to the southern sea, to see if my theory is right," Saan decided.
"Or maybe I will convince Ruad to make the voyage from this side of the world," Asaddan said. "I would like to join him in that." When Saan stared at him in surprise, he shrugged his broad shoulders. "It can't be any more difficult than walking across the Great Desert!"

With the coracle repaired and the balloon sack inflated, the three Urabans waved goodbye as whooping Nunghals disconnected the ropes. The straining balloon lifted them higher, until they could see the panorama of extensive grasslands, the herds of buffalo, the nomadic riders--and the sea of dunes. Riding brisk air currents, their coracle raced north across the expanse of sand.
Although he would miss the land of the Nunghals, Saan carried a great contentment within him. He had experienced a tremendous, life-changing adventure and had learned about the world, the Nunghal culture, their beliefs, and their simple yet intricate way of life. He had a different perspective now, an exciting breadth of knowledge and imagination. Though the wasteland stretched on and on, Saan knew that the Great Desert was not the edge of the world. He couldn't wait to tell Omra and his mother the things he had seen
Several days later, nearing home, they passed over a desert bandit encampment, different from the oasis they had seen on their outbound journey. Imir scowled down at it. "Always in the past, the bandits have vanished into the sands like desert ghosts, but if we build more sand coracles, our archers can attack their encampments from above--wipe them out like the vermin they are." He drew obvious satisfaction from the idea. "That, at least, will be a decisive war... one we can win."
They finally passed the edge of the Great Desert back into Uraba and continued to drift across Missinia, traversing many more leagues before the baskets of fuel gave out. When the sand coracle gradually settled to the ground and Saan and his companions climbed out of the basket onto solid land, he felt quite happy to be home.
By now, his little brother Criston would be almost a year old, and his sisters had probably grown by several inches. By now, the Uraban armies might have defeated the Tierrans once and for all. He couldn't wait to hear the news from Soldan-Shah Omra.
116

Calay

Prester Hannes wept when he finally caught sight of Calay from the riverboat. Returning to it now after so many tribulations, he felt that the blessed capital city of Tierra was as sacred as lost Ishalem. Hannes had been trapped in the purgatory of Uraba for thirteen years after the burning of the great city, and before that he had hidden among the Urecari, watching, learning. A spy for God.
Now, reaching Galay was his true reward for long and faithful service, saved from the jaws of hell itself. How could any pilgrim to any shrine feel more blessed than he did right now?
His frostbitten hands and feet were bandaged, and the pain had dulled to the point where he could ignore it. Under the ministrations of the local healer, he had lost only three toes and two fingers; no gangrene had set in, and the stumps were healing nicely. He felt invigorated and whole, ready and able to do much more for the cause of Aiden. But first he had to report to the prester-marshall all that he had done and all he had seen--particularly the extensive Gremurr mines in Tier ran territory.
After Hannes disembarked from the riverboat, he walked in a daze along the docks in the Farmers' District. His new clothes fit him poorly, because the rivertown prester had been a broader shouldered man, but at least they weren't Urecari clothes. At least they weren't a slave's clothes.'
No one knew who he was. He wandered through the various districts, drinking in the smells, sounds, and sights. Home. Safe.
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It was a miracle. When people talked around him, the buzz of conversation sounded alien, yet wonderful--the Tierran language was music to his ears. Tears sprang to his eyes as he saw pennants and wooden business signs that unabashedly displayed the fishhook symbol.
The rivertown prester had given him a new pendant, and Hannes clung to the symbolic fishhook even when he slept, swearing to himself that he would never again be deprived of the outward sign of his faith.
On his way to the Royal District and the city's main kirk, he was pleased to see another small kirk with beautiful Iborian-style architecture, built in the name of King Korastine's second wife, who had died several years before. Hannes felt sad at the reminder of how long he had been gone, how much he had missed. He hadn't even known King Korastine had married again. Little Princess Anjine was fully grown and ready to become queen, and now the king had a young son, as well.:w:>¦:>.:¦:,
But those were temporal matters, and Prester Hannes was more concerned with spiritual things. He touched the fishhook in the hollow of his throat, whispered a quiet prayer, and headed toward the magnificent towers of the main Aidenist kirk, near the castle.
With reverent gratitude, he passed through the tall, always open doors into the voluminous interior. Most worshippers came for the traditional dawn service, but even in the afternoon some of the faithful had come to pray, to study the relics and paintings, or to converse quietly with the attending presters.
One man in clean white vestments came forward, smiling a welcome to Hannes. "May the Compass guide you." He hesitated upon seeing Hannes's scarred cheek, his missing eyebrow,
528 Kevin J. Anderson
¦¦I
I'llbut then he recognized the pendant, saw the trappings of office that the village prester had given him.
In a gruff voice, Hannes said, "I need to see Prester-Marshall Baine. For many years now, I have been on a holy mission that he commanded. He must hear my report." The kirk prester was flustered. "Prester-Marshall... Baine?"
"Tell him it is Hannes. He will remember me well."
"But... surely you mean Prester-Marshall Rudio?"
"Rudio?" Vaguely remembering a prester of that name, Hannes felt a growing dread rise in his chest. "Has something happened to Prester-Marshall Baine?" In halting words, the prester explained how Baine and a reconstruction crew had been horribly martyred in Ishalem. "But that was a dozen years ago, sir, and the Urecari have committed many more crimes since."
Hannes reeled, entirely unbalanced by the news, his grief and ¦anguish transformed to an even deeper hatred of the Urecari.
While he had continued his good works in the name of Ondun across the soldanates, the evil Urecari had been committing even Bmore heinous acts. It seemed the heretics had balanced out every
¦triumph Hannes had made with an atrocity of their own. He
IIIlowered his head, and his shoulders convulsed as he struggled to
Icontain his emotions.
The other prester was deeply alarmed by his reaction. "You have been gone a long time, haven't you, sir?" "An eternity. And I have a terrible story to tell." Feeling a resolve like steel harden within him, he straightened. He had never expected his work to be done. "But now I've returned, and I will do anything necessary to protect, preserve, and strengthen the true faith." The prester said, "Let me take you to the prester-marshall. He and the king need to hear your tale."
After Prester-Marshall Rudio checked in the church records and verified that Hannes had indeed been sent on a secret mission by Baine, years ago, the old religious leader hurried him to the castle and asked for an immediate audience with King Korastine.
When he stood in the private conference chamber, Hannes was shocked to see how much older the king appeared as he came in limping, rubbing a gouty knee. The weight of the long, simmering war and the death of Ilrida had exhausted him. Now the only true spark in his life was the nearly completed Arkship on which he would soon depart in search of Terravitae.
When Hannes repeated his long tale, Korastine nodded sadly, his eyes tinged with nostalgia. "Prester-Marshall Baine was a good friend and adviser, a true visionary. He changed our attitude toward exploring the world. I credit him with the goal we now have. The Arkship will succeed in finding Holy Joron, mark my words. I--the King of Tierra and descendant of Aiden himself--have his True Compass, which will guide us back to Terravitae."
"Yes, I saw your ship," Hannes said, tears brimming in his eyes. "It reminds me of Aiden's holy Arkship, which I watched burn to ashes in Ishalem."
"May the Compass guide us in our quest for Terravitae," said Prester-Marshall Rudio.
Hannes nodded, but that was not enough. "Now, let me tell you about the mines at Gremurr, how you can reach them... and why you must destroy them."

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117

Olabar Palace

With Soldan-Shah Omra gone so long on his campaign to recapture Ishalem, Istar knew that Cliaparia was still scheming to do them harm. She kept a close watch on her daughters and rarely left little Griston; she also missed Saan terribly, and hoped--expected--him to return soon.
When Omra's youngest wife went into labor, the entire mood in the palace changed. An army of doctors and midwives came to attend Naori, making sure that nothing went wrong with the birth. A group of sikaras led by Fyiri burned prayer strips and set ribbons into the wind, offering blessings to Naori and the baby.
Though the young woman thrashed and wailed in pain, the birth was uneventful. The midwives handed her a pink and healthy infant boy--Omra's second son, next in the line of succession. In the meeting square, from the empty platforms where the two giant bronze statues had once stood, criers shouted out the news that the soldan-shah had a new heir.
Safe in her own quarters, Istar felt relieved and satisfied to hear the announcement. Now even if Cliaparia did manage to get pregnant again, she had become irrelevant.
During the last few weeks of Naori's pregnancy, Cliaparia had become the young woman's closest friend and companion, worming her way into Naori's confidence by plying her with obsequious attention. Istar had always been on cordial terms with the third wife, but she let Cliaparia play her transparent games, while she attended her own daughters and little Criston.
Istar waited a suitable time for Naori to rest and recover before going to her chambers to see Omra's other son. Adreala and Istala were taken to their morning classes, where the sikaras taught them how to write and inscribe prayers. Altiara, one of Istar's handmaidens, volunteered to put Criston to bed for a nap before the sunset religious ceremonies began. The young woman had watched over Criston many times before, and Istar kissed the boy's smooth forehead before she left.
Wrapping fine silk scarves and sashes about herself, Istar went to Naori's chambers. She bowed her head respectfully as she entered the third wife's bedroom. The new mother lay in bed, propped up with many pillows, holding the newborn in a blanket as it suckled on her breast. Naori's dark brown eyes sparkled. "Oh, Istar--I knew you would come! See the baby, he's beautiful, and healthy, and perfect."
Cliaparia sat like a guard dog at Naori's side, not bothering to hide her flash of resentment. She poured a cup of lukewarm herbal tea. "Here, Naori, drink this. It will help you regain your strength."
Obviously Cliaparia wanted the young mother to be indebted to her, but Naori was oblivious. "You are so sweet, Cliaparia. Could you please empty my washbasin? The water is dirty, and I'd like to refresh myself." In that instant, Cliaparia's role changed from that of a dear companion to little more than a servant, and she knew it. Istar tried to hide her smile, but did not succeed.
"I think I am going to name him Omra after his father, or maybe Imir. But it hasn't been decided yet," Naori bubbled to Istar, aglow with the happiness of new motherhood, expecting everyone to be as overjoyed as she was. "Would you like to hold him, Istar?"
Taking the baby, Istar looked appreciatively down at the

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infant. He was indeed beautiful. "Someday he and my little Cris ton will play together."
"They will be great friends," Naori vowed and took the baby back. Lingering long enough to see Cliaparia return with the washbasin, Istar bowed again to Naori and took her leave.
As she approached her own quarters, she heard screams.
The usual guard was gone from the corridor. Istar began to run, her sandals slapping on the tiles. A baby was wailing-- screaming. Little Criston! She pushed through the beaded curtains so violently that strings tore, scattering colored glass spheres all over the floor. Altiara was frantic, holding her face in her hands in horror. The guard had smashed something on the floor and ground it furiously under his boot heel.
In his crib, Criston lay shrieking, and Istar ran toward him. "What happened!"
In disgust, the guard looked down at the tiles where a hairy multi-legged mess lay in a pool of its own splattered ooze.
"What happened?" Istar rounded on Altiara. "Answer me!" She shook the handmaiden back into reason.
"S-sand spider! In the crib! It bit--"
Istar heard nothing more as she tore away her baby's blankets to see two angry red punctures in his side. Sand spiders were as deadly as they were rare, and their poison had no known antidote. The large desert creatures sometimes came into the city hidden in baskets carried by caravans. Her gaze jerked toward the dead creature. A spider, larger than her splayed hand.. .the venom in that one bite would have been sufficient to kill ten grown men. Her baby--her precious baby boy...
She held Criston. He was already twitching with convulsions. Angry red splotches covered his pale skin.
"I don't know how it happened, my lady!" Altiara wailed. "I
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checked his bedding. I was sure it was safe. I screamed for the guard as soon as I saw..."
Istar did not care about how or why--not now. The spider had been killed, but it was too late. Her little boy didn't have a chance.
Istar could merely hold and rock him, weeping as he convulsed. His pale skin turned bluish black from internal hemorrhaging as the poison spread through his system. She caressed his cheek, told him to hush, to rest. But when his wails finally faded into silence, she took no comfort from his peace.
Her searing cry of grief was as sharp and painful as the bite of a scimitar. Altiara collapsed to the floor, striking her forehead against the tiles and sobbing.
The guard looked deeply shamed. "I could not act more quickly, my lady. I came as soon--"
A harsh, low moan continued to come not just from Istar's throat, but from the depths of her soul, and she didn't think it would ever end. As the commotion drew alarms and curiosity seekers from around the palace, Istar looked through the liquid vision of tears to see shocked people crowding, staring. She refused to let go of the baby, though he was already dead. More guards arrived, led by Kel Rovic himself, much too late to do anything.
Among the onlookers, only one face showed no grief at all. Cliaparia looked smug and not particularly sad. "I see you are no longer the mother of the soldan-shah's heir." With that she left, back straight, head held high.
In that instant, Istar knew. Cliaparia had murdered her son.

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118

Corag Highlands

Alone in his cottage, Griston could feel winter coming on. For weeks now he had been stockpiling firewood: chopping dead trees, splitting logs, and piling the wood against the side of the stone-walled cottage. He needed enough fuel to keep him and Jerard warm throughout the season.
Each day as he went out to gather wood, old Jerard plodded alongside him, never letting his master out of sight. Inside the cottage, the dog sat dutiful and patient as Criston struck a spark to light the fire; when the blaze was going, the dog stretched out to let the heat warm his bones. His dark fur had become frosted with more and more silver, and when the dog slept, he twitched and stirred, dreaming of chasing fat marmots or fending off wolves.
The trek down to the rivertown with Prester Hannes had exhausted the dog, and after they returned to the high meadow, old Jerard no longer had the energy to run among the sheep. Instead, he lounged all day in the grass in front of the cottage, watching his master do the daily chores.
While he fixed his own dinner, Griston talked to the dog, halfway convinced that Jerard could understand him. The dog's teeth had gone bad, and so Criston cooked meat and cut it into small pieces that Jerard could chew and swallow; Criston didn't mind. Jerard had been his faithful companion for thirteen years.
After they finished their meal, he sat in his large creaking chair with his whittling knife and a block of wood to make another ship model. His life was content, solid, and unremark
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THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

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able, though sometimes--when he opened his emotional wall by a thin crack--he did miss the sea.
As the fire burned low and full dark fell outside, Jerard stirred from the hearth, shook his head, and looked up with his soulful brown eyes. Criston said, "Good boy," out of habit.
Jerard heaved himself to his four paws and limped over to Criston's chair. He sat on his haunches, tail wagging vaguely. With a plaintive whine, he put his head in Griston's lap. Criston petted him, frowning, sure that something was wrong. Jerard's tail thumped twice on the floor. His lungs expanded as he heaved one long breath and let it out like a sigh.
Then, from one instant to the next, the dog was dead. Quietly and peacefully, his spirit floated away like smoke up the chimney. Criston felt the sudden heaviness as the dog slumped against him.
He could only stare, unblinking. In shock, he petted the dog's head once more, then lay his brow against the warm black fur. He couldn't move. Criston had known this time was coming and, aware of the dog's pain and weariness, had both dreaded it and bitterly prayed for Jerard's release and peace.
But it didn't matter how much he had prepared his heart--it could never be enough. Criston held poor Jerard, and the tears poured from his eyes like a sudden monsoon. Without conscious volition, he slid out of the chair to the floor beside the dog and held him all through the night until the fire went out, sometime before dawn.

He buried Jerard under a towering cairn, tearing rocks from the wall of his cottage and stacking the heavy stones high and deep so that predators could not reach the dog's body. The task took him most of the day. With the partly dismantled cottage in a shambles, Criston slept out in the open that night, wrapped in a blanket next to the cairn.
"You were a good dog, Jerard," he said before he slept. "Faithful and true. I hope Ondun has fields for you to run in and other dogs to play with." Criston stroked one of the smooth stones as though he were petting his friend one last time. "I hope I was as good a companion to you as you were to me."
In the morning, he rose, stiff and sore in the chill of dawn. From inside the cottage he retrieved the few things he thought he might need, a few carvings, Captain Shay's old sea monster journal. On his trek, he would inform the mountain villagers that he had left his sheep and cottage behind; someone from the village could claim and care for the flock. With Jerard gone, that part of his life was over.
He removed the fishhook pendant from his neck, the pendant Prester Jerard had given him so long ago, and draped it lovingly between the stones of the dog's cairn.
Criston had had enough of the mountains, enough of solid ground beneath his feet. Feeling the call again for the first time in years, he set off on foot and left the Corag highlands behind him. At long last, Criston Vora headed back to the sea.

119

Uraba

Many Urabans had seen the sand coracle as it flew over the southern edge of Missinia. Riders came out to greet the returning travelers, escorting Saan, Imir, and Sen Sherufa to the city of Arikara, where they were welcomed with excitement and disbelief. Soldan Xivir and his sister Lithio had, with heavy hearts, concluded that they were lost and would never come back from the Great Desert.
Imir was happy to report the location of the desert bandit encampments, and explained how sand coracles could be used to hunt them down. Saan took two separate baths just to get all the grit from his pores and hair. The Nunghal clans traditionally scrubbed themselves in streams and lakes, or swam in the cold ocean; they had never heard of a heated and perfumed bath. Saan enjoyed returning to civilization.
That evening, facing the banquet Xivir's kitchens had prepared for them, Saan realized how much he'd missed the taste of good Uraban food. They savored pies stuffed with minced pigeon, eggs, cinnamon, and walnuts, and he ate an entire bowl of salt-cured olives. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten meat other than buffalo or fish.
Lithio had saved a seat at the table for the former soldan-shah, but he chose to sit next to Sen Sherufa. His wife seemed more amused than jealous. She made much of Imir's appearance now that his hair and beard had grown back; just to be contrary, she claimed that she had liked him better bald.
After enjoying the hospitality of the Missinian soldan, the companions were anxious to return to Olabar. Sen Sherufa wanted to be back among her own people, and Saan longed to see his mother and sisters again, but he was most enthusiastic to tell all his adventures to Omra. His father would be proud of the things he had learned and experienced.
K "That may have to wait, young man," Xivir answered. "The soldan-shah departed with his armies to recapture the isthmus of Ishalem, once and for all." Hearing this, Saan was crestfallen to have missed such a grand opportunity to fight with the Urecari armies on such an important conquest.
I< The next day, Xivir provided a caravan to take them overland back to the capital. Swift riders were dispatched to carry the news of their imminent arrival to Olabar, and by the time
Saan and the group reached the capital city, banners had been hung and ribbons fluttered on poles to welcome them.
But Saan noticed a subdued mood, the remnants of black crepe and drooping flags that marked a time of mourning. Olabar was a confused mixture of extreme emotions. Kel Rovik and a group of uniformed guards came to greet them before the palace's main arch. The guard captain saluted formally to Imir, then showed respect to Saan, as Omra always ordered the guards to do.
"Something is wrong," Saan blurted. "What's happened?"
Rovik frowned, hesitant. "It is not my place to--"
"Give us the news," Imir said, sounding once more like the soldan-shah, though he was nearly unrecognizable with his gray hair and beard. "I order you."
"Soldan-Shah Omra has a new son by his third wife, Naori. But--" Rovik drew a deep breath, as though facing a battle. "His other son, the heir, died from the bite of a sand spider."
Saan reeled. His baby brother was dead! "I have to see my ¦'mother." He ran past Kel Rovik and the guards into the famil¦iar
halls. He found Istar in her quarters, kneeling in her best
garments, scrubbing the floor cracks between the tiles with rags, polishing, as if she were once again a slave. She looked up at him with empty eyes and stared, as if he were a ghost or hallucination. Then she got to her feet. "You're back! Saan! Safe and alive."
When she threw her arms around him, he hugged her tightly. "I came back to you, Mother. I promised I would. But..." He didn't know what else to say, how to speak to her.
With a sob, Istar said, "Griston is dead."
Saan could sense that a great darkness lived within her, a heavy shadow that had fallen on her heart. She pressed her
539

face against his shoulder, and her damp tears felt cool as they evaporated on his skin. "I love you, Mother," he said. Her body was racked with shudders. Istar cried and cried, and he tried to soothe her.
Then, oddly, she just stopped, as if she had run out of grief, run out of tears. She released her hold on Saan and stood back, straightening her garments, squaring her shoulders, and wiping her face. He was afraid to ask what had caused this abrupt change in her.
"You returned. You came home," his mother said quietly, as if she still couldn't believe it. "But I need to be alone for a while."
She bent down and continued her frenetic cleaning.

When Sen Sherufa returned to her home in the Saedran District of Olabar, she could barely contain her excitement. She still had the Nunghal map that showed the detailed coastline of the southern sea. Ever since looking upon the great unexplored waters and studying the charts in the mapmaker's stall, she had been planning how to disseminate the information to other Saedrans. Such a world-shaking revelation had to be added to the Mappa Mundi. It was the best information they had. The news needed to be shared, but privately.
Aldo na-Guric had given her so much information about the Tierran continent that now she wanted to return the favor--if only she could find a way to deliver a copy of the new map to him.
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 Tier ran--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 Galay, preferably one named Aldo na-Curic." The man pursed his lips. "And how am 1 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.

120

Ishalem

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 Tier ran soldiers, but they do not seem 11well armed or well fortified. They are not prepared for our
tassault."
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 soldanshah 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?
121

Calay

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 Holyjoron, 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 Holyjoron 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 Ark- ship's hull: the unfurlingfern ofUrec.
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.
When some of the fleeing young Arkship workers were caught and confronted, they struggled, spitting curses in the Uraban language. Realizing they couldn't escape, they took up knives and plunged them into their own chests or throats. Others, cornered at the ends of piers, dove into the water and swam away, either drowning or simply vanishing.
Bleary-eyed, his long hair tousled and his beard sticking out in wild directions, the shipwright Kjelnar stalked up to Korastine, also in his nightclothes. The Iborian man gaped at the burning Arkship and the flurry of men trying to douse it with a bucket brigade. Nothing could stop the flames.
"It seems I won't be captain after all," Kjelnar said.
Standing together in shared awe and misery, the two men wept as they watched their hopes go up in smoke.

122

Olabar

Istar could have asked Saan for help, or she could have demanded assistance from Kel Rovik and the palace guards who were sympathetic to her. But she decided that vengeance was a private matter to be savored, or at least endured, alone. She knew the answers, but she did not know the details... yet.
Without Omra, she had suffered through the funeral for baby Criston, accompanied by Saan, her two daughters, old Imir, and a roomful of functionaries. Even Naori attended, carrying her
infant boy, who was now the only surviving son of the soldanshah. Istar knew the sweet young woman meant no insult to her.
Cliaparia also came, dutifully dressed in mourning colors; the smoke-gray veil across her face covered a triumphant smile, but her eyes still twinkled.
Istar was deaf to the murmured expressions of sympathy. Omra wasn't here. He didn't know. When he did return, she feared he would blame her for the death of the baby, and Istar didn't know if she could bear that.
As the only way to keep her sanity, she hardened her heart, trying to convince herself--even whispering the words aloud as she lay in the darkness of an empty night--that Saan was her only true son, that little Criston was a child born of a marriage she had never wanted, to a man she still did not allow herself to love. But that was a lie. Criston had been her baby, her flesh and blood, and she had loved the child as much as it was possible for a mother to love.
And he had been murdered.
The day after the funeral, without announcing herself, Istar slipped into the private room of Altiara, the handmaiden responsible for watching her baby on that fateful night. The other handmaidens saw Istar, but did not intervene. She was, after all, the wife of the soldan-shah.
Altiara was not in her room, busy with her daily chores. Istar ransacked the young woman's possessions, searched in her cabinets, under her bed, on shelves and in corners. Hidden beneath a pile of folded silks, she discovered a small cage of fine brass wire... the sort of cage that sellers of exotic creatures would have used to hold a captive spider--a sand spider. Istar crushed the delicate cage in her grip and dropped the ruined mass.
She stalked out of the handmaiden's chambers and encountered a serving woman in the hall. "Where is Altiara? I must see her. Now."

W
One look at Istar's fearsome countenance spurred an instant reply. "She is up in the Sunset Tower, my lady, unpacking garments for the autumn festival." The young servant continued to talk, but Istar was already moving. She ascended the winding stair to the open parapet, where once, she remembered, Omra had brought her to watch the blazing orange sunset. Istar had no room for fond memories now.
Altiara was working by herself, her face gaunt, her eyes shadowed with grief... or perhaps guilt? The handmaiden had removed piled silks from large cedar chests and sorted them on the clean tile floor. Breezes from the open balcony stirred the fabric, bringing a chill to the air.
Altiara looked up as Istar entered. "My lady!" She rose to her feet and bowed her head.
Istar slid forward like a striking cobra and grabbed all of Altiara's necklaces with hands that had grown strong with determination. "I found the cage. I know what you did to my son." Altiara's knees gave out, and only Istar's iron-hard grasp yanked her back up. "The name. Who ordered this?" Istar shook her once, hard. "Mow!"
"She... she threatened me!"
"And you did not think to warn me?"
"Cliaparia would have had me killed. She told me I would be rewarded. But I... I can't--"?
Istar neither wanted nor needed to hear more. Amazed at her own strength, she picked up the trembling handmaiden and carried her to the open balcony. Altiara screamed and struggled, but Istar looked at her with eyes that were already dead. "Cliaparia is not the one you should have feared."
As though she were discarding a soiled garment, Istar simply tossed the young woman off the balcony, not hearing the
long, thin scream--or when it was cut short on the flagstones below.
Istar felt like a machine, a machine of stone and hate. For years, the war between Uraba and Tierra had dominated the events of the world. Now she fought her own war within the palace.
She moved down into the grand hall, listening to the faint cries and commotion outside in the courtyard as someone discovered the handmaiden's body. Kel Rovik and his guards rushed outside, but Istar turned in the other direction.
Utterly calm, she asked several slaves where she might find Cliaparia, until one announced, "The First Wife has gone to the bazaar at the harbor docks. She wanted to find a gift for the soldan-shah for when he returns from Ishalem."
Istar took no escort, told no one where she was going, not even Saan. Leaving the palace, she walked the streets of Olabar, followed the winding lanes and alleys. She passed stalls of vendors and weavers, potion-sellers and candle-makers. The savory smells of roasting meat skewers did not entice her. A stray cat brushed against her legs, but she ignored it and walked on.
Finally, she saw Gliaparia out on one of the wooden piers, where fishermen hung their nets for mending... nets with leaden weights, spherical glass floats, and long lines with many rows of sharp fishhooks.
A bevy of chattering handmaidens surrounded Cliaparia, carrying satchels filled with items she had already bought. Now Cliaparia stopped to watch an old man who sat atop a wooden stool. With arthritic yet still-nimble fingers, he crafted intricate sculptures of knots and strings--just like her brother, Ciarlo, had made.
Ciarlo... She thought of her beloved Criston... and her mur
dered son who had the same precious name. Her revenge was a building wave, curling, cresting, and ready to crash down.
The handmaidens noticed Istar first. Cliaparia looked up to see her walking without any escort or guards. With a sneer on her face and an insult on her lips, Cliaparia sniffed. "If it isn't the grieving mother. Are you sure your other children are safe?"
Istar lashed out with her dagger, stabbing downward into the hateful woman's left breast. "Murderer." She yanked out the blade, then rammed it home again in the side of Cliaparia's neck. "You killed the soldan-shah's heir." She stabbed again. "You killed my son!"
The handmaidens screamed. Cliaparia looked astonished, gasping wetly as Istar pulled the blade free again. Cliaparia flailed her pale hands against the bright crimson blood fountaining from her wounds. Feebly, she tried to fend off further attack, but Istar merely shoved the dying woman into the nets, where the sharp fishhooks bit into her skin, her clothes. She hung like an unsatisfactory catch, wriggling desperately.
There were more screams now. The old man with his knotted sculptures knocked over his stool as he staggered backward. Men came running, but the gathering crowd drew back in horror as Cliaparia opened and closed her mouth. The stains of red grew larger and larger.
No one interfered with Istar. She focused only on Cliaparia. "Now /am First Wife of the soldan-shah." Then, with her blade she severed the cords that held up the drying net.
Cliaparia fell to the dock boards in a bloody heap, tangled in the net, caught on the fishhooks. In disgust and white-hot anger, Istar shoved the dying woman off the edge of the dock. Cliaparia splashed into the water and quickly sank.
I

123

Calay

I
By the next morning the fire in the Arkship had burned out, but the air remained heavy with ash and shattered hopes. Anjine stood next to her little brother, so angry that she could not speak. All the work, all the dreams, all the hopes for finding Terravi-tae... all the desperate anticipation that had kept her father functioning since the death of Ilrida. Anjine's eyes were red, not just from the thick smoke that hung like a pall in the air.
Tomas was crying, even though he didn't understand. His confused emotions whiplashed back and forth. "Did the big ship burn? Why did the big ship burn?"
But she had no answers for his questions, not yet. She just stood, squeezing his shoulder so hard he flinched. "Hush, now."
"We should have installed the ice dragon's horn," Korastine said. "It would have protected the ship." He stood with the Saedran scholar Sen Leo na-Hadra; if anything, the Saedran looked more devastated than her father did.
"Men will always find ways to destroy other things," Sen Leo said. "Nothing can provide sure protection... even the horn of an ice dragon."
Wearing his naval uniform, Mateo walked up to present himself to Anjine. While he was back in Calay between patrols, Anjine had contacted Comdar Delnas and requested that Mateo be made captain of his own ship. Now, though, she considered transferring him from the navy into the royal guard, so he could be close. She needed his protection.
Now that the Arkship was destroyed, Anjine wanted to make
Mateo promise that he would apprehend the Urecari who had done such a monstrous thing. But she couldn't let herself show weakness in public, or show any personal feelings. She stood straight and drew deep breaths. Mateo would know what to do, regardless.
He looked at the king but seemed to decide that Korastine was not yet ready to hear the details; instead, he spoke directly to Anjine. "There were dozens of the saboteurs, Princess. At least ten killed themselves, but we captured six alive."
"They were fanatics. Anyone who could do such a thing is a mindless, spiteful monster." Anjine clung to her anger as if it were Sapier's fishhook.
"They were coordinated as well," Mateo continued. "All of them young men, the oldest no more than eighteen. Three of them refused to speak at all, though their guilt was quite plain. The others broke under extreme torture." His expression did not flinch, as if he thought nothing of the necessary pain he had inflicted. Her heart ached to see how much he had changed, and to consider what must have happened to change him so.
Neither she nor Mateo were innocent children. They had been when Ishalem burned, but now Anjine was different, too. She made military decisions, ordered men into combat. Some of those men had never returned. They were all casualties of war.
Feeling a new and frightful resolve, Anjine said, "You did your job, Captain. They are animals. You cannot show them common human mercies."
He gave a cursory nod, and a dark expression clouded his face, showing only a hint of the dangerous storm he held inside. Still, Mateo kept his report terse and professional. "There's more, Princess Anjine. Some were young men who had already signed on as cabin boys for the Arkship's voyage."
"They would have sailed on the ship?"
555

"They had many plans within plans... and this may not be their only attack. One prisoner revealed that the Urabans have captured many Tierran children over the years, indoctrinated them in the religion of Urec, and turned them loose here as spies and infiltrators. Calay could be rife with them... and they look just like us, so we would never know."
Anjine felt nauseated. "Handle it, Mateo. Stay here and take over the royal guard. There is no better man to root out evil."
Mateo's expression softened as he gazed at her. He touched her arm, and suddenly he looked very young again. He whispered, "I'm sorry, Tolli. I wish I could have done more." Then he became formal once more. "I serve at Your Majesty's command," he said, his gaze encompassing both Anjine and her father. But Anjine understood that, for the first time, he was addressing her as a queen.
"Thank you," she whispered, and he bowed, then set off to rally the royal guards.
The hulk of the Arkship lay like a beached sea beast, burned all the way to the waterline. The hold had flooded, and the ship had sunk to the shallow bottom of Shipbuilders' Bay. Almost nothing could be salvaged from it.
"This is a crippling blow, a heart-wrenching loss." Korastine raised his head wearily, yet his expression was oddly confident. "But it is not a blow that will defeat us." He looked at his daughter, then at Sen Leo. Although the grief was still plain in his tone, he sounded surprisingly optimistic. "Our Arkship has burned, and the Luminara was lost, but that doesn't mean Terravitae is lost. The land still waits for us. We just have to find a way to travel there."
"And we still have the ice dragon's horn," Kjelnar said., ¦¦¦¦;,
"And Aiden's Compass," the king added.
Anjine was encouraged by her father's renewed hope. No
matter what Korastine said, though, she wondered if he had the strength for another such effort. His staunch bravery had been shaken in a fundamental way by the barbaric Urabans.
Therefore, she would shoulder the necessary burden. She would be the strength of Tierra. "Yes, Father. I vow that we will discover Terravitae. We will find Holy Joron and will reconnect with Ondun's original people. This, I swear."
The men muttered in agreement, but Anjine did not tell them the new purpose that made her so determined: If they could succeed in finding Terravitae and forming an alliance with Holy Joron, then the people in that holy land would help her armies vanquish the evil Urecari.

124

Calay, Saedran District

A man disembarked from a boat in the Merchants' District and began to ask around Galay, 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
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THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 559

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.

125

Olabar

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.
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THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
561

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 Griston. 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.i
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.

126

Calay

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 Griston 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.
While he waited, servants set up a table for the food. Curiosity seekers gathered in the doorways to listen. Criston slung his pack
off his shoulder and opened it to withdraw his detailed hand carved models of new ship designs. He presented the models to the king. "I know of your Arkship project, Majesty. I come not only to offer you my story, but my services as well. I have already been to the edge of the world. If that is where you need to go again, then I want to be part of the expedition."
ABILAN one of the soldanates of Uraba.
ADREA wife of Criston Vora.
ADREALA first daughter of Adrea by Omra.
AIDEN one of the two brothers who sailed from Terravitae to
discover the world. The descendants of his crew populated
Tierra. AIDEN'S LIGHTHOUSE a tall lighthouse on the western side
of Ishalem.
AIDENIST follower of the Book of Aiden. ALAMONT one of the five reaches of Tierra, rich agricultural
land led by Destrar Shenro.
ALDO NA-CURIC young Saedran, chosen as a chartsman. ALTIARA one of Istar's handmaidens in the Olabar court. ANDOUK soldan of Yuarej, father of Cliaparia. ANJINE the daughter of King Korastine. ARKSHIP ancient vessel wrecked in Ishalem, believed to be ;¦ the original vessel belonging either to Aiden or Urec. ARIKARA capital city of Missinia.
ASHA second wife of Soldan-Shah Imir, a lover of animals. ASADDAN Nunghal refugee who crossed the Great Desert to
Missinia.
ATTAR soldan of Outer Wahilir, cousin of Soldan Huttan.
BAINE prester-marshall of the Aidenist church; he called for
further exploration of the world. BARTHO father of Prester Hannes. BIENTO NA-CURIC Saedran painter, Aldo's father. BOOKOFAIDEN Aidenist holy book. BORA'S BASTION capital city of Alamont Reach. BORNAN, EREO father of Mateo, a captain in the royal
guard who died saving the king. BORNAN, MATEO ward of King Korastine, raised in the
castle after his father was killed in the line of duty. BROECK destrar of Iboria Reach.
BURILO the son of the Missinia soldan, Xivir, Omra's cousin. CALAVIK capital city of Iboria Reach. CALAY capital city of Tierra.
CAPTAIN'S COMPASS a compass that always points home. CHARTSMAN a Saedran navigator possessing perfect
memory. CIARLO brother of Adrea, lame in one leg. He mends fishnets,
and is studying to become a prester.
CIMDOJV Criston Vora's small boat, named after his father. CITHARA daughter of Cliaparia and Omra. CLIAPARIA Omra's second wife. COMDAR leader of Tierran army and navy. CORAG one of the five reaches of Tierra, a mountainous region
led by Destrar Siescu. CUAR Uraban unit of currency. DELNAS, COMDAR leader of the Tierran military. DESTRAR the leader of one of the five Tierran reaches. DIREC NA-TAYA Saedran candlemaker in Ishalem. DOLICAR, YAL a confidence man willing to take on any job. DOLPHIN'S WAKE merchant ship.
EDICT LINE the boundary agreed to by the leaders of Tierra
and Uraba, dividing the world in half. ERIETTA one of the five reaches of Tierra, mainly rangeland,
led by Destrar Unsul.
ERIMA ur-sikara from Lahjar, successor to Lukai. EYEOFUREC symbol painted on the sails of Uraban ships. ; FARPORT capital city of Soeland Reach. FASHIA the wife of Urec. FENNAN prester in the village of Windcatch.
M; FILLOK brother ofthesoldan of Outer Wahilir, killed in an ill advised raid against a Tierran trading ship. FISHHOOK Tierran trading ship captained by Andon Shay. FRANCOSI new captain of the Dolphin's Wake. _., FYIRI young sikara. "¦ GILADEN Uraban ambassador who brokered the Edict.
GOLDEN FERN fern with mythic properties, supposedly planted by Urec before he became the Traveler. Anyone who finds the fern is destined for greatness.

I GREAT DESERT arid wasteland in the south of Uraba. GREMURR secret Uraban mines on the northern coast of the
Middlesea, in Tierran territory.
HANNES prester assigned to live among the Urecari to observe K their culture.
HUTTAN soldan of Inner Wahilir, cousin of Soldan Attar. IBORIA one of the five reaches of Tierra, the region to the far
north, led by Destrar Broeck. ILNA NA-CURIC younger sister of Aldo. ILRIDA daughter of Destrar Broeck, second wife of King
Korastine.
IMIR the soldan-shah of the Urabans, father of Omra. INNER WAHILIR one of the soldanates of Uraba.

ISHALEM the holy city, site of the wrecked Arkship, considered the center of both the Aidenist and Urecari religions.
ISTALA second daughter of Adrea by Omra.
ISTAR young wife of Zarif Omra.
JERARD old prester serving aboard the Luminara.
JIKARIS khan of the Nunghal-Ari.
JORON the third son of Ondun, who remained behind in Terravitae when Aiden and Urec sailed away.
KEL rank of captain in the soldan-shah's army.
KELPLILIES flowers on the migratory seaweed that drifts into the Windcatch harbor.
KEMM one of Anjine's handmaidens.
KHENARA port city on the Oceansea coast of Uraba.
KIRAGLE Korastine's father, previous king of Tierra.
KIRK Aidenist church.
KJELNAR Iborian shipwright.
KORASTINE the king of Tierra, father of Anjine.
LAHJAR port city on Oceansea coast of Uraba, the farthest settlement south.
LANDING DAY Aidenist festival commemorating the landing of Aiden's Arkship.
LEO NA-HADRA, SEN old Saedran scholar, adviser of King Korastine, teacher of Aldo na-Curic.
LIORAN, SEN chartsman aboard the Dolphin's Wake.
LEVIATHAN terrible sea monster, possibly legendary.
LITHIO first wife of Soldan-Shah Imir, mother of Omra.
LOOM, THE a constellation.
LUKAI ur-sikara of the Urecari church.
LUMINARA magnificent exploration vessel dispatched from Tierra to discover the world.
MAYVAR influential noble from Alamont, father of Queen Sena.
MIDDLESEA vast sea to the east of Ishalem.
MIROS nephew of an ancient rebellious destrar of Corag.
MISSINIA one of the soldanates of Uraba.
NAORI third wife of Soldan-Shah Omra.
NIKOL NA-FENDA, SEN Saedran chartsman on the Luminara.
NUNGH AL a race inhabiting the Uraban continent to the south of the Great Desert. They are composed of two branches, the nomadic Nunghal-Ari and the seafaring Nunghal-Su.
NUNGHAL-ARI nomadic branch of the Nunghals.
NUNGHAL-SU seafaring branch of the Nunghals.
OCEANSEA vast sea to the west of Ishalem.
OENAR former soldan-shah of Uraba, great-grandfather of Imir, the subject of a large bronze statue.
OLABAR capital city of Uraba.
OLAGU rebellious Corag destrar in ancient feud.
OLBA turbanlike head covering, usually white, worn by Urecari men.
ONDUN the creator of the world, father of three sons: Aiden, Urec, andjoron.
ONDUN'S LIGHTNING ship on which Aldo served as chartsman.
ORIGO cook aboard the Luminara.
OSMUC captain of the Dolphin's Wake.
OUROUSSA port city on Oceansea coast of Uraba.
OUTER WAHILIR one of the soldanates of Uraba.
PELITON capital city of Erietta Reach.
PILGRIMS' PATH processional path up the hill to the Ark ship in Ishalem.
PRESTER an Aidenist priest.
PRESTER-MARSHALL leader of the Aidenist church.
RAATHGIR name of the Iborian ice dragon.
RAGNAL Iborian treecutter.
RAVEN'S HEAD mountain peak in Corag.
RAVEN small patrol ship on which Mateo served as first mate.
RA'VIR Tierran children raised by Urecari to become spies and saboteurs, named after an opportunistic bird that lays its eggs in other birds' nests.
REEFSPUR Tierran coastal fishing village.
RENNERTJAN captain oWndun's Lightning.
ROVIK the kel of the soldan-shah's palace guards.
RUAD an outcast of the Nunghal-Su.
RUDIO old, conservative prester-marshall, successor to Baine.
SAAN son of Criston and Adrea.
SAEDRANS "Ondun's Stepchildren," independent people not descended from either Aiden or Urec. Saedrans serve as chartsmen, engineers, doctors, apothecaries, and other scientific professions.
SAND DERVISHES desert demons that lure travelers into the sand.
SAPIER grandson of Aiden, founder of Aidenist church. In a legend, he caught a sea serpent with a fishhook and rode it to safe waters.
SAZAR leader of a clan of rivermen; he calls himself the "river destrar."
SEN term of respect and accomplishment for Saedrans.
SENA first wife of King Korastine, mother of Anjine; died of pneumonia.
SENTINEL mountain peak in Corag.
SHAY, CAPTAIN ANDON captain of the Luminara.
SHENRO destrar of Alamont Reach.
SHERUFA NA-OA, SEN Saedran scholar in Olabar.
SHIP'S PROW stone carving outside of Stoneholm.
SIESCU destrar of Corag Reach.
SIKARA priestess in the Urecari church.
SIOARA a port on the Middlesea, capital of Inner Wahilir.
SMOLLA one of Anjine's handmaidens.
SOELAND one of the five reaches of Tierra, a group of islands
led by Destrar Tavishel.
SOLDAN leader of one of the regions of Uraba. SOLDAN-SHAH the soldan of soldans, leader of all Uraba. STONEHOLM capital city of Corag Reach. SUNSET TOWER westernmost tower in the Olabar palace. TAVISHEL destrar of Soeland Reach. TEACHER mysterious hooded figure in charge of Omra's ra'vir
program.
TENER port city on Oceansea coast of Uraba. TERRAVITAE the original land where Ondun created
his people, from which Aiden and Urec departed on their
voyage.
THUNDER CRAG mountain peak in Corag. TIERRA the northern continent, composed of five reaches; its
population follows the Aidenist religion. TRAVELER wandering old man who leaves tales of his travels,
rumored to be either Aiden or Urec. H TRAWNA captain of the Tierran patrol ship Raven. I, TYCHO kitten given to Anjine by Mateo.
UISHEL young woman from Soeland, Mateo's first love.

f. UNSUL destrar of Erietta Reach.
UNWAR kel in the Uraban military, captain of the horse soldiers. URABA the southern continent, composed of five reaches; its
population follows the Urecari religion. UREC one of the two brothers who sailed from Terravitae to
discover the world. The descendants of his crew populated
Uraba. UREC'S LIGHTHOUSE a tall lighthouse on the eastern side
oflshalem.
UREC'S LOG Urecari holy book. URECARI follower of Urec's Log.
UR-SIKARA lead sikara of the Urecari church. VILLIKI third wife of Soldan-Shah Imir, mother of Tukar. VORA, CINDON father of Criston, a fisherman lost at sea. VORA, CRISTON sailor, fisherman, who volunteered to join
the Luminara expedition. Criston is married to Adrea. VORA,TELHA mother of Criston. WENNA-CURIC younger brother of Aldo. WILKA wife of Destrar Broeck, lost in a snowstorm. WILLIN first mate on the Luminara. WINDCATCH small Tierran fishing village on the Oceansea
coast, home of Criston and Adrea. XARIES a Uraban board game similar to chess. XIVIR soldan of Missinia. YARADIN ancient Tierran king who faced a rebellion during
his reign.
YUAREJ one of the soldanates of Uraba. YURA NA-CURIC Aldo's mother. ZADAR work master in the Gremurr mines. ZARIF Uraban title of prince. ZAROUK kel in the Uraban military, veteran who served
under Soldan-Shah Imir.

I I

Are You Listening?

From the time I first began to write my fantastical novels and stories, I have been heavily influenced by the music I listen to. In high school and college, my imagination was inspired by the progressive rock of Rush, Kansas, Pink Floyd, Styx, the Alan Parsons Project--their songs provided (and continue to provide) the seeds for many works of fiction. Today, with the modern resurgence of progressive rock, I have followed the work of Dream Theater, Lana Lane, Rocket Scientists, Tool, Coheed and Cambria, Lacuna Coil, Powerman 5000, A Perfect Circle, and many others.
In my mind, there has always been a great cross-fertilization between fantastic fiction and music. Many progressive rock songs are directly inspired by science fiction or fantasy, and vice versa. It has long been a dream of mine to marry the two, to create a tandem project of a fantasy novel and rock CD, words and music developed together. As I began work on Terra Incognita, the opportunity arose. I got to know Shawn Gordon, who owns the label ProgRock Records and is a fan of my Saga of Seven Suns. When I suggested the idea of a joint novel/CD to him, he was as excited as I was. We could take one story line of The Edge of the World, adapt it, and write a CD around it at the same time as I wrote the draft of the book. Shawn put me in touch with the prolific and talented composer and keyboardist Erik Norlander--I
had already enjoyed his solo albums, his collaborations with his wife, Lana Lane, and his band, Rocket Scientists. Erik was also a fan of my writing and he eagerly agreed to write the music for the Terra Incognita CD, while my wife, Rebecca Moesta, and I would write the lyrics.
Los Angeles bassist/producer Kurt Barabas, founding member of Under the Sun, also joined our team in the early stages. Rebecca and I took a short vacation to Carlsbad Caverns and Roswell, New Mexico, during which we mapped out the twelve tracks for the CD. As a result, the six of us--Rebecca and I, Shawn Gordon, Erik Norlander, Lana Lane, and Kurt Barabas--decided to call ourselves "Roswell Six."
As Erik wrote music for the lyrics Rebecca and I submitted, Lana sang the demo tracks and we all listened and tweaked. As the "Queen of Symphonic Rock," Lana was perfect to sing the female vocals as the character Adrea, and Michael Sadler from the band Saga would sing the male lead as Criston Vora. James LaBrie, lead singer for Dream Theater, signed aboard as Omra (with such enthusiasm that he even read the full 700-page manuscript to get into character). The vocals for Captain Andon Shay, the last character, were provided by John Payne from the band Asia Featuring John Payne. David Ragsdale, the violinist from Kansas, also joined the project, as well as Gary Wehrkamp from Shadow Gallery on electric guitars (Gary had already corresponded with me, a fan of my novels), Chris Quirarte from Prymary on drums, Chris Brown from Ghost Circus on guitars, and Mike Alvarez on cello.
The resulting CD -- Terra Incognita: Beyond the Horizon by Roswell Six--is truly a dream come true for me. It expands and enhances the novel, so I hope you will all give it a listen, just as I hope that fans of the music will check out the book, www .wordfire.com.
Fred Ogden generously read the manuscript with an eye to weeding out any egregious nautical mistakes. Patrick Simmons created the wonderful maps, helping to shape the world of Terra Incognita and bring it to life. Lee Gibbons produced an exceptional cover, which captures precisely the feel I wanted to convey in the book. I would also like to thank Stephen Dedman for taking us to the fabulous Shipwreck Museum in Freemantle, West Australia, which provided great story detail for this novel.
Darren Nash tackled the editorial duties; he was closely involved in this project from proposal, to the 100-page chapter outline, through several drafts of the manuscript. Tim Holman, Alex Lencicki, and Jennifer Flax at Orbit Books gave Terra Incognita their full support and have pulled many strings to help get attention for the novel. Mary Thomson typed the stream of chapters as fast as I could dictate them, and also added her own expertise on the most esoteric details. My ever-helpful cadre of test readers--Deb Ray, Diane Jones, Louis Moesta, and of course my wife, Rebecca Moesta--went through several iterations of the manuscript, giving me plenty of insight and suggestions.
For musical inspiration and their general enthusiasm, I'd like to thank my fellow members of Roswell Six--Shawn Gordon, Erik Norlander, Kurt Barabas, and Lana Lane--who took

the lyrics written by Rebecca Moesta and me and produced an incredible rock CD, Terra Incognita: Beyond the Horizon. Erik wrote the wonderful music. Special applause also to the performers on the CD, James LaBrie, Michael Sadler, John Payne, Gary Wehrkamp, Chris Quirarte, Chris Brown, Mike Alvarez, and David Ragsdale.

' Kevin J. Anderson has written forty-six national and international bestsellers and has over twenty million books in print worldwide in thirty languages. He has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the SFX Readers' Choice Award. He is best known for his highly popular Dune novels, written with Brian Herbert, his numerous Star Wars and
¦.X-Files novels, and his original science fiction epic, The Saga of the Seven Seas. Find out more about Kevin Anderson at www .wordfire.com.

I
You're a very prolific author, primarily known for writing big science fiction epics, such as the Saga of Seven Suns, the Dune novels with Brian Herbert, and even Star Wars. How does it feel to be writing fantasy instead ofSF?
My mind works in terms of stories rather than genres. I have indeed done historical fantasy before -- Captain Nemo, and The Martian War--and even wrote a traditional quest fantasy, the Gamearth Trilogy, early in my career, but readers do tend to think of me as an SF guy.
However, I don't see Terra Incognita as being fundamentally different from the Saga of Seven Suns -- it's got a sprawling scope with many story lines, exotic lands (instead of planets), sailing ships instead of starships, sea serpents instead of aliens, a hint of magic instead of exotic technology, continents and religions clashing rather than planets and galactic empires. But although the "stage dressing" is different, in a world that looks like our Age of Discovery rather than a far-future interstellar society, the characters and politics and dramas that make a grand story are the same.

How is Terra Incognita different from other fantasies on the market?
For one thing, you won't find bearded wizards with pyrotechnic spells or dragons or elves or dwarves. You won't find any enchanted swords or a monolithic evil force that threatens to destroy all Good

in the world. Though my novels take place in a world of my own imagining, Terra Incognita is more mainstream than outright fantasy, with only a hint of magic. Yes, I have mysterious unexplored lands and amazing legends that may or may not be true, but at its core, these books are about sailing ships and brave explorers, along with a terrible religious war like our Crusades. And while I may have a sea monster or two, they are natural creatures, not magical monsters.

So, more of a millennial, religious-based grand conflict than a traditional fantasy quest?
Some parts of The Edge of the World are very dark and tragic, as well as very passionate. I'm dealing with clashes of civilizations, intolerance, and fanaticism--as well as genuine faith. The story is certainly something that occurs all too often in real history: a series of stupid actions on both sides that have grave consequences, ratcheting up the violence and hatred beyond any possibility of a peaceful resolution.
But the story also parallels our Age of Discovery, a time of hope and wonder, when people had a sense that there were marvelous things Out There just waiting to be found if only a sea captain sailed far enough and survived enough perils.
As I did thoroughly in the Seven Suns novels, I turn the spotlight on all sides of the conflict and really get into the heads of people representing diametrically opposed points of view. There are three major religions in the Terra Incognita universe, and I have explored the attitudes of characters ranging from the everyday man on the street to the most powerful leaders.

// sounds unique. What was your inspiration for the series?
These books have lived in my imagination for more than fifteen years, when I first stumbled upon the European legend of Pres ter John, who ruled a mythical Christian kingdom on a distant,

unexplored area of the map. The quest to find Prester John (and to seek an alliance with him against the invading Moorish armies) provided the real impetus for Portugal's Prince Henry the Navigator to launch some of history's greatest voyages of discovery in the fifteenth century.
Now, after completing a series of successful epic projects -- ranging from the colorful universes of Star Wars, Dune, and my own Saga of Seven Suns -- I finally have the opportunity to write the story that has been whispering in my ear for so long. The Edge of the World sets the idea of Prester John in a fantasy universe where sea serpents are real, where a little bit of magic works, where the unexplored areas on the map are larger than the known areas.

And though this is a fantasy series, it's got a direct connection to rock music. Tell us about that.
I've always been inspired by the music I listen to, the lyrics of Rush, Kansas, Styx, Pink Floyd, Dream Theater, Lana Lane, Rocket Scientists, Shadow Gallery, and many other progressive rock artists. There's a clear link between the readers of SF/F and the fans of that kind of music.
For The Edge of the World, we put together a unique synthesis -- a new rock CD, where my wife and I wrote the lyrics based on a story line in the novel, while accomplished keyboardist-composer Erik Norlander (Rocket Scientists) wrote the music, and Shawn Gordon produced the CD for his label ProgRock Records. Some of my favorite vocalists and musicians performed on the album: Lana Lane provided the female vocals for the character of Adrea; Michael Sadler (formerly of Saga) sang the part of Criston Vora; James La Brie (Dream Theater) sang Omra; John Payne (Asia Featuring John Payne) sang Captain Shay. Kurt Barabas (Under the Sun), one of the founding members of our group, played bass, Gary Wehrkamp (Shadow Gallery) played guitar, David Ragsdale (Kansas) played

violins, Chris Quirarte (Prymary) laid down the drum tracks, Chris Brown (Ghost Circus) provided both acoustic and electric guitar, and Mike Alvarez played cello. Under the band name Roswell Six the CD is Terra Incognita: Beyond the Horizon and it works in perfect synergy with the novel.

Now that you have finished the seven volumes in the Saga of Seven Suns, will you ever return to that universe?
I planned Seven Suns from start to finish as seven volumes, with a very clear story arc that genuinely ended. I wanted to do something practically unheard of in the genre: write a big epic series where I reliably turned in every volume on time, year after year, and finished the story where it ended, rather than dragging it on and on. I did that, and I'm very pleased with the result.
After spending seven years of my life in that universe, I am thrilled to dive into something completely different but just as fascinating, the fantasy world of Terra Incognita, which I plan as a trilogy. That's what I need to focus on right now. Once I finish those books, however, my "science fiction batteries" will have recharged and I'm thinking of returning to the Seven Suns universe. It's a big landscape with plenty of opportunities for other stories; however, I would do an independent story with some new characters and a few familiar ones, set a decade or two later.
Right now, though, I'm sailing off in the Terra Incognita books, already writing book two. Bring on the sea monsters!

If you enjoyed THE EDGE OF THE WORLD,
look out for

THE MAP OF ALL THINGS
Book Two of the Terra Incognita Trilogy by Kevin J. Anderson

The great wall across Ishalem would be completed soon, blocking off the isthmus from the Aidenist enemy. With such a mammoth barrier in place, Soldan-Shah Omra knew the Holy City would at last be safe -- safe in Urecari hands.
From the high hill in the center of Ishalem, where once had rested the ancient wreck of a huge wooden Arkship, Urec's ship, Omra watched the flurry of construction workers. The sweating, muscular men--some of them slaves taken from Tierran villages -- used log rollers and slick lubricating mud to pull blocks into place and extend the wall across the strip of land, seven miles long, stone after stone after stone.
Omra thought of it as "God's Barricade." Once the wall cut

off Tierra, the other half of the world would wither and die like a branch broken from a tree... as they deserved.
Soldiers patrolled north of the boundary line to guard against Aidenist forays, as the evil men had done several times previously. As the wall neared completion after five years, their enemies grew increasingly desperate--and the soldan-shah felt increasingly secure.
Kel Unwar, one of the commanders who had swept through the squalid pilgrim settlements on the site of Ishalem, guided the immense construction project. Though a military leader, Unwar was more gifted as an engineer, commanding work teams through impossible tasks rather than guiding armies through impossible odds. When Omra had first challenged him to build the wall, Unwar had stared off into the distance, thoughts turning in his mind, his brow furrowed. "It is a task such as no man has ever attempted, Soldan-Shah. Such an undertaking... it will be magnificent!"
But Omra's efforts did not stop there. It was his goal to restore the true glory of Ishalem. Eighteen years earlier, the city had been poised on an uneasy peace, sacred to both Aidenists and Urecari, before a careless spark had unleashed the fires of war. Now, from all around him, in all the districts of the blank canvas of the city, he could hear the sounds of construction, the clink of hammers, the hauling of ropes, the grunting and calls of hardworking men. It was a joyful noise, a satisfying racket.
Perhaps, from whatever far-distant world where He now lived, Ondun would hear and turn His gaze back toward this world and see that the people He had left behind were once again worthy....
The thudding of hooves interrupted Omra's reverie. Astride a fine dapple-gray stallion rode Vishkar, the new soldan of Outer

Wahilir, ascending what had once been the Pilgrim's Path,¦
where supplicants climbed up to the wreck of Urec's ship. With]
a steady gait, the stallion carried Vishkar to the top of the hill.
Vishkar was twenty years Omra's senior, with a wide, squar-f
ish face and barrel chest. The quirk of his smile always brought a brief chill to Omra--the man looked so much like his daugh
ter Istar, Omra's first wife, his first true love, who had died in;
childbirth so long ago.l
Vishkar slid off the saddle, bowed, then extracted a long cyl;
inder from his saddlebag. "A fine afternoon, Soldan-Shah--and;
it will be even finer once I show you these plans." He unrolled
the paper, holding it flat, but looking around for a place to dis;
play the drawing; finally, he used his horse's flank as a makeshift table. The stallion grazed unconcernedly. "My Saedran has outdone himself, Sire. Sen Bira na-Lanis has created the most magnificent design! The western church will be far more impressive. than the eastern one." Vishkar always tried to coax details about his competitor's plans for the other side of the city, but Omra would not say.
"Soldan Huttan has often told me the same thing, but he doesn't use a Saedran architect. Wouldn't it be better to have a true follower of Urec design the Church of Urec, rather than a Saedran?"
Instead of looking abashed, Vishkar shook his head. "No,;
Soldan-Shah. It is best to use the most talented architect, no matter what belief he holds."
During his planned rebuilding of Ishalem, Omra had issued a challenge to the soldans of neighboring Outer and Inner Wahilir. In the city's glory days, a tall Aidenist kirk had domi/
nated the western side, while the main Urecari church towered
over the eastern district. Both structures had been leveled in

the great fire, and now the soldan-shah had commanded that the two churches be rebuilt -- only this time, both would be raised to the glory of Urec, both would sport the unfurling fern symbol. The new Ishalem would have no place for the Aidenist fishhook.
Several years ago, Attar--the soldan of Outer Wahilir-- along with his wives, his sons, and anyone even remotely in line for the seat of power, had been poisoned by a heinous Aidenist assassin, and the death had left a hole in the ruling families. For his replacement, Soldan-Shah Omra shirked tradition by choosing a man he felt was totally reliable as well as loyal to him. As the father of his first wife, Vishkar was a man Omra respected, a wealthy and stable Olabar merchant whose ships plied the Middlesea. Long ago, by choosing a merchant's daughter as his first wife, Omra had incensed many entrenched noble families, but had earned the appreciation from merchants and businessmen. Now, as soldan-shah, he remembered that, and the man ruled the entire rich soldanate with its major coastal cities, its shipyards, and its trading ports.
Omra had instructed each of the two soldans, Vishkar and Huttan, to rebuild one of the city's two grand churches. Though stodgy old Huttan had complained, Vishkar accepted the task with relish and vowed to prove himself.
Now, spreading out the parchment on the grazing stallion's flank, the soldan pointed to the drawing's turrets and minarets, the large vaulted worship chamber with a spiraling walkway that resembled the unfurling fern. Sparkling windows would admit a flood of light. Sikara priestesses would call prayers from the highest balconies or burn prayer ribbons and notes in braziers there.

"It does, indeed, look magnificent, Vishkar." Omra could see that this was far more ambitious than what Soldan Huttan planned.
The stallion's head jerked up, ears pricked. Someone was coming. Omra saw a thin man running up the Pilgrim's Path as if a host of demons were on his heels. He was covered with dust, dirt, and powder, and he carried a rolled object in his hand. Guards ran behind him--not in pursuit, but in shared excitement.
Omra turned to face the newcomer. Panting and gasping, the man reached the hilltop, bent over, and coughed. He rested his weight on his knees, barely managing to keep from vomiting after the exertion.
Vishkar blinked in surprise. "Sen Bira? I hardly recognized you!" He turned to the soldan-shah. "Sire, this is my Saedran architect. He has been excavating the ruins of the old Aidenist kirk."
"My apologies, Soldan-Shah -- I needed to see you right away." Sen Bira shook dust out of his tangled hair, tried in vain to neaten his appearance. He gulped a breath of air. "I... I should have taken a horse."
The guards came up quickly beside the Saedran, embarrassed that he had outrun them. "Soldan-Shah!" said the captain, "This man has made a discovery--"
"He was about to explain himself," Omra said, and nodded at the man once more. "Go on--my curiosity is piqued."
With an effort, Sen Bira na-Lanis composed himself. "We broke through the floor and catacomb levels today, Soldan-Shah. The Aidenist kirk burned to the ground in the great fire, but underground we found a bricked-up vault that has been sealed

for uncounted centuries." He raised the rolled cylinder. It was an ancient letter container, a tube of varnished and preserved leather.
Vishkar snatched the aged container and, without opening it, passed it to Omra.
Sen Bira looked at them both squarely. "It's the Map, Sire-- the original Map."
Frowning, Omra opened the case and carefully withdrew a well-preserved sheet of parchment, unrolling it with painstaking care. He saw glorious illuminated text and illustrations, the chart of a land he had never seen before; incredibly intricate details showed islands and reefs along a strange coastline, along with fanciful illustrations of sea serpents and tentacled things. The writing was so ornate and archaic that Omra had trouble deciphering the letters.
"It's the Map," Sen Bira repeated. He pointed a dirty finger close to the coastline but took care not to touch the parchment. "See here, it says TERRAVITAE."
Dumbstruck, Omra straightened, looked at Vishkar, then back at the Saedran. "Are you saying this is Urec's original Map? The one given to him by Ondun Himself before the two brothers sailed away? "
"I believe so, Soldan-Shah," the Saedran said quietly. "Sealed in a catacomb, it has been there, undisturbed, for an impossible amount of time."
"But Urec lost his map," Vishkar argued. "We know all the stories. That's why Urec could never find his way back home."
"Others say the Aidenists took it," Omra said flatly.
Sen Bira's eyes traveled over the unbelievable treasure. "The legends are so old, who can say what is true and what is not? Many tales change over the years."

I"The truth doesn't change," Vishkar said.
IOmra marveled at the map as possibilities blossomed in his
mind. He was breathing quickly, and his pulse raced. "If this is indeed Urec's original Map, then why was it hidden beneath an Aidenist kirk?"

I

I

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