Whenever he visited the Uraban capital, Asaddan marveled at the whitewashed buildings and tiled roofs, the bustling bazaars and the church minarets. He was pleased to return to the familiar marketplace and the stalls where vendors sold olives, lemons, and honey pastries.
“So this is fabled Olabar.” Ciarlo adjusted the hood that covered his face. He looked with interest at the market stalls: candlemakers, rug weavers, potters, food merchants with sizzling skewers, fabric dyers, tanners, spice merchants, threadmakers. “This is also the home of the church of Urec, where the sikaras preach their hatred.”
“It is, but not everyone listens. There are many good people here.”
“Then those are the ones who need to hear my message.”
Ciarlo touched his chest to draw out the fishhook pendant he had fashioned from scraps of material, but Asaddan put out a large hand to prevent him. “Remember what I told you! Have a care, unless you want to end up being stoned, or hung from a hook, or whatever these people do to heretics.”
“I am not the heretic. They are.”
“That depends upon your point of view. Now be quiet and follow me. I have many friends in the city—including the soldan-shah. We will be safe here.”
After helping Ciarlo escape from the Moray during the night, Asaddan had hidden him in an alley near a tailor’s shop several streets up from the harbor. He pounded on the door until a red-eyed proprietor appeared, wondering what sort of clothing emergency might occur at such a late hour. Asaddan asked to purchase several sets of clothes, and though the shopkeeper was puzzled, his questions vanished when the Nunghal gave him gold coins.
Weary and sore, Ciarlo had huddled in the alley shadows wearing the filthy clothes of a galley slave, still injured from his harsh treatment. Asaddan pushed the pile of new garments into his hands, and the Aidenist changed into traditional clothes, wrapping himself up and pulling a hood over his light hair and pale skin. Asaddan gave him a quick inspection. “Good enough. We have to get out of here as soon as we can. Lean on me, and we’ll move at your pace.”
Hurrying was problematic, though. Ciarlo’s arms were stiff, his hands and wrists swollen and abraded, his legs weak. He had spent weeks, perhaps months, chained to a bench and prevented from walking. As Asaddan guided his companion through the streets, he expected to hear shouts and alarms. Once the Moray sailors discovered that their captives were gone, the search would spread out in all different directions.
Asaddan needed to find some other solution. He led Ciarlo inland along a rutted dirt road and came upon a small cottage set back from the path. Inside a rickety corral stood an old gray mare, hoof cocked, half asleep. She was not a sturdy beast, obviously not accustomed to carrying riders, but the mare would do. With Ciarlo off his feet, they could travel faster.
Asaddan knew that if he roused the family and offered them money for the horse, they might raise an alarm. Instead, as quietly as he could, he helped his companion up onto the placid horse, then crept to the closed cottage door and left several cuar coins on the step, more than enough to pay for a replacement horse.
Holding the halter rope, Asaddan hurried into the night with the mare jogging alongside him. Hunched over, Ciarlo threaded his fingers through the mane and hung on.
They headed off on the main coastal road toward Olabar. Since he was accustomed to running across the Nunghal plains, Asaddan did not tire easily. They covered many miles before dawn, but during daylight they hid in the nearby olive groves. The next night, they covered many more miles.
Eventually, Asaddan began to relax. No matter how angry Captain Belluc might be, searchers wouldn’t come this far in pursuit of a mere galley slave. Besides, they would expect any freed Aidenist to head west toward Tierra instead of in the opposite direction, toward the Uraban capital and the heart of the Urecari church. Ciarlo had insisted on going there.
The man wanted to preach the Book of Aiden to anyone who would listen; he was also desperate for news about his sister, who had been kidnapped so long ago. After more than two decades, it seemed impossible that Adrea could still be alive, but the man clung to hope.
Asaddan knew that Saan’s mother, Istar, was also a captured Aidenist from long ago, and she had survived in Uraba. He thought perhaps she could help.
Now, as they moved through the press of people in the streets of Olabar, Ciarlo kept trying to brush back his hood so he could see, but Asaddan tugged the covering back in place. “People will stare at me enough, but you should not call attention to yourself.”
“They will have to see me if they are to hear my words when I preach.”
“Not now! I have no idea how these people will react when you start telling them things they don’t want to hear.”
In the shadows of his hood, Ciarlo wore a benign smile. “I spent all that time chained to the oars. I was keelhauled. I watched them burn the Tales of the Traveler. I think I understand how Urabans might react.” He picked up the pace. “But I can’t abandon what I must do. Once they know the truth, they will realize Aiden was good. Their Urec did similar things, and he was also a son of Ondun. The people cannot hear only one side of the story.”
Asaddan spoke in a gruff voice out of the corner of his mouth. “Nunghals have a different version of the tale, too, but when I tried to explain our beliefs to the sikaras, they ridiculed my religion and called it unbelievable.”
Ciarlo would not be deterred. “A farmer has to plant many seeds before a fruitful crop will grow. If I tell enough people, someone will believe.”
“Maybe so, but not right now.” Asaddan tugged the hood farther down over the man’s fair face. “Be patient. Let me talk to Soldan-Shah Omra first.”
Asaddan had sold the gray mare as soon as they arrived in the city, and now he found a bustling inn near the harbor. He decided against quieter lodgings on a side street, because this busy one received sailors, merchants, and caravan drivers from Lahjar to Kiesh. The innkeeper saw enough strangers from far-flung lands that he wouldn’t be overly interested in Asaddan or his quiet companion.
After securing a dinner of stringy mutton and root vegetables with the last of his coins, the Nunghal carried the platter up to their room. Asaddan wolfed down his meal while Ciarlo picked at his. The Aidenist seemed restless, but Asaddan cautioned, “Wait here until I have news for you.” He finished his food, set the platter aside, and turned to go. “Promise me you’ll stay in the room while I go to the Olabar palace. If I can convince the soldan-shah to speak with you, you might have a chance. In the meantime, don’t talk to anyone.”
Ciarlo touched his fishhook pendant. “I have waited so long already, but I can endure another afternoon.” Implicit in his tone, however, was that if Asaddan did not achieve his purpose, Ciarlo would go down to the inn’s common room and preach the Book of Aiden there. Even the big Nunghal wasn’t sure he could protect Ciarlo then.
When Asaddan arrived at the palace and asked to speak with the soldan-shah, Kel Rovik lowered his voice. “He is in a foul mood—we just learned of two more merchant ships captured in the Middlesea by those pirates from Gremurr. The son of the Abilan soldan was aboard one of them.” He shook his head. “Maybe you should wait until later.”
Asaddan made light of the warning. “Omra should be happy to see me. I have news to share.”
“Alas, the soldan-shah avoids news these days,” Rovik said. “Too many bad reports.”
With feigned casualness, Asaddan entered the throne room where Omra sat alone on the dais, studying documents. The leader’s face wore a dark expression, but when he saw the guest his demeanor softened. “I’m glad to see you again, my friend, though these are not good times.”
Asaddan noted that the weight of responsibilities had aged the soldan-shah greatly in just the past few years. “When are times ever good? I don’t know why anyone would want to be khan or soldan-shah. You face one problem after another.”
“These days I am consumed with thoughts of how to destroy the Aidenists. Again and again they hurt us. Why doesn’t Ondun just make the world open up and swallow them, the way Arikara was leveled by a quake?” He clenched his fists.
Asaddan was taken aback by the intensity of his tone. “Not all Aidenists are so hateful, Omra. Perhaps you just haven’t met the right ones.”
The soldan-shah glowered as he looked down at the documents. “Countless reports of fishing boats, cargo vessels, ore barges seized in the Middlesea! Those waters were always safe, but Aidenist pirates now cruise the coast, attacking us with my own ironclad ships. They prey on our defenseless fishermen and traders, and none of my warships can fight them.”
Omra’s rising anger startled him. “I thought you had your own ironclad, Soldan-Shah.”
“The Golden Fern alone is not enough for the battle I need to wage. We have to retaliate somehow, but I have no force that would be sufficient for the task. How I wish your Nunghal fleet had stayed behind. Those hundred ships could have sailed through Unwar’s canal and recaptured Gremurr.”
Asaddan swallowed, lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Soldan-Shah. They were eager to voyage home instead of involving themselves in this war. Maybe as a neutral party they could have talked with Tierra and tried to broker a peace—”
“The Aidenists are monsters, Asaddan!” Omra looked up, his eyes blazing. “They piled a thousand severed heads at the Ishalem wall as revenge for the death of their boy prince, and now I vow that even ten thousand Aidenist heads will not be enough to avenge the murder of Tukar.”
“And then won’t the queen want a hundred thousand heads for her revenge? Can you see any end to this?”
The soldan-shah’s voice was quiet. “No, Asaddan. No, I can’t.”
Asaddan, who had never seen such violence in Omra, decided that this might not be the best time to tell him about Ciarlo after all. He took a step backward. “When the days are quieter, Soldan-Shah, maybe we can dine together or play a game of xaries?”
“I would like that—if the days ever grow quieter.” Omra seemed distracted, and Asaddan left quickly, greatly alarmed by the conversation. Ciarlo would be in great danger indeed if he ever revealed himself.
The Nunghal decided to find a more sympathetic listener.
It was unusual to request a private audience with Omra’s First Wife, but Asaddan didn’t care about stepping on the toes of protocol ministers. He had grown very close to Istar’s son during the first sand coracle journey across the desert to the Nunghal lands, and Saan had told him the heartwrenching story of how his mother had come to be in Uraba.
Glad to have the Nunghal’s company, she served him tea, pistachio pastries, and dates. Though he had his own reasons for wanting to talk to her, he listened with interest as she described what she knew of Saan’s current adventures, as conveyed by Sen Sherufa via the sympathetic journal. After she had brought Asaddan up to date, he leaned forward, clasped his hands together. “My Lady, I brought someone to Olabar—someone I think you should meet. He is a stranger to Uraba, but the two of you have much in common.”
Istar was curious. “Well then, bring him here and introduce me. It’s lonely with my three daughters gone to Arikara.”
Asaddan shifted uncomfortably. “You’ll soon understand why his identity must remain secret, my Lady. It would be best if you quietly came to our inn at dusk. After you’ve met him, you can decide what to do.”
Istar laughed. “You’re being very mysterious. But I’ll accept your recommendation. I’ll meet him, as you ask.”