The Key to Creation (26 page)

Criston’s throat was dry as he said, “What was that woman, Prester?”

Hannes stood close to the captain and shook his head, visibly terrified; his hands trembled as he grasped the wooden rail. “Nothing in the Book of Aiden ever prepared me for such a thing.”

The
Al-Orizin

Under full sail, the
Al-Orizin
continued southeast, and the weather turned bitter cold. The choppy water became gray instead of blue. They had not sighted land in some time, and even the ancient Map of Urec could not help Saan or Sen Sherufa figure out where they were without any landmarks or navigational points. At night the constellations were entirely unfamiliar.

After Ystya revealed that she was the Key to Creation, Saan had to redraw his own maps of understanding. How could the innocent, ethereal girl be the mysterious treasure sought by Urec, the powerful object that Soldan-Shah Omra had asked the
Al-Orizin
to find? Yet Saan believed her.

He hoped Sikara Fyiri would accept the girl’s amazing story, though he did not actually expect it. Shouldn’t a devout priestess of Urec leap at the chance to speak with the actual daughter of Ondun? But Fyiri denounced Ystya’s claim. Even though she had witnessed the girl’s astonishing power—twice now—the sikara was more wedded to her teachings than to miracles. Beneath her façade of skepticism, she seemed genuinely intimidated by Ystya.

Sen Sherufa, on the other hand, asked the mysterious girl many questions, trying to learn more about her abilities, but Ystya did not have all of the answers. “I was on the island for many centuries, but still just a child. Apparently, my mother was pregnant with me when she left Terravitae because of some conflict with Ondun, a scandal or dark secret. I was little more than an infant when my father joined us on the island.”

“How can the creator of all things have a scandal?” Fyiri scoffed.

Ystya shrugged. “You’ve told me how Ondun is portrayed in your church, but to me my parents seem more like people than the omnipotent deities you claim to worship.”

“I do not
claim
to worship them!”

Another shrug. “I can only say that if they were so benevolent and omnipotent, my mother would never have drowned my father in the well.”

Emphatically denying this, the sikara retreated from Sen Sherufa’s cabin, leaving the wooden door swinging open to the cold breeze outside.

Now that they had found the Key to Creation, Saan could have run home along their previous course, but he felt they must be close to Terravitae. He hoped to find the lost, sacred land. There was even a chance Holy Joron could keep them safe from Iyomelka.

Yal Dolicar gave a shrill whistle from the lookout nest. “Captain, you need to see this. There are mountains in the water—white mountains!”

Saan pulled a woolen blanket around himself before stepping out onto the deck with Ystya at his side. Even Grigovar had wrapped himself in extra shirts, no longer leaving his arms bare. Though the air crackled with deep cold, the young woman did not seem uncomfortable in the biting chill, despite her thin garments and slight body.

Ahead, jagged white islands protruded like molars from the water gleaming in the sun. The mounds were entirely covered by glistening snow and ice, and Saan gradually realized the frozen islands were floating.

The icebergs became a maze, forcing the
Al-Orizin
to pick a tortuous path. When they drifted close to a frozen wall, the men came out with their picks, hammers, and shovels and hacked off large chunks, which they stacked in barrels to melt for drinking water.

One of the frozen mountains scraped the bottom of the hull, and Saan yelled out a course correction. “Careful! Hitting one of those would be like running aground on a reef!”

“These are dangerous waters,” Sherufa said. “Maybe we should turn back.”

Saan gestured behind them. “Iyomelka’s still after us somewhere back there. We go forward.”

Then as they rounded a particularly large berg, Yal Dolicar let out another startled cry from the lookout nest. “A ship, Captain—a ship, frozen into the ice!”

Ahead, a strange squat craft with tall masts was caught in the flowing embrace of an ice mountain. Its tattered, frost-rimed sails hinted that the vessel had been there for some time. The ship’s design was unlike anything Saan had ever seen.

“How can another ship be here, Captain?” Grigovar called. “Who else has ever sailed this far?”

“No one…that we know about,” Saan said. “Bring us close. I want to go across and see just what that ship has to offer.”

“There may be demons aboard,” Fyiri admonished, “ready to trap unwary travelers.”

“I’ll join you,” Ystya said, unafraid.

The priestess quickly responded, “Then I will come along as well, to grant Urec’s protection, if necessary.” Saan didn’t comment.

Slow-flowing ice locked the mysterious ship in place against the frozen mountain, but her deck and masts remained clear. Crewmembers threw hooks to grapple the vessels together. Saan was the first to spring across, careful to maintain his footing on the slippery deck, then he helped Ystya over. Grigovar and Fyiri came next, followed by the Saedran chartsman and Yal Dolicar. All open surfaces were glazed with ice—every rope, every spar, every plank. They walked along the eerie deck, their voices hushed.

They soon found the crew. The ancient sailors were in position, their hair shaggy and dark, their clothes thick and lined with fur for a cold voyage. But now they were motionless, frozen instantaneously in place while in the midst of their normal activities.

Saan tried to read the expression of the nearest man. The sailor’s eyes showed neither terror nor pain. Saan rapped the man’s cheek with his knuckle, but he was frozen solid, encased in ice.

Gremurr Mines

In a moment of compassion, Destrar Broeck surprised himself by suggesting that the female prisoner Shetia and her son Ulan move into the villa, since it had once been their home. Though the two remained under heavy guard, some part of him felt better about having them there. He even let the dog be tied up outside, so long as it didn’t bark too much. The soldiers in camp had already grown fond of it.

Broeck could have gloated and made the two prisoners suffer by sleeping in drafty tents with the other enemy captives who now served as mine slaves. He could have flaunted the fact that he had seized their home; he could have taunted them because he had executed Tukar.

At one time, he might have done so. Though he still felt the white-hot pain of his grandson Tomas’s murder, he found that he didn’t want to take his revenge on these two. Maybe someday Broeck would come to believe in innocence again.

The Uraban boy walked into the main room, attracted by the fire in the hearth. Ulan was more subdued now, perhaps because living in the villa reminded him of all he had lost. By now Ulan understood some phrases in Tierran, and Broeck had picked up a few of the foreign words. Firun was there to translate when necessary.

Tonight the boy carried a game board composed of alternating squares of polished wood and jet. With a set expression, not a smile, Ulan set the game board down on the writing desk and emptied a small sheepskin sack of oddly shaped playing pieces onto it.

Broeck was amused. “What are you doing here, boy? I don’t know how to play that game.”

Persistent, Ulan arranged one set of the pieces rows on the board. He then looked at the second jumble and nodded toward Broeck.

“I don’t have time for games.”

With a sigh, Ulan set up the other pieces for the destrar and waited.

Broeck was about to call for his guards when Firun bustled in. “Ulan—there you are! You must not disturb the destrar.” He looked up. “Apologies, sir. I’ll have him go play with his dog instead.” He spoke in Uraban, and the boy answered quickly. When the old servant shook his head, Ulan insisted.

“What’s he saying, Firun?” Broeck asked.

“He wants to play
xaries
with you. The boy claims to be quite good at it. He even beat his father several times.”

“He wants to beat me, too, I’d wager,” Broeck grumbled. “No surprise there. I’m a novice. I don’t even know the rules.”

Ulan looked disappointed, but he refused to go away. The boy spoke imperiously in Uraban, and Firun relayed with a sigh, “He wants me to explain the rules to you, Destrar. This is
xaries
, a traditional game among Urabans. Perhaps if you learned it, you might have insight into Uraban strategy. All of their leaders play this game. Tukar and Workmaster Zadar had become masters of it.”

Broeck stroked his gray beard, appraising the game board and its exotic pieces. He saw hope and eagerness light up the boy’s face. “Oh, very well. One game.”

Ulan made the first move, and Firun explained the strategy. Broeck moved a piece, not sure what he was doing, but he demonstrated confidence nevertheless. With a chuckle, the boy moved another piece, though Broeck couldn’t discern any plan to what he was doing. The destrar narrowed his eyes and studied the board. Obviously Ulan saw
something
.

Broeck sniffed and looked up at the former servant. “Do you have any advice for me? How shall I respond to this?”

The old man seemed amused. “I would not deign to dictate strategy to you, Destrar.”

Wearing a faint scowl, Broeck moved another piece, and the boy pounced, taking one of the carved objects. Broeck didn’t even know what the piece was called or what its shape was meant to represent, but somehow he had left that piece vulnerable. He glared at Firun again. “Can he do that?”

“Oh, it is a perfectly legal move. I would suggest you guard your flank more carefully, sir.”

Firun continued to coach him on the rules, but gave no advice on specific moves. Regardless, the Iborian destrar grasped the general outline of the game. It reminded him of a similar gambling and strategy game that he, Iaros, and other men would play in the cold of winter. In less than an hour, he and Ulan did not need to speak, but let the game communicate for them. Firun’s own duties called him away, so he left Ulan and the destrar together.

Ulan did win the first match, but Broeck wasn’t disappointed; he actually found it amusing. “Go away now, boy. I have work to do,” he said, a little softer this time, but Ulan set up the board again. “I said I don’t have time.” The boy was undeterred, and when the board was ready he waited patiently. “Oh, all right! But you won’t trick me this game. I know how to play now.”

Broeck got into the challenge more intently, playing better, and it was a close match. The destrar did win the second game, but Ulan won the third. They were setting up for a fourth when Shetia came in, bleary-eyed and tired. She looked worried and said something to her son that Broeck did not need to have translated. The boy’s crestfallen expression—that of any young man who did not want his mother to send him to bed—spoke for itself. With a glance at the game board, Shetia said in broken Tierran, “His father play
xaries
with Ulan.” Then she led her son away.

Broeck’s heart felt heavy as he imagined this boy sitting across from his father. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed Tukar, just kept him as a prisoner, so that Ulan and Shetia could have had their family intact.

And that thought led him to wonder about the last moments of Prince Tomas…how the young prince had met the sharpened scimitar that bit down on his neck. Broeck’s sense of calm melted away, but at least he didn’t need to take his revenge on this Uraban child and his mother.

Calay Castle

Shouldering emotions he did not know how to express, Ammur Sonnen came to Calay Castle and insisted on seeing Queen Anjine. The army, and Mateo, had been gone for two weeks now, advancing toward Ishalem.

At first she was surprised by the blacksmith’s visit, then she felt a sharp stab of guilt: in their shared dark freefall of grief, Anjine and Mateo had reached out to each other, like finally touching a flame to the tinder they had built up for most of their lives. But she felt shamed by it. It had been her own weakness, and she knew Ammur Sonnen would see their actions as an insult to his beloved daughter.

Her skin grew cold. How had he known? Somehow the blacksmith must have heard a whispered rumor, maybe something from a maid who had noticed the queen’s absence that night. Why else would he come to the castle, asking to see her? Though she was the queen of Tierra, Anjine didn’t know how she could face the accusations of a grieving father.

But when the burly man was escorted into her private wing of the castle, Ammur bowed and averted his eyes. “I have finished my task, Majesty. I brought the fine suit of armor I promised to make for you. It’s about time you donned it, if you intend to lead the army in a few months.” Two of his apprentices followed him in from the entry hall, carrying components that rattled together. They pulled aside draping cloths to reveal their work.

Anjine, who had forgotten all about the blacksmith’s offer, caught her breath as she saw polished steel inlaid with ornate bronze work. The bright metal glinted in sunlight that streamed through the windows of her chamber. Words caught in her throat, and she felt a sudden dizziness of guilty relief. He had not come to accuse her of betraying Vicka’s memory, of taking advantage of Mateo’s grief. Ammur knew nothing about her love for Mateo; he’d come to honor her, to give her this special gift.

“The cuirass is thin but strong, Majesty, formed to cover your chest and back, yet granting you movement. It is more lightweight than the plate mail for your soldiers who will be in the thick of battle, fighting against Uraban scimitars.”

“I intend to be in the thick of things,” she said.

His brow furrowed. “Oh, this is more than a costume, Majesty. The suit will protect you from enemy arrows and blades. I would not want so much as a scratch to harm your skin.” He showed her the greaves, gauntlets, vambraces, and the airy helmet with its well-oiled visor. The Fishhook symbol had been inset in bronze in the proper places.