The Key to Creation (34 page)

As soon as he came ashore, Omra took over, ordering his people to form a line and stop the fire from advancing into the city. Though Uraban architecture typically used stucco, stone, and tile, there were enough wood structures and fabric awnings to maintain the blaze. Fortunately, the evening wind was quiet, blowing out to sea. Maybe something could be saved, he thought.

Omra shouted orders until he was hoarse. Throughout the night, he worked beyond exhaustion, but even as the fires died, his fury blazed brighter. His face was covered with soot, his hands raw and blistered. His clothes were dirty and blood-spattered; without his olba, his dark hair hung free and dripped with sweat. The smoke stung his eyes, making them burn so that he wasn’t sure whether or not he wept.

By dawn, the people had contained the blaze, but the marketplace, the shoreline warehouses, and the wooden piers were a disaster. Out in the harbor, many ships still smoldered, but they were isolated now and would burn out on their own. It would take months or years to remove all of the blackened hulks and make the bay’s draught safe for shipping. Until then, merchant ships could not tie up close to shore, and even the handful of intact vessels would not be able to sail away anytime soon.

There was so much work ahead—so many blazes to extinguish, so much damage to repair, so much loss to assess in goods and ships and
lives
—that Omra didn’t know how he could deal with it all. He was already fighting a war, they had lost the ironclads and the mines at Gremurr, Tukar had been murdered, Arikara had been leveled, and now this.…The challenge seemed even greater than building a great wall across the isthmus.

He looked at the skeletal wrecks of ships and recalled the driftwood reader’s prediction. His heart ached, for he now believed that the gnarled woman had somehow read Uraba’s grim future in the whorls and rings of the piece of wood. No one could have prevented the destruction of Arikara, but Omra knew exactly whom to blame for this attack on the harbor.

Kel Rovik came up to him, his face soot-blackened, his hair disheveled, his cheek marked with blisters from a blast of fire. He led a woman and a young boy who wore drab clothes and appeared gaunt and frightened. “Soldan-Shah, we found these two in a small boat in the harbor.”

Omra narrowed his eyes, recognizing them. “Shetia—and Ulan! We thought you were prisoners at Gremurr, or dead.”

Shetia bowed. “When the Aidenists came to conquer the mines, Tukar sent us away into the hills to hide, while he remained to fight. But it was no use. We were eventually captured and held prisoner by their leader, Destrar Broeck.”

Omra growled. “Did he harm you? What has he done?”

“He didn’t harm us, but he has done enough. I believe—” she began, and her voice hitched. “I believe he killed Tukar.”

A storm crossed Omra’s face at the reminder. “Yes, Tukar is dead. I’m sorry. I loved my brother and wanted him to come home.”

The boy had a distant look in his dark eyes. “My father was very brave. He didn’t surrender the mines, but the Aidenists took them from him.”

“How did you escape, then? How did you get here?”

“The destrar let us go,” she said. “I think he felt guilty.”

Omra didn’t believe that. “I would not show compassion for him, or any ’Hook.”

“And yet he set us free. He fed us, gave us shelter, kept us alive. We would have starved to death out in the wilderness.”

“He played
xaries
with me,” Ulan said. “And he took care of my puppy.”

Omra was troubled. “Why would he burn so many of our ships, kill hundreds of people, and yet save you?”

“Only Urec knows.”

Omra turned to Kel Rovik. “Have them taken to the palace, give them whatever they need. Their long nightmare is finally over.” As Rovik led them away, the soldan-shah knew his own nightmare would continue for some time.

Causing a commotion along the shoreline path, a rider tried to force his way toward the soldan-shah, and Omra irritably waved at his guards to let him pass. Due to the confusion and milling people, the rider had taken some time to find Omra. He now presented himself with a quick bow. “Soldan-Shah, I come from Ishalem with news from Kel Unwar.”

Omra just stared at him. After this night, he didn’t want to hear any more news, but the rider spoke anyway. “The Tierran army has laid siege to the Ishalem wall—thousands of soldiers.”

“Their actions insult me.” After the sneak attack on the harbor, this seemed even more appalling. “What do they hope to accomplish? Does Kel Unwar believe they can smash down God’s Barricade?”

“The provisional governor believes Ishalem is safe, Soldan-Shah, but the size of the enemy army suggests they intend a major strike. And their navy has arrived to blockade the harbor.”

Omra fought down his fury. “After last night, I’ll never underestimate the Aidenists’ penchant for destruction. I’ll leave now and go directly to Ishalem.” His instinct was to take a fast ship and head west across the Middlesea, but one look at the smoke-filled harbor reminded him that the
Golden Fern
had sunk, and most of these vessels would never sail again.

“Get me a horse!” he shouted at Rovik. “I’ll ride to the next town and commandeer a ship there.”

Rovik was startled. “But Soldan-Shah—how can you leave Olabar now?”

Omra’s heart was torn between his capitals. “You’re in charge of recovery operations. I must go back to Ishalem. If we lose there, we lose the world.”

Part III

Calay, Saedran District

With the bulk of the Tierran army gone to Ishalem along with large numbers of camp followers and support workers, the city of Calay seemed empty. Since most seaworthy vessels had been conscripted into the Tierran navy, few ships sailed into the harbor with marketable goods.

The Saedran District remained busy, however. Though the Saedrans were loyal citizens of Tierra, they had never been asked to fight this holy war against the followers of Urec. While Sen Leo na-Hadra was happy to assist the queen in every way possible, he was a scholar, not a warrior. Few of his people were. They were painters, instrument-makers, apothecaries, doctors, architects, and chartsmen. Thinking of his son-in-law Aldo far away aboard the
Dyscovera
, Sen Leo couldn’t imagine the young man raising a sword in a battlefield charge. Aldo had many talents, but butchery was not among them.

The old scholar went to the na-Curic household for their traditional midweek family dinner. Leo’s wife was already there, having helped to cook the meal while the grandchildren played underfoot. Biento welcomed him into the house, while Aldo’s wife Lanni came forward to hug her father. Lanni’s eyes were bright and eager. “Do you have any news of Aldo? Has there been another
rea
pigeon?”

“Sorry, nothing for some time.”

“Do you think they’re all right?” Yura na-Curic wiped flour from her cheek. “It’s a mother’s job to worry.”

Aldo’s brother Wen chimed in with a snort of bravado. “Of course they’re all right—they have the best Saedran chartsman in the world.”

Sen Leo put as much reassurance into his voice as he could, not wanting to admit that he was concerned. “Since they have only a limited number of
rea
pigeons, Aldo wouldn’t waste a bird unless they have adventures worth writing about. They must have quiet sailing for now.”

Lanni rounded up her young children and herded them toward the table. “The message
I
want to hear is that Aldo has found Terravitae and the
Dyscovera
is following their Captain’s Compass back home.”

After a satisfying meal, Sen Leo made his way through dark streets to the warehouse that held the sympathetic model of the exploration ship. Because the intricate replica remained intact, Sen Leo had good reason to believe the
Dyscovera
was undamaged.

Queen Anjine had stationed guards to protect the replica, but with the army gone and the city guard stretched thin, the Saedran model-maker Sen Burian na-Coway spent most of his time there, sleeping nights inside the warehouse so that no one could harm the model.

As Sen Leo approached the building, he heard gruff shouts, followed by a chatter of feral laughter. He hurried around the corner to find burly Sen Burian balling his fists and fending off three teenaged boys who threw debris at him. One soft tomato splashed against the model-maker’s chest, and he roared at them. “Come back here so I can wring your necks—or go far away so I never have to smell you again!”

When the boys saw Sen Leo running toward them, they laughed and darted into the shadowy alleys. The old scholar caught his breath as he stopped at Burian’s side. “What did they do?”

“They made me angry is what they did.” Burian wiped a big hand down his chest, smearing tomato seeds, then wiped the wet hand on his trousers. “Troublemakers and hooligans—they’ve come around here before. I wish
they’d
been conscripted into the army.”

Sen Leo was worried. “Did they harm the model?”

Burian brushed aside the thought. “No, they aren’t that imaginative.” He pointed to the warehouse’s shuttered windows, which had been bombarded with spoiled fruit and smeared with fish offal. “I’d rather they threw garbage at the Ishalem wall. Damned vandals.”

“Even if they’re not
ra’virs
, vandals can cause great harm,” Sen Leo said. “Do you know who they are?”

“No, but they’ve been coming around here more often, getting bolder. I suspect their fathers went off to the war and their mothers can’t control them.”

The Saedran scholar pressed his lips together. “I’ll tell Guard-Marshall Vorannen to keep a close watch on this place. If that model is destroyed, the
Dyscovera
may not survive.”

“Oh, I can handle them for now,” Sen Burian said. “I will sleep with one eye open and a cudgel beside my cot. A good bruise and a cracked rib will teach those boys a lesson.”

The two men entered the warehouse, which was lit by lanterns. Sen Leo looked at the impressive work of the large ship model, marveled at its sturdy hull and masts, the delicate webwork of rigging, the detailed painting. The actual
Dyscovera
was a wonder, and this replica was an equal achievement of Saedran skill and sympathetic magic.

The sight made him think of Aldo sailing across the unexplored seas, farther than any chartsman had ever gone. “I’ll stay with you here for the rest of the night, Sen Burian—if you’d like the company.”

“That would be good.” The model-maker reached out to shake his hand, then noticed the tomato smear on his palm. “I’d better get cleaned up.”

The
Dyscovera

In the dark of night, Criston came out on deck carrying another sealed bottle containing a letter to his beloved Adrea. He slapped the cork tight against his palm and tossed the bottle overboard, hoping it would follow the sympathetic magic contained in the strand of her hair. She had given the lock to him a lifetime ago, and by now the strands were almost gone.

Though decades had passed, he did not give up believing that there was some way he could be with Adrea again…
some way
. He drew a deep breath and pictured her face, which remained so clear in his mind, though half of his life had passed since he had last seen her.

Javian approached him quietly. “Do you think your wife has ever received one of your letters, Captain?” Since the killing of the
rea
pigeons, Criston had doubled the night watch. Crewmembers patrolled the deck in pairs, watching for trouble—watching each other. There had been no further incidents.

“That isn’t up to me. The currents and tides have to do their part as well.”

He looked up toward the horizon, where he saw a sudden flash of light that shone out, then faded. Sure that his eyes had fooled him, he stared into the crowded starfield of a moonless night. The flash came again, a yellow-white beacon at the edge of the horizon.

From atop the mainmast, the lookout shouted, “Captain, I see a light!”

Javian pointed, and the other night watchmen crowded forward to see. The beacon came and went, flashing at regular intervals—far away, but definitely there. A signal…a sign of life.

An eerie shiver went down Criston’s back as the flash of light brought back memories from twenty years earlier. He spoke in barely a whisper. “I’ve seen something like this before.”

He would never forget that storm-swept night when tumultuous waves had battered the
Luminara
. Clinging to the lookout nest, thrown about by the storm, Criston had seen the flash of a bright beacon far away—just before the Leviathan came.…

Prester Hannes emerged from his cabin, without even a hint of sleep in his eyes. The prester remained awake most nights, poring over his books, studying each word. After finding the stone obelisk on the unnamed, windswept island, and seeing the inexplicable undersea titan with seaweed hair, he had been even more intent in his devotions.

Hour by hour, the beacon brightened as the
Dyscovera
sailed closer. By the time dawn broke, Criston could make out a rocky mound not large enough to be called an island. The rocks were topped by a monumental white brick tower built on a succession of stepped stone platforms. The spire stretched impossibly high into the sky.