The Key to Creation (37 page)

The physician looked uncharacteristically happy. “In times like these, this is good news. Your people will rejoice that Tierra is going to have an heir at last. They were so excited when you announced your betrothal to Jenirod, and dismayed when the engagement was broken. But this…this is cause for hope.”

Anjine’s voice was as hard as her armor. “I forbid you to tell anyone!”

Sen Ola was startled. “But they must know, Majesty. Another few months and it will be obvious to anyone who looks at you.”

“
No one.
Not now.”

The physician gave a brusque bow. “I will not speak, if you ask me not to. It is the oath of my profession.” Then Sen Ola seemed to put the pieces together. “And who is the father?”

Anjine wanted to rebuff the woman for daring to ask, but there was no purpose in hiding the answer from her. Since the physician couldn’t tell Mateo, Anjine decided to unburden herself of the secret she had carried for months. “Mateo Bornan,” she said quietly, as if making a confession to the prester-marshall.

“A fine man,” Sen Ola said.

“He has been my friend most of my life. And he…we needed each other.” Anjine looked up, her eyes filling with tears so that the other woman’s image swam in her vision.

Sen Ola did not scold her or look disappointed, which somehow made things worse. “You’ve created new life, Majesty. There is no shame in that.”

“But this is not the time!” Anjine tore the words out of her throat as uncertainties rose to the forefront of her mind. “Even my daily bouts of illness make it difficult for me to do my important duties.”

“I have herbs for that. Taken as tea or chewed, they will lessen the effects.”

It wasn’t enough. “This is a crucial time for the war! We could win the climactic battle, or the conflict might drag on for months or years yet! As my pregnancy progresses, how could I lead a battle charge? My body’s changes will build my emotions into a storm so that I can’t think straight—how can I allow that at a time when it’s vital that I make wise decisions?”

Sen Ola nodded, but offered no advice.

The words poured out of Anjine. “And what if we are here in camp for months yet? I can’t give birth to a baby on the battlefield! I can’t be distracted by taking care of an infant when I must dedicate myself to the needs of my army.”

“You exaggerate the difficulties, Majesty,” Sen Ola said. “Women have done this very thing since the beginning of history. They managed somehow.”

“That may be, Sen Ola—but those women were not the queen of Tierra.”

Sitting in her chair, Anjine looked over at the trim suit of armor Ammur Sonnen had made for her. The breastplate was sleek, its polished metal fitted to her slender body. Anjine had vowed to wear that armor while leading her troops in battle.

She heaved a great sigh, still wondering what to do. “Sen Ola, I may request that you give me one of your other chemical potions. I might not have any other choice.”

Arikara

As the recovery work continued in Arikara, Imir was constantly exhausted in mind and body. He labored as hard as any galley slave, and he could see the progress. The impossible disaster now seemed to be merely an unspeakable one.

Istala and Cithara spent every waking hour at the healer’s tents. Adreala, true to her word, took on any assigned task without complaint. She spent much of her time among the Nunghals, learning their work methods and picking up their language. Imir saw little of his granddaughters except when they came to evening meals on the citadel hill.

For the first weeks after the quake, dust from freshly dug grave pits billowed outside the city, but by now most of the corpses had been pulled from the ruins and transported to the burial sites, placed in mass graves, and covered with stones. Sikaras had sung funeral rites hour after hour until Soldan Xivir made them stop because their constant keening distressed the survivors.

When a caravan arrived bearing extensive supplies of Yuarej silk all the way from Inner Wahilir, along with a written proclamation of blessings from Ur-Sikara Kuari, the people celebrated. While the Nunghal khan placed little stock in the priestess’s blessings, he did say the fabric would make good tent material—cause for rejoicing, since the cloth from the first emergency supplies had already been used up.

In the late morning, Imir and Khan Jikaris rode on sturdy Missinian ponies through the streets, passing work crews that excavated bricks and fallen timbers. Now that much of the rubble had been carted away into huge piles of debris, from which rebuilding materials would be salvaged, Arikara was a skeleton of its former self. What had been marketplaces and living quarters, schools and trade shops, were now a motley carnival of tents and canopies. Floppy roofs covered collapsed ceilings.

As they rode, Imir appraised the city’s new appearance. “Did you mean to make this look like your own tent city back in the grasslands?”

Jikaris shrugged. “The Nunghal ways are superior.”

“Superior? Those primitive tents would collapse in the first hard wind.”

The khan sniffed. “When tents collapse, they don’t kill thousands.” He glanced around. “By the way, where is that Saedran woman you brought to Nunghal lands on your first visit? She was quite beautiful—for one of your people.”

The thought of Sen Sherufa made Imir smile. “Yes, she was beautiful—
is
beautiful. But she’s gone on a long voyage.”

The khan frowned. “So the Nunghal lands did not provide enough excitement for her—and neither did you? Ha!”

A troubled expression crossed Imir’s face. “She accepted an important mission. I don’t know when she’ll be home again.”

“I hope she comes back soon. I can stay awhile, but not forever.”

“She wasn’t all that eager to go in the first place.” Imir had been the one who wanted to undertake the sand coracle voyage across the Great Desert; he had put her forward as the Saedran chartsman for the voyage of the
Al-Orizin
, but now that she’d sailed off, he missed Sherufa, her stories and wit…just
her
. “I will pass along your greetings when I see her next.”

Jikaris was impatient. “That will not be good enough. I want to ask her to be one of my wives. My other ones have grown old and fat, and they bicker too much. That woman could make them behave.”

Imir felt a flash of jealousy, but he calmed himself. “I don’t think she’d accept your marriage proposal.” He gave a dubious chuckle. “Or anyone’s.”

Jikaris found this hard to believe. “How could she turn down the great khan of the Nunghal-Ari? I would make her a very rich woman.”

Imir shrugged. “She turned down the former soldan-shah of Uraba.”

“At least she is a woman with a mind of her own.” The khan urged his pony forward through the streets.

The two men tied their mounts to a makeshift picket line. Dusty workers stood in line at the central cook tent for a plate of food, which they ate quickly before shuffling back to their worksites. Cooks served grain porridge, soup, and rice. To avert unrest and starvation, Soldan Xivir had commandeered all private stores and stockpiled the food here in guarded supply tents. The meal was not appetizing, but Imir was so tired he had little appetite anyway.

Lithio served from one of the large cauldrons with her hair tied back and her fine dress covered by a dirty apron. Imir barely recognized her. She lifted her wooden spoon and signaled the two men as they arrived. “Have you done enough work to earn your food today? Supplies are dwindling, but there are chickpeas for the stew today.”

Jikaris said, “Seeing your beauty always restores my strength.”

Lithio wiped her dirty face and smiled. “You are such a gentleman, Khan Jikaris, and handsome too. No wonder you have so many wives.” She served him a large portion, then a much smaller one to the former soldan-shah. “You could stand to lose weight, Imir.”

He knew she was trying to make him jealous. “You’re delightful as always, Lithio.”

“I can be completely delightful, when I wish to be.”

The khan hovered beside Lithio, eating from his plate while she served other workers. “Nunghal women have their own beauty, and they need no adornments or perfumes. A Nunghal man can see the true loveliness in their eyes.” He made a point of staring into Lithio’s eyes. Gruel dripped from her spoon back into the cauldron.

“You’re holding up the line,” Imir said.

As he followed the former soldan-shah to a place where they could eat, Jikaris mumbled, “I know she is your First Wife, Imir, but Lithio says you never visit her. You leave her here in exile. How can you stand to be apart from a woman like that?”

“Better than when I’m
not
apart from her.”

Jikaris shook his head. “Well, if that Saedran woman won’t have me, why don’t you release Lithio as your wife? I’ll take her back to my own tent.”

“A tempting offer, Jikaris, but let us rebuild the city first. One disaster at a time.”

Soldan Xivir and his special guests gathered on the palace hill for the nightly “banquet” of food brought from the central cooksites. Imir and Jikaris sat by Xivir, while Lithio and his granddaughters sat at a table near them. Despite the meager fare, the sikara blessed the meal with great ceremony. When she finished, the Nunghal khan raised his goblet. “And now I add the blessing of my people and my church.” He spoke in his own language, rattling off a benediction. “Normally we would celebrate with fireworks, but I understand you use firepowder for other purposes.”

After the Nunghal men at the table finished their own prayers, Jikaris spoke up, as if the idea had just struck him, though it was obvious he had been planning for hours. “We need to construct many new buildings. Since so much of this city is ruined, my companions and I wish to erect a tent and an altar, establish a Nunghal place of worship, so we can feel more at home.”

Conversation around the banquet tent quieted. Xivir was obviously unprepared for the request. “Is that necessary? There are so few Nunghals here.”

The khan’s expression darkened. “Your priestesses often come to Nunghal lands to preach Urec’s Log to us. Are we not allowed to have our own place of worship here? You tell us about your gods—why should you not want to hear about ours?”

“That would not be acceptable,” said the priestess who had prayed over the meal. Her face was as withered as a dried date. “We cannot allow it.”

The khan looked baffled and offended. “I did not expect this after the help we give you. You think you have the only true belief? Ondun watches us all.” After he relayed to his men what the sikara had said, the Nunghals grew restless.

Imir didn’t want the matter to sour the evening. Worse, he feared that the Nunghals were on the verge of riding away and leaving Arikara to fend for itself. He said to the soldan in a warning tone, “They’re not being unreasonable, Xivir. We should not make a rash decision.”

Adreala, as independent as ever, said, “Hasn’t their selfless work here earned them the right to build their own church?”

To Imir’s surprise, Istala piped up; she was the most devout of Omra’s daughters, and she had wanted to join the priestesses at Fashia’s Fountain. “I think so. We can disagree without needing to disrespect. The words of the sikaras teach valuable lessons, but only a person’s
actions
show the contents of the heart.”

“The Nunghals are good people,” Cithara agreed.

Xivir gave a shrug of mock helplessness to the priestesses at the banquet table. “I bow to the will of the soldan-shah’s daughters.”

“And as a matter of courtesy,” Imir added, “I think the sikaras should attend the first Nunghal services. It seems only fair, if they expect the Nunghals to listen to
them
.”

Olabar

Olabar harbor smoldered for days. The water was crowded with charred wooden hulks, drooping masts, hulls burned to the waterline, and dead fish, all of which only added to the misery of the place. Dismayed merchants rowed about, looking for any salvageable items in the water.

Worst of all, their soldan-shah had raced off to Ishalem, which was under siege by the Tierrans. Even Imir was far away in Arikara, tending to the earthquake disaster. Commerce ministers, guard officers, palace functionaries, and city bureaucrats had their own designated tasks. Kel Rovik organized all the recovery efforts, and the rest of the city’s citizens went about their lives trying to return to normal. But they needed a leader.

Istar remained disoriented by her brother’s surprise return. Any day, she expected to wake up and find that it was all a dream. She had unrolled the crumbling sheets of Criston’s old water-stained letter, scanned his handwriting again and again. Now she knew that he was out there alive and that he still remembered her. Ciarlo had seen him less than a year ago!

Throughout the time she was held captive here, and even after she married the soldan-shah, bore him daughters, and helped raise his sons,
Criston
had refused to marry anyone else, tied to his hope and memories. But Adrea had simply moved on.…

She was ashamed, though she could not have made any other decision. Knowing what she knew now, however, she doubted she could look Omra in the eye. Would he sense the difference? What would he think? How could she make love to that man again, hold him and touch him as she had done countless times over the past twenty years? Omra had been her husband, her lover, for far longer than Criston ever had. And yet…

Omra hadn’t said goodbye before he galloped away to Ishalem…perhaps that was a relief.

Aidenist armies besieged the holy city. Maybe the Tierran queen was there—
Adrea’s
queen. She vaguely remembered King Korastine from her days in Windcatch, and she knew that the old man had died. His daughter Anjine—who’d been just a little girl when the raiders kidnapped Adrea—now ruled Tierra.

Tierra.

Adrea didn’t know whether to call herself Tierran or Uraban now. Her heart and her life tied her to both lands.

While Olabar reeled from the fire, Adrea had taken her brother to the palace, still disguised in Uraban clothes. The big Nunghal had followed her into the second wife’s wing, where they joined Naori, who accepted the stranger despite his Tierran features. When she learned that Ciarlo was Adrea’s brother, that he came from the same fishing village she often talked about, Naori greeted him warmly, oblivious to the problems or uncomfortable consequences.