The Key to Creation (4 page)

“I would feel better if I knew how we’re going to get out of this, Captain,” Yal Dolicar said. “Just a hint, perhaps?”

Ystya turned to stare at the racing, endless body of the Father of All Serpents, which blocked the sea from horizon to horizon. “My mother is no match for Bouras.” The increasing howl of the winds snatched at the girl’s quiet voice. “But she will not stop.”

“Neither will we.” Saan tried not to show how his mind was racing. “Don’t you worry.”

Dolicar, a man thoroughly familiar with half-truths and exaggerations, saw through the captain’s cocky façade and turned pale.

Through the spyglass, Saan looked aft to study Iyomelka’s jagged gray ship. Long ago, that old vessel had sunk in the reefs around her island, but the woman had used her sorcerous powers to raise it from the depths. Strands of seaweed held the tattered sails together, and the hull was encrusted with barnacles and starfish. A sharp, twisted extension of antler coral protruded from the prow. Iyomelka stood on deck beside a crystal coffin that held the preserved body of her husband. The witch’s hair and garments whipped in the gale that she herself had summoned.

In front of them, the barrier of the gigantic sea serpent’s body looked insurmountable, but at least the Father of All Serpents had no quarrel with them, as far as Saan knew.

Neither choice seemed particularly pleasant.

One of the
Al-Orizin
’s silken sails came loose and flapped wildly. The painted Eye of Urec folded, then stretched tight again, as if winking. The reef diver Grigovar grabbed the rope, using all his weight to pull it taut, then wrapped it around a stanchion until riggers could connect it properly.

From the bow of her ship, Iyomelka hurled black thunderclouds toward the
Al-Orizin
like missiles from an unseen catapult. Next, she summoned two waterspouts, whirling columns of water and air that marched across the waves.

The Saedran Sen Sherufa, her brown-and-gray hair whipping loose around her, shouted into the noise of the gale, “Captain, how will we get past the sea serpent?”

“I’m working on that.”

They sailed ever closer to the enormous reptilian body of Bouras. The titanic thing reeled past with such speed that the armor scales—each the size of a mainsail—were a blur. The spray and ripple of Bouras’s passage tossed the
Al-Orizin
about like one of the toy boats Saan’s little brother played with. In minutes, their ship would ram into the reptile. “Turn south! Hard starboard!”

Grigovar used his considerable strength to turn the rudder hard over. The riggers set the sails to catch the wind, and the
Al-Orizin
heeled about until it cruised alongside the serpent, riding the swift currents drawn along in the wake of Bouras’s unending circuit of the world.

Ystya stared hard at the infinite serpent. “My mother told me stories of great titans like this, and how only my father was powerful enough to impose order on them. He protected the seas by containing Bouras.”

The wind increased as Iyomelka closed in, and Saan had to shout, “But he’s in our way!”

Although the
Al-Orizin
sailed along at top speed, Iyomelka still closed the distance. Her sorcerous waterspouts swept closer, only to be caught in the turbulence that paralleled Bouras. They struck and rode over the serpent’s body, then dissipated.

As increasing storms buffeted them, the island witch’s voice boomed out, carried on the thunder, magnified by the gale. “You stole my daughter! Return her to me!”

A tall wave crashed against the
Al-Orizin
’s side, sloshing water across the deck and throwing Yal Dolicar and Sen Sherufa to their knees. A terrified Sikara Fyiri, pretending to be a bastion of strength, emerged from her cabin with a heavy unfurling-fern staff; she wobbled as she attempted to stand firm. “Captain Saan, you have no choice—give the girl back. Surrender the demon’s daughter and save us all!”

Saan held Ystya’s arm. “I will do no such thing.”

As the crew muttered in fearful agreement, Yal Dolicar yelled out, “Don’t be foolish, men—the only reason the witch hasn’t sunk us yet is because she wants Ystya alive. That girl is our only bargaining chip!”

Ystya, no quaking flower, raised her chin. “We can’t outrun my mother, Saan—she has powers you cannot imagine—so we have to find some other way.”

“If we don’t have weapons or powers to match Iyomelka’s, then we’ll just have to outsmart her.” Saan held on as another wave rocked the ship from side to side. “I’d appreciate any suggestions.”

Up in the lookout nest, a sailor had lashed himself to the mast to keep himself from being thrown overboard into the violent waters. “Captain, look at the serpent! Something big is coming our way!”

The crewmembers crowded to the side of the ship as lightning crackled around them. Bouras’s scaly body seemed to be tapering off, until it abruptly changed to a huge angular shape with ridges, scales, flared horns, and a pair of golden, glaring eyes. Biting its own tail, the serpent’s mountain-sized head split the waves and threw off sheets of water twice as tall as the
Al-Orizin
. As it plowed toward the ship, the reptilian eyes spotted them, and the pupil slits widened to drink in this unexpected sight. Scaled lips curled back to expose ivory fangs as long as mainmasts piercing the flesh of its tail.

Bouras came toward them like a battering ram.

The
Dyscovera

It was a trial for mutiny. As captain of the
Dyscovera
, Criston Vora could not forgive what Prester Hannes and his followers had done.

Unresolved tensions weighed down the ship more heavily than any anchor. Criston was responsible for the lives of every sailor aboard, and had to ensure that their mission succeeded against all enemies…even those among his crew. The
Dyscovera
had sailed farther than any explorer had ever gone, well beyond the reach of Tierran courts or justice. The captain could rely on no one but himself, even for spiritual guidance.

Prester Hannes was the worst offender of all.

During the senseless uprising against the mer-Saedrans, their Captain’s Compass had been smashed, so the
Dyscovera
could not find the way back to Calay. Fortunately, the ancient Aiden’s Compass pointed the way to Terravitae. For the first time during their long voyage, the sailors were confident they would reach their holy destination—if they could survive the journey.…

In a hazy dawn, Criston summoned the crew to the foredeck for his pronouncement. His ship’s boy Javian stood next to the young woman Mia; their support had been invaluable during the fight, helping to free the mer-king’s daughters from the mutineers. The Saedran chartsman Sen Aldo na-Curic looked shaken and saddened.

The prester wore his dark Aidenist robe and stood straight, his gaze fiery, his expression unrepentant. He clasped his Fishhook pendant between his palms; Criston had agreed to that small concession when the sailors had bound Hannes’s wrists with cords.

Everyone waited for the captain to speak. Criston felt a wave of disgust and disappointment as he faced the haggard mutineers. Some of the men were bruised and battered from the fight. Many looked cowed; only a few remained defiant. The prester looked up at him, unflinching and without anger.

Criston had meant to shout a thundering pronouncement. Instead, his voice dropped low. “I thought you were my friend, Hannes. I trusted you.”

“That changed when you betrayed me and betrayed Aiden, Captain.”

The crewmembers grumbled at the mutineers, Javian the loudest. Now Criston did shout. “I am the
Dyscovera
’s captain. I lead this ship! And you”—he jabbed a finger toward Hannes—“
you
cost me Kjelnar, our shipwright and first mate, a good man! You cost us our alliance with the mer-Saedrans, who could have been our allies against Uraba.”

“Allies are not worth the price of our damnation, Captain,” Hannes said, cold and calm. “Those people did not believe in Aiden and refused to hear the truth. You were too blind to see the dangerous course you were setting.”

Sen Aldo added the edge of his voice to the captain’s. “For centuries the mer-Saedrans studied the seas, the coastlines, the islands. They could have added to our knowledge of the Map of All Things. They could have taken us to Terravitae, but you turned them against us.”

“I have all the knowledge I need,” Hannes snapped back. “My loyalty is not to the Saedrans or to your map.”

“Your loyalty should be to
Tierra
,” Criston said.

The prester chuckled. “No, my loyalty is to Ondun and to Aiden. That has always been the case.”

“Our enemies are the followers of Urec—not everyone who seems strange to you.” Hannes did not appear to see the difference.

The morning sun beat down on them all, and the
Dyscovera
sailed onward in calm waters. Javian looked nervous and restless. He reached out to squeeze Mia’s hands, and she did not pull away. The cabin boy cleared his throat, making a nervous suggestion. “Captain, if these men give us their word that they’ll follow only your orders, maybe you should give them another chance. They are our shipmates…” Several of the bound mutineers nodded, promising to do just that.

Even Aldo lowered his head. “I’ve had had many philosophical disagreements with the prester, Captain, but I never wanted the man’s death. The pull on Aiden’s Compass is so strong that we must be near Terravitae. Perhaps it would be best if we let Holy Joron decide their fates?”

Hannes straightened. “In this matter, Joron is one of the only arbiters I would accept.”

Criston was not in a forgiving mood. “The choice is not up to you, Prester.” Though his heart was torn, he had to be strong. “You yourself advised me, Hannes: when Enoch Dey and Silam Henner tried to rape Mia,
you
were the one who insisted that a captain can show no mercy, that justice is absolute.
You
told me that for the sake of my command, I had to set a harsh example.” Dey had been thrown overboard to his death, while Henner suffered the lash.…Even the lash had been a mercy, and now Henner was among those who had turned against the captain. Criston narrowed his eyes. “Surely the crime of mutiny deserves an equally harsh example. By your own advice, I cannot spare you.”

Hannes did not beg for mercy. His face was reddened from exposure to the sun and elements, though the burn scars on his cheek remained pale. He clenched the Fishhook in his hands, praying. He seemed to be daring Criston to make the decision.

Before Criston could pronounce the dreaded sentence, though, an excited shout rang from the lookout nest. “Land ho, Captain—coastline dead ahead!”

Middlesea Coast, Near Sioara

Holding his Book of Aiden, Ciarlo walked into the Uraban harbor town. He wore a calm smile; he whispered prayers. Despite the previous rejections, he kept believing these people would listen to a stranger.

Larger than a typical fishing village, this town boasted several long docks where Middlesea trading ships could tie up and unload. As he walked along the streets, Ciarlo passed crowded mud-brick homes, a small marketplace, a craftsworkers’ district, and three Urecari churches built of wood and stone.

He didn’t know the name of the town; in fact, he’d never even seen a map of Uraba. Making his way down the coast, he merely followed the roads that took him in the general direction of Olabar, where he hoped to find clues about his sister Adrea. During his travels, he had another calling: when he saw those poor, misguided followers of Urec, he had to preach to them.

Ciarlo went through the village, responding with a benevolent nod to anyone who glanced at him. His faith was a barricade against the resistance and hostility he had encountered so far. Very few of the stubborn Urecari were receptive to his message—in fact, they didn’t want to hear him at all—yet he continued nevertheless. Now that he had met the fabled Traveler in person, he was more certain than ever.

The mysterious wandering hermit had appeared in camp one evening, told him stories, and left behind a new volume of handwritten tales. The Traveler had also healed Ciarlo’s lame leg—a true miracle. Now Ciarlo felt he had to repay Aiden by preaching his word.

As the Uraban villagers stared at the stranger’s pale skin and odd clothing, he raised his hand in blessing. When he showed his Fishhook, they recoiled as if a monster had just appeared in their midst. Women rushed children into their homes and closed the doors.

“I am glad to see you,” he said in pidgin Uraban. He understood the language now and could communicate well enough, though his accent marked him as a foreigner. He held up his Tales of the Traveler, knowing these were safer stories, and even Urecari were more likely to listen (though these people erroneously believed that the Traveler was
Urec
rather than Aiden). “I have good news! Let me tell you about Aiden’s voyage and his encounter with the Leviathan. Let me tell you—”

A woodworker stepped away from the bench he was building, still holding a hammer. “We don’t want to hear it. Go away.”

A potter came out of his shop and nudged his young apprentice down the dirt street. “Bring the sikara—now! Tell the mayor, too.”

Ciarlo spread his open hand. “There is no need to be frightened. Ondun loved both of His sons. You should not cover your ears against the words of Aiden. We can learn much from the examples of his life.” He lifted his book. “Aiden sent me a dream that led me here.”

Someone threw a rock, which struck his shoulder with a stinging blow. Startled, he turned to them, his face plaintive. “Why are you afraid?”

Another rock grazed his cheek, though he raised the Traveler’s tome to fend it off. More craftsmen emerged from their shops and began shouting, finding bravery in numbers.

Several guards marched down the streets, escorting a pompous-looking man who wore the maroon olba of a mayor. The official yelled such a rapid stream of Uraban that Ciarlo had difficulty understanding the words.