The Key to Creation (46 page)

Aldo laughed. “Still telling ridiculous stories!”

“That one, Aldo, is actually true,” Sherufa said.

While the two separate crews continued repairs to the vessels, reluctantly sharing their sparse materials and tools, the two chartsmen engaged in hours of excited conversation. “Since we parted in Olabar, my life has changed.” Aldo smiled as he let the thoughts run back through his mind. “I’m married now, with two beautiful children, whom I miss very much…as well as my parents, my brother and sister. I used to long for adventure, but I have a new appreciation for home now. I miss Calay, too. And Landing Day festivities, and there’s a special kind of fruit pastry made in Alamont Reach. I liked to walk across town to one particular bakery, just so I could bring fresh pastries home for the whole family.” With the perfect recall of a chartsman, Aldo could crystallize every face, every memory. But it wasn’t the same as being there.

Sherufa sighed. “Ah, to sit at home, to cook my own meals…to relax on a spring evening during a rainstorm, with water running off the gutters and into the streets.” She smiled at him. “Imir would often join me for dinner so that he could listen to my stories. I think that’s why he wanted me to travel so much—just to give me more tales to amuse him.”

Aldo also told Sherufa about the mer-Saedrans and their lost continent, and she described how the Nunghal-Su had sailed around the southern continent up to Lahjar, proving that such a passage was possible. When the five reaches of Tierra were included, along with the five soldanates of Uraba, the Great Desert, and the southern ocean, their patchwork map sprawled across the entire tabletop.

Sen Sherufa laced her fingers together, as if to cage her excitement. “Significant pieces of the Mappa Mundi are falling into place.”

“We would know much more about the seas and the continents if Prester Hannes hadn’t offended the mer-Saedrans.” Aldo scowled at the memory. “Their undersea libraries have records of every place they’ve explored—coastlines, islands, open waters.” He sighed. “I doubt we’ll see them again.”

Working in concert, they compiled an extensive chart of the known world, piecing together details from their voyages and all the maps they possessed, the sights they had seen and the landfalls they had recorded. It was intricate and time-consuming work, but enjoyable.

As they compared the routes the two ships had taken, an obvious—and astonishing—realization came to both chartsmen at once. The
Dyscovera
had sailed west across the Oceansea, heading past the islands of Soeland Reach, then south…and the
Al-Orizin
had voyaged
east
, crossing the Middlesea, yet the ships they had both arrived at the far side of the world.

Aldo blinked at the implication. “How did we both end up here?”

“How, indeed? We have long known the world is round, and this is proof that the great seas are connected.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Continent after continent—the world is vaster and more amazing than I could imagine. Such a marvelous creation. Why would Ondun have left it?”

Aldo wasn’t sure how to accept Ystya’s stories about Iyomelka and her island, or what Mailes had explained to them in the Lighthouse at the End of the World, but his pulse quickened as he looked at the compiled map. “Do you think the Mappa Mundi is nearly finished? Is there more to explore, or are we merely adding fine details from this point onward?”

Sherufa ran her palm along the edge of the last piece of paper. “Or maybe Ondun created something greater than we could understand in a hundred more generations. All that we have seen might just be one grain of sand on a vast beach.”

“We still have to find Terravitae,” Aldo said. “From the charts Mailes gave us, and with Aiden’s Compass pointing true, we know we’re close…if our ships can survive long enough to get there.”

Sherufa gave a wistful sigh. “The only thing that matters is that
someone
describes the world…the whole world.”

The prophecy known to all Saedrans, the very creed by which chartsmen memorized the knowledge collected over the centuries, was clear enough. Aldo recited it. “Ondun will return when the Map of All Things is complete.”

Ishalem

Using a standard letter of passage from the soldan-shah, which Istar obtained from the palace commerce minister, along with sufficient funds to pay for travel and necessities, she set off across Uraba with Ciarlo and Asaddan.

Once Istar had convinced her brother that Ur-Sikara Kuari was not a scheming fanatic like so many other sikaras, Ciarlo was enthused by the idea of speaking to the woman. “If we heal the hatred between our religions, then we can stop this war. If she is reasonable, perhaps I can make the ur-sikara listen to us.”

“And will you listen to her as well, friend Ciarlo?” Asaddan asked. “Are you interested in the worthy points of her religion?”

Ciarlo wrestled with his answer, knowing how he needed to respond. “I will…listen. Aiden and Urec—and Joron—were brothers. They must have loved one another. We should start from there.”

As they traveled along the coastal road toward Ishalem, Istar found Ciarlo’s sincere passion heartwarming. Her brother had no violence in him, did not seek to eradicate anyone who followed the Fern instead of the Fishhook. She was surprised at how brave (some would say foolish) he had been to travel to Uraba without even speaking the language and knowing almost nothing about Urec’s Log. He had been naïve, unprepared, and full of faith.

As they rode east, Istar said, “I had to learn about a whole new world when I was brought to Uraba. I spent my first years as a household slave, absorbing the language, learning about their religion. It is very strange for an Aidenist to hear what they believe.”

In all her years in the soldan-shah’s palace, Istar had never fully embraced the Urecari faith, although she was familiar with the scriptures and rituals. When she agreed to become Omra’s wife in order to protect her son, she had convinced herself that it would never be a true marriage, since their religion was a lie. In the eyes of Aiden and Ondun, Criston Vora would always be her true husband.

But over the course of two decades, as her son was raised in Olabar, as she bore Omra two daughters, as he took care of Istar and gave her prominence, listened to her advice and treated her as a true partner rather than a spoil of war, her attitude had slowly changed. Istar could not have endured if she had spent every day believing that her life was a lie, that her
daughters themselves
were the result of a crime.

“My feelings became blurred over the years. There is some good in what the Urecari believe, just as there is good in the Book of Aiden. In fact, presters and sikaras teach the same things, but too few people on either side truly practice what they claim to believe.”

Asaddan said, “I respect Ciarlo because he lives by his beliefs—I have seen it for myself.”

Ciarlo gave a solemn nod. “I still remember the raid on Windcatch…the fires, the murders, poor Prester Fennan. Since coming to Uraba, I’ve seen terrible things, and had terrible things done to me.” He visibly steeled himself and then told her again how angry followers of Urec had burned his irreplaceable Tales of the Traveler, how he’d been chained to a galley bench aboard the
Moray
, whipped for speaking the word of Aiden, then keelhauled. “I have also met a few kind sikaras.”

Though she cringed, Istar said, “Aidenists aren’t entirely innocent either, Ciarlo.” With great pain, she described the beautiful hanging lake of Fashia’s Fountain. “Istala wanted to join the priestesses there. But Aidenist attackers defiled the shrine and slaughtered every one of the pilgrims and priestesses. If it had happened a few months later, my own daughter would have been murdered along with the rest of them.”

Shocked to hear this, Ciarlo rode on in silence, deep in thought.

Riding ever westward, they reached Ishalem five days after Omra had arrived in the city. A huge Tierran army had besieged the wall, commencing a constant catapult bombardment, and the Aidenist navy had blockaded the Oceansea harbor.

According to the news they received in the streets, Omra had increased defenses on the wall and stationed numerous guards at the gates and watchtowers, preparing for the large military assault that was sure to come. After the fiery attack on Olabar harbor and now the threat to Ishalem, he was understandably outraged—and Istar was afraid of how the soldan-shah would react to Ciarlo, even if he was her brother. Omra might not be in any mood to talk about peace and understanding.

“I’ll speak with the ur-sikara first,” Ciarlo said. “We may understand each other after all. Can you get us an audience with her?” He blinked his blue eyes at Istar, so innocent, so earnest—and entirely without fear. With unsettling calm, Ciarlo had told her he was willing to die a death similar to Prester-Marshall Baine’s—strung up on a post with a fishhook through his throat—if it provided an example that would open the hearts and minds of the Urecari to the light of Aidenism.

Istar did not intend to let it come to that.

They passed the rubble of Soldan Huttan’s collapsed church, where dusty laborers picked over the piles of debris to salvage metal and stone. Carts rattled away, piled with broken blocks, either to be used in construction projects or hurled as missiles should the Tierran army breach the Ishalem gates.

Asaddan secured lodgings so their party could rest before Istar requested an audience with the ur-sikara. Omra would be preoccupied with the city’s defenses, but she was confident Kuari would at least receive her and give her brother a fair hearing. Beyond that…

When the three unpacked their belongings and changed out of dusty traveling clothes, Istar was distracted by nostalgic thoughts of her brother, of Criston Vora…and Saan. And that made her want to open up the sympathetic journal she carried in her pack.

For several months now, Istar and Sen Sherufa had carried on a correspondence, writing messages back and forth on the book’s ever-diminishing pages. The long-distance conversation allowed Istar to feel close to her son, to know what Saan was doing and how far he had sailed. But most of the twinned half-pages were already covered with writing, and Istar worried that every scrap of paper would be used up before Saan could come home safely.

Opening the book, she flipped to the last pages and saw fresh lines of Sen Sherufa’s tight handwriting, shorthand sentences that used as little paper as possible. The message was devastating, unbelievable.

At first, Istar read a recounting of the icebergs and the ancient frozen ship, Iyomelka’s continued pursuit, the destructive storm, and the Leviathan attack—which sent a chill down her back, for Ciarlo had told her how the very same monster had sunk the
Luminara
and nearly killed Criston. Sherufa provided only bald facts: Iyomelka was dead, killed by the Leviathan, which had in turn been slain by the mysterious ghost ships. The
Al-Orizin
was badly damaged, barely able to make sail.

Istar squinted down at the last sentences Sen Sherufa managed to fit at the bottom of the torn page. The
Al-Orizin
had joined forces with an equally battered Tierran vessel, the
Dyscovera
. Istar recognized the name from her brother. Criston Vora had sailed away aboard that ship on his quest to find Terravitae.

The implications made her reel. Saan was with his father, and didn’t even know it!

Though her heart was torn, she felt a great and unexpected joy. Saan needed to be told. Choosing her words carefully, but writing as fast as she could, Istar—Adrea—picked up a pen.

The
Al-Orizin

The Urabans on board, especially Sikara Fyiri, were unsettled to be so close to the Aidenist vessel. Ropes and grappling hooks tied the wrecks together, and the ships held on like two drunken men supporting each other as they staggered away from a tavern fight.

Tierran and Uraban sailors eyed one another across the decks; Sikara Fyiri glowered at the Aidenist prester as if he were a murderer of children, and he regarded the sikara with equal hatred. The man had waxy burn scars on his face and hands, but the greater scars seemed to be behind his narrowed eyes. Sen Sherufa and the other Saedran chartsman were the only two people unabashedly pleased with the encounter.

Saltwater continued to leak through gaps in the
Al-Orizin
’s hull, despite the best efforts of the crew to patch the damage. At Saan’s urging, and to test her powers, Ystya attempted to draw upon the magic in the water and wood, to recreate her mother’s spell in resurrecting her sunken ship.

The young woman did spark enough magic to regrow the wood of shattered planks, knit the threads of the sails, twist and bind some of the frayed ropes, but when she finished she looked gray and weak. “I used up too much strength when I fought against my mother and called the storms.” Ystya shook her head. “I’ll have more power when we reach Terravitae. That land is a wellspring for my people, just as the island spring was a source for my mother.”

The storm had smashed the window of Saan’s cabin, and flooding saltwater had ruined the ancient chart from the frozen ship; fortunately, he kept the Map of Urec in its leather case, where it remained protected.

The sympathetic journal had also gotten wet so that some of the ink in the older entries ran, but he rescued it and left it out to dry. Now, as Saan gingerly turned the soggy pages, he knew his mother would be worried, so he decided to tell her that he was alive, at least for now.

New words had appeared there in his mother’s hand, and he read with widening eyes. None of Saan’s adventures or discoveries during his voyage prepared him for what she revealed.

He knew most of his mother’s story, of course. She had been taken from a Tierran fishing village, and his blond hair and blue eyes proclaimed his foreign heritage like an insult every time he peered into a gazing glass. He knew that his true father was a fisherman or sailor who had been away when the raiders struck Windcatch.