The Key to Creation (51 page)

Omra was not pleased, though. “I’d rather we lured them into range so our arrows could strike Aidenist hearts instead of just the ground.”

A few more Uraban archers took heroic shots, but didn’t achieve enough range. The rest of Omra’s bowmen jeered at the cowardly enemy that hovered just out of reach.

When Anjine halted her advancing army, the helmet visor hid her satisfied smile. She studied the neat line of feather-tipped arrows spread out on the ground and mentioned to Destrar Shenro beside her, “If any of the Curlies survive this battle, I’ll have to thank them for so thoughtfully delineating their range.”

“My archers have what they need, Majesty,” Shenro said.

Her soldiers made rough noises, and the horses snorted; armor and swords clanked as the men shuffled and held their places. Even so, she could hear the distant insults hurled by the Uraban soldiers high on their wall.

With a predatory grin to Shenro, she said, “Call out your archers, Destrar.”

Shenro echoed the order. Ninety specially trained bowmen had come down from Alamont, where they had practiced in the grassy hills—one archer for each Alamont horseman slain at Ishalem. The destrar’s archers spread out in a line and strung their long recurved bows. They had more arrows than they could possibly require—and Anjine wanted the bowmen to use them all.

Destrar Shenro signaled to the queen, “My bowmen are ready, Majesty.”

“They’ll never have a better target than this,” Subcomdar Hist said, indicating the line of men silhouetted atop the pockmarked stone wall.

She called over her shoulder, “Archers, loose your arrows swiftly and
keep shooting
. Don’t let them run and hide under rocks like the cockroaches they are!”

Well outside the demonstrated range of the Urecari bows, the Alamont men pulled back their strings and with a whistling twang loosed the first volley. In perfect coordination, ninety arrows flew into the air, arcing high and far, then dropped upon the surprised enemy soldiers massed on the wall. Most of the shafts flew even farther, pelting the crowded fighters who waited on the other side.

The Alamont archers shot a second volley, and a third, even before the first arrow storm struck. Nearly three hundred deadly shafts hammered the Uraban forces who had felt safe behind their wall.

With unwavering grim expressions, the Alamont archers fired swarm after swarm of arrows, as quickly as they could. Some of them pinpointed their range and mowed down the ranks standing atop the barricade, while other arrows rained down into the city itself, massacring random civilians in the streets. A wave of shock and fear swept over the enemy.

“They aren’t jeering at us anymore, my Queen,” observed Shenro.

The tiny figures atop the wall fell like dropped stones.

The hail of arrows came from out of nowhere. Soldiers sprouted shafts from their backs or shoulders, and collapsed on top of one another; others clutched arrows in their throats or chests. More shafts fell, and then more, with an eerie hum like buzzing bees.

The Tierran archers did not let up.

Amid the screams and chaos, Kel Unwar pulled Omra to shelter behind the battlements. One shaft sliced through the soldan-shah’s silken tunic to clatter on the stones at his feet, missing him by only a miracle. The Teacher did not move quickly enough, and one of the shafts plunged through the black robe and into the upper chest. The black gloves flailed and clutched at the arrow.

Unwar yelled in dismay and grabbed the Teacher, holding the figure up. “Don’t pull out the arrow! We’ve got to get you away from here.” Looking up to see Omra safe, he yelled, “Soldan-Shah, get to shelter! Run!” Then he began to drag the Teacher, whose silver mask somehow remained in place.

But Omra helped Unwar pull the Teacher to the steps. Arrows showered past the wall and clattered into the streets, skewering people who fled in panic. The Uraban soldiers crowded behind the main gate dropped by the dozens.

As Unwar wrestled with the Teacher, he called a sharp command: “Soldiers—bring shields! Protect the soldan-shah!” Several men responded, holding their shields up to cover Omra’s head. Two arrows thunked into the raised shields, and the men hustled the soldan-shah swiftly through the streets.

The Tierran arrows continued to fall.

The
Dyscovera
and the
Al-Orizin

With the first breath of dawn light, the swimming mer-Saedrans called to the crews that it was time to take boats to the tantalizing shore. Criston felt energized by faith and anticipation, ready to go see what King Sonhir believed would change their lives—though simply reaching the sacred land would do that.

Prester Hannes emerged from his cabin, wearing long sleeves against the chill. He held one of his preaching staffs as he called out the morning Aidenist prayers. On deck, the sailors had flushed faces as they watched the cliffs and crashing waves.

Criston barked orders, anxious to go, feeling caught up in another skein of unreality. So many unbelievable things had happened already.…

The quest to find this place had drawn him for most of his life, since his dreams as a young sailor. The thought of Terravitae had led him to make his worst decision ever: leaving Adrea behind. And though Mailes had now informed him that she was alive after all, Criston could not turn back the calendar.

Saan was his son.

Adrea was still alive.

She was married to the soldan-shah of Uraba.

And now, at last, Criston Vora had come to Terravitae.

He faced ahead, resolved to see Holy Joron and the sacred land, hoping it was worth the pain he had suffered to get here. “Prester Hannes, you’ll accompany me, and Sen Aldo and Javian as well. Captain Saan will make his own choices and bring one of the
Al-Orizin
’s boats. We’ll see this together.”

Out of a sense of obligation, Saan felt he had to include Sikara Fyiri, but she had not yet emerged from her cabin, despite the commotion outside. How could she not be clamoring to be the first ashore? He wondered if she might be reluctant to see Terravitae, now that it was time to face the reality of her beliefs.

Grigovar pounded on her cabin door but received no answer. Finally, more impatient than concerned, Saan told him, “Pull it open. Let’s see what’s wrong with her now.”

The sikara’s cabin was empty. She had not slept in her bed, and she’d left no indication of where she had gone. The crew of the
Al-Orizin
raced about, calling out for the priestess, but the battered ship offered few places she could—or would—hide. Neither Sen Sherufa nor Ystya knew where the priestess might have gone.

“Maybe she swam ashore herself in the middle of the night,” Yal Dolicar suggested. “Just so she could get there before the rest of us.”

Saan fumed, fearing that she was up to some kind of trouble. “I’m not waiting any longer. If Sikara Fyiri doesn’t care to join us, we’ll just have to tell her what we find. Grigovar, Yal Dolicar, Sen Sherufa—you will join me in the ship’s boat.” He smiled. “You too, Ystya. You belong with us.”

While Captain Vora lowered the
Dyscovera
’s boat, Grigovar asked Saan in a low voice, “Shall we bring the banner of Uraba, Captain? Plant our flag on the new continent and claim it in the name of Urec?”

“I think not. If we do that, then Captain Vora will want to bring the Tierran standard, and we’d have a race to see who can jump off the boat first and plunge a stick into the dirt. I will not have us looking like ill-behaved children if Joron is watching. Besides”—he looked over at the ethereal Ystya—“if Terravitae is the land of Ondun, then it isn’t ours to take or give.”

After they crowded into the two boats, Kjelnar surprised them by hauling himself out of the water and into the
Dyscovera
’s boat so that he could row, while burly Grigovar took up the oars in the other boat. The mer-Saedrans swam off in the lead.

Saan looked over at his father, communicating with the flash of an eager smile. His mother had taught him the Tierran language, though Saan had few opportunities to practice. Now, speaking that foreign tongue seemed natural in a strange way. Ystya sat in the prow of the
Al-Orizin
’s boat, admiring the cliffs of Terravitae, a home that she had never seen.

Prester Hannes rode like a statue in the stern of the
Dyscovera
’s boat, his back ramrod straight, his eyes glittering and hard. He clasped his fishhook-tipped preaching staff, as if determination alone could transform anything they were about to see into what he wished were true.

The two boats dodged frothing waves and rocks to slip into the mouth of the nearest sea cave. A surge of water swept them farther inside, so that Grigovar and Kjelnar rowed backward to stabilize the boats, then pulled them forward again.

Between the two groups, the conversation was excited and tense. When Hannes grudgingly began to translate for the Urabans, Yal Dolicar corrected some of the prester’s misrepresentations, much to the man’s annoyance.

As soon as they entered the sea cave, the temperature dropped precipitously. Saan blew out a steam of breath, but this was a different kind of chill than the raw and bitter cold of the iceberg sea. Ystya wrapped her arms around her narrow chest. On the other boat, Javian looked around in silent astonishment. Around them, the rock walls sparkled with diamond-like ice crystals. Seawater lapped and echoed, making sounds like phantoms whispering.

Saan’s father gave him a wistful glance. “I set out for Terravitae when I was little older than you are now. I’m finally here, older, wiser, and scarred. But I never could have dreamed I would be doing this with you.”

Saan heard the uncertainty and determination in Criston’s voice. “It hasn’t been easy for any of us, but at least we are
here
.”

“I’m very happy with what I’ve found,” he said, and only Saan understood his true meaning.

Icicles dripped down from the ceiling like sharp stalactites in a cave. As he pulled the oars, Kjelnar said, “It’s just ahead—the main grotto.”

With the swimming mer-Saedrans leading the way, the rowboats approached a large chamber where thick ice stood in great frozen columns at the entrance, like the gateway to a temple. They drifted into an amazing vault with a dome overhead of pure, transparent ice. The water ended at a flat rocky platform, like a stage, beneath the curved ceiling.

As if waiting for them, two ancient bearded men sat on blocky chairs of petrified wood in the center of the frozen floor, like a pair of powerful lords holding court. They were regal-looking, practically giants—and motionless, encrusted in a shell of clear ice. Frost sparkled in their long beards. Their eyes were closed, their expressions peaceful. One of the two men had brown hair dusted with gray, while the other’s dark locks were intertwined with silver.

A cold wind of awe slipped into Saan’s chest and wrapped around his heart. “Is that…is that Aiden? And Urec?” When he saw their features, he could indeed see echoes of Ystya there, a definite resemblance.

“Both together?” Criston said. “Here?”

Ystya raised her chin, and her eyes shone. “Those are my brothers—I know they are. Back on the island, when he was alive, my father used his magic to show us images of their travels, though he was too weak to communicate with them. When Aiden and Urec couldn’t find me, as Ondun asked, they sailed back home. To Terravitae. And now we have found them.”

Javian let out a trembling breath, like a sigh. “They’re dead…aren’t they?”

“No!” Hannes stood abruptly from the bench and lifted his staff. The boat rocked from side to side, nearly capsizing. “No, they never would have sailed home together!”

“Sit down, you fool!” shouted Criston.

Yal Dolicar gave a delighted laugh. “We saw the Arkship crashed farther up the coastline. Isn’t it obvious? The brothers left one ship behind in Ishalem on the hill and traveled home together in the second.”

Hannes was appalled. “This is not what the scriptures say!”

Aldo explained in a patient voice, “Prester, if they wrote the Book of Aiden and Urec’s Log before they sailed home, then their stories would not have been complete. The tale wasn’t finished.”

“But Aiden remained behind,” Hannes insisted. “Aiden is the Traveler!”

“Or Urec,” Saan said with a shrug.

Sen Sherufa added, “Or, since we see both brothers here, the Traveler is someone else—if he exists at all. Either way, it’s obvious that the stories told by the presters and the sikaras are flawed.”

Prester Hannes gazed with a mixture of amazement and horror, as if he could just
will
the unexpected sights away. Yal Dolicar laughed to see the shocked look on the prester’s face. “Oh, I only wish Sikara Fyiri were here. I am sure her expression would be as funny as yours!”

They climbed out of the boats and stepped onto the flat, cold surface, standing there in awe. The grotto was silent and eerie, as if the air held as much reverence as cold. The motionless men seemed to exude power, waiting…but they were certainly dead. No one ventured close enough to touch the preserved figures.

“Someone—or something—entombed them here,” Criston said, “possibly even Holy Joron.”

“We should not disturb them,” Ystya said, “until we know more.”

The brown-haired man—Aiden?—wore gray robes tied at his waist with a bright yellow sash. The threads sparkled; the fabric seemed to be spun out of crystalline fibers. His dark-haired companion wore a purple shirt and brown leather breeches. The men had similar boots, and both wore a silver ring on the left hand, but no other jewels or ornamentation. The two preserved bodies were so lifelike that Saan expected their eyes to snap open and awaken them to a new world.

Some relics had been carefully placed around the pair: two navigational instruments that were more complex than anything Saedran chartsmen used. An ornate spyglass rested beside Aiden’s chair, its barrel partially extended. A sturdy wooden chest formed a table between them, the lid sealed with a complex-looking lock. On top of the trunk rested a thick tome whose cover was inscribed with archaic scrolled letters, stating merely
Captain’s Log
.