The Key to Creation (67 page)
Read The Key to Creation Online
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
After a tiring journey north, Queen Anjine led part of the Tierran army back to Calay. At some point, as the two lands took their first steps toward open trade and travel, she would appoint an emissary to the Uraban capital of Olabar.
For now, though, she merely wanted to go home.…
For the last leg of the trip, she donned the fine armor that Ammur Sonnen had crafted for her, although her pregnancy would soon prevent her from wearing it. The blue-and-green Tierran banners had been patched so they flew bright and proud again from the staffs of her standard-bearers. She rode beside Mateo, and Jenirod accompanied them, though the queen longed for time alone with the man she loved. Jenirod was neither blind nor a fool, although right now he was being an unintentional pest.
As the group came together up the last hill that overlooked the inlets, bridges, brick buildings, smithies, kirks, marketplaces, and the castle, Anjine paused to drink in the sight. To her tired eyes, Calay was far more beautiful than Ishalem could ever be. “Oh, Mateo, did home always look like this?”
He sat high on his horse and breathed deeply. “Yes, my Queen, it was always like this. But sometimes it takes a new perspective for us to notice what was there all along.”
Jenirod said with a laugh, “I have a new perspective, as well. By now, Majesty, you and I might have been married. But that would never have been right. You’d have grown to hate me—or worse,
resent
me. No, this is how it should be.” He shifted in his saddle. “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, Majesty. I’ll go back to Erietta, where there are more young maidens than I can count. At least one of them should be glad to have me.” His voice had a hint of his old smugness.
“No doubt.” Anjine’s lips quirked in a smile.
The reminder of her ill-advised betrothal was strange to her. She had originally dispatched messengers to Erietta to accept the marriage proposal with Jenirod not because she felt anything for him, but because Tierra needed a queen, and a king, and an heir.
That fact remained unchanged. How she wanted it to be Mateo at her side as she made her decisions. She longed for him to be there to help raise their son or daughter, to think of the people and of Tierra.
“And you two can’t fool me.” Jenirod looked at her and Mateo. “You haven’t fooled many others in the army either. I doubt there’s a man among your troops who hasn’t seen how you look at each other.”
Anjine was embarrassed into silence, but Mateo was serious. He had spoken briefly with her about their future, but it wasn’t the heart-to-heart talk they needed. “Anjine, we’ve been like two people running through the forest with blindfolds on. All the years we’ve been together, the friendship we’ve shared—”
She cut him off. “
I
know we belong together, Mateo—you don’t have to convince me. We’ve been through so much. And my baby will need its father in order to be brought up as the next ruler of Tierra.”
Mid-swig from his water skin, Jenirod sputtered and spit up in spite of himself. “A child? Well, I suppose that is no surprise either, my Queen. I can be very observant, and now many little things make sense.”
Mateo fretted, ignoring the other man. “But you know we cannot marry, Majesty. I am just a soldier, a guard. With the new peace, there are vital political considerations…maybe a Uraban soldan would be the best choice. You have to think of Tierra.”
She gave a rude snort. “Ondun gave both lands sufficient incentive to get along with each other. I don’t need to marry a Uraban to remind myself. If I’m the queen, I can do whatever I like—and marry the man
I
choose.”
“By the Fishhook, it’s about time you two realized that,” Jenirod said.
“How will the people ever accept me as being worthy of the queen?”
Before Anjine could answer, Jenirod made a rude noise. “Why, Mateo Bornan—you’ve been directly blessed by Holy Joron, saved from death by divine power! Who could possibly suggest you aren’t a fitting husband for our queen? And, Majesty, if you believe Tierrans would object to you two getting married, and for such a silly reason, then—sorry to be blunt—you don’t really understand your people at all.”
From behind them, the rest of the army ranks streamed past, but the trio sat their horses, gazing down into the city and the harbor. “I do want to be happy, Mateo,” she said. “Is that so much to ask?”
Mateo reached out to take her hand. “If you’re sure the people will agree?”
“They will agree,” Anjine answered.
With a justified smile, Jenirod spurred his horse and rode ahead of them into Calay.
After another month of labor the grand Ondun’s Cathedral was finally completed. The work was overseen by Sen Bira na-Lanis, who chose the best craftsmen and artisans, whether they were Urabans, Tierrans, or Saedrans.
Years ago, with Omra’s encouragement, Soldan Vishkar had begun the project with high ambitions. Although the final design was not what he had dreamed it would be, the towering church was still a monument to human talent and aspirations. Mosaic artists covered the whitewashed walls with beautiful panoramas of (newly revised) scenes that showed Aiden and Urec sailing back to Terravitae together. Joron had corrected misinformation and provided details, while also granting the artists free rein with their imaginations. Colorful banners hung throughout the church, showing both the golden spiral of the Unfurling Fern and the curved Fishhook.
Among the presters and sikaras, there had been much discussion of eliminating both symbols to start afresh, as Ondun had asked, but neither land wished to erase its culture and history. The important thing, Joron said, was to throw overboard the cargo of hatred and refill the hold with understanding.
The massive new cathedral held an equal number of hook and fern symbols. Each day, the sikaras and presters taught classes to ever-growing crowds. Once they stopped fixating on details, scholars found a surprising amount of common ground in their beliefs, and they learned to respect the brave of the faith, from both sides.
When the Ishalem church was completed with all the gold leaf and brickwork and paintings in place, the tiles laid, roof plates fastened, and bronze domes burnished, the doors were flung open for the great celebration. Ur-Sikara Kuari and Prester Ciarlo gave the initial address to the crowd, though both were intimidated by the presence of Holy Joron inside the worship chamber. The powerful man remained quiet, but certainly not unobtrusive, at the rear of the hall.
After Kuari delivered a brief homily, Ciarlo stepped forward, raising his voice and speaking words he had not planned. “We can celebrate this great structure, but it is not our place to bless it. Joron himself is here—he is the rudder of our church.” Ciarlo spread his hands. “We owe this holy place to you, my Lord.”
Kuari also spoke to him. “You taught us how to use the strength of our faith to bind us together, rather than tear us apart. Tierrans and Urabans would surely have brought about the end times if you had not helped us steer our course away from the dangers. We owe you our very survival as a race. Let us all sing praises to Holy Joron!”
The Traveler raised his voice and addressed the gathered people who stared at him in awe. “Do not sing my praises. I will not be a god sitting on a throne in this church. I prefer to do what I’ve done for centuries—I walk among you. I’ll watch and observe.”
A mutter of conversation rippled through the congregation. After the devastating span of the long war, the people needed someone to take a firm hand and lead their daily lives, to guide them and stop them from making mistakes. But Joron refused to fill that role.
Now his voice took on a warning tone, and his words echoed off the ornate walls. “As you go about your daily lives, as you interact with one another, always remember that I am here, watching. Do not forget your agreement.” Joron seemed larger now, as godlike and powerful as they expected him to be, then he transformed again into a man dressed in hermit’s robes. As the people looked in all directions, he somehow vanished into the crowd.
Ciarlo watched from the altar and smiled. Everyone else considered it a miracle, but he had seen the Traveler before. He believed he would encounter the old man again. He had faith.
The frigid wind across the steppes felt wonderful. When Destrar Broeck drew a deep breath, his nostrils burned with the chill. “Ah, so much better than dust and scrub brush, Iaros. Good riddance to Gremurr, I say—this is the weather I prefer.”
Each man rode a shaggy mammoth northward into the wasteland dotted with snow, boulders, and low tundra grasses. Iaros twined his fingers in the beast’s thick russet fur. “It’s good to be home, Uncle. Iboria needs its destrar. All those attacks, the military camp, the prisoners—it wears on a man. I’d rather attend to the business of shipping Iborian lumber south.”
Broeck looked ahead to the wide steppes. The mammoths marched ahead, crunching through drifts, and picked up speed as they smelled the redolent peaty marshes they considered home.
“I always feel better after a survival quest,” Broeck said. “Relying on myself and my skills, the cold, the endurance—it cleanses a man’s mind and heart. We’ll both feel whole again, I guarantee it.” He self-consciously stroked his naked chin.
Iaros’s lips quirked in a smile. “The mustaches are very striking on your face, Uncle. I hope you keep the style.”
Broeck snorted. “It leaves my chin cold. There’s a reason Ondun put hair on our faces…but I’ll keep it this way for now.” He was amused that the style had indeed begun to catch on across Iboria.
The men had already made plans about how to restore prosperity to Iboria Reach. They planned to increase timber cutting and float large rafts of Iborian pine down the coast of Tierra. In their most ambitious plan, the two men meant to deliver wood in an epic journey through the Ishalem canal all the way to the Middlesea ports. Thanks to Broeck’s fiery raid, Olabar harbor was in tremendous need of extra materials, and Soldan-Shah Omra would pay well for the wood and the work (although Broeck would have to dance a fine line about how much he could charge without insulting the Urabans, since he was the one who had burned the city in the first place).
The shaggy beasts trumpeted when they saw a cluster of wild mammoths ahead. They trotted forward, happy to return to the herd. “Time to dismount,” Broeck said. “From here, you and I are on our own.”
They slid down from the high furry backs, taking their packs, blankets, dried food, and firestarting materials. He and his nephew would live off the land for a time. They carried spears to hunt walrus or seals when they reached the frozen waters to the north and weapons to defend against the great white bears, should they encounter one.
Broeck suspected he might find a camp of nomads following the mammoth herd. The nomads would likely welcome them, share their campfires and food, but he turned away from the wandering beasts and struck out in a different direction. “This way, Iaros.” He preferred to be alone.
He shifted the pack on his shoulders, he adjusted the mittens on his hands. “In two days, we’ll come upon the ice cliffs. If we’re lucky, we might find another ice dragon. A man is fortunate to see Raathgir once in his life…but I can dream.”
Iaros looked concerned. “You already killed an ice dragon and took its horn. Is it wise to hunt another?”
Broeck laughed. “Not to kill it—just to
find
it. I want to make sure Raathgir is still here to protect the land.”
The two men set off into the cold steppes.
Fully settled back home in Erietta, Jenirod stood inside his personal residence and reassessed his most valued possessions. He was not surprised to find that they no longer excited him.
His father, the destrar of Erietta, had a large wooden house with many rooms. Jenirod’s little brothers played there, did chores out in the stables (because their father said the work was good for them), and spent their days receiving instruction in mathematics, engineering, agricultural theory, Tierran history, even poetry. The boys learned the basics of the reach’s vital industries: animal husbandry, horsecraft, beekeeping, weaving, woodworking, irrigation, and ropemaking.
In previous years, when Destrar Unsul had imposed those classes on his eldest son, Jenirod was scornful of wasting his time. His interests tended toward showy horse cavalcades, breaking spirited stallions, or riding out in the hills. The only thing he knew about garment-making was how to select which outfits made him look the most dashing. He had been rude and disrespectful to his father, convinced that the man understood nothing about the important things a destrar needed to know.
Jenirod had been completely wrong. He realized that now.
Upon coming of age, Jenirod had moved to a separate house in Peliton, where he could do as he wished and not worry about his father’s disapproving glances, the disappointed shake of his head. Unsul had stopped trying to reshape his eldest son and devoted his attentions instead to the younger boys, Gart and Pol. Jenirod hadn’t even noticed the shift before, but upon returning home he felt ashamed, disappointed in himself.
The main room in his house was a gaudy parade of empty triumphs. Colorful ribbons adorned the walls, pennants from cavalcades he had championed, trophies and cups that proved his prowess as a horseman, polished awards that he barely even remembered. Jenirod had thought such prizes proved his greatness. Now he considered himself little better than a glutton who was proud of the bones from feasts he had eaten.
He grabbed a long green ribbon that dangled from a hook and tore it down. Oh yes, he recalled the day he had won it: gusty winds blowing dust in the horse’s eyes and his own…his jaunty hat had blown away into the stands, where several young women quarreled over it. When the official presented him with this emerald ribbon, Jenirod had thought his life was complete.