The Map of All Things, page 12
part #2 of Terra Incognita Series
At last, the selection was done. Four hundred people out of 2,316. The Book of Aiden called for a payment of debts, especially blood debts, but Shenro could not justify one for one. Four thousand loyal Aidenist soldiers had died at Ishalem. One Uraban captive would have to atone for ten Tierran warriors. He did not see these captives as innocents—even the women and children.
He raised his voice to a shout. “Four thousand good soldiers recently died at Ishalem because of Urecari deceit. They sacrificed their lives trying to regain the holy city in the name of Ondun.” The destrar spoke with such fervor that the stumbling translator had difficulty keeping up.
As the Uraban merchant repeated the announcement, the selected captives in the corral began to guess what Shenro meant to do, and the uproar grew louder. Mothers grasped their children. Inside the fences, the Urecari prisoners began hurling their numbered discs, which pattered around the wooden platform.
Shenro did not flinch as he finished his well-considered speech. “For Ondun's sake, we must balance the scales. There can no longer be such an unjust deficit of lives.”
Four hundred… it was not such a large number. One for ten. And it was just.
Captain Jillac's fifty archers, each with a full quiver of arrows, surrounded the separate corral. “Draw your bows!”
The merchant translator on the platform quailed and begged Shenro not to do this, but the destrar cuffed him on the side of the head, then pushed him off the platform. The man tumbled twenty feet to the hard-packed ground, and Shenro heard a snap of bone as the merchant's ankle broke. The man began wailing in pain, no longer concerned about those trapped in the corral.
The selected ones tore at the fence, trying to rush forward.
Shenro issued the command himself. “Loose your arrows!”
With a singing hum from above, the strings twanged and a merciless rain of arrows lanced into the pen. A second volley came close after the first, and then a third, showering down on the four hundred prisoners. The unfortunate captives dropped like scythed stalks of wheat. Some men or women attempted to shield their children and died, their backs prickling with the deadly quills. More arrows came, more bodies fell. Men, women, children—they were all the same. Numbers.
Inside the larger camp, the remaining Urecari howled in outrage, but Shenro's soldiers used cudgels to beat back the mob. There would be plenty of them left to send to Destrar Siescu in Corag; he would get his road through the mountains.
The blood looked black in the orange torchlight. “Archers, continue until every one of these prisoners has fallen. Four hundred—that is the price Ondun demands.”
After it was done, he sent footsoldiers in among the fallen with daggers to dispatch any who still lived. Many Alamont soldiers looked queasy about what they were asked to do, but Shenro felt no sympathy for them; as members of the Tierran army, they would need to become hardened to the horrors of a battlefield.
The merchant translator was still squirming on the ground with his broken ankle; Captain Jillac thrust a sword through his chest to silence him.
On his high platform, Shenro felt detached and distant. His skin prickled with the powerful realization of what he had done, but he could feel nothing inside. Though he no longer had a translator, he spoke again. “That is the blood you owe for Ishalem. That is the price you must pay for your crimes against Tierra and your sins against God.”
Shenro climbed down from the speaking platform and walked back to his main house that overlooked the river, his gaze fixed forward. He did not doubt that he would have to balance the scales again.
22 Calay, Military District
After picking over a roast mutton dinner inside Calay's military headquarters, Mateo continued the discussion with Guard-Marshalls Obertas and Vorannen. They all had the same orders from Anjine, and they would talk long into the night, until they found a way to expose the infiltrators.
Mateo laid out the problem. “Any of our soldiers might be a ra'vir, especially the young trainees. If we don't root them out, they could betray us at any time. They know our ways. They hide among us. They are indistinguishable from any true Tierran. Where do they come from? How do we identify them?” He looked at the other two men. “The task seems impossible.”
Vorannen shifted in his chair. “As a first step, we should make note of every single Tierran soldier returning from the Ishalem battle. Take their names and keep them in barracks separate from the other soldiers.”
Obertas looked offended. “Those fighters risked their lives for Tierra! They almost died at Ishalem. It's preposterous to suspect them.”
Vorannen shook his head. “I don't. Any real traitors would have turned on us in the fight when they had the chance. All the ra'virs were killed on the battlefield. Therefore, anyone returning from the battle is almost certainly not a ra'vir. We begin with them, a pool of fighters we know to be true.”
Obertas picked a particularly stringy piece of meat from his teeth and flicked it to the side of his plate. “We'll have to interrogate everyone else, make them swear on the Book of Aiden.”
Mateo set aside his plate, no longer hungry. “And what would stop them from lying? They are already pretending to be something they are not.”
“Well… we could insist that parents accompany their sons to the recruitment stations, prove that they aren't infiltrators from Uraba,” Vorannen suggested.
Obertas disagreed. “Many of our recruits are young men who have run away from home to join the army. Just because they cannot show us their parents doesn't mean they are traitors.”
Vorannen's shoulders slumped. “And we can't condemn all orphans. Thanks to the raiders, we have plenty of children without fathers or mothers—and they have more reason to fight the Curlies than most do.”
“And yet some of them are ra'virs—a dozen of whom just caused the greatest defeat the Aidenist army has ever experienced.” Mateo's brow furrowed as he puzzled through the possibilities. “Poor kidnapped Tierran children who've been manipulated and confused by Urecari captors. After all these years, and so many of them, how is it possible that not one of the ra'virs has seen through the lies and come back to Aidenism? Do they not remember their old lives?”
“The Teacher must have a deathly hold on them,” Vorannen said. “You saw how the few survivors reacted during interrogation.”
Obertas lowered his voice, leaned closer to Mateo. “What would your father have done in such a situation?”
“I don't know, Obertas. He never faced anything like this.”
Marshall Obertas now performed the same job that Ereo Bornan had held for many years, charged with the protection of King Korastine. Mateo's father had been killed in the line of duty, and Korastine had raised Mateo in the castle alongside Anjine, almost as a surrogate son.
Since he'd taken Ereo's old job three years ago, Obertas occasionally joined Mateo for meals, wanting to hear stories of his predecessor. “I wear the same uniform as your father,” he had said. “It would be honorable to carry on that grand tradition.”
So Mateo had told him all the stories he remembered, though he had only vague recollections because he'd been so young when the former guard captain died. Not content with sketchy details, Marshall Obertas had delved into the castle archives and brought dusty tomes to Mateo, so the two of them could spend days poring over records. Like miners searching for gems, they dug out entries and reports that Ereo had written himself, as well as other references to what the brave captain had done (when he was too embarrassed to write them objectively). Together, Mateo and Obertas had gotten to know Ereo Bornan much better.
But those old stories did not help them now.
The royal guard-marshall rested his elbows on the plank table as he shifted the discussion. “Suspicions are causing as much damage as the ra'virs themselves. I've seen great unrest in the royal guard barracks. Fights have broken out, two knifings.”
Vorannen picked up a hard roll. “My city guard says the same thing. Neighbors are reporting neighbors. They dislike anyone with strange speech or different ways. One woodcarver with a Soeland accent was turned in because someone thought he ‘sounded Urecari.'”
Mateo wrestled with frustration. “Our society is tearing itself apart. The damned Curlies don't even need to have spies among us anymore—we're doing it to ourselves.” He had to find a solution, for Anjine, for Tierra.
“And yet there are spies,” Vorannen growled.
One of the blue-uniformed city guardsmen burst through the door to the military headquarters building. “Sirs, there's been another attack at the shipyards!”
Their long-cold meal forgotten, the three men grabbed cloaks and hurried from the building into the chill spring night. Shouting city guards ran through the street, carrying torches or lanterns and heading toward the docks south of the castle.
Mateo felt a leaden weight in his stomach. The Arkship had burned just prior to its departure, and now the new Dyscovera was almost ready to sail. He had ordered extra guards posted and kept the docks brightly lit throughout the night, but what if he had underestimated the ra'virs? He increased his pace, breathing cold air into his lungs until his throat burned.
To his great relief, though, he saw that the glorious three-masted carrack remained tied up in her slip, and extra guards stood on the gangplank, swords drawn and ready for battle.
The commotion, however, came from the other side of the narrow bay. Crews scurried around two smaller merchant ships, shouting for buckets, pumps, and carpenters; men scrambled down ladders into the holds. The ships were foundering, tilted at odd angles, riding low in the water.
After crossing the bridge to reach the crippled ships, Vorannen demanded a report from a guard. “Ra'virs again, sirs. Empty merchant ships aren't as closely guarded, I suppose, so the little cockroaches went into the water, swam below the waterline, and used augers to drill holes in the hulls. The holds are already flooded and the ships are sinking—can't patch them in time. A damned mess!”
Mateo turned his back on the wallowing merchant ships and pointed to the large exploration vessel. “Double the guards over at the Dyscovera! Inspect and inventory all supplies already loaded aboard to be sure no one has poisoned the rations or turned snakes loose belowdeck.”
He felt anger pounding within him and knew he had to speak with Anjine—and King Korastine—as soon as possible. “We have to launch the ship without further delay. The only way to protect Dyscovera from another ra'vir attack is to get her safely out at sea.”
23 Olabar
More than a week after his return to Olabar, the soldan-shah went without fanfare to the main church, ostensibly to pay his respects to the ur-sikara, but he had another motive. “I would like to see the Amulet of Urec. I wish to study it for myself.”
Erima looked alarmed and confused. “That is highly irregular, Soldan-Shah. The Amulet is a sacred object.”
“Yes, and it belonged to my ancestor, Urec. I am your soldan-shah. You would deny me this?” He had heard Istar complain that the sikaras denigrated her whenever he was not in Olabar, and he knew Saan's suspicions that the priestesses had been behind the recent attack in the souks. He didn't trust them.
Still, the dark-skinned woman balked. “I must consult with… with other priestesses.”
Baffled by her attitude, Omra kept his voice steady. “You are the ur-sikara. You make the final decisions.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he simply walked into the large sanctuary, prepared to summon his guards if necessary, but he hoped Erima wouldn't force him to do that.
He stood alone at the altar, perusing the gold medallion that had been passed down from generation to generation, protected in the church. This object was a direct link with Urec and his crew.
During his father's reign, Ur-Sikara Lukai had delivered the talisman to the prime Urecari church in Ishalem, where it had nearly been destroyed in the great fire, but an unknown pilgrim had rescued it. The amulet's edges and markings had been softened and blurred by exposure to the intense heat, but he could still read the symbols and recognize the marks.
The same ones as on the Map that Sen Bira na-Lanis had found beneath the ruined Aidenist kirk.
It was all Omra needed to see, but he remained there for several more moments, staring and pondering before he finally went back to the palace. He had no doubts that the Map was real.
That night, unable to sleep though he was home at last, Omra lit a brass oil lamp and closed the door to his private office. By the flickering warm light, he withdrew the beautiful Map. The Saedran architect had translated all the descriptions and labels, writing them on a separate parchment. The archaic and nearly incomprehensible text gave Ondun's blessings and directions to his “sailor son.”
According to the original legend, Ondun had given His son Aiden a compass that would always point the way back to Terravitae, but He had given Urec a detailed chart to guide his voyage. This chart revealed undiscovered lands, hidden coasts, far-flung islands—and clues about the Key to Creation, a miraculous object that Ondun had hidden in the world when He created it, a special prize for the most worthy of men, a talisman of great power. In their teachings, the sikaras were vague about what, exactly, the Key to Creation was; different sects and experts disagreed on their interpretations of Urec's Log.
Long ago, the Map had been lost. The official church story was that it had been swept away in a storm at sea. According to some apocrypha, however, an Aidenist spy had destroyed it to prevent Urec from completing his quest, thereby cutting him off from Terravitae—and the Key to Creation—for all time. Conversely, the corrupted Aidenist version of the story said that Urec was so arrogant, wanting no direction from his father, that he had discarded the Map.
Given that the Map had been found in an Aidenist kirk, Omra didn't know which story to believe.
Though this treasure was of immeasurable value, Omra was convinced he had made the correct decision to keep it secret. No doubt Ur-Sikara Erima would demand that the Map be given to the church, and Omra had no intention of doing so. He had too many questions of his own.
Fully awake while the palace slept, he stared down at the lines, imagining those mythical shores, the cliffs and reefs, the whirlpools and strong tides. The currents could have taken Urec to so many different places on his voyage across the unexplored world, but he had landed here, and he and his wives, along with the crew and their descendants, had become the Uraban people.
Omra touched his fingertips to the ancient ink and sensed a leftover aura of power. Those words could well have been written by the hand of Ondun Himself. He continued to stare by the flickering lamplight until his eyes burned and he could no longer remain awake. Unsettled, he went back to his bed, where the night breezes sighed against the silken hangings. In the hour before dawn, he finally drifted into a restless slumber, in which he had a vivid dream….
Omra saw himself standing in crystal halls, walking through mirrored caves full of marvels beyond anything he had ever imagined—jewels and fountains, alabaster statues of exotic animals. At an intersection of corridors, he stopped to face a holy light so brilliant he could not bear to gaze upon it. Though he could make out no details, Omra knew that this was the Key to Creation, the blessed talisman waiting to be found since the very beginning of the world. Ondun had sent Urec out to find it.
Omra awoke with a start—and a firm conviction. He knew what he had to do.
Hidden somewhere in the undiscovered vastness of the world was this incredible object. Now that he possessed the Map, he had to send someone to find the Key to Creation. Only then would the conflict end. With such a relic in their possession, the followers of Urec would surely defeat the Aidenists.
24 Calay
Ever since Destrar Broeck had slain the ice dragon and delivered its horn to Calay, the pearlescent relic had rested in a felt-lined cradle inside Calay's largest kirk. According to scripture, the spell Aiden had placed upon the dragon Raathgir was a powerful bane against sea serpents. Broeck had obtained the horn as a talisman to be mounted on the prow of the new Arkship, but ra'vir saboteurs had burned the vessel before the horn could be installed. Now Raathgir's horn would join the Dyscovera on her voyage of exploration.
On the last day, old Prester-Marshall Rudio led the crowded service to bless the ice-dragon relic. As late-morning sunlight streamed through the kirk's colored glass windows, the old man stood behind the altar, intoning a long prayer, then he raised his scratchy voice. “Because all magic draws its power from Ondun, we will keep part of the horn here in the holy church, while the other half sails with our greatest ship, the Dyscovera.”
He lifted the horn, to reveal that it had been sawed neatly in two along its axis; half of it remained in its cradle. The audience muttered, surprised. From the front bench, next to Broeck, Anjine, and a fidgeting Tomas, Korastine nodded.
“Though separated, all things remain one,” Rudio intoned from the Book of Aiden.
Sen Leo had approached him with the idea weeks ago, reminding him of how sympathetic magic worked; the king had been skeptical at first, but the arguments were convincing. The two pieces would draw strength from each other, joined with the threads of magic. The Saedran sympathetic model of the Dyscovera in the guarded warehouse would also receive a long sliver of the horn, mounted on its prow.
Once the prester-marshall completed his invocation, King Korastine struggled to his feet, helped by Destrar Broeck's hand on his elbow. The two men stood together to receive the half of Raathgir's horn Rudio handed them, and they raised the pearlescent object before the transfixed worshipers.
“Though separated, all things remain one,” Korastine repeated, and this time the audience cheered.
Aware of the schedule they had to keep in order to meet the following day's departure, Broeck handed the relic to Kjelnar as soon as the service was over. The big shipwright, looking very uncomfortable in formal clothes for the kirk, bowed vigorously to the king, the destrar, and the prester-marshall, before he rushed down to Shipbuilders' Bay to install the finishing touches on the Dyscovera.
