The Map of All Things, page 22
part #2 of Terra Incognita Series
Though she was the most studious of the three girls, Istala needed no encouragement to keep going. When they paused for a brief rest, she pointed out, “A pilgrimage is supposed to be difficult. That's why you earn your reward when you reach the end.”
By contrast, the destination held no special anticipation for Adreala, who was more excited by the rugged scenery, so unlike the lands around Olabar. Gracious and obedient, Cithara was just pleased to have been included in the expedition.
Istar and her daughters felt great satisfaction as they climbed over the last headwall to see the beautiful lake, the feathery waterfall, and lush greenery all around. The first few pilgrims ahead of them had informed the white-robed sikaras that Omra's First Wife and three daughters were coming up the path.
The priestesses raised their hands in blessing and welcomed them with pitchers of water taken fresh from the spring. Having been raised as an Aidenist, Istar didn't entirely believe the legend of the shrine; nevertheless, she was glad for the refreshing draught. The three girls drank deeply.
Her youngest daughter looked all about her, awestruck. “I so wanted to see this place. I can't believe I'm here.” Istala went to the lake's edge and dipped her fingers into the cold water. “Thank you, Mother.” The sincere gratitude on the ten-year-old's face made every trudging mile and every uncomfortable day worthwhile.
The fountain priestesses lived in small rock dwellings that ringed the clear lake. They had laid out a path of interlocking white stones, tracing an unfurling spiral on the ground, at the center of which stood a brazier with smoldering coals. Farther from the sacred fountain and pool, pilgrims' quarters and changing rooms crowded together.
“You may cleanse yourself in the waters,” said the lead priestess, a thin old woman named Luaren. “I believe Soldan Vishkar will join you.”
Istar was surprised. “Vishkar is here?” He was the father of the original Istar, Omra's first wife, for whom he still felt a deep love, long after her death… so much so that he had asked her, Adrea, to take the same name.
“The soldan arrived three days ago, tired and troubled, overwhelmed by responsibilities. Now he has a new sense of clarity.” Luaren smiled. “That is what Fashia's Fountain does.”
“I hope it does the same for me.” Istar led the girls to the stone-walled structures, where white linen gowns awaited them. Few children made the arduous pilgrimage, and though her daughters searched for the smallest robes, the garments hung overlarge like tents on their shoulders.
Together, they walked barefoot out to the deep pool, where several pilgrims sat in the frigid water, their white robes soaked. Hot and tired, Adreala plunged in with enough of a splash that other visitors frowned at her rambunctiousness. With breathless anticipation, her sister Istala slid into the pool, dunked her head, and came up with water streaming down her hair; she gasped from the cold. Cithara held Istar's hand as they eased themselves into the lake.
Istar recognized Soldan Vishkar, who sat submerged up to his shoulders near the stream from the fountain itself. She hesitated as she considered the uneasy link between the two of them. She had been Omra's Istar for fourteen years, but this man could not help but be reminded of his daughter.
Vishkar saw her and moved closer, while she let the three girls amuse themselves in the water. “Lady Istar, I don't believe we have formally met.” He seemed a good-natured man, but his eyes held a shadow of pain. “I understand that you've brought great happiness to the soldan-shah. Omra must trust you, if he allows you to manage the court for him while he is at Ishalem.”
Though at a loss, she realized the most important thing Vishkar needed to hear. “I have done my best as First Wife, but I can never take the place of your daughter in his heart. Omra still talks about her often. He loved her greatly.”
“We all did.” Vishkar turned away, but not before she saw the tears welling up in his eyes.
Though the events were unrelated, the tragic death of the first Istar had come close upon the burning of Ishalem. Such shocks had wrought a fundamental change in Omra's personality, hardening him, sharpening his reactions. Those tragedies had made him into a much less tolerant man than Soldan-Shah Imir ever was. She contemplated sadly that if the first Istar had not died when she did—for reasons that had nothing to do with Aidenists—the war might not have continued with such viciousness. Maybe Omra wouldn't have inflicted senseless pain upon Tierra by raiding coastal villages… taking prisoners. Her own life might have been entirely different.
Vishkar sat in the water and stared at the mossy cliffs nearby. “Lady Istar, I have learned one thing in my years as a successful merchant, as a grieving father, and as a soldan. The days flow forward, not backward. We cannot live our lives in yesterdays. We must live in today.” He turned to smile at her. “And I am happy the soldan-shah found you.”
Omra had often spoken of how much he appreciated this man. “He's glad to have found you as well,” Istar said. “After Soldan Attar was poisoned, all of his other candidates were entangled in politics and schemes. You are a man he knows he can trust.”
Vishkar looked at his pruning fingertips. “Considering the responsibilities weighing on my shoulders, I'm not convinced that he did me a favor. The other soldans dislike me and see me as a power-hungry upstart, even though I never asked for the position. In order to become soldan, I was forced to surrender my business to my brother and nephews.”
“You would rather have stayed in Olabar? As a merchant?”
“Yes, I would. That new church is sure to bankrupt me! But I am a loyal Uraban, and I do as my soldan-shah asks. I'm happy enough. I am content. My sons are helping to manage our new estates in Outer Wahilir. My remaining daughters have gotten married—and now I hear that Hakri has just been appointed my own emissary to the palace!”
Istar nodded. “Yes, the paths of our lives take us to some very strange places.”
Later, after they had emerged from the small lake, young Istala asked the priestesses so many questions that the old head sikara finally took the girl under her wing and showed her around the site.
At the meager evening meal, at which pilgrims gathered for quiet conversation or silent meditation, Istala sat between her mother and Sikara Luaren. Summoning her courage, the girl broached a subject with her mother. “When I finish my training in the church, I'd like to be assigned here. Luaren says I can be one of the hundred priestesses.” She worked very hard to control the pleading tone in her voice. “Do you think that would be all right?”
The old sikara was full of pride and gratitude. “We would be glad to have the soldan-shah's daughter join us, my Lady. You can see that it is truly her heart's desire.”
Istar nodded slowly. “We will have to ask her father, but I don't believe he'll be averse to the idea.” She hugged her youngest daughter. “Someday, this will be your home.”
47 Windcatch
In the parsonage beside the Windcatch kirk, Ciarlo awoke and sat up in bed with the dream still resounding in his thoughts. Adrea's face had been so vivid, her need calling out to him. Why did the dreams keep haunting his sleep? The rest of Windcatch had moved on, with new lives, new homes, new families in the two decades since the raid.
Ever since Criston Vora had come to say farewell to him, Ciarlo had felt unsettled but determined. Each year, Criston still sent Adrea a letter in a bottle, showing the ache of his love for her. Now Criston had sailed off again, chasing the unknown, in search of something.
Just after his brother-in-law's unexpected farewell visit to Windcatch, Prester Ciarlo began to experience compelling nightmares, flashbacks to that awful time when Urecari raiders had swept into the village. The memories refused to let go.
He had never seen Adrea again, and her body had never been found. Even if the raiders had taken her alive, Ciarlo very much doubted she had survived. A pregnant woman would have been too much of a burden for those evil men.
But the recurring nightmares demanded that he reconsider. Why did he keep dreaming about her? A conviction grew within him, and when at last he understood the reason, it left him breathless.
Adrea might still be alive in some distant, foreign land. Someone had to go after her. His heart pounded as he realized what he must do.
Swinging himself out of bed with a well-practiced move, he rubbed his thigh, stretched… winced. It was a reflex from the pain he had felt all of his adult life. The poorly mended bone had never lost its deep-seated ache, but he couldn't be bothered by that now. Ciarlo hobbled across the wooden floor, reaching the door just as Davic came up the path with his breakfast basket—a warm roll fresh from the village bakery, two boiled eggs, and an apple.
The boy saw him moving stiffly, shook his head in disappointment. “I prayed again last night, Prester Ciarlo. I asked Aiden to bless you and take away your pain. But he doesn't seem to listen.”
“Aiden always listens, young man, but he makes his own decisions. He has given me blessings in many other ways—including your companionship.” Ciarlo swept the boy into a hug and stepped back. Aiden had been speaking to him through dreams for some time now, sending him mystic messages.
Though Adrea might be across the world, she was still alive. Despite the pain in his leg and the potential length and dangers of the arduous journey, he had to go find her himself.
As Ciarlo shared breakfast with Davic, the boy talked about the exciting news of Prince Tomas's impending visit. A mail ship had just brought the announcement of Queen Anjine's betrothal, along with the schedule of the prince's procession, which would stop at the major towns on the west coast of Tierra—including Windcatch.
Ciarlo tried to get the boy to focus on his studies from the night before, the passages he had read in the Book of Aiden. For months now, he had taught Davic how to read scripture, just as Prester Fennan had once taught him. Since the parsonage was so small, Davic preferred to sleep inside the kirk itself, sprawled on one of the wooden benches. Ciarlo gave the poor boy privacy, knowing that he must suffer from nightmares of his own, powerful recollections of the Urecari attack that had killed his family and sent him wandering up the coast as an orphan.
When Davic finished reading aloud the story of Aiden and the Island of the Sirens, he wore a troubled expression, as if
a thought had just occurred to him. “Prester, if no one ever told the followers of Urec these true stories, how are they supposed to know?”
“That is a sad thing, Davic. But with the war, it's even more difficult for ships to take missionaries to Uraba…” Ciarlo's voice trailed off as the last gear in the clockwork of his thoughts fell into place. Missionaries…
Yes, when he left Windcatch to find Adrea, he would take the word of Aiden with him and make his way overland to Uraba. He would spread the truth to any Urabans he encountered so that they could have a chance for salvation as well. If the quest became too difficult, Aiden would assist him.
As the boy continued jabbering about the impending arrival of Prince Tomas, Ciarlo could not concentrate on lessons or princes or betrothals. He had to think about his own journey. Now that he had made up his mind, he was eager to go. Adrea had waited and suffered so many years already. Had she given up hope? Ciarlo couldn't delay any longer.
He startled the boy. “Davic, I'll be departing from the village as soon as possible. You'll have to take care of the kirk while I'm gone.”
“Where are you going? What do you intend to do?” Davic was both alarmed and confused. “And what will become of me?”
“The villagers will take care of you.” Ciarlo went to his small office and pulled out a clean sheet of paper, mixed his ink, sharpened his pen. Everything moved with swift inevitability now. “This is a letter to Prester-Marshall Rudio, requesting that a new prester be sent here to captain the Windcatch flock. In the meantime, take care of the gardens, open the kirk for services. The people know how to pray by themselves.” He drew a deep breath, feeling giddy. “Can I count on you, Davic? Can I trust you to do what's right?”
Though the boy was uneasy, he gave a vigorous nod. Ciarlo folded the paper and sealed it with wax. “Make certain this is sent aboard the next ship bound for Calay. It's a very important letter.”
“But, Prester Ciarlo, you won't be here when Prince Tomas arrives. Don't you want to stay for that?”
“I can't wait for several weeks. My sister is in the hands of the Urecari. You'll have to greet Prince Tomas without me.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Until I find what I seek.” Ciarlo tousled the boy's shaggy hair. “You are much too young to be the next prester, but I've asked my replacement to continue your instruction. You are a good, devout boy, Davic. I know I can count on you.”
Still limping, but no longer noticing it, Ciarlo returned to the parsonage. With great care, he set out his clothes, supplies, and a small stash of money, then prepared to depart for the strange and distant continent of Uraba.
48 The Dyscovera
Surveying the dark night sky above the unexplored ocean, Prester Hannes saw God's handiwork in the stars. Aldo na-Curic might be able to navigate by the positions of those bright lights, but the Saedran chartsman did not recognize the majestic purpose there. Ondun had placed the stars into constellations, forming patterns that only He could fully comprehend.
Hannes didn't know the secret message there, but he could still view it with awe. He was a devout and holy man, but not so arrogant as to expect divine instruction whenever he asked for it. Nevertheless, he knew the Book of Aiden, and he knew the correct and moral path.
It was his greatest joy—his duty—to see to it that others heard and followed that path as well. He led Javian out onto the deck, alone in the peaceful, open night. The young man, nearly fifteen years old, served Captain Vora well, and the boy occasionally listened to the prester's dawn sermons, but not with sufficient resolve or fervor. Hannes hoped to change that.
“I want to show you the constellations, tell you the story that Ondun Himself painted in the stars. Do you see that pattern there, the Anchor?” He pointed, tracing a majestic arc overhead.
Javian briefly gazed upward. “Every sailor knows the Anchor. The three stars in the crossbar point from north to south.”
Hannes frowned. “That may be true, but the reason the pattern is there is to remind us of the story of how a great whale once grasped the anchor of Aiden's ship like a gigantic fishhook and dragged the holy vessel far off course. At the time, Aiden thought they were being attacked, but in truth the whale guided the Arkship safely around an area of treacherous reefs.
Javian shrugged. “I've heard that story since I was a boy.”
“Hearing a story and knowing it are two different things.” Hannes reached into the pocket of his dark robe and withdrew a leather thong from which a symbolic copper fishhook dangled. “I want you to have this.” Though Javian showed no particular enthusiasm for the blessing, the prester slipped the thong over the young man's head. “This is to remind you of how Aiden's voyage and landing created our civilization in Tierra, and how his grandson Sapier formed the bedrock of the religion that is the Truth for all men.”
Dubiously, Javian touched the symbol at his neck. “I've been to the kirk, and I've listened to your sermons. What more do you want from me?”
Hannes smiled at the young man in the starlight. “I just want you to think about it. Captain Vora insists that you continue your studies—is that not true?” Javian gave a wary nod, as if afraid of being caught in a verbal trap. “Then should you not include the study of Aiden? The captain is a devout man—I know this, because Ondun appointed him to save me in the mountains during my own tribulations.”
Most of the crew was asleep at this late hour, except for the skeleton watch, though Hannes had seen neither of the two men on patrol. Dim lantern light burned from the captain's cabin, and low laughter came from belowdecks where a few crewmen played games.
Pointing to another constellation, Hannes walked with Javian toward the stern, near the wire coop that held the Saedran's rea pigeons. In the stillness, they heard some faint sounds—a thud on the deckboards, the scuffle of feet, a whispered voice hissing a warning… then more sounds of struggle.
Hannes strode boldly toward the noise, and Javian sprang ahead. In the dim shadows near the pigeon coop, they saw two figures on the deck: a large man and a smaller, slender form that thrashed and kicked.
“You, man, what are you doing there?” Hannes shouted.
Startled, the larger sailor bolted upright and whirled with a glare. Hannes recognized the burly man as Enoch Dey, a rough crewman who never failed to attend the sunrise services, always nodding and growling when Hannes described Urecari crimes. Next came a low groan, followed by a muffled burst of incomprehensible words.
“It's Mia!” Javian cried.
Hannes spotted the girl on the deck, a rag stuffed into her mouth. Her wide eyes glinted in the starlight as she thrashed to free herself. A dark splotch of blood stood out on her forehead from where she had been struck. Then Hannes realized that the girl sailor's trousers were missing; at the apex of the struggling girl's bare legs, he saw a thatch of dark hair. Enoch's trousers were pooled about his ankles. When he turned toward the interruption, his erection protruded like an embarrassingly small yardarm.
With a yelp, Javian launched himself at the big sailor. “Stop!”
When Hannes realized what was happening here, rage erupted within him like a blast from an active volcano. He shouted in the stentorious voice with which he harangued crowds in the kirk, “Captain Vora! Sailors—to arms! We have caught a vile criminal!”
The boy leaped on Enoch's back, riding him like an Eriettan bull. The big sailor thrashed and knocked Javian to the deck, but the trousers around the man's ankles tripped him up. He fell backward.
In no time, Mia had managed to get to her feet, grab her own trousers, and yank them on. When she saw the large crewman fall on his back, she took a light step toward him, drew her foot back and kicked him hard in the crotch, putting everything she had behind it—physical, mental, and emotional. Enoch let out an alarming high-pitched shriek.
