The Map of All Things, page 32
part #2 of Terra Incognita Series
Tomas pressed his face against an open window. He'd always wanted to visit Ishalem, but not like this. He had seen paintings of the city's glory before the terrible fire destroyed everything. Ishalem was sacred to both faiths, but now the followers of Urec had taken over the entire site—built a wall to block out Aiden's faithful, filled the Aidenist district with foreign-looking buildings.
Outside the tower, a rumbling boom heralded an explosion near the canal construction site. Looking out one of the window slits, Tomas saw a plume of smoke and dust rising into the air. He had heard repeated explosions since his capture.
The boy had been left alone for eight days now. Everyone here spoke only Uraban, and he could not understand them. When he made hand gestures and used expressions to communicate with the guards, he was sure they knew what he meant, but the men refused to respond.
Each day he received plain food—bread, rice, fish—and water to drink, probably the same rations given to the labor crews at the numerous construction sites around Ishalem. From the high tower, Tomas could see the work on two giant churches being erected on the sites of the original Aidenist kirk and Urecari church.
With a rattle of keys and the creak of hinges, the wooden door to his tower room opened. Tomas marshaled his anger to glare at the man who had led the raid and captured the royal cog. Kel Unwar. Remembering that he was the prince of Tierra, the only son of King Korastine, Tomas drew a deep breath and said, “I don't recognize your authority. You're just an acting governor of a city. I wish to speak to Soldan-Shah Omra.”
The kel replied in heavily accented Tierran, “Not his decision. I lead Ishalem. I captured you. Soldan-shah does not know.”
Tomas's nostrils flared as he demanded, “Where are the other members of my crew? Did you murder them?” He still felt sick at having seen the bodies of Obertas and so many brave Aidenist sailors on the deck.
Kel Unwar spoke Tierran surprisingly well, despite his accent. “They are slaves for Uraba. They work. They build.”
Tomas reddened. The very idea made him angry. “They are prisoners of war! You have no right to treat them so.”
Unwar merely gave him a sour look. “You have slave camps too. Uraban prisoners.”
Tomas bristled. “We didn't start this war. It's only right that Urecari prisoners work to make up for the damage they have done.”
The man gave the prince a withering, hate-filled glare. “I do not argue with a child. You are only a pawn. I send a message to your queen—but she does not know how much I hate Aidenists.”
“You have no reason to hate Aidenists. We are good people.”
His words ignited a genuine fury in the man's dark eyes. “All Aidenists lie. But since you are a child, I will teach you about ‘good people' who follow Aiden.” Unwar stalked farther into the room, looming over Tomas.
“My home city is Ouroussa, a shipbuilding port. I was happy there when I was young… before I knew Aidenists. My sister, Alisi, was a kind, cheerful girl, twelve years old, almost a woman. She was beautiful. Boys paid attention to her. Merchants and noble families considered her a good marriage prospect. She had a bright future. This was before the war, before Ishalem burned.
“One night Alisi went to the docks to find a merchant ship from Yuarej. Our mother gave her money to buy a bolt of scarlet cloth. But a Tierran ship was in port, and Aidenists stole Alisi. She fought, but they took her on their ship.
“I followed my sister to make sure she bought the right cloth, and I saw the men take her. They laughed when I tried to save her. They threw me back to the docks and sailed away.” Unwar's hands clenched and unclenched. He looked at Tomas as if he resembled one of the men who had kidnapped his sister.
“I called for help, but no one believed me until too late.” He shook his head. “My parents were not powerful, not wealthy. We demanded action, but City Leader Fillok would not risk insult to Tierran merchants for only one girl.” He drew a deep breath and straightened.
Tomas was incensed. “Aidenists would never do something like that!”
“And yet they did.” Kel Unwar scowled at the prince, his body trembling with barely contained violence.
The boy remained silent, sensing that the slightest provocation would unleash Unwar's misplaced vengeance. The provisional governor backed toward the door, visibly struggling to calm himself. He paused at the threshold. “And that is why I hate your people.”
73 Olabar, Main Urecari Church
As the swollen orange sun set to the west of the capital city, Istar accompanied Kuari, the newly designated emissary from Inner Wahilir, to the main church of Urec. The First Wife of Soldan Huttan was a pragmatic woman, and Istar enjoyed her company.
The two high-ranking women attended sunset services accompanied by guards and attendants. Despite their status, though, they moved through the crowds like any other supplicants, inching their way around the processional spiral, pressed close to everyone else.
Traditionally, the soldan-shah's retinue had a special right-of-way and separate passages and balconies inside the church, but Ur-Sikara Erima had recently decreed that Ondun considered all of His people equal, that no one should receive special privileges. Such a pronouncement was enforced only when Istar attended services, however.
She refused to take offense at the obvious insult. She might wear gowns and jewels, but she had been born in a small fishing village in Tierra. She never forgot where she came from. She thought wistfully about walking up the dirt path to the small kirk on the hill above Windcatch, listening to Prester Fennan read from the Book of Aiden. Being snubbed by these officious priestesses in the huge church of Urec meant little to her.
Entering the main worship chamber, Kuari walked beside her, shoulders back, chin held high. She wore a gown of maroon silk and a gold chain belt around her waist. “Never before have I had to wait with the crowds. It seems you have few friends in the church, my Lady.”
Istar was surprised by her own sharp retort. “The sikaras consider themselves more important than they really are. Much of their arrogant attitude is to keep the people from looking at them too closely.”
Kuari responded with a scandalized chuckle. “You are very perceptive, my Lady! I was trained among the sikaras for years before I realized that.”
“I've had to be perceptive, in order to survive all these years among enemies.”
Though she had been in Uraba for two decades and did what was expected of her, Istar had never wholeheartedly embraced the rival faith. She had seen enough zealous violence to taint her view of the followers of Urec.
True to his word, Soldan-Shah Omra had genuinely cared for Saan, kept him safe, given him a good life… but Omra also condoned and committed atrocities that she found unforgivable. Nevertheless, she could not deny her appreciation, her respect, even her affection for him. Her heart was like a boat in heavy seas, rocking back and forth, always in danger of being capsized. Was there such a thing as a beloved enemy?
This was her life now.
She glanced around the chamber, hoping for a glimpse of her two acolyte daughters, but apparently Istala and Cithara did not participate in the major services. Or perhaps, knowing that Istar herself would be attending the ceremony, the stern sikaras had kept the girls away out of petty spite….
When the two women completed their spiral journey, they moved to a front row, from which they would be able to hear the ur-sikara speak. Before the service started, Istar leaned over and whispered to Kuari, “So you were raised as a sikara, but you became a soldan's wife?”
The other woman was not terribly interested in the ceremony. “I can't say which was the greater ordeal, or the most eye-opening experience.” She smiled. “I do know, however, that anyone who truly follows the path of goodness described in Urec's Log is at a distinct disadvantage among the priestesses.”
“How did you discover that?”
“Early in my training, I saw two of my friends, the most devout acolytes in our entire group, ignored in favor of far more ambitious young women. When I saw what was happening, it was like a bright lamp being lit in a dark room. That was the beginning of understanding for me.” Kuari raised her eyebrows. “Once I grasped the politics, I realized I could have made quite a career in the church for myself—if I played that game.”
“But you didn't.”
Kuari shrugged. “I found it tedious. After I finished my training, I was a good marriage prospect. My father was a wealthy merchant, and he arranged for me to marry a soldan.” She smiled. “But that hasn't been so glorious either.”
“Maybe you've found your true calling as emissary to the Olabar court,” Istar said. “You're certainly preferable to Ambassador Ualfor.”
Kuari made a moue of displeasure. “You place me on a high pedestal indeed!”
Istar wanted to laugh but stopped herself. Still, Kuari's words worried her. Just what were her daughters learning behind these impenetrable stone walls? Maybe it was a good thing that Adreala had not entered the church after all.
Walking with a slow, ponderous tread, Ur-Sikara Erima emerged from the gilded doors behind the altar. The woman from Lahjar appeared to have been carved from dark wood. She stood, haughty, imposing, shielded from all distractions, the center of the universe—and the attendants in the church treated her as such.
Erima carried a heavy, ornate amulet cast from gold. It had age-softened edges, details blurred from exposure to tremendous heat in the burning of the main church in Ishalem so many years before. The ur-sikara lifted the Amulet of Urec, kissed its back, and placed the sacred relic on the altar behind her.
When Erima finished a brief homily, she lifted a large tome and set it upon the podium from which she preached. Istar's attention centered on the book, knowing what it was. This was why she endured the demeaning behavior of the sikaras.
“We have received another message written by Sikara Fyiri aboard the Al-Orizin. Hear now what she tells us.” Erima opened the book, flipped past several of the torn pages, then read aloud, “As Urec watches over us, we have had continued smooth sailing. Each sunset, I lead the crew in prayers and I keep them on the proper path. We voyage for the glory of Ondun. We shall find the Key to Creation. I have faith in the crew. Pray with me.”
Fyiri's log entry described weather patterns and strange fish, even a glimpse of sea serpents far away, but the distant sikara's message was bland and said little. Although Istar hung on every word, she felt empty and disappointed when the ur-sikara finished reading. “She does not mention my son,” she muttered, “not once.”
Kuari touched her arm. “And that surprises you? It is very intentional. Fyiri would only mention Saan by name if she had worked some victory or found some complaint. Take heart that she has found no way to use him.”
Istar considered this. As the rest of the congregation began a shared prayer of benediction, she smiled as she mouthed the words, content with the subtle inference that Saan was all right.
74 The Great Desert
Traveling with a large caravan, Adreala enjoyed the rolling countryside of the Missinia soldanate while her grandfather regaled the merchants with stories of his journeys. Adreala had heard the tales before, but she listened anyway with a new perspective. She was on an adventure herself now. Whenever she got hot, dusty, or uncomfortable, she reminded herself that her sisters were spending their days in the church studying Urec's Log. Compared to that, even the biting flies were tolerable.
They arrived at Desert Harbor near sunset. Imir pointed out a cluster of sturdy canvas tents, a few pavilions of colorful silk, and three permanent structures made of wood and stone. He explained to Adreala that the population of the camp town had swelled in preparation for the next departure of sand coracles as soon as the winds turned.
“Each year this place grows busier and busier.” Imir nodded with satisfaction. “I see we have fifteen coracles ready to go—five brand new, and ten repaired and refurbished.”
The soldan's son Burilo, who administered the camp town, emerged from the main building and regarded Adreala in surprise. He had tried to grow a full beard, but it remained patchy, though well combed. “So, this gangly girl is my cousin? Ah, I remember Omra was scrawny when he was your age, too.”
Adreala returned his teasing. “Would you rather I was a fat horse-maiden? Then I'd never fit in a saddle, and I intend to travel far and wide.”
Soldan Xivir came strutting up, guiding Imir and Adreala to the main administrative house. “I promise you a fine meal and a comfortable bed—enjoy it. Aboard a sand coracle, you'll barely have room to stand, much less sleep.”
Throughout dinner, Imir continued to tell stories about his adventures among the Nunghals, bragging that he was the first true Uraban ever to gaze upon the southern ocean. But Adreala had heard a different version of the events from Saan. “I thought my brother and Sen Sherufa were the first to see the ocean. Didn't you come up afterward, Grandfather?”
Imir flushed. “A matter of semantics, my dear girl. Sherufa is a Saedran, and Saan—much as I love the boy—has a Tierran mother. And so, by default, I am the first true Uraban to have laid eyes upon the new sea.” Adreala rolled her eyes at the frivolous distinction.
Later, her grandfather tucked her in as if she were a little girl, but Adreala didn't mind. She found the attentions comforting. Though tired, she slept restlessly, excited about the impending dangerous voyage across the Great Desert. Despite all his exuberance for the upcoming trip, Imir slept deeply and Adreala could hear him snoring in the next room.
Just before dawn, she crawled out of bed and pulled on her traveling clothes. She stood outside in the dry coolness, watching the first faint light of dawn seep into the eastern sky. Lamps burned in a few of the pavilions, in the windows of the main offices, and the cookhouse. A handful of early risers worked among the coracle baskets, which had been packed with cargo and supplies the previous evening. Two groggy merchants went in search of cookfires where they could find a cup of tea to accompany their morning meal.
As daylight brightened and people began to stir, Adreala watched the glow of a burnished gold sunrise spill across the dunes. She saw movement. Silhouetted figures rose like ants from behind the sandy slopes. Men on horses. First a dozen, then twenty, then more, in a long line. At least a hundred riders gathered there at the desert's edge, looking toward the camp city.
At first she thought they must be riders that Burilo had sent out to patrol the wasteland, but something seemed ominous about this group. Finally a merchant pointed them out to one of the local workers, and the man yowled an alarm. “Urec protect us—bandits! Bandits! We're under attack!”
The alarm acted as a signal to the strange riders. Adreala heard their leader whistle, and with a loud rumble the line of bandits rode down into the camp. The girl added her own screams of warning as the people in Desert Harbor scrambled about in panic. Guards, merchants, and harbor workers burst out of their pavilions and tents, grabbing weapons.
The bandits charged into the camp, slashing with swords, shooting arrows, creating total chaos. They kicked at campfires, hacked down tents, killed anyone in their way. Behind the first group of raiders came a second line of fifty men, carrying torches. Whooping, laughing, and goading each other, the bandits threw the burning torches onto the pavilions, igniting the cloth. With shouted curses, men scrambled to and fro, trying to save what they could.
Adreala saw that the raiders' target was the cluster of fifteen sand coracles that were packed and ready for departure. Striking down any man who stood in their way, the horsemen tossed fiery brands into the wicker baskets. The silk balloon sacks caught fire, and the flames grew larger and hungrier.
Adreala looked desperately for somewhere to hide in the turmoil. Burilo, Soldan Xivir, and her grandfather burst out of the main building and tried to rally the guards. Waving to get their attention, Adreala heard a galloping horse close by and turned to see a hideous rider bearing down on her. He had black paint on his face and clumps of red dye in his matted hair. His sword was raised, his eyes wide and gleeful, but when he saw her, he thrust the scimitar back in his sash and swooped an arm down to grab her.
Adreala crouched, ready to fight, although she had no weapon. She tried to jump out of the way, but the bandit second-guessed her. As his horse thundered past, he grabbed her roughly by the waist and threw her like a rolled rug onto the saddle in front of him. She struggled, but he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so fiercely that the pain sent a thunderclap through her skull. She tried to claw him, but his grip was like iron. The horse kept running.
Attackers poured through the camp in an unstoppable wave. Another bandit rode up alongside, regarding her with scorn. “She's a child, Norgo—why waste time on her? Slit her throat and save the weight for supplies we can steal.”
The painted bandit growled, “Think about it—why would a girl be here? Must be someone important.”
“You have sand in your brain. Do what you will. I'm grabbing more wineskins.” The other bandit peeled off. Many of their comrades continued to wreak destruction. When Desert Harbor was in flames and bodies lay strewn on the ground, they all wheeled around and raced back into the open dunes, their horses laden with wine, food, and stolen goods.
Behind them, all fifteen sand coracles were engulfed in fire and smoke.
75 Southern Ocean
Though Asaddan still suffered from bouts of seasickness, the return voyage was far less harrowing than their uncertain outbound trip. This time, they knew the voyage was possible. At Ishalem, Soldan-Shah Omra had filled their cargo hold with exotic goods to awe and tempt the other Nunghal-Su. Considering the gold, jewels, and silk fabrics stowed belowdecks, Asaddan concluded that the results were worth a few weeks of discomfort and nausea. Every man aboard was going to be rich upon returning to the Nunghal clans.
Triumphant, Shipkhan Ruad was an entirely different person from the man who had been disgraced by the wreck of his ship. Now his crew treated him as a hero, forgetting his mistakes. Ruad loved to stand at the bow of the ship, looking at the curling waves and daydreaming.
