The Map of All Things, page 37
part #2 of Terra Incognita Series
Still, he nodded to himself with bittersweet satisfaction. Without a horse or rations, the bandit leader would not last long. He could never survive out here.
Far behind, Imir could still hear the remnants of fighting, and with a heavy heart, he decided to go back to Adreala. That was most important to him.
By the time he made his way to the pitiful oasis, the bandits had been slain, their horses captured by Xivir's men. The exhausted Missinian soldiers were sharing out the food supplies they had seized. Some filled waterskins from the seeping spring, nudging aside the horses that were trying to drink.
Soldan Xivir looked at the dead bodies sprawled on the sand. Every one of the bandits was dead, either killed in battle or executed afterward. With a pragmatic shrug, he said, “We didn't have the wherewithal to take prisoners back to Desert Harbor.”
Imir wasn't concerned. “Why waste time? I would have ordered their execution anyway.” He regarded the small spring, the old campfires. “Before we go, I want this water blocked, the seep plugged up and buried so that bandits can no longer take advantage of it.” Imir looked over his shoulder and comforted himself with the fact that Norgo would perish from hunger and thirst, a long and lingering death out there in the sands.
As he fled into the vast wasteland, abandoning his camp and his men, the bandit leader laughed. The arrogant Missinians had surprised him, and his comrades had fought well, though not well enough.
Norgo had seen the old man chasing him, but no civilized man would ever catch him out here. Those soft people didn't know anything about surviving in the wasteland, about the resources there, or the dangers, the mysteries, the stories. He knew he could always gather another group of like-minded men. The desert belonged to him.
The night was silent, all sounds drowned out by the emptiness as Norgo kept running. Far away, he could still discern the secret spring where he and his men had camped, but he could no longer hear the cries of pain, the clash of swords. By now, all of his comrades would be dead or captured. He no longer concerned himself with them.
Ahead, Norgo heard whispers, even laughter. Voices… female voices! He had never heard such a thing before, especially not out here. He wondered if it could be another camp, an oasis. He grinned. They would give him food and water. That was all he needed.
The laughter sounded like music, the voices like song, and a chill ran down his back. Maybe the women had husbands, warriors he could recruit. Or maybe they had no husbands at all and he would have them all to himself. Norgo wasn't sure which he would prefer.
He kept plodding. Each footstep seemed to take longer, and the sand sucked him down, but he pushed forward, attracted by the thought of soft company. He didn't recognize the language, but the voices were seductive. He had to get to the dune crest so he could see.
The wind picked up, and small dust devils skirled across the dune face. Finally, he climbed to the top of the rise from which he could stare down into the dell… but he saw no camp, no women, no sign of habitation.
The night had fallen silent again, and he turned in a slow circle. From this high ground he should have been able to see anything. There were no fires, no structures, no people. “Hello!”
The tinkling laughter began again, carried on the wind. He looked behind him, saw nothing. Another dust devil whipped through the valley below and vanished, losing its energy. Confused, even a little angry, Norgo turned once more, still seeking the source of the sounds.
The voices seemed to be coming from the sand itself.
The dunes stirred beneath his feet, crumbling, and he began to slip down the slope. Around him, the eerie female voices grew louder, the music more intense, giving him new reassurance. He heard so much loneliness behind the sounds that his heart lifted. They were so happy to see him!
Through a dust-fog in his brain, he vaguely remembered frightening tales that superstitious men told each other on desert nights when the storms whipped up. Sand dervishes, spirits that haunted the dunes… forlorn demons seeking company for all eternity, lovers that would never let go.
He had always laughed at those tales.
A desiccated hand reached up from the soft sand and clutched his ankle. Norgo ripped it away and looked down, startled to see other figures stirring, vaguely human shapes rising from beneath the dunes. The winds picked up and swirled around him now. As the voices grew louder, their songs reached a higher note, a hypnotic spell, and his fear was smothered, leaving only a fuzzy wonder and desire in his mind.
Norgo no longer saw the blackened, leathery skin or the mummified remains—he heard only love. As the whirlwind encircled him, it felt like soft fingertips caressing his face, his hands. He barely even felt his flesh being scoured away.
Ethereal bodies climbed out of the dunes, angelic spirits clothed in diaphanous veils… skeins of dust. The hands embraced him, the winds tightened.
Giddy, Norgo opened his arms and invited them. He could not refuse the call when they promised to love him forever. When he tried to express his own love, though, he coughed and choked—his mouth filled with dust. When he inhaled he drew in no air, only sand.
He felt a glimmer of fear, but the music and voices soothed him again. Norgo was beyond struggling when the dervishes sucked him down into the sands.
86 The Border of Uraba
After Prester Ciarlo had walked for days across untracked lands, he did not let the old pain in his leg slow his pace or diminish his determination. The pain merely reminded him that he was alive, and Ondun wanted everyone to experience both the good and bad things in this life. With prayers and resolve, Ciarlo kept going. In His mercy, Ondun could always take away the pain.
Ciarlo carried his abridged Book of Aiden, but he had already memorized all the inspirational parables he needed. He wanted to share the wonders of his beliefs with the people of Uraba—those who, in their innocence, had not yet heard the truth.
Leaving the Pilgrims' Road and crossing grassy hills to the east, he stayed with Tierran farmers or shepherds he encountered. As he traveled down the narrowing isthmus, the small cottages became harder to find. Living so close to the Uraban border, those who did offer hospitality were increasingly suspicious, but when they saw Ciarlo's fishhook pendant, they welcomed him and asked for his blessing. Later, he set off once more, limping toward Ishalem and beyond.
As soon as he saw the holy city shining under the sun like the contents of an open treasure chest, Ciarlo approached with more caution. He traveled only at night now, working his way through the hills, as he came toward the towering wall that extended to the edge of the land. The barrier was tall enough and the water deep enough to block any large army, but a lone man could find his way around it.
After midnight, when the moon had set, Ciarlo walked down to the white sand beach, secured his shoes and belongings in an oilskin pack, and waded out into the warm Middlesea. He had never touched the legendary waters before, but now he could think only of bypassing what the Urecari had named “God's Barricade,” as if Ondun would ever approve of separating faithful Aidenists from the holy city.
Ciarlo swam out into the deeper waters, beyond the stone wall. Having grown up in Windcatch, he was a strong swimmer. Though his leg hindered him on land, he could make good progress in the sea. Through the hours of darkness, he drifted and swam with the currents, gliding past the city and the boats docked there. His calling pulled him onward, to the heart of Uraba.
As a lone prester preaching the word of Aiden, Ciarlo decided that Ishalem itself would be too dangerous; instead, he would begin his work in outlying villages, talk to small groups, plant seeds so that the common folk would know Aiden and better understand the tribulations that Sapier had endured before founding the church.
For two more days he traveled along beaches and paths until his supplies ran out. His faith had sustained him thus far, but he would need food. Ciarlo's greatest barrier would be language. Having studied the most ancient scriptures of the Book of Aiden, he knew the old forms of the language, from which much of the foreign tongue was derived. Over the years, he'd taught himself a few important Uraban words and phrases, but he would have to become much more fluent in order to inspire these people.
He met a small family camped next to a beached fishing boat. Though they couldn't understand much of what Ciarlo said, they offered him some fresh fish, which he ate thankfully. After he was done, he showed them his fishhook and tried to communicate his important message. The family suddenly turned cold and scowled at him, and after the father made threatening gestures, Ciarlo got up and limped away.
The next morning, he reached a coastal village composed of drab huts and a small church built out of twisted chunks of driftwood. Most of the people were at work, but a few toiled near their homes. Ciarlo grasped his pendant, held his book in the crook of his right arm, and walked boldly among the curious villagers. He spoke with great sincerity, using his few Uraban words and expanding on them, telling familiar stories from the Book of Aiden. The Urabans quickly grasped who he was and what he was saying. When their mood turned dark and they shouted at him, he responded with a peaceful smile.
A plump, square-faced sikara emerged from the driftwood church and regarded him. Upon seeing their priestess, the townspeople grew more vociferous, throwing things at Ciarlo to drive him out of town, and he had no choice but to limp slowly toward the hills, discouraged.
Long after he left the outskirts of the village, in the middle of the afternoon, he spotted a figure riding up behind him on a small pony. He heard the plodding hoofbeats and stopped, knowing that he couldn't outrun mounted pursuit. But the pony was just a working beast, not a warhorse, and the rider appeared to be a woman. He soon recognized the sikara from the village he had just left, and he supposed she had rallied the people against him, to beat or perhaps murder him. Remembering what had happened to Prester-Marshall Baine and the martyrs in the ruins of Ishalem, Ciarlo feared they might string him up on a fishhook and leave him to die in the sun.
But the sikara's expression was kindly. When she drew up next to him, Ciarlo saw wonder and concern on her face. She shook her head. “Apologies. Bad welcome from people.” Her Tierran was as rudimentary as his Uraban.
Ciarlo held up the Book of Aiden. “I came to preach, to tell your villagers about Aiden.” After several attempts, he and the sikara understood each other well enough.
She shook her head. “Do not want this.” She extended her hand to touch his pendant, hesitating briefly, as though afraid it might burn her. She pushed the Book back against his chest, firmly shaking her head. “Go home. No fishhook here.” She untied a sack from her pony's saddle and offered it to him. It contained dried fish, dried fruits, and a small wineskin. “You brave. But be careful.”
“Why are you doing this? Everyone else afraid, angry.” He was frustrated that they could not communicate more freely.
The priestess turned her pony back toward the village. “Don't hate you,” she said, then gave him a very warm smile. “All are children of Ondun.”
87 Calay Castle
When the unlikely Urecari courier sailed back to Calay with his answer from Ishalem, Guard-Marshall Vorannen intercepted him at the docks, surrounded him with city guardsmen, and then marched Khalig directly to the castle.
For two weeks, Anjine had lived in anger and anxiety while awaiting word from Tomas's abductors. She could not sleep, imagining her brother being held prisoner in some awful dungeon. No one in Tierra would have inflicted such treatment on a noble Uraban captive, but she expected no less from those animals. In a way, she was glad that her father had not lived to see such a disheartening moment.
When a nervous Khalig was presented to her, Anjine sat on the throne and glared down at the haggard Uraban man. His clothes were dirty, and he looked terrified; he clenched a leather satchel in his left hand. His skin had a grayish cast; she could smell his sweat from where she sat.
As the man came forward on shaking knees, she was ready to respond to any demand. Preparing herself for an outrageous ransom payment, she had already met with her treasurers; she had also asked Comdar Rief to develop a military plan should it become necessary to send troops to rescue her brother.
She raised her voice. “Speak your message! What word do you bring from Ishalem? I demand to know the ransom for my brother.” Anjine had resigned herself to pay whatever was necessary to bring Tomas back safely.
She watched the man's Adam's apple bob up and down. He visibly steeled himself, then swirled his faded brown cape to one side. “I have been commanded to deliver a second message from Kel Unwar, provisional governor of Ishalem.”
Annoyed that Soldan-Shah Omra himself could not be bothered with such an important matter, Anjine gestured irritably for him to go on. “I want my brother back. What is Kel Unwar's response?”
Trembling, Khalig closed his eyes and uttered words mechanically. He had memorized a speech, word for word. “He says… he says, that this is just the smallest retaliation for the monstrous acts Aidenists have perpetrated on Fashia's Fountain and the innocent sikaras there.”
“Fashia's Fountain? I've never heard of it. Explain what you're talking about. What were Unwar's words, exactly?”
“He says… ‘While we negotiate these complex matters, we are sending back part of Prince Tomas as a good-faith gesture.'”
With a drunken slowness and wooden fingers, Khalig opened the satchel at his side and tipped it to spill out a rounded, discolored object the size of a large melon. An abominable stench filled the air. Bloody clumps of blond hair. Open eyes stared at Anjine.
Someone screamed. The guards rushed forward. A man vomited at the side of the chamber.
Anjine felt all life flood out of her, like blood from a severed artery. She couldn't blink, couldn't tear her eyes away from the ghastly object.
Khalig threw himself to the floor, weeping for mercy, and the guards dragged him away. Marshall Vorannen tore off his own cape and threw it over Tomas's face, but the appalling image would be forever burned into Anjine's mind and heart. At the rear of the throne room, Enifir began wailing.
Anjine could not feel her own heartbeat. She seemed to have stopped breathing. Her warm blood had turned to icy meltwater in her veins. She was unable to cope, unable to accept what she knew and saw. She couldn't process the truth… but she had to be the queen. The queen!
Tomas…
Even though the guard-marshall's cloak left only a shapeless lump on the floor, she still saw her brother's face. Shouts of anger filled the throne room along with cries of grief and shock, but Queen Anjine could hear none of it. She could not react.
As if she were no more than a wooden marionette, she raised herself to her feet, refusing to let the horror and grief show. Without a word, she walked out of the throne room, returned to her private quarters, and locked the door behind her.
It seemed that only an instant had passed before she heard a loud pounding, a man's shouted voice. “It's Mateo—let me in!” How could he have heard so quickly? “Anjine, open up!” She sat on her bed, staring at her hands as though she'd never seen them before. “Tolli, it's me! Please open up!”
She moved like a wraith, but it seemed to take her forever to reach the door; she had no energy, no knowledge of what she was doing. When she lifted the crossbar, the door burst inward and Mateo pushed his way into the room. He flung the door shut once more, stood before her.
His reddened eyes bore witness to tears already shed. “Oh Tolli, I'm so sorry, so sorry…” For a long moment she didn't understand what he meant. “I should have gone with… I could have guarded him! I needed to—”
“No!” She trembled, wrestling with the idea, forcing the words out in a hoarse whisper. “Then I would have lost both
of you.”
Mateo threw his arms around her, drawing her close. He kissed her hair. She saw the image of Tomas's face again, the horrible trophy the Urecari courier had brought.
… part of Prince Tomas as a good-faith gesture…
Sobs flowed out of her like a sudden squall, a hurricane powerful enough to wreck ships, but nothing could sink the juggernaut of her despair and regret. Mateo held her tight, muffling the long, guttural sounds that seared like branding irons into his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head again.
She choked out the words when she could breathe. “Tomas was a candle of innocence.” Mateo stood there, an unbreakable sea wall, steadying her, letting her cry. “Damn, damn, damn them all!” She pounded her fists against him. Her legs collapsed, but he held her upright.
He began trying to comfort her, making soothing sounds, guiding her back to reality. “Oh, Tolli, this world has become a terrible place for us.” He couldn't think of his duties, nor of Vicka, nor the ra'vir threat, nor the wall of Ishalem. He thought only of Anjine. He held her for what must have been hours.
Finally, when she finished unleashing her sorrow, Anjine drew a deep breath and straightened, completely drained.
And now it was Mateo's turn to grieve, for Anjine had become like a statue in his arms. She pulled away from him gently, composing herself. She dashed away the remaining tears and walked over to her basin. She heaved another shuddering breath, poured water, and pressed a cold towel to her eyes and face.
Anjine looked at him from across an impassable distance, her expression cold, her face blotchy and red. She looked like a stranger—and perhaps she was, fundamentally and forever changed. Mateo stared at her with his dark expression, but she let no warmth into her own gaze. “I'm finished, Mateo. Don't ever speak of my moment of vulnerability. I can't afford to show weakness. The Urecari must never know how deeply they have hurt me.”
Mateo opened his mouth, thought better of it, and came forward to place his hands on her shoulders for one moment longer, before the woman he had known slipped away forever. “You're human, Anjine. That doesn't mean you're weak.”
“I can't afford to be human when we face enemies who are such monsters. I have to be queen, and that is all I can be.”
