The Map of All Things, page 38
part #2 of Terra Incognita Series
Mateo nodded. “I will keep any and every secret you ask of me, my Queen… Tolli.”
“Never call me that again. Tolli died today, along with Tomas.” She stepped away and sat at her bureau, where she arranged her toiletries in a mindless distraction of her hands. She needed something, even something trivial, to keep her hands busy.
“I am the queen. I wear the crown. I surrendered the soft part of me when I became the ruler of Tierra in the midst of this terrible war. Now leave me.” She swallowed hard. “I need time to think of an appropriate response.”
Part IV
88 Olabar Harbor
Shortly after his son's seventh birthday reception, the soldan-shah took Omirr on a walk to the docks, just the two of them. Lookouts in the watchtowers had already sighted the approaching sail from Gremurr, discerning through their spyglasses that this was a different sort of ship. Omra couldn't wait to see what Tukar had accomplished.
The zarif was bouncy and full of energy, pulling on his father's hand to make him hurry. “Saan always used to take me down to see the ships. When will Saan be back?”
“It depends on how big the world is and how soon he finds the Key to Creation.”
“I hope it's soon. I want him to be here.”
“I miss him too.” Sometimes when Omra realized how much he loved Istar and how he had tried to do right by her son, he also remembered that bloody day in the village of Windcatch. If she hadn't been pregnant—like his original wife Istar—Omra never would have spared her life, never would have felt a moment of mercy or pity for a mere Tierran woman. That split-second decision had changed his entire life and led to his happiness. But had she ever truly forgiven him? And did she truly love him? He knew there were holes from her first life that he could never entirely fill.
Istar seemed content as First Wife, though it had taken her a long time—years—before any sort of warmth melted the ice of her resentment, and even longer still before she actually began to show feelings for him. By now, Istar had accepted her new situation. Twenty years in Uraba! While Saan was the son of her long-lost Tierran husband, she also loved her two daughters by Omra, and she even showed genuine compassion for Cithara—a fact that still astonished him. Perhaps it was something one learned from the Book of Aiden? Omra couldn't recall any sikara ever preaching such acceptance or unconditional forgiveness.
And though she did not speak of it, the soldan-shah knew Istar had never forgotten about her first love….
That noon, there had been a special feast for the boy in the palace courtyard. Naori was aglow with excitement for her son, holding Irec against her hip. All the handmaidens circled around, celebrating Zarif Omirr's special day, and Istar had helped with the celebration. Afterward, during their walk down to the harbor, the boy preened beside his father as if he were also a man of some importance. Omra found it particularly charming.
They reached the harbor and watched the ironclad vessel sailing toward the dock, where spectators waved and cheered. Seeing the majestic warship, the soldan-shah envisioned a whole fleet of such armored ships sailing through the isthmus canal. The Golden Fern. What a perfect name.
Omra squeezed the boy's shoulder. “Look, my son. This is your birthday present from all of Uraba.”
The boy looked at his father in awe. “That's my ship?”
“Not yours alone. But I want you to be the first to board it with me.”
Curious fishermen and dockworkers crowded close to see the unusual vessel. As soon as the boarding plank was laid, the soldan-shah and Omirr walked up to greet the captain, who seemed embarrassed by all the attention. “Soldan-Shah, my Lord, you honor us.”
“And you honor all of Uraba by bringing this magnificent ship. How did she sail?”
“Beautifully. She is like an indestructible creature of the sea. I would pit the Golden Fern against the Leviathan.”
“I'd rather you pit her against our true enemies. How goes the armoring on the other ships for our new fleet?”
“Work has begun on all seven. Your brother Tukar and Workmaster Zadar have dedicated crews of slave laborers to this project. You won't be disappointed, Soldan-Shah.”
The Golden Fern's deck, masts, and rigging revealed her origins asa Middlesea cargo ship. Eventually, Uraban shipwrights would have to design new vessels capable of sailing comfortably on both bodies of water, with a hull configuration built to withstand the weight of the armor plates.
Delighted to be aboard the ship, the boy ran up and down the deck, greeting the sailors, all of whom indulged him. “Saan should have taken this ship to go exploring! That way he could fend off storms and sea monsters. I wish I could have gone with him.”
It always warmed Omra's heart to remember how well Saan and the zarif got along, like true brothers. Yes, that was how brothers should act toward each other. The same thought gave him a pang about how faithful Tukar had been for all these years at the mines. He couldn't wait until his brother returned from his exile. It made no sense any longer.
As soon as the other seven armored ships were dispatched from the Gremurr mines, Omra would bring Tukar back himself, if his brother did not return immediately. It was something he should have done years ago….
Leaving the Golden Fern, Omra headed back toward the palace with the young zarif at his side, moving through the marketplace as guards cleared the way. With a clatter of hooves, a courier on horseback rounded a corner and tore down the narrow street to intercept them. “Soldan-Shah, I bear a message from Ishalem!” He held a rolled document in his clenched hand.
Omra was immediately on his guard. Though Kel Unwar often dispatched reports on the progress of the canal excavation, none were so urgent that a courier had to rush through the streets to find him. Perhaps the Aidenists had attacked the wall again, or maybe they'd committed another atrocity like the one at Fashia's Fountain.
He snatched the paper from the man before the horse had come to a halt. When he broke the seal and unrolled the document, the news within drove a blunt dagger into his chest.
Unwar's dispatch proudly described how—on his own initiative—he had intercepted the Tierran royal cog, killed or captured all the crew members, and taken the young prince prisoner. The final sentence seemed to blaze off the parchment: “In retaliation for the recent atrocities at Fashia's Fountain, we have executed the boy and sent his head back to Queen Anjine, so that she may know the cost of her terrible actions.”
His fingers went numb, and the dispatch fell to the street.
Omirr bent down and grabbed the paper. “You dropped this.”
The soldan-shah merely walked along without seeing or hearing, staring ahead as a whirlwind rushed through his mind. This was too much like what had happened after ambitious and foolhardy Soldan Attar had massacred the prester-marshall and his builders in Ishalem.
Frustrated by the lack of attention, the zarif tugged at his father's arm. Omirr looked so innocent, so bright-eyed. Looking down at his beloved son, Omra tried to imagine the pain Kel Unwar had just inflicted upon Queen Anjine.
No matter what the Book of Aiden taught about forgiveness, he knew what Anjine would think. And the Tierrans would never, never forgive such an act.
He had to sail for Ishalem immediately.
89 Calay
If he ever managed to get back to Calay, Jenirod was certain he'd be welcomed as a hero after the destruction of the Urecari shrine, but Destrar Tavishel seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever to go home.
The successful raid on Fashia's Fountain had shown the Curlies just how strong were Aiden's faithful. By now, word must have spread across Uraba. The followers of Urec would tremble when they learned how utterly their beliefs had been crushed. That would show them!
Leaving the desecrated shrine, the Soelanders had sailed their ships far from the rugged coastline, dropped anchor, and feasted (and prayed, of course). The next day had dawned bright with clear skies and a warm sun—a sign that Ondun approved of what they had done. Jenirod couldn't wait to tell Anjine.
But he was the only landsman aboard the Soeland ships, and Destrar Tavishel wasn't finished yet. The coppery smell of shed blood and the musical sound of Urecari screams had infected all of the sailors. Instead of setting course back to Calay harbor, they wanted to hunt again.
So for weeks, while Jenirod stewed with impatience, they patrolled the open waters for any colorful sail that dared to glare at them with the Eye of Urec. In all that time, they encountered only two far-ranging fishing boats, which they boarded and seized. After capturing and shackling the crews, they'd sailed the foreign boats north to the nearest Tierran port and traded them for supplies so they could go out and prowl the waters again.
Jenirod grew increasingly anxious to get back to Anjine with his news, but each time he expressed his eagerness, the surly Soeland destrar merely frowned at him. “You are welcome to disembark at any village and make your own way to Calay.” Though Jenirod was tempted to purchase a horse and ride it to the capital, who would notice a lone man riding into town on a dusty road? No, he longed to appear in the harbor with appropriate glory, standing at the bow of a proud ship and dressed in Eriettan finery. Oh, people would talk about that! So he had no choice but to wait for the ships to sail back to Calay.
By the time they sailed into the harbor at last, Tavishel had actually warmed to Jenirod, considering him a comrade. “If you ever get tired of horse dung and stables, young man, you have a place in my crew.”
Even though Jenirod took the invitation as a compliment, he said, “It's not what I was born to. I long to smell the dry Eriettan grasses in the heat of the day, to feel a good stallion beneath me running unhindered across the landscape. Would you surrender your ships and spend your days riding on the plains and in the hills?”
Tavishel scratched his beard. “Now why would I want to do that, when I have this?”
“Now you understand. Likewise, I wouldn't give up my home or heritage.” In his cabin, Jenirod trimmed his hair while looking into a small mirror, then changed into his best clothes and most colorful cape. He bounded onto the dock as soon as the Soelanders had tied up.
After weeks of anticipating this moment, he had built up a clear and glorious vision of what should happen. Taking ideas from the Eriettan horse cavalcades and Landing Day festivals, he pictured people lining the streets, waving ribbons, cheering, throwing flowers at his feet. He grinned to imagine all the young ladies who would blow him kisses, and all the young men who would be jealous of the attention. But no matter how much the women flirted with him or called his name, he would walk straight to the castle where Queen Anjine would be waiting for him, a smile on her face like a precious gem, her arms open wide to greet her husband-to-be.
As he made his way to the Royal District, though, no one paid him any particular notice. The city seemed quiet, even subdued. The merchants didn't yell as loudly when hawking their wares; many vendors' stalls were closed or abandoned. Jenirod noticed banners and black ribbon buntings, signs of mourning, and wondered idly who'd died—probably a high-ranking prester or some such. He was in no mood for gloomy news right now, however; his report to Anjine would likely be all the more welcome for bringing cheer to the royal court.
He announced himself to the guard at the castle's entryway. “I am the queen's betrothed. I apologize for my unexpected arrival, but I would like to speak with Anjine.” He used her familiar name quite intentionally.
Jenirod expected a smiling welcome, but the guard was somber and formal. “I will send word to the queen, but she hasn't held court in days, and receives few visitors.”
Jenirod chuckled. “She'll receive me.”
“Perhaps…”
The guard guided him down the corridors, and Jenirod noticed small bouquets of flowers on the window seats, sprays of white baby's breath that traditionally indicated a birth in the castle. “Someone has had a baby?”
The guard seemed distracted. “Oh, yes, the queen's handmaiden and Guard-Marshall Vorannen. Their first child was just born.”
“Then I must issue my congratulations!”
Jenirod swept his cape behind him and strutted into the throne room, eager to see Anjine again. Obviously, his behavior during the horse cavalcade and the banquet had not impressed her, but now the queen could not help but recognize his maturity and bravery. The victory at Fashia's Fountain must be proclaimed in all the history books.
He walked forward, head held high—and ground to a halt, as he actually looked at Queen Anjine. She sat motionless on her throne, her skin as pale as limestone. She wore a simple black gown with no jewelry.
Well, she obviously needed cheering up! Jenirod swept a graceful bow and straightened. “My Queen, my dear Anjine, I bring news of a great victory for the glory of Ondun and Aiden.” He lowered his voice, pretending to be bashful. “Though in truth I did it for you.”
When Anjine showed no interest, he explained in great detail—with only slight embellishments—how he had convinced Destrar Tavishel to take him on an exciting raid and how they had struck the sacred Urecari shrine. At the end of his story, he produced an ornate jeweled ring he had taken from the spoils and gave it to her to mark his achievement. Smiling, he took a step back, straightened his shoulders, and waited for her praise.
Anjine was even whiter now. With fury. “The Uraban courier spoke of war atrocities. Fashia's Fountain. He talked about the massacre at their shrine, said that was the reason they exacted their revenge on Tomas—because of what we did to them. I didn't know what the man was talking about. Now I do.”
She raised herself to her feet like a demon about to attack. Jenirod was startled, upset, even frightened. He didn't understand. This wasn't at all the reception he had expected. Anjine was on the verge of hysteria, and he wished he could find some way to make her calm down.
Her blood seemed to be boiling beneath her skin. “Because of your foolhardy, unsanctioned actions, my brother is dead. They cut off his head and delivered it here!”
Jenirod could not believe his ears. The prince dead? That couldn't be right. “What?” A deepening dread began to replace the feeling of affront.
“Because of you.” The words caught in her throat, and she could no longer speak. She stared at the floor near Jenirod's feet, as if she saw a stain there.
He opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong, that she needed to understand the good news he had brought her, but the ring flew past his head, bounced on the floor and skidded across the chamber. Riffling through the papers on a small document table beside the throne, she yanked out a parchment that had been signed and sealed with both her stamp and that of Destrar Unsul of Erietta.
“I asked for our betrothal agreement to be brought to me. But now—” She glared at Jenirod with such an icy fury that he had to look away. She held the document in front of his face, then tore it in half and continued to shred it into small pieces, flinging the tatters all around her throne.
“You have broken any reason I had to trust you. You acted without permission, against my wishes. You have destroyed me as surely as I have destroyed this.” She cast the last pieces to the floor. “Leave me, now, before I order your execution.”
Jenirod wanted to go to her, to try to soothe her and tell her that she was overreacting, but she yelled for the guards. “Get him out of here! Remove him! Send him home!”
The befuddled man was escorted briskly out of the castle.
When Jenirod was gone, Anjine sank back into her throne, feeling the hard wood against her back, listening to her heart pound. Bitter and deadly, she sat staring for long moments. The handful of remaining courtiers looked nervous, horrified by what they had heard. Jenirod's triumphant confession had reawakened all her revulsion and sorrow from recent days.
Anjine finally spoke aloud, issuing orders to no one in particular. She didn't need to. As queen, she had no doubt she would be obeyed.
“Find one thousand Urecari. Gather them from the camps. Capture more if you must. One thousand. Then I will deal with them.”
90 Soeland Patrol Ship
After delivering the impatient Eriettan lordling to Calay,
Tavishel was more anxious than ever to prowl the seas for Urecari criminals. As destrar of the isolated island reach, he'd never been fond of big cities. Tavishel craved neither power nor its trappings, and he had already lost everything he'd truly cared about after the gray fever took away his family.
Now he satisfied himself with inflicting pain upon the enemies of Aiden—and the world was full of them. Tavishel had only to sail the open seas until he found a Uraban vessel. He needed someone to blame for the ache inside him, whether or not there was any real connection.
Some of his crew wanted to set course northwest for the Soeland islands, but Tavishel's own reach did little to call him anymore. Drawing a breath of the fine salty breeze, he said, “Two more weeks, lads, then I'll take you home to your wives and families. Just bear with me a little longer. We have Aiden's work to do.”
The ships caught the strong southerly current that took them back toward the Edict Line. The hiss and whisper of waves split along the bow and rushed past the sides of the ship. The destrar studied his charts, taking position measurements so he could see when they crossed the invisible boundary. Though King Korastine and Soldan-Shah Imir had sealed the agreement long ago by applying their own blood to the wood of the ancient Arkship, Tavishel did not feel bound by those terms, because the Urecari had broken them so many times.
Over the next week, hunting in enemy territory, Tavishel and his crew seized three more Urecari boats. The prisoners were kept in chains belowdecks, fed fish offal, and given tepid water to drink. The Urabans grimaced in disgust at the fare, but they slurped it down when they grew hungry enough. It was a waste just to kill all of the enemy captives; better to send them to the work camps in Alamont or Corag, where they could make amends.
Tavishel returned to the Tierran coast with his captured fishing boats and miserable prisoners. At the harbor town of Windcatch, they herded the weakened captives to handlers who would escort them inland to the nearest camp. He exchanged the foreign vessels for all the supplies he needed. Though the harbormaster kept an account for him, the Soeland destrar knew that no good Aidenist would ever turn down reasonable requests for supplies or materials. If he and his crew had kept the booty for themselves, they would have been wealthy men, but Soelanders did not do this work to acquire fine objects or gold; their treasure consisted of performing good deeds in the name of Aiden.
