The Edge of the World (44 page)

Rain had moved in on the last day of the patrol, swathing the coastline in gray mist. The drizzle cast a pall over everything.
The
Raven
’s rigging sparkled with drops of water, and the canvas sails were heavy with it, making the yardarms creak. The decks were
wet, the men’s clothes drenched, and the crew was happy to see the entrance of Calay Harbor.

The patrol ship passed the two lighthouses, which blazed in the fog. Entering the mouth of Calay Harbor, Illiom issued commands,
though the sailors knew full well how to handle the ship. They were all anxious to get home.

As the ship sailed deeper into the harbor, the Merchants’ District seemed subdued in the miserable weather, but the Military
District was busy with soldiers continuing their drills, splashing through inconvenient puddles. In Shipbuilders’ Bay the
cranes and buzzing sawmills were all turned to the construction of new warships.

Mateo was eager to get to his barracks and relax. He had made a list of all the things he wanted to see and do when he returned
to Calay, though he had made similar lists in all of the smaller ports where the
Raven
had stopped. He had his favorite inns for food and drink, his preferred places to take a relaxing stroll on dry land, even
a girlfriend or two. But nothing compared to Calay. He hoped he could see his friend Anjine before he shipped out again. He
made a point of meeting with the princess each time he came home.

When he’d shipped off on his first patrol, years ago, Mateo was spoiling for a fight. All his fellow trainees had felt cocky
after attacking straw-filled dummies, perfecting their swordplay under the watchful eye of veteran trainers. But straw-filled
dummies didn’t fight back with sharpened scimitars and faces filled with hate.

Mateo felt he had aged much more than his twenty-three years. Since that first patrol, seven members of the
Raven
’s crew, young men whom he had called friends, had been lost. They were buried at sea or left under high rock cairns on bleak
shores, never to return home. Mateo’s comrades killed their share of Urecari as well, and in two engagements they fended off
raiders that came north of Ishalem. Once, when Captain Illiom was particularly incensed, the
Raven
had sailed south of the Edict Line and gone hunting for Urecari fishing vessels. They found three, which they had boarded
and sunk. An unequivocal victory. Mateo should have felt proud of what he had done.

But he no longer believed that war consisted of glorious battles comprised of hundreds of ships. During his training, Mateo
had always wondered why King Korastine didn’t simply call his entire navy together, launch all his vessels, and conquer the
heathens once and for all. Now he understood it wasn’t that simple. Even a small clash was a horrifying affair of screams
and blood, utter exhaustion and unending tension. He’d been fooling himself to think that fighting the enemy would be an exciting
story-book adventure.

On each patrol, Mateo continued to write letters to Anjine, beginning them with “Dear Tolli,” just as he had when he was a
trainee. He brought a new batch with him, written over the four months of the patrol; they were carefully bound in a packet
inside his trunk. He would hand deliver the papers and tell her to read them slowly, one at a time, but only after he was
gone. For her sake, and for his own, he did not tell Anjine everything, because some things he had seen—and done—were far
too painful to relive. His nightmares reminded him well enough, and far too often.

As the patrol boat sailed toward the military wharf, dripping with mists that condensed on the rigging and sails, Mateo forced
himself to focus on a gentler time, memories that brought a smile to his lips. Dressed as street scamps, the pair had slipped
away from the castle, resolved to test their nautical skills. Mateo suggested that “Tycho and Tolli” take an outing in their
own small boat, to see the sights, so they went to a public pier where a small rowboat had been tied up for weeks, apparently
unclaimed; Mateo had been watching it. Slimy green algae like mermaid hair covered the hull’s bottom.

After Anjine climbed in and steadied herself on the stern bench, Mateo set the oars into the oarlocks and rowed them out into
the harbor. A puddle of brown water sloshed in the bottom of the boat, and Anjine dutifully bailed so their feet would remain
dry. In the main channel, Mateo struggled to dodge the busy harbor traffic. Large sailing ships and merchant galleys, fishing
boats and smaller ferries plied the many fingers and bays that formed the city districts. From the shore, people waved and
shouted at them; Mateo and Anjine waved back, unable to hear what they were saying.

Mateo kept rowing while Anjine sat with regal poise, gazing upon the wonders of Calay. She insisted on taking her turn at
the oars, but he wouldn’t let her, though his arms ached and his hands felt raw and blistered.

Mateo took her under six bridges, circled Shipbuilders’ Bay, then toured the Merchants’ District, where many large and exotic
ships were tied up. The boat carried them to the harbor mouth, beyond which they could see the choppy expanse of the Oceansea
and the gray-blue waters that vanished behind the curve of the world.

In the late afternoon, they returned to the dock below the castle in the Royal District, where they were surprised to see
people crowded on the pier, who were pointing excitedly as they spied the two rowing toward them. Mateo’s heart sank as he
noticed two uniformed members of the city guard among them.

“We might be in trouble, Tolli,” Mateo said.

She pulled off her yarn hat and shook her head to let her long hair fall free. “In that case, I’d better be Princess Anjine
again.”

The owner of the boat had discovered it missing and raised the alarm, calling on the city guard to find the thieves. Caught,
Mateo was mortally embarrassed; he had never meant to keep the boat, and as far as he could tell, nobody had used it in some
time. He would have taken all the blame upon himself so that Anjine did not suffer because of his impulsive idea.

But when she alighted from the boat, she stood proud and straight, regarding the people as if they were a reception party.
She nodded toward the distraught boat owner. “I am Princess Anjine. Thank you for allowing us the use of your boat. We will
pay you handsomely for the service, or we’ll simply buy the boat from you, if that’s what you prefer?”

All of the man’s complaints and accusations evaporated, and he bowed low. “Princess Anjine! If you had merely asked, I would
have rowed you myself.”

“Oh, I enjoyed the time with my friend. We’re sorry for any misunderstanding.” As a reward, Anjine had invited him to the
next large banquet dinner hosted by King Korastine and Queen Sena. Mateo had been so proud of her…

Now the
Raven
tied up to the wharf nearest the barracks. Inns opened their doors and stretched out awnings above outside tables to ward
off the rain. Mateo stood at the side of the ship so he could walk down the boarding ramp as soon as the lines were tied to
the pilings.

He found his heart lightened, and he was smiling. Speaking with Anjine and handing her his letters would brighten his mood
even more. He needed that before he shipped out again—before he was once more weighed down by grim stories that he could not
tell her…

Because it was a wet spring, Criston Vora stayed inside his cozy stone-walled cottage and spent extra time sitting by the
fire with the dog at his feet. With his sharpened knife in hand, he whittled models of ships he could see inside his mind,
remembering vessels he had seen or imagining ships that had never been built. Captain Shay’s hand-drawn sea-serpent book lay
open on the table, in case he needed the reference.

Intent on his work, he set aside all thought. He brushed the wood curls from the hearth into the fireplace, where they flashed
and sputtered into bright coals. His focus left no room for anything but the tip of the knife, the small shavings of wood,
and the shapes that appeared in his hands. Criston didn’t need to think about anything else, and here he was far from his
past.

When the skies cleared again after a few days, Criston found that he had fifteen finished carvings, and very few supplies
in his larder. Time to go to the nearby village by the mountain lake; by now, the people had come to expect his occasional
visits. The children looked forward to their wooden toys, and started pestering their parents as soon as they saw him approach.

Though the children showed such obvious joy in their new toys, he did not let himself take too much pleasure in their delight.
If he allowed himself to feel happiness and satisfaction, then it was only one step away from feeling the overwhelming grief
again. The same grief he had felt the day Ciarlo had told him Adrea was pregnant when the raiders came…

It was safer to keep those storms behind an emotional seawall.

The lake had risen high with meltwater from the spring runoff. A few chunks of greenish white ice still floated in the middle
of the water. Taking their new model boats, the children ran to the stony shore and floated them in the chilly water, while
Jerard barked and bounded along the edge, splashing in and then thinking better of it when he felt the deep cold.

The village boys used long sticks to poke the boats farther out onto the lake. As the vagaries of the stirring currents caught
the models, the boats spread apart like a miniature regatta. With an odd detachment, Criston studied how his models floated,
comparing their designs. In his mind’s eye, he thought of the vast Oceansea, the whaling ships from Soeland, the guano barges,
the fishing boats from Windcatch, and, of course, the spectacular, doomed
Luminara
.

The thin, cold breeze carried a chill from the lake, but no smell of salt, no iodine of seaweed, no pungent sourness of fish—only
the mountain mineral air. Criston had almost forgotten what it was like down at the sea.

Racing ahead, one boy clambered up a rocky outcrop that extended over the lake. Holding on to the rock with one hand, he leaned
out with his stick, trying to snag one of the boats before it drifted into deep water. With the mud and slush of the thaw,
the stones in the outcrop were crumbly, and Criston looked up just in time to see a rock break loose. The boy’s hand slipped.
He scrambled for a hold, then fell into the water with a large splash. The other children stared; some laughed at the misadventure,
some shouted an alarm. Though the boy gasped and flailed, the frigid lake water sapped his strength, nearly paralyzing him.

Criston didn’t even realize he was moving; he acted automatically. Without a word, he ran as far as he could along the rocky
shore, then dove into the water. The iciness hit him like a slap, forcing the breath out of his lungs in an involuntary whoosh.
His arms felt as if they had turned to stone, but he forced himself to stroke forward, warming his shocked muscles by using
them.

The boy had stopped struggling now, slowly turning over to float facedown in the water. Criston grabbed his shirt and pulled
him back. The boy was pale, his lips already blue, and Criston’s heart pounded like a distant kettledrum, laboring to keep
warm blood moving. After a few more minutes in this frigid water, he too would be unable to move—he would sink, and he would
die.

On the stony beach, Jerard howled. The yelling children had brought a group of adults, and they stood waving their arms and
shouting.

Finally Criston’s leaden feet touched rocks at the lake bottom, and he struggled forward until he reached dry land. He pulled
the boy out first, and several sets of arms grasped him; then Criston collapsed. One of the village men grabbed the boy, rolled
him over, forced water out of his mouth. The boy started coughing and retching on the lakeshore.

Criston’s teeth were chattering. “Bring blankets. Or… take the boy to a fire.” He huddled into a miserable ball, wrapping
his arms around his knees and shivering violently. The people rushed about, pulling the coughing boy away, carrying him off
to the nearest village house. Someone threw a woolen blanket over Criston’s shoulders as he sat hunched on the shore.

Gradually, like the faintest of predawn light seeping into a black sky, Criston felt the warmth return. He still couldn’t
bend his fingers. His teeth continued to rattle together like dice shaken in a cup.

The wide-eyed villagers showered him with thanks, and Criston could only nod. Water dripped from his hair, his beard. Plunging
into the lake had shocked more memories out of where he had hidden them. His heart was pounding harder than it had in a long
time, as if it had just recalled how to be alive.

What he felt in his chest now was an entirely different type of cold from the shock of the near-freezing lake. He let out
another gasp, drew a deep aching breath. For the first time in many years, he heard the call of the sea that pulled a man
like the tides, and realized how much he
missed
it. And with that realization, he recalled just how much he missed Adrea.

It took Aldo the better part of a year to make his way back to Tierra. Along the way, he received assistance from other Saedrans—food,
shelter, and enough coins to reach the next stop on his long journey. When he encountered Uraban soldiers searching for Aidenist
infiltrators and church burners, he expected them to seize him, but his disguise remained sufficient.

His people had helped him, and he had gotten home.

Weary, wiser, and older, Aldo made his way to a greatly changed Calay, and looked around in wonder, as if seeing it all for
the first time. A new Iborian-style kirk stood in a place of honor beside the castle. A fire had destroyed an entire neighborhood
in the Merchants’ District, and pale pine frameworks were still being erected to replace the lost houses and shops. A new
bridge had been built to replace the collapsed Tinkers’ Bridge.