But Omra’s efforts did not stop there. It was his goal to restore the true glory of Ishalem. Eighteen years earlier, the city
had been poised on an uneasy peace, sacred to both Aidenists and Urecari, before a careless spark had unleashed the fires
of war. Now, from all around him, in all the districts of the blank canvas of the city, he could hear the sounds of construction,
the clink of hammers, the hauling of ropes, the grunting and calls of hardworking men. It was a joyful noise, a satisfying
racket.
Perhaps, from whatever far-distant world where He now lived, Ondun would hear and turn His gaze back toward this world and
see that the people He had left behind were once again worthy…
The thudding of hooves interrupted Omra’s reverie. Astride a fine dapple-gray stallion rode Vishkar, the new soldan of Outer
Wahilir, ascending what had once been the Pilgrim’s Path, where supplicants climbed up to the wreck of Urec’s ship. With a
steady gait, the stallion carried Vishkar to the top of the hill.
Vishkar was twenty years Omra’s senior, with a wide, squarish face and barrel chest. The quirk of his smile always brought
a brief chill to Omra—the man looked so much like his daughter Istar, Omra’s first wife, his first true love, who had died
in childbirth so long ago.
Vishkar slid off the saddle, bowed, then extracted a long cylinder from his saddlebag. “A fine afternoon, Soldan-Shah—and
it will be even finer once I show you these plans.” He unrolled the paper, holding it flat, but looking around for a place
to display the drawing; finally, he used his horse’s flank as a makeshift table. The stallion grazed unconcernedly. “My Saedran
has out-done himself, Sire. Sen Bira na-Lanis has created the most magnificent design! The western church will be far more
impressive than the eastern one.” Vishkar always tried to coax details about his competitor’s plans for the other side of
the city, but Omra would not say.
“Soldan Huttan has often told me the same thing, but he doesn’t use a Saedran architect. Wouldn’t it be better to have a true
follower of Urec design the Church of Urec, rather than a Saedran?”
Instead of looking abashed, Vishkar shook his head. “No, Soldan-Shah. It is best to use the most talented architect, no matter
what belief he holds.”
During his planned rebuilding of Ishalem, Omra had issued a challenge to the soldans of neighboring Outer and Inner Wahilir.
In the city’s glory days, a tall Aidenist kirk had dominated the western side, while the main Urecari church towered over
the eastern district. Both structures had been leveled in the great fire, and now the soldan-shah had commanded that the two
churches be rebuilt—only this time,
both
would be raised to the glory of Urec, both would sport the unfurling fern symbol. The new Ishalem would have no place for
the Aidenist fishhook.
Several years ago, Attar—the soldan of Outer Wahilir—along with his wives, his sons, and anyone even remotely in line for
the seat of power, had been poisoned by a heinous Aidenist assassin, and the death had left a hole in the ruling families.
For his replacement, Soldan-Shah Omra shirked tradition by choosing a man he felt was totally reliable as well as loyal to
him. As the father of his first wife, Vishkar was a man Omra respected, a wealthy and stable Olabar merchant whose ships plied
the Middlesea. Long ago, by choosing a merchant’s daughter as his first wife, Omra had incensed many entrenched noble families,
but had earned the appreciation from merchants and businessmen. Now, as soldan-shah, he remembered that, and the man ruled
the entire rich soldanate with its major coastal cities, its shipyards, and its trading ports.
Omra had instructed each of the two soldans, Vishkar and Huttan, to rebuild one of the city’s two grand churches. Though stodgy
old Huttan had complained, Vishkar accepted the task with relish and vowed to prove himself.
Now, spreading out the parchment on the grazing stallion’s flank, the soldan pointed to the drawing’s turrets and minarets,
the large vaulted worship chamber with a spiraling walkway that resembled the unfurling fern. Sparkling windows would admit
a flood of light. Sikara priestesses would call prayers from the highest balconies or burn prayer ribbons and notes in braziers
there.
“It does, indeed, look magnificent, Vishkar.” Omra could see that this was far more ambitious than what Soldan Huttan planned.
The stallion’s head jerked up, ears pricked. Someone was coming. Omra saw a thin man running up the Pilgrim’s Path as if a
host of demons were on his heels. He was covered with dust, dirt, and powder, and he carried a rolled object in his hand.
Guards ran behind him—not in pursuit, but in shared excitement.
Omra turned to face the newcomer. Panting and gasping, the man reached the hilltop, bent over, and coughed. He rested his
weight on his knees, barely managing to keep from vomiting after the exertion.
Vishkar blinked in surprise. “Sen Bira? I hardly recognized you!” He turned to the soldan-shah. “Sire, this is my Saedran
architect. He has been excavating the ruins of the old Aidenist kirk.”
“My apologies, Soldan-Shah—I needed to see you right away.” Sen Bira shook dust out of his tangled hair, tried in vain to
neaten his appearance. He gulped a breath of air. “I… I should have taken a horse.”
The guards came up quickly beside the Saedran, embarrassed that he had outrun them. “Soldan-Shah!” said the captain, “This
man has made a discovery.—”
“He was about to explain himself,” Omra said, and nodded at the man once more. “Go on—my curiosity is piqued.”
With an effort, Sen Bira na-Lanis composed himself. “We broke through the floor and catacomb levels today, Soldan-Shah. The
Aidenist kirk burned to the ground in the great fire, but underground we found a bricked-up vault that has been sealed for
uncounted centuries.” He raised the rolled cylinder. It was an ancient letter container, a tube of varnished and preserved
leather.
Vishkar snatched the aged container and, without opening it, passed it to Omra.
Sen Bira looked at them both squarely. “It’s the Map, Sire—the original Map.”
Frowning, Omra opened the case and carefully withdrew a well-preserved sheet of parchment, unrolling it with painstaking care.
He saw glorious illuminated text and illustrations, the chart of a land he had never seen before; incredibly intricate details
showed islands and reefs along a strange coastline, along with fanciful illustrations of sea serpents and tentacled things.
The writing was so ornate and archaic that Omra had trouble deciphering the letters.
“It’s the
Map,
” Sen Bira repeated. He pointed a dirty finger close to the coastline but took care not to touch the parchment. “See here,
it says TERRAVITAE.”
Dumbstruck, Omra straightened, looked at Vishkar, then back at the Saedran. “Are you saying this is
Urec’s
original Map? The one given to him by Ondun Himself before the two brothers sailed away?”
“I believe so, Soldan-Shah,” the Saedran said quietly. “Sealed in a catacomb, it has been there, undisturbed, for an impossible
amount of time.”
“But Urec lost his map,” Vishkar argued. “We know all the stories. That’s why Urec could never find his way back home.”
“Others say the Aidenists took it,” Omra said flatly.
Sen Bira’s eyes traveled over the unbelievable treasure. “The legends are so old, who can say what is true and what is not?
Many tales change over the years.”
“The truth doesn’t change,” Vishkar said.
Omra marveled at the map as possibilities blossomed in his mind. He was breathing quickly, and his pulse raced. “If this is
indeed Urec’s original Map, then why was it hidden beneath an
Aidenist
kirk?”