The Map of All Things (32 page)

77
The
Al-Orizin

All across the uncharted Middlesea, Saan saw nothing but water, endless water… until a trio of golden sea serpents approached. The lookout bellowed an alarm, and crewmen raced to the bow, taking up spears.

Grigovar held a harpoon in each hand. “You will find me a difficult mouthful to swallow! Ask your brother, who lies dead back in the reefs.” But the monsters did not react as he brandished the weapons.

Yal Dolicar tugged at leather laces to secure the knife-blade prosthetic to his stump. “If one of those things tries to swallow me, I'll cut my way out, just like Grigovar did.”

Saan stared at the three serpents. “Hold a moment, you two. Let's not provoke them just yet.”

The three creatures were gorgeous, their wet scales reflecting the yellow sunlight. Curious, they circled the strange vessel, blasting vapors from their blowholes, then dropped beneath the waves and swam away.

Relieved, Saan turned to Sen Sherufa. “That's enough excitement for one day.”

“Another story to tell Imir, when we get back home.”

Fyiri emerged from her cabin, holding a large golden fern in one hand. Saan wondered if she intended to take credit for driving away the monsters, but she had lost her moment. Instead, the sikara took a stance of authority and caught the attention of all the men. “Not all sea serpents are dangerous, but they have a cursed origin. Such monsters are the offspring of Bouras—the gigantic serpent that girdles the world, an enormous beast that no man's imagination can fully encompass. The Father Serpent is the personification of evil that thrives in our world.”

She glared at the crew, as if blaming each one of them. “Long before He departed from our world, Ondun attempted to stop Bouras and his deceit. He commanded the Father Serpent to bite his own tail, so that he could no longer speak lies. He must remain trapped like that until he is freed. After countless centuries, Bouras has grown so large that he encircles the entire world.”

Fyiri gestured across the open water, to where the three golden creatures had disappeared. “If you fear
those
serpents, remember that they are just the tiniest offspring, the infant children of Bouras. Pray that our voyage does not take us across the great monster's path.”

When the crew muttered with fear and anxiety, Saan was annoyed with Fyiri for preying upon their superstitions. He laughed, showing just what he thought of such nonsense. “Well, then we'll keep a sharp watch!” He sent a second man up the mainmast to the lookout nest. “If the Father Serpent girdles the entire world, then he had better get out of our way. No monster is going to stop this voyage.”

The sleek ship sailed on into uncharted waters, under blue skies and with no threat of sea serpents. For all the excitement and fear of sailing into the unknown, Saan lounged on the deck, waiting for something to happen. They had traveled countless leagues, but he didn't feel any closer to finding the Key to Creation. Even Sen Sherufa remained unable to interpret the Map.

Yal Dolicar often wore a frilly white shirt despite the heat of the sun, while most of the
Al-Orizin
's crew stripped down to keep cool. Dolicar had affixed the carved wooden hand to his wrist, and now rubbed it self-consciously. “I listened to Sikara Fyiri give her report from the Olabar church last night.” The priestess often read pleasant but meaningless words that appeared on the pages of the sympathetic journal. The mere fact that she remained in communication with Uraba reassured the men. “She makes it sound as if there is no news and no conflict back in Olabar. Everything seems to be right with the world. Suspiciously so, don't you think?”

“What do you mean?”

With a shrug, Dolicar hunkered down alongside his captain. “Sir, do you actually
know
what the sikaras have written, back and forth? Have you looked at the sympathetic journal yourself to see what the words really say?”

Saan frowned. “That's Fyiri's business. Same as my captain's log is
my
business.”

Dolicar chuckled. “Don't kid yourself, Captain. You should be more suspicious.”

Saan tapped his fingertips together as he considered. Fyiri did have sole control over the sympathetic journal, and she could be writing anything, spreading false rumors to the ur-sikara. She could also be distorting, or completely falsifying, the reports that supposedly appeared in the volume. Saan sat up straighter as the wheels began to turn in his mind. “Thank you for your concern, Dolicar. I'll take it under advisement and make a decision.”

* * *

Unwilling to remain in her quarters all day, a restless Sikara Fyiri walked the deck, visited the cargo hold and the crew bunks. She spent time in the galley criticizing the cook, though he pretended to be deaf to her complaints.

When she was gone, Saan boldly walked to the door, worked the small latch, and entered the priestess's private room. Fyiri had left small candles burning in covered lamps—a fire hazard aboard a sailing ship, but the stern sikara believed that she operated outside of rules. It would be good to remind her of her place.

Saan found the sympathetic journal and opened it, flipping the sheets of paper that were torn in half. He scanned the letters written on each page—lines in Fyiri's strong and determined script, and other words written in a more formal hand.

He saw immediately that Fyiri was indeed withholding information, just as Yal Dolicar had suspected. She had not recounted any of this news to the
Al-Orizin
's crew. He read entries describing Soldan-Shah Omra's ambitious scheme to dig a great canal across the isthmus, news that Saan's half-sister Adreala had gone south with her grandfather to visit the Nunghals, and that his other two sisters were now acolytes in the church.

When he read that Cithara was being groomed for a “special mission,” the wording raised Saan's suspicions, and he studied more closely, flipping through the later entries as Fyiri's mysterious correspondent grew more careless with her reports. When he finally read the writer's name, the word struck like an icicle in Saan's spine.
Villiki!
Villiki was still alive!

The woman had gone into hiding and somehow worked her way into the main church; now she was using the sympathetic journal to communicate with the sikara aboard the
Al-Orizin
.

Fyiri had kept all this from him.

The cabin door opened, and he heard the woman laughing seductively; Fyiri held Grigovar by the arm, leading him into her cabin with obvious intent.

Saan closed the journal with a loud thump. When the sikara saw him lounging at her writing desk, her face blazed with fury. “What are you doing in my quarters?”

Saan kept his demeanor cocky and confident. “Your quarters, perhaps, but
my
ship. I can do as I wish.” He held up the journal.

Fyiri lunged wildly for it. “How dare you!”

He rose to his feet, all nonchalance gone. “You have withheld information from your captain. You exchange private messages with a woman who attempted to poison the soldan-shah. It seems the church of Urec now gives this traitor secret sanctuary.” He tucked the book close under his arm. “Obviously you cannot be trusted.”

Fyiri clutched Grigovar's arm and snapped at him. “Well, what are you going to do about this? Aren't you going to defend me? Look what he's doing!”

Grigovar burst out laughing. “What am
I
going to do? Why, I'm going to follow the captain's orders! You think you control me just because I sleep with you?” He guffawed at the thought. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, Priestess. If a woman's bed turns cold to me, my hand is warm enough. You place too great a value on your skills as a lover.”

Fyiri was dumbstruck, and Saan couldn't help grinning. “I am confiscating this journal, Sikara. Obviously it is too powerful and too tempting for you.”

“But only I can use it! You will never be able to send messages back.” She gave a haughty sniff.

“If our messages go into the hands of Villiki, the messages are of no use to me. There is nothing I wish that woman to know. Besides, Sen Sherufa is perfectly capable of transmitting any words that I deem necessary.”

“Sen Sherufa! A Saedran woman?”

“Yes. And I trust her far more than I trust you.”

78
Olabar Palace

Soldan-Shah Omra remained in the palace for only a few days before departing for Inner Wahilir and then continuing to Yuarej to discuss the border dispute with Soldans Huttan and Andouk. As he prepared to leave again, Omra grumbled to Istar, “Maybe I should just let their First Wives resolve the issue between them.”

“Women solve problems differently than men do,” she said.

“Sometimes that is a good thing,” he said. “Sometimes it isn't.”

“I could talk to Kuari and Sharique, let them prove themselves as your emissaries.” Since being placed in their new positions, the five First Wives had begun to take great interest in matters of politics.

“Let me try it my way first.” And then he was gone with the morning tide, sailing westward along the coast, leaving her to manage the affairs of Uraba. No one questioned Istar now when she received visitors and discussed matters of state with various ministers of trade, finance, and culture. The First Wives came and went, bearing messages from the soldans, accompanied by Olabar guards.

Omra had been gone for two days when a stunned and frightened-looking traveler stumbled into the Olabar court, exhausted from his long journey. The man, a gaunt pilgrim, looked as though he hadn't eaten in some time. With a sickened expression, Kel Rovic hurried him forward. “My Lady, listen to what this man has seen.”

The anxious traveler supported himself on Rovic's arm. Though befuddled to see her instead of the soldan-shah on the dais, he fell to his knees. “Fashia's Fountain has been desecrated! Aidenists, my Lady—they attacked, slew all of the priestesses. The temple is burned, the fountain and pool fouled.”

Istar sat bolt upright, her fingers clutching the fabric cushions so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Hot blood pounded in her ears. “How do you know this?”

The man hung his head, shuddering. “I went on pilgrimage there to cleanse myself of my sins. The boat dropped me off with three fellow pilgrims. There were no other boats, and we saw no one else on the trail or at the landing. We thought it odd, because the shrine is usually crowded this time of year. When we hiked up the path, the stench… the bodies were bloated, pieces floating in the pool…. It must have been days since the attack.”

The traveler continued, glassy-eyed with shock. “The birds had already found the bodies. No one was alive. No one. And the fountain itself, the smell!” He began to sob. “I knew I had to come to Olabar straightaway. I used all my money—joined a caravan, bought a horse, paid passage on three different ships. I traveled for more than a week, but I could not get here any faster.”

Istar struggled to find her voice. She had seen that beautiful place less than a month before. “How do you know Aidenists were responsible?” She had to control herself, to keep from screaming. Of course, there could be no other answer.

“This was on the altar at the fountain.” The man reached into his clothing, withdrew a silver fishhook pendant, and tossed it to the floor ahead of him. “They left it, like a taunt.”

Istar sat rigid with horror and outrage as she struggled to control her inner turmoil. She did not want to taint her memory of the lovely shrine, the peaceful, devoted pilgrims, the shared experience with her daughters. And poor, determined Istala had thrown herself into her church studies so she could become one of the special priestesses chosen to serve at Fashia's Fountain. She might have been among those slaughtered….

Istar closed her eyes against the thought and found herself breathing heavily, her heart pounding. The loud conversation in the throne room receded to a droning buzz in her ears. She felt a surge of fury toward the violent barbarians who had caused so much harm, who had violated such a sacred site, the damned Aidenists who had slaughtered those innocent—

She trembled uncontrollably as she realized what she was thinking, torn between her identities as Istar and Adrea. Long ago it had been the other way, with hateful Urecari raiders killing all the people in Windcatch, burning the small kirk on the hill. She had lost so much… her life, her whole future.

But she had also gained this, and her lovely daughters. And Omra, a man who also loved her. How could an
Aidenist
do such an awful thing? She felt as if her heart might rip itself in half.

Istala could have been murdered there!

Tears blurred her vision, but she dashed them away, rose to her feet. “Kel Rovic, see that this man is fed, given fresh clothing, and comfortable chambers. I will send riders out to find the soldan-shah and bring him back to Olabar with all due speed. He needs to deal with this himself.”

Istar paid no mind to the hubbub around her as she retreated to her private chambers, where she refused all visitors. Anxious to reassure herself, to find some kind of stability, she went to the special aromatic chest that held her private things and, after rummaging among her keepsakes, withdrew the battered and waterstained old letter, crumbling pages that had withstood long months or years in a bottle that drifted across the sea.

Although she had read the words so many times that they were burned into her memory, she loved the act of touching the long-faded ink and the words that her husband had written to her. It helped her heart slow its furious beating, but also left an empty longing that could never be filled. Tucked into the handwritten pages was a single strand of hair, brittle and pale—
her
hair—from a lock she had given Criston when he sailed on the
Luminara
twenty years earlier.

Now life was more confusing than ever, with so many echoes of violence. If Criston could be here with her now… or if only Omra hadn't gone away. And those thoughts only increased her confusion.

The next morning, she awoke from a sleep that had soaked her pillows with tears. Thinking of her daughters, especially Istala, she dressed and made her way to the main Urecari church, followed by four palace guards. Though Omra, Saan, Imir, and Adreala were gone, she felt an urgent need to be with her family. But Istala and Cithara were still close by, and she had not seen them since they became acolytes. Oh, the sikaras sent sketchy reports of the girls' progress, but Istar longed to look deep into their eyes so she could know their hearts.

The news about Fashia's Fountain had already spread throughout the city. Groups of angry citizens demanded retribution in squares and from balconies. The sikaras chanting in the streets of Olabar, not content merely to burn prayer strips in braziers, built large bonfires, into which hundreds of people tossed handwritten messages. These fires roared in every public square, surrounded by infuriated followers of Urec. The messages on the prayer strips beseeched Ondun to come forth and wipe out all Tierrans.

Hearing this, Istar knew that many Urabans were thinking of her as well, blaming her. When angry men and women saw her in the streets, they saw a hated
Tierran
. But she walked along with determination, ignoring the cold glances, as she always did. Could they not see that she was hurting just as much as they were?

At the formal entrance to the main church, a mid-ranked priestess greeted Istar with cool civility and poorly hidden scorn, which was not surprising after the many critical sermons the sikaras had given about her. Istar had no patience for that nonsense. “I will see my daughters,” she commanded with a voice surprisingly steady and even. She didn't care whether or not the priestesses liked her. She was still a mother and the soldan-shah's First Wife.

The woman at the doorway frowned at her. “Your daughters are acolytes now. They belong to Urec.”

“Then Urec can let me borrow them for a few moments. Summon Cithara and Istala.”

The priestess continued to scowl. The guards in Istar's entourage shifted uncomfortably; they too had heard the ur-sikara's spiteful sermons, and while they knew that Istar had Omra's blessing and protection, they did not want to openly challenge the church.

A second sikara who outranked the first came to the doorway. “Cithara is unavailable, fasting and in private contemplation. She cannot be disturbed. I can, however, bring Istala to you. But it must be a brief visit, for she has prayers and scribing duties of her own.”

“I would not wish to hinder her progress in the service of Urec. I just need to speak with her.”

“Wait here.” The two priestesses closed the door in her face, making Istar and the guards stand outside for long minutes until they returned leading the girl between them. Young Istala brightened when she saw her mother, bowed formally, then accepted a quick strong embrace.

“I'm so glad to see you. After what happened at Fashia's Fountain, I just wanted to reassure myself that you were safe.”

The girl barely held her composure. “It was horrible news, and I can't stop thinking about poor Luaren, but I
am
going to be a sikara, Mother. The Fountain will be restored, and I
will
go there.”

One of the priestesses stood frowning at the church doorway. “There is nothing to fear. She will have Urec's protection.”

Istar pointed out, “The slaughtered sikaras also had his protection.”

Nevertheless, having seen and touched her daughter, she felt calm again. Cithara would also be safe within the walls of the church. And Adreala was with her grandfather, who would never let anything happen to her. She tried to convince herself that they would all be safe, happy, and contented.

But she did not succeed.