The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  When Criston rushed back to the Cindon's slip in the marina, he was grinning, his boyish face extraordinarily handsome. Adrea kissed him before he could even tell her his news. "I knew the captain would accept you."

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "And how did you know? Even I wasn't sure."

  "I knew, because you belong there."

  17

  Olabar Palace

  The death of Istar so devastated Zarif Orara that he had little grief to spare when word arrived about the burning of Ishalem. The soldan-shah's galley had arrived in port, bringing the terrible news. In the streets of Olabar, the people shouted their fury at the Aidenists and flocked to the churches to hear the sikara priestesses demanding retribution.

  Omra did not feel that passion, though. He could think of nothing beyond the loss of his wife.

  He had declared a week of mourning in the city and spent a full day in silent vigil at his wife's side, holding conversations with her that she could not hear. Istar's body had been washed, perfumed, and wound in Yuarej silk dyed orange, her favorite color. The small half-formed baby was cradled in her arms, also wrapped in silks.

  With the heat of the season, the funeral could not wait. The young sikara Fyiri--who had previously blessed the pregnancy--completed the rites, lighting the pyre that rapidly consumed Istar's lovely body. Omra was barely able to see through the tears in his eyes, but when the smoke finally cleared

  and nothing remained of her but ashes, he had dried his eyes and emptied his heart

  Barely settled in back at the palace, Soldan-Shah Imir called an immediate war council. He summoned representatives from the soldanates of Missinia, Yuarej, Inner and Outer Wahilir, and Abilan. Ur-Sikara Lukai spoke for the church, her words sharp and strident, for this was to be a religious war (or so she insisted). The merchant families demanded to know what was to become of them if they could no longer trade in Tierran goods.

  As the heir to the soldan-shah, Omra was required to participate in the intense discussions, but his thoughts were obscured by the veil of his grief and the sharp pain of his loss. He saw the palace around him, the city of Olabar, the whole world, in a different light. Details were sharp, but the colors had faded.

  The zarif dutifully sat by his father's side at the long table, saying nothing even as voices were raised, shouts layered upon shouts. He gave the appearance of listening to the debate, his expression cold, but he could not bring himself to care. When the spokesman for Outer Wahilir demanded that a large portion of the treasury be diverted to his soldanate, since a new Uraban fleet must be built there (and because the murder of city-leader Fillok by the Tierran captain had not yet been avenged), the representatives of the other soldanates nearly came to blows. Still, Omra did not rise from his seat.

  His father looked at him, growing more and more disturbed. Finally, Imir rose and bellowed, "Leave! All of you. I must speak with Zarif Omra."

  The delegates were shocked, and an indignant Ur-Sikara Lukai insisted on staying, but the soldan-shah shooed them all out of the room. Preoccupied with their own worries, none of them had noticed any difference in Omra's demeanor.

  When they were alone, Imir resumed his seat, folded his

  ringed fingers together, and spoke sternly to his son. "You are my heir. You will be the next soldan-shah. Do these matters bore you?"

  For Omra, even raising his head felt like lifting a great weight. "Few matters interest me. My wife is dead."

  "So get another wife. Countless women would be happy to marry you. You should have had more than one wife by now anyway--then you wouldn't be moping around so uselessly."

  His father's callousness ignited a flicker of anger in Omra's chest. "I said, my wife is dead. My son is dead."

  "It is a sad fact of life, my son, but women die in childbirth all the time, just as men die in battle. You can have more sons, but only if you have more wives. Remember the story of Urec and Fashia. It is your obligation."

  Omra's throat was dry. Yes, it was his obligation. As the son of the soldan-shah, he had many obligations.

  Although Urec's wife Fashia had accompanied him on his voyage from Terravitae, she was unable to conceive a child. Since he was the son of Ondun, Fashia insisted that Urec take other wives so that he could spread his family when they reached the new world. But Fashia did not surrender her role as his first wife.

  When his exploration ship landed on a new continent and Urec tried to befriend the original Urabans, those natives did not know Ondun, and they received the newcomers with violence. They tried to murder all the people on the ship, and Urec's sailors fought back. After much killing on both sides, the surviving natives finally accepted the word of Ondun and made peace.

  Because there were so many more women than men after the slaughter, Fashia suggested that all of Urec's surviving crewmen also be allowed to take more than one wife, provided that the women were willing and provided that the men could care for

  their wives. Only that way could they populate the land that Ondun had promised.

  But Zarif Omra could not think of other women. His thoughts were haunted by memories of Istar whispering in his ear, Istar coming to watch him hold court during his father's absence, Istar braiding her hair. She had loved Omra not because of the power and wealth he embodied, but because of who he was. All the reasons for taking multiple wives seemed cold and political to him, having little to do with love.

  And yet he would be the next soldan-shah. Obligations...

  His father was actually in a jovial mood. Imir had declared a halt to further council meetings, much to the consternation of the other participants, insisting that he needed to take care of other matters first. Omra suspected that his father was glad to apply himself to a problem with a real and immediate resolution.

  Though Omra could hear whispers and the rustle of clothing in the tiled corridor outside his opulent private quarters, the soldan-shah sat on a cushion in front of him, holding a private conversation with him. "I have not told you this, Omra, but your mother suffered two miscarriages as well. I commiserate with the pain of your loss. But eventually Lithio gave birth to you--and you were definitely worth waiting for."

  Imir lounged back. "Your mother was my best choice when I was young, and she is still very special to me, though I haven't seen her in years. All three of my wives are special to me. Asha, who is so sweet and beautiful... Villiki, who knows so much about court politics that she could have been a soldan-shah herself. She has already spoken to me twice since I've returned, stating that because of your grief you are no longer fit to be zarif and that our son Tukar should take the role instead."

  Omra made a scoffing noise. "She always speaks like that."

  His father continued, as if he didn't want to lose track. "You must make similar choices, my son. Hundreds of women across Uraba would claw one another's eyes out to be your next wife."

  "I don't want women who would claw one another's eyes out to have me."

  "You have a point--that may not be the best criterion. But if you choose several wives, one of them may make you as happy as Istar did. I know you don't think that now, but trust me, when you've been with enough of them, most women are very much the same."

  The soldan-shah clapped his hands, and the hangings stirred with a clicking rush of beads. Two silent guards ushered in a petite young woman followed by three smiling and self-satisfied looking officials. The young woman had large brown eyes, perfect skin, and elegant dark hair. As she walked, numerous gold bangles, necklaces, anklets, and bracelets jingled. She wore a rainbow of silks, scarves, and wraps dyed the brightest colors imaginable, and her face was exquisitely painted with makeup as if she were a living work of art. She demurely averted her eyes.

  Soldan-Shah Imir stood from his cushion. "I've taken the liberty of choosing someone I believe should be your next wife. When you married Istar, you ruffled a few feathers by choosing a merchant's daughter rather than a child of a noble family. This lovely child
will quiet the lingering ill will and strengthen the bonds among the soldanates."

  "Does she have a name?" Omra asked sourly.

  "Oh, yes, of course. This is Cliaparia, only daughter of Soldan Andouk in Yuarej." Imir lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've owed him a favor for a long time."

  Cliaparia extended her hands to her sides and slowly pirouetted so that her silken garments fluttered about her like butterfly wings.

  "See-- she is intelligent. She is beautiful. She is talented in music. And most of all, she wants to please you. What more could a man want?"

  "Indeed," Omra said, feeling nothing. "What more could a man want?"

  Taking that as acceptance, the soldan-shah clapped his hands again, and a sikara rushed in. "Good, we can marry you right now." He seemed afraid Omra would change his mind. "Later, we will announce a joyous reception. The people will be happy for some cause to celebrate after all the recent dire news."

  Omra remembered everything he had been taught, the purpose behind all his training, and he saw how he had withdrawn from the world. In his mind, he could imagine Istar scolding him for allowing his sorrow to weaken Uraba. He could not do that. "As you command, Father."

  The sikara held a gilded scroll containing passages from Urec's Log along with the wedding ritual. Soldan-Shah Imir stood proudly next to Omra and pulled Cliaparia closer to his son. "Let's have this over with, so we can get on with our work."

  18

  In Darkness

  Even in his blackest pain-filled dreams, Hannes was surrounded by fire. He lay in delirium, wrapped in ointment-soaked bandages that felt like chains. His skin burned, his eyes burned, his lungs burned. He was lost in the depths of nightmares and memories. But he found no refuge in his past; he was trapped there, as well. He'd been a young boy when his mother abandoned him. She hadn't particularly cared for Hannes and had despised his

  father, a man named Bartho, who was quick to anger but slow to consider consequences. Hannes remembered little about his mother except for her shrill voice, her tears, and how often she had struck him (usually after Bartho had beaten her). When she was no longer around, Bartho simply turned to Hannes as the next convenient target.

  The man's attitude toward his son was not so much hatred as indifference. Bartho was not the type to think even two days into the future; he did not plan how he might better his situation, how he might find another wife who could raise Hannes or even bring in more food or income. Bartho lived each day and complained about each day, letting himself drift like a rudderless boat rather than trying to steer away from jagged rocks.

  In their small dockside home in the Butchers' District of Calay, the wind from the tanneries brought a constant stench and the sounds of terrified livestock being slaughtered. Hannes and his father rarely had enough money for food, yet Bartho could always afford a jug of grain beer or occasionally something stronger. Fortunately, when he drank, Bartho did not become more violent, simply more lethargic. When the man finally fell asleep grumbling, Hannes could slip out of the house and make his way through the streets.

  After one particularly severe beating, the boy had run away, vowing never to return. He'd done the same thing several times previously, but always came crawling back a few days later. Bartho never seemed to notice that he'd been gone. This time, though, instead of trying to beg for scraps from the food vendor stalls or earn a few coins mucking out the offal trenches at the slaughterhouse or using buckets to splash away the blood on the ground, Hannes took refuge in an Aidenist kirk.

  He had always found the architecture to be graceful and beautiful, the pictures intriguing: proud Aiden on his Arkship with

  his crew, the first landing at Ishalem, even a painting of the mysterious old Traveler, who was Aiden in his later years wandering the world. As a dirty young boy, unlettered and quiet, Hannes sat in the back of the kirk and listened to the presters.

  One compassionate young prester named Baine noticed Hannes and took him under his wing. Prester Baine taught the boy how to read by using the Scriptures, and also taught Hannes how to pray. During prayers, the boy silently cast his words out, hoping Ondun would hear him from where He had gone to create other worlds... or he prayed to the spirit of Aiden, who might still be alive, wandering as the Traveler. Prester Baine did not know what the boy prayed T-' With his eyes screwed shut and lips moving faintly to the words that he shouted inside his head, Hannes had prayed for revenge, begging for something terrible to happen to his father.

  One day his prayers were answered. A bull about to be slaughtered broke loose from its handlers and gored Bartho, ripping open his stomach. Men in the Butchers' District added gruesome details as they told and retold the story, how Bartho had stared down at his intestines spilling out of the gash, trying to hold them in place, the other animals going wild, already terrified from the smell of death around them. Bartho had tripped on his own entrails, and the animals had trampled him. According to one story, Bartho's body had been so broken and mangled that one of the disreputable butchers threw it into a rendering bin, where the man had later been made into tallow.

  Certain that Ondun had performed a miracle, Hannes gave his life to the church from that day forward. He declared to Prester Baine that he wanted to be a prester and showed a strong devotion to the rituals and sacraments. He read the entire Book of Aiden, and studied the many stories of the Traveler. Then he read the Book of Aiden again. And again.

  Once Hannes was formally ordained in the Aidenist church, Prester Baine took him aside. "I have a great plan for you, Hannes. This is an assignment that I would trust to few others."

  "I will do my best." Hannes did not even ask for details. "I swear on my life, for the memory of Aiden and the glory of Ondun, that I will do as you ask."

  Baine handed him a copy of Urec's Log, and Hannes jerked his fingers back, as if the volume contained pestilence. "Do you want me to burn this? It is blasphemy."

  "It is information," Baine corrected. "I don't want you to burn it. I want you to read it. Study it."

  "No!"

  Baine looked angry. "Did you not just swear that you would do as I asked? Did you not vow before Ondun?"

  Hannes flushed, ashamed that he had been so quick to break his oath. "Perhaps... if you explained to me why."

  "Is your vow conditional upon my reasons?" Baine had often challenged him with such conundrums.

  "I will obey. You have my promise." Hannes drew a ragged breath. "But will I not be damned forever if I read this?"

  Now Baine smiled. "Though these may be lies, you will not be tainted, so long as you don't believe what you read. Think of it as strategy. Know your enemy, so that you can see weaknesses, since the enemy is too blind to see his own flaws. Learn from Urec's Log. Tell me what you find in these writings." The redheaded prester smiled, tapping the cover of the thick book. "This should strengthen your faith, not challenge it."

  And Hannes did exactly as he swore to do. He learned the Uraban language. He read Urec's Log with a scornful and skeptical eye. He noted so many errors and contradictions in the passages that he found the whole book laughable. How could the

  ignorant fools in the Urecari church believe such nonsense? They must either be gullible or stupid.

  Years later, when Baine was elected prester-marshall of the Aidenist church, he had secretly dispatched Hannes to Ishalem. Hannes at first considered this his reward, the most important posting in the church. But rather than becoming the prester assigned to the central kirk in the shadow of the holy Arkship, he was told to live among the Urecari, to disguise himself, to learn their ways, and to watch them.

  "Consider yourself a spy for God," said Prester-Marshall Baine. "Your discoveries will be vital to the church of Aiden."

  And Hannes did, letting himself be swallowed up in their foreign culture. He spoke their language with barely an accent. Since Ishalem had many pilgrims from all the scattered soldanates of Uraba, no one gave him a second glance

  Thrashing now in h
is delirious dreams, the languages combined in confusion. He dreamed of the fire in the church, and he remembered grasping the sacred amulet--what had happened to it? Like a punishment from Ondun, he felt the flames pour over him, smelled the stinking canal whose waters had provided little relief.

  And now, as he thrashed, passing in and out of consciousness, he babbled hateful memorized verses from Urec's Log. As if from a great distance, he felt people tending him. He heard a woman's voice, speaking Uraban. Trying to escape his dreams, Hannes struggled toward consciousness, but he awakened only to pain.

  So he released himself and plunged back into darkness.

  19

  Calay, Saedran District

  Now that he had been accepted as a chartsman, Aldo was eager to see the world. He dreamed of visiting exotic places, of voyaging farther than anyone else so he could add details to the Mappa Mundi--accurate details, unlike the embarrassing map he had bought from Yal Dolicar.

  He knew the mathematics of navigation and how to recognize the stars in every known constellation. He understood the currents in the Oceansea and the prevailing winds from the frozen seas of the far north down to the isthmus of Ishalem and all the way past far Lahjar, where the heat and reefs blocked further passage.

  A chartsman could tell his captain to set a course in a seemingly nonsensical direction until the ship caught a swift current or encountered favorable winds; a chartsman could guide them safely away from reefs or shoals, maelstroms, or doldrums. Saedrans allowed none of their maps to be published or disseminated outside of their own people, and only the most foolhardy or overconfident captains would sail far from the coastline without a chartsman.