The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  After he filled the page, telling Adrea again how much he missed her, how much he hoped that she was safe and

  healthy--and that he hoped she thought of him as often as he thought of her--Griston rolled the letter and slipped it into the empty bottle. Before sealing the cork to the end, he carefully withdrew a single strand of Adrea's golden-brown hair from the lock she had given him, which he kept protected in his pocket at all times. He pushed the strand in with the letter, blew gently inside, and whispered, "Find your way back to her." Sympathetic magic would reunite the hair with its owner... or so the legends said. He had to trust it to the sea.

  Criston went to the port-side rail, closed his eyes, and pictured Adrea as vividly as he could, then tossed the bottle overboard. He heard the faint splash and saw the bobbing glass glint in the starlight, drifting away as the Luminara moved on. Of his twelve letters so far, at least one of them had to find its way to her.

  Feeling tired but not sleepy, he walked toward the stern where the captain's wheel stood next to the two compasses on their stands. Another hour remained on his watch. The magnetic compass showed that the Luminara, after a long trip west, was heading south now, having picked up a strong current, like a river in the Oceansea. Since Captain Shay had no particular course in mind other than to explore the unexplored, he had let the current guide them. The Captain's Compass, as always, pointed its needle back toward Calay, just like the legendary compass Ondun had given Aiden before the first voyage.

  Following its pointer, Criston looked off to sea, imagining Tierra, Calay, Windcatch... and Adrea, somewhere beyond the horizon.

  Prester Jerard joined him so silently that he startled Criston. Since the old man often had trouble sleeping, he came to keep (Mston company and tell him stories. The two men stood by the wheel, listening to the creak of the rigging, the whisper-slosh of

  waves against the hull, the snoring of a dozen sailors who preferred to sleep on deck rather than in the stuffy bunks below.

  "I saw you throw another bottle overboard," Jerard said. "A letter to your sweetheart?"

  "It always is. How much farther do you think we will sail?"

  "How much farther can we sail? Ondun is great, my friend, but even I never imagined Him capable of creating a world so vast. Any day now, I expect to hear the roar of falling water, feel the whoosh of spray, and see the edge of the world. But it's just more and more open sea. I come out at night hoping to see a distant spark, a glimmer of the beacon. Then at least we'll know where we are."

  "A beacon?"

  Jerard stroked his long beard. "The Lighthouse at the end of the world."

  Griston frowned. "I don't know that story. Is it from the Book ofAiden?"

  "In some texts. Others include it as part of the Apocrypha. It's just a story, maybe no less true than all the rest." Griston waited for the prester to continue.

  Jerard touched his fishhook pendant and looked out to sea. They began to walk slowly around the deck. "The Lighthouse was built on a tiny island, far from Terravitae, to hold an exiled man who committed a terrible crime. Holyjoron sentenced him to live for all eternity, so that he could keep watch for Ondun's return. When God comes home, the cursed man must be the first to see Him and ask for forgiveness. And so, the Lighthouse keeper shines his light across the ocean and waits and watches, peering through his giant lens so he can see everything that happens in the world, everything that is denied him."

  Criston gazed out at the waves, but saw no glimmer of light other than the ethereal luminescence of the plankton. "If we see the beacon, that means we're close to Terravitae?"

  Jerard smiled. "If we see it, that means many things... not the least of which is that the story itself is true." The old man touched the pendant and with the same finger touched Criston's forehead. "You have faith. I have seen it. Every time you write a letter to your beloved and throw the bottle overboard, you show your faith."

  Griston smiled wistfully back at the old prester. "I have a certain amount of faith in the ocean currents, but I have complete I faith in Adrea."

  30

  Windcatch

  At the beginning of each autumn, migratory seaweed arrived in Windcatch, carried on warm currents and blown by changing winds. Three days earlier, fishermen returning to port had seen the approaching kelp, and the villagers bustled to prepare for the year's harvest. Fishermen tied up their boats and stayed ashore, some grumbling about the fine weather they were missing out at sea, while others were glad for the change in the daily routine.

  Windcatch had been built around a small harbor bordered by steep hills. With the approach of autumn, the wind and water patterns formed a gentle whirlpool that drew in the drifting seaweed.

  All the villagers came together to meet it, since the harvest provided much of their yearly income. Men went inland and loaded carts with wood for shoreside bonfires; others scrubbed out huge cauldrons to prepare for the rendering. Women set large baskets out on the piers, and eager captains emptied their boats, anxious to take the first haul of seaweed up to the Calay

  markets. Bottle makers washed their brown glass bottles to hold the distilled kelp liquor.

  Adrea, Telha, and Giarlo were ready for the chores. Criston would have been there beside them, with the Cindon scrubbed and ready for a profitable trip, and Adrea realized with a pang that this was the first year she had harvested the seaweed without him.

  Dressed in a brief swimming shift, Adrea waded out from the gravelly shore beside her brother. Both of them carried baskets slung over their necks and shoulders. Buoyed by the water, Giarlo's limp no longer bothered him. When they met the outlying tendrils of the seaweed, they withdrew long knives and pushed their hands among the leathery, greenish brown straps to find the bulbous bladders, which they sliced off. The kelp nodules were the first and most valuable part of the harvest, but the villagers also used everything else.

  She and Ciarlo kept a count, each trying to outdo the other's tally. As Adrea waded deeper into the seaweed tangle, the thin fabric of her wet dress pressed against the rounding curve of her belly. Her pregnancy had started to show, but she did not let that slow her.

  Ciarlo cut off a pink kelplily and presented it to her with a flourish. Its petals stretched out wider than the span of Adrea's hands. "Since your young sailor isn't here, allow me to give you this bouquet."

  She wrinkled her nose. "It smells like fish."

  "When the seaweed starts rotting, you'll think this smells like a moss rose by comparison."

  Having filled their baskets, they sloshed back to the shore, where chattering workers punctured the bladders and squeezed out the liquid, which was easily fermentable into a briny, strong drink for which Windcatch was well known.

  As migratory seaweed filled Windcatch harbor, the warm calm waters triggered its reproductive cycle. Kelplilies bloomed in great rafts of color, and floating pollens fertilized the seaweed. Seedlings floated free, and the rest of the large mass died and broke apart. Over the next month, as the seaweed rotted, most villagers remained inside their homes, burning candles and incense to mask the stench. When the weather changed and the autumn storms picked up, currents pulled the decaying seaweed back out into the ocean. At sea, the drifting seedlings would form new clusters and grow into larger rafts, circulating in the currents before returning the following year to continue the cycle.

  Hard-muscled fishermen dragged large nets full of thick kelp fronds back to the shore. The tender fleshy ends would be sliced and salted. When eaten fresh, the seaweed was delicious; when dried and preserved, it formed a long-term staple of the Wind catch diet, though most people were sick of it by the time summer came. The fibrous remnants of kelp fronds could be beaten and felted into a durable fabric--another item for which Wind catch was famous.

  Old Telha decided that she'd spent too many years of her life doing the messy work. This year, she set up a reed chair in some shade and readied a flat rock and mallet, so she could beat the kelp fronds to prepare the fibers for cloth making.
She talked with the other fishermens' wives and widows, gossiping, laughing, complaining. Children splashed in the water, eager to help, while their young mothers tried to work on the harvest.

  The same as every year.;

  With her basket emptied and her brother limping back into I he waves, Adrea waded out once more, always looking at the < >pen Oceansea. Shielding her eyes, she gazed toward the horizon, thinking of Criston and wondering what he was doing just I hen. She hoped he was thinking of her.

  31

  Off the Coast of Uraba

  The sturdy, thick-hulled ships of Soeland Reach were designed for rugged seas and cold storms, but they had sleek lines, the better to pursue and kill whales. Now, though, the Soeland ships hunted an entirely different quarry.

  Destrar Tavishel clung to a slick shroud rope as cold spray splashed him and dripped from his square-cut beard. Ignoring the wet and the chill, he wiped the mist away from his eyes so he could see. They were closing in on the Urecari ship.

  "Looks like a diplomatic vessel," Tavishel yelled out in his rough voice. "No match for us, men!"

  One of his well-muscled sailors came up to him, also drenched. He held a battered spyglass. "No sign of any military escort, Tav--but we're in Uraban waters. They probably think they're safe. Hah!"

  "If there's a military escort, we'll sink them just the same." Tavishel had to shout above the rolling roar of the waves. "We have harpoons to spare."

  The silken sail of the enemy ship billowed, the Eye of Urec staring out from the scarlet fabric. If nothing else, Tavishel wanted to gouge out that hated mark and blind the ship. And that would only be the first step in their revenge for what the Urecari animals had done to Prester-Marshall Baine and the innocents who had gone to rebuild Ishalem.

  The hearty and self-sufficient Soelanders were distant from the politics of Galay. They swore their fealty to King Korastine, provided volunteers to the Tierran army, and trained recruits

  each year, but not until he learned of Baine's martyrdom did Destrar Tavishel understand what it meant to be part of a larger, unified land. His people were members of a fold so much greater than one reach. Now, as he envisioned the prester-marshall slowly dying on a fishhook, he felt the greater glory of surrendering to the needs of the kirk for the benefit of all Tierrans, not just people from the Land of Sunken Mountains.

  And because of their zeal from this new revelation, Tavishel and his Soeland fighters would not let the heinous Urecari remain unpunished. The destrar had decided it was his holy mission to shed the blood of those vile monsters. Korastine would be pleased when Tavishel sent his report of their accomplishments here off the coast of Tener.

  Foregoing fishing and whaling, the Soeland ships had sailed away from their islands in order to hunt Urecari below the Edict Line. And now they had intercepted this single diplomatic ship working its way up the coast toward Tierra. A worthy prize!

  The foreigners had no chance against the bulky Soeland ships that closed in. Destrar Tavishel shouted orders for his zealous men to arm themselves with the stunning clubs and harpoons that they used to kill giant whales before butchering and rendering them. The Soelanders stopped the enemy vessel, threw ropes and grappling hooks, and swarmed aboard the lone ship.

  One of the Urecari, who wore ornate robes of green and blue, looked like a diplomat of some sort. His shaved head glistened with both aromatic oils and nervous perspiration. The foreign ship's captain tried to make a defense as Tavishel's men surged onto the deck, but the soldiers aboard were merely an honor guard--enough for show but not enough for war. The captain shouted in his gibberish language until one of Tavishel's men

  thankfully struck him on the head with a club, cracking the man's skull.

  The colorfully robed diplomat was beside himself with panic and desperation. He gathered his voice and spoke in erudite Tierran. "No, no--peace mission! I am ambassador. Giladen! My name is Giladen! I go to speak with King Korastine! We sail for Calay!"

  "You will never get there," Tavishel growled.

  Giladen fumbled with a rolled parchment tied to the braided belt at his waist. "No, no! Listen!" He unrolled the document, which was covered with neat words in formal Tierran as well as the birdlike footprints of Uraban writing. "Negotiate! We come to negotiate on behalf of Soldan-Shah Imir! No war!" He waved the document. "I bring message to your king!"

  But Tavishel could not banish the image in his mind of the holy prester-marshall strung up on a hook... of the ruthless Urecari spilling more Aidenist blood on the already sullied ground of Ishalem. It was all he needed to remember.

  He withdrew his curved gutting knife and slashed across Ambassador Giladen's plump throat, putting an end to his trickster words. The rolled treaty fell to the deck boards from his limp and quivering fingers.

  Tavishel raised the bloody knife and shouted to his men, "They deserve no more mercy than they showed PresterMarshall Baine! Kill them all!"

  The Urecari sailors fought back, but they were outnumbered. The Soeland men had long experience butchering whales in a huge mess of blood, slime, and grease, with bubbling rendering pots and decks slick with gore. When they finished, the Urecari ambassadorial vessel was covered with just as much thick red fluid as there would have been after a whale hunt. To Tavishel, it seemed fitting.

  After the killing was done, the destrar remained aboard the Urecari ship with a skeleton crew, turning it about and sailing on favorable winds back toward Tener, the nearest Urecari port. One of his young crew members clambered up the mainmast to the yardarm, where he dangled on a rope, took a dagger, and cut a hole in the sail, gouging out the Eye of Urec. The ship sailed onward like a blinded cyclops.

  Soon the group of ships was within sight of the bustling harbor city. Tavishel and his men kept close watch, but the only ships they saw were far off. The colorful sail of Giladen's diplomatic ship would have drawn no attention in these waters, regardless.

  As he guided the ship closer to the foreign port, Tavishel made preparations. Dismembered enemy corpses lay strewn about the deck, beginning to bloat and stink in the warm sun. He had his men tie the ambassador's body to the mast, and the Urecari captain's body dangled from a hook on the bow. This was a death ship, a slaughterhouse. He would give the Urecari a sight they would never forget.

  One of his Soeland ships pulled close alongside, so that the men could jump back across, ready to sail away. Alone aboard I he foreign vessel, Tavishel unrolled the document that Giladen had been so desperate to deliver to King Korastine, spread it on t he deck in the midst of a large bloodstain, and skewered it to the boards with his gutting knife, so that the dead, glassy eyes of the I Frecari ambassador could forever stare upon it.

  The uncrewed diplomatic ship caught the currents and began lo drift toward the harbor, and Tener drew closer each moment. As a last rude gesture, Tavishel dropped his trousers, squatted, and left a steaming pile in the middle of the parchment, obscuring the words the Soldan-Shah had written. Let the Urecari read (hat!

  Finished, Tavishel swung back aboard his own ship and took command, while the ghost ship sailed onward to Tener, crewed only by corpses. Unguided, it would crash into the docks.

  Destrar Tavishel smiled as his two ships sailed northward to the safe waters of home.

  32

  Corag Reach

  As Aldo na-Curic made his way up the ever-steepening path (which the locals called a "road"), the Corag mountains became ever more magnificent around him. All his life he had gazed out to sea and imagined far-off lands, but he had never thought to look inland.

  The alpine meadows were bedecked with bright flowers and silvery streams. The cliffs and peaks seemed to grin with jagged teeth of gray rock whose couloirs held snow even late in the summer. In Calay, Aldo had never seen snow.

  The people were hardy and independent, renowned across Tierra as talented workers of gold, silver, and iron. They extracted, smelted, and worked ores from their metal-rich mountains, then delivered completed work to the rivermen, who s
old it to Calay merchants.

  Deep in the trackless highlands, many tribes and villages had never been counted in any census or labeled on any map--a fact that intrigued Aldo. These isolated people paid no taxes to King Korastine, and the Corag destrar left them alone. On the other side of the impassable mountains lay the Middlesea itself, but if any Corag native had ever found the route, it was not widely reported.

  For four days he trudged past villages and accepted local hospitality, on his way to Stoneholm, the reach's largest city and the seat of the Corag destrar. Aldo arrived at the mountain city at sunset, clutching his satchel of possessions and blueprints as he stared at the sight.

  Stoneholm was surrounded by tall granite cliffs that provided shelter from the worst blizzards. The front of the city was built into an elbow of rock, a huge overhang above the stone block facades. Under the cliff overhang, fine stonework graced I; the building fronts: hideous gargoyles, scaled sirens, and beauEi tiful women--all iconic figures from the Book of Aiden. A benevolent-looking stone man held out a fishhook, Sapier himself. The city's interior penetrated the mountain, with streets and chambers tunneled deep, converting the original mine network into a well-settled, and well-fortified, metropolis.

  Three men in high-collared black woolen jackets lined with thick white fur came out to greet him as the dusk deepened. "The destrar sent us," said one. His voice had an odd accent, the consonants harder, the vowels more nasal and flat, than typical Calay speech. "He is anxious to hear why you have come on such a long journey. You're not one of the usual merchants."

  Aldo was surprised. "How did he know I was coming? "

  The men smiled and glanced at one another. "Word travels quickly. We've been waiting for you."

  The great stone house of Destrar Siescu was fronted with giant hewn blocks, then the back was expanded into a manmade grotto that penetrated the cliffside. Ventilation shafts had been drilled upward, and cold air circulated with a thin whistling sound. Colorful rugs and thick pelts covered the bare stone (loor in the main chamber.