The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

He slept.

  The raft continued to drift, caught in a current that pulled him silently along. On the open water, Griston had no reference point, no way of judging how fast he drifted or where he might be heading. He was lost.

  He pulled in the rope and grappling hook and saw a gobbet of flesh torn free from the edge of the sea serpent's blowhole. Ravenous, Criston devoured the meat, but it was pungent, salty, and unsatisfying. His queasy stomach tried to reject the meal, but he managed to hold it down, knowing he needed the meager nutrition. He cast out the hook once more, letting it trail behind the raft. He yanked and jerked, in hopes that he might be lucky. The

  hook snagged a few strands of seaweed, which he ate, remembering the annual harvest at Windcatch

  He drifted into nightfall and looked up at the sparkling stars that pierced the darkness in diamondlike patterns that, he realized with a start, were familiar again. The constellations hung lower in the sky, but he recognized the Fountain, the Compass Needle, and the nebulous patch of Sapier's Beard. Maybe he was drifting closer to home after all... or maybe it was some sort of cosmic trick.

  He remembered sitting with Adrea on the beach after they'd built a fire and baked a bucketful of fresh-dug clams. Content in each other's company, they had walked along the rocky shore, then out onto one of the empty Windcatch docks. They let their feet dangle as they stared up into the night sky. Criston had pointed out the constellations to her, explaining how the stars were guideposts for sailors. "They can always bring you back home." As she'd stared upward, he was more interested in the stars sparkling in her eyes.

  Like a chartsman with a carefully plotted course, Criston had set his sights on Adrea. He had known her as a gangly girl in the village, along with her good-natured but limping brother. Criston had never paid much attention to her until one day he noticed she'd matured into a young woman. Thunderstruck, Criston realized she was the most beautiful girl in all of Windcatch.

  Adrea's father had been a crewman on a merchant ship, and fie spent many months away from home. When he did come back from his trips, he often fought with Adrea's mother... and then one year, he simply didn't return home. The village gossip was undecided as to whether he'd been lost at sea or simply chose a different port--and a different family--for himself. Whatever I lie answer, Adrea's mother was always miserable when he was home, and also miserable now that he was gone.

  To make a living, she baked bread and sold it to the villagers, but only intermittently. She barely had enough wherewithal to feed herself and her children, which basically left Adrea and Ciarlo to fend for themselves.

  As soon as he was old enough, Criston worked aboard local fishing boats, sometimes with his father, sometimes by himself. After they came back at sunset, Criston sorted through the catch. One evening, realizing that the catch was more than his family needed, he took the two best fish to Adrea's home. Holding them like trophies, smiling with embarrassment, he offered them to Adrea. "We had extra. I thought maybe you could use them."

  A frown creased her brow. "Are we beggars now?"

  "No, but you're practical. You need to eat."

  And she had smiled. "Yes, Criston Vora, I am practical." She thanked him, took the fish, and Criston had found himself standing outside with the door closed in his face, not sure whether to feel elated or discouraged.

  As often as he dared, but not so often as to make an obvious habit of it, Criston brought fish to Adrea's family. As far as he could tell, her mother never knew where the meals came from. The older woman drank too much kelpwine in the village taverns, and Adrea prepared the meals for the family. Her mother merely accepted the fish as part of "Aiden's bounty."

  Before long, though, neither Adrea nor Criston could deny the obvious fact that he was courting her. And she let him continue.

  One day, a merchant ship sailed into Windcatch, unloading its goods for the villagers. Seeing that the vessel was one of the ships on which her husband had served, Adrea's mother ran out to greet the crew. But he was not aboard, and none of the crew even remembered the man.

  Afterward, her mother grew deeply depressed and drank more than before. Two weeks later, during a storm, she left their

  house in the middle of the night, and next morning was found floating facedown in the harbor, tangled in a few early strands of migratory seaweed. Nobody knew what had happened to her, though many had their guesses.

  A week later, Griston had asked Adrea to marry him. She understood him, understood what he had to offer, and knew he would be a good husband. But she also recognized the call of the sea in his eyes and knew he would forever look outward. Adrea had always known what she was agreeing to. Criston was sure of that.

  Until now, Criston hadn't seen how brave she was to stay home and wait for him, never knowing whether he would come back. Criston had always been so confident, so cocky, giving insufficient deference to the dangers of the sea. And now he was floating, lost, a sole survivor in the middle of nowhere

  His heart ached as he thought of Adrea looking out to sea every day, just as her mother had done, hopeful each time a ship came to port. Would she wait and wait... for years?

  Because Criston did not believe he would ever hold her in his arms again, he became resigned to knowing that the merciless sea would be his last embrace. He forced himself to think of Adrea as he closed his eyes, hoping she would come to him in his dreams.

  But he slept the sound sleep of exhaustion. If her spirit kissed him while he slumbered, he did not wake to it.

  The following dawn, as he leaned over the side to splash salty water on his face, he looked up and saw the tiny but distinctive shape of a sail in the distance.

  Criston stared in disbelief for many minutes, before he stretched his makeshift cloth as tight as he could, catching the breeze, and used a flat piece of plank as a rudder to steer toward the sail. When he tried to shout, his voice was so hoarse that

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  sound barely came out. But his raft did move closer, and the sailing ship was no illusion. He prayed to Aiden that someone would notice him, that his course would intersect that of the other vessel.

  He could tell that it was a large black-hulled whaling boat rigged with a bright sail. He flailed a scrap of white cloth to and fro, still trying to shout, hoping one of the whaler's crew would see him.

  At last, he discerned tiny figures on deck. He saw them set the sail and turn toward him, and Criston collapsed to the uneven surface of the raft, having no further energy. Soon he could hear the answering calls of shouting crewmen. Three burly whalers jumped overboard and swam toward him.

  It had been so long since Criston had seen another human being that they seemed strange to him. "Who are you? What ship are you from?" one of the sailors asked as he pulled himself up onto the raft, speaking Tierran with a strong Soeland accent.

  The men had brought a flask of water with them, and Criston drank deeply, gaining strength. "I am Criston Vora... all that's left of the Luminara expedition."

  The whalers were shocked to hear this. After he was taken aboard and fed an indescribably delicious fish stew, Criston gained enough strength to tell his story, and listen to theirs. He showed them Captain Shay's journal with the drawings of fantastical sea serpents; these men had seen enough on their own voyages that they did not doubt him.

  They were a long-range whaling crew, sailing beyond the boundaries of Tierra, past the last islands in Soeland Reach and heading south in search of rich waters. They had a hold full of rendered blubber, barrels of whale oil, and had been about to turn back when they saw the drifting raft.

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  Criston closed his eyes and touched the fishhook pendant at his throat, seeing the hand of Aiden in it all.

  While he rode with the whalers, seeing that their course would take him to the southern coast and Windcatch, Griston borrowed sheets of paper from the captain, torn from his cargo ledger. He wrote, My name is Criston Vorafrom
the village of Windcatch. I am the only survivor of the Luminara expedition.

  He filled the pages with descriptions of places they had sailed, the island with the battling skeletons, the new sea monsters, the months of empty ocean as they sailed for league upon league, and how the Leviathan had destroyed them all... then, as with Sapier himself, how the sea serpent had pulled Criston back into local waters.

  "Please have this delivered to King Korastine." He handed the folded sheet to the whaling captain. "That is all the information he needs to know. Someday, I may go to Calay to tell the story in person, but I cannot promise it."

  He could not promise anything, until he saw Adrea again.

  "He may not believe you," the captain remarked. "/ find it improbable, and I've seen your raft. I've looked into your haunted eyes."

  'Just tell the king where you found me adrift. Let him draw his own conclusions."

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  48

  Alamont Reach

  Mateo rode with his fellow soldier-recruits on the river barge for the trip upstream to Bora's Bastion, the central city of Alamont Reach. As they traveled toward the destrar's capital and stronghold, he admired the lush grassy hills dotted with grazing sheep. Cornfields spread out in long rectangles, the orderly stalks nearly chest high. He saw fruit orchards, nut orchards, even a few vineyards. Alamont wine had never been particularly prized, since the best vintages came from Uraba; now, however, this wine was all Tierrans would have to drink.

  These were the lands he must defend.

  When they neared Bora's Bastion, the recruits grew restless to see their new home. Around the destrar's city, large areas of fertile cropland had been cleared to serve as training fields for practice maneuvers, marching exercises, and military parades. As the boat eased past, Mateo saw soldiers in matching uniforms with swords at their sides marching in perfect ranks around the empty fields. Rows of archers followed foot soldiers, while cavalrymen rode in the front. Mateo realized this performance was likely for the benefit of the new recruits, to let them see how well the Alamont destrar ran his contingent of the Tier ran army.

  Overlooking the river, Destrar Shenro's main house had high battlements and thick walls, though Mateo could not conceive of an attack occurring so far inland. Blacksmiths with riverside forges fashioned more swords with a constant rhythmic clang. Leatherworkers stretched hides over wooden frames for shields,

  then added metal plates for protection. All of the workers glanced ¦ up as the barge pulled up to the main dock.

  The recruits began to disembark, led by their training instrucH tors. The destrar had come down to greet them, wearing a military uniform of his own. Standing on the dock, Shenro measured the trainees with a calculating eye, then leaned over to whisper questions to the training instructors. The destrar walked the lines of new recruits, assessing them. He stopped before Mateo B and regarded the young man for a long, uncomfortable moment, then said, almost accusingly, "You are the favorite of King Korastine?"

  "I am a soldier-recruit for the Tierran army," Mateo answered.

  "Good. Then I am happy to receive you, soldier-recruit." The destrar turned away and issued orders for the quartermasters and supply sergeants to direct the young men to where lines and lines of tents had been pitched on the open cleared fields. One of those would be Mateo's home for the next year.

  For the next two weeks the soldiers exercised until their bodies ached, then they exercised more, since recruits needed to have physical strength before they could acquire skill with weapons. For hours each day, they observed the older soldiers fighting mock combats; they watched the play of master swordsmen. In the evenings, Mateo tried to find time to write letters to Anjine, but so far he had completed only one; he was simply too exhausted to think of anything interesting to say.

  In the rare times when the recruits were allowed to go into I he town of Bora's Bastion, some of the older soldiers introduced Mateo and his fellows to the drinking establishments, places for musical performances, interesting local games; several strikingly

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  lovely young ladies caught Mateo's eye, but he had never been very good at flirting.

  Destrar Shenro also insisted that a good soldier needed to know the details of military history, to memorize the significant battles that had taken place in Tierra's history. Shenro taught this portion of the curriculum himself. Instead of discussing tactics and time lines as concise facts, he related the historical events as though he were a prester or storyteller, enamored of adventure tales.

  In Tierra, occasional feuds had occurred between reaches, destrar fighting destrar. Alamont and Erietta in particular shared a great deal of rivalry. But the first major skirmish--a genuine insurrection against the king in Calay--had happened many centuries ago, when the Corag destrar attempted to declare independence from the other reaches and from King Yaradin.

  "The other destrars were horrified," Shenro said from his open-air teaching platform. "They viewed Corag's rebellion as a mutiny against the captain of their government. Such a thing had never occurred before, and King Yaradin knew that he must change the relationships between the destrars and their fealty to him. He was a strong king, and he took on the mantle of captain, reminding them of his direct blood connection to Aiden."

  Mateo and his fellow recruits stood in ranks, sweating and weary under the hot sun. By now, they had learned to remain at attention for hours without being restless, just waiting.

  Shenro leaned forward, engrossed in his own story. "Yaradin unified the destrars, so that they all marched on rebellious Destrar Olacu and ousted him, replacing him with his nephew Miros, who swore loyalty to the king, to Calay, and to Aiden. To prove his sincerity, Miros ordered his uncle hurled from a cliff, so that his body was dashed on the rocks far below. Afterward,

  as added insurance, many of Destrar Miros's family members were sent to live among the other destrars as hostages. No further trouble occurred."

  Shenro nodded to himself as if thinking through his lecture. "King Yaradin was wise enough to study the root cause of the Corag destrar's rebellion. Olacu was not just a power-mad man who had flagrantly abandoned centuries of tradition and law. Corag Reach was isolated, receiving little benefit from the taxes it paid to the rest of the kingdom. Olacu had not considered the ruler in Calay to be necessary or relevant. And he was not entirely wrong--Yaradin saw that.

  "The king decided to increase trade among the reaches. He concluded--correctly--that if all the destrars were prosperous, they would want to maintain the status quo. Thus, Yaradin forged a much stronger kingdom, rather than a loose collection of allied regions."

  As he listened to Destrar Shenro's lecture, Mateo realized he had never heard such a blunt interpretation of history before. He knew the facts, and the legends, but had never looked for the subtleties or underlying principles. Mateo had always been taught that the king was a royal personage whose throne came by divine right, but Shenro had a compelling way of describing the concepts. Mateo decided he needed to think about it for a while.

  When the destrar finished his tale, he gazed out at the recruits and raised his voice so that even the back rows could hear him clearly. "I have told you a story. You all know many stories, and you will hear plenty more during your instruction. But your training is no longer a theoretical exercise.

  "You must be the first of a new breed of soldiers. The threat to Tierra is real. The followers of Urec have demonstrated their brulality. We watched them burn Ishalem, and we know how they

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  martyred Prester-Marshall Baine." He paused to shudder, then continued in a hoarser voice. "Understand that as soon as you are trained, you may be called upon at any moment to spill the blood of the Urecari. And you must do it without hesitation."

  49

  Windcatch

  Resting and recovering aboard the Soeland whaling ship, Cris ton finally felt human again. At last,
the big vessel arrived at a fishing village well north of Windcatch. After suggesting once again, unsuccessfully, that he go directly to King Korastine with his story, his rescuers bade him farewell. Criston could think only of Adrea, and his duty was to her first. With a wry smile, the whaler captain gave him a small amount of money--a fraction of the profits from the catch--to help him book passage home. They all wished him luck.;

  Criston's heart tugged him southward. Though battered and weary, he drew strength from thoughts of Adrea, Telha, and Ciarlo.

  When he arrived at Windcatch, though, everything had changed. Half of the familiar buildings were gone. Some were only burned-out shells; others had been torn down completely, and no attempt had been made to reconstruct them. Something terrible had happened here.

  A sick dread filled Criston as he disembarked from the small ship that had given him passage; he hurried along the docks, past the oddly subdued and quiet merchant wharves. He ran, breathless, not wanting to waste a second. He stopped no one on the streets, couldn't bear to ask for an explanation. As he

  approached the whitewashed half-timbered home where he had lived much of his life, he called out.

  Finding the door of his house broken and hanging off its B hinges, he rushed inside, trying to see in the dimness. "Adrea! Mother! Ciarlo!"

  The house was silent. Cupboards had been smashed. Some of the shelves had been torn down and scattered across the floor. Hi He saw bloodstains, dust, but no sign of his family. Nobody had _ been here for a long time.

  ¦ He stumbled back out of the house and walked away in a daze, making his way through the strange streets. Belatedly, he noticed that the kirk had burned down as well.

  On the outskirts of town, covering an area more than twice its former size, the village cemetery had sprouted dozens of new grave markers. He stopped, stunned, to look at all the new stones, reading names that he recognized--friends and acquaintances, shopkeepers, fishermen, wives, bachelors--people he had always known. All of the new grave markers bore the same date.

  Criston could not grasp what he was seeing--so many dead at once? He could only think that it must have been a horrific plague or a fire. But that wouldn't account for the additional destruction he had seen, or the blood.