The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The exotic foods were strange and puzzling, a clash of sweet scents and savory meats. He invited her to cleanse her fingers in a small basin of rosewater, apparently less interested in eating than in watching her.

  He nudged a bowl of yogurt and mashed mangoes toward her. "Eat this. You'll find it a treat."

  She looked at the sweet-smelling fruit and creamy dessert, so different from the bland fare she had eaten as a slave. "How do I know it's not poisoned?"

  He laughed. "You did me a great service--I admit that, and I will not forget it. You saved my life. In return, I freed your son from his training among the ra'virs, and I released you from your duties as a household slave."

  Adrea bowed her head, suspicious. "You kept your word. Thank you." She ate a delicate spoonful, and the delicious taste was like an explosion in her mouth.

  "But that doesn't seem like enough for me." Omra ran a finger along his bearded chin. "I owe you more than mere gratitude."

  A commotion at the doorway startled them. Omra looked up, annoyed, as Cliaparia barged in, dressed in swirling silks and jingling gold bangles. "We were supposed to dine together tonight, husband. I waited for you. I prepared--"

  Omra looked at her coolly. "Can you not see that I have a guest, Cliaparia? Leave us." She gave Adrea a look of impotent hatred, but when she saw the look of dark anger on her husband's face, she knew she'd gone too far and retreated quickly.

  Omra folded his hands again, returning his attention to Adrea. "My apologies. Because she is my only wife, Cliaparia feels an unseemly possessiveness toward me. She should know her place. And you can help me in this."

  Adrea said nothing, instantly on her guard.

  "You showed caution, patience, and cunning by remaining mute for so many years. You made a shrewd bargain to get your son back. All of these traits I admire in you, Adrea, woman of Tierra. A long time ago, I saw something' when I watched you fight my raiders. You have a strength that matches your beauty." He leaned forward. "I would like to take you as my second wife."

  Adrea recoiled. She had expected to become a plaything, a concubine--but a wife? He had just reawakened her memories of what his men had done in Windcatch, how they had murdered Telha, burned the kirk and probably killed her brother, Ciarlo. They had destroyed her village, stolen her and so many helpless children.

  "I am already married, in the eyes of Ondun," she said. "Just

  because you took me away from my home does not mean that my bond is broken."

  He waved a hand dismissively. "A marriage in the Aidenist church means nothing here."

  She spoke in an icy voice. "For more than five years, I've been at your mercy. I am at your mercy now. You can inflict yourself upon my body, but you will never claim my heart or my mind."

  Omra was startled by her frank reaction. "That was not my intent--that is not Urec's way. I would have your consent, or I would have nothing. My people expect me to take other wives, since Cliaparia has not yet given me a child. Many women have been offered to me, and my father urges me to take them--probably all of them--but they don't interest me. You interest me. I had hoped you would see the benefits in this arrangement."

  And, despite her automatic revulsion, Adrea could. She understood that she could not possibly go back to her former life in Windcatch. It had been so many years; by now, her dear Cris ton, if he still lived, would have come home, found her gone, and presumed her dead. Surely he had remarried by now. Adrea had no past to cling to, and only a very narrow path to her future. The Urecari religion meant nothing to her, and any union made by their priestesses had no standing in the sight of God. This arrangement would not be a marriage or a breaking of her vow to Criston; it was a bargain to protect Saan.

  "If you wish me to be your wife, you must do something else for me... for my son." She pushed aside the bowl of yogurt, left the other dishes untouched. "Convince me that my cooperation is worth something to you. Promise that Saan will never again be taken from me."

  "This is not a negotiation," Omra said, but there was a glint of amusement behind his eyes.

  "Isn't it?" Adrea's heart ached.

  The soldan-shah reached a decision. "Very well, your son is important to you. Therefore, he should be important to me. I will do better than what you ask: I'll raise him here in the palace as my adopted son, with all the rights and privileges that entails."

  Adrea caught her breath. This was far more than she would ever have dared to ask. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Then I agree." She pushed away her confusion and despair and looked across at the admittedly handsome face of Omra, the man who would become her new husband.

  "Since this has become a negotiation," Omra added, without a hint of humor now, "there is one additional thing I require of you. There will be enough talk of your Tierran heritage. In order to be the wife of a soldan-shah, you must accept a Uraban name."

  "And is there a specific name you've picked?" she asked, her voice finally cracking.

  "Istar. From now on, I will call you Istar."

  71

  Tierra

  Leaving the dog Jerard to guard his flock of sheep, Criston departed from his high meadows with a grim fortitude and walked downhill out of the mountains, heading back toward the sea. It was his annual pilgrimage, something he always did for Adrea... or for her memory.

  He had a pack, a walking stick, and some food, but no company; he wanted none. This was a task for him to do, as he had done for the previous five years, as he intended to do every year until the end of his life.

  He reached the river and followed its bank down several miles, until he came to a quiet town with a large set of docks. He camped in the forest to avoid the villagers and other waiting travelers. He showed himself only when the riverboat docked and its passengers and cargo were unloaded and loaded.

  Criston made his way to the captain, one of the distinctive bearded men of the river families. "I would like to buy passage. I can pay with a few wood carvings I've made. Or, if you insist, I have a few coins left."

  The captain regarded the handful of whittled carvings he produced from his pack. One of them was of the dog striking a noble pose, complete with the lines of his fur, the uplifted tail, snout extended forward questing for a scent.

  "I'll take this one in trade," the riverman said. "I always wanted to have a dog, but they're not practical on a riverboat." He accepted the carving and gestured for Criston to put the others away.

  "I'll work for my food, if necessary," Criston added.

  The riverman brushed aside the idea. "Did I ask for more than the carving?"

  The boat stopped frequently over the next four days, finally emerging from the river's mouth into the splayed harbors of Calay. The city's buildings, people, and noise now intimidated Criston, but the ice in his chest began to melt as he remembered Adrea's excitement upon seeing the same sights.

  He did not want to be in the capital city. Too many people, too many questions, too many memories. So he left the harbor and struck out southward, knowing it would cost him an extra day, but he didn't mind. He needed to find an isolated, private spot.

  In three previous years, he had journeyed all the way back to Windcatch on the coast, feeling the need to see Ciarlo, to walk

  through the town, to see how the people were faring... and to reassure himself that they could survive without him. Adrea's brother had recovered, and now seemed confident and determined. With the kirk rebuilt and a bit of practice, he had become a knowledgeable, compassionate prester, very much like Jerard. Criston was glad to see it.

  Last year, no one had even recognized him when he walked quietly through the streets down to the docks, seeing the shops and boats, the fishermen bringing back their catch. The migratory seaweed had come and gone, leaving only a lingering stench.

  He visited the cemetery, which had only a few more grave markers, signifying a handful of natural deaths, not another slaughter. The name on Adrea's post had been weathered to the point where it was unrea
dable. He stared for a long time, but did not fix it. Some part of him still clung to the tiny hope that she might be alive somewhere.

  Satisfied that Windcatch was doing fine without him, Criston decided that he didn't need to come back--at least not every year

  South of Calay, he reached a windswept patch of open seashore bordered by rugged headlands. He picked his way down a steep, narrow path used by animals and a few intrepid fishermen, to reach the abrupt shore. The blue water was deep, dropping off sharply from the beach, and he saw no large, dangerous rocks. The outgoing tide would create a swift current. Yes, this was a good place.

  He unshouldered his pack, undid the knot--a knot that Captain Shay had taught him how to tie--and opened the pack to withdraw a corked glass bottle. He had worked for eight nights on the lengthy letter to Adrea rolled tightly inside.

  He could not forget to do this. He had made a promise, and

  neglecting that promise would mean that he had given up on her. She still might be alive, and the currents and tides could find her. Griston couldn't decide whether this was truly hope, or just a remembrance ceremony that he held by the sea, in the kirk of his heart.

  He removed the bottle's cork and reached into his pocket, from which he gently, lovingly pulled a worn leather pouch, in which he kept the lock of hair she had given him--the lock that was still his most precious treasure. He removed a single golden strand, which he dropped into the bottle with the letter, then sealed the cork firmly.

  He closed his eyes and pictured her, hoping that thought might summon the sympathetic magic and help the golden strand of his beloved's hair find its way back to her. Then he tossed the bottle as far as he could, flinging it out into the Oceansea, where it struck with a silvery splash and bobbed upright again like a buoy. It hung there briefly until, as the currents shifted with the retreating tide, the bottle drifted out to the open sea.

  His task complete, Griston stared at the lonely sea for a few minutes more and began to make his way home.

  part IV

  Five Years Later

  Eleven Years After the Burning oflshalem

  72

  Uraba

  Years ago, when Prester Baine dispatched him to Ishalem to be a spy for God, young Hannes had never dreamed he would be trapped for so long in Uraba. Once he realized his new mission, though--and he understood what he was supposed to do here in the foreign land--Hannes embraced his work with great zeal. After setting fire to his first Urecari church, he continued his wanderings, letting Ondun choose his next destination, his next cleansing target.

  His life was remarkably free. He worked his way along the southern coast of the Middlesea for years, pretending to be one of the heathen, but never forgetting his true faith. No one bothered to look at a wandering beggar. They averted their eyes and whispered after he had passed.

  Of late, though, he had learned to be cautious. As he continued his work, news of his burned churches and the many people he sacrificed spread as swiftly as the smell of smoke. Because widely separated churches burned to the ground in several different soldanates, the Urecari imagined a larger scheme at work, speculating that a whole army of disguised Aidenist crusaders had infiltrated their land. Some called him a shadowman, an evil spirit.

  But Prester Hannes was doing it all himself, just one man, a dedicated soldier for Aiden.

  He traveled south into the hilly soldanate of Missinia until the grasses turned browner, the landscape bleaker. When he crested

  a rise and saw the stark and impassable Great Desert, an unending spread of hot sands, he knew he had come to the edge of the world. The heat and baking sun reminded him of the fires of Ishalem... and of all the Urecari churches he had burned.

  Afterward, he worked his way out of Missinia, looping westward again. Unfortunately, with the spreading rumors and exaggerations, people had begun to fear all strangers. Now, when he entered a village, the once-benevolent Urecari did not immediately offer their help. Sometimes they shunned him; sometimes they threw stones to drive him away. Volunteer guards stood outside their churches during the sunset services, and some sikaras decided to worship out in the open, where they could keep watch for an attack.

  So Hannes was forced to alter his plans. He set fire to their crops in the night, then ran away. He poisoned public wells or animal drinking troughs. As he left town, he imagined their wails of grief.

  Hannes made his way to the small soldanate of Yuarej, a pocket of temperate forests where mists supplemented the infrequent rainfall. Large orchards of bitter green almonds, kumquats, and blood oranges gave him plenty of food for the taking.

  In the gathering shadows of evening, Hannes entered) a mulberry grove where gossamer webs festooned the branches, as if a giant spider had spun up the trees as its prey. Picking his way between the close-packed trunks, he listened to the eerie stirring sounds, saw the crowded tentworms, each as long and fat as an index finger, moving like maggots in the webbed trees. He could hear their tiny jaws munching incessantly, stripping the mulberry leaves. These worms reminded him of the Urecari themselves: a loathsome infestation spreading lies to destroy the faithful.

  In the small village adjacent to the grove, he saw workers spinning the silk, processing it into long sheets of fabric, which

  were soaked in vats of colored dyes. Caravans set off with the thick rolls of tough silk, which would be used as sails for Uraban warships.

  His mouth went dry with anticipation when he realized how easy it would be to set fire to this whole grove, to burn the raw silk fibers and kill the caterpillars. Before he could take out his flint and steel, he saw lanterns, heard the rustling footsteps of vigilant town guards patrolling the groves at night. When they spotted Hannes and shouted at him, he tried to run crashing through the branches, but two men intercepted him. They held their lanterns up, shining them on his face. He averted his eyes. "Please don't hurt me--I mean no harm! I'm just a simple traveler."

  "You don't belong here," a gruff old man accused. "Why are you in the mulberry groves?"

  "To sleep! I just needed a place to bed down for the night. When I passed through your village, no one offered me shelter or hospitality. I wanted to rest my head, then depart in the morning--that's all."

  "You were given no welcome because you are not welcome." The men held sticks, and Hannes saw they were ready to strike him. They could break all of his bones, maybe even kill him and leave him here to rot. But he needed to survive if he was to con-

  Ii nue his work.

  "Please, I am just a leper! I have suffered enough. I was driven from my home." Hannes did not expect sympathy, but when he si lowed his burn scars, which the men mistakenly attributed to leprosy, they drew back in fear. Hannes pressed closer, making (hem even more uneasy. "I do not know what I did to offend ()ndun, but He has decreed a long and lingering death for me.

  IIyou wish to kill me quickly here and now, I would consider it ,i mercy." Hannes took another step toward the gruff old man, who shrank away.

  They muttered, ready to ward him off, "He could contaminate the silk, kill the worms," another man said, lifting his lamp to get a better look at Hannes's face, but the prester ducked and pulled his hood closer.

  The men reached an uncertain agreement and waved their sticks at him. "Begone from here! Go far from our village and suffer somewhere else." They prodded him roughly with their sticks, enough to bruise but not to maim, and then chased him all the way into the rugged foothills. Hannes looked behind him at the lanterns; the men stood together as a grim barricade to make sure he did not return. More lanterns shone in the night as additional guards came out to walk the mulberry groves.

  His heart pounded. He had survived, but he felt a deep disappointment that he was unable to strike Yuarej, as he so longed to do. Maybe he would have to return.

  73

  Missinia Soldanate

  In the five years since his father had made him the leader of Uraba, Omra had fashioned his rule in a way that made Imir proud. In his retiremen
t, the former soldan-shah kept to a separate section of the palace and avoided the politics--both external and internal--that had made him relinquish his throne. Whenever Omra asked for advice, old Imir obliged, but his heart was no longer in it.

  At the start of Omra's reign, when he took Adrea, "Istar," as his wife, the other soldans -- still insulted by his marriage to the original Istar, a mere merchant's daughter--complained again.

  A Tierran woman! A slave, a spoil of war! But he reminded them of their constant insistence that he take a wife in addition to Gliaparia.

  Omra was quite happy with Istar, and in less than three years she gave him two daughters, Adreala and Istala. Now she wore her hair plaited in three braids, one for each child... the tradition originally proposed by the first Istar. As if prosperity were in the air, Cliaparia, too, delivered a daughter, much to everyone's surprise (though she and her hairdressers were not interested in braids). Sooner or later, he would have a son and heir, but Omra was young yet and expected to rule for some time. In the meantime, he had become quite attached to his surrogate son, Saan.

  Apart from continued clashes with the Tierrans--though not yet a bloody outright war, thank Ondun--Soldan-Shah Omra was quite content.

  Secure and settled in his rule, he departed for Arikara, the capital city of Missinia, on a journey to meet with the soldan (here, as well as his mother, whom he had not seen in some time. Omra took only a dozen advisers and courtiers, leaving his wives and children behind in Olabar, and set off on a team of fine geldings that could travel long distances.

  They rode southeast from Olabar, in the direction of the Great Desert, stopped overnight in caravan camps, then pressed on. Some of the courtiers complained about the discomforts of the journey, but Omra enjoyed the challenge. He stretched out next lo a campfire to sleep on the hard ground, enjoying the chance to look up at the stars. "The lack of comforts will strengthen you," lie said, but his courtiers did not seem convinced. Young Saan, I en years old, would have loved the adventure