The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Her mind made up, Gliaparia sought the only remaining path. The other alternatives had been cut off to her.

  Entering the main Urecari church, as she often did to write her prayers on scraps of paper that the priestesses would scatter to the winds or burn in a fire, she met with Fyiri. The young sikara had risen in prominence since the disgraceful death of UrSikara Lukai. Fyiri had also garnered political leverage by the fact that she ministered directly to the first wife of Soldan-Shah Omra. Cliaparia would help Fyiri rise even higher, so long as they helped each other.

  "I have concluded that the boy Saan must die," she said bluntly.

  To her credit, Sikara Fyiri did not look surprised. "That is one solution to the problem. Should you not kill Istar instead?" She stood by a brazier, smelling the aromatic smoke, lifting a basket that held numerous ribbonlike strips on which the faithful had scribbled their pleas.

  "I would rather see that woman shattered and devastated when her child dies. The foreign boy is nothing special, but we can use him."

  Still cautious, Fyiri lifted one of the strips of paper, scanned the brief request some supplicant had written, then tossed it into the brazier's glowing coals. "The soldan-shah dotes on the boy as though he were his own son."

  "That is why he needs his own son. A blond-haired Tierran is simply not acceptable. Omra's love for the boy is... unseemly."

  "It is offensive," Fyiri agreed. "And the boy's attitude toward his soldan-shah is even worse." She tossed several more prayer strips into the fire without bothering to read them.

  They had made halfhearted attempts on Saan's life twice before, setting up accidents, engineering perils, but Saan was clever and deft... or perhaps just lucky. Now Cliaparia knew it was time to begin in earnest.

  "When the slave girl reported the poisoning plot of Villiki and Lukai, Omra rewarded her very well." Fyiri arched her eyebrows. "Aren't you afraid I will reveal your new scheme to the soldan-shah? Maybe he would make me his next wife instead ofNaori."

  Cliaparia felt more annoyed than worried. "If I believed that was what you really wanted, then I might be concerned. You and I have too much to gain from each other. This alliance benefits us both."

  The ambitious priestess chuckled. "Yes, better to rule a church than to share the soldan-shah's bed."

  Cliaparia scowled. "Omra doesn't share a bed often, or very enthusiastically."

  "Not with you, at least." The barb stung, and Cliaparia barely stopped herself from slapping the other woman. Fyiri pressed, "Have you thought this through? If the boy dies, won't Omra and his beloved Istar simply fall into each other's arms?" She frowned at another prayer strip, crumpled it in her palm, and tossed it to the floor instead of the brazier.

  "Let me worry about that," Cliaparia said. "It would be best if she were implicated somehow."

  "That might be difficult. Nevertheless, we should plan."

  Cliaparia's lips were stained with a deep pomegranate dye, which made her smile look like a curve of blood. "Soon the children will go into the forest to hunt for the Golden Fern. I know Saan: He will range farther than the others, and he'll be unwatched and unprotected. That will be our best chance."

  86

  Uraba

  The weather always seemed perfect during the hunt for the Golden Fern. The sikaras took credit for that, half jokingly, half seriously. As part of the celebration, the children wore brightly colored costume tunics, sashes, and hats reminiscent of the sailors of long ago, pretending to be members of Urec's crew. Saan blended in with the other Uraban boys by covering his hair with a scarlet sailor's scarf and tying a yellow bandanna around his throat.

  For three years, he had been old enough to participate in the festival, but his two half-sisters were still too young to join him.

  With every child in costume, Saan had a chance to play among them just like any other boy, but he could never forget that he was different. He looked different, and even the handmaidens and palace slaves treated him differently from the other noble children.

  He concluded he had a better chance of finding the Golden Fern because he didn't think like all those others. When he and countless children fanned into the wooded hills on the outskirts of Olabar, most would follow well-worn paths or animal trails, more interested in the festive nature of the game than in the possibility of success. But Saan intended to go where the hunters hadn't already searched. He was not afraid to leave the laughing, clumsy crowds

  His mother kissed him on the cheek, adjusted his costume sash, and turned him loose. When his companions hurried down a trampled path into the forest, Saan ducked into the underbrush, wading through weeds and brambles, alert for any sign of the magical fern. Laughing to himself with delight at the feeling of freedom, he ran among tall cedars and dodged fig trees dusted with thick moss. He did not shy from steep hillsides, trudging up slopes and sliding into hollows.

  To find something no one else could find, he needed to look where no one else was looking. It only made sense.

  Sweeping the toe of his soft leather boot from side to side, Saan stirred thick leaves and needles on the ground, looking for the fern's tightly wound spiral. He pushed his way through tall cane that towered over his head.:

  He had never heard of anyone actually finding the Golden Fern, though confectioners made looping candies in the shape of fern spirals, covered with sticky honey. Many mothers made imitation ferns out of feathers and fuzz, so their children could

  pretend to be special. Every boy or girl was able to come home having "found" the prize.

  But it wasn't real. Saan wanted to find the real Golden Fern. His mother and the soldan-shah would be so proud if he were to find the special object, thereby proving that he had an uncommon destiny and the true favor of Ondun. He would be a lucky one, a special child, and all of Olabar would celebrate. They would throw feasts in his honor, and everyone would applaud him.

  However, he knew that, as an unusual child, born of a Tier ran father and mother, others looked on him with suspicion, as if he were some kind of changeling. Even the soldan-shah had enemies who always looked for weaknesses, ways to harm him. Maybe it would not be a good thing for Saan to draw too much special attention.

  Still, if he could find the fern...

  Continuing his search, he came upon a fairy ring of mushrooms poking up from the sodden ground, then a coral-colored toadstool that looked as tempting as it was poisonous. He squished into a moist marshy area where fanlike ferns spread their fronds. But these were ordinary ferns, not magical ones. Biting gnats flurried around Saan's face.

  Then with a buzz like an overly loud insect, an iron-tipped quarrel smacked with a hollow pop into the trunk of a rusty cedar only inches from his head.

  Immediately, falling back on his training and instincts, Saan dropped to the ground as two more crossbow bolts whizzed through the tall ferns. He didn't panic, didn't freeze.

  Someone had shot those deadly arrows directly at him.

  As he peered through the drooping green shield of a wide fern frond, he saw shadowy figures in the trees: two men, dressed in greens and browns... a flash of one man's eyes, the hard expres

  sion on his face, the quick clockwork movement as he set another quarrel into the short crossbow and wound the tight string.

  Keeping low, Saan bolted in the other direction, slapping ferns aside, then dove into the brushy-tipped cane forest. His flight made loud rustling noises, but he needed to be quick, not silent. If he could get enough distance, he would be able to hide. He could not waste time or thought wondering who these men might be, or who had hired them. He knew it had to be one of the soldan-shah's enemies. They were trying to hurt his father by hurting him.

  Saan couldn't allow that.

  He had experienced strange accidents before--too many near misses to be explained by clumsiness or coincidence. But these men were well-practiced killers who did not hesitate. Saan either had to outsmart or outrun them.

  He realized that his colorful clothes made him painfu
lly visible. Thinking fast, he dodged through near-impenetrable thickets, yanking off his scarlet scarf and yellow bandanna. Then he tore away his shirt, frantic to get rid of anything with bright colors. Though his skin was pale, it was better camouflage than brilliantly dyed fabrics. Soon, his bare shoulders, back, and chest were scratched and scraped, but he kept running.

  The mercenaries searched noisily for him, underestimating the boy, their voices low and angry. He heard mutters of surprise, then curses when they found his discarded clothing. They had expected him to be an easy target. He flashed a hard grin.

  Saan pressed his back against a tree surrounded by tall tufts of pampas grass and concentrated on the sounds of his pursuers. Suddenly he heard laughter close by, children talking, twigs breaking, an older woman--a mother or teacher--telling the children to stay together. They kept coming closer. Behind him, the hunters continued their approach.

  From his shelter, Saan spotted three boys younger than himself, led by a middle-aged woman with large hips. Together, they sang a song about the Golden Fern, as though the fronds would unfurl at the very sound of the music. Saan was sure that if he asked the woman for help, the hunters would kill her, the boys, and then him. He wouldn't put these other children at risk just because of who he was.

  Without calling attention to himself, Saan darted away, leading the hunters in a different direction. The three boys continued their search, kicking up fallen leaves, pulling down branches, not knowing how close they had come to death.

  Saan came upon a large hollow log with bark sloughing off in thick curved sheets. Beetles, termites, and moss had chewed through the decaying wood. Saan pushed the bark aside to reveal a dark cavity that had been used as a shelter by some animal. He was just small enough that if he folded his shoulders together and worked his way backward, he could hide inside the tree, pull the bark up to cover his tracks, and strew the dry leaves around.

  Saan pressed himself into a tight ball, feeling spiders and ants crawl over his bare back. The dust of the old wood nearly made him sneeze, and the log's rotting mulchy smell made the air difficult to breathe.

  The mercenaries were still out there.

  He heard crunching boots as the hunters came closer, talking in low voices, and he fell absolutely silent, hardly daring to breathe. Through a small crack, he could see two pairs of legs as the mercenaries paused to look around. Then another sound came in the distance, and the men set off again, apparently chasing another target.

  Saan still didn't move, afraid it might be a trick to lure him out of hiding. He waited and waited, then closed his eyes and

  counted to a hundred. He still couldn't be sure he was safe, but he knew he had to go.

  At last, he moved with all the stealth he could manage, shifting aside the thick pieces of curled bark. Covered with dirt, he crab-walked out of the hollow in the rotted log. Crawling forward, always alert, he kept his eyes ahead. He brushed aside some dead leaves on the ground.

  And there, less than a hand width before his eyes, was a beautiful golden young fern, a perfect plant spiral unfurling from the underbrush.

  87

  Wahilir Mountains

  The reluctant comrades followed Yal Dolicar into the hills at night, moving away from the port city of Sioara and the Middle sea. The men did not ask questions, did not tell one another their names, did not explain their business or their reasons for wanting to make a secret crossing. Prester Hannes was glad they showed no intention of trying to become friends; he didn't want any friends, especially among these people.

  The group trudged along, wreathed in self-absorbed silence as they picked out a faint trail into the mountains of Inner Wahilir. Hannes knew they were all liars and criminals, enemies of God... but since they cheated or stole from their own people, Hannes would not interfere with them. Unless he found it necessary.

  They camped for three nights, working their way deeper and higher into the hills. Some of the men had brought their own food but refused to share. Yal Dolicar had brought dry pack food, which he sold to those hungry enough to pay. Hannes sat

  t

  THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 397

  in camp with his knees drawn up to his chest, eyes open and alert, ignoring the gnaw of hunger in his stomach. He had fasted before; it made him feel pure in the eyes of Ondun.

  Their cheery guide whistled songs to himself when he rose in the morning and set off along the winding trail, expecting the others to follow. Two heavyset black-market merchants complained about the pace, but Dolicar showed no sympathy. "I said I would guide you over the pass to Outer Wahilir. I didn't say I would coddle you. I have a schedule to keep." iv Hannes knew that the quicker they moved, the sooner he would be able to reach Tierra.

  On the fourth day, they crossed over the spine of low mountains that separated the two Wahilir soldanates. On the western side of the range, the terrain became arid, the ground cover scrubby. The hills were blanketed with golden grasses rather than green trees.

  Because the track now led downhill into widening valleys and circled around sharp-elbowed drainages, the travelers were in higher spirits, while Dolicar grew visibly more impatient. Late in the afternoon, with the orange sun hovering directly in their eyes, he stopped at the summit of a foothill ridge and gestured expansively toward the deep blue Oceansea that glimmered in the distance. "There is your destination. You're already in Outer Wahilir, and this track will take you down to the coast. From this point, you're on your own."

  The merchants whined. "We paid you to lead us to the other side."

  "You are on the other side. Are you incapable of walking a straight path downhill? Besides, I am known down there, and it's best if you are not seen with me." Dolicar gave an unapologetic shrug of his shoulders. "I have other parties waiting for me back in Sioara."

  L.

  Hannes didn't care. He took out his camp gear, deciding this was a good enough place to rest until tomorrow. The others continued to mutter, but Dolicar simply turned around and set off at a jaunty pace back up the pass the way they'd come. Within moments he had vanished into the scrub oak.

  Since they had a common destination, the companions remained together for one more night in camp. Hannes planned to rise before dawn and set off at his own time and pace, leaving the others to their fates. They could find their own way.

  As dusk deepened, two of the travelers gathered fallen deadwood, cleared a space in the rocky soil, and built a fire, apparently not worried about Soldan Attar's scouts seeing the light. Hannes sat at the edge of the fire's glow, watching the flames as he relived that terrible, glorious night inside the burning Urecari church in Ishalem

  To ease his hunger, he chewed on some succulent stalks he'd learned were edible during his crossing of Yuarej. He listened to the sullen conversations of the two fat merchants who had apparently known each other before joining the caravan. Since it was the last night together, the reticent men loosened their tongues, believing they were about to go their separate ways.

  Hannes narrowed his eyes as the merchants spun a story of how they had once found a pair of Aidenist missionaries trespassing in Uraba, foolishly trying to spread the word of Aiden. The merchants gleefully described how young men from the village had clubbed the missionaries senseless, tied them up, and thrown them--still alive--into a deep dry well.

  Now, by firelight, the merchants mocked the missionaries' thin echoing cries of pain, their wails for mercy. "Oh, my legs are broken! Oh, we're dying of thirst!" The calls had wafted upward from the well for days, but far from taking pity, the people threw stones down at the holy men.

  In the shadows, Prester Hannes pulled his hood forward so the men would not see the murderous hatred in his eyes. He could not pretend to laugh along with them, but they did not notice or care.

  When his companions bedded down to sleep, Hannes gruffly volunteered to take the first watch, and no one argued with him. He did not feel sleepy at all. With bright eyes, he stared at the flames, watching the twigs crackle as they
surrendered to the light. He hardly noticed time passing, but hours floated by until he was confident the others were sound asleep, curled up on their thin blankets. Two of the men had an odd whistling snore that Hannes had found maddening over the past several nights. At last he could silence them.

  Hannes slid the razor-edged knife from his pack and, crouching low, moved to the nearest man, one of the fat merchants. He clamped his hand firmly over the man's mouth to prevent him from making a sound, then with a quick unhesitating arc, he left a deep crescent slash. The man spasmed and gurgled as a bright red beard sprouted in the middle of his throat and streamed down his dusty shirt.

  When the first victim lay still, Hannes moved to the second man, then the third. He acted with cold precision. The fourth victim woke up--a man who had laughed about throwing Aidenist missionaries down the well. He lurched to his feet, flailing his arms and yelling. Hannes thrust the point of the dagger into the hollow of his throat beneath his jiggling chins, withdrew it with the speed of a scorpion's sting, then whirled to slash the neck of the last man, who had begun to stir, groggy with sleep.

  The camp was still, puddled with blood. In the dying fire, the knotted wood popped with a loud noise, as if spitting at the victims. Hannes would find a creek in order to wash himself in

  the morning. He ransacked their packs, helped himself to their stored food and pulled out clean clothes, discarding his blood soaked rags.

  Finally, he lay down and slept more soundly than he had in months. He had improved the world a great deal this night, and Ondun would surely reward him. The next morning at dawn, he walked away from the bloody campsite, leaving the bodies to carrion animals, and made his way down to the coast.

  88

  Calay

  PI

  Destrar Broeck came from Iboria for the funeral of his daughter, sailing the once-marvelous wedding ship, now transformed into a mourning vessel with black sails and black pennants. Before the arrival of the grim craft, the two lighthouses flanking the mouth of Galay Harbor were lit to shine the way for poor Ilrida's soul.