The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

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  The operation's three prongs would strike on the night of the full moon, two months hence. All of Tierra would be thrown into turmoil, and he expected a complete Uraban victory. Afterward, he prayed this nightmare would be over.

  While farriers shoed his blood-bay mare for the long overland ride, Omra dutifully went to say goodbye to Cliaparia and their daughter, Cithara. The little girl was crying, and Cliaparia was theatrically distraught to see him go. He treated both of them with courtesy and formality, kissed the little girl on the forehead, then did the same to his wife, much to Gliaparia's disappointment.

  "I must remain focused on the battle plans," he said.

  "I will miss you, and as First Wife I'll be the first to welcome you home. Then we will celebrate your victory together!" She clutched his loose white sleeve and fussed with the clean olba wrapped around his head. "I'll count the days until you return."

  "I'll return when I've accomplished what I need to do." He could tell she wanted him to say something endearing, but he had no honest words that would have satisfied her.

  Next he went to see Istar and their two daughters, as well as their baby son Criston. Adreala and Istala both hugged him. "You have everything you need?" he asked Istar. "The handmaidens and the guards will take care of you until I return." He gave her an understanding smile. "And Saan will be back soon, too. I hate to see you sad."

  "How can I not be sad?" Her response was surprisingly stiff, reminding him of how much he had forgotten about her past-- and how much she had not. "You are leaving in order to kill Tierrans. You may be killed yourself. Whatever happens, I cannot celebrate."

  He remembered the attack on her village, when she had been so young, her son unborn, her life set on a different course. That

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  I woman--Adrea--remained a stranger to him. "I am only going there to win this war. When I succeed, then I can stop the bloodshed." "But you will shed Aidenist blood to do it."

  "Yes." He had never lied to her.

  "Then at least come back alive and unharmed." This, Omra knew, she meant sincerely. She kissed him, but she seemed fragile, fighting with turbulence inside her. Finally, in his third wife's quarters, he embraced young Naori, feeling the swell of the baby in her belly as he pressed against her. She was due in less than two months. By the time he returned from the battle of Ishalem, she would have delivered her child, maybe another son, another heir. Yes, many things had changed in the past year. Perhaps peace and prosperity would finally dawn on the Uraban continent. Outside the Olabar gates, crowds gathered to celebrate the army's formal departure. The soldan-shah mounted his blood bay mare, adjusted the white olba around his hair, and raised his gloved hand to a thunderous roar of cheers. Cliaparia and Naori waved pennants, standing close to each other. Demonstrably apart from them, Istar held the baby boy and watched Omra go, but he could not read the emotions on her face. The soldan-shah faced west and a mounted standard-bearer raised a large scarlet flag bearing the symbol of the unfurling fern. Kel Unwar whistled, and the mounted army of Uraba set off for Ishalem.

  108

  Nunghal Lands

  Saan, Imir, and Sen Sherufa spent two weeks among the nomadic Nunghals, following the buffalo herds eastward. Since Asaddan had given the travelers his approval, the nomads were friendly, boisterous, and very loud. They rose at dawn to do their work, then stayed awake late around campfires, playing a game with black and white marbles on a polished board with indentations.

  Long thought dead, Asaddan was received as a hero among the Nunghal-Ari. His comrades gave him a golden earring to reward him for his wonderful stories, though they still teased him about his missing tooth (apparently he had lost it in an embarrassing accident when a buffalo kicked him in the face). Though Saan could not speak the language, he listened to Asaddan tell his tale, watching his gestures, noting the tones of his voice, and began to pick up a few words. Sherufa, having already learned some Nunghal vocabulary from her intensive time with Asad- I dan, used it now. For his own part, Imir had no interest in learning another language, claiming he was too old.

  The breeze never stopped blowing, constantly rustling the dry blades of grass. At this time of year, the only greenery came from prickly plants that scratched Saan's bare legs when he ran. He played with Nunghal boys his age, having fun with tasks that they considered their daily chores and tending the buffalo.

  For her own part, Sen Sherufa took a great interest in the Nunghal religion. She often sat preoccupied at night in her open tent, scribbling notes. Saan joined her and asked what she had learned. "The Nunghal religion is very interesting," she

  explained. "There are certain mythic similarities to--yet striking differences from--what is familiar to us."

  "Mythic similarities? Does that mean Urecari missionaries came here in times long past?"

  Sherufa smiled at him, as if he had missed the point. "Nunghals believe they are descendants of two brothers who left their paradise home long ago. When they were lost at sea, both brothers cursed God for not watching out for them, and then both of their ships crashed. One brother took his people inland--his descendants became the nomadic tribes that call themselves the Nunghal-Ari. The people from the second brother's ship built themselves new ships and boats, remained at sea, and kept their traditions. The seafaring clans call themselves the Nunghal-Su."

  Saan was suspicious. "That sounds a lot like the tale of Urec and Aiden."

  Sen Sherufa nodded. "There might be a single mythic foundation from which the tales were garbled over the generations."

  "Then we can tell the Nunghals the tale of Urec, give them the truth, and explain the real story."

  "They would not thank you for that, Saan. Besides" -- Sherufa raised her eyebrows--"how do you know thatyour version of the story isn't the garbled one?"

  Saan was taken aback. For that he had no answer.

  The aimless buffalo herds moved in a general direction, day after day, and the animals arrived at their destination just as Asaddan's clan friends had promised.

  The city of the Nunghal khan started out as a nomadic camp made of expansive tents, yurts, and colorful pavilions, but it remained in place for so long that it became a permanent city. The tents were dyed ochre, orange, and brownish green,

  so that the encampment looked like a traveling carnival. Fabrics stretched from pole to pole to pole, joining one section to another. Separate thick-walled yurts were private dwellings, the largest of which was reserved for Khan Jikaris himself.

  When they entered the settlement, Asaddan led Imir, Sherufa, and Saan to the largest yurt. "A rider went forth yesterday to tell the khan, and he is very anxious to see you," he explained. "Jikaris probably didn't believe half of what the rider told him." The hangings jingled with a fringe of gold and brass bells as Asaddan pushed his way into the yurt.

  Inside, the khan hurriedly settled himself upon a wide wooden chair upholstered in dyed hides. When they entered, he was still tugging on wrapped-leather gauntlets and adjusting his stone-encrusted crown--a crown that looked as heavy as an old kettle. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, but atop his head, most of the hair had fallen away to leave only a bare and leathery scalp.i

  Khan Jikaris assumed a relaxed posture, trying to pretend that he sat slumped on his throne awaiting supplicants all day long. Though he tried to look powerful and intimidating, two plump women--presumably his wives--went about the business of straightening rugs and lighting candles as if this were any other day.

  The khan eyed the visitors with a demeanor that suggested both power and boredom, as if amazing things were a regular occurrence to him. Asaddan stepped forward and gave a rapid fire speech in his tongue, to which the khan gave a brusque response before heaving himself from his chair. Jikaris was a head shorter even than Saan's grandfather. The khan studied Imir's unusual features, then moved to Sen Sherufa with greater interest, touched her long thick hair, and spoke appreciative

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  comments to Asaddan. When the khan's fat wives snapped at him with clear displeasure, Jikaris hurried to Saan, intrigued by the young man's blond hair and blue eyes. "He thinks you are either an angel or a demon," Asaddan said with a chuckle. "He wants to know if someone worked a spell on you, to turn your hair to gold." "I suggest you correct that impression," Sen Sherufa scolded, "so that no one has ideas of cutting off Saan's head to acquire a treasure." Asaddan took the threat seriously and spoke with the khan. Showing excessive friendliness, Jikaris slapped Imir on the back, then did the same to Saan and Sherufa, startling all of them. He pushed past, threw open the jingling flap of his yurt, and shouted into the din and bustle of the large camp. "What's happening?" Imir asked.

  "Khan Jikaris announces a great celebration to show off Nunghal hospitality to his strange visitors."

  Saan glanced around. A few passersby paused to listen, but the mood of the encampment changed little. "They don't seem overly curious." Asaddan laughed aloud. "The khan orders so many celebrations, the people are no longer impressed by it."

  That night the open-air feast served a main course of buffalo meat, along with heavy breads, preserves of tart purple berries and honey, and a murky, odd-tasting beverage supposedly made from fermented mare's milk. A group of deep-voiced men played clangorous musical instruments and sang songs with clashing harmonies that Saan found too strange to be enjoyable. Another man sat at the khan's side. Though he was clearly a Nunghal, his clothing was of an entirely different cut. His tunic's

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  billowing sleeves were cinched tight at the wrists, while most of the other Nunghals had bare arms. Rather than fur trimmings, intricate knots decorated the man's clothing like an odd sort of embroidery. His leggings were reinforced by stiff, tough-looking strips of fabric: cured sharkskin, Saan realized, as he studied it more carefully.

  Asaddan talked with the khan's strange companion, then made introductions all around. "This man is Ruad, a representative of the Nunghal-Su. He has come to spend a year with the tribes of the Nunghal-Ari, to exchange information and news."

  Saan could not imagine such an arrangement between Aidenists and Urecari. Asaddan lowered his voice and continued his story in the Uraban language, so that none of the other listeners could understand him. "The truth, my friends, is that Ruad was sent here as a sort of punishment. All the Nunghal-Su have their own seagoing vessels, but Ruad lost his ship in a storm. Worse, the poor man had the bad fortune to survive when most of his crew was lost. Now he is considered something of a"--Asaddan waved his hand as though trying to summon vocabulary from thin air--"an outcast among his clan.

  "Ruad, as one of the many nephews of the khan of the Nunghal-Su, is supposed to be braver than other men. His clan has exiled him among the land-dwellers, herders, and wanderers whom--I shall be honest with you, my friends--the Nunghal-Su do not respect. Ruad believes that the sea spat him out onto dry land, and he must remain here until he learns his lesson."

  Saan regarded the outcast, trying to gauge his mood. Ruad did not seem to be in sparkling good humor, but rather withdrawn and resigned.

  Asaddan touched his chest, keeping his voice low. "I think,

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  however, that this incident will teach Ruad many things--things that the Nunghal-Su don't know they should value. Either way, he will be a stronger man for it when he returns to his ships. Ruad can become a valuable adviser to both Jikaris and the khan of the Nunghal-Su." Impatient with all the talk he did not understand, the old khan interrupted Asaddan and issued an abrupt command. In the full dark of the moonless night, the people fell into an anticipatory hush. Saan heard a hiss, then saw a streaking tail of fire rise into the sky, like an inverted shooting star, which suddenly exploded into a dazzling flower of orange, yellow, and sparkling white. The Nunghals cheered and applauded. Astounded, Saan traced the colorful light, wondering where the flames came from. Was it magic, alchemy, some sort of natural eruption? Another rocket streaked upward into an extravagant fireworks display, as if the heavens themselves were at war. "What is that? It flies, it burns, and explodes!" Imir exclaimed.

  "It is firepowder, a mixture of chemicals that makes flames." Realization dawned on Asaddan's face. "Ah, in Uraba you do not have firepowder!" The former soldan-shah was fascinated as another rocket exploded in the sky. "This is magnificent."

  Asaddan shrugged. "It is firepowder."

  "I would like to learn more of this," Sen Sherufa said. "Can you show me how it's made?"

  The big Nunghal laughed. "If you think these fireworks are interesting, then you should see the cannons on the ships of the Nunghal-Su." "Cannons?" Imir said. "What are cannons?"

  "You want to know everything!" Asaddan let out a loud laugh

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  from deep in his chest. "It is good that you will stay here for half a year."

  Breathless, Imir turned to Saan and Sherufa, lowering his voice. "Think of how we could use this firepowder against the Aidenists!"

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  Olabar Palace

  Only days after Omra departed, Gliaparia made her move.

  The soldan-shah and his army would not return for months, and by then--regardless of victory or defeat--he would be long past caring about a squabble among his wives. Cliaparia had her alliances, her schemes, and her hatred for Istar, but it was her obsessive anger that made her predictable. Istar was ready for her.

  She kept to her spacious chambers in the palace, occupying the rooms closest to Omra's own, because those were the rooms the soldan-shah had chosen for her. During the afternoons, Istar taught and entertained her two young daughters, seven-year-old Adreala and her sister Istala, two years younger. Adreala was a precocious girl, so full of questions that her mind was never filled with enough answers. The girl was also brash and impetuous, playing with the boys and enduring scrapes and bruises that would have brought any other child her age to tears. Istala, quieter than her older sister, preferred listening to stories and drawing pictures instead of roughhousing. Istar was teaching her older daughter a simple game of colored stones that she had often liked to play in Windcatch, though

  she did not reveal, even to her daughters, the game's Tierran origin. Istala found amusement enough in watching her mother and sister play. Baby Griston slept in a padded basket. Cliaparia appeared unannounced at the doorway accompanied by four grim-faced palace guards. "We have come to move you from your quarters," she said without preamble. Istar placed herself between her daughters and the door. "By whose authority? "

  "Mine--as First Wife."

  "And you issue orders on behalf of the soldan-shah?" Istar's tone was even. "I think not."

  Gliaparia spoke over her shoulder to the silent guards. "I told you she would be difficult."

  Istar bent to speak quietly to Adreala. "Run--this is what I told you about! Find Kel Rovik and tell him to bring his men." The seven-year-old understood perfectly. She dashed into a side room, slipped out another door, and raced down the corridor. Istar faced Cliaparia once more. "These specific rooms were given to me by Soldan-Shah Omra because he wants me closest to him. He wishes to protect me and my family." "I am First Wife. I should be closest to him," Cliaparia said. "By the time he returns, he will be happy to see me."

  "And what quarters did you have in mind for me?" Istar asked, with more curiosity than anger. Beside her, a frightened Istala clutched her leg. The white-robed guards strode into her chambers, their scimitars obvious in sashes at their hips. The men acted intimidating, but Istar knew they would never dare touch her. Cliaparia shrugged. "I want you out of the palace. Go stay in the haunted villa that once belonged to Asha. It's been empty

  for so long, you may need to help your handmaidens do the cleaning."

  "I'm surprised you haven't already prepared it for me, if you're so anxious to have me gone, Cliaparia." She chuckled. "Would you have gone on your knees to scrub dirt and mildew from the tiles?"

 
; Cliaparia bristled. In his crib, baby Criston began to cry, startling them all. Turning her back to show how unimportant she found the indignant woman, Istar went to the crib and gathered up the baby in his blankets. When she held him against her breast, he calmed immediately. "This is the soldan-shah's heir," Istar said, looking at the guards instead of Gliaparia.

  "Naori is also pregnant," the other woman said. "She might have a son--a Uraban son."

  "Will that matter to Omra? " Istar asked. How could Cliaparia know so little about her own husband? "You delude yourself."

  Cliaparia was not sure what to do now that Istar had defied both her demands and the threat of the guards. Obviously, this hadn't gone the way she'd expected.

  Outside in the corridor came the sounds of a commotion: the jangling of armor, the thud of boots, a swirl of cloth, and the metal whispers of drawn scimitars. "Mother, we're here!" called a girl's voice. Adreala burst in ahead of the twelve breathless guards, astonishing Cliaparia and her four men.

  "What is the difficulty here?" Kel Rovik said. He flashed a glance at the four guards--his own men--standing with Cliaparia.

  As kel of the palace guard, Rovik was reluctant to take sides among the soldan-shah's wives, but he did know Uraban law and traditions. While forging her alliances, Istar had never insulted his honor with bribes; instead, she had softened his stoic

  mood through respect and courtesy, remembering to address him by name. She had taken the time to bring baby Criston before all the guards, to let them look into the face of Omra's true heir. Cliaparia had not thought to do any of those things. "There is no difficulty. I am First Wife. Help us move this woman's possessions out. She will find her own rooms." "These are her rooms," Rovik stated.

  "And now they are mine. I insist. I am First Wife, and you will obey me."