The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  "Then how would I whistle?" He let out a shrill tone that startled the nearby buffalo.

  Sen Sherufa watched the preparations, often testing the wind. Her thick hair blew in disarray until she tied it back. Imir remained close beside her, touching her shoulder from time to time, and she did not object. "This voyage will not be as frightening as the last, since we know it can be done. After we get back, we can build an entire fleet of bigger coracles and begin trade across the Great Desert with the Nunghals."

  "We should also try to sail ships past Lahjar and around to the southern sea, to see if my theory is right," Saan decided.

  "Or maybe I will convince Ruad to make the voyage from this side of the world," Asaddan said. "I would like to join him in that." When Saan stared at him in surprise, he shrugged his broad shoulders. "It can't be any more difficult than walking across the Great Desert!"

  With the coracle repaired and the balloon sack inflated, the three Urabans waved goodbye as whooping Nunghals disconnected the ropes. The straining balloon lifted them higher, until they could see the panorama of extensive grasslands, the herds of buffalo, the nomadic riders--and the sea of dunes. Riding brisk air currents, their coracle raced north across the expanse of sand.

  Although he would miss the land of the Nunghals, Saan carried a great contentment within him. He had experienced a tremendous, life-changing adventure and had learned about the world, the Nunghal culture, their beliefs, and their simple yet intricate way of life. He had a different perspective now, an exciting breadth of knowledge and imagination. Though the wasteland stretched on and on, Saan knew that the Great Desert was not the edge of the world. He couldn't wait to tell Omra and his mother the things he had seen

  Several days later, nearing home, they passed over a desert bandit encampment, different from the oasis they had seen on their outbound journey. Imir scowled down at it. "Always in the past, the bandits have vanished into the sands like desert ghosts, but if we build more sand coracles, our archers can attack their encampments from above--wipe them out like the vermin they are." He drew obvious satisfaction from the idea. "That, at least, will be a decisive war... one we can win."

  They finally passed the edge of the Great Desert back into Uraba and continued to drift across Missinia, traversing many more leagues before the baskets of fuel gave out. When the sand coracle gradually settled to the ground and Saan and his companions climbed out of the basket onto solid land, he felt quite happy to be home.

  By now, his little brother Criston would be almost a year old, and his sisters had probably grown by several inches. By now, the Uraban armies might have defeated the Tierrans once and for all. He couldn't wait to hear the news from Soldan-Shah Omra.

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  Calay

  Prester Hannes wept when he finally caught sight of Calay from the riverboat. Returning to it now after so many tribulations, he felt that the blessed capital city of Tierra was as sacred as lost Ishalem. Hannes had been trapped in the purgatory of Uraba for thirteen years after the burning of the great city, and before that he had hidden among the Urecari, watching, learning. A spy for God.

  Now, reaching Galay was his true reward for long and faithful service, saved from the jaws of hell itself. How could any pilgrim to any shrine feel more blessed than he did right now?

  His frostbitten hands and feet were bandaged, and the pain had dulled to the point where he could ignore it. Under the ministrations of the local healer, he had lost only three toes and two fingers; no gangrene had set in, and the stumps were healing nicely. He felt invigorated and whole, ready and able to do much more for the cause of Aiden. But first he had to report to the prester-marshall all that he had done and all he had seen--particularly the extensive Gremurr mines in Tier ran territory.

  After Hannes disembarked from the riverboat, he walked in a daze along the docks in the Farmers' District. His new clothes fit him poorly, because the rivertown prester had been a broader shouldered man, but at least they weren't Urecari clothes. At least they weren't a slave's clothes.'

  No one knew who he was. He wandered through the various districts, drinking in the smells, sounds, and sights. Home. Safe.

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  It was a miracle. When people talked around him, the buzz of conversation sounded alien, yet wonderful--the Tierran language was music to his ears. Tears sprang to his eyes as he saw pennants and wooden business signs that unabashedly displayed the fishhook symbol.

  The rivertown prester had given him a new pendant, and Hannes clung to the symbolic fishhook even when he slept, swearing to himself that he would never again be deprived of the outward sign of his faith.

  On his way to the Royal District and the city's main kirk, he was pleased to see another small kirk with beautiful Iborian-style architecture, built in the name of King Korastine's second wife, who had died several years before. Hannes felt sad at the reminder of how long he had been gone, how much he had missed. He hadn't even known King Korastine had married again. Little Princess Anjine was fully grown and ready to become queen, and now the king had a young son, as well.:w:>¦:>.:¦:,

  But those were temporal matters, and Prester Hannes was more concerned with spiritual things. He touched the fishhook in the hollow of his throat, whispered a quiet prayer, and headed toward the magnificent towers of the main Aidenist kirk, near the castle.

  With reverent gratitude, he passed through the tall, always open doors into the voluminous interior. Most worshippers came for the traditional dawn service, but even in the afternoon some of the faithful had come to pray, to study the relics and paintings, or to converse quietly with the attending presters.

  One man in clean white vestments came forward, smiling a welcome to Hannes. "May the Compass guide you." He hesitated upon seeing Hannes's scarred cheek, his missing eyebrow,

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  ¦¦I

  I'llbut then he recognized the pendant, saw the trappings of office that the village prester had given him.

  In a gruff voice, Hannes said, "I need to see Prester-Marshall Baine. For many years now, I have been on a holy mission that he commanded. He must hear my report." The kirk prester was flustered. "Prester-Marshall... Baine?"

  "Tell him it is Hannes. He will remember me well."

  "But... surely you mean Prester-Marshall Rudio?"

  "Rudio?" Vaguely remembering a prester of that name, Hannes felt a growing dread rise in his chest. "Has something happened to Prester-Marshall Baine?" In halting words, the prester explained how Baine and a reconstruction crew had been horribly martyred in Ishalem. "But that was a dozen years ago, sir, and the Urecari have committed many more crimes since."

  Hannes reeled, entirely unbalanced by the news, his grief and ¦anguish transformed to an even deeper hatred of the Urecari.

  While he had continued his good works in the name of Ondun across the soldanates, the evil Urecari had been committing even Bmore heinous acts. It seemed the heretics had balanced out every

  ¦triumph Hannes had made with an atrocity of their own. He

  IIIlowered his head, and his shoulders convulsed as he struggled to

  Icontain his emotions.

  The other prester was deeply alarmed by his reaction. "You have been gone a long time, haven't you, sir?" "An eternity. And I have a terrible story to tell." Feeling a resolve like steel harden within him, he straightened. He had never expected his work to be done. "But now I've returned, and I will do anything necessary to protect, preserve, and strengthen the true faith." The prester said, "Let me take you to the prester-marshall. He and the king need to hear your tale."

  After Prester-Marshall Rudio checked in the church records and verified that Hannes had indeed been sent on a secret mission by Baine, years ago, the old religious leader hurried him to the castle and asked for an immediate audience with King Korastine.

  When he stood in the private conference chamber, Hannes was shocked to see how much older the king appeared as he came in limping, rubbing a gouty knee. The weight of the
long, simmering war and the death of Ilrida had exhausted him. Now the only true spark in his life was the nearly completed Arkship on which he would soon depart in search of Terravitae.

  When Hannes repeated his long tale, Korastine nodded sadly, his eyes tinged with nostalgia. "Prester-Marshall Baine was a good friend and adviser, a true visionary. He changed our attitude toward exploring the world. I credit him with the goal we now have. The Arkship will succeed in finding Holy Joron, mark my words. I--the King of Tierra and descendant of Aiden himself--have his True Compass, which will guide us back to Terravitae."

  "Yes, I saw your ship," Hannes said, tears brimming in his eyes. "It reminds me of Aiden's holy Arkship, which I watched burn to ashes in Ishalem."

  "May the Compass guide us in our quest for Terravitae," said Prester-Marshall Rudio.

  Hannes nodded, but that was not enough. "Now, let me tell you about the mines at Gremurr, how you can reach them... and why you must destroy them."

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  117

  Olabar Palace

  With Soldan-Shah Omra gone so long on his campaign to recapture Ishalem, Istar knew that Cliaparia was still scheming to do them harm. She kept a close watch on her daughters and rarely left little Griston; she also missed Saan terribly, and hoped--expected--him to return soon.

  When Omra's youngest wife went into labor, the entire mood in the palace changed. An army of doctors and midwives came to attend Naori, making sure that nothing went wrong with the birth. A group of sikaras led by Fyiri burned prayer strips and set ribbons into the wind, offering blessings to Naori and the baby.

  Though the young woman thrashed and wailed in pain, the birth was uneventful. The midwives handed her a pink and healthy infant boy--Omra's second son, next in the line of succession. In the meeting square, from the empty platforms where the two giant bronze statues had once stood, criers shouted out the news that the soldan-shah had a new heir.

  Safe in her own quarters, Istar felt relieved and satisfied to hear the announcement. Now even if Cliaparia did manage to get pregnant again, she had become irrelevant.

  During the last few weeks of Naori's pregnancy, Cliaparia had become the young woman's closest friend and companion, worming her way into Naori's confidence by plying her with obsequious attention. Istar had always been on cordial terms with the third wife, but she let Cliaparia play her transparent games, while she attended her own daughters and little Criston.

  Istar waited a suitable time for Naori to rest and recover before going to her chambers to see Omra's other son. Adreala and Istala were taken to their morning classes, where the sikaras taught them how to write and inscribe prayers. Altiara, one of Istar's handmaidens, volunteered to put Criston to bed for a nap before the sunset religious ceremonies began. The young woman had watched over Criston many times before, and Istar kissed the boy's smooth forehead before she left.

  Wrapping fine silk scarves and sashes about herself, Istar went to Naori's chambers. She bowed her head respectfully as she entered the third wife's bedroom. The new mother lay in bed, propped up with many pillows, holding the newborn in a blanket as it suckled on her breast. Naori's dark brown eyes sparkled. "Oh, Istar--I knew you would come! See the baby, he's beautiful, and healthy, and perfect."

  Cliaparia sat like a guard dog at Naori's side, not bothering to hide her flash of resentment. She poured a cup of lukewarm herbal tea. "Here, Naori, drink this. It will help you regain your strength."

  Obviously Cliaparia wanted the young mother to be indebted to her, but Naori was oblivious. "You are so sweet, Cliaparia. Could you please empty my washbasin? The water is dirty, and I'd like to refresh myself." In that instant, Cliaparia's role changed from that of a dear companion to little more than a servant, and she knew it. Istar tried to hide her smile, but did not succeed.

  "I think I am going to name him Omra after his father, or maybe Imir. But it hasn't been decided yet," Naori bubbled to Istar, aglow with the happiness of new motherhood, expecting everyone to be as overjoyed as she was. "Would you like to hold him, Istar?"

  Taking the baby, Istar looked appreciatively down at the

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  infant. He was indeed beautiful. "Someday he and my little Cris ton will play together."

  "They will be great friends," Naori vowed and took the baby back. Lingering long enough to see Cliaparia return with the washbasin, Istar bowed again to Naori and took her leave.

  As she approached her own quarters, she heard screams.

  The usual guard was gone from the corridor. Istar began to run, her sandals slapping on the tiles. A baby was wailing-- screaming. Little Criston! She pushed through the beaded curtains so violently that strings tore, scattering colored glass spheres all over the floor. Altiara was frantic, holding her face in her hands in horror. The guard had smashed something on the floor and ground it furiously under his boot heel.

  In his crib, Criston lay shrieking, and Istar ran toward him. "What happened!"

  In disgust, the guard looked down at the tiles where a hairy multi-legged mess lay in a pool of its own splattered ooze.

  "What happened?" Istar rounded on Altiara. "Answer me!" She shook the handmaiden back into reason.

  "S-sand spider! In the crib! It bit--"

  Istar heard nothing more as she tore away her baby's blankets to see two angry red punctures in his side. Sand spiders were as deadly as they were rare, and their poison had no known antidote. The large desert creatures sometimes came into the city hidden in baskets carried by caravans. Her gaze jerked toward the dead creature. A spider, larger than her splayed hand.. .the venom in that one bite would have been sufficient to kill ten grown men. Her baby--her precious baby boy...

  She held Criston. He was already twitching with convulsions. Angry red splotches covered his pale skin.

  "I don't know how it happened, my lady!" Altiara wailed. "I

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  checked his bedding. I was sure it was safe. I screamed for the guard as soon as I saw..."

  Istar did not care about how or why--not now. The spider had been killed, but it was too late. Her little boy didn't have a chance.

  Istar could merely hold and rock him, weeping as he convulsed. His pale skin turned bluish black from internal hemorrhaging as the poison spread through his system. She caressed his cheek, told him to hush, to rest. But when his wails finally faded into silence, she took no comfort from his peace.

  Her searing cry of grief was as sharp and painful as the bite of a scimitar. Altiara collapsed to the floor, striking her forehead against the tiles and sobbing.

  The guard looked deeply shamed. "I could not act more quickly, my lady. I came as soon--"

  A harsh, low moan continued to come not just from Istar's throat, but from the depths of her soul, and she didn't think it would ever end. As the commotion drew alarms and curiosity seekers from around the palace, Istar looked through the liquid vision of tears to see shocked people crowding, staring. She refused to let go of the baby, though he was already dead. More guards arrived, led by Kel Rovic himself, much too late to do anything.

  Among the onlookers, only one face showed no grief at all. Cliaparia looked smug and not particularly sad. "I see you are no longer the mother of the soldan-shah's heir." With that she left, back straight, head held high.

  In that instant, Istar knew. Cliaparia had murdered her son.

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  118

  Corag Highlands

  Alone in his cottage, Griston could feel winter coming on. For weeks now he had been stockpiling firewood: chopping dead trees, splitting logs, and piling the wood against the side of the stone-walled cottage. He needed enough fuel to keep him and Jerard warm throughout the season.

  Each day as he went out to gather wood, old Jerard plodded alongside him, never letting his master out of sight. Inside the cottage, the dog sat dutiful and patient as Criston struck a spark to light the fire; when the blaze was going, the dog stretched out to let
the heat warm his bones. His dark fur had become frosted with more and more silver, and when the dog slept, he twitched and stirred, dreaming of chasing fat marmots or fending off wolves.

  The trek down to the rivertown with Prester Hannes had exhausted the dog, and after they returned to the high meadow, old Jerard no longer had the energy to run among the sheep. Instead, he lounged all day in the grass in front of the cottage, watching his master do the daily chores.

  While he fixed his own dinner, Griston talked to the dog, halfway convinced that Jerard could understand him. The dog's teeth had gone bad, and so Criston cooked meat and cut it into small pieces that Jerard could chew and swallow; Criston didn't mind. Jerard had been his faithful companion for thirteen years.

  After they finished their meal, he sat in his large creaking chair with his whittling knife and a block of wood to make another ship model. His life was content, solid, and unremark

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  able, though sometimes--when he opened his emotional wall by a thin crack--he did miss the sea.

  As the fire burned low and full dark fell outside, Jerard stirred from the hearth, shook his head, and looked up with his soulful brown eyes. Criston said, "Good boy," out of habit.

  Jerard heaved himself to his four paws and limped over to Criston's chair. He sat on his haunches, tail wagging vaguely. With a plaintive whine, he put his head in Griston's lap. Criston petted him, frowning, sure that something was wrong. Jerard's tail thumped twice on the floor. His lungs expanded as he heaved one long breath and let it out like a sigh.

  Then, from one instant to the next, the dog was dead. Quietly and peacefully, his spirit floated away like smoke up the chimney. Criston felt the sudden heaviness as the dog slumped against him.

  He could only stare, unblinking. In shock, he petted the dog's head once more, then lay his brow against the warm black fur. He couldn't move. Criston had known this time was coming and, aware of the dog's pain and weariness, had both dreaded it and bitterly prayed for Jerard's release and peace.