The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The ancient Captain's Compass, polished and repaired as best as his instrument makers were able, also sat in his room, its gold polished to a gleam, its crystal face clean and transparent. The needle wavered uncertainly, as though trying to remember

  its way back home. Korastine would carry Aiden's Compass on board himself and install it next to the magnetic compass.

  Lastly, his gaze fell upon the detailed sympathetic model of the Arkship that Sen Leo had so carefully crafted--the twinned counterpart to the actual vessel. To his surprise, he saw a tiny curl of smoke rising from the hold, and fire flickered from the waist hatch. Flames scurried like fiery mice up the ropes of the rigging.

  Still in his robe, Korastine burst through the door into the corridor and shouted. "To the Arkship! Fire! Fire!" Limping on his sore knee, he hurried down the hallway in bare feet, his nightclothes flapping behind him. "To the docks! The Arkship is on fire!"

  He was not the first to see the disaster. Bells from the kirks were already ringing, and he heard an outcry in the streets. Townspeople were rushing down to the docks in Shipbuilders' Bay, carrying anything possible to help fight the fire. Korastine had a horrific memory of that terrible last night in Ishalem.

  As soon as he saw the enormous vessel engulfed in flames, the shrouds a fiery spiderweb with curls of greasy black smoke winding up into the night air, Korastine knew it was too late. And he realized that this was no ordinary, accidental fire.

  Some young men were fleeing the docks, fighting through the crowds away from the vessel. He recognized many of the youthful workers who had volunteered to build the Arkship and couldn't understand what they were doing or why they ran in the opposite direction.

  Then he saw what had been painted in bold red on the Ark- ship's hull: the unfurlingfern ofUrec.

  Pitch and whale oil had been poured across the decks and into the Arkship's hold, then ignited by thrown torches so that the fire quickly spread. Water crews hauled up buckets from the bay

  to splash water on the flames, but the pitch and oil made the fire" inextinguishable. Several clear-thinking men rushed to adjacent ships in Shipbuilders' Bay to keep the fire from spreading across the docks.

  When some of the fleeing young Arkship workers were caught and confronted, they struggled, spitting curses in the Uraban language. Realizing they couldn't escape, they took up knives and plunged them into their own chests or throats. Others, cornered at the ends of piers, dove into the water and swam away, either drowning or simply vanishing.

  Bleary-eyed, his long hair tousled and his beard sticking out in wild directions, the shipwright Kjelnar stalked up to Korastine, also in his nightclothes. The Iborian man gaped at the burning Arkship and the flurry of men trying to douse it with a bucket brigade. Nothing could stop the flames.

  "It seems I won't be captain after all," Kjelnar said.

  Standing together in shared awe and misery, the two men wept as they watched their hopes go up in smoke.

  122

  Olabar

  Istar could have asked Saan for help, or she could have demanded assistance from Kel Rovik and the palace guards who were sympathetic to her. But she decided that vengeance was a private matter to be savored, or at least endured, alone. She knew the answers, but she did not know the details... yet.

  Without Omra, she had suffered through the funeral for baby Criston, accompanied by Saan, her two daughters, old Imir, and a roomful of functionaries. Even Naori attended, carrying her

  infant boy, who was now the only surviving son of the soldanshah. Istar knew the sweet young woman meant no insult to her.

  Cliaparia also came, dutifully dressed in mourning colors; the smoke-gray veil across her face covered a triumphant smile, but her eyes still twinkled.

  Istar was deaf to the murmured expressions of sympathy. Omra wasn't here. He didn't know. When he did return, she feared he would blame her for the death of the baby, and Istar didn't know if she could bear that.

  As the only way to keep her sanity, she hardened her heart, trying to convince herself--even whispering the words aloud as she lay in the darkness of an empty night--that Saan was her only true son, that little Criston was a child born of a marriage she had never wanted, to a man she still did not allow herself to love. But that was a lie. Criston had been her baby, her flesh and blood, and she had loved the child as much as it was possible for a mother to love.

  And he had been murdered.

  The day after the funeral, without announcing herself, Istar slipped into the private room of Altiara, the handmaiden responsible for watching her baby on that fateful night. The other handmaidens saw Istar, but did not intervene. She was, after all, the wife of the soldan-shah.

  Altiara was not in her room, busy with her daily chores. Istar ransacked the young woman's possessions, searched in her cabinets, under her bed, on shelves and in corners. Hidden beneath a pile of folded silks, she discovered a small cage of fine brass wire... the sort of cage that sellers of exotic creatures would have used to hold a captive spider--a sand spider. Istar crushed the delicate cage in her grip and dropped the ruined mass.

  She stalked out of the handmaiden's chambers and encountered a serving woman in the hall. "Where is Altiara? I must see her. Now."

  W

  One look at Istar's fearsome countenance spurred an instant reply. "She is up in the Sunset Tower, my lady, unpacking garments for the autumn festival." The young servant continued to talk, but Istar was already moving. She ascended the winding stair to the open parapet, where once, she remembered, Omra had brought her to watch the blazing orange sunset. Istar had no room for fond memories now.

  Altiara was working by herself, her face gaunt, her eyes shadowed with grief... or perhaps guilt? The handmaiden had removed piled silks from large cedar chests and sorted them on the clean tile floor. Breezes from the open balcony stirred the fabric, bringing a chill to the air.

  Altiara looked up as Istar entered. "My lady!" She rose to her feet and bowed her head.

  Istar slid forward like a striking cobra and grabbed all of Altiara's necklaces with hands that had grown strong with determination. "I found the cage. I know what you did to my son." Altiara's knees gave out, and only Istar's iron-hard grasp yanked her back up. "The name. Who ordered this?" Istar shook her once, hard. "Mow!"

  "She... she threatened me!"

  "And you did not think to warn me?"

  "Cliaparia would have had me killed. She told me I would be rewarded. But I... I can't--"?

  Istar neither wanted nor needed to hear more. Amazed at her own strength, she picked up the trembling handmaiden and carried her to the open balcony. Altiara screamed and struggled, but Istar looked at her with eyes that were already dead. "Cliaparia is not the one you should have feared."

  As though she were discarding a soiled garment, Istar simply tossed the young woman off the balcony, not hearing the

  long, thin scream--or when it was cut short on the flagstones below.

  Istar felt like a machine, a machine of stone and hate. For years, the war between Uraba and Tierra had dominated the events of the world. Now she fought her own war within the palace.

  She moved down into the grand hall, listening to the faint cries and commotion outside in the courtyard as someone discovered the handmaiden's body. Kel Rovik and his guards rushed outside, but Istar turned in the other direction.

  Utterly calm, she asked several slaves where she might find Cliaparia, until one announced, "The First Wife has gone to the bazaar at the harbor docks. She wanted to find a gift for the soldan-shah for when he returns from Ishalem."

  Istar took no escort, told no one where she was going, not even Saan. Leaving the palace, she walked the streets of Olabar, followed the winding lanes and alleys. She passed stalls of vendors and weavers, potion-sellers and candle-makers. The savory smells of roasting meat skewers did not entice her. A stray cat brushed against her legs, but she ignored it and walked on.

  Finally, she saw Gliaparia out on one of the wooden
piers, where fishermen hung their nets for mending... nets with leaden weights, spherical glass floats, and long lines with many rows of sharp fishhooks.

  A bevy of chattering handmaidens surrounded Cliaparia, carrying satchels filled with items she had already bought. Now Cliaparia stopped to watch an old man who sat atop a wooden stool. With arthritic yet still-nimble fingers, he crafted intricate sculptures of knots and strings--just like her brother, Ciarlo, had made.

  Ciarlo... She thought of her beloved Criston... and her mur

  dered son who had the same precious name. Her revenge was a building wave, curling, cresting, and ready to crash down.

  The handmaidens noticed Istar first. Cliaparia looked up to see her walking without any escort or guards. With a sneer on her face and an insult on her lips, Cliaparia sniffed. "If it isn't the grieving mother. Are you sure your other children are safe?"

  Istar lashed out with her dagger, stabbing downward into the hateful woman's left breast. "Murderer." She yanked out the blade, then rammed it home again in the side of Cliaparia's neck. "You killed the soldan-shah's heir." She stabbed again. "You killed my son!"

  The handmaidens screamed. Cliaparia looked astonished, gasping wetly as Istar pulled the blade free again. Cliaparia flailed her pale hands against the bright crimson blood fountaining from her wounds. Feebly, she tried to fend off further attack, but Istar merely shoved the dying woman into the nets, where the sharp fishhooks bit into her skin, her clothes. She hung like an unsatisfactory catch, wriggling desperately.

  There were more screams now. The old man with his knotted sculptures knocked over his stool as he staggered backward. Men came running, but the gathering crowd drew back in horror as Cliaparia opened and closed her mouth. The stains of red grew larger and larger.

  No one interfered with Istar. She focused only on Cliaparia. "Now /am First Wife of the soldan-shah." Then, with her blade she severed the cords that held up the drying net.

  Cliaparia fell to the dock boards in a bloody heap, tangled in the net, caught on the fishhooks. In disgust and white-hot anger, Istar shoved the dying woman off the edge of the dock. Cliaparia splashed into the water and quickly sank.

  I

  123

  Calay

  I

  By the next morning the fire in the Arkship had burned out, but the air remained heavy with ash and shattered hopes. Anjine stood next to her little brother, so angry that she could not speak. All the work, all the dreams, all the hopes for finding Terravi-tae... all the desperate anticipation that had kept her father functioning since the death of Ilrida. Anjine's eyes were red, not just from the thick smoke that hung like a pall in the air.

  Tomas was crying, even though he didn't understand. His confused emotions whiplashed back and forth. "Did the big ship burn? Why did the big ship burn?"

  But she had no answers for his questions, not yet. She just stood, squeezing his shoulder so hard he flinched. "Hush, now."

  "We should have installed the ice dragon's horn," Korastine said. "It would have protected the ship." He stood with the Saedran scholar Sen Leo na-Hadra; if anything, the Saedran looked more devastated than her father did.

  "Men will always find ways to destroy other things," Sen Leo said. "Nothing can provide sure protection... even the horn of an ice dragon."

  Wearing his naval uniform, Mateo walked up to present himself to Anjine. While he was back in Calay between patrols, Anjine had contacted Comdar Delnas and requested that Mateo be made captain of his own ship. Now, though, she considered transferring him from the navy into the royal guard, so he could be close. She needed his protection.

  Now that the Arkship was destroyed, Anjine wanted to make

  Mateo promise that he would apprehend the Urecari who had done such a monstrous thing. But she couldn't let herself show weakness in public, or show any personal feelings. She stood straight and drew deep breaths. Mateo would know what to do, regardless.

  He looked at the king but seemed to decide that Korastine was not yet ready to hear the details; instead, he spoke directly to Anjine. "There were dozens of the saboteurs, Princess. At least ten killed themselves, but we captured six alive."

  "They were fanatics. Anyone who could do such a thing is a mindless, spiteful monster." Anjine clung to her anger as if it were Sapier's fishhook.

  "They were coordinated as well," Mateo continued. "All of them young men, the oldest no more than eighteen. Three of them refused to speak at all, though their guilt was quite plain. The others broke under extreme torture." His expression did not flinch, as if he thought nothing of the necessary pain he had inflicted. Her heart ached to see how much he had changed, and to consider what must have happened to change him so.

  Neither she nor Mateo were innocent children. They had been when Ishalem burned, but now Anjine was different, too. She made military decisions, ordered men into combat. Some of those men had never returned. They were all casualties of war.

  Feeling a new and frightful resolve, Anjine said, "You did your job, Captain. They are animals. You cannot show them common human mercies."

  He gave a cursory nod, and a dark expression clouded his face, showing only a hint of the dangerous storm he held inside. Still, Mateo kept his report terse and professional. "There's more, Princess Anjine. Some were young men who had already signed on as cabin boys for the Arkship's voyage."

  "They would have sailed on the ship?"

  555

  "They had many plans within plans... and this may not be their only attack. One prisoner revealed that the Urabans have captured many Tierran children over the years, indoctrinated them in the religion of Urec, and turned them loose here as spies and infiltrators. Calay could be rife with them... and they look just like us, so we would never know."

  Anjine felt nauseated. "Handle it, Mateo. Stay here and take over the royal guard. There is no better man to root out evil."

  Mateo's expression softened as he gazed at her. He touched her arm, and suddenly he looked very young again. He whispered, "I'm sorry, Tolli. I wish I could have done more." Then he became formal once more. "I serve at Your Majesty's command," he said, his gaze encompassing both Anjine and her father. But Anjine understood that, for the first time, he was addressing her as a queen.

  "Thank you," she whispered, and he bowed, then set off to rally the royal guards.

  The hulk of the Arkship lay like a beached sea beast, burned all the way to the waterline. The hold had flooded, and the ship had sunk to the shallow bottom of Shipbuilders' Bay. Almost nothing could be salvaged from it.

  "This is a crippling blow, a heart-wrenching loss." Korastine raised his head wearily, yet his expression was oddly confident. "But it is not a blow that will defeat us." He looked at his daughter, then at Sen Leo. Although the grief was still plain in his tone, he sounded surprisingly optimistic. "Our Arkship has burned, and the Luminara was lost, but that doesn't mean Terravitae is lost. The land still waits for us. We just have to find a way to travel there."

  "And we still have the ice dragon's horn," Kjelnar said., ¦¦¦¦;,

  "And Aiden's Compass," the king added.

  Anjine was encouraged by her father's renewed hope. No

  matter what Korastine said, though, she wondered if he had the strength for another such effort. His staunch bravery had been shaken in a fundamental way by the barbaric Urabans.

  Therefore, she would shoulder the necessary burden. She would be the strength of Tierra. "Yes, Father. I vow that we will discover Terravitae. We will find Holy Joron and will reconnect with Ondun's original people. This, I swear."

  The men muttered in agreement, but Anjine did not tell them the new purpose that made her so determined: If they could succeed in finding Terravitae and forming an alliance with Holy Joron, then the people in that holy land would help her armies vanquish the evil Urecari.

  124

  Calay, Saedran District

  A man disembarked from a boat in the Merchants' District and began to ask around Galay, even in the u
proar of the city after the burning of the Arkship. "I am looking for a Saedran chartsman named Aldo na-Curic." The traveler pretended that he could not give any answers, yet he dropped enough hints to intrigue his listeners. "I have something for him--a special gift I brought from the far corners of the world." He lowered his voice. "He will want to have it, believe me."

  Since Aldo was a chartsman for hire, he was easily found. Many of the ship captains knew of him, and they directed the stranger to the Saedran District, where he stopped in at various shops, talked to an apothecary and a woman who made intricate wind chimes. Finally someone pointed him to the house of the painter Biento and his wife, Yura, where Aldo still lived.

  Before Aldo heard the persistent knocking, he had been feeling sick and stunned about the loss of the great vessel on which he would have served as chartsman. Now it would be years before he'd have such an opportunity again--if ever.

  Even though his thoughts were preoccupied, when he opened the door he recognized Yal Dolicar immediately. Thirteen years had passed since this man had cheated him, but with his perfect memory as a Saedran chartsman Aldo never forgot a face. He froze.

  The man's smile was warm, his greeting exuberant--and he did not recognize Aldo at all, nor did he notice anything amiss. Aldo was no longer a wide-eyed and gullible young man who had just passed his test. Instead, he'd traveled from one continent to another, seen many things he had only dreamed of before. He was considered a Sen among his people.

  Yal Dolicar was leaner and older, too, and his dark, curly hair hung longer, but he was the same. No doubt about it. He carried an aura of earnestness and sincerity, which he had cultivated well over the years. This time, though, Aldo was not fooled. "I am Aldo." He made no move to let the visitor inside his home. "And you are Yal Dolicar. What is it you want?"

  The other man was startled. "You know my name?" Then he gave a foolish-looking, embarrassed grin. "Ah! You must have heard me asking around Calay for you."