The Key to Creation (19 page)

The waters around the ship grew murky and sluggish. Green seaweed appeared, woven like emerald strands of hair through the waves, then thickening into grassy clumps. The weed smelled sour and moist, like decaying moss in a swamp.

As the breezes pushed them ahead, the weed became a morass. Criston was concerned when sailors had to use boathooks to tear ropy tangles from the prow. He guided the ship through any channels that happened to appear in the dark water.

Though Prester Hannes vehemently denied any involvement in killing Sen Aldo’s
rea
pigeons, Criston had his suspicions. How far would Hannes go to prevent the church from learning about the Leviathan skeleton? Still, the prester had sworn his loyalty on the Fishhook, a vow that would have brought down damnation if he reneged. And why would any of the mutineers commit such an appalling act so soon after receiving a reprieve? It made no sense.

Yet the birds were dead. The Captain’s Compass was smashed, perhaps not accidentally. Suspicion hung like a cloud over the
Dyscovera
. Criston quietly asked Javian and Sen Aldo to remain alert and to report any unusual activity.

With the
Dyscovera
barely moving through the quagmire, the crew had little to do but peer over the sides and wonder how far the morass would extend. Criston stood on the open deck, inhaling the swampy odor of seaweed.

He took out the old sea-turtle shell on which some long-lost sailor had inscribed a few islands, an unfamiliar coastline, and weathered squiggles in the water. The squiggles might have been anything…this wasteland of seaweed, perhaps? Even if that were true, the sea-turtle map did not help him.

The lookout called down, “Captain, I see something dead ahead in the water—and it’s moving.” The sailor used his spyglass. “It’s a
man
! There’s a man adrift out there!”

Criston shaded his eyes. “How can a man be all the way out here?”

Hannes joined him. “It may be a demon in the waters to tempt us, Captain. Be careful.”

Sen Aldo flashed a meaningful glance at the prester. “Or perhaps one of the mer-Saedrans came back to give us a second chance after they were so mortally offended.”

Criston chose a more likely answer. “Better still, what if we’re not so far from land as we thought? There could be other ships nearby. Maybe the man was only recently shipwrecked or thrown overboard. We’ll rescue him and hear what he has to say.”

The ship drew up alongside a bedraggled man in the water; he had draped himself over a weathered board from a ship’s hull. He waved to them, but did not seem desperate or frantic. Long matted hair covered much of his face.

“Throw down a ladder and bring him aboard,” Criston called.

As soon as it fell to the waterline, the castaway grasped the knotted ladder and pulled himself up. After the crewmembers helped to haul him over the ship’s rail, the stranger collapsed to his knees, dripping wet. His clothes smelled of mildew and rot.

Curious sailors rushed forward, full of questions, and Mia brought the man a cup of fresh water from the nearest rainbarrel on deck. “You’re safe now,” Criston assured him. “You’re aboard the
Dyscovera
.”

The castaway looked up at them with a hollow, terrifying expression. “I know this is the
Dyscovera
.” His skin was very pale, a grayish white. His eyes were sunken and dark after long privation at sea, but there seemed to be nothing behind them.

Mia was the first to recognize him, and she bit back an outcry. The stranger raised himself to his feet. “You don’t know me, Captain Vora? After you threw me overboard to my death?” Still dripping, he clawed the clumps of weedy hair from his face. “I knew you’d find me here soon enough.”

Thunderstruck, Criston realized it was Enoch Dey, the crewman who had tried to rape Mia. The captain had cast him into the open sea—months ago.

Javian put himself between Mia and the cadaverous man. “How did you get here? How are you still alive?”

“I am what you see,” Dey said. “And if you sail farther, you’ll discover other lost friends—I promise it.”

Criston issued automatic orders, “Get this man to a cabin—give him food, dry clothes.” Though deeply disturbed, he couldn’t cast the man overboard again—not when there were so many questions to be answered.

Silhouetted on the horizon at sunset were the spires of masts, tattered sails, a group of skeletal ships caught in the trap of seaweed.

Criston had provided Enoch Dey with basic comforts, but ordered him kept in the small brig until they understood more. The
Dyscovera
’s crew was ensnared in superstitious fear, and the prester was particularly uneasy. Criston didn’t blame them.

Dey remained in his cell, uncomplaining; he did not ask to come out, nor did he give any further explanations. He said only, “You’ll see with your own eyes soon enough, Captain. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He gave a snort that rattled with mucus. “You never believed me before.”

Now, upon seeing the graveyard of ships in the seaweed, Javian hurried up to Criston and asked, “If no one else has ever sailed this far, how can those vessels possibly be out here?”

Criston scanned the ships, trying to make out details. “They all look to be of Tierran design. I see no Uraban sails.”

“Maybe they sank any Uraban ships,” Hannes said. “A victory for Aiden.”

As the dusk bloomed orange, Criston could discern shadowy figures on the decks, awaiting the arrival of the
Dyscovera
.

“Let Mr. Dey out of the brig. I want to speak with him.”

The pallid man came across the deck. Though he had made some effort to clean himself, he still had an odd odor about him, like fermenting seaweed. “Now do you understand, Captain, what—and who—they are?”

Criston was losing patience. “Explain it to me, Mr. Dey.”

The gray skin twitched on the man’s face, and his lips curved, but it didn’t seem to be a smile. “Everyone aboard the
Dyscovera
has lost friends to the sea. These are the remains of vessels and crew—you will each know someone here.”

Prester Hannes held up his fishhook pendant and pushed it toward the undead castaway. “Our faith will drive away any demons.”

Enoch Dey ignored him.

As the
Dyscovera
came closer, Criston studied the wrecks through his spyglass, and realized that he did recognize two of them. One was a fishing boat so familiar to him in his youth, a boat he had watched sail away from Windcatch nearly every day—carrying his father, Cindon Vora, who had been lost at sea.

The other, much larger ship was the
Luminara
.

Ishalem

The
Golden Fern
, a warship plated with armor from the Gremurr mines, was fit for the soldan-shah—one of his brother’s last accomplishments. The
Fern
should have been the flagship of a powerful war fleet that would sail through Kel Unwar’s new canal to crush Aidenist ships on the Oceansea.

How could Omra sail this ship without thinking of Tukar and how the ’Hooks had murdered him? Yet another reason, of reasons long past counting, why he could never forgive or make peace with Tierra.

Nevertheless, the
Fern
was the soldan-shah’s most magnificent vessel, and he sailed proudly to Ishalem with Ur-Sikara Kuari at his side.

Only days after learning of the earthquake in Arikara, the soldan-shah had dispatched a caravan with a military escort, four Saedran physicians, pack animals, food, medicines, and as many volunteers as could go on short notice. Kuari’s donations from the church coffers provided additional food, as well as huge bolts of fabric for tents, clothing, and bandages. Omra included a written letter to Soldan Xivir promising more extensive aid soon, including building materials, engineers, carpenters, and other skilled workers. A few days later, Omra’s daughters and father departed with a much larger caravan of supplies and laborers that Imir had managed to collect.

And now he could install the leader of the Urecari church in her new home in Ishalem.

From the Middlesea side of the isthmus, the ironclad entered the mouth of the straight new canal and glided serenely into the holy city.
His
city. Omra had rebuilt Ishalem from scratch on the charred scar of the old site, for the glory of Ondun. Though he wished he could have been here for the inaugural voyage through Kel Unwar’s waterway, his satisfaction was not diminished.

Standing at the bow beside him, Kuari marveled at the canal and all the new buildings. “Back in Inner Wahilir, Huttan didn’t allow me to travel much. Oh, I had great power and freedom in my own household, but I visited Ishalem only twice, and not recently.” She drew in a deep breath. “What you’ve accomplished is breathtaking, Soldan-Shah.”

“This is your city now, Ur-Sikara—where your church is.” He extended a hand to indicate the white buildings on the shore. “I hope we can establish a new relationship between us.”

“We will, Soldan-Shah. We’ve already shown what we can do by sending so much aid to Arikara. The church and the palace should work together against the true enemies of Ondun, not against each other.”

“Istar told me you were full of common sense.”

She grinned. “I have always said a man should listen to his First Wife. I could never convince Huttan of that, though.”

As the
Golden Fern
cruised along the canal, Omra scanned the buildings, seeing how many structures had been finished in the short time since his last visit. The completion of the canal had sparked a flurry of construction at the edge of the waterway—small docks, markets, taverns. However, as he looked toward where Huttan’s church should have stood as a towering landmark, he saw only rubble, piles of debris, collapsed walls and roofs.

Only weeks earlier, Huttan’s imposing church had been prominent among the other buildings…and now it was gone—entirely gone.

Kuari stood in stony silence for a long moment, staring from the ship toward the wreckage of the collapsed church. She composed herself with admirable alacrity. “Obviously I have much work to do here.”

Omra convened an emergency meeting inside the incomplete but sturdy sister church being built by Soldan Vishkar. Kel Unwar met them there, looking upset, accompanied by the other soldan and his Saedran architect, Sen Bira na-Lanis.

“Only a few survived the collapse of Huttan’s church,” Vishkar reported, looking mournful. “All others perished.”

Seeing the destruction, Omra had immediately suspected Aidenist treachery, but the barbarians were not to blame. Only with difficulty did Kel Unwar mask his scorn for Huttan, who had so utterly failed. His voice was cold and judgmental. “It is clear now that there were many architectural flaws, exacerbated by rushed workmanship and inferior materials. Gross mismanagement.” He caught himself and flushed as he remembered who Kuari was. “I am sorry to tell you, Ur-Sikara, that your husband was among those killed inside the church. I believe he was inspecting the work in preparation for your visit.”

Soldan Vishkar had sad, dark eyes and a subdued demeanor. “My deepest sympathies for the loss of your husband, Ur-Sikara.”

Kuari surprised them all with her reaction. “Huttan was an ass. I have no doubt he caused the problem himself.” In the stunned silence, she added, “He was no longer my husband, thanks to my new position, but I knew him well. He did not take the challenge to build the church as an honor, but as an onerous task that he could turn to his own benefit.”

She appraised the sturdy structure of Vishkar’s church, which had been erected on the foundations of the ancient Aidenist kirk. The roof and towers were not yet finished, but the whitewashed interior was ready for occupation. “There are formalities to observe, and the ur-sikara requires a suitable residence. I declare that this will be the new main Urecari church and my personal home.”

Vishkar bowed his head. “I am honored, Ur-Sikara.” He glanced at his pale Saedran architect, then back at her, deeply embarrassed. “But it is not yet complete. Much remains to be done.”

Sen Bira added, “This is a large building, yes, but much too plain to be the central house of Urecari worship. My artisans have only just begun the ornamentation. The sculptors, the mosaic artists, the gilders—”

Kuari shook her head. “Come now, no more nonsense.
Building
a church is different from
ornamenting
a church. If the structure is sound, then we have a new main church. We should take a lesson in humility from the disaster Huttan caused. I will live here and take care of business. Meanwhile, your artisans can continue the paintings, mosaics, friezes, statues, and gold leaf. I don’t think Urec would like to wait, do you?”

The scruffy Saedran architect bobbed his head. “Very well, I’ll arrange the schedule of the workmen so they do not interfere with sunset services. If I have your indulgence, patience, and tolerance, Ur-Sikara, this church will be finished in due time, and we will all be pleased with it.”

Omra wanted to end the discussion. “Ur-Sikara Kuari is the leader of the church. I support her decision. We have more important things to worry about.” He looked at them all. “Kel Unwar has written me letters about Ishalem’s weakened defenses. Now that most of the Nunghals have left, we must find a new way to enhance our navy before the bloodthirsty Tierrans send more ships to attack us. We’ve got to protect Ishalem harbor, as well as our coastal towns. The Aidenists may have been beaten badly, but they’ll return soon enough. We must be ready for them.”

Kel Unwar’s expression darkened. “Only seven Nunghal ships remained behind, but they refuse to patrol the harbor. They want to be merchants and meet new customers, solidify new markets, establish new trade. They are selfish.”

Omra, though, held no malice toward them. “This was never their war, Unwar, only ours. Be grateful for the service they provided when we needed it most.”

“And they did leave four large cannon to guard the mouth of the harbor,” Soldan Vishkar pointed out.