The Key to Creation (29 page)

They headed off on the main coastal road toward Olabar. Since he was accustomed to running across the Nunghal plains, Asaddan did not tire easily. They covered many miles before dawn, but during daylight they hid in the nearby olive groves. The next night, they covered many more miles.

Eventually, Asaddan began to relax. No matter how angry Captain Belluc might be, searchers wouldn’t come this far in pursuit of a mere galley slave. Besides, they would expect any freed Aidenist to head west toward Tierra instead of in the opposite direction, toward the Uraban capital and the heart of the Urecari church. Ciarlo had insisted on going there.

The man wanted to preach the Book of Aiden to anyone who would listen; he was also desperate for news about his sister, who had been kidnapped so long ago. After more than two decades, it seemed impossible that Adrea could still be alive, but the man clung to hope.

Asaddan knew that Saan’s mother, Istar, was also a captured Aidenist from long ago, and
she
had survived in Uraba. He thought perhaps she could help.

Now, as they moved through the press of people in the streets of Olabar, Ciarlo kept trying to brush back his hood so he could see, but Asaddan tugged the covering back in place. “People will stare at
me
enough, but you should not call attention to yourself.”

“They will have to see me if they are to hear my words when I preach.”

“Not now! I have no idea how these people will react when you start telling them things they don’t want to hear.”

In the shadows of his hood, Ciarlo wore a benign smile. “I spent all that time chained to the oars. I was keelhauled. I watched them burn the Tales of the Traveler. I think I understand how Urabans might react.” He picked up the pace. “But I can’t abandon what I must do. Once they know the truth, they will realize Aiden was good. Their Urec did similar things, and he was also a son of Ondun. The people cannot hear only one side of the story.”

Asaddan spoke in a gruff voice out of the corner of his mouth. “Nunghals have a different version of the tale, too, but when I tried to explain our beliefs to the sikaras, they ridiculed my religion and called it unbelievable.”

Ciarlo would not be deterred. “A farmer has to plant many seeds before a fruitful crop will grow. If I tell enough people,
someone
will believe.”

“Maybe so, but not right now.” Asaddan tugged the hood farther down over the man’s fair face. “Be patient. Let me talk to Soldan-Shah Omra first.”

Asaddan had sold the gray mare as soon as they arrived in the city, and now he found a bustling inn near the harbor. He decided against quieter lodgings on a side street, because this busy one received sailors, merchants, and caravan drivers from Lahjar to Kiesh. The innkeeper saw enough strangers from far-flung lands that he wouldn’t be overly interested in Asaddan or his quiet companion.

After securing a dinner of stringy mutton and root vegetables with the last of his coins, the Nunghal carried the platter up to their room. Asaddan wolfed down his meal while Ciarlo picked at his. The Aidenist seemed restless, but Asaddan cautioned, “Wait here until I have news for you.” He finished his food, set the platter aside, and turned to go. “Promise me you’ll stay in the room while I go to the Olabar palace. If I can convince the soldan-shah to speak with you, you might have a chance. In the meantime, don’t talk to anyone.”

Ciarlo touched his fishhook pendant. “I have waited so long already, but I can endure another afternoon.” Implicit in his tone, however, was that if Asaddan did not achieve his purpose, Ciarlo would go down to the inn’s common room and preach the Book of Aiden there. Even the big Nunghal wasn’t sure he could protect Ciarlo then.

When Asaddan arrived at the palace and asked to speak with the soldan-shah, Kel Rovik lowered his voice. “He is in a foul mood—we just learned of two more merchant ships captured in the Middlesea by those pirates from Gremurr. The son of the Abilan soldan was aboard one of them.” He shook his head. “Maybe you should wait until later.”

Asaddan made light of the warning. “Omra should be happy to see me. I have news to share.”

“Alas, the soldan-shah avoids news these days,” Rovik said. “Too many bad reports.”

With feigned casualness, Asaddan entered the throne room where Omra sat alone on the dais, studying documents. The leader’s face wore a dark expression, but when he saw the guest his demeanor softened. “I’m glad to see you again, my friend, though these are not good times.”

Asaddan noted that the weight of responsibilities had aged the soldan-shah greatly in just the past few years. “When are times ever good? I don’t know why anyone would want to be khan or soldan-shah. You face one problem after another.”

“These days I am consumed with thoughts of how to destroy the Aidenists. Again and again they hurt us. Why doesn’t Ondun just make the world open up and swallow them, the way Arikara was leveled by a quake?” He clenched his fists.

Asaddan was taken aback by the intensity of his tone. “Not all Aidenists are so hateful, Omra. Perhaps you just haven’t met the right ones.”

The soldan-shah glowered as he looked down at the documents. “Countless reports of fishing boats, cargo vessels, ore barges seized in the Middlesea! Those waters were always safe, but Aidenist pirates now cruise the coast, attacking us with my own ironclad ships. They prey on our defenseless fishermen and traders, and none of my warships can fight them.”

Omra’s rising anger startled him. “I thought you had your own ironclad, Soldan-Shah.”

“The
Golden Fern
alone is not enough for the battle I need to wage. We have to retaliate somehow, but I have no force that would be sufficient for the task. How I wish your Nunghal fleet had stayed behind. Those hundred ships could have sailed through Unwar’s canal and recaptured Gremurr.”

Asaddan swallowed, lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Soldan-Shah. They were eager to voyage home instead of involving themselves in this war. Maybe as a neutral party they could have talked with Tierra and tried to broker a peace—”

“The Aidenists are
monsters
, Asaddan!” Omra looked up, his eyes blazing. “They piled a thousand severed heads at the Ishalem wall as revenge for the death of their boy prince, and now I vow that even
ten thousand
Aidenist heads will not be enough to avenge the murder of Tukar.”

“And then won’t the queen want a hundred thousand heads for her revenge? Can you see any end to this?”

The soldan-shah’s voice was quiet. “No, Asaddan. No, I can’t.”

Asaddan, who had never seen such violence in Omra, decided that this might not be the best time to tell him about Ciarlo after all. He took a step backward. “When the days are quieter, Soldan-Shah, maybe we can dine together or play a game of
xaries
?”

“I would like that—if the days ever grow quieter.” Omra seemed distracted, and Asaddan left quickly, greatly alarmed by the conversation. Ciarlo would be in great danger indeed if he ever revealed himself.

The Nunghal decided to find a more sympathetic listener.

It was unusual to request a private audience with Omra’s First Wife, but Asaddan didn’t care about stepping on the toes of protocol ministers. He had grown very close to Istar’s son during the first sand coracle journey across the desert to the Nunghal lands, and Saan had told him the heartwrenching story of how his mother had come to be in Uraba.

Glad to have the Nunghal’s company, she served him tea, pistachio pastries, and dates. Though he had his own reasons for wanting to talk to her, he listened with interest as she described what she knew of Saan’s current adventures, as conveyed by Sen Sherufa via the sympathetic journal. After she had brought Asaddan up to date, he leaned forward, clasped his hands together. “My Lady, I brought someone to Olabar—someone I think you should meet. He is a stranger to Uraba, but the two of you have much in common.”

Istar was curious. “Well then, bring him here and introduce me. It’s lonely with my three daughters gone to Arikara.”

Asaddan shifted uncomfortably. “You’ll soon understand why his identity must remain secret, my Lady. It would be best if you quietly came to our inn at dusk. After you’ve met him, you can decide what to do.”

Istar laughed. “You’re being very mysterious. But I’ll accept your recommendation. I’ll meet him, as you ask.”

The
Al-Orizin

Surrounded by icebergs in air that was breathtakingly cold, Saan stepped gingerly across the deck of the ancient frozen ship. The petrified sailors were entirely coated with ice, as if caught in a terrible spell in the middle of their daily activities, frozen solid before they even suspected their danger. One man had a finger raised, pointing at something that was no longer there; another had been solidified in the middle of a sneeze; a third had become one with the icy rope he pulled, his frozen arms bulging with the strain. Even now, the cold was so intense that each breath felt like inhaling sharp needles.

Sen Sherufa was both intrigued and frightened. “What could do this? It must have happened in an instant.”

Saan whispered to Ystya. “Is this your mother’s work?”

But the ivory-haired girl was mystified. “I don’t recognize the power.” She sniffed the air. “I doubt there is any danger now, though—this magic is old…very old.”

“The men look so alive,” Grigovar said, with a hint of intimidation in his voice. He didn’t go close enough to touch any of the figures.

“Careful, they’ll jump out at you!” Yal Dolicar teased, darting his flattened hand in front of the other man’s face. The big reef diver did not appreciate it.

Tentatively, Saan asked Ystya, “Can you awaken these strangers? As the Key to Creation…”

The girl shook her head. “They may look lifelike, but these men are long dead. For many centuries, I would guess.” She looked around the icebergs, heard a distant crack and crash as a chunk of white ice calved off and fell into the water.

Sen Sherufa studied the details of the frozen crew, their clothing and facial features. “Note the tattoos, Captain. I’ve seen symbols like that before.” She indicated a thorny pattern on each man’s left cheek, and a diamond mark clearly visible through the frozen film on the back of their hands.

“Didn’t the Nunghals have patterns like that?” Saan frowned, trying to remember designs he had seen on some of the nomadic clansmen.

“Similar…but details can change over the years and distance. Given enough time and miles, things that started out the same become unrecognizable.” The Saedran woman regarded the ship’s rigging style, the trapezoidal sails, the curve of the hull. “Nunghals have legends of two sailor brothers and how their main clans were stranded on uncharted shores…”

As a breeze gusted, some frost from the rigging ropes broke free and tinkled down like crystal chimes. In her scramble to get out of the way, Sikara Fyiri slipped on the icy deck and came down on her backside; her body was only bruised, but her dignity was severely injured. Yal Dolicar bent over laughing at her, until a piece of falling ice struck the back of his head.

Grigovar brushed a frozen chunk from his shoulder, unruffled. “I don’t like the looks of this ship, Captain, and I don’t like where the
Al-Orizin
is, either. Beware we don’t find ourselves frozen into one of these ice mountains, too. Whatever sorcery did this might come back.”

“We’ll stay just long enough to look around. There might be something belowdecks. Let’s see if this vessel has anything we can use.”

“Or anything of value,” Dolicar added.

Saan found a closed-off cabin—the captain’s quarters, he hoped—but the wooden door was cemented shut with ice. He hammered it with his shoulder, and the door shattered into frozen planks. Shrugging gamely, Saan entered the room.

The cabin’s frost-covered windows allowed only an eerie gray light to filter in. As Saan’s eyes adjusted, he spotted a broad-shouldered, bald man with a thick dark beard seated at his table. He wore an insulated tunic made from the reddish fur of some animal. His arm rested on a rime-encrusted tabletop, his fingers clasping a brittle quill in the act of writing. Nearby, a clay ink bottle had shattered, spilling crumbly black crystals of ink.

Under heavy eyebrows, the frozen man’s gaze was directed toward several charts spread out on a navigation table. The papers were glazed onto the table with a varnish of rippled ice as thick as a pane of glass that distorted the lines and letters on the ancient chart, making it illegible.

Saan said aloud, “So, my fellow captain, what do you have to tell me? Where have we sailed? And how can we find Terravitae?”

Not surprisingly, the petrified man did not answer.

Yal Dolicar considered the thick wooden beams across the cabin ceiling and running down the wall; each was carved with a series of blocky totems. “I saw designs like this long ago, when I went to Iboria. Now that’s a cold and miserable place…but then, so are these seas.” He pointed to the crude carving of a bearded, angry-looking man. “This looks like a frost giant. Why would these sailors on the other side of the world have the same legends as northern Tierrans?”

Hovering at the cabin’s doorway, shivering with cold and reluctant to enter the small room, Fyiri made a skeptical noise. “Who can say what causes fearful people to make up silly stories?”

“Maybe frost giants truly exist,” Ystya said. “Ondun didn’t create everything. There are older and more powerful beings in the world.”

Fyiri responded with a rude snort.

Sen Sherufa was interested in the charts on the table. “We need these maps, whether or not we understand the notations. I might be able to read common root words.”

With his dagger Saan pried the man’s fur sleeves free of the table’s coating of ice. “Sorry to disturb you, my fellow captain.” When he tried to lift the stiff arm, though, the limb broke away with a sharp, hollow snap at the elbow. Red and tan crystals fell from the jagged stump. Saan was more embarrassed than horrified.