The Key to Creation (3 page)

If the queen pulled all her forces together, the Tierran army could ensure the final defeat of the soldan-shah.…

After the military triumph at Gremurr, fires had been extinguished, Uraban bodies dumped into the sea, and brave Aidenist fighters buried in graves marked by fishhook posts. But the queen needed to know of the victory as soon as possible, so she could plan for the next phase of the war. Jenirod had volunteered to make the long and crushing ride; no one was more qualified.

He had taken off as if demons were slashing at his horses’ flanks, determined to go faster than anyone believed possible, needing to do something, anything, to blot out the stain of his foolish, immature actions. And after so many tragedies suffered, so many innocent Aidenists killed by the vengeful Urecari—including Prince Tomas—Jenirod longed to deliver unabashed
good
news for a change.

He had crossed the rugged new mountain path by which the Tierran military reached the undefended mines at Gremurr. At the Corag stronghold of Stoneholm, Jenirod paused for only a few hours to refill his waterskins and pack his saddlebags with food, then rode down through the foothills to the river and the well-traveled road that led to the Tierran capital.

All Tierra would celebrate the great Aidenist triumph, though cheers and applause no longer mattered to Jenirod. He would offer Queen Anjine whatever advice he could, but doubted she would accept it from
him
. Those scars would not heal soon…if ever.

These past few months had shown Jenirod that war bore little resemblance to the glorious depictions in pageantry, stories, and songs. During the interminable, exhausting ride across the land, he had time to ponder all the destruction that had flowed from his blind naiveté. How he regretted his earnest but juvenile suggestion to Destrar Tavishel that they attack a defenseless Urecari shrine, just to impress Anjine. Jenirod had never considered the consequences, never imagined what the Urecari retaliation might cost. Poor Tomas!

Now he felt shamed and soiled by what they had done. Jenirod had changed much in his heart, but the queen would never forgive him.

Still, his news would give hope to countless saddened families across Tierra. In the victory at Gremurr, the army had freed hundreds of slaves from the mines, innocent Aidenists who had been captured in raids or seized from fishing boats in the Oceansea. They were alive, and Jenirod carried a complete list rolled up in his saddlebags.

In the aftermath of the battle, Subcomdar Mateo Bornan had gathered the freed slaves and instructed scribes with paper and ink (confiscated from the Gremurr administrator’s office) to take down all their information so their families could be notified. The scribes covered sheet after sheet with the names, homes, and occupations of the survivors. Those names would bring joy to so many in Calay. Their loved ones would be coming home as soon as possible. Subcomdar Bornan and the first group of freed prisoners would arrive within a few weeks.

But first, Jenirod had to see the queen.

It was sunset by the time his wobbly, weary horse reached the outskirts of the capital city. Jenirod didn’t know what day it was. Ahead, rivers flowed into the harbor and buildings clustered around the waterfront, where long piers extended out past the tidal mud into deeper water. And, silhouetted by the low, blood-orange sun, he could discern the outline of Calay Castle in the distance.

Close…so close.

Half dead, he pulled his horse to a halt outside a warehouse at the harbor’s edge and slid from his saddle as a curious merchant emerged, blinking at him. Jenirod knew he was filthy, wild-haired, and unshaven, but none of that mattered. He was intent on a thin bay mare tied to a fencepost. “A horse—I need your horse, in the name of the queen.”

The merchant eyed Jenirod and his mount, noting the flecks of foam at the horse’s mouth and flanks and seeing how it trembled just standing there, but he recognized fine horseflesh. “Have mine. It’s a more than fair exchange.”

Jenirod took the saddlebags, patted his mount on the neck. His legs could barely hold him up. “Take care of this horse. He’s served me well.” Jenirod didn’t even ask for water or food. So close now. He staggered over to the spindly bay mare, climbed onto the horse’s back—no time for a saddle—clutched the mane, and rode off into the city.

In less than an hour, he reached the castle gate and shouted in a ragged voice, “Guards, bring me to the queen! I must see the queen!”

Jenirod looked like a wild man, and the royal guardsmen were skeptical, but Guard-Marshall Vorannen recognized him immediately. “Jenirod? By the Fishhook, what’s happened to you?”

“A great battle at Gremurr…we defeated the Curlies! Please, I have to tell Queen Anjine!” Guards helped him down from the mare, and Jenirod heaved, then reeled, nearly collapsing, but two men held him up. “All right…I think I’ll take some water first.” He didn’t see who handed a cup to him.

“We’ve sent word to the queen,” Vorannen said. “Maybe you’d like to change your clothes, wash up, rest?”

Jenirod realized that he stank of horse, sweat, and horse sweat, but he knew his priority. He shook his head, and Vorannen saw the unexpected ferocity in his eyes. “Follow me.”

Jenirod knew that seeing him would remind Anjine of the Uraban emissary tossing her brother’s severed head onto the throne room floor. When he stood before her, Jenirod swallowed hard and sketched a hurried bow. He had practiced his speech to the rhythm of thumping hoofbeats, and the words that had been running through his head during the endless ride now spilled out of him. “My Queen, your armies conquered Gremurr! We slew many followers of Urec and kept others alive to work the mines and foundries. It is the most crushing defeat of the enemy so far in this war.”

As her eyes widened, he talked faster. “And we freed the Tierran prisoners who were forced to labor in the mines. Hundreds are alive and able to return home.” He handed her the rolls of names. “Here is a list.”

Astonished, Anjine unrolled the papers, scanned the names. A flush had come to her cheeks. “I didn’t know you or Mateo had gone to Gremurr.” She sat straight, entirely a queen now. “Give me a full report.”

Wasting no words, Jenirod described the surprise attack led by armored mammoths from Iboria, how the Tierran army had captured the mines and foundries, as well as seven armored Uraban warships. “Destrar Broeck is eager to take those ironclads and strike undefended enemy cities on the Middlesea shore, but he sent me here so you can plan our final Tierran victory.”

“And what of Mateo…Subcomdar Bornan? Is he well?”

“He was healthy and uninjured when I left him. Subcomdar Bornan will lead back as many of the prisoners as are able to make the trek. Ondun surely has smiled on us, my Queen.”

Anjine sat back in her chair in silence. Waiting for her reaction, Jenirod began to feel even more weary, more hungry, more filthy. Finally, she gave him a cool, formal nod. “I will have this list copied and distributed as widely as possible. The people need to know.” She looked down at the names, as if unable to comprehend so many. “This news has been a long time coming, Jenirod.”

Olabar Palace

Soldan-Shah Omra sailed back to his capital city, eager to tell his people of the great Uraban victory at Ishalem. The remarkable cannons of his new Nunghal allies had utterly destroyed a Tierran fleet that had come to burn down the holy city. Every one of their Fishhook ships had been sunk, and Omra had left the mangled foreigners for the sharks to devour. His satisfaction was as clean and sharp as a fine steel blade: the followers of Aiden had gotten exactly what they deserved.

When the soldan-shah arrived in Olabar, however, he found his land being torn apart from within. The Urecari church was in an uproar, the ur-sikara dead, the palace reeling from an assassination plot against his First Wife Istar. Hearing the report from his palace guard captain, Kel Rovik, Omra felt blood pounding in his temples. “Is she safe?”

“Your family is unharmed, Soldan-Shah.”

“Call for them! I need to see my wives and daughters, now. Let me look into their eyes and assure myself.” He had fought in Ishalem to preserve his faith and his land, only to find that corrupt sikaras posed their own danger, right here in his capital. He had been at odds with the self-centered priestesses for some time. “Chain the doors of the main church until an investigation is completed. Question all the sikaras!”

Rovik gave a quick formal nod. The man had always been competent and reliable. “Your father issued exactly those orders, Soldan-Shah. We have already uncovered many participants in the plot.”

Omra exhaled, barely containing his fury. Years ago, his father had resigned as soldan-shah because of the treachery of Villiki and the previous ur-sikara. When Imir had unshouldered those burdens, Omra accepted the challenge, vowing to be different…but apparently nothing had changed. “Where is my father? I need to speak with him.”

When Rovik’s face went ashen, Omra felt a deep chill. “He has sequestered himself, Soldan-Shah, in his grief.”

“His…grief? What else happened?”

“A disaster at the Gremurr mines. A large Aidenist army crossed over the mountains on giant, shaggy monsters and struck Gremurr from the rear. They seized the mines and our ironclad warships, murdered our troops, enslaved others to work the mines.”

Omra had to sit on a cushion to hide his sudden feeling of weakness. Across the open balcony, the curtains waved in the breeze. In the afternoon light, the red silk hangings gave an eerie crimson cast to his private rooms. Gremurr…lost! Those mines supplied metals, ships, armor, and swords for all of Uraba.

Rovik looked like a statue as he forced himself to stand straight, keep his voice flat, and deliver the rest of his report. “And there is more, Soldan-Shah.”

Omra suddenly knew why his father was in mourning. “Tukar?”

Kel Rovik lowered his dark gaze. “The ’Hooks sent his head back as a message. That was a week ago.”

Each breath chilled him like an icy wind in his chest. He knew exactly what sort of message the Tierrans intended to send. Queen Anjine had received a similar horrific gift after Kel Unwar impetuously executed her young brother. Just an innocent boy…

But Tukar was innocent too! He’d been exiled to the Gremurr mines through no fault of his own—a result of his mother Villiki’s treachery—but he had served his soldan-shah faithfully.

Though Omra understood intellectually the pain Queen Anjine was trying to assuage with this barbaric retaliation, he shoved those thoughts from his mind, leaving no room for even the idea of sympathy. She had killed
Tukar
! Tukar…

Omra’s hatred for Aidenists blazed like a bonfire built from bone-dry tinder. He tallied the appalling atrocities the ’Hooks had committed over the years. What pain and misery they had inflicted on his poor people. Omra’s vision blurred, and he breathed faster and faster. There had to be a reckoning!

Istar’s arrival at his doorway startled him. “My Lord, I am happy to see you back. I’ve missed you.” Her tone carried clear relief.

But when Omra looked up at his wife of more than twenty years, he recoiled from the sight of her blond hair and blue eyes, her pale skin, her narrow features. Though she was the mother of his daughters, the mother of Saan, he momentarily saw only a
Tierran
woman. He loathed all Tierrans and everything to do with their hateful culture and religion. He covered his eyes. “Go away!” He drew another breath and calmed himself. “Please…just go away, Istar.” He loved her, but he couldn’t stand any more right now.

Whispering to her, Kel Rovik led Istar away, leaving Omra alone with swirling hatred. He clenched and unclenched his hands, squeezing the rings on his fingers. When Naori came with his two young sons, and then his three daughters arrived, he embraced them, but found his thoughts churning like a stormy sea.

Though he had come back to Olabar with hopes of winning this war, the soldan-shah now reached a harsh conclusion: total genocide of the Aidenists was the only acceptable victory. He was certain of that.

Trapped in the whirlwind of anger, Omra reached out for a moment of calm, thinking of Saan, who had sailed away aboard the
Al-Orizin
many months ago on a quest to find the mysterious Key to Creation. Such exciting adventure for a young man—to uncharted waters and new lands. Saan’s ocean voyage must be peaceful, so far away from politics.…

The
Al-Orizin

Iyomelka’s resurrected ship chased after them, borne on storms and vengeance. From his own deck, Saan watched the island witch through the spyglass. He and his crew were in terrible danger, yet he did not regret his decision to rescue the intriguing and beautiful Ystya from her exile.

“I’m sorry I caused this, Saan. I wanted to be free, but Mother won’t let me go.”

Saan smiled at her. “I don’t intend to let her have you back.”

The young woman had delicate features so perfect that sculptors in Olabar would have lined up for the chance to reproduce her face in marble. Her hair was the color of ivory with a hint of honey, her green eyes shone with an innocent hunger to see and learn. Now Ystya looked pale and dizzy, but when she took Saan’s arm she straightened like a wilting blossom given water. “I just wanted to see the world for myself.”

“And that’s what I promised you. I don’t go back on my promises.” He tried to look brave and confident, not only for her, but for his entire crew. The sailors looked to their captain for answers, sure he must have some kind of plan to save them. He would have to figure something out.

Iyomelka summoned ripples of sorcery and flung them at the ship. The
Al-Orizin
fled before the wind—away from the island witch’s wrath and headlong toward another formidable obstacle: ahead, growing ever closer, towered the scaly body of Bouras, a sea serpent so huge that it was said to girdle the entire world, condemned to bite its own tail until Ondun’s curse was lifted. The
Al-Orizin
had no way to get past it.