The Key to Creation (6 page)

“We are fully operational, Destrar. The damage has been repaired, the forges are relit, and the miners are back in the tunnels, pulling out iron and copper ore. As of today, our production is back at its prior capacity.”

Firun had been captured fifteen years previously and put to work in the mines; when he grew too old to perform hard labor, he became a household servant for Tukar, the mine administrator. Having served here for so many years, Firun understood the workings of the mines, where the veins of metal ore were in the cliffsides, where the tunnels led, how the forges worked.

“A day sooner than expected—good! Were there any problems?”

Firun shook his head. “The Urabans spent years bullying Tierran slaves, and now they see what it’s like to be on the other side of the whip. I don’t think they like their reversed roles!”

Broeck was especially pleased to learn about the amazing chemical mixture called firepowder. During the Urecari administration, Aidenist slaves had been forced to mix batch after batch of the explosive for blasting mine tunnels, and thus knew the chemical recipe. Envisioning how Tierra could use firepowder in the war effort, Broeck had sent the secret back to Calay along with Subcomdar Bornan and the freed refugees.

Broeck walked with wobbly steps, getting used to solid ground again after a day aboard the sailing ship. Firun took him to the row of smelters that were producing new metal to be fashioned into armor and blades. The temperature was blisteringly hot inside the smelter building and the air nearly unbreathable with fumes. The defeated Urecari slaves looked sullen as they went about their labors. Theirs were the bloody backs now.

Firun was troubled by the aggressive punishment, however. “I know they are only followers of Urec, Destrar. Vengeance is one thing, but we do need those workers. If they are injured by harsh treatment, then they can’t produce for us. Workmaster Zadar was a cruel man, but he understood how to enforce strict discipline without damaging his laborers.”

Broeck brushed aside the concern. “It gives our men a much-needed sense of justice. For now, let them have their fun.” He turned his attention to the crates stacked along the far wall. “Have you completed the inventory yet? I am anxious to know what sort of bounty we seized.”

Firun lifted the lid of one crate to reveal packed, shining swords. “Nearly three hundred blades to arm three hundred Tierran soldiers.”

Broeck ran his eyes along the piled crates and gave an appreciative nod. “I don’t like the curved style of blades favored by the Curlies, but I suppose they’ll chop through flesh and bone well enough.”

The
Al-Orizin

Overhead, thunder pounded like drumbeats from the angry clouds. From her spectral ship, Iyomelka’s voice boomed out in a desperate scream: “Give me my daughter!” The island witch looked horrific, her dark hair blowing in the wild wind.

Yet she was a far lesser threat than the gigantic sea serpent. The fearsome head of Bouras split the water as it hurtled toward them. “Hang on!” Saan yelled, certain that no ship, no weapon could drive away the Father of All Serpents. As the first of the monster’s bow waves slammed into the
Al-Orizin
, he held Ystya, trying to maintain a brave face.

The young woman shouted into the rising crash of waves, “This is not what my father would have wished, but what else can I do?” She tore free of Saan’s grip and dashed for the stern, somehow keeping her balance on the lurching deck. “If Bouras has not learned his lesson, we are all in grave danger.”

“That’s nothing new,” Yal Dolicar said. Sailors cried out to Ondun; the smart ones lashed themselves to any sturdy object.

Ystya reached the port rail and raised her face toward the oncoming dragon-like head. Great sheets of water sprayed up on either side of the massive serpent body.

Sure she would be cast over the side, Saan struggled to reach her in time.

The ethereal girl lifted both hands and began to
glow
. Ystya’s skin, her hands, even her pale hair shimmered with a power that came from within. Saan had never seen anything like it, and for an instant amazement washed away his fear.

She called out, not in a titanic voice like her mother’s, but in an eerie, compelling tone that nevertheless sliced through the storm. “Bouras, Father of Serpents!” Her voice seemed to resonate in Saan’s very bones.

The monster’s enormous eyes fixed on Ystya and
knew
her somehow. The slitted pupils widened in sudden recognition.

In a tone of absolute authority, she said, “You have endured this punishment long enough! Ondun condemned you—but now
I
release you.
Your curse is lifted.
Go, and cause no further harm!”

Ystya brought her hands together in a clap as loud as the shattering of a world.

Bouras’s scaly lips curled back to reveal tusk-like fangs as large as trees, but flesh had grown around the yellowed teeth. The jaw strained, and with a great sucking sound the long fangs slid out, leaving scarred craters in the creature’s tail. The Father of All Serpents opened his mouth for the first time in countless centuries.

Finally free, Bouras recoiled like a tight spring being released—the tail snapped downward loosely, the head reared back. The great body thrashed about, carving a huge canyon in the water, raising tsunamis on both sides and leaving a deep gulf between them. The tail struck the
Al-Orizin
and knocked the ship about like flotsam. The vessel careened out of control, rode high up on a mountain of waves, then crashed down into the valley between them.

Saan reached Ystya and pulled her down to the deck while he wrapped his other forearm around a stanchion. The
Al-Orizin
was airborne for a few seconds and crashed down with a splintering of hull boards and spars. Two crewmen were flung overboard into the churning sea.

Yal Dolicar flailed wildly as he flew past and managed to snag a post with the hook attachment tied to his wrist stump. Dangling over the edge, he kicked and struggled. Grigovar hauled himself forward, muscles straining, until he grabbed the other man and heaved him back aboard.

Sikara Fyiri, her red robes flashing bright in Saan’s peripheral vision, clung to the side, wailing. As the deck bucked like a wild stallion, Sen Sherufa slid toward her, and Fyiri clutched the Saedran woman’s robe, refusing to let go. Sherufa instinctively helped the priestess back aboard, though Fyiri was not likely to thank her later.

Farther away, the moving mountains of water smashed Iyomelka’s ship with the force of several tidal waves, flinging it toward the horizon.

The Father of All Serpents continued to unwrap itself from the world and sank back beneath the sea at last, while uncontrolled waves drove the
Al-Orizin
far away to the southeast.…

When the waters had calmed enough that Saan could regain his feet on the sloppy deck, he surveyed the ocean around them and knew they had been thrown a great distance. Far away, he could see Iyomelka’s storm clouds dissipating. The
Al-Orizin
wobbled, battered but still seaworthy.

“We survived,” Saan said, barely believing it himself. He hugged Ystya, confused by what he had witnessed, and more than a little intimidated. “How did you do that?”

She seemed utterly drained. “I just…did. My mother isn’t the only one with powers.” She smiled at him—and fainted. He caught her, then rested her gently on the deck.

With an increasing urgency, he watched the open sea around them, sure that Iyomelka’s ship would come chasing after them again. He shouted to his crew, “Get the sails in place! We need to get moving—now! Bouras gave us a chance. Let’s not waste it.”

A drenched Sen Sherufa tried to wake Ystya. “Grigovar, help me. I’ll get her some dry clothes. She needs to rest.” The reef diver picked the girl up like a bolt of sailcloth and carried her to the Saedran’s cabin.

Sikara Fyiri kept her distance, staring after Ystya with awe and fear.

Olabar, Main Urecari Church

The main church of Urec had never been so empty. The soldan-shah had commanded that the sikaras be evicted, and the main doors had been chained shut to keep the public out.

Entering through a guarded side door, Omra and his party walked toward the central worship chamber. The empty building felt as devoid of life as a tomb. After the recent appalling events, he had decided to demonstrate that
he
was the center of power in Uraba. He had let it be known throughout the city that he and his First Wife would be paying a visit to the main church. The sikaras had forgotten that the soldan-shah was the true descendant of Urec, and that by attempting to kill him or his family—not once, but several times—they had committed an unspeakable atrocity against Ondun Himself.

Not all the priestesses had been involved in the plot, but they had implicitly cooperated in the twisted system. Many sikaras had been imprisoned, and many more were humbled and sent off to serve in smaller houses of worship around Olabar. Meanwhile, the main church remained closed to the public. For now.

Istar followed Omra into the cold, empty worship hall, quiet and respectful. The soldan-shah knew he had been uncustomarily cool to his First Wife since returning home, and he struggled to separate his hatred for her people from his love for
her
. Istar was the mother of his two daughters, the mother of
Saan
; she had been his wife for two decades. Though he could not forget that she was of Tierran birth, he forced himself to remember all the good things she had done for him, and how he had allowed her into his heart.

The six guard escorts kept their distance so the soldan-shah and his First Wife could continue their inspection. Omra knew their entrance into the empty church today had resembled a victory procession: the soldan-shah reminding everyone who he was and flaunting a blond-haired foreigner as his wife. Just by bringing Istar, he showed everyone that she had survived the sikaras’ plotting.

Omra maintained his silence as they walked across the polished floor tiles that formed the spiral pattern of the Unfurling Fern. When they were far enough ahead of the guards, he took a deep breath and pushed past his dark mood. He whispered, “It is not your fault, Istar. I am sorry for the way I’ve treated you. When I think of the heinous crimes the Aidenists committed, I just want to kill them all. But I do you a disservice by including you among those animals.”

She regarded him with her sincere blue eyes, well aware that she herself had hated him for a long time after he burned her village and took her away from everything she’d known. But over the years, Istar had accepted her life, and now she looked on him with affection, even love. “I understand your pain, Omra.” Her businesslike tone brushed aside the awkwardness. “The people don’t care about internal politics. They want to go to their church and express their beliefs, but you’ve locked the doors. You know that can’t go on. They’ll need a new ur-sikara soon. Give them one, before the priestesses make their own choice.”

Omra knew she was right. If he didn’t heal the rift between himself and the church, there would be great turmoil, and the people would begin to feel they had to choose between their leader and their religion. And he didn’t dare allow those scheming women to dictate his decisions.

He stepped up to the main altar from which the ur-sikara delivered her homilies. When Istar had been just a palace slave, Ur-Sikara Lukai had betrayed the church, scheming with Villiki to poison Omra. Now Ur-Sikara Erima had been manipulated into a similar betrayal and had taken her own life.

Omra would not trust the sikaras. “It has gone on far too long. If I let the priestesses select their own successor, I’ll be in the same predicament as before. I need an ur-sikara who is not politically insidious—a woman who has no ambitions or schemes beyond the church.”

“Such a priestess might be difficult to find,” Istar said, then added in a soft voice, “However, with your permission, I could suggest a name…someone I believe would be both pragmatic and loyal?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What do you know of sikaras?”

“I know that I was impressed by Kuari, your new emissary to Inner Wahilir. Soldan Huttan’s First Wife.”

“Huttan’s wife? That would be asking for trouble. I am already annoyed with that man for his incursions into Yuarej soldanate. He’s too ambitious.”

“And his wife knows that full well. Kuari will never be her husband’s puppet. I’m surprised he hasn’t found a way to strangle her before now. The fact that she has survived also speaks in her favor.”

Omra had met the woman and was also impressed with her. He had spoken to Kuari in her capacity as emissary, but would never have considered her as a potential ur-sikara. Istar explained that Kuari had been raised in the church and trained as a priestess, but chose to marry Huttan instead because she was frustrated with politics and power plays among the sikaras.

Hearing this, he nodded slowly. “That would indeed send an appropriate message to the church of Urec. The priestesses have to be reminded of their role, and their limitations. I am the secular ruler, while the sikaras guide the spiritual lives of the people. Will Kuari let herself be kept on a tight leash?”

Istar gave him a wry smile. “She’ll view it as keeping the sikaras under control.”

Omra drew a deep breath, wanting to close the gulf between them. “I do value your counsel, Istar. I will speak with Kuari and see if she can abide by my conditions. If so, I’ll anoint her myself, and the church will have its new leader without further ado.”

Without a body, it was difficult to give Tukar a proper funeral; nevertheless, Omra insisted on honoring his brother with a special ceremony.

Imir joined him, looking gray and wasted in his sorrow. The older man had surrendered his rule because he could no longer bear the weight of consequences, yet those consequences continued to dog him. Although the former soldan-shah attended the ceremony, he did not wish to participate in any speeches. Imir didn’t trust his voice to deliver a eulogy for his fallen son.