“And I’m glad to see that our little adventure didn’t turn you into a landsman. We won’t be seeing many Urecari pirates where
we’re going this time.”
“That would be fine with me, sir. We’ll see other interesting places.”
The captain motioned for him to take a small wooden stool. “This isn’t a week-long voyage, like the other one. Tell me why
I should let you join my crew.”
“Because I’m a good sailor and a hard worker. I understand currents, I know how to weather storms, and I can catch the faintest
breath of breeze in a dead calm.”
“Impressive.” A smile quirked Shay’s lips. “Maybe you should be the
Luminara
’s captain instead of me.”
Criston wondered if he had bragged too much. “My father was a fisherman, sir. He died in a storm.”
“Many fisherman die in storms, and we’re bound to encounter plenty of storms ourselves, as well as things we can’t even begin
to imagine.”
Criston nodded. “I’m ready for the storms, sir, and anxious to see what else the seas have to offer.”
Shay rocked back in his chair. “Aren’t you terrified of the unknown? Most people are.”
“The unknown doesn’t have to be frightening. There’ll be wonders, too.”
The captain chuckled. “I’d say that qualifies you to join the
Luminara
’s crew. And, as I recall, you were the first to spot Fillok’s plot as we approached Ouroussa, so I could certainly use you.
But what does your family think? You’ll be gone a whole year—
if
the voyage goes as planned. Your father’s dead, you say. What about your mother? I can’t remember from before—are you married?
Any children?”
“I have a wife, and I have a mother. They both support my decision.” Leaning forward on the stool, Criston put his elbows
on his knees and spoke in an earnest voice. “When I was only thirteen, my father bought his own fishing boat. He’d worked
for most of his life as part of another man’s crew, and he wanted to be a captain himself, to have something of his own. He
went into a great deal of debt to have his own vessel, but I saw how happy it made him. He was on top of the world!” Criston
glanced at the colorful shells, the naturalist drawings, the unrecognizable potted plant hanging from a hook near the latticed
window of the cabin. “And one night the fishing boat vanished. It might have just been a storm, or it might have been the
Leviathan.
“The loss of that boat left us nearly destitute. We had no way to pay back the loan, so I lied about my age and signed aboard
other boats. I worked hard, I took care of my mother, and eventually—seven years later—I commissioned my own boat. When I
told my mother what I intended to do, she didn’t want me to follow in my father’s footsteps. She didn’t want me to be lost
at sea.”
“I doubt any mother does, young man.”
“To save money, I did most of the work with my own hands. And now we’ll sell the boat so that my wife and mother can live
on the money while I’m gone. Then, when the
Luminara
returns, I’ll buy an even bigger boat.”
“Very ambitious.”
“I can do it.”
The captain opened a large logbook on his desk, dipped a quill in the inkwell, and handed it to Criston for his signature.
“Welcome to my crew. We sail in six days.”
While Criston went to the
Luminara,
Adrea and Ciarlo attended to business of their own. Though Calay was a strange place to them, Adrea wasn’t afraid to ask
questions, and she could be bold when she needed to. She talked to dockworkers; she stopped at taverns; she asked about captains
who were without ships. She searched for men who might want to buy the
Cindon.
Before departing to present himself to Captain Shay, Criston had taken a long slow walk around the deck of his boat, touching
the rails, the Captain’s Compass, the hatches. He ran his fingers along the sailcloth, tugged on the secure knots, as if saying
goodbye. Adrea knew how much effort and love he had put into this boat, how he had spent his nights sanding the hull, pounding
in caulking ropes, lacquering surfaces exposed to the weather. But sailing with the
Luminara
meant even more to him. She had no doubt in her mind that he would secure a position on the crew, and if he did he would
have to sell the boat.
After Adrea and Ciarlo had made many inquiries, three men came to see the
Cindon
. One was a drunkard, and Adrea doubted he had enough money to buy a sail, much less a boat. He poked around and made insulting
comments, gave a rude scowl to Ciarlo, as though to convince himself that he didn’t really want a boat that he couldn’t afford
anyway.
The next was a gaunt older man with long hair and a full beard. He had been a sailor in his youth, but when his older brother
died, he’d been forced to stay home and manage the family pottery shop. Now his own sons were old enough to do the work, and
the old man still felt the call of the sea; he wanted a boat of his own, but he could not afford Adrea’s terms.
The third man was a rich merchant searching for an investment. She haggled enthusiastically to reach an agreement with him;
then she talked him into business terms with the wistful old sailor. The sailor would be the captain, and the merchant would
take a share of the profits. As part of the deal, Adrea insisted that the old sailor grant her and Ciarlo passage back to
Windcatch—if Criston was accepted as part of Captain Shay’s crew. She had all the details taken care of. The high selling
price further eased the sting of having to surrender the boat. Her brother was quite pleased with the result.
When Criston rushed back to the
Cindon
’s slip in the marina, he was grinning, his boyish face extraordinarily handsome. Adrea kissed him before he could even tell
her his news. “I knew the captain would accept you.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “And how did you know? Even I wasn’t sure.”
“I
knew,
because you belong there.”
The death of Istar so devastated Zarif Omra that he had little grief to spare when word arrived about the burning of Ishalem.
The soldan-shah’s galley had arrived in port, bringing the terrible news. In the streets of Olabar, the people shouted their
fury at the Aidenists and flocked to the churches to hear the sikara priestesses demanding retribution.
Omra did not feel that passion, though. He could think of nothing beyond the loss of his wife.
He had declared a week of mourning in the city and spent a full day in silent vigil at his wife’s side, holding conversations
with her that she could not hear. Istar’s body had been washed, perfumed, and wound in Yuarej silk dyed orange, her favorite
color. The small half-formed baby was cradled in her arms, also wrapped in silks.
With the heat of the season, the funeral could not wait. The young sikara Fyiri—who had previously blessed the pregnancy—completed
the rites, lighting the pyre that rapidly consumed Istar’s lovely body. Omra was barely able to see through the tears in his
eyes, but when the smoke finally cleared and nothing remained of her but ashes, he had dried his eyes and emptied his heart…
Barely settled in back at the palace, Soldan-Shah Imir called an immediate war council. He summoned representatives from the
soldanates of Missinia, Yuarej, Inner and Outer Wahilir, and Abilan. Ur-Sikara Lukai spoke for the church, her words sharp
and strident, for this was to be a religious war (or so she insisted). The merchant families demanded to know what was to
become of them if they could no longer trade in Tierran goods.
As the heir to the soldan-shah, Omra was required to participate in the intense discussions, but his thoughts were obscured
by the veil of his grief and the sharp pain of his loss. He saw the palace around him, the city of Olabar, the whole world,
in a different light. Details were sharp, but the colors had faded.
The zarif dutifully sat by his father’s side at the long table, saying nothing even as voices were raised, shouts layered
upon shouts. He gave the appearance of listening to the debate, his expression cold, but he could not bring himself to care.
When the spokesman for Outer Wahilir demanded that a large portion of the treasury be diverted to his soldanate, since a new
Uraban fleet must be built there (and because the murder of city-leader Fillok by the Tierran captain had not yet been avenged),
the representatives of the other soldanates nearly came to blows. Still, Omra did not rise from his seat.
His father looked at him, growing more and more disturbed. Finally, Imir rose and bellowed, “Leave! All of you. I must speak
with Zarif Omra.”
The delegates were shocked, and an indignant Ur-Sikara Lukai insisted on staying, but the soldan-shah shooed them all out
of the room. Preoccupied with their own worries, none of them had noticed any difference in Omra’s demeanor.
When they were alone, Imir resumed his seat, folded his ringed fingers together, and spoke sternly to his son. “You are my
heir. You will be the next soldan-shah. Do these matters bore you?”
For Omra, even raising his head felt like lifting a great weight. “Few matters interest me. My wife is dead.”
“So get another wife. Countless women would be happy to marry you. You should have had more than one wife by now anyway—then
you wouldn’t be moping around so uselessly.”
His father’s callousness ignited a flicker of anger in Omra’s chest. “I said, my wife is
dead
. My son is
dead
.”
“It is a sad fact of life, my son, but women die in childbirth all the time, just as men die in battle. You can have more
sons, but only if you have more wives. Remember the story of Urec and Fashia. It is your obligation.”
Omra’s throat was dry. Yes, it was his obligation. As the son of the soldan-shah, he had many obligations.
Although Urec’s wife Fashia had accompanied him on his voyage from Terravitae, she was unable to conceive a child. Since he
was the son of Ondun, Fashia insisted that Urec take other wives so that he could spread his family when they reached the
new world. But Fashia did not surrender her role as his first wife.
When his exploration ship landed on a new continent and Urec tried to befriend the original Urabans, those natives did not
know Ondun, and they received the newcomers with violence. They tried to murder all the people on the ship, and Urec’s sailors
fought back. After much killing on both sides, the surviving natives finally accepted the word of Ondun and made peace.
Because there were so many more women than men after the slaughter, Fashia suggested that
all
of Urec’s surviving crewmen also be allowed to take more than one wife, provided that the women were willing and provided
that the men could care for their wives. Only that way could they populate the land that Ondun had promised.
But Zarif Omra could not think of other women. His thoughts were haunted by memories of Istar whispering in his ear, Istar
coming to watch him hold court during his father’s absence, Istar braiding her hair. She had loved Omra not because of the
power and wealth he embodied, but because of who he was. All the reasons for taking multiple wives seemed cold and political
to him, having little to do with love.
And yet he would be the next soldan-shah. Obligations…
His father was actually in a jovial mood. Imir had declared a halt to further council meetings, much to the consternation
of the other participants, insisting that he needed to take care of other matters first. Omra suspected that his father was
glad to apply himself to a problem with a real and immediate resolution.
Though Omra could hear whispers and the rustle of clothing in the tiled corridor outside his opulent private quarters, the
soldan-shah sat on a cushion in front of him, holding a private conversation with him. “I have not told you this, Omra, but
your mother suffered two miscarriages as well. I commiserate with the pain of your loss. But eventually Lithio gave birth
to you—and you were definitely worth waiting for.”
Imir lounged back. “Your mother was my best choice when I was young, and she is still very special to me, though I haven’t
seen her in years. All three of my wives are special to me. Asha, who is so sweet and beautiful… Villiki, who knows so much
about court politics that she could have been a soldan-shah herself. She has already spoken to me twice since I’ve returned,
stating that because of your grief you are no longer fit to be zarif and that our son Tukar should take the role instead.”
Omra made a scoffing noise. “She always speaks like that.”
His father continued, as if he didn’t want to lose track. “You must make similar choices, my son. Hundreds of women across
Uraba would claw one another’s eyes out to be your next wife.”
“I don’t want women who would claw one another’s eyes out to have me.”
“You have a point—that may not be the best criterion. But if you choose several wives, one of them may make you as happy as
Istar did. I know you don’t think that now, but trust me, when you’ve been with enough of them, most women are very much the
same.”
The soldan-shah clapped his hands, and the hangings stirred with a clicking rush of beads. Two silent guards ushered in a
petite young woman followed by three smiling and self-satisfied-looking officials. The young woman had large brown eyes, perfect
skin, and elegant dark hair. As she walked, numerous gold bangles, necklaces, anklets, and bracelets jingled. She wore a rainbow
of silks, scarves, and wraps dyed the brightest colors imaginable, and her face was exquisitely painted with makeup as if
she were a living work of art. She demurely averted her eyes.
Soldan-Shah Imir stood from his cushion. “I’ve taken the liberty of choosing someone I believe should be your next wife. When
you married Istar, you ruffled a few feathers by choosing a merchant’s daughter rather than a child of a noble family. This
lovely child will quiet the lingering ill will and strengthen the bonds among the soldanates.”
“Does she have a name?” Omra asked sourly.