Now it appeared that the young man had another career ahead of him. Prester Fennan had taken Ciarlo on as his acolyte and
made no secret of the fact that as soon as he wanted to move into the small kirk, Adrea’s brother could become the town’s
assistant prester.
As the vegetables and herbs simmered with the mussels, fish, and pungent seaweed, Adrea added a pinch of coarse black pepper
she had purchased from a spice merchant in Calay. She wanted to extend her supply for as long as possible, but she imagined
that Criston would return with treasure chests of exotic spices from his extensive voyage. In a year.
Prester Fennan arrived just as Telha was removing the pot from the fire. He seemed to know exactly when dinner would be served.
At first it had been a quiet joke in the family, and then they accepted his arrival at mealtime as a matter of course. Fennan
generally paid for his supper by instructing Ciarlo how to read the Scriptures in the original archaic language.
At the crowded dinner table, the prester offered the blessing and Ciarlo mouthed the words, practicing the ancient tongue.
For his contribution, Fennan had brought half a loaf of old bread one of the parishioners had given to him. They shared the
stale bread around, dipping chunks into the soup to mop up the broth. Afterward, satisfied, Telha busied herself in the kitchen,
while Ciarlo and the prester sat with the open Book of Aiden by the soft glow of a whale-oil lamp.
“We must learn the Scriptures,” Fennan said. “We must be prepared. Ondun has left us here with a quest, and we dare not disappoint
Him when He returns.”
“But… I don’t understand the quest,” Ciarlo said.
“I have taught you the words. We must improve the world, by the grace of God. Ondun created this place. We are its caretakers,
its artisans.”
“Prester-Marshall Baine says that we’ve got to explore and learn,” Adrea interrupted. She thought of Criston, far off beyond
the horizon in uncharted seas. “That’s how we improve the world and ourselves.”
Prester Fennan frowned, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. “That is an ambitious interpretation, but we cannot all be
explorers. Most people can improve the world just by being good, by taking care of one another, and spreading the Word of
Aiden.”
Some presters believed that people should use the world Ondun had given them, by planting crops, mining metals, fishing the
seas, and hunting in the forests. More ambitious followers wanted to build kirks and monuments to prove to Ondun’s all-seeing
eyes that they remembered and appreciated Him. Adrea liked to think that Criston was doing great work by seeing every aspect
of creation, for perhaps Ondun had left majestic secrets behind as a gift for the faithful.
Prester Fennan opened his worn Book, which had served the last four presters of Windcatch. “Read with me, Ciarlo. I know it’s
a tale you like—the story of the Leviathan.”
Adrea stood behind them, trying to be unobtrusive as she looked over their shoulders. She’d been present at all of her brother’s
lessons, deciphering the obscure letters of the strange old language. Adrea found to her surprise that she had more of an
aptitude for the studies than her brother did.
“When Ondun created all the creatures,” Ciarlo read aloud, struggling with a few of the words, “He also made the Leviathan,
a giant and hungry creature with a cavernous mouth, tentacles, a single glowing eye, and a blowhole that belches poison. But
when Ondun saw how monstrous the creature was, He wisely decided not to make a mate for it.”
He looked up at Prester Fennan, who nodded in encouragement. He continued reading. “For if the Leviathan were to propagate,
its progeny would devour all the fish in the sea. So now the world remains intact, but the Leviathan is lonely and angry,
for it is the only one of its kind.”
Adrea pressed her lips together. She was terribly lonely, too, but
she
didn’t feel angry and destructive. She only wanted Criston to come home…
She lost herself in the memory of him on the last night before the
Luminara
’s departure, those sweet hours aboard the
Cindon
with the portholes open to let in the fresh night air. Adrea and Criston were alone in the small private world they made
for themselves. Outside, the darkness was lit by thousands of lanterns and candles aboard boats and ships, bright windows
of dockside taverns and inns, torches carried by watchmen and revelers. She and Criston had no interest in going out to experience
the bustling nightlife of Calay; they wanted only to hold each other.
It seemed as if Adrea had known him forever, that they had always belonged together, and yet—on that final night, confined
in the hot and stuffy cabin with a gentle breeze whispering in—it felt as if they were discovering each other for the first
time. While her brother snored softly out on the deck, letting them have privacy in the small cabin, Adrea had held Criston,
warm skin touching warm skin, and fingers meeting each other with a sense of wonder. She was sure that was when she had conceived
his child.
“I wish I could go with you, Criston.”
“You will be with me—in my heart… all the way to the edge of the world.” He kissed her ear, her neck.
“To the edge of the world—
and back
.”
“Of course I’ll be back.” He pulled her down onto the bunk so abruptly she let out a laugh. “And think of the stories I’ll
be able to tell you! Just you wait.”
That night had been more than lovemaking; rather, it was a heartfelt goodbye, a collecting and treasuring of memories that
would have to last for a year…
Now, months later, Adrea savored the memory.
That night, after Prester Fennan departed, Adrea lay awake in bed, smiling, wondering what Criston was doing. Despite her
loneliness, she was content and not afraid. Everything seemed right with the world… except for the fact that he wasn’t with
her.
Once again, Hannes awoke as a prisoner of burning, bandages, and pain. He had no idea how much time had passed, or where he
was. He could see nothing because of the coverings on his eyes. He didn’t know how often he had struggled back to acid-stained
consciousness, only to be confused and overwhelmed by agony before diving deep into the blackness, clinging to the anchor
of his faith.
Each time, like a tempting seductress, he had heard the sweet woman’s voice, her soothing songs, the delicate music. He felt
cool water on his lips, tasted lightly spiced food, sweet fruit juices, figs covered with honey. He wanted to believe this
was his reward for a lifetime of devotion, but for now he had to believe this was a trick. He could not let down his guard.
Finally when the nightmares subsided, leaving him with the staccato firing of raw nerves and furious itching of scabs on his
skin, he listened carefully to the voice. He was so familiar with the language that he did not at first realize she was speaking
Uraban. “I know you’re awake. Come back to me. I took care of you,” she whispered close to his ear. “Come back to me.”
Only rough animalistic sounds came out of his throat. His mouth was dry, and he felt fingers touch his chin, part his lips.
Lukewarm tea slithered into his throat, and he swallowed, then coughed.
The woman wiped his mouth and said, “Rest. I see you growing stronger every day.”
He tried to talk again, but could not find the right words. Language was a confusion in his mind, but he seized upon one word.
“Where?” Then he asked again, gaining strength, building confidence. “Where am I?”
“With me—Asha. You are safe here. I rescued you from the fire.”
He tried to see, but his vision could not penetrate the bandages over his eyes. He felt a touch of cool, moist cloths; she
was bathing him, wiping his rough cheeks, his hands and arms. He could hear birds singing and a breeze rustling fanlike leaves—palms?—outside
an open window.
“Why can’t I see?” Hannes spoke Uraban, just as the woman did.
“It’s time I removed your bandages. Just wait; it will get better. The doctors say your vision should be safe. For a while
they thought you were blinded, but I didn’t lose faith.”
Hannes felt the cloth pull away with an extra tug. Blood, scabs, and salves had fused the threads to his face, but that little
pain was nothing compared to what he had already endured. Asha gently peeled away the gauze, flooding his eyes with light.
He could see nothing but a blinding whiteness so different from the awful orange flames that had consumed him. Colors seeped
into his awareness, but he was slow to focus; everything was blurry and shifting. Then a dim figure—the woman Asha—dabbed
a cloth against his stinging eyes. “You are crying!” she said, her voice touched with awe.
In the background, Hannes heard barking dogs, the rustle of birds in cages, and now he sensed perfumes and flowers. Smoke
and soot had filled his nostrils for so long that he’d been able to smell nothing but the burning, but now his whole body
seemed to be awakening.
Hannes was wary, even more suspicious that this might be a trick. If he were indeed in heaven, why did the woman speak
Uraban?
Blinking and blinking, he began to discern the hangings in the chamber, saw the ewer of water, a tray of food. Bird cages
hung on either side of his bed.
The woman was beautiful, in the Urecari way. She smiled when she saw him focus on her. “This is my private home, a villa near
the soldan-shah’s palace. I made him promise to let us care for you until you are better.” Asha touched his cheek, then ran
her hand over the brittle stubble of hair on his head. How long had he been unconscious and recovering? “We are amazed the
burns did not scar you worse than they did. I applied the unguents and salves myself. And now you’ve come back!”
“Why?” he croaked. “Why would you do this?”
Asha held her hands together as though she revered him. “I made them care for you, because Urec himself said we must tend
the sick and wounded as our human duty, but when I discovered you had saved the golden amulet, the medallion of Urec, I knew
you must be a sacred man!”
She hurried to her table and returned, holding the amulet. Its edges had been blurred by the immense heat, the ancient embossings
softened but still prominent. “You must have been guided by Ondun Himself to preserve the sacred relic for us. Ur-Sikara Lukai
will place it here in the Olabar church. She’ll want to meet you, when you feel up to it.”
Hannes sat up with a jolt.
Olabar!
So she had brought him as a hostage into the heart of the Urecari continent. He felt dizzy, ready to faint. This was a terrible,
ironic trick! He had stolen that amulet
away
from the church of Urec, and now it had fallen back into the hands of heretics. He should have let it burn with the rest
of Ishalem.
An angular, sour-faced physician scuttled in with a basin of tepid liquid that smelled of pungent herbs. He had a sharp pointed
black beard, and his head was wrapped in the pale green olba traditionally worn by Urecari scholars. Pleased to find Hannes
awake, the doctor moved forward while Asha dipped cloths into the fragrant liquid, dabbed at the still-healing scabs. The
physician spoke anxiously. “He can see? His vision is restored?”
“I told you his eyes were not gone. I told you I prayed,” Asha said. “
I
was the first thing he looked upon.”
“What is your name?” Asha prompted. She always seemed to be chattering. “Tell us who you are. Are you a pilgrim? A merchant?”
The doctor bent over him, touching, prodding, testing. Hannes flinched, but he clenched his jaw, refused to say anything.
He loathed the very touch of these people! Hannes did not intend to tell them anything. Feigning deep weariness, he refused
to speak, shaking his head.
The doctor scolded Asha. “He must rest, but this is truly a good sign.”
Hannes lay back and closed his eyes, wanting these people to go away,
willing
himself to sink back into sleep. He preferred his own nightmares to thinking about what the Urecari might secretly have done
to him.
The prester-marshall’s expedition to Ishalem departed from Calay with great fanfare: a dozen boats and barges full of carpenters,
bricklayers, stonemasons, and other artisans, holds packed with tools, forged iron nails, bricks, and glassmaking materials—everything
necessary to restore the holy city.
Baine rode at the prow of the lead ship, which sailed down the Tierran coast until they reached the ugly black blot that had
once been Ishalem. When he saw all that was left of the magnificent city, he wept. Dry winds whipped across the isthmus, and
blown ash left a lingering gray fog in the air. He could not tear his eyes from the shockingly barren and empty hilltop where
no sign of the sacred Arkship remained. The tears on his cheeks left tracks in the light dusting of ashes that clung to his
face.
But he drew strength from his faith, quoted aloud from the Book of Aiden, and granted himself only a few moments of personal
sorrow. When Baine watched the somber mood spread among the workers and sailors, he stepped up on the forecastle and spread
his arms. His raised voice carried to the other boats that edged closer to the shore.
“The fire has swept Ishalem clean, and we have a blank canvas. Our mission, as all the faithful know, is to improve the world
by the grace of Ondun. Has there ever been a more clear challenge for the devout? We have brought our tools, our materials,
and our willing bodies. Shall we make Ishalem a glorious city again?” He listened to the resounding cheer, then called even
louder, “When this task is completed, even Ondun Himself will take notice. Perhaps He will find our offering worthy and He
will return to us.”
The small construction fleet painstakingly worked their way through the sunken wrecks in the harbor. Ships had burned down
to the waterline; the piers and wharves were nothing more than twisted black planks, and lonely pilings thrust up from the
waters. Some of the workers, desperate to set foot in the holy land—especially now that they saw the wounds of Ishalem—lowered
themselves over the sides and swam to shore, while dinghies shuttled more volunteers. Workers offloaded heavy materials onto
flat rafts and poled them to shore.