The same as every year.
With her basket emptied and her brother limping back into the waves, Adrea waded out once more, always looking at the open
Oceansea. Shielding her eyes, she gazed toward the horizon, thinking of Criston and wondering what he was doing just then.
She hoped he was thinking of her.
The sturdy, thick-hulled ships of Soeland Reach were designed for rugged seas and cold storms, but they had sleek lines, the
better to pursue and kill whales. Now, though, the Soeland ships hunted an entirely different quarry.
Destrar Tavishel clung to a slick shroud rope as cold spray splashed him and dripped from his square-cut beard. Ignoring the
wet and the chill, he wiped the mist away from his eyes so he could see. They were closing in on the Urecari ship.
“Looks like a diplomatic vessel,” Tavishel yelled out in his rough voice. “No match for us, men!”
One of his well-muscled sailors came up to him, also drenched. He held a battered spyglass. “No sign of any military escort,
Tav—but we’re in Uraban waters. They probably think they’re safe. Hah!”
“If there’s a military escort, we’ll sink them just the same.” Tavishel had to shout above the rolling roar of the waves.
“We have harpoons to spare.”
The silken sail of the enemy ship billowed, the Eye of Urec staring out from the scarlet fabric. If nothing else, Tavishel
wanted to gouge out that hated mark and blind the ship. And that would only be the first step in their revenge for what the
Urecari animals had done to Prester-Marshall Baine and the innocents who had gone to rebuild Ishalem.
The hearty and self-sufficient Soelanders were distant from the politics of Calay. They swore their fealty to King Korastine,
provided volunteers to the Tierran army, and trained recruits each year, but not until he learned of Baine’s martyrdom did
Destrar Tavishel understand what it meant to be part of a larger, unified land. His people were members of a fold so much
greater than one reach. Now, as he envisioned the prester-marshall slowly dying on a fishhook, he felt the greater glory of
surrendering to the needs of the kirk for the benefit of all Tierrans, not just people from the Land of Sunken Mountains.
And because of their zeal from this new revelation, Tavishel and his Soeland fighters would not let the heinous Urecari remain
unpunished. The destrar had decided it was his holy mission to shed the blood of those vile monsters. Korastine would be pleased
when Tavishel sent his report of their accomplishments here off the coast of Tenér.
Foregoing fishing and whaling, the Soeland ships had sailed away from their islands in order to hunt Urecari below the Edict
Line. And now they had intercepted this single diplomatic ship working its way up the coast toward Tierra. A worthy prize!
The foreigners had no chance against the bulky Soeland ships that closed in. Destrar Tavishel shouted orders for his zealous
men to arm themselves with the stunning clubs and harpoons that they used to kill giant whales before butchering and rendering
them. The Soelanders stopped the enemy vessel, threw ropes and grappling hooks, and swarmed aboard the lone ship.
One of the Urecari, who wore ornate robes of green and blue, looked like a diplomat of some sort. His shaved head glistened
with both aromatic oils and nervous perspiration. The foreign ship’s captain tried to make a defense as Tavishel’s men surged
onto the deck, but the soldiers aboard were merely an honor guard—enough for show but not enough for war. The captain shouted
in his gibberish language until one of Tavishel’s men thankfully struck him on the head with a club, cracking the man’s skull.
The colorfully robed diplomat was beside himself with panic and desperation. He gathered his voice and spoke in erudite Tierran.
“No, no—
peace mission!
I am ambassador. Giladen! My name is
Giladen!
I go to speak with King Korastine! We sail for Calay!”
“You will never get there,” Tavishel growled.
Giladen fumbled with a rolled parchment tied to the braided belt at his waist. “No, no! Listen!” He unrolled the document,
which was covered with neat words in formal Tierran as well as the birdlike footprints of Uraban writing. “Negotiate! We come
to negotiate on behalf of Soldan-Shah Imir! No war!” He waved the document. “I bring message to your king!”
But Tavishel could not banish the image in his mind of the holy prester-marshall strung up on a hook… of the ruthless Urecari
spilling more Aidenist blood on the already sullied ground of Ishalem. It was all he needed to remember.
He withdrew his curved gutting knife and slashed across Ambassador Giladen’s plump throat, putting an end to his trickster
words. The rolled treaty fell to the deck boards from his limp and quivering fingers.
Tavishel raised the bloody knife and shouted to his men, “They deserve no more mercy than they showed Prester-Marshall Baine!
Kill them all!”
The Urecari sailors fought back, but they were outnumbered. The Soeland men had long experience butchering whales in a huge
mess of blood, slime, and grease, with bubbling rendering pots and decks slick with gore. When they finished, the Urecari
ambassadorial vessel was covered with just as much thick red fluid as there would have been after a whale hunt. To Tavishel,
it seemed fitting.
After the killing was done, the destrar remained aboard the Urecari ship with a skeleton crew, turning it about and sailing
on favorable winds back toward Tenér, the nearest Urecari port. One of his young crew members clambered up the mainmast to
the yardarm, where he dangled on a rope, took a dagger, and cut a hole in the sail, gouging out the Eye of Urec. The ship
sailed onward like a blinded cyclops.
Soon the group of ships was within sight of the bustling harbor city. Tavishel and his men kept close watch, but the only
ships they saw were far off. The colorful sail of Giladen’s diplomatic ship would have drawn no attention in these waters,
regardless.
As he guided the ship closer to the foreign port, Tavishel made preparations. Dismembered enemy corpses lay strewn about the
deck, beginning to bloat and stink in the warm sun. He had his men tie the ambassador’s body to the mast, and the Urecari
captain’s body dangled from a hook on the bow. This was a death ship, a slaughterhouse. He would give the Urecari a sight
they would never forget.
One of his Soeland ships pulled close alongside, so that the men could jump back across, ready to sail away. Alone aboard
the foreign vessel, Tavishel unrolled the document that Giladen had been so desperate to deliver to King Korastine, spread
it on the deck in the midst of a large bloodstain, and skewered it to the boards with his gutting knife, so that the dead,
glassy eyes of the Urecari ambassador could forever stare upon it.
The uncrewed diplomatic ship caught the currents and began to drift toward the harbor, and Tenér drew closer each moment.
As a last rude gesture, Tavishel dropped his trousers, squatted, and left a steaming pile in the middle of the parchment,
obscuring the words the Soldan-Shah had written. Let the Urecari read that!
Finished, Tavishel swung back aboard his own ship and took command, while the ghost ship sailed onward to Tenér, crewed only
by corpses. Unguided, it would crash into the docks.
Destrar Tavishel smiled as his two ships sailed northward to the safe waters of home.
As Aldo na-Curic made his way up the ever-steepening path (which the locals called a “road”), the Corag mountains became ever
more magnificent around him. All his life he had gazed out to sea and imagined far-off lands, but he had never thought to
look inland.
The alpine meadows were bedecked with bright flowers and silvery streams. The cliffs and peaks seemed to grin with jagged
teeth of gray rock whose couloirs held snow even late in the summer. In Calay, Aldo had never seen snow.
The people were hardy and independent, renowned across Tierra as talented workers of gold, silver, and iron. They extracted,
smelted, and worked ores from their metal-rich mountains, then delivered completed work to the rivermen, who sold it to Calay
merchants.
Deep in the trackless highlands, many tribes and villages had never been counted in any census or labeled on any map—a fact
that intrigued Aldo. These isolated people paid no taxes to King Korastine, and the Corag destrar left them alone. On the
other side of the impassable mountains lay the Middlesea itself, but if any Corag native had ever found the route, it was
not widely reported.
For four days he trudged past villages and accepted local hospitality, on his way to Stoneholm, the reach’s largest city and
the seat of the Corag destrar. Aldo arrived at the mountain city at sunset, clutching his satchel of possessions and blueprints
as he stared at the sight.
Stoneholm was surrounded by tall granite cliffs that provided shelter from the worst blizzards. The front of the city was
built into an elbow of rock, a huge overhang above the stone-block facades. Under the cliff overhang, fine stonework graced
the building fronts: hideous gargoyles, scaled sirens, and beautiful women—all iconic figures from the Book of Aiden. A benevolent-looking
stone man held out a fishhook, Sapier himself. The city’s interior penetrated the mountain, with streets and chambers tunneled
deep, converting the original mine network into a well-settled, and well-fortified, metropolis.
Three men in high-collared black woolen jackets lined with thick white fur came out to greet him as the dusk deepened. “The
destrar sent us,” said one. His voice had an odd accent, the consonants harder, the vowels more nasal and flat, than typical
Calay speech. “He is anxious to hear why you have come on such a long journey. You’re not one of the usual merchants.”
Aldo was surprised. “How did he know I was coming?”
The men smiled and glanced at one another. “Word travels quickly. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The great stone house of Destrar Siescu was fronted with giant hewn blocks, then the back was expanded into a man-made grotto
that penetrated the cliffside. Ventilation shafts had been drilled upward, and cold air circulated with a thin whistling sound.
Colorful rugs and thick pelts covered the bare stone floor in the main chamber.
Against the wall, Siescu sat in a large chair from which he could look across his great hall. A fireplace enormous enough
to hold an entire ox crackled with a roaring fire made from several thick logs. The enclosed chamber felt extremely hot to
Aldo, but Siescu wore thick furs and covered himself with a woolen blanket. The destrar was not an old man, but his translucent
skin was stretched tight across the bones of his face. His eyes were set deep in their sockets.
Seeing Aldo, Siescu sat up straighter and removed his hands from beneath the blanket. Aldo saw that he also wore leather gloves.
“You are a curious visitor. A Saedran?”
“Yes, sir. From Calay.”
“Come closer to the warmth so that you’re more comfortable.” The destrar gestured to Aldo. “It always feels so cold here in
the mountains.”
Until now, Aldo had not believed the stories he’d heard about this man. In one legend, Siescu had been wounded in a practice
session with a fine Corag sword, and when his skin was cut, ice water ran out rather than blood. An old miner in an outlying
village Aldo had visited whispered that Destrar Siescu kept ordering his men to dig tunnels deeper and deeper into the mountain,
hoping to find the embers of the Earth, the dying fire of Creation, so that he could at last be warm.
Aldo bowed formally, made his greetings, and thanked the destrar for his hospitality. “I am here to commission work from your
best metalworkers.”
“Are there no metalworkers in Calay?”
“Not
Corag
metalworkers. I wanted the best and most precise work done. These devices cannot tolerate even the slightest error.”
Aldo’s comment elicited a proud smile from the destrar. Siescu leaned forward, and (reluctantly, it seemed) peeled off his
leather gloves. He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Let us look at your drawings. I want to see this great challenge you
have for my metalworkers.”
Aldo unrolled the plans and briefly explained the purpose of the navigation devices and the sealed clock. Siescu made a gruff
sound. “We have made Saedran instruments before. We can do it again.” He narrowed his eyes. “It will be expensive.”
“I have money.” Aldo hoped it was enough.
The destrar shouted four names, promising Aldo that these were the best craftsmen in the reach. The young man felt relieved
and pleased. “How long will it take, do you think?”
When the destrar frowned, the lines deepened on his face. “Your devices will be finished when our artisans are satisfied.
You did ask for accuracy, did you not? Or are you in a hurry? Which is it?”
Sen Leo had not told Aldo how soon he must return. He bowed again nervously. “I will give your people all the time they need.
And while I wait, I would like to explore Corag Reach.”
“Oh, there is not time to see all of it. Our craftsmen are not so slow.”
Aldo was surprised that the sullen-looking destrar actually had a sense of humor. “Then, when I am not overseeing the work,
I’ll try to see as much as I can.”
For the first time in months, the
Luminara
sighted land.
High up in the lookout nest, Criston spotted clustered clouds on the horizon that suggested a landmass. His unexpected shout
startled the listless men below. The sharper-eyed members of the crew rushed to the sides and squinted into the distance.
High up in the sky, someone saw a bird.
Within two hours, there was no doubt that a shoreline lay ahead. The conversation thrummed with speculation that this hitherto-undiscovered
land could be Terravitae itself. First Mate Willin, stern and businesslike as usual, tried to keep the now-excited sailors
concentrating on their duties. Soon, however, it became apparent that this was merely a heavily forested island.