Very pleased with himself, Aldo unslung the cylinder, deftly worked the combination seal, and reached inside to pull out the
rolled paper on which he had drawn all of the known mountain peaks, gorges, valleys, passes, and villages. “These are new
details. Let us compare them to the Mappa Mundi.”
His map of Corag was exceptionally beautiful, perhaps even worthy of gilding. He had scribed the labels in perfect penmanship,
the artwork so detailed it looked like a painting of the landscape. He was sure his father would be proud of his artistic
skill.
Aldo offered the paper to his father. “I took careful measurements, aided by the Corag destrar. I spoke to the people in the
mountains and learned the names of every peak.” Grinning, he pointed to the Mappa Mundi on the wall. “
This
is not accurate enough. I have filled in the blanks.”
Sen Leo frowned, deep in thought. “It’s true, Saedrans have sent explorers far out to sea, hoping to find some sign of our
sunken homeland, but we have not given equal attention to looking inland.” He tapped the mountains Aldo had drawn with such
lush detail. “This could be vital information.”
“ ‘Knowledge is always vital,’ ”Aldo quoted. “Isn’t that what you taught me in one of our first lessons?”
The scholar chuckled. “So you were listening even then.”
Biento traced the details of Aldo’s map with a fingernail, committing everything to his perfect memory. “Aldo, you haven’t
even made your first seagoing voyage yet, and already you have added to the Mappa Mundi.” He pulled over a stepstool and a
measuring line, then used a charcoal stick to sketch in the topography his son had brought back. He did not need to refer
to the drawn map again.
Aldo beamed. He could tell Sen Leo was pleased with what he had accomplished, both in obtaining the instruments and making
these observations. The old scholar took the paper with the meticulously drawn details and lavish artwork. He rolled it up,
handing it back to Aldo. “There. It has served its purpose. Now take it to the brazier over there.” He pointed to a brass
dish on a thin pedestal. “Burn it.”
Shocked, Aldo thought of how much time he had spent, how much effort he had put into capturing all the lines and details.
The art, the calligraphy, the landscape details, the perspectives. “But I worked.—”
Sen Leo cut him off. “Do not forget that the chartsman
is
the map. It must reside in your head and nowhere else. If we leave items such as this”—he pushed the map into Aldo’s hand—“others
might gain access to our knowledge. We commit nothing permanently to paper. The knowledge is what matters, not the… frippery.”
Aldo hung his head. “I understand.”
Sad and disturbed, he went to the empty brazier, where he crumpled the map and used a sulfur-tipped match to set fire to the
edges. While the yellow flames turned the paper brown, Aldo could not tear his gaze away as the paper curled and the ashes
fell away.
After killing Asha, Prester Hannes moved like an oily shadow through the streets of the Urecari capital. His heart pounded,
and his instincts screamed at him to
run
.
But nobody knew his name, and few people could identify him. The soldan-shah’s wife had kept him in a separate part of her
villa; the physicians and sikara priestesses had seen him wrapped in bandages. Asha had tended him herself, washing him, applying
salves and perfumes, administering the vile Sacraments. Hannes had never felt so filthy in his life.
Fortunately, she was dead now. Her soul would face Aiden and the truth before being sent to damnation.
Hannes slipped through the bent and twisted alleys. Most of the people were asleep, but some came to their windows to see
the cause of all the commotion back at the villa, where lantern-carrying guards hunted through Asha’s gardens. Two riders
clattered past on the cobblestoned streets, heading to the soldan-shah’s palace.
Hannes hoped the death of Asha would be a great blow to Imir, but he doubted it. Heretical Urecari beliefs allowed a man to
own as many wives as he liked, as though they were no more than pairs of shoes. Hannes had done Asha a favor, freeing her
from that sin.
He found a street of merchant shops that were shuttered for the night, their awnings withdrawn, their flimsy doors barred.
At an olive seller’s stall, Hannes splintered the weakest plank so he could undo the door latch. Inside the dark shop, clay
jars full of olives lined the shelves. He scooped out handfuls and ate ravenously, spitting out the pits. He took some preserved
lemons from a large jar, then a handful of dates from another tub, eating a few now and filling his pockets; he also carried
off a small jar of olives. A ragged brown robe hung on a peg beside the door, and Prester Hannes took that as well, adding
to his disguise.
Leaving the broken door wide open, he scuttled through the streets, ducking into doorways whenever he heard approaching voices
or footsteps. He kept moving, though he had no idea where he might go. His knowledge of the world’s geography—particularly
here—was sparse. He did not know the city’s layout, which sections were dangerous, which would be safe places to hide.
The alleyway opened into a wider street, from which he had a good view of Asha’s villa. All the windows were alight, and he
saw figures moving about. The soldan-shah’s palace was also lit up, as the alarm was sounded.
Prester Hannes found a sheltered stone step and sat out of sight, where he could watch. Asha had shaved him every day, but
now he scratched the stubble on his chin and decided to grow a beard, made patchy by the waxy burn scars on his cheeks. Feeling
content and safe for the first time since he’d awakened, glad to be free from the clutches of that woman, Hannes ate a few
more dates, then casually plucked olives from the jar, sucking the tender salty flesh and spitting out the sharp pits.
He didn’t think about the charity Asha had shown in rescuing him from the fires, in nursing him back to health. He had not
asked
to be placed under that obligation, and he knew that Asha must have had some devilish scheme in mind. She had given him the
Urecari Sacraments when he could not fight back, when he could not defend himself. He felt no remorse over killing her.
Ever since Prester Baine had taken him as an acolyte and taught him his mission in life, Hannes had attempted to be pure and
devout. Now, though, in the eyes of Ondun, he was corrupt. He cursed Asha for contaminating his soul.
A rider clattered by in the street outside the alley where Hannes hunkered on the stone step, wearing his nondescript stolen
clothes. Nobody noticed him. He ate another olive. He wanted to flee Olabar, make his way out of this cursed land, and return
to Ishalem and Tierra. He and Prester-Marshall Baine could pray together and begin the work of cleansing his soul.
Suddenly Hannes realized that he wasn’t seeing the greater picture. Such grand events did not happen by accident. There must
be a purpose. Ondun and Aiden would not have made him suffer so unless they had a plan for him.
He straightened in the darkness as he realized that, yes, there must be a way to redeem himself. Aiden loved him. Prester-Marshall
Baine had set him on this course, explaining how he must infiltrate the enemy and understand them to improve the fight for
Aidenism. His heart swelled with joy.
Maybe the role he was meant to play did not bring him immediately back to Tierra after all. The more he thought about it,
the more he was convinced that Ondun had an important mission in mind for him here.
As the frenzied sea serpent pulled him across the waves, Criston lay lashed to his makeshift raft. Like a wild bull dragging
a broken cart, the black-and-gold creature hurtled along at great speed. The hook caught in its breathing hole still prevented
it from submerging—thankfully, or else it could have dived deep, taking Criston with it. He hung on, helpless, and the journey
went on endlessly, throughout the dark night and the next day. And he endured.
Criston was sickened, bruised, and also starving. He had a little fresh water left in one of the casks, and when he fumbled
himself free enough to move, he drank it. As the raft surged and crashed along, frightened fish were thrown onto the tangled
wreckage—and he grabbed them and ate them raw. When it rained that afternoon, he captured a little more water. He thought
of Adrea, and when that became too painful, he thought of nothing at all.
He lost track of the burning days and black nights. The sea serpent continued its headlong plunge toward the rising sun, growing
more and more sluggish, obviously exhausted, maybe dying, but it could not dislodge the grappling hook.
Finally, so unexpectedly that Criston was not sure what had happened, the hook tore free, leaving a bloody gash down the monster’s
back like a sucking wound. The sea serpent thrashed and splashed, glad to be free; then it dove far out of sight beneath the
waves, putting as much distance as possible between itself and the raft.
Criston untied himself from the raft and collapsed, weeping. He had no idea where he was or how far he had come, and now without
the sea serpent pulling him along like Sapier in the legend, he was cast adrift, still in the middle of the empty Oceansea,
with no land in sight.
And this time he was entirely alone. He had hated the black-and-gold creature because it had killed Prester Jerard, but now
that it was gone and he sat becalmed, Criston almost longed for the serpent to come back.
The breeze picked up, and he realized he was in a current, still drifting in the direction the sea monster had taken him.
He used the cloth that had shaded them from the sun and rigged a sail to catch the wind, pushing him onward…
He slept.
The raft continued to drift, caught in a current that pulled him silently along. On the open water, Criston had no reference
point, no way of judging how fast he drifted or where he might be heading. He was lost.
He pulled in the rope and grappling hook and saw a gobbet of flesh torn free from the edge of the sea serpent’s blowhole.
Ravenous, Criston devoured the meat, but it was pungent, salty, and unsatisfying. His queasy stomach tried to reject the meal,
but he managed to hold it down, knowing he needed the meager nutrition. He cast out the hook once more, letting it trail behind
the raft. He yanked and jerked, in hopes that he might be lucky. The hook snagged a few strands of seaweed, which he ate,
remembering the annual harvest at Windcatch…
He drifted into nightfall and looked up at the sparkling stars that pierced the darkness in diamondlike patterns that, he
realized with a start, were familiar again. The constellations hung lower in the sky, but he recognized the Fountain, the
Compass Needle, and the nebulous patch of Sapier’s Beard. Maybe he was drifting closer to home after all… or maybe it was
some sort of cosmic trick.
He remembered sitting with Adrea on the beach after they’d built a fire and baked a bucketful of fresh-dug clams. Content
in each other’s company, they had walked along the rocky shore, then out onto one of the empty Windcatch docks. They let their
feet dangle as they stared up into the night sky. Criston had pointed out the constellations to her, explaining how the stars
were guideposts for sailors. “They can always bring you back home.” As she’d stared upward, he was more interested in the
stars sparkling in her eyes.
Like a chartsman with a carefully plotted course, Criston had set his sights on Adrea. He had known her as a gangly girl in
the village, along with her good-natured but limping brother. Criston had never paid much attention to her until one day he
noticed she’d matured into a young woman. Thunderstruck, Criston realized she was the most beautiful girl in all of Windcatch.
Adrea’s father had been a crewman on a merchant ship, and he spent many months away from home. When he did come back from
his trips, he often fought with Adrea’s mother… and then one year, he simply didn’t return home. The village gossip was undecided
as to whether he’d been lost at sea or simply chose a different port—and a different family—for himself. Whatever the answer,
Adrea’s mother was always miserable when he was home, and also miserable now that he was gone.
To make a living, she baked bread and sold it to the villagers, but only intermittently. She barely had enough wherewithal
to feed herself and her children, which basically left Adrea and Ciarlo to fend for themselves.
As soon as he was old enough, Criston worked aboard local fishing boats, sometimes with his father, sometimes by himself.
After they came back at sunset, Criston sorted through the catch. One evening, realizing that the catch was more than his
family needed, he took the two best fish to Adrea’s home. Holding them like trophies, smiling with embarrassment, he offered
them to Adrea. “We had extra. I thought maybe you could use them.”
A frown creased her brow. “Are we beggars now?”
“No, but you’re practical. You need to eat.”
And she had smiled. “Yes, Criston Vora, I am practical.” She thanked him, took the fish, and Criston had found himself standing
outside with the door closed in his face, not sure whether to feel elated or discouraged.
As often as he dared, but not so often as to make an obvious habit of it, Criston brought fish to Adrea’s family. As far as
he could tell, her mother never knew where the meals came from. The older woman drank too much kelpwine in the village taverns,
and Adrea prepared the meals for the family. Her mother merely accepted the fish as part of “Aiden’s bounty.”
Before long, though, neither Adrea nor Criston could deny the obvious fact that he was courting her. And she let him continue.
One day, a merchant ship sailed into Windcatch, unloading its goods for the villagers. Seeing that the vessel was one of the
ships on which her husband had served, Adrea’s mother ran out to greet the crew. But he was not aboard, and none of the crew
even remembered the man.