“My position in the church is proof enough that I could never be responsible for such a plot.” A bit of perspiration sparkled
on Lukai’s face.
Imir looked like a changed man, as if something inside him had broken… or turned to stone. “When the life of my son and heir
is at stake, I’m afraid I need more proof than that. If you did not poison the food, then the food is safe. Eat it and prove
yourselves innocent.”
“That proves nothing. Perhaps your precious slave girl poisoned your dinner,” Villiki said. “Or your wife.”
“The slave girl was under guard all afternoon, and both my wife and
your
son plainly were willing to eat. They suspected no danger, so they are guiltless.”
“If you are innocent, you can eat without fear,” Imir said. He waited.
They all stood frozen in intense silence. Tukar looked at his mother with an expression of mingled disgust and panic.
Finally, playing her part with all the composure she could muster, Ur-Sikara Lukai methodically took a sample from each enameled
dish and ate, glaring first at the soldan-shah, then Omra, and finally at Adrea. She poured a cup of the tea, drank it with
a flourish, stood back, and looked defiantly at the soldan-shah.
The truth would have come out whether or not Villiki and Lukai cooperated, of course. Soldan-Shah Imir could have made a household
slave eat the food as a demonstration, and if it was poisoned, Ur-Sikara Lukai would have been executed after a long session
of torture. She understood exactly what she was doing; Omra saw it in her eyes.
Within moments the priestess began to choke and vomit. After a few minutes she collapsed in spasms on the floor, and Zarif
Omra said, “I believe the evidence is incontrovertible.”
Cliaparia clung to her husband’s arm. “I knew nothing of this! I was not involved!”
“We
know
.” Omra roughly brushed her aside.
Tukar looked almost as sick, as if he too had consumed poison. “Mother, what have you done?”
Villiki threw herself at the soldan-shah’s feet, but Imir turned his back on her. “I wash my hands of you, Villiki. You are
no longer my wife.” He had dreaded the words that he knew he must speak, but his voice was steady as it boomed the pronouncement
so that all the guards could hear. Criers would carry it through the streets. “You may keep none of your possessions. You
are to be stripped naked and turned out into the street with nothing.”
Villiki shrieked in desperate horror. The guards grabbed her and methodically ripped her clothes, tore away the silks, snatched
off her jewels. Soon, she knelt pathetic and naked on the tiled floor next to her ruined garments, debased and shamed.
Now the soldan-shah turned to Tukar with one more terrible duty to do. It seemed clear that the young man had not been involved,
but the murder
had
been planned for Tukar’s benefit. Imir could not allow such a threat to continue. He had to be the soldan-shah, not a father.
He had to harden his heart—to the breaking point, if necessary. The compassionate part of him said it was unjust, but the
leader in him knew that as soldan-shah
he
defined justice in his own way. As he did now.
“Tukar, my beloved son, the life you once knew is forfeit. From this day forward, I order you exiled to the Gremurr mines.
You will spend your life there. Your mother wanted you to be a leader. You may rule in that hell.”
Tukar reeled, as if someone had struck him with a club.
The guards dragged Villiki sobbing from the room and out of the palace. Imir could hear her wailing for a long time afterward
as they drove her into the streets of Olabar. After Tukar was also led away, handlers came forward to drag the ur-sikara’s
corpse out of the room.
Throughout all this, Adrea simply stood, looking vindicated. She clung only to the fact that now she would have Saan returned
to her.
When the crisis had passed, the soldan-shah stood before Omra and hung his heavy head. “I am broken and weary to the base
of my soul. What sort of ruler am I, who cannot even control his own household? How can I protect my land in times like these,
when I cannot protect my own son?” He had expected to wait a few more years, but now he knew it had to be tonight.
Twisting the large garnet ring of office, he removed it from his finger and set it on a table next to Omra. “Enough… I have
had enough. As of tonight, I am no longer the soldan-shah. I will retire. Uraba needs you now, Omra. You are my successor.”
While Olabar was in an uproar, Aldo saw his chance. After the shocking events in the palace, no one was paying attention to
a lone Saedran from a captured Tierran ship, and Sen Sherufa agreed that this was a perfect time for him to escape.
They had already spent several weeks fleshing out her copy of the Mappa Mundi with his knowledge. After generations of minimal
progress toward completing their great map, the Saedran quest had taken a giant leap forward.
In the meantime, Sherufa had introduced him to the craftsmen and shopkeepers in the Saedran District. Knowing he was her guest,
the children in the streets pestered
him
for candies, as well, until Sherufa insisted that he make a habit of carrying treats in his pockets. Each night for dinner,
a seemingly endless succession of neighbors came by with meats or pastries, and all the guests sat in her main room, letting
Aldo or Sherufa tell stories. Everyone was eager to hear about exotic Calay, the mountains of Corag, the rough waters of the
Oceansea. The more Aldo talked about his life, the more homesick he became, the more he missed his family, and the more he
wanted to leave Uraba. For Aldo, the turmoil at the palace could not have come at a better time.
“It will be a long and dangerous journey,” Sherufa warned. “Are you sure you want to go? You would be safe here—and welcome.”
“Calay is my
home,
” he said. “My mother and father must think I’m dead by now. How can I do that to them, to my brother and sister? I don’t
care about the danger. I’ve got to make my way back to Calay. I’ve
got to
.” The young man’s dark eyes glistened with his passion. “Can you help me?”
And so Sen Sherufa spread the word from apothecary to physician, from moneylender to merchant, asking for assistance. She
had always helped her neighbors when they asked, offering her advice and knowledge, so when she asked for a favor in return,
the Saedrans in Olabar responded without question.
Several nights later, after a filling dinner of noodles, vegetables, and sliced sausages that an innkeeper brought to Sherufa’s
house, she and Aldo worked together to clean up. A knock came at her door, and Aldo recognized the thin, brown-bearded man
as a cabinet maker from two streets over. Nodding at Aldo, but speaking to Sen Sherufa, he looked grave and serious, as if
someone had given him a very weighty responsibility. He handed Sherufa a message written in the coded Saedran language. “This
is the plan. Everything is in place.”
As she scanned the scrap of paper, her lips were drawn, and the cords in her neck stood out with anxiety. “This sounds like
exactly the right thing. Thank you.” The cabinet maker ducked away into the dark streets.
Aldo read the letter, memorizing the names of volunteers, the route he must take, the ships that would be waiting for him
at various ports, the helpers along the way all across the Abilan soldanate as he worked his way to the isthmus and back up
into Tierran territory, whereupon any captain would happily take him aboard and give him passage to Calay. It might take him
months, perhaps a year, but Aldo had no doubt he would eventually arrive home, see his family again, and report to Sen Leo
na-Hadra. He could not hide the growing smile on his face and the joy in his heart.
Sherufa went to a cupboard, removed a dusty jar, and dumped out a small stash of coins. She wrapped them in a small cloth
and handed it to him. “We can provide you with money for now. In other villages along the way our people will give you food
and shelter.”
Over the next two days, the neighborhood people obtained nondescript Uraban clothing for him, and he shed his traditional
Saedran garb. The loose, cool robes felt strange, but comfortable; he even learned how to wrap a cloth olba around his head.
Sherufa inspected his disguise, smiling in approval. “You will pose as a metalsmith and ring maker traveling to Yuarej to
visit a relative. You will carry a few appropriate tools and inexpensive rings in case you need to display your wares, but
nobody should bother you. No one should notice you.”
“I’ll make sure that I’m not the least bit interesting.”
Her expression grew more serious. “Please don’t call attention to yourself. With Imir gone into seclusion, he’s got no further
interest in the politics and workings of Uraba. He might even forget about your existence altogether. But you still need to
be careful.”
Sherufa helped him pack as they waited anxiously for nightfall. In the full darkness, she and Aldo made their way down to
the harbor, where he met the short-haul captain who would take him on the first leg of his journey. On the dock, before boarding
the Uraban ship, Aldo turned to embrace Sen Sherufa. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
With tears in her eyes, Sherufa squeezed him tightly. “And thank you for reawakening our spirit of exploration, Aldo na-Curic.
Until now, I had forgotten the reason why I’m here. Now I know that the Mappa Mundi is not just a thing of academic interest.”
Lanterns had been lit on the small ship, and the crew prepared to depart with the outgoing tide. The captain whistled for
him to come aboard, and Sen Sherufa slipped away so that no one would recognize her. As a “Uraban metalsmith,” Aldo should
not let himself be seen with a Saedran woman.
Aboard the ship, he took a long breath and looked back to the sparkling city lights of Olabar. A few other travelers snored
softly in out-of-the-way places, and the sailors ignored him, having their own tasks to do. Containing the excitement inside
him, he found a comfortable spot at the stern and sat down beside a coil of rope. At last, he was on his way home.
As soon as he had made up his mind, King Korastine set the wheels in motion to create a special reminder of Ilrida’s home,
something that would show her how much he adored her. Yes, as Tierra’s king, he continued to build warships and send out naval
patrols to guard the coastline, but here he would spare no expense to make his new wife feel happy.
After consulting with Sen Leo na-Hadra, he commissioned a Saedran architect to design a traditional Iborian-style kirk, mimicking
the appearance of the small chapel she had left behind inside the stockade walls of Calavik. He hired Aidenist artisans to
provide appropriate religious trappings, symbols, and details. When complete, it would be marvelous.
Because so much construction was always taking place near the castle and in the adjoining Shipbuilders’ Bay, Korastine did
not find it difficult to keep Ilrida from noticing the work, but as the structure took shape, he enlisted Anjine’s aid to
keep the secret. Happily joining in the plot, the princess accompanied Ilrida on her trips into the city, careful to steer
her away from the site of the kirk.
Following Iborian tradition, the kirk was assembled from seasoned pine, each log stained dark to enhance the grain and knots.
Lapped wooden shingles covered the steep roof like the scales of a great sea monster. The shipwright Kjelnar provided two
of his best wood-carvers to depict scenes from the great story along the kirk’s outer walls, Ilrida’s favorite tales of Holy
Joron’s adventures. As they set to work constructing this familiar structure, the Iborian shipbuilders began to grow homesick
for the dark forests and huddled towns of the north.
As an added extravagance, King Korastine told his carpenters to use iron nails rather than wooden pegs for the entire construction,
as his way of showing the permanence of his feelings for Ilrida. He couldn’t wait to see the expression of delight on his
young wife’s face when he finally revealed the surprise.
Ilrida had not yet learned to speak Tierran very well, but the king was patient with her and managed to make himself understood.
Longing to communicate, she had tried to teach him the northern language, but he found it just as baffling. Now he wished
he had insisted on continuing to learn other languages despite Queen Sena’s disapproval of the suggestion. Ah, how different
sweet Ilrida was! Sena had been able to talk with him as much as she’d liked, and she had said little of merit; even with
her few words of Tierran, however, Ilrida could express volumes of affection. Korastine learned how to tell his Iborian sweetheart
that he loved her, in both languages, and that was enough.
When the kirk neared completion and the wood-carvers erected two obelisk trunks by the front door, the carpenters finally
allowed King Korastine inside to view their work. Dark paneling covered the interior walls; candles stood in iron sconces,
illuminating the interior with an orange glow. Traditional Iborian kirks had slit windows to block out the wind, which also
denied sunlight.
Korastine had engaged the services of a well-known Saedran portrait artist, Biento na-Curic, to create icons in lustrous colors
by mixing powdered gold and silver with the pigments. From above the altar, the image of Holy Joron seemed to glow in the
candlelight, smiling down at the private worship area.
The king brought in the new prester-marshall, Rudio, to bless the kirk. The successor to Baine was not quite the fire-brand
visionary the younger man had been. After the martyrdom of the volunteers in Ishalem, a convocation of presters chose Rudio—an
older and much more traditional man than Baine had been, someone not as keen to espouse experimental new ideas, preferring
instead to reinforce the old ones. At the time, Korastine had realized that the man’s selection was not so much a backlash
against Prester-Marshall Baine as it was a retrenching, a return to the basics of the religion. However, because Baine had
died horribly for his faith, no other prester dared to dispute his controversial call to explore the world, though the distractions
of the war focused Tierran resources elsewhere.