After Kjelnar completed an inspection of the new structure, he gave his wholehearted approval. “This is a true Iborian kirk,
Majesty. It is as though Destrar Broeck uprooted the building whole and shipped it here. Ilrida will be delighted.”
The next day, Korastine felt like a boy waiting to open his gifts on Landing Day as he took her hand and led her out of the
castle. He felt as though his heart could not contain any more love for this young woman. His mood was infectious, and she
gripped his arm, snuggling against him as they walked through the castle gates and down the path. She could sense his excitement.
At the base of the hill, Korastine led her along a street adjacent to the castle, rounded a corner—and Ilrida stopped with
a look of astonishment on her face. Her ice-blue eyes widened, and her snow-silver hair blew about in stray breezes.
“For you.” Korastine gestured toward the distinctive building, then to her. “A kirk to remind you of your home.” Then he repeated
it in her own language, a sentence he had worked hard to memorize.
Ilrida pulled on Korastine’s hand, insisting that he come with her. “Wonderful,” she exclaimed, adding many words in the northern
dialect before she found another Tierran word. “Beautiful!” She paused to touch the carved obelisk posts on either side of
the door, then rushed inside, delighted.
In the middle of the kirk was a wide altar made of thick pine planks held together by crossbars and iron nails. The beautiful
painted icons with Holy Joron stood on display, but subordinate to the kirk’s main treasure: a twisted, burned fragment of
wood from the original Arkship, perhaps the most valuable object in the entire Royal District, which had recently been purchased
at great expense from a pilgrim trader in the streets of Calay.
Ilrida turned to Korastine, beside herself with happiness. “Beautiful!” she said again, shaking her head with an obvious wonder
far more eloquent than words. She threw her arms around his neck to kiss him. “Wonderful!” Her Iborian ladies-in-waiting would
also want to come see the structure.
She took his arm again and drew him to the plank riser before the altar. When she knelt, he bent beside her, their shoulders
touching. Ilrida gazed upon the benevolent face of Holy Joron in the icon. She closed her eyes, Korastine did the same, and
the two of them prayed together, each in their own language.
Her new quarters in the Olabar palace felt like a different kind of captivity, and a more suspicious one. As a household slave,
Adrea had cleaned these rooms many times, though she had never known to whom they belonged. Now Omra gave them to her. Adrea
was no longer a slave.
At first, after all the turmoil that followed Imir’s abdication, she had not believed Omra would keep his word. She waited
in her rooms, alone and on tenterhooks… until an unfamiliar sikara brought her son back to her. “By the soldan-shah’s command,”
the priestess said, bowing slightly.
Adrea rose, gazing at Saan in disbelief. Seeing his mother, the boy ran toward her, and she scooped him up in her arms. His
face was sunburned, adorned with an extra splash of freckles; his hair looked bleached and tousled. It took her a moment to
realize that he wore Tierran clothes, traditional garments she hadn’t seen since Windcatch. Why would Saan be dressed as a
Tierran
here,
in Olabar?
But the joy in her mind and heart was so great that she had no room for questions. Saan was
safe,
truly safe, and back with her. She held him, suddenly free in a way she had not felt in the more than five years since losing
her home and her past. For so long she had clung to absolute silence as a defensive shield, but now there was no reason not
to speak openly with Saan. She could talk with him, without reservation, and she poured out all the things she had wanted
to tell him for so long. Adrea talked with him for hours, needing to make up for years and years of silence.
The five-year-old boy described the adventures he’d had after Ur-Sikara Lukai took him away to live in an entire strange village
populated by children and very few adults. He tugged at his brown tunic. “They wear clothes like this. And other people there
have yellow hair, like me. They speak Tierran and Uraban.” Then Saan flinched when he spoke of the “Teacher”—a hooded, gloved
enigma who wore a silver mask.
He described half-timbered houses with thatched roofs, and when Saan insisted that the town church “wasn’t right,” Adrea realized
he was describing an Aidenist kirk, complete with the fishhook symbol. The concept mystified her. Why would there be an entire
village of Tierran refugees, most of them children? Could they be the other captives Omra’s raiders had taken all those years
ago?
For the next four days, their meals were brought by servants whom she recognized, but Adrea neither saw nor heard anything
from Omra. Gradually, as questions piled up, her happiness slid into concern. She knew that her fate dangled by the thinnest
of threads, like a fish on a line. At any moment, the new soldan-shah could renege on his promise… or some capricious priestess
could steal her son away again. With the death of Ur-Sikara Lukai, the humiliation of Villiki and the exile of Tukar, Adrea
had witnessed how swiftly the palace could change.
One day, a young sikara arrived at her doorway. “I have come to ask if you would like your son to continue his instruction.
I will take him back to his old classes, if you wish it.”
Even though Saan clearly wanted to go with the priestess, Adrea clutched the boy’s arm. “He stays with me.” She was surprised
when the other woman relented and left them alone, and for hours afterward she expected guards would come to enforce their
will, but no one bothered her.
Every day was tense, heavy with waiting. Saan had been taken from her once, and she had averted that disaster by only the
narrowest of margins. She felt like a ship’s captain, skating past treacherous rocks to escape with only a scraped hull. The
image made her think of Criston, wherever he was…
Adrea spent her days thinking and planning, trying to guarantee a future for herself and her son. She would do anything to
keep him safe. Because the soldan-shah had given them his protection, none of the guards, sikaras, or palace workers could
harm her or Saan. By the same token, she would have no recourse, no chance for appeal, should Omra change his mind.
He surprised Adrea by inviting her to dine with him.
Three dark-haired and demure Uraban handmaidens came to her room with bundles of colorful garments and instructions to make
herself presentable. Adrea knew these women, but they had never treated her as an equal, for she was a Tierran slave and they
had been invited to the Olabar court. Now solicitous, they offered Adrea choices of scarves, long-sleeved gowns, and braided
sashes. They fussed over her long blond hair, pulling it back and holding it in place with combs. Adrea shunned the makeup
and perfumes, not wanting to look like a whore (though that might be what Omra intended for her to be). Now that he had saved
her son, he probably considered her beholden to him. What if he wanted to make her serve as a different sort of slave?
Adrea felt a cold resolve. Long ago, she had expected to become a sexual plaything for the Uraban raiders, but she had remained
untouched for all these years. Her only lover had been Criston Vora, whom she saw nowhere but in her dreams.
But Omra had saved her twice now. What else did he want from her?
She resigned herself to do what must be done. Long ago, though she had dearly wanted to marry Criston Vora, she refused to
do so until he agreed to care for her brother as well. Now she might have to make another bargain with Omra for the sake of
Criston’s son.
When the handmaidens finished properly dressing her, she appraised herself in a polished mirror. She bore a passing resemblance
to a proper Uraban woman, and the idea made her stomach twist. As Criston’s innocent young bride, she had been so beautiful,
but that young woman of Windcatch had been left behind forever on the shores of the Oceansea. Now her features were stronger
and sharper, chiseled into dramatic relief by all that she’d endured.
The handmaidens promised to watch Saan in her quarters, and she gave the boy a kiss before departing. She didn’t trust these
women, but if Omra wanted to take the boy away again, if he intended any treachery, he hardly needed such an elaborate plot
to do so.
Adrea went to the soldan-shah’s quarters, escorted by silent guards. Omra had been waiting. He smiled at her, gesturing to
the comfortable cushions laid out before him. “Join me.” Dishes of food were arrayed in a banquet on a low table between them.
The exotic foods were strange and puzzling, a clash of sweet scents and savory meats. He invited her to cleanse her fingers
in a small basin of rosewater, apparently less interested in eating than in watching her.
He nudged a bowl of yogurt and mashed mangoes toward her. “Eat this. You’ll find it a treat.”
She looked at the sweet-smelling fruit and creamy dessert, so different from the bland fare she had eaten as a slave. “How
do I know it’s not poisoned?”
He laughed. “You did me a great service—I admit that, and I will not forget it. You saved my life. In return, I freed your
son from his training among the
ra’virs,
and I released you from your duties as a household slave.”
Adrea bowed her head, suspicious. “You kept your word. Thank you.” She ate a delicate spoonful, and the delicious taste was
like an explosion in her mouth.
“But that doesn’t seem like enough for me.” Omra ran a finger along his bearded chin. “I owe you more than mere gratitude.”
A commotion at the doorway startled them. Omra looked up, annoyed, as Cliaparia barged in, dressed in swirling silks and jingling
gold bangles. “We were supposed to dine together tonight, husband. I waited for you. I prepared.—”
Omra looked at her coolly. “Can you not see that I have a guest, Cliaparia? Leave us.” She gave Adrea a look of impotent hatred,
but when she saw the look of dark anger on her husband’s face, she knew she’d gone too far and retreated quickly.
Omra folded his hands again, returning his attention to Adrea. “My apologies. Because she is my only wife, Cliaparia feels
an unseemly possessiveness toward me. She should know her place. And you can help me in this.”
Adrea said nothing, instantly on her guard.
“You showed caution, patience, and cunning by remaining mute for so many years. You made a shrewd bargain to get your son
back. All of these traits I admire in you, Adrea, woman of Tierra. A long time ago, I saw something when I watched you fight
my raiders. You have a strength that matches your beauty.” He leaned forward. “I would like to take you as my second wife.”
Adrea recoiled. She had expected to become a plaything, a concubine—but a
wife?
He had just reawakened her memories of what his men had done in Windcatch, how they had murdered Telha, burned the kirk and
probably killed her brother, Ciarlo. They had destroyed her village, stolen her and so many helpless children.
“I am already married, in the eyes of Ondun,” she said. “Just because you took me away from my home does not mean that my
bond is broken.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “A marriage in the Aidenist church means nothing here.”
She spoke in an icy voice. “For more than five years, I’ve been at your mercy. I am at your mercy now. You can inflict yourself
upon my body, but you will never claim my heart or my mind.”
Omra was startled by her frank reaction. “That was not my intent—that is not Urec’s way. I would have your consent, or I would
have nothing. My people expect me to take other wives, since Cliaparia has not yet given me a child. Many women have been
offered to me, and my father urges me to take them—probably all of them—but they don’t interest me.
You
interest me. I had hoped you would see the benefits in this arrangement.”
And, despite her automatic revulsion, Adrea could. She understood that she could not possibly go back to her former life in
Windcatch. It had been so many years; by now, her dear Criston, if he still lived, would have come home, found her gone, and
presumed her dead. Surely he had remarried by now. Adrea had no past to cling to, and only a very narrow path to her future.
The Urecari religion meant nothing to her, and any union made by their priestesses had no standing in the sight of God. This
arrangement would not be a marriage or a breaking of her vow to Criston; it was a bargain to protect Saan.
“If you wish me to be your wife, you must do something else for me… for my son.” She pushed aside the bowl of yogurt, left
the other dishes untouched. “Convince me that my cooperation is worth something to you. Promise that Saan will never again
be taken from me.”
“This is not a negotiation,” Omra said, but there was a glint of amusement behind his eyes.
“Isn’t it?” Adrea’s heart ached.
The soldan-shah reached a decision. “Very well, your son is important to you. Therefore, he should be important to me. I will
do better than what you ask: I’ll raise him here in the palace as my adopted son, with all the rights and privileges that
entails.”
Adrea caught her breath. This was far more than she would ever have dared to ask. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her
voice steady. “Then I agree.” She pushed away her confusion and despair and looked across at the admittedly handsome face
of Omra, the man who would become her new husband.
“Since this has become a negotiation,” Omra added, without a hint of humor now, “there is one additional thing I require of
you. There will be enough talk of your Tierran heritage. In order to be the wife of a soldan-shah, you must accept a Uraban
name.”
“And is there a specific name you’ve picked?” she asked, her voice finally cracking.
“
Istar
. From now on, I will call you Istar.”