Saan pressed himself into a tight ball, feeling spiders and ants crawl over his bare back. The dust of the old wood nearly
made him sneeze, and the log’s rotting mulchy smell made the air difficult to breathe.
The mercenaries were still out there.
He heard crunching boots as the hunters came closer, talking in low voices, and he fell absolutely silent, hardly daring to
breathe. Through a small crack, he could see two pairs of legs as the mercenaries paused to look around. Then another sound
came in the distance, and the men set off again, apparently chasing another target.
Saan still didn’t move, afraid it might be a trick to lure him out of hiding. He waited and waited, then closed his eyes and
counted to a hundred. He still couldn’t be sure he was safe, but he knew he had to go.
At last, he moved with all the stealth he could manage, shifting aside the thick pieces of curled bark. Covered with dirt,
he crab-walked out of the hollow in the rotted log. Crawling forward, always alert, he kept his eyes ahead. He brushed aside
some dead leaves on the ground.
And there, less than a hand width before his eyes, was a beautiful
golden
young fern, a perfect plant spiral unfurling from the underbrush.
The reluctant comrades followed Yal Dolicar into the hills at night, moving away from the port city of Sioara and the Middlesea.
The men did not ask questions, did not tell one another their names, did not explain their business or their reasons for wanting
to make a secret crossing. Prester Hannes was glad they showed no intention of trying to become friends; he didn’t want any
friends, especially among these people.
The group trudged along, wreathed in self-absorbed silence as they picked out a faint trail into the mountains of Inner Wahilir.
Hannes knew they were all liars and criminals, enemies of God… but since they cheated or stole from their own people, Hannes
would not interfere with them. Unless he found it necessary.
They camped for three nights, working their way deeper and higher into the hills. Some of the men had brought their own food
but refused to share. Yal Dolicar had brought dry pack food, which he sold to those hungry enough to pay. Hannes sat in camp
with his knees drawn up to his chest, eyes open and alert, ignoring the gnaw of hunger in his stomach. He had fasted before;
it made him feel pure in the eyes of Ondun.
Their cheery guide whistled songs to himself when he rose in the morning and set off along the winding trail, expecting the
others to follow. Two heavyset black-market merchants complained about the pace, but Dolicar showed no sympathy. “I said I
would guide you over the pass to Outer Wahilir. I didn’t say I would coddle you. I have a schedule to keep.”
Hannes knew that the quicker they moved, the sooner he would be able to reach Tierra.
On the fourth day, they crossed over the spine of low mountains that separated the two Wahilir soldanates. On the western
side of the range, the terrain became arid, the ground cover scrubby. The hills were blanketed with golden grasses rather
than green trees.
Because the track now led downhill into widening valleys and circled around sharp-elbowed drainages, the travelers were in
higher spirits, while Dolicar grew visibly more impatient. Late in the afternoon, with the orange sun hovering directly in
their eyes, he stopped at the summit of a foothill ridge and gestured expansively toward the deep blue Oceansea that glimmered
in the distance. “There is your destination. You’re already in Outer Wahilir, and this track will take you down to the coast.
From this point, you’re on your own.”
The merchants whined. “We paid you to lead us to the other side.”
“You are on the other side. Are you incapable of walking a straight path downhill? Besides, I am known down there, and it’s
best if you are not seen with me.” Dolicar gave an unapologetic shrug of his shoulders. “I have other parties waiting for
me back in Sioara.”
Hannes didn’t care. He took out his camp gear, deciding this was a good enough place to rest until tomorrow. The others continued
to mutter, but Dolicar simply turned around and set off at a jaunty pace back up the pass the way they’d come. Within moments
he had vanished into the scrub oak.
Since they had a common destination, the companions remained together for one more night in camp. Hannes planned to rise before
dawn and set off at his own time and pace, leaving the others to their fates. They could find their own way.
As dusk deepened, two of the travelers gathered fallen deadwood, cleared a space in the rocky soil, and built a fire, apparently
not worried about Soldan Attar’s scouts seeing the light. Hannes sat at the edge of the fire’s glow, watching the flames as
he relived that terrible, glorious night inside the burning Urecari church in Ishalem…
To ease his hunger, he chewed on some succulent stalks he’d learned were edible during his crossing of Yuarej. He listened
to the sullen conversations of the two fat merchants who had apparently known each other before joining the caravan. Since
it was the last night together, the reticent men loosened their tongues, believing they were about to go their separate ways.
Hannes narrowed his eyes as the merchants spun a story of how they had once found a pair of Aidenist missionaries trespassing
in Uraba, foolishly trying to spread the word of Aiden. The merchants gleefully described how young men from the village had
clubbed the missionaries senseless, tied them up, and thrown them—still alive—into a deep dry well.
Now, by firelight, the merchants mocked the missionaries’ thin echoing cries of pain, their wails for mercy. “Oh, my legs
are broken! Oh, we’re dying of thirst!” The calls had wafted upward from the well for days, but far from taking pity, the
people threw stones down at the holy men.
In the shadows, Prester Hannes pulled his hood forward so the men would not see the murderous hatred in his eyes. He could
not pretend to laugh along with them, but they did not notice or care.
When his companions bedded down to sleep, Hannes gruffly volunteered to take the first watch, and no one argued with him.
He did not feel sleepy at all. With bright eyes, he stared at the flames, watching the twigs crackle as they surrendered to
the light. He hardly noticed time passing, but hours floated by until he was confident the others were sound asleep, curled
up on their thin blankets. Two of the men had an odd whistling snore that Hannes had found maddening over the past several
nights. At last he could silence them.
Hannes slid the razor-edged knife from his pack and, crouching low, moved to the nearest man, one of the fat merchants. He
clamped his hand firmly over the man’s mouth to prevent him from making a sound, then with a quick unhesitating arc, he left
a deep crescent slash. The man spasmed and gurgled as a bright red beard sprouted in the middle of his throat and streamed
down his dusty shirt.
When the first victim lay still, Hannes moved to the second man, then the third. He acted with cold precision. The fourth
victim woke up—a man who had laughed about throwing Aidenist missionaries down the well. He lurched to his feet, flailing
his arms and yelling. Hannes thrust the point of the dagger into the hollow of his throat beneath his jiggling chins, withdrew
it with the speed of a scorpion’s sting, then whirled to slash the neck of the last man, who had begun to stir, groggy with
sleep.
The camp was still, puddled with blood. In the dying fire, the knotted wood popped with a loud noise, as if spitting at the
victims. Hannes would find a creek in order to wash himself in the morning. He ransacked their packs, helped himself to their
stored food and pulled out clean clothes, discarding his blood-soaked rags.
Finally, he lay down and slept more soundly than he had in months. He had improved the world a great deal this night, and
Ondun would surely reward him. The next morning at dawn, he walked away from the bloody campsite, leaving the bodies to carrion
animals, and made his way down to the coast.
Destrar Broeck came from Iboria for the funeral of his daughter, sailing the once-marvelous wedding ship, now transformed
into a mourning vessel with black sails and black pennants. Before the arrival of the grim craft, the two lighthouses flanking
the mouth of Calay Harbor were lit to shine the way for poor Ilrida’s soul.
As they watched the solemn ship glide into the harbor, Anjine stood with her father, who wore black robes and a heavy crown.
At the prow of the funeral vessel, the bearlike destrar wore polished armor and a fur-lined cape draped about his shoulders.
At a whistle from the squad captain, members of Korastine’s royal guard formed ranks and beat deep kettledrums. Men threw
guylines to tie the Iborian ship up against the royal wharf, and when the vessel came to rest, the drums stopped.
Young Tomas held a pillow of purple velvet—his mother’s favorite color—on which rested the delicate crown that Ilrida would
never again wear. Anjine put a reassuring hand on her little brother’s shoulder, and he didn’t flinch.
With his head hung low, Destrar Broeck strode down the boarding plank, shrugged off his fur-lined cape, and formally bent
his knee to Korastine. The king stared for a long, frozen moment before he came back to himself, helped Ilrida’s father to
his feet, and embraced him, not caring whether their shared grief would be seen as weakness before the crowds.
A loud fanfare blew, and the kettledrums began anew. Korastine and Broeck walked slowly up to the castle, followed by Anjine
and Tomas, and then the crowd of followers and retainers.
The next day, Ilrida’s preserved body lay stretched out atop a bed of ivory cushions on the deck of the funeral ship. Her
beautiful purple gown was surrounded by a cape lined with Iborian ermine fur. Her silver-blond hair had been combed straight,
her hands folded across her abdomen. Her skin was heavily powdered, for Destrar Broeck had needed several days to make the
journey. Her cushions were surrounded by straw and dry kindling that had been soaked in fragrant oil. Additional oil casks
were broken open to drench the deck planks.
The holy fragment of burned wood from Aiden’s Arkship was taken from Ilrida’s kirk and placed aboard, next to her head. Though
Prester-Marshall Rudio had requested it be moved to Calay’s main kirk in honor of the fallen queen, Korastine insisted that
the relic belonged with her, even in this final ceremony.
Anjine could see that her father had dreaded this funeral for days. Korastine had spent the entire night kneeling in vigil
on the deck, refusing even a folded cloak to cushion his knees as he prayed over Ilrida’s body. As his daughter, Anjine stayed
beside him, touching his shoulder, feeling the unrestrained outpouring of his grief.
“After the fires of Ishalem, then what happened to Baine and all those volunteers, the terrible raids… and now Ilrida.” He
shuddered, looking up at Anjine, who had also begun to weep. “If we are truly fighting on the side of God against His enemies,
then why do all these tragedies keep happening to us?”
Anjine did not pretend to have an answer for him. Not even the old prester-marshall could have given a convincing response.
At sunrise, the time for the most solemn Aidenist services, Destrar Broeck clomped with heavy bootsteps onto the deck to join
him, and the two men bound by common sorrow crossed over to the royal cog, which was connected to the funeral ship by strong
grappling hooks.
Even Mateo had come back from his patrol and insisted on joining the solemn group. From his time in Iboria and escorting Ilrida
to Calay, he too had known the kind and ethereal queen, and Anjine had granted a special dispensation for him to don a royal
guard uniform. She had not been able to speak with him further, but now she could see a sparkle of unabashed tears on his
face as he stood with his fellow guards.
Weighing anchors as the day brightened, the two linked ships cast off from the royal wharf and sailed out of Calay Harbor
to the open sea. When the ships passed the lighthouses on the headlands, young Tomas stared at the wondrous sight. Korastine,
though, did not turn his gaze from the adjacent funeral ship and the silently resting Ilrida.
When the linked vessels reached the open water and the brisk current caught the vessels, Prester-Marshall rudio called out
a solemn prayer, both in traditional Tierran and again in the northern dialect, in honor of Ilrida’s memory. Rudio had learned
the phrasings specifically for this ceremony.
Mateo and the royal guard escort detached the grappling hooks to separate the vessels. The royal cog raised its sails, and
the pilot turned the wheel, while the funeral ship continued on its way, drifting farther out to sea. As the separation between
the vessels widened, Destrar Broeck blew a horn.
Mateo and several other well-trained archers lit pitch-covered arrows and raised them to the sky, loosing a volley that arced
gently over. In unison, the arrows struck home and ignited the funeral ship’s deck; two of the shafts plunged into the cushions
and kindling beneath Ilrida, and within moments, her pyre was alight.
Tomas started to cry again, and Anjine held him. She didn’t need to say anything. By the time the fire began to consume Ilrida’s
body, the ships had separated enough that Anjine could see only the flames rising above the deck rails. Her father clung to
the beautifully painted icon of Holy Joron he had commissioned for Ilrida’s special kirk, holding it against his heart.
His hair blowing in the sea breeze, Destrar Broeck turned to the king. “My daughter could not have asked for a better husband,
or a better life.” He glanced down at Tomas. “Or a better child. Although you built that kirk for her, the innocent scratch
of a rusty nail has caused great tragedy. I beg your indulgence now, Sire—let me and my men tear down the kirk.”
Korastine appeared broken, but his eyes sparkled with an odd wistfulness. “I have a mind to do something else, Destrar. ‘It
is better to fix than to break, better to stitch than to tear, better to caress than to strike, better to build than to knock
down.’ I command that Ilrida’s kirk be remade entirely. And this time, we will use only wooden pegs and nails of fine silver…
silver, like my beloved’s hair.”