Even after so many years, her feelings for Omra remained conflicted. He had been responsible for the attack on Windcatch;
that could never be erased. In the past eleven years, however, she had seen Omra from many perspectives. He was a wise and
just leader, a caring son, and a generous brother, a kind and fair husband, and a conscientious, loving father. He worked
hard, was proud without being vain, and rarely broke a promise. It had come as a surprise to Istar when, only two years into
their marriage, she had realized that she actually
trusted
Omra. Not loved him… but trusted him.
True to his word, he had kept her son safe. She knew that she
should
still love Criston, her true husband, but Omra had been remarkably good to her… and especially to Saan. Her thoughts were
very tangled and complex, her heartstrings tugged by memories of Criston, thoughts of Omra, love for Saan and for her two
daughters… even for Olabar, where she had lived for a third of her life.
In the brief silence, Saan spoke up again. “And I have more news. I
did
find the Golden Fern. When I was hiding from the assassins, I saw it in the mulch under a log, sparkling and yellow, unlike
any other fern I’ve ever seen.”
Istar looked at him uncertainly. “You didn’t tell me about this. Where is it?”
The boy straightened. “I didn’t pluck it. The fern is so rare that it seemed wrong to destroy such a precious thing. So I
left it where it was. But I did find it, and so now I’m blessed by Ondun.”
Istar felt a sudden wash of skepticism. Was this whole crisis merely a wild adventure created by the overactive imagination
of a ten-year-old? He had never been prone to exaggeration or bragging, but she did know he would do anything to impress Omra.
Her tone was cautious. “Now, Saan, you know the Golden Fern is just a story for children.”
“It is not just a story,” Omra said with a warning edge in his voice. Istar had forgotten that these Urecari believed their
legends to be the literal truth. Still, he frowned at the boy. “So you have no proof of the Golden Fern?”
“My word is my proof.” Saan looked as though the soldan-shah had insulted him.
“The fern has been sought for generations,” Omra said. “If you discovered it, why would you show no one?”
Saan drew himself up. “I
wanted
to show the fern to everyone, but I knew the assassins were still out there. You both taught me to think carefully before
I took action, so I thought about it, Father… and then I realized it wasn’t necessary. Doesn’t the legend say that whoever
finds
the Golden Fern is blessed? That Ondun is watching over him? Nothing says I have to destroy the fern to be blessed. And if
finding it is enough, then Ondun and Urec both know already. The fact remains a fact. I thought it was a test.”
He shrugged. “So I gently covered the Golden Fern with leaves and underbrush and crept away from the fallen log. When I was
sure I was safe, I ran until I found a path and followed it until I heard other people.”
Now Istar feared that Omra would discount Saan’s warning about the assassination attempt, that he would think it had all been
the product of a young boy’s enthusiastic fancy. The tale of hunters trying to kill him in the forest during the crowded festival
seemed preposterous enough, and now this…
Finished, Saan awaited Omra’s answer. The soldan-shah spoke with a grave voice, a leader making a firm pronouncement. “As
I said before, you have never lied to me, Saan. I believe you.”
The loss of Ilrida left an emptiness in his life that went far deeper than when Sena had died, and King Korastine needed to
cling to something.
By his command, carpenters dismantled Ilrida’s Iborian-style kirk to its foundations, removed the lapped shingles, pried the
pine planks from the support frame. He ordered the iron nails melted down, and then craftsmen reassembled the whole kirk using
only wooden pegs and soft silver nails.
But even when the task was complete, Korastine did not feel whole. He needed something else, a noble goal that would allow
him to touch his wife’s lost spirit, a quest that went beyond the long-simmering war with the Urecari.
Every month brought news of some other coastal raid by the Urecari, another bloody retaliation from Tierran warships, privateers
on both sides claiming to fight to protect their lands, but really just in search of plunder.
For years, though the two continents had cut themselves off from each other, Korastine had stopped short of launching a full-scale
crusade. If he gathered all of his naval ships, soldiers, and weapons, and sailed south past the ruins of Ishalem, he could
have conquered a Uraban coastal city or two, but he could not win the war. He could never send a sufficient military force
overland across the isthmus to achieve a successful attack on Olabar. Geography provided as much a defense as their respective
armies in keeping the two continents apart.
Sick of death and suffering, Korastine sat alone in his bed-chamber. Assuring the king that he and his chartsman had already
memorized it, Sen Leo na-Hadra had left him the sea-turtle shell with the map inscribed by some lost mariner. The king held
the leathery old shell and studied the unknown coastlines far across the Oceansea. The
Luminara
had tried to go there, and failed. He had seen the shattered sympathetic model with his own eyes, and read the mysterious
letter from Criston Vora. Certainly, no one could deny that the ship was lost, now that a decade had passed.
Still, as he looked at the etched map, the
idea
of such far-off lands sparked his imagination—the far seas, the unexplored continents, the possibility of finding Holy Joron,
the third son of Ondun. If anyone had divine powers, Joron did. If any hope remained in the world, it would be found in Terravitae.
Ilrida had always been so passionate about that particular legend. And now Korastine saw a way that he could find it—for her.
Setting the sea-turtle shell on a prominent shelf in his quarters, where it would remain a precious reminder, he sat at his
desk to write a proclamation. He did not need advisers for this, did not require a scribe. He wrote the words plainly, stating
his desires, and then sent riders to each of the five reaches, calling the destrars to Calay.
He would ignore the Urabans and instead look outward. In a whisper, he quoted from the Book of Aiden, “ ‘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.’ ”
He would find Terravitae.
* * *
The king held the session in his large banquet hall, so that more people could crowd in and hear his words. For the important
occasion, he had ordered a feast of fish and game, preserved fruits, and many loaves of freshly baked bread. At separate tables
sat Destrar Shenro from Alamont, Destrar Broeck and the ship-wright Kjelnar from Iboria, Destrar Siescu all the way from Corag,
Destrar Unsul from Erietta, and Destrar Tavishel from Soeland. Comdar Delnas was there, representing the Tierran military:
the land forces, the city and royal guards, and the ever-growing navy. At the head of the table, Princess Anjine tended to
her brother, Tomas, neither of them knowing what their father had in mind. Many of the destrars probably thought Korastine
intended to make a long-overdue announcement of Anjine’s marriage, since she was twenty-two.
Korastine regarded those gathered here, noting curiosity and puzzlement on every face. Prester-Marshall Rudio invoked a long,
traditional blessing for the feast, but even he didn’t know what the king had planned.
The king stood, waited for silence, and picked up the royal proclamation he had written himself, unrolling the parchment for
all to see. “Twelve years ago, Prester-Marshall Baine received a revelation from Aiden—that our true mission is to expand
our horizons, to voyage to new and unexplored lands. To that end, we dispatched a single ship, the
Luminara
… which was destroyed.” He paused, drew a deep breath. “But the loss of one ship does not mean the end of our mission! We
have allowed ourselves to be distracted by this conflict with the Urecari. Our shipyards have produced only warships and patrol
vessels—but we must not forget what Aiden truly wants of us.”
A ripple of muttering ran up and down the tables. Korastine waved the proclamation. “I hereby decree that an allotment be
made from our royal treasury, a small but vital fraction. We will build a new Arkship, one to rival Aiden’s ship that was
lost in the fires of Ishalem. We will design and construct a great vessel to carry our people to the edge of the world, and
beyond.”
The sounds of surprise and uncertainty grew louder from the destrars, courtiers, and military representatives. Korastine leaned
forward, sharing a secret with all of them. “I recently came into possession of a map that shows the likely location of Terravitae.”
Further gasps rang out. Anjine held herself back with visible effort.
“I may be old,” Korastine continued with a deprecating smile, “but I intend to lead the expedition to Terravitae myself. I
do this to honor my beloved Queen Ilrida, but I also do it for Tierra and for Aiden—to show Ondun that we have not forgotten
why we were created.”
Destrar Broeck pushed his plates aside, lifted his large body, and stood tall, looking just as hardened, just as determined
as the king did. “Iboria will provide all the wood necessary for the ship! And I assign my master shipwright to manage the
project.”
Knowing the others would not like it, Korastine added, “Every destrar in every reach, every person in Tierra should be glad
to help pay for this expedition.”
He could tell by the mood that none of them was glad, but no one would contradict him. He sat back down, both mentally exhausted
and exhilarated, and reached out to pat Anjine’s hand. He handed the proclamation to one of his scribes, so that it could
be copied and distributed widely. “We will find our way back to Terravitae.”
A hush fell over the underground temple chamber. Aldo na-Curic held himself silent, though he was bursting with ideas, waiting
to hear what Sen Leo and the gathered Saedran elders had to say in the urgent discussion. Aldo still couldn’t believe he had
been asked to join this prestigious meeting of elders only, but he was more widely traveled than any of these men, and they
very much valued his opinion. He grinned when, during a brief roll call and opening prayer, the old scholar called him
Sen
Aldo.
“Years ago, we secretly contributed funds to make possible the voyage of the
Luminara
,” Sen Leo said. “We must do so again. Now that we have seen a real map, now that there is evidence of the unfolding world,
we
must explore it
. We cannot let financial bickering among the destrars delay this great quest.”
The other Saedrans nodded, including Aldo’s father, Biento. Aldo spoke up. “As much as we think we know, there are still so
many empty spots on the map. We can’t even be certain of the size of the world. Or its shape! This is a very exciting time
for the Saedran people. Let’s not pass it up.”
“While it’s true that the money belongs to all of us,” Biento pointed out, “it is also true that all of us have the same goal—to
complete the Mappa Mundi. Think of how much my son has contributed. This voyage could teach us even more.”
“And remember how much work there is left to do,” Aldo added, feeling a flush on his cheeks.
One of the other elders cautioned, “As soon as the merchants begin to see the added tariffs and the destrars look into their
treasuries, their enthusiasm will be dampened. Someone may even manage to cancel the project.”
Sen Leo wagged his finger. “But if we Saedrans open our coffers, then the Arkship is sure to set sail.”
The elders dickered over the amounts they would contribute, but since Saedran chartsmen were paid handsomely for their services—and
that payment was banked in the secret Saedran treasuries—they had saved significant sums.
“What could be more important?” Aldo thought of the Mappa Mundi on the temple walls. “This voyage is how we should invest
our money. Just think—we may even discover our lost homeland. Isn’t that worth more than all our accounts put together?”
“Truly, what could be more important?” Sen Leo agreed. He folded his hands. “And though such an unprecedented ship will not
be completed for years, I must make the proposal now so that there will be no discussion later.” He smiled at Aldo. “For that
most magnificent voyage, no chartsman is more qualified than Sen Aldo na-Curic. He must be the one to sail on the new Arkship.”
After he reached Outer Wahilir, Prester Hannes worked his way up the rugged coast, following bad roads from village to village,
keeping a low profile. The clothes he had stolen from his traveling companions made him look like a peddler without items
for sale. Even so, he was viewed with less suspicion than if he had continued to disguise himself as a beggar.
Though he was still many months from home, he could almost taste the nearness of Ishalem.
Hannes reached the large port city of Tenér, the capital of Outer Wahilir, a large shipbuilding port that had fallen on hard
times because the forested hills had been stripped of their trees for miles around. Approaching from the south, Hannes walked
along the naked hillsides, saw the scars of graying stumps, the bare soil and rough washouts from erosion. Poor planning.
They had done this to themselves, damaging Ondun’s beautiful world. Stands of new trees had been planted much too late, and
would take years to mature. Elsewhere down the coast, the Urecari were furiously chopping down wood to expand their ocean
fleet for war.
Yes,
Hannes thought,
these people are like locusts upon the land
.
As he trudged past the Tenér harbor, he saw numerous Uraban vessels with sails bearing the spiteful Eye of Urec, but two of
the ships in port were clearly of Tierran design. He could still see the marks of the blessed fishhook symbol carved into
their hulls, now defaced by the chisels and axes of heathens. With gulls wheeling overhead, he shaded his eyes and watched
Uraban crewmen haul up buckets of water to scrub away bloodstains on the deck.
Murderers!