A surging wave caught the bottle and carried it forward. The foamy crest finally toppled over, and the wave smashed against
the uninhabited coast, shattering the bottle on a jagged boulder.
Sodden, the letter’s pages spread apart, the ink running like dark tears. The golden hair washed away, lost in the currents.
The combers came in again, spread the glass fragments, and erased all sign of the bottle and of the note.
Two Years Later
Thirteen Years After the Burning of Ishalem
Once the lost Nunghal wanderer became fluent enough in the Uraban language, he worked hard to convince Soldan-Shah Omra to
mount an expedition that would send him home.
In two years, Asaddan had become a court sensation in Olabar, a large foreign-looking man with a wide, tanned face, thick
black hair, and a gap-toothed smile. At first, he had worn familiar clothing provided by the palace, but he soon showed court
tailors how to make traditional Nunghal clothing. Though he learned about Uraban culture and religion, Asaddan chose not to
blend in, leveraging his strange individuality to his advantage. The people found him amusing and intriguing.
From her perspective as a similar foreigner in this land, Istar understood exactly how he felt. She had lived more than a
dozen years in the Olabar palace, five as a slave and seven as a wife of the soldan-shah. Even though she wore the appropriate
silks, and even though the soldan-shah had made it quite clear that she was his
wife
and must be respected, Istar did not fit in. After the attempt on Saan’s life during the hunt for the Golden Fern, her quarters
had been moved close to the center of the palace, but it still did not seem like home. Despite her changed name, she could
never forget that she came from Tierra; she did not renounce her faith in Aiden, though she could no longer practice it. But
she had survived, and her son had survived. She had done what was necessary. And now she had a different life, a different
husband, and two daughters as well.
In Omra’s throne room, Istar sat cross-legged on a turquoise cushion, her hair bound in four braids now, staring at the inlaid
map of soldanates on the floor. She had chosen her place next to an open window where a cool breeze drifted in, carrying with
it the faint cacophony of Olabar’s streets. She would offer Omra her opinions about the morning’s business later, if he asked
for them.
On the far side of the chamber sat dark-haired Cliaparia, who devoted most of her attention to resenting Istar rather than
listening to the cases that supplicants brought before the soldan-shah. Omra rarely talked with her about political matters.
As expected, Asaddan’s request provided the main reason for the session. The big Nunghal, who now spoke nearly flawless Uraban,
stood at the base of the soldan-shah’s dais. “Soldan-Shah, I have described the hills and the herds of my homeland. I have
told you of the fertile grasslands and vast plains that lie beyond the Great Desert. I beg you to send your representatives
on a great and perilous journey that offers many rewards.” He had learned to speak eloquently, and his passion was not feigned,
though his missing tooth gave him something of a whistle when he talked. He tapped the center of his broad chest. “I can lead
you there. I will be your ambassador to the khan. I long to see my homeland again.” Asaddan tossed his mane of ebony hair,
and the listeners muttered to one another, obviously feeling sorry for him.
Old Imir entered then, causing quite a stir, since he rarely showed any interest in the business of Uraba anymore. Omra’s
father had gained weight since his retirement; though he still shaved his head and chin, his features were saturnine, and
he perspired more heavily. He grinned as he walked in, sandaled feet clicking on the tiled floor. “I beg you to heed this
man, my son. The rest of the world awaits! Great adventures beckon!” He lowered his voice. “I will offer my personal fortune
to fund this expedition, on one condition—that I accompany him.”
Istar was pleased to see the courage of the plump old soldan-shah. Though this man had been the leader of the Urabans at the
beginning of the war, she had never considered him her personal enemy. The old man had never really wanted war with Tierra,
but the sikaras had pushed for the conflict and given him no alternative, just as many parties were now doing to Omra.
Twelve-year-old Saan sat next to his mother, fidgeting but attentive. At the mention of trekking to lands never before seen
by any Uraban, his blue eyes shone. He whispered to her now, “May I join my grandfather? Please let me accompany him. Nobody
has ever gone as far!”
“Asaddan has certainly gone there,” she said patiently. “And all of his people live there.”
“I meant
Urabans,
Mother!”
Istar’s initial reaction was to insist it was too dangerous, but she knew that it was also dangerous for him to remain here
in Olabar. Saan had survived too many “accidents” for them to be coincidences, and Istar had no reason to believe the threats
would ever stop, short of the young man’s murder. Though she had still found no proof of Cliaparia’s involvement, she never
let down her guard.
As if sensing her thoughts, Istar saw the other woman shoot a glance at them. Cliaparia, married to Omra for thirteen years,
and just past the age of thirty, had given her husband only one daughter in all that time. She had not managed to bear the
son that the soldan-shah—that
Cliaparia
—so desperately needed.
But Istar had, at last.
The baby boy, her fourth child, had been born only a month earlier, thus becoming the true firstborn son of the soldan-shah.
Omra’s young third wife, Naori, was also pregnant, but that didn’t matter. Now that he had his heir, the line of succession
was clear. Cliaparia was not part of that line.
As old Imir stood alongside the burly Nunghal, Istar acknowledged that Saan might be safer if he left Olabar, if he had his
own adventure. Her son’s enthusiasm reminded her of when Criston had felt the call of the sea, so passionate to serve aboard
the
Luminara
, wanting to sail off to lands unknown…
Let Saan go beyond the most distant soldanate, she decided. He got along well with his surrogate grandfather, a man who liked
to talk about his own amazing (and possibly fictitious) experiences as much as he enjoyed hearing new tales. Though it hurt
her to say the words aloud, just as it had been difficult to say goodbye to Criston that last night in Calay, she spoke warmly.
“You will go on the expedition, Saan, if it is in my power to allow it.”
Inside her comfortable home, Sen Sherufa na-Oa spread out her drawings and charts, sketching in the information that Asaddan
had provided. The big Nunghal sat beside Imir, his brown eyes bright with interest, while the former soldan-shah seemed particularly
delighted just to be in Sherufa’s presence. “And what have you found for us, my dear?”
“I am not your ‘dear,’ ” she said teasingly, then pointed down at one of the sketches, as well as records from previous Missinia
soldans. “We already knew, and Asaddan has verified, that there are strong prevailing winds over this section of the continent.
They blow consistently southward for several months of the year, then reverse themselves and blow northward.”
Imir frowned, his plump face florid. “Now, that might be interesting if we had sailing ships, but this is a desert—not a drop
of water to be found.”
“Therefore we need new kinds of ships,” Sherufa said. “In perusing all the volumes in my library, I’ve discovered concepts
developed by the greatest Saedran minds. One involves a large sack filled with heated air, which can lift heavy things. The
inventor conceived this design as a sort of detached crane, a way to raise extremely large loads. I propose that if such a
thing could be used to raise the framework of a ship above the ground, then you could set sail high above the dunes, as if
they were water and your vessel were a sailing ship.”
Imir looked down at the drawings. “A balloon? We would ride a balloon?”
“You would ride a
ship,
” Sherufa gently corrected. “The balloon would simply lift it. Several layers of Yuarej silk, waterproofed and lined, should
be adequate. And if the boat itself were constructed of a lightweight material—woven reeds, wicker work—it would weigh virtually
nothing. The expedition could cruise across the Great Desert, riding the prevailing winds until you reach the land of the
Nunghals. Half a year later, you ride the breezes back northward. The crossing should be simple.”
“Not ‘simple,’ ” Asaddan cautioned. “But possible.”
“Wonderful!” Imir exclaimed. “Perfectly wonderful, my dear. I knew that if anyone could find a solution, it would be you.
How I wish Uraba had more treasures such as yourself. Therefore, I have a reward for you. You have lived your life vicariously,
and I have enjoyed your tales. But now I offer you the chance of a lifetime: Come with us. You and I will peel back the mysteries
of the world.”
Sherufa quailed at the thought; she had never even left Olabar. She read about grand quests and epic journeys, but preferred
to experience them from her armchair, looking at books and maps rather than enduring storms and privation. “It is not necessary,
Imir. I will help you to plan—”
He waved her off. “None of that! A twelve-year-old boy is eager to come, so it’s perfectly safe. Come now, remember all those
stories you told me? I know this is what you want. Believe me, you won’t regret it.”
Sherufa was not so certain.
Asaddan drew a breath, sounding like a blacksmith’s bellows, and looked with sincere gratitude toward Imir and Sherufa. “If
one man with a few animals can make the journey, certainly a flying ship with all the resources of Uraba is much better. We
will be fine.”
Istar lay next to Omra at night, listening to breezes stir the silk hangings at the balcony and windows. “He should go, Omra.
He wants to go.”
“If my father considers it safe, then I will consider it safe,” Omra answered. “It will be good for the boy to experience
new things. He can take care of himself—I’ve seen him do it. But even now that we have a new son, my heir, I insist on finding
an appropriate and important place for Saan. He is…” Omra was at a loss for words.
Istar felt no edge of bitterness when she spoke. “You have always been good to Saan. I never expected that when I agreed to
marry you.”
She could barely see his wry smile in the shadows of the bed-chamber. “I love our two daughters, and, yes, the new baby is
my only male heir. Even so, you know how I feel about Saan.”
“Yes.” Istar nodded. “I do.
Work crews prepared for departure on the caravan south toward Missinia. Carts were loaded with reeds harvested from marshes
in the lowlands of Abilan. Pack animals were harnessed. Sikaras burned prayer strips asking for good weather and a safe journey.
Istar would stay behind in the palace to tend her new baby, assisted by her dedicated handmaiden, a doe-eyed young woman named
Altiara. Istar’s two daughters were now old enough to be in traditional school, and Adreala—the older one—would soon be brought
to the Urecari church for her second testing, to see if she was worthy of becoming a sikara herself.
As golden morning sunlight slanted through the open windows, Saan came to say goodbye to his mother. His clothes were already
packed and loaded aboard the caravan. Istar had selected the garments herself, remembering what Windcatch fishermen used to
wear when they set off on long voyages. Though Saan brought one set of fine clothes in case he needed to meet with important
Nunghal nobles, Istar chose the rest of his garments for durability, knowing the arduous journey that lay in store for him.
Saan proudly displayed a new medallion around his neck, toying with its leather thong. “The soldan-shah gave me this.” He
turned it in his fingers so that it caught the sunlight. “He told me to wear it, and to think about him, and Olabar, and Urec.
We will go to these new lands and bring Urec’s Log to the Nunghals. We will teach them the truth.”
As always, Istar held her past close to herself, though the curling spiral of the unfurling fern often unnerved her. “
Two
brothers sailed from Terravitae. Perhaps you should also mention Aiden.”
Saan scowled. “But I hate the Aidenists! We know the terrible things they’ve done.”
In the boy’s eyes, Istar saw a hint of the raiders storming the streets of Windcatch, burning the small kirk that Prester
Fennan could not defend. They had killed old Telha without mercy; they had captured
her,
dragged her across half the world. “Terrible things have been done by both sides, Saan.”
He seemed offended by her suggestion. “Nothing so bad as what they do to us. Think about the bloodbath in Outer Wahilir—Soldan
Attar, his family, more than a hundred nobles and merchants, all poisoned by an Aidenist assassin! And all those churches
burned, the villages attacked.”
“Saan, you are old enough to realize there are two sides to any story. You know that I originally came from Tierra. I did
not ask to be brought here.”
Saan challenged his mother, staring at her in disbelief. “But you were a slave—and now you’re the wife of the soldan-shah.
You live in a palace. Think of all the wonders we have! My little brother is the zarif of Uraba. You were saved from a lifetime
of ignorance and squalor!”
Istar picked up the baby and held him in a soft blanket in her arms. She sat back in a chair and regarded Saan. “Do not believe
everything you’ve heard. A happy life is not necessarily based on appearances and possessions.” She gazed at the peacefully
sleeping baby, who was now six months old.
“You cannot deny that the soldan-shah loves you, Mother. I can see that this pleases you every time you look at him.”
She nodded slowly, taking care not to show a flicker in her expression. “Yes, you’re right.” Yes, she had gained a measure
of contentment in her life here in Uraba, with her children, her position in the palace. She could not admit that she was
happy
—a hard part of her would never allow that—but she was not as unhappy as she had tried to make herself believe for the past
seven years.