Istar longed to tell Saan the truth as she stroked the infant’s smooth head. She had asked Omra to name the boy Criston, and
he had allowed it, not knowing what it meant to her. She had never revealed the identity of her true husband, and she had—thankfully—found
an obscure reference to another sailor called “Criston” in the scripture of Urec’s Log. No one else would know.
“Just remember,” she told Saan. “You do not have all the information.”
The Arkship was under construction—the most magnificent vessel men had ever dared to build. Kjelnar had at first trembled
at the responsibility of overseeing the project, and now he reveled in it. It was not hubris, but respect. No one had ever
attempted such a titanic work to honor Ondun’s creation and Aiden’s quest, and every aspect of the majestic ship had to be
perfect, the best.
In the dense Iborian pine forests, Kjelnar had spent all his life walking the paths, studying the trees, and marking specimens
of particular interest to him. Expanses of dark evergreens covered the northern wilderness, but Kjelnar imagined that he had
seen them all. With a long knotted string, he measured the circumferences of the trunks. He stared upward, using a bob and
measuring stick to plumb the straightness of the trees. Only the perfect… the best.
He’d had his eye on this particular tree for much of his life, waiting to find a use sufficiently grand for such a specimen.
A tree like this could not be used in just any ship, but as the main mast for King Korastine’s new Arkship. There could be
no greater glory.
Back in Calay, the king had cleared Shipbuilders’ Bay of other projects so that the sawmills, dry dock, and cranes could be
used for the Arkship. Some of the merchants’ harbors and part of the Saedran District had been commandeered to continue work
on refitting warships and building new ones.
Kjelnar had never before constructed such a large, ambitious vessel. He spent nearly two years bringing the enormous project
to this point: drawing up the detailed plan for the Arkship, building models, supervising the construction of new dry docks,
erecting superstructures, cranes, blocks and tackle, everything the giant vessel would need. Seasoned wood was floated down
from Iboria, each log chosen by him and cut by the sawmills into the lumber that would be needed.
Kjelnar supervised the laying of the Arkship’s keel, using the best seasoned wood. Although many Calay dockworkers volunteered
their labors, Kjelnar hand-picked Iborian workmen to trim, steam, and bend the beams, then carve them to perfection. The first
sets of the great ribs were set in place, so the Arkship looked like the skeleton of an enormous beast.
Satisfied with the Arkship’s progress and knowing that his crews could continue their work without him, Kjelnar returned to
the forests of Iboria so that these loggers could cut down the main tree.
He led a crew of burly Iborian woodcutters on an expedition deep inland, needing to be there himself, to guide the work and
contribute his own sweat. Pride in workmanship allowed him to steer no other course. He and his team followed a river upstream,
then branched off into a dense valley carved by a swift creek. The mainmast tree stood like a sentinel at the head of the
side drainage, and even from a distance, Kjelnar admired the pine. It stood like nature’s obelisk before the imagined kirk
of the wilderness.
Leaving their shallow boats on the boulders at the rocky edge of the rushing creek, his men trudged through the underbrush.
Wiping sweat out of his eyes, brushing mosquitoes away from his face, the shipwright guided them along winding trails used
only by animals, remembering the path to his prize. When they reached the base of the kingly tree, the Iborian treecutters
nodded their approval and clapped Kjelnar on his broad back.
“That is a worthy tree,” said Ragnal, one of the bearded northmen.
On the hike up the basin, Kjelnar had begun calculating the best way to bring the great pine down to the main river; the wide
creek was swollen with runoff, but too many large rocks and abrupt falls would hinder its passage. The men would have to guide
the giant tree along the valley’s edge, using the creek when possible and the bank when necessary. It would be an arduous
journey, taking many days, but his men were strong. And they were doing this for Aiden.
When the group reached the end of the valley at the head-waters of the creek, Kjelnar explained his plan, and the men deferred
to him, since he had more expertise in cutting and moving logs than any other Iborian. To prepare a path for the tree’s passage,
he told the men to cut down other trees and clear the way. The logs they felled would have been prime wood for construction;
here, though, the men laid them down as rollers and guides to move the mainmast tree.
While the crew did the preparatory work, Kjelnar climbed the majestic pine until he was high above the other treetops, holding
on to the trunk and looking up to the sky, the cold mountains, the extensive dark forests, marveling at the glory of Ondun.
Working his way back down, he sawed off branches, and when the tree stood stripped of its boughs, it already looked like a
towering mast. Staring at the immense, perfect trunk, he knew he had made the right choice. It was time.
At the tree’s base, the men used their axes to cut a deep gouge and then set to work with their saws. The loggers did the
back-breaking work in shifts. Buckets were hauled from the stream to dump on the hot saw blades so they could keep going.
They cut for nearly a full day before the giant pine teetered, then surrendered to gravity. It bent, slowly at first, then
picked up speed, falling gracefully and precisely where Kjelnar had directed.
The men rushed forward, working together, muscles straining, to align the huge trunk onto the roller logs; next they began
the arduous journey of moving it several feet at a time. Every step had to be done perfectly. After two days, they built a
new camp, and worked again the following day, and the next. By the time the mainmast tree reached the river, the men were
exhausted to the point of collapse.
But Kjelnar would not let them stop. They needed to get the tree into the water and follow it downstream with their boats.
They could rest during the voyage to Calay. He admired the exceptional tree as the crew wrestled it into the deeper water,
already envisioning the finished Arkship, which had haunted his dreams for two years now.
Yes, it was perfect. The best.
After his glorious achievement in Tenér—more than a hundred Urecari poisoned, including Soldan Attar, his two wives, and several
children—Prester Hannes was in less of a hurry to return to Calay. He still had so much to accomplish.
He had remained there until he burned another Urecari church along with its sikara and its congregation. For years now, his
legend had grown. Mothers told stories to their children about a shadowman who killed the “faithful,” who burned churches
and poisoned their leaders. There was no holy ground, no safe place for them. Hannes liked the fact that they were scared.
The delusions of their faith made them blind to what he was doing, and why. Fearful, the people turned against anyone who
looked remotely Tierran, and many scapegoats were killed. But they died for a good cause.
Still, his extravagant bloodbaths in Tenér sparked such outrage that he had become exceptionally careful. He had been glimpsed
too many times over the years. Though he now wore different clothes, he was still a stranger, and strangers were looked upon
with suspicion and fear. Travel was dangerous for him.
He moved north past the city of Khenara until at last he reached Ishalem. Ishalem! A burned ruin… a wasteland where once a
great city had stood.
Many years had passed since the great fire, but the wound had festered rather than healed. When Hannes saw the blackened hills,
the outlines of streets, the fossils of collapsed buildings, his hatred for the Urecari grew beyond measure. How could Ondun
ever forgive them for the damage they had done?
After more than a decade, the city remained a graveyard. Even in the best of times, the rocky soil of the isthmus had been
unsuitable for growing enough crops to feed more than a small population, and only scrub brush had grown back since the fire.
Anyone who came there now—with the emptiness everywhere, the ruins overgrown with thorny weeds, the land crumbly with weathered
ash—would believe they had been sent to a kind of purgatory. Surely Ondun had turned His back on this place.
Worst of all was the central hill that overlooked both sides of Ishalem—a barren hill now, showing no sign of Aiden’s sacred
Arkship. It was gone, all gone… but his faith remained.
He wept as he recalled the city’s former glory. That last night was so vivid in his mind—the bright flames, the collapsing
Urecari church, the precious amulet he had gained and then lost again—that his scars began to throb. How could Aiden have
let this happen?
Hannes saw only a few huts and tents erected by the most tenacious pilgrims, widely separated from one another in different
parts of what had been the great city. By now he had expected the city to be rebuilt, loyal Aidenists reclaiming the ground,
constructing a new metropolis to replace what the Urecari had destroyed. Instead this was a damned place, shunned by both
religions. He didn’t know how long he could bear to stay here, but he knew he must.
Finding a sheltered spot without too much ash or debris, he used stones and scraps of collapsed building timbers to make a
modest shelter. He kept to himself, avoiding the other pilgrims. If they were Urecari, he had no interest in talking to them;
if they were Aidenists, they would look at his stolen clothing, assume he was a heretic, and surely throw rocks at him. In
order to survive, he decided to steal food from other pilgrim camps, killing a few more Urecari if necessary. He would wait
until nightfall.
At dusk, when the Urecari were at their sunset prayers, Hannes crept out from his shelter and was startled to see five soldiers
on horseback—Uraban guards, armed with curved swords and angry expressions. Before he could duck back into hiding, they spotted
him, and he heard the rumble of hooves, the snorting of horses.
Hannes stood to face the circle of riders, letting his shoulders slump, averting his face. Though his heart pounded and he
felt great fear, he fell back on his false persona and blurted out his words. “I am but a faithful pilgrim, come all the way
from Olabar so that I may lay my eyes on Ishalem.” He had no qualms about lying, since lying to a follower of Urec was not
exactly lying.
The kel of the Urecari group sneered down at him, unimpressed. “Any man may say he’s a pilgrim.”
“For what other purpose would I come here?” Hannes wiped his blackened hands on his pantaloons. “What else is there, but the
memory of Ishalem?”
The kel had an uneven black beard, and his white uniform was now gray, ash stained and improperly washed too many times. “We
have orders to arrest any beggars or lone wanderers. Such a man—or men—caused great harm across Uraba, and you fit the description.”
Hannes tried to keep his voice from cracking. “A man alone, on a pilgrimage to Ishalem? That is your only description of this
criminal?”
“It’s good enough for us.” The kel gestured to his men and spurred his horse forward.
“Wait, wait!” Hannes could not let these men take him. Only a few more miles, and he would be back in Tierra. “I received
a vision in a dream to come to Ishalem. I gave up everything to make the journey. Ondun Himself must have guided me.”
“Then Ondun Himself guided you into our arms,” the kel said. Some of the weary and hard-bitten soldiers looked sympathetic
to Hannes’s story, but their captain was uninterested. “Our instructions are to take every suspicious person into custody.”
Two of his soldiers slid down from their mounts, pulling out leather thongs, and though Hannes struggled, they bound his hands
behind his back. “But I have done nothing. I am innocent! I live only to serve Ondun.” And that was the truth.
The kel merely shrugged. Three additional riders from the kel’s scout party came up, leading five more pilgrims who had been
similarly arrested. “You will be taken to a slave galley in the old Uraban harbor and be shipped across the Middlesea to work
at Gremurr. You will serve Ondun—in the mines.”
The caravan toiled across the grassy hills toward where the floating sand coracle would be built at the edge of the Great
Desert. Saan was comfortable with the rocking, swaying gait of the slow-moving pack animals; he imagined it might be like
the rolling deck of a ship in restless waters.
Saan had spent so much time with Omra, looking at tactical maps and picturing those far-off places in his mind. Now the world
lay before him… and it certainly seemed larger than the maps implied.
Sen Sherufa na-Oa rode beside them, showing a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety for the long journey; the rolling
landscape intrigued her, but Saan could tell she would rather have been home in Olabar.
His grandfather kept his horse close to the Saedran woman, always trying to engage her in conversation. Imir told many long,
drawn-out stories from his years as soldan-shah. More than once, he bragged about his bravery or wisdom, telling his exploits
for the Saedran woman’s benefit as much as his own.
“Did I tell you about the time a great sea serpent nearly wrecked my dromond on my voyage to Ishalem to sign the Edict? It
was a huge serpent.” Imir stretched out his arms to their full width. “Razor-edged fins and fangs as long as your arm. It
even breathed fire.”
Sherufa commented wryly, “So your ship burned in the waters, then?”
“No, the flames missed us.” Imir drew himself up. “I ordered the sailors to row backward and prepare their harpoons for a
fight. Ur-Sikara Lukai was terrified, of course, but I stood at the helm and faced down the sea serpent.”