Imir waited for the translation, then smiled and nodded. “We have finally found a way to peace.”
King Korastine had already suggested building a Tierran harbor on the northeastern shore of Ishalem, which was technically
above the Edict Line (although the soldan-shah seemed extremely uncomfortable at the prospect).
The two men agreed that their Edict was binding beyond any possible breach, because they had sworn in blood on the prow of
the holy Arkship.
Across the city, Tierran merchants went to the eastern neighborhoods, meeting their counterparts in Uraban markets. They gazed
at the Middlesea shore, which had traditionally been cut off from them. The people on both sides of Ishalem would celebrate
far into the night.
When the prayers were finished inside the kirk, Ur-Sikara Lukai felt obligated to reciprocate, inviting King Korastine to
the main church of Urec, so that he could walk the unfurling spiral to the altar. The services would be over well before sunset
when the main worship began. The Tierran king was exhausted and drained, but triumphant about what he had accomplished for
the world.
Direc na-Taya had never sold so many candles in a single day. The feasting, dancing, and singing had lasted through the heat
of the afternoon and now past sunset. As the streets of Ishalem grew dark and the people were sated with food and fuzzy with
drink, pilgrims became belatedly pious. They made donations to their respective churches, buying and lighting candles to shine
a thousand lights up to heaven, so that if Ondun ever chose to return to the world, He could see His way back to Ishalem.
Within an hour, Urecari worshippers purchased everything the Saedran candlemaker had prepared beforehand. Now, in a crowded
backstreet not far from the prime church, his small shop was filled with pots of melted beeswax and bubbling tallow; a framework
dipped wicks into the wax, layering tapers, while larger molds held thick candles that hadn’t hardened completely because
the workshop was so stifling. Direc stoked his fires to keep the liquid bubbling, pouring molds as quickly as he could, splashing
them with water so the wax would solidify.
As soon as he had another dozen candles ready, he cracked them free, used a small craftsman’s trowel to whittle away the marks
of the mold and to smooth the curling fern symbol. He had similar candles cooling that displayed the Aidenist fishhook, but
he doubted he’d have time to run to the other side of the city and sell them. Direc na-Taya was having a very profitable day,
indeed. These finished candles would fetch the unheard-of price of a
cuar
each.
Leaving his workshop behind, with vats of wax and tallow bubbling over low fires on stands precariously balanced amongst the
molds, he rushed to the front of his shop and opened the slatted door to find a crowd clamoring for his candles.
“I don’t have many,” he cried. “Only twelve.”
The customers offered handfuls of coins and shouted outrageous prices, which startled Direc. He realized that he would not
be cheating them if they
offered
him that much money. He raised one candle, displayed the unfurling fern design. “Here is the first—who will bid for it?”
Someone shouted, “Two
cuars!
” Another cried, “Three!” The price finally stopped at five, and he took the money, unable to believe his good fortune. He
raised the second candle, listening to another round of bids. At least by drawing out this process, his new batch would have
more time to cool.
He sold the dozen candles and told the customers to wait, promising to return with more as soon as possible. “Please be patient—such
work cannot be rushed. Pray or meditate while you wait.”
Direc closed the door and took the time to lock his embarrassingly heavy pouch of coins in a safe cabinet next to his books
before he hurried to his workshop. By now, maybe some of the tapers would be solid enough, though the thicker candles were
definitely still too soft. But if he gently wrapped them, told the people to be careful, they might serve the purpose…
Wiping sweat from his brow, Direc opened the door to his workshop, and an unexpected blast of furnace heat enveloped him.
A wax block had melted, a brazier tipped over. Aromatic oil had splashed across the bench top, and flames had caught. He staggered
back, eyebrows singed, hair smoking. He drew in a gasp, and the heat burned his lungs. He couldn’t shout.
The back of his shop was crowded against many homes and vendor stalls, and the building quickly became an inferno.
The flames escaped into Ishalem.
The soldan-shah relaxed in his residence that evening with his beautiful wife. After enjoying a victory feast and drinking
good Abilan wine, Imir lounged on cushions and stroked Asha’s long hair. The caress tickled her, and she laughed like soft
music. Imir felt languid and content. His wife was sweet and oh so lovely…
Caged songbirds produced a chirping cacophony without regard for whether anyone
wanted
to hear them sing. At least minstrels and court singers could be commanded to withdraw when he wanted a moment of peace.
Roaming freely throughout the Ishalem estate, more than a dozen cats had to be kept separate from the ever-present temptation
of the caged birds. Asha possessed six little dogs that loved to sit upon her lap, trot from room to room behind her, bark
incessantly, and chase the cats.
Then there were the four large and rambunctious hounds kept in a run outside the residence. These hunting dogs barked and
bayed throughout the night, craving exercise, but Asha was no hunter; she simply liked the idea of having them. In a separate
conservatory, a dozen potted mulberry trees fed Yuarej tentworms. Though Asha had silks enough, she delighted in the fluttering
moths that emerged from the tentworm cocoons.
Imir’s wife Villiki complained about Asha’s privilege in having a separate home here in Ishalem, in addition to a private
villa near the palace in Olabar. Villiki claimed he was spoiling his second wife, to the detriment of herself, his third.
But it wasn’t a matter of spoiling her. Imir was compelled to provide Asha’s separate residences for his own protection, and
his very sanity. He simply couldn’t abide all the animal noise, the excremental debris, and the smells.
Now, as he relaxed with her, Imir felt pleased with the signing of the Edict. By the strict terms of the agreement, he could
not prevent King Korastine from building his own shipyards and port on the eastern side of the isthmus. The soldan-shah no
longer had any legitimate reason to deny them, though the uneasy Uraban merchants would not be keen to offer their cooperation.
Aidenist ships on the Middlesea would fundamentally change the seafaring trade, but by the same token, Aidenist captains could
no longer sail south of the Edict Line and trade with Uraban ports. Perhaps there would be some sort of balance…
The street celebrations rang out even louder than the noises from Asha’s animals. Tierran merchants roamed the streets on
the eastern side of the city, singing boisterously, calling out to their new friends and business partners. Many new deals
would be made in these heady hours as the golden possibilities occurred to former rivals.
Imir doubted he would get much sleep tonight. But because he was with a beautiful woman for the evening, he didn’t want to
sleep, anyway…
Then, like the arrival of a sudden squall, the celebratory sounds changed outside. He detected a note of alarm amidst the
music and cheering—outcries, then loud bells tolling. Next to Asha, he propped himself on an elbow, furrowed his brow.
A guard yanked aside the hanging doorway curtains without regard for ceremony or propriety. “Soldan-Shah!”
A breathless crier stood next to the guard, his robes disheveled, his face white with fear. “Soldan-Shah, the Urecari district
is burning, and the prime church is in flames!”
Ignoring Asha’s startled cry, Imir sprang naked from his cushions. The crier pointed toward the open balcony, where gauzy
silk curtains whipped a bit more strongly than in the earlier breeze. Imir threw a sheet around himself and cinched it in
a knot at his waist as he ran barefoot across the polished stone floor with Asha at his heels. They both gazed at a terrifying
vista of flame rolling across the canals that wound through the Urecari District, a fire that leaped over the rooftops toward
the holy shipwreck on the hill.
In the crowded Merchants’ District near the prime church, fiery strands draped like spectacular gold necklaces flung in all
directions. Flames licked up roofs, consuming the wood and awnings of the stalls of salt sellers, sandal makers, and leather
craftsmen. Hot dry winds goaded the sparks and embers, and a veil of black smoke wafted into the air.
While Imir regarded the sight, speechless, Ur-Sikara Lukai pushed into the room past the guard, her face as angry as the spreading
fires. “It was a trick, Soldan-Shah. Aidenists have set fire to our church! They mean to burn Ishalem! The Edict was simply
a ploy.”
Imir whirled, his fear giving way to anger. “Do you know this? Where is your proof?”
Lukai stalked onto the balcony and gestured toward the view. “The Aidenist District is not aflame—only ours!”
The courier added, his voice high and piping, “There was a brawl down by one of the wine sellers, an Aidenist merchant smashing
bottles. King Korastine’s soldiers joined in… and now the same area is on fire.”
Imir’s throat was dry. Everyone else down there would be drawing the same conclusions. Throughout the Urecari section of Ishalem,
the flames continued to intensify… as did the outrage of the people.
* * *
Hearing the alarms and seeing the orange glow that silhouetted the majestic Arkship from the eastern side of the city, King
Korastine summoned help. With the furious sirocco winds of the season, fire would race through the crowded, tinder-dry houses
that were adorned with celebratory trappings and cloth banners.
Prester-Marshall Baine met the king outside the Ishalem royal residence, and the two moved into the streets at the head of
a swiftly growing crowd. Roused from their beds, Anjine and Mateo hurried after them. Korastine bellowed commands to rally
the people. “Get pumps to the canals! Bring buckets and washbasins! Hitch horses to wagons so they can haul barrels of water!
There is no time to lose. We have to work together, or we will all be lost.”
The prester-marshall used the passionate voice that had inspired thousands of followers, calling for faithful Aidenists to
save their brothers under Ondun. Only if the people of Ishalem put aside their religious differences could they conquer the
flames.
As the hastily gathered procession hurried across the city to the Urecari District, Korastine watched the increasing fire-storm,
which began to curl along the Pilgrim’s Path up the hill, following the waves of dry grasses. Soon, flames would reach the
sacred wreck of Aiden’s Arkship.
Volunteers rushed through the narrow streets, shouldering wash buckets and half-full casks, driving carts barely balanced
with heavy rainwater cisterns. But as the men and women raced toward the Urecari District, Korastine heard a rumble of iron-shod
hooves and defiant shouts. Horsemen wearing the blue head coverings of the Urecari guard and wide white sashes of Yuarej silk
across their tunics, brandished long scimitars and charged headlong into the foremost Aidenist water bearers. They bellowed
challenges in the Uraban tongue and struck down the first disbelieving people.
Korastine did not understand the shouted words, but hatred required no translation. His people screamed as weapons fell toward
them in shining arcs, hacking them to pieces. The Aidenists dropped their buckets, spilled their water into the streets, and
scattered in panic. “No!” he shouted. “No!”
Behind the first line of riders came other men bearing torches, which they flung onto the roofs of Aidenist buildings. Prester-Marshall
Baine yelled for his followers to retreat, but they had already fled into alleys where the Urecari hunted them down.
Anjine grabbed her father’s arm and pulled him back as the vengeful riders wheeled about and veered toward him. “Father, we’ve
got to find shelter!”
Mateo balled his fists. “I wish I’d brought a sword from the residence. I’ll protect you, Anjine. And you, too, Majesty.”
Taking action, he found the door of a sturdy warehouse and kicked it repeatedly until he knocked it open. He grabbed Korastine’s
sleeve. “Anjine, get inside. Majesty, hide here until the riders are past.”
They all ducked into the building as the Urecari attackers passed them in a blind and senseless rampage, hurling torches to
set the Aidenist Merchants’ District alight. Inside the questionable shelter of the wooden building, Korastine clenched and
unclenched his hands, watching in despair as the fire spread on both sides of the city.
The flames were deadly, yet beautiful. The fires of faith, the test of truth. Prester Hannes saw it as purification rather
than destruction. The vendor tents, craftsman shops, weaver stalls, calligraphers’ shops, streaming banners, and crowded dwellings
were nothing more than tinder piled up around the Urecari prime church. A bonfire for God! Perhaps, Hannes thought, Ondun
needed to cleanse the world and remove the blight from His sacred city of Ishalem before He would return to His people.
Comfortably disguised in Uraban rags, Hannes hid in the alleys and watched the panic and chaos. He kept no fishhook pendant
on his person, fearing that someone might see, but he always carried the symbol in his heart, along with the prayers he had
memorized from the Book of Aiden.
While many of the Urecari fled down to the nearby harbor on the Middlesea shore, some people stayed and tried to fight the
flames, beating desperately and ineffectually at the blaze with brooms and rags. Buckets of water sloshed onto stucco-and-wood
buildings were mere thimblefuls against a conflagration. Orange fire washed up the building walls and caught on the rooftops.
A basket maker’s stall under a patched brown awning collapsed into blazing embers.