Shallow canals wound along many of the main streets, but this far inland, upslope toward the shipwreck hill, the water was
stagnant and shallow, covered with fetid scum. These canals were mainly wide drainage gutters used for sewage and waste water
and were not deep enough for the firefighters to use hand pumps.
The air was so hot Hannes could not breathe, and he covered his mouth with a dirty rag as he worked his way with determination
to the prime Urecari church, heedless of his own safety.
Glancing over his shoulder, Prester Hannes watched in disgust as the Urecari fled before the blaze. Though their church was
on fire, they did not stand and fight for it. How could they simply abandon their primary house of worship, leaving it to
be consumed by the fire? While he had no love for the religion, the people, or their relics, he was most disturbed by their
lack of
faith
. Were they not willing to give their lives to save their church?
Hannes, on the other hand, was afraid of neither pain nor death.
He circled the prime church and found a side door left ajar by some foolish acolyte who had run away. Hannes kicked it open
the rest of the way, ducked his head, and rushed into the smoke-filled chamber. Fire had already climbed into the main worship
center and begun to feed. The lead channels holding myriad bits of colored window glass had melted, and the jewel-like mosaics
crumbled to pieces.
Inside, cloth pennants hanging from the high ceiling were wreathed in fire. One of the support timbers overhead had already
burned out of its joint and collapsed in a great crash onto the spiral-path area where Urecari worshippers would wave the
ribbons upon which their pleas were inscribed. With everything on fire, Hannes wondered if they still believed that Ondun
could read the messages in the smoke…
Hannes stared ahead through stinging eyes and pressed forward to reach the altar in the middle of the spiral. He could think
only of the amulet of Urec that the priestess had presented as the most sacred relic of the church, the amulet that Ondun
Himself had supposedly given to Urec. Why had He not given it to Aiden?
Hannes would save the object from the flames and make his way back to the Aidenist kirk on the other side of the city. He
would find Prester-Marshall Baine and present the most sacred object to his mentor. After spending years among them, Hannes
had completed his mission here. He had learned much about the enemy.
On the wooden platform, the thick candles had melted in the heat, and he spied the amulet, surrounded by flames. On either
side of the display stood ewers of sacred oil, which the sikaras used to fill their braziers. With a crack and roar behind
him, another rafter tumbled into the nave, spraying flaming debris. Hannes knew he had to move quickly.
He tore part of his cloth sleeve to protect his hands and wrapped the fabric around the amulet; even so he could feel its
heat burn his fingers… or perhaps it was a tingle of holiness. If Ur-Sikara Lukai’s words were to be believed, Ondun Himself
had touched this medallion.
Hannes took his prize, tucking the object securely into his belt. But when he turned to leave, he saw that the fire had advanced
deeper into the church, catching all the structural beams on fire, melting the metal hinges on doors and windows. A heavy
block broke loose from the arch above, triggering an avalanche of stones that crashed down onto the altar. The carved platform
splintered and collapsed, sending the ewers of scented oil flying toward Hannes. He crouched to shield himself, but the oil
dowsed his clothing, and the flames quickly caught the new fuel.
Screaming as the fire licked his skin and ignited his hair, he rolled on the floor, but the oil had covered his skin and soaked
through his garments. Unable to put out the flames, he staggered back to his feet and ran blindly. He hit the stone wall hard
and reeled along, beating his clothes with his hands until he reached a window that had already halfway collapsed. Unable
to think, he plunged through the remaining glass, knocking the softened lead tracks free.
Outside in the alley, Hannes shoved himself away from the church, striking the walls of close-packed buildings. He didn’t
know where he was going, could not run from the pain. He pitched forward as the ground disappeared beneath him, and he slid
down an embankment into one of the stagnant canals of brackish water. He splashed and rolled into the stinking sluggish current,
desperate to extinguish the flames.
But even when the fire was out on his garments and skin, agony continued to scream through his nerve endings and his mind,
never fading away.
The priestesses called it a bad moon over Olabar, hanging low in the sky with an orange cast caused by thin dust blown in
from the Great Desert.
A bad moon.
From the sky, it seemed to threaten Zarif Omra like a raised fist.
He stood on the tower balcony, gazing across the many-tiered city, but not seeing it. He gripped the balustrade until his
knuckles whitened, so engulfed in his thoughts and worries that he could barely breathe. His eyes burned until he remembered
to blink. Still he continued to stare. Far off, he could see the deceptively calm waters of the Middlesea…
Istar had spent the day in an uneasy malaise, which had transitioned to nausea, horrific cramps, and crippling muscle spasms.
While Omra was walking her up the long marble stairs to their chambers, letting her hold on to his arm, Istar had suddenly
collapsed, moaning in pain. The silken skirts swirling around her legs began to seep a rich red.
Omra had shouted for doctors, demanded assistance, set the entire palace on alert. Now, as he stood outside in cold contemplation,
he realized that the sikaras had not mentioned the omen of the moon until
after
Istar had been brought into her bedchamber,
after
the complications were painfully apparent. Now the sikaras pointed at the moon and nodded knowingly. What good was an omen
if the priestesses could not warn him beforehand?
Omra closed his eyes against the stinging tears. He could not block the sounds from the bedchamber, the urgent whispered discussions
of sikaras and midwives, the sudden sharp cries of his beloved. Istar had been on the bed for hours, but the women would not
let him inside to see her.
He wrestled with impatience, terror, and anger. As the zarif of Uraba, he could have ordered them aside and pushed his way
into the room, but if there was any chance the sikaras and midwives could help Istar or save the baby, Omra would do exactly
what they said. He, the son of the soldan-shah and heir-apparent to all of Uraba, could do nothing but stand by and wait.
And wait.
The moon taunted him with its ruddy colors, hanging there against the midnight sky. A Saedran astronomer could have explained
the phenomenon by saying that dust storms often muddied the skies, adding spectacular colors to sunsets, playing tricks with
the eye. But Omra didn’t care. Reasons and explanations did not matter to him.
Behind him, unmuffled by the silk hangings across the entryway, came another sharp scream, followed by a long and even more
unsettling moan… then a silence that was infinitely worse. Hearing the approach of sandaled feet, the rustle of fabrics, he
turned to face a sikara who held her news like a defensive weapon. Her elegantly coiffed hair hung in disarray, the strands
dampened with sweat; her complexion was ashen.
In her arms, she carried a small object wrapped in cloth. Omra saw only the blood. “Your son has not survived, Zarif Omra.
I am sorry.”
He didn’t know the sikara’s name, didn’t care. Omra stared at the crimson-splotched wrappings. The priestess hesitated, unsure,
then moved the folds aside to show him the tiny head, small arms and legs, the twisted back, blotchy milk skin covered with
a film of blood. His son—no larger than his hand.
It seemed unreal. Urgency flooded through him, and Omra shoved aside the priestess with her grisly offering and charged into
the bedchamber. He ripped the hangings away as though they were phantoms, tearing them entirely from the hooks and casting
them in a pile on the floor.
Desperate hope pulsed through him like a hot storm wind. Istar was his first wife, and this his first child, but they were
both young. He and Istar would have other sons, as many babies as she liked. As the future soldan-shah, Omra needed to have
many heirs. He would show Istar his love. He would nurse and watch over her until she regained her strength.
But when he saw her lying on the bed like a broken doll propped up by cushions, the sharp sword of reality ran him through.
The death of the unborn infant was not the worst thing this bad moon had brought him. So much blood covered the sheets, the
silks, the pillows, everywhere. The sikaras and midwives hovered over a motionless Istar like carrion birds expecting an imminent
feast.
She was breathing, but just barely, her breaths thready and fast. The chief midwife looked at him, more disappointed in her
own failure than stricken by genuine grief. Omra fell to his knees beside the bed and took Istar’s hand. She stirred a little,
eyes flickering as though she were summoning the last of her strength just to lift her eyelids.
One of the sikaras bent close. “There is nothing to be done, Zarif. The rest will be peaceful now. The pain is over. The child
was just…”
Enraged, Omra pushed the red-robed woman backward and focused entirely on Istar. Sweat dotted her brow, and her face was oddly
pinched. She breathed out a long sigh and just barely managed to form words. Only he could hear the voice that came from her
bluish lips. “My love…”
Omra squeezed her hand and whispered to her, reassured her, lied to her. Istar didn’t seem to hear. She did not open her eyes
again, nor did she attempt to speak.
He remained there for more than an hour,
willing
her to hold on, until she finally passed the threshold into death. Still kneeling at Istar’s side, he realized that he was
alone.
Engrossed in the exciting new map he had purchased from Yal Dolicar, Aldo leaned against crates full of raisins from Erietta.
He held the paper up to the sunlight so he could study the hand-drawn lines and mysterious landforms, coasts, islands, reefs.
He absorbed everything in his perfect memory.
The information on this map would open a new window to the world and shed light on Ondun’s secrets. As a chartsman, Aldo had
already begun his sacred duty of illuminating the world; he could hardly wait to show the map to his father and take it to
Sen Leo at the temple. With a spring in his step, he hurried home.
Aldo entered the house with a secretive smile and the rolled map tucked into his shirt. “I met a sailor at the docks,” he
blurted to his parents. “He’s had an amazing adventure.” His brother and sister came close as the young chartsman summarized
what Yal Dolicar had told him; as if unveiling a great treasure, he spread the map on the wooden kitchen table, which was
still dusted with flour from his mother’s baking.
Biento slid the easel and canvas out of the way and set aside his paints to bend over the map. While Aldo could barely contain
his excitement, his father frowned, his eyes darting over the drawn coastlines, reading the words written in an unsteady hand.
The creases deepened around his mouth.
Aldo kept talking to counteract his father’s unexpected reticence. “See, these islands—nobody knows about them, but with this
chart, a good captain could find them again. Using them, we could step our way even farther across the oceans, expand our
horizons, maybe even find the sunken continent. This could lead us to the original land of the Saedrans!”
Biento shook his head. “This map is a fake, son. You have been cheated.”
Aldo had expected skepticism, but not such outright denial. “I heard the man’s story. If he saw this with his own eyes.—”
“You have been cheated.”
His father’s voice held such flat conviction that Aldo grew angry. He averted his eyes out of respect, but spoke assertively.
“Sen Leo says that Saedrans should try to discover new knowledge, no matter what its source. This man was an unusual reservoir
of information, and this map is unique. We should at least consider it, not just discard it outright.”
“But you have let yourself be deceived.” Broad shoulders slumped, Biento touched his wife’s arm. “I’ll take him to the temple.
There is something Sen Leo has to show him.”
Confused but insistent, Aldo held up the map. “But how can you
know?
”
Biento took his arm. “I will show you.”
Deep in the Saedran District, the buildings crowded together and the close-knit people kept themselves apart from the Aidenist
majority. The Saedran temple had a nondescript sandstone facade with engraved letters written in their private language. Outside
visitors in the district wouldn’t give it a second glance.
Inside the temple Aldo followed his father along a narrow hallway and down a short set of steps to a circular fellowship chamber
where Saedrans attended weekly services. Now the place was empty; all the benches were bare, the floors scrubbed, and the
book-laden shelves dusted for the next gathering.
Biento did not stop in the fellowship chamber, though. The far wall held a large mosaic showing the sunken land of the Saedrans.
He ran his fingers along the tiles and pressed a particular garnet-colored square, which released a latch. A thin crack appeared
along the line of the mosaic.
Aldo had been here countless times before, but now he was astonished. “What is this?”
“A secret only a chartsman can know. Few Saedrans have ever seen this room.”
“But you aren’t a chartsman.”
Biento pushed the mosaic panel inward to reveal a hidden passage from which came the yellowish orange glow of oil lamps. He
looked sideways at his son. “And where do you think you got the gift?”