The Map of All Things (20 page)

46
Fashia's Fountain

With both Omra and Saan gone, Istar took her three daughters on their pilgrimage to Fashia's Fountain. The city of Olabar was stable, the five soldanates cowed by the soldan-shah's stern warning and his dismissal of the previous emissaries. Old Imir had already departed for the edge of the Great Desert, where he planned to hunt bandits with Soldan Xivir.

Istar looked forward to a quiet and meaningful trip with the girls. With an unobtrusive escort provided by Kel Rovic, they followed the best roads and carried plentiful supplies across Uraba to the Oceansea shore.

She was surprised, however, by the wave of emotions the trek awakened in her. Scars had covered her deep-seated pain, and she had tried to forget, tried to move on, first for the sake of her son… and then for other reasons. Just as watching Saan's departure on the ship had dredged up long-buried sorrows and memories, she once again found herself reliving terrors from her past life.

As they crossed the caravan road from Inner Wahilir to Outer Wahilir, how could she forget her similar journey a lifetime ago, as part of a group of Tierran prisoners dragged across unfamiliar Uraba? Still stunned after witnessing the murder of friends and family in Windcatch, the Aidenist prisoners had been forced to plod along for days, driven like livestock. She had been Adrea Vora then, pregnant with the son of her beloved Criston. To the rest of Tierra, the woman named Adrea had died on that journey.

Istar was another person entirely, with another life, and a wall around her heart that could not completely block out her regrets. The love letter in a bottle from Criston that she kept hidden in her chambers served as a private shrine to that past life and love. She hoped and prayed that Criston remained safe, although she had accepted that she could never return to him.

Her daughters knew nothing of her painful past, though. They were excited to visit a fabled shrine, and she had to play the good wife and mother….

Catching a small pilgrims' ship from Khenara, she and eleven other devotees dropped anchor off the coast and took a rowboat to the mouth of a rugged gorge nestled in the coastal cliffs where they were let off at a small, rickety dock.

High up in the narrow canyon, nestled amongst arid hills, a silvery spring bubbled from a crack in the rocks, pouring out in a thin waterfall to form a mirrorlike hanging lake. Pilgrims came to purify themselves in the frigid waters, and priestesses blessed them.

According to legend, Urec had anchored his Arkship here on the way to Ishalem. His crew, hungry and thirsty, desperately needed supplies of fresh water. Urec's childless wife Fashia led a group of sailors up into the narrow defile in search of water, but when they reached the end of the gorge, they stared in dismay, for the stone wall was bone dry. However, when Fashia called out to Ondun and struck the rock with the flat of her hand, water burst forth. Generations later, a group of devout sikaras built a shrine there and established a holy place, attended by a hundred priestesses.

Now, during the long uphill hike to the hanging lake, the group of pilgrims spread out, some rushing ahead, while others lagged far behind. Istar and the girls toiled up the hillside path together, one footstep after another. The way was steep and difficult, but none of them complained.

Though she was the most studious of the three girls, Istala needed no encouragement to keep going. When they paused for a brief rest, she pointed out, “A pilgrimage is supposed to be difficult. That's why you earn your reward when you reach the end.”

By contrast, the destination held no special anticipation for Adreala, who was more excited by the rugged scenery, so unlike the lands around Olabar. Gracious and obedient, Cithara was just pleased to have been included in the expedition.

Istar and her daughters felt great satisfaction as they climbed over the last headwall to see the beautiful lake, the feathery waterfall, and lush greenery all around. The first few pilgrims ahead of them had informed the white-robed sikaras that Omra's First Wife and three daughters were coming up the path.

The priestesses raised their hands in blessing and welcomed them with pitchers of water taken fresh from the spring. Having been raised as an Aidenist, Istar didn't entirely believe the legend of the shrine; nevertheless, she was glad for the refreshing draught. The three girls drank deeply.

Her youngest daughter looked all about her, awestruck. “I so wanted to see this place. I can't believe I'm here.” Istala went to the lake's edge and dipped her fingers into the cold water. “Thank you, Mother.” The sincere gratitude on the ten-year-old's face made every trudging mile and every uncomfortable day worthwhile.

The fountain priestesses lived in small rock dwellings that ringed the clear lake. They had laid out a path of interlocking white stones, tracing an unfurling spiral on the ground, at the center of which stood a brazier with smoldering coals. Farther from the sacred fountain and pool, pilgrims' quarters and changing rooms crowded together.

“You may cleanse yourself in the waters,” said the lead priestess, a thin old woman named Luaren. “I believe Soldan Vishkar will join you.”

Istar was surprised. “Vishkar is here?” He was the father of the original Istar, Omra's first wife, for whom he still felt a deep love, long after her death… so much so that he had asked her, Adrea, to take the same name.

“The soldan arrived three days ago, tired and troubled, overwhelmed by responsibilities. Now he has a new sense of clarity.” Luaren smiled. “That is what Fashia's Fountain does.”

“I hope it does the same for me.” Istar led the girls to the stone-walled structures, where white linen gowns awaited them. Few children made the arduous pilgrimage, and though her daughters searched for the smallest robes, the garments hung overlarge like tents on their shoulders.

Together, they walked barefoot out to the deep pool, where several pilgrims sat in the frigid water, their white robes soaked. Hot and tired, Adreala plunged in with enough of a splash that other visitors frowned at her rambunctiousness. With breathless anticipation, her sister Istala slid into the pool, dunked her head, and came up with water streaming down her hair; she gasped from the cold. Cithara held Istar's hand as they eased themselves into the lake.

Istar recognized Soldan Vishkar, who sat submerged up to his shoulders near the stream from the fountain itself. She hesitated as she considered the uneasy link between the two of them.
She
had been Omra's Istar for fourteen years, but this man could not help but be reminded of his daughter.

Vishkar saw her and moved closer, while she let the three girls amuse themselves in the water. “Lady Istar, I don't believe we have formally met.” He seemed a good-natured man, but his eyes held a shadow of pain. “I understand that you've brought great happiness to the soldan-shah. Omra must trust you, if he allows you to manage the court for him while he is at Ishalem.”

Though at a loss, she realized the most important thing Vishkar needed to hear. “I have done my best as First Wife, but I can never take the place of your daughter in his heart. Omra still talks about her often. He loved her greatly.”

“We all did.” Vishkar turned away, but not before she saw the tears welling up in his eyes.

Though the events were unrelated, the tragic death of the first Istar had come close upon the burning of Ishalem. Such shocks had wrought a fundamental change in Omra's personality, hardening him, sharpening his reactions. Those tragedies had made him into a much less tolerant man than Soldan-Shah Imir ever was. She contemplated sadly that if the first Istar had not died when she did—for reasons that had nothing to do with Aidenists—the war might not have continued with such viciousness. Maybe Omra wouldn't have inflicted senseless pain upon Tierra by raiding coastal villages… taking prisoners. Her own life might have been entirely different.

Vishkar sat in the water and stared at the mossy cliffs nearby. “Lady Istar, I have learned one thing in my years as a successful merchant, as a grieving father, and as a soldan. The days flow forward, not backward. We cannot live our lives in yesterdays. We must live in today.” He turned to smile at her. “And I am happy the soldan-shah found you.”

Omra had often spoken of how much he appreciated this man. “He's glad to have found you as well,” Istar said. “After Soldan Attar was poisoned, all of his other candidates were entangled in politics and schemes. You are a man he knows he can trust.”

Vishkar looked at his pruning fingertips. “Considering the responsibilities weighing on my shoulders, I'm not convinced that he did me a favor. The other soldans dislike me and see me as a power-hungry upstart, even though I never asked for the position. In order to become soldan, I was forced to surrender my business to my brother and nephews.”

“You would rather have stayed in Olabar? As a merchant?”

“Yes, I would. That new church is sure to bankrupt me! But I am a loyal Uraban, and I do as my soldan-shah asks. I'm happy enough. I am content. My sons are helping to manage our new estates in Outer Wahilir. My remaining daughters have gotten married—and now I hear that Hakri has just been appointed my own emissary to the palace!”

Istar nodded. “Yes, the paths of our lives take us to some very strange places.”

Later, after they had emerged from the small lake, young Istala asked the priestesses so many questions that the old head sikara finally took the girl under her wing and showed her around the site.

At the meager evening meal, at which pilgrims gathered for quiet conversation or silent meditation, Istala sat between her mother and Sikara Luaren. Summoning her courage, the girl broached a subject with her mother. “When I finish my training in the church, I'd like to be assigned here. Luaren says I can be one of the hundred priestesses.” She worked very hard to control the pleading tone in her voice. “Do you think that would be all right?”

The old sikara was full of pride and gratitude. “We would be glad to have the soldan-shah's daughter join us, my Lady. You can see that it is truly her heart's desire.”

Istar nodded slowly. “We will have to ask her father, but I don't believe he'll be averse to the idea.” She hugged her youngest daughter. “Someday, this will be your home.”

47
Windcatch

In the parsonage beside the Windcatch kirk, Ciarlo awoke and sat up in bed with the dream still resounding in his thoughts. Adrea's face had been so vivid, her need calling out to him. Why did the dreams keep haunting his sleep? The rest of Windcatch had moved on, with new lives, new homes, new families in the two decades since the raid.

Ever since Criston Vora had come to say farewell to him, Ciarlo had felt unsettled but determined. Each year, Criston still sent Adrea a letter in a bottle, showing the ache of his love for her. Now Criston had sailed off again, chasing the unknown, in search of
something
.

Just after his brother-in-law's unexpected farewell visit to Windcatch, Prester Ciarlo began to experience compelling nightmares, flashbacks to that awful time when Urecari raiders had swept into the village. The memories refused to let go.

He had never seen Adrea again, and her body had never been found. Even if the raiders had taken her alive, Ciarlo very much doubted she had survived. A pregnant woman would have been too much of a burden for those evil men.

But the recurring nightmares demanded that he reconsider. Why did he keep dreaming about her? A conviction grew within him, and when at last he understood the reason, it left him breathless.

Adrea might still be alive in some distant, foreign land.
Someone
had to go after her. His heart pounded as he realized what he must do.

Swinging himself out of bed with a well-practiced move, he rubbed his thigh, stretched… winced. It was a reflex from the pain he had felt all of his adult life. The poorly mended bone had never lost its deep-seated ache, but he couldn't be bothered by that now. Ciarlo hobbled across the wooden floor, reaching the door just as Davic came up the path with his breakfast basket—a warm roll fresh from the village bakery, two boiled eggs, and an apple.

The boy saw him moving stiffly, shook his head in disappointment. “I prayed again last night, Prester Ciarlo. I asked Aiden to bless you and take away your pain. But he doesn't seem to listen.”

“Aiden always listens, young man, but he makes his own decisions. He has given me blessings in many other ways—including your companionship.” Ciarlo swept the boy into a hug and stepped back. Aiden had been speaking to him through dreams for some time now, sending him mystic messages.

Though Adrea might be across the world, she was
still alive
. Despite the pain in his leg and the potential length and dangers of the arduous journey, he had to go find her himself.

As Ciarlo shared breakfast with Davic, the boy talked about the exciting news of Prince Tomas's impending visit. A mail ship had just brought the announcement of Queen Anjine's betrothal, along with the schedule of the prince's procession, which would stop at the major towns on the west coast of Tierra—including Windcatch.

Ciarlo tried to get the boy to focus on his studies from the night before, the passages he had read in the Book of Aiden. For months now, he had taught Davic how to read scripture, just as Prester Fennan had once taught him. Since the parsonage was so small, Davic preferred to sleep inside the kirk itself, sprawled on one of the wooden benches. Ciarlo gave the poor boy privacy, knowing that he must suffer from nightmares of his own, powerful recollections of the Urecari attack that had killed his family and sent him wandering up the coast as an orphan.

When Davic finished reading aloud the story of Aiden and the Island of the Sirens, he wore a troubled expression, as if
a thought had just occurred to him. “Prester, if no one ever told the followers of Urec these true stories, how are they supposed to know?”

“That is a sad thing, Davic. But with the war, it's even more difficult for ships to take missionaries to Uraba…” Ciarlo's voice trailed off as the last gear in the clockwork of his thoughts fell into place. Missionaries…

Yes, when he left Windcatch to find Adrea, he would take the word of Aiden with him and make his way overland to Uraba. He would spread the truth to any Urabans he encountered so that they could have a chance for salvation as well. If the quest became too difficult, Aiden would assist him.

As the boy continued jabbering about the impending arrival of Prince Tomas, Ciarlo could not concentrate on lessons or princes or betrothals. He had to think about his own journey. Now that he had made up his mind, he was eager to go. Adrea had waited and suffered so many years already. Had she given up hope? Ciarlo couldn't delay any longer.

He startled the boy. “Davic, I'll be departing from the village as soon as possible. You'll have to take care of the kirk while I'm gone.”

“Where are you going? What do you intend to do?” Davic was both alarmed and confused. “And what will become of me?”

“The villagers will take care of you.” Ciarlo went to his small office and pulled out a clean sheet of paper, mixed his ink, sharpened his pen. Everything moved with swift inevitability now. “This is a letter to Prester-Marshall Rudio, requesting that a new prester be sent here to captain the Windcatch flock. In the meantime, take care of the gardens, open the kirk for services. The people know how to pray by themselves.” He drew a deep breath, feeling giddy. “Can I count on you, Davic? Can I trust you to do what's right?”

Though the boy was uneasy, he gave a vigorous nod. Ciarlo folded the paper and sealed it with wax. “Make certain this is sent aboard the next ship bound for Calay. It's a very important letter.”

“But, Prester Ciarlo, you won't be here when Prince Tomas arrives. Don't you want to stay for that?”

“I can't wait for several weeks. My sister is in the hands of the Urecari. You'll have to greet Prince Tomas without me.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Until I find what I seek.” Ciarlo tousled the boy's shaggy hair. “You are much too young to be the next prester, but I've asked my replacement to continue your instruction. You are a good, devout boy, Davic. I know I can count on you.”

Still limping, but no longer noticing it, Ciarlo returned to the parsonage. With great care, he set out his clothes, supplies, and a small stash of money, then prepared to depart for the strange and distant continent of Uraba.