The Map of All Things (35 page)

84
Ishalem

No one dared to challenge the Teacher on the streets of Ishalem. The dark figure glided past sweating work crews at the canal construction site, around the towering Urecari churches under construction, and arrived at the residence and headquarters of the provisional governor.

“I am here for Kel Unwar.” The uneasy guards parted to allow entry, and the Teacher brushed past them.

When the visitor appeared at his private chambers, Unwar looked up from the scrolls, construction diagrams, and abacus on his desk and responded with a warm smile. “Close the door. We can speak in private here.” After he pulled thick curtains to cover the windows, Unwar sat back down. “Relax and be comfortable.”

The Teacher reached up and gratefully removed the smooth silver mask. Unwar heaved a long sigh. “It's good to see you without your trappings, sister.”

The Teacher pulled back the hood and shook out her raggedly cropped dark hair. She rubbed her face. “That mask is who I am, and the mystique is my persona.”

“You're beautiful, Alisi. You shouldn't have to hide.”

“I'll stop hiding when all Aidenists are dead, for what they did to me.”

Unwar poured his sister a goblet of golden wine. “We all hate them. I know what happened to you.”

“You might know the words, but you don't
know
the depth of the wounds. No one can.” Alisi pulled off her gloves and sat back. She took a grateful sip of wine, then ate some bread and grapes from a platter, but her deep scowl did not fade. “You have heard what those monsters did at Fashia's Fountain? The desecration? The slaughter? Typical of them.”

“Yes, we received reports a few days ago. I sent a group of volunteers by fast ship to help the sikaras cleanse the site.” His voice could not convey the revulsion and disbelief he had felt upon learning the news.

“It will never be cleansed… nor will I. That's why we must inflict all the harm we can upon them, in the name of Urec.” The dead spot inside her felt cold and leaden. Alisi could no longer recall how it felt to be a happy girl, a carefree daughter, a dedicated sister. It was like looking at the ashes of a long-dead fire and trying to find warmth and light. It had been there once, but not anymore.

Her heart and soul had been extinguished that night the crude Tierran sailors stole her from the Ouroussa docks. When she had tried to scream, they gagged her; when she struggled, they tied her legs and hands and carried her like a burlap sack of grain up the gangplank to their ship. The captain had laughed. When the ship had cast off and drifted out into the Ouroussa harbor, Alisi was sure she had heard her brother calling for her… but no rescue ever came, and they sailed far out of sight of the Uraban coast.

The Tierran sailors had locked her in a small lightless cabin for days, starving her, until her spirit was broken. The Aidenist captain was a man named Quanas, his ship called the
Sacred Scroll
. He had kept her as his special pet, refusing to let the lusty crewmen do more than grope and leer at her. She had been so innocent then, a virgin, with very little knowledge about what was supposed to happen between a man and a woman. The stories she had heard about lovemaking made it sound like a joyful thing, but what Captain Quanas did to her was not joyful at all.

For the first month, he beat and raped her. Alisi fought back, but her struggles only made the treatment worse. After two months, the captain grew bored enough with her that he occasionally sent her to his officers or crewmen as a special treat.

All along, Quanas taught her his language and his religion in an attempt to “save” her. He forced her to rise every dawn and stand before their short-statured and broken-toothed prester, who preached from the Book of Aiden. They made her wear a fishhook pendant, though she had been taught the symbol would burn her skin if she touched it.

When Alisi could speak Tierran well enough, Quanas taught her to read Aidenist scripture. If she refused a lesson, he beat her, once even hard enough that he broke ribs. If she made mistakes, he would beat her again. Eventually, she had learned.

The captain corrected Alisi's pronunciation and grammar, he forced her to eliminate any trace of an accent, intolerant of the slightest errors. She didn't understand why, since he never let her off the ship, never showed her to outsiders. He locked her in the cabin whenever the ship came to port.

He told her to be grateful for what he was doing. “I am saving your soul. I am giving you knowledge and blessings—the knowledge and blessings that Aiden conferred on all of his people. Appreciate the fact that I am treating you as a potential human being, rather than a Urecari animal.”

And then he had raped her again.

When she inevitably got pregnant, the captain regarded her with disgust for months, until she came to term. She gave birth with very little help, but the baby was stillborn. Captain Quanas threw it over the side of the ship.

Held prisoner for more than two years, Alisi learned a great deal. She studied the captain as he forced her to repeat his lessons. She never tried to escape while they were in port, never caused trouble; the captain even believed she had converted to their offensive fishhook religion. As time passed, Quanas and his crew grew lazy, careless.

One night, when the
Sacred Scroll
sailed along the Tierran coast just after a successful trip into port, Alisi saw her opportunity. She broke a glass bottle and slit the captain's throat as he slept. Because she was allowed to wander the ship whenever they weren't in port, the night watchman didn't even acknowledge her as she walked out on the deck. She killed him too, this time with the captain's knife. During that quiet night, Alisi slew the five men who had treated her worst, including the prester. Then, before she could be caught, she dropped over the side into deep, dark water and swam to the coastline, where she saw tiny lights in the distance.

She washed up on shore the next morning and was found by a beachcomber collecting mussels. The old woman clucked over her condition, helped her to her feet, and placed an arm around her shoulder so the two could make their way to a nearby village. Since Alisi spoke perfect Tierran, the people there accepted her, and no one ever suspected that she was truly Uraban.

She lived among them for some time, considered an orphan with a terrible past—abused by the Urecari, they assumed. Alisi continued to watch and learn. Finally, when she had absorbed everything she could from that place, she stole food and money and made her way back down to Uraba….

Now, many years later, Alisi possessed a great deal of knowledge about life among the Tierrans. She spoke their language, knew their religion, their customs. She knew how to
be
one of them. And she could teach others.

She loathed the Aidenists. They had killed all of her feelings inside, except for the hatred that blossomed daily with renewed strength. They had stolen her childhood, and now she took joy in stealing their children.

Returning in secret, in shame, she had lived with her brother, explaining her plan for revenge, and Unwar had presented the ideas to Omra without revealing Alisi's identity. As the Teacher, Alisi used her knowledge to create
ra'virs
, and she had even taught her brother to speak their language. For years, with her silver mask and black robes, she had wielded fear over others, casting herself as an enigma. She indoctrinated the captive Tierran children, taught them, tested them, shaped and tempered them, and selected only the most fanatical candidates. No one suspected who she truly was, and that was how it must be.

She finally spoke again. “I came here, Unwar, because you have to make your decision about Prince Tomas before the soldan-shah learns what you have done. Once Omra knows, the choice will be out of your hands.” Alisi took up her mask and placed it back over her face. Her voice was muffled once more, a stranger's. “I would like to see the boy. Show me this Aidenist prince.”

Unwar led her up the winding steps to the tower cell, where the boy shot to his feet, looking at them with fearful hope. His angry defiance was clearly feigned. Alisi could see how terrified he was.

Staring at him through the burnished hemisphere that covered her face, the Teacher didn't speak. She knew the effect her eerie silence had on people, and she waited for the uneasiness to make him crack.

Tomas cried out, “What do you want? How long are you going to hold me here? When will my sister send her answer?”

The two chuckled as Tomas's questions increased in desperation, and finally the boy broke down and began to sob.

Alisi turned her mask toward Unwar. “Pathetic. Worthless. I wouldn't even try to train him as a
ra'vir
.”

Her brother closed the cell door and bolted it as they walked back down the stone-walled corridor. “
You
know what must be done,” she said. “The boy is here. He should be made to pay for what the Aidenists did at Fashia's Fountain.”

“That child had nothing to do with the desecration.”

Alisi shrugged. “Nevertheless, it provides all the justification we need. How can Omra disagree? It's best if you don't give him the chance to make the wrong decision.” When her brother still looked uneasy, she snapped, “Have you already forgotten all those sikaras slain in cold blood?”

Unwar's expression darkened. “I won't forget that. I can never forget.”

“And will you forget the atrocities that the Aidenists inflicted on
me
?”

Unwar turned white. “Never!”

The Teacher glided off down the corridor. “Then you know what Urec's justice demands. Why wait for the soldan-shah?”

85
The Great Desert

The expanse of dunes was an open ocean, marred by few landmarks. As Imir's pursuit party rode on and on for days, rationing food and water, the former soldan-shah wondered how the bandits could have disappeared. Where could they possibly hide out here? He assumed they must have split up into smaller groups, but he doggedly pressed on, following the main concentration of hoofprints.

The shifting winds stirred up small dust devils that blurred the traces of Norgo's passage. The desert men had gotten too great a head start, but Imir did not give up. Stinging grains of sand caught in his teeth, scoured his cheeks, made his eyes burn. When he stared toward the horizon, a golden glare reflected off the undulating dunes, but he saw no sign of hope.

The horses were all weary. Even the hardy desert breed could not go on indefinitely; by necessity, their water rations had been cut as well.

Riding alongside him, Soldan Xivir remained grim and quiet. Several times he had started to speak, but stopped himself. Imir knew what the man intended to say, but he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to give up. At last, Xivir pointed out, “Even if we turn around now, we will be sore pressed to make it back to Desert Harbor. Our supplies and water are almost gone. Our horses will die. We will die.”

Imir looked at his brother-in-law, narrowing dust-reddened eyes. “Once we find the bandit camp and rescue Adreala, we will take our supplies back along with
their
supplies. We'll have all we need.” It was their only hope.

Xivir fell silent, and they rode on into the dusk as the dunes grew higher, like shifting mountain ranges. Unstable surfaces yanked at the horses' hooves. Imir didn't want to stop and camp for the night, but the men were exhausted. One of the horses had already died, leaving its rider stranded so that he had to share another mount. Very soon, Imir knew, they would all begin to drop.

He hardened his heart and made a difficult decision. They would ride all night and continue to search, but once the sun rose he would have no choice but to turn around and hope that most of them survived the return journey.

Even though Adreala was still out there.

At midnight, under sharp starlight that silvered the dunes, they topped a rise and saw, unbelievably, an orange glow in the distance. Imir pulled his horse to a halt and stared. “By the Eye of Urec, we've found them!”

Soldan Xivir was nearly asleep in his saddle, but he perked up at the sight. “They're still a long way off, but if we get there before sunrise, we'll surprise them in the darkness.” He looked at Imir, and a decision flashed between them. They knew what a gamble this was—a gamble they had to take, and
win
.

The former soldan-shah spoke. “All right, men. Drink the last of your water, give your horses as much as you can. We need our strength right now, and the bandits will give us all we need for the trip back home.” Imir could only pray that the bandits were not as short of supplies as their hunters.

Feeling stronger from the water and food, as well as from the surge of hope, they picked up their pace and closed the distance. Norgo and his bandits had grown careless. After so many days, they must have convinced themselves that their pursuers had given up—and most men would have given up.

But Adreala was Imir's granddaughter. He had promised to keep her safe.

The campfire was small, just a few embers of dried horse dung, but in the utter emptiness it burned as bright as the blazing eye of a demon. Not far from the camp, the pursuers pulled their horses to a halt and whispered together. Imir let Soldan Xivir command his men. They would spread out, encircle, then converge upon the camp, striking simultaneously from several directions.

“Our most important goal is to save the girl,” Imir said. “Kill every one of the bandits if you can, but if there is any choice as to what you must do,
Adreala
is your priority. She is the daughter of your soldan-shah.”

The men muttered their agreement and drew curved swords, ready to charge. Imir raised his own blade in front of him. With his heart pounding and blood boiling, he was ready.

They approached quietly. The riders prepared to move in from several directions as soon as they heard the bandits' animals snorting and shifting. One of the groggy rogues rose to see what was troubling their mounts. Before the man could sound an alarm, Imir yelled, “Adreala! We're coming!”

Taking advantage of their surprise, the Missinian horsemen pounded forward to the tiny camp. As he rode into the hollow in the dunes, Imir saw a few rocks and a small seep of water that reflected the weak flames. Black soot marks of old campfires suggested that the bandits used this oasis often, though the spring wasn't enough to support more than a few scrawny weeds and a bit of algae.

The astonished bandits leaped up from the sands, grabbing for their weapons. Imir enjoyed the ironic turnabout. Now
they
were the bold raiders sweeping down on unsuspecting sleepers in a desert encampment. The pursuers closed in, swords flashing, and struck down several of the bandits within the first few seconds. One of Soldan Xivir's men had the presence of mind to yank loose the picket line that tied the bandits' horses and began leading them off so the desert men would have no easy means of escape.

With a burst of joy, Imir spotted his granddaughter lying against a soft dune face, propped up, bound but not gagged. The girl looked gaunt, frightened, and exhausted—but alive and uninjured. She struggled against her bonds and shouted with savage glee, “I told you they would come!”

The bandits tried to rally, and Imir identified ugly Norgo by the remnants of paint on his face. When he saw the former soldan-shah coming, the rogue leader flashed a crooked grin, then scrambled up the soft side of the dunes behind him. He fled into the night, leaving his men to fight for themselves.

Though Imir wanted to skewer the bandit leader on the tip of his scimitar, his priority was to free his granddaughter. Slipping off his horse, Imir raced to the girl. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Adreala had already managed to loosen her bonds, slickening them with the blood that oozed from scrapes on her wrists. “He tried to, Grandfather—but I gave him a few bruises and a cracked rib.”

“Thank Ondun!” Imir finished cutting her ropes and lifted her to her feet.

Adreala swayed, her legs weak from excitement and privation, but her gaze seemed to burn. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Look out!”

A bandit lunged toward him, brandishing a dagger; Imir knocked the girl out of the way and struck with his scimitar. Before he knew what he was doing, Imir severed the man's hand at the wrist. The bandit continued to thrust his bleeding stump forward, then saw that he had lost not only his dagger, but his hand. Shrieking, he collapsed, and Imir neatly dealt him a finishing blow.

Adreala struggled back to her feet. “Norgo's getting away!”

Convinced that his granddaughter was safe, Imir peeled the dagger from the limp fingers of the bandit's severed hand on the ground. He handed her the weapon. “Take this, use it if you have to. Stay with the soldan's men—I'm going after Norgo.”

Imir slogged up to the dune top at the edge of the bowl. When he finally crested the rise, he saw the man's dark shape several ridges away, racing across the peaks and slipping down into the valleys between dunes. Norgo was nimble, able to dance across the shifting sand before ascending another line in a sidelong, zigzag motion.

Panting hard, Imir ran after him, but his throat and lungs were burning. Still weak from reduced rations and lack of water, he tumbled down a dune face and saw the bandit leader's footprints leading off into the emptiness. His heart sank with the realization that he would not be able to capture the man. He cursed himself for not having taken his horse, but he wasn't thinking clearly.

Still, he nodded to himself with bittersweet satisfaction. Without a horse or rations, the bandit leader would not last long. He could never survive out here.

Far behind, Imir could still hear the remnants of fighting, and with a heavy heart, he decided to go back to Adreala. That was most important to him.

By the time he made his way to the pitiful oasis, the bandits had been slain, their horses captured by Xivir's men. The exhausted Missinian soldiers were sharing out the food supplies they had seized. Some filled waterskins from the seeping spring, nudging aside the horses that were trying to drink.

Soldan Xivir looked at the dead bodies sprawled on the sand. Every one of the bandits was dead, either killed in battle or executed afterward. With a pragmatic shrug, he said, “We didn't have the wherewithal to take prisoners back to Desert Harbor.”

Imir wasn't concerned. “Why waste time? I would have ordered their execution anyway.” He regarded the small spring, the old campfires. “Before we go, I want this water blocked, the seep plugged up and buried so that bandits can no longer take advantage of it.” Imir looked over his shoulder and comforted himself with the fact that Norgo would perish from hunger and thirst, a long and lingering death out there in the sands.

As he fled into the vast wasteland, abandoning his camp and his men, the bandit leader laughed. The arrogant Missinians had surprised him, and his comrades had fought well, though not well enough.

Norgo had seen the old man chasing him, but no civilized man would ever catch him out here. Those soft people didn't know anything about surviving in the wasteland, about the resources there, or the dangers, the mysteries, the stories. He knew he could always gather another group of like-minded men. The desert belonged to him.

The night was silent, all sounds drowned out by the emptiness as Norgo kept running. Far away, he could still discern the secret spring where he and his men had camped, but he could no longer hear the cries of pain, the clash of swords. By now, all of his comrades would be dead or captured. He no longer concerned himself with them.

Ahead, Norgo heard whispers, even laughter. Voices…
female
voices! He had never heard such a thing before, especially not out here. He wondered if it could be another camp, an oasis. He grinned. They would give him food and water. That was all he needed.

The laughter sounded like music, the voices like song, and a chill ran down his back. Maybe the women had husbands, warriors he could recruit. Or maybe they had no husbands at all and he would have them all to himself. Norgo wasn't sure which he would prefer.

He kept plodding. Each footstep seemed to take longer, and the sand sucked him down, but he pushed forward, attracted by the thought of soft company. He didn't recognize the language, but the voices were seductive. He had to get to the dune crest so he could see.

The wind picked up, and small dust devils skirled across the dune face. Finally, he climbed to the top of the rise from which he could stare down into the dell… but he saw no camp, no women, no sign of habitation.

The night had fallen silent again, and he turned in a slow circle. From this high ground he should have been able to see anything. There were no fires, no structures, no people. “Hello!”

The tinkling laughter began again, carried on the wind. He looked behind him, saw nothing. Another dust devil whipped through the valley below and vanished, losing its energy. Confused, even a little angry, Norgo turned once more, still seeking the source of the sounds.

The voices seemed to be coming from the sand itself.

The dunes stirred beneath his feet, crumbling, and he began to slip down the slope. Around him, the eerie female voices grew louder, the music more intense, giving him new reassurance. He heard so much loneliness behind the sounds that his heart lifted. They were so happy to see him!

Through a dust-fog in his brain, he vaguely remembered frightening tales that superstitious men told each other on desert nights when the storms whipped up. Sand dervishes, spirits that haunted the dunes… forlorn demons seeking company for all eternity, lovers that would never let go.

He had always laughed at those tales.

A desiccated hand reached up from the soft sand and clutched his ankle. Norgo ripped it away and looked down, startled to see other figures stirring, vaguely human shapes rising from beneath the dunes. The winds picked up and swirled around him now. As the voices grew louder, their songs reached a higher note, a hypnotic spell, and his fear was smothered, leaving only a fuzzy wonder and desire in his mind.

Norgo no longer saw the blackened, leathery skin or the mummified remains—he heard only love. As the whirlwind encircled him, it felt like soft fingertips caressing his face, his hands. He barely even felt his flesh being scoured away.

Ethereal bodies climbed out of the dunes, angelic spirits clothed in diaphanous veils… skeins of dust. The hands embraced him, the winds tightened.

Giddy, Norgo opened his arms and invited them. He could not refuse the call when they promised to love him forever. When he tried to express his own love, though, he coughed and choked—his mouth filled with dust. When he inhaled he drew in no air, only sand.

He felt a glimmer of fear, but the music and voices soothed him again. Norgo was beyond struggling when the dervishes sucked him down into the sands.