The Map of All Things (38 page)

91
Alamont Prison Camp

Mateo obeyed the queen's command, no matter how uneasy her instructions made him. He understood her heart, and he couldn't fault the logic of what she was doing. Even so, it was a terrible thing.

Mateo had dispatched word throughout the Tierran military camps: every captive
ra'vir
being held for interrogation was to be summarily executed. And good riddance. He didn't know if any of them had been involved in poor Tira's murder, but it didn't matter. They were all guilty, and should all die. The oldest one identified was fifteen.

And those didn't even count toward the queen's thousand.

Every time he thought of poor Tomas, Mateo had to close his eyes and draw deep breaths.

When he took river passage to Alamont Reach and handed Destrar Shenro the royal decree, the other man studied it, frowning. “That's a great many slaves, Subcomdar, and I've already sent hundreds up to Corag to work on the mountain road. What am I going to use to tend our fields?”

Mateo spoke more sharply than he intended, but he could not keep the anger back. “Considering what happened to Prince Tomas, would you tell the queen you'd rather keep a few extra farm laborers?”

Shenro courteously handed the order back. “You're right, of course. In fact, I'm glad to get rid of some useless mouths to feed.” He averted his gaze. “I don't envy you your task, Subcomdar. It is a difficult thing.”

As a young recruit, Mateo had listened to the Alamont destrar teach Tierra's military history, but none of the historic struggles and civil wars could compare to the crusades between the Aidenists and Urecari. Mateo showed no hesitation. “I am proud to do whatever my queen commands. Destrar Sazar is sending riverboats to load the captives. They should arrive this afternoon. We'll take the river route as far south as we can, then do a forced march down the Pilgrims' Road.”

Later that day, the fence gates were thrown open, and riders herded the prisoners out of the camp, while men with slate tablets kept a careful tally of them. Driven toward the docks, the Urecari grew increasingly angry and apprehensive.

Shenro watched them with a cold smile. “They think I intend to have my archers shoot them—again.”

Mateo was impatient with him. “Have your bowmen stand back. No need to panic them.”

The destrar reluctantly complied, but the captives did not calm down. Mateo watched them file aboard the wide riverboats. The man with the slateboard muttered to himself, making one mark after another. “You'll need more than a thousand, Subcomdar. Some are sure to die along the way, unless you intend to pamper them.”

Mateo realized the truth of this. It would be a hard trek, and food supplies would need to be reserved for the Tierran soldiers. He looked at individual forlorn Urecari faces, but all compassion faded when he again thought of Tomas. “No, exactly a thousand. Anjine never said they had to be alive when they reach their destination.”

The man with the slateboard shrugged and continued to mark the numbers. A few foolish captives tried to break away and run, but Alamont guards rode them down, beat them severely with whips, and forced them back into line. Right now, every person counted. Subcomdar Hist was already setting up a large temporary holding camp not far from the Ishalem wall. That was as far as they needed to go.

Aboard the first riverboat, Mateo shook the beefy hand of Destrar Sazar, whose beard was an impressive black spray that covered half his barrel chest. The few times Mateo had met the river destrar, Sazar had been full of loud laughter and out-of-tune singing. He had a battered old violin that he scratched more than played. Now, though, Sazar looked offended by thedragging Urecari footsteps as prisoners shuffled across theboarding ramp and onto the decks of his beloved barges. The gruff, hearty man seemed to have lost his sense of humor.

“My father taught me how to captain this boat, and
his
father plied the currents before him, and so on for generations. We have proud traditions of hauling cargo, but these days I've got far too much human cargo. I don't like trading in goods that weep and wail and beg for mercy.”

“It's the queen's orders.”

The man continued to stare at the slaves being pushed aboard. “My people of the River Reach are as loyal as any other Tierrans. I'll take these captives without complaint. I'm just telling you, I draw no satisfaction from it.”

At the holding camp on barren ground not far from Ishalem, groans of misery rose into the air like odors from a cesspit. On the first night there, Mateo summoned his administrators into a command tent that was pitched as far upwind as possible.

Subcomdar Hist gave his report, though Mateo was supposedly his equal in rank. “We have achieved our goal.” The numbers didn't exactly match up, but no more than fifty Urabans had died on the journey to the camp, and their bodies had been carried along on separate carts and wagons, then piled outside the fences.

The camp administrators looked grimly at each other, not wanting to be the first to express their concerns. Finally, a man from Bora's Bastion said, “Subcomdar, they are starving, sick, and restless. We don't have supplies to feed so many. Do we expect the food to arrive soon? The prisoners grow worse every day.”

“They are Urecari murderers,” groused one of the other men. “Let them starve and rot, for all I care.”

“We won't let them starve,” Mateo said. “And we won't need supplies.” He looked down at Queen Anjine's harsh decree once more. She had set down the words in her own hand. Mateo had studied it over and over again, but the document did not change. He drew a deep breath. “We will carry out our orders without further delay.”

92
The
Al-Orizin

Drenched and shivering in the pouring rain, Saan held on to the mainmast. For two days now, the storm had increased in strength, battering the
Al-Orizin
, hurling them farther into unknown waters.

While Sikara Fyiri had locked herself inside her cabin to pray for safe passage, his crew had to work together on deck even in the worst wind and driving rain. Saan had chosen the men well. Though frightened, several sharp-eyed volunteers climbed the mast and lashed themselves into the lookout nest. They could see little through the clouds, spray, and rain, leaving the ship completely helpless should they encounter submerged rocks or the unknown shore of a rugged continent. But Saan trusted in the vastness of the sea.

“Urec went through worse than this on his voyage!” he bellowed over the howling wind, then he laughed at the storm.

Finally, when the weather abated and the skies cleared, Saan stood on the slick deck watching the sun rise through the clouds. Sikara Fyiri emerged from her cabin wearing a bright red robe. “My prayers were answered. Urec has guided us to safety.”

Saan rolled his eyes. Daily, in the privacy of his cabin, he read the sympathetic journal as the sly Villiki wrote more and more urgent comments to Fyiri, asking for a response, never suspecting that
he
might be reading them. He maintained his silence, not wanting to tip his hand.

From the lookout, Grigovar called out, “Land ho! Island ahead, just off the starboard bow!”

Amazed crewmen rushed to the side in such a crowd that Saan thought the ship might capsize. Overhead, he noticed two gulls wheeling in the air, the first birds they'd seen in a long time. Prominent in the now calm water was a rugged but verdant island covered with jungles. He didn't understand how this speck of solid ground could be out here in the middle of the open sea. Just as the question formed in his mind, Grigovar shouted again, this time in alarm: “Reefs! Reefs, Captain!”

Ahead, the water had a foamy look, indicating treacherous lines of rock just beneath the surface, jagged edges that could chew the
Al-Orizin
's hull like hungry mouths.

“Drop anchor!” Saan shouted immediately.

Yal Dolicar ran to the capstan and knocked out the block, letting the anchor drop. The chain rattled through its channel and struck bottom in only a few seconds. Saan's heart skipped a beat at this proof of how shallow the water must be.

The lush island seemed to call to him, offering much-needed fresh food—fruit, game, water. He didn't want to risk sailing closer, though; they would take longboats to shore.

“That could be Terravitae itself!” Yal Dolicar said. “I shall change into my best clothing. I want to look nice for Holy Joron.”

Sizing up the small island, Sen Sherufa said, “I expected Terravitae to be bigger.”

“I will accompany the first party.” Sikara Fyiri's sentence was not a request, invited no argument.

Saan chose Grigovar and Yal Dolicar to accompany him, as well as another pair of crewmen and the insistent sikara; Sen Sherufa remained behind, for now. With the men at the oars, the longboat plied its way through the reefs, and as they glided closer to the island, Saan saw what appeared to be branches sticking up out of the water. Looking more closely, he was astonished to discern the upthrust masts of sunken vessels that had wrecked upon the rocks. He counted at least five ships.

“We were lucky indeed, Captain.” Yal Dolicar leaned over the side to peer into the deceptively clear water. “If the storm had blown for another hour, we would have been shipwrecked as well.”

“You see, Ondun is watching over us,” Fyiri said. “As I requested.”

Dolicar spotted a wisp of smoke and the faint flames of a fire—a bonfire on the shore. “It's a signal, look!”

Grigovar pulled on the oars, not even out of breath. “If any of those ships wrecked recently, there might be survivors on the island, Captain.”

When the longboat approached the shore, Saan bounded overthe side and waded up to the sandy beach, where two figures waited for them, waving with joy. They were not haggard shipwrecked crewmen, however, but a pair of women: an old crone with wrinkled skin and clumpy gray hair, and a willowy young lady with a lovely face and innocent eyes. The girl's long, pale hair had a greenish-blue sheen and was plaited with strands of seaweed.

The old woman spoke perfect Uraban, though with an archaic accent and syntax. “Such a ship we have not seen in many a year. You are most welcome here, most welcome. My name is Iyomelka, and this is Ystya. Forgive my daughter's awkwardness. She has no experience with the company of others.”

The young girl looked like a startled doe, but Saan came forward with a reassuring smile and a gallant bow. He experienced a surprising, almost magnetic attraction for the girl. “And I am quite inexperienced with such beauty. I am Captain Saan of the
Al-Orizin
. These are my crewmen: Grigovar, Yal Dolicar—”

The priestess pushed her way forward. “I am Sikara Fyiri.”

Leaving the beached longboat, Iyomelka led them up the shore, through a line of palm trees, and into a beautiful glade where stood a house made of piled stones, driftwood, and dried palm fronds. Though ancient and withered, with a bent back, the crone appeared strong and spry.

Yal Dolicar looked around, curious, but saw no one else. “Are you two all alone? How did you ladies get here? And how long ago?”

Ystya opened her mouth to answer, but the old woman cut her off. “That time is long past, and we have lost track of the days. Many a ship is blown off course and smashed on the reefs, but only we survive here.”

“It's a miracle we weren't wrecked ourselves,” Saan said.

“Yes, truly a miracle,” Iyomelka said.

“We're searching for the land of Terravitae,” he continued. “We have voyaged across the world to find it. Do you have any charts—any knowledge that might help us find the land of Joron?”

The crone seemed both startled and amused. “The shores of Terravitae are far from here, and we cannot help you find them. Alas, we have no maps, nor do we have any use for them. We came here to escape such things.”

“And yet they found us, Mother,” Ystya said.

Sikara Fyiri interrupted, pressing her own priorities. “Do you know Urec? Have you read his log?”

Iyomelka offered a mysterious smile. “Oh, yes, we knew Urec very well.”

Wandering around the fringe of the clearing near the hut, Dolicar yelped with excitement and ran back to join the others, interrupting them. “Captain, look at this! Whether or not they can give us maps, this island is more than worth our while. I've never seen the like!”

Outside the glade stood a gleaming mound of treasure: piles of gold coins, carved goblets, jewel-encrusted plates, strands of pearls, rings. Astounded and laughing, Dolicar used his good hand to poke through the breathtaking objects.

Iyomelka explained in an aloof voice, “This island is like a lodestone. Currents, winds, and storms draw ships toward it, and their cargo washes up on our shores.”

Dolicar laughed. “I think I like this place.”

Ystya spoke in her shy, ethereal voice. “It's all pretty, but not very useful.”

Intent on his mission, Saan said, “I'd trade all this wealth for a good set of charts to show where we are and where we need to go.”

Iyomelka gave a curt reply. “The treasure isn't yours to trade.”

“We did not come seeking treasure,” Fyiri interjected. “We are in search of knowledge. We wish to find the Key to Creation and the land of Terravitae.”

“The Key to Creation?” Ystya asked, looking at her mother.

Saan was embarrassed to admit that he didn't exactly know what it was he sought. He flashed a smile at the beautiful young woman. “In a larger sense, we were given a quest to explore the world. If we can find the Key to Creation, we hope it will prove useful in helping us defeat the followers of Aiden.”

“But Aiden and Urec were brothers,” Ystya said. “And Joron.”

“We follow the teachings of Urec,” Fyiri said. “Not the corruptions of Aiden.”

Saan couldn't tell whether Iyomelka was amused or annoyed by the priestess. She said, “It appears that a great deal has changed in the outside world.”

With a spring in her step, Ystya led them away from the treasure pile and back to the hut. “We will share a fresh meal with you, if you like.” She seemed giddy from the company.

Hanging back, Dolicar whispered quickly to Saan, “Captain, as overjoyed as I am to see that treasure, something is not right here.
I
know when a person isn't telling the truth. I would not advise trusting that old woman.”

“That's one of the reasons I brought you along.” But Saan chuckled as they approached the small stone house, from which the two women carried fresh fruit they had gathered from the trees. “However, many people have told me I shouldn't trust
you
either, Yal Dolicar—and that girl is a lot more attractive than you are.”

Dolicar snorted. “You'll get no argument from me on that point.”