The Map of All Things (41 page)

99
Uraba

Making his way across the strange continent, Prester Ciarlo learned not to count on the kindness of strangers. Often he felt hurt and disappointed by the treatment he received from the followers of Urec, but he did not let his determination dwindle. “Struggle creates strength,” said the Book of Aiden. More often than not, he bedded down alone in the forest by a small campfire.

His leg ached after wandering for so many leagues over hills and through unexplored forests, but the pain was nothing compared to the good work of spreading the word of Aiden… if he could ever get these poor people to listen to him. If he converted only one soul in Uraba, the reward would be great enough.

And he still hoped he could learn some small hint about Adrea, but the Windcatch raid had occurred twenty years ago, and it didn't seem possible that any slave could remain alive after so long. Even so, he had the afterimage from a dream; Aiden had given him a message. Hope grew inside him like an oak sapling, and he would water and nourish it with his faith, just as he would continue to believe that Aiden wanted him to spread the Word.

Ciarlo received a cool welcome in the port city of Sioara. The villagers regarded him with blank stares or angry scowls.By his appearance, strong accent, and fishhook pendant, all could see that he came from Tierra, and therefore they didn't trust him. It baffled him that others did not delight in the tales of Aiden's voyage or the tribulations of Sapier, but he didn't let himself be discouraged.

Ciarlo wandered across the landscape, wherever his feet took him. He had no map and no particular destination, though the closer he came to Olabar, the better his chances of learning something about Adrea's fate. He assumed that Aiden would give him an invisible compass and guide him where he was destined to go.

After gathering nuts and one soft brown apple that had fallen to the ground, he found a good place to camp. As the darkness deepened in the hesitant hush of the forest, he sat by himself to enjoy his scraps of food and study pages in the abridged Book of Aiden.

The stranger came out of the trees so silently that he startled Ciarlo when he stepped into the circle of firelight. He was an old man with a pleasant face, white hair, and a long beard. Though his clothes had been patched many times, the garments looked well-worn and comfortable, not tattered. He grasped a walking stick in his right hand, and he raised his left hand, palm open, in a gesture of peace.

Ciarlo returned the smile. “In the name of Ondun, you are welcome at my fire.” His grasp of the foreign language had grown significantly. Uraban and Tierran were not, in fact, so different; both were based on the same ancient root tongue, which he had learned from Prester Fennan long ago.

“And in the name of Ondun I accept your hospitality.” The old man had a strangely accented voice that sounded neither Uraban or Tierran.

“Are you a hunter or a beggar?” Ciarlo inquired.

“Just a traveler who seeks to see the world. And you?”

“I could say the same, I suppose.” Ciarlo's fishhook pendant hung at his throat, and the Book of Aiden sat open beside him in the firelight, so he saw no reason to avoid the subject. “I've come to spread the word of Aiden. These people know only of Urec.”

The old man slowly took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. “It is not good to know only one brother or the other. Are you learning about Urec, as well, in your time here in Uraba?”

The question surprised Ciarlo. “I do not mean to convert to the Urecari religion, if that is your question.”

“That was not my suggestion at all. Simply a reminder that Aiden and Urec were brothers, along with Joron. They had much in common and many adventures together before they set sail from Terravitae to explore the world.”

Ciarlo glanced at the gnawed shreds of the apple core. “I'm afraid I don't have any food to offer you. I am limited by what I can easily find and catch.” He rubbed his palm against his thigh. “My leg pains me. It is an old injury. The bone broke when I was just a boy.”

The stranger undid a fuzzy bag of sewn rabbit skins at his side “You have already built the fire. Since I share your warmth, you may share some of my food.” He withdrew strips of dried meat, a handful of morel mushrooms, and three small plums. “The world was created in such a way as to provide what a person needs, if he knows how and where to look.”

Ciarlo accepted the offer. He received so much scorn that at times he lost hope for these people… but then he encountered someone like the benevolent sikara from the seaside village, or this old traveler. He knew that there
was
good in these people, despite their false beliefs.

Ciarlo looked down at his open book. “I have only read about Aiden's voyage. I know what happened on the Arkship and how he came to Tierra to settle there. I confess I've heard very few legends about the two brothers in Terravitae.”

“Three brothers. You must not forget Joron,” the old man chided. “There are stories, and some are fanciful, I agree. My particular favorite is a tale of when Aiden, Urec, and Joron were young, and the three boys embarked on an adventure to explore Terravitae.”

“A childhood story of the three brothers?” Ciarlo had never heard such a thing.

“Yes, the brothers went off alone, assuming the land was safe, because their father Ondun had created everything. Why would He create something dangerous? The boys followed a river inland. They plucked ripe fruit from the trees whenever they were hungry, or fish leapt out of streams and flopped on the banks so they could be roasted over a campfire. Aiden, Urec, and Joron finally reached a great smoking mountain where the rocks were hard and sharp. Cracks leaked lava like the fiery blood of the world.

“Wise and cautious Joron warned them to be careful, but Aiden and Urec raced each other to the top of the mountain so they could look down into the crater. There from the bubbling lava, a fiery orange worm rose up to hiss at them, spewing sulfurous smoke from its nostrils. Suddenly, Aiden and Urec were afraid and realized that perhaps they had gone where Ondun had not meant for them to go after all. Joron had been right to warn them.

“The worm emerged from the lava crack and slithered after them. The boys stumbled over sharp black rocks on their way down the mountainside. Seeing their danger, brave Joron called out to their father for help, and before the glowing worm could strike the boys, Ondun Himself arrived. Moving swiftly and with terrible power, He shielded Aiden and Urec. Putting them behind Him, He sent the fiery worm back into the lava pit.

“ ‘You should not have come here,' Ondun said to the boys. ‘Yes, I created the world, but I was not finished with this part yet.'

“Aiden, Urec, and Joron said that they were sorry, that they only wanted to see their father's creation. So Ondun bade them to watch His labors as He remained at the volcano for a day, a night, and a day, pushing the rocks and cracked earth together, sealing the wound, and covering the flaming blood of the world. The fiery worm was never seen again.

“Ondun planted trees in the volcanic soil, and very soon there was not even a scar to show where the volcano had been. ‘You will explore the world someday,' Ondun said to the boys, ‘but not today.'”

Ciarlo listened to the story with delight. “I had not heard that before.”

“There are so many stories.” The old man ate one of the plums, and comically puckered his face at the sourness. “You must have some tales of your own. Tell me.”

Ciarlo blushed. “I know what is written in the Book of Aiden.”

“Not those stories.
Your
story.”

Ciarlo was reticent as he began to explain how Windcatch had nearly been destroyed in the Urecari raid, how Adrea had been taken, and how he had become the town's prester. The stranger listened and encouraged him until Ciarlo felt the tale drawn out of him, blossoming from his memories and his imagination.

It was late when he was through. Ciarlo felt drained, his throat dry and raspy. The old man stretched out on the other side of the fire. “We both deserve a good rest now. Thank you for sharing your tale with me, and for the company.”

Realizing just how sleepy he was, Ciarlo lay down on the soft dry leaves. With a safe, contented feeling, he began dreaming almost immediately….

In the morning when he awoke, the fire was cold gray ash. He stretched on the hard ground, rubbed the scratchiness from his eyes, and saw that his visitor had gone, leaving only a mark on the matted leaves where he had slept. Ciarlo sighed with disappointment. He had liked the old man and hoped that they might travel awhile together.

Still fuzzy with sleep, Ciarlo saw that his guest had left a leather-bound book next to his pack. Curious, he reached down to pick it up, wondering if it might be some religious text, but when he opened the cover, he saw it was merely a journal, tales the old man had written about his own adventures.

They seemed to span years—
centuries
.

He felt a chill. Handwritten lines filled page after page, and Ciarlo read the adventures and ruminations with growing amazement. Everyone knew stories of strange hermits, old men who traveled the wilderness and appeared at unexpected times.

This book was a new volume of the Tales of the Traveler.

Ciarlo was so astonished he wasn't sure what to believe. He had never asked the stranger's name, and the old man had revealed little about himself or his identity. Ciarlo's unexpected visitor might have been the ancient Traveler himself—Aiden (or Urec, as the Urabans believed) wandering the world. Ciarlo looked around for some sign of the man, wondering where he had gone. But the forest was quiet and empty.

He brushed crumpled leaves and a few strands of dry grass from his pants, got to his feet—and froze in unraveling astonishment. He bent down, then straightened. He touched his leg, just now realizing what was missing.

The intense aching pain deep in his bone had vanished.
Gone
, for the first time in as many years as he could remember. It was a miracle. He held the journal of the Traveler's tales reverently against his chest.
Another
miracle.

He walked around the camp, stepped up on a log then down again, bent over, stretched. The pain had been with him for so long he'd stopped noticing it, but now he wanted to dance, to run.

A modest man, Ciarlo couldn't accept that he deserved such a blessing. Nevertheless, the change in him provided all the determination he needed to push forward into Uraba, to keep spreading the word, to keep searching for Adrea—all the way to Olabar, if necessary.

100
Olabar

Roused by hushed but urgent alarms, Imir hurried to the First Wife's quarters, still groggy with sleep. At first, he blurrily wondered if desert bandits had attacked the Olabar palace. “What is it? Why all the fuss?” Many people stirred in the corridors. Something bad must have happened. “Where is the emergency?”

Meeting him near Omra's quarters, Kel Rovic wore a grim expression. “I will allow Lady Istar to explain, my Lord—this is serious news indeed.”

The former soldan-shah had hoped to have no more nights like this, after retiring as the leader of Uraba. He remembered his own father's weary face, when Shieltar had gratefully surrendered the ring of leadership to Imir, so many years ago. “A soldan-shah's life is never his own, my son. The land and the people are yours now… and all that comes with them.” Old Shieltar had not lived to enjoy his later years, though; the old arrow wound still pained him, and he had died in his sleep six months later….

With no other choice, Imir easily slipped back into the role as he accompanied Kel Rovic into Istar's quarters. With a glance he saw the girls Cithara and Adreala sitting together, frightened. Naori came running in with her two young sons in tow, her eyes wide; young Irec began to cry, and Naori tried to shush him.

Istar soothed Omra's other wife, “It's all right now, Naori. We're safe.”

Imir barged in. “Safe from
what
?” He didn't like not knowing what had happened.

Raising her head, as if it took great effort, Istar met his gaze squarely. “Cithara was sent here to assassinate me. We must act quickly, while the sikaras still think they might have succeeded. This is all Villiki's scheme.”

“The sikaras?
Villiki?
” As Imir stared in disbelief, Cliaparia's daughter came up to him, knelt in respect, and held out a sharp silver dagger.

“With this knife, I was commanded to kill Mother Istar.”

The former soldan-shah turned his glare toward Kel Rovic and took half a step backward from the point of the dagger. “Then why does the girl still have the blade?”

Istar held up her hand. “Because I gave it back to her. I trust her. She is, and always has been, a true daughter to me.”

Shaking his head, Imir slumped onto the pile of cushions on the floor. “By the Eye of Urec, please tell me what is going on… although I'm already sure I won't like it. Somebody start from the beginning.”

As Cithara recounted her tale, he listened with growing anger. His face burned, and his hands clenched into hard fists when he learned that Villiki was not only alive after all, but still active in the church, and still very much attempting to destroy her rivals. “I knew I should have executed her when her crimes were revealed, but I couldn't do it. She was my wife, the mother of Tukar—and he too paid the price.” He curled his hands together, as if wrapping them around her neck. “It was a mistake to show mercy to her.”

“Her heart is poison, but it is she who made the mistake,” Istar said. “When you banished her, Villiki
could
have made a new life for herself,
could
have found a place in the world,
could
have found contentment. Instead, she chose to do this, and the church of Urec supports and shelters her. According to Cithara, the priestesses are actively aware of her schemes—even the ur-sikara herself.”

“The rot goes deep, but I'm not surprised.” Imir heaved a sigh. “There was a reason why I turned the ring over to Omra. I am disgusted with such politics. Right now, Adreala and I should be feasting with the Nunghals.”

Istar's voice was steady. “You may have retired, Imir, but you will always be a soldan-shah. You can't hide from Uraba.”

Adreala spoke up. “What about Istala? She's still an acolyte. What if they hold her hostage? We need to get my sister out of the church.”

Imir looked fondly at the girl. Adreala had matured greatly during her brief time away from the palace. “I already rescued one granddaughter from desert bandits. Now we must save another from a treacherous snake that lives right here in Olabar. And there is no time to lose.”

Kel Rovic had listened to the entire discussion. “We must be swift as well as cautious. I will prepare my men for immediate action.”

When Imir drew himself up, he felt like the soldan-shah once more. “There is no time to summon Omra from Ishalem—we need to do something tonight. Villiki expects an assassination. She ordered Cithara to make her move quickly, and she will have her spies everywhere.”

“If she's hiding in the main church, how do we find her?” Istar said. “The sikaras will protect her.” From her expression, she looked perfectly willing to tear down the doors and walls of the great stone building to get inside.

“I command loyalties that you do not, Lady Istar. Leave it to me.” He'd had his own issues with the priestesses during his rule, and Villiki—his Second Wife—had been a former sikara. He knew their tricks and their schemes. Fortunately, since he was no longer soldan-shah, Imir did not have to pander to them; he could take immediate action and not worry about the consequences. And it was about time.

He raised his voice. “We will go immediately, with as many men as we can muster. The sikaras may think themselves safe inside their church, but no church will protect a woman who sends a child to do her killing! Long ago she tried to assassinate Omra, and now his First Wife. Kel Rovic, tonight we march on the main church, rescue Istala, and arrest Villiki.”

A hundred armed soldiers spilled out of the Olabar palace and into the shadowy streets, their booted feet ringing on the paving stones. Behind darkened windows, lamps and candles began to shine like glowing eyes as the commotion awoke sleeping citizens. The men pressed forward in hushed ranks faster than rumors could spread.

Imir and Kel Rovic took the lead, with Lady Istar and her daughters close behind. Adreala's face wore a fierce look, and she kept her own dagger at her side. She had insisted on going along. “I fought desert bandits, Mother—I can hold off a few priestesses. We've got to get Istala away from them.”

Once they got inside the towering stone edifice, they would rely on Cithara to take them directly to Villiki's lair deep within the labyrinth of the main church. The former soldan-shah did not intend to tolerate any delays. He had made the mistake of compassion once, and he didn't intend to let his venomous former wife slip away again.

Having set her scheme in motion, the vile woman would be expecting to hear that Lady Istar had been murdered, or that Cithara had been caught and possibly killed in the attempt. Knowing Villiki's arrogance, Imir was sure she could never imagine that her plot would fail entirely and that soldiers were already on the way to seize her.

Imir and Istar were not trying to exact revenge against all the priestesses of Urec, only against Villiki and those who had tried to destroy Omra and his family. Regardless, whatever happened this night, the former soldan-shah realized it was likely to crack the Urecari church open to its spoiled core… and few people would thank them for it.

But so it must be.

The palace troops marched to the giant church with its numerous spires and looming thick doors. Orange braziers shone from many arched windows, and silhouetted figures looked down at the armed men who crowded the streets. As whispered word spread through the church, windows and doors were hastily shut.

Coming to a halt, the soldiers stared at the great building with religious awe. When three tall sikaras appeared on the balconies above, wearing their red robes, some of the men uttered quick prayers, begging Urec for forgiveness.

At this hesitation, Imir spoke harshly to the men. “Do you think
Urec
asked for this? Do you think his word tells us to train children to kill their own mothers?” Pushing forward, he led the first ranks of guards up to the tall wooden main doors.

Kel Rovic hammered with the rounded hilt of his scimitar. “Open up! Open these doors in the name of the soldan-shah!”

Close behind, Lady Istar whispered, “They'll think you're bringing news that I was murdered in my sleep. That's what they expect.”

“They will learn the truth soon enough.”

Rovic hammered on the door once more, and it finally opened a crack to reveal an elderly sikara. “This is a holy place. You may not enter!” She glanced at the soldiers and the former soldan-shah, but when she noticed Istar, she recoiled visibly.

Imir pressed his advantage, pushing against the door, though the old priestess pushed back. “Open up, woman!”

“You have no authority here!”

“I have all the authority I need. We know the church is harboring the traitor Villiki, who has been banished from the land. We've come to take her into custody.” Then he added in a deeper warning growl, “Any sikara who appears to be in league with Villiki will be stripped of her rank and publicly scourged. For starters.”

Kel Rovic and several soldiers added their weight. Unable to stand against the pressure, the old woman stumbled back, and the church doors crashed inward. Armed soldiers flooded inside, searching for Villiki.