The Key to Creation (38 page)

Seated at a low table in Naori’s quarters, Ciarlo ate food and drank tea, looking intently at the mother of the soldan-shah’s sons. “Let me tell you the story of Aiden and the story of Sapier,” he said. “You may find it interesting.”

Naori was at first uneasy, but curiosity got the better of her. Ciarlo spun his tale with great passion, and his eyes were intense. Adrea had never heard her brother talk with such fervor before. Back in Windcatch, Ciarlo had apprenticed at the kirk only because his lame leg prevented him from doing other work. But now he had changed as much as she had.

As he talked, his hands worked with strings of twine he had secured from Adrea’s rooms, and his nimble fingers created intricate webwork figures, much to Naori’s delight. When he finished his story, Ciarlo smiled, as if expecting Omra’s second wife to rise up and embrace Aidenism with all her heart. Instead, she just chuckled. “What a silly story! But it is amusing.”

“It is more than a story,” Ciarlo said.

“We all have our stories,” Asaddan interjected. He leaned forward, looking far too big to fit on the small cushion Naori had offered him. “And since we are telling them, you should know about the two brothers, Ari and Su, who established the Nunghal clans. They sailed away from the land of Paradise—probably what you would call Terravitae—because God told them to wander. It’s in the blood of mankind to see what there is to be seen, to explore what remains unexplored.

“But the brothers sailed for so long that they could not find a place to land, and they could not find their way back home. Lost, hungry, and disheartened, they cursed God for sending them on a foolish errand. Then a great storm whipped up and drove the two ships apart. The winds and waves flung them along for many days, until the ships crashed on an unknown shore.

“Each captain and crew struggled to survive in the wild land. The descendants of Ari’s crew—the ancestors of my clan—moved inland to live off the grassy plains. Those from Su’s vessel built new ships and explored the oceans. We are two separate people, but all Nunghals. We believe that someday God will send ships from the land of Paradise to find us.”

“That’s what you wait for?” Adrea asked. “Is it what you pray for?”

“When it happens, it will happen.” Asaddan shrugged his broad shoulders. “In the meantime, we live our lives as best we can.”

“What imaginative people you are,” Naori said with a sparkling laugh.

Ciarlo looked troubled. “Nunghals must have garbled the telling over the generations. I told you the story of Aiden and Urec, so now you know the truth about the sailing brothers.”

Asaddan raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh, I agree that something has changed in the retelling. Maybe my people got it wrong, maybe yours did. Or maybe the followers of Urec did.” He looked over at Naori. “What do the details matter? Are we not all of God? Aren’t the core truths the same? Do you honestly believe Ondun would be pleased by this bloodshed on all sides?”

“But I have seen the Traveler with my own eyes,” Ciarlo said. “I felt the love of Aiden—I know in my heart what is true.”

“You’re confusing devotion with facts,” Asaddan said. “No one can know the
facts
of the stories. Too many centuries have passed. But I do know your heart, Ciarlo. Your cause is just and passionate, and I believe you. You could teach these people much if they will listen—and if
you
will listen to
them
.”

Adrea shook her head. “After so many years of war, so many unforgivable acts—on both sides, I admit—we’ve come too far for peace and reconciliation.”

Omra would never listen to Aidenists, but she hoped that Kuari could be practical and sensible. Maybe if she took Ciarlo to see the ur-sikara, let the two of them talk…

When Adrea explained her idea, Ciarlo swallowed hard, as if Aiden himself had placed a burden on his shoulders. “I am willing to return to Ishalem and speak to the leader of your church.”

Asaddan let out a loud laugh. “I just came from there, but I will turn and lead you back. I may need to twist a few arms and knock a few heads to let you have your say.”

Adrea looked from her brother to the big Nunghal. “All right, then. We go to Ishalem.”

Gremurr Harbor

Though he was exhausted and bruised, Destrar Broeck did not sleep much during the voyage back north. The sword cut on his thigh made his leg stiff, and if he turned too quickly, the stitched gashes in his side made him wince. He hoped the injuries healed quickly, so he could fight at full strength once the ironclads reached Ishalem. He decided he would yank out the sutures if they bothered him too much.

The recent attack wasn’t the first time Broeck had shed Urecari blood. He had heard their screams as his mammoths stampeded through Gremurr. But torching all those ships in Olabar harbor, a direct blow to the soldan-shah’s capital—ah, that victory tasted incredibly sweet.

Aboard the
Raathgir
, which had been designated as the new flagship, the destrar was acutely conscious of the calendar. Queen Anjine had a schedule for the main war, and regardless of how much destruction he had caused at Olabar, the real goal was to conquer the holy city. No longer burdened by the slow captured boats that had served as fireships, his six remaining ironclads sailed swiftly. All of his men were restless and excited, ready for their rendezvous at Gremurr and then onward to Ishalem.

Hobbling across the deck to loosen the muscles in his healing leg, Broeck thought about how much Iaros had matured. When he first brought his nephew to King Korastine not so long ago, Iaros had been gawky, socially clumsy, and full of himself. Now, though, he called out commands and guided his sailors with skill and confidence. Normally the young man would have looked to his uncle for advice, second-guessing his own decisions, but he did not hesitate now. He might even be a worthy successor as Iboria’s next destrar.

Broeck grinned as he devised a way to honor his nephew. He limped into his cabin, closed the door, and poured a basin of water. He used a cake of pale soap to lather his chin and cheeks and took up his razor-sharp dagger. He scraped his chin with the blade, smiling to think of the look on Iaros’s face as soon as he saw.

Broeck toweled off his face and went out into the open air. Iaros was holding on to the rigging ropes at the ship’s side, pointing toward the smoke of the smelters and the coastline of Gremurr.

“Nephew, I have a gift for you!”

Iaros turned, and his mouth dropped open. He began to laugh. “You look like a fine, handsome man, Uncle!”

Broeck stroked his two long mustaches that matched his nephew’s. “You always wanted to start a new style. I think it may catch on.”

The other sailors looked at their destrar and guffawed, and Broeck singled out those who laughed loudest. “You, you, and you—I command you to shave your chins! Let’s see if you think it so ridiculous on your own faces.”

The men balked, but they had to do as the destrar commanded. Soon enough, every man aboard had scraped away whiskers and beards, leaving only mustaches. Broeck considered it a gesture of solidarity.

When the six ironclads tied up to the Gremurr docks, old Firun came to greet them. He counted the ships. “What happened to the
Wilka
?”

“Sunk,” Broeck said, “but she took the soldan-shah’s personal warship with her! A fair exchange, I’d say.”

The old servant hesitated, then asked in a quiet voice, “And the boy and his mother—Ulan and Shetia?”

“Set free. They should be safe enough.” Broeck cleared his throat awkwardly. “They’re back home.”

Weary fighters disembarked onto the docks, and the conversation swelled to a loud buzz as they told tales about the fireships and the victory over the Curlies. The dog that had belonged to Ulan, now adopted as the camp mascot, barked happily, running up and down the shore.

Broeck would allow the men only a short rest before they resupplied the ships. He shouted from the end of the pier, “No time to waste! Eat, rest, clean yourselves, for tomorrow we overhaul all six ironclads. Every able-bodied fighter will go aboard this time—to Ishalem!”

The soldiers had unloaded Urecari swords from the storehouses to practice fighting, and by now even the former slaves were skilled at slashing and stabbing. With snows closing the mountain road through Corag, no one could make it back to Tierra along that route until spring, but if these men were victorious at Ishalem, they could have passage home whenever they liked.

By now Queen Anjine and the whole Tierran army must be at the wall, and Comdar Rief ’s navy would have blocked the western harbor. It was time for his armored warships to complete the trap.

Tierran Military Camp,
Ishalem Wall

Anjine’s cool response told Mateo all he needed to know about any future they might have together. His hopes had been delusions, his dreams foolish. Having been close to Anjine most of his life, he could read her mood from the slightest flicker of expression. He had always understood her troubled thoughts when no one else even noticed that she was bothered. Something was definitely, terribly wrong. And her distant message was completely clear.

In his camp tent, Mateo lay awake, heartbroken but determined. He had lost Anjine, and it was his own fault; their one night together had cost them a lifetime of friendship and closeness. He had been weak, grieving for Vicka, and clumsy with his emotions, giving no thought to consequences. How many more blunders could he make? He had lost his wife to fire, a capricious slap of fate that punished him for daring to hope for a normal life…and before that, he had lost his soul by murdering so many innocent Urecari.

Now he had lost Anjine.

All he had left was his loyalty, and despite the cold downpour of tragedies, Mateo refused to surrender. He couldn’t just wallow in misery: he needed to do something, make plans, take action. He would count down the days until he could race into battle at the head of the army. Victory was the only thing that remained.…

Two hours after midnight, Jenirod came to his tent and whispered loudly at the flap, “Subcomdar, I felt you should know. I wasn’t sure who else to inform, but the destrar’s made up his mind. I think it’s a bad idea.”

Mateo had been awake, and now he swung off his cot and pushed open the flap to let the other man inside. “What is it? Who?”

“Destrar Shenro—he’s pulled together all the men and horses he needs, and they’re saddling up now.”

Mateo automatically began pulling on his boots. “To what purpose?”

“He thinks he can kidnap the soldan-shah. He’s going to lead a raid, scale the wall at the vulnerable spot you found.” Jenirod looked awkward. “I…I don’t think it’s a well-thought-out plan.”

Mateo tugged on his other boot as a rush of thoughts swirled in his mind. Now that he no longer had to shield himself for Anjine’s sake, he felt liberated. So many more possibilities were open to him. Shenro’s idea was audacious, daring, and a chance to make an indelible
difference
. “If he’s correct, Jenirod—if we do capture the soldan-shah—it would bring the war to an immediate end. And without further Tierran bloodshed.”

Jenirod was taken aback. “But he can’t be sure the soldan-shah is even in the city, or where to find him. We don’t know what goes on behind the wall.”

Mateo buckled his sword belt around his waist and pushed past Jenirod, keeping his voice low. “Then he needs all the help he can get. Maybe we can make a difference tonight—take me to him.” A nagging voice at the back of his mind questioned the wisdom of the strategy, but he didn’t want to think about it.

They came upon Shenro and his armed men as they were quietly saddling their horses. The destrar glanced at Mateo, flushed with excitement. “Subcomdar, I hope you’re not going to tell me to stay here. Now that you and I have made our reports, I fear that some
ra’vir
spy will spread the word. We could lose the element of surprise. We have to go
tonight
, or we forfeit our best chance.”

Mateo regarded the men who were ready to ride off. “I won’t stop you. This is a risk worth taking and a fight worth having. I intend to come along. What better way to demonstrate our loyalty to Tierra?”

Jenirod straightened after seeing the force of Mateo’s resolve. “I’ll saddle horses for both of us, then, Subcomdar. Maybe we can salvage an ill-advised plan if it’s swiftly executed. At the very least, I’ll watch your back.”

The waxing moon rode high in the sky, shedding enough light for the horsemen to ride westward over grassy hills, parallel to the stone wall. Seventy-five riders had received the hushed summons, Shenro’s best warriors.

After weeks of restless waiting, the Tierran army had accomplished little beyond hammering the wall with catapults and killing a few sentries with well-placed arrow shots. It amounted to little more than harassment. The queen was saving the full force of the attack for her main strike.

The Alamont destrar was giddy with anticipation. “We’ll be victorious by morning! We can be over the wall, find the soldan-shah’s residence, and have him bound and gagged by the time the presters begin their sunrise prayers—if all goes as planned.”

“Battles rarely go as planned,” Mateo said.

Jenirod rode out with them, still not convinced. “With one extra day of preparation, we could be better supplied, bring two hundred riders instead of seventy-five.”

Shenro said, “That only gives some damned
ra’vir
spy extra time to report what we intend to do.”

Mateo agreed. “Besides, the moon will be brighter tomorrow. This is the best way to leverage our surprise.” The real reason he refused to delay, though, was that he didn’t want the queen to forbid him from acting. It had to be now, before he came to his senses. “I do wish we had spies inside the city, though. I’d prefer to have better intelligence.”

“If we had spies in the city, we could bribe one of them to open a gate.” Shenro shook his head. “And who could trust a Curly to tell the truth anyway? Our army has been camped at the wall for more than two months. By now, the Curlies probably think we’ll just sit on our thumbs for the rest of the year and lob catapult missiles at them every day.”