The Key to Creation (44 page)

The Saedran spoke first, as if trying to prevent Anjine’s unutterable words. “I have talked with Subcomdar Bornan’s physicians, looked at his wounds myself. He has survived, though he is still weak. The next few days will decide. Any change could send him down, or he could rally and recover. They say your bloodline is directly descended from Aiden, my Queen. Now would be a good time to pray—and not make rash decisions.”

“I have already prayed, and pondered much. But the decision is mine alone.”

Sen Ola nodded slowly. Anjine sat heavily on a stool and looked at her for a long moment. “I will require your chemical draught. I must take it now, before anyone else knows, so that I can recover before the final assault. In less than two weeks I need to be healthy and…undistracted. If we defeat the enemy, there will be time for children later.”

The Saedran’s expression fell. “But not for this child.”

Another wave of nausea washed over Anjine, and she fought it down with difficulty. “No, not for this child. But who can count one unborn child among the countless parents and children who have already been slain in this war?”

Anjine had seen the look of joy on the Gremurr refugees when they were reunited with their families, and she had also seen the crushing despair in those who did not, and never would, find their loved ones. Such bright hope followed by such crushing disappointment seemed more cruel than the news itself.

“It’s for the best,” she said. “I cannot be a mere woman now. I need to be Tierra’s ruler.”

The
Dyscovera

With both the Leviathan and Iyomelka dead, the unnatural storms began to dissipate. But although the thunder faded and the cauldron of angry waves simmered back to sleep, the damage was done. The battered
Dyscovera
was like a man robbed and beaten by thugs, left to die in an alley.

Criston stood among the debris on the deck, feeling more empty than triumphant. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the huge carcass that drifted in the wreckage of Iyomelka’s ship. “My whole life has been shaped by that monster.” Even though he now knew that Adrea was alive, the Leviathan had stolen decades from the two of them. “And now it’s dead.”

Javian stood next to Mia with his mouth agape. “Why would even Ondun create such a beast?”

In despair, Prester Hannes looked around at the wrecked ship. “How will we ever reach Terravitae? We were so close.”

Criston’s victory was tempered by the cold reality of their situation. They had survived the night and the storms, but the ship might not last much longer. The
Dyscovera
was adrift, barely navigable, and could well sink if the weather worsened again. He faced the brisk cool breeze. Many years ago, after the sinking of the
Luminara
, he had survived by building a makeshift raft from the debris. This time he had more to work with, a whole ship that could be repaired.

The morning after the storm, thick mist rose from the sea like an exhausted exhalation. The ghost ships sailed closer, and Criston wondered how long they could remain separated from the female titan that held their souls in her seaweed net. He didn’t understand how they had escaped her hold in the first place, except that Captain Shay had promised.…

Going to the broken bow, where the ice dragon’s horn protruded from its splintered socket, he could discern the other captain aboard the spectral
Luminara
. From his long-lost fishing boat, his father gave him a melancholy wave.

Criston called out into the mist, “Thank you for saving us.”

“I wish we could help you more, Mr. Vora,” Shay shouted back, “but we have limitations.”

His father added sadly, “And now we must return, for She calls us.”

Several pallid-looking men joined Captain Shay on the deck of the
Luminara
, and Criston recognized them with a start: they were members of his own crew who had been lost overboard during the storm. “Fifteen of your sailors are now among us, Mr. Vora. Don’t worry—we’ll take care of them.”

Cindon Vora added, “Try not to join us too soon, my son.”

“I won’t, I promise.” And he meant it, now that the thought of Adrea could pull him back to Tierra.

The fleet of ghost ships faded into the fog until they became shadows, then nothing.

Struggling for some kind of normal activity, Javian and Mia helped clear debris from the tilted deck. Below, the hold was taking on water, and six crewmembers had already climbed down the hatches to man the pumps.

“Javian, gather anyone who can wield a hammer to patch the leaks below. Mia, try to determine what’s been washed overboard. I want to know what supplies we have left. Can we make repairs? Can we sail again?” He wished he still had Kjelnar aboard; the Iborian shipwright had built the vessel in the first place and would know how to fix the worst damage.

Criston did not ignore the seriousness of the situation. All three masts were shattered, the sails torn and many of them blown away, the spare bolts of canvas were mostly spoiled. The men could do very little rigging with the rope they still possessed. While a simple cloth sail might catch enough wind for a small raft, a hulk the size of the
Dyscovera
was another thing entirely.

“We’re still afloat, Captain,” Javian pointed out, as if that alone was good news. “It’s a start.”

Over the course of the storm, the raging wind and waves had driven the ship far from the Lighthouse at the End of the World. Perhaps when the dense fog cleared his lookouts might spot the beacon, which would give them a sense of direction. But Criston realized that the ocean currents were drawing them away, like a swift river.

When the fog burned off by midday and offered a clear view of open water, the lookout at the top of the splintered mainmast shouted, “Another vessel nearby, Captain! It’s the Urecari ship!”

Criston rushed to the starboard side, recalling the vessel he had seen from the lighthouse. The foreign ship seemed to be in as bad shape as the
Dyscovera
: her silken sail shredded, spars shattered, hull and masts splintered. The two damaged vessels were drifting closer to each other. Across the water he could hear echoing voices shouting in a foreign language.

Prester Hannes joined him at the side of the ship, his face suffused with anger. “They are followers of Urec, Captain. You know they will want to kill us, so we’ve got to attack them first.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Trick them into coming closer.”

With a wry laugh, Criston indicated the
Dyscovera
’s condition. “There will be no trickery. They can plainly see who we are.”

Javian was also deeply troubled. “We can barely move, Captain, and this was never a warship. How would we attack them?”

“With our own swords and bare hands!” Hannes said, as if the answer were obvious.

Sen Aldo shaded his eyes to study the other damaged ship. “This ship won’t survive as it is, Captain. Maybe they have supplies or tools we can use to keep the
Dyscovera
afloat.”

Hannes quirked his lips in a smile. “Yes! We can kill or capture them, and seize their supplies.”

Flustered, Aldo stared at him. “Actually, I was suggesting cooperation. You can see they’re in no better shape than we are.”

The ships were very close now, and the wary Uraban sailors hefted their scimitars and harpoons. Criston’s crew took up whatever clubs, sticks, or knives they could find and crowded the
Dyscovera
’s side, each group searching for the slightest excuse to engage in the free-for-all they had long anticipated.

As the two battered craft wallowed closer, a woman’s voice called across the water. Her words were heavily accented but understandable. “Ho, Tierran ship! We are the
Al-Orizin
, in search of Terravitae!”

Criston shouted back. “We are the
Dyscovera
, out of Calay—and we have the same quest.”

Wearing a look of complete astonishment, Aldo pushed past Criston, yelling at the top of his voice, “Sen Sherufa na-Oa, is that you? I recognize your voice!”

Criston could hear a flurry of discussion aboard the other ship, and he spotted a woman in Saedran garments standing on the tilted deck. “Aldo na-Curic?”

“It’s
Sen
Aldo, now!” He laughed.

“A much-needed voice of reason! We both seek Terravitae, and we have nearly reached our destination. Neither of our vessels is seaworthy, but if we joined the two hulls, our ships could continue the voyage.”

Aldo turned to Criston, his expression bright. “She’s right, Captain. We could lash the ships together, keep the hulls afloat, pool our resources and rig some sails.”

Hannes drew himself up. “We will not work with the followers of Urec.” He eyed a dour-faced, red-robed woman who stood next to the Saedran on the other ship. Hannes lowered his voice, like rustling dry weeds. “They have a priestess aboard.”

Aldo ignored him and turned back to the rail. “Sen Sherufa! We can also share our charts. I think we are very close to completing the Mappa Mundi.”

Criston grabbed his arm. “What are you doing, Chartsman? This is a
Tierran
ship. We do not give our discoveries to the enemy.”

Aldo pulled away and spoke coolly. “I am a Saedran as well as Tierran, sir. We can learn more from this woman than we could ever find out on our own.”

Sherufa called back, “My captain Saan agrees that we might join our ships and sail the rest of the way to Terravitae. He says he will let Holy Joron punish the heretics, if He wishes.”

Hannes grumbled, eyeing the sikara. “Yes, I would like to witness exactly that.”

Aldo turned to Criston again. “Sherufa and I can act as translators, Captain. I speak Uraban, and she obviously speaks Tierran. The Leviathan has dealt all of us a terrible blow, and surely none of us will survive without helping each other.” When the crew looked angry and skeptical, he scolded them impatiently: “What is more important, killing the enemy, or reaching Terravitae?” He raised his voice and shouted the question again so that those aboard the
Al-Orizin
heard him as well. He could hear Sen Sherufa translating.

Both crews grumbled, neither giving an immediate answer. Criston wrestled with his decision, then finally nodded to Sen Aldo. “Very well, Chartsman. We’ll remain on guard, but I tentatively agree to work with our enemies.”

The Lighthouse at the
      End of the World

After the skies cleared to reveal a bright, mocking sun, Mailes was still alone.

Throughout the clashing storms, he had been trapped and transfixed in his tower, watching the Leviathan, the ghost ships, and Iyomelka. The sight filled him with simultaneous hope and horror. Even amid the churning waves and winds, with sorcery being hurled back and forth, he felt his heart split open like a chrysalis.
Iyomelka!
A flood of sweet memories came back to him.

She had returned, but she was in terrible danger. And he was cursed to do nothing but observe.

From the top of the turret, the magical lighthouse beacon continued to shine out into the water. Even through the downpour, Iyomelka must have seen the lighthouse and remembered him. Mailes had not forgotten a moment of their time together, even after so many centuries.

So few of their people remained…so few choices to love. Passionate and imaginative, Iyomelka had been the perfect consort for Ondun, leader of them all. His was the most powerful magic, but mastery of the powers innate in the world was not the same thing as love; Ondun had taken Iyomelka for granted, taken the world for granted…and Mailes had truly loved her. How could the two of them possibly hide their romance from one who claimed to be all-seeing?

A disaster, a tragedy…and they had expected nothing less. A jealous Ondun had forced Iyomelka to watch as he imposed eternal exile on the other man who had dared to love his wife. And after doing that to Iyomelka, Ondun expected her to forgive him. How could he understand so little?

In the centuries since then, Mailes had written countless volumes of love poems pining for the woman he had lost. Though no one would ever read the stanzas, Mailes wrote, and wrote, and wrote. What did it matter if anyone—even Ondun—ever found them?

During the night, he had peered through the magical lens, staring at the face he had loved so much and so long ago. He hoped she might look up at the lighthouse, but even with her powers, Iyomelka couldn’t possibly see him waiting for her in his distant tower.…

And then he had watched her die.

The awful monster, maddened by loneliness, had attacked Ondun’s wife, taken out its anger on
her
. Mailes had been helpless to do anything.…

Now her ship was destroyed, her body lost amid the wreckage—and Ondun’s crystal coffin, no doubt, gone with her. Now the earlier pain of heartache seemed as nothing. Mailes would never be freed of his curse. He would never leave this lighthouse island, and most agonizing of all, he would never have Iyomelka back.

It was too much pain for even a demigod to bear.…

When the waters calmed, Mailes managed to scrape enough strength from the bottom of his despair. He emerged from his tower, went down to the rocks at the waterline where he kept a small boat—even though he had nowhere to go. He took up the oars and pushed away from the islet.

It didn’t matter how long it would take. Mailes rowed and rowed until he reached the flinders of Iyomelka’s ship. Flotsam and jetsam drifted about, rotted wood from a sunken vessel she had resurrected from beneath the waves.

Her journey had brought her back here after all, but not to happiness.

The carcass of the Leviathan floated atop the water like an enormous dead whale. Its body was scored with numerous wounds; the tough hide had been ripped apart by weapons and lightning strikes. The creature drifted, its eye gouged out, its lax tentacles hanging like strands of seaweed. Seagulls wheeled above, already attracted by the foul-smelling feast. They landed and fed, then flew again, shrieking insults to one another before returning to tear off more strips of pale flesh.