The Edge of the World (14 page)

She laughed. “How do you expect me to get your letters if you’ve sailed beyond the edge of the world?”

“I’ll throw them overboard in bottles, and the currents will take them to you.” Criston had no doubt that sympathetic magic—the
strands that connected all things in Ondun’s creation—would be strong enough. “Let me have a lock of your hair. If I put a
strand in with each letter, it’ll be drawn back where it belongs.”

Adrea separated out a small bunch of her golden-brown hair, and he used his knife to cut it off, leaving a ragged, prominent
missing patch. Criston lovingly twisted the strands, then tucked the lock into his pocket. “We’ll be like a Captain’s Compass,
bound together. The currents of the sea will feel the magic and bring the bottles back to Windcatch.”

“It’s a pretty thought… pretty enough to believe in.” She toyed with the gap in her hair. “Now every time I see myself in
a looking glass, I’ll be reminded that part of me is with you.”

Her brother limped forward, extending his hand. “I’ll take care of everybody while you’re gone.”

Criston ignored the younger man’s hand and gave him a sturdy hug. “You’d better. Don’t just sleep all the time!”

The ship’s bell tolled, and the
Luminara
’s crew manned their stations. First Mate Willin shouted orders, and Captain Shay took his place at the prow, wearing full
colors and fine garments, hat in hand against his chest; a broad white plume from an exotic bird waved jauntily in the breeze.

Criston refused to release Adrea. “One more kiss.” He touched his lips to hers and lingered there. This kiss would have to
last a year. When he finally let go, he felt his knees weaken, as though he had suddenly lost his sea legs.

“Goodbye, my love,” she said.

He tried to answer her, but the words caught in his throat. He hurried up the gangplank, the last man aboard. Sailors loosed
the hawsers and pulled the plank back onto the deck.

On the docks, Prester-Marshall Baine raised his hands and intoned, “May the Compass guide you.” The crowd of onlookers set
up a loud cheer. King Korastine lifted his hands and called, “Ondun watches us all!”

Heaving on pulleys, the men raised the yardarms to unfurl the sails, and the sheets grew taut. Slowly, the
Luminara
eased away from dockside, drifted into the main channel, and rolled out of Calay Harbor on the departing tide.

Criston stood by the rail, his eyes never leaving Adrea’s as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance. The first mate
clapped him on the shoulder, startling him. “We’ve all left someone behind, sailor. Get to work!”

Abashed, he ran toward his station, grabbing a rope and helping to pull and set a sail. He turned away from the crowded city
to face the bowsprit, looking out to sea.

Once past the lighthouses at the mouth of the harbor, the
Luminara
headed due east in open water. Captain Shay set course for Soeland, the group of islands that formed the most distant reach
of Tierra, where they would take on whale oil and a few last provisions. The chartsman could have headed directly into the
unknown, but Soeland was like a stepping-stone, the farthest point explored by Tierrans.

Captain Shay took meticulous notes of their speed, the winds, the color of the water. Though numerous ships had plied these
waters between Calay and the Soeland islands, he began the voyage by testing his own powers of observation. He dropped lines
overboard tied to weighted cylinders with tallow on the ends that sank to the bottom. He recorded the depth to the bottom
and the composition of the seabed—sand, clay, crushed seashells, pebbles.

He asked Criston if he might like to help with some of the naturalist activities. “Most of my sailors do not have the abundance
of curiosity you do, Mr. Vora,” Shay said. “Not even First Mate Willin. I think I should make use of your skills.” The young
man jumped at the chance.

The Saedran chartsman, on the other hand, simply watched the activities around him, keeping himself separate. Sen Nikol na-Fenda
stood at the side of the vessel, gazing at the waves as though the reflected sunlight sent him secret messages. Other than
his ornate navigation instruments, Sen Nikol carried no charts, no maps, no logbooks.

Criston could not figure out what fascinated the Saedran so. When Criston wasn’t occupied in holystoning the deck and washing
down the planks with buckets of seawater, he struck up a conversation with the man. “Shouldn’t you keep track of this voyage?
Why aren’t you making records?”

Sen Nikol regarded Criston with heavy-lidded eyes. “I
am
keeping records. I remember every detail.” Then he turned to look out at the waves again.

Over the next few days, Criston learned that until recently Sen Nikol had a fairly lucrative career guiding ships down past
Ishalem to the distant coastal cities of Khenara and Tenér, but he had seen them as mere destinations, not wonders.

“Those routes are closed to us after the burning of Ishalem, so my expertise is no longer needed,” Sen Nikol said. “Perhaps
when the
Luminara
returns in a year, the conflict will be resolved and trade restored between Tierra and Uraba. Then I will have my old job
back.”

“You expect the conflict to be resolved that quickly?” From what Criston had heard, he was sure the bloodshed would last for
generations.

The Saedran shrugged, speaking as though he were explaining a simple concept to a child in school. “In the long run, the demands
of commerce will outweigh the demands of religion. Both continents need the trade, so the king and the soldan-shah will find
some compromise. And then the world will go back to the way it was.”

Criston didn’t believe it. “But you are thinking logically.”

Sen Nikol shrugged. “Yes, yes I am.”

Soeland Reach was called the “Thousand Islands,” though Captain Shay’s maps showed no more than eighteen named patches of
rocky land, some of them barely large enough to support colonies of migratory birds. The hardy Soelanders were an isolated
and independent people, but they were also devout Aidenists and called themselves Tierrans.

The
Luminara
wove a course through the clustered islands in a procession from one small harbor to another, so that the people in the bleak,
windy fishing villages could watch, wave, and remember them. They had never seen such a vessel before. Most Soelanders had
never heard of Prester-Marshall Baine’s revelation and were unaware of the
Luminara
’s mission. Many of them apparently didn’t know (or didn’t care) about the burning of Ishalem, which seemed like a distant
tragedy to them.

The Soeland destrar, Tavishel, did not think of himself as royalty. Although the man lived in a large blocky house in Farport,
the capital of the innermost island, he still sailed his own large fishing boat and raised his children to hard work; he had
no patience for pampering. As destrar, Tavishel did not tax his people any more than was absolutely necessary, proclaiming
that their lives were already hard enough. They didn’t need to freeze and sweat, he said, just so the nobles in Calay could
buy luxury items.

The
Luminara
pulled close to shore at Farport and dropped anchor, since the small docks could not accommodate such a large ship. The anchor—cast
in the shape of two joined Aidenist fishhooks—sank to the bottom and caught hold.

Captain Shay, Sen Nikol, Criston, and four burly sailors took one of the two ship’s boats over to the docks, to haggle with
a local shipper for a dozen casks of whale oil. When they agreed on a price, a flatboat was dispatched to the
Luminara,
where sailors used a block and tackle to lift the barrels up to the deck, then stored them below in the holds.

The Saedran chartsman sought out local fishermen as they repaired their nets and patched the hulls of overturned dinghies
and pressed them for details about the islands, the depths of channels, the preferred routes. Criston was surprised to see
that not even the chartsman knew much about the outer Soeland islands. Some of the passages, while adequate for shallow-draft
fishing boats, would make a vessel the size of the
Luminara
run aground.

After returning to his cabin and weighing anchor again to set off, Captain Shay spread out his maps and charts, studied drawings
of the known islands, and plotted his course to the edge of the windswept archipelago.

For the next two days, as the ship passed through safe channels, the islands became more rugged. Criston noted Sen Nikol studying
the coastlines as they passed, memorizing everything he observed.

Nobody lived on the outermost islands; they were simply rookeries filled with squawking gulls, and the immense racket carried
across the waves. The sheer cliffs were white and beige, streaked with ochre. Guano ships anchored close to the cliff, while
islanders went ashore with shovels and pickaxes to harvest the layers of stinking fertilizer, which was transported in sluggish
barges to Calay. With grim pride and not a hint of humor, Soelanders claimed their main exports were whale oil, salted fish,
and the highest-quality shit in Tierra.

Though this was the last land they would see for a long while, the stench was so terrific that Captain Shay ordered the
Luminara
to steer clear, and the carrack sailed past the boats anchored near the guano-encrusted islands, leaving the filthy workers
to stare at them without waving.

A day later, out on the open sea, they did encounter a whaling ship. After hailing them, Captain Shay pulled alongside the
long and sturdy vessel, and the other captain came aboard, marveling at the ornate complexity of the exploration ship. Shay
told the whaler’s captain of their historic mission, and the other man was astonished by the audacity of the
Luminara
’s quest.

“The weather gets worse the farther out you go,” the whaler captain warned. His face was weathered and windblown, with craggy
eyebrows that now drew together. “You don’t belong out there.” He pointed to some undefined point westward. “Treacherous currents,
whirlpools that will suck down even a ship like this, sea serpents—and the Leviathan. Nobody has ever sailed beyond and returned.”

“We will,” Captain Shay said with aloof confidence. “This is the finest ship Tierra has ever built. I’ve already seen most
of the fearsome things the sea can throw at me.”

“Suit yourself.” The whaler captain shrugged. “But I warned you. I warned all of you.” He climbed back aboard his ship, and
the two vessels separated. The whaler headed back toward the islands, while the
Luminara,
all sails set, cruised off across the open waters, leaving the known world behind.

Something had to be done about Ishalem.

Anjine sat with her father, listening in on the private tower-room sessions with Prester-Marshall Baine and Sen Leo na-Hadra.
King Korastine consulted his small cadre of advisers when he had difficult decisions to make. As he rested bony elbows on
bony knees beneath his gray robe, Sen Leo said, “We cannot leave the city in ashes.”

Baine added, “Do we let the wound fester, or do we help it heal?”

The windows had been thrown open so the fresh breeze could circulate around the room, and a pool of bright sunlight warmed
the rugs covering the wooden floor. A buffet of cold beef, fresh bread, pastries, cheeses, and red apples had been spread
out in a casual feast, and the men picked at the lunch as they talked. They drank mugs of fresh-pressed cider.

Korastine sliced off a chunk of beef, put it on his plate, then used the same knife to cut and core his apple, though he showed
little appetite. “Are you sure the wound isn’t already mortal?”

“We must make the gesture, Majesty,” Baine said. He quoted from the Book of Aiden: “.‘It is better to fix than to break, better
to stitch than to tear, better to caress than to strike, better to build than to knock down.’ We should return to Ishalem,
bring a reconstruction crew of carpenters, stonemasons, farmers. We cannot replace, cannot forget, but we
can
rebuild.”

Anjine’s father looked very tired. “Ishalem will never be the same.”

“No, it will not,” the prester-marshall agreed, showing some of the zeal that had so inspired his followers, “but what we
propose will not only benefit the Aidenists, it will show the Urecari our good intentions. Maybe we can avert a war after
all.”

Since seeing Ishalem on fire, Anjine felt as though a large part of her childhood had gone up in smoke. She had always thought
Tierra would be the same when she was queen as it had been for her father, and for King Kiracle before him, but in a single
year she had seen her mother die, Ishalem burn, and the holy Arkship destroyed. Tierra and Uraba were poised to collide in
a war that might not end until one continent or the other was utterly devastated. Her life was no longer certain, and her
instruction in statecraft was no longer an esoteric exercise.

Prester-Marshall Baine was relaxed next to the old Saedran scholar. The two were obviously friends, not religious rivals;
Aidenists had long ago given up trying to find converts amongst the Saedrans, and the Saedrans themselves never proselytized.

“But
how
can we rebuild Ishalem?” Sen Leo sounded quite pragmatic, as though the decision had already been made. “Ishalem has few
forests. All the trees in the surrounding hills were cut down long ago. Our crew will have to bring everything with them.”
He ticked off a list on his fingers. “Tools, workers, materials, food. We can order a raft of logs straight from Iboria, commission
bricks and rope from Erietta. With ashes, lime, and sand we can make mortar.”

Though Anjine could not forget the images of the city in flames, her imagination gave her other visions: new homes built on
the charred ground, pilings installed in the waters, new docks erected… and a rebuilt primary kirk to take the place of the
one that had burned.

A seemingly small event could have tremendous consequences; a pebble could start an avalanche… a spark could start a fire.
Nothing was certain.