The Map of All Things (29 page)

69
Ishalem
, Ra'vir Compound

Though he was only eleven years old, Davic had already achieved great things in his life. After living with Prester Ciarlo for months, pretending to be a faithful Aidenist (and loathing every minute of it), he now recognized how clever the Teacher's training had made him. He had never lost sight of the truth. Now, thanks to the boy's information, Kel Unwar was off to capture Prince Tomas—what a devastating blow to the enemy that would be! And
Davic
had made it possible. A true blessing from Urec!

Before setting off in his warships to go after the prince, Unwar had sent Davic to the large new
ra'vir
camp established just south of Ishalem. Accustomed to taking care of himself, the boy needed no escort. He eagerly looked forward to announcing his triumph to the Teacher himself.

When he approached the outskirts of the mock Aidenist town, two horsemen on patrol challenged him. They wore yellow sashes across their chests and bright yellow olbas. Davic held up a sealed letter of verification from the provisional governor. “I am a
ra'vir
returned from my mission. I need to see the Teacher.”

The guards inspected Unwar's letter, conversed with each other, then handed back the document. “Congratulations. The soldan-shah will be proud of what you've done. We will take you to the Teacher now.”

“I'll go there myself, without an escort.” The boy gave them a disarming, waifish grin (something the Teacher had taught him), and it worked as well on these Urecari men as it had on the fools in Windcatch. “Let this be a surprise.”

He bounded into the faux Aidenist town, saw the boys and girls like himself, unremarkable street scamps, all supposedly orphans—and they
were
in fact orphans, because they'd been rescued from 'Hook parents who would have raised them to be damned. Davic knew none of the other children, because all of the
ra'virs
in his training group were already assigned to various Tierran villages, some even to Calay.

Most of the children stolen from Tierran villages did not survive
ra'vir
indoctrination. Any boys or girls who clung to their false beliefs, or who wailed in despair at having lost their former lives, or who refused to accept the Truth of Urec—those were killed, often as practice victims for the other children.
Ra'virs
learned early on never to consider unbelievers as God's children. Only the best candidates—the smartest, the purest—survived their instruction. Oh, some tried to trick the Teacher, secretly keeping their Aidenist beliefs, but the ominous silver-masked figure always found them out.

During his years of indoctrination, Davic had suffered beatings and bruisings, even broken bones, but he had recovered, and the ordeals strengthened him. He had deserved those punishments because he had made mistakes. His errors were not intentional or deceitful, but mistakes were nevertheless a blot in the eyes of Ondun, and the boy had learned never to make them again.

Given his success, Davic was sure the Teacher would dispatch him to Tierra on another assignment, though he longed to stay here in Uraba with people he understood. He wanted to worship freely, wear an unfurling-fern pendant for all to see. He didn't want to have to pretend, but he was a master at it. Ondun would reward him, either in this life or the next.

As he made his way to the Teacher's permanent headquarters tent, he realized for the first time that he
looked forward
to seeing the fearsome figure. Approaching the tent, Davic straightened his clothing, smoothed his hair, adjusted the concealed knife that the Teacher himself had given him on his graduation.
A
ra'vir
must be ready to fight for his faith at any time
.

Preoccupied with his triumphant news and anxious to deliver his surprise, Davic parted the tent flap and bounded inside. “Teacher, I have returned!” He did not try to suppress the excited grin on his face.

The Teacher spun quickly with an indrawn gasp and bark of anger. Davic saw the silver mask lying facedown on a small table, the black cowl slipped down to the shoulders.

Davic stared, paralyzed with shock, then slapped his hands over his eyes—but too late. He recoiled, trying to drive away what he'd just seen. “I'm sorry! I did not mean to look!”

The Teacher snatched up the silver mask, pressed it back into place, adjusted the robes and cowl once more. “You should not have come here.”

Davic kept his eyes averted, his face flushed with shame. “I merely wanted to report to you. Kel Unwar sent me here.” A deep-seated fear bubbled like lava in his stomach: for
this
error, he knew he would suffer far more than a thrashing. “I didn't mean to… I will never reveal what I have seen!”

“
That
much is certain.” Tugging the gloves back on, the Teacher grabbed a long knife from the table and brandished it. “As a
ra'vir
, you know it is vital that secrets be kept.”

“I will keep the secret, Teacher—as I have kept all the others. I swear it on the Golden Fern!”

But the dark form was already moving with deadly swiftness. The long knife sang in a swift arc.

Davic's reflexes kicked in. He had spent years undergoing the Teacher's own training, and he knew how to defend himself. Instinctively, the boy whipped out his own blade and met the Teacher's, edge to edge. They danced, parried. Davic could not read the Teacher's face behind the silver mask, but he
knew
a cauldron of anger must be simmering there.

He had done a terrible thing. He had seen what he should not have seen. He had committed a terrible mistake, and he deserved to be punished. But the Teacher had also trained him to protect himself. Davic ducked and spun nimbly, remembering his incessant training, avoiding the other blade again and again.

The Teacher jabbed, slashed, breathing heavily behind the silver mask. The boy whisked his knife back and forth, keeping his opponent at bay, but afraid to do any real harm. “I'm sorry, Teacher! I am sorry!”

The Teacher's blade came dangerously close to sticking him, but the boy squirmed, ducked backward, then slithered close to the cumbersome dark garments that hindered the Teacher's full range of motion. He spotted an opening and could have slashed his opponent's forearm through the dark sleeve, but instead he retreated to the tent flap, still holding up his blade. “Teacher, believe me! I meant no harm. I came only to deliver vital information—I was excited. I did not mean to intrude.”

Still keeping the dagger raised, the Teacher paused. “What information?”

Anxious to be pardoned, the
ra'vir
boy told his tale in a rush of words. The Teacher listened and nodded. “I am proud of your accomplishments, Davic, and I will speak to Kel Unwar about them myself. Prince Tomas will be a fine prize—if your information is accurate.”

“You'll know the truth of that soon enough. And I… I will tell no one what I have seen.”

“Swear it!” The voice sounded sharper than the honed dagger blade.

“I swear! In the names of Urec and Ondun!”

The Teacher raised the dagger in a silent salute. “Very well, I believe you. You have done a great service for Uraba. I have tested your determination, your faith—and you proved yourself worthy.” Placing the dagger back on the table, the Teacher took a seat, turning the implacable blank mask toward him. “Now go blend in with the
ra'vir
recruits. There is a bunk for you in the third barracks. Rest and recover. Soon, I will find a new mission for you.”

Joyful and relieved, Davic bounded out of the Teacher's tent and went to join his fellow
ra'virs
.

That night in the barracks, gliding through the shadows, the Teacher moved along the line of beds, inspecting the faces of the Tierran children. So innocent looking, yet so deadly. Because the young ones worked so hard on their training and believed in their mission, the
ra'vir
trainees slept well.

Content to be back in Urecari lands, Davic sprawled on his pallet, face turned up, mouth slightly open; periodically, he let out a faint snore. Looming over the narrow bed, the Teacher regarded him for a long moment, then extended a gloved hand to pour a small pile of white powder onto the open palm. Moving with utter silence, the Teacher lifted the silver mask, held the powder close to Davic's face, and blew sharply. The powder clouded around the sleeping boy's head. Automatically, Davic inhaled, snorted, and began to cough.

The Teacher straightened once more and replaced the mask as the boy's gasps and struggles awakened other
ra'vir
children, who were startled to see the dark figure in their barracks. Davic jerked and convulsed. After several long choking gasps, his eyes bulged, and he stared up at the featureless silver mask. He clawed at his eyes, his throat… unable to believe what was happening—and then slumped back. His last breath came out in a long, wet rattle. Davic twitched a few more times before he lay still.

All the other children had awakened and now stared in awe and fear. Masked in shadows, the Teacher did not speak until Davic had fallen silent in death. “His faith was insufficient.”

The dark figure turned and stalked out of the barracks, leaving the dead boy in his bunk, and the
ra'vir
children stared after the receding form.

70
Calay, Main Aidenist Kirk

The preparations for Mateo's wedding day were more complex and grandiose than the plans for a large battle. Once Queen Anjine assigned her protocol ministers to the job, Mateo found the decisions taken entirely out of his hands. Vicka Sonnen didn't know what had happened either; she'd been surprised when he asked her to marry him in the first place, but she never imagined the uncontrolled hurricane that the wedding ceremony would become.

“It does us no good to fight against the queen's commands,” he told her, good-humored and resigned. He found it odd that Anjine talked very little about her own wedding; she seemed more interested in his.

Vicka's father was delighted, though a bit confused, when she told him about the impending nuptials. For months, he had remained oblivious to the attraction between the two, never imagining Mateo's true reasons for his frequent visits. Ammur Sonnen was a man who took things at face value. Now the blacksmith didn't understand the need for such complex wedding preparations, or for the tailors who continually drew him away from his forge so he could be measured for garments that befitted the father of the bride. Ammur was distressed that his output of swords and armor decreased noticeably.

Prester-Marshall Rudio consulted with Mateo and Vicka in his high-ceilinged offices inside the main kirk. In his service to the queen, Mateo had already met the old religious leader several times, but Vicka was so in awe of Rudio that she could barely stammer a few words in the man's presence. Mateo teased her as they walked out of the kirk offices. “I've never seen you speechless in front of someone.”

She just looked at him with her large brown eyes. “Pinch me, so that I can be sure this is all real.”

“There'll be time enough to pinch you later. For the time being, we have to maintain a certain sense of propriety.”

When the day finally came for the service, Mateo looked dashing in his military dress uniform, complete with his high rank insignia as well as marks from the Tierran navy. He and Vicka had rehearsed the ceremony with other presters, who guided them through the motions, preparing them for what Prester-Marshall Rudio would do. Mateo felt like a game piece being moved around a game board, but when he looked at Vicka and saw how happy she was, he had no regrets at all.

Now in the giant, crowded kirk, he walked forward, accompanied by Marshall Vorannen of the city guard, who stood up for him. As the successor to Mateo's father in the royal guard, Obertas would have been a more appropriate choice to stand beside the groom, but Prince Tomas and the royal cog had not yet returned from their procession along the coast.

With appropriate fanfare, Mateo stood at the center of attention near the great altar, where the shining half-horn of the ice dragon rested in its cradle. Among the audience in the kirk, he recognized the grinning faces of friends and comrades, ship captains, army commanders. He felt swept away by the day.

Before the ceremony started, Queen Anjine entered with her retinue of handmaidens and retainers. She was dressed in her finest gown, her golden-brown hair piled up beneath a jeweled tiara. Anjine wore an expression of complete joy. Just looking at her gave Mateo a pang; he had never realized how stunning she was. She smiled at him with more friendship than formality as she took her seat in the reserved front row on his side of the kirk.

However, from the moment Vicka glided forward in a shower of white lace, with tiny white flowers adorning her hair, Mateo could see her and only her. Wearing a gold necklace and earrings that sparkled with jewels, she walked with one hand on her father's muscular arm, the other carrying a glad spray of sweet-smelling blossoms.

Before he realized it, she was next to him, her gaze riveted to his. She whispered, “I didn't know you could be so dashing. Are you sure you're the man I agreed to marry?”

“Are you sure you're the woman I proposed to? You're so beautiful, you take my breath away!” They seemed tied together, like a ship bound to a dock. The two faced each other in front of the altar, and the prester-marshall pointedly cleared his throat to see if they were done chatting. Vicka blushed.

The audience fell silent as the old man read a long passage from the Book of Aiden. Other town presters had better speaking voices, but Rudio was the head of the Aidenist church. Mateo stole a nervous glance backward at Anjine, feeling strangely embarrassed. He wondered how he was going to feel several months hence, when it was his turn to sit dutifully in the kirk while Anjine took wedding vows with Jenirod.

Then he returned his attention to Vicka, scolding himself. He loved Vicka; he loved everything about her. She was beautiful, smart, independent, not at all shy, and ready to be his equal. She was almost everything he wanted… and she could do nothing to alleviate her lone failing, that she was
not
Anjine.

Prester-Marshall Rudio prayed, blessed the couple, then began a long, rambling sermon that drew parallels between the tale of Sapier and the fishhook, and how love could bind hearts together.

As the church leader continued to talk, a man entered the back of the kirk, dressed in a courier's uniform. Keeping to the side of the main chamber, he did his best to be unobtrusive, darting to the front benches, where he knelt next to the queen. Despite his attempts to be quiet, all eyes turned to the man. Rudio droned on without interruption. When the courier whispered to Anjine, her face darkened. She rose, as did her retinue, quietly filing to the side and exiting with as little fuss as possible.

On the dais next to Mateo, Marshall Vorannen tensed, obviously wanting to hear the news, but Prester-Marshall Rudio didn't seem to notice. Vicka squeezed Mateo's hand tightly, and his heart sank as he saw Anjine go. Rudio caught their attention again and handed each a large symbolic fishhook, plated with gold, four inches long. “With these, you join yourselves together.”

Vicka and Mateo linked the hooks and pulled them tight. The action forced them to face each other once more, and when he saw his bride again, his concerns faded away.
His wife
. Then the word was given, and he found himself leaning forward to kiss her. Ignoring all politics and other concerns, Mateo simply let himself be swept along with the celebrations.