The Key to Creation (15 page)

Isolated for centuries or millennia (she didn’t even know which), they had lived as a contented family. Together, Ondun and Iyomelka always remained young, and Ystya never grew beyond a child. That had worked for a long, long time, but nothing—even love—could last as long as eternity.

Oh, Iyomelka had had plenty of time to regret her actions. It had been unwise for her to drown him. With Ondun gone, the island’s spring dried up, and she and the girl began to age. Although Captain Saan and his men had indeed restored the flow of water and retrieved Ondun’s preserved body, she could never be grateful to the
Al-Orizin
sailors.

Only if she retrieved her daughter, reunited her family, returned to the isolated island, and recreated their idyllic times would the fabric of destiny be repaired. Iyomelka could not ignore the romantic sop and his infatuation with the girl he did not understand at all. Captain Saan had to be punished, crushed, and brushed away like an annoying gnat.…

As the spectral ship sliced through the water, Iyomelka pressed herself against Ondun’s coffin and stared down at his waxen face. In the faint reflection, she caught a glimpse of her own features, the years sloughed away, her vibrant youth restored from the old crone she had been. It reminded her of when her race on Terravitae had been so much stronger.…

“I will call upon all of my magic, my love—but you must help me. We need to stop that other ship.”

Closing her eyes as tightly as she could, squeezing her thoughts into a loud summons, Iyomelka penetrated the cold dark waters and awakened things that had been asleep for eons.

She called the Kraken from the depths and sent it after the
Al-Orizin
.

Olabar Palace

Before the soldan-shah and the new ur-sikara departed for Ishalem, Omra agreed to consult with a driftwood reader. It was Naori’s idea, and he knew it would make her happy.

Talented driftwood readers were well respected among the coastal folk, and this one came with impressive credentials and testimonials. Naori had met with the woman in her small harborside shack and been so impressed by the poignant observations and insightful advice that she begged Omra to let Aizara do a reading for him. Because he adored Naori, he agreed; his second wife asked for very little.

At the appointed hour, Imir joined him, casually taking a cushion beside his son on the raised dais. The former soldan-shah was curious, but brought a healthy dose of skepticism as well. “I had a driftwood reading done when I was a brash and confident young man, when I was sure I could change the world.” Imir’s expression grew distant. “I insisted that I would never make the same mistakes my father did…then I learned that
he
had said the same thing about
his
father.” He looked at Omra with an amused expression. “And no doubt you’ve made similar promises about following in my footsteps.”

Sidestepping the comment, Omra said, “And what did the driftwood reader foretell of your future?”

“She made cryptic pronouncements that I considered unlikely at the time, but eventually they came true, much to my astonishment. After certain things happened, I would recall her prophecies, and I was absolutely convinced she had true magic.” He blew out a long sigh. “Later, though, I realized that her words could be taken in many different ways, and because I was
looking
for a prophecy, I found it. I doubt she was endowed with special powers, but I do think she was a skilled manipulator.”

Omra stroked his narrow beard. “Well, Naori was quite impressed with this driftwood reader, so I am honor-bound to hear what the woman has to say.”

“I’m sure she’ll say very important things, my son…though they may come from shrewd observation rather than magic.”

Kel Rovik opened the doors to the audience chamber and presented the shaman. “Aizara from Kiesh.” The guard captain made a brief bow and ushered the woman inside.

The driftwood reader did not wait for Omra to acknowledge her. “Not Kiesh exactly, Soldan-Shah. I was born in a tiny village in the sandy lands to the east of Kiesh, but my village has no name, and your guard seemed to want one.”

Aizara’s joints creaked as she moved. Her skin was whorled with wrinkles like the grain on a piece of wood. She was dark from years of exposure to the sun, and her brown hair was streaked with gray and tied back in a tight braid so that it looked like a knotted branch. Her skirt, blouse, and shawl were a ragged, fuzzy brown as if spun from frayed bark fibers.

“The name of your village doesn’t matter to me,” Omra said equably. “You are here to give me your driftwood predictions.”

She kept her eyes averted out of respect, but when she came close enough, Aizara lifted her head. Her irises were an eerie hazel. “You have chosen a piece of driftwood, Soldan-Shah?”

“I selected one from the market stalls.” From the cushion beside him, Omra lifted a gnarled branch that had been tortured into a whirlpool of wood.

Aizara reached out with her long-fingered hands. “I must feel it, touch it.”

Next to him, Imir let out a quiet snort of amusement.

The driftwood reader explained the pattern of life and time woven into all things. “Ondun laid down His sketches of destiny in everything that lives. In trees, one can see the lines and paths clearly, depending on how the wood is cut. Driftwood is a special case—produced by a living tree with its own grains and designs, and then shaped by the forces of wind, weather, sea, and time.” She stroked the smooth surface. “A piece of driftwood crystallizes destiny, keyed to the person who finds it.” Aizara looked at him sharply. “You chose this piece yourself? You didn’t have one of your men buy it?”

“It was my choice. The vendor had a great many of them, but this particular piece seemed the most interesting.”

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye—Naori watching from a curtained passage. She saw him looking at her and smiled.

Aizara cradled the driftwood he had given her, then closed her eyes and pressed the gnarled lump against her chest, folding her arms around it. She inhaled deeply, pressing her nose to the wood, breathing in the lingering iodine of seaweed, the dry dust of long exposure to the sun. She ran her fingertips along the thin cracks that split the surface. She touched the contorted branches and dug her nails into the wood so they left deep impressions.

Her hazel eyes flew open. “This is grave indeed, my Lord! The patterns are dire. The grain, the confluence of knots and branches…oh, this is very serious.” Her arms trembled. She looked as though she wanted to drop the driftwood, but she didn’t dare.

From the curtained alcove, Omra heard Naori draw in a sharp breath.

“Very serious? In what way?” He remembered what his father had said. “Please be specific. With the constant war against the Aidenists, it doesn’t take a talented prophet to predict that hard times lie ahead.”

“I mean the end of all things. Perhaps the destruction of the world, the loss of Uraba, and Tierra as well—everyone.”

Omra sat back, glancing at his father. “I thought you said she was going to tell me what I
wanted
to hear.”

“I doubt she gets much repeat business,” Imir mused.

Aizara seemed angry. “This is not a trick, Soldan-Shah! I have never been so frightened.” She held up the chunk of driftwood. “This speaks volumes for anyone who knows how to read it. The fate of the world hangs in the balance. Your actions have the gravest consequences. I promise you, great destruction will be upon us.”

Incensed now, Omra leaned forward. “Did you come here with this act to frighten me?”

“I came to prepare you. And now, it seems, to warn you.”

Imir just chuckled. “She does have an interesting manner. You should reward her for her bravery, if nothing else.”

Kel Rovik shouted for the soldan-shah as he rushed a dusty man into the audience chamber. Pulling ahead of the guard, the newcomer gasped, “Cousin, I rode as fast as I could. It’s a disaster!” Omra was shocked to recognize Burilo, the son of the Missinian soldan. “I rode across the land to get here! Arikara, my father’s city, all the homes, the merchants—everything is laid waste by an earthquake! My father’s palace collapsed.”

Imir scrambled to his feet. “Is Lithio all right?”

“She is alive, but our homes are ruined, countless thousands are injured or killed. Please help us, Soldan-Shah! This is the worst catastrophe ever to happen in Missinia.”

In front of the dais, Aizara dropped the driftwood to the tiled floor. “I am very sorry, Soldan-Shah. Please believe me—I did not wish to be right.”

Calay Harbor

The riverboat pulled into the shallow eastern bay of Calay harbor, the deck crowded with waving and shouting men, some of them grinning, some weeping, some just staring in disbelief. The whole city celebrated the return of the Tierran refugees from Gremurr.

Queen Anjine had issued instructions that Jenirod’s list of surviving prisoners be copied, then she commissioned Saedran printing presses to spread the list across Calay and dispatched messengers up and down the coast and across the reaches of Tierra. Joyful families began to gather in the harbor districts, waiting day by day for the freed slaves to arrive. They tied welcoming banners on poles. Now, as Destrar Sazar guided the flatboat to the cargo docks, curious spectators hurried to catch the ropes and lay down gangways.

By now, the Gremurr captives were well fed and rested, clad in garments given to them in Stoneholm or from the river clans. Men, women, and children pushed forward, calling out the names of loved ones. Merchants brought out food; tavern owners shared wine and ale. People in the crowd embraced the refugees, whether they knew one another or not.

The number of hopeful families was far greater than returning refugees, however. Even when they did not see the names of lost loved ones on the printed lists, still they clung to hope. Yes, some of the freed prisoners had stayed behind in Gremurr and would return later, but many families would feel the pain of disappointment.…

* * * 

When Vorannen informed Queen Anjine, she threw on her ermine-lined royal cape, grabbed her ceremonial crown, and accompanied the guard-marshall down to the docks with more speed than decorum. Word spread quickly, and people flocked in from the city’s districts to welcome the crowd of refugees. All work in the harbor had stopped for the day.

When the crowd noticed the queen’s arrival, a spontaneous cheer erupted. Anjine shaded her eyes, searching the excited faces for the one she wanted to see more than any other. Despite the joyful celebration, she had a heavy heart because of her obligation—not as queen, but as friend—to tell Mateo. But she did not see him.

The buzz of conversation grew louder, and the people pressed around her. Vorannen leaned close and whispered, “They want you to address them, Majesty.”

Caught in her role, Anjine tore her eyes away from her search, duty-bound to lead and inspire her people. “Yes, Guard-Marshall. I’ll speak.”

Vorannen clapped his hands for silence. The crowd quieted, except for a sporadic patter of conversation and laughter, like the last raindrops at the end of a downpour. Anjine drew herself erect and fashioned a smile, accepting their hopeful expressions, their relief. She was their queen, and they needed her too.

The words came naturally to her. “With indescribable joy I welcome you back to Tierra, back into the arms of Aiden. I’ll assign my staff to take your names and help reunite you with your families. For those of you from other reaches, from any other town across Tierra, I will grant you passage home, where you belong. Presters will be available to say prayers for you.”

Anjine swept her gaze over the crowd. The truth was hard, but necessary. “Some of you, sadly, will not find your missing fathers, husbands, brothers, or sons—at least not today. Some freed prisoners stayed behind at the Gremurr mines—those who could not make the journey before winter, or those who chose to stay and fight. Even so, many of our lost loved ones will never return.”

Anjine’s voice grew harder. “For too long the enemies of Aiden have enslaved or murdered loyal Tierrans. Let your grief become a weapon, your anger a shield! These returning prisoners are a sign from Ondun that we must continue the fight. We will crush the enemy and take back Ishalem.”

She let the deafening cheer flow over her, but she was anxious to be finished. She still needed to find Mateo. With a final wave, she let them go back to their celebrations. Then she hurried across the pier to the riverboat, where bearded Sazar remained on the barge, ushering stragglers off the deck; the river clansmen were anxious to gather new goods and get back to the business of hauling freight up and down the riverways.

The burly man was pleased to greet her. “Majesty, this is likely the most satisfying cargo I have ever delivered, but all is not happiness. We’ve compiled another list, as painstaking as possible.” He handed her a long roll of paper. “During the voyage, I had a Saedran clerk talk with the refugees, gathering as much information as possible about their fellow slaves who died over the years. Some of the names are sketchy, but they may help families to have answers.”

Anjine took the roll, nodding absently, and interrupted him with urgency. “And Mateo—Subcomdar Bornan? I have a very important message for him. I understood that he was with you escorting the refugees.”

Sazar’s bushy brows curled like a pair of startled caterpillars. “Oh, he didn’t want to stay for ceremonies, Majesty. As soon as we tied up at the docks, he was the first one ashore, heading for the Metalworkers’ District. What a smile on his face! I’ve never seen a man so anxious to see his wife.”

Anjine needed all of her strength to remain standing. She was too late.

As he hurried through the streets of Calay, Mateo was shocked to see how much damage the hurricane had done. Stacks of raw lumber were piled in the streets; many homes were partially rebuilt, while other cottages and shops had been abandoned and knocked down. He hoped Ammur Sonnen’s smithies and forges had not suffered such damage.