The Key to Creation (25 page)

Burilo’s face was drawn into a sketch of grim lines. “We will rebuild later. The injured are still in dire need of medical attention. We’ll need to provide shelter and supplies to the survivors. After all that is done, we can think about Arikara’s future.” He nodded toward Adreala and her sisters. “Welcome, cousins, but I’m afraid we have little hospitality to offer.”

Conversation swelled among the volunteers who had accompanied the group from Olabar. Before the sight of the ruined city discouraged them, Imir called out in a loud and confident voice, “God challenges us, and we do not turn from a challenge.”

Their response was dutifully determined, though with forced enthusiasm.

He nudged his horse forward. “Come, Burilo, we should let your father know that more help has arrived. Girls, follow me.” They rode toward the shambles on the hill where Soldan Xivir’s palace had stood. Only two of the walls remained now; the rest of the structure had collapsed into a pile of tan bricks, terra-cotta tiles, and splintered timbers. A cluster of temporary tents had been erected in what remained of the courtyard.

When Burilo shouted, the Missinia soldan emerged from the largest tent. Xivir looked drawn and haggard, and beside him came Lithio. The matronly woman saw the former soldan-shah and ran forward, grinning. “My husband, I knew you would come to save us!” She kissed him on the mouth, making Imir feel awkward until she added a typical barbed comment: “Although you should have come sooner. You aren’t the first to arrive, you know.”

“We came as fast as we could, Grandmother Lithio,” Adreala said, swinging down off her horse.

Lithio gasped and released Imir. “You brought our granddaughters into this mess?” She clucked and gave each of the girls a hug.

Imir sighed. There was no pleasing the woman. “Our party left Olabar within days of learning Burilo’s terrible news.” He turned to address Xivir. “We brought carpenters and engineers, diggers and stonemasons, not to mention food, fabric, and tools. And more will come in the next caravan.”

An older, leathery-skinned man clad in gray-brown furs emerged from the tent and squinted into the sunlight. Most of his hair was gone, and large hoop earrings dangled from both ears. He chattered in heavily accented Uraban. “Imir, old friend! I finally came to see your lands, and look what I find.”

Imir sputtered. “Khan Jikaris! When did you arrive? How—”

“We built our own sand coracles.” Jikaris was obviously proud. “I came to visit you, since your merchants did not come to trade this year. Now that you are here, you can help translate.”

“Me? I don’t speak your language well.” Imir watched other Nunghals emerge from the smaller tents, attracted by the commotion. “But I suppose I do well enough to pass along instructions. There’s plenty of work to do.”

The Nunghals had arrived from Desert Harbor only the day before, and after assessing the huge task at hand, Khan Jikaris and his companions offered many interesting ideas. “Your buildings are hard and stiff, so they fall when the ground shakes. You could be more flexible if you moved from place to place and lived in large tents.”

“We don’t have either tents or buildings right now,” Xivir pointed out.

The khan continued, “You must treat your city as a large camp—we show you. Nunghals know how. You forgot how to dig latrines, how to store water, how to bank cookfires in the open, and how to set up a tent against the wind and rain. Let my people remind you.”

The former soldan-shah nodded. “He’s right, Xivir. With so many dead, the rotting corpses will draw flies and may cause sickness.”

“We should let the collapsed buildings become their tombs.” Burilo sounded sad. “The world has already buried them.”

Soldan Xivir drew himself up. “I have no intention of letting Arikara become a cemetery city. We must take the corpses away in carts, and build giant funeral pyres outside the city.”

“Not funeral pyres. We will need the wood for rebuilding,” Imir said. “Better to make mass graves, pile stones atop them.”

The khan added, “Far from the city. As far as possible.” Jikaris fell back into his own language when he didn’t find what he wanted to say, and Imir helped translate.

“The gray fever struck a Nunghal clan gathering seven years ago. Hundreds died. The Nunghal-Su believed the sickness was carried on the buffalo hides the plainsmen brought to trade. The Nunghal-Ari claimed the fever came from the ships, from some foul wind out at sea. Either way, they had to destroy the entire camp. They burned the tents with the bodies inside and moved on.”

Soldan Xivir said, “We’ve got to take care of the living as well as the dead. Many of our storehouses were destroyed in the quake. Granaries collapsed, silos crumbled, casks shattered. The food from the first caravan is nearly gone, and what you brought will not last long with a whole city to feed. I’m afraid my people will be hungry until we get relief from the other soldanates.”

Imir nodded. “Soldan-Shah Omra is gathering supplies as quickly as he can, but it will take some time for them to arrive from all across Uraba. With the defense of Ishalem, the army has already drained the surplus from other soldanates.”

Jikaris hunkered down outside the tent. “Combine your supplies, bake the bread, and cook large pots of stew and soup. Serve everyone. Your people work harder and sleep better if they know their khan takes care of them. And my men will help build large tents. Fortunately, your climate is warm.”

Xivir said, “Yes, my people will feel safer with a roof over their heads.”

The Nunghal khan let out a dark chuckle. “I would not feel safe. Many people just died because roofs fell on their heads. Better to be out in the open.”

Adreala spoke up. “We’re ready to do our part—whatever you need most. I’ll even crawl into the rubble and pull out bodies, if you ask me to.”

Cithara said, “Istala and I would like to help with the injured. Where should we go?”

Soldan Xivir regarded the earnest young girls with consternation. “Our local haulers and the Saedran surgeons have set up a pavilion not far from here, but I’m afraid it’s no place for children.”

“
Arikara
is no place for children right now—or anyone else, for that matter—yet your people have no choice but to be here,” Imir pointed out. “The whole city is in desperate need.”

“Which is why we came all the way from Olabar to help,” Istala said.

Adreala raised her chin. “And if this is no place for children, then it’s time my sisters and I grew up.”

“Shall we share a meal first?” Lithio suggested, apparently anxious to spend time with Imir and her granddaughters.

Imir patted his stomach, which had grown rounded over the years of his retirement. “I can do without a meal or two, if so many people in Arikara are hungry. There is work to do.”

“I’d like to get started now,” Adreala agreed. “I think I should learn how to set up tents and dig latrines.”

“My men are ready,” Khan Jikaris announced. “Nunghals will show you how to run a camp.”

The
Dyscovera

As dawn spread a flush of colors across the weed-choked sea, the living crewmembers of the
Dyscovera
and the shades of drowned loved ones gathered with a somber purpose.

On the shadowy
Luminara
, Captain Shay gave a stern reproach to his spectral companions, and then called across to the
Dyscovera
. “It is dangerous for the living to stay among us. One of your crew is already lost to you, Mr. Vora—how many others might soon be tempted?”

Aboard a two-masted carrack that floated alongside the
Luminara
, Enoch Dey now stood with the revenant of Silam Henner. After being lured overboard into the deadly seaweed, Henner looked disconsolate, forever bound to the ghost ships and separated from the
Dyscovera
.

Criston raised his voice in answer from the bow of his own ship. “We do not belong here. We must continue our voyage. Lead the way.”

The night before, in the watery lantern-light of Captain Shay’s cabin, Criston, his father, and Shay had talked for hours, discussing memories and lost possibilities. At the same time, the ghosts of forlorn seamen had approached the
Dyscovera
, beseeching Tierran crewmembers to jump overboard. The undead sailors were aloof and carefree, no longer bound to the land or their families. Having already paid the price, they had nothing left to fear from the sea…yet their voices were lonely. After seeing the fate of Silam Henner, however, even those tempted by the offer were frightened.

Before Criston left the ghost ship in the dead of night, Captain Shay had warned in a quiet voice, “Leave now, Mr. Vora. Set your sails, hoist anchor, and be under way by the time the sun rises. The longer you stay among us, the more dangerous it will be for you. Once your ship gets trapped, there is nothing even in life or death I can do to help you.”

Cindon Vora was heartbroken. “I want to stay with you, my son, but I can’t accompany the
Dyscovera
, and I don’t want to condemn you to stay with us for eternity.” He embraced Criston. “I wish I could have watched you grow up, worked with you aboard my ship. We could have sailed the uncharted seas together.” He swallowed hard. “But wishes are like whitecaps. They fade quickly and leave nothing behind.”

Criston gave him a bittersweet smile. “I had thirteen years with you, Father. You trained me, and now I am captain of the finest ship in all Tierra. You need have no regrets.”

Before dawn, Criston and Sen Aldo had rowed back to the
Dyscovera
and met with the frightened crew. After they told him about the man lured overboard only to be killed by the seaweed, he felt angry and disappointed. “Prepare to sail,” Criston ordered. “Unless you’d like to stay behind, as Mr. Henner did.”

That was enough to put a chill into them, and the crewmembers went about their tasks, tugging ropes, stretching sails to catch the faint breeze. The
Luminara
would clear a channel through the unnatural seaweed and lead them out of the morass.

As the ships prepared to depart, Captain Shay’s shout could be heard by all the spectral seamen. “The living cannot stay among us. We simply have to wait for their company. If they are true sailors, they will join us here eventually.”

The ghostly
Luminara
moved ahead, her sharp prow cutting through the green strands to open a passage, and the
Dyscovera
threaded the needle behind her. All around them, Criston could smell the fermented stink of rotting vegetation, like the lingering odor of death. Somehow, it did not remind him of the stench of his own town during the annual seaweed die-off.

The
Luminara
guided them out to where the vegetation thinned. At the prow, Captain Shay looked anxious, as if racing to keep the
Dyscovera
safe. When the water finally opened up enough that Criston could turn to port and add more sail, the
Luminara
came about and tied up her sails.

Criston’s father waved from the deck. “May the Compass guide you, son. We are always here. We are part of the sea now.”

Captain Shay whistled. “Safe travels to Terravitae, Mr. Vora—I know you’ll find that land, even though we did not. If you need us, simply call. We are bound to you by magical ties much stronger than sympathetic magic.”

Prester Hannes maintained his stern composure, while other crewmembers wept to leave their loved ones behind. At the stern, Sen Aldo peered down at the
Dyscovera
’s wake, puzzled. “Captain, the seaweed is…twitching.”

Javian and Mia ran to look overboard. The young woman said, “That weed grabbed Silam Henner and dragged him under.”

“Best possible speed,” Criston called with rising concern.

As the
Luminara
rejoined the other ghost ships, the green fronds thrashed with more vigor. The tangled surface undulated, as if something were generating the waves from below. More and more strands of weed lifted into the air, like hair flailing in a violent breeze. Mysterious currents began to draw the
Dyscovera
back toward the seaweed morass.

Criston watched the seaweed clear beneath the water…and saw a huge pale shape just under the surface, so large that his imagination could barely encompass it. As it rose, the underwater blur became an enormous oval that resolved itself into a
face
, a titanic female face far larger than the
Dyscovera
.

The seaweed squirmed and twitched around the ship and Criston realized that the strands were her hair. This gigantic woman had lain submerged, drawing all the ghost ships to her and keeping them there as a strange collection.

As the
Dyscovera
kept sailing, breaking the strands of weedy hair, Criston yelled, “Add all possible sail—stretch every scrap of canvas!” He ordered them to use daggers and swords to cut the strands. The
Dyscovera
strained against the grasping weed, pulling free by the time the giant demon, or goddess, breached the surface. Her head was the size of a small island, and her eyes locked upon them like a cat’s upon its prey.

The crew screamed, and Prester Hannes prayed at the top of his lungs. “In the name of Ondun and Aiden, leave us in peace!”

Rather than rising farther out of the seawater, the titanic woman laughed, a huge sound like rolling thunder. “I am older than your Ondun or his sailor sons. I am patient. I can smell you. I see you. I know you are lifelong sailors. I have other collections of souls, just like these.” She smiled as the
Dyscovera
continued its frantic flight. “Most of you will come back to me, sooner or later. I will wait for you.”

She closed her eyes and lay back, submerging herself again as she continued laughing. She stirred up large waves that struck the
Dyscovera
’s hull, making the ship rock and sway like a dinghy in a rainstorm. The last strands of seaweed released them, and the vessel lurched ahead with new speed.