The Key to Creation (43 page)

But before he could dare think they might be safe, he saw something as ominous as the Leviathan—the dark ship of Iyomelka, bearing down on them.

The
Al-Orizin

The
Al-Orizin
’s silk mainsail was torn and tattered, despite Ystya’s best efforts to protect the ship from winds, waves, and lightning. As the young woman struggled to unleash and control her magic, the storms returned. A jagged bolt shattered the foremast, hurling splinters in all directions. The deck rocked and heaved from the huge swells that Iyomelka threw at them.

Saan shouted orders to steer clear of the hazardous reefs. Rogue waves hammered the ship, spinning the
Al-Orizin
until Saan couldn’t even tell which direction they were heading. At least three of his crew were swept overboard.

Iyomelka’s ship continued to close on them. “She wants to drive us onto the rocks by the lighthouse,” Saan called.

Her skin aglow from within, Ystya continued to exert her powers, calling up winds, so that the hull of the
Al-Orizin
screamed with the strain of being pulled in different directions at once. She wavered on her feet. “I’ve never fought like this before.”

Saan saw no way they could outrun Iyomelka in the storm, but even as he refused to give up, flashes of lightning illuminated another ship halfway to the horizon—a large sailing vessel of Tierran design.

Before he could comprehend what he was seeing, many more vessels crowded the waters—a shadowy fleet that appeared from nowhere, as if summoned from the depths.

The mysterious lighthouse beacon cut through the storm, calling them. Saan didn’t understand how a lighthouse could be so far out here, nor did he know what these other ships were. Most of all, he could not comprehend the horrific monster that suddenly careened through the water toward them. Maddened with pain, thrashing as it fled from the spectral ships, this beast made even the Kraken seem a mere annoyance by comparison.

The ghost ships hounded the monster, and haunted men crowded their decks, hurling countless spears and harpoons. Unable to see where it was going, the wounded monster plunged directly toward the
Al-Orizin
.

Ystya cried out with genuine fear, “It is the Leviathan!”

“Pull your sails! Turn the rudder—hard to port!” Though he saw a line of foaming water that warned of nearby reefs, Saan had to evade the chaos coming toward them. The deck tilted as the helmsman pulled the ship hard over.

The Leviathan’s eye was a horror of mangled jelly and film. Somehow, it was drawn not to the
Al-Orizin
, but toward Iyomelka’s ship. Though the island witch screamed from the deck of her vessel, Saan saw that they would all collide in moments.

“I think the Leviathan knows my mother.” Ystya drew a quick breath. “She is the wife of Ondun—who denied the Leviathan its mate. It wants revenge.”

“As long as it keeps her away from us,” Saan said. “But I don’t know how much longer this ship will hold together.”

Aboard her resurrected ship, Iyomelka splayed her fingers into claws as she drew upon her power to call down the lightning. Jagged bolts scored long black marks on the Leviathan’s body, but instead of being driven away the creature merely roared and spasmed in pain. Seeing the danger, the island witch turned her ship to point the sharp antler-coral spar toward the sea creature in hopes that the blinded beast might impale itself.

But the ghost ships surrounded the monster now, and another dark vessel rammed it. Fighting for its life, the Leviathan crashed forward into Iyomelka’s ship. The coral spar tore a long wet wound in its side before the spike snapped. One sharp prong dug into the monster’s gill slits and forced them open.

Saan tried to sail the
Al-Orizin
away from the battle, but his ship was swamped, barely afloat and taking on water. They were trapped and forced to watch as the storm drove them farther away. Saan held Ystya, who was transfixed with terror by what was happening to her mother. Despite the dangers they had faced and the harm Iyomelka had wrought, the woman was still her mother—and the Leviathan was intent on killing her.

The creature hurled itself at Iyomelka’s ship. She called down more lightning, wringing it out of the clouds, but the sea monster seemed not to feel the pain. The Leviathan rammed her ship, shattering the coral and barnacles that held the rotted hull boards together.

Even Iyomelka’s wrath could not match the monster’s. Though the beast’s central eye was blinded, its numerous tentacle heads could see or sense their surroundings. A writhing knot of fang-tipped tentacles lashed out at Iyomelka where she stood on the deck. She flailed her hands and called spells to drive them away, but tentacles grabbed her with fluid movements, sinking sharp fangs into her arms, her legs. They wrapped around the witch’s waist and lifted her into the air. The storm continued to rage while Iyomelka fought for her life, but this was the Leviathan’s storm, not hers.

The tentacles drew back and whipped forward to skewer Iyomelka on one of the sharp-ended spars of her mainmast. The long wooden spear protruded from her chest, and she dangled grotesquely, impaled and twitching, before she went still.

With a mighty heave, the Leviathan surged onto the deck of her dark ship, tearing down the masts, shattering the hull, and pulling the pieces into the water. The sea-serpent skull mounted to the prow broke loose and drifted away. Iyomelka’s rotted ship sank quickly, leaving a field of debris and foam on the stormy waters.

Though it had killed Iyomelka, the monster was also grievously wounded, its single eye destroyed, its gills mangled by the sharp prongs of antler coral, its body abristle with harpoons and spears from the ghost ships.

The Leviathan let out a subsonic cry of pain and despair, reminding Saan of a dying shark caught in a fisherman’s net. Ystya clung to him, sobbing.

Studded with spears, the monster’s great bulk rolled. Its huge open maw filled with water. The gill slits stopped flapping and hung lax. The Leviathan floated belly up amid the wreckage of Iyomelka’s ship, leaking blood and slime in a wide, foul-smelling stain.

On the deck of the
Al-Orizin
, Ystya shook, while Saan just stared. His sailors were cheering or weeping. Sikara Fyiri staggered forward, and Saan expected the priestess to hurl curses at the Leviathan. Instead, she doubled over and vomited onto the deck.

The greatest monster of the sea was dead.

Tierran Military Camp,
Ishalem Wall

For much of the next week, Anjine remained in the Saedran medical tent, praying at Mateo’s side. He hovered between life and death, his skin chalky, his respiration fluttery and weak. Field commanders came to deliver their reports to her, and she forced herself to listen, despite her preoccupation; the main attack would begin in less than two weeks.

The intermittent bouts of nausea from her pregnancy often grew severe enough that she vomited into a basin. Sometimes she gave the excuse that the blood and stench made her queasy, or she mentioned a slight fever she had picked up from the rugged conditions in the camp. Observers construed her illness as signs of grief and worry.

Surrounded by patients, the other Saedran physicians had more serious concerns, but they were not fools, and she was sure that the truth would eventually dawn on them. She couldn’t believe soldiers hadn’t already started rumors…or maybe they had.

Sen Ola offered strong herbal remedies from her pharmacopeia and urged Anjine to retire to her tent and rest, but the queen refused to leave Mateo’s side. Her symptoms seemed to be getting worse day by day, and she knew the difficulties were just beginning.

Subcomdar Hist presented his cool summary to her, standing at Mateo’s bedside. “Majesty, of the seventy-five soldiers who rode out to strike the Ishalem wall, twenty-one were killed in the raid. Another sixteen were wounded but made it back to camp. Three of those later died.”

Around them the physicians continued to change dressings, feed broth to the wounded, bathe feverish foreheads with cool cloths. “And all to what purpose, Mateo?” She stared down at him and whispered, “You didn’t need to do this for me.”

The subcomdar cleared his throat delicately. “Also, the Urabans have sent scouts in increasing numbers, and several have clashed with our soldiers. The raid on the wall threw them into turmoil.”

“Why? Did our men kill an inordinate number of the enemy?”

“Possibly, but it’s more likely the Curlies are baffled and suspect there was more to our plan. They don’t know what we intended to accomplish.”

Anjine inhaled deeply. “
I
don’t know what they intended to accomplish. Increase the catapult bombardment on the wall, keep them busy. Unfortunately, the enemy is now alerted.”

Hist heaved a sigh, but his anger was clear. “Destrar Shenro is uninjured, Majesty. In fact, he seems rather embarrassed that he returned home without a scratch. Would you like me to send for him?”

“Yes, send him to me,” Anjine said fiercely. “Let him explain himself to his queen.” She would find it easy to blame the Alamont destrar for Mateo’s injury, make him responsible for her own pain right now…but she knew she was as much at fault as he. Her reluctance to admit the truth had driven Mateo to such a desperate, foolish act.

“I will take care of it, my Queen.” Hist bowed briefly and left.

Anjine could not defend Mateo or his ill-advised raid, but Hist’s words brought her back to a reality that she needed to hear. As queen of Tierra, her absolute priority was to win this war, to defeat the followers of Urec and drive them from the holy city. She had to punish them in the name of Ondun, break the back of their army, defeat them so utterly that her own people would be safe from their attacks. She had gambled everything on this.

Anjine realized that she could no longer afford to expend all of her time and emotions on Mateo. He would live or he would die. Her frailties as a woman, as a
human
, were subordinate to her duty as a ruler. She had to be the queen of Tierra now, with no other distractions. There would be time enough for love later—
if
she succeeded here. Everything came down to the next few weeks.

Destrar Shenro appeared before her, stepping gingerly into the medical tent. He wore leather breeches and a clean linen shirt; his brown hair was disheveled, and he kept his gaze down. Unlike all the other soldiers in the tent, Shenro had no wound dressings, no bruises, no scrapes. “You called for me, my Queen?”

She stiffened and held his gaze without speaking a word for a long moment, as if he were a fish caught on a hook. He squirmed, but remained at attention. “I see you are well, Destrar. Unfortunately, many of your soldiers are not. Subcomdar Bornan is not. They were injured or killed because of your impetuous action!” Her voice rose at the end.

When she paused to take a breath, he said, “I offer my apologies, Majesty—but only an apology for our failure to capture the soldan-shah. If we had seized him as planned, we would have ended the war without further bloodshed. I told no one of our plans because I am convinced that many
ra’virs
still hide among our soldiers, and I didn’t want to give them the chance to betray us.”

He looked down at Mateo. “I am sorry for those injuries, truly I am. But I’m not sorry for wanting to kill the Curlies. All of the men wounded or killed during that raid were soldiers loyal to Aiden. They fought the enemy, and took down as many as they could.” He sniffed. “You can blame me for brash planning, Majesty, but
Urecari
blades caused those cuts,
Urecari
arrows made those wounds, and
Urecari
fighters tried to kill us.” He blinked at her, his eyes blazing. “I know that you haven’t forgotten who our real enemy is, and I—along with all your loyal subjects—will fight them until our dying breath.”

“But at what cost?” she said in a whisper. “Until we are all dead?”

“Or until we are victorious. If we don’t win this battle, maybe we’ll win the next one. Or the next. It may take a year, ten years, a hundred! But we will not back down.”

Anjine felt deflated rather than galvanized by his anger. “Leave me,” she said, and Shenro turned smartly and left the tent. She did not get up.

Her thoughts seemed to be on fire. Her responses were volatile, and her decisions were no longer so clear to her. A baby grew inside her, an unexpected complication to Tierra’s plans, a trick that love had played on her. She could never be a mere woman with a happy life—Anjine had to be mother to all of Tierra, not to one child. The queen could not be seen as weak, not now. The soldan-shah and his armies would laugh if an enormously pregnant woman challenged them on the battlefield.

King Korastine had left too much weight on his daughter’s shoulders, and she had been asked to be many things. Back in Calay, in a time of relative peace, her mother had numerous nursemaids, teachers, and castle staff to help her raise Anjine, only one child. How could Anjine do that herself in a rugged military camp? What if this war lasted another twenty years? She could not be a nurturing mother; all she wanted was to slaughter the enemy. If Mateo recovered, she could not make him a babysitter while she sat on the throne. And if he should die…

No. This was the worst possible time for the queen of Tierra to have a child—especially an illegitimate one. She must not even consider it. Anjine couldn’t afford to be sick, or distracted, or weak. Tierra itself was at stake. She had to make her decision—and quickly, before anyone else knew. Every day of delay only posed an increased risk to her own health.

Anjine summoned Sen Ola na-Ten and told the doctor to meet her in the royal tent.

The Saedran physician was a long time coming, and Anjine knotted her hands together. Her anxiety had nothing to do with the nausea of her pregnancy. When the gruff old woman finally entered her tent, her expression told Anjine that Sen Ola already knew what she would ask.