The Key to Creation (50 page)

He heard a commotion rippling from the rearmost ironclads, and sailors relayed a message by shouting along the line. Broeck went to the stern of the
Wilka
and saw Iaros waving from the bow of his ship. “Destrar! They’re blocking us off!”

Ahead of him, Uraban men in rowboats left stubby piers and pulled across the waterway to cut in front of the
Wilka
—towing a line of kegs chained together, like floats to hold up a fishing net. Some kind of barrier?

Broeck chuckled, knowing his ships could cruise right over the top of the obstruction. Then he realized what the kegs must contain. “Archers! Stop those rowers at all costs!”

Without asking the reason for the destrar’s sudden alarm, his sailors shot volley after volley of arrows. They killed the man in the first rowboat, but the Urabans were laying down three lines of casks, and the third one was farthest away and hardest to hit. When the first rowboat failed to draw its line across the canal, two more Uraban men dove into the water from shore, recklessly swam out to the boat, climbed aboard, and finished rowing to the opposite pier. The chained barrels now connected one side of the waterway to the other.

“Strike down our sails!” Broeck shouted. “Drop anchor before we ride up on those kegs. It’s firepowder!” The crew scrambled to furl the sails, and chains rattled as anchors plunged to the bottom of the shallow canal. The
Raathgir
stopped so abruptly that the following ironclad rammed her stern.

Broeck scrambled up the
Wilka
’s mainmast so he could look down the line of his armored warships. Chains of firepowder kegs lay both before and behind them. His fleet was neatly bottled up in the middle of the enemy city.

The
Dyscovera

Next morning, setting their makeshift sails and raising the anchors, the lumbering vessels drifted toward the mysterious coastline with the mer-Saedrans swimming ahead in the turbulent waves. A low fog rolled in, softening the sharp edges of the shore, but the coast looked rocky and bleak, with high cliffs that offered no place to land—a far cry from the lush paradise they had hoped for.

“A continent is a large place,” Criston said, as if by way of apology. “And we’ll have much to explore.”

Closer to the rugged shore, Criston was stunned by what he saw: cast high on the rocks was the skeletal wreck of an enormous ship. Its keel and ribs, toppled mast, and few intact hull boards reminded him very much of another wreck that had rested on a hill in Ishalem. An Arkship.

Sikara Fyiri’s cry was as sharp as a scimitar. “It must be Aiden’s ship, which he sailed home after leaving Urec’s vessel in Ishalem.”

“
Aiden’s
vessel was the one in Ishalem,” Hannes snapped. “I was in Ishalem. I made the pilgrimage. I lived there for years. I—”

The sikara chuckled. “Delusions do not become true just because you speak them loudly.
Aiden
is the one who turned and ran home, while Urec remained.”

“You have no proof of that.”

“Of course I have proof,” Fyiri said sweetly. “Urec stayed behind, because Urec is the Traveler. His tales and adventures are part of our history.”

“Aiden is the Traveler,” Hannes said with exasperated patience. “Not Urec.”

Criston and his son consulted each other about the wreck, both longing to see it close up. But frothing waters curled around the cliffs, and jagged teeth of rock protruded from underwater outcroppings. “We can barely maneuver our ships as it is,” Saan said. “I don’t think we should go closer.”

Kjelnar warned, “This is not a good landfall, Captain. Dangerous and not worth the risk.”

Criston knew the shipwright was correct. “If even Kjelnar is uneasy, then I don’t dare take the
Dyscovera
close to that shore. We’d be dashed upon the rocks. We’ll have to find a safe landing and come back overland.”

King Sonhir had emerged from the choppy waters and climbed up onto the deck. He looked at the weathered skeleton of the intriguing ship with a smile. “We have something far more compelling to show you farther down the coast—we can be there tomorrow. I promise, it will change your entire understanding of the world.”

With the guidance of the mer-Saedrans, the two ships made excellent progress down the Terravitae coast in search of a safe landing, dodging treacherous rocks and foamy whirlpools. They dropped anchor at a safe distance from a bulwark of stone dotted with patches of moss and weeds, where seabirds flitted about the cliffs. Criston could see several prominent caves at the waterline, like secret tunnels leading into the heart of the continent.

As evening fell, Kjelnar trod water at the bow of the
Dyscovera
, undeterred by the cold sea. “This is as close as these big ships can go, Captain Vora! Drop anchor, and tomorrow we’ll lead the small boats from here.” He tossed his long, reddish-gold hair out of his face. “Believe me, there’s something in those grottoes you’ll all want to see.”

Chains rattled, and the heavy anchors dropped into the water, catching on the rocky sea floor.

Terravitae.

In his private cabin Hannes lit two large candles for reading, knowing he wouldn’t sleep this night. He could smell and taste the majestic new land just off the
Dyscovera
’s bow. Tomorrow, he would set foot on sacred Terravitae.

Inflamed with passion, he hunched over the Book of Aiden. He sharpened his pen’s writing tip with his dagger and scribbled copious notes in the margins of Urec’s blasphemous Log, cross-referencing verses from the Book of Aiden that refuted the lies in the rival text. Even if he showed all this to Fyiri, of course it would do no good. Fuming at the thought of her stubbornness, he jabbed the dagger point down into the wooden top of his writing desk.

It was the dead of night, still four hours until dawn, when Hannes’s cabin door creaked open. Indignant at the intrusion, he turned to see Fyiri standing there in her red robes, a demon come to haunt his dreams. He rose from his writing chair, ready to cast her out like an impure thought, but she smiled and held up her hand. “Prester, you and I need to talk before tomorrow.”

“I’ve talked a great deal with you already, Sikara, but you refuse to listen.”

Impatient with him, she stepped inside and closed the cabin door behind her without a sound. “Nevertheless, a new time is upon us. Once we stand on Terravitae, there will no longer be any doubt.”

“I have never had doubts.”

Fyiri stepped closer to him. Very close.
Too
close. He noticed that she was dressed differently. She had sashed her immaculate red robe tight and low to accentuate her hips, her breasts. Her rich hair had been brushed back and caught up in jeweled pins; several thick, gaudy rings adorned her fingers, and a gold pendant danced into her cleavage, drawing his gaze. The scent of exotic perfume wafted about her.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “I did not invite you.”

“Prester Hannes, I understand you better than any person aboard these two vessels. Whichever book we study and serve”—she indicated the two texts on his writing desk—“you and I are the true representatives of Ondun aboard these ships. When we find Holy Joron on Terravitae, should we not stand together? Be partners and show our strength?”

“Holy Joron would only think less of me if I were partner to a heretic.”

Fyiri let out a tinkling, seductive chuckle. “Is that how you think Joron will see us? As Aidenist and Urecari? Tierran and Uraban? We are two sides of the coin struck by Ondun. Man and woman. We are parts of each other.” She stepped even closer.

Hannes realized with astonishment that Fyiri was trying to seduce him! Did the sikara think him so weak? Were the Urecari so malleable and shiftless that they could surrender their core beliefs just for pleasures of the flesh?

“Come, Hannes, let me show you how we can be compatible.” She stroked the waxy burn scars on the side of his face without fear or revulsion. But the nerves there were deadened, and he pulled back sharply, finding her touch abhorrent.

A flash of anger crossed her face. Fyiri drew her hand back as if to slap him, and he instinctively lifted his left arm to protect himself. It was exactly what she wanted. With a lightning stroke, she scratched his forearm with a barb that protruded from one of her rings.

She stood back and laughed as he looked down at the long red welt. “And now you are a dead man. That poison will act soon enough. There is no antidote.”

She had come here with a complex scheme to kill him, but Prester Hannes preferred a more straightforward approach. He rarely resorted to tricks to get what he wanted—he simply acted. That was his nature. Grabbing the dagger from his writing desk, he plunged it deep into Fyiri’s chest.

He found her heart with the first blow, precise and efficient, and Sikara Fyiri couldn’t even scream. She gasped, her mouth and eyes wide open; blood welled from her chest as she fell to the floor.

Hannes yanked the dagger from her body, knowing that every beat of his heart drew the poison further into his bloodstream; he could not delay. He held out his arm where the scratch was reddening as he watched, and without even bothering to clean the woman’s blood from the blade, he stuck the dagger tip into his skin. Starting above the poisoned scratch, he drew a long, deep cut all the way down the forearm. His hand did not shake; his grip on the hilt did not falter. Blood welled up from the gash, streaming out and washing away the poison.

He let the blood flow for several minutes, spilling red droplets onto the priestess’s scarlet dress rather than on the deck. The sikara’s last gurgles and twitches acted like a metronome.

When he began to grow dizzy and lightheaded—from loss of blood surely, not from the effects of the poison—Hannes picked up one of his candles and tipped the molten wax into his wound, filling the long cut. He did not cry out, barely even winced. He had suffered much worse, and was accustomed to the pain of burns. The wound should be well enough cauterized.

One-handed, using clean but ragged kerchiefs from his wardrobe chest, he bound up the wound, tying it as tightly as he could, using his teeth to yank the knots. When he was finished, he looked down at the dead woman sprawled like a squashed bug on his cabin floor. “Another victory for Aiden.”

Hannes knew, however, that the sikara’s murder would infuriate the Urecari crew, which would cause problems for the faithful Aidenists aboard the
Dyscovera
. The holy destination was at hand. After they reached Terravitae, Hannes could abase himself before Holy Joron and ask for forgiveness—and then it wouldn’t matter what he had done to Fyiri. For now, he needed to buy time and stall their questions. Captain Vora must not be allowed to delay the exploration of the new land, and dawn was only a few hours away.

The night was quiet, and the sentries prowling the
Dyscovera
’s deck were intent on spotting Urecari treachery rather than watching their own prester.

Seeing no one nearby, Hannes slipped from his cabin, dragging the woman’s body, hiding in shadows when necessary. He took great care not to let her spill blood on the deck as he brought Fyiri to the side of the ship, tied one of the ship’s weight-stones to her ankle, and slipped the body overboard into the cold water.

He looked around and waited a few moments, but no one reacted to the splash. He returned to his cabin and there, with a satisfied smile, he closed Urec’s Log.

Ishalem Wall

Even as the Tierran army trampled the line of skulls on their way to the wall, Kel Unwar reassured Omra about the ironclads in the Ishalem canal. “We have defenses in place, Soldan-Shah—do not fear. They’ll be trapped like rats, and they will drown in their own folly.”

Omra locked his hands behind his back, looking down at the invading army. “The Aidenists are making their most ambitious assault, but that only means their failure will be greater.”

With silent suddenness, the Teacher arrived to stand beside Unwar and the soldan-shah, in plain view, knowing the black robes and silver mask were sure to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy. “If any of my
ra’virs
are still hiding among those soldiers, Soldan-Shah, they will act. But you should not count on them to help you win the battle. Many of my students have been rooted out by now.”

“We have other ways to defeat the ’Hooks,” Unwar said.

Omra studied the Tierran army. “Their catapults barely scratched the wall. Maybe they mean to push it down through sheer force of numbers.” He was only half joking.

“Vermin,” Unwar whispered under his breath.

The Uraban archers lined up along the wall, setting up for the best shot as they waited for the enemy to come into range. “The Aidenists are wearing armor,” Omra called down the line. “Better if you target the horses, and once you’ve struck them down, aim for the footsoldiers. Infantrymen will have less shielding. But don’t fire too soon—no need to waste arrows.”

The Urabans were keyed up, their blood running hot. They had seen the Tierran army camped outside the wall for months, making only halfhearted skirmishes, and the soldiers of Ishalem were anxious to fight. Behind the main gate, reinforcements milled about, ready if the Tierrans should somehow break through, or if the soldan-shah threw open the wooden doors and unleashed his howling forces.

The Aidenists marched closer, step by step, in the same formations they drilled every day. On top of the wall, two tense archers loosed arrows, shooting recklessly at the front lines, and then like a flock of startled pigeons a flurry of archers fired, despite Omra’s orders to hold. All the arrows fell short, pattering into the ground some thirty feet ahead of the front ranks of the enemy.

The armored queen raised a gloved hand. Standard-bearers waved their banners, calling a halt. The cavalry stopped their advance.

Unwar gave a gruff nod, as if that had been his intent. “Now they’ll think twice about coming closer.”