The Key to Creation (9 page)

“There, now you all see it can be done! Nothing to fear.” Siescu was sure many of the captives spoke Tierran well enough to understand him. Terrified, the next trio moved gingerly along the path and also completed the passage without mishap. Next, one of Siescu’s guards volunteered to cross so that he could watch the prisoners. Then more of the slaves.

When the path was well trampled, Iaros and Siescu made the passage, careful to keep their balance. The pack animals went across, one by one. Raga Var sprang back and forth with an agility that shamed them all. He was anxious to move along, watching the thickening gray clouds overhead that presaged a winter storm.

When the whole train of people and pack animals reached the stony clearing Raga Var had chosen as camp, they huddled for the night in the shelter of rocks. The winds picked up, funneled along the sheer cliff faces.

True to his word, the wiry scout gathered scrub bush and dry wood to make a campfire for his destrar, and Siescu sat close to the flames, shivering no matter how many furs he wrapped around himself. He offered to share the blaze with Iaros, but the Iborian seemed not to feel the cold at all.

The younger man turned uneasily, surveying the snowcapped mountains around them. He sucked in a long breath of the cold air. “Have you heard about the frost giants—powerful beings who look for unsuspecting travelers in the ice and snow?” He rubbed his hands briskly together. “They can bring winter with a breath.”

“Never heard of them,” Siescu said. The idea of such a being shrouded in cold was particularly unpleasant to him. “We don’t have frost giants in Corag.”

Iaros bobbed his head. “I heard they are even older than Ondun, titans that once tried to snuff out the Fires of Creation and freeze the whole world.”

Siescu tried to hide his shudder. “How could any creature be older than Ondun?”

Iaros shrugged. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want to meet one.”

Siescu called for more wood to build the fire higher.

Next morning, they awoke to find that a blanket of snow had settled on the road again—not enough to block passage, but sufficient to hide slippery patches of ice. Once again, Siescu ordered slaves to take point and trample the path clear.

When the road began to descend at a steep pace, Iaros looked ahead. “We’re near the coast now, Destrar. Soon enough, we’ll see the canyons and smell the mines.”

Raga Var trotted up to them, concerned about the gloomy day. “There’ll be another storm tonight, Destrar. Once winter sets in, the passes will be closed. We might not get back to Stoneholm this season.”

“Oh, we will get back. I trust you to lead us,” Siescu said. “For now, our destination is Gremurr.”

  * * *

In a side canyon above the mines, Shetia drew her young son deeper into the bushes as the party of Tierran soldiers and Uraban captives marched past. The boy’s eyes were wide; he knew what terrible things they would face if the bloodthirsty Tierrans should capture them.

Shetia wished again that Tukar could be there to protect his family; she didn’t think she would ever stop mourning his loss. Her husband had sent her and their son to hide in the hills when the enemy attacked on their monstrous hairy beasts. Shetia had never seen such violence. They were wildmen, barbarians, setting fire to the tents and buildings, slaughtering countless Uraban workers.

And dear, sweet Tukar had tried to defend Gremurr. She had not seen him since. Though she clung to hope for Ulan’s sake, she knew in her heart that her husband was dead.

As the hated soldiers marched along the road, heading down toward the mines, Shetia told the boy to remain absolutely silent. Their greatest danger lay in the rambunctious puppy. Ulan clamped his hands around the dog’s muzzle, holding him as still as possible. With the marching men so close, the puppy wanted to bark, but Shetia and Ulan dragged him deeper into the canyon.

When they were hidden behind the rocks, she forced herself to breathe. She had seen the haggard Uraban captives being herded like animals along the road, no doubt to be put to work in the mines. If she were captured, Shetia expected to be treated roughly, abused by the uncivilized men.

The Tierrans passing on the road looked foreign, their armor and weapons strange. One soldier carried a round shield that sported the Fishhook design. She couldn’t imagine what heathen rituals they did in their worship services. Did they sacrifice Uraban children by impaling them on a large cast-iron hook?

Instinctively, she squeezed Ulan’s arm. The puppy whimpered, but he sensed their terror. Somehow, they kept him from barking or breaking free as the last of the men filed past. Shetia let out a long slow sigh of relief. “We’ll be safe now,” she whispered.

The boy swallowed hard. “I’m hungry. We should go up the road and find their last camp. Maybe they left food behind.”

Shetia’s stomach clenched and growled; for more than a week they had eaten only the scraps, berries, and plants they could forage. They had eluded discovery by Aidenist forces so far, but survival required much more than that. She didn’t know how she and her son were going to live out here in the wilderness.

Ishalem Canal

When the final section of blasting was complete in the canal, water flowed freely across the isthmus like lifeblood, connecting the Middlesea and Oceansea for the first time since the creation of the world.

Standing at the western mouth of the new waterway, Kel Unwar admired the culmination of his work, and tears streaked his cheeks. This was a moment of unparalleled triumph for his soldan-shah, for Ondun, and (far less important) for himself. The feeling of joy—instead of hatred toward the Aidenist animals—seemed unnatural. Perhaps he could make improvements later, but for now, no one could deny the breathtaking accomplishment.

Unwar raised a shout to the crowd that had gathered to celebrate the inauguration of the waterway. “With this magnificent canal our ships can now sail from one end of Uraba to the other—from Lahjar to Kiesh.” He meant to continue, but the cheers drowned him out.

Soldans Huttan and Vishkar were in attendance, for this canal was a symbolic joining of their two soldanates—Inner and Outer Wahilir—though the men had no great fondness for each other. The soldans had been commanded to build two giant churches on either side of Ishalem, as a contest. Huttan and Vishkar had brought their own engineers, workers, and resources to Ishalem. Huttan had vowed to finish first, and his church already towered higher than its counterpart; Soldan Vishkar, meanwhile, devoted himself to the details, planning meticulously, double-checking the work.

No matter how magnificent the two new churches might be, though, Unwar’s accomplishments overshadowed both: the towering wall across the isthmus that kept out the Aidenists, and now this seven-mile-long canal that connected all of Uraba for trade and naval protection.

“It’s a shame Soldan-Shah Omra could not be here in person for the celebration,” Vishkar said with a wistful sigh. He was a pleasant and reliable man, the father of Omra’s original First Wife.

“He would not have wanted us to wait,” Huttan added sourly.

Unwar didn’t want to hear the two men argue. “Uraban ships can now sail to all parts of the land, and I have completed my work ahead of schedule. The soldan-shah will be pleased, whether or not he is here.”

As provisional governor of Ishalem, Unwar ordered casks of wine to be opened and a feast served to launch the day’s celebration. Feeling generous, he even granted extra rations and a day of rest for the Aidenist slaves who had dug the channel. Then, while the people of Ishalem reveled, Kel Unwar slipped away from the noise and crowds.

Though the honor was rightfully the soldan-shah’s, Unwar had decided to take the first boat through the canal. It was the only reward he wanted—he had no interest in greeting nobles or returning toasts that were made in his honor. He hurried down to the pier and chose a slender boat that he could row from west to east, from Oceansea to Middlesea, along the placid waters. He climbed into the boat, loosed the rope, and took up the oars.

As he paddled along the channel, the water was so peaceful, so smooth. Passing the city’s bright new buildings, tiled roofs, silken awnings, and numerous churches brought both an ache and a warmth to his heart. Soon ships could sail through in both directions: cargo vessels carrying supplies for the city’s defenses, war galleys filled with soldiers.

For now, though, Kel Unwar had the canal—
his
canal—all to himself. His mind was as placid as the water, and he let his thoughts wander, watching the landscape and skyline pass. He crossed the seven miles much more quickly than he’d expected.

People were also celebrating on the Middlesea terminus of the canal. Bustling crowds stood on the docks, though he had told no one of his plan to make the solo passage. When his boat approached, the people applauded. Most of them didn’t even recognize him until they spotted his governor’s sash and olba.

Unwar pulled up to the small pier and tossed the painter rope to a young man in the crowd, who grabbed it and tied up the boat. He climbed onto the pier, and suddenly Unwar’s knees went weak as he realized what he had just accomplished. He had done the impossible. His canal had changed the world. Commerce throughout Uraba, and naval warfare against the Tierrans, would never be the same again. And now the Urecari could win the war and eradicate every living follower of the Fishhook.

Despite the applause and smiling faces, he felt a bittersweet emptiness instead of overwhelming triumph. He had dug the canal and been the first man ever to traverse it. He had also built the great wall, God’s Barricade.

Unwar’s smile faltered as he walked past a group of merchants who seemed delirious with the new opportunities before them. What more could he do in his life to compare to that? What else was left? He could retire, retreat to a private estate where he could relax and live well for his remaining years. It would drive him mad.

A hush fell across the joyous chatter, a creeping shadow of silence. Unwar spotted the Teacher walking through the crowd. People backed away from the ominous silver mask, the black-gloved hands. But Unwar knew who the dark figure was and what had driven her to become this enigmatic person. Aidenist barbarians.

Unwar stepped close to the mask, while everyone else moved away. The people must think him particularly brave as he extended his hand and grasped the Teacher’s gloved one. He spoke in the barest of whispers. “It’s done, Alisi—and now what am I supposed to do?”

Her voice was muffled through the small slit in the mask. “You will do whatever Ondun calls you to do. Defend Ishalem against the heretics. There is still much killing to be done.” Though her body was concealed by voluminous dark robes, Unwar could tell she wanted to embrace him. That in itself was an odd thing, because after the crushing abuse she had suffered from Tierran sailors, his sister rarely wanted to touch anyone.

“I am proud of you, brother,” she said. “Very proud.”

The
Al-Orizin

After the waves from the unleashed giant serpent drove them far from Iyomelka’s vessel, they saw no sign of pursuit for two days, but Saan was sure their calm would not last.

He stood on deck, looking out at the waves and the empty sea. Sitting on a crate next to him, Sen Sherufa wrote in the sympathetic journal with tight, painstaking penmanship. Whatever the Saedran woman marked on these pages at sea was mirrored on the magically twinned volume on the other side of the world. She frowned as she reached the torn bottom of the half page. “I need to be brief, Captain. I am almost to the end of the journal’s bound sheets, and our voyage may still last for many more months.”

“Maybe the rest of the journey will be uneventful,” Saan said in a joking voice, “if we can keep our distance from Iyomelka. Or maybe we’ll discover the Key to Creation sooner than we expect.”

Sherufa raised her eyebrows, gave a little snort, then wrote with even tinier letters, cramming words onto the torn paper.

Interrupting, Ystya ran up to them, flushed and obviously upset. “That priestess keeps teaching me the wrong things! Please tell her to leave me alone.”

Saan automatically folded her into his arms to protect her. Ystya had collapsed after liberating Bouras from his curse, but she recovered quickly. When he’d pressed her for explanations about the power she had exhibited, she wouldn’t discuss what she had done and seemed almost embarrassed by it. Nevertheless, he encouraged her, talked with her when he could, and hoped she would tell him more.

Now, before the young woman could explain herself, Sikara Fyiri barged up to them, equally incensed. “Captain, you must let me continue the girl’s instruction! She lived alone on that island for a long time, and her education is woefully lacking. How can she follow the Map if she doesn’t know what it is?”

Saan let out a sigh. They seemed like two sisters having a quarrel. “Ondun knows,
I
had to endure the sikaras’ schooling, year after year. Why won’t you listen to her lessons, Ystya?”

“Because she will not listen when I correct her,” the girl said simply.

Saan chuckled, imagining Fyiri’s expression when the impertinent young woman pointed out errors in the sikara’s doctrine. “Maybe you should learn from each other.”

Fyiri looked as if he had asked her to kiss a squid. “How can we engage in a debate if the girl doesn’t have a basic education? One must begin from a foundation of truth.”

“Why should I learn such things at all?” Ystya asked. “What do these old teachings of Urec matter to us now?”

Fyiri raised her hands in exasperation. “You see why she needs to be educated, Captain? If we don’t save this girl from her ignorance, she might be corrupted by evil. We all saw the great powers she wields.”

Sen Sherufa closed the twinned journal. “Captain, while I don’t often agree with the sikara, we should have guessed that Iyomelka’s daughter might possess remarkable skills like her mother’s. We should understand them—
Ystya
should understand them, if she does not.”