The Edge of the World

by Kevin J. Anderson

  10

  Olabar Palace

  The priestesses called it a bad moon over Olabar, hanging low in the sky with an orange cast caused by thin dust blown in from the Great Desert. A bad moon. From the sky, it seemed to threaten Zarif Omra like a raised fist.

  He stood on the tower balcony, gazing across the many-tiered city, but not seeing it. He gripped the balustrade until his knuckles whitened, so engulfed in his thoughts and worries that he could barely breathe. His eyes burned until he remembered to blink. Still he continued to stare. Far off, he could see the deceptively calm waters of the Middlesea

  Istar had spent the day in an uneasy malaise, which had transitioned to nausea, horrific cramps, and crippling muscle spasms. While Omra was walking her up the long marble stairs to their chambers, letting her hold on to his arm, Istar had suddenly

  collapsed, moaning in pain. The silken skirts swirling around her legs began to seep a rich red.

  Omra had shouted for doctors, demanded assistance, set the entire palace on alert. Now, as he stood outside in cold contemplation, he realized that the sikaras had not mentioned the omen of the moon until after Istar had been brought into her bedchamber, after the complications were painfully apparent. Now the sikaras pointed at the moon and nodded knowingly. What good was an omen if the priestesses could not warn him beforehand?

  Omra closed his eyes against the stinging tears. He could not block the sounds from the bedchamber, the urgent whispered discussions of sikaras and midwives, the sudden sharp cries of his beloved. Istar had been on the bed for hours, but the women would not let him inside to see her.

  He wrestled with impatience, terror, and anger. As the zarif of Uraba, he could have ordered them aside and pushed his way into the room, but if there was any chance the sikaras and midwives could help Istar or save the baby, Omra would do exactly what they said. He, the son of the soldan-shah and heir-apparent to all of Uraba, could do nothing but stand by and wait.

  And wait.

  The moon taunted him with its ruddy colors, hanging there against the midnight sky. A Saedran astronomer could have explained the phenomenon by saying that dust storms often muddied the skies, adding spectacular colors to sunsets, playing tricks with the eye. But Omra didn't care. Reasons and explanations did not matter to him.

  Behind him, unmuffled by the silk hangings across the entryway, came another sharp scream, followed by a long and even more unsettling moan... then a silence that was infinitely worse. Hearing the approach of sandaled feet, the rustle of fabrics, he turned to face a sikara who held her news like a defensive

  THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 57

  weapon. Her elegantly coiffed hair hung in disarray, the strands dampened with sweat; her complexion was ashen.

  In her arms, she carried a small object wrapped in cloth. Omra saw only the blood. "Your son has not survived, Zarif Omra. I am sorry."

  He didn't know the sikara's name, didn't care. Omra stared at the crimson-splotched wrappings. The priestess hesitated, unsure, then moved the folds aside to show him the tiny head, small arms and legs, the twisted back, blotchy milk skin covered with a film of blood. His son--no larger than his hand.

  It seemed unreal. Urgency flooded through him, and Omra shoved aside the priestess with her grisly offering and charged into the bedchamber. He ripped the hangings away as though they were phantoms, tearing them entirely from the hooks and casting them in a pile on the floor.

  Desperate hope pulsed through him like a hot storm wind. Istar was his first wife, and this his first child, but they were both young. He and Istar would have other sons, as many babies as she liked. As the future soldan-shah, Omra needed to have many heirs. He would show Istar his love. He would nurse and watch over her until she regained her strength.

  But when he saw her lying on the bed like a broken doll propped up by cushions, the sharp sword of reality ran him through. The death of the unborn infant was not the worst thing this bad moon had brought him. So much blood covered the sheets, the silks, the pillows, everywhere. The sikaras and midwives hovered over a motionless Istar like carrion birds expecting an imminent feast.

  She was breathing, but just barely, her breaths thready and fast. The chief midwife looked at him, more disappointed in her own failure than stricken by genuine grief. Omra fell to his knees beside the bed and took Istar's hand. She stirred a little, eyes

  flickering as though she were summoning the last of her strength just to lift her eyelids.

  One of the sikaras bent close. "There is nothing to be done, Zarif. The rest will be peaceful now. The pain is over. The child was just..."

  Enraged, Omra pushed the red-robed woman backward and focused entirely on Istar. Sweat dotted her brow, and her face was oddly pinched. She breathed out a long sigh and just barely managed to form words. Only he could hear the voice that came from her bluish lips. "My love..."

  Omra squeezed her hand and whispered to her, reassured her, lied to her. Istar didn't seem to hear. She did not open her eyes again, nor did she attempt to speak.

  He remained there for more than an hour, willing her to hold on, until she finally passed the threshold into death. Still kneeling at Istar's side, he realized that he was alone.

  11

  Saedran District, Calay

  Engrossed in the exciting new map he had purchased from Yal Dolicar, Aldo leaned against crates full of raisins from Erietta. He held the paper up to the sunlight so he could study the hand drawn lines and mysterious landforms, coasts, islands, reefs. He absorbed everything in his perfect memory.

  The information on this map would open a new window to the world and shed light on Ondun's secrets. As a chartsman, Aldo had already begun his sacred duty of illuminating the world; he could hardly wait to show the map to his father and take it to Sen Leo at the temple. With a spring in his step, he hurried home.

  Aldo entered the house with a secretive smile and the rolled map tucked into his shirt. "I met a sailor at the docks," he blurted to his parents. "He's had an amazing adventure." His brother and sister came close as the young chartsman summarized what Yal Dolicar had told him; as if unveiling a great treasure, he spread the map on the wooden kitchen table, which was still dusted with flour from his mother's baking.

  Biento slid the easel and canvas out of the way and set aside his paints to bend over the map. While Aldo could barely contain his excitement, his father frowned, his eyes darting over the drawn coastlines, reading the words written in an unsteady hand. The creases deepened around his mouth.

  Aldo kept talking to counteract his father's unexpected reticence. "See, these islands--nobody knows about them, but with this chart, a good captain could find them again. Using them, we could step our way even farther across the oceans, expand our horizons, maybe even find the sunken continent. This could lead us to the original land of the Saedrans!"

  Biento shook his head. "This map is a fake, son. You have been cheated."

  Aldo had expected skepticism, but not such outright denial. "I heard the man's story. If he saw this with his own eyes--"

  "You have been cheated."

  His father's voice held such flat conviction that Aldo grew angry. He averted his eyes out of respect, but spoke assertively. "Sen Leo says that Saedrans should try to discover new knowledge, no matter what its source. This man was an unusual reservoir of information, and this map is unique. We should at least consider it, not just discard it outright."

  "But you have let yourself be deceived." Broad shoulders slumped, Biento touched his wife's arm. "I'll take him to the temple. There is something Sen Leo has to show him."

  Confused but insistent, Aldo held up the map. "But how can you know?"

  Biento took his arm. "I will show you."

  Deep in the Saedran District, the buildings crowded together and the close-knit people kept themselves apart from the Aidenist majority. The Saedran temple had a nondescript sandstone facade with engraved letters written in their private language. Outside visitors in the district wouldn't give
it a second glance.

  Inside the temple Aldo followed his father along a narrow hallway and down a short set of steps to a circular fellowship chamber where Saedrans attended weekly services. Now the place was empty; all the benches were bare, the floors scrubbed, and the book-laden shelves dusted for the next gathering.

  Biento did not stop in the fellowship chamber, though. The far wall held a large mosaic showing the sunken land of the Saedrans. He ran his fingers along the tiles and pressed a particular garnet-colored square, which released a latch. A thin crack appeared along the line of the mosaic.

  Aldo had been here countless times before, but now he was astonished. "What is this?"

  "A secret only a chartsman can know. Few Saedrans have ever seen this room."

  "But you aren't a chartsman."

  Biento pushed the mosaic panel inward to reveal a hidden passage from which came the yellowish orange glow of oil lamps. He looked sideways at his son. "And where do you think you got the gift?"

  From behind the secret door, Aldo felt a cool breeze, smelled dry air with a hint of mustiness and old papers. He followed his father down a sloping ramp. When they rounded a corner, Aldo stopped in awe.

  The chamber was huge. In this hidden vault beneath the Saedran temple, maps covered the walls, and painted constellations sparkled across the curved dome of the ceiling. Such detailed paintings! Aldo saw the careful outlines of Tierra, the streets of Ishalem, the currents in the Oceansea, even the boundaries of the Middlesea on the other side of the isthmus. Densely written notations marked the landforms, uncertain outlines followed sketchy reports of possible islands, seasonal whirlpools, barrier reefs that had been sighted out near the horizon.

  It looked nothing at all like the map Yal Dolicar had sold him.

  He noticed sturdy mahogany tables piled with charts, logbooks, and diaries. Compasses and protractors lay next to ink pots and paints. Staring at the dome overhead, he recognized the familiar constellations visible from Tierra, and as his gaze moved onward, he noted other star patterns, groupings he had seen only in books but never with his own eyes. One set of stars continued from another to another in a clear progression all across the painted sky.

  Aldo turned slowly around, drinking in the impossibly magnificent work of art. He tried to take in everything at once. He marveled at the network of rivers leading from the highlands to the sea, the hills of Alamont, the plains of Erietta, the Soeland islands, the dense and cold Iborian forests, the impassible mountains of Gorag. He felt as if the breath had been stolen from his lungs. He was looking at the whole world.

  Belatedly, he noticed Sen Leo sitting in the room, watching him with a bemused expression on his face. The old scholar turned to Aldo's father. "Are you certain this isn't too soon for him?"

  "He's a chartsman, after all," Biento said, then added, "And it was necessary. He needed to know what we already know. He's still very young and gullible." He nudged his son.

  Aldo was not certain what to do or say as he sheepishly extended the fanciful map. "I... I bought this from a sailor."

  Sen Leo glanced at it for only a moment before shaking his head. "Completely inaccurate. A fantastical representation, with just enough known details to fool the unwary." He narrowed his eyes. "People like Aldo."

  Holding Dolicar's fake map up to the landscape on the temple wall, Biento used a paint-stained finger to trace the outlines of real islands and the extended coast, pointing out how the two did not match. "Can you see now that this is completely fictitious? Look here, and here." He strode over to a different part of the wall. "And look, no islands exist in these waters. And where is this reef, and the two large islands here? The man who sold you this map was simply fabricating a story."

  Aldo flushed. "It's so obvious." He turned his shame toward himself for being so easily fooled, but even that could not diminish the sense of wonder that surged through him now. He went closer to the walls, staring at the names of specific rock outcroppings, small patches of forest, lighthouses, villages. "But this--all this--is known and verified?"

  "This is our Mappa Mundi," said Sen Leo, "the manifestation of the most sacred quest for all Saedrans--to discover the world, to map and record what we see. When our chartsmen return from far lands with new observations, we draw more lines on the map. Once we have succeeded in charting all of creation, Ondun will reward us by raising our sunken homeland."

  "Is this the only Mappa Mundi?"

  "Every Saedran temple has a secret map room." Biento looked at his son. "I am a cartographer. I don't sail off to far ports, but I have a chartsman's memory and knowledge, and I travel around the countryside to paint a perfect copy of the map in each temple. That's how we share information."

  "But you said you painted commissioned portraits of nobles!"

  Biento gave him a coy smile. "Oh, that merely provides a good excuse for me to travel so widely. Your mother knows the real reason."

  Aldo couldn't tear his eyes from the map of the world. He saw the precise details in the Tierran continent, but noted the sketchier outlines of Uraba and the many blank areas beyond. "And we have no better information about this half of the world?"

  "Parts of it, but not enough," Sen Leo said. "There are Saedrans in Uraba, but the Urecari won't allow us to interact with them. Their maps of Tierra are probably just as sketchy. With the signing of the Edict, maybe we can share information and work together at last."

  12

  Ishalem, Urecari District

  Thickening smoke worked its hazy tendrils through the streets of Ishalem. The animals inside Asha's residence were disturbed, some frantic; the songbirds flapped against their cages, the hounds bayed. Most of the cats had already fled, and Asha couldn't find them, though she looked everywhere.

  The soldan-shah burst back into their private quarters, his face flushed, eyes red and irritated from the smoke. Perspiration sparkled on his shaved scalp, and his voice cracked with alarm. "Asha, tell your servants to pack your things! Grab only the possessions you value most and get down to the docks--hurry! I have already sent men to prepare your ship for immediate departure to Olabar."

  Asha was bewildered. "How can I possibly take everything? I'd need days to --"

  "Mow. Only what you need, only what you value the most, only what you cannot replace. You have less than an hour." Throughout their marriage, Imir had done his best to keep her happy. He denied Asha nothing and had never raised his voice to her--she'd given him no cause--but now he was brusque. "With the winds whipping up, nothing can stop this fire. Ishalem will burn to the ground."

  Asha gasped. "But that's impossible! This is... this is Ishalem.r'

  Imir headed for the doorway. "One hour, Asha. Be on the boat, or be left behind."

  "But if it all burns--"

  "It will all burn. One hour." He marched into the corridor, and guards quickly folded around him.

  Her small dogs wouldn't stop barking, and she shooed them away as she called for her handmaidens. The serving women had already recognized the danger and started throwing their own possessions into trunks and baskets. Now they flurried about gathering her silks and jewels with a grim efficiency.

  From the balcony, Asha saw the fire advancing like a golden army, orange flames moving from street to street, sweeping up the side of the hill to the sacred Arkship. In the streets outside the residence, horsemen galloped, people shouted or screamed. Seeing that the Aidenist side of the city was also on fire, she was surprised that sparks could blow so far and so swiftly. Even the Saedran houses and shops had caught fire. The entire city! Imir had not exaggerated the danger, and she realized how little time they had.

  "Forget the silly possessions! We must take my pets. Grab the bird cages. Put leashes on the hounds, and bring my little dogs in their baskets. Oh, how are we going to catch the cats?"

  Asha turned around, desperate for help. "Get carters, find wagons--we'll make a procession down to the harbor. Our boat is waiting in the main canal."

  The handmaidens
were startled, their arms heaped with bright cloth, embroidered cushions, ornate golden ewers. "Go!" Asha cried. "The pets!" They burst into motion, though a few of them pocketed jewels and gold chains, not even bothering to be surreptitious about it. Asha didn't care, so long as they rescued the animals.

  Asha joined the women, carrying two cages of shrieking birds out of the main entrance to a waiting cart. Despairingly, she called for her cats, but they did not respond. The little dogs yapped, poking their heads out of the baskets, but handmaidens nudged them back down. Well-muscled manservants struggled to lift the larger animal cages onto carts. The hounds pulled against the leather leashes, straining at their collars; one of the straps snapped, and the dog raced into the streets. Asha shouted after him, but the hound vanished into the smoke and chaos. The manservant looked at the frayed end of the leash. "Shall I catch him, my lady? "

  "We cannot wait, Lady Asha," cried one of the handmaidens. Tears filled Asha's smoke-reddened eyes, and she knew the woman was right. Two wagons had already departed into the tortuous and crowded streets toward the harbor.

  Nearby, the Urecari prime church was a towering bonfire, fueled by the sacred pennants and tapestries. Asha mumbled a prayer to herself for the church, for Ishalem; she couldn't believe Ondun would let this happen. How could Ishalem, the holiest city in the world, be allowed to burn to the ground? Only an hour before, she would have asserted that Imir's guards and soldiers could extinguish the flames, and that would be that. Now she doubted any man, even the soldan-shah, could save the city.

  q

  66 Kevin J. Anderson

  They fled the residence as the flames encroached. Making their way downhill toward the docks, they followed the choked drainage canals, until they reached a shallow-draft boat with a man aboard waving to them from the anxious crowds on the edge of the canal. "Lady Asha! Soldan-Shah Imir commanded me to wait for you. You and some of your party can ride with me!"

  With her closest handmaidens, she crowded aboard while the rest of her servants took the heavily laden carts directly to her barge. She kept the voluminous birdcages with her. The manservants and two armed guards had to beat away desperate people who clawed and pushed, trying to board the small boat. Asha hated to leave them behind. "But... all these people! We should save them."