123 Olabar, Main Urecari Church

Since the sikaras already hated her, Lady Istar could not issue the arrest order herself—there would be far too much of an uproar already—but the former soldan-shah had no such qualms. Imir took several of the highest-ranking priestesses into custody, where they could be interrogated about Villiki's schemes.

In the palace, Kel Rovic guarded Naori and the soldan-shah's two heirs, watching over them night and day. Because he was worried that sikara agents would try some additional violence, every morsel of food was checked for poison; the “volunteer” tasters were drawn from the most belligerent sikaras in the prisons.

The suicide of Ur-Sikara Erima had sent the priestesses into a panic. Those who had attained the highest positions of power were now suspects, which left the church with no effective leadership. Any sikara who spoke out against Imir's reactionary decrees found herself immediately seized.

With all three of her daughters safely at her side, Istar made her way through the main church's secret corridors and chambers in search of clues that Villiki might have left behind. Riders were dispatched to Ishalem with urgent messages informing Soldan-Shah Omra about what had happened. But before her husband returned home, Istar wanted to understand the depths of Villiki's plans.

Cithara led her mother to the hidden chamber where the woman had lived. Without hesitation, Istar broke into Villiki's private trunk, ransacked her wardrobe and drawers, searched her possessions. Following them, young Istala gazed about herself with superstitious fear. All of her dreams and her faith in the church had crumbled around her—Fashia's Fountain desecrated, the ur-sikara dead, the church caught harboring a murderous traitor.

Lady Istar felt sorry for what her youngest daughter had lost.

From beneath Villiki's writing table, Cithara reverently withdrew a bound book whose interior pages had all been torn in half. “Mother Istar, I saw Villiki write in this very special book. It is connected somehow with the Al-Orizin.”

Recognizing the sympathetic journal from which the ur-sikara occasionally read during church services, Istar sat down by the light of perfumed candles. Here, at last, were the true messages Saan's ship had sent back. She pored over the handwritten entries, scheming notes that Villiki had exchanged with Sikara Fyiri. These words were nothing at all like what she had heard Erima read aloud to the congregation. Some paragraphs described daily activities aboard the Al-Orizin; others were ruthless discussions of what Villiki planned to do here in Olabar. Istar read each line with great fascination. Even these distorted descriptions gave her a view into what Saan was doing on his long voyage.

Most thrilling of all, though, was the final entry, written in a different hand from Fyiri's. “This is Sen Sherufa na-Oa, chartsman of the Al-Orizin. Captain Saan has now acquired possession of this logbook, and henceforth all messages transmitted to Olabar will be accurate—unlike those of Sikara Fyiri.” The Saedran woman went on to describe at great length their encounter with the island, the witch Iyomelka, and her claims of being the wife of Ondun and the mother of a mysterious young girl.

Istar smiled, suddenly understanding the reason why Ur-Sikara Erima had stopped reporting messages from the ship. Apparently, Villiki had never bothered to write back once she knew the logbook had been taken from her pawn Fyiri.

Istar smiled at her daughters. “Saan needs to know what has happened here, and we can trust Sen Sherufa to report precisely what we write. We can be in contact with your brother again—real contact.” She tapped the torn pages of the journal, pondering possibilities. “Because the two journals are linked, if I write a message here, will the words appear for Sherufa to see—and Saan? Or must a sikara do the writing?”

“I'm not certain, Mother, but you could try,” Istala said. “What happens to this volume, happens to its counterpart.”

Though she was perfectly capable of writing for herself, she slid the book over to her youngest daughter. “Show us what you learned from the priestesses, my dear one. We'll write your brother a letter and explain all that has occurred. He'll know that we are now in secure contact with each other.”

In spite of her ordeal, Istar drew a deep breath and felt a joy inside her. Just by touching these pages, she could touch Saan. She now knew her son was still alive, still healthy, still exploring. “And don't forget to tell him that we love him.”