25 Olabar Harbor

Saan enjoyed any excuse to walk with his father, particularly along the harbor with all the lovely sailing ships, barges, and supply galleys. Soldan-Shah Omra knew the young man's interest.

For the past year now, Saan had made a habit of chatting with merchants and sea captains when they came to port; he bought pennants and seals from various Uraban cities he hoped to see someday with his own eyes. He had already been struck with the yearning to travel to distant lands. It was in his blood.

When he was only twelve years old, Saan had crossed the Great Desert with his grandfather and Sen Sherufa; he had seen the Nunghal steppes and the Southern Sea. Once back home, he had traveled as far as Sioara, but he had never visited Ishalem or the rugged western shoreline of the Oceansea. Someday, though…

The two men strolled along the sloping cobblestoned street toward the wooden piers that extended like fingers into the water. People whispered as they walked by; some bowed or stepped back, recognizing the soldan-shah. Kel Rovic and his closely following guards could be summoned on a second's notice, should assassins try anything foolish, but for now, Saan was alone with his father.

Having noted the ships coming into port and the larger vessels at anchor in the deeper harbor, he turned to see a preoccupied look on the soldan-shah's face. At the moment, Omra was noticing none of the things that fascinated Saan. “Are you worried about matters of state, Father?”

His train of thought broken, the older man turned to him, his dark beard framing a smile. “A soldan-shah always worries, Saan. Consider yourself fortunate that such a fate isn't on the game board for you.”

“I don't envy the zarif. Omirr will have to bear that responsibility when he gets older, but I've never wanted to rule Uraba.” The very idea seemed impossible and foreign to him.

“That is exactly why you're so important to me.” His father reached out and surprised him with a warm hug. “When I spend time with you, I can be just a man with his son… and friend. A soldan-shah has too few friends. With you, I have someone who just listens and speaks with honesty, not an agenda.”

Saan felt his cheeks flush. “I try, Father.”

They paused at a wooden table where a blind man had set up piles of colorful seashells, including large milk pearls harvested by the famous reef divers of Lahjar. Omra studied one of the pearls on display, then looked at Saan again. “I'll be very sorry to see you leave Olabar,” he said. “It's going to be a long trip.”

Saan felt a sudden fear that he had done something wrong, that he would be exiled too, like Omra's brother Tukar. “What?”

The soldan-shah wore both a sad and slightly mischievous expression as he continued walking down to the ships tied up to the Olabar docks. “For some time, I've been concerned about all these threats on your life. Too many people have too many reasons to want you dead—some to hurt me, some because they hate you or your mother, and some despise what you both represent to the church. They say you still secretly worship the Fishhook.”

“I am as devout a follower of Urec as anyone in Uraba!”

“I believe you, but the priestesses would still prefer to get rid of you. We both know the threat they pose.”

With a hearty laugh, Saan dismissed the idea. “I've been in danger ever since I was a little boy. Remember when I outfoxed the mercenaries, and I found the Golden Fern? That means I have a great destiny. I won't be killed on some street corner. I can take care of myself. Kel Rovic says I'm one of the best fighters he's ever trained.”

“And Rovic does not give unwarranted compliments.” Omra faced Saan. Two burly fishermen staggered by, hauling a crate of feebly twitching silver sardines. “But no matter how skilled you are with a blade, someone could slip poison into your food or drink, or they could set a sand spider in your bed, as they did to your baby brother.”

Omra walked on in troubled silence for a few moments, then continued. “Worse, your very presence may endanger my other sons—my true heirs. You saved little Omirr from the assassins, but if it hadn't been for the threat they see in you, the zarif might never have been in danger at all.”

Saan knew his father was right. “The last thing I want is for harm to come to Omirr.” The words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. “So… you are sending me away? You'll exile me to where I don't pose any further threat?”

The soldan-shah chuckled gently. “Exile? Oh no, my son. Not like that! I need you to find something for me.”

When Omra stopped at one of the outer piers, Saan noticed a large, new two-masted ship tied to the docks. Her great silken sails hung loose, both squares and lateens, dancing gently in the harbor breeze, a large Eye of Urec on the mainsail. Saan was intrigued by the ship's lines, her size and sturdy curves. Though not a large ship, she was fast and strong. Her draught was shallow enough to nimbly approach rocky shores, but her hull was thick and her masts set sturdily enough to weather difficult crossings.

“She's a beauty. From Kiesh?”

“Yes, newly commissioned. She is the Al-Orizin.” He glanced over to watch Saan's expression. “And she is yours.”

It felt as if the boards of the dock had dropped out from beneath him. His own ship? “Mine? But I'm too young to be a captain.”

“You'll have experienced sailors with you. Come aboard and have a look around.”

Taking him by the arm, the soldan-shah led him up the gangplank. The deckboards were newly scrubbed, the voluminous cargo holds fresh and aired out, all hatches open to the breezes. The Al-Orizin was virtually empty, with only a handful of men on deck, concentrating overmuch on their work. Saan guessed that his father must have arranged for this visit ahead of time.

Saan still couldn't believe what he was seeing, but he did not want to argue. He pictured himself standing at the bow, issuing orders, turning to face the endless horizon, exploring the world. Captain Saan… “But where would I go?”

Omra led him aft to the captain's cabin in the stern. The small shelves were empty, the tabletop clean, the bunk neatly made. Removing a leather cylinder that he kept tucked in his sapphire-blue sash, the soldan-shah unrolled the ancient Map of Urec on the small charting table. His hands trembled with true reverence. “This was found in Ishalem. It is genuine—Urec's Map.” To Saan's astonishment, he explained how the Saedran architect had uncovered the relic deep in the ruins, and how he had kept the news secret, for the time being.

He pointed to the Map. “I want you to make a voyage that could save Uraba… and one that will be the stuff of legends for many generations.”

Saan grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

“Take the Al-Orizin and sail east, follow the Middlesea, go beyond Kiesh—farther than anyone has ever gone. There, you will find Terravitae… and the Key to Creation.”

“The Key to Creation? But no one knows what that is.”

“Urec was searching for it, on orders from Ondun. If you can find the Key for Uraba, how can we fail to achieve victory against our Aidenist enemies?”

Saan tore his gaze away from the ancient chart and saw a shine of moisture in his father's eyes. “You'll be undertaking the most important quest since Urec sailed at the beginning of time. Whom else would I choose for this?”