41 Kiesh, Abilan
After six days of calm sailing, the Al-Orizin reached Kiesh, the easternmost Uraban outpost on the Middlesea. In the uncharted waters beyond, sand shoals, treacherous currents, and unpredictable storms discouraged all ships.
“This would be the end of most voyages,” Saan said to Sen Sherufa as the sailors threw down hawsers and Kiesh workers tied them up to the docks. “But we're just beginning. From here on out, we follow in the wake of Urec.”
Eager to visit the taverns and inns, not knowing when their next landfall might be, the crew rushed down the ramp. Grigovar paused, delaying the men behind him as he savored the moment. “I've made it, Captain—from Lahjar to Kiesh.”
Sikara Fyiri imperiously pushed her way around the reef diver. “Move aside. I have messages to deliver from Ur-Sikara Erima.” The isolated church in Kiesh would host a lengthy service, and the priestess wanted Saan to attend, but he made excuses, much to Fyiri's consternation. She promised to pray for him nevertheless.
Saan turned to the Saedran woman standing beside him. Sherufa had been drinking in the details of Kiesh, but he noted her uneasy demeanor. “You still look unhappy about our voyage.”
“Not because I don't want it to be done.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I'll go to the Saedran District and ask my colleagues. Maybe I'll find a chartsman who knows about the waters to the east. Any information will be helpful.”
While dockworkers reprovisioned the ship, adding fresh food and water, Saan joined the local soldan, Huref, for the midday meal, and as they shared hot sweet tea, the soldan spoke dire warnings. “Your ship will be grounded east of here on sand shoals if you aren't careful. Farther north, the storm patterns are the worst in all the Middlesea. Many ships have tried to fight their way past, but none has ever returned.” Huref shook his head.
Saan, though, did not change his mood. “Then we'll be the first. After all, we have Urec's Map.”
After the ship sailed from Kiesh into a deceptively bright sunrise, Fyiri called Saan to her quarters. In the first week she had already made the cabin into her own nest by tacking silken hangings on the walls and ceiling to make it look like a tent rather than a wooden-walled room. Symbolic ferns stood on stands.
As if he were a mere acolyte she had summoned, Fyiri said, “Now that we are on our way, let me show you how we can stay in contact with Olabar, wherever we go.” She placed a leather-bound book on her small writing desk, a volume that looked both new and ragged at the same time. She opened the cover to reveal that each page had been torn in half, but only the top half was bound into the book. The rest was gone.
“Through sympathetic magic, this book is linked to an identical one in the main church in Olabar. Each copy is bound with leather from the same calfskin. Every piece of paper was split in half—one bound into this volume, the other half into its counterpart. The journals are perfectly bonded.”
She pointed to a line of text on the first page, then another line below it in a distinctly different handwriting style. “On these pages, I will write reports of our voyage, and my words will appear on the journal within the Olabar church, where they can be read by Ur-Sikara Erima. When she writes on the pages of her journal, her words will instantly appear here.
“And she will share all of our messages with the soldan-shah?” Saan said pointedly. “Does my father know about this?”
“The sikaras will, of course, pass along all relevant news.”
“I wish you had thought to inform me of this earlier. I would like to write messages myself, to have direct contact with the soldan-shah.”
She shut the book with finality. “This is a very delicate matter of sympathetic magic, Captain. Only a highly attuned sikara, or someone adept in tugging the threads that bind all things, can write such messages.” She pulled the leather-bound book toward her. “You may rely on me.”
He didn't believe her for a moment.