77 The Al-Orizin
All across the uncharted Middlesea, Saan saw nothing but water, endless water… until a trio of golden sea serpents approached. The lookout bellowed an alarm, and crewmen raced to the bow, taking up spears.
Grigovar held a harpoon in each hand. “You will find me a difficult mouthful to swallow! Ask your brother, who lies dead back in the reefs.” But the monsters did not react as he brandished the weapons.
Yal Dolicar tugged at leather laces to secure the knife-blade prosthetic to his stump. “If one of those things tries to swallow me, I'll cut my way out, just like Grigovar did.”
Saan stared at the three serpents. “Hold a moment, you two. Let's not provoke them just yet.”
The three creatures were gorgeous, their wet scales reflecting the yellow sunlight. Curious, they circled the strange vessel, blasting vapors from their blowholes, then dropped beneath the waves and swam away.
Relieved, Saan turned to Sen Sherufa. “That's enough excitement for one day.”
“Another story to tell Imir, when we get back home.”
Fyiri emerged from her cabin, holding a large golden fern in one hand. Saan wondered if she intended to take credit for driving away the monsters, but she had lost her moment. Instead, the sikara took a stance of authority and caught the attention of all the men. “Not all sea serpents are dangerous, but they have a cursed origin. Such monsters are the offspring of Bouras—the gigantic serpent that girdles the world, an enormous beast that no man's imagination can fully encompass. The Father Serpent is the personification of evil that thrives in our world.”
She glared at the crew, as if blaming each one of them. “Long before He departed from our world, Ondun attempted to stop Bouras and his deceit. He commanded the Father Serpent to bite his own tail, so that he could no longer speak lies. He must remain trapped like that until he is freed. After countless centuries, Bouras has grown so large that he encircles the entire world.”
Fyiri gestured across the open water, to where the three golden creatures had disappeared. “If you fear those serpents, remember that they are just the tiniest offspring, the infant children of Bouras. Pray that our voyage does not take us across the great monster's path.”
When the crew muttered with fear and anxiety, Saan was annoyed with Fyiri for preying upon their superstitions. He laughed, showing just what he thought of such nonsense. “Well, then we'll keep a sharp watch!” He sent a second man up the mainmast to the lookout nest. “If the Father Serpent girdles the entire world, then he had better get out of our way. No monster is going to stop this voyage.”
The sleek ship sailed on into uncharted waters, under blue skies and with no threat of sea serpents. For all the excitement and fear of sailing into the unknown, Saan lounged on the deck, waiting for something to happen. They had traveled countless leagues, but he didn't feel any closer to finding the Key to Creation. Even Sen Sherufa remained unable to interpret the Map.
Yal Dolicar often wore a frilly white shirt despite the heat of the sun, while most of the Al-Orizin's crew stripped down to keep cool. Dolicar had affixed the carved wooden hand to his wrist, and now rubbed it self-consciously. “I listened to Sikara Fyiri give her report from the Olabar church last night.” The priestess often read pleasant but meaningless words that appeared on the pages of the sympathetic journal. The mere fact that she remained in communication with Uraba reassured the men. “She makes it sound as if there is no news and no conflict back in Olabar. Everything seems to be right with the world. Suspiciously so, don't you think?”
“What do you mean?”
With a shrug, Dolicar hunkered down alongside his captain. “Sir, do you actually know what the sikaras have written, back and forth? Have you looked at the sympathetic journal yourself to see what the words really say?”
Saan frowned. “That's Fyiri's business. Same as my captain's log is my business.”
Dolicar chuckled. “Don't kid yourself, Captain. You should be more suspicious.”
Saan tapped his fingertips together as he considered. Fyiri did have sole control over the sympathetic journal, and she could be writing anything, spreading false rumors to the ur-sikara. She could also be distorting, or completely falsifying, the reports that supposedly appeared in the volume. Saan sat up straighter as the wheels began to turn in his mind. “Thank you for your concern, Dolicar. I'll take it under advisement and make a decision.”
* * *
Unwilling to remain in her quarters all day, a restless Sikara Fyiri walked the deck, visited the cargo hold and the crew bunks. She spent time in the galley criticizing the cook, though he pretended to be deaf to her complaints.
When she was gone, Saan boldly walked to the door, worked the small latch, and entered the priestess's private room. Fyiri had left small candles burning in covered lamps—a fire hazard aboard a sailing ship, but the stern sikara believed that she operated outside of rules. It would be good to remind her of her place.
Saan found the sympathetic journal and opened it, flipping the sheets of paper that were torn in half. He scanned the letters written on each page—lines in Fyiri's strong and determined script, and other words written in a more formal hand.
He saw immediately that Fyiri was indeed withholding information, just as Yal Dolicar had suspected. She had not recounted any of this news to the Al-Orizin's crew. He read entries describing Soldan-Shah Omra's ambitious scheme to dig a great canal across the isthmus, news that Saan's half-sister Adreala had gone south with her grandfather to visit the Nunghals, and that his other two sisters were now acolytes in the church.
When he read that Cithara was being groomed for a “special mission,” the wording raised Saan's suspicions, and he studied more closely, flipping through the later entries as Fyiri's mysterious correspondent grew more careless with her reports. When he finally read the writer's name, the word struck like an icicle in Saan's spine. Villiki! Villiki was still alive!
The woman had gone into hiding and somehow worked her way into the main church; now she was using the sympathetic journal to communicate with the sikara aboard the Al-Orizin.
Fyiri had kept all this from him.
The cabin door opened, and he heard the woman laughing seductively; Fyiri held Grigovar by the arm, leading him into her cabin with obvious intent.
Saan closed the journal with a loud thump. When the sikara saw him lounging at her writing desk, her face blazed with fury. “What are you doing in my quarters?”
Saan kept his demeanor cocky and confident. “Your quarters, perhaps, but my ship. I can do as I wish.” He held up the journal.
Fyiri lunged wildly for it. “How dare you!”
He rose to his feet, all nonchalance gone. “You have withheld information from your captain. You exchange private messages with a woman who attempted to poison the soldan-shah. It seems the church of Urec now gives this traitor secret sanctuary.” He tucked the book close under his arm. “Obviously you cannot be trusted.”
Fyiri clutched Grigovar's arm and snapped at him. “Well, what are you going to do about this? Aren't you going to defend me? Look what he's doing!”
Grigovar burst out laughing. “What am I going to do? Why, I'm going to follow the captain's orders! You think you control me just because I sleep with you?” He guffawed at the thought. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, Priestess. If a woman's bed turns cold to me, my hand is warm enough. You place too great a value on your skills as a lover.”
Fyiri was dumbstruck, and Saan couldn't help grinning. “I am confiscating this journal, Sikara. Obviously it is too powerful and too tempting for you.”
“But only I can use it! You will never be able to send messages back.” She gave a haughty sniff.
“If our messages go into the hands of Villiki, the messages are of no use to me. There is nothing I wish that woman to know. Besides, Sen Sherufa is perfectly capable of transmitting any words that I deem necessary.”
“Sen Sherufa! A Saedran woman?”
“Yes. And I trust her far more than I trust you.”