Under full sail, the Al-Orizin continued southeast, and the weather turned bitter cold. The choppy water became gray instead of blue. They had not sighted land in some time, and even the ancient Map of Urec could not help Saan or Sen Sherufa figure out where they were without any landmarks or navigational points. At night the constellations were entirely unfamiliar.
After Ystya revealed that she was the Key to Creation, Saan had to redraw his own maps of understanding. How could the innocent, ethereal girl be the mysterious treasure sought by Urec, the powerful object that Soldan-Shah Omra had asked the Al-Orizin to find? Yet Saan believed her.
He hoped Sikara Fyiri would accept the girl’s amazing story, though he did not actually expect it. Shouldn’t a devout priestess of Urec leap at the chance to speak with the actual daughter of Ondun? But Fyiri denounced Ystya’s claim. Even though she had witnessed the girl’s astonishing power—twice now—the sikara was more wedded to her teachings than to miracles. Beneath her façade of skepticism, she seemed genuinely intimidated by Ystya.
Sen Sherufa, on the other hand, asked the mysterious girl many questions, trying to learn more about her abilities, but Ystya did not have all of the answers. “I was on the island for many centuries, but still just a child. Apparently, my mother was pregnant with me when she left Terravitae because of some conflict with Ondun, a scandal or dark secret. I was little more than an infant when my father joined us on the island.”
“How can the creator of all things have a scandal?” Fyiri scoffed.
Ystya shrugged. “You’ve told me how Ondun is portrayed in your church, but to me my parents seem more like people than the omnipotent deities you claim to worship.”
“I do not claim to worship them!”
Another shrug. “I can only say that if they were so benevolent and omnipotent, my mother would never have drowned my father in the well.”
Emphatically denying this, the sikara retreated from Sen Sherufa’s cabin, leaving the wooden door swinging open to the cold breeze outside.
Now that they had found the Key to Creation, Saan could have run home along their previous course, but he felt they must be close to Terravitae. He hoped to find the lost, sacred land. There was even a chance Holy Joron could keep them safe from Iyomelka.
Yal Dolicar gave a shrill whistle from the lookout nest. “Captain, you need to see this. There are mountains in the water—white mountains!”
Saan pulled a woolen blanket around himself before stepping out onto the deck with Ystya at his side. Even Grigovar had wrapped himself in extra shirts, no longer leaving his arms bare. Though the air crackled with deep cold, the young woman did not seem uncomfortable in the biting chill, despite her thin garments and slight body.
Ahead, jagged white islands protruded like molars from the water gleaming in the sun. The mounds were entirely covered by glistening snow and ice, and Saan gradually realized the frozen islands were floating.
The icebergs became a maze, forcing the Al-Orizin to pick a tortuous path. When they drifted close to a frozen wall, the men came out with their picks, hammers, and shovels and hacked off large chunks, which they stacked in barrels to melt for drinking water.
One of the frozen mountains scraped the bottom of the hull, and Saan yelled out a course correction. “Careful! Hitting one of those would be like running aground on a reef!”
“These are dangerous waters,” Sherufa said. “Maybe we should turn back.”
Saan gestured behind them. “Iyomelka’s still after us somewhere back there. We go forward.”
Then as they rounded a particularly large berg, Yal Dolicar let out another startled cry from the lookout nest. “A ship, Captain—a ship, frozen into the ice!”
Ahead, a strange squat craft with tall masts was caught in the flowing embrace of an ice mountain. Its tattered, frost-rimed sails hinted that the vessel had been there for some time. The ship’s design was unlike anything Saan had ever seen.
“How can another ship be here, Captain?” Grigovar called. “Who else has ever sailed this far?”
“No one…that we know about,” Saan said. “Bring us close. I want to go across and see just what that ship has to offer.”
“There may be demons aboard,” Fyiri admonished, “ready to trap unwary travelers.”
“I’ll join you,” Ystya said, unafraid.
The priestess quickly responded, “Then I will come along as well, to grant Urec’s protection, if necessary.” Saan didn’t comment.
Slow-flowing ice locked the mysterious ship in place against the frozen mountain, but her deck and masts remained clear. Crewmembers threw hooks to grapple the vessels together. Saan was the first to spring across, careful to maintain his footing on the slippery deck, then he helped Ystya over. Grigovar and Fyiri came next, followed by the Saedran chartsman and Yal Dolicar. All open surfaces were glazed with ice—every rope, every spar, every plank. They walked along the eerie deck, their voices hushed.
They soon found the crew. The ancient sailors were in position, their hair shaggy and dark, their clothes thick and lined with fur for a cold voyage. But now they were motionless, frozen instantaneously in place while in the midst of their normal activities.
Saan tried to read the expression of the nearest man. The sailor’s eyes showed neither terror nor pain. Saan rapped the man’s cheek with his knuckle, but he was frozen solid, encased in ice.