Using a standard letter of passage from the soldan-shah, which Istar obtained from the palace commerce minister, along with sufficient funds to pay for travel and necessities, she set off across Uraba with Ciarlo and Asaddan.
Once Istar had convinced her brother that Ur-Sikara Kuari was not a scheming fanatic like so many other sikaras, Ciarlo was enthused by the idea of speaking to the woman. “If we heal the hatred between our religions, then we can stop this war. If she is reasonable, perhaps I can make the ur-sikara listen to us.”
“And will you listen to her as well, friend Ciarlo?” Asaddan asked. “Are you interested in the worthy points of her religion?”
Ciarlo wrestled with his answer, knowing how he needed to respond. “I will…listen. Aiden and Urec—and Joron—were brothers. They must have loved one another. We should start from there.”
As they traveled along the coastal road toward Ishalem, Istar found Ciarlo’s sincere passion heartwarming. Her brother had no violence in him, did not seek to eradicate anyone who followed the Fern instead of the Fishhook. She was surprised at how brave (some would say foolish) he had been to travel to Uraba without even speaking the language and knowing almost nothing about Urec’s Log. He had been naïve, unprepared, and full of faith.
As they rode east, Istar said, “I had to learn about a whole new world when I was brought to Uraba. I spent my first years as a household slave, absorbing the language, learning about their religion. It is very strange for an Aidenist to hear what they believe.”
In all her years in the soldan-shah’s palace, Istar had never fully embraced the Urecari faith, although she was familiar with the scriptures and rituals. When she agreed to become Omra’s wife in order to protect her son, she had convinced herself that it would never be a true marriage, since their religion was a lie. In the eyes of Aiden and Ondun, Criston Vora would always be her true husband.
But over the course of two decades, as her son was raised in Olabar, as she bore Omra two daughters, as he took care of Istar and gave her prominence, listened to her advice and treated her as a true partner rather than a spoil of war, her attitude had slowly changed. Istar could not have endured if she had spent every day believing that her life was a lie, that her daughters themselves were the result of a crime.
“My feelings became blurred over the years. There is some good in what the Urecari believe, just as there is good in the Book of Aiden. In fact, presters and sikaras teach the same things, but too few people on either side truly practice what they claim to believe.”
Asaddan said, “I respect Ciarlo because he lives by his beliefs—I have seen it for myself.”
Ciarlo gave a solemn nod. “I still remember the raid on Windcatch…the fires, the murders, poor Prester Fennan. Since coming to Uraba, I’ve seen terrible things, and had terrible things done to me.” He visibly steeled himself and then told her again how angry followers of Urec had burned his irreplaceable Tales of the Traveler, how he’d been chained to a galley bench aboard the Moray, whipped for speaking the word of Aiden, then keelhauled. “I have also met a few kind sikaras.”
Though she cringed, Istar said, “Aidenists aren’t entirely innocent either, Ciarlo.” With great pain, she described the beautiful hanging lake of Fashia’s Fountain. “Istala wanted to join the priestesses there. But Aidenist attackers defiled the shrine and slaughtered every one of the pilgrims and priestesses. If it had happened a few months later, my own daughter would have been murdered along with the rest of them.”
Shocked to hear this, Ciarlo rode on in silence, deep in thought.
Riding ever westward, they reached Ishalem five days after Omra had arrived in the city. A huge Tierran army had besieged the wall, commencing a constant catapult bombardment, and the Aidenist navy had blockaded the Oceansea harbor.
According to the news they received in the streets, Omra had increased defenses on the wall and stationed numerous guards at the gates and watchtowers, preparing for the large military assault that was sure to come. After the fiery attack on Olabar harbor and now the threat to Ishalem, he was understandably outraged—and Istar was afraid of how the soldan-shah would react to Ciarlo, even if he was her brother. Omra might not be in any mood to talk about peace and understanding.
“I’ll speak with the ur-sikara first,” Ciarlo said. “We may understand each other after all. Can you get us an audience with her?” He blinked his blue eyes at Istar, so innocent, so earnest—and entirely without fear. With unsettling calm, Ciarlo had told her he was willing to die a death similar to Prester-Marshall Baine’s—strung up on a post with a fishhook through his throat—if it provided an example that would open the hearts and minds of the Urecari to the light of Aidenism.
Istar did not intend to let it come to that.
They passed the rubble of Soldan Huttan’s collapsed church, where dusty laborers picked over the piles of debris to salvage metal and stone. Carts rattled away, piled with broken blocks, either to be used in construction projects or hurled as missiles should the Tierran army breach the Ishalem gates.
Asaddan secured lodgings so their party could rest before Istar requested an audience with the ur-sikara. Omra would be preoccupied with the city’s defenses, but she was confident Kuari would at least receive her and give her brother a fair hearing. Beyond that…
When the three unpacked their belongings and changed out of dusty traveling clothes, Istar was distracted by nostalgic thoughts of her brother, of Criston Vora…and Saan. And that made her want to open up the sympathetic journal she carried in her pack.
For several months now, Istar and Sen Sherufa had carried on a correspondence, writing messages back and forth on the book’s ever-diminishing pages. The long-distance conversation allowed Istar to feel close to her son, to know what Saan was doing and how far he had sailed. But most of the twinned half-pages were already covered with writing, and Istar worried that every scrap of paper would be used up before Saan could come home safely.
Opening the book, she flipped to the last pages and saw fresh lines of Sen Sherufa’s tight handwriting, shorthand sentences that used as little paper as possible. The message was devastating, unbelievable.
At first, Istar read a recounting of the icebergs and the ancient frozen ship, Iyomelka’s continued pursuit, the destructive storm, and the Leviathan attack—which sent a chill down her back, for Ciarlo had told her how the very same monster had sunk the Luminara and nearly killed Criston. Sherufa provided only bald facts: Iyomelka was dead, killed by the Leviathan, which had in turn been slain by the mysterious ghost ships. The Al-Orizin was badly damaged, barely able to make sail.
Istar squinted down at the last sentences Sen Sherufa managed to fit at the bottom of the torn page. The Al-Orizin had joined forces with an equally battered Tierran vessel, the Dyscovera. Istar recognized the name from her brother. Criston Vora had sailed away aboard that ship on his quest to find Terravitae.
The implications made her reel. Saan was with his father, and didn’t even know it!
Though her heart was torn, she felt a great and unexpected joy. Saan needed to be told. Choosing her words carefully, but writing as fast as she could, Istar—Adrea—picked up a pen.