The Urabans on board, especially Sikara Fyiri, were unsettled to be so close to the Aidenist vessel. Ropes and grappling hooks tied the wrecks together, and the ships held on like two drunken men supporting each other as they staggered away from a tavern fight.
Tierran and Uraban sailors eyed one another across the decks; Sikara Fyiri glowered at the Aidenist prester as if he were a murderer of children, and he regarded the sikara with equal hatred. The man had waxy burn scars on his face and hands, but the greater scars seemed to be behind his narrowed eyes. Sen Sherufa and the other Saedran chartsman were the only two people unabashedly pleased with the encounter.
Saltwater continued to leak through gaps in the Al-Orizin’s hull, despite the best efforts of the crew to patch the damage. At Saan’s urging, and to test her powers, Ystya attempted to draw upon the magic in the water and wood, to recreate her mother’s spell in resurrecting her sunken ship.
The young woman did spark enough magic to regrow the wood of shattered planks, knit the threads of the sails, twist and bind some of the frayed ropes, but when she finished she looked gray and weak. “I used up too much strength when I fought against my mother and called the storms.” Ystya shook her head. “I’ll have more power when we reach Terravitae. That land is a wellspring for my people, just as the island spring was a source for my mother.”
The storm had smashed the window of Saan’s cabin, and flooding saltwater had ruined the ancient chart from the frozen ship; fortunately, he kept the Map of Urec in its leather case, where it remained protected.
The sympathetic journal had also gotten wet so that some of the ink in the older entries ran, but he rescued it and left it out to dry. Now, as Saan gingerly turned the soggy pages, he knew his mother would be worried, so he decided to tell her that he was alive, at least for now.
New words had appeared there in his mother’s hand, and he read with widening eyes. None of Saan’s adventures or discoveries during his voyage prepared him for what she revealed.
He knew most of his mother’s story, of course. She had been taken from a Tierran fishing village, and his blond hair and blue eyes proclaimed his foreign heritage like an insult every time he peered into a gazing glass. He knew that his true father was a fisherman or sailor who had been away when the raiders struck Windcatch.
But now she wrote to tell him that the captain—the Aidenist sailor who had guided his vessel all the way around the world—was that man. Criston Vora. His father. It was impossible…but she would never lie to him.
Criston. With a lurch in his chest, Saan felt the resonance. Though he hadn’t made the connection before, now he understood why his mother had chosen that name for her other baby boy…Criston, the son of the soldan-shah who was murdered by Cliaparia.
This was more unbelievable than learning that Ystya was the Key to Creation, more unbelievable than finding Ondun’s drowned body deep in a well on the island. The other captain, right there across the deck, was his father.
Saan stared at the handwritten page, afraid to tell anyone. Even though the sympathetic journal was nearly used up, Istar had devoted an entire sheet to explain everything in full detail. He took a long time to absorb the fact that his own quest had been on an unwitting collision course with his father’s. Criston Vora.
If Istar declared that the bearded man on the damaged Tierran vessel was truly his father, Saan would not dishonor his mother by refusing to accept it as fact. But he found it very difficult.
Saan pondered what to do, trying to loosen the knot in his stomach. He had not crossed over to the Dyscovera as yet, had not spoken directly with the other captain, the prester, or any of the Aidenist crew. Sen Sherufa and Aldo na-Curic had worked out the terms of cooperation.
How would the Tierran captain receive this news? Saan hoped he would be happy. Would he even believe it? Saan wasn’t sure how he felt about it himself.
On unsteady legs, he went to the door of his cabin where the lashed-together boards barely hung in place on one intact hinge. When he signaled for Sen Sherufa, she saw his troubled expression. “What is it, Captain?”
“Please ask the captain of the Dyscovera to come aboard. I would like to meet with him in my cabin. There is…something important I’ve got to tell him. A private matter, but I want you and the other chartsman here to act as translators—both of you, but no one else.”
Intrigued, she went off to find Sen Aldo and arrange the meeting. Saan withdrew into his cabin and sat down, wrestling with what he was going to say.
Before long, the other captain arrived, looking wary. When Criston Vora entered, Saan searched the man’s face, and could not deny the familiarity he saw there…the same features, the blue eyes, the Tierran nose and chin line. When Captain Vora saw Saan’s light complexion for the first time, he too was thrown off balance, and even more surprised when Saan unwrapped the olba from his head to reveal his blond hair.
Saan looked at the two Saedrans and held out the sympathetic journal that contained his mother’s words. He cleared his throat. “I have a story to tell you, Captain Criston Vora.” Saan spoke so quickly that Sen Sherufa and Aldo had difficulty keeping up with their translation.
Listening, the other captain sat back heavily in the chair, as if Saan had dealt him a hard blow to the chest. “I only just learned that my Adrea was still alive…and now this.”
Saan talked about the soldan-shah’s palace, Istar’s two daughters, even the baby boy she had named Criston. “Look at me, Tierran,” Saan said. “Look at my eyes and study my face, as I have studied yours. The truth is there. You know it now, just as I do. Your wife—my mother—is still alive. And I am your son.”