Next morning, setting their makeshift sails and raising the anchors, the lumbering vessels drifted toward the mysterious coastline with the mer-Saedrans swimming ahead in the turbulent waves. A low fog rolled in, softening the sharp edges of the shore, but the coast looked rocky and bleak, with high cliffs that offered no place to land—a far cry from the lush paradise they had hoped for.
“A continent is a large place,” Criston said, as if by way of apology. “And we’ll have much to explore.”
Closer to the rugged shore, Criston was stunned by what he saw: cast high on the rocks was the skeletal wreck of an enormous ship. Its keel and ribs, toppled mast, and few intact hull boards reminded him very much of another wreck that had rested on a hill in Ishalem. An Arkship.
Sikara Fyiri’s cry was as sharp as a scimitar. “It must be Aiden’s ship, which he sailed home after leaving Urec’s vessel in Ishalem.”
“Aiden’s vessel was the one in Ishalem,” Hannes snapped. “I was in Ishalem. I made the pilgrimage. I lived there for years. I—”
The sikara chuckled. “Delusions do not become true just because you speak them loudly. Aiden is the one who turned and ran home, while Urec remained.”
“You have no proof of that.”
“Of course I have proof,” Fyiri said sweetly. “Urec stayed behind, because Urec is the Traveler. His tales and adventures are part of our history.”
“Aiden is the Traveler,” Hannes said with exasperated patience. “Not Urec.”
Criston and his son consulted each other about the wreck, both longing to see it close up. But frothing waters curled around the cliffs, and jagged teeth of rock protruded from underwater outcroppings. “We can barely maneuver our ships as it is,” Saan said. “I don’t think we should go closer.”
Kjelnar warned, “This is not a good landfall, Captain. Dangerous and not worth the risk.”
Criston knew the shipwright was correct. “If even Kjelnar is uneasy, then I don’t dare take the Dyscovera close to that shore. We’d be dashed upon the rocks. We’ll have to find a safe landing and come back overland.”
King Sonhir had emerged from the choppy waters and climbed up onto the deck. He looked at the weathered skeleton of the intriguing ship with a smile. “We have something far more compelling to show you farther down the coast—we can be there tomorrow. I promise, it will change your entire understanding of the world.”
With the guidance of the mer-Saedrans, the two ships made excellent progress down the Terravitae coast in search of a safe landing, dodging treacherous rocks and foamy whirlpools. They dropped anchor at a safe distance from a bulwark of stone dotted with patches of moss and weeds, where seabirds flitted about the cliffs. Criston could see several prominent caves at the waterline, like secret tunnels leading into the heart of the continent.
As evening fell, Kjelnar trod water at the bow of the Dyscovera, undeterred by the cold sea. “This is as close as these big ships can go, Captain Vora! Drop anchor, and tomorrow we’ll lead the small boats from here.” He tossed his long, reddish-gold hair out of his face. “Believe me, there’s something in those grottoes you’ll all want to see.”
Chains rattled, and the heavy anchors dropped into the water, catching on the rocky sea floor.
Terravitae.
In his private cabin Hannes lit two large candles for reading, knowing he wouldn’t sleep this night. He could smell and taste the majestic new land just off the Dyscovera’s bow. Tomorrow, he would set foot on sacred Terravitae.
Inflamed with passion, he hunched over the Book of Aiden. He sharpened his pen’s writing tip with his dagger and scribbled copious notes in the margins of Urec’s blasphemous Log, cross-referencing verses from the Book of Aiden that refuted the lies in the rival text. Even if he showed all this to Fyiri, of course it would do no good. Fuming at the thought of her stubbornness, he jabbed the dagger point down into the wooden top of his writing desk.
It was the dead of night, still four hours until dawn, when Hannes’s cabin door creaked open. Indignant at the intrusion, he turned to see Fyiri standing there in her red robes, a demon come to haunt his dreams. He rose from his writing chair, ready to cast her out like an impure thought, but she smiled and held up her hand. “Prester, you and I need to talk before tomorrow.”
“I’ve talked a great deal with you already, Sikara, but you refuse to listen.”
Impatient with him, she stepped inside and closed the cabin door behind her without a sound. “Nevertheless, a new time is upon us. Once we stand on Terravitae, there will no longer be any doubt.”
“I have never had doubts.”
Fyiri stepped closer to him. Very close. Too close. He noticed that she was dressed differently. She had sashed her immaculate red robe tight and low to accentuate her hips, her breasts. Her rich hair had been brushed back and caught up in jeweled pins; several thick, gaudy rings adorned her fingers, and a gold pendant danced into her cleavage, drawing his gaze. The scent of exotic perfume wafted about her.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “I did not invite you.”
“Prester Hannes, I understand you better than any person aboard these two vessels. Whichever book we study and serve”—she indicated the two texts on his writing desk—“you and I are the true representatives of Ondun aboard these ships. When we find Holy Joron on Terravitae, should we not stand together? Be partners and show our strength?”
“Holy Joron would only think less of me if I were partner to a heretic.”
Fyiri let out a tinkling, seductive chuckle. “Is that how you think Joron will see us? As Aidenist and Urecari? Tierran and Uraban? We are two sides of the coin struck by Ondun. Man and woman. We are parts of each other.” She stepped even closer.
Hannes realized with astonishment that Fyiri was trying to seduce him! Did the sikara think him so weak? Were the Urecari so malleable and shiftless that they could surrender their core beliefs just for pleasures of the flesh?
“Come, Hannes, let me show you how we can be compatible.” She stroked the waxy burn scars on the side of his face without fear or revulsion. But the nerves there were deadened, and he pulled back sharply, finding her touch abhorrent.
A flash of anger crossed her face. Fyiri drew her hand back as if to slap him, and he instinctively lifted his left arm to protect himself. It was exactly what she wanted. With a lightning stroke, she scratched his forearm with a barb that protruded from one of her rings.
She stood back and laughed as he looked down at the long red welt. “And now you are a dead man. That poison will act soon enough. There is no antidote.”
She had come here with a complex scheme to kill him, but Prester Hannes preferred a more straightforward approach. He rarely resorted to tricks to get what he wanted—he simply acted. That was his nature. Grabbing the dagger from his writing desk, he plunged it deep into Fyiri’s chest.
He found her heart with the first blow, precise and efficient, and Sikara Fyiri couldn’t even scream. She gasped, her mouth and eyes wide open; blood welled from her chest as she fell to the floor.
Hannes yanked the dagger from her body, knowing that every beat of his heart drew the poison further into his bloodstream; he could not delay. He held out his arm where the scratch was reddening as he watched, and without even bothering to clean the woman’s blood from the blade, he stuck the dagger tip into his skin. Starting above the poisoned scratch, he drew a long, deep cut all the way down the forearm. His hand did not shake; his grip on the hilt did not falter. Blood welled up from the gash, streaming out and washing away the poison.
He let the blood flow for several minutes, spilling red droplets onto the priestess’s scarlet dress rather than on the deck. The sikara’s last gurgles and twitches acted like a metronome.
When he began to grow dizzy and lightheaded—from loss of blood surely, not from the effects of the poison—Hannes picked up one of his candles and tipped the molten wax into his wound, filling the long cut. He did not cry out, barely even winced. He had suffered much worse, and was accustomed to the pain of burns. The wound should be well enough cauterized.
One-handed, using clean but ragged kerchiefs from his wardrobe chest, he bound up the wound, tying it as tightly as he could, using his teeth to yank the knots. When he was finished, he looked down at the dead woman sprawled like a squashed bug on his cabin floor. “Another victory for Aiden.”
Hannes knew, however, that the sikara’s murder would infuriate the Urecari crew, which would cause problems for the faithful Aidenists aboard the Dyscovera. The holy destination was at hand. After they reached Terravitae, Hannes could abase himself before Holy Joron and ask for forgiveness—and then it wouldn’t matter what he had done to Fyiri. For now, he needed to buy time and stall their questions. Captain Vora must not be allowed to delay the exploration of the new land, and dawn was only a few hours away.
The night was quiet, and the sentries prowling the Dyscovera’s deck were intent on spotting Urecari treachery rather than watching their own prester.
Seeing no one nearby, Hannes slipped from his cabin, dragging the woman’s body, hiding in shadows when necessary. He took great care not to let her spill blood on the deck as he brought Fyiri to the side of the ship, tied one of the ship’s weight-stones to her ankle, and slipped the body overboard into the cold water.
He looked around and waited a few moments, but no one reacted to the splash. He returned to his cabin and there, with a satisfied smile, he closed Urec’s Log.