“We can have garments made for Sikara Fyiri, since she made such a wonderful blessing for
the baby.”
Omra squeezed her hand. “It was a wonderful blessing, indeed.”
With the church’s main sikara accompanying the soldan-shah to Ishalem, Omra and Istar had enlisted the service of a young
priestess with no obvious political agenda, though the zarif was sure she would develop one in time, as sikaras usually did.
Fyiri had come for the sunset ceremony, bringing her copy of Urec’s Log and ribbons of colored paper on which she would write
prayers before tying them to sticks to flutter in the wind where Ondun could read them.
“We accept your offering of the silk,” Omra said to the merchants. “My wife certainly approves.” He ate one of the warm almonds
roasted in sea salt, while Istar poured cups of sweet tea for both of them. At the back of the room, Tukar employed a piece
of chalk on a square of slate, writing a note to himself.
Omra called the next visitor, knowing that this was what his father did every day. No wonder Soldan-Shah Imir had been so
eager to make the voyage to Ishalem.
5
Ishalem, Urecari District
Prester Hannes wore dirty clothes in the Uraban style, shapeless rags draped over his shoulders to make him look like a beggar,
because beggars drew very little attention. The people he encountered on this side of Ishalem automatically assumed he was
a follower of Urec. Though that meant his disguise was perfect, he still resented being confused for one of the loathsome
heretics.
But he had to be convincing, had to fit in. “Consider yourself a spy for God,” Prester-Marshall Baine had told him more than
a year earlier, before sending him to Ishalem. Fortunately, Hannes’s faith in Aiden was unwavering, and Ondun Himself knew
the difference between truth and lies.
Head down, he wandered the streets in the Urecari District, noting how the merchants cheated their customers, listening to
the gossip and the delusions. These people went about their lives without even realizing their sins. As a prester, he was
a kind and compassionate man, doing the work of Ondun, but sadly none of these Urabans could be forgiven.
Beneath the gigantic wreck of the Arkship—
Aiden’s
ship, though all these people pretended it was Urec’s—devout Urecari made pilgrimages up the switchbacked path to stand in
the shadow of the ancient, ruined hull. Pilgrims petitioned sikaras, paying fees to climb the hill and even touch the holy
wood of the enormous beached vessel. Prester Hannes had been up to the Arkship many times since arriving in Ishalem. He climbed
the hill at night and slipped past the church guards, just so he could have private time with his prayers.
Now, as thin brass bells pealed in the minaret towers of the prime church, he moved along the streets, blending into the crowd
of worshippers called to sunset services. The outside of the monumental heathen church bore carved stone stations, each panel
depicting part of the story. Some images were correct, in order to lull the faithful: Ondun and his sons in Terravitae… Aiden
and Urec sailing off in their separate vessels, leaving Holy Joron behind… Urec with his map, Aiden with his sacred compass.
Then the deception began: Urec and his ship arriving on the shores of Uraba… battles with the natives who viewed them as enemies…
Urec’s decision to take multiple wives for himself, a rule that all Aidenists despised… then an aged Urec planting the golden
fern before wandering off to become the Traveler.
Hannes had seen these images many times, had heard the lies in the sermons given by the sikaras. He still felt the knot of
anger each time he witnessed the dissemination of such blatant untruths.
Aiden
had become the Traveler, not Urec. Unable to build their own religion, the Urecari had obviously co-opted the tenets of Aidenism.
And yet they were blind to their delusions. He both pitied them and reviled
the baby.”
Omra squeezed her hand. “It was a wonderful blessing, indeed.”
With the church’s main sikara accompanying the soldan-shah to Ishalem, Omra and Istar had enlisted the service of a young
priestess with no obvious political agenda, though the zarif was sure she would develop one in time, as sikaras usually did.
Fyiri had come for the sunset ceremony, bringing her copy of Urec’s Log and ribbons of colored paper on which she would write
prayers before tying them to sticks to flutter in the wind where Ondun could read them.
“We accept your offering of the silk,” Omra said to the merchants. “My wife certainly approves.” He ate one of the warm almonds
roasted in sea salt, while Istar poured cups of sweet tea for both of them. At the back of the room, Tukar employed a piece
of chalk on a square of slate, writing a note to himself.
Omra called the next visitor, knowing that this was what his father did every day. No wonder Soldan-Shah Imir had been so
eager to make the voyage to Ishalem.
5
Ishalem, Urecari District
Prester Hannes wore dirty clothes in the Uraban style, shapeless rags draped over his shoulders to make him look like a beggar,
because beggars drew very little attention. The people he encountered on this side of Ishalem automatically assumed he was
a follower of Urec. Though that meant his disguise was perfect, he still resented being confused for one of the loathsome
heretics.
But he had to be convincing, had to fit in. “Consider yourself a spy for God,” Prester-Marshall Baine had told him more than
a year earlier, before sending him to Ishalem. Fortunately, Hannes’s faith in Aiden was unwavering, and Ondun Himself knew
the difference between truth and lies.
Head down, he wandered the streets in the Urecari District, noting how the merchants cheated their customers, listening to
the gossip and the delusions. These people went about their lives without even realizing their sins. As a prester, he was
a kind and compassionate man, doing the work of Ondun, but sadly none of these Urabans could be forgiven.
Beneath the gigantic wreck of the Arkship—
Aiden’s
ship, though all these people pretended it was Urec’s—devout Urecari made pilgrimages up the switchbacked path to stand in
the shadow of the ancient, ruined hull. Pilgrims petitioned sikaras, paying fees to climb the hill and even touch the holy
wood of the enormous beached vessel. Prester Hannes had been up to the Arkship many times since arriving in Ishalem. He climbed
the hill at night and slipped past the church guards, just so he could have private time with his prayers.
Now, as thin brass bells pealed in the minaret towers of the prime church, he moved along the streets, blending into the crowd
of worshippers called to sunset services. The outside of the monumental heathen church bore carved stone stations, each panel
depicting part of the story. Some images were correct, in order to lull the faithful: Ondun and his sons in Terravitae… Aiden
and Urec sailing off in their separate vessels, leaving Holy Joron behind… Urec with his map, Aiden with his sacred compass.
Then the deception began: Urec and his ship arriving on the shores of Uraba… battles with the natives who viewed them as enemies…
Urec’s decision to take multiple wives for himself, a rule that all Aidenists despised… then an aged Urec planting the golden
fern before wandering off to become the Traveler.
Hannes had seen these images many times, had heard the lies in the sermons given by the sikaras. He still felt the knot of
anger each time he witnessed the dissemination of such blatant untruths.
Aiden
had become the Traveler, not Urec. Unable to build their own religion, the Urecari had obviously co-opted the tenets of Aidenism.
And yet they were blind to their delusions. He both pitied them and reviled
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