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Synopsis
Terra Incognita - the blank spaces on the map, past the edge of the world, marked only by the words "here be monsters."
Two nations at war, fighting for dominion over the known, and undiscovered, world, pin their last hopes at ultimate victory on finding a land out of legend.
Each will send their ships to brave the untamed seas, wild storms, sea serpents, and darker dangers unknown to any man. It is a perilous undertaking, but there will always be the impetuous, the brave and the mad who are willing to leave their homes to explore the unknown.
Even unto the edge of the world...
Kevin J. Anderson's spectacular fantasy debut is a sweeping tale of adventure on the high seas, as two warring kingdoms vie for the greatest treasure of them all.
Release date: May 20, 2009
Publisher: Orbit
Print pages: 608
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The Edge of the World
Kevin J. Anderson
were different, and their religion was contrary to everything he had been taught in the Aidenist kirk. For a twenty-year-old
sailor eager to see the world, those differences could be either wondrous or frightening—he wouldn’t know which until he met
the people of Uraba, which he was about to do.
The Fishhook had made this voyage several times, and Criston’s captain, Andon Shay, was confident in his abilities to negotiate another
trade deal with the Uraban merchants. The young man kept his eyes open and studied the unfolding coastline as the ship sailed
far, far south of everything he had known.
From his fishing village of Windcatch, he had always felt the call of the sea, wanting to see what lay beyond the horizon,
yearning to explore. Though he had signed on for only a short trading voyage, at least he was seeing the other continent:
Uraba. A place of legends and mystery.
Though connected by a narrow isthmus, the world’s two main continents, Uraba and Tierra, were separated by a wide gulf of
history and culture. Ages ago, at the beginning of time, when Ondun—God—had sent two of his sons in separate sailing ships
to explore the world, the descendants of Aiden’s crew had settled Tierra, while those from Urec’s vessel colonized Uraba.
Over the centuries, the followers of Aiden and the followers of Urec developed separate civilizations, religions, and traditions;
despite their differences, they were bound together by ties of trade and necessity.
On a bright sunny day with a brisk breeze, Captain Shay called for the sails to be trimmed for a gentle approach to the city
of Ouroussa, where they hoped to find eager customers. The hold of the Fishhook contained barrels of whale oil from Soeland Reach, large spools of hemp rope from Erietta, grain from Alamont, and, in a
special locked chest in the captain’s cabin, beautiful metal-worked jewelry made by the skilled smiths of Corag Reach. Though
the bangles and ornaments would be sold to the followers of Urec, the Corag metalworkers had subtly hidden a tiny Aidenist
fishhook on each piece of jewelry.
Captain Shay would sell his cargo at prices greatly reduced from what the other Uraban merchants and middlemen could offer.
With fast vessels, intrepid Tierran sailors braved the uncharted currents and sailed directly to Uraba’s coastal cities, bypassing
the much slower overland merchants (much to their consternation).
Near the ship’s wheel, Criston paused to look at the two compasses mounted on a sheltered pedestal, a traditional magnetic
compass that always pointed toward magnetic north and a magical Captain’s Compass that always pointed home. The silver needle of the Captain’s Compass came from the same piece of precious metal as an identical needle in the Tierran
capital city of Calay. These twinned needles remained linked to each other by sympathetic magic, as all things in Ondun’s
creation were said to be linked.
Now, as the Fishhook closed in on Ouroussa, the crew saw a flurry of activity in the distant harbor; a ship with a bright red sail set out to
meet them, sailing toward the open water. Captain Shay gestured to Criston. “Go aloft and have a look, Seaman Vora.” Shay’s
dark hair ran to his shoulders, and instead of wearing a full bushy beard like most ship captains, he kept his neatly trimmed.
Nimble and unafraid of heights, the young man scrambled up the shroud lines to reach the lookout nest. During the voyage,
Criston had enjoyed spending time high atop the main mast overlooking the waters; he had even seen several fearsome-looking
sea serpents, but only at a distance.
As the Uraban ship approached, Criston noted its central painted icon on its square mainsail, the Eye of Urec. He spied additional
movement in the harbor, where two fast Uraban galleys launched, their oars extended, beating across the water at a good clip.
They spread apart, approaching the Fishhook from opposite directions.
Captain Shay called for a report, and Criston scrambled back down the lines to relate what he had seen to Captain Shay. “I
couldn’t see many crewmen aboard the main ship, Captain. Maybe they just want to escort us into port.”
“Never needed an escort before. These aren’t waters that require a pilot.” Shay snapped orders to his crew, and all twenty-eight
men came out on deck to stand ready. “Once they know what we’re offering, they’ll welcome us with open arms, but don’t let
your guard down.” He turned back to the young sailor. “This could be a very interesting first voyage for you, Seaman.”
“It’s not my first voyage, sir. I’ve spent most of my life on boats.”
“It’s your first voyage with me, and that’s what counts.”
Criston’s father, a fisherman, had been lost at sea, and Criston himself had served aboard many boats, working the local catch
but dreaming of more ambitious voyages. Though young, Criston owned his own small boat for carrying cargo up to the Tierran
capital of Calay, but the prospect of paying off the money-lenders seemed daunting. So when the Fishhook had passed through Windcatch on her way south and Captain Shay asked for short-term sailors to accompany him on a two-month
trip to Ouroussa, offering wages higher than he could make on his own boat, Criston had jumped at the chance.
Not only would it help him pay off the debt, but it would give Criston a chance to see far-off lands. And when he returned
to Windcatch with his purse full of coins, he would finally be able to marry Adrea, whom he had loved for years. Once the
Fishhook unloaded her cargo in Ouroussa, Criston could be on his way home…
As the scarlet-sailed Uraban ship closed to within hailing distance, he spotted a man standing near the bow dressed in loose
cream-colored robes, his head wrapped in a pale olba. Only five crewmen stood with the man on the foreign vessel’s deck. The
robed man shouted across to them in heavily accented Tierran. “I am Fillok, Ouroussa’s city leader. What goods have you brought
us?”
Shay lowered his voice to Criston. “Fillok… I know that name. I think he’s the brother of the soldan of Outer Wahilir, an
important man. Why would he come to meet us?” He frowned in consternation. “Men who consider themselves important sometimes do brash things, and it’s
rarely a good sign.” The captain raised his voice and called back across the water, “We are on our way to port. I can give
your harbormaster a full list.”
“It is my right to inspect your cargo here and now! How do we know your boat is not filled with soldiers to attack Ouroussa?”
“Why would we do that?” Shay asked, genuinely perplexed.
If Fillok did not change course, his ship would collide with the Fishhook within minutes. Captain Shay eyed the two swift war galleys coming toward them from both port and starboard. “This doesn’t
feel right, Vora. Go up there and have another look.” The young sailor slipped away and scrambled back up the ropes to the
lookout nest.
Tierran traders often made great profit from selling to Uraban cities, but many vessels vanished, more than could reasonably
be accounted for by storms and reefs. If Fillok were an ambitious and unprincipled man, he could have attacked those traders
and seized their cargoes. No one in Tierra would know.
When Criston reached the lookout nest and peered down at the foreign ship, he was astonished to see far more than just the
five Uraban sailors standing at the ropes. At least a dozen armed men crouched out of sight behind crates and sailcloth on
the deck; the hatches were open, and even more Uraban men crowded below, holding bright scimitars. Criston cupped his hands
around his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Captain, it’s a trap! The ship is full of armed men!”
Shay shouted to his crew, “Set sails! All canvas, take the wind now!” Already on edge, the men jumped to untie knots, pull ropes, and drop sails abruptly into place.
Criston’s warning forced Fillok into abrupt action. The Ouroussan city leader screamed something in his own language, and
hidden men burst into view, lifting their swords. Shrill trumpets sounded a call to battle. Ropes with grappling hooks flew
across the narrow gap between the two ships; several fell into the water, but three caught the Fishhook’s deck rail. Answering horns and drumbeats came from the two closing war galleys, and the rowers picked up their pace.
Shay reached down to grab a long harpoon stowed just below the starboard bow of the Fishhook. The Tierran men armed themselves with boat-hooks, oars, and stunning clubs. Criston clambered back down to the deck, ready
to join the fight. He held a long boat-knife to defend himself, though its reach was much shorter than that of a Uraban scimitar.
Criston ran to the straining ropes that bound the ships together, just as five Urabans jumped across the gap with an eerie
inhuman howl. Ducking the wide swing of a Uraban sword, he sawed at the first rope until it snapped and immediately set to
work on the second one.
The Fishhook’s sails were fully extended now, giving her a much greater canvas area than Fillok’s small Uraban ship. The ropes creaked
as the Tierran vessel tried to break away. One of the Tierran sailors went down, bleeding from a deep gash in his head.
Ignoring the mayhem around him, Captain Shay cocked his arm back and let the long harpoon fly toward the other ship. Where
its sharp iron tip plunged directly through Fillok’s chest. The Ouroussan city leader staggered backward, grabbing the harpoon’s
shaft in astonishment, before he collapsed into a pool of blood on his own deck.
The Uraban attackers howled in rage upon seeing their leader killed. They piled against one another, preparing to leap across
and slaughter the Tierrans. Racing in from shore, the two war galleys closed in a pincer maneuver.
Criston sawed with his knife until he severed the third grappling rope, and like a freed stallion, the Fishhook lunged free, separating from the Uraban ship as many of the enemy fighters leaped across. A dozen men tumbled into the deep
water, and only two managed to cling to the side of the Fishhook, clutching nets and an anchor rope. Leaning over the rail, Criston lopped off fingers with a knife slash, and the screaming
men slid into the water.
Though he was as white as a sheet, Captain Shay’s voice did not waver as he shouted, “All speed—head north! Out to open sea!”
The Fishhook began to pull away.
Only three enemy soldiers remained on the deck. Captain Shay’s crew quickly dispatched them and dumped the bodies overboard.
With Fillok killed—the brother of the local soldan!—the remaining Uraban sailors were in a frenzy aboard his ship. The drums
of the approaching war galleys beat furiously, but the Fishhook’s sails pushed the cargo ship faster. The coastline began to dwindle in the distance, but Criston knew the uproar would not
die down. “Captain, what just happened? Why did they do that? We came only to trade.”
“They wanted our cargo, and now they’ll want our hides as well.” Shay looked sick. “Fillok’s brother will go to Soldan-Shah
Imir and demand blood. I suppose the blood of any Tierran will do. We have to get to King Korastine as quickly as possible.”
He gave the young sailor a weary smile as he turned the wheel and aligned the course with the Captain’s Compass. “When we
pass Windcatch, I can drop you off, Mr. Vora. But for the rest of us…” He shook his head, still frowning. “I think we just
started a war.”
The royal ship sailed southward through the night, following the Tierran coastline. She was a single-masted cog with her square
sails trimmed so that she made slow headway under the stars. Because the route down to the holy city of Ishalem was so well
charted, with lighthouses to mark hazardous stretches, the captain was comfortable with proceeding in the dark.
Even so, King Korastine of Tierra could not sleep, caught between hope and anxiety about the upcoming meeting with Soldan-Shah
Imir. After the disastrous clash between Captain Shay’s trading ship and the Uraban privateers, he could just as easily have
been leading warships down to ransack Ouroussa and sink enemy ships in the harbor.
Instead of leaping headfirst into war, the Uraban leader had dispatched his best ambassador, a man named Giladen, to search
for a peaceful solution. Though neither leader would admit it, both knew that Captain Shay should not have gone where he did;
they also knew that Fillok should not have attacked a peaceful trading ship, and that a harpoon in the heart was exactly what
he deserved. Though their respective populations were inflamed, both the king and the soldan-shah believed they had a chance
to salvage the situation.
Long past midnight, Korastine stood on the raised bow platform and gazed into the misty shadows that lay ahead, imagining
their destination. Ishalem. The sacred city built on the narrow isthmus that connected the continents… the most ancient settlement in the known world,
considered holy by both the Aidenist religion and the rival Urecari religion.
Korastine wrapped weathered hands around the wooden balustrade. He was a thin man, wise-looking, barely forty. His long hair
and neatly trimmed beard were light brown, salted with graying strands. He could already see what he would look like when
he grew old, and times like these aged a man more swiftly.
In Ishalem, he and the soldan-shah would sign a treaty blessed by the Aidenist prester-marshall and the head sikara priestess
of the Urecari church. After so many years of turmoil, they would divide the known world in half, clearly defining the two
spheres of influence. That would settle the matter for all time, and at last there would be peace.
So why couldn’t he sleep? Why did his stomach insist upon knotting itself with doubts? With a heavy sigh, he tried to convince
himself that he was just being a fool, stung by too many disappointments, too many misplaced dreams.
The mist intensified the salt-and-seaweed smell in the air. The whispering laughter of gentle waves against the hull planks
was soothing. Though there were hammocks below, most crewmen chose to sleep on the open deck. A puff of breeze luffed the
sail-cloth, making the masts and rigging creak.
Korastine barely heard the soft barefoot tread ascending the steps to the forecastle platform. He turned to see his beloved
eleven-year-old daughter rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Are we almost to Ishalem, Father?”
“We’ll be there in the morning.” He reached out to hug her, and she comfortably folded herself into his arms.
Princess Anjine had straight brown hair, parted in the middle. When she was at court in Calay, she brushed her hair many times
nightly, as her mother had once insisted, but on the five-day voyage, the girl didn’t bother with such silliness, and the
king couldn’t blame her.
Though Queen Sena had been dead from pneumonia for half a year now, Korastine and his wife had often disagreed on the raising
of their only child; the queen insisted that Anjine ought to be ladylike and courtly, while Korastine wanted the girl to focus
more on leadership—while also being allowed some measure of her own childhood. As an uneasy compromise, the princess had learned
both.
Knowing how much was at stake with the upcoming treaty, the king insisted that Anjine accompany him now. He could never forget
the responsibility he had to his people and to his daughter. One day, he would leave Tierra in Anjine’s care, and he did not
want to give her a broken, war-torn land.
Korastine glanced around for his daughter’s constant companion. “Where is Mateo?” One year older than Anjine, the young man
was Korastine’s ward by virtue of a heartfelt promise made when Mateo’s father, a captain of the royal guard, had died in
the line of duty.
“Oh, he has no trouble sleeping.” Anjine lounged back against the rail. “Should I go splash a bucket of seawater in his face?”
“Let him sleep. We’re going to have a busy day when we reach port.”
As the royal cog had sailed out of Calay Harbor, Anjine and Mateo had chattered with excitement about the exotic things they
were going to see. Neither had ever been to Ishalem, though they had heard plenty of stories from sailors, presters, and teachers.
By the second day, however, the excitement of the voyage faded, and Mateo made it his personal mission to entertain Anjine.
After the king had scolded the two children for scrambling up the mast and hanging on the rigging, Mateo devoted himself to
playing strategy games with her. They hunkered down together on the deck boards, sketching out a chalk grid and making their
marks. Korastine noted, proudly, that Anjine won more often than the boy did.
Queen Sena would have argued against bringing Mateo Bornan along at all, claiming that the king had gone far beyond the requirements
of his promise to care for the boy. Though he did not like to think ill of the dead, stuffy Sena was no longer with them,
and Korastine could raise his daughter as he pleased.
Now, wide-awake and eager as the ship sailed on, Anjine stood next to her father. Though her head barely came to his chin,
he could think only of how tall, how mature his little girl was becoming. Where had the years gone? He felt a hint of tears
welling in his eyes. By signing the Edict, he would leave her—and all his people—with a better, safer world.
Anjine strained to see through the fog, then pointed. “Is that Aiden’s Lighthouse?”
Korastine did see a flicker, like an ember suspended in the air. “If it isn’t, then we’re far off course.” The tall tower
of sturdy rock had been erected on a jutting point of land outside of Ishalem. Its light burned constantly, not just to warn
ships of the reefs that lay farther south, but to represent the light of Aiden’s wisdom.
A groggy Mateo hurried across the deck, and the twelve-year-old sprang onto the forecastle platform to stand between Anjine
and Korastine. So full of energy, like his father had been! The dark-haired young man would make a fine soldier someday—a
high-ranking officer, if Korastine had anything to do with it.
Before long, they could see a silvery fringe of dawn on the eastern horizon. The off-watch crewmen began to awaken, and the
cook stoked his stove in the galley to begin cooking breakfast. Men worked the rigging, pulling ropes to stretch the sails,
now that the captain could see his heading. Ahead and to port, the shore loomed out of the shadows.
Korastine stared at the western edge of the isthmus that separated the vast Oceansea from the calmer Middlesea. He remembered
the first time he’d sailed down the coast at his own father’s side, being trained to lead Tierra.… He had made the voyage
six times now, always on matters of state, always in response to a major or minor political emergency. After this time, though…
Finally the warm sun burned off the rest of the morning fog, and the whitewashed buildings of sprawling, majestic Ishalem
came into view. Ah, he remembered the amazement and wonder with which he had first viewed the holy city. Anjine would be seeing
the same thing now, through the clarity and optimism of youth.
On the Aidenist side of the city, the architecture showed familiar Tierran influence, similar to what one might find in any
coastal village, while in the Uraban District on the opposite side of the isthmus, the buildings looked alien, with unusual
curves and angles, stuccoed rather than timbered, the roofs tiled rather than thatched.
On the highest hill in the center of Ishalem stood the ruins of the Arkship, little more than a skeletal hull with one broken
mast, like a giant beached sea beast, lying far from the water. Anjine pointed as soon as she spotted it. “That’s the ship!
Aiden’s ship.”
Korastine uttered an automatic awed prayer. “Yes, the actual one.”
Prester-Marshall Baine appeared on deck, wearing a long, dark brown robe trimmed with purple silk. An Aidenist fishhook pendant
hung at his throat, nearly covered by his unruly red beard. King Korastine not only revered the energetic religious leader,
he respected Baine as an intelligent, thoughtful friend. Though he was only in his mid-thirties, Baine had reached a high position of
authority and responsibility, thanks to his forceful personality and his persuasive words. The prester-marshall closed his
blue eyes as he bowed in silent prayer. “The holy Arkship.”
“But how could such a big ship get so far from the water?” Mateo asked pragmatically, and Anjine gave him a brisk kick in
the shin.
The prester-marshall chided her. “Some presters might tell you never to question, but that is tantamount to telling you not
to think. Ondun created us to explore, to experience. There is no harm in raising questions, and Mateo has asked a good one. That
conundrum has puzzled scholars for many generations.”
Mateo flashed a vindicated grin at Anjine, but the prester-marshall didn’t exactly answer his query. “Now would be a good
time to reflect upon where our people came from. You have heard the story all your life, but when you gaze upon Ishalem, you
can see in your heart that it is more than just a story.
“At the beginning of the world, Ondun created the continents and the seas and the skies. He made His own perfect holy land,
which He called Terravitae, and Ondun filled the land with crops and orchards, forests, animals, birds, and insects. He populated
it with His own people. Then He made other people and scattered them across the remaining continents. When He was finished
with all His work, Ondun created three special sons—Aiden, Urec, and Joron.
“Satisfied with all that He had done, Ondun bequeathed stewardship of the world to His heirs, for He had other worlds to create,
and He would soon depart. Ondun instructed Aiden, Urec, and Joron that they must keep this world intact, improve it, make
it thrive. While the youngest son, Joron, remained behind to rule Terravitae, Ondun commanded that His two older sons go out
in separate ships to explore His creation.”
Baine related the tale to Anjine and Mateo with an earnestness that village presters could never match. Korastine smiled:
No wonder the man had risen so quickly in the church hierarchy. “Before the voyage, Ondun gave Urec a special map to show
him how to find the mysteries of the world, and the key to creation.
To Aiden, he gave a special compass to facilitate his return to Terravitae, for its needle was charmed always to point home.”
“Like a Captain’s Compass,” Mateo interrupted.
“The very first Captain’s Compass,” Anjine corrected.
“Aiden and Urec each constructed a giant Arkship, and taking their crews and families with them, sailed away from Terravitae
on separate routes. But Urec was arrogant and sure of himself. He would explore the world, but considered the map an insult
to his bravery, a way of cheating. Urec threw the chart overboard and chose his own course.” Baine raised his bushy red eyebrows
for dramatic effect. “Now, the Urecari will tell it differently, because such foolishness does not reflect well upon the man
they consider their prophet! But we have the Book of Aiden to tell us the truth.”
The prester-marshall looked up as the cog sailed toward the crowded maze of wharves. “We know that one of Aiden’s crew members
was secretly a spy for Urec, though the Urecari deny it. As soon as Aiden’s ship passed well beyond sight of Terravitae, the
Urecari spy damaged the sacred compass so that Aiden, too, became lost.
“After voyaging aimlessly for years, Aiden’s ship came to rest here. The crew intermarried with the people of Tierra, and
their descendants now populate half the world. When Urec’s ship landed, he, his crew, and their children settled in Uraba
to the south.”
As the royal ship pulled into the harbor, Korastine saw the buildings clustered like devout worshippers kneeling before the
many-spired Aidenist kirk built on the western side of the Arkship hill. The cog drifted up to a long dock festooned with
pennants and garlands. Gulls greeted them with a raucous fanfare. Ishalem looked so glorious that Korastine could almost believe
that their meeting was blessed by Ondun.
Anjine glanced up toward the gigantic wreck on the hill. “So how do we know that’s Aiden’s ship, instead of Urec’s—as the
Urecari say?”
“Because we know. Yes, we know.”
A sea serpent rose up in front of the gilded ship before Soldan-Shah Imir could reach Ishalem, and the crew prepared for an
attack.
The silken mainsail tilted on its yardarm to capture cross-winds as the narrow galley, a dromond, cut across the Middlesea.
Imir stood at the pointed bow, where he could feel the salt spray, straining to see the low coastline of the isthmus, though
he knew they were at least half a day from their destination.
The huge sea serpent rose up barely a spear’s throw from the bow, startling Imir out of his thoughts. The monstrous head breached
the waves on a long stalk of neck covered with shimmering blue and silver scales; seawater sheeted down from the sinuous form.
A jagged line of fins coursed the neck like an aquatic mane, and the serpent’s reptilian jaws parted to display curved teeth
and a forked tongue. The gleaming eyes were the black of the Middlesea’s greatest depths; two long horns curved from the skull,
deadly enough to gore a whale. The creature flared a set of scalloped gills and emitted an ominous bellowing hoot, as though
challenging the dromond’s right to cross the open water. A shrill jet of steam blasted from the blowhole on the back of the
beast’s head, vapors that were said to be poisonous.
The galley’s captain shouted orders, drums goaded the slaves to pull their oars faster, turning the ship. But this monster
was a demon of the sea, created by Ondun Himself to be a sleek, fast predator on the open waters. No matter how swiftly they
rowed, this ship could not outrun the serpent.
The dromond’s crew gathered spears; some ran forward with shields to protect their leader. Imir glowered at the beast. Though
the creature could have plucked him from the deck like a honeyed date from a serving platter, he dared not show fear in front
of the crew. “I am the soldan-shah! Allow me to pass!”
The lead sikara priestess strode boldly to Imir’s side. Ur-Sikara Lukai’s long hair was the dark brown color of scorched wood,
and her scarlet robes whipped around her slender body in the brisk wind as if she were engulfed in fabric flames. Her dark
eyes could be quite beautiful when her expression softened, but her expression was not soft now. “Begone!” She raised her
hand to the silvery-blue monster. “In the name of Urec, I cast you back to the depths. We are on the holy business of Ondun.
Begone!” She leaned across the prow, both arms extended, and her voice rose to a fearsome screech. “Begone!”
The serpent regarded her curiously. Its enormous body undulated as it swam to and fro, still blocking the dromond’s path,
and another jet of spray came from its blowhole. The rowers had finally turned the ship so that the mainsail could catch the
wind fully, but the serpent casually kept pace, emitting another strange bellowing hoot. Finally, bored with its unusual prey,
the scaled monster circled the vessel once more, then submerged, its sharp dorsal fins tracing a sawblade p
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