An Extract from THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

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1 Off the Coast of Uraba

These foreign seas looked much the same as the waters of home, but Criston Vora knew the lands were different, the people 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.

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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 moneylenders 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.”

2 The Royal Cog, Sailing to Ishalem

Three Months Later

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 sailcloth, 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 fiveday 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 fi ne 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 prestermarshall 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.”

The Edge of the World (UK/US) by Kevin J. Anderson is out in June 2009.

After generations of friction, the leaders of two lands meet in the holy city of Ishalem to bring an end to the bloodshed and to divide the world between them.

Sadly, this new spirit of fellowship is shortlived. A single tragic accident destroys, in minutes, the peace that took years to build. The world is once more cast into the fires of war – and this time the flames may burn until nothing remains. From the highest lord to the lowest servant, no man or woman will be unchanged by the conflict.

But while war rages across both continents, a great quest will defy storms and sea serpents to venture beyond the horizon, where no maps exist – to search for a land out of legend. 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 . . .