Read Online The Edge of the World by Kevin J. Anderson - Free Book Online Page B

Hearing the approach of sandaled feet, the rustle of fabrics, he
     turned to face a sikara who held her news like a defensive weapon. Her elegantly coiffed hair hung in disarray, the strands
     dampened with sweat; her complexion was ashen.
    In her arms, she carried a small object wrapped in cloth. Omra saw only the blood. “Your son has not survived, Zarif Omra.
     I am sorry.”
    He didn’t know the sikara’s name, didn’t care. Omra stared at the crimson-splotched wrappings. The priestess hesitated, unsure,
     then moved the folds aside to show him the tiny head, small arms and legs, the twisted back, blotchy milk skin covered with
     a film of blood. His son—no larger than his hand.
    It seemed unreal. Urgency flooded through him, and Omra shoved aside the priestess with her grisly offering and charged into
     the bedchamber. He ripped the hangings away as though they were phantoms, tearing them entirely from the hooks and casting
     them in a pile on the floor.
    Desperate hope pulsed through him like a hot storm wind. Istar was his first wife, and this his first child, but they were
     both young. He and Istar would have other sons, as many babies as she liked. As the future soldan-shah, Omra needed to have
     many heirs. He would show Istar his love. He would nurse and watch over her until she regained her strength.
    But when he saw her lying on the bed like a broken doll propped up by cushions, the sharp sword of reality ran him through.
     The death of the unborn infant was not the worst thing this bad moon had brought him. So much blood covered the sheets, the
     silks, the pillows, everywhere. The sikaras and midwives hovered over a motionless Istar like carrion birds expecting an imminent
     feast.
    She was breathing, but just barely, her breaths thready and fast. The chief midwife looked at him, more disappointed in her
     own failure than stricken by genuine grief. Omra fell to his knees beside the bed and took Istar’s hand. She stirred a little,
     eyes flickering as though she were summoning the last of her strength just to lift her eyelids.
    One of the sikaras bent close. “There is nothing to be done, Zarif. The rest will be peaceful now. The pain is over. The child
     was just…”
    Enraged, Omra pushed the red-robed woman backward and focused entirely on Istar. Sweat dotted her brow, and her face was oddly
     pinched. She breathed out a long sigh and just barely managed to form words. Only he could hear the voice that came from her
     bluish lips. “My love…”
    Omra squeezed her hand and whispered to her, reassured her, lied to her. Istar didn’t seem to hear. She did not open her eyes
     again, nor did she attempt to speak.
    He remained there for more than an hour,
willing
her to hold on, until she finally passed the threshold into death. Still kneeling at Istar’s side, he realized that he was
     alone.

11
Saedran District, Calay
    Engrossed in the exciting new map he had purchased from Yal Dolicar, Aldo leaned against crates full of raisins from Erietta.
     He held the paper up to the sunlight so he could study the hand-drawn lines and mysterious landforms, coasts, islands, reefs.
     He absorbed everything in his perfect memory.
    The information on this map would open a new window to the world and shed light on Ondun’s secrets. As a chartsman, Aldo had
     already begun his sacred duty of illuminating the world; he could hardly wait to show the map to his father and take it to
     Sen Leo at the temple. With a spring in his step, he hurried home.
    Aldo entered the house with a secretive smile and the rolled map tucked into his shirt. “I met a sailor at the docks,” he
     blurted to his parents. “He’s had an amazing adventure.” His brother and sister came close as the young chartsman summarized
     what Yal Dolicar had told him; as if unveiling a great treasure, he spread the map on the wooden kitchen table, which was
     still dusted with flour from his mother’s baking.
    Biento slid the easel and canvas