by May, K. C.
“No,” Jora said, feeling hands grab her upper arms. “Wait. Something’s happening.”
“Is it my son?” Danner asked.
“No,” Jora whispered.
The female Sayer whispered to the commander that they would need to locate Gilon immediately. The commander told the gathered soldiers to wait, and he followed the two Truth Sayers out of the room.
Jora opened her eyes, closing the Mindstream, and a shudder rippled through her.
“What’s happening to Oram?” Danner asked.
“What’s wrong?” Briana asked.
“Nothing,” Jora said, rubbing her eyes. “He’s fine. They’re in a city. Renn, I think. For the moment, he’s out of danger.”
Danner exhaled loudly. “You’ve given me a moment’s hearts-ease. Thank you,” he said, bowing. “I’ll let you get back to your meal.”
He saw me. Jora shuddered, alarmed and disturbed by what had just happened. No one had ever noticed her Mindstreaming before. What did they want with the supposed Mindstreamer?
Tearna and Briana watched her with wide eyes.
“What?” she asked them.
“You should tell them no,” Briana said.
Tearna slapped Briana’s shoulder. “Thank you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her. Come on. You can say it. No.” She pronounced the word slowly as if teaching a baby. “Nooo. No. You should try it sometime.”
Jora laughed. “I could say it if I wanted to.” She didn’t want to. Mindstreaming didn’t hurt her, aside from reaffirming the fact that she was a freak who made people uncomfortable, and it allowed her to ease the worried minds of parents like Anika or wives or young children who hoped to someday meet their fathers.
Tearna snorted. “Sure you could.”
“Don’t you want to know how your husbands fare? To reassure your children that their father is well?”
Briana pressed her lips into a dim smile. “Of course I do, but you get pestered all the time. I don’t want to add to your burden.”
“Besides,” Tearna said, “Adham will come home one way or another. Knowing he’s alive today doesn’t mean I won’t receive his shrouded body next week or next month. It’s not like you can keep him safe by checking on him all the time.”
Jora chewed the side of her cheek. “Bri, you’ve been to Halder before. Have you ever noticed shaven-headed people wearing long, green robes?”
“Those are Truth Sayers. Adepts, I believe.”
Jora nodded, glad to have her suspicions confirmed. As a child, she’d been taught about the Serocian Justice Bureau and how it operated, but living in Kaild, a seaside town that even the countries at war with Serocia didn’t bother with, she never expected to encounter a real Truth Sayer. And one of them had seen her. She shuddered, unsure what it meant but worried that it meant something.
“They shave their heads as a symbol of their inability to hide from the truth,” Briana said.
Jora remembered that from her years in school.
“What were they doing in Oram’s lecture?” Tearna asked.
“Listening, I guess,” Jora said. Then another explanation occurred to her. “Do our armies travel with Sayers? To interrogate captured enemy soldiers?” In all the years she had been observing the soldiers from Kaild for the families they’d left behind, she had never noticed Truth Sayers present. Nor had she been noticed while Mindstreaming.
“Possibly,” Tearna said. “Ask Gunnar. He would know.”
Perhaps she would. It would give her a reason to talk to him again beyond simply inquiring about his health or his family.
He saw me. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. Again she wondered what the Sayers wanted with the Mindstreamer, Gilon? She felt some guilt and compassion for the man who was about to receive what was Jora’s due. She just hoped he wouldn’t be slain.
Chapter 5
Jora rose shortly before dawn, eager to return to the shoal where she’d met the friendly dolphin. She had no pressing projects to work on, now that Boden was on his way to war with his new knapsack, and she could practice on her flute for at least an hour before needing to stop for breakfast.
Flute in hand and one of the curious dogs following behind, she picked her way carefully across black rocks wet with the recent flood tide. Without the sunlight to show her the path, she had to feel for each step with her foot before shifting her weight. At last, settled on the last rock, unmindful of the wetness seeping into the seat of her trousers, she licked her lips, lifted the flute to her mouth, and played tentative notes. This early, with the water still and the waves quiet, the sound of her flute carried too far. She glanced back toward the trees, toward the still-sleeping town of Kaild, and hoped she wasn’t disturbing anyone. The cooks were surely awake, as were many of the farmers, but perhaps the sound wouldn’t carry that far.
She learned how to make each note in three octaves, though some she stumbled on by chance when she inadvertently rotated the flute. So absorbed was she in learning to play the notes that she didn’t immediately see the smiling face of the dolphin below her dangling feet.
It was studying her with one black eye, quietly as if not wanting to disturb her.
“Hail again,” she said, lowering the flute to her lap. Her shoulders were tired from holding the instrument to her mouth, and it felt good to relax for a moment. “I’m glad to see you again. I’m Jora, by the way. Not that you could ever pronounce it, or even understand what I’m saying, but I feel like I should at least introduce myself.”
The dolphin twittered and rose up slightly, nodding its head.
She laughed. “You understand? Or are you nodding because that’s what dolphins do?”
In reply, the dolphin whistled the five notes of Song of the Sea Spirit, as it had the day before.
Jora’s mouth dropped open. “You remember that?” She lifted the flute and played the same five notes, surprising herself by getting them right on the first attempt.
The dolphin turned suddenly and swam off, then leaped into the air, returning to the water with a splash. Jora laughed, and the dolphin leaped twice more before swimming back to the shoal.
“You like that. Does it mean something to you? Is it some kind of greeting? Or perhaps it’s your name,” she mused. She played the notes again, and again the dolphin went racing off to leap into the air. Before returning the second time, it rose up on its powerful tail, almost fully out of the water. The way the beautiful creature danced and played, with the rising sun as a theatrical backdrop, made Jora’s eyes well with tears. What might life be like when the entire ocean was your home? Without the worries of finding a husband or repairing a boot or witnessing the violent death of a man she cared about?
The dolphin drifted slowly to the shoal and whistled the notes again, this time more slowly, almost longingly.
“You’re remarkable,” she said. “I wish I understood what you mean when you sing those notes. For us, it’s just a song—a beautiful song, of course, but it has no real meaning. It’s something we play and listen to for enjoyment.” For the dolphin, the song seemed to be more than that. Much more.
She lifted the flute and played the notes again, but this time, she played a bit more of the melody, tentatively because she wasn’t sure of the proper fingerings. After a couple of corrections, she was able to play it without a pause.
The dolphin listened quietly while she played, and then twittered happily, nodding its head and tossing a bit of water at Jora.
“Hey!” she said, putting a hand up to guard her face from the water. “That’s not fair.”
And then the creature whistled the entire melody, including the part Jora hadn’t yet played.
She couldn’t do much more than gape at the curious creature. It knows the song. How could it know the song?
Song of the Sea Spirit.
Perhaps the dolphin was more impressed that she knew its song than the other way around.
“Who are you?” she said under her breath. A shocking thought
occurred to her, and she took a gasp. “Retar? God’s Challenger, is it you?” Could the dolphin be acting as a god vessel? No, she thought, dismissing the notion. Why would the god Retar be speaking to her? She was no one special and certainly had no inclination to become an Iskori monk.
The dolphin whistled a few notes before swimming away, again toward the rising sun, and frolicked for a few moments, alternately leaping and dancing on its tail in the sunlight. A sun dancer.
“Sundancer? Is that your name?” Jora asked when it returned. “Well, that’s what I’m going to call you. I think it’s perfect. Sundancer, it’s so very nice to meet you.” She cast a glance at the trees behind her and stood. “I suppose I should go back now. Come back this evening if you can.” Of course, she didn’t think the dolphin actually understood her, but she waved goodbye anyway. “Bye for now, Sundancer.”
Sundancer rolled onto her side and waved one flipper back.
Boden rode for four days under the canopy of trees that shaded the road. The occasional open field warmed his bald head and made him wish for a hat. He emptied his waterskin the first day, but there were enough streams and rivers to keep both horse and rider well hydrated. The food the women of Kaild had packed in his saddle bag got him to the first inn, and after a restless night on an itchy bed, he filled his stomach and his bag for the next day’s ride.
His battle mount wasn’t a patient animal, always nudging him when he was relieving himself or walking off without him, and he realized Fidget was an apt name. At first, he found Fidget’s badgering annoying, especially the third day when he’d slept past sunrise, but it occurred to him that perhaps the animal was simply dedicated to its purpose. That was when he realized he had a kindred spirit in the horse.
Once they arrived in Jolver, a bustling city full of stray dogs and children chasing them with sticks, he asked directions to the Legion headquarters. People pointed down the street without barely a glance, no doubt used to young men asking the same question as they arrived from across the country.
As he rode, Boden couldn’t help but notice the houses and shops alike were painted in nearly every color of the rainbow without any thought toward a larger aesthetic purpose. Here a blue one, then brown, then orange, then green, with other colors and shades across the street. Some looked freshly painted, others washed out and dull. There seemed to be no pattern to the selection of color. Not once did he see a white or gray building, nor were any of them red. Not one, he mused as he continued through the streets, avoiding slow-moving carts, toppled crates, and children too careless to watch where they were going.
High above the rooftops, he saw the black and red flag of the Serocian Legion hanging motionless in the still air before he spotted the stately, black building itself. While the other buildings he’d passed were made of wood and clay bricks, the Legion headquarters was made of unpainted granite.
Spaced every dozen feet along the wall were white statues of warriors in battle poses, weapons poised to strike and faces taut with fury. They resembled the battlers of old, with their hair worn long and dressed in leather trousers, soft-soled boots, naked above the waist. Every statue was different, but each one perfectly captured what surely would have been the instant before victory over his foe had he been a real fighter. He had a strong urge to reach out and touch them as he rode alongside the building to the entrance. They looked so realistic.
A short man with a gray-whiskered face hobbled up to him and reached for Fidget’s bridle without a glance at Boden. “Enlisting?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m Bo—”
“Dismount here. I’ll take your horse to the stable.” While Boden climbed down from the saddle, Gray Whiskers tied a strip of blue cloth to Fidget’s bridle near the ear. He handed Boden a matching cloth. “Inside to the left. Got your papers?”
Boden nodded, tied the blue cloth to the front strap of his knapsack, and went inside.
The interior of the building was stark and clean, its ceilings a good dozen feet high, and its floor also black granite. He let his eyes adjust to the dim light and headed to a desk on the left, where a middle-aged man, mostly bald but unshaven, was sitting. The man’s shirt was blue, not the green of a Serocian Legion uniform, and sported no arm band. He peered through thick spectacles at a paper before stamping it and setting it in a growing stack. When he looked up and saw Boden, he beckoned with a wave. “Come, come.” He held out his hand expectantly.
Boden shrugged out of his knapsack as he approached and opened the special pouch that housed his papers. He handed them to the bespectacled man. “I’m Boden Sayeg, reporting for duty.”
The man peered at him with a grin. “Reporting for duty, are you?” He chuckled and looked down at the papers. “Not many young men show up at the Legion headquarters reporting for duty.”
Boden’s face warmed. The man was making fun of him. He supposed it had been a silly thing to say, but was it necessary to ridicule?
“All right, Boden Sayeg Reporting For Duty, down the hall, first room on the right. Wait there. Someone will retrieve you.”
The room he’d indicated had white plaster walls and was furnished with three six-foot benches. A single oil lamp on the rear wall burned brightly. He set his knapsack on the bench and sat beside it, but the moment his backside hit the bench, a man walked in holding a writing board against his chest. Boden stood and snapped a crisp salute. Judging from the stripes on the fellow’s arm band, he was an officer in the Legion, a captain, rather than merely a bureaucrat like the fellow at the desk.
The captain returned the salute. He, too, was an older fellow, perhaps early forties, with brown eyebrows and sharp golden eyes like those on an eagle. Boden got the impression this man didn’t miss much. “Sayeg?”
“Yes, sir,” Boden said, standing at attention.
“I’m Captain Kyear.” He pronounced the name like Jora’s father and brothers did. Boden wondered if they were distantly related. “I’ll be doing your initial assessment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any relation to Gunnar Sayeg?”
“Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
Captain Kyear smiled. “I served with him for four years. He became one hell of a good soldier. Didn’t start out that way, but I’m sure he told you about that.”
“No, sir. He never talked about his own years of service.”
The captain chuckled. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Gunnar arrived poorly trained, uninformed, and weak. To hear him tell it, his drill master was drunk more often than sober, and when he wasn’t, he was hung over.”
Boden nodded. His first five years, from ages ten to fifteen, he’d trained under Elazer. Once Gunnar returned from his second tour, Boden’s training truly began.
Captain Kyear clapped Boden’s shoulder. “Anyway, glad to have you. For the first two years, your duties will be restricted to fighting with blades. If you want to train as a medic, officer, or engineer, talk to your commander at the end of your second year.”
“Will I report to my unit tomorrow, then?” Boden asked.
Captain Kyear nodded. “Tomorrow or the next day. You’ll stay here until someone’s available to escort you. I’m putting you in company forty-four led by Senior March Commander Arvoh Turounce. He’s got two units currently guarding the southeastern shore on the Isle of Shess.”
The Isle of Shess. Boden felt his excitement grow. He had no idea how big the Isle was, but he hoped to get a chance to at least see the Tree of the Fallen God while he was there, the tree at the very center of the hundred-year war.
Sitting at her workbench, Jora heated the end of a thick thread in the lamp’s flame and twirled it between her fingers to form it into a point. Then she threaded it into the holes she’d punched into the two leather pieces, pulling it taut and threading again. It was mindless work that tempted her thoughts to stray, returning to the incident she’d observed the day before.
It was her fault. If Jora hadn’t been Mindstreaming to Oram at that very moment, or perh
aps if she hadn’t lingered longer than the few seconds it took to ascertain whether he was alive and well, the Truth Sayers might never have noticed her. They might never have asked the soldiers for the name of the Mindstreamer they knew.
And now an innocent man was about to be punished, or at least questioned about the Mindstreaming activities of a woman he didn’t know existed.
Who was Gilon, and was there any way she could warn him?
For years, ever since she’d first discovered the purpose of those silky threads connecting people together, Jora had tried to figure out a way to communicate to the people she was Mindstreaming. As far as she could tell, she was only an observer, never an actor. She couldn’t whisper into the ears of those she saw, couldn’t write a message in the dirt, couldn’t will someone to do something. Getting a message to Gilon wouldn’t be easy, and it would surely not be private. Any message sent by bird would be temptation for the curious.
It occurred to her that she could Mindstream to Oram again and return to the scene in the building where the lecture was held, and then follow the other soldier’s thread to Gilon. There was a good chance that Mindstreaming to him would attract the attention of any Truth Sayers who might be interrogating him, but she would be careful. The instant she saw anyone who resembled a Truth Sayer, she would close the Mindstream. The timing would be important. If she observed him before the Truth Sayers contacted him about the incident in the lecture room, she wouldn’t find out anything useful. It had only been yesterday. Should she wait? She didn’t know where Gilon was. If he was in Renn, they might already have spoken to him. If he was on the southern border or on the Isle of Shess or along the coast, they would need more time.
A quick peek wouldn’t hurt. She could see where he was and then observe him later, perhaps every five or ten hours, to see whether the Truth Sayers had spoken to him.
And whether he would face any retribution for Jora’s observation.