Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles)

by May, K. C.

  Boden nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to be asked to help cook or clean dishes. He would do whatever was asked of him, of course, and without complaint, but he could think of plenty of things he’d rather do.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” Rasmus sang in a teasing lilt when the corporal was gone.

  “That or I impressed him with my prowess during drills,” Boden said, trying to look serious. He couldn’t hold the straight face and let the suppressed grin break through.

  “Scouting mission probably,” Joh said. “You tested well on vision?”

  “Yah,” Boden said. “I see well at distance and at night.”

  “Definitely scouting, then.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Not if you don’t run into a team of assassins sneaking up the coast. You ride along the southern coast and scan the waters for warships. Nighttime scouting is the worst.”

  “Because it’s hard to see?”

  “No, because it’s hard to stay awake when nothing’s happening. They’d have to be idiots to try navigating those waters in the dark.”

  Rasmus snorted a laugh. “We are talking about Mangendans.”

  As it turned out, Joh was right. Boden teamed up with Joh and Pharson. The three men rode on horseback under the cloudless night sky with only the half-moon lighting their path. Their vision of the water would be better if their eyes weren’t hindered by lamps or torches. Boden was assigned the western-most patrol, covering a strip of land about two miles long. Pharson would patrol the middle section, and Joh the eastern.

  “If you see anything suspicious, come tell me,” Pharson said.

  “Sir, do you go scouting every night?”

  “No. I need to know I can trust you to follow simple instructions before I send you without a nanny. Get going.”

  The terrain along the southern end of the Isle of Shess was rockier than the rest of the Isle, and the beach below him wasn’t like the sandy beaches around Kaild. Stones and pebbles littered the shore, with an occasional boulder, like those that jutted from the water or lay treacherously hidden beneath the surface. Mostly submerged was the tail end of a mountain range the Serocians called The Dragon, which separated Serocia from its southern neighbor, Barad Selegal.

  Though the moon shone brightly, it still hung low in the sky. Its light glinted off the choppy waters of the Strait of Lost Souls where it cupped the Isle. During the day, one could see the shores of both Barad Selegal and Arynd-ban from there, but now, only the water and jagged rocks of The Dragon’s tail were visible, even for Boden’s keen eyesight. Aside from the distant sound of water rushing to shore and the song of crickets chirping in the grass, the night was quiet. Tranquil.

  Boden walked Fidget slowly, letting the horse nibble the grass as they meandered down the coastline while he looked out over the water. Alone in the peaceful night, he had time to think about his life and his loved ones at home. For eight years, he’d prepared for a life of fighting, and yet, after three weeks, he’d not seen battle. He supposed that it was better to have the Legion soldiers ready, guarding the Tree, than to have to quickly assemble troops to react to an attack, but surely it cost a great deal to feed and clothe so many soldiers—and their horses—every day. He wondered how the countries involved in the conflict could afford to keep funding the war but dismissed the question as one of those he would never know the answer to. The world was full of such out-of-reach knowledge. Only those fortunate enough to be Mindstreamers could find answers such as that.

  He thought about Jora and wondered how she was faring. It was his fault she’d been taken from her home, and the guilt made his heart feel as heavy as one of those boulders on the beach below. Adept Orfeo had told him she’d been inducted into the Order of Justice Officials and had arrived in Jolver the day before. Somehow, the Sayers had known someone was observing one of the soldiers in Boden’s unit. Why did they assume it was a Serocian? Unless it had been on a Suns Day, chances were good it hadn’t been Jora in the first place, but how they’d found out her name wasn’t difficult to guess. Boden had told Korlan and Rasmus about her and mentioned her unusual talent. The Sayers had undoubtedly eavesdropped on that conversation from the safety of the Mindstream, going back in time to whatever moment suited them to listen and observe any conversation, any event. It was a terrible invasion of privacy. Did they observe people’s wedding nights, too? They could put that talent to good use and spy on the enemy instead.

  He wondered whether the Legion employed Truth Sayers to spy on the enemy. They had to. Why wouldn’t they? Enemy soldiers who fled back to their ships or retreated behind the southern border could be observed, conversations between military officers overheard. Armed with such information as troop locations, numbers, and available equipment, the Serocians could send Legion soldiers by ship to attack the enemies and devastate them, ending the war once and for all.

  Again, he dismissed it as one of those things he would never know or understand. His job was to protect the Tree. Serocians had no interest in invasion. They just wanted to be left alone.

  It was all Retar’s fault for slaying the god Hibsar on the Isle of Shess. Why couldn’t he have done it elsewhere, perhaps atop Aerta’s highest, snow-covered mountain peak, where no man would venture, where no tree would seed? To blame the god for Serocia’s predicament was surely blasphemous, but Retar was reputed to be more tolerant than any god before him. The fact that he hadn’t struck Boden down for his thoughts was evidence of that.

  Movement to the right caught his eye. In the distance and under the dim light of the Moon, he could barely make out a wagon drawn by a pair of horses approaching the cliff. It looked to be loaded with crates. The godfruit was picked and packed every day to take to the Legion soldiers, but why would someone take it to the southern shore? The forty-fourth company was a couple of miles to the north, but the wagon didn’t appear to be heading to camp. It was heading to shore. He stopped Fidget behind a scraggly bush and watched.

  The driver stopped the team and climbed down from the seat. He guided the horses around, bringing the wagon parallel to the cliff and the seashore below. Momentarily, he was joined by four other men unseen until then. Boden’s heart thumped. He started to ride over and find out what they were up to but stopped himself. They’d been hiding in wait. They could be armed.

  They could be stealing godfruit.

  He gasped in shock. God’s Challenger! He wrestled with himself over whether to run and get Pharson and Joh or watch what happened next so he could report what they did with the crates. Until he knew for certain what he was witnessing, he didn’t want to raise an alarm.

  One of the men handed the wagoner something—a bag, heavy with whatever was inside. The men began to unload the crates and disappeared from view below the rocky crest. Boden dismounted and went to look over the edge. He could see the men, each carrying a pair of crates atop their shoulders down a steep path that led to the rocky beach. A beached boat, roughly twenty feet long, waited below.

  “Shit,” he muttered, returning to Fidget. He mounted and rode at a trot up the coast toward Pharson’s position. He caught sight of his squad leader sitting with his back against a boulder. Sleeping? What the hell?

  “Pharson,” he said as he neared, trying to catch the man’s attention without shouting so loudly that the smugglers would hear him.

  The corporal leaped to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  Breathless with excitement, Boden described what he’d seen. “They’re stealing godfruit. What else could be in those crates?”

  “You’re supposed to be looking for warships, not auditing godfruit shipments. They’re probably taking it to the soldiers manning the Barad Selegal border.”

  “At night? That makes no sense. Why would they risk sailing the most treacherous waters at night if they’re not smuggling godfruit to our enemies?”

  “I’ll report it to Sergeant Keskinen, and he’ll tell the staff sergeant and march commander. If the officers want to know the details about w
hat you saw, they’ll come ask you.”

  “But those men are committing treason against the king. We can stop them, the three of us.”

  “No,” Pharson snapped. He looked over his shoulder. Joh was riding up the coast, his back to them. “There’s no godfruit, there are no crates, there’s no treason until Turounce says so. You got that?”

  “All right,” Boden said, taken aback.

  “Say nothing about this to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, nothing happened tonight unless March Commander Turounce asks you about this himself. Then you can—you must—tell him everything in as much detail as possible. Tell me you understand.”

  “No godfruit, no smuggling unless the march commander asks me. I understand.”

  Pharson relaxed and nodded before turning back to look over the water below. “If your buddies ask, you didn’t see anything. It was a boring night. The march commander’s the only one who needs to know.”

  “I understand, sir, but why is it so important not to mention this to my buddies?”

  The corporal sighed. “This company hasn’t seen battle in a few weeks. Some of the men are itching for a fight, and we don’t want a bunch of rogue soldiers trying to become heroes here. The officers will decide our next move, not a bunch of draftees eager for blood.”

  Chapter 13

  Jora’s first few nights in the strange bed and strange city had her sleeping in fits, awakening well before dawn, only to fall asleep again and have her disciple, Bastin, pounding angrily on her door.

  Soon, she awakened at her usual early hour. Curious about what Adept Sonnis had told her about the Spirit Stone, she washed, shaved her head, and dressed so she could be at the statue at the moment its tone changed. On her first attempt, she missed it, arriving as other Truth Sayers were leaving. To ensure she made it next time, she shaved her head before she went to bed that night to save time in the morning.

  She arrived to find seven other Truth Sayers present, four adepts and three elders. They were clustered around the stone and chatting in low voices. The others, having already claimed their place near the statue, stopped talking to regard her.

  “You must be Novice Jora,” an elder said. “You’re the talk of the Order.”

  “Welcome, Novice,” the others said.

  “Why am I the talk of the Order?” Jora asked, feeling her face warm. “Because I’m new?”

  “Oh, no,” said an adept, a tall, lanky man with pretty blue eyes. “Because we’ve never had a novice who can hear the tones. We’re all very interested in you.”

  “I’ll bet the others can do it if they calm their minds,” Jora said. “I’m not so unique.”

  “To the contrary,” the first elder said. “Come. Stand here facing east. Make room, my friends. Let her in.”

  “Thank you. I wanted to come yesterday, but shaving took longer than expected.”

  The others shuffled a few inches to make room for her. She stood beside the dolphin statue, facing the sea, and placed one hand against the smooth stone surface. Though she knew it would happen, the tone emanating from it, humming through her bones, surprised her. She yanked her hand back. A few of the Truth Sayers chuckled. She put her hand back on the statue and let its single tone have her.

  “You’ll get used to it,” said the lanky adept.

  “It’ll be a few more moments,” the elder said behind her. “Here it comes.”

  The other Truth Sayers closed their eyes reverently.

  When the sun’s first rays peeked over the horizon that morning, the tone changed. The new one felt like it could lift her off her heels. She drew in a deep breath, feeling more relaxed, more balanced. Something about the tone sounded familiar. Comfortable. It resonated within her body, not in the physical sense but in her heart and mind. It gave her such a feeling of peace that she sighed, her head tilted back and her eyes closed.

  “I think she likes it,” said the adept in the position opposite her.

  The others chuckled and started back into the Justice Bureau building.

  “Will you be joining us again tomorrow?” the lanky adept asked. He stood looking out at the horizon and the great sun peeking over the edge.

  “I’d like to, if the rest of you don’t mind.”

  He smiled and gestured toward the building, inviting her to walk back inside with him. “We don’t own the Spirit Stone or the sunrise. All are welcome. I’ve seen as many as twenty-eight Sayers gathered around the stone, some kneeling, some leaning in at a precarious angle. Those who’ve experienced it hundreds of times will defer to the newcomers.”

  “Does everyone get that light feeling when it changes?” she asked.

  He cocked his head and looked at her with a questioning scrunch of his brow. “Light feeling? Describe it.”

  They walked through the great halls of the building toward the rear door. She did her best to describe the way it made her feel as if she’d been placing more weight on one foot and now she was standing more lightly and perfectly balanced on both feet.

  “Can’t say I’d heard anyone describe that.”

  “Where did the Spirit Stones come from?” she asked. “Who made them?”

  He opened the door and waited for her to proceed him. “They’re so ancient, no one knows. They’re said to be scattered all across Aerta, and the cities grew up around them. I take it you’ve never visited Halder.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s quite a distance from Kaild, my hometown.” She smiled at the two elders who passed going the opposite direction, and they nodded politely.

  “What is the book you brought with you?”

  She snapped her head around to look at him. How did he find out about her journal?

  “Elder Gastone mentioned it. I understand it has to do with your study of the tones.”

  The tones? And then it occurred to her that the tones emanating from the dolphin statue weren’t merely random notes. It couldn’t be mere coincidence that a statue in the shape of a dolphin sang a single note every day. What would a year’s worth played on a flute sound like? Was there a message in it? Were they saying something in Azarian? A thrill raced through her.

  “Just my own notes as I try to figure it out. Has anyone been recording the tones over time?” she asked, excited. If she could see what notes the Spirit Stone had been humming for the last few weeks or months—or centuries—she might be able to discern a message, or at the very least, increase her vocabulary.

  “I believe a few elders have over the years, but no one has a complete accounting of them that I’m aware of,” he said. “I’d advise you to talk to Elder Kassyl, but I hear he’s very ill and isn’t receiving visitors. Perhaps you should talk with Adept Sonnis or Adept Fer. One of them might know where to find his history of the tones.”

  They reached the dormitory and, again, he opened the door for her.

  “Thank you,” she said, turning to face him in the dim light of the dormitory’s vestibule. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Adept Lazar,” he said with a bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope to see you at the Spirit Stones again tomorrow.”

  “You will. Most definitely.”

  She entered the dining hall and found Gilon and Adriel sitting with several of the other novices in their hierarchy, along with Disciple Bastin and Adriel’s disciple, whose name Jora didn’t remember. She got her bowl of eggs and fruit from the serving line and headed to the table to join them. Gilon waved and scooted over on the bench to make room for her beside him. She greeted everyone and settled onto the bench.

  “Did you make it this morning?” he asked.

  “I did. It was wonderful. I didn’t expect it to be so, I don’t know, peaceful.”

  He gestured with his spoon for her to continue while he shoveled more food into his mouth.

  Again she tried to describe her experience at the Spirit Stone and didn’t do it justice, though she did attract the attention of the others at the table.

  “Is it true what
the adepts are saying about you and those tones?” Disciple Bastin asked.

  Jora looked around at the curious faces watching her. “I don’t know. What are they saying?”

  “That you understand them. That you’ve figured out their message.”

  Jora snorted a laugh, waving off the ludicrous notion. “I didn’t know they existed until a week ago. How could I have figured them out when elders have been studying them for decades, maybe even centuries?”

  “Yah, that’s what I thought,” Bastin said. She rolled her eyes and went back to her meal.

  Gilon leaned in and whispered, “But you have, haven’t you?”

  “Let’s talk later,” she whispered back.

  After the meal, Bastin took her two novices to the third story of the main building. While she and Gilon jogged up the wide stone steps with ease, Jora was winded from the climb. Bastin looked at her with an expression of contempt. “You’re too young to be so soft. You need to condition your body more. Every evening, I want you to run to the docks and back.”

  “The docks? But they’re at least a half hour away on horseback.”

  “And soon you’ll be running there and back in that time,” the disciple said. She headed down the hallway, and the two novices followed behind.

  “I’ll go with you,” Gilon said. “I haven’t done any exercising since I got here.”

  Bastin shot him a glare over her shoulder. “You know the rules about sexual activity between members of the Order.”

  “God’s Challenger, Bastin,” he snapped. “I offered to run with her to the docks, not take her to bed. Maybe you should visit the Temple if your thoughts are so unclean.”

  They walked in silence to a large room lined with boards, each roughly three feet tall by five feet wide. Two rows of free-standing boards on rolling stands were positioned in the center of the floor. This, Bastin explained, was the command room, and the boards were the Command Boards. Each board had several nails hammered into them and sheets of paper hanging on the nails. At the top of each board, a company number was printed in thick black letters.