by May, K. C.
“No,” Hadar said emphatically, shaking his head. “I swear it. After you took it back last night, I haven’t touched it.”
Boden turned his gaze to Eron, who at once put his hands up and shook his head. “I didn’t, either. You’re saying it’s missing?”
Boden released Hadar with a slight shove. “Why else would I be asking you where it is, dimwit?” He ran a hand over his bald head. “Did you tell anyone about it?”
“Hell no,” Hadar said, sitting on his bunk. “I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“I didn’t, either,” Eron said. “And I can’t imagine Voster or Rojyr did. That... business you wrote about is nothing any of us want to mess with.”
If they didn’t take it, who did? And why?
The answer made Boden’s heart shrivel.
Adept Orfeo.
Boden slept fitfully that night, worried over what would become of his missing journal. He dreaded the coming day, knowing that if Adept Orfeo had taken it and turned it over to Turounce, Boden’s life was forfeit.
Turounce warned you. And you really shouldn’t have written about it in your journal.
Retar’s words now seemed ominous. Had the god known something like this was going to happen?
He rose and dressed as usual, and spent the morning practicing drills with Korlan and Rasmus. The air was cool, a sign of the coming autumn, but the fog had burned off by midday and the temperature warmed enough to make Boden sleepy. He sat with his friends for the midday meal, thinking about having a doze when he was finished.
Corporal Pharson slid onto the bench beside him. None of the officers ever ate with the rest of them, and in fact, Pharson had no bowl, no food.
“Sir?” Korlan asked.
Pharson looked at Boden with a resigned shake of his head. “I thought you would learn from your last talk with the March Commander, but you must be sick in the head.”
Boden sighed heavily. “What’d I do this time?” he asked, though a sinking feeling told him he already knew. They had his journal.
“I can’t help you this time. I tried. Even Krogh tried. You’re on your own. Go on. He wants to see you.”
“What’s that all about?” Rasmus asked. Boden didn’t bother to answer as he stood, weary and filled with anxiety at the same time.
“Good luck, brother,” Korlan said.
Boden scooped the last two bites of food into his mouth and dropped off his dirty bowl on the way. When he entered the command tent, the one-armed soldier pressed his lips together in sympathy. The look in his eyes told Boden he might not make it out of this building alive.
Sergeant Keskinen, Staff Sergeant Krogh, and March Commander Turounce were in the room arguing, shouting at each other when Boden knocked on the open door. They all quieted instantly when they saw him there.
“Come in, Sayeg,” Turounce said. “We can’t come to an agreement over whether to hang you, behead you, cut off your hands and feet, or send you to Jolver for a court-martial. Me, I’d rather be done with you. You’re far more trouble than you’re worth.”
Boden was about to ask what it was he’d done when he saw his journal on Turounce’s desk. He stared at it, wondering whether he’d left something in it that had caused the commander’s ire.
“Look at me, boy. I’m talking to you.”
Boden looked at the march commander, standing as straight as he could. His head spun, and his thoughts whirled. He felt the heavy glares of the sergeant and staff sergeant on him. “I never thought anyone would read that. I kept it well hidden.”
“Not well enough,” Krogh said.
“What did you think would come of writing all that crap down, Sayeg?” Turounce asked.
How much did they know? “I only write for myself, sir. To remember my experiences.”
“For yourself,” Turounce echoed. He sounded unconvinced. “To remember the details of something you were specifically told to forget.”
“Sir, my tentmates only found it because they snooped in my knapsack. That bag has a false bottom, and—”
Turounce advanced on him, fists curled. “Your tentmates have nothing to do with this. Adept Orfeo found it. He saw what you wrote.” The commander picked up a couple of loose pages and waved them in Boden’s face. “He rewrote the pages you tore out.”
This close, Boden could smell wine on the man’s breath, but he didn’t back away. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve done nothing wrong.” Boden wasn’t generally one to talk back or defy authority, but this man, this officer in the Serocian Legion, was wrong.
“We see your treason right here.” He slammed the papers back onto his desk.
Turounce was the traitor to Serocia, not Boden. “My duty is to defend Serocia and the Tree, and to me, that includes its fruit. Until I hear a rational argument from my commander that explains why letting smugglers steal what’s rightfully ours, what I’m sworn to protect, I’ll continue to stand by my actions.”
A fist came seemingly out of nowhere and slammed into Boden’s left cheek and sent him stumbling. Hands grabbed him and steadied him. Turounce took a fistful of Boden’s shirt collar and hauled him up close. His opposite fist was cocked back, ready to fly once again, but Staff Sergeant Krogh put a hand over Turounce’s knuckles and forced himself between the two men. Turounce lost his grip on Boden’s shirt and Boden stepped back, out of reach.
“Sir, he’s a dedicated soldier,” Krogh said. “If we explain why we do what we do, he’ll be more cooperative.”
Turounce barked a laugh. “And tell the chief what? That this...” He pointed at the loose pages Orfeo had written. “...is not a problem after all?”
“Of course not,” Krogh said.
“Are you suggesting that we try to convince him that tearing out a page or two is going to stop her from seeing it?” Turounce asked, spittle flying. “That is, if she hasn’t already.”
Boden looked from one to the other, trying to follow their conversation. Did he mean Jora? They were afraid Jora would find out about the smuggling, but why?
“She’ll see this too,” Krogh said, indicating the room with his open arms. “Which is why I argue for a proper court-martial. We don’t want any of this coming down on us.”
“This could be coming down on us right this minute,” Turounce said. “What’s going to stop her from talking?”
“Let the Justice Bureau handle her. She’s their problem.”
A cold dread crept down Boden’s spine. He’d already come to terms with the fact that Jora was inducted into the Order of Justice Officials, but it never occurred to him that knowing about the smuggling could bring about her death. “Handle her how?” Boden asked.
“She’ll be our problem, too, if it starts a bloody civil war,” Turounce yelled.
He couldn’t be talking about Jora. “Jora’s not like that. She doesn’t incite people to violence.”
“Shut the hell up, Sayeg. Haven’t you said enough already?” Keskinen said.
Turounce wheeled on him. “She won’t have to, you fool.”
Boden was lost. He looked to Krogh for an explanation, but the staff sergeant merely shook his head, his eyes filled with regret.
From that moment onward, everything happened too quickly for Boden’s thoughts to keep up. They took his sword and would have taken his dagger had he not lost it in the fight with the smugglers in the strait. They also took the shirt off his back and gave him another, but this one had two black bands sewn onto the right sleeve instead of the Legion insignia. A single band meant deserter, but he didn’t know what two meant. “I’m not a deserter,” Boden said to Pharson as he was led outside. “What’s the second band for?”
The corporal glared at him. “Two bands means you’re a traitor. It means kill on sight, so if you try to escape, they won’t bother with a court-martial.”
Traitor. The word curled his lip. How could they think him a traitor simply by writing down what he’d seen? He hadn’t intentionally shown his journal to anyone. Were his tentmates also being prosecuted for
reading it?
They didn’t give him a chance to gather his belongings or bid his friends goodbye before shackling his wrists in iron and putting him in the back of a wagon with an armed guard. Couldn’t they have at least let him ride his own horse?
The men of company forty-four gathered to watch the prisoner be taken away. Most watched silently. A few whispered to each other, no doubt asking what he’d done wrong.
Korlan pushed his way through the crowd to the front as the wagon started off with a lurch. “Boden? What the hell?” He ran to catch up and jogged behind the wagon as it rumbled across the dirt. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t tell anyone what happened on patrol.”
The wagon picked up speed, and Korlan was beginning to fall behind. “You did nothing wrong,” he yelled over the jingle and creak of harness tack and the rumble of the wheels across the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was my fault, not his.”
“It’s not your fault,” Boden yelled back. “Say nothing.”
Korlan stopped running and stood there, watching as they got farther away. Boden pressed his lips together in regret. He’d thought he’d spend ten years serving in the Legion and would miss Rasmus the most, but Korlan had been the truer friend. Korlan finally lifted one hand to his brow in a salute and stood that way until he was but a speck in the hazy morning.
Chapter 19
Life without Elder Kassyl seemed duller and emptier, even though Jora had barely known him. The simple fact that she could no longer share with him her discoveries about the tones made the world seem lonelier. She went through her lessons with Bastin, responding as if she were sleep-walking, which frustrated the disciple and earned Jora extra duties and reading assignments. Jora didn’t care.
She spent most of her free time rewriting her notes and Elder Kassyl’s in a new journal she’d bought at the market. Though her hand ached, she was determined to write as much of it down as she could remember without having to Mindstream it back to herself. Now and then, she looked up and wiped a tear from her eyes.
What she needed was something to pull her out of this melancholy. A walk to the docks would do her good, especially if Sundancer was nearby. The blisters on her feet had scabbed over, and her heels had recovered from the pounding they’d taken on the last walk. She changed from her sandals to boots and went upstairs to knock on Gilon’s door, hoping to talk him into going with her. There was no answer.
She went back downstairs, certain to find him doing a shift in the Observation Request Room, but only Adriel and another novice were there. When Adriel was done with her current client, Jora tapped her sleeve. “Have you seen Gil?” she asked. The people waiting their turn in line glared at her.
Adriel shook her head. “Not since the midday meal. Did you check his room?”
“I knocked, but he didn’t answer.”
“He’s a heavy sleeper, so if you knocked lightly on his door, he might not have heard. If he doesn’t answer a good, hearty fist banging, go in and sit on him. That’ll wake him up.”
She thanked Adriel and started back to the dormitory. If he was asleep, she didn’t want to bother him, but she didn’t want to walk to the docks alone, either. If those rude fishermen were there again, she certainly wouldn’t want to have to face them without an ally. She decided to try his room once more.
She knocked on his door, harder this time. Still no answer. She used the bottom of her fist to beat on it, rattling it in its frame. The latch gave under her pounding, and the door swung open. Jora reached for the handle to pull it closed again, not wanting to barge in, but she caught a glimpse of a sandaled foot draped on the floor beside the bed.
She pushed the door open to peek around it. The stench of urine and feces assaulted her. Gilon was sprawled across the bed, face down, arms above his head. That couldn’t have been comfortable. Was he sick?
“Gil?” She shook him gently. “Gil, wake up.” She shook him harder, and then stopped, realizing that his body wasn’t moving like it should. She turned him over and gasped at the sight of his bloodshot eyes, open and staring. “No,” she whimpered.
His face was gray, drained of its pinkish hue, and his tongue, fat and blue, protruded from between lips that were peeled back from his teeth in a ghastly grimace.
“No, no, no,” Jora cried backing away. She put her hands over her mouth in an attempt to contain her horror. She ran to the staircase and pounded down the steps as fast as she could. “Someone help! Help!”
“What is it, Novice?” an elder asked, rushing to her as she reached the ground floor. His brow was pulled taut in concern.
“It’s N-Novice Gilon. Up in his room.” She pointed up, her hand and arm trembling.
“What’s wrong with him?” the elder asked, gripping her by the upper arms. “Is he sick?”
“He’s... he’s dead.” The words came out in a whisper, her voice failing her.
Several people had gathered around, all the ranks of the Order and a couple of the uninitiated staff, too.
The elder turned to an adept and instructed him to see that a medic was sent to Gilon’s room immediately. Then he led Jora to the dining hall and sat her down at the table closest to the door. “Sit here for a spell, Novice. We’ll handle everything.” He walked away and returned a moment later with a cup of water and a warm, comforting hand on her back. “I’ll have Elder Sonnis come find you here. I’m sure he and the physician will have questions for you.”
He left her there, trembling and sobbing, unable to erase the image of Gilon’s body from her mind. How had he died? Had he fallen and struck his head, perhaps laid down to rest? No, there would have been blood, wouldn’t there? Could he have suffered some affliction and collapsed onto his bed? She thought back to the morning, trying to identify a clue in his demeanor or appearance that she’d overlooked. He had been sullen that morning, quieter than usual, but she found that he could be moody at times, especially in the mornings.
“Novice Jora?”
“Yes?” She looked up to find Naruud, the blond physician who’d attended Elder Kassyl.
Naruud slid onto the bench next to her and put a warm, comforting hand over hers. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I understand Novice Gilon was a friend of yours.”
She nodded, looking down at the woman’s hands, slender with well-manicured nails, though the years showed in the wrinkled skin. “He was one of the first people I met when I arrived. Someone needs to notify his family. I should do it.”
“You needn’t worry about that. Elder Sonnis will send word of his death to his family, and his body will be shrouded and returned to them. Were you the one who found him?”
She nodded, shaking loose more tears from her eyes.
“Did you touch him at all? Perhaps move him?”
“I shook him a little, thinking he was asleep, and I turned him over. That was when I saw—” His face. His gruesome face with its protruding tongue and eyes. That wasn’t how she wanted to remember him. “How did he die?” Jora asked.
“It’s a bit of a mystery at the moment. Novices die from time to time due to the stress the Talent for Witnessing puts on the brain, but this is the first time I’ve seen petechial hemorrhages in the eyes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bloodshot eyes are commonly found in someone who’s died of asphyxiation. It’s an unusual finding. I’ll know more after I consult with the coroner. We’d need to look at his brain before we’ll know for sure.”
His brain? They were going to saw Gilon’s head open? A spasm in Jora’s stomach pushed a foul taste up her throat, and she swallowed it back down with a few gulps of water.
“Of course, his family might not allow us to take such measures. You said you found him face down?”
She nodded, wishing she could erase the image from her mind.
“Do you know of anyone who wished him ill?” Naruud asked.
“No. Everyone liked him. He was friendly and funny and went out of his way to help people. N
o one would wish him ill. Did someone... kill him?”
Naruud looked over her shoulder as if to see whether anyone was near enough to hear. “I doubt it, but we have to rule out the improbable before we can narrow down the actual cause of death. It’s a strange coincidence that Elder Kassyl died with the same—”
Jora stopped her with a “Shhh!” and a raised finger. Something wasn’t right. An odd feeling crept up her neck like ghostly fingers. It wasn’t quite like the feeling of being watched; she’d replaced the barring hood the last time she used the Mindstream. This was more like someone was there. “One moment.” She opened the Mindstream and examined the scene. A pair of eyes, shrouded in a mist, hovered over the physician’s left shoulder. Someone was observing Naruud, eavesdropping on their conversation, but she couldn’t see who it was. “If you have suspicions of foul play,” she said, closing the Mindstream, “keep them to yourself. This is the Justice Bureau. No one here would be involved in a crime, especially one so despicable.”
“Of course. Again, my deepest condolences on your loss.” Naruud stood and left.
Jora hoped the physician noted the look of warning she tried to convey and paid it heed. If Gilon’s death wasn’t a tragic accident, then it likely had to do with the theft of her books. One death on her shoulders was awful enough. She didn’t want a second.
Adriel came into the dining hall, her eyes bloodshot and face streaked with tears. She rushed over to Jora. “Is it true?”
“It’s true.” Jora stood, and the two women embraced, which renewed the tears for them both. For the first time in her life, Jora felt like she was among people who understood her, who didn’t fear her abilities or disrespect or pity her because she was different, and now her best friend was slain. Murdered. And it was all because of her.
Gilon wasn’t quiet like Jora. He wasn’t the kind of person who backed down from conflict or let people get away with something bad. She knew that, and yet she’d shared information with him that ignited his scrappy nature. He was dead, and it was her fault.