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

by May, K. C.

  “I can scarcely believe it,” Adriel said, pulling back. She sank down to the bench, her hands writhing in her lap. “It wasn’t like he was an elder who’d been Mindstreaming for thirty years.”

  Jora startled, looking deeply into Adriel’s eyes. “What did they tell you?”

  “Elder Sonnis said he had a stroke. He told me sometimes novices don’t survive the training. It can make the brain bleed. Gil hid his Talent for so long that the stress of it was too much for him.”

  Jora didn’t believe it for a second. The physician had only left a few minutes ago, and she certainly hadn’t said anything about a stroke. With all these members of the Order, justice officials who’d taken an oath to uphold the laws, not one of them was going to pursue the truth. And they called themselves Truth Sayers? More like Truth Hiders.

  Gilon was murdered, and whoever had done it would get away with it... unless someone observed him in his final minutes to see what happened.

  Jora would. She owed it to Gilon to find out the truth. She would see the face of Gilon’s killer.

  Sonnis entered the dining hall and brushed his hands off as he approached. His eyes were solemn and moist. “Novice Jora, Novice Adriel. I’m so very sorry for the loss of Novice Gilon. It’s devastating to lose a member of the family, especially one so young. Novice Gilon had such a bright future ahead of him. His untimely death is a terrible tragedy, and the entire Order mourns this devastating loss.”

  Adriel sniffled and nodded. “He was a good person. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  Sonnis nodded sadly. “Some things are only for Retar to understand.” He gave Jora a pointed look. “The key to surviving the novice years, ladies, is to keep to your assigned duties and not try to Mindstream things that are beyond your abilities and understanding. When the mind isn’t ready, tragedy can occur, as we’ve seen.”

  A shudder rippled across Jora’s shoulders and raised her skin to gooseflesh. He’d done it. He’d killed Gilon.

  “We’re as much a family here as the one we were born into,” he said. “More so, really, considering we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. I abhor the thought that either of you could suffer his fate. Please be cautious and, most of all, be smart.” He tapped his temple. “Hmm?”

  “Yes, Elder,” Adriel said.

  Sonnis raised his eyebrows with a slight tilt of his head, prompting Jora for her acquiescence as well.

  “Yes, Elder,” Jora said. She would be cautious, but she would also get justice.

  He replaced the scolding expression with one of compassionate understanding, then touched the shoulders of the two novices before leaving. She noticed black bits under his normally clean fingernails, as if he’d been digging in the garden.

  Jora had never felt such intense loathing for a person before. It rippled through her like an earthquake. She curled her hands into fists and clamped her jaw shut to keep her teeth from clattering.

  The first thing she needed to do was to find out who killed Gilon. If it was Sonnis, as she suspected, he would pay for what he’d done. If it was the last thing she did, she would make him pay.

  “Jora?” Adriel asked, catching up to her. “Where are you going?”

  She realized she’d left without saying goodbye to her friend. “Gosh, I’m sorry,” she said, taking Adriel’s hands. “I’m so distraught, I think I need to spend some time in my room, maybe sleep for a bit if I can.”

  “I understand. Try to get some rest. I’ll come by in a bit to see if you’re in the mood for supper.”

  Jora nodded, gave her friend a dim smile and quick embrace, and continued on to her room. With the door shut behind her, she settled on the bed cross-legged, shut her eyes, and opened the Mindstream.

  Finding Gilon’s thread first required her to stream into her own past; his thread no longer existed. He wasn’t part of the tapestry of life anymore. She felt another pair of tears break free from her eyes, but she forged on, determined to get to the truth. The last time she’d seen him was earlier that afternoon, and so she went to the moment where they parted ways and jumped to his thread.

  With her mystical vision hovering over his left shoulder, she followed him to his room, where he paced, obviously agitated. He spat and cursed under his breath, arms tense, hands balled into fists. He threw the door open and stormed out, pulling it shut behind him so hard that it slammed into the frame, rattling it. After stalking down the hallway and down the stairs, he crossed the covered walkway to the bureau, muttering under his breath.

  Inside those glorious halls, he stuck his head into nearly every room he passed, most of them hearing rooms where an adept or elder was conducting a hearing. Not finding the person he was looking for, he continued on until he came to the hearing room in which Elder Sonnis was in the middle of a pronouncement. Jora didn’t get to hear what the sentence was, nor did she know what crime the accused had been found guilty of, because Gilon stormed into the hearing room and up to his bench.

  In front of the witnesses and family of the accused, Disciple Gafna, and the accused himself, Gilon pointed a finger at Elder Sonnis and shouted, “Thief!”

  Oh, Gilon, Jora thought. No.

  Jaws dropped, and gasps filled the room. A moment of stunned silence followed, but Gilon went on. “You stole Jora’s books. I saw you deliver them yourself to Dominee Ibsa.”

  Sonnis raised his hands defensively. “You’re horribly mistaken, Novice.” Though he kept his tone remarkably calm, he emphasized the word novice. “I’ll be glad to explain to you what books I borrowed from the dominee and why, but now isn’t the time. You don’t barge in on a hearing and level accusations this way. There are procedures to follow if you have a grievance or concern. Disciple Gafna, will you please escort Novice Gilon to my office? When I’ve concluded my official business here, we’ll talk.”

  Gafna stood, as tall as Gilon, and took him by the arm and led him out of the room. Judging by Gilon’s bright red face and neck, he was truly embarrassed, perhaps mortified, that he’d barged in on an elder in the midst of a hearing. Passionate, impulsive Gilon. Was this what had led to his death? Was Sonnis angered by the public outburst more than by the subject of the accusation itself? She followed the two of them upstairs to Sonnis’s private office, presumably the one he’d inherited from Elder Kassyl. It was large and well decorated with fine furniture and paintings, and a plush carpet on the floor.

  “Wait here,” Gafna said. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Disciple Bastin is going to be punished for your outburst, you know. I hope you’re satisfied.”

  When she turned and Jora saw her in profile, she realized Gafna was the robed figure she’d observed entering her room that day when she Mindstreamed to the tree. Now she was absolutely certain that Sonnis had stolen her books, acting through his sycophant, Gafna.

  Gilon paced and snooped through the elder’s belongings while he waited, and Jora sped along the stream until Sonnis entered. The elder kicked the door shut behind him and went wordlessly to his desk, setting a stack of books and papers upon its surface.

  “It was you,” Gilon said.

  Sonnis turned and crossed his arms. “Novice, you’re mistaken—about the books, about their rightful ownership, and most certainly about the manner in which a novice addresses an elder in the presence of the public.”

  Gilon hung his head. “I realize that. I was out of line, and for that I apologize. But the fact remains—”

  “No, the fact does not remain, Novice. I’ve told you, those were not Novice Jora’s missing books. Here, in my private chambers, you can feel free to rant and holler and accuse all you want. I’m not offended by your opinions or your boldness. I understand you came to us directly after six years of combat, and your training and instinct is to rush to the defense of those you hold dear, but let’s be perfectly clear. In our hearing chambers, in front of members of the public, a member of the Order never, ever conducts himself in such a manner. Not to me, not to any disciple, adept, or elder in this institut
ion. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very clear,” Gilon said. “Again, I apologize for my outburst in the hearing room.” Sonnis gestured to the door, inviting him to leave, but Gilon strolled lazily to a potted plant that was sitting on a shelf in the bookcase. “You know,” he said, stroking a leaf between his fingers, “until a few minutes ago, I thought you were merely a thief and a liar. This was Elder Kassyl’s office, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” the elder said, an impatient expression on his face.

  “Elder Kassyl was fond of his plants, which you haven’t been attending since you stepped into his shoes.”

  There were three potted rhododendrons in the office, all suffering from neglect. Sonnis might’ve had Kassyl’s office and belongings, but he didn’t have the elder man’s respect for living things.

  Sonnis glanced with disdain at the plant on the corner of his desk. “I’ve been busy. What is your point, Novice?”

  “He was obviously fond of these plants. A couple of them were in the convalescence room with him.”

  Jora gasped. Gilon was right. Why hadn’t she remembered that?

  Sonnis gave him an annoyed look. “So?”

  “Oh,” Gilon said, lifting one finger. “Have I mentioned how Jora found out who took her books? There’s a tree outside the dormitory. Outside her window, in fact. Did you know that plants can be observed, Sonnis?” The fact that he failed to address Sonnis by his title didn’t go unnoticed.

  The elder’s gaze hardened, and his jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

  “While I was waiting for you, I took a peek at these plants, into their past.”

  Oh, Gilon, Jora thought. Why didn’t you report what you saw directly to the other elders?

  “And?” Sonnis asked, encouraging Gilon to go on with a circular hand motion.

  “I heard you arguing with him about giving Jora his book of tones. I heard you cursing him for giving her the barring hood before she’d become a disciple.”

  “Elders and adepts disagree from time to time,” Sonnis said, taking a couple of casual steps toward Gilon.

  “Imagine my surprise when I witnessed the very moment that Elder Kassyl took his last breath. I saw what you did,” Gilon said in a quiet voice. He stood his ground, not flinching at the elder’s approach. “I championed you to Jora when she suspected you of the theft. It was bad enough finding out you’re a thief, but a murderer? I’m so very disappointed in you, Sonnis.”

  Jora took in a sharp breath. Murderer. So it was true. Gilon had witnessed it.

  “That,” Sonnis said, holding up one finger, “is one accusation I will not tolerate, here or elsewhere.” He took another step.

  “Oh, but there were witnesses to that crime.” Gilon smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m willing to make an agreement with you. If you return Jora’s books by the evening meal, I’ll give you until noon tomorrow to pack up and leave before I turn you in. Maybe you can find a nice, quiet town in Barad Selegal or Arynd-ban where you can live in peace with Serocia’s other enemies.”

  Sonnis gripped Gilon’s shoulder and turned him to the door. “Gilon, Gilon, Gilon. Your bullheadedness grows tiresome. Even if I did happen to find her books and have them returned, there’s no guarantee anyone would listen to your ravings long enough to give them any consideration. I suggest you return to your studies and try better to control your impulses and wild imaginings.” He went to the door and opened it, then waited for Gilon to leave.

  Gilon glared at him as he walked past. “Gird yourself, Sonnis,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not a sick old man.”

  Jora followed Gilon down the stairs and back to his room, where he lay down on the bed, hands laced over his belly, and stared at the ceiling while his jaw worked, undoubtedly considering his next steps. Then came a knock at the door. He got up and opened it.

  It was Gafna, though her hood was up and her face shrouded in shadow.

  “What do you want?” Gilon asked, turning away.

  Gafna stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “Elder Sonnis sent me to deliver one last message.” She ran at him. In one quick movement, she hooked her arms up under his and clasped her hands together behind his neck. The momentum of her body slamming into his back hurtled him forward. He stumbled, falling face down onto the bed. He tried to reach behind and grab her hands, but with his arms trapped, he couldn’t pry her hands loose. Gafna pressed his face into the mattress. He struggled beneath her, rocking to the side. Her knees straddled his hips, and he had no purchase with his legs. His neck turned deep crimson, and he made terrible choking sounds.

  Jora couldn’t watch the rest. She’d seen what she needed to see, and now she knew.

  Sonnis wasn’t only a thief but a murderer.

  The following day went by painfully slowly. Even Bastin was distraught over Gilon’s death, getting a faraway look in her eye and trailing off in the middle of an explanation. The two agreed that they needed to take the day to grieve his loss and resume their studies the following day.

  Jora paced in her room, twisting her hands and worrying over what to do. The scene of Gilon’s death played over in her mind. The sight of his face unnerved her at least as much as witnessing the attack had. He hadn’t been afraid of Gafna. Why would he have been? She was tall, but she still wasn’t as strong as he was nor trained in combat. If he hadn’t lowered his guard, if he hadn’t turned his back on her, she would never have bested him.

  Gilon had discovered the truth behind Elder Kassyl’s death, and he was killed for it. Why had Sonnis slain Elder Kassyl? Was it because of her work with the tones? Because he’d given her the barring hood? And with her two staunchest allies dead, was she in danger, too?

  What she needed was sage advice from someone who knew more than she did.

  Jora slid her sandals back on and hurried downstairs. The sun was setting. She didn’t have much time.

  Her sandals whisked across the brick streets as she half-walked, half-ran, weaving her way through the crowded market in the minutes before suppers would be cooked in homes across the city. When at last she reached her destination, she tugged the door, relieved to find it open.

  The cantor was walking toward her, a key in hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, Novice,” he said. “The temple is closed now. I was about to lock the door. The dominee has already gone home for the evening.”

  “I need a minute with the god vessel, Brother,” she said. “Please. It’s urgent.”

  “Well... I-I suppose it would be all right.” He gestured toward the empty chambers, their doors all standing open. “Go on. Let me know when you’re finished and I’ll let you out.” He locked the front doors of the temple.

  “Thank you,” she said, hurrying up the aisle. “Thank you so much.”

  She went into the fourth chamber and shut the door behind her. The gray parrot on its perch on the other side of the iron grating squawked at her, eyeing her with one golden eye. Settling on the seat, she whispered, “Retar? Are you there?”

  “I’m here, Jora,” the parrot said. “I didn’t expect to see you here again so soon. How may I help you today?”

  “My friend’s been murdered,” she whispered. She cast a glance through the iron grating in the chamber door and saw the cantor standing idly by the front door, twirling the key on the end of its thong.

  “Yes, I know. I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s a shame he hadn’t eaten the godfruit as he’d done on so many previous mornings. We’d be talking about something far more pleasant.”

  “I observed his final minutes, and I know who killed him. I need your help. Tell me what to do.”

  “Dear Jora,” Retar said sadly, “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m not that kind of god.”

  “I’m just asking for advice. Should I go to the other elders and tell them? I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “I don’t give advice, either. Everything has to be your own choice, your own decision.”

  Damn. She chewed the cuticle on he
r thumb, trying to think of a way to get the god to tell her what she wanted to know. “Am I in danger?”

  “Not at this moment,” the god said. “I cannot predict the future, however.”

  “Are you saying someone is plotting my... my death?”

  “Not at this moment.”

  “So if I keep quiet and don’t accuse anyone, things could settle back to normal.”

  “If you’re asking me to speculate, I’m afraid I can’t. There exist a million million possibilities for every person at any single moment in time, each one generating a million million more.”

  What kind of useless god was he?

  “I prefer to think of myself as a font of knowledge of what is. As someone who drinks from that font every time you enter the so-called Mindstream, you should understand that the future isn’t written. Only the present and the past can be observed. I hardly find that useless, do you?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t really think you’re useless. I’m frustrated with everything that has happened recently.”

  “I’m not offended, Jora,” Retar said. “And I understand.”

  She looked out the chamber’s grated window again. The cantor was approaching. Time was running out.

  “All right, then. Can you at least tell me where my stolen books are?”

  “They’re currently on the dominee’s desk.”

  “Just sitting there? Unguarded?”

  “Yes.”

  She licked her lips. Taking the books wasn’t stealing. They were rightfully hers. “The cantor is about to kick me out of the temple.”

  “Doubtful. Interrupting a communion is against the rules,” Retar said. The bird winked, or perhaps it merely blinked, but it was a very well-timed blink.

  “But I’d have to somehow get past him.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  She leaned toward the grating. “Is there a way I can sneak past him?”

  “The divider that separates the two halves of the chamber is on hinges. It unhooks on the end and folds in the middle.”

  She checked the end of the divider but didn’t see any kind of hook or latch. She lifted and wiggled it, and the end swung free. “Brilliant.” She folded it back enough to swing her legs around the bench and past the divider, and then eased past the parrot’s stand. There was a horrible mess of bird droppings on the floor, and she stepped across it as best she could. “Which way to her office?”