Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles) (35 page)

“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 her 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?”

“First left, second right,” Retar said. “Will that be all for now?”

“Yes, thank you.” On a whim, Jora scratched the top of the parrot’s head with her index finger.

“Mmm. That’s nice. I like that.”

First left, second right,
she thought, feeling like a criminal for sneaking through the temple like this. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the god Retar himself had given her the directions, she would have thought her soul would surely be condemned to Hell. The door to the dominee’s office was closed but it wasn’t locked. The dominee probably had as much trust in other temple clergy members as Jora’d had in other members of the Order.

The room was dim, but what daylight was left shining through the large plate window was enough for her to easily make out the two books sitting to the right of center on the wide desk.

Jora flipped open the one with the black cover and recognized her own handwriting. She picked it up and opened the tan-covered book underneath. Inside were the notes penned by the late Elder Kassyl. She put the two books inside her robes, flat against her chest, and tugged the fabric to cover them.

She checked the corridor in both directions and eased the door shut behind her before hurrying back the way she’d come. The parrot squawked at her when she stepped past it, ducking back into the chamber. She’d barely gotten turned on the bench and pulled the divider shut when the cantor’s face appeared in the grating to her right. She let out a startled yelp, as did he, and pushed the door open.

“What on Aerta are you doing?” she asked, putting a hand to her chest in shock, covering the bulge created by the top edge of the book under her robe.

“I’m s-so sorry, Novice. I-I didn’t hear the murmur of conversation, and I was afraid perhaps you’d fallen asleep. I didn’t mean to interrupt if you’re still in communion with Retar.”

“I’m finished now,” she said. “I’m not used to people sneaking up on me like that while I’m having a private conversation with the god.”

“I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me.” His hands quivered as he wrung them, the key’s thong draped over his wrist.

“Let’s pretend I wasn’t here, and I’ll forgive the intrusion,” she said. “If you’ll kindly let me out, I’ll be on my way.”

“O-Of course. Let me...” He hurried down the aisle, and she followed, adjusting the folds of her robe to hide the bulging books. When he unlocked the door, she wished him a pleasant evening and left, eager to get away before he noticed the lump under her robe.

Hurrying back to the dormitory, Jora knew she couldn’t stay. The moment the dominee realized the books were gone, they would suspect her. They couldn’t observe her, but they could observe the cantor and see that she’d been there. She would possibly be charged with a crime, if not for the theft, then for illegally entering the dominee’s office.

She considered fleeing now with nothing but the books and the clothes on her back, but with the flimsy sandals on her feet and no money, she wouldn’t get far. Besides, she couldn’t leave without her flute. Once the enforcers locked up at night, she would be trapped within the confines of the property until close to dawn.

When she returned to her room, Jora packed her old clothes and a clean robe, folding the books into her clothing to better hide them from anyone who managed to snoop. She laid her flute atop the clothes, stuffed her hat on top, and then fastened the top flap and slid the bag under her bed.

It occurred to her that novice robes wouldn’t be as useful as adepts’ robes. All novices were supposed to train in Jolver. Wandering around the countryside in novices’ robes would call attention to herself, but an adept or elder traveling alone wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. The green or golden robes would also give her the advantage of assumption; any Truth Sayers she encountered would assume they couldn’t observe her, while they would expect to be able to observe a novice or a nonmember of the Order.

During the night, when everyone else was sleeping and her mind was too restless to join them, she snuck down to the laundry and grabbed a set of the green adepts’ robes, freshly washed, dried and ironed. For a moment, she considered taking elders’ robes too, but she was too young. Passing herself off as an adept would be hard enough; posing as an elder would look downright ridiculous. She also filled the water skin that Gunnar had given her. It wouldn’t last all day, but she could refill it at a stream.

She did manage to sleep a couple of hours that night, but they were not restful hours. When she was too uneasy to sleep anymore, she put on a simple shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, then the trousers and outer robe that designated her as a Novice. It was still dark outside, and so she crept downstairs with her bag, looking for a place to hide it where it wouldn’t be seen but would be easily accessible when she was ready. Not far from the back gate was a hedge that lined the tall brick wall enclosing the Justice Bureau grounds. She pushed the bag under the hedge and behind the thickest of their trunks. In broad daylight, it might be noticeable, but she planned to be gone by then.

She waited in her room until the sky glowed pink in the east and then went downstairs to join the other regulars beside the Spirit Stones. If she failed to come one day to hear the Changing of the Tones, people would wonder and Elder Sonnis would grow suspicious. She needed everything to seem as normal as possible until she was due for her first lesson with Disciple Bastin. By the time they realized she was gone, she would be four hours away.

“Good morning, Novice Jora,” Elder Sonnis said, smiling gently as he strolled over to the stone. “I’m glad to see you here.”

“Why do you say that, Elder?”

“Sometimes a loss as devastating as what we’ve all suffered this week, with the tragic deaths of Elder Kassyl and Novice Gilon, disrupts our lives and makes everyday tasks seem less worthwhile.”

The other adepts and elders nodded sadly.

“It’s important to continue moving forward,” Elder Sonnis said. “We can find solace in companionship and in the things that give us pleasure.”

She turned toward the east, toward the glow in the sky, not wanting to listen to him anymore. Those words spoken by any other lips would have had meaning for her. Spoken by him, they were a mockery of her affection for Gilon and Elder Kassyl and the depth of her grief.

The sun seemed to take forever to rise that morning. Jora stood with the others, one hand on the Spirit Stone, waiting. Her heart beat so furiously, she was sure everyone around her could hear it. She heard their breathing, the rustle of their clothes when they moved, their feet shuffling on the stone.

At last, the sun’s first rays touched the waters of the sea with a golden sparkle and the tone changed, lifting Jora with its beauty as it sang through her bones. Tears ran down her cheeks when she realized she wouldn’t get to experience the tone change the following day or the day after that. Perhaps never again, if the only two Spirit Stones in Serocia were located in front of Justice Bureau buildings.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone. The others had gone inside, and the sun was a tiny sliver above the horizon.

It was time.

She walked through the Bureau’s main building, as she’d done every morning after the Changing of the Tones, though this time with feigned nonchalance. She was alert to every sound, every door opening, and every pair of eyes meeting hers as she passed. A pair of footsteps behind her quickened her heartbeat.

“Novice Jora,” said a voice behind her.

Run or stop? She paused, knowing that running would only draw attention to herself. “Yes?” It was Adept Fer. She broke into a sweat.

“I wanted to express my condolences on the death of your friend. It was clear the two of you were close. I’m very sorry. The work we do here can be difficult and, as we’ve seen with Novice Gilon, dangerous.”

“Thank you, Adept. It’ll take some time to get past my grief, but I hope that focusing on my studies will help.”

“Yes, that’s a good attitude, but please don’t overdo it. Disciple Bastin guides you so that you don’t overtax your mind while you’re still learning. Is she working you too hard?”

“Oh, no. Disciple Bastin isn’t to blame for what happened to Gilon.”

“Good. She’ll be reporting to me, now that Sonnis has been promoted to Elder. If at any time you feel she’s pushing you beyond your tolerance, please come and see me.”

“Yes, Adept. I will.” Jora started to turn and continue on her way, but the adept stopped her.

“Ah, speaking of Elder Sonnis, he’s asked me to send you to his office right away.”