Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles) (8 page)

It was her fault. If Jora hadn’t been Mindstreaming to Oram at that very moment, or perhaps 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.

She waited until Nuri left for the privy, and then she set down her knife, closed her eyes, and opened the Mindstream. She pushed past the frightening shadowy beings and the whispers that made her skin crawl and found Oram’s thread, following it into the past where she’d observed him the day before. As before, the Truth Sayers looked up at her as if she had a physical presence there. And as before, it unnerved her, but she focused on her task. She followed the thread of the soldier who’d volunteered the information about his cousin, found Gilon’s thread, and followed it.

He was sitting alone at a table in a tent, nervously drumming his fingers. Waiting. He appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties, a handsome fellow with a shaved head and face like all the warriors of Serocia, though she could tell by the stubble that his hair was dark. His hazel eyes darted to the tent’s opening every few seconds.

Jora wondered whether he’d already been contacted by the Truth Sayers and what they wanted. She took a few minutes to look backward in time, to see what precipitated his appearance in the tent. She saw him stand up, walk backward from the tent, led by another soldier, perhaps an officer, and from there to a gathering of other men who sat in front of a large bucket of water, sharpening their swords and chatting about their recent battle. Until the officer showed up and escorted Gilon away, there was no sign that he’d been approached by Truth Sayers within the last few hours.

She snapped forward again to the present. There, in the tent with him, were two Truth Sayers.

Retar’s bollocks!

She closed the Mindstream as quickly as she could, hoping neither had noticed her presence there. Her heart was hammering, and sweat had broken out on her forehead and under her arms.

Don’t be silly,
she thought.
They don’t know who I am.
They could conclude he was acquainted with a Mindstreamer and would ask Gilon as they had Oram’s group. If they noticed her.

She had to do it. She had to return and find out what was going to happen to Gilon.

With a deep breath, she returned to the Mindstream, retraced her path from Oram to the other soldier to Gilon. She steeled herself for what was to come, unsure she wasn’t putting herself in danger but knowing she was doing the right thing.

And when did you discover you had the Talent?
one of the Truth Sayers asked. He wasn’t the one Jora had seen earlier, with Oram. These were two different Truth Sayers, both men.

I don’t remember, exactly,
Gilon said.
I was a boy, maybe six or seven. It scared me at first, and so I didn’t really start to explore it until I was about thirteen.

She rotated her view, moving her perspective from above them to directly across from Gilon. The two Truth Sayers didn’t seem to notice her. Perhaps they had to be Mindstreaming to see her.

Are you acquainted with others who have the Talent for Witnessing?
the taller of the two Sayers asked.

No,
Gilon said.
I’ve never met anyone who can do it, aside from the two of you, of course.

“What are you doing?”

Jora jerked herself out of the Mindstream. “Nothing. Just—”

“Do that Mindstreaming crap on your own time,” Nuri said. “When you’re here, you’re working.”

“Sorry,” Jora whispered. “So sorry.” She picked up the knife and went back to work stitching the leather bag she was making.

“Rip them out and start over,” Nuri said, tossing the leather flap back down. “I haven’t seen such a mess since your first year.”

“Sorry,” Jora said, ducking her head. “So sorry.” She used the razor hook to cut the stitches and then pulled them with her fingernails and set the short pieces of string aside.

Behind her, one of the younger apprentices snickered. Probably Shiri. Palti wasn’t so mean-spirited.

“What’s gotten into you, girl?” Nuri asked. “It’s that flute, isn’t it? It’s distracting you.”

Jora had been distracted lately, spending most of her free time out on the shoal talking to the friendly dolphin and playing her flute. Sundancer seemed to enjoy the sounds and often mimicked them or whistled her own tune repeatedly until Jora played it back for her. She couldn’t be sure whether Retar was trying to talk to her through the dolphin or if the animal was attempting to communicate with her in its own language, but the exchanges captivated her when she should have been focusing on her work.

“No,” she said. “Not the flute, exactly. It’s...” She hadn’t told anyone about Sundancer, not even Tearna and Briana. “I have a new friend.”

Nuri’s face softened into genuine interest. “Oh? I heard Gunnar is planning to propose to you. Is it him? Or someone else?”

Jora scowled. “Who told you about that?”

The elder woman smiled and turned back to her own work. “Oh, well, you know how people talk. Shameful, really. No one can keep a secret in this town.”

To hear her condemn others for gossip nearly made Jora laugh out loud. Nuri was the worst offender.

“Who is it?” Nuri asked. “Does Gunnar know he has competition?”

“It’s not a man,” Jora said.

“So it’s true then? About Gunnar? You didn’t deny it, so it must be true. I’ll bet Marja is seething. Probably plotting your demise as we speak.”

Jora felt the heat of blush in her cheeks and bowed her head. “He hasn’t proposed, so please don’t spread rumors. He might decide I’m not worth Marja’s wrath.”

Nuri sniffed haughtily. “If it’s not a man, then...” She raised her head. “You prefer girls?”

“No, nothing like that. Well, she’s a girl. I think. I honestly can’t tell.” Jora grinned secretively, knowing the mystery of it would drive Nuri mad.

“I know who it is,” said Shiri. “I’ve seen them. Together.” She giggled to herself and nudged Palti, the newest and youngest apprentice, with her foot.

“Ouch! Quit it,” Palti whined. “Look what you made me do.” She showed them the speck of blood on her thumb.

“There’s a lot of salted hide that needs tanning,” Nuri said.

The two younger women tucked their lips between their teeth and concentrated on their stitching.

“Yes, madam,” Jora said quietly. She hadn’t been made to tan hides since she was a novice apprentice, but she would accept her punishment.

“Tell me about your little friend, and I’ll give the task to Shiri.”

“No,” Shiri cried. “My arms are still sore from the last batch. Make Palti do it.”

“I don’t know how,” Palti said.

“That’s all right,” Jora said. “Shiri can teach you.” She turned back to Nuri. “Her name is Sundancer. That’s what I call her, anyway. Not sure if that’s her real name.”

“What is it, a rabbit?” Nuri asked. “An escaped parrot?” She drew back with a gasp, an expression of alarm on her face. “A god vessel? Are you speaking directly to Retar?”

“That’s against the law,” Shiri said. “You’re not supposed to have your own god vessel.”

Jora shook her head. “I doubt Sundancer’s a god vessel. She only whistles. She doesn’t talk. Besides, what would Retar want with me?”

“A bird, then,” Nuri said. “A robin? Mockingbird?”

“No, Sundancer’s a dolphin.” Jora chuckled at the three dropped jaws. “She’s drawn to my music.”

“You call that music?” Shiri muttered.

“Good point. I’m still awful.”

“Quiet, Shiri,” Nuri said. Her expression had gone from shocked disbelief to intense curiosity. “The dolphin comes when you play the flute?”

“Yes,” Jora said, encouraged by her mentor’s enthusiasm. “When I practice playing the notes, she watches and listens, but when I play bits of a melody, she whistles them back.”

“Parrot of the sea,” Shiri said.

“It’s more than that,” Jora said. “She knows
Song of the Sea Spirit
. I played a bit for her, and she whistled back the same part—”

“Whoop-dee-doo,” Shiri said. “The dogs can bark—”

“Shut up,” Nuri hollered. “Go on. Get out. Both of you.” She waved her arm. “Go see the skinner and bring back whatever she’s got, and then get started on those pelts.”

“But—”

“Do it now.”

“See what your big mouth got us?” Palti whined.

Jora was taken aback at Nuri’s change in demeanor. The girls’ chatter didn’t normally get under Nuri’s skin so easily. Jora worked quietly while the two younger girls shoved their work into the drawers of their workbench and stormed out. The door slammed behind them.

“Now,” Nuri said more calmly, “continue.”

“Well, as I was saying, Sundancer whistled back the part I’d played, but what surprised me most of all was that she whistled the rest of the melody before I’d played it. Sometimes she whistles stuff she wants me to play. She’ll keep whistling until I play it.”

“Remarkable,” Nuri said. She set aside the cloak she was stitching and leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “The same dolphin comes every time?”

“Yes. At least, I think it’s the same one.”

“Have you ever read
The Whispering Sea
? It’s a dusty, old tome in the library that tells the story of an ancient tribe of people who lived on the Islands of Azaria.”

Jora shook her head.

Nuri leaned back, resting her back against the front edge of her workbench and her elbows on its surface. “It was said they had great magical power and could communicate with the dolphins using flutes. They had a cooperative arrangement where the dolphins helped with the sharks, and the Islanders used nets to corral fish for the dolphins to feed on. Thus began a long and fruitful exchange between the Islanders and the dolphins. One year, a giant tidal wave hit the Islands and washed all its inhabitants out to sea. Many dolphins searched the waters for survivors but found only dead bodies, which they took to the shores of the Islands to wash up onto the sand for a whale burial. Anyway, the story captivated me as a child. I had all kinds of questions, but the librarian had no answers. She assured me it was merely a fairy tale written by someone who traveled the world telling stories to children.”

“And you think it’s more than that?” Jora asked.
The Whispering Sea.
Perhaps she should visit the library to find out if the book was still there.

Nuri shrugged. “It’s an intriguing coincidence that a dolphin responded to your flute playing.”

“And knew
Song of the Sea Spirit
,” Jora added. She shared her musings about the origin of the song being with the dolphins and not composed by a human.

“Could be.” Nuri studied her for a long moment. “Hurry up and finish your work so you can go ask if the book’s still around.”

Jora was much more careful with her stitching going forward, earning a curt nod from Nuri. With that task completed, the elder leatherworker dismissed her early.

“Run, girl. Find that book.”

The library was a medium-sized room about four times the dimensions of the leather shop, though with two tables at the front with barely room for chairs around them, it seemed more cramped. It smelled faintly of dust and vanilla pods. A dozen tall shelves abutted one wall, spaced apart to allow someone to squat down or climb onto a step stool to find the book they were looking for. The books were organized in such an obscure manner that it was impossible for any normal person to locate a specific book without the help of the librarian or one of her assistants.

Osha the librarian was an old woman, hunched over and slow. Though she had two younger, lither women apprenticing, they sat at a table near the front of the room, rebinding books and chatting about Boden’s Antenuptial. “Let me see,” Osha said.
“The Whispering Sea
, did you say? Seems I’ve heard of that one.” She shuffled down the aisle at the speed of molasses.

Jora strolled behind her, impatient to reach the book she wanted but forgiving of the woman’s feebleness.

“Oh!” Osha said, stopping in her tracks with one finger held up. “I remember now. That book was in the back row. I’m sorry, dear.”

The back row. That meant nothing to Jora, and she looked at the elderly woman with a question on her tongue.