Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles) (19 page)

“Mid-fifties, I guess.”

She laughed. “My father’s fifty-four. Mid-fifties isn’t old. Elder Gastone must be at least seventy.”

“He just celebrated his fiftieth birthday,” Adriel said. “That’s old for a Sayer. One thing we get to look forward to is a short lifespan. The Mindstream taxes the soul, and the soul feeds off the body. It’s rare for a Sayer to live past fifty-five, and some die in their mid-forties, especially the nippers.”

Jora groaned. She had no idea Mindstreaming was killing
her. “Are there any adepts or elders we can trust?” she asked.

“Trust... how?” Adriel asked. “We can trust them all. They’re Truth Sayers.”

“I mean, for instance, if we have a personal problem or concern. Is there someone you trust more than the others to handle matters discreetly?”

Adriel rolled her eyes up and tapped her chin with a forefinger. “I’d probably go to Adept Lazar or Fer. They report to your elder, so they should be the ones to go to first.”

“Or Adept Sonnis,” Gilon said. “He’s nice, easy to talk to, and is always willing to listen. He’s Bastin’s supervisor, so we should go to him before anyone else.”

“Right,” Adriel said. “Adept Sonnis will probably replace Elder Kassyl when he dies.”

Jora rolled her eyes. Great.

The door swung open. Conversation stopped, and all three heads turned. A person of perhaps fifteen stood in the doorway wearing a long blue robe. Jora thought it might be a girl, but she wasn’t certain, as there were no breasts tenting the robe in front, though the visitor would’ve been small for a boy.

“You’re Jora?” Definitely a girl’s voice.

Jora stood. “Yes. Are you Bastin?”

The disciple nodded curtly and looked around the room. “What are you two doing here?”

“Giving her an introduction to life in the Order,” Gilon said. “You know, which adepts to bootlick to, that sort of thing.”

Jora and Adriel chuckled.

Bastin stood there for a moment, looking at him as if she expected him to say something else. “I don’t advise bootlicking to any of them. They would see through maneuvers like that.”

Gilon turned to Jora and put one hand to the side of his mouth as if to tell her a secret. “She doesn’t understand the concept of jesting.”

Jora smiled gently. She didn’t want to offend her new mentor.

“She’s never had a proper childhood,” Adriel said. “Gil’s been teaching her a thing or two about the finer points of humor and playfulness.”

“She’s a tough student, but I’m determined to get through.”

“Not today you won’t,” Bastin said. “I’ve got one more case left to hear this evening after supper. I was told I had a new novice, so I wanted to meet you while I had the time. Do you have your textbook yet?”

Jora shook her head.

“You can read, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can read.”

“Gilon, show her where to get it. Read the first two chapters on Rules of the Order tonight. We’ll meet after breakfast in the morning and go over them.”

“And over them and over them and over them.” Gilon gasped dramatically for a breath. “And over them and over them...”

Adriel chuckled. Jora couldn’t help but smile.

Bastin looked at him, her face expressionless. “Was that a jest?”

“Yes, yes it was. Very good, Bastin.”

Bastin’s expressionless face told Jora she was neither amused nor offended. “It’s my duty to repeat the lessons however many times it takes for you to understand and remember.”

“Yah,” Gilon said. “As you’ve so aptly demonstrated.”

“Thank you,” Bastin said, inclining her head.

Adriel snickered.

“Do you have any immediate questions or concerns, Novice Jora?” Bastin asked.

“I was wondering about the colors of the robes.”

“Violet for novices, blue for adepts—”

“Yes,” Jora said, “I’ve noticed that we use the colors of the rainbow to differentiate the ranks of the Order. Why don’t the elders wear red or orange?”

“Orange is for the dominee of the temple,” Bastin explained. “Red isn’t worn.”

“Why not?” Gilon asked.

“In ancient times, only the most powerful witness, who surmounted both the Order and the temple through his command of the Talent, wore red. Those were the Gatekeepers. We haven’t had a Gatekeeper in over five hundred years.”

“Five hundred years are ancient times?” Gilon asked, smiling.

“More ancient than modern,” Bastin said.

“So each time we advance, we get to wear a different robe color and have a new title,” Jora said. “Is that all that distinguishes a Novice from an Elder?”

“No,” Bastin said. “There are skill differences, too. When you become a disciple, you’ll learn the barring hood. That’s what prevents others with the Talent, such as our enemies, from observing us. Adepts learn to recognize other members of the Order while using the Talent. That way, they can tell whether someone being observed is friend or foe.”

“What do elders learn?” she asked.

“You’ll find out when you become an adept. Supper will be served in a few minutes,” Bastin said. “One bell is for elders and adepts, two bells is for disciples and novices. Don’t enter the dining hall until you’ve heard the two bells.”

“We filthy peasants aren’t allowed to dine with royalty,” Gilon said.

Adriel and Jora smiled, but Bastin scowled. “The elders and adepts sometimes join us at the second bell,” she said. “They’re not royalty any more than we’re peasants. They’ve earned the privilege of eating first. Someday, you will, too.”

“See what I mean?” he asked Jora.

Bastin didn’t appear to be insulted by his question. “Was that a jest, too?”

“It was, dear Bastin. Too bad you missed it. I thought it was funny.”

She waved him off with a flick of her hand. “Meet me in the library after breakfast tomorrow.” Without another word, the disciple left.

“Nice meeting you,” Jora called after her.

“I don’t think she understands basic human social interaction, either,” Adriel said. “Poor thing.”

“What’s her story? Why didn’t she have a proper childhood?” Jora asked.

“Her parents realized when she was five or six that she was different,” Gilon said, “so they sent her to the Justice Bureau to be tested for the Talent.”

“Mindstreaming?”

“Yah, Mindstreaming. Children can’t start training as a novice until they’re ten years old, so she had to complete her basic education first, but she lived here and was taught by one of the monks.”

“Monks of the temple?”

“Those are the ones. Spend enough time at the temple and you’ll understand.”

Chapter 12

One evening, while Boden was eating supper with his pals, Corporal Pharson made his way past carrying a bowl of steaming food. “Sayeg,” he said, pausing as he went by, “I’ve got an assignment for you. Come see me after the meal.”

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.