
Song of the Sea Spirit

Book one of The Mindstream Chronicles

by K.C. May  
Smashwords Edition

**Song of the Sea Spirit**

Copyright 2014 by K.C. May at Smashwords.com

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This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents depicted herein are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Damon Za (www.damonza.com).  
Map of Aerta: The Inner Sea Corridor by Jared Blando (www.theredepic.com)

Chapter 1

Working under the glow of two lamps, Jora Lanseri sat hunched at her workbench. The scent of tanned leather and oil had long since faded from her notice, for the night was late or the morning early. She wasn't sure which. With every tap of her hammer on the awl, the moment grew closer that Jora would have to say goodbye to her dearest friend. It was no wonder the tools felt so heavy in her hands. The holes she punched into the leather strap might as well have been going directly into her heart.

She tried to imagine life in the small town without him and couldn't. In every scene, he was there: Jora trading half her meat for the vegetables he didn't like; playing Winds and Dragons together so late into the night that their tired eyes could no longer distinguish one tile from another; sharing thoughts on the stars, the god Retar, the meaning of life, the secret ingredient in the bread pudding that made it irresistible. Boden would have plenty to occupy him in the coming days and weeks and years, far too much to miss her, but she couldn't say the same. For her, his absence would leave a gaping hole in her life.

"You're here early," said a deep voice.

Jora flinched, turning to find Boden at the shop's door. "Goodness, you startled me." It was then that she realized the sun had peeked over the horizon. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of people outside, talking, getting started on the new day. She stood to hug him.

"Sorry," he said with a grin. He returned the embrace, patting her back affectionately. "I heard the pounding and figured it was you."

Sometime in the last two years, he'd grown from being her own height to towering over her by a head. Like most boys, he let his dark-brown hair grow long, and it trailed nearly to his waist. Jora pulled a handful of it over his shoulder and smoothed it across his chest. In only a few short hours, it would fall to the floor in a heap and be offered to the chickens for nesting. It was a shame to have to cut it off, but Boden wasn't one to question tradition, much less hard and fast rules imposed by the Legion. "Want me to braid it one last time?"

A slight blush crept into his now-angular face, a face whose once-chubby cheeks she'd pinched countless times over the years. He'd become a man right under her nose, and yet, she was seeing it for the first time. "Thanks, but I'll pass," he said.

She lay her hand against his prickly cheek and smiled warmly. Oh, how she would miss him and worry about him. Only one out of every seven men ever returned from the war, but Jora pushed that thought aside. Gunnar had prepared him well. He would come back.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" Boden asked.

"Of course not. Do I look like your mother?" She went to the window, wiping her eye surreptitiously when her back was turned to him, and opened the shutters. Outside, the marriage council members stood about in their ceremonial garb, conferring about the details of the upcoming ceremony. "Shouldn't you be getting ready? It looks like the council is gathering."

"Soon," he said. "I wanted to talk to you first."

"Ooh, here come the musicians." Jora heard a couple of them warming up with runs and exercises. When she heard the delightful sound of the flute, she put her hands over her heart. "The flute. I hope they play _Song of the Sea Spirit_."

"That's the one with the long flute solo?"

"Yah," Jora said. "It's so lovely, it always makes me weep." She'd tried a few times to talk to the flute player, but she was a twitchy dame who seemed disinclined to talk about her art. Or anything else, for that matter.

Boden chuckled. "Sap."

She didn't mind being a sap if she could hear that song again, or better yet, learn to play it herself. Of course, she would need a flute for that, and such a thing was made only for those apprenticing in the musical arts. At twenty-two, Jora was too old to begin a new apprenticeship now. Besides, Nuri kept her busy in the leather shop, making items to sell to the traveling merchants so the town could pay its taxes.

"What are you working on so early?" he asked, picking up the knapsack on her workbench. "It must be important."

Jora rushed over and tried to take it from him. "You're not supposed to see it yet. It's not finished."

He pushed her hands away. "This is for me?" He turned the bag over, inspecting it. "I don't know what to say. It's beautiful."

"It's supposed to be useful. Here, look." She tugged it open to show him the pockets. "I made a pouch for your papers to keep them smooth and dry, and on the outside, a pocket for your flint and a strap to carry a knife or axe. And..." She lifted a flap inside. "A false bottom, in case you want to keep something hidden, like a journal or other flat thing. There's even a loop here to hold a lead pen for when a quill and ink are impractical."

His face glowed with the boyish excitement she knew so well. "It's excellent. Thank you. Now I won't have to use my father's old one."

"Did you come just to see what I was making for your journey tomorrow?" She retook her seat and gestured to the stool at her mentor's workbench.

He cleared his throat and dragged the stool closer. "Actually, no. I came to ask, uh, if you've decided yet whether, um, you're going to perhaps consider..."

"Am I going to submit?"

His cheeks reddened, and he nodded, sitting heavily.

The question had tormented her over the last few months. In fact, she was surprised he'd waited until the day of his Antenuptial to ask. On one hand, Boden was one of her dearest friends. There was no doubt that they would get along beautifully and raise wonderful children. On the other, she'd long thought of him more as a brother than a potential lover and had only recently begun to notice his manly qualities. Whenever she envisioned the two of them kissing, her mind at once rejected every mental image she conjured. And yet, she wanted desperately to have children of her own.

Part of her feared Boden was the only one who would take her as a wife, that her only chance to be a mother lay with him. Then she would admonish herself for thinking so selfishly.

For every decision she made to submit, she made another to abstain. It didn't feel right and proper to marry Boden, no matter how much she cared for and respected him.

But he wasn't the man she thought of as she went about her tasks every day or imagined in her arms as she hugged her pillow at night. The one she'd developed an intense doe-eyed fondness for when she was fourteen, the man she'd grown to respect and care for and fantasize about wasn't Boden but his father. Gunnar.

The mere thought of him made her heart pitter-patter, but that was a secret she'd shared only with Tearna. She'd mastered keeping her expression calm, her voice steady, and her words cordial but distant whenever she interacted with him or spoke about him to others. He was thirty-six years old, for Challenger's sake. She should have been considering a younger man.

She leaned forward and took Boden's hands into hers, stroking his fingers with her thumbs. His skin was no longer soft and boyish but calloused and rough. "Boden, you know I love you, right? You've been like a brother to me since we were both small."

"I know," he said softly, staring at their entwined hands. "I... feel the same."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "If you want me to, I'll submit, but it would be... awkward. Besides, I don't think I'd qualify anyway. The timing isn't right."

He snapped his eyes up to meet hers. "No!" He swallowed. "I mean, I agree it would be awkward. Your friendship means the world to me, and I don't want to ruin it."

"Good," Jora said, squeezing his hands before releasing them. She was glad he understood, but part of her wondered whether he shared the misgivings of the boys who'd had their Antenuptials before him. The boys who, time and again, had chosen someone else over Jora as their First Wife.

Boys turning eighteen chose the comeliest and most likable girls as First Wives. That was almost an unwritten law of life in Kaild—perhaps across all of Serocia. The other girls remained unmarried until they turned twenty-three or beyond, at which point they could marry an older man, one who had already returned from the war. Those with a homely face or an unpleasant disposition sometimes found themselves maidens well into their thirties, or perhaps forever, but Jora was confident no one thought her unpleasant. True, with her oversized eyes, crooked teeth, and big nose, she wasn't a raving beauty, but it wasn't her appearance that turned the boys' heads away.

It was her talent for Mindstreaming.

Who wanted a wife with the ability to scrutinize every moment of their lives or spy on them from afar? Visiting whores while fulfilling his duty as a soldier wasn't only common but expected. Most men were away for ten years, after all, sometimes longer. Few among them would relish the notion of having a wife at home who could observe those acts in excruciating detail through the mystical power of Mindstreaming.

"It's your last chance to be a First Wife," Boden said. With the tips of his thumbs touching, he tapped his fingertips together as he always did when he was nervous. "I wouldn't deny you if you had your heart set. Tearna and Briana are both First Wives."

"Eagle-boy to the rescue," she said with a smile. It had been his favorite game as a child, pretending to be half-eagle, half-boy, flying high above the land and diving in to snatch up invading armies and dropping them into the sea, saving the women and children of Kaild.

Boden chuckled and blushed, looking more boyish than manly. "Yah. Like Eagle-boy."

She would rather not marry at all than take a husband who chose her out of pity. "Don't worry. I've made peace with not marrying. It's like Oram said; no man wants a woman like me."

Boden scowled. "That's not true. Don't listen to that nonsense, Jora. You're good and kind, fun to be with, hard-working, and clever. And you have a way with children. Any man would be fortunate to have you as a wife."

The fact that he hadn't called her comely did not escape her notice, but his other kind compliments brought a smile to her face. "You're sweet, but truly I'm at peace with it. But if you want my advice..."

He exhaled hard, his body seeming to deflate, and nodded.

"You should choose Micah. She's wonderful with the little ones, and she has quite the pitters for you."

One side of his mouth curved into a smile, reminding her of his father. A twinkle gleamed in his eye. "I noticed. But what about the Molnar girl? She's of age now."

Larke Molnar, widowed from her first husband and remarried to Jora's father as his Third Wife, was one of the comeliest women in Kaild, but Larke's eldest daughter Hanna was so beautiful, she inspired poetry and caused minor accidents. Since she'd turned sixteen a week earlier, Boden was the first man with the opportunity to choose Hanna as his First Wife, if she submitted. Jora would bet a new cloak that younger men whose Antenuptials were approaching prayed silently to Retar every night to save her for them.

"She's beautiful beyond words," Jora said, "but she's conceited and snobbish. Who else can turn a conversation about the mechanics of well digging into praise for her beauty? Do you want a woman whose zealous concern for her own figure will permit you only one child, or a woman who'll welcome you home from the war with open arms and open legs?"

Boden's eyes flew wide, and his face turned nearly as red as the eastern sky. "Jora!"

"Let's speak frankly. Micah would give you as many children as her body can manage. I can't see Hanna doing the same." Boden was all about duty and responsibility. Fighting and fathering sons to fuel the war effort was drilled into the head of every boy from the time he was old enough to understand his role in society. Girls were raised and trained to keep the cities running while the men fought to protect them. "The choice is yours, of course, but I suggest Micah."

"I'll think about it."

"You should go get dressed. The Antenuptial's due to start soon. They're probably wondering where you are."

"I know," he said, going to the door. "But I have a gift for you too, and I wanted to give it to you before I got caught up in the wedding and... what comes after." He stepped outside for a moment and returned holding something behind his back.

Jora's face warmed. "A gift? I'm not going anywhere."

"No, but I am. This is a little something to remember me by."

She thumped him playfully on the chest. "As if I would forget you."

"Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

"You needn't give me a gift. I've done nothing—"

"Hush and do as I say or I'll marry Hanna Molnar and give this gift to her instead."

She closed her eyes, smiling with excitement, and held her hands out together, palms forming a cup. She'd never received a gift before. The townsfolk crafted, grew, raised, and gathered everything they needed, and so gifts were generally given only to men leaving for war or a woman marrying a man from another city. Boden laid something long and stiff across her hands, like a cane. She curled her fingers around it and felt several small, round holes drilled in a row along its length. It couldn't be. She opened her eyes, certain she wasn't holding... "A flute?"

"Do you like it?"

Mouth agape, she stared at it as she turned it in her hands, gently so as not to damage it. "God's Challenger! How did you manage this?"

"I asked nicely. It helps when your aunt is the one who crafts the instruments."

"And she made you a flute," she said in a tone of wonderment. "Because you asked nicely?"

"All right, maybe I begged her and cried at her feet a little. And she made it for you, not for me. She made it because she knows how much you love its song."

"Everyone knows how much I love its song. Boden, I don't know what to say." It was a thing of not only incredible beauty but... music! With this she could make _music,_ though she'd need to play it on the beach at first, where no one would hear her mistakes.

"I hope you like it."

She set it carefully on her workbench and threw her arms around him. "I love it so very much. Thank you. From the depths of my heart, thank you." Tears blurred her vision, and she buried her face against his chest, trying to refrain from openly sobbing. Never would she have imagined receiving a gift such as this.

"Aren't you two supposed to save that for after the wedding?" Nuri asked, entering the shop.

Jora and Boden stepped apart as if they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't. "No, it's not like that," Jora said, wiping her eyes.

"Mmm hmm. I think it's exactly like that." Nuri went to her workbench and started laying out her tools, a dubious expression on her face. She was an older woman with three grandsons serving in the Legion and five great-grandchildren hoping to meet their fathers someday. Though Nuri wouldn't admit her age, Jora guessed she was in her early to mid-sixties, but she wasn't stooped over and half-blind like the master smith next door.

"I came to give her a gift," Boden said.

"Yes, a flute. See?" Jora still couldn't get over the fact that she had a flute.

Nuri's eyes sparkled, and she smiled knowingly. "A promissory?"

"What's a promissory?" Jora and Boden asked in unison.

"Dear girl." Nuri clucked her tongue. "It's not often done anymore, but if a boy wants to declare his interest in a girl who's not submitting for his Antenuptial, he offers her a gift as a promise to marry her if she doesn't take a husband by the time he returns from war. Such an extravagant gift must surely be a promissory."

Boden blushed deep crimson and lowered his gaze to the floor.

"Boden?" Jora asked. "Is this... a promissory?"

"I didn't intend it that way, but I wouldn't object if you want to consider it so. If you're not married by the time I return, I'll take you as my Second Wife. I-If you wish it."

His kindhearted offer touched her deeply, and she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "You're such a dear." Now she questioned his agreement with her decision not to submit. Had she disappointed him? Surely not. He'd brought the flute with him, had arranged for it to be made well before knowing whether she was going to submit. If she submitted, there would've been no reason to give her a gift aside from the reason he gave—a remembrance. Besides, he hadn't known what a promissory was any more than she had. It was merely a gift to a dear friend. That was all.

She released him and patted his chest. "You'd better go. You're to choose a wife soon. What a scandal it would be if you were late to your Antenuptial because you spent too much time in the company of other women."

He grinned and wagged his eyebrows. "Creating a scandal just before leaving Kaild? That sounds like good sport to me."

She reached to slap his butt, but he skittered out of reach, laughing as he jogged away. Jora leaned out the door. "Thank you again," she called. "I'll treasure it always."

He turned and bowed to her while he walked backward toward the civic hall.

"It's a promissory," Nuri pronounced.

As Jora returned to her seat, she shook her head, refusing to believe it.

When Jora heard someone rattling around in the smithy next door, she set down her work and picked up the flute before wandering over to greet her friend. At one time, she'd considered an apprenticeship in blacksmithing, but only because that was the path Tearna chose. The two girls were born in the same month of the same year and had been close friends all their lives. They'd done everything together. It only made sense to her young mind that they would continue to work side by side in adulthood. Now Jora was glad Nuri had recruited her into leatherworking instead. Leather yielded in her hands, and with Tearna working next door, they often talked through the open windows. In effect, they were working side by side.

Tearna was opening the window shutters when Jora knocked on the door.

"Good morning," Jora sang.

"Morning, dove. What're you so cheerful about this early in the morning?" Tearna's black hair was tied back into a simple bun and secured with a wooden stick. Jora could tell by the haphazard way it was wrapped that it would come loose before the day was done, and Tearna's hands would be too dirty to fuss with it.

"Let me braid your hair. It'll come undone by noon."

Tearna grinned and pulled a stool over. "I was hoping you would offer. Your braids look pretty. Can you do mine like that?"

"Sure." Jora pulled the flute from behind her back. "Look what Boden gave me."

"Challenge the god!" Tearna said, her wide brown eyes set on the wooden instrument. "How did he manage to get a flute?"

"The crafter is his aunt. He said he begged her and she made it for me. Isn't it gorgeous? I cannot wait to try it out." In fact, she would make sure to find Boden's aunt and thank her profusely before the Antenuptials began.

"Go on then. Play something."

"Oh, no," Jora said, setting the flute on a small table. "This is something I have to do in private. Sit, sit."

Tearna looked at her flatly before sitting on the stool with her back to Jora. "I don't expect you to be good. I just want to hear you play one note."

Jora began to untie her friend's hair. "I don't know how to play one note. That's why I have to do it in private—so I can figure it out before someone hears me be awful."

Tearna laughed. "I'll bet you're naturally good at it."

Jora wrinkled her nose at the back of Tearna's head while she separated the hair into strands for braiding. "I've never even held a flute until this morning. I don't know how to blow into it."

"You're too modest."

Jora continued to braid Tearna's hair while they talked about Boden's upcoming Antenuptial and the preparations that were underway. When she was finished, she patted Tearna's shoulders.

"Thank you. Are you doing Hanna's hair for the ceremony?" Tearna asked, standing.

"She hasn't asked me. I don't know if she's submitting."

Tearna went out the back door and returned momentarily carrying a bulky burlap bag across her shoulder. "Have you told Boden you're not?"

"Yah, we talked this morning and agreed that we like our friendship the way it is. Besides, I'm not fertile right now. If I submitted, I'd be disqualified anyway."

"You tested yourself?" Tearna untied the bag and dumped its contents, charred wood, into the forge.

"No, but a girl gets a sense of her own cycle after so many times being disqualified."

"So what are you going to do?"

Jora shrugged. What could she do besides become a latterly maid? Tearna and Briana, her two best friends, had both been chosen as First Wives. For years, they tried to reassure her that someone would choose her, too, that she wouldn't have to suffer the humiliation of spending years as a latterly maid, hoping a returning soldier would propose before she was too old to bear children, but Jora knew better. That boy Oram had been right: no man would want a Mindstreamer for a wife.

She leaned against the doorframe and looked down the road toward the boys' training center where Gunnar conferred with Boden outside, one hand on his son's shoulder. He looked directly at her, his gray eyes seemingly darker and filled with something that made her insides flutter. Desire? Jora held Gunnar's gaze long enough to communicate her interest, then let her eyes drop to the flute in her hands, a dream come true. If Gunnar proposed to her, then her other dream would be fulfilled. First a flute of her own and then the husband she wanted? She would owe Retar something truly special for granting her two dreams in one lifetime.

"You know," Tearna said, "that's a pretty extravagant gift for someone who's not leaving. Are you sure he didn't give you that flute as a bribe?"

"A bribe for what?" Jora asked with a laugh. She stroked the flute lovingly. Something this beautiful could never be a bribe.

"To convince you to submit for his Antenuptial?"

Jora shot her an annoyed look. "Retar smite you."

Tearna chuckled. "I was jesting. Don't be so sensitive." She went out for another bag of charcoal. "Speaking of gifts, how's Boden's bag coming along?"

"Slowly. Maybe if I move my workbench in front of the shop's door so no one can come in, I'll be able to finish." So many people interrupted her during the day to ask about their loved ones away at war that she barely managed to finish her regular work, let alone work on an extra project, and Nuri was adamant that she only work on the bag in the mornings and evenings. She'd stayed awake all night to work on it, and her eyelids were heavy and sticky.

"Maybe if you said 'no' now and then."

She found herself looking at Gunnar again, as if he were steel and her eyes magnets. "No isn't really an option. Have you ever looked into his eyes?"

"Whose eyes?"

Startled by her blunder, Jora lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "The eyes of the parent or wife or sibling or child asking me."

"What are you looking at?" Tearna went on tiptoe to look out the south-facing window and smiled. "Ah. Gunnar's eyes. Ha! I should've known."

Jora's six-year-old twin nephews went running past Gunnar and Boden, followed by a red-faced girl of about twelve. "Come back here or else," she hollered.

"Leave them," Jora called to the girl. "My nephews are old enough to accept the consequences for arriving late to class."

The two boys stopped short and looked at her with surprise in their matching faces, as if the notion that being late to school having consequences had never occurred to them.

"And if they don't get to class on time from this day forward," Gunnar said, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, "they'll wish they'd been born girls."

When the boys broke into a run, headed directly toward the schoolrooms, Jora and Tearna both laughed.

"No wonder he has such a tough reputation among the boys," Tearna said. "He instills it early."

Gunnar walked toward the smithy, a pleasant smile replacing the scowl.

"Shh! Here he comes," Jora said. "I wonder what he wants."

"You," Tearna said. "Go talk to him." Then she busied herself with firing up the forge, leaving Jora to speak with Gunnar alone.

"Good morning," Jora said in a pleasant tone. Her heartbeat quickened with every step of his approach. She couldn't help but admire his smooth gait and the way his broad shoulders glided evenly through the air, despite his slight limp.

"And good morning to you, dear Jora." He stood a half-step closer to her than a man normally did when conversing with an unmarried woman, perhaps a query as to how far into her personal space she would allow him. "Did you not sleep well?"

She shook her head. "I stayed up all night to work on Boden's departure gift." Her throat felt unnaturally thick, and she swallowed in an attempt to normalize her voice. "Perhaps I can sneak away for a nap later."

"Would you sit with me a minute? The boys are beginning their lessons under your brother's expert guidance."

She looked around quickly and spotted a bench outside the tailoring workshop. "How about there?"

They took a seat on the bench, their bodies angled toward each other, knees nearly touching. "What's that you have?" Gunnar asked, his deep voice so gentle, it raised goosebumps on her arms. What would it be like to hear him murmur her name late at night?

She swallowed down her nervousness and stroked the flute's smooth wood. "A flute. Boden gave it to me earlier this morning. I'll have to learn to play it in private so I don't annoy people with my mistakes."

"I see. You and Boden are..."

"Just friends," she said quickly. "In fact, he's more of a brother to me than Loel is." She remembered a day when Boden boldly stood up to older and bigger children who'd been teasing her about being a freak while Loel and their elder brother Finn looked on.

"You'll miss him," Gunnar said quietly.

She nodded, lowering her gaze. "Of course. And worry." Of course, her own anxiety was nothing compared to the pain and fear that must have gripped Gunnar's heart and Anika's. "I can't imagine the pain and fear parents must endure while their sons are away fighting. Do you think the war might finally end in our lifetime?"

He slumped his shoulders as if in defeat. "I fear we've forgotten how to live any other way. I'm about to send my son into a war to defend a damned tree. It seems so senseless to me now, especially considering..." He shook his head. "When I was Boden's age, I was as excited and proud to do my duty for Serocia as he is, but fifteen years of fighting leads a man to question things."

"What kinds of things?"

He met her gaze, and the sun peeked above the roof of a building to shine his eyes like they were liquid silver. "How can we possibly serve the greater good by killing?"

Jora had no answer. She was technically still a girl in the eyes of her people, a girl from a medium-sized town in rural Serocia, not worldly like Gunnar was. "I don't know."

"I don't know, either, but as I prepare my son to leave the relative safety of Kaild to kill other men's sons, I think about it. A lot."

And of course, those other men's sons were planning to kill and not be killed, just as Boden was. Jora's eyes welled with tears. She didn't want to think about losing her friend the way she'd lost her eldest brother. She didn't want to consider the possibility of Boden falling in battle with a terrible, painful wound or bleeding to death on the battlefield. "Did your father ask the same question when you were going off to war?"

"I never knew my father," he said softly. "He died in battle when I was six. I only remember the corpulist delivering his body, wrapped in a shroud, in the back of a wagon along with the bodies of three other men, stinking of death and drawing flies."

Tosh had been returned home the same way almost ten years earlier. She was only thirteen when she witnessed her brother's death in the Mindstream, seeing Tosh being struck down from behind, a sword going into his back and through his heart. Jora had watched in mute horror as his body arched, his head snapped back, and his mouth fell open with his last gasping breath. She shook her head to dislodge the image. Such a violent death was something she hoped never to witness again, especially if it was someone she loved. "We've all lost family members, but I'm certain we'll see Boden home safely in a decade." This she said more out of a desire to convince herself than of belief in what she was saying, but to speak her mind, to say aloud what they both surely feared, would have felt like a condemnation. Hope was all they had.

"Right. Enough of such morose talk," he said. "Are you excited about this afternoon's ceremony?"

In the three years since he'd returned from the war, Gunnar had never asked her that, never shown any interest in her participation in the Antenuptials. She supposed that this time, because the boy becoming a man was his son, he would have an interest in who was chosen to be Kaild's newest First Wife. "I'm happy for him," she said, "but I won't be submitting for the Antenuptial."

He lifted one eyebrow, but he didn't look offended. "Did my son do something to displease you?"

"No," Jora said. "Not at all. I won't qualify, and so I don't care to go through the humiliation of being tested and denied in front of the whole town. Again."

He looked at the flute in her hands. "Is that a promissory, then? You've agreed to wait for his return?"

She felt warmth flood her face. "No, it was just a gift, not a promissory. We have no such agreement." Why did people assume the flute was a promissory? True, giving a gift to someone who wasn't leaving Kaild was highly unusual, especially when the one giving was a man about to choose a wife, fill her with seed, and then leave for war. That didn't make the gift a promissory.

"So you'll be seeking a husband from among the returned soldiers." His was a kinder way of putting it than pointing out that she would join the ranks of the latterly maids, the unmarried women of age. The ones desperate to avoid ending up like old lady Xerba, childless and alone. Although half the married women in Kaild had at one point been latterly maids, it was an embarrassment every woman wanted behind her.

She nodded. "Two men are due home within the next few months. Perhaps one of them would overlook my... talent and offer his hand."

"I submit myself for consideration."

She blinked twice, unsure what to make of his words. Was that a proposal? Surely not. A man as respected as Gunnar Sayeg, or as handsome, or as virile, didn't take homely women as their wives. And no sane man wanted a Mindstreamer.

"I'll keep you warm and safe at night and try my best to give you at least one daughter to carry on your family name."

Her arms ached with the need to hug him. "My sister has a daughter," she heard herself say. "As do my cousins."

His eyebrows lowered, and his eyes darkened. "Is that a no, then?"

"No! It-it's not a no. I-I meant that I don't need a daughter. I would be happy enough to bear you five sons." Oh, God's Challenger! She was gushing at him like a love-struck girl. Warmth spread through her face and down her neck.

And just as quickly, his eyes brightened, though he didn't smile. "Then it's a yes?"

Her heart was pounding, and her hands were so wet with sweat she feared they would start dripping. "It isn't proper to propose to a woman before her twenty-third birthday."

"I'm not proposing. I'm planning ahead." He winked at her, and a tiny smile played at one corner of his mouth.

"When you propose, I'll say yes. Until then, I can't give you an answer." As nervous and excited as she was, her biggest concern was how she would break the news to Boden. Ten years was a long time. Maybe by the time he returned, he would forgive her.

Gunnar laughed, a sound that never failed to make Jora tingle inside. "I look forward to it." He rose and offered to help her stand. She wiped her hand on her trousers before putting it into his. "I'd better report to my students. I'll be impressed if Loel has managed to run them through their starting exercises."

"Thank you for speaking with me, Gunnar."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "The pleasure was mine, dear Jora."

As Jora watched him walk away, she fought the urge to touch her cheek to see if it felt hot to her fingers. She caught sight of his Fourth Wife, Marja, standing by the door to the dining hall. The woman glared at them with her arms crossed and mouth pinched tightly shut.

The first opportunity Jora had to take her new flute to the beach was late morning, before the Antenuptials were due to begin. She hurried across the sand to the rocky shoal she had played on since she was a child. At low tide, the rocks were dry and easy to cross by hopping along a familiar path, though she wasn't as lithe as she'd once been. The smell of saltwater, the sound of the rushing waves, and the feel of the sun's warmth on her face sharpened her mind and calmed her soul. She couldn't imagine living anywhere but by the sea.

She settled on a rock with her legs dangling over the edge, a good two feet above the splash of the waves hitting the rocks. Out here, with only the birds and fish to hear her, she lifted the flute to her lips, covered all but the first hole, and tried a tentative blow. It came out sounding more breathy than musical, but the shy note encouraged her to try again to coax out a clearer sound.

She experimented with rotating the flute by degrees and found the perfect angle that allowed her to blow clear, crisp notes instead of note-flavored breaths. Excited, she tested various positions of her fingers, covering and uncovering holes to get a feel for how to create the notes she wanted.

"Jora!"

From the beach, Tearna beckoned her with waving arms. Had time passed so quickly? It seemed she'd arrived only a moment ago. She waved back. _A few more minutes._

She played a few notes of her favorite song, adjusting her fingering when she got them wrong. She played them again and again, getting them right after the third attempt.

A joyful twitter broke her concentration. She looked down to find a bottlenose dolphin eyeing her from the water near her feet, its mouth open as if in a smile.

"Hail," she said, charmed by the creature's friendly greeting. "Did my flute playing disturb you?"

The dolphin rose out of the water a few inches and twittered some more.

Jora laughed. "I'll get better, I promise. In the meantime, you might want to find another place to nap or hunt or whatever you were doing. I plan to come here to practice every spare moment I can."

To her surprise, the dolphin whistled the same notes she'd played—the correct notes, as if it knew which of her attempts was the right one.

"How did... You just..."

The creature twittered again and rolled in the water. It acted like it was flirting with her.

"Do it again." She waited, but the dolphin merely watched her with one dark eye. She lifted the flute and played the notes.

And the dolphin repeated them.

"Goodness!" This was astounding. Jora wondered whether she had unwittingly found a way to say hail or something else in Dolphinese. Then it struck her that the name of the piece was _Song of the Sea Spirit_. Perhaps the enchanting melody hadn't been composed by a human at all but a dolphin. A sea spirit.

"Jora!" Tearna was waving more frantically now.

_Boden's Antenuptial._ "Oh, Challenger's bollocks!" She scuttled to her feet. This was the one event she couldn't be late for. She started to run back to shore but stopped and returned to the edge of the rocks. "It was a pleasure meeting you," she said to the dolphin. "I hope to see you again."

With that, the dolphin rose up onto its powerful tail, twittered happily, and dove back into the water.

Jora laughed and waved before running back to the beach.

Chapter 2

The town looked deserted by the time Jora made it back. She laid the flute on her workbench before running to the civic hall. Entering by the rear door, she found everyone already seated, facing the dais in the front of the hall. Those who'd arrived late stood along the outer walls and along the back wall, the benches already taken.

She caught her mother's disapproving glare and gave her a dim, apologetic smile. Briana waved to her, and she made her way past people seated on the end of the row to join her cousin and Tearna. Three-year-old Ransom sat quietly in Tearna's lap, his eyelids heavy and his body leaning against hers. Briana sat beside her six-year-old daughter, who seemed enraptured by the affair. "Pardon," she said, squeezing herself between Tearna and an older woman she knew only from sight.

"I saw Boden in his robe a minute ago," Briana said, leaning forward to look at Jora. "He looked so handsome."

"Just like his papa," Tearna said, winking.

Gunnar was sitting in the front row with eight of his nine children and all four wives. On his lap sat his daughter Ricca by Third Wife Janli. The smallest ones sat on the laps of their mothers, and the two elder children, Welliam and Sharten, assisted with the toddlers. All Gunnar's children had his dark brown hair, even Ricca, whose mother was probably the blondest woman in town. Looking over his shoulder, he caught Jora's eye and acknowledged her with a nod.

When the council leader stepped onto the dais, the civic hall quieted. At the front of the room was a table upon which sat a row of wooden cups, each adorned with a ribbon of a different color. Beside each cup was a wooden stick of the Son Maker tree with the bark removed to expose the sensitive bare wood. Three councilwomen conferred beside the table. One of them used her finger to count the cups while the two others whispered about the content of a tablet one of them was holding. They caught the attention of the council leader and whispered something into her ear.

Jora watched curiously, as did nearly everyone else in the hall, until the council leader's gaze swept across the audience of some two thousand villagers as if she were looking for someone. To Jora's horror, the council leader pointed directly at her. One of the councilwomen peered at her, nodded, and walked down the aisle toward her row. With every step, Jora felt her heartbeat quicken and her face warm hotter.

"Jora Lanseri," the woman said, crooking a finger in a beckoning gesture. "I need a word with you, dear."

Jora shot her two friends a horrified look before standing. Tearna squeezed her hand reassuringly, and Jora excused herself to step over the feet and around the knees of those beside her on the bench. Under the curious gazes of two thousand of her relatives, friends, neighbors, and the rest of the townsfolk, she followed the councilwoman to the door in the front of the hall. Jora felt the blood draining from her face and pooling in her feet as they grew heavier with every step. She followed the councilwoman into the front chamber.

The councilwoman stopped and faced her. Jora judged her to be in her forties, perhaps a teacher or midwife—someone who dealt with children, for she had kindly blue eyes and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes from smiling.

"Councilwoman, what's wrong?" she asked.

"It seems this is your last chance to submit for the Antenuptial before your twenty-third birthday," the councilwoman said.

"Yes, but—"

"Do you find Boden Sayeg objectionable on a personal level?"

"No, of course not. We've been friends for years."

"Then I urge you to submit. According to our records, the only marriage between a Lanseri and a Sayeg in the last fifty years is your cousin Briana and Boden's third cousin, Jalen. For the sake of diversity within our town, it's important that you submit."

"Even if I qualified, he wouldn't choose me," she argued. "We've already discussed it. I don't want to marry him, and he doesn't want to marry me."

"Jora, please—"

"No." She considered suggesting there were surely other men whose families had no marriages with Lanseri women, but that would be disingenuous. Once she turned twenty-three, she would marry Gunnar. Not only would the councilwoman's concern about a Lanseri-Sayeg union be laid to rest, but Jora's own sense of duty, that nagging voice urging her to comply for the good of her people, would be silenced as well. Telling the councilwoman that, however, was problematic, for Gunnar's near-proposal might have the appearance of impropriety and having influenced Jora's decision not to submit for his son's Antenuptial. The last thing she wanted was for Gunnar to be censured for what was an innocent and honest communication. "I understand the need for diversity, I do, but I'm not going to submit for Boden, especially knowing he won't choose me. I've suffered that humiliation dozens of times, and I won't do it again."

The councilwoman pinched her lips together sympathetically and nodded. "I understand. May I at least give you this cup, in the event you change your mind?"

Jora stepped back and held up her hands, refusing the cup. "I've given this a lot of thought over the last couple of months. I won't change my mind in the next ten minutes."

She sighed. "Very well. Shall we return? The assembly is waiting."

Jora groaned, knowing two thousand pairs of eyes would be watching her come out, waiting to see whether she'd peed in a cup. With a deep breath to draw courage into her heart, she followed the councilwoman out of the room and hurried back down the center aisle, her head high but her eyes directed at the floor so she wouldn't have to meet those two thousand curious gazes. People whispered "Good luck" or asked "Did you submit?" as she walked past them. Someone muttered something she didn't hear, but it prompted a ripple of laughter. Jora considered walking past her row and right out the door, but she couldn't miss Boden's Antenuptial and wedding.

"They made you submit?" Tearna whispered as she took her seat.

"No. She tried to guilt me into it, but I held strong."

Tearna raised her eyebrows. "Who are you and what have you done with Jora?"

In the front row, Gunnar was half-standing, half-turned around, watching her with intense interest. She smiled at him, hoping that would assure him that all was well. On his right, Anika tugged his arm, pulling him back onto the bench.

"People of Kaild," said the council leader. A hush settled over the crowd. "Thank you for your patience. We apologize for the delay. Today we're gathered to witness the selection of a wife for Boden Sayeg, who becomes a man on this day."

The room erupted in cheers and applause while Boden came through a door in the back of the room and stepped up onto the dais behind the table of pee cups. He wore a floor-length ceremonial robe in deep brown with the red-streaked white flowers of the Son Maker tree embroidered around the hem, cuffs, and neckline. His cheeks reddened under the attention, which made Jora smile. He'd always been uncomfortable with effusive praise or affection and with expressing his own feelings, though he made it plain through his actions how he felt. He was quiet and hard-working, dependable and focused, a boy much more likely to be the one offering support than receiving it. She was proud of the man he'd become, and she cheered more loudly than those around her.

When the noise died down, the council leader stepped up to the table. "Here we have the submissions of five girls who would like the chance to become Boden's First Wife. Should any of these girls qualify, you are free to choose one or more of them to take as your wife or wives, but only one can be named your First Wife. It is she who will receive your first seed, and it is she who bears the responsibility of attending to your affairs while you're away. Are there any girls who have not yet submitted who would like to before testing is begun?"

Boden looked directly at her, his thumbs pressed together and his fingertips tapping rhythmically. She gave him a dim smile, and he lowered his gaze to the floor.

The audience remained quiet but for a small eruption of giggles from a group of girls who looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, too young to wed. A few people turned their heads to Jora. Tearna nudged her playfully, took her by the wrist, and started to raise her arm.

"Stop," Jora whispered fiercely, pressing her arm firmly into her lap.

"Then let us begin. Councilwoman Omondi?"

The councilwoman dipped each of the prepared wooden sticks into the cups, going down the line until each cup had a stick from the Son Maker in it, leaning against its lip. She returned to the first one, tied with a green ribbon, and pulled the stick from the cup. "Green is fertile."

A squeal broke the silence from the front of the hall, and a redhead shot to her feet and danced in place.

"Red is fertile."

The beautiful Hanna Molnar stood. Though she made no sound, the smile on her face when she turned to wave at someone in the audience made it clear she was pleased.

"Blue is fertile," Omondi said.

Micah leaped to her feet and clapped for herself. The gesture didn't come across as arrogant or boastful, simply joyful. People chuckled.

"Yellow is fertile. Violet is not fertile."

Another leatherworking apprentice, Shiri, who wore the yellow ribbon, stood, but the poor girl wearing violet burst into tears. People muttered "Aww" or clicked their tongues in pity, which was the worst part, though it was nearly impossible for a girl not to cry when she was the only one to be disqualified in front of everyone. Jora knew this from experience.

"From these four girls, Boden Sayeg," the council leader said, "do you choose a wife?"

Hanna Molnar lifted her chin and gazed around with an air of superiority.

"Look at her," Tearna whispered. "She's so sure he'll pick her. I hope he doesn't."

"Shh!" Jora said.

Boden looked at each of the girls in turn, acknowledging them with a nod. He blinked slowly and then turned to the council leader. The room was as still as night. "Yes, I do, Madam Councilwoman. I choose Micah, wearer of the blue ribbon."

Hanna gasped, and her hands slapped over her mouth.

"Yes," someone whispered behind Jora. She turned on the bench to see her brother Loel's smiling face and couldn't help but smile back. He'd been smitten with Hanna for some time, perhaps since he had first started noticing that girls were prettier than boys. His Antenuptial was a few weeks away, and he would be the next boy with the opportunity to take Hannah as his First Wife, assuming she was fertile then. If she did submit, she would probably be disqualified.

Everyone—or nearly everyone—applauded while Micah joined Boden on the dais and hooked her arm in his as if she were afraid he would try to escape.

"Congratulations, Micah. You've been chosen as First Wife to Boden Sayeg. Do you have any objections?"

"Challenger's mighty fists, no! I'm honored to be selected."

A chuckle ripped across the audience.

"Boden, do you choose a Second Wife?" Omondi asked.

"No," Loel whispered. "Say no."

Boden avoided looking at the remaining girls. "Not at this time." The girls he'd rejected took their seats, not nearly as excited as they'd been only moments earlier.

The bride and groom joined hands, Boden's right to Micah's left, and the two were tied together at the wrists with the blue ribbon. After exchanging mutual pledges to honor each other by building a family around this core, they were pronounced man and woman, husband and wife.

Jora shot to her feet, applauding furiously, though she paused to wipe away a tear. A small part of her was jealous of Micah, having received the pledge of such a good-hearted man, but mostly she was happy for Boden. Now he was a man about to father his first child.

Boden and Micah, their hands still joined and tied together, ran laughing through a rain of Son Maker tree seeds to the door. Everyone cheered as they followed the couple outside. It took a few minutes for everyone to file out of the civic hall and join them in the dining hall. Micah fed Boden fruit from the Son Maker in the hopes they would conceive a son. The townsfolk, led by the town's choir, sang a song of fertility to the newlyweds, toasted them with a sip of wine, and bid them love and happiness in their union.

The wedding feast lasted an hour, partly because the newlyweds were required to eat with their hands tied together. Boden, being right-handed, had to eat with his left hand, though once Micah had finished, she fed him with her free hand. It was an amusing sight, watching Boden blush under the scrutiny of the townspeople and her occasional kiss. While they ate, the musicians played, which captivated Jora's attention more so than the antics of the newly married couple or the food on her own plate. When they finally played _Song of the Sea Spirit_ , she closed her eyes and let the music take her away.

The flute solo teased her soul like a memory that was a hair out of reach. Something was missing from her life, something significant, but she had no idea what. She would have been perfectly content with her life if it weren't for that song. It made her yearn for that missing element, and it made her mind clench, trying to figure out what it could be. When the song came to an end, she wept silent tears of longing.

"What's wrong?" Tearna asked. "Are you sorry you didn't submit?"

Jora wiped her eyes. "No. It's that song."

"I've never known anyone who was moved so deeply by a silly song," Briana said. "I think you missed your calling. You should have been a musician instead of a leatherworker."

Perhaps her cousin was right. "It's too late now. I'm too old to begin an apprenticeship."

"Did she tell you what Boden gave her?" Tearna asked, popping a small meatball into her mouth. "A flute."

Briana gasped. "He didn't."

Jora nodded. "He did. I was playing it on the shoal when Tearna came to get me." An image of the dolphin came to her mind. There was something significant in the way it whistled part of the song. Excitement began as a dim red coal in her chest, warming her. She had to go back to the shoal and play the flute. If the same dolphin returned and whistled those notes again, then she would know it wasn't simply a coincidence.

Briana's mouth dropped open. "A promissory?"

"What? No!" Jora said, her mind snapping back to the present moment.

"What's a promissory?" Tearna asked.

"Never mind," Jora said. "It's not. It's just a gift."

"But you're not leaving," Briana argued. "Why would he give you a gift if it wasn't a promissory? Especially one as lavish as a flute?"

"What in Retar's name is a promissory?" Tearna asked.

Briana explained the concept of a promissory to Tearna, but Jora waved it off. Briana was wrong. She didn't know Boden like Jora did. They were close friends, that was all. He'd never been effusive or particularly demonstrative with his feelings, and so giving her a gift upon his leaving, one she would find especially valuable, simply communicated the affection he'd never really spoken... Oh, God's Challenger! It _was_ a promissory.

Jora buried her face in her hands, trying to rationalize to herself why it couldn't be. They'd agreed a marriage between them would be awkward. Had he agreed with her simply because she'd said it first?

Tearna massaged Jora's shoulders. "Cheer up. Feelings change in ten years."

She looked up at her friends. She could only hope, especially considering she was planning to marry his father, the man Boden would least want to see her with.

Chapter 3

When Boden opened the outer door of the marriage chamber the morning after his wedding, about a hundred people greeted the newly wedded couple with cheers and applause. He felt the familiar heat fill his cheeks, but Micah beamed. She'd been more prepared for the Antenuptials, wedding, and marital consummation than Boden had, despite the fact that she was a year and a half younger. He supposed that girls were groomed for this as boys were groomed for war.

She slipped her hand into his, and they both waved with their free hands. Micah then put her hand over her belly, as if it was already swollen with child, and the onlookers cheered louder.

They came down the steps and greeted the townsfolk one by one. Boden shook so many hands and kissed so many cheeks, he wasn't sure he could name any of them by the time it was over.

Micah was surrounded by her relatives, who congratulated her on her upcoming life as a mother.

Boden saw his father, the town's drill master, standing alone. There was pride in his stance, sorrow in the downward curve of his mouth, fear in his eyes, and determination in the way he gripped Boden's papers in one fist. Boden took his time greeting people and accepting their congratulations on his marriage and wishes for a healthy son, dallying so as to delay the inevitable exchange with his father. Following the drill master's instruction every day was tolerable, even enjoyable at times. Conversing with his father wasn't. Today, it was unlikely he'd be able to avoid it.

His mother, Anika, made her way over and hugged him tightly, crying and smiling at the same time. "I'm so happy for you and Micah, but I can't help worrying for you."

He smiled dimly. "I'll be fine, Mama. Don't tell Loel, but I'm the best fighter in Kaild."

"Your father trained you well," she said, glancing at Gunnar.

Boden stiffened, his smile dropping. "He makes a better drill master than Elazer did," he conceded, "but he trained the other boys equally well. If you must worry about someone, worry about Welliam. One day, Marja's going to box his ears so hard, he'll lose his hearing. I'll be fine." Boden took a steadying breath when he saw Gunnar approach.

"Keep one eye open at night," Anika said, straightening the collar of his shirt. She picked a speck of lint from his shoulder. "And don't volunteer for anything. That's a sure way to get yourself k—" Her eyes welled again, and she pressed her lips together.

"Mama," he said gently, "don't worry about me. I'm ready for this."

Gunnar put one arm around Boden's neck and pulled him into a fierce embrace. They were of a height, though Gunnar was the more muscular of the two from his fifteen years in the Legion. "You keep your eyes up, you hear?" he whispered into Boden's ear.

Boden nodded and pulled back. To his surprise, Gunnar's normally hardened eyes were rimmed with red. "I'm ready, sir. I've had the best drill master in all Serocia." He didn't know why he'd felt compelled to compliment his father, a man he'd only known for three years, almost four if he counted the nine months Gunnar was home after his first tour of duty.

Gunnar gripped Boden's shoulder and nodded, then handed him the crumpled papers in his hand. "Present these to the recruitment chief in Jolver. They'll assign you to your unit."

Boden smoothed the papers and looked them over, hoping to find out what unit he was in. "Will I be in a unit with any other men from Kaild?"

"They'll place you based on need. You'll find out once you've reached Jolver."

Footsteps ran up behind him, and he turned to find Jora with dark circles under her eyes and a worried line between her brows. She was smiling, though it was a forced smile that didn't reach her eyes, the one she used when she didn't want her true feelings to show. It was a smile he'd practiced himself on many occasions.

"Micah says you're leaving her with child," Jora said breathlessly. "Congratulations." She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "I hope it's a son."

Boden nodded his thanks. Chances were good it would be a boy. Thanks to the special properties of the Son Maker tree's fruit, two boys were born in Serocia for every girl, and he'd done his part to increase the odds by eating it throughout his wedding night.

"I pray it's a daughter," Gunnar said under his breath.

Jora's wide eyes turned to Gunnar. Boden rounded on his father, fists clenched. "Why would you want my first child to be a girl?"

"Because if you father all your sons after you return, you'll have eighteen years to love and guide them instead of only eight."

"Don't you mean instead of three?" Boden spat.

Gunnar frowned, looking more sad than angry. "You won't realize until after you get back how precious those years are."

"So precious that you reenlisted for another five years." Gunnar had left a week after Boden's tenth birthday, after having been home only nine months. Boden's young mind had assumed it was his fault, that he'd driven his father away, that Gunnar couldn't stand to be near him. Only in the last three years did Gunnar make any attempt to know him, but by then, the wound was too deep. A father's apathy was an infection of the heart for which there was no cure.

Gunnar nodded. "Sometimes we make sacrifices to better the lives of others."

Boden didn't know what to make of that. Gunnar's so-called sacrifice hadn't bettered anyone's life, least of all Boden's.

After a moment of awkward silence, Jora pressed the leather bag she'd been making into his arms. "Finally finished it. I hope you like it."

He loved the bag, not because it was well-crafted and beautiful, but because Jora had made it especially for him. The care and attention she put into cutting each piece and sewing each stitch were done with him in mind. Maybe she didn't love him the way he loved her, but she loved him all the same, and he would wear that into battle as he would his armor. "Thank you, my friend. It's a most excellent gift." He hugged her tightly, then leaned back so as to lift her off her feet, making her squeal. He laughed and set her down, and she thumped him playfully on the chest.

His father watched the exchange with a perplexed expression. Boden had never confided his feelings for Jora to anyone, though the two had been close friends for over a dozen years. Everyone in Kaild knew it, which was why everyone had expected Jora to submit for his Antenuptial.

Everyone except Gunnar. He was too self-absorbed, too busy establishing his tough-man image and building his beloved family to notice anyone or anything that didn't directly impact him, as evidenced by his four wives and nine children, only eight of which truly mattered.

"It's time," someone said, touching his sleeve.

People gathered around, clapping and laughing, and encouraged him with shouts of, "Here we go!" and "Skin him!"

Boden followed the barber to her seat, which had a few step stools positioned around it so she could work on him from above. He sat still with his eyes pinched tightly shut as she first cut his long hair close to his scalp and then shaved what remained. It left his scalp tingling and his head feeling light, like a soap bubble that might float away. It seemed everyone wanted to feel his smooth head, especially the younger boys who would be facing the same treatment in ten or twelve years' time. Boden squatted patiently and let them gather around to rub his head and giggle at the funny texture of his bald scalp while girls gathered the long, discarded locks and used them to make play mustaches or horses' tails on their butts.

One by one, his friends and family members presented him with gifts, many of which he would leave behind with Micah: blankets and sleeping gowns and slippers for his feet, dice and balls for kicking and tiles for playing Winds and Dragons, and a comb crafted of bone, which made everyone laugh. He carefully packed into his new knapsack the clothes sewn to the Legion's specifications, a new dagger Tearna had made him, and a sheath for it by Shiri, the young leatherworking apprentice who'd worn the yellow ribbon at his Antenuptial, and knitted socks to keep his feet warm in the coming winter. The papermaker, his mother's second cousin, gave him a bound journal with a cloth-wrapped cover and a lead pen—a stick of graphite wrapped in string.

The horse breeder presented him with a gorgeous brown steed with a black mane named Fidget. The saddle was made by Nuri's expert hands and the bridle by her other apprentice, Palti. The master blacksmith, a severe woman he'd feared since he was a boy, gave him a sword, as she had every other departing soldier for the last thirty years. She could no longer stand straight, her eyes were clouded, and her hands were gnarled and spotted with age, but her workmanship never suffered. The senior leatherworking apprentice, the one poised to take over the shop when Nuri retired, had made his cuirass. It was stiff and sturdy, perhaps not strong enough to withstand the hard thrust of a sharp blade, but it was better than nothing and would serve him well until the Legion provided him a steel breastplate.

From the five councilwomen who led Kaild, he received twenty shells to pay for food and lodging should he need it on the way to Jolver. Though the currency was now made of cloth and inked by the king's press, it retained the name from earlier times when Serocia used intricately carved seashells for trade.

Though he didn't want to say goodbye to his neighbors and friends and family, he was eager to get started on his journey.

His father hugged him tightly, and he returned the embrace with only one loose arm. "Everyone around you will eat the godfruit every morning," Gunnar whispered into his ear. "It's a mistake. Don't eat it."

Boden stiffened. His father had never spoken of the godfruit or the Tree of the Fallen God, which were at the center of the century-old conflict, though only the men who'd returned from the war knew why. No one ever spoke of them, and on the few occasions Boden had asked, he'd received only a stern glare or a warning to drop the matter.

"Do you hear me, son? No matter what the other warriors say, no matter what your commander says. Do not eat the godfruit."

Boden was unsure he could disobey a commander who ordered him to eat it. "Why? What does it do?"

Gunnar pulled back and held him at arm's length, both hands gripping Boden's upper arms. The two men locked gazes. "It will infect your soul with a foul sickness. Rely on your training, not some magical fruit. You've worked hard, trained hard. You're ready. I haven't been the father you wanted, and I—I regret that, but I've been the drill master you needed. Trust me. Trust yourself."

_He cares._ Boden felt like a boy again, the one who'd wished every night for his papa to return safely from war. His eyes watered and threatened to spill over, but then Gunnar let him go and turned away. Boden breathed in deeply, tamped down the boy he used to be, tamped down the years of disappointment and hurt Gunnar had saddled him with, and became another version of his father.

He hugged Jora again, tempted to confess that the flute was indeed a promissory, but he didn't. In all likelihood, she would marry before he returned, and his admission would only serve to create an awkward distance between them.

"If you have a message for your wife or parents," she told him, "write it in your new journal at sunset every Suns Day. I'll look over your shoulder in the Mindstream and pass along your words."

He cocked his head and regarded her quizzically. If she could look into his past through the Mindstream whenever she wanted, what difference would it make when he wrote the message?

As if reading his mind, she said, "I don't want to invade your privacy by reading everything you write, only what you write at sunset on Suns Day. That's how I'll know I should read it."

He smiled, nodding. "I understand now." She wouldn't be able to communicate anything back to him, such as how his wife fared or whether his first child was a boy or girl, but if he heard that enemy forces had gotten past the Serocian fleet and were sailing north from the Strait of Lost Souls, he could at least warn the people of Kaild.

"Don't forget me," she said with a shy smile.

Boden smiled back. Never. He could never forget her.

He hugged his three step-mothers and kissed their cheeks, and he hugged each of his siblings and half-siblings, telling them to behave themselves. He embraced the tearful Anika, assured her he would be particularly vigilant and careful, and then his wife of one day, Micah. He'd thought that parting ways with Jora would be hardest, but he found leaving Micah more heartwrenching. Her belly would swell, her screams would carry from one end of Kaild to the other and silence the most raucous of children, and a new infant would take his first breath all while Boden was gone. A child, a son, who wouldn't meet his father for nine years to come. He kissed her lips, her cheek, her neck, and breathed in her scent one last time, whispering into her ear a promise that he would return alive.

He felt heavy and slow as he climbed into the saddle. Worry glistened in the eyes of his people, and pride too, as he heeled his new mount and, with one last wave, started off to begin his new life as a warrior of Serocia.

Chapter 4

Jora sat with Briana and Tearna for the midday meal. Though her two friends chattered on about a dream Briana had and what it meant, Jora's thoughts bounced between Boden and his journey and the dolphin she'd met the day before. She hadn't been to the sea with her flute since then, but if she managed to get caught up on her work by the end of the day, she planned to return that evening. The next morning at the latest.

Briana nudged her with an elbow, and when Jora looked up, Danner was looking down at her, concern wrinkling his brow. He was about Gunnar's age, maybe a little older, one of the men fortunate enough to have returned from war, though the left side of his head was disfigured from a terrible burn, the ear on that side all but gone. As one of the returned soldiers, he served as a guard, watching for approaching enemy fighters, though he wasn't currently wearing armor or weapons. If she recalled correctly, Danner usually manned a post at night and slept during the day.

"I hate to disturb you, but would you mind checking on my son?" he asked. "I had a disturbing dream about him, and I need to know if he's all right." He turned his head to hear her better from his right ear.

"I don't mind at all," she responded with a forced smile, though his request reminded her of the hurtful words she'd overheard Oram say in the days leading up to his own Antenuptial. It wasn't Danner's fault; he was simply a loving father. Of course he would want to know how his son fared. He'd openly cried the day his boy had left the village to report to his new commander six months earlier. Danner had never been unkind to her. Any peace of mind she could give him was worth a little inconvenience.

Jora closed her eyes, shut out the laughter and hum of conversation around her, and opened the Mindstream, the space between worlds. Though she could Mindstream with her eyes open, the overlapping images were sometimes difficult to separate. Shadows and whispers converged on her, terrifying shapes of impossible beings and foreign words whose menacing sounds had followed her out of the Mindstream and into her nightmares in her childhood. Yet, in all these years, not once had they ever harmed her. Eventually, she'd learned to ignore them and focus on the hundreds of threads as thin and delicate as the silk of a spider's web that stretched from the center of her torso to that of nearly every other person in Kaild—everyone with whom she'd spoken or shared a glance or a smile. Every interaction with every person was part of a huge mystical tapestry that told the story of human experience. The touch of her intent like a gentle finger strumming a lullaby on a pipa was all she needed to find the one that led to Oram.

She found him sitting among dozens of other men, listening to a lecture. "He's sitting in a building, listening to someone pacing and talking. A commander, I'm guessing."

"Has he been injured?" Danner asked.

He wore no bandages, and he had no visible bruises or tears in his uniform. "He looks fine." She looked around at the soldiers who sat quietly, listening to the commander's lecture about duty and honor, about inevitable loss and hardship, all for the good of Serocia. Two figures in green, floor-length, hooded robes stood behind the commander with hands clasped before them, bald heads bowed. The commander droned on about the war and their enemies' lack of virtue, their lack of humanity, insisting that a good Serocian soldier would kill an enemy on sight without sympathy.

Then, one of the robed figures, a man, lifted his head and looked directly at her.

Jora yanked herself back, so shocked was she by the scrutiny. _How can he see me? I'm not there._

And yet, he stared directly at her as if he was aware of her presence as a Mindstreamer. She watched in a mixture of horror and disbelief as the robed man tapped the sleeve of his companion, a woman, and motioned with his eyes toward Jora's mind vision. Now both of the robed figures were looking right at her.

"No," she whispered.

"What's wrong?" Tearna asked.

"They see me. That's not possible."

"Who sees you?"

She wasn't quite sure. Some kind of wizards.

The robed male moved toward the commander, who paused mid-sentence to watch, a perplexed look on his face. _Which one of you is acquainted with someone with the Talent for Witnessing?_ he asked the soldiers as he scanned their faces.

_Were these Truth Sayers?_ Jora's heart hammered in her chest. Oram had no allegiance to her. In fact, it was clear she made him more than a little uncomfortable.

He glanced around furtively and licked his lips, but he said nothing.

_Thank you,_ she thought. She wasn't sure what would happen if the Sayers found out about her, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know, either.

A man in the previous row tentatively raised his hand. _I am, sir._

_Where does this person reside?_ the robed man asked.

_He's serving his duty to Serocia, sir. Gilon, my cousin. He's a good man._

Jora looked on in horror and fascination. They could see that she was watching, but they couldn't tell who she was or that she was a woman.

"Jora, what do you see?" Tearna asked.

"Lie her down," Briana said. "She's trembling."

"No," Jora said, feeling hands grab her upper arms. "Wait. Something's happening."

"Is it my son?" Danner asked.

"No," Jora whispered.

The female Sayer whispered to the commander that they would need to locate Gilon immediately. The commander told the gathered soldiers to wait, and he followed the two Truth Sayers out of the room.

Jora opened her eyes, closing the Mindstream, and a shudder rippled through her.

"What's happening to Oram?" Danner asked.

"What's wrong?" Briana asked.

"Nothing," Jora said, rubbing her eyes. "He's fine. They're in a city. Renn, I think. For the moment, he's out of danger."

Danner exhaled loudly. "You've given me a moment's hearts-ease. Thank you," he said, bowing. "I'll let you get back to your meal."

_He saw me._ Jora shuddered, alarmed and disturbed by what had just happened. No one had ever noticed her Mindstreaming before. What did they want with the supposed Mindstreamer?

Tearna and Briana watched her with wide eyes.

"What?" she asked them.

"You should tell them no," Briana said.

Tearna slapped Briana's shoulder. "Thank you. That's what I've been trying to tell her. Come on. You can say it. No." She pronounced the word slowly as if teaching a baby. "Nooo. No. You should try it sometime."

Jora laughed. "I could say it if I wanted to." She didn't want to. Mindstreaming didn't hurt her, aside from reaffirming the fact that she was a freak who made people uncomfortable, and it allowed her to ease the worried minds of parents like Anika or wives or young children who hoped to someday meet their fathers.

Tearna snorted. "Sure you could."

"Don't you want to know how your husbands fare? To reassure your children that their father is well?"

Briana pressed her lips into a dim smile. "Of course I do, but you get pestered all the time. I don't want to add to your burden."

"Besides," Tearna said, "Adham will come home one way or another. Knowing he's alive today doesn't mean I won't receive his shrouded body next week or next month. It's not like you can keep him safe by checking on him all the time."

Jora chewed the side of her cheek. "Bri, you've been to Halder before. Have you ever noticed shaven-headed people wearing long, green robes?"

"Those are Truth Sayers. Adepts, I believe."

Jora nodded, glad to have her suspicions confirmed. As a child, she'd been taught about the Serocian Justice Bureau and how it operated, but living in Kaild, a seaside town that even the countries at war with Serocia didn't bother with, she never expected to encounter a real Truth Sayer. And one of them had seen her. She shuddered, unsure what it meant but worried that it meant something.

"They shave their heads as a symbol of their inability to hide from the truth," Briana said.

Jora remembered that from her years in school.

"What were they doing in Oram's lecture?" Tearna asked.

"Listening, I guess," Jora said. Then another explanation occurred to her. "Do our armies travel with Sayers? To interrogate captured enemy soldiers?" In all the years she had been observing the soldiers from Kaild for the families they'd left behind, she had never noticed Truth Sayers present. Nor had she been noticed while Mindstreaming.

"Possibly," Tearna said. "Ask Gunnar. He would know."

Perhaps she would. It would give her a reason to talk to him again beyond simply inquiring about his health or his family.

_He saw me._ She couldn't get it out of her mind. Again she wondered what the Sayers wanted with the Mindstreamer, Gilon? She felt some guilt and compassion for the man who was about to receive what was Jora's due. She just hoped he wouldn't be slain.

Chapter 5

The sun was glowing pink and orange when Jora arose eager to return to the shoal where she'd met the friendly dolphin. She had no pressing projects to work on, now that Boden was on his way to war with his new knapsack, and she could practice on her flute for at least an hour before needing to stop for breakfast.

Flute in hand and one of the curious dogs following behind, she picked her way carefully across black rocks wet with the recent flood tide. Without the sunlight to show her the path, she had to feel for each step with her foot. At last, settled on the last rock, unmindful of the wetness seeping into the seat of her trousers, she licked her lips, lifted the flute to her mouth, and played tentative notes. This early, with the water still and the waves quiet, the sound of her flute carried too far. She glanced back toward the trees, toward the still-sleeping town of Kaild, and hoped she wasn't disturbing anyone. The cooks were surely awake, as were many of the farmers, but perhaps the sound wouldn't carry that far.

She learned how to make each note in three octaves, though some she stumbled on by chance when she inadvertently rotated the flute. So absorbed was she in learning to play the notes that she didn't immediately see the smiling face of the dolphin below her dangling feet.

It was studying her with one black eye, quietly as if not wanting to disturb her.

"Hail again," she said, lowering the flute to her lap. Her shoulders were tired from holding the instrument to her mouth, and it felt good to relax for a moment. "I'm glad to see you again. I'm Jora, by the way. Not that you could ever pronounce it, or even understand what I'm saying, but I feel like I should at least introduce myself."

The dolphin twittered and rose up slightly, nodding its head.

She laughed. "You understand? Or are you nodding because that's what dolphins do?"

In reply, the dolphin whistled the five notes of _Song of the Sea Spirit_ , as it had the previous day.

Jora's mouth dropped open. "You remember that?" She lifted the flute and played the same five notes, surprising herself by getting them right on the first attempt.

The dolphin turned suddenly and swam off, then leaped into the air, returning to the water with a splash. Jora laughed, and the dolphin leaped twice more and swam back to the shoal.

"You like that. Does it mean something to you? Is it some kind of greeting? Or perhaps it's your name," she mused. She played the notes again, and again the dolphin went racing off to leap into the air. Before returning the second time, it rose up on its powerful tail, almost fully out of the water. The way the beautiful creature danced and played, with the rising sun as a theatrical backdrop, made Jora's eyes well with tears. What might life be like when the entire ocean was your home? Without the worries of finding a husband or repairing a boot or witnessing the violent death of a man she cared about?

The dolphin drifted slowly to the shoal and whistled the notes again, this time more slowly, almost longingly.

"You're remarkable," she said. "I wish I understood what you mean when you sing those notes. For us, it's just a song—a beautiful song, of course, but it has no real meaning. It's something we play and listen to for enjoyment." For the dolphin, the song seemed to be more than that. Much more.

She lifted the flute and played the notes again, but this time, she played a bit more of the melody, tentatively because she wasn't sure of the proper fingerings. After a couple of corrections, she was able to play it without a pause.

The dolphin listened quietly while she played, and then twittered happily, nodding its head and tossing a bit of water at Jora.

"Hey!" she said, putting a hand up to guard her face from the water. "That's not fair."

And then the creature whistled the entire melody, including the part Jora hadn't yet played.

She couldn't do much more than gape at the curious creature. _It knows the song. How could it know the song?_

_Song of the Sea Spirit_.

Perhaps the dolphin was more impressed that she knew its song than the other way around.

"Who _are_ you?" she said under her breath. A shocking thought occurred to her, and she took a gasp. "Retar? God's Challenger, is it you?" Could the dolphin be acting as a god vessel? No, she thought, dismissing the notion. Why would the god Retar be speaking to her? She was no one special and certainly had no inclination to become an Iskori monk.

The dolphin whistled a few notes before swimming away, again toward the rising sun, and frolicked for a few moments, alternately leaping and dancing on its tail in the sunlight. A sun dancer.

"Sundancer? Is that your name?" Jora asked when it returned. "Well, that's what I'm going to call you. I think it's perfect. Sundancer, it's so very nice to meet you." She cast a glance at the trees behind her and stood. "I suppose I should go back now. Come back this evening if you can." Of course, she didn't think the dolphin actually understood her, but she waved goodbye anyway. "Bye for now, Sundancer."

Sundancer rolled onto her side and waved one flipper back.

Boden rode for four days under the canopy of trees that shaded the road. The occasional open field warmed his bald head and made him wish for a hat. He emptied his waterskin the first day, but there were enough streams and rivers to keep both horse and rider well hydrated. The food the women of Kaild had packed in his saddle bag got him to the first inn, and after a restless night on an itchy bed, he filled his stomach and his bag for the next day's ride.

His battle mount wasn't a patient animal, always nudging him when he was relieving himself or walking off without him, and he realized Fidget was an apt name. At first, he found Fidget's badgering annoying, especially the third day when he'd slept past sunrise, but it occurred to him that perhaps the animal was simply dedicated to its purpose. That was when he realized he had a kindred spirit in the horse.

Once they arrived in Jolver, a bustling city full of stray dogs and children chasing them with sticks, he asked directions to the Legion headquarters. People pointed down the street without barely a glance, no doubt used to young men asking the same question as they arrived from across the country.

As he rode, Boden couldn't help but notice the houses and shops alike were painted in nearly every color of the rainbow without any thought toward a larger aesthetic purpose. Here a blue one, then brown, then orange, then green, with other colors and shades across the street. Some looked freshly painted, others washed out and dull. There seemed to be no pattern to the selection of color. Not once did he see a white or gray building, nor were any of them red. Not one, he mused as he continued through the streets, avoiding slow-moving carts, toppled crates, and children too careless to watch where they were going.

High above the rooftops, he saw the black and red flag of the Serocian Legion hanging motionless in the still air marking the stately, black building itself. While the other buildings he'd passed were made of wood and clay bricks, the Legion headquarters was made of unpainted granite.

Spaced every dozen feet along the wall were white statues of warriors in battle poses, weapons poised to strike and faces taut with fury. They resembled the battlers of old, with their hair worn long and dressed in leather trousers, soft-soled boots, naked above the waist. Every statue was different, but each one perfectly captured what surely would have been the instant before victory over his foe had he been a real fighter. He had a strong urge to reach out and touch them as he rode alongside the building to the entrance. They looked so realistic.

A short man with a gray-whiskered face hobbled up to him and reached for Fidget's bridle without a glance at Boden. "Enlisting?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm Bo—"

"Dismount here. I'll take your horse to the stable." While Boden climbed down from the saddle, Gray Whiskers tied a strip of blue cloth to Fidget's bridle near the ear. He handed Boden a matching cloth. "Inside to the left. Got your papers?"

Boden nodded, tied the blue cloth to the front strap of his knapsack, and went inside.

The interior of the building was stark and clean, its ceilings a good dozen feet high, and its floor also black granite. He let his eyes adjust to the dim light and headed to a desk on the left, where a middle-aged man, mostly bald but unshaven, was sitting. The man's shirt was blue, not the green of a Serocian Legion uniform, and sported no arm band. He peered through thick spectacles at a paper, stamped it, and set it in a growing stack. When he looked up and saw Boden, he beckoned with a wave. "Come, come." He held out his hand expectantly.

Boden shrugged out of his knapsack as he approached and opened the special pouch that housed his papers. He handed them to the bespectacled man. "I'm Boden Sayeg, reporting for duty."

The man peered at him with a grin. "Reporting for duty, are you?" He chuckled and looked down at the papers. "Not many young men show up at the Legion headquarters reporting for duty."

Boden's face warmed. The man was making fun of him. He supposed it had been a silly thing to say, but was it necessary to ridicule?

"All right, Boden Sayeg Reporting For Duty, down the hall, first room on the right. Wait there. Someone will retrieve you."

The room he'd indicated had white plaster walls and was furnished with three six-foot benches. A single oil lamp on the rear wall burned brightly. He set his knapsack on the bench and sat beside it, but the moment his backside hit the bench, a man walked in holding a writing board against his chest. Boden stood and snapped a crisp salute. Judging from the stripes on the fellow's arm band, he was an officer in the Legion, a captain, rather than merely a bureaucrat like the fellow at the desk.

The captain returned the salute. He, too, was an older fellow, perhaps early forties, with brown eyebrows and sharp golden eyes like those on an eagle. Boden got the impression this man didn't miss much. "Sayeg?"

"Yes, sir," Boden said, standing at attention.

"I'm Captain Kyear." He pronounced the name like Jora's father and brothers did. Boden wondered if they were distantly related. "I'll be doing your initial assessment."

"Yes, sir."

"Any relation to Gunnar Sayeg?"

"Yes, sir. He's my father."

Captain Kyear smiled. "I served with him for four years. He became one hell of a good soldier. Didn't start out that way, but I'm sure he told you about that."

"No, sir. He never talked about his own years of service."

The captain chuckled. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me. Gunnar arrived poorly trained, uninformed, and weak. To hear him tell it, his drill master was drunk more often than sober, and when he wasn't, he was hung over."

Boden nodded. His first five years, from ages ten to fifteen, he'd trained under Elazer. Once Gunnar returned from his second tour, Boden's training truly began.

Captain Kyear clapped Boden's shoulder. "Anyway, glad to have you. For the first two years, your duties will be restricted to fighting with blades. If you want to train as a medic, officer, or engineer, talk to your commander at the end of your second year."

"Will I report to my unit tomorrow, then?" Boden asked.

Captain Kyear nodded. "Tomorrow or the next day. You'll stay here until someone's available to escort you. I'm putting you in company forty-four led by Senior March Commander Arvoh Turounce. He's got two units currently guarding the southeastern shore on the Isle of Shess."

The Isle of Shess. Boden felt his excitement grow. He had no idea how big the Isle was, but he hoped to get a chance to at least see the Tree of the Fallen God while he was there, the tree at the very center of the hundred-year war.

Sitting at her workbench, Jora heated the end of a thick thread in the lamp's flame and twirled it between her fingers to form it into a point. Then she threaded it into the holes she'd punched into the two leather pieces, pulling it taut and threading again. It was mindless work that tempted her thoughts to stray, returning to the incident she'd observed the previous day.

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. As before, the Truth Sayers looked up at her as if she had a physical presence there. And as it had the first time, 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.

"The back row. The fire?" Osha waved one bony, spotted hand. "It might've been before you were born. We had a fire. The entire back row of books and part of the next were burned to a crisp." She waved Jora ahead of her and started back to the front desk. "Lost quite a few books, but some we did save."

"So the book was destroyed?"

"'Fraid so, dear. Can I help you find something else?"

Jora's shoulders slumped with her hard exhale. She'd so wanted to read that book, hoping for a hint about why Sundancer responded to the flute and _Song of the Sea Spirit_. "Do you have anything like it?" she asked. "Something that describes the dolphins' affinity for flute music? Or anything about the Islands of Azaria or the people who lived there?"

Osha pursed her wrinkled lips and gazed up at the ceiling. "The only thing we have like that is an old tome about the language that was supposedly spoken there. It's a somewhat dry text, and the binding is coming apart, but if you're interested in old languages, it might tickle your fancy."

Could it be this Azarian had something to do with the magic that Nuri mentioned? If it was based on song, then perhaps there was a connection. It was worth looking into. "Sure, I'd love to have a look at it."

A half hour later, Jora left the library carrying an old book with a fragile black cover. It was roughly eighteen inches tall, twelve inches wide, and three inches thick, not something she could hide under her shirt or in a knapsack. And it was heavy, not something she wanted to carry around with her all day. At this size, it attracted a lot of attention, and people stopped her on the way to her room at the dormitory to ask what book she was reading.

She left it behind when she went to the dining hall for supper, and later when she returned to the shoal to play her flute. Unfortunately, Sundancer didn't return that night, but Jora made good progress with her command of the instrument.

She read well into the night, only blowing out the lamp when her eyes could discern the letters no longer. That night, she dreamed of odd symbols and notes and the strong, clear voice of a lone dolphin in the dark water, telling her secrets no one had heard for hundreds of years.

"Tell me again about _The Whispering Sea,_ " she said to Nuri the next morning when she arrived at the leather shop for work.

"Good morning to you too," her mentor said with a wry grin. "Did you look for it in the library?"

Jora nodded sadly as she set the flute on her workbench and sat on her stool. "Osha believes the book perished in a fire twenty-some years ago."

Nuri's eyes widened and brimmed with tears. "Oh. Oh, that's awful. My favorite book. That saddens me. Books from one's childhood are like dear friends."

"I know. I'm particularly fond of a few, myself. I'm sorry about your book."

Nuri dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her shirt. "Ah well, nothing to do about it now but hope we can buy another copy of it the next time the bookseller comes to town."

"When the people of the story talked with the dolphins, did they use a single flute like mine?"

Nuri rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "I think they used three or four flutes. Maybe five. Anyway, there were five—yes, five faithful flutists who played for them, and one who wrote down what the dolphin responded so it could be played back later. I wish you could've read it. It was a wonderful story."

Jora wished, too. She was certain she'd have enjoyed it.

Every evening, Jora sat cross-legged on her bed with a lamp hanging on the wall above her head. The borrowed tome lay open in her lap as she read and absorbed, trying to make sense of it. As far as she could tell, the book described an ancient language spoken on the Islands of Azaria whose written form consisted of a series of lines and curves. They hadn't an alphabet like the common languages of Serocia and its nearest neighbors Arynd-ban, Barad Selegal, and Mangend, but rather a sophisticated series of patterns that, combined with other patterns, represented words. There were one hundred eighty distinct patterns, which the book referred to as radicals, patterns that also represented concepts, such as big or dry, or man or woman. Written words used anywhere from one to five radicals. The word for woman was also the radical for woman, but the word for good was comprised of the radical for woman and the radical for child. She supposed that from a man's perspective, having a woman and a child was good.

At first, Jora didn't see the point of studying all this, but the fact that Nuri's favorite book, _The Whispering Sea_ , described the Azarian people as having great magical power and a relationship with dolphins kept her reading, hoping to discover something. Some key to the secret language of the sea spirits.

Every morning, she rose early and took her flute to the shoal to practice. Sundancer came nearly every day, and together they whistled and played _Song of the Sea Spirit._ Sometimes, they played a song Sundancer tried to teach her. It was always the same song, one that had a rather bizarre melody that sounded less like a song and more like a series of random notes strung together.

During the day when she worked at the leather shop, she let her mind wander back to the book and the dolphin.

She wondered why five flutes were needed and pondered a bit, comparing the dozen notes in an octave. Her flute could play three octaves, which was thirty-six notes. Five flutes could play... one hundred eighty notes. The number of radicals in Azarian.

Could there be a connection between the radicals in the written language and the notes in _Song of the Sea Spirit_?

Her jaw dropped open. "Retar the Challenger!" she muttered when the notion came to her.

Each radical was represented by a specific note, and each word was made up of one to five radicals. _Song of the Sea Spirit_ wasn't a song at all. It was a speech.

Her mind raced, excited by the epiphany. If she could learn the note for each radical and then learn to put the radicals together to form words, she could understand Sundancer and speak to her as well.

"What's wrong with you?" Shiri said as she walked past to her own workbench.

"What is it, girl?" Nuri asked, genuine interest in her features.

"It's... nothing," Jora said breathlessly. But it wasn't nothing. What if each musical note represented a concept, and a combination of musical notes made up words? What if the first five notes of the _Song of the Sea Spirit_ melody was a greeting?

Nuri chuckled. "I think perhaps you're not getting enough sleep, girl."

The day dragged slowly by. As soon as Nuri waved her off for the evening, she returned to her room and continued reading, ignoring her growling stomach. The book didn't specifically point her in the direction of associating notes with radicals, but if she had a simple starting point, she might be able to figure it out. She scanned the text in the tome for a greeting, perhaps the Azarian word for hail. After a few minutes of searching, she found a greeting that translated roughly as "ahoy." And it was made up of five radicals.

Five notes.

Her heart raced, and her hands trembled with excitement. This was it. She knew it. She was on the right track. And if those five notes corresponded to the radicals that made up the word "ahoy," then she might be able to figure out more.

She worked well into the night, assuring her friends who came calling that she wasn't ill, just busy reading and making notes. Briana brought her a plate of cheese and bread and a cup of water, which Jora accepted with her thanks.

"What are you working on so intently?" Briana asked.

"Oh, nothing important, just a little diversion. Trying to learn to play something on my flute." She'd never learned conventional musical notation used by Kaild's musicians, and so she had an idea for how to write the notes in her journal. She scribbled her idea before she lost the thought of it.

"Well," Briana said, standing. "Holler if you need anything, dove." She shut the door behind her.

Jora looked up, stunned. "Oh, dear. Sorry, Bri," she called. It was unlike her to be so rude, but she would make up for it later. She bent her head and continued working.

Each note required her fingers to cover at least one hole on the flute, usually more. She designated the fingers of her left hand as A, E, I, and O, and the fingers of her right hand as B, C, D, and F. For the notes requiring fingers A, I, and C, she wrote down the seemingly nonsensical word cia, pronouncing it _see-ya_ in her head. The note she thought of as _cia_ stood for the radical in Azarian meaning _rain_. Writing down the fingerings in a way she could pronounce them made them easier to remember than her initial notation of dots on a line.

The next morning, after a scant three hours of sleep, Jora hurried to the shoal and began to play, hoping she wasn't simply seeing what she wanted to see in the Book of Azarian's lines and curves. She took with her a paper on which she'd written her message, along with instructions to herself on which notes to play to communicate it. She started by playing the five notes of the _Song of the Sea Spirit_ 's melody, the notes that had attracted Sundancer in the first place.

The dolphin's smiling face rose out of the water at her feet, and Sundancer whistled that same five-note sequence.

" _Ahoy."_

With a deep breath, Jora lifted the flute to her lips and played a series of notes that, if her conclusions and calculations were right, would translate to " _My name is Autumn Rain_."

Sundancer's dark eyes widened, and she twittered madly. She dove into the water and leaped happily, turning and twisting in the air as if her joy couldn't be contained. Jora laughed along with her. After a minute or so, she returned and repeated the last part of the sequence.

" _Autumn Rain. Autumn Rain. Autumn Rain."_

Jora felt her eyes burn. Tears blurred her vision and trickled down her face. She'd done it. She'd communicated with a dolphin. "Yes, that's my name. My people actually call me Jora, but it means autumn rain in the old tongue. I'm so happy to meet you. So very happy." The words choked her, and she wept tears of happiness.

" _Autumn Rain_ ," Sundancer whistled _._ She swam a short distance away and twittered.

"Are you inviting me for a swim?" When Jora hesitated, Sundancer spat water at her and twittered some more. She set her flute down away from the edge of the rock so it wouldn't roll into the water, pulled off her shoes, and dove into the sea fully clothed. She came up gasping from the shock of the cold water.

Sundancer swam to her and clicked beneath the surface. Jora, treading water, reached out and stroked the dolphin's skin. It was amazingly soft and smooth, unlike anything she'd touched before. She cupped the dorsal fin in her hand, and Sundancer pulled her through the water, not so fast that she couldn't get a breath, but fast enough for the ride to be thrilling. She laughed and whooped, too excited to restrain her joy. After a few minutes, Sundancer returned her to the shoal, and she clambered out, heavy from her sopping clothes.

"That was fun," she said, sitting back on the rock. She wiped the hair back from her face and shook the extra water from her hands. "I think maybe I can learn a little more of your language. Be patient with me, though. I don't have as much time to devote to studying as I wish I had."

" _Autumn Rain_ ," Sundancer whistled. She followed with another series of whistles, which Jora played back on her flute. If only she'd thought to bring a lead pen to write the notes down, she could look them up in the book when she returned.

With that, Sundancer leapt high into the air and swam off.

Jora pulled on her shoes and ran back to town, back to her room to dry off and change her clothes. When her hair was sufficiently blotted and she'd braided it behind her head, giving it no chance to drip onto the book, she played the notes Sundancer had whistled to remind herself of the sequence, and wrote them down. Then, she set about looking up the radicals they might represent and the words they might form. What she discovered made her heart soar.

" _Autumn Rain is Sun Dancer friend."_

Chapter 6

Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, six other boys, recently turned eighteen, joined Boden in the sleeping room. Boden greeted the first of them with a smile and offered hand but was blatantly ignored. At first, he thought the cuss was deaf, but the next man who joined them likewise received no reply or acknowledgment.

"One of those, I see," the second one said with a toss of his head at the first. He offered his hand to Boden. "I'm Rasmus Bokk from Tourd, but my friends call me Ras." Tourd, he explained, was in the mountains, a smaller city than Jolver or Halder, but the mining industry was huge. He claimed they supplied half the ore in Serocia.

"Where are you from?" Rasmus asked. The way he made eye contact and listened gave Boden the impression that he was genuinely interested and not making idle conversation.

Boden liked him. He was organized and neat with a sense of order about him that gave Boden the impression they were kindred spirits. "I'm from Kaild. It's a town on the coast a few days' ride north of here."

"Fishing village?"

"We do a bit of fishing, a bit of farming, a bit of hunting."

Rasmus nodded. "We have all the ore we want but not nearly enough fish. I love fish. I hope they feed us lots of it."

"Only if someone else cooks it," Boden said. "I nearly failed the cooking assessment."

Rasmus laughed. "Me too, brother. I spent too much time perfecting my weapons skills to worry about cooking."

While they both greeted the other men who arrived, the focus of their conversation returned to their shared interests. Rasmus, it turned out, had married a woman not unlike Jora—a creative, gentle girl with a penchant for music, though she was younger than Jora.

"So Jora is your wife?" Rasmus asked.

"No, just a good friend. My wife is Micah." Boden told him how driven Micah been to capture his heart, though he still didn't understand why. He was, admittedly, a lot like his father: driven, rigid, and not good at reading the emotions of others, particularly women.

"Me neither, brother," Rasmus said. "If they don't come out and tell me what they want, I'm likely to miss all the signs."

They continued their conversation over supper. Though they both introduced themselves and attempted to include the others in their conversation, Boden and Rasmus were of such like minds that they ended up talking solely to each other while the others became engaged in conversations and discussions of their own.

The following morning, the new recruits were handed off to a sergeant who was missing his right arm. By the time they mounted up and headed south, there were ten new recruits.

"Are you in our company?" Rasmus asked the sergeant.

"No, I report directly to Captain Kyear," he replied over his shoulder. "My sword arm got cut off, if you didn't notice, and I'm not interested in giving the bastards a chance to take the other."

"If I lost my sword arm in battle," Rasmus said to Boden, "I'd take up the sword with my other."

"The hell you would," the sergeant said. "It's easy to say what you would do in a situation without having experienced it yet. We're all heroes in our own mind. If you lose your dominant arm, the one you've trained with, the one you're best at using, then come tell me you're going to fight with your weaker arm. Until then, my money's on you begging to be sent home to your mama."

The recruits laughed, and Rasmus had to concede that the sergeant had a good point.

For the next two days, they rode south along the coast, camping along the road the first night and at a Legion convalescent camp the second. Large pots steamed over cookfires while men scurried to and fro, some of them covered in blood. One man barked orders for men to be moved, meals to be brought, and more medics to report. One man, hobbling with the aid of a single crutch under his arm, had stained bandages wrapped around his head, covering one eye, around both hands, and a splinted leg. He paused to watch the recruits ride past and caught Boden's eye. There was something different about this man, like he'd lived an entire lifetime in only twenty-five years. Boden shuddered, unsure why the man's gaze was so unsettling.

"Take a look around you, recruits," the sergeant said. "These are all men who had the same training you did, the same desire to fight for Serocia. These are the lucky ones who didn't die on the battlefield." The riders relinquished their mounts to the stable hands, and the recruits followed the sergeant into a medium-sized tent furnished with a dozen folding cots with canvas slings.

Later that night, after the lamps had been extinguished, Boden lay on his belly, scribbling in his journal about his adventure under the light of the moon that streamed in through a crack in the tent's door flap. For the first time in his life, he felt some mild apprehension about fighting in the war, though he didn't write that down. He set the journal back into his knapsack and closed his eyes. This was his life now. This was his duty.

The recruits traveled from the convalescent camp across Swan's Crossing, the land bridge that led to the Isle of Shess, a misnomer, as Boden discovered, since the Isle wasn't an island but a peninsula like the one upon which his hometown of Kaild had been founded. The land bridge leading to the Isle of Shess was much wider than the one he'd crossed leaving Kaild. Swan's Crossing was a grassy plain that must have been paradise to the horses. The closest thing to a tree at all were scraggly shrubs, the tallest of which might have reached six feet in height, a couple of inches shorter than Boden.

They arrived at another camp that was located about a mile inland from the Isle's northwestern shore. Like the last camp, this one had sturdy tents for the soldiers to bunk at night and brick-framed cookfires, but this camp had a log cabin that served as both residence and command center for the company's march commander and his staff sergeant and sergeant. The soldiers here were big men, not necessarily in height but in muscularity and attitude. While the recruits ate supper, the older soldiers grinned knowingly, talked about them openly, and speculated about which of them would make it all ten years.

"Find out if any of them are from Kaild," one man said. "He'll be the first one to die." The others laughed.

Boden felt his blood warm. He wasn't the brawling sort, but he wouldn't stand for people insulting his hometown or his father. He started to rise from his seat.

"Leave it be," Rasmus said with a hand on Boden's shoulder. "You can't beat ignorance out of a man."

The next morning, they rode across the plain to the southeast under a clear sky. Though the sun was warm, the breeze made the ride comfortable.

"Look there," the sergeant said, pointing.

Boden made out the vague shape of a huge tree in the distance. The famed Tree of the Fallen God.

"Is that it?" Rasmus asked.

"That's it, men," the sergeant said. "That's what we're fighting for. That's what our three nearest neighbors want to destroy."

As they rode, Boden and his fellow recruits watched the Tree growing larger in the distance. Even from miles away, he could tell that it was the biggest tree he'd ever seen, but the closer they got, the more impossibly huge it seemed.

Its branches reached outward at least a thousand yards from the center in every direction. Under the shadow of its leaves were several horse-drawn wagons and dozens of men gathering newly fallen fruit from the ground, putting them into sacks they wore across their shoulders. Other men emptied bags into crates and loaded crates onto the wagons.

"Every company receives a delivery of godfruit every two days," the sergeant said. "There's a seemingly never-ending supply. The Tree is unaffected by drought or flood. There's rarely a need to climb the tree to pick it, since it falls off as fast as we can crate it up."

Rasmus huffed and rolled his eyes. "Do you believe in magical fruit?" he asked quietly.

Boden shrugged. "I have no experience with it, so I'll wait to form an opinion." He couldn't forget his father's warning, though. _Do not eat the godfruit._

"What about the extra?" another recruit asked.

"It's taken to the cities to sell," the sergeant said. He explained that the men who'd served their ten years in the Legion had either already benefited from the godfruit or no longer needed it because their lives weren't in jeopardy every day. Women who ate it did so mostly out of curiosity, though some who were in dangerous professions, such as miners and loggers, consumed it daily. Because the godfruit had an unusually long ripe period, transporting it as far as Halder or Skelr wasn't a problem, especially when it was transported by merchant ship.

At long last, they reached the camp where Boden's company was stationed. It was a bustling place, like a small town, with soldiers everywhere. Once they gave their horses into the care of the stable hands, the sergeant introduced them to Corporal Pharson, a short, scrappy fellow who impressed Boden as a badger, not someone others would want to tangle with or piss off. Judging from Rasmus's sideways looks of wide-eyed wariness, his friend had formed a similar opinion.

"Welcome to hell, boys," Pharson said. "Three of you'll be in my squad, the others divided between Corporals Algot and Vidar." Two other men with the corporals' band on their sleeves joined them. They called off names, and the recruits divided themselves into the three groups. Rasmus was in Algot's squad, Boden in Pharson's, for which he was glad. There was something about Pharson's fierceness that impressed him. A tough commander generally molded tough soldiers, and Boden had every intention of becoming as tough as the hardened men around him. He would go home again, not because of the godfruit, but because of his skill and training. "We three corporals report to Sergeant Keskinen, who reports to Staff Sergeant Krogh. March Commander Turounce runs the company. Remember those names, boys. You'll be meeting them next."

Boden and his fellow recruits were taken into the sturdily built command building. Inside, a severe-looking fellow in his late thirties or early forties stood over a table. His head wasn't cleanly shaven like the others in his command, but it was much too short to be grabbed by more than a pinch of two fingers. He wore a closely trimmed goatee and had a scar across the bridge of his nose, no doubt received during his years as a swordfighter. Two other men, younger by a few years, stood at the ends of the table, looking on. Judging from the insignias on their arm bands, the man in the center was the march commander, and the other two were his staff sergeant and sergeant. The three looked up when Pharson led them in.

"New recruits reporting, sir," Pharson announced, snapping a salute. The ten young men stood at attention and saluted as well.

"Good," March Commander Turounce said, looking the new arrivals over briefly. "Have supper, find your tents, and come back in a half hour."

"Yes, sir," Pharson said. This time, the boys were ready to salute with him. They followed the corporal outside and approached a man shouting orders to unload supplies. The two conferred for a moment, and Pharson took a piece of paper from him, then beckoned the recruits with a wave. "This way." As they walked past the tents, each marked with a letter clearly sewn into the fabric above the flap opening, he called out a name, pointing to the tent. "Bokk, tent C."

Rasmus glanced at Boden and gave a quick see-you-later nod before ducking into his tent.

"Hildus, tent E. Sayeg, tent F," Pharson said.

Boden nodded, then pulled aside the flap of the tent marked with F and stepped in. Six cots made up two rows, but only four of the six had bedrolls stretched out on them. At the heads of the cots in the back row and the feet of those in the front sat knapsacks, two of them spilling over with clothing, the other two neatly packed. Boden chose the center bunk in the back row, reasoning that leaving the one immediately in front of the opening would make it easier for everyone to maneuver.

The flap moved aside, and Rasmus poked his head in. "Ready to eat?"

"Almost. Give me one second." Boden untied his bedroll, unrolled it onto the cot, and set his knapsack at its head. He followed Rasmus out.

"Oh, good. Fresh meat," one of the older soldiers said with a grin as he walked past. His arm was in a sling, and he had a bandage around his thigh. "Better gird yourselves, boys. Our enemies will make men out of you."

Boden squared his shoulders, unrattled. Though he lacked actual battle experience, he'd had superior training. Gunnar had failed as a father, but he'd excelled as a drill master.

They met the other recruits near the cook pots, where a slightly stocky fellow ladled stew into wooden bowls for them. They each received wooden spoons and they took their meals to some nearby benches to eat.

Boden watched the goings on while he ate, as did Rasmus and a couple of the others. Though he felt sympathy for the wounded, he shrugged off the injuries as a natural, expected consequence of war. Men were fighting with real weapons, not wooden training swords, and someone was bound to be hurt or killed. In fact, that was ultimately the point of battle. The sooner they killed the enemy, the sooner their leaders would run out of troops and end their aggression. After all, the fighting was on Serocian soil. The Serocians were simply defending themselves.

And the Tree.

After they finished eating, Pharson took them back to the command building. Three benches had been set up, and upon entering and saluting their new leader, they were instructed to be seated. Boden and Rasmus sat in the front and watched the commander shuffle the papers on his desk.

"Welcome men," the commander said. He began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "You're men now, men who've spent eight years training under a drill master for the life ahead of you. It's a hard life full of sacrifice and hardship, but you'll develop friendships that will get you through the darkest of times. You'll see things, hear things, things that you'll wish you hadn't, things that will haunt your dreams for the rest of your lives. The man beside you might not live through the day."

Boden and Rasmus glanced at each other with concern.

"You might not live through the day. Like everything else—your arms, your legs, your eyesight and hearing—your life may well be one of those sacrifices we all offer in defense of our country and in defense of the Tree we hold so dear.

"Let's be clear about one thing," Turounce said, raising one finger. "The Tree of the Fallen God is on our land, and the fruit it bears belongs to us. Our enemies want to destroy it. But like the land we stand upon, the Tree belongs to the people of Serocia. It's a symbol of Retar's sacrifice to not only the people of Serocia but to the people of Aerta. We protect it not only for our own benefit but for the benefit of those who would destroy it.

"You'll hear things about the Tree and the fruit it bears. Frightful things. Amazing things. The only thing you must remember about the godfruit is to eat it every morning. It will save your life. It will give you another chance to return home to your wife and child."

Boden swallowed, reminded again of his father's warning. Surely Gunnar wanted him to return home. He thought back to the scene in Kaild, of Gunnar embracing him with the fierceness of love. His eyes had reddened with unshed tears. His face had been taut, his whisper both pleading and insistent. Boden studied the commander's face, trying to reconcile his command with Gunnar's caution.

"Let me say that again," Turounce said. "Eat the godfruit every morning. Not in the afternoon, not in the evening. Morning. Its effect lasts from dawn to dawn only, not from dusk to dusk or noon to noon." Turounce looked around the room. "I see doubt in some of your eyes. Perhaps you've heard stories that it gives men nightmares horrible beyond imagining. I won't lie to you. Those stories are true. But eating the godfruit before battle will ensure you survive a mortal wound. You will live to fight another day, and trust me when I say that you will be a better fighter for it."

A couple men behind Boden let out a breath as if relieved. Boden felt the opposite of relief. What was Turounce not telling them? What was the sickness of the soul Gunnar had mentioned?

"I gather a few of you don't believe a mere fruit could have such power," the commander said. "Let me remind you of the source of this fruit. Whether you're an Iskori or not, whether you believe Retar is a true god or not, the Tree's existence cannot be disputed. I'm not here to challenge your beliefs. I'm here to lead you into battle, a battle we can win with superior training, skills, intellect, attitude, and the advantage the godfruit gives us over our enemies. We can win every battle we enter, men. You can survive the next ten years with the help of the men fighting beside you and the miracle of the godfruit. Stick together, look out for one another, fight your hardest, and don't let the enemy tempt you into rashness or anger. Nobody here is a hero. Did you hear me? Not one of you. You're part of a unit of men who look after each other, brothers on the battlefield. Help your brothers get home, and they'll help you." He paused and looked at each of them in turn, his brown eyes calm and confident. "Questions?" He looked past Boden and lifted his chin.

"Sir, what about the curse?"

"The godfruit isn't a curse," Turounce said. "It's a vehicle for survival, fueled by the blood of the fallen god Hibsar. When Retar defeated him on the Isle of Shess, his blood soaked the earth and turned it red, and from that red earth grew the Tree we know today. The godfruit is a gift to Serocia. It's a gift to every one of you and to your loved ones at home who want desperately to see you again."

"If we keep eating the godfruit, why do our men still die?" asked the same man. Boden didn't know who it was, and he wasn't familiar enough with their voices yet to guess, but it was a fair question.

"The godfruit erases one death," the commander said, his voice soft. "A man cannot survive an infinite number of deaths simply by eating more fruit. The next time a sword goes through his heart, he will die." He looked at each of their faces, his eyes sad. "This is why, men, you cannot rely solely on the fruit to survive the next ten years. You want to return to your wives, to meet your first-born child and to father more children. No one understands this more than I do. The way to ensure you do that is through awareness, hard work, brotherhood, and a still mind. The godfruit is insurance. After you survive your first death, you will become a better fighter. More aware, more driven, more careful."

Boden stared at the commander, once again questioning Gunnar's plea not to eat the fruit. There was no doubt Turounce believed what he was saying, but Boden had no reason to doubt Gunnar's certainty, either. Had Gunnar eaten it? He had a terrible scar on his chest and walked with a limp. Was the fruit responsible for his return? Would Boden ever have met his father without the godfruit?

If only he could ask those questions now. "Where do we get it?" he asked.

Turounce looked down at him, his expression pleased. "Crates of it are delivered every other day and stacked in the mess hall where you get your pottage. Take one with the morning meal."

When no more questions about the godfruit were asked, the march commander spent the next half hour dehumanizing the people of Mangend, Arynd-ban, and Barad Selegal, drilling into the heads of his new soldiers their enemies' lack of morality, refinement, intellect, and self-control. They were little more than animals, Turounce said, animals that didn't have the mental capacity to understand the significance of the Tree and the glory of Retar to have gifted it to them.

Boden listened, though he couldn't take to heart the argument that people on the other side of an arbitrary line in the dirt were any different from his own people. Perhaps they had different customs and clothing, but how could they be so severely lacking in the attributes that made them human simply by virtue of where they were born? Were their own commanders telling them the same things about Serocian fighters? Perhaps the only way a man could justify killing another man was to first stop thinking of him as a man.

After the lecture, as the recruits were standing to leave, Turounce turned his attention to Boden. "Are you Sayeg?"

Boden snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."

"Stay behind a minute. I need to caution you about something."

Boden swallowed, unsure what he could have done so soon that would warrant a reprimand. Rasmus pulled his mouth taut, the corners curving downward in an expression that conveyed exactly what Boden was thinking.

Once the recruits had filed out and Boden was alone with the march commander, Turounce gestured to the bench. "Have a seat. I understand you're from Kaild."

Boden sat as instructed. "I am, sir."

"Then you must be related to Gunnar Sayeg."

"Yes, sir. He's my father."

Turounce nodded, a small smile playing on his mouth. "Good. I knew him when I was a sergeant. He wasn't in my platoon, but he was in my unit. I'm sure he's told you of his early life in the Legion."

"No, sir. He rarely mentioned his own service, only to provide examples of why or how a particular method or strategy works."

The commander looked at him with arched brows. "He's a good man. We all liked him, but he was a terrible fighter. He survived by the grace of the sharp eyes and blade skill of everyone around him. We watched his back, kept him alive. He trained when everyone else was relaxing or whoring and learned to be a warrior on the battlefield. Gunnar became one of the most dedicated soldiers I've ever known, then and now. You're fortunate he reenlisted."

"Why is that, sir?"

"Within the Legion, the men from Kaild have a reputation of being fairly worthless as fighters. The old drill master there had done little more than provide the Legion with fodder to throw at the enemy so the real warriors could kill without taking as much damage. To become a drill master, a man must first achieve the rank of sergeant. The only way Gunnar could ensure you and the other boys of Kaild had the training you needed to survive your first year of battle, let alone the nine years after that, was to become the drill master himself. It's not easy to rise in the ranks of the Legion that quickly, but he was a driven man. Without his sacrifices, you'd probably be fodder too, like the Kailders before you."

Boden could barely believe what he was hearing. This was what Gunnar had meant when he'd talked of sacrifice. He'd reenlisted to save Boden's life.

Guilt settled upon his shoulders and thickened his chest, guilt over his anger and the disdain with which he'd treated his father the last three years, assuming it was indifference that had driven him away from Kaild the second time, rather than love.

"You'll hear things," Turounce said. "The other men will assume you're as worthless as your predecessors. They'll ridicule and goad you. I'm not going to tell you how to handle those situations, but I will caution you not to take it too far. These are men who'll be watching your back on the battlefield. Remember that before you throw your first punch."

Chapter 7

His thoughts heavy with guilt, Boden returned to the F tent, now occupied by his new tentmates. They acknowledged him with a nod or glance while they continued their conversation, which was currently a gripe about the campers and cooks and their lack of regard for order.

"I'm hungry for a big steak," said the eldest of the group. He had a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken in a fight. "Hope the supply wagons get here on time."

"Leave it to Hadar to turn the conversation back to food," said another, a short man with dark skin and eyebrows. He turned to Boden and introduced himself as Rojyr.

"How long have you been in the Legion?" Boden asked.

"Three years," Rojyr said. "Not Relived yet."

"What's Relived?"

"That's what you become after you've eaten the godfruit and died," said another, a lanky man with a prominent Adam's apple.

"Are any of you Relived?"

All of them shook their heads.

"How long since you've seen battle?" Boden asked.

"Two weeks," replied Hadar. "We lost ten men in that fight. Damned Kaild fodder nearly got the rest of us killed."

Boden felt his face redden at the mention of his town. So what the commander had said about the boys of Kaild being inadequately prepared was true. Gunnar had only been drill master for three years. Any soldier older than twenty-one wouldn't have received the benefit of his superior training.

The fourth man asked, "What's Kaild?"

Hadar snorted. "Some little shit village of grass huts, where they wear loincloths and hunt with sharpened spears."

The other men laughed and threw out other insults, each one painting the residents of Kaild as ignorant, fearful monkeys who ate their own feces.

"I heard one of the new cusses is from Kaild," Hadar said.

"I'll challenge any of you to a match," Boden said, his voice quiet but serious.

The four stilled their tongues. Hadar sauntered over to Boden. "You're from Kaild, then?"

Boden squared his shoulders and looked the man, shorter by at least four inches, directly in the eye. Hadar might be older and more experienced in battle, but there was only one way to quell the stream of insults and answer the question they were probably all asking: would the new Kaild recruit be a hindrance or a help in the heat of battle? "I am. And my father, Gunnar Sayeg, is the drill master there. If you question my prowess as a fighter, you question his as an instructor as well."

"Gunnar Sayeg's your pa?" the lanky one asked, his voice reverent. He approached Boden and Hadar.

"He is," Boden said, feeling a twinge of pride he hadn't felt since he was nine years old, seeing his father ride into town for the first time in Boden's young life.

The lanky man held out his hand. "I'm Voster."

He shook it. "Boden."

"That's Hadar and Eron," he said, pointing at each man in turn. "And you met Rojyr already. My brother was in Gunnar's platoon, said your papa's a hero."

"Nobody's a hero, Voster," Hadar said with a snort. He went back to his bed without answering Boden's challenge. "Don't you remember Turounce's welcome speech?"

"Yeah, you keep saying that," Voster said, returning to his own bed. "I didn't hear you accept Boden's challenge. You should. The rest of us would like to see Gunnar Sayeg's son stomp your big mouth into the dirt."

The other men laughed, and good-spirited banter continued, though this time it was directed at each other rather than at Boden.

He went back to unrolling his bedroll, a dim smile on his face.

The next morning, Boden and Rasmus sat together to break their fast, joined by Joh, one of Rasmus's tentmates. The meal consisted of eggs, fish, cut fruit, and sausage, all piled into a single bowl. Though it was a hearty meal, it was fairly bland. Boden wished for a shaker of pepper at least, but he supposed spices were a luxury he could learn to live without.

Another soldier, one he hadn't seen before, set his bowl and piece of godfruit on the table beside Joh and sat down. "Korlan," he said, offering his hand. Rasmus and Boden both shook it and introduced themselves, and Joh greeted him as a friend. "Welcome to the forty-fourth. Whose squad are you in?"

"Algot's," Rasmus said.

"Pharson's," Boden said. "You?"

"Hodsnick's," Joh said.

"I'm in Pharson's too," Korlan said. "You'll like him. He's a bit brash, but he'll give it to you straight. Good fighter, too." He pointed with his spoon at the bowl in front of Rasmus, beside which was no godfruit. "Didn't Turounce give you the speech about the godfruit yet?"

Rasmus snorted. "I don't believe any of it. A fruit that can erase a death? It's just a bunch of superstitious nonsense."

Boden raised his eyebrows. "You don't think a tree that grows in earth soaked with the blood of a god could be..." He searched for the word he wanted.

"Magical?" Rasmus asked. "No. Maybe the earth there is redder than in other areas. That doesn't mean the fruit's magical."

"How do you explain all the soldiers who've died and lived to tell about it?" Joh asked.

"The earth beneath the Tree is blood-red, not merely tinged with red or orange," Korlan said.

"They didn't truly die," Rasmus said with a shrug. "And Retar slew Hibsar over a hundred years ago. I doubt blood stains the earth for that long. I've no plans to eat anything I can't identify. That goes for fruit, too."

"No fault in that logic," Boden said. He still wasn't convinced either way, but the dilemma bothered him all the same. "My father warned me not to eat it."

"What?" Korlan asked, his eyes round.

"Why?" Joh asked.

"God's Challenger! You don't say," Rasmus said. "Didn't he eat it?"

Boden shrugged. "He didn't say, but I think he did. He almost never takes off his shirt in public. He has an ugly scar on his chest and a matching one on his back. He also walks with a limp."

"He definitely ate it," Korlan said. "How else would a man survive being run through like that?"

"Maybe he had good medics," Rasmus said. "Was he an officer? I'll bet officers get the best treatment."

"Yah," Boden said. "He served fifteen years, came home a sergeant."

Korlan reached across the table and clapped Boden's shoulder. "You must be proud. Was he your drill master?"

Pride in his father was a new feeling for him, one that would take some getting used to, once his guilt subsided and the truth behind Gunnar's reenlistment settled in his mind. "He was. Better than the old fellow he replaced."

"Bet he worked your hands bloody with drills, too, didn't he?" Korlan asked around a mouth full of food.

Rasmus laughed. "In Tourd, the drill master's sons were the best fighters among us. I'm sticking with this cuss," he said, pointing at Boden with his thumb.

Boden smiled. He had been the best fighter in Kaild, but he couldn't properly judge his skills against those of his new friends—or the other warriors in his unit—until after they'd been tried in battle. Confidence was one thing; arrogance something else.

"I for one don't want to die yet," Korlan said. "I have a sweet wife and baby to go home to. Are you going to eat it?" The question was directed at Boden.

"I haven't decided. Probably. I don't know. You've got to give Commander Turounce credit for being persuasive, though."

"Your own papa said not to eat it," Rasmus said. "He loves you, right? He wouldn't've said that if he didn't have a good reason."

That was exactly the point and the root of his dilemma. He couldn't ignore what Gunnar had said. The man had his faults, but failing to love his children wasn't one of them. Boden saw that now. "He said the godfruit infects the soul with a foul sickness."

"What does that mean?" Korlan asked. He shoveled another spoonful of food into his mouth. "I've eaten it every day for almost fourteen months. Don't feel any different."

"I don't know." Maybe he'd ask around. If others in his unit were Relived, maybe they could explain what Gunnar had meant. "I take it you're not Relived?"

"Not yet," Korlan said, "but better Relived than dead forever. That's what I say." He pushed his empty bowl a couple of inches away and picked up his godfruit.

"No fault in that logic, either," Boden said. He picked up the godfruit beside his own bowl, weighing it in his hand against his father's warning. It looked like a large plum with dark-purple flesh. Though he trusted Gunnar as a drill master and trusted his own ability as a fighter, a little insurance wasn't a bad thing. Two of his companions bit into theirs at the same time.

"Tastes like ass," Joh said, scrunching his face.

Korlan laughed. "How do you know what ass tastes like?"

"My wife's apparently not as sweet as yours," Joh said with a wink. "Go ahead, Boden."

Boden took a bite and squeezed his eyes shut against the bitter taste, chewing quickly and swallowing it down. The taste reminded him of wet leather and horse farts. It was possibly the most foul-tasting fruit in the world. "Damn, that's bad."

"You've got to choke the whole thing down," Korlan said. "A bite or two won't do it."

Together, the three of them took several more large bites, chewing and swallowing as fast as they could, and soon the fruit was gone. "No seeds or pit," he noted.

"Further proof of its divine origin," Joh said.

"Huh," Rasmus said. "Guess that's why Mangend wants to control the Isle so badly. They can't simply steal a crate of fruit and grow their own Tree of the Fallen God."

"Mangend doesn't want the godfruit any more than Arynd-ban does," Korlan said. "They just don't want us to have it."

"Even if they found a seed," Joh said, "who's to say its fruit would have the same effect. It's Hibsar's blood that makes the godfruit magical."

"Or cursed," Rasmus said. He wiggled his fingers and made his eyes round. "Ooooh!"

"Go ahead and laugh while you can, Bokk," Joh said. "If we both die today, I'll get up and laugh over your corpse."

Chapter 8

Before the sun had peeked over the waters of the Inner Sea, Jora awoke and dressed, then braided her hair quickly. She'd been meeting Sundancer every morning for nearly three weeks, deepening both her understanding of Azarian and her friendship with the dolphin. Having to stop to go work in the leather shop dashed her spirits, and she spent all day looking forward to the next morning.

She ran out to the shoal with her flute and notebook. Sundancer was already there when she settled onto the last rock.

" _Ahoy, Sun Dancer_."

" _Ahoy, Autumn Rain,"_ Sundancer replied. _"You rested well?"_

" _Yes, and you?"_

The question note had been a bit of a challenge for Jora to figure out, but when she realized the simplicity of adding a single note to the end of a statement to make it a question, it made more sense than adding on useless words, such as _do_ or _have_. The past tense was formed similarly, although it took two notes to signify, and Azarian didn't have articles. She had to infer words like _the_ by the context to make sense of it.

" _I rested well. Your speaking is much improved."_

" _You taught me well."_ Jora lowered the flute to smile, and Sundancer replied with a twitter.

" _I not teach..."_ The pattern of notes she whistled next was unfamiliar to Jora. " _You can learn more. I teach you."_

"I'm sorry," Jora said aloud. "I don't know what you said. I still have a lot to learn."

" _I go now hunt. Goodbye, Autumn Rain."_

" _Goodbye, Sun Dancer. Good hunt."_

Before Sundancer swam away, she whistled the new series of notes again, something for Jora to look up and add to her growing vocabulary. She played the notes on her flute to be sure she had them right, and then waved so long to her friend. Back in her room, she deciphered the notes, but she wasn't sure she understood what Sundancer meant.

_Spirit flow power._

She spent the day mulling over those three words while she worked, wondering if perhaps she'd misinterpreted the notes. After a long day in the leather shop, she worked the radicals again, looking up possible combinations in the book and coming up only with _knife capable_ , _hungry snow beach_ , or _spirit flow power_.

_Knife capable_. It could have been a reference to her leatherworking skill, but it wasn't likely that Sundancer knew Jora was a leatherworker.

_Hungry snow beach_. That one was even odder. Snow beach could have meant white sands. She tried to think of a beach nearby that had white sands, but all the beaches she'd seen were more or less the same beige color. _Hungry snow_ made less sense.

That left only _spirit flow power_. She wondered whether spirit flow was Sundancer's way of saying Mindstream. Flow, stream. Spirit instead of mind. It wasn't too far-fetched. Certainly made better sense than _knife capable_ or _hungry snow beach_. Power could be... magic.

The book Nuri had mentioned came to mind. The people in the story had powerful magic, and they spoke with dolphins. Could the magic be somehow related to the dolphin's language? How did it relate to the Mindstream? Unless the Mindstream was the magic.

The Mindstream was the magic.

That had to be it. Sundancer was simply picking up on Jora's Mindstreaming ability and considered it a power or magic of some kind. She pulled out the journal she'd obtained from the stationer and jotted a note, then thoughtfully stroked her cheek with the end of the lead pen. What would she say to Sundancer the following morning to let her know she'd figured it out? _I know,_ she thought with a smile.

A knock at her door drew her eyes up. "Come in."

The door opened, and Anika poked her head in. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," Jora said as she closed the book and set it aside.

Boden's mother came in and sat on the stool near the foot of Jora's bed. The room wasn't big enough to have any proper furniture for entertaining guests. "Gunnar spoke to me and my cowives about you earlier today. He said he'd like to propose to you, bring you into our family."

Jora swallowed. She'd wondered how that conversation would go. "If you don't want me, I'll understand."

"Oh, sweetheart, no," Anika said, taking one of Jora's hands. It was warm. Comforting. "We do want you. Well, most of us. Marja's going to need some time to warm to the idea. I wanted you to know that we'll welcome you gladly, and to warn you not to take anything Marja says personally. For whatever reason, she decided that she would be Gunnar's last wife, and now she's having to adjust to a different way of thinking about herself. I don't know why that's important to her, but there you have it. The rest of us will counsel her to be more accepting."

Jora supposed that going from being a First Wife to a widow to a latterly maid had been a blow to Marja's pride. Being the last woman Gunnar married might have helped her feel better about herself. "I can understand that. I'm sure a new wife in the family can be an uncomfortable thing to some women, especially if that new wife is..." She was going to say _a freak_ , as she'd been called since her childhood, but she knew Anika didn't share that view of her. Saying it would've made Boden's mother uncomfortable. "...different," she said.

Anika smiled and patted her hand. "Your uniqueness is part of what makes you so special to us, dove. And speaking of which..."

"You'd like to ask about Boden again?" The first time she'd checked on him, he hadn't written any messages for her at sunset, though the second time he wrote to let them know he was thinking of them and hoped they were faring well. His third message had been more cryptic: _Papa, you should've told me why you left._

"If you don't mind," Anika said, wringing her hands. "Today is Suns Day, and I hoped he might have another message for us."

Suns Day already? Jora snapped her fingers. "Of course. The week has gone by so fast. Give me a moment, and I'll have a look." She crossed her legs and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and opened the Mindstream. She found Boden's thread quickly and followed it. He lay abed in the darkened tent. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets. "He's asleep," she said, unsure why she was whispering. Boden wouldn't have heard her anyway. "Let me see where he is."

By moving backward along his thread, she saw that he'd arrived at a large encampment earlier in the day. "He's with his new unit," she told Anika. "He's met his commander and made some friends. All is well." They were inland, she discovered when she extended her mystical vision upward, a few miles from where the beige sands of the seashore were stained with the brown of old blood.

She moved along his thread to sunset, watched him enter the tent, sit down on his bunk, and pull the journal from the hidden bottom of his knapsack.

Oh good. A message for them.

He opened to the back page and wrote, _Jora, be cautious. They're coming._

"No," she whispered.

"No message?" Anika asked.

Jora opened her eyes and closed the Mindstream. She swallowed hard. _They're coming._ "I guess that means he's in no danger," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. But was she?

She barely heard Anika thank her and wish her a pleasant night. The part of her that responded reflexively returned the pleasantries. The rest of her, the part that knew what Boden's warning had meant, was frightened.

Chapter 9

Jora barely slept a wink. Between dreams of hooded figures coming out of the darkness to grab her and her very real fears of the same, what little sleep she did get wasn't restful. She awoke earlier than usual, when the dawn sky was still only the blush of a waking sun over the still waters of the sea. Even the cooks weren't up yet, though one of the more obstinate roosters did try to convince everyone that daylight was wasting.

The main road in town was lit by cressets, though by this time of the night, their sputtering flames only illuminated the ground a few feet around their poles.

One of the town's working dogs huffed a warning when she exited the dormitory. It approached, head flat and tail stiff, to investigate. "It's me, Bear," she said quietly. She waited for the dog to recognize her scent, and when he licked her outstretched hand with a friendly tail wag, she patted her leg to encourage him to come with her. "I haven't any food, but I wouldn't mind the company."

What was she to do? The bigger question, she supposed, was what did they want? Perhaps it wasn't so bad. Perhaps they wanted only to try to recruit her into their ranks. A career in the Justice Bureau would take her away from everyone and everything she knew. A marriage to Gunner wouldn't be feasible if she lived in Jolver or Halder. Would a marriage to anyone? Did Truth Sayers marry or have families? She chuckled, imagining babies swaddled in Truth Sayer garments and bald children running, silent and serious, through the halls of a stately building and tripping over the long skirts of their robes.

"Who's there?" someone asked in a commanding voice.

She stopped and peered through the darkness, trying to identify the guard who'd spoken. "It's Jora Lanseri."

Before he'd sheathed his sword and stepped into the moonlight, she recognized the form of her father, Dyre Kyear. Relief flooded her heart. She ran to him and threw her arms around his waist. She sorely needed someone to talk to, and his strong presence brought her comfort.

"What's wrong, dove? Why are you up so early?"

"A bad dream woke me. I decided to do a little work before I went out to the shoal."

"More dreams about Tosh?" He pressed his lips together. "We all mourn and miss him dearly. He'd have given us at least a half-dozen grandchildren by now."

Jora smiled. "A half-dozen little Palos? Oh, the horror. And I thought my nightmares were bad."

"Now, be nice."

She giggled. "I'm jesting, of course. Palo's a dear, and we all love him."

"He is now, under Gunnar's firm guidance." Dyre grinned. "Don't tell him I said that."

"I wouldn't. But no, my dream was about... something else."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Jora swallowed, unsure she should worry him. If what Boden had written was true, he would find out sooner or later anyway. "Papa, something happened when I was Mindstreaming to Oram a while back."

She saw his brow dip in the dim light of the sputtering cresset. "What was it?" he asked hoarsely, no doubt expecting bad news.

"I saw some Truth Sayers with the Legion soldiers and commander. Is that common?"

Dyre nodded. "Every company uses one or two Sayers to relay communications and commands between Legion headquarters and the various companies across Serocia. They're much quicker than messages sent by riders or bird. It's easier to coordinate movement and defense that way."

She didn't remember that from her lessons as a child. Either the fact wasn't taught, or she hadn't bothered to commit the information to memory. "Somehow—I don't understand how—they saw me. They looked right at me, as if I'd been standing there in the room with them."

"Did they say anything to you?"

She briefly recounted the events she'd witnessed, expressing concern for the man named Gilon. "As Boden was leaving last week, I told him to write something in his journal at sunset on Suns Day if he had a message for us here at home." She swallowed hard, finding it hard to voice her fear or the reason for it.

"Tell me. What did he write?"

"Jora, be cautious. They're coming."

His dark brown eyes hardened under a furrowed brow. "I see."

"I don't know how they found out it was me, but apparently they did."

"It's good you told me. I'll have a talk with the councilwomen as soon as they've risen."

"What are they going to do? Are they going to take me away?"

"I don't know, dove, but we'll figure something out. My guess is they'll want you to join their ranks, but we'll do what we can to keep you here. Try not to worry. It's unlikely they'll be here today or tomorrow. We have some time to make a plan." He drew her into his strong arms, and she breathed in his faint musky scent, a scent that had comforted her as a frightened child when the Mindstream had first begun to reveal its grotesque apparitions to her.

"Thank you, Papa," she whispered.

When she met Sundancer at dawn, the dolphin could already tell something was wrong. She slipped silently through the water toward her human friend, her body tilted to one side and one dark eye watching with sympathy.

" _You are not good, Autumn Rain?"_

" _No, Sun Dancer. I must go soon. I not want go."_

Sundancer watched her for a moment. _"Where?"_

" _Not know. I am afraid."_

Sundancer, plainly as melancholy as Jora, whistled something Jora didn't understand, and she hastily scribbled down the notes of the sequence. Then she righted herself and rose up in the water and twittered, now excited about something. _"Come with me."_

Was she inviting Jora to run away with her? She laughed and asked, _"Where?"_

" _Not know."_ She whistled another phrase Jora had to write down.

"I wish I could, my friend. I don't want to leave my family and friends any more than I want to leave you." She put the flute to her mouth and tried as best she could with her limited vocabulary to communicate that to Sundancer.

The dolphin once again lay still in the water, one eye directed at Jora. _"I am not good."_

Jora nodded her understanding. _"I am not good."_

Sundancer invited her for a swim, but Jora didn't feel up to playing. She wanted to run back to her room, grab her book, and spend as much time learning to talk to Sundancer as she could. What the dolphin had said the day before still confounded her.

" _Spirit flow power,"_ she played, repeating the notes Sundancer had whistled.

The dolphin replied with a sudden burst of twitters, followed by a tail dance on the water's surface. Jora couldn't help but smile at Sundancer's antics. "I would miss you if I leave," she said aloud.

" _Spirit flow power. I teach you."_

Jora could already Mindstream. What would Sundancer have to teach her that she didn't already know? _"Teach spirit flow power? I know now."_

" _I teach..."_ Another sequence of notes Jora didn't know. It was frustrating not understanding her, especially since she had such interesting things to say.

"I need more time to learn your language, Sundancer. I don't want to go yet." Jora's eyes welled with tears, but she wiped them away. She didn't know for sure she would be taken away. It was silly to get worked up over what might be nothing.

" _I go now hunt."_ Sundancer swam away without saying goodbye.

" _Good hunt, Sun Dancer,"_ she played. "See you tomorrow."

She hurried to her room to translate the note sequences Sundancer had given her. The first one, the dolphin's answer to her expressed fear, was akin to " _I am sorry_." The second was the word for _calling_. _"I teach calling."_ What did Sundancer mean by that? Could she possibly use the Mindstream to communicate? She looked up a few more words and realized that the word calling meant less a vocal shout and more of a beckon. She jotted a note to herself as a reminder of how to ask Sundancer to clarify. That evening, she would go back to the shoal, in case her friend was nearby.

She broke her fast with Tearna and Briana, her sullenness not unnoticed by her friends, but she wasn't in the mood to talk about Boden's note or the impending visit by the Truth Sayers and what it might mean. Gunnar stopped her on the way to the leather shop to ask if everything was all right.

She wanted to tell him what had happened, but she was already testing Nuri's patience. Arriving late to work would earn her some unpleasant chores. She walked backward toward the shop. "I received a warning from Boden. We're not in danger, but I'll tell you about it later."

He watched her go, nodding. There was a sadness in his eyes that made her wonder whether her father had shared their conversation with Gunnar already. She wouldn't have minded if he had. It would save her having to repeat it.

Nuri greeted her with a sympathetic smile when Jora walked in. "I heard about what happened. I'm really sorry, girl."

Already? Nuri truly did have her ear to the ground in this town.

"What happened?" Shiri asked. She and Palti stopped what they were doing to listen.

"Maybe nothing at all," Jora said. "There's no use worrying about something that might never come to pass."

Shiri clicked her tongue. "Oh, you had one of your so-called visions again?"

Jora scowled at her. "I've never had visions. What are you talking about?"

"You know. Your dreams that everyone thinks are sooooo important. As if you were some great seer or something, rather than just a boring old freak."

"Shiri, that's enough," Nuri said. "Shut your mouth and keep it shut or you'll find yourself plucking chickens the rest of the day."

There were times Jora appreciated Nuri's firmness. "How did you find out?" she asked quietly.

"The councilwomen spoke about it this morning before breakfast. They thought I should know, seeing as how I'm going to be losing my best apprentice."

Palti gasped. "Are you dying?"

"No," Jora answered, shocked. "Look, I don't know what it means. It could be nothing at all." The Truth Sayers might simply want to talk to her, to invite her into their ranks. There was no reason to think she would be arrested and hauled off to prison.

Nuri came over and picked up Jora's hands. "We'll do what we can to keep you, but the council thinks that's unlikely. If you want to spend your last days here visiting with friends and family instead of cutting and stitching leather, you have my leave and my blessing to go."

Jora squeezed Nuri's hands before releasing them. "Thank you. I do." She looked at the tools hanging on hooks over her workbench. "What should I do with my—this stuff?"

"Leave it. On the off chance you get to stay with us, I'll expect you to get back to work with minimal fuss."

Jora bid her mentor so long for now and hurried to her room. Everyone had work to do. The town couldn't come to a halt because she might be leaving, and so she took the time to transfer as much of the most useful information in the Book of Azarian to her journal as possible, shaking out her hand whenever a cramp settled in. She made a point to turn every page one by one. If she had to leave, it was unlikely the librarian would let her take the book with her, nor would she want to risk damaging or losing it on her journey. Having opened the book to every page would enable her to look something up when she needed to by Mindstreaming back to this day.

Her mother, Kayla, came knocking late in the morning, her eyes rimmed in red. "Sweetheart, your papa told me about Boden's warning. Are you all right?" She pulled the stool up close to the bed and sat, reaching for Jora's hands.

"I'm worried, Mama. I don't want to leave." Her mother's hands felt bony, the skin thin. She was only fifty-four, but she'd aged more in the ten years since Tosh died than most people did in the same span of time.

"I am too, dove." Kayla's eyes welled with tears that spilled down her cheeks. "A mother accepts that she might lose her sons, but she never dreams that she could lose a daughter."

Jora stiffened. "They wouldn't... kill me, would they?"

Kayla's eyes flew wide. "No! No, no. I didn't mean that. But if you join the Justice Bureau, it's unlikely we'll ever see you again. The last time a Truth Sayer graced our little town was, gosh, forty years ago. I wasn't even old enough to submit yet."

"Though I bet you had your eye on that handsome Kyear fellow," Jora said, hoping to lighten the mood.

Kayla snuffled a short laugh through her tears. "I did. All the girls did, but I was lucky enough to be his First Wife. We've had five wonderful children together. Loel will be leaving for war in another couple of months, and only Cacie will be left. It's hard to imagine Kaild without you."

"You've four grandchildren already, and once Loel marries, you'll have another next year. You'll be so busy, you might not realize I'm gone."

"Don't say that, dove. Nothing could be further from the truth."

Outside, the bell rang for the midday meal. "We should go eat. Sit with me, sweetheart. Bring Tearna and Briana if you want, but I need you at my table as long as possible."

Jora spent the midday meal with her family and friends, first reminiscing about the happier times spent together and then exchanging stories about encounters with Truth Sayers. From what she gathered, they weren't terrible or frightening, just stern and distant, perhaps to keep up their reputation for objectivity.

But soon the children had to return to the classroom and the adults to their duties, leaving Jora free once more to continue writing notes from the Book of Azarian into her journal. She felt the exhaustion of the sleepless night and worry pressing down on her eyelids and shoulders. Soon she would have to say goodbye to everyone she knew. Her vision glazed and the words ran together into fuzzy black blobs on the page. Briefly, she considered running away. If they couldn't find her, they couldn't take her, and then they would give up and leave. But no. They would simply observe her, find out where she was, and hunt her down like a fugitive.

Jora was startled by heavy pounding on her door. "Jora. Jora, open the door."

She stumbled to the door and unhooked the latch. Her father stood in the hallway wearing an expression of concern and fear. "What is it, Papa?"

"They're here, dove. They want to see you."

Under the dimming light of the approaching dusk, two bald men, one in a green robe and the other in yellow-gold, stood on the main street within the circles of light cast by newly lit cressets. The five councilwomen who governed the town stood by with arms crossed and stern expressions on their faces. A few dozen townsfolk surrounded them, watching with wary anticipation. Still barefoot, Jora followed Dyre into the center of the crowd, her heart thundering with fear. She hadn't expected them to arrive so quickly.

"You're Jora Lanseri?" the golden-robed one asked. His voice was softer than she expected it to be. Pleasant. He looked old, like her grandfather's age.

"Yes," she said. Her own voice failed her, and her reply came out as a mere whisper.

"I'm Elder Gastone, and my companion is Adept Uster. We're told you possess the Talent for Witnessing. Is this true?"

She swallowed hard. "I-I think so, yes," she said, this time a little louder. "I call it Mindstreaming."

"How quaint," Adept Uster said.

"Demonstrate this for us please. Observe this woman." Elder Gastone indicated Councilwoman Omondi.

Jora did as she was told, and as in the lecture hall a couple of weeks earlier, the two Truth Sayers saw her in the Mindstream.

"Very well," Elder Gastone said.

Jora closed the Mindstream and looked at them in wary anticipation.

He blinked slowly in acknowledgment. "Your service is requested by His Majesty the King."

"The king? How would the king know about me?"

Adept Uster chuckled, but Gastone smiled kindly. "His Majesty hasn't specifically requested your service, but he has empowered me to request it on his behalf."

Her face warmed. "What kind of service?" she asked.

"Service as a Truth Sayer in the Order of Justice Officials. Unlike in the Legion, this is a lifelong service."

Lifelong. So basically it was a death sentence for the crime of being a freak.

"You'll go through training and live in the dormitory behind the Justice Bureau. Once you've achieved the rank of Adept, you'll serve three years with the Legion."

She barely heard him. The words _lifelong service_ kept echoing in her mind. "How did you find me?" she asked.

The two Truth Sayers glanced at each other. "Others of our order witnessed you... Mindstreaming, as you called it," Gastone said.

Her heart was beating furiously. Would she be punished for questioning them? "But they didn't know who I was. Did Boden tell you?"

"It is unimportant how we obtained your identity," Uster said, his voice less kindly than the elder's.

"It wasn't your friend Boden Sayeg," Gastone said. "He merely mentioned you to his friend, Rasmus Bokk, and we observed the conversation."

They were spying on him, though she didn't say so aloud. "Is Boden in trouble?"

"No," Gastone said, cocking his head. "Why would you think he'd be in trouble?"

Gunnar joined them in the street. "What's going on here?" he asked. Loel and a few of the older boys joined them, too, as did several more women.

Gastone bowed. "Sergeant Sayeg. A pleasure to see you again."

"Adept Gastone," Gunnar said with an acknowledging nod. "Though I see by your robe that it's Elder Gastone now. Congratulations."

"Thank you kindly," the elder said.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Gunnar asked.

"We've been told that Jora Lanseri has the Talent for Witnessing. King Yaphet requests her service in the Justice Bureau."

"Respectfully, I must decline," Jora said.

"Is it truly a request?" Gunnar asked.

"I'm afraid not. Her service is compulsory. Have you married, Novice Jora?" Gastone asked. "Have you a family?"

Novice Jora? "No, but..." She looked at Gunnar pleadingly. He hadn't proposed yet; her twenty-third birthday wasn't for another few days. Wasn't there a way they could skip forward or perform a hasty ceremony to keep her from having to go?

"I've declared my intentions to take her as my Fifth Wife," Gunnar said. "We'll be married within a week."

"I'm afraid it wouldn't matter, Sergeant." Gastone inclined his head in a regretful but respectful manner. "Her service would still be compulsory. Had she already begun a family, her husband, if he wasn't serving the Legion, and their children would have the option of relocating to Jolver, where they could visit two days of each week. Since that's not the case, the issue is moot."

"Elder Gastone," Councilwoman Omandi said, drawing everyone's attention, "is there not another option? Jora is a valued and beloved member of Kaild."

Jora looked on dejectedly, her last vestiges of hope fading.

"We can appreciate your hesitance to let go of a fine woman who would no doubt contribute greatly to the smooth operation of your community, but this isn't a debatable matter. Novice Jora can petition King Yaphet for a release from her duty once she arrives in Jolver. Such releases are granted under the most extenuating circumstances, as determined by His Majesty."

"Could she perhaps do her training here?" Omandi asked.

"I'm sorry," the elder said, shaking his head. "That isn't possible. All training is conducted in Jolver, but once she achieves the rank of Disciple, she can request a transfer to Halder, if she would like."

Halder wasn't any nearer to Kaild than Jolver was. Jora hung her head. She had no choice but to go with them. If there was a bright side to this, it was that they weren't putting her in prison.

Not exactly.

Chapter 10

The visitors had arrived by boat, a sixty-foot merchant ship with a mast in the center, manned by eight unshaven and sweaty crewmen on each side and one extra fellow, presumably the merchant captain. The boat had been anchored in the shallow water for the night, and the seventeen crew members and two Truth Sayers joined the people of Kaild for the evening meal. Their presence inspired lots of staring and quiet speculation whispered behind hands, though a couple of the crewmen exchanged handshakes with Gunnar and a few of the other returned soldiers. Still, the sailors gathered at a pair of tables and kept to themselves as they ate while the Truth Sayers socialized with the town council members. The merchant sat with Nuri and several of the other craftswomen, no doubt negotiating a purchase of goods.

The two Truth Sayers and the merchant were offered beds in the guest chamber of the civic building, a small room with four narrow beds to accommodate the occasional traveler. Kaild wasn't large enough to attract tourists or dignitaries, and it was out of the way for parties traveling by land to Halder, and so there was no inn. The crewmen slept on the beach on their own bedrolls.

Jora spent the evening with her family and friends before climbing into her bed for the night. She wept silently, wishing with all her might that this was but a terrible dream from which she would awaken in the morning.

She rose before dawn, dressed hastily, and tied her hair back into an uncharacteristically sloppy knot. She took a minute to look up the words she wanted to say to Sundancer and wrote notes in her journal, now quite thick with some of the more useful information she'd gleaned from the Book of Azarian. Feeling anxious to reach Sundancer before the Truth Sayers arose, she hurried through town, flute and journal in hand. Though the men sleeping on the beach lifted their heads momentarily to regard her, they said nothing before resuming their sleep.

She picked her way across the rocky shoal to her favorite spot, then dropped the journal on the rocks behind her and sat with her feet dangling over the edge. She played the greeting that had drawn Sundancer to her so many times before, unconcerned about whether the sailors would be bothered by the sound.

For a long moment, nothing happened. She played the greeting again and waited, listening to the rushing waves and watching the black waters for the sleek gray figure to break the surface. "Come on, Sundancer. Please." Then a horrible thought occurred to her. _What if Sundancer thought yesterday was their last goodbye?_ "No, no, no," she whispered, and played the greeting again and again a few seconds later.

At last, the familiar dorsal fin broke the water and sailed toward her. The relief she felt bubbled out of her chest in a sob. "Oh, Sundancer," she said. "Thank goodness you came. I couldn't bear to leave without seeing you one last time."

" _Good morning, Autumn Rain."_

" _Good morning, Sun Dancer,"_ she played, so filled with emotion that her lips could barely tighten enough to get the notes out. _"Happy see you."_

Sundancer twittered. _"Happy see you. You not go?"_

" _I go today. Men take me on boat to big city on shore."_

" _I know big city. You and I talk more."_

"Yes," Jora said. "That was what I'm hoping." She lifted the flute to her lips. _"I not know when."_

" _I wait. You come. I teach calling."_

" _What is calling, Sun Dancer?"_

" _Calling is power. Calling is..."_ More of Sundancer's foreign whistles followed, and Jora wrote them down as quickly as she could, making use of the flute to play back what she heard to be sure she'd gotten it right. With Sundancer's acknowledging whistles, she took a few minutes to look up the words.

" _Calling brings ally from another helix."_

An ally? From another helix? The words made no sense to her. What—or where—was a helix? She looked again at the radicals, the notes she heard, and tried to find another way the notes could be grouped to form different words. The alternative made less sense.

" _Bring ally from what?"_

" _From other helix."_

Jora took a moment to look up her next word, then played, " _I not understand."_

Sundancer twittered as if she were chuckling. She responded with another new word that Jora needed to look up. " _I not surprised."_

" _What is helix?"_ she asked.

What Sundancer said next took some time to translate. _"Realm of existence has twin helixes connected by gates. We live in one helix, ally lives in other."_

" _What is ally?"_ she asked.

The response used more words she didn't know, but after a few minutes, she translated it as " _Ally lives in helix. You see ally in spirit flow?"_

Could Sundancer have meant the menacing forms whose shadows had always terrified her? She hoped not. There was nothing about those forms that made her want to engage them any further than she had to when she opened the Mindstream.

" _I not know,"_ she replied.

" _When you use spirit flow, you see ally."_

A cold dread crept up Jora's spine, along with the disturbing feeling of being watched. "Yes," she whispered. " _I see..."_ She looked up the words she needed. _"...something I fear."_

With the help of her journal, she deciphered Sundancer's next phrase. " _Not need fear ally when you do calling. Calling ally controls ally. You do calling, you see."_

"I see now why you're so reluctant to leave," said a man's voice.

Jora startled and turned about, finding Elder Gastone squatting on the shoal behind her. "Elder. I didn't hear you approach."

He pushed his hood down to reveal his bald head. "I like to watch the sun rise over the sea in the morning, but my duties occasionally take me too far inland. It's a rare journey that takes me to the shore. Your flute called to me. It wasn't until I neared that I realized you weren't simply playing an odd melody. Who is your friend?"

Sundancer lay on her side in the water, watching the exchange with one eye. _"You not tell man about calling."_

"I call her Sundancer because she likes to dance in the glow of the sunrise. She seems to enjoy my playing and often whistles back to me." Jora didn't want to reveal the depth of her relationship or exchanges to the Truth Sayer.

"You'll find, Novice Jora, that the truth is plainer than you might think. Your writings, the back-and-forth exchanges, the late nights spent reading by lamplight—these things would suggest there is more to your friendship with the dolphin than you're saying."

She swallowed, ashamed her omission was so easily discovered. He was a Truth Sayer. Of course he'd have observed her activities before coming here. "I've learned a little bit of the dolphin language. She tells me about her fishing adventures—"

"Novice," Gastone said in an admonishing tone, "don't insult me by lying to my face. Do you not think I can read? Your own hand betrays you."

"Sorry," she said, ducking her head. "So sorry. Our private conversations mean a lot to me. I hesitate to share them with anyone, especially someone who seeks to remove me from my home and end my ability to converse with my dear friend."

For a long moment, he regarded her with compassion. "It's quite remarkable, isn't it?" he asked finally, looking out to sea. "That a creature without thumbs could be capable of deep thought. I'm certain we can convince your elder to let you continue exploring this knowledge in Jolver with the understanding, of course, that you share what you learn with the rest of the Order."

"Why do I need an elder's permission?"

He frowned, his bushy white brows low. "The structure within the Order requires you to seek permission to pursue knowledge that falls outside the scope of your assigned duties."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we all lose, my dear." His joints popped loudly as he rose. "Say something to Sundancer. Let me hear you exchange words in this language of music. Azarian, it's called?"

She nodded and turned back to Sundancer, raising the flute to her lips. " _Man is not Autumn Rain friend."_

" _I know. You not tell other humans about calling."_ She whistled a few more notes, and Jora looked them up without writing anything down. Elder Gastone might be able to read her writing, but he couldn't hear her thoughts. _"You promise_ , _"_ Sundancer had said.

" _I not tell_ ," Jora assured her. " _I promise."_ Why the dolphin didn't want her to share the knowledge with others, she didn't know, but she would respect the request.

" _Push man in water,"_ Sundancer said. _"I drown man."_

Jora's eyes widened in surprise. _"No, Sun Dancer, you not drown man."_ She wasn't sure if Sundancer was serious. The dolphin did have a sense of humor, but the suggestion that she would kill him was more appalling than humorous.

Sundancer twittered. " _I go now hunt. I see you in big city?"_

Jora wasn't sure how to answer the question. _"Yes, I come when I come."_

" _Autumn Rain is Sun Dancer friend. Goodbye, Autumn Rain."_

Tears fell from Jora's eyes. _"Goodbye, Sun Dancer."_

A great many people gathered around her table at breakfast to wish her well and express regret at her leaving. Her departure was such a surprise to everyone that few had time to come up with a customary parting gift. Her sister, Cacie, offered a wide-brimmed canvas hat for her journey; Nuri, a leather duffel bag she'd been planning to sell to the traveling merchant; and the cordwainer gave a pair of boots made of the very pieces Jora had cut for her the week before. The five councilwomen gave her ten shells as a parting gift, having agreed amongst themselves they didn't want her to leave Kaild with no money at all. She folded the bills and tucked them into the bottom of her duffel bag.

Many of them followed Jora and her visitors to the beach, where she said tearful goodbyes to her parents, her sister and nephews, her cousins and aunts and friends. Kayla smoothed Jora's hair and brushed tears from her cheeks with her thumbs, encouraging her daughter to write when she could and do as she was told. Dyre had no parting words for her, only a lingering hug that ended only when Kayla pried his arms loose and admonished him not to crush the poor girl. She hugged her half-siblings and stepmothers, and her younger brother, Loel, whose Antenuptial she would miss. Tearna and Briana said their goodbyes with tears and hugs and angry glares at the two Truth Sayers for taking Jora from them.

Anika bid her goodbye with a tight embrace and kiss on the cheek. "Send word from time to time. Let us know you're all right."

Gunnar's Third Wife, Marja, also gave her a hug, but her smile was more joyous than everyone else's. "It's for the best," she said into Jora's ear before kissing her cheek.

Jora was taken aback by the cruelty beneath the surface of those words, but she nodded anyway. Perhaps it was. Marrying Gunnar would have created problems between herself and Marja, and Jora avoided conflict like she did wasps.

Gunnar stood sullenly by, waiting until the very end to say his farewell. Jora met his gaze with a sorrowful longing, wishing things had turned out differently.

"I'm sorry my plan fell apart at the end," he said quietly, taking one of her hands in his. "Plans do that sometimes. I've admired you from afar for so long, it breaks my heart to see you go."

_He had?_ she wondered. She had no idea he'd noticed she was female until the last few weeks, when she'd caught him looking at her while she stole a glance at him. "I'm sorry, too. I'd have said yes, you know."

He smiled. "It warms me to hear it. I wish you well, dear Jora. I hope to see you again someday. If you can manage a message now and then to let us know you're well, we would all appreciate it."

Jora nodded. She would keep her mystic eye on her hometown as she had their beloved sons and husbands.

"This is for you," he said, handing her a water skin. "I filled it for you too, so you won't go thirsty before the first stop."

She put its strap around her neck and slipped one arm through. "Thank you." It hadn't occurred to her to request a bag of food or water. She'd assumed the Truth Sayers would arrange everything.

He bent to kiss her cheek, or so she assumed, but his lips landed squarely upon her own. By the time she recovered from the surprise enough to enjoy their softness, the kiss was over, leaving her slightly breathless and wanting more. "Take care, dear." Gunnar stepped back, letting her hand drop, and pressed his lips together in regret.

The boat's captain suggested she take off her shoes, which she did. She put them into her duffel and carried the bag across her shoulders to avoid the waves as she made her way to the boat. She was met by a sailor standing in the chest-deep water. He took her bag and tossed it up to two of the sailors who had already boarded. She grabbed hold of the rope ladder and began a wobbly climb up. Wet as she was, the task wasn't easy. The man in the water put both hands squarely on her buttocks and pushed, surprising her with both the rudeness of his uninvited touch and the assistance. When she reached the top, two sailors grabbed her by the armpits and hauled her over the side as if she were another piece of cargo, banging and scraping her knees and shins.

The elder and adept joined her in the boat, and once the last sailor was aboard, they pulled up the anchor and raised the sails.

People on the shore watched solemnly. Jora waved to her friends and family and blew them kisses, tears streaming down her face, and the boat headed out into the sea. She'd never considered marrying outside Kaild, and here she was being dragged off to the capital city. Soon, the people of Kaild became but a speck on the beach behind them.

"How long will it take to reach Jolver?" she asked.

"Not long with the sails up," Elder Gastone said. "We should dock before suppertime."

One man on the left side of the boat drew his comrades' attention to something in the water. Jora went to the other side to see. It was a dorsal fin and a spray of water. A dolphin jumped out in an arc and dove back under as it swam beside the boat. Jora couldn't see it clearly at this distance, but she thought it might be Sundancer. She smiled, wondering whether Sundancer knew somehow that she was on the boat, or perhaps she made a habit of swimming alongside boats for fun.

"Is that your friend?" Elder Gastone asked. Even though he was standing next to her, he had to shout over the wind noise to be heard.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe." She could only hope so.

Chapter 11

For the first few hours, the wind was strong enough that the boat's sail pulled them through the dark water of the sea at a good pace. The two Truth Sayers remarked at the excellent progress they were making and speculated they might reach the capital in less time than it had taken to sail to Kaild.

With one hand on her head to keep the hat from flying off, Jora kept her gaze on the shoreline and did her best not to engage the Truth Sayers in conversation, though her curiosity bloomed the nearer they got to Serocia's capital.

Adept Uster's unsmiling face and watchful eyes made Jora nervous. She didn't believe he would behave inappropriately, but whenever Elder Gastone stepped away to have a word with the boat captain, she fidgeted under Uster's stare and watched for Gastone to return. What was perhaps most unnerving was that he rarely said anything to her except when Gastone was present. Jora was convinced that during those times they waited for the elder to return, Uster was observing her in the Mindstream, perhaps finding those times in the past where she was bathing or undressing. She didn't know this, but his blatant staring along with the creepy feeling of being watched made her fairly certain of it.

_What's fair for the rooster is fair for the hen_ , she thought, closing her eyes. She opened the Mindstream and found his thread. As she was about to zip back in time to see what he'd been up to, she found herself slammed out of the Mindstream as if she'd been kicked in the chest.

"No!" Uster hollered. "You must never observe a Truth Sayer. Ever."

"You've been observing me," she shot back.

"You aren't a Truth Sayer, Novice. You aren't even a member of the Order yet."

"Sorry," she said grudgingly. "I didn't know."

He glared at her for a moment and then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "You won't become a Truth Sayer until you're promoted to Disciple, usually after three years in the Order. We have many rules and laws, and you're bound to make mistakes from time to time, but I caution you not to make that one again. The punishment is severe."

"Sorry," she said again. "I won't."

Gastone returned to his seat with a good deal of groaning and grunting. He walked hunched over and acted like a man past his eightieth year. Jora took him by the elbow and helped him lower himself down onto the bench.

"Thank you, Novice." Gastone settled beside her, a serene gent with a kindly smile and understanding in his eyes. He hadn't spoken about his own family or where he was from, but Jora suspected he'd been similarly "requested" by the king and couldn't refuse.

"I've been looking at your notes," he said. "Like you, I'm intensely curious about this language the dolphin seems to be teaching you. Has... Sundiver, is it?"

"Sundancer," she said. The dolphin's name, whistled in Azarian, had translated to Sun Dancer, as she'd guessed.

"Has Sundancer taught you anything interesting?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Besides the language itself? No, we just talk."

"What is the calling?"

Jora's mind went blank. Sundancer didn't want her to tell him. She'd specifically asked Jora not to tell anyone about the calling. "I don't know yet. You pulled me away from my home, family, and friends before I had a chance to find out."

"What about the odd words you wrote?" Elder Gastone asked. "Words like..."

She got that strange feeling again, like she was being watched.

"... _Dobe caf i io_. What does that mean?"

"It means calling," she said. "That's all I know." In fact, that was an instruction for how to play the Azarian word for _calling_ on the flute, but she wouldn't say so. Perhaps she couldn't stop them from observing her and reading what she'd written in her journal, but they couldn't make her betray Sundancer.

"But how did you come up with those words, _dobe caf i io_? How do you get that from a dolphin?"

"I never learned conventional musical notation, so I made up a shorthand to help me remember how to play the sounds."

For the next hour, he questioned her about the notes she'd taken from the Book of Azarian, not the fierce sort of interrogation she'd seen Gunnar and the drill master before him conduct when teaching the boys about being captured by enemy soldiers, but she could tell his curiosity was burning within him as it had her. Maybe his interest in the dolphins made him somewhat of a kindred spirit, but he was, in her mind, still her abductor and prison guard, and that made him her enemy until he proved otherwise.

"I'm going to recommend you be transferred to my hierarchy and Adept Uster's. If Elder Kassyl agrees to it, I'll give you leave to visit the shore once per week so you can continue your conversations with Sundancer. How does that sound?"

She would rather go back home and forget them all. "What did you say about petitioning the king to be excused from this service?" she asked.

Uster snorted softly. Gastone gave her a gentle, regretful smile. "You may petition, Novice, but don't tighten your heartstrings over it. He's not in the habit of granting such excuses. In the thirty years I've been saying truths as a member of the Order, I've seen only one such petition granted."

"Then he might do it."

"The Novice requesting to be excused had been injured in the war, captured by the Arynd-ban forces, and tortured. His tongue had been cut out, his eyes removed, his eardrums burst, and his fingers cut off. The petition was made on his behalf by his wife, and granted on the grounds that he wasn't able to communicate anything he'd witnessed. King Yaphet obviously released him from his obligation."

Jora shuddered. All right then, maybe the fact that she had a dolphin friend and a willing husband wasn't enough to persuade him. She would have to think of something else.

"If it's any consolation, Novice," Gastone said, "life in the Order is not unpleasant, as you'll soon discover." He looked toward the city growing larger ahead on the right.

Smoke rose in dozens of thin ribbons all over the city. Even from a distance, she could spot the multicolored buildings, and as they neared, her awe deepened. Part of her had to admit to harboring a mild excitement about her adventure.

The boat drifted up to the dock, and a few sailors disembarked to moor it. Jora retrieved her bag and accepted a hand from one of the men to climb over the side and step onto the pier, thankful to be on solid ground once again. Her stomach wasn't quite right, yet she was hungry from the hours spent without food. She didn't dare nibble on the food the cooks sent with them for fear it would all come back up. The smell of fish was strong here. On the next pier over, several men were rolling barrels off a pair of ketches while gulls circled above.

With the strap of her duffel over her shoulder, she walked up the pier ahead of the Truth Sayers and stopped when she reached the shore, looking around. The city was teeming with activity: people walking or running in every direction, horses with riders and horses pulling carriages, dogs pulling carts, and plump, gray pigeons strolling boldly in the streets, pecking at morsels of discarded food. She waited while the Sayers caught up to her. She hoped the Justice Bureau was nearby. The way Elder Gastone hobbled, he wasn't going to be up for a long walk.

"Adept Uster, would you kindly fetch us a carriage?"

"Of course, Elder." The adept went into a nearby inn and exited a few minutes later. "It'll be around momentarily."

A horse-drawn carriage pulled up and stopped. The driver hopped down from his seat atop the rear of the carriage and put Jora's duffel into a trunk under his seat while the two Sayers climbed into the carriage and settled on the front-facing seat. Jora took her hat off and got in, barely able to maneuver to the opposite seat without stepping on their feet, and she had to sit with her knees touching theirs. The carriage, though built for four passengers, was only comfortable for two.

Each side had a door with an unglazed window. A hinged, wooden flap inside the carriage hung ready to lift into place to keep passengers dry in a downpour, or hidden from the view of passersby, though she imagined the carriage would be quite dark and stuffy with it in place. The carriage creaked and groaned as the driver climbed atop it to take his seat, and soon they were off, rumbling noisily along the cobbled streets. Judging from the way the carriage tilted—and Jora's need to constantly push with her legs to keep her rear on the seat—they traveled uphill. She looked out the window at the sights.

Nearly every building was painted a different color, almost every color of the rainbow. Her eyes feasted on the painted stone buildings, the brick streets, the many merchants with shops and carts, the children running and laughing, and the dogs chasing them. There were cats, too, some perched on ledges high above the street, others watching with unblinking eyes from beneath steps or within shrubs.

"The city is so colorful, but why are there no red buildings?" she asked.

"Red is only for Houses of Prayer," Elder Gastone said. "There are four such Houses here in Jolver. Has your hometown no House of Prayer?"

Jora shook her head. "We used to, but our last monk died when I was a child. We didn't have a god vessel anyway."

"You should make a point to visit the temple, then. The First Godly Redeemer is the closest, and they've several god vessels that Retar favors."

She looked at him with wide eyes. "Me? What would Retar have to say to me?"

"He answers questions, Novice. Have you never encountered a god vessel?"

Again, she shook her head. Jora was about to ask what kinds of questions people asked when the carriage stopped in front of a stately white building with wide stone steps leading to a grand double-door entrance. The carriage creaked again, and the driver opened the door. Jora climbed out first and gaped at the building. It looked so majestic, like how she envisioned the king's palace. Deeply etched into the building's stone fascia were the words _Honora veritatem._ The driver retrieved her bag from the trunk while Adept Uster jogged up the stairs and went into the building.

When the driver turned to Elder Gastone with his hand open, the elder said, "Adept Uster will return momentarily with your payment."

The door opened, and two Truth Sayers in violet robes rushed down the wide steps. "Welcome home, Elder Gastone," the shorter one said, a woman. She handed him a pair of bills, which he gave to the driver.

Jora had seen plenty of men with bald heads, as every boy was shaven when he left to serve in the Legion and every man when he returned. She'd never seen a bald woman before and couldn't help staring. It hadn't occurred to Jora until then that she would be forced to shave her head as well, and she felt the pang of the impending loss.

"Thank you, Novices."

The other purple-robed one smiled at her. He was tall and broad, roughly her age, with pretty hazel eyes. "Welcome," he said.

"Novice Gilon, Novice Adriel," said Elder Gastone, climbing the steps, "kindly show Novice Jora around, starting with the registrar."

Gilon! She snapped her eyes back up into his. He was alive and well, and none the worse for wear. "Gilon, I'm so pleased to finally meet you."

"Finally? Do we have a mutual friend?" he asked, offering his hand.

She shook it. "Sort of. I'll tell you about it another time."

"Friends call me Gil," he said. "I invite you to do the same."

The other novice offered her hand. Jora felt the flush of embarrassment enter her cheeks as she shook it. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Adriel," she said with a grin. "Gil has that effect on women."

The heat in her face deepened. She hadn't meant to act like a love-struck girl. "Oh, no, I-I didn't mean... I'm Jora."

Adriel laughed. "Come on, Jora." She started up the steps, and Jora and Gil followed. "Let's get you started."

The building before her was as big as a mountain. She'd only seen the Legion Headquarters while observing soldiers arriving in Jolver, and it hadn't been as impressive as this building was, looming above the city like a giant fist. At the top of the steps stood a large stone like a finger, and two benches sat on either side.

"First," Gil said, "you need to see the registrar. We'll show you around once you've found your room and had a chance to freshen up." He reached for her hair and felt it between his fingers. "Mmm. What a shame."

Inside, the building was open and large, with high ceilings and smooth wood floors. Where the walls were windowless, lamps in wall sconces and candles burning in chandeliers above kept the interior rooms bright. Adriel led her down one corridor and then another, her slippered feet barely a whisper while Jora clomped in her boots, echoing with every step. At last, they entered a small office, richly furnished and decorated with paintings. It was so much more extravagant than anything Jora had seen before. The richness and beauty of everything was exhausting to look at, so much of it was there to see and admire.

The registrar was a slender woman with a sharp nose that looked sharper in contrast to the roundness of her shaved head. She wore the green robe of an adept. "You must be Jora Lanseri. I've got your paperwork right here."

"You'll need to take your oath as a member of the Order," the registrar said. Pledging to an order Jora didn't want to be a member of in the first place. "Can you read?"

"Yes," she replied.

The woman pointed to a wooden plaque mounted on the wall behind her desk. "State your name and then read it aloud."

"Jora Lanseri. I hereby promise to hold truth in the highest regard, to dedicate my life to the pursuit of justice, and to truthfully convey events that I witness in the name of the king from this point forward. This I swear upon the honor of my family name, Serocia, and the god Retar."

"I witnessed Jora Lanseri's oath," the registrar said. She looked pointedly at Gilon and Adriel in turn, and each repeated her words, giving witness.

As oaths went, it was fairly unobtrusive except for the insinuation that there was no way out of the service once she took the oath. She hadn't petitioned the king for a release yet. "Um, if the king grants my request to abstain from this service, I can retract my oath?"

The registrar gaped at her. "You planned to petition the king for a release? Why didn't you say so? No, there's no retraction. One doesn't un-promise something like this. You should've told me before you took the oath. You're now a member of the Order of Justice Officials. On what grounds would the king grant you a release?"

Now Jora felt silly. She didn't think she could actually persuade the king to let her out of the service, but she didn't think it would hurt to ask. "It's... personal. I doubt he'll grant it anyway. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. If he grants my petition, we can address my oath later."

The woman glared at her for a long moment.

"Well," Gilon said. "Adriel and I'll just..." He skittered from the room without finishing the sentence, and Adriel followed on his heel. Jora could hear the two of them snickering down the hallway.

"Let's get you shaved, shall we?"

"Must we?" Jora asked.

The registrar pulled a stool out from under a table and patted its seat. "Yes, dear. All members of the Order shave their heads, and that includes Novices."

Jora sat obediently, and the registrar began cutting her hair the way the barber had done to Boden, tossing her long locks aside like garbage. Then came the soap and razor, sliding across her head with a heartbreaking scraping sound. She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears dribbled down her face anyway. When it was over, she ran her hands over her smooth, bald scalp. Her head and her hands had never met this way, and the sensation was both novel and regrettable.

Next, the registrar handed her a short stack of violet cotton cloth, neatly folded—the robes she would wear as a novice.

Violet for the novices, she mused, green for adepts, yellow for elders. Like the buildings around Jolver, the colors of their robes reflected all the colors of the rainbow except for red.

Finally, the registrar showed Jora to her room. The dormitory was located behind the Justice Bureau, a short stroll under a covered walkway lined with flowers and shrubs and stone benches to sit upon. There was a grassy courtyard between the two buildings that the registrar said was often used for exercise or a game of catch. A brick fence enclosed the area, its height great enough that she couldn't see the roofs or walls of nearby buildings from the walkway, making the enclosure seem like its own private world apart from the rest of Jolver.

The dormitory building wasn't as decadent as the Justice Bureau building was, but it was very pleasant, with polished wood floors and plaster walls painted white. They climbed three flights of stairs and continued down a corridor lined with dark wooden doors on either side, each one with a plaque numbered in the four hundreds. Jora's room was number 434, presuming the thirty-fourth room on the fourth story.

The room was roughly a dozen feet square, larger than her room in Kaild. Inside the spacious room was a wood-framed bed with a thick mattress, a stool, and a dressing table with a mirror and wash basin, an armoire, and a long, plush chair on which she could recline or sit upright. This was a much nicer room than she'd had in the cramped dormitory in Kaild, but those rooms had been built as temporary housing for women who would be joining a family someday and moving into a home with her new husband. This one looked like it was designed for permanency, a notion that made her heart sink.

Across from the door was a glazed window that latched in the center, opening to a view of the courtyard below and the rear of the Justice Bureau. She could also see some of the buildings beyond the fencing, but the bureau blocked her view of the sea. It was just as well. She didn't particularly want to spend her days sitting at the window and staring out at the water, wondering how Sundancer was faring.

"Every morning and night," the registrar said, "a pitcher of hot water and clean towels are delivered to each door. The laundry maids will knock when they reach your door to let you know it's there. The water will cool quickly, and it's best to shave when the water is hot, so I suggest not dallying when they come knocking."

"I have to shave my own head every day?"

"Of course, Novice. There should be a blade and bar of soap in the drawer. Go slowly and you'll be fine." The woman smiled a sort of wicked smile, making Jora wonder what percentage of Novices reported in the morning with cuts on their scalps. "When the blade dulls, you can exchange it for one that's been freshly sharpened. All novices are assigned a disciple to guide and teach you. Adept Sonnis will assign you someone shortly. Take some time to wash, dress, and relax from your journey. He'll undoubtedly come by to introduce himself before the evening meal."

Jora thanked her and shut the door behind her, noting there was no bolt on the door, no way to keep anyone out. Hopefully there were no thieves among them. Honor the truth. Wasn't that what was inscribed on the Justice Bureau's face? Surely everyone here could be trusted.

She poured water from the pitcher on the dressing table into the ceramic bowl, then unfolded the top bundle and found that it contained knee-length small pants; a sleeveless cotton blouse, loose-fitting black trousers that were a few inches too long, and the long, hooded outer robe by which she'd come to identify the Truth Sayers. Sitting at the dressing table, she stared her reflection. She barely recognized herself. It was as if her very identity had been taken from her.

She dipped the wash cloth into the water and wrung it out but couldn't stop staring at how bizarre she looked. Without hair, her head looked alien and bulbous and her face tiny, as if it had been shrunken. Her already huge eyes, set too close together, made her look like an owl. An owl with the beak of an eagle and ears that stuck out like wings that might flap in a stiff wind. She truly was a freak now. A freak among freaks.

Tears ran down her solemn face, and she made no move to wipe them away.

Jora dragged her stool to the window and looked out, pondering her new life and how much different it would be from her life in Kaild. Outside her window was a tall oak tree whose leaves and twigs tapped the glass. A squirrel hopped along its branches, its cheeks bulging with treasure. She unlatched the window and opened it. A gentle breeze flowed in, tickling her shaved scalp. It felt so odd not having hair, but since everyone here was bald, she didn't feel as self-conscious as she thought she would.

Down below, under the covered walkway that led from the bureau to the dormitory, she saw the dark green robe of an adept and the golden yellow robes of an elder as they walked toward each other, though she couldn't see their faces.

"Elder Gastone," said one, presumably the adept in the green robe. "You're back already. Any trouble getting our newest recruit?"

Jora's ears perked up. She felt slightly guilty that she was eavesdropping on a conversation, but since they were talking about her, she didn't feel bad enough to stop.

"No, none at all," the elder replied. "She was understandably disappointed to leave her home, but she came along with minimal fuss. How is Elder Kassyl?"

"He's as well as can be expected. He wanted me to be sure to thank you again for going in his stead, but I think we all know his traveling days are behind him."

"It's unfortunate," Elder Gastone said. "I'd like to see him. Do you think he's up for a visitor?"

"He's caught a terrible cough," the adept said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Oh, it's nothing," the elder said with a wave. "I'd simply like to ask if he would consider transferring the new novice to my hierarchy. It can wait until he's feeling better."

"Your hierarchy? Why?"

"Well, I did go and get her."

"At Elder Kassyl's request. She was his discovery, after all. Well, Adept Farcia's, which is practically the same thing."

"I realize that," Elder Gastone said. "I've taken a liking to her is all, and I'd like to oversee her instruction myself."

Jora snorted softly. _A liking for my friendship with Sundancer, he means._

"I see," the adept said. "I'll broach the subject with Elder Kassyl when the physician says it's safe to visit. In the meantime, I need to assign her a disciple and make sure she's settling well. Now you've piqued my curiosity."

She hoped Elder Gastone wasn't about to divulge what he knew. The last thing she wanted was more of the Truth Sayers pressuring her to explain what she knew of Azarian.

"She's from a small seaside town. I'm sure you'll find her... pliable," Elder Gastone said.

_Pliable?_ Jora thought with a snarl lifting her lips. Did they think her a ninnyhammer?

"Adept Sonnis, I caution you not to attempt to woo her with your pretty words."

"Now, now, Elder. You know me better than that. I'm perfectly capable of romancing a woman without bedding her."

With that, the two went in opposite directions, Adept Sonnis to the dormitory and Elder Gastone to the Justice Bureau.

Pliable. The word annoyed her, partly because she knew it was accurate. She never wanted to make others uncomfortable or say the wrong thing. Did the people of Kaild think of her this way? Someone they could easily manipulate?

Someone knocked loudly on her door, startling her. "One moment," she called out, pulling the windows closed. The last thing she wanted was for someone to think she'd been snooping. Which she had. She answered the door and met an adept's intense green eyes, perhaps made more striking by the green of his robe. He was a handsome man in his mid to late thirties with an angular face and blond eyebrows. "Adept," she said. Her pulse was racing, and she found herself looking at his mouth. His top lip wasn't as wide as the bottom, and so the corners didn't meet. It was the most bizarre pair of lips she'd ever seen, and the most appealing.

"You must be Novice Jora," he said, offering a hand. She shook it, and he placed his other atop hers, cupping it warmly. "I'm Adept Sonnis. Elder Kassyl would have come to welcome you himself, but he's fallen ill. I'm attending to matters in his stead."

She lifted her chin, trying not to seem so pliable. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." She pulled her hand a little to signal she would like it back, but he held onto it.

"I trust the journey from Kale wasn't too unpleasant?"

"It's Kaild," she said. "And no, it wasn't. Thank you for asking." Why was he still holding her hand? Because she was pliable. She pulled it more firmly now, and he released it.

"My apologies," he said. "I was so mesmerized by your lovely eyes that I'd forgotten I still had your hand."

She forced a smile. _I'm not_ that _pliable._

His gaze traveled down her body and returned to her eyes. "Did the registrar not give you the proper garments?"

"Oh, she did. I... should I change now?"

"No need to strip down in front of me," he said, his lips curved into a crooked smile. His eyes twinkled. "As long as you're properly dressed by the time the supper bell is rung, I won't..." He licked his lips. "...punish you for violating article one five one, section b: failing to attire yourself in a manner befitting a member of the Order."

Jora felt the heat of a blush seep into her face. She didn't like him, she decided, despite his handsome face and captivating mouth. She didn't like him at all.

"Has Elder Gastone given you a tour of the bureau yet?"

"No," she said. "He asked Novices Adriel and Gilon to do that. They'll be around shortly."

"Good, good. There's one thing they can't show you, however." He smiled, showing straight white teeth. A truly handsome man, he was probably used to getting what he wanted with his charm.

"What's that?" she asked warily, remembering Elder Gastone's admonishment against wooing her.

"Come with me." He gestured for her to step past him into the hallway.

She shut the door behind her and started downstairs. When they reached the second floor landing, he said, "My apartment is on this floor, number two twenty-two. If you need to speak with me, you will find me there or in my office in the bureau."

She nodded and continued to the ground floor. They walked across the covered walkway, his long strides whispering while her boots clomped.

"You'll be receiving your instruction from Disciple Bastin. She's occupied currently, but I'll see to it she finds you this evening. I'm guessing you'd be more comfortable with a woman as your teacher. And you've already met Novice Gil. She instructs him as well, and he's only arrived within the last couple of weeks, so he's not too far ahead of you in his learning."

He led her through the Justice Bureau hall and out the front door to the finger-like statue at the top of the wide steps. No, not a finger, she realized. It had smooth protrusions like fins on three sides, leaving one side smooth and flat. Its tip narrowed like the beak of a dolphin. It was a dolphin, she realized, but worn down by weathering.

He indicated the statue with a sweep of his arm. "What do you make of this, Novice?"

It called to her, and she glided toward it, as if in a dream. She laid one palm on its smooth surface. A vibration shot through her entire body at once, and she yanked her hand away, crying out in surprise. "Goodness."

Adept Sonnis was looking at her with arched eyebrows and wide eyes, clearly surprised. "You heard it?"

"I—I'm not sure." It was a sensation as much as it was a sound. Jora touched it again, tentatively, and when she did, she felt a hum, one long note that resonated through her bones as if she were the tuning fork for the stone's song. "It's a single note, resonating through me. What is this statue?" she asked.

"Remarkable," Adept Sonnis said. "Did Elder Gastone not point it out earlier?"

She shook her head. Neither Gilon nor Adriel had paid it much attention, either.

He pursed his lips as he studied her. "This is one of the seven Spirit Stones," he said finally. "They're spread across Aerta, and cities formed around them."

The Spirit Stones. She'd learned of them in school when she was a child. It was speculated that they were the source of the Truth Sayers' abilities. Serocia had two such statues, the other one being in Halder. "I learned about them when I was a child, but I'd never seen one before. They're the source of our talent?"

"So it's said." Adept Sonnis laid his palm against it as well. "The tone changes every day at dawn. Some of the adepts and elders gather here to experience the moment it changes, when the first ray of sunlight peeks over the horizon."

Jora looked at Adept Sonnis to judge whether the man was jesting, but he looked perfectly serious, even reverent, as he gazed across the tops of the buildings below. From here, Jora could see the glistening blue water of the Inner Sea. With one hand on the singing dolphin-like structure, she couldn't help but think of Sundancer, and her eyes welled with tears. She'd only said goodbye to the dolphin that morning, but already it felt like weeks had passed since she'd last seen her friend.

"You should join us sometime. We've never had a novice who hears the tones."

"Never?" she asked. "Why not?"

He smiled. "It's a fascinating question which no one has yet answered. One generally doesn't begin to hear them until one has been a Truth Sayer for fifteen or twenty years. In fact, one cannot be promoted to Elder until he—or she—has heard them. Now I understand why Elder Gastone took a liking to you."

The loose-fitting novices' garments were actually quite comfortable. The trousers had a simple drawstring waist, which she tied tight enough to stay on. The left edge of the robe tied to a string stitched into the right side seam, and the right edge tied to a string sewn into the left side seam. Both front edges had pockets sewn into them, though they were too small to carry more than a few bills or a key ring or the like. The V neckline in front was high enough for modesty, and if she wanted to tuck something larger into her robe, such as her journal, the violet fabric belt tied snugly around her waist would keep it from falling through to the floor.

Adriel and Gilon stopped by Jora's room to welcome her again to the Order. Adriel had been a Novice for two years, and Gilon said her guidance had been wonderful during his first few confusing days.

"So tell me, how do you know me?" he asked, sitting on her reclining chair. "Who's our mutual friend?"

Jora didn't want to admit to having been the reason he was dragged off to join the Order, but he would keep asking questions until she told him anyway. "We have mutual friends who are in the same unit. I was checking on my friend for his papa, and your name came up. Your cousin, I think he said."

"Yah, the loudmouth who turned me in," he said with a scowl.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It was my fault, actually. There were two Sayers in the room, and one of them saw me somehow. He asked the group who among them knew of a Mindstreamer, and your cousin volunteered your name while my friend stayed silent. You were discovered because of my actions. I'm really sorry. I worried about what might happen to you."

Gilon laughed. "Don't be. Living here beats getting driven through on a Barader's blade. If I'd known how much better life was as a Novice, I'd have spoken up myself the day before I turned eighteen."

"Chicken," Adriel said.

"I'm more of a bunny—cute and cuddly." He winked at Adriel.

"Mindstreamer, you said?" Adriel asked.

Jora nodded. "That's what I call the Talent for Witnessing: Mindstreaming."

"Mindstreaming," Gilon said, nodding. "I like it."

"Where are you from?" Adriel asked.

"Kaild," Jora said.

"Kaild?" Gilon said, scrunching his face with what looked like contempt. Or perhaps he'd simply never heard of it, which was entirely possible, given how small a town it was.

"It's a small town on the coast a few days' ride to the north. You?"

"Halder," Adriel said, pointing at herself, "and Renn," she said, pointing at Gilon.

"Have they told you who your disciple is?" Gilon asked.

"Um, someone named Bastin. Do you know him?" Jora asked.

Adriel snickered and Gilon groaned. "She's mine too," he said. "A nipper."

Jora chuckled. "What's a nipper?"

Adriel replied, "Children who were given up by their parents because their ability to Mindstream was too bizarre. Made them nervous or what have you. They come here young, usually around ten but sometimes as young as five or six. There's an adept who's only fifteen years old, but he's unique."

"It sounds like there are lots of Sayers here," Jora said.

"There are a couple hundred here in Jolver," Adriel said, "almost that number in Halder and the other big cities, and then each Legion unit has one or two."

"What's their role in the Legion?" she asked.

"Mostly to relay messages," Gilon said. "There's a board on the first floor of the bureau that messengers post communications to. They use messengers who aren't Sayers because observing a Sayer is _against the rules._ " He wiggled his fingers ominously. "Each unit has a soldier who's designated as the messenger for the Sayers assigned to his unit, and he posts messages on a board in the command building. This enables the Sayers to get and send messages to the Order to coordinate the movement of units, arrival of supplies, and enemy sightings or raids."

"I see," Jora said. "No wonder they got Sayers to Kaild so quickly."

"Yah," Adriel said. "One of the things we learn as Novices is how to observe the messenger and access the command board, and when to alert the elders if something needs their attention. Disciples and Adepts monitor the board too, of course, but it's more of a chore and less interesting than witnessing crimes."

"When do we get to do that?"

"Oh, you'll get to sit in on hearings from time to time," Adriel said. "Gilon had his first yesterday. Disciples hear the accusation and witness the event to verify a crime was committed. The adepts make judgments and pass along sentencing recommendations to the elders. The elders impose a sentence, and then the enforcers carry it out."

These were things Jora had learned in school, but it had been almost thirteen years since she finished, and the details of how the Justice Bureau operated wasn't among the subjects she found interesting enough to remember. "What was it like, the hearing?" she asked Gilon. "Interesting?"

He nodded. "Oh yeah. It was a robbery. You'd think that people might think twice before committing crimes when Truth Sayers can witness the whole thing. They try to cover their faces or stick to shadows, but we can always go backward and view them in the past. It's like they don't think of that."

"Assuming," Adriel said, "there's someone in the area to observe. You can't observe a dead man."

"You can in some cases," Gilon said. A faraway look came into his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Adriel asked. "What cases?"

Quietly, he said, "I witnessed a fellow in my unit die. He was on guard duty, and I heard him shout for help."

"Sure, we can witness someone die as it happens," Adriel said. "But you can't, for example, observe him on the pyre afterward."

Gilon looked like he wanted to say more, but he closed his mouth.

Jora thought about her brother's grisly death. She'd witnessed it after the fact, after she was unable to find him in the present and had to stream her own past and jump to him in order to find out what happened to him. "You can," she said quietly.

"What do you mean? Observe someone's corpse on the pyre?" Adriel asked.

"No, witness his death. If it's someone you know, you can observe your own past, and then jump to the other person. That's how I found out how my brother died."

"Oh," Adriel said. "I didn't know we could do that. Did you?"

Gilon shook his head. "Sorry about your brother. Sorry you had to see it."

She nodded an acknowledgment of his sympathy and took a deep breath, hoping to lighten the conversation again. "So aside from the hearings and command board, what are our duties?"

"The Observation Request Room," Adriel said, her voice like a groan. "It's where we sit and observe soldiers for paying customers, to tell them whether their loved one is still alive."

"We get paid for that?" Jora asked. It sounded like what she used to do for the people back home in Kaild.

"We don't. The bureau does," Gilon said.

Jora scrunched her brow. "If the adepts serving with the Legion know the bureau uses justice officials to observe soldiers from the Request Room, how did they know Gilon and I weren't one of them?"

He looked at her with raised brows. "How indeed?"

Adriel said, "Everyone learns a new skill when they advance in rank. Disciples are taught how to prevent others from observing them. Adepts are taught to recognize members of the Order who are using the Talent—the Mindstream."

"What do elders learn?" Jora asked.

"I'm not sure. Next time we see one, let's ask."

"What about the daily routine?" Jora asked. "Chores and whatnot?"

Adriel and Gilon told Jora about the daily routine, the meals, and rules for social interaction. They cautioned her about which adepts to avoid and which were willing to stop and answer questions.

"Adriel's in Elder Gastone's hierarchy. You and I are in Elder Kassyl's," he told her. "He's pretty old, though, so we never see him."

"How old?" Jora asked.

"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.

Movement to the right caught his eye. In the distance and under the dim light of the Moon, he could barely make out a wagon drawn by a pair of horses approaching the cliff. It looked to be loaded with crates. The godfruit was picked and packed every day to take to the Legion soldiers, but why would someone take it to the southern shore? The forty-fourth company was a couple of miles to the north, but the wagon didn't appear to be heading to camp. It was heading to shore. He stopped Fidget behind a scraggly bush and watched.

The driver stopped the team and climbed down from the seat. He guided the horses around, bringing the wagon parallel to the cliff and the seashore below. Momentarily, he was joined by four other men unseen until then. Boden's heart thumped. He started to ride over and find out what they were up to but stopped himself. They'd been hiding in wait. They could be armed.

They could be stealing godfruit.

He gasped in shock. God's Challenger! He wrestled with himself over whether to run and get Pharson and Joh or watch what happened next so he could report what they did with the crates. Until he knew for certain what he was witnessing, he didn't want to raise an alarm.

One of the men handed the wagoner something—a bag, heavy with whatever was inside. The men began to unload the crates and disappeared from view below the rocky crest. Boden dismounted and went to look over the edge. He could see the men, each carrying a pair of crates atop their shoulders down a steep path that led to the rocky beach. A beached boat, roughly twenty feet long, waited below.

"Shit," he muttered, returning to Fidget. He mounted and rode at a trot up the coast toward Pharson's position. He caught sight of his squad leader sitting with his back against a boulder. Sleeping? What the hell?

"Pharson," he said as he neared, trying to catch the man's attention without shouting so loudly that the smugglers would hear him.

The corporal leaped to his feet. "What's wrong?"

Breathless with excitement, Boden described what he'd seen. "They're stealing godfruit. What else could be in those crates?"

"You're supposed to be looking for warships, not auditing godfruit shipments. They're probably taking it to the soldiers manning the Barad Selegal border."

"At night? That makes no sense. Why would they risk sailing the most treacherous waters at night if they're not smuggling godfruit to our enemies?"

"I'll report it to Sergeant Keskinen, and he'll tell the staff sergeant and march commander. If the officers want to know the details about what you saw, they'll come ask you."

"But those men are committing treason against the king. We can stop them, the three of us."

"No," Pharson snapped. He looked over his shoulder. Joh was riding up the coast, his back to them. "There's no godfruit, there are no crates, there's no treason until Turounce says so. You got that?"

"All right," Boden said, taken aback.

"Say nothing about this to anyone. As far as you're concerned, nothing happened tonight unless March Commander Turounce asks you about this himself. Then you can—you must—tell him everything in as much detail as possible. Tell me you understand."

"No godfruit, no smuggling unless the march commander asks me. I understand."

Pharson relaxed and nodded before turning back to look over the water below. "If your buddies ask, you didn't see anything. It was a boring night. The march commander's the only one who needs to know."

"I understand, sir, but why is it so important not to mention this to my buddies?"

The corporal sighed. "This company hasn't seen battle in a few weeks. Some of the men are itching for a fight, and we don't want a bunch of rogue soldiers trying to become heroes here. The officers will decide our next move, not a bunch of draftees eager for blood."

Chapter 13

Jora's first few nights in the strange bed and strange city had her sleeping in fits, awakening well before dawn, only to fall asleep again and have her disciple, Bastin, pounding angrily on her door.

Soon, she awakened at her usual early hour. Curious about what Adept Sonnis had told her about the Spirit Stone, she washed, shaved her head, and dressed so she could be at the statue at the moment its tone changed. On her first attempt, she missed it, arriving as other Truth Sayers were leaving. To ensure she made it next time, she shaved her head before she went to bed that night to save time in the morning.

She arrived to find seven other Truth Sayers present, four adepts and three elders. They were clustered around the stone and chatting in low voices. The others, having already claimed their place near the statue, stopped talking to regard her.

"You must be Novice Jora," an elder said. "You're the talk of the Order."

"Welcome, Novice," the others said.

"Why am I the talk of the Order?" Jora asked, feeling her face warm. "Because I'm new?"

"Oh, no," said an adept, a tall, lanky man with pretty blue eyes. "Because we've never had a novice who can hear the tones. We're all very interested in you."

"I'll bet the others can do it if they calm their minds," Jora said. "I'm not so unique."

"To the contrary," the first elder said. "Come. Stand here facing east. Make room, my friends. Let her in."

"Thank you. I wanted to come yesterday, but shaving took longer than expected."

The others shuffled a few inches to make room for her. She stood beside the dolphin statue, facing the sea, and placed one hand against the smooth stone surface. Though she knew it would happen, the tone emanating from it, humming through her bones, surprised her. She yanked her hand back. A few of the Truth Sayers chuckled. She put her hand back on the statue and let its single tone have her.

"You'll get used to it," said the lanky adept.

"It'll be a few more moments," the elder said behind her. "Here it comes."

The other Truth Sayers closed their eyes reverently.

When the sun's first rays peeked over the horizon that morning, the tone changed. The new one felt like it could lift her off her heels. She drew in a deep breath, feeling more relaxed, more balanced. Something about the tone sounded familiar. Comfortable. It resonated within her body, not in the physical sense but in her heart and mind. It gave her such a feeling of peace that she sighed, her head tilted back and her eyes closed.

"I think she likes it," said the adept in the position opposite her.

The others chuckled and started back into the Justice Bureau building.

"Will you be joining us again tomorrow?" the lanky adept asked. He stood looking out at the horizon and the great sun peeking over the edge.

"I'd like to, if the rest of you don't mind."

He smiled and gestured toward the building, inviting her to walk back inside with him. "We don't own the Spirit Stone or the sunrise. All are welcome. I've seen as many as twenty-eight Sayers gathered around the stone, some kneeling, some leaning in at a precarious angle. Those who've experienced it hundreds of times will defer to the newcomers."

"Does everyone get that light feeling when it changes?" she asked.

He cocked his head and looked at her with a questioning scrunch of his brow. "Light feeling? Describe it."

They walked through the great halls of the building toward the rear door. She did her best to describe the way it made her feel as if she'd been placing more weight on one foot and now she was standing more lightly and perfectly balanced on both feet.

"Can't say I'd heard anyone describe that."

"Where did the Spirit Stones come from?" she asked. "Who made them?"

He opened the door and waited for her to proceed him. "They're so ancient, no one knows. They're said to be scattered all across Aerta, and the cities grew up around them. I take it you've never visited Halder."

"No," she said. "It's quite a distance from Kaild, my hometown." She smiled at the two elders who passed going the opposite direction, and they nodded politely.

"What is the book you brought with you?"

She snapped her head around to look at him. How did he find out about her journal?

"Elder Gastone mentioned it. I understand it has to do with your study of the tones."

The tones? And then it occurred to her that the tones emanating from the dolphin statue weren't merely random notes. It couldn't be mere coincidence that a statue in the shape of a dolphin sang a single note every day. What would a year's worth played on a flute sound like? Was there a message in it? Were they saying something in Azarian? A thrill raced through her.

"Just my own notes as I try to figure it out. Has anyone been recording the tones over time?" she asked, excited. If she could see what notes the Spirit Stone had been humming for the last few weeks or months—or centuries—she might be able to discern a message, or at the very least, increase her vocabulary.

"I believe a few elders have over the years, but no one has a complete accounting of them that I'm aware of," he said. "I'd advise you to talk to Elder Kassyl, but I hear he's very ill and isn't receiving visitors. Perhaps you should talk with Adept Sonnis or Adept Fer. One of them might know where to find his history of the tones."

They reached the dormitory and, again, he opened the door for her.

"Thank you," she said, turning to face him in the dim light of the dormitory's vestibule. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Adept Lazar," he said with a bow. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope to see you at the Spirit Stones again tomorrow."

"You will. Most definitely."

She entered the dining hall and found Gilon and Adriel sitting with several of the other novices in their hierarchy, along with Disciple Bastin and Adriel's disciple, whose name Jora didn't remember. She got her bowl of eggs and fruit from the serving line and headed to the table to join them. Gilon waved and scooted over on the bench to make room for her beside him. She greeted everyone and settled onto the bench.

"Did you make it this morning?" he asked.

"I did. It was wonderful. I didn't expect it to be so, I don't know, peaceful."

He gestured with his spoon for her to continue while he shoveled more food into his mouth.

Again she tried to describe her experience at the Spirit Stone and didn't do it justice, though she did attract the attention of the others at the table.

"Is it true what the adepts are saying about you and those tones?" Disciple Bastin asked.

Jora looked around at the curious faces watching her. "I don't know. What are they saying?"

"That you understand them. That you've figured out their message."

Jora snorted a laugh, waving off the ludicrous notion. "I didn't know they existed until a week ago. How could I have figured them out when elders have been studying them for decades, maybe even centuries?"

"Yah, that's what I thought," Bastin said. She rolled her eyes and went back to her meal.

Gilon leaned in and whispered, "But you have, haven't you?"

"Let's talk later," she whispered back.

After the meal, Bastin took her two novices to the third story of the main building. While she and Gilon jogged up the wide stone steps with ease, Jora was winded from the climb. Bastin looked at her with an expression of contempt. "You're too young to be so soft. You need to condition your body more. Every evening, I want you to run to the docks and back."

"The docks? But they're at least a half hour away on horseback."

"And soon you'll be running there and back in that time," the disciple said. She headed down the hallway, and the two novices followed behind.

"I'll go with you," Gilon said. "I haven't done any exercising since I got here."

Bastin shot him a glare over her shoulder. "You know the rules about sexual activity between members of the Order."

"God's Challenger, Bastin," he snapped. "I offered to run with her to the docks, not take her to bed. Maybe you should visit the Temple if your thoughts are so unclean."

They walked in silence to a large room lined with boards, each roughly three feet tall by five feet wide. Two rows of free-standing boards on rolling stands were positioned in the center of the floor. This, Bastin explained, was the command room, and the boards were the Command Boards. Each board had several nails hammered into them and sheets of paper hanging on the nails. At the top of each board, a company number was printed in thick black letters.

At the back of the room sat a desk with a large, sweating woman in blue disciples' robes, writing on a sheet of paper while a slim boy of about fifteen waited. The boy wore regular clothes and had all his hair. The disciple handed the paper to the boy, who hung the paper onto the board on an empty nail. _Company fifty reports sighting of ground forces approaching from the south through northern Barad._

The disciple looked up and greeted Disciple Bastin. With prompting from Gilon, Bastin introduced the other disciple as Gafna, one of Adept Sonnis's star students. The two chatted for a few minutes while Jora strolled around the room, looking at the military orders and reports posted on the boards.

"This is how we coordinate movement of our Legion soldiers," Bastin said, joining her. "Gilon, tell Jora why everything is coordinated here."

"One central location makes it easy for the commanders to know what's happening across Serocia."

"I don't understand," Jora said.

"Every March Commander has one or two Truth Sayers with his company," Gilon explained.

"The Truth Sayers observe the poster in this room," Bastin continued, "and watch for new messages to be posted on his company's board."

"Why doesn't the disciple hang it up herself?" Jora asked.

Bastin sighed. "Because Sayers can't observe each other. We need an uninitiated citizen to post the messages so they can be observed."

Jora shrugged, unconvinced. "As long as someone observable is in the room, the commanders' Sayers should be able to read it. You only need someone to sit here."

"This is the way it's done," Bastin snapped. "You don't have to like it, just understand it and remember."

"Sorry," Jora said. "Didn't mean to offend."

Bastin pointed to some of the other messages. "The disciple on duty observes the poster for each company, reads the message he posts, and writes it down. It's exhausting work, sitting there observing poster after poster, checking for new messages. If you miss one, entire companies can be decimated by an attack they don't anticipate."

"How do the Sayers working with the companies know which message to pay attention to?" Jora asked.

Gilon pointed to the company number at the top of the board. "They only look at their board. Saves them time so they can observe the soldiers in their company who are out scouting, in the event one spots an enemy approaching."

"Sounds complicated," Jora said.

"Only adepts and elders are assigned to companies," Bastin said. "Disciples and adepts work the command room, and some of the elders, too, if they're well enough. You've got years to learn the system before you'll be expected to perform those duties yourself. I'm assigned command room duty tomorrow afternoon for three hours. You should come watch. I'll introduce you to the posters for each company."

"How do you do that?" Gilon asked. "They're scattered all around Serocia."

"You can piggyback on my observation," Bastin said.

"Ride your stream?" Jora mused. "I didn't realize we could do that."

"Is that what I did that day in the hearing room?" Gilon asked.

Bastin looked pleased. "Yes, exactly. I'll teach you how. It's strange at first, but once you learn how to do it, you can observe anyone that another Sayer is observing. It's handy when there's a battle, for instance, or that time some buildings collapsed in Halder during an earthquake. Once one Sayer gets a thread on someone, other Sayers can 'ride the stream,' as you say, and help locate the dead and wounded."

Jora had observed her share of gruesome events. It didn't occur to her that she might need to do it on purpose to help people. The fact that the Justice Bureau utilized its army of Truth Sayers to help people and not only judge them for crimes gave her hope that she would someday come to appreciate being part of the Order.

Jora tucked her flute into her robe and tied her belt more tightly to hold it in place, hoping to find a place on some long pier where she could call to Sundancer. It had been weeks since she'd seen her friend, and she was afraid the dolphin had either given up on her or, Challenger forbid it, got caught in a fishing net and drowned. Though she was eager to sit in her room and look over her notes, to see whether she could identify a pattern or message in the daily tones emitted by the dolphin statue, she didn't dare defy Bastin's order to walk to the docks and back. The sooner she returned, the more time she could spend studying. She'd begun writing down the tones she'd heard so far and couldn't help but wonder if they were random or if there was a message embedded in them.

Jora and Gilon met at the Spirit Stone to begin their long walk to the docks that evening. It was a good day for it, as the air was relatively cool because the year had begun its long, slow descent into winter. For the first part of the walk, they talked about the changing weather, the coming autumn, the case they heard earlier in the day, and Disciple Bastin's odd lack of humor.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked.

"You just did, and it didn't kill you. Go ahead. Ask me something else."

She smiled at him. "Do you trust Adept Sonnis?"

Gilon laughed. "Sonnis? Of course. He's the nicest, friendliest adept in the entire Order. Why do you ask?"

Jora shrugged. "He makes me almost as nervous as the creatures in the Mindstream do. I have to work up the nerve to talk to him."

"Creatures? What creatures?"

She looked at Gilon to judge his reaction. Was he teasing her? "You know, the weird, shadowy creatures we encounter when we use the Mindstream."

He tucked his chin into his neck and eyed her with wariness. "I don't know what you're talking about. There aren't any creatures—weird, shadowy, or otherwise—outside the realm of perception."

Pursing her lips, she considered his words. Could the creatures have been a figment of her imagination all her life? She dismissed the idea immediately, knowing without a doubt they were as real as she was. The fact that he'd never noticed them bothered her. "Maybe Adriel sees them. I'll ask her when we get back."

"Or they aren't there," he said, "and you're imagining things. Honestly, how could there be creatures in a place that exists beyond the limits of sight, sound, touch, and so on?"

"It's a good question. As I leave this so-called realm of perception to observe someone, I see and hear other beings. They see me too, but they've never hurt me. I thought maybe I make them as nervous as they make me. Maybe I pass through another realm."

"Well, I've never seen them. Do they look like the Sack Man, by any chance, threatening to carry you off for misbehaving?"

She pinched his arm, and he let out a squeal. "No."

"Talasan, perhaps?" he asked with a grin, making horns on his forehead with hooked index fingers.

"I'm not talking about fairy tale villains or mythical creatures. These are real."

"I see."

She turned her head so he wouldn't see her roll her eyes. Everyone experienced things differently. What she wanted to know was how common hers were versus his. Were those creatures truly there? Something tickled the back of her neck and sent a shiver down her back. She flinched, raising a hand to knock it away, and when she did, her hand struck Gilon's arm.

He burst into gleeful laughter. "Got you."

"You're mean." Jora tried to keep a straight face, but she couldn't.

"All right, so Adept Sonnis makes you nervous like the shadowy creatures. What do you need to talk to him about?"

"Adept Lazar said I should ask him if I could read Elder Kassyl's notes about the tones. He was under the impression Elder Kassyl, and maybe some others, had been writing down the daily tones in the hopes of discerning some pattern in them."

"Aren't they just random notes?"

She grinned at him. "I don't know, but I can't help but think there might be a message in them."

He gaped at her. "What kind of message?"

"I don't know. That's why I want the books. I've been writing down the tones since I got here, but there are hundreds of years' worth that have probably been lost. What if the Spirit Stone is telling us how to live more peaceably? What if its message can stop the war, stop the brutality that people inflict upon each other? Teach us how to be... better?"

Gilon regarded her doubtfully. "I'd love to hear a message that could do all that."

"Until someone figures out what those tones mean, we'll never know."

"So go ask Sonnis. Tell him what you told me."

"Yeah," she said doubtfully. "I'd really rather talk to Elder Kassyl directly."

"No one's allowed to see him except the healers and medics. You could try asking Adept Fer, if Sonnis makes you nervous. Fer also reports to Elder Kassyl."

"Hmmm," she said, nodding. "Perhaps I will." She spotted the docks ahead. "Look. We're almost there."

"We can turn around and go back, if you want."

"My feet could use a rest. I think I'm getting a blister or two. Besides, I want to see if she's here."

"See if who's here?"

"Come on, I'll show you."

Once they reached the end of the road, they climbed down a few steps from the street to the series of piers that stretched across the shallow waters closest to shore. Dozens of boats of various sizes were moored there, their hulls bumping against the docks with the water's motion. Jora led the way to the farthest pier, where three men were tying up a boat and unloading barrels of smelly fish. She stared at them curiously. Men in Kaild never fished. After they returned from their service to the Legion, they only guarded and pitched in during the spring planting and fall harvest or to build a home for another man returning from the war to share with his wife and child.

At the end of the pier, she hiked up the bottom of her robe and knelt down, then withdrew the flute from its hiding place inside.

"What's that?" Gilon asked, settling onto his knees beside her.

"It's a flute. My friend Boden gave it to me before he left for the war."

"Ah. A promissory," Gilon said with a knowing grin.

Jora rolled her eyes but let the matter drop. "I used to meet her at dawn, but maybe she's nearby."

"A mermaid?" Gilon asked, his face brightening in boyish enthusiasm.

"Not quite. Watch and hope she's nearby."

Gilon tucked both thumbs under his index fingers, the gesture for good luck.

She lifted the flute to her lips and played the greeting that used to call Sundancer to her. That the dolphin was near enough to respond after one greeting was too much to hope for, and so she played it twice, paused a moment, and played it twice more. It was probably too late in the day. They'd become accustomed to meeting at dawn, and it was nearly dusk.

"What're you doing there?" one of the fishermen asked, standing behind her.

"Nothing worth your valuable time," Gilon said.

She played twice more, and to her surprise and delight, a dorsal fin broke the water a dozen yards away. Jora pointed at it. "There she is!" She leaped to her feet, unable to contain her excitement.

Sundancer stopped at the edge of the pier and poked her head out of the water, twittering and spinning in a joyful circle.

"A dolphin?" Gilon said. "You called a dolphin?"

"Not just any dolphin," Jora said. "Watch."

" _Not see you long time_ , _"_ Sundancer said.

" _I am happy see you, Sun Dancer. I missed you_ , _"_ she played back.

" _I missed you."_

"It's singing to your music," Gilon said, clearly enthralled.

"She's a she, not an it, and her name is Sundancer." Jora lifted the flute again. _"This man is my friend. I not know song name_."

" _I name man Free Heart. Free Heart is Autumn Rain friend and Sun Dancer friend."_

"You know her language?" he asked, gaping at Sundancer. "You actually talk to her?"

" _Free Heart_ , _"_ Jora repeated. "I do. She named you Freeheart," she told Gilon.

"That's amazing," Gilon said. "Freeheart, huh? I like it. Would she let me touch her?"

"Try it and see." To Sundancer, she said, _"Free Heart wants touch you."_

He leaned forward, still kneeling, and reached out to offer a hand to Sundancer. She moved in and let him stroke her beak and head. "She's so soft."

"Well, I'll be damned," said the curious fisher. "That's the dolphin that's been hanging around here the last few weeks."

Jora's eyes teared up. Sundancer had been here looking for her. And she hadn't come. _"I am sorry I not come."_

" _You come now_ , _"_ Sundancer said. _"I am happy see you."_

"Let's see if it wants a fish," the fisher said, opening the lid of a barrel on the pier.

"Leave it be," said another. "We didn't spend all day fishing to feed a damned fish."

"I'll buy a fish from you," Gilon said. He pulled a small pouch from the front pocket in his robe and withdrew a coin, offering it to the grumpy fisher. The man shrugged, pocketed the coin, and opened the barrel, letting Gilon pluck out a fish by pinching the tail fin between two fingers. He held it away from his body and turned back to the water.

" _Freeheart wants give you fish_ , _"_ Jora told her.

" _Good. I eat fish."_

But when he knelt down to offer her the fish from his hand, the grumpy fisher put a boot on his rear end and pushed him into the water.

"Gilon!" she cried. He went completely under the water, disappearing from view.

The two fishers roared with laughter.

" _I find him,"_ Sundancer whistled. She dove down.

Jora could only see a grayish blob in the murky green water, and then that disappeared. _Please save him, Sundancer_ , she thought.

At last, the dolphin surfaced several yards away with Gilon clutching her dorsal fin in both hands. He gasped for air and began to cough and choke. Sundancer brought him to the pier, and he grabbed it and clung to it until he'd finished coughing the water out of his lungs. Jora grabbed his arm and helped him climb out of the water.

She shot the fishers a seething look. "You tried to kill a member of the Order of Justice Officials. You'll be punished for this."

"We was just having fun," the fisher whined. "Didn't know the boy couldn't swim."

Sopping wet, Gilon shivered madly, his teeth chattering.

"Let's get you back to the dormitory." She tucked her flute into her robe again, slipped one arm around his waist, and placed his arm across her shoulders. He was much taller than she was and couldn't really lean on her for support, but that didn't stop her from trying. "Bye, Sundancer," she said. "I'll be back soon. I promise."

Sundancer twittered softly and then whistled one long, sad note before swimming away.

Jora and Gilon found a merchant willing to transport them in her wagon back to the Justice Bureau, refusing payment when they arrived.

"Thank you," Jora said. "Thank you so very much."

"Let's go through the side gate," Gilon said. "I don't want to drip water through the bureau."

They walked around the side of the building and through a gate Jora didn't know was there, ending up in the courtyard between the bureau and dormitory. Though he was walking fine on his own, she saw Gilon to his room, where he assured her he would be fine.

"You'll regain your strength after supper," she said, touching his arm gently. "See you in the dining hall." She returned to her own room to put her flute away. There was a violet ribbon tied to the latch on her door, a signal that a message was waiting for her in the registrar's office. She tucked the flute under her mattress, knowing it was silly to try to hide it from Truth Sayers who could simply observe her hiding it. Still, it set her mind at ease to know it wasn't in plain sight of those who would ask questions she would rather not answer. She took the ribbon and hurried to the bureau.

The registrar was adding some papers to a loose-paged book when Jora arrived and didn't look up until she'd closed the book. The title of the book was _Petitions_.

"You have a message for me?" she asked.

The registrar pulled her lips back into a thin, humorless smile. "Your petition to be excused from the Order was denied. You've only got one petition left, Novice Jora. I suggest you use it wisely."

Jora sighed. She doubted the king had seen her petition himself, let alone denied it. He probably had some kind of bureaucrat who read them and rejected all but the most serious ones out of hand. "Can I at least see Elder Kassyl?"

"Elder Kassyl is ill," the registrar said.

"I realize that, but nobody will ask him if he'll see me."

"Because he's terminally ill. We don't disturb the elders when they're so ill." The woman made a disgusted face. "Any dirt you bring in there with you could have disastrous effects."

Because dying wasn't already disastrous enough. "I'll do what the healers and medics do to cleanse myself before I go in. Please. I must speak with him. Do you know who can get me an audience?"

She pursed her lips and regarded Jora with contempt. "Ask Adept Sonnis. If he gives you leave, who's to stop you? But good luck convincing him your need is desperate enough to risk further decline to the elder's health."

"Thank you," Jora said with a bow and turned to leave. The way Adept Sonnis looked at her made her uncomfortable, and she didn't want to talk to him if she didn't have to. There had to be another way to get in to see Elder Kassyl.

"Novice," the registrar said.

Jora paused and turned to her.

A light brightened the registrar's eyes, as if a lamp had been lit inside her head. "Perhaps I can help after all," she said in a voice uncharacteristically gentle. "If you speak with Dominee Ibsa at the First Godly Redeemer tomorrow, she'll grant you an audience with Elder Kassyl. Perhaps you'll stay and consult the god vessel while you're there. You might find the experience... enlightening."

Why was this woman helping her all of a sudden? Jora nodded. "All right. Thank you again."

As quickly, the light left her eyes, and she made a shooing gesture with her hand before returning to the papers on her desk.

The next morning, after feeling the tone change in the Spirit Stone, Jora sat in the Observation Request Room, barely able to manage her own impatience. People stood in line for hours to get word from the novices about their loved ones serving in the Legion. Jora was able to give most of them the good news that their husbands and sons and fathers and brothers were alive, though a few were recovering from injuries sustained in battle.

The first time she had to break the news to a seven-year-old girl that her papa had been slain, she felt ashamed for wanting to hurry through her duties here. The distress in those large blue eyes renewed the pain of witnessing her own brother's death and the anguish her mother and father endured when she'd broken the news ten years earlier. She spent the rest of her shift fully in the moment, sympathizing with those who received the same tragic tidings and celebrating with those whose beloved soldier was still well.

At last, when her shift was over and she was relieved by another novice, she checked in with Bastin to be sure there weren't other tasks she needed to take care of before she focused on her own pursuits. As luck would have it, she was free for the next couple of hours—enough time to eat a hasty meal and hobble on sore feet to the temple.

She was unprepared for the lavish extravagance that awaited her. The ten-foot-high doors were intricately carved with a scene depicting a pair of men, both clothed in what looked like a diaper, wrestling. Their faces were fierce and angry, their hands balled into fists or hooked into claws. It wasn't how she wanted to imagine Retar, and so she darted inside, hoping the rest of the temple wasn't decorated with such violence. To her relief, the murals on the wall at the altar depicted a large man with a benevolent face as he reached with a sparkling finger to touch the forehead of a sick child. A much better way to represent the Challenger, Retar, the last of the five demigods and the first to pledge fealty to the people rather than insist on the reverse.

Four small chambers sat on each side of the altar, and a man in plush orange robes sat at a table on the dais between them. He looked up when Jora entered and greeted her with a smile and beckoning wave. Jora made her way to the table, her feet sinking into the soft orange carpet that ran the length of the temple.

"Come, Novice," the monk said. "You're welcome here."

"I was told to ask for Dominee Ibsa," Jora said in a quiet voice. Though the pews that filled the majority of the temple were empty, this was a place that commanded respect and reverence, not shouting.

"Certainly. If you'll wait one moment, I'll see if she's available." The monk stood and exited through a door in the rear of the temple.

After a few minutes, he returned, accompanied by a tall, slender woman with black hair that tumbled across her shoulders in luxurious curls, embellished with a dramatic gray streak in front. She was a striking woman in an orange robe not unlike those worn by members of the Order, though the jewels adorning her fingers and wrists spoke to her lack of modesty. As she neared, Jora saw that the dominee's robe wasn't simple cotton like her own or the monk's. It was silk, a rare commodity in Serocia. The robe must have cost as much as the jewels had.

"Good morning, Novice. Have you a message for me from the Justice Bureau?"

"No, Dominee. My name's Jora, and I'm new to the Order." Realizing the dominee would be able to tell from the violet hue of her robe, she cleared her throat to hide her embarrassment. "I mean, newer than most. I'm interested in studying the tones that emanate from the Spirit Stones. I understand Elder Kassyl has a book that might help me, but I'm told he's ill. No one will let me talk to him. I only wish to inquire about borrowing his book."

Ibsa nodded, smiling gently. Her face was wrinkled but her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the registrar's had been the previous evening. "I believe I can help." She sat elegantly at the monk's table, pulled a small sheet of blank paper from a pile, uncorked the bottle of ink on the desk, and wrote something on the paper. "Hand this to one of Elder Kassyl's adepts. If you aren't taken to see him straight away, return to me."

Jora was tempted to look around her to see who was watching from the shadows, hands covering their mouths to keep from giggling at their prank. She took the offered note and read it.

_Admit_ Novice Jora _to see Elder Kassyl privately._

_~Dominee Ibsa, First Prelate to King Yaphet_

"Thank you, Dominee" she said, bowing. "Thank you so very much." This was suspiciously easy. The dominee hadn't asked for anything in return, nor proof of progress in her study, before giving Jora exactly what she'd requested.

Ibsa inclined her head. "As the Challenger wishes." She gestured to the chambers behind her with a sweeping arm gesture. "While you're here, perhaps you would care to consult with a god vessel."

Jora swallowed. She'd heard of the creatures used by Retar to communicate with people who sought his guidance, but she'd never actually seen one.

"I recommend the parrot in chamber four. His vocalizations are clear and easy to understand."

"Thank you," she said, feeling pressure from both the dominee and the registrar to do this, to talk to the god. She stepped up onto the dais and shuffled across the polished wood to the chamber numbered four. She could see through the iron grating in the door that it was empty, and so she opened it and stepped in.

The interior of the chamber, stained a dark brown, was only about three feet square with a bench on one side. A low wall topped with a decorative iron grating, not unlike that in the door, separated her from the other side.

On the other side of the grating sat a squat gray parrot with short tail feathers and golden eyes. "Hello," it said.

"Um, hello," she said. "Parrot."

"You may call me Retar," the parrot replied.

Jora stiffened. Had it really invited her to call it by the god's name?

"No need to be nervous," the god vessel said. "I'm not such a bad fellow, once you get to know me."

God's Challenger, she really was talking to Retar.

"I see you took my suggestion," he said.

"Um, hello, Retar. I-I'm Jora."

"Yes, Jora. I know who you are. You're unhappy with your lot, being forced to serve in the Justice Bureau as a member of the Order."

Despite the fact that the god was talking to her through a parrot, she heard a note of sadness in his voice. "You're disappointed in me?"

"Quite the contrary," Retar said. "I hope you continue to pursue your current path. It seemed you needed some help, though. I was happy to oblige."

"That was you? The note, the tip to see Dominee Ibsa?"

"Let's keep that our secret, shall we? I'm not supposed to interfere with your freedom of choice. It's one of the rules."

"Yes, of course. Thank you, but why are you helping me?"

"Oh, I rather enjoy the mysterious nature of being a god. I can't reveal all my secrets, now can I?"

Jora smiled. A god with a sense of humor. Who would've thought? "But Retar, why are you so sad?"

For a moment, the bird didn't respond. It ducked its head and preened its feathers, and then stretched first one wing, aided by a scaly foot, then the other while it watched her with those piercing, golden eyes. She wondered whether her session was over. Perhaps Retar didn't like being questioned about himself.

"Sorry," she said, rising to leave. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No one ever asks how I am," Retar answered finally. "Everyone asks for knowledge or blessings or miracles, usually for themselves or their children. Thank you, Novice Jora, for caring."

Jora lowered herself back down, saddened by his revelation. "People care about you. Perhaps they don't think to ask because they assume that a god is always happy."

The bird sighed. "I've made mistakes, but I'd be a poor god if I burdened you with my problems, especially considering the path you're on."

"W-What do you mean? Am I going to get into trouble for seeing Elder Kassyl?"

"Not at all. I simply meant I wouldn't want to dissuade you. You might be the only ally I have. Go now, Novice Jora. The mystery of the tones awaits."

She stood to leave. "Thank you, Retar. It was nice meeting you. I hope to talk with you again someday."

But the bird didn't answer.

Chapter 14

When a whistle sounded three sharp, staccato notes, every soldier leaped to his feet, grabbed his armor and weapon, and ran to the east. Boden followed, putting his leather cuirass on as he ran. He looked around for Rasmus and found him a few steps behind.

"Come on," Rasmus said, sprinting to overtake Boden. "Can't let the old cusses have all the fun."

_Ras, wait_ , Boden wanted to say. Running headlong into battle without assessing the situation was the way to get killed, and Boden didn't plan to die in his first battle. _Imagine the sport Hadar would have with that,_ he thought.

Something warned him to turn and run, to hide from the men who'd come to kill him. That something, he realized, was fear, a feeling he hadn't had since he was a child. It shamed him to feel afraid, after all the training he'd had for this very thing, and shame kept his fear from overtaking his mind.

He pushed his legs to keep churning, keep running, though the cold feeling in his blood made every step feel sluggish and heavy. Rasmus was gaining distance on him, and he knew that he would need to stay with his friend if he wanted to survive the next hour. All around him, the soldiers of company forty-four, dressed and armed for battle, ran through the ankle-high grass to the shore. He felt like a fawn running with the herd of older, wiser deer, hoping they would protect him from the wolves closing in.

Korlan caught up to him. "I got your back, pal."

Relief replaced terror, and while he was still scared, it wasn't the mind-numbing panic he'd experienced a moment ago. Just having a friend by his side gave him the courage to continue.

When they reached the beach, Boden spotted two ships off the coast and ten smaller boats, loaded with men, rowing toward the beach. Behind the Serocian swordsmen, a wagon arrived with bows, arrows, and a vat of oil. The supply hands started handing the weapons down to the waiting archers.

"Lay down two lines of oil in dry sand parallel to the water's edge," Staff Sergeant Krogh told the archers. "Don't set it alight until the boats are ashore and their fighters charge."

"Mangendans," someone shouted. Others repeated the warning.

"Get into position," the corporals shouted.

Mangend, Boden recalled from his training, employed archers from distance, firing poison-tipped arrows onto the beach in advance of their swordsmen's arrival. The best defense, aside from fleeing altogether, was to huddle together to form a shield wall. Boden crowded with the other men of his unit and took a knee, raising his shield overhead, its edges overlapping with the edges of the others around him. Inside the huddle, it was dark and warm. The sounds of heavy panting filled his ears, and the smells of sweat and fear and aggression assaulted his nose.

"Cover," someone shouted.

Thudding and splintering wood followed. Something hit Boden's shield and sliced along the underside of his forearm where he gripped it. He hissed in a breath but held the position. His shield was intact. A splinter of wood about an inch long was embedded under his skin. He pulled it out and adjusted his shield to block out the sunlight on the side. Another rain of arrows fell, thudding and splintering. A few men cried out. Holes in the shield wall created by fallen men were quickly filled in by men pressing closer together.

"Hold for the third round," Sergeant Keskinen shouted. "They're almost ashore."

A third launch of arrows fell upon their shields. Two hit Boden's shield, but neither sliced through.

Boden met the eyes of his two closest friends. "Stay alert, brothers," Boden said.

"And you," Korlan said. "See you on the other side."

"We've got this," Rasmus said with fury in his eyes.

"Light!" Krogh commanded. "Draw! Loose!"

A rain of arrows flew overhead, most landing in the water in front of the boats. Shields went up all the same, covering the heads of those on the boats.

"Ready swords!" came Keskinen's command. Boden flexed his grip on his sword hilt and prepared to meet the wave of attacking soldiers. He mouthed a short prayer to Retar to help him stay alive.

The boats landed and enemy soldiers stormed the shore with a rallying cry.

"Now!" Krogh shouted. "Light the sand."

Archers fired arrows at the sand, lighting the oil. Two lines of fire raced across the beach, catching the storming forces off guard.

"Attack!" Keskinen commanded. As one, the swordsmen rose and charged.

Mangendans screamed and flailed, their clothing and hair ablaze. Their screams ended quickly on the ends of Serocian swords.

Boden blocked one foe, parried another, and drove his sword through the belly of a third. At first he thought about every swing and step, but soon he realized that his movements weren't all that different from the drills Gunnar had put them through. From that moment on, he let his training and habits guide his body. Around him, men grunted or cried out or cursed as blood sprayed them and soaked the sand and grass. Boden did his best to assist his fellows when they found themselves facing more than one opponent, and he turned at least twice to find a sword, about to cleave him in two, falling limply as his enemy fell to a comrade's sword.

The battle might have lasted four hours or ten minutes. Boden lost track of time. He fought with sword and shield, kicking when he had to or head-butting and elbowing his foes when the need arose. The second he finished one foe, he assessed the battlefield and ran to where Mangendans were heaviest and Serocians were weakest. He swung and blocked and sliced his way through Mangendans as if he were in a macabre dance. He dealt the killing blow more times than he could count, though counting wasn't on his mind as much as surviving. He battled what seemed like dozens of men, all with the same angry eyes and snarling mouths. The warm spray of blood across his arms and face and neck felt like getting splattered by a pissing horse. It revolted him, but better their blood than his own.

Ahead, Voster was battling two men, and he ran to help, reaching his tentmate as an enemy blade was poised to strike him down. Boden chopped down hard with his blade, severing the man's hand at the mid-forearm. The hand, still gripping the sword, fell harmlessly to the sand as the enemy screamed, and Boden ended his life with a thrust through the torso. Voster shot him a grateful glance before turning to engage another.

As the enemy numbers dwindled, Boden had to actively seek out someone to fight, sometimes running across the blood-soaked sand and leaping over fallen bodies to reach a fellow soldier battling exhaustion as well as a foe.

Someone cried out, not a blood-curdling scream as he'd heard many times that day, but a desperate, anguished groan. Several yards away, a Mangendan brute was shouting something into Korlan's grimacing face. The hilt of the brute's sword was flush against Korlan's torso. _Kor, no!_ Boden reached them in a few long strides and plunged his blade into the enemy's back. Korlan fell, the sword still buried in his body. The brute sank to his knees and then fell onto his face, dead.

"Kor," Boden said, dropping to his knees beside his friend.

Korlan lay on his side, gripping the sword hilt loosely. "Pull... out." He could only mouth the words around the blood bubbling out between his lips.

Boden pushed Korlan's hands away and gripped it with both hands. "Steel yourself, brother." He pulled steadily but not too quickly, until the blade was free.

Groaning, Korlan closed his eyes. He coughed weakly, blood spraying, and he turned to lie on his back.

Boden cast a glance about and saw the Mangendans were fleeing. The few skirmishes still ongoing were joined by Serocians who'd given up pursuit of the fleeing cowards. He turned his attention back to Korlan and unfastened his cuirass to see the wound. "You ate the godfruit," he said, tearing open Korlan's shirt. "You'll make it. Hold on, brother."

On Korlan's other side, Rasmus fell to his knees and picked up their injured friend's hand, gripping it and curling the fingers around his own hand. "We're here, Kor. You aren't alone. We've got you."

Boden shrugged out of his own cuirass and pulled off his tunic, then wadded it up and covered the gaping wound in Korlan's lower chest. "Medic!" he shouted, casting a desperate glance around. "Medic here."

A few feet away, the Mangendan brute who'd run Korlan through groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He crawled toward the retreating boats.

"What the hell?" Rasmus said.

Korlan coughed. "I'll be... all right," he whispered, grimacing.

_I killed him_ , Boden thought. He was certain of it. Rasmus stood and plunged his sword into the brute's upper back. The Mangendan collapsed back onto the grass, the sword standing upright in his body. Rasmus gave it a twist, pulled it out, and plunged it in once more. "He's dead for sure now."

"Hang on, Kor," Boden said, returning his attention to his friend. He pressed his shirt, already half-soaked with blood, harder into the wound. "You'll be all right."

"Need... sleep." Korlan closed his eyes.

"No, Kor," Boden said, lightly slapping Korlan's cheek. "You've got to stay awake. Medic!" he shouted again.

But Korlan's eyes didn't reopen. His head turned slightly to one side, and he let out one final breath.

"Kor?" Rasmus said. "Korlan?" He shook Korlan gently, and when he got no response, shook him harder. "Korlan!"

"No, brother," Boden said. "You can't die. You ate the godfruit. I saw you eat it." He put his fingers to the side of Korlan's neck, feeling for a pulse. He felt nothing, tried another spot and another, and tried a spot on his wrist. He pressed his ear to Korlan's chest. Silence. Heavy, lonely silence. "He's gone." The words were hard to get out through the thickness in his throat. His friend, dead.

"I knew it," Rasmus spat, his eyes hard. He stood, his body tense and his hands balled into fists. "The godfruit's a lie, a twice-damned fairy tale to make grown men—"

Korlan gasped, his eyes flying open. Then he began to cough.

"You're all right," Boden said, feeling as shocked as Rasmus looked. "We've got you. Medic! We need a medic, damn it!"

"Challenger's bollocks," Rasmus said, falling to his knees beside Korlan once more.

Korlan struggled to rise, coughing sprays of blood.

Boden and Rasmus helped him sit up, each with a hand under his shoulders. The balled-up shirt fell away, revealing a fresh scar where the bloody wound had been. Finally, Korlan's coughing subsided, and he was able to take a few deep breaths.

"Thanks to the heavens," Rasmus said. "We thought you were dead."

Korlan looked at them both squarely in the eye, but there was something unsettling in his gaze. "I was."

By the time the medic finally got to Korlan, he was up and walking with the help of his two friends, his arms draped across their shoulders. Boden carried the extra sword and Rasmus carried the shield, and they helped him to the wagon, where other men, broken and bleeding, moaned in pain or lay limp and unresponsive. Boden stood by, his mind whirling, as he watched the medics' cart turn and drive off back to camp.

Rasmus turned to him, his face pale and disbelieving. "He couldn't've been dead. Actually dead."

"He was. We saw him die. He had no heartbeat, no breath. How long was he gone? A half-minute?"

"Not even ten beats," Rasmus said, shaking his head. "He passed out. That's what it was. He lost a lot of blood and fell unconscious."

They stared at the back of the retreating wagon as it rumbled across the plain to the camp in the distance. "Is it over?" Boden asked, snapping his thoughts back to the present place. The ships that had been anchored offshore were sailing away. Blood drenched everything and everyone, every blade of grass, every twig, every weed. The sand fared no better. It looked like a sea of blood had gone out with the ebb tide. The march commander was moving through the ranks of the soldiers left standing, making his way to Rasmus and Boden.

"I could sleep for a week, I think," Rasmus said.

"After we eat half a hog."

"You've done well, men," Turounce said, approaching. "I'm proud of the job we did, holding off not one but two ships of Mangendans. You're free to return to camp, get cleaned up, and eat your fill. Cooks are preparing extra. You've earned it."

Boden and Rasmus saluted, received a salute in return, and started back to camp. The walk back was quite a bit longer than the dash to the shore had been.

"Notice how he said we?" Rasmus said. "I didn't see him out there getting drenched in blood and sweat."

Boden shrugged noncommittally. Turounce hadn't gotten to be March Commander by cooking his way there or setting up tents. He'd served his time with a sword in hand and taken his blows, as evidenced by the scar on his face and the small finger missing from his left hand. Fighters were bound to take wounds, and Boden didn't begrudge Turounce a few small luxuries.

"You think Barad Selegal has had enough of the war?" Rasmus asked. "From what I've heard, they rarely attack us now. They've probably lost too many."

Gunnar had said they were as eager to burn down the Tree as Mangend was to possess it, but a lot could change in three years, Boden supposed. As a retired sergeant, it was unlikely Gunnar was getting regular updates on the war. "Yah, but even if they've ceased hostilities of their own, would they suddenly decide not to let Arynd-ban warriors march across their land to reach us? That might prompt a war with their southern neighbor, and I doubt they want that."

"Maybe they should let their women fight. Have you seen their women?" Rasmus chuckled. "As ugly as the men and twice as strong."

Boden laughed, sure Rasmus was making that up. Tourd was nowhere near the Barad Selegal border, so there was little chance he would know what a Barader woman looked like.

They grabbed clean clothes and found a line at the bathing house, chatting while they waited for their turn. The general morale was good. Men congratulated each other on their fighting, thanked each other for blocking a blade or slaying an enemy that was getting the upper hand, or expressed surprise with good-natured ribbing that the other was still alive. In the few short weeks he'd been here, Boden had developed several strong friendships. He could only imagine the depth of those bonds after ten years, bonds that formed through battle and hardship and loss. He felt like a part of something important, something that fit his soul like a missing puzzle piece. After ten years, the sorrow over ending those friendships would be surpassed only by the joy of returning home.

At last, Boden received a cloth, dwindling soap bar, and a small bucket of clean water. With his muscles trembling in exhaustion, he stripped down and washed the blood off his body and head. Now he understood why the Legion required men to shave their heads. He couldn't imagine how much precious water it would've taken to rinse blood out of his long locks. Clean and somewhat refreshed, he dressed and met Rasmus outside.

"Food at last," Rasmus said, turning to the cookfires.

"You go on ahead," Boden said. "I'm going to look in on Korlan first."

Rasmus blushed. "Sure, yah. Of course. What was I thinking? I'll go with you."

The hospital was a large tent with three rows of twelve cots, half of them taken with men in various states of consciousness. Most had bandages wrapped around their arms or legs or heads, some around their entire torsos. Medics moved from one to another, taking pulses and checking for fevers and festering wounds. Korlan was lying on the third cot from the end on the left, and the two friends made their way over. Korlan looked up and smiled broadly. "My brothers," he said hoarsely.

"You're in good spirits," Boden said as he approached.

"Especially for someone who supposedly died," Rasmus added.

Each cot had a stool beside it, and so Boden borrowed the stool meant for Korlan's neighbor and sat on one side while Rasmus sat on the other. "How does it feel?" Boden asked, glancing pointedly at the bandaged wound on Korlan's chest. Rasmus extended a finger toward it, but Korlan batted his hand away with a grimace.

"It's sore. Don't touch. Feels like I got kicked by a horse. A huge, angry, mad horse."

Boden licked his lips, eager to know the rest. "But it works, the godfruit. You said you were dead."

Korlan looked away. "Don't ask me about that. I don't want to think about it."

Boden and Rasmus shared a glance. Korlan's reluctance to talk about it only made Boden more curious.

"How do you know?" Rasmus asked. "That you were dead, I mean. Maybe you were just unconscious."

"Because I saw stuff, all right?" Korlan snapped. There was something in his eyes, something Boden had glimpsed on the battlefield. It wasn't simply fear; it was terror. Stark, soul-wrenching terror. "Stuff that you can't imagine. Stuff that lives in nightmares."

"Oh, brother, you've got to tell us," Rasmus said, sitting forward.

Boden was curious, too, but he didn't want to pressure Korlan into talking about it. At least not yet. Maybe in a few days or weeks, when the experience wasn't so raw. "Let him be, Ras. He'll tell us when he's ready."

"I could be dead by then," Rasmus said. "Come on, Kor. It's over now. You made it through. Tell us what happened. How will I know whether I should eat the godfruit or not."

"Don't eat it," Korlan said. He turned his gaze, intense and wild, to Boden. "There's a reason your papa warned you not to. Take heed, brother."

"But you lived," Boden argued. "You survived a sword through the chest. Are you saying death would be better than a few seconds of... scary stuff? The things you saw didn't hurt you any worse than you were already hurt. They weren't real."

"You don't know that," Korlan snapped. "I do. And they know I'm here now. They're going to come back for me."

"You mean in your nightmares?" Boden asked.

Korlan's eyes were bloodshot, the brown irises practically glowing from the inside. "No. The next time I die."

Chapter 15

Despite the blisters on her feet, Jora ran back to the bureau, clutching the note so that she wouldn't lose it to the wind. She pounded up the many marble steps and yanked open the front door, casting a longing glance at the Spirit Stone on her way past. Inside, she took the note directly to the registrar.

"I've got it," she said, breathless. She braced herself against the doorframe and paused to catch her breath.

"What are you talking about?" the registrar asked. She peered up through her spectacles, giving Jora the impression she was looking down her nose, even though she was looking up.

"I spoke with Dominee Ibsa, and she wrote me this note." She unfolded the note and showed it to the registrar. "Can you direct me where to go?"

The woman pinched her lips together in annoyance. "Downstairs."

"Of the dormitory?"

"Of this building."

"Thank you," Jora called as she left the room and started down the corridor. She nodded to two elders and an adept as she passed them, slowing to a more respectable walk, and then broke into a run once more.

Next to the staircase going up was a door with the word _Basement_ printed on it. Were they really keeping a sick old elder in a dusty cellar? She opened the door and peered in. There was a landing of stone steps, not unlike those leading up, though they were narrower. Lamps along the stairwell lit the way, and she crept down the stairs with the uncertain wariness of a child investigating a forbidden area. At the bottom of the stairs was a corridor with a clean white floor of marble, lined with doors. Which door was Elder Kassyl's?

A door opened, and an unshaven blond woman wearing a white dress stepped into the corridor. She started when she saw Jora. "Novice? What are you doing? You mustn't be here."

She offered the note. "I've been given leave to speak with Elder Kassyl. Is he in there?"

The woman took the note and read it, then handed it back while she looked Jora over. "This is highly irregular."

"I understand, but I really need to talk to him. Do I need to change my robe or wash my hands or anything?"

She beckoned with a head motion. "Come with me."

The woman led her into a room that resembled a kitchen. A few people were sitting around, chatting while water boiled in a large pot. They stopped talking and stared when Jora walked in. "We need soap and hot water for the novice," the blonde said.

"Yes, Naruud," one of the others said. He, too, had all his hair and was dressed in a full-length gray dress. In a wash basin, he mixed steaming water from a pot with cool water from a bucket, then dipped his fingers to test the water. He pointed to a bar of soap beside the basin. "You can wash here. Roll your sleeves up past your elbows and be sure to scrub your hands, wrists and forearms."

She did as he instructed, and he handed her a towel to dry off. That done, Naruud led her back down the hallway and rapped on the door she'd previously exited with one knuckle.

"Come in," said a warbling voice within.

She opened the door. "Novice Jora to see you, Elder." She stepped aside to let Jora enter and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

An elderly man lay in bed, pillows propping him upright, and clean white blankets covering his legs and lower torso. Two rhododendrons sat beside the bed, their presence giving a more cheerful air to what would otherwise have been a stark and depressing room.

The elder had a round face, deep smile lines, and a practically nonexistent upper lip above a kind smile. Unlike most people, baldness suited him. He closed the book on his lap, took off his spectacles, and set them aside. "Well, now. Novice Jora. I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Good day, Elder Kassyl," she said with a bow. "I'm Jora Lanseri. I've only recently been admitted into the Order."

"And good day to you. Welcome to the Order. I hope you find it a rewarding life, if short. What is that you have?"

She handed him the note Dominee Ibsa had written. He put on his spectacles to read it, and then removed them again. "Dominee Ibsa? Well, well. What a surprise." He handed the note back to her. "Are you in my hierarchy?" His blue eyes were sharp and bright, though the whites were yellowed and the lids around them sagging.

"Yes, sir. I'm being tutored by Disciple Bastin."

"I see. Is she giving you trouble?" he asked in a tone that was both playful and genuine.

Jora smiled, feeling a growing fondness for him. "No, sir. She's been very helpful."

"Good, good. Now, I expect you went through a lot of trouble to get here. What brings you to see me?" Elder Kassyl gestured to a stool beside his bed.

Jora sat primly and cleared her throat. "I'm interested in studying the tones of the Spirit Stones, and I was told you've a listing of the tones it has emanated in the past."

"Oh, yes," he said with a yellowed smile. "For thirty-three years, I recorded the tones. I missed three years when I was serving my time in the Legion, but thirty-three years is a good long time. That's over twelve thousand tones."

Jora leaned forward, excited now. "May I see your notes?"

"Perhaps," he said, a playful glint in his eye. "First, tell me why you want to see them."

Jora had always been a somewhat intuitive person, relying on her gut instinct as much as she did her ability to observe the truth. Elder Kassyl set her at ease as much as Adept Sonnis made her uncomfortable. Her instinct was to trust him.

She started with her tale of meeting Sundancer and playing the flute for her, and learning about the book from Nuri's youth.

Elder Kassyl's eyes gleamed with excitement, but he stopped her. "Before you divulge anything further, Novice, there's something I must do. Generally, only disciples receive this gift, but I'm going to give it to you now because, well, let's just say I have an interest in protecting my own work and, by extension, yours as well. Give me your hands."

When she held her hands out to him, palms up, he took her by both wrists, his grip surprisingly strong for his age and physical condition. She felt a tingle race up her arms.

"Do you sense me observing you?" he asked.

The distinct feeling of being watched tempted her to look over her left shoulder, the same feeling she'd had on several recent occasions, beginning in the days before Elder Gastone and Adept Uster arrived in Kaild. "Yes."

"Now envision yourself pulling the hood of your robe up over your head, not physically, but outside the realm of perception."

She opened the Mindstream and imagined herself reaching up to pull her robe's hood up, covering her bald head. The sensation of being watched dissipated.

"Excellent, Novice," he said, releasing her wrists. His eyes were wide, his eyebrows arched. "This is the barring hood. Each time you use the Talent for Witnessing, the hood falls down. You must pull it up like this before you finish using the Talent in order to prevent others from observing you. If you forget, you can be observed. Be certain the barring hood is in place before you continue your studies."

"I understand. Thank you, Elder, for entrusting me with this knowledge so soon."

"You're quite adept. Were I not so ill, I would take you as my own student."

"Oh, I'm just a novice like any other," she said, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks.

"No, you're not. I don't say such things lightly, Novice Jora. You're unusually gifted, though I appreciate your humility. It'll serve you well in the future. I daresay, it'll serve all of Serocia well, too, if I'm right."

Jora tucked Elder Kassyl's book into the bodice of her robe to keep from drawing curious questions on the way up to her room. She hadn't expected him to hand it over so readily, but as she'd explained how she'd figured out the connection between Azarian and the musical notes, he'd grown more and more excited. By the time she'd told him everything, he was begging her to take the book, which he'd kept in the sick ward with him, not daring to let it out of his sight. He invited her to return as often as she wanted and asked her to share with him whatever messages she discovered through her study of the tones. It was less a condition and more a dying wish, inspiring Jora to vow to do her best to fulfill it.

Alone in her room, she sat with her journal open in front of her and Elder Kassyl's book open beside it. His book was filled with horizontal lines upon which he'd drawn small black circles. She sighed. The elder had written down the tones using the conventional musical notation that Jora had never learned. It was her ignorance and impatience that had led her to devise her own system. Now she was forced to learn it if she wanted to know what tones Elder Kassyl had recorded over the years.

She hid the book beneath her mattress and strode across the courtyard to the bureau's library, so much bigger than the one in Kaild, to find a book that would teach her to read the musical notation. It only had books pertaining to law and history, and the librarian directed her to the public library in Jolver. There she found a book written for children, teaching the conventional musical notation, and the librarian let Jora borrow it solely on the basis of her dress. She wondered how many doors opened for members of the Order that were closed to most other people.

Jora thanked her profusely and hurried back to her room in the dormitory to read and learn. It occurred to her that once she learned how to interpret the circles and lines, she would need to learn how to associate them with the fingerings on the flute. If only she'd taken the time to learn the notation in the first place, she could have been deciphering the tones in Elder Kassyl's book by now.

When Gil knocked at her door, she tucked the books under her mattress once more and joined him for supper. She decided to keep her visit with Elder Kassyl her own secret for now, at least until she knew who she could trust with that knowledge.

"Hey," Gil said, bumping her with his shoulder. "What's the matter with you?"

She realized that she'd paused with the spoon halfway to her open mouth, undoubtedly looking quite demented. "Have you ever used a god vessel?" she asked. It was the first thing that came to mind.

"A few years ago," Gil said. He took a bite of bread slathered with butter, but that didn't stop him from talking. "Suggested I join the Order before my eighteenth birthday so I wouldn't have to join the Legion."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I never let my family know I had the Talent. I'd heard enough talk about those freaks to know I didn't want to be one, so I kept it to myself. I have five elder brothers and six elder half-brothers, and my father had four brothers, each of which have between a half-dozen and a dozen sons, not to mention my mother's three brothers and their sons. Trying to explain to the men in my family why I decided to join what they often called the Order of Milksops instead of doing a man's duty wasn't something I relished, so I didn't. I thought I could get out of it. The only person I ever entrusted with the knowledge that I have the Talent turned me in. You know the rest."

"Your family knows now, though," Jora guessed.

Gil nodded slowly with a dejected twist to his mouth. "Because service in the Order is lifelong, the Legion was required to notify my wife. She has the option of being declared a widow and remarrying after the mourning period or moving to Jolver to live near me."

Jora remembered Adept Uster's question about her marital state, explaining that her husband would have had a similar option. "Will she come to Jolver?"

"I don't know yet. She hasn't answered my letter. Why do you ask?"

"About your wife?"

He grinned. "No, about the god vessel."

Jora had to think back to her original question. "Oh. Just curious. I used one for the first time."

"Oh? What did good ol' Retar have to say?"

"He likes that I'm interested in the tones and wants me to keep at it."

"That's it? He didn't give you any ideas about how to get hold of Elder Kassyl's books?"

Jora wasn't ready to reveal that detail quite yet. "He's a bit miserly with advice, said something about interfering with our freedom of choice."

"A dispiriting fellow, isn't he? You'd think a god would be enthusiastic about the people paying to have a word with him from time to time."

"Paying? The cantor didn't ask me for any money."

He gestured to her clothing. "I'll bet it was the robes. They probably don't charge members of the Order for access to the god vessels. After all, the Justice Bureau is a subordinate institution to the Iskori Temple. Besides, it's not like the temple is going broke, right?"

"Not at all. It seemed quite wealthy."

"Have you seen those glorious manors on the north end of Jolver?"

Jora shook her head. She hadn't spent much time touring the city yet.

"The dominee, devoteds, and monks live up there. I wonder sometimes whether the temple has more money than the king. The palace isn't as decadent as some of those homes they have."

"You'd think with all that money, they could help more people," Jora said, keeping her voice low. "Children run around without shoes, eating scraps the dogs drop."

"Speaking of shoes, how're your feet?"

"They didn't look so bad once I cleaned up the blood. Still sore, though."

"Once they heal, we can go back to the docks. Next time, put on your old boots. These sandals are awful for long walks. I have a couple blisters of my own."

She drew his attention to her feet and pulled up the hem of her robe to reveal her boots, then put one finger across her lips.

He smiled slyly and winked. "Your secret is safe with me."

At her first opportunity the following afternoon, Jora returned to the library to look for a book that would teach her how to play the flute. The librarian wasn't able to find a book that suited her purposes and suggested she interview one of the flutists who played in the Royal Symphony. Jora hadn't known there was a Royal Symphony, but she located it not far from the palace with the help of a few passersby and a guard at the palace itself, stopping at the dormitory on the way to tuck her flute into her robe.

Inside, she found a horn apprentice who, while not trained on the flute, had a good ear and was able to tell Jora how notes she played matched up with the placement of dots on the horizontal lines. Mapping out several notes in this way gave her enough of a starting point to figure out the rest, and she hurried back to the dormitory to continue her work.

She only had enough time to write down what the apprentice had taught her before it was time to once again spend a couple of hours in the Observation Request Room. After that, she spent another hour reading her text on Justice Bureau policy and Serocian law to prepare for her meeting with Bastin.

Despite her mentor's youth, she turned out to be quite a hard taskmaster, grilling Jora on what she'd read thus far and chastening her for not having made better progress on her reading. "If you require assistance with the reading assignments," Bastin said, "you need only ask. You assured me you could read."

"I can read," Jora said.

"Then read more quickly. I want you to have chapters five, six, and seven read by noon tomorrow. That means read and understood."

There was a lot of information in the book, too much to memorize in such a short time. Jora thought it unrealistic and unreasonable, but she promised to do her best.

"Until you achieve the rank of Adept, your job is to learn," Bastin said. "You don't have time to pursue other pleasures, so whatever you're doing when you should be reading, stop."

"But..." She tucked her lips between her teeth. Bastin knew nothing of her visit with Elder Kassyl. If Jora explained that the elder had expressed a desire to know what she learned of the tones, she would have to explain how she got permission from the dominee to see him, and Retar had specifically instructed her to keep secret his influence. The god's influence was the only logical explanation for why she'd been so successful. For now, she thought it best to say nothing of her study of the tones and instead endeavor to get caught up on the lessons. Though Elder Kassyl had encouraged her to learn more about the tones, he hadn't given her leave to ignore her regular studies. Instead, she apologized for disappointing Bastin, which went over well.

She returned to her room and read the textbook, but her mind kept drifting to the musical notation. It wasn't difficult to convince herself that she could spare a minute to look up the first few notes in Elder Kassyl's book.

_Beyond_

The first word on the first page of his book was _beyond_. That might have been coincidence. After all, Azarian was made up of notes. Even a bird's song had an Azarian translation. Whether it made sense or not was the real question. She transcribed and translated the rest of the notes on the first line.

_Beyond dawn gates..._

The rudimentary structure of Azarian made the text difficult to understand until she applied the grammar of her own language.

_Beyond the gates of dawn..._

A rush of emotions shot through her body at once, making her insides vibrate with the need to shout and dance. She was right. The tones were a message. This was monumental. She wanted to race over to see Elder Kassyl and share with him what she'd learned, but she had to know more. What were gates of dawn? And what was beyond them? "Just one line of notes" turned into "just one page." She continued translating, aware that she was defying her mentor but unable to put it aside until she satisfied her curiosity.

_Beyond the gates of dawn and dusk live magical beings of Aerta, ready to pledge themselves as allies to those with the fortitude to call them._

She looked up from the books, remembering something Sundancer had said. Something about calling.

" _Calling brings ally from another helix."_

God's Challenger! Sundancer had been teaching her what the Spirit Stones were saying. Could the dolphin hear the tones?

She was too excited to concentrate. If she didn't tell Elder Kassyl, she might burst. Because she knew nothing about his health condition or how much time he might have left, her inclination was to not waste what precious little she had.

After crossing the courtyard and entering the bureau, she slipped once again into the basement stairwell and went down to the bottom level. Instead of knocking on his door straight away, she went to the washing room and knocked on that door. A white-robed medic opened the door and looked at her in surprise.

"Novice, are you lost?"

"No, I'm here to see Elder Kassyl—"

"Elder Kassyl isn't receiving visitors," he said. "You must go back upstairs." He tried taking her by the arm to escort her back down the hallway, but she jerked out of his grasp.

"I have permission from Dominee Ibsa. I saw him yesterday."

"It's all right," said Naruud, the blonde in the white robe, pushing the door open farther. "I've seen it. Next time, Novice, bring the note."

"Yes, madam. May I wash my hands again?"

Naruud gestured to the wash basin, though this time, she let Jora prepare the water herself. After her hands were clean and dry, Jora went down the hall and knocked on Elder Kassyl's door.

"Come—" His words were broken up by a fit of coughing. Assuming he'd intended to tell her to come in, she opened the door and peeked inside. He beckoned her with a wave while he coughed into a handkerchief.

"I can come back if you're not feeling well enough for a visitor," she said.

He shook his head and gestured for her to sit. She shut the door and sat on the stool while she waited for his coughing fit to subside. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, teared up from his effort. She felt sorry for him and wished she could do something to help. At last, his coughing quieted, and he reached for a glass of water with a trembling hand.

"Here, let me." She held the glass for him while he sipped until he nodded that he was finished and then set the glass back on the bedside table.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," he said in a voice hoarse and scratchy. "Have you had any success with the tones in my book?"

She smiled, glad to have some good news to share. "I have." And she told him what she'd learned so far.

As Jora was shaving her head that night, preparing for bed, she was reminded of Boden's departure from Kaild and his shaven head, and it occurred to her that she hadn't checked his journal for messages recently. Though there wasn't any way to relay messages to his family and friends at home, she at least wanted to get a sense of how things were going for him.

And whether he was still alive.

She set down the razor, ran her fingers over her scalp to feel for spots she'd missed, then rinsed and dried her head. Seeing herself in the mirror without hair wasn't so shocking anymore, though she wasn't yet comfortable with her appearance. At least she was in good company. Hair made identifying nonmembers of the Order working within the Justice Bureau much easier.

Satisfied, she sat cross-legged on her bed, closed her eyes, and opened the Mindstream, easily picking out Boden's thread from the bundle that formed in the center of her torso. She wasn't sure whether her training at the Justice Bureau made it easier, or if Boden's being the most-used thread did.

Boden was undressing for bed in a tent with four other men. Assured that he was uninjured and not wanting to see him naked, she raced backward along his thread to sunset on the most recent Suns Day. In the back of his journal, he had written:

_I wonder how you are and wish there was a way you could reply. The Truth Sayers told me you're in training at the Justice Bureau, but that's all they will tell me. Maybe one day you'll be sent to my company to serve March Commander Turounce and I can see your bald head for myself. (smile)_

She smiled back, though she doubted she would earn the Adept title before his ten years were up. According to Bastin, people who joined the Order as adults typically spent three years as a novice, and eight to twelve as a disciple. It would be at least eleven years before she reached that level. Considering how angry he'd been with Gunnar for reenlisting, it wasn't likely he would reenlist and risk alienating his child. No, chances were good she would never see Boden again in person.

She felt a tear trickle down her face, though to wipe it away would've disrupted her concentration. Instead, she moved backward in time to the previous Suns Day, to see whether he'd written anything then. He had, though it wasn't in the back of his journal but in the front.

_Korlan told me about his death experience, and though it sounds frightening, the idea of surviving a death makes it worthwhile. Every day I think about Micah and our growing babe, wondering how big her belly is and whether she can feel the baby kicking. I've seen men lose limbs, I've seen entrails spilling out and faces disfigured, and seen men's eyes go flat after their hearts beat their last. Ugly is this war, bloody and painful. The sound of a woman screaming in the throes of childbirth no longer terrifies me. Now I only wish I could be with her to hold her hand while our baby is born. Death is ugly. Birth is beautiful, especially when it's my own son._

Jora smiled at his words, at how he had matured and his perspective had changed. How sad it was that it sometimes took seeing and experiencing the ugliest life had to offer before one could appreciate the beauty.

She wondered whether he'd written these words for her. This wasn't the kind of conversation they normally had. When she realized that she'd streamed to sunrise on that previous Suns Day rather than sunset, she raced forward in time, embarrassed and ashamed for having been eavesdropping on his private musings. She would be more careful next time.

The message in the back of his journal, presumably meant for her, was:

_I wonder if godfruit is common in the cities. Do people eat it before setting out to sea for a day of fishing? Do pregnant women eat it when they start their labor? Godfruit saves people from one death, and I saw it work on the battlefield when my friend Korlan fell from a sword to the chest. He died right in front of me, and when I was certain he was gone, he awoke with a start, as if he'd merely had a bad dream. We call men like Korlan Relived. I wonder if crates and crates of it are shipped to the cities, or if they're going to other destinations. I saw someone carting off godfruit under the darkness of night. Would Serocian merchants need to conceal their desire to harvest and sell godfruit to our own people, or is something more sinister going on? To ask the Legion Truth Sayers would get me worse than a reprimand. If only you could tell me whether I'm worrying about nothing._

Jora didn't remember seeing godfruit for sale in the market, but she had to admit not knowing what a godfruit looked like. She would inquire next time, though she still had no idea how to get the answer to Boden.

She didn't see him write a journal entry for her on the previous Suns Day, and so she closed the Mindstream, remembering to put up the barring hood first, as Elder Kassyl had taught her. Then she blew out the lamp and lay down to sleep.

Why ask these questions of her? The question went around and around in her mind. Did he want her to investigate, and if so, what or whom? And what would she be able to do about it anyway? If the godfruit truly erased a death, then every warrior would be eating them, giving the Serocian Legion a distinct advantage in the war. Surely the carts of godfruit he'd seen were being shipped to other warriors along the coast or at the Barad border.

What if the enemies were getting godfruit? It would essentially double the number of soldiers on the battlefield.

Jora shuddered. Could that be why the war had lasted so long? If neither Serocia nor its enemies were running out of men to fight, it could go on indefinitely.

Chapter 16

Boden let his sword drop to his side and wiped the sweat from his brow. Most of the men were idle during the day, sleeping, playing Winds and Dragons, tossing a ball, or sitting and talking. Though he was sore from the recent battle, he preferred to work out the soreness than stiffen up by lying around. Working the sword drills also calmed his agitated mind and kept his skills honed.

He noticed Corporal Pharson watching with arms crossed over his chest. "You've got good form, Sayeg," he said. "Focus on keeping your elbow up when you come out of that half-strike, though. It'll keep you in better position for a lunge or flash."

Boden nodded. "Thanks." He walked over to a nearby table where he'd left a cup of water, drained it, and wiped his chin. "Care to spar a bit?"

"Maybe later," Pharson said. "I need you to scout again tonight. I'll send Korlan with you. He's got good far sight. Remember what I told you last time about paying attention to what you need to pay attention to."

"Yes, sir," Boden said, but he had to ask. "March Commander Turounce is taking the appropriate action?"

Pharson nodded once. "It's out of our hands. He's conferred with his superiors over how to handle it. My guess is he'll send a team of assassins to take care of the problem. You haven't mentioned it to anyone?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Get on up there as soon as you're finished with supper."

Boden stopped by the well pump for another cup of water to drink and one to pour over the top of his sweaty head. When the dinner bell rang, he headed to the mess hall and ran into Rasmus coming out of his tent, as well as Korlan. They lined up to receive their rations.

"Glad to see you up and about," Boden said. "How're you feeling?"

"Thanks, brother. Hungry. The physician said all I need now is food to replenish the blood I lost."

"So you're fully healed?" Rasmus asked.

Korlan told them the physician had given him leave to walk around, participate in light drills, and do small errands, though he was forbidden to fight until his wound was fully healed. They got their food and sat together at a table to eat. Korlan's hunger was wolfish, as was his mood, especially whenever someone stopped by to pat his shoulder and welcome him back to the living, but Boden was confident Korlan would find his old humor.

"What was it like?" Rasmus asked. "Dying, I mean."

"I'm not ready to talk about it, all right?" he said with a scowl. "Quit asking me."

"You can see it from our perspective, can't you?" Rasmus asked. "It's like the boy who gets to take the prettiest girl in town as his First Wife, and all the other boys want to know what it was like in her wedding bed."

"No," Korlan grumbled.

"Are you a believer now?" Boden asked Rasmus with a teasing smile.

Rasmus took another bite of meat. "I don't know about that," he said, his mouth full. "Does the godfruit really taste that bad?"

"No, brother. We were pulling your leg." Boden winked at Korlan but got no response.

"It can't be worse than those yellow beans we had the other night," Rasmus said.

Boden barked a laugh. "Isn't that the truth? Hey, Kor, will you be up to scouting tonight? Pharson wants you to go with me."

Korlan paused eating to stare into his bowl for a moment. "Yah. Sitting on a horse beats sleeping."

The stable hand already had Fidget dressed by the time Boden got there, and so he stroked the horse's muscular neck and inquired about how the hay was while he waited for Korlan. The sun had set, but there was still enough daylight to ride without lamps or torches.

"Sorry," Korlan said, jogging over. "My tentmates kept me."

The stable hand brought Korlan's horse, and the two men mounted up, Korlan with a bit of a groan. They rode though camp at a walk, then trotted south toward the rocky coast.

"I don't think I ever thanked you for trying to save me yesterday."

Boden shrugged. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Thanks for keeping Rasmus off my ass about the dying bit, too. He can be pretty relentless at times."

"He's curious, that's all." Boden was, too, but he knew that sometimes it was easier to wait until a man was ready to talk than to constantly badger him. His own repeated questions to his father about his second enlistment had gotten him nowhere.

"Boden, promise me you won't eat the godfruit."

"You're going to have to give me more to go on than a plea. Why shouldn't I?"

"Because it does something to you. I'm not sure what, exactly, but I can feel it. I'm different now."

"Maybe that's because you died. They say near-death experiences change a man. Maybe it's like that."

"It's more than that," Korlan said. He fell silent for a moment. "I think I'm still dead."

Boden turned to regard his friend. "That's mad. You're not dead, Kor."

"How do you know?"

Unnerved by what his friend had said, Boden tried levity. "Because you don't stink any worse now than you did the day I met you."

Korlan didn't crack a smile. "I'm serious. Don't you see something different when you look into my eyes?"

Yes. He had, but it wasn't something Boden could put into words. He thought Korlan had simply been deeply disturbed by the experience. "You died. That's bound to change the way you see life."

"Never mind," Korlan said. "You wouldn't understand. Just... don't eat it anymore, all right? If you trust me at all, don't eat it."

Boden trusted him. When it came to their common goal of defending the Tree, he trusted all the soldiers in his unit, but he couldn't deny what he'd seen with his own eyes. A frightening experience was worth a second chance at going home.

When they reached the cliff's edge, they both looked down at the rocky beach below. From there, Boden could see the foamy water as the waves slapped the shore below and crashed into the jutting rocks of the Dragon's Tail. Below and to the left, the cliff jutted out farther than it did directly below him, hiding potential smugglers or assassins. He headed east to see if he could get a better view.

"Don't go far," Korlan said. "I don't want to have to come looking for you, only to find your smashed body on those rocks down below."

"I'm going to get a look over here. I'll still be in shouting distance."

He walked Fidget roughly a hundred paces and reassured himself that no warriors were swarming up the mountain face. A fog was rolling in from the north, obscuring the Tree's dark form in the distance and the camp down the hill. The moon hung low in the deepening southern sky. He stopped to listen, thinking he'd heard something.

"Boden!" It was Korlan's voice, shouting.

He turned Fidget and heeled the horse to a canter, thinking his friend had seen the suspicious wagon with another load of crates. He should have warned him not to engage them, but he hadn't wanted to bring it up unless he had to.

As he neared, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. _Damn it, Korlan._

Boden urged his horse to a gallop and soon came upon Korlan fighting someone at the top of the cliff. In the distance, a horse-drawn wagon was speeding away, gradually disappearing into the fog.

Boden pulled Fidget to a hard stop and slid from the saddle, drawing the moment his feet hit the ground. He ran to his friend's aid, and between the two of them, they easily dispatched the swordsman.

Several lumpy sacks were piled beside the steep path that led down to the beach, and one had spilled its contents. Godfruit, as Boden had suspected.

"There are three more below," Korlan said. He started down the path.

"Korlan, wait," Boden called after him. "We should report them, not engage them."

"But they'll get away."

_Damn it._ Boden followed Korlan down. Below, he spotted three men carrying sacks atop their shoulders. Their steps were sluggish with the extra weight, but the fact that they didn't drop the bags and flee told Boden the value of their booty was worth risking their lives. Boden half-ran, half-slid down the slope, sword drawn. Ahead of him, Korlan caught up with the slowest one and swung his sword downward at the sack. The cloth ripped open, and godfruit tumbled to the ground. The man kept running.

The leader bent low, put one hand on a rock, and jumped down, then sprinted down a more gradual slope in the face of the cliff, followed closely by the second. The slow one grunted and stumbled, falling onto his belly. He tried to scramble to his feet, but Korlan was upon him, his blade poking the man's back. "Move and you're dead."

Boden ran past Korlan and the fallen thief. The other two were getting away. He hopped down the four feet or so off the top rock and followed the path down as quickly as he dared. His feet slipped a time or two, but he managed to regain his footing with his left hand on the rocks. Below, the first man was slowing, his footsteps and breathing more labored. He glanced up at Boden and kept running, picking up his pace.

The men headed to a small boat that was canted to one side where it rested on the rocky beach. He dropped his bag of godfruit into the boat, pushed it backward into the water, and jumped in. He worked the oar desperately, trying first to turn the boat about, and then to paddle away.

The second man called for him to wait. He plunged into the shallow water at a run but was slowed considerably when the water reached his knees. Boden pounded the rocky beach, desperate to keep him from getting away.

"Take it," the second man yelled. He tossed his bag of godfruit, but it landed shy of the boat. The first man reached for it, tipped the boat, and fell over the side into the frothy water.

Boden sheathed his sword and ran as far as he could into the water and then dove forward and swam. All the years he'd spent living on the sea and swimming against the sometimes strong currents paid off. He grabbed the second thief as he swam for the boat. At first, the thief fought him, but Boden drew his dagger, and plunged it into the man's side. The struggles weakened. Warmth mixed with cold over Boden's hand as he stabbed the man again and again. The body went limp, and he let it go as he looked over the choppy water for the boat.

Boden swam to it, still gripping his dagger. The last thief was trying to climb over the side. The boat tipped, filling with water, and the thief clawed desperately at the opposite edge, kicking at Boden as he did.

One foot slammed into Boden's face hard enough to make him see stars, but he didn't let go of the man's arm. He clawed his way up the man's body, grabbing him by the shirt. The boat began to sink, and the thief let go and started pummeling Boden with his free hand. Boden took a deep breath and dragged the man underwater with him. After a good half-minute of wrestling and then frantic slapping and clawing with bubbles tickling Boden's face from below, the thief went still.

Boden pushed him away and swam to the surface, gasping for a breath as soon as he broke. He took a few more breaths before going down again for his foe. He grabbed the limp man by the shirt collar and hauled him up to the surface, then swam back to shore.

Heavy from the weight of his wet clothes and tired from the battle, he sat for a moment on the rocky beach to catch his breath, the drowned thief at his feet. He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly, relieved to find Korlan.

"You got both of them?"

"I did," he said, climbing to his feet.

Korlan pushed the drowned thief over with his booted foot. "Can't be Arynd-ban; he's got no tattoos. Got to be Mangendan."

"Other one's dead?" Boden asked.

"Yah. Kind of hard to breathe with holes in your lungs."

Boden looked his friend over. "You're not supposed to be fighting. How do you feel?"

"Sore, but I'll heal. You hurt?"

Boden touched his cheekbone where the thief had kicked him. He'd probably have a bruise tomorrow. "I'm all right."

"Can you believe they were stealing godfruit? With all the pickers loading wagons, and all the wagons coming and going to and from the Tree, it's no wonder no one failed to notice an extra."

"Yah. Smugglers. Can you keep a secret?"

Korlan looked at Boden flatly. "Do I look like Rasmus?"

Boden smiled at the jest. "A couple of weeks ago, when I was out here with Pharson, I spotted four men hauling crates like these. He wouldn't go after them, wouldn't let me go after them. He told me he'd report it to Turounce and ordered me to keep it to myself. I have to wonder whether he reported it at all."

"Whoa," Korlan said. "Are these the same men?"

"I don't know. I didn't get a good look at them. I sure hope they are. Otherwise, the problem is bigger than a few thieves trying to make money."

Boden pulled his journal from the bottom of his knapsack and hid it under his shirt. He took his lead pen and a knife and headed to the privy, about a minute's walk from the rest of the camp. Instead of going into the outbuilding, he checked behind him to see if anyone was watching, then ducked behind it.

The smell was rank, and he occasionally had to listen to someone grunting inside, but it was the most private place he'd found on an island with only one tree, except for the shore. Finding a plausible explanation for going there alone was problematic.

He sat on the dry, packed dirt and leaned his back against the side of the building, unwound the string from around the tip of the graphite stick, and whittled the tip to give it an edge. With his journal open across his knees, he began to write.

_On patrol duty last night, to the south, Korlan discovered four men stealing sacks of godfruit. They were headed to a small boat beached on the rocky shore below, each one carrying a full sack of godfruit. Despite the physician's orders not to fight, Korlan engaged one. Together, we cut him down fairly easily. The others fled, and Korlan went after them._

_When he caught up with the slowest of them, he first spilled his sack of stolen godfruit and then spilled his guts. The second and third nearly got away. One was already in the boat, paddling for his life, and the second was behind him._

_I went after him, swimming as hard as I ever had, and managed to kill him with my dagger. I don't remember everything in the proper order, but somehow the boat started filling with water, and I took a couple of blows to the face that gave me a black eye. I got hold of the thief who'd fallen out of the boat and held him underwater until he drowned, nearly drowning myself in the process. I got my breath and dragged his corpse to shore, but there was no saving the godfruit._

_I wanted to hide the corpses, but Korlan thought we should carry them up top to show the commander. We argued about it for a good half hour, each of us convinced we were right. I had to confess that I'd seen smugglers before, and when I reported the incident to Corporal Pharson, I was told in no uncertain terms to forget what I thought I saw and mention it to no one. In the end, I convinced him that, until we knew what was going on, it was best to hide the bodies and act like we knew nothing of their demise._

_It worries me that our leadership knows about the smuggling and does nothing about it. If godfruit is being given or sold to our enemies, the Serocian soldiers no longer have the advantage in battle. The godfruit enables us to survive a deadly blow, essentially doubling our number of fighters, but if the Mangendans, Baraders, and Arynders also have it, then it could be decades before either force starts to run out of men to fight the war._

_I've been in the Legion only a few weeks, and yet I've seen at least four smugglers. How many have I not seen? How many other soldiers have seen them, reported them, and were told to pretend it never happened?_

_If someone is selling the godfruit, they're profiting from this war. Does Turounce's captain know? Does his major or chief? Could they be trading men's lives for gold coins and prolonging a war instead of negotiating its end? The thought of it turns my stomach, but what am I to do?_

Boden stopped writing to squeeze his eyes shut, pinch his lips tightly together, and wish none of it was true. "God's Challenger," he whispered. "What am I to do?"

He heard footsteps in the grass and froze. Voices grew louder, more distinct.

"Who found them?" someone asked.

The privy door opened with a squeak of its rusty hinges and then banged shut.

"Mercer and Potts," said the unmistakably deep voice of Staff Sergeant Krogh. "Potts said he saw one of them washed ashore, stabbed to death. The others they found on the beach, hidden under some rocks and seaweed."

_Damn_ , Boden thought, his eyes widening. That was quick.

"Who was on patrol last night?" the first man said.

"Sayeg and Rastorfer."

The sound of liquid streaming into a pit of wet waste followed.

"Ask Adept Orfeo to witness them while they were on patrol. If Sayeg was involved in this, so help me..."

"Yes, sir," said Krogh. The only man the staff sergeant would call _sir_ was Turounce himself.

Boden's heart raced. He was about to be observed killing those two smugglers. In retrospect, maybe it would've been better if they'd come forward instead of trying to hide the bodies. Those men had been thieves, and Boden was only doing his duty. How could they find fault with that?

"Pharson's looking for you," said Voster as he passed.

Boden nodded his thanks and ducked into his tent to quickly replace his journal in the bottom of his knapsack before going out to find the corporal.

"There you are, Sayeg," Pharson said. "Turounce wants to see you."

Boden followed Corporal Pharson through camp, past the dozens of curious eyes of the men who'd somehow gotten wind of the summons. Judging from the wariness in their eyes and in their long faces, they knew as well as he did that this wouldn't be a pleasant meeting. How much did they know, he wondered as he searched among the faces for his friends, the ones he knew would stand behind him, the ones who knew him well enough to know he, of all people, was dedicated and beholden to his duty? Would they have done differently in his position?

At last, he and Pharson reached the door to the command center. The corporal held it open. Boden tapped his boots on the step to knock off the dirt clinging to his soles and stepped inside.

To the right was the command board, manned by a one-armed soldier, a man who'd chosen to stay and serve in this capacity rather than forfeit his pension to return home before his ten years were up. A decision Boden could respect and admire. To the left, Sergeant Keskinen waited with legs apart and hands clasped behind him.

"Sayeg," he said. "Come with me." He led the way down a narrow corridor and into a room on the left. March Commander Turounce was seated at a table, holding a few papers in his hand. When Boden walked in and saluted, Turounce removed his spectacles and set them on the table.

"Do you know what this is, Sayeg?" Turounce asked.

"No, sir." He'd walked in two seconds earlier. How could he know what the March Commander had been reading? Of course, he wouldn't ask such a question aloud. It would've come off as disrespectful and insubordinate.

"Recommendations from Corporal Pharson and Sergeant Keskinen to spare your life and keep you on in spite of your interference in matters beyond your understanding." He threw the papers onto his desk to punctuate his annoyance and stood. "I thought I could count on you, Sayeg. I'd hoped you'd inherited some of your father's intellect, or if not that, then at least his dedication and ability to follow a simple order."

Boden swallowed. "Sir, I'm unaware that I've disobeyed any orders."

Turounce held up one finger as if to count the first incident of disobedience. "Two weeks ago, did Corporal Pharson instruct you not to speak of the incident concerning those so-called thieves you thought you saw?"

"Yes, sir." He felt the anger warm his neck. Korlan had sworn not to tell anyone, damn him.

Turounce held up a second finger. "Did Corporal Pharson instruct you to drop the matter?"

"Yes, sir. I dropped it."

"How the hell does killing two men constitute dropping it in your mind? Killing them and then trying to hide their bodies." He used his two fingers to poke Boden's forehead. "What the hell were you thinking, Sayeg? Do you have any idea the problems you've caused? The trouble that's about to come down around us for this screw up?"

"No, sir," Boden said. "I saw two Mangendans smuggling godfruit, sir, and I stopped them."

"You have no idea what you've done, you idiot," Turounce hollered.

"The godfruit is ours. If we're not fighting this war to keep it out of enemy hands, then why are we fighting?"

"How long have you been under my command, Sayeg?"

Boden calculated quickly in his head. "About five weeks, sir."

"And how many times have I explained the nuances of international relations to you?"

Boden looked at his boots. "None, sir."

"That's right, Sayeg. Do you think there's a possibility that I know more about this war than you do?" When Boden didn't answer right away, he asked, "Do you?"

"Yes, sir."

Turounce turned his back to Boden and ran a hand over his shaved head. "Have you eaten the godfruit this morning?"

A cold shiver ran up Boden's back to his neck, making his arms break into gooseflesh. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper.

"Are you Relived?"

"No, sir, but I've seen it work. I saw Korlen come back."

"Then you know why we ask our fighters to eat it every morning. Not only for you to get another chance to go home when your tour of duty is up, but to test you. To see how devoted you are to serving Serocia."

"Yes, sir," Boden said, unsure where this conversation was going.

"You eat the fruit every morning?"

"Yes, sir. As you instructed."

Turounce turned around again, his expression more relaxed, his eyes less angry. "Korlan's account of what happened to him in death didn't give you second thoughts?"

"He won't go into detail, sir. He warned me not to eat it, said the moments he was dead were terrifying."

"And in spite of that, you still eat the godfruit. Every day."

Boden nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"Because I want to serve, sir. I want to put in my ten years, do my duty like my father did and his father before him. And because my march commander told me to."

"What about your wife and child?"

Jora's face came to mind, and he felt a flush of shame for thinking of her instead of Micah. "Yes, sir. I'd very much like to meet my son and hold my wife again."

Turounce nodded. "If I can trust you, if you prove yourself to be the kind of fighter, the kind of _man_ your father was, then you will. You'll do all of that. But I have to know I can trust you."

Boden lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. "You can, sir."

"Good." Turounce put one hand on Boden's shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Because this is your first test."

A flash of steel took Boden by surprise as the March Commander plunged a knife into his chest.

The pain blinded him for a moment, and he couldn't breathe. He staggered to one knee. Turounce's hands eased him to the floor. The pain dissipated, but he felt weak. Tired. A white film covered his vision, dulling it. Turounce bent over him and said something, but the words were fuzzy and distant.

And then, Boden was falling.

He walked on numb feet along the squishy ground in a darkness he felt and heard as much as saw. Impossible, hideous creatures turned toward him, sizing him up. All he saw were fangs and claws and human eyes that looked both tormented and terrible, skin of wood and scales, and mouths wide enough to swallow small children whole. His nostrils filled with dankness and decay. His lungs filled with fetid air that seeped through him and turned his blood black. The creatures whispered in the twisted tongue of the maniacal, the sounds that only nightmares made.

He tried to run, to get away from them, but his feet could get no purchase. He opened his mouth to scream, but all he could do was suck in that awful air, gasping and gulping as if he were drowning in it.

It felt like something kicked him in the chest. A rush of air filled his lungs—heavenly, cool air. His heart thundered madly as he gasped for breath after breath and then coughed when his lungs could take no more. The metallic tang of blood wet his mouth. He opened his eyes, expecting to find himself on a bloody battlefield or perhaps in the infirmary, recovering after the physician had patched him up. Instead, he saw March Commander Turounce squatting beside him, helping him sit up.

"There you are. Sit up a bit, try to breathe normally."

"What happened?" he asked. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and it came away bloody. He looked down at himself. His shirt was drenched in blood around a slit in the fabric right in the center of his chest. "I got stabbed?"

Turounce handed Boden a cup of water, his right hand and forearm splattered with blood. "I stabbed you. Do you have no recollection of our meeting?"

Boden drained the cup and handed it back. Fragments of memories were starting to come to him. "You... wanted to know you could trust me."

"That's right. I'm disappointed in you, Sayeg. Do you remember why?" He climbed to his feet, picked up a towel, and wiped himself off.

"I... killed the smugglers."

"That's right. I had to test you, and you passed. Do you know what this means?"

Boden remembered being questioned about whether he'd eaten the godfruit that morning, whether he'd died once before and been brought back to life. "I'm Relived."

"That's right. You've got only one death left, Boden. Think about what that means the next time you're tempted to disobey an order."

A Truth Sayer walked into the room, his hands folded in front of him. The hood of his green robe shadowed his face, but the dark eyes watched coldly.

Then Boden realized that Korlan hadn't betrayed him at all. The adept had spied on him, listened to his conversation, and reported it to the commander.

Turounce opened a crate, pulled out a folded shirt, and tossed it to Boden. "Clean yourself up and put this on." He bent over and offered his hand. When Boden grasped it and stood, the March Commander gripped it harder, boring into Boden's eyes with his steely gaze. "You'll say nothing about what happened here. Am I clear?"

"Very clear, sir."

Boden staggered back to his tent, ignoring the questions from his fellow soldiers about what the commander wanted. He had nothing to say. Not yet, anyway. Would they want to know that their own commander had killed him? That Turounce had betrayed one of his own men?

He collapsed onto his bunk, his strength gone. He lay on his side and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep while he chewed on what had happened.

Betrayed.

His own commander had _killed_ him.

And those... things. He couldn't get the images out of his mind of monsters with human eyes reaching for him, trying to keep him there. And that darkness that sucked at him, that oozed over his skin and made him itch all over, and not only in the center of his chest, where the knife wound was healing.

Was that where everyone went when they died, or just those who ate the godfruit? And what of his next death? Would he return there to spend eternity fighting off those monsters?

Now he understood what had frightened Korlan so much. Now he knew why Korlan thought he was still dead. Maybe he was.

Sleep started to overtake him, and he knew he needed it to heal, to give his body time to replenish his blood, but every dream featured a twisted monster surrounded by inky darkness clawing at him. He gasped to wakefulness time and again, sitting up in bed and searching for the familiar to convince himself it wasn't real. In the darkest part of the night, his eyes saw only the dark, and he flailed his way out of the blanket that trapped him in his bunk.

"Boden." A friendly voice. Voster. "Are you all right?"

He touched his arms and legs, feeling his human body. He wasn't one of those grotesque fiends. The soft, steady sound of breathing told him he was in his tent. Nighttime. His tentmates were sleeping. Somewhere not far away, someone snored. "Uh... yah," he croaked. Water. He needed water. "Bad dream."

"All right. Go back to sleep."

He heard the rustle of cloth, and the creak of a bed frame. By the time he pulled on his boots, the sound of Voster's breathing had joined the others.

Boden went outside and looked up and down the rows of tents, dark in the dead of night without the moon to light his way, though the black sky was alight with a million stars.

He shuffled to the well pump, grabbed a bucket from the stack nearby, and set it down under the spigot, then lifted the handle and pumped water. The pain in his chest flared, and he clutched at the raw wound with his bare hand while he pumped. At last, a few trickles of water sputtered out, followed by a shot of it with every pump. He gave it a few more and stopped, grimacing in pain. He picked up the bucket, grabbed a cup, and stumbled to the benches nearby. He set the bucket on the bench and sat down, then dipped the cup in and drank long, delicious gulps of cool water.

Momentarily sated, he wiped his mouth and looked to the northwest.

In the distance, he saw the Tree, dark and foreboding against the starry night sky. It stood alone, the only tree on the entire Isle, and Boden felt akin to it. Alone.

He counted off the people who'd betrayed him: Gunnar, Turounce, his tentmates. He'd caught Hadar and Rojyr hunting through his knapsack one day, probably looking for his journal. He was thankful for that false bottom Jora had stitched into it.

Jora. He wondered again how she fared at the Justice Bureau. She was the only one he could trust, and he'd betrayed her by telling Rasmus about her.

Yes, he was alone but for one friend he couldn't reach. At least he could talk to her, even if he didn't receive a reply.

He snorted at the similarity to talking to the god Retar. Out here, one could talk, but there was no reply. Out here, there were no god vessels to give Retar a voice, no temples to take one's money for the privilege of speaking to him through a monkey or parrot. What a farce it all was.

"But not all that humorous."

Boden scrambled to his feet, spinning around to see who was there. What the hell?

"You complain that you're alone. Imagine how I feel." The voice was squeaky, its words sloppily formed.

His heart thundered weakly, renewing the ache in his chest. This couldn't be happening. Boden checked his eyes with his fingers and found them open. He was stuck in a dream, thinking he was awake. Dreaming with his eyes open.

Something rustled in the grass, coming closer. It was too small to be a human and didn't have the rhythm of human footsteps. A rabbit hopped up to him and sat up on its hind legs, nose twitching. Its black eyes sparkled as if a tiny star were embedded inside each one.

"Do you see me now?" the rabbit asked.

"What the hell?"

"You wanted to talk, so here I am. Talk." The rabbit lisped badly and had difficulty with the R.

"Retar?"

"In the flesh. And fur. And ears. Now, these are for hearing. Mouth isn't the best for talking, though."

Boden gaped in disbelief at the rabbit. Retar and the gods who'd come before him were well known for speaking through animals but always in a temple. Never out here in the wilderness.

"What can you tell me about the smuggling?" he asked quietly, not wanting anyone to awaken and overhear him. He'd already been warned twice.

The rabbit's nose twitched. "You should have let those smugglers go, Boden. Pharson warned you, Turounce warned you. And you really shouldn't have written about it in your journal."

"Why are they letting it go on?"

"Listen," Retar said, pulling his left ear down with his paws as if to wash it. "It's my fault, and I'm sorry. It's like when you cut off that Mangendan's arm. He escaped, but he bled to death."

"I don't understand. Smuggling godfruit is like cutting off a man's arm?"

"Precisely. Now you're following."

Boden shook his head. "No, I'm not. Sorry."

"Ah, well. It's a long story anyway and not that interesting."

"You aren't helping," Boden said. "Can you please explain it in simple terms?"

"Wars cost money. Let's leave it at that."

"You're saying we're defending the Tree so that we can sell its fruit to the countries who want to destroy it so that we can afford to defend the Tree?"

"Despite what your leaders tell you, no one wants to destroy the Tree," Retar said.

"Then why can't we stop the war?"

"It's like when you cut off that Mangendan's arm. He escaped, but he bled to death."

"You said that already. Can you be less mysterious, more forthcoming?"

The rabbit's long top teeth gleamed in the moonlight. "I like being mysterious. It's one of the perks of being a god, and let me tell you, there are very few perks."

Boden sighed. Retar was being more confusing than helpful. "Then whose arm would stopping the war cut off?"

Retar's rabbit nose twitched. "Mine, of course. Cut off the supply of blood and..." The rabbit stuck out his tongue and flopped over onto his side, eyes closed. He leaped to his feet again. "Sorry, but I've got to hop along. It's almost daylight in Qanderia, and I've got prayers to answer." With that, the light went out of the rabbit's eyes, and it darted away.

"Wait! Retar, please."

The rabbit hopped back around the corner of a tent, eyes sparkling once again. "Yes?"

"One more question, if you don't mind. How's my wife?"

"I'm sorry, Boden. She took a bad tumble a few days ago. The baby has died."

"No," he said, standing. His heart fell into his feet. "Please, can't you... fix it?"

"I'm not that kind of god. I'm very sorry."

By the time Adept Orfeo received word that another enemy force was incoming, Boden's chest wound had healed and he'd regained his strength. The fighting didn't last as long as the previous battle had. The Mangendan fighters who died stayed dead, and all but two Serocians survived their wounds, either because of the godfruit they'd eaten that morning or because their injuries weren't fatal and the medics got to them quickly enough to save them.

Boden fought like he'd never fought before. He and Korlan watched out for one another, brothers on the battlefield. Rasmus still fought with the conviction of a man who thought himself invincible. It was becoming clear why the Legion wanted its soldiers to eat the godfruit. Those who had never died fought with abandon, taking down more enemies than their Relived comrades simply because they were reckless.

Rasmus joined Boden and Korlan on their way back to camp, his smile wide and his body drenched with sweat. He flung an arm around the shoulders of his two friends. "Now that was a battle. Did you see that big fellow go down? The look in his eyes was priceless. Bet he wished he'd eaten godfruit this morning."

Boden would have bet so, too. Or maybe the Mangendan was already Relived.

Korlan pushed Rasmus's arm off his shoulder. "Yah, good for you. Just wait. You'll die, too, someday."

"Especially the way you fight," Boden added. He shielded his eyes from the setting sun with the flat of his hand. "You're not invincible."

"I feel like I am," Rasmus said. He thrust his fists into the air and shouted, "I'm invincible!"

A few other men chuckled. "Dumb ass," someone muttered.

"What's today?" Boden asked.

"Suns Day. Why?" Korlan said.

Boden shrugged. "Hard to keep track anymore." Judging from the position of the sun, he had another half hour before sunset, enough time to wash the blood off and put on clean clothes. He could make a quick journal entry to Jora before supper.

He grabbed clean trousers and shirt and ran to the bath house, getting the third place in line. The men already in the bath, singing a bawdy song in terrible harmony, must have either taken their clean clothes with them to battle or they left before the corporal called the all-clear. When Boden's turn came, he bathed as quickly as he could and dressed, shivering in the cooling air, before running back to his tent. Thankfully, he was alone.

He pulled the journal and lead pen from his knapsack and then knelt on the floor, using the bed as a writing table. He might not have been able to do anything about it from where he was, but maybe Jora, being at the Justice Bureau, could. _Song of the Sea Spirit_ came to mind, her favorite. His mind drifted to the flute he'd given her. Had she learned to play it yet? He turned to the page he'd written last, before Turounce had killed him, and drew a dolphin in the corner of the page. Next, he flipped to the back and scribbled a hasty note.

_Jora, read the page in the front of this book with the dolphin in the top right corner, written three days ago. Hope you can put that information to good use._

His drawing skills weren't as good as his imagination was, and the thing didn't end up looking much like a dolphin, but it was the only page with anything in the upper right corner. Hopefully, she would see it. Hopefully, it would enable her to call attention to the illegal smuggling and stop it.

Hadar came in with Rojyr, and Boden quickly shut the journal and shielded it from view with his body.

"You sure got in the bath line fast," Rojyr said.

"Yah," Boden said, pulling his knapsack onto the floor with him. "I hate the feeling of blood drying on my skin." He lifted the false bottom in the knapsack and shoved the journal in, tamped the bottom flap into place, and shoved the bag under his bunk. He climbed to his feet and grabbed his bundle of dirty, bloody clothes. "Better get these to the campers for washing."

"Take mine too, will you?" Hadar asked. Without waiting for a reply, he tossed his dirty shirt at Boden, practically hitting him in the face. Boden added the shirt to his bundle and reached out his free hand, offering to take the trousers, too.

"Thanks," Rojyr said, piling his own dirty clothes into Boden's arms as well. "And pick me up a clean set for next time, will you?"

Boden grumbled but took the wad of laundry to the drop-off and grabbed three clean shirts and trousers to bring back with him. He found Hadar and Rojyr sitting on Hadar's bed, hunched over something, laughing. Eron crossed his arms and stood when Boden walked in. Boden tossed a clean shirt and trousers onto Rojyr's bed, and another onto Hadar's. When he turned to his own bed, he found his knapsack there. He dropped the clothes on the bed, looked inside and saw the false bottom raised and his journal missing. "Hey!"

Eron blocked his path to Hadar and Rojyr.

"Death is ugly," Hadar said in a falsetto. "Birth is beautiful, especially when it's my own son." More laughter. "Hey Sayeg, we never knew you were a poet."

"Give it back, you bastards," Boden growled. He rushed them, intending to take back his property, but Eron blocked his way with a hard shove on the chest. Boden stumbled backward, arms flailing. His heel hit something, and he went down on his backside.

"What's that?" Rojyr asked.

"Looks like a winged worm with a hunchback," Hadar said.

"No, no. It's a dolphin. He drew a little dolphin."

"Let's hope he's not planning to be an artist when he gets back home."

Boden surged to his feet. "Don't read that," he said. "I swear, if you know what's good for you, don't read it."

Hadar read aloud, "On patrol duty last night, to the south, Korlan discovered four men stealing sacks of godfruit. They were headed to a small boat beached on the rocky shore below..." Hadar's smile fell, and his eyes darted back and forth as he read silently.

"Damn you, Hadar," Boden said. "Stop. I'm trying to save your miserable life."

"God's Challenger," Hadar said under his breath.

Rojyr leaned in to read, too, and Eron shuffled over to have a look.

"No," Boden said. He pushed past Eron and reached for the journal, but Hadar turned his body, blocking him. "If Turounce finds out you've read that..." He didn't want to finish the thought, let alone the sentence.

"God's bloody challenger," Hadar said, looking up. His face was ashen. "You think the commanders are letting people smuggle godfruit?"

"To who?" Eron asked. "And why?"

"To Mangend," Rojyr said. "And Arynd-ban and probably Barad Selegal, too."

Boden let his head drop in defeat and rubbed his brow. These idiots would get them all killed.

"To fund the bloody war," Hadar said, his voice soft with the horror of what he was saying.

Eron laughed. "You're full of crap. That's mad."

"Yah," Boden said. He made another play for the journal and this time he managed to snatch it out of Hadar's hands. "It's mad. Forget you ever read it." Then, for insurance, he ripped the page he'd marked out of his journal as well as the note to Jora. If Adept Orfeo was going to poke around in his past, this might make it harder for him to use Boden's journal against him. It was unlikely that Orfeo knew anything about Boden's arrangement with Jora on when to read it.

"Why bother protecting the Tree if they're selling the godfruit to our enemies?" Eron asked.

Hadar said, "Because if you restrict a market, the price goes up. They can make a great profit on godfruit by selling it to our enemies in small quantities. If we quit defending the Tree and let everyone take what they want, they get no money at all. Trust me. My family's been in the gem business for generations. I know how it works."

"God's Challenger," Rojyr said. "Does Turounce know about the smugglers?"

"He knows. You'd be wise to keep your mouth shut about this." Boden went outside, tossed the torn pages into the nearest cookfire, and watched them burn.

Chapter 17

While Jora and several of the adepts and elders were waiting, hands on the Spirit Stone, for the sun to rise, a bell began to toll at the Justice Bureau.

"May Retar guide his everlasting spirit," Adept Fer said. He spoke with a lisp in a baritone voice.

"What?" Jora asked, alarmed. The tolling stopped, but the sound echoed ominously in her mind.

The Truth Sayers hung their heads and whispered something she couldn't quite make out.

"Elder Kassyl has died, Novice," Fer said.

Tears sprang to her eyes. No. He couldn't have died. She'd spoken to him the evening before, and he hadn't been doing so poorly.

Adept Sonnis came outside, joining them at the Spirit Stone. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he'd been crying, and there was a scratch on his face she hadn't noticed the previous morning. The others offered him their condolences, as if he were the only one who was grieving. "We're all saddened by this tragic loss," he said.

"How?" she asked. Her voice caught in her throat.

"He took a turn for the worse last night," Sonnis said. His gaze turned cold and cruel when it fell upon her. "Perhaps something weakened him. Some burden he was too ill to bear."

"What do you mean, Adept Sonnis?" Fer asked.

"I'm speculating, of course. I saw him yesterday evening after supper, and he was distressed by something."

_Liar,_ Jora wanted to shout. Elder Kassyl had been happy when she'd left him, excited about her discovery and eager for her to translate more of the tones. Nothing about him had been distressed, except perhaps his own illness.

The sun peeked over the horizon, and a new tone sang through her body, lifting her from her aching feet and filling her with elation in spite of her heavy heart.

When she opened her eyes again, Adept Sonnis was watching her intently.

The day was quiet. While the work of the Justice Bureau went on, members of the Order went about their duties solemnly. In the late afternoon, a memorial service was held for Elder Kassyl that was both beautiful and somber. Those who knew him spoke of his wit, humor, and unrelenting thirst for truth, justice, and honor. Nearly everyone was in tears, whether they'd met him or not. Though she'd only spoken to him twice, Jora felt the loss acutely. She'd found in him a kindred spirit and a true friend. Part of her wished she'd joined the Order earlier, to give her more time with him, but then she would never have met Sundancer and learned Azarian. She'd have been just another novice in his hierarchy.

In the evening, after the Justice Bureau was closed for the night, all the novices, disciples, adepts, and elders walked to the First Godly Redeemer House of Prayer, with two notable exceptions: Adept Sonnis and Elder Kassyl. Jora walked alongside Gilon and Adriel, her head bowed for her elder, whom she considered herself fortunate to have met. She wished she'd joined the Order earlier, before he'd fallen ill. She could have learned so much from him.

"I never got to meet him," Gilon said.

"Most unfortunate," said one of the other disciples. "He was a wonderful man."

Jora nodded, though she wasn't ready to reveal that she'd had any interaction with him.

"Why are you nodding?" Disciple Bastin asked from behind. "You didn't know him, either. He was an adept when I first came here. So kind and generous with his time. If I didn't understand something and my disciple was busy with his duties, Elder Kassyl would always take time to explain."

"I can imagine it," Jora said. "The elders I've met have all been very kind." Even Elder Gastone, who had dragged her from her home practically by force, was still a kind and compassionate man.

Gilon glanced at her and winked. Did he suspect she'd found a way to see the ailing elder?

Inside the temple, the members of the Order of Justice Officials took seats in the pews, and the nave settled into silence.

At the front of the room stood a statue of a man in a proud, victorious stance. At his feet was a rock made of the same white material as the Spirit Stone, though it was an ordinary, lumpy rock with no discernable shape. Two enforcers stood guard beside it. They hadn't been there the day she'd gone to speak with the dominee. Jora wondered whether their presence had anything to do with Elder Kassyl's death.

A door opened, and out walked Dominee Ibsa dressed in her fine orange robes trimmed with red and gold jewels, which sparkled in the light of the candles in the chandeliers that hung from the high, arched ceiling. Each of her fingers was adorned with gems, as was the elaborate fabric and gold headdress atop her head. The whispers quieted as she approached the lectern. When she held up both hands, the sleeves of her robe shifted down, revealing bracelets of gold, inset with glittering jewels of red and yellow.

Jora thought the woman would have had jewels embedded into her skin if she could.

"Truth Sayers and Novices," the dominee said, her eyes closed and her face pointed upward, "we gather today to pay tribute to a great man, to a man of integrity who upheld the laws of our nation with the highest regard for their sanctity. We gather to honor Elder Kassyl Finnean and to welcome into the ranks of the most esteemed Truth Sayers, Sonnis Gordyn."

"Retar's will be done," the Truth Sayers in the congregation murmured.

Jora seethed. Retar's will? She didn't know the god very well, having only spoken to him the one time, but she was pretty sure he didn't wish Elder Kassyl ill, nor would he care whether Sonnis was promoted to Elder. He surely had bigger problems to deal with.

The dominee went on to talk about the long-standing relationship between the Houses of Prayer and the Order of Justice Officials, together keeping peace within the cities while the war raged on and around the Isle of Shess. She described the spirit of cooperation between the two establishments, both working toward the Good and the benefit of all Serocians. She specifically addressed the novices in the room, admiring their devotion and dedication to learning so that, one day, they, too, could advance through the ranks of the Order to become the wisest vessels of justice within the land. It was a great honor, she claimed, to serve one's country through the Talent that Retar had seen fit to gift them, and she hoped that she would live to see the day when every one of them could stand upon that altar and receive the blessing Sonnis Gordyn was about to receive.

Jora thought her dinner would come up right there on the temple's beautiful wooden floor.

"Which brings us to the current moment," Dominee Ibsa said. "Adept Sonnis, will you please join me on the altar?"

He stood from his seat in the front row of pews and knelt at her feet, his head bowed.

"Do you, Adept Sonnis Gordyn, solemnly swear to abide by the rules and laws set forth by those who've come before you within the King's Justice Bureau, to uphold the law of the land, and to issue sentencing of criminals based on the guidelines established by your elders?"

"I do, Dominee," Sonnis said.

"Is there any among us who can offer a reason why Adept Sonnis should not be advanced within the Order of Justice Officials?"

Jora's hand twitched where it lay in her lap, as if it would shoot into the air and volunteer her to speak against Adept Sonnis. She grasped her wrist with her other hand and clamped her jaw. Given the way she'd seen Retar influence the registrar and the dominee, she was certain he could have made her stand and speak if he'd wanted to. She hoped he wouldn't. It wouldn't be he who suffered the consequence but her.

The moment seemed to last for hours while the dominee's gaze swept over the audience. Her eyes paused when they met Jora's, and the row of candles on the table behind her went out, extinguished all at once. Just as Jora's life would be if she spoke. The audience uttered a collective "oooh," no doubt assuming it was a sign of Sonnis's suitability for being promoted.

"It is time to transfer the power of elders. Adept Sonnis, please join me at the stone," the dominee said. She turned and strode to the back of the dais, and the two enforcers stepped aside. Dominee Ibsa gestured to the lumpy rock. "Place your hand upon this rock and receive Retar's gift." Sonnis laid his right hand upon it. Almost immediately, he flinched, his back arching slightly and his chin lifting. The onlookers let out a gasp.

"As Dominee of the First Godly Redeemer House of Prayer and First Prelate to King Yaphet, I pronounce you Elder Sonnis Gordyn."

Members of the Order stood and applauded, not with raucous cheering but with restraint and dignity.

Elder Sonnis opened his eyes, removed his hand from the stone. He bowed first to the Dominee and then to the audience before waving, a wide smile upon his face. Amidst the continuing applause, the new elder strode down the aisle, his head held high and his shoulders straight. Everyone turned as he passed, watching him exit through the rear doors.

The applause quieted. "This service is now concluded," Dominee Ibsa said. She opened her hands to them all. "Congratulate your newest Elder on your way back to the Justice Bureau. Goodnight, my friends."

The people in the front rows stood where they were while those in the back row filed out. As the last rows emptied, the next row began to exit, orderly and calmly, each member holding the large, heavy door open for those behind him.

Jora and her friends shuffled forward when it was their row's turn to exit, and Jora followed those in front of her slowly down the aisle to the rear doors.

To her surprise, Sonnis was already wearing the yellow robes of the elder rank, not the deep green in which she'd grown accustomed to seeing him. He was smiling and nodding, thanking each person as they shook his hand and offered congratulations.

Jora offered her hand. "Congratulations, Elder Sonnis," she said.

His smile faltered, but he took her hand in a bone-crushing grip and renewed his smile. "Thank you, Novice. We have quite a bit to discuss, you and I."

She yanked her hand out of Elder Sonnis's iron grip and scurried away, turning to look at him when she'd gone a dozen paces. He had returned to greeting the other members of the Order, smiling and shaking their hands and thanking them under the sputtering lights of the torches at the temple entrance.

"What's wrong?" Adriel asked, joining her.

"Nothing," Jora said. The final glow of dusk had faded to night, and the air had cooled, though the long sleeves of the robe kept the chill from sinking into her bones.

"I overheard Elder Sonnis talking about you yesterday," Adriel said.

Jora snapped her eyes to her friend's. "Me? What did he say?"

"I didn't hear much, sorry. I was in Elder Gastone's office, waiting for him. He meets with his novices and disciples every month or two. Anyway, Elder Sonnis—Adept Sonnis at the time—was talking with a Legion captain in his office next door. I heard him mention your name but nothing after that because Elder Gastone came in. I couldn't very well shush him and press my ear to the wall to listen with him right there."

That troubled Jora. Why would he have been talking to a Legion officer about her? That couldn't have been good.

"She thinks he doesn't like her," Gilon said, catching up to them. He put an arm around both women's shoulders. "But that's all right. I like her."

"Don't let Bastin see you," Adriel said, shrugging off his touch. "She'll assume we're a threesome and report you to your new elder."

Gilon let his arms drop. "What'd you think of the ceremony? Did you see all those jewels the dominee was wearing?"

"A bit excessive, don't you think?" Adriel asked. "And the gold. I wonder if the Justice Bureau makes as much money as the temple does."

"I can't see any of the elders succumbing to greed that way," Jora said.

"I think the Justice Bureau makes as much if not more," Gilon said, "but we learn to embrace modesty."

"All I'm saying," Adriel said, "is that the temple could stand to contribute more."

Jora agreed. It seemed the temple leaders were benefitting far more than the people they were supposed to serve.

"Retar must like it this way," Gilon said. They reached the gate that led to the dormitory, which he held open for the two women.

Adriel laughed. "How do you figure that?"

"The gods before him hardly ever spoke to people. If Retar didn't want the temple to be rich, he'd stop talking to us."

They climbed the stairs to their rooms, and Jora realized when she reached the fourth floor that she wasn't as winded as she used to be. Her body was getting used to the exertion. "How does he have the energy for all that?" she asked. Retar had seemed sad, but he could have been exhausted. "It's not only Serocians he talks to, but everyone everywhere, right?"

Gilon grinned. "As a god, he probably doesn't need to sleep. I have no pity for him. If he didn't want to be a god, he shouldn't have challenged Hibsar."

"Maybe," she said. "Goodnight, you two."

Gilon waved as he started up to the fifth floor. "Goodnight."

Adriel patted her shoulder as she went by on the way to her own room. "See you in the morning."

Inside her room, Jora dressed for bed, going over the evening's events in her mind. The way Elder Sonnis had looked at her, practically growling his thanks with his fingers digging into her skin, eliminated any doubt in her mind that he disliked her, but his animosity seemed to have grown in recent days. What would he want to talk to her about? Did he think she had something to do with Elder Kassyl's early demise?

She felt the blood drain from her face. Could the elder's granting her the barring hood power have weakened him? Was that what Sonnis had meant when he'd said the elder had been weakened by a burden he was too ill to bear? Her mind grasped at justifications for why that couldn't be true. Elder Kassyl would have shown a marked weakness immediately after performing the task, wouldn't he? Or at least the following day. He'd been in the throes of a coughing fit when she'd gone to see him, but surely that wasn't the result of the instruction the day before. No, he'd been fine when she'd left him, no more or less sick than he'd been the day before.

One thing was for certain; she had no interest in sharing her findings of the tones with Elder Sonnis. How did he know about her work with Elder Kassyl? That puzzled her, but perhaps the ailing elder had told him. After all, Sonnis had been next in line for becoming elder and inheriting Elder Kassyl's hierarchy.

Jora shaved her head and then knelt beside her bed, digging under the mattress for her books. She found nothing.

The books were gone.

Jora shot to her feet and lifted the mattress first on one side, then the other, then dropped to her knees to check under the bed frame. Her books were gone, though her flute remained where she'd left it, wedged between the mattress and the wall.

That someone had stolen her books was nearly as shocking as the fact that there was a thief among the Truth Sayers, the upholders of law, the voices of justice in Serocia.

Her hands trembled with anger. Someone had come into her room, searched through her belongings, and took what Elder Kassyl had given her. Such a thing was unthinkable. She paced the length of her room, alternately trying to remember whether she'd hidden them elsewhere and railing against the thief who'd dared to take what was rightfully hers.

No one in the Order knew that Elder Kassyl had given her his book of tones, but knowledge of her journal was fairly widespread. Most had never seen it, though enough of the Truth Sayers knew of it to mention it when she'd begun joining them at the Spirit Stone.

Could she find the thief by using the Mindstream? Generally, it could only be used to view people one could identify, but how would she know which person's thread to use if she didn't know who had stolen it?

Elder Sonnis.

_No, s_ he thought, shaking her head. An elder wouldn't stoop to theft. If he wanted Elder Kassyl's book, he could have simply asked for it. Surely he could make a case that everything that had belonged to Elder Kassyl was now his by rights. Whether it was true or not, who was she to argue with an elder? Besides, without a witness, she could never prove it was Elder Sonnis or any other Truth Sayer, since every disciple, adept, and elder knew how to block her from observing him.

Jora spent a sleepless night worrying about her missing books, turning restlessly in bed. She dreamt of hands searching under her while she slept, pulling out secrets and pieces of her body.

The mirror wasn't kind to her the next morning, but she didn't care. It wasn't like she'd have been a raving beauty without the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"Rough night?" Adriel asked when she joined her friends at the table for breakfast.

"Goodness!" Gilon said, looking at her face. "Did you get into a fight?"

"Bad dreams. Yesterday, while we were at the ceremony, someone came into my room and stole my journal."

"No!" Adriel and Gilon said in unison, their eyes wide and mouths agape.

Jora nodded. "Didn't take my flute or anything else. Just the books."

"Was it in plain view?" Adriel asked.

"No. I kept it hidden, in case someone got curious enough to snoop without asking."

"You said books," Gilon said quietly. "Was there more than one?"

Jora cringed inwardly, realizing she'd slipped up. Nothing to do about it now but tell them everything. It was bound to come out sooner or later anyway. The more they knew, the safer she would be, but she didn't want to be overheard making any accusations or implying wrongdoing. She leaned toward the center of the table so that Adriel could hear, too. They both leaned in. "There was another, a journal of sorts recorded over a span of thirty years."

Gilon sat up straight. "Hold one second. You're saying—"

"Yes," she said, cutting him off. Elder Sonnis might not be able to observe her anymore, but he could still observe Gilon and Adriel. The less said outright, the better.

Adriel asked, "How did you get it?"

"It's a long story that I can't go into. I promised someone I wouldn't tell, but both books are missing."

"Who would do such a thing?" Adriel asked.

"Surely you don't suspect... a certain elder," Gilon said, a note of warning in his voice.

"I don't know who else would want my books," Jora replied, knowing Elder Gastone wanted the knowledge as much as Elder Sonnis did. She could have been talking about either of them, and anyone observing Gilon or Adriel wouldn't necessarily know which.

"Report the theft. Elder Sonnis will investigate it," Gilon said.

Jora shook her head. "I'd like to get my journal back, but there's no way to know who took it. We were all at the temple."

"Ask your disciple," Adriel said. "Maybe she knows of a way you could, I don't know, observe your door or something. See who comes in."

"Observe my door," Jora said with a dim smile. "That's funny."

"Why not?" Adriel asked with a shrug. "It used to be a tree. Did you try it?"

"No. I'm not going to observe a dead piece of tree. What if..." It occurred to Jora that perhaps a living tree could be observed. She'd observed dogs before, when one of the cooks had sworn she'd set out a tray of chops to roast and they went missing. There was a tree outside the dormitory whose tallest branches sometimes tapped her window in a stiff wind. "What if I observed a living tree? The one in front of the dormitory?"

"Yah," Adriel said, her eyes wide with excitement. "Try it. I'll bet you see who the thief is."

"What then?" Jora asked. "I can't go up against a Truth Sayer."

"I can," Gilon said. "Up until a month ago, I was a warrior. I'm not afraid of any of these old cusses." He picked up his empty bowl and stepped over the bench.

"Gil," Jora drawled, her tone of voice a caution, "what are you going to do?"

"Nothing yet, but if you find out who stole your books, I'll get them back for you."

It was late in the afternoon by the time Jora finished her lessons with Disciple Bastin and served her time in the Observation Request Room. Though her stomach rumbled from hurrying through the midday meal and not eating her fill, she was anxious to try the experiment Adriel had suggested. She ran upstairs to her room, taking the stairs two at a time and huffing breathlessly when she reached the fourth floor. In her room, she pulled the stool to the window and sat, looking out at the tree.

Finding its thread was more challenging than finding a person's thread or a dog's. Trees didn't have souls like animals did, or if they did, they were different than what she was used to. Try as she might to find its thread, she couldn't, but she had another idea. She ran back downstairs and went outside, then placed both hands on its rough black bark. Once she opened the Mindstream, she found the tree more easily, but it was a pulsing, green haze rather than a thin white thread. Something tickled her skin, and she opened her eyes to find a plump black ant walking across the back of her hand. She shook it off, brushed a few other ants off the tree, and tried again.

The tree was older than she was, but not by much. She sensed its patience and understood that it didn't measure the passage of time the same way she did. Finding the evening that the theft had occurred wasn't as easy as simply going backward one night like it would have been with a person or an animal. At last, she observed through the thinnest, tallest branches and leaves a tall, hooded figure entering her room. In the dim light of the moon, without a lamp to light his way, the thief's face remained obscured. Jora couldn't tell what color the robe was, either.

_Damn it._ She closed the Mindstream to find black ants crawling all over her hands and up her arms. In a somewhat panicky dance, she brushed them off and slapped at her robe sleeves and the bodice to dislodge the ones that had made it that far. All over her hands and forearms were little red bumps from where they'd sunk their mandibles into her tender flesh.

It had been an idea worthy of pursuit, though fruitless. At least now she knew she could observe trees and probably other plants as well.

"Jora," Gilon said, waving her over almost the second she walked into the dining hall. "I've got to tell you what I found out." He was sitting at one of the tables in the corner.

The dining room was filled with novices and disciples and a handful of adepts chatting over the evening meal, but the table in the center of the room where she, Gilon, and Adriel usually sat was still vacant. "What are you doing at this table? Why not our usual?"

"Quieter. More private."

"Uh oh," she said, eyeing him warily. "You aren't getting yourself into trouble, are you?"

"No, not yet. Get your food and I'll tell you about it."

"Aren't you eating?"

"I'll get mine later. I wanted to hold the table until you got here."

She got in line and filled two bowls with rice, chicken, egg, and vegetables, though the women serving the food eyed her suspiciously. She assured them one was for her friend.

"Thanks," he said, taking the second bowl when she returned.

She sat across from him. "So, what's your news?"

"I went to the First Godly Redeemer to use a god vessel to ask Retar about your missing books. I thought it couldn't hurt to ask him, right? He's a god. He would know who took your books."

Jora barely tasted her food as she ate, listening intently. She nodded for him to go on.

"Well, he said he wasn't the kind of god to tattle on anyone. Whoever heard of a god talking like that? Anyway, he said that if I sat there in the chamber for a couple of minutes, I might find out for myself. So I did. I sat in that cramped, wooden chamber, smelling that foul monkey—"

"You got a monkey?" she asked, giggling. "I'll bet that was pleasant. I got a parrot."

"Which chamber?"

"Number four. Anyway, you were sitting there..."

"...and through the ironwork in the door, I see someone walk in wearing yellow robes."

"Go on."

"He had a messenger's bag over one shoulder, sort of clutching the bag to his belly as if he were afraid of letting it go."

"And?"

"It was Elder Sonnis." His tone of voice sounded like he was revealing a huge secret she hadn't known.

She gave him an impatient look. "I guessed that much."

"Oh. Well, he said something to the cantor at the desk, who then got up and left. Then Dominee Ibsa came out and greeted him. I couldn't hear what they said after that. They spoke in near whispers, and I was too far away."

Jora motioned with her hand for him to keep going.

"Then he opened the bag, pulled out two books, and handed them to the dominee." Gilon slapped the table as if he knew who was behind the theft all along. "Those were your books."

They could have been other books. Books he'd borrowed from the dominee, perhaps in preparation for becoming an elder. "Perhaps. What did they look like?"

He squinted at the ceiling. "One had a tan cover, and the other was dark. Blue maybe, or black. The light was too dim to see for certain."

Her face warmed. "The dark one—was it thicker or thinner than the tan?"

"Definitely thinner. The tan one was quite thick."

So it was Sonnis who'd stolen her books. Perhaps not the elder himself, but he'd had a hand in it, probably sending one of his disciples to do it.

"Those are your books, aren't they?"

She nodded. "They might be." The question was what could she do about it? She had no proof, and accusing an elder and the temple of theft didn't sound like the way to a long and happy life.

"Might be? You know they are. So what are you going to do about it?"

"Gil, there's nothing I can do." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "If that elder had a hand in stealing my books, what can I do but report it like any other citizen would report a crime?"

He tapped the table with his spoon, still having not taken a bite of his meal. "You're right. Maybe you should report the theft and see what comes of it through the regular investigation."

She shrugged and took another bite of food. "I've looked through a lot of the pages of Elder Kassyl's book. Not every one, but a lot. Enough to start a new book."

"That'd be painstaking work, Mindstreaming into your own past and writing in the present at the same time. You won't be able to see what you're doing."

Jora cocked her head. "Sure I can. I close my eyes when I Mindstream because the overlapping images in the physical world are distracting."

"Huh. I don't see a thing. Don't hear anything, either. It's like my physical senses are extinguished when I'm Mindstreaming."

Jora was taken aback by that. Thinking back to her sessions in the Observation Request Room, she noticed that other novices and disciples reported the welfare of their clients' loved ones after the fact, not while Mindstreaming. Jora had always been able to see, hear, and carry on a conversation while in the Mindstream, though it was a bit distracting. "How odd. Maybe I could beg my closest friend to write down the tones as I read them off."

His eyebrows rose. "I'd be glad to help, but I don't know what tones look like on paper."

She smiled sweetly at him. "No matter. I'll teach you."

"Say, did you try observing the tree to see who snuck into your room? Maybe if we knew who the actual thief is, he'll confess who recruited him to do it."

"I tried it, but I couldn't see him well enough to tell who it was. Let it go, Gilon. I'll rewrite as many of the tones and my notes as I can. It's not lost, just... inconvenient."

"And hide the books better next time."

"I doubt he'd try to steal them again. It was probably more about him getting the knowledge rather than keeping it from me."

"Or was it?" Gilon asked in an ominous tone, wagging his brows.

She laughed and gave him a playful push.

Chapter 18

While Boden was eating breakfast with his friends, Korlan drew his attention to a squad of five men dressed for battle and mounting horses.

"I wonder what that's about," Rasmus mused. "Looks like they're going to have some fun."

"Bakston, Grone, Gimp, Zokor..." Korlan said. "Some of our most elite fighters."

"Hey, they forgot me," Rasmus said, starting to stand.

"Sit down," Boden said, pulling his friend back onto the bench with a hand on his shoulder. "Those men are assassins who sneak in quietly and kill high-value targets. You're more like a berserker who kills anyone in your path."

Rasmus grinned, smacking his food loudly. "Damn right."

They watched the five fighters ride off to the west toward Swan's Crossing. Where they were going from there was anyone's guess. How odd that they didn't board a boat instead of traveling by horse. "I wonder where they're going. Wouldn't they reach their destination quicker by boat?"

"They're probably going to Barad Selegal," Korlan said.

Boden remembered what Pharson had said about Turounce sending a team of assassins to take care of the smugglers. He nodded approvingly to himself, satisfied his leaders were taking the matter seriously.

"If we live long enough, we might get missions like that," Rasmus said.

"Not the way you fight," Korlan said. "You'd have to learn the arts of subtlety and stealth."

"I could be an assassin. Maybe when I finish my second year, I'll put in for assassin training."

Korlan and Boden laughed. "Good luck with that, brother," Korlan said.

Boden picked up his empty bowl and spoon and dropped it off at the camper's wash station on his way back to his tent. He found his knapsack moved, not out of place, but definitely not the way he'd left it. He always set it at the head of his bunk with the flap facing the bed. Now it was turned around. Could he have misplaced it in careless haste the night before, after finding his tentmates reading his journal? He didn't think so. To be sure, he opened it and checked inside.

The journal was missing.

A surge of panic rose up from his gut. He hunted through his spare clothes and scant belongings, checked under the blanked on his bed, under the mattress. It was gone.

Hadar and Eron walked in, giving him barely a glance.

"Where is it?" Boden demanded. He stormed over, shoved Hadar's shoulder to turn him about, and grabbed him by the shirt. "Where the hell is it?"

"What?" Hadar said, his eyes wide. He held his hands up in submission. "What are you talking about?"

"My journal. Did you take it again?"

"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. No 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.

"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 institution. 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 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."

_Uh oh._ Jora swallowed. The dominee must have noticed the books missing. Why else would Sonnis be so anxious to talk to her? "Um, yes, of course. I need a few moments to, ah, take care of something first."

"He said it was most urgent, Novice," Adept Fer said. He took her arm in a firm but painless grip.

"I understand, Adept, but I truly must run to my room first. I, um..." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I started my monthly menses, and I must change my rags rather urgently."

He released her arm immediately and took a step back, as if afraid to catch some disease. "Oh. Yes, of course. Please hurry. His schedule for today is quite busy, as you can imagine."

She started to the back door. "I will. I wouldn't want to keep the elder waiting."

She scuttled down the hallway and out the door. When she reached the walkway that led to the dormitory, she slipped around the side of the building. Her bag was right where she'd left it, and she pulled it out of the bushes, slung the strap over her shoulders, and exited through the side gate. She rounded the corner, her heart thundering in her excitement about getting away unseen. That was close.

As she made her way east, toward the docks, she looked casually over her shoulder, hoping she wouldn't be spotted. Not far away, she entered a narrow alley of apartment houses. Ahead, someone opened a door and a dog stepped out, then began barking at her. Jora stopped, unsure whether to try passing the dog or backtrack.

"Don't mind her," the owner said. "She's all talk."

"I see," Jora said. She walked along the wall of the opposite building anyway, just in case.

"Are you lost, Novice? Justice Bureau's back that way."

"Ah, no. I've got a package to deliver," she said over her shoulder. She picked up her pace, not wanting to be questioned further—or worse, robbed of her bag. No one would rob a Justice Official, would they? That would be the dumbest crime ever committed.

Though the purple robe and shaven head might give her immunity from crime, they would draw attention to her the farther she got from the city. Across the next street, she came upon a vacant apartment that looked like it had recently been destroyed by fire. Its ceiling was collapsed, and charred wood and other debris littered the front room, but it gave her the privacy she needed.

She slipped off the sandals and pulled on her boots. Her feet practically sighed, relishing the fine fit. She took off the robe and stuffed it into her bag. Passersby would remember a purple-robed novice with a bag slung over her shoulder, but they might not notice a plainly dressed woman. Without hair on her head, her hat sat lower, completely covering her ears and her bald head.

Glancing behind her, she saw no sign of alarm, no indication she was being pursued. Sonnis wouldn't wait long before sending someone to her room and beginning a search for her. Without a horse, she wouldn't get as far in the time she'd bought herself as mounted pursuers could, but with the help of a tall tree or two, she was hopeful she could evade capture, at least until she reached Kaild.

She bought an orange in the market and peeled bits of the skin as she walked, tossing it into the gutter where birds and mice hunted for morsels to eat.

By the time she reached the docks, the sun appeared to sit on the horizon like a yellow duckling paddling across a pond after its mother. Men and women were toting bags and nets and poles, loading their boats for a day of fishing. Their arms and shoulders were tanned from the sun and heavily muscled from working the oars.

She sat under a tree and ate her breakfast while waiting for enough of the fishers to leave so she could call to Sundancer without attracting too much attention.

While waiting for the docks to clear, Jora took a moment to enter the Mindstream. After finding the dominee's thread, and finding the dominee pacing in her office, she traced the thread backward. The dominee, sitting at her desk, had penned a hasty note. Jora paused the scene to read what she'd written:

_Books are gone. Find out who took them and get them back, and then punish the thief._

She then let the stream flow forward again and jumped to the white-robed man the dominee had called to deliver it, observing him as he scurried out of the temple and down the street to the Justice Bureau. In fact, he ran up the steps past Jora, who stood alone, her hand on the Spirit Stone. After speaking with the desk clerk and waiting for an enforcer to escort him, he went to Elder Sonnis's new office and presented him with the note. The elder kept a straight face except for a twitch in the side of his mouth and thanked the messenger. The messenger left before she saw what Elder Sonnis did next, but she could guess. That must have been shortly before Adept Fer stopped her in the hall.

Adriel's words came back to her: _I overheard Elder Sonnis talking about you. Talking with a Legion captain._

Jora considered the possibilities. If she Observed Adriel at the moment she'd overheard Sonnis discussing her, maybe she could hear the rest of the conversation. She plucked Adriel's thread in the Mindstream and followed it back to the day she'd met with Elder Gastone.

Adriel sat on a wooden chair in front of the elder's desk, casually looking around. Faint voices carried from the hallway and moved to the room on the left, muffled through the wall.

"Good afternoon, Adept." a stranger's voice said. Jora took the opportunity to jump to that man's thread, a Legion officer.

"Captain Kyear," Sonnis said with a shallow bow. "Thank you for coming."

Kyear? Jora wondered. He must've been related to her father, though she didn't know any soldiers from Kaild who currently served the Legion as a captain, let alone one of Dyre's brothers or cousins. His face was unfamiliar, though she saw a slight family resemblance in the square jaw and wide mouth.

The two men shook hands and sat, the captain in a rigid chair in front of the desk and Sonnis in a cushioned chair behind it. The position of power.

"The order was quite clear," said Captain Kyear. "I don't know how much more light I can shed on the situation."

"You must understand," Sonnis said, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. "What you're asking us to do is... severe. Novice Jora is one of the most talented we've had in many years, perhaps decades."

Jora was surprised to hear him say that aloud. He'd never let on that he considered her particularly talented.

"The Legion appreciates your position, Adept. There's simply no other choice."

"What if there was?" Sonnis asked.

"And what would it be?"

"The issue isn't what she knows or doesn't know but whether she would discuss what she learns with those she trusts most, in particular the leaders and returned soldiers of her hometown. Am I understanding correctly?"

"I'm not sure I like where this is going," Kyear said, his voice tinged with doubt.

"Your commander and his officers were careless enough to let a recruit see something he wasn't supposed to see—"

"And he will be dealt with."

"—and now you want us to slay one of our most talented novices. Because of your carelessness."

"It's the simplest solution to the problem."

"Simple for you," Sonnis said. "I assure you, I can manage her."

"How do you know that when she can't be Observed?" Kyear said.

"True, someone has taught her the barring hood," Sonnis said, "but the girl is pliable. I can manage her, especially if she had no one else to turn to."

Jora's heart sputtered. What had he meant by that?

"No," Kyear said. "The Legion will not sanction this... alternative of yours. It's extreme and entirely unnecessary."

"It solves both of our problems."

"It crosses the line."

Sonnis sighed. "Then at least give me the evening to discuss it with Elder Kassyl. This isn't an action I can take without his consent."

"Very well. Notify us tomorrow once the deed is done."

Jora shuddered, closing the Mindstream and looking about. They'd intended to kill her because of something they were afraid she would find out. Something about the tones? About what Gilon had witnessed? It had to be one of those. What else would've alarmed the Legion so greatly?

Chapter 20

Boden sat in the back of the wagon, his hands bound in iron shackles, eating bread and cheese. It had been four days since he'd left company forty-four, and he expected to arrive in Jolver by the end of the following day. He almost welcomed it. At least a court-martial would give him a chance to explain himself, and he might get some answers to the question that tormented him: Why?

Though they'd stopped for the night at one of the smaller way stations inland, he wasn't permitted to leave the wagon for more than a piss. Two ropes were looped around the shackles, each tied to one side of the wagon. He could move his hands a few inches forward and back, enough to raise the food to his mouth, but not side to side. A cup of water sat between his outstretched legs, and he set the bread on his thigh before carefully raising the cup to his lips for a drink.

He thought about his family, about his father and how disappointed everyone would be in him once the Legion sent word of his court-martial. Surely they wouldn't tell his family the truth. How could they, when it was the truth they wanted to keep secret in the first place?

Micah would be declared a widow and remarry. He didn't begrudge her that. She had no baby, no husband. She could at least find some measure of happiness with another man.

The man assigned to guard him walked past.

"Hey, Slone," Boden said, "has my family been notified about my court-martial yet?"

"Doubtful," Slone said. "What would be the point?"

"My wife should at least have the choice to remarry instead of waiting for the outcome."

Slone shook his head. "I mean there's no point in sending word. There's a cull order on your town. They'll all be dead in a few days."

Boden stiffened in shock, the words reverberating in his mind. Cull order? "No," he said, though it came out as a whisper. "You can't."

"I didn't. The order came from higher up than me, higher than Turounce. For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Slone walked away.

The faces of his family and friends came to mind. This couldn't be. Why would the Legion slay innocent people? Because of his journal? Because they were afraid of Jora reading it? She wouldn't know what to do with the information. Knowing her, she would seek out the advice of those she trusted: Dyre and Gunnar and the town council.

God's Challenger! That was what Turounce was so upset about. This was all Boden's fault. If he hadn't written down his suspicions and urged Jora to use the information, Kaild would be safe. Jora would be safe.

He had to escape. If he could make it to Jolver and send a message by bird to warn them, they might stand a chance, depending on where the assassins were traveling from and whether on land or by boat.

The five assassins he'd seen leaving the camp the day before Turounce declared him a traitor—they were going to Kaild. He felt the blood drain from his face. He'd seen the very men who were going to murder his people and assumed they were going after the smugglers.

He looked around him in the darkness, spotted the glow of candles and lamps from inside the tents and buildings and a cookfire going cold. To his right, several horses stood about in a corral, munching on hay from a trough.

Boden tugged on one of the ropes keeping him in the wagon. They'd been tied tightly around the tops of the wagon's wheels, but the left one felt like it had a little more play in it than the right did. Once the camp quieted for the night, he tugged on it rhythmically—tug, release, tug, release—for what seemed hours. Gradually, the rope loosened and the knot fell out. Now fastened only to the right wheel, Boden crawled on his knees to the side of the wagon and untied the other rope. He paused to listen.

Satisfied that no one had heard him, he climbed down and crept to the corral. Though his wrists were shackled, he could still ride. Hunting for a key to free his hands wasn't worth the risk of discovery.

He opened the corral gate and slowly approached the group of horses. "Here, boy," he called in his softest voice. Three of them shuffled nervously, but the tall one stood its ground. "Good boy. I won't hurt you." He let the horse get a sniff of him, stroked its smooth neck, and then took a handful of its mane in one hand. "Hold still, boy."

From the horse's left side, he swung his right leg in an arc and hooked his foot over the horse's back, then shimmied up onto it. No one appeared to have been alerted by the horses' nickers or the crunch of shuffling hooves in the grass. He guided the horse through the open gate and headed north as quickly as he could ride on the horse's bare back.

Having seen what she needed to see, Jora stood and shouldered her bag. She jogged down the steps onto the dock and strode to the end of the pier. Most of the boats were sailing out into the sea and northward. Those few that were still preparing to leave were moored at the next pier to the right and the pier after that. She set the bag down and pulled out her flute.

" _Ahoy, Sun Dancer,"_ she played. _"Sun Dancer, good morning. Autumn Rain greets you."_

There was no response. She checked behind her, and when she saw no sign of pursuit, she played it again. Still, there was no reply.

Her pursuers would surely find her if she stayed much longer. She called once more, and when, again, Sundancer didn't answer, she put the flute away, picked up her bag, and started back to shore.

Along the street, people were going about their business, paying her no mind at all. Three small rowboats were beached at the end of the dock. She didn't have a horse, but if she could find Sundancer, a boat would be better.

She returned to the shore and checked again for people watching her. Satisfied, she identified the boat that looked the most seaworthy, unwound its rope from the wooden post it was tied to, and tossed her bag into the bottom. She pushed it into the water and got in. Her boots were wet, but they would dry soon enough.

She stepped over the bag, careful not to rock the boat too much and fall over the side, and maneuvered herself onto the rear seat. She put both oars into the water, resting them in the metal braces on the boat's sides, and began to row past the pier to the open water of the sea.

She tired quickly, her arms and shoulders unused to such labor, but once she remembered to turn herself around and pull the oars through the water instead of push, she found that using her back as well as her shoulders and arms made the task a bit less taxing. She understood now why the fishers of Kaild had such muscular upper bodies.

She kept close to the shore, not wanting to wander into the deepest waters of the Inner Sea where a mishap with the boat could make swimming to shore an impossibility, but far enough out that the waves were swells, rocking her side to side instead of slapping the sides of the boat and perhaps filling it with water. Every now and then, when she was too tired to row anymore, she took out the flute and called to Sundancer. Sweat dripped down her brow and into her eyes, stinging them. She sipped at the water in her skin, not wanting to use it up all at once.

By noon, after rowing for four hours, her muscles were burning and weak, tiring after every stroke of the oars. Her waterskin was empty, and she desperately needed food and fresh water. Not only had she skipped breakfast, she'd missed the previous evening's meal, too upset to eat. Why hadn't she thought to stash food away for her journey? Because her decision to leave had been more than hasty. It had been reckless.

No, that was her tired mind talking. She'd had to escape and had little time to plan. As soon as she spotted a river, she could drink her fill and replenish the skin.

Within the hour, she saw what appeared to be some erosion along the beach, like a stream emptying into the sea. She let the swells and waves carry the boat to shore, and she climbed out and pulled it far enough onto the sand that the undercurrent wouldn't drag it back out into the open water. Here, the forest beyond the sandy beach was thick, the farms long past. At least she was safe from mounted riders for a time.

She stumbled north along the beach until she came upon the stream. Exhausted and thirsty, she fell to her knees and put her face into the water, not bothering to cup her hands to drink. Though she stirred some of the silt from the stream's bottom, she didn't care. The water was cool and wet and fresh. She turned her face into the stream, pursed her lips, and drank as the water flowed into her mouth, gulping it down gratefully.

She staggered to her feet and returned to the boat for her water skin, an idea forming in her mind. It wasn't a great solution, but it was better than nothing. She pulled both the purple and green cloaks from her satchel, returned to the stream, and wet them completely. They wouldn't hold water for long, but wringing them into her mouth would help sustain her until she reached the next river or stream.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats shocked her to stillness. They'd caught up to her already? Frantically, she looked about to assess her options. She could run to the boat and try to get some distance, but she would have to fight the waves pushing her back to shore with arms that were already exhausted. Or she could hide. She spotted a thicket not far away, grabbed her soaking robes, and ran to it. She tucked the purple robe beneath her and slung the wet green one over her before hunching down into a ball on her knees, hoping that at a glance she would look like a moss-covered rock.

As the riders neared, the steady clopping of hooves on the narrow dirt road grew louder. She heard the sharp snap of twigs and quiet conversation, though she couldn't make out their words. Five riders rode past, each dressed in the Legion uniform. Jora sat upright, curious. The sight of the beached dinghy didn't rouse their suspicion. Perhaps they weren't after her at all.

Feeling safe from pursuit for the moment, Jora's curiosity won over wariness. Where were they going? If one of the soldiers from Kaild had died, they would be bringing his shrouded body in a wagon. She shut her eyes and opened the Mindstream to observe the riders that had passed.

"Kind of ironic, don't you think?" one man said.

"It happens," said another. "It's best to leave it alone and not try to figure it out."

"What was the traitor's name again?"

"Sayeg," said another. "Boder? Balder?"

"Boden?" Jora asked aloud. A traitor? No. That wasn't possible. She traced Boden's thread and found him running for his life.

Boden gripped the horse's mane tightly, clenching his legs around its belly as it galloped along the narrow road along the coast. He knew the horse wasn't going to last much longer at this pace. He could dismount and swim out into the sea. He was a strong swimmer, and if his pursuers came after him, he could take them one at a time, even with his wrists shackled. Of course, it was equally likely they would simply ride along the shore as he swam, waiting for him to tire. His alternative was to let the horse go while he hid in the forest.

Hiding wasn't who he was. It wasn't what a man did, especially when his family was in danger.

He would face his pursuers in combat if they would challenge him one at a time, but their orders were undoubtedly to kill him on sight, honor be damned. They were loyal soldiers, as he'd been. As he wished he still was.

"Stop!" one of them yelled, closer now.

He knew he wasn't going to get away, but he couldn't simply give in. His family, the people of Kaild needed him.

Something hit his left shoulder from behind, throwing him off balance. Without stirrups or a saddle in which to brace himself, he fell from the horse, hit the ground, and tumbled. Pain shot through his shoulder, back, and arm. When he rolled to a stop, he looked down to see an arrowhead poking through his shirt. Blood seeped into the dull, green fabric and spread. The fingers on his left hand tingled.

Three men pulled their horses to a halt and jumped down, surrounding him, swords drawn.

"Boden Sayeg, we've been charged with taking you into custody," said the man on his left.

"Into custody?" he asked. That wasn't what Pharson had said.

"If you come willingly," the soldier replied, "we won't have to kill you. You can still be court-martialed in Jolver for treason."

"You don't understand," Boden said, returning each of their determined gazes. "I've committed no treason. All I did was write down what I saw in my private journal that no one had any right or permission to read."

"Then why'd you run?" asked the one on his right.

"Because someone issued a cull order on my hometown. The Legion sent assassins to slaughter two thousand innocent people while they sleep in their beds. I don't know about you," he said, looking up into their eyes, "but I'm fighting to protect Serocians, not murder them."

"We do as we're told," said the soldier on his right. "We don't question our orders."

"Maybe you should," Boden said, climbing slowly to his feet. "Someone is profiting from this war. Someone's profiting from Serocian deaths."

"Don't listen to him," said the man to his right. "That's the talk of a traitor. Our orders were to kill him."

It occurred to Boden that once Jora discovered he was dead, she would observe his final moments. She would want to know why. "Why do you think March Commander Arvoh Turounce wanted to kill me without going through a court-martial?" Boden asked, using the commander's full name and title for Jora's benefit. "He's got something to hide, and he doesn't want me telling the truth about the smuggling." As he talked, things became clearer in his own mind. Turounce's words began to make sense. "He doesn't want the people of Serocia knowing the truth: that godfruit was supposed to be our advantage, and someone's selling it to our enemies with the Legion's full knowledge. That's why they issued the cull order on Kaild: to kill the ones—" He stopped himself before naming Jora. "—I would send a message to before the information has a chance to spread. They're afraid of a civil war."

The three were silent for a moment while they exchanged glances.

"Your call, Croom," one said.

Two of the men looked to the third, who chewed on his dark moustache. "We follow our orders."

Three swords rang as they were pulled from their scabbards. The steel glinted sharply in the dappled sunlight that filtered down through the trees.

"No!" Jora cried.

She witnessed the blades pierce Boden's body, saw his blood spill, watched him stagger and crumple.

Without Boden alive to observe, the Mindstream closed.

"No," she said again, unable to believe she'd witnessed the death of her friend as it happened. She quickly reopened the Mindstream and observed one of the men who'd slain him.

Boden was gone.

How could that be? She reversed the stream and watched the scene again from the killer's vantage point. Boden's body crumpled... and vanished before it hit the ground. Blood, bones, and flesh. Gone.

"What the hell happened?" said the one who'd issued the command to kill Boden. Jora asked herself the same question.

"That's impossible," said the blond on the left, blinking hard. They all did—either blinked or rubbed their eyes—as if unable to believe they'd seen what they thought they'd seen.

"He just... vanished," said the third.

"We're supposed to bring back a body," said the blond. "Commander's going to kill us all if we don't bring back his corpse."

"He's going to think we let him get away," said the third.

The blond murmured his agreement, his face wrought with worry.

"Not if we bring the horse he stole back with us," said the leader. "The Truth Sayer can observe us. He'll see what happened."

"What did happen?" the third man asked. "I mean, how does someone... disappear?"

Jora shuddered. He'd died. There was no doubt that those three swords had killed him. The absence of a body to burn worried her. How could his spirit be freed if his body wasn't reduced to ashes and dust? How could his life be completed?

Her mind spun. Boden had been named a traitor because of what he knew, and assassins were sent to kill the people of Kaild. The magnitude of what she'd witnessed was almost too much to comprehend. Assassins?

The five soldiers who'd ridden past her.

She dunked the cloth into the stream again and draped them over one arm as she staggered back to the beached boat as fast as she could, wanting—needing—to reach Kaild before those assassins did. After tossing the sopping robes onto the floor behind her seat, she shoved off.

Never had she felt so weary, not only for the ache in her tired muscles but for having witnessed the death of her dear friend and the mysterious disappearance of his body. She rowed with desperate strokes, every one wasted when a wave pushed her back toward the beach. Her parents, stepmothers, sister, and brother were in jeopardy. Gunnar and his wives, Tearna and Briana and Nuri and all her other friends and cousins. The children. All innocent of wrongdoing, all condemned to die for what? Because Boden had discovered someone's secret and threatened to reveal it.

No, she realized, the blood draining from her face. This was what the Legion had been afraid of. This was the secret they'd wanted to kill Jora to protect, and now, they were going to kill the people of Kaild to keep the information from reaching them.

There were only five assassins. The men of Kaild, those retired soldiers who guarded the town from raiding pirates and brigands, were more than a match for a handful of soldiers.

If she could get there in time to warn them.

Chapter 21

Jora awoke to find herself face down in the bottom of the boat with no memory of how she got there. The boat was kissing a sandy beach with each push of the waves, then pulling back with the undercurrent before being pushed forward again. The sun was down, though the sky wasn't yet dark. She climbed out of the boat and tried pulling it farther onto the beach so it wouldn't be taken from her at flow tide. It took all her strength to pull it close to soft sand, and when she had, her legs gave out from under her. She fell to the ground with a grunt and lay there, panting, her eyes barely open. Sand got into her mouth, but she scarcely noticed. She was too hungry to care. Too tired.

She awoke to the feeling of something crawling on her cheek. She wiped her hand down the side of her face, dislodging a fly, but the persistent insect returned, and Jora surrendered to it.

The next time she awoke, the sun was up, though not high. Roughly nine o'clock, she figured. Pushing herself up, she thought about missing another sunrise. The memory of the Spirit Stone tone changing beneath her hand, its resonance humming through her body, made her feel sad. She already missed it, and it was unlikely she would ever experience the miracle of those wondrous singing statues again in her lifetime.

She climbed to her feet, though every movement hurt, from hips to fingertips. Perhaps she was close enough now that she could make it the rest of the way to Kaild on foot and still reach it before the assassins did. Rowing across the water was quicker than riding on land, even at her pace, for the route was more direct.

Then again, a longer journey meant more time before her next meal. And there was the Point to consider, a long stretch of land that she would have to either row around or walk across, but there was a village on that point, people who'd done enough trading with Kaild that she might recognize one or two. She could trade the dinghy for a meal and perhaps borrow a fleet-footed horse.

Rowing it was, then.

Summoning all her strength and will, she rowed out past the waves, groaning through gritted teeth with the effort burning in her back and shoulders. If she got far enough out into the sea, the rowing would become easier, and the promise of a rest spurred her on.

At last, she tilted the oars up out of the water. They were so heavy, she had to lean on them with the weight of her upper body to get them over the sides of the dinghy. God's Challenger, she was tired. If she made it to Kaild in time, she would sleep for three days.

When. She would make it in time.

The sound of blowing water caught her attention. To her left, a dorsal fin glided in an arc under the surface. Sundancer? She fumbled for the bag, hooking it with her foot and dragging it closer, and dug inside for the flute. She could barely summon the strength to lift it to her mouth, let alone blow into it with dry and sunburned lips.

" _Sun Dancer friend,"_ was all she had the strength to play.

Please, hear me. She bent her head over the flute, held up only by her weak arms resting on her knees. _Sun Dancer friend._

From a distance she heard a reply: _"Autumn Rain is Sun Dancer friend_. _"_

The dorsal fin broke the surface and approached the dinghy slowly.

"Sundancer," Jora said weakly. She could do little more than weep with joy and relief. "Please help me."

The dolphin's smiling face rose up out of the water, and she twittered enthusiastically.

"I'm so glad to see you, friend," Jora croaked, her throat as dry as her burned skin. "I need help."

She stumbled to the boat's pointed bow and tossed the rope over the side. After collapsing back onto the seat, she played, _"Pull?"_

" _You are not well?"_

" _Hungry_ , _"_ she played back. _"Tired."_

" _I bring fish."_

Jora didn't think she would ever be hungry enough to bite into a live fish, but she appreciate the thought. _"I not eat fish_ , _"_ she answered. It was easier than explaining that she didn't have a knife to scale and gut a fish, let alone the strength to gather wood, build a fire, and cook it.

" _I pull. You want go home?"_

" _Yes."_

The boat sailed through the water at such a remarkable speed, her hat flew off her head before she could lift her hand to stop it. Though she regretted the loss of her sister's gift, the wind felt good against Jora's sunburned skin. She closed her eyes, grateful for Sundancer's help.

" _Not take long_ , _"_ Sundancer whistled. She sped along inches below the surface, breaking now and then to get a breath. _"You return to big city after?"_

" _No."_ As much as she wanted to converse with her dolphin friend, she didn't have the strength in her arms to lift the flute to her mouth.

" _You saw singing stones?"_

Jora sat up. Sundancer knew about the Spirit Stone? Was the fact that it was shaped like a dolphin more than a coincidence? _"Saw_ , _"_ she replied. _"Felt. Heard. Beautiful."_

" _Good,"_ Sundancer replied. And that was all she said until early afternoon, when she released the rope in the shallow water near the shoal where she and Jora had first met.

But there was something disturbing about the unusual quiet.

" _Caution, Autumn Rain."_

A shiver ran down her spine. Whatever it was Sundancer felt, Jora felt it, too.

He felt himself screaming. Felt it in his throat, in his chest, in the muscles of his arms and legs. It was a raw scream that bled from the inside as it stretched and grew like a pitch-black blanket over his vision. He tried reaching for the trees, hoping that if he held on tightly enough to that final image of the world, it wouldn't fade away completely. But eventually, darkness engulfed everything.

It went on for what seemed like hours, that blackness, that sense of being nowhere. He didn't know when he stopped screaming, or if he ever did, but he couldn't hear it anymore. Couldn't feel the ground beneath his body or his fingers rubbing together or whether his mouth was open or closed. All he had were his thoughts. All he knew was that this was death.

_Remember_ , he thought. If he could remember his life, it wouldn't be over. He thought of Jora and Micah, his mother and father, his friends Korlan and Rasmus and Voster and Joh. He even remembered Turounce, the man who'd been his worst nightmare.

Eventually, a glow appeared in the blackness. He turned toward it, hoping it would rescue him from this lonely existence. As it grew brighter, he felt himself being drawn toward it like being sucked into a tornado.

He saw a sky form above, not the pretty blue under which he'd died but gray and speckled. Feeling returned to his fingers, his mouth, but it was different now. He was becoming... something else. His body was changing. His thoughts were changing.

_Remember_ , he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. _Remember_.

There were three of them. Three men. Three blades. Three sharp pains.

He remembered thinking he had to save someone. Who? Who did he have to save?

Her. He had to save her.

Jora.

He had to save Jora.

He opened his eyes and struggled to his feet, certain he'd been here before. If only he could remember. He had to get back to save her. Back... where? He looked around. This place was different. This wasn't where he'd been... killed.

Killed. Yes, that was right. He'd died once.

That man had killed him. That man with the goatee and the foul, foul breath and the sharp pain in his chest. No. That wasn't right. It was so long ago. Another lifetime ago.

_Remember_. He looked around again.

He was back in that place, the place where he'd gone before. Where there'd once been misshapen monsters reaching for him, pulling him under, drowning him in their vileness, now were just... others, both familiar and strange. He knew them and yet he couldn't remember where or when they'd met. These weren't those nightmare beings that had tried to keep him in the dead place.

And yet, they were.

Except now, he was no longer afraid. Now, he was among friends. Now, he was one of them.

He looked down at his body, at the tree limbs he had for arms, the trunks for legs, the branches for fingers, and he was pleased. He tried to take in the warm, soft air and found he no longer needed to breathe. The air seeped into his bark-like skin.

The first thing Jora noticed as she headed through the trees to Kaild was the silence. It crept across the back of her neck and down her spine, and she stopped, listening harder. No children were laughing, no people were talking. The smell of meat roasting had been replaced by something foul, like... death.

She wanted to run into the center of Kaild, to call for her mother and father, for Briana and Tearna and Cacie, but her body stiffened like a cold corpse, refusing to move. Something was horribly wrong.

With one hand on a tree trunk to steady herself, she opened the Mindstream and searched for her mother... and found nothing.

_No._

She searched for her father, sister Cacie, and brother Loel—all of them gone.

Gunnar, too, and Briana and Tearna and Nuri and Anika. All gone. She was too late.

She stumbled, her legs giving out from under her, and she fell to her knees onto the forest floor. Despair filled her heart, her thoughts. How could they all be gone?

Using her own thread to go backward in time, to observe events of the previous night, she found her mother's thread first, saw her dress for bed, crawl under the covers, and settle quietly into sleep. In the deepest part of the night, someone moved. Then, someone was choking, gurgling. Jora's stomach lurched. _No, please let this not be real._

Jora glimpsed movement and jumped to that person—a man. A stranger. He moved silently into another room, but all Jora could sense were darker shadows among lighter ones.

And a glint of wet steel.

_No._

Her stomach convulsed, but she hadn't eaten anything for it to purge.

He entered another home where a lamp was burning. A woman was asleep in a rocker, an infant in her arms. Jora watched him, a shaven-headed soldier covered in blood, creep toward them.

_No_ , Jora thought. _Please don't._

She couldn't bear to watch what he did to them, but she saw his face as he did it. It was filled with madness and rage, and a perverse pleasure gleamed in his eyes.

A rag doll with yellow yarn ponytails tumbled to the floor and lay still.

Why had a madman come to Kaild to slaughter women and children? Where were the men who stood watch at night?

She reversed the stream and witnessed him and four companions cross the land bridge onto the Kaild peninsula, dismount, gesture to each other, and separate. She witnessed him sneak through the darkness on foot, snap a twig in two to draw the attention of a guard, and then slip up behind him and slit his throat. He threw meat to the dogs, and when they were busy eating, shot them with arrows.

Unable to bear witnessing anymore of the slaughter, unwilling to look upon the result of it with her eyes, Jora lumbered back to the beach. Every step was heavier than the one before. Her chest ached, her throat felt too thick to swallow, her eyes burned. Who'd done this? Who'd sent assassins to slay all the wonderful people of Kaild? Was this retribution for taking back her books? Had Boden's commander done this because of what he knew?

"Is someone out there?"

The man's voice behind her made her freeze. The killers were still there.

And she would be their next victim.

He wandered, unsure where he was supposed to go but feeling a pull to the north. Home. No, this was home. The other home. The old home, where she was.

Jora.

His thick, tree trunk legs moved far more sluggishly than he thought they should, but he moved swiftly, as if each step covered miles. He felt her growing closer, warming him in a way. She wasn't one of them like he was, but he was still drawn to her. He'd promised.

Promised.

Yes, the promise. He must honor that long-ago promise. She wouldn't be alone. He would be with her.

Jora.

Something separated them. He couldn't reach her. With his tree branch fingers, he tried to claw through the darkness, through the barrier that kept him from her. She needed him. He felt it like he felt the inky, soft air fill him. She needed him, and he would help her. He would find a way to help her.

Time passed, though he didn't understand how much time, but he saw the glow of daylight shine through the air, illuminating a gate he hadn't noticed before. A gate between the worlds.

He went to it, wrapped his gnarled fingers around its bars, and shook. Others did as well. They wanted to let in those creatures on the other side. Those creatures like the ones he used to be, the ones who stayed only for a moment, struggling and reaching and trying to escape. They were welcome here, those beings of fear. But there was nothing to fear.

But the gate didn't open. No one came through. And so he waited.

Waited for her.

Jora fled to the safety of the water and hid in the boat. Sundancer, waiting in the shallow water for her, pulled it around the shoal and farther up the coast, though Jora was certain whoever had come looking for her had seen the boat being pulled swiftly through the water. If she were lucky, he'd not seen her and didn't know whether she was male or female. Perhaps if he'd seen her duck down, he would assume from her bald head that she was a fellow soldier and let her go.

Of course, that hadn't been Boden's fortune. He'd been slain by his own kind.

Her stomach rumbled and groaned from both hunger and distress. She considered asking Sundancer to take her to the town of Three Waters, which sat nestled between two rivers to the north where they emptied into the sea. A few of her relatives lived there, and she could beg for food and a bed. But then they would inquire about Kaild, about why she hadn't gone there instead, and when she told them what she'd witnessed, they would want to go investigate.

How long would the assassins stay? And then another awful thought struck her. Would they move north to Three Waters and slaughter those people as well? Maybe she could find out.

With a quick look through the Mindstream, she found them relaxing in the center of Kaild, eating the bread and meat cooked by the women they'd murdered. Two of them laughed and joked while two others sat pensively. They'd washed up, but she could still see blood caked under their fingernails.

"After we enjoy the labor of these formerly fine people," one man said, "let's set the houses afire and then head back." He had big mouse-like ears that stuck out from his head.

"Is Zokor still asleep?" asked one with thick, dark eyebrows that met in the middle.

"No, he thought he heard something and went to make sure we didn't miss one."

If their fifth companion hadn't returned yet, then that meant he was still out looking for her. Jora closed the Mindstream and peered over the side of the boat. A tall man was scurrying along the shore behind the tree line, as if trying to remain unseen. He was looking out toward the water directly at the boat. "Sundancer," she whispered, ducking down again. Jora was afraid to call her with the flute. Then the man would hear her and know for certain she was there.

She peeked over the side again. Now he was wading into the water, thigh-deep and getting deeper. When it reached his waist, he began to swim. To hell with being heard. He was coming. She sat up and lifted the flute to her lips. _"Sun Dancer, help. Man is coming."_

Jora watched the man swim closer, her terror growing with every smooth stroke. She picked up an oar to use as a weapon and knelt on the dingy's angled bottom with her knees apart. As he neared, she gripped it in both hands, ready to beat him over the head until he drowned. Her own movement caused the boat to wobble, and she hoped it wouldn't tip so much that she fell out once the murderer arrived.

Then the man slipped below the surface. _No!_ She couldn't see him swimming underwater. He would try to come up on the side of the boat she wasn't watching.

Quickly, she entered the Mindstream and found his thread, observing him. He was under the boat. With his hands on the boat's hull, he inched toward the surface. As his head broke, he reached up and grabbed the side of the boat, silently. The boat tipped. Jora flailed and gripped the side to steady herself, losing her grip on the oar. She witnessed herself, crouched in the boat, facing the opposite direction.

And then the man was going under again, but this time, he was being pulled by the ankle. Sundancer dragged him down as he squirmed and struggled to get free. Bubbles poured from his nose and mouth, and he made gurgling sounds in his throat as if desperate to get a breath. He reached for the knife in a sheath strapped to his calf, but Sundancer was pulling him too fast through the water. His struggles weakened, and after a moment, his body went limp and the Mindstream closed.

" _Thank you, my friend,"_ Jora played.

" _I not let man hurt you, Autumn Rain."_

When Sundancer's gray face broke the surface, Jora flinched, even though she knew her pursuer was dead. But there were four others who would want to know where their friend was. They would come looking for him. She entered the Mindstream once more to observe the mouse-eared cuss again.

"Hand me another one of those chops," Mouse Ears said.

"Even left over, they're pretty tasty," said the one with the eyebrows as he plucked a chop out of the pan. He tossed it to the other.

"That's because we're hungry from laboring all night," Mouse Ears replied. "I'll bet my own shit would taste good right now."

The others laughed.

Another man, one with small, hard eyes said, "That was hard work. There must've been a couple thousand of them. I wasn't sure we'd get it done before sunrise."

"No matter what," said one who looked not much older than Jora, "the children and babies are the hardest."

The other men agreed. At least they had a shred of humanity left in them.

"Don't you wonder why they all had to die?" asked the youngest. "Why not just the adults? Take the children to one of the orphanages."

"Like they're not already overfull," said Mouse Ears. "It's best not to think about it. It'll drive you mad, and you won't get answers anyway. Follow orders, serve your time, and you'll go home to your wife and child."

Jora closed the Mindstream, remembering to put up the barring hood as she did, and shuddered. It disturbed and terrified her that they could talk so callously about slaughtering an entire town of people. These were the kinds of men the Legion used. She couldn't imagine her father or Gunnar or the other men of Kaild doing such a thing, killing innocent Serocians because they were ordered to, without knowing why.

And who ordered this massacre? She would find out and... well, she didn't know what she would do. What could she do? She was already fleeing from the Justice Bureau, so she couldn't take her concerns there.

This was her life now—fleeing and hiding. What had her mother done to deserve death? What had her young nephews and nieces done, or Tearna or anyone else in Kaild? Was this her fault for fleeing? Had Boden done something beyond writing in his journal? Something that warranted this bloodshed? She had no one now. No family, no friends, except for Adriel.

Just as Elder Sonnis had wanted.

" _Why Autumn Rain is sad?"_ Sundancer asked.

" _All my people are dead_ ," she replied. Had Sonnis done this? These were soldiers of the Legion, not enforcers. He didn't command soldiers.

" _All people?"_

" _Five men killed them. I not know what do. I not know how fight. They want kill me."_

" _I teach you calling_ ," Sundancer whistled. " _Ally protects you. Ally helps you get revenge."_

Revenge? Jora shuddered. She didn't want revenge. She only wanted justice. _"Ally is from spirit flow power?"_ she asked.

" _Ally is from other helix. First, you overpower ally, then you can command. Use spirit flow power at dusk or dawn. Must be dusk or dawn."_

Jora dug into the bag for her journal and the string-wrapped lead pen and wrote down Sundancer's instructions.

He sought the gate, scratched at the inky air to find it once again, knowing she was on the other side. He sensed it. He knew it. But his gnarled fingers felt nothing but the occasional flesh or stone or wood of another like himself. They, too, gathered where the gate had appeared, but in time, they meandered away. Not him. No. He waited and searched, tempted by her nearness and reminded of his promise. He would find her, and he would be with her.

After a long, dark night, the glow appeared again, this time in the east. It drew others to it, as if they, too, had someone to find. At last the moment came, and the gate appeared.

He lumbered toward it on his thick, wooden legs, reaching desperately. It must open. He must find her.

And then the gate opened.

The others murmured their surprise and delight, but they stepped back as if to see who would enter.

He waited uncertainly, watching. This was new, something he'd not seen before, or if he had, he didn't remember.

She stepped through.

It was her. It was Jora.

He rushed forward, pushing others out of his way, desperate to reach her. Jora. He wanted to call to her, but he'd long forgotten how to make the mouth sounds that had once been so familiar.

She stood there like a goddess, her brilliant eyes filled with knowing and love and kindness, her skin glowing like the gate itself.

"Chaw," he cried, trying his best to say her name.

She looked around with wide eyes, but she didn't see him. Her gaze fell upon another, a weaker one. One that flopped and squirmed on the fog-covered ground.

_Not that one_ , he wanted to say. _Me. Choose me._ "Chaw," he said again. "Chaw... la."

She turned her head, and her brilliant gaze fell upon him. She was even more beautiful than she'd been in his dreams.

"Chaw... la," he cried, reaching one long limb toward her.

"You," she said. Her voice was music, her word one long note that rang in his mind and sang in his heart. He pushed his way to her, eager to be chosen.

And then her arms enveloped him, squeezing, choking.

He didn't resist, didn't fight. Not her. He would never fight Jora. "Chaw... la."

Her fingers dug into him. The pain intensified as the world around him brightened, and then the gate was closing. She was dragging him with her through it, into that other world, that place of brilliance and sharp swords and foul stench.

It hurt. It was agony, and his body railed against it, resisted her efforts against his will. He didn't want to stop her. Stopping her meant he would lose her. He couldn't. Not again.

_Jora._

He'd promised he would come back for her. That promise was all he had left. With a great effort, he let go of his resistance, let her do as she would with him.

_I submit to you._

And then he was through. He stood beside her on the shore of a lake. No. Bigger. An ocean but not an ocean. The trees around them waved to him in recognition, and he waved back to his cousins. The air here was bright, painful. It stank of sea water and burning flesh, but he didn't mind because sitting before him was Jora—a shaven version of her, but still Jora. Beautiful, bald Jora.

She was staring at him with a mixture of wonderment and horror. Did she recognize him?

"What is your name?" she asked, pronouncing the words slowly.

_It's me, Jora. It's Boden._ But the mouth sounds came so arduously, and all he could manage was, "Po... teng."

Chapter 22

Jora sat on the beach with the sun rising at her back, watching with a mixture of horror and disbelief at the... thing in front of her. She hadn't intended to bring it back with her, but there it was, a tree-like being with warm, brown eyes that looked familiar and alien at the same time. It had a mouth of sorts, but it was misshapen, with a bony protrusion that looked more like a plate than teeth. Its arms were short and stumpy like tree limbs, with branches on the ends for hands and fingers. Its legs were similar but heavier, like trunks with roots for feet.

Her gaze kept returning to its eyes, so human-looking and somewhat kindly.

It studied her, its head cocked, its tree branch fingers clicking together in an oddly familiar manner.

Behind her, Sundancer twittered. _"You succeeded, Autumn Rain. I knew you had power."_

She lifted the flute to her lips, still not taking her eyes from this strange creature, and asked, _"Will it stay here with me? It will frighten people."_

" _You can send it away and beckon it when you want. To beckon it, you use spirit flow power and call its name."_

Entering the Mindstream and playing the flute at the same time had been challenging, especially considering she'd had to time it precisely at the moment the sun peeked over the horizon. The same moment that, in another city, the Spirit Stone was changing its tone. _"I must use flute to call ally?_ "

" _Yes, first open way betwixt and then speak its name._ "

" _I must call the ally at dusk or dawn?"_ she asked.

" _No, you can call it any time. Must open gate between realms and fight new ally at dusk or dawn. Now ally can come when you call."_

" _Now that I have ally, what do I do with it?"_

" _Ally does what you command. If you want travel, it takes you. If you need food, it finds you food."_

Jora couldn't help but imagine this creature lumbering into a town like Kaild, its hands fashioned into a bowl, begging with those human eyes. People might panic and flee or attack it with their knives and swords.

She fought back tears. The people of Kaild had already lived the worst horror imaginable. They would never feel fear again. _"Sun Dancer, will it kill men who killed my family?"_

" _Yes. It will kill if you command."_

Good. Then that was what she would do. Those assassins would die for what they'd done. She climbed to her feet, put the flute back into her satchel, and put it into the boat. "Come, Po Teng," she said.

The creature lumbered toward her. Though its steps were jerky and awkward, it moved very quickly, and as it did, it faded, becoming transparent, almost invisible.

"Wait. Do that again. Go to that tree."

It took two or three steps, but it crossed the distance of thirty or forty feet in only two heartbeats. Again, it became transparent while it moved, such that she saw only a vague outline of its form, as if it had been made of the purest glass. When it reached the tree, its form became fully whole and opaque again.

"Remarkable. I wish I could do that." She thought of how that ability would come in handy to avoid any enforcers the Justice Bureau might have sent after her. "Come on, let's go. We have some justice of our own to dispense, my new friend."

It returned to her side and looked up at her like a bizarre dog, waiting for its next command.

"Well? Let's go." When it stood there, staring at her with its funny head cocked, she realized it was waiting for a specific command. "Get into the boat, Po Teng."

It climbed into the boat and stared at her from the bow, waiting.

"Sit on that bench there," she said, pointing.

The creature settled on the bench, though it didn't look comfortable. Well, it would only be for a short time. If it didn't want to sit, it could stand. Jora pushed the boat into the water and turned it so the bow was pointing to the open water. With a few steps to push off, she jumped in, settled onto the rear seat, and looked around for Sundancer.

" _Sun Dancer, are you here?"_

" _I am here."_ The whistle was faint and distant.

" _Please pull boat to beach near my home."_

The rope became taut, and the dinghy moved through the water.

" _Thank you, Sun Dancer,"_ she played.

" _When I am not near, you can use ally pull boat."_

" _This ally?"_ she asked. _"He not look like can swim well."_

" _No, one like man I drowned. He is ally now, lives in water. You can command him or another like him pull boat."_

That assassin was an ally now? _"All men become allies when they die?"_ she asked.

After a pause, Sundancer whistled, _"I not know. Different now."_

Maybe Elder Kassyl's book of tones had the answer to that question. That could wait. Right now, she had business to attend to.

When they rounded the shoal, she spotted one of the assassins on the beach, riding a brown horse and leading a skewbald by the reins as he shouted for his friend. When he caught sight of the dinghy coming toward the beach, he dismounted and drew his sword.

" _Ally will protect you. You want I will take you away_? _"_ Sundancer whistled.

She trusted Sundancer, but could she trust the ally to do as she said? Better to find out now than forever wonder. _"No, I stay here."_ As the boat drifted to shore, Jora held her hands up and shouted, "I'm unarmed."

The man waded into knee-deep water, grabbed the rope, and pulled the boat up onto the beach. Behind him, smoke rose in thick, billowing clumps above the tops of the trees, and the terrifying sight of orange blazed through the forest. "Get out."

"Who sent you?" she asked, making no move to get out of the boat. "Why have you done this?"

"It's not personal," he said. "I just follow orders."

"As does my friend. Po Teng, kill him."

She caught a glimpse of Po Teng moving past her. It moved so quickly, it was like a blur of wind. The man's face went ashen before he dropped his sword and collapsed to the sand with barely a sound. Two dead. Three more left.

She got out of the boat and ran toward the burning town. The creature kept pace with her, fading to its barely visible state. When she stopped, thick black smoke billowing into her face and eyes, she dropped to her hands and knees.

She listened for screams or cries of help, hoping someone was still alive to save. All she heard was the roaring of the hungry fires as they consumed the homes, the civic building and dining hall, the marriage chamber and leatherworking shop, the library with the book of Azarian, lost forever. All of Kaild was dead and burning, even the livestock.

She crawled back the way she'd come, to the beach where the fresh air blew inland from the sea, and collapsed onto her back. Too tired to move, too dispirited to force herself, she lay there looking at the blue sky, wondering why. "I just follow orders," the assassin had said. Whose orders? Who would have ordered an entire town slaughtered?

A quick observation of the mouse-eared assassin found the rest of them crossing the land bridge on horseback. They rode slowly, as if they had no cares. She waited and watched, and when they turned south, away from Three Waters, she breathed her relief. At least the people there were safe, but those men—those murderers—would get away. She couldn't let that happen.

Jora rolled onto her belly and pushed herself up with the sheer force of her will. The ally could move quickly—more so than she could. It could get to the men before they got away. "The other three killers have crossed the land bridge and are going south along the road. Can you go catch them?"

Po Teng nodded its misshapen head.

"Good. Go catch those men and slay them."

The ally lumbered away, disappearing into the smoky distance through the trees.

Curious, Jora opened the Mindstream again to observe the mouse-eared fellow. The remaining three assassins rode single-file, their postures relaxed. Two of them sang a folksong. She glimpsed Po Teng moving up quickly from behind. The man riding in the back quit singing, his face ashen. He toppled from his saddle and landed on the ground with a thud. The horse nickered and stopped, nudging its rider where he lay.

The man in front of him turned to look. His eyes stilled and face paled, and his lips turned white before he fell without a warning. His head cracked on a rock, and a thin stream of red powder poured from the wound, forming a pile like sand in the bottom of an hourglass.

"What the hell?" asked Mouse Ears, turning. He moved his hand toward his sword but never made it. The Mindstream closed.

Moments later, Po Teng was back, looking up at her like a faithful dog, its branch fingers clicking against each other.

"Well done, my friend," she said. "And they left me some horses."

The brown horse the slain assassin had been riding laid its ears back and trotted away, perhaps distrustful of the stranger who approached. Then Jora realized they were wary of Po Teng.

"Go back to... your normal place," she said. "I'll call you when I need you again."

With that, Po Teng disappeared.

"It's gone now," she said to the two horses on the beach. "Just you and me now. I'm not going to hurt you. I'll take you to Three Waters, where you'll be cared for."

A skewbald beauty with a brown mane and white tail took a hesitant step toward her. She focused her attention on that one, talking sweetly and complimenting its gorgeous coat, remembering how Kaild's horse breeder used to say that horses were drawn to kindness and loved to be admired. When the horse was near enough to touch, she lifted one hand slowly and asked permission to stroke its face. The animal's response was a gentle nibble with its lips on her ear. A kiss.

"You're a sweetheart," she told it. "Would you be willing to take me to Three Waters? It's not far from here. They'll feed us and give us a nice, dry place to sleep. What do you say?"

She went to the horse's left side and grabbed hold of the saddle. When it didn't balk, she heaved her foot up, almost too weak to get it into the stirrup, and then with a couple of bounces on her right foot to get some momentum, she pushed herself up and hauled her weary body over the horse's back. Gasping for breath, she grabbed her right pants leg and pulled it over. Finally, exhausted from the effort, she was in the saddle.

"Come on, horse," she said over her shoulder. "You come, too." Though the brown horse didn't trot right up, it did follow her around the burning town and over the land bridge.

On the road, she found two of the fallen assassins, but the one with the mouse ears was gone. Just like Boden. Briefly, she wondered whether it had anything to do with the fact that she'd been observing them at the moment of their deaths.

Too exhausted, hungry, and melancholy to think about the significance of it, she looked around for the other three horses.

They were snacking on leaves and grass not far from the road, and they looked up when Jora approached on the back of the skewbald. She clicked her tongue and beckoned them, and they fell into a loose line behind her. Good. At least they would be cared for and put to good use rather than falling prey to a cougar.

The sun, now high overhead, beat down relentlessly on her head and face. Her hair was starting to grow back, but it would be a long time yet before it was long enough to comb. She dozed in the saddle, startling to wakefulness when she caught herself falling.

After a few hours on the road, she made out the shaded forms of two riders approaching. Or perhaps there were four. Her eyes had trouble focusing. She blinked hard a few times, trying to see who they were, but her mind was too numb, her body too weary.

"Hail there," one said.

"Help," she said, though it came out in a whisper.

"Are you a horse trader?" he asked. "Looks like your... Miss, are you all right?"

Jora felt herself falling. The next thing she knew, two faces were hovering over her. One of them had Gunnar's gray eyes. Home. She was home, and everyone was safe. It was all a terrible nightmare. "Kaild."

"You're from Kaild?" one man asked.

"She looks a bit like one of Kayla Lanseri's girls," said the one with Gunnar's eyes. "Jora, I think. Or is this Cacie?"

"We saw the fire. Is everyone all right?"

Fire. The horrible nightmare became a memory once again. Jora couldn't find the strength or words to tell them what had happened. All she could manage was a quiet, "Dead."

The two men shared a horrified look.

"Let's get her back to town," said Gunnar's Eyes.

She dreamed of her family and friends, running and screaming through the burning town, their clothes on fire and blood pouring from the gashes in their necks. She bolted upright with a scream in her throat, her face wet with tears.

"There, there. You're all right now," said a brunette with a round face and kind eyes. "You're safe. Jora, right? Jora Lanseri? Hebb wasn't sure he recognized you without your braids, but Danna thought it was you."

Jora nodded, looking around. She was in a darkened room with a candle burning on a nearby table. There was a cup of water and a pitcher, too, and she licked her lips, summoning the strength to ask for a sip.

"Let me get that for you," the woman said, reaching for the cup. She held it to Jora's mouth and tipped it while Jora guzzled down the refreshing water, cupping her own hands around the woman's. "I'm Mira Kasuse, a third cousin to your mama, Kayla. Guess that makes us third cousins once removed. You've a sister, don't you? Gracie, is it?" She refilled the cup halfway and handed it to Jora.

"Cacie," Jora corrected between sips. "But she's..." Dead. They were all dead. "Gunnar's here?" she asked, remembering his eyes. Or had that been a dream?

"Gunnar Sayeg?" Mira asked. "He's Kaild's drill master, isn't he? He's not here, no. Why would he be?"

Jora shook her head and scooted back so she could lean back and still sit upright. "I thought I saw him before I passed out."

"Here, let me fix your pillows." Mira positioned the pillows behind Jora's back. "There you are. No, it was Hebb who carried you in here. Hebb Sayeg. I suppose he might look enough like Gunnar to trick a weary mind. Don't know their relation but surely a cousin. Sayeg isn't that common a name. Do you think you can take a bit of soup?"

Jora nodded gratefully, only then realizing that she'd been bathed and dressed in a sleeping gown. "Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you."

Mira patted her arm and gave it a squeeze before standing. "They've kept it warm for you in the kitchen. Rayja might've saved you some beef and bread, too. I'll bring what I can find."

"You're so kind. Thank you," Jora said.

As soon as Mira left through the curtained doorway, Jora covered her face in her hands and cried. The people of Three Waters weren't so different from the people of Kaild, and many shared distant relatives. Had a woman of Three Waters wandered into Kaild, sunburned and starving, she'd have been cared for, as Jora was now. Why weren't people in Jolver kind to one another? Why were they so hateful, killing and stealing and making up lies?

"Here you are, dear," Mira said. She backed into the room carrying a tray and let the curtain fall away when she turned. "Found you a bit of Rayja's wonderful cabbage, too, though I think the meat's what'll get you on your feet the fastest. The pea soup is tasty and might go down easier. Why not try a bit of that first?"

Jora nodded, eager to dig into the meal. Mira set the tray across Jora's lap. Beside the plate was a napkin with embroidered edges, and beside the spoon a yellow rose. She picked it up and breathed in its delicate scent. How could something so beautiful live in a world so ugly?

"Thought it might give you a smile. You look like you could use one."

Jora nodded, fighting back more tears. "It—" Her voice caught in her throat, and she cleared it. "It's lovely. Everything is lovely, and it smells delicious."

"I'll leave you to eat in peace," Mira said, refilling the cup of water on the table. "If you need anything, holler. I won't be far." She smiled and took the empty pitcher with her when she left the room.

Jora picked up the chunk of beef with her left hand and tore off a mouthful. She barely chewed it, barely tasted it, before taking another bite. Never had she been so ravenous.

It occurred to her that an unchewed meal dumped into her stomach after going days without food might cause her body to rebel. The last thing she wanted was to throw it all back up before her body had a chance to leech nourishment from it. And she needed the replenishment badly.

She sipped her water, took a few spoonfuls of the soup, and forced herself to slow down, though the images in her head from the attack on Kaild made it impossible to enjoy the food.

Jora slept through the night and halfway through the morning. Though she was plagued by bad dreams, the rest and the meal had done her good. When she awoke, she felt hungry but ready to face the day. Her clothes, clean and folded, sat on the stool beside the bed, and she changed into them, wincing at the soreness in her muscles.

She staggered out of her room and discovered she'd spent the night in a convalescence inn. Most of the others there were elderly people unable to stand or walk, but the medics also tended a couple of children with fevers and a man who'd lost his foot to a shark while hunting for clams. A couple dozen people of Three Waters joined her for a late breakfast in a pleasant, grassy courtyard shaded by a mature oak. They gathered around to get a look at the almost bald woman from Kaild who'd wandered into their lives in such poor condition. She wasn't sure yet what she would do or where she would go. Perhaps, if they were willing, she could settle here, though she would have to be careful about using the Mindstream to avoid being detected.

A woman approached and extended her hand. "I'm Lylah, lead councilwoman for Three Waters. May I?"

Jora nodded. She'd heard the woman's name mentioned throughout the years. The people of Kaild had much respect for her. "I can't thank you enough for your generous hospitality."

Lylah sat down at the table across from her. "Of course, dear. We do for our neighbors, though we'd like to hear your story. What brought you here to us, Jora Lanseri of Kaild?"

"Some of the boys playing at the shore yesterday said they saw smoke rising in the distance," said Hebb, the man who had Gunnar's eyes. "We thought it was a forest fire until we met you on the road."

Jora nodded. She clasped her hands together tightly, trying to both steel herself to deliver the tragic news and to assure herself that she was among friends. "Five assassins arrived in Kaild and murdered everyone during the night."

Everyone gasped in shock.

"Everyone?" asked Danna, a woman Jora had known years earlier. Born and raised in Kaild, she'd left several years ago to marry a man her brother had served with in the Legion.

Jora nodded. Danna's siblings had perished, as well as her parents and childhood friends. She felt Danna's loss as she felt her own: with burning eyes brimming with tears.

"How do you know this? Did you see them?" Lylah asked.

"I witnessed it." Jora gave a brief summary of the events from the time she beached the dinghy to her escape around the shoal. She left out Sundancer's role. Having to explain how she was able to communicate with a dolphin would take more time, and she didn't want to diverge from what was the most important topic right now: the slaughter of two thousand innocent people. "Then they set fire to the buildings. I tried to look for survivors, maybe someone who hadn't died of their wounds, but the smoke was too thick. I couldn't get close enough."

"How did you escape?" Hebb asked.

"I got there after the assassins did. They didn't know I was there, or I wouldn't have."

"Are you a Truth Sayer?" someone asked. "Your hair..."

Jora ran a hand over her tender scalp, feeling the tiny nubs of hair growing back. "I was." Though she wanted to tell them everything, to reveal the Legion's awful secret, she couldn't. Not yet. Not until she knew for certain that the knowledge wouldn't bring Kaild's fate down upon the people of Three Waters, too.

"Why would someone issue a cull order on Kaild?" one of the older men asked. "Was it the Justice Bureau?"

"I don't know," she said, "but I'm going to find out."

"What happened to you?" Hebb asked. "What need did you have to return to Kaild?"

"I needed the advice of my parents and the town council. I can't say more quite yet. I'd only put you all in danger if I did, but one day, I'll come back and tell you everything."

Except for Lylah, they looked at each other with wide-eyed wariness. The councilwoman studied Jora with a steady gaze.

"Whose horses were those you arrived with?" Lylah asked.

The question was bound to be asked, though she'd hoped not to have to explain about Po Teng. "The assassins'. I slew them all as they were leaving." Though that wasn't the full truth of it, she had issued the command to kill them, and the one who issued the command was the one most responsible for the deed.

"You?" one man asked. He snorted and crossed his arms. "You could barely sit astride when Hebb and Turro found you. How did you kill five skilled assassins?"

"Five assassins who murdered an entire town," Lylah added.

"Five men who first bested Kaild's guard," said another man.

Jora raised her hands to calm the arguments. "I admit, I didn't do the deed myself. I had help. I have a powerful ally."

"Who's this ally? And where is he now?"

From the south she heard shouting. Someone screamed. Everyone who'd gathered around Jora now turned to the source of the scream, some shooting to their feet, all gaping as four mail-clad enforcers rode into the town center on spirited horses, swords at ready. One was spattered with blood.

"Jora Lanseri," called the one in front. He had thick black eyebrows and a hawkish nose. "Come with us."

Her entire body trembled as she stood. She didn't want to kill anyone else, but she didn't think she would be able to convince them to leave peacefully.

"Jora Lanseri," the hawk-nosed enforcer said, "show yourself now."

"What do you want with her?" Lylah asked. "Are you responsible for what happened in Kaild?"

"This is none of your concern, woman," Hawk Nose said.

"It is when you barge into my town and slay my guards to arrest my neighbor."

A feeling of dread gripped Jora. "No," she said, touching Lylah's arm. She didn't want to see Lylah struck down for standing up for her. "I'm here. I'll come with you. Just allow me to gather my belongings."

"No belongings," Hawk Nose said, turning his cold eyes upon her.

One of his fellows leaned toward him and whispered something.

"The books. You have them?"

Jora nodded. "They're with my clothes."

The enforcer gestured with his arm to the one who'd whispered to him. "Go with her, but watch her."

Jora's heart pounded as she walked back to the convalescence building at the point of the enforcer's blade. All eyes were on her. The most important thing was protecting these people. The enforcers had already shown they would kill to complete their task of bringing her back to Jolver.

Jora reached for the duffel bag. The enforcer poked her with the sharp point of his sword in the back. "Put it down."

She obeyed and put her hands up to show she was unarmed. "Po Teng, come," she whispered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Your presence here fills me with trepidation. I was saying a prayer to Retar."

He opened the bag's flap and peered inside, then pulled out some of her clothes. "These two are the only books you have?"

Why hadn't Po Teng come? What had she missed? "Yes. How did you know to find me here?" she asked.

He appraised her with a long look. "Hoofprints on the road leading away from two dead soldiers. How'd they die?"

With a shrug, she said, "How would I know?" When she sensed his wariness, she forced a laugh. "God's Challenger! You're afraid of me." If he was afraid of her, she might be able to shame him into letting his guard down. After all, she was a slight woman and he was a large, burly man.

He snorted derisively. "You? Hardly." He picked up the duffel and turned to leave.

"Would you mind putting my clothes back? I'm going to need those."

He stuffed the cloth back into the bag.

"Neatly," she said, stepping forward. "You're making a mess of things. Move aside. Let me do it."

The enforcer responded by pressing his sword tip against her chest. "A few wrinkles won't kill you, but I might."

"I doubt it," she said, though she stepped back away from his blade. "I think Elder Sonnis will be quite irate if you kill me. He's probably looking forward to doing it himself."

The enforcer finished stuffing her clothes and the books into the bag and shoved her flute inside as well before replacing the cover flap and securing it with the loop. "Elder Sonnis does not seek revenge, only justice."

"Little you know," she said. "I witnessed..." Then she realized why Po Teng hadn't come. She had to be in the Mindstream to call the ally. She had to play the opening line of the calling, but her flute was inside the bag. The enforcer wasn't going to let her dig it out and play it.

"I don't care," he said. "Let's go." He picked up the bag by its strap and offered it to her to carry.

She opened the Mindstream and whistled, " _Open way betwixt_."

The enforcer's brows dipped, as if he wasn't sure whether he should be alarmed.

"Po Teng, come," she said.

And Po Teng came, appearing beside the enforcer with those eager eyes and clicking fingers.

"What in the—"

"Kill him," she said.

The ally touched the enforcer with a single twig-finger, and the huge man went ashen. He thudded to the floor. His sword fell with a clatter onto the wooden floor beside him.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly. "I guess the people of Three Waters are going to get a demonstration of how those assassins were killed. Come with me." She debated taking the sword, but decided to leave it. She didn't know how to use one anyway, and Kaild's neighbors would find it and put it to good use.

She exited the convalescence house with the bag's strap over her shoulder. Heads turned toward her. When she was followed not by the brute but by a brown tree-like creature half her own height, nearly everyone gasped.

"Po Teng, kill the three men wearing mail."

Po Teng rushed to them faster than her eyes could track. One by one it touched the men with its twig-like fingers, and one by one they fell without a sound.

The people of Three Waters gaped. Some whimpered and clutched the arm of the person standing beside them; others clamped their hands over their mouths. One woman screamed.

Jora walked over to the three dead enforcers. "This is how I killed them," she said, breaking the stunned silence. "This is my ally."

For a moment, no one spoke. They stared at Po Teng with a mixture of awe and terror.

"What is it?" asked a girl of about twelve.

"Yah," someone else chimed in. "What is that thing?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Jora admitted. "I only met it yesterday, but it's from another realm of perception. I've learned to command one of them."

"Gatekeeper," said a warbly voice from behind her. Jora turned to see a frail woman of at least eighty years, hobbling from the convalescence house with the aid of a cane. "We've not seen a Gatekeeper in Serocia since ancient times."

Gatekeepers. That was what Bastin had called those who'd worn the red robes.

Jora shook her head, unwilling—unable—to believe that she could possibly be a Gatekeeper. She was just a Mindstreamer with a penchant for music who'd stumbled upon something more powerful than she'd imagined. And from her experience at the Justice Bureau, she knew that how someone handled power revealed more about their character than any other measure.

Looking down at the corpses at her feet, Jora shuddered. This was how she used power. This was what she had become.

"I think it's time you moved on, Jora," Lylah said. The fear in her eyes belied the confidence in her voice.

Lylah was right. Not only would the enforcers and soldiers keep coming after her, putting them in danger, but she was obviously making them uneasy.

"Yes, of course." Jora dismissed Po Teng with a quiet command. "You've been more than kind, and I appreciate your hospitality. I'm sorry for... for this. For leading these enforcers to your home. For the death of your guard."

"I'm not dead," said a swarthy fellow whose shirt was stained with blood. He stumbled into the clearing propped up by another man, each with an arm around the other. "Not yet, anyway."

Mira rushed to his aid and took him into the convalescence home.

Jora breathed her relief, but it didn't change anything. She had to leave before Elder Sonnis sent an entire platoon of enforcers after her and slaughtered these people for aiding her.

She considered taking the skewbald horse, but to ride on horseback would make her vulnerable to an enforcer's arrow. The boat would probably keep her safer, as she would at least have Sundancer's help when she needed it. "I've a boat beached near Kaild," she said. "If anyone is willing to ride with me, you can keep the painted horse as well as the other four."

"I'll go," said Hebb. "I need to see what these assassins wrought."

Lylah nodded her approval. "Turro, would you go with him? If there's anyone left alive, do what you can."

Chapter 23

"I've prepared a package for you," said Mira. She scurried forward, holding out a sack. "A bit of bread and cheese for your journey, and some jerky to keep you going."

Jora thanked her and gratefully accepted a filled water skin from the council leader and a new hat as well. The hostler brought the painted horse, clean and saddled. With the aid of a stool, Jora strapped her satchel to the back of the saddle, mounted, and tucked the sack of food against her lower belly. Hebb and the other fellow, Turro, mounted their horses, and the three started back to Kaild.

The sun was warm on her arms and shoulders as she rode, and she was doubly grateful for the gifted hat that kept the sun's touch off her tender scalp and neck. Soon, though, the road was protected from the hot rays by the forest, and she appreciated the cool shade.

The ride back to Kaild was uneventful, though she and her riding companions kept their eyes and ears open in case more enforcers were sent from Halder. By now, the Justice Bureau would know that the enforcers were dead, though they surely realized that to send more would mean more would die.

But the assassins who'd razed Kaild hadn't been sent by the Justice Bureau. They'd been soldiers of the Legion. Their command of murder and destruction had to have come from one of the Legion officers. The ride from Three Waters to Kaild gave her time to consider what Boden had told the three soldiers who'd slain him.

He'd named his commander, Turounce. Was he the one who'd issued the so-called cull order on Kaild? By going first to her own past, then to Boden's, she picked out Turounce's thread and traced his stream backward, to a few days before Boden died.

She found him, a stern-looking man with a well-manicured goatee touched on the sides with gray, sitting in his office, signing a document to accept new soldiers into his company. That was him. She knew he had to have been the one responsible for ordering Boden's death. There was something in his eyes, a rage barely tempered.

Another man knocked before entering, an officer with three stripes on his sleeve. Two other officers and an adept were with him. One officer handed Turounce Boden's journal, opened to a particular page. "Two pages have been torn out," Three Stripes said.

The adept stepped forward and handed him two handwritten pages. "He burned them, but I took the liberty of transcribing the missing pages."

Jora looked over Turounce's shoulder. What she read there was downright disturbing, but it wasn't until she came to the final passage that she truly understood.

_I believe the march commander and the other officers of our company are knowingly permitting the smuggling of godfruit to our enemies. If this is true, if someone within the Legion command is profiting from the deaths of soldiers in order to keep the war going, then someone needs to take the matter to the king. And if the king won't stop it, then the people of Serocia should hear about this reprehensible business. It's unconscionable, and it must stop._

_I'm afraid to speak out to other soldiers, because I'm now Relived. My next death will be my last, and the march commander has already proven willing to kill his own soldiers to protect this secret. The returned soldiers of Kaild might have some valuable insights on the matter—especially if they knew about the smuggling and were also afraid to speak out._

She cursed under her breath, remembering what Boden had told his three killers. The Legion itself was selling godfruit to the enemy to help fund the war.

"Something wrong?" Hebb asked.

Everything was wrong, but she told him no. As a former Legion soldier, he might have known about it. Could she trust him? Or would he turn on her like those men who'd killed Boden? Jora shuddered, almost afraid to advance the stream forward again, but she already knew Boden's ultimate fate and that of her town. What could be worse than witnessing the horrors she'd already seen?

Turounce shuffled the pages to read the second page the adept had given him. And then the commander exploded. He threw the papers down, stood, and began cursing and screaming about Boden's foolishness, insubordination, and failure to learn his lesson the first time. He went on for a time, hollering and cursing and threatening Boden with a painful death.

Jora paused the stream to read the second page the adept had transcribed.

_Jora, read the page in the front of this book with the dolphin in the top right corner, written three days ago. Hope you can put that information to good use._

Challenge the god! Boden hadn't been killed for what he knew but for what he'd written in his journal. For what he'd told her to read.

The commander asked, "Adept Orfeo, has this Jora woman read it yet?"

"One moment," the adept replied. The man's brows knitted. "I... How odd. She's a novice, and yet I can't observe her. It seems someone has taught her the barring hood."

"What in the hell is that?"

"It's how Truth Sayers prevent others with the Talent from observing them. The skill is taught only to disciples. I can't see whether she has read the journal or not."

The commander paced for a moment, shushing the officer who started to speak. Finally he said, "Inform the Justice Bureau. I want her put down."

Jora's eyes flew wide. Put down. Like a sick animal. Her stomach turned. If she hadn't escaped when she did, she might have been dead by now. She'd assumed her greatest danger was from Elder Sonnis's wrath. No wonder he'd been so desperate to see her. He wanted her books back before he murdered her.

"Sir, there's no way to know she's seen the journal," said Three-Stripes.

Turounce resumed his pacing. "It's only a matter of time. If she sees it, she'll tell someone. We can't let that happen. She'd probably send a message to—" He snapped his fingers. "She's from Kaild. Damn it. We have a bigger problem than we first thought. Who's her elder?"

"That would be Elder Kassyl, I believe," Orfeo said.

"Impress upon Elder Kassyl the danger here," Turounce said. "If she breathes a word of what she's read in this journal, we could be facing a civil war."

Elder Kassyl. That meant this conversation had taken place shortly before his death. Before his murder.

She advanced the stream forward, unable to find a reply until the following day—the day Elder Kassyl had been found dead.

"I've an answer from the bureau," Adept Orfeo said. "They say she's too valuable to put down, and so they've issued a cull order and assigned you to see it carried out."

Jora felt sick. How could these men, sworn to protect Serocia, be so willing to commit mass murder against their own people? Even if they had no compunction about butchering innocent women and children, did they have no loyalty to the returned soldiers?

"Damn it." The commander took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "All right, get Bakston in here."

A few minutes later, the assassin Jora thought of as Mouse Ears entered the building.

There was no question Turounce had sent those men to slaughter her people, but who had given Turounce that order? It had to have come to him by way of the command boards.

Jora searched the threads in the Mindstream for that of the boy sitting in the command room that day. She watched Sonnis, still in his green robe, enter the room and hang a small piece of paper on the board marked forty-four.

_Novice too valuable. Cull order: Kaild_

Jora's stomach knotted. It had been Sonnis's idea, not the Legion's. Captain Kyear had argued against the cull order. Then she realized that Sonnis had killed Elder Kassyl so that he could issue the cull order and save Jora's life instead.

It didn't matter. Every murder was wrong, whether it was one person or two thousand. The Justice Bureau, the institution that was supposed to honor truth and uphold the law, was part of the problem. Left up to the Order, there would be no justice for the people of Kaild.

She had the aid of Po Teng, and she knew what she must do.

Dusk was falling when Jora and her two companions arrived at what used to be Kaild. What had once been family homes filled with laughter were now blackened skeletons of buildings. Jora couldn't bring herself to enter any of them, knowing the charred remains of people she'd known and loved lay within. She circled the town and headed to the beach while Hebb and Turro went into the town center to see if anyone had managed to hide from the assassins.

Her stolen dinghy was right where she'd left it, as was the body of the fallen murderer. She climbed down from the painted horse, untied her satchel, and placed it and the sack of food Mira had given her into the boat. Wearily, she withdrew her flute and called to Sundancer, but the dolphin didn't come.

Jora sat heavily on the sand out of the waves' reach and contemplated her life, her next steps. What lay ahead was too big, too frightening to grasp, and so she considered the step immediately in front of her: to leave Kaild. For that, she needed Sundancer to pull the boat. There was no possible way for her to row all the way back to Jolver.

Sundancer's words came back to her. _"When I am not here, you can use ally pull boat, one like man I drowned."_

The drowned assassin was an ally. How he'd become one of those creatures from the other helix, as Sundancer had called it, was still beyond her understanding. When this other business was finished, when she had exacted her... no, not revenge. When she'd _dispensed justice_ , she could sit and ponder the mystery of it. For now, she had to continue forward, one step at a time.

Hebb joined her on the beach, sitting on the sand beside her. Somewhere behind them, Turro was retching. "We didn't find anyone alive," Hebb said, "though we found plenty. All died as you said, some with their throats cut so deep, you can see—"

"Please," Jora said, putting up one hand. "I don't want to hear it. I saw what they did. That was enough horror for a lifetime." She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, gripping the flute in both hands against her shins.

"Right. Sorry. There's not much to salvage, except for a plow and some wagon hardware. We'll hold a vigil for the dead and lay them to rest in the proper way."

"Thank you, Hebb."

"I'm sorry for your loss. These people didn't deserve what they got. Babies and children." He shook his head sorrowfully. "Why was this... this horror brought down upon them?"

She looked into his eyes, darkened in the approaching dusk. "Please don't ask me to tell you. If I do, if word spreads, then you and your family and all of Three Waters could suffer the same fate. I can't have that on my shoulders, too."

"This wasn't your fault," he said. "You didn't do this. You didn't order this done." She heard a note of Gunnar in his voice, and her heart broke a little more.

"No, but it was because of me that the order was issued. It was because of what I know."

He nodded and looked out to sea. "Where are you going from here?"

For a moment, she considered her reply. Elder Sonnis would get his due, but first, the man she sighted along her arrow of justice was March Commander Turounce. "To the Isle of Shess."

Hebb lifted his chin toward the dinghy. "You going to row all the way there with those scrawny arms of yours?"

Jora snorted a half-hearted laugh. "No, I've got something else in mind."

"Need any help?" Turro asked.

Jora turned to look up at Turro, walking up behind them. "Actually, yes." She stood and assessed the sun's position over the mountains to the west. It would sink below the peaks soon. She would need to be ready. "I'm about to do something I've only done once before. If you don't mind, keep an eye on me."

"Um, all right. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to travel the way betwixt and the gate between."

"The twixt? What's that?"

She smiled. "It's the empty space between the realms of perception. I'm going to take control of another ally, a creature from the same helix my ally is from—another realm of perception. This one's going to pull the dinghy so I don't have to row."

Jora took off her boots and waded, flute in hand, into the water until she was about chest-deep. Turro came with her, sucking in his breath at the cool temperature when it reached his crotch.

"What do I do?" he asked.

"Just make sure I don't slip under the water and drown."

Closing her eyes, she opened the Mindstream and played the command Sundancer had taught her.

" _Open way betwixt and gate between helix and its twin."_

In her mind's eye, the darkness deepened like a sky without stars. She saw a reddish glow appear as it had when she'd first found Po Teng. The color brightened to orange and then yellow and then blinding white. Her instinct was to shield her eyes, but it wasn't a white she was seeing with her eyes. She stepped forward, proceeding through the inky darkness she'd come to associate with the Mindstream, and found herself in a watery world, afraid to breathe in case she'd stepped into the deeper water of the sea in the physical world.

All kinds of creatures swam around her, some like fishes with a tail that flicked back and forth, others with a long, snake-like body that wormed their way through the water. One of them, a sleek, silvery being, drew her eye.

It had a snout like a cow's and a sleek body that wriggled like a sea snake with thick tail and fins, and it paddled through the water with four webbed hands. It shied away from her as if it were afraid. She swam toward it, but it flitted away, moving in a blink to a position behind her.

Her lungs were starting to ache with the need to breathe. Others swam around her, pausing flirtatiously as if they wanted to be chosen, but she'd set her sights on the speedy one, the one that would get her to the Isle of Shess the quickest. She began swimming toward it once more, intent on not letting it get past her again.

It tried to slip by, but she managed to grab hold of its tail fin. It took off, dragging her through the water from side to side as it fought to escape her grasp. Her lungs were burning now, and it was all she could do to hold on and not gasp for a breath, certain she would drown if she did.

The creature slowed and stopped. It turned its torso and bared long, needle-like teeth at her. Jora hung on, refusing to give up. It took off once again, yanking her back and forth. Her lungs screamed at her to breathe. Tiny spots appeared in her vision, blocking out the sight of the creature.

Just when she thought, _This is it. This is my death,_ the creature stilled, giving in. She closed the Mindstream and opened her eyes.

She was underwater. In the distance, she heard the muffled sounds of men shouting her name. With a few hard kicks, she broke the surface and gasped for breath, then choked on the salty water.

"Jora!" one of the men cried. He swam the few yards to her, hooked his arm under her own and across her chest, and took her to shore. All she could do was cough and gasp for breath.

At last, she was in the shallowest water, crawling up onto the beach, coughing and vomiting water. Someone slapped her back, and little by little, she was able to fill her lungs enough to calm the coughing. She turned and sat, exhausted. Did it work?

"We thought you were drowned," Hebb said. "You just... vanished."

She looked at him curiously. "Vanished?" Could she really have left the helix physically? Then she realized that she'd been there all along but in the other realm of perception where they couldn't see her.

"Yah, like that." Turro snapped his fingers. "One second you were there, playing your flute, and the next, you were gone."

"My flute," she said, suddenly realizing it wasn't in her hand.

"Here it is," Hebb said. He reached down and picked up what had looked like a stick. "You dropped it. It got wet, but it should dry out." He handed it to her, and she took it gratefully.

"Thank you." She climbed to her feet and put the flute into the dinghy where it wouldn't get wet or lost, then she took a few steps into the water, wading to her mid-thigh. Had the ally beaten her? She didn't relish the thought of having to repeat her effort at sunrise, but she would if she had to. By then, with another night's sleep behind her, she would be better equipped to wrestle one of the creatures into submission.

A _shick-shick_ sound caught her attention. Something bumped her leg, something long and silvery that floated under the surface near her right hip. Its webbed hand stroked her leg as the being circled her body. It was both grotesque and intriguing to behold.

"What is your name?" she asked softly.

"Zho...kaw," it said when its cow-like face peeked above the water's surface.

"What the hell is that thing?" Turro asked.

Jora smiled. "This is my new ally."

Jora bid Hebb and Turro goodbye, thanked them for their aid and that of the people of Three Waters, and climbed into the dinghy. The two men pushed the boat off against the small waves of the ebb tide, and Jora rowed out far enough for Zhokaw to swim.

In order for the cow-faced fish-snake to pull the boat, Jora had to tie a loop in the rope's end that fit over the ally's face. The loop settled into place on Zhokaw's head about halfway between the end of its snout and its eyes.

"Zhokaw, pull the boat out into the sea."

Waving at the two men on the beach and the three horses, she started off. Though the water was a bit choppy, it wasn't the rolling voyage that had rocked her stomach when she initially left for Jolver with the two Truth Sayers. She thought back to that day, when her nightmare began.

The first week had been the worst, as she missed her family terribly, but once she started learning about her new role and new life, she had to concede that Elder Gastone hadn't been wrong. Life in the Order was not unpleasant, especially those few days she got to spend with Elder Kassyl.

He was another whose death had come too soon, murdered by Sonnis. When she finished with Turounce, she would bring him to justice, too.

But _justice_ wasn't the word Sundancer had used. She had called it _revenge_.

No, it wasn't revenge. Was it? There was a difference. She hadn't killed the assassins or the enforcers for selfish reasons. She'd killed them to protect herself and the people of Three Waters. She'd done it to prevent future wrongs committed by men who acted mindlessly upon the orders of others. Men who killed without knowing why, and without caring. They'd had to be stopped. They'd had to be...

Punished.

Death wasn't a punishment. Her parents and teachers had taught her that everyone was entitled to a death, but they were also entitled to a life. Two thousand lives had been cut short because five men chose to follow orders to kill people they were supposed to protect. The people of Kaild were punished for something she hadn't done. Letting the murderers go, letting them live so that they could do it again to another town wouldn't have been right. It wouldn't have been just.

Zhokaw pulled her past Jolver as the sun was coming up. Jora couldn't help but wonder what tone the Spirit Stone was emitting now.

Of all the things she'd experienced during her life as a Mindstreamer, that was the most spiritual, the most compelling, and the most beautiful. It was unlikely she would ever get to feel the tones again or experience the daily changing, and that saddened her. No use mourning a sensation. She had more important things on her mind, one of which was to not be spotted by those who sought to kill her.

Ahead, she saw a small cove, littered with rock formations, where she might be able to hide the boat. It appeared to be well shielded from any roads as well. She could sleep and rest, perhaps take some time to read Elder Kassyl's book of tones, before she set out once more under the cover of darkness.

"Zhokaw, pull me to that beach on the right," she told the ally. It changed course and swam toward the shore. When the boat was in shallow water, she hopped out and removed the rope from around its snout. "Return to your home. I'll call for you tonight." She pulled the boat onto the beach behind a large rock in the shallow water so that it wouldn't be easily spotted by passing boats. She went to another large rock on the beach and, beside it, spread the purple robe on the sand to lie on. There she slept until the sun stole her patch of shade.

Until the sun created another patch of shade for her on the rock's eastern side, she passed the time reading, noting in her head the translations of the tones Elder Kassyl had recorded over his decades as a Truth Sayer. Though she had a lead pen with her, she didn't want to write down anything more that her former fellows could use against her or the other people of Serocia. The more she wrote down, the more knowledge she could end up sharing with anyone who stole her books. Whoever defeated her would surely use the allies for evil.

Jora observed her past self flipping pages in the Book of Azarian, looking up the words in Elder Kassyl's book that she didn't know. Though it was time consuming work going back and forth from her past to the present, she read about the realms of perception and existence, though she didn't yet fully understand the relationship between them.

She found another patch of shade, spread her robe on the sand, and ate half the food Mira had given her. She struggled to keep her mind focused on the present moment, for when she found her thoughts wandering to the upcoming battle, fear asserted itself, arguing that she would be better off settling in Tourd or Skelr under an alias. Perhaps she would someday. But not yet.

When dusk began to settle into night, she rose and returned to the boat. The ebb tide had left the dinghy completely beached, and so she had to drag it across the sand into the water. Once it was afloat, she climbed in, opened the Mindstream, and called to Zhokaw. The ally appeared in the water beside the boat, making its odd _shick-shick_ sound and gazing up at her with eyes that looked more human than fish. Like Po Teng's.

"Do you know where the Isle of Shess is?" she asked.

It poked its snout out of the water and nodded.

"Good. That's where we're going. I'm looking for a Legion commander named Turounce." Jora realized then that Zokaw remembered he'd once been Zokor. If he remembered his old name, then it was likely he remembered his commander. "You know him, yes?"

Zhokaw nodded.

"And you know the best place to come ashore on the Isle without being noticed. Take me there." She dangled the rope over the bow, and the creature wriggled his way into the loop. "Of course, we'll have to slip past the Legion's fleet ships," she said. "We need to be careful and quiet."

Zhokaw lifted his snout out of the water. "Shlip," he said.

"Yes, the ships. We have to sneak past them."

The creature shook his head. "Shlip... bee... twiks..."

"I don't understand what you're trying to say."

To her surprise, Zhokaw became glassy like Po Teng did when he moved so quickly. What was he trying to tell her? She opened the Mindstream and saw him more clearly. He nodded once more and started pulling the boat but stopped a moment later and gazed up at her.

"I'm sorry. I still don't understand. You can go unseen by the ships, but I can't. They'll see the boat."

Zhokaw shook his head. "Bee... twiks."

Jora gasped. "Betwixt? Is that what you said?"

Zhokaw nodded enthusiastically.

"Challenger's mighty fists," she muttered, realizing the ally had unwittingly filled in the missing pieces of her understanding. She could leave the realm of perception—what Sundancer had called the helix—and move unseen through the physical world. It wasn't quite the same as what she'd done when she wrestled the ally into submission; she'd crossed into a different realm of perception then. She wasn't sure how to accomplish her goal, though. "Let's try it before we get too close to a fleet ship."

Zhokaw became glassy beneath the water's surface, disappearing from view. Jora opened the Mindstream. In her mind's eye, she saw the ally clearly below, but she wasn't sure how to move her body out of the realm of perception. Last time, she'd played the flute, repeating the words Sundancer had taught her. She didn't want to open the gate—it was past dusk anyway—but maybe the first part of the chant, the part that mentioned opening the way betwixt, was the key.

Closing her eyes, she opened the Mindstream and whistled the first part of the command, not wanting to chance dropping the flute again and losing or damaging it.

" _Open way betwixt."_

The reddish glow of the gate's opening didn't appear, but she sensed the area in front of the boat become deeper. "All right, Zhokaw. Pull."

She floated into the Mindstream's blackness, losing command of her senses at once. She saw nothing, heard nothing, didn't feel the boat's bench under her butt or its hull under her feet, though she was aware of her surroundings in the same way she was aware of what she witnessed while observing someone in the Mindstream. It was as if her mind mapped her surroundings through its awareness of the physical world, but her senses were turned off. She knew she was in the boat, and she had a mental image of herself from a point of view above and behind her left shoulder, as if she was observing herself. The alien sensation made Jora laugh and shudder at the same time.

"Challenger's blessing," she said, though she neither felt her mouth say the words nor heard them with her ears. She was only aware that she'd spoken through her observation. "This is strange."

She had the notion that the boat was moving through the water, though her body still felt like it was suspended in nothingness. Her mind map formed an image of the coastline to her right, as clear and bright as if it had been daylight. Soon, she became aware that Zhokaw changed direction to pull the boat directly east, toward the deepest part of the sea.

She was about to ask why Zhokaw was taking her this way when it occurred to her that they needed to go ashore on the southeastern side of the Isle. Rather than sail around its contours, a direct route would be more efficient. Ahead, she noticed fleet vessels anchored in the depths.

"Will they see the dinghy?" she asked, still unable to feel her lips and tongue moving or hear her own voice.

Zhokaw wagged his head side to side, dragging the boat along a gentle S path.

The dinghy must have moved into the 'twixt as well. Good. Turounce wouldn't have any reason to anticipate her arrival.

Chapter 24

As the dinghy drifted to shore, Jora left the 'twixt and returned to the realm of perception by simply closing the Mindstream. Feeling her feet on solid ground all of a sudden made her legs feel wobbly. The world spun, and she stumbled to her knees in the shallow water. "Whoa." Once her mind adjusted to having all her senses back, she pulled the boat onto the beach, cringing at the grating sound it made. The sun was coming up, and there would most likely be soldiers patrolling the beach. The last thing she wanted was to attract their attention.

In the distance, she saw the dim forms of tents and the smoke from a cookfire rising into the early morning air. Without trees to shield her from view, she felt exposed there on the beach. Anyone patrolling there, looking for enemy ships coming ashore, would spot the dinghy and sound an alarm.

She summoned Po Teng, and instantly it appeared, looking up at her with adoring eyes and clicking its fingers together. If the creature hadn't been so dangerous, it might have been endearing.

"Po Teng, I need to hide the dinghy from the patrolling soldiers. Can I leave it... I don't know... in the 'twixt? So that it's still here but no one can see it?"

"No," it said.

"What would you suggest?"

Its eyes drooped, and it shook its head, fingers clicking. What was it doing with its fingers? The gesture looked so familiar.

"It's difficult for you to speak, isn't it?"

Po Teng nodded. "Chaw-lah." Its mouth, such as it was, stretched flat. Was that... a smile?

She smiled back. "That almost sounds like Jora."

It nodded again, enthusiasm brightening its eyes. "Chaw-lah."

"How do you know my name? I never told you."

"Le-meh-pah."

A chill shot up her spine. Did he say... Jora felt the blood drain from her head and pool in her heart. She fell to her knees, searching those brown eyes. Eyes she'd once known so well. She took him by the branch hands, careful not to crush the spindly fingers. "Po Teng... Boden?" It came out as a whisper. Her eyes welled with tears, blurring her vision until she blinked and they ran down her cheeks.

Po Teng nodded. "Po-teng."

"Retar's blessing," she said. "It's you. My dear friend, it's you."

"Chaw-lah, Po-teng flengz."

Yes," she said, nodding. "We're friends. We'll always be friends. Oh, Boden." She burst into tears, happy to see him, horrified that he'd become this twisted, inhuman creature, grateful he was with her. The fact that he was alive filled her with joy, regardless of his form. He was alive.

"Le-meh-pah."

"You remember," she said, now recognizing the word. "I'm so glad you're with me and grateful for your help." Sundancer's words came back to her. _Man I drowned. He is ally now._ Now it made sense to her. She'd observed Boden at the moment of his death as she had the assassin, opening the way to the other realm of perception for them, to transform them into the otherworldly beings she called allies. Mouse Ears was probably an ally, too, waiting for her to call him. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I did this to you, and I'm sorry."

Po Teng shook his head and then put his branch-like arms gently around her shoulders. "Luff Chaw-lah."

"I love you too, Boden," she said, though calling him by his old name, his human name, felt wrong. "Po Teng," she said, pulling back. "You're not truly Boden anymore. I'll call you Po Teng from now on. It suits you." She looked up at the camp and rolled back onto to her feet, though she remained crouched to avoid drawing attention to herself. "We should get going before someone spots us or the boat. The man we're here to kill is your former commander, Turounce. Will you still recognize him?"

Po Teng nodded. "Le-meh-pah."

"Good. I don't want to kill anyone else if we don't have to. Can you incapacitate people somehow without killing them?"

Again Po Teng nodded. "Suh-leep."

"You're full of surprises today, aren't you?"

Po Teng grinned.

"Let's see if he's awake." She used the Mindstream to observe the commander and then pulled her mystical vision upward through the roof of the building. She saw the camp and all its tents, and she saw herself and the dinghy on the beach. To her relief and great fortune, there were no soldiers patrolling the area. The two fleet ships anchored offshore were too far away to notice her. Perhaps the boat would be safe here for the short time they would be gone.

She turned to her ally. "All right, my friend. Let's get this over with."

Outside the realm of perception, Jora and Po Teng hiked unseen for a mile or so. It was challenging at first, not being able to feel her body move or the ground under her feet. Until she got used to the odd sensation of moving in the familiar rhythm of walking while guiding it from her Mindstream perspective behind and above her left shoulder, her steps were halting and clumsy. Soon, she learned to trust her body's innate knowledge, and her gait smoothed out.

They stopped beside the first tent they came to. Men walked about, completely unaware of the strangers in their midst. She passed a soldier talking with another, somewhat older soldier with a single stripe on his arm band. Though she couldn't hear them with her ears, she was aware in the Mindstreaming sense that they were arguing about right and wrong, about loyalty and treason.

Po Teng murmured, "Kaw-leng," but Jora didn't press him to explain. Only one thing was on her mind. She walked around the soldiers and up the step of the building in which the commander had been sitting. On her left was a command board. A man with one arm was posting a piece of paper there, and an adept was walking down a hallway.

_Take precautions. She could be anywhere._

Jora smiled. So they'd anticipated she would come here to dispense justice. Little good their warning did.

She followed the adept down the corridor to the room on the left and entered without knocking. He wouldn't hear her anyway.

Turounce was sitting at his desk. The adept opposite, hood down, was pacing. Boden's journal sat on the desk, though it had been set aside. The transcribed pages poked out from under the cover. A large, reddish-brown stain on the floor sent a shudder through her. It looked like someone had met his end there in that very room.

For a moment, she considered giving Turounce a chance to explain himself, but that was more consideration than he deserved. The people of Kaild hadn't been given a chance to beg for their lives or to hear an explanation for why they were about to be massacred.

"Po Teng, kill him."

Po Teng looked at her guiltily, lifting his arms as if in a shrug.

"What's wrong? Can't you leave the 'twixt without me?"

He shook his head.

All right, then. Turounce would see who was responsible for his death. Jora entered the realm of perception, accompanied by Po Teng.

"...on his way now—" the Truth Sayer said.

Both men startled at the sudden appearance of the woman and the tree-like creature in the room. Po Teng touched Turounce's arm. The commander's skin paled, and he froze in place, mouth still open in shock. His lips and tongue turned a sickly gray.

Jora felt a flood of relief, guilt, horror, and satisfaction. She wished she didn't have to be the one to carry out the death sentence, but it was what he deserved. He and the men who conspired to murder her people.

The Truth Sayer, an adept, took a step backward and put his hands up defensively. "N-Novice J-Jora?"

She held up one finger as a warning. "Call for help, Adept, and you'll get what he got."

The adept shook his head.

"I didn't come to kill you," she said. "Only the man who ordered the deaths of my family, friends, and neighbors in Kaild. If you attack me or call for the soldiers, I'll have to defend myself."

"I won't." The adept took another step back to prove it. "I won't."

"You might want to lie down so you don't awaken with a bruise."

"W-What?"

"You're going to take a nap. I don't want you calling for help the second I leave. Don't worry. You'll awaken none the worse for wear."

The adept settled onto the floor, stretched out on his back with his fingers laced over his belly. He glared at her indignantly. "In the end, justice will prevail."

With Po Teng's touch, the adept fell fast asleep and snored softly.

"You're right, Adept. Justice will prevail. I'll see to it."

Footsteps approached. Two pairs, from the sound of it. The two soldiers she'd passed earlier entered and stopped short, surprise on their faces.

"Make them sleep, Po Teng," she said.

The one with the striped arm band went down first, collapsing into a heap. "Kaw-leng," Po Teng said, hesitating.

Blinking hard, the soldier gaped at Po Teng. "God's Challenger, that thing's real?"

"Po Teng!" Jora said, urging him to sleep the second soldier.

Po Teng looked at her with pleading eyes. "Kaw-leng flengz."

"Did it say Korlan?" the soldier asked. "Oh no. It's happening. They're coming for me."

"Shhh! No one's coming for you," Jora said, motioning with her hands to try to calm him. "Po Teng, do you know him?"

The little tree-figure nodded. "Le-meh-pah."

"How the hell does it know my name?" the soldier asked with a haunted look in his eyes.

Jora felt a mixture of trepidation and relief. If this was Boden's friend, perhaps he could help her, but first he had to calm down so as not to draw attention to them. "He won't hurt you. He was once your friend Boden. Apparently he remembers you."

"That..." Korlan said, pointing at the nodding ally, "that's Boden?"

"Yes. I call him Po Teng now."

He stared wide-eyed at Po Teng, curiosity overcoming fear. "God's Challenger. What the hell happened to you, brother?"

Jora smiled dimly. "It's a long story."

Korlan turned to her, surprise on his face. "Challenger's fists! You must be Jora. I've heard all about you. It's good to finally meet you. I'm Korlan."

She shook his offered hand. "So I gathered."

Korlan looked around. "So Turounce is dead? Good going, Bo—I mean, Po Teng. Serves the bastard right. How'd you get in here without being seen?"

"That's a long story, too. I'd love to stay and chat, but we have to dash."

"Um, any chance I could come with you? They were going to execute me."

Po Teng nodded enthusiastically. "Kaw-leng come."

"It'd be nice to have some companionship—human companionship, I mean, at least until you decide what you want to do. Being a deserter will make you a criminal."

"Better than being dead," he replied with a grim smile. "How are we going to manage to get away with all the soldiers around?" He unbuckled the sword from Turounce's corpse and strapped it on.

"Don't worry about that," she said, winking at Po Teng. "We've got that covered. I have to warn you, though. The way out of here is going to be uncomfortable. You won't be able to see or hear or feel anything, like having all your senses extinguished."

"All right," he said. "If I can handle dying and seeing... monsters, I can handle this."

Jora held Korlan's hand, and together they entered the 'twixt.

"Whoa," Korlan said. "This is strange. Am I talking? Are you there? Jora?"

She sensed his rising panic and patted his arm to offer comfort, but immediately realized he wouldn't have felt it any more than he would have heard a spoken word. Instead, she led him back to the helix. "I'm here. It's all right. See what I mean?"

He looked around, wide-eyed. "Yah. I thought it would be... I don't know. Not as scary. I couldn't even feel my feet on the ground."

"I know. It'll take some getting used to. Recite something in your head to occupy your mind. Trust me. I'll lead you out of here to safety."

During the trip back up the coast to Jolver, Jora learned about Korlan and his friendship with Boden. She learned about the godfruit and how the soldiers were heavily pressured to eat it every morning so that if they fell in battle that day, they would relive to fight again. Her impression, from the way he talked about the godfruit in a hushed tone, was that the experience of being Relived wasn't one he'd have wanted to repeat, even if it were possible.

"Boden was Relived," she said under her breath, wondering whether his becoming an ally had anything to do with the godfruit.

"He was? Damn it." He chewed his lip for a moment, eyes directed at his hands. "It was my fault. I saw some men smuggling godfruit and engaged them. Boden had to come to my aid and ended up killing two of them. Turounce was livid. Everyone could hear him shouting. He must've done it. He must've killed Boden."

Jora felt sick. That blood stain on the floor. It had been Boden's. She'd stood in the very room where her friend had first died. "Justice was served," she said quietly. "Turounce has paid for his crimes."

Korlan studied her for a moment. "You were a Truth Sayer. Why did you leave?"

She summarized the events of the last week, starting with the murder of Elder Kassyl and the theft of her two books and ending with learning how to command creatures that lived in the other helix.

"Like Po Teng?"

"Right. And the one pulling the dinghy. There are many others like him, each one different, each one... grotesque."

Korlan nodded. "I know. When I died, I saw them." He shuddered. "So Elder Sonnis wants to be able to summon them. Why?"

Jora shrugged. "I suppose so he can have more minions to kill people."

"Why did you?"

It was a good question. "I needed to. Doing nothing to combat evil is the same as doing evil oneself." She thought of Gunnar and his concern about whether killing could possibly serve the greater good.

"I'd have killed them, too, if I'd been you," Korlan said. "They declared war on you and your people. How is it any different than Mangend declaring war on us?"

"The people of Kaild were defenseless. They were slaughtered in their sleep."

He pressed his lips together and looked at her with compassion in his eyes. "You did the right thing."

"I hope so," Jora said. As much as she hated the notion of facing Sonnis alone, she didn't want Korlan to think he had no choice for himself. "Listen, Korlan, this isn't your battle. If you—"

"Don't say it. I'm alive because of you. If we survive the coming day, then I'll figure out where I want to go and what to do, but until then, my service is yours. We both have a better chance standing together."

"I hate the thought of you sacrificing yourself for what I feel I must do."

"Don't worry. I have no intention of sacrificing myself. I'm here to help you get justice. That's important to me, and I'll be upset if you try to deny me that." He squeezed her forearm. "Besides, I owe Boden. My rash actions on one fateful day ultimately got him killed, got your whole town killed, and changed your life forever. I have to do whatever it takes to set things right again."

She smiled at him. "Boden was lucky to have you as a friend."

"That's debatable, but like it or not, good or bad, that luck is yours now."

They continued sailing through the day, slipping into the 'twixt as needed to avoid being spotted by other ships. Korlan was an inquisitive fellow and wanted to know exactly what was happening during those times he was required to suffer the solitude of nothingness. Jora explained the best she could about the realm of perception.

"Think of it like a tube," she said. "The inside of the tube is the realm of existence. Everything that exists is there—you, me, this boat, Aerta, and the sun and moon. Now imagine that inside the tube is a ladder. Each of the long sides is a realm of perception, what Sundancer calls a helix. That's where we are right now, sitting on one side of that ladder."

"What's on the other side?" he asked.

"The other realm of perception, where I first found Po Teng and Zhokaw. The rungs of the ladder are the gateways that open at dawn and dusk every day. Those are the only times I can cross to bring one of them over."

"But Po Teng can cross back and forth whenever you call him, can't he?"

"No," Jora said. "I think he's stuck in the 'twixt now, waiting for me to invite him into our realm of perception—our side of the ladder. I'm new to all this, too, so I might have it wrong. The more tones from Elder Kassyl's book I translate, the more I'll know."

On the ebb side of dusk, the travelers reached the same cove where Jora had rested on her way to the Isle. They agreed to sleep on the beach and rise early enough to be at the Justice Bureau by dawn.

"Are you going to be able to sleep?" Korlan asked, settling onto the adepts' robe she'd laid down for him. His stomach grumbled loudly, tempting hers to echo its complaint.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. She crossed her ankles and lowered her body to sit cross-legged on the purple robe. Imagined visions of the coming hours dominated her thoughts, and she felt the excitement building in her body. "I can't stop thinking about what lies ahead."

"Me neither. We're likely to encounter soldiers and the city watch, plus all the Truth Sayers at the Justice Bureau and their enforcers. What's the plan?"

She looked at him blankly. "Plan?"

"We can't just walk into the city, sneak past the guards, stroll into the Justice Bureau, and kill Elder Sonnis."

"Why not? I did it to Turounce, and he was surrounded by soldiers."

Korlan chuckled. "I can see why Boden loved you. You're adorable."

Heat flooded her face, but she couldn't find the words to reprimand him for the compliment.

"By now, Adept Orfeo has warned them that you'd managed to simply walk in and slay the commander without alerting the dozens of soldiers in the camp."

"Yes, but how are they going to prepare for what they can't see?"

He held up one finger. "Never underestimate your enemy. You don't know what weapons they have, what skills, what plans."

Skills. Jora had been taught the skill disciples learned—the barring hood—but she didn't know what skills elders learned. Korlan was right. She didn't know what she was walking into.

"Can you observe someone? Maybe read the command board?"

Jora snapped her fingers. "Yes, I can. The Truth Sayers can't be observed, but I can see the command board... which they know," she added, dejected.

"You're right. Anything they post there would be suspect."

She thought about Captain Kyear. "There's a Legion officer in Jolver who might have been told something. The Sayers don't know that I know him, so they wouldn't have any reason not to tell him what they're planning."

"Good," Korlan said. "Give him a try."

Jora closed her eyes and opened the Mindstream. After finding the captain's thread, she traced it backward, searching for instances in the last few days where he'd received a message or spoken directly to a Truth Sayer. None of his messages had anything to do with her or Turounce. None of the people he spoke to were of the Order or even the temple, and his conversations were unrelated to her recent activities. "I'm not seeing anything. Elder Sonnis disobeyed his order, so I suppose I'm not terribly surprised that they didn't turn to him when everything blew up in their faces." She closed the Mindstream again. "How do we make a plan if we don't know what we need to avoid?" she asked.

"We can anticipate some things, such as a contingent of enforcers or dogs at the entrances, or a physical barricade of some kind."

"If they block the way, traveling in the 'twixt won't help us. We'll still be in the realm of existence."

"Are there any windows we could climb through or walls we could scale?"

The back wall, behind the dormitory and privy, was crumbling in places and could be scaled. A few minutes of having to put up with the stench wouldn't hurt them. "Yah, I know of a wall in the back. We could go in at night, but I suspect enforcers will be standing guard in and around the dormitory, especially outside Sonnis's room." Then it occurred to her that Sonnis always rose early for the Changing of the Tones. They wouldn't need to go to him. He would come outside to them.

Chapter 25

_Something rustled behind her. She turned in time to see Elder Sonnis grab her from behind. She tried to call for Po Teng, but she couldn't. Her mouth was gagged, her lips unable to call his name. The wicked sting of a knife sliced across her throat._

"No!" She sat upright, arms flailing. She hit something—a warm body. Korlan.

"Jora? Are you all right?" he asked.

A dream. It was just a dream. She lay back down and shut her eyes again, taking in a deep, steadying breath. "Sorry about that. Nightmare."

"Do you want to reconsider our plan?"

"No, it's a good one. How much more time do we have?"

"Moon's up. I'd say it's two, maybe three hours before sunrise."

"We should get going, then." She got to her feet and shook the sand off the green robe she'd been sleeping on before stuffing it into her bag.

Korlan stood as well. "Put this on," he said, flapping the sand off the purple robe. "A soldier traveling with a bald woman in normal clothes would look suspicious, but one traveling with a Truth Sayer wouldn't."

"Good idea." She pulled the robe on and raised the hood over her head so that the stubble of her growing hair wouldn't be noticed. "Ready."

The two climbed into the boat, and with Zhokur's assistance, sailed the rest of the way to Jolver, arriving at the docks as the eastern sky was starting to lighten. She tied the dinghy up at the same post where she'd found it, hoping its owner hadn't noticed it missing. It was likely she wouldn't have need of it further.

"All right, give me your hand," Jora said. Alone, Korlan probably wouldn't draw attention, but the Justice Bureau would surely have painted Jora as a fugitive, alerting the city guard to be on the watch for her. At least no one was observing Korlan at present, but if they did, they would assume she was with him. "Let's walk through the 'twixt so they won't know we're coming."

"I was afraid you might say that," Korlan said with a wry smile.

"It'll be fine. Just don't let go."

She led him by the hand through the city, using the Mindstream to navigate the nearly empty streets and alleys, taking the route that she and Gilon used to walk. A few roosters crowed, and while she couldn't hear them with her ears, she was aware of their bellowings and of the occasional bark of a dog.

The closer they got, the more scared she became. She wasn't afraid of dying as much as she was afraid of having been wrong about slaying the assassins, the enforcers, and the march commander. When was death the proper solution to anything? And chances were good she would kill more by the time this day was half over.

If she wasn't dead herself.

About a block shy of the Justice Bureau, a dozen enforcers stepped into her path, each one brandishing a sword. Though they wouldn't be able to see Jora and Korlan, they blocked the way as if they'd known the travelers were there. A man in a yellow robe stepped out from around a building and stood in Jora's path, holding a staff.

"Give yourself up, Novice," he called.

How did he know she was there? Jora pulled Korlan to the right, thinking to dodge the elder and his enforcers.

Another elder, a woman, stepped around a corner, backed by another half-dozen enforcers. "There's no escape, Novice."

She turned to go back the way she'd come, but the way was blocked by five more enforcers and another elder.

"You continue to surprise us, Novice Jora."

"Elder Gastone." Jora gaped at him, finally understanding. The skill granted to the elders was the power to leave the realm of perception. "How did you know I was here?"

"There are limitations to the barring hood, Novice," he said. "It falls down when you use the Mindstream, enabling others, such as myself, to piggy back on your stream. Leaving the realm of perception is the same. We watched you from the time you arrived at the docks. Of course, you'd have known that had you continued your studies and not gone rogue. I implore you to turn yourself in, Novice. The crimes you've already committed are serious enough. Don't make it worse for yourself and your companion."

"What crimes?" she asked. "I've done nothing but defend myself."

He took a few steps toward her, closing in. "You weren't in danger when you killed March Commander Turounce or threatened Adept Orfeo. You think yourself above the law, Novice?"

"No," she said, horrified that he could interpret her actions that way. "Of course not."

"You think yourself worthy of the ranks of Adept, Elder, and Enforcer? Pronouncing guilt or innocence, deciding a sentence, and executing it, and after only a few weeks as a novice. How superior you must be."

She shivered. "No. That's not true. I saw a crime had been committed, and I had to use my best judgment—"

"That's exactly right, Novice," Gastone said. "You used _your_ judgment, your sensibilities to execute people acting under direct orders. You acted as if your judgment is beyond reproach, as if your judgment is higher than that of the entire Justice Bureau and the centuries of knowledge we would have bestowed upon you had you put in the time required to earn it. No, you took it for yourself," he said, making a fist in front of him. "Like a child who doesn't understand the concept of earning one's due. You took it because you deemed yourself above the law, beyond reproach, and superior to the king and all the rest of us combined."

Jora began to cry. That wasn't it at all. He had it all wrong.

Or did he?

_Don't listen to him,_ she warned herself. He was trying to manipulate her into letting them get away with the slaughter of two thousand innocent people. She knew those responsible wouldn't face justice if she turned herself in.

"You know I'm right," Gastone said. He put both hands back onto the staff. "Don't do something you'll regret. Don't do something you haven't the wisdom to regret."

"I won't." She started to whistle for Po Teng.

Gastone swung the staff sharply downward. It struck her hand where it clasped Korlan's. The power of the blow ripped their hands apart.

Korlan left the 'twixt.

"No!" she cried, reaching for him to pull him back into the 'twixt and outside the enforcers' perception.

The enforcers were too fast. One of them grabbed Korlan by the arm and yanked him beyond her reach. Taken completely off guard, he stumbled to the ground. They surrounded him, barring her from getting to him.

Gastone swung again, and his staff hit her squarely in the temple. She felt no pain, but the force of the blow knocked her body to the ground. The satchel's strap fell off her shoulder, and the bag returned to the helix as well. One of the enforcers snatched it and tossed it into their circle.

"Your companion is at the mercy of my enforcers now," Gastone said, standing over her menacingly with the staff. He was old and frail, and his chest heaved from the exertion, but the two others were younger, and they were striding toward her, staves in hand. Even if she bested Gastone, they would easily defeat her. "It's over. Turn yourself over to me, and I promise your friend will receive a fair court-martial for his desertion."

She whistled and called to Po Teng, and he materialized.

"God's Challenger," Gastone said, staring at Po Teng. "Adept Orfeo was right. You've learned how to harness the power of the Gatekeeper."

Gatekeeper. The word sounded too big, like baggy trousers sewn for a man twice her size.

"That doesn't make you worthy of it, Novice," Gastone said.

"Sleep him," she said.

But the ally shook his head, looking at her with sad eyes, unable to act against her enemy in the 'twixt. "Kaa-not here."

Gastone chuckled. "You don't understand your own power. You're like a toddler who's stumbled upon a very sharp knife, able to do damage without considering the consequences."

At that moment, she couldn't have agreed more. She'd let Korlan get captured. She was powerless to stop Elder Gastone from arresting her. How had she ever thought she would stop Elder Sonnis?

Po Teng's eyes pleaded with her. He had no trouble touching people in the helix. Then that was what she had to do. There in the 'twixt, they were safe from Po Teng while she was vulnerable to their attacks.

"Perhaps you're right, Elder," she said. And with that, she grabbed the staff and kicked one foot up at him, hitting his hands. She yanked it from his grasp and then left the 'twixt while swinging the staff wildly back and forth, not trying to hurt the old man but hoping he would back away and not attack her barehanded.

An enforcer turned toward her, reaching out to grab the staff. The two other elders materialized, each rushing at her, staves raised to strike.

"Stop them," she told Po Teng.

The enforcer froze in place with his hand around the staff. She let go, afraid she might turn to stone through her contact with it.

Both elders stopped mid-stride, their faces locked in expressions of fierce determination. One by one, the enforcers stopped what they were doing, frozen in place. Others uttered a surprised, "Huh?" before turning to stone themselves, mouths agape. The elders and enforcers were as white as alabaster and as hard as granite. Even their clothes and hair were stark-white and stiff.

The street was still and quiet. Po Teng stood before her, clicking his twig fingers and grinning. Within the circle of pure white enforcer statues, Korlan lay face down on the ground, stone swords pointed at him. His hands were bound with rope and his mouth gagged.

He watched, wide-eyed, as Jora squeezed between the frozen enforcers and removed his gag. "God's Challenger," Korlan said. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Three elders confronted me in the 'twixt," she said as she untied his hands.

"They can do that?"

"Apparently. Are you hurt?" Jora asked.

"No," he said, sitting up. With his hands now free, he rubbed the side of his jaw. "One of these dirty cusses hit me." He looked around at the enforcers and tapped one of them on the knee with a fingernail. "Are they dead?"

Po Teng shook his head.

"You can reanimate them, can't you?" Jora asked.

Po Teng nodded.

"Good, but we'll let them stay like this for a while longer." Jora looked around. "One second." She peeked into the Mindstream but saw no sign of Elder Gastone. "The third elder's gone. Probably went to warn Sonnis and the others."

"They look like the statues around the Legion building," Korlan said, walking past each of the stone enforcers and appraising them, poking them now and then.

She looked around at them, realizing now why they looked so familiar. Korlan was right. They looked exactly like those statues.

He reached up and touched her temple, and she winced. "He hit you?"

"Can't blame him for that. I'd have done the same if I'd been him. Let's get going. It's almost sunrise and we don't want to give them time to prepare."

He picked up his sword from where it lay a few yards away. "Now that we know the elders can enter the 'twixt, you'll be ready for them."

They squeezed past the enforcer statues and continued west to the Justice Bureau. To war.

Neither spoke as they walked the remaining block to the Justice Bureau. The excitement and fear and determination they shared was communicated in the occasional glance and in the set of their shoulders. The morning air was cool enough to fog their breath, and the growing sunlight behind them illuminated their path with an eerie bluish light. There was no longer any reason to hide in the 'twixt, and with Po Teng by her side, no need.

The city was eerily empty and quiet. No dogs barked. No roosters crowed. No crickets chirped. It was as if the entire city held its breath, afraid of what was to come.

Outside the building, a single man stood at the Spirit Stone, his hand laid upon its glassy surface. Elder Sonnis himself. Alone.

"Kill him, Po Teng," she said.

Before the ally could reach him, Sonnis blinked out of sight.

"Damn it," Korlan said. "He can't hide there forever, can he?"

"No. He can't. And I won't get any answers until he comes out or I go in." Jora entered the 'twixt herself. Po Teng came with her, leaving Korlan alone in front of the building.

"Jora, wait!" Korlan cried, spinning about. He had his sword drawn, but he didn't know where she was, nor Sonnis. "Come back. I can't protect you like this."

"So it's true," Sonnis said. He was standing near the Spirit Stone, hands clasped behind him. "Somehow you managed to cheat your way to unearned power."

"Cheat? I'm the one who learned to decipher the tones. You tried to steal that knowledge from me."

"And you snuck into the dominee's office to take what didn't rightfully belong to you in the first place. I'm surprised you had the courage to come back here."

Jora walked slowly, casually up the wide stone steps. "You thought I would shrink away? Cower in a corner while you committed unspeakable crimes with impunity? You issued the command to slaughter two thousand people in their sleep."

"Jora, where the hell are you?" Korlan muttered. He took a few indecisive steps up the stairs.

"I had little choice," Sonnis said. "Elders in the Order of Justice Officials have been entrusted with knowledge that children like you can't possibly comprehend. We have to make decisions for the good of Serocia that are at times distasteful."

"Distasteful? You call mass murder distasteful? Try reprehensible, inexcusable, criminal."

"Like I said, you couldn't possibly understand. This is about more than a few smuggled crates of godfruit."

"You're right. This is about murder." She stopped at the top of the steps, several yards from him. "You killed Elder Kassyl. Your puppet, Gafna, murdered Gilon."

Elder Sonnis drew back with a gasp and put a hand to his chest. "What? No. Even if I did, you'd never be able to prove it. Your attempts to observe houseplants and trees and whatnot are inadmissible, had such plants been present."

They had been there. He must have gotten rid of the rhododendrons, but unless he'd chopped down the tree in front of the dormitory in the last week, she could use that against him.

"If Gafna's done something wrong," he went on, "she'll be prosecuted, but I doubt you'd be able to intimidate her into claiming I conspired with her. She's quite smitten with me. Now, shall we return to the matter at hand?"

"What matter is that?" Jora asked.

"Your sentence for murder."

"Sentence? I haven't been tried yet."

"Oh, but you have. All the elders know exactly what you've been up to lately, whom you've slain. You've been tried in absentia and found guilty of murder and treason. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

"You killed Elder Kassyl so you could take his place and issue an order that defied the Legion's command. No matter how you try to justify it, what you did was wrong. You must answer for your actions."

"Novice, you have no authority to sentence anyone in the name of justice, let alone execute them. I, on the other hand, do. That makes you the murderer, not me. Elder Kassyl was only weeks away from a natural death, if not days. His sudden passing spared him further suffering. It's ironic, really. I issued the order to cull your hometown to spare your life, and you earned a death sentence by killing the people authorized to carry out that order. It's up to me, as your elder, to decide your fate. As much as it pains me to say it, I must. It's my duty." He took a breath. "I, Elder Sonnis Gordyn, hereby sentence you, Novice Jora Lanseri, to death."

Though his pronouncement came as no surprise, her heart still sputtered. She had to think fast. Po Teng couldn't attack him here, and she couldn't possibly best him in a wrestling match, even with the full benefit of her senses. If she left the 'twixt, she would be blind to him, and he would still be able to sense her by observing himself.

Korlan was at the top of the steps now, inching toward the Spirit Stone with his eyes closed, as if he was trying to sense where Jora and Sonnis were.

From her vantage point above and slightly behind her left shoulder, she witnessed Sonnis produce a blade. She stepped away from it and barely avoided the elder's thrusting knife. He came at her, swinging the blade back and forth while she backpedaled as quickly as she could toward the bureau's door. Though she felt no pain, a line of blood appeared on her left sleeve below the shoulder.

Sonnis darted over to Korlan, jabbed with his knife, and spun away, opening a wound between Korlan's ribs. Korlan cried out, clutched his side, and swung his sword blindly as he stumbled away.

"No," Jora said. "Leave him alone. He's done nothing to you."

"He's a deserter, and he was sentenced to death for treason by the top officials in the Legion. I don't think they'll mind if I carry out their sentence. In self-defense, of course. Surrender to me, and I'll let the Legion deal with him as they will."

Korlan leaned against the wall of the building, one hand clutching his side while blood ran down his hip and leg. He looked pasty and unsteady on his feet. If he didn't get a medic soon, he would bleed to death.

Her choices were few: surrender and save Korlan, or watch him die and still be in a stalemate with Sonnis. "Why would you trust me to surrender when Po Teng could slay you the moment you reenter the realm of perception?"

"Tell your minion to stand down," Sonnis said. "Let me tie a gag around your mouth so you can't command it to kill me when I've reentered, and I'll suspend your sentence by fifty years."

Fifty years would, in essence, cancel the death sentence. "Why would you do that, when you're obviously intent on killing me?"

"To give you an opportunity to redeem yourself by teaching me what you've learned." He took a few more steps toward Korlan, who slumped heavily against the wall, and lazily waved the bloody knife point at him. "I never wanted you to die, Jora, but we couldn't allow you to tell your friends and family about the smuggling. Culling Kaild was the only option I had left. We're your family now. Don't you see? You're too valuable to us. I wanted to earn your friendship and trust."

Trust? He'd done nothing but betray her trust and that of everyone who knew him.

She looked to the east at the brightening orange sky. The sun was about to peek over the waters of the Inner Sea. The Spirit Stone would change its tone for the new day. Jora longed to touch it, to feel that moment one last time, for she knew that if she surrendered, she would never be permitted to hear it again.

There was only one way to save Korlan and get justice for Kaild.

Jora licked her lips and began to whistle.

" _Open way betwixt and gate between helix and its twin."_

There, in the 'twixt, the darkness deepened into the blackest black. The glow of the rising sun appeared to brighten from red to orange to yellow and then to white, illuminating the gateway between the two realms of perception. The twin helixes.

"Challenge the god," Sonnis murmured, mesmerized by the sight before them.

Jora seized the moment, taking advantage of his distraction. She ran to Korlan and snatched the sword from his loose grip. She turned and plunged it into Sonnis's back.

His body arched. The knife flew from his hand and fell harmlessly to the ground.

As he staggered to his knees, she grasped the hood of his robe and stepped forward, through the gates of dawn, dragging him with her. He collapsed to the ground. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and ran down the sides of his face and chin. All around them, freakish beings of every size and shape gathered, watching. Sonnis twitched at her feet, every jerk of his body changing him into something else. Something twisted and grotesque: a fat worm with spines and a sucking mouth like that on a leech. The sight of it filled her with repugnance.

"You're mine now, wretch," she said, looking down at the hideous creature writhing at her feet. "Submit or I'll finish you."

It looked pleadingly up at her with Sonnis's green eyes. "Suh-buh-mit."

Though it had submitted to her, pledged its loyalty as her newest ally, she loathed it from the depths of her soul. Looking upon it, she couldn't help but remember who and what it was. Murderer. Liar. Thief. Everything in her wanted to stomp the life out of it and leave it there to rot. She raised a foot to do just that, but something stayed her.

She'd learned to command monsters. She didn't want to become one.

The gate was starting to dim. It was time to go. She stepped back into the fading light of the gate as it changed back toward red and disappeared into blackness once more.

Outside the Justice Bureau, a few dozen people had ventured out of the building—justice officials of all four ranks and the physician, Naruud, who tended to Korlan. They startled when Jora appeared, her novices' robe spattered with Sonnis's blood.

"Look at her robe," someone murmured.

The blood droplets grew larger, each one merging with the one beside it. They spread across the fabric, engulfing it, until the entire robe was the deep red color of blood.

At her feet, a spiny worm writhed, sucking at the air with its grotesque mouth, and its green eyes gazing adoringly up at her.

The Truth Sayers gasped and huddled together. Whispers of "Gatekeeper" rippled among them.

"Elder Sonnis was corrupt," she said to them. "He murdered Elder Kassyl and Novice Gilon. He ordered the slaughter of the people of Kaild. He sullied the very creed upon which the Order was founded, and I urge you to revoke his titles and honors. Take back what he and his co-conspirators have stolen from this institution. And if any of you were in league with him, I advise you to step forward now, because when I get to the root of this, I will punish the ones responsible, and I will show no mercy."

They answered with silence, unwilling—or too afraid—to speak out against their fellows.

Jora strode to the Spirit Stone and placed her hand lovingly upon its cold surface, feeling tears trickle down her cheeks. She'd missed its lovely tones, the music it played, the knowledge it offered to those who stopped long enough to listen. That was when she remembered the statues around the Legion building and realized what the Spirit Stones truly were.

What sad irony. The knowledge that the Truth Sayers had thought long lost had been sung to them every day by the sea spirits imprisoned by the use of that very knowledge.

Seven dolphins crying out to be freed.

_I'll free you,_ she promised silently as she stroked the cool stone. _I'll find a way._

_The End_

Thank you for reading Song of the Sea Spirit. Look for The Mindstream Chronicles book 2 coming late 2014. Subscribe to my newsletter to find out about upcoming books.

Just a little note from the author

I'm thrilled that you decided to read Song of the Sea Spirit, and I hope you've found a few hours of enjoyment within these pages or pixels.

This was a book almost twenty years in the making. The concept of using music as a way to communicate with dolphins first came to me after I returned from a year spent in Taiwan learning Chinese. The notion of using dolphins as stewards of a long-lost magic came to me much later, and by then, I was so wrapped up in the Kinshield Saga that I had to table this story until I could find the time to work out all the details.

As much as I love writing male characters, I wanted a heroine this time, someone that others wouldn't find intimidating. Someone who would let others walk all over until they went too far. Jora has been fun to explore, and I can't wait to see how she develops in the next book. I hope you'll join me in her next adventure, when she uncovers the awful truth behind the smuggling of godfruit.

Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for reading this book. As an independent author, I don't have a team of publicists and marketing specialists to spread the word about my books. I'm just a writer sitting at my keyboard searching for readers like you. If you enjoyed the story, please recommend it to a friend! If you're so inclined, a review or rating on the ebook site of your choice would also be greatly appreciated.

If you'd like to contact me, visit my web site at www.kcmay.com or email me at k.c.may@live.com — I welcome your emailed comments  to get the latest scoop about upcoming books and special offers not made anywhere else. I'm also on Facebook at www.facebook.com/kcmaybooks.

Acknowledgements

As with every book I write, I rely heavily on others to help me get facts straight, get the story elements aligned, and get the words right.

First of all, I'd like to thank William Ast, who spent quite a bit of his life as a dolphin trainer. Will's input during the research phase was invaluable, as he helped me gain a better understanding of dolphin vocalizations and behaviors, especially when interacting with humans. I very much appreciated his time and expertise.

I also owe a huge thank you to fellow author India Drummond, whose opinions on story structure, plotting, and characterization (in general and where they applied to this book in particular) I value highly. As a beta reader, she helped me see where things needed attention and where the story was working.

And of course, thanks to my editor, Susan Gottfried, who is not only flexible and understanding but highly skilled at finding just the right words and phrasing to ratchet up the story.
Books by K.C. May

_Sole Sacrifice_

_The Star Fire Gem_

**The Kinshield Saga**

_The Kinshield Legacy_

_The Wayfarer King_

_Well of the Damned_

_Kinshield's Redemption_

**The Mindstream Chronicles**

_Song of the Sea Spirit_

**Stand-alone novels**

_Inhuman Salvation_

Books by Alane Hudson

_Body Double_
