Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles) (24 page)

“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.”