Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  “It was a moral decision, and his to make. I tried to talk him out of it, but we do not impose our morals on others; that is not our brand of religion.”

  “Oh? Then why am I here?” I glare at her.

  “Because you chose to come.”

  “Some choice I had.”

  “And who is responsible for that?”

  Sodum taught me, tempted me. Agatha helped me, even encouraged me to steal that last bracelet. I could blame them, I have blamed them for my being here. I want to say my choices weren’t my own, but I can’t. Sodum made it easy, but no one made me do it.

  “I’m responsible,” I say.

  The Adept smiles. “You are your father’s daughter.”

  I swallow, unable to speak. My father’s daughter. No one has ever called me that, and meant it as praise. I draw in a shaky breath.

  “She couldn’t have another child,” Agatha says slowly. “Not without everyone knowing she didn’t have her daughter’s heart stone to pass on.”

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t you... Couldn’t you have brought it back here later?”

  “I tried. Your father wouldn’t speak to me, or any Select, after Malem.”

  I nod. I guess that’s where I got my distrust of the O.U.B. from him. I finish my meal in silence, sitting between a Select and an Adept. I glance at Agatha, who put herself at risk for others, again and again, and at the Adept. But not because of me, Prad Gaelig still remembers her saying.

  “He was wrong,” I say. They look at me. “My father. And the Queen. You didn’t bring the plague here. It wasn’t your fault, just because you were on the ship it came on.”

  Her eyes remain calm and expressionless, as always, but her mouth twitches into a smile. It’s kind of creepy, that Adept smile, like she’s doing what the situation calls for. But that’s the point: they do what should be done. It’s less a matter of ideals than a matter of training. The Adept couldn’t have knowingly brought death here; she is totally lacking the emotional triggers that would let her justify murdering the innocent. I smile back at her, a real smile, eyes as well as mouth, and for a moment—just an instant—the corners of her eyes crinkle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “The High Priest kept me prisoner while the Select was in the fever house.” That’s where I start when I’m testifying at the High Priest’s trial: after my trip to jail, and definitely after Tira’s “miraculous survival” in the fever hut. I tell about finding Hamza in the swamp, and end with finding the High Priest’s man strangling Agatha.

  I force myself to look at the High Priest from time to time as I must, accusing him to his face. It makes my stomach ache—I don’t know whether from anger at what he did and tried to do to us, or from pity, because he’s about to be beheaded. Both, I guess.

  I try not to look out over the square. The size of the crowd is unnerving; everyone on Malem must be here. They stare at us without warmth. Five days ago Agatha was their hero, they burned down the fever hut for her, tore the stones down when the fire died out. And now we’re outsiders again, exposing their dirty laundry to them.

  Broken-nose steps forward, his mouth set in a grim, resigned line. He sticks to his story—that he rushed in to rescue Agatha from convulsions—despite our witness against him. The Select was having convulsions in her sleep, he says. He heard her from outside the hut, and wanted to help. Of course it’s ridiculous: no one’s allowed to go inside the fever hut while someone infected with CoVir is inside. I guess he wasn’t hired for his brains.

  The King’s guard, Broken-nose-two, climbs up on the raised platform in the center of the square to stand beside us. An ugly black-and-purple bruise extends from his swollen, bandaged nose across both his eyes to his upper lip. He confirms my story, describing the scene when we entered the fever hut and the fight that ensued. The damage to his face is proof of his story.

  The King, seated with the Queen at one end of the platform, calls out for all to hear: “Guilty of attempted murder.”

  The evidence against the High Priest is less conclusive. I am asked to describe exactly where I found Hamza’s body. Broken-nose-two and the other guard the King sent with me testify where and when they saw the body. A medic confirms Hamza died of a blow to the head. But nothing links the murder to the High Priest except the secret path, and every priest knows of that, as well as their guards. No one witnessed Hamza’s abduction. The trial drags on.

  “We cannot conclusively prove who killed the Select,” the King proclaims at last, his face tight with exhaustion and frustration.

  The Adept speaks for the first time: “Let me try.”

  I bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing at the under-statement, and look away, wishing I could leave. The Adept’s focus is intimidating even when you’re just an observer.

  The Adept looks at the High Priest, and then across at Broken-nose, with a cool, appraising eye. The High Priest turns to stare at his guard at the same time as the Adept turns her dreadful scrutiny upon him. The silence lengthens. The guard sinks to his knees. Sweat runs down his forehead. He looks like a blade of grass caught in the focus of a magnifying glass trained to the sun. Slowly he curls over upon himself, until his head touches the floor of the platform. Nobody moves to help him.

  The square is very quiet. I begin to sweat in sympathy.

  “I killed him.” The High Priest’s man has not moved. His voice is muffled and without expression. It does not seem to have come from him.

  “He’s crazy!” The High Priest raises his arm, which shakes violently, and points toward the Adept. “She’s making him say it!”

  “I killed him at the order of the High Priest,” Broken-nose chokes out.

  The Adept turns to the High Priest. “Is this true?” she asks.

  “Of course not!” the High Priest sputters, but then he makes the mistake of looking back at her. Apparently he’s never had the focused stare of an Adept trained on him before. He blanches.

  She doesn’t repeat her question, but her eyes never waver from his, and she doesn’t let his eyes waver from hers. His face turns gray, but his lips are clenched tightly together.

  I wish more than ever that I could leave. The Adept’s calm has a tick-tock feel to it.

  “Is this true?” she says again.

  “YES!” he cries. The word explodes from him, an admission of guilt and a scream of triumph. “And they should thank me! I did it for Malem, to keep us pure, to keep us free of the contamination of other worlds! The next epidemic they infect us with won’t attack our bodies; it’ll sicken our souls! He was plotting! They both—” his head jerks as though he means to glare at Agatha but can’t escape the Adept’s mental hold—“both plotting against us! You’ll see! You’ll wish you’d listened to me, all of you!” He gives an inhuman shriek of laughter and falls silent as the Adept looks away.

  “What have you done to him?” the King demands.

  “Lanced the truth out of him. It is not fatal. He has had poison in him so long, he is sick without it.”

  The King gives her a long look. “And you didn’t force a false confession?”

  “No one can force another to lie. Lying requires imagination and imagination depends on freedom of thought. I cannot even force the truth out of someone who truly doesn’t want to tell it. Fortunately, in our hearts we all want to spew out our own truth. I merely encourage that.”

  The King glances at the Queen, then back at the High Priest, who is smiling hideously and rocking back and forth on his feet.

  “Guilty of murder, self-confessed,” the King proclaims. “Execute them.”

  “You dare?” the High Priest cries.

  “I dare not refrain,” the King replies. “Neither you nor I nor anyone on Malem is above the law.”

  I try to think of Hamza in the swamp, of Agatha being strangled in her sleep. I want these two men punished. Only, I don’t want to have to watch. I’ll never accuse anyone of anything again, I resolve to myself—and realize why the acc
users have to be present.

  A priest climbs up onto the platform to stand beside the High Priest and his man. Beside me, Agatha already has her eyes closed, her lips moving in prayer. The Adept is also murmuring a prayer, but her eyes are open. Probably she’s in some religious trance that removes her from her surroundings. I feel justified in squinting until my eyes are almost closed. Nevertheless, I hear the thunk of the axe digging into wood, once, and again, and again. I will hear that sound the rest of my life.

  As soon as the bodies have been carried away, the King and Queen stand up and announce the new High Priest. Prad Gaelig makes his way through the crowd to the platform, an expression of astonishment on his face. At every step people touch his arm, clap his back, congratulate him. When he mounts the platform, they break into cheers.

  Nice touch. I glance sideways at the King. Always leave ’em happy.

  He turns and catches me looking at him, and arches a single eyebrow at me.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “What are you doing with that?”

  I look up quickly. The Adept stands at the doorway to the bedroom I’m sharing, once again, with Agatha. I should have shut the bedroom door. Wait, didn’t I?

  I can’t get used to living with an Adept. I’m never sure whether ‘Please make me a cup of tea’ is a request or a subliminal command. I haven’t felt inclined to refuse and find out. On the other hand, I haven’t felt inclined to refuse.

  “I’m packing.” The box of tools Sodum gave me, which I was just about to put into my spacebag, burns in my hands.

  The Adept keeps staring at me. I want to shove the box out of sight but I can’t move. Doesn’t the woman ever turn herself off?

  Agatha walks in. She takes the box from my hands and tucks it into my spacebag. “God had a use for this,” she says. “It saved a child’s life. As Kia saved mine.”

  She smiles at me, a small, slightly pained expression.

  The Adept’s face softens. “You did well here, child,” she says. “Very well.”

  I clasp my hands behind my back. “How are the negotiations going?” I ask her.

  “Quite well.” The Adept allows a note of satisfaction into her voice. “I believe we will be sinking the first shafts for the sky elevator within the year. The Select and I will be able to return to Seraffa in two years at the outside.”

  “But Malem hasn’t joined the Alliance.”

  “No. This is not an unqualified success.”

  “They are helping their neighbors on Iterria,” Agatha murmurs. “Many members of the Alliance do far less.”

  “True.”

  “The High Priest thought the Malemese would lose their religion if they joined the Alliance,” I say.

  “Nonsense,” the Adept replies.

  “Prad Gaelig says if you destroy a religion, you destroy its people.”

  “We are not trying to destroy the Malemese.” Her expression is neutral, but I’ve begun to notice she talks just a tiny bit faster when she’s ticked. You’d have to live with her to hear it.

  “Prad Gaelig has a point,” Agatha says, looking at me. “Losing their religion can destroy a people’s sense of identity, the way they differentiate themselves.”

  “No one is trying to undermine the Malemese religion.” There it is, just a smidgeon faster than normal.

  “But Prad Gaelig’s job goes beyond that. His job is to increase their faith. As is ours,” Agatha adds.

  “This is the outcome you were after all along!” I grin at Agatha.

  Agatha looks uncomfortable. She glances at the Adept.

  “We strive to follow God’s plan,” the Adept says. “Presumably, this was the outcome He was after.”

  For no reason that I can actually see, I get the impression she isn’t completely happy with Him about it.

  “Will you have another task for me, then?” Agatha asks. “When we leave Malem in two years?” She keeps her face very still, as though the answer is of little concern to her.

  “We will both pray about that,” the Adept replies. Her voice has slowed back to normal.

  Agatha looks downcast. A tiny worry-line creases her forehead.

  I seal the top of my spacebag and begin its inflation. Standing up to leave, I look around awkwardly. I said goodbye to Jumal last night. I don’t think he’ll ever be King. I’ve seen the way the Queen smiles at the King now that she has the diamond she needs to pass on to her next child. Even so, I’m going home and Jumal is staying here and nothing can change that for either of us. And now the same is true, at least temporarily, for Agatha and me. I straighten resolutely.

  In three steps Agatha is at my side, her arms around me.

  “I’ll see you again, on Serrafa,” I mutter.

  Agatha tightens her embrace. “Of course you will,” she says, “God doesn’t build bridges that won’t hold.” And then, as if she can see right inside me, she says, “Your brother will be there when you get home. The captain will contact him as soon as you reach space.”

  I hug her back, blinking fiercely.

  The Adept appears not to have noticed. Which means she saw everything. I straighten and let go of Agatha.

  “Another assignment,” the Adept says, looking at Agatha thoughtfully. “That may depend upon whether you can secure a good interpreter.”

  Agatha smiles.

  I grab my spacebags. “Excuse me,” I say, heading for the door. “There’s a ship waiting for me.”

  About the Author

  Jane Ann McLachlan was born in Toronto, Canada, and currently lives with her husband, author Ian Darling, in Waterloo, Ontario. They spend most days sitting in their separate dens writing on their laptops, each working on their next book. When they get away it’s usually to do research. Jane Ann is addicted to story, and reads just about any kind of book, but she writes mostly historical fiction set in the Middle Ages and young adult science fiction and fantasy.

  You can learn more about her novels on her author website: www.janeannmclachlan.com

  Find resources for creative writing on her website for writers: www.downriverwriting.com

  ***

  Kia’s next adventure occurs in the sequel to this story, The Salarian Desert Game.

  You can get your copy at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01D7ILKYQ

  ***

  If you have enjoyed reading Walls of Wind and The Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set, please consider posting a review on Amazon to help other readers find this book.

  To do so, go to the book page for this boxed set: www.amazon.com/dp/B088TSR36N

  —and scroll down the page past Jane Ann’s picture and bio and you will see a button that says “Leave a Customer Review”. Click on that to write and post your review.

  Thank you!

  The Sorrow Stone

  Jane Ann McLachlan

  If you liked these two stories, you will love The Sorrow Stone. Here’s what it’s about, followed by an excerpt of the first chapter.

  In the middle ages people believed a mother mourning her child’s death could “sell her sorrow” by selling a nail from her child’s coffin to a traveling peddler. Overwhelmed with grief, Lady Celeste tries to sell her sorrow to Jean, a cynical peddler who insists she include her ring along with the nail. Lady Celeste’s magnificent ruby ring binds her husband to his marriage vows, but it is also the key to escaping her terrible grief.

  How will such a bargain affect each of them?

  Winner of the Royal Palm Literary Award for Historical Fiction

  Praise for The Sorrow Stone:

  “This is an amazing book and I felt as though I was transported to a different world. The medieval time was so clearly illuminated that it felt like I had traveled through time. I could not stop reading once I began....it was all consuming to me. Great, great read!” ~ K. Charon

  “J.A. MacLachlan has managed to captivate the reader with each page of well-developed story line. The twists and turns will keep you on the edge of your seat right up until the last few pag
es. The well-developed characters also make the story interesting. I really enjoyed how easily I was able to immerse myself into the social and physical environment of 12th Century France. Her vivid descriptions are testimony to her incredible writing abilities and her thorough research of medieval beliefs, customs, and socio-economic contexts. I highly recommend it!” ~ J. Ardon

  The Sorrow Stone

  Chapter One

  At first he did not know it was a human being. She lay crumpled on the ground like a bundle of dirty rags tossed aside by some trader. Even when Jean was close enough to see the tangled black hair, the small, bare hand, his inclination was to hurry by. A corpse could pass on the terrible fever that had razed this village.

  He had wasted his time stopping at Sainte-Blandine-de-Lugdunum. The few villagers who came to market were silent and glum, barely talking to one another let alone to a spice peddler from some distant town. He had sold one pair of woolen hose and two denier’s worth of salt all morning—barely enough to pay for his dinner and lodgings, let alone feed his family through the winter. The plague had run its course by now, otherwise Jean would have sold some of his side items: pilgrims’ badges and handkerchiefs blessed at the holy shrines of Santiago and Jerusalem. People will give up their last denier when death grins at their windows. Now, if he had been here a few weeks earlier...

  He shook his head, glancing at the inert form lying beside the road just ahead. He had known a priest who took his holy pardons, with the Pope’s sin-erasing signature, into towns where illness raged. The traders called him ‘Reaper’, but it was the last of their coins he went in for, not their souls. And what good did it do him? He handed all the profits to the church. The man was a fool. His body was found lying beside the road like this woman’s, his money pouch as heavy as a drunk’s bladder and the agony of his final convulsions frozen on his face.