by May, K. C.
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 a
ll 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.
