by K. C. May
“I suppose so. That’s how I’ve always thought of it, and I guess the word caught on after I first took my oath.”
The elder winked at her. “A person’s influence generally starts small and then grows over time. It’s fitting that this term would be introduced by the Gatekeeper.” She slapped her palms against her thighs and stood. “Shall we?”
They continued on their way to the dormitory and climbed the stairs. As they passed the second floor, Devarla said, “My room is number two fourteen, in case you need me outside of normal hours.”
Jora’s old room was clean and tidy, the bed made with fresh sheets. On the foot of the bed was a pair of hemp sandals and bundle of folded violet cloth—her novices’ robe. The wash basin sat upon the dressing table with a razor beside it, though there was no water yet to wash or shave with.
She went to the window and put one hand on it, admiring the tree whose smaller branches tapped the glass in a stiff breeze. She’d learned from this tree several things, the first and most interesting of which was that plants could be Observed.
“Let’s go over the ground rules,” Devarla said. She sat on the plush, brown lounge chair and put her feet up, pulling the gold fabric of her robe to keep from binding her legs. “You’ll wear the novice’s robe and eat at the second dinner bell with the rest of the novices. You’re forbidden to use the skills granted to the ranks you haven’t earned.”
“What?” Jora asked, scowling. “No.”
“Those are the rules novices live by here.”
“Well, they aren’t the conditions of my pardon. I’m willing to continue my instruction and follow the rules everyone else obeys, but you can’t tell me novices aren’t permitted to use the barring hood or identify other Truth Sayers or move through the ’twixt.”
“Novices aren’t supposed to know how to do those things,” Devarla shot back.
“My point exactly. Nobody writes a rule to cover scenarios that have never occurred. Show me in the rule book where it says I’m not permitted to use these skills.”
The elder harrumphed and looked away. “I would prefer it if you didn’t.”
“I understand, but I’m sorry. Elder Kassyl himself taught me the barring hood. The rest I learned on my own.”
Devarla turned on the chair and set her feet back onto the floor. “That won’t please the other elders.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Jora said. Emboldened by her victory, she said, “I’m not like the other novices.”
“True,” Devarla conceded. “You are not, but you’re still undereducated in matters pertaining to the law. Since you’re familiar with Disciple Bastin, I’ll have her oversee your instruction as before. Let’s agree that you will take your lessons with her between breakfast and dinner. In the afternoons, you’ll meet with me and perhaps some of the other elders. I may have an adept join us from time to time.”
“Will you be instructing me as well?” Jora asked, unsure why she would be asked to spend so much time with elders.
“No,” Devarla said with a small smile. “You’ll be instructing us. I doubt your lessons will turn us all into Gatekeepers, nor is that my aim. One Gatekeeper is plenty. You have information, however, that could be invaluable in other ways.”
“Such as?”
“I understand Elder Kassyl recorded the tones emitted by the Spirit Stone every day for over thirty years. And I understand you have the skills to translate that book. The elders are curious to know what the Spirit Stones are saying.”
Everyone in Serocia is curious, Jora thought.
From the steeple at the top of the building, a bell clanged—the first supper bell—and Elder Devarla stood. “I’ll have Disciple Bastin stop by later to make arrangements to begin your instruction in the morning. Be sure you’re properly dressed before you go down to supper.” She started to walk away and then paused. “And Jora, if you leave the premises, you’re to take an enforcer for your protection.”
With a whistle and a word, she could call Po Teng and stop whoever or whatever threatened her. “I don’t need–” she started.
“It’s not a request, Novice.”
Just then, an enforcer came up the stairs with her knapsack in his arms. He approached and offered it to her. “Your belongings.”
Jora set the bag on the bed, and began to rifle through it. The stench of her unwashed clothing assaulted her nose. “Where’s my flute?” The enforcer was gone. She ran into the hallway and glimpsed him as he started down the stairs. “Wait. Where’s my flute?”
He backed up and turned to regard her. “The justice captain is still searching for it. Someone will bring it shortly.”
They’d better, she thought.
Chapter 5
Alone in her dormitory room, Jora sat cross-legged on the lounge chair while she waited for the second dinner bell. Closing her eyes, she opened the Mindstream and found the thread, as fine as spider silk, that stretched from the center of her body to Finn. Once one of her four siblings, he was now her only brother.
They hadn’t gotten along particularly well in their youth. Jora had been much closer to their sister, Cacie, and their younger brother, Loel. Their eldest brother, Tosh, had been killed in battle ten years earlier, and while they were thirteen years apart in age, she’d idolized him as a young girl. Tosh had always been kind and funny and affectionate with her.
Finn was fourteen months older than Jora. While he’d been tender and kind when they were toddlers and young children, he’d grown increasingly distant and at times hostile toward her as he approached his training years. She was happy enough to let him be, and for the next eight years, until the day he left Kaild to begin his service in the Legion, they spoke only in passing.
Now he was the only family she had left.
Through the power of the Mindstream, she saw him sitting with his fellow soldiers, laughing and jesting about a recent battle. From the position of her mystical eye hovering above and behind his left shoulder, she saw no wounds on his body, no fresh scars or bandages. She lifted her viewpoint and scanned the shore to the north. No enemy ships were anchored offshore. No opposition forces were storming the beach. She wiped a tear from her cheek and moved on, satisfied he was in no immediate danger. For now, Finn was safe.
Next, she found Korlan’s thread and followed it to the prison cell where he sat on the edge of a cot, his shoulders slumped and head bowed. A tray of food sat untouched beside him. From down the corridor, footsteps approached along with the glow of a lamp. A face appeared in the barred window in the door.
“Better eat,” the jailer said. “Don’t want to faint climbing the steps to the gallows, do you?” He chuckled.
Jora wanted to slap his face.
Korlan didn’t answer, didn’t even look up.
“If you’re not going to eat,” the guard said, “I’m sure one of these other prisoners would gladly take your share.”
“Give it to me,” someone down the hall said.
“My wife,” Korlan said, his voice quiet, scratchy. “Does she know yet?”
“You’ll be given a chance to write a letter the day of your execution,” the jailer said. “It’ll be delivered with your shrouded body. You do realize you’ll be shrouded in black, don’t you? Not white like an honorable soldier.”
Korlan didn’t reply. Jora’s heart ached for him. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t taken him with her, he’d have only faced treason and would probably have been found innocent. But because he joined forces with the Gatekeeper...
It occurred to her that if her so-called crimes were pardoned, they couldn’t hold that against Korlan. He hadn’t colluded with a criminal. He’d simply... well, he did desert the Legion, that was true, but he’d only done so because of the improper accusation of treason against him.
She closed the Mindstream feeling defeated. That she would live and he would be put to death wasn’t fair. There had to be something she could do to help him, maybe demand his verdict be overturned and the court-mar
tial started anew, based on her own pardon. Something.
Someone knocked at the door, and when she opened it, no one was there, but a pitcher of steaming water sat on the floor. She picked it up and put it on her dressing table, closed the door, and began to undress. As she went about soaping her head and shaving off her nubby hair, her mind returned to Korlan and his impending death.
Captain Kyear shared her father’s surname. He’d been Turounce’s commander, and so he would have had an interest in the outcome of Korlan’s trial. If he was a distant relative, then perhaps she could convince him to at least hear her out. Maybe it would buy Korlan a few days, and she could ensure he got the opportunity to petition King Yaphet.
She ran a hand over her now-smooth scalp, feeling for hairs the razor missed. After going back over a few spots to satisfy herself that her head was properly shaved, she cleaned off the razor, poured the dirty water back into the pitcher, and set the pitcher outside the door. She undressed and pulled on the loose-fitting, black trousers and tied the drawstring at her waist. Next, she put the hooded robe on, long enough to touch the floor, and tied the sash around her waist, tugging a bit of the fabric up to shorten the length. When she looked down to check that the bottom wasn’t dragging the floor, she gaped. “Oh, my.”
The bottom of the robe was changing color from purple to red, the red seeping upward as if she were standing in a pool of dye.
Or blood.
This was exactly what had happened when she’d stabbed Elder Sonnis with Korlan’s sword and dragged him through the ’twixt. Her robe had turned red.
Two bells clanged, signaling the disciples and novices were free to enter the dining hall for the evening meal.
She would catch hell for this. Her only options were to wear the reddening robe to supper or put the borrowed clothes back on. She could wear one of her own garments, but having not been washed in some time, their stench wouldn’t do her any favors. Wearing the red would be bold, but it would be honest. She was the Gatekeeper, after all, and everyone knew it. She would have to face the stares and whispers sooner or later. Might as well wear the red and walk in with her head held high rather than try to slink into the room unnoticed. Red it was, then.
By the time she arrived, the dining room was full of chattering young people wearing purple and blue hooded robes. In the past, a few elders and adepts mingled with the adepts and novices, whether because they were delayed by their duties and missed the first bell or because they wanted to give the younger members an opportunity to talk to them in a more informal setting. Now, there were only purple and blue robes, the green and yellow conspicuously absent.
She remembered how difficult it had been at first to pick out her two new acquaintances, Gilon and Adriel, from the sea of bald heads, but after a time, she stopped noticing their similarities and started seeing the differences in the faces—the eyebrow shapes and colors, the size and placement of eyes, the noses and mouths. The set of their shoulders certainly helped, for some sat self-confidently upright with square shoulders, while others hunched over, shoulders rounded and slumped, their eyes darting here and there. Had Jora been one of those timid ones? She had. She was certain of it.
Now seeing them gathering in groups at the various tables scattered across the room made her feel more alone than ever. Gilon was dead. Adriel and the other novices would probably shun her. Bastin would avoid her except to fulfill her duties as Jora’s instructor. Nobody wanted to be friends with the one who’d turned her elder into a worm.
A hush fell over the room as people noticed her standing there. Those who hadn’t yet sat down stopped where they were, trays of food in hand. Every face turned toward her, every pair of eyes taking in her red robe, every mouth agape.
Jora’s entire body trembled with the desire to flee, but she didn’t. She forced a shallow smile onto her face as she scanned the room, searching for a familiar—and friendly—face.
“Jora!” Adriel stood and clambered over the bench where she’d been sitting, hands on the shoulders of those next to her. She rushed over with a warm smile, her arms opening for an embrace.
The relief Jora felt was like a flood, gushing down her cheeks as she clutched Adriel tightly. A friend. Thank the challenger, she had a friend among all the gawkers.
“Come sit with us,” Adriel said as she pulled back. Jora hurriedly wiped the tears away. “Aww, don’t cry, dove. You’re among friends here.”
If only the adepts and elders felt the same way. Adriel hooked her arm in Jora’s and led her back to her table, where most everyone watched with curious or eager expressions.
“Hello, Jora,” a young novice said as she passed. Others soon joined in, greeting her by name. Someone patted her shoulder.
Jora returned the smiles and greetings, honestly surprised and a bit bewildered at the friendliness of her former colleagues. She supposed that if they were being forced to face her every day, they might as well make the best of it. Don’t piss off the Gatekeeper. She might turn you into a worm.
“Get your tray and come join us,” Adriel said as she climbed back over the bench in front of her place. “We’ll make room for you.”
“I’ll fetch you a bowl,” said another novice, a girl Jora had seen around but hadn’t yet met.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll get it myself.”
Jora went through the serving line, loading her bowl with a scoop of everything and setting a pair of biscuits on her tray. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she feasted her eyes and her nose on all the meats and vegetables and potatoes and rice dishes. Her bowl was twice as full as she’d normally filled it when she carried her tray to the table, but she planned to eat every last morsel and probably be hungry for more.
An empty space had been created for her across from Adriel between two novices. She set the tray down and then started the awkward process of stepping over the bench without kicking anyone.
“Sorry about your family,” said Lita, a young disciple in Elder Tornal’s hierarchy, sitting to Adriel’s left. “It’s so awful.” Jora nodded her acceptance of the offered condolence. “We all wanted to attend your trial, but there wasn’t enough room for most of the disciples.”
“Yeah, and none at all for the novices,” Adriel said with a wry grin. “At least disciples got to draw straws for a seat.”
“So the king pardoned you?” asked another disciple at the end of the table. The face was familiar but not the name. “That’s what Bastin said.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Pardoned?” someone asked. The word rippled across the room. In fact, people at other tables had paused their own conversations to listen, many turned on their benches to face her.
“After Gerios announced the verdict, Princess Rivva arrived.” The way they watched her with eager faces and wide eyes made Jora blush. Never before had she commanded so much attention at one time. It was at the same time terrifying and gratifying. For the first time in her life, she felt important. “She swept in like a brilliant, beautiful storm and whisked me away in her carriage to the palace.”
“Whoa,” someone said.
“You got to go into the palace?” another murmured.
“I did,” Jora said. She looked around at the faces at her table, trying to ignore the dozens of other eyes on her. “But I spent the last ten days in a prison cell and dreaded going before the king smelling like a sewer. The princess was kind enough to let me bathe and loan me some clothes to wear.”
Most of them chuckled.
“What was it like?”
“It was gorgeous beyond words,” she said. It felt good to be listened to for once, to be validated by so much attention, to have others regard her highly. Though she avoided questions pertaining to the subject of her conversation with King Yaphet, she told her story of traveling in the princess’s carriage, walking through the palace, and meeting the king, embellishing here and there for effect. She had the room capt
ivated, and she liked it, standing out in her red robe among the blue and purple.
After supper, Adriel invited her back to her room down the hall from Jora’s. Jora started to pull the stool out from the dressing table, but Adriel bade her sit on the cushioned lounge chair while she perched on the stool herself. “I heard some really awful stories about Elder Sonnis,” she said. “I think a lot of the novices and disciples are glad he’s gone.”
“What kind of awful things?”
“Well, after Elder Sonnis died, two of his disciples were tasked with packing up his office. They found a letter he’d penned to Captain Kyear that included the text of a message to be dispatched to the soldiers from Kaild still serving in the Legion, informing them of what happened---your brother and cousins, among them.”
Jora felt her face warm. “What did it say?”
“He suggested they blame the attack on Mangendan assassins.”
“No!”
“Yes. That was the worst of it, but there were other things.”
Jora nodded. She’d worried about what the Legion would tell her brother and cousins, Tearna’s husband and Briana’s, and all the other men from Kaild who were looking forward to going home to their families. Now that the truth had come out in her trial, she supposed the Legion would have to tell the truth. That or concoct another lie.
“He was so full of himself, you know?” Adriel said. “Despite the rules against fraternization between members of the Order, he was constantly pursuing the new girls.”
“He was slimy. That’s probably why he turned into a worm.”
Adriel giggled. “You didn’t pick that form for him?”
“No,” Jora said with a snort. “I’m not sure what determines the kind of ally they become, but the way they die has something to do with it. Boden was killed in the forest, and he became tree-like. Zokor was killed in the water, and he became a fish-lizard creature.” She pursed her lips and thought back to Sonnis’s death. “I dragged him through the ’twixt, so maybe that’s why he became a worm.” She sometimes wondered what the assassin she thought of as Mouse Ears had become. Another tree-like one? Something else entirely?
