by K. C. May
“I like your first explanation better,” Adriel said with a grin.
“What ever happened to Disciple Gafna?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
Jora shook her head.
“She was executed a few days ago for Gilon’s murder.”
Jora breathed her relief. She hated to think the Justice Bureau had let Gafna walk free. “Good. Beheaded?”
Adriel nodded. “It was so gruesome. I wish I hadn’t gone to watch. I never liked Gafna, but the memory of it lingers in my mind. I’d just as soon forget it.”
Jora thought of the charred bodies and the smell of burning flesh in Kaild. “I understand, believe me.”
Jora slept hard that night, her first night of true rest in about two weeks. She intended to awaken before the sunrise to experience the changing of the tones after an agonizingly long time apart from the Spirit Stone, but the sun was already over the horizon when a series of hard knocks made their way through the dense fog of sleep. She sat up with a start, wrapped the now-violet novices’ robe around herself, and opened the door.
An enforcer stood in the hallway holding her flute. He said nothing, simply held it out to her, and she accepted it with a whispered “Thank you” before shutting the door again.
She caressed its wood and held it against her heart. Never had she thought she would worship an object the way she did the flute. They’d been through a lot together, and she thought of it as more than simply a musical instrument. It was a dear friend.
I hope Sundancer hasn’t given up on me, she thought.
Then came another knock at the door, lighter this time. It was Disciple Bastin, looking conciliatory. She was in her floor-length blue robe, hood down to show her bald head. “Hello, Jora. Welcome back.” She picked up the pitcher of hot water that had been delivered sometime that morning and offered it to her.
“Thanks, Bastin. I apologize for oversleeping.” She set the pitcher on her dressing table. It was a good thing she’d shaved her head the previous evening. The water was barely warm, and she preferred a hot shave.
Bastin looked down at Jora’s feet, at the purple robe turning red bit by bit. The red seeped up the fabric, reaching her knees, then her hips. “That’s… remarkable.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stop it,” Jora said. “It fades back to purple when I take it off.”
“Is that the robe you were wearing when…” Bastin licked her lips. “You know.”
“When I turned Elder Sonnis into a worm? You can say it.” The last thing Jora wanted was everyone tiptoeing around what she’d done. It was best to talk about it openly to get past the awkwardness. “But to answer your question, no. This is a brand new one, given to me last night.”
“Elder Devarla’s not going to be pleased.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it.”
Bastin tried to hide a smile, the first one Jora had ever seen. The girl was only about fifteen years old, but she was one of the nippers, as Adriel called them—children given up to the Order at a young age because their parents were too frightened of their Mindstreaming power. They tended to have underdeveloped social skills and little humor.
“Ooh, look,” Jora said, pointing to Bastin’s mouth. “It really does exist.”
The remnants of the smile disappeared as she held out a text book. “I’m supposed to pick up where you left off in your lessons.”
Jora took the book and sighed, her jest unacknowledged. Probably uncomprehended.
“We should go over what you remember, so I’ll know which chapters to assign for your next lesson.”
“All right. Shall we do it here?” Jora gestured to the comfortable reclining chair near the window, inviting Bastin to sit.
“I have a hearing to Observe. Let’s meet at ten o’clock.”
Jora agreed, and the disciple left. Ten o’clock would give her time to visit Sundancer, if she hurried.
She took a quick sponge bath, dressed, and hurried downstairs. The second bell must certainly have rung by this time, but she’d eaten a big enough supper the previous night that she could go until the midday meal before feeling hungry again.
As she hurried downstairs and outside, dashing along the covered walkway between the buildings, Truth Sayers of all ranks paused to stare at her in the red robe. They would have to get used to it, and she would have to get used to their stares, because that was how it was going to be.
“Novice Jora?” someone called behind her as she hurried through the justice building.
She stopped, turning. It was Elder Tornal, coming out of a courtroom. “Yes, Elder?”
“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, indicating her red robe with a hand gesture and a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead.
“This is what happens to my purple robe when I put it on. I’m sorry.”
“This will not do. Does Elder Devarla know about this?”
“Even if she does, what can she do about it?”
“Hold your impertinent tongue, young lady. This is unacceptable.”
“I’m sorry, Elder,” she said, bowing her head. “I intended no disrespect. The robe changes to red when I put it on and returns to purple when I take it off.”
He glared at her under his thick white eyebrows for a moment. “I’ll have a word with her about it. Off with you, then.” With that, he turned his back to her and stalked off.
Jora gave a mental shrug and continued on her way.
Outside, she went directly to the Spirit Stone. Roughly ten feet tall, it was shaped like a dolphin dancing on its tail atop the water’s surface. Its dorsal and pectoral fins were weathered smooth, its beak more blunt than Sundancer’s. At the bottom, its tail fins protruded from a block of hardened mortar.
I’ve missed you, she thought, gliding up to it. She reached with one hand and touched the smooth, cool stone. Instantly a hum shot through her body, vibrating her bones. It was a single, long note that she felt rather than heard, a hum that resonated with her, sang to her, spoke to her. A living dolphin trapped within the stone.
No, not trapped within it, exactly. Changed into a statue, like what Po Teng had done to the enforcers. Who had done it and why were questions for which she had no answers.
Seven Spirit Stones, scattered throughout the world, somehow needed to be freed. But how? Even if she could command Po Teng to release them, to turn them back to flesh and blood, they would be here, atop the steps of the Justice Bureau, nowhere near the ocean where they needed to be. An animal that big couldn’t simply be picked up and carried. She would need ropes and strong men to lift it and horses and wagons to transport it to the seashore.
The enormity of the task settled on her shoulders, bearing her down. Even if she could manage to change it back into its living form and transport it to the sea, the elders would stop her. No one would agree to give up their beloved Spirit Stone.
She would have to steal it.
No, no, no. She shook her head. That was preposterous. All the effort it would take would generate noise. Such a thing couldn’t be stolen. Even if she did manage to muffle the operation somehow, she wasn’t a thief.
No, just a murderer.
The argument within would do her no good. Until she had a viable solution to returning the Spirit Stones to life, she would have to accept their plight. For now, she had things to do.
She slipped the flute under her robes and the belt tied tightly around her waist so that it lay against her chest and abdomen, nestled between her breasts. Satisfied it was secure and hidden from view, she started off to the east, hoping Sundancer was near enough to hear her call. Thankfully, she’d had the presence of mind to wear her boots rather than the sandals she had been given.
When she reached the docks, the fishers were all gone, leaving only a handful of boats moored. Two were being repaired. The other three bobbed in the small waves, bumping the wooden dock. Jora went to the end of the longest dock and looked across the water for a dorsal fin breaking the water but saw o
nly the choppy waters of the Inner Sea. She reached into the V neckline of her robe and pulled the flute out, then sat cross-legged on the pier. It had been ten days since she’d played the flute. She hoped she remembered the sequence of notes.
“Ahoy, Sun Dancer,” she played in the language of the dolphins. She waited a minute and played it again, and again a minute later. It was too much to hope that Sundancer would be close enough to hear it. If she’d had more time, she would simply wait, playing the greeting every minute or two, but Bastin would be expecting her soon. Tomorrow then. She stood to leave and played the greeting once more for good measure.
In the distance, perhaps a quarter mile offshore, a large, sleek body leaped into the air.
Jora’s eyes burned with tears, which were soon spilling down her face in rivulets. Twenty-four hours earlier, she believed she would die without ever seeing Sundancer again. Her joy and relief were so overwhelming, she dropped to her knees and wept. She tried to play the greeting again, but her lips could not form the right shape. “Sundancer, my friend,” she said, reaching one hand out toward the dolphin as she swam closer. “Oh, Sundancer, how I’ve missed you.” Jora set the flute down beside her and lay on her belly with her head and shoulders overhanging the edge of the dock.
Sundancer came out of the water, twittering madly, her face close to Jora’s. Jora slid her hands along Sundancer’s sides, so smooth and soft, like the underside of her own tongue. It was the closest she could get to a hug without getting into the water.
Sundancer took the front of Jora’s robe in her mouth and backed away, pulling her forward. Jora felt the dock slipping away beneath her as the water came closer.
“Sundancer, no,” she said, but it was no use. She slid into the water head first. The dolphin let go and swam beneath her, then pushed her to the surface. Jora sputtered and shrieked, shocked by the temperature and by her friend’s trick. “You wicked, wicked dolphin.” Treading water, she laughed, and Sundancer twittered and spun in the water, her body upright.
“Ahoy, Autumn Rain,” Sundancer said. “I am happy see you.”
“Without my flute, I can’t talk to you, but I’m happy to see you too.” Jora stroked Sundancer’s beak and the side of her face. Beneath the water’s surface, she felt the current created by the dolphin’s tail, wagging back and forth to steady herself in the water.
“We swim,” Sundancer said. She positioned herself horizontally once more and swam close so Jora could grab hold of the dorsal fin. After she latched on with both hands, Sundancer took her for a slow swim before returning her to the dock. With the dolphin’s help, pushing her from below, she climbed out. She moved her flute so it wouldn’t get wet, then sat down and removed her boots. She poured the water from the first one back into the sea, and playfully flung the water from the second one at Sundancer with a laugh.
“Why Free Heart not come?”
Jora scrunched her brow. Had she not told Sundancer what had happened to Gilon? She supposed not. There were more urgent, pressing matters to deal with the last time they saw each other, not the least of which was an assassin trying to kill her. She flicked as much water off her hands as she could and picked up the flute. “No, Free Heart is dead.”
Sundancer replied with one long, sorrowful note.
Jora didn’t quite have the vocabulary yet to explain, but she would work on it in her spare time and tell Sundancer about Gilon’s murder during their next visit. “I tell you later.” She put her boots back on, then stood and started wringing the water from her robe.
“You come tomorrow?”
She didn’t think she could manage a visit every day. “No. I try come two days from now. Morning, after sunrise.”
“Good.”
Just then, the bell in the temple struck nine times. It would take her about forty-five minutes to walk back to the Justice Bureau, and so she had a few minutes yet to spare.
“Sun Dancer, why you taught me Calling?”
“The god asked me teach you.”
Retar wanted her to know the Calling. “Why?” she asked.
“I not know. Ask him.” Sundancer twittered a laugh.
Perhaps she would. If she hurried, she would have time to stop by the temple on the way back to the Justice Bureau and ask. “I go now ask. Goodbye, Sun Dancer.”
“Goodbye, Autumn Rain.”
Jora slogged back the way she’d come, her boots slurping with every step. She left wet footprints on the bricks behind her, as well as drips from her wet robe. People stared as she passed, but she couldn’t really blame them. When was the last time anyone had seen a baldheaded girl in a hooded, red robe, especially a wet one?
“Gatekeeper,” she heard people mutter. Some edged away from her, others simply gawked. Jora made a mental note to wear her street clothes to the docks next time. Though the streets were mostly empty at sunrise, the later it got, the more crowded the streets would become. She knew she’d have to get used to more attention than normal, but she didn’t want to set people ill at ease, especially once the stories got out about the fact that she was a killer.
By the time she reached the temple, her boots were damp but not wet, and she no longer trailed water behind her. She didn’t want to waste time running back to the dormitory to change her clothes and shoes. She had little enough time as it was before her scheduled meeting with Bastin. After opening the door, she went inside, blinking in the dimness.
The monk seated behind a table at the back of the nave was bent over, writing something. It was a woman with a round face and lifeless blond hair. She wore an orange robe similar to those worn by the Truth Sayers, but was otherwise unadorned. When she looked up at Jora’s approach, her smile fell and her eyes widened. She shot to her feet, knocking over the chair, and stumbled away from the table.
“Good morning,” Jora said, trying to sound friendly and benign.
The monk appeared not to hear. Without a word, the terrified woman scurried through a doorway at the back of the dais. Jora took the red robe off and folded it into a loose bundle. People would get used to her eventually.
On each side of the dais were four chambers, each with iron grates in their wooden doors. Through the grating, she could see that three of the chambers were occupied, including chamber number four, the one Jora preferred. She’d only used that one, actually, especially after learning that not all of them housed parrots as god vessels. According to Gilon, the monkeys were harder to understand.
She went to the empty chambers and peeked inside. The first three she checked had monkeys sitting in cages on the other side of the low wall inside, also topped with a decorative iron grating. The fourth one had a parrot. She went into the chamber, sat on the bench, and closed the door behind her.
The chamber, stained dark brown, was dim. The only light was that filtering from the nave and from the room behind the parrot.
“Hello, Jora,” the parrot said.
Jora’s heartbeat quickened. “Hello, Retar. It’s nice to speak with you again.”
“It’s good you have powerful friends, otherwise, this conversation would be much different.”
Powerful friends, indeed. “Were you one of those friends?”
The bird made a chuckling noise. “If you mean, did I use my godly influence on the King of Serocia, no. I didn’t. I told you, such things are forbidden.”
“Forbidden?” she asked. He’d done it twice before that she knew of—once to the registrar of the Justice Bureau, and once to the dominee herself.
“All right, frowned upon. Still, I didn’t influence him. That was all his doing. His own free will, if you prefer. Even the powerful like having powerful friends.”
From above, the bell began to clang. Ten o’clock. Great. She was going to be late for her first lesson since her pardon. “I suppose that’s true. Retar, why did you choose me for this?”
The bird eyed her for a moment, cocking its head this way and that. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
Jora snorted. “Not to me. I w
as just a leather worker, content with my life until the Truth Sayers dragged me off to join their ranks. I never intended to become the Gatekeeper.”
“I never intended you to.”
“But Sundancer said you did.”
“I merely suggested to Sundancer that it might benefit us all if she were to teach you the Calling. That’s all.”
Jora wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Yes, but isn’t the Calling what made me–”
The chamber door swung open. Dominee Ibsa, dressed in a full-length, orange robe of silk, crossed her arms and glared down at Jora. “Get out.”
Chapter 6
“What?” Jora blinked a few times, disbelieving the head of the First Godly Redeemer was actually interrupting her communion and ordering her out of the chamber. “I’m having a conversation with–”
Dominee Ibsa reached in and pulled Jora out roughly by the sleeve. “I said get out.”
Jora stumbled out of the chamber, barely keeping her feet under her. She whirled about to face the dominee, both hands on her hips, and looked up into the taller woman’s face. “How dare you? Interrupting a communion–”
“Silence,” Ibsa barked. She glared down at Jora, her gray eyes matching the furious, silver streak in her black hair. “Remove your vile, murderous, thieving little self from my temple.” She pointed at the door with a slender finger, jewels glistening from the rings and bracelets on her hands and wrists. “You are not welcome here.”
“Oh, I’m the thief? Those books are mine, and you stole them.”
The dominee slapped Jora’s face. The sound of it filled the nave, echoing against the high, painted ceiling.
For a moment, Jora saw stars. She rubbed her stinging cheek and blinked her eyes. “You hit me,” she said in disbelief. “What kind of fool are you? You know what I did to your puppet, Elder Sonnis.”
“Go ahead and try to hurt me,” Ibsa said. “We’re in my House of Prayer. Retar will protect me.”
