by K. C. May
From within the chamber, the parrot said, “If Jora hauls off and flattens you, that’s within her right. You did strike her first.”
Jora smirked, but she had no interest in hitting the dominee. “One of us has to be the bigger person. I’ll simply go to another House of Prayer and talk to Retar there.” She started down the aisle toward the double doors.
“I preside over them all,” Dominee Ibsa said behind her, “and I forbid it. I will ensure my people keep you out.”
The doors opened, and in walked the blond-haired monk preceded by Elder Devarla.
Oh, for Challenger’s sake.
“What’s going on here?” Elder Devarla asked as she strode toward the two women. She came to a stop, breathless and with a light film of sweat glistening on her face and head. “Why aren’t you studying with Disciple Bastin?”
“I came to speak with Retar first. I’m on my way to meet her now.”
“Why hasn’t this wicked little monster been punished for her crimes?” Dominee Ibsa demanded.
“I beg your pardon, Dominee,” Elder Devarla said with a bow. “I was penning a letter to you when the monk arrived. The king has pardoned her for the murders and vigilantism charges.”
“I know that. What about the rest?”
“We’ll be addressing her insubordination shortly.”
“And the theft?”
Elder Devarla narrowed her eyes doubtfully. “I don’t know anything about a theft. What did she steal?”
“I stole nothing,” Jora said. “She stole my books and then accused me of theft for taking them back.”
“She broke into my office and stole them from my desk.”
“For one thing, your office wasn’t locked, so I didn’t break in. For another, they were my–”
“Quiet!” Elder Devarla snapped. “Dominee, so that I understand the situation, would you mind telling me how you came to possess them?”
“As you know,” Ibsa said in a forceful tone, “the Justice Bureau is subordinate to the Ministry of Truth. When I learned that a novice had books that were important to the relationship between the Houses of Prayer and the god Retar, I commandeered them, as is my right.”
“Your right?” Jora asked, her voice nearly a shriek. Elder Devarla silenced her with a hard glare.
Ibsa went on as if Jora had said nothing. “Elder Sonnis had them removed from her room and brought to me. I was undertaking a complete study of them when the novice snuck into my office before the temple was closed for the evening—under the guise of communing with Retar—and stole them.”
Elder Devarla turned to Jora, her expression cool. “Is that true?”
“It’s true I took back what was mine—my journal that I started writing before I was a member of the Order, and a book of tones that Elder Kassyl had been keeping for over thirty years. He gave it to me not her.”
“I understand your frustration, Novice, but the dominee is correct. We at the Justice Bureau answer to the Minister of Truth—the dominee. She has the right to take the books.”
“But they’re mine.” Jora realized she sounded like an angry toddler, but she didn’t care. Those books meant everything to her.
“No, they’re not,” Elder Devarla said. “They belong to Serocia and by extension the king. As the dominee answers to King Yaphet and we answer to Dominee Ibsa, I must agree with her in this. You’ll turn the books over to me at the conclusion of our meeting this afternoon, and I’ll deliver them myself to the dominee.” She turned her gaze to Ibsa. “Is that acceptable?”
The dominee inclined her head, a smug smile on her face.
“Piss on that! The princess said–”
“Jora,” Elder Devarla said in a scolding voice. “Mind your tongue before our dominee. In a House of Prayer, you will use a respectful tone and abstain from foul language. Do I make myself clear?”
Jora pinched her lips together and nodded. She wasn’t sure she could say anything without it coming out sounding rude and disrespectful, but she made the effort to keep her voice steady. “Princess Rivva said I would have my belongings returned.”
“The princess, however well intended, is not an expert in the law. I’ll speak with her about the books.”
“What has been decided about her punishment?” The dominee sneered down at Jora.
“She’s been pardoned, Dominee,” Elder Devarla said. “Her crimes carry no punishment as long as she adheres to the conditions of her pardon.”
“She’s been insubordinate, disrespectful, and rude. Surely you don’t intend to let her escape the consequences.”
Elder Devarla sighed. “No, I won’t. I’ll put her on cleaning duty for a week for her rude tone. Would that satisfy you?”
The dominee lifted her chin. “I suppose that will do. And for insubordination?”
“I’m still negotiating with the other elders of her trial on that matter. I assure you, we will issue a suitable punishment for it.”
“I suggest bucking and gagging,” Ibsa said. “No. As Minister of Truth, I insist on it—after she relinquishes my books.”
Jora and Elder Devarla returned to the Justice Bureau, their strides as mismatched as their moods. Jora felt defeated and alone, while the elder was livid, scolding Jora harshly for not only the insolent manner but her tardiness to her lessons. “I don’t know what kind of leeway Elder Sonnis gave you while he oversaw your instruction, but I assure you, I’m not so lax or forgiving.” She went on and on about how unbecoming Jora’s behavior was and demanded to know whether becoming Gatekeeper had convinced her that she was above the rules of the Justice Bureau or the standards of conduct expected of a member of the Order.
Jora stopped listening well before they reached the front steps of the justice building. She couldn’t get over the fact that Elder Devarla had sided with the dominee against her. If Elder Kassyl had wanted the dominee to have the books, he’d have given them to her. In fact, why hadn’t the dominee demanded them while Elder Kassyl was still alive? Was it because she didn’t have the authority she and Devarla claimed she had? Or was it that Jora’s journal made Elder Kassyl’s book of tones that much more valuable?
She didn’t see why a journal that belonged to her well before her initiation into the Order should become property of the king. Did her boots? Her clothes? Her flute? She chewed the inside of her cheek. Why hadn’t the dominee asked for the flute? Without it, Jora couldn’t communicate with Sundancer. If their concerns and interests didn’t involve the dolphin, then that was one less thing to worry about. Maybe the dominee was more interested in commanding the power of Gatekeeper herself than in stopping Jora from learning new skills.
A novice was waiting for them at the entrance to the justice building. “Princess Rivva is waiting in your office, Elder.”
An expression of surprise passed over Elder Devarla’s face and disappeared into feigned indifference. “Thank you, Novice. Jora, go find Disciple Bastin and get started. We’ll speak again later.”
“Um, I beg your pardon, Elder,” the novice said, “but the princess specifically asked to see Novice Jora.”
“Oh.” Elder Devarla shot Jora an annoyed glance. “Very well. Come with me, then.”
She followed Elder Devarla upstairs to what was once Elder Sonnis’s private office, inherited from Elder Kassyl. Four guards stood outside the door in the hallway, though they made no effort to stop the two women from entering.
Roughly twice the size of her room in the dormitory, the office was furnished with a finely crafted desk, several chairs, a table, and a bookcase. The window on the far wall was open, letting in both sunlight and a gentle breeze, and the remaining walls were bare, Elder Kassyl’s personal artwork removed. The potted plants were gone, destroyed by Elder Sonnis to hide Elder Kassyl’s murder.
Princess Rivva, seated in a guest chair, closed a book and set it on the table to her right when the two entered. She stood. “There you are.”
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Your Highness,” Elder
Devarla said with a bow. “I hadn’t realized you would be coming today.”
“Jora and I had planned a conference, but I’m earlier than she would’ve expected. I apologize, Jora. I’ve some other matters to attend to later in the day, and so I must address this one sooner rather than later. Shall we take a walk?”
“You’re welcome to talk here,” Elder Devarla said, her hands opening to indicate the office.
“Thank you.” Rivva took her seat again and gestured to the chair beside it. “Please.”
Jora sat next to the princess. When Elder Devarla started toward the chair positioned behind her desk, Rivva said, “I beg your pardon, Elder, but I must speak with Jora privately.”
“Oh.” Elder Devarla blinked a few times at the princess and then started to the door. “Of course, Your Highness. I’ll be just outside, then.”
“See that we’re not disturbed,” Rivva said to the guards outside the door. The tone of her voice suggested that she also didn’t want anyone eavesdropping. The guard nodded his understanding and pulled the door shut behind the elder.
When Rivva turned to Jora, her formal demeanor fell away, replaced by the aura of camaraderie Jora had seen the previous day. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I have in weeks.”
The two exchanged small talk for a minute or two. Jora found herself wanting to avoid the topic she knew the princess was there to discuss. She hadn’t given the matter much thought, and certainly didn’t have any dreams the previous night that might have guided her toward a decision.
A moment of silence settled between them. “I spoke to my father last night about your agreement. He didn’t tell me why he’d reversed his decision about having you investigate, but I’m certain it had to do with the dominee. That worries me, and I’m not one to contain my opinions.”
Jora widened her eyes, imagining the scene. She’d never have confronted her own father about something so serious, and Dyre Kyear had been a regular soldier, not a king. “Was he angry with you?”
“Oh, no,” Rivva said with a small wave of her hand. “He’s used to it. We had a long talk, and I convinced him to give us his blessing on this.”
“He’s agreed to let me investigate?” Jora asked, surprised.
Rivva put a finger to her lips. “Secretly. The last person he wants to find out is the dominee.”
Jora leaned in to whisper, “Do you think she’s at the root of it?”
“I don’t know. I honestly can’t see her committing such a treason, but it’s no secret she’s enamored of riches and guards her own purse well. No one dips into her coffers without paying a heavy price.”
Jora exhaled hard. If the king wanted her to investigate, she would like to hear it from him, but to ask for an audience with him to confirm would be to accuse the princess of lying.
Rivva opened a small purse and withdrew a folded paper. “He’s asked me to show this to you, but we must destroy it the moment after you’ve read it.”
Jora took the offered paper and unfolded it.
Dear Miss Lanseri,
Due to extenuating circumstances, I was unable to request of you what I had initially intended; that is, to use your exquisite gifts to assist in uncovering the egregious acts of treason perpetuated upon the crown by the unknown entities who have betrayed my trust. I would ask you to treat with my daughter, to accept her request as if it had come from me, and to relay any information you uncover directly to her. This assignment, should you agree to it, must be kept in the strictest confidence.
Yours,
Yaphet Stolck, Fourteenth King of Serocia
Jora read the letter twice and then lowered her hand to her lap, stunned and yet relieved and strangely excited. Rivva took it from her and touched one corner to the flame of the lamp in the wall sconce across the room. As it burned in her hand, she asked, “Can we count on your help?”
Jora watched it burn, worried that the flame would singe Rivva’s fingers. “I can’t even tell my elder?”
“That’s right.” Rivva pinched the paper between two fingers, holding it by the corner farthest from the flame and blackening, curling paper. “No one must know, for anyone who learns of this could potentially alert the dominee.” She picked up a potted plant and set it aside, then dropped the burning paper into the drainage plate, where it sizzled and smoked in the water there. “When my father learns who is betraying him, he’ll take the necessary actions to secure our country. That one thing could quite possibly be the catalyst we need to finally end this war. I know you have a brother still fighting. The only way to ensure he and all the other men survive is to stop the war once and for all. To make peace with our enemies, or at least a truce.”
Jora nodded. Though Finn had no one to go home to, the people of Three Waters would surely take him in as well as the other soldiers from Kaild who’d lost their families.
“What can I do for you in exchange for your help? What would make your life easier here at the Justice Bureau?”
While Jora would have leapt at the chance to skirt any punishment she was due for the insubordination, especially the bucking and gagging the dominee insisted upon, her first thought was for Korlan’s safety. “My friend Korlan Rastorfer is due to be executed for treason and desertion tomorrow. The king refused to pardon him as part of our original agreement, but perhaps you might speak to the sentencing elder on Korlan’s behalf?”
Rivva pursed her lips, and her gaze drifted away. “Hmmm. Remind me what he did wrong.”
“He brought up the smuggling of godfruit to his commander after he was told to drop it. That’s what they’re calling treason. Then, after I killed his commander, I offered him the chance to come with me to help me confront Elder Sonnis. That’s what they call desertion. If they hadn’t arrested him, he would never have come with me. They found him guilty of treason for expressing his concerns about the very issue you and King Yaphet want me to investigate. It’s not right.”
Rivva nodded. “You’re right. It isn’t. I’ll speak to the elder assigned to his sentencing. There’s no guarantee that he or she will see things our way.”
“I understand, but it’s worth a try.”
“While Korlan shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place, he still has at least a few years left on his commitment to serve Serocia, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, I think he’s only nineteen or twenty, so he probably has eight or nine years left to serve. Would the Legion want him back?”
“Doubtful. I’ll suggest he serve the remainder of his tour with the Justice Bureau as an enforcer. That should satisfy them.”
Jora smiled broadly. “That would be wonderful. I’d probably see him now and then, too.”
“Yes, but you mustn’t reveal anything of your task. Justice Captain Milad will undoubtedly watch him closely, particularly where you’re involved.”
“I understand,” Jora said. She couldn’t wait to Observe Korlan when they gave him the news that he wouldn’t be executed. If only she could be the one to tell him, but that was too much to ask.
“Do we have an agreement? You’ll investigate the godfruit smuggling completely in secret in exchange for my word that I’ll request reassignment for Korlan?”
Jora offered her hand eagerly, and Rivva shook it. “Agreed.”
Chapter 7
In the dim cell, Korlan Rastorfer knelt on the floor in front of the wooden bench they called a cot, a lead pen between his fingers. He had fewer than twenty-four hours left to write the letter that would accompany his body to Burnd. How did a man explain to his wife that he was being put to death for something he did that wasn’t actually a crime? He’d long given up arguing for his release or even his innocence in the crimes he was convicted of. The Legion would more than likely decide his letter didn’t match their accounting of events and burn it, then claim it must have blown away in a stiff wind.
He read over what he’d written so far.
Dearest Persha,
By the time you read t
his, I will be dead.
He tapped the unsharpened end against the paper. Rereading those few words did little to spark any ideas for what to write next. He had so much to say, so many regrets about not having met their daughter, Sira, or holding Persha in his arms one last time. He wanted to apologize to her, to his mother and half-siblings, his cousins and grandparents, his friends. Where did one begin such a letter?
The now-familiar creak of unoiled hinges down the corridor announced a visitor. A meal, maybe. In the dank underground jail, it was hard to keep track of time, and the constant grumble in his belly meant nothing. They hadn’t fed him more than half a meal per day since his arrest. One day, all he’d gotten was a stale biscuit and a chunk of moldy cheese. What’s the point? they’d asked when he complained. It’ll go to waste on you.
Not one pair of bootsteps approached but two. Korlan grew restless. Worried. He’d wasted too much time trying to find the right words, and now they were coming to retrieve the letter. He couldn’t leave it like that. Persha would never forgive him.
Two voices in low conversation echoed off the stone walls of the jail, further obscuring their words. The footsteps stopped. A key rattled in the lock outside his door, and the door swung open with a groan, its bottom grating against the stone floor. A guard, tall and broad shouldered, stood in the doorway with a lamp in one hand and the keyring in the other. No food. Beside him was Justice Captain Milad.
“No, no,” Korlan said, his voice scratchy. He bent back over his letter, desperate for a burst of inspiration to flood him and pour out through the lead pen. “I’m not finished. I need more time.” He coughed, wincing at the pain in his parched throat.
“You won’t need more time,” Milad said.
“What?” Korlan croaked.
“Your conviction has been reversed.”
Korlan snorted sardonically. “Is that a jest?”
“No jest. See for yourself.” Milad offered a rolled parchment, and Korlan took it.
He unrolled it and scanned the neatly penned text, squinting in the dim glow of the corridor torches.
