Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles) (5 page)

The wedding feast lasted an hour, partly because the newlyweds were required to eat with their hands tied together. Boden, being right-handed, had to eat with his left hand, though once Micah had finished, she fed him with her free hand. It was an amusing sight, watching Boden blush under the scrutiny of the townspeople and her occasional kiss. While they ate, the musicians played, which captivated Jora’s attention more so than the antics of the newly married couple or the food on her own plate. When they finally played
Song of the Sea Spirit
, she closed her eyes and let the music take her away.

The flute solo teased her soul like a memory that was a hair out of reach. Something was missing from her life, something significant, but she had no idea what. She would have been perfectly content with her life if it weren’t for that song. It made her yearn for that missing element, and it made her mind clench, trying to figure out what it could be. When the song came to an end, she wept silent tears of longing.

“What’s wrong?” Tearna asked. “Are you sorry you didn’t submit?”

Jora wiped her eyes. “No. It’s that song.”

“I’ve never known anyone who was moved so deeply by a silly song,” Briana said. “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a musician instead of a leatherworker.”

Perhaps her cousin was right. “It’s too late now. I’m too old to begin an apprenticeship.”

“Did she tell you what Boden gave her?” Tearna asked, popping a small meatball into her mouth. “A flute.”

Briana gasped. “He didn’t.”

Jora nodded. “He did. I was playing it on the shoal when Tearna came to get me.” An image of the dolphin came to her mind. There was something significant in the way it whistled part of the song. Excitement began as a dim red coal in her chest, warming her. She had to go back to the shoal and play the flute. If the same dolphin returned and whistled those notes again, then she would know it wasn’t simply a coincidence.

Briana’s mouth dropped open. “A promissory?”

“What? No!” Jora said, her mind snapping back to the present moment.

“What’s a promissory?” Tearna asked.

“Never mind,” Jora said. “It’s not. It’s just a gift.”

“But you’re not leaving,” Briana argued. “Why would he give you a gift if it wasn’t a promissory? Especially one as lavish as a flute?”

“What in Retar’s name is a promissory?” Tearna asked.

Briana explained the concept of a promissory to Tearna, but Jora waved it off. Briana was wrong. She didn’t know Boden like Jora did. They were close friends, that was all. He’d never been effusive or particularly demonstrative with his feelings, and so giving her a gift upon his leaving, one she would find especially valuable, simply communicated the affection he’d never really spoken... Oh, God’s Challenger! It
was
a promissory.

Jora buried her face in her hands, trying to rationalize to herself why it couldn’t be. They’d agreed a marriage between them would be awkward. Had he agreed with her simply because she’d said it first?

Tearna massaged Jora’s shoulders. “Cheer up. Feelings change in ten years.”

She looked up at her friends. She could only hope, especially considering she was planning to marry his father, the man Boden would least want to see her with.

Chapter 3

When Boden opened the outer door of the marriage chamber the morning after his wedding, about a hundred people greeted the newly wedded couple with cheers and applause. He felt the familiar heat fill his cheeks, but Micah beamed. She’d been more prepared for the Antenuptials, wedding, and marital consummation than Boden had, despite the fact that she was a year and a half younger. He supposed that girls were groomed for this as boys were groomed for war.

She slipped her hand into his, and they both waved with their free hands. Micah then put her hand over her belly, as if it was already swollen with child, and the onlookers cheered louder.

They came down the steps and greeted the townsfolk one by one. Boden shook so many hands and kissed so many cheeks, he wasn’t sure he could name any of them by the time it was over.

Micah was surrounded by her relatives, who congratulated her on her upcoming life as a mother.

Boden saw his father, the town’s drill master, standing alone. There was pride in his stance, sorrow in the downward curve of his mouth, fear in his eyes, and determination in the way he gripped Boden’s papers in one fist. Boden took his time greeting people and accepting their congratulations on his marriage and wishes for a healthy son, dallying so as to delay the inevitable exchange with his father. Following the drill master’s instruction every day was tolerable, even enjoyable at times. Conversing with his father wasn’t. Today, it was unlikely he’d be able to avoid it.

His mother, Anika, made her way over and hugged him tightly, crying and smiling at the same time. “I’m so happy for you and Micah, but I can’t help worrying for you.”

He smiled dimly. “I’ll be fine, Mama. Don’t tell Loel, but I’m the best fighter in Kaild.”

“Your father trained you well,” she said, glancing at Gunnar.

Boden stiffened, his smile dropping. “He makes a better drill master than Elazer did,” he conceded, “but he trained the other boys equally well. If you must worry about someone, worry about Welliam. One day, Marja’s going to box his ears so hard, he’ll lose his hearing. I’ll be fine.” Boden took a steadying breath when he saw Gunnar approach.

“Keep one eye open at night,” Anika said, straightening the collar of his shirt. She picked a speck of lint from his shoulder. “And don’t volunteer for anything. That’s a sure way to get yourself k—” Her eyes welled again, and she pressed her lips together.

“Mama,” he said gently, “don’t worry about me. I’m ready for this.”

Gunnar put one arm around Boden’s neck and pulled him into a fierce embrace. They were of a height, though Gunnar was the more muscular of the two from his fifteen years in the Legion. “You keep your eyes up, you hear?” he whispered into Boden’s ear.

Boden nodded and pulled back. To his surprise, Gunnar’s normally hardened eyes were rimmed with red. “I’m ready, sir. I’ve had the best drill master in all Serocia.” He didn’t know why he’d felt compelled to compliment his father, a man he’d only known for three years, almost four if he counted the nine months Gunnar was home after his first tour of duty.

Gunnar gripped Boden’s shoulder and nodded, then handed him the crumpled papers in his hand. “Present these to the recruitment chief in Jolver. They’ll assign you to your unit.”

Boden smoothed the papers and looked them over, hoping to find out what unit he was in. “Will I be in a unit with any other men from Kaild?”

“They’ll place you based on need. You’ll find out once you’ve reached Jolver.”

Footsteps ran up behind him, and he turned to find Jora with dark circles under her eyes and a worried line between her brows. She was smiling, though it was a forced smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the one she used when she didn’t want her true feelings to show. It was a smile he’d practiced himself on many occasions.

“Micah says you’re leaving her with child,” Jora said breathlessly. “Congratulations.” She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I hope it’s a son.”

Boden nodded his thanks. Chances were good it would be a boy. Thanks to the special properties of the Son Maker tree’s fruit, two boys were born in Serocia for every girl, and he’d done his part to increase the odds by eating it throughout his wedding night.

“I pray it’s a daughter,” Gunnar said under his breath.

Jora’s wide eyes turned to Gunnar. Boden rounded on his father, fists clenched. “Why would you want my first child to be a girl?”

“Because if you father all your sons after you return, you’ll have eighteen years to love and guide them instead of only eight.”

“Don’t you mean instead of three?” Boden spat.

Gunnar frowned, looking more sad than angry. “You won’t realize until after you get back how precious those years are.”

“So precious that you reenlisted for another five years.” Gunnar had left a week after Boden’s tenth birthday, after having been home only nine months. Boden’s young mind had assumed it was his fault, that he’d driven his father away, that Gunnar couldn’t stand to be near him. Only in the last three years did Gunnar make any attempt to know him, but by then, the wound was too deep. A father’s apathy was an infection of the heart for which there was no cure.

Gunnar nodded. “Sometimes we make sacrifices to better the lives of others.”

Boden didn’t know what to make of that. Gunnar’s so-called sacrifice hadn’t bettered anyone’s life, least of all Boden’s.

After a moment of awkward silence, Jora pressed the leather bag she’d been making into his arms. “Finally finished it. I hope you like it.”

He loved the bag, not because it was well-crafted and beautiful, but because Jora had made it especially for him. The care and attention she put into cutting each piece and sewing each stitch were done with him in mind. Maybe she didn’t love him the way he loved her, but she loved him all the same, and he would wear that into battle as he would his armor. “Thank you, my friend. It’s a most excellent gift.” He hugged her tightly, then leaned back so as to lift her off her feet, making her squeal. He laughed and set her down, and she thumped him playfully on the chest.

His father watched the exchange with a perplexed expression. Boden had never confided his feelings for Jora to anyone, though the two had been close friends for over a dozen years. Everyone in Kaild knew it, which was why everyone had expected Jora to submit for his Antenuptial.

Everyone except Gunnar. He was too self-absorbed, too busy establishing his tough-man image and building his beloved family to notice anyone or anything that didn’t directly impact him, as evidenced by his four wives and nine children, only eight of which truly mattered.

“It’s time,” someone said, touching his sleeve.

People gathered around, clapping and laughing, and encouraged him with shouts of, “Here we go!” and “Skin him!”

Boden followed the barber to her seat, which had a few step stools positioned around it so she could work on him from above. He sat still with his eyes pinched tightly shut as she first cut his long hair close to his scalp and then shaved what remained. It left his scalp tingling and his head feeling light, like a soap bubble that might float away. It seemed everyone wanted to feel his smooth head, especially the younger boys who would be facing the same treatment in ten or twelve years’ time. Boden squatted patiently and let them gather around to rub his head and giggle at the funny texture of his bald scalp while girls gathered the long, discarded locks and used them to make play mustaches or horses’ tails on their butts.

One by one, his friends and family members presented him with gifts, many of which he would leave behind with Micah: blankets and sleeping gowns and slippers for his feet, dice and balls for kicking and tiles for playing Winds and Dragons, and a comb crafted of bone, which made everyone laugh. He carefully packed into his new knapsack the clothes sewn to the Legion’s specifications, a new dagger Tearna had made him, and a sheath for it by Shiri, the young leatherworking apprentice who’d worn the yellow ribbon at his Antenuptial, and knitted socks to keep his feet warm in the coming winter. The papermaker, his mother’s second cousin, gave him a bound journal with a cloth-wrapped cover and a lead pen—a stick of graphite wrapped in string.

The horse breeder presented him with a gorgeous brown steed with a black mane named Fidget. The saddle was made by Nuri’s expert hands and the bridle by her other apprentice, Palti. The master blacksmith, a severe woman he’d feared since he was a boy, gave him a sword, as she had every other departing soldier for the last thirty years. She could no longer stand straight, her eyes were clouded, and her hands were gnarled and spotted with age, but her workmanship never suffered. The senior leatherworking apprentice, the one poised to take over the shop when Nuri retired, had made his cuirass. It was stiff and sturdy, perhaps not strong enough to withstand the hard thrust of a sharp blade, but it was better than nothing and would serve him well until the Legion provided him a steel breastplate.

From the five councilwomen who led Kaild, he received twenty shells to pay for food and lodging should he need it on the way to Jolver. Though the currency was now made of cloth and inked by the king’s press, it retained the name from earlier times when Serocia used intricately carved seashells for trade.

Though he didn’t want to say goodbye to his neighbors and friends and family, he was eager to get started on his journey.

His father hugged him tightly, and he returned the embrace with only one loose arm. “Everyone around you will eat the godfruit every morning,” Gunnar whispered into his ear. “It’s a mistake. Don’t eat it.”

Boden stiffened. His father had never spoken of the godfruit or the Tree of the Fallen God, which were at the center of the century-old conflict, though only the men who’d returned from the war knew why. No one ever spoke of them, and on the few occasions Boden had asked, he’d received only a stern glare or a warning to drop the matter.