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?
“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