Call of the Colossus: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles Book 2) (47 page)

“Shess will become an independent nation with a single export product,” Jora explained, “which it will manage as it sees fit. Should one nation attempt to attack it to gain sole control over the land and its resources, the other three nations will coordinate a defense in the interest of restoring sovereignty.”

“That’s absurd,” Dominee Ibsa said with a harsh laugh. “We’ll be back where we started or we’ll be fighting to regain the Tree we lost.”

“No,” Rivva said, “not if we form an official alliance, a treaty of unified nations, coming together for this one purpose. Each country benefits equally, and each country is equally responsible for maintaining the peace.”

“The godfruit belongs to us,” Dominee Ibsa said, “and we’ll manage it as we see fit.”

From down the hall came the loud squawk of a parrot.

“I believe Retar has something to say about it,” Jora said.

“Allow me,” Rivva said as she slipped out of the room.

“I can’t expect you to understand,” Ibsa said. “Retar needs the war in order to thrive.”

“He explained it to me,” Jora said. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. People die every day all over the world whether there’s a war or not. Making the godfruit more widely available would help him.”

Rivva returned with a gray parrot perched on her forearm. A brilliant sparkle lit its golden eyes.

“Retar, is that you?” Jora asked.

“It is, indeed. Good afternoon, Jora. King Yaphet. Dominee Ibsa.” The bird turned to regard Arc and Ludo. “Archesilaus and…?”

“Ludovicus,” Arc said.

Ludo elbowed Arc and shot him a dubious look. Arc shrugged and turned his attention back to the parrot.

“Hello, Korlan. Worry not about your wife and daughter. They’ve not been harmed.”

Korlan exhaled, seeming to deflate. “Thank you, Retar.”

“Now,” Retar said in the parrot’s warbly voice, “there seems to be some confusion about the matter of the godfruit and the Tree. Let me set the matter straight. The Tree belongs to me, Ibsa. Not to you, not to the king, not to Serocia. It belongs to me. Its fruit was intended as my gift to all the people of Aerta, not only Serocians.”

A blush crept into Yaphet’s face. “But how are we to manage distributing the fruit if everyone else wants to take it for themselves?”

“If I may?” Jora asked. She continued without waiting for a reply. “First, you dispatch messages to the leaders of our enemy nations requesting a truce long enough to meet and discuss a peace treaty.”

“A peace treaty isn’t possible,” Yaphet said. “There’s only one thing they want, and that’s control of the Tree.”

“I thought they wanted to destroy the Tree,” Korlan said softly. “That’s what the Legion tells us.”

“That’s a lie,” Rivva said. “A lie to bend the soldiers to their will, to inspire men to kill to protect a valuable resource.”

“And they won’t rest until they have it,” King Yaphet added.

Jora went on, undeterred. “When you meet with them, you propose–”

“They won’t meet with me,” he said, his voice growing louder. “I’ve already tried that at least a dozen times, as did the queen before me.”

“Propose they send three delegates,” Jora insisted, “to act as parliament members for the newly formed and sovereign nation called Shess. This parliament will be comprised of delegates from all four nations in equal number and will rule as a unit, negotiating treaties with any and all nations that wish to partake of the godfruit.”

“You don’t understand these people. I’ve already told you they won’t meet with me, and I’d be a fool to go to them.”

At least he was still listening. She felt encouraged by his weakening resistance. “If you give me the authority to negotiate this treaty on your behalf, I’ll go to the leaders of each country and make them see reason. With my special gifts–”

“And the Colossus warriors at her side,” Arc interjected.

“I can do this,” Jora said. “Let me do this, please.”

The king fell silent as he contemplated her plan, his face neither skeptical nor discourteous.

“Retar, do you have any objections to this?” Jora asked.

“Absolutely not. I welcome anyone partaking of the godfruit. War was a convenient solution to my problem, but it’s not the only solution, nor is it the best one. With fast merchant ships, you could share the bounty of the godfruit with people in places as far away as Quandaria, not to mention nearby countries like Noossmor and Loworia.”

She lifted her chin and gave the dominee a smile. It wasn’t nice to gloat, but she allowed herself the indulgence this once.

“If I remove our soldiers from the Isle, the others will simply attack and try to wrest control for themselves,” King Yaphet argued. “Not to mention the social upheaval it would cause. Without a war, men would have no need to take multiple wives, and you can bet people will have something to say about that.”

“If I may speak,” Arc said. On the king’s nod, he went on. “You would withdraw thy force to the mainland and leave a unit on the Isle. The other countries each send an equal-sized unit for to protect the new nation. O’er the first yere or two, you hold the main force in place, foreby but nie on the Isle, ifsoever it is needed. When you see that the plan works, you send some o’thy soldiers home. Every year, you send more soldiers home so long as the new government works to the benefit of all.”

King Yaphet rubbed his chin, nodding just enough to be encouraging. “We still have the social issue to contend with.”

“You’re not seriously considering this hare-brained scheme?” Ibsa asked.

“It’s the best plan we’ve had so far. And with Retar’s support–”

“Retar knows nothing about human nature.”

Jora gaped at the dominee.

“I’ve made mistakes,” Retar admitted, “but you must agree that not all the mistakes that were made in this situation were my own.”

“Tsh,” Ibsa hissed. She made a twisting motion with her hand as if she were turning a key in a lock, and the bird fell silent.

“I think we should try it,” Yaphet said. “If we don’t, we’ll always wonder.”

“Your Majesty, a word?” Ibsa said. It was more a demand than a question. When the king hesitated, she took his arm in a vicious claw and pulled him aside. “Or shall I tell them about Jakub?” she whispered fiercely.

“I’ve heard that name before,” Rivva mused.

Jora’s first thought was that the king had fathered a son out of wedlock. If the dominee was using this son—or whoever he was—to manipulate the king into complying with her demands, then now was as good a time as any for the king to make his way out from under her thumb.

Jora and the others watched the dominee and king argue in strained but hushed voices. Ibsa clearly had more interest in continuing the war than Yaphet did, though she hadn’t made a good argument for why war was better for Serocia than peace. Jora supposed she could guess. Without a war, fewer people would visit the Justice Bureau’s Observation Request Room to find out how their loved ones fared, and fewer still would visit the god vessels in the First Holy Redeemer House of Prayer to beg Retar’s mercy and guidance. Without that income, coffers would empty, jewels would have to be sold.

The two fell silent and Yaphet returned to Rivva’s side, his face drooping. Defeated. All eyes were upon him. Jora felt her heart breaking, not only for this man who was obviously under some duress, but for herself and her friends if the king continued to see them as his enemies.

“I’ve decided,” Yaphet said, taking Rivva’s hands, “this simply isn’t in Serocia’s best interests.”

“Papa, please,” Rivva said, her voice pleading. “You’ve suffered the loss of two sons to this war as so many of our citizens have. Our enemies won’t end it. We must be the more magnanimous here, put aside our avarice, and try—for the good of our people.”

Yaphet made a sharp hand gesture. “No, I said. Now leave the matter alone. The decision is mine.”

“Then why do you confer with her?” Rivva asked, pointing at Dominee Ibsa. “I’m your heir. Shouldn’t I be included? Shouldn’t I have some say in this? I’ll have to contend with this matter and your decision during my reign.”

The king looked at his daughter with bloodshot eyes, as if the words he were about to speak truly pained him. “I’ve sought and relied on the dominee’s council since before you were born. I’m sorry you disagree with my decision. You’re young yet. You’ll understand in time.”

“Your Majesty,” Jora said softly, “if ever there was a way out of this, out from under whatever coercion has you in a bind, this is it.”

“How dare you?” Dominee Ibsa snapped. “There’s no coercion here.”

Jora went on as if the dominee hadn’t spoken. “You have the support of Retar, the Gatekeeper, the Colossus warriors, and your daughter.” She remembered Retars words.
If he can control you, he can use you as a weapon.
Perhaps she was his weapon after all—not against Barad Selegal, but against his true enemy, the dominee. “No matter what you might have done in the past that has you under this woman’s thumb, we can pull you out. Just give us your hand.”

“Yaphet,” the dominee said, her tone like a warning. “Don’t listen to her. Remember what I said.”

His eyes looked round and soft like those on a cow being led by a nose ring. His forehead wrinkled, even his ears seemed to flatten against his head. His gaze went from Jora to the dominee to Rivva and back to Jora.

“Give us your hand,” Jora whispered. She offered her hand, palm up, for his.

“Shoot her,” Ibsa said to Milad. “Shoot her now.” But the justice captain was as entranced by the unfolding scene as the Legion captain was.

King Yaphet trembled. He seemed a man on the verge of breaking. At last, he took in a deep breath and straightened, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin as if he was filled with a new confidence. “Yes, I say. Let’s do it. Let’s end this bloody, hellish war, or at least try our damnedest. I owe our people that.”

“No!” Ibsa screeched. She lunged for the crossbow in Justice Captain Milad’s hands.

Chapter 31

Ibsa lifted the crossbow, leveling it at Jora.

Jora raised her hands as if doing so could stop the bolt from piercing her chest. She hummed the notes Po Teng had taught her. Everyone’s movements slowed but hers.

Korlan lunged unnaturally slowly at the dominee, his hands reaching for the weapon in her hands.

She dove to her left, out of the bolt’s path, sailing through the air and landed hard on her belly. She skidded across the floor on her burned forearms and sucked in her breath at the pain.

Milad gritted his teeth and pulled his sword in a slow, fluid motion, his furious gaze on Korlan. He swung it in an upward arc across Korlan’s path.

Grunts and hissed breaths lasted seconds. The splatter of blood droplets striking flesh was peculiarly loud. She heard the long clack of the crossbow trigger, the
shoop
of the bolt launching forth, and the whisper of it slicing through the air.

The Legion captain and Ludo drew swords. Ludo elbowed him in the face, then swung his blade in time to sever the captain’s sword hand. The Legion sword fell to the carpet with a thud.

Arc spun his poleaxe, leveled the sharp tip at Milad, and thrust forward. The blade pierced the man’s chest. Blood spattered in all directions and bubbled out his nose and mouth.

Korlan sank to his knees and raised his hands to his neck. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Before she’d even stopped her skid, Jora scrambled to her feet and went to him. She unrolled the bandages from her arms and wrapped them around her hand to make a compress. When she pulled Korlan’s hands away from the wound, blood spurted out in an arc so slowly that she had time to duck out of its path. She pressed the dressing to the cut, then put Korlan’s hands over it to hold it in place.

She turned to assess the rest of the room. Blood gushed everywhere, covering so many of them that it was hard to know who was injured and who was not.

King Yaphet hollered, “Stop,” the word stretching across time. He lunged at where Jora had been only a second earlier. She realized he meant to push her out of the way.

“No!” Rivva yelled. The parrot squawked and took flight, its pinioned wing feathers giving him an awkward trajectory.

Jora saw the bolt sail through the air toward King Yaphet. She leapt for it, tried to pluck it out of the air, but time returned to its normal pace, Po Teng’s borrowed speed expired.

The bolt struck the king’s chest, and he fell to the floor. Blood soaked his tunic and jacket.

Jora wasn’t sure whether everyone suddenly quieted or she stopped hearing them. She fell to her knees beside the king, joined there by the princess. “Someone call for a medic.”

King Yaphet lay on his back, his eyes glassy and lips wet with blood. His hands covered the crossbow bolt that pierced his chest. It was right of center, not likely to have hit his heart.

“Papa, why?” Rivva cried. She slid one hand under his head and covered his bloody hands with her other. “Why did you do that?”

“Had… to… save… her,” he whispered. “Like… prince…” His eyes started to close.

“Prince?” Rivva asked. “Papa, what prince?”