Call of the Colossus: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles Book 2) (48 page)

Yaphet didn’t answer but to groan.

Jora called for the fiery raccoon ally. A few people gasped when it appeared. Its heat was intense, and its flames crackled in the air. “Lower your heat, Foul.”

“What are you doing?” Rivva asked.

“We can’t leave the bolt there,” Jora said. “He can’t survive with it in his chest. We have to pull it out.”

“Do that,” Ibsa said in an accusatory tone, “and you will kill him.”

“Sear the wound,” Arc said. “That is good.”

“Yes, all right,” Rivva said. Tears streamed from her face. “Papa, we must do this. We must do it to save you.” She moved his hands aside, revealing the black crossbow bolt buried in his chest. Only the fletching was visible above the cloth of his jacket.

“Ready?” Jora asked.

The king gave a small nod. Jora grasped the end of the bolt and pulled. He cried out. Blood bubbled up from the wound. “A claw here, Foul.”

Foul inserted his claw into the bloody hole. The flesh sizzled, and an acrid smelling smoke rose from the wound. Yaphet squeezed his eyes shut and groaned in pain.

“I’m so sorry,” Jora whispered. “That’s enough, Foul.” The ally withdrew its claw and shuffled back. Jora was no medic, but she didn’t see any new blood filling the hole.

Arc was holding Dominee Ibsa by one arm, while Ludo tended Korlan. Milad was on his knees, hunched over and gasping for air. The now one-handed Legion captain was dead.

King Yaphet pawed at the silver cuff around his left forearm. “Off.”

Rivva reached for it as if to do as her father bade her.

“No,” Dominee Ibsa cried. “Do not take it off, or you’ll risk exposing Serocia to its enemies.”

“She’s right,” Jora said. Removing it before his body was on the pyre would give any Truth Sayer leave to explore Yaphet’s past and learn Serocia’s secrets. As curious as she was, there was something so final about that one action. He knew he was going to die and wanted her to see something. Jora opened the Mindstream and summoned Po Teng.

“Find… the… crucible,” King Yaphet whispered, his bleary gaze directed at her.

“What crucible?” Rivva asked.

“Statuize him,” Jora told her ally. “Statuize all the wounded. That’ll keep them alive until a medic arrives.”

Yaphet’s eyelids drooped, half-closing, and he expelled one last breath before his chest stilled and his body hardened to white stone.

All in the room breathed a collective sigh of relief. They had time to save the king. She looked down at the statue of King Yaphet. “Has someone sent for a medic?”

“I did,” Ludo said, “though I wot nie if the soldiers hath heeded my call.”

“What is the crucible?” Rivva asked.

The bird let out a cry that sounded like a plea for help to Jora’s ear and squeezed her heart.

“The crucible contains the godheart,” Ibsa said.

“Godheart?” Jora asked. Was it the source of the power Dominee Ibsa had over the god?

“Only the Concord can handle the godheart,” Arc said.

“The Concord is charged with keeping and protecting the godheart,” Ibsa said, “and I am the Concord.”

The Concord.
Jora remembered reading a mention of it in the book of tones.
Poor Retar. I’ll help you if I can, but you need to tell me more.

The bird only watched quietly.

“Your trickery won’t go unpunished,” Ibsa said. “The only reason the king took the bolt meant for you is because you’re a conniving little wretch.”

Jora heaved a sigh. The last thing she wanted was to hear that woman bark and gnash her teeth. “Sleep her,” she told Po Teng.

With one touch of his twig finger, Ibsa fell into a deep slumber. Arc caught her flaccid body as it crumpled and guided her gently to the floor.

“Portwatcher,” Ludo said, waving her over. “Come hither.”

She crawled to Korlan’s statued body. Even in stone, he looked on the verge of death, his eyelids half closed, his cheeks sunken. An ache burned in her chest. “The medic can save him.”

“Nay,” Ludo said, kneeling by Korlan’s head. “’Tis too late for him. His wund is grievous. None cou’d survive this. Thou mustest let him go.”

In her heart, Jora knew he was right, but she didn’t want to release him knowing he would die if she did. She looked up at Po Teng. “He’s your friend, too. Tell me what to do.”

Po Teng’s sad, brown eyes glistened. “Too lay-tuh. Flengz.”

Jora nodded and reached to take the ally’s twig hand. “Yes. Friends. Always.” She let go of Po Teng and, in a quiet voice, instructed him to release Korlan.

The stone softened to skin and cloth. The bandage against his neck was soaked with blood, its red ghastly against the pallor of his skin. Jora took his hand, sticky with blood, in hers. He had no strength to grasp it, and it lay limply in hers. She felt and saw his body tremble. His time was short now.

“Take… me,” Korlan whispered.

The parrot fluttered to her shoulder and gazed down at him with its head cocked. Korlan looked at the bird, and a tear slipped from his eye.

“Kaw-leng, le-meh-pah,” Po Teng said.

Then Jora understood what Korlan wanted—to give the last of himself to her, to spend the rest of his existence in her service. She pulled the silver band from his wrist. “Hold onto who you are,” she said, her throat thick with emotion. “Remember.” In the Mindstream, she jumped to his thread to Observe him as he exhaled his last breath.

His body turned to dust and vanished.

The room fell silent. Ludo patted the carpet where Korlan had been lying and muttered an oath.

Jora looked at her hand, now empty but flecked with his blood.

“He… vanished,” Rivva said, her voice soft with awe.

“He’s in the other realm of perception now,” Jora said softly. “Relived men go there when someone Observes them at the moment of their death.” She offered her hand to the parrot on her shoulder, and it stepped up. “Retar, did you know this would happen?”

“It’s happened several dozen times since I’ve become what I am,” he said in the parrot’s voice. “Mostly by accident. I’ve never seen a man as worried about the so-called monsters as Korlan was actually ask to become one of them. That’s dedication.”

“I was wrong anent him,” Arc said. “I should have abought.”

Jora gave him a dim smile. “We say
apologize
not
abye
. And you may yet get a chance.”

“If you make him an ally,” Retar said. “That’s what he wanted.”

Perhaps she would someday.

“What’s happening in there?” someone outside the door asked.

“I should tell them,” Jora said, climbing to her feet. She reached out toward the stacked chairs, and Retar hopped off to perch on a wooden leg.

Arc barred the door with one massive arm. “Nay, portwatcher. ’Tis dangerous for thee. The princess shall address them.”

“Yes,” Rivva said, climbing to her feet. “I’ll do it. They don’t have orders to kill me.” She wiped her face and then wiped her palms on her trousers. With a deep breath, she nodded. Ludo opened the door to the nave, and she stepped into the doorway.

The men outside, some forty or fifty enforcers and Legion soldiers along with a pair of adepts, quieted to hear the news she bore. Jora took the opportunity to Observe one of them, to get a better view of what was happening out there. She looked around the nave and found Finn sitting in the pews near the back with two men guarding him. He appeared none the worse.

“My father,” Rivva said, “His Majesty King Yaphet, and I have agreed to a strategy proposed by Jora the Gatekeeper for ending the war.” The room erupted in cheers, but Rivva waved her hands to quiet them down. “Dominee Ibsa opposed both the strategy and the decision to implement it. In an effort to manipulate the king into changing his decision, she seized the justice captain’s crossbow and attempted to slay the Gatekeeper.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “King Yaphet tried to push Jora out of the bolt’s path and was accidentally shot instead.” Her statement elicited a number of gasps and murmurs.

“Is he dead?” someone asked.

“Thanks to the Gatekeeper, he’s safe from his wounds while we wait for the medic to arrive. The dominee is in custody and will be tried…” She scrunched her brow and peered into the distance. “Is that the medic?”

“Yes,” a woman’s voice called from the back of the nave. “I’m the surgeon.” Jora recognized Naruud, the physician from the Justice Bureau, rushing up the carpeted aisle.

“Stand aside,” Rivva said. “Let her pass. I will notify you of the king’s condition the moment we know more.”

Jora closed the Mindstream and waved to the others to step away from the door. Once the surgeon entered the hallway, Rivva shut the door to the nave.

Naruud entered the room, clutching a black leather satchel. She looked warily at the statues of Milad and King Yaphet, but when her gaze fell upon Po Teng, standing quietly behind Jora, she froze in fear.

“He won’t hurt you,” Jora said, beckoning her with an outstretched hand. “He’s my ally.”

“What’s going on here?”

“The king needeth tending,” Arc said, lifting his chin toward King Yaphet.

The white statue lay flat on its back, its eyes closed and an oddly peaceful expression on its face.

Naruud made her way past the alabaster form of Milad and knelt beside the statue of the king. “How am I supposed to treat him?”

“I’ll release him from stone when you’re ready,” Jora said. She and Rivva gave her a summary of what had transpired and the attempt to cauterize the wound.

“I see.” Naruud opened her bag, and withdrew bandages, a spool of thick thread, and a needle. “Would someone bring clean water?”

“I will find it,” Arc said.

Naruud threaded the needle, then laid out a scalpel and a small pair of scissors. Next, she examined the stone wound and the bolt they pulled from the king’s chest while she wanted for Arc to return. After a few minutes, he arrived with a basin of water, carrying it carefully to avoid spilling, and set it beside her. “I need one of you to stand by with these cloths, ready to blot up blood.”

“I will,” Jora said, taking the stack of cloth. She set it on the king’s hip.

Naruud glanced at Jora’s burned arms but made no mention of the injury. After tucking her blond hair behind one ear, she said, “All right. I’m ready.”

Jora commanded Po Teng to release the king from his statue form.

Naruud immediately began wiping the wound clean, but her fingers halted and her brow creased. She pulled the bandages away, then pressed two fingers to the side of the king’s neck.

The surgeon shook her head. “I’m sorry. We’re too late. He has already expired.”

Rivva lay her head upon the dead king’s chest and sobbed.

Jora’s heart ached and her eyes burned, partly because she knew the princess’s pain, and partly because she could do nothing to ease it. If anyone understood the agony and grief of losing her loved ones to a murderer, it was Jora. She looked over at the sleeping dominee, her heart filled with loathing.

What now?
she wondered. The king was dead. Everything had fallen apart.
No
, she thought.
Not quite.
Princess Rivva would take his place on the throne, and she’d already voiced her agreement with their plan. It would work out. They would end the hundred-year war.

“Jora, I can’t do anything for the king,” Naruud said, “but I can help you. Your arms–”

Rivva gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. She was staring at the king, his silver wrist cuff in her hand.

But it wasn’t the king anymore. The hair was grayer and thinner, the face thinner, the nose smaller and the eyes farther apart. It was a different man.

“What in Aerta?” Jora asked. Statuing him could not have changed who he was.

“Who is that?” Rivva climbed to her feet and took two steps back away from the false king.

Jora studied the king’s changed face, struggling to understand. “I hoped the statue would keep him alive until the medic got here, but this… This isn’t right.”

“What have you done to him?” Rivva asked, turning, her tone accusatory.

“Jora did nothing,” Arc said. “She froze him in stone. I have been frozen thus with no ill effects. Jora is not to blame for this.”

Everyone looked at each other in stunned silence, each as confused as the next.

“May I see that?” Jora took the cuff from Rivva and examined it. The symbols on its outer surface were as clear and black as those on Rivva’s. She put it onto her left wrist and slid it up her forearm, where it fit more snugly—and stopped, staring at her hand, now larger, hairier, and covered with wrinkles and freckles.

“Retar’s bloody fists!” Rivva gaped at Jora with wide eyes, as did Arc, Ludo, and Naruud.

Jora touched her face and felt the coarse whiskers, the regal nose, the hair atop her head. “Challenger,” she said, her voice the deep timbre of a man’s. The king’s voice. She ripped the cuff from her arm as if it were a spider and flung it away. It skittered across the floor and came to a stop at Arc’s feet. He reached down and picked it up.

“How could his cuff do that to you?” Rivva asked.

Jora felt her face again, smooth and soft. Big nose. No hair. No whiskers. A shudder rippled through her body.