Call of the Colossus: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

Jora preceded him up, gliding her hand along the smooth stone railing.

He guided her to a room near the top of the stairs that was lavishly decorated with a bed, dressing table, bureau, writing desk, divan, a round table with two chairs, and an armoire. Upon the walls hung vibrant paintings of gardens and flowers in vases. The notion that this was a guest room had Jora shaking her head. The bed alone was grander and more elegantly dressed than anything she’d ever seen. She longed to lie down on it, to feel the rich texture of the red-and-black, woven bedspread and the firmness—or softness—of the mattress beneath her. Such luxuries were for the wealthy and powerful, not for the likes of her.

“The bathing room is through here,” Behrendt said. He opened a pair of slim doors to reveal a room about the size of her old dormitory room at the Justice Bureau. “Your bath has already been prepared. I will fetch you something from the princess’s wardrobe.”

She stepped into the room, surprised to see a girl of about seventeen standing beside a white tub that itself could have been a work of art. She, too, was dressed in finer clothes than Jora had ever owned, though her navy dress was covered with a white apron that matched the kerchief over her hair.

“If the temperature is too cool, I’ll bring more hot water,” the woman said with a shallow curtsey. She cast her eyes down, as if afraid to look at Jora.

“Thank–” Jora started to say to Behrendt, but he was already gone. “–you,” she said, directing her gratitude to the serving girl.

The girl looked up in surprise, her wide brown eyes blinking. She instantly returned her gaze to the floor at Jora’s feet. “At your service, Miss.”

Jora dipped her hand into the tub of water, which was not too cool, not too hot. “It’s fine.”

“Very well, Miss,” the servant said. “Towels for drying are here.” She indicated a stack of four plush towels, neatly folded. “Soap and rose-scented oil are in the basket beside the tub. If you prefer a scent other than rose, I can fetch it.”

Rose-scented oil? “Rose is lovely, but, um, I’ve never bathed with oil before. Do I put it in after I’ve washed?”

“The oil is for your skin, Miss. After your bath, you rub it in. It’ll give your skin a healthy glow and lovely scent. If you’d like, of course.” She seemed nervous.

“I see. Thank you,” she said, wanting to show an extra measure of kindness to counter whatever the girl had been told.

“If you’ll give me your sandals, I’ll have them wiped clean.”

“Great.” Jora bent down and tugged them off, handing each to the girl as she removed it. “Sorry about the smell.” She smiled, hoping to put the girl at ease.

Without acknowledging the jest, the servant curtsied again and backed out of the room, shutting the narrow doors behind her.

Jora unscrewed the kendern and set it on the stack of towels then stripped and stepped into the bath. It had been a long time since she’d bathed in clean water. When she lived at the Justice Bureau, she was usually at least third or fourth in the tub. In Kaild, only once did she remember being first. She would have liked to soak in it a while, for the tub was so large and had a smooth, sculpted back such that leaning against it relaxed her. She rested her neck and head against the tub’s curved lip and shut her eyes. What would it be like to live this way, to always have a clean bath and a big bed to sleep on, servants to prepare everything so that all she had to do was to stitch leather, eat, and enjoy time with her friends?

But her friends were all dead. Tearna, Briana, Gunnar. Her heart ached to think of them with their throats cut and corpses burned, and tears filled her eyes. Yes, she’d gotten justice for their murders, but slaying the ones who’d carried out the order wasn’t enough. One thing was still undone: stopping the smuggling of godfruit to Serocia’s enemies. Someone knew about it, and someone was covering it up. That was ultimately the reason Kaild had been razed and its people slaughtered while they slept.

A knock at the door broke her reverie, and she realized she was wasting time. The king was waiting for her.

“Yes?” she asked.

“An outfit for you to wear, Miss,” Behrendt said, his voice muffled by the door between them. “It’s hanging in the wardrobe for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you need assistance?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“The king will be ready for you shortly, Miss.”

Jora flinched, sitting up abruptly and sloshing a bit of water out of the tub. “Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll hurry.” She stood up, quickly ran the bar of soap across her skin, prickly scalp, under her arms, and between her legs. She sat down to rinse herself, dunked her head under the water to rinse the soap out of what little hair she had, and then climbed out. The towels were softer than any she’d used before, and she wondered whether it was a particular weave made them so, or something they put in the wash to soften the fabric and give it a delicate, fresh scent. With one towel wrapped around her, she eased open the slim doors and found the room empty. She’d never been a modest woman, but the idea of someone helping her dress made her uncomfortable.

The trousers she found in the wardrobe were beige—an unassuming color ideal for meeting the king—and tailored to fit fairly snugly around her hips and legs. The white blouse in sturdy cotton buttoned down the front and ended with a belted section at the waist, below which was a sort of skirt that covered her hips on the sides and back and flapped open in the front. It was decorated down the placket and around the collar and cuffs with dark-brown and teal embroidered flowers and vines. The clothes fit her perfectly, even accentuating the curves of her hips and waist. A long, standing mirror in a beautiful wooden frame showed her a woman who was not quite comely, with oversized eyes that were too close together and a big nose. At least she had full lips, but when she smiled, her crooked teeth made one forget that fact. The outfit, though, made her feel more attractive than she had ever felt before.

Dressed, she looked around for the sandals given her by the jailer and found them clean. They weren’t as well made as the leather sandals she’d worn at the Justice Bureau and were far inferior to her boots, given to her before the Truth Sayers had dragged her off to Jolver. One thought led to another, ending with the recollection of the kindly cordwainer, her throat slit like all the other residents of Kaild.

I have to focus. I can
’
t be late for the king.

She pulled the sandals on and grabbed her black prison garb, bundling the fabric and tucking it under one arm. When she opened the door, Behrendt was standing in the corridor, waiting.

“You can leave those here,” he said.

Jora set the bundle on the wood floor near the door, not wanting their stench to seep into the rug.

“Miss, have you forgotten to replace the kendern?”

“Oh!” Jora scurried into the bathing room and found the device on the floor near the towels. Though the silver metal band was dull with age, the black symbols etched into it hadn’t lost their effectiveness. She hated having to put the thing back on, but if wearing it set the king and his guards at ease, wear it she would. She didn’t tighten it as much as the enforcer had, but the gloomy silence descended over her all the same. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You have not,” Behrendt said with a twinkle in his eye. “If you’ll come with me.” He led her down the hallway, past several guest rooms not unlike the one from which she’d just emerged, around a corner and down another long corridor that stretched the length of the building. They walked past some closed doors, behind which muffled voices spoke. They passed a few offices with ornate wooden desks. A woman or man sat at some of them, scribbling away or shuffling papers. A portrait decorated the wall between each door.

“Who are the people in the portraits?” she asked.

“Those are the sitting cabinet ministers and Vice Ministers,” Behrendt told her. He pointed to the one nearest on the right. “That is Chief Hodevve Usebeon, Minister of War.” He looked like a minister of war, with his shaven head and grave expression. Most of the others smiled in their portraits. Across the hall was Quirza Oelke, Minister of Finance. Behrendt also named the Ministers of Foreign Matters and Domestic Matters as they passed. When they came upon the Minister of Truth, Jora recognized Dominee Ibsa’s smiling face. She slowed her step, gaping in surprise at both how comely the dominee was in the painting and the fact that she was a cabinet minister. Religious leader and figurehead for the Justice Bureau, yes, but someone who wielded power in the government? The thought made Jora shiver.

They passed a few people walking toward them, well-dressed and well-coiffed, some reading papers in their hands. All of them seemed to be in a hurry. Those who noticed Jora did a double-take, probably noticing the kendern atop her short, nubby hair, a sure indicator that she’d once been a justice official and was now dangerous enough to warrant the device.

At last, they reached the end of the corridor. The double doors were open, and Behrendt led her in without knocking.

This room, too, was lavishly furnished with a desk easily twice the size of the others she’d seen, with a tall-backed chair upholstered in leather behind it. A pair of red, upholstered chairs sat on the other side of the desk, facing it.

Jora started toward the two red chairs, expecting to sit before the desk with the king behind it, but Behrendt tapped her arm, turning her attention to the near corner of the room. “If you please, Miss.”

There sat a pair of sofas and several upholstered chairs in matching reds and blacks with decorative pillows of golden velvet. Between and beside them were tables with curved legs and intricately carved skirts.

“Please make yourself comfortable. The king will be with you shortly.”

Another servant entered, a young man about Jora’s age—early twenties—carrying a silver tray with a matching pitcher and crystal goblet. “Water, Miss?” he asked as he started to pour.

Jora realized that her throat had become dry. “Thank you,” she croaked, and accepted the glass gratefully, cupping it in both hands so as not to accidentally drop such a magnificent piece of glasswork. She expected him to leave the room, but he stood against one wall, his posture erect and the tray and pitcher balanced on his open left hand.

A section of the wall opened—a door designed to look like the wall—and in walked a middle-aged man with short-cropped golden hair. His bearded face, though graying and wrinkled, bore a pleasant expression, as if the man were about to smile. His gaze went immediately to Jora, and he strode toward her, his eyes alight.

“His Majesty, King Yaphet of Serocia,” the servant announced.

Jora shot to her feet. “Y-Your Majesty. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Jora–”

“Miss Lanseri, yes. I understand you’re the Gatekeeper.”

Chapter 3

The King of Serocia offered his hand like a regular man would, and he smiled warmly, his kindly eyes twinkling. Jora wiped her hand off quickly against the borrowed trousers and put it into his. His handshake was firm and warm.

“The pleasure and honor are mine.” He released her hand and gestured to the chair she’d been sitting in. “Won’t you sit down?”

Jora thought she should wait for him to sit first, yet he remained standing, obviously waiting for her. He was the king. She was just a girl, a leather worker from a small town on the seashore, and yet he treated her as an honored guest in his palace. She lowered her backside hesitatingly to the cushion, and once she did, he sat as well.

Not knowing how to start a conversation with the King of Serocia, she fell back on politeness. “Your home is lovely.”

At the same time, he said, “Thank you for coming.”

They shared a look of surprised chagrin, and each broke into a wide smile.

“Forgive me,” King Yaphet said. “I feel somewhat out of my element. I’m usually much more commanding and so forth, you know. Kingly. I expected the Gatekeeper, a slayer of veteran soldiers, to be brash, not the sweet and polite young lady before me. Are you certain you’re the same Jora Lanseri who has the Justice Bureau running around in a panic, waving their hands?” He wiggled his hands back and forth above his head.

Jora laughed, feeling warmth fill her face. “I am. Apparently they think me quite dangerous.”

“Are you?” he asked, his head cocked.

“Not to you. Not to anyone who isn’t trying to kill me. Not to anyone who hasn’t slain my entire town.” She lowered her gaze to her hands where they sweated in her lap.

He breathed heavily and leaned back in his seat. “Have you brought to justice everyone who was involved in that?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, daring to look up again. That he called it justice and not revenge had her attention.

King Yaphet nodded once. “Good. I can’t help but think that had you brought evidence to your elder, he’d have swept the matter aside.”

“Elder Sonnis was a murderer,” she said. “He killed Elder Kassyl and assumed his place, then killed a novice who confronted him with proof.”

“Did he, now? This I hadn’t heard. How do you know?”