Dirge of the Dormant, page 1
part #5 of The Mindstream Chronicles Series
Dirge of the Dormant
Book five of The Mindstream Chronicles
by K.C. May
Requiem of Reprisal
Copyright 2016 by K.C. May
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Book 5 of The Mindstream Chronicles
Vast power commands a vicious price
Having unleashed the darkness inside her, Gatekeeper Jora Lanseri has chased the enemy from Serocia's shores. Now at the height of her power, she faces a new challenge---to rescue the abducted king and retrieve the stolen godheart before the war ship carrying them reaches harbor.
The rogue scribe Ibsa has escaped Jora's wrath aboard the fleeing ship and seeks to earn the prestigious title of Prime Maga. But she has what Jora wants. The only way to protect herself is to convince the god---by whatever means necessary---to slay the Gatekeeper. To her great fortune, among the ship's cargo is the god's crystal heart.
Can Jora rescue the king and save the god from unspeakable torment before the darkness inside consumes the last vestiges of her humanity?
The Mindstream Chronicles consists of
Song of the Sea Spirit
Call of the Colossus
Verse of the Vanguard
Requiem of Reprisal
Dirge of the Dormant
Cover art by Damon Za (www.damonza.com).
Map of Aerta: The Inner Sea Corridor by Jared Blando (www.theredepic.com)
Edited by Carol Scarr (www.pharosediting.com)
“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”
~Mohandas K. Gandhi
Chapter 1
Moonlight streaming over Jora Lanseri’s shoulder reminded her of a Truth Sayer watching her every move as she searched the brick-paved street. The glare fueled the rage that burned inside her, making her wish she could turn around and send the moon itself to a fiery oblivion. And yet, she recognized this wasn’t her own thought. The uncharacteristic anger was fueled by the essence of the gold idol she’d absorbed, the Mesitalic of Urielle. She stopped, took a deep, calming breath, and started again.
Her thoughts returned to her last image of the king, seated on a bench aboard the fleeing warship with the godheart clutched in his arms. He’d been wearing the whistle around his neck when he left the palace. Having Observed him from every possible angle, she was forced to conclude he’d lost it during the struggle with his abductors. Someone suggested he’d taken it off to blow as he was being taken, but Jora rejected that idea. The king knew as well as she did it wouldn’t work without her help.
To her left and right, men and women scoured the street with her, their lamps casting giant, hunchbacked shadows on the building walls. Now and then, a searcher broke the tense silence with a muttered curse when his candle was snuffed out by the breeze coming ashore from the Inner Sea. If only that shining orb above and behind Jora were a little brighter, they might see better.
Part of her cursed King Gerad for leaving the safety of the palace and the Colossus warriors. The other part understood his need to help the soldiers struck down by the fleeing Mangendans. Still, it had been foolish of him to sneak out without a champion at his side. She might have been more surprised if he hadn’t been captured. Even if the Mangendans didn’t know he was the king, there was no mistaking the glowing red gem he carried with him.
She opened the Mindstream, the mystical power that enabled her to witness events in the past or present. With it, she could find her way in a pitch black room, for it didn’t rely on light to show her objects and people in the realm of perception. And she might find what had been lost.
“Jora!” Adriel’s voice echoed off the buildings and faded into the distance. Jora looked up to see her beckoning urgently. “We’ve found it.”
Jora closed the Mindstream as she jogged toward her friend. “Where?”
Still wearing Queen Rivva’s borrowed black trousers and a pale-blue shirt, Adriel was a woman of nineteen, medium height, with dark stubble on her head. One of the first novices Jora had met at the Justice Bureau, she’d turned out to be a talented if untrained scribe. “This way.” She led the way up the adjacent street and around a corner.
Rivva’s not the queen, Jora reminded herself. It would be hard to think of her as another ordinary Serocian citizen. Though her father, Jakub Druba, had been the king, she had no claim to the title of queen or princess. Not anymore. She was the illegitimate daughter of a woman who’d never been his wife.
Jora’s feet, sore and tired, hammered the brick pavement, sending jolts of pain from her heels up her shins. There would be time for rest later. Right now, she had to rescue King Gerad, and for that, she needed the whistle.
A group of Legion soldiers gathered in the street, talking over each other. Five Colossus warriors stood out among them, towering over the others. Jora tapped the arm of one man, urging him aside, and made her way to the center. The crowd parted for her, faces looking eagerly down at hers as she wove her way to the fellow holding the king’s whistle for the others to see.
Made of cherry wood, it was in the shape of a woman about five inches long. She stood on her right leg with the left bent at the knee, the sole of her foot against the side of her leg. Her arms were bent at the elbow with one hand pointing straight down by her side and the other pointing toward the sky. Her wild hair flowed all around her head. Through a hole in her hair, a leather thong was tied to enable King Gerad to wear it around his neck, but that thong was now broken.
“He didn’t go willingly,” one soldier said.
“What’s it do?” another asked.
“It summons the Colossi,” said Tylia, one of the three female Colossus warriors. “Only the Concord can use it.”
The first time King Gerad had blown it, a Colossus had come. One after another, he’d summoned the warriors to him.
“Would it work the other way?” asked the lanky man. He looked to be about twenty years old, his shaven head giving away his status as a soldier in the Serocian Legion. “Can a Colossus blow on it and bring the Concord to us?”
“Doubtful,” Jora said. “Try it.”
The lanky soldier handed the whistle to Archesilaus, Commander of the Colossus Warriors and Gatekeeper’s Champion. But he wouldn’t be acting as her champion anymore. Now that the King of Serocia had been kidnapped, Arc’s sole duty was to secure Gerad’s safe return. The commander lifted it to his lips and took in a breath.
“Wait,” Jora said. “I have to open the ‘twixt first. Stand back.” The men shuffled backward to give her room. She raised the flute to her lips and played the notes that in the dolphins’ language of Azarian meant, “Open way betwixt and between the helix and its twin.” Had she done so during the dusk or dawn, that command would have opened a tunnel connecting the human and outer realms of perception. The gateway. Now, it opened the empty space between them.
“Do not step into it,” Tylia warned the soldiers.
Some men whistled in amazement while others uttered oaths in trepidation. Many scuttled back another foot or two.
“What’s in there?” someone asked.
“Nothing.” Jora gave Arc a nod. “Think the king’s name as you blow.”
He took a breath and blew into the carved woman’s extended foot. No sound came forth.
“Is it broken?” the lanky man asked.
“No,” Jora said. “The whistle’s silent.” They watched the ‘twixt with bated breath.
“So much for that idea,” a soldier murmured.
By now, the ship carrying Gerad would be in Mangendan waters, but it was still quite a distance from any port she knew of. “I’m going to have to go get him,” she said.
“We will go along,” Arc said.
“Aye,” Domitius said with a grin. “We will have our vengeance.”
As they trudged back to the palace, Jora contemplated the situation. Her inclination was to summon Kaw and head out to sea that very minute, to engage the ship that had taken King Gerad and slay every Mangendan aboard. Was that the soundest plan? Exhaustion was as great a threat to her as steel was. The last thing she wanted to do was to endanger the king. She wasn’t the reckless Domitius, after all.
The thought made her giggle. Domitius, one of the Colossus warriors, was easily overcome by bloodlust in battle—and eager to engage his enemies, regardless of the con
Her stomach complained loudly that she hadn’t eaten in... she tried to think back to her last meal, but her mind was too sluggish from lack of sleep.
Arc chuckled. “We are all hungry. With a hearty meal in our bellies, we will be better able to devise a strategy for rescuing our king.”
“And Jora needs sleep,” Tylia said.
Jora shot her an annoyed scowl. “I’m fine.” Her foot struck an uneven brick, and she stumbled. As tired as she was, her reflexes weren’t quick enough, and she went down. The pain of bricks scraping her right cheek, chin, and nose was nothing compared to the embarrassment of having fallen on her face in front of everyone. She lay still, feeling the cold clay and grit pressing into her skin, waiting for the laughter to come, wishing she’d not told Tylia she was fine. Shame mingled with anger and frustration as the pain unexpectedly subsided.
A pair of hands hooked under her arms and lifted her to her feet. “Are you injured?” Arc asked.
“I’m”—she stopped herself before saying she was fine again—”not hurt. I must be more tired than I thought.”
“I shall carry thee,” Arc said, pausing to turn toward her, his arms reaching to lift her.
“No,” she said, stepping away from him. Anger flashed like lightning in her mind. “I’m not a child. I don’t need or want you to carry me anywhere.”
Soldiers stared at Jora as they walked past, continuing on to the palace.
“What are you looking at?” she snapped. They obediently turned their gazes to the front, though she knew the men approaching were still watching. She tramped onward, leaving Arc and Tylia behind. They’re still staring, she thought. Meddlesome wretches. They probably think I’m a clumsy blunderhead, unfit to be Gatekeeper. Her lip curled, and a cold wave of hatred surged through her. They wouldn’t think that if I killed them all.
Arc caught up to her, with the Colossa right behind him. “Are you— You are bleeding.” He reached toward her face.
Jora stopped and struck his arm aside with the forearm block Tylia had taught her. She held up a finger in warning. “Don’t touch me.” The urge to summon Zivenna, the ally with inch-long claws, filled her. She envisioned the Colossus commander thrashing about on the ground, bleeding from a thousand cuts. Deeper, she would scream, watching with glee as her ally pushed the wounds all the way to the bone while his blood soaked the street.
“Thine eyne,” Tylia said, her voice soft.
“They are aglow,” Arc said. The two of them stared into her eyes for an uncomfortable moment.
“Art thou ailing, portwatcher?” Tylia asked.
The anger dissipated, and the pain in her nose, chin, and cheek returned. What in Retar’s name had just happened? “I—I don’t know.” Jora shuddered, deeply ashamed of the fantasy she’d had. She was fond of Arc. She didn’t wish him harm, and she certainly didn’t want to be the cause of any that befell him. “Maybe after I’ve had something to eat and a chance to rest, I’ll feel better.”
But something told her it wouldn’t be quite so simple.
A pebble tumbled across the wooden floor as the ship rolled languidly from side to side. The smell of the salty air further aggravated Ibsa Bervoets’s churning stomach. She’d thought standing outside under the night sky and admiring the glint of moonlight on the water would ease the disquiet she felt, but it did not. The chill autumn wind cut through the fabric of her dress, reminding her she had no coat. She thought of all she’d left behind. Her jewels, her clothes and shoes, her family. Part of her wondered whether she’d made a mistake in aligning with the Mangendans, but what else could she have done? To stay in Serocia would have meant death for treason. Her former subordinates would judge her actions harshly, regardless of her honorable motives. It had been a shame to give up all her prized possessions, but she had to believe she would be better off working for the grand duke.
If she made it that far.
The boat dipped and rolled, prompting her to grip the railing more tightly. The dark, foreboding water below surged, and with it her swelling anxiety, for she’d never learned to swim. Looking up was almost as frightful. From the sky would come the Gatekeeper’s black, otherworldly bird that would bring death. For now, she saw nothing except a smattering of clouds and the brilliant full moon that cast everything in an eerie blue light. The bird ally’s absence was more disconcerting than comforting. Dread of the creature filled her thoughts. It was only a matter of time before Jora came for her. Ibsa wondered if perhaps she should not have taken the books with her.
One of them contained a record of the daily tones sung by the Spirit Stone, the dolphin-shaped statue that stood outside the Justice Bureau. Thirty-three years’ worth of the tones made for a discordant composition one could hardly call music. But the other book, a journal written by the Gatekeeper herself, provided a translation of those notes into the common language. Together, they were invaluable to anyone with a penchant for preter-bent magic. They were also the source of Jora’s hateful obsession with Ibsa.
She considered dropping the messenger’s bag, slung over her shoulder, into the strait, but doing so wouldn’t stop Jora from hunting her. In fact, destroying the books would likely anger the girl further, and Ibsa was in enough danger as it was for having escaped the Gatekeeper’s maniacal vindictiveness. The Mangendans had offered her liberty instead of imprisonment—or death—at the hands of the Serocians, not to mention a lofty title and the power to go with it. She’d have been a fool to decline. She was fortunate they’d overlooked what she’d done to Emelia, their last prime maga, blinding her in an effort to keep the girl from spilling Ibsa’s most valuable bargaining tile.
But Emelia was dead now, sucked into the void brought by the Gatekeeper. She’d most likely become one of those hideous creatures Ibsa had seen in Zivenna’s misbegotten light ball, a monster ready to do the Gatekeeper’s bidding. Ibsa shuddered. Jora had threatened her with the same fate, and Ibsa had no doubt the churl would make good on that promise should they ever meet again.
She exhaled hard, and a gust of saltwater-laden air blew the loose strands of hair back from her face. A rope snapped, and half of one sail whipped in the wind. A dozen sailors jumped into action, shouting commands and uncoiling ropes. Their feet pounded the deck as they ran this way and that. Ibsa pressed against the ship’s railing as she skirted past, the cabin her destination—out of the way where she could sit and worry in peace. A white-crested swell of water slapped the boat, spraying cold water up and over the side, wetting her dress.
“Maga,” shouted a man’s voice behind her, “what are you doing out here? You should be below deck with the Witnesses.” She turned to meet the ice-blue eyes of Fistmaster Ori, the flat-faced Quandarian-turned-Mangendan officer who’d helped her escape from Jolver. Lean and wiry, he’d never struck her as a powerful man, but he gripped her upper arm in a surprisingly strong hand.
“I came out to get some fresh air,” she said through chattering teeth. And to look for a giant bird circling overhead. The question was whether she wanted to see her death coming for her or turn her back so it would be a surprise. She still hadn’t decided.
“The Gatekeeper isn’t coming. See?” Ori asked, pointing out over the strait toward the lights of Jolver growing dimmer in the distance behind them. “We sank the larger fishing boats moored at the harbor. By the time she finds a vessel capable of pursuing us, we’ll be long gone. Let’s get you inside.”
Ibsa nodded, but she didn’t truly believe they were safe. Not by a long sight. “When she comes,” she said over her shoulder, “it won’t be by boat.” Ibsa continued shuffling toward the cabin, gripping the railing hand over hand so as not to lose her footing. Perhaps she would beg the cook in the galley to let her sit by the stove, for she had no clothes but those on her back. A momentary panic rose in her heart when she realized the messenger’s bag she wore over her shoulder had also gotten wet with the salty spray. The books! Finally securing the Gatekeeper’s treasured tomes for herself and then ruining them before having a chance to read them would be the very definition of irony.
