Dirge of the Dormant, page 30
part #5 of The Mindstream Chronicles Series
Jora pleaded silently for the servant to say nothing about the unfastened device. For a moment, she thought the woman was going to alert the guard, but she lowered her gaze and continued washing under Jora’s chin, under her arms, and between her legs. The humiliation of being cared for like an invalid was overshadowed by the pleasure of feeling clean.
“Thank you,” Jora said as the woman stood and picked up the bucket. “Did Cyprianus eat well?”
“As well as you did,” she said, pausing in the doorway. She gave Jora a meaningful nod and left.
“I suggest you worry more about yourself than the old man,” said the guard and closed the door behind him.
Jora heaved a relieved sigh when the two were gone. The servant’s willingness to keep Jora’s secret was a prime example of why even the lowliest citizen should be treated with respect. The grand duke might have required complete obedience, but he couldn’t violate a person’s moral nature, make a slave of her, and expect her unwavering devotion. Loyalty was earned, not coerced, a lesson the grand duke had yet to learn. Jora would find a way to reward that servant’s discretion before she left Hazred.
Her belly full, she lay down on her straw bed to wait until nightfall for her reign of terror to begin. She yawned, feeling relaxed and sated for the first time in weeks and optimistic about the coming day.
She awoke after a brief nap and listened for a sign that the guard would be back. She didn’t know what the schedule was for looking in on prisoners during the night, for she’d been too exhausted to notice any late-night visitors, but she assumed they wouldn’t waste time coming to check on her if they were satisfied after her supper that she was shackled and unable to escape.
Kneeling on her bedding, she leaned down and gave a strong and sudden nod. The kendern slipped off her head and landed in the straw with a mere whisper. Instantly, she felt the rush of clarity, the oppressive silence in her mind now lifted. She opened the Mindstream and first sought Adriel’s thread to ensure what Tosh had told her was true. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her brother—she did—but she needed to be certain. She had to see for herself.
But Adriel’s thread was gone.
Jora swallowed hard. That didn’t mean she was dead. A barring cuff would have had the same effect. How was she to find Adriel without Observing her? She had to think.
Down the hallway, something rustled. Cyprianus coughed and fell quiet again. Jora Observed him and was surprised by what she saw.
Wearing a stained, gray dress about knee length, Cyprianus stood partially upright, his arms and legs affixed with leather straps to a wooden frame shaped somewhat like an X. He appeared to be about Jora’s age, or perhaps a couple years older, with pale blond hair that looked like it had been hacked off with a knife by an impatient guard rather than clipped by a skilled barber. Though he was frail, he seemed to be reasonably healthy for someone who’d been locked up for five centuries. His head hung, chin on chest, and his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep. She rotated her mystical eye to get a better look at his face. To her surprise, he was extraordinarily attractive. Had he not been so old, she might have felt a hitch in her chest to look at him.
Jora felt a wave of pity for the man, having to sleep standing up, but what surprised her the most was that he wore no kendern nor any other inscription that would have prevented him from summoning his allies. He’d admitted he was no longer preter-bent, but did that mean his allies had abandoned him? If he relived as preter-bent, would he not be able to call them to him?
To remove the kastdern, she had to push off her right boot and use her left leg to help push her foot close enough to her neck to grab the twisted metal loop between her toes. It took some twisting and labor, and it was more painful than she’d expected, but she finally got free of it.
She started by summoning Zivenna and Foul.
Zivenna bowed as she often did. “How may I aid you, Gatekeeper?”
“I need these shackles off. Can you break them?”
She stepped around behind Jora and squatted to inspect the irons. “Not without also breaking your arms. Would you like me to proceed?”
“No.” Jora presented her back to her fire ally. “Foul, can you burn through the rod connecting them?”
The fiery, raccoon-like creature shuffled closer. His body heat warmed the backs of her calves, thighs, and buttocks. She felt him take hold of the bar that held the two wrist cuffs together, but looking over her shoulder, she couldn’t see what progress he was making. The cuffs grew warm and then hot, almost unbearably so.
“Wait, wait,” she said. She needed another to help and summoned Vaporal. The tall lizard-like ally appeared, his skin sweating. “Drip some water on the cuffs of my shackles as Foul burns the bar.”
The two allies worked together to heat the bar while keeping the cuffs relatively cooler, though the irons were still uncomfortably hot around her wrists. The water sizzled on the hot metal and dripped to the floor, splashing the backs of her calves and ankles. At last, the bar came apart, and her arms were freed. Her shoulders ached with a delicious relief when she pulled her hands forward, in front of her body. The skin on her wrists was red and blistered, but they would heal.
“Melt off?” Foul asked. Flames sputtered from his mouth when he spoke.
“Later,” Jora said. “For now, I need you to work on getting that door open.”
“Might I suggest Gordawn’s help?” Zivenna said, assessing the heavy door with a critical eye.
“He’d make too much noise. I need to escape quietly.”
Zivenna nodded her understanding. “You need a key or something that can be fashioned into one.”
Then it occurred to Jora that perhaps Sonnis could help. “I have an idea.” She summoned the worm and asked him to take his human form. “Sonnis, can you get out of this cell through the window?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“Good. Do it. When you’re through, stick your finger into the lock and fashion it into a key. Wait. Try that on my shackle cuffs first.”
He pressed his finger to the keyhole on the side of one cuff. Jora couldn’t tell whether he was doing anything more than that, for it looked like he was just touching it. A second later, he turned his wrist, and the cuff clunked open. “Well done.” She pried the cuff open the rest of the way, tossed it onto her straw bed, and presented the other cuff. “Do this one too.”
Once he’d freed her from both shackle cuffs, Sonnis stuck his head through the tiny window in the cell door. The opening was much too small for even an infant’s head, but Sonnis’s head narrowed and flowed through as if he were made of thick syrup. Jora was revolted and intrigued at the same time.
Moments later, the lock clunked and swung open. Jora wasted no time. She went to Cyprianus’s cell door and had Sonnis open it the same way.
“Wake up, Cyprianus. It’s time to escape.”
He lifted his head, blinking as he came awake. “Huh?” He looked at her and the allies in turn. “Figment, is that you, or am I still asleep?”
She smiled. He was a handsome fellow, despite his drooping eyelids and slack jaw. “It’s me.”
“In that case, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear. I would shake your hand, but...” He glanced at his bound wrist.
“Zivenna, cut the bindings. Be careful not to cut his skin.”
“Zivenna,” he said, watching the ally work. “That name’s familiar.”
“She used to be the grand duke’s prime maga,” Jora said with a smile.
“Well, well. I would love to hear the story of how she came to be your ally.”
“You will,” Jora said. “After we’re safely away from here.”
“Why are you still here?” he asked. “If you could summon your allies all this time, why did you stay?” With his arms free, Cyprianus rubbed his wrists, looking down at Zivenna as she cut the straps binding his legs.
“I couldn’t. That man you warned me not to trust loosened the kendern and kastdern so I could get them off.”
He gave her a terrified look. “Then this is a trap, a test to see whether you would strike against the grand duke. Retie my bindings and go back to your cell. Quickly.”
“No, he’s a Serocian spy. He’s my brother.”
Cyprianus raised his eyebrows. “Oh. That was unexpected.” Zivenna cut the last strap and straightened, stepping back. He took his first step and staggered. Jora gripped him by the arm, noticing how thin it was and how soft, the muscle having deteriorated over time the way her grandpa’s had. “You’ll regain your strength in time.”
“They made me wear a kendern for many years, in case I relived as a preter-bent, but by the time I got the damnable thing off, I could no longer open the way to the wights. A hundred years into my imprisonment, my captors realized my having the talent for Witnessing was hardly a threat, so they didn’t replace it.”
She gave him a compassionate smile. “Maybe you’ll relive as a preter-bent someday.”
“You’d better hope not. I might dump your corpse in a shallow grave and retake my place as Gatekeeper.” Cyprianus gave her a smile and a wink.
She gaped at him, horrified that she’d made a mistake in trusting the infamous Cyprianus of Labrygg.
He tapped her nose with one thin finger and chuckled. “Got you. Don’t worry, my dear. I’m just a lonely old man with no useful skills. Maybe you would find it in your heart to lop off my head so I can die for good. It would be a kindness.” He heaved a sad sigh. “I’m long past ready for this life to be over.”
Gerad acted despondent for the rest of the afternoon, ate his dinner with slow deliberation, and lay on the bed watching the sky grow darker through the little window high on the wall. Seeing the stars helped him feel connected to his family, for Gritha often looked up at them and wondered aloud whether people elsewhere in the world saw the sky the same way she did at the same moment.
Jora, where are you?
She wasn’t dead. He refused to believe that shrieking, pleading woman in the courtyard had been the Gatekeeper. She was merely an innocent bystander executed for no other reason than to make Gerad lose his last vestiges of hope. Instead, her death had strengthened his resolve. Once Jora—the real Jora—arrived and helped him summon his warriors, the grand duke would pay for his crimes. Even in times of war, there were lines a decent human being did not cross. Murdering innocent women and children was one of them.
Movement near the door drew his eye. A gray mouse flattened itself to crawl under the door. It stopped short and sat up on its haunches, its strange, yellow eyes staring at him. It was the most hideous mouse he’d ever seen. Diseased, probably. He was about to throw a shoe at it to scare it off. Then someone knocked.
Gerad bolted upright, his heart thundering. Was that her? No, Jora wouldn’t knock. First, he would hear the screams of the men guarding his door. Then he would hear the locks turning. Then he would see her sparkling, golden eyes in the dark room. He shuddered. Those freakish eyes still struck fear in his heart. He had to continually remind himself she was on his side. She was his friend.
The locks clunked and the door opened. The mouse scurried out the open door and disappeared around the corner. “Good evening, Gerad,” Tosh said, entering with a lamp and a box with a handle on one end. “I hope I’m not disturbing your sleep.”
“No, I was reflecting on the events of this evening.” Gerad invited him to sit and watched with interest while Tosh pushed the door mostly closed, sat on the sofa, and opened the box. He withdrew a sheet of paper, ink bottle, a quill, and something small he kept hidden in his fist. He closed the box to use the top as a writing desk. “Did you know the capitol has mice?”
“No doubt,” Palo said. “Probably rats too. Let me know if they become a problem. I’ll have the prime alchemist prepare some poison.”
“What’s all that for?”
“The grand duke wishes you to write down the names of your cabinet ministers and their positions, as well as a list of the elders and adepts in your Justice Bureau.” Tosh glanced at the door, then leaned forward, offering his closed fist to Gerad. When he uncurled his fingers, the carved whistle dropped into Gerad’s waiting palm.
Gerad gaped at it for a moment, disbelieving he actually had it back. He wanted to hug Tosh’s neck. How had he managed to get it? Then he remembered that “Palo” was waiting for a response. “Uh, I’ve only been king for a few days and haven’t had time to learn all their names. Jora’s the one you would want to speak to about that, but of course you can’t, because she’s dead.”
Tosh shook his head and glanced at the door again. “I understand. Give me the names you know.” He scribbled something on the paper, then picked it up and showed it to Gerad. Keep talking.
“Yes,” Gerad said. “Ah, let me think. There’s Karnelis Huseby, Minister of War, and Muna, Minister of Finance. I’m sorry, I don’t know her matrilineal name.” He didn’t see the point in giving up the ministers real names. Instead he used names of people in his neighborhood—the butcher where he usually bought meat, the neighbor next door.
He gazed at the whistle, wondering if it would work. There was no harm in trying it. Archesilaus, he thought. He blew the whistle. Nothing happened. If ever there was a perfect time for Jora to walk in, it was now.
“That’s fine,” Tosh said. He held up the paper again. Jora and Adriel are alive. Each of you were shown the execution of the others. Six innocent citizens were sacrificed for this ruse.
“Bloody fists,” Gerad muttered. “Er, I wish I could remember it. It was on the tip of my tongue. Give me a minute to think.” Did Tosh also have Jora’s flute? If she made it here, she would need it. Gerad held up his hands, mimicking the playing of the instrument.
Tosh turned the briefcase around and opened the lid briefly to show Gerad the contents. Lying diagonally across the bottom, beneath some papers, was the wooden flute. Gerad smiled and nodded, showing Tosh a thumb. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall her name.”
“That’s quite all right. Please continue.” Tosh bent and wrote something else. I loosened Jora’s kendern earlier. She knows you’re both alive.
Gerad nodded his understanding. “I haven’t yet appointed a new Minister of Foreign Affairs, though I’m leaning toward promoting Benedikt Ure over Maksa Mogen. She’s a bit power-hungry, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure I trust her completely yet, though my father apparently did.” He knew he was blathering, but he didn’t think it mattered.
“Give me a moment to write all that down.” He scribbled another note. I mean to wait here with you for her arrival and hope it comes soon. Keep talking.
Gerad acknowledged the plan with a nod. Jora probably went to find Adriel first. “Ah, let’s see. Who else is there? Oh, Emmerik Valdebrokk, the Minister of Domestic Matters. Can’t forget Emmerik. He’s a good man. Trustworthy. The ladies seem to like him. It’s unusual for a man to run things in Serocia, you know.”
Tosh sat still, listening and nodding, apparently having nothing more to say.
“I believe that does it for the ministers. Do you want to know the names of the vice-ministers as well?”
“Yes, please. And perhaps the names of your Justice Officers. Name whomever you can.”
Gerad sighed. “Let me think.” He hoped Jora came before he ran out of names.
Chapter 22
The fire crackled and hissed in the hearth, casting warm, orange light on Grand Duke Natan’s face. Ibsa couldn’t help staring. Whatever secret he had for retaining his youth, she wanted it. She had to have it.
“Bring the parrot,” Natan said to his servant.
“Right away, Your Grace.” The man scurried away, his slim hips wagging like a dog’s did when it saw its master.
“Is there any chance of mending your relationship with Retar?” Natan asked, turning his gaze to Ibsa.
“It’s unlikely, Your Grace. At least, not without a great deal of work on my part. I’ve coerced him into performing a few deeds he found... distasteful.” She licked her lips, still contemplating using inscription to pry the grand duke’s secret from his lips. Two guards stood near the door, watching them. If she could shield her hand with her body and draw the inscription without alerting them, she might get Natan to confess. As it was, she was in plain view. She needed to turn her chair so that they were to her side.
Natan smiled a crooked smile. “You intrigue me, Maga. How does a woman such as yourself, so prim—dare I say prudish—coerce a god?”
Ibsa didn’t know whether to be offended by his characterization or flattered. Prudish was hardly an accurate description of her, despite her many years as the dominee. Yes, she was what the Serocians called a latterly maid because she’d never been married, but she’d had more than her share of lovers. The average woman married one man and shared him with his other wives if he returned from war, or took another husband if he didn’t. She was not an average woman.
“Simply by tightening the screws in the crucible, Your Grace.” She shifted her chair an inch to one side.
“Yes, I know how you do it. I wonder what made you think of it in the first place.”
“It was purely by accident. When I first obtained the crucible, I wanted to make sure the godheart didn’t rattle around. I discovered that tightening the screws too much causes Retar a great deal of pain, and he would do nearly anything to stop it.”
“Anything but strike you dead.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Why hasn’t he?”
“I’ve absorbed the Mesitalic of Messa. I wouldn’t have thought that would protect me from his ire, but apparently it does.”
“That or he needs you for something he hasn’t yet revealed.”
She gave a conceding nod, though she doubted that was the case. He’d never asked her for anything nor hinted he needed her help. She shifted her seat another inch. “Was there something in particular you need of him that I can help you attain? No need to ruin your relationship with him too.”
Natan leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass of vermouth as he studied her with a dim smile. “I have here in the capitol a man with great knowledge that is being wasted. I would like Retar to take the Gatekeeper’s power away from Jora and give it to that man.”
