Aria of the Awakened (The Mindstream Chronicles Book 6) Page 2

  “They were asking about the Mindstream?” Adriel asked. “You can still use it, can’t you?”

  “Yes. I have the Mesitalic within me,” Jora said. “I assume the connection it grants me to the outer realm of perception also links me to the Mindstream.”

  “Do you think I’ll be able to use it again once we’re home?” Adriel asked, her brow wrinkled with concern. “With our own Spirit Stones nearby?”

  “Until we restore them, sure,” Jora said.

  “I suppose you’ll have to give up your dreams of being a Truth Sayer,” Ibsa said with a smirk. “The god only knows how heartbroken you’ll be to have to return home, marry some wrinkled old man you barely know, and bear his children.”

  “I’m only nineteen,” Adriel argued. “I can still submit for a young man’s antenuptial.”

  Ibsa shrugged. “You can, but Jora can’t say the same.” Her mocking simper ignited Jora’s ire. “She’ll live the life of a forlorn latterly maid. I’d wager she lets herself get fat.”

  Jora’s hand caressed the flute in her scabbard. She imagined summoning Foul, the raccoon-like ally with molten lava for blood, and setting the old witch aflame. She smiled to think of the crone flailing and screaming as her skin blackened and sloughed off, blood streaming—

  “Jora,” Tylia said. The Colossa had taken her by the upper arms and was shaking her. Her gaze bore into Jora’s eyes. “Stop. Do not let the beast have you.”

  “Why not?” Jora asked. “Ibsa’s a murderer, a traitor, a thief, and a liar. She deserves to die for her crimes.”

  “Because you need her to help restore the other Spirit Stones, aye? Besides, you promised the king to spare her until we return to Jolver.”

  The anger washed away, little by little, like a sand castle at high tide. In its place, Jora felt a mild sense of disappointment at the truth of Tylia’s words. But when she returned her gaze to Ibsa’s face with its pointy chin and sharp nose, her sense of loathing returned. That vile woman didn’t deserve mercy, but there was something about her that inspired more than seething hatred. It was a bond they shared, not one of love or respect but something primal that she didn’t understand and didn’t want.

  Jora had plenty to atone for—not as much as Cyprianus did, but more than enough for one woman, especially one so young. The monster inside was not Jora. It was angry and violent and hard as the Challenger himself to control, but it wasn’t her. Jora liked to think she was a good and decent person. She tried to be kind and considerate of others. It was the Mesitalic of Urielle, embedded now in her very bones, that drove her to do cruel things, to think murderous thoughts.

  And Ibsa was no different. She’d absorbed the Mesitalic of Messa many years ago. Had she succumbed to the Mesitalic’s influence altogether? Was there any of the true Ibsa Bervoets left? If Ibsa’s sister Heida were believed, she had always been a damaged soul. Perhaps the Mesitalic hadn’t changed her at all, only made her more of what she already was.

  “At least the god still speaks to me,” Jora said, smirking. “You can’t say the same.”

  “Shhh!” Ibsa said, cocking her head.

  The meeting room had quieted. Footsteps approached from within. Domitius grabbed Jora’s arm and pulled her with him away from the doors an instant before they swung open. Two guards exited and stopped, turning toward each other while also propping open the doors with a foot.

  King Gerad emerged, gripping Grand Duchess Bavra Gundsoulin by the elbow lightly enough to appear to be escorting her, though everyone knew she was his prisoner. Spoils of war, Jora thought, wondering if he would eventually take her as his second wife. She was still fairly young, no older than thirty, and fertile. And she was perhaps the most gorgeous woman Jora had ever met. Wasn’t that what leaders did? Take foreign spouses to ensure a lasting peace between nations?

  Arc followed him out, towering over everyone else in the room by a good foot, though he wasn’t the tallest of the Colossus warriors. That honor fell to Caduceus, who stood ready with the others in the corridor. Arc had an older man by the arm, a dour-looking fellow with sagging jowls and puffy skin under his eyes.

  “Shackles,” Arc said, steering the older man to one side. Nikomedes pulled a set of black iron cuffs from a leather duffle that hung over his shoulder and proceeded to fasten them onto the old man’s wrists.

  King Gerad stood to one side, letting the others in the room walk by.

  “Who’s that?” Jora asked him.

  “The former prime warmaster. He refuses to agree to my terms. I’ve stripped him of his title and declared him a traitor.”

  “He comes with us?” Tylia asked.

  “Nay,” Arc said. “He will be executed in the public square.”

  “Sending a message to the others,” Domitius said, nodding approvingly. “It would be my honor to carry out the deed, my liege.”

  “No,” Gerad said. “The decision was mine. I must do it myself.”

  Jora gazed at him sidelong. She hadn’t known him to be bloodthirsty. For the seven years since being discharged from the Legion, he’d lived a quiet life raising his family. Yes, the responsibility of the entirety of Serocia had fallen at his feet in recent weeks, but until that very moment, he’d been a model of equitability and calm.

  The Mesitalic of Setennal. He’d absorbed it only a few days earlier, and now its influence was guiding him, as evidenced by his sparkling, copper-colored eyes. And she knew from her own experience of having absorbed the Mesitalic of Urielle that this was only the beginning. Over the coming days and weeks, he would undoubtedly become quicker to anger, more ruthless, more violent.

  Tosh exited the room with the crowd of well-dressed Mangendans, talking quietly with one of them, a woman. His presence set Jora at ease in a way no other person ever had. She battled the impulse to call his name, run to him, and fling her arms around him. Ten years she’d thought him dead, and seeing him now looking so much like their murdered father filled her with longing and loneliness and anger—anger at Gerad’s father for keeping him from his family, for keeping secret the comforting knowledge that he was alive. But Tosh made no eye contact with her before following the others down the hallway. He pretended not to know her, pretended he wasn’t the brother who’d broken her heart first by going off to war and then by dying. The image of the sword going through his chest had given her nightmares for months afterward, yet he’d survived it thanks to the godfruit. If only she’d known.

  The Colossus warriors fell into step with the Mangendans, the former prime warmaster in tow between Adelphus and Kiril.

  King Gerad handed Bavra off to Tylia and made his way over to Jora. “Jora,” he said, taking her arm and holding her back a moment. “I’ve something to tell you, news that will be hard to hear.”

  Dread shot up Jora’s spine. Something was wrong. “What is it?”

  Arc stepped up and ushered Jora and King Gerad to one side of the corridor, out of the way of the exiting Mangendans and out of their earshot.

  “Though we had a good, productive meeting this afternoon, the situation here is hardly stable.” Gerad took a breath and let it out. “I’ve asked Tosh to stay behind to assist.”

  Jora’s heart skipped a beat. “No,” she declared, shaking her head, disbelieving she’d heard correctly. “That’s not what you said.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend. We need him here. For the sake of peace between our nations...”

  The sound of blood rushing in her ears drowned out whatever pathetic excuse the king offered. The hallway seemed to grow dimmer, the far end receding as if in a dream of endless walls stretching for miles. In that moment, she felt more alone than ever, as destitute as the day she’d arrived in Kaild and found it burning, her friends and family slain. How could he suggest such a thing? Almost ten years earlier, she’d mourned Tosh’s death and burned what her family had believed was his body on the pyre. Now that she was finally reunited with her beloved brother, King Gerad wanted to keep them apart. “No, damn you! I lost him o
nce. I won’t lose him again.” Jora felt a surge of heat build in her hands. They ached to take up her flute and play, play until the wretched little king was naught but a pile of charred bones smoldering within a burned hole in the carpet.

  Kill...

  “Jora, stop,” Arc said, his booming voice commanding. Several people turned to stare, though they continued down the hallway and around the corner out of sight. Cyprianus, at the end of the line, stopped to watch as if contemplating doubling back to join them. Standing there, he looked so frail, it was a wonder he had the strength to stand. The Mangendans had starved him half to death. Clothes hung on his frame like they were draped over a skeleton.

  She closed her eyes and took a breath, calming herself. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do,” Gerad said. “I understand completely. Trust me, I do. My sister is in Arynd Ban at the mercy of the empress, and I’m desperate to save her from whatever fate looms over her. I know you love your brother. He’s the last family member you have left. You’re undoubtedly elated to know he’s alive and well, and you’re eager to have him home safely. But he has a job, just as you and I do. A very important one.”

  “But he wants to come home,” she said. Her voice sounded small in the now empty hallway. Even Cyprianus had gone.

  “And I want to bring him home, as soon as we’re certain Mangend poses no imminent threat to us.”

  “We have the grand duchess and all the grand duke’s brats,” Jora argued, pointing in the direction Bavra went with Tylia. “They wouldn’t dare attack us while the fate of the grand duke’s heir is in our hands.”

  “We can only hope. Your brother is a high-ranking government official, Deputy Adjunct to the Prime Warmaster. And the prime warmaster is about to be executed. The current adjunct will likely be promoted, and Tosh will become the new adjunct. Mangend needs him now more than ever.”

  “I couldn’t care less what Mangend needs.”

  “Serocia needs him here. Listen to me, Jora. Once they’ve restructured their government, they’ll have no interest in bringing home Natan’s heirs, who would only challenge their new system and leadership.”

  “Which is why—” Jora started.

  “Which is why we must ensure Serocia is seen as a liberator and not a conqueror. With Palo Melkachyk leading the discussions, he can reiterate the history—the true history and not one contrived by the power-hungry whose aim is to confuse and misdirect. He’ll help guide the new prime warmaster to be less interested in warring than in achieving peace. He’ll remind the remaining Primes that their power exists only because Serocia left it to them. Without his presence, we’ll have no choice but to occupy the country and install our own people in governance. That means families will be uprooted to come here, families whose lives will be at risk.”

  “What about his safety?” Jora asked. “If they find out his true identity…” She drew a finger across her throat.

  “He plays his part exceedingly well, but it’s a risk we must take. His role is too important. If we confess his identity and spirit him away with us, what reason have they to trust us? Or each other, for that matter? They might reason that any one of them could be a spy. If the country falls into civil war, a new, more ruthless power might rise. How safe will we be then? My job as king is to secure Serocia’s future as well as its present. Leaving behind a man loyal to us and respected by them is our best move.”

  Jora hung her head, recognizing the truth in his words but not liking them any better. “But he’s my brother.”

  “I know,” Gerad said, his voice gentle and kind. “If he was anyone but your brother you would agree with me.” He put one hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll send for him as soon as it’s safe.”

  She wished she could argue that his son would be a grandfather by then, but Palo was dead. Melka was dead. All of Kaild had been slaughtered. What did Tosh have to return to?

  “Come on. We have a bit of business to attend to before we set sail.”

  Outside, the sky was bright, the sun gleaming from high above. The morning’s chill still lingered on the air.

  The Mangendan primes, adjuncts, and deputies gathered around the execution platform alongside the Colossus warriors. Everyone listened intently to the charges of treason and conspiracy. Everyone except the former prime warmaster. He cried out for reason, for people to dig deep and listen to their hearts, to distrust the brutal Serocians who were trying to tear their country apart. He was so loud, one of the scribes vying for the title Prime Maga drew an inscription to silence him. His mouth still worked, but no sound came forth. Eventually, he stopped trying to speak.

  Jora leaned against Arc in the courtyard, his arm loose across her shoulders and hers around his waist. She watched with disinterest as the prime witness recited the charges against the prime warmaster. Her stomach grumbled. Everything they’d eaten at the capitol thus far had been delicious, and all she could think about was when her next meal might be. She cast a glance at Cyprianus and wondered if he was still hungry. Maybe she’d sneak away with him to the kitchen.

  “Have you any last words?” Vilma asked.

  “This is where he begs to be spared,” Jora whispered to Arc.

  King Gerad took the sword Leontius offered.

  “I stand by my earlier testimony,” the prime warmaster said with a quiver in his voice.

  Gerad cleared his throat. “Then by right of conquest, I pronounce you, Jehan Pashich, guilty of conspiracy to undermine peace and threatening civil unrest. These two acts constitute treason and violate the truce to which our two countries have agreed. The sentence is death by beheading.”

  “I plead not guilty. You must give me a fair trial.”

  Prime Witness Vilma shook her head. “You made your statements in front of the council itself. There can be no other outcome.”

  “Oh, get on with it,” Jora muttered. Arc scowled down at her and shook his head, but his disapproval didn’t make her any less impatient.

  “But if none can bear Witness to it,” the prime warmaster argued, “then you cannot prove that it happened. Such are the laws of Mangend.”

  “He’s right,” someone murmured. “But we have no Witnesses able to confirm it.”

  “You don’t need a Witness if two dozen of you attest you heard him,” Jora barked. Hunger, weariness, and the eagerness to return home shortened her temper and stirred the restless beast inside her.

  “Calm thyself,” Arc said, tightening his arm around her shoulders, but his admonition only fueled Jora’s ire. She shrugged him off and sidled closer to Cyprianus, the one among them who came closest to understanding her.

  “This is wrong,” the warmaster said. “Search within your hearts for the truth, and remember my words. Remember that you colluded with our sworn enemy to execute the one man who stood up for what was right.”

  “If you’re looking for a miracle,” Vilma said, “you won’t find it here. The council has spoken.”

  “Ah,” Cyprianus said, leaning closer to Jora. “It’s redemption he seeks. The first step toward salvation is acknowledging one’s sin. That takes courage.”

  Jora scoffed at the prime warmaster. He was blustering because of his fear, not because of his conviction that he was right.

  “Courage itself is salvation,” said a woman’s voice in Jora’s other ear.

  Jora looked over her shoulder to find Ibsa Bervoets looking at her with a superior expression. That sharp face of hers needed a good bashing. “Who asked you?”

  Cyprianus eyed Ibsa up and down. “The greatest mistake one can make is not to sin but to self-righteously look to oneself for salvation.” He turned his gaze back to the condemned man on the platform. “True salvation requires the divine disclosure of truth. Ask Retar what your divine truth is. If you’ve the courage to hear it, he’ll tell you.”

  King Gerad raised the sword and unceremoniously severed the prime warmaster’s head.

  The moment before the bla
de sliced through the man’s neck, Adriel looked away, as did Cyprianus and most of the Mangendans. Grand Duchess Bavra hung her head and wept.

  The smell of blood filled Jora’s nose, igniting the bloodlust that had given her the impetus to slay so many men in recent days and weeks. She looked at the Mangendan council to gauge their reaction to the execution, hoping they were angry enough to fight back. There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to give them a bloody death before a horrified, screaming audience. A voice wormed into her thoughts, a voice she’d come to both fear and revere.

  Kill...

  Then, she caught Ibsa’s gaze, her gray eyes gleaming bright silver and a dim smile playing on her thin lips. Jora wondered if perhaps they had more in common than either had previously thought.

  Rivva Bourye tried the door again and found it still locked, though it rattled in the frame when she yanked on the handle. Using the underside of her fist, she pounded again. “Is someone there? Open the door. I must speak with Empress Svea.” Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing—no footsteps, no voices, no rustle of cloth. The empress would get an earful when she finally deigned to grant Rivva the audience she’d requested a week earlier. This treatment of her was inexcusable. And where were her protectors, the twenty-five royal guardsmen and four Colossus warriors? She hadn’t seen them in three days, and the servants who brought her meals and the soldier who kept her from leaving the room would tell her nothing. The empress might have had them slain, for all she knew.

  That she was being kept in this room apart from her guards was an outrage. After the Krykon attacked the delegates on the Isle of Shess, the empress had, rightfully, been livid. Jora and Adriel had gone to rescue the king from his Mangendan abductors, while Rivva, still recovering from having been engilded herself, came immediately to answer Svea’s demand for restitution for the loss of her delegates. What the empress didn’t know yet was that her delegates could be saved, as Rivva had been, by the godheart’s magic. And if Svea would grant her the audience she herself had demanded, Rivva would tell her.