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

by K. C. May

  Outside, Princess Rivva lifted her ample yellow skirts and descended the wide, stone stairs, appearing to float with her practiced steps. Jora cast a longing look at the Spirit Stone, wishing she could touch it, just once, for just a second. But no, the princess and king were waiting. Their time was more valuable than the longing of a girl to touch a rock. She followed Princess Rivva down the stairs, though her longing only intensified with every step.

  A white carriage trimmed in gold waited on the street, along with a half-dozen saddled horses—one for each of the guardsmen. As she approached, a footman dressed in blue knee breeches and a waist-length, long-sleeved coat appeared from behind it and opened the door. He held one gloved hand out. Princess Rivva placed her hand into his, stepped onto the box below the carriage opening, and climbed in. She settled on the forward-facing seat and arranged her skirts.

  Jora looked about, unsure where she was expected to ride. The guardsmen mounted the horses, leaving none free.

  “Miss?” the footman said, his hand held out for hers.

  I’m to ride with the princess? She hesitantly put her hand into his, stepped up and climbed into the carriage.

  “Come, come. There’s plenty of room,” Princess Rivva said, patting the seat beside her. “I get queasy riding backwards. I wouldn’t ask you to do it.”

  Jora sat delicately on the seat next to Princess Rivva, careful not to tromp on the delicate fabric of the princess’s dress. It was all so surreal. She’d never even seen the princess until a few minutes earlier, and now she was invited to sit next to her in her private carriage.

  And it was a beautiful carriage, too, with bleached leather lining the ceiling and walls and covering the seat cushions. She was impressed by the straight seams and hidden stitches and the silky feel of the leather, softer than any she’d felt before. The skinner in Kaild certainly hadn’t tanned leather like that. A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed it down. It was almost unfair that she would live while the Kailders could not.

  The door closed, and the carriage rocked momentarily as the footman climbed aboard. With a lurch, they were off.

  “I’ll bet my intrusion came as quite a surprise to you,” Princess Rivva said, smiling. She had a comely face with a few freckles across her nose and a birthmark on the apple of her right cheek.

  Jora cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Highness. They found me guilty and were about to sentence me to death.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they were.” Princess Rivva sat a bit straighter and wagged her shoulders. “I feel a bit like the heroine of a child’s fairy tale, swooping in to save the hapless girl.”

  “Eagle Girl,” Jora said mostly to herself, thinking of Boden and his boyhood fantasy of saving the people of Kaild.

  “You’ve read the stories of Eagle Boy?” Princess Rivva asked with brows raised.

  Jora supposed that a leatherworker from a small town in rural Serocia wasn’t expected to be literate, but surely the princess knew about the books that were at the center of Jora’s conflict with the dominee. “No, but a friend of mine did when we were children. Or at least, he knew of Eagle Boy and loved to pretend…” She shook her head. The princess wouldn’t want to hear about Boden’s boyish games.

  Eager to find another topic to talk about, she glanced at the beautiful blue pendant that hung around the princess’s neck on a string of pearlescent white beads. “Your necklace is lovely. Are those pearls?”

  Rivva touched them lightly, affectionately. “Yes, they’re from the Outer Sea islands. The blue gem is a peculiar sort of diamond. The dominee says it’s quite rare. My groom-to-be gave it to me before he left for the war.”

  “A promisory?” Jora asked.

  “Indeed. I’d have married before he left, as other girls do, but my mother was adamant that I wait. She feared he wouldn’t be the same when he came back—if he comes back at all—and believes it’s important for a queen to bear all her children from the same man.”

  “Who would he be if not himself?”

  Princess Rivva chuckled. “I thought it an irrational fear and took my father’s counsel not to argue the matter with her. Thus, I shan’t bear my first child for another five years, if fortune shines its light upon me.”

  “I didn’t dare argue with my mother, either,” Jora said. Her smile fell. If only she could.

  “Yes, but the fate of the country doesn’t sit in your womb. Should I die before bearing an heir, the Minister of Truth inherits the throne.” The princess made a face, and the two shared a laugh.

  Princess Rivva turned in her seat to face Jora. “Can I trust you, Miss Lanseri? Are you a moral person? A loyal person?”

  “Yes,” Jora said, meeting the princess’s blue eyes. “Yes, Your Highness. You can trust me. I love Serocia with all my heart. I’m a loyal citizen. I only want what’s best for all of us.”

  “And Retar?”

  Jora thought back to her conversations with the parrot at the Iskori temple—the god vessel he’d used to speak to her. She’d been surprised to learn he had a sense of humor, but he truly captured her heart when she heard the sadness in his voice. “I’d do anything for him.”

  Princess Rivva smiled. “He’s a beneficent god, far more so than those who preceded him.” At once, hundreds of birds began to chirp as if the god was laughing through them. “See?” she asked with a chuckle. “He agrees.” Princess Rivva’s eyes sparkled. “I relish the notion that you and I could develop amity between us.”

  Friends? With the heiress to the throne of Serocia? Jora felt her face warm. “I would be honored to have your friendship, Your Highness.”

  “Then you will call me Rivva, and I shall call you Jora. Fair?”

  Jora blinked hard, but she found herself nodding. I’m going to awaken from this bizarre dream any minute. Might as well go along with it until I do. “I’d like that very much.”

  The carriage slowed and turned, then went rumbling past a guardhouse. A blue-uniformed guard stood outside, saluting as they drove past. Rivva pointed out the various buildings as they passed, as though Jora were a visiting dignitary rather than a prisoner summoned by the king. The carriage suddenly darkened when they rode through a building—a narrow passage like a tunnel. After a moment, they emerged in a circular, brick courtyard lined by neatly manicured grass. Jora leaned forward to get her first glimpse of the palace through the window.

  “Here we are. I gather you’ve never seen the palace?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “Before we enter, I must ask you to please hear what the king has to say. No, I beg of you. It’s important. Your life depends on it.”

  Jora swallowed. “Do you know what he wants to talk to me about?”

  “I do, but I shan’t speak for him. I realize how uncomfortable this must make you. My apologies.”

  “It has to do with… what I did?”

  The princess nodded, a faraway look in her eye. “And your friend Boden. When a war is based on lies, the truth itself is revolutionary.”

  Jora stiffened. The war was based on lies? “What lies?”

  “I’ve said too much. I should leave it to the king to explain after he’s sworn you to secrecy to his satisfaction.”

  The king. She was on her way to see the king. The magnitude of the impending visit—or confrontation—hit her, making her break out in a clammy sweat. “Is there a particular way I should address him?”

  “Most people call him Your Majesty.”

  A flood of questions spilled from her lips. “Do I curtsey or bow? Should I avoid looking into his eyes? What if he offers me a seat? Should I sit or stay standing?”

  Rivva chuckled and patted her arm. “Worry not, my dear. He’s quite a pleasant gent. Affable. Do what comes naturally. Simply be polite and respectful and disregard the rest. He’s acquainted with a multitude of young females, but he’s yet to be introduced to the Gatekeeper. I imagine he has a case of the pitters himself.”

  Jora gaped at her and then smiled. Rivva was jest
ing. Of course she was.

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of what had to have been the most beautiful building ever erected in the history of humankind. It seemed a mile wide with three stories of glazed windows. In the center of the upper story was a grand balcony where Jora imagined the king and queen would stand, waving to the throng of citizens when they gathered in the courtyard below.

  “Jora?”

  The princess was waiting for her to get out, and the footman was standing by the door with his hand outstretched.

  “Oh, sorry.” With the footman’s help, she climbed out and ogled the scenery.

  The building looked to be made of white granite. Two columns beside the huge double door were set apart from the building, each topped with a gold capital. Ten bays lined the building’s face, each defined by columns, balconies, and windows. Above each glazed window was ornamental stonework, some with a semi-circular window atop. Many of the building’s decorative faces were gold, especially those on the taller roof structure in the center, above the grand entrance, and the one on each end.

  “Is that real gold?” she asked, falling into step with the princess.

  Rivva looked up. “No, it’s paint that’s been tinted to resemble gold. Notice the lack of brilliance. If it were gold, it would glisten in the sunlight.”

  Jora expected to have to walk to one of the two staircases that led to the main door from either side, but Rivva and the guards led her to an inconspicuous door behind a tall planter at ground level. With a heavy grinding sound, the iron door opened to a dim corridor whose unadorned brick walls were painted white. The eight pairs of footsteps resounded loudly as they proceeded through. The corridor opened into a room with several plain doors and a staircase.

  “The guards’ and servants’ quarters are on this level,” Rivva said.

  That made sense. In the event of a breach by the enemy, the first to respond would be the soldiers who were sleeping nearby.

  “We have quite a large cellar below,” Rivva said. “Stores of food and antique relics I adored as a girl, pretending I was an explorer discovering them buried beneath the ruins of ancient cities.”

  Jora couldn’t imagine growing up in a building so large.

  The group headed up the stairs. Jora goggled at her surroundings, enthralled with the craftsmanship of the banister, the smooth granite stairs, the carved crown molding tucked into the creases between the walls and ceilings.

  The interior of the palace matched the exterior on the main story. The rooms were grand with tall, sculpted ceilings, polished marble floors, and exquisite furniture of dark wood and plush fabrics of red and gold. In the main hall, where Rivva said palace guests were received, Jora found herself staring at the ceiling, mouth agape. The chandelier must have had a hundred candles, all arranged in a spiraling progression of gilded metal. The arched ceiling itself served as the canvas for a painting that depicted a man battling a spectre. It must have been one of the challengers squaring off against the god, though it was hard to tell whether the man was Retar or some other.

  A servant came into the room, his posture perfect and his presentation extraordinary. He wore a crisp navy-and-black suit with polished black shoes and black cotton gloves. “Princess Rivva,” he said with a bow.

  “Behrendt, is my father available to see Miss Lanseri yet?”

  “His Majesty requests that you wait for his current business to conclude.” Behrendt’s gaze traveled down Jora’s body and back up to her eyes. “Perhaps Miss Lanseri would appreciate the opportunity to refresh herself before her meeting?”

  “That would be splendid,” Rivva said. She turned to Jora and looked her over. “We can’t have you appear before the king dressed as a prisoner. I’ll lend you some clothing. Do you prefer trousers or a dress?”

  Jora felt the tingling warmth of a blush fill her cheeks. She hadn’t bathed in days, and her stench was surely overpowering, though the princess had been too kind to mention it. The idea of wearing one of Rivva’s gowns filled her with equal measures of dread and excitement. She couldn’t. The idea of her, a killer, wearing a princess’s gown was not only ludicrous, it had to have bordered on sacrilege. “Whatever you have handy,” she said, “though trousers would be my preference. I couldn’t defile any of your gowns that way.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Rivva said. “Behrendt will show you to a guest chamber. Ordinarily, I would invite you to take your time and enjoy the bath, but my father will be expecting you shortly.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jora said.

  “While you’re bathing, I’ll have the appropriate attire brought.”

  “Thank you, Princess.”

  “Rivva,” she replied in a cautioning but teasing tone. “We’re friends, remember? And friends aid each other.” Rivva winked at her.

  Jora cast Behrendt a dim smile, receiving an inclined head in response.

  “If you’ll accompany me, Miss?” the steward said.

  Jora turned to follow him and started when she recognized the bejeweled woman in silks coming down the stairs—Dominee Ibsa, leader of the First Godly Redeemer House of Prayer and stealer of books.

  “What in the challenger’s name are you doing here?” Dominee Ibsa demanded. She stopped on the stairs as if afraid to come any closer. “And with your head still attached?”

  Princess Rivva smiled politely, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “She’s here to discuss the terms of her pardon.”

  “She’s supposed to be in court, being found guilty of murder, treason, vigilantism—all sorts of vile crimes.”

  Jora felt her face warm. Had the outcome of her trial been predetermined?

  “She’s the king’s guest, Dominee,” Rivva said.

  “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

  Rivva stepped up from behind to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jora. “I’m sure it was an oversight. I’m sure the king will keep you abreast of any developments with the Truth Sayers under your authority.”

  Ibsa’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened where they pressed together. For a moment, she simply glared, not at Rivva for her insinuation that Jora was not among those under the dominee’s rule, but at Jora, as if it were her fault the princess had said it. “Keep a close eye on that one. She might kill you and turn you into a worm.”

  Jora chewed her bottom lip. She would have loved to fire back an accusatory retort, but now was not the time. She knew Ibsa was behind the theft of Jora’s journal and the book of tones given to her by Elder Kassyl, but she had no proof of it. Not yet.

  “I’m sure we have nothing to fear from the Gatekeeper, Dominee,” Rivva said. “We’ve done nothing to harm her or her family.”

  Ibsa started down the steps again, though she gave Jora a wide berth. “That hardly seems to matter. With one like her, you cannot tell where justice leaves off and revenge begins.” With her gaze directed ahead of her, Ibsa strode past Jora. “Serocia would be better off without her.”

  “That isn’t true,” Rivva said softly, touching Jora’s arm. “Don’t mind her. Right now, you must prepare for your conference. Do you require assistance in the bath? I shall instruct my handmaiden to attend you.”

  Jora smiled at the thought. She hadn’t needed help in the bath since she was a young child. “I’ll be all right. Thank you, Rivva.”

  Rivva nodded with a pleasant, reassuring smile and gestured to Behrendt.

  The manservant was standing with his gloved hands clasped before him, staring directly ahead, as if he hadn’t been listening to the exchange. The moment he seemed to sense Jora’s gaze on him, he inclined his head and opened one hand toward the staircase.

  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.”