Rise of Keitus (31 page)

It took five minutes to get there, and he worried the food would be cold by the time it reached Ramantus. But apparently, the woman had thought of that when she’d put it on a hot ceramic plate. The omelet was still steaming when Jacob knocked on the king’s door.

“Enter.”

Jacob pushed his way into the room.

“Finally. Breakfast.” The king was pacing the floor. He pointed to a table. “Set it there—” He paused, sniffing the air. “Wait, bring it instead.” He smiled as the food neared. “Perfect! And on this day of celebration.”

He turned to Jacob. “Stay with me.”

Jacob bowed and backed against a wall while the king ate his breakfast, smacking his lips and drinking loudly. When he’d finished, he insisted that Jacob help him dress. That consisted of finding a jacket and pants that matched the crown Ramantus wanted to wear. And, of course, all sorts of decorations and such.

It took an hour to get Ramantus fully ready. Then the king made Jacob stand near the wall while he wrote a few letters. He had Jacob take them to another servant, but again insisted that Jacob return when done. That was just fine with Jacob.

Around midday, a message was delivered to Ramantus that had him so excited, Jacob was worried he’d kill someone just to celebrate. He pulled a couple of ropes on his wall—the ones that probably had bells on the other end, and a few minutes later, Het and Isan entered the room. They ignored Jacob.

Het, the older son, bowed to his father. “What is it?”

“We’re ready, my sons, we’re ready!”

Het glowered. “You said that before and then everything fell apart, with Dmitri running.”

Ramantus shrugged. The colors around him were light blue and green—he was at peace and happy, and it looked like nothing would ruin that. “But I also told you that Dmitri running to Gevkan was part of my plans.”

Isan strode to the table, digging through his father’s leftovers. “Then why did it upset you so?”

Jacob straightened, making sure not to bring any attention to himself. Were some of his questions about to be answered?

“Fool—his marriage to Arien was important, but how much easier would things be if he were still truly my son? I have hard work ahead of me, getting him to revert to his previous ways.”

“If that’s even possible.” Het sat in his father’s large chair at one of the desks, crossing his legs.

“It doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t in the end—the whole point of this is the offspring he will produce with Arien. Having him on my side will simply make the task easier.”

Jacob’s stomach fell and he listened harder, biting the inside of his lip.

Isan rolled his eyes. “But you can’t guarantee they’ll inherit the . . .
traits
you need. I don’t understand your confidence in the plans you’ve put in place.”

“And you never will. You lack the mental capacity even to arrange a simple hunting party.” Ramantus glared at his son, but still, the colors in the air around him were cheerful.

No one said anything for a moment, but Jacob barely noticed the silence. He felt sweat drip down his back and tried not to shiver when goose bumps crossed his flesh.

He remembered what Keitus had said to him months earlier while he’d been held in August Fortress. Something about how the Lorkon king had created Jacob, bred him, made his parents and even grandparents marry so he would come about. Jacob had scoffed. But now he wondered, and a desire to learn of the role Keitus played in his heritage nearly overwhelmed him.

Another little thought made its way into Jacob’s mind. Just how old was Ramantus? He was a human now and obviously mortal. But if he’d had a part in arranging generations of marriages, he must be much older than he appeared.

Jacob’s eyes opened wide as he thought of what would happen if Ramantus found out that he, Jacob, acting as a servant in the king’s castle,
was
the offspring of Arien and Dmitri, the very person the Lorkon king would come to seek so desperately in the future.

Ramantus suddenly turned to Jacob, nearly making him jump out of his clothes.

“You, boy. Come here.”

Chapter Nineteen: The Workroom

Jacob hesitated. Had the king figured him out? The expression on Ramantus’s face didn’t reveal much, and his emotions were happy and peaceful. But Jacob still worried. He approached, not sure what to expect.

Ramantus pointed to a red box that sat near the window. “Bring it to me.” He turned to Het and Isan. “The final ingredient—proven successful last night.”

“You performed human tests without us there?”

Ramantus cackled. “Not exactly.”

“Then how do you know it’s successful?”

The king took the box from Jacob, placed it on the table near his breakfast dish, and stared at Het before responding. “Must I explain everything to my dimwitted sons?”

“No, Father,” Het said, looking down.

The king sighed, and spoke as if to a three-year-old. “I tested it on two wolves. Everything happened as it should. They’re larger, darker. The blood that spreads disease is on their skin, and they didn’t die.”

Het and Isan both smiled, the colors in the air around them flowing bright green.

Ramantus handed the box back to Jacob. “There’s a corridor in the castle with purple tapestries and rugs lining the walls and floor. At the far end is a large curtain covering an alcove. I want you to go to that alcove and wait with this box for further instructions. Don’t let anyone see you.”

He didn’t make sure Jacob understood his instructions, but Jacob knew right away which place Ramantus meant—he’d spent hours trying to get into a certain room in that particular corridor. Jacob’s heart sped up as he left the king’s quarters and headed that way. His breathing shortened into gasps. He didn’t know whether he should smile or be afraid. The pinnacle of his quest had arrived—he was about to find out how Ramantus would become Keitus.

Jacob’s hands were sweating so badly, he nearly dropped the metal box several times. It felt like it grew heavier as he walked, but he knew that was just his nerves. Realizing that the king was serious in not wanting Jacob to be seen, anytime he heard someone coming, he hid around corners, behind suits of armor, or curtains or tapestries.

It only took him a couple of minutes to get there and hide behind the curtain. There was a bench against the alcove wall and he settled down, not knowing how long he’d be hiding.

Jacob Time-Saw, watching Ramantus so he’d know just when the king came.

It took thirty minutes. Jacob’s stomach started growling and he was really glad the woman had given him food, else he’d be completely famished. He Time-Saw, watching as Ramantus and the four other men approached. His vision blurred and he pulled back, realizing they were nearing him, causing things to blacken. As he waited, he pondered the other two men—he’d never figured out who they were.

He heard as they stepped into the hall. Jacob almost expected them to stop and get him, but from what he’d Seen before, he knew they wouldn’t—Keitus would go into the workroom for several minutes before poking his head out and calling for Jacob.

Jacob got to his feet and paced the small area. He could barely contain his nervousness and excitement. He felt lightheaded and weak. Getting food would help somewhat, but he knew it was mainly because he was about to learn the Lorkon’s biggest secret: how they became immortal monsters.

Everything about his future depended on what he would learn in the next several minutes. The happiness and safety of his family and his world and even this world. Jacob’s breathing became so shallow, he felt like he was about to pass out. He sat again, focusing on calming activities. Breathing deeply, thinking about superficial things like tying his shoes and brushing his teeth. Finally, he calmed down enough to where he’d at least be able to act rationally.

Then he heard a door open, and Ramantus whistled for him.

Jacob parted the curtain, checked to see that the way was clear, and walked down the long hallway to where the king waited.

Ramantus held the door—which had to be at least a foot thick—then shut it behind them.

Jacob breathed deeply, taking in his new surroundings. The room was big. Thick pillars were set in all four corners, a few feet from the walls. Tables with leather straps were situated throughout the room—at least six of them. In the middle was a stone bowl full of dark liquid.

The walls and floors were stained with blood. And four of the tables were occupied. Jacob recognized Het and Isan, strapped in place. They waited patiently.

Ramantus took the box from Jacob and opened it, revealing several syringes. Jacob wondered where they’d come from—Earth? Eklaron? Each syringe had a small amount of clear liquid inside.

Ramantus smiled at Jacob and flicked one of the syringes with his finger. “The special ingredient. My informant withheld it from me.” He chuckled. “Something that won’t happen again.”

The king walked to the stone bowl. Jacob’s stomach turned and he fought the urge to get as far away as possible. He was sure he knew what was in the bowl.

Ramantus messed around with the syringe for a moment, then grew frustrated. “Boy, come here. You do this—I can’t get it to work.”

Jacob stepped to the king’s side, noticing for the first time that Ramantus’s hands were twisted and gnarled-looking. His question from earlier returned to him. How old was the man? His face appeared to be around sixty, but his body? Well older than that.

Jacob’s own hands shook as he took the syringe and filled it with the blood from the basin. He and Ramantus watched as the clear liquid disappeared as it joined with the red. Jacob struggled to keep his face emotionless, his stomach getting more upset. He couldn’t believe he was actually helping!

Ramantus took the large syringe and approached the table where Het was situated. He pushed Het’s sleeve up and with a finger, poked at the inside of his son’s elbow. Apparently satisfied, he stabbed Het in the arm with the syringe and pushed the plunger. Jacob turned away—he couldn’t watch. But when Het started screaming, Jacob couldn’t help but glance—the prince was thrashing around, nearly breaking the leather ties.

Suddenly, the thrashing stopped and Het became very still. His chest rose and fell with each breath.

“Father?” Het asked, his voice cracking. “How long?”

“It takes a few minutes.”

Het trembled. “It burns—it burns!”

Ramantus put on a pair of gloves. “I know. Stay calm—it’ll go fast.” His nostrils flared as he clutched the sides of the table, staring intently at his son. The room was so quiet, the king’s breathing was magnified for several moments.

And then Het screamed, his face screwing up, the veins in his neck and cheeks standing out. A violent transition started. His body began to elongate, his skin changing color and appearance—transforming from normal to blue and from blue to bruised bright red to blood seeping from the skin.

Why would Het willingly submit to such a thing?

But it was no longer Het. It was a Lorkon, lying on the table, unconscious. Ramantus, his hands protected from Het’s poisonous blood, tried to wake the prince. Nothing happened. He shook Het harder. Still no response.

“Son? Son!” Ramantus shoved the table, shouting curses and screaming.

But Het was still unresponsive. Ramantus growled and spun, kicking a box and sending its contents flying. “Curse that man! He killed my son!”

Het wasn’t dead—Jacob knew because he’d seen this Lorkon several times over the past months. But Ramantus couldn’t know that.

“Father, what’s going on?” Isan asked from his table. “Did it work?”

“No. It did not.” Ramantus fisted his hands, eyes shut, breathing deeply. His colors started changing to the more peaceful blues. “Maybe I used too much blood. Or not enough.”

“Try again,” one of the other men said.

“Not on any of you.” Ramantus frowned, concentrating. “I need a servant. Another expendable.”

He glanced across the room to Jacob, his lip curling upward into a grin. The expression reminded Jacob so much of Keitus that he stepped back in shock, bumping into one of the empty tables.

“Come here, boy,” the king said in almost a whisper.

Jacob shook his head.

“You don’t have a choice.” Ramantus grabbed another syringe, barely managing to fill it himself.

Jacob retreated until he was against the wall. “I won’t let you test on me.”

“You’ll die either way—I don’t look lightly upon insolence.” Holding the syringe in one hand, Ramantus undid Isan’s straps with his other. “Fetch the boy.”

Isan jumped to his feet, rolling up his sleeves.

Jacob ran toward the door but Isan beat him there, so he dashed the other way, lunging over boxes, knocking them down, trying to put space between himself and the prince. He felt like he was in a confusing obstacle course—the room was full of things to jump over and around.

There were long metal poles in a corner. Jacob ran to them, grabbed one, whirled, and hit Isan with it. The prince grinned and picked up a pole, tossing it from hand to hand. Jacob threw down his pole and raced away. If Dmitri were well trained on the sword, his brother would be just as good, if not better. Jacob didn’t stand a chance in that sort of fight.

Every time Jacob tried to get to the door, Isan or the king was there to stop him. How was he going to get away? Ideas came at him, but they were stupid—like fighting Isan—and he couldn’t form a coherent plan. It felt like his brain was short-circuiting from the fear.

He raced to the opposite side of a large table, keeping it between himself and Isan, buying himself more time. In desperation, he tried to return to the present. It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? The reason nagged at him at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t hold on to it long enough to understand.

His body felt like it was slowing down—no wonder. He hadn’t eaten anything in a long time. Would he pass out? Sheer and utter panic flooded through his system, preventing him from grasping onto any logical thought. He jumped away from the table, running across the room toward the door again, and narrowly missed being grabbed by the king.