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 I
san—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.
“This one has a lot of energy!” Isan said, panting as he tried to keep up.
Jacob didn’t know his own future. Was he about to die? Was this the end for him? It couldn’t be—he had to tell everyone how the Lorkon changed!
Again, he put a table between himself and Isan and tried returning to the present, concentrating as hard as he could. If only this were just a nightmare and he could wake up, back at home, in his own bed!
Ramantus laughed. “You look like you’re trying to wish yourself away. Why? You saw what it did to my son—that’s the worst of what would happen to you.”
Jacob jumped away when Isan lunged across the table. He dashed around a corner pillar, a logical thought finally entering his mind. He couldn’t return right then, not with everyone watching.
He had to leave! But how, when the king was about to stab him with a needle full of blood?
His mouth popped open as something truly wonderful occurred to him. He knocked over another stack of boxes, attempting to stop Isan, and considered the implications and possible outcomes of the decision he was about to make.
It was impossible for him to do anything in the past that would drastically alter the future. Based on that rule, Ramantus wouldn’t be able to put the blood into him, since it would turn him into a Lorkon. And that would drastically alter the future.
Jacob screeched to a halt, took a deep breath, and turned to face Ramantus. He put up his hands, trying to control their shaking. “Okay. I’ll do what you want me to do.”
Ramantus raised his eyebrows, standing near the door to the room. “Sudden change of heart?” The colors around him briefly showed his confusion, but then they turned to green for excitement. “I appreciate it. Get over here.”
Jacob hesitated just a moment longer—being wrong would be a very bad thing. Then he walked to the king and held his arm out, pulling up his sleeve.
“Isan, hold him just in case.”
Isan grabbed Jacob’s upper arms, pinning them in place, and shoved Jacob against the wall, pushing his back and head into the stone. Jacob tried to ignore the pain—he’d definitely have bruises.
Without hesitation and obviously without problem, the king stabbed the needle into Jacob’s arm. Jacob cried out in surprise. That shouldn’t have happened! The king should’ve been stopped!
Ramantus pushed down the plunger, shooting the potion into Jacob’s bloodstream.
Jacob screamed in agony as the poison entered his body. He felt it burning through his veins, coursing up his arm. Nausea hit him and he nearly threw up, remembering the time when Keitus first touched him. This was just as bad and just as surprising.
Shouldn’t his magical system be making his heart hurt, warning him that he was about to be forced back home? The pain he felt was different—it was from the potion, not his abilities. But wouldn’t turning into a Lorkon seriously alter his future?
Or . . . and this thought blazed its way into Jacob’s mind. What if he were stuck in the past? What if his magic had been broken by entering a room built to prevent Shiengol entrance? What if his heart wouldn’t ever hurt again and he’d never be able to go home?
Jacob couldn’t hold a rational thought in his mind. He couldn’t tell whether he was going crazy because of the potion or because he was truly and completely panicked.
His family . . . Jacob felt wetness on his face, but didn’t care. He wouldn’t see any of them again. He wouldn’t ever know if Aloren and Matt got out of the hospital.
Jacob was only partially aware of Ramantus’s face inches from his own. He no longer cared that Isan still held him tightly against the wall. He was in a different realm—one of misery and homesickness.
Just then, Het the Lorkon started thrashing and kicking, jerking Jacob from his thoughts. Het roared from his table and Ramantus whipped around, completely shocked. He only hesitated a moment before rushing to his son’s side.
“Het? Het! Can you hear me? How do you feel?”
Jacob held his breath as Isan also ran to Het’s side. Was escape now a possibility? The poison still burned in his body, the transformation about to take place.
The Lorkon roared again, throwing the straps from his arms and legs and sitting up.
Jacob took the opportunity to rush from the room.
The king noticed. “Isan!” he shrieked. “Stop that boy! He’s about to turn, and I need . . .”
Jacob didn’t hear any more. He raced down the hall, into another section of the castle, nearly knocking Bekett over.
“Thojac, get back here!” Bekett called after him. “You have crimes . . .”
Jacob didn’t stop. He rushed through the first door he saw, shut it, and turned, pulling out the Key. His hands shook violently from the nausea that pulsed through his body, and he barely got the Key in the lock. The first place that entered his mind was his room in the castle, and he took himself there.
Sarot was reading from a piece of paper. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you. Bekett’s still very upset—” He stopped, suddenly noticing Jacob’s condition. “What’s going on? You look awful. Did something happen?”
Jacob shook his head and collapsed on his bed where he’d be more comfortable for the transformation. Hopefully he’d still be in control of his thoughts and actions. How much longer did he have? Only a few minutes passed while Het’s body was in between stages.
“You look really sick.”
Sarot approached Jacob’s bed, but Jacob waved him away. He didn’t want the guy anywhere near.
Sarot held up his hands. “All right, I’ll let you be.”
Then the door swung open, and one of their roommates entered the room. Great—it was Mindac. The jerk. Jacob’s heaving stomach fell—this was not good.
Mindac strode up to Jacob’s bed.
“I figured out why you were so happy yesterday,” he said. He grabbed Jacob by the neck, lifting him and slamming him against the wall. Jacob’s already sick and exhausted body nearly gave into convulsions. He fought to remain in control.
“You want Hayla? You can’t have her!”
Jacob struggled, trying to get away, but was unable. He could barely breathe—Mindac was going to strangle him.
Just then, Sarot hit the taller footman with a pillow—like that would do anything. “Leave him alone! What has he done to you?”
Mindac released his hold on Jacob, letting him fall to the bed, and shoved the younger footman. Sarot growled and pounced on the guy, but he was no match. With another push, Sarot went flying backwards, banging against the bed next to Jacob’s. Then Mindac kicked him in the side. He grabbed Sarot, lifting him by the shirt, and threw him against the wall. Sarot fell and didn’t move.
Jacob stumbled toward Mindac and tried to attack, but the guy spun and hit Jacob, knocking him to the floor near Sarot.
“Scum! Those girls are not yours!”
Jacob almost retorted that the girls didn’t belong to Mindac, but held his tongue, deciding not to aggravate the guy more.
Apparently satisfied, Mindac left. Jacob realized he had to leave the castle before someone else found him—Het, Isan, or a servant. He checked Sarot—the boy would be okay—then Keyed himself to his old shelter.
Jacob grabbed one of the blankets and curled up in it, waiting for the Lorkon transf
ormation to be complete. Everything had happened so fast since Ramantus poisoned him, but several minutes at least had passed.
Something was happening—the potion moved and flowed through his blood. Maybe, because of everything he’d been through in his life, it would take more time for him than it had for Het to change.
He was about to attempt returning home again, but stopped himself. He couldn’t subject his family to the horrors of seeing him as a Lorkon.
Jacob shivered in the blanket, wishing he’d grabbed more. Tremors crossed him, and even though he was freezing, his body started sweating. Pains in his chest and back manifested themselves like pinpricks that made it feel like his skin was falling asleep while his heart couldn’t pump enough blood. Was this the process?
A bout of dizziness and headaches came next, increasing his misery. He held up his arm, watching for bruising to appear. But nothing like what had happened to Het occurred. Why wasn’t he changing? Had Ramantus mixed the wrong amount of blood?
Unable to understand why it was taking so long, Jacob forced himself to focus on the problem from a different angle. Could he even turn into a Lorkon? Was that possible? Last time Keitus had tried, it hadn’t worked, but only because Keitus probably hadn’t fully understood how the poison would interact with the blood of a Shiengol.
Then what Jacob just thought really hit him and he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes in relief. He couldn’t become a Lorkon. Keitus had already tried it, and Jacob’s system was immune to the potion.
He opened his eyes. But why was he still feeling so sick—and getting worse?
He gasped as he figured it out. The blood Keitus used was poison. Like last time, when the Makalos had to put Kaede Sap into his blood, his body was having other reactions. And just because he couldn’t become a Lorkon didn’t mean bad things wouldn’t happen. Like death. Or turning into a person like those in Maivoryl City.
Rise of Keitus (Kilenya Series, 4) Page 24