The Crimson Vault (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (11 page)

***

When Adrienne Lamarkis Daiasus felt the silent scream shudder through the stone of her Bel Calem home, she stood from her breakfast and rushed out the doors. Black skirts swished around her ankles as she walked. She would wear no other color until she had finished mourning her husband, which would not be until she could have justice for his death.

Petrus met her outside the dining-hall doors. The pudgy, balding Naraka Traveler waved his one remaining arm in a panic. “We need to get out of here, my Lady. Seven stones, I don’t know why we’re not dead already.”

Adrienne kept walking, forcing Petrus to keep up. “Is it free?” she asked. She had to prepare for the worst.

The aging Traveler shrugged, which was not the most comforting thing he could have done. “I certainly haven’t examined the Tree myself,” Petrus said. “But I would say no, the Naraka Incarnation is not free. If it was, I suspect we would be burning to death right now.”

She nodded, processing the information without slowing down. On the move, Adrienne signaled a nearby guard. “Evacuate the house,” she told him. “I want everyone who isn’t a Traveler out of here five minutes ago.”

The soldier saluted and started to run off, but she grabbed him by the elbow before he could move. “On second thought, take it a step further. Evacuate this whole quarter of the city. Tell the Captain he’s authorized to use whatever force he feels is necessary. I will be there to supervise the operation as soon as I can.”

The guard let nothing show in his face, which Adrienne considered a blessing. He simply saluted and ran off to carry out his orders. Since Malachi’s death, too many had felt free to tell her exactly what they thought of her commands. Evacuating an entire quarter of the city would be a logistical nightmare, and she doubted it would be possible in anything less than a full day. But, should the worst happen, some of her citizens would have a better chance to escape.

Petrus was already out of breath from keeping up with her, but he managed an approving nod. “Good, my Lady. Very good. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Adrienne gave him her most disarming smile without slowing her pace. “What are you talking about, Petrus? We’re going down to check on the Tree. If that Incarnation breaks out, he’ll have to go through us first.”

She was no Traveler, and she barely had an inkling of the kind of power that one of the Incarnations wielded, but she would slow it down with her body if necessary.

Malachi would have given his life to stop the Incarnation from reaching Bel Calem. In his memory, she could do no less.

***

Overlord Lysander Torannus had sent a flock of his Sarin tribe sparrows to check on the Tree the instant he felt the distortion. As an Avernus Traveler, he had a deep bond with his birds, but also utmost confidence in their abilities. If any flock could survive an encounter with the Ragnarus Tree, it would be his.

Lysander’s Tree rested in the center of a forest glade, next to a creek, inside a huge marble mausoleum that had been constructed for exactly this purpose. He had only ordered the doors opened a crack, just enough to send his tiny birds inside, but in that instant he had nearly been skewered by thorny tendrils the color of blood. His sparrows had only made it inside thanks to the natural agility of the Sarin.

He could feel them fluttering against the doors now, and he signaled his guards to haul the doors back open. They did, though it took four men.

The flock of brown-gold sparrows swept out of the marble doors in a cloud, crimson branches snapping at their tail feathers. The guards staggered back, letting the doors slam shut. They closed on some of the Tree’s tendrils, cutting them in half. Lengths of supple red wood fell to the ground, squirming like blood-colored worms.

The Sarin whirled around Lysander’s head, sharing with him the squeaky, chirruping thoughts of their flock-mind.
 

Tree weak
, they sent.
Needs time. Time to heal. Needs feeding. Next year. Hungry. Weak. Broken. Needs time.

Lysander felt himself smile. The Tree would not have the time it needed to recover; he and his Highness Talos, the last remaining
real
Damascan Heir, would see to that. Then they would rule over the world as it was meant to be.

He had foreseen it.

***

Deborah was miles away when her Tree screamed, but she felt it in the rock. Through her bare feet pressed to the rocky ground, she felt the earth’s pain and fury as the crimson roots of Ragnarus struggled to contain the Incarnation of Ornheim. It wasn’t breaking free; at least, not yet. But it was awake. It was aware, as it had not been in the three centuries since it was sealed beneath the earth.

She rose to her feet, feeling only the faintest creaking of joints. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, but she’d let Naraka take her before she gave in to age. She stood, stretching her aching back, and surveyed the cavern.

Stalactites hung many paces overhead, leaving enough room for a two-story house. The broad floor, wide enough to host a grand ball, was covered in half-finished golems. Obsidian wolves with three amethyst eyes waited, inanimate, as a young Ornheim initiate shaped its hind legs. Huge, hulking granite guardians crouched against the wall, awaiting the topaz heartstones that would bring them to life. Sleek, angular assassins of flint and shale prowled restlessly, ruby heartstones gleaming in the dim light. Each golem required weeks of delicate care and preparation, but that was the way of Ornheim: patience, preparation, and endurance yielded rewards.
 

Soon, their golem army would shatter the walls of Enosh. Assuming, of course, that the Ornheim Incarnation did not break free and kill them all.

Ornheim Travelers paced up and down the rows of golems, making last-minute checks and attending to the business of creating Damasca’s golem army. Or at least, they had been attending to business just a moment ago. But they had all felt the warning in the earth at the same time, and they all looked to her—their Overlord—for orders.

Overlord Deborah kept herself from smiling, as she habitually kept most expressions off her face, but she felt it on the inside.
This
was why Ornheim Travelers were so much more useful than those of other Territories. They did not panic or flail around or look for further confirmation of what they already knew. They simply, patiently, diligently awaited orders. Her heart swelled with pride, but she pushed the feeling back. She had work to do.
 

Deborah signaled two of the Travelers nearest her. “Urian, Dynelle, get back to Tar Canis. Put the Tree on full lockdown. If anything tries to get in or out, I want them to have to dig through two mountains and half a dozen golems.”

“Yes, Overlord,” they said in unison, and jogged off to open their Gates.

“Everyone else, back to work. Double time. We need to finish this battalion as soon as we can, then get back to Tar Canis ourselves. If the Incarnation breaks free, we should be there to face it.”

Several Travelers shouted their assent and returned to work, but Janira stepped up close, doubt plain on her face. She had advised Deborah for years, as her mother had advised Deborah’s. As usual, she wore a net of diamonds in her braided hair.

“Pardon me, Overlord,” Janira said. “But shouldn’t we inform the King?”

Deborah shook her head, thinking about the Overlord of Cana. “Trust me, Janira. The King already knows.”

***

Indirial sprinted through the halls of the royal palace in Cana, black cloak flowing behind him. There were two guards on the door to the King’s private library, both Tartarus Travelers, and normally they would have challenged him about his purpose if they saw him trying to enter. That was a good policy, and one he encouraged; no one, not even him, should be able to reach the King without royal permission. But today he didn’t have time for policy.

He flew down the hallway with the clear intention to run through anything his way. The two Tartarus Travelers noticed. They got out of his way.

Indirial slammed through the library doors to find King Zakareth seated at a desk, his sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in books, maps, and old scrolls. He looked up, surprise evident on his face.

“Indirial. What’s wrong?”

Indirial didn’t bother bowing. He didn’t have time. “The tenth tree is broken,” he said. “Valin is free.”
 

Zakareth stared for a moment, and then his face tightened in an expression of cold anger. He slammed his hand flat against the desk. “Why now, of all times?” he demanded.

“The Maker’s reward for our clean living,” Indirial responded dryly.
 

Zakareth shook his head, tearing a Gate to the Crimson Vault open behind him.

The portal itself was lined in bright red light, though it opened onto a rough stone cave. A pair of silver doors, carved with the image of a one-eyed king long dead, led into the Vault proper. The entire scene was lit only by a pair of unnatural scarlet torches.

Zakareth walked through the Gate, motioning Indirial to come along behind him.

 
“Follow me,” the King said wearily. “Let’s get to work.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE
:

T
HE
R
ISING
S
UN

Alin held up the golden breastplate and admired the way it gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. The Grandmasters had mined the ore from Ornheim and forged the armor in Tartarus, so that it looked like gold, but was much harder and lighter. It even had the symbol of Elysia etched in the center: a winged sword, point-down, with a rising sun in the background. Alin thought the armor would make him look regal, like a warrior-king from the stories.
 

But first, he had to put it on.

 
“Excuse me,” the armorer said, from somewhere around Alin’s feet. “I’m sorry, sir, but could you please put the breastplate back?”

“Just a moment,” Alin said. He turned the breastplate so it best caught a ray of sunshine through the high windows, gleaming like a fallen star.

“I quite understand, sir, but please. It’s on my head.”

Startled, Alin pulled the breastplate up. The armorer, who had been adjusting one of the many straps on Alin’s golden boots, was now crouched on the floor, peering up. Without even noticing, Alin had been resting the breastplate on the back of his skull.

Alin flushed with shame and moved the breastplate aside. “My apologies, Master Farin. I was careless.”

Farin, the most highly regarded armorer in the city of Enosh, chuckled nervously. “Not at all, Eliadel, not at all. As soon as I am finished fitting the greaves, we will attach the breastplate. Do not worry. You will look radiant for the celebration this afternoon.”

Alin looked over at the full-size mirror, which easily held the largest amount of smooth mirrored glass he had ever seen. From the waist down he looked magnificent, with gold plated armor covering him from hips to toes. His shoulders and arms were covered in gold as well, and his hands in golden gauntlets, but his midsection was a mass of chainmail and leather straps. For reasons he didn’t understand, the chest and back were assembled last.

Master Farin had assured him that the suit he wore was a simplified version of the usual plate armor, and was much easier to don and remove. He had also claimed that this suit—being made from rare ingredients and techniques not of this world—was lighter, stronger, and more flexible as well.

Alin felt strong enough wearing the armor, but sweat ran down his back and he wondered if he would be able to close his gauntleted fingers enough to lift a sword. He couldn’t even put the suit on or take it off by himself. If this was better than what real knights had worn into battle, back when plate armor was the fashion, then he was glad he was not a knight.

Alin wasn’t sure why the people of Enosh usually used this room of the Grandmasters’ palace, but it was round and very high. Tall windows high up on the walls let in the sunlight, and the double doors were at least ten paces tall. Other than the mirror, these were the room’s only features.
 

Without warning, the room’s two tall doors opened and Grandmaster Naraka hobbled inside. Grandmaster Naraka had left her birth name behind decades ago, and she was easily the oldest person Alin had ever met. Since coming to Enosh, Alin had heard rumors that Grandmaster Naraka was over one hundred years old. Looking at her hunched and shriveled form, he had no reason to doubt it.

She wore a pair of glasses perched on her nose, with thick red lenses so dark they were almost black. Alin had occasionally wondered if she was blind, and wore such dark glasses because she couldn’t see anyway. But he couldn’t imagine any disability severe enough that the Grandmaster would bow to it.

“Eliadel,” the Grandmaster croaked. She bowed her head a fraction. “How do you like your armor?”

“I’m sure it will look great at the celebration, Grandmaster,” he said. He meant it, but he was afraid he might also trip over his own boots and fall on his face in front of the entire population of Enosh.

Grandmaster Naraka snorted. “Oh, you’ll look good. And maybe this armor will stop you from getting yourself killed next time you leave the city.”

Alin winced at the thought. Only this morning had Grandmaster Asphodel allowed him to remove his bandages, pronouncing him ‘Healthy enough, so long as he doesn’t toss himself face-first into a furnace. Again.’ She had then waddled off in a huff, muttering about children. Alin had no wish to be healed by her a second time.

“I have learned my lesson, Grandmaster,” Alin said humbly. “I will not act so rashly again.” Not unless he had to, anyway.

Naraka waved a hand at him. “That’s neither here nor there, boy. Do you remember what to say this afternoon?”

Master Farin pressed the breastplate against Alin’s chest.