The Crimson Vault (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (53 page)

An instant later, an ash-gray rope flew out, the noose at the end fastening around Talos’ neck.

The Heir scrabbled at the noose around his neck, trying to pull the rope free. His voice scraped out of his throat, but it was weak. Someone would be coming soon in any case, because of the guard’s screams.

She would have to be quick.

Haresh stepped out of the Ragnarus Gate, continuing to pull his rope taut. Talos fell onto his back and was dragged, closer and closer, to the Arbiter.

The guard had collapsed, unconscious. The flames from the Furnace died out.

Haresh lowered himself to one red-skinned knee, his beard brushing the blue tiles. “I smell betrayal on you, Heir of Damasca,” he whispered. “You have betrayed everyone who ever trusted you. For this, you will hang.”

Grandmaster Naraka leaned over the Heir. He deserved every second of this, if not more. He was a Ragnarus Traveler, and thus he gained his power from the blood of others. More than that, he really was a traitor.

He had earned this fate. But before that, she still had a use for him.

The Grandmaster smiled down at Talos.

“First,” she said, “you will answer my questions.”

***

Alin rose from his feet, mentally going down the checklist of everything he had left. There were a few other beings he could summon from the Gold District, but he doubted any of them would fare any better against the King’s spear. He certainly didn’t want anyone he knew ending up like Marakos.

From the Green District, he could summon something like a turtle, which might be able to stand up to a direct impact from the spear. It wouldn’t do him much good in combat, though.

He could summon an arrow-trap, he supposed, and fill the Vault with an onslaught of golden arrows.

But he doubted very much that any one of those darts would pierce the King’s black shield. Besides, he was running out of strength; whatever he summoned next would likely be the last thing he called.

King Zakareth stood looking down on him for a moment, his blue eye blazing.

Then he threw his shield down. His spear followed quickly after, then his crown.

Alin stood, his mouth gaping, wondering if he was seeing reality or if this was just some kind of hopeful dream. The King seemed to age decades before his eyes, sagging and bending under his own body’s weight.
 

“No artifact of Ragnarus comes without a price,” he said, and surprisingly his voice was as strong as ever. “When you get to be my age, strength like that isn’t without its price, either.”

“What was your price?” Alin asked, curious in spite of himself.

“My life,” the King responded casually. He picked his way carefully across the gore- and debris-strewn floor, edging over to the wall.

Alin kept a ball of light close to summoning, just in case the King tried to pull out another weapon. He didn’t expect that to happen—the only weapon Zakareth would have needed to kill him was his spear, and he had thrown that down—but it couldn’t hurt to be safe.

The King went on, his voice strangely even. “When I saw that Talos had betrayed me, bringing a strike force from Enosh here…well, I don’t think any of them expected to find me here, anymore than I expected to see them. You planned to stride into the palace and burn the Tree, didn’t you?”

Alin wasn’t sure about the wisdom of revealing his strategy to his biggest enemy, but the King appeared to know everything already. “That’s…most of it, yes,” Alin responded.

King Zakareth pulled a box off a nearby shelf, quickly checking the label underneath. “I thought as much. Regardless, when I saw your friends come in, I knew they would kill me anyway.”

He met Alin’s eyes, and the corners of his lips turned up in what could almost, on another man, have been a smile. “Two Grandmasters and a dozen of the finest Travelers in Enosh? That’s a noble death. My Successor is secure. Still, I wish I had more—”

Suddenly he shook as if choking, clutching at his chest with one hand. He sagged to the floor, leaning against the wall for support on the way down. He kept the box cradled in one arm the entire time.

On instinct, Alin stepped forward to help, but he stopped himself. No telling if the King was up to some devious trap, though if he gained some advantage from this charade, Alin couldn’t see it.

The King opened the box and fished around in it for a moment before holding something up for Alin to see.

It was an oblong ball, about the same size as a walnut. It seemed to be red, but in this light, so did everything else. As far as Alin knew, it might even
be
a walnut.

“This,” the King said, “is the seed of a Hanging Tree.”

Alin took one involuntary step back.

King Zakareth’s voice hardened. “If you have any sense of responsibility within you, you’ll take it. Use it, if anything happens to the Trees. The Incarnations…”

Suddenly he seemed to choke again, or maybe he simply ran out of breath.

For reasons Alin didn’t quite understand, he took the seed. He could always burn it later, he supposed. But if he needed it…well, it would be better to have it in case he needed it, that was all.

For now, he had one last question for the dying king.

“Why me?” he asked.

The King waited for his bout of choking to subside before he answered. “Ragnarus wasn’t always the guardian of the Incarnations. More than three hundred years ago, it was Elysia.”

Alin had heard that before, back in Enosh, but he had thought it was an Enosh legend. He was somewhat surprised to hear the King confirm the story.

“I thought that was a legend,” Alin responded warily, clutching the seed in his fist. He had no pockets on his armor, of course, but he would carry this with him back to Enosh.
 

“You know my daughter, Leah?” King Zakareth asked. He sounded as if he already knew the answer, but Alin nodded anyway.

“Tell her I wanted more time. I wanted…” he choked again, then shook his head, changing what he was about to say. “I wanted a lot of things.

“Now, Elysian Traveler,” Zakareth said, once more cold and businesslike. “I have trusted you beyond what is wise. Do me a favor in return.”

He tapped the center of his breastplate with one gauntleted finger. “Your sword. One stroke. Make it clean.”

By his tone, you would think he was ordering breakfast.

Alin thought he would have had no problem complying with that request, but when he looked at Zakareth now, he didn’t see the heartless king at the head of an evil empire.

He saw a sick, dying old man.

But then he pictured the people of Enosh, and how they would feel if he could tell them—with complete honesty—that he had slain the King of Damasca. They would feel safe again. Empowered, even.

In the end, he summoned his sword of golden light, and thrust it through King Zakareth’s chest.

***

Outside the silver doors, Grandmaster Naraka waited. A Gate hung open behind her, leading onto a room that Alin assumed was located somewhere in the royal palace in Cana. They seemed to have used a lot of blue.

The Grandmaster herself was a mess. She was covered in bloody scrapes that looked even worse in the ruby light of Ragnarus, and she could barely stand straight without leaning against the wall. One lens of her spectacles was cracked.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

Alin nodded, his fist tightening on the red seed.

The motion attracted the old woman’s gaze. “What is that you have there?” she asked.

“A seed,” Alin responded. He offered no other details.

She held out a hand. “Give it to me,” she ordered.

“It’s mine.”

Alin could just make out her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “As you wish, then, Eliadel. Will you plant it?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Alin said. “We have a mission to complete.”

The Grandmaster cackled, following him through the Gate into the royal palace.

“As always, I’m a step ahead of you.”

She seemed like she was in a strangely good mood. Warily, Alin glanced at her. “You don’t seem overcome by grief,” he noted. “We lost a lot of good people today.”

“We won,” Grandmaster Naraka answered. “Now many more good people will have a chance to live.”

Then Alin stepped off the blue pedestal, away from the Ragnarus Gate, and he realized what Grandmaster Naraka had meant when she said she had won.

Talos’ body lay sprawled on the blue tiles, his face blue and purple as though he had been strangled. A livid red mark wrapped around the skin of his neck, and Alin couldn’t help thinking about the red-skinned Arbiter’s gray noose.

He didn’t mind that Talos was dead. He didn’t even particularly care that Grandmaster Naraka had killed him; in her long life, she had undoubtedly done far worse. But, somehow, seeing it in front of him, staring down at the corpse of a man who had once been strong and confident…that made it all so much worse.

But that wasn’t all.

A staircase led down from the pedestal, down into the floor, penetrating all the way down into the heart of the royal palace. From the open trap door at the top of the stairs, Alin guessed that the staircase was usually hidden underneath a secret panel in the tile.

At the far end of the tunnel, a red tree writhed in agony amid dancing flames.

“You see?” Grandmaster Naraka said. “It’s our victory. The Incarnations are free.”

Among the flames, the silhouette of a single hand thrust into the air.

Alin had never opened an Elysian Gate any faster. In seconds, the two of them were in the City of Light, leaving Cana behind them to whatever destruction the Incarnation of Ragnarus decided to inflict.

***

In Bel Calem, Adrienne Lamarkis Daiasus was almost unsurprised to hear the house rumble beneath her feet. She threw her pen down on her writing-desk, hurrying outside to find Petrus.

The balding, one-armed Traveler stood outside her door, looking grim.

“This is it,” he said, and she immediately began running down the hall to her daughters’ rooms.

“How long?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“It’s already started.”

Adrienne passed a stained-glass window depicting an ancient Overlord signing a peace treaty with the natives of Helgard. She could barely see the garden outside, but she noticed when the entire garden spontaneously burst into flames.

She ran faster.

Both of the girls were hysterical, insisting that they had seen monsters outside the window and asking if the house would burn down, but she ignored their questions, gathering them up and rushing them outside to Petrus.

“Have the evacuation orders been issued?” she asked.

“Five minutes ago, my lady,” Petrus replied.

“Then open a Gate,” she ordered. Malachi would never have run from this, but she had come to a realization in the weeks since his death: she was not, and should not be, her husband.

He might have been able to battle this Incarnation toe-to-toe, but she was no Traveler. And despite the pain it may cause her, she would not stay aboard a sinking ship.

She and her daughters followed Petrus into Naraka, which caused her daughters to bury their faces in her skirts. It was dark, and hot, and it smelled like death, but this was the one place where the Incarnation would never follow them. At least, that was what Malachi had always said.

“Take us to the south quarter,” she said. “I have a shelter there, and from that position we can reorganize the city.”

Petrus eyed her sadly and shook his head, leading them down the tunnel by the light of his glowing palm. “I’m sorry, my lady. I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because by the time we get there, the Incarnation will have burned it to the ground. The city is lost.”

***

An Avernus Traveler poked her head into Leah’s tent. She must have been fresh off a bird; her hair was still blown about as though she had wrestled a windstorm, and she was still wearing her flying goggles.

“That’s a report from Bel Calem,” she said. “The city is in flames.”

Leah sighed and nodded to the woman, who bowed and immediately left.
 

Indirial leaned over the map of Damasca they had on the table, pushing a red pin into Bel Calem. “That’s four,” he said. “Endross, Ornheim, Naraka…and Ragnarus.”

“Slay one Incarnation, and four more rise to take its place,” Leah said wearily.

“You know how this works better than anyone,” Indirial responded. “They managed to burn a Tree—I don’t know which one, maybe Deborah’s. Maybe even mine. That Incarnation escapes. But all the Trees are connected, so maybe the next weakest Tree fails. And then the next.”

“And the dominoes keep falling,” Leah finished. “I know. At least we’re sure Helgard and Lirial still stand.”

“I’m sure Tartarus still stands as well,” Indirial added. “Overlord Cyrus won’t let his Tree go so easily, and his sacrifice was relatively fresh.”

“So in the best-case scenario, almost half of the Incarnations are loose on our nation.” Leah sighed and rubbed her temples. “You know I have to go to my father with this.”

“I have no doubt he already knows,” Indirial said. “But yes, you do. Go on, I can handle matters here.”

Leah walked around the map table, opening her Gate where it wouldn’t merge with the table. Gates could do some awkward things if you tried to open them where a solid object could interfere, from failing to open at all, to sucking that object into the Territory, to slicing the object in half. She preferred to eschew such risks entirely.

When she reached the Crimson Vault, she immediately knew something was wrong: the silver doors were cracked open.

“Indirial,” she called, and immediately the Valinhall Traveler stood at her side.

Indirial took in the situation at a glance: the door had been smeared with blood—recently, or it would have been absorbed into the silver—and left open a crack. Through the door, Leah could already see a body in the Vault itself.

The Overlord preceded her through the doors, the chains on his arms coming to life and crawling slowly up his forearms.

Travelers littered the front hallway of the Vault, but Leah ignored them at the sight of one body, lying far enough back that she could barely see him.