Contents

Damascan Map

Title Page

Copyright

The Damascan Standard Calendar

HOUSE OF BLADES

CHAPTER 1: Ghosts and Demons

CHAPTER 2: Sacrifices

CHAPTER 3: Travelers

CHAPTER 4: Hidden Talents

CHAPTER 5: A Step Forward

CHAPTER 6: Welcome to Valinhall

CHAPTER 7: Sharp Lessons

CHAPTER 8: Risks and Rewards

CHAPTER 9: Deals and Darkness

CHAPTER 10: Another Test

CHAPTER 11: Orgrith Cave

CHAPTER 12: Escape

CHAPTER 13: The Chains of Valinhall

CHAPTER 14: The Wrong Place

CHAPTER 15: Playing With Dolls

CHAPTER 16: The Road to Bel Calem

CHAPTER 17: Midsummer's Eve

CHAPTER 18: Convergence

CHAPTER 19: Overlord Malachi

CHAPTER 20: Bad Habits

CHAPTER 21: A Victory

CHAPTER 22: The Hope of Escape

CHAPTER 23: Aftermath

THE CRIMSON VAULT

CHAPTER 1: A Prison in the Rain

CHAPTER 2: Weapons Old and New

CHAPTER 3: Royal Blood

CHAPTER 4: Rebirth

CHAPTER 5: The Rising Sun

CHAPTER 6: The Grandmasters' Council

CHAPTER 7: Avoiding Justice

CHAPTER 8: Ice and Moonlight

CHAPTER 9: The Incarnation of Valinhall

CHAPTER 10: Return to Bel Calem

CHAPTER 11: Alin Vs. Kai

CHAPTER 12: A Declaration of War

CHAPTER 13: Nine Doors

CHAPTER 14: The Frozen Horn

CHAPTER 15: Succession

CHAPTER 16: Careful Plans

CHAPTER 17: The Royal Army of Damasca

CHAPTER 18: A Duel

CHAPTER 19: Ambush

CHAPTER 20: The Mask

CHAPTER 21: The End of the Dragon

CHAPTER 22: The Crimson Vault

CHAPTER 23: Seeds

CHAPTER 24: The Gates of Heaven

CHAPTER 25: Long Live the King

CITY OF LIGHT

CHAPTER 1: Gathering Weapons

CHAPTER 2: Arrivals and Departures

CHAPTER 3: Gates in the Snow

CHAPTER 4: A Dead Man in the Graveyard

CHAPTER 5: Disturbing Explanations

CHAPTER 6: A Test and a Ghost

CHAPTER 7: Elysian Rule

CHAPTER 8: The Gallery

CHAPTER 9: Inside Enosh

CHAPTER 10: Stories in the City

CHAPTER 11: Elysia Vs. Valinhall

CHAPTER 12: Fighting in the Streets

CHAPTER 13: Invasion

CHAPTER 14: Battle in the House of Blades

CHAPTER 15: Prices Paid

CHAPTER 16: The Founder's Heir

CHAPTER 17: Capture

CHAPTER 18: A Conversation in Avernus

CHAPTER 19: Creating Incarnations

CHAPTER 20: Old Friends and New Enemies

CHAPTER 21: Daughter of Wind

CHAPTER 22: Grief

CHAPTER 23: A Pair of Masks

CHAPTER 24: The End of a Traveler

CHAPTER 25: Newfound Powers

CHAPTER 26: Strategic Planning

CHAPTER 27: War in the City of Light

CHAPTER 28: Rewards

TRAVELER'S GATE CHRONICLES

Welcome to Elysia

Tower of Winter

The Feathered Plains

The Crystal Fields

Gardens of Mist

Maelstrom of Stone

The Steel Labyrinth

The Lightning Wastes

Caverns of Flame

Ragnarus

Sequel Page

The Future

The Traveler's Gate Trilogy

Will Wight

www.WillWight.com

Copyright © 2016 Hidden Gnome Publishing

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melanie De Carvalho

Cover Design by Patrick Foster Design

The Damascan Standard Calendar

(Also called the Cynaran Calendar, established during the reign of Queen Cynara II)

Spring Day 1: Spring’s Birth Day 45: Sower’s Day Day 90: Spring’s End

Summer Day 1: Summer’s Dawn Day 45: Midsummer Day 90: Summer’s End

Autumn Day 1: Harvest Day Day 45: Reaping

Day 90: Autumn’s End

Winter Day 1: Winter’s Day Day 45: Midwinter Day 90: Winter’s End

This was a simplified system intended to unify the various seasonal and lunar calendars that competed prior to Damasca’s conquest of the continent. To mark the date, you count the number of days between you and the nearest holiday. The 81st day of Spring, for instance, would be “9 Days Till Spring’s End.” The 46th day of Spring is “1 Day Since Sower’s Day.”

House of Blades

(Book #1 of the Traveler’s Gate Trilogy)

CHAPTER 1:

GHOSTS AND DEMONS

350th Year of the Damascan Calendar

16th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

10 Days Until Midsummer

Through the darkness and the pouring rain, Simon stared at the ghost.

He had never seen a ghost before, but he knew this one at once. It looked like little more than a man-sized lump of mist, so he might have mistaken it for a product of the storm if it hadn’t seemed quite so unusual. For one thing, it glowed with a soft blue-white light, even though the moon was hidden behind rolling black stormclouds. For another, the ghost didn’t fade away or drift in the wind. It stood stock-still, facing one direction across thirty paces of rain and shadow. Simon imagined the ghost was looking straight at him.

He moved to take a closer look, but his father grabbed him by the arm. “Simon, why don’t you come help me with the cart?”

The boy cast one last, longing glance at the ghost before trudging over to the cart, hitched to their nameless donkey. They had packed the wagon to the brim with crates, boxes, and bags containing everything they had bought and hoped to sell in the villages between Enosh and Alrin. Simon’s father, Kalman, bent over the cart, checking that everything was sorted and covered.

There was nothing Simon could do to help, but his father had only called him over to keep him out of trouble. And away from anything interesting. Maybe the ghost would drift over here, and then he might even get to talk to it!

Simon’s mother, Edina, walked up and threw an arm around her son’s shoulder. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “What do you think it is?”

“A ghost,” he said with certainty. He was only eight years old, but his mother stood less than a head over him. She looked even shorter next to her husband, whose head brushed the branches of the nearby trees.

She nodded thoughtfully. “I bet he was a victim of the Forest Demon. He could have been another merchant, just like us, killed before his time. His soul will wander this world for eternity…or until his killer is brought to justice!”

Her voice rose dramatically at the end, and Kalman sighed.

Simon shivered in spite of himself and looked into the shadows, trying to make out the shape of a crouching demon. Would he be able to tell if there was a demon behind that redberry bush?

“What’s the Forest Demon?” he asked.

Edina took a step back so she could look at her son from arm’s length. She widened her eyes as though shocked. “Why, I’ve never told you the story of the Demon of Latari Forest?”

Simon shook his head.

“Then gather ‘round, young one, and open your ears. I’m about to tell you a tale of horror and tragedy that happened right where we stand, in this very forest.”

He wasn’t sure how, exactly, he was supposed to “gather ‘round,” but he tried to look as attentive as possible.

“Let’s pick up this story once we’re on the road,” Kalman said, with another glance at the ghost. The figure of glowing mist still hadn’t moved: it stood like a statue, staring at Simon’s family with no eyes.

Edina slapped her husband on the arm without looking. “They say the Forest Demon looks like a man,” she began, ignoring Kalman once again. “He wears a cloak with the hood up, so you can’t see his face, but you’d never know he wasn’t just another lost wanderer…until he’s already on top of you, and by then it’s too late. He prowls the edges of the trees, looking for people he can snatch up for food. Once he finds you, he takes you to the center of the forest, where there’s one tree that’s all his own.”

Simon’s mind filled with visions of a stranger in a black cloak, his hideously inhuman face hidden from view.

“When he gets you to this tree, he hangs you up like a piece of drying meat.” She mimed slipping a noose over her neck. “Then, once you’re dead, he eats your body slowly. Piece by piece. They say his hanging tree is solid red, covered in the blood of his prey.” She gestured toward the ghost. “That must be the spirit of one of his victims, here to watch over us, to make sure we don’t get eaten up.”

She swept a mock bow, clearly proud of herself.

As Simon stared through the veil of rain and into the shadows, trying to see if one patch of darkness looked a little too much like a man in a black cloak, his father leaned against the side of the cart.

“He’s eight,” Kalman said dryly. “You’re going to make him superstitious.”

“He’s eight,” Edina countered. “He’s already superstitious.”

“It’s not hard when his mother’s telling him Traveler’s tales every night before bed. Speaking of which,” he waved at the ghost, “we need to get out of here before whoever summoned that thing shows up.”

Edina grinned. “Ah, now who’s superstitious?”

“That’s Traveler work, you know it as well as I do,” Kalman said patiently.

Simon’s ears instantly perked up. He’d been scanning the bushes for odd-shaped shadows, spinning a fantasy in which only his alert warnings had saved his parents from an ambush by the Forest Demon, when the mention of Travelers caught his attention. He’d always wanted to see a Traveler.

Kalman levered himself up onto the driver’s seat of the cart. “I want to be back on the road before they show up.”

“Really?” Edina responded. She nodded toward the edge of the trees. “You want to ride out into that?”

As if her words had summoned it, lightning whipped across the sky, closely followed by the crackle of thunder. Simon felt like his skin was soaked through from the water that dripped through the Latari Forest’s thick canopy, but the storm beyond the treeline was like a waterfall by comparison. He’d rather jump into a cold bath than head out there.

Especially if it meant missing the Travelers.

“At least the storm won’t try and kill us,” Kalman said, keeping his serious gaze focused beyond the trees. Simon’s father smiled sometimes, but he never joked, and he meant every word he said. Edina was his exact opposite in almost every way.

She chuckled. “Kill us? Why would anyone want to? For our vast wealth? Travelers are just people, Kalman. They’re not monsters.”

Deep in the trees, coming from the center of the forest, a small pinprick of orange light appeared among the bushes. Simon squinted, trying to figure out what he was seeing. A torch? A campfire?

Kalman stepped down from the cart, but his expression remained clouded. “What are we going to do if a Traveler shows up, and he doesn’t—”

Edina interrupted by reaching under the tarp and pulling a two-pound sack out of the cart. She shook the bag under his nose, where it rattled as if it were filled with gravel. “If a Traveler shows up? We’ll sell him some beans!”

Simon kept staring at the orange light. It couldn’t have been a torch—it was too bright, too steady for that. It looked almost like a flame-colored star, drifting through the trees toward him.

But it was coming toward him.

Kalman’s lips twitched up in something that was almost a smile. “Beans?”

“Travelers still need food, don’t they?” Edina licked her lips. “Mmmm, beans. Delicious. And the rain will ruin them, so we might as well get rid of them while we can.”

Kalman sighed, defeated, and pulled his wife toward him in an embrace. “You win again, I’d say.”

She laughed from somewhere around his chest. “Then my flawless record stands another day!”

“Someone’s coming,” Simon said quietly. The orange light might not have been coming from a torch, but somebody was carrying it. And they were getting close.

Simon didn’t have long to wait. There were two people, it turned out, the woman in front carrying a light that looked a little too bright to Simon. It burned too steadily, not at all like a dirty, smoky, regular fire, and it didn’t hiss or throw up steam when it passed through the rain.

More importantly, she wasn’t carrying the light at the end of a torch. It hovered in midair two feet above her upturned palm.

Simon couldn’t hold back a grin. This was obviously a real Traveler, using the powers of a real Territory. Maybe he’d get to see her summon a monster!

Her partner was a big man with scars all over his face, so much that Simon couldn’t see any smooth skin, and he wore a grey cloak the color of the rain. Simon would have expected someone with that many scars to look mean, but he didn’t; he looked peaceful. He smiled at Simon as he approached.

The woman had yellow hair and wore dark red, almost black, robes. She was short—though taller than Simon’s mother—and she had blue eyes. Simon had never seen anyone with blue eyes before. When she saw Simon’s family, she glanced around into the bushes as if she expected to see the Forest Demon hiding nearby.

The ghost raised one misty arm, pointing straight at Simon. Then it blew apart, as if the wind had suddenly grown too strong for it to hold together.

The pair of Travelers stopped a good ten paces away, the woman still looking warily into the forest.

“Are you alone?” the scar-faced man called.

“Not at all,” Edina yelled back. “I have my husband and my son with me, but thank you for asking.” She snapped her fingers as though just remembering something. “And I’ve got a donkey as well, so it’s practically a party!”

The Travelers stared for a moment, and then the yellow-haired woman snorted out a laugh. Simon relaxed. If she could laugh, that meant she was really human.

“The forest can be dangerous this time of year,” she said. “I’m glad you have your donkey around for protection.”

Edina returned a chuckle, but the scar-faced man stepped forward without so much as a smile. He spoke in a smooth, utterly patient voice. “I apologize for my…lack of clarity. Have you met any strangers in this forest today?”

“Just two,” Edina quipped, before Kalman took over.

“We have seen no one else, sir,” he responded. “Is there anyone we should watch for?”

The two Travelers traded another look, this one longer. Finally the woman lowered her hand, though the light hung in the air like a lantern on a hook. As her hand fell to her side, Simon noticed a second light, dull red, glowing softly on the center of her palm.

“It’s not safe for you here,” said the yellow-haired Traveler. “It would be best for us all if you left the forest.”

“As soon as the storm lets up, we’ll be on our way,” Kalman said.

The scar-faced Traveler shook out his gray sleeves, and tendrils of glowing mist rose from around his feet. “It would be better for you to face the storm than what lies at the heart of these trees.”

The woman gave a little bow, and then both Travelers turned and began to walk away.

“Are they talking about the Forest Demon?” Simon asked his parents.

The red-robed Traveler turned her head a bit and smiled at him, but she kept walking.

“That’s right,” Edina said playfully. “The Travelers are here to deal with the Demon, so you don’t have to worry about him or his bloody tree.”

Both Travelers stopped.

The scar-faced man in gray turned completely around, mist swirling around his legs. “I’m sorry, ma’am. What was that about a tree?”

Simon’s mother looked surprised, but she replied anyway. “I was telling him stories about the Demon of Latari Forest. You know, he hides his face in a hooded cloak, kidnaps innocents, and hangs them on his blood-red tree. Surely you’ve heard the stories.”

The woman’s face grew pale, and she drew a shaking hand over her eyes. “Saints above,” she said.

Her partner, on the other hand, still seemed totally calm. “As a matter of fact, I have,” he said. He closed scarred eyelids briefly, and as soon as he opened them, he flicked one hand toward Simon’s mother.

At Edina’s feet, another shape of glowing mist rose from the ground, just like the ghost. This one wasn’t shaped like a man, but like a long tendril, like an earthworm, sticking its head up and questing around in the air. The mist touched Edina’s cheek tenderly, feather-light, and then it pulled back a few inches. It hesitated, weaving in front of her face for a second or two.

Then it struck like a snake, the mist plunging into Edina’s open mouth. She inhaled roughly, like screaming in reverse, but she didn’t look in pain. At first she looked stunned, as if she had seen Simon do something so wrong that she was too surprised to punish him for it.

Then she sagged in place, going entirely limp and starting to collapse. Something caught her. Something invisible, like the strings on a puppet. Then those strings began to pull. Edina twitched violently, arms bending one way, neck stretching back farther than it should have. Her head moved side to side, jerking back and forth. Moon-colored mist swirled around her form, and Simon could have sworn he saw brightly colored flower petals drifting down around her.

Simon ran forward, screaming so loud that his throat felt bloody. He had no idea what he was supposed to do against two Travelers, but he had to do something, had to help somehow.

A pair of hands grabbed him under the arms and lifted him into the air, practically throwing him into the cart. After one last glance to make sure that Simon was out of the way, Kalman turned back to the Travelers. He held both hands out, showing that they were empty.

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “We don’t know you. She doesn’t have anything you want. Please, we don’t have anything!”

The gray-cloaked man looked just as bland and placid as he had walking through the rain, but the woman in red had her face twisted in disgust. The steady orange light still hung in the air over her shoulder, even and warm.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said, but she shook her head as she said it. “I’m sorry. This is not justice.”

She extended her right hand, palm-out, the mark etched in the center glowing cherry-red. She waved the hand through a complex pattern, drawing lines of light on the air.

Her hand stopped, and she winced as if at a sudden headache.

And Simon finally got to see a Traveler summon a monster.

In a flash of orange light, the creature erupted from the air in front of the Traveler’s palm. It looked something like a wasp the size of a dog, with a two-pronged stinger. It glowed with light like bright coals, flaring through a spectrum of colors from red to yellow.

The wasp let out a noise like a screaming wood saw, flexed its stinger, and flew straight toward Simon.

Simon shrank backwards, still frozen on the edge of the cart. He couldn’t move. He knew he needed to run, that even throwing himself off the edge and onto the ground would be better than letting that huge wasp stab him with its stinger, but his body wouldn’t listen.

His father shouted, running back for the cart. When he got close enough, he dove for the giant wasp with his whole body, tackling it to the ground. He drew it in to his chest, curling himself around the monster, though Simon could see its wings and glowing legs struggling, trying to escape.

Simon scrambled for the back of the cart, shock knocking him out of his trance. He had to help somehow, had to pull the giant insect away from his father…

Then the wasp flashed brighter, ember-orange, and Simon’s father caught flame.

Kalman’s agonized screams were too much for Simon. He wanted to help, but he was too scared, and he didn’t know what to do. He slid down into the cart, wedging himself between two barrels. The tarp was level with his eyes; he could still see, still hear everything that happened. He covered his ears with both hands, trying to block out the screams, crying helplessly.

After only a minute or two, Kalman’s screams had stopped completely. Silence rose with the drifting smoke from his body.

The scarred man in the gray cloak walked over to the dead man, observing his injuries with a detached gaze. “I’ll go back to searching,” he said to his partner. “It’s been too long since we’ve heard from the others. One of them had a hand in this.”

The yellow-haired woman turned her head and spat on the ground. “Not in this,” she said. “These were our actions, and we will pay the price.”

He waved a hand airily as he turned to walk away. “I have no time for Narakan justice,” he said. “I have a job to do.”

The woman turned her gaze to the cart, and frozen blue eyes met Simon’s. She raised her red-marked palm once more.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Then a burning hand grabbed her ankle.

Kalman had been scorched so badly that Simon almost didn’t recognize him. His clothes were little more than soot, his hair was gone, and his skin was a horrible reddish-black. Simon couldn’t look too closely, because he was afraid he’d throw up. His father was even still on fire in a few places.

But he wasn’t dead. He crawled forward, one hand on the robed woman’s ankle, pulling his body off the crushed and broken form of the fiery monster wasp. With an inhuman scream, Kalman heaved the red-robed woman off her feet.

She tumbled to the ground, but that seemed to have been the end of his father’s strength. He fell to the ground and didn’t move any more.

Simon held his breath and stared at his father’s body. He couldn’t be dead. He was just unconscious. He would sleep for a while and then recover. But deep inside, Simon knew better.

A new voice, a man’s voice, cut through the rain behind Simon. “I’ve never seen a man go more bravely than that,” the voice said.

Terrified, Simon turned to face whatever new horror was coming. He tried to hunch lower in the cart.

There was a third stranger in the forest now, standing on the other side of the cart from the two Travelers. He wore a fine black cloak, with the hood up, so Simon couldn’t see what he looked like, but he was sure he had never met this man before. From the depths of the hood, the man flashed Simon a wide smile.

He looked like a normal person, but there he was, wearing a hooded black cloak. Just like the stories.

The Forest Demon had come.

The yellow-haired woman scrambled to her feet. “Did you know these people?” she asked.

The hooded man ignored her. “Are you hurt?” he asked Simon.

Simon shook his head, speaking through the tears. “My mother and father are hurt. Please, don’t hurt me.”

“We found them like this,” the scarred man said. He spoke calmly, like he was telling a story. “Were you traveling together with them?”

The hooded man said nothing. He moved forward, around the cart, toward the other two strangers. As he walked, he extended one hand out into the rain. His long arm was heavy with muscle and bare to the shoulder. Someone had cut the sleeves off his shirt. A tattoo of a chain wrapped around his arm from wrist to shoulder, spiraling up like a snake wrapped around the trunk of a tree.

He held a gleaming sword in his outstretched hand, even though he hadn’t been holding anything a moment before. Simon didn’t know much about swords, but this didn’t look like a very good one. It was chipped and pitted, as if he had spent years cutting wood with it.

The blade looked far too long, like it was made for cutting through horses. It was slightly curved, but bigger and wider than a sword had any right to be. When they saw it, the two Travelers finally looked as frightened as Simon felt.

“Valinhall!” The man in gray shouted, though he even made that sound somehow calm.

“Stop him!” The woman cried. Bright, glowing mist spun around the scar-faced man, and the woman began waving her glowing red hand again.

The hooded man stepped forward, and it was as if he moved so fast that he didn’t even need to walk. First he was ten paces away, and then he stood five feet in front of the red-robed woman, monstrous blade gripped in one fist.

The Traveler in red thrust her glowing palm forward, shoving it straight at her opponent.

A bright orange ball of flame flashed into existence only a pace from the hooded man’s chest, shrieking with a human voice. Faces seemed to twist and writhe within the flame, as though it were made of burning souls instead of ordinary fire.

Simon expected to see the Demon blasted apart, or perhaps burned like his father. Instead the hooded man batted the flame away almost casually with the flat of his sword, flicking it away as Simon might have swatted a fly. Knocked off-course, the fireball blasted into the dark forest like a bolt of orange lightning.

The Forest Demon’s sword flashed again, and the woman’s red-marked hand fell away. She gasped. Her other hand followed, and then the sword slid into her chest.

As the yellow-haired woman fell onto her face, she seemed surprised, not as scared as Simon would have expected.

Not as scared as he felt in that moment.

The scarred man did not shout or roar, or beg for his life. Instead, he calmly gestured, and the mist wrapped around the swordsman as it had done to Simon’s mother. Not just one tendril stood up from the ground, but half a dozen, weaving up and climbing over the hooded man.

But this man walked through the mist as if it were...well, as if it were mist.

The scarred Traveler’s eyes widened, and he turned to run.

“If I had been frightened, that much mist might have killed me,” the hooded Demon said. “Maybe even driven me insane. I hear the Mists of Asphodel have that effect on some people. But guess what?”

Again, the swordsman moved so fast that Simon couldn’t see him. Then he was right behind the running man, and his chipped sword stuck into the other man’s back and out into the rain.

He was far enough away now that Simon almost didn’t hear what he said next. “I’m not afraid,” he said. Then he stepped back, pulling his sword with him.

The body of the big, scarred man joined the others on the ground.

Simon tried to be quiet, so the Demon wouldn’t remember he was here and drag him away, but the hooded man didn’t even look at the cart. He knelt beside Simon’s father, holding two fingers to his neck and staring into his face.

Then the stranger sighed, shook his head, and walked over to Simon’s mother.

At some point the invisible rope holding her up had been cut, and she lay sprawled on the ground. At first, Simon was afraid she was dead, but as he watched she twitched like a dog having a bad dream.

The hooded man bent and scooped Simon’s mother up in both arms like she weighed no more than a pillow. He carried her over and tucked her gently into the back of the cart, next to Simon, pulling a corner of the tarp over her to keep her dry.

Simon latched onto his mother, pulling her away from the hooded stranger. As far as he knew, the Demon merely meant to preserve them both until he could take them back and eat them.

“Are you the Forest Demon?” Simon whispered through his tears.

The man flashed him another smile from within his dark hood. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

But he hadn’t said he wasn’t the Demon, so Simon kept crying.

“What’s your name?” the hooded man asked.

“Simon, son of Kalman.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” he said. “And this is your mother?”

Simon nodded.

The hooded man shook his head again. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do for her. If it was just the body...but Asphodel attacks the mind. The spirit. It will be years before she recovers, if ever.”

A fresh wave of tears overwhelmed Simon, and he sobbed again. “I couldn’t do anything,” he said. “I just wanted to help, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move.”

He had to say it, even if it was to the Forest Demon. He had to explain why he hadn’t defeated the evil Travelers and saved his parents, as he had done in a hundred daydreams.

The hooded man hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “It’s not your fault, Simon. Not at all. But you can do something now, all right? I need you to take care of your mother for me. Can you do that?”

Simon nodded again, because he wasn’t sure what else to do.

“All right. Now, where do you live?”

“Myria village,” Simon responded, trying to clean his face off with the back of his sleeve.

“Myria village,” the man repeated. “That’s...a day or two northwest, I think. I can make it.” He glanced back at Simon and said, “I’ll make it.”

He didn’t seem to be talking to Simon, so Simon didn’t say anything.

Somehow the hooded man got the donkey moving, and Simon clung to his mother’s sleeping form as the cart rattled down the road. Simon had pulled the tarp off the goods, laying it over his mother and himself, keeping them as dry and warm as he could.

“Once you get a little older,” the hooded man called from the driver’s seat, “you should come back to the Forest, if you can. I’ll teach you how to make it so that Travelers never bother you again.”

“They were Travelers, then,” Simon said. Of course they were. Who else could call creatures out of nowhere, cast mist that ate people from the inside, or summon ghosts and screaming fireballs? But Travelers weren’t supposed to kill innocent people on the side of the road. They were supposed to do big, important things, like fight monsters and hoard treasure. But he’d known they were Travelers all along.

He had only hoped he was wrong.

“Yes,” the man said simply.

“Why did they hurt us?” Simon asked. He could feel a fresh batch of tears leaking out, and he sniffed, trying to hold back. He had to be strong now, to take care of his mother. His father was strong, and he never cried.

“Nothing you did,” the hooded man said, “I promise you that. They were...looking for something. When we reach Myria, I’ll do what I can for you, help you take care of your mother as best I can. For a little while. But I can’t leave my forest undefended for long. Not now.”

Simon clutched his mother tighter. “It’s okay. I can take care of her.”

“I know you can,” the hooded man said.

I will take care of her, he promised himself. He had been useless tonight, he knew that, but next time he wouldn’t be.

Next time, he would keep his family safe.

CHAPTER 2:

SACRIFICES

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

51 Days Until Midsummer

Eight years later, Simon shoved his sword into the bottom of the cabinet, desperate to keep it hidden. He didn’t have much time.

His mother was waking up.

He had secretly bartered for the sword almost five years ago, trading a few old pots and a bottle of wine to a desperate Badari trader. It was a good deal, even for a sword as dull and poorly forged as this one, but his mother could never find out. He couldn’t trust her with it.

Edina screamed, thrashing around in her blankets, and he rushed over to keep her shoulders pressed against the ground.

He held her there, keeping his full weight against her body, as she screamed and spat into his face. It took a good ten minutes for her to settle down and her breathing to return to normal. Finally, after murmuring a few more times, she opened her eyes.

“Good morning,” Simon said. “How are you feeling?”

His mother coughed, reaching out to the side. Her hand groped blindly on the ground.

Simon held out her wineskin. She seized it, raising it to her mouth and drinking thirstily.

After a moment, Simon put a hand on the skin. “Go easy,” he said.

With her other hand she grabbed her walking stick. She was going to hit him with it, he knew. He considered taking it from her, but ultimately he did nothing to stop her. He never did.

She swung the stick with all her strength into Simon’s temple. Pain flared in his head, but he remained quiet. If she knew she’d hurt him, she would either hit him again or start crying, as the mood struck her.

“Who are you?” Edina croaked. Beneath her wild, matted hair, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. When she spoke, her voice creaked like a dungeon door. “Are you you? You look like my son, but are you? Are any of you who you are?”

Simon blinked the pain in his head away, gently taking the wine from her mouth. She was worse than usual today, which meant she would drink more, which would make her even worse. He would have to take care of her while she was still conscious and reasonably sane. “Why don’t we get you some dinner first?” he said gently.

She glared at him. “Breakfast,” she said.

“It’s almost sunset,” Simon pointed out. If she was interested in food at all, though, that was a good sign. Usually she insisted she wasn’t hungry until the moment she decided that Simon was trying to starve her.

“I’m not hungry,” she whispered. Simon sighed.

His mother burrowed back into her blankets, clutching the wineskin to her chest like a little girl’s doll.

“Good night,” Simon said.

He had considered trying to keep her awake, but it wasn’t worth the effort. She would undoubtedly wake him up in the middle of the night, and he could easily feed her then.

He glanced at the cabinet, where his sword waited for him. He debated taking it back out; he had only had a scarce fifteen minutes of practice today before his mother began thrashing and screaming. Not even long enough to break a sweat.

He had always meant to return to the Latari Forest someday, to take up the hooded man on his offer of training. If only his mother didn’t need him...

But he couldn’t abandon her, so he had to work as hard as he could without a teacher. One day, he would return and show the hidden swordsman how much he’d learned. One day, but not today.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He turned to see Leah, daughter of Kelia, standing in his doorway holding a basket. She kept the door propped open with her shoulder as she slid inside.

“Eggs for you,” she said, without greeting him or asking permission to enter. “And a head of cabbage. Boez had some extra pins, so those are in there, and my aunt sewed you an extra shirt. There’s some bread, too, but I don’t know who sent it. You’ll have to return the basket.”

Simon cleared his throat and brushed sand from his clothes, trying in vain to look comfortable. He rose stiffly to meet her eye to eye. She was an inch or two taller than he was, which stung his pride. His father had never had to look up to anyone.

“Thank you,” Simon said. “How much?”

Leah arched one eyebrow at him. Though she had the same tan skin and dark hair as everyone else in Myria, her eyes were a bright blue. She was only the second person Simon had seen with blue eyes; everyone else he knew, including Simon himself, had brown. But blue eyes somehow made her look even older, like she was a grown woman and Simon a little boy who had stepped out of line.

“This is payment for the wood last week,” she said. “And an advance payment for fixing her door.” Leah walked by him, setting the basket down on top of his cabinet and beginning to unpack.

“I can work for this,” Simon said quietly. “Just tell me what you need.” The people of Myria had taken good care of him since his father’s death, but sometimes he wished they would trust him to take care of himself.

Leah shrugged without turning around as she folded his shirt and tucked it away into the cabinet. “There’s something going on outside the walls. The Mayor and most of his advisors left to speak with some strangers, and nobody knows who or why.”

She sounded almost frustrated about not knowing, as though that were some personal failure on her part.

It also did not escape Simon’s notice that she hadn’t answered his question.

“They’re supposed to return soon, so I’m headed out to the gate,” Leah said. Task done, she brushed off her hands and picked the basket back up. She smiled at him on her way out and held the door open. “Are you coming?”

Simon glanced back at his mother before following Leah out, trying not to feel guilty. He couldn’t be around all the time. If Edina woke up, she would have to fend for herself.

***

Cormac stood in the blazing sun and waited, mulling over all the reasons why he shouldn’t kill his commander.

Sergeant Yakir stood nearby, sweating in his armor and helmet, explaining how things worked to these isolated, ignorant villagers. How had the sergeant received command, and not Cormac? It made no sense. As a Traveler of Endross, Cormac could have collected the annual sacrifice on his own, and yet Overlord Malachi had seen fit to not only burden him with a detachment of soldiers, but to insist that Cormac serve in only an 'advisory capacity.'

Killing Sergeant Yakir would have been an insult to Malachi, and Cormac had nothing but respect for the Kingdom and its Overlords. That was the main reason why he hadn't reduced the man to a pile of scorched meat. So far.

But the longer Yakir spent engaging in negotiation with the villagers, the closer he got to a lightning bolt in the head.

Sergeant Yakir stood at the head of a column of soldiers, having removed his helmet in an attempt to appear more friendly. He looked...unimportant, really. Like a stereotypical soldier. Gray hair, weathered face, blocky build, as though he had been cast by an acting troupe to fill the role of Damascan Soldier Number Five.

On the sunny side of the matter, at least he seemed to be losing his patience.

“If we don't get your cooperation by sunset, we're permitted to use force,” he said. “We'll take who we want. Or you can send us the nine, and we can get out of your hair.”

The village mayor stood in front of the sergeant. He looked more like a clerk than any sort of leader: his thinning hair was combed back, and he wore a sharply pressed suit twenty years out of date. Cormac had been surprised to learn that these lawless villages even appointed mayors; he'd thought they were ruled by some sort of tribal chieftain.

The Mayor glared at the sheet of parchment in his hands, as though he could change its words by sheer anger. “This makes no sense. I can't hand anyone over to you until I know what's going to happen to them.”

He faced Sergeant Yakir defiantly, tossing the parchment over his shoulder to a crowd of advisors. One of the men snatched the sheet out of the air and they all huddled around it, muttering to each other.

That was an official decree from Overlord Malachi. It even had the man's signature, signed by three noble witnesses—there could be no doubt as to its authenticity. And this villager insulted the Overlord by doubting his message and questioning his messenger.

Cormac stared at the Mayor. He just looked, unblinking, straight at the man’s face.

After a moment, the Mayor noticed. His eyes met Cormac's, and soon he flinched and looked away. He even took a small, shuffling step back.

Cormac's head was hairless, and smooth as a polished egg. He kept it that way for two reasons. First, hair was nothing but a liability in Endross, where the air was filled with either desert heat or torrential rains. Second, his eyes stood out even more in his pale face.

His eyes, gifts from a Western father, glowed a bright green even in direct sunlight. He could often intimidate the ignorant or superstitious with nothing more than his stare.

Of course, should that prove insufficient, he had other weapons. In his hand, a whirling ball of dark clouds and flashing light grew out of nowhere.

A Gate to Endross. Tiny now, barely large enough to admit the passage of a worm, but it would grow.

And when it did, the Mayor would be out of time.

Yakir shook his helmet under the Mayor's nose. The soldier's skin was turning an angry red. “Nine people, sir! Nine! Give them to me, and I'll leave in peace!”

“How do you expect me to give up my people? You could be killing and eating them, for all I know!”

Sergeant Yakir growled and shook his helmet again, as though he wished it were a club. “They're not your people. They're citizens of Damasca, and your Overlord demands their service.”

The Mayor's eyes widened in evident surprise. “Damasca? You left Damasca behind a day's march to the south. We have no Overlord here.”

Cormac could remain quiet no longer. “I think he's made his position clear, Sergeant.”

Yakir shifted, but didn't look Cormac in the eyes. “Give me an hour, and I'll change his mind.”

The sun was little more than a red-gold ball of fire sitting on top of a distant mesa. Cormac shook his head. “You don't have an hour. We were given until sunset. Unless, of course, you'd like to be this close to Enosh after dark?”

Sergeant Yakir slammed his helmet down on his head and turned back to the Mayor. “I'm sorry, sir, but I need nine of your citizens. There are, what, seven of you here now? If you volunteer yourselves, then you're only two short.”

The Mayor's advisors muttered some more, shifting their gazes and staring at the ground. No, they weren't eager to serve their Kingdom any more than the rest of them.

What use were they, then?

The thunderstorm had grown to fill Cormac's palm, and he lowered it to point at the ground. Green-and-purple vines slithered out like a nest of snakes, their inch-long thorns sparking with blue lightning.

He had climbed a mountain during typhoon season to earn the right to summon these vines. He'd wrestled them down and cut them himself, as the Endross rain slammed down on his back and predators watched him from the trees. The cuttings flourished in his personal garden back in the Territory, alongside the deadly menagerie that practically any Endross Traveler kept.

The vines crawled along the ground, seeking prey.

The Mayor and his advisors didn't notice, at first. They kept arguing, bargaining, reasoning with Sergeant Yakir. They didn't realize that the argument had already been settled.

Yakir was the first to notice. He let out an involuntary shout and leapt onto his horse, backing it away from the thorny, sparking vines.

Villagers cried out and stumbled backwards, trying to get away. But they were too slow.

Vines struck up from the sand like a fistful of vipers, one strand of thorns sliding up the pants leg of the Mayor and each of his advisors. They screamed some more as the inch-long needles sliced open their clothes, drawing red lines on their flesh.

Then Cormac focused his anger into a mental command, and the plants answered.

In a single flash of blue light, lightning flared up the limbs of all seven villagers. They stiffened momentarily and then collapsed, twitching, smoke rising from their bodies.

“I find that my approach tends to shorten arguments,” Cormac said idly, cutting off the Gate. The tiny, raging thunderstorm in his hand vanished.

The vines almost immediately browned and curled up, dying on the desert sand.

Sergeant Yakir let out a heavy breath. “They won't listen to us now,” he said. “Even if there's anybody left to do it.”

“What a shame,” Cormac said. He stared at the village of Myria, at its wall made of sticks and the tiny mud huts within. “It seems we'll have to use force.”

The old, familiar hunger rose in him again. It had been too long since his last massacre.

Sergeant Yakir rubbed his face, and then passed down the orders.

“Capture anyone you can,” he said. “We'll sort them out later. Kill anybody who resists.”

And there would be resistance, Cormac knew. He would make sure of it.

***

When Simon and Leah arrived at the town gate, Alin was already there.

Simon almost turned around and left.

Only a year older than Simon, Alin stood a head taller, with broad shoulders and an easy, relaxed manner. He stood out thanks to his curls of golden hair, brighter than anyone else in the village, and the sheer force of his personality. Alin carried confidence around him like a torch, and it set him apart; you couldn't help but notice him, as he smiled or joked or told a story.

As a matter of habit, Simon tried to avoid him.

Alin leaned against the village walls, which were little more than sharp sticks bound together with rope, surrounding the whole village. Tonight's guard lounged beside Alin, carrying a handmade spear that looked like it would fall apart if he shook it too hard. The guard laughed at something Alin said, just as he noticed Simon and Leah emerging from the warren of village houses.

It was no secret that Alin had been eyeing Leah since she moved in from the city, almost two years ago now. He brightened as she approached, standing tall and running a hand through his hair.

“Leah!” Alin announced. “It's a pleasure, as always.”

That was another irritating habit of Alin's. He often spoke like he was telling a story, even in perfectly normal conversation.

Alin finally noticed Simon, and his eyebrows lifted. “Oh! Simon, forgive me. How are you, this evening?” Then he smiled broadly and clapped Simon on the shoulder.

“Fine,” Simon said.

After a moment of awkward silence, Leah nodded toward the guard. “Is there any news?”

His enthusiasm restored, Alin moved to stand by the guard again. “Simon and Leah, do you know my friend Jaron?” Jaron grinned, gesturing with his spear.

“Of course,” Leah said easily.

“Yeah,” Simon lied.

Leah had spent only the last two years in Myria. Simon had lived there his entire life. Still, Jaron might as well have been a complete stranger.

“Tell them what you saw tonight, Jaron,” Alin said.

The guard spat out the side of his mouth. “Well, I take a peek out the gate now and then, and I got a good look when the Mayor rode out. It looked to me like he was meeting with soldiers.”

Alin smiled proudly, as though he were the one with the news. By contrast, Leah's face darkened.

“What colors were they wearing?” she demanded.

Jaron took a look at Alin before responding. “I'm not—”

“Colors,” she said. “If you saw any horses, they would have a colored cloth draped over their necks. The men might wear colored uniforms. Some Overlords even fly flags.”

The guard slid a hand up the spear, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Purple, I think?”

Leah raised one eyebrow. “Purple and brown?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Malachi. Naturally.”

Simon stared at her. He knew hardly anything about the Overlords of Damasca—they were more figures of legend than anything else. “How do you know that?”

She looked at him as if he had asked her where to find sand in the desert. “I spent most of my life in Bel Calem,” she said. “That's his city. I've even seen him, once or twice.”

“Really?” Alin asked eagerly. “What's he like?”

“He spends too much time on his hair,” she said.

It was often easy to forget that Leah hadn't lived her whole life in Myria. Then she revealed knowledge like this, and Simon reminded himself that she had been raised in a totally different world. She might as well have been born in a Territory.

Leah had come alone to the village from Bel Calem only two years before, moving in with her aunt and extended family. It was whispered that her mother had gotten herself killed, perhaps even murdered by some criminal from the city. The bracelet Leah wore—silver, with a clear white crystal dangling from the chain—was supposed to be a memento of her mother’s. Simon didn’t know whether that was true, but it was a generally accepted fact that she never took it off, not even to sleep.

Her blue eyes should have been enough to set her apart, but Leah had the same natural charm as Alin; people welcomed her, accepted her, and treated her as warmly as if she had always been one of their own.

The other villagers often treated her better than they treated Simon, actually, though that didn’t bother him much. He rarely minded being left alone.

Leah turned to Jaron. “You're on guard duty,” she said. “You must know the date.”

“It's six days till Spring's End, ma'am,” Jaron said.

“Fifty-one days until Midsummer,” she said, and suddenly she looked as worried as Simon had ever seen her. “Right on time.”

“What does that mean?” Alin asked.

Leah took Simon and Alin by one arm each, pulling them back toward the houses. “Jaron, it was a pleasure meeting you,” she called back over her shoulder.

“Likewise,” Jaron said. He spat into the sand again.

Lowering her voice, Leah continued. “It's possible that the Overlord is about to do something very stupid. Is Chaim still in the village?”

“I think so,” Alin said. “He didn't go with the Mayor and the others. Why?”

“I need to speak with him,” she said firmly.

Alin's eyes shone. “Are we in danger?” He sounded eager.

Simon couldn't believe the sudden change in Leah. She was always decisive, but what had made her suddenly act as though someone had appointed her Mayor?

She guided them into the alley between houses, walking deeper in to the twisting warren of huts that formed the heart of Myria village. “I'm just trying to be safe,” she said.

A huge crash sounded from behind them, followed by screams.

Whatever Leah had been trying to do to keep them safe, Simon was fairly sure that she was too late.

The sound was coming from the direction of the village gate. Simon pushed past Alin and Leah, rushing to get free of the houses so that he could have a clear view of the wall. After a startled second, he heard Alin and Leah running after him.

Simon cleared the last house in the row in time to see an arrow land inches from his head, cracking the baked clay bricks of a nearby wall. He tore his eyes from the arrow that had almost killed him.

As he had feared, the gate had been broken down, slammed flat into the ground. Riders on horses poured in through the broken wall, trampling the gate and one wet mound that had once been Jaron. His homemade spear lay in pieces beside him. Some of the soldiers held torches, some swords, and some short composite bows meant to be fired from horseback.

Raiders. And, judging from the brown-and-purple cloths tied around the horses’ necks, official soldiers of Overlord Malachi. So that was what Leah had asked the guard about.

Simon stumbled backwards, knocking into Alin and Leah and pushing them back into the shadow of the houses. Why had this happened? What had Myria or its people done to anger their Overlord?

Leah stuck her head out from the corner of a house and stared at the soldiers. For a few seconds, she went completely still, like a deer about to bolt. Then she turned and grabbed Alin and Simon once again, pulling them deeper into the circle of homes.

“We’ve got to get as many people as we can out the back gate,” she said. “Tell everyone you can to run, not fight. They shouldn’t kill us if we don’t resist.” Oddly, she didn’t look frightened. Her face had gone harder than Simon had ever seen it, and she burned with anger, as though these soldiers had somehow offended her personally. Well, he supposed that invading your hometown should be enough insult for anyone.

“Let’s raise a cry,” Alin responded. He was breathing heavily and his eyes moved everywhere at once, but his mouth was set in a firm line. “You two start running from house to house, and I’ll warn everyone by the walls.”

“No one uses the north gate. Maybe we can go out there, circle around, and head for Kortan,” Leah said. Kortan was the closest village, though Simon had only been there three times. It was most of a day’s walk away, and he couldn’t abandon his mother.

“Simon, you—”

“My mother!” Simon blurted, and he started to run.

Dogs had begun to bark, and in several of the houses, people were emerging to find out what was going on. Behind Simon, Alin and Leah started yelling as loud as they could, trying to attract attention.

Simon rushed through the tangled knot of homes in a pattern he had memorized since he could walk. It would take anyone on a horse some time to penetrate this deeply into the village, and hopefully by then he could take his mother and be gone.

In a matter of minutes he reached his house, which was easily the worst-looking in the village. He had made the door himself when he was twelve, and it barely held together; the roof leaked, and many of the pale bricks in the wall were cracked and could use replacing. He tore open the door and stumbled inside, for once not feeling a surge of shame at the house’s appearance. He didn’t have time.

He passed the bundle of rags curled up near the door, stepping over them to reach the cabinet. Throwing the doors open, he rummaged around for his sword. He had hidden it here, he knew he had, but where? He finally found the sword wrapped up inside a dusty rug, where he had hidden it from his mother. She would have hurt herself on it by now, or else sold it.

The wooden scabbard was chipped and stained, and it didn’t quite fit; the blade rattled slightly when he picked it up. The sword itself wasn’t in any better condition, but he worked with what he had.

Eight years ago, he had sworn to protect his family. And now the time had come for him to keep that promise.

He buckled the sword around his waist, then moved over to the rags beside the door. He reached down and shook them vigorously. “Mother,” he said. “Mother, you have to get up!”

The rags stirred feebly, and a puddle of sharp-smelling wine rolled out.

Simon shook harder. “On your feet, Mother, now! We have to get out—” A wooden stick cracked into his skull and white pain blossomed behind his eyes. He fell backwards as his mother crawled out from her blankets.

She clutched her walking stick, though she dropped it to shield her eyes from the light coming in from the door. Her black hair stood up at every angle, and she was covered in grime.

“What’s all the noise?” she asked. Her voice whispered through a raspy throat.

“Raiders at the front gate, Mother,” Simon said. “We have to go out.”

She didn’t say anything, but groped around with her walking stick and, once she had found the floor, pushed up to her feet and began hobbling toward the door. She was less than five feet tall even when she was capable of standing upright, and when she leaned on her stick she looked fifty years older than normal.

Sorrow and frustration welled up in Simon’s chest, as usual, but today they couldn’t compete with urgency. He all but pushed his mother out of the door.

Outside, the air was thick with smoke, screams, and the sounds of combat and furiously barking dogs.

Simon grabbed his mother by the shoulders and guided her between houses. The smoke burned his eyes, and he began to cough. His mother still didn’t seem to know where she was; she giggled to herself and swayed on her feet. Obviously this wasn’t just the alcohol, then; her disease had returned. Now, of all times.

Through a veil of smoke, Simon saw someone’s dark outline running toward them, clutching something in its hand. He thought it was a sword. Simon spun his mother behind him and stood between her and the stranger, determined to keep her out of harm.

The figure pushed through the smoke. It was Leah, holding a bloodstained sword in one hand and coughing into the other. Her crystal bracelet gleamed in the firelight.

“Simon,” she said hoarsely, “there are too many of them. We have to go now.” She gestured with the sword for him to follow and headed back into the smoke. Simon tried to chase after her, pulling his mother behind him, but she dragged her feet and refused to budge. After a few seconds, she began to scream, a harsh, ear-piercing wail.

Simon clapped a hand over her mouth. No one could likely make out one scream among all the others, but who knew? He wasn’t going to take any chances with soldiers. They might want slaves, and a woman’s cries from down a dark alley would draw slavers the way screams of pain would draw jackals.

His mother bit down on his hand, hard. Her teeth sank into the flesh of his hand, drawing blood, and he set his jaw against the pain. He had no time for this. Besides, this was hardly the first scar his mother had given him, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Letting her chew on his left hand, Simon scooped her up under his right arm and hauled her along after Leah’s quickly-vanishing silhouette.

It didn’t take long for Simon’s arms to begin burning, even under his mother’s slight weight. Terror kept him moving forward, and the fact that Leah didn’t seem tired at all.

Their run was quick and brutal. Every second Simon had to choke down another mouthful of smoke, and he couldn’t help but imagine a huge soldier with a bloody sword in every shifting shadow. His legs began to ache, his arm burned, and the pain in his hand throbbed. He was so focused on forcing one leg in front of the other, over and over, that he almost stumbled over Leah. She had suddenly halted, and was crouched behind the smoldering half of a ruined horse-cart.

Simon’s mother had finally—thankfully—gone limp in his arms, and he dumped her on the ground beside Leah as he crouched to join her. Silently, Leah pointed over the cart to Myria’s north gate. A huge soldier in dark, gleaming armor trotted his horse in a circle. He kept his own helmeted head constantly twisting, as if he were searching for someone through the smoke.

Leah’s whisper was so quiet that Simon barely heard it over the crackling of the burning cart. “We should wait and see if he withdraws.”

Simon nodded his agreement, but at that moment, the ground thundered under the pounding of hooves. Simon and Leah spun around together, Simon’s breath coming even faster. Three raiders on horseback trotted out of the houses behind them, escorting another walking soldier. The one on foot was pulling one end of a long rope, which was attached to a series of collars. Each of which was wrapped around a child’s neck.

Four girls and two boys, the oldest not quite Simon’s age, and the youngest almost ten. Simon had grown up with all of them. Their clothes were torn, and most of them were visibly injured or covered in blood. What would a group of Damascan soldiers want with children?

While Simon’s thoughts were still paralyzed, Leah grabbed his arm and pulled him under the cart. His mother began to thrash and to try and crawl away, but he pulled her along. Only the top half of the cart burned, so embers dropped through the cracks, stinging his face, but they weren’t in any immediate danger. Simon turned to face Leah and had to flinch back to avoid cutting his face on her sword. He looked past it, looking into her blue eyes. They still blazed with that strange anger.

She glanced down at the sword on his hip, which dug painfully into his side. “Do you know how to use that?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve done what training I could,” he said. In truth, his training consisted almost entirely of swinging the sword around alone, in the dark, behind the town woodshed. But she didn’t need to know that.

“In other words, no,” Leah said. Her voice sounded businesslike, not cruel, but he still flinched at the brutal truth. He spoke out of wounded pride.

“That’s more than you’ve had,” he said. It occurred to him that he had no idea what she knew—maybe they trained everyone in the city to use a sword—but it was too late to shut up.

Leah arched one eyebrow, and for a moment she looked like her aunt Nurita faced with a child spouting nonsense. Then she sighed. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Simon. Forgive me. But you can’t do anything to protect us from a squad of professional soldiers.”

“So what do we do?” he asked. Leah’s way of taking charge had sometimes irritated him, but now he was grateful.

Leah focused on a point behind his head, flicking her eyes from side to side as though she read from a page. “Give me a moment,” she whispered. Behind her, beyond the cart, the soldiers had grouped up and were gesturing wildly at the bound prisoners. One of the girls dropped to her knees and wept; a raider hit her on the back of the head with the flat of his sword, and she fell onto her face.

“All right Simon, listen. If they stay there, none of us are going to be able to leave,” Leah said. “Do you understand? If nothing draws them off, we’re going to die under here.”

“You don’t know that,” Simon said. Why had she even said anything? The situation looked hopeless enough without her stating the obvious.

Leah’s face softened a bit, though she still sounded like she was passing sentence. “Stay with your mother,” she said. “When you get a chance, run for the gate. Tell my aunt...” Her voice trailed off, and one side of her mouth quirked up into a smile. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

Leah shifted enough to reach over her sword and patted Simon on the cheek. “Be good, Simon,” she said, and rolled out from under the wagon.

Stunned, Simon only watched as she jumped to her feet and ran straight for the captive children. One of the raiders noticed her and shouted, but before anyone else could react she was at the rope, hacking and sawing with her sword. The soldier holding the rope reached out to grab her, but one of the boys from Myria knocked him to the ground. The other raiders spun their horses around and headed for Leah, but before they reached her the rope was cut. Its severed ends slid through loops in half a dozen collars, and the children bolted.

At first, Simon expected them to run straight for the gate, but they didn’t; they scattered in every other direction. After a second, he realized that most of the nearby raiders were clustered between the captives and the gate itself. The children were running anywhere they could see that wasn’t towards a raider.

Including directly towards Simon.

A girl of about eleven or twelve dashed past Simon’s cart, her bare feet kicking up bursts of sand. A few seconds later, a steel-shod horse followed her.

Simon rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. This was the time. If he was ever going to make a difference, if his time practicing was going to mean anything, he should go out now and make a stand. Maybe he would die fighting, like his father, but at least he could make a difference.

Simon’s mother started to squirm in his arms. “Where’s my blanket?” she said. Her voice, thankfully, came out as a weak croak.

“Hush, Mother. I’ll go back and get your blanket in a moment, okay? You need to be quiet right now.”

“I don’t want to be quiet, I want my blanket.” She was trying to make her voice louder, but it came out scratchier.

Simon leaned close to her ear and pleaded, “Mother, please, we need to be quiet. We don’t want them to find us. After we get away, I’ll come back for your blanket, I promise.”

His mother mumbled something in response, but he only understood the word “promise.”

No, he couldn’t help the other villagers. His mother needed him.

After another minute, the dust cleared enough that he could see the way to the gate. It was clear, except for a few bundles lying on the sandy ground. He started to wonder who those bundles had been, but his mind shied away from the thought and focused on more urgent matters. The raiders were gone, but they could return at any time. And there were surely more of them.

He had to move now.

Simon slid out on his belly, sticking his head warily up to check for danger. Nothing moved. Moving with the quick, jerky motions of fear, he reached back and pulled his mother up and out from under the cart.

Picking her up again, and stumbling under the weight, Simon began to jog towards the gate. He kept his ears sharp and tuned to any close sound. As he hurried past the bodies, he couldn’t help but glance down to see if either one had belonged to Leah.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief when he passed them. Almost, except that he had known the two children in the dust for their entire lives. One of them was a nine-year-old boy.

A new feeling rose up through his fear: determination. Since he was a boy, Simon had cared for his mother. He had worked for anyone who would take him, for as long as they would let him, earning enough supplies to scrape by. He was driven by a resolution, a stone-solid certainty: he would do whatever it took to keep his mother alive. If he had to crawl through the flames in the blackest pits of Naraka to do it, so be it. But by the Maker, Simon and his mother were going to make it out alive. He owed his father no less.

Simon kept his resolve clutched close to his chest, like a blanket in the dead of winter. It warmed him, gave him the strength to keep running when all he wanted was to collapse and let the wind blow him away like so much sand.

***

Leah had never run so hard in her life.

She dashed over dirt and hard-packed sand, slipping through the broken remnants of the village gate, which had been shattered when Malachi’s soldiers attacked. Two of those soldiers followed her, shouting threats at her back, and part of her wanted to turn and look behind her even though she knew that could only end in disaster. The soldiers were mounted on horses, and she knew that over open ground they would run her down in seconds. The only reason they hadn’t so far was because they were inside the village walls, and right now the village was a chaotic field of debris sown with bodies and wreckage. Urging their horses faster than a walk would be risking a broken leg for the mount and a nasty spill for the rider.

But she was headed outside the village. And there, on the flat and sandy plains outside Myria, the picture would be much different.

Leah, daughter of Kelia, felt a tiny spark of terror at the thought of being caught. A poor city girl who had been forced to move, alone, to her mother’s village to live with strange relatives, the daughter of Kelia would have no idea how to react to this attack. She would have looked for somewhere to run, or someone to hide her, though if the worst did happen she could face it with strength and honor, on her feet.

Leah sometimes thought she had played that character too long. If she kept reacting as the village girl, she would get herself killed. Well, if the village girl wouldn’t do any longer, she’d have to try something better.

Only a few paces outside the village gates, she strangled her fear and stopped running.

One of Malachi’s sergeants, an honest-looking, blocky man perhaps in his fifties, stood, barking orders, maybe a hundred paces away from the village walls. He was surrounded by a hive of soldiers running or riding this way and that, coordinating the chaos of his raid on Myria. Beside him stood a bald man in the brown uniform of an Endross, idly making blue sparks appear and disappear at the ends of his fingertips. He might pose some difficulty, but nothing she hadn’t dealt with before.

None of the sacrifices had been brought in yet, thank the Maker—no, wait, not the Maker. The Maker was a village superstition. Seven stones, how deep into her role was she, that even her thoughts were suspect?

Leah began walking toward the sergeant and his Traveler, letting the daughter of Kelia fall behind her like a shed cloak. She drew herself up, moving with steady confidence, with purpose, the way she had been trained. People responded to body language, to the authority implicit in one’s bearing. And she would need every scrap of authority she could get, if she wanted them to take her seriously.

Hoofbeats sounded behind her, but Leah kept walking. She very carefully did not turn around.

One of the two soldiers that had been following her pulled his horse to a stop only a few feet in front of her, so that she would be forced to run another direction. The other rode up to her right and hopped down.

He snarled roughly at her, reaching to grab her arm. “If you think—” he began.

Leah did not respond. She did not look at him. She did not even slow down, though in a few seconds she was going to collide with a wall of horseflesh.

She twisted her wrist, letting moonlight fall on the crystal she wore on a thin silver bracelet. As she did, she cast her mind out, calling for the power of Lirial.

And her Territory answered.

A jagged spike of milky white crystal erupted from the ground, growing in half a second into a five-foot-high stalagmite that stabbed the air inches from Leah’s shoulder. The soldier’s hand was in the way, caught in the act of reaching out for Leah. By all logic the crystal should have impaled the man’s arm, perhaps taking the hand off at the wrist. But Lirial did not destroy. It revealed. It protected.

And it preserved.

The soldier’s hand, from his wrist to the tips of his outstretched fingers, had been frozen inside the jagged mound of crystal as if within ice. Unlike ice, though, this crystal would never thaw or melt. Unless she released him, he would have better luck trying to pry his hand out of the side of a mountain.

The soldier tried to pull his arm out of the crystal. For a few futile moments he heaved his body backwards, planted a leg on the crystal and shoved, hammered at the crystal with his fist. Then he started to scream.

Leah gestured again, and another crystal spike burst from the ground in front of the horse barring her way. The horse reared, screamed, and galloped in the other direction. She doubted that the rider minded.

The sergeant and his entire entourage were looking at her now, including the bald Endross Traveler. His eyes, a bright green that she could make out even at this distance, widened when he recognized what she had done. With a shout he raised both palms, calling what looked like a ball of rolling stormclouds into his hands.

Keeping her face blank, Leah continued walking. She did nothing to let her wariness show. Endross was widely considered one of the most formidable Territories for combat, and Lirial’s strengths lay in other areas. If she made a mistake, she could find herself seriously injured before she managed to reveal her identity.

But she had met dozens of Endross Travelers in her childhood, and they had all shared a single trait: they were jackals. Predators. Scavengers, concerned with preserving their own safety above all else. A rare few would seek out their equals for the pleasure of testing themselves against a rival, but none would dare challenge a superior.

So before she dealt with him, she needed to show—beyond all doubt—that she was his superior.

Glittering lights flashed in the Traveler’s handheld storm, like half-hidden strikes of lightning, and about a dozen shapes the size of dragonflies burst forth into the air, streaking towards Leah. She recognized the shapes from her education in the ways of Endross: storm-drakes, tiny flying lizards that would latch onto their prey and shock it to death with sparks of lightning. Not something Leah wanted to happen to her.

There were a handful of easy ways she could deal with this summoning, but any one of them would invite another attack from the Endross. She would have to come up with something more impressive.

Sending a mental call into Lirial, Leah turned her left hand palm-up. A crystal ball slightly bigger than her fist fell out of thin air, landing in her outstretched hand. She stared into it instead of at the oncoming storm-drakes.

In the crystal’s depths, a hundred symbols flashed and rolled as the orb performed a thousand arcane calculations in a fraction of the time it would have taken her. To her eyes, the symbols spelled out precise directions.

And with another flash of her crystal bracelet, and another mental call to her Territory, Leah followed those directions.

Fourteen spires of white crystal speared from the ground and into the air. They were made out of the same substance as the jagged crystals she had already summoned, but unlike the rough mounds she had called the first time, these were finger-thin and needle sharp. They grew from the earth and stretched to their full height of six feet in a fraction of a second.

Each crystal needle had speared the exact center of an Endross storm-drake. The lizards’ tiny bodies were now trapped in milk-white crystal, but, for the moment, they still lived. Their legs scratched feebly at the pale needles, and their wings beat at the air.

Leah dropped the crystal ball from her hand and kept walking, not slowing by a hair. The orb evaporated before it hit the ground. Each of the white needles had burst from the ground at an angle, leaving her enough room to walk straight through the forest of crystal needles without cutting herself. She kept her eyes locked on the sergeant, ignoring the Traveler entirely.

She certainly did not let her relief show. There had been precious little opportunity to practice her Traveling over the past two years in Myria, and even with the crystal ball’s assistance she had worried about making a mistake. Come to think of it, she was lucky the orb had stayed where she left it all this time; if the crystal ball had rolled off, she would never have been able to summon it. That was a restriction unique to Lirial, one that Travelers of other Territories did not have to put up with. If someone had broken into her Lirial sanctum and taken her orb, even to move it across the room, her summons would have gone unanswered and she would have been torn to shreds by Endross storm-drakes.

Leah shook that image away. She had succeeded, that was what mattered, and now would come the real test.

She walked the last few paces to Malachi’s sergeant, looking neither left nor right, before she stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, she recognized that the Traveler had let his storm dissipate. That was a good sign.

When she stood only a few feet from the sergeant, she released Lirial and called upon her other Territory. This power was wilder, hungrier, more dangerous, but she would only need it for a quick demonstration.

Hopefully.

A hot weight settled on her head as she summoned her crown. A thin circlet of mirror-bright steel that shone an unnatural shade of red, the crown was not particularly impressive on its own. Certainly not compared to her father’s. But it represented something that carried far more weight.

The blocky sergeant’s eyes went wide, then narrowed in calculation. Leah tensed, preparing for combat, but at last the man went down on his knees. The gesture was awkward, given the man’s age and his armor, but he finally managed it. Then he pressed his forehead to the sand.

“How may I serve?” he asked. His voice was both loud and clear, even speaking into the ground.

All the soldiers around him copied his pose, faces to the sand. They almost certainly would not recognize her, even by reputation, but her demonstration of Lirial and their leader’s behavior would have told them all they needed to know. Only the bald Traveler remained standing.

Leah fixed her gaze on the Traveler’s acidic green eyes and waited. Either he would give in or she would have to kill him. At this point she had no chance of failure, not with her crown on her head and his Gate closed, but she had no way of knowing which way the soldiers would go. It would make things so much easier if he would submit.

So she stared him down, projecting absolute certainty and command.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, and then reluctantly bent forward in a bow. Just to teach him his place, Leah then pretended he didn’t exist. It was more merciful than he deserved.

“Stand, sergeant,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Yakir, Your Highness,” he said, struggling to his feet.

Leah let some of the cold fury she felt leak into her voice. “Sergeant Yakir. On whose orders are you here, interfering with royal business?”

Yakir’s voice went hoarse, and he did not meet her gaze. “My apologies, Heiress, but I am here on the orders of Overlord Malachi.”

“For what purpose, sergeant?”

“Well...for the midsummer sacrifice, Heiress. We’re here to collect the nine.”

The sacrifice? Leah thought. Surely not. The timing was right, but how could something so routine have led to this debacle?

“Do you usually have to burn a town to the ground to collect the sacrifice, Sergeant Yakir?” That was something of an exaggeration, since the fires burning around Myria would likely be extinguished by morning, but he would not dare to correct her.

Yakir glanced up at the Traveler next to him, who looked uneasy. “We met a party of village leaders out on the road, Heiress. Some among my staff—” Leah felt sure he meant the Endross Traveler—”believed that they were, uh, a little too resistant. We decided that a more forceful hand was needed here.”

Reading into what was not said, Leah could put together a picture of what had happened. The sergeant had, as was his right as a representative of Malachi, demanded nine villagers for the King’s sacrifice. He would have been vague about their ultimate fate, since very few in the kingdom knew what happened to the annual sacrifices, but clear that he would need nine people to come with him to the capital. The Mayor and his advisors had balked.

And this Traveler, impatient and offended, had led an attack. The sergeant had probably had no choice but to go along. Still, it was his mission, and therefore ultimately his responsibility.

“That was a foolish decision, Sergeant Yakir,” Leah said coldly. “The people of this village have no identity as Damascans, and no idea of the sacrifice. They certainly could have done nothing that would justify such a forceful response.”

Yakir paled and bowed again, almost certainly aware that she could take his life with a stray thought. She wouldn’t, though, unless she had no other choice.

“I must speak with the Overlord regarding these matters,” Leah continued. “But until then, my own orders remain. They come from the King himself.”

Yakir cleared his throat. “Your orders, Heiress?”

Leah nodded, already planning ahead. These next few weeks would be far more dangerous for her than the past two years, but she could see no other alternative.

“You will take me to Bel Calem,” Leah commanded. “As a sacrifice.”

Sergeant Yakir turned white.

CHAPTER 3:

TRAVELERS

It didn't take long for Cormac to round up nine villagers—ten, if you counted the Heiress—and tie them together on a long, coarse rope. They were a motley bunch, made up of men and women, grandparents and children, but that didn't much matter to Cormac. He'd been ordered to retrieve nine people from this village, and he had done so.

He watched the girl, Leah, cowering at the end of the rope. She had taken another girl under her arm, and if Cormac hadn't known better, he would have sworn that the Heiress was just one more terrified country child. If he hadn't seen the Ragnarus crown upon her head himself.

Leah's presence irritated him. Had Malachi known she was here, and sent him anyway? Was he being used as a pawn in some maneuvers between the Overlord and the throne?

Sergeant Yakir pulled his horse alongside Cormac, looking down from his mount. Cormac preferred to walk—his own feet were good enough in Endross, so why not here?

“Where are we headed?” the sergeant asked, his voice low.

“Only a short distance to the north, we will find a small cave,” Cormac said, not bothering to lift his eyes from the road. “It's the closest place I can open an Endross Gate without taking us straight through an Enosh outpost.”

“Why can't you just open a Gate right here?”

Cormac turned his stare on the sergeant, letting his acid-green eyes send a message. To his credit, Yakir returned the look without glancing away.

“If I opened an Endross Gate here, we would emerge in the center of a vast desert,” Cormac explained. He knew his tone was condescending, but he didn't care. He owed Sergeant Yakir nothing. It was simply that in this instance, the truth would serve his purposes better than Traveler mystery.

“In this desert there is no water, but there is rain. Glowing blue rain that scorches the earth like lightning. If somehow we managed to get the men and prisoners through a dozen miles of this burning, hellish rain, we would reach the lair of an ancient serpent. To pass that way, we would have to either defeat it in combat—something for which we are not prepared—or leave seven men as tribute to its appetite. Finally, at the border of the desert, we will have reached the only water source for miles: a spring controlled by Enosh. The Travelers there would kill us and shove our heads through a Gate to Cana. That, Sergeant, is why we'll not Travel through Endross until we reach the proper location.”

Cormac took a great deal of satisfaction in the sergeant's expression. He'd actually made up the part about the serpent, but it made the story sound so much better.

Sergeant Yakir cleared his throat. “Understood, Traveler, and I'm sorry for questioning your judgment. But if we're trying to get farther from the Enosh outpost, shouldn't we be moving away from Enosh instead of toward it?”

Cormac let out a harsh laugh that he didn't even try to silence. How ignorant they were, these men who lived in only one world. “What makes you think that north here is north in Endross, Sergeant?”

Yakir bowed as best he could from the back of a horse. “My apologies again, then. I don't know much about the Territories.”

“That's apparent.”

Losing interest in the sergeant, Cormac looked back at the prisoners. Two soldiers dragged the villagers' rope behind them, and they kept shooting nervous glances at Heiress Leah. They'd seen her little display earlier, and they knew who she was.

Or they thought they did. They knew she was a child of King Zakareth the Sixth, and that was all they cared to know.

Cormac understood what Leah herself was really capable of, and he knew what she would do to him if he let her down.

The thought made him shake with barely suppressed fury. He hated being afraid.

He knew the cure, though. All he had to do was take out his anger on someone who deserved it.

***

The land north of Myria was not as fertile as to the south, but neither had it yet become the forbidding wasteland of the Badari Desert. It was mostly long stretches of rock and scraggly trees, broken by occasional hills and tiny creeks. Simon hadn’t run more than two or three miles when a young man stepped out from behind a stand of rocks and waved him down. Alin’s gold hair flashed in the light.

If Simon had the strength, he would have waved and shouted back. Instead, he fell to his knees, letting his mother spill to the ground. She’d lost consciousness at some point, but Simon hadn’t noticed.

Alin ran over and gathered Simon’s mother in his arms. His head was half-covered by a dirty cloth bandage, and blood trickled down from his scalp to drip onto his shirt. He still managed to look like a ragged hero, injured in battle but still radiating strength, rather than the helpless victim of a mad Traveler. Simon knew he himself probably looked like a boy exhausted by a day of work. A skinny boy.

“Who’s with you?” Simon asked, once he had a moment to catch his breath.

Alin shook his head, looking grim. “Only a few. Mostly old people, and the ones who lived right next to the north gate. We think they were probably looking for slaves, so they didn’t care if the old or the weak got away.”

Simon stared into the distance, not seeing anything. The whole night still seemed like some dark, bizarre dream. “If they were Overlord Malachi’s men, why would they be looking for slaves?” Simon had grown up with stories of Malachi, the Overlord who managed the closest corner of Damasca in the name of the King. His reputation said he was distant but just, not a murderous tyrant.

Alin set his jaw, and his eyes blazed. He held Simon’s mother in his arms as if she weighed nothing. “The King will punish Malachi as he deserves,” Alin said. “And if he does not...if he doesn’t, then we will stand against him ourselves.” His voice trembled with rage, but Simon almost rolled his eyes.

What would Overlord Malachi or His Majesty Zakareth care if the people of one small village refused to obey him? He had already demonstrated his willingness to burn their homes to the ground; he wouldn’t care about some empty threats.

Simon didn’t say any of that to Alin. No need to start a fight.

Alin led Simon to a shallow cave, little more than a depression in the rocks, less than a hundred paces from where Alin had first appeared. About two dozen people from the village had crammed themselves inside. Simon spotted Chaim, a large man and the only one of the Mayor’s advisors who hadn’t ridden out of the village. He had his sturdy arms wrapped around his wife and three children. The three of them were all close to Simon’s age, but they clung to their father like toddlers.

Leah’s aunt Nurita held a cluster of her many nieces and nephews in one protective bundle; her stern face showed no sign of tears or dirt. Other than those two families, Simon and Alin were the only two visible without white in their hair.

Someone passed Simon a skin of water, and he took it gratefully. After a few tries, he was able to get his mother to drink a little, though she didn’t wake. After she stopped drinking and turned over on her side, Simon raised the skin to his own lips and set about washing away the coating of dry, stinging dust in his throat.

Alin began to speak as Simon drank, keeping his voice low to avoid bothering the others. “We talked before you got here. The soldiers burned what they could, but the fire wouldn’t have spread far. There’s not enough wood. We’re going to go back in tomorrow and see what can be saved. We think that, over the next few days, some of the others might come back to us.”

Simon thought of Leah’s hand on his face, and hoped fervently that Alin was right.

“We talked about going to Kortan,” Alin continued, “but it’s far enough away that we’re not sure some of the people here will make it on foot, in the middle of the night with no supplies. And the raiders are probably gone by now.” He spat the last sentence like he wished the soldiers had stayed, so that he could kill them himself.

Alin appeared to notice Simon’s sword for the first time, and he brightened. “You have a sword? Did you take it from one of the soldiers?”

Simon opened his mouth to respond, but Nurita stirred and raised her head. “Did you hear that?” she demanded.

Soldiers appeared as if summoned to answer her question. They were on foot this time, and their dark armor glistened as they spread out to encircle the cave entrance. Everyone scrambled to their feet and someone began to cry, but no one made any other sound. They simply stood in the silence of shock and despair.

“They must have left the village right after we did,” Alin whispered. Anger and frustration tightened his voice. “They had to have followed right on our heels. Why would they do that? Why?”

After they had finished surrounding the entrance, the raiders stopped moving. They stood with weapons drawn, in silence, waiting. After a moment or two, a lean man in a hooded cloak stepped forward. He carried a torch in one hand, and by its light Simon could see the man’s clothes more clearly: the cloak was brown, the shirt beneath purple. Malachi’s colors.

As the man approached, he used his other hand to draw the hood back from his face. His head was entirely hairless, his skin pale, and his eyes a luminous green that shone in the torchlight. He turned his head to survey the situation and grimaced as if displeased.

“I am Cormac, a Traveler of Endross in service to Overlord Malachi.” Several people moaned, and Simon felt his chest tighten. Travelers had a thousand powers, most of them gruesome and terrible. He had heard the legends of Endross as a boy from his father: Endross was the place where storms were born, a blasted desert wasteland where only the most twisted and horrible monsters lived.

But Simon’s father had never actually seen a Traveler before the one that killed him.

“Your village was given the honor of providing a small sacrifice to the Overlord,” Cormac continued. “But you have reacted with blasphemy and sedition. You are too close, no doubt, to the heretics of Enosh who fail to worship the Evening Star. You will all be taken to the Overlord’s seat in Bel Calem, where you will face his judgment. And we have taken the necessary sacrifices in spite of your...lack of cooperation.”

He made a gesture with his free hand, and one of the soldiers appeared, hauling a line of collared villagers like the one Simon had seen earlier. This one was longer, however, and its occupants had their wrists and ankles bound as well as their necks. Rather than children, these slaves were mostly grown men, though he noticed two women shuffling along behind them. They were ten in total.

“I only need you out of my way,” Cormac said. “Once we are gone, you can go back to your...”

The Traveler trailed off as one of the men in the cave—a butcher, who had more than once given Simon a meal—shouted and jumped forward at the sight of the captives, leaping onto a nearby soldier and grappling at him, trying to pull the rope out of his hands. Simon wasn’t sure what his plan was: even if he pulled the villagers out of the soldier’s grasp, they would still be tied together. They had no hope of escape. The ten captives staggered toward him, jerked along by the rope.

Cormac turned his back to the cave and moved toward the struggling villager. The soldier shoved the butcher to the ground, kicking him as he huddled in his bonds.

Cormac laughed. He raised one cupped hand, which filled with a dark and swirling mass of clouds. The tiny mass began to spin, faster and faster, and to fill with flashes of unseen lightning, until he held a thunderstorm in the palm of his hand.

The Traveler looked over the villagers huddled in the rest of the cave. “He should not have attacked me. I trust the rest of you will be wiser, in the future.”

As Cormac stepped toward the butcher and raised his arm, Simon cried out. The light from Cormac’s torch had fallen on the woman at the end of the line, revealing her face for the first time.

It was Leah.

Cormac held a hand over his head, and the storm inside it flashed. Thorned purplish vines sprouted from the earth around the captive butcher, crawling up his legs like questing snakes. The man's scream was terrible. Each vine had inch-long thorns that dragged over the man's skin, leaving deep red lines that trickled down his flesh. He clawed desperately at the vines, trying to peel them apart, but all he accomplished was shredding his fingers.

Simon had never seen anyone in that much agony. A twisting sympathetic pain in his own stomach made him think he was going to vomit, but he couldn't look away. Someone should help, he knew that. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. But what could an ordinary blade do?

He stood there, frozen.

The dying man continued to produce a whimpering scream until the storm in Cormac’s hand flashed again, and blue sparks jumped from all the thorns at once. The man convulsed, lurching in spasms like he had lost all control of his muscles. The air filled with the smell of charred meat and hair. The other people in the cave screamed and pushed back into the rock; Simon himself felt paralyzed. The captives tied to the same rope tried to pull away, but they were held firmly by their Damascan captors. Simon noticed that many of the soldiers looked sickened, and some had turned completely away, but none dared oppose the Traveler.

After a few moments, the sparks stopped and the body slumped to the ground. His skin was red and swollen, and smoke rose gently from his chest. The smell was nauseating, and Simon heard several people behind him empty their stomachs on the cave floor.

The purple-green vines slithered back into the rocky ground and vanished.

Cormac looked vaguely disgusted, as though he had been forced to step on a spider while wearing a silk slipper. He waved at the smoke in front of his face and grimaced. “You take my point,” he said. “Stay quiet and out of the way, so I won’t need to make another example.”

The Damascan soldiers pulled on the rope of captives, trying to maneuver them into position, but now everyone in the line was panicking, trying desperately to get as far away from Cormac as possible.

“Honestly,” Cormac said. He tossed the torch to a nearby soldier. “Struggling solves nothing. We’re leaving.”

Cormac raised his handheld thunderstorm over the struggling mass of captured villagers. Simon caught a glimpse of Leah's panicked face as she strained against the chains on her limbs and the collar around her neck. She didn’t even look afraid, just angry. And resolved.

Even now, she was putting the best face on her fear, and that lent Simon courage. If he could give her a moment more to live, maybe even a chance to escape, he had to try. His father would have done no less.

Quietly, afraid the Traveler would hear him, Simon eased the sword from its scabbard. As soon as he had the weapon free he jumped forward, screaming, and slashed at Cormac's legs.

The Traveler didn't even look back, but a gust of wind smacked into Simon's chest like a giant's kick. The wind felt heavy and wet, far more so than the night air surrounding them, and it smelled like iron and rotting vegetation. It shoved Simon back, tumbling him over backwards until he landed very near where he had started, staring up at the cave roof. He could see a wedge of stars outside.

Simon tried to stand, to catch a breath, but it seemed like his body had died below the neck. He couldn't make his legs move, his lungs inflate. He tried to close his fingers around his sword, but felt nothing. Had he dropped it? He lay on the sand, wheezing and looking up at the stars as footsteps crunched over closer to his head.

Cormac's head gleamed as it blocked out the handful of stars, but his poisonous green eyes flashed brighter.

“Did that make you feel better?” the Traveler asked. Then Simon's view was obscured by an up-close vision of lightning flashes and dark, swirling clouds.

Simon closed his eyes, but opened them again instantly. His father had died facing his killer; so would he. Kalman’s son would watch the storm that killed him. His lungs remembered their job as he stared, and he drew in a deep, ragged breath.

“Don't worry, Simon,” someone said. Not Cormac. A younger, firmer voice. Alin? The storm shivered, as though the hand holding it had trembled. Heat lightning flared inches from Simon’s nose.

“I'll take care of this,” Alin said. It was Alin's confidence, but far more serious in tone than Simon had ever heard from him before. He wanted to look, to see what Alin had planned that could stand against a Traveler, but his vision was filled with clouds of rolling black.

“What are y—” Cormac began, but there was a flash of golden light so bright that it caused a blast of pain in Simon's eyes. Simon flinched, and when he could see clearly again, the storm in front of his face had vanished. He blinked hurriedly, trying to clear his eyes. Something like a bundled-up cloak arched through the air and landed heavily in the distance, far behind the ring of Damascan soldiers.

Was that Cormac's body?

Simon sat up, ribs aching in protest, and turned around.

Alin stood, radiating sunlight. His hair gleamed like polished gold, his clothes drifted on an otherworldly breeze, and wisps of light rose like smoke from his right hand.

Chaim, the Mayor’s advisor, spoke from the corner of the cave, his voice full of awe. “Alin,” he said. “What have you done?”

Alin hesitated. “I’m...not sure.”

CHAPTER 4:

HIDDEN TALENTS

Cormac slammed into the rocky ground. He heard his body crack, and lost all feeling in a blast of white-hot pain. His consciousness fuzzed, but he knew that without the protection of Endross worked into his armor, he would be dead. As it was, the wind cushioned his fall enough so that he only cracked a rib.

He levered himself into a sitting position and nearly blacked out from the fire that exploded in his head. Perhaps he had cracked more than just a rib.

He would have to finish this quickly. Patrols from Enosh sometimes extended this far south, and he didn’t want to find a pair of hostile Grandmasters stepping out of nowhere to drag him back for interrogation. In fact, prudence suggested he should take the royal girl and as many prisoners as he could grab and retreat, rather than face this unknown Traveler and possible Enosh reinforcements.

But he couldn’t. Not now. He had been challenged.

Shame and rage rose up inside him, forcing him to his feet despite the blinding pain. He focused his fury on a spot a few inches from his palm, tearing open a rift between worlds with vicious effort.

Cormac was a Traveler of Endross, the Lightning Wastes. It was known across the world as the most brutal and unforgiving of all known Territories. Endross was a vast desert wasteland, broken only by the occasional oasis of lush jungle. The jungles were arguably even more deadly than the harsh wastes, as they were home to a thousand species of predator. And every day without fail, thunderstorms blasted the land with lightning and flogged it with harsh wind.

There was no weakness in Cormac’s Territory. The weak died. To claim power from Endross, a Traveler had to conquer. And that meant responding to every challenge with swift, lethal force.

Never back down from a predator, Cormac thought. He will only attack. That was one of the first lessons any Endross Traveler learned.

A Gate to Endross opened in his palm: an angry, flashing thunderstorm the size of a marble. Endross Gates were unique among all the Territories in that they grew larger and more powerful the longer they stood open. The storm in his hand would grow and grow, granting him access to more and more power. That is, until he lost control. If the Gate became too powerful it could easily go wild, all the power of Endross unleashed without Cormac’s will to restrain it. That was how many Endross Travelers died, consumed by the powers they had conjured.

But Cormac never lost control.

He passed a free hand over his smooth scalp, trying to regain himself, drowning his pain in Endross power.

The storm in his hand now filled his entire palm.

The time was here. Before Enosh discovered their presence, and before Sergeant Yakir did something he would regret, Cormac would attack.

It was the only way he knew.

***

Simon picked up his sword, which—as it turned out—had fallen only inches from his body. Not that it had done him much good. Absently he sheathed the weapon and looked over at Alin.

“Alin,” Simon said, “are you a Traveler?”

Alin’s gaze wavered, and he looked down at his hand as though he had finally noticed it shining. The sunlight glow around him flickered, dimmed, and died completely.

“I think I just killed someone,” Alin said. His voice was shaken. “There was a second there where I felt something…and I just knew I could take him. But now it’s gone.”

Simon looked carefully at Alin’s face, but he seemed completely lost. He’d even forgotten to speak like a storyteller. He really must not know what was happening to him.

Even as stunned and frightened as he was, Simon felt a spark of pity. If Alin didn’t have any more idea what was going on than Simon did, he must be incredibly confused.

The Damascan soldiers had frozen in the face of an unknown Traveler, but now that Alin had stopped glowing, one of them walked to the mouth of the cave and stopped.

“My name is Sergeant Yakir,” the soldier said. “In the absence of Traveler Cormac, I have command of this unit, and I’d like to speak with the Traveler of Myria.” He nodded to Alin. “Step forward, Traveler, and identify yourself.” Yakir’s face was indistinct behind his helmet, but his eyes were hard.

Alin cleared his throat. “My name is Alin, son of Torin. But I’m not a Traveler.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “At least, I don’t think I am.”

The Damascan soldiers tensed almost imperceptibly, and turned their heads to see Yakir’s reaction. A shiver crawled down Simon’s spine as he realized each one had their hands on a weapon. If they decided Alin wasn’t a Traveler, things could get even more dangerous. Or maybe if they decided he was; Simon wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Sergeant Yakir snorted and waved a hand, and his men relaxed. “Yeah, I throw shooting stars every time somebody pisses me off, too.” A few of his men chuckled nervously. “Make this easier on everyone, son, and come with me. If you come peaceful, we’ll pretend like none of this ever happened.”

Simon watched the thoughts on Alin’s face. Fear gave way to uncertainty, which hardened into determination and anger.

“If I come with you,” Alin said, “you release the captives. Everybody here goes free.” His anger had bled through into his voice, and in that moment he looked ten years older.

Yakir let out a breath and shook his head. “I can let everybody else go, but anyone on a rope is a prisoner of war. They have to come with us. If you want to buy them from the Overlord in exchange for your loyalty, I think he’ll go for it. Travelers get whatever they want, in my experience. But until such time as that happens, they’re my prisoners.”

Alin matched stares with Sergeant Yakir for a long moment. The older man’s eyes never wavered. Some of the soldiers’ hands flexed on their swords. Leah looked like she was on the verge of calling out to Alin, but she said nothing. Simon wondered what she had meant to say.

“I agree,” Alin told the soldiers. “Move your men back.”

Sergeant Yakir nodded and opened his mouth to respond.

Then his head exploded. A lightning bolt blasted into the cave from outside, blowing Yakir’s head into a thousand pieces.

Blood and gore splattered villagers and soldiers alike, and Simon shouted as he felt warm drops splash on his skin. More shouts and screams, from both the Damascans and the Myrians, joined his.

Sergeant Yakir’s body fell much more slowly than Simon would have expected. It slumped to its knees, as though Yakir had just heard terrible news, then flopped over to one side. The air where his head used to be crackled and sparked visibly, and steam rose from his neck.

One of the soldiers yelled, “He’ll kill us all!” and loosed an arrow in Alin’s direction. The lightning bolt had come from outside the cave, not from Alin, but the soldier must have panicked.

Alin didn’t so much dodge as jerk to one side, and the arrow shattered against rock. Some of the others took up bows or spears and advanced on Alin, faces cold. They formed a human wall, pushing into the cave side-by-side. Simon would have had no chance of slipping through the soldiers, and neither did Alin.

Cormac shouldered them aside.

He was covered in dirt and sand. His scalp had split open, leaking blood that sealed one eye shut, and he moved with a noticeable limp. His one open eye blazed with green fury, and the thunderstorm swirling in his right hand was twice the size of the one he had held earlier. The storm’s flashes did not come from hidden heat lightning this time, but from a roiling nest of lightning unleashed among its dark clouds.

Simon backed up until he stood over his mother’s unconscious form. He huddled over her, behind Alin. If Alin had a Traveler’s powers, then he should handle this.

But Simon had never been good at waiting for other people to solve his problems. He kept one hand on his sword, looking for an opportunity. Striking at the Traveler’s legs hadn’t worked last time, but there had to be something else he could do.

Travelers weren’t immortal, after all. The Demon of Latari Forest had proved that, eight years ago.

“There will be no deals,” Cormac hissed. “No agreements. I will scatter your ashes from here to Bel Calem.”

He thrust the storm forward, and lightning flared. An enormous serpent’s head, eyes glowing and fangs gleaming, pushed its way out of the center of the storm as if hatching from an egg. As it emerged, the snake hissed and bared its six-inch fangs. The inside of its mouth glowed blue, as though lit by lightning from within.

The serpent oozed from the thunderstorm, sliding out in foot after foot of deep green scales. It seemed to move slowly, but in only a handful of seconds it sat coiled on the cave floor. If it stretched out to its full length it might be five or six paces long, and it looked as big around as Simon’s waist.

Simon clutched his mother with one hand, his other tightening around the sword’s hilt.

He glanced from the snake to the cave entrance and back. He couldn’t fight and protect his mother at the same time, but maybe he could carry her out of the cave and hurry back, then stand with Alin to defeat the snake. He’d almost drummed up the courage to take the first step when the serpent’s head swiveled toward him.

Its reptilian eyes shone a hot, luminescent blue-white. It hissed, and hungry sparks played around the edges of its fangs. It stared straight at Simon, and he felt its barely restrained rage like a burning weight.

Simon flicked his eyes to the side, trying to signal Alin while moving as little as possible. If Alin was going to do something with his newfound Traveler powers, now was the time. Every eye in and around the cave was locked on Alin, waiting for him to summon light and blast the snake into steaming pieces.

Alin raised his hand and pointed it at the serpent. Nothing happened. A panicked look crossed his face, and he shouted, gesturing as though throwing an invisible ball. Nothing.

Simon’s stomach dropped.

Cormac snarled a word, and the snake struck forward like a bolt of lightning. But not towards Simon. His stomach unclenched, and a wave of powerful relief swept over him.

It drove its head towards Orlina, Chaim’s daughter, who had been leaning against the wall between her parents. The creature snatched her up like a bird grabbing a mouse, driving its fangs deep into her torso.

Her scream was weak and wet, and the snake lifted her up in its jaws and shook her. There came a flash of blue light from between the monster’s fangs, and the girl’s body convulsed. One of her legs kicked wildly, flinging her sandal off and sending it sailing over Simon’s head.

Chaim yelled and slammed his fists down on the serpent’s head, again and again, but it didn’t seem to be particularly bothered. After a few seconds it flicked its tail, knocking Chaim onto his back.

The blood leaking from Orlina’s body steamed, and the cave once again filled with the smell of seared meat.

Simon hated himself for thinking it, but he was still relieved that the snake had moved away from his mother. Now he had the chance to get her out, so that he could return and fight by Alin’s side.

He scooped his mother up in both arms and crept toward the side of the cave entrance. All of the soldiers were watching the battle between Travelers, and besides, he wasn’t a captive. No one moved to stop him as he edged along the sandy ground.

The Traveler growled and snapped another word, gesturing at Alin. The serpent’s head jerked back like it had reached the end of an invisible leash, and it dropped Orlina’s body from limp jaws. It slithered over to Alin and levered its shining blue eyes up to a level even with his.

To Alin’s credit, he only flinched once. Then he visibly steeled himself and stared back at the monstrous snake.

The serpent hissed, its eyes flared brighter, and its jaws cracked. Simon tried to keep an eye on the creature as best he could, even as he took one slow step after another toward the edge of the cave. He hoped Alin would come up with some Traveler power to save himself, but in case he didn’t, Simon wanted to do him the honor of watching him die.

Instead, the serpent turned and looked at Simon. He froze in his steps, Edina cradled awkwardly in his two arms. Only a few more steps. A few more steps and he would have made it.

Alin yelled and tried to grab the snake, but its head was already in Simon’s face. Cormac shouted, and Simon stumbled backwards, trying instinctively to put as much distance as possible between his mother and the snake from another world.

“Get the Traveler!” Cormac yelled. His face was red and strained, like he was lifting a load too heavy for him. “Ignore the rest!”

The serpent yawned, displaying its blue-lit teeth inches from Simon’s mouth.Then it shot towards Simon’s chest. He jerked backwards and fell, raising a hand to ward off the snake’s attack.

He heard a crackle and a sound like a knife sticking into a slab of beef, but he felt no pain. Simon opened his eyes a crack, trying to see what had saved him.

Horror stabbed him in the gut as he realized the truth: the monster had ignored him.

It had gone straight for his mother.

Simon screamed as the snake’s fangs stabbed into his mother’s body, crackling with lightning.

His mother convulsed like the others, but she remained silent. Simon drew his sword at last, knowing it was hopeless, slamming its edge against the scales again and again. It accomplished nothing except to dull his blade—the snake didn’t even look up. He had to do something; every second brought his mother closer to death. Desperate, he stabbed at the snake’s eyes. Surely it had to be vulnerable there.

The blade skittered off the serpent’s head. Another pulse of lightning flashed down its fangs, and Simon’s mother shook again.

A gold light poured forth from the center of the cave.

“Call it off,” Alin said, his voice once more grim and resonant. Simon didn’t turn, still hammering his blade against the creature. He had to protect her this time. He had to.

Cormac shouted and thrust both hands at the serpent, the storm boiling in his palm. His snake turned and hissed at him, its mouth sticky and dark with blood.

“Fine,” Alin said. His hands were shrouded in misty white-gold light. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

He hurled golden light at the snake, not in a ball this time, but in a tight circle. The loop of light wrapped itself around the snake’s neck, beneath the skull, in a shining golden collar. The serpent writhed and flapped below Simon, trying to escape the binding. Its heavy head smacked into Simon’s gut, knocking the breath from him and driving him to his knees. He almost dropped his sword.

Alin raised a glowing hand and clenched his fist. The collar brightened, and the snake had time to let out one inhuman shriek before the collar exploded. Even armored scales couldn’t stop the golden ring from doing what Simon’s sword couldn’t: taking the monster’s head off.

Two smoking pieces of snake fell to the cave floor and dissolved into rolling black clouds, which vanished.

Cormac screamed, a sound of pure frustration, and thrust his hands in front of him as if he were trying to push down a tree. Lightning blasted forth from Cormac’s storm cloud, lighting the sandy cave like a newborn star. Thunder rocked Simon’s ears.

Halfway through the shallow cave, only a few feet in front of Cormac, the lightning slammed into a golden blast from Alin.

The lightning bolt shattered into pieces that turned back upon its summoner, scourging Cormac’s flesh and singeing the edges of his cloak. Some of the Damascan soldiers ran, and those remaining looked ready to flee at any time. Among them, the captives cowered helplessly, hoping to avoid the deadly bolts.

Cormac, breathing heavily, said something that Simon didn’t catch through the ringing in his ears.

Alin evidently did, though, because as Simon’s hearing returned he heard the young Traveler say, “...so it seems judgment is mine to pass.” Alin extended his right hand, and light gathered in it, resolving into the shining shape of a translucent sword. It looked like the golden ghost of a magnificent blade, and Alin swung it twice through the air as if it had no weight.

Cormac moved the storm toward the ground, and thorny vines spun up from it, crackling with blue sparks. Alin’s sword flashed down one, two, three, four times, rhythmically, as though he were chopping wood. The vines fell to the ground in pieces, and Alin advanced.

They had moved out of the cave entirely now, standing on the sandy earth beneath the stars. Cormac retreated into his soldiers and Alin steadily moved forward, driving the other man backwards. The Damascan soldiers clutched their weapons uncertainly, clearly not sure whether to interfere.

“Loose!” Cormac screamed, moving back and bringing the storm up. “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

One of the archers had his bow ready, and an arrow blurred towards Alin. His sword flashed out of existence, a ball of gold light blasted the arrow from the air. Cormac summoned up more vines around Alin’s feet as more arrows whizzed around him.

Simon saw the dilemma instantly. If Alin summoned the sword to destroy Cormac’s vines, he would be filled with arrows. If he continued to defend himself from the arrows, the vines would turn him into another burned-out corpse on the cave floor.

Alin struck arrows from the air with one glowing hand and moved the other down to point at the vines. His muscles tightened, as though he were gathering his strength.

Then the vines burst into flames.

At first Simon thought Alin had set the vines on fire himself, but he and Cormac both started and looked around at the interruption. Some of the soldiers shouted and pointed, and Cormac’s hands clenched into fists.

A swirling white hole in the world, the size of a barn door, floated in the air outside of the cave. Two figures stepped out, both wearing heavy coats: a young man, a year or two older than Simon, and an older woman who looked as though she could chew horseshoes and spit nails. They were both covered in snowflakes, and Simon realized with a start that the portal led straight into a blizzard.

Two more Travelers had arrived.

“Enosh!” Cormac shouted, and the soldiers moved into position around the Gate. Simon couldn’t tell if they meant to attack the portal or defend it.

Simon set his mother to one side and scrambled to his feet, snatching up his sword. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hands grew slick on the sword’s grip. He knew, with a sick feeling in his gut, that they were all about to die.

The young man stepped from the portal, his eyes squeezed shut. His hand had been moving the whole time, a red symbol on his palm leaving streaks of light in the air as it passed. It had been eight years since Simon had seen a mark like that, but the sight of it made his hands shake. This was how his father had died.

At least I won’t go out alone, Simon thought. The thought shouldn’t have comforted him, but it did. His hands steadied. He moved forward.

Then the new Traveler thrust out his red-marked hand, and fire poured from the night sky down onto Cormac. Cormac threw up the storm in his hand as a shield, and wind met fire. The heat scorched Simon’s face, and savage air tore at his eyes.

A pair of Damascan soldiers charged at the new Travelers from behind, drawn steel in their hands. The woman flicked something small and silver into her hand—maybe a key?—and held it in front of her, twisting it as though unlocking a door.

A spinning silver disc the size of a cartwheel blasted out of thin air, rushing forward and slicing the two soldiers in two like an enormous razor. A splatter of red sprayed off into the night. The spinning razor blinked away a second later, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

Her partner, the young man with the red palm, didn’t open his eyes or stop moving his right hand. He simply gestured with his left hand, as though shooing away a fly, and spoke a word Simon couldn’t hear.

Nothing happened for a second, and then a clump of snow leaped out of the blizzard and through the portal. To Simon, it looked like a poorly formed snowball the size of a barrel. The snow stuck to the ground, quivering and snarling like a horde of badgers. Simon couldn’t decide whether there was some living creature inside the snow or whether the snow itself was alive. Either way, the frozen white mound jumped into the air and latched onto the next Damascan soldier in line.

The snow clung to the man, shaking back and forth as it worried at the soldier’s breastplate like a dog shaking a rabbit. Blood sprayed up from his chest, and he screamed wordlessly. Was the snow...eating him?

Simon shivered and lowered his sword, backing up a step. Maybe these two Travelers would take care of the Damascans on their own, and maybe they would decide that the villagers deserved the same treatment. Simon would wait to act until they had taken care of Cormac.

Not that he could make any difference. He couldn’t shake the image of a spinning razor slicing two armored men in half in a blink, their bodies falling to the ground as so many pieces of meat. How was his sword supposed to protect anyone?

One of the other soldiers had a bow prepared, and they loosed an arrow at the carnivorous snow. The arrow landed in the snow bank and stuck there, to no apparent effect. Black fletching stuck out at an angle from the pristine white. The soldier stopped screaming and fell over, a gurgle escaping his mouth as he died. The snow growled again and leaped at another soldier. The rest of them finally got the hint and fled, some throwing down weapons as they ran.

The young Traveler kept his eyes shut and his right arm moving, palm flaring with red light. The fire from heaven, raining down from an orange slit in the sky onto Cormac, never slowed. Cormac shouted, straining to keep the flame off of him.

Seeing his enemy distracted, Alin brought both hands up. A golden, shining wave of solid light blasted from his arms like a tide and slammed into Cormac. The gold stopped a few inches from his skin, blue light flaring behind him in some kind of defensive shield. The blue blended with the red light from above and gold from behind in a confusing rainbow that left Simon blinded.

When Simon’s eyes cleared, Cormac lay on his back. The thunderstorm hung in the air underneath the stream of falling fire, still keeping the fire off of him. It was almost the size of a pony now, and it floated five feet off the ground. Lightning crackled and black clouds swirled, silently consuming the torrent of fire from above.

Cormac stirred, groaning. When he saw the thunderstorm above him, his eyes widened, and he reached out as if to pluck the storm from midair. For a moment, nothing else happened. The cave fell into an eerie silence.

Then the floating storm, out of Cormac’s control, exploded into a thousand screaming bolts of lightning. The fire, with nothing left to stop it, poured in a waterfall down on Cormac’s head. Lightning and fire crashed into the Damascan Traveler, lighting him like a false dawn.

Simon expected to hear him shriek, or scream, or call for help, but the thunderous detonation of power swallowed anything the Traveler might have said. A sound like trapped thunder rocked the cave, and a searing wind blew Simon off his feet, along with most of his fellow villagers. Only Alin and the two strange Travelers remained standing.

When the smoke, dust, and light cleared, no sign of Cormac remained. The ground outside the cavern was littered with abandoned spears, swords, and body parts belonging to the soldiers. Simon saw a few in the distance, still running.

Fire still fell in an endless torrent, blackening the ground. The younger Traveler made a slashing gesture with his red-branded right hand, and the orange slit in the sky closed itself. The flame vanished. Then he clenched his left fist and spoke a word, and the living snow died—releasing one still-breathing Damascan soldier who stumbled uncertainly away. The snow crawled away from the cavern and back into the snowy portal, purring contentedly. One black arrow still stuck up from its otherwise-pristine back. Once it crossed the threshold of the blizzard, the portal vanished.

When both ice and fire were gone, the new Traveler opened his eyes and blinked.

“Uh...is everybody okay?” he asked. Orlina’s mother began to weep. Simon looked down at the corpse of his mother, bundled at his feet, and had to choke back a sob himself.

The older Traveler sighed and patted him on the shoulder. “You did well, Gilad,” she said. “Now let me take it from here.”

The young Traveler—Gilad—nodded, and sat down against a rock. His face showed exhaustion, but he also looked relieved to be done with the fighting.

The woman faced Alin, who still glowed like a sunrise. He had an arm half-raised, and light drifted up from it like luminescent smoke. She glanced at the hand as though he were making a rude gesture, but she didn’t comment.

“My name is Miram, and I speak for myself and my companion Gilad. We are Travelers, from the free city of Enosh. Who are you?”

Alin’s eyes held steady on her for a moment before he spoke. “The last time I gave someone my name,” he said, “his head burst like a dropped fruit. I’m not sure you want me to answer.”

Miram had her small silver key up in an instant. “Is that a threat?” she asked.

Sheepishly Alin smiled, but he didn’t lower his arm. Wisps of light drifted up from his hand. “Only a poor joke. I am Alin, son of Torin, born in Myria village inside the realm of Overlord Malachi. If you are truly from Enosh, we are not enemies. Damasca has made it clear that they will not defend us.”

Oh sweet Maker, Alin was trying to make a speech. He sounded ridiculous, as though he thought his new powers made him the equal of some lord or lady from the stories. Then again, he was a Traveler now. Maybe that was how he was supposed to talk.

Simon knelt down, adjusting his mother so she looked more comfortable. She was beyond caring, but he couldn’t stand to see her like that, with her neck twisted at almost a right angle.

He almost wept, but he had to pay attention. This was likely one of the most important exchanges he would ever witness. His mother—the one he remembered from her few lucid periods when she was both sober and sane—would have wanted him to listen.

“I am Miram, Master Traveler of Tartarus,” the woman said. “This is my companion, Gilad.” Gilad looked up at the sound of his name, blinked, and gave a startled wave.

“We will give you whatever help you need,” Miram continued, “and we are willing to transport the surviving people of Myria to Enosh for medical care and supplies. But first”—and here her voice sharpened— “I must know, Alin son of Torin, what Territory have you summoned?”

Alin hesitated. “Territory?”

“The power you’re using right now,” Miram said impatiently. “It comes from somewhere. Where?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Could you show us?” Gilad asked. “Do whatever you did before.”

Alin took a deep breath. “Okay. I think I can...” his voice trailed off. His hand moved uncertainly in front of him, questing, until his fingers seemed to find something in empty air.

His eyes blazed, the glow around him intensified, and a golden sword appeared in his hand. Translucent and softly golden, it looked like the shining ghost of a real weapon.

“And a little more,” Alin murmured. Light poured up from his left hand again, and he released it to hang in midair. It hung in a golden globe, lighting the cave and the surrounding area up like midday.

The battle with Cormac had made it clear, but somehow it only sank in now. Alin was a Traveler. Alin was a Traveler, and Simon wasn’t.

His mother’s sightless eyes were bloodshot. Simon slid them closed with a gentle hand.

Miram dropped to her knees in front of Alin, and her face softened. “I greet you, Eliadel, the Rising Sun, and I bid you welcome to the gates of Enosh.” She bowed until her head rested against the stone floor, and when she next spoke, her voice sounded weary. “You have not come too soon.”

Gilad joined her, mirroring her position more awkwardly.

The other villagers stared at Alin with open mouths. Some of them bowed, though Simon was sure they had no more idea what was going on than he did. One woman wept with joy and relief, reaching out as though to touch him.

Simon glanced over to see how Leah was taking it, and fear jolted through him. He slid away from his mother’s body, rose unsteadily to his feet, and walked over to tug on Alin’s sleeve.

“Alin,” Simon said. “Where’s Leah?”

***

Leah wasn’t the only one to vanish. All the prisoners had disappeared without leaving their ropes behind.

The golden glow had faded from Alin seconds after he had realized Leah was missing, but the Travelers all obeyed him when he ordered a search. For that matter, so did the villagers. But after two hours of exhaustive searching, aided by the powers of three Travelers, no one had found a trace.

“Enough,” Miram finally called. “Gilad, signal everyone to return.”

Gilad raised a hand and launched three orange sparks into the air. Three flares: the signal for all those searching to return.

“We just need to spread out farther,” Simon insisted. “They could still be out here.”

Alin looked troubled, but he didn’t say anything to agree.

Miram walked over and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your friends. Or perhaps your family?” When Simon glanced over at his mother’s body instead of responding, Miram went on. Her voice sounded a touch more sympathetic. “It looks like Cormac stowed the prisoners away in a Gate when no one was paying attention. He probably didn’t want to keep watching them. Or maybe there was a second Traveler among the soldiers; who knows? But there are no tracks. I assure you, we would have found them. Your friends are on their way to Malachi by now.”

“Alin, we shouldn’t—” Simon began, but his friend cut him off by shaking his head. Simon was too startled to be offended. At first.

“She’s right, Simon,” Alin said. “They’re with Malachi. The only way we’re going to get them back is by force.”

How would you know that? Simon wondered.

“But first we must return to Enosh,” Miram said, “and gather our forces. Alin, you should come with us, along with any wounded. Everyone else should return to your village and wait for word and supplies.”

“But why do you need me?” Alin asked. “My people are in need, and I would not abandon them lightly.” Again, he spoke as if he had real authority. Or a swollen head.

Miram smiled a bitter smile. “There is a bigger picture here than your family and friends, Alin. Even if we bring them back from Malachi, they will never be safe. Not until King Zakareth is no longer in control.”

“We have a prophecy, Alin, uh, I mean, Eliadel,” Gilad said. “It was foretold that a Traveler of Elysia, the City of Light, would return and lead the free city of Enosh against the King of Damasca and bring him down.”

“And that’s me?” Alin asked. He sounded a little excited.

Gilad shrugged. “It seems like it.”

Miram nodded. “Please come with us, Alin. You will be treated as royalty, and we will find someone to teach you. If you are who we think you are, then you have more than enough power to protect your home...and ours.”

Alin straightened his shoulders and met Miram’s eyes. “I will join you for now,” he said. “So that I can see if you are telling the truth.” Alin sounded serious, but Simon thought he still looked childishly eager.

Miram almost smiled. “Good enough. Gilad, open a Gate. Take us through Helgard to the nearest Naraka waypoint; we need the fast route home.”

Simon hesitated to speak, but he felt like he had to say something. “Do you think I have time to bury my mother?” he said. “I want to make sure she’s taken care of before we leave.”

Alin and Miram exchanged glances, and Simon got the impression that his friend was years older instead of only a few months.

Alin took him by both shoulders and looked at him compassionately. “Simon, I think you should stay with the village. They will need your help in rebuilding.”

Simon had to crush the thought of punching Alin right in his condescending face. Alin could probably set Simon on fire with his thoughts or something, but he had no right to speak like that. Besides, after Simon buried his mother, what was he supposed to do? Go back to the smoldering ruins of an empty house?

“There are lots of our people missing,” Simon said, making his voice reasonable. “Not just Leah and the others. A bunch of people ran off. Malachi may have caught dozens of villagers. And I want to help.” Even to his ears, it sounded like a child’s plea.

“Simon, you’ll be helping build something they can come home to. Besides, I will bring back as many as I can. I promise.” Alin’s voice was earnest, but it left Simon feeling hollow.

Simon agreed, though he felt sick. All he had done to prepare, all those hours practicing, and he had been all but useless against a real Traveler. Again.

“Thanks Simon,” Alin said, and there was real relief in his eyes. “Tell my sisters not to worry, all right? I’ll be back for them.”

Simon nodded and trudged back to the cave where his mother lay, silent and motionless. She was not near the other corpses but separate, alone, wrapped in the same filthy rags she wore for clothing.

And so she died as she had lived.

Simon gathered her in his arms and turned to watch the Travelers depart. They led the wounded villagers one by one through a Gate and into another swirling blizzard. Each villager hesitated when he or she first looked into the portal, but no one bolted. One at a time, they forced themselves through.

At last, only Alin and Gilad were left. Alin turned, saw Simon, and smiled a little. Then he waved good-bye and passed through the portal. Gilad glanced around nervously and followed, and with his passing, the Gate vanished.

Simon hefted his mother’s corpse in his arms and followed the few other weary villagers, heading for what remained of their home.

***

Leah stood on the gray plains of Lirial, still leashed to the nine other prisoners.

Above her, in a sky locked in perpetual night, a dozen moons whirled and shifted. One orange harvest moon drifted slowly overhead, full tonight, while a smaller silver-blue moon whirled from new moon to crescent to half moon to full in the space of five seconds, then back again. A red moon and a purple crossed each other, then switched positions.

There was a pattern to each of the Lirial moons, and understanding their interactions was vitally important to any Lirial Traveler. To Leah, they spoke of a steadily shifting interaction of subtle forces.

But Leah the daughter of Kelia—as the uneducated child of a Myrian villager—would know none of that. So...

“Where are we?” Leah asked, as if panicked.

One of the soldiers, a young man little older than herself, stared at her in shock. He would have no more idea what was going on than one of the villagers, except he knew that she had done it. She had, in fact—as soon as she had realized Cormac was going to lose his confrontation with Alin, she had opened a Gate and brought the sacrifices through. Along with a handful of soldiers, to help her out.

Leah gestured quickly to the soldier, trying to signal him to catch on. At last, understanding lit his face.

“Um, yes,” he said. “This is a...Territory. For Travelers.”

“You’re still taking us to Bel Calem?” Leah asked, in a fearful tone.

The soldier cleared his throat. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, yes. Well? Let’s get moving.”

Leah shot him another covert gesture, pointing to her left, where a cliff of pure crystal glinted in the distance.

“This way!” the young soldier called, pointing in the direction Leah had indicated. With another glance at her—he was going to have to be more subtle than that, if he wanted this to work—the soldier started off in the right direction.

The sacrifices followed, most of them still hushed by the idea that they were actually in one of the mythical Territories. Rutha, who still believed she was Leah’s half-sister, clung to Leah’s shirt like a child to her mother’s apron. Leah patted her hand soothingly.

Though she was actually not supposed to form any real attachments to the Myrians, she still hoped she could find a way to spare Rutha. They may not be true blood relatives, but Leah had spent the past two years living with the girl as a sister. She couldn’t help but feel protective. Rutha was certainly a long sight better than Leah’s real sisters.

More importantly, how was she going to explain to her father about Alin? The Elysian Traveler had been in Myria, when Leah had spent most of the past two years insisting that the story was a myth. And he wasn’t just anyone in Myria, but a boy who had nursed a painfully obvious crush on her almost since she had walked into the village.

She would have to find a way to get Alin back in hand, or else make a formal apology to her father. A particularly long and painful apology.

At all costs, she had to avoid that. Which meant that she would have to bring Alin back and get him under control.

Somehow.

CHAPTER 5:

A STEP FORWARD

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

48 Days Until Midsummer

Over the next three days, almost a hundred villagers trickled back to the scorched ruins of Myria.

They scooped out a shallow pit outside the village borders and dumped into it the fourteen bodies they could find. Chaim said, as Simon helped him heave his daughter’s limp corpse into the mass grave, that they had gotten lucky. He said the words bitterly, and spat to one side afterwards.

The body count was too low for a real attack. In Chaim’s reckoning, it had only been a raid for slaves, or to keep the people in line. His daughter stared up at Simon, never blinking as he pushed a pile of dirt onto her face.

Simon buried his mother himself, separate from the rest. He buried her by starlight, on a hill next to a wizened fig tree. He didn’t own a shovel, so he used a board that had once been part of a window shutter. By the time he finished, fingers cracked and bleeding, the sun had begun to peek over the horizon.

He didn’t feel the pain in his fingers. The wind was chill, and he was a little cold. It felt as if his tears had frozen on his face.

But there was still work to be done.

His house stunk after years of his mother’s illness, so he brought in fresh sand for the floor, scooping out the old grit. He even found a carpet in the house of a family he had buried. They were beyond using it now, so he rolled it up and dragged it back home.

New boards were plentiful, lying about the streets in the form of broken crates or feeding troughs, so he brought a few home and tried fixing his door. He gave up after only an hour; the frame was fine, but the original door was too warped and cracked to be worth fixing. He built himself a new one.

Scrubbing the wax from old candlesticks, sifting the flour, replacing the wineskins, and laundering his few remaining rags took another day. As the moon rose for the fourth time since his return to Myria, Simon found himself wondering:

What now?

He sat on a log with his back to a communal bonfire. Villagers huddled around it—men, women, young, old—with no regard for social standing. They muttered to each other about grief and anger and revenge, but here and there a soft laugh would break the night. They were beginning to get used to the smaller size of the village, and some had begun to say that most of those missing would return, too, in time.

“But what about those who were captured?” Chaim said. His voice was scraped raw from crying over his slain daughter. “That Traveler got ten of them, and they’re probably slaves in the capital by now. What are we going to do about it?”

A woman humphed dismissively. “That’s not a concern of ours,” she said. By her voice, Simon identified Nurita, Leah’s aunt. She had no children of her own, and spent most of her time bullying the town leaders into one decision or another. “Torin’s son Alin will take care of the ones at the capital, and you can count on that.”

There was a chorus of murmured agreements from around the fire.

Simon’s chest tightened. Alin would take care of it, sure. While Simon and the rest sat at home, scraping together ashes.

“Besides,” Nurita continued. “We’re not Travelers. We can’t stand up to the Overlord.”

More than anything, that fact burned in Simon. He had only come up against Travelers twice in his life. And each time, he had done nothing of use.

At least I tried, he thought. I ran up and tried to stab Cormac in the back.

It hadn’t done any good, in the end, but it was more than any of the other villagers had done. Simon had tried his best.

Hadn’t he?

“We’ll do what we can,” Nurita said. “We’ll stay here and pull our homes back together. No matter what happens to us, we’ll keep on living like we always have.”

Like they always had.

No, Simon hadn’t tried his best. He’d lived here, taking care of his mother, trying to preserve what was left of their life after his father’s death. But that life hadn’t kept him safe.

If he had really wanted to keep his mother safe, he wouldn’t have stayed here.

Everyone voiced their agreement to Nurita’s words. Even Chaim, though he sounded like he was going to cry again. When Simon turned around to face the fire, they were all still nodding along.

“That’s not good enough,” Simon said.

Everyone stopped to look at him. They looked mildly surprised at his presence, as though they had forgotten he was even there.

“What we’ve done all these years hasn’t worked,” Simon said. “It hasn’t kept us safe. We have to do better.”

Chaim laughed bitterly, and Nurita arched one eyebrow. “If you think you know a better way,” she said, “then by all means show us.”

Simon rose to his feet. There was only one step he could take to defend himself against enemy Travelers. And now there was nothing stopping him from taking it.

“Okay,” he said.

By the Maker, he was sick of being powerless.

He kept his sword buckled to his waist at all times, now. There was nothing else he owned that he needed, or cared enough about to gather. He thought briefly about gathering up some food, but he couldn’t summon up the energy.

Alone, Simon walked out of the south gate without looking back.

***

He hadn’t been back to the Latari Forest since he was eight years old. In fact, no one from the village had. Kalman vanishing and his wife Edina turning up insane had been enough warning for all of Myria to stay away.

But not him. There was only one man he’d ever met who could fight Travelers, and he had offered to take Simon as a student. It was Simon’s own fault that he hadn’t accepted the offer before now.

Simon reached the wall of trees after two full days of walking. The sun weighed down upon him, and sand swirled in his path, but the wind coming out of Latari was cool and wet.

Simon had imagined this moment as dire and significant. He’d pictured himself facing down the dark forest where his father had died, building his courage until he could force himself to walk into the trees.

But he was about to collapse, and all he could think about was how nice that cool air would feel after two days exposed to the heat. His eyes were caked with grit, and his throat felt like he had been chugging sand. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t had a bite to eat since he had left the village.

In the end, he rushed eagerly into the forest’s shadows.

He collapsed in the sparse grass near the border, letting the cool air wash over him, and he swore he was going to sleep there on the ground. But it took only a few seconds for thirst to drive him back to his feet.

Simon stumbled around for almost an hour looking for water before he realized he had been hearing the bubbling voice of a creek almost since the moment he crossed the border. He cursed his own lack of attention and forced his body to stagger nearer to the sound of water.

When he finally found the creek, a small but steady flow between loose banks of pebbles, clothed in reeds and thin grasses, he fell into it facedown. Once his thirst was satisfied, he made a bed of leaves and grass and curled up next to the trunk of a tall tree. By the position of the sun it was still early afternoon, and the Demon might come after him as he slept. But surely he could sleep for a few hours and wake up before dark.

Simon relaxed on the soft grass and let his mind drift. He had begun to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t go to sleep, and then darkness took him.

He woke to a man looming over him in the darkness, dagger drawn. Night had truly fallen, and the moon gleamed along the man’s drawn blade.

Simon had heard rumors that bandits were moving in and out of the Latari forest, but he had secretly laughed at the idea. The forest’s Demon would not allow such a thing.

Except apparently, he would.

Simon panicked. He grabbed at the arm holding the knife and kicked as hard as he could in the direction of the man’s knees.

The man yelled and staggered, but he put more pressure on the dagger. It lowered to within two inches of Simon’s eye, shining from a finger’s length in front of him. Simon grabbed the other man’s wrist with both arms and pushed, but he was fighting against a grown man’s entire weight.

With the strength of panic, Simon kicked up again and again, trying to land a hit between the man’s legs, but he was running out of time. He couldn’t hold the dagger off of him forever, and he couldn’t reach down to his own sword. If he got a little space, maybe he could put up a fight.

Someone nearby chuckled. “You can’t handle him, huh? You think I should take over?” Another shadow appeared at the corner of Simon’s vision, and his fear surged up again. There were two of them.

Simon pushed the man’s arm to the side, and the dagger plunged down, slicing a burning line into his left cheek. The knife bit into the soil, and Simon tried to scramble out from under his attacker.

The second man grunted and planted a boot on Simon’s forehead, shoving him back.

Simon continued to struggle, shouting for help whenever he could, but in his head he had given up. He couldn’t escape from both of them. He would fight until the end, but it was over.

At least he would die in the same place as his father.

A singsong voice drifted through the forest, rising through the sounds of rustling leaves.

“Hush, little one. It’s loud, I fear. Three little mice have come to play. No, don’t fret; I know just what to do. I will send them all away.”

The second man spun to the side, and a bush in front of him rustled. He drew a short sword. Simon tried to cry out, to encourage whoever was hiding in the bush, but the man in front of him covered his mouth with a foul-smelling hand. The point of a dagger pressed into his ribs, and he fell as still as possible.

“Not a word,” the man whispered, and Simon gave a tiny nod. “We’re all on the same road now. You’re quiet, and we might all live.”

Simon smiled, though neither of the men could see it, scanning the bushes as they were. As much as he had a plan, this was it. The Demon of the forest had let him live once, so why not twice?

“Oh no, my dear, the first little mouse has a sword. What is he going to do with that, I wonder?”

“We’re here on order of the King himself,” called the man with the drawn sword. “We’re his property, see. So get on out of here and leave us to our business!”

A shadow detached itself from the darkness, and starlight flashed on steel. The bandit’s sword hand vanished, and it tumbled to the ground still clutching the weapon. But the sword’s owner did not scream; blood sprayed from his sliced throat.

As he watched the man clutch at his throat, Simon noticed something that he had missed in the darkness: the man he had taken for a bandit wore an iron collar around his neck.

Not a bandit, then. A slave, like the nobles of Damasca supposedly kept. But who left their slaves to wander around the Latari Forest in the middle of the night? Were they runaways?

The slave man holding Simon made a sound like a sob and pulled the dagger away from Simon to point into the darkness.

That singsong whisper cut through the forest again. “One little mouse has spilled his blood. What will the other ones do?”

“Stay back!” The slave yelled. He pushed Simon aside and rose to his feet. “I’m not afraid of demons. I eat ‘em before breakfast, just to wake up my appetite!”

Only a breeze responded, rustling the leaves overhead.

“I’ll show you what I do to demons!” the man called. He stepped forward to challenge the invisible Demon, sword raised in front of him.

Then he bolted. He ran as hard as he could away from Simon, leaping over low-rising bushes, trying desperately to get away.

He made it maybe fifteen paces before a sword drove through his heart. The blade was long and curved, sharp on one edge. Simon got a good look as the shadow slowly pulled the sword from the dying man’s chest.

The sword had a ridiculously long blade, maybe six or seven feet, though it was slender and slightly curved along its whole length. The shadowed Demon held it lightly in one hand, angled out and to the side so that the blade did not scrape along the dirt. How much did a sword like that weigh? No one could hold it so easily. And how did anyone sheathe a blade that long?

The Demon of the forest spoke to something he held in his left hand, though Simon couldn’t see it clearly through the underbrush. “What do you think, little one? Will the third little mouse run for its hole? Or will it stay for cheese?”

“I’m not with them!” Simon said. He had to fight the impulse to edge backwards, to get further away from that huge sword. “They found me sleeping and tried to kill me.”

The shadow cocked his head in Simon’s direction, like a bird confronted by a worm. Then he stepped forward into the moonlight and began unwrapping a dark cloth from around his head. It had hidden his hair and mouth, leaving only his eyes uncovered. Simon assumed it was meant to keep the man as covered in darkness as possible, to make him harder to spot in the woods at night. So the fact that he was taking it off should be a good sign, right? Or it could mean that he wasn’t planning to leave any witnesses.

When he pulled away the cloth, one of Simon’s hopes was confirmed: he was only a man, if an odd-looking one. Judging by the smooth skin of his face, he was only twice Simon’s age, but his tangled, wiry hair was pure white. Clumps of it hung down into his face, obscuring his eyes.

This was not the man who had saved him when he was a child.

Who was he, then? Or did this forest have more than one demon with a sword?

“You speak as if I am blind,” he said. “I may not have the sharpest eyes, but when one man holds his knife to another, I begin to think that perhaps they are not the closest friends.” He was using a more normal speaking voice, now, but it still had something of a lilt to it. The white-haired man raised his left hand to his ear, and Simon saw that he held a doll: a girl with long black hair, wearing a dress patterned in red flowers.

“What’s that, my dear? Oh-ho, it could be so.” He returned his attention to Simon. “She thinks that because you cannot see my eyes, perhaps you think I have none.” He lifted the doll to his face and used her wooden arm to pull aside the veil of his hair. Two perfectly normal, human eyes blinked out at Simon.

“You see?” he said. “Not so blind as you thought.” The swordsman let his hair drop and raised the sword to point at Simon. They stood perhaps ten feet apart, but the sword was so long it came within a foot of touching Simon’s chest. “Now, the little mouse should tell us why it’s sleeping in my burrow.”

Simon tried to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I was looking for you.”

The man gave a mocking half-bow, somehow without moving his sword a hair. “Congratulations on your success.”

“I need your help. Overlord Malachi has taken some people from my village. I want to take them back.” He tried to sound as firm as possible, determined, as though he knew what he was doing.

“Then you have risked so much for so little,” the other man said. “I don’t leave my forest.” He pulled his sword back and turned as if to walk away.

“You don’t need to leave!” Simon cried. He was desperate now, and he wanted this man to see it, to see that it was important for him to listen. “I don’t want you to leave the forest. I’ve been here before; I’ve seen you kill Travelers. If you don’t help me...I mean, the first Damascan Traveler I meet is going to eat me alive.”

The man cocked his head again. “You have a sword,” he said. “Draw it.” Simon did, warily. The old leather of the hilt felt rough and heavy in his hand.

“Can you defend yourself?” the white-haired man asked. He flicked his long sword, and Simon’s blade rang with a shock that shook his whole upper body. It felt like someone had rung a tuning fork and shoved it against his bones. His wounded hands jerked back instinctively, and the sword fell to the ground.

“Pick it up again.” This time his voice was light, as if it were a suggestion. Simon did so.

“Now, can you attack?” The man spread his hands wide—one holding a hilt, the other a doll—leaving his chest bare in invitation.

After a moment’s hesitation, Simon rushed forward, stabbing his sword at the man’s heart. At the last second, the white-haired man vanished, sliding to one side and out of Simon’s view so fast that it looked like he had ceased to exist. Simon’s ankle snagged on the man’s foot, and he spilled to the ground, managing to toss his sword aside before he fell on it. He crashed into some roots and lay groaning on the forest floor.

He ached all over, his sliced cheek burned, and the ghost of his fear made him shake like his mother on one of her worst days. This was not working out as he had hoped.

The white-haired man leaned down beside Simon and held the doll in front of his face. Her painted eyes looked startled.

“Otoku is laughing at you, little mouse. Can you hear her?”

Shame and desperation drove Simon back to his feet, reaching for his dropped sword. “Let me try again.”

“If you like the taste of dirt so much, there are easier ways.”

“Please. One more time.”

The man sighed and stepped back, putting some distance between himself and Simon. He spoke to the doll again. “I’m sorry, my dear, but fools must learn every lesson thrice.”

He drove his blade into the ground at an angle, because only a giant could have driven it straight down, and set the doll gently on the ground beside it. “Don’t worry, dear one. This will only take a moment.”

He stepped out in front of Simon and beckoned with one hand. “Come, little mouse.”

Simon ran up and tried to sweep his sword at the other man’s stomach, but the man was too fast. He grabbed Simon’s wrist and twisted. The pain and pressure were too much for Simon to resist, and he dropped his sword to the ground.

“Again,” Simon said, as soon as the older man released him. If this was what it took to get the Myrian prisoners back, he would do it every night for a thousand nights.

The man shook his white, shaggy head. “No,” he said. “It’s my turn to play.”

He kicked Simon’s short sword up off the ground and snagged it out of the air, then turned it on Simon in a blur of steel. The point of the sword pricked him in the shoulder, in the chest, on each arm. Simon tried to move away, but he couldn’t escape. The swordsman was so fast; he kept Simon on his heels until his back pressed against a tree. Then the man put the blade’s point against Simon’s throat.

“I win again. Such an easy game.”

The man dropped the sword at Simon’s feet and walked away. He picked up his doll and brushed off her dress.

“One more time,” Simon said. He had already retrieved the sword.

With one hand, the other man extracted his huge blade from the ground. He shook his head. “You’re too flimsy for us. You would break.”

“No, I won’t! Please!” But Simon could see he was getting nowhere. He tried a different tactic. “Is there someone else I could talk to? One of you who helped me before. He wore a cloak, and had a damaged sword. Please, could I speak with him?”

The swordsman froze on the brink of turning away. Simon actually caught a glimpse of one eye through the veil of white hair as he cocked his head back toward Simon. “Before?”

“When I was a child,” Simon said. “I was with my mother and father on the edge of the forest. We took shelter from a storm, and Travelers attacked. He saved us. Well, my mother and me.”

The man continued to stare. Finally, he said, “Hmmm. And your mother? You would leave her behind?”

Simon’s voice went hoarse. “She’s dead. Another Traveler, from Overlord Malachi. I’m alone now.”

The other man sighed in a strangely musical fashion. “No, I’m sorry, it would be too cruel. Trust me when I say that you would not survive.”

“No, I will! I’ll do whatever I have to!”

“Go back to your burrow, little mouse.” The man’s last words drifted on the wind as he stepped into the shadows and vanished.

Simon rushed after him. He searched all night, but found no trace of anyone else in the woods. No footprints, no shred of cloth, no lingering bloodstain. By the time the sun came up, he had begun searching for trap doors or camouflaged tents.

As the rosy light of dawn filtered through the forest, Simon sank to his knees.

What was he supposed to do now?

CHAPTER 6:

WELCOME TO VALINHALL

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

46 Days Until Midsummer

Kai pushed a clump of white hair from his eyes and watched the boy in the forest.

He was persistent, this little mouse. Most would have run away by now. But then, he claimed to have been here before.

Kai stood over the boy, who was curled up under a bush, fast asleep. His hands bled from swinging his sword. That was all he’d done for the past two days, every time Kai had checked on him—swing his sword around like a child with a stick, and then collapse. Sleep for a while, wake up, swing his sword again.

He was hardly a master swordsman, but dedication like that might take him far in the House.

Kai lifted Otoku to his ear, letting the silken strands of her black hair fall against his face. “What do you think, my dear? Should we take him in?”

Nothing from the doll. This silent treatment was weighing on him, but he didn’t want her to see how much. If she knew how it burned him, she might use this tactic more often.

He forced a chuckle. “I know what you would say. There was a promise made, even if I was not the one to make it. And he does not give his word lightly.”

Otoku said nothing, but he knew she would approve. The dolls were always pressuring him to take on new students. He would not take that burden. Not after his own master had ended up in the center of this forest, buried under a red tree.

But perhaps one would not be such a burden after all.

The wooden doll still hadn’t said a word. Kai sighed. “What good is an advisor who does not advise? Perhaps Caela will give me the benefit of her wisdom.”

He turned to go. It might have been the wind, but he thought he heard his doll let out a tiny, indignant huff.

***

Simon had gone hungry for almost two more days before he found a patch of berries. A rust-colored squirrel munched on a few, so he figured they probably weren’t poisonous, but he was almost too hungry to care.

He took the edge off his appetite, wrapped an extra handful of berries in a little pouch made of leaves, and marked the spot with a patch of cloth he had cut from one of the dead slaves. He wanted to be able to find his way back to the berries when he needed to. He stopped by the creek for a quick drink, then made his way to his “hut”: a nest of dried leaves and dead branches that he had built against the thick trunk of an old tree. He had curled up inside it for the past two nights, trying to get some rest as he figured out a course of action.

Unfortunately, his only plan was to stay here and wait to see if the swordsman showed up again. He didn’t know where else to go to learn how to fight Travelers, and he refused to return to Myria. That mostly left staying here and waiting. At first Simon had tried to practice on his own; he had swung his sword until his hands bled, and now they were wrapped in bandages made from the clothing of dead men. The practice may or may not have done him any good, but his arms ached, and Simon took that as a sign of progress.

Now Simon slumped inside his hut, bandaged hands on the ground, sword resting beside him. The wood was peaceful, filled with birdsong and green-tinted light. A squirrel rummaged through the bushes beside him, and the wind flowed gently through the trees. If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to go crazy.

He popped a leftover berry in his mouth and shouted: “Hey! I’m still here! I’m not leaving!”

The volume of his voice surprised even him. He never yelled.

“Do you hear me?” he called. “I’m staying here! I’m staying here until you help me!”

The squirrel ran off. Otherwise, nothing happened.

Simon clutched his limbs around him and leaned his head back against the tree. It was already cool in the forest, and night would fall in a few hours. Maybe he should catch some sleep now and move around in the dark, for the sake of warmth.

A doll’s painted face peeked around the edges of his hut. It wasn’t the same one as before; this one had short, curly blond hair, with a sky blue bonnet and matching dress. She had a peaceful smile on her painted face.

“What do you see, my dear? Is it a big squirrel, making nests and noise in my forest?”

Simon scrambled out of his nest of branches to see the white-haired man kneeling down, holding his doll at arm’s length. He had no sword with him this time.

Simon bowed in the man’s direction. “Please. I’m not going to leave until you teach me.”

The man cocked his head, like a curious sparrow. Simon still couldn’t see his eyes through his bangs, but he seemed puzzled. “Who is this, my dear?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to come back for almost three days,” Simon said.

“Aaahh, the little mouse. Three days, you say? One does lose track.”

“Oh,” Simon said. “Well, I—”

“What do you want to learn?”

“I told you. I want to be able to fight Travelers. I need to, to bring the people of my village back.”

The white-haired man held up a hand for silence, and with the other, raised the blue-dressed doll up to his ear. “Oh-ho, do you think so? I suppose. But—” he cut off as if interrupted, and his mouth twisted in distaste. “I do think that would be fair. But...No, of course not. Wise as the Maker, bright as the heavens, you are.” He began to stroke the doll’s blond hair.

It was probably Simon’s imagination, but he thought the doll’s painted face looked sick.

The man looked at Simon again, though his eyes were still hidden. “My conscience tells me I must ask you one more thing. Did the kingdom take many slaves from among you?”

Simon sensed an opportunity to win the man’s sympathy, so he hurried to answer. “Ten, that we know of.”

“Ten,” the man sighed. “They brought a spare. Time, it presses on and on. And we can never run from history.”

Simon’s heart clenched. “Do you know something?”

The white-haired man shook his head again. “This is not about me, little mouse, but about you. Is there not someone else who can teach you?”

Simon stared firmly at the place on the man’s face where he imagined his eyes must be. He tried to keep his gaze steady, to impress on the man the depth of his resolution and dedication. “I don’t have any talent. My friend ended up being a Traveler, and I guess he was born to it. I’m not like that. I came to you because I thought...I thought that, since you’re not a Traveler, you could teach anyone. But if you think I should study Traveling, I’ll do that.”

A tiny quirk appeared at the corner of the man’s mouth, and he walked into a clearing between several trees.

“You’ve got one thing right, little mouse, and one thing wrong. Yes, I can teach anyone. Not everyone learns it well, but I can teach them. But what makes you think—” he put a hand out to the side of his body, as if holding an invisible rod— “that I’m not a Traveler?”

The air shimmered in his hand and stretched in a line across the forest, like a seven-foot strip of heat haze. Starting at the far end, the haze stripped away, revealing inch after inch of blade, until finally the man held his absurdly long, slightly curved sword in one hand.

“This is my graceful beauty, Azura.” He held the flat of the blade up to his eyes and smiled fondly. “She’s got a cruel sense of humor and a nasty temper, but she cares for me like no one else.”

He turned his head to Simon. “She’s also the key to my Territory. If we wanted, we could take you there. Tell me why we would do that, little mouse.”

Hope bubbled up in Simon’s chest, but he knew he had to speak swiftly and well or lose his chance. The problem was, he didn’t know what would persuade this man. “Overlord Malachi captured people, innocent people, from my home. If you teach me, I’ll do what I can to bring them back.”

The man studied him for a moment, bird-like. “But why you? Surely someone else is taking care of this. You are without power, little mouse. Why do you have to do anything at all?”

Simon swallowed and thought carefully before answering. “Everyone believes my friend, the Traveler, will bring them back. But I don’t know if he will. And one of the captives is a girl I know. She...saved my life, and she didn’t have to. I don’t want to sit back and trust somebody else to help her.”

The man did not react for a moment, then he held the blond doll up to his ear. “Mm-hmm? Yes. That’s a good point, Caela. What do you think, Azura?” He held his sword up to the other ear. “Oh, I see. Such language.”

When he was finished with his bizarre conversation he lowered his arms and shook his head. “We all agree: that was not a good answer.”

Simon’s heart sank, and he opened his mouth.

“We’ll have to help you think of a better one,” the man said. He swept his sword in an arc and the air parted, as if he had sliced a hole in the world. Wind poured into the ragged floating gateway, and beyond it, Simon glimpsed the dim interior of a huge, lavish house.

“This,” he said, “is called a Gate. It is an opening between our world and a Territory. In this case, mine.”

The opening was wider than it was tall, but easily high enough for Simon to walk through. He hesitated, though the white-haired man ducked through without a care.

“Follow us, little mouse,” he said. “We’ll see if we can give you some teeth.”

Simon practically ran through the portal, half eager and half trying to get it over with. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

“You will regret it if you leave your sword,” he said. He hadn’t even looked to see if Simon was carrying it.

Simon dashed back to his nest, snatched up his sword in its wooden scabbard, and ran back to join the white-haired man.

“My name is Simon, sir.”

“The lady in blue is Caela, and you’ve already met Azura. You can call me Kai.”

“Yes, sir.”

Together, Simon and Kai walked into the Gate.

***

The air beyond the Gate was warm and dry, and filled with scents that Simon had trouble placing: wood varnish, aged paper, and the dust of years. He and Kai stepped into a richly appointed, luxurious room. Simon had heard about the huge houses of the rich, though he’d never seen anything remotely like this. The room was bigger than four village houses put together, and filled with furniture carved from a delicately polished red-gold wood. There were three red-cushioned couches, each of which looked big enough to hold three or four people, all arranged around a polished table in the center. The table held a huge book, yellowed pages fluttering in the wind from the Gate behind them, and a collection of crumbling scrolls.

Wooden racks on the walls held a small collection of lightly curved long swords, like Kai’s Azura, though each one seemed unique. There were spaces for twelve swords, but only four were occupied.

A series of mirrors stood around the room, and none of them had a single bubble or blemish. Unlike most of the warped or hazy mirrors Simon had seen in his life, these showed Simon perfect reflections of everything in the room. A single tall, gilded lamp in the corner cast a warm light over everything.

“Welcome to Valinhall,” Kai said. The Gate closed behind him, and his sword had somehow vanished as he stepped through. Simon was startled to find that it now rested on a wooden rack on the left side of the room.

“How much did this all cost?” Simon asked.

“Everything in this house is part of the Territory. Most of what you see we found right where it is.”

Simon set his short sword down so he could pick up one of the scrolls. He squinted at it, trying to read in the dim light. “Are there other houses like this in the Territory?”

Kai chuckled. “My, you are in for a fun time, aren’t you? This house isn’t part of a Territory, this house is the Territory. Beginning, middle, end. All of a world is contained within these walls. You will find no doors or windows to the outside here.”

Simon glanced around and saw that it was true: the walls held only wood-framed mirrors, reflecting his grimy face. There was only one door, on the opposite wall, and it was halfway open. Beyond it was only a candle-lit hallway surrounded by more doors. Simon had the uneasy sensation that he had been trapped. Kai was the only one who could let him out, by opening another one of those Gates.

Simon shook himself and firmed up his courage. He had come this far. So he couldn’t leave by himself; what did that matter? He didn’t intend to leave before he was ready.

“First, little Simon, you smell like mouse droppings and sweat. Let’s get you a bath, and then we’ll have some rest.”

Kai beckoned with one hand and, cradling Caela carefully, walked into the hallway. Simon followed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but do we have time for that?”

“The little mouse rushes forward to meet the cat. If you want to be a Traveler, it is not the study of an afternoon. It will take you years.”

“Years? I don’t know how long my friends will live. They might not let them live out the week!”

“I may have some insight into that, and I will share with you on a later day. But don’t fret, little mouse. Time is on our side.”

Kai’s tone made it sound like he had answered the question, though Simon wasn’t sure he had. He resolved to bring this question up again soon, when Kai was more willing to talk.

The hallway was longer than Simon had expected, with intricately carved wooden doors every few feet. The doors had odd symbols carved into their centers: large circles, half-circles, and small dots. The door to his left had only one small dot, the door to his right two small dots. As he progressed down the hall, large circles and half-circles appeared in the sequence. Some way to tell the rooms apart? Maybe the phases of the moon?

Finally they reached another open room. It looked much like the entry hall, but this had many doors, each unique. Kai gestured to a circular door made of stone and lined with gold.

A door, lined in gold. What was the point? Why waste the money putting gold on a door, of all things?

“The bath awaits you,” Kai said. “I’ll go settle Caela among her sisters, and then I will return.” Kai gave a cheery wave and then headed back into the hallway. He stopped before he left and added, in a casual voice: “By the way, here’s a piece of advice: don’t let your guard down.”

Then he left. Simon looked around hesitantly for a moment before he stepped through the door to the bath.

The interior resembled a rough, naturally formed cave more than anything built by man. The floor was smooth enough to look lightly polished, but not so slick that Simon thought he might slip. The room was much more brightly lit than the rest of the house, almost as though the noon sun shone directly into the room, although Simon saw no obvious light source. A single mirror took up one wall, large enough to reflect the entire room, and the floor was dominated by a pool in the center.

The pool was big enough to allow an entire family to swim comfortably, and steam rose lightly from its surface. Soapy lather rested on the water, drifting gently on shallow ripples. He smelled flower-scented soap, the sort his mother always wanted but hadn’t been able to afford in years, and the bath looked so inviting that he peeled off his filthy clothes and slid in.

The heat of the water seeped into his exhausted muscles, loosening tightness he hadn’t felt. It was like sinking into a soft, warm cushion, and Simon slumped against the edge of the bath. He relaxed as he hadn’t for over a week. Had it only been that long? It seemed impossible, but nine days ago he had spent every hour delivering messages, cleaning the tavern, chopping wood, organizing herbs; anything he could use to take care of his mother. It hadn’t been a happy life, but it had been comfortable, and it had held memories of brighter times. No one paid Simon any attention, Alin had been the boy everyone liked instead of their promised savior, and the village had been whole. No one taken away to work as a slave in a far-off city.

Simon had no experience with slaves, but he had heard the stories. Old men forced to work until their hearts gave out, children mauled while caring for dangerous animals, women held captive by lecherous lords and subjected to unnamed horrors. Unbidden, an image rose in Simon’s mind: Leah, wearing a steel collar and a shapeless brown sack, back bent under a pack far too heavy for her. She stumbled to her knees, unable to bear the burden, and a huge man in a Damascan uniform was on her. He yelled and raised a whip, making her flinch defensively. But instead of striking her, he seized her by the arm and pulled her into a nearby building, away from the eyes of witnesses. She struggled and screamed for help, but the other slaves kept about their work, afraid to lift their eyes. No one would help her. They had their own worries.

Simon jerked back from the edge of sleep, no longer comfortable enough to relax. How could he? He was here so that he could fight, not to start a new life. It was for this that he had worked his hands until they bled. He scratched absently at one palm. Where blisters had been he felt only calluses, and the wound wasn’t even tender. He probably wouldn’t feel it tomorrow.

Wait. That couldn’t be right. He had injured his hand yesterday; how could it have healed already? He looked down at his palm and nearly choked: he could actually see the redness and swelling in his hand fading. Dried blood flaked off and dissolved into the water, leaving flesh that visibly softened from angry red to soft pink. At this rate, the wound would be gone without a scar in a matter of minutes.

Simon pressed fingers to his ribs, where bruises had formed after Kai’s lesson. They were gone. His feet, cut and sore from all the walking he had endured, felt clean and whole. On an impulse, he ducked his head under the water. The slice along his cheek felt cold, then cool, then the same as any other stretch of skin. He raised a hand to it and felt nothing.

He paddled over to the mirror outside the pool and tilted his head. The cut on his cheek was gone. On top of that, he could never remember being this clean in his life.

Simon’s doubts about following a Traveler into his lair began to fade with his wounds. He imagined the fabled Damascan lords might live in a house like this, but he was sure even they didn’t have self-heating baths whose waters magically healed wounds. Maybe, if he proved a skilled enough student, Kai would give him a key to this Territory, and he could enter whenever he wanted. After he rescued the villagers, he could live here, and then do...anything. Anything at all.

If only his mother could see him now.

Simon decided he should get a little closer to the mirror, to take a look at the places where his many small wounds had been healed. He planted his hands on the edge of the pool and pushed, levering his body out of the water.

A claw seized his ankle and jerked him back.

He lost his balance and fell onto his chest, smacking his chin on the marble basin. On instinct Simon kicked backwards, striking something rough and spiny. It felt like kicking a pinecone wrapped in thin leather. The clawed hand yanked on his ankle again, and his chin scraped on the stone as he was pulled deep into the water.

He spun around to get a glimpse of whatever was holding his leg. When he saw it through the murky water, he nearly lost what air he had left. It was an impish creature, about the size of a four-or five-year-old child, but with ridged greenish skin and thorny spikes on the top of its head. Its eyes were red and reflective, its teeth needle-sharp. It gave him a wicked smirk and tugged him down and dragged him farther under the pool.

Simon kicked and strained, trying to reach the glimmering surface, but the imp’s arms were stronger than they should have been. He couldn’t reach the surface if he tried to swim against the creature’s strength.

So he reached toward it instead. The tiny monster’s eyes widened in apparent surprise before his fingers closed around its ridged throat.

Close up, Simon saw the creature in more detail. Its knobby green skin looked to be made out of twisted moss-covered bark. Its sharp fingernails and the spikes on its head looked like rusty nails. It snarled into the water, and Simon saw a mouthful of steel needles instead of teeth.

The water-imp clawed at him, drawing burning slashes down the skin of his wrist, and it twisted until it could sink its fangs into his arms. The pain burned enough that he almost released it, but the water continued to work its magic. Every wound the imp opened sealed itself instantly. Simon was healing faster than the imp could damage him, but his lungs were beginning to burn, and his chest started to convulse as if his body was going to take a breath without asking his consent.

Finally, the imp swam off for the far, unlit corners of the pool. Simon kicked once for the surface, desperately, and sucked in a huge breath of air before he started scrambling for the edge. The suds that covered the surface of the water now seemed like an ominous veil, hiding monsters beneath its surface. He imagined dozens of those things down there, maybe hundreds, and the one he had driven off was going for reinforcements.

He had almost reached the edge of the pool when his imagination was proven right. Four pairs of clawed hands pulled him back under.

Simon managed to get a breath before he plunged once again under the surface of the water. The four imps, all identical, crawled all over him, inflicting dozens of tiny wounds that healed instantly but burned his skin like a web of thorns.

They were working together to drown him. As panicked as he was, he couldn't shake the image of the four hideous creatures gnawing at his blue, floating corpse. He refused to let that happen. If he drowned, so be it, but he wouldn't let these water-demons get a meal out of it.

He fought desperately, with more savagery than skill, knocking the creatures into the depths, cracking their heads against the side, breaking their spines. Anything he could do to get away.

Simon had dealt with those four when something else, not an imp, stirred at the far edge of the pool. Much bigger than the tiny wooden creatures he had seen so far, this shadow wriggled and writhed like a water serpent. But it was at least as thick as his leg.

It squirmed toward him.

Simon leaped out of the pool and ran from the room so fast he barely had time to scoop up his clothes with one hand. He pushed the marble door shut and looked around for a lock. Nothing. He ran out of the room, through the hallway, and didn't stop until he was back in the room with the scrolls, mirrors, and soft furniture. The entry hall, where he and Kai had first entered through the Gate. Nothing had tried to kill him in here last time.

This door did have a lock, so Simon took advantage of it. What was that? Why were there demons in the bathtub? Did Kai know about them? Of course he did, he lived here. Then why were they there? Was it a trap? Were they Kai's pets? Maybe he shouldn't have killed them.

No, that was a stupid thought. Even if it was just a misunderstanding and they had belonged to Kai, Simon had done the man a favor by killing those things. And they weren't the only monsters in the pool; whatever that snake-thing had been, he was glad he hadn't gotten a chance to see it any closer.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Shaking, tan skin a shade too pale, covered in rivulets of water and dozens of quickly healing cuts. And also completely naked. He lifted the bundle of clothes in his hand, and for a moment he didn't recognize them.

His outfit had been laundered, pressed, and carefully folded. The shirt and pants were still a plain brown, but they seemed a completely different color now that all the grime had been washed out. The whole outfit smelled of soap and flowers. Someone had even sewn up the rips and tears in his shirt.

Who had done it? And when? Had someone else been in the bathtub? Maybe in this house, clothes magically cleaned and folded themselves. He wouldn’t be surprised if they came to life and tried to strangle him.

A shadow flickered in one of the mirrors on the wall, and Simon jerked his head up. Nothing. The mirrors showed an undisturbed room. He glanced all around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

A shiver ran over his skin. All the stories he had ever heard about ghosts lurking in old abandoned houses came back to him in full force.

Well, if he was trapped in a haunted house, he might as well be dressed for it. He slipped into his pants, then pulled the shirt over his head. Through the rough fabric, he saw another dark shape flitting through the room. He pulled his shirt down to see it more clearly, but once again nothing.

He considered the possibility that he might need to get out of this house.

At that thought, the cold links of a chain pressed against his throat, jerking him backwards.

He managed to get a hand between his neck and the chain to allow him enough space to breathe. Someone was pressed up against his back, holding a loop of chain around his neck like a noose.

Simon kicked backwards and pushed his attacker against the wall. It felt like a man—the impact was soft, as if the man was wearing five shirts—but the attacker made no noise. The mirror on the other wall showed a man shrouded in black clothing, hooded, his face totally lost in shadows. He clung to Simon, strangling him with a chain painted black.

Simon’s throat felt like it was about to crumple like a bent reed, his vision had begun to blur, and he couldn’t get enough leverage to actually hurt the man in black. He needed a weapon, or he was about to die.

His sword. Where had he left his sword?

It had been in his hand when he came with Kai through the Gate, and after that...it hadn’t been in the bath with him, had it? If not, the sword must still be in this room.

He shot his eyes from mirror to mirror, trying to keep his goal in mind and not give in to panic. The sword had to be around there somewhere. It had no sheath, so it would gleam...there, in the corner of the mirror in the far side, he saw a silver shine on top of one of the tables. His sword rested on a half-open scroll on a wooden table against the far wall.

Now he had to reach it.

He struggled around for a moment, pulling with both hands and all his weight against the chain. It loosened for a moment as the man of shadows adjusted his balance, and Simon was able to plant one foot against the wall. He pushed, and the two of them stumbled towards the table and the sword. Any other living being would have made some kind of noise, but the man in black remained absolutely silent.

The side of Simon’s head smacked against the heavy table leg. Pain bloomed in his skull, and he lost his grip on the chain. It tightened, burning his neck and cutting off his air almost completely.

The world was going gray around him, but he reached for what he thought was the top of the table and fumbled blindly on top of it. Only when something sliced into his fingertips did he realize he had found his sword.

He pulled the weapon off the table and, holding it by the blade in a bleeding hand, thrust the point backwards into the shoulder of the man in black. The attacker flinched and his chain slackened, letting Simon grab the hilt in his other hand and twist around, plunging the sword all the way through the other man’s chest.

The man in black shuddered and dropped the chain, falling limp to the ground. Simon’s breath wheezed, and his throat felt ruined. Now that he wasn’t fighting, his hand burned. It was bleeding so much. He knew that should be alarming, but he couldn’t muster up the courage to go back into the bathtub and heal.

The black robes deflated, as though no one had been inside them all along. Simon stared. The inside of the hood began to glow a soft blue-white, the color of moonlight. A ball of that wispy light gathered inside the empty hood and froze for a second, the dark outfit hanging from the floating ball of light as if from a peg. Then the light swept off, squeezing under the door, dragging the black clothes with it.

“What?” Simon said. He couldn’t think of anything better to say, so he said it again. “What? Sweet Maker, what is happening to me?”

Two more dark shapes, identical to the first, appeared from nowhere and closed on Simon. He jumped to his feet, clutching his sword in a hand increasingly slick with blood. Making no sound, the two men brandished black chains.

Simon turned and ran. It seemed the right thing to do.

In the hallway he shouted for Kai, but no one answered. The men in black pursued him, seeming to stroll but steadily eating into his lead. He turned to one of the doors on the side of the hallway, one with a large circle, and tried to open it. Locked. He continued to run, into the room with the gold-edged stone doorway. He hadn’t paid much attention to them before, but there were other doors in the walls of this room; he picked one, made of pale wood with a pair of crossed axes carved into its surface, and levered it open.

He had enough time to glimpse a bright room filled with racks of bladed weapons: spears collected in a barrel, swords mounted on the walls, daggers in baskets. Opening the door triggered an odd sound: a soft snick, like a pair of scissors cutting through a cloth.

Simon stepped back on instinct, and something whizzed through the air in front of his eyes. A dart buried itself in the wall opposite the door.

Traps. The doors were trapped.

Simon was too scared to weep, but everything was so hopeless he was torn between tears and bitter laughter. He tried the next door, which was trimmed in silver and pressed with the image of a standing knight. It opened onto a dark staircase.

He waited for a moment to see if anything came flying out at him. Nothing did, but he heard a sound like jangling chains at the bottom of the stairs. A hollow wind whispered up from the darkness.

“I wouldn’t travel down that stair just yet,” Kai said from the hallway. “That door’s not quite meant for you.”

Simon shut the door and leaned against it, relief draining strength from his muscles. His arms shook, and his sword dropped from bleeding fingers.

“This house is trying to kill me,” he said. “It’s trying to kill me.”

“And failing, so far. That’s a good sign.” Kai walked into the room, Azura in one hand and a gentle almost-smile on his face. His blade was so long it came close to scraping the far wall. The white-haired swordsman let the sword shimmer and evaporate, leaving Simon to wonder why he had it out in the first place. That was a minor concern, though, compared to what else was on Simon’s mind.

“Why is this happening?” Simon asked.

“We should get that hand taken care of.”

Simon clenched his bloody fist. “I asked you why.”

“You wanted me to teach you what I know. This is how I learned.”

Kai gestured around him, at the house in general. “Valinhall tests you. It attacks you. Sometimes it tries to kill you. It teaches you to be on your guard at all times, awake and asleep, and to always keep a weapon close.”

“Do you ever get to rest?”

“You learn to sleep with one eye open. After a few years here, you’ll react to danger even if you’re fast asleep in the heart of an enemy Territory. Assuming you live that long.”

“That sounds great. But I told you before, I don’t have a few years. I don’t even have one year. I might be able to spare a few weeks, but after that—”

“After that?” Kai cut in. “You, a single amateur swordsman, run off to challenge an Overlord of Damasca?”

Simon clutched his bleeding hand to his chest. He didn’t respond. There wasn’t much he could say.

“Don’t worry, little mouse. I told you, didn’t I? Time is on our side. How long has it been, do you think, since you entered this house?”

“I don’t know. An hour or two?”

“Less than half of one.”

Kai must have noticed Simon’s look of disbelief, because he smiled and said, “That’s time back in our world. Time flows differently in certain Territories. A day inside some is two outside; fortunately, Valinhall is the reverse. I will have the time I need to teach you.”

It finally struck Simon what he was asking for. How much of his life had he signed away for this project?

“Oh,” Simon said. “I see.”

Kai’s eyes were still hidden, but his expression softened into something resembling sympathy. “Last chance, Simon. I can take you back.”

It would be easier, certainly. But any other Traveler he found to teach him would be the same; it would take years. If he left, it would be better to give up, to leave everything to Alin and the Travelers from Enosh.

“No. I’m ready.” Simon stood as tall as he could and let his firm resolve sound in his voice.

“In that case, let’s begin.” Kai faced Simon squarely, and Simon tensed his body as he prepared to defend himself. “Today,” Kai continued, “we will begin with...lunch.”

At that, Kai turned to one of the doors Simon hadn’t tried. It bore the image of a flowering tree.

“You must be hungry,” Kai said. A breeze flowed through the door, and it smelled sweet and clean. “After you.”

Kai could say what he wanted about the whole Territory being inside one house, but this door opened onto a beautiful meadow. The entire room was carpeted in grass, except for a cool, clear stream that cut the field in two. The sky above was a cloudless blue, the sun shone directly overhead, and Simon could probably fit his entire village into what he could see of the field. A small herd of what looked like oxen ran in the distance, and there were a few different kinds of bushes scattered through the grass, just a little too regular to seem natural. The field was dominated by an enormous tree, the size of an ancient oak, whose limbs were heavy with a dozen different kinds of brightly colored fruits. Different fruits, all on one tree.

“I thought you said we couldn’t go outside the House,” Simon said.

“We’re not outside,” Kai responded. “Technically.” He raised a hand and pointed into the distance, beyond the tree. “What do you see there?”

Simon squinted until he saw something black on the horizon, a rectangular silhouette against the bright blue of the sky. “Is that an outhouse?”

“Not quite. It’s a door, leading deeper into the House. We call this room the garden, and it provides most of our food and water while we stay here.”

“We?” Simon asked. “Where are the other Valinhall Travelers?”

Kai walked past him instead of answering, and Simon saw that he held Azura casually against one shoulder. Why was he bringing his sword with him to eat?

Kai was obviously focused on something at the base of the tree, and when Simon looked closer he saw what seemed to be a man wrapped in straps of leather.

Simon followed Kai, and as they closed the distance he saw that the man was wrapped in mismatched pieces of leather so that not a patch of skin showed. He was crisscrossed with belts, straps, buckles, and scavenged bits of leather armor. His head was covered in a leather cap, his mouth hidden by a half-mask of dark leather. Most bizarre of all, blades jutted out from his leather sleeves, as though he had lost his hands and had swords grafted onto the stumps.

All in all, he was a disturbing sight.

Two tiny folds of leather over his face flapped up like eyelids, revealing two gleaming yellow gemstones in the place of his eyes. Actual cut gems, where his eyes should be.

Simon began to suspect that this man wasn’t human.

A slit opened across the man’s face, like the mouth of a leather sack. It took Simon a moment to realize the man was yawning.

“Bloody Maker, that was a good sleep. How long has it been since I seen you, eh? Could be years. That’s my time, I suppose, not yours. You spend too much time at the grave, I’d say.”

Kai bowed towards the leather man. “It has been too long, Chaka. I’d like you to meet my student.”

Chaka cast a quick glance in Simon’s direction. Simon felt that he should say something, but nothing appropriate came to mind, so he stayed silent.

“He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?” Chaka said. Simon winced; he should have spoken up after all.

“He’s not here to learn conversation skills,” Kai responded.

Chaka snorted, a sound like a leather strap flapping in the wind. “Not from you, right? You lot were all about six hairs short of the bughouse. Speakin’ of that, no one’s taken a student here before. What’s that about?”

Kai angled Azura in front of him. “We’re here for lunch, Chaka. Will you let us pass?”

“You know better than that, Kai.” Chaka stood, his movements more graceful than Simon would have thought, and crossed his bladed arms in some kind of salute. “You got to earn it, same as always. I don’t expect you’ll have much trouble, but I can’t speak for the boy there. He has a soft look about him.”

And what was Simon supposed to say to that?

Kai and Chaka bowed to each other, and then they moved at once. Blades flashed, and the room rang with the sound of steel on steel, but Simon could barely follow the fight.

Kai hardly moved his feet at all, whipping his long sword in great arcs faster than seemed possible for such a heavy length of metal. Chaka dashed and leaped everywhere, his sword-arms blurring, but Azura was always there in time to deflect a direct hit.

“It’s about time,” Simon muttered. His heart lifted. This was what he was here for, what he wanted. He had come to the right place.

The two fighters stopped moving at the same time, facing each other in almost the exact places they had started. A slice of leather drifted to the ground.

“Sweet Maker, you’re good. I think you’re better now than you were as a boy, and I don’t say that often. Good on ya, Kai.”

Azura vanished, and Kai bowed to Chaka once again. “You honor me,” he said.

“Bleedin’ right, I do,” Chaka said. Then he sighed and turned to face Simon. “All right, let’s see what you got.”

“Wait. Me?”

“You gotta fight if you want to eat, kid. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.” Chaka crossed his arms and bowed over the blades, like he had done with Kai.

Simon glanced down at his bleeding hand. “I can’t hold a sword like this.”

“Then stand there and die,” Chaka said. His voice was oddly cheery. Simon opened his mouth to protest, but Chaka leaped forward until he was standing inches from Simon’s face.

“Ready or not,” Chaka said, “here I am.” He thrust his right blade forward, and Simon snatched up his own sword in his left hand and knocked Chaka’s away. The impact rang up his arm, and almost caused him to drop the weapon.

Chaka’s left arm swung in and Simon stumbled backwards, flailing around with his sword and trying to put a little distance between them.

“Grip that sword, you bleedin’ moron. You lose hold of it, you’re dead.”

Simon tightened his grip. He tried a swing at Chaka’s head, but the other man caught it casually on one arm. A leather lip twisted into a sneer. “That’s not a glass unicorn, princess. Swing it like you mean it.”

Chaka raised a boot and kicked. Simon twisted and caught it on his hip, but staggered back a few feet. He moved forward and swung his sword again, but once again Chaka swept it aside with no more effort than Simon would use to dust a shelf. Simon managed to block another strike, but he couldn’t keep his balance; he lurched a few feet to his left and almost fell over.

A sword pressed into Simon’s neck, and he fell very still. “Pathetic,” Chaka said. “Bleedin’ disgusting. I oughta bleed you right here and save me some time.”

Kai’s singsong voice interrupted. “He’s mine, not yours, so keep your hands off.”

Chaka snorted, but he removed his blade and turned his back to Simon. “I won’t kill him, but I’m not passing him either. No food or water for you till you can stand on your own feet.”

Chaka walked back to the base of the fruit tree and sat cross-legged on the grass, jeweled eyes locked on Simon.

Kai had plucked a juicy blue fruit, like a blueberry the size of his fist, and was munching on it. Every once in a while he would scoop a bowlful of water from the stream with a wooden bowl and wash down a bite of fruit. He licked his fingers clean with every evidence of enjoyment.

For the first time, Simon felt like stabbing the man.

His throat burned with thirst, and the only thing he had eaten in over three days was a handful of berries. He tried one last tactic. “How am I supposed to get better if I don’t have the strength to move?”

“Are you hungry?” Kai said soothingly. “Here, have some of mine. There, that’s good, isn’t it?”

Simon stepped forward for a moment before he realized Kai was talking to one of his dolls. He mimed feeding her a piece of fruit, and washed the juice off with a “drink” of water.

Chaka raised a sword in warning. “Take another step there, kid, and I’ll be feeding you your own legs.”

In the end, Simon went without food again.

***

Kai accompanied Simon back to the monster-infested pool, where Simon was able to dip his injured hand and heal his wounds without attracting the creatures.

“They only attack,” Kai explained, “when you stay long enough and then try to leave. The pool can reverse any kind of injury or illness, even age, to one degree or another. It’s the reason why my hair has aged, though my body remains the excellent example of prime manhood that you see before you. But the longer you stay in the pool, the more dangerous it gets.”

“You could have told me that before I went in,” Simon said.

“That’s true, isn’t it? How interesting.”

Before they left, Simon managed to sneak a drink of the bathwater. It tasted like soap.

CHAPTER 7:

SHARP LESSONS

Alin trembled with effort, both hands extended to push against the air as if he were trying to shove over an invisible wagon. He had originally worried about looking ridiculous in front of the crowd—practically every Traveler in Enosh had wanted to come witness his training—but now the strain on his mind left him little room to worry about anything.

Between his outstretched palms, a few gold lights spun in a wide circle. He could dimly sense something beyond, like a fire’s heat sensed through the fabric of a tent, but he couldn’t quite pierce through.

Grandmaster Naraka cackled with laughter. “Almost there,” she said. The Grandmaster had been in charge of teaching Alin since he had first arrived in Enosh, and she was easily the oldest woman he had ever seen. Over one hundred, if the rumors could be believed, and showing every year of it. She was wrinkled, shriveled, and hunched, like a hag out of a children’s tale. And he suspected she was blind; he couldn’t prove it, but she always wore thick lenses over her eyes, colored a dark red. She called them her “glasses,” but they didn’t look to be made out of any glass that Alin had ever seen.

“Concentrate!” Grandmaster Naraka barked, all traces of laughter gone from her voice.

Alin focused, reaching his mind out to the warm power he could feel like a tiny sun, burning out of reach. If only he could stretch, he felt like he could brush the edge...just a little more...

Every other time he had tried to open a Gate to Elysia, it had fallen apart at this point. The golden lights would drift off, he would fall over in exhaustion, and his Territory would remain as distant as ever.

This time, Alin threw all of his focus into one final push against the invisible barrier.

The spinning sparks of light flared and sliced through the world, leaving a shining gold-lined oval doorway hanging in midair. Wind that smelled like flowers, grass, and rain drifted through, clearing out the stuffy air in the hall where Alin stood. And beyond the Gate itself, clearly visible as Alin stared, rested Elysia.

It was a city.

A grassy plain waited close to the Gate, spotted with flowers of white and gold. The field stretched perhaps two hundred paces before it ran against city walls, but like none that Alin had ever seen. The walls of Myria village had been essentially sharpened sticks, bound together by ropes. The walls of Enosh were rough-cut sandstone mortared with clay. But the walls of Elysia...

A vast, curving expanse of pale white stone and pure gold, carved with swirling shapes and patterns that reminded Alin of a rushing river. The wall was broken only by two huge gates, each an intricate work of gold, silver, and a rainbow of precious jewels the size of Alin’s head.

While the wall took up most of Alin’s vision, it was spectacular enough to blind him to everything else for a moment. Then he looked up.

Over the walls, he could see the tops of buildings. Most were domed, in gold or copper or silver, but here and there he saw towers and spires in a thousand colors. One tower looked to be made entirely of emerald, though it was crowned in deep purple amethyst.

And the sky behind the city, instead of a comforting blue, was a bright, rich shade of gold, like dawn somehow stretched to last all day.

“Saints above,” somebody whispered. Alin could understand the feeling.

Then the gathered Travelers of Enosh burst into applause. That in itself wasn’t unusual, since Alin could barely do anything within the walls of Enosh without someone cheering or clapping, but this sounded heartfelt, spontaneous. They had been treated to a vision of rare beauty, and Alin had given it to them.

Alin felt himself grin. On an impulse, he turned and swept a bow to the assembled crowd.

Grandmaster Naraka laughed again, and hobbled over to clap Alin on the shoulder. She had to reach up to do it. “Boy, I never thought I’d live till this day. Well done.”

Alin stood, staring into the Elysian Gate. “Is it going to be that hard every time?” Alin asked. Tearing the Gate open had felt like carrying an ox to market on his back.

Adjusting her red glasses, Grandmaster Naraka shook her head. “Not after the first. Now it’s a matter of practice.”

Reaching out a hand to the Gate, Alin stretched out the power of Elysia in his mind, intending to close it. “So I need to close it and try again?”

Naraka snatched his arm in one of her withered claws. “Stop!”

Alin froze, not even daring to think.

“If we believe the ancient books,” Grandmaster Naraka went on, “then you may only open the Gate to Elysia once a day, and only while the sun is in the sky.”

“Really? When other Travelers can open their Gates however many times they want to? That doesn’t seem fair.”

Grandmaster Naraka tilted her red lenses toward him, the corners of her mouth drawn down. “Fair? Each Territory has its own rules and restrictions, and yours are much less burdensome than others. In my own Territory, Naraka, each of our summons costs us in pain. And Endross Travelers must live with the knowledge that a single mistake will destroy them utterly. Do I need to speak to you once again of Elysia’s place and purpose?”

“No, Grandmaster,” Alin said hurriedly. Naraka could lecture for hours, once she got the bit in her teeth. “I apologize. I only meant—”

“We once only had the Nine Territories, Eliadel,” Naraka went on. “But Elysia is the tenth. Why? Why did we need more, when the Territories were already complete?”

“Because—”

“Because men are imperfect!” Naraka finished for him. “They exploit the Territories, compete between them. Elysia exists, you exist, to keep the other Territories in line.”

“I am honored by the—”

“As a result, you must be stronger than they! You must be more virtuous! You must have a mind and a spirit beyond corruption!”

Alin sighed and gave up. Once again, Grandmaster Naraka explained the philosophy of Elysia, how the Gate would only open once a day so that he could not enter too often and grow too powerful. In all honesty, he didn’t care about the theory behind it, but it would be easier to wait for Naraka to run out of wind than to stop her.

“...so you should not complain, but rather be thankful for your privilege,” Grandmaster Naraka finished.

“I am amazed by your wisdom,” Alin said, “as always. But since I can’t open another Gate, how do I use this one? I mean, what do I do with it?”

Naraka froze for a moment and then coughed discreetly into one hand, as though he had asked a stupid question and she didn’t want to be the one to embarrass him by pointing it out.

“You walk through it, Eliadel.” She spoke as if to a child.

“Really? That’s it?”

“Why do you think we are called Travelers? Some people believe it is because we can travel from one place to another quickly, but not all Territories are suited for such transport. So why are we all Travelers?”

She paused long enough that Alin began trying to come up with an answer, but she spared him the need by answering her own question. “Because we must Travel through our own Territories. It is the only way for us to grow.”

Instead of replying, Alin nodded and stepped through the Gate.

The air on the other side was pleasantly cool, like a perfect spring day. Alin took a moment to enjoy the weather before he realized that, behind him, the Gate was growing smaller by the second.

Alin cried out in fear and lunged for the portal, but from the other side, Grandmaster Naraka laughed. “Do not worry, Eliadel. You will be able to open a way back.”

“I will?” Alin asked, pulling himself up short. The Gate back was now scarcely bigger than his fist.

“Eventually,” Naraka responded. “Good luck.”

The Gate blinked out, leaving Alin alone in Elysia.

***

Kai’s bedroom matched the rest of the House: huge, expensive, and dimly lit. Most of the room was dominated by a four-poster bed wider than Simon’s whole house back in the village, but this wasn’t the feature that occupied Simon’s attention.

One entire wall was covered in dolls.

Dolls rested on a row of shelves stacked from floor to ceiling. Dozens of dolls, made of carved and polished wood and painted with delicate care. Dolls in green silk, or purple-striped cotton, or brown sackcloth; blond dolls, dark-haired dolls, even dolls with hair the color of flame. Perhaps fifty dolls in total, all carefully arranged on delicately carved wooden shelves, and all staring at the center of the room with their empty eyes.

Simon had wondered if Kai was crazy before, but now he found himself considering that question very carefully.

Kai followed Simon into the room, crooning and caressing a doll in a red dress. His eyes were hidden by his hair, but he had his mouth cocked into a half-crazy smile.

“Sleep now. The day was long, yes? Yes, it was. You’ll feel better tucked in with your sisters. All of your sisters.”

Simon spoke to remind the man that he was still there. “These dolls are...” words failed him, but he continued on. “Did you make them yourself?”

“Oh no, no.” Kai delicately positioned the doll on the shelf with all the care of a new father placing an infant into a cradle. “They were all over the house when we arrived. Scattered and lonely. But I brought them together, didn’t I? What a nice family.”

Kai paused as if for a reply, and Simon could have sworn he heard a whisper from the dolls. It was faint enough that, if he were anywhere else, Simon would have thought it was the sound of wind from outside. But this House didn’t have an outside, did it?

Kai chuckled and shook his head. “We’ll see. He’s young yet.”

Simon took one careful step back from the shelves.

“Well then, Simon, let’s get some sleep. Eventually you’ll be able to earn your own bedroom, but you’d have to earn a key. And I don’t think the housekeepers would like it too much if you slept in the hall.”

“Housekeepers?”

“Right. I think they would kill you. Anyway, I have you a blanket on the floor. Sleep well.”

Kai tossed a fluffy red blanket down onto the wooden floor. Simon lay obediently down on the blanket, wrapping it around him like a cocoon. His normal bed at home was nothing more than a mat of reeds and straw—it smelled worse and kept him no warmer than this soft blanket on the floor.

He was all but asleep in seconds. Then he heard a voice whispering next to his ear.

Sweet dreams, said the voice. It sounded like the wind.

Simon’s eyes snapped open, but Kai was all the way across the room putting Azura onto a rack above the door. It hadn’t sounded like his voice. The rest of the room seemed normal, only...

Maybe it was his imagination, but a few of the dolls seemed like they had turned in his direction. Staring with painted eyes.

Suddenly, sleep seemed impossible.

***

Simon’s mother had been haunted by nightmares for years. Sometimes he would wake to her screams; on one memorable occasion, he had woken to find her wielding a knife, thinking he was a stranger who had broken into her hut.

And he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept this badly.

Every time he was on the verge of falling asleep, a drifting whisper or a half-heard giggle would bring him back to consciousness. Each time, more of the dolls would be turned to look in his direction.

He tried to trick them, to pretend to sleep and lure them into moving, but he never caught them in motion. Every time he snapped his eyes open, they remained lifeless.

Frightening as it was, that alone wouldn’t be so bad. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of moving shadows out of the corner of his eye, or hear the clink of a chain. He became certain that the room was filled with shadowy creatures like the one that had tried to strangle him earlier. He thought about warning Kai, but the man was sleeping so deeply that he obviously didn’t feel himself in any danger. Besides, this was his house. He should be able to handle anything that happened here, right?

Over the bed rose the head and shoulders of a hooded man made of shadows and black cloth. He drew a black chain between two gloved hands and leaned down over Kai’s sleeping face.

Simon cried out, but Kai was already moving. He straightened and, in one smooth movement, pulled a dagger from underneath a pillow and plunged it straight into the shadow’s heart.

The man dispersed into a cloud of darkness, and Kai fell back onto the bed.

“Wow,” Simon said. “That was incredible. Do you—”

He stopped at the sound of light snores. Kai was asleep. He had killed the shadow man in his sleep.

So you needed to be at least that alert to survive in this House. Simon felt doomed. He spent the rest of the night huddled against the wall, clutching his sword.

***

There were no windows, so Simon only knew it was morning when Kai rose from his bed.

He was dressed in only a cloth wrapped around his waist, and his body was covered in long, thin scars. It took Simon a moment to realize that, if the pool in this House could heal, most of Kai’s wounds would have left no trace. Only the smallest fraction of his injuries would have left marks, the ones that Kai had been unable or unwilling to heal.

He had hundreds of scars.

“Good morning, little ones,” Kai said. “Good morning, Kojina. You look lovely this morning. Good morning, Angeline, and may I compliment your beautiful hair. Good morning, Otoku. Ha! I could say the same to you. Good morning...”

Kai continued to speak, but Simon stopped listening as soon as he realized the man was going to address each doll by name. He wondered if Kai had always been like this, or if he had been driven crazy by years of isolation.

Or maybe it was the training that had strained his sanity. That was an uncomfortable thought, but it didn’t matter, did it? Even if the training left him old and alone with a creepy obsession over dolls, Simon had no choice but to put up with it. It was that, or wait—helpless and alone—for Alin to do something.

Simon refused to accept that. He wouldn’t stand aside this time; win or lose, he was going to make a difference.

“...of course I dreamed of you, Lilia. And now, little mouse, good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Kai.” His throat was dry and raspy. He hoped that Kai would hear it and offered him something to drink.

“I’m in the mood for some breakfast,” Kai said. “How about you?”

When Simon scrambled to stand up, Kai held up a hand. “Don’t forget your sword,” he said.

Chaka glared at Simon with gleaming yellow eyes as he walked into the garden. “Oh, you’re back, boy. I see nothin’ ate you in the night.”

Simon didn’t know what to say, so he laughed nervously. Kai levered Azura off of his shoulder and maneuvered it into place.

“I’ll be going first today, Chaka,” he said.

Chaka moved forward to face him, and the two met in a clash of steel.

Simon fully intended to watch, but the nights without sleep were catching up to him. He found his eyes drifting to the room around them. The artificial sky spread above them, and Simon even felt a breeze pass over his skin. The huge fruit tree ruffled lightly.

The House may have been deadly, but at least one room was peaceful.

“Good on ya, Kai,” Chaka said. “Sharp as ever. Now, boy, think you can keep from shamin’ yourself this morning?”

Simon held his sword awkwardly and tried a respectful bow, but had to straighten instantly to avoid Chaka’s stab toward his eye.

“Eyes on me, you sod.” Chaka’s blade came again, and once again Simon felt his hand sting as the sword flew away from him.

“One more time,” Simon said, moving to retrieve his sword. But Chaka had other plans; he snarled viciously and lunged forward, pressing a blade against Simon’s forehead.

Simon froze. Liquid trickled down his face, and he almost panicked before recognizing it as sweat.

“You think this is a game, do ya? You’re insultin’ me with this garbage. Get out of here before I kill ya.” Simon was inches from Chaka’s face, and from this distance he could see the blazing light that glowed from within the leather man’s yellow eyes.

Simon spoke slowly and carefully, the better to avoid a sword into the brain. “Please, let me try one more time.”

Chaka kicked him in the chest and he fell over backwards, choking on air.

“Get out,” Chaka said. Then he turned and walked away.

He turned his back on Simon. And Kai stood there and watched, saying nothing. It was too much. All of the frustration and exhaustion boiled up and over.

Simon gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles burned, and he launched himself at Chaka’s back. He swung with his entire body, bringing the sword down at Chaka’s neck like an axe at a log.

The leather man didn’t turn around. He just raised a hand and caught Simon’s blade on his own.

The impact rang up Simon’s arms, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he screamed wordlessly, pulled his blade back, and stabbed at Chaka’s back.

Chaka spun and swiped at Simon’s sword. Simon attacked again, pouring all of his frustration into an overhand attack. Chaka blocked it with both his hands crossed into an X.

From behind Chaka, Kai clapped three times. “Tight grip, good stance, strong swing. Looks like he listened after all, leather man.”

Chaka snorted and moved out from under Simon’s strike. “Barely good enough, if you ask me. Go on, then. Catch a bite.”

Simon almost wept in relief. The fruit was delicious, but even more than that was the water. Sweet, cool, refreshing. He drank so much that he almost choked.

Simple as it was, he could never remember such a satisfying meal.

When he was finished, he sprawled on the soft grass and closed his eyes. Maybe he could finally get some sleep.

The toe of a boot nudged his side. “What are you doing, little mouse? We have a long day ahead of us.”

Simon groaned, but he didn’t want to appear ungrateful this early in his training. Obediently, he sat up.

“Good, good,” Kai said. “Now that you’re worthy to eat, it’s time to begin your training.”

“...begin?”

***

After a few days, Simon had settled in to life in Valinhall.

He earned meals almost two out of three times now, and had mastered bathing. The imps, it seemed, were easy to slip; it was all about being faster to leave the water than they were in catching you. That, and not staying a long time. Still, he had the habit now of keeping a small dagger tied to his ankle at all times.

His nights were still interrupted halfway through by the shadow-folk, which Kai called the Nye. Nye were exactly as they appeared: humanoids made up of cloth and shadow who tried to strangle outsiders with their chains. They were, also, it turned out, the House’s keepers: just as good at laundry and sweeping as they were at choking strangers.

They kept out of sight and left generous hospitality in their wake. They folded clothes, dusted shelves, polished swords; except for the periodic murder attempts, they were perfect hosts. Now that he knew to look for them, Simon was always catching a glimpse of a shadow napping under a table or a cluster of child-sized black robes peering down at him from their perch on a chandelier.

“They don’t mean it, do they?” Simon asked Kai, after a Nye attack interrupted their midday training.

Kai pulled Azura’s gleaming length out of one Nye man, who deflated into shadows and blue light, slithering away under the door. “If they wanted to kill you, little mouse, you would not have woken up this morning.”

“If they’re not going to kill me, then why do they keep trying?”

“You misunderstand me. They will kill you. But they don’t want to. They think they’re helping you by keeping you alert. If you are so defenseless that you can’t survive them, well, they’ve saved you from a worse death.”

“How did you find that out?”

Kai shrugged. “Best guess. They’re not the most talkative sorts. Now, from the top, and if you keep overextending I might take off a finger!” He sang the last few words, which made them doubly disturbing.

They trained mostly in the huge garden room, whose open skies and grassy fields left plenty of room for swinging a blade as long as Azura. Sometimes Kai showed up with shorter weapons—daggers or a standard infantry sword like Simon’s—and they would take the fights into the more cramped corners of the hallway or the bedroom. There were many other rooms into which Kai occasionally vanished, but Simon was never allowed even a glance into a new room. Not that he tried very hard to catch a glimpse; he had a strong suspicion that if Kai considered the other rooms too dangerous, he was probably right.

Sometimes they would train slowly, working on forms for hours at a time. Other days they would only fight for a few minutes and work on building muscles for most of the day. Either way, Simon soon learned that despite the danger it was no worse than a usual day of hard work. After about a week, he even started to enjoy it.

With no sun, he had at first been afraid that he would be unable to tell the time, but once he got used to it he had little trouble figuring out how much time they had spent awake. His body’s rhythms adjusted accordingly, and soon his stomach would let him know when mealtime approached.

Kai claimed he could tell time by use of a device called a “clock,” but Simon didn’t fully trust his master’s words or the machine itself. He half-suspected that Kai had been driven insane by the device’s non-stop ticking. Besides, he would probably have to fight something to use it.

On the eleventh day since Simon’s arrival, Kai cut off training early for the first time.

“Something’s bothering you,” he said. “Let it out of your mind.”

As he caught his breath, Simon rummaged around in his thoughts, trying to figure out what Kai was talking about. “I’m sorry, sir. I was focused on the training.”

Kai held Lilia, a doll with a white dress and huge purple eyes, up to his ear. Simon almost thought he heard a whisper, but he shook that idea away. He hoped Kai’s madness was not contagious.

“Mmmm. Yes. Lilia thinks that you are unsatisfied.”

“I guess, if I had to say something, it’s...well, we’re Travelers now. And I haven’t seen you do anything Traveler-like. You don’t throw lightning or anything.”

“Oh-ho. Hmmm, hmmm. I think I see what you’re getting at.” Kai let his sword shimmer and evaporate, then pointed to the door that led to the hallway. “Go back into the hallway and walk into the door marked with a knight. Go inside. When you’re finished, come back up and tell me what you’ve learned.”

With that, he sat down on the grass and began to converse more closely with his doll.

Somewhat confused, Simon hesitated a few moments before walking out of the garden, his sword still in his hand.

Last time, Kai had told him to stay away from that door. Maybe he was ready for it now? But as he stood in the doorway gazing down into the shadow-shrouded staircase, he felt a sense of unease. He heard mutters, as of lowered voices and rhythmic clanking, like pots jumbled together in a sack.

He would almost certainly have to fight once he reached the bottom of the stairs. Most likely he would be risking his life. But what choice did he have? An image of Leah in chains rose up in his mind, and he swallowed his fear. If he was going to do anything useful to save his people, he had to move forward. There was no other option.

Simon left the door open for the light and moved slowly down the stairs, sword lifted in front of him. He was halfway down when the sounds from below ceased, as though whoever or whatever waited below had sensed him coming.

“Hello?” Simon called out. “Who’s down there?”

There were a few wooden chuckles, and a relaxed voice called up: “Don’t worry, kid. We don’t bite. Most of us don’t have the equipment for it, to tell you the truth.”

The casual tone eased Simon’s tension somewhat, though he didn’t lower his sword. He had learned never to let his guard down too much in this house.

When he finally set his foot down on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, unnatural blue flames ignited all around the room, revealing the basement in a wavy light that made Simon think of being underwater. The flames were cupped by tall black torches, which lined the walls every few feet. The room was a long rectangle that stretched away from him, and the torches were interspersed with bulky black shadows that crouched next to the lights. After a moment, Simon recognized them as suits of armor on pedestals.

At the far end of the room, an obsidian chair gleamed in the blue half-light. No, not a chair; a throne. It was plain and undecorated, but it had a huge sense of weight. On it, with one leg draped casually over one arm, sat a skeleton.

At least, Simon thought it was a skeleton at first. But it shone as if it had been covered in, or made entirely out of, metal. It wore a wide-brimmed hat tilted to cover one eye socket, and the other blazed blue, as if one of the torches that lit the room had been placed within its skull.

The skeleton jumped up from the throne—Simon drew in a breath and took a quick step back—and then it swept a jaunty bow. “Lovely to meet you, kid. The honorable Benson, at your service.”

“Uh, my name is Simon. Kai told me to come down here and then come back up, so...”

“Right, then!” Benson clapped his metal hands together with a sound like a handful of knives clashing. “You’ll have to have a go at the boys, first. Just to see if you can handle it, you understand.”

“What? Have a go?”

“Sure, yeah. You know. Fighting, and all that. Unless you’d rather dance a turn or two instead.”

Benson cackled a laugh. Simon began to dream of a day that Kai would explain something before sending him headfirst into it.

From the side, a deep voice, like a bear awakening from hibernation, rumbled forth. “I’d rather dance a turn or two. If you were wondering.”

Simon cast his eyes everywhere to try and figure out who was speaking. He spotted a helmet twisting on metal shoulders before he realized that the speaker was one of the suits of armor.

Somehow, it didn’t come as much of a surprise.

Benson made a dismissive gesture towards the armor that had moved. “Ah, shut it, Borus. Nobody asked you.”

“Who am I fighting, then?” Simon asked. Benson cackled again and waved his arms. With an enormous creak and a jangle of metal, all of the suits of armor stepped forward as one and turned to face him. As if controlled by one mind, they raised enormous weapons—maces, axes, broad cleaver-like swords—up to a ready position.

Simon’s hands were moist on his sword, and the temptation to dash back up the stairs was almost too much to take. But he took the fear and shoved it to the back of his mind. His master obviously thought he was ready for this. Kai must have passed this training himself.

Therefore, he would move forward.

He crouched on the balls of his feet, assuming a low ready stance with his sword angled in front of him. The air between him and the iron giants trembled with tension.

“All right,” Simon said. “Let’s go.”

“Dancing?” said Borus.

***

In the first few moments of the fight, Simon was almost overwhelmed by his own instincts. His mind screamed at him that he was facing two dozen opponents, all much bigger and stronger than he was, and the panic nearly got him killed.

But after the initial fright, as well as a few near misses from shovel-sized axes, he realized that this actually might be easier than winning his supper from Chaka.

The suits of armor and their weapons were too large for the narrow room, and there were so many of them that they crowded each other. He would only face, at most, two at a time, and even those would get in each other’s way. One tried an overhand swing with a sword that caught on the decorative spikes covering another’s shoulder; the gap that created was more than wide enough to allow Simon to slip under the armor’s elbow and thrust his blade into where one of the armor’s kidneys would have been.

Or at least, he tried to. The sword screeched and scraped against the armor, but failed to make a dent.

Another swung a mace at his head, and Simon stepped back to avoid it. He would be seriously injured if one of the attacks connected, but they were almost comically slow. As long as he kept moving, he would be in no real danger.

He tried an overhand slash at the helmet, but the blow rebounded off.

“Interesting strategy,” Benson said, “attacking the opponent’s strong points. I never would have thought of it.”

Simon dodged another couple of attacks, then tried what he probably should have done from the beginning. He slipped his sword up under the shoulder of one suit of armor, stabbing it into the weak point under the shoulder joint, where the armor was thin.

The suit shuddered and crashed to the ground, as if the energy animating it had failed.

Benson cackled and crashed his bony hands together again. “Bravo. Twenty-three more to go.”

Simon fell into a rhythm, avoiding the slow, heavy attacks and waiting for an opening until he could slide in a single strike. Two more armors went down.

Then he made a mistake.

He stepped in too close as he aimed for underneath an arm, and a heavy iron fist came down on his shoulder. Once. Twice. It felt like his shoulder had shattered like a dropped glass. He took up his sword in his left hand and raised it, but the armor’s next blow snapped it in half. A shard from the broken blade flew towards his eye; he flinched, and it slashed across his temple.

He looked up with blurring eyes and saw the fist coming down on his face.

“Stop it, Borus,” Benson called out.

The iron gauntlet froze not quite two inches from Simon’s forehead.

“I’m glad,” Borus rumbled. He pulled his fist back and stood up straighter; all the other suits followed. “Your two-step is good, but your waltz could use a little work.”

Simon looked up at him, dazed.

Benson shrugged, with a sound like rattling cutlery. “Honestly, I never know what he’s talking about either.”

***

After a quick visit to the imp-infested healing tub, Simon walked back into the garden to see Kai. He rolled his shoulder, trying to work out the stiffness in the newly restored joint.

Kai sat in the grass next to Chaka. His legs were crossed, hands on his knees, head bowed, with Azura resting against his shoulder. His doll Lilia lay in his lap. Next to him, Chaka sat in the exact same pose.

Simon had seen this before. It was Kai’s “meditation position,” whatever that meant. Simon supposed he would find out at some point in his training.

“Kai, sir. I’ve come back.”

“And how did it go?” Kai asked. He didn’t open his eyes. Or maybe he did; the white hair in his face made it hard to tell.

“I managed to defeat three of the iron armors before I was taken down,” Simon said. He supposed that wasn’t bad, but Kai would have been able to do better.

“I see.”

“What was I supposed to learn?”

“If you had learned it,” Kai said, “you would know. Try again tomorrow.”

Simon held forward the shattered remnants of the weapon he had bought, secondhand, from a desperate merchant’s guard. It felt strange, letting the weapon go. “In that case, I’m going to need another sword.”

“Then you’ll have to go get a spare.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Good luck.”

CHAPTER 8:

RISKS AND REWARDS

As it turned out, the armory was filled with traps.

Simon recalled his first visit to the armory after opening the door and dodging a dart launched from the opposite wall. This time, another dart followed as he relaxed and stood up, forcing him to dodge again.

That hadn’t happened last time. Someone had to have changed the trap...unless the trap changed itself. That was a depressing thought.

The room was lit by a bright, white light, though Simon could see no source. The light gleamed off weapons of every size, shape, and description, filling the room wall-to-wall and stretching back so that Simon could barely see the far wall. A rack of spears a hundred paces long stood against one wall, arranged from shortest—a spear that was scarcely longer than Simon’s forearm—to the longest, which had to be fifteen feet tall and looked as wide around as his neck. Axes of a thousand different shapes stood on individual wooden stands all around the room. Bow staves, some made of horn, some of a dozen different types of wood, and one that looked to be forged entirely of metal, sat in barrels near the door, with coils of bowstring on pegs nearby. Suits of armor—chain, plate, leather, scales, animal hides with shaggy fur still attached—were arranged on pedestals against the wall to the right, and Simon made sure not to step too close. They might come to life.

Every step deeper into the armory sprung some new trap. A tripwire he hadn’t noticed caused a giant axe to come swinging down for his head. One innocent-looking tile was actually a switch that opened up a chasm in front of him; if he had taken one more step, he would have fallen in. He thought he heard growling from the bottom.

It wasn’t nearly as hard as it should have been to build up his courage and keep going. Simon realized some part of him was growing used to constant, unpredictable, mortal danger. He wondered if that was a good thing.

The rack of swords rested against the back wall, as far as could be from the entrance. It stood right next to the rich wooden door leading into another room, deeper in the House. Simon hesitated, his hand hovering between the hilt of a new sword and the door handle. He had conquered the armory, hadn’t he? Surely a peek inside this room wouldn’t hurt anything.

He grabbed the door handle and tugged on it, just a little. Nothing happened. The door stayed firmly shut. He pushed, and again the door didn’t budge. Maybe he could ask Kai for the key.

Then again, there could be a thousand fiery snakes coiled up beyond the door, waiting for a single crack so they could spring out and sink their burning fangs into his flesh. In this place it very well could be that, or even something worse. He shook his head to clear it. He was getting overconfident, if he was trying to recklessly march ahead into an unknown danger. To keep himself distracted, he seized a sword from the rack. This new room could wait until he had conquered all the rooms before it, including the skeleton’s basement.

Armed with a new sword, he marched back down to Benson. This time he suffered two fractured shins after defeating only a pair of the black armors. His trip up the stairs and back to the healing bathtub was one of the most agonizing experiences of his life, and he came close to asking Kai to take him back to the real world.

But he didn’t.

He settled into a new routine: wake up, challenge Chaka for breakfast, train with Kai all afternoon, then back to the basement before dinner. In time, he grew stronger. Faster. He could swing a sword all day now, and he shrugged off minor injuries as unworthy of his attention. Sometimes he could challenge the walking suits of armor twice a day, taking down seven or eight each time before he was defeated.

He was making progress, certainly, but not enough. Not nearly enough. After a month of repeating the same pattern, he cornered Kai after dinner and demanded to know what he was doing wrong.

Kai chuckled. “The little mouse is getting hungry, so he asks why he cannot swallow a tree whole. Like anything else worth doing, it takes time.”

He held Otoku in his left hand, and he bent his head closer, listening. He cradled her carefully to avoid wrinkling her red dress.

Otoku whispered in his ear, on the edge of Simon’s hearing, but Simon didn’t give her ghostly voice any thought. Amazing what he could get used to, with time.

Kai nodded along with the whispers. “Yes. Good point. Otoku says that there is one rule in this house, above all others: what you want, you must earn.”

“But what am I going to earn?” Simon knew his voice was too angry, but he went on. “If I can beat all of the suits of armor, and that skeleton besides, what have I earned? I’ve proved that I’m better than they are.”

Kai nodded slowly, head tilted like a bird’s, and then he rose to his feet.

“You have my apology, little mouse. I have failed you. I have been leading you around by the hand, instead of leaving you to find your own way. And for that I am sorry.”

And then he began to walk. Not back, through the bathroom and towards the hallway and the exit, but forward. Into the far door that Simon had never seen open.

“I have earned my way through fourteen rooms of this house,” Kai said. “I will make my way through, room by room, at a pace I feel you should be able to manage. If you can find me, then we will travel together. If you do not find me in two weeks, I will consider you dead or a coward. In either case, I will remove you from Valinhall.”

“What are you saying?” Simon cried. “You can’t leave me here!”

Kai continued as if he had not spoken, his long-legged strides eating up the grassy plains as Simon hurried to follow. “The door to the library will unlock once you have mastered the skeleton in the basement. I will wait in the library for a time. If you do not catch me there, I will move on.”

At the edge of the plains, which dropped off into endless sky, Kai stopped. A door hung at the edge of the grassy plain. It was dark wood, marked with a candle and an open book, but the doorframe stood in emptiness. Surely it opened up on air.

“You must try harder, Simon,” Kai said. “You wanted the fast way? You have it.” Then he drew Azura from empty air and swung at Simon’s chest.

It wasn’t the fastest blow Simon had seen his master deliver, but he was still forced to stumble several steps backward. By the time he caught himself and moved forward, Kai had already vanished through the doorway.

Desperately Simon grabbed the handle and twisted. Nothing. He pulled, pushed, straining against it despite the vertigo that insisted he was about to fall over an endless cliff.

The door was sealed shut. There would be no appeal to Kai from now on.

He made his way back to the bed in the bedroom even more carefully than usual. He had feared for his life here in the Valinhall House; in fact, not a day went by when he wasn’t convinced he was going to die. But Kai had always been there, a silent support even when he abandoned Simon to one danger or another. Simon had always had the comforting idea that Kai would only push him into danger that he felt his student could handle.

And now Kai had left him alone. With the traps, the imps, the Nye, and who knew what else? With Kai gone, if Simon failed to beat Chaka too many times in a row, he might starve to death. He supposed thirst would get him first, actually, unless he could drink his fill from the soapy water of the bathtub, but it hardly mattered. Something was going to kill him.

When Simon reached Kai’s sleeping quarters, he curled up on the floor next to the bed and turned his gaze to the wall.

He could stay here. As long as he could beat Chaka two out of three times, he would have all the food and water he needed. The entry room, bedroom, bathroom, and garden were relatively safe, and Simon could live in this wing until Kai returned. But then he would fail.

He would have let his people down, and he would have left Alin to save their village on his own. But he would also have let Kai down, failed to meet his master’s expectation, and that mattered more to Simon than he would have thought.

But how? He wondered. How am I supposed to get better all of a sudden? He supposed that he could redouble his training, sparring against Chaka and against the black armors in the basement, and steadily learn through effort. But to improve even a little would take time, and somehow Simon doubted that Kai would sit in the library, even assuming it was safe and comfortable, for six months waiting for Simon to improve. Besides, six months here would be three on the outside, and he might not have that long.

“Try harder,” Simon muttered. From his position on the floor, he kicked the post of the bed. His toes exploded with pain; he might as well have slammed his bare foot into a tree. The shoes he wore were only thin leather, crafted by the Nye while he slept. He decided not to care about the pain. He didn’t care either that kicking a bed was the action of a child.

Anger and frustration boiled up in him, seething underneath his thoughts. He had asked for the training, true, but his abuse had been ridiculous. And now his master abandoned him without even telling him what to do next.

He wanted to vent his emotions somewhere, so he stood up and lifted the mattress with both hands. He tried to flip it, but it was too heavy, and it ended up sliding pathetically to the ground.

That was both unsatisfying and somewhat embarrassing, though no one else was around to see. Fortunately.

He heard the faintest whisper of laughter coming from his left, but he ignored the dolls. Whispering all the time, driving people crazy. What gave them the right? Pulling a knife from a desk next to the bed—Kai always liked to have a weapon close to hand—he threw it at the wall.

Instead of sticking, as he intended, it hit hilt-first and clattered to the floor, doing no damage. The hints of laughter from the dolls grew louder.

He grabbed a mirror from the wall and let out a yell of frustration as he slammed it to the ground.

The glass didn’t break. He flipped it over and stomped on his reflection a few times. Nothing.

Simon could hear laughter now, though it sounded distant and somewhat warped, as though coming down a long hallway. His furious anger, matched now by embarrassment, made him want to grab the dolls and smash them next. He considered it for a moment, but discarded the idea. Even if the dolls themselves couldn’t hurt him—and he wasn’t entirely sure that was true—Kai might actually murder him if he found his beloved dolls broken.

Besides, he told himself, they couldn’t really be laughing at him. Right? He still couldn’t make up his mind whether the dolls were somehow magically animated or if his contact with Kai was somehow making him insane.

He sighed and slumped forward, head pressing against the bedpost. His frustration had only grown, but he felt so ridiculous trying to break things that his anger had faded. Still, what was he supposed to do?

He was staring down at his feet, one of which still rested on the unbroken mirror, so he caught a glimpse of a dark hood an instant before the black chain went around his throat.

Simon’s anger flared back to life. He seized the Nye man’s wrists, which felt like squeezing a tightly packed bundle of laundry, and heaved it up and over his head. The Nye, lighter than a man of flesh, spun over Simon’s head and landed on his feet, though it twisted his arms badly.

Simon kicked the Nye down onto the spilled mattress and picked up his sword, which he had left resting next to his cot. According to Kai, the Nye couldn’t be killed by a sword, and in fact they sought such injuries as badges of honor.

Finally, Simon had an outlet for his frustrations.

The Nye parried Simon’s first strike with its chain, and dodged his second. He tried again and again, pouring his frustration into every strike, until he had backed the hooded figure into a corner.

The Nye flipped the short chain like a whip and it crashed into Simon’s face, bringing a flair of pain like a hammer blow. But pain was fuel for Simon’s anger now; he grabbed the chain in his left hand. With his right, he skewered the Nye against the wall.

The sword parted flesh that was just layers of black cloth, and pale moonlight flowed like blood. Before Simon’s eyes, the Nye began to dissolve into shadow and light, running out the cracks in the bedroom door.

Simon pulled his sword back without surprise; he had seen Nye defeated before. But this time he wasn’t satisfied with a shallow victory.

This time he followed the shadow.

The Nye flowed down the hall at the speed of a man running, passing through the hallway and into the round room with all the doors. The basement door, marked with a standing knight, stood to Simon’s left, the armory and the garden to the right, and the bathroom in front of him. He tensed, trying to guess which door the Nye would enter.

It spilled into the center of the room and stopped, a pool of silver-blue light and black cloth. Then it began to leak through a rug on the floor.

Simon ran over and pulled away the rug, revealing a trap door. Some people in the village had trap doors built into their roof, but Simon had never seen one go down into the ground. Maybe there was no ground here.

He grabbed a brass ring set into the trap door and pulled, revealing a ladder down into darkness. The Nye braided itself into a rope of light and shadow, swirling down one leg of the ladder and sliding into the darkness.

Simon hesitated for a moment, fearing to step deeper into an unknown room, but his anger made him stubborn. Someone was going to give him some answers, and if he had his way, it was going to be the Nye.

He slid his sword into his belt, careful not to cut himself, and climbed down the ladder.

The ladder was short, or at least it didn’t take him long to reach the floor. The bottom was dimly lit, just enough for Simon to see. This gave him one advantage: he could easily make out the glowing form of the Nye, steadily snaking his way back into the darkness.

Before he could think too much about it, Simon followed.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Simon began to make out his surroundings: he was in a long room that appeared to be filled with junk and furniture, though he could see only a few details in the darkness. Everything had been covered with sheets of black cloth. Some of it drifted slightly as he passed, even pieces that were too far away to be disturbed by the wind of his passage. Simon’s fear grew, and he shot a glance back to make sure he could see the glow of the open trap door high in the back of the room. Just in case.

Finally the Nye turned a corner, and Simon found himself facing the one well-lit location in this entire black dungeon: four free-standing paper screens, arranged in a box, standing out from the walls. As though someone had built a room out of paper inside the room. The paper screens were painted with pictures of plants and birds, and they were lit from within by the cheery glow of real candles. After Simon’s march through darkness, it looked like sunlight.

There was one door in the paper walls, a sliding door on a wooden frame. It was guarded by two Nye, both with black chains a foot longer than any Simon had ever seen. Both guards were a head taller than Simon, identical except that one had a heavy weight on the end of his chain and the other had his tied into a noose.

Simon attacked, cutting at the neck of the guard on the right. With impressive speed the Nye dropped to a crouch, whipping his chain at Simon’s ankles, and his partner flung the noose at Simon’s neck. They moved in unison, their empty hoods tracking Simon. Like all the Nye, their movements were both graceful and eerily silent, cloth and shadow brought to life.

Simon’s sword, single-edged and curved like Azura but less than half the length, batted the noose away, even as he leaped and twisted to avoid the chain at his ankles. The end of the heavy black chain clipped his foot. It bruised like a hammer through Simon’s thin shoes, and he landed awkwardly.

The noose fell next to his shoulder, completely harmless, but the guard holding it flicked his wrist, pulling back and readying another strike. Simon tried to stab at him while he withdrew, but his partner whipped the chain in a defensive circle, forcing Simon to pull his blade back an inch, buying the Nye with the noose enough time to cast again.

Simon realized then that he would not be able to fight his way past. They were too fast, too skilled, and impossibly coordinated. They fought together like they had done so all their lives, and Simon wasn’t good enough to break their formation.

With that knowledge came a cold fear. In his frustration and anger he had almost forgotten his own meager abilities. How long had he been here? A month? More? With no day or night it was hard to tell, but either way, his paltry training counted for nothing in this fight.

His surroundings closed in on him: here he was, deep in a room that Kai had never shown him, about to confront the Nye in their own lair. The Nye could kill him, and if he died here, no one would know it until they found his body. Perhaps they would never know; maybe the Nye would treat his rotting corpse as so much refuse and dispose of it as they cleaned.

The fear made his breath come even faster. He began to fight defensively, backing off instead of testing his opponents. He missed a block, moved a hair too slow to intercept one strike. A chain lash burned his ribs, and pain blossomed inside. Terror had him in his grip now, and he wondered if something inside him had ruptured.

They had steadily pushed him away from the paper screens, so that they had a little room to use their chains. The one with the noose paced in the background, spinning his chain in lazy loops, while his partner stood poised in front, chain held as if ready to throw. Simon felt bile rise in his throat, and his steady grip began to shake.

A harsh, grating whisper came from behind Simon. “So that is all you have? I hoped for more.”

Simon spun, spinning his blade in a neck-high arc as he did so. Briefly it occurred to him that the speaker might not be hostile, but that was laughable. Everything in Valinhall was hostile.

The sword whistled through the air, cutting nothing, but Simon completed the turn to face the other two again. He was sure they would have lunged to attack as soon as his attention was directed elsewhere, and his blade came up to deflect a chain. But they had not taken a step forward. In fact, they had each gone down on one knee, black hoods lowered and chains pressed against the hardwood floor.

Simon didn’t relax. It could be a trick, or—more disturbing—whoever was behind him could be so deadly that the two Nye had surrendered on sight. He twisted to keep both the Nye in sight and still see the room behind him.

He glanced behind him for an instant, and saw nothing in the darkness.

The harsh whisper came again, from so close behind him that Simon imagined he could feel cool breath on his neck. “Where do you look?”

Simon spun around again, sword clutched tightly in shaking hands, and this time he saw the speaker.

It was another of the Nye. But where most of them were identical, distinguishable only by size, this one gave the impression of great age. His outer robe was worn and faded almost to gray, frayed at the edges into tatters of cloth that fluttered when he moved. His sleeves were longer than most, and wide; it looked like there was enough fabric hanging over each of the Nye’s hands to sew Simon a new shirt. He kept each hand hidden in the opposite sleeve, and he was hunched over. Simon first thought that he was bowing over his arms and briefly considered a bow in return, but after a moment Simon recognized the look of an old man without a cane. Bent with age, then.

The black hood raised to study Simon, facing him more directly than any of his kind had before, but the deep shadows hiding its face remained solid.

The old Nye drifted forward slowly, as though he had no feet under his robes. “Your master has left you, and you stand alone in a house of shadows.” His speech was odd, as if he had learned to speak far away or long ago. “Yet you seek us in the darkness.”

“You came to me first,” Simon said. He tried to rekindle the spark of his earlier anger, but fear was a cold wind that kept anger from catching.

The old Nye shrugged with one shoulder, and the rustle of cloth was louder than it should have been, as though many layers of clothes had shifted beneath that black cloak. He did not stop moving forward, though his progress was slow. Simon took a hesitant step back.

“We simply test you,” the Nye said. “You seek us with rage in your heart, try to find us in our homes.” Abruptly the light from the paper screens dimmed, as though a candle within had flickered on the verge of going out. In seconds the room was darker than a moonless night. Terror took control of Simon’s limbs, moving him like a puppet, swinging the sword in random defensive arcs. His blow stopped as his wrist hit something soft but unyielding, like a steel bar wrapped in thick wool. And then total darkness swallowed his vision.

For a wild instant he thought the light had failed entirely, but the truth was almost worse: the old Nye stood a fraction of an inch in front of Simon’s face, one hand locking Simon’s wrist in place as if it had been rooted in stone. Standing straight, the man of shadows was almost Simon’s height, and Simon could smell dust and ash on the cool wind that flowed from its hood. If the Nye had a face, Simon couldn’t tell. Perhaps the darkness was his face.

Simon stood frozen, afraid to fight, afraid to back away. The Nye spoke again, and once again it sounded as if his grating whisper came from behind Simon instead of in front.

“We do not leave our home undefended,” he said. “Do not mistake our tests for true attempts on your life. If we should want your life, Simon son of Kalman, it would be ours.”

The Nye released him then, but did not move. He stood as if waiting for some response. Simon took a step back, and then, to be safe, one more. A thought struck him.

“My father’s name. How did you know my father’s name? I never told Kai that.”

The old Nye’s chuckle sounded like sheets snapping in the wind. “There is little I cannot find out, son of Kalman, if I have a mind to know it. And a reason.”

The old Nye hunched over again, folding his arms as if collapsing in on himself. Simon sensed that it was his turn to speak.

“What reason did you have to learn about me?” he asked.

The Nye paused, eyeing Simon, then nodded.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “You will learn.”

The two Nye guards—Simon had almost forgotten they were there, as the old one spoke—unfolded themselves from the floor at their elder’s words and began walking. The elder followed them down one of the hallways.

Confused, not sure what to expect, Simon hurried after.

***

Facing the shining walls of Elysia, which stretched at least fifteen paces over his head, Alin decided that he should probably try and find his way inside.

He had begun to walk forward, through the grassy field outside Elysia’s walls, when he heard an echoing, powerful noise, like a dog’s bark mixed with the ring of a huge bell. He froze in place, trying to look everywhere at once for the source of the noise.

It didn’t take him long to find the culprit: a huge white-furred dog, bound in armor that looked like it was made of gold, leaped and bounded to him over the grass. It barked again, with the earsplitting sound of a pealing bell, and rushed toward him. Even from ten paces away, Alin could see that its eyes were a bright, almost disturbing shade of blue.

Alin backed up, hoping the dog would stop, but it kept running toward him. He turned to run, but as he did, the dog leaped forward and slammed him to the ground.

After spending several seconds struggling and crying for help, Alin realized that the dog wasn’t trying to eat him. It was quite friendly, actually, licking him all over the face and wagging its tail furiously.

He was very glad that no one had followed him through the Gate.

“You’re not dangerous at all, are you?” Alin said, in that voice he couldn’t help but use when speaking to a dog. He rubbed the animal’s white fur in between its armored plates.

The dog barked in response, and from that distance, the sound nearly burst Alin’s ear.

“Okay, let’s try and keep you quiet,” Alin said. He used a low voice, hoping that would inspire the dog. “What’s your name?” Alin asked.

“Keanos,” a woman’s voice responded. Involuntarily, Alin’s head jerked back in surprise. He glanced around from his position lying on the grass, but saw no one else.

“Are you talking?” Alin said to the dog.

“Yes,” the voice responded.

How was that possible? Sure, this was a Territory, where all sorts of magical things were supposed to happen, but the dog’s lips weren’t even moving.

“Huh.” Alin took a discreet glance between the dog’s legs. “I, uh, thought you were a male.”

A woman leaned over him, above the dog standing on his chest. Bright yellow hair fell to brush his face.

She wore a huge grin. “Did you think the dog was talking?” she asked.

Alin scrambled out from under the gold-armored animal so fast he almost burned himself on the grass. “I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly, trying to brush off his clothes. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

She laughed, and Alin got a better look at her. She was maybe a few years older than he, pretty in an innocent sort of way. She wore a long white dress, belted in the middle with a gold-colored sash, and her eyes were gold. Gold. Not hazel or a shade of brown or any color he’d ever seen before, but a metallic gold that seemed to shine in the light.

That shocked Alin more than it probably should have. Remember where you are, he reminded himself.

“I am Alin, son of Torin,” he said politely. “And your name was...Keanos?”

The woman chuckled again, and—to Alin’s brief shock—levitated a few inches above the ground. “No, the dog’s name is Keanos.”

Keanos let out another deafening bark.

“My name is Rhalia.” She floated up until she stood on the air five feet above the ground, and swept him an elegant bow.

Alin glanced away, worried that he might accidentally see up her dress. More honestly, he worried that she might think he was trying to see up her dress. “Uh, nice to meet you, Rhalia.”

“So you’re a natural Traveler, then?” Rhalia asked, settling herself down to a more reasonable level.

Alin didn’t quite know what that meant, but he wasn’t ready to admit that to this floating stranger. “I believe so, yes.”

Rhalia let out a sigh, visibly relieved. “Great! I was worried that I’d missed you before, but now we can start from the beginning. Do you know how Traveling works?”

“Not...exactly,” Alin admitted.

“Okay, no problem. Here are the basics: you explore your Territory. The closer your bond to something, the easier you’ll be able to summon it. But thinking people need to give you their consent, and animals need to obey you, either out of fear or loyalty. Isn’t that right, Keanos?”

Keanos barked again, the sound echoing like bells off of Elysia’s walls.

“And that’s it!” Rhalia said, flourishing one arm. “That’s Traveling. I like your hair. It looks like mine, only darker.”

“Thank you,” Alin said. He got the feeling she was vastly oversimplifying Traveling. For one thing, she made it sound safe.

“Now, let’s go!” Rhalia said. She flew toward the city gates, her feet skimming the tips of the grass. Alin found that a little disorienting, but he hurried after her anyway.

If she was going to teach him to Travel, he’d do whatever he needed. And she sure wouldn’t tell him anything more if he stood around and watched her fly off.

Rhalia stopped in front of the shining gates, hovering next to a silver-set emerald the size of her head. “After you!” she said happily.

Surely there was supposed to be more to it than this. Wasn’t she going to prepare him, teach him what to expect?

But, as Grandmaster Naraka had already told him, the only way to become a Traveler was to Travel. And he had a beautiful, shining city waiting for him, ready to be explored.

Steadying his shaky nerves, Alin placed both hands against the gates of Elysia. His right hand rested on gold, his left hand on silver. Part of him realized that if he could come away with only a fraction of the wealth he saw here, he could buy the whole city of Enosh, with enough left over for Myria.

Alin stored that thought for later and pushed on the gates of Elysia.

The gates opened much easier than the Gate had earlier, swinging open on silent, well-oiled hinges.

Inside was a short tunnel of white stone, most likely leading all the way through the thick walls. He couldn’t be sure, because it twisted at enough of an angle to keep him from seeing the end, but the walls and floor were solid white, polished to a mirror finish. The hallway was lit by what seemed to be gold-framed torches, but instead of the rough orange of a natural fire, these blazed like golden stars. As a result of the unnatural light, the hallway sparkled as if it had been piled with gold coins.

Now this was Traveling. He could never have seen a sight like this back in the real world.

Alin started to walk forward, almost blinded by the sparkling lights of the hallway, before he noticed a small box of pure gold lying on the floor. The box was large enough to make a fine doghouse for Keanos, and carved all over with whirling symbols and decorations that made no sense to Alin. It sat on the ground inside the gates.

Alin looked at it curiously for a moment, trying to figure out what the box was doing there. Was it some kind of treasure chest? Should he open it?

“Duck!” Rhalia called.

The lid of the golden box popped open, and Alin threw himself to one side.

Just in time.

A thousand glowing golden arrows burst from the box, shooting through the open gates as if fired from a legion of bowmen. If Alin had remained standing, they would have certainly shredded him like knives through cheesecloth.

Alin hugged the ground for almost a full minute after the flood of arrows had stopped, shaking against the cold stone floor between the gates. Was Rhalia trying to get him killed?

“I thought you said it was safe!” Alin said. Fear made his voice several shades higher than normal.

Rhalia floated over to the open box and did a little pirouette on top of it. “Safe? I don’t think I said that. It’s pretty dangerous here.”

Alin nearly choked. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’ve got some bad news for you, Alin,” Rhalia said. “None of the Territories are safe. You want to Travel, you’re going to have to risk it.”

He stayed on the floor, thinking. He wasn’t exactly thrilled by the prospect of danger, but then again, he had seen what Travelers could do. If he only had to take a few risks for that kind of power, that was a cheap price.

Still, he would either have to get Rhalia talking or else find a more reliable guide. He couldn’t risk running into a wall of arrows one more time.

Climbing to his feet, Alin brushed his clothes off again. They were gaining quite a collection of stains. “So what do I do with that?” he asked, gesturing to the box.

Rhalia smiled innocently. “Who knows? You might try and learn to summon it.”

“Really?” Alin perked up at the thought. The ability to call up a volley of golden arrows out of nowhere sounded like exactly the kind of thing Travelers from the stories could do.

“How do I do that?”

The golden-haired woman waved his question away. “I’ll teach you eventually, but there are more important things to see to. The box is one little thing, just something to help you out if you need it. There are far more impressive powers in Elysia. Like Keanos, here.”

The dog let out another ringing bark.

“And you?” Alin asked. “What if I summoned you?”

“Oh yeah, that could be fun!” Rhalia spun a lazy backflip in the air over Alin’s head. “I haven’t been to the outside world in ages and ages!” Then she drifted around to face Alin and shrugged. “But that’s not important right now. I’m supposed to be your guide around the city. Test you and see if you’re ready, that sort of thing.”

“Test me?” Alin asked. He didn’t much like the sound of that, especially not after he had been attacked by a deadly arrow-trap. He edged a little farther from the open box.

“Yeah!” Rhalia responded cheerily. She twirled in place, letting her white dress spin out. All of her motion was starting to make Alin dizzy. “Every Territory does that, in one way or another. You’ve got to prove you’re worth it.”

“So what do you test?” Alin asked.

“Your virtues,” Rhalia responded. She held out her hand, and a golden orb—like the one Alin had thrown at Cormac—appeared in her palm. She tossed it up into the sky, where it streaked away like a shooting star.

“Here, try one of those.”

Alin called a ball of golden light and threw it into the sky. His power felt easier to call here, somehow closer. Well, he supposed it made sense; he was calling power from Elysia. It stood to reason that it would be easier to do while standing in Elysia itself.

“Well done!” Rhalia said. “That gold light is the reward for valor. You have to be very courageous to call that from the City. Did you risk your life to defend somebody else?”

Alin stood a little straighter, pride filling him, and nodded. He had stood up against the Damascan Traveler because no one else would or could, but he had been terrified. It was nice to hear someone tell him he had been courageous.

“Then you’re well on your way!” Rhalia said cheerily. “Selflessness is the key to most Elysian virtues. It’ll take you far.”

“Most?” Alin asked, eager. “There are others?”

Suddenly Rhalia’s golden eyes were inches from Alin’s own. He stepped back, but she drifted after him. “How patient are you?” she asked.

“What?” Alin responded.

She didn’t say anything, just floated in his face.

Seconds passed. She said nothing. Was she waiting on him?

“I guess I’m—”

“Not very patient,” Rhalia said with a sigh. Then she poked him in the ribs. Hard.

“Ouch,” Alin said, rubbing his ribs. “What was that—”

She poked him again, harder.

“Stop it!”

Rhalia poked him again, and Alin pushed her hand away.

“Will you stop that!” Alin demanded.

Rhalia sighed and drifted away as if carried off by a gentle wind. “You should keep a lid on that temper, you know. It’ll give you wrinkles.”

“Wait...are you testing me? Right now? Are these the tests?”

Rhalia held up both hands and moved them up and down, as though weighing something. “They could be. It’s more like...if you prove yourself worthy anywhere, you’ve been tested.”

That sounded simple enough. He only had to find out what the virtues were, and then prove that he could live up to them. He’d have conquered this Territory in record time.

Rhalia hesitated, looking suddenly uncertain. “One thing, though. Let’s…take it easy, okay? Don’t rush things too much.”

Alin glanced at Keanos, who was frolicking around in the grass. “I thought you wanted me to rush. I hardly understand what Traveling is, and you practically pushed me into a trap.”

Rhalia rubbed her hands on her shoulders, as though cold. “No, that’s not what I mean. You’re safe with me, and besides, the only thing at stake is your life.”

As opposed to what? Alin wondered, but he didn’t ask.

“If you only listen to one thing I say,” she went on, “listen to this: don’t try to use power you’re not ready for. Other people have made that mistake before, and it…didn’t turn out well.”

She stared off into the distant golden sky, for a second looking so sad that Alin wondered what mistakes she meant.

“That’s not a problem,” he said. “I don’t even understand what I can already do, so let’s start there.”

Rhalia brightened again. She floated over and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the gates of Elysia. “For now, since you’ve earned the gold, you’re allowed inside the gold section of the city. It’s amazing! You’re going to love it!”

Alin followed along, letting her pull him inside the shining gates. “Are there going to be more traps in here?”

Rhalia laughed. “Who knows? But I promise, this will be good for you.”

He walked forward, taking in the wonders of Elysia with half a mind. The other half was already imagining how he could put his powers to work, and what wonders still awaited him inside. More than anything he’d ever dreamed of before, that was for sure.

What would Leah say if she could see him now?

CHAPTER 9:

DEALS AND DARKNESS

After a few moments of walking in silence, Simon decided to risk a question. “You know me, but I don’t know you. What is your name?” He almost added “sir,” but he still wasn’t quite sure the Nye had males and females. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, either.

“I am the Eldest of my kind,” the hunched Nye said, in a voice like a death rattle. “That is my title, and now my name. Eldest I am, and Eldest I am called, until my life leaves me and another takes up the title.” The Eldest flowed forward as he spoke, speaking as if in meditation but setting a pace that Simon had to jog to match. The other two Nye took strides as if there were actually men inside those black wrappings.

Simon pulled himself up the ladder as soon as he reached it, the light at the top giving him more relief than he would have expected. The Nye stood at the bottom of the ladder, and Simon assumed they would climb up after him.

Then he passed through the trap door at the top and into the circular room above. The Eldest and his two attendants stood above, staring down at him.

Simon glanced into the hole, then back up.

“That’s just frightening,” he said.

The Eldest ignored him, but began walking into the hallway. “What has Kai told you of our history?”

Simon scurried after the Nye. “You mean the history of the House? Not much. Nothing, really.”

“For generations beyond remembering, Valinhall has been as it is: separate. Alone. Its own world. Legends say that, in a time before, we were more than we are. We had cities, trees, a sun. Like your own world. But that world was broken, this House one of the shards. The shard drifted into the nothing beyond all worlds, and as it drifted, faded. Became weaker. This I myself watched happen, but we could do nothing. For many long years, we did nothing but watch.”

The Eldest stared into the distance as though staring back into an age long past. Simon got the impression that when the Eldest said “many long years,” he meant many years indeed. Centuries may have passed as the Territory fell into decline.

“Then the Wanderer came,” the Nye Eldest said. His scratchy voice held a note of awe. “I was in my prime then, and I was there to witness his arrival. He fell in the entry hall with a flash of light and a great roar; not as if he came willingly, but as if he was cast here from another place. He stayed long with us. Over time, he mastered many of the first rooms and ventured deep into the House, where even we of the Nye do not go. Valinhall’s powers are too strange and unshaped in its far reaches, and not even the boldest of the Nye dare to venture too deep. But the Wanderer did.

“He gathered much power and knowledge, and gained the respect of many of the House’s inhabitants. It would not be wrong to say that he ruled the House during that time. He brought to us a life that we had long lacked, and equally important, he gave us a name.”

The Eldest stopped as they stepped into the entry hall, with its mirrors and couches. And the wooden sword racks on the wall, three of them holding long, slightly curved blades. “Among men, the Wanderer was known as Valin. When he claimed this House as his own, he gave it a name: Valin’s Hall. Valinhall. But he was not satisfied. Using the books collected here, along with his own knowledge, he fashioned a key to open a Gate between his world—your world—and this one.”

The Eldest sighed. “We tried to stop him from leaving. I tried, and many others tried with more power and skill than I, but nothing worked. He talked or dodged or cut his way through and returned to his own world. We thought we were doomed to fade once more.

Then, only a few short years later, he returned. This time, he brought twelve young humans with him. He would train them in the powers of this Territory, he said. He wanted to make them into a force unto themselves. An army of dragons, he called them. And to each Dragon he gave a Fang.”

The Eldest sighed in remembrance, and he lifted a shrouded hand up to the swords on the wall. That was why he had come to the entry hall, Simon realized: because the unused swords were stored here.

“So these swords...” Simon began, but he trailed off, not sure how to continue.

“They are keys to the House, forged by the Wanderer himself and presented to the twelve original soldiers of the Dragon Army. Kai was one of them.”

In their wooden racks—two rows of six, hung on each wall—the blades almost looked lonely. Of the twelve racks, only three were filled. With Azura, that meant only four of the swords remained in Valinhall. Simon wasn’t sure why that was significant, but he sensed that the missing swords struck near the core of the Eldest’s story.

And this gave Simon the answer to another question he had buried since Kai agreed to train him. Twelve, plus this Wanderer. That meant that of the twelve other Valinhall Travelers besides Kai, one of them had saved his life on a rainy day eight years earlier.

Simon tucked that information away for future use.

“So what did this...’Dragon Army’ do?” Simon asked.

“That is Kai’s story to tell you, if he wishes,” the Nye responded. “I can only tell you mine.” He let his shrouded hand rest on the back of a cloth-wrapped hilt. “And I tell you, we thought we were restored when the Wanderer arrived. But it was nothing compared to what we gained when twelve young, healthy humans stayed and trained here. Called this place their home. The whole Territory sang with life, as it had not in my whole memory or the memories of my fathers.”

The Nye Eldest’s black hood swiveled to fix Simon with a stare. “Now, the Dragon Army is broken and scattered. Only four of the thirteen swords remain in use. The others are lost in your world, or are deliberately sealed to keep them from returning here.”

He returned his hands to each resting in the opposite sleeve, and he remained hunched over. But when he spoke, it sounded like a vicious threat. “We will not fade once again, Simon son of Kalman. We will not. Our power is declining, but now that we have had a taste of life, we will not give it up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon noticed the two Nye guards slipping up behind him to take a stance at either shoulder. The Eldest stood in front of him, the only exit behind. Simon’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, in the sheath at his belt. If they meant to force something from him, he might have to fight his way clear.

From behind him, cloth rustled and chains clinked softly. He knew he did not have much chance. For the second time that day, Simon grew certain that he was going to die.

He was almost used to the feeling by now.

“I would make a pact with you, son of Kalman,” the Eldest said. “You seek the powers of this house. Well, I say to you that the House of Valinhall has many gifts, some of which are mine to pass on.”

Hope rose in Simon’s chest, though sweat condensed on the grip of his sword. It was possible that he might be able to walk away from this with the very thing he wanted.

“I will give you some of the gifts you seek. More, I will give you the chance to earn one of the Dragon’s Fangs, that you may call upon Valinhall’s power in the outside world.”

“You know, my father had a saying,” Simon said. “‘The most beautiful gift is the one that hides a trap.’ What do you want from me, Eldest?” Defying the leader of the Nye terrified him, but he thought it was better to appear strong. Even if it was just a front.

The Eldest’s voice scraped like flint on gravel, but it was firm. “I ask for you to restore the power of my home. The lost keys—the eight missing Dragon’s Fangs—must be returned, but that is not the last of it. This House needs students. Perhaps even objects of power collected from other Territories.” The Eldest waved a black-sleeved arm dismissively, as if to say that was a matter for another time.

“I will not tell you lies: this task will last for the rest of your life. But what does that concern you? I will lead you to power, and you may use it however you wish, so long as I get what I want. We would gain power for our people, son of Kalman. And once you are a Traveler of Valinhall, our power is your own.”

Think it through, Simon told himself. The Nye didn’t care what happened to Simon, he was sure, so long as the Territory ended up the richer. The deal looked good on the surface, but what were the hazards? There was no such thing as a free deal; Simon had learned that early on when trying to trade for his mother’s drink and herbs. There had to be some hook to go with the bait.

The problem was that he had no way to see it. He simply didn’t know enough. If Kai were around, he would have asked, but his mentor had left him to fend for himself. Speaking of Kai, though...

“Have you offered Kai this deal?” Simon asked.

“Of course,” the Eldest rasped. “As one of the last loyal members of the Dragon Army, he was our best hope for restoration. But Kai does not seek power. He fears it, as the candle’s wick fears the flame.”

So Kai had turned the Eldest down. And Kai had lived in this Territory practically his whole life. If he had not accepted the deal, then Simon probably shouldn’t either.

The Eldest appeared to have seen the decision in Simon’s face, because he casually said, “One more thing. If you refuse me now, you will have rejected the friendship of the Nye. You are still a guest of this House, so we will not kill you outright, but you will have no friends among us.”

Simon considered that, but it didn’t seem too bad. Not much worse than what he had lived through already. Still, he could always accept and then break his agreement. The Nye surely had little or no power in the world outside Valinhall.

“Then again, if you accept my deal and then betray us...” The Eldest spread his sleeves out in a shrug. “You will wish for a merciful death. So, son of Kalman, do you want me for a friend?”

Simon heard the rattle of chains again behind him, and did not need to turn around to know that the two taller Nye were readying their weapons. Without thought, he pulled his sword an inch out of its scabbard. His head whirled with ideas, but his thoughts were clouded by fear. Any moment he expected to feel a cold length of black chain around his neck once more.

He was sure there was some danger he couldn’t see, and perhaps Kai would tell him not to do this. But he was determined to do whatever it took to personally bring the people of Myria home.

Leah. What would she say, when she saw him free her with the power of a Traveler?

“Give me your power, Eldest,” Simon said. “I accept your deal.”

The two guards behind him went down to one knee again, like they had when the Eldest had first appeared. Simon heard a rush through the House, as if Valinhall itself had let out a great breath.

The Nye Eldest’s face remained shrouded, but Simon got the impression that he smiled. “I am gladdened. Since you have made the right choice, I will give you the gift I promised.”

The Eldest unfolded his arms and held one out toward Simon. From the end of the sleeve stuck out a black wooden box. Simon took it—it was about the size of his two hands together, but suspiciously light—and opened it. It was empty.

“The Nye are not now what we once were,” the Eldest said, “but we have some powers. The grace to move swiftly, to walk unseen, to run lightly. Let us show you the power of Valinhall.”

And a blue-white cloud, like a swirl of moonlit smoke, poured from the Eldest’s hood and pooled in the center of the wooden box. Simon started and almost dropped the box in his shock, but he managed to keep his grip. The dark wood of the box was now lit by a cloud of dim blue-white light that darted around like a fish trying to escape a pond.

From either side of him, two other flows of light joined the first, startling Simon as they drifted into view. The other two Nye had joined their power with the Eldest’s, and now it was as though he held a box full of bright, blue-white light.

“Breathe it in, son of Kalman,” the Nye Eldest said softly. “This is the core of what makes the Nye. Our essence.” He sounded out of breath, as though producing the light had taken something from him.

Before he could think too much about it, Simon inhaled. The pale light rose from the box and shot toward his face. He flinched backward instinctively, but the light followed, pouring into his mouth and nostrils, filling his head with icy cold, expanding as it flowed down his throat, into his lungs. His lungs felt like they were filled to bursting with fresh, cold air. Then the feeling dissipated into his flesh, until everything from the depths of his chest to the tips of his fingers felt chilled from the inside out.

He didn’t feel any more powerful, but the cold...surely something was different. The Eldest said something in his soft, rustling language. He said it very slowly for some reason, drawing each hissing word out. Maybe that was how the language was spoken. Simon was about to ask him to translate when the two Nye guards behind him jumped to their feet and attacked. Slowly. Very slowly.

Simon slipped to one side and his body moved as if it weighed nothing, as if it moved at the speed of his thought without bothering with muscles and bone. A chain whipped through the air where his head had been, but he was already gone. The other Nye sent a punch at Simon’s face, and he moved his head a fraction to the right. Again, his body responded almost before he thought about it, and the fist scraped his ear on the way past.

Almost playfully, Simon slipped a foot behind one of the Nye’s and kicked. The cloth man fell on his back, but his partner whipped a noose at Simon’s face. It looked as if the chain was being hurled through deep water instead of empty air.

Simon ducked under the chain and launched himself forward. Before he reached the Nye his sword was out, flowing, flashing with liquid speed. The Nye fell to pieces, then dissolved into shadow. The second scrambled to his feet, but Simon planted a sword straight through his chest and into the floorboards. He, too, fell apart.

It was as though Simon’s body weighed nothing. He swung his sword in a complex pattern that Kai had taught him, and executed it in a fraction of a second. The maneuver was so smooth it was like watching Kai himself.

“Incredible,” Simon breathed. He couldn’t hide his excitement as he turned to the Nye Eldest. “This is incredible. With this, I could have saved my village all by myself. Is this why people are so afraid of Travelers?”

The Eldest chuckled. “This is not the tenth part of what a real Traveler is capable of. Not the hundredth part. But you have begun to discover what separates Valinhall from the other Territories.”

Simon was still wrestling with the scope of a Traveler’s powers—Not the hundredth part?—but he wasn’t sure he had grasped what the Eldest was telling him. “And what is that?” he asked.

“A Traveler of Helgard or Ornheim, or any of the other Territories you humans use, summons things that will help him destroy his enemies. He will call up a vicious beast, or a weapon, or some blast of ice or flame. For the most part, a Valinhall Traveler does not do those things.

You will not summon powers outside of yourself, so that they may defeat your opponents. No. You will summon into yourself the power to win your own battles. That is what separates Valinhall from the other Territories, and the Dragon Army from other Travelers.”

The cold had begun to bleed from Simon’s flesh, and it was as though his bones were made out of stone. He felt heavy and slow. “It’s fading,” he said. The Eldest nodded.

“All powers here are temporary. You can call our speed into yourself, but not permanently. Everything lasts for its time, and then fades. With practice it will last longer, but never forever.”

“So what now?” Simon asked.

“Now? Unless I am wrong, I think you have an appointment with a skeleton.”

Simon smiled and headed for the basement. He kept his sword bared. At last, he was moving forward.

CHAPTER 10:

ANOTHER TEST

The Nye’s essence didn’t make him any more skillful, Simon soon learned: any of the moves he had failed before were still beyond him now. And it didn’t make him stronger. But when its chill seeped into his flesh, he was filled with a speed and grace that more than made up for his other deficiencies. Behind him, in the long blue-lit basement of Valinhall, crumpled heaps of armor and shattered metal marked where twenty-three suits of black armor had fallen before him in a matter of moments.

In one smooth movement, he pulled his sword out of the twenty-fourth armor’s shoulder joint. As the armor collapsed to its knees, it mumbled, “Such a lively dancer...” Then it clattered to the floor. To Simon’s enhanced senses, it looked as if he were sinking through invisible jelly.

Lounging on his dark throne, Benson cackled and clapped his silver hands together with the ring of steel on steel. “Very good, Borus, very good. Don’t worry about them, kid; they’ll pull themselves together later. Now,” the skeleton leaped to his feet, “I think it’s my turn.” He snatched the hat off his head and swept into an elegant bow. “May I have this dance?”

“If you think you can handle it,” Simon said. He found himself grinning. For the first time since he entered the House, he actually looked forward to a fight for its own sake.

Without another word, Benson grabbed one of the huge double-bladed axes from the floor and dashed at Simon. The seven-foot-tall suits of armor had wielded the battle-axe in both hands, but Benson held it easily in one, as if it did not weigh as much as two grown men. He flicked the axe lightly at Simon’s side, but Simon was sure it had enough force to cleave stone.

But it would have to be faster to catch Simon, fueled as he was by the Nye’s essence. He ducked under the strike with a speed and ease that felt impossible, then launched an attack of his own at the skeleton’s ribs.

As he struck, the chill leeched from his flesh. The speed of the Nye left him.

Exhilaration died, replaced by panic. His strike slipped through Benson’s ribcage and bit only air.

“Almost tickled me there,” the skeleton said, and planted a bare steel-boned foot on Simon’s chest. Before Simon could react, Benson kicked, pushing Simon backwards.

No, not pushed. Launched. The kick had such strength behind it that Simon was taken off his feet, hurled backwards halfway across the room. He cleared several piles of now-lifeless black armor and felt his back smack into something cold, smooth, and only slightly more yielding than the stone floor. His skull cracked against a solid surface, and for a moment his world was only darkness and flashing pain.

When his vision cleared he lurched drunkenly to his feet, trying to hold his sword steady. Benson was advancing across the chamber, walking as if in no great hurry towards where Simon stood.

“The one you landed on is a friend of mine,” Benson said. He held his battle-axe lightly against his shoulder, like a woman holding a parasol. He even gave it a little twirl. “He’s always real cranky when he has to pull himself together. When you try again tomorrow, he’ll do his best to give you a good thrashing.”

“Not...tomorrow,” Simon said, trying to pull words from somewhere in his throbbing head. “This is the last time.”

“Maybe when you were zipping around like one of them black robes, sure, you had a shot. But it looks like you’ve run short.”

The essence, Simon thought. He reached out for the power, trying to call it back, but Benson was right in front of him, axe descending like the final judgment of an executioner.

Simon threw himself to the side a half-second away from being split apart.

“You think I’m going to let you call some more, boy?” Benson tried to lever his axe up off of the floor, but it got caught on something, delaying him an instant. In desperation, Simon called the Nye’s essence, straining to pull out a little more speed. His power was far from recovered, but a wisp of essence rose up inside him, like a tiny shard of cloud. It lent him a tiny pulse of speed, maybe enough for a few seconds. Cold infused him, and his step now felt less like stumbling and more like stalking.

“I guess you will,” Simon said, and then he swung his blade.

It was all over but the details. The axe raced through the air in arcs that Simon would never have been able to follow before, but now stood out like they were written in the air. Each strike was dodged or redirected. Benson couldn’t hit him, he was sure, but his own attacks struck sparks when they made contact with Benson’s metal bones. Simon could hit, but he couldn’t inflict any real damage. And his time was running out.

So he slipped aside from one overhand strike and put his open palm over Benson’s face, tucking his own foot behind the skeleton’s. Then he pushed. Benson only stumbled, and would have caught himself, but the great weight of the axe pulled him to the ground.

His fall was deafening, like a rack of spears clashing to a stone floor. His hat rolled across the floor as Simon stood over him, pointing a sword at the skeleton’s steel skull. The Nye essence leeched away, and he scrambled to hold a little inside.

Benson showed his palms in surrender. “Easy, boy, easy. That’s my loss.”

Simon relaxed, letting the power go. He turned and scanned the basement. The armors he had dismantled were already pulling themselves back together and shambling over to their stands. He had tried for weeks to clear the basement, and now that he had done it, he found it satisfying. But not enough.

Not nearly enough.

“Will the door to the library be open now?” Simon asked. He had already begun to walk towards the entrance.

“I’d be very much surprised if it wasn’t,” Benson’s voice said from behind him. “But here, now. You’ve forgotten the most important part.”

Simon turned, wary of a trick, and was almost hit in the head by something the skeleton had tossed at him. He snatched it out of the air and glanced at it: a tiny stoppered glass vial, filled with what looked like quicksilver.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Strength,” Benson said. He had left his hat and axe on the ground, but he lounged on his throne as arrogantly as ever. Both of his eyes glowed with sapphire flame, even in the light of the blue torches. “You think that Nye stuff is fun? That’s the best drink you’ll ever put in your mouth, and you have my word on that. Remember, though: like everything else, it don’t last forever.”

Strength? Would he be able to use a sword with the same kind of power Benson had? That would explain something of how Kai was able to swing around a seven-foot piece of steel like it was a willow switch. At the thought, he felt himself smile. For what seemed like the first time, he had taken a step forward.

“Thanks,” Simon said, and he walked out of the basement. Heading for the library.

He had to find Kai, and as soon as possible. He was wasting time.

***

The library was a round, towering room, filled with books and scrolls of all description. Most of them seemed to deal with other Territories: their essential natures, their strengths and weaknesses, and theories on their purposes and origins. It would be good information to know when he was fighting the Travelers of the kingdom, if he could have taken the time to examine it.

The guardians of the library were made of melted wax, their features soft and half-melted. Roughly man-shaped, the librarians fashioned themselves robes from scraps of paper and stuck them directly to their wax skin. They looked like statues of monks created by a madman out of trash and old candles, except that they lurched about their work with a single-minded intensity. They never spoke above a whisper, and they were constantly shuffling and re-ordering the books in a system that made no sense to Simon.

Of course, they had tried to kill him.

They fought with hands and feet, no weapons, and their strength was almost a match for Benson’s, but the Nye essence and the skeleton’s quicksilver put Simon beyond them. He had looked forward to receiving some other reward for conquering them, only to find out that “Knowledge is the library’s truest reward.” He had sighed and moved on to the forge.

So far, he had yet to recognize any kind of logic in Valinhall’s layout. The garden was nothing but a sky and open plains, but it seemed to be surrounded by indoor rooms. And now the forge was only one door away from the library. Simon wondered briefly how they prevented the books from catching fire, but normal rules obviously didn’t apply here.

Simon was locked in a battle with the guardian of the Valinhall forge—a giant serpent of ash and glowing coals, with orbs of white-hot iron for eyes—when someone else walked in. This was the fifteenth day in a row he had challenged the giant burning snake, and the first time anything had changed.

Cold breath suffused his flesh, and steel ran along his veins, but Simon could barely push the massive snake back. The forge was long and intricate, with obsidian walls and anvils of various sizes stacked next to forge equipment and vats of molten metal. The heat in the room was already enough to singe the skin, and with a fiery snake inches from his flesh...his sword glowed cherry red in the middle and was beginning to bend. Wisps of smoke curled up as the oil burned off the blade, and the serpent pressed harder, sensing weakness. His forearms felt like they were being pressed against a cook-stove, and the hairs on his arms had almost entirely burned away. Keeping the snake back was agony itself, but he knew that letting it through would be far worse.

“I’m sorry,” a polite voice said from behind Simon. “I didn’t realize you would be so busy. I can come back later, if you like.”

Simon was so startled he almost let the snake past his guard. It lunged, but Simon reacted with the speed of the Nye Eldest, sidestepping and thrusting his warped blade through the serpent’s skull.

Simon hopped backwards as the snake writhed in its death throes, orange flames leaping up instead of blood. He leaned his back against the cool obsidian walls and held desperately to the powers inside his body. Only the chill energy flowing through his blood and bones kept him from screaming at the burns.

A stranger stood leaning against one side of the open doorway, arms crossed. He was a tall man in brown and green clothes suited for a long journey, with a brown dirt-spattered cloak tossed over his shoulders. On his left side a sword hung sheathed, its hilt wrapped in red cloth and bearing a golden tassel. Under his arm he held an enormous old book, also bound in red and gold. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and he looked like he could use some rest, but he wore a kind smile.

“Impressive,” the stranger said. “When I was your age, the guardian of the forge was a little old lady who asked me a riddle. They must have traded up. But now we’ll need a new one, I suppose.”

“Ahem,” a second voice said. “That’s not entirely accurate.” Simon glanced over, still more absorbed in his pain than in anything the stranger might say, but he could only see one man standing in the doorway. And his lips weren’t moving. “In point of fact, the forge is one of the few places where the guardian is destroyed upon death. Assignments to this Room have traditionally been decided by a council of the most powerful parties in Valinhall, usually as a sort of prison sentence—”

“Thank you, that’s enough,” the man said. He sounded weary, as well he might; the other voice spoke with the sort of fussy accuracy Simon associated with irritating old men obsessed with history.

“Who’s that talking?” Simon asked. He knew he should ask the man’s name, but his power was fading, and the pain was quickly becoming more than he could bear. It was getting harder and harder to focus.

The man let out a long-suffering sigh. “His name is Hariman; he’s my advisor. Don’t pay attention to a word he says.”

“And, uh, where is he?”

The stranger’s eyebrows rose for a moment, then he laughed and patted his book. There was a face painted in gold on the cover, and Simon watched as it came to life and slid over to the right, eyeing Simon carefully. “You must need medical attention if your eyesight is failing you that bad,” the book said in that fussy voice. “Not to mention the burns.”

Simon leaned his head back against the wall. “A talking book,” he said. “I see.”

The man’s shrug was an audible shuffling of cloth. “At this point, I’m not sure why that surprises you. I’m Denner, by the way. Denner Weeks.”

“Simon, son of Kalman.” Simon cracked an eye. “Are you Dragon Army?”

Denner smiled easily. “Would I be in here if I wasn’t?”

“I am.”

Denner waved that away. “Kai took you in. That makes you one of us, and I’m sure you’ll choose a sword soon enough. There’s plenty available, I’m afraid.”

“Really? I didn’t think...” his cold power faded further, and he was forced to grit his teeth against the rising pain.

Hariman began to speak, but Denner swatted his binding and he sank into a grumbling silence. “Of the thirteen Dragon’s Fangs, only four are active right now. And some are lost. But a few others are waiting for someone to pick them up.”

Simon nodded vaguely. His burns were beginning to feel more distant, as though he was drifting away from his body.

“You could continue educating the boy, which I applaud, or you could keep him alive,” Hariman’s voice said. “It’s up to you, I’d say.”

Denner sighed and Simon felt a hand on his shoulder. Then he didn’t remember anything for a long time.

When Simon’s consciousness returned, he was standing in the open fields of the Valinhall garden, staring blankly at the huge fruit tree in the center. Waking felt like clawing his way up out of a dark void; he hadn’t been sleeping, precisely, but he had not been conscious either. It felt as though he had simply left his body behind for a few hours.

Then sound faded back into focus. Not as if he were suddenly able to hear, but as if sounds that he had been hearing all along had regained meaning.

“...must have been some kind of venom,” Denner said. “Maybe it bit him.”

“Good riddance if it has.” Chaka’s voice. “I still think it’s shock from the burns. He wasn’t man enough to handle them, is all. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

As Simon absently rubbed at the fresh skin on his forearms—newly healed and hairless, so somebody had taken him to the bathroom pool—it finally occurred to him to turn around.

Chaka stood with bladed arms crossed, his yellow eyes focused on Simon and his leather-flap lips set in a disapproving scowl. Denner had had a chance to clean up, it seemed, because his outfit was no longer quite so travel-stained, and he was missing a layer of dirt on his skin. He still carried Hariman, in its red-and-gold binding, under one arm.

“Well,” Chaka said, “looks like he decided to stick with us.”

Denner looked up, surprised, and Simon gave him a sheepish smile. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“Only a few hours,” Denner responded. “We got you in the pool fairly quickly.”

“Shouldn’t have bothered,” Chaka put in. “He’s gotta be tougher than that if he wants to make it here.”

Simon deliberately ignored Chaka, instead turning to Denner. “Thanks. I must have been in trouble if I passed out like that.”

“You were badly burned. It took quite a while even for the pool to heal you. The imps were very excited.”

Simon shuddered, imagining being at the mercy of the water-imps while unconscious. “Thank you,” he said again. “Hopefully I won’t need your help for the next room.”

Denner frowned and turned a bit to Chaka. “Is Makko still the guardian of the courtyard?”

“How should I know? I’m stuck here, right? Not a lot of social time.” Chaka glared rigidly at Denner, who continued waiting for a response. After a moment, Chaka relaxed. “I can’t imagine she’s gone anywhere else, though. She’s a tough one.”

“Then you’ll need at least a good night’s rest, Simon. She may not be as dangerous as some of the others around here, but you don’t want to face her when you’re not sharp.”

Simon hesitated. He hated the idea of wasting any more time when Kai could be moving forward, but even the Nye essence and the liquid steel strength could only go so far. His fingers were trembling slightly and his arms felt like he had been pulling stumps all day. “First thing tomorrow, then. I don’t want to waste any time.”

For some reason, Denner looked uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said. “About that. If you don’t mind me asking, how far along are you?”

Simon stared at him blankly. “With what?”

“What have you earned so far? In the House, I mean.”

With a little hesitation—Denner was a stranger, but on the other hand he was Dragon Army—Simon told him about the black box and the vial. Denner frowned at him.

“A wooden box? I don’t...hold on. That wasn’t from the Nye, was it?”

Feeling like he was stepping into a trap, Simon nodded slowly. Denner gave a low whistle; Chaka let out a choking sound.

“What is it?” Simon asked. “Didn’t the Eldest give you one, too?”

Denner shook his head. “One of the silver vials, sure. We all have to face the skeleton if we want to move forward. But the Nye choose who receives their gift. Perhaps two or three of us, at most, have earned that privilege. Only one that I know of for sure.”

For a moment Simon’s heart swelled with pride that he had been chosen. Just for a moment. Then a thought struck him: if the Eldest had given him something so valuable, that made his bargain more serious. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had made a mistake. But he shook that thought aside; without the Eldest’s help, it would have taken him weeks to clear Benson’s basement. Weeks, at least.

“It’s been a great help to me so far,” Simon said. “Now that I have what I need, I’d hoped Kai would give me my own sword.”

Denner sighed. “It’s not enough, I’m afraid. I have some news for you. Kai made me promise to let you know as soon as I could.”

“What news? Wait. You’ve spoken with Kai? Where is he?”

“I’ve been scouting in Bel Calem for almost six months now. The Overlord Malachi didn’t raid your village for slaves; he’s responsible for this year’s sacrifice.”

A sick feeling began to grow in Simon’s gut. “Sacrifice?” he asked.

Denner looked blankly at him, as though Simon were speaking nonsense. “The sacrifice. It’s Malachi’s year.”

“But what does that mean?”

The book spoke up from underneath Denner’s arm. “I, for one, would be delighted to explain.”

“I’m sure you would,” Denner said, “but let me—”

“Almost three hundred years ago,” Hariman went on, completely ignoring the man carrying him, “the first Queen of Damasca sealed away a destructive force in order to preserve the security of her realm. She was a Traveler of Ragnarus, however, and you know what that means.”

“No,” Simon said. “No, I have no idea what that means.”

“Kai didn’t tell you?” Denner asked. He sounded surprised.

“Kai doesn’t tell me anything,” Simon said. He sounded more bitter than he intended.

“Ah!” Hariman exclaimed. “You don’t know? Well, the Enosh Grandmasters call Ragnarus the Crimson Vault. It’s a Territory exclusive to the Kings and Queens of Damasca—that is to say, only those of the royal bloodline can open its Gates. It holds powerful weapons, but each comes at a cost. In this case, the seal placed by the first Queen of Damasca requires a blood sacrifice every year.”

Simon’s mind raced down the possibilities. Obviously the sacrifice hadn’t taken place yet, or Denner wouldn’t need to warn him about it. But if the King had sealed something away...

“What is King Zakareth trying to keep sealed?” Simon asked.

Hariman responded eagerly. “Ah, now that’s a matter of much debate. The true identity of the destructive force was only a subject of myth until almost fifty years ago, but now I can say with certainty—”

Denner cleared his throat. “Hariman,” he said.

“Oh. Yes,” the book responded. “I can say with certainty that we have no way of knowing. Maybe the Overlords know, but who can say for sure?”

They were leaving something out, but time weighed heavily on Simon. Maybe he’d have time to ask more questions later.

“When?” he asked. “When are they going to be...sacrificed?”

Denner looked distinctly uncomfortable. “The sacrifice ends at midsummer each year, but it begins eight days ahead of time. Nine days, nine sacrifices. And midsummer is in only two weeks.”

Numbers had never been Simon’s greatest friends, but he could do these sums easily enough. Five days until the sacrifices began. And fourteen until they ended.

Not nearly enough time.

He had tried to hurry, but there was only so much he could do. He needed more time. Was Alin ready? Maybe Alin could do it. Maybe Simon wouldn’t have to lift a hand.

No. This time, Simon would do more than sit back and cry. If Alin wanted to save the people of Myria, he would have to catch up.

“I’m going to need one of the Dragon’s Fangs,” Simon said, heading for the door. “How do I use it? Can I take one of the ones from the entry hall?”

“I s’pose you could,” Chaka called, “and I won’t stop you. So long as all you want is a hunk of sharp metal.”

Denner hurried over to Simon’s side. “He’s got a point. It’s like anything else in this House; if you don’t earn it, you don’t get it. You won’t be able to summon the sword if you haven’t earned its respect, and it won’t let you open a Gate.”

Simon kicked open the door to the bathroom harder than was absolutely necessary, but he didn’t slow his pace. Ripples marred the surface of the healing pool as something writhed underneath. “Then how do I do that?”

“You can’t. Not yet. You’re not good enough, and you haven’t spent enough time in the House. If you try, you’ll likely die.”

“Try what, Denner?”

Denner sighed. He did that a lot, Simon noticed. “There’s a graduation ritual. It’s a survival test; if you’re alive at the end of seven nights, you graduate. One of the Fangs is yours. It’s even more brutal than the House; I almost died, during mine. Several of us did.”

Simon threw open the door to the main hallway and strode through, past the rows of bedroom doors, trying to project outward confidence, but inside he hesitated. If it was the final challenge for the Dragon Army, each more qualified than he was, how could he hope to survive?

But he had made his decision when he had walked away from Myria.

“What do I do?” Simon asked. His voice, to his own ears, sounded firm.

Denner hesitated. “Orgrith Cave,” he said at last. “Seven nights in Orgrith Cave.”

CHAPTER 11:

ORGRITH CAVE

Orgrith Cave crouched like a burrowed tick at the southeastern corner of the Latari Forest, corrupting all the nearby land. Simon and Denner were still a good mile out, traveling on foot, when the trees began looking smaller and more shriveled. The grasses blackened and dried up, and the dirt that crunched underneath their feet was more sand than soil.

The land didn’t open up much, though; it was as hard to see here as it had been in the thickest of the Latari forest. Jagged spikes of rock dozens of feet tall stabbed into the ground, like the spears of giants. It looked as though someone had stripped the leaves and branches from thousands of trees, leaving only the trunks, and then turned the whole lot to stone.

Denner stopped at the first of the stone spikes, leaning with one hand on its rough surface. Under his other arm he held the red-and-gold book that was Hariman. “I must leave you here. I’m sorry, but it gets dangerous from here on out, and you should face the dangers of the Cave alone.”

Simon eyed the stone forest warily. “This doesn’t look like a cave.”

“The battle that gave birth to Orgrith Cave was long and terrible. The Cave was where it ended; here is where it began. You’re much safer out here than you will be inside, but there is still danger.”

Denner pointed directly into the rocks. “Keep walking as straight as you can and you should not get lost. In only an hour or two, you will reach the cave entrance. Trust me, you won’t miss it.”

“So I just have to survive for one week’s time?”

“More specifically,” Hariman corrected from underneath Denner’s arm, “you must survive inside the cave itself for a week. This is an important distinction. You can’t stay outside longer than the time it takes you to walk there, and then, after seven nights, to walk back.”

“How will you know?” Simon asked. “If I actually go in or not. I could wait out here until seven nights have passed, and then come back out.”

Denner gave him a sad smile. “Trust me, you’re not the first to think of that. It would be worse for you if you tried, and there are those in Valinhall who have ways of knowing.” Simon shuddered. “I will meet you here seven dawns from now,” Denner continued.

Simon glanced at the sun setting over the older man’s shoulder. Seven nights. Almost unconsciously, he loosened his sword in its sheath. Another undersized replica of a Dragon’s Fang, this sword had come from the Valinhall armory and was the only weapon he was allowed to bring besides a belt knife. Aside from his knife and sword, he carried nothing. He would have to forage for food and water inside the Cave itself.

Denner and Hariman had given him a few tips, so he would not head in completely blind. But they had spent less time preparing him and more time reminding him of his own weakness and inexperience. Which did nothing for his confidence.

“Strictly speaking,” Denner said, frowning, “Kai should be the one to meet you here after you’re done. If I can find him, that is. He’s more elusive than usual, lately.”

“He went deeper into the House,” Simon said. “He said he was trying to force me to clear rooms faster.” He still felt a flash of anger at that, even if he had to admit it had worked.

“Strange. I checked up to the attic and saw no sign of him.” Denner shrugged. “Still, I suppose I could have missed him. Some of those rooms are quite large, after all. And he could have wandered out of the House for a while. At times, Kai can be...well, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” Simon glanced at the sun again. He had perhaps an hour and a half until full dark. “Denner, I have a question for you.”

Denner seemed startled, but he nodded.

“Ten years ago, around this time of year. It was raining at the edge of a forest. Did you save a boy from Travelers?”

Simon hadn’t realized how much he cared about the answer until he felt his heart speed up. It probably wasn’t Denner. There were eleven other people it could be. But Denner did seem to wear brown a lot, and the swordsman who had saved Simon’s life wore a dark cloak that might have been brown…

“Not me,” Denner said slowly. “But I can ask around, if you like. I’m sure one of us will know.”

Simon shook his head. “No, it wasn’t important. I should probably get going. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Denner opened his mouth to reply, but Hariman interrupted him. “Well, of course. It was our pleasure. Do try to survive.”

Simon walked all the way to the Orgrith Cave entrance with his sword out and a sharp eye on his surroundings.

The sun had fallen below the horizon but had not entirely left its light behind when the forest of rock spikes began to thin, revealing the entrance. It was a tall, irregular dome of rock jutting out of the otherwise flat ground around it. The entrance gaped so wide Simon thought half the people of Myria could fit inside, but the dome itself didn’t seem broad enough to cover the grassland in the garden of Valinhall. If that was the extent of Orgrith Cave, then it couldn’t be so bad.

It was a nice thought, though he was forced to admit that it almost certainly extended deep underground. There might still be hope, though; maybe Denner had exaggerated.

He certainly hadn’t mentioned this: the mouth of Orgrith Cave blazed with light, revealing a half-circle of carts and covered wagons almost completely blocking the entrance. Pairs of oxen grazed on the sparse grass outside the wagons. At a distance, Simon could make out a few people running around inside the circle, excited about something. Not enough people to justify that many wagons, it seemed.

He hesitated for a moment, then walked forward, sheathing his sword. He didn’t know what their business was, and they would probably be friendly to one young man alone, especially with so many of them together. If they weren’t...well, he kept his mind on the brink of calling steel. As long as none of the strangers were Travelers, he was sure he could handle them.

As he approached the circle of carts and wagons, Simon saw only three people. A woman, perhaps ten years younger than Simon’s mother, ran frantically from wagon to wagon, peering inside and shouting. Her eyes were wide, her long honey-colored hair mussed, and her simple gray dress disheveled. “Andra?” she called. “Lycus? Come out here this instant! Andra!”

She dashed over to the nearest wagon like it held a fortune in gold. “This isn’t funny, Andra! Please...please stop...” Her shoulders shook silently, and Simon realized she was crying.

His stomach sank.

The other two people in the camp, both men, rolled on the ground by their bonfire, wrestling and straining against one another. One was younger, though judging by the touches of gray in his hair still old enough to be Simon’s father, and the other even older. At least, his hair was entirely silver. The older man sat on the other, holding his arm pinned behind his back. The younger man screamed, and it was a moment before Simon could make out the words.

“LET ME GO! LET ME GO, PLEASE! THEY’RE IN THERE...THEY HAVE TO BE IN THERE! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!”

The picture resolved itself in Simon’s mind: the younger man was trying to crawl to the mouth of the cave, but the older was holding him back.

The older man’s reply was firm, but Simon barely heard it over the other’s screams. “You’ll die, Caius. You’ll only die.”

Simon stepped into the firelight and intentionally scuffed his feet against the dirt. Hopefully the noise would keep them from thinking he was trying to sneak up. He could have spoken, but he didn’t have the words for this situation.

The older man whirled around, pinning Simon with hard gray eyes. He wore a short sword on his left hip, and though he didn’t stand up or release his hold on the other man, there was something in his posture of being ready to draw.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Is there someone in the cave?”

The screaming man stopped shouting and began to weep, sobbing from deep in his chest, but the other paid him no attention.

Gray-hair spoke, in a voice like flat iron. “Who are you? What is your purpose here?” He sounded like Nurita, giving an order and expecting to be obeyed. Simon’s words caught in his throat, and he wasn’t sure what to say.

“They’re my babies,” the woman said from behind him. He turned to face her. Her eyes were bright and feverish, and her face was a mask of tears. “My babies are in there.”

“What are you doing here, boy?” The gray-haired man demanded again. He had risen to his feet, keeping one boot firmly planted on the grieving father’s back. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Speak or be gone.”

Simon looked around, at the weeping mother and the distraught father, at the demanding man with a sword. He never did know what to say at times like this. So he turned and walked straight into the mouth of Orgrith Cave.

As the shadows of the cave swallowed him, he drew his sword.

***

Kai crouched on top of the stone dome that marked the outer barrier of Orgrith Cave, watching the Damascans down below. They scurried around their bonfire like so many moths fluttering over a candle. So much fuss over missing children. But what would he do if one of his precious little ones managed to run off? The thought almost brought him to tears.

He reached down to Otoku, cradled carefully in his left arm. He ran his right fingers down her dark hair, and along the silky red of her dress.

“I would never leave you,” he whispered.

Sometimes I wish you would, she responded, an acid edge to her hazy mental voice.

Kai felt himself smile. She had said something this time; sometimes she would stay silent for days at a time. That was much worse. “I love your spirit and your fire. That is how I know you care.”

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and you’ll get eaten.

“You wound me,” he said, but he knew she didn’t mean it.

No, I mean it, Otoku said.

He pretended not to hear her.

A few minutes passed before Simon arrived. He spoke with the parents—Kai had known he would—and then walked into the cave. Now there was a student Kai could be proud of. Only a handful of days after Kai left him on his own, and he had already earned Benson’s steel and made his way to the Cave. All he had needed was the proper motivation.

Now, if he passed this one more test, he would have fully given himself to Valinhall. And he would be ready to die a man’s death, instead of strolling to his doom like a blind child.

Why can’t you be more like him? Otoku asked. Kai blinked and raised the doll, staring her in the face. For the first time that night, she truly startled him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Look how far he’s willing to go, the doll said. Look at how hard he’s working to save people from the sacrifice. And what have you done about it?

“I’m giving him a chance,” Kai said, still off-balance. Otoku had never questioned him about this decision before. Why now? “I could have left him in the forest. It would have been safer.”

Human sacrifice is a horrible practice, and you should have put a stop to it years ago. You know that’s what Valin wanted, before he...changed his mind.

Kai shuddered. Now, why had she brought up that topic?

“Nine people a year,” Kai whispered. “It could be much worse.”

And how many people have still died? Not just the sacrifices, but all the others they killed to keep it all running. Is it only hundreds?

“Simon has a chance. He’s in this for the right reasons, and I won’t stop him.”

But you’re not going to help him either. The drifting wind behind Otoku’s voice sounded harsh, cold.

“I can’t help him,” Kai pleaded. He couldn’t go on with her so disapproving. She almost sounded as if she preferred Simon over him! “Please. I’m doing what I can.”

A man sighed heavily from behind Kai. “And, if we tried anything, you know Indirial would kill us both.” The voice was instantly familiar.

Kai rose and turned to meet Denner, who was still as rough-looking as ever. He hadn’t shaven, and his clothes looked slept-in. Hariman was tucked underneath Denner’s arm, but he remained uncharacteristically silent.

“I did what you asked,” Denner went on. “He’s a good kid, but he’s not ready for this. We can still pull him out.”

For a moment, Kai considered waiting on the results of the test. Orgrith Cave had been formed in a chaotic battle between Tartarus, Naraka, and Ornheim Travelers, and the caverns shifted form almost constantly. But the Cave was always deadly. Kai didn’t know exactly what Simon would face within, and he could always let the test run its course. Simon might still survive.

Not that Kai would place any heavy bets on it.

“He needs this,” Kai said softly.

Denner sighed again and shook his head.

If you leave him in there, Otoku said, I will tell my sisters. We will never let you sleep again.

Absently, Kai patted the doll’s head. “Don’t worry, little one,” he said. “I will not leave him alone. But he must never know I’m there, or it will cripple him.”

Kai sensed Otoku smile, and it felt like sunlight.

Denner spoke up. “And what about the sacrifice? He’s going to stop it, if he can.”

Kai stared at his old friend from behind his usual veil of hair, whitened years before its time by the powers of the House.

“If you wanted him to fail,” Kai said, in close to his usual singsong tones, “you would have never brought him here.”

Glancing around as if for an answer, Denner finally nodded. And sighed.

***

Simon was almost disappointed. For the first few minutes inside the cave, he kept every sense tuned and his sword in his hand. At every real or imagined scuff of dirt, he swung in one direction or another and froze, waiting for an attack. But inevitably nothing came of it, and he moved on.

The cave led directly into a tunnel, circular and rough-edged, that sloped down into deeper shadows. Once he moved beyond even the faintest light from the cave entrance, Simon began to notice patches of fungus on the walls, glowing softly blue. The deeper he walked, the brighter the fungus grew. Or perhaps he had simply grown used to the light. Either way, it became easier to see.

For perhaps an hour he walked along the tunnel, occasionally following the tunnel’s gentle shifts and turns. He found nothing. No branches, no side passages, no monsters, no missing children. Wearily he sheathed his sword. So far, Orgrith Cave had been somewhat disappointing.

If I can find some water, he thought, I can just sit in this tunnel until time runs out. They never said he had to do anything in the cave, and there was no reason he should risk his life if he didn’t have to.

But what about the kids? He didn’t know the family outside the cave, but anyone would want to find children that had become lost. He wasn’t a monster. He had to at least make a decent effort to find them, but come to think of it he didn’t even know how many children there were. Or if they were in the cave at all.

He probably should have asked.

Simon had decided to continue when he noticed a ripple in the tunnel’s stone floor. It was accompanied by a sound like a rock falling into a still pond.

It was difficult to see anything in the blue half-light of the fungus, but he reasoned that there must have been a puddle of water collecting on the floor. If a puddle, though, what had disturbed it? He crossed the distance in two strides and knelt, running his hand over the stone floor. It was completely dry. Somewhat smooth and bare of dust compared to the rest of the ground, but there was certainly no water.

He rose to his feet, a quiet alarm sounding in his head, and caught a glimpse of another ripple, farther down the tunnel. He started toward it, but immediately there came another, this one a whole pace closer to where he stood. Then another, even closer.

His sword came out of his sheath as the stone rippled inches from his toes. He had a good viewpoint this time: the stone of the tunnel shook like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble. He felt no shaking under his feet, so it wasn’t some strange earthquake, and the stone seemed solid once the ripples passed. What, then?

A few months ago he would have had no idea. It would have frightened him enough that he would have run from the cave, seeking help. Well, running sounded like a good idea now, but his time in the House had at least taught him one thing: if it’s out of the ordinary, it probably means to kill you.

So it was that when the ripples grew quiet, Simon had his sword reversed point-down above the stone. And when a slimy glowing blue creature with fangs longer than his middle finger sprang from the stone, aiming at his face, it swallowed three feet of steel.

The creature was shaped like a cross between a river fish and an eel, with diamond patterns glowing with the same blue phosphorescence as the moss overhead. Its own momentum carried it up the slightly curved sword, until its teeth almost scraped the hilt and the point split its tail nearly in half.

The shock of the impact carried Simon backwards, and he fell onto his tailbone. For a moment he froze, looking into the dying eyes of the eel-fish, which thrashed for only a moment in the throes of death. His heart slammed in his chest for a few minutes, but his first coherent thought was: Oh, good. Dinner.

His second thought was that he should ready himself in case of another attack. So he did, springing to his feet and whipping his sword through the air to clear it of its burden. The corpse slid off easily, releasing a tangy smell halfway between fish guts and copper. Simon scanned the area but, seeing nothing, continued.

He remembered to scoop up the corpse of the creature before continuing.

Evidently he had almost reached the end of the tunnel, because moments later the ground began to flatten out. A few minutes after that, the tunnel opened, and he began to see the true face of Orgrith Cave.

It was, as he had feared, enormous. The cavern roof was so far above him that he would almost believe it scraped the sky. It was as though someone had hollowed out a mountain and dropped him inside it. It was far bigger, in fact, than the dome above the Cave entrance, and that confused him for a moment before he realized that he had to be far below and away from that structure.

The open space stretched farther than he could see; infinitely, as far as he could tell, in any direction but behind him. The tunnel through which he came was the only opening in a miles-long wall, flat and massive.

The cavern roof was supported by hundreds if not thousands of stone columns, seemingly formed naturally rather than carved, and so thick around the base that he didn’t think he and five others his height could encircle them with their arms. At least he could see; the pillars were ringed with spirals of glowing green mushrooms that shed an acid-green light over everything in the cave, in most places much brighter than the light in the tunnel.

Patches of the glowing blue moss were splashed across the ceiling and walls, and in places mushrooms grew big enough to shelter an entire family under their caps. The underbellies of these huge caps, as well, shed an eerie green radiance. From the ceiling and some of the pillars hung chunks of crystal that shone with a violet light. The overall effect of the clashing lights—blue, green, and purple—was eerie and otherworldly. For some reason, it made him feel cold.

There was plenty of light, but some of the things that light revealed churned his stomach. A worm as fat as a cow, seemingly made of strung-together chunks of boulder, slid across the ground, dipping into the floor inside what was presumably a hidden tunnel. A four-armed crab with a shell that reflected the light like a mirror piled some stones up into an irregular pile, at least until it was seized and eaten by another eel-fish leaping up from the floor. It let out a piercing cry as the fanged creature bit into its soft underbelly.

Something scuttled along the far wall, and he heard motion on the wall behind him. He saw nothing, but something sounded like a dog’s claws scrabbling on rock.

This isn’t any worse than the House. It can’t be. Not everything here wants to kill me. Not that everything there did either, now that I think about it. And at least I know how things work there. And at least I could have a clean bed, and regular meals, as long as—

He shook off those thoughts. They wouldn’t be helpful here. Taking a deep breath like he was about to leap into an icy pool, he stepped into the huge cavern.

And none too soon. As he cleared the tunnel, he heard a monstrous scraping behind him, like rock sliding across stone. He flattened himself against the wall to the side of the tunnel wall, waiting. Had the cave itself collapsed? Maybe some kind of rock slide?

Foolish hopes, he knew, but he clung to them as long as he could before he saw the huge rock worm slide out of the tunnel like a maggot through a rotting fruit. It paused for a moment, eerily silent, lifting its boulder-head and waving it into the air, before it continued sliding forward and was lost in the forest of giant columns.

He let out a breath and loosened a white-knuckled grip on his sword. Maybe he should summon the skeleton’s power now, just in case. And maybe the Nye essence too, for good measure. Except he didn’t want to be in the middle of trouble when they ran out. He touched the cold silver power in his mind, resolving to reach for it as soon as he noticed anything else out of the ordinary.

Out of the ordinary like the high-pitched scream that sliced through the sounds of the cave. His first thought was that it must be some kind of death-scream from one of the cave’s monsters, but his mind refused to interpret the sound as anything other than what it was: the terrified cry of a human girl.

Liquid steel surged through his veins before he realized he had decided to check it out. He repeated the process with a deep breath of essence from Valinhall. Then, with icy energy filling him till he felt his skin was ready to burst, he took off. The columns blurred around him as he left them behind, passing the clawed silhouettes of things that probably belonged in nightmares.

He had begun to wonder if he had run too fast and should double back when a scream came again, this time mixed with a terrified sob. It was coming from his left.

He turned to the side as soon as he recognized the direction, but he had never before tried to turn so quickly while moving at his enhanced speed. His own momentum flung him into the air, and he had twisted to get his feet under him when he was dashed against a stone pillar. He landed with his feet against the pillar and kicked off, shooting in the direction of the cries. The air tore against the corners of his eyes till his vision was clouded by tears, and he couldn’t get a full breath of air.

At this speed he couldn’t see details, and he didn’t have time to think. As soon as he saw a splash of color—a yellow light, he thought, next to something red—pressed back against the wall by a monstrous gray shape, he simply reacted. He swept his blade down in an arc, felt it bite something and pass through, then he was past, hurtling towards the floor.

It was even harder getting his feet under him this time, but he managed to do so, slamming to the floor in a hard crouch. Only the steel running through him, strengthening his muscles, his bones, kept him from crushing himself on the rocks. Only the spirit of the Nye gave him the reaction to land, the grace to keep from rolling head-over-heels into the wall.

As it was, his landing used up the last of Benson’s steel, though his essence lingered. Weakness gripped his muscles, and his sword felt ten pounds heavier. He looked up from his crouch, hoping desperately that he had not been too late.

Two children—a boy and a girl—cowered against the wall, holding a flickering lantern between them. The splotches of red he had seen were the girl’s skirt and the boy’s jacket; not blood, he was relieved to see. A skeletal monstrosity loomed over them, something like a praying mantis but covered in rock-plated armor.

It stood there for a moment as though it was about to crash down on them, impaling them on its forearms. Then its head slid slowly off its body and drifted to the floor.

Simon released the Nye essence, letting it flow back into his Territory. The world resumed normal speed, and the head slammed to the floor as if it weighed five hundred pounds. The rest of the body crumbled after.

A trembling ran through Simon’s body after the power left him. He shook with relief and with delayed fear, as if he had run blindfolded along the edge of a cliff and only afterwards realized the danger. His breath came in shallow gasps, and he shuddered. One lapse in judgment and he might have crushed himself against the cave wall.

The children’s screams faded uncertainly to whimpers. As one, their heads turned to take in Simon, crouched a handful of paces away with his sword still bare. He must have scared them. They looked like they were trying to decide whether or not to run.

“Don’t worry, I’m here to help you.” Now that he got a closer look at them, they were clearly brother and sister. They each had the same dark skin and light hair, a combination that until now he had only seen on Alin.

“That was amazing,” the girl said. She was perhaps twelve years old and over a foot taller than her brother, so Simon took her for the older, even though the boy stood protectively in front of her. His jaw still sat half-open, and Simon wasn’t sure if he looked more awed or terrified.

Something else skittered in the darkness, and the girl held the lantern out. A segmented insect claw pulled back from the light into the shadows.

“Could you light that lantern again, if you had to?” Simon asked. She nodded. “Then put it out. Follow me; both of you hang on to my shirt.”

Obediently, the girl blew out the light in the lantern and grabbed onto his right sleeve. Her presence would be a nuisance if he had to fight, but any move he made with the sword would shake her off, so he decided to say nothing.

Experimentally, he reached out with his mind to the Nye essence. Nothing yet. He knew from experience that it would take a minute or two for the moonlit mist to begin replacing itself, and a little longer for the steel. He would be completely vulnerable for the next few minutes, and wouldn’t be back to full power for almost half an hour afterwards.

He set off at first for the entrance tunnel, hushing the children if either of them tried to say anything. Not that they did speak very often. The dim lighting and the scuttling shapes in the shadows tended to strangle conversation.

As soon as the entrance tunnel came into view, Simon realized he was going to have to re-think his plan. One of the huge boulder-worms lay coiled up around the entrance, plates of its rocky armor shattered and cracked, exposing pale flesh. Dozens of the luminescent eel-fish he had seen earlier leapt from ripples in the stone, crawling all over the gargantuan corpse, tearing away chunks of meat.

Most of the body was piled up at the entrance of the tunnel, but the tip of the tail was out of view. As Simon watched, something tugged the giant worm back up the tunnel. He couldn’t get a glimpse of whatever was pulling on the boulder-worm’s tail, but it had to have been huge to shift the monster’s massive bulk. The fanged eels continued to feed.

One of the children made a sort of gasping sound behind him, as though they wanted to cry but were afraid to make more noise. Simon could relate; terror hovered around him, not touching him yet, but making its presence known. He was trapped in this cave. Trapped.

Simon turned and looked into the faces of the two children. No matter what happened to him, he needed to get them out.

They walked in silence until they had left the noises of feeding monsters far behind, returning to the spot where he had killed the huge mantis creature. There was a crack in the wall nearby, highlighted by glowing blue moss, that might be big enough to shelter all of them. Maybe. They needed a place to rest and talk, and they wouldn’t get it out here in the dark.

Simon eyed the entrance to the shelter for a moment. From here shadows shrouded the entrance; there was no way to tell how deep it was, or what waited inside. He summoned strength from Valinhall and ventured sword-first inside, hoping he could fight well enough in a crouch to keep him alive.

It was empty. Though not nearly high enough for him to stand upright, at least the space was a pace or two deep, and more than wide enough for the three of them to squeeze in and seal the entrance.

The last of the silver flowing through his veins was enough to let him fell one of the giant mushrooms in a single swipe. He severed the cap and pulled it over to the wall, sealing all three of them inside and providing light at the same time. It was like a giant glowing door.

When they were seated, the girl pulled a tinderbox from her pocket to light her lantern. The mushroom door was more than bright enough, but there was something eerie about the spectral blue cave-light. Still, practical considerations had to come first.

“Hold on,” Simon said. “We should save the lamp oil. Let’s not light the lantern until we need it.”

“No problem,” the girl said. Then she looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for his next order. Simon shifted, uncomfortable. He had rarely spent time with children back in the village. Alin, he knew, would have said something comforting and taken care of the problem himself.

“My name is Simon,” he said. He used the soothing voice he had used on his mother when she might take off running or attack him with a frying pan. “Don’t worry; I’m here to help.”

“I know,” the girl declared. “I bet Mother and Father sent you down here. I’m right, aren’t I?” Her eyes twinkled as if she were ready to tell a joke, or hear one.

Her younger brother breathed, “I’ve never seen anybody move so fast. Are you an Overlord?”

The girl hit him. “The Overlords wouldn’t come down here looking for us. They’re too busy.”

The boy glared at her. “They could. You don’t know.”

Simon raised his hands to quiet them. He felt a flash of irritation at being taken for one of the Overlords, but it was quickly suppressed. They were just children. “I’m not an Overlord.” He couldn’t quite keep a sneer out of that last word. “What are your names?”

The girl rose up to her knees and mimicked a curtsy, smirking like she was playing a prank. “I am the Lady Andra Agnos, at your service. Thirteen years old. This is my younger brother, Lycus. He has a mere ten years.”

“Are you really a lady?” Simon asked uncertainly. He had heard stories of the nobility, but he had no idea how he was supposed to behave around them. Did Damasca even have lords and ladies?

“Don’t you think I look the part?” She swirled her red wool skirt the way women back in the village would show off holiday dresses. The effect was marred somewhat by the fact that she was kneeling on the floor of a cave.

Lycus glared at his sister. “We are not noble. Our father is a free merchant for Malachi.”

Andra giggled. “But you believed it, didn’t you?”

Simon looked from one to the other, trying to figure out something that had been bothering him for a while. “You two don’t seem very frightened, trapped down here by yourselves. Your parents were convinced you were dead.”

A shadow passed over the faces of both siblings. Andra’s smile twisted so that she looked like she might cry, and Lycus stared at the stone wall as if at his own corpse.

“It’s almost been a whole day,” Andra whispered. “Mother and Father were gone. I thought they would never know. Lycus came to bring me out...one of those fish would have gotten me, if not for him.”

“We got lost. I thought we were going to be in here forever,” Lycus said. But he brightened and turned a wide-eyed gaze on Simon. “Then you came! That monster was nothing for you.”

Andra nodded agreement, her smile back in place. Simon’s stomach twisted. Denner had been very clear that he wasn’t ready for this trial, but Simon had insisted. What if he wasn’t ready?

That’s a coward’s thought, he reminded himself. I have to do something. I’m the only one here who can. But he had to be honest.

“I can’t leave the cave for six nights after this one. But I can bring you to the entrance, if we can make it past all the monsters. I’m not sure I can kill them all.”

Andra grinned, as if at a joke. “Do what you did before. It worked well enough for that big bug out there.” She slapped a hand against their mushroom-cap door.

“But what if it doesn’t work?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized what he sounded like. Fool. You’re asking a thirteen-year-old girl what to do?

He coughed to cover his embarrassment and continued on. “I mean, it might not be good enough. That’s what I meant to say. I thought you should know. But I’ll do everything I can, I promise you that.”

They beamed at him, and he had to repress a surge of doubt. What if these kids got killed? It would be his fault. His only consolation was that if they died, he probably wouldn’t live to see it.

Not surprisingly, the thought didn’t comfort him much.

CHAPTER 12:

ESCAPE

After a few more minutes of rest, Simon led the Agnos children out of their little cave. Unaided, he could never have pushed aside the giant mushroom cap, but after a draft of steel strength he pushed it back with one hand.

They almost didn’t get any farther.

The carnivorous eels had been drawn to the fresh corpse of the mantis-monster outside, leaping up out of ripples in the stone to tear its rocky plates off and feast on the flesh beneath. When Simon stepped outside, he disturbed their feeding, sending all the fanged creatures into a frenzy. They dove at him, scales rippling with spectral blue light, flashing teeth the size of his fingers.

If he hadn’t already summoned steel, they would have torn him to shreds in seconds. Lacking the reflexes from the Nye essence, the only thing he could rely on was raw strength. So that was what he did.

The first fanged horror was inches from his face before he managed to swat it from the air with his palm, but the impact launched it into the distance as if it had been hurled by a catapult. He kicked another as it left the ripples in the stone, snapping its spine in half, and caught a third by the tail. Then he swung that fish like a flexible club, smacking the rest out of the air before they became a danger.

He was falling into a rhythm when he heard the beginnings of a scream behind him, and he whirled without conscious thought. A ripple headed straight towards Lycus’ feet. He had pushed his sister behind him and now stood between her and the still-submerged creature. His eyes were wide with terror.

Simon had no time to think of a better plan, so he did the first thing that came to mind: he brought his arm back, then swept the fish in his hand down like a hammer. It was stunned but still alive, thrashing weakly in his hand, but he ignored it.

The fish in the stone, expecting to take its prey by surprise, jumped from the ripple in front of Lycus. Its fanged face had cleared the rock when Simon’s weapon crashed into it.

The scales of both fish cracked, sending dark blood splattering across Simon’s face. One of the squirming creatures even let out a weak scream, eerie and shrill. But in seconds both fish were dead, one of them still half-sunk in solid stone.

Simon dropped the eel-thing and wiped his face with a trembling hand. He had not been nearly careful enough. What if these fish had sensed them before he had moved the door? He shuddered; the three of them had sat on the ground. All three humans would have been shredded to pieces before they could react.

The kids were entirely unharmed and, if anything, looked even more impressed with Simon than before. He kept all expression off his face, but inwardly he trembled. That had been entirely too close. He tried to tell himself to relax, but he was only too aware how near his actions had come to costing lives.

As they walked to the entrance tunnel, Simon kept his sword sheathed. Instead, he kept himself on the brink of summoning his powers. If he so much as sensed a motion in the shadows, he was going to call both of them before he even looked twice. That should have been his policy before he ever set foot in Orgrith Cave, but he had been too shortsighted to plan ahead.

That was one mistake he wouldn’t make again.

Finally, they approached a spot Simon recognized as near the entrance. He signaled Lycus and Andra to remain quiet and stay against the wall, then drew on a draught of both the Nye essence and metallic strength. Cool power rushed through his veins, ran along his bones. Everything around him slowed, until it seemed that everyone else moved through thick honey.

He was as ready as he could be. Simon crept forward hesitantly; though, in his accelerated state, he was probably moving at almost his normal running speed. He spotted the tail end of the giant worm they had earlier seen devoured. Though messy—its shell was torn open at several points, its blood splattered on the rocks all around—it appeared to have been abandoned. At least, he saw none of the fish that swam through rock.

That was a relief; maybe the tunnel would be unguarded as well. He pulled his sword out and looked into the tunnel entrance.

It was twice as wide as it had been, and a totally different shape: a horizontal oval where it once had been circular.

Did something make it wider, Simon thought, or does the entrance change shape? If so, the tunnel out may be more dangerous now than it had been when he entered. This may not even be the tunnel out any longer; the passage could now lead to a stone wall. Or a nest of unspeakable monsters.

Simon shook himself. This was no Territory, where normal physical laws held no sway. Tunnels through rock did not simply shift for no reason. Obviously something had happened here to widen the entrance. Maybe this was more evidence of whatever hidden monster had tugged the rock worm’s corpse. That was a disturbing enough idea; anything that could drag that enormous corpse and take huge gouges out of stone would probably tear through him like a flimsy cloth.

With that cheery thought in his head, Simon called as loud as he dared, “Lycus. Andra. Come on out.”

They peeked their heads around the softly glowing trunk of a giant mushroom, saw he was alone, and hurried over to him.

“Is this the way out?” Lycus whispered.

I hope so, Simon thought, but all he said was, “Yes. Follow me.”

“Can’t be worse than in here,” Andra said with a soft laugh, as she fell in line behind him. Simon wished he agreed.

***

The tunnel out this time was rougher than Simon remembered, gouges seemingly carved in the floor and tunnel. It was darker, too, since much of the glowing blue moss had been scraped away, so they had to step carefully to avoid putting a foot in shadowed gorges.

Simon’s unease grew with every step they took. Whatever had happened in this tunnel during the few hours since he had come in, it was violent and recent. Instincts born in Valinhall screamed at him that something was about to jump out from the dark. He kept his sword in one hand, holding the Nye mist inside him for as long as possible. Even aside from the edge it would give him if they were attacked, he found that he liked feeling quick and powerful. It helped counteract the all-too-reasonable fear of something lurking in the shadows.

After perhaps half an hour of creeping along, stopping every few paces to listen, Simon whirled around at a scream from Andra. He angled his sword to stab, reaching out to Valinhall for Nye essence.

Andra doubled over laughing. True, she kept her voice down so it didn’t quite echo in the stone corridor, but Simon still didn’t think it was appropriate. Lycus looked as Simon himself must: shocked, disbelieving, still half-ready to respond to a threat. To the boy’s credit, he had lunged forward to try and help his sister at the first sign of danger.

“Your faces,” Andra managed to get out, at little above a whisper. “Oh, seven stones.” She dissolved into giggles.

“You think this is funny?” Simon said. He hoped it was too dark for them to see his face flushing. Lycus growled and turned away from her, evidently in disgust.

Andra folded her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good.” Her apology was spoiled somewhat by a few lingering giggles.

A sharp grinding noise, like rock scraping across rock, echoed down the tunnel. It seemed to be coming from just ahead of them.

“Is that the wagons?” Lycus asked. He sounded more hopeful than convinced.

“I don’t think so,” Simon said. He wished he had a little more light. As it was, if—well, when—he had to fight something else, he would have very little warning. “We should be getting close to the entrance by now, though,” he said.

Neither of the children said anything, but the longing looks on their faces made him hope desperately that he was right.

As they continued to walk, the grinding noise repeated itself periodically, growing steadily louder as they approached the source of the noise. A feeling gnawed at Simon, telling him that something was different now than when he had come down the tunnel the first time. At first he thought it was the lack of light—surely they would see the light from the entrance soon—but after a while it dawned on him. The tunnel was sloping down.

He took a glance back down the tunnel. The light was too dim for him to see far, but he hadn’t been mistaken. It was obviously a downward slope, not a way out. Had he made some kind of mistake? No, there were no other side passages he could have accidentally taken. This was the only way out. Maybe the tunnel had changed after all, but did it still lead outside?

The Agnos siblings were pushing one another as they walked, Andra with a smirk on her face, Lycus with a serious scowl. He couldn’t tell them; they would only worry. Besides, what would they do when they found themselves in the same main chamber as before? He hadn’t seen any other ways out. So forward was as good a direction as any.

Simon tightened his grip on his sword until his fingers ached. He would get these children out of here if it killed him. He would.

Then the tunnel opened up to another chamber, and he found out what had been making that grinding noise.

This chamber, as much as he could make it out in the shadows, was shaped like an enormous ball. They stood in an entrance about halfway up one wall. In the bowl beneath them, huge rockworms lay tangled like mating snakes. Thousands of them, twisting and twining together. The pile was mostly still, though occasionally one shifted slowly, producing the grinding noise Simon had heard earlier. Asleep? Or did these things naturally move that slowly?

The bottom of the chamber was so intimidating that Simon almost didn’t notice something else: the chamber held none of that luminous moss. It was bathed in a soft blue-white light, but a paler shade than he had seen so far.

It took him a few seconds to recognize the light of the moon, pouring in from a crack high in the opposite wall.

Simon’s breath caught. It was a way out. Maybe for all of them; the crack looked big enough that they might be able to pass, if they could make it all the way there. It was across the room from those rockworms. And even if it hadn’t been, he wasn’t at all sure he could make it up the sides.

Then again...he stuck his head out of the corridor and took a closer look at the walls around him. The stone was rough and knobby, not perfect for climbing, but similar to the rocky bluffs around Myria. Those weren’t too hard to climb. And the wall underneath the moonlit crack seemed a bit flatter than the rest of the cavern. It could be an illusion of shadows and soft light, true, but he had his prizes from the House. Maybe, with enhanced strength and reflexes, he could make it.

If the hole was big enough to let him through. If he could get through the rockworms without waking them. If the land outside was any safer than what they found in here. Far too many ifs.

The children, understandably, kept shooting anxious glances at him. He put a finger to his lips and gestured for them to back up into the tunnel. If enough of those rockworms woke, they were dead for sure. It wasn’t worth the risk. There had to be another way out of here.

With one eye on the brother and sister and one on the writhing mass of giant worms, Simon almost didn’t hear the distant call, drifting to them on the gentle air of the cave. A woman’s voice.

“Lycus! Andra! Andra, please...” It was so faint, he almost couldn’t understand. Almost.

The way the children stiffened showed Simon that they had heard as well as he had. They stared at him with wide eyes and gestured frantically, as though he didn’t understand what they wanted.

Silently, Simon cursed whatever twisted fate had brought them their mother’s voice. No hope of safely turning back now; they would balk at every step. How had the woman’s voice reached this far? He would have called it impossible.

Still, it proved one thing: that hole up in the wall did lead to the outside. And probably to safety, if they could make it soon.

Simon leaned his face down between the brother and sister. He spoke in a voice that shouldn’t have been audible even from inches away. “We’re going to try and climb out through that hole, but that means we have to cross the floor.” He pointed with his sword.

Andra choked back a nervous laugh, holding a hand to her mouth. Lycus trembled as if he had asked the boy to stack his own funeral pyre, but his face was as hard as a child could make it. He nodded, as if granting permission.

“I can only take you one at a time,” Simon continued. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to finish two trips, but then again he wasn’t sure he could finish one. “You have to be quiet. If those things wake up...” They nodded vigorously. At least he wouldn’t have to explain that.

The trouble began when he asked who wanted to go first.

“Take him,” Andra whispered. “He’s younger.” Lycus shook his head firmly, face fit for a magistrate passing sentence. Silently, he nudged his sister forward, but she stepped back. They gestured silently to each other, clearly arguing.

Simon sighed. Quietly. “Whoever goes first has the best chance. And whoever’s second has to wait here alone until I get back.”

Andra nodded. “Right. So it should be Lycus.” Lycus shook his head and gestured toward his sister.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

Simon hoped the shadows hid his surprise. He had been sure they were holding back because of fear, but...were they each trying to give the other a better chance? That was impressive and admirable, but he still had to decide who to take.

Simon’s father would have taken the girl first. Kalman had been a chivalrous man, and he would expect any son of his to do whatever it took to bring a woman out of danger. But Simon’s mother had been of a more practical bent, at least when sane. She would say to leave the one who would hold their head best alone, male or female. In this case, Simon thought his mother had a better point.

Simon locked eyes with Andra. “Will you be all right alone?”

Her answering smirk had a bit of the gallows in it, but the look in her eyes made her seem five years older than Simon, not three younger. “I was doing fine before you got here, wasn’t I?” she said.

That wasn’t how Simon recalled it, but he shrugged and scooped up Lycus, tossing him over his left shoulder.

The boy struggled, whispering his protests, but at least he didn’t scream.

“Stay low,” Simon told Andra. “Don’t make any noise. I’ll come back for you.” If I can, he added silently.

Simon peered over the ledge. A patch of bare rock rested between a pair of giant worms, twenty feet below. Icy silver crept into his veins as he called on the vial of steel; his lungs filled with the cool rush of Nye essence.

And he stepped off the ledge.

Filled with essence, Simon felt time slow to cool honey. It seemed to take ten seconds to reach the cavern floor, not less than one. When his feet touched rock, he kept his knees bent, absorbing the impact. It hit him with shivering force, like he was being pressed with a great weight. But the liquid steel hardened his muscles, supported his bones. His legs held.

His slowed vision registered a ring of dust blasted away from him by his impact. In his view, it drifted away on a gentle breeze.

So far so good. Simon kicked forward, leaping over prone figures, sliding past, keeping one hand on his shoulder to lock Lycus in place. It must be incredibly uncomfortable for him, tossed and jostled about like a sack on a galloping horse, but Simon tried to move as smoothly as possible. Slowing too much might kill them both.

Once Simon had to squeeze between two rockworms, edging along sideways, inches from one of the worm’s giant face. It was sleeping; he knew that now. Its broad face held a wide, craggy mouth, like a horizontal canyon, and its eyelids were rounded plates of granite. It looked as though someone had hewn a rough frog’s face out of solid rock.

As Simon slid past, silent and quick as a breath of wind, Lycus let out a grunt. That was all. As uncomfortable as it surely was on Simon’s shoulder, it was a wonder he hadn’t made more noise than that, but one grunt was all it took.

The worm’s granite eyes slid open, revealing eyes of burning blue.

Simon was out of the rockworm’s vision, vaulting over another sleeping figure with legs powered by Benson’s liquid steel. Still, as he kept running, Simon caught a glimpse of the awakened worm raising its head, twisting it this way and that as it searched for whatever had startled it awake.

The far wall loomed over Simon, that one blessed hole leaking a shaft of light. The wall was smoother than most of the rest of the chamber, though what little curve it did have actually made the climb easier. He threw himself at the side, both feet and one hand clutching at handholds, one keeping Lycus firmly attached.

Without his Traveler’s gifts from Valinhall, he would never have made it. He would have needed both hands and both feet to climb a face like this even without a boy on his shoulder, and with Lycus there he would never be able to bear the weight. As it was, it almost felt like flying.

Simon hurled himself upwards, feet and hand touching the wall only to seize protrusions and push up again and again. Every time he kicked off, he threw himself another five or six feet up the wall, the grace of the Nye keeping him from overbalancing and tipping over backwards. Or else cracking his forehead open on the wall.

It had been hard to tell from across the chamber, but the hole itself could hardly have been in a worse position. Instead of in front of him, moonlight spilled from almost above him, as the wall began to curve into the ceiling. Simon stopped on a ledge, gathering his strength, coiling his legs and arms, building the strength of the steel vial inside his blood.

“Hold on,” Simon said. He didn’t bother to keep his voice low. Lycus murmured something back, but Simon didn’t listen; he launched himself upward, straight at the hole.

Though time moved slowly to him, the roof of the cavern approached with terrible speed. The hole rushed forward to meet him, but he had miscalculated. He was going to miss the center of the hole by two or three feet, slamming into the side of the hole like a melon dropped from a tall tree. At this speed he would crush both himself and Lycus to death on the roof of the cavern, leaving only their lifeless corpses to feed the worms.

Panic and terror surged through him, and his limbs acted almost without his permission. With a speed that blurred even the edges of his Nye-enhanced vision, his hands shot out and seized the edge of the hole. In the bare, shaved second before he smashed into the rock, his arms flexed. Liquid steel and Nye’s breath blazed in him, a thousand pinpricks of cold that burned his flesh like winter’s own dagger. And with a mighty heave powered by everything he could draw from Valinhall, he pulled himself toward the hole and through. With an inch to spare, they emerged into the night instead of crashing into the ceiling.

The moon was so bright compared to the dim moss-lit cave that it almost burned his eyes, but he slid on his belly onto a surface of dusty rock. From Simon’s back, Lycus leaned forward and vomited back into the hole. Some of it struck the rock and splattered onto Simon’s trousers, but at the moment he wouldn’t have cared if the boy had spewed all over his face. They were alive. And they were outside. The wind on Simon’s face felt like a mother’s embrace.

Simon let out a breath that flared briefly with light as the Nye’s essence leaked out of him. His body felt almost uncomfortably warm and heavy as his twin powers faded, leaving him panting. And trembling. Another fraction of a second...

Lycus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. Shame made his voice very small.

It took Simon a moment to figure out what the boy was apologizing for. If he could have spoken, he would have told Lycus not to worry about it; no sensible person should have been able to control their stomach in that situation. But Simon was trembling too much to say anything.

Part of it was the reaction from losing both strength and reflexes at the same time, and so suddenly. Part of it was. But the rest...he had come close to dying tonight. Perhaps as close as he ever had, though he still wasn’t sure how he had survived his first few nights in the House.

He told himself to get up, but his body lay there and trembled. Long seconds passed before he could pull himself to his feet and look around.

They were standing on a dome of smooth, featureless rock, bare and gray under the light of the moon.

It seemed that they were standing on top of the dome that Simon had seen over the entrance. The positioning didn’t seem right—he had expected to break out at ground level—but he pushed that thought aside. The layout of the cave clearly shifted, so this much shouldn’t be too surprising. The hole from which they had emerged was the only break in the stone he could see. The dome rose higher and out of sight on one side, on the other sloping gently down until it met the ground.

And there, around the curving corner of the stone, firelight played on the rocky ground. Simon distrusted it immediately. The fires could indicate another trap as easily as safety. Or maybe—Simon’s stomach twisted as he considered it, but life in the House had trained him to doubt everything—maybe the Andros family wagons were burning. They would have to approach carefully, that was certain. They couldn’t take any foolish actions until they were sure.

Then Simon caught sight of Lycus picking his way down the rocks, towards the fire. He lurched forward with a cry, intending to grab the boy back before he exposed himself to danger.

“It’s Mother!” Lycus exclaimed, before Simon could snatch his arm. With a glad shout, Lycus rushed down the side of the slope. And a person stepped half into view, a figure in skirts with long, flowing hair. With the fire behind her, all other detail was washed out into a black silhouette, and for a moment Simon had the panicked thought that she was a creature of shadows imitating Lycus’ mother.

Then she let out a shriek of pure emotion and ran, stumbling and tripping on her skirts, as desperate to reach Lycus as he was to reach her. They collided and collapsed into one another, each seemingly trying to out-weep the other.

Huh. So maybe it wasn’t a shadow-beast pretending to be their mother in order to lure them into danger.

Simon could remember a time, not so long ago, when that wouldn’t have been his first explanation.

Simon couldn’t hear the conversation over the wind and distance, but a female voice said something that sounded like a question, and Lycus gestured up the slope, where Simon surely stood out against the backdrop of the night sky. Lycus’ mother looked up.

Though he couldn’t make out the woman’s face in the shadows, Simon dodged her glance, ducking back toward the hole. He couldn’t face questions about her daughter, not until he got Andra out of there.

But when he stared down into the cave entrance again, he froze. Wind whistled over the lips of rock, not quite drowning out the grinding of living rock far below. The darkness looked infinite.

Remembered terror shook his limbs. The power of the steel skeleton fortified him some, but it would only go so far. What if he couldn’t catch himself in time, and smashed into rock? Worse, what if more of those worms were awake? He had an uncomfortably clear vision of being pulled apart by stone jaws, blood and raw meat splashing on the cave walls...

Simon’s time ran out. A girl’s scream echoed up from the cave, cutting over the shrieks of the wind. Cool breath and liquid steel flowed into Simon, flooding him with the power of a Territory. His gifts were weaker than usual, only half-returned and not at full strength. But it didn’t matter; he was going back in.

Hesitation gone, Simon dropped into the hole.

Maybe he would die, but Andra wouldn’t. Not if he could help it.

CHAPTER 13:

THE CHAINS OF VALINHALL

Once again, only Simon’s enhanced reflexes kept him from dashing himself against rock with lethal speed, but he managed to weave his way through the nest of rockworms without any of them waking.

When he got closer, he saw Andra. She was curled up on the promontory of rock above the worms, arms wrapped around herself to protect her vitals. A deafening clash of noise sounded from the passage behind her: a wave of snarling, slashing, screaming that meant two creatures were fighting. Like dogs, fighting over a scrap of meat.

Simon leaped up, landing next to the yellow-haired girl in an all-but-soundless crouch. Her lantern lay in shards next to her right hand, pieces of glass scattered over a spreading pool of oil and blood. Simon’s breath caught as he saw the blood, but it didn’t look serious; her arm was sliced open almost halfway to the elbow, but the cuts looked shallow. It seemed that she had swung the lantern to defend herself.

Simon reached out to check her pulse, but she flinched and made a choking sound, curling tighter. He exhaled in relief; at least she was alive and conscious.

An inhuman scream sounded from the tunnel and Simon looked up. He could only see the bare hint of movement in the blue-tinged shadows, but it was clear that some monstrous thing was locked in combat. As he watched, a claw spun lazily through the air towards them, trailing blood. It landed on the rock outcropping and spun to a halt next to Simon. The creature screamed again. Simon thought he saw something flash in the tunnel.

It was past time to be gone.

“Okay, Andra. Get up.” She curled tighter; Simon shook her. “Andra, it’s me. Your mother’s outside. Lycus is with her.”

That roused her. She shook herself and stared at Simon as if trying to decide whether he was really there.

Something stumbled out of the tunnel. It looked like a cousin to the mantis-thing Simon had killed earlier, all insectile grace and overlapping stony plates. One of its claws was missing, and it oozed ichor.

Andra screamed, and Simon decided it was time to go. He scooped her up and jumped off the ledge, down into the bowl below.

The Nye essence and liquid strength were fading away, but there was enough of each left that he had no trouble landing on the rough, sloped stone surface. He would have to make it out before his powers left him entirely.

Still carrying Andra, Simon leaped over the body of the nearest worm, clearing it in a single bound. No problem so far, and if he hurried, he should be able to get Andra through the hole in the roof before his powers faded again.

Simon landed on the other side of the sleeping worm. And stared straight into burning eyes.

Somehow the rockworm’s stony face registered surprise. The granite eyelids widened, and its flap of a mouth opened and closed soundlessly. For a second, Simon was too stunned to move. Some part of him wondered whether, if he kept his gaze still enough, the worm might stay where it was.

Trying to maintain eye contact, Simon edged slowly to one side. Maybe he could sneak around the thing, get far enough away to escape while it was confused. He slid another step.

In his arms, Andra let out a shuddering little squeak of fear.

The worm’s searing blue eyes, each the size of Simon’s two hands together, flicked down to Andra, then back up to Simon. They flared bright, and the rockworm tossed its head back, letting out a cry halfway between a lion’s roar and a trumpet call.

The nest of giant, tangled worms began to writhe. Glowing eyes lifted above the mass as dozens of other rockworms woke. From the distant corners of the cave, more deafening cries answered the first.

Simon tried very hard not to scream and run.

The closest rockworm plunged its head at Simon, mouth gaping wide. It was filled with teeth like sharp chips of obsidian. Simon ducked out of the way, shifting Andra under his left arm as he did so. He should have been faster than that; with the Nye essence in him, it should have looked like the worm was striking through cool honey. He scrambled to hold the glowing essence in him, but it was like trying to hold steam in his fingertips. It was sliding away from him, no matter what he did. And he thought he could feel Andra growing heavier by the second; the quicksilver strength must be draining as well.

Simon turned and ran for the exit. Andra screamed something from under his arm, but the noise of the worms around him was far too loud. He ignored her; if he didn’t make it out of the cave before his powers faded, they were both dead. But running through a room full of giant sleeping rockworms was one thing, and doing it when they were all awake and thirsty for blood was something else entirely.

A flick of a boulder-sized tail clipped his shoulder, and he stumbled forward in between three enormous heads. They snapped at him with mouths big enough to consume his ribs in a single bite. He managed to stab one in the eye and dodge the second, but the third got a mouthful of Andra’s hair. She screamed as the worm pulled her by the hair, dragging her out of Simon’s grip. Simon lunged for her, but the worm he’d wounded went into a frenzy. Maddened with pain and anger, it flailed about, slamming into Simon with its body and bringing its teeth down on Simon’s leg.

It was like someone had wrapped his leg in a blanket of rusty nails and then squeezed tight. Pain flashed, white and hot, and he screamed. The worm shook its head like a dog shaking a rabbit, and the rusty blades sliced through skin and muscle.

Somewhere inside, Simon realized that he was about to die. He and Andra were both about to be eaten. He had never experienced the sheer surge of primal, instinctive terror that thought inspired in him. When he had thought Kai or Chaka was about to kill him, at least he would have died clean; one thrust through the heart, followed by whatever came next. This would be neither clean nor merciful, torn apart by monsters under the earth.

And Simon refused to allow it to happen. He reached for strength, reached deeper than he ever had before. He stretched his mind out to Valinhall, to the steel skeleton in the depths of the blue-lit basement.

Time slowed. The ring of steel on steel drowned out all other sounds: the sound of Benson clapping.

“Not bad, boy,” the skeleton said. “I’m game. Now let’s see what you can do.”

Icy cold flowed into Simon’s veins, not in a smooth trickle, but in a raging torrent that seemed to freeze him from the inside out. It did nothing to soothe the pain, but Simon found that almost didn’t matter.

He let his sword fall, grabbing the rockworm’s jaws in both hands. Then he pried his leg out with raw strength.

The worm tried to fight, but it felt like a temperamental dog instead of a rampaging monster. Simon hopped away from its head—careful to avoid landing on his injured leg—and scooped up his sword. One of the other rockworms struck at him, but he drove his sword so deeply that it must have pierced the brain; the creature simply shuddered and went limp down its whole length, the light in its remaining eye fading. Glowing blue fluid leaked down Simon’s blade. The injured worm struck again, and Simon drove his sword up, under the thing’s chin, in between its head and body where the armor was weak.

Simon felt the blade shatter, even as gallons of stinking blood poured down from the wound. He let the sword go and glanced around for Andra. The Nye essence had faded, but it didn’t matter to Simon. With this much power rolling through him, he felt invincible.

He was almost surprised to see Andra alive, struggling at the worm that still held her hair. It had curled around her lightly, eyeing others of its kind who got too close. Apparently it didn’t want to share its meal.

Simon tore the sheath off his belt with his left hand and used it as a cane, hobbling closer to the worm.

Andra spotted him and screamed for help. The rockworm holding her saw him at the same time and roared, lunging. Simon felt a surge of relief; at least he wouldn’t have to walk all the way over there.

Simon felt the power of the cold steel flowing through him, and he grabbed the striking worm in both hands.

Even with more strength than he had ever imagined, Simon could feel the weight and power of the monstrous worm. It bore down on him, inexorable, and nothing he could do could directly oppose its weight or break its rocky armored plates.

But with a surge of cold power and a heave of his shoulders, Simon tossed it to one side.

The crash as the monster hit the cave floor was deafening, and a cloud of dust rolled up where the body struck. Andra hurried over to him through the dust, looking stunned.

Simon tried to smile at her. She shoved him towards the opening above. “Go!” she shouted. “Let’s go!”

It was an excruciating exercise in torture walking over to the wall, and the periodic strikes from the rockworms didn’t help. Without the Nye essence, he opposed the creatures with only main strength and his bare hands. His leg felt as if it had been dipped in oil and set aflame.

The climb up the wall was actually easier than walking. He only needed three limbs for the climb, and with the extra strength he thought he made the trip in less time than he had with Lycus.

Andra’s whole family was waiting when they emerged from the cave.

Simon popped up from the hole, pushing Andra ahead of him and then sliding up after her onto solid rock. The children’s father had to scramble out of the way to make room, but Simon didn’t much care.

The Agnos family fell into one another, weeping and clutching each other desperately. The children cried, but they were almost drowned out by their father’s sobs. Their mother kept up a stream of soothing whispers, and tears glistened on her cheeks.

It wasn’t the kind of scene Simon wanted to watch. This was a private moment; he had no wish to intrude. Andra and Lycus’ mother shot him a glowing look over her daughter’s head and mouthed ‘thank you.’ He gave her a sort of jerky nod and looked away, cheeks heating.

A hand extended into his view. He followed it up to the iron-haired man he had seen earlier. His face was largely covered in shadows, but Simon thought it looked softer than before. Simon took his hand, and the older man pulled him to his feet. Well, to his foot. His left leg blazed when he tested his weight on it, so he was forced to lean entirely on his right.

As soon as he stood, the world spun around him. His head felt light, and he eyed his own leg. The cuts were shallow, but they burned, and he suspected he may have lost too much blood.

The other man’s eyes widened. “Caius! Olissa!” Lycus and Andra’s parents looked up. “He needs help. We should carry him to the wagons.”

“I,” Simon said, “I’ll...have to...back.”

Simon tried to tell them he would be fine, that he had to go back, but his head spun again, and he flopped into their waiting arms. If he missed his first night in the cave, Kai would never let him pass the trial. Simon kept up his protests until Olissa cut his pants leg away and started wrapping his wounds. White pain shot up his body, running along his bones, and on top of the blood loss and exhaustion it was too much.

A comfortable warmth surrounded him as he sunk down into sleep.

***

Distant whispers slid into Simon, banishing dreams. It almost felt like he could make out the words, but recognition slipped away.

Another voice joined the whispers. “He’s been a good boy,” it sang. “We should give him what he needs.”

More whispers, softer this time.

“I could not agree more.” The quality of the second voice changed, becoming more amused. “Wake up, little mouse. I know you can hear me. Wake up.”

Abruptly Simon recognized Kai’s voice, and it acted on him like a spark in a pile of dried leaves. He burst awake, springing up and clawing desperately for a sword. He found none, so he clenched his hands into fists, determined to die with blood on his hands. His eyes never stopped moving, seeking for the threat.

He found nothing.

Simon stood inside what was seemingly a canvas-covered wagon, probably one of those with the Agnos family caravan. The wagon rumbled beneath him, and he heard oxen lowing outside—the wagon was moving. Wooden crates took up most of the wagon’s interior, blocking much of the wagon from his view. An oil lantern sat inside one of the crates, cushioned in sawdust, but it was unlit; the only light came from starlight filtered through the canvas roof.

Someone had spread blankets across three crates and laid him on top. He stood on them now in a fighting crouch.

He faced Kai, who sat at his ease on another stack of crates. His smile was amused, though as usual Simon couldn’t see the swordsman’s eyes behind white bangs. Azura remained in the House, but Kai cradled a blond doll in a powder-blue dress under his left arm.

“What a jumpy little mouse he is,” Kai murmured. “Almost like he had a reason to fear.”

“What are you doing here?” Simon asked. He couldn’t seem to get his heart to slow down, like his body expected danger and wanted to be ready.

Kai held up a clay jug and shook it. It made no noise. “The leg was quite nicely minced. Much longer and you would have never danced another reel.”

Come to think of it, Simon’s leg hadn’t collapsed when he jumped to his feet. Experimentally, he flexed his left knee. Someone had untied the bandages, but there was no pain. The leg ached a little, maybe felt a little tight, but it didn’t hurt. It felt clean.

“From the pool?” Simon asked. He was still having trouble coming to terms with Kai actually being there.

“The water weakens every second it’s away from the House. By the time I got here, it was barely enough. Now you can get back to work.”

Simon hopped down from the blanket-covered crates, hope surging. Maybe Kai would let him try again. “I lost my sword in the Cave. Should I go back in unarmed?”

Kai’s head tilted slightly, curiously. “Call steel, little one.”

“What?”

“The liquid steel the skeleton brews. Call it to you.”

“Oh, right.” Simon focused on an image of the liquid metal in the glass vial, locking it in his mind. As usual, he reached into Valinhall for more.

The power flooded into him, far greater than the usual trickle. His muscles tightened until they felt banded with cold iron, and his bones seemed replaced with solid ice. It had only come this strongly once before, when he pulled Andra from the cavern.

The soft light in the wagon wasn’t much, but he could see well enough to make out details that had been invisible to him in the cave: a light gray design wrapped around his forearms from wrist to elbow, twisting into a clearly recognizable image. Chains. Like chains had been tied around both his arms and then removed, leaving only their shadows behind.

He stared at his chain-marked arm in horror. What had happened to him? He had never seen the chains before, but he could feel them, cold and hard against his skin, as if he wore actual bonds of steel. Though they looked like harmless gray tattoos, he could see them moving, crawling up his arms. They were past his elbows now. Maybe Kai had done this to him while he was asleep?

Kai nodded slowly. “The marks on your skin show that you have drawn deeply enough,” he said. “They prove your bond to the House.”

Hesitation crept out through Simon’s voice. “So...I passed?”

A sound blew on the wind, like whispered laughter. Kai chuckled along with it. “Oh no, you failed. I don’t think anyone has failed any faster. But success was not the point of this exercise. It was only a test to force you into a position in which you had no choice but to rely fully on your new powers.”

“What are you saying?” Simon asked.

Instead of answering, Kai reached into the air, never taking his eyes—or his face, at least, since his eyes were still covered by white hair—from Simon. Space shimmered in a long line, and Azura stretched out from Kai’s fist, gleaming. It stretched almost half the length of the wagon.

Kai pushed Azura’s hilt toward Simon. “Take it.”

Hesitantly, Simon did so. The hilt was wrapped in black cloth, but tightly enough that he knew it would never slip. As he had suspected, its length made it awkward; even the slightest shift in his grip made the end swerve toward the wagon’s canvas.

“Too heavy?” Kai asked.

It wasn’t. The cool power running through his veins mocked weight so trivial; he might as well have been carrying a stalk of wheat. Simon hefted it up and down experimentally, careful not to cut anything.

This is amazing, Simon thought. How had his life changed so much in no more than a few weeks? His chest tightened abruptly with the realization, the overwhelming feeling, that his world wasn’t ever going to be the same.

Plus, now he had a huge sword. His eight-year-old self would have been delighted.

“That’s one of the purposes of this trial,” Kai continued. “To make sure you’re physically strong enough for one of the Dragon’s Fangs. But there’s one more purpose, too.”

Simon’s eyes snapped up from the end of the sword to Kai. He didn’t want to look too eager, but it sounded like Kai was about to hand him another miracle.

“Reach deeply,” Kai said, “as you did before. Only this time, picture the entry hall. Call out to it, like you did to Benson for steel.”

Simon reached, stretching out, straining, drawing on the power of Valinhall. Nothing happened.

He opened his mouth to say so, but his master cut him off. “Now move the tip of the sword down, through the air. As if you are tearing a curtain hanging from the wagon’s roof, but much slower.”

Simon did so slowly, carefully, feeling a little foolish. He held the vision of the entry—with its mirrors, wooden sword racks, and soft red couches—tightly in his mind.

The tip of the sword moved through the air about an inch before Simon felt the faintest resistance, as if the sword had reached the edge of an invisible sheet of parchment. Simon drew the sword down a little at a time, slicing through...something, as he did.

Following Azura’s descent, the world tore open, revealing wood-paneled walls, empty sword racks, and gilt-framed mirrors. As though the image of the wagon had been printed on a curtain, and Valinhall rested behind.

When Simon brought the tip of the sword down to rest on the wooden planks of the wagon bed, wood-scented wind blew from the ragged oval Gate in the air. On an impulse, Simon stuck his arm through, into the entry hall. The air on the other side felt noticeably cooler.

He pulled his arm back out and grinned over at Kai, thrilled with the sense of power. But Kai wasn’t smiling anymore. Kai drew the backs of his fingertips slowly down the doll’s blond hair. With a look as though he were watching his sister die, Kai set the doll down on the crate next to him.

Then he stood up and walked over to Simon, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Kai never made any sort of friendly gesture, so this one caught Simon off guard. For a moment, he wondered if it meant he had done something wrong.

“Azura is yours,” Kai said. “Treat her well.”

Simon blinked at him as though he were speaking another language. “There are a bunch of swords without an owner, right? I thought I was going to get one of those.”

Kai shook his head. “If we could hand them out as we wished, much of my life would have been simpler. But if we do, they will be no more than steel for you. The House has chosen, and we must respect its choice. If you tried to use a different blade, you’d never be able to open a Gate, nor would you enjoy its...other benefits.”

Simon waited for a moment, but Kai said no more. After a handful of awkward seconds, Simon ventured, “So you want me to ask about the other benefits?”

Kai muttered to himself, then sighed. “You know, little mouse, you...never mind. You’ve seen already that members of the Army have their own bedroom with its own number. Mine is number seven. Azura is the seventh Dragon’s Fang forged by the Wanderer, so only Azura’s bond can open that room. The seventh bedroom is yours now, along with everything in it.”

If Simon’s jaw wasn’t hanging open, it was only because he was too stunned to do more than freeze. The sword he had just received was probably worth more than his whole house in the village had been, and ordinarily he would have been too shocked to even accept. But he had expected to earn one of the thirteen Fangs, if not Azura, so that hadn’t come as much of a surprise. The bedroom was something else entirely. It was twice as big as his house, and a thousand times better appointed. Even sleeping on the floor next to the bed for a few months had been more comfort than Simon had ever expected. To have the whole room to himself was beyond imagining.

Weakly, Simon said, “But it’s bigger than my whole house.” It was the closest he could come to a protest.

One corner of Kai’s mouth twitched up, and it looked like he was about to laugh. “Not anymore.” He nodded towards the open Gate. “Now your House is much bigger.”

To his shame, Simon almost choked up. Somehow the otherworldly powers of a Traveler didn’t seem as great a gift as somewhere to stay.

“I’ve got other business to see to,” Kai said, “and so do you. So listen close, little mouse, and perhaps you won’t get eaten up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First, each of the swords comes with an advisor. Someone to guide you, to teach you, to help you in battle. You met Hariman, didn’t you?”

It took Simon a second to recognize the name of Denner’s talking book. He nodded.

“And, of course, you’ve seen mine.” He gestured to the doll lying on the crate, and sadness passed over his face again. “My lovely little ones. I will miss them so. They’re so much better than...”

His voice trailed off. Simon glanced back at the doll, remembering all those haunting whispers at odd times. Maybe those had been, as he had once suspected, the dolls communicating with Kai. Giving him advice?

Kai still might be insane. He had to keep reminding himself of that.

“Now,” Kai said, “a warning.” He held up the back of his hand, and it took Simon a second to recognize the mark on the back of Kai’s hand: a single link of chain, written in shadow.

“I keep my chains under control,” Kai said. “The more you use your powers—and the deeper you draw on Valinhall—the more the chains will grow. The longer you resist, the more the chains shrink. Right now they will grow quickly, and they will vanish quickly. This will not always be the case.”

Kai’s voice got quiet, and he stared at the back of his hand. “Do not let the chains cover your body,” he said.

“What? Why?” Simon asked, shaken. The chains were already up past his elbows; how much longer did he have? “What will happen if they do?”

“Incarnation,” Kai responded. “Later you should ask the dolls—we are running out of time.”

Simon glanced nervously down at his arms.

“One final thing,” Kai said, and his voice was strong again. “The children you saved. You know they are Damascan?”

Simon shrugged, uncomfortable. “It’s not so rare. Back home, we all thought Leah’s father must be Damascan, because her eyes were blue. And Alin’s family was supposed to have a touch of it, way back.”

“I do not accuse you, little mouse. You did a good thing. But this family has at least one soldier with them.”

Simon thought of the man with the iron-gray hair. He nodded.

“One soldier, and enough wagons to supply many more,” Kai said. “Why do five people need four wagons? And since you fell asleep, the wagons have been moving. Back toward Myria. Why would they be doing that, I wonder?”

Simon could think of no response. He had felt safe sleeping here, but now he wondered if he was in hostile country after all.

Kai walked through the Gate, still talking. “Troubling questions. I suggest you leave as soon as you can. Nothing good can come of staying here.”

“I’ll be going to Bel Calem,” Simon said. “I’ve got to get everyone out.”

“You’ve slept a long time, boy,” Kai responded. “Nine days left until midsummer. Tomorrow, the sacrifices will begin.”

The Gate was closing now, reversing the direction in which Simon had carved it. The hole slid over Kai’s feet, his shins, steadily closing him inside the House.

“Master, you won’t have your sword anymore. Won’t you need one?”

Kai cocked his head. “Azura has always belonged to another. I was only borrowing her for a pleasant while. But now,” his face turned grim, “now I have to get my sword back.”

The opening was only about as big as a window now, and through it Simon saw the older man turn on his heel and walk deeper into Valinhall. Without looking back, Kai waved one hand in the air, a gesture of farewell.

And the Gate winked shut.

***

The old man’s name was Boez, and he screamed her name as Malachi’s soldiers dragged him away. He reached out a hand, at the last instant, as though he expected her to save him.

Leah turned her face away, tasting bile.

“Don’t tell me you’ve developed a tender stomach now, of all times,” Malachi said. He himself sat across from her, the folding table between them covered in a neat white tablecloth. Breakfast sat before them: sliced bread, tea, a selection of local fruits. Malachi speared a fig on a small two-tined fork, lifting it to his mouth and chewing with obvious pleasure.

Boez’s scream, muffled by the wall between them, made her stomach twist again.

“I find that the wails of the damned make a poor appetizer,” Leah replied. Her plate was clean, and as far as she was concerned it would remain that way.

Malachi smoothed a lock of silver-streaked hair over his ear, examining the effect in the back of a spoon. He was a vain man, of the sort Leah had never been able to stand. He always wore one or another of his colors, though rarely both at the same time, since ‘Purple and brown go together worse than fire and salt.’ Those were his exact words, and Naraka take her if she had any idea what they meant. He was wearing brown today, though she more often saw him in purple.

“I had thought you would be accustomed to such accompaniment,” he said. He never took his eyes off his own reflection. “You have lived your life in the presence of the King himself. And we have both tasted the fruits of Ragnarus, have we not?”

Leah fixed him with her coolest stare and arched one eyebrow. “You presume to know the nature of my experience?”

Malachi grunted a laugh and took a sip of tea. A sound like weeping drifted through the walls. “Hardly. But I can’t help but wonder if your recent experience has softened you, even after a lifetime of training.”

She kept her eyes fixed and expressionless, but inside she winced. He was right, as far as it went; she found it almost impossible to retain the necessary distance from the sacrifices when they had fed her and treated her as family for the past year. And she knew they still thought of her as one of them, despite everything.

Deliberately Leah reached for a piece of bread and tore off a corner. “If you are so concerned about my breakfast habits,” she said, “then I will put you at ease.”

She stared at him in challenge as she ate, and caught a flash of irritation that he was too slow to hide. He obviously considered her presence here a burden, as though the King was directly interfering in his affairs. Well, that was too bad.

Her latest orders from the capital, passed through her Territory of Ragnarus, had been explicit: stay where you are and wait. The Elysian will come to you.

He hadn’t done so thus far, but her father seemed not to care.

“So tell me again about this Elysian Traveler,” Malachi said. “Your age, is he? A villager?

Rather than speak through a mouthful of breakfast, Leah nodded.

“And why do you expect him to come here?”

Leah swallowed and took a sip of tea before answering. The tea was actually quite good. “Based on what I know of him, and what I’ve heard from Enosh, he has an inflated opinion of his own abilities. And he blames you, personally, for what happened in Myria.”

Malachi made a sound like “tsk” and rolled his eyes. “That again. Collecting the sacrifice is usually such a simple affair. Easier than collecting taxes, to tell you the truth. I was hoping Yakir would be able to keep Cormac in line. I’m almost glad he’s dead, but he was my only Endross.”

“Regardless,” Leah went on, “he blames you, not Cormac.”

“So he’s going to challenge me on his own,” Malachi said. Unexpectedly, he smiled. “I like it. Shows spirit. Charge right in and fight, face to face. None of this dancing around and maneuvering business.”

“He’s a fool,” Leah said. The sad thing was, Alin would probably see matters in much the same way. By all accounts, he had taken this hero business far too closely to heart.

Malachi relaxed and popped a fruit in his mouth, leaning back in his chair as he did so. “I don’t mind fools,” he said. “We should all have a little bit more foolishness in our lives. Don’t you agree?”

Leah stared at him a moment before collecting herself. She couldn’t help it. For a moment there, as he relaxed, he had seemed almost...competent. Even dangerous. Like a real Overlord. She had always heard rumors that Malachi’s wife was the one who kept his realm running smoothly, and in the few weeks she had spent in Bel Calem, she had seen Adrienne prove her worth far more often than her husband. But perhaps there was something in Malachi beneath the surface.

Boez screamed again.

“The sacrifices I have witnessed were not usually so...vocal,” Leah said. It was a lie; she had never been allowed to witness a sacrifice. But she had always pictured them as quick, like a clean decapitation or an efficient hanging.

Malachi’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? This is only my second round of sacrifices, but they’re all drawn-out affairs. Then again, perhaps the others are different.”

“Perhaps they are,” Leah said. Best to keep her statements as neutral as possible, so Malachi would assume she knew more than she did.

“Or maybe the Tree is hungry today,” Malachi said idly.

And, while Leah’s thoughts were elsewhere, her mouth betrayed her.

“Tree?” she asked.

Malachi froze for a moment, studying her. She realized her mistake immediately, and responded with the speed of a well-trained liar. “Oh, of course,” she said, as though she had realized something. “The Tree. That must be what you call it. In Ragnarus, we use different terms.”

Whatever this Tree was, it obviously had something to do with the sacrifice, and the sacrifice was a function of Ragnarus. She just wasn’t sure how. In any case, Malachi should now assume that she had misunderstood him for some secret and mystical reason known only to the royal family. He would likely drop the topic.

“Maybe we should inspect it together, then,” Malachi suggested. His voice was altogether too light; he suspected something.

Leah laid her fork down calmly across her plate. “Whatever for?”

He shrugged. “If the sacrifice is taking too long, perhaps there is something wrong with the Tree itself. I’m no expert, but it has seemed...restless, for quite some years now. I would certainly not wish to risk the sacrifice on my own ignorance, and a Ragnarus Traveler such as yourself may be able to give me some expert advice.”

Leah made a show of brushing her hands and mouth off with a towel while the servants took breakfast away. What could she say? He was obviously trying to prod her, get her to reveal some weakness. She couldn’t back out now. And all she would have to do is take a quick look and say that everything seemed in order. He would never be able to tell.

“Very well,” Leah said. “Lead on.”

After all, what could go wrong?

CHAPTER 14:

THE WRONG PLACE

Simon stared into the space where Kai’s portal had been for a long minute. Excitement warred with fear and nerves inside him, and his stomach churned. The only thing he wanted to do was bring the captive Myrians home, but he wasn’t such a fool that he thought there wouldn’t be some resistance. But how could he challenge Malachi? An Overlord had years of experience as a Traveler behind him, not Simon’s few weeks. And that didn’t even count his legions of soldiers, throngs of loyal supporters, and resources Simon likely couldn’t even understand.

On the other hand, in about eight more days, people he had known all his life would be dead. He hadn’t especially liked any of them except Leah, but they were his own people. Practically family. And you didn’t have to like your family to protect them.

At that moment, the steel in his blood ran out. Azura felt as if it weighed as much as a blacksmith’s anvil, and the hilt wrenched itself out of his hand. As soon as the sword left his fingertips, it vanished.

Kai had been able to let the sword go whenever he wanted without it vanishing; there must be some trick. Hopefully he would learn that with time. More importantly, his head swam, and his vision was so blurry he could make out very little besides a smear of color. He dropped back onto one of the crates.

The chains on his arms didn’t vanish, but they started to retreat. He could feel them crawling down his shoulders like steel-scaled serpents.

Was the light-headedness related to the chains in some way? Or was this what happened when he released the liquid metal power too quickly? He had always felt less when he lost his enhanced abilities, but he had assumed that was what it felt like when you went from being a superhuman Traveler to a young man with too-thin arms. Maybe there was some kind of aftereffect, like with his mother’s stronger powders? Or maybe he was just tired.

“Kai could tell me,” Simon mumbled thickly. It was a measure of his disorientation that he spoke to himself; he had always hated it when others did that. “If he was here.”

Well, he’s not, came a woman’s voice. And good riddance. The voice was soft, as though coming down a long tunnel, and overlaid with a sound like wind whispering through trees.

Simon’s first thought was to turn to see who had spoken, but he wasn’t being honest with himself. He knew who it was.

He met the painted wooden eyes of the doll across from him. “Are you speaking to me?”

No answer.

The dizziness had mostly passed, so he hauled himself over to the doll’s crate and picked her up in one hand. She was even lighter than she looked, her light blue dress woven of finer and softer material than anything his mother had ever owned.

“If you’re talking to me, talk,” Simon said to the doll. She gazed at him out of a wooden face. “What’s your name?” Nothing. “Aren’t you my advisor? Advise me!”

He had gotten more conversation out of tree roots.

Roughly he shook the doll in his hand. “Answer me!”

Olissa, naturally, picked exactly that moment to check on him. She froze halfway inside the wagon, holding the canvas flap over her head with one hand. There he was, holding a little girl’s doll in one hand, standing over it, screaming. A rush of heat set his face aflame. He stammered something, trying to come up with a reasonable-sounding explanation, but evidently the fact that he was standing up outweighed his obvious insanity in Olissa’s mind. She moved the rest of the way into the wagon, her face firm.

“You shouldn’t be up on your leg so soon,” she said. “It needs a chance to heal.”

“Um, no ma’am, thank you,” Simon responded. “It’s better now. See?” He stepped from behind one of the crates so that she would have a clear view of his previously-injured leg.

Her brow furrowed as she looked. The rockworm’s teeth had shredded his pants leg into tatters, most of which had to be removed before they could put bandages on him in the first place. As a result, his left pants leg ended above the knee.

From her distance, Olissa should have been able to make out the lack of blood, even in the dim light. But she frowned and moved closer.

“Put the leg up,” she said, motioning to one side. Simon did as he was told and put his right foot on a crate. As though she couldn’t believe her eyes, Olissa reached out and poked his leg with a finger. Nothing happened, and she gasped, sharply raising her head to look him in the face.

It occurred to Simon for the first time that Andra and Lycus’ mother was a more-than-pretty woman. Her honey-colored hair spilled in waves down her back, and she stared at him with wide eyes of pale green.

If it was possible, the realization made him even less comfortable. She was old enough to be his mother—if she had looked older, maybe put on a few dozen more pounds, he would have had no problem. But as it was, all he saw was a pretty woman, and that weighed down his tongue.

“Uh,” he said. “I healed it. It was...I mean, it’s healed.”

Awkwardly he pulled his leg from the crate and, to give his hands something to do, began brushing off his pants.

“Amazing,” Olissa breathed. “The children told me, but I wasn’t sure...You must be a Traveler. Asphodel?”

Simon stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out the word. Asphodel had to be the name of another Territory. One connected with healing, maybe?

“No,” he said. He should say something else, but nothing came to mind.

She leaned forward. “Did you come here for us? Do you work for the Overlord?”

Simon let out a short laugh before he could stop himself. “I mean, no, I don’t work for Malachi. I’m just—”

Something she had said jumped out at him, and he stopped mid-sentence. “What do you mean, did I come here for you? Why would the Overlord be sending you a Traveler?”

Olissa shifted her eyes uneasily and opened her mouth as if about to respond, but she was interrupted by the sound of hooves on hard-packed dirt. It sounded like many horses, not just one.

For the first time, Simon realized the wagon wasn’t moving. “We’re stopped,” he said. “Where are we?”

She smiled and gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “You slept a long time. We’ve stopped at the northwestern edge of the Latari Forest. Don’t worry, we’ve put that...Cave...” she shuddered, “far behind us.”

Northwest of Latari? That would put them close to Myria. Simon opened his mouth to ask what they were doing there, but a voice from outside called Olissa’s name. She apologized quickly and hurried out of the wagon, pulling the flap shut behind her.

He should probably leave. Whoever was riding into camp, odds were good that they were Damascan, and there wasn’t anything good that could come of mixing with a crowd of strange Damascans. He couldn’t escape by Traveling through Valinhall, he knew that; the Gate opened wherever you had last made it. But he could be out the back of the wagon and into the night before anyone knew he was missing. It would probably be the smart thing, in case the Damascans somehow learned he was from Myria.

On the other hand, how would they know him? His skin and hair were too dark for a real Damascan, but they would only think of him as the strange villager boy who had saved two children. Now that he thought of it, the fact that he had rescued Andra and Lycus would probably weigh the scales heavily in his favor. And there was nothing that marked him out as from Myria rather than from a hundred other towns and villages in the realm. He should be safe.

Besides, what if these riders weren’t friendly to the Agnos family? His presence could mean the difference between repelling the attackers and the four of them being robbed, captured, or killed.

His stomach rumbled, and that decided the matter. He wasn’t going to get any food in here.

He started toward the flap, but something made him hesitate. He turned his gaze back, staring at the doll in the powder-blue dress.

Black painted eyes stared him straight in the face. He was sure that when he sat her down, she had faced a different direction.

With a reluctant sigh, he walked back and picked up the doll. He didn’t want to walk out in front of a bunch of strangers carrying a girl’s wooden doll, but he couldn’t risk leaving her behind. No matter how much the idea appealed to him.

As he crept outside, he thought the doll’s face now looked a bit smug.

Caius and Olissa, their children gathered before them, stood at the very edge of a ring of firelight. Someone had built a bonfire as soon as the wagons had stopped, and it was beginning to blaze up. In the darkness beyond the fire’s reach, Simon caught glimpses of a column of men on horseback. Only one had moved close enough for Simon to make out details: an old man, maybe sixty or seventy, with a wrinkled face that looked like it had dried into an eternal frown.

The man with the iron-gray hair stepped into Simon’s view, standing between the Agnos family and the riders. To Simon’s surprise, the lead rider saluted, hand to chest.

“Captain Erastes, sir,” said the old man on the horse.

“Ansher,” Erastes responded. “Come on down. You can make your report after we eat.”

So the man with the iron-gray hair—Erastes—was a captain in the Damascan army. He had always looked like a soldier, but knowing his identity for certain somehow made him twice as frightening. Sure, a human soldier wasn’t anything compared to a carnivorous serpent of living rock, but in Myria, Damascan soldiers had been the stuff of legend. They were the unending, faceless extensions of Zakareth’s will. If Erastes decided Simon looked suspicious, he could have the full might of the Damascan nation behind him.

Ansher shook his head and stayed on his horse. “I’d advise against it, sir. There’s something in the trees.” He gestured to the edge of the forest, about fifty paces away, where shadows flickered back and forth. “Nobody’s seen anything clear, but...I get reports. We’re all on edge. Even the captives.”

Erastes nodded and cast a glance into the shadows. Even though Simon could only see the back of his head, he got a sense that the man was alert, ready for action.

“Then we had best get moving,” Erastes said. “Bring in the captives; we’ll load them up on the wagons and leave this place. Once we’re on the road, I’d like to speak with you, Ansher. We’ve had an eventful evening.” His voice turned dry at the last sentence, and Simon was sure the captain was talking about him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. If a Damascan captain had taken a closer interest in Simon, then he should have left long since.

Simon slipped into the shadows between wagons and drew lightly on the Nye’s essence. Not enough to slow his perception of time, he breathed in enough for an extra edge of reflex and coordination that let him move both quickly and silently. His footfalls fell so lightly on the sandy dirt that he doubted anyone would have heard him ten feet away.

Sneaking away, in total silence and under cover of darkness, would be easy as picking fruit. He had even begun when a shout from out beyond the wagons snapped him short. It was a man’s voice, strangled and desperate. Simon couldn’t quite make out the words, if words there were, but it sounded like he was pleading.

Simon knew that voice.

Without thinking about it, Simon called steel. Cold ice in his veins joined the cool breath of the Nye, and in one smooth motion he leapt onto the top of a wagon. He was careful to land on one of the broad wooden supports, not on the canvas; no matter how strong or swift he was, he didn’t want to risk dropping his full weight on a loose stretch of fabric.

From this vantage point he could make out the Damascan soldiers much more clearly. There were maybe seventy-five of them, about fifteen of whom were on horseback. The rest walked behind in neat ranks. And behind them, stretching off in a line easily as long as the rest of the column, stumbled the captives.

They were all held on one long rope, with both their hands bound and tied on to the main line. They wore loose clothes of brown and tan, desert colors, with worn shoes or sandals and little more than a stretch of rope for belts. The same clothes Simon wore, that he had worn all his life. One of the men, larger than most in the line, crouched on his knees, holding his arms above his head defensively. A soldier standing over him beat him with a long stick, yelling something Simon couldn’t catch.

The man on the ground yelled again, pathetically. Simon recognized that voice: Chaim, son of Moseth, as far as Simon knew the only one of the Mayor’s advisors to survive the Damascan attack. His daughter, Orlina, had been one of Cormac’s victims.

Simon almost lost his balance, and had to steady himself before he fell off the wagon. Now that he was looking for them, he recognized other faces from the village. Why? What were the people of Myria doing all the way out here?

Olissa had told him that the wagons were moving toward Myria, but Simon hadn’t thought much about it. Had Kai known something of this?

Was Damasca attacking the village again?

Chaim, in the middle of taking a beating from a Damascan soldier, had already lost his daughter. He didn’t deserve this. It was up to Simon to do something, but what was he supposed to do? If the Damascans had another Traveler with them, Simon wasn’t sure what he could do about it. If they summoned a monster, sure, he could fight it. But what would happen if someone hurled lightning at him? Or called fire down on his head? He would burn and die, he supposed. And even if they had no Traveler, the thought of slicing up seventy-five people—even Damascans—made him a little sick.

Simon felt chains pressing against the backs of his hands, and he glanced down. Between the sinking moon and the nearby fire, he had enough light to make out the chain-shaped shadows slowly growing on his hands, one link at a time, as the Nye essence drifted through him. How dangerous were these chains? He needed to ask Kai before he got himself killed. Or maybe...

He looked at the blond doll in his left hand. She still had that peaceful, self-satisfied smile on her face. What was he thinking? Of course she did. She had been painted that way. He wasn’t as crazy as Kai, so until one of these dolls proved otherwise he would treat them like ordinary toys.

Still. Maybe she could answer his questions. She might be able to help him decide what to do.

Simon shook his head, disgusted with himself, and pulled his mind back to the task at hand. His anger, buried but never smothered since the attack on his village, demanded that he make an example of these Damascans. If they had no Traveler, he could most likely destroy them singlehandedly. He spun a rage-fueled fantasy of killing them all, piling their heads into one of these wagons, and sending the wagon back to Bel Calem. Let Malachi see what happened when he attacked an innocent village.

Simon’s queasiness grew worse when he realized what he was considering; and worse, when he realized that he could actually carry it out. Back home, he had occasionally nursed angry fantasies, mostly about beating an older boy until he gave up. But Simon had never had the power to do anything. Now, though, everything was different.

If he wanted the Damascans dead, he could have it. Right now.

The thought terrified him. And yet, if he did nothing, the people of Myria would continue to suffer.

Finally it occurred to him that he was going about this the wrong way. From his perspective, he could see only two options: attack the Damascans or leave the villagers in captivity. But that was based on only what he knew, which wasn’t much. He didn’t have the whole picture, and something still didn’t make sense. It was three or four days’ hard travel to Myria, even for one man alone. He didn’t know how much longer it would take a column of soldiers with captives, but certainly at least a day or two longer.

So what were they doing all the way out here? It was a long way for the soldiers to go to round up some more captives, and the Myrians shouldn’t have come so far from their newly rebuilt homes. What was going on?

He had to know before he did something foolish. And there was only one way to get that information.

Ask.

***

On the far side of the camp, Ansher sat on his horse, barking orders to foot soldiers who hurried to and from various wagons, hauling crates from one to another. The Agnos family rushed along in their preparations to leave: checking wagons, seeing to horses, rubbing down oxen, asking questions of the soldiers and examining the captives.

Lycus glimpsed Simon once and brightened, starting to run over to him, but his mother grabbed him by one arm and spoke to him sternly. Sulkily he levered a bag of some kind of vegetable onto one shoulder and walked off to a wagon in the back of the camp. Olissa gave Simon a hurried smile and a wave, then ran off to complete her work.

Erastes was sitting on the edge of a wagon, pulling on his armored boots, when Simon walked up to him.

“Feeling better?” Erastes asked when he saw Simon. His eyes were as hard as his voice. They flicked down to Simon’s bandage-free leg. “I see you are.” He didn’t seem much surprised at Simon’s accelerated healing.

“I came to ask you about the captives,” Simon said. “Who are they?”

Erastes looked at him sharply. “Not your concern. Though if you’d like to know, you should travel with us a while longer. I suspect Overlord Malachi would like to meet you himself.”

Simon nodded, not in agreement, but because the captain had confirmed something Simon already suspected. “You’re heading for Bel Calem, then?” Simon asked.

“We’re going in that direction, yes,” Erastes said. He seemed determined to give away as little as possible.

“The captives as well?”

Erastes stared at Simon a little too long, clearly trying to come up with an answer that would put him off. Fortunately, at that moment Caius walked by, huffing and hauling a huge crate.

“Captives?” Caius asked. “Rebels and insurrectionists is what they are. Caught them dealing with Enosh, and you know what trouble that brings. The collar is too light a punishment, if you ask me.”

The collar. They were going to be sold as slaves. It was a good thing Simon didn’t have a sword on his hip, or he would have been gripping it so hard Erastes couldn’t help but notice.

Just to have something to do with his hands, Simon reached into the back of his belt, where he had tucked the doll. Having her there was uncomfortable and obvious—anybody who saw him from behind couldn’t help but notice that he had something hidden between his pants and shirt—but he had to put her somewhere. Besides, he almost heard her indignant squawk when he put her back there. Eventually she would slip up and speak to him directly.

But once again, Simon was distracting himself from the matter at hand, trying to ignore his rising anger.

With a sigh, Erastes motioned for Caius to move on. “I wasn’t going to tell you, boy, but Caius has the truth of it,” he said. “We had captured some criminals up there a few months ago, and the Overlord was concerned that the rest of the village might unjustly blame him and turn to rebellion. We were sent in to get the feel of the place, maintain order. Didn’t expect to find anything.”

Behind the captain, one of the soldiers had untied a few of the villagers, and was herding them at swordpoint into one of the empty wagons. A bruised and battered Chaim happened to stumble, catching a glimpse of Simon as he did. Their eyes locked. Chaim’s widened, even as the soldier grabbed him and brought him to his feet.

Erastes noticed nothing. He shook his head as though saddened by his own tale, but his voice did not soften. “It only took us about two hours to find out that they’ve been making daily trips into enemy territory. Accepting food, supplies, workers. They had even provided shelter to one of those enemy Travelers, if you can believe it.

“Naturally, we settled the whole thing down. Except a few of them escaped, we suspect headed for the capital to try and rescue their criminal friends. Spent the last six weeks hunting them down from here to the Badari Desert. And that’s as much as you need know and more.”

Chaim strained desperately against his captors, shouting, “Simon! Run, Simon!” The Damascans ignored him, or else didn’t connect ‘Simon’ with the strange maybe-Traveler who had saved the Agnos children. It didn’t matter. For whatever reason, they had missed their only chance to stop him.

Almost against his will, Simon drew more deeply on the liquid steel. The chains stretched up his skin, twisting around his forearms. The icy cold, rushing through his veins in complement to his anger. Ice leaked out into his voice as he spoke.

“Why weren’t you going to tell me?” he asked.

Erastes shrugged and pulled on his last boot, stomping it on the ground to get it settled. “I don’t trust you, boy,” he said. “I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Simon. Son of Kalman.” His tone put heavy significance on the last three words. Damascans with a long heritage or those living in the city had family names, like Agnos. Only those who lived on the fringes of the nation, in remote villages, took their father’s name. Simon watched Erastes’ face as all those thoughts flitted through his mind.

Behind him, Chaim shouted one more time before he was shoved roughly into a wagon: “Run! Don’t let them get you too! Run, Simon, run!”

Then Simon added, almost casually, the last part of his name.

“From Myria village.”

It took the Damascan captain only a second to register the significance of the name. Once he did, his eyes widened, and his sword flashed from its scabbard. “Traveler!” he bellowed, deeply enough to be heard across a distant field.

The effect on the soldiers was immediate. One of them, behind Erastes, dropped a sack of flour to the ground and pulled his bow out of a case on his back, trying to string it as fast as possible. Ansher, still mounted, was more prepared; he put an arrow in the air before his captain’s shout died. The arrowhead gleamed as it sped toward Simon, almost too fast for thought.

But not quite.

***

The old man’s blood matched the rest of the room.

Leah and Malachi stood on a low balcony, surrounded by an iron railing, looking down on a rough room of stone. She might have almost called it a dungeon, except that it was filled, floor to ceiling, with an enormous tangle of leaves, roots, vines, and living wood. Branches crawled along the stone walls, moving slowly even as she watched, and fully half the room was obscured by a steadily shifting mass of leaves and thorns.

The worst part was that none of it had the healthy, clean color of living plants. Not a speck of green or brown showed in the whole indoor jungle. Every bit of it, from the rough bark to the tips of the soft leaves, was a bright red. A shade of red, in fact, that Leah recognized.

The scholars of Old Damasca had called Ragnarus by another name: the Crimson Vault. These plants—no, this plant—this plant was the bloody color of Ragnarus.

She supposed she had found Malachi’s Tree.

The wall of red vegetation was not alone in the room. Besides the balcony on which Leah, Malachi, and two of Malachi’s guards stood, there was one more person present. Boez.

He hung in the air, branches wrapped around his wrists and ankles pulling him in opposite directions as though the Tree meant to rip his limbs from their sockets. All over his body, his skin had been shredded, as though the Tree had raked its thorns over him. He was so shrouded in his mask of blood that if Leah hadn’t known who hung there, she would never have recognized him.

Feigning boredom, she very carefully looked away.

“It’s quiet now,” Malachi said idly. “Perhaps he’s dead.” He didn’t look at Boez either, merely toyed with the edge of one of his fingernails. Leah wondered if he, like she herself, was taking any excuse to look away from the dying man. But that was ridiculous.

Leah did not respond; she was afraid to open her mouth. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t eaten breakfast. She fiddled with the crystal on her bracelet, letting its cool presence calm her.

“Each of the Overlords has one of these Trees, you know,” Malachi said. “Your father told me that they’re connected through Ragnarus, though you would know more of that than I. Whenever one is fed, it nourishes all the others, though to a lesser degree.”

“Of course,” Leah said. Her voice came out as a croak. Where was he going with this? And could they not have this conversation in another room?

“You know each Ragnarus artifact has a price, and this one is no exception. It requires blood. Nine people a year, one a day, ending on midsummer. And as long as they’re fed, the Trees maintain the seal on the Incarnations.”

In spite of herself, Leah took a sharp breath and stepped slightly backwards. “Then this is...there’s one...”

“Here, yes,” Malachi said grimly. “Underneath my house. Safest place for it, all told, where I can respond to any issues immediately. But here’s my question, Ragnarus Traveler.”

Malachi loomed over her, and she had to turn to meet him, her back pressed against the cold iron railing. He was the Overlord again, grim and dangerous, staring at her with righteous anger in his eyes.

“Why?” he demanded. He gestured behind her, to the man she knew was still hanging there covered in his own blood. She did not turn to look. “Why this? Is there no other way? And if there is not, then why are you here, where you do not belong? Do you not trust me to handle my own business? Why can’t you leave me alone!”

He was shouting by the end, leaning close, with a fist raised.

And, intimidating Overlord’s rage or no, blood-sucking tree or no, Leah decided she had had enough.

She twisted her wrist so that the crystal on her bracelet caught the light and gleamed. It wouldn’t be as effective without moonlight, not enough to open a proper Gate, but she could call on what she needed.

The crystal bracelet flared with a white light, and she pressed her palm against Malachi’s chest.

“Overlord Malachi Daiasus,” Leah said coldly, and as she did she was proud to hear all the authority of Damascan royalty in her voice. “Take a step back.”

For a few seconds she thought Malachi was going to try and use force on her anyway. His guards obviously thought so too, because from the corner of her vision she saw them take a step away, closer to the balcony’s sides. They were wise enough to want nothing to do with a battle between two powerful Travelers.

She would have to kill him, if he did attack. But she hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

Finally Malachi relaxed and closed his right fist, the one with the Naraka brand. Then he stepped back. Something seemed to drain from him and he was only Malachi again, weary and vain and a tad lazy.

“I apologize, Highness,” he said. “I was overwrought.”

Leah lowered her hand, letting Lirial’s power flood out of her bracelet. “You are forgiven.”

“But please, if you will allow me to ask, why? Just...why? What is your father thinking?”

Leah’s instinct was to put the Overlord off again, tell him something vague and unsatisfying. That was how she had trained herself to deal with these matters. But there was a look in Malachi’s eyes that said he genuinely wondered, truly cared, and that honesty demanded the same from her.

But she still couldn’t give him what he wanted.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Malachi searched her eyes before he nodded, once.

And then one of the guards screamed.

A thorny red vine had snaked up the side of the balcony and wrapped around his wrist. The vine stretched as long as Leah’s leg but no thicker than a finger, and it looked like the brawny guard should be able to snap it with main strength, but he kept screaming, clutching to the railing with his other hand as though it took everything he had to keep from being pulled over the edge.

The entire Tree woke at once, every root and branch and leaf shaking. The whole was a deafening sound like a hurricane’s roar, and it scared Leah far more than she would have ever admitted. She pulled light into her bracelet again, calling out for Lirial, but she wasn’t sure where to strike.

Boez—or his body, since Leah still wasn’t sure whether or not the man was alive—was seized around the middle by a huge branch and pulled back into the leaves, until he vanished into the thicket. The action reminded Leah eerily of prey being pulled into the mouth of some giant beast.

More thorned vines crawled up the balcony, slithering toward the rest of them. The plants were slow enough that she would never be caught as long as she was alert, but paired with the guard’s screams, and with what had happened to Boez…

Leah stepped back hurriedly enough, preparing to summon something sharp and deadly from Lirial the instant these plants got close enough to touch. No sense in taking chances.

Meanwhile, Malachi had pulled the guard’s sword, and had it raised. Leah wondered if he would even be able to chop this Ragnarus plant with ordinary steel—and wondered at the same time what might happen to the seal if he did—but he didn’t bring the sword down on the branch.

In one smooth motion, Malachi chopped off the guard’s hand at the wrist.

The guard’s scream was almost lost in the ensuing roar from the Tree, which snapped the severed hand back into itself like a frog taking a fly.

They lost no time leaving the room and sealing it tight. The second Malachi cleared the rooms, he shouted new assignments for his troops: fourteen soldiers at the entrance with orders to maintain a vigilant twenty-four hour watch.

“And a healer!” Malachi called to his servants, who had rushed down the halls to find some soldiers. He and the uninjured guard were trying to bind the fallen man’s severed wrist with a torn strip of shirt. As Leah watched, blood splattered up and splashed on Malachi’s face. He seemed not to notice.

So Malachi tended to his servants personally, and with no concern for his appearance. That was a level of compassion Leah had never expected from the man.

Still, as she rested in her rooms at the top of one of Malachi’s towers, Leah couldn’t shut her eyes without visions of the bloody Tree intruding. The seal on the Incarnations kept them safe, and the blood of the sacrifices maintained the seal. But that Tree of Ragnarus had been...gruesome. Barbaric.

Leah had never questioned the necessity of the sacrifices before, but her Lirial training taught her to look at problems from every angle. This time, she did not like what she saw.

What power was this that kept them safe? Could it be trusted? And if this was what it took to get the Incarnations sealed, how much worse would it be if they ever escaped?

It was a long time before she fell asleep.

CHAPTER 15:

PLAYING WITH DOLLS

Simon called Nye’s breath into his lungs, a rush of cool power that hummed in counterpoint to the steel flowing through him. He leaned back, letting Ansher’s arrow fly past his face. He felt the wind as it passed him, and the Nye essence slowed the scene so much that he could see the individual ripples in the arrow’s brown-and-white fletching as it brushed by his nose. He thought he could reach out and pluck it from the air, but he watched as it flew by and buried itself in the wood of the wagon behind him.

Erastes thrust his sword forward in a move so smooth it would have done Kai proud. Simon twisted to one side, pulling the doll from his belt in the same motion. Carefully he placed her on the bed of the wagon, right next to Ansher’s arrow. He didn’t want her digging into his back while he fought, but neither would he risk her getting hurt. Broken. He had meant broken, not hurt.

Out of sheer reaction he turned, evading a return slash from Erastes that turned into a three-part combination pushing him away from the wagon. Heat on his back told him the older man was trying to maneuver him into the bonfire.

He could have dodged Erastes’ sword all night—or at least until the Nye essence ran out—but two soldiers joined him, moving to flank Simon on his right and left. On top of which, Ansher sent another arrow in his direction. Simon almost impaled himself on Erastes’ sword trying to dodge the missile.

Simon thrust his hand out and summoned Azura.

It appeared almost instantly this time, a seven-foot length of steel shining along its slightly curving surface. One of the soldiers stumbled back at its appearance, inches from a fatal stabbing, and the other took the opportunity to swing a sword down at Simon’s head. Simon swept Azura around in an arc so fast it looked like a solid sheet of shimmering steel. It sliced neatly through the soldier’s sword, sending the weapon clattering to the ground in two red-hot pieces.

He almost ran the man through out of sheer reaction, but something in him stopped. He was still strangely reluctant to kill these men. This was too different from training in the House, where everything was inhuman or else indestructible. The thought of actually ending a life, now that he was face-to-face with it, seemed almost incomprehensible.

Then Erastes was thrusting his sword at Simon’s ribs. He tried to get Azura in between them, but his blade was far too long, and he was forced to dodge and leap back to put some distance in between them. He brought Azura down, trying to force the captain back, but the man raised his sword to intercept. Simon waited for the Dragon’s Fang to cleave through this sword as it had done to others, but Erastes’ blade met his with a clang like two bells clashing.

And both swords stopped. The impact ran up the right side of Simon’s entire body, threatening to make him drop his sword. If not for his daily training with Chaka, he might have actually done so, which would have been both embarrassing and fatal.

Only now, with his blade still locked against Erastes’, did he notice something odd in the other man’s weapon.

It shone with a smooth mirror-brightness that no natural steel could match. Most swords had dings, dents, places where use in combat had scraped them up. But the steel of Erastes’ sword was flawless. Like Azura.

Simon stopped putting pressure on the older man and pulled his blade back. If he had pushed harder, he would have overpowered Erastes and split him down the middle, supernatural blade or no. But what was that sword? Was Erastes a Traveler as well? If so, why didn’t he use any other powers?

A blaze of pain burst in his left shoulder, and Simon screamed, twisting to avoid whatever was hurting him. Another soldier had snuck up behind him, and this one had a spear. He had scored a hit along Simon’s shoulder, probably aiming to skewer him through the heart.

Simon slashed Azura one-handed through the spear, slicing it neatly, but more soldiers rushed in to fill the gap, each carrying a long cavalry spear. Other foot soldiers poured in, threatening to drown him in sheer numbers.

Images filled his mind, of men reduced to meat, of blood flowing into the sand. He didn’t want that. But he wanted to die even less.

Overwhelming numbers pushed him onto the defensive, forcing him to keep up a constant circle of defense to avoid being crushed.

Okay, he thought. Maybe I need some help.

A smug female voice, distant as a whisper, answered. All you had to do was ask.

Despite his danger, Simon had to stare between the line of soldiers at the doll he had left sitting on the distant wagon. You can talk. Why didn’t you say anything before?

Back, to the left.

What?

A spearpoint sliced his skin over his left kidney, and he managed to sidestep before it gored him. As it was, the spear still drew a line of fire across his left side.

Told you, the voice continued. Turn right.

Simon followed the instructions this time and spun Azura to the right, slicing through another sword. And the top half of one soldier’s head. He collapsed to the ground in a limp spray, blood spurting from his exposed brain.

No! Simon cried silently. I’m trying not to kill them.

The doll sounded baffled. Why?

I...I don’t know.

A whispered sigh. Then, Jump back. Over the fire.

Simon pushed against the ground into a ten-foot-high jump that easily cleared the bonfire. A trio of arrows swept through the space where his chest had been a moment before.

He landed in a half-crouch on the hard-packed dirt, waving Azura in front of him to keep his enemies back.

How are you doing this? he asked the doll.

We hear the voice of the wind, she responded. We speak to you the words of the air, to keep you alive. This is how we advise you.

So...you tell me how to dodge? Simon asked.

We speak the words of the wind, she replied loftily. How you interpret them is up to you. And my name is Caela.

Caela, he thought to her. Nice to meet you.

Then he attacked.

He shattered another weapon, reversing his strike at the last second to take the spear’s owner across the chest with Azura’s dull side. The impact slammed into the man, sending him tumbling into the sand. It would probably injure him seriously, maybe kill him, but Simon felt better.

He knocked the next soldier off his feet with another reverse sweep of Azura, but that was the last chance he got. The rest of the soldiers with melee weapons backed off, and a line of archers stepped forward.

“Fire,” Erastes shouted. Twelve archers loosed an arrow at the same instant, all centered on Simon.

You have to stop worrying about their safety, Caela sent. Simon drew as deeply as he could on the Nye essence, until it burned his lungs with ice, until it seemed as if he and the arrows both were all but frozen in midair. For some reason, it didn’t seem to affect the speed of Caela’s speech.

Not now, please, Simon thought. Help me out of this first.

If I do, you’ll only die. Unless you’re willing to kill them.

I don’t want to, he said.

Admirable. But childish. They’re enemy soldiers. This is a battlefield. If you hesitate, you will die. And then who will save your friends?

The arrows drifted closer. And though they appeared to float on a gentle breeze, Simon knew they would puncture him like a skewer through a roasting boar.

Please, help me out of this.

Then I want your promise that you’ll fight with everything you have, Caela said. Her distant voice sounded firm. The innocent people depending on you deserve nothing less.

I promise, Simon said. What choice did he have?

So Caela gave him his instructions. When the arrows got closer, he leaped, twisting his back and spinning at exactly the correct angle.

The fletching on one arrow brushed his arm, but that was all. He landed, and the Nye essence flooded out. He should have had a little while more, but he guessed he had used up the essence by drawing on it so deeply. For some reason, the steel remained as strong as always, giving no signs of running out. Maybe it would last longer now—he should ask Caela.

Simon heard some of the arrows clattering to the ground behind him as time resumed its normal course. The archers in front of him went pale in the face, like they saw their own deaths approaching, but their training held them and they brought arrows to strings for a second volley.

Simon didn’t give them a chance to loose.

He lunged, and his first strike shattered three bows. Two of their bearers crashed to the ground as Azura’s tip snagged their armor, but the third lost his hand at the wrist. His scream wrenched Simon’s spirit, but this was neither the time nor the place for regret. He stepped to the side and struck at the archers on his right. Azura pierced through the belly of the first soldier, but the two behind him dived away to safety.

That was when the more heavily armed soldiers stepped in with their spears and swords, leaving the bowmen to retreat for safety. Without essence, Simon wasn’t fast enough to dance with them as he had done before. But he was still as strong as all of them together.

He ruined them. He cut them down like a farmer harvesting wheat, and it tore him apart inside. Every time he sprayed blood in the air, Simon’s stomach twisted, but he did not let up. He spared anyone too injured to fight or those few who retreated, but the rest he killed.

As he pulled his sword from men helpless to defend themselves, he realized that he had spent most of his life without seeing real violence. Only the day his father was killed, and the night his mother died.

How far he had come.

Finally Erastes stepped forward, stepping calmly over the bodies of his men. His face was set in stone, and his gleaming sword left a silver streak in the air as it rushed for Simon.

Without enhanced speed, Simon got a better taste of what a swordsman the Damascan captain really was. Simon had him by a good three feet of reach and ten times the older man’s strength, but he was still the one to step back in front of Erastes’ relentless advance.

Somehow the Damascan got close enough to take a tiny slice out of Simon’s ear. How had he done that? Simon hadn’t seen him move. A sinking feeling grew in Simon’s gut as he realized Erastes had capitalized on the weakness of Simon’s seven-foot blade and stepped inside its range. Simon’s steps were awkward at best, and only Caela’s stream of advice and his experience sparring with Kai kept him from getting impaled in the first handful of seconds.

Simon tried to call on the Nye essence again, but it wouldn’t come. Erastes was smarter, faster, and more experienced. Not to mention that Simon’s own sword was getting in the way. What was he supposed to do?

Lose the dead weight, of course, Caela sent. If it’s not helping you, lose it. Obviously.

Simon almost panicked when he realized what she meant, but then he took another cut from the old soldier’s flashing blade. If he didn’t try something else, then he was about to die.

He let Azura vanish.

As soon as it did, Erastes lunged forward, thrusting his blade toward Simon’s head. Just in time, Simon grabbed the older man’s wrist.

The point of the sword shone an inch from Simon’s eyes. It was hard to look at anything else. It looked so sharp there, a bare second from splitting his eye in two.

I told you it would work, Caela said, sounding quite pleased with herself.

Erastes strained with all his might to push the sword forward. With Benson’s steel flowing through him, Simon couldn’t even feel it.

That almost killed me, he thought in Caela’s direction. He still couldn’t take his eyes from the sword, even as he stepped around it, keeping his grip on the captain’s wrist.

Caela’s laugh sounded like the rustle of trees.

At last Simon turned his attention to Erastes, who by this time was trying to pull back. Without success. Simon’s chain-shrouded arms might as well have been made of iron; he could feel the power coursing through his muscles, and the chains that had encircled his limbs now snaked past his shoulders and on to his back. His steel was running out now, finally, but he guessed he had about a minute left. He should use that time wisely.

Simon planted a foot against Erastes’ chest and pushed, kicking the older man backwards. Erastes’ gray eyes went wide as he stumbled back almost ten feet and fell flat on his back, lying with the top of his head inches from the dying fire. His back arched as if he were in great pain.

The captain had lost his shining sword, which now rested in the dirt beside Simon’s feet. He ducked down to pick it up, holding it in his left hand as he advanced on the fallen Damascan.

Without thought he reversed the sword in his grip, holding it so that the blade pointed down. Like a dagger. The soldiers should be willing to surrender once their captain was defeated. One more death, and he could take his people out of here.

Andra came flying out of the flickering shadows and threw herself on top of Erastes, who writhed and gasped for breath on the ground.

“Please stop!” she begged. “Don’t do it. Don’t, Simon, please.”

Simon froze. Her skirt shone bright red in the dim light. She evidently hadn’t had a chance to change since escaping from the cave; her clothes still bore the scratches and stains of their combat. When he had saved her life.

“I’ve known him all my life,” Andra said, her voice thick with emotion. “Don’t do this to him. He’s our friend.”

Simon pointed with his stolen sword, so angry he could scarcely contain it. He stabbed the weapon in the direction of the captives’ wagon.

“Those are my friends,” he said. “Look what he’s done to them.”

A small sound made him look over, and he saw Lycus holding a sword that was far too big for him. He held it pointed shakily in Simon’s direction. Tears streamed down his face.

Caius pulled his son back before he could hurt himself. Or before Simon could hurt him. The thought speared him, and the realization of all he had done, all the people he had hurt, fell on Simon like a great weight. The sandy ground ran sticky and brown with the blood of dozens of people. He was surrounded by the groans of the dying and the stench of the dead. He had done that.

Then the steel flooded out of his body. His strength left him, replaced by an empty weakness that threatened to knock him flat on his back. Erastes’ sword felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and only a supreme effort of will kept him from dropping it in the sand.

Not now, Simon told himself. Later. The others need your help now. The thought got him moving, and he stepped past Andra without a word. He walked over to the captives’ wagon in complete silence. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized Ansher’s weathered body curled up around a seeping throat. He had tried and failed to stem his own bleeding wound with both hands. Simon refused to look at the body directly, instead focusing on putting one foot forward, then the other.

He passed a few uninjured soldiers, but they didn’t try to stop him. Most of them either ran off into the shadows or curled up behind their weapons.

When he reached the wagon, he swept the corner of the canvas aside. It was the stink that hit him first, the odor of dirt and waste and unwashed bodies. The captives hadn’t been given a chance to wash themselves or their clothes, then. The second thing he noticed was the space. The Myrians were packed into the wagon, lashed to one another with chains and rope. They were crammed closer together than livestock, so that they barely had room to sit, much less lie down.

The sight stunned him. He had never seen animals so mistreated, much less humans. Men and women he had known all his life. Most of them were men, he noticed, but there were some women among them. He picked out Nurita, Leah’s aunt, at once. Alone out of all the others, she looked like this was a minor inconvenience. Seeing her expression, Simon was almost surprised she hadn’t talked the Damascans into setting them all free.

For a moment the sight of all of them like that stunned Simon into silence. But the captives apparently felt no such restrictions. At sight of him they all burst into a flurry of questions, pleas, advice, and general noise.

“Who were they fighting?” one boy asked.

“What are you doing here?” asked another, old enough to be Simon’s grandfather.

“Did you see what happened?”

“You should get out of here!”

“Do you have any food?”

Chaim elbowed his way to the front. He obviously didn’t have much strength left, so he wasn’t as intimidating as usual, but people made as much room as they could.

“Get out of here, boy,” Chaim said hoarsely. “I don’t know who they were fighting out there, but they’ll be back, and you don’t want them to come for you.”

“The fight’s over,” Simon said. He wasn’t sure how much to tell them. “They lost. Now show me your hands.”

Chaim looked confused, but he pushed his hands forward. They were tied at the wrist by a double loop of thick hemp rope. His wrists were coated in enough dried blood that Simon suspected that his bonds rubbed constantly through his skin.

Simon pushed his borrowed sword against the rope, intending to saw through it. The effort wasn’t necessary; at the touch of Erastes’ blade, the rope parted like rotted cloth.

The ropes fell away, and Chaim gaped at him. The look on the older man’s face might have been gratifying some other time, but Simon felt little other than numb. He stepped up into the wagon, moving between the prisoners, sword flashing. Ropes fell free. People rubbed their wrists in wonder. Some of them started crying.

None of them had the guts to be the first out of the wagon.

When Simon finished freeing the captives, he felt a broad hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Chaim’s face beside him, standing among the others of their people still stunned at their good fortune.

“Simon,” Chaim said. “What happened to you?”

Simon shook his head, unable to speak, and walked out of the wagon.

The people of Myria followed.

When they saw their tormentors injured or helpless, lying all around the camp, the villagers lost their restraint. One woman set upon a one-armed Damascan soldier with nothing but her hands, screaming as she beat him. He had lost so much blood that he curled up around his injury, shaking. A pair of boys drove one mostly-healthy soldier off with spears they scooped up from the sand, and one—little older than Simon—beat another soldier with a burlap sack of potatoes.

At first, Simon tried to hold them back, but it seemed he had at last reached the end of his endurance. He almost collapsed from exhaustion, and the world spun queasily around him. For a moment his vision blurred, and the only thing his numb body could feel was the cold sting of chain-shaped shadows dragging down his arms.

Panic gripped him. Was he going to fall over every time he used up his powers? He couldn’t stop so much as a five-year-old girl from sticking a knife in him if the world kept spinning, and he didn’t know how many Damascan soldiers were still in the camp. He stumbled toward what he thought was a wagon, trying pathetically to hide until the ground finished rocking.

When he came back to himself, the fire had burned itself almost down to coals, and the only surviving Damascans had run, crawled, or stumbled into the night. He vaguely remembered seeing some of that process: men in uniform running fast, casting fearful glances over their shoulders. Someone might have tried to shake him back to his senses a while ago, too. Or maybe not. His sense of time seemed to have deserted him.

Simon found himself sitting on the ground, with his back leaning against a wagon’s enormous wooden wheel. Judging by the muffled sounds, someone was in the back of the same wagon, loading or unloading crates. Probably some of the villagers, going through them to take stock, he reasoned. A few people huddled around the fire, either clutching one another and staring at nothing or feeding the coals some pitiful handfuls of twigs in an attempt to ward off the cold.

If you’re done napping, Caela’s whispering voice cut in, I suspect you might want to intervene.

Blearily Simon looked around. Aside from the general bustle of everyone moving around a camp, things seemed quiet enough. In what? he sent.

Come and find out.

Simon heaved himself to his feet, paused a moment as an aftershock of dizziness hit him, and lurched forward. A few people called out to him, but he ignored them. He didn’t think he was up to much real conversation right then. On Caela’s teasing, whispered directions—Warm...getting warmer now...oh, it’s quite cold in that direction...there you go—he finally found his way to a wagon on the far end of camp.

The men and women from Myria surrounded both of the wagon’s open ends, as though preventing someone within from escaping. They held borrowed weapons awkwardly—one young man with a huge nose, Alin’s second cousin, squeezed a one-handed Damascan infantry sword in both hands like he thought it would run off without him—and they kept up a stream of taunts and jeers in the wagon’s direction.

A pair of oxen that had obviously been yoked to the wagon stood nearby, unhitched. The wagon wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Leah’s aunt Nurita shouted, “You’ll learn what it’s like!” and a chorus of agreement rose from the others.

Simon’s stomach tightened. Though he hoped desperately that he was wrong, he knew who was in the wagon.

Caela lay a few strides away, resting on top of an opened crate filled with odds and ends: scraps of leather, a half-full pincushion, a matching trio of painted wooden balls. Someone hadn’t known where to put her, but she wasn’t food, so she had been stuck with the junk deemed useless by starving villagers.

“How long has this been going on?” Simon asked her. He found it easier to speak than to focus on sending mental messages.

They’ve been in there for almost ten minutes, Caela sent. I’ve watched the whole thing. If I do say so, this spot is quite convenient. She sounded as self-satisfied as if she had picked the spot herself.

“Why hasn’t anyone gone in yet?”

Olissa found a spear, Caela replied.

He had hoped to be wrong. He didn’t want to be the one to decide these things. No matter whose side he took, Simon couldn’t imagine everyone walking away from this situation satisfied.

But there was no one else. Simon set Caela back down in the box and walked over to the wagon, heart pounding.

Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, chains slid down his wrists.

Simon pushed his way through the thin line of people gathered around the wagon’s entrance. Nurita demanded to know what he was doing, but he ignored her, stepping up onto the wagon.

A steel point leaped at his face. He dodged to one side, narrowly missing the spear—a trap like that wasn’t much worse than the Valinhall armory—and tried to call up Nye essence at the same time. Nothing happened; the power remained empty. Was it taking longer than usual for the essence to refill? How long had he been unconscious?

The spear withdrew quickly and then stabbed back out with the speed of panic. Simon had taken enough wounds tonight; none terribly serious, but practically every inch of his skin felt sliced or scraped. He couldn’t allow any more.

Simon’s hand snapped up almost without his conscious direction, grabbing the haft of the spear below the head. The person on the other end, maybe Olissa, tried to pull back, but he moved with the motion, stepping inside the darkened wagon.

Olissa crouched in front of him, clutching the Damascan spear in both hands. She was leaning back, putting her whole body into the effort of wrenching the weapon away from him. Andra faced the opposite entrance, short enough to be able to stand without bending over. She held a small knife up, and had glanced over her shoulder to see who was coming in. Her eyes were wide and terrified; a dark smear of blood covered the blade.

Caius and Lycus sat in the center of the wagon. All the cargo had been removed and sorted, so they leaned against the edge of the wagonbed rather than against a crate. Caius breathed shallowly, and a great dark stain spread over his right side. Lycus kept a bundled-up rag, seemingly an old shirt, pressed to his father’s wound.

Olissa gasped at the sight of Simon stepping in through the canvas flaps. Outside, a few of the Myrians cheered or called Simon’s name.

Leaving the spear in Simon’s grip, Olissa ran to cover Caius and Lycus with her body. Andra turned and held the knife in his direction, shaking. Such a change. Two hours ago, they had thought him a hero.

“Please don’t,” Simon said wearily. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Andra’s voice shook, and she sounded even younger than her years. Like a lost child. “Then why did you kill them? You killed everybody.”

“No! No, I...” How was he supposed to explain? Everything had moved too fast. “They attacked me. And the captives were from my village. Was I supposed to let them stay in chains?”

Simon noticed the night brightening around them. Not long until dawn. Kai had said there were nine days left before Leah and the others were sacrificed to Zakareth’s Territory. But nine days from when? Did this rising sun mean he had nine days left, or eight? And did that mean the first sacrifices would begin today?

He wasn’t sure, but either way, he had too much to do and not enough time.

“Not nearly enough time,” he muttered.

Chaim’s voice bellowed, “Simon? How’s it going in there?” A big shadow approached the canvas.

“Talking with the prisoners,” Simon said, improvising. “I need another minute alone.”

No time left. He had to do something, even if it made the situation worse. Reaching out his hand, he called steel and summoned Azura. The Agnos family wailed almost as one, and shrunk down against the wagon bed.

Spectral chains pressed against the back of his hands again—when had they vanished the first time? As he had done once before, Simon pointed Azura’s tip at the top of the wagon’s cover and reached through the sword to Valinhall. Dragging the blade down through the air, Simon tore open a Gate. It took thirty, maybe forty heartbeats, and every second Simon was sure someone was about to jump in the wagon and demand to know what he was doing.

This hole was wider than the one he had made for Kai, though he wasn’t sure what he had done to make it so. Yet another thing he was going to have to learn at some point. So many things to learn, and never enough time. The far end of the wagon completely disappeared behind the familiar scenery of the entry hall.

Andra and Olissa goggled at the Gate, then at him. Olissa looked like she was contemplating running, Andra as if presented with a new hope. Lycus continued pressing the rag against his father’s side, though he sent nervous glances toward Simon and the Gate equally. Caius made no reaction; his skin glistened through a sheen of sweat, and he muttered faintly to himself. Simon wasn’t sure he was even fully conscious.

“What is that?” Andra asked.

“My Territory,” Simon replied. Olissa drew in a sharp breath. “You can stay there for the time being,” he continued. “Once I settle things with the other villagers, I’ll come join you. And when things calm down, I can take you back to your home.”

“This was our home,” Olissa said softly. “Everything we owned was in these wagons. Once we finished this job, we were going to find a place to settle in Deborah’s realm.”

Simon winced. If he hadn’t gotten involved, their home wouldn’t have been taken from them. They would have concluded their business and moved on. Then again, if he hadn’t gotten involved, Andra and Lycus would probably either be dead or trapped in Orgrith Cave. There were no good choices, and nothing easy to regret.

“Well, then, you can stay in here for the time being. We’ll work something out. But you should get going.”

They’re about to come in, Caela’s voice whispered, as the canvas behind Simon peeled open. Chaim poked his face in, his eyes growing huge as he took in the Gate. “What is that?” he asked. At his words, a few people behind him pressed their faces forward, trying to see for themselves.

Thanks for the warning, Simon sent to Caela. She loftily ignored his sarcasm.

“Hurry,” he told Olissa, pushing her toward the Gate. She and Lycus grabbed Caius, half-carrying and half-shoving him into Valinhall. Andra stood, hesitating before stepping through. The Gate shrunk steadily as it sealed itself.

“The bedrooms are on either side of the hallway,” Simon said hurriedly. “It’s past that door right there. You can’t open any of the bedrooms, so head on through. If you see the guys in the dark hoods, tell them I sent you, and they probably won’t strangle you. Walk through the white-and-gold door, and you’ll see a pool of water. You need to get Caius into it as soon as possible. It will heal him. Watch out for the imps in the water. They’ll try to eat you.”

Olissa, Andra, and Lycus stared at him from the other side of the Gate; judging from their expressions, they were trying to decide if they were better off coming back through. Simon released both his sword and his strength, and the portal shrank even more quickly.

Andra stepped forward before the Gate could close completely. “Simon!” she called. “Where’s Erastes?”

Last time Simon had seen him, the captain had been struggling for breath on the ground. He was almost certainly dead by now. “I’m not sure,” he hedged.

“Please save him,” Andra said. Her pale eyes were practically the only things that showed through the narrowing portal. “I know you can do it.”

The Gate closed.

Great. How was he supposed to refuse a request like that?

The wagon shook as Chaim stepped up. “Sweet Maker. How did they disappear like that? And what was that you said to them?”

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Simon muttered. He walked out the far end of the wagon. The people gathered there gasped as he walked out and they got a clear glimpse of the empty wagon. At another time Simon might have worried about what they thought; not now. He had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he may have sent the Agnos family into even worse danger by trying to save them; they had no one to show them around the House. Simon would go there himself as soon as he could, but first he had to deal with the villagers. Villagers who would probably try and lynch him when they found out he had helped a family of Damascans escape.

He wanted to sleep for a year.

Circling around the wagon and ignoring a barrage of questions, Simon scooped up Caela and began walking to the other side of camp. When he reached the glowing embers that were all that remained of the night’s fire, he stopped.

Erastes lay much as Simon had left him, though someone had stripped away his armor and his hands and feet were bound with rough ropes. Bruises marred his face and every inch of exposed flesh Simon could see, some already starting to swell. A gang of boys ranging in age from about fourteen to a few years older than Simon surrounded the Damascan captain. One used a stick to flick coals over Erastes’ body. When he shouted, it came out muffled, so Simon gathered he had been gagged. If he wriggled away from the pain, another boy would use the flat of a short sword to smack him back into place.

The blade gleamed strangely in the predawn light, and Simon recognized it. They were beating Erastes with his own sword. Where had they gotten it? The last time he remembered having the weapon in his own hands was shortly before he passed out, so they must have either taken it from Simon’s unconscious body or picked it up from the ground afterwards.

A dim memory told Simon which of the boys was in charge; he was one of the oldest, no bigger than the others, but harder of face. He had spent more of his childhood being punished for one reason or another than anyone else Simon knew; the kid had bragged about it, sometimes. Simon walked up to him.

“Simon,” the young man said. He made it sound like a challenge.

“I don’t remember your name,” Simon replied. “Sorry.” The boy’s face hardened even further, and Simon couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I need the soldier and the sword.”

“What for?”

Simon reached out and grabbed the other boy’s wrist, twisting a way that Kai had done to him a hundred times. The boy gasped, dropping the sword, and Simon plucked it out of the air before it hit the ground. Without a word, he turned his back on the other boy and walked away.

Even as tired as he was, some part of him enjoyed that.

When he reached Erastes, Simon knelt and examined the soldier’s injuries. Some of the gang shouted at him, and he suspected they were beginning to find their spines again. So he called steel and held it. Icy power flowed through him, and he ignored their threats, returning his attention to the Damascan on the ground.

Erastes was fully conscious, steely gray eyes bright with pain. His gaze showed no fear, only hatred and anger. Simon pulled the gag out of his mouth. One of the boys, behind Simon, kicked him in the back. That kid screamed as though he had slammed his foot into a stone, and Simon heard him hopping around in the sand.

Simon smiled. With the steel running through him, he hadn’t felt a thing.

Erastes tried to swallow, found his mouth too dry, and tried again. He spoke as though he had a mouthful of sand.

“Coward,” he rasped.

“If you can talk like that, you’ll be fine,” Simon said. “Probably. I’m no healer.” He drew Erastes’ own sword across the man’s bonds, slicing them as easily he could have with a Dragon’s Fang.

Then, standing, he summoned Azura into his other hand. The boys yelled and scrambled away, undoubtedly going to fetch someone else. That was fine; there was nothing they could do to stop him.

He drew Azura down the air, opening another Gate.

Erastes’ raspy voice grated on his ears: “There’s nothing more you can do to me,” the gray-haired man said, as if Simon was about to take him into some new torment.

None too gently, Simon scooped him up in both arms. With steel flowing through him, it took about as much effort as picking up a newborn kitten.

Simon walked through the Gate, holding it open with his will. He laid Erastes down on a couch, saying, “Caius and Olissa are here somewhere. Tell them I said to get you into the water as soon as possible.”

“Don’t need a bath,” Erastes said. “Need a miracle.”

Simon thought about explaining, but decided it would take too much effort. He tossed the old soldier’s bare sword down beside him. “Let me know if you find one,” Simon said, and walked back into the world.

CHAPTER 16:

THE ROAD TO BEL CALEM

None of the Myrians were happy about losing their few remaining Damascan prisoners, Chaim and Nurita least of all. They appeared to have taken charge of the surviving villagers, since no one of any greater influence had accompanied the group south.

“They’re gone?” Chaim had demanded. “Where did they go?”

“Who gave you the right to send them anywhere?” Nurita had asked. “You’re a child.”

Even more than that, as he had expected, they wanted to know about his newfound powers. Was he a Traveler now? How had that happened? Was he working with Alin?

He tried to dodge those, ashamed for some reason that he could not quite pinpoint. He had been proud of his abilities; if anything, he should brag about them to anyone who would listen. But he didn’t feel like it. Maybe once he rescued Leah and the other captives from Malachi’s grasp, then he would show his pride. Until then, he was almost afraid that he would look like a pretender, a child dressing up as a warrior of legend.

Still, the other villagers would not be put off by half-truths and misleading answers. Even if none of them had directly seen him draw on his Territory, they had already seen too much.

At last, when he could take Chaim and Nurita’s incessant questions no longer, he told them. “I’m a Traveler now,” he said. They looked at him warily, but didn’t gasp in horror or gape in wonder as he had half-expected. They seemed almost...doubtful.

“What do you mean by that?” Chaim asked, as though testing Simon’s words, trying to find something hidden.

“You don’t have to compete with Alin, just because—” Nurita began, but she was cut off by the tip of Azura pointing at her throat. Simon stood the better part of ten feet away, holding the blade steady in his steel-infused right hand. With his left, he rolled up his right sleeve, exposing the shadowy chain marks that crawled steadily up his arm.

A few people did gasp then, at the enormous sword, at Simon’s apparent strength, or at the fact that Simon had called the sword out of midair.

“You led the ones who attacked the Damascans,” Chaim said. He sounded almost in awe.

“I didn’t lead anybody,” Simon replied. “It was just me.”

Most of the bodies around the camp hadn’t been removed or buried yet, simply piled where they were least inconvenient. Chaim looked from one stack of Damascan bodies to another, and he appeared to be doing sums in his head.

Nurita’s eyes narrowed, and she spoke sharply. “Are you like Alin, boy?” She didn’t sound impressed, but then again, he couldn’t imagine anything grand enough to bend her self-importance.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I think Alin was born to it. I had to learn.”

“In six weeks?”

“It’s been a long six weeks.”

Chaim’s face had frozen into a kind of snarl, and when he spoke he sounded rabid. “Then that Damascan family. You have them. In your Territory.”

Wary of a trap, Simon nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Smacking his hand into his fist, Chaim laughed. It went along with the new, cruel cast to his face. “Good. Then we have them trapped. They can’t escape us now.”

“That family is under my protection,” Simon said. “No one’s doing anything to them.”

He knew before the words left his mouth that he should never have said it like he did. Simon had never prided himself on skill with words; he tended to think of the right thing to say only minutes or hours after the fact. This would do nothing but provoke the other villagers. Indeed, angry oaths and mutters rippled through the crowd. Chaim looked both shocked and disgusted.

Simon levered Azura down, driving her point-first into the ground. At an angle, like Kai had always done, because he couldn’t reach high enough to drive it straight down. He hoped this would demonstrate that he was trying to talk, not fight, though it had the side benefit of reminding his fellow villagers that he was in possession of superhuman strength and a seven-foot unbreakable blade. If they brought it to a physical confrontation, there was only one way it could end.

Chaim didn’t seem overly worried about his own safety. He stepped forward and grabbed the front of Simon’s shirt in both his fists.

“You have no idea what they did to us,” Chaim growled. His voice was pitched so that everyone could hear, though Simon suspected that had more to do with the man’s temper than with any desire to perform for a crowd. “Do you know how many we buried when they first caught us? Do you? Do you know how long they’ve had us, what they made us eat, what they made us do?” Chaim shook him, hard. “Watch them kill your daughter, son of Kalman, and tell me how much protection they deserve.”

Simon had intended to let Chaim vent his bile, but that was enough of that. Not only was the conversation headed nowhere productive, Chaim’s shaking was piling on top of stress and injury, making Simon feel like he was about to pass out again. If the man didn’t stop, Simon might well puke on his shoes.

Gently, Simon pulled the older man’s hands away. Chaim weighed twice again what Simon did, but Simon’s only concern was that he not grip too hard and crush the man’s wrists.

“I saw Orlina die,” Simon said. He kept his voice even, but made sure everyone could hear him. “It was right before the same Traveler killed my mother.”

Dead silence. No one dared to say anything, because many of them had been in the same cave. They had seen what happened.

“This family didn’t do it,” Simon continued. “No one here did. I killed the soldiers who captured you.” He regretted that, but he couldn’t let them see it. “Some of them ran off, I guess, but we’ll never catch them. And you’re angry, I know that; I am too. But we don’t need to get revenge—revenge doesn’t help anybody. We need to get our people back.”

A few people nodded. Nurita even muttered something approving.

Chaim visibly gathered himself, scraped tears from his cheeks, and nodded. He didn’t apologize, nor did he even admit that the Agnos family might not be the correct target for his anger, but he did refocus. “That’s what we were doing when these Damascan dogs found us. We’re headed for Bel Calem.”

“What do you expect to do?” Simon asked.

“We won’t know until we get there. Whatever we can. Die trying, if we have to.”

Simon thought about what to say for a long moment. “Myria can’t afford to lose you,” he said at last. “There aren’t enough of us left as it is.”

Chaim leaned forward, his hard face intense. “There are ten men and women from our village in Bel Calem as we speak, waiting on His Majesty Zakareth. We can’t afford to lose them either.”

“All the more reason that I should leave now,” Simon responded. He was losing his edge, getting nervous, debating with Chaim. It wasn’t long since he had obeyed Chaim as he would have an uncle. Chaim had the advantage of age and experience; what gave Simon the right to argue? Especially out here in front of everybody. And Simon was still so tired.

“By yourself?” Nurita demanded, stepping forward. She even put her hands on her hips, for that added bit of motherly authority.

I don’t need your help. I’ll be better off on my own, Simon thought. He tried to say so, but his earlier confidence was evaporating quickly. What he said instead was, “I thought it would be better that way.”

Chaim shook his head. “No, boy. We’ll follow your lead, but we won’t be left behind.”

Simon considered running off—no one would be able to catch him—but the adults seemed to take his agreement as a matter of course. Before he could say anything else, all the villagers were working like ants to shove crates, bags, and boxes into the wagons, clearing away bodies and stripping bloody corpses of armor and weapons.

Nurita, in her shrill voice, herded and bullied everyone into moving. Not that they needed much encouragement. Their captivity had made everyone eager to get away, it seemed, at least a little farther from where they could be found. The villagers stuck to the wagons as if they contained food, gold, and salvation all at once, and they tossed packages into the back with almost religious fervor.

He could still get away, leave them behind. But what if there were more soldiers in the area? What if the ones who had fled came back, in the night? He had to escort them, at least, past the forest and a little closer to Bel Calem. After that he could leave them. Or could he? He would have abandoned them in Damascan lands, where every hand might turn against them. A little farther, then.

Simon’s fists clenched, and he wasn’t sure why he felt trapped.

Minutes later, when the oxen were hitched and Nurita called for everyone to fall in by the wagons, Simon followed.

***

“Sunset tomorrow?” Alin said. He raked fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself, trying to see the whole picture. “Then we must act now. If we Travel through Naraka, surely we can make it.”

Miram shook her head sadly. “Forgive me, Eliadel. The Grandmasters have forbidden it.”

Ezera, one of the Avernus Travelers that Alin had met once or twice, swept a feathered hat off his head and dipped into a perfect bow. “Do not fear. The Overlord has received our requests for parley, and our informants indicate that he may be willing to spare the remaining sacrifices from your village.”

Alin was unable to keep the anger from his voice. “There have been seven sacrifices so far. Today makes eight. What are the odds that none of them have been people I knew?”

“We’ve tried,” Miram said, “I assure you that we have, but we haven’t been able to confirm the identity of the seven sacrifices so far. Even if they were from Myria, there’s nothing more we can do for them.”

“Malachi is caring for at least one of the Myrian captives at his own personal expense,” Ezera added. “We should take that as a very good sign.”

The Avernus Traveler sounded like he found the whole situation amusing, but that was no surprise. From what little Alin knew about the man, Ezera would sound that way five feet from his own noose.

“If I am to oppose Zakareth, then let me oppose him while there is still time,” Alin responded. “At least me alone; there is no need to risk the rest of you.”

Miram and Ezera exchanged a glance. “You are the last we should risk,” Miram said finally. “It is hard to say, but even if Overlord Malachi were to sacrifice all the captives from your village, it would be better than losing you.”

“The people love you,” Ezera picked up. The two of them sounded almost rehearsed. “You are a symbol of our inevitable triumph and Zakareth’s unavoidable defeat.”

The light of Elysia called to him, out of sight, warm at the back of his mind. They wouldn’t be able to stop him if he decided to force his way through; Ezera rarely saw combat, and Miram would hold herself back to avoid injuring her Rising Sun. He could do it.

But then what? They had done nothing but treat him kindly, and he would repay them by attacking them. Not to mention the fact that he couldn’t get to Bel Calem in time without the aid of another Traveler; Elysia was not the best Territory for Traveling long distances.

He almost managed to persuade himself that he had no choice. His reasons were good, his excuses solid. Even Leah wouldn’t blame him.

But the Grandmasters were always telling him what a hero he was going to be. Well, so be it. If they wanted him to be a hero, they would have to live with him acting heroic.

Alin sighed as though beaten and put on his most tragic face. “Promise me,” he said heavily, “that you will do everything you can to persuade Overlord Malachi. We don’t have much time left.”

Ezera relaxed visibly, but Miram looked sad. “Everything we can, Eliadel. And I am sorry.” She squeezed his arm gently; her grip was rough and callused.

Alin nodded, blinking rapidly, and looked away. He had never been the most convincing liar, but he would have to pull it off today. He sank into one of the richly stuffed chairs scattered around his room and stared out the window, hopefully signaling to his guests that he wished to be left alone.

They got the message; he heard them bow and murmur their respects before escorting themselves out.

As soon as the doors closed, Alin jumped up and reached out to the blazing star in his mind.

Golden light gathered in the air, swirled, formed into the misty outline of a distant shining city. Alin stayed focused, drawing in that distant light and pouring it into the doorway. It took less time and concentration than it had when he first began, back when he couldn’t open a Gate in an empty room with half an hour, but he still chafed at the delay. Someone could wander in at any second, asking after Eliadel’s needs. He wanted to be long gone before that started.

At last he felt a warm summer-scented breeze blowing from the open Gate. Elysia’s gleaming rooftops and soaring towers loomed in the distance as he stepped through.

His rooms were in the Grandmasters’ palace, at the exact center of Enosh. So how far did he need to Travel to find someone who would listen?

***

Alin found Gilad exactly where he had expected: sitting on the flat roof of the Naraka Quarters, alone, hunched over a book. Alin felt a small spark of satisfaction; he had nailed his destination in one shot. If only Leah could see him now.

Gilad stumbled to his feet as soon as Alin stepped out of his golden Gate, his book clattering to the ground.

“Alin, uh, sir. How can I be of service?”

“I need to Travel, Gilad,” Alin said, mustering up every crumb of authority he could. “Can you have me in Bel Calem tonight?”

Gilad’s eyes darted from side to side as if looking for somewhere to hide. He paled. “Eliadel, sir, I don’t think I’m supposed to do that.”

“So you can, then?”

“Well, I can. But they said they didn’t want you leaving the city.” Gilad shuffled a little in place, not meeting Alin’s eyes. “If you want to leave, um, I think I’ll have to stop you.”

Alin briefly pictured himself being hauled back to his room by a blushing, stammering Gilad. He didn’t think he could stand the shame. Gilad was one of the few Travelers in existence with bonds to two different Territories, and everyone treated him with the respect he deserved. Even so, to be beaten and dragged off by someone too scared to look you in the eye...

Leaning down, Alin looked straight at Gilad, like a big brother confronting a younger. Never mind that Gilad was probably three years the elder, and had been learning to Travel since he could walk.

“Gilad,” Alin said, “what does this prophecy say that Eliadel will do?”

“Confront the Evening Star, and stem the tide of blood so the Gate of the Heavens may open once again,” Gilad responded. He didn’t hesitate, and he sounded as if he were quoting.

“Exactly.” Alin had very little idea of what the prophecy actually said, but Gilad sounded sure. “Now, how am I going to do all that if the Grandmasters keep me here?” Gilad’s eyes darted away again, and Alin pressed his advantage.

“Listen to me, Gilad. Some people I care about are going to die. They may already be dead. But if they’re not, I owe it to them to do everything I can to save them. You understand that, don’t you?”

Gilad nodded.

“Now, I can’t do this alone. I need someone by my side. Someone who will stand with me against Damasca, even when no one else does. Can you do that for me, Gilad?”

Gilad’s back straightened, and he nodded again, more firmly. He even glanced up at Alin’s face, once. Briefly.

Alin didn’t let his surge of elation show. He nodded back, as though he had never expected any other response.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Alin said. “Now, we need to leave as soon as possible.”

“Grandmaster Naraka has sentries posted on the other side,” Gilad replied. “They’ll let her know if anybody tries to sneak past.”

“Can you get past them anyway?”

Gilad issued a weak smile. “They don’t call me a genius for nothing, I guess.”

Alin grinned back.

“Then let’s go.”

***

Alin tried to keep the sleeve of his rich blue jacket away from the walls of the cavern, but it was an almost impossible task. The red stone of Naraka had a gritty, sandy outer coating, like a layer of fine ash—come to think of it, that was probably what it was. Regardless, as he followed Gilad through a twisting oven-hot tunnel of stone and ash, Alin found himself trying to keep his clothes away from the walls. The shirt alone was worth more than anything he had ever owned, and he didn’t want it stained. Though he feared he was far too late for that.

A rattling screech, like the cry of an angry hawk, echoed painfully through the tunnel. Gilad twisted around to look, though he knew he couldn’t see anything around the bend.

“Guardians from Bel Calem,” Gilad whispered. “They’ve caught our scent.”

Almost instinctively Alin breathed deeply through his nose, but all he smelled was singed meat and rotten eggs.

“On the bright side,” Alin said, “that means we’re getting close.”

“Hurry,” Gilad responded. “We have to hurry.” He took off running down the tight corridor.

Alin ran after him, trying not to think about what a new set of clothes like these would cost. In a matter of seconds the tunnel opened up onto one of the huge caverns that seemed to make up most of Naraka. The heat, even compared to the stifling sauna of the tunnel, felt like a slap in the face.

The stalactites, hanging from the ceiling far overhead, glowed apple-red against the surrounding shadows, giving an eerie impression of bloody stars in a black sky. Wide streams of molten rock—Gilad had called it “lava”—poured in endless rivers from rents in the walls. A lake of lava below rippled and roiled as things stirred underneath the surface. Alin caught a glimpse of black scales and one gleaming ruby eye before he shuddered and looked away.

Their tunnel led onto a bridge of stone, wide enough for two to walk side-by-side. Technically. Alin was sure that he’d rather try it single-file. At the far end of the bridge, an obsidian pillar stood sentry at the center of its own circular island of stone.

The pillar, a jagged spike of gleaming black, stabbed towards the ceiling, fiery golden symbols gleaming on one side.

Gilad pointed straight at the obsidian pillar. “That’s the way out, but it should be...”

Two brawny men walked out from behind the pillar, readying black wooden shields and long black spears. They were accompanied by a pair of ember-colored insects the size of wolves. They looked like huge ants painted in colors of flame.

“...guarded, yeah, I was going to say guarded.”

Alin touched the golden light in the back of his mind, and everything seemed to brighten. He knew he was probably glowing, but didn’t bother glancing at his own skin to check.

“Gilad, what are those things?”

The Naraka Traveler didn’t look at him. He kept flexing his right hand as though working out sore muscles; Alin knew that palm carried his Naraka brand. Was it paining him, or was he preparing to use it?

“Itasas tribesmen,” Gilad said. “Oh, wait, you mean the bugs? The natives call them kush’na, but that roughly translates to ‘flame-walkers.’ They can walk on the lava, you see.”

The tribesmen stopped at the end of the stone bridge, shields forward and spears pointed at the ceiling. One of them called out, in a thick, awkward accent, “Stop. Turn back. Go away.”

“Can you open a Gate right here?” Alin asked.

“No. You can only open a Naraka Gate at certain points. Trying here could kill us both.”

“Then can we turn back? Go around?”

The shrieking cry came again, echoing from the tunnel behind them.

“No time,” Gilad responded, and began to run forward onto the stone bridge.

Filling his palm with the deadly gold light of Elysia, Alin followed.

As one, the two flame-walkers let out a burbling hiss and skittered forward. Gilad pulled a red stone from his pocket and tossed it into the lava far below.

What was that supposed to do? The ant-monsters were still coming. Gilad hadn’t done anything!

He hurled the gold light in his palm. It felt oddly heavy, and instead of blasting the flame-walker apart, it knocked the creature back a few steps. He felt awkward and strained, though an attack like that should have taken no more effort than throwing a brick.

“What’s going on?” Alin asked, panicked. “I should be stronger than this!”

Gilad studied the lava below, ignoring the approaching flame-walkers, but he answered the question. “The Territories are far apart. You can never call up your full power in somebody else’s Territory.”

They only told him that now? He had counted on the power of Elysia to protect him in other Territories, but now he might not even have that!

The flame-walkers were only a few paces away, rippling with heat and ember-colored light. They hissed again, and Alin felt his skin crawl.

“Do something!” he yelled. Gilad, watching the lava, smiled and stretched out a hand.

“Okay,” he said.

Something ripped from Gilad’s outstretched hand, an almost-invisible ripple that expanded from his palm in a blast of silent thunder. An invisible wall passed through Alin, and he flinched back, but he felt nothing. When the wave of Gilad’s power met the flame-walkers, they staggered back—startled, not injured—and hesitated for a moment, but then continued forward. The ripple shook dust from the walls, and the nearby lava threw up waves as though a strong wind had passed overhead.

Alin waited a handful of seconds for something to happen. If Gilad said he had done something then Alin trusted him, but as far as he could tell, the Naraka Traveler might as well have spit from the bridge.

Then something burst from the ocean of lava far below. It looked like a hawk, but a hawk built entirely out of campfire flames. Its eyes were bright coals, its beak white-hot, and sparks drifted from its spread wings. It let out a searing cry as it shot from the lava, and it snatched one of the flame-walkers in its blazing claws.

Only then did Alin realize that this hawk was the size of a horse.

It snatched up the flame-walker and kept flying, releasing the creature to splatter on the ash-covered rocks that surrounded the lava ocean. Then it banked away for another pass.

The flame-walker had stopped facing Alin, turning to hiss at the hawk instead, but Alin had no desire to play fair with a hellish creature from another world. He blasted it in the stinger with a pulse of golden light, knocking it from the bridge.

One of the tribesmen had turned toward the hawk, shield raised and spear held at the ready. The other charged across the bridge, heading for Alin, spear lowered.

“Gilad!” Alin yelled, but Gilad had practically collapsed, holding his head between his hands.

“Took...too much...sorry,” Gilad said through gritted teeth. Blood leaked from one of his nostrils.

So it was up to Alin to deal with this man, was it? If he could have called on Elysia’s full power, he wouldn’t even be worried. As it was, though...

It took far too much effort to pull gold light from Elysia, like ripping out a stubborn weed. Each time he tried, he felt as though he had dragged a bag of rocks uphill with one hand. And when he did finally get a ball of golden light, it splashed harmlessly on the charging man’s shield.

In sheer desperation, Alin reached deeply into Elysia, straining himself to the limits, for something that he had once called without thought: a golden sword of pure, translucent light.

It formed, finally, half a second before the tribesman reached him with his spear. Alin stabbed the sword forward.

Then there was a rush of flame and heat, and the tribesman vanished. Alin blinked for a moment, clearing his eyes, before he saw the man tumbling through the air toward the lava below. The hawk, soaring overhead, screamed its triumph, and flew off deeper into the caverns. It vanished behind a falling stream of lava.

The bird must have flown by and snatched the man up before he could attack. Alin shuddered. The bird could just as easily have taken him, and he would have never had time to react.

Sword in hand, Alin turned to meet the next tribesman, but he was gone too. He couldn’t have left, since this bridge was the only passage between the obsidian pillar and the rest of Naraka, so that left two options: either he had opened his own Gate to the real world, or the hawk had gotten him too.

Either way, the bridge was clear.

Alin pulled Gilad to his feet, and together they hobbled over to the gold-marked black rock that stretched over Alin’s head.

“Can you get us out of here now?”

Gilad didn’t answer, only began whirling his right hand in a complex pattern. Alin took that as a yes.

As the Gate opened, sending cool air flooding out from the other side, Alin heard the sound of a hunting horn.

Reluctantly, fearing what he would find, Alin turned away from the Gate to look back across the bridge.

More tribesmen, blackened shields and spears in their hands, emerged from the tunnel that Alin and Gilad had used. They had another crowd of flame-walkers with them.

Great.

Alin wrenched a bolt of light from Elysia, ignoring the strain he felt in his mind. He hurled it forward, striking one of the ant-creatures with enough force to toss it from the bridge. The wind from the open Gate behind him felt cool.

“Gilad, come on! Gate’s closing!”

Gilad ducked behind the obsidian pillar, gasping for air. “If I do...they’ll just open it again. They’ll be after you...in seconds.”

“Get that hawk to do it!” Alin said.

“I might be able to call it back without a second summoning stone,” Gilad responded, “but it’ll take time.”

“Then we fight together,” Alin said. He tried to sound determined. “At least until you can manage something.”

The Naraka Traveler shook his head. “Too risky. Grandmaster would kill me.”

“I won’t—”

Alin was going to say, ‘I won’t leave you,’ but Gilad didn’t bother listening. He spun, faster than Alin would have suspected he could, and kicked Alin in the gut.

Breath whooshed from Alin’s lungs, and he stumbled backwards.

Through the Gate.

The air around him was so cool it felt freezing, at least compared to the baking heat of Naraka. Even trying to suck in air through aching lungs, Alin could only focus on one thought: he had to get back. Back through the Gate, back to help Gilad. He lunged forward, but the vision of the smoldering red cavern faded like smoke in the wind.

Finally Alin’s lungs filled, and he shouted in frustration, passing a futile hand through empty air.

“Um...sir?” A voice said, behind him. “May I see your pass?”

Only then did it occur to Alin to wonder where he was.

Now that he took the time to notice his surroundings, Alin realized he stood in a room like some dark cathedral. He stood in the center of a circular room, roofed in a high vaulted ceiling, encircled by a dozen smooth pillars. Everything—floor, roof, pillars, walls—seemed made of the same red-streaked black stone. It had the effect of making the room look like it had survived in the aftermath of an enormous fire.

Alin turned to face the voice, trying to think of something to say. But the pale man in the purple-and-brown uniform didn’t seem significant next to what stood behind him: a tall jagged pillar of obsidian etched with golden runes. An exact twin to the one in Naraka.

The pillar, and the lack of furniture in the room, told Alin what he needed to know: this room had been built for incoming Naraka Travelers.

“Sir?” The pale man asked again, a quiver in his voice. “Your pass?”

Well, that could be a problem. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff his way past without a pass, so he might as well try playing it straight.

“I don’t have a pass,” Alin said. He shrugged. “Do I need to buy one, or...”

Malachi’s officer cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, glancing from side to side. From the edges of the room, two more soldiers that Alin hadn’t noticed stepped forward. Unlike the officer, these carried swords. And they loomed.

“Without a pass, I can’t let you out of here,” the pale officer said. “I am ordered to bring you straight to the Overlord’s Master of Household. Come along peacefully, and everything will be sorted out soon.”

The two guards already had hands on their swords, and they looked ready to charge him at any moment. Sweat glistened on their faces. The officer took one subtle step back towards the obsidian pillar.

Abruptly Alin realized how he must look. He had stepped out of a Naraka Gate, smoking and covered in ash. His once-fine blue clothes had been charred and sliced until they looked more like battle-scarred rags than an actual suit.

To the guards, he probably seemed like he had walked through fire, fought a battle, and torn open a portal between worlds to escape unscathed. And he might be an enemy.

All of that was more or less true.

“You have no authority over me,” Alin said. He turned and walked toward the door as if the armed guards didn’t exist.

“Stop, in the name of the Overlord!” the officer said. “I’ve already sent for the Travelers. Stay where you are.”

Once more, Alin tapped into the light of Elysia. To his relief, it remained as easy as ever on this side of the Gate. Part of him had worried that his difficulty in Naraka had been some failing of his, and not just because the Territories were distant.

Golden light rose from his skin like glowing smoke. The red-black walls gleamed as the room brightened. Malachi’s soldiers flinched in unison.

“I don’t have time for this,” Alin said. “Keep quiet, or I’ll have to come back.”

He walked forward again. Nobody stood in his way.

Alin marveled at their reactions. Had it only been this spring when he would have reacted the same way, helpless in the face of a Traveler? He rarely thought about those days anymore. What had he ever done before that could compare with the things he could do now?

Storming the Overlord’s stronghold with his powers, rescuing a maiden from the hands of a tyrannical Traveler. He should be afraid, he knew he should, but he wasn’t; he was excited.

Who could stand up to him now?

An old balding man with a potbelly stumbled through the open front door, one hand marked with the glowing red rune of a Naraka Traveler. “Stop right there!” he wheezed, waving his palm to begin a pattern that would call upon his Territory.

Alin summoned golden light and blasted the man back through the door. He had to step over the old man’s senseless body on his way out.

No one else tried to stop him.

CHAPTER 17:

MIDSUMMER’S EVE

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

1 Day Until Midsummer

Simon lay in the rumbling wagon bed, head pillowed on a burlap sack of grain.

“How am I supposed to find them?” he said. “It’s not like I can walk up to the Overlord and ask him.”

Otoku’s laugh was like chimes in the wind.

Poor child, she murmured in mock sympathy. Maybe you should let Chaim tell you what to do. He can keep you in a box and take you out when he needs someone to swing a sword.

“I can’t leave them here, and I can’t talk them out of going. So I might as well go with them. We’ll all be safer that way.” He wasn’t sure he believed it, but he thought he sounded certain.

So you go forth to battle lying on the back of a wagon. The brave warrior, napping his way to battle!

Simon rolled onto his side and glared at the doll. She was a little smaller than Caela, with a red silk dress and long black hair. Her painted face looked similar, as though the same artist had designed them both, but where Caela’s face showed an expression of peace, Otoku looked upon the world with a smirk.

“Did you make fun of Kai like this?” Simon asked.

Otoku’s smirk now looked like a grimace, and despite the shaking of the rickety wagon, Simon would have sworn she shuddered.

Kai never understood when he was being mocked. He hugged us, and cradled us, and stroked our hair. It was awful.

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

He stroked our hair. We need brushing occasionally, but he’s not a nine-year-old girl. There is no decency in his soul.

“Well, I always thought he was insane.”

You don’t know the half.

Over the creak of the wagons came the crack of a whip, the lowing of oxen, and the call of a man’s voice. A few other Myrians scrambled onboard the wagon, crouching down next to Simon and the boxes.

“What’s happening?” Simon asked, sitting up.

A girl of about eleven years answered in a whisper, “We’re at Bel Calem, Master Simon. They’re looking in the wagons.”

“Looking for us?” Simon asked. He reached out a hand, preparing to summon Azura.

The girl shook her head. “I don’t think so. Master Chaim and Mistress Nurita are talking to them. I think they just want to see what we’re up to.”

“If we’re not in danger,” Simon whispered back, “then why are you hiding?”

The girl’s face darkened. “I don’t want them Damascans knowing what I look like. Not till it’s too late.” Her hand drifted down to her side, where a cheap dagger was tucked into the length of rope she used as a belt. She gripped the dagger hard.

Though he didn’t quite understand why, Simon felt his heart clench.

A couple of Damascans in brown and purple uniforms glanced into the wagon, took in the suspicious Myrians, and let the canvas fall shut with bored faces. It seemed they didn’t care who came into the city.

If that was true, though, why check at all?

After a few more minutes of rumbling along, the wagon lurched to a halt. Chaim stuck his head in, motioning for Simon to come join him. Simon hurriedly snatched Otoku up and followed. The other villagers hiding in the wagon gave Simon odd looks.

Behold the conquering hero, Otoku murmured, dashing off to war with his favorite doll.

Don’t flatter yourself, Simon sent back, careful to keep from speaking aloud. You’re not my favorite.

Otoku made a sound that, even in her drifting, breezy voice, sounded like a ‘hmph.’

Give it time, she said.

The walls of Bel Calem were not as big as Simon had imagined: scarcely a dozen feet tall and not wide enough for sentries to walk atop them. That was something of a disappointment; he had always pictured grand walls big enough to block out half the sky. At least they were made of stone.

The group from Myria waited outside the walls, though the gates stood open. Chaim had circled their three wagons as best he could, giving them some degree of privacy from the city. The oxen grazed on the sparse field outside Bel Calem, while industrious boys and girls removed their yokes and rubbed them down.

“They didn’t want strange oxen inside the walls,” Chaim told Simon, as soon as they were clear of the wagon. “Made us leave the animals outside. Don’t care what we do, though.”

The bulk of the group from Myria, maybe thirty or forty all told, milled around in the center of the circled wagons. Simon followed Chaim closer.

Chaim turned toward Simon and clapped his hands together. His smile was fatherly. “So, Simon,” he said. “What now?”

Seemingly half the crowd turned to hear Simon’s answer.

With all the wit Simon could muster, he said, “What?”

Nurita joined Chaim from the crowd, a stern look upon her face and voice pitched to carry. “We’re on the Overlord’s very doorstep,” she declared, and the crowd murmured agreement. “You are our strongest sword. We have only to strike.” Simon felt a twist of unease at hearing such words spoken openly a few feet from Bel Calem’s walls.

“So...where do we go?” Simon asked. In his head, Otoku started laughing.

Chaim gestured vaguely. “Couldn’t you do something to find them? With your Traveling?”

“I don’t think so. Once we find out where they are I can fight my way in, but until we do...” Simon shrugged self-consciously. “Any ideas?”

Nurita scowled at him, obviously disappointed. Chaim looked baffled. But they recovered quickly, taking suggestions from the rest of the crowd. Soon they were discussing a plan that involved somehow finding where the captives were hidden, somehow forcing their way inside, and then somehow escaping without being torn to pieces by summoned beasts.

Simon shrunk into himself as they discussed such things without him. He could fight better than all of them put together, sure, but he had much less experience. And they had as much of a reason to recover the captives as he did. Maybe more; some of those here had lost kin to the slavers’ ropes, while Simon had not.

He had almost talked himself into giving up and waiting for Chaim to tell him what to do when a gold-armored dog bounded between the wagons. The gold plates of its armor shone even brighter than they should have in the direct sunlight, its bark somehow resounding like a great bell. Most of the villagers stumbled back en masse, crying at its sudden appearance. Some stabbed down at it with stolen Damascan swords, though their blades were turned by its armor.

The dog, a waist-high beast with white hair peeking out between the plates of its shining armor, ignored them all, circling inside the wagons and letting out more of those echoing barks. Oddly, Simon noticed that the oxen didn’t seem alarmed by the beast’s arrival, continuing to calmly chew on grass and brambles.

While the crowd was still milling and Simon was still trying to decide whether or not he should attack, Alin stepped in between two wagons.

His fine clothes—once a suit of blue, probably, and certainly more expensive than Alin had ever before owned—had gone through a forest of thorns and a house fire. Possibly at the same time. The ash streaked on his face looked like war paint, and he strode into their midst like a battle-scarred king among his subjects.

The Myrians cheered when they saw him. A few fell to their knees.

“Brothers and sisters!” Alin exclaimed, throwing out his arms. “Welcome! I can’t tell you what good it does my heart, seeing you here today.”

Simon almost gagged at the speech. Alin was speaking like he imagined a hero would in one of his stories. By all rights the other villagers should recognize it and laugh him away. Judging by their faces, though, they were eating out of his hand.

“Alin,” Chaim called, “we’re ready. They took us captive, but we escaped. We are armed and ready to stand against the Overlord.”

Nurita shouldered her way to stand beside him. “And Simon’s a Traveler now, apparently.” She pointed a finger straight at him.

Now why had she said that? Simon hunched his shoulders and looked away from Alin’s disbelieving glance.

“Really?” Alin asked politely. “Which Territory, Simon?”

“Valinhall,” Simon responded. Why was he feeling defensive? He was a Traveler. He was! He had earned it! But for some reason he felt like a child propping up a disguise that the adults would soon see through. It made him angry.

“I’ve never heard of that one,” Alin said.

And how would you? Simon thought. Alin was talking like he had had a fancy education in the ways of Travelers, but he had grown up a quarter mile away from the hut where Simon had been born. Alin didn’t know anything more than Simon did.

But Simon kept his mouth shut. Otoku laughed again, scornfully.

“Will you be able to fight, when the time comes?” Alin asked.

“Yes,” Simon responded. He offered nothing more. He didn’t have to prove himself to Alin.

Alin looked doubtful, but he shrugged and wiped the doubt from his face, smiling instead. “Good enough for me,” he said.

***

Alin knelt by Keanos, reaching between the plates of golden armor to ruffle the hound’s ears. The beast leaned into Alin’s hand, eyes half-closed, glowing with pleasure.

“Seek,” Alin said softly, and Keanos let out one ringing bark before trotting off through the city gates.

The humans followed, walking together between the guards. The guards glanced at each other but let them pass, and Alin heaved a relieved sigh. He hadn’t been sure they would be allowed to enter. Nurita had wisely insisted that the villagers limit themselves to whatever weapons they could hide, since a bunch of country folk marching into the city carrying weapons might well draw the wrong kind of attention. They should be safe, since there was nothing obviously dangerous about their group, but who knew what the guards would notice?

And then there was Keanos. Alin had never seen Bel Calem before, but he suspected glowing gold-armored dogs weren’t common. As the hound leaped over the stone-paved streets of the city, weaving his way through the crowd with his nose pressed to the ground, people noticed. They gasped, shouted, or hurried out of the way. One woman with a woven basket in her hands turned, caught a glimpse of the glowing hound, and shrieked, tossing her basket into the air. Figs, olives, and tiny round loaves of bread rolled all over the street.

They had followed the dog for only ten minutes when two soldiers in purple-and-brown ducked in out of a side street, carrying long spears. Alin braced himself for a fight, reaching out to Elysia and stopping a hair’s breadth from calling its power. If they attacked, he would be ready.

The helmeted soldiers surveyed the procession of Myrians and stepped back against the wall of a nearby shop to let them pass. As Keanos trotted past them, they kept their eyes fixed on the opposite side of the street.

Alin kept walking after the hound, his confidence growing. The guards clearly recognized the dog as Traveler work, and had decided to keep their hands out of the matter.

Wise decision, Alin thought, and ignored the soldiers as he marched past. He didn’t so much as turn to look in their direction.

Keanos finally stopped almost an hour later, plopping down on his haunches in front of an ordinary-looking house, the sort that Alin had seen a hundred times since passing through the Bel Calem gates. It was a simple cube, made of pale yellow bricks, with a door of plain wood and a single window covered by a red-patterned curtain.

“This is it?” Simon asked. He moved up to stand next to Alin, doubt showing in every line of his face.

Alin suppressed a twinge of annoyance. Who was Simon to doubt the hound’s tracking? Simon certainly hadn’t done anything to help. “Yes,” he said. “Keanos found someone from our village inside that house. Isn’t that right, boy?”

Keanos gave another ringing bark. A few women who had been chatting across the street stopped, startled, and turned to look.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Simon asked. He stepped forward and knocked on the door.

“Just a moment!” a woman called from inside the house. “Just...wait right there!”

Simon made as if to open the door anyway, but Alin gestured him back. They didn’t need a hotheaded response, but a mature discussion. Besides, Alin was confident that he alone could handle any trouble that might be waiting inside. It wouldn’t hurt to show this woman a little courtesy.

After a few more seconds, in which Alin heard the clatter of furniture and the sounds of someone muttering to herself, a woman tore open her door. Strands of white hair stuck out in all directions from underneath a red kerchief, and the wide-eyed expression of fear on her wrinkled face suggested she thought they were there to rob her.

“May I help you?” she asked. Her voice creaked and trembled.

Alin cleared his throat, embarrassed. This had to be the wrong house. But Keanos sat there on his haunches, staring into the open doorway as though the woman didn’t exist. How was he supposed to handle this?

You’re the mighty Traveler now, he thought. Act like it.

But he had hesitated too long. The woman’s eyes found the crowd behind him and widened even further. But that hardly touched her reaction when she noticed the bright gold-armored dog at her feet.

“Seven stones,” she whispered. “What is that? Who are you? Did the Overlord send you?”

Behind Alin, Simon muttered something that sounded like “...getting really sick of that.”

Alin put on what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Ma’am, is there anyone else at home? Anybody else in the house?”

She half-covered her mouth with one hand and glanced behind her, as though she thought his words might have summoned a thief into her home.

“No,” she said. “I never had any children. What is this about?”

Alin cast about in his mind for an innocent reason that might bring a crowd of thirty country villagers to a city woman’s door. He came up empty-handed. What he said instead was, “We’re looking for some friends of ours.”

The woman gasped, which told Alin what he needed to know. This woman was hiding something. But instead of admitting her guilt or trying to run, she shook her head vigorously.

“No one like that here. No one but me.”

“You won’t mind, then,” Alin said gently, “if we come in and check?”

“Of course not,” she replied, and stood to one side.

There was no way the entire group could squeeze into a house meant for one family. Alin followed Keanos, who sniffed around every corner of the floor with intense fascination. Simon came in afterwards, since there was nothing Alin could do short of rudeness to keep him out, and Chaim and Nurita followed. Stern words from Nurita served to keep everyone else in the street.

From the start, Alin could tell they had the wrong place. The house was all one room, stone floors covered in a layer of rugs, with a single reed mat in the back corner for sleeping. A second window, which he hadn’t seen from the front, sat in the side wall and looked out on a dirty alley. A shaky table stood in one corner, covered in pots, pans, and half-chopped vegetables. What possessions she owned were meager, even by the standards of Myria.

Maybe the old woman hadn’t been hiding anything. It wasn’t like there was anywhere to stow prisoners in this hut.

Nonetheless, Alin didn’t let that slow him down, glancing out of the side window and in each corner, just in case. Chaim lifted the few pieces of furniture, peering at the floor underneath. Nurita kept up a stream of questions directed at the woman, though she didn’t seem to be getting any helpful answers.

Simon, on the other hand, lounged against one wall. Sulking, probably, though his head was cocked as if he were listening. After a moment he raised one hand to look at—a doll? A little girl’s doll? Where had Simon found that?

Well, it wasn’t important now. He’d ask later.

It only took the three of them about five minutes to realize the woman wasn’t hiding anything. Keanos ran around the floor in apparent confusion, still following the scent.

The house’s owner stood in the center of the room, patting her hair in a vain attempt to keep it in place. Her eyes bounced around like she was trying to find a place to run.

Alin walked up to her. “We’re sorry for our poor manners, and we will leave as soon as we can. Have you heard of the group we’re looking for? There would be about ten of them. Villagers, like us. Men and women both.”

“Haven’t seen anybody new around here,” the woman responded. “Please, take your dog and go. My husband will be back soon.”

“We will,” Alin promised. Embarrassment flooded him, and he fought to keep it from showing on his face. The party from Myria had followed him, trusting in his abilities, and he had let them down. He would look useless.

“Hold on a minute,” Simon said. He kept leaning against the wall by the door, arms folded, but his eyes stuck to the woman. “Ma’am, would you move?”

Alin was about to say something to shut Simon up—gently, since he didn’t want this looking like a child’s fight—but the woman’s face went visibly pale. And she didn’t move her feet from the rug.

“I can’t,” she said, and Alin realized that Simon had been right.

“What’s under the rug?” Alin asked. She glanced from side to side, looking for a way out, and caught a glimpse out the window at the same time Alin did. Two uniformed soldiers in Malachi’s colors were walking by, patrolling the streets for one reason or another.

Alin lunged forward to grab the woman, to stop her from shouting, but there was nothing he could do. He wouldn’t make it in time. She filled her lungs, preparing to scream.

Then Simon was there, behind her, one hand clapped over the woman’s mouth.

“Shush,” he whispered into her ear. “Relax.” Her eyes strained so far to the side that almost nothing showed but the whites, and Alin got the impression she was trying to see behind her without turning her head. But she didn’t even whimper against Simon’s restraining hand.

Nurita walked over to the window and casually drew the curtain so that the soldiers wouldn’t happen to see anything. Alin looked back out the doorway, hoping the rest of the Myrians had been smart enough to avoid standing around in a crowd. They had, lounging in much smaller groups on either side of the street, seemingly engaged in taking in the sights or haggling with a street peddler. The soldiers took a quick look around, since the street was still more crowded than they were probably used to seeing it, but in the end they walked away.

Alin turned his attention back to Simon. “How did you do that?” he asked. He tried to make his voice demanding, but he was afraid he sounded impressed.

“Do what?” Simon asked, though Alin could tell that he knew full well.

“How did you get there before me? You were way over there.”

“We Travelers have to have our secrets,” Simon said gravely. “You understand.”

Alin glared, but let it drop. Simon could be so...irritating, sometimes. But the mature response was to leave it alone.

“In a moment,” Alin said to the woman, “my friend is going to take his hand away. If you shout, or try to run, we’ll have to hurt you. Stay quiet and we can all be friends. Understand?”

The woman nodded enthusiastically, kerchief-covered hair bobbing, and Simon removed his hand.

“You’re Travelers?” the woman asked. Her voice was no more than a whisper.

Alin nodded, and she visibly relaxed.

“That explains the...” She gestured one-handed at the gold-armored hound sniffing around her house. “I thought to my self, ‘who would have a great big glowing dog?’ and I thought it had to be...but then you didn’t say what you were supposed to, and I wasn’t sure.”

“Move the rug,” Simon said. The woman stepped off and dragged the rug aside, one-handed, holding her other hand against her back as if it pained her.

Like the rest of the bare floor, this patch was made of stone blocks. But the block that had been covered by this particular rug didn’t fit quite as closely with its fellows. There was enough of a gap between one stone and another that one might be able to slip something between. Alin nudged it with his toe, and it didn’t budge.

“I can’t open it,” the woman said quickly. “I can’t. It takes—”

She was interrupted by Simon bending down and slipping his fingers into the crack, lifting the stone block out with one hand. It was a rectangular chunk of rock, two feet to a side and eight inches thick, that Alin would have wanted to lever out with two men and some tools. But Simon lifted it easily in one hand and set it to the side.

“Seven stones,” the woman said again. “Can all you Travelers do that?”

Alin did his best not to look as awestruck as everyone else. “As well as many other things,” he said. Simon snorted without looking up, but the woman began patting her hair again.

Underneath the block of stone was a hinged lid of wood. When Simon pulled it open, someone down below gave a weak scream. Only one voice. Where were the others? Or were they too scared to scream?

Maker above. What had happened to them?

“They moved them here about three days ago,” the old woman said, “when they thought somebody might come looking. I didn’t have any choice. You have to believe me. I didn’t have a choice.”

She was shaking, now, as if she thought they would beat her. Alin gave her no sign whether or not he would hold her responsible, simply conjured a ball of golden light and held it above the trap door so it shone down into the darkness. She flinched away from that as if from a bloody knife, wrapping both arms around herself.

The light revealed a rickety ladder set into the side of the hole, and a glimpse of a pair of grimy hands far below. Hands bound in thick, coarse rope.

Alin moved to head down the ladder himself, but he wasn’t fast enough. Simon had already jumped.

***

They found only one person bound in that filthy basement: Leah’s half-sister.

Simon knew her. Not well, true, but he had grown up around Nurita’s family even before Leah had moved to the village. Seeing this girl cringing, broken, and dirty, hurt. But what hurt worse was the fact that there were nine captives missing.

Out of ten captives, one remained. And Leah wasn’t here. Simon knew that shouldn’t matter, that getting Leah back didn’t matter any more than any of the others. But somehow he couldn’t feel like he had succeeded until he saw Leah free.

And now she wasn’t here. His stomach twisted in knots.

Once the girl—Simon couldn’t remember her name, except that she was Nurita’s niece and Leah’s sister—had been freed, watered, and brought up the ladder, she still wouldn’t speak for fear that the Damascan soldiers would return. Only once her aunt had convinced her that she was safe, that she would be taken out of the city and returned home, did she tell her story.

She spoke of being taken through a moonlit wasteland, probably someone’s Territory. She told about sacrifices chosen each day at noon, and how the soldiers said that some of them had a chance to live, but none of them had believed that. She spoke of being beaten, threatened, neglected.

Only after she had spoken for almost half an hour did she tell Simon what he wanted to know.

“They killed the others,” she said, her voice shaking. “Every once in a while they’d come take somebody...they killed them. They told us they did, and nobody ever came back. Everybody else is dead, Simon. They’re dead.

“But that’s not what happened to Leah.”

Simon heard Alin draw in a sharp breath. He stopped leaning against the wall, walking over to join Simon.

“What did happen to Leah?” Alin asked, before Simon could push him away.

The girl shook her head. “She’s different, somehow. They took her too, but they didn’t kill her. I don’t think they ever even beat her. Alin, they treated her like she was somebody important.”

“What do you mean, important?” Simon asked.

Right on top of him, Alin asked her, “Rutha, where is she?”

Rutha, right, that was her name. Simon had always thought of her as Leah’s sister, or Nurita’s niece.

Rutha glanced at Simon, but replied to Alin. Probably because he had remembered her name. “The Overlord took her himself. I think they brought her to the Overlord’s house. That’s what it sounded like they would do.”

Simon clenched his fist, wishing for Azura’s hilt in his hand. Summoning it in a house this small and crowded would kill somebody, but part of him still wanted the comfort of steel in his hand. The Overlord had taken a personal interest in Leah. Why?

Alin stood up and dusted himself off, visibly gathering himself for a speech. “Chaim, Nurita,” he said, and they came. Simon couldn’t believe it—Nurita should have slapped him for his tone alone—but they came.

“Take everyone back out of the city,” Alin said. “I’m going in for Leah.”

They protested, but Alin wouldn’t hear it. He held up a hand to stop their words. “I don’t need your help. I may need to fight the Overlord himself, and in that fight you won’t be able to help me. Besides, someone needs to get Rutha back safely. Don’t worry, Simon will protect you.”

Simon rose to his feet. “I’ll do what?”

“They need someone to keep them safe on their way out of Bel Calem,” Alin said calmly. “I don’t know much about this Hall Territory, but I’m sure it will be enough to get the job done. Besides, any Traveler is better than none.”

There was so much to hate in that sentence that Simon felt anger choke his words off for a moment. When he finally got hold of himself again, he said, “I don’t care what they need. I’m going for Leah. You want to protect them so bad, you do it.”

Alin sighed, as if he were a parent facing down an unruly child. He locked gazes with Simon and spoke in a low, earnest voice. “Simon, you and I can do things that nobody else here can do. That means we’re responsible for their safety. Do you understand? It’s like we’re soldiers, Simon, and we need to keep the ordinary people safe. But sometimes soldiers have to learn to take orders.”

Alin put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, in what he no doubt imagined to be a comforting gesture. “I’m ordering you to take them out of the city, Simon. I know you’re brave enough to go face the Overlord with me, and I admire that. I do. But I need somebody to take care of them, and you’re the only one I’ve got.”

For the next few seconds, Simon couldn’t see anything past an image of his fist splitting Alin’s lip. When his vision cleared, he twisted his mouth into a sheepish smile. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Let her know I wanted to come along, will you?”

Alin nodded gravely. “I’ll make sure she knows.”

“Thanks.”

After clasping hands with Chaim and enduring a few last-minute words of advice from Nurita, Alin walked out of the hut. That armored dog let out another of those piercing barks and followed.

“Okay then,” Simon said, as soon as Alin and his hound had left. “You two can get everybody back to Myria on your own, can’t you?”

Nurita and Chaim shared a glance.

“Alin told you to stay put, young man,” Nurita said.

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that. What right does he have, giving me orders?”

Chaim shrugged. “In that case, yes, we can get everybody back fine, assuming we don’t run into any trouble. Tell you the truth, I’d be more comfortable if we had you along. In case anything happens.”

Simon looked at the Damascan woman, huddled in the corner of her house, trying to avoid notice. He didn’t spare a thought for her; his mind raced ahead, thinking of everything he still had left to do.

“Honestly, sir,” Simon said, “you’re probably safer without us. I get the feeling we’re about to make a lot of noise.”

CHAPTER 18:

CONVERGENCE

Minutes after he left Chaim and Nurita, Simon stepped through a Gate into the entry room. He lifted Azura up, resting it on the wooden rack marked with the number seven.

A noise from the hallway grabbed his attention, and he nearly snatched Azura back.

So jumpy, Otoku murmured. He had almost forgotten her back at the house in Bel Calem, and she wasn’t best pleased with him for that.

“I have good reason,” Simon said. “Everything in this house wants to kill me.”

Not everything. That sofa by the wall is calm enough, for now. But I’ve heard it can smell fear.

Simon gave up worrying and walked into the hall. If there had actually been any danger, Otoku would have warned him instead of joking around. Probably.

A gleaming silver swordpoint lunged from further down the hallway as soon as he opened the door, stabbing toward his face. He managed to throw himself to one side in time to avoid losing an eye. He crashed heavily against the wall of the hallway.

“Otoku,” Simon gasped.

The doll laughed.

The sword was clearly too long to swing in the narrow hallway, so the swordsman drew back for another thrust. Simon took that instant to flood his lungs with Nye essence.

His breath cooled, his body drifting up as though his feet were about to leave the floor. The world slowed down.

When the point of the sword came at him this time, he slapped it away with the palm of his hand and stepped in to confront the swordsman.

Only, it wasn’t a swordsman. Andra Agnos stood in the hall, both feet firmly planted, gripping a sword that looked like a much-shorter version of Azura. Its blade was stained black in several places, in a pattern that made it look like it had been splattered with ink. Through the Nye essence, Simon watched her expression slide from determination to surprise. She pulled her sword back, though with the world slowed, it looked like she was pulling it out of thick mud. Her lips began to form a word, and Simon released his power.

The world lurched back to normal speed.

“Simon, you’re back! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see it was you. Are you okay?”

Before responding, Simon lifted Otoku and stared her in the eyes. “I bet you thought that was funny, didn’t you?”

Hilarious, yes, Otoku responded. What did you want me to say? ‘Oh, Simon, watch out! There’s a little girl in there! You might be in danger!’

Andra glanced in confusion from Simon to the doll. “What? No, I wasn’t trying to be funny. I really didn’t know it was you.” Her eyes gained a mischievous sparkle. “But I wish my brother could have seen you crash into the wall. Like you were tripping over your own feet.”

“I didn’t mean you,” Simon began, but gave it up. “Never mind. Is everybody still okay?”

She gave him a mocking smile. “Same as yesterday, Simon. I know it’s dangerous here, but we’re doing fine. You don’t have to keep checking on us. And stop trying to dodge me: who were you talking to?”

“Oh, you know, no one. Who says I was talking to anyone? Is Erastes around?”

Andra wasn’t willing to let the subject go that easily. “Is that a doll? Were you talking to the doll?”

“Well, I...yes,” Simon said. That sounded lame, so he tried again. “It’s a talking doll.”

Andra’s eyes brightened. “Oh! She must be your advisor.”

Simon was a little taken aback. She had learned quickly, if she knew about advisors already. “Yeah, actually, she is.”

“Great!” Andra touched Otoku’s face with a finger. “You can talk out loud. You don’t have to pretend around me.” She poked the doll again.

In Simon’s head, Otoku let out a strangled noise. Tell her to stop that! If she touches me again, I’m feeding her to the sofa.

“She says to stop poking her,” Simon translated. Andra’s face grew confused.

“But she didn’t say anything,” Andra said.

“That’s how they talk. I sort of hear them in my head.”

Andra looked doubtful, but she shrugged. “Huh. That’s strange. Mine will talk to anybody who stands still long enough to listen.”

“Yours?”

A cloth bundle drifted out from the tenth bedroom, and for an instant Simon thought it was some sort of tiny, floating version of a Nye. On closer inspection, it seemed more like a ghost made of cloth. Its head looked like a ball of yarn wrapped in a gray rag; its eyes were made of silver buttons, its lips of black string. It was tied off underneath its head, and the rest of its body was just a skirt of hanging cloth that swung underneath it as it flew through the air.

As Simon stared, it opened its lips and spoke. “Well, Andra, hello. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your, hmmm, friend?”

“Introduce you?” Andra asked.

“Yes,” Simon said. “I haven’t met very many other advisors.”

“Oh, okay. Simon, this is—”

“Aaahhh,” the advisor breathed, interrupting Andra. “You must be the new, ah, young one of Kai’s. Irresponsible of him, hmmm, don’t you think?”

“—Manyu,” Andra finished. “Manyu, Simon.”

Slowly, Simon put together some things in his head. He looked once again at Andra’s sword, which she held loosely at her side. “If you’ve got an advisor...” he said aloud. “That’s a Dragon’s Fang? You got one that fast?”

“Oh yeah! Chaka says I got it much faster than you did.” Simon winced. “Its name is...” She frowned and turned to Manyu. “Manyu, what’s its name?”

The cloth ghost’s lips made a perfectly round O. “Andra, hmmm, I’m surprised at you! Not knowing the name of your own sword! That would be like this, ahhh, boy not knowing the names of his dolls.”

Otoku chuckled in Simon’s head. You do know all our names, don’t you? she said.

There are like fifty of you, Simon sent back. Give me time.

Andra rolled her eyes at her own advisor. “Just tell me.”

“You have the honor to possess, ahhh, Seijan, the tenth Fang forged by the founder of our House.”

“I’m not going to remember that,” Andra said.

Manyu floated over to Simon’s face, and Simon took a discreet step back. “You see, this is why the girl is not a full, hmmm, Traveler yet.”

“Hey!” Andra said.

“Since she failed to tell you, ahhh, the whole truth, I will do so. She has the sword, but none of the other, hmmm, gifts. She has not yet proven herself worthy. As of now, she can only open her bedroom, the garden, and the bath.”

Simon’s pride recovered a little. At least she hadn’t done in a week what had taken him months. “Andra, I’m actually here to talk to the Nye. Have you seen any around?”

She frowned. “Who?”

“The black robes that keep trying to strangle you.”

Andra’s hand rose to her throat and she half-turned, as though expecting someone to choke her. “What? What are you talking about?”

Simon looked to Manyu, who cleared his throat apologetically. “The Eldest was quite, hmmm, pleased to have new humans in the House. I believe he did not want to scare them off.”

“You can’t be serious. They tried to kill me before I was in here five minutes!”

“Is someone going to try and strangle us?” Andra asked.

Manyu bobbed in midair, a gesture that Simon couldn’t quite interpret. “The Eldest was testing you, apprentice. He wanted to see if you had the, ahhh, correct potential.”

Simon nodded. “I guess that makes sense.” It didn’t quite balance the scales, but the Eldest had been testing him. He could accept that.

“And of course, hmmm, Chaka doesn’t like you. He may have influenced some of the more, hmmm, impressionable Nye to try and drive you out. So to speak.”

A hunched shadow appeared behind Andra. A harsh voice whispered, “That is a fair way to say it.”

Andra shrieked and whirled her blade around, but the Nye Eldest dodged it easily. The sword stuck in the doorframe of the tenth bedroom.

The Eldest let out a raspy chuckle. “I am sorry, child. That was cruel. Do not worry about the door. We will fix it tonight.”

The faded Nye waved one long sleeve in Manyu’s direction, and the advisor dipped respectfully in the air before floating back into the tenth bedroom. He even managed to shut the door somehow, though Simon would have expected it to be far too heavy for the little cloth puppet.

“Eldest,” Simon said, bowing slightly. “Did Chaka try to have me driven out?”

“We did not see that you had much potential, son of Kalman,” the Eldest Nye replied. Andra glanced between his empty hood and Simon’s face, plainly trying to decide whether to run.

“In truth,” the Eldest continued, “Chaka still does not see your potential. But look!” One empty black sleeve gestured toward Andra. “Five healthy sons and daughters you bring to us, and one of them will carry Seijan into the world. I am very pleased with you. You have held our bargain well.”

The Eldest was responding better than Simon had hoped, but he still decided to step carefully. “Thank you, sir. Your essence has kept me alive more times than I can count.”

The worn, faded hood cocked to one side in a gesture reminiscent of Kai at his most curious. Then the Eldest flowed forward, around Andra, until he stood peering up into Simon’s face. Simon resisted the urge to look away.

“You did not come here to listen to my compliments,” the Nye rasped. “Nor even to check upon the girl. You have a request?”

Simon nodded, less sure than he had been a moment before.

“Speak it,” the Eldest said.

“I’m in a city—well, I mean, in the real world I am—and I need to save this girl. She’s being held prisoner, but I don’t know where. I thought you might know how to find out.”

Andra grinned. “You’re saving a maiden in peril? Real peril? How heroic.”

She didn’t have to mock him like that. Putting it that way, he sounded like a child, not a Traveler on a rescue mission. “I saved you, didn’t I?” he said.

“That’s true,” she acknowledged. “Then again, I suppose I’ll be saving people too, soon. Not maidens, though, I guess. Princes. Riding in and saving captive princes from...whatever it is that takes princes captive. This girl isn’t a princess, is she?”

“Um, no,” Simon said, having failed to follow Andra’s half of the conversation.

“That’s too bad,” Andra said. “You should aim higher next time.”

The Nye Eldest cackled. “It has been too long since I watched children playing.”

Children? Simon glared into the black hood. “Can you help me or not?”

“One condition,” the Eldest said. He flourished one sleeve like a juggler pulling a ball out of thin air, and then he held a sheet of black cloth. It might have been a blanket, or some kind of curtain.

“What’s that for?” Simon asked.

“For you,” the Nye said. Simon took it hesitantly. He had chosen to trust the Eldest, but there was every chance this cloth might come to life and try to strangle him.

Simon held the cloth up gingerly, carefully spreading it out in front of him.

It was a cloak.

A hooded black cloak, long enough so that when it hung from Simon’s shoulders it wouldn’t quite brush the ground. Simon tried to picture himself wearing the cloak, but the thought was too ridiculous. In Myria, people only wore cloaks during cold or harsh weather, and never a cloak of solid black. He would look like a thief, sneaking around in an outfit like this. And how was he supposed to fight, with this thing flapping in the wind and binding his arms?

“If you show up wearing that, this girl will think you’re there to kidnap her,” Andra said.

Simon looked past the cloak, over to the Nye eldest, who somehow managed to look expectant. Simon would have to let him down easily. “I appreciate the thought,” he began, “but I—”

“I have honored you,” the Eldest rasped. “This is the cloak of the Nye. It is a mark of our bargain, and you will wear it. Unless you are ashamed of us.”

Simon felt a cold chain at his throat.

For a moment he thought he was remembering the sensation, until he tried to look down and felt his chin pressing against links of iron. There was another Nye standing behind him, holding chains around his throat in a metal noose.

His first reaction was anger. How dare they? If they want to make this a fight, I’ll give them a fight.

But that was childish. There was no reason to risk his life, and Andra’s, when simple cooperation would get him what he wanted.

Andra, however, didn’t seem to agree.

An instant after the chains appeared around Simon’s neck, Andra’s sword flashed at the Nye standing behind him.

It was hard to move without bruising his throat on the Nye’s chain, but Simon managed to get one hand up and knock Andra’s wrist back, throwing her strike wide.

“It’s okay,” Simon said. He looked back at the Eldest, who seemed to be chuckling silently. “I’ll wear the thing.”

The chain slid slowly away, over his shoulder, like an ice-cold snake retreating.

The Eldest nodded. “Then my help is yours.”

The Nye behind Simon stepped forward, bowing before his Eldest, who seemed to ignore him.

“Open a Gate back to your city,” the Eldest said to Simon. “Then give this one ten minutes.” The younger Nye rose to his full height—almost a full head taller than Simon—and then both black-wrapped men began to glide down the hall toward the entry room.

Simon hurried to catch up. “Okay, well, her name is Leah. She’s a little shorter than me, with dark hair—”

The Eldest slashed a sleeve through the air. “Not necessary.”

“I was telling him what she looks like.”

“Not necessary. This one is very good.”

Simon believed him. He walked over to the wall, where Azura rested on a wooden rack. Briefly he wondered if Azura materialized there whenever he let it dissipate, or whether the Nye made sure that it was carefully racked as soon as it appeared. That didn’t matter to him, he supposed, but it showed how little he knew about the real workings of Valinhall.

Simon took Azura down from the rack and began drawing it slowly down the air, stretching his mind through the rent to Bel Calem. A line of color followed the tip of the sword as it steadily descended, slicing the air in two.

“I don’t understand,” Simon said as he continued to work. “He doesn’t know where she is or what she looks like. How is he supposed to find her? How will he even know which girl I’m looking for?”

“That is how good he is,” the Eldest responded. Simon decided to accept it. He had less than two feet of a Gate revealed, so that the whole of the Gate only stretched from slightly above his head to his chin, when the Eldest said “Go” and the other Nye flowed forward.

It was vaguely disgusting, actually, watching a man-sized robe deflate and flow through a Gate not much bigger than a melon. He had to implode in streams of cloth and shadow and squeeze himself through, like a snake slithering through a knothole.

“Wow,” Andra breathed. She sounded in awe. “When do we learn how to do that?”

***

As Alin wandered deeper into the city, he became more and more certain that his well of good fortune was about to run dry.

Where the houses were mostly pale brick boxes, no one had questioned a man who was obviously a Traveler following his conjured golden hound. Farther in, where the houses were just as often wood or stone as brick, people began to call out to him, to ask him where he was headed, and if he was on some business of the Overlord’s. Typically a display of gold light bursting in the air was enough to earn him some silence. Or at least applause. But here, closer to the center of Bel Calem, where everything was made of imported woods and rare stones and precious metals, no one would be intimidated by a nameless Traveler.

He actually saw a few native Travelers as he followed Keanos deeper into the heart of the city. One of the first things his tutors had taught him was how to identify the different stripes of Traveler, so he was able to identify the first two he passed as hailing from Avernus and Asphodel. The first glared at him, her face almost entirely covered in feathers, and looked as if she would march up and question him about his dog. He hid behind a display of confidence, nodding to her as if in greeting and never slowing. The Asphodel Traveler simply smiled at him and gave him a curtsy, never taking her eyes from the pavement. Not much trouble there, but then, according to the other Travelers from Enosh, Asphodels never made much trouble.

The third Traveler he passed was a pudgy older man in the burnt red robes of Naraka. He was panting and leaning against a wall for support, and looked like he had come out the wrong end of a bar brawl. A fresh bruise marred one side of his face, and his scalp oozed a trickle of blood.

Then his eyes met Alin’s, and widened. Alin drew in a breath; it was the old Traveler from the Naraka temple, the one he had blasted into the wall. Come to think of it, he probably should have handled that better.

On pure fear, he drew a globe of golden light into his palm. The gold-armored hound growled and crouched, ready to attack at Alin’s word.

The old man raised one crimson-marked hand into the air, and Alin tensed, readying himself to meet the attack.

Then the man threw his other hand up beside it, screaming, “I surrender! Spare me! Help, Traveler! Enemy Traveler! Don’t kill me!” He continued screaming as he hurried away.

Alin stood there in the street, frozen, holding a ball of deadly light in one hand, and feeling like a painted fool.

For a second, the city continued as if no one had heard. Silence flooded in, then the general bustle of the city, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Alin relaxed. Maybe this wasn’t that far from ordinary in Bel Calem.

Then great bells began pealing from every corner of the city in a deafening voice that drowned out all ordinary sounds. Keanos began to bark in competition.

A burning comet appeared in the skies over the city, flaring in red and orange as it plummeted down. Alin had only a moment to think Here! It’s headed here! before the fireball smashed into the streets in an explosion that dwarfed even the bells. A cloud of dust and bricks shot out in every direction, and only a quick shield of golden light stopped some of them from crashing into Alin’s face with bone-smashing force.

Out of the resulting dust cloud a night-black crocodile’s face rose on a long, scaly neck. Its body was all but invisible in the cloud, but it stretched out two long, serpentine limbs that reached from one side of the street to another. Its ruby eyes locked on Alin, and it shrieked out a challenge. As it did, all of its scales burst simultaneously into searing flame, so that it was wearing a cloak of pure fire.

Wreathed in flame, the creature rushed forward, barreling toward Alin.

Maybe, Alin thought, in the last instants before he released his power, I should have tried sneaking in.

***

In the end, it hadn’t taken the Nye ten minutes. It had only taken him three. Simon counted.

When he returned, he led Simon directly to where Leah was being held captive. To the Nye, directly meant directly: Simon had to hold on to Nye essence and liquid steel almost constantly as he followed the shadow over rooftops and through locked fences as often as down the street.

The long black cloak billowed behind him as he ran along the tiled roofs of Bel Calem, flapping like a flag as he leaped over the gaps between houses. Once, as he leaped from one rooftop to another, his cloak snagged on a weathervane. It snapped tight, pulling him down to slam against the hard tiles of the roof.

Simon scrambled to his feet as soon as possible, freeing the cloak from the weathervane and feeling his face flush.

“This is why you don’t wear cloaks,” Simon muttered.

Nearby, a woman burst out laughing. A gray-haired grandmother in the building next door peered out her window at him, a basket of laundry tucked under one arm. She laughed again, pointing with her free hand straight at him.

Simon ran after the Nye, who was rapidly vanishing into the distance. His face felt like a bonfire.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that they were headed for the center of the city, where he had always heard the Overlord made his home. He didn’t know which of those palaces belonged to Malachi, but it didn’t matter; if the Nye led him straight to Leah, he would never need to know the identity of the house’s owner. They could leave, hopefully without Malachi ever knowing Simon had been there.

Once, as he dashed along a roof of red clay tiles, every bell in the city seemed to start ringing at once. He was nearly startled off the roof, and had to grab onto a nearby chimney to regain his balance. Was that sound some kind of alarm? Had he been spotted? How had they known to look for him up here? Maybe there had been some kind of conjured guardian, some invisible sentry set by a Traveler to watch for invasion from the rooftops.

Then he saw the explosion a few streets over, watched dust rise like smoke followed by a shriek and a rising flame. Someone shouted, and he heard a sound like steel on steel. Was there someone fighting down there, right next to a burning building?

“Huh,” he said to himself. “Sure glad that’s not me.”

He briefly considered going to check it out, but the shadow of his Nye guide had grown distant, and he would need to press himself to catch up. He hurried forward, following the black robe.

The Nye led him to a building that towered over its neighbors. It was built chiefly of some dark wood, and its huge windows were made of purple glass. Simon stared at that a moment. Purple glass? He thought. Why does glass need to have a color? It’s glass. He stared for only a few seconds before following the Nye over its low stone wall and into a garden. The building didn’t look like a palace to him, or anywhere that people would live; it looked more like a cathedral. But then, he had never seen a palace or a cathedral, and he decided it didn’t matter in any case.

The Nye turned toward a tower, pointing a black-gloved hand toward the window at the top.

“The highest window of the tallest tower,” Simon muttered. “Naturally. I’m never going to be able to tell this story to anyone. They’ll laugh in my face.”

Well, it does sound ridiculous, when you put it that way, Otoku put in from the back of his belt, where he had tied her.

“You’re still here? I meant to leave you back in the House.”

Oh, poor baby, Otoku said. You can still bring me back, you know. But when you die because you didn’t get my help, don’t come crying to me.

“So are you going to come with us,” Simon said to the Nye, “or...” he let the rest of the sentence die. Where the Nye had stood, he now saw only the garden.

Don’t feel too bad about that. The Nye can’t stay out of the House for too long. They’re bound to it.

Really? Simon sent.

Yes. Probably. That’s what we’ve always assumed, anyway, and they’ve never said any different.

Simon began looking for the best handholds on the side of the tower. So can they stay away from the House, or not?

They never do leave, Otoku said. That’s good enough for me. Who knows anything about the Nye for sure?

Simon sighed, both in his head and out loud, and checked his wrists. The shadow-chains had not yet crept past his hands, so he should be able to draw on his powers for as long as possible. He wouldn’t have to risk Incarnation, whatever that was, so long as he kept his power to a reasonable level.

Reaching out to Valinhall, he called the strength of steel and the speed of the Nye. Cold power flowed through him.

A heavyset woman in an apron opened a nearby door and saw him standing there, alone in the garden. “You, boy. What did we tell—”

Simon leaped at the tower, and the woman swallowed whatever she was going to say in a shriek.

***

There was some sort of wooden lattice covering one side of the house, ivy laced thickly through and around it. As Simon slammed against the side of the tower, he grabbed a double handful of the wood and ivy, hoping desperately that it would hold him.

Thanks to Benson’s steel, he barely felt the impact against the wall, and he was sure that falling all the way to the ground wouldn’t hurt much either. But if he fell after he had jumped up so dramatically, Otoku would torment him till his deathbed.

The grip under his left hand tore away, giving him a frantic moment to consider the distance to the ground, almost twenty feet down. But though the wood and vines in his right hand creaked and cracked dangerously, they held. He managed to find another handhold on his left and pulled himself up.

After only a few seconds of careful climbing, Simon managed to haul himself onto the sill of a purple window even taller than he was. He tried to look inside, but the dark glass was so thick he could only make out vague shapes inside, none moving. Probably furniture. He put the room from his mind. The windowsill was wide enough that he could stand, but not so large that he wasn’t a little nervous. Besides, he was never quite sure how long the steel would last. The freezing torrent through his veins felt as strong as ever, but what if the power faded right before he hit the ground?

Simon released the Nye essence. Outside of combat, the slowed time was more disconcerting than helpful, and holding on to two gifts at once would make the chains grow faster. He needed the steel, and this way the Nye essence would be fully recovered when he needed it.

As the world resumed its normal speed, Simon looked around, glancing up and to the side for a hold that might allow him to move higher. Most of the wall was smooth wood, but outside the frame of the huge window were several gray rocks, circular, seemingly embedded in the wood. They seemed like an odd design choice to Simon, and more trouble than they were worth, but who was he to question rich people?

By standing on the tips of his toes and stretching his right hand out as far as he could, he was able to wrap his fingers around the nearest rock. It felt like stone—hard and cold and covered in grit—and when he tugged experimentally, it remained solidly attached to the wall. Good enough. Simon pulled against the rock, heaving himself upwards.

Or he tried to. As soon as he applied real force to the rock it pulled free from the wall, as though he had tripped the balance on a hidden latch of some kind. It came completely off in his hand, dropping him back down onto the windowsill. For a moment he swayed dangerously back over the garden until he finally caught his balance and sunk forward against the glass, panting hard.

Get rid of it, now! Otoku demanded, and he had only a moment to wonder what she was talking about before a piercing shriek stabbed at his ears and nearly made him lose his balance.

Simon tried to cover his ears, but it did no good; the wail cut into his head as if he had his ear pressed against it.

That was when he noticed that what he had taken for a rock was not a rock at all. The side he gripped was still smooth and felt like stone, though it had grown uncomfortably warm in his hand, but the side that had been pressed against the wall looked like the underbelly of a roach. Except that it glowed bright orange, like new coals. Six glowing orange legs kicked frantically at the air, and the shriek went on and on.

Simon hurled it into the garden, more out of disgust than anything else. His steel-enhanced strength sent it flying much farther than he intended, and he heard the thing’s wail steadily fade into the distance until it hit the ground. Then, at last, silence.

Otoku’s voice bit into him: You didn’t expect something like this? Really? How else did you think a Traveler would protect his home?

“This is exactly the sort of thing the Nye could have told me,” Simon said testily. His heart was still pounding, and his ears ringing. “Can you find me another way up there? I don’t want to be standing here when somebody hears—”

Otoku cried out a warning as the window in front of him shattered, stabbing and slicing him in a thousand little pinpricks. Instinctively he squeezed his eyes shut and threw an arm across his face, protecting his eyes from the glass, but as a result he didn’t see whatever it was that wrapped around his body and dragged him inside.

CHAPTER 19:

OVERLORD MALACHI

Simon soon learned that he had been seized around the middle by a giant hand. A clawed, dark red, scaly hand, attached to an arm wider than his torso. It pulled him through the window and into a huge chamber with a vaulted ceiling that seemed miles above.

That was all he got the chance to see of the room, because he was far more concerned by the monster that held him. It looked like a tailless lizard standing on its hind legs, three times as tall as a man at least, all over scaly and the dark red of fresh blood. Its hand, wrapped around his body, was too warm for comfort, and growing hotter by the second.

The lizard looked at him with eyes like an alligator and let out a cry that sounded more like a bird than anything Simon would have expected from an angry monster. Its breath singed his skin and smelled like the worst parts of a slaughterhouse and an outhouse together.

Simon called as much steel as he could, until his bones felt like freezing, moving his arms outward with all his strength to break the creature’s grip. As soon as he got a little space he could summon Azura, and then this fight would become much more fair. He strained against the creature’s fist, resisting its strength for a little room. The monstrous fingers started to pry apart, and the lizard lifted him high.

As he thought he might have enough space to summon the sword, the lizard smashed him to the ground.

Simon heard floor tiles crack with a report like thunder. Or maybe that was his skull; it was difficult to tell. Without the skeleton’s steel power flowing through him he would have been killed instantly, he knew that, but he felt like someone had taken a pickaxe to the back of his head.

Still, his months in the House had not been wasted. Even in the midst of agonizing pain, he rolled away from the creature, though the motion set his stomach to rolling like a ship in storm. He staggered to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on the red monster, and stuck out his hand to summon Azura.

Through the fog in his brain, he heard someone clapping.

A graceful-looking man in fancy purple clothes walked into the room, clapping. He had lines of silver at the edges of his dark hair and an easy smile on his face. The monster went completely still as soon as the newcomer entered the chamber, but Simon didn’t trust it; he kept his attention divided between the huge red lizard and the man.

As Simon watched, the man reached back and shut the door through which he had walked, casually tugging his shirt straight with his other hand. For a moment he stood there, adjusting his clothes and sweeping a hand through his hair. Simon wasn’t sure what to do. He still hadn’t summoned Azura, but the creature hadn’t attacked, either. If it was going to stand there, he sure didn’t want to provoke it.

“You’re sturdier than I expected,” the man said, gesturing toward his ruined tiles. “I am impressed. You must have access to some truly effective protection.”

“Thank you?” Simon said, uncertain.

“From everything I had heard about Elysians, though,” the man went on, “you would be the type to come running in through the front door. I posted my alarms on the window out of general paranoia; I didn’t expect anyone to actually sneak up that way. I’m not sure if I should be intrigued or disappointed.”

Simon edged slightly to his left, so he could keep man and lizard both in view. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but who are you?”

The man looked startled for an instant, then he laughed and threw himself onto a throne to Simon’s right. Until that moment, Simon hadn’t noticed the throne; he had been too preoccupied with the bits of charred meat between the monster’s needle-sharp teeth. Now that he did notice, he wondered how he could have missed it: the chair was big enough for three people to sit in it side by side, and made entirely of expensive wood. It was carved with creatures that only existed in the depths of some insane Territory, if at all, and set with purple gems the size of Simon’s fist.

“As ever,” the man said, “my ego gets the better of me. Malachi Daiasus, Overlord in service to the Damascan Kingdom, faithful slave of His Majesty Zakareth the Sixth, our Morning and Evening Star. At your service.” He gave a shallow, mocking bow from his lounging position on the throne. “And you are?”

“Simon.”

Malachi waited for more, and when Simon said nothing else, it seemed to amuse him. He chuckled slightly, and looked at Simon as though at a spirited child. At that moment, Simon realized that the Overlord actually meant to keep on talking. Was he stalling for time? Or maybe he was so confident that he didn’t see Simon as much of a threat.

On a gamble, Simon let the steel fade from his blood.

He sagged under his own body’s weight, and the thousand little aches and cuts he had gained in the past few minutes flooded to the front of his mind. Malachi noticed.

“Ah, I see you’re not well,” he said. “A pity. I suppose you didn’t count on being caught this early, did you? Not until you had slit my throat, I imagine.” He drew a finger across his own neck, though by his tone you would think he had made a joke.

“Slit your throat?” Simon asked. Either the Overlord knew something Simon didn’t, which was actually pretty likely, or the man was making some strange assumptions.

Malachi waved a hand in the air. “Or blasted me apart, I suppose, or taken me away to your Territory. Whichever you prefer. If I hadn’t been warned that you were coming, you might have even gotten me. I had it on good authority that you were in Enosh this morning.”

The chains were sliding down his wrists now, and the Nye essence was fully recovered. His steel felt shaky, like it wasn’t quite at full strength, but it too would refill before long. If Malachi insisted on having a conversation before the fight, Simon could at least use the time to make sure he had access to his full power.

“I’m not here for your life,” Simon said. He needed to buy some time, but it would be interesting to find out who Malachi thought he was. “In truth, I wasn’t even sure this was your house.”

“You’re dressed like an assassin,” Malachi said, gesturing at him.

Simon glanced down at the black cloak, which had settled in place around him. “Any assassin that would dress like this deserves to be caught,” Simon said.

The Overlord smiled slightly, but then his face hardened. “Why are you here, Simon?”

“There’s a girl in your tower. I’m here for her.”

Malachi’s face registered surprise, then something that might have been irritation. His gaze flicked to the red monster, which still stood frozen.

Dodge right, Otoku hissed, and Simon threw himself to the right before the lizard’s palm crashed down onto the tile. He called the Nye essence just in time.

Back! Otoku said. Left! Down!

Simon followed her instructions instantly, dodging only as she directed, not even watching the monster. With Otoku’s voice and the essence, he could have avoided its clumsy strikes forever.

Roll, Otoku said, and as he did, he felt the steel reach full strength.

The cold power of liquid steel flooded through him once again, taking from him pain and weakness. Instantly he summoned Azura and jumped forward.

The red creature roared and the temperature in the room rose to oven-hot in the space of a second, but none of that mattered. The power of the Nye made it seem as though the giant lizard was pushing his way through jelly, but Azura danced like a feather in his hand.

His blade passed through the monster’s neck and didn’t notice the resistance. Simon landed in front of Malachi’s throne, knees bent, facing the Overlord. The Nye cloak settled into place. He heard two thuds behind him as the head and body crashed separately into the ground, and heat flared at his back. He almost turned to look, but Otoku’s voice told him what he needed to know.

It’s down, she said, so he kept his gaze fixed on Malachi.

“That’s not Elysia,” the Overlord said. He sounded puzzled. “So you’re not...wait. That sword. Valinhall.”

It wasn’t a question, but Simon nodded.

Malachi lowered his eyebrows thoughtfully, though he still seemed confused. “I know someone who would be very pleased to meet you, Simon. Very pleased. Where did you find that?”

Simon ignored him. “I’m just here for Leah. Let me go get her and leave, and we can go our separate ways.”

Slowly, Malachi shook his head. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t let you kill her. I’m sorry. And I very much doubt you’d be able to capture her.”

Now it was Simon’s turn to look confused. “Kill her? I’m trying to rescue her. From you.” Why did Malachi sound as if he was the one protecting her?

Malachi looked as if Simon had slapped him. For a moment he stared. Then he threw his head back and laughed a full, genuine laugh, as though he wasn’t within easy reach of Simon’s sword. He leaned back against the throne, relaxed, with an easy grin on his face, and Simon realized that his first show of amusement had been an act. This was the real thing. Overlord Malachi had actually let his guard down.

“You’re trying to rescue the princess from the evil Overlord’s tower?” Malachi said, still rolling with chuckles. “I mean no offense, but it sounds a bit ridiculous, when you put it like that.”

I like this man, Otoku said.

“She’s not a princess,” Simon muttered.

“Oh really?” Malachi said, as he leaned forward. His eyes were sharp again. “What is she, then?”

“One of us,” Simon said, meeting the Overlord’s eyes. “I can’t leave her with you.”

“And as much as I might want to, I can’t let you take her.” Malachi began drumming the fingers of his right hand on the arm of his throne. “So what now?”

It was going to come to a fight. Simon had been afraid of that from the first. Not only was he not sure that he could win, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Killing the Overlord would make him the most wanted criminal in the realm; even winning the fight would be like trying to get out of a pit by digging deeper. But what choice did he have?

A fat, balding man in red robes stuck his face in the room through a door Simon hadn’t noticed before. One side of the robed man’s face was covered in bruises. He shot a glance at Simon, and his eyes were hard. “We have engaged him in the streets, Overlord. No one has yet reached the house. Are you sure you don’t need help up here?”

Malachi sounded thoughtful, and he kept drumming his fingers on the throne. “I don’t think so, Petrus, but why don’t you stand by in case you’re needed? Over there, perhaps.” He gestured to the side of the room, by the first door, the one through which Malachi himself had entered.

Petrus realized something then, Simon could tell—for an instant the man’s eyes widened and his mouth opened—but he covered the expression quickly in a bow and walked over to stand in front of the door. What had he heard in Malachi’s words? Had Simon missed some kind of code?

It didn’t matter now. The problem remained.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Simon said, and was almost surprised at how much he meant it. The more he thought over his situation, the more he was sure there were no good outcomes.

“As you wish,” Malachi said calmly. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. Once you’re safely restrained.”

And he raised the palm of the hand he had been tapping against the arm of the throne. It bore a shining red mark.

Simon cursed himself and launched toward the throne in the beginning of a lunge that would take the Overlord’s head from his shoulders, but Otoku cried a warning, and he was able to twist himself aside in time to avoid a screaming ball of orange flame that shot from Malachi’s hand and blasted forward.

It was screaming in truth, he realized: there were faces inside that ball of fire, like burning ghosts, and as the fireball was about to smash into the wall opposite Malachi they screamed again, and the fireball changed directions. Back at Simon.

Simon ignored the fire and swung his sword at Malachi with the full intention of chopping the Overlord, his throne, and the wall behind them in half. Simon put all his power and speed behind the blow, and even to his slowed vision, the sword seemed to split the air.

Malachi didn’t even react. A blazing red rent in reality, like a huge red eye, appeared before him so fast it was as though it had been there all along, and only now had the Overlord chosen to unveil its presence. The crimson Gate hung in the air before Malachi like a shield. Azura continued uninterrupted, but the Gate now stood between the sword and its target. Instead of slicing the Overlord in half, it swung through the empty air of another Territory and continued onward. The force of his own unopposed strike almost spun Simon like a top.

Only a moment after Azura swung clear, the Gate winked shut.

The Overlord had shielded himself with a Gate. The Gates of Valinhall opened far too slowly to be used in that way, but the thought had never even occurred to Simon. Yet another thing that he should have expected.

Turn around, half-wit! Otoku screamed, and Simon jerked himself around in time to see the wailing face of a fireball within kissing distance. He didn’t duck so much as throw himself to the ground, and the ball of flame passed over his head. Malachi made a lazy gesture with one finger, and the fireball corrected its passage and hurtled toward Simon again.

“You don’t have much experience fighting other Travelers, do you, Simon?” Malachi asked casually, as Simon ran around the room in an attempt to outpace the fireball. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to kill you, I’m really not. You didn’t do anything unjust, you were only in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once we’ve cleaned up this mess, we’ll be glad to have you on the team.”

Simon finally gave up running in circles. The fireball was tireless, while he could already feel his gifts running out. He stopped and swung Azura at the flame.

The fireball exploded with a scream of agony, and the flare of light and heat was so intense that Simon threw up a hand to protect his face. The second he could see again, he ran as fast as he could. With the strength and speed of Valinhall in him, he should be able to outpace any reaction of the Overlord’s. He hoped.

But he didn’t run at Malachi. On an instinct, he ran at Petrus.

The old, fat Traveler looked startled, but he had obviously prepared a defense. A swarm of glowing orange wasps, each the size of Simon’s two fists together, raced from the air before Petrus’ red-marked hand. Behind him, Simon heard the cries of another one of those spectral orange fireballs.

Simon drew on the Nye essence to its limits, so that the fiery wasps seemed to crawl toward him. Azura sliced one of the insects in half, but even that strike seemed slow to him.

“Si...mon...” the Overlord called from his throne. His voice sounded odd, not only slowed like everything else, but also for some reason slightly deeper.

Simon flicked another pair of wasps from the air and kept moving forward. Alarm spread across Petrus’ face, but so slowly that it was almost comical.

“Face...me!” Malachi demanded. Was that nothing more than the strange effect the Nye essence had on his voice, or did he actually sound afraid? “Come...here!”

Azura slashed again, taking the rest of the glowing wasps from the air. But Simon hadn’t realized how close he had come, or else he wasn’t quite used to Azura’s length yet. The blade’s tip drew a ragged slice diagonally down across Petrus’ broad chest, then dug into the Traveler’s left hand at the wrist. With the speed of the Nye, Simon was forced to watch every detail as Azura parted skin, flesh, and bone, as Petrus’ face bunched up in horror. His left hand tumbled to the tiles.

Then the essence flooded out, his lungs warmed, and time resumed its normal flow. Petrus collapsed, staring at his bleeding stump, too shocked to even scream.

But he had left the door unguarded.

Malachi yelled something again, panic evident in his voice this time, and Simon knew he had been right. Malachi had had some special reason to guard this door instead of the other, though he had tried to distract attention from that fact. Was it Leah, perhaps? Did this door lead up to her tower?

He pulled open the door and jumped inside, ducking to avoid the fireball he was sure would be coming.

Nothing happened. No fire. Malachi wasn’t even yelling, though Simon thought he heard running footsteps coming this direction. Simon looked up, intending to take a look around...

...and found himself almost nose-to-nose with a woman in a long purple dress. She was perhaps five years older than Simon, crouched on the floor, wearing a purple silk dress and dangling gold earrings. She held a dark-haired little girl in each hand, pressed against her shoulders. The woman was pretty, maybe beautiful, but her black eyes pressed against Simon like daggers.

“Do it, murderer,” she spat. “If you are that low.”

Simon wondered what she was talking about until he thought to glance down at Azura. The blade was so long that it took up most of the little room—a bedroom, now that he had the chance to look around—and he hadn’t paid attention when he threw himself in here. Azura’s edge pressed against the woman’s neck, hard enough that blood trickled down the front of her dress.

CHAPTER 20:

BAD HABITS

Simon jerked himself back as though burned, letting his sword vanish. He almost stumbled as he stepped back, his foot catching the edge of his cloak. It was a miracle he had not killed the woman. Or one of the children, even. His hands trembled at the thought.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Simon said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The woman’s glare faltered a little.

The footsteps caught up, and Simon turned to face the door. Malachi stood there, fear on his face, clothes rumpled. “Out here, Simon. Let’s finish it out here.” His voice held a strange, trembling mixture of fear, anger, and that tone people used to calm dangerous animals and madmen.

“Your wife and children?” Simon asked.

“No,” the Overlord said, but his face said he was lying. “Servants. They are nothing to us. Leave them be.”

Simon didn’t know much about life in Bel Calem, but he doubted the Overlord’s servants wore silk dresses and gold jewelry.

“I won’t hurt them,” Simon said. “But I should.” He wasn’t sure what he felt, but it wasn’t calm. The steel faded as well, leaving him aching inside and out. “The Traveler you sent killed my mother.”

Fear flashed on Malachi’s face again, and he held his empty palms out. Simon kept an eye on the one with the red brand. If Malachi so much as twitched it suspiciously, he would attack, never mind that the man’s wife and children were watching. Then Malachi’s face clouded over with confusion.

“Wait. Your village. What are you talking about?”

“Myria village,” Simon said angrily. “Where I’m from. And Leah. Your men came into my home and killed my people.”

“That? This is all over that?” Malachi passed his un-branded hand through his hair. “Seven stones, I have had more trouble over that village...Simon, believe me, I am sorry about your mother. I truly am. But this was just the sacrifice. Everybody pays the sacrifice! It’s only nine people a year, out of the whole kingdom. Every village pays at least once. There won’t be a sacrifice from that village again in your lifetime or mine.”

“As if that makes it better,” Simon said. He forced his hand to stop trembling.

Malachi licked his lips. “Please, Simon. Let them go.”

Simon held the Overlord’s gaze for a moment, but he was the one to look away first. “I’m not going to hurt them,” he said again.

“Then come out of there. We’ll talk, I promise. And I can get some help for Petrus before he bleeds to death.”

Simon winced. “I just want Leah. Tell me how to get to Leah, and you’ll never see me again.”

The Overlord kept one eye on Simon, but he had pulled off his belt and was cinching it tight around a semi-conscious Petrus’ bleeding hand. A tourniquet, Simon guessed. “Simon...the door to the tower is behind my seat, to the right of the window you broke. You passed within five feet of it when you came in.”

Simon nodded and walked out the door of the bedroom, never taking his eyes from the Overlord. He did not trust Malachi’s given word, but he at least hoped to stall the man until his Nye essence had refilled.

“I never wanted this,” Malachi said. He kept tightening the belt around Petrus’ wrist. “This whole thing. It’s a mess. I wanted them to leave us alone—Enosh, the King, that girl, everyone.”

“You mean Leah?” Simon asked. Shadowy chains slid, slow and icy, down toward his wrists. “She did leave you alone. You kidnapped her!”

“She’s...” Malachi’s mouth twisted. “I can’t say anything else. Take her. Take her out of my home, don’t look back, and good riddance. But don’t set your hopes too high on her, Simon. She will let you down.”

“What are you talking about?” Simon demanded. But he didn’t get an answer. Behind him, the door blew open on an explosion that rocked the entire house, and the room filled with golden light.

“Overlord Malachi!” Alin yelled, and his voice belonged to a king pronouncing judgment. He looked years older than he had only hours before. His blue suit, already torn, was now shredded as though he had rolled around on a bed of knives. A patch of black ash rested over his heart, and smoke billowed from him as though he had stepped from an oven. And he glowed. He actually radiated angelic light, making his golden hair gleam like a crown.

In spite of himself, Simon was impressed.

Malachi rose to his feet at Alin’s words, standing over Petrus. He opened his mouth to respond, but his action was the only answer Alin needed.

“Simon, move!” Alin shouted, and thrust his hand forward.

The shadow-chains pressed like ice against Simon’s arms, and the place in his mind where the Nye essence usually rested felt empty. So he did the only thing he could do: he staggered away from Malachi as fast as his wounded legs would carry him.

Not too soon. A stream of gold light, pure as lightning, blasted from Alin’s palm toward the Overlord in an eruption of violent energy. There wasn’t as much heat as Simon would have expected, but even standing five feet away from the actual strike, Simon felt the force of it catch him in the side and send him tumbling to the tiles.

A Gate to some red cavern hung in the air in front of Malachi; through it, Simon saw the gold light streak into the distance and blast a crimson stalactite from a far-distant ceiling. But the Gate hadn’t stopped the strike entirely. Only half had passed through into Malachi’s Territory, and the rest had struck the wall above and behind the Overlord’s head.

A huge snapping sound echoed through the chamber, like an enormous tree breaking under its own weight, and the ceiling of the bedroom behind Malachi collapsed.

With his wife and children still inside.

Malachi screamed and took one half-step toward the bedroom, letting his Gate close. But with a pained look on his face, he visibly forced himself to stop and turn toward Alin, trembling with emotion.

“I won’t let you get away with—” Alin began, but Malachi’s voice cut him off.

“Shut up,” Malachi said quietly. He began stalking toward Alin, reaching into his purple jacket with one hand as he did. “I’ve tried everything to settle this in a civilized manner. But you won’t let me go, will you? Fine, then.” And he removed something from his jacket pocket.

Simon wasn’t at the best position to see what Malachi held in his hand, but it looked like one half of a shallow red bowl that had been shattered down the middle. No, not a bowl. A mask?

Simon, Otoku warned. That thing is dangerous. No trace of her usual sarcasm remained, which did more to convince Simon of the danger than any whispered warning.

Malachi pressed the red half-mask against the right side of his face, where it stuck without anything visibly tying it on. The Overlord took a deep breath, and the wind whispered as though the entire room breathed with him.

“I’ll deal with this as an Overlord should,” Malachi said. His voice was granite.

Alin didn’t respond, but hurled a blast of golden light. Malachi didn’t shield himself this time; he reached up a hand and snatched the ball of golden light out of the air. Just grabbed it in one bare hand, as though catching a thrown apple. Then he squeezed, and the light popped like a pricked bubble.

There was a silent explosion of light when he did so, and Simon struggled to stay on his feet, but Malachi didn’t seem to notice. “My turn,” he said, and waved his hand in a small circle, palm down. That was all it took.

A thousand orbs of screaming orange flame, all as big as the one that had chased Simon earlier, rushed down from the ceiling and flowed toward Alin in a burning, howling gale. Even across the room, Simon felt the air slap at him like a hot desert wind.

And that settled it: it was past time for Simon to be gone.

Simon turned and glanced behind him. The door behind the throne was unguarded. He could slip away now, and maybe he and Leah could make it down into the city while the other two Travelers fought. But then again...

In the other direction, his view into the broken bedroom was cut off by a half-collapsed doorway and a cloud of dust. The room was silent. Malachi’s family could be dead, or they could be trapped under a thousand pounds of rubble, unable to cry out. Simon had a vision of one of the girls he had seen earlier trying to push a chunk of wood off of her, to move it enough that she could get a full breath. She had looked only about seven years old.

I’m an idiot, he sent to his doll, and crept forward to the bedroom. Malachi, standing ten feet away, flicked his eyes toward Simon. For a moment Simon tensed, prepared to summon strength and Azura both. But the Overlord said nothing, turning back to face Alin. Either Malachi trusted Simon, which was a ridiculous thought, or he didn’t consider Simon any threat. Either way, Simon was glad of it.

The doorway was partially collapsed and half-filled with wood and plaster. Simon knelt and shoved one beam aside; the whole pile creaked dangerously.

He stood back and considered his options, shooting glances from time to time back at the battle behind him. A gold-skinned man in armor stood over Alin, swatting fireballs out of the air with a spinning staff of pure gold. Malachi waved his hand, and ants the size of wolfhounds crawled out of nowhere and skittered towards Alin, blazing with all the colors of flame.

If Simon had needed another reason to hurry, he had one now. He pulled his hood up and tightened the cloak around him. The cloak would be no help against anything that either Traveler would summon, but somehow it made him feel more secure. He slipped underneath the cracked doorway.

Half of the bed had fallen in, leaving it standing on only two feet, but Simon had last seen Malachi’s family huddling at the end of it. He decided to make his way toward the bed, as carefully as possible.

Can you help? he asked.

Of course I can, Otoku responded. Run as fast as you can and never look back. You’re welcome.

A voice like a devil from the blackest pits of Naraka boomed out behind Simon: “YOUR DEATH WILL BE SWEET ON MY TONGUE.” Simon refused to turn around.

The quicker I find them... Simon said.

Fine. They’re under the bed.

Alive?

They’re not moving. Perhaps they’re simply asleep.

The wail of the orange fireballs sounded like a chorus of tormented souls. Nobody in the city could sleep through that, Simon said.

Then they must be dead. What a shame; we’ll have to leave now.

Take me to them, Simon commanded. And, for once, the doll did as she was told.

A few seconds later, Simon knelt beside the bed. Otoku said the beam he rested on wouldn’t make the rest of the pile collapse, but all the debris sounded like it would crack at any second.

He peered underneath the bed skirt and saw three pairs of eyes gleaming at him through the shadows and dust.

“Are you all right?” Simon whispered.

“Are you here to rescue us?” one of the girls asked, but her mother shushed her.

“Leave us now,” the woman commanded. “We will be fine without your assistance.” Even huddled in the dust under a half-broken bed, she glared thunderbolts at him.

“If you hadn’t noticed, there’s a battle out there,” Simon said. “All it takes is one more hit, and this whole room’s going to fall down on top of you.”

A monstrous voice shouted something about demanding blood, and another explosion shook the whole room. Dust rained down, making the children sneeze.

“We cannot get out,” the woman admitted, though her voice still sounded proud. “The bed is blocked on all sides.”

“What’s your name?” Simon asked gently. The chains slid down his hands like sap down a tree, reminding him to hurry, but if he called steel and tore the bed off of them, they would be terrified. He might as well try to put them at ease.

“Without even giving me your name first? Do they have no manners where you come from?” she said, as though she couldn’t hear the battle outside. The room shook again; one of the girls buried herself in her mother’s sleeve.

“I am Simon, son of Kalman,” Simon said impatiently. “And you are?”

“Adrienne Lamarkis Daiasus,” the lady declared, and then she announced her daughters’ names, but Simon didn’t care enough to listen.

“Great, Mistress Adrienne—” she looked a little upset at the name, but Simon didn’t know or care anything about the proper mode of address for a Damascan lady—”here’s what’s going to happen: in a few seconds, I will pick this beam up and hold it out of your way.” He patted the beam he was kneeling on, which was as thick as his waist and stretched from one end of the room to the other.

“When I do,” he continued, “you take your children and come on out. I can protect you until you can leave the house. All right?”

“What about my husband?” Adrienne asked.

“Your husband is doing fine on his own,” Simon snapped, running out of patience. “And I don’t know whether he wants to skin me alive or give me a job, so before I find out for sure, I’d like to take you out of here. All right?”

Adrienne glared at him one more time before nodding. Somehow, even crouched beneath a broken bed and covered in dust, she made that seem like a generous concession to an inferior.

Simon shook his head and called steel. What was he doing here? These three were alive, and he could get killed for this. Malachi’s family was hardly his responsibility. He could almost hear Chaka calling him an idiot.

Simon wasn’t sure he disagreed.

***

As ever, Malachi found wearing the Ragnarus mask a disturbing experience. On the one side, it made him feel like a demigod, pulling enough power from Naraka to level Bel Calem itself. With this mask, he could call enough fire to blacken the sky with smoke and ash, and the strength and energy flowing through him made him feel as though he could bend steel in his bare hands. That feeling was a drug all its own.

On the other side, his body bore the strain. His skin stretched and thinned as he watched, and even without checking a mirror he knew that gray would soon start creeping over what remained of his black hair. The mask made him blaze with power to dwarf a dozen Travelers, but like everything from Ragnarus, it carried a price. His life burned away every second, like a wick under the flame. Only a few hours in the mask would age him to death.

But this boy, this arrogant child, may have killed Adrienne. Rage warred with terror at the thought, and Malachi hurled another ball of orange fire from the Furnace. It shrieked as it darted for the Elysian Traveler.

He had intended to overwhelm the boy upon donning the mask and turn his attention to more important things, but the Elysian was proving a tough strand to snap. His gold-armored warrior batted away everything that came too close with its staff, and the boy himself wielded blasts of golden light that forced back everything Malachi could summon. Not enough to threaten him; with the mask on, Malachi doubted anyone short of Zakareth himself could best him in a frontal contest.

The problem was that Malachi couldn’t call anything too destructive inside his own home. The Elysian may have killed Adrienne in his carelessness, but if he hadn’t, Malachi didn’t want to bring the whole house down around her. Anything he summoned powerful enough to destroy the Elysian Traveler would blow his house in half, so he was forced to stick to lesser powers that he could control. He would win, eventually, but it would be a matter of wearing down the boy’s defenses, waiting for him to make a mistake.

But the longer this fight took, the more of Malachi’s life leaked away. He was already one, two, maybe even three years older than he had been when the fight started. What would Adrienne say, when she saw him as an old man?

The Valinhall Traveler would help her, if she could be helped. Malachi had great hopes for that boy, assuming he survived. Malachi had almost roasted him on pure reaction when he saw the child sneaking along in a black cloak, headed for his wife and children. Logic had restrained his power. Logic, and a feeling. Logically, if Simon had wanted Malachi’s family harmed, he could have left them there. And Malachi’s instincts told him that a boy who would risk himself to save a captive—even a captive who wasn’t actually being held against her will—would only be trying to help.

He would be a great asset to the Kingdom, one day. But that was in the future. For now, this standoff had taken long enough. It was time to be finished.

Malachi raised both hands and twisted them in unison, the screaming fireballs from the Furnace keeping his opponent too occupied to notice, much less do anything. The wall between Naraka and this world twisted, shrieking in protest. This was one of the few powers he had been warned never to call, except under the most dire circumstances.

Too bad. He was about to end the fight, even if he had to blast this prophesied savior all the way back to Enosh.

“Vordreith, Lady of the Just, I call upon thee,” Malachi intoned. His whole body pulsed with agony, but that was a good sign. Attempting this summons without the mask might have killed him; he could accept a little pain. He did not usually have the voice to summon one of the Arbiters, but today the mask’s power carried his request to every flickering flame and dark corner in Naraka. “In the name of my lawful authority, I beg the power to punish rebellion.”

Vordreith’s response was immediate, a somewhat amused and cultured female voice that echoed in his skull: Putting down rebels, Malachi? You?

“Please, my lady,” Malachi said. Some of the boy’s golden blasts were getting far too close to the bedroom door. He had to hope Simon had things well in hand there. “The Elysian Traveler is in my home. He may have killed my children.”

Really, now? Vordreith murmured. Then all amusement vanished, leaving a voice as cold as a snowdrift in Helgard.

Then break him.

A swirling ball of fire appeared in his hands, boiling with all the natural shades of fire and beyond: the orange-gold of a blazing flame was streaked with red from a slaughterhouse, yellow from a thunderstorm, blue from an ocean’s depths. The whole immense power of it, borrowed from Vordreith, whirled in a space he could barely contain in his two hands together.

Every Naraka Traveler, upon first beginning his training, eats a fruit that protects him from heat to one degree or another. One of the measures of a Naraka initiate’s potential power is how much protection they gain from the ritual. Malachi’s protection was the strongest in generations; the fruit of the obsidian tree had granted Malachi a protection so great that he could wade barefoot through coals without a twinge, and it was a good thing. A hair less resistance, and the burning sphere he held would have scorched the flesh from his hands. Without the protection of the obsidian tree’s fruit he would be dead. And without the power of the mask, he would never have been able to keep Vordreith’s fireball contained; it already would have consumed the heart of Bel Calem in raging flames. His head throbbed with the pain of the effort.

The challenge now would not be killing the Elysian. It would be doing so without burning his entire mansion down, and maybe his wife and daughters with it.

Malachi glanced to the right, at the bedroom door. They should be spared the worst of it—enough that it wouldn’t kill them, at least. If he controlled the energy correctly, if he could only do this right, then his family shouldn’t even feel the heat.

Malachi held the ball of fire in front of him and, with a wordless shout, triggered its power. A stream of fire billowed forth like a dragon’s breath, consuming all in front of it.

Flames swallowed the golden Traveler whole.

***

Fire gusted toward Alin, blasting apart the gold-skinned giant he had summoned. He had time to throw up an arm in a vain attempt to shield his face from the heat.

He had expected that, if this moment came, he would be able to die content knowing that he had done his best to oppose evil. What he felt instead was shame. He had told everyone that he would be the one to fight Damasca, even dared to think of himself as a hero.

The Overlord had proved him wrong. After all this, he was nothing more than a boy with a head full of pride.

Alin stood there, cringing and shielding his eyes, for almost thirty seconds before he realized that he wasn’t dead.

He lowered his arm and flinched involuntarily, taking a step back. The stream of flame hung in the air as though frozen, the heat still enough that he felt as though his skin should have caught on fire. It filled the room with a blinding light, so Alin felt he could look at nothing else.

When he finally pried his eyes away from the fire, he realized someone was standing in front of him, where he had been standing a moment before. It was a young man with golden hair, standing frozen like the fire, with one arm held up in front of his face. He wore a slashed, burned, expensive suit that might once have been blue, and he cringed away from the flame.

From inches away, Alin stared into his own face.

Rhalia dashed in from the side, white dress blowing in a wind that didn’t exist. Her golden eyes and hair shone bright with reflected firelight.

“Rhalia!” Alin said. “What is this? Am I dead?”

“Close,” Rhalia said with a laugh. “You know, you weren’t ready for this. I separated your mind from your body so that we could talk.” She floated over the stream of fire and hopped up to Malachi. He stood still in his purple suit, one half of his face covered by a crimson mask, mouth still open in a scream. His hands were thrust in front of him, as though he had to push the column of flame forward. Rhalia waved a hand in front of the Overlord’s face.

“You separated my mind?” Alin poked a finger at his frozen body, as it stood like a statue before his eyes. It felt completely rigid, as though his flesh and clothes had turned to stone. “This is amazing! Could you do this anytime?”

“The longer I do it, the closer you come to frying your brain like an egg,” Rhalia said, spinning around and hopping back toward him. “So let’s make this quick, shall we?”

“That sounds fine to me,” Alin said. He had never even heard of frying an egg, but it didn’t sound like a pleasant process.

“You’re in the frying pan now, so I guess I’ve got a choice. Do I let you die, or do I give you something you haven’t yet earned?”

“That doesn’t sound like a choice to me,” Alin said, attempting a smile. Was she considering letting him die?

She wagged a finger at him. “Power unearned, in this case, could lead to worse than your death. Worse even for you.” Rhalia shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, really, but trust me. The more power I give you, the more likely it is to run out of control.”

“I will earn it,” Alin said. “I promise. I’ll do whatever I have to.” He tried to make himself sound as earnest as possible. He would do whatever she asked, if it kept him from roasting like a chicken.

“Why did you attack the Overlord when you walked in?” Rhalia asked.

Truth to tell, he had been fighting his way through the Naraka creatures guarding the door first. There had been a few human guards as well, though they had mostly run when they realized Travelers were fighting. With his blood hot from the fight, he hadn’t thought at all; he had simply attacked. “If I hadn’t, he might have killed me,” Alin responded.

Rhalia pulled her legs up underneath her, sitting cross-legged in midair. Her white dress hung down almost to the floor. “You don’t even know for sure the girl Leah is here.” She started to drift in a slow orbit around Alin’s head.

“If she wasn’t here, Simon wouldn’t be either,” Alin pointed out. “And Keanos led me to this house. Besides, Malachi is the one who sent his men to the village. Malachi is the one who ordered her taken in the first place. He deserves to die.”

Rhalia floated back in front of Alin, smiling a little sadly. Her golden eyes shone with…tears? Was she about to cry? “That’s what I mean, Alin. I don’t see patience or temperance in you. You’re not ready for this yet.”

“I won’t ever be,” Alin said, “if I burn to death here.”

“Well, that’s true,” Rhalia said. “And I don’t want you to get incinerated. I kind of like you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She stared into Alin’s eyes until he gave her his full attention, looking more serious than Alin had ever seen her. “I’ll give you the green, Alin, but I wanted to warn you first. Unearned power is a curse more often than a blessing.”

Did she think this was important now? “I’ll be careful,” Alin said. He extended out a hand. “Please.”

Rhalia sighed and held her own hand out to Alin’s. As she did, her palm was filled with a glowing green crystal. It spun in place, and Alin realized that the crystal was formed of dozens of tiny, whirling, ever-shifting plates of solid green light, like layers and layers of glass turtle shells, eternally spinning and dancing in mysterious patterns.

“The green light of protection,” Rhalia announced. “It’s a lot of fun. And it’s usually earned through patience, but this time we’ll make an exception.” He could hear a smile in her voice, though she kept her face mostly serious. The tears were gone from her eyes, and she seemed almost cheerful again.

“Use it well,” she said, and vanished.

Suddenly he was standing once again with his arm over his eyes, with heat washing over him, about to reduce him to something less than ash.

Then his world was filled with green light. He opened his eyes and saw a dome of interlocking crystal plates, like a honeycomb of green glass, covering him. It stretched around him in every direction, so that he could reach his arm out and touch solid green light. The fire washed over his shield and streamed on behind him, leaving him as unharmed as a rock in a river.

Well, almost. As he watched, cracks began to form in the green, glowing even more brightly than the plates around them. The cracks grew and spread as he watched, the bright light of the shield dimming, the heat growing.

The fire was too much. It was overwhelming even the protection of the emerald barrier. He had to try something else, or he was going to die in spite of Rhalia’s gift.

Alin placed both hands against the wall and called on Elysia, picturing a star of green where he normally imagined a golden sun. He poured his own strength and the borrowed power of his Territory into the wall, as much as he could, holding nothing back.

The cracks held. They did not heal, but neither did they grow.

Sensation drained from his fingers and toes. He felt like someone had strapped a boulder to each of his arms, and it was all he could do to keep them in the air. He couldn’t inflate his lungs, couldn’t get a breath, and for a moment his vision fuzzed and almost went black. He kept pushing everything he had into the shield, kept calling power from the City of Light. He would not die. Not before he got back to the village. He would not.

After a handful of minutes, the great roar of the fire dwindled and faded away.

Alin let his shield fade with it, and his muscles shook. He sagged to his knees, vision dimming. Vaguely he was aware that everything on this side of the room was scorched and broken, except for a clean space around him. Malachi stood on the opposite end of the room, the half of his face not covered by a mask looking shocked.

Shocked he may have been, but Malachi waved his branded hand in a pattern Alin recognized. He tried to struggle his way up from his knees, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Vaguely, Alin regretted that Rhalia had taken a risk to save his life, but it had all been in vain. Green light or not, he was about to die.

He needed one more attack. If he had one more weapon, he could hit the Overlord before he finished summoning. He needed one more weapon.

Just one.

CHAPTER 21:

A VICTORY

Simon held steel and essence both, peering out of the broken doorway and into the hall. The fire had been almost blinding, blasting a ragged hole the size of a house all the way through the far wall. He could see a chunk of Bel Calem’s rooftops in the afternoon sun through that hole; some of them smoldered with small fires. Unless Alin had gotten something special from his Territory, he was nothing but a scorch mark on the tiles by now.

Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Alin had certainly asked for it, but Simon had never wanted to see Alin consumed in a fire.

Adrienne tried to push past Simon to reach her husband, who still stood in front of his broken throne. Simon held her back with one arm. Until he was sure the fight was over, he wouldn’t even want to step out there himself. He certainly wasn’t going to let Adrienne or the girls get themselves killed by walking out unprotected.

Simon squinted at something that knelt on the floor where the fire had been. Alin’s body? Or had he somehow managed to survive?

Malachi began moving his hand again, calling on his Territory. Alin’s hand raised, wavered with exhaustion, and then steadied.

And a thousand golden arrows burst from the air in front of him, spraying across the entire room.

Including a wave that rushed straight for Simon. Without the Nye essence in him, Simon would never have been prepared, but he was able to summon Azura before the arrows reached him. He was ready.

Malachi didn’t know that, or else fear for his family had overwhelmed his reason. The Overlord saw where the arrows were headed and threw himself to the side, putting his body between Alin and the bedroom door. His Gate went up, shielding him and the bedroom behind him, but it was too late: a wave of gold arrows streaked past him.

Azura’s blade was too long to work well in the relatively small doorway, so Simon moved his wrist as little as possible, snapping the arrows from the air with the last few inches of the sword. Their speed was nothing compared to the dart traps from the Valinhall armory.

Not a single arrow made it past him.

The arrows stopped, and Malachi’s red Gate shuddered in the air, then vanished. Only then did Simon notice the Overlord was wounded; one gold arrowhead stuck out from the back of his chest, one from below his ribs.

Malachi fell to his knees. Adrienne noticed at the same time Simon did, screaming something and trying to push her way past again.

Simon held her back effortlessly. Alin was still out there, and Malachi still wasn’t down. Not yet.

“Wait,” Simon said to her without turning around. “It’s not safe.”

Alin walked unsteadily up to Malachi, who sat on his knees, blood trickling onto the tiles. His half-mask had fallen to the floor. Somehow he seemed older than he had before the fight, a few more wrinkles, more gray in his hair. Maybe he just looked tired.

Alin stretched out a hand in the same gesture Simon used to summon Azura. He grimaced, as if in pain, and the gold light that gathered in his hand seemed reluctant somehow, hazy, as if Alin’s power was on the edge of running out. But the light formed at last, pooling in his hand into a solid outline. The outline of a broad-bladed sword.

“Alin, wait,” Simon said. He started to move forward.

That was when he felt the knife slide into his back.

The liquid strength running through him numbed the pain, but he still felt like he had been impaled with a burning spear. He cried out and had to release Azura to catch himself on the half-solid doorframe. Adrienne ran past him, holding her purple skirts up with one hand, bloody knife clutched in the other as though she meant to use it on Alin.

“Alin!” Simon called hoarsely. “Hold on!”

Malachi turned and saw his wife running toward him. He smiled a little.

Then a golden blade swept through his neck, and the Overlord’s head tumbled to the ground.

Behind Simon, two little girls screamed. He closed his eyes. No one should have to watch their parent die.

The wound in his back burned.

“Simon,” Alin called. Simon looked up. Adrienne tried to reach Alin with her dagger, screaming, but he casually pushed her away. “Where is Leah?”

Simon tried to talk around the pain in his back. “You didn’t have to do that, Alin.”

“Yes, I did.” Alin’s voice was grim. Adrienne tried to stab him in the heart, and he shoved her to the ground.

“His family saw. His kids are right behind me.”

Regret flashed across Alin’s face, but he shook his head. “Please, Simon. Where’s Leah?”

“I’ll...” Weakness and pain surged through Simon. He had been going to say that he would get Leah himself, but he needed to go back to the House. Soon, before he lost too much blood. The imps would have a holiday with him as it was.

“Door behind the throne,” Simon said finally. “Top of the tower.”

Alin nodded and started jogging away. The bells were ringing again, and Simon thought he could hear raised voices in the house below. He didn’t have much time.

He raised Azura, dragging it slowly down the air. As the portal opened, he noticed a bright spot of color at its base: a red half-mask. It had slid across the floor with Malachi’s death. Hardly thinking, Simon scooped it up with his free hand tucked the crimson mask into his belt. Who knew? He might find a use for it someday.

His last sight before he entered the Gate was of Adrienne Lamarkis Daiasus cradling her husband’s severed head and weeping as her two daughters ran to join her.

Success at last, Simon thought.

The only thing worse than a victory in battle, Otoku said, is defeat.

He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or not.

***

Leah winced, staring at the crystal disc in her lap. She sat on her bed, which itself stood in the center of her room in Malachi’s tower. The disc, an artifact of Lirial, showed her Malachi’s severed head rolling across the tiles several floors below. Malachi was vain, disrespectful, and he shirked his duties. But he hadn’t deserved this. Certainly not in front of his children.

The whole street still shook from the fight, and the air had filled with screams and otherworldly howls, so even a blind woman would have been able to tell Travelers were fighting. But with the disc, she had seen everything since Alin strode through the door. Apparently Simon was there as well, but she had only caught glimpses of him.

Even Simon was some kind of Traveler now, judging by the way he had summoned that enormous sword. Tartarus, maybe, despite the black cloak. How had he learned that?

She had first intended to go down and intervene in the battle herself, but her orders had been not to reveal herself except in the face of personal danger. Besides, she realized she didn’t even know which side she would support. Malachi had served the Kingdom well, and she had no quarrel with him personally. Logically, she should find herself on his side. But Alin was her friend, and he was only fighting because she was here. What kind of person would she be if she let him die when he was only trying to save her? Then again, that was what her father would want her to do.

Even after more than two years, this spy business never got any less confusing.

Alin turned, letting his sword of light evaporate and walking away from the Overlord’s bleeding body. Was he walking toward the throne? No, not the throne. The stairs. He was coming for her.

Two Travelers overthrowing an Overlord on her behalf. Her mother would tell her that she should be flattered, but all she felt was sad and a little sick. They were both so naïve. If they learned who she really was, the truth would hit them like a knife to the gut.

Alin seized the iron ring of the door at the bottom of the stairs, pulling it open and stepping inside. Very well, then, she would wait for him here and pretend to be surprised. She would have to hide the disc—a kidnapper would never leave his captive with a rare and expensive scrying lens.

The disc was fading away, sliding back to the shelf of her sanctum in Lirial, when Leah noticed what she was wearing. Malachi had given her court clothes: a silver dress and shoes, with pearls at her throat and rings on her fingers.

Leah leaped out of the outfit faster than she would have dreamed possible. A kidnapper would never let his captive wear expensive dresses, except in a few bizarre and complicated situations she didn’t feel up to inventing for Alin’s benefit. She tossed her dress into a corner, followed by her shoes. A few frantic seconds of searching turned up her old, brown village clothes. It had always been brown, in Myria, never any spot of real color.

She shrugged into her bland clothes and danced around, looking for the simple leather shoes that she had worn when she was playing a captive. Then there came a knock at the door.

That was somewhat adorable; if he thought she was being held against her will, he should have charged in without knocking. Still, she welcomed the delay.

“A moment,” she called, finally spotting her shoes. As she pulled them on, she noticed her fingers, gleaming silver in the light from her window. She had almost forgotten her rings! With hurried, jerky motions, she pulled them off and tossed them into a corner on top of her dress and shoes.

“Who is it?” Leah said at last, trying to adopt fear into her voice, as though she thought the man at the door might hurt her.

“Leah, it’s Alin.” His voice glowed with pride, even muffled by the wooden door. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

Leah pulled the door open and faked a look of shock. “Alin! How did you...I mean, how did you get here?” Perhaps her shock wasn’t entirely feigned; seeing him from a distance, through the Lirial lens, did not prepare her for the sight of him in person. Smoke rose from his clothes, he was covered in a layer of ash, and he smelled like a campfire. His dark gold hair shone through a veil of blood and dust. When she met his eyes, she almost didn’t recognize the man behind them.

Leah cleared her throat and started again. “Were you the one making all that noise?”

Alin stared at her seriously. “Leah, are you hurt? Can you travel?”

For a moment she thought he was asking her to open a Gate for Traveling, and her thoughts grew panicked. Does he know? she thought. How much has he realized? How did he find out?

Then she caught the real meaning behind his question and relaxed. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Hurry, let’s get out of here before the Overlord comes back.”

He gave her a small, self-satisfied smile. “Don’t worry about that. Malachi’s dead. I killed him.”

Leah made her eyes well up with tears, a trick with a thousand uses that she had perfected as a child. For some reason, men always expected women to be crying. “Oh, thank the Maker. Are we safe, then?”

“No, we need to run.” As if to illustrate his point, shouts came from below, and running feet on the stairs. Alin put his back to Leah, standing between her and danger, facing the stairs. He brought his hand up as if to call on his Territory, but nothing happened, and his fingers wavered in midair.

Exhausted, then, or so it seemed. Not surprising. That half-mask Malachi had used clearly came from Ragnarus, and nothing from her father’s Territory gave anything but incredible power. The fact that Alin had survived at all was miraculous, but his exhaustion might come in handy in the immediate future. Maybe she should capture him and bring him to the capital?

That was probably the best option, but she found herself strangely reluctant to reveal herself. Alin would call it a great betrayal. She would save that option, then, for when she had no other choice.

The pounding footsteps reached the top and Simon stepped forward, looking years older instead of scarcely two months. He was thin and dark as always, but he had filled his scrawny frame in with a bit of muscle since the last time Leah had seen him in the flesh. Fresh stubble darkened his face, as though he had missed shaving this morning, and a black cloak flowed out into the hallway behind him. He wore a cloak, even in this heat. He must have been stifling.

Then she caught sight of his arms, with black chains that slid down his forearms like living tattoos. The sight of them triggered something in her memory, something she should have known, but she couldn’t quite call it up. Where had she seen those marks before?

To her surprise, the whole of Simon made him look...competent. Even dangerous. Though his hair was wet, for some reason, and he fiddled with the clasp of his cloak as though he had thrown it on in a hurry. Was it raining outside?

“Simon,” Alin said, but Simon looked past him. He looked past Leah, too, though that wasn’t entirely a surprise. Simon usually had difficulty looking her in the eyes.

“That’s a nice room,” Simon said. Leah blinked. She had thought herself beyond this particular danger when Alin ignored it.

“Simon, we have to get going,” Alin said urgently. The shouts from below grew louder.

“A nice room,” Simon repeated. “And are you wearing a necklace?” Curse those pearls, she had forgotten to take them off. Simon glanced at her neck, and then, just as much of a surprise, met her gaze. His eyes were steady and not accusing, but searching.

“He gave me gifts, sometimes,” Leah said, as if this were admitting something terrible. “And he came to see me. I think he meant to...I mean, I think he was going to make me one of his...” She broke off, as if she wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence or didn’t want to.

A woman’s voice called from below: “The tower! They went into the tower!”

“It’s okay, Leah,” Alin said soothingly. He shot a hard look at Simon. “We’ve got to go, now. Questions later.” He put out both hands and focused on the air in front of him.

Leah had never seen a Gate to Elysia open—no one had, for the past three centuries—but clearly this was not going well. Gold light swirled, then stopped, then broke apart, then gathered again into a vague oval. Sweat gathered on Alin’s brow, and he looked like he was on the verge of collapsing. Simon moved as if to catch him, but Alin stayed on his feet.

More footsteps pounded up the stairs, carrying with them a glow like a portable bonfire around the corner. Naraka, then. Reinforcements.

Alin grunted at himself and heaved as though pushing a boulder uphill. Then, finally, the golden Gate snapped into clarity. Leah stood staring at a city of gold and rainbows under a golden sun, silver-and-diamond parapets sparkling with a thousand different colors. Very few of the Territories were plain or ugly, but this...

Leah had heard some of the older, more superstitious legends call Elysia a paradise for the virtuous. Seeing this beautiful city of gold and shining jewels, she could almost believe it.

“Move, now!” Simon said, and pushed Alin into the Gate. Leah followed as a pair of men in the rust-colored robes of Naraka crested the stairs. One of them began to wave his brand in a pattern that would call on the Furnace, but then they were on the other side of the Gate, and the opening slid shut.

All three of them stood on the lush grass of the field outside the city of Elysia, Alin panting as though he had run up a hill. Simon stood in his black cloak, alert, scanning the tops of the city walls and flexing his right hand as if wishing he held a sword. Leah almost relaxed. They were safe, for now. No one but an Elysian Traveler could open a Gate here. Unless...

A horizontal slash in midair, where the Gate had closed, began to glow cherry-red. One of them had a gatecrawler, or whatever they called the Naraka equivalent. Not good at all. They would be able to force the Gate open in seconds. Gatecrawlers could only pry open a Gate seconds after it closed, but they were also by far the best way of following a Traveler into a foreign Territory. It looked like there would be a fight after all.

Inside Elysia, Leah could barely sense her Territories. It would take time to summon even a meager defense, and by that time she could be burning to death. She could reveal her identity to the Naraka Travelers, but she was hesitant to take that step until she had to. For one thing, if she revealed herself and the Damascans still lost, she would have some unfortunate questions to answer for Simon and Alin.

Which meant that her fate was now, more or less, in the hands of two half-trained boys.

Clearly, she was doomed.

***

Alin knelt on his hands and knees in the soft grass of Elysia, trying to gather his strength, trying to force his head to stop swimming. Leah grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to get him to focus, but all he could do was think about her blue eyes, and how strange it was that a person could have blue eyes, and how they reminded him of the sky back in their world, and how the blue sky was much better than the boring yellow one here…

Leah shook him again, harder. “They’re forcing the Gate open!” she shouted.

“Can they do that?” Alin asked. His voice sounded hazy to his own ears.

“Apparently! We need to move!”

“Which way, Alin?” Simon asked. He spun around, looking for a way out, and the movement sent his cloak billowing behind him. Alin wondered if he had moved like that on purpose, to look dramatic.

Alin kicked his brain, forcing it to focus on important matters. If the Travelers were trying to re-open his Gate, then they would show up in the same spot he had. Which meant that they had to get away. But it also meant...

“Help!” he yelled, as loud as he could manage. He touched the golden sun in his mind, sending a bit of Elysia’s power into the call. “I need some help!”

The crimson slash in the air widened a little, and Alin thought he could hear men’s voices from the other side.

A golden giant, nearly a twin to the one that had given his life defending Alin earlier, strode into the meadow, using his golden staff as a walking stick.

“Initiate,” the giant boomed, nodding to Alin. “Where is my brother?”

“Killed,” Alin said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

The giant howled, an enormous and mournful sound. “Where is his slayer?”

“Also dead. I killed him.” Maybe that would prevent the giant from blaming him. Then again, maybe not.

“But his men are coming after us now,” Alin hurriedly added. “They’re trying to break open the Gate.”

The giant planted his feet and held his staff in front of him. “Go, initiate,” he said. “I will hold them.”

Alin didn’t recall ever hearing either giant’s name, but he resolved to find out. “Thank you,” Alin said.

The bright red slice widened like a broad mouth, and Alin caught a glimpse of familiar blood-colored robes before the giant speared his staff through the opening. Then Simon was grabbing him by the arm and hauling him forward.

“Come on,” Simon said. “We’ve got to move. Can you take us somewhere? By Traveling or whatever?”

Alin panted as he staggered along, but he thought he could manage a single Gate back to the real world. Even if he could, there were still the other limitations.

“Yes,” he said, “but it won’t get us far out of Bel Calem. Maybe past the walls. We’re going to need a ride.”

***

They emerged from the golden Gate riding three shaggy white bears. Simon wasn’t sure if it was the best thing to ever happen to him, or the worst.

Each of the bears wore a suit of armor and a saddle made of gold, and they ran along at a smooth ground-eating pace that put the walls of Bel Calem far behind them only minutes after they appeared. Unfortunately, the gold saddles were even less comfortable than they looked.

“Why can’t you take us back through another Gate?” Simon called. “We could go farther in your Territory.”

“Can’t,” Alin yelled, from the back of his own bear. He still slumped over his mount as if he were exhausted, though he sounded lively enough. “I can only open one Gate each day. And the city only stretches so far, so we can only Travel from one end to the other.”

“That’s a lot of rules,” Simon said.

“Why can’t we use yours, then?” Alin asked.

Simon cleared his throat, though Alin was too far away to hear. “You can’t exactly Travel through Valinhall. Every Gate takes you back to where you started.”

“How can you call yourself a Traveler at all, then,” Alin called. He sounded like he was teasing, but it still put Simon’s back up.

“Let’s try a straight fight,” Simon said, “and we’ll see who—”

“Boys!” Leah interrupted. “Eyes forward!” When she took the lead like that she sounded uncomfortably like her aunt.

Simon looked ahead to see a formation of men on horseback, in the purple-and-brown uniforms of Malachi’s troops, form up in ranks. They were still distant, but he could see spearheads gleaming in the sun as they were leveled toward the three riders.

“What now?” Leah called.

Alin started to say something, but Simon called his gifts and hopped down. Thanks to Valinhall’s strength and speed, he kept up easily with the galloping bear. His cloak streamed behind him, and he had to admit that he liked the way it looked, billowing along behind him like a black banner.

And he didn’t bask in the look of astonishment on Alin’s face, and the impressed look on Leah’s. Not at all.

“I’ll deal with this,” Simon said. “Just keep riding straight.” He put his hand out and summoned Azura, making completely sure to keep it pointed into the air. The last thing he needed was to drive his sword into the ground and trip while he was trying to look impressive.

Can you help me out? Simon asked Caela, who had replaced Otoku during his last trip to the House.

Sure I can, Caela replied. You know, some of your other advisors are going to be upset with you, choosing me again. There are many more of us.

I’ll stick with the ones I know for now, thanks, Simon said. Now, can you keep me from looking like a fool?

I’ll keep you alive, Caela said. But as for the other? No promises.

Simon smiled and would have laughed, except for what lay ahead. He was going to have to kill some men who were doing their jobs, and he had had his fill of that for one day.

Still, he had no choice. Drawing on steel and essence both, he pushed his speed to the limit, leaving Alin and Leah far behind.

CHAPTER 22:

THE HOPE OF ESCAPE

They had abandoned the road after breaking through the cavalry line, intending to lose their pursuers in the countryside and circle around to the northwest, toward Enosh and Myria. They didn’t get the chance.

The scattered trees and scraggly brush of the landscape gave very little cover, especially to those riding great white bears and being tracked by those who could search from the air. Simon’s first plan had been to ride until they lost their hunters, then to open a Gate into Valinhall and shelter there until they felt the pursuit had passed. Maker only knew where he was supposed to put three huge armored bears in the House, but he would skin that cat once he’d caught it. The trick was to find a place where the Damascan Travelers wouldn’t see him open the Gate. If they never knew where the Gate had opened, he reasoned, they couldn’t force their way through.

It had been a good plan, but it seemed that every time he tried to stop and open a Gate, a Traveler would step out of nowhere, or a bird with steel talons would dive and try to rake out his eyes. He tried three times, each where he was sure they were unobserved, but something always interrupted at the last second.

“We’ll have to outrun them,” Leah had said after the third attempt, when a creature like a steel porcupine had burst from the cliffside and leaped at Simon ten seconds before he finished tearing open the Gate.

He had to kill the thing, but by the time he did, the rocks around him tore themselves out of the ground and formed into a giant hand, which groped around blindly, trying to crush him. Simon was forced to flee.

Back on his bear and running, Simon called back, “Can we?”

Simon had no idea how a normal bear would fare carrying a human on its back and running at top speed for hours, but he suspected these creatures took a little something extra from their Territory. They never stumbled, even over rocky terrain, and kept up a far faster pace than a horse could maintain for any length of time. Still, they were beginning to show signs of weariness: Simon’s mount panted loudly enough to be heard over the sound of their passage, and its gait wasn’t as smooth as it had been earlier. Which made the ride even more painful. He doubted he would ever be able to sit up straight again.

Alin shook his head, and it seemed to also have the effect of waking him up; he looked to be dozing off in the saddle. “They’ve run most of the day already,” he said. “They can’t keep this up much longer. I don’t know how long, but...”

Not long enough, Simon was sure. Every couple of miles something would fly overhead or pop out of a Gate. If the mounts didn’t at least last until nightfall, when they had a chance of hiding, they would all die.

Which meant that Simon was down to two options, the first of which was to keep running and hope they weren’t killed. Since he was betting Alin and Leah’s lives as well as his own, that was no choice at all.

Which left his second plan.

“Slow up,” he called to the other two, motioning for them to draw their mounts alongside his. “I have an idea.”

He told them. And, as expected, they didn’t like it. Leah protested especially, which was gratifying.

“You’ll be killed,” she said. “Almost certainly. Even in the best case, you’ll still have to get away, which leaves you in the same place you are now.”

“Still better that one of us stays in danger than three of us,” Simon pointed out. “And I’m the only one who can open a Gate to escape, if I get a chance. Find a hole and stay there until tomorrow, and Alin can Travel you most of the way back to Enosh. Alin, can these bears get back to your Territory on their own?”

Alin shook his head. “I have to bring them through a Gate.”

“Well then,” Simon said. “I guess I’ll be borrowing them for a while.” He was trying to act more confident than he felt, which was surprisingly easy. He felt such little confidence that faking any was more than he really had.

“I guess so,” Alin agreed. “We’ll come back for you, Simon. If we can.”

They wouldn’t be able to, and Simon knew it, whether or not Alin did. He still appreciated the gesture, and he nodded his thanks.

Leah looked like she was trying to say something as well, so Simon saved her the trouble. “Leah, thank you,” he began. He had planned all along to say this, but now that he came to it, actually speaking was more embarrassing than he had expected. He cleared his throat, adjusting the clasp of his cloak to give him something to look at besides her. “Thank you for...under the wagon. Running out. I wouldn’t have escaped if not for that, and you wouldn’t have been caught. So thank you.”

Leah’s face flashed in an odd mixture of emotions, but after a moment she shot him a shaky smile. “I’m sorry about your mother,” was all she said.

They were approaching a cliff that would, for a few moments at least, hide them from any watchers in the air. “Up there!” Simon called, and shifted his weight. The bear followed, heading in that direction.

“We’ll have to be quick,” Simon said. The other two yelled something, probably agreement.

When they rode between a cliff and another outcropping of rock, hidden as best they could from the sky, they slowed their mounts for an instant. Enough for Alin and Leah to hop off and go scurrying for cover.

Simon sped up again, one bear underneath him and one on either side, running together. Hopefully from a distance, it would look like nothing had changed.

Please don’t die out here, Caela said from his belt. It would take me ages to get back to the House.

“I’ll do my best,” Simon said out loud. And he rode on, putting the steadily sinking sun behind him. South was death, and Alin and Leah would be heading northwest, so the least he could do was head east. Draw them off.

A cry sounded from far above, and a dry bush to his right burst into flame.

Well, at least some of them were still following him. If nothing else, that would give the other two a little more breathing room.

Steadily tiring, panting more heavily with every step, the white bears lumbered on. Simon wondered how long they would be able to keep it up.

***

Not long, as it turned out, but not from any fault of the bears.

Only an hour after Simon had left Alin and Leah, before the sun had even set behind him, a cliff rose up in the distance. It looked like a wall of rock stretching almost horizon to horizon, with only one broad crack in the center providing a way through.

A canyon. Perfect. The best way to get himself caught, especially in unfamiliar lands.

Worse, he could see his hunters to either side: far to the north and south, giant lumbering creatures of steel, or short beasts—maybe the size of a dog—that wore fire on their backs, and at this distance were little more than streaks of flame running through the scrub brush. All headed for the same cavern entrance he was.

“Maybe I can get there first and open a Gate,” he said.

Not likely, Caela responded.

“Well, here’s hoping.” He booted the bear in the side. Simon wasn’t sure that made the beast go any faster, but it made him feel like he was doing something, so he did it again. The bear growled a little, deep in its chest, and rolled one icy blue eye up to look at him. Simon stopped kicking the bear.

The canyon wasn’t as wide as it had appeared at a distance, though it was still broad enough to contain all three bears side-by-side. That was an advantage, as Simon saw it: his pursuers wouldn’t be able to see him as easily, and if they did catch up, he would be able to fight them better in a place where numbers wouldn’t count so heavily against him.

Then again, he would have to be careful swinging around a sword the size of Azura in these confines. And a Traveler from a different Territory might even be able to bring the canyon walls down around him. Maybe it was best if it didn’t come to a fight, after all.

As soon as he thought he was hidden well enough, Simon called steel and summoned Azura, not even dismounting before stabbing his sword in the air and concentrating on the Valinhall entry room, cutting slowly through the invisible curtain between worlds.

He drew steadily down, keeping his focus, even as shouts and unspeakable noises came closer and closer behind him. It had to be all the way to the ground, or it wouldn’t be big enough, and a partial Gate would never hold for long enough to get the mounts through. In less than a minute he was almost there; the bottom of the Gate was down to the bear’s chest. It was already wide enough for him to ride through, and the smell of wood and dust from the House cut through the hot desert air. Just a few more seconds.

A sharp-edged steel disc came spinning into the canyon, narrowly missing giving Simon his first haircut in months. It slammed against the canyon wall, rebounded without regard for the laws of the natural world, and came spinning back at Simon’s face.

Simon jerked Azura up and slapped the spinning steel disc out of the air with his blade. It flew over his head, wavered, and vanished into the wind before it was entirely out of sight.

But the Gate hadn’t been completed. It shimmered like heat haze and blew apart.

Simon’s heart blew apart with it. Escape to Valinhall had been his best hope for survival. Now...

Things crowded into the canyon entrance: tall bird-like creatures made of sharp-edged metal, something like a man made entirely out of boulders, a small swarm of flaming ants the size of dogs. Above him, on the top of one canyon wall, a dark Gate opened, filled with a swarm of swirling rocks. A silver Gate leading into what seemed to be a forest of swords opened on the other.

“In the name of Overlord Deborah, put down your arms,” a man shouted from the dark chaos of the rocky Gate. He wore all brown leather, though Simon had difficulty seeing more at that height, and more leather-clad figures were following him through the Gate. Many more.

“By the authority of Malachi, who is lord over these lands, surrender for judgment!” a woman called from the Gate of steel. She was wearing what looked like chainmail, and had several others following her.

“Catch me first!” Simon shouted, which was about as much insolence as he dared; he felt like he might throw up. Then, before he could think much about it, he hopped off the white bear and drew Nye essence to match the steel already rushing through him. As fast as he could, he ran farther down the canyon.

A crack like thunder rang in his ears, and Simon looked up to see that a huge chunk of rock had broken off from one side of the canyon and was falling—slowly, or so it seemed through the veil of Nye essence—falling to block the canyon in front of him. Maybe on top of him, if he was unlucky.

He started to slow, but Caela practically shouted at him. No! she screamed. Forward! Go faster!

So Simon ran faster, not daring to look up, afraid to see a hundred tons of stone crashing down on his head. The canyon was filled with a noise like giants knocking down a stone wall with hammers the size of horses, but Simon kept his eyes fixed on the end of the canyon. Even as a shadow grew wider overhead.

Finally the great chunk of rock slammed into the ground. Behind him. He was nearly knocked off his feet by the impact, saved only by the grace of the Nye. At last, he turned to look.

That end of the canyon was blocked off by a massive slice of rock wedged in between the canyon walls. No one would be following from that direction.

Of course, Simon reminded himself, that still leaves the ones on top.

The men and women on each side of the canyon—one group in shining mail, the other in dull leather—had simply walked forward to see if he survived. When they saw that he had, they began shouting. Creatures made of stone crawled out of the canyon sides, or else formed themselves from fallen rock.

His ears were still ringing from the noise—in fact, he wondered if they were not bleeding—but he still heard a short roar from one of the bears. He turned and, to his surprise, saw that all three bears had survived. One shoved his nose into Simon’s back as if anxious for him to move on.

That sounded like a good notion to Simon, who turned forward to continue running.

Only to stop almost immediately. The canyon opened mere feet in front of him, spreading out into a broad bowl. The bowl was huge, big enough to hold all of Myria, with walls even higher than the ones through which he had passed.

The bowl held no shelter. No place to hide. And, to his frantic eyes, no other way out.

Simon trotted toward the center of the bowl, leading the bears, releasing Azura and both his gifts as he did so. Best to give himself as much time to recover as possible.

“Should I surrender, do you think?” Simon asked.

As far as they’re concerned, you killed an Overlord, Caela said. She didn’t sound smug now, though she didn’t sound as grave as Simon thought the situation deserved. The only thing waiting for you is a long questioning followed by a swift death.

“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” Simon swallowed hard. “A fight, then?”

Only as much as it takes for you to get away.

“I could escape into the House.” The walls were crawling with summoned beasts now, some made of rocks like the ones he had fought in Orgrith Cave, others made entirely of shining steel, still others blazing with flame.

They’re not going to give you time to open a Gate, Caela warned him. As soon as they see you try, they’ll attack.

Simon’s breathing quickened, and he jogged a little faster for the center. Maybe he could make it to the far side, and then...there was no ‘and then.’ Then he would either have enough time to open the Gate—in which case they would pry it open and come after him—or he wouldn’t, in which case he would die.

They won’t give you any time, Caela repeated. So you’ll have to earn it. Stop here.

Simon stopped, not quite in the center of the canyon. The three armored bears faced away from him, ringing him as best they could. Trying to protect him, even now.

You are a member of the Dragon Army, Caela said. A Traveler of Valinhall. Kai never told you what that means.

It wasn’t a question, but Simon still responded. “No.”

What Valinhall Travelers are best at—where they excel—is in combat with other Territories. No other Territory better equips its Travelers for battle than yours. No one is more ready for this fight than you are.

“That’s not saying a lot,” Simon muttered, but Caela ignored him.

You have only one chance. You have to get to the Travelers on the top of the canyon before they realize what you’re doing. You have to hit them so fast, so hard, that they either die, run away, or hesitate long enough for you to retreat into the House. That is your battle plan.

A silver javelin launched through the air, aimed straight at Simon’s chest, but one of the bears reared up and knocked it down before it could reach him. The gold-armored beast roared its defiance.

The summoned creatures were closing in now. The silver-bladed bird shrieked, and when it did, dozens of other monsters made horrible sounds in concert.

“Can I do it?” Simon asked. His hands shook.

You’re about to, Caela said, with enough confidence in her voice that Simon almost believed her. Head straight for those Travelers, and carve through anything standing in your way. Wait for my signal.

The shadow-chains twisted down his arms, hard and cold. Simon raised the hood of his cloak, cutting the glare from the sun.

Five seconds from now, Caela told him.

Four. One of the bears leaped to meet a rock golem, and the two went down in a whirlwind of dust and claws. Simon crouched on the balls of his feet, holding out one hand, ready to summon Azura.

Three. A fiery ant the size of a wolfhound scampered in to try and bite Simon’s ankle, but before he could react, the insect was crushed by one of the steel bird’s talons.

Two. The bird put its metallic beak inches from Simon’s face and let out another earsplitting shriek, trying to intimidate him.

One. The beak drew back, preparing to strike like an uncoiling viper.

Now.

His power filled him, Azura flashed into his hands, and he leaped.

Not much chance that he would escape this canyon alive, but Leah and Alin would get to safety. That was what mattered. The surviving captives had made it out, and the one who captured them in the first place was dead.

Everyone was going home.

CHAPTER 23:

AFTERMATH

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

The Day After Midsummer

Alin hobbled toward his rooms, covered in a frankly ridiculous number of bandages. If he took off his clothes, leaving only the bandages, he would still be decent for company. He looked like a body prepared for burial.

None of his wounds were that serious. Sure, when he had first returned to Enosh he had been covered in such a collection of burns, scrapes, and bruises that the Asphodel healer had called him ‘seared and nicely tenderized.’ But the people of the city—the Travelers, at least—had treated him as if he were suffering from half a dozen life-threatening injuries.

Not that he had any right to complain. The Enosh Grandmasters had been torn between relief at his safe return, fury that he had risked himself in such a way, and delight that he had managed to kill an Overlord in the bargain. It made meetings with them very confusing, such that at times he didn’t know if he was being scolded, praised, or condemned.

The real problem, to them, was that he showed no signs of repentance. In his mind, the situation was very simple: he had taken a risk and it had paid off. Spectacularly, in his opinion. The man ultimately responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen Myrian villagers had paid with his life. Alin had heard that Malachi’s wife Adrienne was managing the realm, though the Kingdom would soon appoint another Traveler as a replacement Overlord. Even so, the world was undoubtedly better off without Malachi Daiasus.

So no, Alin did not regret what he had done.

Except for one thing.

At Alin’s repeated insistence, Grandmaster Avernus had sent out fliers scouting the wilderness between Bel Calem and Enosh. Within a day, the fliers had found the canyon where they suspected Simon had died.

With every speck of his remaining authority, Alin had demanded to ride out and see the site himself. The canyon itself was filled in with rubble, but the bowl-like depression at the end was even worse. It was packed with corpses and carnage. The sandy ground was littered with empty armor, shattered rocks, torn and charred bits of flesh.

Alin had walked among them, surrounded by a half a dozen Avernus Travelers on huge white eagles, each prepared to fly him away at the first sign that one of these apparently lifeless bodies wasn’t. He had seen Narakan flame-walkers torn up in grisly piles next to nameless beasts of razor-sharp steel from Tartarus and mounds of bleeding stone from Ornheim. The canyon walls had been cracked and pitted, ravaged with black burn scars, and the piles of alien corpses were dotted with something worse: human bodies. Travelers, maybe a dozen all told, lying up on the canyon walls or smashed and crumpled among their summoned beasts.

They were all dead, most decapitated or impaled. On top of that, no one had seen a body matching Simon’s description, nor any of the gold-armored Elysian bears. The canyon bowl was a layered chaos of grisly parts, so that it would take weeks to sort everything out, but some of the Avernus fliers had very sharp eyes.

Alin had felt a great surge of hope when they failed to find a body, but the Grandmasters spoke more realistically. Even the most careful search could fail to find a body on a battlefield like this, they said, and when Travelers were involved the situation got much more complicated. They could easily have been taken into Ornheim or Tartarus and died there. Or worse, they could have been taken back to Cana alive.

He had refused to listen to them at first, but as the days stretched on with no word, he grew less and less convinced. What if Simon really was dead?

If so, he had died in Alin’s place. If Alin was full of valor and patience and whatever the other Elysian virtues were, he should have been the one to stay and die for the other two. But he hadn’t done it. Simon had.

Simon had sacrificed himself for Alin, but Alin hadn’t been willing to do the reverse. In truth, he hadn’t even thought of it; he was too focused on getting back to Enosh. That was the thought that gnawed at him, waking and sleeping: that Simon had died, while he had not.

Until he pulled open the door to his bedroom and saw that it was filled with bears. Three white bears, each covered in golden armor.

They had shredded his bed, pulled his curtains down, and one of them gnawed on his most comfortable chair.

The closest bear made a sympathetic sort of whining sound when he saw Alin, and they all three padded over toward him.

Alin laughed.

***

Leah strode into the interior of Ragnarus still wearing the simple brown peasant costume that had been her uniform for the past two years. She liked to be better prepared for these meetings, but her father’s orders had been explicit: as soon as possible, he had said, which meant as soon as she could be alone.

She stood in front of a stone wall, with heavy wooden torches burning an unnatural crimson at the far right and the far left. Taking up most of the wall was a pair of silver doors, closed now, and carved with the face of a one-eyed bearded man who scowled in disapproval. Only those descended from the first King of Damasca, those of his blood, could open the Gate to get to the Territory, but that wasn’t enough of a restriction for this place. It demanded a higher price.

Leah scowled to see the doors closed. He should have left the doors open for her. But then, her father probably thought it would be good for her to pay the forfeit herself. It would strengthen her, he’d say, or some such nonsense thing.

With one motion, Leah pulled a knife from her belt and slashed it across the pad of her thumb. The cut burned, but she had endured worse already today, and likely would tomorrow. She pressed the blood to the center of the door, into the old man’s beard.

In truth it didn’t matter where on the door she put her thumb, so long as her blood made contact with the silver. But she liked to imagine she was messing up the man’s beard. As a child, she had pretended that was why he was scowling.

The doors swung soundlessly open, revealing a long hall lit only by those oppressive crimson torches. This hallway was made almost entirely of marble—walls, columns, and shelving alike—and it stretched over a hundred paces to the back, where another portrait of the one-eyed man glared out from the far wall. The marble was probably white, though in this light it could have been red and no one would ever have been able to tell the difference.

Between the columns on either side of the hall stretched marble shelves, each labeled in gold. And sitting on these shelves were weapons.

Racks and racks of weapons the color of blood, each hungering for use. Crying out for life.

Leah hated this place.

Two men stood in the middle of the hallway, not facing one another. The first was Indirial, her father’s oldest confidant and most trusted servant, who leaned with his arms crossed against one of the marble shelves. Indirial was supposedly in his fifties, but he seemed at least ten years younger, and fit for that. He wore a medallion openly on his chest—a gold coin with a nearly black amethyst embedded in the center—and tattooed chains twisted up his arms, reaching above his elbows. He always cut the sleeves off his shirts, to keep those on display.

Today, he wore a black cloak tied loosely around his neck. He kept the hood thrown back, and the cloak fell open enough to keep his bare arms in full view.

That combination, the black cloak and the chained arms, struck something in her memory.

When Indirial saw her, he flashed a grin, though he did not relax his stance. Indirial was always cheerful, and always vigilant.

“Your Highness,” Indirial said, bowing very slightly at the waist. Overlord of Cana, and second only to the King himself, Indirial needed bow to no one. That he did so anyway did not lessen his authority.

“Indirial,” Leah said, bowing back. She didn’t need to bow either, but she liked to match his manners. “You’re looking well. How is your daughter?”

“Won’t put the sword down,” Indirial said with a laugh, “despite everything I tell her. In spite of my best intentions, I think we’ll make a swordswoman of her yet.”

Leah smiled; it was easy to do, with Indirial. One tended to forget that he would kill anyone his King commanded him to without hesitation. Even, should it come to that, the King’s daughter. “My condolences,” Leah said, “and congratulations.”

Indirial laughed again, but the sound died out quickly, and neither of them picked the conversation back up. Which left Leah no choice but to turn to the second man in the room.

A muscular man of sixty-two, he held a spear in both his hands, holding it up to the light and inspecting it as though all of Ragnarus’ weapons were not flawless. He appeared not to notice that anyone else was in the room, though Leah knew that in this case appearance deceived. His hair was entirely gray, his clothes worn casually, though they were expensive enough to buy a herd of horses. A thick scar ran from the top of his left eye socket to the bottom. The injury that had given him that scar had taken his left eye as well, and left something in its place: a smooth, round stone that gleamed bright red even in this ruddy light.

Zakareth the Sixth, King of Damasca and Cana, Lord of the Morning and Evening Star, turned to stare at his daughter. One eye was sharp and blue—the same blue as Leah’s own—but the other eye burned with scarlet flame.

She wanted to shiver, but self-control and long training kept the impulse in check.

“Father,” Leah said, bowing much more deeply than she had for Indirial.

“Report,” Zakareth said, his voice deep as a thunderstorm. He returned his gaze to the spear in his hands.

“I spent two nights in the wilderness with the Elysian boy,” Leah responded. “We returned to Enosh this morning with the news of Malachi’s death. Some treated him like a hero, while others seemed to think of him as an irresponsible child.”

Zakareth closed his real eye, studying the length of the weapon with his ruby replacement. “And why didn’t you kill him?”

She tried very hard not to let the smallest drop of sweat onto her face. Sometimes he took sweating as an admission of guilt. Not always, but often enough. “I was afraid it wouldn’t be wise. And your orders said only to keep an eye on him.”

Zakareth nodded slowly, not looking at her. He gave no sign of what he thought about her answers. He reversed the spear, grinding its point into the marble floor.

“Yesterday was midsummer,” Zakareth announced. “Malachi died midsummer’s eve. In the chaos, no one thought to water his tree on the ninth day. I Traveled to Bel Calem this morning and performed the sacrifice myself, but it was late. You know what that means.”

Leah shuddered and nodded.

“This year, of all years,” Zakareth continued. “When the Incarnations shake their cage and all the Territories tremble. The sacrifice is late. And now we are missing an Overlord, while all Enosh gathers for war behind their Rising Sun. Tell me, since you know him, is he as dangerous as they think he is?”

“I don’t think so,” she responded. “But he is growing. I hesitate to think what he will be like in a year. And in five years, I think he might become a threat.”

Zakareth spoke softly, but his gaze pinned Leah to the floor. “If he’s not dangerous, then how did Malachi die? He was childish sometimes, but not weak. And you were there, in the same house when he was killed.”

“There was another one,” Leah put in quickly. “A second one.” She shot a glance at Indirial, gauging his reaction. “A Valinhall Traveler. He summoned a sword that looked like most of ten feet long, and had chains of shadow on his arms. Just like yours.”

Indirial leaned forward, a smile creeping onto his face. “Really? Did he find one of the lost swords, or did someone hang up their steel at last?”

Leah shook her head. “I can’t be sure. But I’ve seen myself that he is both strong and extremely quick. Malachi had to face him before the Elysian arrived.”

“And he’s still alive?” Indirial mused. “Exciting. New blood after all this time. I look forward to meeting him. Maybe I can talk him out of siding with those maniacs in Enosh.”

Leah shot a glance at her father. “I don’t think Simon cares about Enosh,” she said. She hoped Zakareth didn’t read too much into that. If he started thinking Leah could be used as leverage against both the Elysian Traveler and a new Valinhall Traveler, well, she would never get her life back.

“Simon?” Indirial said. “Is that his name?”

“Yeah. Simon, son of Kalman.”

Indirial swallowed his smile. A strange expression passed over his face: shock, pity, maybe regret. “He lived in Myria, didn’t he? Before he became a Traveler.”

Leah stared at Indirial before answering. How in the world would Indirial know Simon, of all people? Sure, maybe if they had met in their Territory, but Indirial had seemed surprised to hear that there was another Valinhall Traveler around. Which meant that he must have met Simon somewhere else. And how had that happened?

“Yes,” she said finally. “His mother was killed by Cormac during the collection of the sacrifice. How do you know him?”

Indirial’s eyes hardened. “I was there when his father died. He was killed at the edge of the Latari Forest by a pair of Travelers. Travelers from Enosh. They killed him and tortured his wife into insanity, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Simon has more reason to hate Enosh than anyone.”

Leah’s mind reeled. Everyone knew Simon’s father had been killed, but by Travelers? Travelers from Enosh, no less? Did Simon even know the truth?

Her father raised the gleaming spear, pointing it at Leah to get her attention. “Is this young dragon in Enosh as well?” Zakareth asked.

“No. He stayed behind after Bel Calem. To...” she hesitated, but she couldn’t stop now. “To give us time to escape.” Leah glanced at Indirial, to see how he took the news that Simon was missing and probably dead. He stared off into space, saying nothing, clearly lost in thought. Maybe he hadn’t heard her.

Zakareth stared at her again, and she wondered—not for the first time—if his red eye let him see into her mind.

“Here is your task,” her father said at last. “Stay in Enosh. Keep track of the Elysian Traveler. Report to me everything he does, everyone of significance in his life. At the same time, watch the city. Judge their strength. As of this moment, whether they realize it or not, we are at war.”

Zakareth lifted his eyes, staring above Leah, beyond her.

“They have gone too far. This time we will bring everything against the walls of Enosh. We will gather the Overlords, throw wide the Crimson Vault. We must use every weapon in our possession to grind that city to dust.

“For if we fail,” the King said, “the world will burn.”

THE END OF BOOK ONE

The Crimson Vault

(Book #2 of the Traveler’s Gate Trilogy)

CHAPTER 1:

A PRISON IN THE RAIN

350th Year of the Damascan Calendar

16th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

10 Days Until Midsummer

Through the rain, Indirial stared at the blood-red tree.
It was no more than a sapling, barely up to Indirial’s chest, but it writhed with vicious hunger. Crimson leaves stirred at the scent of his flesh, and red tendrils crept through the grass at his feet like rivulets of blood. It was trying to sneak up on him, to drag him in and drain his body dry.

Indirial flashed the Hanging Tree a smile and stayed exactly where he was.

The creeping roots stretched out to their full length, straining to reach him. They barely brushed the tips of his boots. The Tree actually hissed, bending its trunk toward him like a dog straining against its leash. But it couldn’t touch him.

“Nice try,” Indirial said. He swept a bow, flourishing the end of his black Nye cloak.

“Just checking up on you, Master,” he said. “Don’t let me disturb your rest.”

A violet light flared in the corner of his vision, and he whipped around to face it.

Danger, whispered a voice in his head. It was a cold voice, dry and crumbling, like breath from a corpse three days old. The voice of his advisor, Korr.

Indirial shot a glance down, where a heavy gold medallion lay against his shirt. It was carved with the image of a skull, which held in its mouth a single dark amethyst. The gem pulsed with violet light.

Deep in the forest, the same light—a light only Indirial could see—burned like a flame without a candle. Danger, Korr whispered again.

Indirial had never been sure whether Korr was the gold medallion or the jewel in its center. Or maybe Korr was a different being entirely, and he used the medallion as a mouthpiece. Indirial had long given up trying to ask Korr himself. His advisor wasn’t the chatty type, like Kai’s dolls. He almost never said a word, preferring to make his warnings known through flashes of light.

Korr only spoke in the face of danger. Whatever was happening off in the forest, Indirial’s advisor must think it important. And this time of year, in this place, only one threat mattered.

Indirial turned away from the Tree, calling steel.

Power flooded into him from Valinhall, wintry cold flowing through his body, reinforcing his muscles with the strength of iron. When the chill settled into his limbs, he hesitated, glancing at his forearm. Black imprints, like the shadows of chains tattooed into his flesh, began on the back of his hand and spiraled up his wrist. It was the same on his other arm. Even seconds after he called steel, the chains already reached his forearms.

He shouldn’t push his limits by calling too much power. The chains of Valinhall moved more slowly than they had when he was young, true, but they also took longer to retreat. If they wrapped around his neck…

Indirial almost laughed at himself. He was thinking like Kai, worrying instead of acting. The violet light still burned in the forest, and if there was danger there, he would meet it. If he called too much power, well, he would deal with that as it came. He hadn’t made it this far by doubting himself.

Indirial stretched his mind back to his Territory, reaching for a black box the Nye Eldest had given him long ago.

He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the moonlight essence of the Nye. With the steel in him, he felt as though his muscles were wrapped in bands of frigid metal, and the Nye essence raged like a blizzard in his chest. He was solid ice inside.

The world slowed around him. The raindrops seemed to freeze, hanging in the air like sap sliding down the side of a tree. The leaves of the forest canopy, blowing in the storm winds, leaned to one side. Even the wind now pressed against his face like a solid wall of air, paused in mid-gust.

Before he left, Indirial shot a glance back at the crimson sapling. It waved its thorny branches helplessly in slow motion, still hungering for his blood. Good. For now, let it starve. It would get plenty of food over the next ten days.

Indirial returned his attention to the pulsing violet star deep in the forest. He kicked off, launching himself into the trees.

He shot into the forest like an arrow, blasting through the droplets hanging in the air. Good thing he had kept the hood of his cloak up, otherwise his face would be soaked. A huge trunk loomed in front of him and he spun in midair, landing with his feet pressed against the rough bark.

The spark still burned off to his left, and he adjusted course, kicking off from one tree to the next, his cloak fluttering in the air behind him. To someone on the ground, he must have looked like a shadow flickering from one tree to the next faster than the eye could follow, flowing deeper and deeper into the trees. He should know; the Nye in the House moved like this often enough.

As he approached the violet light, it abruptly vanished, which meant he was close enough. Korr only dropped the light when Indirial was so close he could see the danger for himself.

Indirial landed softly on the forest floor, releasing the Nye essence in a single, blue-white breath. The essence wouldn’t last much longer, and he wanted its full duration ready if he had to fight. Besides, it was easier to observe his targets through a world that moved at normal speed. The steel would last for a while yet, so he held it. Better to be safe.

He crouched behind the branches of a redberry bush, surveying the scene. A donkey shifted and snorted nearby, hitched to a small cart filled with barrels and crates. A few paces away, a small woman hovered inches above the ground, twitching and jerking like a puppet under the effect of glowing Asphodel mist. A gray-robed Asphodel Traveler stood over her, a mass of scars covering his face.

They had to be from Enosh. Damascan Travelers would never have entered the forest at this time of year without informing him first. Their King knew better.

A blond Naraka Traveler stood beside the scarred Asphodel mist-binder, her face twisted in disgust. Likely in pain, as well, considering she had summoned a mor’we whose twisted, wasp-like body was now curled up underneath a man’s charred corpse. The agony from her summoning would have lingered.

An Asphodel and a Naraka—not a usual combination, but not too rare. He shouldn’t see much trouble from them.

Indirial could barely make out any features of the burned man, but the context of the scene completed the picture: a couple had set out from a nearby village to sell or deliver some goods, and had the misfortune to run across two Enosh Travelers looking for the Hanging Tree.

They were only a few dozen steps from the northwest edge of the Latari Forest, near the road leading up to Enosh. That explained why a pair of small-time village merchants had sheltered here against the rain.

It was tragic, but there was nothing he could do for them now. Even if they weren’t dead, they would be soon. He would follow the Enosh Travelers, looking for a chance to ambush them whenever they let their guard down. He could probably beat them head-on, but there was no sense taking a chance to avenge some unfortunate villagers. He had to prevent the Travelers from reaching the Tree, no matter what.

The Naraka woman lifted her palm toward the cart, her mark glowing cherry red. Why? Was there something in there she wanted destroyed? Maybe the merchant had found some artifact he should have left alone.

The Traveler spoke, and though Indirial couldn’t make out the sound of her voice over the rain, he read her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her mark flared.

A sound came from the cart, like a dog’s whimper. The walls of the cart shivered, as though someone within was trying to crawl away.

As the cart’s walls dipped, Indirial caught a glimpse of dark hair within the cart. A child. The villager couple had a child.

The steel running through Indirial’s veins felt warm compared to the frost gripping his heart. He had seen children die before—too many, in his opinion—but every time he did, the same picture floated to the surface of his mind: his daughter, Elaina, on the day of her birth. She was wrapped in a soft cloth, cradled in her mother’s arms, smiling up at him for the first time.

How could he let someone else’s child suffer?

He knew what Zakareth would tell him to do. Wait for an opportunity, the King would say. Bide your time. If the Enosh Travelers reach the Hanging Tree, then more than this one child will die.

But King Zakareth wasn’t here, and Indirial’s daughter would be turning nine this year. What kind of man would he be if he let this child die?

He leaped over the bush and ran for the cart, cloak billowing behind him. He had hesitated too long. If only he had held on to the Nye essence, then he may have reacted fast enough, but now…

Around the edge of the cart, Indirial barely saw a cracked, burned, red-and-black hand seize around the Naraka Traveler’s ankle. The boy’s dying father heaved, screaming with his dying breath. Indirial got a full glimpse of the Naraka Traveler’s shocked face before she fell over backwards, head slamming into the ground.

The burned man collapsed again, his last breath gone.

Indirial slowed to a walk, his heart heavy. “I’ve never seen a man go more bravely than that,” he said, almost to himself. But the boy in the cart heard.

The kid squirmed to get a better look at Indirial, twisting around in the back of the cart. Tears and terror were smeared across his face. The boy was as dark as Indirial himself—obviously descended from one of the villages—and maybe seven or eight years old. Skinny for his age. His eyes held all the horror that came from watching strangers murder his parents.

Indirial’s heart ached. He had been almost twelve years old when he saw his parents cut apart by Damascan soldiers. How much worse would it be for a boy so much younger?

He favored the boy with what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Are you hurt?” he asked. The Naraka Traveler was scrambling to her feet, asking him some question, but he ignored her. Already rage pulsed along the steel in his veins.

He would give her what she deserved shortly. For now, the boy was more important.

The boy shook his head. “My mother and father are hurt,” he said. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

Indirial’s smile slipped. Oh, Maker, he thought. What a tragedy this is.

The Asphodel man, whose face looked like someone had used it to sharpen knives, said something Indirial didn’t let himself hear. It would be some plea for diplomacy, no doubt, or an attempt to convince him they were nothing more than ordinary wanderers lost in the woods who had come across an injured family. The Asphodel Traveler was talking instead of attacking, so he hadn’t recognized Indirial. He didn’t know what the Nye cloak meant, and he probably hadn’t seen the chains on Indirial’s arms. He most likely planned on recognizing a Valinhall Traveler by their sword.

So be it. Indirial would give this Enosh heretic an up-close and personal look at his Dragon’s Fang.

Indirial reached out into the rain. The chains stretched past his elbow, wrapping his bicep. The Asphodel Traveler’s eyes widened, fear twisting his scars into a revolting mask. The Naraka still looked confused. Well, she would figure it out soon enough.

He summoned Vasha.

The sword shimmered briefly as it vanished from Valinhall and appeared in his hand. His fist closed around cloth. Vasha wasn’t as long as some of the other Fangs; Kai’s Azura, for instance, or Valin’s own Mithra, were almost uselessly long. Vasha was a more practical length, about five feet from the end of the pommel to the tip of its blade, and it did not gleam like the other Valinhall swords. Its surface was dull, pitted, its blade chipped. The steel was now all but indestructible, and nothing in his power could so much as scuff its polish, but obviously that had not always been the case.

Indirial liked it that way: rough, almost unfinished. It cut well enough.

The Enosh Travelers were shouting now. The blond Naraka moved her hand in an intricate spiral of red light, eyes tightening in pain as she mentally called for whatever force she was trying to summon. Not another mor’we, probably. She should know how futile that would be; he would cut the wasp out of the air. Possibly an ash hound, or one of the hulking akna’dorma. Or maybe something even more exotic.

Mist gathered around the gray-robed man’s hands. The Enosh Traveler had surely mastered his fear—anything else would have been lethal for him, dealing with Asphodel—and it looked like he was cooking up a serious mist binding.

Well, then, Indirial thought. Best to cut that short. He called on his newly refilled Nye essence.

Then he ran forward.

Fueled by Benson’s steel and accelerated by the power of the Nye, Indirial covered the distance between himself and the two Travelers in a blink.

Care, Korr whispered, and a violet spark appeared on the Naraka Traveler’s hand.

The Naraka’s blue eyes widened, and her summoning mark came up in a flash of red. Vivid orange flame swirled around her palm. She hadn’t called a creature, but fire from the Furnace of Judgment. Good decision. The flames would come much faster, and they would surely pair well with whatever the Asphodel came up with.

As Indirial understood it, fire from the Furnace would bind its target and burn them according to their own guilt. The bright orange fireball appeared in front of the Naraka Traveler’s hands, formed of what seemed to be faces, wide-mouthed screaming faces, that swirled among the flames like burning ghosts. They shrieked as they were summoned into the real world, blasting toward his chest.

The fire would likely have caught Indirial, despite his Nye-enhanced reflexes, if not for Korr’s warning. Caught off-guard, he would have been wrapped in flame, burning to his own crimes. Considering his past, he would be lucky to live through this one attack. He had enough sins for a dozen men. But if he did survive, the Asphodel Traveler was there to pour mist into him, feeding on the panic the Furnace created. Between them, the mist and the flames would have eaten both his mind and his body from the inside out.

Unprepared, he would have died an agonizing death. But Indirial was prepared.

At the first instant of Korr’s warning, he pulled his blade back. As soon as the fire left the Traveler’s hands, he swept Vasha across his body, catching the fireball on the flat of his blade. There was a brief sense of faint resistance, as though he had slapped his sword against the surface of a lake, and then he swatted the flame aside. It blasted into the trees.

The woman’s eyes widened—in astonishment, he thought, not fear—and she looked straight at him. For a frozen instant he stared into her pale blue eyes, saw the confusion in them. She didn’t seem like a woman awaiting her own death.

Indirial’s wife, Nerissa, had eyes exactly the same shade of ice-blue. This woman had Nerissa’s eyes.

While his mind shouted protest, the training took over his body. Vasha flashed, slicing through bone with barely a tug. The hand with her summoning mark fell away. That was the safest way to deal with Naraka Travelers: dangerous hand first, then the other hand, then the killing blow. Sometimes, if you stabbed them through the heart from the beginning, they could still call up some horror with their last breath. Not missing both hands, though.

The pain must have begun to register as she turned her confused eyes on her bleeding stump. Indirial took her left hand before her right hit the ground.

She looked up at him, still not understanding, her eyes so much like Nerissa’s that it hurt.

Indirial slid Vasha straight through her heart, holding his eyes on hers the whole time. He didn’t want her to suffer. She was in this forest to sabotage the Hanging Tree, to release on the world a force without pity or weakness…but she had his wife’s eyes. The least he could do was kill her quickly, before she had the time to feel any pain.

Her body slid off his blade and to the ground, and he allowed himself an instant to feel the weight of her death. How many had he killed? How many more would he kill, before he was done? Who would wait for this woman to come home?

Only an instant did he indulge his guilt, then he brought his mind back to the business at hand. He wasn’t the moping type. He preferred to think more encouraging thoughts, about success rather than tragedy.

But on nights like tonight, tragedy became hard to ignore.

The Asphodel would be calling up his mist soon, so Indirial did something he would have rather not done. He called diamond.

In his mind, he pictured a delicate diamond, cut almost into a perfect sphere. The gem was the reward for conquering the winter garden, one of the deepest rooms in Valinhall. Indirial called the diamond into him, let it take over his thoughts, his feelings, let it focus his memories and intentions into one blade-sharp arrow of intent.

I hate this, Indirial thought. Then the diamond took control.

Everything became simple.

The Asphodel man stood next to the body of his companion, his face composed underneath his scars. But of course he looked peaceful, because Asphodel Travelers had to stay calm. Otherwise, their own Territory would turn on them. Mist swirled around his hands, and Indirial recognized the pattern: the binding was almost complete. He was about to summon the Mists of Asphodel.

Running forward would do no good; the mist would rise wherever Indirial stood. So he stayed where he was.

No need to complicate matters.

The mists rose in half a dozen tendrils as thick around as Indirial’s thigh, crawling over his skin like cool, moist snakes. They moved with deceptive speed, reaching his face in less than a second. Mist slithered into him: through his nose, into his mouth, into his ears. He thought some particles might have even found their way in through his eyes.

The illusions began.

He saw Nerissa in front of him, crouching on the wet leaves of the Latari Forest. She wept, eyes of blue ice locked on his face. “Please,” she whispered, and held up an arm ending in a bloody stump. His sword dripped red.

Indirial’s wife vanished and his daughter took her place, nine years old, running on her short legs from a pack of ash hounds. They trailed sparks through the air as they ran out of the trees, devouring the space between them and their prey. The dogs would pull her down in seconds. Without looking, Indirial knew his feet were chained to the ground.

“Help me, Daddy!” she cried.

The images were a product of the mist. The more fear he felt, or anger, or pain, the worse they would become. Eventually his mind would shut down, unable to process reality any longer. They fed on emotion, the Mists of Asphodel.

So Indirial chose to feel nothing.

The diamond made his choice both clear and easy: if he felt emotion, he would go crazy, and the Enosh Travelers would find the Hanging Tree. So he felt nothing as blazing hounds pulled his daughter to the forest floor.

Indirial stepped forward, and the mist was simply a cloud parting around him.

He smiled broadly, showing off his teeth. Let the Asphodel Traveler see how well his binding had worked.

The Traveler paled. He panicked, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to run away. Well, it was a good thing this Traveler wasn’t in Asphodel. That much terror would have devoured him in the real Mists.

The Nye essence was fading from Indirial now, but that didn’t matter much. Even the steel was waning, but he only needed a bit. It would only take the last dregs of his power to deal with this third-rate Traveler.

Still, Indirial allowed the Asphodel a few seconds of a head start. It was only fair.

“If I had been frightened, that much mist might have killed me,” Indirial called. “Maybe even driven me insane. I hear the Mists of Asphodel have that effect on some people.”

It wasn’t honorable of him to taunt a beaten opponent, he supposed, but who cared about honor outside of Tartarus? Besides, this was the only fun he was likely to get tonight.

“But guess what?” Indirial shouted. When he judged the Traveler had run far enough, Indirial leaped after him, his jump powered by steel. He landed inches behind the fleeing man, and then he put Vasha through the Traveler’s back.

“I’m not afraid.” He gave the Asphodel another smile the man couldn’t see. He pushed the Traveler off his sword.

The big man toppled to the ground. Indirial exhaled, letting his sword vanish and his steel run out.

He kept the diamond, though. And his smile.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun.

Indirial walked back to the clearing with the cart and all the bodies. Someone would have to clean these up before Enosh found them. He would tell Zakareth to send some slaves out here tomorrow, maybe make a big bonfire. He stared into the Naraka Traveler’s empty blue eyes and imagined her body burning. A Naraka burning on her own pyre. Wouldn’t that be fitting?

The boy in the cart made a choking sound, and Indirial remembered himself.

This isn’t me, he realized. I need to release the diamond.

Or do I?

I do.

But everything is so clear. So easy.

That was true. Why not hang on to it? The diamond lasted a long time, longer than most Valinhall powers to be sure, and it made everything so simple. What was the harm?

Danger, Korr whispered. Indirial glanced into the trees, looking for the spark of violet light indicating the presence of danger, but it wasn’t there. He glanced down at the medallion.

The light burned in his own chest.

Inside, Korr said.

Indirial sighed. Fine, he thought. You win. He released the diamond.

Sensation flooded back in: regret, pain, sympathy, guilt, duty. He almost turned to the boy in the cart, but a thought stopped him. My mother and father are hurt, the boy had said.

So Indirial walked over to the boy’s father.

Burned and ravaged as the man’s body was, Indirial held out little hope for his survival. But he had seen men live through unlikely wounds before, so he pressed two fingers against the man’s neck.

Nothing.

Indirial sighed and shook his head, afraid to see the look on the boy’s face. He walked over to the mother.

With the death of the Asphodel Traveler, she had been released from the grip of the mist. He took her pulse first: it was thready, weak, barely there at all. But her heart was beating. He peeled her eyelid back with two fingers.

Her pupils dilated, she stared at something beyond his head. Her eyes flicked from side to side, as though tracking quick movement, and her breath came in gasping bursts.

She would survive. Her physical injuries amounted to nothing more than a few bruises and pulled muscles—whatever she had incurred twisting herself about or falling over. But the mental damage would be far worse.

He picked her up without much effort. He had no steel in him now, but he had kept his body in shape these last twenty years, and she was not a large woman. He brought her over to the boy’s cart, tucking her in beside him, pulling the tarp over them both to keep the rain out.

Indirial winced as the boy snatched his mother back, pressing her to his chest as if to protect her from Indirial.

“Are you the Forest Demon?” the boy whispered.

The Forest Demon? Was the old legend still around? If so, it probably applied to him. He had been the one to start that particular myth, after all. He smiled at the boy like he would smile at his own daughter. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy sniffled and kept crying. Well, he had never claimed to be good with children.

“What’s your name?” Indirial asked.

“Simon, son of Kalman.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” he said. “And this is your mother?”

The boy nodded, pulling her closer to his chest. At least he had stopped crying.

Indirial hesitated. If the Valinhall healing pool would have done her any good, he would have opened a Gate in a heartbeat and carried her there himself. But her wounds were more than physical, and the pool would be more danger than benefit. How was he supposed to explain that to an eight-year-old?

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do for her. If it was just the body...but Asphodel attacks the mind. The spirit. It will be years before she recovers, if ever.” True words, but to his ears they sounded like excuses.

The boy—Simon—started crying again. Not that Indirial could blame him. “I couldn’t do anything,” he said. “I just wanted to help, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move.”

He had to say something to comfort the kid. “It’s not your fault, Simon. Not at all. But you can do something now, all right? I need you to take care of your mother for me. Can you do that?”

The boy wiped snot from his nose with the back of his sleeve and nodded.

“All right,” Indirial said calmly. He started to move around the cart, toward the donkey, which—amazingly—hadn’t panicked or bolted.

“Now, where do you live?”

“Myria village,” Simon responded.

Indirial repeated the name, thinking out loud. “That’s...a day or two northwest, I think. I can make it.” Simon sat there, looking hopeful and sad and alone, so he said it more firmly: “I’ll make it.”

It took Indirial almost twenty minutes to get the donkey to pull them all the way out to the trader’s road. In all that time, Simon didn’t say a word. He didn’t cry, either. He tended to his mother in silence.

There had to be something Indirial could do for him. He couldn’t leave an eight-year-old boy to care for a mother who would probably never regain her sanity. Maybe he could take them in, raise them with his own family. Elaina could use a little brother.

No, Zakareth would never allow it. He was annoyed enough by the little of Indirial’s time he did not control. But there were still a few areas of Indirial’s life where the King of Damasca had no say.

“Once you get a little older, you should come back to the Forest, if you can,” Indirial said. “I’ll teach you how to make it so that Travelers never bother you again.” The Forest was his post, and would be for the foreseeable future. Unless Zakareth made good on his threat to make Indirial an Overlord, he would be there to train Simon properly. Besides, it was about time the Dragon Army got a little new blood.

“They were Travelers, then,” Simon said. He sounded…lost. Disappointed.

“Yes,” Indirial said simply. Some dreams of childhood needed to be crushed.

“Why did they hurt us?” Simon asked. Tears filled his voice.

For a blood-red tree, Indirial thought but didn’t say. To open a prison and release the monsters inside.

“Nothing you did, I promise you that,” Indirial said. “They were...looking for something.” That was all he would allow himself to say on the subject.

“When we reach Myria, I’ll do what I can for you, help you take care of your mother as best I can. For a little while. But I can’t leave my forest undefended for long. Not now.” Not with midsummer so close. This failure would only make Enosh try even harder.

“It’s okay,” Simon said. “I can take care of her.” His voice was strong.

“I know you can,” Indirial said. But if the Enosh Travelers succeeded, if they destroyed the Tree, no one would be safe. The villages near to Latari Forest, like Myria, they would suffer the worst. The Incarnations would reap a harvest of blood and bone greater than the world had seen in centuries.

Indirial would put a stop to it. Alone, if he had to. He would show the Enosh Grandmasters what a soldier of the Dragon Army could do.

Under the hood of his cloak, Indirial smiled.

CHAPTER 2:

WEAPONS OLD AND NEW

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

30 Days After Midsummer

15 Days Until Summer’s End

Kai missed his dolls.

When a pack of six-legged obsidian wolves burst from the desert around him, sending fountains of sand exploding into the air, Kai was caught off guard. His dolls would have warned him.

The wolves’ bodies were made of smooth, polished black stone, their eyes of emerald. They each had three of those jeweled eyes, gleaming in the sun. They must be golems, guardians from Ornheim, left resting in the sand and waiting for someone to come by. They circled him now, prowling with a liquid grace that didn’t seem possible for beings made of stone.

There were four wolves in the pack, maybe five. One of his dolls would have known for sure. Angeline would have scolded him for not paying attention, but she would have told him how many and where they came from. Caela would have warned him happily, proud of her own knowledge.

Never again. They were with Simon now. The thought made him want to weep.

A polished muzzle closed on his forearm, teeth like chips of stone beginning to grind into his flesh. Kai pictured a stone amulet, hidden in a chest back in Valinhall. He called stone.

The wolf’s teeth sunk into his skin but barely penetrated, as though his arm had gained the consistency of tough leather. Shadowy chains crawled up his arms, through the monster’s jaws. It was an odd sensation, feeling the cold links of a chain flow up his skin while a monster chewed on it.

The wolf jerked its jaws to one side, trying to tear his arm from its socket.

Cold steel flowed through his veins, and his flesh was hard as stone. The creature would have to try harder.

Kai tossed the black wolf aside. It landed ten feet away, with enough force that its landing blasted sand away in a ring. The ground shuddered with impact.

The other wolves froze in their prowling, turning emerald eyes on Kai.

He looked past them, into the horizon of the Badari Desert, where a huge sandstone temple awaited him. It was hewn of rough, enormous blocks of stone, and it crouched among the dunes as though it had weathered a thousand summers and would wait patiently for a thousand more. Kai knew better. Ornheim Travelers had summoned the stone for this temple from their Territory less than twenty-five years before. He had watched it happen, though he had never planned to return.

Well, since he was here, he might as well finish it. The wolves wouldn’t wait around forever.

Silently, Kai called out to the Valinhall armory. He needed a weapon.

A mirage shimmered in his hands for an instant before resolving itself into a hulking, double-edged battle-axe. The steel head looked rough as stone, and the wooden shaft was dark and stained. End to end, it would stand almost a foot higher than the top of Kai’s head. Oh, it was big enough, he supposed, but where was the beauty? The grace?

Kai missed Azura.

The obsidian wolves surged forward as one, trying to bring him down before he could use his weapon. Kai leaped forward to meet one, bringing his axe down on its skull with a satisfying crunch that crushed its head to shards like black glass.

Six legs landed on his back, almost bringing him to his knees under the weight. He spun around before the wolf could close its jaws on his neck, sending it flying off.

He kept spinning, turning his momentum into a swing. The weapon slammed into another wolf’s side, hammering it into the air and over a dune. He felt its body land on the other side.

One of the wolves crept up behind him, aiming for his calf. He caught its movement out of the corner of his eyes, its movement strangely serpentine as it crawled forward on its six legs. Kai spun the axe like a quarterstaff—it wasn’t weighted for such a move, but Kai’s strength made up for it—and caught the wolf under the ribs with the axe’s shaft.

He swept the creature into the air, then reversed his swing, cleaving the wolf in two. Chips of obsidian sprayed into the air, prickling Kai’s skin. If he hadn’t called stone, they would have left ribbons of blood behind.

Another jaw closed on his elbow and pulled him backwards, unbalancing him and sending him sprawling on his back in the sand.

Kai felt an instant of instinctive fear, lying on his back and looking up into the gleaming black jaws of two stone wolves. Their triple-emerald eyes fixed on him, and he would have sworn they gleamed.

No need to be afraid, Kai reminded himself. They can chew all they like, and never get a drop of blood. They couldn’t penetrate his flesh. All he needed to do was let them gnaw on him for a moment, and wait for his time to strike back. As long as his stone power lasted long enough.

At that exact moment, his stone ran out.

He should have known. Stone recovered quickly, but it ran out just as fast. It was intended to block an attack or two, not last through an entire battle, but he still thought he would have had a few more seconds.

There he was, on his back, about to be eaten by a couple of Ornheim wolves. Oh, how Otoku would have mocked him.

Kai drew steel deeply, feeling it flood his veins in an icy torrent that dwarfed what he had held before. With one hand, he seized a wolf’s snout before its jaws closed on his throat. The other hand, he slid up the shaft of the axe, grasping the weapon below the head. As the second wolf dove toward his belly, Kai hammered the axe-head into its body. He could barely get any leverage, so he battered at it again and again.

The wolf in his grip strained, trying to reach his throat. It was eerily quiet. A natural wolf would have snarled or growled, but the obsidian creature pushed forward like a silent, pitiless machine, its emerald eyes flaring with reflected sunlight.

The second wolf finally died under the brutal hammering, collapsing onto Kai’s stomach in a heap of lifeless rock. Kai was free to turn the axe on the wolf he held in his hand.

It did not last long.

When both wolves were dead, Kai hauled himself to his feet. Shards of obsidian clinked and rattled as they slid from his chest. He almost released the steel—he had seconds left, at best, and the power would take most of an hour to regenerate under these conditions—but some instinct made him hold on.

He stood still, holding the battle-axe in both hands. He listened.

Something scraped behind him, little more than a pebble sliding down a dune.

In one movement, Kai turned, reversing his axe as he did, and plunged his heavy weapon straight down on the wolf that had tried to sneak up on him.

The creature was crushed under the blow, shattering instantly. Its emerald eyes were inches from Kai’s calf.

Kai smiled. He hadn’t even needed a warning. If Caela could see him now, she would be so proud.

He let the axe drop to the sand, walking toward the temple. It was scratched and chipped from his battle with the wolves, and he thought the end of the shaft might have even splintered. The weapon would fade back to Valinhall eventually, where one of the Nye would take it into the forge and do what they could to repair it. They might strip it down and use it for raw materials; it was no Dragon’s Fang, after all.

That touched the heart of why Kai was headed to this temple in the first place. It had taken him weeks to reach this far into the Badari Desert on foot, and now he was finally this close to his goal.

By sunset, he would have a real weapon again. Then he could go home.

***

Simon held Azura in both hands, staring out into a room filled with thick, leafy jungle plants and pelting rain. A piping scream cut through the roar of the rain, sounding like the cry of some exotic bird. Knowing Valinhall, it was probably something far more deadly than any bird.

He raised his huge sword and eyed the door on the other side of the room. A cobblestone path cut through the grass carpeting the rest of the area, and it led directly to a stone door with a running wolf carved in its face. Simon was so far away now he could barely see the outline of the wolf carving, but he had tried to reach the door so often that he burned with curiosity. He had to see what was behind the door.

Go now, Lilia whispered in his mind. Like all his dolls, she sounded as though she was speaking through a gentle wind, although she actually sat on the stone floor by his feet. She wore a frilly dress of pure white, and had huge, innocent purple eyes.

He had tucked her safely under the overhang, away from the rain. Kai would murder him if he ruined her dress.

At the doll’s signal, Simon stepped into the downpour as a clear spot opened in the weather. He stood surrounded by rain, but remained totally dry. The clear spot in the rain moved forward and he stepped with it, raising his sword above him as though to chop.

He stepped again, and brought the sword down. Another step, and he crouched on the balls of his feet, the sword arched behind him and to one side.

With each step he took, he assumed one of the sword forms Chaka had taught him. If he executed each of the positions correctly, he would reach the other side of the room completely dry.

This was his fourteenth attempt to conquer what he and the other residents of Valinhall had dubbed the “rain garden.” He had never made it more than halfway.

But he liked his chances this time.

The rain pounded around him, assaulting his ears, and the clear spot began to move more quickly. He stepped forward from form to form, faster and faster, slashing and blocking and dodging invisible opponents until he moved almost as fast as he would in an actual battle.

He had passed the first landmark of the rain garden: a cluster of tall purple flowers with blossoms like trumpets, growing to one side of the path. That meant he was almost two thirds of the way there. He had never made it so far before, and had never run through the routine so quickly. He started to lose track of the forms: he stepped forward, and couldn’t remember if he was supposed to lunge forward or pivot for a slash.

He needed more time, so he reached out in his mind to a black box the Nye Eldest had once given him. Chaka had warned him that he would learn nothing from this test if he simply relied on his powers to pass, but how would he know? Simon certainly wasn’t going to tell him. A rush of cold moonlight filled his lungs as he drew on the essence of the Nye.

The world slowed. Instead of hurtling to the earth, the raindrops seemed to crawl. At that speed, Simon could see the outline left by the absence of rain, and he fitted himself into it. He had to remember to move slowly and carefully, though, since in this test too fast was as bad as too slow. But he had no chance of failing now. No wonder Chaka hadn’t wanted him to call the essence—it made the test too easy.

Simon made it through three more forms before he realized the rain was speeding up. At first, he wasn’t worried. He could move faster, too. He increased the speed of his forms, cutting and spinning and piercing invisible enemies by the dozen.

The rain sped up again. Without the essence in him, it would have been impossible to follow.

Soon Simon was moving as frantically as before, moving from form to form so quickly that he knew an onlooker would see him as nothing more than a silver-flashing blur. But somehow the rain moved faster still. Even the droplets didn’t seem as slow as before, rushing down almost as quickly as they had when he first entered the room. Was the essence running out? No, it still rushed through his lungs like the breath of winter itself. So what was going on?

Oh, right, I may have forgot to mention, Lilia said absently. The rain speeds up to match you, so you probably shouldn’t use your Nye essence.

Too late now, Simon sent back, a little bitterly. The door was so close. Surely, he could make it this time.

I thought I told you, Lilia said. Or did I? No, I certainly forgot.

The weather did something Simon had never seen before: it froze. The clearing above stopped moving forward, but Simon thoughtlessly stepped into his next form, sweeping his sword out in a slashing blow that cut through the rain.

Water pelted down, soaking him in seconds.

His doll gasped. Oh dear. You should run.

He would have, but the raindrops were coming so fast that they slammed into his skin like hundreds of tiny hammers. Desperate, he called steel, the icy strength rushing through his blood.

Then he turned away from the wolf-carved door and began to run back toward Lilia, who sat next to the far entrance. Maybe, with steel and essence in him, he could make it.

The rain stopped.

Behind you, Lilia murmured. She didn’t sound as upset as she should have.

Simon spun around, swinging Azura through the creature he knew he would see behind him: something like a long-necked cat, only shaped entirely of water. It hissed when Simon’s sword cut through its neck, revealing a mouth full of icicle teeth.

Simon’s strike did about as much good as if he had attacked a waterfall, passing through without dealing any real damage, but the cat stopped for a split second to let its neck re-form. Simon took advantage of that instant to turn back around and keep running.

He couldn’t afford to slow down. There were hundreds of those cats following him with the inevitability of a rushing river, the leaders snapping at his heels. Even with his enhanced speed, Simon couldn’t outrun them. In fact, a pair of the cats jumped onto his shoulders, sinking ice-cold teeth into his collar.

He screamed, but didn’t stop running.

Hey, they’re still behind you, Lilia said.

Simon didn’t open the door so much as he crashed into it, barely remembering at the last second to spin around and scoop up Lilia and his black cloak, which he had left behind so it didn’t slow him down. So much for that.

Wind from the courtyard whipped him as he stepped through the door, but he ignored it as he slammed the heavy stone door shut. There came a sound like the rushing of an ocean wave as all the rain-cats slammed against the door in a torrent. Water oozed through the crack at the bottom of the door, puddling next to his feet.

I had a dream like this once, the doll said.

The two cats that had shredded Simon’s shoulders let out a yowl as they melted, covering him in icy rainwater. It looked like they could only exist in the rain garden, which was a relief. He had been afraid he would have to fight them from room to room throughout the whole House.

“Almost made it,” Simon panted. His shoulders burned, and he was starting to feel a little light-headed.

Did you? Lilia said. I didn’t notice.

***

Simon grabbed an imp around the middle, which felt like grabbing a rough leather bag full of sticks, and tossed it out of the pool. It landed on four clawed feet and hissed angrily at him, raising a ridge of spines on top of its knobbed head.

He followed the imp out of the water ahead of a dozen more of its kind. The surface of the pool churned with activity under the surface, but he had made it out in time. In the past, he had stayed in longer and survived, but this time the fight wasn’t worth it. The longer he stayed in the water, the more imps he would attract.
Simon aimed a kick at the imp on dry land, but it dodged him and jumped back into the pool. The last he saw of it was its red eyes as it glared at him, swimming backwards into the murky depths.

He rolled his shoulders, healthy skin and muscle replacing what had been bleeding gashes only minutes before. There was a time, not long ago, when staying in the bath long enough to heal serious wounds had meant risking his life. Now, he could shake off the imps without even calling steel or carrying a weapon.
Sure, he was getting better. But not fast enough. Not when he still couldn’t make it across the rain garden.

Almost involuntarily, Simon raised one hand to his bare chest. Three long scars slashed diagonally down his body, leaving uneven ridges. It looked as though a monster had tried to carve him open with its huge claws.

Which was, in fact, exactly what had happened.

It had been eight weeks since his battle out in the wilderness, where he had fought over a dozen Damascan Travelers and come out alive. Broken, bleeding, and barely conscious, but alive.

Well, from his perspective two months had passed, but he had spent the vast majority of his time since then training and recovering in Valinhall. He supposed that, in the outside world, it had only been about a month.

He had come far too close to death in that battle. Even the pool had been unable to mend his injuries completely, leaving him with an impressive collection of scars. The three slashes across his chest were the worst, but Olissa had said he should have spent the rest of his life in a crippled wreck of the body.

Simon believed her. Even with the pool’s healing, he had spent most of four weeks bruised, sore, and aching. Only recently had he been able to swing a sword without his muscles tightening, but as soon as he could, he had begun his training anew.

He never wanted to find himself so close to death again.

Kai would have done better, Simon thought.

Kai had inappropriate dreams about his dolls, Lilia pointed out. I would not suggest him as a role model. She did not sound as sarcastic as Otoku would have. She always sounded thoughtful and distant, as though she were half-lost in a daydream. At the moment, she sat across the room next to his clothes, facing the wall. He always pointed the dolls away from him while he bathed. They were girls, and it wasn’t proper. Well, they were wooden toys, but he felt better with them looking away.

Simon began to dry himself off with a towel that one of the Nye had left folded on the floor nearby. He’s strong, he sent. One day, I hope to be as strong as he is.

Why? Lilia asked. She sounded honestly curious.

Simon couldn’t think of a good answer, but he tried. Because I’m a Valinhall Traveler now, so I might as well be a good one.

Do you have to be strong to be good?

Lilia, Simon was beginning to notice, asked a lot of questions.

Three raps echoed through the room as someone hammered on the door. The bathroom had no locks, which once hadn’t been a problem, but now Valinhall housed two women. There had been some incidents early on that Andra and Olissa found hilarious, but made Simon distinctly uncomfortable. Now, everyone had learned to knock.

“One moment,” Simon called, but the door began to open anyway. He hurriedly wrapped the towel around his waist.

Erastes poked his head inside. His face was hard as usual, with his iron-gray hair and eyes that looked carved from steel. “Olissa wants you,” he said. “She’s got something she wants to show you.”

He eyed Simon up and down. “You should probably wear pants,” he suggested. The door slammed shut.

Simon joined him outside about a minute later, fully clothed and cradling Lilia in one arm. He left Azura sitting on the edge of the tub. One of the Nye would return the sword to its rack in the entry hall, probably before he could have walked there himself. He left his cloak, too, though the Eldest wouldn’t be happy about that. Simon couldn’t stand wearing the thing around the House.

They walked down the hallway in silence, Erastes marching along like the military man he was. Simon had never connected with the older man, possibly because Simon had killed most of the soldiers under his command, defeated Erastes himself in one-on-one combat, and tossed him into an unknown Territory with no way to return. The atmosphere between them remained…awkward.

“So, how are you settling in?” Simon said. It was the first thing he had thought of to say that sounded better than, ‘you don’t want to kill me, do you?’

Erastes glanced down at Simon with a look that could have frozen a bonfire. Then again, Erastes always looked like that. “Well enough, all things considered. The healing pool of yours makes me feel twenty years younger. And thanks to Chaka, I’m a better swordsman than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s good,” Simon said. “I was worried you’d be…that is to say, uncomfortable here. Considering.”

He winced. Far too direct.

Erastes remained silent until they reached the door to the garden, a polished wooden door carved with a flowering tree. There were several gardens in Valinhall, Simon had learned, but as this one was relatively close to the “front” of the House, it was used most often as a meeting place. Besides, it was the best source of food and water in Valinhall.

Erastes paused with his hand on the door.

“That was going to be my last assignment, did you know that?” Erastes said. “I’ve spent my life in the army. Once I took care of one little peacekeeping problem in the north, I had Malachi’s permission to retire. I have no wife, no children, so I was going to move in with the Agnos family. Caius and Olissa have always been friends to me.”

Simon didn’t say anything. Erastes had never said anything like this, and he was afraid to break the spell. He didn’t move. He was almost afraid to breathe.

Erastes nodded toward the door. “Caius was a merchant. He sold general supplies to the villages in Malachi and Deborah’s realms. His family has been on the move all their lives, but Malachi had finally given them the deed to a little plot of land on the border. We were all going to settle down in a village. The children would have grown up with friends their own age. Then you came along.”

Erastes didn’t look in Simon’s direction, and his voice didn’t change, but his grip on the door handle tightened. “You had left us in Valinhall for two days before someone came along to let us back into the real world. Denner, the man with the giant book, he let us out. But we quickly discovered the Overlord was dead. With him gone, no one would honor our deed. No one in the village had heard of us. Even our supplies were gone, stolen by the prisoners you freed. We came back here because we have nowhere else to go.”

Erastes looked at Simon with eyes of steel. “I don’t hold a grudge,” he said. “You were doing your job, like I was doing mine when I arrested your villagers. But you stole my life, and you killed my men.

“We are not friends.”

He pushed the garden door open and walked inside.

Simon stood at the entrance of the garden for a moment, a little sick. He had only meant to free his friends from Myria, but in doing so, how many lives had he ruined? Did they hate him? Maybe they should. He wasn’t sure what he should have done differently, though.

I don’t think he likes you very much, Lilia observed.

The garden didn’t look like a room at all, but like a meadow the size of Simon’s entire village. Wind ruffled the tips of the grass, and the sun shone directly overhead in a cloudless sky. An odd creature, like a hairless ox with three horns, grazed nearby, while the rest of its herd galloped on the horizon. A spring-fed stream cut the field in half, crossing in front of the room’s most obvious feature: a huge fruit tree at the center of the garden. Even from this distance, spots of color showed through the leaves, where exotic fruits hung from the tree’s limbs. Simon had tasted six or seven different fruits from that tree, and he had never sampled the highest branches.

Usually, Chaka rested in the shade beneath the fruit tree, waiting for challengers to duel him for meals. Today, he leaped around the meadow, his sword-arms flashing in the sunlight.

He faced two opponents: Andra and Lycus, the two children of the Agnos family. Lycus had celebrated his eleventh birthday in the House, while his sister Andra stood a head taller at thirteen. They both had the naturally tanned skin Simon associated with villagers, but the blond hair shared by many Damascans.

Lycus stabbed at Chaka’s midsection, a look of intense focus on his face. He was using a straight short sword, little more than a long knife, not one of the gracefully curving Dragon’s Fangs forged by the Wanderer. His older sister had a much better weapon: Seijan, the tenth Fang, the shining steel of its blade marred by black spots like ink blots.

Andra saw Lycus attack and matched his timing, striking at Chaka’s neck from the opposite side. She swung her blade as if dancing, laughing as she did.

Get him, Simon thought, mentally urging them on. Just once, he wanted to see Chaka actually lose a fight.

They won’t, Lilia responded dreamily. Chaka doesn’t lose unless he wants to.

Chaka had no hands, only sword blades where hands should be. He parried Lycus’ blade with his left arm, knocking it wide, blocking Andra’s attack with his right. The edge of Lycus’ sword barely scarred the leather of Chaka’s chest.

When Simon had first seen Chaka, he had assumed the fighter was nothing more than a man in mismatched leather. Not an inch of his skin showed underneath bits of leather armor held in place by crisscrossed belts, straps, and buckles. Even his eyes were hidden by a helmet of hardened leather, and a leather mask covered his mouth.

Simon had learned much since then. Chaka was not a man; at least, not anymore.

Chaka’s mask split, and his leather lips stretched into a smile.

“That’s not bad, there. You nicked me good. I’ll have to get the Nye to polish me up. Nice job, both of you. Now let’s get a bite, eh?”

Erastes, who had taken up a stance nearby where he could watch the battle, applauded. “You’re working together well,” he said. “Stay in the habit. You’re never alone on the battlefield.”

“Yes, sir,” Andra and Lycus chorused. Erastes nodded at them and stepped forward, drawing his own sword. It was a standard Damascan infantry sword, short and straight, but it shone like a mirror, like one of the Dragon’s Fangs. Simon had learned firsthand that the blade was a match for Azura, unlike a sword of ordinary steel.

The Agnos children still hadn’t spotted Simon, and he wanted to put that off as long as possible. Something about Erastes’ earlier story was making him uncomfortable. But he still edged forward a few steps to get a better view of the upcoming duel.

Erastes may not have the strength and speed of a Valinhall Traveler, but he had lived as a soldier for most of his life. A match between him and Chaka was well worth a watch.

Chaka waved one bladed arm in dismissal. “Nah, don’t even worry about it. You’re good enough to be gettin’ on with. Come on over here and grab some lunch. I already know you deserve it.” Even his yellow gemstone eyes somehow looked warmer.

Simon realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen Chaka smile before. He raised Lilia up to eye level.

“What was that about?” he asked. “Chaka would never have let Lycus cut him. And he’s never that nice, either.”

Lilia’s painted lips curled up in a smile, and Simon almost dropped her in the grass. The paint had moved, right in front of him! The dolls were alive!

I told you, Chaka doesn’t lose, Lilia said. Not unless he wants to.

“Did you smile at me?” Simon said. Lilia said nothing, but he could sense her sleepy amusement.

“No, be honest with me,” he said. “Did you just—“

He was cut off when Andra finally noticed his presence. “Simon!” she shouted, and scrambled over to him, grinning. Lycus followed, but slowly and without the smile.

“Did you see us?” Andra asked excitedly. “We got Chaka!”

Simon glanced behind her at Chaka, sitting underneath the fruit tree. He was staring straight back at Simon, his jeweled eyes burning. “Yeah, I saw,” Simon said. “You did great.”

Andra’s eyes sparkled, and she leaned in close. “Chaka says it took you ages to get a cut on him.”

Ages? He had earned his supper from Chaka on the second day! And getting the first cut had only taken a few weeks. Andra and Lycus had been in Valinhall at least that long, with the way time worked here. Then again, he had used the Nye essence the first time he landed a real blow on Chaka...

“Don’t listen to everything Chaka tells you,” Simon said, glaring at the leather man.

Behind Andra, Chaka raised one bladed arm and scraped it across the other as if sharpening knives. Simon didn’t know what that gesture meant, but he was sure it wasn’t friendly.

Lycus stared up at Simon. “How was the rain garden?” he asked. Once, he would have looked at Simon like a hero from the stories.

Now his stare was all but empty.

Simon shook his head, but tried to change the subject. “Where’s your mother? Erastes said she wanted to see me.” Erastes, sitting next to Chaka and munching on a red piece of fruit, said nothing.

Andra’s eyes brightened. “Oh yeah, you haven’t seen it yet! Come on, follow me! It’s brilliant!”

As Simon carried Lilia after Andra, he sighed inwardly. Andra had a tendency to get excited over small things, like a trio of Nye children hiding among the clothes in a laundry basket. Chances were slim that she would show him anything worth his time.

Andra led him into the forge, a long room with walls of black stone. Nooks set into the walls every few paces held anvils, bellows, ovens, racks of tools, barrels of iron stock, buckets of water, boxes of coal, and every other piece of smithing equipment Simon would expect.

Lycus and Andra’s father, Caius, stood behind an iron anvil, a smock on his belly and a heavy blacksmith’s hammer in one hand. He looked as though he belonged there, pounding furiously away at a hot plate of metal. Flying sparks sent waves of light through the room.

Under ordinary circumstances, Simon had thought of Caius as warm and friendly, but soft. The kind of man who delivered goods because he couldn’t be bothered to do a day of real work. Simon’s own father had been a merchant, so he knew not all merchants were fat and lazy, but Caius seemed to fit Simon’s image of a well-to-do Damascan trader.

In the red-hot light of the sparks, Caius had transformed into an entirely different man.

He glanced up when Simon and his children entered the room, and a broad smile split his face. “Just a minute,” he called. “I’m almost done here.”

Lycus and Andra had evidently expected this answer, because they nodded and made themselves at home in the forge. Lycus hopped up on a crate and watched his father work, while Andra grabbed a pair of pliers and used them to poke around.

Simon stood where he was, watching Caius and trying to figure out what he was making. It looked like a shallow bowl or plate, but he had stretched it into an oval shape. Maybe it was supposed to be part of something, like a piece of armor or plating on a shield. As Caius turned the whatever-it-was to hammer it from a different angle, he revealed that one half of the plate was darker than the other. It seemed he had joined two different metals together. Why?

He decided Caius was repairing something from the armory.

The Nye usually do that work, Lilia pointed out. Why is Caius taking over for them?

That was a good point. Maybe Caius simply liked working with his hands, so the Nye were letting him do a few repairs around the House.

Or maybe he’s not repairing anything at all, Lilia said.

Caius pulled the plate from the anvil and dunked it into a barrel of what Simon assumed was water. Clouds of steam billowed out of the barrel, vanishing in the shadows of the ceiling.
With his long-handled tongs, Caius pulled the plate out of the barrel and plunked it back down. As it sat there, steaming, he motioned to Simon.

“Have a look,” he said, grinning like a toddler with a new toy.

Simon walked over, strangely a little nervous. It looked like nothing more than a piece of metal, but he was treating it like something special, and Simon had spent the last few months in Valinhall. There, even a seemingly empty shadow could come to life and try to choke the life out of you. Could and did, on a nightly basis.

So he stepped up to the anvil full of nervous expectation.

Half of the oval, the half that Caius had just finished adding, shone mirror-bright. It looked to be made out of the same flawless steel as Azura, perfect except for a single slit that Caius had punched out of the middle. The other half had a matching incision in the same place, but the metal was darker. It was black around the edges, like wrought iron, but the middle was still somewhat red, as though it held some heat from the forge. The two halves joined seamlessly in the center, so that if he hadn’t seen Caius working, Simon would have thought the whole thing had been made of one piece and dyed. The join was uneven, not a straight line, as though the plate had once been shattered and re-forged.

As he examined it piece by piece, Simon caught myself wondering once again what purpose this plate could possibly serve. Were the spaces for ventilation? Was this a component of some machine? Only when he looked at the plate as a whole did it hit him, like a punch to the gut.

The two slits were for eyes. It was a mask.

And he had seen this mask before.

Actually, he only recognized half of the mask: from the right side of Overlord Malachi’s face, before he died. It had allowed him to call terrifying amounts of power from his Territory, enough that he had almost killed Alin and torn his own house apart doing it.

The mask had only come off as the Overlord’s head rolled across the floor, after Alin took it from his shoulders. More than once, Simon had woken up, drenched in sweat, fighting off a nightmare of that day.

Other times, the Nye interrupted his nights with an ambush. In Valinhall, he rarely enjoyed a good night’s sleep.

Simon picked up the mask—it was only a little warm, now—and turned it over in his hand. “What did you do?”

Caius grinned proudly. “We fixed it. Well, we’re not done yet, but we think we can have a working model for you in a week or two.”

Simon’s head spun. If this mask could do for him what it had done for Malachi, he wouldn’t have to worry about progressing through the rooms too slowly. This would take his powers to new heights.

Simon pushed back my rising excitement. There was too much he still didn’t know.

“A working model?” he repeated. “What do you expect it to be able to do?”

Caius started to answer, but a door opened to the side of the forge, and Olissa Agnos stuck her head through. Her sense of fashion had dramatically changed since the last time he’d seen her: she had cut her honey-brown hair short, well above her shoulders, and wore a set of copper goggles pushed up on her forehead. Black stains from soot and grease covered her face, and she held a long pair of tongs in one hand. The tongs shivered strangely at the ends, buzzing like a struck bell.

Olissa frowned at her husband. “Is it ready? What are you waiting for?” She seemed to notice Simon for the first time. “Oh, Simon, you’re here too. Come see our room!”

Andra grinned and rushed past Simon as he followed Olissa, but the only thing he could think was, Wow. They’ve settled in better than I thought.

As Simon stepped through the door at the side of the room, it occurred to him that there had never been a door here before. Here, he had once fought a giant, burning snake made of red-hot metal. If there had been a way to escape, he would have noticed, which meant this door had somehow appeared in the last few months.

Valinhall did such things from time to time, rearranging its layout and adding new rooms according to the needs of its inhabitants. He could accept that; it was a Territory, after all. But seeing the evidence in front of him felt…strange.

“Welcome to the workshop,” Olissa said, throwing out an arm to showcase the room.

It had more in common with a cluttered storeroom than with a workshop. Tables took up almost every available inch of floor space, leaving only thin and crooked walkways between them. On each of the tables rested what seemed to be a collection of junk: nails, wire, bells, chipped pieces of stone, a Damascan infantry helmet, three sticks of incense, a vial of bubbling red fluid, and what looked like the insides of Kai’s clock.

The entire Agnos family stood around Simon now, and they seemed to be expecting him to say something. He was supposed to show how impressed he was, but something else came out of his mouth.

“What is it for?”

Olissa didn’t seem put off by Simon’s less-than-eager response. She grinned like her daughter, happy to explain. “This is the place where the Wanderer did most of his work. Yes, he made the Dragon’s Fangs in the forge, but most everything else he did came out of this very room. It’s a place to tinker and try out new ideas. The Nye have kept the workshop sealed up since the Wanderer disappeared, but when the Eldest heard I liked to fix things, he opened it back up.”

Alarms sounded in Simon’s head. “The Eldest gave you this room?”

Olissa nodded. “He’s been wonderful.”

The Eldest had helped Simon on more than one occasion, but ‘wonderful’ did not describe him. If he was helping the Agnos family, that meant he thought he had something to gain.

He wanted to ask Olissa some more questions, but Lilia interrupted him.

Time to get back to work, she said. Simon frowned, lifting her up so he could see into her purple eyes.

What do you mean? Simon asked silently. He kept watching her face, though. Maybe he would get to see it change again.

Lilia didn’t say anything else, but something in his pocket buzzed like a swarm of trapped bees.

Simon sighed, reaching in and pulling out the device Alin had given him, something like a little acorn trapped in a delicate golden birdcage. The acorn went insane, throwing itself up against the walls of its cage almost too fast to see. The rattling of the cage created the buzzing sound.

Olissa lowered her long-handled tongs to a nearby table, her eyes locked on his device. “What is that?” she asked, her voice heavy with curiosity.

“I’ll show it to you later,” Simon said. He didn’t want to go, but it might be an emergency. “Alin needs me.”

CHAPTER 3:

ROYAL BLOOD

Leah could barely tolerate any of her siblings, but her brother Talos least of all. He strode into her room without knocking, as though he was invited—he definitely was not—and dropped down into a padded chair without a word of greeting.

“Show me Adessa,” he commanded. “She’s gotten into something interesting.”

As was usual of late, Overlord Lysander followed him into the room, looking ridiculous in his scholarly spectacles and his feathered buckskin outfit. He looked like a librarian who had decided to try on a tribal costume. He stood behind Talos’ chair and stared at the wall, seeming uncomfortable. As well he should be.
Leah smiled, full of false cheer. “Good afternoon, Talos. I must have missed your knock. I’m afraid you caught me quite off guard.”

That wasn’t true, actually. Whenever she was in the Royal Palace in Cana, she always surrounded her room with alarms from Lirial to alert her whenever anyone approached. She had seen flashing lights and heard warning chimes when Talos was still halfway down the hall, and had used those extra seconds to prepare traps. If she had wanted to keep him out, she would have encased the door in solid crystal.

Talos likely knew as much, which was why he hadn’t bothered knocking. She understood, but he still should have shown better manners.
Leah’s brother answered her insincere smile with one of his own.

“I know you have one of those Lirial viewing lenses,” Talos said. “Adessa’s about to try and kill Father. I thought you might want to watch.”

Talos was six years older than Leah, and he matched the common image of a Damascan royal Heir: he was tall and strong, with soft blond hair and chiseled, commanding features. He looked a bit like an older version of Alin, now that she thought of it, down to the smug self-confidence permanently plastered on his face.

Absently, he rested his hand on the sword at his belt. It was sheathed, but she caught the barest glimpse of its red blade. It was a gift from their father, and an artifact of Ragnarus, so she understood his attachment to it…but he wore the sword everywhere. She had seen him wear the blade to weddings, funerals, delicate negotiations, and peace talks. He had no sense of what was appropriate.

Even worse, he was obviously looking forward to watching their sister attempt to kill their father. As much as Leah hated to do anything Talos had commanded her to do, she needed to see this. Assuming he was telling the truth.

Leah turned her wrist, so the blue-white summoning crystal she wore could catch the light. “She can’t succeed,” Leah said, casting her mind out to Lirial for her scrying lens. It dropped into her hand a moment later: a clear, milky white disc of crystal the size of a dinner plate.

Talos shrugged. “He has every Traveler who can so much as open a Gate running back and forth across the country, preparing for the war against Enosh. Indirial should be the only one with him now, if everything goes according to plan.”

Leah pressed the lens against the wall, sealing it in place with an effort of will. “What about the guards?” she asked. Zakareth was a powerful Traveler in his own right, but there was no way he would allow himself to go totally unprotected.

“They’re all Travelers, aren’t they? They’re off on assignment. I got rid of a few of them myself.” He tossed that last bit of information out casually, as though he weren’t admitting to aiding an assassination attempt against the King.

She glanced at her brother out of the corner of her eye. Why was he telling her this? He had never hated her, like he hated some of their other siblings, but Talos was the kind of man who didn’t need to hate someone to have them murdered.

He rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. “Hurry up, now,” he snapped. “She’ll head into the throne room any minute.”

Leah sighed and pressed the palm of her hand against the crystal disc, calling power from Lirial and feeding it into the device. As she did, it grew, swelling until it was the size of a bathtub.

She almost winced at the amount of energy that had taken. Power in Lirial had to be stored, and soon she would exhaust her stockpile. After she ran out, if she needed to call on Lirial’s power in an emergency before she had a chance to resupply, she would have to place herself in debt to some shifty and dangerous beings.

But she couldn’t let her brother know that. Around him, she had to spend power like it was nothing. If he sensed anything but utter confidence, she would find herself a target.

When the crystal filled most of the wall, Talos made a satisfied sound, and Leah cast her mind out to her sister Adessa.

The milky clouds in the crystal thinned and vanished, like a fog melting away before the sun. The huge lens cleared until it may as well have been a flawless window staring into the next room.

Leah’s older sister Adessa marched through a shadowed hallway, her dark hair standing wildly in every direction. The lens moved along with her, giving Leah the dizzying impression that the hall outside was sliding past.

Adessa wore a dress in red and gold—the royal colors of Damasca—but she strode forward like a soldier in boots and leather pants. Her eyes burned and the corners of her mouth twitched, as though she was about to burst into manic laughter.

In her right hand, Adessa carried the Bleeding Wand, her own artifact of Ragnarus. The Wand was about two feet long, and one of the deadliest weapons in the physical world. It was a thumb-thick bar of ruby at its core, with a dark wooden root twisting up its entire length from one tip to the other. The deadly end of the Wand trailed bright red sparks that dribbled down like tears. Or drops of blood. Hence its name, Leah supposed.

The weapon could reduce a legion of soldiers to bloody scraps, but its cost was far too high. Leah would never give up what the Wand required, not for something so crude as a brute-force weapon. Even Adessa had only used it once or twice, as far as Leah knew.

A chill crawled down Leah’s back. If Adessa was carrying the Bleeding Wand, that meant she was serious. She actually thought she had a chance to bring down Zakareth and take the throne for herself.
She might really do this, Leah thought. Such a move would give Adessa great authority, but it would also leave her vulnerable. Weak. Maybe susceptible to an attack from another royal Heiress…

Leah shook away those thoughts. It was too easy to fall back into her former patterns, back here in her old home, but she was determined to leave all that behind her. She knew better than to start a succession for nothing more than personal ambition. At least, not without a clear chance of victory.

In the clear crystal lens, Adessa glanced furtively around her, then turned to knock at a door. To Leah, her raps sounded quiet: the lens muffled sounds like a thick door.

“She’s in the servants’ quarters,” Talos said, leaning forward. His interest was plain on his face. “That must be where her followers are hiding.”

Followers? Of course. Leah hadn’t thought of it before, but Adessa would never have attempted a coup without support from other Travelers.

Sure enough, a woman opened the door seconds after Adessa’s knock, following her into the hallway. The newcomer’s face was hidden behind a white mask, but she wore the traditional mist-gray robes of Asphodel.
Two more Asphodel Travelers came after the first: an old lady and a boy who looked no more than twelve years old. They both wore identical masks.

“Follow me and keep quiet,” Adessa ordered them, making no effort to keep her voice down. She gestured with the Wand as she spoke, making all three Asphodels flinch. But they bowed deeply and followed the Heiress as she continued marching down the hall.

Twice more Adessa stopped. The first time, she was followed by two leather-wrapped Endross Travelers so similar they could have been twins. Next, a small dark girl with hands covered by heavy jade bracelets—obviously an Ornheim Traveler—joined the procession. She, too, had hidden her identity behind a white mask.

“Six followers,” Talos murmured. “Will that be enough for Indirial?” His hand brushed the hilt of his sword.

Leah had the sick feeling that six Travelers and a Damascan Heiress would be more than enough. She couldn’t help but worry for Indirial—as she grew up, the Overlord had been a fixture around the royal palace. Almost part of the family.

When Leah was thirteen years old, the night her mother had died, she had decided to run away from the palace. Indirial had followed her, even through a Gate and into her Territory. He could have dragged her back. Instead, the Overlord had sat next to her on a silver cliff under the Lirial moons. They swapped stories about her mother until she could no longer keep her eyes open.

The next morning, she woke up safe in her bed. As far as she knew, her father had never learned of the incident.

Leah opened her mouth to lie to her brother, to try and convince him that they needed Indirial alive, but Overlord Lysander spoke up.

“These are plenty, if they go about it the right way,” Lysander said. His voice was thin and precise—a scribe’s voice. “Valinhall Travelers excel in open combat, but they are not versatile. The fact that your sister has no Naraka or Tartarus Travelers suggests they do not mean to try an open battle, but instead ambush or guerilla tactics. I would imagine such a strategy has a high chance of success.”

Lysander folded his arms and nodded sharply, almost sending his glasses flying off his face. Talos nodded along, but he seemed more thoughtful.

Neither of them asked Leah’s opinion, but she agreed. She wanted to believe that Indirial could defend against an attack like this, but he had to face the facts.

From the other side of the lens, Adessa hissed, “Get ready.” Her group had come to a door at the end of the hall. It looked much like the others they had passed, but Talos pointed.

“That leads to the throne room,” he said. “Servant’s entrance.”

“Are you in the habit of mapping the servants’ halls?” Leah asked. She herself had never paid much attention to the servants’ routes.

Talos leaned back in his chair, adjusting his sword belt so he could sit more comfortably. “It always helps to have secret passages around the palace,” he said. “And friends among the servants.”

So Talos wanted her to think he employed some of the palace servants as spies. Maybe he had, but it was more likely that one of his lackeys had summoned something to map the palace for him. Lysander, perhaps, with one of his Avernus birds.

Adessa’s Travelers were gathering power. The Ornheim girl juggled two spikes of pale blue quartz and a rune-carved ruby, muttering to herself. All three Asphodel Travelers had their hands cupped before them, colorful flowers budding from seeds in their hands. Mist rolled off them in the process. The Endross brothers had opened their Gates—like rolling thunderstorms captured in their hands—and held them, waiting for them to grow large enough to summon something substantial. They were already big enough to swallow large dogs.

“No mistakes,” Adessa said, glaring around her. “Now. Here we go.”

Leah expected her sister to blast the door off its hinges, or have one of the other Travelers do it. But she simply opened it and marched through, the other six following. Smart of her, to enter quietly, without alerting anyone inside.

The servant’s entrance opened behind the throne, hidden behind a tapestry hanging from the eaves above. The scrying lens remained centered on Adessa as she made her way around the tapestry, so she had full view of the throne.

The throne room was vast, suiting its function as an audience chamber for those seeking a meeting with the King. Expensive carpet covered the floor, and tapestries hung from the ceiling, most of them bearing the symbols of the nine Territories alongside key battles in Damascan history. There was only one piece of furniture in the room.

Many Overlords had carved their own thrones over the years, all in imitation of Zakareth’s. Leah had spent most of the summer at Malachi’s estate, and his throne had been made of dark wood and amethyst—reflecting his colors, purple and brown—and carved with creatures of Naraka. Other Overlords had seats even more gaudy and ornate.

None of them matched the original.

The Damascan throne was made of precious materials, and designed to show off the royal colors of scarlet and gold. But it was not made of gold and set with rubies. King Zakareth’s throne was carved from one enormous ruby, its shape outlined in gold. Even with Ornheim Travelers providing the materials, Leah could barely imagine the expense.

The throne room could hold several hundred people, if necessary, though today there were only three: Overlord Indirial, a high-ranking servant Leah recognized, and King Zakareth.

Leah’s father, Zakareth, commanded attention seated on his throne. He was a few years past sixty, though he still had a powerful warrior’s build, and his hair was solid gray. His right eye was bright blue, like Leah’s own, and it was fixed on a document held by the servant. The King’s other eye had been lost, a scar running from above his eye socket to below. It had been replaced by a bright red stone from the Crimson Vault, which glowed softly. He wore his tall, peaked crown, which was black-and-gold, set with one huge ruby above his forehead.

Indirial had the coloring of a man who had grown up in the villages: naturally tan skin with dark eyes and short, dark hair. As usual, he wore an easy smile and a shirt with the sleeves cut short, exposing the black chain tattoos weaving up his arms. Today, a black cloak hung around his neck, though he had thrown it carelessly back.

The servant stood before them, bowing every few seconds, holding up something that looked like a map. As they were both bowed over the paper, neither of them glanced up at the sound of the opening door.

Adessa and her group did not waste any time. As soon as she saw the King seated on his throne, she shouted, “Now!”

The Endross Travelers raised their stormy Gates, and lightning blasted the throne.

White light swallowed the image in the lens, and Leah flinched back from the glare. What are they thinking? she wondered. The King was protected from such direct attacks, especially on his throne.

Sure enough, when the light cleared, Leah’s father was still seated. He hadn’t even moved, though the servant’s charred body was smoking on the ground several paces away, and Indirial now stood directly in front of the King. He held his long, pitted sword in hand, and his black cloak swirled around him, almost covering Leah’s view of Zakareth. Black chains crawled up the Valinhall Traveler’s forearms.

Leah realized that something else had changed: huge, drooping flowers now surrounded the throne. The blossoms were all brightly colored—red, yellow, purple—and they released clouds of glittering spores into the air. She had never seen such plants before, but she recognized them from her tutoring: flowers from the legendary Midnight Fields in Asphodel.

“The yellow flowers paralyze,” Lysander muttered to Talos. “The purple induces sleep, and the red kills. In Asphodel, these flowers often hunt in unison.”

The Ornheim girl raised her hands, launching two blue spikes at the throne. Indirial batted them aside almost casually. She reached into a leather pouch at her side and withdrew a handful of dust, which she cast in his direction.

The dust should have fallen to the ground inches in front of the girl’s face, but it drifted forward unnaturally quickly, flowing into Indirial’s face.

Indirial reached a hand up to his throat. He choked, letting out a single cough, and sank down to one knee, making retching noises in his throat. Leah’s heart dropped. Even Valinhall’s strength counted for nothing against poison.

“I don’t know what that was,” Lysander said, sounding surprised.

“Find out,” Talos ordered.

Wind rushed from the open Endross gates, catching the various spores and whipping them into a whirlwind that swirled around the King and his guardian.

Adessa raised the glowing end of the Bleeding Wand. A crazed smile grew on her face, and the wind tossed her hair into wild shapes. She looked like a witch from the stories, about to bring a horrible curse down on her enemies.

Leah was certain that she was about to watch her father die.

The clouds parted. The wind slackened enough for her to catch a glimpse of Zakareth sitting on his throne, his chin cupped in one hand.

He hadn’t moved.

A white light flashed inside the wall of dust and wind. It somehow shone through Indirial’s skin.

Indirial rose to his feet, and for an instant Adessa’s aim wavered between her father and his bodyguard.

Then Indirial disappeared.

He materialized ten feet away, just in front of Adessa, as though he hadn’t bothered to cross the intervening space. His cracked sword slapped into the ruby wand, knocking it out of Adessa’s grip.

As the Wand tumbled through the air, a huge warhammer of mirror-bright Tartarus steel appeared in Indirial’s left hand. End-to-end, it was almost five feet long, and made of solid metal.

Indirial spun with the hammer in one hand, slamming it into the side of one Endross Traveler’s head. Blood and brain sprayed out, and the sheer force behind the blow launched the Traveler’s body into the air.

In the same motion, Indirial swept his sword across the other Endross Traveler’s throat. He spun around until he was facing the King again, turning his momentum into a huge overhand throw. He hurled the warhammer at the wall behind the throne.

The hammer struck at terrifying speed, blasting a huge chunk of the stone wall outward. A cloud of dust billowed up, shrouding half the throne room in a split second.

Adessa’s Bleeding Wand and the Endross Travelers’ bodies hit the ground at about the same time.

The Endross Gates—hungry, swirling thunderstorms—hung in midair, blowing air steadily forward. But now, most of the deadly spores were blown through the gap in the wall instead of swirling around the throne.

The thunderstorms began to shake and crackle more violently.

The Ornheim Traveler threw her carved ruby to the tiles, and the tiled floor began to crack and flow upward as it gathered itself together into a golem.

Indirial flowed forward. His sword flickered out, cracking the golem’s heartstone in two, then the cracked blade slipped into the Traveler’s rib cage.

She slid off the sword and onto her back. Her half-formed golem crumbled.

Only the three Asphodel Travelers were left. The boy ran headlong toward the door, which Leah thought showed unusual wisdom. The young woman clapped her hands together and began to summon mist. That was likely suicide, as the mist would turn on any source of terror, even its summoner, but she was clearly desperate.

The oldest Asphodel Traveler tore off her mask, revealing a calm, grandmotherly face. She sank to her knees and folded her hands in her lap.

Waiting for death.

Indirial cut the young woman down before she could call anything, once again moving so fast that he seemed nothing more than a black blur. He grabbed the boy by the neck and clubbed him with the hilt of his sword. The boy collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

The Overlord’s mercy was touching and tragic, but ultimately futile. He would plead with the King for the young Traveler’s life, saying the boy was too young to know what he was doing, that his elders had led him astray.

Indirial would try his best, but Leah knew her father. He had no use for rebels.

The cloaked Valinhall Traveler walked over to the kneeling old woman, who was the last of Adessa’s followers left. Indirial said something too soft for Leah to hear, muffled as it was by the Lirial lens.

The old woman shook her head. She closed her eyes.

Almost gently, Indirial slipped his sword point into her ribs and out. The Asphodel Traveler slumped over, a peaceful smile on her face.

Roughly ten seconds after Adessa’s force first attacked, only three people remained alive in the throne room.

Indirial strolled over to Adessa, who scrambled over the floor tiles on her hands and knees. She finally grasped the Bleeding Wand and spun around, raising it to point at the throne again. She screamed.

The Endross thunderstorms exploded.

There was another flash too bright for the scrying lens, and the display whited out. When it cleared, the Wand was nowhere in sight. Adessa lay flat on the floor at the foot of the throne with Indirial standing over her, one foot on her neck. The tip of his sword rested on her back.

Leah risked a glance back at her brother. His face seemed thoughtful, as though he had received some new piece of data, but his hand tightened on his sword. By contrast, Lysander’s mouth hung open a bit, and his glasses had been knocked askew.

“I would say six Travelers are not enough for Indirial,” Leah said casually. “What do you think?”

Overlord Lysander glared at her, but neither of the men said anything.

On the other side of the lens, Leah’s father let out a heavy breath. She stared, hoping Talos hadn’t noticed. The King had been holding his breath. He had used no otherworldly protection from poison. He had simply waited for Indirial to clean up the problem.

She supposed it didn’t matter, in the end. The King had survived.

King Zakareth rose to his feet. His crimson eye blazed like a star from within the cloud of dust rising from the shattered wall.

“Adessa, my daughter,” the King said. His voice was cold, but firm. Businesslike. “I have not named you Successor. I have not given you permission to summon that wand from my Vault. And now you make an attempt on my life in my own throne room. What have you to say in your defense?”

He sounded as though he was conducting normal court business. Not at all as if his own daughter had tried to kill him.

Indirial took his boot off the back of her neck, letting her struggle to her knees. Her wild hair framed her face like a lion’s mane, lending her a frenzied aspect.

“Father, I only meant to take advantage of a temporary weakness,” Adessa said. Her voice was hoarse, and she licked her lips as she spoke. “It was all as you taught me. If I had stood by, I would not deserve to be your Successor.”

Zakareth stared at his daughter, saying nothing. Perhaps encouraged by his silence, Adessa tried to climb to her feet, but Indirial put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her in a kneeling position. She tried to push his hand off her shoulder.

Indirial’s hand stayed where it was.

The King spoke again, his voice hard and even. “I held some hope for you, Adessa, despite your past failures. But your actions today have proven that you are not worthy of succeeding me.”

“I have proven only that I—“

“Be silent,” Zakareth said. He did not seem to speak any louder, but somehow his voice resonated through the hall in tones of absolute command. “You have endangered the Kingdom by threatening to plunge us into a succession during a time of crisis. You have wasted the lives of six Travelers when they are most needed. And you have jeopardized our safety in the war for which I have prepared since before you were born.

“You, Adessa, have betrayed the people of Damasca. I name you traitor, and hereby exile you to the Territory of Lirial, where you will remain under the supervision of Overlord Belanine until the end of your days.”

Adessa started shouting, but her father spoke over her.

“Indirial, make it so,” he said. Indirial bowed from the waist, grabbed the Heiress by her wrist, and pulled her along. His black cloak billowed behind him. She struggled, but she might as well have matched her strength against a carthorse.

“I’ll be back!” Adessa screamed. “I’ll take your throne from you! I deserve it! It’s mine!”

“Stop,” the King said. Indirial stopped, glancing curiously over his shoulder. It looked like he didn’t understand what the King was up to any more than Leah did.

Adessa saw her chance and seized it. “You can’t do this to me,” she said.

Zakareth walked up to his daughter and put his face inches from hers. He lowered his voice, but he spoke so firmly that Leah could still understand each word. At last, a touch of anger entered his tone.

“I will be clear with you, because you are my daughter. If you were not a Ragnarus Traveler, I would simply execute you. But I would prefer you alive, so I will leave you with three choices. First, I can banish you to Lirial, where you will be safe but powerless to cause any greater harm. Or, if you prefer, I could always feed you to the Hanging Tree. The sacrifice was late this year.”

Adessa flinched and looked away from her father’s face. She obviously knew what such a sacrifice meant.

“Third,” the King continued relentlessly, “I could instead send you to Enosh. I can arrange to have you dropped at one of the Naraka waypoints controlled by the Enosh Grandmasters. They would take you in gladly enough, and you know how they would treat you. As a Ragnarus Traveler. As my daughter. You would taste the full extent of Enosh…hospitality.”

Adessa licked her lips. Her eyes bounced everywhere, looking for an escape.

“Choose,” King Zakareth said, his voice resonating with hard anger.

“Lirial,” Adessa whispered.

“So be it,” he responded. “One moment, Indirial.”

King Zakareth straightened up and turned toward what, to him, would be a blank stretch of wall. Through the scrying lens, his eyes met Leah’s. His red eye flared.

“I hope you learned something today, Leah,” her father said calmly.

The view through the lens winked out.

Leah realized she was holding her breath and clutching the arms of her chair as though trying to crush them to splinters. She let out her breath in a whoosh, waving her hand and cutting off the power that kept her scrying lens active. It shrank back to the size of a dinner plate and popped off the wall, clattering to the floor.

Everyone was silent for a second. Then Talos spoke. “Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder if there’s anything our father doesn’t know.”

Lysander spoke into Talos’ ear. “We should go. If he saw us here…” The Overlord was clearly trying to keep his voice down, but Leah had no trouble hearing him.

Talos shrugged and rose to his feet. “Well, at least we learned something today. We’ll have to remove Indirial first, before we make our move.”

“If you can,” Leah said lightly. She toyed with her crystal bracelet, trying to seem unconcerned.

Overlord Lysander opened his mouth, but Talos cut him off with a gesture. He bowed to Leah, a broad smile on his face. With his golden hair and chiseled features, he looked like the rightful Successor to the Damascan throne.

“Farewell, little sister,” he said. “Don’t do anything rash, and I see no reason why we can’t be friends.”

He moved toward the door, but something occurred to Leah. There were no other Heirs or Heiresses still in the running to become Successor. Adessa had been exiled, Cynara was mad, and her little brother Petrin had died years before. Why would he want to share information with his one remaining rival?

She considered and discarded half a dozen subtle ways of determining his motivation, but there was one he would never expect. She could ask him.

“Why did you come to me with this?” Leah asked.

He shrugged. “You had the seeing crystal. If I could have summoned it myself, I would have.”

“But what if I oppose you in the succession?” she asked. “What if I had gone to save Father?”

Talos blinked, with an expression on his face as though his sister had started quacking like a duck. Then he laughed.

“Oh, Leah. Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

Leah flushed, though inside she felt nothing but a cold anger. She raised one eyebrow at him.

He kept chuckling. “Look at you. I didn’t stop you from going anywhere, but you just watched. You never even thought about going to help him, did you?

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but realized she had nothing to say. She couldn’t even think of a good lie.

Talos clapped her on the shoulder, smiling fondly. At that moment, he actually looked like a proud big brother. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Leah,” he said. “You made the right move, and now one more piece has been taken off the board. As for you opposing me in the succession…”

He shook his head with all the gravitas of a grieving saint. Behind him, Lysander smirked.

“Don’t,” Talos said. “You’re not a match for me, and I like you. Either work with me, or stay out of my way.”

When Talos and his Overlord left, Leah stayed where she was for a moment, thinking. Then she walked over to the corner of her room and reached up to the wall behind the chair where Talos had been sitting.

In the corner of the wall and ceiling rested a crystal so clear it was almost invisible. Leah sat down in the chair, the crystal in her lap, and drew a spark of power from her Source in Lirial.

Deep within the recording crystal, an image began to form: the back of Talos’ blond curls, Lysander’s receding hair, and Leah herself, sitting on the bed. The crystal had recorded everything that happened in the room since she had activated it, right before Talos walked inside.

She controlled the view with her mind, sending it back to watch her brother’s every move, to listen to his every word. There were clues hidden in everything that had happened here today, and she intended to find them.

One thing, at least, had become clear: Talos was a danger. He had at least one Overlord in his pocket, and the fact that he wasn’t hiding their arrangement suggested that he had an agreement with at least one more. He obviously had no consideration for the safety of the Damascan people, planning as he was to assassinate the King during war preparations.

He had to be stopped. And Leah would be the one to stop him.

CHAPTER 4:

REBIRTH

The corridor to Kai’s left was filled with darkness and dust, and the thick sandstone blocks of the walls appeared no different than the ones in front of him. He looked back: more darkness, lit occasionally by flickering yellow quartz embedded into the walls. A pile of dust on the floor marked the last golem to attack him on his way here.

To his right waited an identical passageway, also dark, likely hiding a dozen golems.

“I am hopelessly, deliriously lost,” Kai said to himself.

A figure of shadows and black cloth stepped from the darkness. He was hunched and hooded, his robes a black that had faded with age until it could almost be called gray. He had each of his hands tucked into the opposite sleeves, as though he was about to bow. Every inch of his flesh was hidden by black.

Except the Nye had no flesh. They were nothing but shadows and clothes, all the way down to the essence that gave them life and power.

Kai had always found them somewhat disquieting.

“You are only lost if you are not where you wish,” the Eldest Nye said. His voice was harsh and grating, though soft, like a hairbrush dragging through gravel. “Where do you wish to be, young dragon?”

“Not as young as I once was, Eldest of the Nye,” Kai said. His voice had taken on the singsong voice he used when he was amused or annoyed. He hoped the Eldest assumed he was amused.

The Eldest chuckled, which was truly disturbing. “Come at last to claim your birthright, have you?”

He wasn’t about to have that conversation, at least until Mithra was in his hands. The Eldest knew the answer, anyway.

“Honored Eldest, I thought you couldn’t leave the House.” Kai started walking down the corridor as he spoke, more out of a desire to be doing something than out of any conviction that he was heading the right way. As Kai walked, the clusters of yellow quartz in the walls flared to life, casting the halls in a dim golden light. When he got too far away, the lights farthest behind him winked out, so only the sections of the hall where he needed light were illuminated.

The Eldest followed. When he stood next to a glowing stone, he looked ordinary, his dark gray cloak fully visible. But when he stepped into shadow…
It was as though he stepped through shadow instead. There were perhaps twenty paces between each quartz-light, and the gaps between were filled with darkness. But when the Eldest left one pool of light, he appeared immediately in the next one, seemingly not having crossed the shadow between.

Kai wondered what would happen if the lights failed entirely. He had never missed his dolls more.

The Eldest finally decided to speak, perhaps in response to Kai’s earlier question. “Many of the Nye do not leave the House. They are bound to it too closely. But as the Eldest of my kind, there is little I cannot do. Little I do not see.”

Kai made a curious noise in his throat, as though he was only mildly interested, but that was the most terrifying thing anyone had told him in years.

The thought inspired a surge of anger. Why should he pretend the Eldest didn’t bother him? He had obviously intended to frighten Kai, or he would have remained hidden. Why should he tiptoe around the Eldest’s anger, pretending not to be frightened?

He knew why. The Eldest could be petrifying, when he chose. But at the moment, Kai didn’t care. Both of them knew Kai hated the Eldest, so why act otherwise?

“Why did you decide to haunt me, Eldest?” Kai asked.

The Eldest laughed again. Twice in one day—something horrible must have happened to put the Eldest in such a good mood.

“The son of Kalman,” the Eldest said, “has faced his Overlord. Some four weeks past.”

Kai turned sharply, looking straight into the Nye’s hood. “Is he alive?”

“No.”

Kai drew in a breath. He had only ever agreed to train Simon once Caela had told him of Indirial’s offer, and he had never wanted to hinder the sacrifice. In fact, he had withheld information that would have made Simon’s job much easier.

He had made his choice over twenty years ago. He would be a hypocrite if he changed his mind now.

But maybe, if he had told Simon all he knew, the boy would still be alive.

Surprisingly, Kai actually felt a wash of guilt at the thought. But Azura would be free, with Simon’s death. Maybe his beloved little ones would finally take him back…

He felt guilty for that, too. Why should he? The dolls were his, not Kai’s. But the feeling did not go away.

The Eldest shook his head, sadly. “Yes, it is a tragedy,” he rasped. “His wife has taken over his realm. From what I can see, she is far better organized than her husband, though she is not a Traveler.”

For a moment Kai stood, uncomprehending. Then a surge of anger swept through him, and he summoned a scimitar from the Valinhall armory. The sword flashed into his hand, and he swept it into the Eldest’s neck.

The Eldest ducked, almost casually. He cackled as he did.

“The boy survived,” the Nye continued. “But he has killed many Damascan Travelers. He is wanted throughout the Kingdom. If only he had someone to guide him. To protect him. If only the few remaining Dragons had their leader.”

The Eldest was trying to rile him, for some reason, and the worst of it was that he was succeeding. Kai needed to put a stop to it.

“Where is Mithra?” Kai asked.

The Eldest shrugged. “At the center of the temple. You know that better than I.”

Kai pointed the sword at him. “Where?”

The Nye’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. He walked over to a blank stretch of dark sandstone wall, and placed one black sleeve against it.

“Here,” the Eldest said.

Kai banished the scimitar, letting it fade back into the Territory. He called steel and reached back to the armory, but not for a sword. He needed something bigger.

The warhammer was made entirely of mirror-bright Tartarus steel, so it gleamed like a star in the dull yellow quartz-light. The Dragon’s Fangs themselves were made of Tartarus steel, which was all but unbreakable. This hammer was so massive that Kai felt its weight, even with Valinhall’s power flowing through him. He called stone, his skin tightening as the shield settled over him.

“It will be good to have our leader back,” the Eldest said.

Kai swung, putting all the power he could summon into the blow. The wall exploded, filling the corridor with a noise like a mountain collapsing and blasting a cloud of dust, pebbles, and shrapnel into the hallway. Some of the rocks—a few the size of Kai’s fist—bounced off his impervious stone-shielded skin.

But there wasn’t as much debris as he expected. He wondered at that for a moment before he realized most of the wall had been blown out. Into the room on the other side.

Through the ragged hole in the wall, Kai saw an enormous square room, tiled in bright blue and so tall he couldn’t see the ceiling. It was lit entirely by those yellow quartz crystals, which had flared to life as soon as the wall opened up.

The room held very little besides tile and glowing crystal, only a pedestal standing as high as Kai’s waist. A sword levitated over that pedestal, point-down, revolving slowly in midair.

The sword reminded him so much of Azura that his heart ached. It woke other memories, too, but those were even less pleasant.

Mithra, the thirteenth Dragon’s Fang and the final sword forged by Valin the Wanderer, was only a few inches shorter than Azura’s seven feet. No one without the power of Valinhall could wield it. The blade was slightly curved along its entire length, and sharp on only the outside edge. That was where its resemblance to Azura ended.

Where Azura’s hilt was wrapped in black, Mithra’s was bound in thread-of-gold. A finger-thin line of pure gold also ran up the center of the blade, from base to point. Kai knew from experience that the gold was seemingly of one piece with the steel around it.

Kai had asked about that, one evening long ago. Master, how did you get the gold into your sword?

Valin had smiled gently and run a hand down the flat of his blade. This gold is special. I found it long ago and far away, in a city of light.

He had a thousand stories about his “city of light,” and he would use them to keep the children entertained for hours. Before he had killed King Zakareth the Fifth, before the Dragon Army was broken.

Kai looked at Mithra, shining golden in the light.

It wasn’t Valin’s sword anymore.

The Eldest gestured, as though saying something, but the explosion of the wall still rang painfully in Kai’s ears. He didn’t mind. At least he didn’t have to listen to the Nye’s words anymore.

Kai turned back to the Eldest, gesturing at his ears and shrugging helplessly. The Eldest folded his arms like a sulky child. That did much to improve Kai’s mood.

When he turned back to Mithra, a fifteen-foot boulder stood in his way.

The boulder sprouted arms, slamming one down at Kai’s head. Only decades of training in the House allowed Kai to meet the blow, swinging his hammer up to meet the stone fist before it crushed his skull into jelly. The warhammer smashed into the fist, knocking it to the side enough that the blow slammed into the tiles instead of reducing Kai to paste.

The boulder grew a second arm. Then short, stubby legs. A head poked its way out of the enormous sandstone body.

A sapphire gleamed like a single eye on the golem’s forehead.

Kai still couldn’t hear much, but he was sure the Eldest was laughing.

He dodged the golem’s fist a second time, but his stone power ran out. Now even a single blow would probably prove fatal. Even though Benson’s steel provided Kai with some defense, making his body resilient enough to withstand its own increased strength, it did very little to prevent him from being cut. So, without his stone-shield to defend him, a single flying shard of the tile could be enough to open Kai’s throat.

The golem sent a series of heavy, crushing attacks that Kai narrowly evaded.

This would be a perfect time for a magical, wind-reading doll, Kai thought.

Kai slipped to one side, avoiding a kick. He used the hammer to deflect another blow, sidestepping the next. As the golem recovered, he walked backwards several steps.

He needed a running start.

Kai ran forward and launched himself into the air, steel-powered legs sending him up and over the golem’s head. Kai lifted his hammer. It raised two stone arms, crossing them over its forehead, protecting the heartstone.

Everything was going more or less as Kai had predicted. Luckily, he didn’t need to defeat the golem. He needed to get past it.

Kai landed on the golem’s crossed arms and pushed off, behind the creature, landing on the pedestal holding Mithra.

The golem turned and roared as it realized its mistake, sapphire eye gleaming.

Too late now, Kai thought. He banished the hammer, sending it back to Valinhall. He closed a hand around Mithra’s hilt.

There were only two ways to dismantle an Ornheim golem: the first, and usually the easiest, was to take out the golem’s heartstone. Each golem was animated and controlled by a carved gem located somewhere in its body. If you found the right jewel and destroyed it, the golem would fall to pieces.

The wolves earlier had each had three heartstones on their faces, serving them as eyes. Kai hadn’t been sure which heartstone was the controlling one, and he hadn’t cared to find out. So he had opted for the second method of destroying a golem: brute force.

If the golem’s body was broken, the heartstone had nothing to animate.

Kai drew on the rest of his steel, drinking it all up in a burst. As long as he won in the next few seconds, he’d be fine. Any longer than that, and he would be facing a fifteen-foot stone golem with no superhuman strength.

Well, he’d have to win.

The golem swept an arm at him, trying to knock him off the pedestal. Mithra sliced through the solid rock of its arm. The second arm swept down at him, trying to crush him, and he jumped. Kai underestimated his own strength, and his enhanced jump actually took him into the ceiling. He had to flip around in midair and catch himself with his feet. For an instant, he was looking down at the golem from above.

Then he pushed off the ceiling and launched himself down, flashing out with Mithra as he did.

He spun around again just before he hit the floor, landing in a crouch with such force that the tile around him cracked. He held Mithra off and to one side, so that it didn’t drive down into the ground so far that he couldn’t retrieve it.

His steel ran out, and Kai almost crumpled from the sudden surge of weakness. It didn’t matter, though.

He had cut the golem’s heartstone in two.

The golem collapsed in a rockslide, and Kai had to hurry away to avoid the falling stones. The Eldest Nye, standing on the far end of the room, bowed and slowly clapped.

“Welcome back, Kai,” the Eldest said. “You’re just in time.”

Kai ignored him, already drawing Mithra down in the beginnings of a Valinhall Gate. He thought about inviting the Eldest inside, but decided against it. The Nye had gotten himself here without a Gate, and he could get himself back.

After about a minute, Kai finished slicing open a tear in reality, which widened to show Valinhall’s entry hall: a large, carpeted room, filled with comfortably padded chairs and couches. Wooden tables were scattered here and there, covered with old, yellowed paper. Gilt-edged stand mirrors hung every few feet, and from the walls hung wooden sword racks, numbered one to thirteen.

The smell of home—old wood, polish, and paper—drifted into the ancient temple. It had been far too long since Kai had been home. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“You have done good work, Kai,” the Eldest called. Kai let the Gate keep closing.

“When the time comes, the Wanderer will need his sword.”

Ice crawled down Kai’s back, and he spun around, but the Gate had vanished. He stared at the blank wall of the Valinhall entry room.

The Eldest had only mentioned Valin to provoke Kai, he knew that. Valin was safely asleep, sealed away, as he had been for the last twenty-five years.

Kai hesitated a moment before walking deeper into the House. He hated to let the Eldest’s words have any effect on him, but he needed to check on the Wanderer’s grave.

It couldn’t hurt if he only checked.

***

Valinhall had something of a reputation as a Territory that was useless for actually getting from one place to another quickly, and Kai had to admit that—in most cases—the reputation was deserved. If he opened a Gate from the real world to Valinhall, then any Gate he opened from Valinhall would open back up to that exact spot. The generally accepted rule was that you could enter Valinhall from anywhere, as long as you were willing to return to the same place. If he opened a Gate now, he would return to the stone temple at the center of the Badari Desert.

But, like all rules, this one had something of a loophole.

Kai stood deep in the house, at the top of a spiral staircase. Each stair was made out of a substance that looked like a cloud of black smoke somehow frozen in time. The steps felt solid enough, though.

He held Benson’s steel every second in this room, because even the air weighed heavily upon him here. His body was at least three times its normal weight, but climbing the staircase under these conditions was only the first of the room’s challenges. When he had first reached this far into the House, he had been forced to fight a guardian at the top of the stairs. He almost hadn’t made it.

Now that he thought of it, Indirial had been the one to drag Kai’s broken and bleeding body out of here and back to the healing pool. Oh, how long ago that was.

At the top of the stairs was a black stone platform, seemingly floating unsupported at the top of the room. The center of the pedestal sported a chink in the rock that glowed faintly.

It looked like the beginnings of a crack, but it was really a keyhole.

Kai reversed Mithra, holding it point-down over the hole. He gathered up his concentration, reaching through the Dragon’s Fang as he did when opening a Gate. He plunged the blade down.

The world vanished in a swirl of colors, and Kai felt as though his insides were being wrenched in six directions at once. Using this Gate was much less pleasant than the normal process, but it was necessary. Kai forced himself to ignore the pain.

Minutes or seconds later, grass formed under Kai’s feet. The spinning lights and colors resolved into a line of trees, and the heavy air of the black staircase lightened into a fresh summer breeze.

When the world stopped spinning, Kai found himself standing in a clearing at the center of Latari Forest. He still held both hands on Mithra’s hilt, and its tip dug two inches into the forest soil.

As soon as he recognized his surroundings, Kai tugged his blade free of the ground and leaped forward. Once, this Gate had opened onto the center of an empty clearing. But that had been more than twenty-five years ago.

Since midsummer in the last year of Zakareth the Fifth’s reign, the Gate had come out only paces away from a Hanging Tree.

Kai landed facing back the way he came, Mithra angled across his body, ready to face the savage roots and branches of the blood-red Ragnarus tree. Each time he had used this Gate in the past, he had been attacked in seconds.

This time, the Tree was eerily still. Sure, its red leaves whispered in the wind of another world, and its thorny branches clawed at the air in Kai’s direction. But the Tree’s attack was lazy and listless, not the brutal assault Kai usually experienced. Even the rustling voice of the leaves was agonized, not hungry.

Kai’s shaggy hair fell into his face again, but he didn’t bother to brush it away. He stared at the bloody Tree, and a shiver of fear ran down his spine.

The Hanging Tree was wounded.

A chunk of the Tree’s trunk looked brown and dry, as if part of it had simply died. The leaves and roots on that side had shriveled, and were starting to blacken on the edges. Kai crept closer, still wary of an attack. But the Tree seemed blind on that side, letting Kai approach its scar without a whisper of complaint.

He was no Ragnarus Traveler, but he had extensive experience with this particular Tree. He had been present at its birth, and he had spent most of his life in these woods. He had never seen it anything but violently healthy.

Other than a direct attack—which Kai would have detected long before it reached this deep into the Forest—only one thing could shrivel a Hanging Tree. Starvation. The Tree must be feeding on itself.

Oh, Simon, Kai thought. What have you done?

Part of him knew he couldn’t blame Simon, no matter how much he wanted to. He hadn’t told the boy the full story, and Kai had even prepared him to succeed. He had known the potential consequences, and his conscience had driven him to act. But this possibility had always remained nothing more than that: a possibility. A slim, dark chance. He had never thought Simon could actually weaken the living prison enough to make a difference.

The earth shook.

Kai stumbled a step and had to catch himself before he fell. The crimson Tree trembled even more violently than the rest of the forest, waving its branches through the air in wild, silent protest.

“Master?” Kai whispered.

The ground shook again, ringing like a bell.

A crack bloomed on the scarred side of the Hanging Tree, splitting it from the ground up. It screamed silently, a sound like nails drilling into Kai’s brain.

He decided that right then would be an excellent time to be back in the House. Even if the Wanderer did escape his prison, Valinhall was the one place he would never choose to enter.

Kai raised Mithra’s tip to a point just above his head, reaching through the sword to his Territory. Maintaining his concentration—but keeping an eye on the wounded Tree—Kai carefully drew his blade down, sawing through the barrier between worlds.

Slowly, a tear formed, revealing the House’s entry hall on the other side. Kai kept focused, but a seed of hope put down roots in his heart. It looked like he would make it.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness under the canopy of Latari Forest, drifting over to where Kai stood.

In his raspy voice, the Eldest spoke: “At last, we will have our master back.”

Kai ignored him, continuing to open the Gate. He had to make it large enough, or it wouldn’t stabilize. The ground rumbled again, shaking his concentration.

The Eldest drifted forward, standing to the side of Kai’s Gate. His black hood stared into Kai’s face. “Once you refused me, a quarter-century gone. If you had taken up the sword at first, all this could have been avoided.”

Kai nodded toward his sword, with its line of gold gleaming down the center of the blade. “I have it now,” he said. “Perhaps, for once, we can be friends.” He had to stall a few more seconds, so that he could finish the Gate. Already he could see the handful of gleaming blades hanging on their racks in the entry hall. Azura was among them.

The Eldest shook his hood. “I would have, once. But you are a coward. I will serve only a more worthy master.”

Kai reached the grass, and drew his sword away. The Gate remained, a portal into Valinhall wide enough for him to walk through. Kai stepped forward.

Then he felt a sensation on his neck that he had almost forgotten: the feel of icy chains.

The chains jerked, hauling Kai backwards, off his feet. He landed several paces away on his back. If he had not been holding Benson’s steel, his throat would have collapsed.

The Eldest withdrew his black iron chain, flowing away to stand between Kai and the Tree. “The Wanderer feels his sword,” he said. “I will not allow you to steal it once more.”

The Gate hung open, behind the Eldest’s shoulder, but it had already begun to shrink. Kai hopped to his feet, angling Mithra in front of him. He didn’t have to beat the Eldest, he just had to make it to the House. Once there, he could alert Simon, Denner, Indirial…even Kathrin, if she would consent to return. Even the King would want to hear this news. Maybe he could even heal the Tree’s wounds.

No matter what, Kai had to reach the Gate.

Kai called more steel, drawing so deeply that he actually had a vision of Benson on his black throne. The skeleton, seemingly made entirely of steel, lounged as usual with one bony leg tossed over the arm of his seat. His wide-brimmed hat was tilted to cover one eye, though the other blazed with rough blue flame. He was chatting with one of the nearby suits of armor, one of which stepped forward and did a little pirouette as Kai watched.

Benson angled his fiery eye toward Kai and frowned. Kai was never clear on how he did that, without lips. The skeleton said something, adjusting his hat as he did, but Kai couldn’t hear it.

Steel thundered through his veins. When his vision returned, he launched himself at the Gate. The force of his jump tore the soil where he stood, and he hurtled through the air.

Links of black chain whipped up to meet him, but Kai was prepared. He twisted in midair, meeting the chain with Mithra’s blade.

The chain wrapped around Kai’s sword, and the Nye pulled tight. Mithra was wrenched from Kai’s grasp.

Even though he had only had the Dragon’s Fang back for an hour, Kai already felt the pang of loss. Still, the sword was not his first priority. He had to reach the Gate. Kai fell, feet-first, toward the open portal.

Then the Eldest let out a low, keening whistle.

Two Nye emerged from the Gate in a river of flowing black cloth. Their hoods flared with light the color of the moon.

They blurred forward, moving too fast for Kai to follow.

The Nye leaped into the air, each one grabbing one of Kai’s arms. Kai punched one of them away, but the second pulled him straight down to the ground.

He slammed into the grass hard enough to send a tremor running through the soil, though the Nye fell lightly enough. With so much steel running through him, Kai barely felt the impact.

The Gate had continued to shrink, but Kai could still fit himself through it. He was only a foot away. He threw himself forward.

Nye flowed out from Valinhall like a black river.

Kai’s face smacked into a wall of black cloth. Two Nye grabbed his feet, two his arms, trying to twist his hands behind his back. Others caught him up under the ribs or by the neck, twisting their chains around him.

But he had been defeating Nye in combat since he was a child, and he did not intend to go easily. He used raw strength to force his arms back around into position, and called knives from the Valinhall armory. He stabbed one of the Nye in the heart, thrusting his second knife into another Nye’s hood. They took his knives away, but he kept calling weapons, struggling and knocking Nye away like a child swatting bees.

His steel ran out.

Kai sagged, the sudden weakness running through his body, and the black robes had him trussed and tied in seconds. He felt as though they had wrapped him in a cocoon of cold, biting, black chains.

Craning his neck, Kai could barely see the Gate still shrinking. If he wanted to escape now, he would have to crawl through.

Ah, if only Caela were here. He had never expected to die without one of his lovely little ones at his side.

The wall of Nye parted, and their Eldest stepped through. He kept one of his arms behind his back, though in the other he held Mithra. His pace-long sleeve fell all the way to the ground.

The Eldest twisted his sword to catch the light.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Truly the Master’s finest work. He will lead Valinhall to glory once again…once he has this back.”

Kai cried out, but it wasn’t enough to stop the Eldest from turning and hurling the Dragon’s Fang at the Tree.

The gold-and-silver sword flashed as it spun, end over end, before stabbing itself into the center of the tree. It landed inside the scar, in the long crack that ran through the Tree’s flesh.

Kai only thought he had heard the Tree scream before. This time, it howled, and the earth buckled under its fury. Even some of the Nye were tossed from their feet. Kai was lifted off the ground and slammed back down, the chains cutting into his skin, but he barely noticed. The agony of the Hanging Tree tore at his mind, shredding his mind like knives through his brain. The Tree’s scream was silent, but he felt it like red-hot ants running in his blood.

Then the scream stopped. At the center of Latari Forest, the Hanging Tree died.

For a moment there was only silence. No living thing in the entire forest made a sound. Each of the Nye turned their empty hood to face the pile of wood that had once been a tree from Ragnarus. Kai started to wonder if he could, perhaps, wriggle free while their attention was elsewhere. If he stayed where he was, he would surely die.

Then, a crack like a lightning strike. The scarlet Tree split completely down the middle, and Mithra tumbled free to land on the grass. Each half of the blood-red trunk split, falling away from each other.

A man rose from the earth beneath the broken Tree.

His skin was covered by twenty-five years’ worth of mud and grime. He stood, brushing a hand over his bald head, scraping dirt from his eyes. His shirt crumbled off as he stood, though enough of his pants remained to account for decency.

It’s amazing, Kai thought, the things you notice before you die.

The man stepped forward, out of the remains of the Tree. The Eldest went to one knee in front of him, and the Nye all followed suit as one, kneeling before their leader.

He continued brushing the dust from his skin, revealing black marks on his skin. Black marks like tattoos, like the shadows left by chains, like the marks on Kai’s own arms. Only, on this man, the shadow-chains traveled up his arms, spiraling around his shoulders, wrapping around his torso, twisting around his legs. Links of chain wound around his neck, traveling up his face in a bizarre mask, covering his head like hair.

The Wanderer opened his eyes, and they were the same that had haunted Kai’s nightmares for half his life: they had no whites, only darkness all around. His irises were a pure metallic silver, like the steel of a Dragon’s Fang.

Valin, the Wanderer, the Incarnation of Valinhall, reached down and picked up his sword.

“Ka’nie’ka, my friend,” Valin said. The voice was the same as Kai remembered from his childhood, still warm and firm at the same time.

The Eldest stood, but he kept his hood bowed. “It has been too long, Master.”

Valin nodded, smiling a little. “It has. I have spent far too many years dreaming, it seems.”

Then he pointed to Kai with Mithra’s tip. “Let him go.”

The Eldest hesitated, but not the other Nye. They swarmed over Kai in a flutter of cloth and blurred motion, and when they withdrew, not a link of chain remained. The sensation left Kai feeling dizzy. It felt something like having his clothes torn off by a hurricane.

Kai scrambled to his feet, still awash in too many emotions to name. He was terrified for his life, which was as it should be. But he had not expected to feel so glad to see his mentor again. And he thought he had buried his rage, his hunger for vengeance at the one who had killed his brothers and sisters. He had thought that particular emotion conquered years before, but there it was, resurrected with the father who had slaughtered so many of his adopted children.

Valin levered Mithra up and leaned it against his shoulder in a gesture so familiar that it brought an ache to Kai’s heart. He gave Kai a crooked grin. “You’re looking old, Kai. How long has it been?”

“Almost twenty-five years,” Kai whispered.

Valin’s black-and-silver eyes widened. “Wow. In that case, you’re looking good. How goes the war against Damasca? I’m sure you guys had it rough without me around.”

Kai’s throat went dry. “Zakareth the Sixth remains on the throne.”

“The Sixth? I remember the Fifth.” Confusion darkened Valin’s features, but then he brightened. “Hold on. You mean the one who sealed me here. The Ragnarus Traveler with the red eye.”

Kai nodded.

“I admit, Kai, I’m a little hurt. Twenty-five years, and you still haven’t avenged me? I would have thought Indirial, at least…”

Valin trailed off and he stared into the distance, lost in the past. “No, wait. Indirial, he…he fought me. He sealed me.” Valin’s face contorted with rage. “He stood with the Damascans. Even Indirial, of all people! I thought he would be with me to the last.”

Around Valin, the grass began to shrivel and curl, until it looked like a tightly woven carpet of green.

In reality, Kai knew, it was a carpet.

Behind the Incarnation, the brown slivers of the dead Hanging Tree merged, flowing into one another until they wove into a rough, splintery wicker-back chair.

Incarnations warped the world around them, reforming reality. Twisting it. The longer they stayed in one place, the more the world would transform in the image of the Incarnation’s Territory. In this case, he was turning this world into Valinhall simply by standing there.

Kai glanced back, over his shoulder, at the shrinking Gate. His heart sank. It was only as big across as his head. He would never be able to squeeze through. There were other ways, but he needed Valin distracted.

The Eldest cleared his throat. “Pardon, Master. Indirial was not the only one to oppose you that day.” His hood turned to face Kai.

Valin shook his head like a dog shaking off water. “No, Kai stood with me. He fought…he fought Indirial. I remember that. But…wait. No, he was there. Kai, you were there. You were there when they sealed me!”

At the end, Valin’s voice rose, and an inhuman ring entered his voice, like steel on steel.

“I stood with you until the end,” Kai said quietly. “But while I fought Indirial, to keep him from killing you, you carved your way through Valinhall. Eight children, you raised and murdered.” His voice broke. Their faces swam in front of him even now, children raised as his brothers and sisters. Murdered by the man they called their father.

Valin shook his head, smiling patiently. “No, Kai, no. I tested them. You have to earn your power in Valinhall. It’s the law of our world. Denner and Kathrin passed my test, so I had them healed. They are my true children, like you and Indirial. The others…well. I spared them a worse death.”

The old, familiar rage rose up in Kai again, and he met his mentor’s nightmare eyes. “You lost control. You’ve become an Incarnation, Valin. You’re a monster.”

Valin met Kai’s eyes for a moment longer, and then he nodded. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Kai. You were almost worthy to succeed me.” Something occurred to him, and he looked down at Mithra. “As a matter of fact, you earned this, didn’t you?”

He flipped the sword over to Kai. It spun through the air and landed point-down, stabbing into the grass.

Valin held out a hand, and an enormous steel claymore flashed into his grip.

“I need that sword, Kai,” he said, his tone matter-of-face. “But I’m no thief. If I want it, I have to earn it back.”

Behind him, a sapling turned into a coat-rack.

Kai wrapped his hand around Mithra’s hilt, but he didn’t pull it out. His steel had not quite recovered, while Valin had his full strength to draw upon. If they fought now, Kai would die instantly. But what choice did he have?

Mentally, he focused on the image of the little quicksilver vial that he had once received from Benson. He pictured its shape, its color, the feel of the cold power rushing along his bones. He dove deeper.

He saw Benson again, sitting on his throne in Valinhall’s blue-lit basement. The skeleton leaned forward.

“Your steel’s run out, Kai. Nothing I can do to help that.” The skeleton’s blue-flame eye narrowed, as though he were focusing on something. “Hang on. What’s got ahold of you?”

The Wanderer, Kai sent. He pushed his thoughts forward, concentrating on Benson as he always had on his dolls.

The steel skeleton’s eye widened. “I’ll see what I can do, kid. Try to hold on.”

The vision of the basement blew apart, replaced by the Latari clearing. The Nye stood apart, leaving Valin and Kai enough room to swing their huge blades. Valin stood, his chain-marked body angled and waiting for Kai.

“Well, Kai?” Valin said. “I’ve been here twenty-five years, I’m not waiting another—“

Steel flooded into Kai in a rushing waterfall of ice, and he rushed forward. On the way, he called every power he thought would help: the stone amulet, armoring his skin; the bottle of liquid gold, flooding cheery warmth through his body and lending him new vitality; the iron scroll, granting him more knowledge of combat and tactics than he could have earned in one lifetime.

They blasted through him in a river of strength and power, and he channeled it all into his attacks.

Pale blue light flickered through Valin’s skin, as he called one of the powers to which Kai did not have access: essence of the Nye.

Valin stepped to one side, and Kai’s strike missed him by a hair’s breadth. Kai turned his stroke into a stab, which Valin batted aside with his own blade. He let out a blistering three-part combination, but Valin turned every attack. Once, he slapped Mithra aside with the palm of his hand.

Kai finished with a downward stroke of his Dragon’s Fang, putting all his steel strength into the blow. Valin caught the blow on his own sword and held it off with one hand.

With every bit of strength he could muster or call, Kai pushed his sword down toward Valin’s head. But, one-handed, the Valinhall Incarnation was still stronger.

Valin pushed Kai’s blade aside.

“You’re not bad, Kai,” Valin said. “But you don’t have the full power of Valinhall. My turn.”

Then he attacked.

Kai could barely see the blows, let alone turn them aside. He met a few using nothing more than his knowledge of Valin’s habits and patterns, and some of the other strikes didn’t land firmly enough to penetrate his stone-hard skin.

With his dolls, maybe he could have countered Valin’s assault. The Valinhall Incarnation had almost unlimited strength, speed, and endurance, but Otoku or Gloria could have given him the edge he needed to dodge. Without their advice, he wasn’t fast enough.

Valin drew a line of blood down Kai’s cheek, his right arm, his hip, and his left leg. Kai ignored the pain, drawing on the power of the ice dagger from the winter garden. It numbed the wounds, kept him fighting, even as his other powers kept him on his feet.

Finally, one of Valin’s blows met Mithra near the hilt. Kai’s palms rung as though he had held them against a struck bell, and the Dragon’s Fang fell to the grass.

Valin scooped up his sword. He sighed in contentment. “Much better,” he said. The claymore vanished.

Kai backed up a few steps, as his former master got the feel of his old sword. He only had one power left in his arsenal that might be of any use to him at all. He continued creeping backwards, his eyes fixed on Valin.

The Wanderer turned his metallic eyes to Kai. “You have done well, Kai. I am proud to call you my student. But you might warn the Damascans before I can finish what I started.”

He raised Mithra’s silver-and-gold blade. “Good-bye,” Valin said.

Kai reached into Valinhall and called the black gauntlet.

Valin rushed forward in a blur of flashing steel, but the dark metal gauntlet shimmered as it vanished from Valinhall and appeared on Kai’s left hand. It was heavy, spiked, and tipped on each finger with claws. Not something he would normally wear when fighting.

The knowledge of the iron scroll warned Kai that Valin would attack his neck, so he spun around as he dropped to one knee. Mithra sliced through the air above him.

Kai reached up with his left hand, gripping the Valinhall Gate with his taloned fingers. The portal was now only the size of a grape.

Kai drew the gauntlet down, tearing a ragged hole in the world.

The black gauntlet was difficult and time-consuming to earn, but it was the Valinhall gatecrawler: a device that could tear closing or recently closed Gates back open. It was the only way Kai knew of to follow a Traveler into a foreign Territory, but he had never used it to open his own. In theory, it should work the same way.

And now he had proved that theory to himself. He knelt before a Valinhall Gate, full-sized if a bit more ragged around the edges than usual.

Kai threw himself into the entry hall just as Valin’s sword came down again. He felt a line of fire against his back, but he cleared the border.

Valin stood at the edge of the Gate, staring into the Territory he had created.

“Come on in, master,” Kai taunted. “I’m wide open.” He brushed white hair out of his eyes, and was startled to find the hair warm and sticky with blood.

Valin smiled a little, but he pulled Mithra back. There was a sound like a distant horn, and the blade began to vibrate as though Kai saw the sword through a heat haze.

“Sorry, Kai,” Valin said. “I’ll come home someday. But until then, I’ve got work to do.”

He swept the shivering Dragon’s Fang across the Gate, and the Gate blew away like dandelion fluff in a high wind.

Kai smiled to himself. I won, he thought. I survived.

Then he passed out in a pool of his own blood.

***

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. 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 gave her another salute 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 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 ordered the doors opened a crack, 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 vines, 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. 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. 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 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 emerald 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, care, and endurance yielded rewards.

Soon, their golem army would shatter the walls of Enosh. Assuming 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 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 counseled 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 his usual rules.

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 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 on 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.”

CHAPTER 5:

THE RISING SUN

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 plate 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 armor 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 sheet of metal on the back of the man’s skull.

Alin flushed with shame and moved the plate 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 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. 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 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.

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.

“I will wave to the people, and I will demonstrate the power of Elysia,” Alin recited. “I will tell the people how Enosh needs to be strong, and that together we can bring Damasca’s unnatural blight to an end. I will remind them how we defeated Overlord Malachi—“

“You,” Grandmaster Naraka corrected.

For a moment Alin didn’t understand what she meant. Master Farin tugged the straps on his armor so abruptly that he almost fell over.

“You will remind them how you overcame Overlord Malachi,” the Grandmaster said. “Not we. You were the one who killed the Overlord.”

“That’s true, but Simon was there first,” Alin pointed out. Master Farin had secured the breastplate, and had moved around to his back. “Without him, Leah and I would never have escaped with our lives.”

“You give Simon too much credit,” Grandmaster Naraka said dismissively. “If he truly battled the Overlord, why were the both of them still alive after the fight, hmmm? Tell me that. I find it more likely that he and Malachi came to some sort of an arrangement.”

“Not Simon,” Alin said firmly. “The Endross Traveler, Cormac, killed his mother. He hates Damasca as much as I do.” Then again, Simon had begged Alin not to kill the Overlord. But that didn’t mean anything. He had wanted to spare Malachi’s children the sight of their father being executed. It had probably made him remember his own past, and Alin couldn’t blame him for that.

“I hope that is so,” Grandmaster Naraka said. “Damasca is true evil. Their human sacrifice is proof enough of that. Maybe your Simon has seen the light, but he draws his power from Valinhall. He is no true Traveler. I would distrust him for that alone.”

Farin tightened another strap, pinching Alin’s side so hard that he slapped the armorer’s hand away. Master Farin bowed and murmured his apologies, returning to his work with assurances that it wouldn’t happen again.

Alin turned his mind back to the conversation. “What do you mean? Simon’s a Traveler.”

Grandmaster Naraka adjusted her red glasses. “The original nine Territories, including Ragnarus, have existed since the beginning of time. They encompass all the powers of nature. Over a thousand years ago, we were granted access to Elysia, the tenth Territory, which represented the enlightened virtues of man. For centuries the world existed in balance, until the first Damascan Queen eradicated the Elysian Travelers. But that is another story.

“Valinhall, in contrast, has only existed for sixty years. As far as we have been able to learn, the Territory was cobbled together in one of Damasca’s twisted experiments. Damasca undoubtedly intended to use its power to further pervert the natural order, but the first Valinhall Traveler—by the name of Valin—turned the Territory’s power against Damasca. In the ensuing conflict, most of the Valinhall Travelers were killed. Only a handful remain, a rare and dying breed.”

Grandmaster Naraka’s voice drifted away, and she stared past Alin, as though she saw the distant past in her dark red lenses.

Alin stood still as Master Farin moved over him, still tightening straps and adjusting buckles. How did someone make a Territory? For that matter, where did the other Territories come from? More importantly, he failed to see what any of that had to do with Simon.

“That sounds even better,” Alin said. “The Valinhall Travelers hate Damasca too, don’t they? They’re on our side.”

Sadly, Grandmaster Naraka shook her head. “I wish that were true, but the enemy of our enemy is not always a friend. Valinhall Travelers cannot be trusted.”

“Why not?” Alin asked.

“They are no true Travelers,” Naraka said, in a tone of disgust. “Their Territory was created, not born. It’s a twisted abomination. Their only purpose is to kill real Travelers. Like they killed my granddaughter.”

Master Farin cleared his throat and focused pointedly on Alin’s left boot.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alin said carefully.

“It was eight years ago, just before midsummer,” the Grandmaster began. Her voice softened as she spoke, and she almost seemed to relax. “My granddaughter, who was also a Naraka Traveler, went with a partner to the Latari Forest. You have heard of the place?”

“Yes, of course,” Alin said. He had grown up hearing stories of Latari Forest all his life. “It was only a day or two from Myria. I heard that’s where Simon’s father died.”

Naraka sighed. “Another victim of the Valinhall Travelers, no doubt. Truly unfortunate that he chose to side with them. Anyway, we learned that Damasca had sealed a very powerful force at the center of Latari Forest. It is to maintain this seal that the Damascans sacrifice nine lives every year. We thought that if we destroyed the Damascan prison and set this power free, we might be able to stop the sacrifice. My granddaughter and her partner were one of twelve teams we sent.”

Master Farin clapped Alin lightly on the shoulder, signaling that he was done, and bowed one more time before slipping from the room. Alin didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have wanted to eavesdrop on such a personal story either.

“Alas, there were Valinhall Travelers guarding the Latari Forest, and they sided with Damasca. All twenty-four of our Travelers were killed, including my granddaughter. We would never have known what happened, except that a few managed to send messengers back through their Territories before they died. If Valinhall had joined us, rather than the Damascans, perhaps Zakareth’s rule would be over even now.”

One detail of the story bothered Alin. “How many Valinhall Travelers were there?” Alin asked. “They killed twenty-four of your people, but I thought you said Valinhall Travelers were rare.”

Grandmaster Naraka turned her red lenses on him. “Perhaps only one.”

Alin would have been significantly less stunned if she had punched him in the face. One Traveler had killed twenty-four others? He had seen what some of the Enosh Travelers could do, and he couldn’t imagine standing alone against such power. His thoughts turned to Simon, who had survived a great battle involving over a dozen Damascan Travelers from at least two or three different Territories. Now, the carnage in that canyon took on a startling new aspect.

When Alin had seen the remnants of Simon’s battle, he had assumed that Simon had called up allies to help him fight the Damascans, and had eventually managed to either survive the conflict or slip away in the confusion.

Had Simon actually managed to win that fight alone?

Alin’s respect for Simon sharply rose. If Grandmaster Naraka had meant to tell him that story to stop him from relying on Simon, she had failed dramatically. He trusted Simon’s dedication, and if Simon was worth a dozen enemy Travelers in combat, Alin had to secure his help.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Alin said at last.

Grandmaster Naraka nodded. “Think on what I’ve said. In the meantime, let us turn our talk to happier matters. I have a surprise for you.” She even smiled, which looked unnatural on her gnarled face.

Naraka walked over to the doors and pulled one open. Either those doors were balanced perfectly, or she had much more strength in her body than it seemed, because at her touch the door swung open easily.

“Come on in,” Grandmaster Naraka called.

Alin’s sisters walked inside.

***

Once again, Leah entered the Enosh Grandmasters’ palace through a dusty broom closet.

The tiny closet would have barely had enough room for two people standing side-by-side if it was empty, and as it was Leah was nearly crowded out by mops, buckets, brooms, rags, and discarded furniture. Uncomfortable as it was, this was the only out-of-the-way place where she could figure out how to open a Lirial Gate.

Traveling from Lirial required her to perform complex calculations based on the movements of the Territory’s twelve shifting moons. Landing where she wanted was like trying to put a ball through a hoop, only the hoop was tied to the back of a wild horse, and there were twelve horses, each with a hoop, but only one was the hoop she wanted. It was enough to make her want to tear her hair out at the roots.

Luckily, she had mastered the trick to putting a Gate in this one old closet. If only she could have found somewhere a little less dusty.

Leah let the Gate vanish behind her, taking with it the clean, cold scent of Lirial. She adjusted her skirts—peasant brown again, the same as she had worn for the past two years in the village of Myria—and stepped through the closet door.

As soon as she stepped through the door she sneezed, and of course there was someone there to see her. A servant stood in the hall, rag and bucket in one hand, his other reaching out for the door handle. He stared at her for a moment as if he had seen her pop out of thin air, and then he stared suspiciously into the closet as though looking for someone else.

Leah delicately dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief, then folded the cloth and put it in her pocket. She met the servant’s eyes and arched one eyebrow.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she kept staring at him. He eventually shook his head and walked into the broom closet, while she walked calmly away.

She allowed herself a small smile at that. In Enosh or the capital city of Cana, servants were all the same.

As Leah walked the halls, she lost her purposeful stride, stopped pinning people to the walls with her stare, and choked back her impulse to command the servants out of her way. In short, she became once again the villager Leah, daughter of Kelia.

That was what they would call her in Myria. In Damasca, she would be Heiress Leah. The common folk would address her as ‘Heiress,’ ‘Heiress Leah,’ or ‘Highness,’ but to those of equal rank she was simply Leah. Her family had no surname, since any family that held the throne was required to sacrifice their hereditary name as a symbol of their dedication to Damasca. The policy had played its part in stopping more than one civil war over the past three and a half centuries, but Leah liked the way the villagers did things. Her mother, Kelia, deserved to be remembered.

Leah froze at the intersection of two hallways, trying to remember which way led back to her room. The Grandmasters’ palace was enormous, perhaps even as big as the Damascan royal palace in Cana, and she had not yet had time to become familiar with its layout.

She stood still for a good twenty seconds, trying to pretend she was exactly where she wanted to be, before she realized she could openly ask. Any number of people passed her in the halls—servants, Travelers, ordinary citizens—and most of them would probably know how to direct her. She had become too used to the way things were done in Cana, where she had to project invulnerability at all times or else invite an attack from one of her siblings or enemies. Leah, daughter of Kelia had no enemies. She could ask directions from anyone she wanted.

Sometimes, Leah enjoyed being a villager. She felt so free.

Once she secured directions to her room from a passing maid, Leah turned her mind to her mission. As she walked, she took stock of her situation.

From her father, she had two goals: maintain surveillance on Alin, the Elysian Traveler, and gather as much information as possible on the Grandmasters’ war plans. She could keep an eye on Alin easily enough, as Alin himself would likely tell her anything she wanted to know. The Grandmasters were a more difficult matter. In Damasca, Lirial was a relatively rare Territory, due to a somewhat stormy history between Lirial Travelers in general and the Damascan throne. As a result, she had already encountered more Lirial Travelers in Enosh than she had ever met in Cana.

She would therefore have to exercise extra care if she meant to use her Lirial powers to spy on the Grandmasters. If she were detected and unveiled as a Traveler, she would have some awkward questions to answer.

But those two tasks were possible enough. Worse were the duties she had set for herself.

First, she had to keep an eye on Simon, not just Alin. From what she had seen and from what Indirial had said, he might be just as important to coming events as Alin. If she played her hand right, she might even be able to tell him that Enosh Travelers—not Damascans—had killed his father. That could be enough to win her a valuable ally.

Second, she could not let Talos ascend to the throne. King Zakareth had yet to name one of his children Successor, so she still had time, but with Adessa’s exile only Talos and Leah herself remained as likely choices. Leah had very little desire to rise to the throne herself—too many responsibilities, too much blame—but she was prepared to do her duty to the people. And it had begun to look like her duty to the people meant stopping Talos from attaining the throne.

Before she had moved to Myria for her two-year trial, Leah had known her older brother as a levelheaded, if ruthless, rival. In the last few weeks, Talos had seemed unstable. Almost unhinged. Sometimes he seemed almost desperate to overthrow their father, but he spoke of the throne as if he didn’t want it.

So with a war against Enosh looming on the horizon, Leah had nothing more to do than monitor a prophesied hero, supervise a deadly young Traveler, spy on the enemy, and prevent a royal coup.

Leah hoped the city of Enosh had a well-stocked library. She wouldn’t want to get bored.

***

Since the plague that had taken Alin’s parents, his three sisters had all but raised him. Tamara, the oldest, entered the room first, following Grandmaster Naraka’s call.

“You honor us, Grandmaster,” Tamara said warmly. “This hospitality is more than we deserve.” She bowed at the waist, holding her long hair up so that it did not sweep the floor. She always was proud of her hair.

Grandmaster Naraka turned her own smile on Tamara, and Alin was half-surprised that Tamara didn’t flinch and turn away. The Grandmaster’s smile looked like it belonged on a bat. “It is your brother who honors us, child.”

Tamara looked at Alin, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, I’m sure he’s…an honor,” she said.

Shai, fourteen years old, was Alin’s youngest sister. She said nothing, simply bowing to Grandmaster Naraka and slipping off to the side. Shai rarely said much, and today she seemed bored, her flat eyes staring at everything without a spark of interest. But Alin knew her better than that, so he kept an eye on her.

Ilana bowed as she entered the room, but she flashed Alin a grin. At twenty, she was three years older than Alin, and still unmarried. He hadn’t seen her since the night of Malachi’s raid on Myria, when a squad of Damascan soldiers had cut her betrothed down as he ran. He would have expected to see the shadow of that tragedy on her face, in tightness around the eyes or a hollow smile, but she seemed her usual self.

“Do you have nothing to say to your sisters?” Grandmaster Naraka asked. In truth, Alin had been too stunned to speak. He had sent Travelers to Myria months ago, shortly after he arrived in Enosh, to make sure his sisters were safe and cared for. Since then, he had barely thought of them. He felt a little guilty about that, but events had proceeded so fast that he had hardly had time to think at all.

Alin thought his smile would split his face in half. He had never thought it would feel so good to see his family. “Ilana! Tamara! You look wonderful! I’m so glad to see you’ve been keeping well.” He would have mentioned Shai as well, but he thought she would probably be happier if he didn’t draw attention to her sneaking along the back wall.

Ilana and Tamara sighed together.

“Listen to him,” Tamara said.

“He sounds like he’s making a speech,” Ilana added. “’Keeping well.’ Why yes, my good sir, we have been keeping well. We spend so much time knitting and attending balls that we hardly have time for tea and scones.”

The three women—Grandmaster Naraka included—all laughed. Shai continued creeping around, seemingly on a quest to see and touch as much of Enosh as she could.

Ilana’s good-natured mocking did not put a dent in his smile. If anything, Alin felt relieved. After her promised husband’s death, Alin had been afraid that her sense of humor would never recover.

“All right, all right,” Alin said. “I’m still glad to see you.” He spread his arms and walked over for a hug.

He clanked as he walked, which gave his sisters the opportunity to poke fun at his armor, but he didn’t mind. Much.

Behind Grandmaster Naraka’s back, and safely out of Tamara’s sight, Shai pulled a clock down from a shelf on the wall. She sat down with the clock in her lap and began taking it apart.

After they spent a few minutes catching up, their conversation naturally turned to Alin’s newfound powers.

“Are you the one teaching Alin to Travel, Grandmaster?” Ilana asked.

“I am,” Grandmaster Naraka replied.

“How’s it going?”

Naraka shrugged. “I have had worse students, and I have never taught an Elysian Traveler before. But I suspect we would make more progress if he did not think so much of his own abilities. He seems to think he is invincible.”

Alin’s face heated, and he raised one gauntleted hand to his mouth as if to cover a cough. Maybe Ilana wouldn’t notice his blush.

Tamara chuckled quietly at the Grandmaster’s words, but Ilana nodded. “You praise him too much,” she said. “It goes straight to his head. If you don’t prick his ego every once in a while, it’ll just keep swelling.”

Even Shai piped up. “Too proud,” she submitted, from the floor next to her pile of clockwork.

It was hard to tell, behind Grandmaster Naraka’s dark red glasses and her mask of wrinkles, but Alin thought she was trying to restrain a laugh. “I will defer to your wisdom in this matter,” she said, “but I’m afraid it may be too late. Our next meeting together will not be until after the city-wide celebration in his honor.”

Ilana sighed and shook her head sadly. “Oh, no. There’ll be no talking to him after that.”

At that point, Alin thought it was his place to speak up. “The city is celebrating, Ilana, because I defeated one of the Overlords. Malachi lies dead because of me.”

Ilana’s eyes went flat and hard, and a shadow entered her voice. “Good. His men killed Aden.”

Tamara put a comforting arm around Ilana’s shoulders, and Grandmaster Naraka glared at Alin as though he had done something wrong.

“You snuck off against our advice,” the Grandmaster said. “You risked your life, the life of one of our most promising young Travelers, and the fate of this city on your own whim. The fact that one good thing came of your decision does not justify your actions.”

Alin started to speak, to defend himself one more time, but Grandmaster Naraka cut him off.

“That reminds me,” she said. “We have a strategy meeting after you address the city. We need to discuss our actions against Damasca.”

Alin glanced at his sisters. “What about them?”

“Don’t worry about us,” Tamara said. “The Grandmaster has given us wonderful rooms. We’ll be here when you get back.”

“There’s a clock in my room,” Shai called.

Ilana smiled, though there was still a touch of darkness in it. “I’m sure it won’t last long, Shai.”

Tamara noticed the pile of gears and springs surrounding her sister for the first time, and immediately launched into a combination of apologizing to Grandmaster Naraka and scolding Shai. Her face remained pleasant through the whole tirade.

Alin’s sisters left the room, and the Grandmaster moved to follow them.

“I want Simon at this meeting, Grandmaster,” Alin said.

Naraka stopped. She half-turned to face him, her glasses gleaming red in the afternoon sunlight. “That is not wise.”

In his mind, Alin reached out to the golden power of Elysia, like a warm sun just over his shoulder. Somewhere, an acorn in a golden cage began to shake. “I wasn’t asking your permission. It’s already done.”

Grandmaster Naraka’s answering bow was nothing more than a fractional nod of her head. “As you wish, Eliadel. Now come. The people await you.”

Alin walked out with her. The doors slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing loud and hollow in the empty halls.

CHAPTER 6:

THE GRANDMASTERS’ COUNCIL

Simon’s Gate opened on the last place he’d left: his suite of rooms in Enosh. After his final showdown with the Damascan Travelers, he had Traveled to Valinhall for healing, but he’d been forced to take three of Alin’s huge Elysian bears with him. Valinhall, he had learned, was not equipped to support bears. They had torn up three couches and one of the strange oxen from the garden before the Nye had enough.

Simon had walked the bears from the canyon at the edge of the Badari Desert all the way back to Enosh, and had managed to sneak them into Alin’s room. That had taken most of a day, but the look on Alin’s face when he saw the bears was worth every second. Simon had spied on Alin’s reaction from outside his window, but after seeing the bears, it had taken Alin all of ten seconds to summon a tracker that located Simon.

After that, Alin had insisted that Simon be given rooms in the Grandmasters’ palace and the little buzzing-acorn alarm that would alert him in an emergency.

Alin hadn’t put it quite that way. He said something like, ‘Now I can call you whenever I need you.’ But since it would allow Simon to help in case of an attack, he let Alin’s poor phrasing slide.

The rooms here were no better appointed than his bedroom in Valinhall, though he had much more floor space here. For some reason, his bed and washstand were fifteen paces apart. Did they expect him to host a dance party in his bedroom?

Rich people, he thought, with a mental shake of his head. He stepped out of the room and almost ran into Leah.

She looked as startled as he was, her blue eyes wide. “Simon!” she said. “I thought you were…gone.” For some reason she jerked her wrist behind her back, as though she meant to hide the crystal bracelet she always wore. After a second she relaxed.

“I was in my Territory,” Simon said carefully. He found himself watching his words with Leah after rescuing her from Malachi’s tower.

“Oh, really?” Leah didn’t sound intrigued, or frightened, or in awe, any of which Simon would have expected from her when talking about his Traveler powers. She sounded like she was thinking about something else, like his answer had been expected.

“Simon,” Leah said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Do you have a minute?” Without waiting for his response, she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the side of the hall, where they would be out of the irregular hallway traffic.

He considered telling her that Alin had called him on some urgent business, but he found that the idea of making Alin wait didn’t bother him at all. Besides, if you discounted his recent suspicions about her, there was something exciting about having a pretty girl—having Leah—pull him aside for a private conversation.

He made sure to keep his face blank as he let her draw him toward the wall. He wasn’t Alin, to gloat over something this small.

She stood distractingly close, so that he could feel the heat from her body. “Simon,” she said, “how did you become a Valinhall Traveler?”

Simon blinked. That was not at all where he had expected—or hoped—this conversation would go.

“Well, uh, after what happened, I wanted to find a way to fight Travelers. So I found a Valinhall Traveler, and I convinced him—”

“How?” Leah interrupted.

He wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. “I begged him, mostly. I’m not entirely sure why he agreed, to tell you the truth.”

Leah waved that aside. “No, I mean, how did you find a Valinhall Traveler? I mean, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to go about finding one. Other than you, but you know what I mean.”

The direction of her questions was becoming clear, but Simon still wasn’t sure why she was asking. Besides, he didn’t want to talk about the night his father had died. Then again, Leah had been captured by the Endross Traveler, Cormac, and left in Overlord Malachi’s hands for weeks. Somehow, he felt that she deserved to know the story.

“Do you know what happened to my parents?” Simon asked.

She shook her head, and her blue eyes focused on him as though she meant to memorize his every word.

“We were making a delivery through Latari Forest,” he said. “I was a kid. We ran into two Travelers, and they attacked us. They killed my father pretty much immediately.” He skimmed over the details, to spare both of them. This was nothing he wanted to re-live.

“Valinhall Travelers?” Leah asked. She sounded confused.

“No, just regular Travelers. One of them was Naraka, I think, and the other one summoned this glowing mist.”

“Asphodel,” Leah said.

Simon stared at her.

She raised one eyebrow without changing the rest of her expression. “I’ve spent half my time talking to Travelers since I got here,” she said. “Not everybody locks themselves in their rooms. Keep going.”

He could accept that. It certainly sounded like the sort of explanation Leah would normally give: unashamed and commanding.

“My father died, and my mother…the Asphodel, I guess, fed her a bunch of mist. That’s what broke her mind.”

Images floated up to the surface of Simon’s mind, and he shivered. Leah put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“A Valinhall Traveler saved me,” Simon went on. “I didn’t know what he was at the time, I thought he was an incredible swordsman good enough to take on Travelers. When the attack on Myria ended, you were gone, Alin went off to save you, and I was left with nobody. I had to do something, so I decided to go find the only man I knew could fight Travelers.”

Leah nodded along, clearly absorbing the information. “So you found him,” she said.

“Not him, but another one. He took me in.”

“What were the tests like?” Leah asked.

“Tests?” Simon asked. Maybe she meant the way the Valinhall rooms tested him. But no, there was no way she could know about that.

“The compatibility tests,” Leah said, as though it were obvious. “The Travelers I’ve talked to here say that everyone has to pass a test, to see if you’re compatible with the Territory. There’s no way to know if you can Travel, otherwise.”

Something was going on with Leah.

First, when he had seen her in Malachi’s tower, she hadn’t seemed like a prisoner. She had an explanation for that, and ordinarily he would accept it, but Malachi hadn’t spoken of her like a hostage. If anything, he had suggested that she was holding him captive, which made no sense at all.

Second, there was the way she was acting now. She had tried to hide her bracelet when she saw him, and she had worn that bracelet every day of the past two years. Now she showed knowledge of Traveling that even he didn’t have. Even if she had spent all her time in Enosh asking questions, why was she so eager to learn? How had she learned so much so quickly? She spoke as if the things she knew were common sense.

What do you think? he sent to his doll. Only when he received no response did he realize that he had forgotten to take a doll from his room in Valinhall. He had dropped Lilia off when he stopped by the bedroom for his cloak, sure that the Nye would have washed and returned it. But the cloak was nowhere to be found, and he had to backtrack to the bathroom, where his cloak and Azura still lay where he left them. After that, he had been in too much of a hurry to think of swinging back by his room for another doll.

Then again, what was wrong with the Nye? They had never shirked their duties before. The Eldest was probably angry with him, for some unknowable reason, and wouldn’t allow the others to serve him until Simon made up for whatever it was he had done. That was probably it.

Simon realized he had gone too long without speaking.

“Oh, sorry, uh…he fought me. We had a fight in the forest, but he said I was terrible.”

Leah twisted her bracelet around her wrist, lost in thought. “Combat ability?” she said. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Something Kai said floated back to Simon. “I don’t think he let me in because of the fight,” Simon said. “He said he could teach anyone. I think he was trying to make sure I wanted it bad enough.”

“No,” Leah said thoughtfully, “you have to be compatible. He must have known you were, somehow.”

She sounded certain, but the more Simon thought about it, the more sure he became that he was right. “I don’t think that’s how Valinhall works,” he said. “You don’t get anything in Valinhall because you’re suitable or you need it. You have to earn it. If you’re skilled enough and determined enough to pass the tests in the House, then I guess you’re qualified. I think anyone can try, if they want.”

Leah stared at him for a long time, chewing on her lip. “No compatibility test. I suppose that would make sense,” she said at last. “They say…well, never mind. But that would make sense.”

Simon’s pocket began to vibrate. Leah glanced at his buzzing pants, back up to Simon’s face, and then at his pants again.

“Would you like me to leave?” she asked politely.

Simon’s face heated, but he pulled out the shaking acorn in its golden cage. “Alin needs me,” he said. “Do you know where he is?”

Leah’s gaze sharpened. She took him by the arm again, and began to guide him down the hall. “I believe he’s finishing up his speech. I’ll take you there. Did he say why he needed you?”

Simon held up the caged acorn, which was hurling itself against its bars with animal ferocity. “You know as much as I do,” he said.

“They say the Grandmasters are meeting today,” she added, as they walked.

“That could be it,” Simon responded. She pressed up against his arm as she guided him down the hallway, and he was torn between moving a proper distance away and pretending not to notice so that she would stay that way as long as possible.

Better not to react, he told himself, and stayed where he was. He got the impression that Caela would have laughed herself sick.

“When you find out, let me know,” she said. “I need to know whether or not I should be worried.” She smiled at him, which at close range had a devastating effect. He caught himself wondering if she would be impressed by the powers of a Traveler.

Without thinking, he spoke. “You’ve been different lately.”

Her face didn’t change, but he recognized that it had become a mask to hide her real expression. “It’s not like we’ve spent much time together, Simon.” She pulled away from his arm, almost casually.

Well, he had started this. He might as well go all the way. “No, I didn’t mean that. You seem more confident since we left the village, not less. I have no idea what I’m doing, and Alin’s only pretending, but you almost seem more comfortable outside the village than you were when we lived there.”

Leah kept her gaze focused on the end of the hall. “I lived most of my life outside of Myria, you know.”

“That could be it,” Simon said. “You seem like a different person now, that’s all. Like you were one Leah in the village, and now you’re another Leah outside.”

“Maybe outside Leah is better,” she suggested with half a smile.

“Maybe. I just wish I knew which of you was real.”

Leah lost her smile.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Simon mentally kicking himself the entire way. He should have kept his mouth shut.

***

Simon eventually made his way to the huge square outside the Grandmasters’ palace. The space was crammed with thousands of people, more people than he had ever seen at one time. Maybe more people than he had ever seen total. They packed the flagstones, stood on nearby stoops, or leaned out the windows of other buildings. A handful of people even stood on the rooftops around the square, listening.

From a balcony high up on the palace, Alin spoke. His voice had been amplified so that everyone in the square could hear him, which Simon assumed was some sort of Traveler thing.

After listening to Alin speak for a minute or two, Simon had to admit: he was good at this. The setting sun caught his golden hair and armor, making him shine like a burning star, and he spoke with the intensity of a natural storyteller.

“I saw friends snatched from me on Damascan ropes,” Alin was saying. “I saw family cut down by Damascan spears. Their faces, as they begged for mercy, plague me today. They will continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

He paused for a moment, as if to collect himself, and together the crowd held one breath.

“Overlord Malachi was—” there was enough cheering at the word ‘was’ that Alin had to stop—“he was a Traveler of Naraka. As many of you know, Naraka, the Cavern of Flame, represents law and order. Any Traveler of Naraka should be driven, almost compelled, to uphold the laws and the highest moral principles. When a true Naraka Traveler sees a man cheated by his neighbor, he does not hesitate. He makes sure that justice is done.

“When I stood in Malachi’s hall, when I looked the Overlord in the eye, I told him why I had come.

“I told him I came for justice.”

The crowd reacted as though he had promised them each a bucket of gold: they screamed in a roaring ocean tide of noise that made Simon wince and cover one ear. He wished he had worn his cloak, so that he could stuff its fabric into his ears, but he carried it slung over one shoulder. Wearing a hooded black cloak in this crowd would do nothing but make him stand out, and not in any way he would have enjoyed. Besides, it was hot.

The cheers went on for a full minute before Alin waved the crowd to silence. He began to speak, but Simon was distracted by a glint of gold at the corner of his eye.

When he turned to look, he stared straight into the beak of a golden hummingbird, hovering inches from his nose.

Simon let out a yelp and stumbled backwards, out of the crowd. A few people looked curiously at the gold bird, but apparently such sights were nothing to be concerned about in Enosh, because they quickly turned back to Alin.

The bird followed Simon as he backed out of the crowd. Simon eyed it warily as he searched for a place far enough where he could examine the bird in relative peace. It obviously wasn’t going to attack him, or it would have done so already. Besides, he had faced worse than a shimmering golden hummingbird. But he suspected he knew where the bird had come from, and if he was right, it would have a message for him.

He finally found a place, a thin alley in the shadow between two buildings, that wasn’t packed with people.

Simon turned to face the bird, which had followed at an uncomfortably close distance of about two inches from his head. “Well?” Simon asked.

The tiny bird spoke in a rich, rumbling baritone that sounded like it came from a burly lumberjack. “I have a message for you, Traveler of Valinhall.”

Startled, Simon almost backed into the wall of the alley. “Is that your real voice?”

The hummingbird tilted its head to the side, in a motion that reminded Simon vividly of Kai. “It is. Why do you ask me this?”

“Nothing,” Simon said quickly. “Never mind. Did Alin send you?”

“I was sent by Alin, son of Torin, the Elysian Traveler,” the hummingbird responded. “He wished me to bring you a message: the Grandmasters don’t trust you. Naraka desires you to be kept away from Alin, and many of the others agree that you are not to be trusted. He has invited you to their war council, but he has done so against their wishes. He believes that they may try to exclude you, or to trick you somehow. He wished you to be forewarned.”

Alin? Acting kind and thoughtful? To me? Simon suddenly felt guilty for thinking that Alin looked like a pompous, painted fool up there in his gold armor.

“That is very kind of him,” Simon said. “Will there be danger?”

The bird hesitated before responding, in his bass rumble, “Alin does not believe so, Traveler. This is the end of the message. Farewell.”

The golden bird flitted off, but hesitated a few feet away, hovering in place. Seconds later, he darted back over. His beak flew at Simon’s face like an arrow, and it was all he could do to stop himself from instinctively backing up a step, but the hummingbird drew himself to a halt at the same uncomfortably close distance to Simon’s face.

“I feel compelled to add something, Valinhall Traveler. Alin, son of Torin does not believe you are in physical danger. He believes that you are, at most, at risk of being excluded or embarrassed.”

The messenger hovered even closer, leading Simon to wonder if he was in danger of having his eye spitted on the end of the bird’s sharp beak. “I remember the Grandmasters of old, and I do not agree with Alin’s assessment. I believe you should be on your guard.”

“Thank you,” Simon said to the bird. In his own ears, his voice sounded dark. He felt as though he was back in Valinhall, surrounded by traps and enemies and the certainty that, as soon as he put a foot wrong, he would die.

In some strange way, the thought made him feel a bit better. He had conquered Valinhall, at least to a point. He would conquer this.

The hummingbird bobbed once in midair, then zipped off toward the Grandmasters’ palace.

Simon took a deep breath, forcing his mind back into the familiar patterns of the House. He had to be ready to fight on an instant’s notice.

As more cheers erupted from the nearby square, shaking the ground and signaling the end of Alin’s speech, Simon pulled on his black cloak.

***

The war council of the Enosh Grandmasters took place in a room specially designed for the purpose. The centerpiece of the room was a polished stone table that took up the vast majority of the floor. Nine banners hung on the walls, each marked with what Simon assumed were the symbols of the Territories that the Grandmasters Traveled.

A clawed fist clutched a ball of flame on a red banner above Grandmaster Naraka. She hunched in her chair and pointed her red lenses at Alin, ignoring Simon entirely. A fan of four feathers marked a brown-and-white banner above Grandmaster Avernus, a severe-looking woman with straight silver hair who had a habit of looking down her nose at everyone else. The dark, thin man sitting beneath a green banner commanded much of Simon’s attention. He had barely said a word, but he had a manner about him that looked like one of the Dragon Army: dangerous grace barely restrained. From the symbol on the banner above him—a snake eating its own tail around a thunderstorm—Simon guessed that he was Grandmaster Endross.

There were others that Simon had never met and could not guess, like the person wrapped all in silver and gray ribbons. He couldn’t see an inch of skin. Even that Grandmaster’s voice was altered so that they spoke in a toneless buzz, and Simon couldn’t figure out if it was a man or a woman. Their banner was no help: two crescent moons bracketing a full moon with a starburst in the center.

Simon couldn’t help but notice that there were only nine Territories represented, when there should have been ten. Not counting Valinhall, which Enosh barely seemed to acknowledge as a real Territory, there should have been nine original Territories and Elysia.

He supposed they couldn’t represent Ragnarus, the ninth Territory, because its only Travelers were Damascan. But he still found its absence odd.

Alin sat at the head of the table, underneath a gold banner marked with the same symbol on the breastplate of his armor: a winged sword, point-down, set against a rising sun.

By contrast, they put Simon in a rickety wooden chair at the corner of the room. It creaked when he moved.

The Grandmasters and Alin had spent the first few minutes of the meeting reviewing Alin’s speech and the general tone of the populace. It seemed they were all very pleased with themselves, and Simon was becoming bored enough that he wondered if he could open a Gate right there and leave. He wasn’t sure even that would get their attention.

Only the hummingbird’s warning kept his attention focused. He might be in danger, so he needed all his wits about him. Besides, if they wanted him to leave, that was more than enough reason to stay where he was.

After a round of verbal back-patting in which all the Grandmasters agreed that the day had been a rousing success, Grandmaster Naraka slapped her palm down on the table in front of her. At the sound, everyone else turned to her. No one seemed particularly surprised that she had cut them off rather than waiting for her turn to speak.

“That’s enough of that,” Naraka croaked. “Eliadel, we have news of great import. We have waited to share this with you only so that we could verify it ourselves.”

Grandmaster Helgard, a bearded bear of a man, grinned and sat forward in his chair. He looked almost childishly eager. The Grandmaster of some Territory Simon didn’t know—its symbol was a mountain and two crossed hammers—shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She was old enough to be Simon’s mother, with touches of gray here and there in her hair, but she looked like a villager: dark skin, dark hair, and simple brown clothes. The one decoration she wore was a looped double necklace of some blue-green stone.

That Grandmaster shook her head. “We are not ready—” she began, but Grandmaster Naraka cut her off.

“Not yet, Grandmaster Ornheim,” Naraka said harshly. “There are those in this room who are not qualified to hear the following discussion.”

So the Territory with all the rocks is called Ornheim, Simon thought. Got it. Only a few weeks ago, he had suffered quite a collection of injuries at the hands of living stone summoned by Ornheim Travelers.

Then he realized that all the Grandmasters had turned to look at him.

His senses sharpened, and he reached his mind out to Valinhall. At even the slightest hint that they were trying to summon something, he would call steel and essence and be out the door before they could blink.

Alin spoke up, speaking with the same resonant command he had used when delivering his speech. “Grandmaster Naraka, Simon is here at my invitation. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to him.”

Mentally, Simon took back every petty and insulting thing he had ever said about Alin.

Grandmaster Endross turned his dark eyes on Simon. “Your pardon, Eliadel, but I have crossed Travelers of Valinhall in the past. They call themselves the Dragon Army, and as far as I can tell, their only purpose is to murder other Travelers.”

Several other Grandmasters muttered agreement.

One of Endross’ hands drifted down to his sword-belt, which had been draped over the back of his chair. From the belt hung a pair of identical scabbarded swords.

“With the council’s permission,” Grandmaster Endross continued, “I would welcome the opportunity to eject the Valinhall Traveler personally.”

Simon decided that, if it came to a fight, he would take out Grandmaster Endross first.

“Seconded,” came a lilting voice from a pudgy woman underneath a flower banner.

“Three voices agree,” said Grandmaster Avernus. “Let it be done.”

Endross began to stand, and Simon called steel. The icy power rushed through his blood. If the Grandmaster was anything like Cormac, he would need to summon his thunderstorm first. At that point, Simon would call essence and Azura.

He had nothing to defend against a bolt of lightning. His only hope would be to take the Grandmaster out before he could gather himself for a real attack.

With a surprisingly loud crack, Alin slammed his gauntleted fist down on the table.

“Grandmaster Endross,” Alin said. “I believe I made myself clear. Simon stays where he is. Now, either sit down or remove yourself from this council.” His voice carried a weight that Simon would never have believed came from a seventeen-year-old.

Endross moved his eyes from Simon to Alin. He hesitated a moment, looking between Alin and Grandmaster Naraka, before he bowed and sat back down. “I live to serve, Eliadel,” he said.

Alin turned toward Naraka as though nothing had happened, though Simon noticed a miniscule smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Grandmaster Naraka, you have the floor,” Alin said.

He sat, and Naraka rose to her feet. Only her head and shoulders rose over the surface of the table.

Grandmaster Naraka turned her head to address the council. “Eliadel, and those few of us who have not received word, there has been a major development in the last twenty-four hours. At long last, one of the Incarnations has escaped its prison.”

Two or three Grandmasters gasped, but most nodded along.

Simon had only heard Incarnations mentioned once or twice, in an attitude of dread. He had an image of an Incarnation as a terrible monster that rose from the depths of a Territory to spread madness and chaos. So he was not prepared to see Grandmaster Naraka break into a wide smile. It did horrible things to her wrinkled face.

“Brothers and sisters,” she said, “the prophecy of the Rising Sun has already borne fruit. The reign of the Crimson Vault has almost come to an end.”

Each man or woman—or indistinct, androgynous figure, in the case of the silver-wrapped Grandmaster—reacted differently to the announcement. Most of them smiled. Grandmaster Helgard laughed and pounded the table. Grandmaster Ornheim stroked her stone necklace, looking thoughtful. One Grandmaster, a young, athletic man underneath a banner of three silver keys, simply nodded. He had the expression of a man with a job to do, and he would do his best whether he enjoyed it or not.

After a few moments they calmed down, and Grandmaster Naraka spoke again. Her customary twisted, sour expression was back in place. “This gives us an opportunity. As you are all aware, since Overlord Malachi’s death this past month, Damasca has begun to prepare for war.”

Simon struggled to control his expression. It looked like he was the only one in the room not aware of the impending conflict.

Grandmaster Naraka continued. “Our information suggests that King Zakareth plans to first scour our Territory outposts, and then—when all our escape routes are blocked—he will come against our city in full force. This means that the attack on the former Grandmaster Helgard, saints preserve him, was not an isolated incident.”

All the other Grandmasters, except Helgard, murmured, “Saints preserve,” in unison. The current Grandmaster Helgard scowled through his beard, and Simon could have sworn he heard the man growl.

No one had told Simon about a Damascan attack. If the previous Grandmaster Helgard had been killed, then staying in Enosh might be even more dangerous than going home. Maybe he and Leah should round up the other villagers and head back to Myria, leaving the Travelers to tear each other apart on their own.

An image flashed in Simon’s mind: his mother’s corpse, twisted and broken on the floor of a cave. That was what happened when the villagers tried to stay out of the way. Myria sat between Enosh and the closest Damascan cities. The villagers would not be spared. They would be crushed underfoot.

“This presents us with an opportunity,” Naraka continued. “Grandmaster Lirial?”

The silver-wrapped figure stood, bowing slightly to Grandmaster Naraka. “Thank you, Grandmaster,” it said. His or her voice vibrated, as it had to travel through a long tunnel, and emerged in a monotonous buzz. “As you know, the Overlords are charged with keeping the Incarnations sealed in their prisons. Normally, an assault on the Overlords is ill-advised, because any approach by land or by Traveling is too well protected.”

At the head of the table, Alin smirked.

“That is no longer the case,” Grandmaster Lirial continued. “Many Damascan Travelers, and in some cases even the Overlords themselves, have been called away to prepare for the war effort. We have identified three, possibly four Trees that are poorly defended. But they will not remain that way for long. In my opinion, now is the perfect time for an assault.”

Grandmasters Helgard and Endross grinned at each other like boys. Beneath a gray banner marked with a purple flower, the pudgy Grandmaster sighed and shook her head, resting her chin in her hand. The Grandmaster beneath the three silver keys sat up straight and squared his shoulders like a soldier at attention.

Grandmaster Avernus combed a finger through her long silver hair, looking down at each of her peers in turn before she spoke. “We should see to this matter personally, I think,” she said.

Grandmaster Lirial bowed, silver ribbons rustling, and sat back down. Nearby, Naraka laced her hands together thoughtfully.

“Small teams, I think,” she said. “Each led by at least one Grandmaster. Three of us must strike at Damasca in an attempt to destroy the Trees, and a fourth team should go to aid the escaped Incarnation.”

“Aid it?” Alin asked. “Aid it in what? What does it want to do?”

Simon had wondered the same thing, but he knew better than to ask. They would only ignore anything he said.

“Destroy Damasca,” Grandmaster Helgard declared.

“Why?”

Grandmaster Naraka straightened her red spectacles and took on a lecturing tone. “The Incarnations are forces of nature. They are noble creatures, with incalculable power, but being in this world too long drives them mad. They are like rabid beasts…and Damasca has kept these beasts whipped, beaten, and chained underground for three centuries. It is only natural that the first thing an Incarnation would do, when freed, is to bend all its powers toward Damasca’s destruction.”

All the other Grandmasters nodded or made sounds of agreement. Alin, on the other hand, looked straight at Simon.

His gaze made Simon inexplicably nervous. What is he looking at me for? Simon wondered. Did he want advice? Did he want Simon to say something? Maybe he just wanted to know what Simon thought.

Alin raised his eyebrows in a question, and Simon shrugged. Seeming to accept that as an answer, Alin turned back to the Grandmaster and listened to their continued conversation. They were preparing to vote on whether or not to attack Damasca, but Simon had no doubts about which way the debate would fall.

Personally, Simon wasn’t sure what he thought about this whole business with the Incarnations. He had little love for Damasca, that was true. Though the village where he grew up was technically part of the Damascan Kingdom, they almost never saw any full citizen or full-blooded Damascan. The villages all considered themselves separate from the Kingdom, and for the most part, the people of Damasca respected that. Simon’s only real interaction with Damascans had come at one end or another of a sword.

Then again, he was beginning to suspect that the Grandmasters of Enosh weren’t much better.

It’s none of my business, Simon decided. I can stay in the House. I’ll leave these problems to people who want to take care of them. Like Alin.

Maybe I can stay out of the way and let this whole mess pass me by.

It was probably his imagination, but he could have sworn he heard dolls laughing all the way from Valinhall.

CHAPTER 7:

AVOIDING JUSTICE

Simon sat through the rest of the meeting, although it mostly consisted of the various Grandmasters discussing what they should decide at their next meeting, which would be the real war council. If being a Grandmaster took this much debate and this many meetings, Simon was surprised anyone wanted the job. It would drive him insane.

When Grandmaster Naraka declared the meeting adjourned, Simon was the first out of the room. No need to stick around to give the Grandmasters a chance to threaten him.

To his surprise, though, a golden gauntlet wrapped around his arm and pulled him up short when he was only a few steps into the hallway.

“Simon!” Alin said. “Speak with me a minute. Let me walk you to your room.” His voice was friendly, but the fact that he was still speaking like a lord was enough to put Simon’s back up. He almost refused on sheer reaction, but Alin had stuck up for him at least twice today.

When Alin removed his hand from Simon’s arm, Simon continued walking in step with him. “You didn’t need me there today,” Simon said.

“Why not?” Alin asked.

Simon threw a surprised look at Alin, but Alin was focused on the end of the hallway. “Why not? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t have anything to say. I sat there and let them insult me.”

Alin shrugged one shoulder. “They have problems with Valinhall Travelers. Don’t worry, you’ll bring them around.”

Not for the first time, Simon wondered where Alin got his blind confidence.

“I’m not sure I want to bring them around,” Simon said. “I’m not sure I want anything from them at all. This isn’t my fight.”

A pair of passing servants, carrying a huge laundry basket between them, saw Alin and bowed deeply. Alin didn’t seem to notice.

Alin looked as though Simon had announced his plan to burn down a nursery. “You assaulted Malachi’s home with me. You’ve killed more Damascan Travelers than anyone. Simon, a Traveler from Damasca killed your mother. If this is anyone’s fight, it’s yours.”

Grief and anger and guilt boiled inside of Simon, rising up in an unpleasant mess. He hated remembering the Travelers and soldiers he’d killed, hated the feeling of resistance as Azura passed through their bodies. Each time, Simon had felt backed into the fight, as though he had been left with no other options, but the fact remained that he had killed people. He had killed a lot of people.

On the other hand, he didn’t need Alin reminding him who killed his mother. Alin had been there, facing the Traveler that killed Simon’s mother. For all his power, he hadn’t done anything to save her.

Then again, Alin hadn’t been the one determined to keep her safe.

“You don’t need to remind me,” Simon said. For a moment, he heard in his own voice an echo of Kai at his most threatening: soft and dangerous. “I remember every second of what happened in that cave, and I regret every drop of blood I’ve spilled since then. But…”

His certainty faded. He wasn’t even sure how to phrase what he had sensed over this past month.

“Alin, you didn’t hear what Malachi said at the end. I don’t think he meant for any of this to happen. I think there’s more going on here than we know. I want to stay out of it.”

There, he’d said it. He had no reason to fight in this conflict; his mother was avenged, the other villagers saved. He still wanted to explore Valinhall, to become stronger, but that was a separate issue.

Or is it separate? Simon wondered. Why do I need to keep Traveling, if there’s no one out there to fight?

They walked in silence for another few minutes, eventually reaching the door to Simon’s room. A woman with feathers in her hair and wearing a buckskin dress—a Traveler of Avernus—raised a hand and called out to Alin in greeting. He politely excused himself. As she walked away, the owl on her shoulder swiveled its head around to stare straight at Simon.

“Those birds creep me out,” Simon said, mostly because he hadn’t said anything in minutes.

“Simon, there is more going on here than we know,” Alin said seriously. “That’s why I need you here, with me. I think, whatever happens, that you and I are going to be important.”

In his gleaming gold armor, with his golden hair shining in the torchlight, Alin looked every inch a king. And, for once, he was talking to Simon as an equal.

“I’ll think about it,” Simon said.

Alin nodded. “We’re planning the attack tomorrow. The Grandmasters will try and stop me from inviting you, but I’m afraid they might try something more. Do you have the filiar I lent you?”

Simon gave Alin a blank stare.

“The…little acorn thing.”

“Oh, right.” Simon rummaged around in one pocket and pulled out the acorn in its tiny gold cage.

Alin pointed to the top, at a knob on top of the birdcage. “If something happens to you, especially if the Grandmasters do something, turn that top part to the right. Wherever I am, it will let me know that you need help, and I’ll come as soon as I can.”

If Simon found himself in danger so severe that he couldn’t fight his way free, he wasn’t likely to have enough time to pull out the cage, call Alin, and wait until Alin got there. But he appreciated the thought. “Thank you, Alin.”

He flashed Simon a smile. “Don’t mention it. You saved my life once, and I look forward to repaying the favor.”

Then he hurried off down the hallway, catching up with the Avernus Traveler who had slowed her pace to wait for him.

As Simon entered his room, he shook his head. Alin was getting too used to life here in Enosh, where every random passerby treated him like royalty. The next time he tried to leave, his head wouldn’t fit through the gate.

Simon crossed the floor, noting with irritation how long it took him. Who needed this much space in a bedroom, anyway? Not him. He summoned Azura—he had plenty of room for the sword’s seven-foot length—and began the process of cutting open a Valinhall Gate.

He’d had enough of Enosh for the moment. Maybe he could spend the next few days relaxing inside the House, where everything was only trying to kill him.

***

When most of the other Grandmasters had finally wandered out of the council room, Grandmaster Naraka ordered the doors shut. The two servants bowed and slipped out of the room, pulling the doors shut behind them. That left Naraka alone with the room’s only other occupant: Grandmaster Endross.

He was young, dark, and strong, consumed by the typical Endross obsession with combat strength. For a few moments during the meeting, Naraka had wondered whether she would have to summon restraints to keep him off the Valinhall boy.

Not that she would have minded seeing Grandmaster Endross send Simon back to the Latari Forest in a thousand smoking chunks, but there should be no fighting in the Grandmasters’ council chambers. The law forbade it.

“What did you want with me, Endross?” Naraka asked.

Grandmaster Endross stared at her for a moment, his left hand resting on one of his swords. Naraka adjusted her red spectacles to cover the motion of her right hand, which had been marked in her Territory decades ago. If Endross acted too aggressive, she could put him in his place with one more wave of her hand.

She did not expect an attack from Grandmaster Endross—she had defeated his predecessor years ago, and he knew it—but it was best to be cautious. Practically every Endross she’d ever met was dangerously unpredictable.

Finally, Endross took his hand from his sword and gave her the shadow of a smile. “Nothing threatening, Grandmaster Naraka. I only wished to discuss Simon, son of Kalman. With the Valinhall Incarnation loose, he can’t be trusted.”

“Eliadel trusts him,” Naraka pointed out. “More importantly, his mother was killed by a Damascan Traveler. From what I’ve heard, he’s full of rage. It seems he has killed more Damascan Travelers than any one of us.”

She had intended that as a barb, and Endross did not disappoint her.

“Not any of us,” Endross said forcefully, running his hand along the hilt of his sword. “Besides, he must have been trained by the Dragon Army. Perhaps even by Indirial himself.”

One of Endross’ fists clenched, and Naraka suppressed a smile. He had always wanted to challenge Indirial, even though Naraka was certain the Overlord would carve Grandmaster Endross like a ham.

“I remember a time when the Dragon Army was our strongest ally,” Naraka said.

“But that was a long time ago,” Endross responded.

“So it was.” Before they had killed her granddaughter.

“And as for Simon…” Endross shook his head. “I’m not certain he’s as set against Damasca as he pretends to be. He spoke with Malachi before Alin arrived, and supposedly fought with him. But if that’s true, why were they both still alive when Eliadel arrived?”

“Not everyone duels to the death, Endross,” Naraka said. Privately, though, she had considered the same thoughts.

Grandmaster Endross took an angry step forward, looming over Naraka in what he no doubt imagined was a threatening manner. “You take this too lightly, Naraka,” he said.

Naraka sighed and waved him away. “Settle down, child. I happen to agree with you.”

Endross’ face barely changed, but he blinked expressively. “You do?”

“Simon is not bound to us,” she said. Not as tightly as Alin was, at any rate. “He is not committed to our cause, and he has dangerously high influence over our Eliadel. We need him either securely on our side, or safely dead.”

She wasn’t sure which of those options she preferred. Naraka would relish the thought of the Dragon Army getting what it deserved, but she wasn’t convinced Simon himself had earned a death sentence. Well, he would have to prove it.

Endross’ dark face almost lit up. “In that case, I would like to be the one to duel him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Naraka said.

“Please, I would be happy to test myself—”

“I said that won’t be necessary, boy,” Naraka snapped. She glared at him through her red-tinted glasses. When he finally nodded, she snorted and looked away.

“Besides,” she said, “it’s already taken care of.”

***

Simon drew Azura down the air, the Gate to Valinhall sliding into existence behind it. Whispers slid out from the Gate, tickling his mind with recognition.

Apparently, the dolls had something to complain about.

“I’m coming in now,” Simon called. “Just wait, I’ll be there in a minute.”

If anything, the whispering took on an angry tone. Simon kept cutting the Gate, but as the Gate grew larger and more defined, the whispers became clearer. He felt that he could almost understand what they had to say. He could even recognize Otoku’s voice, shouting at him among the crowd.

They’re fighting again, Simon thought. It had happened before. Among the dozens of dolls, it was probably inevitable that they would disagree every once in a while. This time sounded worse than usual.

Finally, Azura’s tip reached the floor, and the Valinhall Gate bloomed into a wide portrait of the House’s entry hall. Simon had barely a second to take in the red-cushioned furniture, the lights, the mirrors, and the sword racks on the walls, before the urgent whispers crashed into his mind.

…kill you!

Run!

Behind you!

…outside the window, you half-wit.

Hurry and dodge!

Hide!

Come inside, Simon, hurry!

That’s what you get for leaving us behind.

Hello, Simon, how are you?

Flee!

It seemed that all his dolls were speaking at once, each giving him advice that overwhelmed and conflicted with the advice of the others. He stood for a moment, stunned, before the obvious message hit him: he was under attack.

He spun, putting his back to the Valinhall Gate, and surveyed the room. Night had fallen during the meeting with the Grandmasters, and now the room was lit by nothing more than a pair of ordinary lamps. They burned low, keeping most of the room in shadows, but he had just enough light to see.

The bed, tucked into a nook in the corner, seemed undisturbed. The furniture was all in its proper place, and the curtains around the window fluttered in a gentle breeze. He could see most of the room, and he saw nothing suspicious.

Otoku’s voice floated to him through the Gate. If you’re done having a look around, she said, would you come inside? Of course, if you prefer being disemboweled….

A few of her sisters chuckled appreciatively.

Where are they? Simon sent. He held Azura in both hands, angling it across his body. The point almost scraped the ceiling.

You should listen to us, Caela said. Come inside.

Where? Simon insisted.

Several dolls sighed.

Angeline spoke, as straightforward and businesslike as always. They’re climbing up the walls, Simon. They will be inside the window in seconds.

How many? Simon asked.

Three.

Which is two more than it would take to kill you, Otoku pointed out.

Simon’s hands tightened on his sword. If the dolls were so worried, he should be too. They knew what he could handle, and they only wanted him to be safe. The smart thing to do would be to step through the Gate.

On the other hand, he was ready for something to happen. He was sick of failing to conquer the garden room, sick of the Grandmasters, sick of problems he couldn’t solve. A fight would make things simple.

Besides, the Gate was still open. He had an easy way out.

Once, I had a dream that we were bound to someone who actually took our advice, Lilia said. Alas, it was only a dream.

Barely a second later, a figure in fluttering dark red clothes leaped in through Simon’s open window. In an instant, Simon took in its alien appearance: it looked like a blend of lizard and man, with pebbled rustred skin and a long lizard’s tail that stretched out behind it. When it saw Simon, it hissed and flicked its tongue out like a snake, tasting the air. Its fingers were tipped by long claws, which gleamed in the dim lamplight.

The lizard-man wore ornate, multi-layered red clothes stitched with symbols that Simon didn’t recognize. It didn’t attack at once. Instead, it stepped aside and let a second figure sneak in through the window. This one wore clothes similar to the first, only they were burnt orange instead of red. The third figure wore black. His robes looked like Simon’s cloak, only with no hood and intricate silver script down the fringes.

Simon called steel and essence, letting their cold strength infuse his body. Part of him wanted to charge the creatures, but for safety he should stick with the Gate at his back, and let them come to him.

Why not attack? Angeline asked.

Strategy, Simon sent. Otoku and Caela snickered. Besides, he said, maybe they’re not hostile.

All of the dolls started laughing.

It’s possible.

The red-dressed lizard’s lips peeled back, revealing dozens of sharp triangular teeth in his flat mouth. “We have come for your blood, Traveler,” it said.

Yeah, he’s probably friendly, Otoku said.

“Who sent you?” Simon demanded. He edged backward a little, toward the Gate. The Nye essence slowed the world enough that Simon had to focus to understand the creature’s words, but he had grown better at that over the past weeks. Now he could have a normal conversation with the Nye essence in his lungs, though he still had to focus.

“We are the Gar’rosh,” the orange lizard-man said. “In Naraka, we execute murderers. Only a month past, you slaughtered three Travelers of our Territory.”

“One of those Travelers was known to us,” the Gar’rosh in black put in. That one smiled, showing bloodstained teeth. “We have come to deliver punishment.”

Assassins from Naraka had come to punish him for killing Travelers. Had they been summoned by Damascan Travelers, or crawled up from Naraka on their own? And why now? Were they afraid that he would join with Enosh?

Eyes up front, Simon! Caela sent.

The red Gar’rosh rushed forward, moving almost as fast as Simon filled with Nye essence. By the time Simon reacted, the creature’s face was a foot from Simon’s chest, its claws spread and needle-sharp.

The Gar’rosh moved as fast as Simon, but the Nye essence granted more gifts than mere speed. Simon’s reactions were more coordinated and graceful under the effects of the essence, and he nimbly dodged to one side, sweeping Azura down at the reptilian assassin. The blade gleamed in the dim light as it rushed down at the lizard-man’s neck, blurring into a sheet of shining silver light.

Upon missing Simon, the assassin in red had stumbled almost into the Valinhall Gate, but had managed to catch itself in time. Not that it mattered, since Simon was about to take the lizard’s head from its shoulders.

You should look behind you, Lilia suggested.

Burning lines scraped across Simon’s ribs and he screamed at the pain, twisting to see what had happened. The Gar’rosh in orange had snuck up behind him, reaching under Simon’s cloak and raking its claws along Simon’s side.

Simon had turned away so quickly that his strike missed the lizard in red entirely. Azura slammed into the floor and shattered the tiles.

Jump to the right, Angeline said.

With all the strength of steel, Simon leaped to his right, black cloak trailing along behind him. He landed all the way across the room, landing at the foot of his bed. He brought Azura up, preparing to attack, but the black-robed Gar’rosh was right in front of him, its yellow snake eyes inches from his.

It was close. Too close to swing Azura. Tendrils of panic crept up in Simon.

Punch it in the face! one of the dolls called.

So Simon punched the lizard-man in the face with his off-hand. The assassin fell back, and Simon finally had enough room to use Azura. He stepped forward in a simple thrust, but the other two Gar’rosh had already recovered and were scrambling toward him.

If he impaled the black Gar’rosh, the other two would shred him to pieces with their claws. So he changed tactics. He spun in place, turning his thrust into a sweeping strike that kept the red-and orange-dressed assassins at bay.

He ended his spin by slamming his foot into black robes. The assassin flew backward like a stone from a sling, flying into another window—one the lizards hadn’t opened. It crashed through the glass, trailing tinkling shards, and fell into the night.

One down, Simon sent.

Lucky you, Otoku responded. Now turn around.

Simon spun to see both Gar’rosh closing in on him together. That was when the fight turned sour.

The room was big enough for Simon to swing Azura, but not freely. If his swings went too wide, his blade would get caught in the walls or ceiling long enough to get him killed. He had to be conscious of the room’s shape while fighting, so he moved slower than usual.

More than that, the two lizard-men knew how to fight in unison. When he struck at the Gar’rosh in red, that assassin would grab the blade in its shining claws, trying to keep him locked down, while the killer in red brought his claws in close.

Simon took a cut to his left arm blocking that maneuver, and another attempted dodge cost him a slash across the cheek. None of the damage was bad; at least, nothing the healing pool of Valinhall couldn’t handle. But the lizards had managed to drag the fight on.

His steel would last for a while longer, but his Nye essence was running out. In seconds, Simon would be only as fast as an ordinary human. The assassins would tear him to ribbons.

What do I do? Simon called. Tell me what to do!

Several of the dolls sighed.

Get to the Gate, Lilia said. If you can.

Simon swept Azura at the orange lizard-man’s neck. He bent backwards—it bent almost in half, in a stomach-churning display of flexibility—but Simon managed to slip by the assassin and run toward the Gate.

Come on, Simon thought. A little more…

Behind you, Angeline said flatly.

Simon spun around and brought Azura up, but the red Gar’rosh swept the blade aside with its claws.

Then it kicked Azura out of Simon’s hand.

The pain was intense, as though it had shattered one of the bones in Simon’s wrist. Azura twisted and spun in the air, seemingly slowed because of the Nye essence in Simon’s system.

The Gar’rosh in red loomed over Simon just as the Nye essence ran out.

Simon hoped it would say something, maybe to mock him, anything to give him a little time to crawl backwards into the Gate, but it raised its claw before sweeping it down into Simon’s neck.

Without the Nye essence in him, Simon wouldn’t even be able to see the blow that killed him. Still, he squirmed backwards, trying to get into Valinhall. Maybe the Naraka creature wouldn’t follow him into a dangerous foreign Territory.

Behind you, Caela sent. She sounded very pleased about something.

Behind me? Simon thought. The Gate?

A chain-wrapped arm reached out from the Gate and caught the descending claw.

“They spoke to me,” Kai said. He sounded on the verge of tears. “My lovely little ones. It has been far too long.”

Simon all but collapsed backwards, looking up at Kai. Simon’s master looked down at him, his white hair hanging down and concealing his eyes.

Kai smiled. “They spoke to me again,” he told Simon.

“I’m happy for you, sir,” Simon said. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Denner had told him that Kai didn’t have the Nye essence, so Simon couldn’t see any way for his master to win against the two remaining Gar’rosh.

And yet, the sight of Kai reassured him. Kai would handle it.

The assassin in red was still scrabbling at Kai’s hand, trying to break his grip. He slashed at Kai’s wrist with his other claw, but for some reason he couldn’t penetrate Kai’s skin. That was probably one of the Valinhall powers that Simon didn’t have, yet.

“Where’s Azura?” Kai asked. Simon tried to get to his feet, but a stabbing pain in his calf told him that one of the lizard-men had cut him in the leg. He didn’t remember that.

Simon stayed on the floor, gesturing over to the side where Azura lay on the tiles.

Kai released the scaled wrist, letting the creature stumble backward. He walked over and snatched Azura up from the floor, running the palm of his hand up the back of the blade.

“Azura,” Kai sighed. “How I have missed you, my dear.”

The Gar’rosh in orange ran across the room toward Simon, both of its clawed hands extended. Simon lurched backwards, pushing himself through the Gate and onto the wooden floor of Valinhall.

Look out, Kai, one of the dolls said. Simon didn’t recognize her voice, but she sounded exasperated.

From the other side of the Gate, Simon watched as Azura’s gleaming blade reached toward the orange Gar’rosh. The assassin twisted to block the strike with its claws, but Kai swung with enough force to toss the lizard to one side.

The Gate had stayed the same size while Simon held Azura, but now that the Dragon’s Fang was in Kai’s hand, the portal began to shrink. It seemed that only a full Traveler could hold a Valinhall Gate open, and only with his assigned Dragon’s Fang. There were so many rules that Simon still didn’t know, but he was starting to figure a few out.

Kai strode into view, standing in the dead center of the room. He held Azura in one hand, angled carefully for attack.

“Pay close attention, little mouse,” Kai called to Simon, in his typical singsong voice.

Simon watched through the Gate as one Gar’rosh came at Kai in a blur of red, and the other came from the other side in a blur of orange.

In response, Kai proved exactly how much Simon still had to learn.

Kai met the red lizard’s attack with Azura’s edge, still managing to sweep one leg to the side and trip the orange-robed Gar’rosh. He spun Azura back at the red-robed lizard, driving him back, keeping him on the defensive, twisting back every once in a while to nick the orange one with Azura’s edge.

Simon could barely understand what he was seeing. Though both of the Gar’rosh were far faster than Kai, the white-haired swordsman seemed to know exactly where they were going to be and what they would try to do. When they attacked, he dodged, or else met them with Azura’s point. He seemed to attack one or the other assassin constantly, never allowing both lizard-men a chance to go on the offensive together. With only occasional input from the dolls, Kai remained untouched.

I have a long way to go, Simon thought.

Don’t let it bother you, Simon, Caela said. You have time. Besides, at least you’re not a creepy hermit.

“I heard that,” Kai sang out. Azura took a slice out of red, pebbled skin.

“You are a murderer yourself,” the red-robed Gar’rosh snarled. “And you stand in the way of justice!”

“An excellent argument,” Kai said. “Here’s my counterpoint.” He spun around and stabbed the orange Gar’rosh in the throat.

Strangely thick, dark blood gurgled as it flowed from the pierced neck. The red-robed Gar’rosh roared, its yellow snake eyes gleaming, and threw itself at Kai.

Calmly, Kai stepped to one side and swept Azura up, from the floor to the ceiling.

The assassin fell to the tiles in two pieces.

“Predators from Naraka,” Kai said thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen those in a while. Ah, the beautiful memories of childhood.”

Kai started to walk to the Valinhall Gate, which had shrunk until he would have to duck to walk through it.

Not yet, Lilia said dreamily.

Kai sighed and turned around. Through the Gate, Simon couldn’t see much of the room, but he could tell when the black-robed Gar’rosh—which had survived a four-story fall—slipped through the window and threw itself at Kai, snarling.

Kai clubbed it on the skull with Azura’s hilt, and it crumpled like a rag doll.

“Put up your toys when playtime is done,” Kai sang out.

What? Simon thought.

Don’t ask us, Otoku sent. We don’t know either.

Kai reversed Azura, holding it point-down, and thrust the blade down. The black-robed Gar’rosh twitched once, and was still.

“That was amazing, sir,” Simon said. “Thank you.”

Kai waved that away. “No time for that,” he said. “We have real work to do. What have I told you about the Incarnations?” He ducked and slipped through the Gate, letting it continue to shrink behind him.

Simon finally managed to stand on his one good leg. “Practically nothing.”

Kai cocked his head for a moment before he nodded. “Yes, that sounds like me. Have you learned anything on your own?”

In truth, he had tried, but no one seemed to be willing to talk about them. At least, not to him.

“I haven’t learned much,” Simon admitted. “The Grandmasters were talking about them—”

“I should hope they were,” Kai interrupted. “One of the Incarnations has escaped, and we need to put it down.”

“Which Territory is it from?” Simon asked.

Kai gave him a surprised look. “Why do you think we have to deal with it? It’s from Valinhall. The Valinhall Incarnation has escaped, and it’s on a rampage.”

Internally, Simon sighed. I should have known better, he thought. I’m not going to be able to stay neutral, am I?

Otoku laughed. The reward for work well done is more work. I hope you weren’t expecting a holiday.

CHAPTER 8:

ICE AND MOONLIGHT

Leah knelt on the dusty rock, peering down over the edge of her cliff. Nine moons hung in the sky overhead, some sliding by with unnatural speed, others oddly slow. One moon in particular glowed blue and silver-white, taking up a good quarter of the sky.

She had made mistakes before, but tonight Leah had read Lirial’s moons correctly. They had led her to this place.

Or, more accurately, they had led her to a place a hundred paces away and twenty down, at the foot of the cliff on which she crouched. To the spot where two Lirial Travelers from Enosh stood guard.

The two Lirial Travelers had their faces wrapped in silver ribbons, presumably to imitate their mysterious Grandmaster. Leah had never seen other Lirial Travelers dressed that way, though to be honest, she had barely seen other Travelers of Lirial at all before she came to Enosh. Unlike Grandmaster Lirial, these Travelers wore ordinary clothes of gray and black underneath their carefully wrapped faces.

Three glistening crystals floated in midair behind the shoulders of each Traveler. Roughly the size of a clenched fist, they looked like pyramids made of mirrored glass, and they traced lazy circles as they hovered behind the Travelers’ heads.

Leah had never seen the floating crystal pyramids before, but she had heard stories. She had heard them called star-nets, artifacts left by the long-departed Daniri. Raiding Daniri tombs was always a deadly risk, though one that almost every Lirial Traveler took. Even though the crypts were sure to be unoccupied, they contained a lethal variety of tricks and traps. Even the architecture itself tended to shift, making maps useless.

She repressed a shudder, remembering her single trip into a Daniri tomb. She and her mother had barely escaped with their lives, though they had chosen one of the smaller and less-defended tombs. They had emerged with a handful of random devices, including her scrying lens. The fact that Enosh Travelers had found two of the same artifact, and star-nets no less, gave Leah cause to worry. Either one of the Travelers below could likely take her apart.

They hadn’t yet noticed her trick. Seven stones, she hoped it stayed that way.

The two Lirial Travelers stood about ten feet apart, backs to one another, each facing a different direction. Every few minutes, they would walk a few paces to one side or another, to keep a different angle in view. They never crossed the invisible ten-foot circle between them.

Tonight, the spot they guarded led directly into the Enosh Grandmaster’s council-room. There was nothing to mark the place, and for good reason: the appropriate location for Lirial Gates shifted with the moons. In hours, perhaps minutes, this spot could lead to a random outhouse in Bel Calem instead. Or to the middle of the Badari Desert.

Grandmaster Lirial had calculated the correct spot for their meeting, and sent guards, hours ago.

Leah had gotten there first.

In the center of that circle, buried in the sandy gray dirt that covered practically every inch of Lirial, was a very special crystal. Leah had constructed it herself, out of the same stone that made her bracelet. From the time it was activated until it ran out of energy, the crystal would peer through a tiny Gate, observing and recording whatever happened in the real world. The material for the crystal was rare, it took days to create, and it could only be used once. But anything that allowed her to spy on Enosh without exposing herself to danger was worth almost any price.

She suspected that the Grandmasters’ meeting should be ending soon. She had waited here more than two hours, and time in Lirial moved the same as time in the real world. Usually.

Now all she had to do was wait for the guards to open a Gate and leave, and she could go back down and retrieve her recording crystal. Easy. She would be back in Enosh within the hour—hopefully she wouldn’t have to materialize in a broom closet, this time—and if anyone questioned how long she had been gone, she could claim she’d gotten lost.

Content with her plan, Leah almost didn’t notice a particular detail: the wind was blowing.

Weather of any kind was rare in Lirial. The sky was clear nine nights out of ten, and most rainstorms brief. When the sky was covered, and the moons hidden, Traveling accurately became a nightmare. There were no clouds tonight, as usual, just a slow and steady wind.

At first, she noticed the grit blown in the wind as something she had to keep out of her eyes while she watched the two guards below. The silver ribbons on the Enosh Travelers’ masks began to trail off to one side. Dust drifted over their boots.

Leah watched the process for several minutes before it occurred to her that the wind could spell disaster.

She had not buried her crystal deeply. Only a few inches of dust covered the rocks down there, and her crystal was the size of a small plum. If the wind kept up, the crystal would be exposed in minutes. The Grandmasters would know for sure they had an enemy in Lirial.

She could wait no longer. She couldn’t let the Enosh Travelers find the crystal, and she couldn’t fight them both, not armed as they were.

Lirial was not a combat-oriented Territory. Legend held that Lirial Travelers had once been scouts and watchful sentinels, protecting and spying for the Elysian Travelers of old. Certainly, the Lirial powers she knew focused on the gathering and preserving of information, not anything destructive.

Star-nets, supposedly, were something else. They were rare—expensive and difficult to make, even for the ancient Daniri race—and used only as a last resort., That meant that either of those Travelers would be more than a match for her in an open battle.

She could use her crown. With that, she could perhaps kill or capture both enemies before it came to a battle. That meant two star-nets for her collection, which would most likely put her in contention with Grandmaster Lirial and Overlord Belanine for the title of most powerful Lirial Traveler in the world.

No, it was too risky. She had to be close to use the crown, and she would have to phrase her command perfectly. Plus, as an artifact of Ragnarus, it was difficult to summon here, and it might prove to be unexpectedly weak. Weapons of one Territory often weakened or failed entirely when taken to a foreign Territory. In the worst-case scenario, one of the Travelers down below would sense her summoning the crown and attack before she had a chance to get close enough.

Leah leaned back over the cliff, and couldn’t stop a gasp. Shifting moonlight gleamed off a crystal in the dust, directly between both Enosh Travelers. If either one turned around, they couldn’t fail to notice.

She had to solve the problem now, and she had to rely on her Lirial powers. Which, unfortunately, meant that she had to deplete her Source even further.

Reluctantly, Leah reached out her mind to her sanctum and pulled.

Hundreds of miles away, hidden in a crack between cliffs, Leah’s sanctum sat tucked away. It was protected by a handful of false entrances and dozens of the most devious traps that Leah could devise. Within that narrow space, only the size of a single room, rested Leah’s collection of artifacts.

In accordance with the rules of Lirial, she could only summon items from her sanctum. She could also only call them when she was outside the Territory. Within the confines of Lirial, she had to walk into her sanctum and physically pick up anything she wished to use. Most Travelers had this restriction, in fact; it was a generally accepted rule in Traveler theory that physical transposition could only take place between two different realms.

Then again, every rule had its exceptions.

A four-pointed crystal star shimmered and appeared in Leah’s palm, like a mirage made solid. It shone with a steady light as though it were a star in truth, though not so bright.

Leah’s Source. This was the only thing she could summon within Lirial, as—in some way she didn’t understand—this crystal was linked to her very essence. With time and concentration, she could funnel her body’s energy into the crystal, building it up. The Source would store and convert the force, allowing her to summon and empower Lirial devices.

The energy also happened to work as a wonderful currency.

Leah closed her eyes and mentally seized power from her Source, casting it out like a farmer tossing seed to attract birds. When she peeked at the star-shaped crystal, it had dimmed noticeably. If it went entirely dark, she would barely be able to do anything worthwhile. Even opening a Gate would take twice as long.

For two or three minutes, nothing happened. Leah watched the Enosh Travelers down below, her skin tingling, her breath coming too quickly. Any second, they could notice. All it would take was for one of them to turn around.

Then she felt a vibration in her mind, like a fishing line quivering when the bait has been taken. She turned around, to see who—or what—had decided to come.

A bluish creature loped up from behind her, leaning on its knuckles to run like a great ape. It was entirely hairless, covered in skin of a faint blue. As it got closer, she could tell that it had tufts of fur sticking out at the wrists and ankles, and above the ears. Closer still, and she could see its six eyes: it had three sets, arranged on top of one another. One pair of eyes was blue, one white, and one seemed to be green.

Leah would have groaned, but she had a long habit of controlling her reactions. She had met this creature before.

“Heiress Leah,” he said, bowing before her. The movement was strangely graceful, despite the fact that he had to lean on his knuckles to do it. “It has been too long.”

“I don’t have time for this, Seliethin,” Leah said. She gestured to the edge of the cliff. “I need your assistance.”

Seliethin’s three sets of eyes blinked one at a time: first the top set, then the middle, then the bottom, in quick succession. He ambled up to the cliff and leaned over, taking a look.

“Aaaahhh,” he breathed. “The crystal is yours, I presume. And the Travelers unfriendly?”

“Can you retrieve the crystal?” Leah asked. The less he knew about her plans, the better.

Seliethin chuckled. “If a fair price is paid.”

Leah held up her Source in one hand, but she held her other palm up in warning. “I have conditions. You must only take—”

The six-eyed creature ignored her. He reached out one thick, three-fingered hand, grasping Leah’s Source. Leah jerked her hand back, trying to pull the crystal out of Seliethin’s grip, but he was far too strong.

All six of Seliethin’s eyes closed, and he inhaled deeply. The light in the four-pointed crystal dimmed, then dimmed again. In seconds, it seemed as if there was a white candle barely flickering in the crystal’s depths.

Seliethin released his grip, and Leah immediately banished the Source back to her sanctum.

“How dare you,” she said, feeling both incensed and violated. The Source was personal. Too personal to let him grab, certainly. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t trap you here until you rot?”

The side of Seliethin’s mouth quirked up, showing his amusement. “For one thing, because I have the majority of your power now. I doubt there’s anything you could do to me that I couldn’t undo.”

Briefly, Leah considered summoning her crown and teaching him how wrong he was.

“Ultimately, though,” Seliethin went on, “it’s because you need me. And now, dear Heiress, I am at your disposal.”

The blue ape bowed once again, one hand against the ground to keep him from falling over, the other crossed politely in front of his chest. Where had he learned courtly manners in this gray desert?

“Get the crystal, Seliethin,” Leah said. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Without another word, Seliethin turned and loped away.

In the distance, a crystal formation shattered like dropped glass. The Enosh Travelers both whipped around to face the noise, the crystals floating behind them spinning like wagon wheels.

Behind them, at the base of the cliff on which Leah rested, another crystal exploded. The Travelers spun in her direction.

Then the ground began to shake, sending sand bouncing into the air. A voice boomed out from nowhere, chanting in an ominous language that Leah couldn’t identify.

Bolts of white light, like miniature stars, shot out from the crystals behind the Enosh Travelers. The lights blasted forward in a string, but the Travelers had no target. The shots detonated against a cliff in the distance.

Leah couldn’t help but admire Seliethin’s work. She had no idea what kind of Lirial Traveling would make the ground shake like this.

But how was this supposed to get her crystal? The two Travelers had been distracted, but they were actually backing towards each other instead of running off, moving even closer to Leah’s hidden surveillance crystal. How did Seliethin intend to separate them?

Leah felt a finger tapping her on the shoulder and she spun around, calling power from her Source.

Seliethin stood behind her, his six eyes blinking randomly, holding a crystal out to her in his open palm.

“How…?” Leah began, but she couldn’t finish the sentence.

The bluish ape executed a smooth bow, the crystal still extended. “A gentleman must have his secrets.”

***

Back in her Enosh rooms, Leah placed the recording crystal in the center of her bed. She drew in one deep breath, and called power from her Source.

In her mind, she saw the Source’s light sinking to dangerous levels, but she couldn’t afford to be stingy now. She had to know what the Grandmasters had discussed, even if it turned out to be nothing more than a routine budget meeting.

Sparked by power from her source, the crystal flared to life. It worked something like a shard of her scrying crystal, though not quite as convenient. Within the confines of the plum-sized slice of crystal, an image bloomed. The surface of the crystal wasn’t big enough to see the whole room, and it could only watch from one angle: the place where the Lirial Gate would have opened. In this case, it turned out that the Lirial Gate would have opened slightly behind and below Grandmaster Asphodel’s chair.

Leah was treated to a grand view of the soft, round Grandmaster shifting position in her chair, scratching the back of her head, and sighing in frustration or boredom.

Her point-of-view shifted steadily, drifting from right to left at a snail’s pace. Every few seconds, the picture would fuzz out to silver dust, and then re-form. That was due to the cyclical interference of Lirial’s moons, she was sure.

But the problems with the image scarcely mattered. The crystal had also captured sound, so now she could hear the Grandmasters’ meeting in full.

Only a few minutes into the recording, she found herself stunned.

They’re going to attack, she thought. She had to act.

She pressed a hand against the wall and reached into herself, into her blood, stoking the power there until her hand started to burn.

Then she reached out to Ragnarus.

The Gate to the Crimson Vault tore itself open on the wall, looking out into a familiar set of silver doors. The bearded, one-eyed old man glared at her from the doors, the unnatural red torches to either side giving his face a bloody cast. Even the edge of the Ragnarus Gate glowed slightly red, where the image of the Vault ended and the mundane wall began.

Leah hesitated at the Gate. She could only Travel through Ragnarus in one direction: to her father’s palace in Cana, capital of Damasca. No matter where you entered the Territory, you could only exit into Cana. She would have to use Lirial to return here, which meant a risk. Sometimes, the journey would take seconds. If she was impossibly lucky, the Gate for Cana and for her room in the Grandmasters’ palace would be only two steps apart. She would enter Lirial, walk two steps, and open a Gate back.

However, the moons shifted. It was just as likely that the two points would be a hundred miles apart, in which case she would have to either wait until the moons moved into a more favorable position—which could take several nights—or take a horse from Cana’s stables and ride to Enosh normally. That would raise a few questions.

This is more important, Leah told herself firmly. She stepped forward into Ragnarus and, before she could reconsider, let the Gate close behind her. She turned, putting her back to the silver doors.

Odd sounds came from behind her, within the Vault: a sort of scratching, tapping sound, like a dozen spiders skittering across stone, and a howling like distant wind. She had to fight the urge to turn back around, since the Gate wouldn’t work if she tried to open it while facing the Vault proper.

But facing back the other way was worse. There was no cavern wall behind her, an empty stretch of darkness. Unexpected smells drifted on the lazy air: one puff of wind brought the smell of ice, another was tinged with rotting vegetables, and she thought she smelled something like the musk of a huge animal. Being here was always confusing, and never comfortable. Best to move on.

Tearing a Gate out usually took longer than the Gate in. Almost a full minute after she had started concentrating, the Gate slowly tore itself open, and she looked into her father’s palace.

More specifically, she looked out into the Blue Room. Queen Cynara, who had originally commissioned this palace, had thought that returning Ragnarus Travelers would need a break from all that uninterrupted red, so she made sure that this room—ready to receive returning royal Travelers—was completely blue.

Blue stone pillars stood at the corners of the room, and the tiles underfoot bore a pattern like the tropical ocean, shifting from shades of green to a deep, almost purple, blue. The ceiling above was painted like a summer sky, with even hints of clouds forming near the walls. Two attendants, both wearing blue instead of the normal red-and-gold palace uniform, stepped forward. One offered Leah a clean towel to wipe off her face and hands after her journey, and the other bore a pitcher of water. As soon as she stepped through the Gate, he poured her a glass.

A visitor wouldn’t be able to tell, but both servants were actually low-ranking Travelers, probably from Tartarus or Asphodel. They were stationed here for two reasons: their primary purpose was to force back any enemies that somehow managed to infiltrate the palace through Ragnarus. It had never happened, but paranoia had proved itself a healthy habit over Damasca’s three-and-a-half century reign.

Their secondary purpose was to be there if anything came through a Ragnarus Gate uninvited. Leah had never seen any living creature native to Ragnarus, but she had no doubt they existed. And if one came through, these guards were supposed to do their best to slow it down. Before they died.

She had never heard of a breach, and her father had once declared that there was nothing to worry about in that regard. But they had to replace these guards with disturbing regularity.

Leah took the towel as she stepped down from the pedestal where her Gate emerged. Wiping off her hands, she asked, “Where is my father?”

One of the servants bowed. “He is personally overseeing the war in Helgard, Highness.”

Leah turned to the servant and raised one eyebrow. “The war?”

“No doubt Your Highness has heard of our successful attack on the Helgard Grandmaster.”

Leah nodded. The Grandmasters had mentioned that fact in the meeting she had recorded, though Leah had already noted that the new, bear-like Grandmaster Helgard was obviously new to the position.

“The heretics are attempting revenge, Highness,” he said. “Your father has gone to reinforce his Travelers on the twenty-first floor of the Tower.”

“Very well,” Leah said. She turned to stride out of the blue room, heading for the Helgard Travelers’ barracks.

“Heiress Leah,” the chatty servant said again. Leah turned back around. Two years ago, she would have been piqued and offended that this servant had both stopped her and addressed her by name at the same time. After years in Myria, though, it almost seemed normal.

“Yes?”

“I can take you, Heiress,” the servant said. He moved his head to the right, revealing a tattoo on the side of his neck: a blue tower.

Travelers posted here as guards had almost always done something wrong—usually incompetence or a gross political blunder—and were sent for temporary duty here as a kind of punishment. They were always loyal, but rarely the best in the city, and they were never supposed to reveal their identities as Travelers, even to members of the royal family. Well, except in case of emergency.

And she supposed this qualified.

“Do it, Traveler,” she said. The man nodded and stepped to one side, his partner rushing out of the room. The Helgard Traveler began to chant under his breath, as though he were reciting the lyrics to a song too fast to be understood.

Finally, the air bloomed into a swirling vortex of snow: a Gate to Helgard. On the other side, she could see nothing but blowing snow.

The bitter cold filled the room in seconds, cutting through her thin brown peasant’s dress like an icy knife.

“I wanted you to take me to the twenty-first floor, Traveler,” Leah said. “Not outside the Tower.”

The Helgard Traveler grimaced at her words. He didn’t seem bothered by the cold, which she supposed was to be expected. “This is the floor you requested, Highness,” he said. “I hate to think why they’ve called up this much snow, but it’s likely not good. The twenty-first is supposed to be solidly under our control, but this smells like a battle to me.”

Leah stared into the blizzard. “Well, I can’t go in there dressed like this. Send to my rooms, for—”

The second servant in blue hurried back into the room, a coat and thick red cloak over one arm and a pair of high boots in the other.

“This was all your bedroom attendants had on hand, Heiress Leah,” the second servant said, executing a bow. “If you would like to wait, I am sure I could find more.”

“This will do quite nicely, thank you,” Leah said. Her mother had always discouraged her from thanking the help, except in cases of extraordinary service. “When I get back, remind me to promote you.”

The young man beamed and handed Leah her coat.

The Helgard Traveler cleared his throat discreetly. “Heiress, is the Gate to your satisfaction?”

Leah knelt to lace up one of her boots. The helpful servant stepped forward to assist her, but she waved him away. “I’m sorry, Traveler, but I make it a policy to promote only one person per day. And unfortunately for you, this is my favorite coat.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one servant shoot the other a triumphant grin.

Her boots and coat were lined with fur, but they were both bright red, marking her as a member of the royal family. She would show up on a field of snow like a bloodstain.

Well, she would have to risk it. Even with her Lirial Source as depleted as it was, she was hardly helpless.

She flipped up her hood and stepped into Helgard.

The cold air seemed to mock her cloak and jacket, shredding the layers and pressing against her skin like a blanket of ice. She slogged through the snow toward the only landmark she could make out: a low, distant wall of gray stone.

Her boots were made well enough to keep out water, which was useful, but her dress was not. Her coat and cloak covered most of her, but snow still found a way to her skin, melting and running down her body in ice-cold rivulets. She couldn’t stop shivering.

Worse, she started to hear things. Even over the ambient roar of the driving snowstorm, she began to hear the sounds of Travelers at war. The snarl of a great cat competed with a call like a distant trumpet. A long, rolling crack, like the sound of a tree snapping under its own weight, shattered the sound of the wind. On the heels of that sound, the ground under her feet shivered and shook. A layer of powdered snow lifted in a ring, blasted away from the gray wall in an invisible explosion.

Leah had some severe reservations about walking closer to a battle like that, but she had no choice. This information was too critical to withhold, even to wait for her father’s return. Though perhaps she should return to the palace, and come back here with an escort of expert Helgard Travelers…

No, her safety was secondary. She would have asked the Helgard Traveler on duty in the Blue Room to accompany her, except that Travelers in his position were strictly forbidden to accept any assignments that took them away from the palace.

But she could prepare.

In her mind, Leah reached out for Ragnarus. Usually, Lirial would be her preference for self-defense, but her Source had reached critically low levels. Until she could replenish its energy, she should save Lirial for an emergency.

A warm weight settled on her head as her royal crown arrived. It was a circlet of polished, red-tinted silver, with a single ruby set above her brow. It pulsed with an inner heat, refusing to give in to the cold of Helgard. The crown’s natural resistance to temperature came as a relief, because by all rights it should have felt like wearing a halo of ice on her head. She was cold enough as it was.

As she approached the gray wall, a shadow rose up in front of her. Almost ten feet tall, it stood like a man, but its silhouette was thicker than any human being. As it lumbered closer through the snow, she made out a thick pelt of curly fur, and short horns on the head.

Seven stones, Leah thought. A mirka on the hunt. She had never seen one outside of a book. Not that she had ever wanted to.

The mirka leaned forward and roared, close enough that Leah smelled its rotting breath. In one of the mirka’s paws, a huge jagged icicle began to form, freezing out of nothing. Leah staggered backwards on instinct, but she knew she would never get far enough in this snow. Mirka were known to be able to hurl their spears of ice hundreds of paces, taking down their prey. What little the mirka left of its meal would be devoured by hungry icefangs.

Leah focused on her crown, and the ruby began to glow. She would have to use the crown after all, though its aftereffect would make delivering the news to her father…problematic.

The mirka drew its arm back to throw, and Leah opened her mouth to speak, but a clump of glittering snow detached itself from a nearby snowbank and hurled itself at the mirka’s arm. The snow growled and snarled like two bobcats trapped in a sack.

An icefang. An icefang had attacked the mirka. Leah felt an instant of profound relief, and then confusion. Icefangs were scavengers, haunting the snow of Helgard, lying in wait. Why hadn’t it ambushed her, the relatively soft and unprotected prey?

The cluster of snow bunched up on the mirka’s bicep, tearing off bits of flesh with its hidden mouth. The mirka roared as a line of dark blue blood ran down its furry arm, and it slammed its giant icicle into the icefang like a club. The icefang burst into a cloud of snow.

Then a second and a third icefang burst from the mirka’s feet in a spray of snowflakes. They crawled all over the mirka’s exposed flesh, growling and biting viciously.

They must have been summoned. A friendly Traveler had to be directing these icefangs, or they would have never worked together to bring down strong prey with an easy meal nearby. Leah started to walk in a wide circle around the battling creature, keeping a wary eye on the nearby snow. Patches of innocent-looking snow that glittered as though scattered with broken glass could be icefangs lying in wait. And if one of the scavengers was on the move, a moving furrow on the snow would be all the warning she would get.

The mirka finally managed to throw off or destroy all the icefangs, and it swiveled its head, sniffing the air. Looking for her.

Leah sped up, trying to get closer to the presumed safety of the gray wall. But the mirka spotted her and let out a roar of pain and rage. Practically all its fur was matted down with its own navy blue blood.

It took one step toward her.

Then the air exploded.

It sounded like standing inside a thunderclap. Leah screamed, but she couldn’t hear herself. She felt like someone had shoved an ice pick in each of her ears.

The rest happened in an instant. Something slammed into the mirka’s side, fast as a bolt of lightning, and Leah got a quick and blurry glimpse of crimson and gold. It hit the mirka so hard and fast that the beast seemed to vanish, blasted away and out of Leah’s sight so fast that she could barely see it move.

The wind of the projectile’s passing caught her, tore at her cloak, threatened to throw her from her feet. The wind hit her face with surprising heat.

Leah stayed standing, but she was having trouble catching her breath. She recognized that terrifying weapon, that deadly force of nature.

It was her father’s spear.

A line of snow had been torn away in the wake of the spear’s passing, leaving a path like an arrow from the gray wall in front of her, through the spot where the mirka had stood, and stretching as far as Leah could see in the distance. Only specks of scorched fur and blue blood on the snow nearby gave any sign that the monster had ever been there.

The path was bare soil, totally clear of snow, and it led straight to her father.

Well, King Zakareth had been considerate enough to make her a trail. She might as well make use of it.

***

As she had suspected, the gray wall was a long, low stone fortification outside one of the Damascan outposts in Helgard.

The Travelers hurriedly opened one of the side gates, beckoning her inside. As they brought her inside, leading her to a fire and to her father, they caught her up on the situation.

The Damascans had managed to kill Grandmaster Helgard barely two days ago, in real time, but Helgard had experienced a time spike since. For the Travelers here, it had been over a week. The Helgard Travelers loyal to Enosh had used that time to assault this fort on the twenty-first floor as the nearest Damascan outpost of any real size.

“They were pulling out all the stops, too,” the Traveler said. He shuddered and stared off into the distance, though he didn’t stop walking. “I’d never seen a frost giant before.” From his expression, Leah didn’t think he would want to see another one, either.

As soon as the time spike had stabilized, late this past afternoon, they had sent for reinforcements from the capital. Without them, the Helgard Travelers here wouldn’t have lasted the night.

However, they had not expected the King himself.

Zakareth and his deadly spear had proved enough support that the Enosh Travelers had reconsidered. They pulled back to regroup before Leah reached the wall.

Leah considered the implications of that. Why was the King here in person? There were only a few possibilities. Either he didn’t have any other Travelers to send—unlikely—or he thought this situation important enough to warrant his personal attention. Why?

Either way, she felt somewhat responsible for the Helgard Travelers here. Her news was likely to make the King return to Cana, and they would be left here with no backup. Well, the stability of the realm came first. They could always come back and recapture their lost outposts later.

The Helgard Traveler led Leah into an ordinary sitting room. It was hardly fit for Damascan royalty. The walls were made out of rough, barely-cut stone, and the furniture was simple wood. Four chairs rested around a heavy, barely-polished table, and the hearth at the end of the room blazed with flame.

At least it was warm. Leah hurried over to the fireplace, pressing her body as close as she dared. It probably wasn't wise, but she barely gave any attention to the room's other occupants.

Talos sat at the table, his sheathed sword in front of him. Maybe half an inch of its red blade showed. Upon seeing Leah, he ran a hand through his golden curls, and flashed his sister a perfect grin. "Playing with the mirka, Leah?"

Leah ignored him, lowering her hood to feel the full warmth of the fire on her face. Her dress underneath was wet and cold, and somehow her body actually shivered more now that it was getting some relief. She supposed that was her way of transitioning from the cold. She would have pulled the heavy cloak from around her, leaving her in her dress and jacket, but she felt incapable of moving.

"You're careless," King Zakareth said to her. He sat at the head of the table, behind her, though she had caught a glimpse of him as she came in. He was clothed fully in his royal armor: plates of dark metal lined in gold and set occasionally with rubies. It was not ornamental, that armor. The gems were mined from Ornheim, and in some way she didn't understand they added strength to the armor as a whole. He had worn the armor into dozens of battles, and it bore the marks to prove it: dents and dings and scratches that represented attacks. Attacks that had never come close to wounding the man inside.

A number of clever replies rose to Leah's tongue, but only one thing escaped. "I'm sorry, father," she said. She had been trained well.

"Take an escort with you, next time," Zakareth went on. He was never one to abandon a battle just because he had already won. "You can't count on me being there to save you every time."

"Perhaps we should ask why she's here," Talos said. "Surely, it must be something urgent for her to risk running into Helgard alone."

Zakareth stared at her so hard that she could have sworn she saw a red light pulse against the fireplace. Red light shining from his crimson eye. She shuddered, and it wasn't because of the cold. She didn't speak; she wasn't sure that she could make her jaw move.

"I know why she's here," Zakareth said. "I see the moons of Lirial upon her. She found a way to spy on the war council of the Grandmasters."

Out of the corner of her eye, Leah saw Talos look up sharply. He seemed almost panicked. Well, he probably worried about what the Grandmasters were up to.

"That is true, father," Leah said between shivers. She reached into a pocket and withdrew her recording crystal, turning to place it on the table in front of them.

"I’ve only watched the first few minutes," Leah continued, "but what I heard was enough to alarm me. The Grandmasters plan to take this opportunity to attack us. They will assault some of the Overlords, trying to damage the Tree. And I suspect that they also intend to reinforce the Valinhall Incarnation."

Zakareth stared at the crystal. He did not ask her to activate the recording, though she knew he soon would. He appeared carved out of granite as he sat there, lost deep in thought.

Talos did not have his father's patience. "We should gather the Overlords. Travel to them now. We can abandon this outpost, and focus everything we have on destroying the Incarnation."

"Where is the Incarnation now?" Leah asked.

Talos looked to their father, who continued to stare a moment before answering. "The Incarnation of Valinhall stands in what was once the village of Harinfel. According to reports we have just received, he marched into the village at dawn, challenging anyone who stood in his way to duels. He spared the lives of those that acquitted themselves well, and killed the rest. Harinfel is now a graveyard."

Anger showed in Talos' eyes. "This is exactly the kind of thing we should be there to prevent. Where will he be heading next?"

"Harinfel, Harinfel..." Leah mused. "That's in Lysander's realm, isn't it? It's southeast of the Latari Forest."

Zakareth nodded in her direction. "The Valinhall Incarnation travels in a straight line from his grave at the center of the Latari Forest to his destination. He will walk through any obstacle until he reaches the royal palace in Cana and slays me."

Leah took a moment to digest that information. Talos' eyes widened, then narrowed, as though he had heard something that would change the entire game. He was probably thinking about how to allow the Valinhall Incarnation to assassinate his father, leaving the succession open. Leah's thoughts went in a different direction.

"How do you know that?" Leah said. "Maybe he wants to slaughter indiscriminately to satisfy some mad urge."

Zakareth met her gaze with eyes of blue and red. Leah tried her best not to look away. "I know the man he was," the King said. "I cannot think that Incarnation has changed him so much."

Talos leaned forward, one hand almost unconsciously brushing his sheathed sword. "How do you know so much about him?"

"Because I was the one who sealed him in that grave," Zakareth replied. "In a way, my actions led to this. I decided to place a tenth inmate in a prison built for nine."

Neither of them had anything to say to that.

Talos broke the awkward silence. "I will leave now. We should mobilize all the soldiers and Travelers we can gather, and stop this Incarnation directly. We can warn the Overlords to be on alert, to defend their Trees, but if we can take care of this Incarnation now, we will have disarmed the Grandmasters' primary weapon. Perhaps Indirial can even lure this Incarnation back into his home Territory."

That wasn't a bad plan, actually. Incarnations became trapped if they stayed too long in the Territories that created them. Her tutors had said that this was because the Incarnations were part of the Territory's power, and by returning they became absorbed in their world's fabric. She hardly understood the theory behind that, but she didn't need to. As long as Incarnations couldn't move miles in seconds through their Territories, she was satisfied.

Zakareth continued staring at Leah, his expression as unyielding as the face of a hammer. She knew what he wanted. He only got that look when he wanted her to prove herself. Leah gave a mental sigh—she wasn't fool enough to sigh out loud, to her father’s face—and spoke.

"We need to consider the opposite strategy," Leah said. "We may want to determine which Overlords the Grandmasters will attack, and prepare traps there. In the meantime, we send a token force to oppose the Incarnation, or else send no one."

Talos let his chair fall forward on its front legs, sending a thunk echoing through the sitting room.

"If we send no one, the Incarnation will slaughter at his leisure. The villagers will have no chance. They will fall by the dozens."

"It's an option we must keep in mind," Leah said. "The Grandmasters may or may not accompany the Incarnation, but they will attack the Trees. If we can ambush them there, then we can remove the Grandmasters, who represent a significant portion of the Enosh fighting force. Besides, even if we stop the Valinhall Incarnation and save dozens or hundreds of lives, losing the Hanging Tree will release the other Incarnations. Thousands more will die. Tens of thousands."

King Zakareth leaned back in his chair and gave her one brief nod of approval.

Her heart swelled with pride, though she tried to ignore it. She was a grown woman, and she didn’t like her father much. The man's opinion should mean nothing to her. But approval or encouragement from her father was as rare as sunshine in Helgard.

Talos' face twisted. He sneered at them, and it did terrible things to his expression. He didn't look like a hero now, just a broken and bitter man.

"You two. You're the same as Cynara and Adessa. You have no thought for those beneath you."

"Do not speak of things you do not understand," King Zakareth said. He did not sound angry, but Leah edged back, close enough to the fire now that the heat felt scalding even through three layers of clothing. Even if her cloak caught fire, it was better than standing between two angry Ragnarus Travelers.

"I understand enough," Talos said. He gripped his sheathed sword in one hand, pulling it to his side. "I understand that you are more concerned about your rule than about the people who trust you."

He did not put his other hand on the sword's hilt, which was likely the only reason that their father allowed him to remain conscious.

"If you were king, you could do as you wished," Zakareth said. "Fortunately, you are not, and you will do as I say.”

"You are not fit to rule," Talos spat. Leah shot a glance to the door and started trying to calculate how quickly she could rush out of the room.

Zakareth stared at his one remaining son, and Talos stared back. Neither said a word.

After a tense minute, Talos looked away. "It's pointless speculating," Talos muttered. "We don't have enough information."

Their father didn't acknowledge Talos' words, but he did stand and gather Leah's recording crystal from the table.

"I will return to the palace and have this examined,” he said. “My advisors and I will determine our course of action. You will both remain available until a decision is made. Talos, stay here and do what you can to keep the Grandmasters from taking this outpost. It's more important than you think. Leah, return to Enosh and gather what other information you can. But do not expose yourself unnecessarily. I will count on having you alive and capable in whatever defense we fashion."

"Yes, Your Highness," Leah said. She dipped a little curtsy, hurriedly stepping forward when she realized she had almost trailed her cloak in the flames.

King Zakareth turned and swept from the room, his boots clanking on the floor, leaving Leah alone with her brother.

Now that their father was gone, Talos turned his glare on her. "You would give in to him so easily?"

Leah shrugged. "Not giving in, but considering all options. Whichever course of action results in the least life, that's the one we will take."

"Even at the cost of entire villages?" Talos said. "Who are we, that we make such decisions? You lived in a village for your trial, just as I did. Imagine that it was your village with an Incarnation rampaging through. Imagine that you had to watch, powerless, as he tore apart faces you knew, people you loved. Seven stones, isn't your mother's family from a village? What if it was their lives at stake?"

Leah knew what he was trying to do, though she couldn't help but picture what he described. A long sword jutting from the chest of her half-sister, Rutha. Her aunt Nurita, cut down as she tried to organize a resistance. Chaim and his family, stuck in their home as it collapsed around them. Alin's sisters, butchered by an insanely powerful creature that knew no reason.

She shuddered. "It's a horrible thought," she agreed. "But sometimes the alternative is even worse."

Talos hurled his sheathed sword down to the table in anger, pacing restlessly from one side of the room to the other. "Is it? Is it worse? Why is that always the justification we use, that the alternative is worse? We sacrifice nine of our own citizens every year, citizens we were meant to protect. And now we're considering letting even more of our people die. What could be worse than that?"

"It's mathematics, Talos," Leah said quietly. "If it costs us nine lives to save ten, then as responsible rulers there's only one choice we can make."

Her brother met her eyes, and in his face she saw the expected rage, frustration, and condescension. He always thought that anyone of any intelligence should see things the same way he did. But she also saw something she did not expect: a deep, compelling pain.

"I got to know them, in my trial," Talos said. "They became close to me. One...one in particular. Cynara found out."

Leah winced. Ruthlessness ran in her family's blood, but her oldest sister had inherited a double share, along with a sadistic streak.

"The one I loved," Talos went on, "she was chosen as the first offering in the 354th sacrifice. I was away, on assignment for Father. I didn't learn about it until later."

"What did you do?" Leah asked. But she knew. Her sister Cynara was paranoid and delusional, forever trapped inside her palace rooms. Someone had done that to her.

Talos put a boot up on the seat of his chair. He looked regal again, once more like the heroic prince from the stories. "Her trial was in Asphodel. There are no crimes out in the Mist. And once the fear sets in, once she started to panic, the Mist began to feed on her. She will never forget what her cruelty cost her."

"I'm not sure it was her cruelty," Leah said.

Her brother pointed a finger in her direction. "You're right! It wasn't hers. It was ours. We all perpetuate this system while we're a part of it. We keep these Incarnations enslaved, and we pay lives to do it. Well, there are other ways. The whole system will burn to the ground, and we will build a new one on top of it. A better one."

Talos was staring past Leah now, into the hearth full of flickering flames.

Leah shivered, and not from the cold. Her brother may have started with pure motivations, but they were twisted. Wrong.

I could use him, Leah thought. She cursed herself. Why was that so often her first thought?

As she watched her brother stare silently into the flames, she couldn't help but wonder about him. He could not be allowed to take the throne, that was for sure. In that case, who else was left?

CHAPTER 9:

THE INCARNATION OF VALINHALL

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

31 Days After Midsummer

14 Days Until Summer’s End

Simon emerged from the healing pool with an imp still gnawing on his shoulder. Kai spun Azura in an arc, slicing the creature in half and sending its two pieces flying off to splash in the pool. The imp didn't bleed, and Simon had the distinct impression that it would eventually pull itself back together.

"Thank you for saving me, sir," Simon said, pulling his clothes back on. It took him a moment to notice that they were still stained with blood.

Simon held up his bloodstained shirt in front of Kai. "Where are the Nye?" Simon asked. "Did I not wait long enough?"

Kai was stroking the flat of Azura's blade like a lover, staring deep into her silvery blade. "It's not your fault, little mouse," Kai said. "The Nye have...other concerns, today."

"Does that happen often?"

"Never," Kai said. "This is something of an exception, and the reason why I was looking for you in the House. We have a problem."

"A problem?"

"You're full of useless questions, aren't you?" Kai said. He held Azura in his right hand—he seemed not to want to let it go—and gestured to Simon with his left. "Hurry up, if you would. We have places to go, people to save."

Simon pulled on his shirt, wincing at the feel of sticky blood against his scars, and ran after Kai. He led Simon back to the garden, where a familiar figure was engaged in conversation with Chaka. He wore road-stained clothes of brown and green, and looked as though he was about a week overdue for a shave and a haircut. He held a Dragon's Fang in his right hand, and had a huge red-and-gold book tucked under his left arm.

"Denner," Kai called. "We're ready."

Denner said something and bowed to Chaka, who bowed back. The leather man didn't spare Simon more than a glance. Denner jogged over to join Kai and Simon. Simon started to say something, but as soon as Denner was close enough, Kai grabbed Simon by one arm and began pulling him out of the room.

"Hold on," Simon said, pulling himself free. "What is going on?"

"This is somewhat urgent, little mouse," Kai said. "Please scamper in this direction, if you would." He seized Simon by the shoulder this time and kept guiding him out.

Denner sighed, but he kept following Kai. "How have you been, Simon?" he asked.

"Well enough," Simon replied, struggling in Kai's grip. Short of calling steel, he didn't think he could break it.

Hariman, the book under Denner's arm, chuckled. He spoke in a stuffy, cultured voice: "You have been well enough, I'm sure. Assassinating Overlords, destabilizing the realm. I hear you're quite the wanted man in Damasca, which is highly inconvenient, considering that's where—"

He cut off as Denner slapped him on the binding. "Sorry about that, Simon. Sometimes he runs away without me."

"It's no problem," Simon said, but he felt a little queasy.

He had barely considered how he would be treated in Damasca because of what he'd done. Come to think of it, though, he had killed dozens of soldiers. It had always seemed like he had a good reason at the time, but he was a murderer. A murderer. Would they lock him up in some jail he couldn't break his way out of? Maybe even exile him to some terrible Territory?

"Don't worry, little one," Kai sang, still dragging Simon behind him. "You'll kill more before all this is through. You've barely gotten started."

The thought made Simon so sick he thought he would lose his last meal all over the Valinhall hallway. He rarely thought in those terms: killing, murder. He thought of what he did as fighting, becoming stronger, defending the innocent. Somehow, those terms made him feel better.

"We're not sure if you've heard," Hariman piped up, "but the Valinhall Incarnation has escaped his prison."

“Kai told me,” Simon responded. “The Grandmasters didn’t seem to think it was worth mentioning, though. You’d think they would have told me if there’s a rampaging Incarnation from my Territory."

"They probably didn't want to tell you any more than they had to," Denner said. "Did they seem like they were trying to keep information from you, keep you in the dark?"

Before Simon could respond, Kai placed his palm on Simon's back and firmly pushed. "Less talking, more walking, little mouse."

"What's the hurry? Where are we going?" Simon asked.

"The village of Harinfel," Denner responded.

They reached the entry hall, and Denner raised his sword. He slid his sword down, slicing open a Valinhall Gate, and doing it more smoothly than Simon had ever been able to manage.

"Where is Kathrin?" Kai asked. "Is she waiting with Indirial?"

Denner sighed again, shaking his head. "She has a life outside us, now. She made it clear that if I wanted her to go anywhere near our old master, I was going to have to duel her for it."

"She has the life you all wish you did," Hariman said. "Her skills have made her quite rich, as I understand, and renowned in certain circles. I have always said that you could have made a better life for yourself, Denner, if you would only—"

Denner finished making the Gate and stepped through, cutting off his advisor. Kai made sure that Simon followed before bringing up the rear. He still held Azura, which Simon thought he could understand. Surely Kai missed holding his old sword, and if the dolls were still talking to him, that had to comfort him. He carried Angeline with him now, a blond doll in a black dress with a serious expression. Simon hadn't heard her say a word to him, but Kai still cradled her as if she would speak at any second.

Wait a minute, Simon thought. Wasn't Kai going for his own sword? Where is it?

It was taken, Angeline said. We hope he will earn it back soon.

Simon wished that didn't sound so ominous.

The Gate opened on a field of patchy and dying grass, surrounded by white tents. The tents were lit only by starlight and the occasional candle. Soldiers moved around in the business of war: sharpening weapons, polishing boots, hauling chests from one tent to another. A few soldiers were sleeping, but fewer than Simon had expected, considering that it was the middle of the night. Obviously Travelers were a common sight in this camp, because only a few soldiers looked up curiously at the sight of three men stepping out of nowhere.

Most of the men were either out of uniform or half-dressed, so it took Simon a handful of seconds to recognize their red-and-gold clothes as the uniform of the Damascan royal army. These soldiers were led by no single Overlord, instead serving the Kingdom as a whole. Simon dropped into a fighting crouch, and one hand went to the side as if to summon Azura.

"Put away your fangs, little mouse," Kai said. He smiled when he saw Simon's outstretched hand. "We are among friends." He seemed amused, though it was hard to tell with his hair veiling his eyes.

They simply stood in the center of the camp for a minute or two, letting the soldiers bustle and hurry by them.

"What are we waiting for?" Simon asked, finally. Neither of the others responded, but Denner nodded to a stranger who jogged down one of the aisles between tents to meet them.

He was tall and fit, perhaps in his forties, with barely a few specks of gray in his dark hair. His skin was dark, too—a villager—and when he flashed them a grin it was wide and friendly. He wasn't wearing a uniform, only black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing long, heavily muscled arms.

Simon stared at the man's arms for a moment, almost in shock. Black chain-marks snaked up this stranger's arms almost to the elbow.

He's a Valinhall Traveler! Simon thought. Dragon Army! What is he doing with the Damascans?

Leading, Angeline replied. The Dragon Army once opposed Damasca, true, but with Valin's fall...well, Indirial had different opinions than the rest.

The Traveler—Indirial—came to a stop facing the three of them. He beamed. "It's been too long, my friends. You look well."

Denner smiled back, but he didn't say anything. Kai shook his shaggy white head. "We're not here for this, Indirial."

Indirial rolled his eyes. "I know, I know, but give me a moment to pretend we're still friends." He turned his gaze to Simon, and his smile grew more gentle. "And you must be Simon! You've grown."

Simon froze. He pictured this stranger, Indirial, in a black Nye cloak like the one he wore. There were only a few things he remembered about the man who had saved his life: bare, chain-wrapped arms, a long and ragged sword, a black cloak, and a gleaming smile.

Indirial didn't wear the cloak, but his smile was the same.

Simon felt as he had when Benson, the steel skeleton, had kicked him in the chest and sent him flying. He had all but given up on finding the man who had saved his life when he was a child. Valinhall Travelers were more scarce than ever, now, and he had come close to convincing himself that his savior must have died over the years. But this was him. This had to be him.

He was on the verge of speaking when a woman ran up to Indirial. She wore brown buckskin clothing and feathers in her hair—an Avernus Traveler, like the ones Simon had met in Enosh. However, the few Travelers he had seen had worn feathers of brown, black, or gold—hers were broad and white, sticking up in a fan over her left ear.

"Overlord Indirial," she said, bowing. "We've found a group of survivors. They were headed for Tyrus.”

"Bring them here, to the others," Indirial responded. "Move as fast as possible. If you can find a few more of those eagles, fly them back. We don't know when that monster will return.”

"Sir," she said, saluting.

"Send them to me as soon as you can," Indirial said. "I want to know when we've caught them all."

The Avernus Traveler hurried off, past the row of tents. As soon as she had enough free space around her, she raised what seemed to be a feather to her mouth and blew. It made a sharp whistling sound that somehow managed to cut through the rumble and bustle of the soldiers' night. A distortion, like heat haze, briefly hid the stars over her head, and a giant white eagle appeared out of nowhere, as though it had simply come into being middive. It landed on the ground next to her, feathers pure white, and nestled the Traveler's head with its cruelly hooked beak.

The Traveler rubbed its head for a moment and then hopped onto the bird's back. She pulled a pair of goggles from a pouch at her side—Simon had seen those before, in Enosh—and strapped them to her head. She and the eagle both flew off.

Simon watched them go, his mind whirling. Overlord Indirial? The man who had saved his life was a Damascan Overlord?

"You're an Overlord?" Simon asked. He barely recognized his own voice.

Indirial's smile faded, but he nodded. He seemed to know exactly how Simon felt, and he had a look of patient acceptance on his face.

Hariman made a sound like he was clearing his throat. "Simon, son of Kalman," the book said, "I have the honor to introduce Indirial, son of Aleias, Overlord of the realm of Cana and bearer of the first Dragon's Fang. He's a personal friend of ours."

"I've missed you, Hariman," Indirial said. "We should catch up. I know a few things that might interest you!"

"Oooh!" the book responded. "I have simply nothing but time, Indirial. I am entirely at your disposal."

Denner sighed.

Indirial looked around for a moment. "Where's Kathrin?"

"She couldn't make it," Kai said softly.

Indirial squarely met his gaze. "Due to some trauma in her youth, I'm sure," he said. Kai didn't respond.

"Well, gentlemen, it's time to get to work." Indirial strode off down the rows of tents, not watching to make sure the others were following. Simon did so, mind reeling. Indirial was an Overlord. How many had he sent to the sacrifice? Why had he saved Simon's life? Surely it was his Travelers who had attacked Simon in the first place.

"This camp is outside what used to be the village of Harinfel," Indirial went on. "A few hours ago, Valin came knocking. We're taking you to interview some of the survivors now." He stepped over a soldier who had passed out and fallen outside of his tent.

"Valin?" Simon said. He was having trouble processing all the new information he had received in the past few hours. "I thought this was the Valinhall Incarnation we were after."

Indirial stopped. He turned around, but he didn't look at Simon. "Wow, Kai," he said. "You haven't told the boy anything, have you?"

Kai smiled, but it was a rigid thing, like the rictus of a corpse. "It was never supposed to be me that trained him in the first place."

The Overlord ignored that, focusing on Simon. "Valin was the first of us," he said. "He was also the first to fall. You can draw almost as much power from Valinhall as you can handle, but if these—" he tapped his forearm, which was almost covered by the black chain-marks, "—ever cover you completely, you stop controlling the power, and the power starts controlling you."

He straightened, and continued walking. "We call that process Incarnation."

"They keep saying the Valinhall Incarnation, though," Simon said. "Is there only one?"

Hariman made an excited sound. "Please, Indirial, allow me," the book said. "For the most part, Territories are only embodied in a single Incarnation at a time. If one Traveler loses control, he becomes an Incarnation. Well, then, you may wonder what happens when a second Traveler reaches that point. Excellent question! Often, they simply die on the spot."

Simon resolved to keep a closer eye on his chains in the future.

"Of course," Hariman went on, "there are a few memorable occasions where Travelers have lost control of their power and simply had their minds destroyed by the force. Still others have actually become creatures of their Territory themselves, and were consumed by their Incarnation. Either way, it is theoretically impossible for two Incarnations of the same Territory to exist simultaneously."

"Here we are," Indirial said. He swept aside the flap for a tent that, to Simon, looked identical to hundreds of others.

Inside a man crouched in the dirt. He wore the outfit that Simon was used to seeing from the village: tan shirt, brown pants held up by a stretch of rope. Very similar to the clothes that Simon wore now, in fact, and in much the same condition: this man's clothes were covered in almost as much blood as Simon's. This man clutched a sheathed sword to his chest and shuddered staring off into space. He held the sword as tightly as if it were his only child.

The two guards, in the red-and-gold of the King's army, stood and saluted when they saw Indirial.

"No change, sir," one of the guards said. "He's stayed put the whole time."

Indirial thanked the soldier and went down on one knee, looking the shaking man in the eye. "What happened?" Indirial asked softly.

At first, Simon didn't think the man would answer. He kept shivering and looking off in the distance. But after a few more seconds of that he turned and met Indirial's gaze.

"There was a swordsman," he whispered. "A swordsman with black eyes. He showed up at the edge of town, and just started walking, but his sword was so big...it was that big." The man noticed Azura, and his eyes widened. He pointed. "That big. The sword looked like that. Where did you get that sword?"

By the last word, he was practically panicking.

"Kai," Indirial said, his voice a razor, "would you please banish Azura?"

Kai said nothing, but he held Azura's hilt out to Simon. Simon took the sword in both hands, but without calling steel he could barely hold it upright. It only took a brief effort of will to cast the blade back to Valinhall.

Indirial noticed. He stared at the space where Azura had once been and looked at Kai, raising his eyebrows in question.

Kai shrugged.

The shivering man's eyes widened even further. "Travelers," he whispered. "You're Travelers." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Maker be praised," he said. "Now he'll get what he deserves. Travelers will settle for him. He'll finally get his justice."

"Please, tell me what happened," Indirial said again. He didn't sound angry; in fact, he sounded quite patient. Simon would have expected an Overlord to make demands, not to ask politely. He had only spoken with Malachi for a minute or two, but the man had spoken like a king until he saw his family in danger. Indirial seemed somehow more…human.

"He was just walking," the man went on. "But his sword was so big, and so sharp, it started cutting people. First, it sliced right through one of the ox-lines. Not like he meant to do it, like he didn't care where his sword went or what it cut. The ox ran off, and it was old Benai's. Benai got mad, so he...he yelled at the guy.

"The swordsman, he looked at Benai, and that was when we could see that he had black eyes. He told Benai that, if he wanted him to stop, he should get a weapon. He kept walking. Benai, well, he had seen the guy's eyes. He screamed and started to run, but the swordsman stabbed him in the back."

The man squeezed his eyes shut. "He called the man a coward. He said that, if any of us deserved to live, we should prove it. And he brought the sword down, like he was cutting the air itself. And a thousand shadows came out."

Simon stared at the man, horrified and sick. At least now he knew where the Nye had gone.

"They were everywhere, these shadows. They choked...they just...they had these chains..." the man started crying. Simon looked away uncomfortably. He could imagine what kind of horror this man had endured, but it still felt wrong to him to watch a grown man cry.

"We know," Indirial said gently. "Trust me, we know. How did you survive?"

"My brother had this sword, and I knew about it," the man said. "When we were kids, we would take turns practicing with it. Pretending, you know? So I got it. When one of the shadows came for me, I managed to stab it through the chest. It sort of...slithered away, like a snake."

The look in the man's eyes became pure horror. "Then he came."

"Were you in his way?" Denner asked. He sounded more curious than anything else, which surprised Simon until he thought about it. Surely, Denner must have heard even worse stories than this one.

The man shook his head. "It seemed like, when I killed this shadow, like he started looking for me. There was a wagon in his way when he walked toward me, and he just...he cut it in half and kept walking. When he came into my house, instead of using the door, he cut his way through the wall. I stood there. Frozen, you know? But I was on my feet, and I had my sword."

He clutched his sword tighter. "The man with black eyes, he said, 'Come out of your house. If you deserve to live, prove it.'"

***

The Overlord interviewed two more witnesses that night. Their stories were the same: anything the black-eyed swordsman ran into, he cut it apart. Anyone he ran into, he fought them. If they ran, he cut them down, like they weren't worth his time anymore. And the Nye, at his bidding, killed even more. The village of Harinfel had lost almost eight out of ten of its residents. Most of the survivors were children or the very old, those that—to hear Kai tell it—the Incarnation had considered unworthy of his attention. Only three men had faced it with swords in hand and survived.

They all agreed on one thing: the Incarnation was headed southeast.

"Toward Cana," Indirial said. He had taken the other Valinhall Travelers to his own tent, which was much larger than the others and set with tables and chairs. "If I know anything about Valin," the Overlord went on, "he'll make a beeline for the capital. And if I know anything about Valinhall, he'll cut through the King's guards and challenge Zakareth himself to a duel."

"Will that matter?" Denner asked. "We know how well-protected the King is. Even against an Incarnation, couldn't he hold his own?"

Kai spoke up softly, but he kept his gaze on the face of his doll. "Against the Incarnation of any other Territory, yes," Kai said. Denner sighed.

"That's not the whole story," Indirial said. "It gets worse." He turned to face Simon. "Doesn't it?"

Simon stared the Overlord in the face. How had he known? Did Damasca have their own spies in Enosh?

Indirial has his own sources of information, Angeline told him. Don't worry too much about it.

"The Grandmasters know the Incarnation is loose," Simon said reluctantly. "They're planning to attack."

Kai and Denner both turned to stare at Simon. Indirial nodded, as though one of his suspicions had been confirmed.

"You have risen far, it seems, little mouse," Kai said.

Simon shrugged, trying not to let his discomfort show. "Alin insisted I go to the meeting," he said.

"And I, for one, am glad he did," Indirial responded. "Because we can use this information against the Grandmasters. Before they destroy everything we've worked to protect."

"Just a minute," Denner said. "We've established how Simon knew what the Grandmasters were planning. But how did you know he knew?"

Indirial smiled. "Trade secret," he said. "Now, if I may have your attention.”

The Overlord spread a map out on his table, pointing. “We’re here, just to the southeast of Harinfel. Well, what used to be Harinfel. If the Incarnation had continued in a straight line toward Cana, he would have reached the village of Belcor, which is only a few miles south of our position. But, as far as we can tell, Belcor still stands.”

Indirial nodded to Simon. “What does that mean, Simon?”

Simon hurriedly scanned the map. Presumably, the white tent-shaped piece on the center of the board represented their location. Harinfel was a small labeled dot to the northwest, Belcor another small dot to the south. If the Incarnation was headed straight to Cana, there was no way around.

Simon cleared his throat. “Either he’s still here, or he went the long way, around the village. Or, I guess, he could have moved through the village without killing anybody.”

Indirial nodded. “Well put. We find it unlikely that he stayed here. Even as a human, Valin didn’t like standing still, and I’m sure he’s even more restless now. So it’s unlikely he stayed here, and even more unlikely that he moved through the village without killing anyone, but we know he wants to get to Cana.”

Kai waved a dismissive hand. “He could have passed through another Territory. If Enosh found him, we won’t see him again until he’s tearing down the gates of Cana.”

Indirial hesitated. “Let’s say I have reason to believe that’s not the case. Even if it is, though, Cana is well-defended. But I find it more likely that he will show up somewhere between here and Cana, where the land becomes so populated that he can’t sneak through. If we wait here, we’ll be close enough to Travel as a group and catch him as soon as he appears. We should be ready to move in a day or two.”

“Wait here,” Denner said. He sounded oddly hopeful. “Just…wait around?”

The Overlord chuckled. “Sorry, Denner. We need someone to deal with the Grandmasters.”

Denner sighed.

“Now,” Indirial continued, “We know what they want: they're trying to attack a Hanging Tree, wherever they can. Since each Overlord guards one of the Trees—"

"The Hanging Tree?" Simon interrupted. He had heard references to it before, but no one had ever explained what it meant.

"It's an artifact of Ragnarus," Denner explained. "It keeps the Incarnations in check. Each Tree seals one Incarnation, but they’re all connected: the more Trees destroyed, the closer all Incarnations get to escaping.”

Indirial returned his attention to the map. "We know that the Grandmasters will be attacking the Overlords they see as weakest. We've checked on each Overlord, and we feel confident that will mean Deborah, Eli, and Malachi. Malachi's wife isn't a Traveler, so they'll almost certainly hit that point. I was planning on giving you two," he indicated Kai and Denner, "a team, and have you each defend one of these points. But without Kathrin to cover the third..."

Indirial paused thoughtfully. "Simon," he began, but Kai cut him off.

"No," Kai said firmly.

"Do you have access to ghost armor?" Indirial asked Simon, ignoring Kai.

Simon glanced between Kai and the Overlord, trying to determine what had passed between them. But he was missing far too much information to make any sense out of the situation. "What? Ghost armor?"

Indirial nodded, digesting the information. "How about the frozen horn?"

Simon shook his head. Were these Valinhall powers?

"The black gauntlet?"

"Sorry, no."

The side of Indirial's mouth quirked up. "What do you have?"

Simon did not consider himself a dramatic person. Big, flashy gestures were for people like Alin. But every once in a while, he felt the situation called for more than a simple answer.

He reached out his mind in a mental call, and Azura answered.

At the same time, he summoned steel and essence both. In a fraction of a second he held Azura in his hand, and he spun the sword forward, so that the razor's edge of the blade rested against Indirial's neck.

A flap of fabric from the tent fluttered to the ground, where Azura's blade had neatly sliced through it.

Indirial's lopsided smile didn't vanish. His eyes turned to Kai. "Nye essence?"

Kai shrugged. "Not my doing," he said.

"Clearly. Well, Simon, I've got news for you."

First, Indirial was standing over his map, sword at the edge of his neck. Then, suddenly, he wasn't.

There came a blur of black motion and a pain in Simon's hand, and he was no longer holding Azura.

"You're not the only one," Indirial said, from behind him. Simon turned around to see Indirial offering Azura's hilt back.

Simon's face flushed, and he took Azura and banished it without a word.

That's what you get for showing off, Angeline said.

You're not helping, Simon sent. His embarrassment lent an edge to his mental voice.

No need to snap.

"That's good, Simon," Indirial said. "But I can't send you out on your own if you're not prepared to stand against a real Traveler. Kai, you protect the Naraka Incarnation in Malachi's realm. Denner, I'll send you to protect the Asphodel Incarnation with Eli. You have some experience in Asphodel, don't you?"

Denner repressed what might have been a twitch in one eye, and Hariman chuckled. But, eventually, the Traveler nodded.

"Excellent. So you'll support Eli, Kai can help Adrienne, and I'll come up with a team for Deborah. She probably needs the least help. Simon, you'll stay here with me. If the two of you don’t make it back in time, Simon and I will be the ones to intercept Valin."

No one liked that.

"Oh, I see, he'll stay with you," Kai said. "Under your protection, I'm sure? Pardon me if I don't trust in that."

"He's a boy, Indirial," Denner said. "He's not ready for this."

Simon didn't say anything, but he didn't relish the idea of spending his time in battle beside a Damascan Overlord.

Indirial held up a hand to their objections. "Honestly, he'll be safest here. I'll be able to keep an eye on them, and I spoke to the King only moments before I met you. I'll be getting some backup. They should arrive shortly."

"If you'll have so much help," Kai said, "then you don't need the boy."

Simon was beginning to get a little sick of being called 'the boy.'

"He should learn how the world works, Kai," Indirial said. "Since you're not going to teach him, somebody has to."

Denner raised a hand, like a child waiting for an adult to call on him. "Uh, excuse me, but I think we brushed past something fairly important. What kind of backup are you expecting, Indirial?"

This time it was Indirial's turn to sigh, and Simon was surprised at how much it made him sound like Denner. "That's the other thing," he said. "I'm getting a pair of Ragnarus Travelers. Maybe some Travelers from other Territories, if they can be spared. But two Ragnarus at least.”

Fascinating, Angeline murmured. It's been so long...

What? Simon asked. What is going on?

Kai cocked his head like a bird, though this time he looked more angry than curious. "Very well, Indirial. You've obviously thought this through."

"I try," Indirial said dryly.

"It wouldn't be wise for either of us to fight alongside a royal," Denner agreed. "Too much bad blood. But how about Simon, though? He's killed his share of Damascan soldiers."

Indirial regarded Simon seriously, and a bit sadly. Involuntarily, Simon took a step back. The guilt returned, sick and heavy in his stomach. Was Indirial going to try and arrest him? Would Simon have to try and fight his way out.

"The King is aware of Simon's...situation," Indirial said. "He has yet to render judgment. I'll do everything in my power, Kai. You can trust me on that."

Kai stared from behind his white bangs for a long time. Then, to Simon's surprise, he nodded.

"Very well. You have a Naraka Traveler prepared for me, I assume?"

"I'll have someone take you there in a moment," Indirial said. "And Denner, the Asphodel quarters are only a few tents down from here, so I'll take you myself. There's one thing I need to know first. Where's your Dragon's Fang, Kai?"

He gave the question so much weight that Simon got the impression that there was more to that question than showed on the surface.

"In the Wanderer's hands," Kai responded.

Indirial nodded slowly, and then he grinned. "You may not believe me, Kai, but I'm glad to hear it. Maybe this long disaster can have a happy ending after all."

Ten minutes later, Kai and Denner were both gone, en route to their respective realms. Simon leaned back in a chair in Indirial's unoccupied command tent, deep in conversation with Angeline.

How did I end up helping Damasca? Simon asked.

I wasn't aware you had ever sided with Enosh, Angeline responded. Alin assumed so because of what happened with the sacrifice and the Overlord.

I never thought of myself as an ally of Enosh, Simon agreed. But I sure never sided with Damasca. So what now?

Angeline was silent for a moment. Simon had noticed that she tended to be a little more thoughtful than his other dolls.

I wouldn't think of it as fighting with or against Damasca, she said. You're not, really. What you're doing is opposing a violent and deadly Incarnation. After he's taken care of, your part here is done.

Simon wished he believed that.

Wait a minute, he sent. You're part of Valinhall. Shouldn't you be on the Incarnation's side?

The doll didn't move, but Simon somehow got the impression that Angeline shrugged.

Some of us in the House would see it that way, I'm sure. For myself, though, I find his actions morally reprehensible. He needs to be stopped.

Simon considered that for a few minutes, until the sound of trumpets shattered the night. Instantly, soldiers boiled to life in the camp around him, arming themselves and shouting to one another. He heard them, even saw some of them through gaps in the tent's fabric. A few poked their head into the command tent, looking for Indirial. Upon not seeing him there, they immediately ducked back out.

What's going on, do you think? Simon asked. Then he heard the first screams.

And one of the Nye entered the tent.

The Nye, looking like a man in black clothes and a hooded black cloak, carried an iron chain in between its two gloves. It stopped for a moment when it saw Simon, surprised.

"Well," Simon said. "It's been a while since I've seen one of you."

The Nye stepped forward, and Simon summoned Azura.

The sword was far too long for the cramped confines of the tent, so its point materialized a fraction of an inch from the Nye's chest. There was a brief blue-white flare of light within the cloaked figure's hood, and the Nye slid to one side, still rushing to get its chain around Simon's throat.

But Simon had experienced enough of that for one lifetime, and he had the speed of the Nye on his side.

Simon had called steel at the same time he summoned Azura, but now he called essence. His lungs were filled with ice-cold light, and time itself slowed before him. He gripped Azura's black-wrapped hilt in both hands and swung as hard as he could.

He sliced the entire tent in half, Nye included. He saw the black robes collapse and squirm together, like a severed earthworm of shadows, cloth, and moonlight. It slithered together and began crawling off into the night.

That was all he saw before the tent collapsed on his face.

He struggled out from under the heavy canvas, flailing around with Azura in one hand, and with the other hand trying to get a handful of fabric and pull it off him. He had cut through the lines and poles holding the tent up, so the remainder of the fabric had fallen on top of him. It took several minutes before he finally managed to extract himself from the fallen tent.

Ahem, Angeline said.

Simon whirled around for a moment, trying to figure out what the doll was warning him about. Then he realized he didn't have Angeline.

It took him another few minutes of searching through the tent's shredded remnants before he located the doll. Her straight blond hair and black dress were in perfect order, but her serious-looking face managed to express clear disapproval.

Cradling Angeline in one hand and carrying Azura in the other, Simon moved forward through the camp. He kept Azura's tip pointed at the sky, to avoid slicing open someone else's tent as he had done to Indirial's.

I thought Valin wasn’t supposed to wait around here, Simon sent to the doll. We weren’t supposed to fight him for another two days!

It seems that Valin decided to change the plan, Angeline said. Behind you.

Simon spun around. One of the Nye ducked behind his first swing, though he did manage to slice through a rack of spears, sending a handful of spearheads clattering to the ground. Simon levered the sword into an overhand strike, bringing Azura's blade down on the robed servant from above. He sliced off about a foot of fabric from the Nye's head, which apparently passed for a fatal wound, as the man-sized robes collapsed into a pile of shadow and light.

The essence faded from Simon's blood, and he didn't bother to hang on. It would regenerate soon, and he would need it if he had to fight Valin himself. For now, he could survive with just the steel. He had defeated the Nye even before he had gained their speed.

First, he had to find Indirial. Soldiers ran here and there, many of them engaged in combat with Nye, but this wasn't some random village full of civilians: very few of the Damascan troops needed any help fighting a single Nye. As a result, the soldiers maintained an orderly retreat more than a panicked flight. Most of them were running in the same direction, so Simon followed. Maybe they would lead him to Indirial.

Despite the fact that they were armed and trained, the soldiers had been caught unawares, so some of them found themselves overwhelmed. Simon helped these as best he could, but he rarely stopped moving. If Indirial expected to engage Valin, he should be there.

After what felt like most of an hour, but was probably more like ten minutes, the soldiers led Simon to the edge of camp. It was an open field on a high hill, overlooking the empty remnants of Harinfel village.

There, on the hill, Damasca had engaged Valinhall in pitched battle.

Light from the moon and stars turned the scene into a vision from a particularly strange and violent dream. Dozens of Nye ducked, leaped, and slithered their way around attacks, striking back with their chains. Some of them swung weighted chains in huge, deadly arcs, smashing through armor. Others used their chains more nimbly, like ropes or lassos, grabbing weapons out of the soldiers' hands and pulling them to the ground. Still others used the method the Nye favored in the House: sneaking up to their victims and strangling from behind.

The Damascan soldiers, for their part, tried their best to form up in orderly ranks. Orders were shouted back and forth across the field, in contrast to the Nye, who fought in almost complete silence. As Simon arrived, one squad of fifteen or twenty men assembled in a circle, every man facing outward, spears and shields at the ready. In the first instant, their spears sent several of the Nye crawling back to Valinhall.

Then the Nye noticed. Several melted down to pools of shadow and moonlight, crawling over to rest under and between the soldiers' feet. Simon wasn't sure what the tactic was supposed to accomplish until he saw one man in red-and-gold fall to the ground, then another. More black robes flooded in between the open gaps in the formation, black chains taking man after man down by the throat.

Travelers stood amidst the soldiers, standing out by virtue of their outfits and the forces they were calling. Tartarus Travelers stood, dressed head-to-toe in gleaming steel, keys in one hand, blades flashing through the air. Endross Travelers sent white lightning bolts blasting at the Nye. Naraka Travelers called burning insects out of thin air.

The Nye seemed to target the Travelers first. Simon caught a glimpse of one set of black robes sneaking a chain around the Endross Traveler’s throat, yanking him backwards into the shadows behind a tent.

But all that paled in comparison to the battle taking place at the top of the hill.

Indirial pulled up the hood of his black cloak, and for a moment he looked as though he had stepped straight out of Simon’s childhood memories. Here, at last, was the hero that had once saved Simon’s life.

He had summoned his chipped and pitted Dragon's Fang, but he swung with such speed and fury that the sword itself was little more than a blur. He moved like the Nye, in a smooth flow of cloth like a rushing black river. Simon could see moonlight on Indirial's breath as he called heavily on the Nye essence to keep him moving at impossible speeds.

His opponent didn't look like a monster. He wore only a pair of patched and stained pants that looked like they had come off of a corpse. His chest, arms, and bald head were bare. Simon didn't think he even wore any shoes. Every inch of his skin was covered by the black chains of Valinhall. They covered his head like hair, twisted over his arm, covered his chest like a loose wrapping of bandages. This man—Valin—swung a sword that was longer than Indirial's, almost as long as Azura, but he didn't flail with it as Simon himself did, relying on speed and power to do most of the work for him. He whirled in graceful arcs, meeting every one of Indirial's lightning attacks. Valin didn't seem to be moving as furiously as the Overlord, but he continued to parry Indirial's strikes, and even launched a substantial offense of his own.

Except for those two, the hill was clear. None of the soldiers, none of the Travelers—not even any of the Nye—dared to step in the middle of such a fight. They would barely be able to see what was going on, much less interfere.

Eyes in front, Angeline warned, and Simon levered Azura down to skewer a rushing Nye that barely stood as tall as his shoulder.

Angeline, what are the Nye doing here? Simon asked, wading around the group of soldiers. Azura's blade was so long that he couldn't fight side-by-side with them, not unless he wanted to use the sword like a spear and join in one of their formations, but if he could stay apart from the press of men, then he could take care of any Nye that sought him out. And Simon knew the Nye well enough to realize that they would seek him out. They would attack anyone who wasn't helpless.

They follow whoever carries Mithra.

Mithra? Simon asked, cutting down one of the Nye that had tried to slip up behind him.

The golden Dragon's Fang, Angeline responded. It's the original sword, the sword of the Wanderer, and the Nye respect its authority.

Simon pondered that as he stepped further away from the soldiers, keeping one eye on Indirial's fight and one eye on the group of hostile Nye. Indirial seemed to be slowing down, and Simon finally realized why. Even if the Overlord could draw on the Nye essence longer than Simon himself could, there was still a limit. Each of Valinhall's powers only lasted for a certain amount of time. He was either trying to keep his use of essence to a minimum, to conserve it...or he was running out.

What if we take Valin's sword away? he asked.

You know better than that, Angeline said. She sounded disapproving. That's not how Valinhall works. If you snatched it away from him, he would summon it back. To keep it away from him for good, you would have to earn it.

Simon nodded, absent-mindedly knocking a Nye to the ground with Azura's hilt, reversing the blade and skewering the black-robed figure into the ground.

He let Azura vanish, releasing Benson's steel.

This is not the right time for that, Simon, Angeline said. Also? Behind you.

Simon spun around and barely managed to catch the Eldest Nye's sleeves before they wrapped a chain around his neck.

"I was wondering where you were," Simon said, trying not to let the strain show in his voice.

Oh, Maker, he thought. I forgot how hard it is to fight these things on my own.

With the strength of steel, one of the Nye was nothing. Without it, Simon wondered how he had ever managed to defeat one.

"I go where my leader is," the Eldest rasped. He snapped his arms to the sides, effortlessly breaking Simon's hold. He began to glide circles around Simon, who turned warily to keep him in sight.

"Why?" Simon asked. "What do you get out of this?" He had used this tactic before, with Malachi, but he found that people tended to enjoy talking about themselves. They enjoyed it so much, in fact, that they were often willing to talk until his powers were restored.

The Eldest spun his black chain idly, hands—as always—hidden by the enormous sleeves that draped down at the end of his arms. "I seek the restoration of Valinhall, son of Kalman. I will follow any who joins me on that quest."

He struck out with a chain, quick as a thunderclap. Simon tried to knock it aside with one of his hands, but without the essence in him he was too slow. He dulled the attack, though it still felt like a hammer slamming into the back of his hand, but the end of the chain still clipped his jaw.

The Eldest's hood rocked back, as though he were surprised. "You do not use the gift I gave you."

Simon shrugged. "Ran out," he lied.

The Nye struck again, low, aiming for Simon's ankle. Simon stepped over the strike, rushing forward to grapple with the Eldest. The Nye all looked like men in cloaks, but it was more accurate to say that they were bundles of cloth given life. They had barely any weight. If it came to wrestling, he would have the advantage.

In theory. The Eldest did not seem surprised that Simon had avoided his attack, whipping the chain up and across Simon's back.

Simon shouted at the pain, which felt like getting kicked by a rough-shod horse, but he pressed on, wrapping an arm around the Eldest and using his other arm to fumble for the Nye's chain.

Below! Angeline shouted in the depths of Simon's mind.

The Eldest barely moved. He tucked his black slipper behind Simon's ankle and pulled his leg back, sending Simon crashing over backwards.

Simon squirmed, gasping for breath. He had forgotten how much fights tended to hurt without steel running through his muscles. The Eldest stood over him, chain between his shrouded hands, studying him with a hood full of darkness.

"What is your plan, son of Kalman?" the Eldest asked curiously. "You have kept to our bargain. I would not see you die tonight."

Neither steel nor essence had yet recovered to their full potential, so Simon needed time. What would convince the Eldest to let him go, and give him enough time to enact the next step in his plan?

I would hardly call it a plan, Angeline put in.

"Wait!" Simon said. "How does following Valin help you? He's not restoring Valinhall. He's not adding anything. He's just destroying."

The Eldest's head cocked slightly to the side in a gesture almost reminiscent of Kai. He didn't say anything, but he didn't kill Simon either. Simon decided to take that as a good sign.

"What happens when he gets his revenge on Damasca?" Simon asked, desperate for something to say. He struggled up to a sitting position. "He'll be done. He'll have no reason to recruit more Valinhall Travelers after that. What will you do then?"

"We tried to follow another, once," the Eldest whispered. His voice still managed to cut through the sounds of battle coming from Simon's back. "He betrayed us through inaction. Never a step forward. He remains, to this day, little more than a coward. Tell us, Kai’s apprentice: who would you have us follow?"

"How about me?" Simon said. He hadn't intended to say that, and he was almost surprised to hear the words come out of his own mouth.

Angeline seemed stunned speechless.

The Eldest shook his head sadly. "You have no chance, son of Kalman. I am sorry. I like you, but you would have to win Valin's sword. And I simply do not see that in your future."

Simon glanced over to the top of the hill, where Indirial still fought. His breath no longer glowed, and he seemed desperate to fend off each of Valin's strikes. Watching the fight, Simon was shocked that he hadn't been killed already. His essence had run out.

"I don't know if I've ever told you this," Simon said, "but I don't believe in prophecy."

On shaky legs, he stood, turning his back to the Eldest.

It was a risk, but a calculated one. Angeline would warn him if the Eldest attacked him while his back was turned, but Simon was mostly counting on the Nye's own curiosity to keep his chain still.

I think I know what you're doing, Angeline said. I don't like it.

I didn't expect you would, Simon said, but he kept walking. Soon he stood only paces away from the battle between the founder of the Dragon Army and one of its first members. Simon was close enough that the sound of their swords was deafening, and the wind from their blows tore hair away from his face.

Simon pulled the Nye hood up over his face. "Valin!" he called, shouting as loud as he could to be heard over the cacophony of battle.

Valin turned his head toward the source of the shout. Indirial kept attacking, but Valin somehow managed to block his student’s sword each time without bothering to use his eyes.

His eyes. His terrible eyes. Simon was stunned almost speechless at the sight. The man from Harinfel had mumbled over and over about the Wanderer's black eyes, but he had barely done them justice. The whites of his eyes were solid black, a darkness that stood out from the surrounding night, but even worse were the parts of his eyes that should have been colored: they were a gleaming steel, like the metal of a Dragon's Fang.

Was that what Simon himself would become if he lost control?

Simon shook off that thought and forced himself to keep speaking.

"I challenge you, Valin," Simon shouted. "Duel me!" He summoned his blade, calling steel into himself. Azura's seven-foot length shimmered in the night as it appeared in his hand, gleaming under the moon.

Valin stepped away from Indirial, who—wisely, Simon thought—sank to one knee, panting. If Simon accomplished nothing else, at least he could give the Overlord a chance to recover his power.

"Who are you?" Valin asked curiously.

"My name is Simon, son of Kalman." Because he thought it would be appropriate, he added, "Traveler of Valinhall."

Valin's chain-shrouded face split in a broad grin. "I would be happy to test you, Valinhall Traveler." He brought Mithra’s gold-and-silver blade up to his forehead, raising it in some kind of salute. Simon raised Azura to his face, mirroring the Incarnation.

"Try not to die too easily," Valin suggested.

Then he attacked.

CHAPTER 10:

RETURN TO BEL CALEM

Alin was yanked from a deep, dreamless sleep by the sound of his doors being blasted open.

"Time to rise, Eliadel," Grandmaster Naraka announced. That was some kind of pun, he was sure—the word “Eliadel” meant, in some ancient language, “The Rising Sun”—but it was too early in the morning for him to appreciate the humor.

Groggy, Alin rose to a sitting position. "What's happening? An attack? Are we being attacked?"

"Not quite, boy," the Grandmaster said, pulling the sheets away from him. He was practically naked beneath, so he squirmed away from her sight.

"Oh, don't be a princess," Naraka snapped. "You've got nothing I haven't seen before, I promise you that. Hurry up and get your armor on. We need you looking your best if you're going to lead us into battle."

Alin stumbled out of bed and into his clothes, still trying to shake himself awake. "Battle? I thought you said there was no battle."

"Clean out your ears. I said we weren't under attack, and we're not. We're the ones doing the attacking."

Naraka grinned, showing several missing teeth. She was wearing her blood-red spectacles, even at this time of the morning.

"But the plan?" Alin said. He walked over to his armor stand and studied the complex contraptions that were his boots. How was he supposed to wear this armor if he couldn’t even figure out how to get the boots on?

Naraka snapped her fingers and pointed to someone on the far side of the open door. Two attendants, a man and woman, hurried in. They curtsied to Alin and began helping him with the straps and buckles of his golden armor.

Alin left them to it. He had no idea what he was doing, so he might as well accept the service of those who did.

"We had intended to sketch out a plan later in the day," Grandmaster Naraka said, as her servants worked on Alin’s armor. "But events, it seemed, have outpaced us. Speaking of which, I have something of a surprise for you."

Naraka waved at the door again—briefly, Alin wondered if she had the entire city standing outside his chambers, waiting for her to wave them in—and a young man walked in. He was a year or two older than Alin, and he walked like a guilty child: hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor, back slouched. Someone who didn't know him would never suspect that he was one of the most accomplished Travelers in the city of Enosh.

And Alin had seen him die.

"Gilad!" Alin shouted, genuine joy in his voice. He tried to step forward, but the servants were still working on his greaves, and they pulled him back down. They even muttered in complaint. Politely.

Gilad shuffled in place and gave Alin a sheepish grin, barely glancing at Alin's face before returning his eyes to the floor.

"I thought you were dead!" Alin said.

Grandmaster Naraka snorted. "You were the only one who believed that, boy. I admit he had me worried for a while, taking so long to get back, but it turns out he had quite the adventure. Didn't you, Gilad?"

Gilad shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know about that, Grandmaster. I only did what I could to get back home."

"After you left Naraka," the Grandmaster said to Alin, ignoring Gilad completely, "Gilad singlehandedly overpowered the Itasas Tribesmen and the squad of Travelers Damasca sent hunting him. After being stalked by a pack of deadly predators across the wilderness, he finally infiltrated a Damascan outpost in Naraka, where he waited until their waypoint was unguarded. He managed to distract the guards long enough to open a Gate and Travel back to our world...straight in the middle of a camp of Damascan soldiers."

"But I didn't have a choice," Gilad protested. "That was the only way out."

"Long story short, he's back now, and he's got news less than an hour old: the Incarnation has attacked the Damascans."

"What?" Alin said. His voice rose sharply at the end of the word, as one of the armorers gave him a nasty pinch while adjusting his breastplate.

"Yes, indeed," Naraka cackled. "Overlord Indirial, a handful of Travelers, and almost a thousand men are trapped outside a village in the middle of Lysander's realm. It looks like the Incarnation decided they were enough of a threat to turn around and engage them directly."

"So what's the plan?" Alin asked.

“We're leaving as soon as you're dressed. We've gathered up everyone we can on short notice, and the others have their assignments. But the three of us have our own mission."

"Pardon me, Grandmaster," Gilad said, "but I've been away for a while. What is our plan, exactly?"

Grandmaster Naraka patted Gilad fondly on the arm. "Our plan, Gilad, is for Eliadel to guide us around Malachi's house. I've never been there before, you see."

"Malachi?" Alin said, startled. "He's dead."

"I should hope so, considering all the credit we gave you for it," Naraka responded. "Regardless, we're not after the Overlords themselves. We're after their Trees. Malachi's wife is in charge, and she's not a Traveler, so her Tree is practically undefended. We'll come through Naraka and hit them hard and fast. They'll have some defenses on both sides, but don't forget: our objective is the Tree."

"I don't know where this Tree is," Alin protested. "I broke through the door and fought him in his throne room."

The Grandmaster waved that away. "It won't matter. The Tree will be as low in the house as they can get it. In the basement, most likely, or at least in a safe room on the ground floor. If we have to, we'll burn the whole place to the ground and hope that takes care of the Tree."

Alin raised both arms as the attendants continued working on his armor. He barely paid any attention to their work, losing himself in thought. It seemed like they had precious little to go on, but he wasn't the strategy expert here. He had to trust that the Grandmasters knew what they were doing. Something did occur to him, though.

"What if we succeed, and the Incarnation gets loose?" Alin asked.

"Then we open a Gate out of there as fast as we can, and hope it doesn't follow us," Grandmaster Naraka said. "I'm too old to fight an Incarnation, and you two are too green. But even if it takes my life, I would count it a cheap price to bring Damasca to its knees."

Alin wasn't sure he agreed, and he didn't relish the idea of losing his life to a monstrosity from Naraka. "Do you think that's likely?"

Grandmaster Naraka spread her hands. "Who knows? No one has seen an Incarnation for three hundred years. But the truth is, I think we'll have plenty of time to burn the Tree and get out of there."

"Also," Gilad put in, "there's very little chance the Incarnation will actually follow us into Naraka. From everything I've read, Incarnations become trapped if they enter their own Territories."

That was enough to ease a few of Alin's fears, though he still wasn't thrilled with the thought of fighting an Incarnation. Still, he supposed he could always open a Gate to Elysia and hide inside the City of Light. The city's walls could defend the three of them against even a foreign Incarnation, he was sure.

The two servants stepped away, bowing. Alin stepped forward, flexing one hand in a fist to test the armor's fit. The suit was crafted so well that he barely felt any resistance.

"Is there anything you require before we leave, Eliadel?" Grandmaster Naraka asked.

"No...actually, yes. There is one thing."

Alin rummaged around on the stand next to his bed, looking for a trinket that he had left there for safekeeping. After a few seconds he found it, glittering in the light from the hallway.

It was an acorn trapped inside a small golden birdcage.

Alin willed Elysia's light into the acorn, which began throwing itself against the cage bars as though it had gone insane.

"We need Simon," Alin said.

"For what?" Grandmaster Naraka scoffed. "If we needed someone to swing a sword around, we'd be far better off with a squad from Tartarus. They, at least, could open a Gate and Travel us out of there if the need arose."

"I trust him, and I want him along," Alin said evenly. He wasn't sure why he insisted so strongly on having Simon around. Maybe he wanted to keep the Grandmasters off-balance. But it was somehow comforting to know that, should things go wrong, Simon would be around to back him up.

Grandmaster Naraka stared at him for a while behind her red-stained glasses. She sighed. "As you wish, Eliadel. But let's not wait until he responds to your call. We should at least go wake him up, since we do have a limited window of time."

Alin nodded, and the three of them walked down the hall toward Simon's room.

Alin knocked first, though he didn't expect a response. Simon should be sleeping, if anything. Still, he raised his caged acorn alarm and gave it a shake. The finial was still buzzing, which meant that, wherever Simon's was, his acorn was shaking in harmony. Simon should have been awakened by the noise, if nothing else.

One of Grandmaster Naraka's servants, trailing after her like white-dressed shadows, produced a key from a huge ring and handed it to Alin. Taking it into his hand, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Not again, he thought. How often would he have to trudge through a battlefield, looking for any sign that Simon had survived?

The room had been broken by battle. There were shallow slashes in the stone of several walls, as though Simon had swung that massive sword of his without regard for his surroundings. Even many of the floor tiles were sliced and cracked. One of the windows was open, one shattered. A thick, unnaturally dark blood had been splattered all over the bed and sprayed over the ground.

Alin stepped into the room—carefully, in case the cracked floor tiles actually meant the floor might crash down into the rooms below—and searched for survivors. Or bodies.

He found a few tiny shreds of flesh that might have come from a wounded animal, though the whole room stank of so much metallic blood and musk that he would be tempted to believe one enormous beast was killed here.

It only took him a few more seconds to dip into the nooks and crannies of the room, checking under the bed and in one of the closets. He even poked his head out of the broken window, checking the ground four floors down.

"No bodies," Alin reported. The Grandmaster stayed in the doorway, her face a mask behind her scarlet glasses. Gilad entered, gingerly poking at the walls and peering at the blood. Once, he extended his hand—his right hand, which had been marked on the palm with a bright red symbol—and groped around in the air, as though feeling some invisible object.

"This was Naraka," Gilad said. He sounded surprised.

A dark suspicion bloomed in Alin's chest, and his head swiveled to confront Grandmaster Naraka. If she had attacked Simon while he stayed here, in the Grandmasters' Palace, presumably under Alin's protection....

Well, Alin wasn't sure what he would do. But he was angry enough that he might very well attack the Grandmaster, even if she was an ally. He and Simon had never been at all close, back in Myria, but Alin still counted him as a friend.

Naraka slowly shook her head, keeping an eye on the room. "I do not think he is dead," she said.

"Neither do I," Alin said. "He's survived worse than this before. Only a few weeks ago, in fact."

"I have a reason for thinking so, child," the Grandmaster snapped. "If this was an attack from Naraka, it was likely in response to Simon's murder of several Naraka Travelers and his role in the death of Overlord Malachi. In such a case, the goal of the attack was just retribution?"

"Just?” Alin exclaimed. "Tell me now, Naraka, were you involved in this?"

Grandmaster Naraka glared at him. "Will you listen to me, for once? They would see it as just, whether or not I do. It is the Narakan way. But if that is so, if this was a planned execution in retaliation for his violent actions, the attackers would have no reason to take his body away. Do you see? They would have simply killed him and left him here, perhaps marked in some way, as a notice that justice had been served."

Alin pondered that for a moment. "So the fact that he's not here means that he probably retreated to his own Territory. Safe, or at least recovering."

"And yet he's not responding to your call," Naraka pointed out.

"It could mean he's simply too deep in the Territory," Gilad suggested. "Maybe he's in hiding, and didn't take your alarm with him."

It was possible. Even likely, considering Simon. He was always the type to run off on his own without notifying or considering the people left behind.

"Time will not wait for us, Eliadel," Grandmaster Naraka said at last. "If he responds to your call before we leave the palace, we will take him with us. Otherwise, we have our mission."

Alin followed the Grandmaster out, considering her words. If she had spoken the truth about the Narakan assassins seeking justice, then it was most likely that Simon was under attack by Damascan Travelers. Which made sense, if they thought he was working on the side of Enosh.

Then again, why attack Simon? Why not one of the Grandmasters, or Alin himself? If the Damascans had enough accurate intelligence to know where Simon's rooms were located and when he was supposed to be in them, they had more than enough opportunity to strike at anyone they wished. Why Simon?

The whole thing stank. And, while Grandmaster Naraka had carefully implied that the attackers must have been Damascan, she had never actually denied her involvement in the attacks.

Also, why now? Alin found it hard to believe that Simon would vanish so suddenly, just before they embarked on a mission that Grandmaster Naraka thought was so critical that Alin himself should accompany her. She had insisted that he stay tucked away safe in the palace before, so why should this mission, seemingly so risky, be the one that she allowed him to undertake?

There were too many lies, too many half-truths, and too much suspicion for Alin's taste. He preferred his conflicts simple and uncomplicated: us or them.

He would escort the Grandmaster on her attack. She had shown him nothing but dedication and loyalty. Besides, he couldn't let it be said that the Eliadel was a coward. But he would keep his eyes and ears open.

When he returned, he would demand some answers.

***

Filled with the cold power of steel and Nye essence, Simon blurred forward. He felt his cloak pulling behind him, so that he looked like one of the Nye rushing over the grass.

The Valinhall Incarnation stood, calmly waiting for him. He didn't appear to have taken any sort of specific fighting stance; he stood there on the short hill, his gold-and-silver sword held casually in both hands.

Simon stopped and pivoted at the last second, turning his momentum into a slash meant to take Valin in the side.

The Incarnation simply twisted his blade to the side and caught Azura's edge. Without a word, he turned Simon's strike and stepped forward, bringing his sword down on Simon’s head.

Above you! Angeline screamed. Simon had left her sitting on the grass nearby, in order to have both hands free, but she still had more than enough of a vantage point to both see and sense the entirety of the battle.

Between the doll's warning and the speed of the Nye essence, Simon had counted on having enough time to dodge Valin's first strike, stepping to the side and launching another attack of his own.

But, even after watching Indirial's battle earlier, Simon had never expected the Incarnation to be so fast.

By the time Simon heard and processed the doll's warning, Valin's blurring blade was only an inch from his neck. He hurled himself to the side with so much strength that he overcompensated, almost leaping into the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Simon twisted in the air and landed on his feet, skidding along the dew-wet grass.

He's coming, Angeline sent. Simon barely managed to get Azura up and in front of him before Valin followed him, seemingly flying forward, blade flashing.

Azura rang like a cracked bell in Simon's hands as he somehow matched the Incarnation's strike. Even the steel flowing through his blood seemed somehow strained to the breaking point, like a sword bent so far that it was about to shatter. Valin did not seem to pause, flowing gracefully from attack to attack as though practicing.

Only desperation and panic blocked the second attack, and the next, and the next. Simon felt as though his arms would tear apart, and he couldn't seem to get enough breath. Sweat trickled down past his eyes, and some part of him knew that if his sweat blinded him for even an instant then he would die.

More strength, Angeline called. You need to be stronger.

It's a little late for that, Simon sent, but he knew what she meant.

He could call steel all at once, instead of drawing it out as he normally did. He seemed to remember that he could do the same thing with Nye essence too, though both powers would burn out even more quickly.

The first time he had called all his steel in such a way had been back in Orgrith Cave, where he had done so to save Andra Agnos' life. After that incident, he had been able to call more steel than ever, and it seemed to last longer. But would it be enough now? More importantly, he wasn't sure he would survive the first second after burning his powers out.

You won't survive if you don't, Angeline pointed out. Do it!

Simon managed to push back against Valin's sword, giving him enough of an opening to take a single step back. Without giving himself enough time to think too much about it, Simon drew deeply on the Nye essence. The world seemed to stop around him, grass blown back by a breeze made solid, stars hanging in the night sky, soldiers paused with their swords held above taut black chains. At the same time, Simon called a torrent of steel, which crashed through his body in an icy flood, pressing against the inside of his skin like a sack stuffed to bursting.

All the while, the chains slid up his arms. He had never been as conscious of them as he was now, face-to-face with the chain-shrouded Incarnation. Though the chains of Valinhall looked like living tattoos of black, crawling up his arms, they felt like real chains, cold and rough against his bare skin. He could only imagine what it must be like with chains wrapping tight around his entire body being constantly draped in a heavy, pressing blanket of rigid metal.

Simon righted his stance, balanced on the balls of his feet, and gathered both hands on Azura's hilt. He struck with all the strength and speed he could draw from his Territory.

Valin's eyes widened in surprise, but he still turned Simon's strike. Simon didn't let up, attacking again and again, the chains crawling faster than they ever had, wrapping his biceps and shoulders. The Incarnation moved as swiftly as he had with Indirial, speeding up to match Simon, their crashing blades sending out spray after spray of bright sparks.

While their blades rang together like the pounding of the surf, while he moved faster than anything in a human body had any right to do, Valin laughed.

"Not bad, little dragon," he said. "I'm glad to have you along."

His voice didn't sound warped, like most other sounds Simon heard through the Nye essence. Nor did he sound strained, as Simon himself felt. He sounded casual, even amused, as though they were playing his favorite game.

"Destroy Damasca with me," Valin said idly, blocking an overhand strike from Simon that would have sliced a boulder in half.

"What happens after?" Simon said, through gritted teeth. He was putting all his power into attacks, and they were barely fazing the Valinhall Incarnation. He didn't think he'd given the man a single scratch.

"After?" Valin sounded confused, as though he'd never considered the concept. "We would need to protect the innocent people," he said. "Test them. Make sure they're strong enough. If we use all thirteen swords, we can spread out. Finally, the strong will not oppress the weak. Everyone will be strong."

He means killing everyone, doesn't he? Simon sent to Angeline, thrusting Azura at Valin's chest.

He means what he said, Angeline said sadly. He doesn't see a difference between attacking someone and making sure they're ready for an attack. In his mind, he'll be doing the world a favor.

So the power does drive you mad, Simon thought.

Not mad, the doll responded. Madness comes when a mind is broken. Incarnation does not break a man, it simply changes him. Never into anything pleasant.

No matter what Angeline or Valin said, that sounded like madness to Simon. He stepped forward in a combination attack that Kai had taught him, striking once, twice, three times in a single, continuous motion. The first was supposed to force the opponent on the defensive, the second to throw his guard wide, and the third to strike home.

It worked. Valin's Mithra was knocked aside enough for Simon's third attack to reach him.

Simon surged forward with all his strength, Azura's tip resting against Valin's bare chain-marked chest. A trickle of blood flowed down Valin's flat stomach as Azura pierced his skin.

For a moment, Simon dared to hope.

Then he realized that all his strength, everything he had drawn from Valinhall, was barely enough to scratch the Incarnation's skin.

Simon pressed harder, leaning on Azura with everything he could draw, trying desperately to call another scrap of liquid strength from his Territory. But nothing came.

Valin didn't seem bothered by his single wound, and he didn't bring Mithra in to take advantage of Simon's distraction. He leaned closer, a smile on his lips, his black-and-silver eyes amused. "You've done well, boy. But you've barely seen the surface of what Valinhall has to offer."

The Incarnation released his sword, letting it shimmer and vanish in midair. Barely had it vanished when it was replaced with a gleaming silver warhammer, wider than Valin's torso and standing taller than his head. Simon would have had to use two hands and all the steel he could call to even lift such a weapon, but Valin held it in his right hand.

In his left appeared an enormous, double-headed axe.

Valin's muscles flexed as he brought both weapons down, converging on Simon's position.

Roll back!

Simon followed the doll's instruction, tossing himself backwards and down the little hill. He had almost rolled back to his feet when the weapons hit the ground.

The resulting shockwave knocked him onto his back. The ground quivered with the impact, the grass and soil—and perhaps even the stone beneath—shattering into a tiny chasm at Valin's feet.

Valin released these weapons, too, and instantly summoned another. This was a longbow even taller than the hammer had been earlier, its shaft made of some deep black wood, and its string of a metal that shone silver in the starlight.

The Incarnation pulled the string back, the wood flexing with an audible creaking, and a gleaming white arrow of solid light simply appeared on the string.

"You should dodge this," Valin suggested. He let the arrow fly.

Simon wasn't fast enough to dodge the arrow of light. Not even close. But with a whispered warning from Angeline he managed to throw himself into the treeline at the edge of their clearing. He fell into underbrush, branches and leaves scratching his skin as the arrow blazed overhead with a heavenly light. It struck a tree above Simon and burned straight through. When he stood and looked, he could see through the hole in that tree...and through the hole in the tree behind that, and the tree behind that one, all the way to the edge of the woods.

Worse, the world around him was back to normal speed. The soldiers once again clashed with Nye, although they seemed to have gotten even farther from Valin after his earth-shattering display with the hammer and axe.

Simon still clung to the steel power by the edge of a fingernail. He barely had enough strength to keep holding Azura in both hands. But the Nye essence was gone.

Valin had brought the silver string back to his cheek, another white arrow loaded in the bow.

“Duck, Simon!” Valin called, as he took aim.

Then Indirial's ragged sword burst from his chest.

***

Kai stood before a beautiful woman, and all he could think about was how her flowing black dress looked like the wrapping on Azura's hilt. He had thought that holding the sword again, speaking one last time with his precious little ones, would have helped him to forget about them. That certainly hadn't worked. When he had been forced to hand Azura back to Simon, it had felt like cutting off one of his hands.

"...will be positioned outside the house, and we have a significant force waiting for incursion from Naraka," the lady Adrienne was saying. Kai barely heard her. He was thinking of his dolls.

"Master Kai? Excuse me? Can you hear me? Is there something wrong?" Adrienne sounded more annoyed than worried. Almost like Otoku, in one of her moods. The sound woke Kai from his stupor.

Perhaps he had drifted too far away.

"My apologies," Kai said. "I was lost in thought. You were saying?"

Adrienne glared, but she visibly calmed herself and gestured at the door behind Kai. It was a stone double door, chained shut, with a padlock of Tartarus steel. "You will be our last line of defense, Master Kai," Adrienne said. "If what I've heard about Valinhall is true, you should have no trouble taking care of whatever Travelers make it past our initial troops and reach this point. Is there anything else you require?"

Briefly Kai wondered what the point was of making a lock out of Tartarus steel. It would be all but indestructible, certainly, but as a result it would be much easier to shatter the chain itself. Even the wall that anchored the chain would be simpler to break.

"Nothing but warning, my lady," Kai said, after realizing that he had gone another few seconds without speaking. "Simply tell me when to stand guard, and I guarantee that none will pass me."

Lady Adrienne let out a heavy breath and nodded, looking much reassured. "That is good to hear, Master Kai. We have prepared rooms for you, and I assure you that we will wake you in the event of an emergency. If you will—"

Kai lifted a strand of Adrienne's hair from her shoulder and rubbed it in between two of his fingers. "You have lovely hair," he pointed out. "Have you ever considered donating it to someone in need? A doll-maker, perhaps?"

Very deliberately, Lady Adrienne looked from her hair to his face. "Remove your hand from me, Master Kai," she said. "I have heard that Travelers are all but useless against you, but I am not far from simply seizing a sword myself and doing my best to run you through."

Kai remembered himself again and withdrew his hand, standing with his spine straight as his master had insisted, so many years ago. "I am sorry, my lady."

Adrienne turned to walk away. "As long as this chamber is not breached, we have nothing to discuss. I will have someone—"

She was interrupted for the second time, but this time not by Kai. A balding, pot-bellied Traveler in the red robes of Naraka came jogging up, waving for her attention. Only at that point did Kai realize the man had only one hand.

The aging Traveler began to speak, but as he did, a wail like a thousand furious ghosts pierced the palace.

Adrienne clapped her hands to her ears, but Kai reached into his pocket. He had always wished Valinhall had a power to dull the senses instead of enhancing them. The ring of one Dragon's Fang upon another made quite an ear-shattering noise. Since the Territory had no such power, though—at least, none so far as Kai knew—he had taken to bringing globs of soft wax with him to battle. He pulled two pieces off and stuffed them into his ears.

Immediately, the piercing shriek was cut to nothing more than a distant scream. Lady Adrienne shouted something at him, which he couldn’t understand, but he gave her a placid smile and nodded.

She rolled her eyes and pointed him into a room, so he nodded and followed her instructions.

A group of other Travelers followed him, but he waved them back. When they failed to understand, he shouted at them to fall back. At last, an exasperated Lady Adrienne brought them out of the room and sealed the door.

The situation was fairly transparent: obviously the Grandmasters had decided to send an attack early, and somehow Adrienne’s scouts had managed to detect the assault. For Kai, that simplified the situation greatly.

He would stay in this room and wait. If Travelers showed up here, he would kill them. If they did not, he would continue waiting until ordered elsewhere.

Simplicity itself.

***

The route to Bel Calem through Naraka would be too well guarded, Grandmaster Naraka told Alin. The defenses for that waypoint would have stood for years, solid and all but impenetrable. There would be traps, tricks, guardians, and fortifications too thick for them to penetrate.

So they came through a different Territory. There were twenty-three of them: Gilad, Grandmaster Naraka, Alin, and twenty soldiers of Enosh, to deal with the more mundane threats. Alin had heard that there was a squad of three or four Tartarus Travelers with the soldiers, but he couldn’t tell the difference. Maybe most of the troops couldn’t either.

Gilad was one of the few in Enosh with a link to two Territories, and he could draw from either Naraka or Helgard with equal ease. At Grandmaster Naraka’s insistence, he opened up a Gate to Helgard, and they walked through its snowy depths.

That was when Alin learned something that no one had bothered to mention about Helgard, the Tower of Winter: the place was cold.

Sure, he had expected to run across flat plains of glacial ice, and the razor-edged chill in the air didn’t surprise him. But plate armor, it turned out, was not the best thing to wear in such temperatures. It burned his skin as though he wore a suit of solid ice, and he hurried through as much to keep himself from freezing to death as he did to reach their destination that much sooner.

They had emerged from the Gate with their backs to a colossal wall. It was made of some blue-gray material that looked like metal, etched with gigantic symbols. Each twisting letter stood higher than Alin was tall. The wall curved around so slightly that Alin barely noticed it was curving at all, and it vanished into the distance in both directions.

Gilad said that was the outer wall of the tower. Alin looked up and saw, an impossibly high distance overhead, a metal ceiling the same color as the walls. It was covered with icicles the size of stalactites. Wisps of cloud twisted in and among the ice like lacy ribbons.

Sure enough, they were inside some kind of enclosure, though one so big that it had its own horizon. Gilad called this the sixteenth floor, telling Alin that thirty-two floors of Helgard had been discovered so far. This one was one of the least inhabited, comprised as it was of seemingly endless fields of ice. The ice seemed to glow with an inner radiance, giving the room a surprisingly bright illumination.

According to Gilad, there were creatures and artifacts hiding in the cracks of the ice, and they did not like to be disturbed. As long as they kept their voices down and hurried across, they should be able to reach the way into Bel Calem with little trouble.

“Why don’t they have any guardians on this side?” Alin whispered, trying to step as lightly as possible in his clanking armor.

“It’s all but impossible to defend your home from every possible approach in every Territory,” Grandmaster Naraka said. She seemed to practically glide over the slick, uneven footing, as though she had no weight at all.

“That’s true,” Gilad allowed, “but it’s also unwise to bring a very large force through this floor. More people means more noise, and if you get too loud…well, you don’t want to do that. The first three expeditions to this floor vanished entirely, and the fourth came back…wrong.”

The glow in the ice underneath their feet flickered, as though something unimaginably huge had, for just a moment, passed in front of the light.

Alin spent the rest of the trip with his mouth shut. He barely even allowed himself to breathe. The soldiers had worn light armor, and not one of them had said a word since passing through the Gate, which showed how much wiser they were than he.

Gilad finally reached his landmark: a frozen hand and forearm, outstretched from the ice like a dying man reaching out of the water for salvation. The wrist was easily as wide as Alin’s body, and the tips of the fingers reached well above Alin’s head.

“What was this?” Alin asked quietly, indicating the frozen hand.

“Not was,” Gilad said. “Is. Now hold on a minute, if you don’t mind. I need to concentrate.”

That was as forceful as Alin had ever heard the other Traveler, so he stayed quiet. Gilad muttered constantly to himself, as though reciting some long poem in a foreign language.

Finally, he motioned as though pulling aside a curtain, and a Gate opened behind his fingers.

“We have to be quick,” Grandmaster Naraka whispered. At a whispered signal from a woman in front who looked like the leader, all twenty soldiers began marching through.

The other side of the Gate opened up on a broad room that looked a great deal like Malachi’s great hall, which Alin had visited a month before. It wasn’t the same room, simply one that was built along the same lines. This room was smaller, though still spacious, and it hosted a few necessities, like washbasins and hat-racks, instead of Malachi’s blocky throne.

Alin wasn’t sure what this room was supposed to be used for, and he had no idea where the Hanging Tree would be located from here. But at least there were no enemy troops around, and that was all he cared about.

The soldiers spread out across Malachi's room, forming a protective shield between the Travelers and whatever unknown forces might be protecting the Overlord's home.

Grandmaster Naraka flipped her hand negligently to one side and five red sparks shot out from the air in front of her. They flew in loops around the room, flashing in and out of visibility like blood-red fireflies.

Gilad started looking from wall to wall, muttering to himself. Frost began to form on the ground at his feet, but Alin couldn't see any other visible indication of his actions.

"I don't sense anything," Gilad said eventually. "Did they really not have any guardians in this room?"

"Nor do I," Grandmaster Naraka agreed. "I also sense no alarms, but I spotted something that might once have been a nest of kar'tul."

"They would be screaming right now," Gilad said. "We'd all hear it."

Alin continued turning, examining the room. There was barely enough ambient light to see, coming from the Grandmaster's fireflies and the windows set high in the walls. The vast majority of the room, however, remained in shadow.

"Maybe they didn't set an alarm," Alin suggested.

"Or maybe," the Grandmaster said, "the alarm has already been silenced."

Gilad shook his head. "I wouldn't think so, Grandmaster. They would have to have detected us in Helgard. And there are no long-term installations on the sixteenth floor, so to have an alarm there..."

"That means they would have known we were coming," the Grandmaster concluded.

Alin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the lingering cold from Helgard.

A deafening clatter of wood and metal caught Alin’s attention. He spun on his heel to see that one of the Enosh soldiers had crumpled in a heap. Blood spread from under his helm.

"Form up!" someone yelled, and the soldiers' ring around the three Travelers became even tighter.

When they drew together, though, one of the squad didn't move. He stood there, with his back to Alin, as though staring into the shadow.

"Come on!" Alin called, but Grandmaster Naraka seized his arm.

"Quiet, boy," she hissed.

Why? Alin wondered, but he kept the thought to himself. He's just standing there.

Then the soldier collapsed to his knees, and fell over on his side. Blood leaked from his armor.

Somewhere in the room, someone began to sing.

"Hush, my child. Night is coming. The waking world grows dull and gray."

Someone behind Alin shouted, and there was a clang like two swords clashing. He turned, summoning a globe of golden force into his hand as he turned; whoever this attacker was, he was about to face the power of Elysia.

Two soldiers lay on the ground. Both of their drawn swords lay in pieces.

The voice continued, in a haunting singsong lullaby. "Leave your fear and leave your pain. I will make it go away."

"Enough of this foolishness," Grandmaster Naraka growled. She raised her hands, winced as though experiencing a minor and irritating pain, flicking her fingers up toward the roof. More of those red fireflies darted from her hands, but these hovered in glowing clouds at the corners of the ceiling. The resulting light was dim and bloody, but more than enough for Alin to see.

What he saw was a dim, swift figure in black darting from shadow to shadow. Alin pulled his arm back and hurled the globe of Elysian light at the shadowed figure.

The silhouette of a man didn't dodge or run out of the way. He raised one arm, and the golden blast struck him below the elbow.

Alin's light struck a shield of translucent green light. It was literally a shield, diamond-shaped and etched with a design that Alin couldn't quite make out, but it seemed to be outlined in semi-transparent planes of phantom light.

The golden blast crashed against that pale green shield and did nothing. The shield flickered and disappeared, leaving the room as dark as before.

Gilad took advantage of the moment to step forward, rolling his marked hand in a complex pattern that Alin had last seen from Overlord Malachi. A bright orange fireball seemingly made out of screaming faces appeared from Gilad's hand, streaking straight for the silhouette.

This time, the man in shadows didn't even bother to raise his arm. The fire crashed against his chest, splashing harmlessly against a ghostly green breastplate that the man had not been wearing earlier.

It was as though the man was covered in a full suit of armor that was completely invisible until it was needed. Was there anything they could do to get through to him?

Grandmaster Naraka, Alin noticed, had been moving both hands in a complex pattern for some time now. She finally finished, shouldered two soldiers apart to make room, and thrust her hands out toward the man in shadows. She made a sound like a grunt, as though she had repressed a scream, and a scaly red claw the size of Alin's midsection pushed itself out from midair and crunched on the tiles, its claws scraping up a handful of the floor.

"Ah," the figure in black said. "At last."

The creature continued to pull itself into the world, revealing an enormous shoulder covered in spikes and ridges of hardened plate. Alin was almost afraid to see what would come through.

"Bear witness!" Grandmaster Naraka screamed. "For the first time in a thousand years, this world shall tremble before—"

She was cut off by the single clear, crystal note of a horn. It reverberated through the entire room, echoing and crashing in Alin's ears, somehow without sounding strident or unpleasant.

The arm froze at the sound. It trembled, as though stuck between worlds.

After the note had gone on for only a second, the hand was slurped back through the Gate. The portal winked out, leaving the room in silence.

The figure in black lowered a horn from his lips. It was seemingly made out of glass, and it had some kind of transparent tube in the middle that swirled with water. How did glass and water produce a sound like a horn?

The man in the shadows shrugged. "I'm sorry," he said. "Were you not done?"

Alin gave some serious thought to retreating.

Someone screamed an order, and the soldiers rushed forward. Five men led the way, spears leveled. Three, to Alin's surprise, stayed back with him and the other two Travelers. The remainder of the troops rushed after the spearmen, swords drawn.

The figure in black waited until the spears were almost upon him before he reached to the side and summoned a sword. It was long and straight, not the slightly curving sword that Simon used.

"I knew it," Grandmaster Naraka hissed. "Valinhall."

A Valinhall Traveler? Alin thought. This man looked very different from Simon.

For one thing, though the swordsman was wearing all black, they were simply dark clothes. Not the billowing black cloak that Simon tended to wear. Also, Alin couldn't imagine Simon fighting without summoning that ridiculously long sword of his.

Plus, Alin didn't see any dolls. He wasn't exactly sure if the little girl's dolls he had seen Simon carrying had anything to do with Valinhall, but he had chosen to assume that they did. Simon carried a doll everywhere now, so either they had something to do with Simon’s Territory or he had developed a disturbing habit.

Either way, Alin saw none of the hallmarks that he had associated with Simon and Valinhall. But Grandmaster Naraka seemed certain, and she would know better than he would.

The five spearmen died very quickly. The man in black grabbed one of the spears below the head, pulling that soldier off balance and skewering him on the tip of a sword. He stepped forward, inside the reach of two other spearmen, and then he was holding two swords, one in each hand. He struck out to either side, slicing through the spearmen's necks as though they weren't even wearing armor.

The remaining two soldiers with spears leveled their weapons, thrusting them at the man. He cut one in half and spun around the other, drawing his sword across the soldier's throat. The last soldier threw down his half of a spear, screaming, and ran away.

The swordsman in black cocked his head to one side, but watched his enemy run.

By this time, the Enosh soldiers with swords had stopped their run and come to a complete stop, hesitating before stepping into arm's reach of the killer in black.

"Fall back!" one of the soldiers next to Alin shouted. She had a voice made to cut through deafening battlefields, and Alin realized she must be the commander.

"We'll handle the Traveler," she said. She stepped forward, and the other two soldiers that had stayed with Alin stepped forward at the same time.

These must be the Tartarus Travelers, Alin realized. Since coming to Enosh, he had heard of Tartarus Travelers referred to as 'soldiers,' but he had never thought of them as fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with ordinary troops. Travelers had, to him, always seemed like they should be kept separate from the ordinary fighters.

The five swordsmen seemed only too happy to fall back, hurrying back to the Travelers with more enthusiasm than discipline. The man in black simply stood there and watched, head cocked to one side.

As one, the three Tartarus Travelers each pulled out a small silver object and pointed them toward the man in black. They would be keys, Alin knew, tiny keys of Tartarus steel that Travelers of that Territory used in summoning.

Each Traveler moved the key differently. One turned it, as though opening a lock. One drew the key from top to bottom, like slitting a curtain down the middle. The other drew her key from left to right.

A Tartarus Gate gaped open in front of each Traveler, and wind whipped in the red-lit room as though the Gates were sucking all the air in with them. A spinning blade, like a razor-edged cartwheel, flew out of one Gate, flying parallel to the ground. Another Gate spat forth a spray of arm-length needles. From the third, a huge form—like a man in a suit of silver armor, but impossibly large—shouldered his way into the world.

The summoning process only took a split second, which must have been what stopped the man in black from simply blowing his glass horn again and forcing the Gates to disappear. Alin wasn't sure he had ever seen a Traveler open a Gate and complete a summons as quickly as these three from Tartarus.

But the swordsman in black was ready. He went to one knee as soon as he saw the Tartarus Travelers take out their keys, and he placed both of his swords very carefully on the floor. When the air in front of him exploded in a storm of flashing steel, the man in black summoned an enormous shield that looked as though it had been designed to stop a rampaging bear. It was huge, easily big enough for the crouching man to hide behind, and most of its center was covered by a scuffed bronze plate. The swordsman angled the shield and let the needles slam into it. Most either stuck in the wood or struck the bronze plate, bouncing off and spinning into the air.

The bladed wheel spun over the shield, shaving a splinter of wood from the shield's very tip. The swordsman did something. It happened so fast that Alin wasn't sure exactly what he saw, but it seemed as though the man in black thrust his hand up into the center of the spinning blade, grabbing somewhere Alin couldn't see.

The silvery disc stopped spinning, as the swordsman in black clutched it by the middle. Now that it wasn't moving so quickly, Alin could see the weapon in more detail: it was a solid sheet of metal, razor sharp all the way around, but the center of the circular disc was empty. The circle in the middle was crossed with a single bar, as though to give a warrior something to grip.

There was no way to use it as a handhold, though, Alin was sure. Even though the swordsman held it up now, there was no way he could use it: the disc was too wide, too heavy, and too unwieldy to use in combat. He could try and use it like a shield, Alin supposed, but he had a much better shield sitting on the ground in front of him. Besides, the disc had a hole in the middle.

"Oh, no," Gilad whispered. He started muttering to himself in what Alin recognized as the beginnings of a Helgard summons.

The swordsman in black leaped over his shield, running to meet the huge man in the silver armor. The armored giant drew an enormous broadsword, swinging with two hands down on the man's head.

He blocked the sword with the edge of the silvery disc, and sparks flew. By the light of the sparks, Alin could tell that the swordsman was indeed dressed head-to-toe in black: he had wrapped strips of black cloth over his face and head.

With the disc in the swordsman's left hand, he held off the armor's sword. With his other hand, he slipped his own sword inside the armor's visor. That simple. He almost looked delicate, as though he were simply and harmlessly flicking the man on his metal forehead.

The armored man seemed to melt, sinking down to the floor in a deafening clatter of metal.

By this time, the three Tartarus Travelers had spread out to surround the man in black, already moving their keys to summon more weapons. The five remaining swordsmen spread out as well, presumably to keep from looking useless.

And Alin made a decision.

The Grandmaster was waving her hand in a summoning motion, probably to make another useless demonstration of power, and Gilad was still muttering his Helgard summons. Alin grabbed them both by the back of the neck and pulled them toward the corner of the room.

Gilad sputtered and coughed, cut off mid-chant. Grandmaster Naraka tried to grab him by the arm with her glowing red hand, promising vile threats.

"Quiet," Alin said. "We're wasting time." He wasn't sure he would get away with that tone any other time, but at the moment he was far more focused on getting results.

Alin dragged them off to one corner of the room, underneath a cloud of Naraka's red fireflies. He glanced to his side, to the room's door, and briefly considered walking out. He quickly rejected the idea. They could wander the corridors of the house for hours looking for the Incarnation. Despite what the Grandmaster claimed, he didn't think it would be so easy to find the way downstairs in the Overlord's mansion.

"What are you doing, boy?" Grandmaster Naraka demanded.

"We need to get to the Incarnation," Alin said.

"Good point," Gilad said. "Stay on mission."

Grandmaster Naraka shot a poisonous glance back at the Valinhall Traveler, but she brushed her hands off, businesslike. "We've wasted enough time here. Let's get moving."

She sounded for all the world as if leaving had been her idea.

"So where is the room?" Alin asked.

"The Hanging Tree has to be in contact with the earth," Grandmaster Naraka responded. Her red glasses looked almost black in the crimson light. "Wherever it is, it will be below us."

Alin reached out to Elysia, that sunny light he always felt over his shoulder. Bright golden force began to gather between his palms.

"Below it is," Alin said. He blasted a hole in the floor, and they dropped down.

CHAPTER 11:

ALIN VS. KAI

Simon stared at the sword jutting from the Incarnation's chest. Indirial barely hung on to the hilt, still kneeling on the ground, too exhausted to stand. But he pushed the sword in with both hands.

"I couldn't...see you," Valin said thickly.

"It's my impeccable fashion sense," Indirial responded. He twisted his blade as he tore it from the Incarnation's flesh.

Valin stood there for a moment, a ragged hole in his chest, and Simon allowed himself to relax. The soldiers were still fighting the Nye, but they seemed to be winning—at least, there were fewer black robes standing than there had been a few minutes before. Maybe this would all soon be over.

Step back, Angeline said grimly. It's not over.

Valin looked up, and for a moment the silver of his eyes gleamed brighter than the moon. A bright green light flared in his wound, like sunlight filtered through a forest canopy. Before Simon's eyes, the Incarnation's wound knitted itself whole.

The Valinhall Incarnation spun, impossibly fast, and seized Indirial's wrist. Indirial twisted for leverage, trying to break his master's hold, but Valin's grip didn't budge. The chains on his skin twisted and writhed like a nest of black snakes.

With a shout, the Incarnation hauled Indirial off his feet and lifted him up in the air, slamming him down against the ground with a deafening crack. The Overlord struggled feebly, but Valin walked up and stomped on his ribs with impossible force. Simon heard the crack from where he crouched in the bushes, two dozen steps away. Valin kicked his former student hard enough that Indirial's body rose into the air. He spun on his heel and kicked Indirial's black-cloaked form in midair, launching him all the way across the clearing. His body rolled when it landed, coming to a stop almost at Simon's feet.

"That's enough," Valin said calmly. With one hand, he brushed the blood from his chest. The wound was already gone completely. With his other hand he summoned his blade.

Valin swung his gaze to the southeast, staring off into the distance. Simon barely heard his words. "You won't stop me, this time," Valin said. "I will smash through anything in my way. I will earn this.”

With a chill, Simon realized he was staring in the direction of Cana.

The Incarnation of Valinhall raised his blade to the sky as if in salute, and for an instant the Nye all froze. They collapsed into shadows and moonlight essence, slithering away. The soldiers who had been engaged in combat looked around, bewildered, wondering where their opponents had gone. One or two even raised a ragged cheer.

Valin dashed forward, faster than Simon had ever moved with Nye essence. Simon couldn't even see him, except in flashes: first he was on the hill where he had fought Indirial, then he was twenty paces away, standing in the middle of the soldiers, his gold-and-silver sword pulled back.

The soldiers died.

They fell like wheat at the harvest. One man had a Tartarus steel blade, and managed to knock aside one of Valin's blows before the Incarnation kicked him across the battlefield and on top of the nearest tent. No one else offered any resistance. Valin passed through the crowd of soldiers, and in only a handful of seconds left nothing behind him but bodies and bloody mud.

Obviously one of Indirial's Travelers had survived, because a red lizard—like a blood-red salamander the size of a pony, with three barbed tails—ran up and hissed in Valin's direction. It flicked its tail forward, sending three tiny fireballs buzzing toward the Incarnation's face.

He didn't bother blocking. The fireballs shattered in midair, inches from Valin's face, crashing against a translucent helm of pale green light. When the light from the fire faded, so too did the helm. Valin vanished from where he was standing, reappearing ten paces later behind the giant salamander.

The lizard's tails each fell to the ground, followed by its head.

Valin kept walking through the camp, due southeast, seemingly in a hurry this time. Every once in a while his sword dipped out into one or another of the tents to the side, and he withdrew it even bloodier than before.

Simon shivered as he realized that, this time, the Incarnation was going to cut his way through all the way to Cana. What was the village that Indirial had shown him on the map, the one between them and Cana? The village of Belcor?

Angeline interrupted his thoughts. We need to get Indirial to the House, she said, her tone firm. Simon. You need to get Indirial in the pool, or he will die. You can still return to fight the Incarnation.

Fight him? Simon asked. I can't stop him. I’m not ready for him.

You don't need to stop him, just to slow him down. Remember? Indirial’s reinforcements should be here soon. But for now, return to the House.

Simon wasn't sure there was any need. Indirial was likely dead already, considering the beating he'd taken. Simon called what little steel he could—even the small trickle he managed to draw from Valinhall was enough to keep him on his feet—and moved Azura down the air in the beginnings of a Valinhall Gate.

As soon as the portal was complete, Simon hauled Indirial through and began dragging him down the hall toward the pool. He would need to toss the Overlord in for healing and stand guard himself, since Indirial was obviously in no shape to deal with the imps on his own.

Simon tried to keep his own condition from his mind, but he couldn't help noticing the aches and pains of his body. He was covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises. There was no part of his body that didn't ache. He had sustained over a dozen cuts that he didn't remember earning, and his steel would only last him another few seconds before failing entirely. Even worse, he was exhausted at a bone-deep level. He had never felt so tired.

But he stayed on his feet, dragging Indirial down the hall by the neck of his cloak. He had run out of liquid steel completely, and was dragging the Overlord down the hallway with nothing but his tired arms, when he backed into something in the middle of the hall.

Wearily, Simon turned to see Lycus catching his balance against the wall. His blond hair was disheveled and the side of his face purple, as though he had just come from a fight.

Simon didn't have time to ask questions. He shoved Indirial at the boy.

"Lycus, I need you to get some help. Take care of this guy. Bring him to the pool and protect him while he's in there, can you do that?"

Lycus nodded, his eyes wide, and he started to hurry off for help. He had barely moved more than a few feet, though, before he hesitated and turned back to Simon.

"Where are you going to be?" he asked.

"Doing something stupid," Simon replied, forcing his aching body to limp back towards the Gate.

Kai was gone, Indirial unconscious. Somebody had to slow the Incarnation down before he carved a bloody trough through the village of Belcor, and it looked like that was going to be him.

He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his responsibility, that he could let Indirial’s Damascan friends take care of it whenever they showed up. It didn’t work.

Simon wasn’t sure if he could stop Valin long enough for reinforcements to show up. He didn’t know if Indirial’s reinforcements could handle an Incarnation even if they did show up in time.

But he did know that he couldn’t sit around and do nothing.

He had to try.

***

Alin stood three floors below where he had started, crouching behind the green shield he summoned from Elysia. The shield surrounded him in a half-dome made of hexagonal plates of interlocking green light, like a honeycomb of solid force. A bolt of lightning shattered against the green shield without even scorching the Travelers within.

Gilad and Grandmaster Naraka stood behind him, but he couldn't turn to check on their condition. Every once in a while he felt a flash of heat on his back and heard a somewhat distant scream, and he took that to mean they were doing their jobs. So he had to focus on his own.

There were two Endross Travelers in front of him, a man and a woman, and their storms were growing big enough to shroud the entire hallway in black clouds and flashing lightning. Alin had learned enough of Endross to know that, the bigger those Gates became, the more he had to worry about. Defending himself from lightning bolts was worry enough for anyone.

Alin let the green shield flicker out of existence to hurl a head-sized globe of golden light, but he had to pull the shield back up when one of the Travelers tried to swarm him with a flock of little flying lizards. They scrabbled against his green shield, hissing at him and crackling with blue sparks.

"Send me another one of those lights," the female Traveler taunted. "That was delicious."

"Come on out and fight!" the male called.

Alin didn't know what was worse: the fact that they considered it an actual battlefield tactic to try and taunt him into making a stupid decision, or the fact that it was almost working. He was all but prepared to drop his shield and run at them with his fists if he thought it would shut them up.

There was a flash of heat against his back, and then a freezing chill. Something huge roared, and—though Alin didn't turn around—he would have bet it had a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. The whole floor thundered as the whatever-it-was pounded down the hallway toward its prey.

Grandmaster Naraka tapped him on the shoulder. "Allow me to tend to these two, Eliadel. I have some experience with Endross."

Alin stepped to one side, though he didn't let his green shield lapse. The Grandmaster made a few gestures with her hand, and a head poked its way out of thin air in front of her. It looked like a jet-black crocodile's head on a long, serpentine neck.

As it got closer to his shield, the head burst into flames.

"I've seen one of those things before," Alin realized aloud. "I fought one in Bel Calem."

"They are the kush'da'rosh," Grandmaster Naraka explained, taking on a lecturing tone. "Also known as snapdragons. They are quite rare, and prefer to attack from ambush. Drop the shield, please."

Alin glanced at her. The swarm of flying lizards was still only feet away, gnawing at the solid green light as though wishing to tear flesh from bone. At his look, Grandmaster Naraka nodded, so Alin let the shield drop.

Immediately, the tiny fliers rushed toward Naraka's black lizard.

"Little known facts about the kush'da'rosh," the Grandmaster said. "First, Endross creatures almost always consider it the strongest creature around. So they attack it first."

The giant black creature had fully emerged from the Gate, now, and it seemed to be having a great time snapping the little drakes out of the air and swallowing them whole. Their blue sparks seemed to cause it no inconvenience whatsoever.

"Second," the Grandmaster continued, "snapdragons do not mind lightning."

The hallway filled with a blinding light, and Alin flinched away from the radiance. His hair stood on end, and the whole hall smelled as though the air was somehow burned.

One or both of the Enosh Travelers had launched a bolt of lightning at him...but it had been intercepted by the snapdragon's black hide. It swiveled its black crocodile head toward the Endross pair and let out a deafening roar, bursting fully into flame at the same time. When it waddled down the hallway, it did so with frightening, sinuous speed.

Alin raised his arm to protect himself from the snapdragon's heat, but Grandmaster Naraka—who had been standing even closer to the burning creature than Alin—seemed to feel no need. She watched her summoned creature, impassive behind her red spectacles.

The kush'da'rosh had reached the two Endross Travelers now, having slipped between their rolling thunderstorms. The woman had banished her storm, fighting it hand-to-hand with her drawn sword. She was laughing, for some reason. The man kept maneuvering his storm like a shield, so that every time the snapdragon bit at him it risked falling into the storm.

They had—however temporarily—taken their eyes off the other three Travelers. Perhaps they expected their allies at the other end of the hallway to distract Alin and his party long enough for them to survive.

Gilad walked up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Alin. "All finished," he said. Alin didn't have to check to know that everyone else in the room was dead.

"So it's just these two," Alin said. Grandmaster Naraka nodded, and Alin filled both of his palms with golden light.

The male Traveler managed to get his Gate up in time, swallowing the golden light whole, and the woman somehow sensed the light coming, spun around, and caught the blast on the flat end of her sword. The light deflected up into the ceiling, sending debris clattering down.

"Wow," Gilad said. "That was impressive."

As soon as the Endross Travelers turned to deal with Alin's attack, the snapdragon tore into them from behind, fire and claws and fanged jaws working in unison.

Alin winced, looking away, as the smell of burning flesh filled the hall. It was nauseating, and he could feel bile rising in his throat.

I will not lose control, he thought. Not in front of them. I will not allow myself to look weak.

Grandmaster Naraka and Gilad walked forward, stepping over the burnt corpses of the Endross Travelers as though picking their way through so much garbage. Alin followed on their heels, trying to stare at anything else.

Past the bodies of the two Endross Travelers, the hall ended in a pair of stone doors, carved with forbidding designs that looked like they might crawl right off.

Grandmaster Naraka put her red-marked right hand forward and straightened her spine visibly. "This is it," she whispered. "After all these years...I can hear Naraka itself crying behind these doors."

Gilad stepped forward as though he couldn't help himself, like something in the doors was drawing him. He placed both hands on the doors, feeling around. "I don't sense any traps. At least, nothing I can detect. Just a chain and a padlock."

Grandmaster Naraka snorted. "Out of the way, boy. I'll show you how to check for traps."

She walked forward and began waving her hand in an orderly pattern, her face set in a stony expression, as though she were preparing to endure a blow.

Alin should have felt triumphant, standing as they were in front of their goal, but for some reason he felt nervous. They had certainly worked hard enough to earn their way here, and the reason they had decided to strike here in the first place was because they knew it was lightly defended. But something twisted in his gut, as though his body itself were certain something was wrong.

He looked up and down the hallway, seeing nothing but corpses and destruction left by their battle.

We've won, Alin told himself. I need to celebrate, not take everything so seriously. I'm not Simon. For some reason, though, he couldn’t feel anything but exhaustion.

Alin turned back to Grandmaster Naraka, who had a hand to the door. The cracks between shone with a bright red light.

He almost didn't hear the light thump that sounded from the other end of the hallway, but that sound sent shivers down his spine in a way that the roar of battle never had. Alin spun around to face the noise, hurling and throwing a globe of destructive golden light in the same motion.

It was the swordsman in black from earlier. He had hopped through the hole Alin had blasted down to this floor, which meant he must have followed them down the other floors too. His head was no longer wrapped in black cloth, and his hair was a white mop that hung down into his eyes.

He crouched there, knees bent, one hand pressed against the tile, until Alin's blast of gold almost reached him. He cocked his head to one side, and the ball of golden energy flew over his shoulder and crashed into the wall behind him.

"Dangerous, dangerous," the white-haired swordsman said casually. "You should find new toys to play with."

Then he was running down the hall, and Alin began to wonder if they would make it out of here alive. He put both hands forward, filling the hall with his bright green honeycomb shield. It would take the swordsman a few minutes at least to get through the plane of solid light, and by then Grandmaster Naraka would be inside the doors.

The Grandmaster cackled. "Well done, Eliadel! Stall him until I can get through."

The swordsman raised one hand, placing it flat against the translucent green wall, opposite Alin's own hands on the other side. From this close, Alin saw that the white-haired man's arm was wrapped in the same black chain marks as Simon's. Maybe they had something to do with summoning, somehow, like the symbol Naraka Travelers had tattooed on their hands.

"You fought bravely," Alin called. "Now stand aside and let us finish our mission. Do not stand with Damasca. They—"

The chains on the man's arms went from black to a bright, flaring white in an instant, and Alin's shield shattered like glass. The pain was indescribable, as though someone had torn out a piece of Alin's skull and crushed it underfoot. He screamed, collapsing to his knees, barely noticing that he had landed in a pool of blood.

The Valinhall Traveler walked casually past Alin. As he did, the swordsman pulled something out of one ear. Wax?

“I couldn’t hear you,” the man sang. He didn’t bother to cut Alin down, but Alin was in too much pain to wonder why.

Alin watched through a haze of agony as Gilad raised both hands, chanting and spinning his Naraka-marked hand at the same time. Behind him, Grandmaster Naraka was pulling the doors open.

The white-haired man stepped forward, and—though he didn't move any faster than before—Alin somehow lost track of his movements. He moved so smoothly that Alin could barely see him step from one place to another.

He stepped past Gilad, slipping a foot behind the young Traveler's ankle and tripping him to the ground. While Gilad still hung in midair, the swordsman slammed his fist into the young man's face. Gilad crashed into the floor, and the Valinhall man kept walking.

Grandmaster Naraka had the doors fully open now, and she was waving her red-marked hand desperately, trying to summon enough power to incinerate the Hanging Tree.

A huge, broad-bladed knife flashed into the Valinhall Traveler's hand. He stepped forward, and the steel flashed twice.

The Grandmaster's hands fell to the ground. She grunted but didn't scream, running forward into the room as though there was something she could still do to accomplish their mission.

The Valinhall Traveler grabbed her by the scruff of the neck like an unruly puppy and pulled her back. "No, no, no," the white-haired man said. "We must all wait our turn." He raised the knife high.

Alin rushed forward, leaping to his feet despite the pain, to try and save Grandmaster Naraka.

"The Tree, Alin!" Naraka screamed desperately. "Get the Tree!"

The world seemed to freeze as Alin's mind tore in two different directions, trying to come to some sort of a decision. He could reach their goal, right now: all he had to do was throw himself to the right, through the doors, and unload golden power into the Tree. Out of the corner of his eye he could even see his target: a mass of blood-red vines, leaves, and branches that covered this entire basement room.

Then again, he would be leaving Grandmaster Naraka and Gilad to die. Alin would likely survive, since he could still open a Gate and retreat to his Territory. The other two were in no shape to do so. Gilad was unconscious, the Grandmaster crippled.

Even worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to destroy the Tree. What would happen if he released an Incarnation here? The plan had been to withdraw through Naraka, where the Naraka Incarnation couldn't enter, but now that he had to Travel Elysia, who was to say the Incarnation couldn't follow him there?

The white-haired Valinhall Traveler cocked his head to one side, like a curious bird. "Alin?" he said.

Alin made his decision. He filled the hall with golden power, blasting the swordsman with pure force. The man in black tried to swat the golden blast away with the blade of his knife, but he was ultimately thrown backwards, past the doors and down the hall. Alin didn't follow him, throwing up a green shield again to delay the man. If the Valinhall Traveler managed to shatter this one, too, Alin thought he might pass out from the pain, but he needed something to stall the man, even for a few seconds.

He slipped one gold-plated arm under Naraka's midsection, pulling her back to crouch over Gilad. Opening a Gate usually took him almost a minute, but he didn’t even have five seconds. He needed the Gate open now. He poured his desperation, his focus, and his remaining energy into the air in front of him, willing it to tear open and show him Elysia.

At last, the Gate peeled open, revealing the City of Light.

The sky of the Territory seemed made of pure gold, as though the entire realm had been locked in an eternal sunrise. The City gleamed under the golden light, its walls stretching off as far as Alin could see in either direction. The walls were vast and white, probably fifty paces high at their peak, and adorned with flowing designs and precious gems. The gates of the city were silver and gold, boasting even more jewels.

The City stood even higher than the walls, revealing peaked towers of gold, copper, bronze, and other, more exotic materials. The shining green leaves of an impossibly tall tree waved next to one particular tower, and the tree’s fruits glimmered like half-seen stars.

Outside the walls stretched a field, the flowers and grasses blew gently in a spring-scented breeze. This seemed like a place of safety, where one could relax and enjoy the surroundings.

Usually. At the moment, it felt like their last, desperate hope.

Alin’s power ripped out of him with the Gate, leaving him dangerously exhausted. Even his vision fuzzed for a moment, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to move through the portal.

Under his arm, Grandmaster Naraka thrashed weakly. "No, Alin, no," she said. "The Tree, Alin. Get the Tree."

She had done something to the stumps where her hands used to be. They were mangled and torn, and looked half-burnt, but they didn't bleed as much as they should have. Still, she left a trickle of blood on the tiles.

"It's not worth it," Alin said. He placed Grandmaster Naraka beyond the Gate, onto the softly waving grass. He grabbed Gilad by the legs and dragged him through. The ground on the other side wasn't exactly parallel with the floor, and Gilad may have dropped a few inches when Alin dragged him through, but a few bruises on Gilad's head was the last thing Alin wanted to worry about at this point.

Alin saw the Valinhall Traveler raising one chain-marked arm and pressing it against his green wall, and he hurriedly let the Gate vanish. He had learned over the past weeks that any shields he left behind would disappear as soon as he stepped into another Territory.

"Rhalia," Alin called. He wanted nothing more than to relax down into the mattress softness of the grassy Elysian fields, but he was afraid Grandmaster Naraka would soon bleed to death. She was still shaking her head from side to side, panting and begging Alin to go back, but her voice was barely audible. She looked as though she was only a few seconds from passing out.

Rhalia would know what to do, though. She was his guide to the City of Light, and she would know something to help his allies. He started to call her name again, but he saw something that made his heart freeze.

In the air behind him, where the Gate had once been, a hand was sticking out of midair. This hand was covered in a black gauntlet, a gauntlet with pointed—almost clawed—fingertips, and as Alin watched, it flexed and began to tear the air aside.

The outline of the Gate burned gold, sending off flares of light as the world resisted being violated from the outside. But finally the gatecrawler finished its work, taking the Gate Alin had closed and tearing it wide open.

The white-haired swordsman stepped through the Gate. He raised his black-gauntleted left hand, shaking one finger as if to berate a naughty child. "Uh-uh-uh," he said, in a haunting singsong voice. "The little mice don't get to hide in their burrow, do they? Not when they have scratched the lion's nose."

"Rhalia!" Alin called. He scrambled to his feet, hurling another ball of golden light at the Valinhall Traveler. It shattered against that translucent green armor, doing no harm whatsoever.

"You are in my Territory now, intruder," Alin said formally. He drew himself up to his full height, filling both hands with light, letting his golden armor gleam in Elysia's eternal sunrise. "Your powers cannot stand against mine, not here."

His voice shook a little on the last word, but it was worth taking the chance. The swordsman had successfully defended the Tree, and thus accomplished his goal. If Alin could get him to leave on his own, the three of them might actually survive.

"Can they not?" the Valinhall Traveler said curiously. He let his knife drop, and it shimmered and vanished before it hit the grass. "Odd. I don't feel any weaker."

A broad, straight sword flashed into his hand, and he dashed forward.

Alin sent out a mental distress call. There were dozens of beings he could summon here, and most of them would not hesitate to lay down their lives for his. The gold ball of light and the green shield were not his only powers, just the ones he could call most easily and most quickly. There were others, though. For instance...

He concentrated, visualizing the golden sword that he had summoned before. This, too, was made of interlocking planes of light, but where his shield was made of green, this blade was built of golden force. Light streamed into his hand from all around him, gathering and coalescing into the ghost of a golden blade.

Alin brought the sword up in both hands to meet the other Traveler's one-handed strike.

But the swordsman was strong. Both of Alin's arms trembled from the effort of holding off the Valinhall Traveler's blow. His entire body trembled, and he actually had to sink to one knee to avoid collapsing. Even the gold planes of his sword cracked, leaking light like blood.

"Not bad, golden man," the white-haired swordsman said. He didn't appear to be trying particularly hard. Alin noticed marks on the man’s arms, like links from a chain of shadows, peeking up from his collarbone. Did the shadow-chains spread over his body? Did they make him stronger, or weaker?

If Alin survived this, he was going to wring some answers out of Simon.

The Valinhall Traveler kicked Alin in the chest, sending him sprawling in the grass. "That's a nice sword," he said. Alin barely managed to swing the blade enough to deflect the swordsman's next attack, knocking it aside from his position lying on his back.

"They should have taught you how to use it," the swordsman said, shaking his head regretfully.

A woman's voice, cheerful and vibrant, spoke from behind Alin. "We haven't had long to work with him," Rhalia said. "Give it time."

Alin pushed his head back, looking up at Rhalia.

She appeared to be a young woman, only a few years older than Alin, if that. Her eyes and her long, flowing hair were gold. Not yellow, not the color of straw, but a gleaming metallic gold. She wore a long white dress with a golden sash, and she hovered at least six inches off the ground.

Alin had never actually seen her stand on a solid floor. Privately, he sometimes wondered if she was even real.

She smiled down at him, gold eyes flashing. "Hello, Alin. It seems that every time I see you, you're lying on the grass."

"It's so comfortable here, I can't help myself." His relief at seeing her was so great that he almost laughed.

The white-haired Valinhall Traveler had ignored Alin as soon as Rhalia arrived, instead stepping over to Grandmaster Naraka. He held his sword reversed in both hands, about to drive it down into her chest.

Interlocking emerald bracelets appeared around his wrists, locking his hands in place.

"Don't challenge me, Traveler," Rhalia said. She didn't sound threatening. She sounded as though she were chiding a child. "I may not use many powers in the outside world, but here I can still manage a few tricks."

The swordsman's chains flared white, and the bracelets shattered.

"So, it seems, can I," he said. He stepped forward, swinging his sword at Rhalia's midsection in a gleaming arc. The sword burned with a brief violet light, and disappeared mid-swing.

"We hope you've enjoyed your stay in Elysia, City of Light," she said cheerfully. "Please have a wonderful afternoon. Good-bye."

The Valinhall Traveler stepped forward, reaching for her, as though to attack with his bare hands. There was a flash of blinding orange light and he was lifted off his feet, carried on a cushion of orange back and through the still-open Gate.

From top to bottom, the portal zipped itself shut.

"Wow," Alin found himself saying. "When can I learn to do that?"

"How loyal are you feeling today?" Rhalia asked, smiling. “You would have to demonstrate exceptional loyalty for me to trust you with this.”

Exceptional loyalty? He had saved two of his teammates today, surely that should count for something.

Oh, right, he thought. My teammates.

"The Grandmaster!" Alin said, sitting up. "She needs help. Is there a healer, or something..."

Rhalia drifted over to hover above Grandmaster Naraka. Her white dress fluttered in the gentle breeze, and for a moment her golden gaze looked almost calculating. Cold. As though she were trying to determine what this woman's life was worth.

At last Rhalia shook her head like a child shaking off a nightmare. She snapped her fingers, and a bed of orange lights appeared under Grandmaster Naraka's back, lifting her into the air until she drifted behind Rhalia. "I’ll see what I can do," Rhalia said.

Alin followed, his body feeling completely drained. He had summoned too much from his Territory today, and opened the Gate too quickly. He felt as though he would pitch onto his face any second. It didn't help that he was still locked in this heavy golden armor.

Rhalia flew up to the tall gates of Elysia, which slid open on soundless hinges as she approached. Alin had walked in and out of this city dozens of times, and he still couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension. Usually, the dangers of Elysia waited deep inside the city, but the first time he had tried to enter he was almost impaled by dozens of arrows as soon as he pushed open these gates. The entrance this time was harmless enough: it was a curving white stone tunnel, burrowing through the walls, set with blazing golden torches every few paces.

Alin walked after the Grandmaster's floating body, her shoes at the same level as his chest. He spared one glance for Gilad, still lying unconscious on the grass outside, before deciding to leave him. He didn't have the strength to carry the man, and besides, Gilad was still breathing. He would probably be just as safe lying outside the city walls.

As Alin followed Rhalia and the Grandmaster's drifting bed of light, he turned his head at a sound echoing through the tunnel. It sounded like teacups clattering together on a tray. He glanced ahead, around him, and behind, trying to spot the source of the noise. It could mean danger; in fact, the way his day was going, it was almost certainly something dangerous.

Finally, he looked down to see his hand trembling so violently that the plates of his gauntlet shook.

Was he that panicked? He hadn't realized. But fear and relief still coursed so violently through his body that he could scarcely stand.

Alin clenched his gauntlet into a fist. He couldn't be weak, not now. He couldn't afford it.

CHAPTER 12:

A DECLARATION OF WAR

Simon dashed away from the clearing, following the trail of the Incarnation. He should have been running across wet grass, but his shoes pounded on hardwood flooring. That was a bad sign. The Incarnation's corruption was spreading. The Damascans' entire camp had been corrupted by the Incarnation’s presence, now: the tents had changed from peaked canvas into wooden structures with shingled roofs. They looked like doghouses. The earth between the rows of tents had transformed into a wood-paneled floor, the grass into green carpeting. Lantern-poles and hitching-posts for the horses had turned into coat-racks and hat-stands.

The weapons strewn about camp remained untouched, waiting in barrels or beside cots, but the blood and corpses were nowhere to be seen.

It looks like the Nye have been busy, Simon thought.

Up ahead, Angeline sent.

He still couldn’t get used to having a doll who actually kept her mind on business. He wasn’t sure he liked it. Caela or Otoku would have responded with a joke, or at least sarcasm.

It usually annoyed him, but now he was finding that he missed their banter.

Simon snagged a spear from where it stood upright in a barrel, hefting it in one hand. The Incarnation had already destroyed Harinfel, but Simon could see another village to the southeast. In the distance, he could barely make out Valin's chain-marked back. He was headed straight for the cluster of buildings.

As the Incarnation walked, the ground behind him turned to polished wood. Rocks scraped and rumbled and shed dust as they shaped themselves into chairs, while trees dropped their leaves and bark as they were formed into carved beams, holding up a ceiling that didn't exist. The world shaped itself around the Wanderer, steadily becoming more and more like Valinhall.

Simon ran. His steel had almost recovered, and he desperately wanted to call its power. His already-exhausted arms ached from supporting the spear, and the muscles in his legs burned. He would need the full extent of his power, so he waited, running on his body's natural strength alone.

He was running downhill, and if the terrain had remained in its natural state, he would have had to slow down or risk twisting an ankle on rock and tumbling down. But the Incarnation had kindly provided him with an even platform of flat wood, so he ran without hesitation, steadily eating up Valin's lead.

The Valinhall Incarnation didn't seem to be hurrying, but nor was he wasting time. He moved ahead at a measured pace.

Once Simon had covered enough of the distance between him and Valin, he called steel. The surge of cold power through his body soothed his aching muscles and filled him with a strength that felt intoxicating compared to his exhausted weakness. He hurled the spear with the strength of five men, sending it flying more than far enough to take Valin through the back.

Simon had never trained with the spear, and aiming one correctly was harder than it looked. The spear clattered to the ground five paces ahead and ten steps to the left of his target.

Caela or Otoku would have made a joke. Even Lilia would have said something to make him feel bad about the throw. Angeline sighed.

The Incarnation stopped and turned, his black-and-silver eyes locked on Simon. He didn't smile or make jokes this time, so maybe he had finally decided to take Simon seriously.

Azura, Angeline said, and Simon summoned his Dragon's Fang just as the Wanderer summoned his.

Valin stepped forward and seemed to blur. He started out thirty paces away and then stood less than fifteen feet in front of Simon, his huge blade drawn back for a thrust.

But he froze, staring over Simon's shoulder. Something happened that Simon had never seen before: an oval of purple light flared on Valin's forehead, a single dot in the middle. It looked as though someone had drawn a third eye out of purple ink in the center of Valin's head, and that symbol was now glowing.

"Excuse me a moment, young dragon," Valin said. He straightened up, levering his gold-and-silver blade to rest on his shoulder.

If Simon had thought it would do any good, he would have attacked when the Incarnation was off his guard. But his job here was to stall until Indirial's reinforcements arrived, not to win. The longer Valin stood where he was, the better. Maybe he would even give Simon enough time to restore his Nye essence.

Besides, Angeline said, attacking him when he's standing there wouldn't be fair.

Simon couldn't even begin to explain what was wrong with that statement, so he said nothing.

A swirling mass of black clouds and flashing lightning, like a thunderstorm tipped on its side, grew out of thin air to Valin's side. He tilted his body to keep the Endross Gate in view, but he did not turn his back on Simon.

Simon was oddly moved by the gesture. It showed a degree of respect for Simon, as an opponent and as a threat, that Simon probably didn't deserve.

A lithe, muscled man with dark skin stepped out of the Gate, a sword on each hip. He was followed by a tall, refined woman with feathers delicately arranged in her straight silver hair. Grandmasters Endross and Avernus.

They were followed out of the Gate by a handful of other Endross Travelers and some troops. For a moment, Simon's hopes lifted—maybe these were the reinforcements Indirial had mentioned. But no, he had specifically discussed Ragnarus Travelers, and Enosh had no Travelers of that Territory. Besides, there was no way Enosh would work with Damasca. So what were the Grandmasters doing here?

He was given his answer a moment later when the entire party went to their knees before the Incarnation, bowing with their heads almost touching the ground.

Simon couldn't seem to get a breath. He had thought he was facing impossible odds when he was trying to stall the Incarnation. Now, facing two Grandmasters and an entire war party from Enosh in addition to Valin...

He turned and started running up the sloping wooden path. If he could get enough distance, he could open a Gate and flee from here.

Two black chains, like those the Nye carried, erupted from the ground on either side of the polished wooden planks. They each wrapped around one of Simon's ankles, tangling him and almost tripping him onto his face.

He steadied himself, and the chains loosened enough to allow him to turn around.

Valin's smile showed steadily through the night, and he waved at Simon. "Hold on a moment, while I have a word with these fine ladies and gentlemen," the Incarnation said.

From his position on the ground, Grandmaster Endross turned his head to give Simon a blazing, hungry look. Most of the people down there would have no problem killing him, Simon knew, but Endross at least wanted his death badly. For some reason, Grandmaster Endross seemed to have a personal stake in seeing Simon dead.

Watch out for that man, Angeline warned.

I figured that out for myself, Simon sent.

No need to be sarcastic, she replied primly. I get enough of that from my sisters.

Simon sank to a crouch, the chains still held loosely around his ankles. His black cloak settled around him. He let Azura and his steel both fade back into Valinhall, saving as much strength as possible. There would be a fight here, and he doubted he had much of a chance to survive without his full strength.

Maker knows, I don't have much of a chance of surviving, he thought. Angeline said nothing, but he felt a sense of agreement.

Oddly enough, he wasn't afraid. Maybe you could only face certain death so many times before it lost its sting.

"What is this?" the Valinhall Incarnation asked, addressing the Enosh Travelers in front of him.

"We know something of you," Grandmaster Avernus responded, raising her head a bit. "We know that none of us could stand against you."

"That's good reason for you to stay away," Valin said softly. "Not enough for you to bow.”

"We have the same ambitions,” Avernus said in a rush. "We, too, wish to destroy Damasca."

"We would see Cana burn,” Grandmaster Endross said. He didn't sound afraid.

Valin's face twisted almost into a snarl, and he turned back to the southeast. "I’m going to Cana. If you are—” He cut off, and his head twitched to one side. “You may come with me if—”

His head jerked this way and that, as though he were being pulled in two different directions at once. The Enosh Travelers said nothing, keeping their faces to the ground. Simon tried to stay as quiet as possible.

Simon heard a whisper of cloth, and someone in a flowing black cloak stepped up beside him.

"He is at war in himself," the Eldest Nye said quietly. "The man and the Incarnation of our world, each with his own goals."

"What are his goals?" Simon asked, equally quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was remind anyone of his presence.

"The man, as you know, seeks the destruction of what was once his home. His reasons are personal, and rooted in an ancient grief. The Incarnation is a force, like heat or gravity. It tries to make this world like unto Valinhall: harsh and unforgiving, full of combat. But fair. Where every man, woman, and child is tested, and everything must be earned in battle."

Gravity? Simon thought. What in the Maker’s name is gravity? Simon shook away the thought: the answer didn't matter at the moment. Instead, he asked, "How do I stop him?"

The Eldest's shrug was a rustle of cloth. "When facing an Incarnation, it is usually best to take one of two tactics. First, you can try to trick it back into its home Territory, where it will be trapped. This will not work in this case, I think."

Probably not. Valin was too smart, too in control of himself.

"The second way is to confront the Incarnation with the powers of a suitable opposing Territory. The Wanderer explained this to me once. An Endross Incarnation, for instance, is fueled by his rage. Asphodel, therefore, is suited for subduing Endross, because Asphodel feeds on the target's emotions. It is much more complicated than this, of course. Some Endross Travelers have the correct powers or skills to resist Asphodel, but in general it is the other way around. Do you see?"

Simon thought he did, but he still didn't have enough information. "What opposes Valinhall?"

The Eldest let out a humorless, rasping chuckle. "Valinhall," he said.

Which was no help at all.

"Valinhall is too effective at destroying foreign Travelers," the Eldest went on. "The Incarnation can neutralize practically anything another Traveler throws at him except physical force of arms. And which Territory is best at physical combat?"

Simon sighed. "I get it," he said.

"I do not wish you to die, son of Kalman. But neither can I dispute the nature of my Territory. If you want to stop the Wanderer's rampage, you must earn this by force. As all things must be earned."

The Eldest hesitated, adding, "Let me give you a piece of advice: the Incarnation has access to almost all the House's powers, and in unlimited supply. Good luck."

In a flutter of his black cloak, he vanished.

That is by far the most useless piece of advice I have ever received, Simon thought.

The Eldest always has a reason behind his words, Angeline corrected him. I am sure he would not have given you advice that you couldn’t use.

Okay, then, you tell me what he means.

I do not have the Elder’s wisdom, Angeline said loftily. I couldn’t begin to guess.

All this time, Valin stood muttering to himself and staring off to the southeast. The Enosh Travelers and soldiers had, wisely, remained utterly silent. Finally, Valin turned back and addressed the men and women on their knees.

"Come with me if you wish," Valin said at last. "All who hate Damasca are welcome. But try to stay behind me. If you're in my way, I can't guarantee I won't kill you."

With that, he started walking away from the Enosh party, headed due southeast. His each step transformed the stones beneath his feet to polished wood.

The Grandmasters stood. Endross rose to his feet like a mountain lion about to pounce, though Avernus simply stood and brushed off her dress. In voices that Simon couldn't hear well enough to understand, they began giving orders to their followers.

Simon slowly slipped his feet out of the chains, which hadn't tightened again since Valin walked off. Maybe, if he moved slowly enough, he could get away and open a Gate. The air here was even starting to smell more like the House, thanks to the Valinhall Incarnation's influence. He started to sneak up the wooden path to the hill.

Grandmaster Endross’ dark eyes snapped to his, and Simon's stomach dropped. The Grandmaster drew a sword in his right hand, and his left became wreathed in a rolling thunderstorm.

Roll right, Angeline said, and Simon dropped to his right in time to avoid a blast of white lightning that tore through the hill behind him. Thunder crashed in his ears, and the wooden planks from Valinhall were blown to smoldering pieces.

Grandmaster Endross shouted something, most likely a taunt, but Simon's ears were still ringing.

Grandmaster Avernus turned and saw Endross engaging Simon in combat. She threw up her hands and left him, following the Incarnation. Most of her group from Enosh followed.

Not Endross, though. He stayed, holding a storm in one hand and a sword in the other.

You don't have ghost armor, do you? Angeline asked.

Mentally, Simon sighed. Why do people keep asking me that?

Because it's incredibly useful, she replied. If he hits you with a bolt of lightning as you are, the only thing you can do is die. Speaking of which, jump left.

Simon rolled left, dodging another bolt of white lightning. The lightning bolts that Enosh Travelers threw seemed somehow weaker than natural lightning: the thunder when they struck wasn't as loud, for one thing, and they didn't quite blind him each time. He had seen lightning strikes before, and the ones Grandmaster Endross hurled were nothing compared to those thrown by nature.

That didn't mean they wouldn't kill him, though. Just that the Grandmaster would have to hit him directly.

Simon called steel and essence, summoning Azura. Grandmaster Endross shouted something at that, his face breaking out into an eager grin.

"I can't hear you!" Simon yelled, launching himself forward. If Endross wanted a fight, he would get one.

At least, that was what Simon thought at the time.

Stop! Angeline yelled, so urgently that Simon nearly tripped over himself drawing to a halt.

Something fell from the sky so fast that it looked like a bolt of lightning itself, a gold-and-crimson blur that crashed into the earth like a falling star.

Specifically, it crashed on top of Grandmaster Endross.

The Grandmaster had enough time to raise his arms before the whatever-it-was crashed into him, slamming him into the ground and sending a ring of dust blasting out in all directions.

The wind from the impact tore at Simon's cloak, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the dust.

What was that? he asked his doll.

I'm not sure, she responded. It was too fast before, but now...maybe...a spear?

The dust cleared, and Simon saw that it was indeed a spear. A dark wood shaft stuck up from a gold-and-steel head, with an enormous ruby set where wood and metal met. The spear had driven into the cracked ground where it had landed, and now it stuck there, quivering.

Grandmaster Endross lay, dirty and bleeding, a pace or two behind the spear. He had managed to knock the weapon off-course as it fell, though Simon couldn't imagine what kind of protection would have allowed him to do that. Endross tried to struggle to his feet, but slipped and fell back. He looked dazed as well as dirty.

Boots crunched in the sand behind Simon. A lot of boots. Simon spun, sword in hand, ready to face this new threat.

He found himself face-to-face with the King.

Simon had never seen King Zakareth before, but he had heard the stories. This man—with his white hair and beard, his glowing red eye, his armor of black and gold—couldn't be anyone else. More than any one of his features, it was the way he carried himself that left no room for Simon to doubt.

He inspected Simon with the sort of cold authority that Simon had always expected a king to have. Then he looked away.

"Put away your sword, Simon, son of Kalman," the King said. "You will need it no longer." His voice held no doubt. Each of his words landed with an almost intimidating weight.

Simon let Azura vanish. What else was he supposed to do?

Behind Grandmaster Endross, the Valinhall Incarnation and the remaining Endross Travelers turned around. Valin's eyes grew so wide that Simon could see the gleaming silver from where he stood. He roared loud enough to shake the ground, raising his sword of gold and steel and rushing across the ground with the speed of the Nye. Simon had no doubt that he was seeing Valin's true rage, the fury of a man who sought the vengeance long denied him.

King Zakareth gestured, and the spear tore itself from the ground by Grandmaster Endross and flipped through the air, flying into its master's hand.

"Back up, Traveler," the King snapped, and Simon instinctively ran out of his way.

Zakareth took two steps forward and, with a strength Simon wouldn't have believed he possessed, hurled the spear.

The weapon left his hand with a thunderclap even louder than the lightning bolt Endross had tossed earlier. Such was the spear's speed that the air seemed to explode around it as it blasted forward, catching Valin at the level of his chest.

Simon focused his Nye essence, slowing the world enough so that he could barely see what happened. He couldn't believe that even an Incarnation could move so fast. As the spearhead streaked toward Valin's chest, the Wanderer brought his sword down in both hands, meeting Zakareth's spear with the edge of his Dragon's Fang.

The world exploded in a crash of sparks and crimson light. The force tossed Simon backwards, sending yet another ring of dust blasting outward. Even the air seemed to ripple in the face of such an impact. Grandmaster Endross tumbled across the desert, driven away by the explosion. His allies from Enosh stopped, bracing themselves against the air.

When the smoke cleared, the Valinhall Incarnation stood still, chest heaving, holding his sword in both hands. The spear lay on the ground before him. He was obviously uninjured, glaring at King Zakareth from fifty paces away with obvious malevolence in his eyes.

The King motioned with one hand, and a figure in a brown cloak stepped forward: Denner. He had his red-wrapped sword in one hand, but this time he didn't hold Hariman under his other arm.

What was Denner doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be defending one of the Trees?

He wouldn’t be here unless his orders had changed, Angeline said. Denner is very responsible. Unless he finished his task already.

Finished already? Angeline thought Denner could have Traveled to one of the Overlords, killed all the attackers, and hitched a ride back here, all in an hour or two? How good was he?

Now that he thought of it, how long had Denner been gone? Surely it had to be more than an hour.

A troop of men and women marched behind Denner, each dressed in the red-and-gold of the King's army, with one unique exception: they all had a silvery steel badge over their chest, marked with the image of three keys. And each of them had a silver key in one hand.

Travelers. They were all Travelers. Simon stopped counting at twenty as they marched past him, fanning out into a crescent shape behind Denner, who stood a few steps ahead. Not all of them were from the silver-key Territory—Tartarus, he thought. A handful wore leather straps and loose tan clothing with brown hoods. Some of them had storms swirling around their hands, so Simon identified them as Endross. Two or three more wore the blood-red robes of Naraka, or the feathered head-wraps of Avernus. One woman in the gray robes of another Territory he wasn't sure he recognized—Asphodel, maybe—stood with a girlish smile on her face, twirling a lock of her hair around one finger.

They spread out behind Denner, who stood facing his former master.

"Face us on your own," Denner called. "We will allow the Travelers to retreat. Today, we only want you.”

Valin's face was contorted with rage, and he didn't take his eyes off King Zakareth's face. "You're standing up for that monster?" he spat. "I expected better from you, Denner! You were worthy!"

Denner sighed wearily, angling his Dragon's Fang up so he could scratch his back with its point. "I only see one monster here, master," he said. "Let the Grandmasters leave, and we can fight here. It’s about time we ended this.”

Valin visibly struggled with himself, shudders rippling through his body, his chains swirling and crawling across his skin on their own. His eyes closed, and when they opened, the silver of his irises glowed unnaturally bright.

"Agreed," he said, his voice flat. Mithra lowered to point at the King, and Valin’s figure blurred as he rushed forward.

He ran straight into a whirling thunderstorm.

Grandmaster Endross had lurched to his feet, tossing his Gate in front of the rampaging Incarnation.

The Wanderer had been sucked into Endross.

Denner shouted something and leaped forward, his Dragon’s Fang blurring and vibrating strangely in the air. Simon thought he heard the call of a distant horn.

The brown-cloaked Valinhall Traveler swept his blade through the Gate, and it dissipated into a fine mist.

Too late.

Grandmaster Endross managed to slip through the Gate as it closed, following the Incarnation into Endross. The rest of the Enosh Travelers were already piling through various other Gates, each slipping back into their own Territory.

King Zakareth stood watching the scene, his crimson eye blazing, his face set in cold anger.

“Follow them,” he commanded.

The Damascan Travelers began opening Gates, one by one stepping through in pursuit of the Grandmasters and the Valinhall Incarnation.

Denner sighed and walked over to stand by Simon, shaking his head. “We won’t catch them. Even if we do, Valin’s just as deadly in a foreign Territory as he is here.”

“I know that better than most,” the King said softly. He raised one hand, and his spear tore itself from the ground and flew back to smack into his gauntleted palm. “We have lost nothing here. We will simply return to our previous strategy: gather everything we have outside of Enosh and crush them in a single blow.”

He didn’t sound angry, excited, or determined at the prospect of finally destroying his enemies. He didn’t sound emotional at all. He sounded as though he were simply stating facts.

He would gather his forces. They would annihilate Enosh. There was no possibility for failure.

Simon shivered. It was difficult not to believe King Zakareth when he spoke like that.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” Denner said. “I’m sorry, but why haven’t we destroyed Enosh before? Why wait until now, when they have an Incarnation on their side?”

“Until recently, it was more profitable leaving Enosh intact,” the King said flatly. “Leah, explain.”

A woman’s voice spoke up from behind Simon. “Even when they opposed us, Enosh Travelers still helped to secure their Territories. They kept the wild elements down, and they maintained roads and waystations. We even traded with them occasionally. In all, it was far more efficient having them around. At least, until they got too aggressive.”

At the sound of her voice, Simon stiffened and slowly turned around. He knew that voice. He knew her.

He stared straight at her, but his mind refused to accept what he saw.

The King noticed. He spread his hand to his left, where stood a tall man with curly golden hair like Alin's, wearing an expensive suit of black and red. "My son, Heir Talos," Zakareth said. But Simon was having a much more difficult time taking his eyes off the young woman to his right.

She was dressed in a long dress of pure red. A circlet of silvered steel rested in her hair, shining with an unnatural red glare and set with a small ruby. On her left wrist, she wore a milky white crystal hanging by a silver chain, and her eyes were surprisingly blue. She stared back at him, her face totally blank.

King Zakareth motioned to the right with his spear. "And I believe you know my daughter, Heiress Leah."

His words were casual, but his tone wasn’t. Both his eyes were focused on Simon’s face, his expression as warm as an executioner’s axe.

Simon barely noticed. He couldn’t take his eyes from Leah.

He didn’t know what to say.

CHAPTER 13:

NINE DOORS

Alin followed Rhalia deeper into the city of Elysia. Once past the walls, the tunnel opened up into a wide street, paved with flawless white stone. The buildings on either side were built of gold and gold-colored stone, with doors of various different colors. Rhalia had explained the significance of the colors to him before—they had something to do with each building's purpose, like hanging a sign—but he was so exhausted now that he could barely see straight.

This particular section of the city was in the Gold District, which explained the general theme of the buildings. Supposedly, in other districts, buildings were made of many different materials and colors, but here they all shared a certain similarity. Since Alin had only demonstrated two of Elysia's nine virtues, and therefore only earned two of its powers, he was only allowed in two districts. Well, he still wasn't quite patient enough to deserve the green, but Rhalia had been willing to let that slide. He was confident he'd get there, eventually.

The Green District had very few buildings at all. It was mostly a wild forest, with trees that stretched so high they rivaled the highest towers of the Gold and Silver districts. Where a home or other building was needed in the Green, a living tree was hollowed out—through some method that Alin didn't understand—in such a way that the tree actually kept growing. As he understood it, the process took years.

Alin, Rhalia, and the floating Grandmaster were not the only ones on the street. A gold-skinned giant warrior, with a solid gold walking staff, stopped and bowed as Alin and Rhalia passed. A flock of shimmering golden hummingbirds stopped and asked, in their deceptively deep voices, whether they could be of any assistance. As they passed an open door, Alin thought he saw a brown-furred cat with a golden collar standing on her hind legs at a table. She was using a knife and fork to carve slices from a roasted bird, which she passed out to her four hungry children.

Alin had never learned how to tell time here: the sky was always gold, though it dimmed or brightened at seemingly random times. Some times in the city were busier than others, he knew that, because sometimes he walked through the streets and remained virtually alone.

He had once wondered what possessing a particular virtue had to do with walking down the streets of the city. Why should he have to prove himself particularly brave to travel the Gold District, for instance? Why would patience be of such great value in the Green District?

He had soon learned the answer.

A creature that looked like a man about Alin's size stepped in front of Alin. He wore white baggy clothing, belted with a golden sash, and carried a gold walking stick: a miniature version of the one that the gold-skinned giants carried. The man would not have been too out of place on the streets of Enosh, except that he had the head of a gray wolf.

"Traveler," the wolf said, bowing fractionally. He had the sort of vicious, slobbery voice that suggested he was shredding each word between his teeth.

"Marakos," Alin said, bowing back. He had run into the wolf-man before, and he was always scrupulously polite. And equally violent.

"I take this time to request a match, Traveler," Marakos said. His yellow-gold predator's eyes gleamed.

"Not today, Marakos, I beg you," Alin said wearily. "I have an injured companion."

"I shall not delay you long," Marakos promised. He placed his hand—which looked relatively ordinary, except for the claws where fingernails should be—on Alin's shoulder.

Rhalia twisted in midair and smiled in the wolf's direction. "Sorry, Marakos! No time today. But he'll make it up to you tomorrow, won't you, Alin?"

Alin hastily agreed, but Marakos didn't quite take his hand away. He was trying to decide whether Alin was showing appropriate valor by tending to his wounded comrade, even though he was running away. Or maybe he was trying to decide if letting Alin leave was a matter of cowardice. Alin wasn't sure, but he knew that they took courage very seriously here.

The wolf-man's nostrils flared as if he were trying to smell Alin's fear.

"Marakos," Rhalia sang sweetly. "We need to move. If you keep us here, you will be impeding me, and then I would have to call for a duel. Let's not do that, shall we?"

Marakos pulled his claws away from Alin's shoulder as though Alin's armor had grown red-hot.

"I apologize sincerely, Rhalia. I certainly have no wish to unduly impede you. Until tomorrow, Traveler." Marakos put distance between himself and the drifting, white-clothed woman with deceptive speed, considering that he stopped to bow every two paces.

Alin stared at Rhalia, who had spun back around and continued guiding Grandmaster Naraka's floating body down the street.

"What was that about?" Alin asked.

Rhalia waved a hand airily. "Oh, Marakos is a child. Scarcely fifty. He can barely go a day without proving his valor to somebody, but he'll grow out of it eventually."

"Not him," Alin said. "You. Are you that frightening?"

She smiled, but she didn't look him in the eye when she did. "I've never done anything to frighten Marakos. He listens to stories, that's all."

"What stories?"

She looked at him, her face as serious as he had ever seen it. "Maybe I'll tell you, one day," she said.

He let the matter drop.

After a few more minutes, and a few more exchanges with the Gold District's inhabitants—none of which grew as dramatic as their confrontation with Marakos—the three of them finally reached the end of the street. A huge wall marked the end of the Gold District in this direction. According to Rhalia, the wall wound its way throughout the entire city, separating each district. Alin had once visualized the City of Light as laid out in nine equal wedges, one for each color and virtue, but Rhalia had assured him that was not the case. The Gold District was thin but long, winding around and touching the outer wall at most major points. The Green District was wide and round, like a park in the center of the city. Other districts had more or less space, depending on the needs of the occupants.

And there were occupants. The City was much busier than Alin had once assumed. Elysia had continued to bustle with life even after the last Traveler vanished, faded, or died. Rhalia was remarkably closemouthed regarding what had happened to the last of the Elysian Travelers, but the fact remained that they had somehow disappeared. The City of Light had not seen a Traveler for over three hundred and fifty years, so Alin's arrival had been something to celebrate.

Not that the Gold District celebrated the same as the people of Enosh, he had found out. Much less feasting, and much more challenging one another to feats of strength and bravery.

In the wall at the end of the Gold District was a man-sized door of solid gold, marked with the same winged sword design that adorned Alin's breastplate. Rhalia didn't hesitate when she reached the door, placing her hand on the center and simply pushing it in. Grandmaster Naraka followed, still unconscious, still floating on the bed of orange light.

"Is she going to survive until we get where we're going?" Alin asked, at last. He would have brought the topic up before, but he had tried to assume that Rhalia knew what she was doing.

"Oh, I've stabilized her already," Rhalia said. "She'll not lose any more ground. At least, not while she's with me. Whether she will regain the ground she's lost, however, is up to you."

They entered a circular chamber that Alin had only seen a few times before. It was only ten steps by ten, but Rhalia said this was the true heart of the city.

Set in the wall around the room, every few paces, were doors.

A painted wooden door of bright green marked the entrance to the Green District. He had entered through the door to the Gold District. Opposite him, a similar door—apparently made of solid silver, and carved with fanciful spirals and designs—would take him to the Silver District. Doors all around the wall led to the other districts: Red, Rose, Orange, Violet, Blue, and White. The doors all varied in size and material: the White District door was the smallest, and it looked as though he would have to duck and turn sideways to squeeze his way through. The Red District door was by far the widest, and looked as though it had been built to accommodate wagons.

Rhalia led him to the Rose District door, which was a door made of some soft-smelling, reddish pink wood. The symbol of Elysia, which was carved into each of the doors, looked somehow less sharp here, as though it were actually a winged staff or a scepter instead of a sword.

"Behind each of these doors is another district of the City," Rhalia said. "You are only worthy to visit two of them, though I have high hopes regarding the other seven."

Alin couldn't help himself. His gaze moved hungrily from one door to another. What powers waited behind each door? If he was this powerful with only two of Elysia's abilities, what would he become if he held all nine? What greater things could he accomplish?

The side of Rhalia's mouth quirked up as though she could read his mind. "Oh, we've got many powers here," she said. "Elysia was meant to lead each Territory by example, so there are powers here in line with each of the nine Territories. You open the orange door by demonstrating exceptional loyalty, for instance, which is a virtue highly valued in Avernus. In the Orange District, you may earn powers such as levitation and flight, which you have already seen demonstrated." She nodded to Grandmaster Naraka, buoyed on cushions of glowing orange lights.

"The Blue District exemplifies mercy," Rhalia continued, "a quality necessary to the Naraka Travelers, who tend to be judgmental. Wisdom is the virtue most necessary in the Silver District, though it would certainly benefit you elsewhere. And within here," she placed a hand on the Rose District door, "is the power of healing. Tell me, Alin, why do you want to heal this woman?"

"Because she's injured," Alin said without hesitation. "She was hurt while she was with me, and I couldn't protect her. And she's a friend. Why shouldn't I help her?"

Rhalia actually pulled the Rose District door open and stuck her head inside, though the door itself blocked the district from Alin's view.

"What do you think?" Rhalia asked someone beyond the door. "Good enough?"

An indistinct voice, like a child's whisper, murmured something in reply.

"That's what I thought, too," Rhalia responded. She stepped back into the room, letting the rose-colored door shut behind her.

At Alin's questioning look, she held up a hand parallel to the ground and moved it back and forth. "Eh, not bad. We'll work on it. For now, though, your motives are pure enough. Welcome to the Rose District."

Rhalia drifted through the open door, followed by the prone form of Grandmaster Naraka. Alin lingered behind, testing the nearest door—the red one—by twisting the knob and pulling, just a bit.

It opened easily. Through the crack, Alin saw a rocky landscape of winding paths, and what he thought was a red stone building carved to look like a mushroom. Something like a little, knee-high man in a floppy red cap scurried by, holding up his long white beard to keep it out of the mud.

Rhalia popped back into the room, saw what he was doing, and sighed good-naturedly.

"I can't keep you from going where you're not supposed to, can I?" she said.

Alin gestured to the door. "But I can open it! Look!"

"Of course you can," she said. "The doors aren't locked."

"Oh." That was disappointing, somehow.

Rhalia floated over to him, placing her hands on his shoulders companionably. "Listen. I don't try and keep you from these districts because you can't enter, but because you shouldn't enter. It's not that we require you to show a particular virtue before we allow you to use a power. It's more like you need a particular virtue to handle that power. The gold power is for battle, for instance, and we wouldn't want anyone in battle who wasn't brave. Likewise, patient people make good defenders. Do you see?"

It seemed like a pretty weak thread to Alin. "What happens if I don't have the virtue? What if I walked through this door?"

"That particular door? The gnomes who live on the other side would likely beat you and toss you back out," Rhalia said. "But in general, we don't stop people from taking power they think they've earned. We're trying to help you make the right choices, not make them for you. But, eventually, if you take too much power too quickly...you stop controlling the power, and it starts controlling you."

Rhalia's voice became distant and more serious at the end, as though she were reliving a particularly unpleasant memory.

"What does that mean?" Alin asked.

"You become an Incarnation," Rhalia said, still distant. "Little more than an embodiment of your Territory's nature and power."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Alin responded. "The incarnation of patience and mercy and all that."

Rhalia raised a hand to her forehead. "We didn't think so either, once," she said. Then she shook herself and smiled at him. "Anyway, you're gathering powers pretty quickly yourself. Especially if I decide to grant you permanent access to the rose, which I have not decided yet. You have to be careful."

Alin nodded. He certainly had no wish to risk going insane, and if Rhalia thought the danger was so great, he was sure she knew what she was talking about.

As they walked into the Rose District, Alin nodded to the small white door.

"What about that one?" Alin asked. "I've heard you mention the other colors, but I've never heard you talk about the white."

Rhalia laughed. "Still curious, are you? The white's something of a special case. It is linked to Ragnarus, the Crimson Vault. Just as Ragnarus promotes sacrifice, the White District requires you to demonstrate the attendant virtue. It's the opposite of Ragnarus, the one virtue required to use the Vault's weapons with wisdom and discipline."

"What's that?" Alin asked.

"Selflessness," she responded. "Self-sacrifice. Ragnarus Travelers have an unfortunate tendency to pay their prices using other people. If a weapon activates using pain, for instance, why not torture one of your enemies until your weapon drinks its fill? Why not bleed a peasant dry to use a sword that drinks blood?"

"Or kill your citizens to keep your Tree growing," Alin said.

"Precisely.”

"I'm not sure what good the white power would do, though," Alin noted. "Especially not if you have to sacrifice yourself to use it."

Rhalia shrugged. "No, it's not like that. Self-sacrifice is more often the practice of thinking of others first. You don't have to necessarily give up your life; in the old days, some of the greatest masters of the white sacrificed their time, their money, or their freedom for others. Selflessness is basically the keystone to all our virtues here."

Alin looked at the white door for a moment longer before he headed into the Rose District, his questions—for now—answered.

No matter what Rhalia said, Alin thought he would save the white door for last.

***

Simon said nothing, moving his gaze from Leah to the King and back. Part of his mind had frozen from shock, but the part that still worked noted that this actually explained quite a bit.

The King's blue eye was cold. "I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on," he said. "Before I leave you to discuss...whatever you must discuss, you should hear my words. You are a wanted criminal in my lands."

Simon jerked his head back to look King Zakareth in the face. He was less surprised by the announcement than he was by the fact that the King himself knew what he had done.

Zakareth misinterpreted his reaction. "Surprised? You shouldn't be. You killed fifty-three of my subjects that I am aware of. In another situation, I would have you bound and executed."

If anyone makes a move, I will warn you, Angeline sent. Be prepared to run.

For once, Simon was glad that he was carrying a serious and straightforward doll instead of one prone to making jokes.

"I am prepared to grant you mercy, however," the King went on. His eyes, blazing red and ice-cold blue, looked anything but merciful. "Serve me in protecting my realm, and I will commute your sentence until such a time as we are prepared to judge you for your actions. If you wish leniency, I suggest you dedicate your life to the service of my kingdom."

He stared at Simon with those disconcerting eyes, obviously expecting a response.

"Yes, Your Highness," Simon said at last, dropping his gaze to the ground. He had considered any number of other reactions, but what else was one supposed to say to the king?

King Zakareth turned as though the matter was fully dealt with, not acknowledging Simon's response in any way. He walked away, already deep in conversation with his son. The Heir turned and regarded Simon once before he walked off, his expression thoughtful, but he ultimately said nothing. Denner and the other Travelers behind him were wrapped up in their own conversation, one that sounded to Simon like strategic planning.

As everyone else pulled away, Leah stayed behind. For a handful of seconds, she said nothing.

"So..." Simon said at last. "You're a princess."

"No. I'm an Heiress. Nobody says 'princess' anymore except in children's tales." She sounded nervous, more than anything, which meant that she was trying to divert his attention.

Simon refused to be put off. "So," he said. "You're an Heiress."

"I'm King Zakareth's fourth child, yes," Leah said loftily. She was looking at him, but her face was still blank. She was keeping her mask on, so Simon kept his face still as well. He couldn't keep a bit of anger from leaking into his voice, though.

"What does that mean?” he demanded. “Does that mean you're fourth in line for the throne?"

To her credit, Leah hesitated a moment before saying, "Second, actually. It's a bit more complicated than that, but my two older sisters were...disqualified from the succession. One of them is insane, and the other was recently exiled to Lirial. And my younger brother is dead. It's just me and my older brother left, now."

Second. Second in line for the throne of Damasca.

Simon tried to force words out past the emotion in his throat, tried to give voice to everything he was thinking, but all that came out was, "I...we rescued you."

Leah looked past him, but her mask stayed on. "I was never in any danger from Malachi," she said.

A horrible realization dawned on Simon. "It was you. You were the reason that the sacrifice came to Myria. You're why all those people are dead."

Depending on her answer, Simon was quite prepared to summon Azura and cut her down in the street, even if he would not survive her long.

Quickly she said, "No! No, I had no idea Malachi would call the sacrifice in Myria. That's the first time he's ever taken all nine sacrifices from one small village. When I found out he had done it, I was furious."

Simon wasn't sure that made her deception any better, but he found his violent fury fading. But something still didn't make sense.

"Why were you in the village at all?" he asked. "Maker, you could have lived your whole life in a palace. You probably grew up there!"

The situation got worse and worse the more he thought about it. What must she have thought of them, living in houses of mud bricks and scrap wood? She must have been laughing behind their backs every time they turned around.

Leah looked into Simon's eyes carefully as though trying to reassure herself that he wasn't going to attack. She sighed and grabbed him by the sleeve, leading him over to a pair of benches among the soldiers' camp. The presence of the Valinhall Incarnation had caused the benches to fuse to the ground, now permanent fixtures of the hilltop, but they faced one another. Leah sat down on one and motioned imperiously for him to take the second.

Simon sat, feeling like an idiot. How had he not noticed? She had certainly acted like a princess—or an Heiress, he supposed—often enough, giving people orders and expecting them followed on the instant. Come to think of it, though, her aunt Nurita behaved that way as well, and she had lived in Myria all her life. Wait.

Maker, he thought, is she royalty too? He had taken so many assumptions for granted, and was finally coming face-to-face with reality.

"Every Heir and Heiress," Leah began, "is expected to spend an extended period of time outside of the palace. In some cases that means a handful of months, in others it can be as long as five years. The specifics depend on the individual and the needs of the realm."

The specifics depend on the individual. Who talked like that? Alin, when he was giving a speech, but no other villager Simon had ever met. How had he never noticed?

To cover his thoughts, Simon asked a question: "They let members of the royal family go off like that, unsupervised? What if you were killed? What if someone found out who you were, and kidnapped you?"

She waved that thought away with one hand. "We were required to check in on a regular basis through Ragnarus. If I missed a checkin, Travelers would have been at my location in a matter of hours. Even if I did die, this is a family tradition. My father believes that no one can be an effective ruler unless they have lived through an especially long and difficult trial. Besides, I know it maybe difficult for you to get used to the idea, but I am a powerful Traveler myself. Killing or kidnapping me would be harder than it seems."

Simon wished he had known that at midsummer, when he risked his life again and again to bring her out of danger.

"In my case," Leah continued, "I was sent to Myria to connect with my mother's family, to learn how my ancestors lived. Yes, my mother really did come from Myria. Yes, Aunt Nurita was her sister. For what it's worth, I was honest about that."

Assuming I can trust you now, Simon thought. He still only had her word to go on.

I would say she's speaking the truth, Angeline said carefully.

Simon had forgotten he was carrying the doll. He picked her up and looked at her curiously. Can you sense when someone is lying? He wouldn’t be surprised if she could.

No, Angeline said. But I have a great deal of experience with liars, and this girl sounds genuine to me.

Simon considered that for a moment. As much as he was curious about what Angeline meant about experience, he felt better. If Angeline could vouch for Leah, he would accept that. For now.

Leah watched him raise the doll to his face and place it back down. She didn't say a word.

"This is my advisor," Simon explained. "One of them. From my Territory."

"I had assumed something like that," Leah said evenly. "If I may continue?"

She was admitting to spending years lying to the people closest to her, and somehow she could still make him feel bad for interrupting.

"Spending time with my mother's family was one reason, learning about the common villagers was another. One can learn a surprising amount about governing even outside the royal palace. But I had another purpose, a deeper purpose, even if I didn't expect ever to accomplish it. We received word from one of our Strigaia tribe Avernus Travelers that the Enosh Grandmasters thought the bloodline of Elysia was continued in one of the villages. Since Myria was the closest village to Enosh, it was...reasonable, based on the information we had, to suspect that the new Elysian Traveler might come from your village."

Alin. Somehow, it always came back to Alin.

"Understand, though, that the odds were greatly against me. There are over a hundred small, isolated villages at the fringes of our nation, and I was only to stay a limited time. I identified Alin as the most likely subject, given his lineage, and I kept an eye on him."

"How long ago?" Simon asked.

Leah shrugged. "Over two years ago, when I first entered the village. It took me a matter of hours. But after observing him for a few weeks, then months, I was certain that he was not the one. He never exhibited any strange powers, never snuck off to Enosh for a secret rendezvous, never received any mysterious visitors. When I ruled him out, I knew that the odds of me finding the Elysian Traveler in Myria were minimal, so I simply kept my ear to the ground, so to speak, and lived my life."

"Of course he never did any of those things," Simon said. "He didn't know he was a Traveler."

Leah sighed. "Yes, Simon, I know that now. But you have to understand: that's not how any of the other Territories work. For every other Territory I know of—even for Valinhall, I understand, though you would know more about that than I—you have to intentionally walk through a Gate to that Territory, earn some kind of artifact, power, or ally on the other side, and return. It's not something you can do accidentally or unaware. Except, in the case of Elysia, it seems you can."

Simon sat in silence, thinking, chewing on the information she had given him.

Eventually, Leah kept talking. "There's not much else that you don't know, or haven't guessed. When the Damascan troops came to Myria, I was furious. They were interfering with my trial, and with my officially sanctioned mission to locate the potential Elysian Traveler. When I left you, I spoke with the man in charge, and I tried to get them to leave immediately. But Cormac, the Endross Traveler—"

"I remember," Simon interrupted. His voice went flat, and anger surged once again in his chest. He desperately hoped that she didn't have anything to do with sending Cormac into that cave, because if she was responsible for the death of his mother...

He didn't know what the penalty was for killing a member of the Damascan royal family, but he would do his best to find out.

Leah eyed him, and for a moment sympathy cracked through her blank mask. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure you would. Well, he was...unstable. I would almost call him a madman, except that every Traveler is usually broken in some way. It has to do with the stress of living alongside worlds so wholly unlike our own. He insisted on checking the survivors, on making sure that there were no Enosh agents among you. He was only supposed to scare you, Simon, I swear it."

Simon stared at Leah, giving her no indication of what he was thinking. He wasn't sure he even knew.

"When he killed Orlina, I almost stopped him. Then Alin revealed himself, and all I remember thinking was that I had failed. I had come that far, spent two years of my life, and he had been right under my nose the entire time."

"Why didn't you show yourself then?" Simon asked. "You could have stopped Cormac. You two would have taken Alin. My mother would have..."

He stopped. He didn't trust himself to keep talking.

Leah's mask crumbled a little further. She almost looked pained. "I wasn't sure what to do, Simon, I'm sorry. To tell you the truth, I thought about it, I just...I didn't know which side I would support. Cormac was insane, true, but he was also the legally appointed representative of Damasca. I didn't know the extent of Alin's abilities—I’ve heard legends of Elysian Travelers all my life. As far as I knew, he would be able to kill me and Cormac without breaking a sweat. I simply didn't know. I was worried that Enosh might have Travelers in the area, so I was afraid to reveal myself. And, as it turned out, they did."

That all sounded good. It was a better reason than Simon had imagined. But the fact remained that she could have saved Simon's mother, but she had chosen not to.

She would have been captured or killed, Simon told himself. But that didn't matter. He found it hard to defend, even to himself, a girl who had spent the last two years lying to him.

Abruptly Simon stood and walked past Leah, summoning Azura as he walked. Three Tartarus Travelers, who had been lounging nearby, stiffened and focused their eyes on Simon, silver keys in hand. Maker, they hadn't left her alone with him at all. They had been watching him the entire time.

That stoked his anger even hotter.

"Where are you going, Simon?" Leah asked. She sounded calm, not curious.

Simon stuck his sword in the air and began slicing through reality. "Valinhall Gates only go in one direction," he responded. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I took a beating today from an insane Incarnation with powers beyond mortal imagination. I need a little time off."

"I thought we should talk a little more," Leah said gently.

And that was about all Simon could take of the I'm-an-Heiress condescension.

Without moving Azura, he turned around so that he could look Leah in the eye. "I'm not one of your subjects, Your Highness. I don't owe you a thing. In fact, the way I see it, the scales are tipping way toward my side now."

Leah raised one eyebrow and opened her mouth to respond. Whatever she said would probably be way wittier and far more reasonable than anything he could come up with, so he cut her off.

"Don't. I've listened to you long enough."

Then he realized something he had said only a day or two ago. It seemed ironic and twisted to him now. "Maker, I said it myself, didn't I? I said that I wanted to know the real you. I asked for this."

Simon shook his head, turning back to the Gate. "I take it back."

Simon shut up before he said something he would really regret. Or something that would draw the attention of Leah's red-eyed father and his fast-as-lightning spear.

Full of nauseating, unpleasant emotions, and bleeding or aching at every point on his body, Simon stepped through the Valinhall Gate and went home.

***

Leah sat on the wooden bench for longer than she probably should have, thinking up all the clever things that she should have said. They all, for some reason, centered on her superior education, or superior upbringing, or superior experience.

For a moment she wished she were back in the village, where they were both on equal footing. That was foolish, but she couldn’t help it.

The real problem was that he had a right to be angry. It burned her to admit it, but she would have felt the same in his situation.

You were prepared for this, she told herself. That's the price of a long-term mission: you have to lie to everyone.

It was true. She had thought herself prepared. Her brothers and sisters had lied to her and tried to manipulate her since before she was old enough to read, and she was expected to do the same. That was how life was.

Except, in Myria, it wasn't. Simon was the same person to her as he was to Alin, or to any of the others in the village. He had risked his life on a quest that he thought would save her, with nothing to gain. Alin had also tried to save her, that was true, but Alin she could understand. He craved the light. He wanted recognition, hers in particular. She understood that, and could even respect it to a degree: at least he worked hard to earn his good reputation.

But Simon? Simon had worked for months to save people with no connection, with no possibility of reward. And she had played him like a piece on a board.

Once, that thought wouldn't have bothered her. She had grown up knowing that she had to be in control, that it was her duty to direct the lives of others. Now, though, it ate at her inside.

She had hoped to keep her identity secret for as long as she could, maybe faking her death to escape from Enosh. Now that was no longer an option, so was there any way she could repair her relationship with Simon? Maybe she could make him understand her motivations. Surely he would understand if she simply explained. No, he was the type who would appreciate action. Perhaps she could do something to show him that she wasn't so bad after all, that she did have a life outside of her family’s lies.

Leah was surprised to realize that she even cared.

CHAPTER 14:

THE FROZEN HORN

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

32 Days After Midsummer

13 Days Until Summer’s End

Simon left his cloak behind as he walked through the stone door to the rain garden. He carried Caela and Azura together, one in each hand, and stared ahead at the lush, leafy greenery that awaited him.

He had been healed completely by the pool, and he had spent most of the time after his battle with Valin wandering mindlessly around the House. He had barely seen any of the Agnos family in the day or two since he had arrived. He saw one glimpse of Andra, waving to him from down a hallway, before she scurried into a bedroom and vanished.

Simon wasn't entirely sure how they could all hide from him, since the House—while incomprehensibly vast—only had a handful of rooms that they could all enter, but it seemed they had found the few rooms where they could go and Simon could not.

That meant that he had a lot of time to think. Mostly, he thought about the upcoming battle, and what his role was supposed to be.

He had seen Indirial briefly, hobbling down the hall to take another dip in the healing pool.

"You did a good job," Indirial had said. "We'll need you in what's coming." Then he had disappeared into the bathroom. The pool had been unable to heal all his internal injuries with only one session, so the Overlord came back for several baths per day. But he spent the rest of his time outside the Territory, meeting with the King, organizing the Damascan war.

Once again, Simon saw Valin's attack in his mind's eye. Indirial had fought the Incarnation evenly for a while, and afterwards, even managed to injure him. What had Simon done? Distracted him, at best.

Simon took a deep breath of the rain garden’s humid air and leaned down, placing Caela on the stone tiles at the base of the door. She didn't say a word.

Stepping forward onto the grass, he leaned his weight forward, crouching on the balls of his feet, and angled Azura to match the gap in the eternal drumming rain. When the dead space abruptly shifted ahead, he moved with it.

Simon stepped forward, falling into the next stance. Azura's tip sliced a petal off a nearby flower, but since it didn't disturb the rain, Simon barely noticed.

Alin had found his place, working for Enosh. They had practically conscripted him, but he seemed happy there, and Simon didn't blame him. Leah had a family and a place in Damasca. A rich, powerful, and successful place, in a position of great authority, which still seemed somehow unfair to Simon. He still thought of Leah as another villager, and no matter how he tried to remind himself that she had been born into her status, he still remained somehow unconvinced.

Leah and Alin had their places. And Simon would stand against Valin again, he knew that. The other Valinhall Travelers would expect him to be there, and would likely want his help. What was he supposed to do? Should he repeat his fight with Valin: distracting the Incarnation, trying desperately not to die, until one of the real Travelers managed to land the killing blow?

Simon stepped forward, thrusting his blade into an invisible opponent. The cold steel trickled through him, lending him the strength to wave Azura around so easily, but he needed a new power. He needed a lot more than that, really. He needed something to fight for, some other clear villain that he could hate and work against without guilt.

He wasn't the biggest supporter of the Grandmasters, but his time in Enosh had convinced him that they truly believed Damasca was killing the world, as well as driving their people with tyranny and cruelty. He couldn't bring himself to hate the Grandmasters; they thought they were doing the right thing, after all.

On the Damascan side, Indirial didn't seem like such a bad guy, and Simon couldn't even blame their annual sacrifice now that he had seen what the Hanging Trees were supposed to hold back. Simon imagined nine other Incarnations, all at least as powerful as Valin, and he shuddered so hard that he almost missed the next step forward.

No matter how strong Valin was, he was still one man with a sword: the amount of damage he could cause was somewhat limited. But one of the other Incarnations would summon monsters from their Territory, an army of monsters, and they would shred the countryside like a swarm of locusts.

If they had to face an Incarnation, Simon was glad it was Valin. At least he could be fought.

Simon's sword forms took him through to another thrust, and he remembered Indirial's sword piercing Valin's chest. For a second, he had been sure they had won. If they couldn't kill Valin, even with a sword through the heart, how were they supposed to put him down?

He found himself mimicking Indirial's strike as he imagined it, and as a result he fell slightly out of form. His sword extended a tad too far, and a single raindrop hit the tip with an audible ping.

Without even looking around, Simon called the breath of the Nye into his lungs. The world slowed as the rain began to stop, and he ran back to the entrance with speed that a startled deer might have envied. Behind him, he heard the smooth rush of the water drawing itself up into a thousand long-necked, long-fanged cats.

This time, Simon reached the stone platform before the cats did, and he was far enough away that when he spun around to watch, he saw all the cats dissolving back into puddles.

Simon raised his hands and shouted in triumph, Azura waving like a flagpole into the cloud-covered sky. The sword's tip actually brushed the bottom of a cloud, which made Simon realize that the clouds were only about fifteen feet up. The tops of some of the rain garden trees disappeared into the clouds, and he wondered if there was a roof overhead.

You have a visitor, Caela said. She sounded as though she were about to laugh.

Simon turned, lowering Azura to a better position. Indirial stood there, chain-marked arms crossed, leaning against the stone doorframe. He smiled broadly, flashing white teeth.

"Don't mind me," he said. "By all means celebrate. I remember when I defeated this room before Kai. I wouldn't let him hear the end of it for three days."

Simon tried to keep his face from turning red, but he wasn't sure he had succeeded. "I haven't beaten the room yet."

"Would you like to?"

Simon stood for a moment, irrationally waiting for a trap. "Yes."

"Then watch," Indirial said. He stepped forward, black Nye cloak billowing around him, and stretched his hand out to summon his pitted sword. When one of the clear spots in the rain arrived, he walked out, falling into a stance that Simon recognized as the first of the necessary forms.

Watching the Overlord, Simon released his liquid steel and drove Azura down into the soft earth, letting his power evaporate. He couldn't challenge this room without enough strength to wield his blade, so he needed to give the steel enough time to fully recover before Indirial finished.

As Indirial walked through the third form, with his body twisted almost backwards, Simon caught a glimpse of the other man’s face: he had his eyes firmly shut.

He flowed from form to form showing the ease of decades of practice, moving with a skill and confidence that Simon could only imitate. Instead of following the direction of the rain, it seemed almost that the rain followed him, parting just in time to avoid his blade. Every time Simon saw his face, his eyes were closed.

It only took Indirial about a minute to work his way to the far side of the room. As soon as he reached the far stone door, sword stretched out to one side in the final form, the rain stopped. The light even brightened, until it seemed almost as though the sun had risen behind the clouds.

Indirial smiled at Simon from across the garden and stepped out on the grass, walking back. The rain didn't start up again. It seemed he had earned the right to cross as he wished.

Simon stepped forward himself to meet the older swordsman halfway, but as soon as he did, a tiny cloud detached itself from the overcast cover overhead. It flew over until it rested directly over Simon, and then it unleashed a waterfall of torrential rains.

Hastily, Simon leaped to the side, but the cloud followed him, drenching him in heavy raindrops.

Soaked to the bone, he walked back to the stone platform. The cloud followed him even there, giving him a few last drops as though to teach him a lesson. When it finished, it flew back to join the other clouds overhead.

You could have warned me that would happen, Simon sent.

You were in no danger this time, Caela said primly. I was eager to see what would happen.

You knew exactly what would happen!

Then I was eager to watch.

Indirial finally reached Simon, his blade still held lightly in one hand. "Kai taught you the forms?" he asked, as though he already knew the answer.

Simon shrugged. "He walked me through some of them, but I watched Kai run through the whole routine every morning all summer. I know them well enough."

"He didn't—" Indirial cut himself off by shaking his head. "He should have taught you the forms in your first week, Simon. I don't know what he thought he was doing with you."

"I don't ever know what Kai thinks he's doing."

I do, Caela sent. Trust me, knowing doesn't help.

"Anyway," Indirial went on, "the room responds to you. That's the trick. I had to try a dozen times before I figured it out: if you try to respond to what the rain garden shows you, you'll never get there. You have to lead and let the room respond to you."

Nervously, Simon eyed the clouds, which had started to release a soft downpour once again. Indirial noticed.

"Don't worry about the cats," he said. "They won't maim you too bad before I get to you, and I'll take you right back to the pool for healing."

Simon thought he was being awfully casual about the maiming part, but he did as Indirial suggested, taking a deep breath and exhaling his fear. Summoning steel, he pulled Azura from the earth.

Then he stood, waiting for the clear spot in the rain.

"Don't wait," Indirial said. "Let the room react to you."

So Simon closed his eyes and stepped forward into the opening stance, crouched and ready to strike. No drops struck him, so he moved ahead. He forgot about the rain, about Indirial behind him, about Valin's looming threat. He focused on nothing but the image of Kai, running from one form to another amid the waving grasses of Chaka's garden.

Simon did as he had so often seen his master do, moving forward almost without effort. With his eyes closed like this, it was almost like practice, and he lost himself in the familiar rhythm of moving from stance to stance.

You should open your eyes, Caela suggested. Simon did so, to find that he was inches from the wolf-carved stone door, all the way on the other side of the rain garden. Behind him, the sound of the rain had vanished.

Simon turned around, exultant, ready to shout with joy.

He found himself looking into the frozen eyes of a thousand long-necked cats, their translucent bodies made up of flowing rainwater.

Simon froze, keeping Azura cupped in both hands, as the final form dictated. He was ready to fight if he had to, but he didn't like his odds against this crowd. It seemed as though every raindrop had become a deadly cat, their icicle fangs visible through transparent mouths.

They eyed him with what looked like hunger, liquid ears occasionally flicking to one side or the other.

Too afraid to move, Simon stood still, frozen with Azura in one hand. If they attacked, he would be overwhelmed in seconds, so he certainly didn't want to provoke them.

Moving his eyes as little as possible, he looked up and across the garden at Indirial. He still stood in the same position, lounging casually against the door back to the courtyard.

Simon looked back down at the cats. A single one of the long-necked creatures let out a contented "mrowl," and the cats all bared their icicle-teeth in horrible smiles. Once again, Simon wondered if he was about to be eaten. Their bodies liquified—everything but their frozen teeth—and they flowed into one another in a horrible vortex of swirling ice and water.

The icy wind that flew out of their cyclone was so cold it bit into Simon's skin. He had to throw up an arm to defend his face against the freezing assault.

After a few dozen seconds, the whirling stopped, and the storm condensed into a single shape that fell down onto the grass.

It was a horn, like the one the watchmen back in Myria had used to sound an alert at the gates. Unlike any other horn Simon had ever seen, this one wasn't made of metal. Frosted ice made up its mouth, and most of the tubing seemed formed from blown glass. Inside one particularly fat tube in the middle, Simon saw a still-moving puddle of water.

For a moment, Simon wondered how a horn made of ice, water, and glass would even make any sound. He reminded himself where he was. If the horn had been made out of shadow and moonbeams, it would still make some kind of sound.

He reached down and scooped up the horn, which was exactly as cold as he had expected. Excitement rose up inside of him, and he held the horn aloft for Indirial to see.

Congratulations, Caela said. It certainly took you long enough.

Indirial casually walked over, and Simon noted that no rogue stormclouds drenched him. "Well done, Simon! At this rate, you might even be able to challenge another power before we have to fight Valin again. That's good. You'll need as much as you can get against the Grandmasters."

"I wasn't sure this room even had a power," Simon said.

"Most rooms do," Indirial responded. "When Kai first made it past this room, the guardians didn't think he was worthy. They let him pass, but he didn't earn the horn. He had to go back and try again for months before they finally gave it to him. Denner couldn't convince Benson to give him the steel until after almost a year of trying."

A whole new world of possibilities was opening up to Simon. "What about the forge? I defeated that guardian. And I beat those candle guys in the library, too, but they told me there was no other power.”

"If you defeat the guardian, you get to pass the room. If you defeat the guardian with distinction, you earn their power." Indirial shrugged. "At least, that's how Valin used to explain it to us. It seems there are all sorts of rules that vary from room to room."

Simon looked down at the instrument in his hand. He had to shift it to his left, because the cold was about to burn his palm. "What's this, then?"

"The frozen horn," Indirial responded. "It was an artifact Valin stole from Helgard and brought here, attuning it to Valinhall instead. It closes Gates."

Curiously, Simon raised the horn to his lips and blew. A weak sort of whistling sound emerged from the end, but nothing else happened.

Indirial chuckled. "It doesn't work in a Territory. And there's more than one way to use it—the easiest is to call its power into your sword, like this."

He concentrated for a moment, and his cracked Dragon's Fang began to vibrate like a struck tuning fork. "This is easy and quick, and it's the way we use it most often. Swing your sword through a Gate—" he swung his blade from left to right, for emphasis— "and the Gate vanishes. You could, instead, summon the horn and blow it. Don’t, though.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, there’s only one horn. If you summon it, nobody else can use it while you have it. For another, it’s not as efficient if you sound the horn manually. It will still close Gates, but the process takes longer, and it takes over an hour before you can use it again. If you simply call the sound into your sword, the power recovers in seconds."

"Why?" Simon asked again.

Indirial looked at Simon blankly. After a few seconds, he simply spread his hands and shrugged.

The Wanderer used to speak of metaphysical distance, and a link between the Territory and its powers, Caela said, as though that explained everything.

Thanks for the help, Simon responded, with a mental sigh. He was growing tired of explanations that didn’t give him any real information.

Still, that wasn’t enough to drown out his excitement over the frozen horn. At last, he had moved one step ahead! Now he could finally discover what was on the other side of this door. He moved forward and put his hand on the next door, the one with the carving of the wolf.

"Simon!" someone called from the far door. Simon turned around to see Olissa, her goggles pushed up on her forehead and a pair of work gloves clutched in one hand. "I need you in the workshop. We need a Traveler, and for some reason Andra can't make this work."

Simon looked longingly at the next door, but he wasn't willing to open it if he wasn't prepared to walk through. As far as he knew, whatever was on the other side would grab him and instantly drag him through.

Olissa appeared to notice Indirial for the first time, and she smiled politely. "Feeling better, I see. You were a mess the last time I saw you."

Indirial swept a bow. "Indeed I was, and I thank you for your hospitality and care."

"I never did catch your name."

"Indirial, son of Aleias,” he responded casually.

For a moment, Simon wondered if Olissa would recognize the name and drop down to one knee or something. But she simply smiled and gave the faint suggestion of a curtsy. "Olissa Agnos. If you would like to repay me for your care, you would be doing me a great service by coming with Simon into the workshop. I could probably use both of you."

Indirial's smile widened, as though he found the whole thing amusing. "I welcome the opportunity to repay my debt. Come on, Simon."

Simon gazed at the next door. "But..."

"I wouldn't open that now, if I were you," Indirial said. "What waits on the other side will grab you and drag you through."

I knew it, Simon thought.

He sighed regretfully and turned, following Indirial out of the room.

"So tell me," Indirial said to Olissa, "what is this workshop?"

***

Alin sat at Grandmaster Naraka's bedside, resting on the edge of a padded stool that someone had found for him. His surroundings—Grandmaster Naraka's private rooms—were well made and simply decorated. Her bed looked more like the simple cot Alin had used back in Myria than the huge four-poster they had provided him here, and portraits of her family lined the walls.

She lay on the bed, asleep, the stump of her right arm wrapped in layers of bandages. He had been unable to find that one, but her left hand had—somehow—made it through the Gate with them to Elysia. He had used the rose light of Elysia to reattach the hand at the wrist, though she was still unable to move it. It twitched occasionally as she slept, its fingers curling and uncurling like a dying spider. The flesh at the base of the hand was ringed by scar tissue like a pink noose.

Alin had finally extracted himself from the gold armor, and though he was dressed now in a simple gray shirt and pants—the only clothes he could find that weren't fit for a palace—he still smelled like metal. He had tried to sleep once they returned, after giving his report to the remaining Grandmasters, but he had been unable to stop his mind from working. So he had come here.

Listening to the other Grandmasters talk, it seemed that every other attack had gone as badly as his. In fact, he had been luckier than some: one Tartarus Traveler had managed to escape through her Territory, taking a few soldiers with her. All told, he had only lost about a dozen people, as well as one Grandmaster's hand. One attack had been eliminated to a man, with Grandmaster Asphodel losing her life. Another attack resulted in the death of Grandmaster Tartarus, if no one else.

Two Grandmasters dead, and one out of the fight. They hadn't managed to destroy even one Hanging Tree.

Why? Alin had asked the remaining Grandmasters. How did we fail so badly?

Because they knew we were coming, they had responded. Somehow, they knew exactly where we would strike, and they were ready for us.

Even without a direct answer, Alin knew the other reason. The reason they didn't mention, but the word that was now on everybody's lips.

Valinhall.

Based on the messages they had recovered before her death, Grandmaster Asphodel had managed to successfully take her team around Overlord Eli’s defenses. She had her strike team in place with no casualties, and even had the Hanging Tree in sight. The last message from her was that there was only one remaining guard: an unshaven man in a brown cloak, carrying a huge red-and-gold book. In case he was a Traveler, she planned to overwhelm him in an ambush and report her success afterwards.

They had received no further messages until, according to Grandmaster Avernus, a Valinhall Traveler had thrown them Grandmaster Asphodel's head in a sack.

Sick of sitting still, Alin called out to his new power: a comforting pink light that waited in the distance, calling out to him like the promise of home at the end of a long journey. He tapped into that light, calling forth the rose power of healing.

Pale reddish light bloomed in his hand, unfolding into layers like an actual rose. He held the delicate sculpture of pink light and moved his hand closer to Grandmaster Naraka's hand, letting the petals of light drift out of his hand and into her wrist like a paper ship drifting on the tides. The light sank into her scars and her flesh glowed as though lit from within.

The hand spasmed and relaxed, the skin smoothing out. Muscles writhed around the wrist, building themselves up. The scar shrank slightly.

Grandmaster Naraka's breath caught, but after a few seconds—though it might have been Alin's imagination—she seemed to breathe more easily than before.

Alin himself could hardly breathe at all. He panted as though he had just run uphill carrying a mule on his back. The rose light tired him in a way the gold and the green did not, so that even one healing felt like building a new barn. These repeat recovery sessions that he had continued, one after another, all night, were putting him on the edge of passing out.

And still, he couldn't sleep.

Where was Simon?

He still hadn't returned, and both Grandmaster Endross and Avernus were ready to declare him an ally of Damasca. Alin had vouched for him, assuring them that Simon would never have sided with Damasca, and if it looked like he had done so, then it was probably for a good reason.

He had his own suspicions: he suspected that Simon was trying to kill the Valinhall Incarnation.

And, secretly, Alin wished him well.

Grandmaster Naraka's eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment she stared blindly at the ceiling.

"Darrin?" she whispered.

Alin grasped her right arm, above the elbow. "Alin," he said gently. This wasn't the first time during the night that she had called out for someone he had never heard of, but it was the first time she had opened her eyes.

"Alin," she repeated. Her eyes widened, and Alin noticed they were almost completely white. "Eliadel. Does the Tree burn?"

She sounded eager, desperate, and on the edge of tears all at once, as though she were asking whether her son had returned alive from a battle.

Alin shook his head, and when she didn't seem to notice, he spoke. "The Tree still stands."

A tear flowed down the crags of Grandmaster Naraka's face and she shut her eyes again, sagging as if about to drift back into sleep.

"So close," she whispered. "I was so close."

"I couldn't leave you there to die," Alin said. "I had to protect you."

"No. No you didn't."

"But the Valinhall Traveler would have killed you!"

"Yes, he would have. And I would have died knowing that the world would be free again. Everything I've worked for..."

Her strength left her and she fell back against her pillows, tears wetting her face.

Alin stood and left the room, barely acknowledging the Naraka Travelers who stood, alert, guarding her door. Two stood inside and two outside, in case someone managed to slip through an undefended route in some Territory. Each of the Travelers looked so grim that Alin almost pitied the next maid to come with clean linens. She was likely to be torn apart by summoned beasts if she so much as sneezed next to the Grandmaster's bed.

Should he even call her Grandmaster Naraka anymore? Surely the Grandmasters would have to appoint someone else to that position, now that her marked hand had been severed. Eventually, he was sure they could find a way to brand her left hand instead, but it would take days—maybe weeks—to heal her hand to the point where she could use it effectively. Rhalia had been very clear on that point.

Until she recovered, who would perform the Grandmaster's duty in her place?

With a wash of guilt, Alin realized he had never even learned her real name.

The guards nodded to Alin as he walked out of the former Grandmaster's room. all the Enosh Travelers had treated Alin with respect before, but now that he had saved their Grandmaster's life, the Naraka Travelers acted as though he were one of their own.

Alin wandered aimlessly through the halls, still too focused to give in to his body's demands for sleep. He didn't intend to head anywhere specific, he simply let his feet drift where they would. It was so early in the morning that the sky was still gray, so he barely saw anyone. That suited him, just now.

Eventually, he found himself in front of a lone door. It was almost plain, compared to the rest of the palace: made of wood, not stone, and only polished rather than etched with fancy carvings.

The room where his sisters stayed.

Before he thought about it too hard, he knocked.

I probably shouldn't, he realized, a second too late. They're probably still sleeping. I should be talking to the Grandmasters. We should be planning our next move.

But he stayed where he was.

Less than a minute later, Ilana pulled open the door. She wore a blouse and a long skirt—colorful, like the fashions here, rather than the earth tones more common in Myria—and she had her hair tied back. She looked as though she was going shopping, not just waking up.

"Alin!" she said, surprised. "Don't you have some sort of deadly war mission today?"

Alin blinked, for a moment not realizing what she meant. Then it hit him: most of the city still thought they were preparing to attack Damasca. No one knew they already had.

He probably shouldn't tell her—secrecy was another of those things that the Grandmasters prized far more than he did—but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "That's over. It...didn't go so well."

She looked at him a moment, and her expression softened. "Come on in," she said, stepping back.

Alin followed her direction. "What are you doing up? It's hardly dawn."

Ilana laughed. "Have you forgotten your life so quickly? I've woken up at dawn every day of my life, and I'm not about to start lazing around now. A farm doesn't run itself."

"You're not on the farm anymore, Ilana," Alin replied. "You don't have to go back ever again, if you don't want to."

She eyed him out of the corner of her eye as she drew him into their suite of rooms. "Why wouldn't I want to?"

Tamara was standing at a table, working a floured lump of dough with her fists. She pushed hair out of her eyes with the back of one hand.

"We have cooks for that," Alin said wearily.

"Am I not a cook, now?" Tamara replied. She remained as even and placid as usual, not showing the slightest hint of pleasure or surprise at seeing him.

"You'll have to go to the kitchens to use the oven anyway," he pointed out. "While you're down there, you could get some bread they've already baked."

"I could have someone pick out my clothes and dress me, too."

Shai, at least, had adapted to the easy life in Enosh. She was curled up like a cat on the seat of an enormous padded chair, a pile of collected knickknacks spread around her like a bird's nest. Glancing over, Alin saw an egg the size of his fist, a glass bottle, several paces of sea-green twine, and a wind-up mouse that skittered across the floor on its own power.

His youngest sister still slept, the clockwork mouse clutched in her hands as though she dreamed of dismantling it to its components.

"We don't have time to lay about, Alin," Ilana said.

"You do have time, you just don't choose to use it," he countered.

"We are using it. That's the whole point."

"How bad was it?" Tamara interrupted. She didn't look up, continuing to knead dough between her hands. She had a habit of doing that: cutting through to the heart of a discussion without even seeming to pay attention.

A lump rose in Alin's throat. "Bad," he said.

"Tell me."

He recounted the entire operation, from being wakened in the dark of the night to dragging Grandmaster Naraka to Elysia for healing, and finally back to her rooms.

"She's still recovering there, even now," he said. "She woke up a few minutes ago. She said she wishes I would have left her there."

Ilana and Tamara stood in silence. Tamara absently wiped at her hands with a damp towel, her dough safely packed into a basket. Even Shai was awake now, perched on the arm of her huge chair. The sun loomed outside the curtained window—the story must have taken longer than he had thought.

"So you were supposed to destroy the Hanging Tree," Ilana said. "Then you release the Incarnation...or Incarnations? One of them or all of them?"

Alin shrugged. "The Grandmasters talk like both of those are the same thing. Maybe if you release one, they all get released."

"There's already one," Shai said. Ilana shuddered visibly.

"Then I don't know," Alin said. "They said the Valinhall Incarnation is here in the palace, but I haven't seen him."

"We have," Tamara said. "Yesterday, when you were still busy with Grandmaster Naraka."

Alin perked up. He had imagined the Incarnations as giant, towering monsters. "Really? What was he like?" Even now, part of him was disappointed that they had gotten to see the Incarnation before he had.

"Terrible," Shai said quietly.

"He's not that bad," Ilana put in. "Sure, he's dark and horrible and violent, and he seems like he would murder you if you looked at him wrong. Oh, and the room keeps rebuilding itself around him, and I could have sworn I saw one of his shadows kidnap somebody.”

The other three all stared at her.

“What?” Ilana asked, a sarcastic tint to her voice. “That’s not that bad. I can see why you’d want him around.”

"Why would the Grandmasters want any of those monsters released?" Tamara asked.

Alin opened his mouth to defend them, but he realized he didn't know what he was going to say.

Because Damasca imprisoned them? That was hardly enough reason to release the Incarnations on Damasca's citizens. The average Damascan citizen didn’t understand about Incarnations or sacrifices. To stop the sacrifice? More than nine people would die this year if even one Incarnation was set free, much less all of them. Because it was the natural order?

Ilana clapped her hand on his shoulder. "Well, for now, don't worry about it. Stay and have breakfast with us. We'll go down to the kitchens to finish this bread, and I think one of the helpers is saving me some soup..."

Ilana kept talking, with occasional input from Shai or Tamara, but Alin stopped listening. For the moment, he could stay with his sisters and pretend they were all back home.

Since when had he wanted that?

CHAPTER 15:

SUCCESSION

Surrounded by the workshop, Indirial looked like he had just discovered a hoard of treasure.

"This is where he designed the advisors," he said in awe. He pulled a black string off a nearby workstation and lifted it into the air. The string curled lazily in midair, drifting down much slower than it should have, as though it were sliding through water.

"These materials must have come from foreign Territories,” Indirial said. “Amazing."

The Overlord reached into a small leather purse, pulling out a tiny dark gem that almost looked black. He removed his medallion, comparing the gem at the center of the medallion to the gem he held in his other hand. The two were identical.

"How did you find this?" he breathed.

Simon looked to Olissa, who shrugged. "We've all been sharing my daughter’s bedroom, and I used to spend most of my days doing things that the Nye could probably do better for themselves. The Eldest asked if I needed something to do, and I've always been a bit of a tinkerer."

Indirial's face soured, and he put the gem back in its purse. "The Eldest, huh?"

"Why?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"Not exactly, no." Indirial glanced at Simon, as though asking for help.

Simon wasn't sure he could explain, but he tried. "The Eldest wants the Territory to grow and expand. And...well, that's all he wants. He doesn't care about us."

Indirial nodded. "It would have been nice to think that you had earned your way in here on your own, or that the Territory had for some reason decided to open this place back up. But if the Eldest's involved, that means he thinks there's some way to increase Valinhall's power."

Olissa looked unconvinced. "Is that bad?"

"Depends on your definition of bad," Indirial responded.

Simon waited for more, but the Overlord didn't seem inclined to say anything else.

"Well, if you don't want to tell me, say so," Olissa said. "No need to be so cryptic." Deliberately, Olissa turned from Indirial to Simon. "Would you mind helping me for a moment, Simon?" she asked. Her voice was…almost too pleasant.

"No, ma'am," Simon said, looking away from Indirial. The Overlord's eyebrows were raised, and he looked as though he were trying to decide whether to be amused or offended. Simon wondered how long it had been since anyone dared to talk to Indirial like that.

Olissa reached into a nearby cabinet and withdrew the mask.

It had improved since Simon last saw it: polished-steel silver on one side and wrought-iron black on the other, with a jagged line through the middle like a solid lightning bolt. There were small eye slits, one on each side, though they still looked too small to see out of.

Clapping the mask down on a table in front of Simon, Olissa looked him in the eye. "Put it on, if you don't mind," she said.

Simon looked from her to the mask, then back at her again. On the one hand, if it gave him anything near the power it had given Malachi, he could find a use for it. On the other hand, he couldn't believe something like this would be without drawbacks. Probably significant drawbacks. Plus, it was homemade.

He was willing to trust the artifacts left by the Wanderer, and he had no problem with those native to the Territory. But something Olissa had cobbled together out of an artifact she undoubtedly didn't understand...

What he had learned in Enosh led Simon to believe that this mask was from Ragnarus, and that further reinforced his suspicion that there would be some horrible cost to wearing the mask. His imagination leapt into action, providing him with disturbing images of the mask sprouting limbs of sharp metal, driving into his skull and drinking his blood.

"What are you waiting for?" Olissa said. "It's perfectly safe. It used to have all sorts of nasty side effects, but we think that was because it was broken. It won’t drain your life-force anymore."

"What is that?" Indirial asked curiously.

Simon had a different question in mind. “It drained your life-force before?”

Olissa waved that away. “Well, it doesn’t now. Now, it draws on your connection to Valinhall. It’s like calling your…you know, steel or whatever. Just much deeper.”

Indirial eyed Olissa suspiciously. “How do you know all this? Where did you learn how to do anything with the artifacts of a Territory?”

Olissa raised her eyebrows at him. “The library,” she said, in a tone that made it clear that this subject wasn’t any of his business.

She relented after a few more seconds, adding, “Some of it, the Eldest taught me. Some of it, I learned from documents in the workshop. Some things…I just know, now. The longer I spend in the workshop, the more I know.”

“That kind of link can be dangerous,” Indirial warned. “I know you’re not familiar with…”

Indirial kept talking, but Simon stopped listening. He had heard enough.

Now he was faced with a simple choice: would he wear the mask, or not?

Taking a deep breath, Simon made up his mind. He needed an edge against Valin, and this mask might be it. If this would help him defeat the Incarnation, or even to last a little longer against him, he would be willing to take a little risk.

Simon took the mask in one hand and, with only a moment's hesitation, pressed it against his face.

"Simon, wait," Indirial commanded.

He took his hand away, and the mask stayed. It didn't feel like it was glued to his face, and there was certainly nothing wrapping around his head, so how did it stay on?

"I don't feel any different," Simon said. His voice sounded tinny and muffled behind the mask. He had been right about the eye slits. He could focus on either Olissa's hands resting on the table or her face, not both at once.

Olissa nodded absently and scratched something down on a piece of paper. "Good, okay. Andra managed to get this far. Now, can you call one of your Valinhall powers?"

"Hold on a moment, Simon," Indirial said.

Olissa huffed impatiently and turned toward the Overlord. "What is it now?"

"I can't believe this is safe," Indirial responded evenly. "Let me try it."

"I'm more comfortable with Simon, thank you," Olissa said, once again in that too-sweet voice. "I hardly know you. Do you have any reason to believe it isn't safe?"

Indirial hesitated a moment before saying, "Nothing tangible. Just...experience. I don't expect anything to be safe."

"Well, unless you have something more concrete, please trust me." She smiled reassuringly at him. "Don't worry, I’ve been here a while now. I know my way around."

Indirial sighed and shook his head, but he didn't say anything else.

Simon watched the two in silence. They were treating him like a child. He could almost understand that attitude, since he was a child to them. And if Indirial knew something about the mask that Simon didn’t, he certainly wanted to hear it.

But this was his decision, not theirs.

Before Olissa could say anything else, he called steel.

The liquid cold flowed through his veins and along his muscles, not like a river, but like the torrents of an ocean. He felt as though his limbs would freeze, but at the same time, he felt as though he could tear the walls of the House down with his bare hands.

He could see perfectly, too, as though the mask had become completely transparent. The sudden input of sight and sensation almost blinded him, and he staggered to the right, gripping the corner of a metal table for balance.

The metal warped and bent under his fingers.

Indirial looked down at the medallion he was still holding in one hand, then up at Simon. His expression was a combination of horror and readiness for battle. "Take it off, Simon! Simon! Take it off!"

"Is it working?" Olissa asked eagerly. "How do you feel?"

He felt like he could leap over a mountain; no, through a mountain. He felt like summoning Azura and tearing his way through the rest of the House, deeper and deeper, until he had carved into the center of the Wanderer's world.

He felt like tearing an Incarnation apart with nothing but his hands.

Experimentally, Simon reached out to the Nye essence. He nudged the power in his mind, intending to take only a wisp of that chill moonlight power.

It slammed into his lungs, causing him to take a deep, involuntary breath.

It was like waking up after a century asleep. Olissa's pen locked into place, and Indirial froze in the middle of a step forward. Simon concentrated in a way he had never tried before, and Olissa's hand crawled forward, writing on the paper. Indirial lowered his foot a fraction of an inch. Simon loosened his grip a little further, and the pen scratched, Indirial opening his mouth to speak.

Simon tightened his focus on the Nye breath, and the world froze again.

He had to do something with all this power, so he coiled his legs and leaped.

Even through this frozen world, he moved like a stone launched from a catapult.

Too fast too fast too fast! he thought desperately.

Try to grab a ceiling beam, Caela said. She sounded exasperated. For some reason, the Nye essence hadn't frozen her voice.

Simon spun in midair, snagging one of the solid wood ceiling beams that arched over the workshop. He manage to halt his progress, though the beam itself creaked alarmingly under his impact.

How can I understand you? Simon asked.

That's a great question of the ages, Caela responded. How do you manage to keep up with my shining intellect?

Simon let that comment slide. No, he said, I mean, why aren't you as slow as everything else?

Ah, Caela said. We're not really talking, you know.

Sure we are, Simon said.

Caela sighed, but she sounded pleased with herself. We're transmitting our thoughts directly. It's much more efficient than speech. I'm not sure why you ever bother moving your mouth at all.

That’s good, Simon responded, letting himself drop down to his former position. Now I won't have to worry about leaving you behind when I wear the mask.

So you've decided to use the mask, have you?

Why wouldn't I?

A question you ought to consider carefully.

Simon shook his head wearily. all his doubts had flown away in the face of this wonderful rush of power. Surely even Valin couldn't stand against him like this. If Caela wasn't convinced, well, he was used to doubt and mockery from the dolls. He wouldn't let that stop him.

He loosened his grip on the Nye essence enough that he could see Olissa blinking in surprise. He wondered why for a moment, and then understood: from her perspective, he had been standing in one place, and appeared inches away. She hadn't seen him move.

The thought thrilled him, and he turned to Indirial.

He saw the man just as his broad hand smacked Simon upside the face.

The mask flew free, and the world lurched back into normal speed. The mask hit the wall and rang like a bell before it crashed down to the floor.

"What was..." Simon tried to ask What was that for?, but his mouth seemed not to have the energy it needed to move. He moved to step toward Indirial, but his legs gave out, and he melted bonelessly to the stone floor.

Olissa's mouth gaped open in shock. "What happened?"

"At the end of the hallway, beyond the bedrooms, there is a trap door beneath a rug,” Indirial said. "Go there, raise the door, and call for the Eldest. Tell him that Indirial needs a favor."

"I haven't seen the Eldest for—" Olissa said, but Indirial cut her off.

"The Eldest will be where he needs to be. Do as I say. And under no circumstances climb down the ladder. Do you understand me? No matter what he says, do not climb down the ladder."

Olissa's face struggled with itself, and she glanced down at Simon, but finally she obeyed.

Simon wasn't surprised. Even if he hadn't known that Indirial was a Damascan Overlord, the authority in the man's voice would have sent him running. He tried to say something, but his mouth wouldn't obey.

He ordered his hand to move, but his fingers only twitched. His body had no strength at all.

Well, there's one cure for that, he thought. He called steel.

Nothing happened.

You've used it all up, Caela sent. I warned you.

You didn't warn me!

Well, I would have, if you asked. Why didn't you ask?

Simon would have throttled her if he could move. And if it would have done any good to throttle someone with a wooden neck. What happened to my steel? I didn't use that much.

I'm not sure, she admitted. It felt full the entire time you had the mask on, as though it wasn't draining at all. But as soon as the mask fell off, it went straight to empty.

Indirial knelt over by the wall, covering his hand in the corner of his cloak and gingerly picking up the mask without ever touching the metal with his hand.

Simon didn’t think he had the strength to turn his head, but he heard the rustle of cloth next to his ear. A rasping voice spoke from above him.

"What happened here?" the Eldest asked. He leaned over Simon's body for a better look, his dark hood peering into Simon's eyes.

"What do you know about this?" Indirial demanded. He raised the mask up for the Nye's inspection, still not touching it with his skin.

"An artifact of Ragnarus, captured in battle from a defeated foe. It meets the requirements to become part of Valinhall."

"It's from Ragnarus!" Indirial said. "It can't be safe. Look what it did to Simon."

The Eldest's hood snapped up to regard Indirial. "I would have thought that, of all people, you would not be squeamish about using the power of the Crimson Vault. You should know that nothing in Ragnarus is less than a powerful weapon. If you mean to stop the Incarnation, I should think that you would relish every weapon you can get your hands on."

Without responding, Indirial strode over to Simon and reached down, holding up Simon's limp arm. "And what about this?" the Overlord asked.

At first, Simon thought he meant the fact that he couldn't move after only seconds using the mask. That was Simon's main concern, certainly. He looked at his arm.

It was covered by a design like black chains. The chains twisted all the way up to his shoulders.

He hadn't noticed before, because of the icy chill of the mask's power and his subsequent collapse, but he could feel the chains crawling past his shoulder blades and onto his back, binding his ribs in what felt like cold steel.

Maker above, he thought.

"This is what happens when he only has the mask on for a few seconds," Indirial said. "What happens if he tries to fight Valin in it?"

"I'm not convinced you should be fighting Valin at all," the Eldest rasped. "Besides, if you are so concerned for the boy's welfare, you can wear the mask. I do not care."

Olissa came rushing into the workshop. "I shouted down that trap door until I was hoarse. I don't know what you expected to happen, but—"

Then she noticed the scene: Indirial, kneeling next to Simon, holding up his chain-wrapped arm for emphasis. The Eldest Nye, standing over them both, turning his hood to regard her as she walked into the door.

Simon could only see the whole picture out of the corner of his eye, but he had to admit: it made for a strange situation.

"Eldest!" Olissa said, sounding surprised. "You're here!"

"I knew where I was needed," the Eldest responded, turning back to Indirial. "Why did you need me, son of Aleias? My master may call for me at any moment, and I must be ready."

Indirial stood, standing face-to-face with the Eldest. He rose head and shoulders above the Nye, but the Eldest certainly didn't back down.

"Why did you bring her here?" Indirial asked. "Why open this room up at all?"

"I use what resources I am given. When I see someone so rich in imagination, in potential, I must have her working for the House. That is all. What she creates? That is no concern of mine. This mask is nothing. She is the real treasure."

Simon couldn't see Olissa's face, but she was probably wondering whether to be flattered or creeped out. That was how Simon would have felt, at least.

"We will not take the mask," Indirial said. "You will not bind us as you bound Valin."

The Eldest spread his arms wide, his sleeves drooping down to the floor. "You wound me, son of Aleias. Even if you wished to take the mask from here, it would not function for you outside of the Territory. It is not yet attuned."

Indirial stared, obviously considering that.

Simon, feeling strength return to his limbs, struggled up to a sitting position, propping himself up against the wall.

"What..." he began, but his voice trailed off and he had to swallow. Both Indirial and the Eldest looked at him. "What would it take? To do this 'attuning' thing."

Indirial ran a hand through his hair, not looking at Simon. "We can't use this, Simon. We can't. It's too great a risk. Instead of beating Valin, we could actually make him stronger."

The Eldest ignored Indirial, rubbing his sleeves together, his hood turned toward Simon. "I, or someone like me, would have to bind the mask to a specific room, and a specific challenge. Anyone with enough ties to the House could attune an artifact, if it meets the correct requirements. If they did so, you would be able to summon it in the outside world."

"Do it," Simon said, but Indirial snatched the mask away.

"I know what it looked like, Simon," he said, "but this is exactly the kind of thing that snared Valin in the first place. We can't afford the risk."

The Eldest shrugged. "It does not matter."

Both Travelers looked at him.

"It does not matter," he said again. "I will not do it."

"What? Why not?"

"For me, there is no gain," the Eldest said, in his grating almost-whisper. "If you can summon the mask, you will challenge the Valinhall Incarnation. You will likely die, and my investment in you will be wasted. Or else you will kill Valin, and still I have nothing to show for it."

The Eldest Nye turned his back and glided from the room.

"So no, son of Kalman. I will not do this thing. Be at ease, Overlord."

The Nye vanished.

"Excuse me," Olissa said, "but I made it. I think I should get to say something about—"

Something seemed to hit her, and she stopped in mid-sentence. Almost comically slow, she rotated her neck to look at Indirial.

In a small voice, she said, "Overlord?"

Indirial kept looking at the mask, answering in an absent voice, "Hm? Oh, yes. Indirial, son of Aleias, Overlord of the realm of Cana, subject to the authority of His Majesty Zakareth the Sixth, the Morning and Evening star, and so on, and so forth."

From the small smile quirking up the corner of Indirial's mouth, Simon didn't think he was quite as casual as he pretended.

Olissa looked like she was about to faint. Hastily she pulled the goggles from her hair and tossed her pin down, smoothing the front of her dress.

"I didn't...I mean, I thought..." She glanced around, looking for answers, but soon decided to go to her knees in a deep bow.

"How may I serve you, my lord?" she asked.

Indirial looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Get up, woman. Seriously, get up. I never can get used to that."

Olissa rose to her feet, still looking flustered. "I should get my husband. Yes. My children need to meet you."

He raised his hands as though she had threatened him. "No, no, don't do that. They would only make more of a fuss."

Her eyes moved to Simon, and they widened. "Simon. Is he working for you? With you? But he—" She clicked her mouth shut, but Simon could have finished the sentence for her.

But he kills Damascans.

Indirial sighed and shook his head. "This is a mess. Listen, I am well aware of Simon's past. But he is working with me now, not against me, and therefore he will have the opportunity to make up for his past crimes. Such is the decree I received straight from King Zakareth himself. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely clear, my lord," Olissa said. She looked upon Indirial as though he was the Maker himself, and Simon only a step short.

The looks made Simon uncomfortable. They reminded him too much of the way people treated Alin.

"Yes, well, let your family know," Indirial said. "I know your daughter was chosen to bear a Dragon's Fang—you are to be congratulated. When she's ready, she'll have an honored place in the Kingdom."

She looked as though Indirial had offered her a house full of gold.

Indirial held up the mask. "For now? Hold on to this. Don't give it to anyone, especially not one of the Nye. It was an honor to meet you, Mistress Agnos. Let's go, Simon."

As they walked out of the room—well, Indirial walked, and Simon sort of staggered along behind him—Simon asked a question. "Shouldn't you have hidden the mask? If the Eldest wants it, he knows right where to find it."

"I would have," the Overlord responded, "but there's no point. I couldn't hide it from him, so I might as well leave it where I can keep my eye on it."

"Okay. Where are we going?"

Indirial looked at him in surprise, his eyebrows raised. "Well, I'll have to go as soon as the King contacts me. But until then...it's been far too long since I've spent any significant time in the House. It's about time I settled in for a long-overdue workout."

He clapped a hand on Simon's shoulder, almost causing Simon's still-weak knees to collapse. "And you, my friend, will get to see some real training."

***

Alin was finally beginning to relax when, for the second time that day, a Grandmaster called him to work.

He was sitting between Shai and Ilana, tearing into a roast pork sandwich, listening to Shai tell a story about how she had managed to find her way into the Tartarus Travelers' barracks. Tamara spent half her time chuckling and the other half shaking her head, as though trying to decide whether to be an amused older sister or a disapproving mother.

Then Shai cut off mid-sentence, and Alin put down his sandwich. He didn't have to look up to know why she had stopped. He had been lucky to get this much time to himself.

He barely stopped to marvel at how much he was changing. Only last week, he would have been overjoyed at the idea of one of the Grandmasters needing his help.

A Helgard Traveler—unmistakable with his thick fur-lined coat, his long beard, and the string of sharpened bones he wore around his neck—placed one gloved hand on Alin's shoulder. "The Grandmaster would like to speak with you," the man said. His glove still had bits of frost on it, which melted and trickled down Alin's neck.

Alin stood, bidding his sisters good-bye, and followed the Traveler out of the room.

"You are not dressed as you should be," the Helgard Traveler said disapprovingly, once they had left the dining room.

Alin responded as he felt a king would have: "I am dressed as I wish," he said.

The Traveler grunted, unimpressed, but Alin felt good. That was what King Zakareth would have said, he was sure. Well, that was what he imagined.

Alin followed the Traveler along what seemed like miles of twisting corridor, all the way to the Helgard quarters. These were rougher than most of the palace, made largely out of undressed stone or undecorated metal, and he would have sworn that he saw patches of actual snow in some of the corners.

The man led Alin to a huge arch of a door, made of a metal that looked like pewter, carved with the snarling face of some horned bear-like beast. Without knocking, the Traveler pulled the door open, pushing Alin inside.

The room inside was larger than Alin had expected, larger even than the Grandmasters' war council room. It was surrounded with packed bookshelves and comfortable furniture, and one wall was nothing but high windows. The windows had curtains drawn over them now, and the only light came from a series of candles sitting around the room. They were placed well away from the books, Alin noticed.

Someone had hastily cleared out the center of the room and placed a round table there, surrounding it with chairs. all those chairs, save one, were now occupied.

Grandmaster Avernus sat at the end of the table, her long gray hair hastily tied back. Judging by her casual robes, someone had woken her for this meeting. She stared at a man Alin didn't recognize. He was tall and well-muscled, with blond curly hair framing a face that said he was bored with these proceedings, and was already looking forward to more important business later in the day. His hands were bound to the arms of his chair, and a sword—presumably his—lay on the table in front of him. The sheath was pulled down slightly, to expose a few inches of bright red steel.

The prisoner's calm was even more impressive considering his circumstances. A fat, fluffy owl, with eyes that gleamed unnaturally bright in the room's candlelight, perched on the table across from him, staring fixedly into the bound man's eyes. Or, possibly, it could have been watching the serpents crawl all over his clothes.

The serpents looked like two-foot-long snakes, except they each had four or five pairs of spindly claws that helped them grip and pull themselves along the prisoner's skin. When they passed his head, they stopped to flick a tongue inside his ear and hiss something that sounded disturbingly like a secret whisper.

"What is going on here?" Alin asked.

Grandmaster Endross stood next to Avernus, his dark eyes fixed on the prisoner. His hands rested on the hilts of his swords as though he was looking for an opportunity to use them. Upon hearing Alin speak, he glanced over, but he didn't say a word.

It was the last Grandmaster in the council who responded. Grandmaster Helgard glared at the prisoner over his bushy beard, one hand curling almost unconsciously into a fist. He spoke to Alin, though.

"Eliadel, this man claims to be Talos, firstborn son of Zakareth the Sixth, and Heir to the Damascan throne."

Before Alin could say anything—before he could even decide what he wanted to say—Talos spoke.

"You can stop testing me, now. You know I am who I say I am, and you know that what I offer is the truth."

He leaned forward, looking from Grandmaster to Grandmaster before finally settling his gaze on Alin.

"I want to help you," he said.

***

Leah pushed her bleeding hand to the silver doors of Ragnarus. The doors, marked with the visage of the bearded, one-eyed king, swung silently open at her offering.

Not for the first time, Leah pressed a handkerchief against the slice in her hand and wished there was some other, more civilized way to gain entry to the Crimson Vault. She was getting sick of pinpricks.

Her father stood within, for once wearing his tall, black-and-gold crown, a ruby set above his forehead. He held a blunt mace in one hand and the hilt of a long sword—slightly curved and sharp along only one edge, like Simon's—in the other. He seemed to be comparing the two, looking from one to the other.

Leah had expected to find him here. He liked to spend his time in the Vault. Somehow, examining the weapons soothed him or set his mind at ease. This was as relaxed as she ever saw him: rigidly looking from one deadly weapon to another, as though trying to decide which to unleash first.

He looked up as she entered. "Leah. You have something to report?"

"I do, father." As usual, she had to fight the urge to bow or curtsy in his presence. "The crystal I planted in Enosh has gone dark. I have no more eyes in the city."

His crimson eye flared. "Discovered?"

She hesitated, but shook her head. "I don't believe so. I doubt it's been destroyed, only...blocked, somehow. I suspect Grandmaster Lirial or one of her lieutenants has created interference on the Lirial side."

The King nodded, carefully replacing his weapons on their labeled marble shelves. "Will it be useless to us, then?"

"Possibly," Leah allowed. "Grandmaster Lirial may know some tricks I do not. But if she hasn’t discovered the exact location of the crystal, any block she creates will be temporary. It will be all but impossible to maintain as the moons shift.”

"Keep me apprised," her father said.

Leah bowed her head a fraction and turned to leave.

"You've never tried to have me killed," King Zakareth said suddenly.

Leah froze with her back to the King, afraid to move. Her father never spoke idly. His every word had a purpose. Was this a trap? Had she walked into an ambush?

"Nor have you ever attempted to secure your succession by eliminating your competition," he continued. "At first, I assumed that was because you lacked the stomach to do what was necessary. But I no longer believe that to be the case. So, why?"

Warily, she turned to face her father. Never, in her entire life, had her father asked her such an...intimate question. He had asked her to provide him with information, had questioned her about her decisions or her motivations, but he had never asked about her.

So she had no choice but to assume this was a trap.

"An attack on you would have destabilized the realm," she said carefully. "And an attack on my brothers or sisters would have jeopardized the succession, which could result in panic, or a lack of confidence in the royal family. As the Cynaran law code states, ‘no noble may take actions that advance personal gains at the risk of national stability, on pain of—’"

King Zakareth laughed. It was a short, bitter, bark of a laugh, but it startled his daughter so much that she stopped, her mouth practically gaping open. She couldn't recall ever having heard her father laugh. He didn't even laugh sarcastically, mockingly, or for emphasis. Laughing seemed too human for him, somehow.

"I don't want the law code's answer," he said at last. "I want yours."

It took Leah a moment to answer. "I wasn't sure the prize was worth the cost," she said at last.

Zakareth nodded, as though he understood. Maybe he did.

"I had intended your sister Cynara to take the throne, before her...accident...in Asphodel. She had your intelligence, but she had the spirit, as well. The drive to do whatever it took."

"She was ruthless," Leah said. "Cruel."

"Yes."

Zakareth stood for a moment, ruminating. "Once, I thought those things virtues. Even after Cynara became unsuitable for the throne, I had Talos in mind. He hates me, but that means little. The day my father died was the last moment of true joy I have known."

How should she respond to that?

"But Talos is twisted inside. Broken. He and Lysander have been planning against me for years now."

Leah tried to cover up her surprise, but she was afraid she only partially succeeded. Had he known the entire time?

The King saw her reaction and gave her what could, on another man's face, have almost been a smile.

"Like so many others, Talos underestimates me. Very little goes on that I do not see. You would think he would remember that, since I have a bright red glowing eye."

He paused, as though waiting for her to laugh. She wasn't even sure if she was breathing. Had he tried to tell a joke?

This meeting with her father was becoming so surreal that part of her wondered if this was even the same man. Maybe she had died, and this was some bizarre afterlife reserved for Travelers who had trespassed against their parents.

As the silence became uncomfortable, she opened her mouth to change the subject, but he forestalled her.

"In any event, I am running out of options. Adessa is not wise, but she has a shrewd strategic mind and a keen grasp of politics. She's almost as charismatic as Talos, in some ways. With her around, I had still hoped to foster a sense of healthy competition among you, but I was unable to tolerate this last of her little...pranks."

Highly public attempted assassinations were pranks, now. The standards of her family fell ever lower.

"Surely you have considered it," Zakareth said, running a hand across his short beard. "I now only have two options for my Successor: Talos, or you."

When Leah was a little girl, her mother had taken her to Lirial for the first time. They sat, together, on a smooth cliff made of crystal, and watched the moons spin and glide overhead. Her mother had spent that time filling Leah's head with visions of someday ruling Damasca as Queen, of all the things that Leah could someday do for the people, of all the privileges she could enjoy.

As a little girl, Leah's mind had burned with the possibilities. They had seemed fresh and enticing, like a piece of candy or a new toy. But what she had really enjoyed, even then, was not the far-off possibility of inheriting a kingdom. It was the time spent sitting next to her mother, watching the moons dance.

When her mother died, Indirial had been one of the few to offer her any form of sympathy. Even her father had barely mentioned her mother’s death, only referring to it again when he sent Leah off to live with her mother’s family.

She had given up any dreams of the throne. Not only did it seem like an unlikely possibility—she was, after all, fourth in line for the throne, and her father could technically have picked anyone he liked to succeed him—but the cruel necessity of politics seemed overwhelming.

Leah had committed herself to doing everything she could to help the Kingdom as a Traveler and as an Heiress. She would never attain a higher rank, so she might as well get used to it. Or so she had thought.

"You can name your own Successor freely," Leah all but whispered. "It need not be one of your own children."

"Do not bandy technicalities with me,” the King snapped. “No one exercises that right. The bloodline of Ragnarus must continue, and it must remain in power. Besides, who else has been trained for rule?"

"Adessa is still in full command of her faculties. She would make an able Queen."

King Zakareth strode up to her, towering over her even more than usual in his imposing crown. "You pretend to be a fool, but I know who you are. What are you afraid of?"

Leah looked him in his one human eye, looking for some trace of fatherly compassion, but she saw only blue ice. She met his red eye instead.

"You," she said honestly. "Us. This family. We use our power for the greater good, I know that, but I also know what that power does to me. I start to calculate and manipulate, treating people like pieces on a game board. I know what it does to you."

Because she was feeling reckless, she met him with complete honesty. At this point, what did she have to lose? "You are pitiless and cold. You provide for your citizens because that is your function, and you do not hesitate to make decisions that should, by rights, rob you of your sleep for years. It is like living in a country ruled by a clockwork machine."

There. She felt like she had cast herself off a cliff without checking to see if there was water beneath her.

But she couldn't say she regretted it.

Zakareth stared at her so long that she started to sweat. He would not execute her. As a Ragnarus Traveler, her blood was too valuable. He may need her to breed more Travelers someday, so he would lock her up in a foreign Territory, to be called upon when he found a suitable consort. The same fate he had in mind for Adessa.

The thought made her inexplicably angry. How long had she lived with that threat hanging over her head? Why should she tolerate it now?

The anger gave her the boldness to continue, though she reined her tone back a notch. There was no sense in pushing too far.

"Let us go further in our discussion. Take the Valinhall Incarnation, for example. Look at what power has done to him. He has given into his ambition, and it has consumed him. Warped him. All the Incarnations, in fact, are nothing if not a Traveler's power gone rampant. Who would I be if—"

"I have made my decision," Zakareth said abruptly.

That caught Leah off guard. "What?"

Abruptly, she panicked. Had she landed in the water, or on solid rock?

"Not that there was much of a decision to make." He moved back to the marble shelves and pulled out the mace again, running his fingers along some of the engraving. "Talos sees only his own desires, not the needs of the nation. You are the only one."

He hefted the weapon in one hand, testing its weight. "For years, I have evaluated your skills, your training, and your suitability. I have done so with all your brothers and sisters. But never have I tried to know you."

He met her eyes, and his expression was subtly different than usual. She couldn't quite place how.

"Will you forgive me?" he asked.

Leah almost lost her balance. Finally, she managed to compose herself enough to respond.

"I will," she said. The words still came out slightly breathless.

"Leah, daughter of Kelia, Heiress of Damasca, I hereby appoint you Successor to King Zakareth the Sixth. By all the power and authority I have inherited from my fathers, and in the presence of the Crimson Vault, I swear the rights and responsibilities of the Damascan throne to you upon my death or abdication. Do you accept this great weight that has been placed upon you?"

"I don't...I don't know..." Leah said. She rarely found herself at a loss for words, but she had not been expecting this when she Traveled to Ragnarus today.

"The correct response is, 'I accept.'" He sounded almost gentle.

"I accept this burden," Leah said, recovering herself. "I accept, and swear to fulfill the office to the best of my abilities."

The ruby on Zakareth's crown flared, and Leah felt her body constrict, as though her skin were two sizes too tight. When it lifted, she breathed easy again.

Ragnarus had, indeed, witnessed her oath.

King Zakareth let out a deep breath and nodded, pulling the crown from his head and setting it on the shelf. Certainly, he did not intend the gesture to mean anything. The crown was hot and heavy, and he had likely only worn it in the first place because he intended to name her Successor, and now he was glad to be rid of its weight.

But it seemed far too symbolic for Leah's tastes.

"Um, thank you, father," she said. This whole experience seemed unreal, as though she would step back through her Gate and realize the whole thing had been some sort of hallucination.

"This decision is long overdue. I had reached the point when I could delay no longer."

"I see."

"The Grandmasters will undoubtedly try to strike at Cana while they think my attentions are directed at their city," the King said casually.

"Undoubtedly," Leah responded. The thought hadn't occurred to her.

"Therefore, I will be remaining in the capital, along with a defensive force of my choosing. They will not reach the Hanging Tree while I defend it. However, in my absence, someone must command the attacking force."

Leah's breath caught. "Me?"

"Not directly. I’ll leave the army’s day-to-day operations to someone with more campaign experience. You will both represent the royal family and…coordinate. You are an accomplished Lirial Traveler, after all. Observation and communication are among your specialties."

"I appreciate the trust, father," Leah said. "But you are taking too much of a risk on yourself. Let me stay behind instead, and you command the offensive."

He would certainly be more use on a battlefield than she, and he knew it. Why had he come up with this ridiculous plan?

"Return to your duties, Successor," Zakareth responded, not unkindly. "I will have my secretaries draw up the official succession papers as soon as I am able. Until then, I hesitate to imagine what Talos has been up to in our absence."

Leah nodded and withdrew, leaving the Crimson Vault and her father behind.

Well, she thought, just before she slipped through a Gate for home. Won't my aunt be surprised?

CHAPTER 16:

CAREFUL PLANS

Alin stared at Talos, wishing he had some kind of power or summon that could detect whether a man was lying. The other Grandmasters did, though, and he had passed all those tests: birds, snakes, and mysterious crystals all said he was telling the truth.

That did not mean, though, that he was trustworthy.

"The Damascan army gathers outside your city," Talos said. "The Overlords have been building up weapons against you for years, and even more in the past few weeks. There are weapons arrayed against you in every approach through every possible Territory."

"You speak as though we have no eyes," Grandmaster Endross said contemptuously. "We can see the army from here."

Talos continued as though there had been no interruption. "I suspect that you have considered striking at Cana, while the army and all our most powerful Travelers are occupied here."

The Grandmasters' faces went blank, which was enough to confirm to Alin that what Talos was saying had some truth to it. Talos must have seen the same thing, because he smirked.

"It's not a bad plan," he said, "except that it is a trifle obvious. We have all the passes from here to Cana both warded and guarded."

"That is always true," Grandmaster Avernus said. She sat rigidly straight in her chair, and regarded him with the same flat gaze she used on everyone. "The difference now is only that many of your most powerful Travelers remain here, instead of guarding those approaches."

"And you’re confident you can punch a hole through, right?" Talos said. "In some Territory, somewhere, there has to be a route to Cana that's easier than the others." He nodded to Alin. "Elysia, perhaps. We cannot possibly have any defenses there."

Alin took that as an invitation to speak up, but he addressed the Grandmasters instead of the prisoner. "Why are we listening to this man?" he said. "If he knows anything of strategic value, we should question him and have it out of him, instead of negotiating. Anything he learns here can be used against us."

"And what do you know of 'questioning' someone, child?" Grandmaster Avernus asked sharply. Her tone took Alin aback. No one had spoken to him with such an obvious lack of respect since he had come to Enosh in the first place.

He was starting to get angry when Grandmaster Helgard spoke up.

"I agree with Eliadel," Helgard rumbled. "There is nothing to gain here. Turn him over to Asphodel, and he will speak soon enough."

Talos shrugged, which almost dislodged one of the crawling red serpents on his shoulder. It hissed angrily in his ear. "No need," he said. "I don't know about Elysia, but I do know one Territory that won't be guarded, and that has a direct route into the royal palace of Cana."

He looked from eye to eye, making sure that everyone was listening. "Ragnarus."

Grandmasters Avernus and Helgard glanced at one another, considering.

Endross was not so polite. He pulled one sword from its sheath and drove it into the wooden table, right next to Talos' own half-bared sword. "I do not trust you. I say, if Zakareth values the blood of Ragnarus Travelers so highly, let us sell it back to him in buckets."

For once, Alin found himself in complete agreement with Grandmaster Endross.

Talos looked at the Grandmaster's sword in distaste, but with no fear. "I want the Incarnations freed as much as you do," Talos said. "Even more than some of you, I'm sure. This balance that my father created is unhealthy and unnatural. We survived without human sacrifice before, hundreds of years ago, and we can certainly do so again."

"And if the emergence of the Incarnations happens to unseat your father's power..." Grandmaster Avernus began.

Talos smiled, and it was a disturbingly winning, earnest smile. "That would be a fortunate side effect, yes. But the fact remains that I believe the rulers of Damasca have done far more harm than good with their bloody Trees."

Grandmaster Endross snorted, dragging the tip of his blade across the table and closer to Talos. "I still don't trust you, sir prince."

Talos sighed. "Heir. I'm not a prince, I'm an Heir. What are you, a child? No one says 'prince' anymore."

Grandmaster Avernus laid a delicate hand on Endross’ arm before he tore his sword free and drew it across the prisoner's throat.

"Hold on a moment, Endross," she said. "I can vouch for him."

Grandmasters Endross and Helgard stared at her in disbelief.

"You can?" Helgard asked.

"I am familiar with Overlord Lysander," Grandmaster Avernus responded. "He has done a great deal for our cause in Damasca. More than most are aware, in fact. And he has given his allegiance to Talos."

Talos nodded. "That’s right. And you three have tested my veracity yourself. How could I have fooled all your tests?"

A serpent flicked a tongue in his ear, and he jerked his head to the side, distaste evident on his face. "Speaking of which, can you please remove these now?"

Grandmaster Endross turned and nodded to someone Alin hadn’t noticed: a robed Naraka Traveler sitting in the corner of the room. She waved her red-marked hand, and the serpents evaporated.

“Much better,” Talos said. He raised his bound hands, as far as the rope tying him to the chair would allow. “Now how about these?”

“Don’t push your luck, Highness,” Grandmaster Helgard said. “Tell us your plan, and we will decide how best to work it into our strategy.”

Talos smiled broadly. “Simplicity itself. Once battle is joined, I will slip away to a prearranged location. You will meet me there, and I will open a Ragnarus Gate. It leads straight into the middle of the royal palace in Cana. You can be in front of the Hanging Tree in minutes.”

“We must come to you?” Grandmaster Endross said skeptically. “No, that’s too dangerous. You should come to us.”

Talos sighed, as though exasperated at having to deal with a particularly stubborn child. “I can’t. I am only a Traveler of Ragnarus, and that means I can only Travel back to Cana. And I certainly can’t walk across the battlefield to Enosh.”

“Have someone take you,” Alin put in. For someone who claimed to have all the answers, this Damascan Heir seemed to be making a lot of excuses.

“Lysander is the only one I would trust enough to take me on a trip across enemy lines,” Talos explained. “But he’s an Avernus Traveler. And you all know what it’s like to Travel through Avernus with any precision.”

Alin didn’t, but he nodded along with the Grandmasters.

“Your people, on the other hand, can Travel straight to my location. Once there, I’ll take everyone to the royal palace. Simple.”

“We could meet up in Avernus itself,” Grandmaster Avernus suggested. “It may take a little longer, and there are some risks involved, but we should be able to avoid the battle entirely.”

“Ah,” Talos said. “I keep forgetting you people don’t have your own Ragnarus Travelers. A Gate to the Crimson Vault can only be opened in this world, not in any of the Territories. I could still summon my weapon into a Territory, though it would take longer, but I have to return here if I want to open a Gate.”

“Then why don’t you take us there now?” Grandmaster Helgard asked eagerly. “We could have an army inside Cana’s walls in minutes.”

“My father’s still there,” Talos said simply. “When battle joins, he won’t be. Knowing him, he will go with the army. He always likes to be in the thick of things.”

The Grandmasters all sat, digesting that. Endross brooded heavily, Helgard stroked his beard, and Avernus simply stared into the distance.

Maker above, how powerful was the King? Alin would never have thought the presence of one man would make so much of a difference in the Grandmasters’ way of thinking.

“There’s one more…issue,” Grandmaster Avernus put in. “The Valinhall Incarnation.”

Talos looked up sharply. “That’s right! Is he here? May I speak with him? Is he still capable of speech?”

“Oh, he’s capable,” Grandmaster Endross said. “And I’m tempted to let you have your wish.”

Grandmaster Helgard smiled a wolf’s smile. “He’s got good taste, this Valin. He hates your father almost as much as I do. I take great pleasure in imagining what he would do to you.”

“The problem is that the Incarnation is focused on your father to the exclusion of almost everything else,” Grandmaster Avernus said, shooting the other two a sharp glance. “He’s also not…thrilled with us, since we robbed him of his chance to attack. It’s been all we could do to keep him here, though we did manage to get him to see reason and not kill the lot of us. He still wanted us to Travel him over to the palace to fight your father.”

“We can’t,” Talos said immediately. “Not now. There are too many guardians in the palace. And…”

He hesitated, as though unsure if he wanted to speak his mind.

“What is it?” Alin asked.

“This would be a bad time to start holding things back,” Grandmaster Endross said softly.

“No one has seen Indirial today,” Talos said at last. “That worries me.”

“Surely Indirial’s absence could only be a good thing,” Grandmaster Avernus said.

“Indirial’s absence would be a wonderful gift from above,” Talos responded. “But when he is simply missing, he could be anywhere. That is far worse.”

Alin desperately wanted to ask who Indirial was, but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to look ignorant in front of this arrogant Damascan Heir.

“So we’re back to the same plan,” Grandmaster Endross said. “We wait for Damasca to commit to an attack, and when they do, we meet up with the prince and have him take us into Cana.”

“If Zakareth is with the army, that works out quite well for us,” Grandmaster Avernus said. “We can simply unleash the Valinhall Incarnation on him. While he’s distracting the King—and, hopefully, cutting a bloody furrow through the entire army—we’ll sneak off behind his back and strike at the Hanging Tree.”

“How do we know you won’t leave us there to die once we’ve destroyed the Tree?” Grandmaster Endross asked.

“How do you propose I stop you from simply opening a Gate and walking away?” Talos said reasonably. “Besides…”

He leaned forward as much as his restraints would let him. “Isn’t it worth the risk? As long as you get to burn the Tree, what does it matter to you?”

The grin on Talos’ face was eager, even hungry. To Alin, it even seemed a bit…unbalanced. Like a spark of madness hid within the royal Heir.

But most of the others seemed convinced.

The rest of the discussion was just for show. The Grandmasters all agreed that they should take more time to decide, that they would have to confer with their strategists, but Alin could tell that they had been persuaded. The essence of Talos’ plan, at least, would move forward.

In Alin’s mind, however, there was still one last issue.

“What about him?” he asked, gesturing to Talos. “Now that we’ve got him, why should we let him go?”

Talos actually rolled his eyes. “The plan would never work if I did not return. My family would know something had happened to me, and would assume that I had been abducted or killed. The plan could never move forward.”

Alin met his eyes and said, very deliberately, “So?”

“That’s a good point,” Grandmaster Endross said. His dark eyes gleamed, and he had his sword back in hand. “I’ve always wondered how I’d stack up against a Ragnarus weapon.”

Talos’ eyes flicked to the mantelpiece across from him, where a clock ticked steadily away. “Oh, probably about as well as you fared against my father’s spear. But I’m afraid we don’t have time to test that today.”

Endross’ eyes widened with rage, and he raised his sword.

“Watch out!” Grandmaster Avernus called. A white-edged portal swirled to life behind Talos’ chair, opening into a Gate leading into a broad forest.

“Traveling accurately through Avernus is difficult,” Talos said casually. “And it’s time-consuming. But it’s not impossible.”

A man in soft buckskin stepped through, his outfit decorated with various feathers. He was balding and reedy-looking, like a man who spent all day inside with books, and as he exited the Gate he pushed his glasses up on his nose.

Six or seven more Avernus Travelers stood in the forest behind him, a cloud of various birds swooping and cawing around them.

Talos extended his wrists, and his sword—still on the table—moved on its own. It pulled itself out of a sheath and spun in a circle, slicing through his restraints. Casually he pulled his hands free of the ropes and seized his sword, buckling it back on his belt.

“Gentlemen,” Talos said. “Lady. I bid you a fond farewell. Don’t worry, I’ll send word to you with the finer details.”

Then he made as if to walk into the Avernus Gate.

Grandmaster Helgard’s enormous hand grabbed the back of the Heir’s collar and pulled him backwards, slamming Talos down on the table behind him.

The scholarly-looking man moved forward, but Grandmaster Endross was already there, with a sword at the man’s throat and a tiny swirling thunderstorm pointed at the nearest Avernus Traveler.

The flock of birds on the other side of the Gate let out a long shriek that sounded like a mountain being torn in half, and they started to rush toward Enosh at the command of their masters.

Grandmaster Avernus stepped forward, put one hand to her temple, and all the birds slammed to a halt as though they had crashed into an enormous pane of glass.

Only one sparrow made it through the Gate, and it fluttered hastily back into the Territory.

Grandmaster Helgard looked down at Talos, who was spread out on the table, and grinned horribly. “You go when we say you can go, not before. Do not think you can disrespect us like this in our home.”

Talos clawed for the sword at his side. He actually managed to draw a bit of it before Alin kicked his hand away.

He liked to feel included at times like this.

“I say we kill them all,” Grandmaster Endross said, as though suggesting they should have tea with lunch.

“You could never do it,” the Traveler in the glasses said. His eyes blazed fanatically. “We outnumber you two to one, and we would die to protect the Heir. You could not overcome us.”

“Come now, Lysander,” Grandmaster Avernus said chidingly. “You should know us better than that. They don’t hand out the title of Grandmaster for nothing, you know.”

From his position on the table, Talos smiled. He even raised his empty hands, as best he could, to show he wasn’t armed. “It all comes down to one question: do you accept my proposal, or don’t you? If we’re allies, let me go. If not, it comes to a fight.”

Alin was tempted to summon the golden sword and plant it in Talos’ chest, but that didn’t strike him as a very heroic thing to do.

Helgard started to respond to Talos, but Grandmaster Naraka cut him off. “Allies,” she said. “For now. When we reach the royal palace in Cana, our alliance ends.”

“I accept,” Talos said, as regally as possible from his position flat on the table.

Naraka nodded to Helgard, her red spectacles flashing.

Grandmaster Helgard gave her a look, but he released the prisoner.

“Thank you,” Talos said to no one in particular. “Lysander, please stay for a while and discuss the specifics with Grandmaster Avernus. I’m going to go find some hot tea for my throat.”

Rubbing his neck, he walked off into Avernus. Some of the Travelers fell in around him, escorting him as though they were doing something useful.

The Grandmasters fell to talking with the Overlord and his Travelers, smoothing out the details of their truce.

Alin sat and said little, processing the situation.

He wasn’t sure if he was excited at the prospect of an attack on Cana, or disgusted that he would have to work with Talos to do it, but he realized it didn’t matter.

The upcoming battle would decide everything. The Grandmasters didn’t have it in them to fight a long, protracted war, not with their dwindling numbers. No one said anything, but this strike on Cana was possibly their last hope.

That thought didn’t depress him. If anything, he felt somehow excited. He would be the one to make that last, desperate hope into a reality.

What else was a hero for?

CHAPTER 17:

THE ROYAL ARMY OF DAMASCA

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

41 Days After Midsummer

4 Days Until Summer’s End

Simon stepped out of the Gate determined to never set foot in Naraka ever again.

He had expected that the Territory would be horrible: the only things he had ever seen from Naraka were carnivorous lizard-beasts or hellish, screaming flames. But it had never occurred to him that the place would be so hot.

Indirial assured him that it was the fastest and most reliable way to Travel between one set point and another, and that these routes were well-controlled by Damasca. Simon believed him, but there was still no way to make crawling through oven-hot, smoke-choked tunnels any more tolerable.

When he left Naraka and found himself standing on the edge of a stone outcropping overlooking the city of Enosh, he gasped in relief. The air tasted cool and fresh. Even the baking summer sun overhead came as a relief.

As Simon bent over, coughing out the smoke in his lungs, he felt Denner pat him on the back. Hariman's fussy voice came from behind him, "You get used to it, Simon," the book said. "Don't worry. The fumes are not nearly as dangerous as they seem, assuming you manage to avoid prolonged exposure."

"You don't even have lungs," Denner pointed out.

"That doesn't mean I'm wrong."

In Simon's head, Otoku sighed. He had tucked her into one of the pockets of his cloak after Indirial pointed out that it would be the best way for him to carry his dolls into combat. Simon had never even realized the cloaks had pockets.

I can't see anything from in here, Otoku complained.

Will that stop you from hearing the wind?

It will stop me from seeing the light of the sun. We don't get that chance often, you know.

I'll walk you as soon as I get a chance, Simon said, finally straightening and taking a look around. The bulk of the Damascan army stretched out behind him, though there was a little roped-off section here for Naraka Travelers to enter and exit. In front of him, the gleaming city of Enosh actually made quite a nice view.

Otoku huffed. Do you think I'm a dog?

"Come on, Simon," Indirial called, after he exited the Gate. "Follow me. We need to report in."

Simon followed Denner and Indirial. Denner had met them in the House and returned with them to Cana, where they had picked up a Naraka Traveler in the palace and—according to orders delivered by Indirial—reported to the assault force.

Damasca’s preparations had finally ended. It was time for them to attack Enosh.

For the Valinhall Travelers, it was time to face the Wanderer once again.

The assault force, Simon couldn't help but noticing, was enormous. His view of Enosh was somewhat skewed by perspective, but it seemed like the army King Zakareth had arrayed against his enemies would be enough to swamp the city.

Rows of white tents drowned the rocks and plains south of Enosh, stretching far enough for Simon to wonder if the back of the army reached all the way to Myria.

He would have expected the thought of Myria to inspire homesickness in him, but to his surprise he felt nothing of the kind. There was nothing there for him anymore.

It was an uncomfortable realization.

Here and there among the white tents, an otherworldly shape broke the monotony: a towering blue-leafed tree with mists flowing across its roots, for example, or a jagged crystalline rock formation that gleamed in the sun. Those, Simon assumed, marked the Damascan Travelers.

The rows were patrolled not by soldiers alone, but also by golems: animated creatures of rock and metal with gems embedded in their heads. They took all sorts of forms, from giant animals to striding warriors to rough-cut, barely humanoid figures.

Not long ago, Simon had fought some of those creatures, and he could attest that they were exactly as tough as one would expect from beings made entirely of living stone. He could almost pity the people of Enosh.

Except it was their idea to release the Incarnations, which would make mere stone golems look like paper dolls. So maybe they deserved it.

Simon wasn't sure. He had resolved to leave himself out of the fighting as much as possible. He would engage in combat against summoned creatures or Incarnations, that was it. He had no desire to spill any more human blood.

When he had told Indirial that, the Overlord had simply clapped him on the back and told him, "Good luck." He sounded as if he meant it, but his smile was sad.

Simon wasn't sure what to make of that.

After what seemed like an hour of marching through the camp, Simon and the other Valinhall Travelers reached a crimson tent made of enough fabric to cover every home in Myria. The Damascan flag flew from the tent's every peak, making the air above snap and rustle.

A word from Indirial put the guards at ease, so Simon and Denner were allowed inside. The guards made a point of staring Simon down, which he ignored.

Not long ago, that sort of posturing would have irritated Simon. Now it seemed petty.

Leah sat at a desk in the center of the tent, wearing an intricate dress of gold, black, and crimson. Officers, messengers, and Travelers swarmed around her in a cloud, presenting her with petitions and receiving orders either written or verbal. She spoke constantly, her blue eyes moving from one person to another as she addressed each problem in turn.

As Simon walked over, he saw Leah pull a crystal ball out of nowhere and gaze into it while light flickered in its depths. When she spoke, several people went running.

Indirial finally reached Leah's side and bowed, as did Denner.

Awkwardly, Simon followed suit. He considered standing there without moving—he had never been forced to bow to Leah before—but there were too many people around. It wouldn't be worth the fuss.

Leah inclined her head graciously and the other two straightened, so Simon mimicked them.

"Valinhall Travelers looking for assignment, Heiress," Indirial said.

"That's true for the other two, Overlord, but you're needed in command," Leah corrected him. Without taking her eyes from Indirial, she scratched a signature on a piece of paper and handed it out to the side. A servant snatched it away and hurried off, presumably to deliver it.

"Your pardon, Heiress, but I had thought—"

Leah sighed and rubbed her head. "Stop speaking that way, Indirial. You don't have to."

Indirial grinned. "Well, it's been too long since I've seen you all regal and commanding. I thought you might want the support."

"Not from you."

"All right, then. I think I would be more use on the front lines. My men know their business—there's nothing I could contribute in a command tent that I couldn't do on the front lines. Honestly, it would probably be good for morale to see me fighting for them."

"What if the Incarnation shows up?" Leah asked.

"So much the better," Indirial responded. "I'm ready for another shot at him."

No, he's not, Otoku said. Inside, he still looks like a waterskin full of sausage meat. It will take him weeks more before he’s healed, even with the pool.

Simon stepped forward. "He's not ready," Simon told Leah. "He's still injured from his last battle."

He didn't look at Indirial, but Leah did, raising an eyebrow.

"No one ever goes into battle without a few wounds, Leah," Indirial said reasonably.

"Don't patronize me," Leah said. "Assume command of your men. I need another Overlord behind me."

Indirial shot Simon a frustrated look, but he bowed to Leah and marched away.

"That man is almost as old as my father," Leah said wearily, "but you'd never know it. Anyway, I have an assignment for you two."

She snapped her fingers off to the side and a boy in a messenger's uniform hurried up, bowing before her.

"Tell my brother I need to see him," Leah commanded, and the messenger ran off. She never so much as looked him in the eye.

Was this who she had always been? Simon had seen her give commands before, but she had never been so...dismissive.

Leah saw his look and gave him a casual grin that reminded him of the old Leah, back in the village. Not that she had grinned much then either, now that he thought about it.

"Does it surprise you, seeing me do my job?" Leah asked.

"You look like a completely different person," Simon said honestly. "It's still strange to me."

And he couldn't help but trust her less and less every second. What had he ever known about her?

Leah began to speak, but she shook her head and looked at Simon as though re-thinking what she was about to say. "It's strange to me as well," she said at last, speaking as though she had difficulty getting the words out.

Simon wondered if he had just heard the truth from Leah for the first time in years.

A tent flap opened and Leah's brother strode in, his chiseled face and regal gold hair reminding Simon once again of Alin. He had a sword sheathed in intricate gold at his side.

"Talos," Leah said, when he finally reached her, "this is Simon, son of Kalman, and Denner Weeks. They are Travelers of Valinhall." Denner bowed as Leah named him, but Simon hadn't bowed during his name. He didn't know that he was supposed to. Besides, bowing to this guy would be too much like bowing to Alin.

Something about Simon drew Talos’ attention, and he smiled in Simon's direction. There was nothing kind in that smile.

"Simon,” the royal Heir said. “You're the apprentice Valinhall Traveler, aren't you?"

Simon made himself smile back. "Something like that," he said.

Talos laid a hand on his sword hilt. "We should have a friendly match sometime, Simon. I've always wanted to try a duel with a swordsman from Valinhall."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Simon replied. "When we fight in the House, our lives are always at risk. I'm not sure if I would be able to hold back. And I don't think Leah would like it if I killed her brother."

Simon had never considered himself particularly clever, but he was proud of that one.

Leah made a choking sound, as though she were trying to hold back laughter. But when he looked over, her face was completely impassive.

Talos, on the other hand, was visibly struggling with his steadily reddening face. "I could have you hauled away for this insult alone," he said.

"Try to hold off until after the battle, if you would," Leah said. "Enosh can field almost as many Travelers as we can, so we need every Valinhall Traveler we can get. And Simon? I wouldn't antagonize Heir Talos too much. You're about to fight under his command."

Leah handed her brother a signed sheet of paper, which he glanced at, then gave Simon a slow, cold smile.

"You're in reserve until we can figure out where we need you," Leah said, returning her eyes to the paperwork in front of her. "Thank you, Talos. I'll be in contact."

Talos frowned, obviously not pleased at being dismissed so abruptly, but he said nothing else before turning on his heel and walking out. Denner followed him.

Simon was about to walk after the other two before he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find that he was looking straight into Leah's eyes.

"Watch out for my brother," Leah said quietly. "He shouldn't be able to try anything with a bunch of Valinhall Travelers watching him, but he has his own plans. I don't know what he's going to try, but I doubt we'll like it. He's been on edge ever since I was named Successor over him. No, even before that."

Simon blinked, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him. “Did you say you’re the Successor?”

She looked up, surprise evident on her face. “Yes, my father announced it last week. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“I..I don’t…no,” he said finally. “No, no one told me.” His head spun. Was he supposed to bow, or something? Well, he was probably supposed to bow even if she was ‘just’ an Heiress. But he had only barely managed to get used to the idea of Leah as fourth in line for the throne. Now she was going to be Queen!

Leah’s eyes sparkled as though she were about to start laughing. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you swear eternal loyalty to me until after I assume the throne.”

"That’s…good to hear,” Simon said at last. Should he have told a joke? He should probably have told a joke.

Still smiling, Leah released his arm. “Don’t forget,” she said. “Keep an eye on Talos. I’d be interested in hearing your impressions of him.”

Simon bowed before turning and walking out of the tent. He supposed he should get used to bowing, now.

What do you think she meant by that? Simon asked his doll, on his way out of the command tent.

I'm no spymaster, trained in the intricate art of code-breaking, Otoku responded, but I'd say that she doesn't trust Talos.

You picked up on that, did you? Simon said dryly.

That's my keen, finely honed instinct, Otoku said. I could be wrong. Maybe she wants you to watch out for him because she thinks you can learn so much from his fine example.

He had missed Otoku. Angeline was great at her job, but she wasn’t nearly as much fun.

Simon finally caught up to Talos and Denner, smiling as best as he could at the Damascan Heir.

Tell me, he said silently, how much trouble do you think I'm in?

If you die, try to fall next to one of the other Valinhall Travelers, Otoku responded. I don't want to have to spend the next hundred years on some old lady's shelf.

I'll do my best, Simon promised. At least if he died, he wouldn’t have to hear Otoku shouting about it.

CHAPTER 18:

A DUEL

When they reached Talos' unit, there was no sign of Kai.

Denner asked Talos what duties Valinhall Travelers were expected to perform, and the Heir ordered them to simply “make themselves useful.” The older Traveler had obviously taken that as permission to do whatever he wanted, because Denner had sought out a nearby cot and thrown himself down. He was asleep in seconds.

Simon took it upon himself to wander around, looking for Kai.

When Simon finally found him, Kai was sitting on a log, a knife in one hand and a rough block of wood in the other. A pile of wood shavings cluttered the grass around his feet, and the block of wood was beginning to look disturbingly like a doll.

When he looked up and saw Simon, he tossed his knife down to one side and carefully placed the block of wood to the other. Simon couldn't see the man's eyes through the white mass of hair that hung down in his face, but Kai's smile was practically joyous.

He walked over to Simon with his arms spread wide, and Simon's first impression was that he was going to have to wrestle the man for some reason.

Then Kai swept Simon into a hug, and Simon froze out of sheer shock.

What is this? Otoku demanded. What is happening?

Simon wasn't sure he could give her an answer. This was so out of character for Kai that Simon almost wondered if this was the right person.

Then Simon felt Kai's hand pressing against his side, and Kai—too quickly for Simon to react—reached inside Simon's cloak and pulled Otoku from her pocket.

Ah, Simon thought. That makes more sense.

No! Wait! Let me go! Otoku sent desperately. Simon! Make him release me!

I think he would cut my hand off if I so much as tried, Simon responded.

"Otoku," Kai said reverently. "My favorite. I think I have...yes, here it is." He rummaged around in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a tiny polished wooden comb, exactly the right size for a doll. He began to pull the comb carefully through Otoku's long, dark hair.

Demon! Otoku sent. Madman! Simon, help!

You'll be fine, Simon responded, fighting back a laugh. This would be good for Otoku. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he could get the doll away from Kai even if he wanted to.

"Where have you been, sir?" Simon asked, turning his attention back to the older Traveler. "I haven't seen you in days."

Kai looked up briefly from Otoku's hair. "Hm? Oh, I had some business in Bel Calem. Without a Dragon's Fang, it's much harder for me to return to the House whenever I wish. It makes Traveling oh so awkward."

"I see, I see," Simon said. "So, uh...I've been training with Indirial."

"Have you indeed?" Kai said absently. "Well, you'll find no finer instructor."

Privately, Simon agreed. Indirial was twice the teacher Kai had ever been. He actually explained the things he was trying to teach before he expected Simon to learn them.

Still, Simon couldn't help but feel inexplicably guilty, as though he had insulted Kai in some way.

"He said something much the same about you," Simon said, which was almost true. Indirial had said that Kai was an unparalleled swordsman, When he could get past his insanity and his rampant cowardice, as the Overlord had put it.

Kai chuckled, still running his comb gently down the doll's hair. "I doubt he said anything of the kind," Kai responded. "We haven't ever quite seen eye to eye. When we were students, you know, he was the best. Everyone looked up to him."

"Did you?" Simon asked, sitting down on the log next to him. It was rare to catch Kai in a talkative mood, so Simon had learned to seize these opportunities whenever he had the chance.

"Of course," Kai said. "He was one of the oldest, and I one of the youngest. He was like the perfect older brother. What I didn't learn from Valin, I learned from Indirial."

"What happened?" Simon asked.

Kai sighed. For a moment, he even paused in combing Otoku's hair. "The Wanderer lost control," he said.

Simon held his breath, afraid to make a sound.

"You have to understand," Kai said after a while, "Valin was raising the twelve of us to bring down Damasca. An army of dragons, he called us, to end the King's tyranny and burn Damasca to the ground."

Kai shook his head. "I was a child, raised on his stories. When he changed, he said it was for the sake of defeating Damasca. He said it was for the best.

"I believed him."

"What about Indirial?" Simon asked quietly.

"Indirial has always been wiser than I," Kai responded bitterly. Over Otoku's protests, he began to smooth and rearrange her dress. "He saw through Valin's insanity and went to challenge him. I still believed in Valin. He had always been like a father to me."

"You fought Indirial?" Simon asked.

"I did." Kai shook his head. "No one expected me to win. Not even me."

Surprised, Simon sent his thoughts to Otoku. I thought he said Indirial was the better swordsman.

I would have been happy to answer your questions, Otoku responded, if only you had gotten this madman out of my hair!

Gently, Simon pulled the doll out of Kai's hands. So great was his distraction that he didn't even resist.

It's about time, the doll complained. Now, take the comb from him. My hair is all tangled.

What?

Kai wants to comb my hair, Otoku explained. You don't. It's a completely different scenario. Now, less moving your mouth, and more moving your hands.

My mouth isn't moving, Simon noted, retrieving the comb from beside Kai. The white-haired swordsman was murmuring to himself now, and Simon thought he would leave the man alone for now.

Then you have no excuse, do you? Comb!

Simon sighed audibly and began to draw the comb down Otoku's black hair.

Now, Indirial. He was the best. We all thought so. When Kai fought him, he was simply defending the Wanderer's honor. He didn't expect to win, he just wanted to slow Indirial down.

Simon wondered at the picture: Kai, standing in front of an older, taller, more skilled swordsman, ready to risk his life to defend the master he loved.

He could barely picture it. Kai, risking his life for someone else? Simon had never thought Kai cared about anyone so much.

My sisters and I had a bet going, you know, Otoku said. None of us expected Kai to even survive. But there were others in the House...well, they had staked everything on him. They saw something in Kai that none of us did.

What? Simon asked.

What’s that? Oh, Mithra chose him as the heir to the thirteenth Dragon's Fang. Didn't he tell you? He was meant to take over from the Wanderer.

Simon's hand froze in the middle of Otoku's hair, and he stared over at Kai. He had his knife in one hand and the block of wood in the other, and he was whittling again.

"You were supposed to inherit the House?" Simon said, almost involuntarily.

Kai peeled another slice of wood off the block. "I see you have been talking to the girls, hm? Good for you."

"Why didn't you?"

"Azura let me borrow her, for a while," Kai responded. "And the dolls were so much more pleasant than...my other advisor."

Simon thought of Azura, hanging on her rack back in the House's entry hall. He had never sensed any sort of awareness or intelligence from the sword. Based on the way Kai always talked about Azura, you would have expected the sword to talk, but the only talking Simon had ever heard connected to the blade came from the dolls.

Did the swords actually speak? Maybe this was one of those things that he had to carry the Dragon's Fang for years before he discovered. Perhaps he would grow into it.

"No," Kai said, in response to something Simon hadn't said. "That's not right. I was afraid, little mouse. The one who carries Mithra has a lot of responsibility."

Simon sat there for a while, drawing his comb down Otoku's hair. He wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't help but picture Kai and Indirial fighting, wondering what had led them to that place.

"Wait a minute," Simon said at last. "You won the fight, but Valin still ended up sealed. What happened."

Kai opened his mouth as if to respond, but only a choking noise emerged. He began whittling faster and faster.

Kai stopped Indirial, Otoku said softly, and returned to report his success to Valin. When he returned, he found the rest of the Dragon Army slaughtered. Cut down by their master. Only two others survived, and only because the Incarnation found them worthy.

Simon stared at Kai, who whittled as though the block of wood in his hand was his one true enemy. Simon had no idea what to say.

After that, Otoku went on, Kai saw that Indirial had been right all along. They went to the Damascan Successor, the man who would become Zakareth the Sixth, and they begged him for the aid of Ragnarus. You can guess the rest.

Simon could. They had bound Valin somewhere under a Hanging Tree, where he had stayed silent for years. Indirial had gone to work for the King, either out of gratitude or because he genuinely believed in what Damasca was doing, and Kai had locked himself for years in the only home he had ever known.

Kai had told him before that he spent most of his life either in the House or the Latari Forest. This went a long way toward explaining why.

Then something unpleasant occurred to Simon: the Incarnation had only broken out now. Why?

Because of you, naturally, Otoku said, in response to his unspoken question. You delayed the sacrifice. You didn't think that would have consequences?

Guilt hung heavy inside him. What kind of a child had he been, meddling in the sacrifice when he had no idea what was at stake?

Then something occurred to Simon, and he regarded his master silently. How Kai must feel, having wallowed in his mistake for decades?

With no better idea of what to do, Simon stretched out a hand and clapped Kai on the shoulder.

How touching, Otoku said, rolling her eyes.

Simon pulled his hand off Kai's shoulder and pointed at Otoku's face. "There it is! There it is again! You moved! She moved!"

Kai cocked his head in Simon's direction. "Yes, they can move. They can speak too, you know."

Bright as the morning star, this one, Otoku put in.

"I didn't train him for his stunning intellect," Kai said to the doll.

In the exact same gesture, they both shook their heads.

Simon almost felt faint. "Why now? Why don't you move all the time?"

From my perspective, it's stranger that you do move all the time, Otoku responded. Why waste the time and energy?

She seemed to think that was the end of the conversation, as she stopped talking and froze into inanimate wood once more.

Talos came striding out of his tent, behind Kai. "I would have expected you to find something more productive to do," he noted, seeing them seated on a log.

"Tomorrow, we shall try to follow your example, my lord," Kai responded, without looking up. "But I've never spent quite so long on my hair. Would you give us the benefit of your experience?"

Simon snorted, trying to hold back a laugh, and Otoku downright cackled.

"I'm glad you're in such a good mood," Talos said coldly, "because I was thinking that it might be time for us to spar a few rounds. I could use the exercise."

Slowly, Kai swiveled his head around to stare at the Damascan Heir.

Talos cleared his throat and looked away. "Of course, I was talking to your apprentice. Naturally. I would not want to disturb your...valuable time."

Without changing his expression, Kai turned his gaze back to his whittling.

Simon took his cue from Kai and remained sitting, as though Talos’ presence didn't impress him. In truth, it didn't. Much.

"I'd be happy to, Your Highness," Simon said, "but I'm afraid there are still the problems I pointed out earlier. I would be afraid to get too violent."

"Oh, no need to worry about that." Talos was removing his jacket, passing it to a nearby attendant. "If you're used to risking your life, I can accommodate you."

The Heir pulled his red-bladed sword, letting it gleam like a puddle of blood in the midday sun. "This sword was taken from the Crimson Vault, given to me by the King himself. It has many powers, some of which you couldn't even understand—"

In Simon's head, Otoku laughed.

"—and among them is an increased lethality. A single scratch from this blade, even on your arm or leg, is inevitably fatal."

Well, that was a little worrisome. Simon had no doubt that he could defeat Talos, but to do it without one scrape?

Don't worry about it, Otoku said.

Are you sure? It seems like something I should be worried about.

The shiny little boy over there thinks he's a swordsman, the doll responded. It's cute, but nothing to take seriously.

Simon wasn't certain, but he decided to trust the doll. Falling into a fighting stance, he started to summon Azura.

"Aren't you going to remove your cloak?" Talos said, gesturing to Simon's black cloak. "It will restrict your motion, and it must be stifling."

It was hot, but it didn't bind Simon's movements the way he had once assumed.

In response, Simon pulled the hood of his cloak up, and summoned Azura.

Talos raised an eyebrow at Azura's length. "I'm not sure we have room to spar if you're going to use that thing," he said. "I'd be afraid to lose my tent."

"Here," Kai called, from his seat on the log. He had his back to them, but he tossed something long and gleaming over his shoulder.

Instinctively, Simon banished Azura and snatched the sword from midair. It was a duplicate sword from the armory: like a Dragon's Fang, only smaller. Much the same size as Talos’ blade, in fact.

"I hope you don't feel like this puts you at too much of a disadvantage," Talos said.

"Oh, Maker, will you shut up and attack me already?"

Talos stepped forward, thrusting his crimson blade at Simon's chest.

Simon slapped the sword away. It flew out of Talos’ hand, thudding into the grass.

Both Simon and Talos stared at the blade for a moment, while Otoku laughed in Simon's head.

"Two out of three rounds?" Simon asked.

Several bystanders had gathered—mostly Avernus Travelers, to judge by their buckskin outfits and generous use of feathers—and a few stifled chuckles. One of them even applauded, until a brief glare from the Damascan Heir made him stop.

Talos muttered something about sweat and the heat while he scooped his blade up and brought it into a ready position.

Simon moved forward this time, going through the motions the way he had practiced in the rain garden. He called neither steel nor essence, moving at normal mortal speed.

At first, Talos turned the strikes, and Simon wondered if he was being lulled into a trap. The motions of this fight were too predictable. Talos blocked exactly where he was supposed to block, and attacked where Simon expected him to attack. Otoku didn't even warn him, so obvious were the Heir's movements.

Simon fell into a rhythm, reacting, barely planning. He almost didn't notice when one of his attacks pushed Talos’ blade wide, and Simon's return movement pressed the point of his sword against the base of his opponent's throat.

Startled, he stopped just in time to keep himself from running Talos through.

"Three out of five?" Simon suggested.

Simon heard a rushing shriek, like a crowd of angry children all screaming at once, and he spun to his right to see Overlord Lysander pushing through the other Travelers toward Simon, a flock of sparrows flying furiously around his head.

"Step away from the Heir," the Overlord demanded.

Kai went from his seat in front of Simon, still whittling, to standing in front of the Overlord with a sword in his hand.

Kai cocked his head. "I don't know you," he said.

Lysander froze, but his birds kept hovering, ready to be commanded at any second. The other Avernus Travelers summoned birds, spears, or various other implements, but none of them moved to attack.

Simon slowly brought his sword down from Talos' neck.

"Hold a moment, Lysander," Talos said. "We were simply having a friendly match. Isn't that right, Valinhall?"

"It is," Simon said. Talos didn't sound sincere, but Simon meant it—to him, that had been a friendly match. Had Talos actually taken the fight seriously?

Lysander looked at the Heir and let out a breath. The flock retreated into a cloud hovering above him. "I apologize," the scholarly man said. "I may have been overly enthusiastic. Now that it occurs to me, I have never had the privilege of seeing a Valinhall Traveler in action. Would you do me a favor and indulge me?"

Something's strange, Otoku said.

What? Simon asked, startled.

Really? You don't notice anything off about this?

Honestly, my life has been strange since I first set foot in Valinhall. I don't know what's normal anymore.

Otoku huffed irritably. What is Lysander doing here? If it's to defend the Heir, he calmed down awfully quick. Why hasn't he banished his birds? Avernus birds don't like being here any longer than they can help it. And he's an Overlord, so he's surely seen Indirial fight at least once. Yet he claims he's never seen a Valinhall Traveler in battle.

Talos bowed to Kai. "Master Kai, would you show us how a real member of the Dragon Army fights? Your apprentice gave us such a show, I'm sure yours would be even better."

What could Lysander possibly do? Simon thought. Throw birds at us? Kai could cut all those sparrows from the air and stab him through the heart. In his sleep.

I don't know, Simon, I just said it was strange.

There were the other Avernus Travelers gathered around them, but as far as Simon had ever seen, Avernus was mostly a Territory of birds. He had faced down Travelers summoning fire and lightning, so how threatening could birds possible be?

Kai smiled slightly at Talos. "I'm sorry, child," he said, in his singsong voice, "I wouldn't want to kill you."

Talos' answering smile looked somewhat sickly. "Not me," he said. "Him. Lysander, would you be willing to assist Master Kai in a demonstration? I'm sure the boy and I could learn something from the two of you."

When Simon figured out that he was supposed to be 'the boy,' it was all he could do not to teach the Damascan Heir another lesson.

Lysander bowed. "I understand, Your Highness." He stepped forward, pulling up his buckskin sleeves. Sparrows whirled and dove over his head.

Simon tossed Kai his sword, and Kai snatched it out of the air without glancing at it.

"Avernus?" Kai asked, amused. "You must be so confident. A mental attack, is it?"

"Naturally," Lysander responded, raising his hands in front of his body as if to ward Kai off. "I know better than to attack you physically."

Kai shrugged. "That's all right. I wouldn't want to hurt your precious birds."

Talos raised his red-bladed sword above his head. "Gentlemen, attend. The match continues until one party is wounded or surrenders."

The Overlord posed in an almost exaggerated ready stance, his hands in front of his body. Kai simply stood, in perfect balance, his sword held casually to one side.

Simon, Otoku asked, where's Denner?

I haven't seen him since we got here, Simon responded. He had to admit, the situation was starting to look bad. If this clearing between tents wasn’t already so crowded, he would have summoned Azura.

The cry of a hunting bird sounded from overhead, almost impossibly loud. Simon looked up to see the body of a giant white eagle, easily the size of a horse, crashing down almost on top of him. It landed with a sound like cracking rock, and it would have crushed Kai if he hadn’t stepped to one side as if on instinct.

The ground rumbled as the body landed, and Simon got a chance to see the seven-foot spear that had skewered the bird through its chest.

Oh, Otoku said. There he is.

Only a moment later, the earth trembled again as Denner fell. He landed in a crouch, one hand holding his Dragon’s Fang and the other pressed against the ground. It took another second for his brown cloak to settle around him.

“It’s a trap, Kai,” Denner said, as he brushed off the dirt from his fall.

“Is it?” Kai said, looking around at the Avernus Travelers surrounding him. “I’m not particularly surprised.” He nodded to the bird lying at his feet. “What happened to the Traveler?”

A third impact sounded among the tents, raising a cloud of dust.

“Ah,” Kai said.

Simon called essence and steel as the Avernus Travelers acted all at once. From Lysander’s outstretched hands, a scream seemed to tear the world in half.

Simon’s thoughts boiled up, as though everything he had ever wondered was pressed against the inside of his skull at once.

Words shouted at him in a confusing jumble from within his mind, drowning out his voice, leaving him only to wonder when the voices would stop.

Vaguely, he was aware of Otoku saying something, but he couldn’t make out what because his brain wouldn’t shut up.

He thought he heard Denner say, “What’s wrong with him?” but for some reason he couldn’t make sense of the words.

“He doesn’t have the diamond,” Kai said. He sounded casual, for someone who was supposed to be in a fight.

Wait, why was Kai in a fight? What were they fighting? Were they in the House? In that case, it was perfectly normal for him to be relaxed.

Shrieking mental voices cut an end to that train of thought.

“He doesn’t have the diamond?” Denner asked. “What kind of teacher are you?”

“I don’t see you doing any bet-ter!” Kai sang. Someone screamed in agony.

Probably not Kai.

“He’s not my student!” Denner said. “You know what? Never mind, I’ll take care of it.”

Simon couldn’t hear anything else that happened, because he was fairly sure his ears stopped working for a moment.

When he could hear again, he heard something hitting the grass next to him. Something roughly the size of a body, that carried with it the iron tang of blood.

An instant later, the noise in his head cut off.

The world snapped back into perfect focus: he was looking up at clouds, drifting across an azure sky. Denner, his face dirty and unshaven as usual, was peering down at him in concern. Someone’s blood had spattered his cheek.

“Feel better?” Denner asked.

Bird incoming, Otoku sent, and Simon rolled to the side to avoid the raking claws of a giant eagle, which had descended to shred the ground where he had been lying.

Its rider—wearing a pair of goggles and strapped to it by means of an intricate leather saddle—pulled on some reins and the bird took off again.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Denner said.

Denner did not simply dodge the bird. He grabbed one of the leather straps and let it pull him into the sky.

Sweet Maker, that was amazing, Simon said, staring after him.

You find the most foolish things impressive, Otoku responded. And yet somehow, I’m not surprised. Behind you.

A creature came running at him from behind. A creature shaped like a man, and as tall as a man, but covered in black-and-white feathers. Its face was like a bird’s, dominated by a hooked beak, and an expansive set of wings hung from its back. It wore a simple cloth tunic and loose pants, belted with a cloth, above its taloned feet. Even its arms ended in talons, and in those talons it clutched a barbed, wicked spear.

Only a few months before, Simon would have frozen in terror at the sight of an armed and deadly bird-man warrior rushing toward him. He might have even panicked and run away.

It had been a long summer.

His veins were filled with steel, although he couldn’t remember specifically calling the power. The bird-man was too close for Azura to be of any use, so Simon didn’t call it.

With his left hand, he knocked the spear aside. With his right, he struck the bird in the chest.

Simon wasn’t sure what kind of horribly warped bird this thing was supposed to be, but it squawked like a chicken as it flew backwards, its ribs crunching under Simon’s blow.

That’s…one way to do it, I suppose, Otoku said.

Lysander noticed Simon and flicked a hand towards him. A flock of sparrows dove from above, their tiny beaks aimed at Simon’s eyes.

For this, he summoned Azura.

The birds’ beaks opened at the same time, and the psychic scream came back, tearing at Simon’s mind. It wasn’t quite as blinding as before, but it tore apart his concentration.

Not so much that he couldn’t swing his sword, though, so he whipped Azura through the feathered cloud.

He hit nothing. The flock split in half as the blade passed through it, and his sword tasted only air.

Then they were on him, shredding his skin with beaks and talons. He had to cover his eyes with one hand and swing Azura with the other, because they seemed unnaturally focused on tearing his eyes out. Even as it was, he felt like he was being burned alive: his skin had been flayed practically into strips. Their beaks were like knives, their talons like needles.

He only managed to avoid screaming out of the fear that one of them would fly down his throat.

Help him! Otoku cried, and only after a few seconds did he realize she wasn’t talking to him.

Nearby, Simon dimly heard a huge crash, along with Denner’s voice saying, “Seven stones, Kai, he doesn’t have the stone either? What have you been doing?”

“Less talking, more helping!” Kai sang.

It was hard to hear over all the chirping—some of which Simon heard with his ears, but some of it he was sure was only in his mind—but he thought he heard running footsteps crunching in the grass, getting closer.

The ringing of a giant bell almost deafened him.

Oh, not— Otoku began to think, but she was cut off, just as the chirping of the sparrows completely vanished.

Otoku’s weight disappeared from his cloak pocket, but that hardly mattered, as the cloak itself had also vanished. Even Azura was gone from his hand, and the steel no longer flowed through his veins.

Simon cracked his eyes open, and had to wipe blood from his eyes before his eyelids gummed shut.

Denner stood before him, and a rather stunned-looking Lysander to the side. Since there were no birds, the clearing remained eerily silent.

“I don’t think we’re in much more danger here,” Denner said. “You can go ahead and heal yourself.” For someone who had been snatched into the sky by enemies—twice—he seemed completely unharmed.

Simon was a little unsteady on his feet, but he managed to nod. “Okay,” he said, summoning Azura and placing her in the air to begin cutting a Valinhall Gate. If he could manage to stagger into the pool, all he would have to worry about would be the imps.

Denner looked at his sword, startled. “Not that way. Just…wait. You haven’t earned the gold elixir yet, have you?”

Simon shook his head. He was beginning to wonder how much of the House he had actually seen.

Denner sighed and reached into his cloak, pulling out a small waterskin. “It’s from the pool,” he said. “You’re lucky I thought to bring that. Use it quick—it gets less potent the longer it remains away from the House.”

Simon dumped the water over his head. Wherever it trickled, it left a cool spot in his burning skin, as though it had extinguished the fires in his flesh. When he was finished, he summoned his cloak back from Valinhall, letting it rest on his shoulders in a comforting weight.

He couldn’t summon a doll directly—he had to return to his bedroom to retrieve another one by hand. But he felt much better now, clean and healed and with his cloak settling around him.

When, exactly, had he gotten used to wearing the cloak again?

Even his head cleared, and he took the opportunity to take a look around. He hadn’t gotten a good look at their surroundings since the battle began, and—though he had expected destruction—he hadn’t imagined it would be quite so complete.

The whole area was in shambles. The log where they had been sitting earlier was reduced to splinters, all the nearby tents torn to shreds. Something had churned the ground like an army’s worth of wagon wheels, though a few patches of grass remained like fertile islands in a sea of destruction.

Most of the Avernus Travelers were dead, lying broken and bleeding on the soil. The survivors, most of which bore gruesome injuries, looked completely dazed. Here and there, a corpse wore the ordinary red-and-gold uniform of the royal army.

There were no dead birds.

“What did you do?” Simon asked.

“I bring a waterskin with me every time I have to use the pool,” Denner said. “It’s an old habit, but it’s helped me on more than one occasion.”

“No, I mean, banishing all the birds.”

Denner smiled proudly. “I call it the glass bell. As far as I know, I’m the only one who can use it.”

Well, at least that’s one thing Kai didn’t forget to tell me about, Simon thought. At the moment, Kai was poking through the corpses, searching for something.

For a second, Simon was shocked that Otoku didn’t take the opportunity to mock Kai. Then he remembered she wasn’t there.

“So this bell banishes everything back to its Territory?” Simon asked.

“It does.”

“Why didn’t you use that immediately?”

Denner shrugged, looking sheepish. “I can only use it once. It takes a day or two to repair itself. And they were only Avernus. It was probably easier to take care of them by hand.”

“Of course,” Simon said sourly. Without him around, the two Dragon Army members would likely have defeated the enemy with no trouble. It wasn’t a cheerful thought.

“Don’t worry about it,” Denner said, clapping him on the shoulder. “This is how everyone learns.”

“No,” Kai said, from across the clearing. “I don’t remember our training including such frequent and obvious failure.”

And there went every ounce of self-esteem Simon may once have possessed.

“That’s because we had a competent teacher,” Denner retorted, walking over to join Kai.

Kai cocked his head for a moment, and then nodded. “Fair point. Hey there, who is this?”

With one boot, he shoved a body aside, revealing a bloody and weakened Overlord.

Lysander pushed himself up to a sitting position. His glasses were broken and askew, but he still managed to push them up his nose.

“My flock,” he asked shakily. “How?”

“Trade secret,” Denner responded. He and Kai stood over the Overlord, swords in hand.

“Tell us who you’re working for,” Kai sang.

“I’m a duly appointed Overlord, carrying out my duty for the throne of Damasca. You cannot harm me, and I am under no compulsion to answer you.”

Kai stabbed the Overlord in the shoulder, and he screamed.

“Okay,” Denner said. “I compel you to answer us. What was the point of this?”

“As an assassination attempt, it was sadly lacking,” Kai pointed out. “As a distraction…well, we’re not very distracted, are we?”

Lysander looked at something beyond Kai’s back and smiled. Blood ran from his lip, turning his smile bloody.

“Are you?” Lysander asked.

With a sense of dread, Simon turned to see where Lysander was staring.

A Gate swirled in midair, crackling white at the edges, a deep green forest showing in the distance.

In front of the trees, a man walked toward the Gate. A man with a long, gleaming, silver-and-gold sword in one hand. A man covered in black tattoos that looked oddly like chains. A man with black eyes.

“Close it!” Kai screamed, and Simon leaped into action, angling Azura in front of him as he moved.

He had never called it before, but he pictured the frozen horn. He held its image in his mind: the weight of it, the burning cold of its presence, the way the water on the inside showed through the frosted glass of its exterior, the sound of its call, the memory of the fluid creatures of water that had gone into making it.

He summoned up that memory, focused on exactly how badly he needed this to work, and called the power of the horn into his sword.

He thought he heard, on the wind, a distant chime.

Azura began to hum in his hands.

Simon swept the sword from left to right, slashing across the Gate. He thought he saw something dark obscure the portal for a moment, but then the Gate wavered and blew apart, like a cloud of smoke.

The chime faded off into the distance, and Azura stopped vibrating.

Simon let out a deep breath and turned back to face Kai. “Just in time.”

He came face-to-face with a pair of black-and-silver eyes.

“Not quite,” Valin said.

CHAPTER 19:

AMBUSH

“Keep your hands steady, child!” Grandmaster Naraka snapped.

Gilad winced and adjusted his grip on the long-handled brand. The far end, shaped into a twisting symbol, rested in the heart of a blazing furnace.

This room, in the Naraka quarters of the Grandmasters’ palace, blazed even hotter than Naraka itself, though Gilad and the Grandmaster didn’t seem inconvenienced.

Alin was wearing his lightest, coolest clothing, and sat as close to the far door as he could, leaning into the barest hint of a breeze that trickled in from the doorframe. Sweat coated him in buckets, though the two Naraka Travelers looked cool and dry.

It must be something they learn in their Territory, Alin thought. If not, then I’m getting soft.

Gilad almost had his face pressed against the huge black furnace, so close that Alin wouldn’t have been surprised to see his clothes catch fire. The flames within flickered blue in places, and Alin felt scorched even at the far end of the room.

The other two had tried to talk him out of staying in here for this ritual—not because it was a secret, or somehow dangerous, but because he wouldn’t enjoy the process. Since it was his fault Grandmaster Naraka had to go through this again, he had decided to share her burden.

Now he wished he could walk out, but pride held him in his place. He had made such an issue of staying here, so how could he leave now?

“Again,” Grandmaster Naraka commanded. Her red spectacles flickered in the firelight.

Holding the brand steady with one hand, Gilad fished around in his pocket. He withdrew a handful of small, glowing red pebbles, which he placed into the flames.

He didn’t toss them in. Instead, he reached inside, the flames licking his wrist, and placed them very deliberately in a pattern around the fire. Just looking at the process made Alin wince and clutch his hand into a fist.

The flames flickered blue, then purple, then at last a deep, abiding red, before slowly fading back to the color of ordinary fire.

“Tilt left,” the Grandmaster instructed, and Gilad adjusted the brand a tiny degree. She gave him miniscule instructions for another five minutes, until Alin had begun to wonder if he could sneak out.

Finally, she patted Gilad on the back—her left hand was still frail, and still encircled by scar tissue, but thanks to Alin’s rose light she could use it almost normally. At her touch, Gilad pulled the brand out.

The metal symbol, white-hot, seemed to almost twist and crawl, as though it wasn’t one solid shape at all, but a living liquid.

“Hurry,” Grandmaster Naraka hissed.

Gilad turned and plunged the glowing brand into a barrel. Alin didn’t know what was in there, but he doubted it was water: no steam rose. Instead, a cloud of sparks leaped above the surface of the barrel.

After almost a minute, Gilad pulled the brand free. Alin was sure the metal should have been cooled by now, but it glowed even brighter than before.

The brand wasn’t white anymore, though. It was a bright red, the color of fresh blood, and not any natural shade for heated metal.

Grandmaster Naraka rolled up her sleeve with her teeth and pressed her one remaining hand against a nearby table, palm-up.

“Do you commit your life to justice?” Gilad intoned. He sounded as if he were quoting something. “Are you sworn to the righting of wrongs, to the redress of balance, to—”

“Enough ceremony, boy!” Grandmaster Naraka snapped. “Do it!”

Steadily, Gilad reversed the brand and pressed it against the Grandmaster’s palm.

Naraka’s face firmed behind her red spectacles, as though her wrinkled face had turned to iron. Steam rose from her hand this time, and the sick smell of charred meat filled the room.

Alin suspected she was living through agony that would have left him on the floor screaming, but she didn’t say a word.

After a few seconds, Gilad pulled the brand away from her skin. It was black and cold.

Her palm, on the other hand, glowed bright red with a fresh, twisting symbol. Grandmaster Naraka was a Traveler again.

“Here, let me help you,” Alin said. He summoned the rose light, and it unfolded in his hand, soft panes of pink radiance drifting into the air. He stepped closer to the Grandmaster, but she pushed him back.

“It hurt worse losing the other hand,” Naraka said irritably. “I’ll live through this one.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” Alin said. “Let me help you.”

“Stick to your own business, Eliadel,” the Grandmaster said coldly. “I’ll call you when we need you.” She pulled the door open with her one remaining hand and marched through.

Gilad shrugged apologetically. “Sorry about that. I think she blames you for her hands. And because we failed the mission, of course.”

“I’m sure,” Alin said sourly. He didn’t follow the Grandmaster out. She would likely need some time away from him for a while. He did, however, lean against the door to keep it propped open. The cool breeze practically brought him back to life.

“Have the Grandmasters decided when to begin their attack?” Alin asked. They had planned to release the Valinhall Incarnation and a hand-selected strike force to provide a distraction for Heir Talos’ plan, as well as to keep the Damascan army defensive and unsure. If all went well, they might even be able to assassinate the King.

As far as Alin knew, though, they had yet to assign Travelers to the two different teams: one to attack the army, the other to strike at the Hanging Tree in Cana. He had volunteered for both, but the Grandmasters had put him off.

Gilad looked up at him, obviously startled. “No one told you? Oh, um, I’m sorry. That’s what we’re doing here. You and I are on the Cana strike team.”

“What?” He didn’t mind the assignment, but why had nobody told him? “Wait a minute,” Alin said, a few things clicking into place at once. “What do you mean, this is what we’re doing here? We’re giving Grandmaster Naraka her mark back.”

Nervously, Gilad passed a hand through his hair, looking anywhere except at Alin. “Well, she may have insisted on coming. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but there aren’t too many Grandmasters left, and none of the other Naraka Masters wanted to challenge her for her decision. So, basically, she does what she wants.”

“Great,” Alin muttered, staring into the hallway where Grandmaster Naraka had left. What did she think she was doing? She was still injured. Having her along could easily do more harm than good.

“We’re lucky she didn’t decide to go with the distraction team,” Gilad said. “I wouldn’t have been ready for this ritual, and she likely would have left without any hands.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gilad blinked at him. “The distraction team. They left two hours ago, with the Incarnation. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Alin strode into the hall, heading for the suit of armor in his rooms. Gilad hurried after him, for some reason apologizing at every third step.

The Grandmasters were leaving him out of their planning sessions, which could only mean that they had something to hide. He needed to remind them who he was.

And to do that, he had to look the part.

***

Simon didn’t need to be carrying Otoku to know what one of his dolls would tell him to do. He leaped backwards so fast that he almost dropped Azura on the grass.

Valin ignored Simon, looking past him to Denner and Kai. Mithra rested casually against his shoulder, a core of gold running up the center of its blade.

“Where is your King?” Valin asked, in a deceptively calm voice.

Denner angled his Dragon’s Fang up, and Kai summoned a huge gleaming hammer. Black chain marks showed against the backs of their hands, twisting up their shirtsleeves.

“Sorry, Master,” Denner said.

“I accept your challenge,” Valin responded. He planted his feet and held Mithra out in front of him, clutched in both hands.

Around him, the grass shriveled into what looked like green carpeting.

Simon stood to one side, almost frozen, wondering what to do. Steel coursed through him and he held Azura in one hand, but he wasn’t sure he should attack. Especially without a doll, he would likely get in the more experienced Travelers’ way.

Drawn by the noise of the battle with the Avernus Travelers, groups of soldiers had begun to show up. They froze, though, at the edge of the clearing, not sure which side to support. They murmured among each other, but—maybe because of the bodies—nobody called out. They stood among the tents and watched. A few dragged some of the wounded Travelers out of the way, but none seemed eager to interfere.

That reminded him: Leah was in charge here. Had she known about Lysander’s ambush? No, she had warned him to look out for Talos. In that case, she would have to find out about this battle sooner or later. Maybe he could go to her for reinforcements.

He kept an eye on Lysander, who was now hobbling away from the fight by leaning on the shoulder of one of the troops. He didn’t seem like he was about to help the Incarnation, but he might be on his way to Leah.

Simon had all but decided to find Leah and tell her what had happened, at least before her brother could do so, when something occurred to him.

Where was Talos?

He hadn’t seen the Heir since his duel. During the fight with the Avernus Travelers, Talos had managed to slip away.

That decided it: he would have to talk to Leah before Talos or Lysander had the chance to feed her a lie.

He edged to one side, trying to slip away unnoticed.

As soon as he moved, all three of the other Valinhall Travelers exploded into action.

Kai jumped over Valin’s head, bringing his hammer down on the Incarnation like a collapsing roof. At the same time, Denner rushed forward, slashing at Valin’s ribs.

Valin raised one hand to catch Kai’s hammer-blow on his forearm, simultaneously thrusting his blade one-handed at Denner’s chest.

Denner spun around the Incarnation’s sword, striking for the neck, and the force of Kai’s blow drove Valin to one knee.

Kai landed, releasing his enormous hammer in favor of a pair of daggers, which he moved as if to plunge into Valin’s back.

The Incarnation’s form blurred as he summoned more Nye essence, and even his breath escaped in a blue-white cloud. He ducked back to avoid Denner’s slash, bending so far that the top of his head almost scraped the earth, and then reached up to grab Kai’s wrist, pulling him forward.

Denner had to pull back to avoid skewering Kai, and Kai had to turn his awkward stumble into a jump. He spun around as soon as he landed, catching Valin’s return blow on his crossed knives.

And that was as much as Simon caught of the fight, because at that moment a blinding flash of light and a furious explosion turned many of the nearby tents into bonfires.

A wall of heat pressed on Simon from behind, weighing him down more than his cloak. A shadow passed over the sun, and he looked up.

A silhouette flew overhead, a serpentine shape the length of a wagon train with six sets of wings, each the size of a ship’s sail. The draft from the creature’s flapping wings fluttered Simon’s cloak around him, scattering clouds of dust at his feet.

The huge serpent twisted in midair and let out a roar. Its mouth glowed with a bright, vivid blue, and with a sound like tearing stone it blasted lightning from its open jaws.

A thunderbolt hammered the ground nearby, and another clutch of tents burst into flames.

The Damascan soldiers had been shocked into action now, forming into ranks and calling for their own Travelers. But Simon fixated on only one thing: he had seen a creature like that before, although not so vast and without all the wings. He couldn’t forget seeing a giant snake with fangs full of lightning. The last time he had seen one, it had killed his mother.

Simon looked back, at the tents that had first been burning.

Grandmaster Endross strode from within the flames, one of his two swords in his hand, the other hand holding a swirling thunderstorm the size of a dinner plate. His dark hair and skin, the same shade as Simon’s own, turned him almost to a shadow against the backdrop of flames.

When he saw Simon, he smiled.

“Saints above, Valinhall, I’m glad to see you,” he called. “Now I can bring Eliadel your head.” Absently, the Grandmaster fired a pale bolt of lightning down a row of tents, incinerating something or someone Simon couldn’t see.

Quickly, Simon considered and discarded a number of responses. Come and take it! No, too obvious. Besides, Valin was doing that already. I’ll bring it to him myself! That seemed like it implied suicide, somehow. Only if you can take it. No, that wouldn’t work. Too obvious.

Simon struggled mentally for another moment before he resorted to his usual tactic: he said nothing and attacked.

Nye essence surged into his lungs, bringing with it a burst of cool clarity. Grandmaster Endross moved his storm into position, the tiny flickers of lightning within it gathering up for one solid bolt.

As the light built to a crescendo, Simon threw himself to the ground, sliding under the lightning that thundered above him, inches from his head.

Again, Simon suspected that if it were a real bolt of lightning—or one of the huge heavenly blasts thrown by that serpentine dragon overhead—he would have been cooked, deafened, and blinded all at once. As it was, his skin felt scorched, his vision seemed uncomfortably bright, and there was an odd ringing in his ears.

But when the lightning faded, he was crouched at the Grandmaster’s feet, still alive.

He grasped Azura’s hilt in both hands, swinging his blade into Grandmaster Endross’ midsection.

Endross barely managed to get his sword between Azura and his own stomach, just in time to save his life.

Simon had hoped that the Dragon’s Fang would slice straight through the Grandmaster’s sword, as it did ordinary metal, but the two blades merely rang like a pair of struck bells. He had picked up, from the Enosh Travelers and from Erastes, that the Dragon’s Fangs were made of Tartarus steel, which—if treated and forged in the right ways—was all but indestructible.

They would pierce ordinary metals without any trouble, but they could be stopped by another Tartarus steel blade. It seemed that being a Grandmaster meant you had access to such rare and expensive materials, because his sword held up admirably.

Having an all-but-unbreakable sword, however, did not grant Grandmaster Endross any extra strength.

Simon’s steel-infused blow launched the Grandmaster into the air. He passed over the peak of one tent entirely, falling to the ground on the other side.

Cautiously, Simon crept backwards, wary of some attack. He had seen an Endross Traveler tossed an enormous distance before, and Cormac had survived. It stood to reason that a Grandmaster of the same Territory would have access to equal protection.

As it turned out, he didn’t have long to worry about that.

A deafening roar from above turned his attention back to the flying serpent, which had twisted to dive straight for him. Its emerald scales shone in the midday sun, but Simon didn’t think he would have a chance to appreciate the sight. The snake’s fangs had parted, and a twisting ball of lightning gathered in its mouth.

Evidently, it wanted to thank him for his kind treatment of its summoner by way of a lightning bolt to the face. Simon threw himself away, falling hard on his side. He was afraid that he was too late, that the blast would be too big to dodge in any case.

Then Denner stood before him, and the lightning bolt caught the other Traveler full in the chest.

Armor of spectral green light flickered around Denner’s body, as though he had been wearing invisible plate armor that had been outlined by the lightning. The bolt slammed into the Traveler’s chest with as much effect as water slamming into a boulder.

Denner turned and offered Simon a hand up, as the winged snake flapped hard to gain altitude.

“So that’s ghost armor?” Simon asked, as he let Denner pull him to his feet.

“You see why it’s so useful?” Denner responded. “Heads up.”

A chill wind engulfed Simon, and for once he was glad that he was wearing a cloak. A shimmering white portal—a Helgard Gate—hung in the air nearby, and from its depths walked a handful of bearded men in heavy jackets.

Their leader, Grandmaster Helgard, laughed as he saw the squad of Damascan soldiers who were marching up to meet him at the Gate. He gestured, and a blue giant’s fist reached out of the blizzard behind him and smashed the first few soldiers backwards.

“Excuse me,” Denner said, and leaped toward the Gate, his sword ringing like a tuning fork.

Simon moved to go help, but a length of cold metal drew tight around his throat.

Not again, he thought, as one of the Nye hauled at his neck.

With the steel in him, Simon could treat a single Nye as a bare nuisance. He dropped Azura, gripping the black chain in both hands and pulling the Nye up and over his head, slamming it into the ground in front of him.

“Why is it always you guys?” Simon asked. The Nye, naturally, didn’t answer, instead trying to wrench its chain from Simon’s grasp.

Simon looked up, barely interested in his black-cloaked opponent, taking the chance to survey the fight as a whole. The Nye had indeed joined in with gusto, following the Enosh Travelers in attacking anything wearing a Damascan uniform. More Damascan Travelers had arrived, Tartarus and Naraka and whichever one used mist—he couldn’t remember its name—and the clearing was turning into a scene from a particularly vivid nightmare.

Tents burned in the background as a serpent flew overhead, occasionally blocking out the sun with its huge wingspan. A black-hooded Nye pulled on a red-uniformed Damascan soldier’s neck, while eerie glowing mist lapped at their feet. A gleaming red-black insect the size of a bear wrestled with a titan that seemed made entirely out of moving, flashing blades, as a blue-skinned giant prepared to bring its gigantic jagged icicle down upon them both.

And through the middle of it all, Kai and the Valinhall Incarnation fought.

Simon couldn’t believe that Kai had neither his dolls nor the speed of the Nye. He moved like a ghost, slipping around a white-skinned bony creature with knives for fingers and deflecting a fireball, all while catching and turning Valin’s relentless attacks.

The Incarnation, by contrast, rushed forward as though he intended to trample anything that got in his way. A squad of Damascan soldiers foolish enough to stumble in front of Mithra got strewn all over the ground, and Valin seized the white-skinned creature that Kai had ignored and threw it into a nearby fire. It screamed and crackled as it burned.

Valin swung his sword as though hacking wood, and Kai managed to turn every attack.

He turned every attack, and never launched one of his own.

That was when Simon knew Kai was in trouble: he couldn’t find an opening to attack. He kept backing off, always retreating, always putting another obstacle between him and the advancing Incarnation.

Well, Simon could hardly get in Kai’s way more than an army of conflicting Travelers. It was about time he contributed something useful to this fight.

Tossing the Nye aside, Simon took up Azura once more and plunged into the fray, drawing on the Nye essence to slip in and out of combat. He was running out of essence, but he should at least be able to do Valin a little harm before it ran out and he had to retreat again.

With the essence slowing the world to a crawl, Simon had a very clear view of what happened.

Behind Kai, Talos stepped out from a tent. He held his red-bladed Ragnarus sword in one hand, and in the other hand something else. Simon couldn’t quite figure out what the Heir held, but it glowed like the last embers of a dying fire.

He moved behind Kai and, with an almost gentle motion, flicked the point of his sword at Kai’s back.

Simon yelled as loud as he could, trying to distract Talos, trying to warn Kai, but neither of them paid him any attention. He drew the rest of the Nye essence into his lungs, the rest of the steel into his legs, hurling himself forward like a comet.

It didn’t matter.

Valin brought an overhand strike at Kai, which Kai had to block with both hands on the hilt of his sword. He was all but frozen, focusing entirely on the enemy in front of him, when Talos’ sword cut into his back.

Simon barreled into Talos an instant later, leading with Azura, knocking the red blade aside and slicing upwards, cutting across the Heir’s chest, up his chin, and across his face. He thought he even cut through Talos’ eye before the man stumbled backwards into a collapsing tent, but he had little attention to spare for the Damascan Heir.

He was focused on Kai, who had fallen onto his back, writhing at the agony of the wound. He didn’t scream, he just groaned.

Valin stood over him, Mithra’s point almost touching the ground. There was a decidedly displeased look on his face.

“I wouldn’t have chosen this,” the Incarnation said. “We should have settled this in battle. I’m sorry.”

Then he turned and walked away, wading back into the battle.

Simon tried to examine the wound, to do something, but Kai pushed his hands away.

“Don’t worry about me, little mouse,” he said. “Find something to bring him down. I can’t stop him, but I can hold him here a little longer.”

The wound on his back shone with a strange red light, and veins of red radiated out from it, infecting healthy skin.

Then lines of green and gold light erupted from within Kai’s body, twisting and braiding themselves into a net over the wound, closing it almost instantly. The red lines fought against the green and gold, but they seemed to struggle in balance. For now.

“A little longer,” Kai repeated, and smiled behind his mask of white hair. He raised his blade and ran after the Incarnation, who caught the strike on his own sword without turning around.

Simon’s mind raced. There had to be something he could do here. Talos had said that a cut from his sword was fatal, but anything one Territory did, another could undo. His other victims surely hadn’t had access to Valinhall’s healing pool.

Simon raised Azura into the air, slicing downward into a Valinhall Gate. A snarling black creature, like a lion but packed with an almost obscene amount of muscle and standing as high as Simon’s navel, snarled and rushed at Simon, seemingly intent on tearing out his throat before he could complete the Gate.

With the last of his steel, Simon kicked the huge cat back into the chaos of battle. He would not be distracted, not now, and not by a random summoned monster.

He might not be able to kill Valin, but he would do his best to save Kai’s life.

CHAPTER 20:

THE MASK

Leah may have all but drowned in paperwork an hour before, but now that there was an actual emergency, she found herself with practically no orders to give.

Only minutes had passed since she had first received word that enemy Travelers were in the camp itself, and once the initial panic had subsided, order quickly reasserted itself: officers went straight to her military advisor, a grandmotherly Tartarus Traveler who had served in the Damascan army since the reign of Leah’s grandfather, and Travelers all looked to Indirial.

Neither of them needed her input or approval, so she mostly nodded at messengers and directed them to one or the other, projecting an aura of royal competence and unconcern.

Inside, though, she was dying to lend her assistance. The battle had erupted under Talos’ command, which meant he had likely already betrayed the cause. She longed to go find out in person, but she couldn’t in good conscience leave the command tent.

So she was reduced to placing her scrying lens flat against the surface of the desk, watching the battle unfold from an uncomfortable angle high in the sky. She had tried focusing her view on Simon, knowing that he must be nearby, but for some reason she couldn’t get a lock on him. Every time she tried to aim the lens at Simon’s black-cloaked form, it was like trying to pick up a greased egg with two toothpicks.

The most she saw of Simon was an occasional blur at the edge of her screen. Therefore, she had chosen to lock on to the first soldier she recognized, though she couldn’t remember the man’s name. He was currently locked into battle with one of the black-shrouded Valinhall creatures, while the greater battle raged around him.

The whole scene was such a mess that she could barely make out who fought for which side. Helgard creatures clashed with Naraka Travelers, and the both of them were trampled by a storm of metal from a Tartarus Traveler, who was subsequently bowled over by the Valinhall Incarnation.

Leah gripped the lens in both hands and willed it to move. Seven stones, you would think she could at least adjust the angle, but it remained locked stubbornly on to that one, all-but-inconsequential soldier, who didn’t even have the decency to go fight where more important things were happening.

Calmly, Leah took a deep breath and released the edge of the lens. That soldier had a name, and quite probably a family, and he was currently locked into a battle for his life. She would gather what strategic information she could from his surroundings, silently hoping for his success.

Something caught her eye at the tent entrance, and she looked up to see another soldier practically dragging Overlord Lysander through the gap. One lens of his spectacles was all but shattered, and his left leg had been twisted around almost entirely. His buckskin outfit had been soaked in blood, though she wasn’t clear how much of it was his.

The soldier and the Overlord were followed into the tent by a pair of Avernus Travelers, both carrying evident sword wounds.

Leah would have risen to meet them, but she more than suspected that Lysander was involved in whatever madness had occurred under Talos’ watch. She sat where she was, waiting for them to come to her.

Idly, she wished that Indirial were there, rather than putting out fires—both literal and metaphorical—all around camp. It seemed that, while the bulk of the Enosh forces were focused on the Valinhall Travelers under Talos’ command, they had sent other Travelers to strike elsewhere at camp, popping out of Gates and causing as much havoc as possible before slipping back into their Territories.

They would all be caught and slaughtered if they tried this tactic for too long. Damasca had too many Travelers, and they knew their Territories too well. Eventually, Leah’s Travelers would catch and overwhelm their enemies.

But for now, Indirial had to run to each corner of the camp, trying to catch Travelers as they literally popped out of the air.

Still, she could have used the support of a Valinhall Traveler—even Simon, if he was still alive—to back her up. She could be sure Lysander wouldn’t try anything if she had one of them behind her.

“Your Highness,” Lysander panted, gritting his teeth at his obvious pain. “The Valinhall Travelers…they’ve turned on us. They’ve joined with their Incarnation.”

Leah arched one eyebrow. “That’s odd, since I have been watching the battle. Not two minutes ago, Master Kai was personally engaged in combat with the Incarnation. I didn’t see you on the battlefield, strangely enough.”

“Because they struck me down too early!” Lysander insisted. “The boy, Simon, led the way. He must have been working for Enosh all along.”

Lysander was intelligent enough, in his way, but if he had paid any attention to Leah’s history, he would have known that she would never fall for such an obvious lie. She simply knew Simon too well.

It would be entirely in character for Simon to oppose Damasca—Leah still couldn’t help but feel a little shaky about Simon’s loyalties. But he would have attacked directly, charging at the Damascan troops with his sword out. He would most certainly not have pretended to be an ally, waiting until the perfect time to execute an ambush.

That was a tactic she would expect from Lysander.

He would have known all that if he had paid attention to Leah’s past in Myria, followed the connection to Simon, and made the proper assumptions. Anyone with a shrewd political mind would have done so, and come up with a more convincing lie.

But Lysander Torannus, whatever his strengths in Traveling and in academia, took to politics like a child took to brightly colored wooden blocks. He was enthusiastic enough, but hardly an inspiration of skill and creativity.

Leah nodded as though the Overlord’s lie had inspired serious thought. “That’s alarming news,” she said. “I should check it out for myself.”

And, very deliberately, she lowered her head to look at the scrying lens on her desk.

Like an oblivious fish, Lysander took the bait.

He stood on his own legs, throwing away his crippled act, and threw both hands out in front of him. A flock of Sarin sparrows, from Avernus, rushed into the air in front of her, filling her mind with their incessant cries.

She was familiar with the Sarin tribe. Avernus Travelers with contacts among the Sarin made excellent spies, and they were quite useful in combat. The sparrows were in constant psychic contact, and their cries could cause panic and excruciating mental pain in their enemies. The birds themselves possessed blade-sharp beaks and talons that could reduce opponents to bloody scraps in a minute.

But for all that, they were of very little use against a prepared foe.

Leah simply flipped her wrist over, letting her crystal bracelet touch the light, and she tapped into her Source.

Thin spikes of crystal erupted from the earth, piercing the hearts of each bird as it burst from thin air. She wasn’t using her crystal ball, so her accuracy was somewhat lacking, but accuracy was hardly a requirement this time. Not every needle of crystal punctured a sparrow’s breast; sometimes they took the birds in the wing, or the beak. Many needles missed entirely, jabbing up into nowhere.

But she was capable of summoning any number of crystals—at least, so long as her dwindling Source held out—while the average flock of sparrows didn’t reach one hundred individuals. She barely had to concentrate. She just had to keep calling crystal.

“No!” Lysander shouted, pulling his hands back. The sparrows stopped flying from their tiny Gate, frozen in prisons of crystal. Lirial crystal, as always, didn’t pierce or stab. It locked her targets in milky white stone.

Of course, that was no less lethal for most of the birds. If their entire bodies had been trapped, the crystal would sustain them, but when their hearts were locked in stasis with the rest of their body outside…well, they didn’t last long.

Lysander practically screamed, grasping at the crystal cages of his sparrows.

Apparently the bond between an Avernus Traveler and his flock went deeper than Leah had imagined.

She summoned her crown, feeling its weight as it materialized from Ragnarus. With it, she could deal with Lysander’s two Traveler lackeys.

But they both stared between her and the Overlord in stunned disbelief. They had clearly never expected to follow Lysander into the attempted assassination of a royal Heir.

“Your Highness…” one of them said uncertainly.

“Help me!” Lysander snapped.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the other Traveler said, and the two of them bowed to Leah.

“Stay where you are,” Leah said. She grabbed a sword from a nearby mundane guard, who—according to his training—had run to fetch the nearest Traveler when he noticed the unexpected interference of a Territory. The tent was quickly filling up with loyal Tartarus Travelers, who all had their keys out and pointing in Lysander’s general direction.

Taking the sword from the guard, she walked over to the Overlord. With the point of the weapon, she pushed him down to his knees. She planted a foot in his shoulder and kicked him over onto his back.

Crown heavy on her head, Leah knelt over Lysander, who squirmed on the grass like a worm trying to inch itself away from a bird. In her right hand she held the sword, blade poised over his throat.

“Overlord Lysander Torannus. By my authority as the Successor to the Damascan throne, I declare you a traitor, the penalty for which is death by public execution.”

“No, wait! I’ve seen the future! I can show you what is to come!”

Leah leaned on the sword, driving it into the soft earth beside Lysander’s head. He flinched and craned his neck, trying to get his face as far from the blade as possible.

“This sentence will be carried out…”

She intentionally let her words hang in the air, watching his panicked reaction. Then she reached through her crystal bracelet, into Lirial, and summoned crystal.

Milky white crystal erupted from the ground, encasing Overlord Lysander in a solid, translucent coffin.

“…when I have more time,” Leah finished. She stood, pulling the sword from the grass. The crystal would preserve him until such time as she decided to render judgment, whether that was days or weeks.

Or years. She had her duty after, all.

A duty that started with finding her brother, and getting some answers out of him. There was no way Lysander had come up with the initiative to start a rebellion on his own, and from what she’d seen, he was firmly in her brother’s pocket.

It was about time she went looking for Talos.

***

Simon ran through the halls of the House, relying on nothing more than his normal strength. More than anything else, he wanted to call steel and run as fast as possible, dip into the pool, withdraw some water, and make it back to Kai.

But he had another plan in mind, and for that, he would need his powers to last for as long as he could.

As he ran through the hall, Andra stuck a peek out of her bedroom. He actually had to dodge around her to avoid running into her long blond hair.

“Why the rush?” she called after him.

“Get the workshop open!” Simon yelled back, wrenching open the doorknob to the seventh bedroom. “And hurry!”

As soon as Simon pulled the door open, he heard Otoku’s impatient voice in his mind.

What was that all about? Being banished back to the Territory like that is not as much fun as you’d think, you know.

The other dolls chimed in, one on top of the other.

You’ll end up dead that way, if you keep leaving us behind.

Are Kai and Denner still out there?

I’m going to punch you in the face!

You should stand still when we’re talking to you.

Simon ignored them, glancing around the shelves for a blond doll in a powder-blue dress and bonnet. He finally spotted Caela at the end of one of the shelves—two feet away from where he had last placed her—and snatched her up before dashing out of the room.

I see you’ve made the intelligent choice, selecting me, she said.

I’m putting on the mask, he responded. You were with me when I used it last time.

In that case, I take back any compliment regarding your intelligence.

Simon stopped by the bathroom to scoop up some water, realized he didn’t have anything to carry it in, doubled back for a waterskin, realized he didn’t know where to get a waterskin, and ended up having Caela guide him through the armory for an empty skin.

Finally, he ended up in the forge, trying to pull open the iron door leading into the workshop.

It was locked.

Simon slammed the heel of his fist into the door, wondering if he could call steel and tear the door down.

Olissa showed up before he could do something desperate. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, and her hair looked as though squirrels had used it as a nest.

“Simon, what’s…” she trailed off into a jaw-cracking yawn.

He had forgotten about the time difference in Valinhall, but at this point, he couldn’t care any less.

“I need the mask,” Simon said.

Olissa eyed him suspiciously, as though suspecting him of pulling a prank on her. “You can’t use it, though. It needs to be attuned, whatever that means. You heard the Eldest.”

“Then I will have it attuned. Please, let me in the room.”

“Who are you going to get to do that? The Eldest Nye has already said he won’t do it.”

He didn’t have time for this. “Mistress Agnos, if I know anything about the Eldest—and unfortunately I do—then he is inside the workshop, waiting to appear dramatically as soon as we need him. I beg of you, open this door. Kai is dying.”

His urgency must have gotten through to her, because she pushed the door open. She didn’t take out a key or even turn the handle, she pushed, and the door swung inward.

The Eldest stood there, in the doorway, his hands folded into opposite sleeves.

“The only joy left in my life is the joy of a good entrance,” the Eldest rasped. “Why do you take this from me?”

Simon pushed past him, looking around for the workbench where they had left the mask. As soon as he stepped inside the room, torches on the walls suddenly ignited, providing him with light as soon as he needed it.

“Eldest Nye,” Simon said, “I know that I am still in your debt. But even so, I need your help. If I don’t have the mask, I can’t defeat the Incarnation.”

He didn’t stop looking as he spoke, lifting up furniture and opening drawers. But he still couldn’t find it.

“Mistress Olissa, where is the mask?”

From within the depths of his cloak, the Eldest produced the steel-and-iron mask. He held it in front of him as though offering it, but when Simon reached for it, the Nye pulled back.

“Kai is dying,” Simon pleaded.

“That means nothing to me.”

“Without the mask, I can’t beat Valin.”

“That’s true.”

In sheer frustration, Simon shoved over a nearby table. The tools arranged on the top crashed to the ground. Something shattered. “What do you want from me?” Simon demanded.

“Continue demonstrating your immaturity,” the Eldest said. “Surely, I will be persuaded then.”

Simon cast his mind about, trying to think of something—anything—that might persuade him.

“If I do this for you,” the Nye said slowly, “then I will expect you to take responsibility for your actions. Kai has been irresponsible, but you must live up to your burdens. Do you understand?”

Hope lifted in Simon’s chest. “Absolutely.”

The Eldest shook his hood. “I do not think that you do. I will expect you to abide by that responsibility regardless.”

“I will.” Simon would agree to whatever he had to, if it helped secure the Nye’s help.

“You must also bring me something in return,” the Eldest continued. “One of the lost Dragon’s Fangs, or an artifact of some other Territory.”

“How about a sword from Ragnarus?” Simon asked. “One cut is always lethal.”

“A fragment of the Crimson Vault?” the Eldest asked, sounding surprised. “Perfection. But for it to truly belong to Valinhall, you must take it in battle.”

“That would be my pleasure.”

The Eldest placed a sleeve on the face of the mask, which began to shine as though it had been placed under a full moon. “Then, under those conditions, I grant you this new power. However, you must remember one thing: this will not last long. The Incarnation is a part of Valinhall in ways you couldn’t dream. He will sense this mask, and before long, he will be able to summon it from you. You will die.”

Simon watched the mask glow. The eye-slits flashed blue-white once, and then dimmed. “Defeat him before he can take the mask from me. Understood. How do I kill him?”

“It is difficult to kill an Incarnation,” the Eldest responded. “And it leaves a dangerous gap, making it more likely for another to take its place.”

With the mask grasped in one sleeve, he held it out to Simon.

“I would try and trick him back here,” he concluded. After he paused a moment, he added, “Good luck, son of Kalman. I think that I like you, and I do not want to see you die today.”

Simon slipped the mask into one of his cloak pockets, hurrying out of the workshop. Olissa must have left at some point during the conversation, because she was no longer standing by the door.

He started summoning Azura before he was fully in the entry hall, already reaching through her to cut open a Gate.

To his surprise, he almost impaled Andra.

She stood with her blond hair pulled back and tied, wearing a simple outfit of a loose-fitting shirt and trousers. She wore her Dragon’s Fang, much shorter than his, buckled on a belt, and her advisor floated over one shoulder. He looked like a ghost made out of black yarn, with buttons for eyes and a wide-stitched mouth.

“Watch it!” Andra said, jumping out of Azura’s way.

Her advisor, Manyu, drifted over to Simon. “You seem, aaaahhh, in quite a hurry. May I ask where we’re going, hmmmmm?”

“We?” Simon asked, startled. He looked from Andra to the other person in the room, who was buckling on his sword-belt.

Erastes had been a member of the Damascan army, so it was fitting that he wore a soldier’s uniform. He didn’t wear the red-and-gold of the royal army—Simon wasn’t clear on the details, but it looked like only the soldiers under the command of the royal family were allowed to wear the red-and-gold uniforms.

This uniform was mostly blue and gray, with a cap-like helmet and a coat of chainmail over the breast. It would normally be decorated with the colors of whichever Overlord currently commanded the soldier, but Erastes had no decoration. As it was, the steel-grey of his armor matched his hair and eyes.

He loosened his sword in its sheath, giving Simon a glimpse of mirror-bright Tartarus steel.

“Olissa told us that you’re working for the Overlord Indirial now,” Erastes said, his voice as flat as ever.

“And he was here in the House!” Andra exclaimed. “I saw him. Is he really a Valinhall Traveler?”

“Yeah, he’s a Valinhall Traveler,” Simon responded. “And I’m working for him, for now.”

Unwilling to waste anymore time, he raised Azura and began cutting open a Gate.

“Then you made the right decision,” Erastes responded. “We’re coming with you.”

That didn’t sit well with Simon, but he couldn’t turn down help. Still, he wasn’t sure he could trust Erastes and Andra to fight without slowing him down.

“I won’t have time to look out for you,” Simon warned. “And we’ll be stepping into the middle of a fight.”

“You’re fighting with the Damascan royal army against Enosh aggressors?” Erastes asked.

“That’s one way to put it, yes,” Simon said.

“I have trained for this day my entire life. It has nothing to do with you. This is my job. And Andra’s a Traveler now, isn’t that right?”

Proudly, Andra rolled up her left sleeve and showed Simon the black chains. “Just yesterday!” she said triumphantly.

“Congratulations,” Simon responded, though his voice probably fell a little flat. The Gate was almost open now, and the sounds of battle were deafening. From what he could see, the entire nearby line of tents seemed to be aflame.

“Remember what we discussed, Andra,” Erastes said.

“Yes, sir,” Andra responded, for once sounding completely serious.

Azura touched the floor, and the Gate snapped open. Simon strode through, leading the way, with Erastes and Andra following. Now, all he had to do was find Kai.

Then he had to find and fight an immensely powerful, insane avatar of battle with the strength of an entire Territory, somehow tricking him into the one place he would never choose to go.

But Simon liked to cross one bridge at a time.

***

Kai held a sword in each hand, but they both shook. It was a miracle that he had even managed to keep hold of them. His body was covered in sweat, and his breath came in heavy gasps.

Every power he could draw, every force he could summon, had been long exhausted. It took all his concentration to keep holding back the poison from Ragnarus, and the wound in his back felt like someone was driving a new red-hot dagger inside, twisting every second.

Valin stood over Kai, his black-and-silver eyes as emotionless as a machine’s. He barely looked like he was breathing at all.

“We can call this my win,” the Incarnation said. “Now, lead me to your king.”

Kai couldn’t help it: he started laughing. It was thin, exhausted, wheezing laughter, and with every chuckle a new bolt of pain shot through his back, but something about it felt incredibly freeing.

“Don’t make me kill you, Kai,” Valin said. “I’ve earned this.”

With the last drops of steel in him, Kai launched forward and struck at the Incarnation’s chest. Effortlessly, he swatted Kai’s attack away, but Kai’s momentum carried him close to his former master’s face.

“Poor, lost Wanderer,” Kai whispered. “That’s not how the real world works.”

The Valinhall Incarnation kicked him away. It was almost gentle, as these things worked: Valin could as easily have put his foot through Kai’s ribs. In this case, Kai tumbled backwards to land in a heap on the dirt.

“Then I have wasted my time with you,” Valin said. He blurred as he moved toward Kai, drawing on some of that Nye speed. He pulled Mithra back, barely paying attention, likely planning to slit Kai’s throat as an afterthought.

Well, Kai thought, at least I stalled for a while.

Kai let himself relax. He was full of regrets. In fact, he wished he had lived most of his life differently. But somehow, none of that mattered now.

He wished he could have seen his little ones one last time.

The Valinhall Incarnation pulled his sword back for a swing, ready to slash through Kai’s body.

Then he stopped, staring in front of him. Kai turned on the ground to see what had delayed his execution.

Simon stood there, his black Nye cloak falling around him. He was flanked on either side by a pair of fighters: one a girl, younger even than Simon, wielding a Dragon’s Fang.

Oh, she must be that new Traveler girl, he thought. Agnos, he thought her name was. He had met the family on a few occasions, but they had never made much of an impression on him. He had never expected the girl to make it, but there she was, with the chains crawling up her arms.

Truth be told, he had never expected Simon to make it, either.

She currently had her Dragon’s Fang buried up to the gullet in the throat of some flaming black lizard-thing from Naraka. She barely made a face as she slid its body off her blade and turned to face the next threat: a nine-legged crab with spinning blades for mandibles and a shining steel carapace.

On Simon’s other side, the soldier spun and danced with his shining sword of Tartarus steel. He would make an excellent Valinhall Traveler. Kai regretted that he had never learned the man’s name.

Simon himself held Azura in one hand and Caela in the other, letting Caela’s lovely dress wrinkle in the worst manner. He ignored the battles behind him, walking up to the Incarnation.

No, to Kai. He knelt and delicately placed Caela in Kai’s arms.

“Hold her for me,” Simon said, trying to smile.

Kai nodded, too choked up to speak. His wish was granted: now he could die with one of his precious little ones in his arms.

Though he wished that he didn’t have to watch Simon die as well.

Simon pulled something else out of that cloak of his: a waterskin. Kai almost gasped. Maybe, if that was what he thought it was…maybe he could be saved after all.

“I don’t have time for this,” Valin said. He thrust Mithra straight at Kai’s chest.

Mithra met Azura in a clash of sparks.

“I’ve fought you before, young dragon,” the Incarnation said. “Stay out of my way.”

Simon held Azura against the Incarnation’s blade with one hand, and with the other he reached into his cloak one more time.

He withdrew a mask.

“Why don’t we try one more time?” Simon said. He pressed the mask against his face.

The eye-slits flared briefly with white light, and the mask stuck to Simon’s head without any visible means of support.

“What is that?” Kai whispered.

As he had hoped, Caela answered him. Something new.

***

Once again, when Simon called power through the mask, it felt simultaneously like waking up and like trying to inhale a blizzard. His lungs practically froze from the Nye essence, and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he was leaking light with every breath. His muscles pounded with the strength of cold steel, and he could barely feel the chains snaking up his arms.

The world seemed to crystallize: a diving white eagle from Avernus paused with her claws an inch from the skin of a blue-skinned Helgard giant, which had its icicle-club poised to smash one of the Nye into the ground. The flames looked like jagged orange spikes, and puffs of dust hung in the air like they had gotten stuck on a canvas.

Time’s not moving fast, but it’s still moving, Caela warned him. You’ve got to finish this fast.

In response, Simon pushed himself forward, launching at roughly the same speed of a crossbow bolt. He slammed into the Incarnation with Azura’s edge, putting the weight of his body and all his strength into the blow.

Cutting into Valin’s skin felt like trying to saw through a boulder, but Simon could not be stopped. The blow didn’t slice Valin in half, as Simon had somewhat hoped, but it knocked him into the air with a bloody slash across his bare chest.

As soon as the Incarnation’s feet left the ground, he began to drift, and Simon didn’t give him a second to recover. He had no doubt that Valin could draw on just as much Nye essence as he could.

So he jumped over the Incarnation and reversed his grip on Azura, driving the sword down at Valin’s face.

He met Mithra instead.

Valin knocked Simon’s blade aside, now moving equally fast. His face, beneath the dark chains, was both stunned and furious.

“How are you—” he began, but Simon wasn’t about to let him finish.

Simon focused the Nye power through his mask and moved even faster, slamming the hilt of his blade into Valin’s forehead, then ducking underneath the Incarnation’s still-floating body and driving his blade upward.

Duck! Caela called, and Simon obeyed instantly, dropping almost prone as Mithra’s edge passed through where his head used to be.

Valin twisted in midair, his momentum still making him float. But now he was drawing on enough Nye essence to speed him up to Simon’s level, because he launched a series of attacks that Simon only blocked with Caela’s help.

Then it was Simon’s turn to attack, and he slammed Azura into Valin’s blade with such force that Valin was blasted forward.

Simon loosened his grip on the Nye essence to watch the event at something approaching normal speed. The Valinhall Incarnation hurtled through the air at blistering speed, his passage tearing the air apart behind him. He ended by crashing into the trunk of a tree almost a hundred paces away, shattering its trunk.

The top half of the tree toppled to the ground.

That went better than I expected, Simon noted.

No time for that! Move, now!

Tightening his focus on the Nye’s cold breath, and building up another surge of steel, Simon dashed off after the Incarnation.

CHAPTER 21:

THE END OF THE DRAGON

Alin was glad he’d worn the armor.

It was heavy, hot, and absolutely no good if he wanted to sneak up on anyone, but he felt as though it had made the difference confronting the Grandmasters. Grandmaster Avernus had been most apologetic when she realized that Alin had been left out of the decision-making process, and had seemed happy to include Alin from then on. In fact, when she had received a message from Overlord Lysander telling them that the time for their strike had come, Alin was among the first to know.

Along with Gilad, Grandmaster Naraka, and about a dozen other Travelers of various stripes, Alin followed Grandmaster Avernus through the titanic forests of her Territory. The trees were so vast that he could scarcely believe they were trees at all, the lowest branches seeming a mountain’s height above them.

He barely went five seconds without seeing a bird of one kind or another: sparrows chittered as they flew through the air, projecting their happiness directly into his mind; eagles soared overhead, their calls causing half the Travelers to look around for danger; tiny, two-legged birds with stumpy wings squawked as they scampered through the underbrush. The entire forest seemed alive, and practically every living thing Alin saw had feathers.

Grandmaster Avernus, after an hour or two of conversing with the owl she had on one shoulder and the raven on the other, finally managed to pinpoint exactly where they were supposed to come out.

Once she did, she turned to address the group.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I trust you all to know your roles, but I would like to describe the situation. We will find ourselves outside the Damascan camp, slightly south of our city. Our comrades are risking their lives to keep as many Travelers distracted as possible, so we should have little difficulty locating Heir Talos at his rendezvous point, which I will indicate. We are to proceed to that point and enter the Gate to Ragnarus as soon as possible, without waiting to engage any enemy force that does not directly threaten us.”

She paused, primly adjusting her clothes, as if to give them time to ask questions. No one did.

“Very well,” she said. She pulled something out of her pocket that Alin couldn’t see, and a white-bordered Gate swirled open over the forest floor.

The sound was what Alin noticed first. It sounded like two thunderstorms hitting each other with clubs the size of mountains. He resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears, though Gilad did so. Grandmaster Naraka frowned at him, seemingly unconcerned by the noise.

On the other side of the Gate was a sea of white tents on a huge rocky plateau. He could see patches of grass here and there peeking out among the tents, but the vision was spoiled somewhat when the tents were on fire, and crawling with monsters.

A giant, probably from Helgard, judging by its skin, roared and flailed around among the smoke, while a six-winged dragon fluttered ominously overhead. The fighting Damascan soldiers—at least, the ones he could make out at this distance—seemed to be fighting smaller creatures, or occasionally what looked like their own shadows come to life.

Grandmaster Avernus led the way, a pair of ravens circling her head like vultures. Alin followed.

As he stepped through the Gate, a nearby tree cracked in half. The sound was like a lightning strike next to his ear, and he jumped back, summoning a globe of golden light on reflex.

The top half of the tree fell over deceptively slowly—it was far enough away that it didn’t threaten anyone in his party—and tore off, crashing to the ground.

Something dropped from the center of the tree: it looked like whatever had struck the tree in the first place.

Was that…a man?

He hit the ground in a crouch before drawing himself up to his full height. His body was wrapped entirely in the shadows of chains, and he held in one hand a long sword with a core of gold.

His sword looked almost like Simon’s.

The figure turned to look in Alin’s direction, and even from that distance, Alin could see his black eyes.

“Move!” Grandmaster Avernus called. “Eliadel! Move, now!”

The rest of the Travelers were hurrying after the Grandmaster, trotting away from the black-eyed swordsman, so Alin followed them.

After only a few feet, he glanced back.

The man with black eyes was right behind him.

Alin let out a shout and hurled the blast of golden light. It splattered across a half-healed wound in the man’s chest, doing exactly as much good as if Alin had splashed his attacker with a glass of water.

“Where is the king?” the man said, speaking not to Alin but to the Travelers behind him.

“He’s here,” Grandmaster Avernus said, in an almost pleading voice. “We’re certain he’s here.”

That was when Alin realized who—or rather, what—this man was. This was the Valinhall Incarnation.

It was all Alin could do to stop himself from taking a step back.

“Where?” the Incarnation asked. He didn’t sound angry or particularly threatening, but somehow Alin wondered how far he was from killing them all.

Beneath Alin’s feet, the rock twisted and formed into polished wooden flooring. The wood planks radiated out from the Incarnation, turning the natural world around him into some kind of house.

“Well, I—” the Grandmaster began.

She was cut off by a black blur and the sound of a thunderclap.

One second the Incarnation was facing the Enosh Travelers and asking questions, and the next he was ten feet away, locked in furious combat against an attacker who looked like a blob of liquid shadow.

Alin couldn’t even see their blades. The wind from each blow threatened to knock him off his feet, and he could hardly hear through the noise.

They struck each other with such speed and power that they would clash in front of him one second, ten paces away the next, and behind him an instant later. They seemed to be everywhere, smashing at each other with enough force to crack rock.

During one of the instants when they slowed down long enough to be visible to the human eye, Alin thought he saw the attacker wearing a black-and-silver mask as well as the cloak.

A young, black-cloaked man with a long sword. Even underneath the mask…

“Simon?” Alin muttered, but he couldn’t even hear himself.

Gilad’s hand seized his shoulder and pulled him away from the fight. All the Enosh Travelers were running now, lest they be caught up in the battle. Alin ran after them, casting frequent glances behind him.

Are we working with that…thing? he wondered.

He trusted the Grandmasters—well, some of them—but he was becoming less and less sure that he wanted to ally himself with any of these Incarnations.

If that had been Simon, then he was fighting the Incarnation. That might even put him on the same side as Damasca.

Alin couldn’t help but wonder if Simon had the right idea.

***

Leah arrived at the scene of the battle wearing her crown, and with her Lirial Source all but tapped out. The noise of war was nearly deafening, and the scene was madness: Travelers called powers against soldiers, who fought against chain-wielding shadows, who tried their best to strangle summoned beasts, who killed other Travelers. And practically everything was on fire.

It looked like it would take days for her to sort out, maybe longer with her nearly empty Source.

So it was fortunate that she had brought some help.

Leah signaled Indirial, who bellowed his orders at a voice that cut even over the endless thunder of the battlefield.

“Tartarus, forward!” Indirial called, and men and women in the armored uniforms of Tartarus stepped forward. Their outfits were marked in places with red and gold, to helpfully distinguish them from the enemy for the benefit of those without extensive battle experience.

Each of them held a silver key, and at another command from Indirial, they all summoned something.

Some called armor, others weapons, others relentless forces of implacable steel. Still others summoned automatons that crashed across the field, crushing anything that didn’t explicitly wear a Damascan uniform.

An Endross lightning wyrm crawled sinuously through the air over her head, letting out a roar that could be heard even over the percussive thunder of combat. It shot a massive blast of lightning down at the ground, dangerously close to where she was standing.

Then Indirial was there.

He simply raised one hand, catching the bolt on a ghostly green gauntlet that he all of a sudden seemed to be wearing. The lightning shattered into a million sparks, damaging nothing but Leah’s vision.

“Do something about that,” Leah ordered, practically screaming to be heard over the noise.

Indirial grinned. “Don’t worry!” he called back. “I know a specialist.”

He put two fingers to his lips and whistled. Seconds later, a man in a brown cloak materialized seemingly out of nowhere.

At first, she thought the cloak was spattered with mud. Then she reminded herself where she was.

The man in brown—presumably Denner Weeks, the Valinhall Traveler she had met earlier—said something. Indirial smiled and pointed up.

Denner looked at the lightning wyrm, wheeling overhead for another pass, and his shoulders slumped. He let out a heavy sigh.

Leah took the opportunity to look around the battlefield. Most of the Enosh Travelers were already dead or fled, with most of the summoned creatures seemingly under control. But every few seconds, another peal of what sounded like thunder crashed through the air.

Where was that coming from?

Behind her, one of her Travelers let out a curse and pushed her to the ground, pressing down on her with his entire weight.

From underneath him, she peered out to see an Endross Traveler slaughtering his way through Damascan soldiers and Travelers alike. He held a sword in each hand, with a thunderstorm spinning over his head, occasionally spitting lightning.

She couldn’t help but stare for a second. She had been taught that the second an Endross Gate got out of a Traveler’s grip, it would run out of control and explode. How was he doing that?

Then again, it didn’t matter now.

She shoved the well-meaning Traveler off her—resolving to learn his name later; he had, at least, acted in an attempt to save her life—and strode toward the rampaging Traveler.

When he saw her in her red-and-gold dress, wearing a ruby circlet on her head, he smiled and turned toward her. His eyes blazed with bloodlust, and he pointed one sword at her in such a way that she knew a bolt of lightning would follow.

She didn’t give him a chance. Summoning the last of her Source, she encased the man in solid crystal.

He froze there, trapped in white crystal, an insane snarl on his face and his sword pointed at her. Above him, his thunderstorm-Gate exploded into harmless sparks and light.

“Who was that?” Leah asked, though she doubted anyone heard her.

The sound of rolling, crashing thunder had, for the moment, stopped. Had that been the sound from this Traveler’s Gate? Probably not, since it had sounded more distant than that, but she couldn’t be sure.

She turned to ask someone, when she heard a stentorian roar.

“Ragnarus!” A man shouted, with all the fury of a volcano. She turned toward the sound, instinctively reaching for her empty Source.

From far back in the camp—all the way down the rows of tents, maybe two hundred paces away, but getting closer very quickly—the Valinhall Incarnation was running toward her.

He was only a blur, a barest hint of shape, but the flickering gold-and-silver of his sword and the hatred in his voice, even the speed at which he was moving, meant he couldn’t be anyone else.

Leah almost panicked when she realized that she was out of power in Lirial, but she mastered herself and focused her mind on the ruby in her crown.

The crown was always her fallback card, her last, desperate trump, but she wasn’t at all sure whether it would work on an Incarnation.

The Tartarus Travelers around her formed up into a defensive ring, but Leah wasn’t at all sure that the Incarnation wouldn’t carve his way through them on his way to her.

Valin was almost upon them when Indirial appeared out of nowhere, his chipped sword held in both hands. He caught the Incarnation’s first blow on his sword, preventing him from killing the front rank of Travelers.

But the sheer force of the blow carried Indirial backwards almost to Leah’s feet, as if one hit from the Incarnation carried the force of a club-wielding giant.

The air around her erupted into steel as every Tartarus Traveler unloaded everything he or she had prepared. Showers of needles, spinning blades, flesh-hungry beasts of razor-sharp metal, even tornadoes of broken glass tore into the world at the same point, shredding the Incarnation to ribbons.

At least, that’s what should have happened.

The Incarnation strode through the attacks covered in what looked like paper cuts. With his blade he skewered a Tartarus Traveler through the heart, while his other hand shot out to crush the skull of a steel creature that looked like an armored bear. It whimpered as it died.

And the Incarnation walked on, his terrible eyes focused on Leah.

She stood her ground, rousing the power of her crown to wakefulness, and spoke the words that would bind him to her will.

She got as far as opening her mouth when another black-cloaked figure stood in front of her, back to her, sword to the Incarnation.

Simon? she thought. What is Simon doing here? He’s going to get himself killed.

Then both he and the Incarnation blurred forward, and they clashed in a battle she could barely see. She could feel it, though, like wind pressed against her face.

Two nearby men burst into sprays of blood from blows that Leah never saw.

Indirial rose to his feet and pushed her backwards, hands gripping her upper arms, practically carrying her away from the battle.

The noise was deafening. Now, at least, she knew where that sound had been coming from.

“Is that Simon?” Leah asked, as soon as she could make herself heard.

“I’m afraid it is,” Indirial responded.

“Help him!” she ordered, wrenching herself free of his grip.

“I would if I could,” he said. He glanced back at the fight.

One of the forms was launched into the distance by a blow that sounded like the earth being struck by a meteor.

Simon stood looking up, a mask on his face, cloak settling around him.

He traced the falling Incarnation’s arc for a moment, and then streaked off to meet him.

***

You’ve got about two minutes left of this, Caela said, before you die, go insane, or merge with the Incarnation, or whatever it is that happens when two Valinhall Incarnations exist at the same time. Personally, I think you’ll turn into a sofa.

Simon could feel chains wrapping his shoulders, squeezing his ribs, even sliding around his neck in a sensation that reminded him of being attacked by the Nye. Caela assured him that if the chains wrapped fully around his neck, he would reach Incarnation.

The problem was that this wasn’t working.

He couldn’t stop long enough to open a Gate. Whenever he tried, the Incarnation would either rush him or start attacking someone else.

The only other alternative is killing him, Caela said. Someone else is then open to replace him, but it’s better than nothing.

Simon swept Azura toward the Incarnation, only to be turned aside by Mithra. They clashed in a flurry of blows that left the rock of the plateau gouged and shattered, and Simon managed to disengage.

He left a single slash across Valin’s forearm. It dripped blood for a moment—the drops hung oddly in the weird, frozen world of the Nye essence—and the edges of the wound quickly began drawing together.

How do you recommend we do that? Simon asked. He heals too fast.

That’s a great question, Caela said. It’s too bad you don’t have a cursed sword that leaves deadly wounds. One that you know Valinhall has a hard time healing.

I would have expected that level of sarcasm from Otoku, not you.

Tick-tock, Caela responded.

Talos’ sword might work, Simon supposed. It was certainly worth a shot, if he could even find it and reach it before the chains completed their circuit and he spontaneously combusted, or whatever dire fate awaited him.

So where had he left the sword?

I’ll guide you, Caela said. Follow my lead.

Valin had regained his feet and was holding his blade in both hands, waiting for Simon to attack.

Simon gathered himself up as if to rush forward.

Then, on Caela’s direction, he turned and ran away.

***

Leah and Indirial had barely watched Simon dash off into the distance before a weak, wheezing voice called out from nearby. “Say what you will about us,” he said. “We know how to pick our students.”

The voice sounded strangely melodic, as though the speaker were more used to singing than speaking. Indirial’s head jerked around, and he scanned the area quickly before spotting what he was looking for.

Leah followed his gaze to a man lying on the ground nearby. A white-haired man covered in blood, with a blue-dressed doll clutched to his chest.

“Master Kai?” Leah asked.

Indirial went to one knee beside his fellow Valinhall Traveler. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

Kai smiled and looked at Leah. “Your brother’s sword has quite the bite,” he said.

Indirial winced. “Ragnarus. Well, don’t worry about it. We’ll get you into the pool.”

Kai held up an empty waterskin, of all things, shaking it in Indirial’s face.

“I’ve done everything I can do,” Kai said weakly. “I want to hang on until I see Valin fall. It’s my…my fault. Just let me stay here and watch.”

Indirial nodded and rose to his feet. For a moment, he closed his eyes.

Then he raised his blade and began to slice open a Gate in midair.

“Wish denied,” Indirial responded. “I’m getting you in that pool if I have to drown you in it.”

“I’ve tried that, Indirial,” Kai responded. “Don’t worry about me. I’m at peace.”

Ostentatiously, Indirial rolled his eyes and seized Kai by the scruff of his neck. It was like watching a twelve-year-old deal with a little brother.

“Listen to me, you coward,” Indirial said. “You are not going to run from this. If you try and hide in death, so help me, I will go before the Maker himself and drag you back.”

Kai made a choking noise that could have been because he had nothing to say, and could have been because Indirial was actually choking him.

Indirial walked through the Valinhall Gate, dragging the white-haired swordsman behind him. “This time, you’re not strong enough to stop me. So get used to the idea of living again.”

Hey! a woman said, directly into Leah’s brain. Don’t leave me here! It sounded like a girl trying to talk through a chorus of distant whispers.

Indirial froze.

“Did you hear that?” Leah asked.

The Overlord looked down at the grass, where the doll in the blue dress had tumbled free from Kai’s grip. It was facedown in the grass, its bonnet askew.

Yes, you did! You can hear me, I know you can. Pick me up, take me with you. Simon needs me here, and I certainly don’t want to rot here in the dirt.

Hesitantly, Leah reached down and scooped up the doll in her arms.

“You’re…one of Simon’s dolls, right?” Leah asked.

“You can talk?” Indirial demanded.

You know better than that, Indirial, the doll said testily. Simon! Left! Over here! I know you understand me, so get over here.

Leah traded glances with Indirial.

“They were my advisors,” Kai responded weakly. “You knew that.”

With one hand, Indirial held Kai up by his collar. With the other, he pointed accusingly at the doll. “We thought they could only talk to you! If they could talk to anyone, why didn’t they? Do you know how often they would have come in handy?”

“Perhaps they like me best,” Kai responded. His voice was growing weaker.

Indirial cleared his throat. “Well, never mind. Maker, I swear you’re just stalling me here so that you can bleed to death. Doll’s all yours, Leah.”

He dragged Kai inside Valinhall, and the Gate shut behind them.

Leah looked down at the doll in her hand.

You can call me Caela, she said cheerfully. We’ll talk later. For now, I’ve got to keep Simon alive.

Simon arrived a moment later in a rush of speed, his cloak snapping like a flag in the wind as he came to an abrupt stop.

Seeing Leah, he reached up to take off his mask.

Stop! Caela shouted. You know what happens when you take off the mask. You’ll have to keep it on as long as you can.

Simon lowered his hand and looked at Leah through the slits the mask left for eyes. The odd thing was, she couldn’t see his eyes through the mask. Only a sort of dim, sourceless light.

It was quite intimidating, actually.

“Leah, where’s your brother’s sword?” Simon asked. His voice echoed strangely behind the mask.

“I’m looking for him myself,” she responded.

The whole area has been destroyed, Caela put in. I’m not sure I would recognize the place where we left him. Well, we’ll have to look. There are about sixty-five swords lying on the ground nearby, so you’ll have to split up.

Caela directed Leah and Simon separately as they combed the area for fallen swords. Simon covered about three times as much ground as she did, blurring with speed so that he had searched almost the entire clearing in a handful of seconds.

Still, she was the one to find the sword.

The Ragnarus blade seemed to call to her, like a man moaning in pain just out of hearing. She found it on the edge of what used to be a tent, underneath a collapsed cot. A single crimson edge peeked out from under a bed sheet.

The sheet itself was soaked in blood, and steady drops of blood wet the grass leading away. Had Talos crawled away? She couldn’t imagine him leaving the sword behind unless his life was in grave danger, even though he had other weapons he could call. The sword was by far his favorite.

Simon! Caela called, from within Leah’s arms. While you were playing around, we found it.

First, Simon was searching the tents on the opposite side of the clearing, and then he was here, pulling the cot off the red-bladed sword.

Reaching down, he hefted the sword in his left hand, holding his own enormous blade in his right.

“Will this work?” he asked.

“Make it work,” Leah said. She winced at the chill in her tone and tried to backtrack. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful. “I mean…you’ve done great work for the country, Simon. Don’t give up now.”

For a moment, Simon shook. She couldn’t see his face, but she was sure that behind the mask he was laughing at her.

Simon cleared his throat. “Thanks, Leah,” he said. His voice was entirely serious. Perhaps too serious.

While Leah was still trying to decide whether to be offended, Caela cut in. It’s not chatting time, she said. You have one minute until insanity and death.

“Right,” Leah agreed, glad to change the subject. “Get out there and finish the job.”

Simon shook his head, leaping away with a sword in each hand.

I like you, Heiress, Caela said happily. Now straighten my bonnet.

“Thank you…talking doll. Now, what did you mean about insanity?”

***

Simon ran through the camp, keeping an eye out for the Incarnation. He almost tripped over the corpse of the huge flying snake from Endross, which had fallen across an entire row of tents. Briefly, he wondered who had managed to take the thing out of the sky, but that was idle speculation. Travelers had a thousand different powers.

He finally found Valin running through a squad of soldiers, leaving nothing but blood and body parts in his wake. Nearby, two tents were collapsing in on themselves, rearranging to form a sofa. Even some of the blood had started to stream together and solidify into something that looked like felt, forming a red carpet leading straight to the Incarnation.

Are you sure this will work? Simon asked again.

No, Caela said. Now stop asking.

How much time left?

Caela hesitated. You…probably don’t want to know, she said.

Then Valin noticed Simon, and the battle resumed.

Simon was no expert in fighting with his left hand, but Kai had forced him to train under all sorts of conditions, including with a sword in each hand. He may not have been the most coordinated, but at least he didn’t cut his own arms off in the first second.

The problem was the huge difference in size between Azura and Talos’ red sword. The fact that Azura’s blade stretched almost twice as long as the sword in his left hand meant that he had to fight one-handed most of the time, until momentum carried him close enough to the Incarnation to strike with the red blade.

Valin turned those strikes every time. Simon scored a few cuts on the first pass, but only with Azura.

“Why do you keep this up?” Valin asked, slipping under a cut from Azura and slapping Simon’s other blade aside.

“You have nothing to gain from this,” the Incarnation went on. “Victory will earn you nothing. Damasca is evil! It should be destroyed!”

Strike while he’s talking, Caela said, and Simon hurled Azura skyward. The Incarnation’s eyes flicked up, just for an instant, and Simon brought all his strength and speed to bear on a single rush forward, the Ragnarus sword clutched in both hands.

He earned a single, shallow hit along the Incarnation’s ribs.

Coming out the other side, Simon leaped up to grab Azura’s hilt, landing with a sword once again in each hand.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he had to knock Mithra aside, because Valin was coming at him furiously, his silver eyes blazing.

The wound in his side bled freely. It didn’t disappear, and red lines snaked their way out from the wound, infecting the Incarnation’s healthy flesh.

It works! Simon thought triumphantly.

Simon…you might want to hurry.

The chains had crept around almost his entire neck.

Simon gathered up all his strength and speed, using Azura to knock the Incarnations’ blade aside, stepping in closer to strike with the Ragnarus blade. He stretched his steel and his Nye essence to the limit, even though they should have both given out long ago.

The mask obviously let him access his powers longer, but he couldn’t help but wonder: what was the cost?

He didn’t think on that subject long, because he didn’t have time. Each blow he struck launched the Incarnation’s body over a tent or a group of soldiers, and Simon had to jump after him, continuing his relentless assault.

He managed to score three more hits: one on Valin’s arm, another across his opposite shoulder, and a third across his cheek.

They seemed to do little but make him angry, but he was at least doing some damage. If he could keep it up, he might actually have a chance.

Almost got it, Simon thought. I can do this. Just a little more…

No, Simon, Caela responded. Time’s up.

The chains on his neck were squeezing now, pounding, almost in time with his heartbeat. He could barely breathe.

But he was stronger and faster than ever. Even the Valinhall Incarnation couldn’t keep up with him. The feeling was…breathtaking. More than ever, he felt invincible. If he lasted a few more seconds, he would be able to tear Valin into pieces.

You don’t have a few more seconds. Take it off!

Simon crashed Azura into Mithra, knocking the Incarnation’s blade aside. He couldn’t take it off. Not yet. Not until he had defeated Valin.

If he had a little more power. Just a little more, and he could do this.

How do you think Valin felt, Simon? Caela said. This is what happened to him. Just a little more power. Just a little stronger.

Simon froze, almost taking a sword in the chest.

Everything in him begged Simon to attack, to press his advantage, to overwhelm the Incarnation while he had the chance.

He looked into Valin’s black eyes, gleaming with metallic silver, and at the chains wrapping the man’s neck.

Then he reached up and pulled off his mask.

Instantly the world lurched back into normal motion, and weakness seized his limbs, pulling him relentlessly to the ground.

Valin’s face was clearly, almost comically, confused.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Simon didn’t quite know himself.

Trust me, Simon, Caela said smugly. I got this.

From the corner of his vision, Simon saw a flare of ruby light.

Leah’s voice, clear and commanding, echoed in the open air. “Incarnation of Valinhall, you have slaughtered your way through my country for too long. In punishment for your crimes, I command you to drop your weapons and await execution.”

Then, in a more normal voice, she added, “Die, you monster.”

A wave of red light swept across the field, seizing the Incarnation in bonds of shining ruby. The light wrapped his limbs, pulling the sword from his hand, drawing him down to his knees.

The Incarnation screamed, straining against the power of the Crimson Vault. His feet dug into the ground, but he was still pulled to his knees.

The red light wrapping his limbs looked almost like chains.

“Ragnarus!” Valin snarled, pulling against the chains as if he meant to tear Leah apart with his teeth. “I will bring an end to you! Do you hear me? I will free the world from you!”

Simon was shaking, rather unsteadily, on his feet.

But he hadn’t lost all his strength yet. And he was still holding the scarlet sword.

Simon let Azura drop from his fingers, taking the Ragnarus blade in both hands. He didn’t so much stab the Incarnation as collapse on top of him, letting his body fall blade-first as his strength left him.

The red blade penetrated Valin’s chest and drove into the dirt below.

The Incarnation’s body twitched and writhed like an insect pinned to a board, his limbs jerking and scraping against the earth.

“I can do this,” Valin whispered. “Don’t worry. I can save you all…”

Then he died.

Simon lay on top of the Wanderer’s body for the sole reason that he couldn’t seem to move at all. Even moving air in and out of his lungs felt like more effort than his body could handle. He would have passed out, but somehow he felt too drained to do anything but stay awake.

Leah walked over to him, kneeling to press two fingers to the Incarnation’s neck.

“How…how?” Simon managed to say.

Leah smiled at him and tapped her crown with one finger.

Simon tried to smile back, but he wasn’t sure if his face moved. “Nice,” he said.

She stood and walked away, almost entirely out of his view. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her making urgent gestures to nearby servants and soldiers.

I brought her, Caela announced proudly.

Why didn’t you tell me? Simon sent. He tried to crane his neck, to see where Caela was—did Leah still have her—but he couldn’t move.

I didn’t know if she would make it in time, the doll responded. She can run quite fast, though. You should invite her to Valinhall.

I would have died without her, Simon said. You did a good job.

Caela made a sound that was almost like a purr. Good, good, praise me more. Indeed, you would be lost without my wisdom and guidance.

Indeed, Simon agreed.

A pair of Damascan soldiers grabbed him, one under each shoulder, and lifted him into the air. He tried to stand, but his body responded like a rag doll, and he couldn’t resist. Even his head lolled bonelessly on the end of his neck.

Maker, this is embarrassing.

Leah ordered the soldiers around by clapping them on the shoulder, pointing, or making other signals. She didn’t say a word.

Caela, why isn’t she talking?

I don’t think she can, the doll responded. Some side effect from her crown, probably. Ragnarus is like that.

Power like that in exchange for losing your voice? Simon asked. That doesn’t sound so bad.

We don’t know how long it lasts, Caela pointed out. And that might not be the only price.

Simon considered that, but it still sounded like a good deal to him.

The two soldiers walked him over, maneuvering him toward a stretcher held by a pair of medics.

Hopefully that meant he was on his way to get medical care, though he was sure that all he needed was a trip back into Valinhall. Not that he had the strength to open a Gate, at the moment.

Another pair of heavy footsteps walked up behind him, accompanied by the sound of clanking armor.

For some reason, those sounds alone filled him with dread.

Uh-oh, Caela said.

What? Simon asked. What is it?

A gold light, like a second sun, shone from behind Simon.

Then Alin’s voice rang in his ears. “Simon? What’s going on here?”

CHAPTER 22:

THE CRIMSON VAULT

Alin had been on the verge of stepping into Ragnarus when he had a change of heart.

Amid the sounds of battle, he had followed the Grandmasters through the Damascan camp to where Grandmaster Avernus claimed they would find Heir Talos. They had managed to evade the worst of the fighting, though they still had to deal with stragglers. One of the shadow-men—like a phantom in black robes—had leaped at Alin, a black chain outstretched between its gloved hands. One blast of gold light had sent it flowing away like a serpent made of shadows and moonlight.

Other Travelers had contended with giant birds, fireballs, blasts of lightning, swarms of glowing wasps, and other, stranger threats, but they had suffered no casualties. Still, the constant attacks wore on them, and Alin thoroughly regretted his heavy armor. His knees groaned, and he began to think longingly of the bed he had left in Enosh.

The worst, though, were the glimpses he would occasionally get of the battle between Simon and the Incarnation. A tent would explode, or a giant would fall in a spray of blood, and he would see them: two dark shapes battling in the ground or slamming into one another in the sky, swords flashing.

Simon was working hard, fighting to slay the Valinhall Incarnation, and some little voice kept telling Alin that he should help.

Finally, Grandmaster Avernus led them into a hollow surrounded by trees, far enough away from the Damascan camp that they wouldn’t be seen.

Talos was waiting for them, and he looked on the verge of death.

A thick layer of blood matted down his curly golden hair. Someone had covered him in hasty bandages, as though he had run off before the healer had finished.

Worst, by far, was his eye. A bandage covered the entire left half of his face, but a bloodstain marked where his eye would have been. Alin wondered how the Heir was even standing.

Not that he looked unfazed. Talos stood hunched over in pain, his left hand resting against his forehead as though he were physically stopping himself from touching the remains of his eye.

When he saw them approach, Talos straightened. The scabbard on his belt was empty, his sword missing.

“You took your time,” he said. “Are there any Asphodel among you?”

One woman in a gray robe stepped forward. “I am a mist-binder only,” she said. “I cannot offer you healing.”

Talos spat on the ground at her feet, though that didn’t seem to bother her. “Where are the rest of your Asphodels?”

“Grandmaster Asphodel was killed in battle only last week,” Grandmaster Avernus said coldly. “Most of our Asphodel Travelers elected to stay behind, defending the city as she would have wished.”

The Heir let out a cold, harsh laugh. “You’re telling me you mounted an attack with no healers?”

Alin stepped forward. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. A bloom of rose-colored light unfolded on his palm.

Talos stepped forward eagerly. “Heal me,” he commanded.

Alin pulled his palm back. “Where are your own surgeons?”

“Scattered,” Talos snarled. “Probably dead. Those Valinhall Travelers…”

Grandmaster Naraka cackled, moving her way up to stand beside Alin. “Your ambush didn’t go as well as you expected, hmm?”

“Enough talk!” Talos strode forward and grabbed Alin’s gauntleted hand.

When Alin’s other hand came up, it was full of golden light.

“I will mend your wounds,” Alin said. “Ask politely.”

“We don’t have time for this, Alin,” Grandmaster Avernus snapped.

“I disagree. Ask me.”

Talos’ face twitched, and his eyes jerked from looking at the pale rose in Alin’s hand to the sounds of battle coming from the Damascan camp. They seemed to be getting louder.

“…I ask you, humbly, to…please heal me,” Talos choked out.

Alin let the rose light drift forward, sinking into Talos’ chest. “Was that so hard?” he asked.

Talos shook for a moment in uncontrolled spasms, the rose light glaring through his flesh. After only a few moments, the bleeding slowed, he breathed more easily, and his skin took on a healthier tone.

A quick healing like that wouldn’t restore him fully, Alin knew, and it certainly wouldn’t give him back his eye. But it was a good start.

Talos straightened, breathing quickly, and turned from Alin.

“Very good,” he said. “Now, let’s not waste any more time.”

He put one hand out. The air began to swirl with red light as he began to open a Gate to the Crimson Vault.

Through the trees, Alin saw something furious and shining crash to the ground not fifty paces away. He thought he saw the Incarnation’s gold-and-silver sword, and the edge of Simon’s black cloak.

Curious, he walked closer, pushing some limbs out of the way.

They were moving so quickly and covering so much ground that Alin could barely follow the fight, but it was clear Simon was winning. He held two swords now, and it looked like one of them was red.

Talos’ sword? How had he gotten that?

Alin glanced back at the Heir’s empty sheath, and—despite himself—he grinned. He could only think of a few explanations for how Simon had ended up with the sword, and most of them were hilarious.

Simon was pressing the Incarnation back hard, and Alin waited for the stroke that would send Valin’s head rolling and mark Simon’s victory.

It was strange how he rooted for Simon. Technically, he supposed, he should be on the side of the Incarnation.

But inside, he cheered Simon on.

Then, without warning, Simon stopped swinging his sword. For an instant both he and the Valinhall Incarnation stood still.

And Simon pulled off his mask.

Something was wrong, Alin knew it, and on instinct he stepped forward to help.

Grandmaster Naraka seized his arm with her one remaining hand.

“Come along,” she hissed.

Alin turned around to see the Gate to the Crimson Vault fully open, with the Enosh Travelers filing inside. It looked like a huge cave, with two red-burning torches to either side of a silver door. The ancient, bearded king carved into the doors seemed to glare straight at Alin.

For a moment, Alin stood, torn between going to help Simon and walking into Ragnarus. He agonized over the decision for a second or two before he realized that there was no decision at all.

He had left Simon behind once.

He wasn’t about to do it again.

Alin shook off Grandmaster Naraka and jogged through the trees, their branches scraping his armor. He wasn’t sure what help he would be against the full power of an Incarnation, but he knew he could do something.

In the distance, he heard a woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but she spoke with such absolute authority that he was sure whatever she said was of the utmost importance. It sounded almost like Leah’s voice, but that was impossible. He had left Leah back in Enosh, safe in the Grandmasters’ palace.

A wave of crimson light washed over the entire scene, and Alin almost fell to his knees. The sheer power he sensed in that light, the total overwhelming sense of force, made him want to collapse.

The Incarnation, he saw, felt the brunt of the attack. Chains of red light erupted from the ground around him, grabbing his arms and legs, pulling him down.

And only an instant later, Simon fell on Valin sword-first.

Inwardly, Alin cheered, even as he fought against the crimson light. It felt like pushing his way up a hill underwater, but he managed to put one foot in front of the other. Simon needed his help.

An instant later, a young woman—perhaps Alin’s age—with long brown hair and a red-and-gold dress came to kneel beside Simon. She didn’t say anything, and for a moment Alin wondered if she had come to help Simon or the Incarnation.

Then Alin saw the ruby circlet gleaming on her head, and he hurried forward. He had never seen royalty before, but he wasn’t a fool: he knew what a crowned woman in the Damascan royal colors meant, especially here, among the camp of the royal army.

The woman stood and gestured to the side. Two soldiers ran up, grabbing Simon under the shoulders, beginning to carry him off.

Alin waited for Simon to resist, but he remained as limp as a corpse. If Alin hadn’t seen his head twitching, he would have thought Simon dead or unconscious.

Maybe Simon had used too much power. Whenever Alin drew too much from Elysia, he felt ready to pass out. Maybe it was the same for Simon with Valinhall.

No matter what, he wasn’t about to let Simon be kidnapped by Damasca. He walked up behind the soldiers and summoned a globe of gold.

He opened his mouth to demand Simon’s return, but remembered that Simon was fighting against the Incarnation. Maybe he had friends in the Damascan army. Only Simon could confirm that for sure, so Alin changed what he was about to say.

“Simon?” he asked. “What’s going on here?”

He didn’t know if Simon would have the strength to answer him, but if he didn’t, Alin was more than willing to take a chance and forcibly rescue him. If it turned out later that Simon didn’t need rescuing, well, he would have to explain that to Alin when he woke up.

One of the soldiers dropped Simon’s right side to draw his sword, but Alin just stood there, holding the glowing golden orb. This man ought to know Traveler business when he saw it. If he couldn’t keep his weapon to himself, Alin would teach him better.

Simon’s arm flopped weakly in the air, and he somehow managed to get the remaining soldier to turn him around.

“Alin…” he said, in a voice that was all but a whisper. “What…why?”

“I saw you fighting against that thing,” Alin said, nodding to the Incarnation’s corpse. “I came to help, though I see you didn’t need me. Come with me, and I’ll take you home.”

Simon’s head twitched, and Alin wondered if he was trying to shake his head. “Don’t worry. Need…Valinhall. You go. Not safe.”

The store of words seemed to have exhausted Simon, because his chin drooped down to rest on his chest.

Alin looked at him there, carried by a Damascan soldier. He was almost a full head shorter than Alin, and he seemed so powerless.

Well, if he felt safe in Damasca, then Alin supposed he could leave him there. He would have to find out the story later, though.

Alin looked around, searching for the noblewoman. He finally saw her standing behind the soldier with the drawn sword, gesturing insistently to her attendants behind a nearby tent.

Summoning up his best king’s face, Alin fixed her with a glare. “This man is a friend and ally of mine. You should treat him well, for I will be back for him.”

She turned back and met him with an even, blue-eyed gaze.

Wearing a crown of Damasca and a silk dress, Leah looked back at him with the poise of a queen.

Alin jerked back as if struck. He lost his concentration, and the gold light in his hand evaporated. He felt like someone had stabbed him in the gut.

Now that he was paying attention, he could see Leah’s crystal bracelet at the end of her sleeve, her long hair, her skin that was slightly too dark for a normal Damascan.

“Leah, you…who are you?”

Leah stared at him and didn’t say a word.

He saw it, now. She hadn’t grown up in the village. She had been there almost three years. She had come into town on her own, with nothing more than the clothes on her back, yet somehow with enough self-assurance to talk her way inside. She claimed to be related to another villager—conveniently dead—and had been adopted into the ranks of her ‘extended family.’

It fit. It all fit. He couldn’t think of a reason why Damascan royalty would want to infiltrate an ordinary village, but she had done it. Maker, how she must have been laughing at his attempts to save her. To protect her.

She must have been laughing at them for years.

Laughing at him.

Something cold and hard grew in Alin’s chest, and he threw up two walls of intersecting green plates, one on either side of Leah, trapping them in a corridor. The Damascan soldiers outside dumped Simon to the ground, shouting and pounding on the walls of green light. He didn’t hear them.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t drag you to the Grandmasters right now.”

Leah looked at him. She didn’t seem scared. She gave him a one-handed shrug, as if to say, What can I say?

Rage and shame flared up, searing cold and smoldering hot. He seized her by the shoulders, wanting to shake her.

“Talk to me!” he demanded.

Her blue eyes went cold, and she raised one hand, snapping her fingers once.

A tanned, muscled forearm wrapped around Alin’s neck, keeping him in a loose chokehold.

“Release the Heiress,” a man behind him said. He sounded calm, almost pleasant. His arm showed a tattoo wrapping up the wrist, like a black chain.

Alin took a deep breath and removed his hands from Leah’s shoulders. He shouldn’t have gotten violent with her.

Why not? A voice whispered in his head. She’s the enemy.

“Release me,” Alin said. The arm around his neck didn’t move.

And Leah still didn’t say anything. Silently, she watched.

“Fine.” Alin touched the golden power of Elysia, tapping into the force beyond sight, and launched a gold light behind him.

The man behind him staggered back, and Alin turned to walk past him. He had been gone from the Grandmasters too long.

The man with the chain-wrapped arms looked to be in his forties, with dark hair and tan skin that made him look like a villager. He wore a dark cloak like Simon’s, but underneath, his shirtsleeves had been cut off to show his tattoos.

He smiled broadly, rubbing his chest. “You got me there!” he said. “Good shot. But I’m afraid I can’t let you leave until Her Highness gives the signal.”

Alin wasn’t feeling very tolerant. He summoned a globe of gold energy and blasted the man, intending to knock him over backwards.

The energy shattered on a pale green breastplate, splashing harmlessly in the air several inches from his chest.

Maker, Alin thought. Not another Valinhall.

The Valinhall Traveler stuck his hand out, summoning a long, curved sword that was chipped and pitted as though it was one or two good cuts from breaking.

Alin extended his hand, ready to summon his own gold sword. It wouldn’t do him much good against Valinhall, but there were other things he could summon, as long as he survived the first round of combat.

The Traveler looked behind Alin and abruptly relaxed, letting his sword vanish. “That’s all I needed,” he said pleasantly. “Have a nice day. Next time you deal with a member of the royal family, though, try to have some better manners.”

Alin glanced back, where Leah stood, impassively staring at him. Had she commanded the Valinhall Traveler to back off?

That’s the least she should have done, seeing as she set him on me in the first place, Alin thought.

He swept past the black-cloaked Traveler, ignoring him.

All the way back to the Enosh Travelers, he all but shook with rage. She had humiliated him. He had considered her a friend, had even risked his life to save hers, and now…

Wait. Did Simon know?

He must. That would explain why he was fighting for Damasca in the first place.

Had he known all along?

The idea of the two of them with their secret, laughing together at his ignorance, felt like a knife twisting in his guts.

But as painful as the thought was, he couldn’t believe it. Simon was almost foolishly straightforward, and he wouldn’t have kept a secret for any longer than he had to. More to the point, Alin couldn’t imagine Leah keeping a secret from him and sharing it with Simon, of all people.

Simon must have learned her identity recently, just as he had. But if that was true, why was he fighting for her?

It was clear that Alin and Simon needed to have a long talk, fairly soon.

First, Alin would break into the royal palace in Cana, burning the Hanging Tree and setting an Incarnation loose on the city.

On Leah’s home.

A dark, ugly part of himself took a measure of satisfaction from that thought.

When he pushed his way back through the trees to see the Ragnarus Gate still hanging there, he knew something was wrong. The silver doors inside had been thrown open, and the screams, shouts, and explosions of a battle between Travelers sounded within.

They had gone ahead without him, and they had found enemies within the Vault.

Good, Alin thought. He needed something to fight.

***

Alin stepped through the Gate and into the Crimson Vault.

The air grew cooler, like a deep cave, and it carried the tang of metal. Roars and flickers of light came from within the Vault itself, past the silver doors, which had been thrown wide.

He hurried inside, his golden boots ringing on the stone with every step. On either side of him, the wall was carved with shelves. Each shelf held something new, gleaming in the light from crimson torches: tentacles reached up out of clay jars, staves twisted in their racks, swords whispered secrets to him as he passed.

Each shelf had a label in gold beneath it, but he didn’t slow to read any of them. The battle had pressed on, deeper into the Vault, and he couldn’t afford to delay any more than he already had.

As he ran deeper, he began to step over the occasional body. A girl in the buckskin uniform of an Avernus Traveler had a gaping hole in her chest. There was no hope for her. A few feet later he almost tripped over an old man in Naraka robes. He was still breathing, though unconscious, so Alin gave him a quick dose of rose light. It might not make any difference, but it might be the difference that kept the man alive.

He saw two or three more bodies, each one from Enosh, without a single enemy corpse among them.

That worried him. But even worse were the glimpses he caught of the fight at the end of the Vault.

The hall to either side of him was wide enough, as it could easily fit five people walking side by side, but after about a hundred steps it opened into a huge round room, easily hundreds of paces from wall to opposite wall. The weapons displayed on these shelves were massive—entire statues, spears the size of pine trees, mirrors big enough to reflect a cathedral—and on the far wall, another portrait of the one-eyed king from the doorway glared down on everyone.

In the vast space at the center of the Crimson Vault, the half a dozen Travelers remaining from the Enosh assault team did battle.

Gilad hurled pale orange screaming fireballs with one hand as, with his other hand, he directed a titan of living ice that had three hearts visible through its translucent rib cage.

Grandmaster Naraka put her hand out in front of her and nearly collapsed from obvious pain as a glowing orange claw tore itself from midair, pulling the rest of its monstrous body straight from Naraka. The creature appeared to be made entirely from smoke and orange flames, and it hunched under its own weight, the backs of its shoulders scraping the ceiling. It looked like a man merged with a dragon, of all things, and as Alin watched it leaned forward and roared its defiance at someone Alin couldn’t see.

Grandmaster Avernus was all but invisible in a swarm of birds flying around her in a black tornado, and the mental screams they emitted gave Alin a headache even from fifty paces away.

The rest of the Travelers summoned glowing mists, floating blue skulls, living thornbushes of ravenous obsidian, or even more exotic things that he couldn’t name.

And it all seemed centered on one man.

Before Alin could join the other Enosh Travelers, a spear blasted through the ice giant’s head like a ballista bolt crashing through a glass-paned window. The resulting avalanche of ice buried Gilad, who barely had time to throw up his hands before he was entombed beneath his own summoned creature.

Grandmaster Naraka’s flaming giant took that opportunity to bring both of its clawed hands down on the lone enemy, but it seemed unable to penetrate the figure’s raised shield. The shield was broad and black, with a gold rim around the edge, but it seemed to be made of wood. Alin would have thought the creature of flame and fury would shred it like so much paper, but it hammered away, roaring impotently.

A second later, the spear tore through the fire-beast’s chest. Only an instant afterwards, it flew forward again, straight at Grandmaster Avernus.

Not surprisingly, her birds did her no good. The spear hit her with such force that it carried her body all the way across the room, pinning her to the stone wall only a few feet from Alin.

Alin stared at her for a second or two, horrified, before he forced himself to move. Unlikely as it was, maybe some quick healing could save the Grandmaster’s life.

The spear moved, scraping against the stone wall, before it pulled itself free and hurtled back into the fight of its own accord.

Grandmaster Avernus flopped to the ground. Her long, gray hair was in disarray, and for the first time she didn’t look like she had everything under control. She seemed lost. She opened her mouth to speak, but her strength left her, and she died before he could do anything more than summon some rose light.

Behind him, Alin heard more crashes and explosions, along with the Enosh Travelers yelling at one another in evident panic.

Then he turned and, for the first time, got a good look at their enemy.

King Zakareth the Sixth stood in the center of the Enosh Travelers, a gold-headed spear in one hand and a huge black shield in the other. He wore armor of black and gold, with huge decorative rubies here and there. Over his head rose a tall, spiked, black-and-gold crown with a single ruby above his forehead.

He should have looked ornamental, like a statue, or a fanciful painting of a warrior-king long after his reign had ended.

He didn’t. He looked like he could stand alone against an army of titans and not expect a single scratch on his breastplate.

Only one thing confused Alin. He knew very little of the King of Damasca, but he had heard stories. The man was supposed to have a red eye that allowed him to see the hearts of men, spirits, or the future, depending on which version of the story you heard.

King Zakareth had one good eye, but his other was covered by a black eyepatch. Maybe he hid the red eye beneath the patch?

Regardless, he was smearing the Enosh Travelers all over the floor. It was about time that Alin became involved.

As he watched Zakareth skewer a huge summoned cat with his spear and smash a Traveler into unconsciousness with his shield—showing agility that, by rights, he should have lost forty years past—Alin wondered what exactly he could be expected to do. Obviously the King had the full might of Ragnarus behind him, and he was more than a match for almost a dozen fully trained Travelers from Enosh. Alin had every confidence in his own abilities, but what was he supposed to do against that?

Elysia had many other powers. Supposedly the City of Light contained the counters and complements to each other Territory.

And the doors were unlocked. He could go, right now, and take so many powers from his Territory that King Zakareth would bow to him. He could end this war in the time it took him to Travel to Elysia and back.

You stop controlling the power, Rhalia had said. The power starts controlling you.

Alin struggled for a moment, but he had made his decision when he left the Rose District without opening any of the other doors.

He would fight this battle with the power he had earned. If he died…well, if he died, at least he wouldn’t lose his mind and Incarnate. He could rest easy knowing that, at the very least, he wouldn’t endanger his former allies.

Not that he was in any hurry to die, if it came to that.

Alin knelt and pressed his palm to the floor tiles, reaching out to the golden power of Elysia in almost—but not quite—the same way he would have tried to make a Gate.

“Marakos,” Alin said. “It’s time.”

A golden rent, very close to a Gate, appeared above the floor like a frozen bolt of lightning. Marakos appeared, his wolf’s jaws parted in a canine grin, his golden staff clutched in one hand.

He adjusted his sash as he came through, casting a quick glance at the battlefield. “Please tell me I get to fight the spearman in the middle,” Marakos said. “He looks like a real challenge.”

“Have at him,” Alin said. The wolf snarled in what Alin thought was glee, running off with bestial speed to clash with King Zakareth.

Alin remained kneeling on the floor for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Calling the various powers of Elysia was tiring enough, but summoning someone was always an order of magnitude higher.

With most of the Enosh Travelers dead or unconscious, King Zakareth was left with four opponents: Marakos, who whirled his staff with savage enthusiasm, Grandmaster Naraka, the Asphodel mist-binder that Alin had met earlier, and Heir Talos.

Without his sword, Talos had taken to fighting with what seemed to be a jeweled staff, though from what Alin could tell he mostly used it to deflect his father’s spear.

Finally, with enough strength to walk, Alin began to move closer.

He was just in time to hear the royal Heir whine.

“Where is it, father?” Talos screamed. “Where have you hidden it?”

King Zakareth leaped over a tendril of mist and splattered a fireball on his shield, parrying Marakos’ staff with his spear in the same motion.

For all that, his voice seemed relatively calm when he answered: “Where is your sword, son?”

“Tell me!” Talos demanded.

“You don’t deserve to know,” the King noted. “You’re weak, selfish, and impatient. I have no use for you.” He kept his eyes on Talos, but smashed his spear into Marakos’ nose and knocked Grandmaster Naraka over with the back of his spear, interrupting her summoning.

Talos laughed harshly. “I had only one more use for you,” he said. “I thought at least one good thing would come of losing my eye, but no. Now you’re not even good for that. How ironic.”

Alin wondered what, if anything, Talos was contributing to this battle besides being a constant distraction for his father.

The King slammed the edge of his shield down on the forehead of the Asphodel Traveler, who crumped in a heap of gray robes. Her mist dissipated almost immediately. Zakareth turned, engaging Marakos in a heated battle, spear against quarterstaff.

His voice barely sounded strained.

“That’s not irony,” he said. “This is irony: I’m so proud of what you’ve become, son. Truly, you will be a credit to your sister’s service.”

For the first time, something seemed to shock Talos speechless. He stood there, his mouth hanging open, as Zakareth battled the wolf-man from Elysia.

It was time for Alin to get involved. He raised one cupped hand, calling out to his Territory, and hurled a ball of destructive golden light at the King.

Without so much as turning around, Zakareth smacked the ball of light from the air with the head of his spinning spear, whirling the weapon around for another strike at Marakos.

His voice bored on, relentless. “You will serve Leah as your Queen, or you will join your sister in exile. Or you can let me kill you here.”

Alin threw another ball of golden power, but it met the same fate as the first. Zakareth finally seemed to tire of fighting Marakos, disengaging and taking two steps back before hurling his spear like a javelin.

It blasted through the wolf-man’s chest, tearing a ragged hole through him, and struck the tile before flipping back into Zakareth’s waiting hand.

He snagged it out of the air, barely giving the wolf-man’s corpse a second glance, and ignoring Alin entirely.

Alin wasn’t prepared for the surge of anger and regret that passed through him as Marakos died. He had never known Marakos particularly well—they fought occasionally, and that was the extent of their relationship—but he had summoned the wolf here. Marakos risked his life gladly, even eagerly, for a chance at a good battle, but dying so suddenly, so casually…

Talos spat at his father’s feet even as he backpedaled furiously, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

“It doesn’t matter who you named Successor! Not when I walk out of here with your crown and your spear.”

King Zakareth caught another of Alin’s attacks on his shield. “I have every intention of making the announcement myself.”

Alin had never been in such an infuriating fight. He had been outmatched before, but he had never been so thoroughly ignored. He walked over to Grandmaster Naraka, offering her a hand up.

“Can you summon something that can kill him?”

Grandmaster Naraka wheezed as she let herself be pulled to her feet. “I can give us some time while we escape,” she answered. “We never should have challenged him here. But when we saw him alone, we thought…well, never mind. I can do something, child. Give me some time.”

“Right,” Alin said, and summoned his sword.

Before he let himself think about what he was doing, he ran at King Zakareth’s back, sword first.

The King may have had only one eye, but it didn’t impede his vision much. He spun around and turned Alin’s sword of golden light on the head of his spear, smashing his shield into Alin’s chest.

Thanks to the armor, the blow didn’t hurt much, but it pressed on him like a giant’s fist.

Behind the King, Talos raised his staff, squinting his eyes in focus. A crimson fireball flew from its tip, crashing into King Zakareth’s armored back.

Alin had a close-up view of the King’s expression, and he flinched. It looked as though King Zakareth had felt a mosquito bite his hand, and he was just bothered enough to waste time crushing it.

Zakareth shoved Alin backwards and turned toward his son.

The Damascan Heir caught one look at his father’s face, turned on his heel, and ran.

King Zakareth pulled his spear back as if to throw it, but hesitated, thinking better of it. He swung it back to Alin instead, who caught it on a half-dome of translucent green light.

“Elysia,” the King said. “I’ve never fought one of you.”

Alin raised his off hand and fired a blast of golden light at Zakareth’s chest from inches away, but he still managed to somehow catch the blast on his shield. “That’s a coincidence. I’ve never fought a madman before.”

Come to think of it, he actually had fought a madman before, but thinking up clever retorts in the heat of combat was harder than the stories made it sound.

“Tell me something,” Zakareth responded. “Out of academic curiosity, I’ve always wondered why one would choose to ally themselves with Enosh. They are nothing more than a cult of the Incarnations, a suicide pact preparing to burn the world.”

Alin brought his golden sword down at the King’s head, though he was blocked by an almost casual shift of Zakareth’s shield. “They don’t sacrifice innocents,” Alin said. “They don’t spill blood of their citizens in the name of security and stability.”

King Zakareth thrust his spear at Alin’s midsection, his expression never changing. “Don’t they? How many do you think will be ‘sacrificed’ if the Incarnations are released?”

Alin had no answer for that, so he put up a green wall between them to give himself time to recover. In fact, wasn’t sure he had enough breath left to speak. The strain of his repeated summonings was threatening to lose this fight for him. He had to end it soon.

The King paced on his side of the green wall, content to wait it out. “My ancestors planted the first nine Hanging Trees for a good reason. I planted a tenth myself. They are the only things standing between this land and total, deadly anarchy.”

Zakareth raised his spear, slamming it against the green wall. Luminescent cracks began to spider across its surface, and Alin pressed his hands against the wall, willing it to hold.

“Don’t join their misguided, suicidal club,” the King went on. “You weren’t born in Enosh. You can think outside of their madness. Let the Trees stand.”

Alin thought of the Incarnations, and couldn’t help but agree that releasing them must be a horrible decision. But, in the end, he couldn’t do it.

“Not if you have to kill your own people to do it,” Alin said, firmly and finally.

The King looked at him with his one remaining eye. “You’re innocent,” he said at last. He shook his head and let out a sigh. “I can respect that. But you’ll learn, if you live long enough.”

With that, he took two steps back and hurled his spear through Alin’s green wall.

The light shattered underneath the assault, sending red-hot shards of glass shooting into Alin’s brain. He screamed, clutching his head, as his world was swallowed in white.

When he could see again, Grandmaster Naraka was standing—somehow unharmed—opposite King Zakareth, who had his spear back in one hand.

Between them stood a red-skinned old man who was obviously not human. His gray beard reached down almost to his toes, and his scarlet skin was as tough and gnarled as an old oak’s wood. He held a long gray noose in his hand that seemed formed out of ash, and his fingers kept sliding down the rope, caressing it, as if his hands had taken on a mind of their own.

“Guilty,” the old man whispered, in a voice like dust and paper. He spun the noose around his head and threw it like a lasso.

The King sidestepped, catching the loop of rope on the edge of his shield and readying his spear to throw.

But a second later he stiffened, almost dropping his spear to the ground.

Impossibly, the rope had somehow still ended up around King Zakareth’s neck. And now the red-skinned old man pulled it tighter and tighter.

Grandmaster Naraka cackled, her red spectacles flashing in the bloody light. “Your Majesty, meet Haresh, Arbiter of Betrayal. I’ve wanted to introduce him to you for a long, long time.”

“For crimes against those who trusted you,” Haresh said, “I pronounce you guilty. The sentence is death.”

King Zakareth’s voice grated as he pulled at the noose, trying to speak. “Haresh…” he choked out. “Grandmaster Naraka…you are not welcome here.”

The ruby on the front of his crown flared. A wave of crimson light blasted out from the King, exactly like the power Leah had used against the Incarnation earlier.

Only this time, instead of being chained in one place, the Grandmaster and her Arbiter were swept down the hall like dust before a broom. They physically tumbled out, so quickly and so violently that for a moment Alin wondered about the Grandmaster’s safety.

When they reached the end of the Vault, the silver doors slammed shut.

King Zakareth pulled the ash-gray noose from over his head and turned to regard Alin.

“Now, Elysia,” the King said. “How will this end?”

CHAPTER 23:

SEEDS

Though her bones ached and her head felt as though it would split open, Grandmaster Naraka finally managed to climb to her feet. The agony threatened to paralyze her, but she was used to mere pain. Any Naraka Traveler was.

After groping around on the floor for another moment, she managed to find her spectacles and press them against her face. They improved her vision a little, painting everything in a soothing shade of red.

Considering the torches outside the Crimson Vault, she didn’t need much help seeing the world in red. But the spectacles were a comfort.

The Arbiter, Haresh, made a sound like a hiss. He ran his ash-gray rope through his hands, tightening it in a series of furious knots. Without warning, he ran up and pounded on the silver doors of the Vault.

The doors rang like a gong, but they didn’t give. Not an inch. Even the torches to either side of the door seemed undisturbed, burning merrily along.

“Let me in,” the Arbiter hissed. Legend told that his voice had been burned away long ago. She was never sure if that was true, or nothing more than a ghost story.

The Arbiters were among the most powerful beings any Naraka Traveler could summon. Bringing one into being here, on the material plane, meant certain victory in battle.

Certain victory unless you tried to face down a Ragnarus Traveler at the heart of the Crimson Vault. The Grandmaster doubted anyone had managed to test that before.

“Well, you got your chance,” Talos said bitterly. “How did you like your taste of my father’s spear?” The Heir stood with his back to the doors of the Vault, his hands in the air. A swirling red Gate formed before him.

“No better than you, I expect,” Grandmaster Naraka responded calmly. It had been sixty years since anyone his age could get a rise out of her.

He didn’t look much like the dignified royal Heir anymore. His curled, golden hair was matted down with blood, and his empty eye socket was bleeding through the bandage that wrapped his face. His skin was soaked in sweat, and his breathing sounded ragged. If he didn’t find a healer, he wouldn’t last the night.

Well, she thought, at least he won’t have to worry about that.

Talos finally finished his Gate. It opened on a room of blue stone.

She had no doubt that the Hanging Tree would be nearby. If this was the only place where Ragnarus Gates came out, the Ragnarus Incarnation would surely be buried nearby. The presence of the Territory would help keep the Incarnation in check.

Talos stepped through the portal, and Grandmaster Naraka followed on his heels.

Two men in blue uniforms stepped forward.

“Highness,” one said. “What happened?”

“This woman behind me is a traitor from Enosh,” Talos said casually. “Kill her.”

Maybe if she were fifteen years old and also a fool, such an action would have caught Grandmaster Naraka off guard.

One of the blue-uniformed guards whipped his wrist forward, a silver key appearing as if by magic. Tartarus. He was a good choice for guarding a location such as this. Tartarus Travelers summoned quickly, and they tended to accept orders well. He would cut down most hostile Travelers in an instant.

Grandmaster Naraka was not most Travelers.

With her left hand—she still had to get used to using her left hand, and not her right—she finished the complex movement that she had begun before she even stepped through the Ragnarus Gate.

She called for fire, and the Furnace of Judgment answered.

A bright, unnaturally orange fireball streaked forward from her hand, wailing as it flew through the air. It wrapped around the Traveler in a tightening, burning ring, its screams rising to match the voice of the man trapped inside.

Fire from the Furnace wouldn’t kill this Traveler.

No matter how much he might wish for it.

The second guard was also a Tartarus, but slower of hand than his counterpart. He was only halfway through summoning a flying blade before a gray rope tightened around his throat.

His eyes bulged, the rope tightened, and he was pulled back through the still-open Ragnarus Gate.

Talos didn’t wait to see the fate of his guardian. He staggered away, clutching his side, trying his hardest to run.

Grandmaster Naraka didn’t bother to follow. He wouldn’t escape.

A loud crunching noise rang out from inside the Crimson Vault, like a horse being crushed between two boulders.

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 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 to 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 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, 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.”

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—”

He cut off, 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. His pockets were hidden beneath his armor, where he couldn’t reach, but he would carry the seed with him back to Enosh. Even if he had to clutch it in his fist the entire time.

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

“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 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 to 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, 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 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, judging by her appearance. 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 certain 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 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.

The body of a one-eyed old man encased in black and gold armor.

Leah hurried to her father’s side, doing everything she could not to look at the gaping hole in the front of his armor. She knelt beside him, pressing fingers to his neck.

She felt nothing.

Slowly, Leah stood back up. She looked around, trying to piece the scene together.

“Enosh,” Indirial said certainly. He stood farther back in the Vault, in the open chambers where the largest weapons were kept, examining the remnants of the battle. “I recognize the clothing, and I’ve met Grandmaster Avernus before.”

“How did they get in here, Indirial?” Leah asked. She was surprised at how level her voice sounded.

“There’s only one way into Ragnarus,” the Overlord responded. His voice boiled with anger, and he viciously kicked one of the nearby bodies.

Talos.

Leah raised a hand to pull aside the eyepatch. But she hesitated, unwilling to peel away the black fabric.

“Did he take even father’s eye?” she whispered. “Would he stoop so low?”

Indirial remained silent as he moved up beside her. He was holding something out to her: a small box, like one in which a jeweler might place a ring.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Your father asked me to hold this for you,” Indirial said. “I didn’t understand why, but now it seems obvious.”

Carefully, Leah took the box from his hand and pulled it open.

Nestled within, in a velvet lining, was a bright red stone.

No, not a stone.

A crimson eye.

***

Alin stepped out of the Naraka Gate and into Myria.

He had brought Grandmaster Naraka back to Enosh first, but he hadn’t wasted any time in finding another Naraka Traveler to take him where he wanted to go. He had been faced with a dilemma: he wanted to keep the journey secret, especially from Grandmaster Naraka, so choosing one of her loyal Travelers seemed foolish. But at the same time, Naraka was the fastest way in and out. And if this was going to work, he needed to be quick.

Alin saluted the young Naraka Traveler—he bowed back, much deeper than he needed to—and gestured to the others in his party.

His sisters followed him out of the Territory, simultaneously trying to cough and take a deep breath of clean air.

“I’ll be glad never to set foot in there again,” Ilana said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

Tamara nodded her agreement, but Shai appeared greatly encouraged by the experience. “Was that a sea of melted rock?” she asked eagerly. “How does rock melt?”

“In a very hot fire, if I had to venture a guess,” Alin said. “Now, listen to me.”

He kept walking them deeper into the village, farther away from the Traveler. He didn’t want a word of this leaking back to Grandmaster Naraka.

“I’ll be back for you,” he said. “Keep it hidden. Don’t show it to anyone, don’t take it out, don’t even talk about it. Do you understand?”

“There’s only one person here who has trouble keeping secrets,” Tamara said. “You should be saying these things into a mirror.”

Alin couldn’t help but glance down at Tamara’s travel bag, where she held the seed to the Hanging Tree. He wasn’t about to keep it in Enosh, not with Grandmaster Naraka around to burn it, and he had the feeling he might need it someday.

Tamara pulled the bag away, out of his line of sight. “You see?” she said. “It’s suspicious, the way you keep staring at the bag. Ignore it, it’ll go away.”

“It’s probably dangerous,” Alin cautioned.

“You warned us,” Ilana reminded him.

“Don’t take it apart,” Alin continued, with a look at Shai.

She still had the same bored expression as always when she shrugged. “No promises.”

“I’ll visit when I can, but I can’t do it too often,” Alin said. “It might raise suspicion. And I don’t know what’s going to happen with the war, now that the King is dead.”

Ilana stepped forward, giving him a quick hug. “You don’t have to remind us of that so often, you know. Tell Leah I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. I went looking for her last night, and I couldn’t find her. Whatever happened to her, anyway?”

***

Grandmaster Lirial slid the crystal lens over, giving Grandmaster Naraka a clear look at Alin and his sisters in Myria.

“Whatever it is, it’s almost certainly from Ragnarus,” Grandmaster Lirial concluded.

Naraka stared into the lens, glaring at Alin as though she could set him on fire from across the miles. “It’s a seed.”

Grandmaster Lirial gasped. His or her artificial voice—even Grandmaster Naraka didn’t know if Lirial was a man or a woman—made it sound less like a gasp and more like a quiet shriek.

“We must have that seed,” Lirial said.

“I agree,” Grandmaster Naraka said. She drummed her fingers on the table thoughtfully. “But which do we need more desperately: the seed to a Hanging Tree, or an Elysian Traveler?”

Behind the mask of silver ribbons, Grandmaster Lirial stayed silent for a long time.

“I would say that Eliadel has fulfilled his role in prophecy,” Lirial said carefully. “He has, at last, confronted King Zakareth, the Evening Star. With the Hanging Trees gone, the sacrifice will end, thus stemming the tide of blood. And now that the Incarnations’ prison is beginning to break, he has allowed the Gate of Heaven to open once more. He has finished his work admirably.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Naraka said. But she had invested too much into Alin to see him killed or loyal to Damasca. She needed a harsh lesson to teach him, a threat to hold over his head until he gave her his loyalty completely. And she needed that seed.

Perhaps she was being too optimistic, but she thought she saw a way to have both.

Without asking for Lirial’s pardon, Naraka began to open a Naraka Gate. Grandmaster Lirial didn’t complain about the lack of manners, which was no surprise; Naraka had started serving as Grandmaster during the days of Lirial’s great-grandparents.

She stepped inside, letting the heat of Naraka surround her like a warm blanket. Bel Calem was relatively close to Enosh. On foot, the trip would take days, but through Naraka it would be a matter of minutes.

Grandmaster Naraka took the time to prepare what she would say when she arrived. After all, she so rarely had the chance to speak with an Incarnation.

***

As Grandmaster Naraka had expected, Bel Calem was almost entirely in flames. Ash hounds cavorted in the ruins of a merchant’s home, and a hulking akna’dorma dragged a corpse behind a nearby shop. Flames rose, shrouding the horizon in smoky light.

To the Grandmaster, it felt almost like home.

A patch of glowing orange worms, sheg’we, scurried out of her way as she walked down the streets of the city. Larger, stronger things sensed her as well, creeping back into the shadows rather than face her directly.

The simple creatures of Naraka sensed her power, knowing that she could bind them to her will if she so chose. They avoided her out of fear.

The more intelligent beings knew her, or knew her reputation. They knew, too, that her purpose was the same as theirs: to enact justice at any cost. They avoided her out of respect.

She was Grandmaster Naraka. What had she to fear from her own Territory?

The Grandmaster walked the burning streets of Bel Calem for almost two hours, drawn to the blazing flame of power she sensed at the city’s heart.

At last, she stood before the source of that power: the Incarnation of Naraka.

A man stood before the Incarnation, naked and cowering, as slow-moving kush’na skittered in circles around him, and robed Gar’rosh whispered dark promises.

Unlike the Incarnation of Valinhall, the Naraka Incarnation looked very little like the man he had once been. His face was sculpted out of crusty ash and hardened volcanic stone. His eyes glowed like coals; indeed, for all she could tell, they were hot coals, eternally smoldering in his skull. His hair was flame itself, sweeping back in a gentle wind.

His body had been formed out of the same rock and ash as his face, and whenever he moved, puffs of ash rose up from his packed skin. A draconic tail, red-scaled, swept out from his back. It swept back and forth, occasionally lashing at the air.

And he was almost ten feet tall, heavy with ponderous muscle. In both hands, he held a hammer big enough to double as a support pillar in a cathedral. The weapon’s shaft was of obsidian; its head, flame itself.

“You stand accused of cheating the innocent,” the Incarnation thundered. Its voice shook the ground, like the voice of an angry volcano.

The man quivered, glancing from side to side. “I…I don’t…”

The Incarnation’s ash-colored nostrils flared. “I smell it on you. You made others suffer to line your own pockets. Do not deny your own guilt.”

The man collapsed to his knees and began to sob. Not overwhelmed by his own guilt, the Grandmaster was certain. He was terrified.

“Confess,” the Naraka Incarnation said, “and you may receive a measure of clemency.”

“I did!” the man cried. “I did it. I charged twice the honest price.”

The Incarnation rumbled, deep in its huge chest, and its eyes flashed bright. “Good. There is justice in honesty. Gar’rosh! Show him leniency in his punishment.”

The man screamed and begged as the robed lizard-men dragged him off to his punishment. He even snatched at the hem of Grandmaster Naraka’s robes as he was dragged past, pleading for help.

The Grandmaster stepped out of reach. This was for his own good. Whatever punishment he received, he would be a more honest man for it.

The Naraka Incarnation slowly turned its massive body, regarding Grandmaster Naraka with amusement on his ashen face.

“So…you are not known to me, but you have a familiar smell.”

Grandmaster Naraka pushed her glasses up on her nose. To her shame, she briefly considered pretending to be blind, an easy enough assumption for most people to make. It usually gained her a measure of sympathy, or at least opponents who underestimated her.

But the Incarnation would see through that in a second, and even if he didn’t, he could almost certainly sense a lie.

She was ashamed it had even crossed her mind. She would need to assign herself an appropriate punishment, later.

“I am called a Grandmaster of Naraka,” she said. “This is now my only identity. I have shed my old self to become an avatar of my Territory.”

The Incarnation chuckled, sounding like he had tried to gargle boulders. “You are not an avatar of your Territory,” he said. “Not in full. You don’t even know what that means.”

“Regardless, I have lived my life in accordance with Naraka. It was I who burned the Tree in Cana.”

The Incarnation’s ember-colored eyes flared. All around the city, creatures of Naraka shrieked as one.

“Then you turned the last key in my prison,” he said. “I owe you a debt.”

She shook her head, spreading her hands to show her humility. “You owe me nothing. I wish only to destroy the keys to that prison, and ensure that you are kept free.”

The Incarnation lashed his tail, leaning forward on his massive hammer. “Speak clearly, Grandmaster.”

She met his glowing gaze squarely.

“There is a seed…”

CHAPTER 24:

THE GATES OF HEAVEN

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

42 Days After Midsummer

3 Days Until Summer’s End

Alin returned from Myria as weary as he had ever been in his life. His armor seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and all he wanted was to head straight to his rooms and sink into bed.

But as soon as he stepped out of the Naraka Traveling room—where each Naraka Traveler in the Grandmasters’ palace arrived and departed—he was all but mobbed by a group of Enosh citizens.

The cheering felt like it would destroy his ears.

“Eliadel!” someone cheered.

“You did it!” a man called.

A weeping woman threw her arms around Alin’s neck, and it seemed everyone was trying to touch him, even placing their hands on his armor.

The Naraka Traveler leaned forward and whispered, “They didn’t catch you the first time, but everyone has heard the story by now. They deserved the chance to thank you.”

Alin glared at the man, but he smiled back.

I specifically asked him to keep quiet, and what does he do? He has the whole palace waiting for us, that’s what he does!

But he had to admit, as he listened to the people talk about his courage, his strength, and how much better their lives would be without Damascan oppression, that they probably deserved it.

He found himself smiling and shaking hands, returning greetings and compliments. He did avoid telling the story, though. He would surely do so eventually, but for now, the memory was too fresh.

The crowd practically carried him off, so it was most of an hour before he broke free and managed to make it back to his rooms. All in all, the encounter had done him good—he felt much better now than he had earlier. The world had begun to seem so complicated recently. It felt as if any decision he made would inevitably be wrong.

He could relax now, knowing that at least these people’s lives had been made better by his actions.

When he pulled open the door to his rooms, Grandmaster Naraka was waiting for him.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “I know what you did.”

Alin sighed, stepping past her on his way to the bed. His armor was so uncomfortable that it would surely keep him awake if he tried to lie down in it, otherwise he would collapse with the suit still on.

“I killed the King, and practically won your war singlehandedly,” Alin said. “At least one Incarnation is free, and now I’m sure Damasca will be too busy fighting their own prisoners to send any armies against you. You’re free, and you’re welcome.”

With the light of the hallway to her back, Grandmaster Naraka was little more than a dark silhouette with blood-red lenses over her eyes.

“Did you give your sisters the seed?” she asked. “Or do you still have it?”

A ball of ice formed in the pit of his stomach.

“What are you talking about?” Alin asked.

“Come now, boy. You told me yourself. Where is the seed to the Hanging Tree?”

“Hidden,” he responded.

She shook her head sadly. “The Incarnations will hunt for that seed. Besides another Ragnarus Traveler or their own foolishness, it’s one of the only things that can send them back to their prison. You should give it to me, and I will destroy it.”

“Or what?” he asked.

She met his eyes, her voice level. “Even now, the Incarnation of Naraka is on its way to Myria.”

Fear and fury rose up in him in equal measures as he marched across his floor, seizing the old woman with both hands and lifting her off the ground.

“What have you done?”

“I can contact the denizens of Naraka,” Grandmaster Naraka said. “It would be child’s play to let the Incarnation know that I have the seed, and that there is no more need to destroy your hometown.”

“Do it now!” Alin roared.

“The seed,” she said. “Give me the seed, and this can all go away.”

Rage blurred Alin’s vision, and his grip was so tight that he wouldn’t be surprised to hear one of her bones snap. For a moment, he considered killing her, as he had killed the King.

But her death wouldn’t stop the Incarnation. It wouldn’t save his sisters.

He dropped her to the floor and released her shoulders.

“All right,” he said. “You win. Call it off, and I’ll retrieve the seed.”

“A wise decision, Eliadel.”

Her calm demeanor did nothing but stoke his anger hotter. “Do not speak to me. If anything happens to my sisters, I will make sure you suffer the same fate as Overlord Malachi.”

Grandmaster Naraka executed an ironic bow, reaching out her marked hand. She waved it slightly as she concentrated.

Alin watched her for a moment.

At first, she looked peaceful. Then a frown grew on her face. Finally, her whole face tightened into a rictus of pain and concentration. A trickle of blood ran from her nose.

Finally she jerked forward, her glasses flying off her face and shattering on the floor. “I can’t,” she panted. “It’s too much. He won’t listen.”

Alin’s stomach churned.

“What are you saying?” he asked. Dread hung heavy in his voice.

She didn’t seem triumphant. If anything, she seemed lost and confused. “The Incarnation. I can’t stop him. He’s heading into Myria.”

Alin stared at her a moment. Then he thrust his hands out in front of him, reaching through space into Elysia.

“I’ll take you through Naraka,” the Grandmaster said. She mopped her forehead as though to wipe away sweat. “The sun is setting. You won’t be able to open an Elysian Gate.”

Ignoring her, Alin tore even harder at the barrier between this world and his Territory. The air shimmered and shook, fighting him, putting up a futile resistance as a golden tear formed above the ground.

“I did not intend this,” Grandmaster Naraka said, “but you should not miss the lesson. No matter what the Incarnation does, it would not have happened if you had given me the seed.”

She sounded resolved, but Alin knew her better than that. She was trying to convince herself.

Alin shouted, pulling his hands apart as though ripping a curtain in half.

In response to his desperate will alone, a ragged Elysian Gate opened, hanging in midair waiting for him.

Before he walked through, he took an instant to speak to the Grandmaster.

“When I come back,” he said, “I’m going to kill you.”

Then he ran into the City of Light, letting the portal close behind him.

This time he didn’t approach the gates of the city with his normal reverence. He didn’t check for traps, and he didn’t stop to talk to any of the citizens as usual.

He ran.

He slammed open the gates and rushed down the streets, pushing people aside if they even came close to blocking his way. This being the Gold District, they would likely all want to fight him later, but that didn’t matter at all. Nothing mattered, if he couldn’t reach his sisters in time.

Alin kicked open the door to the heart of Elysia—it wasn’t strictly necessary, but it made him feel as though he were moving faster.

Rhalia stood inside, hovering so close to the floor that her white dress brushed the floor tiles. Her blond hair fluttered in a nonexistent breeze, and her golden eyes shone.

“You look terrible,” she said frankly.

“I need to get back to my village,” Alin said. He gestured at the doors all around him. “Which of these will let me fly?”

She hesitated. “Alin—”

“You said one of these gives me the power of flight. Which one?”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Alin.”

Alin took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists. “My sisters are going to die. There’s a Naraka Incarnation headed for them. But if I get there first, I can stop it!”

Rhalia flinched, her ever-present smile fading away entirely. “I’m sorry to hear that. Believe me, I understand how you feel. More than you know. But you will regret this.”

Alin was prepared to regret this until his dying day, if it kept even one of his sisters alive.

He looked straight into Rhalia’s golden eyes. “Which door?”

Rhalia pointed at the door to the Orange District.

Without hesitation, Alin pushed it open.

***

Under other circumstances, flying would probably have been the most exciting experience of Alin’s life.

He hurtled through the air in the direction of Myria, waves of orange light pushing out from his back like a set of sunset-colored wings. Orange light also wrapped the rest of his body in a kind of pale aura, so that he raced across the sky like a flame-colored meteor.

He had never moved with such speed. In only a matter of minutes, he flew from Enosh to just outside of Myria. He was closing in on his home, the land here as familiar to him as his sister’s face.

Flying this fast…surely he would make it in time.

Then, for the second time in his life, he caught sight of flames rising from the village of Myria.

When the Damascans had raided the village for sacrifices, the setting of fires had been almost accidental. Bonfires had spread out of control thanks to terrified villagers, a few soldiers had set fires for distraction or intimidation, and an Endross Traveler had attacked with too much enthusiasm. While the smoke had seemed awful, relatively little of the village had actually burned down.

This time, flames rose from every building in the village.

Alin shot over the rooftops like a falling star, aiming straight for his sisters’ house, where he had left them only the night before.

As soon as he landed outside the doorway, a hulking four-armed lizard with black skin leaped out of the nearby flames.

He blasted it back with a quick and overwhelming dose of golden light. He didn’t have time for this.

Alin kicked the door open, but no one was in the house.

Then where were they?

A thud sounded behind him, as though someone was playing the earth itself as a drum.

He spun around.

The Naraka Incarnation crouched across from his house, though it hadn’t been there before. Alin would have noticed this creature, as it was ten feet of ashen skin and blazing hair. It thumped its enormous lizard-tail, waving a burning hammer the size of an oak tree.

The Incarnation spilled Ilana to the ground, where her body flopped like a rag doll. She didn’t move.

It raised its other fist, which tightened around Tamara. With all her strength, she struggled to break free. Alin’s stomach tightened.

The Incarnation leaned his hammer against his own shoulder, freeing his hand to reach down for Tamara’s travel-bag.

“I smell Ragnarus,” the Incarnation grumbled, in a voice like a mountain’s. “Is this your doing, Elysian Traveler?”

Tamara screamed his name, shouting for him to run away.

Alin called all the golden power of Elysia, ignoring his exhaustion, summoning from his Territory until his brain felt ready to tear itself apart.

Run away? She should know him better than that.

With orange light, Alin launched himself in the air, streaking for the Incarnation’s face. He slammed into the creature with the force of a catapult stone, halting his momentum by shielding himself with the green at the last second.

In midair, he turned, summoning his golden sword to slice off the Naraka Incarnation’s hand at the wrist.

The Incarnation howled its misery in a terrible voice, every Naraka creature in town howling along with it, but its hand tumbled to the ground. With a last-second effort of will, Alin managed to catch Tamara in a cushion of orange light before she hit the ground.

Alin landed gently beside her, beginning to summon rose-pink light for her injuries. At least he had managed to save one of his family members today.

Tamara looked behind him and her eyes widened.

“Watch—” she began.

Then the Incarnation’s flame-headed hammer caught her in the ribs.

It had swung one-handed, missing Alin by inches, but hitting Tamara square in the gut. She flew backwards, tumbling head over heels, before smacking into the walls of a brick house fifteen paces away.

Her neck was twisted almost all the way around.

No, Alin thought. Wait. That’s not right. That’s not supposed to happen.

I got here in time.

He looked from Tamara’s body to Ilana’s. Where was Shai? Surely she should be around here somewhere, unless…

…unless there was no body. Unless a monster had eaten her whole, because there was no one around to defend her.

The Naraka Incarnation loomed over him, its orange eyes glowing the color of embers. Its severed hand dissolved into ash, blowing on the wind in a solid cloud that drifted up to the end of its stump, grafting itself back on. In seconds, it had two hands again.

“I smell guilt on you, Elysian Traveler,” the Incarnation rumbled. “I smell death, and arrogance like a river. Let me punish you. There can be no justice without recompense.”

Alin stared up at the hideous monster, unable to speak.

Why did it feel like his eyes were burning?

“So be it,” the Incarnation said. It took its hammer in a two-handed grip and swung down on Alin’s head.

Alin raised one hand and caught it.

His hand blazed green, in an interlocking swirl of green plates ten layers thick.

He glanced down at his body, surprised to see blood-red light swirling around all his limbs, filling his body with power. He hadn’t opened the door to the Red District.

The ground around his feet cracked under the impact of the Incarnation’s blow, but he barely felt anything.

Lights and colors swarmed his mind, where his Elysian power normally rested, as though a dozen dams had burst within him at once. So much that had once eluded him became clear. Simple. He had the answer to all the world’s problems, and he had to share them.

No, he didn’t have the answer. He was the answer.

Alin shouted, releasing a torrent of power.

Behind him, a Gate to Elysia opened. Not the usual Gate—six feet tall, barely wide enough to walk through—but an enormous portal the length and breadth of the City of Light itself.

The Gate glowed gold, bringing with it light like a sunrise.

The creatures of Elysia heard his call, and they came.

By the thousands, they came.

Armies of white and gold marched from the Gold District, wielding blades the color of sunlight and spears like frozen lightning.

Across the village, far beyond the reach of Alin’s eyes, another Gate opened. The Green District poured out: emerald titans, shield-backed turtles the size of horses, armored figures carrying hammers and shields. There was no way Alin should be able to see them coming, not from so far away, but somehow he could picture each detail with absolute clarity, as though part of his mind drifted freely through the city.

From the Blue District came lizards with three tails, scampering along the ground. Ethereal fish drifted through the air, and nameless tentacled creatures lurched down the streets. They latched on to the nearest Naraka monster with their sticky, twisting arms, draining life and heat from their victims. Narakan corpses fell to the ground, cold and empty.

On and on, the City of Light hurled its residents forth in a fury of power. They clashed with the burning creatures of Naraka in a dozen different armies, their battles echoing in bursts of flame throughout the village of Myria.

Alin’s senses expanded, drifting out on winds of silver light. He had been confused when Rhalia had first described silver light to him—how could light be the color of silver? But now he could see it, he could feel it drifting in the air around him. It looked like shards of metal drifting on the wind, each shard only a spark of the Silver District’s light.

The particles blew out, touching every corner of the city, searching according to his will.

In seconds, he knew that Shai wasn’t in the village at all. There was no living person of Shai’s description in range, or his silver light would have detected her. He had lost her—silver could only find the living.

Her death was his fault. It was not a matter for guilt, but for responsibility. He would have to find a way to atone.

He learned something else as well: Ilana was still alive. Barely.

Two of his sisters dead, and one with only the weakest hold on life. Despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed it back with his newfound light. Despair was pointless. It never produced results.

Still holding the Incarnation’s hammer with one hand, he reached out with the other and pointed to two gold-armored soldiers.

They saluted, understanding his unspoken words, and dragged Ilana out of danger. They even took Tamara’s body with them, and he reminded himself to thank them for that later. There was no excuse for ingratitude.

Alin looked up, meeting the Naraka Incarnation’s ember eyes.

Revenge, he knew, was just as pointless as despair.

But there was always the virtue that the Incarnation himself wouldn’t shut up about: justice.

Right then, Alin had some very definite ideas about how to bring this monster to justice.

The whole process of summoning Elysia had only taken, perhaps, a minute. The Naraka Incarnation kept his hammer in place out of distraction more than anything else.

Now that the spectacle had subsided, he pulled his hammer back, lashing his tail and leaning down to peer into Alin’s eyes.

“An Elysia Incarnation,” it rumbled. “Yes. It’s been so long…”

The horrible, ash-skinned mouth twisted itself into a smile.

Alin flooded his body with red light, not bothering to dispel the green shield around his hand. Once, he wouldn’t have been able to maintain that shield for long. Now it seemed a paltry effort, barely worth his attention.

He gathered up all the superhuman strength of the red light, forming his shielded hand into a fist.

As the Incarnation looked like it was about to speak, Alin slammed his protected fist into its jaw.

The ten-foot Incarnation’s face exploded as he shot backwards, shattering the house behind him and falling backwards into its rubble.

On wings of orange light, Alin soared after him, not giving him a moment’s rest.

He landed on the Incarnation’s chest, bringing his fist down like a hammer-blow on its ribcage.

The Naraka Incarnation howled, and Alin’s entire body burst into flames.

The pain wracked Alin’s mind. No matter what he had become, he wasn’t fireproof, and his armor blazed like an oven.

Somehow, though, the pain was a distant thing. He felt his flesh burning away, and his first thought was: I need that foot. I cannot allow it to burn.

So he summoned the rose light, flooding his body with it. He healed even faster than the Naraka flames could burn him, standing within the flames. Only five minutes ago, he would never have been able to stand the agony.

Now, he stood somewhere beyond such petty concerns.

The head of the Incarnation’s hammer caught him in the chest, and would have crumpled his armor except for an instinctive shield of green that turned the blow at the last instant.

Momentum launched Alin into the sky, but it was the work of a moment to summon orange light to stop in midair.

He hovered there for a moment, looking at the Naraka Incarnation roaring impotently below him.

This was a problem. If he remained in the sky, the Incarnation couldn’t follow him. If the Incarnation couldn’t follow him, Alin wouldn’t be able to beat it into a smear on the ground.

No…not vengeance, Alin reminded himself. Justice.

Alin wouldn’t be able to beat it into a smear on the ground…for justice.

The Incarnation shouted again, and huge, bat-like wings of ash sprouted from its back. With lumbering sweeps of its giant wings, it somehow managed to clear the rooftops of the village.

Alin felt himself smile. There was one problem solved.

The Naraka Incarnation extended one hand. A wave of fire, so intense it seemed almost solid, rushed from its palm.

Alin didn’t even move. Instead, he surrounded himself with a ball of green light and let the fire wash harmlessly over him.

When the fire cleared, the Naraka Incarnation was there, swinging a hammer at the top of Alin’s shield. He struck with enough force to level a palace, smashing Alin and his green shield down into the dust.

Alin struck the ground with the power of a meteorite impact, sending rings of dust rolling away from his landing.

The shield absorbed most of the damage, leaving Alin to stand mostly unharmed. If he had taken the hit, he would have had to rebuild his body with the rose light, and that would have wasted precious seconds.

Black lizards the size of ponies shrieked as they ran up to him in a pack, trying to shred his flesh with their needle-sharp teeth.

Alin blasted a wave of gold light outwards, shattering those teeth and most of the other bones in the creatures’ bodies. They tumbled back, bleeding and broken.

If they hadn’t attacked him, they would have remained alive. It was only correct.

The Incarnation roared above him, diving down with its glowing hammer raised. With the silver light, Alin sensed the attack long before he saw anything, and he simply flew out of the way.

The Incarnation crashed into the ground, exploding into a cloud of ash. It reformed almost instantly, lifting its hammer back up in both hands and letting out a roar.

“I learned something new recently,” Alin said. His voice didn’t sound normal, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Did you know,” he continued, “that each Territory has its complement in Elysia? It’s true. Naraka represents justice, but what is justice without mercy?”

Alin opened his palm, and an orb of liquid blue light drifted within, like a globe of luminescent water.

The Naraka Incarnation howled and charged, its hammer leading the way.

Coils of blue light erupted from Alin’s hand, winding around the Incarnation, sliding around and binding its limbs. They leeched away its strength, bringing flowing pulses of blue back to Alin. The Incarnation struggled against the tentacles wrapping its arms and legs, trying in vain to free itself. But the more it fought, the more of its strength flowed through the blue light.

Through the blue light, and into Alin.

When the Naraka Incarnation’s thrashing had all but quieted, and it lay, breathing heavily, on the sand of Myria, Alin walked up to its head. He stood over the Incarnation, staring down at its weakened form.

“You can consider this a mercy,” Alin said.

He summoned the golden sword and brought it down on the Incarnation’s skull.

The creature died with barely a spasm, releasing its death grip on the hammer. Its body dissolved into nothing more than a mound of vaguely human-shaped ash.

Just in case, Alin sent tendrils of blue questing into the pile of ash, thirstily drinking up the remnants of heat and power.

Then he called a meteor of golden light from the sky, blasting the pile into a crater five feet deep and ten feet wide. The ash rose on the wind, likely scattered from here to Bel Calem.

No sense taking chances.

A blue-armored knight rode up to Alin, saluting him. He rode a creature that looked like the blue-skinned hybrid of a tree frog and a wildcat.

“The creatures of Naraka have been pacified, sir,” the knight said.

“Excellent,” Alin responded. His words sounded dead, even to his ears. “Tell all the districts to see to the villagers. Treat them with every courtesy and respect.”

The knight saluted and rode away.

Alin lifted into the air on sunset wings, drifting back to his family’s house. After a moment of searching, he brought up Tamara’s travel-bag. Within it, he could feel the sticky, grasping presence of Ragnarus, pulsing like a disembodied heart.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he went to search for his Gold soldiers. He needed Ilana.

And he had some business to conduct.

CHAPTER 25:

LONG LIVE THE KING

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

Summer’s End

Simon woke up in a strange room of a strange city, feeling oddly refreshed. A huge window lay next to his bed, and a single glance outside showed him that many of the nearby buildings were built around trees. A handful of men and women in brightly colored festival clothing danced around a fire, but most hurried about their work.

There had been a holiday coming up, but he couldn’t quite remember which one. And if today was a holiday, why were some people still working?

Summer’s End, he remembered at last. If this was a holiday, it should be Summer’s End: the end of the first half of the year. Tomorrow would be the first day of autumn, so people celebrated the last days of summer.

In Myria, no one would do any work today. At least, none they didn’t absolutely have to. Things were obviously different here, wherever this was, judging by how few of the people had joined in the festivities. Most hurried by, or gathered in groups, whispering.

Well, he thought, at least I have something to celebrate. I’m clean, dry, and comfortable.

Even here, there should be a Summer’s End feast. His stomach groaned at the thought.

He glanced around the room, hoping to see some food, but his luck didn’t extend that far: the room was small, with nothing more than a table, his bed, and a second bed, exactly like the first. That bed was empty and neatly made.

The door, presumably leading into the hallway, had been barred from the inside. Well, it sure was a good thing he had a bar on his door. Now he felt secure. No Incarnation or hostile Traveler could possibly get to him in the face of a barred door.

I must not have a doll, he realized. If Otoku or Caela had been around, they would surely have responded to his sarcastic thoughts. They rarely missed an opportunity to prick his ego.

Simon slid out of the bed, feeling stronger than he would have expected. The last thing he remembered was taking the mask off and feeling like he would never be strong enough to walk again. Come to think of it, how long had he been here? And where was here, exactly?

A note on the table nearby caught his eye, and he picked it up.

Simon, he read.

You’re in the healer’s wing of the Overlord Eli’s estate in Abdera. We took you to the pool, but you didn’t wake up. You’ve been in the care of the Asphodel healers here. I hope to return before you wake, but if I don’t, come to the House as soon as you read this.

Do not leave your room.

—Denner

Simon regarded the note, glanced at the morning sun out the window, and stretched.

Then he summoned Azura, prepared to open a Valinhall Gate. He considered walking outside anyway, in defiance of Denner’s orders, but he had no reason to. He had very little idea where ‘Abdera’ was, and even if he did, he’d rather be in the House. Hopefully, both Denner and Indirial would be home, and then he could get some complete answers.

Come to think of it, had Kai survived? A knot formed in his stomach. The last he had seen Kai, the man was dying from a cursed wound. Had they managed to heal him in time?

Worried, Simon raised the blade to begin cutting open a Gate, and found himself pointing the tip of his sword at Alin’s throat.

Simon jerked back, banishing Azura.

“Alin!” he said, surprised. Had Denner brought Alin here too? Then he noticed what Alin was carrying: he cradled Ilana gently in both his arms. “How…sorry, I didn’t see you there. I didn’t mean…what’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing, physically,” Alin responded, his voice calm and even. “She is healthy, so I imagine that her mind is in shock. She will need regular supervision until she recovers.”

That was when Simon realized that this wasn’t Alin.

Not really.

He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t noticed right off. Alin’s skin was a shade lighter than usual, as though he had died last night and hadn’t quite decided to lie down yet. His hair was a brighter gold, as though it was actually made out of coils of precious metal.

But it was his eyes that were the biggest giveaway. The whites were still white, but unnaturally so—they were pure white, white as clouds at noon, white as fresh snow. And his irises…

Simon wasn’t sure what color Alin’s eyes had been before, but whatever that color was, it was probably in there. Somewhere. His irises were made of shifting slices of color, as though a rainbow had bent itself into a ring and been crammed into Alin’s eyes. The rainbow’s rings practically glowed, flowing so that the orange was the most obvious one second, pink the next, then aquamarine. Looking too closely made Simon vaguely nauseous.

“Alin…” Simon began hesitantly, “…are you okay?” He had almost asked What are you?, but he thought Alin might take that badly.

Besides, he was afraid he knew the answer.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t banished Azura.

Alin ignored the question, carefully laying his sister down on the bed next to Simon’s.

“I need you to look after her,” Alin said. His voice still had no particular inflection. He sounded as though he were reading his words off a page. “Take her to your Territory, or back to Myria, whatever you like. Not Enosh. Take care of her, and keep her safe.”

“Why not bring her to your Territory instead?” Simon asked.

“I can’t go back there anymore,” Alin said. He stared out the east window; from that angle, he would be staring directly into the sun. He didn’t blink.

Simon cleared his throat, focusing as best he could on not upsetting Alin. But he still needed answers. “Okay. That’s fine. How did you know I was here? I’m not even sure where here is, to tell you the truth.”

Simon forced out a laugh, but it probably sounded as nervous as he felt.

“I sensed you,” Alin said calmly.

His rainbow eyes shifted and glowed. More than that, the room filled with his presence. It didn’t physically get any brighter, but it felt bright, as though the light had been made solid and was pressing against Simon’s skin. Simon barely resisted the urge to back out of the room.

Without prompting, Alin turned back to the sun. “I wanted to be a hero so badly, Simon,” he said casually. “No, let’s be honest. I wanted people to know I was a hero. But I never acted very heroic.”

There was no way this was Alin. He would never say these things. If he did, he would never say them to Simon. And even if he could bring himself to do that, to bare his soul before Simon, he could never sound so…matter-of-fact about the whole thing. This was Alin, who could turn the story of the Lost Badarin into an entrancing epic with nothing but his voice. He filled every word with emotion.

At least, he had before. Now, he sounded as though he didn’t even care about what he was saying.

Alin turned and met Simon’s gaze with his hypnotic, shifting, rainbow-colored eyes. “Now I can really be a hero.” Finally, some emotion had returned to Alin’s voice, but it somehow made things worse. He sounded almost…hungry. “The Incarnations are tearing themselves free all over the country. They’re going to leave a trail of blood and death behind them. I can stop them.”

He turned back out to the window and smiled briefly, as though imagining himself blasting an Incarnation to pieces.

“Alin,” Simon said. He hesitated briefly, considering his words carefully, and tossed his care out the window to say what he actually thought. “You’ll stop them, okay, I understand that. But who’s going to stop you? I think…I think there’s something wrong with you.”

Alin stared into the distance as though he hadn’t heard the question. His voice had died again. “The Incarnations aren’t the root of the problem. You have to pull up the problem at its root. People like the Grandmasters, they’re the problem. Yes. I’ll have to bring mercy to the Grandmasters as well.”

Simon wondered if he could call steel without Alin somehow sensing it.

Once more, Alin looked back to Simon, a wry smile on his face. For an instant, he looked like the boy Simon remembered from Myria.

“Keep my sister safe. And if it becomes necessary…” Alin shrugged, once again sounding apathetic. “Then I guess you’ll have to stop me. Who else is there?”

He stepped back up on the windowsill, spreading wings of orange light. An instant later, he was gone.

Simon barely waited for Alin to leave before summoning Azura and starting to cut a Valinhall Gate.

He supposed it could have been worse. He had already killed one Incarnation. What was ten more?

For some reason, he felt like crying.

When the Gate finally opened, unfolding into a vision of the Valinhall entry room, he scooped Ilana up in his arms and carried her through.

Behind him, the Gate to Valinhall zipped shut.

***

Leah looked around her at the plush couches, the gold-framed mirrors, the stacks of books and piles of scrolls. Even the furniture was masterfully carved and varnished, of a quality she would have expected from the royal palace in Cana. On the walls hung sword-racks: four racks on each of three walls, for a total of twelve. Only four of them were occupied.

One empty rack hung on another wall, but it stood alone. Briefly, she wondered why.

It didn’t matter, she supposed. She was simply taking in all the detail she could. After all, she didn’t think anyone in her family had ever gotten such a close look at the House of Blades.

Indirial stood nearby, talking strategy with an iron-haired captain she thought was named Erastes. The two of them leaned over a table that was hardly visible beneath spread-out maps and unraveled scrolls.

The white-haired Traveler, Kai, limped into the room. He leaned on a cane with his left hand, but he held something like an apple in his right.

When he saw Leah, he tossed her the fruit. She barely managed to catch it in both hands.

“You should eat,” Kai said gently. “Can’t have the Queen of Damasca losing her strength.”

That was possibly the most ordinary thing he had said to her since she had arrived the night before. Once she and Indirial had determined that there was no way back into Cana, he had brought her here. As he had put it, ‘To formulate a plan of attack.’

Leah took a bite of the fruit, but she almost spit it back out. It was not an apple. It was sweet, but also heavy and spicy, like someone had crossed an apple with some mild pepper. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly, but the surprise alone had almost caused her to choke.

Kai looked at her from behind his shaggy hair and he let out an all-but-silent chuckle.

Leah arched an eyebrow at him and prepared to say something cutting, but a streak of light tore its way down from the ceiling, widening into a Gate.

Kai stepped back, leaving room for Simon to walk into the room.

In his arms, he had somehow balanced both his long Valinhall blade and a girl. No, not just any girl: Ilana.

Alin’s sister.

A cold wind swept through Leah, and she shuddered. She could think of only a few reasons why Simon would be carrying Alin’s unconscious sister through a Gate into Valinhall. None of them were good.

Kai took the sword from Simon, pulling the blade away carefully and running his hand along the dull edge before placing it gently on a sword rack. That man had definite issues.

The captain, Erastes, took the girl from Simon.

“Bring her to my room,” Simon said wearily. “Make sure the Nye don’t get her. Thanks.”

Erastes looked like he was about to say something, but he glanced at Indirial and simply walked out of the room.

“What happened?” Indirial asked, his dark eyes sharp on Simon.

“I’ve got bad news,” Simon said simply.

Then he told them.

Leah carefully placed the rest of her fruit on a nearby table. She didn’t feel much like eating.

Alin, an Incarnation.

Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse.

Simon seemed to notice Leah, and he frowned. “Leah. I mean…Heiress, Highness…whatever. Leah. What are you doing here?”

At the moment, Leah was too tired to deal with his mode of address. “We have plans to make,” she said instead.

“I thought you’d be in the royal palace,” Simon said.

Oh, of course. He didn’t know.

Indirial spoke up. “We’d like to be, Simon. Unfortunately, there’s no way in or out of Cana. We think the Incarnation has things sealed up tight. We can’t even Travel in, since Gates to Cana won’t open anymore.”

“Oh,” Simon said. He frowned again and opened his mouth, but Leah forestalled the obvious question.

“We lost,” she said bitterly. “The Grandmasters got to the Tree in Cana. Maybe if it were any other year, it would have ended there. But with the sacrifice this year…”

Simon winced, as well he might. He had played his role in letting that disaster move forward.

No, it wasn’t fair to blame it all on Simon. It was more her fault than his.

“The Incarnation of Ragnarus rules Damasca now,” she finished.

“What about the King?” Simon asked. He didn’t mean anything by that, she knew. He had asked the question in complete innocence.

But it still hurt.

Quietly, Kai said, “You stand before the Queen of Damasca, little mouse.”

Simon was silent for a long time, but Leah didn’t look at his face. This had to be confusing for him, and she wasn’t sure what she would see there.

Simon walked over and knelt before her. He even bowed his head, though he somehow managed to make it seem unbearably awkward.

“Your Majesty,” he said. He lifted his head and looked her in the eyes.

Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have done that, but she allowed it.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “What can I do to help?”

Leah’s eyes swelled with tears, and she had to blink them away.

This is childish, she thought. She hadn’t even liked her father.

But, in the past three days, she had lost her family, her home, and her country. She supposed she was allowed a tear or two.

Later. For now, she forced herself to answer Simon’s question.

Leah cleared her throat, making sure she sounded completely in control. “We think my brother Talos is in command of Cana, if the Ragnarus Incarnation let him live. For now, we need to focus on building up our support outside of the city. There are at least four Incarnations on the loose, and we need to deal with them. Once we do, we can find a way back into the capital.”

She hoped she sounded confident. She wasn’t. The plan was too vague; there was too much left to chance, too much that could go wrong.

But she knew one thing: she wasn’t going to leave Cana to suffer at the hands of the Ragnarus Incarnation any longer than she had to. As a Ragnarus Traveler and as a Queen of Damasca, it was her duty.

She would not let her nation down.

***

On the floor of the Crimson Vault, a man struggled for breath.

Why did he have to breathe at all? His lungs didn’t seem to want to inflate, but somehow his chest moved in and out. It was slow, but also somewhat mechanical, as though something was moving him outside his own body.

The armor, he realized. There was something about the armor doing whatever it could to keep him alive. He should have taken it off before…

Before what? Who was he? He had a name…or at least he had, once.

Zakareth. That was it. That was who he was. Zakareth, like his father, and his father before him.

Memory came drifting back, not in a single storm, but one gust at a time. He was the king. His son betrayed him. His daughter, left behind, not ready to be queen. His people, about to be slaughtered by the Incarnations.

Failure burned worse than the wound in his chest. That was his job: to keep his people safe from the dangers they couldn’t handle. The Hanging Trees had been handed down for generations, but he had been the one to let the prisoners escape their cage.

He had failed. And now, he couldn’t even relax into an easy death. He was fated to lie here and suffocate, or perhaps bleed to death all over the floor.

It’s no worse than I deserve, he thought. I’ve failed.

In the polished blade of a nearby sword, he caught a glimpse of his face. His skin was pale and sunken. Half of his face was covered by an eyepatch, which hid his empty, gaping socket. Truly, his was the face of a corpse.

Zakareth leaned back and waited to die.

For a while, the only sound was his own heartbeat.

Then he heard a ringing, like metal on stone. At first, he believed the sound was in his head, but it grew louder and louder until it ended right next to his ear.

With a supreme effort of will, Zakareth wrenched his gummy eyelid open once again.

The woman above him looked somehow familiar. Yes…he had seen her likeness on the portraits in the palace. One of his royal ancestors, though he didn’t have the presence of mind to remember which one.

He didn’t remember her looking quite like this.

Her skin was hard and blood-red, gleaming in the light like some kind of crimson metal. The long dress she wore was made of nothing but sweeping red light, somehow solid enough to remain opaque.

And her eyes. Her eyes were red flames, deep and bright enough to put the torches of Ragnarus to shame.

“I don’t let one of my bloodline die easily,” the Ragnarus Incarnation said. “Not here.”

Zakareth tried to respond, but it was everything he could do to keep his chest moving in and out.

“You’re in pretty bad shape,” she noted. “But I came to a realization, sometime during my three-hundred-year stay in a prison I built myself. Do you know what I realized?”

He tried to shake his head.

“Life,” she said, “is overrated. I’m ready to pass the torch, so to speak. And you have left so very much undone. Regret burns in you. I can respect that.”

She glanced back at the silver doors, which were slowly shutting in her wake.

“I’m almost sealed in here, now,” she said, though she didn’t sound very concerned. “The longer I stay, the harder it gets to leave. So believe me when I say this is a limited-time offer. Do you want the power to lead your people?”

He tried to speak past the sucking noises in his chest.

“You have it in you to be the greatest king that Damasca has ever known,” the Incarnation went on, in the same tone. “Not as great as some of the queens, but impressive nonetheless. Strong. Reliable. Immortal.”

Once again, he couldn’t make a sound.

She leaned close, so that the blazing fires of her eyes seared his face. Her voice was unnaturally intense. “What price are you willing to pay?”

Zakareth finally managed to get a lung full of air.

“Anything…” he said, in the weakest of whispers.

Ragnarus gave him a red-metal smile. “Good answer.”

In the reflection of the polished sword, Zakareth saw the fabric of his eyepatch curl, blacken, and burst into crimson flame.

THE END OF BOOK TWO

City of Light

(Book #3 of the Traveler’s Gate Trilogy)

CHAPTER 1:

GATHERING WEAPONS

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

3 Days Until Summer's End

As the sun sank below the horizon, the Eldest Nye moved from shadow to shadow across the battlefield.

He felt weak, here in the outside world, and he would feel weaker the longer he stayed exposed. Sheltering in the shadows made him feel a little better, a little stronger, a little closer to his powers in the House. He still traveled with the stealth and grace that were his birthright—none of the soldiers in red-and-gold caught so much as a glimpse of him as he glided in and around their camp. Or what was left of it. The field had once been an orderly tribute to Damascan military discipline: row upon row of white tents arranged according to some plan that the humans had no doubt thought wise at the time.

The order was broken now. The field was slick with blood and littered with bodies. The tents lay in ruins, stacks of canvas and splinters. Some of the camp had shifted, transformed and rearranged by the Valinhall Incarnation’s power: here a barrel whose warped planks had turned into an armchair, there a patch of grass curled into a thin layer of green carpet, over there a pile of firewood grown into a rough-carved table. In the presence of his master, this world strove to imitate Valinhall.

In the Eldest’s opinion, it was a huge improvement. Valin should have spent more time here.

The survivors hobbled around, using sheathed swords and damaged spears as makeshift crutches, hauling corpses from one place to another. They made a mockery of propriety, and the Eldest couldn't see why they bothered. There were far too many dead to deal with each of them appropriately, so the survivors simply threw them in pits and covered them with dirt.

He approved of their attempts to clean up the mess, but why bury the bodies at all? Why mark the grave? In only a century or two, no one would remember anyone who died here today. A rock with a dead man’s name on it would not change that.

There was such a room in Valinhall, meant for honoring the memory of the dead. His master had placed it there. Even the Wanderer was human, and the Eldest honored his human frailties, even when he didn't understand them.

The Eldest corrected himself: the Wanderer had once been human. Then he had become something more.

And now he was something less.

The Nye slid around a patched-up tent, inside of which a young man was grieving over a discarded helmet. His back was to the tent entrance, and the Eldest's hands itched to pull out his chain. This boy had left himself completely defenseless, which was a bad habit that would someday get him killed. Bad habits should be corrected.

But he restrained himself and kept moving, passing through the part of the camp where Travelers had come to blows. Here the devastation was more exotic, but no less total. Human corpses mingled with the inhuman: three-tailed orange lizards with smoke still drifting from their bodies, tall white-furred beast-men lying in inch-deep puddles of chill water, a flock of sparrows resting on top of one another in a bloody pile.

He didn’t spare a thought for the violence. He had seen far worse. He had caused worse.

The Eldest scanned the carnage, looking for one specific corpse among all the others. After only a few minutes of searching, he found it.

Something that looked like a man lay on a patch of grass, naked from the waist up. His skin was almost totally covered in tattoos like black chains. His head was bare, the chains covering him in place of hair.

His blank, staring eyes were black, with circles of silver in their center. Other humans had different colors there, and for some reason found the metallic gleam of these eyes especially disturbing. The Eldest wasn't quite sure why. To him, the eyes were the color of steel and shadows. Beautiful.

Even though this body had taken many wounds when it was alive, only one showed now: a single ragged hole through the left side of the chest. Veins of red spidered out from the stab wound itself, worming their way through the corpse's skin.

The poison of Ragnarus leaves its mark, the Eldest thought. He tried to summon up the old resentment toward Ragnarus, but he felt nothing. It had been a long time since his last encounter with the Crimson Vault, and most of his hatred he had acquired secondhand from Valin.

He had settled his own debts with Ragnarus long ago.

The anger didn't come. Instead, he felt a sort of eagerness for the weapon that had struck this blow. A hunger for something that could make his Territory that much stronger.

The sword lay nearby, unsheathed, its blade red and gleaming. No one had looted it, despite its obvious value. Perhaps even humans could sense something of the nature of this body and this weapon, and they wanted nothing to do with it.

No, it was probably something else. In the Eldest's experience, humans were rarely that wise.

The Eldest scooped up the sword, tucking it away inside his robe. Perhaps Caius Agnos and Olissa Agnos could make something useful out of it. If not, well, he could surely find another use for an unbound Ragnarus weapon.

When the blade was secure, the Eldest stood looking down upon his master's body.

“You made promises to me,” the Eldest said, in his raspy voice. Here he was, speaking to a corpse, just like an emotional human. But the dead body wasn't his only audience. “You did not keep them. You have given me much, my friend, but in the end, you too failed to uphold our bargain.”

He leaned down, letting a bit of his essence flow out like a shaft of light from this world’s moon. The shadows grew soft, a rent in the world, and Valin sank down deep, running along his connection to Valinhall like a cart in a rut.

He would arrive soon, and the other Nye would take care of him as he deserved. He had insisted on adding a graveyard to the House of Blades, and now the room would be his new home.

The Eldest straightened, and the only remnant of the Wanderer's presence was a patch of slightly bloody grass.

Simon, son of Kalman, had promised to bring the Ragnarus blade to Valinhall, and technically he had not done so. But he had created the circumstances that allowed the Eldest to retrieve it, so the Nye decided to give the boy some credit. He had great hopes for Simon.

“Do not worry, my old friend. We have another to fulfill our purposes now, and he will not slip away so easily.”

The Eldest Nye turned his hood to the second sword lying on the grass: an unusually long weapon, six feet from end to end, slightly curved and sharp along only one edge. A long, smooth line of gold ran up the center of the steel, beginning at the hilt and ending at its tip.

“Isn't that right, Mithra?”

The Wanderer's blade glimmered in answer.

CHAPTER 2:

ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI

Summer’s End

Zakareth left the Crimson Vault to find his palace in ruins. The dungeon beneath the Blue Room, where the Ragnarus Incarnation was once sealed, had been broken from within. He stood on the chips of shattered floor tiles, looking down a ragged hole torn into the earth that had once been a carefully sculpted tunnel. The bottom was covered in a layer of ash and brown, dead branches: the only remnants of Cana's Hanging Tree.

His son Talos lay nearby, face blue and bulging. A bruise wrapped around his throat, as though he had been strangled.

Good. Talos was one of the loose threads that Zakareth had planned to snip. Someone else had done him the favor of removing his son, which meant he could proceed that much faster.

The Ragnarus Gate hung open behind him. He had never intended to close it, but it used to take him a significant effort of will and energy to hold the portal. Now, he sustained it with a thought.

Already, he could see the benefits of Incarnation.

Queen Cynara the First, the original Queen of Damasca, stayed in the Vault, lounging on a black wooden chair she had summoned from somewhere. “This city has grown since my time. There are a lot of raw materials here, if you put them to the right use.”

Zakareth glanced at her. Her skin was made of gleaming red steel, her eyes crimson flame, her dress a waterfall of scarlet light. The original Ragnarus Incarnation. “I'm surprised at you, Queen Cynara. Was it not you who said, 'Never ask another to pay a price if you can pay it yourself?'“

Cynara's smile was shining white. “My stay underground has changed my mind on many things. But not my dedication to this country. Your first step will be to secure the city, so you may have a throne from which to rule.”

“If I sit here until Cana is restored, I will rule but one city amid a smoking wasteland.” Zakareth met Cynara's burning eyes with his own new set. His glowing red stone, which once rested in the socket of his left eye, had been replaced by a rolling scarlet flame. The vision wasn't at all the same—he couldn't see the connections between Territories, the influence of each Territory imprinted on this world—but in some ways it was better. He could see rivers of crimson flowing in the objects around him, pooling in some things, trickling straight through others.

Without asking, he knew what it was. Power. Potential power, energy, and ability that Ragnarus could harvest and use to fuel its armory of thirsty weapons.

Cynara, lounging on her chair with her legs crossed, kicked one bare foot. “The Incarnations will not destroy everything. Not unless encouraged to do so. When unbound, the Incarnations will act according to their nature. Naraka will judge and punish, Endross will fight, Asphodel will spread and grow and seek the wild energy of emotion. Some of this will result in destruction, but Ornheim, for instance, should simply find the mountains and wait. Lirial will likely find a library and start reading. You see? It's not all wanton violence.”

Zakareth doubted that his dying citizens would appreciate the distinction. “Many of them will kill, though. You know that better even than I. The death toll will be unspeakable.”

“Indeed. Imagine the kind of power that will follow when you pay such a high price.”

Zakareth saw nothing wrong with her logic. The higher the price you were willing to pay, the more power you could call. That was how Ragnarus worked.

“Be that as it may,” he went on, “you said a first step. What is your plan?”

“What is yours, King of Damasca?”

His plan was simple enough, as these things went. He had no reason to complicate matters. “I had intended to reveal myself and take back the throne, then turn my intentions to crushing Enosh.”

Cynara nodded along. “And how do you think your Overlords will react to an Incarnation with the crown?”

“They will react as I order them to,” King Zakareth said. “Or they will be replaced.” He spoke with simple honesty. Their job was to govern in his name, not to question his motives.

“What about this new Territory? Valinhall, is it called?”

Zakareth considered that. He wanted Indirial on his side, but if the Overlord of Cana decided that he needed to oppose the Incarnations at all cost...well, Zakareth had little doubt that a team of Valinhall Travelers would be able to bring down an Incarnation. Even the Incarnation of Ragnarus.

“How do you know of Valinhall?” Zakareth asked, struck by a sudden thought. “You were imprisoned during its birth.”

Queen Cynara examined her appearance in a mirror she must have called from deeper in the Vault. Reflected red light shone from its surface. “In a prison of my own creation,” she reminded him. “The other Incarnations should have experienced something like a restless, painful sleep. Not me. I was awake, I was aware, and I was connected. I can assure you, it is not an experience you wish for yourself.”

He believed her.

“Very well,” he said. “I will secure the city for now, and then I will rebuild my country.”

Cynara laughed, and the Vault rang like a bell along with her. “Do not let the loss of one eye limit your vision. I told you what the Incarnations would do of their own volition.

“Now, imagine what they could do if they were directed.”

Zakareth imagined Lirial crystals hanging in the air above every city, giving him access to an unparalleled network of instant information. An army made up of burning Naraka creatures and ferocious flying wyrms from Endross, blasting apart any force in their way. A host of golems tearing down the walls of Enosh.

“I admit, the idea appeals to me,” he said. “Enosh would not oppose me long.”

Cynara laughed again, more cruelly. “Enosh? Enosh is nothing. You could wipe it from the memory of mortal man with only the power you now possess. Let us focus our attentions on the real threat.”

Zakareth stroked his short beard, thinking back on the only Travelers who could match him in combat. “Valinhall,” he said.

Queen Cynara waved one red hand airily. “Valinhall is a resource. You can bend it to your own purposes. There is only one opponent that can stand against us now.” Her face crumpled like foil into a look of loathing. “Elysia.”

The King thought back to his lone encounter with the one remaining Elysian Traveler. The boy did not seem like much of a threat. He would stack Indirial against four of Alin, son of Torin.

Then he remembered what he had done, back in his previous life. The weapon he had given to Alin.

The Seed of the Hanging Tree.

How could I be so foolish? he thought, but he knew the answer. His thoughts had been clouded, uncertain, back when he was no more than a man. Now, for the first time, they were clear.

“Yes,” Zakareth said slowly. “We should begin with Elysia.”

Cynara rose from her seat, and the black wooden chair vanished into the shadows at the corner of the Vault. “If there is any justice in the universe, let me be there when we tear down the walls of the City of Light.”

Intense personal hatred for Elysia, Zakareth noted. He understood her feelings, given Cynara’s history—she had lived during a time when the whole continent had almost been destroyed by the last of the Elysian Travelers, and according to legend had sacrificed her life fighting an Elysian Incarnation—but he filed the fact away. If the Queen was going to act irrationally based on personal bias, he would have to carefully filter her plans.

Once Alin was dead and the Seed was destroyed, all of Ragnarus’ power would be back under his control. He would have no need to destroy the City of Light then. He knew of no other Elysian Travelers, and if it took three hundred years for the next one to show up, so much the better.

How best to defeat the boy, though? Alin would only have to retreat back into his Territory and hide behind his City’s walls, and he would be protected. Zakareth did not like his chances of fighting an Elysian Traveler within the City of Light itself.

He would need Travelers who specialized in killing other Travelers. Those whose powers did not fade in foreign Territories, and who could follow the Elysian no matter where he went.

The solution was clear. He needed the House of Blades, whole and behind him. No more could they be allowed to stand fragmented and unsupervised. They had to fight for him, and him alone.

“We have many plans to make,” King Zakareth said, and he felt his red eye flare with heat.

“Then let us get started,” Queen Cynara responded. She gave him a slow smile. “But first, why don’t you try out your new powers? We need to remake Cana in our image, and we wouldn’t want to be…interrupted.”

She was clearly implying something, but Zakareth didn’t understand what. Not at first. Then he cast his mind back, into the part of him that was the Incarnation of Ragnarus, and knowledge flooded in like light from the rising sun. He knew every weapon in the Vault, knew its name and history, knew its price, felt its hunger like his own.

He held one hand out over the dungeon beneath the palace, where Cana’s Hanging Tree once stood, and he called upon his Territory.

The Pillar of Sunset rose from the ground, a column of smoldering red and black stone. It lifted steadily, foot by foot, rising past the King’s hand. He let his fingers trail along the smooth surface as the pillar slid by, its black stone marbled with veins of shining red. Finally it cracked the ceiling, emerging out of the royal palace and towering above the city.

From the top of the pillar, a scarlet curtain spread like a pool of blood over a glass dome, trickling down until the entire city of Cana was sealed in an inverted bowl of crimson light. No one would be able to walk past the barrier, not in this world or in any other.

Zakareth had never been taught that this artifact existed. He’d never even heard of it. But now he knew exactly how to activate it, knew precisely what price it would exact from the city’s citizens over the coming weeks and months.

But some prices must be paid.

***

Alin landed on the walls of Enosh in a flare of orange light.

He stood with his back to the sun, golden armor gleaming, and the city buzzed beneath him. Guards murmured to one another, some running off to spread the word. The people below, going about their everyday business, pointed to him and dropped what they were doing. Laundry baskets fell unnoticed to the ground, street vendors boarded up their carts, and mothers dragged their children over to stand beneath him at the foot of the wall. They called up to him:

“Welcome back, Eliadel!”

“Where have you been?”

“Give us a speech!”

Alin smiled down on them, welling up with compassion.

These are innocent people, whispered the Rose Light of Elysia. The light was a part of him now, and he could feel its thoughts as easily as his own.

You can teach them, the Silver said. They had never known what their leaders were planning. Their only crime was to trust in the words of those in authority.

But he did not speak to them. He was waiting for someone, and patience was a part of him now. The Green Light approved.

A few in the crowd seemed to notice his eyes. They whispered to one another, hiding their gossip behind cupped hands, and pointing at him as subtly as they could. He knew what they were seeing, but he offered no explanation. His eyes shone with the light of Elysia now, with all its rainbow of colors. The lights would shift, angry red one moment and soft blue-green the next.

He remained silent, waiting. And soon the people grew quiet with him.

Patience, the Green Light whispered. You only need to wait.

It did not take as long as he had imagined for the Grandmasters to come investigate. Grandmaster Helgard, by reputation and title the most skilled Helgard Traveler in the city, hurried across the courtyard. He was a shaggy bear of a man, with a full brown beard that fell down to his broad chest. As a representative of his Territory, he wore a blue cloak lined with white fur: the standard Helgard uniform.

He marched toward the nearest guard tower as though he meant to walk through it, his shoulders set like he was heading into battle. It would take him a few minutes to climb the stairs of the guard tower all the way up to the top of the walls, where he would want a word with Alin in person.

Alin didn't mind the wait. He silently studied his people, searching their expressions.

In the eyes of many, he saw worship. They thought of him as an idol, as a messenger descended from the heavens. He would have to dissuade them of that. He was not an idol, but an ideal.

However, this group was still the closest to perfection. They would obey him, following his orders without question, and as a result their training would be the lightest and easiest. They had the shortest distance to travel.

On the faces of many others, he saw confusion. They looked upon him while trying to decide what they thought, wondering what he represented, asking themselves what he wanted. This group could be persuaded. He would have to prove himself to them, but he knew that they would see it, given time. He would show them that he was worthy, and that they could be too.

Their road would be hard, but not long. They, too, could find the way.

Then there was the third group: those who wore the uniforms of different Territories. There, an Avernus Traveler in a buckskin dress with feathers adorning her head. And over there, another man in the blue-and-white coat of Helgard. The Travelers had the longest and most difficult path to perfection.

They had been aware of their leaders' goals. They knew what the Grandmasters meant to do. These lesser Travelers were not beyond redemption, but their transformation would be filled with pain.

He turned his smile on them. The Travelers didn't know it now, but they would be better off for their suffering.

It will be a long, hard job, the Red Light said. But it will be worth doing.

Grandmaster Helgard clapped a hand on Alin's armored shoulder, and Alin realized he had been watching the crowd for several minutes.

Helgard frowned through his beard. “What is this, Eliadel? What have you done to the wall?”

That was not the first question Alin had expected.

To the wall? He looked at his feet.

Where he stood, the bricks that made up the wall had turned to gold. He was standing in a perfect golden circle, about two feet across, that had once been made of stone.

Your presence as an Incarnation, the Violet Light told him. You’re not human anymore.

“And where have you been?” Helgard continued, anger creeping into his voice. “There's much work to be done. We can't have you running off at a time like this. No one has seen you or Naraka all day, and some of us are getting worried.”

That name acted like a spark on the dry timber of Alin's spirit. His patience evaporated in a cloud of smoke, and he found that one of his gauntleted hands was holding Grandmaster Helgard around the throat.

Fascinating. Did anger still have that much of a hold over him? He would have to work on that.

The man struggled, and yesterday he would have been able to overpower Alin in a purely physical contest. Today, Alin called Red Light from Elysia. Shining ropes of red twisted up his limbs, feeding him strength, and Helgard might as well have tried to wrestle a statue.

The crowd below noticed, and their murmuring swelled to a worried roar.

Alin reached out to his Territory, summoning a creature that he sensed deep within the Silver District. It appeared in midair almost instantly, like a single steel eye hovering on flickering insect wings. It buzzed around his head, bobbing up and down in excitement.

“My people,” Alin began, and the fluttering eye repeated his words at a much louder volume. Alin's voice boomed throughout the streets of Enosh. He would have been surprised if anyone in the city failed to hear him.

“I have discovered a disturbing truth. As many of you know, I have executed the King of Damasca for his crimes against life and humanity.”

Somewhere among the people, a cheer was born, but Alin drowned it out. “Imagine my disappointment when I found that your Grandmasters were guilty of even greater atrocities.”

The remnants of the cheer faded to uneasy silence.

“While the royal line of Damasca has based its three-century reign on the sacrifice of their citizens, they have done so for a cause. They believed that they were protecting the world from a more violent fate. Even if their actions were detestable, their intentions, at least, were pure.

“The Grandmasters of Enosh, by contrast, sought to release that deadly fate upon the world.” Alin turned to the thrashing man steadily turning purple in his grip. “Isn't that right, Grandmaster Helgard?”

Alin's hand opened, releasing the Grandmaster. He fell to his knees, coughing and retching, trying to get a full breath.

Alin waited, Green Light whispering patience into his mind.

“What Damasca is doing is an abomination,” Helgard finally gasped out. “We wanted to restore the Territories to their natural state.” The silver eye carried the man's words to the citizens below.

“By releasing the most powerful monsters in all the Territories onto an unsuspecting world,” Alin announced. “By letting the Incarnations slaughter as they please. I have visited the village of Myria, which is now little more than a pile of ashes. When the Naraka Incarnation was released—as a direct result of your actions, Grandmaster—it tore Bel Calem to pieces. Then it moved on to an innocent village.”

Grandmaster Helgard looked like he was trying to focus on getting his breath back, more than his next turn to speak. The crowd muttered, confused.

“Who cares?” someone called out. “That's a Damascan village.”

“I was born in Myria,” Alin said softly. The people fell silent once again. “The people there knew nothing of Damascan royalty or human sacrifice.”

Except for Leah, he thought, though the idea didn't inspire the anger it once had. She would have to be held accountable for her dishonesty, but it was nothing to upset him. Not anymore.

Beneath him, the circle of gold had widened. A spot on the wall, about three feet across, had transformed from rough stone to shining gold. Even the texture had changed, smoothing out to a polished gleam.

Like the walls of Elysia.

“Here is my question to you, Grandmaster, to be answered in front of all your people. Why? Why release the Incarnations? What have you to gain from this?”

Grandmaster Helgard had risen to his feet, and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Why? Because the reign of Ragnarus over all other Territories is unnatural and unjust. Because, despite what they would tell you, Damasca has no divine right to control the Territories. And because the Incarnations will not go wild, as those royals claim. They will join us in destroying Damasca! Why would they not? We have some of the most powerful Travelers in the world, and we alone oppose those who have imprisoned them for three centuries.”

“So,” Alin said, and the word echoed through all of Enosh. “You think you can control the Incarnations.” He filled one hand with shining golden light. “Why don’t we put that to the test?”

In his mind, the Gold Light laughed.

Alin’s last words were almost drowned out as the howling wind of Helgard blasted him from empty space. Only a flare of Orange Light kept him from being blown over by the sheer force, and he was all but blinded by a rush of snow. Something roared over even the gale, and he sensed more than saw a flash of silver behind him.

Alin spun around, hurling Gold Light as he turned.

The light slammed into a white-furred, horned creature almost twice Alin's height. It did nothing more than scorch the beast’s fur. The creature drew itself up on its hind legs like a man and growled, reaching one paw out to fill its hand with an icicle longer than Alin's leg.

Grandmaster Helgard knelt behind his Gate, chanting and contorting his fingers into twisted shapes. As he did, his Gate grew wider, as though he were preparing to call something much bigger.

In the back of his mind, Alin reached for the Violet Light of honesty. He summoned sheets of shimmering violet, like fabric made entirely of light, into his hands and cast them like a net toward the huge, furred beast. The light wrapped around the summoned monster like a layer of bandages on a body prepared for burial. The creature roared once more from within its purple wrappings, and then the whole package imploded into a pinprick of vivid violet.

The Violet Light corrected the balance of the world, banishing anything that didn't belong back to its home Territory. It was also, Alin sensed, one of the most difficult to summon. One strip of the paper-thin light would cost him more effort than a dozen orbs of golden force.

At least, it would have yesterday.

Another strip of violet twisted up from the ground like an unspooling bandage, wrapping itself around the Grandmaster's Helgard Gate. It shivered for a moment, as though resisting, and blinked shut.

Grandmaster Helgard staggered back as though he had been slapped, and Alin stepped forward to meet him.

“If you are so weak, how can you protect your citizens?” Alin asked, and the hovering silver eye caught his words and cast them out to the crowd. “I will do a better job protecting Enosh. Protecting my people.”

The silence from the crowd lasted a moment longer before they burst into applause. With a simple mental effort, Alin banished the silver eye. He didn't need it anymore.

The Grandmaster didn't bother with a rebuttal. He was muttering in his strange language again, making signs with his hands.

Red Light swirled around Alin's arm as he reached out and slapped Helgard's hands apart. “I only have one question for you, Helgard. Where is Grandmaster Naraka?”

Helgard's face filled with stubborn fury. “Is this what you wanted all along? A city to call your own?”

“I have a city,” Alin said calmly. “It's much nicer than this one, so I'm thinking about bringing it here. Now, I will ask one more time. Where is Grandmaster Naraka?”

“With you, Eliadel. If you don't have her, then I can only be pleased that she escaped. If anyone will be able to flog your rebellious hide, it will be her.” Then he spat at Alin's feet.

Such gestures did not bother him now. He simply summoned his sword—its blade formed from interlocking planes of golden light—and ran Helgard through.

There was no road to perfection for this Grandmaster. He had knowingly endangered his people and the world. It was only right that he should suffer the consequences. The Blue Light begged for mercy, the Gold cheered his decisive action, and the Rose asked him to stop. But in this, his mind was made up.

The Grandmasters would have to die.

The golden circle had engulfed most of the wall near Alin, and he thought the gleaming gold looked much better than the irregular, dirty stone. The metal was clean, smooth, and even. He would have to make sure to rebuild Enosh in the image of Elysia.

Alin looked out over the city, and he realized there was much work to be done before he could oppose the other Incarnations. Months of labor, at least. He accepted that fact, letting green patience rule him. He would do as much as he could for this city. As much as necessary.

He would start by finding the other Grandmasters and introducing them to their fate.

No matter how long it took.

***

Simon leaned on the crutch the Nye had made for him, hobbling down the hallway. He wasn’t supposed to be out of bed except to use the pool—Olissa’s orders—but this was his responsibility.

“Where are you going to go?” he asked.

Ilana stopped at the entry hall. Her hair was bound up behind her, and she carried a pack of supplies on her back. “I’m going after my brother. Somebody has to keep him from making an even worse mess of things.”

“Alin’s an Incarnation now,” Simon said hesitantly. “Are you sure he’ll even want to see you?”

She leaned over and ruffled Simon’s hair, which she’d done to Alin when he was a little boy. Simon had always thought it looked embarrassing and uncomfortable. Now, he discovered that he was absolutely right.

“I don’t understand all this Traveler stuff,” she said, hitching her pack up onto one shoulder. “But you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”

This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and Ilana had clearly made up her mind. So, even though the strain felt like it would kill him, Simon called steel. Then he reached up and pulled Azura down from the wall.

After Ilana passed through the Gate and into the outside world, he stood in the entry hall for a few long minutes, thinking. Back in Myria, he’d never known Ilana particularly well, but he still wished she would succeed. He hoped she found Alin and talked him back to sanity.

Because if she failed, and Alin went on a rampage, Simon would have to kill him.

CHAPTER 3:

GATES IN THE SNOW

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

Winter’s End

Six months later, Simon gathered his black cloak around him. For once, he was glad of its warmth. The color stuck out even more than usual against the snow, painting him like a single blot of ink on a sheet of parchment. He was higher up in the mountains than he had ever been, nestled in a tiny valley surrounded by rock walls.

The whole scene was covered in three feet of snow—more than Simon had ever seen in one place except through a Helgard Gate. He had seen mountains, where snow would gather on the very tops, and they experienced the occasional flurry in Myria, but the flakes usually melted the moment they hit the ground. Before he left the village, he’d never seen more than wet patches of slush.

He had only imagined an endless white blanket like this. It was even colder than he would have expected.

Oh my, the wind is so violent up here! Gloria exclaimed. Simon pulled the doll out of his coat pocket, partially to look at her, partially to see if she would react to the cold. He wasn’t sure if the dolls could or could not sense temperature, but he always savored the opportunity to learn new things about them.

Gloria in particular had a wide smile on her painted wooden face, and her white hair was done up into an ornate bun, tied with fine golden chains. More gold ornaments adorned her fluffy pink dress.

Aren’t you cold, sweet one? It has to be freezing in this snow, but you’re not saying a word! Like all Simon’s dolls, Gloria’s mental voice sounded like it was coming through a long tunnel filled with whispering wind.

I feel like if I open my mouth, my tongue will freeze off, Simon sent.

Don’t complain, now. It’s unbecoming of a sweet young man like you. No one likes a boy who complains too much.

You asked me! Simon had only taken Gloria because she had irritated him for months about favoring Caela and Otoku over the others. He had only been out here waiting for an hour or two, but he was already regretting his choice. Please tell me there’s a Valinhall power that keeps you warm. I’ll go challenge that room right now.

Hmmmmm, let me think, Gloria sent, in tones of exaggerated thoughtfulness. The winter garden has an ice dagger that will help you ignore pain and discomfort. I don’t think it does quite as much for temperature, though. As a matter of fact, I bet it makes you even colder!

Simon let Gloria chatter on, because she seemed to be most happy that way. He wished he had taken Caela or Otoku, even if that did mean he played favorites. Not only would they be better company, they both understood Leah more than he did. Maybe they could help him cope with his role in her plan.

“Stay where I tell you and wait,” Leah had told him. She was wearing a fancy red-and-gold dress and her crown, so it was more of an order. “When I need you, I’ll give you a signal.”

“What signal?” he had asked, in the foolish and naïve hope that someone would, for once, explain a plan before requiring him to follow it.

“I assure you, you won’t miss it,” she’d said, practically shoving him through a Gate. And now he had been standing around in the cold for the better part of two hours. He had come here to fight an Incarnation, not freeze his toes off when his boots soaked through.

Gloria was still babbling, and Simon began to wonder if the dolls could run out of breath when they didn’t have any lungs. …and you know about the white flame, though that’s more the illusion of warmth than real heat. It burns poisons out, but you know that, it’s not intended for comfort, and look out!

Simon almost didn’t hear the warning buried in Gloria’s chatter, but a shadow loomed over him and he hurled himself to the right. As he collapsed into a snowdrift, he called steel.

His muscles chilled and tightened, as though they had been banded with ice-cold metal. Chains crawled up his arms, beginning with one black link on the backs of his hands and snaking slowly up his wrists. They looked like ink, but they felt like rough iron on his skin.

All in all, the sensations did nothing to make him more comfortable.

The shadow swelled for a moment before something huge and white slammed into the spot where he had been standing, sending puffs of snow blasting into the air. The sound echoed off the nearby rocks in an endless crash.

Before Simon could get a good look at the thing that had just landed—it looked like a ball of dirty white fur embedded in the snow—a shining crystal came rocketing through the sky, flashing like a shooting star. It was a chunk of grey-white stone about the size of his fist, and it flew at him as though it were going to slam into his teeth.

It finally settled into an orbit around his head, shouting at him in Leah’s voice.

“Simon!” Leah called, through the Lirial crystal. “There’s something headed your way.”

“You’re a little late,” Simon responded. He held his hand out to the side and summoned Azura. The sword shimmered as it vanished from its rack in Valinhall and appeared in his hand, seven feet of mirror-bright and slightly curving metal.

Without the power of steel running through him, he would have a hard time lifting the sword, much less using it in combat. With the strength of Valinhall, though, he flicked the blade through the air like a switch.

The white-furred creature rose from the crater it had driven into the snow, unfolding into its full ten feet of height. It looked almost like one of the mirka, humanoid monsters from Helgard that Leah had told him to expect, with its thick, shaggy pelt and curling goat horns on the top of its head. But as it shook snow from its fur and turned to snarl at Simon, he got a better look.

Its back was swollen into a hump, as though it were concealing a turtle shell beneath its hide. It lurched forward on all its limbs...of which it had six, not the mirka's four. Its extra set of arms nested underneath the top pair, and it seemed to use them for balance, pushing against the walls of the small canyon. Instead of summoning a jagged spear of ice into its hand, as Leah had told him to anticipate from a mirka, this thing lunged toward him on all six limbs, jaws snapping like a wolf's.

Simon inhaled, calling upon the Nye essence as he did. He felt the familiar chill in his lungs—which was not much of a comfort when he was actually breathing freezing air—and the world slowed to cool honey. Clouds of snow hung above the ground, still settling from where the whatever-it-was made impact. Wind slowly ruffled the creature's fur.

Gloria made a disgusted noise. That thing is absolutely hideous! Why can't you Travelers call something lovely from your Territories, for once?

I called you, didn't I? Predictably, that sent Gloria into a flurry of flattered murmurs and false humility.

Simon tried to adjust his stance, twisting to the side and bringing Azura forward in the hopes that the monster would impale itself on its own momentum, but his feet wouldn't budge. It took him a few seconds of struggling before he figured out why: his feet were encased in ice.

Didn't I tell you? That monster froze your feet to the ground. I imagine it likes to lock its prey down. How horrible!

Simon drew a bit more steel and kicked his way free of the ice, but even the agility of the Nye couldn't redeem his graceless stumble as he finally broke loose. He had to stagger forward, almost planting his nose into the snow, to avoid the creature’s final rush.

“What is this thing?” Simon called, as the beast caught itself with its upper four arms against the canyon's far wall.

“I'm not a Helgard Traveler, Simon,” Leah said, her voice stressed. “Take care of it. Quickly. You might have much worse incoming. Give me a—”

Leah cut off when something streaked through the air, shattering the crystal into a puff of shining dust.

“Lirial,” a woman's voice said in disgust. “They always think of themselves as preserving knowledge, but where are the libraries in Lirial? The Daniri didn't leave any of those behind, did they? Nothing but dusty crystals. Helgard, by contrast, has a library on every other floor. If you lived to be as old as I am, you still wouldn’t have the time to read all the books in the Tower.”

While keeping his sword pointed at the snarling monster against the canyon wall, Simon spared a quick glance for the speaking woman. She stood above him, looking down on the shallow valley.

She had a pair of tightly curling ram's horns on the sides of her head, just over her ears. She looked only a few years older than Simon, but the curly hair that ran down her back was pure white. She wore a suit of long white fur, and where her skin showed through, it was a pale blue, like early morning sky. Strangest were her eyes, which shone with all the glacial colors, from ice-white at the center, to a shifting gradient of green, purple, and blue at the edges.

Simon had met too many Incarnations by now not to recognize this one. He tightened his grip on the Nye essence, ready to call more at once.

“I am Helgard,” the woman said simply. Around her, the snow on the ground rose and drifted in a soft, powdery veil. “What is your name?”

Under ordinary circumstances, Simon would have attacked by now. People let their guards down while they were speaking, even Incarnations. But he had allies to consider, so his mission was to buy time.

He would have rather attacked.

“Simon, son of Kalman,” he answered. “I don’t mean to offend, but you sound different than the other Incarnations I’ve met.”

She sniffed dismissively. “I should hope so.”

“You're a lot more...chatty than Endross was.”

He had wondered if she would take that as an insult, but she didn’t seem bothered. “Endross is an unsophisticated beast. Like sha'da'narile, there. Good for nothing but pointing at a target and setting loose.”

Simon hoped he wasn't supposed to remember the creature's name.

“And you're not?” Simon asked. He had been instructed quite clearly to keep the Incarnation engaged for as long as he could, if he was unlucky enough to stumble across its path. The longer he could do that without fighting, the better, and he hadn't met an Incarnation this willing to talk since Valin.

The Helgard Incarnation held a clawed hand to her chest as though he had wounded her. “I? I am the most refined, erudite, and articulate being that you are ever likely to meet. Incarnation did not change that much about me.”

It's a good thing she didn't say ‘humble,’ Gloria sent.

The Incarnation's eyes shifted, becoming even colder. “You, however, have much in common with Endross.”

“Do I?” Simon tried to keep one eye on the hunchback creature, but it wasn’t doing anything other than making threatening noises, and the Incarnation was by far the greater threat. Even though she was chatting pleasantly enough.

She chuckled. “You're a Valinhall, aren’t you? I've learned much about your kind since I was released. A Territory that exists only to kill other Travelers.”

“I haven't seen Helgard Travelers do much else but fight.”

“Ah, but where have you met them, except on the battlefield?” She waved a hand through the air. “Nonetheless, I digress. I'm going to have to insist that you come with me.”

That wasn't in the plan. “Where would we go?” Simon asked warily. He still had to buy time.

The Incarnation smiled, revealing pointed teeth. “You have my word, I would not harm you. I was instructed to retrieve a Valinhall Traveler, and at last I have found you. Will you come with me peacefully, or must I resort to the barbaric approach?”

The six-armed monster snarled next to him, and Simon recognized that his diplomatic strategy had failed.

Come to think of it, when have I ever managed to talk an enemy down?

Rebekkah tells me that your foray into Endross was quite successful, Gloria sent. You didn't even have to kill anyone, did you?

I doubt it's going to work out that well this time, Simon said. He turned on the balls of his feet, sweeping Azura up and around, slicing a line through the snow. He happened to pass through the hunchback creature's neck on the way.

Sky-blue blood splattered the snow like paint as the summoned beast fell into two pieces.

The Incarnation’s eyes closed, and a look of grief crossed her face. She whispered a word, too quietly for Simon to hear over the wind. Then a snout, like that of a blue-skinned, hairless bear, peaked over the canyon wall. It growled softly down at Simon. Beside the bear stood a four-eyed goat and something like a long, white-furred snake with a head like a dog’s. A whole menagerie of creatures crawled, slithered, and ran to join their Incarnation, looking down at Simon as though at the last scrap of food in the bottom of the bucket.

The Helgard Incarnation walked from one animal to another, placing her hand on their pelts and speaking a single word to each of them. It took Simon a moment to realize that she was naming the individuals, one by one. When she finished, she turned from the crowd of impatient beasts to regard Simon once again with her glacial eyes.

“I would like a chance to know you better, Simon, son of Kalman.” She waved a hand forward, looking to her summoned army. “Retrieve him.”

A blue hand burst from the snow at Simon’s feet, big enough to grab a horse around the middle. Gloria shouted a warning, and only the Nye essence kept Simon from being seized. He leapt to one side, catching himself against the canyon wall.

A giant hauled itself from the snow, its skin as blue as a drowned body. It was at least ten feet tall, and Simon didn’t see how it could have stayed concealed in such a thin layer of snow. It must have come through a Helgard Gate somehow, though he wasn’t sure if it was possible to open a Gate that way. Incarnations seemed to be the exceptions to all sorts of rules.

Simon was lifting his blade to confront the giant when the furred snake crept up to his side. It didn't slither, but instead ran on fifty pairs of dog's legs. It sank its teeth into his leg, sending pain shooting up past his hip. He smacked Azura's hilt into the monster's skull, making it release its jaws, but the agony made his leg all but useless.

Above you! Gloria called, and Simon swung Azura up in an arc, meeting the giant's blue hand in midair.

He expected the blade to slice straight through the summoned creature's flesh, as it normally did, his imagination providing the image of thick fingers scattered across the snow. Azura struck the first finger, drew dark blue blood, and stopped as soon as it hit bone.

The giant had a face like a nightmare, with a huge nose, black eyes, and a disproportionately wide mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. Its forehead wrinkled and it howled in pain, thrashing out at Simon. Shards of ice whirled in the air, seemingly called by the creature's suffering. They flew around the giant, drifting on the wind, drawing a dozen tiny cuts on Simon's skin. The cloak stopped many of the shards from penetrating, but it was still like being pelted with handfuls of broken glass.

Worse, the pain in his leg had not yet subsided. It seemed to be getting stronger, burning more than it should, and Simon was starting to feel light-headed. Surely he hadn't lost that much blood.

Oh, dear, Gloria sent. It seems that long dog was venomous. What do you know? I wouldn't have expected it, that's for sure.

It's poisonous?

Venomous, dear, let's try to be correct. You didn't eat it, after all.

Simon cast his mind out to the Valinhall forge, which he had first conquered long ago. He had returned to challenge the room's new guardian only a few weeks before, since his first visit hadn't left him with a new power.

His second visit had gone much better.

A single white candle-flame filled Simon's mind, flooding his body with a clean, pleasant heat. The warmth focused on his wound, growing uncomfortably hot, burning the bitten area almost like a brand pressed against his leg. Then, all at once, the heat vanished. Simon tested his leg and found that, while it was still painful, he could at least stand. More importantly, the lightness in his head had subsided.

The Helgard Incarnation saw that something had happened. She smiled slightly. “Give in, son of Kalman. Let yourself slide into sleep. No harm will come to you now.”

She expected the poison to be enough for him. Maker knows, if you hadn't noticed it, she probably would have gotten me.

No need to thank me, Gloria responded, her mental voice bursting with pride. That's what I'm here for.

Simon pulled as much steel and essence as he could and kicked off with his good leg. He hurtled toward the giant's head, leading with Azura's point, and buried his sword into the enormous eye socket. The Dragon's Fang scraped on the back of the creature's skull without penetrating, but the giant's body spasmed and started to fall. Within the world of the Nye essence, it seemed as though the monster was drifting underwater.

When they hit the ground, the Incarnation was waiting for him.

She was surrounded by her snarling, white-furred guardians, so Simon first swept Azura in a single swipe from left to right. He sent a few heads and limbs tumbling, along with a bucketful of blue blood. Most of the monsters were still standing, but Simon hadn't intended to kill them all. He only meant to distract them.

He dashed through while the animals still reacted to the pain, bringing Azura down in a two-handed strike aimed at the top of the Incarnation's head, in between her curling horns.

The edge of the Dragon's Fang met solid, frozen surface.

A bar of black ice, thick as a tree trunk, hovered over the Incarnation's head. She didn't seem surprised, or startled, or afraid. She simply watched him from the other end of his sword, her icy eyes calculating.

Simon pulled Azura back, elbowing the barking blue-skinned bear when it tried to rush him from behind. His steel-fueled strike sent the beast stumbling awkwardly backwards on all fours.

The first time Simon had met an Incarnation—Valin, the creator of Valinhall—he had only held two useful powers: Nye essence and Benson's steel. While those were still the most practical weapons in his arsenal, he had wished for more at the time. Once the Hanging Trees had failed and the other Incarnations were released one by one, he had been faced by a simple truth: he was not prepared.

He had spent most of the next two seasons in Valinhall, emerging only when Leah called him to help with one mission or another. As a result, the past six months had given him, from his perspective, more than a year's worth of experience.

He had used that year well.

Simon reached out to the armory, where every weapon except the thirteen Dragon's Fangs were kept. In his mind, he focused on the ornate bronze key, which had been his reward from the room after he had finally solved its puzzles.

As he called the power of the key, the Valinhall armory opened its doors.

Simon swung Azura one-handed at the Incarnation's side. As expected, the length of dark ice whirled in the air, spinning itself around to intercept the Dragon's Fang. His blade's edge bit into the frozen surface.

In the same instant, Simon brought his left hand forward, a spear in his fist. He had initially tried to carry a second sword in his left hand, but the Dragon's Fang was so long that it made wielding any other weapon difficult. A spear was one of the few weapons with the same reach as Azura.

The spearhead sliced through the Incarnation's pale-furred chest, driving into her ribs. The blade scraped on bone, and dark blue blood oozed down the front of her stomach.

Simon pulled his spear out and hopped back, landing on his good leg. He was forced to use Azura like a club, knocking enraged Helgard creatures away as they desperately lunged at the one who had wounded their Incarnation. He hurled the spear as an albino wolf-man tried to charge him. The weapon pierced the creature's belly and sent it tumbling to the ground.

He turned, clutching Azura in both hands, to keep the Incarnation in view.

The wound would have been fatal in a human: there was a ragged hole torn in her chest, its edges dark and weeping. But Helgard didn't act injured. She hardly seemed to notice that he had stabbed her. She simply stood staring at him, puzzled.

When she spoke, there was blue blood in her mouth, staining her teeth, but her words were perfectly clear. “Who are you, Simon, son of Kalman? What do you feel? Why do you fight? Where do you come from? Your leg must pain you. It should be agonizing. What keeps you standing on it? Tell me everything.”

Leah hadn't mentioned this when she briefed him on the nature of Helgard. She had emphasized the ice and wind and the vicious creatures native to the Territory, but she hadn't talked about how curious the Incarnation would be.

“Why do you care?” Simon asked, because he was supposed to stall for time. He had hoped that he would be able to stall by inflicting a crippling injury on the Incarnation, but that seemed out of the question. Now he was back to talking.

The black bar of ice hung over the Incarnation's head like a doorframe.

Helgard's icy eyes flashed with an internal blue-green light. “I want to know who you are. When I understand you, I will save that information. I will savor it. Even when you are long dead, Helgard will remember, and to me, you will live on.”

“Why don't we sit down and talk about it?” Simon suggested.

The Incarnation remained motionless, but the black bar of ice spun over her head like a staff in invisible hands. “I know you have allies here, and you clearly want to wait for them. I do not blame you, but that would be an unforgiveable delay. Step into my Territory, and we can talk for years. After your purpose has been served.”

“What purpose?” Simon asked, keeping a wary eye on the Helgard creatures surrounding him.

Below you! Gloria called desperately, and Simon jumped.

Not high enough. Normally he would have been able to clear ten feet from a flat jump, with Benson's steel flowing through him, but he made the mistake of pushing off from the ground on his injured leg. He made it three feet into the air before a column of solid ice reached up from the snow beneath his feet and snagged him around the ankles.

Simon struck at the ice with Azura, but more flowed up, steadily covering his hips, his ribs. The cold seeped into him, sharp and biting, leaving a complete absence of feeling behind.

“You were fighting my partners before,” the Helgard Incarnation said, gesturing to the pack of white, furry creatures around her. “You have not faced me yet.”

Simon raised one arm to try and throw Azura at her, as a last-ditch effort, but the ice grew to cover his right arm.

It did not, however, cover his left. He was able to slip that hand into his cloak, searching through the internal pocket. His fingers, trembling from the cold, brushed past Gloria's soft hair until they finally found something broad, smooth, and flat.

The object felt like a shallow, metal bowl, almost as cold as the ice now surrounding him. With an unsteady hand, he managed to pull it out.

It was a mask.

The left half of the mask was made of rough, black iron, and the right half of mirror-bright Tartarus steel. The two halves were joined in the middle by a jagged line where the two pieces had been welded together by Caius and Olissa Agnos. The eye slits were simple lines that didn't seem wide enough to offer a full range of vision, and there was no hole for the mouth. Nor were there any straps or clasps to hold the mask on the wearer's head, though Simon knew from experience that the mask would bind itself to him even without any visible means of support.

He fumbled with cold, clumsy hands at the mask, trying to press it to his face. Even confronted with imminent capture by an Incarnation, Simon couldn't ignore his fear. The last time he had used this mask, he had almost Incarnated himself. Even after using it successfully, once he had removed it, he had collapsed. It had taken him a full day to be able to walk again, and over a week until he could call any powers from Valinhall safely.

He had promised himself that he wouldn't use this mask unless he absolutely had to. But surely this counted as an emergency, didn't it?

Gloria gasped in Simon's head. Simon! Put that back!

You want me to let the Incarnation take me? Simon snapped. Why wouldn't his fingers work? His left elbow was frozen, and he strained his neck trying to push his face against the back of the mask.

It would be better if you died, Gloria said quietly.

Better for who? Simon wondered, but he stopped grasping at the mask. In theory, he would choose death over Incarnation. At least if he died, he wouldn't hurt anyone else.

But that was much harder to remember when it looked like he would soon freeze to death. Or, if Helgard lived up to her promise, he would die as a captive to a mad Incarnation. He would rather end his life here, in battle.

The Helgard Incarnation ran a hand over one of her horns, watching him. A patch of cloudy ice had formed over her wound, and Simon could see hints of her blood within. “Don't worry so much,” she said softly. “I'll take care of everything.”

A black form streaked over the snow behind her, like a flash of dark lightning, and Simon's icy prison shattered.

It's about time, Gloria complained. You have no idea the trouble I went through trying to keep him from doing something crazy.

“Sorry,” Indirial said out loud. He pushed back his hood and flashed Simon a bright grin. “Looks like I made it in time.”

Simon was barely able to move through the cold. His body seemed to do nothing but shiver, no matter what he wanted. Still, he managed to give Indirial a weak smile.

The Helgard Incarnation didn't look shocked; she raised white eyebrows curiously. “I didn't feel you. Why is that?”

Indirial turned to her, raising his hood. He let out one breath that shimmered with the colors of the moon.

Nye essence.

He seemed to vanish, then he was standing behind the Incarnation, lifting his sword—Vasha, a Dragon's Fang almost as long as Azura, but chipped and cracked along the entire blade, as though he had slammed the sword repeatedly against the side of a mountain. He brought it down against the side of her blue-skinned neck.

The blade met black ice. Helgard glanced from side to side in evident confusion before spinning around to look Indirial in the eye. “Remarkable,” she breathed. “I didn't feel you there at all.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? And I look great in black, too.”

Helgard cocked her head, confused, but Indirial didn’t explain. He just reversed Vasha so the blade pointed behind his back. The Overlord thrust backwards, impaling the serpentine dog that had tried to rush him while he was distracted. The creature swallowed cracked steel and choked on its own blue blood.

Simon pulled his own hood up, still shivering from the cold, and called Nye essence again. He was running out, but he had enough to help him escape.

The Incarnation turned to Simon, and her icy eyes widened. “Where did he go?”

This was a trick Simon had learned from Indirial, and it had come in handy through a whole autumn and winter hunting Incarnations. While you wore a Nye cloak and called their essence, you were all but invisible to all supernatural detection. Leah couldn't stand it—she couldn't monitor his and Indirial's status while they were fighting in their cloaks, because she could only catch glimpses of them through her Lirial lens.

The power had several drawbacks. Travelers could see them with their eyes, and the cloaks only activated when the hood was up. Simon preferred to fight without wearing the hood, because it had a tendency to flop down and cover his eyes. He had learned to deal with it for the sake of partial invisibility, but it still irritated him. How were you supposed to fight with a black cloth falling down and cutting off your vision every thirty seconds?

When the Nye essence wore out, he would be perfectly visible again, but until then Simon had a few moments. One of the things they had learned, that even Indirial hadn't known, was that the cloaks gave Incarnations no end of trouble. The Incarnation would be almost blind to their movements. As long as the essence lasted.

Simon rolled out of the way and watched Indirial fight the Helgard Incarnation while he waited for the feeling to come back into his limbs.

Vasha struck at Helgard's side, then when that was blocked by her floating black ice, Indirial used the opportunity to step in closer, sweeping a leg underneath the Incarnation's. A blast of snowy wind literally picked Indirial up and tossed him backwards, but he twisted in midair and caught himself against the canyon wall with his feet, leaping back down at Helgard, his Dragon's Fang clutched in both hands.

The silver blade flashed again, and a chip of ice flew into the air.

You poor thing, Gloria murmured sympathetically. You don't need to worry. Indirial will take care of her, so you lie back and rest.

That was all Simon needed to climb back to his feet. There was no way he would stay quiet and let Indirial do all the work.

His left leg still felt like it was being stabbed, his skin stung all over from contact with the ice, and he couldn't seem to stop shivering. More importantly, his Nye essence was fading: he could only see Indirial's movements as a blur, as he tried to slip a thrust or slash past the Incarnation's whirling frozen bar.

But he had a few seconds left, and he intended to use them.

Indirial landed in a crouch, his blade falling down at the Incarnation's head. It sunk into the ice and stuck there for an instant.

Simon had managed to make it a few feet closer to Helgard, but for once he was glad of Azura's awkward length. He summoned it into his hand, lunging on his good leg and stabbing straight into the Incarnation's unguarded back.

The black bar swung behind her, knocking Azura away, but not before he managed to score a blue slice across Helgard's skin.

The snow erupted underneath him, tossing him backwards, but he had enough Nye grace left to land on his feet and catch a glimpse of Indirial throwing a summoned hatchet and hitting Helgard in the shoulder.

Three whirling razors, like snowflakes the size of wagon wheels, buzzed out of nowhere and converged on Indirial. He slipped underneath them, and they flew past one another, each skirting the other by mere inches.

Helgard gestured, and snow tumbled toward Indirial by the ton. At the same time, another blue-skinned bear growled and sprung at Simon, and it was all he could do to hold it off with his steel-enhanced strength. Azura fell to the snow.

Then a second blue bear crashed into the first. Both of them roared, slashing one another with their claws and rolling around in the snow. The air seemed to grow even colder as they scratched and cut and bit with animal ferocity.

Simon looked up to see Leah, in a crimson coat and the long red dress she always wore when she was acting as Queen of Damasca, directing half a dozen Travelers in the white-and-blue coats of Helgard. They twisted their fingers into nimble shapes, muttering inaudibly as they opposed the will of their Territory's Incarnation.

Leah looked down at Simon, her dark hair caught up in a red, fur-lined hood. Her blue eyes were sharp. She mouthed something to him, and Gloria translated.

She says, 'Get on with it,' the doll related. She chuckled. Oh, she is cheeky. What a wonderful young lady.

Simon scanned the white landscape, looking for Indirial. It had looked like he was on the verge of getting buried by a summoned avalanche, but if anyone could have escaped, it was the Overlord of Cana.

And there he was, his hood up, bursting out of the snow with Vasha flashing against the Incarnation's bar of dark ice.

The Helgard Incarnation didn't seem like she was inclined to pay attention, though. A shadow crossed her face as she saw Leah. “Ragnarus,” she said, her voice grating audibly. The wind howled, and the snow seemed to shift and hiss around Simon in tune with the Incarnation's anger. “This is not the opportunity I had hoped.” She turned back to Simon. “We will speak again, Simon, son of Kalman.”

Then something appeared in her hand. It looked like a sheet of paper, as though someone had torn a page out of a book and written a single character on it in bright red ink. She pressed the paper against the air, where it stuck as if it had been glued to a wall. The Helgard Incarnation tore open a Gate in a flash of swirling red light.

Helgard didn’t look like Simon had imagined. He would have expected more ice.

The Gate opened on a rough-hewn cavern dominated by silver doors, carved with an ornately detailed portrait of a one-eyed, bearded old man. On the rock walls around the doors, a pair of torches burned an unnatural crimson.

He had seen a few glimpses of Helgard, but only the parts most occupied by Damasca. Supposedly there were dozens of floors in the Tower of Winter that Simon had never seen, but he couldn't imagine this place among them. Then again, if it wasn’t Helgard, where else could it be? There was no way a Helgard Incarnation could open a Gate to another Territory.

The Incarnation reached up and grabbed the end of the dark, frozen bar in one hand, plucking it out of the air. She swung it like a club, striking with supernatural speed and strength against Indirial's blade. The Overlord caught the blow with both hands, but the force still knocked him a few paces backwards.

Helgard stepped through the red-lined circular portal, turning to watch Simon as the Gate closed around her.

“Don't let her leave!” Leah shouted, loud enough to be heard over the wind and the sounds of battle. The Helgard Travelers cast giant, razor-sharp snowflakes, clusters of snow, and summoned beasts at the portal. Leah held both hands out as if she were straining, but the Gate didn't slow as far as Simon could tell. In seconds, it imploded into a brief flash of red light.

“Did she trap herself?” Simon called.

Leah shook her head, eyes burning with anger.

“That wasn't Helgard,” Indirial said. Somehow, during the fight, he had found the time to push his shirtsleeves up past his elbows, baring forearms marked with shadowy chains.

Simon didn't bother asking which Territory it had been. They would tell him eventually. He looked up to Leah.

After a moment, she reluctantly spoke. “Ragnarus,” she said. “That was the door to the Crimson Vault.”

Gloria sighed. Oh, dear.

CHAPTER 4:

A DEAD MAN IN THE GRAVEYARD

When Leah tried to tear the Ragnarus Gate back open, nothing happened.

It shocked her, at first. A shiver passed through her that had nothing to do with the sharp wind or the ankle-deep snow. Opening the Crimson Vault was her birthright, guaranteed by her blood, the proof of her connection to her ancestors…and now she couldn’t forge a Gate to her own Territory. Had the power abandoned her?

She summoned and banished the Lightning Spear three or four times before she was satisfied that she could still count on herself as a Traveler of Ragnarus. But now, a more troubling problem remained.

Indirial’s left hand was covered by the Valinhall gatecrawler: a spiked black gauntlet. He'd grabbed the spot where the Gate had vanished, trying to tear it open, but red light flared and he couldn’t get a grip.

They tried for almost an hour before they returned through Helgard to their camp, only a mile or so outside the shining red city of Cana. The others had all left her—the Helgard Travelers to their assignments, Indirial to his work, and Simon to the House—abandoning her to consider the most troubling question of all.

Who had let the Helgard Incarnation into Ragnarus?

She was one of the few people alive who could open a Ragnarus Gate at all. Only she and her two sisters—one insane, the other imprisoned in Lirial—could enter the Crimson Vault, according to Queen Cynara's ancient pact. So how had the Helgard Incarnation done it?

Leah could come up with a few theories. Helgard collected and stored information, and it wasn't beyond reason that the Incarnation of that Territory would have been able to find an old artifact of Ragnarus, pay its price, and figure out how to activate it. Several Ragnarus weapons had been lost over the years, and it was entirely possible that one of them had the ability to open the Vault. It could be that simple.

Less likely, there was the possibility that the Helgard Incarnation was some ancestor of Leah's. Perhaps she had inherited the right to enter Ragnarus like every member of the Damascan royal family. That was an uncomfortable idea for several reasons, and Leah couldn't bring herself to believe it. For one thing, she doubted that much human spirit remained inside the Incarnations. Would she still be able to open a Gate to Ragnarus after becoming the embodiment of a different Territory? Leah wasn't sure, but she didn't think so.

That left the final possibility, the most likely, and the one that Leah least wanted to consider.

Another Ragnarus Traveler had let the Incarnation in.

For the past six months, the Damascan capital of Cana had been sealed within a barrier of crimson power. All travel in and out, both physically and via Territory, had completely halted. If Helgard and Ragnarus were working together now, that was bad enough—two Incarnations united would be almost impossible to defeat in open battle. And if there was an ordinary Ragnarus Traveler involved…

Leah leaned an elbow against her desk, which wobbled and almost pitched over, and rested her head in her hand. They had returned to camp via Helgard after their battle with the Incarnation, then Simon and Indirial had gone back to their House to heal up. Leah had been forced to explain to Overlord Yaleina that the mission to stop the Helgard Incarnation had been a failure. She had even endured a lecture from the Overlord on the dangers of Helgard. An Overlord, lecturing a royal! The reigning Queen, no less!

That confrontation had done nothing to add to Leah's mood, though she was most disturbed by the implications of an Incarnation entering Ragnarus. It brought to mind suspicions that she had pushed to the back of her mind for months.

On a whim, Leah tore open a Gate to Ragnarus there in her tent. The red-edged portal swirled open, a circular entry to the cave outside the Vault itself. One edge of the portal brushed against her camp cot, and the top scraped the tent fabric overhead, but she had enough space to make it work.

She surveyed the familiar sights: the silver double doors carved with the one-eyed king, the two crimson torches to either side. If she wanted to enter, she would have to press a drop of her blood against the doors, but she left the Vault shut. She couldn’t even bring herself to walk through the Gate.

A vague sensation had bothered her for two seasons, ever since her father's death. She couldn't quite pin it down, but something had changed in Ragnarus. Leah held a Traveler's bond with two different Territories—the Crystal Fields of Lirial and Ragnarus, the Crimson Vault—and their powers felt very different from one another. Drawing on Lirial felt dusty and cool, like a draft of air blowing from a crypt or a library. Ragnarus, on the other hand, was warm and hungry, as though it begged to be used.

Seizing Ragnarus for the past six months had felt like clenching a fist around a still-beating heart. It throbbed and moved, as though the entire Territory was dancing to a will other than hers. More tangibly, something was wrong in the Territory itself, physically. She had never seen a living creature native to Ragnarus, but she could hear them often. In the cavern behind her Gate, outside the silver doors of the Vault, one could always hear the sounds: shuffling, hissing, distant growling, occasionally even screams.

Now? Perfect silence. The one-eyed old man stared at her from his silver doors, and Leah thought she saw the beginnings of a smirk on his frozen lips.

She had never been comfortable here, but this Territory was hers, in a personal way that Lirial couldn't match. She was one of only a few others who had ever been able to Travel here, and she would never have to worry about being interrupted by someone outside her family. Now, Leah didn't even walk inside. She was too afraid to open the doors. Nothing had ever happened to her in there—she never saw anything unusual—but she sensed something. A quiet amusement, as though the Crimson Vault was laughing at her.

And now the Helgard Incarnation had escaped into Ragnarus. That suggested that matters were about to get worse. Worse even than six months of hunting down Incarnations that had killed thousands of her people.

Leah closed her eyes and pressed her hand harder against her forehead. She felt another headache coming on.

“Knock knock,” a woman's voice came from the tent entrance.

Seven stones, there's my headache now, Leah thought. Right on time.

She opened her eyes and summoned a polite smile. “Overlord Feiora, I apologize. I was lost in thought. Please, come in.”

Overlord Feiora Torannus was a strong-looking woman with a heavy jaw, very short hair, and piercing dark eyes. She walked into the tent as though she meant to fight someone within, and sat in one of Leah's folding camp chairs as though it had personally offended her and she meant to crush it in retaliation.

Feiora didn't wear the typical buckskin and feathers of her Territory. Leah had never seen her do so. Instead, she wore black pants and shirt, plain and unadorned, with a single bronze-and-pearl pin on her breast to mark her as an Avernus Traveler. Unlike her brother, Lysander, she rarely spent time with other Avernus Travelers. However, that didn't mean she had broken all ties to her Territory: a large raven perched on her shoulder. It made no noise, staring Leah straight in the eyes and remaining completely silent.

Feiora found Travelers too unpredictable to make valuable allies. She preferred to cultivate contacts among the royal family, other Overlords, and influential citizens. As a result, she was well-liked in certain circles high up in Damascan society. Circles that Leah could not afford to offend.

Therefore, Leah had no choice but to maintain her alliance with this woman, no matter how much she would rather appoint someone else as an Overlord of Eltarim. The position was typically taken by an Endross Traveler, anyway; Feiora had won the seat through her political connections and sheer determination. No matter Leah's personal feelings about her, Overlord Feiora was an impressive woman. And Leah had sealed her little brother in a coffin of Lirial crystal.

Leah regretted that more and more each day. She should have killed the man.

“I hear the mission to neutralize the Helgard Incarnation was a dismal failure,” Feiora said, her tone polite, and her words anything but.

“I wouldn't say that,” Leah said casually, as though she had overlooked Feiora's complete lack of respect. And basic manners. “We retrieved some critical information, and the Helgard Incarnation is out of play, at least for a short time. We have a reprieve.”

Feiora's eyebrows raised. “A reprieve? Maybe. I have good news: the second Endross Incarnation has gone quiet.”

The Overlord didn't sound like someone delivering good news, and Leah understood why. Sealing Endross back in its Territory would have been cause for celebration, and killing it would still be good news. But this Incarnation had vanished. If it wasn't causing chaos anymore, where had it gone?

Simon, Indirial, and a contingent of other Travelers led by Leah had taken down the first Endross Incarnation months ago. It had been replaced almost immediately by a second Endross Traveler, almost all of whom were crazy enough to make wonderful Incarnations.

“How many does that make now?” Leah asked quietly.

“That depends. If you only consider the ones we saw firsthand, and then vanished afterwards, then at least five.”

“And if you count all the Incarnations whose whereabouts are currently unknown?”

“Including Helgard? Eight.”

Leah's head pounded. She had spent the past six months trying to take care of the Incarnations, and matters had rushed along since she recruited Simon and the other Valinhall Travelers. However, in all that time, she had only successfully sealed the Avernus Incarnation back into its Territory. They had killed the Endross Incarnation, but it was quickly replaced, and they had defeated the Tartarus Incarnation in battle, but it had escaped. No one had heard from it in two months.

Several others had vanished as Leah prepared to attack them. The Helgard Incarnation, for instance, had seemed to expect them. The Asphodel Incarnation had vanished before Leah and her Travelers arrived. The citizens were highly encouraged by her apparent success rate—they seemed to think that she had driven the Incarnations off singlehandedly. The truth was much worse.

She had no idea where the Incarnations were.

Evidence suggested that the Naraka Incarnation had burned much of Bel Calem and Myria, as well as most of the land in between. When the Damascan Travelers had arrived in Myria, the Naraka Incarnation was gone. Several villagers had stories of strange monsters and gold-armored warriors, but their accounts were confused. They seemed to have witnessed a battle between the Naraka Incarnation and dozens of Travelers, but Leah had authorized no such battle. And Enosh would never have mobilized to oppose the Incarnations; it was their fault that the creatures were released in the first place.

The fact remained, however, that the Naraka Incarnation had been the first to vanish. Then the others, one by one. The Ragnarus Incarnation was presumably still in Cana, since the city was isolated by a barrier of crimson light, but Leah had never seen the creature.

So all the Incarnations that had been sealed underneath the Hanging Trees, with the sole exception of Avernus, were now missing in action. And Helgard was last seen opening a Gate to Ragnarus.

Leah didn't like what that suggested.

“Thank you for the information, Overlord,” Leah said at last. “Return to Eltarim and do what you can to rebuild. I will let you know when we have found a way to enter Cana.”

Feiora glanced at the black bird on her shoulder. “I think I would be more useful here.”

Leah rubbed her head, the old frustration rising. Did the woman think she was making a suggestion? “Man your post, Overlord Feiora,” Leah said firmly.

“We're already shorthanded here,” Feiora responded. “We have to find those Incarnations. You don't have anyone else to unify the Avernus Travelers, so I'll have to take that role myself.”

“Yes, if only we had another loyal Avernus Overlord here. In his absence, I suppose I will allow you to stay here and perform his duties.” Leah kept her expression clear, but inside she was seething. At least she had managed to remind Feiora about what had happened to her brother.

The Overlord barely seemed to hear Leah. She was staring at her raven, occasionally muttering something as if in conversation.

Leah waved to the tent flap. “If that will be all, Overlord, feel free to show yourself out.” She didn’t have time to listen to a Traveler hold a private exchange with her bonded creature.

Feiora squared her jaw and turned back to Leah. The raven turned at the same time, meeting Leah's eyes again. “Eugan asks me to express his concerns about Alin, son of Torin.”

Where had that come from? “Alin? As far as I know, he's still in Enosh.”

And Simon thinks he’s an Incarnation, Leah thought. She had never seen any indication of it—she hadn’t seen Alin flying around blasting people to pieces, in other words—but that would explain why they had heard nothing from Enosh since the Incarnations had been released.

For the first time, the raven opened its beak and gave a caw. Feiora chuckled. “Eugan says you're holding something back. He’s a perceptive one, but even I figured that one out.”

“The Overlords know everything about Alin that I do,” Leah said coolly. Not everything I suspect, but everything I know.

Feiora frowned, still looking at her raven. “I...Eugan made me promise to tell you something. These are his words, not mine, you understand. He says that you're adrift and sadly lacking in allies. 'You're lost on the wind and your flock is too small,' is actually how he said it. He has suggested that you need an advisor.”

The Overlord shrugged the shoulder without a bird on it, seemingly as confused as Leah felt. “You should visit the Corvinus tribe in Avernus. I suspect you'd find it worthwhile. That's all he said, and may Naraka take me if I know why.”

Was that a trap? Leah couldn’t draw on her powers fully in a foreign Territory; did Feiora want Leah in Avernus so she would be weaker, and the Overlord could make some kind of a hostile move? Even if the suggestion was made in good faith, how could Leah justify the time it would take to Travel through Avernus?

Leah was still considering how to respond when the tent flap opened and one of her Tartarus guards poked his head inside.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Your Majesty, Overlord. But there's a woman there who says she knows you. She claims to have information regarding the current situation in Enosh.”

Leah shared a glance with Overlord Feiora, and they rose to their feet at the same time. Eugan squawked, and Feiora nodded.

“He says to be careful with this woman,” she translated. “She's old and dangerous.”

Then, at Leah's gestured command, the visitor entered the tent. She was a shriveled old woman with straggly white hair and a pair of cracked red spectacles. She wore a patched, stained robe that might once have been red, and a ragged pink scar wrapped her one remaining wrist like a scarred bracelet. Her right arm ended in a smooth stump. Leah couldn't see from her perspective, but she knew that on this woman's palm lay a Naraka Traveler's brand. The guards had known to check, which was why they had tied her arms behind her with a short length of ragged rope.

“State your name and business, woman,” Feiora said.

Leah held up a hand. “That won't be necessary, Overlord Feiora. Please, allow me to introduce Grandmaster Naraka.”

Feiora’s eyes narrowed, and she rubbed her jaw thoughtfully. On her shoulder, Eugan squawked.

The Grandmaster grinned, revealing gaps in her teeth. “So you're the Queen of Damasca? I never would have thought. Grandmaster Lirial thought you were nothing more than a scared natural Traveler from the villages, but I had my suspicions that you were a spy for one of the Overlords. Looks like we were both wrong, eh?”

In Enosh, Grandmaster Naraka had always frightened Leah. She could admit that now, if only to herself. But here, in Leah’s tent, wearing clothes that looked like they had been stolen from a beggar, the Grandmaster was anything but intimidating.

“The past few months have clearly not been kind to you, Grandmaster,” Leah said. “But things can always get worse.”

“As I said, I bring you news of the current state of affairs in Enosh,” Grandmaster Naraka said, seemingly unfazed. “We have been occupied by an invading force.”

Leah rubbed one temple. She would rather send a Grandmaster to the executioner's block than suffer unfounded accusations from her. “I am afraid you’re mistaken. We have sent no force to Enosh.”

Naraka laughed humorlessly. “Not you. We're occupied by the Elysian Incarnation.”

Overlord Feiora turned to look at Leah, and her raven began to cackle.

Alin, Leah thought. Her head hurt worse than ever.

***

Simon swept Azura in an arc, stepping forward as he did. The blade sank into a standing column of thick stone, creating a single crack in the rock.

A distant chuckle filled the courtyard of Valinhall.

“Not there...” Makko taunted. “Almost...”

The courtyard was a vast plain of smooth square tiles in a uniform gray. The columns stood in rigid, even rows all throughout the room, made of the same gray stone as the floor. The whole room, like a handful of others in Valinhall, served no purpose that Simon could tell. You could march an army through this room, but how would you get them here? Most of the House's other rooms had small, tight corridors. What did all this empty space accomplish?

This room produced nothing, it did nothing, and it seemed like a complete waste. Why was he spending his time doing this?

Don't whine, Caela said. It doesn't suit you. I told you, patience is the way through the courtyard.

The light in this room was provided by small, yellow-white candle flames that whirled around the low ceiling like lost fireflies. As a result, shadows were his constant companions in this test. They danced and shifted all around the room, cast by columns and guttering lights.

Simon thought he saw a flicker of movement to his left, and drew a weighted hatchet he had brought from the armory. He hurled it left-handed and ran after it, on the chance that he had actually struck the room's guardian.

Nothing. The hatchet's blade rang against plain stone.

“Not there...” Makko's voice drifted over to him. “Behind you...”

Simon spun around, Azura held at the ready. He saw nothing.

The other way! Caela shouted in his mind. Another lance of pain shot up his half-healed leg as Makko sank her teeth into his thigh.

The miraculous healing powers of the Valinhall pool had restored the wound enough that he felt no pain walking on the leg, only a little tightness. But he still needed time before he was fully healed, and now this guardian insisted on tearing open his old wounds. Thanks to her and her useless room, he would take even longer to recover.

Simon kicked back, his heel connecting with something that felt like kicking a down-stuffed pillow. He turned to see Makko rising into the air: a wolf, but a wolf knitted out of a dozen different colors of yarn. Her eyes were smooth black pebbles, her snout a twisting nest of red, green, blue, yellow, and purple threads. Her teeth, now stained with his blood, looked like knitting needles made of bone.

He rarely caught a glimpse of Makko, so he had to take this opportunity. He raised Azura, preparing to bring it down on the guardian's back.

His steel ran out.

His muscles sagged, feeling indescribably weak when restored to their natural strength. Azura suddenly weighed five times as much, and slumped in his hand. He managed to lower the sword without dropping it.

Makko vanished behind a column with a flash of her multi-colored tail, still chuckling. “A hunt takes patience...Next time, remember...”

Then she was silent.

Simon kicked his blade in sheer frustration, sending it clattering across the tiles.

You shouldn't do that, Caela sent, in the smug tones of an older child lording her knowledge over a younger. She won't like it.

Who? Makko?

Caela let out an exasperated sigh. Not Makko. Azura.

Simon pulled the doll out of his cloak pocket, looking her in the eye. Her curling blond hair rested beneath a powder blue bonnet, and she wore a frilly dress in a matching shade. She had the same self-satisfied expression as always. “The sword can't talk,” he said. “It's only a sword. It would have said something by now.”

You're speaking out loud again, Caela reminded him.

Simon gave a mental sigh. Fine. But I've used Azura for a long time now. If it could speak, I would know.

Just because someone doesn’t talk doesn't mean she doesn’t listen.

Simon eyed his sword, shining in the yellow candlelight. The dolls had lied to him before, as part of a series of pranks, and they didn't know everything. They could be wrong as easily as he could. But this seemed like something they would know.

A shadow detached itself from the pools of darkness behind one of the columns. The Eldest Nye stepped into view, his black outer cloak faded to a dark gray. Unlike most of the Nye, who stood hood-and-shoulders taller than Simon, the Eldest only reached Simon's shoulder. He was hunched with age, as though he should be bent over a cane, but he glided over the tiles like he moved on wheels instead of legs. If he had hands—Simon had never seen them—they were well hidden in voluminous sleeves that draped down almost to the ground.

The Eldest lifted his black hood to stare at Simon. Within, Simon saw only darkness.

“It seems that you are frustrated, son of Kalman,” the Eldest said, in his scratchy whisper.

“I'm sorry, Eldest,” Simon said, bowing a little. The Nye seemed to greet one another with bows, so Simon had started adopting the habit. “I didn't mean to disturb you. I've been working on this one room for so long, it's starting to grate on my nerves.”

Simon had stayed deep in debt to the Eldest practically since he first came to Valinhall, but the Nye had rarely mentioned it. Somehow, his silence made it worse. Whenever the Eldest decided to call in his marker, Simon wasn't sure he had the leverage to refuse.

The Eldest shook his hood from side to side. “There is no reason to let this room anger you. Many of the Dragon Army tried for months or years to pass the test of one specific room, only to never succeed. Not every reward is meant for every Traveler.”

Simon pictured himself in a few years, having rushed at this room hundreds of time and failed to catch Makko. He would go as crazy as Kai. “But I almost got her!”

The Eldest made a thoughtful sound that had a lot in common with the rasp of a saw. “In any case, perhaps it is time for you to attempt a different room. There is nothing that says you must try this one again and again.”

“I'm not sure where else to go,” Simon said. He had gone back over every room that he was allowed to enter, earning the powers of the forge, library, and armory, but this was the only new door he had seen.

“Wait,” he said, as a thought occurred to him. “Will you tell me where Kai is?”

Not bothering us, that's all I need to know, Caela sent, her voice whispering along their mental connection. These have been the most wonderful months I've ever had.

In the fight against the Valinhall Incarnation, Kai had suffered a wound from a Ragnarus blade. After that, he had retreated deep into the House, and Simon hadn't seen him since. Knowing Kai, he was probably lurking somewhere in one of the deeper rooms, and wouldn't emerge until he felt like it. Or until he missed the dolls.

It had been months, though, and Simon was actually starting to worry.

The Eldest stared at him for a long moment, the shadows beneath his hood writhing and shifting. “You would be wise to try the graveyard, son of Kalman.”

“Is Kai there? Can I open the door? Wait. We have a graveyard?”

The Eldest started to glide back toward the door, and it seemed that Simon had no choice but to follow him. He scooped up Azura—which felt unnaturally heavy when he wasn't full of Benson's steel—and followed the Nye out of the room, limping on his wounded leg.

“We have a graveyard,” the Eldest said at last, “because the Wanderer insisted upon it. It is not part of Nye traditions to honor the dead. This is the place where you may earn ghost armor, which will protect you from the powers of other Travelers.”

Phantom pain throbbed through Simon's right side, and he unconsciously rolled his shoulder. He had been badly burned by Endross lightning when he hunted down that Territory's Incarnation, and the pool had taken weeks to heal the wound. That had been one of the most painful injuries Simon could remember. And, living in Valinhall for as long as he had, he could remember a lot.

The Eldest placed one draping sleeve over the doorknob leading back into the rain garden. “As for whether Kai will be there...who knows? Even I could never predict Kai's actions.”

He twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

The rain garden was not on the other side.

Stormclouds rolled about twenty feet overhead, grumbling with quiet thunder, and twisting with a thousand bolts of bright green lightning. The room filled with a constant, flashing emerald light, though it remained surprisingly dim.

The whole room was about the same size around as Malachi's great hall in Bel Calem, and was supported around the outer perimeter by a series of stone columns and arches that looked like they had once belonged to an ancient coliseum. Ivy and cracks snaked up the columns, giving the impression of boundless age.

In the center of the room, within the circle of columns, lay a park's worth of dark soil and grass. The smell of earth hung in the room, combined with something unpleasant and somewhat sweet that Simon couldn't quite place.

Headstones rose from the ground. They were mostly carved out of some gray stone, with names etched into them in a rough, blocky hand. Only eight headstones filled the space for now, but there was room for dozens more.

Simon glanced behind him, into the shadowy column-filled forest of the Valinhall courtyard. “How did we get here? I came through the rain garden. This was never here before.”

“What a coincidence,” the Eldest rasped, his sleeves pressed together in front of him. He seemed very proud of himself.

A man stood with his back to Simon, facing the opposite side of the room. He wore a simple white shirt and gray pants that looked as though they had lived through a battle or two without being washed, stitched, or replace. He held a lightly curved silver sword, almost as long as Azura, in one hand, its point lifted carefully so it didn't drag in the grass. A line of gold ran up the center of the blade.

The man cocked his head of shaggy white hair to one side, like a curious bird.

Simon took a breath to call out to Kai, but Caela shushed him.

Wait! she called. There's someone else!

Another man dashed out from behind the stone columns, a gleaming Damascan infantry sword in each hand. He moved so fast that Simon couldn’t keep track of him, which could only mean he was holding the Nye essence. But it clearly wasn't Indirial; his skin was too pale, and there was no gold medallion around his neck. More importantly, Indirial would never allow his chains to cover so much of his body. This man's black chains marked not only his arms, but also his bare chest, his throat...even his bald head was capped in black chains.

Simon’s breath froze. It was impossible. He had only met one bald Valinhall Traveler with chains covering his whole body. Unless Denner had taken up a radical change in fashion, there was only one man this could possibly be.

And he was dead.

Simon himself had driven the sword through Valin’s heart.

CHAPTER 5:

DISTURBING EXPLANATIONS

Leah placed a recording crystal on the table in front of her. Not a camp table this time, but a real, solid piece of sturdy furniture. She sat in one of Overlord Malachi's offices in his home back in Bel Calem, a well-appointed room with bookshelves covering the walls. Most of them were philosophical studies on the nature of the Territories, but she spotted a few mythologies, a handful of plays, and even a popular historical romance. Her chair was a pleasant change from what she had grown used to in camp: plush, comfortable, and expensive. The sort of furniture she would have enjoyed back in the palace. Only the location left something to be desired.

Grandmaster Naraka faced her from across the desk.

On Leah's orders, the Grandmaster had enjoyed a bath, donned new robes in the burnt red of Naraka, and even found an unbroken pair of crimson spectacles. Now she sat opposite Leah, with manacles binding her forearms together. A trio of guards stood inside the doors, one Naraka and two Tartarus, in case Leah needed the backup.

The recording crystal glimmered in the sunlight streaming in from the west window. The device was from Lirial, a clear teardrop of stone that looked more like a diamond than a crystal formation.

“This will keep a visual record of everything that you say here today,” Leah said, keeping her voice brisk and businesslike. “Afterwards, I will review the record, and will decide how to act based on your information and whether or not I find it credible.”

The Grandmaster cackled. “Whatever makes you feel better, girl.” Her red spectacles blazed with reflected afternoon light.

Leah was in no mood to play games with a Grandmaster. Either this woman had useful intelligence, or she was on her way to a noose. “Now. What is the current situation behind the walls of Enosh?”

“The walls, hm? When was the last time you had a look at the city's walls?”

Leah gave Naraka a precise smile. “I would prefer it if you told your story and left the questions to me.”

The older woman smiled and massaged the stump of her missing hand. The gesture looked awkward, with the manacles clanking and banging together, but Leah watched her hand motions closely. At the slightest hint that she was calling Naraka, Leah would summon crystal and bind the Grandmaster in her chair. Then the guards would go to work on her.

But Grandmaster Naraka simply continued. “If you'd kept an eye on those walls, as is your duty as a Lirial Traveler, you would notice a startling change. They're taller, for one thing.”

“Why have you been building up the walls, Grandmaster?” Leah asked.

Naraka made a 'tsk' sound. “You want me to tell this story, girl, then don't interrupt. They're five feet taller, and they're solid gold. You could probably see them gleaming all the way from that village, Myria. Gold's not a practical metal, if you ask my opinion, but these walls seem strong enough. Maybe it only looks like gold.”

Leah let the woman ramble, digesting the information. The walls of Enosh had grown higher, and Naraka claimed the Grandmasters weren't responsible. That seemed reasonable; if the Grandmasters wanted to raise their city's defenses, they would have used a team of Ornheim Travelers and golems. They would have no reason to construct anything out of gold.

“In the city itself, it's much worse,” Grandmaster Naraka went on, and for once she didn't sound smug. She sounded haunted instead, as though she was staring into a nightmarish memory. “The first thing the Elysian Incarnation did, when he took over the city, was publicly execute Grandmaster Helgard. The people cheered him for it. I suppose that's not much of a surprise. With all the spit and polish we gave that boy, the people would cheer him if he burned down their homes in front of them.”

They had finally come to the point that Leah most wanted to clarify, but she had to pretend to be casual. “Let's be clear, Grandmaster. When you talk about the Elysian Incarnation, you mean Alin, son of Torin?”

Grandmaster Naraka shot her a scornful look behind her gleaming red spectacles. “How many other Travelers of Elysia do you know, girl? Of course it's Alin.”

Leah nodded like she had cleared up a minor point of procedure, but inside her stomach churned. Alin was an Incarnation. Would she even recognize him? Some of the Incarnations she'd seen had seemed human enough, but others looked like the monsters they were. You would never be able to tell that they had once been men and women.

Even then, while she tried to imagine what the Incarnation of Elysia might look like, another part of her mind was hard at work. Alin was born as a Traveler of one of the most powerful Territories. If he had Incarnated, he must be all but unstoppable. How could she use that to her advantage? Could he, perhaps, be lured into getting rid of the other eight Incarnations?

Worse, she had known Alin. Was there anything left of the young man he’d been, or was he nothing more than a monster?

“He hunted through the city for the remaining Grandmasters,” Naraka went on. “He said we tricked him into releasing killer monsters on the world, and that we deserved to die for our crimes.”

“You did,” Leah said. “And you do.”

Grandmaster Naraka twisted her lips into a smirk. “How sad you must be, that the Incarnations are exacting just retribution upon your nation for your family's sins. Nature will achieve balance once again, though the process might be painful. The longer the balance goes without redress, the greater the pain.”

Leah nodded as if that made sense. “I see. Then for what crimes is the Elysian Incarnation punishing you?”

The Grandmaster stretched the fingers on her left hand. It looked like a nervous gesture, and she wasn't meeting Leah's eyes anymore, but Leah still tapped gently into her Lirial Source. She didn't trust any enemy Naraka Traveler moving their hands for any reason.

“He hunted through the city for us,” Naraka said, ignoring Leah's question. “And in the meantime, he changed the city. His very presence there turned the walls to gold. It made the trees taller, healthier. It turned shops into towers and homes into palaces. The people loved him for it even more. Then he started changing the people…”

Grandmaster Naraka's voice trailed off, and she stared into space, seemingly lost in memory. “You should see it for yourself, girl. I wanted the Elysian Travelers in charge. They are the pinnacle of human virtue, unhindered by the petty greed and factionalism of other Territories. But the Elysian Incarnation...he is morality without sympathy or conscience, a king with no opponents and no self-restraint. You have to see it for yourself. I can't describe it.”

Leah agreed: she would have to see Alin’s effect on the city. She had already begun weaving a plan, but the Grandmaster didn't need to know that.

So she pushed the recording crystal across the desk, toward Grandmaster Naraka.

“Try,” she ordered.

***

Simon nearly choked, and his heart went from a casual rest to a full sprint. His steel was still empty, which meant that he was about to die, but he had some essence left. He heaved Nye essence into his lungs, drawing as deeply as he could on the wisps of cool power that remained, straining to hold Azura in front of him with one hand. With his other hand he felt around in the pocket of his cloak, trying to grab the mask before Valin noticed him, crossed the distance, and killed him.

One dark gray sleeve rested on Simon's arm. It used no force now, but Simon knew from personal experience that the Eldest was more than capable of stopping him physically when he had no steel to draw upon.

“You act when you should watch,” the Eldest whispered.

Acting on faith, Simon drove Azura into the soft earth at an angle, its mirror-bright surface reflecting the bright flashes of green overhead. Caela wasn't shouting a warning, and the Eldest didn't think he was any danger, so he supposed he could let his guard down a bit. Besides, he could hardly carry the sword without the steel. He was about to drop the thing in the dirt, which would have been more than a little embarrassing.

He did hold on to a wisp of Nye essence, and he kept his trembling fingers brushing the mask in his pocket. Just in case.

The gold-lined Dragon's Fang, Mithra, outmatched the other man's swords by three feet of reach, and Kai attacked in broad sweeps, drawing shimmering sheets of silver and gold in the air. Valin—if it was Valin; Simon still couldn't bring himself to believe it—ducked underneath, almost impossibly limber. He drove the blade in his right hand up into Kai's stomach.

But it seemed that Kai had anticipated the move, dropping Mithra at the end of his slash and punching down with a dagger he had drawn from his waistband. At the same time, he twisted to his right, avoiding Valin's cut.

Mithra spun as it flew through the air, hurled away by Kai’s attack. It rang like a bell when it crashed into one of the columns, falling with a thud to the grassy earth.

Kai and Valin remained frozen. Simon's mentor was bleeding from a long gash down one side, where Valin had scraped him with the edge of his sword. Not that Valin had escaped unscathed: a sheet of blood ran down the side of his cheek, from the line that Kai had drawn across his cheekbone with his dagger.

Acid-green light flickered overhead.

Valin levered himself to his feet, and he gave Kai a grin that stood out from his chain-masked face. “Not bad, Kai. That's where we'll have to stop, before you make a trip to the pool, but not bad at all. You're getting faster.” Casually, the Incarnation leaned the blades of both his swords back against his shoulders, which made Simon almost painfully uncomfortable. He would never have put an edge so close to his neck unless he meant to shave.

The Wanderer's eyes flicked to Simon, and his grin broadened. “Hey! We've got an audience today! Your name was Simon, right?”

I never thought I would see him again, Caela sent. She sounded awed. What has the Eldest done?

Simon remained silent. The last he had seen Valin, Simon had driven a cursed sword into his heart.

He had never expected a reunion.

Valin's grin faded to an understanding smile. “Don't worry, I get it. I didn't think I would see myself back here either.” He looked around fondly, and Simon realized what was different about him: his eyes. They had been his most noticeable feature: all black around the edges, where the whites should be, and mirror-bright silver in his irises. Now, his eyes were a completely human shade of gray.

It was almost more alarming seeing him that way. What had happened?

Kai finally seemed to notice Simon. He, too, gave a soft smile. “Simon,” he said fondly. “Which of my little ones have you brought me today?”

Of course.

Wordlessly, Simon held out Caela, who stammered a protest before Kai scooped her up and began drawing a tiny brush through her curly blond hair.

“I killed you,” Simon said at last. “Didn't I?”

Valin chuckled, tapping the point of one of his short swords against his bare chest. “Seems like it.”

“Then what happened? Incarnations don't come back when they're killed. They leave the way free for someone else to Incarnate.” That was what Leah had told him, at any rate, and it seemed true. But what if Valinhall was different?

The Wanderer pointed straight at the Eldest Nye with one of his swords. “Ask him.”

The Eldest bowed to Valin over his crossed arms. “It was a simple matter, though it took some time to ensure his…stability. As an Incarnation, he was still bound to Valinhall. I simply returned his body back here, and restored him to his proper place as a part of the natural order in this world. He is not what he was, merely an extension of the Territory.”

Valin raised one leg, and it took Simon a second or two to see something around his bare ankle, under his tattered pants: a coil of smoke wrapped around his leg like a manacle on a prisoner.

Not a manacle. A chain.

A chain of smoke, or possibly shadow, rose from the ground beneath the graveyard, wrapping in coils around each of Valin's ankles.

“I'm stuck here, now,” the Wanderer said. “And I am no longer an Incarnation, thank you very much. That fades away, with time. I'm nothing more than a room guardian, like Makko or Kortali.”

The Eldest cleared his throat. “Kortali was destroyed almost twenty years gone.”

A look of grief flashed across Valin's face. “The forge?”

The Nye dipped his hood.

Valin sighed. “Well, I hope she deserved it.”

Simon couldn’t think of anything else to say to the founder of Valinhall, so he turned to the Eldest instead. “Why?”

The Nye remained motionless, staring at Simon from his empty black hood. “I still have a task for him. Even death could not erase his debt.”

A shudder ran through Simon, though he tried to hide it. Surely, even Valin didn’t owe the Eldest as much as Simon did.

“What task?” Simon asked.

“You will see,” the Eldest responded. Then he turned back to Valin and bowed over his crossed arms. “The son of Kalman wishes to challenge the graveyard, Master.”

Valin grinned like a boy on a holiday. “Is that so? Don’t worry, Simon. I’ll go easy.” He tossed both of his swords to the ground and stood, open hands spread, waiting for Simon to attack.

Simon had to stop himself from reaching for his mask.

CHAPTER 6:

A TEST AND A GHOST

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

Spring’s Birth

When he fought, Valin never stopped smiling. Simon couldn’t stand it.

Over the past two days, the older man had begun to remind him of Indirial: he grinned a lot, made jokes, and taught Simon with much more patience than Kai had ever shown. But Valin, unlike Indirial, frightened him.

It wasn’t the fact that Simon had initially met the Wanderer as a crazed, bloodthirsty Incarnation, though that played its part. When Valin cut Simon, he cut deep. When he kicked Simon into a pillar, he was there an instant later, swinging his blade at Simon’s neck. In every fight, he acted as if he wanted it to be Simon’s last.

He always stopped at the last second, helped Simon up, and told him what he had done wrong.

But that didn’t banish the fear.

I wonder why Indirial would take after him? Otoku said sarcastically. It’s not like Valin raised him like a son. Now, if you would kindly help me, then maybe I could stop Valin from knocking you around the graveyard like a child’s brand-new ball.

Otoku lay twenty paces away in Kai’s lap, as the white-haired man crooned to her and stroked her dark hair with his little brush. Every once in a while, he smoothed out her red flower-print dress.

You seem to be getting along fine on your own, Simon sent back. It was petty revenge for her refusal to advise him, but it wasn’t like he could stop Kai from doing whatever he wanted. They shouldn’t hold it against him.

Beneath a sky of green lightning, Simon leaped over a granite headstone, bringing his blade down two-handed on Valin’s head. The Wanderer caught Azura’s edge on one of his own gleaming infantry swords, dropping the second one. With his empty left hand, he hooked Simon’s legs and pulled them into the air, sending Simon flipping over. He slammed into the soft earth with his chin, knocking the wind from his lungs and earning a mouthful of mud and grass.

After Simon’s panicked choking fit subsided, he managed to look up at Valin. The older man was still grinning, the chains on his bare chest crawling. He didn’t say anything, but Simon knew what he was thinking.

“I know,” Simon said.

“You shouldn’t go leaping around like that.”

“I know.”

“Keep your feet on the ground. You’re not a frog.”

“I know.” His hopes had been high today.

Valin reached out and ruffled his hair. “You’ll get it eventually, even if I have to beat it into you. Though I never did manage to teach Denner to stop jumping around. And plenty of the Dragon Army never earned ghost armor. I remember Janesh…”

His voice trailed off, and his grin died a horrible death. Kai’s white head came up, and he stared at his old master. As usual, his eyes were hidden behind shaggy bangs, and what little Simon could see of his expression was completely blank.

Simon followed Valin’s gaze to a gravestone a pace or two to Simon’s right. It was a squared-off block of granite with a few words carved into its face.

Here lies Janesh, son of Yaman.

All the members of the Dragon Army, except the surviving four, had encountered the same fate. They had fallen to the Wanderer in combat. He glanced around at the headstones surrounding him. Eight graves, eight dead Valinhall Travelers.

Everyone here had died at the end of Valin’s blade.

Valin’s hand tightened around the sword in his right hand, and he lowered his head.

Behind his head, lightning flared in a constant green mesh.

Simon rose to his feet and carefully, quietly, crept over to Kai. “Should I come back later?”

Kai cocked his head to one side like a bird, and his mouth quirked up in a smile. “Why, little mouse, who taught you such patience? No need to worry about him. You should continue.”

Simon shot a glance over at Valin, who was still frozen, staring at Janesh’s grave. “You don’t think he needs some time?”

“Why should he? The monster who killed my brothers and sisters lies dead. This is no more than a ghost. And where better to find a ghost than a graveyard, hm?”

Kai hummed to himself and raised Otoku in both hands, holding her up to the sky like a father with a new baby. In Simon’s head, she shrieked at the indignity.

Valin glared at Kai, his smile a distant memory.

Simon had never been good in situations like these. His instincts told him to shut his mouth and leave before one of the men tried to kill the other. Or at least before the conversation got even more awkward.

In fact, he had taken a step toward the exit before Kai surprised him by rising to his feet, cradling Otoku carefully in the crook of one arm. He held Mithra out to one side, and the sword shimmered and vanished.

“Do not worry, little mouse. I have finished my business for today. Why don’t you escort me out?”

Confused, Simon followed Kai, leaving Valin glaring after them. As they pushed through the graveyard to the courtyard, where yellow firefly-lights danced above a forest of columns, something occurred to Simon that he had never thought of before.

“Master, you banished Mithra.”

Kai stared in mock surprise at his empty hand. “Why yes, I believe I did. Truly, your observation skills have grown to epic heights.”

“I mean, you banished it within the House.” Now that he thought about it, Simon had seen Kai do so on other occasions as well, back when he was using Azura instead of his apprentice. “How? I can’t do that.”

Kai clapped Simon on the shoulder in a fatherly gesture. He leaned in, as though about to tell Simon a secret. “There are things I know,” he whispered, “that you don’t.”

He seemed to consider that enough of a lesson. Simon probably shouldn’t have expected anything more.

So he asked the other question that had been bothering him ever since he had seen Kai in the graveyard. “Is this where you’ve been for so long? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I have spent a good deal of time here, among my brothers and sisters, with the shade of my old master. I have wandered into the depths of the House, where the Nye dare not go. And I have often whiled my days away in our lovely pool.”

“The pool?” Simon repeated. The bathroom was close to the entrance of Valinhall. If he had made it that far, surely he should have been able to greet Simon every once in a while. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“What was there to say?”

“We’ve been fighting Incarnations, Master. We could have used you.” Simon knew what Kai was like. The man had an incurable tendency to wander off at the worst possible moment. Simon knew he shouldn’t be offended, but he couldn’t help himself. Whatever the reason, Kai had effectively abandoned him for almost a year, as time passed in Valinhall. No matter how crazy Kai was, that still felt like a betrayal.

Kai cocked his head to the side. “Did no one tell you about me?”

Simon stared at him blankly, not sure what to say.

Kai shook his head. “Oh, little mouse…” He turned his back to Simon, as though he meant to head back into the graveyard. Then he pulled up his shirt a few inches, exposing his back.

A hideous red wound gaped in his lower back, almost glowing with a bright, unnatural red, as though it had been painted on. Beneath the surface, veins of the same red crept through his skin, like his blood itself had become infected. Layers of scar tissue bordered the gash like rock strata in a canyon, ranging from pale white to a fresh pink, as though it had been healed and torn open again a dozen times in short succession.

Heir Talos, the son of King Zakareth, had struck this blow with a Ragnarus weapon. Simon had been sure that it would take Kai’s life. Then, when Kai had survived, Simon had been equally sure that the danger was past.

“It hasn’t healed?” Simon found himself asking. “Even in the pool?”

Kai let his shirt drop back into place, turning to face Simon. He wore a strange little half-smile. “The pool is the only reason I’m still alive. That, and the fact the power of the Crimson Vault is weaker in a foreign Territory.”

So if Kai left the House…

“You can’t go outside anymore?”

Kai shook his shaggy head. “Never again can I leave Valinhall. I have spent most of my life here, you see, so at first I did not think it such a burden. I am comfortable here. I did not realize that my occasional trips into the Latari Forest were all that kept me sane. That, and my dear little ones.”

He ran the back of his hand down Otoku’s long, black hair, and Simon somehow heard her shudder.

“Now I am deprived of them both,” Kai said with a sigh. “I must find other pursuits to distract me.”

Simon imagined how that must feel. He had grown used to staying in the House, but he left at least once every few days. He knew he could leave, and that made the confines of Valinhall bearable. If he were trapped here by something not of his own choice, how long would it be before he went even crazier than Kai?

“I’m sorry.” That was all he could think of to say.

“Ah, well. Years of my own poor choices catching up to me.” He started to walk away, back through the courtyard, to the front of the House. “And now, I seek the sweet release of the healing pool once more. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll drown.”

Kai’s sense of humor had always had a grim edge to it. At least, Simon hoped that was all it was.

No, wait! Otoku cried. Don’t let him take me! My hair can’t take anymore!

The courtyard door slammed shut.

The yellow firefly lights danced against the low ceiling, making the shadowed columns flicker. Kai had almost died. Now he was trapped, here in a Territory, for the rest of his life. Somehow, it made Simon think about himself. He was risking the same fate as Kai, or worse, and for what? He could stop Incarnations from hurting ordinary people, but any Traveler could do that. Indirial and Leah said they needed his help, but they would get along fine without him.

Slowly, Simon made his way back into the graveyard. He didn’t have anywhere else to be.

Valin was seated on a gravestone, waiting for Simon. He had driven his short swords into the ground to either side of him.

The former Incarnation didn’t say anything, so neither did Simon. For a long moment, the Wanderer stared at him, his fingers laced together thoughtfully.

“Let’s get back to it then,” Simon said, trying to force some enthusiasm into his voice.

Valin continued lounging on his tombstone. “Why?”

Because I’ve got nothing better to do, Simon thought sarcastically, but there was no doll around to appreciate it. “Because I need the ghost armor,” he said.

The Wanderer leaned forward. “For what?”

For a moment, that simple question kept Simon stumped.

“It will be a great help against the Incarnations,” he said at last.

“Against the Incarnations…” Valin mused. “That’s a big task for a man your age. I hope you won’t mind a few questions, then.”

“Well, I—”

“Glad to hear it.” Valin pulled one short sword out of the soil beside him and pointed it at Simon. “You want to stop the Incarnations. Why? More specifically, for whom?”

Simon felt like he was being backed into a corner by a superior duelist. “I’ve been working with the Damascan army, but…” He trailed off as he realized how Valin would feel about him fighting alongside Leah.

The Wanderer’s hand tightened on his sword, and his eyes flashed from gray to an almost metallic silver so quickly that Simon might have imagined it. “For Damasca? Do you think they deserve your protection? Will the Ragnarus Travelers be grateful to you, do you think, or do they see you as another weapon that they’ve bought and paid for?”

For this one, Simon had an answer. “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “You know what kind of destruction the Incarnations are capable of. If I can spare someone from that, whoever they are, I should. And, if you remember, I can fight Incarnations.”

There. At last, he felt like he had gotten off the back foot and launched a solid attack.

Except Valin waved that remark away with a casual flick of his blade. “Let’s say you’re right. When does it end? Even if you lock all nine Incarnations in their Territories, nice and tidy, you’ve only bought yourself some breathing room. In a few weeks, maybe months—years, if you’re impossibly lucky—another one will pop up. Will you seal that one, too? And the one after that? What about if you can’t seal it, and you have to kill one, then another Incarnation can show up right away. You won’t have any respite at all. When will it end?”

Simon tried to answer, even though he wasn’t perfectly sure himself, but Valin rode over him.

“And what about the times in between Incarnations? You stay in the House, going deeper and deeper, growing more and more powerful…and all the while getting closer and closer to Incarnation yourself.”

His voice was heavy with weight, and Simon didn’t have to remind himself that he was speaking from personal experience.

“For what?” Valin went on. “Will that be your whole life? Will you stay in the House forever, effectively ceasing to exist until the King or Queen calls you out to clean up an Incarnation?”

Simon thought about it. He tried to picture himself, weary from finally beating the Incarnations that were loose now, but knowing that the threat was over. He would go back to Valinhall, seeking more and more power, until the next Incarnation showed up and Leah called him back out.

Over and over.

For the rest of his life.

But there was one person who had offered him…not a purpose, but at least something to break up the monotony.

“The Eldest has tasks for me,” Simon said. “He wants me to work for him in the outside world.”

Valin threw his one-handed sword to the ground and launched to his feet, pacing between the graves as though he had too much energy to keep still any longer. “Ka’nie’ka is selfish and afraid. He—”

“Who?” Simon blurted.

The Wanderer froze for a moment, then kept walking. “That was the Eldest Nye’s name once, before his title. Forget it. I knew him long ago.”

Simon would have no trouble forgetting the name, since he wasn’t sure he could pronounce it even now.

“I confess to you, Simon, that I don’t know how the Eldest brought me here. Do you understand the implications of that? I am the founder of this Territory, it was bound together by my will and shaped to my intent, and I don’t know how he did that.”

Valin began pacing in a circle around Simon, reminding him uneasily of a vulture circling a carcass. He tried to keep an eye on his teacher while at the same time following the man’s words.

It didn’t sound good.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the Nye have more power than I ever thought they did,” Valin said grimly. “That frightens me. The one thing I know the Eldest fears is losing that power, as they once almost faded away to nothing. Ka’nie’ka would have you restore Valinhall’s power because that’s what he wants, because he is afraid of fading back to the state in which I once found him.”

Valin finally stopped stalking around Simon in circle after circle, and faced him head-on. “What do you want, Simon? Is it your own desire to make Valinhall more powerful? What drives you?”

Simon’s first thought was, I wish I had a doll. Otoku or Caela could have provided him with a clever response, Angeline would have worked the Wanderer’s problem with him, Lilia would have said something incomprehensible about dreams that may have at least lightened the mood.

But he put aside those thoughts and tried to seriously consider the Wanderer’s questions.

What did he want to happen? When he eventually defeated the Incarnations, left Leah securely on her throne, and—somehow—figured out something to do with Alin, what did he want to do for himself?

What was he fighting for?

Simon tried to picture himself in the best possible outcome, if everything went according to plan, and he drew a blank. He couldn’t do it. All he could imagine was a continuation of the days the way they were now, as Valin had described: training constantly in Valinhall until he was summoned to deal with an Incarnation. And what kind of life was that?

Simon opened his mouth to say he didn’t know, but no sound came out.

Valin nodded, as though he had figured something out, and clapped his hands together.

“How would you like to take the test for the ghost armor, Simon?” he asked cheerfully.

The transition felt like a slap, and Simon tried to force his mind to shift direction. “That’s what I’ve been doing for days now.”

Valin chuckled. “No, no. That wasn’t the graveyard test, that was a fight. You don’t think every single room requires you to duel its guardian, do you?”

Did that mean he had wasted the past day and a half? He expected Leah to need him today, so he had passed all his time in Valinhall, hoping to achieve something in the two days worth of time he could squeeze out of one real day. But Leah was sure to call for him any time now, and he had spent almost two full days playing around with Valin?

The thought sapped any enthusiasm he might have felt for challenging the room. He looked at Azura lying on the grass where he had dropped it, and felt no desire to pick it up.

Valin reached back, behind one of the nearest ivy-wrapped stone columns. He pulled out a tall, silvery bow, strung with what looked like a cable made of steel wire. “It’s an interesting test,” Valin said, his tone thoughtful. “The details change with time, but the essence of it remains the same. To show you’re ready for the ghost armor, you have to prove that you don’t need it. Almost a paradox, in a way.”

Simon had never heard the word ‘paradox’ before, but he could figure out what the man meant.

Once again, Valin reached behind a column, this time pulling out a two-foot-tall, heavy-looking hourglass. He placed it on top of the headstone next to him. “The guardians execute the trial in different ways, but essentially it’s simple: you have to dodge my attacks until time runs out. In this case, until the hourglass is empty. It’s supposed to keep you from relying too much on the ghost armor, so you don’t run out in the middle of a battle.” He tugged gently on his bowstring, testing its draw. “Do you know what the ghost armor does?”

Simon picked Azura up, his wariness returning. Valin could, and probably would, attack him without warning at any time. This was Valinhall, where constant vigilance was the highest virtue. “It seems to block attacks from other Travelers.”

Valin pointed at him with one end of his metal bow. “You got it! Most of my students didn’t realize that the armor won’t protect them from mundane weapons. Spears, swords, arrows…we have other powers for those. You use ghost armor when you’re attacked directly by a Traveler. It’ll stop a lightning bolt, a fireball, things like that.”

Simon realized Valin had actually set the hourglass with the sand up. He hadn’t noticed before, because he couldn’t see the sand draining down. It was the barest trickle, practically one grain of sand at a time, and the glass was huge. How long would it take to drain? Longer than one hour, surely. Simon didn’t have any powers that would last more than a few minutes.

Valin ran a hand lovingly along the curve of the bow. “I found this in Tartarus myself, you know. Deeper in the Labyrinth than most real Tartarus Travelers go. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the trouble I went through in bringing it back here.” He sighed. “Ah, well. One of the perks of guarding this room is that I get to shoot at you until time runs out. If you’re hit…well, unless you’re exceedingly lucky, you won’t even make it back to the pool.”

He stood, pulling the string back in one smooth motion. The bow was as tall as he was, and the string a metal cord almost as thick as a finger, so Simon wasn’t sure if he would be able to draw it even with Benson’s steel in him. But the Wanderer bent the weapon with relative ease.

As he pulled back the string, an arrow shimmered and appeared, nocked in the bow. It looked like the rough outline of an arrow sketched in the air, made of pure white light.

From experience, Simon knew that arrows like that could scorch stone and blast holes through trees. There would be no such thing as a non-lethal wound from that weapon. Even if he got hit in the leg or the shoulder, it would tear enough flesh from his body that he would bleed out in seconds.

Fear and the thrill of battle sang through him, and he inhaled a deep breath of Nye essence. Steel and icy power flowed through him, and his breaths carried the faint color of moonlight.

He bent his knees, balanced on the balls of his feet, turned slightly to the side. He held Azura in both hands, the point of the sword angled back over his head. He would be able to attack quickly from this stance. No matter what Valin said, he didn’t like his odds dodging. His best chance of surviving was to get inside the bow’s range, attacking Valin, knocking the weapon away from him or preventing him from using it in some way.

Valin smiled again; his smiles seemed most genuine when he was about to fight. “I’m glad I got to know you, Simon. And I’m glad we’re in a graveyard.”

“Why is that?” Simon asked. The other man seemed to expect him to say something.

Darkness bled into the whites of Valin’s eyes like a cloud of ink spreading through water. His gray irises brightened until they were almost white, and then gleaming, metallic silver. Soon, his eyes were two silver circles sitting on pools of solid black.

An Incarnation’s eyes.

The dark chains on his skin shifted and writhed like a nest of hungry snakes. His smile never faltered; if anything, it grew brighter, warmer. That made his expression all the more horrible.

“Because you killed me, Simon, son of Kalman. Now, I have a chance to return the favor.”

By the end of his sentence, his voice rang with the unnatural sound of steel-on-steel. His arrow loosed, a white bolt of light that shrieked as it blasted through the air.

Simon ducked to the side. The arrow scorched him as it flew past, tearing a chunk out of one of the columns with a deafening crack.

Terror shocked Simon’s limbs and clenched at his heart. He had thought this battle was over. Why, in the Maker’s name, did he have to beat the Valinhall Incarnation again?

Simon fumbled around in his cloak, trying to pull out the mask. He had no chance against Valin without the mask, that was why he brought it every time he challenged the graveyard, even though the dolls and Valin himself assured him that he didn’t have to be worried. He had been afraid that something exactly like this would happen.

There was nothing in his pocket.

He scrambled at one pocket, then the other, then at the pockets of his pants. Nothing. Had he forgotten the mask? Had he dropped it?

He managed to dodge a blinding arrow, and the tides of panic began to rise.

But some part of him was still focused, still calm, still ready to fight. His first plan had been a good one, he knew: attacking instead of dodging, staying on the offensive rather than on the back foot.

If he fled, the Incarnation would only shoot him down. If he fought, he at least had a chance. As he ran at Valin, Azura clasped in both hands, he couldn’t shake a single thought.

He really wished he hadn’t let Kai take his doll.

***

Kai snuck a peak through the cracked door and into the graveyard, where Simon had charged the Wanderer. This was for the best, all things considered. Simon needed to be strong, especially now that Kai himself was trapped and utterly useless. He would be the first of a new generation, and Valin would teach the boy better than Kai ever could.

He’s not teaching Simon, he’s trying to kill him, Otoku sent. And remove your hand!

Kai reluctantly pulled his fingers away from the doll’s silky black hair. All the more important to leave them alone. If Simon lives, he will have learned a valuable lesson. I don’t know what it will be, but I’m sure it will be valuable. If he dies here, I will focus my time on the other one, the girl. Alissa, was it?

Otoku’s mouth actually twisted into a frown, which was such a rare display that Kai felt his eyes welling with tears. You don’t pay attention, do you? Olissa is the mother, Andra is her daughter. They’ve been living here long enough for you to know that.

Alas, I have had other things on my mind, Kai said. Inside the graveyard, steel rang on steel as Azura made contact with the metal bow. The boy moved in an endless dance, managing to stay ahead of each new white arrow.

Kai lifted the object in his right hand and stared at it. Half black iron, half mirrored chrome, with two narrow slits for the eyes. This mask looked like it had been designed for a man who intended to beat his foes to death with his face.

At least he will win or lose this fight as himself, Kai thought.

Well, maybe he will survive. And maybe he’ll learn to appreciate our advice more, Otoku replied, in tones of self-satisfaction that reminded Kai painfully of Caela. He relies on us too much and listens to us too little. Lately, he’s far too quick to put on that mask. Perhaps this will be good for him.

I’ll make sure he understands the message before I give this back, Kai sent, tucking the mask back into his belt. In the meantime, how about we go visit your sisters? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you all…

I’ll give you fair warning, Otoku said evenly. Rebekkah’s going to punch you.

Kai smiled fondly.

***

The arrow blasted past Simon’s shoulder, so close that he could feel the scorching air on his neck. He put it out of his mind, swinging Azura with both hands to knock the bow from Valin’s hands.

The Incarnation spun the weapon like a staff, knocking Azura’s blade aside with one end, while the other whipped around and cracked Simon across the temple.

He felt only a little pain through the reinforcement of Benson’s steel, but his vision still flashed white with the impact. He reacted the way he was trained, by long practice in the House: a controlled retreat, stepping backwards evenly, his long blade warding his opponent away.

It bought him another split second for his eyes to clear, but the first thing he saw was the Incarnation drawing back another arrow.

The last time Simon had faced this weapon, he had dodged and run, thinking of nothing beyond his desire to get away. Indirial had saved him then, so stalling had turned out to be a valid tactic.

Indirial wasn’t here now. He would have to try something else.

Instead of backing off, Simon stepped forward, ducking as low as he could. The arrow streaked by, leaving a fiery line on Simon’s shoulder that must have burned through the cloak, but he didn’t have time to take stock of his own wounds. He was still five feet away from Valin, but Azura made that distance trivial.

He brought his blade diagonally up, cutting across the Incarnation’s body.

As he had done before, Valin spun the bow around, knocking the sword aside. This time, Simon let it go.

He completely released the hilt, letting it fly away. And with his newly freed hands, he pulled the hood down over his forehead.

Nye essence flowed through him like a cold breath. It was waning already; he estimated he had, at best, half a minute left of increased speed and grace. But he wasn’t looking to enhance his reaction time.

Valin’s eyes flicked from side to side and his brow furrowed in confusion. His fingers began to draw back the string, but he didn’t know where to aim his arrow.

Simon stopped in front of him and thrust upward, putting all the force he could call behind a two-handed strike to Valin’s stomach. As he had suspected, the Wanderer had returned to being another Incarnation: relying on his eyes was the same as relying on the supernatural vision of his Territory. He must see Simon as little more than a shadow…which meant that he couldn’t react in time.

Valin’s body shuddered under the blow, and the force of it actually lifted his feet from the grass. He flew up and back, and Simon ran to follow, his Nye essence leaving him a little more with every breath.

The Valinhall Incarnation twisted in midair, his bowstring pulling back, a shining arrow sprouting to point in Simon’s general direction. Simon ducked, not only to dodge, but to scoop up one of the short swords that Valin had dropped. An arrow scorched the grass behind him, singeing the edge of his cloak, but he kept moving with a sword in hand. The last thing he wanted was Valin landing with a distance advantage.

As soon as Valin did hit the ground—perfectly balanced and on both feet, of course—Simon was already there, slipping sideways, driving the Incarnation’s own short sword up into his side.

The blade bit flesh and, though it scraped along the ribs and Valin twisted, he had done some damage. If he could keep this up, he would not only escape with his life, he would have killed the Valinhall Incarnation a second time.

That would help address the other questions that plagued him, such as: how could Valin have come back to life in the first place? Could it happen again? Had the Eldest not noticed that Valin could still call on his power as an Incarnation, or had he chosen not to say anything?

As the Wanderer’s blood sprinkled the grass, Simon shoved all the questions out of his mind. They could wait until later.

Simon drew back the blade and drove it in at another angle, trying to impale the Incarnation through his bare, chain-shrouded stomach. He exhaled as he struck, sending another puff of white mist from his lungs. The world moved noticeably faster, and he wasn’t quite agile enough to land his blow before Valin got his bow between his midsection and Simon’s sword. Simon still drew blood, but not nearly enough to drop the man permanently.

Simon didn’t glance back at the hourglass. He didn’t need to; only a few seconds had passed. He would either kill the Incarnation and pass, or die. In that light, failing to earn the ghost armor didn’t seem like such a problem.

Valin struck at Simon with the butt of his bow, forcing Simon to back off a step. He didn’t want to—his only hope lay in continuous attack—but if he had remained close, the Incarnation would have simply bludgeoned him to death and accepted a gut wound in return.

But the Wanderer was pursuing him now, rushing at him and swinging the bow two-handed like a hammer, and now he was on the back foot again, forced to swing wildly and turn each of Valin’s attacks. If he had been using Azura, the Incarnation would have been too close, inside Simon’s reach. But maybe if he could find a way to back up and into Azura, he could scoop the longer blade up and use it to create exactly the right distance…

There was a sharp, burning pain on the backs of his thighs, and he stumbled and landed flat on his back. The rest of the Nye essence flooded out of his lungs in a starlight cloud, the world lurching back to normal speed.

Above him, the Incarnation’s black-and-silver eyes stared pitilessly into his own. One chain-shrouded arm drew back the steel cable, and a white arrow traced itself in midair, pointed straight at Simon’s chest.

“What do you want, Simon?” Valin asked.

Simon almost didn’t hear the question. He scrabbled backwards on his elbows, pushing his heels against the grass, trying instinctively to get away. Maybe if he could reach Azura, he could launch another attack, or even slip out of the room until his Nye essence recovered…

Valin drew the string of his bow back farther, and Simon froze. “What do you want?”

“I want to live!” Simon blurted, keeping as still as possible even though he was propped up on trembling hands.

The Wanderer leaned over his bow, the mirrored circles of his eyes gleaming. “Why?”

Simon hesitated. Did Valin want an answer from him? What did he want to hear? How was Simon supposed to get out of this without a doll or the mask?

Valin made a disgusted sound and kicked Simon hard in the ribs, leaving a flash of pain that flooded Simon’s gut even through the steel. His body flipped over with the impact, landing facedown in the grass, and Simon curled up around his stomach.

He heard the creaking of a cord bending, and something burned against his neck. It was actually burning, as though Valin had pressed a red-hot poker against the base of his skull. Simon squirmed, pressing his cheek into the soil to escape that horrible pain, but the Wanderer rested a heavy foot on Simon’s back. He simply couldn’t move enough.

He smelled char and smoke, and realized with horror that they must be coming from the burning hairs on his neck.

Simon couldn’t help but keep thinking of a way out. That was what he had made of himself. He’d spent almost two years of relative time inside Valinhall, and in all that time he had embedded in himself a core belief: death was everywhere, all the time, but there was always a way out.

He didn’t give up. But somewhere, deep in a place that he didn’t like to think about, he realized this was the end. He couldn’t help but picture the arrow, burning through the base of his skull, leaving a mutilated corpse for the Nye to find. The Agnos family would eventually realize he had died. They might put up a headstone for him here…it had never occurred to him before, but he wouldn’t be buried next to his mother. He would be here, in a Territory with only a handful of Travelers, and no one to remember him.

Would Leah care? Would Alin even notice? What about Kai?

Still, part of him kept thinking of tactics—maybe I could summon a little Nye essence, maybe I could call the mask to me, maybe Azura will fly into my hands—even as he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the end.

Until an emerald light began to shine, like a green sun coming up, bright even through Simon’s clenched eyelids. The rolling light of the storm overhead was nothing compared to this, and he felt something like a cool wind against his head.

He looked up, turning his face up toward the source that radiated cold like a coal radiates heat, and saw a floating suit of luminous green armor. It drifted in midair, like a spirit all its own, and Simon could see the far columns through the breastplate.

The pressure on his back vanished, and Valin let out a huge breath. “Wow, that hurt more than I thought,” he said casually.

Then there came a heavy thud of a body collapsing.

CHAPTER 7:

ELYSIAN RULE

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

1 Day Since Spring’s Birth

Leah tapped her pen against the edge of her map, leaving a spot of ink. She had assigned a pair of artists to draw the layout of Enosh according to Grandmaster Naraka’s descriptions, and it now represented their most current information.

To say she had little faith in the document would be an understatement. She felt that they might have better luck navigating Enosh by flipping a coin at every intersection and hoping for the best.

Enosh had originally been divided into four quarters with the Grandmasters’ palace at the center. Each of the quarters was then subdivided into smaller blocks.

According to Grandmaster Naraka, Elysia was built in nine districts. Not evenly distributed, equal districts, like nine wedges of a pie. That would have been too easy. Some districts were long, others wide, some large, others small. And Alin had ordered reconstruction to try and replicate this layout in Enosh.

That wouldn’t be so bad, but his very presence as an Incarnation had begun to reshape the world around him. They were forced to rely on a secondhand map of an ancient city, which was itself being rebuilt in the image of a second city that none of them understood…all while the streets reformed around the construction crews. Not to mention that they were sketching all this based on the eyewitness testimony of a hundred-year-old woman that Leah was still half-convinced was blind.

The sketch now looked like a pile of sticks dropped randomly inside a lumpy circle. There were a number of notes on the page, none of which did anything to increase her confidence.

One annotation, at the end of a main thoroughfare, said: Watch out for bats.

Another note, outside what had once been an armory: Whole building may be an illusion.

Another: At noon, bridge dissolves into sugar.

He can see you from here. Travel through tunnels instead. Are there tunnels?

This could be the School for the Disobedient, or possibly a fish warehouse.

Street ends in turtle?

It was all a confusing, nightmarish mess, and that didn’t even count the numerous parts of the map shaded in gray, accompanied by the words “Unknown Area.” There were far too many of those.

Assuming any of this was accurate at all, there were a few constants even in a half-finished city like this. For one thing, the Naraka waystation couldn’t have moved in relation to Naraka, or it wouldn’t function. That put it inside the walls on the north side.

“You understand that we’ll have to go in through Naraka,” Leah said with a sigh.

“Who says?” Indirial responded. He stood across the table from her, both of them underneath a canopy high overhead to keep off the sun. While she was bent over her map, Indirial had his long, cracked sword resting on the other half of the table. He carefully ran a rag down first one side of the blade, then the other, his sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms marked to the wrist with black chains.

“It’s the only route that makes sense.” Leah tapped the waystation with her pen. “We come in through here, and we know exactly where we’re going to end up. We’ve also heard that Alin spends most of his time in the southeast quarter, personally overseeing the construction there. So this puts us about as far from him as we’re going to get. We’ll have plenty of time to show up, take a look around, and retreat.”

Indirial wiped the blade one more time, then turned his attention to the thread wrapping its hilt. “I could list all the things wrong with this plan, but I’m not sure you have the time.”

Leah sighed. “We’re taking the word of an avowed enemy…”

“Whose map happens to suggest that her own Territory is the best way inside,” Indirial pointed out.

“…and we’re planning on heading into a hostile city controlled by the Incarnation of a Territory about which we know almost nothing,” Leah finished. “We don’t know anything about his motivations or goals, we have no reasonable expectation of his capabilities, and our map looks like it was scribbled by a blind child with the shakes. How am I doing so far?”

Indirial began reaching into his pockets, behind his back, into his boots, under his belt, even inside his cloak—which looked comfortable in this biting wind. Each time he reached in, he pulled out a knife or another small weapon, more exotic, that Leah didn’t recognize. One was a hatchet small enough to hold in one hand. Was he supposed to throw that?

The Overlord began oiling and wiping down the weapons, still talking. “There’s one thing that bothers me more than any of that, though.”

Leah raised an eyebrow.

“You keep saying ‘we.’ Do you think you’re going?”

She ticked off points on her fingers as she spoke. “Well, let’s see. I’m a Lirial Traveler, and as such best-suited for surveying and mapping the area. I have a personal connection with the Incarnation, as I spent most of two years observing him as a trusted friend. I lived for several weeks inside the city, and thereby familiarized myself with its original layout. Finally, I am your Queen, and I will accompany you if I wish.”

Leah was quite proud of that speech. For all of five seconds, until Indirial raised his head from his weapons and met her eyes. He didn’t speak sternly or angrily—he was still Indirial—but he wasn’t smiling.

“Your father always encouraged his children to operate independently. As Ragnarus Travelers, they were well equipped to deal with danger, and independent action fosters self-reliance and creative thinking. So he said. What happened to your brothers and sisters, Leah?”

She saw where he was going, and tried to head him off, but he simply kept talking.

“Your brothers are dead. One of your sisters was exiled for treason, and the other isolated to treat her incurable insanity. You are the last child of Ragnarus we have left, and risking yourself on a fact-finding mission is not only absurd and unnecessary, it is irresponsible.”

Coming from someone else, those words might have put Leah’s back up even more, forcing her to go into Enosh or else lose face. But from Indirial…

She felt a blush creeping up into her cheeks, but she refused to allow it. “The fact remains that I am the best individual for this assignment, if you set my rank and responsibilities aside.”

Indirial smiled a little. “I’m not sure I’m willing to do that. But I figured you’d say something like that, so I sent four Travelers through to Enosh last night.”

“You did what?”

“Two Naraka, two Avernus. They scouted the trail between the closest Naraka waystation and the one in Enosh, removing a couple of the traps that Grandmaster Naraka ‘forgot’ to tell us about. They didn’t notice them all. One of our Travelers will walk with a limp for the rest of her life.”

Leah showed nothing on the outside, but inside, she winced. That could easily have been her.

Indirial had returned to maintaining his weapons, but he kept speaking. “They reached the city and managed to dispatch the scout that was waiting for them by the waystation. He almost escaped and raised the alarms.”

That was no surprise—Leah had expected Alin to set guardians on the waystation. It was one of the few permanent, predictable ways in and out.

“One of the Corvinus ravens managed to modify his memory, and they mapped the quarter around the waystation without incident. I have their report here.”

He reached out with a finger and tapped a pile of papers on the table next to his knives. “I stacked it on top of the other reports I received from the six other teams I sent out at the same time—”

“Indirial!” Sending out a single team was one thing, but seven? Without telling her? That was too much.

“—to check if there were any other routes through any other viable Territories. There were none. We lost no men, but the guardians in Helgard, Asphodel, and Endross were formidable. It seems that, indeed, Naraka is our best option. Perhaps he has fewer Naraka Travelers to defend it after the Grandmaster’s defection, or maybe he wants us to show up at the predictable waystation. I can’t be sure.”

“Overlord Indirial,” Leah said, letting her anger seep into her voice. “That was much too large an action for you to authorize without my approval. You have risked dozens of our finest Travelers on a fact-finding mission that we could have done ourselves! Not to mention that you may have alerted the Incarnation to our intentions.”

Indirial poured some oil on his rag and kept working, seemingly unfazed. “As opposed to risking one of our last Lirial Travelers, our last Ragnarus Traveler, and our ruler?”

Well, when he put it like that…

“Your father hired me to guard the ruling monarch,” Indirial went on, still talking in his usual calm voice. “The best defense is preemptive action. I have now determined that, in fact, it is safe for you to accompany the team to Enosh, as long as you swear not to leave the Naraka Gate. I will make sure to send enough Naraka Travelers that they will be able to hold it open for the duration of your stay, which will be no more than half an hour.”

Leah didn’t enjoy following orders. She never had, even as a child, even from her father. Come to think of it, she had never seen her father fighting with Indirial. Why was that?

After a moment, she realized: she had never seen them disagree because her father hadn’t ever argued with Indirial. He simply accepted the protection. And her father was much more capable of defending himself than she was. It irritated her to admit that, though the feeling wasn’t logical.

“Thank you for your care, Indirial,” she said carefully. “I would be glad to accept your precautions.”

Indirial smiled broadly, as though she had made a joke, but he bowed in her direction without saying a word.

Leah glanced at the sun, wishing for a clock. It was a little before noon, but she would have liked a more accurate estimate. “How long will the trip take?”

“Three hours,” Indirial said. “I can have a team ready in twenty minutes.”

Leah stared at the map, considering. It was the perfect time to leave. The Grandmaster claimed that Alin practically locked down the city at night, and no one without official authorization was allowed out of their home. She had initially believed that those restrictions would make it easier to move around after dark, until Grandmaster Naraka told her exactly what patrolled the streets from sundown to sunup. If they tried to sneak into the city at night, they were far more likely to run into a patrol of gold-armored troops or a floating tentacled creature.

It would be much easier, the Grandmaster believed, to slip in during the middle of the day and blend in with the crowd.

If they left now, they would have plenty of time to arrive, take a look around, and even return before sunset.

But were there any pitfalls? Was there anything she was missing? What could she do now to make the plan more likely to succeed?

As always when she thought like this, she fished around in her pocket until she found a small, square, wooden box with rounded edges. It was the right size to hold a ring or a pendant.

But she could feel the contents radiating frustration through the thin layer of wood, pressing against her fingers, wanting release.

It hardly felt like an eye at all. Maybe some sort of horrible, still-beating heart.

Indirial didn’t look up from his weapons when he spoke. “You should use it.”

Leah sighed quietly. Did he ever miss anything? She pulled the jewelry box out of her pocket and, with only a moment’s hesitation, opened it.

A smooth, round stone of pure red gleamed on a velvet cushion. The stone was dark now, and until she turned it to catch the light it looked almost black. “We’ve talked about this, Indirial.”

“You need as much power as you can get,” he said simply, scraping a stone down the edge of one knife. He tested the blade with his thumb. “I risked my life more than once for a power I thought I needed.”

“A moment ago, you were more concerned for my safety than I was.”

He shrugged. “Your father survived. I doubt it’s any more dangerous for you than for him.”

Carefully, Leah placed the box on the table. “I don’t know anything about this, Indirial. There’s no shelf for it in the Vault, so I’m not sure where it came from. I don’t know what its price is, or even what it does.”

The Overlord spoke over the steady rasp, rasp, rasp of a whetstone against one of his knives. “Whatever it does, your father thought it was necessary to fight the Valinhall Incarnation. I understand he went through a great deal of trouble to get it. He even lost his eye in the battle.” He made a thoughtful sound in his throat. “Now that I think about it, that worked out pretty well for him.”

Leah thought Indirial had his priorities exactly backwards. Going into Enosh wouldn’t be nearly as dangerous to her as using the crimson eye. She had an even chance of winning or escaping any given fight. But placing something in her body that had an unknown effect and a mysterious price? She would rather battle an Elysian Incarnation alone.

Then again, her father had used the eye for as long as she’d been alive. It hadn’t hurt him much.

Had it?

Leah rolled the stone in her fingers, ignoring its pulsing warmth. She would have to get more comfortable with it if she meant to have it surgically inserted into her skull. She couldn’t help but imagining it, then: a long-handled metal spoon descending toward her left eye socket, ready to scoop out her eyeball…

She shuddered. It wasn’t realistic—they would certainly give her something for the pain, and any Asphodel Traveler could hold her unconscious until the operation had ended—but she couldn’t shake her instant revulsion. No matter how it happened, she would still have to give up an eye. And she had to wonder: was that the final price? Only an eye was a small cost, compared to what else Ragnarus might demand of her.

She shivered again, and almost jumped when a raven croaked behind her. She managed to move smoothly, placing the Ragnarus eye back into its case and turning to face Feiora Torannus.

The Overlord wore black trousers and a black shirt again, as usual, with Eugan the raven perched on her left shoulder. She stood with her arms crossed and jaw clenched, as though she anticipated having to physically knock someone down.

“Enosh?” she demanded. “What idiocy is this?”

There were seven other Overlords that hardly ever bothered Leah. Where were they? Seven stones, why is it always Feiora?

Briefly it occurred to Leah that she might pretend to know nothing. Enosh? What are you talking about? But that would be a fool’s move; obviously the Overlord knew enough to be certain, or she wouldn’t have barged into the conversation in the first place.

“Who told you?” she asked instead.

Feiora jerked her head at Eugan, who let out a loud caw. “The Overlord of Cana over there had to borrow some of my personnel. A few of them were Avernus Travelers. They didn’t tell me where they were going, but the Corvinus tribe likes to keep tabs on one another.”

The raven croaked again, and somehow managed to radiate self-satisfaction.

Indirial didn’t look up from the weapons on the table. He had put down his whetstone and was now giving each blade a few strokes of an oiled rag. “I apologize for using your Travelers without permission. What else can I do for you?”

Feiora’s jaw tightened so much that Leah imagined she could hear teeth grinding and muscles straining with tension. “When do you leave, Indirial?”

Indirial swept his blade across a stone with a steady whisk, whisk, whisk. Maybe he hadn’t finished sharpening after all.

Or maybe he was doing it to be annoying.

Leah spoke into the silence. “I thought you were headed back to Eltarim, Overlord.” There was no need for Indirial to antagonize the woman like that, just because Leah always wanted to.

“I delegated,” Feiora said. “You should try it some time. Your Majesty, I formally request that I be assigned to the Enosh team.”

Leah mulled it over for a second, mostly for show. “Why?”

“It’s a scouting mission, isn’t it? I’m the best Avernus you have. I don’t have any contracts with the Sarin tribe, which would be even better for gathering intelligence.”

Lysander had been the premier Sarin-tribe Avernus Traveler in the nation. Did she have to bring up her little brother every time they spoke? The man was imprisoned for an attempted coup; she wasn’t going to release him for nothing more than a few extra eyes. She had frozen or killed most of his sparrows anyway, so he wouldn’t be much good.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Leah said at last. Meanwhile, she tried to figure out exactly what Feiora stood to gain—or thought she might gain—from going on this mission. On the surface, it was a loss for her: she had begged a favor from Leah. If Leah granted it, that would put the Overlord slightly in her debt.

On the other hand, Feiora needed a high card to trump her brother’s treachery. If she wanted to persuade Leah to release him anytime soon, she would have to provide the throne with some great service. Like, perhaps, taking down an Incarnation.

That would work for Leah. It was in Feiora’s interests to further the Queen’s goals, so she could be trusted. Marginally. If they encountered any enemy troops, the plan called for them to retreat in any case.

And she was the best Avernus they had.

Leah nodded once and turned back to her map, as though the decision had been an easy one. “You may come with us,” she said. “We leave within the hour, as soon as Indirial gathers the proper personnel.”

Indirial grinned and drew his long, cracked sword off the table. He swept Leah a bow and lifted his blade, starting to cut open a Valinhall Gate.

Overlord Feiora’s thick eyebrows raised. “Us? Surely, Your Majesty, you don’t think you’re coming too.”

***

The white marble had grown on its own, in batches next to what had ended up as Enosh’s Green District. It came in perfect, square blocks, stacked one on top of the other, leading Alin to believe that they must have once been crates. Like so much else in the city, the blocks had been transformed by his radiant presence into their new form.

One of the blocks drifted up on a cushion of Orange Light, sliding over to slam onto its fellows in a neat stack. Dutifully, the workers applauded to show their gratitude. Then they got back to work.

Diligence. He approved of that.

The sight of the wall going up—block after block of pure white marble, cemented together by his human workforce—satisfied something in him. This wall represented order, purity, cleanliness…and, he supposed, self-sacrifice. He wasn’t sure. Why didn’t he know the exact nature of Elysia’s White Light? He was trying to put up a White District, as there was in his Territory, but how could he do that if he couldn’t even call the White?

The thought wrinkled his previously unmarred peace of mind, and he frowned.

“Rhalia, what does the White Light represent?”

The Gate swirled beside him, its edges shining like pure sunlight. Rhalia hung motionless in the air behind the Gate, her white dress and gold sash blowing in the light breeze that ruffled Elysia’s grass. Her golden eyes were sad as they touched on the workers, but he couldn’t figure out why.

She heard him and started to respond, but he held up a hand. “No, that’s not the right question. It doesn’t matter what the White represents.”

“I would say it matters very much,” Rhalia said softly.

Alin rubbed his chin with one gauntleted hand, trying to phrase his thoughts clearly. “I mean, what’s important is that I don’t know what the White Light means. Why does it elude me, even now?”

Rhalia brushed a strand of blond hair out of her face, still watching the workers. “The White Light is selflessness. It’s pure devotion to the service of another at your own expense—even its power can only be used on behalf of someone else. That part of Elysia is beyond you.” She didn’t meet Alin’s gaze.

Alin stepped fully in front of the Gate, forcing her to look him in the eye. “I am Elysia,” he said. “There is no door in the city barred to me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Rhalia’s mouth, and she gestured behind her. The walls of the City of Light rose in the distance, bright gold in the light of Elysia’s eternal sunrise. They had been worked with silver and set with precious metals, gleaming a dozen different colors, and the tops of the nine Districts soared high above the city streets.

“You want to open the White Door?” Rhalia asked. “Feel free.” She kept her hand out like a native giving a tour. Which she was, now that Alin thought about it.

Alin tapped into the Green Light. He didn’t form it into a shield, he just held the light, flooding him with patience and soothing away his irritation at Rhalia’s jokes. He couldn’t see himself, but he knew that his eyes would have turned a bright emerald green.

He managed a sad smile. “Why don’t you approve?” he asked, turning back to the workers building their wall. “I have given them order. Nobody starves here, not anymore. No man cheats another.”

The Violet Light whispered the answer: Because you gave up your humanity to do it. What are you now?

He ignored it. He was finding it easier and easier to ignore the Violet, these days.

“You think I’m sad for them?” Rhalia asked. “Alin, my heart breaks for you. I’ve failed you as badly as I failed my own people. I only pray that you don’t pay the price they did.”

Alin couldn’t stand hearing her like this. Rhalia was usually brighter than the sun; she was supposed to be cheery even in the shadow of death. What had gotten to her?

Find out what’s wrong, the Rose Light pleaded. You have to fix her.

You owe it to her, said the Orange Light.

It’s your fault, added the Silver. There’s only one way to—

Alin quieted the Silver Light. The colors didn’t talk to him in audible voices, but they clearly reminded him what he would think if he were drawing on their Light. He was starting to avoid calling the Silver Light, even staying as far away from the Silver District inhabitants as he could.

Wisdom, he decided, wasn’t everything.

He thought compassion held the answer now, so he tapped into the Rose Light. Soft pink warmth bloomed in his mind, suffusing him with empathy. One of the workers, down by the half-formed wall, had slumped down with his back half-propped against the white marble. How had he not noticed that before?

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Rhalia,” he said. “You kept me safe. You gave me great advice. If I strayed, it was my fault, not yours.”

Before he had finished the sentence, he stepped off the fifty-foot wall, and the street rushed up to greet him. A flare of Orange Light caught him before he slammed into the cobblestones and he landed lightly, knees bent. Rhalia’s Gate fell with him, exactly parallel to his right shoulder, as though it was tied to him.

“When I was a girl,” Rhalia said, “potential Elysian Travelers were given months of ethics and morality training before they would be allowed to take the compatibility tests. I was only offered the option after I saved a man’s life. But you…I taught you nothing. I only set you loose.”

“I’m sure you had a good reason,” Alin said, as he strode past the citizens of Enosh. They all bowed to him as he passed, each at exactly the correct angle. The boots of his golden armor rang out against the cobblestones, echoing in the silence.

Rhalia sat, cross-legged, in midair. Alin sensed her calling on the Orange Light, but he couldn’t see it, which he suspected was more impressive than he realized. How many little tricks did she know that she hadn’t shared?

“I trusted your blood more than I trusted the old teachings,” she said bitterly. “You were prophesied to be the first natural Elysian Traveler in three hundred years, so I was sure you could handle yourself. And we can both use Violet, so let’s be honest: I didn’t trust myself. I was sure that anything I taught you would be poisoned by my past, that everything I said would lead you down my path.”

Alin said nothing, he simply kept walking and let her speak. Perhaps this would be good for her, talking about her problems.

She knows far more than you do, the Violet Light said. Maybe if you’d listened to her, you wouldn’t be a tyrant and a monster.

Alin crushed that voice. Maybe Violet and Silver were in this together.

“It looks like my path was wider than I’d thought,” Rhalia whispered, almost to herself.

It occurred to Alin that he had never asked Rhalia about her past. That had been foolish of him. Who knew what wisdom she might have to share?

Are you brave enough to face it? the Gold Light asked.

That was odd. Usually the Gold Light was on his side.

Alin reached the injured man, who still lay slumped against the half-built wall of the White District. His clothes were ragged and dirty, his beard spilled across his chest.

Another worker, a younger man, hovered nearby, seemingly torn between helping Alin and going back to work. He was little more than a child.

The child was probably Alin’s age, now that he thought of it, but the comparison was hardly fair.

Children these days, standing around like that, the Red Light muttered. Pure laziness!

Alin raised one gold-gauntleted hand and crooked a finger. All the color ran out of the young man’s face, and he hurried over, giving a precise bow as he arrived. “How may I serve you, Eliadel?” he whispered.

“Don’t be afraid,” Alin said, full of Rose Light. “What happened to this man?” He knew his eyes would be bright pink, which couldn’t be comforting, but if he released the Rose Light, his eyes would go back to their natural state. He didn’t think this young man would appreciate staring into two circles of a thousand swirling colors, so he kept holding the Rose.

“I…I don’t know,” the boy choked out. “He fell over, and we tried to get him up, but he told us that he wanted a rest. That’s two hours ago, sir.”

Alin placed one hand against the bearded man’s neck. He could feel very little through his gauntlets, certainly not enough to check a pulse. He only needed to call a quick flash of Silver Light, and he’d know everything that was wrong with this man in an instant. Every cut, scrape, tumor, and lesion in the body would practically shine, and he could direct the Rose Light as necessary. In a severe case that stretched beyond his abilities, he could even summon a more experienced or powerful healer from the Rose District.

But he hesitated. Calling the Silver Light would mean hearing what the Silver Light had to say, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that at the moment. Perhaps later.

You’re afraid to look into the Silver, the Violet Light said, because it will show you as you truly are.

Coward, spat the Gold Light.

“Can you help him, Eliadel?” the boy asked.

Alin cupped an empty hand, and it filled with a perfect flower blossom sculpted of bright pink light. He cast it out over the man’s body, and glowing rose petals drifted down, sinking into the bearded man’s flesh like pebbles into a pond.

“What are you doing, Alin?” Rhalia asked, her voice alarmed. The boy was making a point to look away from the Gate, as though he thought he wasn’t allowed to look upon Elysia directly.

Alin didn’t answer. The flower in his hand split into a flurry of pink petals, each sinking into an area of the body that needed healing.

“You didn’t search him first,” Rhalia said. “You have to use the Silver Light, Alin! Call the Silver!” She was straining to lean out of the Gate now, trying to get a closer look at his work, and it looked as though she was pushing on an invisible screen. She pressed with both hands, but the Gate’s barrier wouldn’t let her pass.

She wasn’t panicking, but she looked close to it.

The bearded man coughed once, and his eyes opened wide. He took one huge, rattling breath so deep that he sounded like a corpse trying to breathe after a week in the ground.

Finally, he collapsed back down, panting, his eyes very much alert.

Alin smiled at Rhalia and stood, brushing off his armor. “Don't worry so much, Rhalia. You have to learn to accept these things as they come.”

Rhalia looked like she was about to respond, but the bearded man coughed one more time, stealing both of their gazes back. He pulled a palm away from his mouth and held it out to Alin. His hand was spattered with blood.

“What is...” he began, but he stopped as he coughed again, falling to his knees. He kept coughing as he shook with spasms, curling up on the street.

“Search him!” Rhalia commanded. “Call the Silver!”

Red, Gold, Violet, and Rose all agreed, adding their voices to Rhalia's, and even Alin couldn't think of any other reason to hesitate.

Reaching out to Elysia, he tapped into the Silver Light. Instantly, he put together details that he hadn't thought were significant. The way the boy shuffled his feet, how he kept back far enough but never too far away to help, the concerned glances he shot the bearded man...he was a relative, maybe even the older man's son. But he hadn't reacted much when it looked like the man was going to cough himself to death, so not a son. A nephew, maybe?

Once, Alin had enjoyed calling the Silver Light. It made him feel astute and intelligent, as he noticed trivial details and spun them together into the truth. The problem was, he couldn't turn it off.

If you had searched him first, you could have saved him, the Silver Light said. Rhalia told you to, but in your fear, you didn't listen. Are you afraid you'll see what you're doing to these people? Can't you look yourself in the eye?

According to Elysian legend and tradition, the Silver Light was the power of wisdom, given only to those who possessed extraordinary insight. He had never found that to be true; to him, it only ever sounded like the voice of accusation and guilt.

Alin spun a cloud of tiny lights into the man's body. To him, the Silver looked like a handful of glittering metal dust, shining as it flowed in a solid river into the man's veins, along his muscles, tracing the outline of bone and nerve. No one else could see what he saw, but in his vision, the human body became translucent under the effects of Silver Light. He could see straight through the skin, into the marrow.

The Silver flashed a warning, and it didn't take Alin long to see why: there was a dark mass around the worker's heart, twisting down until it even lay one tendril into a lung. Alin had never learned much anatomy, but he had heard of tumors, and he had spent his share of time around animals suffering from parasites. Whichever this was, it was killing him.

You killed him, the Silver Light said. A growth like this feeds on the healing you gave this man. If you had simply looked before injecting the Rose, he might have made it home tonight. As it is...

Rhalia let out a soft sigh. “He has maybe three, four hours left. It's best to get him some water and make him comfortable.”

Alin kept kneeling. The man coughed once more, splattering blood on his gold breastplate, but Alin ignored it.

The Rose Light in him ached along with the bearded man, sympathizing with his pain, agonizing in sympathy over his terrible fate. If only we had searched him first, the Rose cried.

The Red and the Gold told him to get over this man's death. It was tragic, sure. But Alin hadn't meant any harm. In fact, he had tried to help. It was only natural that he should fail every once in a while, so long as he didn't let that slow him down.

The Green and Orange Lights were slower to judge. He was a stranger to you, the Orange pointed out.

Have peace, said the Green Light. Everything will work out in the end.

The Silver and Violet were more accusing. This is your fault, they said. You could have fixed this.

Alin didn't know what to think. His thoughts, his emotions, his very nature were all pulling him in very different directions, threatening to tear him apart.

Then the Blue Light shone, soft and cool, in his mind.

Mercy, it suggested.

That sounded like a good idea.

“Step back,” Alin said to the boy. The young man took two or three steps backwards. “On second thought...take the day off. Go home. You don't need to witness this.”

With tears in his eyes, the boy shook his head.

The Orange Light of loyalty couldn't help but approve.

Without another word, Alin called the Blue. Translucent coils of blue light, like tendrils made of sapphire, reached up out of the ground all around the bearded man. He continued hacking and coughing, but his eyes were glazed over again. They had none of the life in them that Alin had seen from him a moment before.

The ropes of blue light lay limp on the man's flesh. And then they began to draw his life away. Bright sparks of light, little chunks of the man's heat and life force, traveled down the tentacles, draining into Elysia. If Alin chose, he could take that power and use it to fuel his own summoning...but he hardly needed that, now. He let the energy go directly to his Territory instead.

As the Blue Light slowly killed this boy's relative—father, uncle, adoptive guardian, it didn’t matter at this point—Alin decided it would be better for him to say a few words to honor this stranger. He opened his mouth to speak.

Only to find that, for perhaps the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea what to say.

“May he find his way into the Maker's arms,” Rhalia said softly. “May his life be remembered, his deeds honored, his family comforted. He will not be forgotten.”

The boy was crying now, and the spectacle had attracted a smaller crowd that Alin had not noticed. Some of their overseers—a handful of squat gnomes with bright red caps—scratched at their beards, obviously wondering why their employees hadn't come back to work. Alin had summoned these from the Red District in Elysia, and constant diligence was all they knew. They would stay on a job until it was finished or they died of exhaustion, and they simply couldn't understand why humans weren't the same way.

Rhalia said something else that Alin didn't catch, and the crowd murmured in response. The boy was weeping openly now, but he nodded to Rhalia. She bowed back, her golden hair falling around her eyes so Alin couldn't see what expression she was making.

The Blue Light retreated, leaving one lifeless corpse on the streets of Enosh.

At last, Alin figured out something he could say that might make a difference to a grieving family member. “He is gone, but I will take his body with me. He will lie in a grave in the City of Light, and Elysia will remember him forever.” He would have to ask someone the dead man's name, at some point, but he was proud of the gesture.

The young man glanced at another worker, who patted him reassuringly on the back. The boy turned back and met Alin squarely in the eyes. “I'm honored, sir. More than I can say. But we'd rather have him back, if…you know, if it’s okay with you. All our family is buried in the same plot, you see, and...”

He shrugged helplessly, unable to finish the sentence.

Alin felt a flash of irritation. He had offered to bury the boy's uncle in a rare and beautiful Territory, there to be remembered forever. How many people got a chance like that? But the Rose Light told him what he should say: “Of course, I completely understand. Take him with my blessing.”

The boy and several of the other laborers gathered up the man's body and carried him away. Alin had to command the gnomes twice to let them through; they would rather shave their beards than let workers go before the task was complete.

After that, the other men milled around, shooting him and Rhalia nervous looks. He no longer felt like levitating marble blocks, so he told them to go home to their families. They all bowed to him and retreated, leaving only a few horrified-looking gnomes standing in an empty corner of the street next to a pile of shoulder-high marble blocks.

You did everything you could, the Rose Light said.

That was a tough job, but you finished it well, said the Red.

You spared him worse pain, said the Blue.

He stood there for long minutes, long after the red gnomes had departed, letting the encouragement soothe him. Naturally, he had done the right thing. He was Elysia. He never did anything except the right thing.

Alin meditated on his own virtue until his smile returned and the world seemed right again. Only then did he fly back over the city, where more work awaited him.

He hardly noticed that the Silver Light had said nothing.

And neither had Rhalia.

CHAPTER 8:

THE GALLERY

“So you lied to me,” Simon said.

“I’d say I verbally misled you for the purposes of deception,” Valin responded.

The Wanderer lounged in the grass, his back propped up against a tombstone. He held a three-foot Damascan infantry sword in his left hand, and was using the point to clean dirt out from under his right fingernails.

He couldn’t move any more than his arms. He had exhausted himself so much, calling on his powers as an Incarnation, that he had stayed completely unconscious for two or three hours.

“I think that’s exactly what a lie is,” Simon said.

You’d know, you liar! Otoku sent. You promised to protect us, and you abandoned me to my fate!

I don’t remember promising that. Simon hated having two conversations at once, especially when all he wanted to do was look for his mask. He couldn’t even understand how he could have lost the mask in the first place, but the fact remained that it was missing.

“Do you want to know what the real graveyard test is?” Valin asked.

“Yes, please.” Simon bent over and looked behind a tombstone, searching for the glint of mirror-bright steel. No good.

“You have to genuinely think you’re going to die,” the Wanderer responded. “That was why I went with the whole Incarnation act. Then, when you’re sure you’re dead, you have to reach out to Valinhall for power. The ghost armor will answer.”

If you leave me with Kai again, even the ghost armor won’t protect you, Otoku put in.

“So, when you said all that about having to dodge arrows…”

“That was a lie,” Valin said.

Well, at least Simon had passed the test. That was worth something. He hadn’t had a chance to call ghost armor yet, but he could think of six or seven times when its powers would have come in handy.

Otoku didn’t seem like she was in a celebrating mood. Her voice continued to beat at Simon from the inside of his skull.

You had to leave me with him. I asked! I begged! No, I pleaded for you to come and help me, but you had to go play in the graveyard!

I'm truly sorry, Otoku, Simon sent.

Are you? she demanded. Are you, Simon? You would be if you'd seen what he did to me!

His fight with Valin had torn holes in the soft soil of the graveyard, leaving slashes and furrows in the grass big enough to slip the mask inside. Maybe it had simply fallen in one of those?

What did he do? Simon asked, because it seemed like the right thing to say.

He gave me a bath!

Simon tried to imagine Kai fighting off imps in the giant, soapy pool that Valinhall had for a bath, just so he could scrub a wooden doll clean. He could picture it all too easily.

Surely he's done that before, though, right? Kai had been living with the dolls for decades, he had to have cleaned them at some point.

Meanwhile, Simon slipped his hands into the pockets of his cloak for at least the tenth time. He knew he wouldn't find the mask there, but where was it? The green light of the flashing lightning overhead made it hard to pick out any contrast with the grass, but the illumination was bright enough. He should have been able to see the mask gleaming from anywhere in the room.

The floating white crystal, hovering behind Simon's head, screamed, “SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT. SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT.”

It had done that every sixty seconds for the past ten minutes, straight into Simon's ear, slightly quieter than a bellowing ox.

You think we can't keep ourselves clean, is that it? Otoku asked, outraged. You think we sit there on our shelf, collecting dust and wallowing in our own filth?

He’d thought the Nye cleaned them, actually, but he wasn't sure if he should tell her that.

“You know,” Valin said, “I knew a few of this Queen Leah's ancestors. Some of them I quite liked. If you're not making any progress on the mask, you should invite her back here. I'm sure she'd enjoy a little chat. About her family, you understand.”

The Wanderer looked very casual, scraping dirt out of his nails with the point of a sword. You would hardly believe that he was plotting an assassination.

“You can't murder her in the state you're in, you know that,” Simon said wearily. The offer would have been more convincing if Valin hadn't made the same one five times since the flying Lirial crystal had shown up. He'd begged Simon a favor for the honor of seeing a Queen in person, then insisted that he had a secret for fighting the Incarnations, then threatened Simon with banishment from Valinhall if he didn't bring the Queen here.

Valin flashed a disarming smile. “See? I want a conversation. No threat here.” Valin had angled his blade up, and appeared to be shaving his throat with its edge. Did room guardians even grow facial hair?

He removed my dress! Otoku railed, having taken Simon's silence as an invitation to keep listing Kai's sins. Oh, sure, why not? Go right ahead! It's not like I have any dignity!

Simon peeked behind a column for the third time. He distinctly remembered having the mask when he entered the graveyard, but maybe he'd been mistaken. Or maybe one of the Nye had taken it. Either way, he should check his bedroom soon.

You're made of wood, Simon pointed out. Why do you care if you're naked?

All of the dolls' voices sounded like they were being whispered down a long, windy tunnel, but Otoku did her best to make her scream of frustration heard. It's like you don't even listen!

She squirmed in his hand—actually, physically fighting his grip—and he was so surprised that he didn't react for a second. Not until he felt a tiny wooden hand slap his cheek.

Otoku stood in his palm, her arm outstretched, her red silk dress rumpled, and her black hair falling behind her. The doll's face was frozen in an unusual scowl.

You slapped me! Simon said in surprise. She hardly ever did that. Some of the other dolls often moved a little at a time, changing their expression or shifting their position, but Otoku almost never did. She hated spending so much energy, she said.

And that should show you how important this is! she sent. She looked like any other doll now, completely still, but Simon carefully raised her up to eye level.

“Otoku, I am—”

“SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT. SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT.”

At the bellowing voice, Simon stumbled, and Otoku spilled from his palm. He snatched her out of the air in time, before she landed in the graveyard grass. The last time he had placed her on the ground, she had complained for days about the stains in her dress.

The loud rock will die, Otoku promised. I’ll see to it. Simon, kill that crystal for me.

I don't think Leah would like that very much, he sent. But he was already tempted. If this kept up for another ten minutes, the communications crystal would likely end up as nothing more than shattered glass.

Otoku, would you mind helping me look for this mask? It would go a lot faster if—

Oh, I see! the doll sent. When you want something, it's 'Otoku, would you mind? Otoku, please help! Otoku, I'm worthless without you!' But when I abase myself and beg, do you save me from the hideous white-haired beast? You do not!

Simon raised Otoku up to eye level again. She was sitting now, as usual, but she hadn't lost the scowl. “Otoku,” he said aloud, “would you mind? Please help. I'm worthless without you.”

Well, she said, when you put it like that...

“It's good to hear you finally admit it, Simon,” Indirial said, walking up behind Simon and clapping him on the back. “Humility is good for the soul, they say.”

Simon blushed, and he couldn't think of a clever response.

“I'm here to pick you up,” the Overlord said. He nodded to the floating silvery-white crystal. “I told Leah that I'd go myself, but she insisted on sending that thing in first. I followed as soon as I could, but you know how time works here.”

Indirial put his hands on his hips and looked around the graveyard, smiling broadly. “Maker, it's been a long time since I've seen this place. Who's the guardian now? I thought the Eldest—”

Simon, stop him!

He should have seen it coming. But only with Otoku's warning did Simon have the time to call essence and throw himself at Indirial. Indirial was still faster. Simon avoided snatching the edge of the older man's trailing black cloak as he shot like a dark comet toward the master who had betrayed him.

The master he had, twice now, seen die.

Valin's expression didn't change. He held the infantry sword out casually in front of him, but he didn't have the strength to move. Indirial didn't have Vasha with him, but he had produced a knife from his cloak almost big enough to double as a sword. If the Overlord slit Valin's throat, would Valin die? Would he fade away? Would he regenerate?

Simon had no idea, and he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to stop it from happening. What did it matter to him if the Wanderer was destroyed again? In the end, that might make his life easier.

A blast of dark smoke exploded on one side of the room, like someone had slammed a hammer into a pile of ash. Simon had a hard time following the smoke's path, even with the Nye essence in his lungs, but it flowed from the edge of the room over to the Wanderer, then detonated again in another burst of black smoke.

And Kai was there, standing inside the smoke, his own short sword raised to catch Indirial's blow. With a heave of his whole body, Kai turned the strike aside.

“We need him now, so let him go,” Kai sang. Valin put his own sword down, his expression amused.

The two students of the Dragon Army stood there for a long moment. Indirial was dark and black-cloaked, crouched on the ground, staring at Kai as though trying to decide whether to spring up and bury his dagger in the other man's throat. Kai stood straight, by all appearances relaxed, an infantry sword held reversed in his left hand. Clumps of white hair hung down into his eyes, preventing Simon from reading his expression. The air burned with tension, and Simon was afraid that, one way or another, he was about to see a good man die.

“SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT. SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT.”

Indirial staggered forward a step, and Kai cocked his head toward the crystal. Simon raised his hand on instinct, almost ready to smash the Lirial stone out of sheer reaction, but Leah had impressed upon him, more than once, exactly how rare and expensive communication crystals were. Granted, they normally didn't shout in his ear every minute.

But this one had distracted Kai and Indirial long enough to keep them from killing one another, so he could hardly complain.

Valin waved his hand in front of his face, dispelling the cloud of black smoke. He wore an expression of distaste, like he had bitten deep into a rotten fruit. “You called the smoke, Kai? Really?”

“I never was a friend of the Nye,” Kai replied smoothly. “Even if the Eldest won't share his toys with me, I still need something for speed. Don't you think? Now that I have it, I can't believe how I went so long without it.”

“The smoke makes things too easy,” Valin said. “It's like cheating. How are you ever supposed to have an even match with anyone when you're appearing and disappearing like that?”

Kai wagged a finger at his former master. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. It's thinking like that kept you from killing the Damascan King. You had to wait for an Elysian Traveler to do your work for you.”

“What are you doing here?” Indirial cut in roughly, staring at Valin.

Valin gave him an ironic smile. “It looks like the Eldest had further plans for me, and dying at the end of a Ragnarus blade was not in them.”

Indirial said something low and harsh in a language Simon didn't understand, but he would have bet Azura that it was a curse. “What has he done now? I should have ended him years ago.”

Indirial wore such a dark look, as though he could hardly hold himself back from tearing out Valin's throat, that it made Simon uncomfortable. Indirial wasn't supposed to be vengeful or cruel, he was supposed to stay calm and humorous even in front of an enemy.

Yes, because everyone stays the same, all the time, Otoku sent. Indirial and Valin have a long and painful history. He's only human. He would need the patience of a doll to be able to smile right now.

The patience...of a doll.

That's right.

You mean you.

Otoku made a shocked sound. I can't believe you haven't noticed. My sisters and I are the very avatars of patience and humility.

Sometimes, he couldn't tell when she was joking.

Kai nodded to Simon. “It seems that the little mouse has misplaced his cheese.”

Indirial squeezed his eyes shut. “What are you talking about, Kai?”

“My mask,” Simon put in. “I had it when I came into the room, I know I did, but it's gone now.”

“You didn't give it to Olissa, did you?” Indirial asked. He opened his eyes and looked at Simon, deliberately turning away from Valin and Kai. “She's been working on the new versions, and she's mentioned more than once that she could use the prototype.”

Simon imagined thirteen Valinhall Travelers with masks like his, and his stomach twisted. “She's making copies? And you're okay with it?”

“I decided not to fight it,” Indirial said. “It looks like Valinhall will soon have a mask among its weapons, no matter what I do. And who am I to stand in front of progress?” He shot a glance over at Valin, and his face darkened again. “This isn't the first time I’ve failed to stop one of the Eldest Nye’s plans.”

Simon didn't see how Olissa could have possibly taken the mask from him while he was here in the graveyard, but he had nothing else to try. “Is she in the workshop, then?”

Indirial shook his head. “New room. Kai, will you show him the way?”

“I dash, I run, I positively leap to obey.” Kai swept the other man a mocking bow. “But where, dare I ask, will you be?”

The Overlord looked down on the Wanderer, who met his gaze with an amused smile. “I have a few questions to ask our founder. And Simon and I have business with the Queen.”

“Please, leave him in one piece,” Kai said, as he walked over to Simon. “The graveyard has never known a better training dummy.”

The door to the graveyard swung shut behind Simon and Kai, cutting off Valin's mocking laughter.

Wordlessly, Kai held out one hand.

Let him touch me, Otoku said, and you will beg the Nye to choke you in your sleep.

***

They arrived in the workshop a few minutes later, Simon carrying Otoku in both hands, and Kai looking like he was on the verge of tears. The communication crystal floated after them like a lonely bird, having shouted out its message two or three times on the trip through the House. Twice now, Kai had threatened to force-feed the stone to Simon if he didn't release Otoku. To which Otoku had responded that she would rather be carried off by a swarm of cockroaches, leading Kai into bouts of dramatic wailing.

The sight of the workshop's cast-iron door was an indescribable relief.

Caius Agnos stood inside the workshop, carrying a box overflowing with odds and ends: gears, springs, metal wire, rolls of cloth, and tiny wooden cups practically spilled over the top. Caius, Olissa's husband, was a friendly-looking balding man who permanently wore a blacksmith's leather apron. His bulging gut and warm smile made him look like an innkeeper, but his arms were corded with muscle.

“Good to see you both. It's been a while since I've seen you, Simon. Is the Queen keeping you busy?”

“She called me now, actually,” Simon said, only a second before:

“SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO THE QUEEN FOR ASSIGNMENT...”

Caius almost dropped his box. While Simon waited for the crystal to finish shouting, he took a look around the workshop. It had changed since he had last seen it, when it had been filled with cluttered boxes and dusty tables. Now, workbenches rested against each of the walls, covered neatly with an array of tools and half-finished projects. One rack held a selection of hammers, arranged by size, and a tray on one of the benches showed a variety of gold ingots.

The copper shelves were a recent addition, nailed to the walls slightly above head-height, and they supported a number of labeled boxes—the labels advertised everything from 'Metal Scraps’ to 'Blood Jars' to simply 'Exciting!'

All in all, it looked like a professional craftsman's organized shop, now, rather than an enthusiastic collector's old woodshed.

The floating crystal finally stopped yelling.

“I guess the Queen doesn't like waiting on you, does she?” Caius asked, chuckling nervously.

“No, it keeps doing that,” Simon said. “You get used to it. Almost.”

Kai moved toward one wall, placing his hand against the bare stone in between two benches. “I'm entranced by your witty repartee, but we're not here to chat. Open the gallery, would you please?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Caius bustled over to a table, deposited his box of raw materials, then moved to stand beside Kai. There was an iron rod sticking out of the wall at an odd angle; it had blended in so well with the tools a few inches away that Simon had hardly noticed it.

“This is one of my wife's favorite innovations,” Caius said, smiling proudly. “Are you ready?”

Caius heaved the lever down, and the stone swung away from Kai's hand.

The next room was largely unadorned, and looked half-finished. He was looking down a long rectangle, like a hallway, with a chest-high counter running down one side. It looked almost like a tavern bar: the counters were smooth and polished, made of dark fine-grained wood, and there was a three-legged wooden stool every few feet. The walls looked like they were made of white plaster, and a long rug softened the stone floor stretching from the workshop door to the far end.

Instead of drinks, the bars were covered in some of the same debris that Caius had been carrying in his boxes. Ingots of iron, plates of steel, tiny hammers, and huge tongs lay strewn on the polished wood surfaces.

On the walls, above the counters, hung a series of copper racks. They looked like elaborate hooks, designed to suspend paintings. Since there were twelve of them, Simon would have thought these racks were backup storage for the entry hall, maybe meant to hold the Dragon's Fangs. But not only were these mounts far too small to support a sword, four of the slots were occupied.

On his left, running down the wall, four masks hung in a row. It was easy to see the similarities between these masks and his: one half was dark, the other light, with two squared-off eye slits and no opening for the mouth. However, no one would mistake his mask for one of these. The light side wasn't quite the same mirror-bright polished steel of a Dragon's Fang, and the dark half didn't look like the rough, solid black of the wrought iron in Simon's. Now that he was looking at them more carefully, he noticed that the join in the middle, where the two halves met, was smooth and straight, unlike his own, which showed a jagged, uneven, sinuous line where two metals had been melted and joined together.

The steel half of these masks was almost pale, like it had been whitened somehow, and the iron half looked more dark gray than black. While Simon's mask looked like a rough-forged weapon, like it could itself be used to kill someone, these seemed like the delicate products of a craftsman.

He had no doubt that they were much deadlier than they looked.

Two of the stools in the room were occupied. Andra Agnos, the youngest Valinhall Traveler and the daughter of Olissa and Caius, brightened when Simon entered the room. She was fourteen—she had passed her latest birthday in the House—and she had been born with the same naturally tan skin and blond hair that marked Alin as part villager and part Damascan. She sat at a stool with a device in front of her: like a small hammer with a squared off tip, only the hammer was welded into some sort of frame. There was a half-finished mask sitting underneath the hammer's head, clamped into place by a vice at the bottom. The hammer's sharpened head was poised over the mask, leading Simon to believe that the machine was devised to punch eye slits in the metal.

Andra's brother, Lycus, sat at the stool next to her. He had turned eleven in the House, and unlike his older sister, he stared at his machine with focused intensity. He had to stand up and lean all his body weight on the handle to push the machine down, pushing a hole into the plate with a sharp thunk.

Andra usually seemed happy to see Simon, but Lycus refused to look him in the eye.

Simon couldn't blame the boy for that. Lycus had seen Simon kill people that the Agnos family considered friends. Maybe he would grow to understand. Maybe not.

Olissa Agnos had her auburn hair pulled back and tied behind her neck. She had pushed her leather-banded goggles up her forehead, and she wore a thick pair of work gloves. Since the opening of the workshop, which sometimes felt like an age ago, Olissa had perpetual smudges of ash on her face.

At the moment, she was rubbing an eyeless mask down with a rag. Then she looked up and saw Simon and Kai enter. Olissa smiled and dipped into a mocking curtsy.

“Simon, Master Kai, allow me to introduce the gallery.”

Simon had expected her to be making more masks, so the sight of them shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did. He already had enough trouble trying to decide when to use the mask and when to resist. The feeling of it was addictive, overpowering. So far he had managed to restrain himself except in open combat with an Incarnation, but it was a struggle each time. The more masks, and the more people who had them, the greater the chance that someone would hold on a little too long. Then there would be another Valinhall Incarnation running around, one that he would have to stop. Again.

“Four faces hung on a wall,” Kai said softly. “I wonder which of them is me?”

Olissa looked at Simon, who shook his head. “It’s best not to question him. Mistress Agnos, could you tell me about the masks?”

Olissa held the incomplete, eyeless mask up to the light for inspection. “Happy to explain,” she began.

“SIMON, SON OF KALMAN, REPORT TO—”

With a tinkling sound like a breaking bottle, the crystal shattered.

Simon wasn’t holding the Nye essence, so he didn’t see Andra move. One second she was sitting on a stool, trying to punch holes in a metal mask, and the next instant she was beside him, her Dragon’s Fang drawn, standing in a cloud of glittering dust.

She looked at him, eyes wide. “What was that thing?”

“That was the Queen’s expensive communications crystal,” Simon replied. “Nice job. Now I can tell her honestly that I wasn’t the one who broke it.”

Otoku let out a sigh of pure relief. Someone finally shut that thing up. When you die, try to make sure that she picks up Azura. I could work with her.

She’s already got a Dragon’s Fang, Simon sent. And who says I’m going to die?

It’s not a risky bet.

Andra’s eyes widened even further, and she stared at the glittering shards on the ground. “She’s not going to make me pay for it, is she?”

“You shouldn’t swing your sword around like that,” Lycus said. “That’s why you keep breaking things.”

Simon waved a hand at Andra. “Don’t worry, Leah can afford it. More importantly, Mistress Agnos, can you tell me about the mask?”

Olissa straightened, wearing a proud smile. “Why, yes I can. I learned a lot when I put together your mask, you know, but I found all sorts of fascinating things trying to make one from scratch. Valinhall has its own source of power, you know. Its own energy. It’s like…”

She searched around the gallery before she spied a small glass vial, and she snatched it off the counter and held it up. It was full of thick, yellow-gold oil.

“It’s like this bottle of olive oil,” she announced.

Andra giggled, but Lycus shushed her.

“In its natural state, the power of Valinhall is inaccessible,” Olissa went on. “It’s there, but it can’t help us. Like a bunch of olives before they’re pressed.”

“You can eat olives,” Andra pointed out. Her mother ignored her.

“Now, the power needs three things for us to use it: it needs to be re-forged into a new shape, it needs a room, and it needs a guardian. It’s basically the same process as making olive oil.”

“Those fearsome olive oil guardians,” Andra whispered.

“Olives need to be pressed, that is, processed into a new form. That’s what happens when we make a new tool, like this mask.” She held up her unfinished mask, holding it next to the bottle of oil. “We’re giving it a purpose by processing the power into a state in which it can be used.”

She paused and looked at Andra, as if waiting for a comment.

Andra spread empty hands, so Olissa went on. “Now, what would happen if we didn’t have a bottle around this oil?”

“It would escape?” Andra suggested.

“It would spill everywhere,” Simon said, feeling like an idiot for answering such an obvious question.

Olissa pointed to Simon with the bottle’s corked tip. “Exactly! So this power needs something to hold it. You see where I’m going with this? A room contains it. And the room should be separate from other rooms, so that the two different powers don’t start mixing together.”

“So the oil is like the mask,” Simon said, “and the room is like the bottle. How about the guardian?”

With a self-satisfied smile, Olissa tapped the bottle’s cork. “You need a way to get to the oil. Defeating a guardian is like pulling out the cork. But you’ve got to do it in the right way. You can’t fight them all. It’s got to be something that resonates with the nature of the shape and the nature of the room.”

“You can’t just duel your cork,” Andra added, in mock seriousness. “Don’t you see? It makes complete sense…” She dissolved into laughter as Lycus shook his head wearily.

“I see,” said Simon. It was mostly true. “So who’s the room guardian for your…gallery?”

Olissa slapped the mask and the bottle down on the counter, a little harder than necessary. “We don’t have one. Not yet. The Eldest said there were ‘more pressing vacancies to be filled.’ So we’re stuck here with a room nobody can use and a power nobody can call.” She waved up at the wall, where the four complete masks hung in a row. “I even tried to get Erastes to do it, but he turned me down.”

“Can you believe that?” Andra said. “It’s like he doesn’t want his skin to change into leather and his bones to steel.”

Simon had never thought about that before. Were all the guardians fated to end up like Chaka or Benson? Did they transform from ordinary humans into artificial constructs? Would that happen to Valin?

He almost asked Otoku, but he had more urgent concerns at the moment. “So, are you done with the original? I’m going to work for the Queen, and I need it.”

Olissa frowned. “You never gave us the original. I’ve been working from my notes, but I still haven’t quite managed to recreate what yours can do. I suspect you can draw more power from Valinhall, but it doesn’t have the safety measures in place that mine do. But I’d be able to know that for sure, if you would let us tinker with it…”

Simon chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, it seems to have run off. You don’t know where it is, then?”

Olissa looked like she couldn’t decide whether Simon was making fun of her or not. “Isn’t that it, right there?”

She pointed at Kai.

Kai stood with his hands at his sides, staring up at the four masks with his head cocked. He didn’t seem to be listening.

“Where?” Simon asked.

Lycus slid off his stool and marched up to Kai. “He’s got it right here,” he announced. Then he pulled the mask from Kai’s belt.

Kai had been carrying it the entire time. He had made sure to stand where Simon couldn’t see it.

Simon let out a heavy breath and took the mask from Lycus. “Why, Master?” He tried to keep a lid on his frustration.

Kai shrugged, still staring up at the masks. “My little ones asked me to keep it from you. Maybe if they would speak to me, I would hold their secrets longer.” His head slid from one side to the other, slowly, until it flopped onto his left shoulder. “They were right to try, I think, but they were too late. Is there a worse date than too late?”

Why didn’t you tell me Kai had the mask? Simon demanded silently.

Oh, sure, let your dolls solve all your problems for you, Otoku responded. I was going to tell you before, but that noisy rock interrupted.

You could have told me at any point since then. ‘Hey, Simon, I found the mask.’

But that would have made your life so easy. How boring is that?

CHAPTER 9:

INSIDE ENOSH

It had been over a half an hour, and Indirial still hadn’t returned with Simon. That meant that he had spent better than an hour inside Valinhall. What was he doing in there? Thanks to him, Leah had been forced to spend most of the last half-hour explaining to a group of seven Travelers why her urgent mission wasn’t departing immediately.

Overlord Feiora was dressed in what, for her, must have passed for armor: she wore a dark leather breastplate, and hardened leather of a matching shade shielded her shins and forearms. Beneath that was a chainmail shirt that came down to mid-thigh, and an iron-and-leather cap that must have served in place of a helmet. Eugan rested on one of her padded shoulders.

The clothes underneath Feiora’s chain mail and leather armor were, of course, black.

Leah had never seen an Avernus Traveler prepared so practically for combat. It wasn’t a full suit of armor; any foot soldier in the Overlord’s service would have been better equipped. But the fact that she had anything on to defend her from a knife or a random sword blow suggested that she didn’t suffer from the same affliction that got most Travelers killed: arrogant reliance on their powers.

I’m not wearing any armor, Leah thought. I’m sure I’ll be fine. My powers have protected me for a long time, why should they stop now?

Leah paused, considering that thought for a moment. Silently, she resolved to bring some armor on the next mission.

Grandmaster Naraka was looking much more herself now, after a change of clothes and a series of baths. She wore the traditional dark red robes of Naraka, with sleeves that left her scarred wrist bare, and a pair of specially crafted scarlet spectacles perched on her nose. Leah had ordered the woman’s arms bound together with a double knot of rope. That should allow her enough freedom that she wouldn’t hinder the group as they marched through Naraka, but would still keep her from performing any of the complex hand gestures that summoning her Territory required.

Just in case that wasn’t enough, she had recruited five loyal Travelers with the sole purpose of keeping an eye on the Grandmaster through the whole mission. There was a team of three Tartarus Travelers—all women, which was a rarity; usually Tartarus Travelers mixed genders in their teams—and two Naraka Travelers. Those two had paled when she had explained that they were supposed to guard the Grandmaster Naraka. They hadn’t taken their eyes from the old woman since they first entered the tent, and their branded hands twitched every time she so much as yawned.

In Leah’s mind, the two of them had already earned a reward.

The team of Tartarus Travelers was there as a contingency plan, in case it came to a combat situation. It was intended to be a routine mission, she had explained, but if things went wrong she would be more comfortable with three Tartarus Travelers to back her up.

And in the absence of any other orders, the three of them were to take Grandmaster Naraka’s remaining hand off if she so much as snapped her fingers. Leah’s father had never believed that you could have too many security measures in place, and she intended to take that lesson to heart.

Of course, she still needed the pair of Valinhall Travelers. Their preparations would go for nothing if the daylight burned away while Indirial and Simon wasted their time in the House. Where were they?

So she stood in awkward silence with an old lady, her five prison guards, and an impatient Overlord who insisted on asking every ten minutes why they even needed Indirial for routine intelligence gathering, why they couldn’t go without him. And better yet, she implied, if they could go without Leah.

She would have a headache before they made it into Naraka, she could feel it.

Leah had exchanged her red dress for something she would have been more likely to wear as a villager in Myria: a brown skirt and off-white blouse. The fabric cost less than a good meal in Cana, and the outfit made her look like a milkmaid, but she had forgotten how comfortable it was.

It wasn’t a disguise, though. The weapons she carried with her made certain of that. She held the Lightning Spear in her right hand like a walking staff, and wore her crown on her head. Not for the symbol of status, but so she could call on its power without having to summon it in a foreign Territory, which would take far too long.

If Indirial takes too much longer, I will leave without him. We’ve got a schedule to keep.

As if that thought had summoned the Overlord from Valinhall, a sword blade appeared in midair. It began to slice down slowly, tearing open a Gate in the exact same place that Indirial had opened one in the first place.

Simon and Indirial stepped through the Gate, both of them in their black cloaks. Indirial released his sword, letting it vanish, and Leah actually saw it shimmer and appear on a wooden rack in Valinhall’s entry room.

The Gate zipped back up in reverse, bottom to top, and vanished as if it had never been.

“Welcome back,” Leah said, instead of ‘What kept you?’

Simon nodded to her. “Your crystal’s broken.”

It would take her six weeks of work to carve another one of those. “How exactly did that happen, Simon?”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “I can honestly say that I didn’t do it.” As usual, she could read nothing else of his expression.

There was that headache again.

Overlord Feiora made a disgusted sound. “What were you doing in there, Indirial? We could have left without you an hour ago.”

It was an exaggeration, but Leah agreed with the sentiment.

Indirial did not smile, or smirk, or sigh, or make a joke. He turned and looked Feiora in the eye. “I met someone I didn’t expect,” he said, in a flat voice.

Something terrible had happened, she could see it in him. He hadn’t reacted that badly when he’d found her father’s corpse.

She looked at Simon in a silent question. He shook his head. What did that mean? Was it too dreadful to discuss? Or even that nothing significant had happened, and Indirial was just in a bad mood?

“I’ll expect a full report from you later, Indirial,” Leah said, keeping her tone businesslike. “But now we have a schedule to keep.”

The Overlord remained expressionless, but he snapped an order at the Naraka Travelers. “Traveler Mikael, we need a Naraka Gate. Lead the way.”

One of the Travelers, a young man, saluted and marched out of the tent, gently steering Grandmaster Naraka in front of him. His partner followed, as did the three Tartarus Travelers. Overlord Feiora strode out afterwards, shooting a glance back at Leah, but she was rushed out by Overlord Indirial. His cloak streamed behind him like a dark flag, and for once it seemed to suit him.

Simon started to follow, and Leah walked along with him.

“What happened in there?” she whispered. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him like that.”

Simon opened his mouth as though he meant to explain, but after a moment he closed it. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” he said at last.

Leah arched an eyebrow at him, and he sighed.

“Valin’s back,” he said, and a shiver of alarm ran through her. Valin, the deadly Incarnation that had been bent on killing her and her entire family? The man that they had only defeated when Simon and Indirial had both risked their lives, and she had managed to catch him in a Ragnarus binding? That Valin?

“Turns out he wasn’t dead,” Simon said. “Or maybe he was dead, and the Eldest brought him back. I don’t know. But he’s in the House now.”

Given the fact that Simon wasn’t inside Valinhall now, fighting the Incarnation, that meant that they had either already defeated Valin, or else determined that he wasn’t a threat. Indirial looked far too upset to have won a recent victory, so Valin must be safely contained.

And that opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

“Is he…himself?” Leah asked.

Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. By the time I met him, he had spent twenty-five years as an Incarnation. But Indirial and Kai are treating him like he’s the same guy, and he hasn’t snapped and tried to kill us all. Not yet, anyway.”

As they walked, Leah turned her eyes to the east. A dome of red light covered the city of Cana, her home and birthplace. It shone like a smoldering crimson sun rising from the horizon.

As always, she wondered about the Ragnarus Incarnation. Who was it? Why were they keeping the city imprisoned?

Was it the ancient Incarnation, as had been sealed beneath the Hanging Tree for over three centuries? Could it be her brother, Talos? Or was it her father?

Before, she had seen only two ways to deal with Incarnations: seal them, if possible, and earn a grace period during which no one else could successfully Incarnate. Otherwise, they could be killed—usually with great difficulty—which was often simpler than forcing them into their home Territories. But destroying them would open up space for a new Incarnation.

If Incarnations could be killed and then returned to their Territory, even as the shadows of the people they once were, might that be a third option?

Maybe they could not only stop the Incarnations, but save them.

The thought haunted her all the way to the nearest Naraka waypoint, until they stepped through into the Caverns of Flame.

At that point, she prevented herself from considering the question over and over. The other members of the team didn’t need her distracted, they needed her focused and alert.

She would work on the problem when she got back.

***

Simon had only Traveled through Naraka a handful of times, but he always left with burning eyes and a piercing cough. As he stumbled out of the orange Gate, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to clear them. There was no way to escape the smoke in that Territory; it stung, it stunk, and now the acrid stench gripped his clothes in a tight fist.

Never let me go back there, Simon sent to his doll.

Oh, get yourself together, Rebekkah said. Whining never helped anything.

Simon let out one more deep, wracking cough. I’m serious. We can walk if we have to, I can’t handle Naraka.

Rebekkah glared up at him from his left hand, but that was her usual expression. Her long red hair was tied back in a single braid, and she wore a brown shirt and pants, belted with a length of rope. She was dressed like one of the poorer villagers…in clothes much like the ones Simon himself had worn, in fact, before he came to the House.

Will Alin be in this city? Rebekkah asked. She had never met Alin, but she devoured Simon’s stories about him. He was afraid he knew why.

Probably, Simon allowed. But we won’t see him. If we run into Alin, that means the plan went horribly wrong.

So when everything goes wrong, then you’ll get to fight him?

Simon tucked Rebekkah into a pocket of his cloak. Why do you want me to fight him so much? I don’t want to.

He deserves it, Rebekkah said, no room for doubt in her voice. I can’t wait to see you punch him right in his face.

Simon didn’t want to imagine that the plan might fail so badly that they would run into Alin and engage him in combat, but he tried to picture it. What would he do? Simon had once promised that he would personally put a stop to Alin, if he let the Elysian Incarnation take too much control.

He had never much liked Alin, and he was more than willing to oppose the Incarnations. But it felt like he had made that promise a long time ago.

Did he even want to fight Alin?

The Wanderer’s words echoed in his mind: What do you want, Simon?

He wasn’t sure. But at least this trip would let him know if Alin deserved to die. Maybe that would help him decide.

“Eyes up, Simon,” Indirial said, in a softer voice than normal. Simon took a deep breath and shelved his thoughts, looking around at the Naraka waystation.

Like always, the way in and out of the Territory was guarded by a fifteen-foot-tall obelisk of black stone marked with twisting golden runes. This room, built around the obelisk, had once been made of ordinary bricks. Simon could still see the rough pattern of the original brick in what was now solid metal.

The whole building had been turned to gold. Gold walls led to an arched ceiling, supported by crossing beams that were also made of gold. The only feature in the room not turned to gold were the high windows, and those were now blue.

The Incarnation of Elysia had lived here for a long time.

Overlord Feiora’s raven circled the room, searching for hidden watchers. Indirial, as the plan required, had rushed out of the Gate and subdued the guards. He had done so before Simon had even staggered out of Naraka: one human guard lay bound and gagged on the stone, tied with strips of cloth. The other, an inhuman thing that looked like a cross between a dog and a blue-skinned lizard, sprawled on its back, apparently unconscious. Tentacles twitched as it drew a shallow breath.

Indirial knelt and pulled the wadded gag out of the man’s mouth. The guard started to scream, but the Overlord punched him in the throat.

It didn’t look like he used much force. It was more of a tap than a punch, little more than poking him in the neck with a couple of knuckles. The man choked on his scream, struggling to draw a breath.

“Don’t try that again,” Indirial advised, giving the guard a friendly smile.

You see? Rebekkah sent. At least someone knows how to handle his problems the right way.

“I’m not going to help you,” the man whispered through a hoarse throat, once he caught his breath. “I can’t.”

“Yes, he can,” Overlord Feiora said. She was peeking out the door, not looking at the prisoner, but her raven fluttered down to land on Indirial’s shoulder. “I can’t quite see it clearly, but he knows what we need to know.” The raven stared into the guard’s eyes and let out one soft, subtly threatening sound, like a mewling growl.

Indirial motioned to Feiora. “You heard the lady,” he said pleasantly. “Let me ask you a few questions, and you can decide whether to answer, okay?”

The guard nodded, eyeing the raven.

“How many guards are outside?”

“None,” said Feiora and the guard at the same time. The man jerked as if she had slapped him, and he strained against his bonds to look at her.

“Can she…I mean, can she see into my…” he swallowed.

Indirial chuckled. “Now, don’t scare yourself. She probably looked out the window. I would recommend that you don’t pay any attention to her or to the bird, okay? Just focus on me.”

The guard nodded weakly.

The raven lowered its beak so its eyes were as wide as possible. The captive visibly struggled with himself, trying to keep his head turned to the side, before he looked the raven in the eyes.

The bird let out a very slow, very deliberate caw.

The guard shivered, and Simon didn’t blame him. He was growing a little scared of the bird, and its gaze wasn’t even directed his way. He could only imagine how much worse it would be to meet head-on.

“That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?” Indirial asked. “Only two guards. It was my understanding that the Grandmasters assigned two inner guards and four outer guards, all Travelers. Am I wrong?”

The guard hesitated.

“Reassure him,” Feiora said, staring out of a window.

The man jerked against his bonds again, and Indirial placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m working with the Grandmasters. Isn’t that right, Grandmaster Naraka?”

Simon stepped aside, revealing the still-open Naraka Gate behind him. The two Naraka Travelers waited on either side of the Gate with their hands outstretched, holding it open and steady. A foul wind blew from within, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, sulfur, and distantly burning hair, but it was much more pleasant than actually being in the Territory.

Grandmaster Naraka stood directly in front of the Gate, her three Tartarus guards arrayed behind her. Even the Naraka Travelers holding the Gate didn’t take their eyes from the Grandmaster for more than the time it took them to blink.

She smiled like a kindly grandmother. “That’s right, son. It’s okay, you can answer them.”

The guard’s forehead furrowed. “Why is her hand tied?”

“That’s for her own safety,” Indirial said smoothly, drawing the man’s attention back to him. “Don’t worry about that. Now, go ahead and tell me.”

Simon noticed that he didn’t explain how having a one-handed woman bound by ropes could possibly be for her own safety, but the guard seemed soothed. Simon stepped back in front of the Gate, to prevent the man from noticing that the Grandmaster was under heavy guard.

“Eliadel said the Travelers were needed elsewhere,” the guard practically whispered. “Most of the Territories are guarded on the other side, but he doesn’t think we’re in danger. He tells us we’re secure. He says that a lot.”

“He’s afraid,” Feiora murmured. “He doesn’t want to speak, but he’s too frightened to keep silent.”

Their captive didn’t seem surprised at her statement this time, but his shoulders slumped.

Indirial nodded, bringing the guard’s attention back to him. “When you say Eliadel, you mean Alin, son of Torin?”

The man glanced from side to side, fearfully. “Don’t call him that. He’s Elysia now. You have to say that, or Eliadel, or the King. You can’t call him…his name.”

Simon couldn’t help it; he had to ask. “Is that what Alin wants?”

The guard flinched at the name, but he answered. “Not Eliadel, exactly. He’s never told us any of that. But the ones in the gold armor…they’ll fight you if they hear you being disrespectful. No one ever wins a fight with the gold ones. And the silver ones always hear, and they’ll tell the gold ones…”

He seemed to realize what he’d said, and he forced a smile. “Not that I’m unhappy! Far from it. We have plenty of food, and we’re safe. You understand? We’re safe from the Damascans.”

His smile slipped away, and a dawning horror crept into its place. “Wait a second…you’re not…”

“Damascan?” Indirial asked with a laugh. “Nope, I’m afraid not. We were on a long mission with the Grandmaster, and now we’re back. Imagine our surprise when we came back and found the city occupied by a new force. We assumed it was Damasca, but you’re saying Eliadel himself took over? What happened to the other Grandmasters?”

Simon couldn’t help but admire the way the Overlord maintained control of the conversation. He deflected attention, forcing the guard to respond to him instead of the other way around, and he smoothly distracted the man from thinking about the inconsistencies in his story. Indirial had actually struck first upon leaping out of the portal, and somehow he had gotten his victim to overlook that. Not to mention that, if they had been on a long-term mission in Naraka, this would be their first time coming into the real world. How would they know the city was occupied?

But the guard seemed to invent something in his own mind that satisfied him, because he kept talking. “You want my advice?” His voice lowered, as if he were afraid of spies and traitors even in a sealed room. “Take the Grandmaster and run! Go now. You’ll have to take that…blue thing with you,” he nodded to the twitching creature lying next to him, “because I can explain its disappearance better than I can its death. But you’ll have to hurry, or she’ll end up like all the other Grandmasters.”

“What happened to them?” Naraka snapped.

“Their heads are spiked on the city gates,” the guard said softly.

Grandmaster Naraka made a ‘pfah’ sound and waved his comment away. “Old news. I saw Helgard there months ago.”

The captive shook his head. “Not just Helgard. All of them. Everybody except Asphodel, Avernus, and Endross, and I heard they were dead already. Grandmaster Tartarus tried to lead a rebellion a few months in, but he couldn’t fight his way through the Red District. Eliadel dueled him personally, and he had his silver eyes show everyone in the city how it ended.” The guard shuddered. “I don’t even know why. I liked the city well enough the way it was.”

He seemed to hear his own words, and put on another bright smile. “Not as much as I like it now, of course.”

“He hates it,” Feiora said, still watching the window.

“I could have told you that,” Simon muttered.

“He doesn’t let anyone leave, does he?” Indirial asked. Simon more or less knew the answer to that; Damasca hadn’t heard from Enosh for six months, at least before Grandmaster Naraka showed up.

“We have everything we need here,” the guard said without hesitation. “There’s plenty of food in the Green District, he opened new wells all around town, and…something…takes all the trash at night. All you have to do is leave it outside. And we can’t go out after sundown, because it’s not safe. But the Damascans were planning on destroying the whole city! The Grandmasters told us so before Eliadel took over. They can’t do it now that he’s here, right?” The man sounded almost pleading. “He’s the one who killed their king.”

“That’s right,” Indirial said, as soft as a knife being drawn. “He is.”

Indirial stood and walked over to Overlord Feiora. “Well?” he asked.

Feiora shook her head. “Images, fragments, it’s all jumbled up. I’ll make sense of it, in time, but I say we go take a look for ourselves. I’ve been looking through this window the whole time, and I haven’t seen another soul. He can’t make things invisible, can he?”

Indirial glanced at Simon, who shrugged. “I don’t think so. Everything I’ve seen from Elysia has glowed pretty brightly, but he can probably do a lot of stuff I don’t know about.”

Overlord Indirial strode over to the bound guard. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. If Eliadel asks you any questions, tell him that a Grandmaster made you talk.”

The guard’s eyes widened. “Wait, no! Don’t—”

Indirial shoved the ball of cloth back into the man’s mouth, then placed his hand on the man’s forehead. His eyes rolled up into his skull, and he fell limply on the ground.

“How did you do that?” Simon demanded.

The Overlord grinned. “Unorthodox application of a lesser-known Valinhall power. It wasn’t meant for this, but you won’t go far in life without a little creativity.” He turned to the Naraka Gate. “What do you think?” he called. Grandmaster Naraka started to reply. “No, not you. Our esteemed leader.”

Leah stepped out from behind the edge of the Gate and walked into the room. She wasn’t wearing her crown, but she did hold the tall Lightning Spear in one hand. “I think he’s got a tighter grip on the city than we thought,” she said.

“Worse than I had imagined,” Grandmaster Naraka muttered.

“Given that information,” Leah went on, “we need to make this even faster than we’d planned. We can always come back if we need to. Simon and Indirial, hoods up. When your…shadows run out, come back here immediately.”

‘Shadows?’ It wasn’t quite accurate, but Simon liked the sound of it. He should use that.

“Feiora, you stay here. You can send Eugan out, but keep him absolutely safe.”

“Of course!” The Overlord sounded offended at the suggestion that she might do anything else.

Leah turned back to the guards. “The two Naraka can remain in position. Tartarus, take the Grandmaster into this room, but keep away from the windows and do not, under any circumstances, take her out of this room. If I see her heading anywhere else, I will kill her and anyone with her. Do you understand?”

The three Tartarus Travelers saluted.

“I will be—”

“…standing right there,” Indirial finished for her. “Prepared to jump straight back into the Gate at the first sign of anything unusual.”

Leah made an unpleasant face. “Yes, thank you, Overlord Indirial. You plucked my very words from me.”

Indirial swept her a bow.

“I will, however, be using a scrying lens to follow your progress in the city,” she went on. “It will be difficult, given what your shadows do to my scrying, but I’ll manage. Perhaps I will see something you miss. If I notice anything urgent, I will send you a signal.”

“What kind of signal?” Simon asked. He felt they should be as forewarned as possible, just in case.

“Depending on the circumstances,” she said, “it will probably sound like my voice shouting, ‘Oh, seven stones! Simon, run, there’s a huge slobbering beast about to eat your face!’ Would you prefer an explosion?”

Simon cleared his throat. “No, thanks. That’ll be fine.”

“Then if we’re all done with questions?” She looked around the room, meeting the eyes of Indirial, Simon, Feiora, and Eugan. They all nodded at her gaze, even the raven.

“Go quickly, and return safely,” Leah said. Simon flipped up his hood, and Indirial did the same.

The door swung open for a brief moment. From the outside, it might have looked like happenstance, maybe a gust of wind. Anyone who didn’t look directly at it might have missed the motion entirely, at least until they heard the door shut.

During the half-second in which the door remained cracked, two Valinhall Travelers, one raven, and a glassy Lirial crystal the size of a marble passed through without a sound. An observant watcher may have noticed a flicker of shadow, a wink of reflected light.

Then the door slid softly shut.

CHAPTER 10:

STORIES IN THE CITY

Alin wrenched open the violently purple door and glanced inside. One of the native inhabitants of the Violet District stood within, on top of a wooden table. It looked like a giant ball of fuzz, as though someone had rolled up a bundle of wool, dyed it violet, and given it stick-thin arms and legs. A pair of clear, comically large eyes bulged from its head.

The furry creature was holding a dinner plate over its head, its spindly arms stretched high. It looked like it had climbed up on top of its table for greatest height, so it could smash the plate on the ground.

It gave Alin a wide, bright smile. “Traveler! It disturbs me to see you, but I will smile as though I am pleased! I hope you have a pleasant day, as long as I am not in it! Please, leave me to my own business!”

It said all that in a chipper voice with a beaming grin. Alin cast a brief cloud of Silver Light inside, found that the purple fuzz-ball was the home’s only occupant, and pulled the door shut. He wouldn’t have understood before, but now the Violet was a part of him. Honesty at all times, that was the Violet way, even at the cost of compassion, mercy, or understanding.

Behind him, through the closed door, he heard something shatter. As though a plate had crashed to pieces on the ground.

Rhalia’s Gate still drifted beside him, keeping pace with his shoulder. He could have let it close and opened it again, but the nature of Elysia was such that it preferred to open only once a day. When he could respect the rules, he would.

“Are you sure it was in the Violet District?” Rhalia asked.

Alin shook his head, letting Violet honesty have the reins. “I can’t be sure. It might even have been my imagination, but I thought I had glimpsed something with the Silver Light. Just for a second. It’s either here or in the Blue District.”

Rhalia hovered in Elysia, her legs crossed under her, sitting three feet above the ground. She swept a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “It’s worth looking into, then, sure. But please, try not to antagonize the people.”

She’s right, said the Rose Light. We don’t want to scare anyone.

“I’m not antagonizing them, I’m conducting an inspection. They will accept it, as they were ordered.” While Alin walked, the Enosh citizens to either side of the street bowed at the waist when he passed. He paid that no more attention than to the stones at his feet, which transformed in his wake. Each cobblestone on which he stepped turned from a shade of purple or violet to bright white, as if his footprints were soaking them in paint.

Both the respect of the people and the transformation of the city were not unusual, to be noted or commented upon. They were natural reactions to the Incarnation of Elysia, and he accepted them as such.

Rhalia sat cross-legged in the air above Elysia, her hands resting in her lap. Her gold eyes were far away. “Alin,” she said distantly, “can I tell you a story?”

You would be wise to listen, the Silver Light told him.

We have the time, the Green said.

But I don’t want to hear it, Alin thought. None of the powers of Elysia liked that very much, so he relented.

“Of course,” he said. The Rose Light was not pleased with his tone.

Rhalia let out a slow, even breath. “When I was a girl, the Elysian Travelers were in charge. They supervised all the other Territories, and whenever an Incarnation broke through into our world, they were the ones to take care of it.”

Alin pulled open another violet door, revealing a woman sitting in a chair, holding a dripping shirt above a wooden tub. Her eyes went wide as she saw him, and her head jerked as though she were stopping herself from looking for a way out.

He shook his head at the foolish fears of humans, shut the door, and moved on.

“Back then, there were two ways to become a Traveler of Elysia,” Rhalia continued. “You could be trained to do it, if you met the compatibility tests. Or, sometimes, you were born to it. That was very rare; I was the first in a hundred years to call power from Elysia without any training at all.”

Only one hundred years? The Silver Light wondered. Then why did it take over three centuries for the next natural Elysian Traveler to show up? Was it a bad run of luck, or did something change?

Alin cast a flicker of silver light in through an open window, found no one inside the house, and kept walking.

“The Master Travelers trained me quickly. Too quickly, some said, but they agreed that my nature would bend me toward virtue and keep me from corruption.” Sadly, she shook her head. “You’d think I would have done better, but it seems that some lessons you do have to learn twice.”

She thinks you were a failure, the Violet Light whispered, but he managed to ignore it.

The next house he didn’t have to check; he could sense two more Elysian creatures inside. Not only would they have warned him if any intruders had violated their home, they would probably ask him to leave if he stuck his head in. So he didn’t bother.

“It was a time of great change,” Rhalia said, still staring off into the distance. “Discord and dissent grew into a war. One by one, the other Elysian Travelers died. Until, at last, I was the only one left.”

Rose-pink compassion swelled up in him, and he had to speak. “I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been.”

Rhalia twirled in place, gently, which was the first time Alin had seen her do so all day. Normally she spun and danced and whirled around in midair all the time, until it made him dizzy. Maybe she was focusing too much on her bitter memories.

“It…wasn’t so bad,” she said. “I had a sister, you see. Cynara.”

At that, Alin had to shove down some memories of his own. He had practically been raised by his three sisters.

And how did you repay them? the Orange Light asked. You abandoned them, so two of them died. At least Ilana is safe.

She’s safe, but you’re not doing your job, the Red Light barked. You picked the lazy option, letting someone else take care of her. That should be your responsibility.

You’re afraid you can’t do it, the Violet Light whispered.

And Alin shoved all that down, floating on a cushion of pink comfort and green patience until he had his emotions under control once again.

“She wasn’t a Traveler,” Rhalia continued. “Not at first. She was a fighter, a mine-worker, and a leader. She had an amazing sense of justice.” Rhalia shook her head. “It wasn’t something I could appreciate until I had spent enough time in Elysia, but she never let a wrong pass when she could right it. She never saw someone hurting without trying to help them. She would have made a wonderful Naraka Traveler.”

For the next two houses, Alin levitated their locks out of the way using Orange Light on the inside. He pushed Silver Light through the doors, frightening two human families, but finding no trace of anyone who didn’t belong. Had he been mistaken after all?

The Green and the Red both told him to have patience, to keep working. He would know whether or not he was wrong after he finished searching.

Rhalia bobbed up and down in midair, sounding thoughtful. “I’ve wondered if my sister would have done a better job in my place. She probably would have. I couldn’t handle being the only Elysian Traveler, you see. It was my responsibility to lead the Travelers, to banish every Incarnation, to save everyone…and I couldn’t do it. Often I failed, and the blame fell on me.”

Her voice held the faint echo of pain, and once again the Rose Light begged him to make it better.

This is her wound, Alin and the Silver said at once. I can’t share it.

“I drew more and more power,” Rhalia said softly. “Even when I wasn’t ready for it.”

The remark stung. She had clearly directed that at him, and she wasn’t being subtle about it. She did try to warn you, the Violet Light pointed out. If only you had listened—

Alin shut off its voice and shoved Silver Light in a broad sweep down the street. It wasn’t nearly as accurate or detailed as if he had pinpointed a single house at a time, but he saw no silhouettes of a man holding a sword against a child’s neck, felt no flares of pain or panic. It seemed, at first glance, that everything in the Violet District was as it should be.

“It finally occurred to me why I was having such problems,” Rhalia said. She started drifting back and forth, from one side of the Gate to the other, like a pacing ghost. “It was because no one was in charge! There was all this chaos…and I was sure it was up to me to impose order. I refused to banish the Incarnations.”

Now she had his full attention. He stopped walking, and mentally ordered the Gate to swing around so he could face her head-on. “What did you do with them?” he asked.

She met his shifting eyes with her golden ones. “I bound them to serve me, each according to its nature.”

Where did she get the power? Alin wondered.

The Silver and Violet Light both laughed. You know the answer, they said.

“You became an Incarnation,” he said, and he knew it was true.

“My sister begged me not to,” she said softly.

“But…” Alin struggled to form his thoughts into coherent words. “I am Elysia, now. I thought a Territory could have only one Incarnation at a time.”

Rhalia smiled a little. “And so it does. With time back in my Territory, my status as Incarnation faded away. Now I am no longer Incarnation nor Traveler, but something…more limited.”

Alin imagined himself in her position. Letting his power fade away, becoming a shadow of what he was now? He’d rather die.

“I see,” he said, to keep the conversation on track. “What were you saying about your sister?”

“She tried to stop me with reason, and even with force, but I was beyond her then. She gathered up others to oppose me, and they followed her. But I would not listen to reason.” She took a deep breath. “When I was at last out of control, Cynara searched for darker weapons to end my rampage.”

“Did she?” Alin asked.

“After years of searching she found them in an old Territory. A place that we of Elysia had forbidden years before, on the grounds that it was too dangerous. The Crimson Vault.”

Alin’s hand automatically jerked toward his pants pocket, beneath his armor, where he kept the Seed of the Hanging Tree. Its power burned him, every day, begging to be used, pulsing in opposition to the light of Elysia, but he carried it with him. If someone stole it, they could use it as a weapon against him.

Especially if it made it into Leah’s hands. Leah, or one of her family…

“Are you one of Leah’s ancestors?” Alin asked.

Rhalia frowned. “Leah?”

Oh, that’s right. “One of the Damascan royal family. She’s a Ragnarus Traveler.”

Rhalia spread her hands and shrugged. “As you would imagine, I haven’t kept up with this world since I sealed myself in the City. But I do know that my sister made some sort of bargain with the Founder of her Territory.”

Founder? Alin wondered, but Rhalia continued.

“One result of that bargain was the Hanging Trees, which can seal Incarnations at the cost of blood. But I heard rumors that Cynara may have also bound the Territory to her own bloodline. If that’s true, then yes, I would be distantly related to Leah.”

Alin stood at the center of the Violet District. The people in the streets hurried away from him, afraid of meeting his gaze, and the purple cobblestones steadily bleached themselves as he remained still. Thoughts whirled in his head; Rhalia’s story blended with his own. She had made some mistakes, and he had to make sure he didn’t repeat them.

“So your sister betrayed you,” Alin said at last. The Orange Light agreed with him.

Rhalia smiled a little and drifted through a circle in midair. “She fought me in the streets of Cana. We were evenly matched for a while, but I knew she couldn’t pay Ragnarus’ costs forever. I was content to wait. And then she planted one of those Hanging Trees.”

Alin thought of the bloody, carnivorous trees that had feasted on the sleeping Incarnations for centuries. He would have shuddered, except he was beyond such petty reactions.

“I knew that the Trees meant living death,” Rhalia continued. “So I opened a Gate to Elysia and bound myself inside.”

His mind violently rejected the idea. Elysia called to him, it sang to him silently every day, begging him to step through a Gate and rejoin his Territory once and for all. But he knew what it would mean for him. He could feel it. Once he returned to the City of Light, he would become a part of its fabric, never to leave again.

Just like Rhalia.

“I thought I was getting the best of Cynara,” Rhalia said. “She had given her life to her Ragnarus weapons, and all I’d sacrificed was my freedom. I had planned to wait until the next natural Elysian Traveler came along, and train them to take my place.”

She sighed. “But it wasn’t long at all before the fog in my mind lifted, and I realized what I had become.”

You’re a monster, the Violet Light whispered.

Rhalia’s eyes shone like gold coins. “I became a monster.”

Don’t walk the path she did, the Silver Light said.

“I don’t want you to walk down the same path I did, Alin.”

Think about what you’ve done to these people, the Rose Light begged. Alin glanced around, at the fear in the citizens of Enosh. They didn’t love him. They cringed away from him.

“Think about what you could do to these people,” Rhalia said. “Think about what you will do, when you lose control.”

The Gold Light shone, comforting and powerful, in the back of his mind, like a new sun hanging out of sight. Don’t be afraid, it said. A truly brave man would face the truth.

“You don’t belong here,” she said.

You don’t belong here, the Light agreed.

Alin stared past Rhalia, through the Gate, at the shining silver-and-gold walls of Elysia. Behind those walls, the tops of the city soared: red brick towers, gold monuments, silver spires, gleaming amethysts the size of warehouses. A column of light rose from the peak of the city to pierce the sunset sky.

His heart ached for the City. It was where he belonged, he could feel it.

But if he took that one step inside, he would never leave.

Alin took in one deep, shuddering breath, and the spell was broken. He turned his back on Rhalia, walking away. Silver Light spun at his command, flashing into every window, through every cracked door. It raced and flew through the entire city, spreading out, giving him a vague sense of everything in Enosh, tying him with tiny webs to every person in the city.

“Not yet,” Alin said, his voice cold. “I still have work to do here.” The very idea of Grandmaster Naraka blackened his thoughts, and the Incarnations were still loose. Leah was likely doing her best to keep them contained, but could she really handle it? Not as well as he could, he was sure.

No, he wouldn’t make Rhalia’s mistakes.

He would do better.

“There are nine virtues in Elysia,” Rhalia said. “They’re all important, but there is one which provides them all with context. Only one virtue that gives the others meaning. And you don’t even understand it.”

Alin marched toward the Blue District, his boots ringing on the stones. “I don’t need to hear about the White Light, Rhalia. I think I’m done with stories for today.”

“Then why is the Gate still open?” Rhalia asked softly. “Why do you carry me around with you every day, if you don’t—”

He slashed a hand across empty air, and the Gate vanished.

Time to get back to work, the Red Light said.

He almost hoped he did find some intruders in the Blue District. In this mood, he would enjoy doing something clear-cut, something that was undoubtedly the right thing to do. Like protecting his city from invaders.

***

Before he made it to Enosh, Simon had wondered if they would find anything. What were they even looking for, aside from ‘something wrong’? Unless they saw Alin actively dismembering a citizen, how were they supposed to know if he’d done anything?

It didn’t take him long, running through the streets of Enosh, to figure it out.

The city looked completely different than when he’d last seen it, both because of Alin’s presence and because of his reconstruction efforts. They were in the all-blue section of the city, which he had heard someone call the Blue District.

He clung to the side of a wall, fingers braced with Benson’s steel, and watched a mother and her daughter cling to one another and shake as a shapeless blue mass, dangling six-foot tentacles, drifted down the street as though it were underwater.

He stood in the shadow of a doorway, his hood drawn and Nye essence running through him, watching one man beat another bloody with a shovel. A boneless blue lizard the size of a dog flowed up to him, hissing, but he dropped his shovel and held his hands up.

“Mercy,” he said, in a lazy drawl.

The reptile sniffed him, flicked out a tongue, and slithered away to leave the bleeding victim on the street.

As soon as the blue creature of Elysia was out of sight, the man had picked up his shovel once more and continued his beating. None of the bystanders said a word; they went about their business.

Once Simon had shoved the attacker’s unconscious body into a nearby shed, along with the scraps that had once been a bloody shovel, he moved on.

Under normal circumstances, he could hold his Nye essence for about two minutes. It seemed like longer, under the effects of the essence, and he could stretch that out if he used it less, or burn through it quicker. But he figured two minutes was a good deadline.

He saw his third crime before sixty seconds was up.

He was standing on top of a roof, eavesdropping—with Rebekkah’s help—on the family speaking underneath him.

“I don’t understand it,” one woman whispered. “He was never…before…”

She says, ‘he was never like this before he killed the king,’ Rebekkah relayed. She’s talking about Alin, obviously. What more do you need?

Keep listening, Simon instructed.

“Eliadel is a good man at heart,” a man’s voice said loudly. Then, more quietly, “Look, we’ve been through worse times. Alin is hardly the worst thing to ever happen to us. We’ll get by.”

Nearby, where they couldn’t see it, a silver mirror on the wall began to flash. It was flashing brightly, but aimed up at the sky, so the only reason Simon could see it was because of his vantage point.

Less than a minute later, a winged figure landed. It had the head of a brown dog, bright blue eyes, and wore gold-and-white armor. Its wings were enormous, and looked to be made out of gleaming gold feathers.

It glanced around for a moment, sniffing the air, before its gaze settled on Simon. “You,” it growled. “Why didn’t I notice you?”

Simon shrugged.

The winged dog-man snarled, baring its teeth. “I should teach you fear, black robes.”

Simon summoned Azura, which gleamed silver in the bright afternoon sunlight. He didn’t attack, he didn’t speak, and he didn’t back down. He was sure the dog got the message.

It was amazing how much more used to lethal threats he had become since moving to Valinhall.

The dog-man looked at him for a moment and laughed, deep in its chest. It sounded like it was grinding rocks to gravel with nothing but its lungs.

“I like you, black robes. Come see us in the Gold District. You will do well there.”

Folding his wings, the dog-man hopped off the flat roof. It landed on the street below and pushed the door open.

You should have attacked him, Rebekkah sent. You’re overdue for a fight.

I’m not here to fight, Simon said.

How do you know?

A man’s screams and a woman’s echoed from downstairs.

“The Silver District has reported disrespect,” the dog’s growling voice said. “We will take this man with us to the Gold, where he will be taught better. If he does not resist, he will not be excessively harmed.”

The man wept, but neither of them offered any words of resistance. Before Simon had figured out what to do, the dog-man had spread its wings and flown off, a small man tucked beneath one arm.

Rebekkah made a sound like she was clearing her throat. Your Nye essence is running out. You should head back now, if you want to be able to fight any time in the next half an hour.

I told you, I’m not fighting.

Uh-huh. Sure.

Simon hurried back the way he came, but he couldn’t help seeing the images of the victims in his head. The terrified woman in an alley, trying to protect her daughter with her arms. The bleeding man on the street, whom no one would lift a finger to save. The man, speaking not-quite-respectfully enough in his own home.

He had been angry at Alin in the past, but this made him a little sick. Was Alin really the one who’d turned the city into this?

Valin’s questions were never far from Simon’s thoughts, but they rang especially loudly now. What do you want to do?

He wanted to put a stop to this. He wasn’t sure what the consequences would be, he knew that he should do it in the right way, and he still wanted to avoid fighting Alin, if at all possible.

But someone had to end it. Simon knew that he could.

And, given half a chance, he would. The situation in the city was too bad to leave as it was.

Rebekkah mimicked Lilia’s dreamy tones. I sense a fight on your horizon… she murmured.

Simon ignored her, running to the Naraka waystation.

The blue streets blurred, but nothing else noticed him, and he reached the building in a handful of seconds. He didn’t see anything waiting for him outside, and Rebekkah didn’t alert him, so he assumed he was safe as far as hidden watchers went. There wasn’t even anyone outside in this part of town, except…

Simon drew himself to a halt, and almost slipped and fell on the edge of his cloak. Thanks to the grace and agility of the Nye, he turned the motion into a skipping step instead of a crushing tumble down two stories to the cobblestones.

When he pulled himself to a complete stop, he crept back a few feet, trying to get a glimpse down the last alley. For a second, he thought he’d seen someone.

Over there, Rebekkah said, sounding eager. Oooh, she’s watching your building. You should punch her in the face.

The doll was right. The girl down there might have been five years older than Simon, somewhat tall, with light brown hair and the clothes of a moderately wealthy villager: a long brown skirt, a tan shirt, a leather vest, and a pale linen cloak to shield against the cold. She would have fit in anywhere in Enosh, but for some reason Simon was reminded of Myria when he saw her.

I’ve still got a bit of essence left. I might as well go check it out.

Make sure to save some for the fight, Rebekkah advised.

Glancing up and down the street for those floating, tentacled jellies—he saw none—Simon leaped down onto the stones and dashed across the street. He moved so quickly that he must have seemed to appear right next to the girl, because she gasped and backed up a step, pulling a dagger and pointing it at him with both hands.

Then her eyebrows climbed, and she lowered the knife.

“Simon?” she said wonderingly. “What are you doing in that cloak?”

He hadn’t thought of her in, from his perspective, almost a year. The sheer surprise of seeing her here prevented him from even recognizing her for a second, but then his brain snapped to work.

“Ilana,” he said. “Why are you here?”

He had wondered why anyone would be sneaking around in alleys, keeping an eye on the waystation building, but it was doubly strange if that person was Alin’s sister.

I guess that means you’re not going to hit her, Rebekkah said with a sigh. Pity.

***

“I’ve been watching him for months,” Ilana said, back in the waystation. Overlord Feiora had summoned a thick, comfortable chair and a blanket from her Territory. She set them out for Ilana, who sunk down gratefully into the cushions and began telling her story. She even had a footstool.

Why had it never occurred to Simon to call something as mundane as furniture? He had been freezing in the snow less than three days ago, and he could have dragged his comfortable bed and thick blankets out of Valinhall at any time! He couldn’t summon them directly, but he could still walk through a Gate and pull them out.

The cold in the streets of Enosh hadn’t been so bad, compared to the Helgard-summoned snow a few days past, but the wind was still piercing. He should have thought of that months ago.

Azura doesn’t pick the smartest, Rebekkah said. But she’s a big fan of people who aren’t afraid to start fights. She has good taste.

“I wasn’t here when Alin first came back,” Ilana went on, sipping on a mug of hot tea that Feiora had also summoned. “I hear he wasn’t so bad back then. But the longer he stayed in Enosh, the worse he got, and the more rules there were. There are some districts where there are rules for how many hours you’re allowed to stay up per day. If you stay up later, you get detained. Try to go to bed early? Detained.”

She shook her head and took another sip of her tea. “I wouldn’t have believed it was him if I hadn’t seen him kill Grandmaster Tartarus myself. I tried to go up and talk to him, but…”

Ilana stared deep into her mug. “It was like looking at the Valinhall Incarnation. Scarier, even. You know, I’ve never worn a disguise in all the time I’ve been here. I’ve looked straight at him dozens of times without even trying to hide, and he’s never noticed me. It’s like he doesn’t…look at people anymore.”

She clutched her tea as though it held the answers. Simon didn’t have any idea what to say.

Leah, standing over by the still-open Naraka Gate, wasn’t so shy. “Where have you been staying, Ilana?”

Alin’s sister glanced at the circlet on Leah’s head, but she answered readily enough. “Here and there. There are plenty of people who are willing to give me a room for a night or two. I know a handful of Travelers who managed to avoid getting tangled up with the Grandmasters, so I’ve been helping them smuggle people out. A little at a time, you know.”

Leah nodded thoughtfully.

Has anyone told Ilana that Leah’s the Queen of Damasca? Simon wondered.

Who cares? Rebekkah responded. Leah would have taken charge and started questioning Ilana anyway.

That was a good point. Still, he reminded himself to clarify the situation for Ilana as soon as he got a chance.

“What were you doing waiting outside?” Leah asked. “How did you know we’d be here?”

Ilana shook her head. “I didn’t. I check all the permanent waystations I can, every day, to see if anyone new shows up or if they post new guards. It’s the only way to stay ahead.”

She sounded firm, but he recognized the look of someone who had spent months under constant threat. Her eyes were shadowed, and she looked like she had lost ten or fifteen pounds since Simon had last seen her. It may not be Valinhall out here, but Simon got the impression that she would have been safer if she had stayed with him in the House of Blades.

Grandmaster Naraka stood beyond the Gate, amid her five guards on the red stones of Naraka. She looked totally confident, with a small smile and her hand folded peacefully in front of her. There was something wrong there, though he couldn’t quite pin it down. She had seemed afraid of Alin and of the Elysian soldiers in Enosh, but now she didn’t look frightened at all. Why not?

You should beat the answer out of her, Rebekkah suggested.

She’s an old lady.

Good. You should be able to handle her, then.

The Grandmaster wouldn’t show him any mercy if their positions were reversed, and Simon knew it. But she was under guard, and not likely to be a danger anytime soon.

Overlord Feiora’s raven rested on her forearm like a falcon called to its handler. She conversed with it in a low voice. Simon had seen the Overlord before, at a distance, but he had never spoken with her until today. Her jaw was tight, her shoulders squared, and she stood with feet evenly apart as though she thought she might have to fight. Did she know something the rest of them didn’t, or was she always like that?

The door to the waystation blew gently open, and in a blur of black, Indirial flowed in. He straightened and released a heavy, moonlit breath.

Simon had known that the older swordsman’s Nye essence would last much longer than his own, but seeing it was a nagging reminder of how far he had yet to go.

“He’s got the city locked down tight,” Indirial said, striding over to stand in front of Leah. He delivered his report right to her. “The citizens are on a strict curfew, and they’re terrified of being reported for even minor infractions. I looked in on one of their sessions in the ‘School for the Disobedient.’ It was…not pleasant.”

Then he gave an easy smile. “But hey, I’ve seen worse. Any city occupied by an invading army isn’t going to be treated half this well. The village Valin destroyed, the one the Naraka Incarnation burned down, the mining outpost that Endross blew up, the schools that Asphodel infected…all of those would have paid to trade places with the people of Enosh right now. I don’t see an urgent problem here.”

Ilana remained silent, clutching at her mug, but Leah nodded. “I agree. There’s no freedom here, but there is order. I see no threat to Damasca. Feiora?”

The Overlord muttered something else to her raven, and then turned to the Queen. “I’ll get to that in a moment. First, did any of you notice any other Incarnations besides Elysia?”

Leah, Simon, and Indirial all shook their heads.

The raven cawed, and Feiora stroked his beak. “They’re probably not here, then. So where are they?”

Silence reigned for a minute or so as everyone digested the question.

“There remains only one likely possibility,” Leah said reluctantly.

Feiora nodded. “If someone is gathering the Incarnations in Cana, we need to stop wasting time here and get back to our capital. Who knows what they could do with us here?”

Indirial pushed his sleeves up, baring the chains on his forearms. “That’s the smart play,” he said. “Alin’s waited here for six months, so he can wait a little longer. He doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry to go anywhere. We can sew this Incarnation up after we figure out what’s happening with the other eight.”

“We’re not even going to try to help these people?” Simon said, without thinking about what he was saying. Everyone turned to look at him, Ilana hopeful, the rest surprised.

“Help them what, Simon?” Leah asked. “They’re not dying. People in other places are. No matter how uncomfortable it is, they can hang on until we get back.”

Simon struggled for a moment to find the right words. “Sure, but…this is Alin doing it. We might be able to talk to him, or even stop him!”

Or punch him in the face, Rebekkah added.

Leah looked at him sympathetically, and Indirial was smiling, but he doubted they would back him up.

“They’re not our responsibility,” she said simply. “We can’t help everybody. If we get a chance, then we’ll do what we can. But our people have to come first.”

Our people.

Simon had never considered himself a Damascan. Then again, he wasn’t from Enosh, either.

It felt like the wrong thing to do, leaving these people behind.

Leah reduced her scrying lens, a round crystal mirror, to about the size of a dinner plate. Then she banished it back to Lirial and started walking toward the Naraka Gate. The two Overlords were deep in conversation in the corner, with the raven croaking some input every once in a while.

“You’re welcome to come with us, Ilana,” Leah said, without turning and looking at the other woman. “You don’t have to stay here.”

Ilana’s face twisted, as though she was having a painful internal fight. “I will come with you,” she said at last. “But only for now. I need your promise that you will take me back here. My family caused this, and I can’t run away.”

At that, Leah did turn back and look at Ilana, but she didn’t say anything. She simply nodded.

Indirial and Feiora finished their discussion, and Indirial clapped. “Well, now that’s settled, let’s get going. We’re burning daylight. Come on, Simon.”

Simon stood for a moment, torn. He felt like the heroic thing to do would be stay and try to reason with Alin. If he could think like a normal person, then he should be able to snap out of it, right?

On the other hand, he owed something to Indirial and Leah. What did he owe to Alin? He wasn’t even doing anything that bad, compared to the walking natural disasters that were the rest of the Incarnations.

With a last, regretful look at the doors, Simon turned back to the Naraka Gate.

Rebekkah started to laugh.

Simon’s spine crawled, and he summoned Azura before he was consciously aware of doing it. He almost gave Ilana an unwanted haircut, but she jerked back and avoided the point of the Dragon’s Fang.

“I don’t—” Feiora began, but then she staggered and grabbed the edge of Ilana’s chair for support. Her raven gave one shrieking caw, much louder than any of the others Simon had heard from it, and took wing.

Indirial had summoned Vasha as well, making Simon feel significantly better, and he stared at the closed doors.

“What is it, Indirial?” Leah asked.

“Into Naraka,” Indirial ordered, not turning from the door. “Into the Gate, Leah! Now!”

Then the doors opened, and Alin walked in.

CHAPTER 11:

ELYSIA VS. VALINHALL

When Alin entered the waystation, he didn’t blast his way inside, or order his army to do it for him. But he didn’t touch the doors, either.

He wore the solid gold plate armor in which Simon had last seen him, though it seemed somehow more impressive now. The symbol of Elysia, a winged sword point-down in front of a rising sun, was etched into the chestplate. He abandoned his helmet, letting his bright hair shine in the reddening sunlight.

He stood with his hands on his hips, and his eyes…his eyes seemed to light up the stretching shadows in the waystation.

The Elysian Incarnation smiled like a boy expecting a present. “Simon! Leah! You should have told me you were coming, I thought I was going to have to clean up some intruders. And…”

He froze for a second when his gaze passed over Ilana, and Simon would have bet he was going to gasp in shock. But his smile returned almost immediately. “Ilana!” Alin spread his arms wide, taking a step forward.

Ilana scrambled out of the chair and walked away.

The Incarnation shook his head, amused. “I understand your hesitation, Ilana. Believe me, I do. But I’m not like the other Incarnations. This is me.”

Leah plastered on a pleasant expression and turned, smoothly executing a curtsy to cover the fact that she had taken a step closer to the Naraka Gate. “Pleased to see you again, Alin. I’m so glad you found us. Why don’t you Travel with us back to Bel Calem, and we can talk there?”

Silently, Simon applauded Leah for trying to get Alin into a foreign Territory while, at the same time, not giving away where they were actually going.

Alin chuckled. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t have the time to spare. Feel free to come visit anytime, though. I’ll tell the guardians to let you through. Naraka, right?”

Leah nodded mutely.

“Well, then…” Alin looked directly into the Naraka Gate for the first time, and his face went blank. Not that he simply lost all expression, though that was true as well. His entire body froze with an inhuman stillness, as though he had briefly become nothing more than a statue of himself.

Grandmaster Naraka stared back, apparently in complete control of herself.

The three women behind her, in the armor of Tartarus, drew their swords.

Alin pointed. “Did you bring her to me?”

“She came to me for sanctuary,” Leah began, but Alin cut her off.

“I will give her sanctuary,” he said, in a chill, terrible voice. “I will give her a fair trial, followed by a swift execution of the verdict. Which I suspect will end in, simply, a swift execution.”

Leah hesitated, rubbing her chin in a display of thoughtfulness. “We could certainly discuss it,” she said. “Her fate would be much the same in Damasca as well, so I don’t see a problem with handing her over to you. Why don’t we arrange a meeting for the first day of next week, say?”

“I will need her now,” Alin said, with such absolute confidence that Simon shivered. The Incarnation stated every word as though he were pronouncing a new natural law.

Valin’s voice: What do you want to do, Simon?

For the first time, Simon spoke up. “I don’t care about her,” he said. “You can take her. It seems like she’s earned it. But…what do you want to do afterwards? You know, after you’re done punishing the Grandmasters?”

Alin looked startled, either at the question or at the fact that Simon had said anything. “Once the Grandmasters are dead, and the city is secure, I’ll set out with all the Travelers who will join me. You are all welcome. I will find each Incarnation, and they will be given a choice: they can operate according to my instructions, or I will banish them back to their Territory.”

He delivered his speech with such complete openness and sincerity that Simon believed him. It would have been more comfortable to think he was exaggerating.

“What about Damasca?” Leah asked.

Alin smiled patiently. “It will need to be reorganized. No more sacrifices, that sort of thing, and I think the Overlord system is a relic of the past. But once I’m done, I’ll have the whole nation ordered and peaceful.”

“Like Enosh?” Simon asked.

“Exactly!” Alin seemed pleased that someone understood him.

“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” Leah said. “It’s most certainly the kind of thing we can talk about next week.”

Alin nodded toward the Naraka Gate. “You’re free to leave as soon as Grandmaster Naraka is in my possession. And my sister, of course.”

Ilana raised her eyebrows. “Since when am I your possession, little brother?” She said it mockingly, just as she would have back in the village, when she had been known for her sense of humor. Simon had the feeling it wouldn’t do her much good now.

“Since our sisters died,” Alin said simply. “You’re the only one remaining, and I would not lose you.”

“Where I go is my own business. Besides, you were the one who left me with Simon!”

“I have changed my position on that course of action. It’s become clear to me that I am the only one who can keep you safe, and only if you stay close.”

He placed his hand companionably on her shoulder, smiling down at her. She tried to jerk away, used both hands to peel his hand away from her, but a red spark kindled within Alin’s armor. She stayed where she was.

Simon’s heart clenched. He couldn’t get Valin’s words out of his head.

What do you want to do, Simon?

“Now, will you join me, Grandmaster Naraka?” Alin said, as if the matter with Ilana were settled.

“Let the girl go,” Overlord Feiora commanded. The order landed with too much force, and Simon found himself looking for a girl so he could let her go. He almost pulled Rebekkah out of his cloak pocket before he realized this must be a mental attack from Avernus.

Alin didn’t move, or even lose his small smile.

Some of Leah’s authority as a queen bled into her voice. “Let’s not rush into anything, Alin. We can meet next week, formally, as fellow leaders, and decide what needs to be done.”

The Elysian Incarnation gave her a quizzical look. “But I have already decided.”

Simon’s grip tightened on Azura’s hilt.

What do you want to do?

“Well, I haven’t!” Ilana said. “Now let go of me!”

The gold gauntlet remained where it was.

“I have every advantage,” Alin said calmly. “I don’t like to put it this way, but you’ve backed me into the corner, so I must say it: you have no options remaining. I could kill every one of you and drag Grandmaster Naraka out of there before you could make it into the Gate. I have not done so because you’re friends, and I’m trying to be polite.”

The ruby in Leah’s crown sparkled with red light. She reached out to the nearby wall, where Simon hadn’t noticed the Lightning Spear resting against the stone. “Don’t make this a fight, Alin,” she warned.

“I wouldn’t call it a fight,” he said.

What do you want?

Simon wasn’t sure about a lot of things. He had no driving ambition. He knew he wasn’t looking for authority, or for lasting power. He couldn’t quite put into words what he did want.

But this wasn’t it.

Before he knew it, he had dropped Azura. The blade shimmered and vanished into Valinhall before it hit the ground. Benson’s steel gripped his muscles and flowed like an icy river through his veins.

A second later, he stood face-to-face with the Elysian Incarnation.

For the first instant, Alin ignored him.

Then, with his right hand, Simon peeled Alin’s gauntleted hand away from Ilana’s shoulder.

Alin looked at his own hand curiously. “Valinhall, right? I should have paid more attention to you.”

Red light wound up his arm like a snake, or like the chains currently crawling up Simon’s own arms. Suddenly, Alin was just as strong as Simon. They struggled silently for a moment, both of them locked in the same position. Then Alin started to bend Simon’s elbow back.

By then, Simon had already done what he intended to do. For one thing, Alin had been forced away from his sister.

And Simon’s other hand made it into the pocket of his cloak.

He pulled out the mask and pressed it on. For a moment, his own breathing echoed against the metal of the mask, sounding hollow and tinny in his own ears. The slits in the front of the mask were so thin that they left him almost blind.

Then the eyes flared white, and the mask was all but transparent. His steel thundered through his veins, and the Nye essence—depleted to almost nothing an instant before—roared into his lungs like a freezing hurricane.

Time crawled almost to a stop. He could hear Indirial shouting, warning everyone to get back, before the world slowed so much that he could no longer understand speech.

Then he pulled his fist back and punched Alin in the face.

The air echoed with a crack like rock being split by a sledgehammer, and Alin flew backwards like a golden arrow launched from a bow. He smashed through the closed doors, which had been designed to only swing inward, landing in a tumble of gold limbs all the way across the street.

See? Rebekkah said, sounding as smug as Caela. I knew you would fight today.

***

Above him, Cana’s sky shone crimson.

Zakareth stood atop his palace and watched the people beneath him. They hurried from one place to another in clusters of five or ten, shepherded by hovering globes of Lirial crystal. The spheres didn’t look threatening, more like floating balls of mirrored glass than anything, but a few statues adorned the streets here and there, men and women sealed into crystal. The others understood.

The King hated the waste. He could see the life, the blood, the energy of the living beings trapped in rock. He had to leave them there, to serve as object lessons, but with the power sitting unused on his city streets in plain view, he could shatter the gates of Elysia.

“I know that look,” Cynara said from beside him. She sat, as usual, on her carved wooden throne in the antechamber of Ragnarus. The Gate swirled in the air a few feet to his right. He left it open almost all the time now. The price wasn’t worth mentioning, and he felt invigorated by the constant breath from his Territory.

“You have plenty of power,” the Queen went on. “You’re more than ready. We’re only waiting for the right opportunity.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, where she burned like one of the Vault’s crimson torches. She had so much power, sadly limited to the borders of Ragnarus. If only he could find a way to break her out of there…

But no, she was blending into the fabric of the Territory too well. Already her skin had lost its sheen of metal. Her limbs were still red, but the dull shade of painted flesh instead of shining scarlet. And her advice had gotten increasingly difficult to comprehend.

Plenty of power?

He ground the butt of his ruby-studded staff against the tiled roof of his palace. The Rod of Harmony had never been his favorite weapon; it required him to wait for someone to attack him, and he had always been more comfortable on the offense. He would have preferred his Lightning Spear, but his daughter had kept it in her possession for weeks now without returning it to the Crimson Vault. He could summon it to himself, but doing so would alert her to his presence.

“Power without purpose is wasted. It must be directed.” And he should be the one to direct it, but that went without saying. He was the only one who could see the flow of scarlet potential within every living being. Who better to guide their combined force?

Cynara’s glowing eyes had dimmed to little more than a pair of red sparks, but they grew troubled. “We have to consider the balance. Every cost fully balanced, every reward fairly purchased. But they have paid a great price on our behalf. Where is their return?”

Zakareth turned to look straight at her, staff clenched in his hand. If she was going to be a problem, he intended to solve it now. “This is unlike you. We have set our course, and I, for one, intend to see it to the end.”

Slowly, Cynara shook her head, her burning eyes far away. “No. This is like me, for the first time since my awakening. I think…”

She didn’t finish her thought. Their attention had been captured by a thousand flashes of light, as though every mirror in the city had been turned to catch the sun at once. The floating Lirial globe flared, as did the prisons of crystal surrounding their frozen inmates.

The powers of Lirial welcomed their Incarnation.

Zakareth hefted the Rod of Harmony, preparing to pay its price. The Rod demanded emotions: it drained the user’s feelings, eventually leaving them a cold shell.

During his first life, Zakareth had used the Rod three times. Not enough to effect him significantly, in his opinion; he had never been the most passionate of men. Now, he couldn’t pay the Rod’s price at all.

He had others to do that for him.

As he had expected, the Lirial Incarnation struck from behind while his attention was on her flashy display down in the streets. A blinding light flared behind him, and he felt his body grow slow and heavy as the will of Lirial sealed him into place.

The deep red gem on the end of his Rod flickered once, with a bloody light. He felt the well of emotions he had drawn from some of his citizens lessen, flowing out to pay the cost of the Ragnarus weapon.

He still couldn’t turn his head to see his attacker. His neck was frozen in place overlooking the streets below.

The King heaved his arm into the air, raising the Rod high. The white light of Lirial touched the gem and was reflected, focused back on its source. Zakareth felt his limbs lighten at once, and turned to face the Incarnation.

She hardly looked human. She was like a featureless statue hewn from white crystal and wrapped in random loops of silver wire. The wire spiraled down her body, becoming a metallic tunic that flashed in the sun, and loosened again in lazy circles around her ankles.

Her eyes were globes of white so bright that they stood out even against her crystal skin. They shone with fear as she realized what had happened: her own efforts to bind him had been returned to her.

“Please…” she whispered, in a voice like the ring of silver. “Mercy…”

“Mercy is no part of what we are,” Zakareth said. It was true; neither Ragnarus nor Lirial accounted mercy as a virtue. The merciful died as easily on the Crystal Fields as they did in the Crimson Vault. But Lirial Travelers were rare, and he couldn’t afford to spend time waiting for another to Incarnate. Sometimes, the price wasn’t worth the reward.

He cut off the binding.

“Be careful that you don’t run up a debt you cannot pay,” the King said, looking down upon his subject. The Lirial Incarnation sagged to her knees, begging his forgiveness, but she would already be calculating her next attempt to overthrow him. Of course she would be. She was Lirial.

“Report,” he commanded.

“The Elysian Incarnation has all but total control over the city,” she said, meeting his red eyes with her white. “He has divided Enosh into nine Districts, in imitation of the City of Light itself.” Her tone held admiration. She had once served the Elysian Travelers, including the last Incarnation of Elysia. He knew this, and monitored her behavior accordingly. “The few rebellious elements have been crushed, and he has recruited a large force of Travelers to his cause. He calls upon forty-two Asphodel, thirty Avernus, sixteen Endross, twenty-four Helgard, seven Lirial, eleven Naraka, twenty-eight Ornheim, and thirty-seven Tartarus.”

“Almost two hundred Travelers,” Zakareth murmured, turning the numbers over in his head. That was far more than he would have expected to survive the quiet fall of Enosh. Even Zakareth could not field so many Travelers with only Cana in his possession, though he held weapons more potent than any human Travelers.

“One hundred ninety-five,” the Lirial Incarnation corrected automatically.

Zakareth tapped the ruby at the end of his Rod against the roof tiles, thinking. He caught a glimpse of red lips pursed in careful thought and realized Cynara had remained silent through Lirial’s whole report.

He turned to her, Rod of Harmony held in his right fist. “I would have your counsel, Queen Cynara.”

She was quiet for a handful of seconds, tapping crimson nails against the arm of her chair. “Let us hear the rest of Lirial’s story before I render judgment,” she said at last.

Lirial looked up, startled.

Zakareth kept an eye on the Incarnation, but addressed his words to Cynara. “She was ordered only to record the Travelers in the Elysian Incarnation’s employ.”

“Lirial watches,” Cynara said, her voice gaining a rhythm as though she were quoting something. “Lirial listens. Lirial holds secrets tight, and never lets them go. None of us can fight our natures. Can we, Zakareth?”

The King ignored the question and turned back to Lirial. He held out his left hand, and a red hammer dropped into it. The weapon was carved out of one piece of stone, its head worked into the image of a snarling bear.

Hammer in one hand and Rod in the other, King Zakareth walked forward until he stood over the trembling woman of silver-and-crystal. “Give me your secrets, Incarnation of Lirial,” he said softly.

She trembled for a moment, and glimmering white dust fell from her skin like sweat. “Your Successor is in Enosh. She has the young Valinhall Traveler, two Overlords, an old woman, and five Travelers with her. The old one and the guards remained behind, in Naraka.”

If she was in Enosh, that meant she was acting against the Elysian Incarnation. Then he could leave Leah unharmed, for now. As a Ragnarus Traveler, her blood was valuable, and he had no desire to hurt her. So long as she served his greater purpose.

“Two Overlords,” he repeated. “Which?”

“The Avernus, Feiora Torannus,” she said. “And the Valinhall Traveler, Indirial, son of Aleias.”

Zakareth turned to Cynara, and red eyes met red eyes. She began to laugh, and even the King felt himself give a small smile.

Sometimes, when you paid the appropriate price, the universe rewarded you with an unexpected bonus.

“The time has come,” he said, striding forward with a new sense of purpose. His heavy armor crushed tiles underneath his feet. “Send out the word, Lirial. It is time to release the Incarnations.”

Lirial looked as though she would protest, but her white eyes dimmed, and she raised a hand. Once again, all across the city, silver-white light flared.

This time, there was an answer.

From the east quarter of the city, mist rose and rolled down the streets. A single yellow flower, tall enough to show even over three story buildings, spread petals each the size of a ship’s sail.

From the south quarter, a roar shook all of Cana. A lightning bolt shot up into stormclouds that gathered overhead.

In the west quarter, snowy winds swirled faster and faster as a blizzard formed around an enslaved Incarnation of ice.

In the north, a gleaming giant of pure, mirror-bright steel leaped onto a house. He ran from building to building, shattering chimneys and churning tiles into dust as he hurried to heed his master’s call.

They all hated King Zakareth, but their fear was greater, and their desire to serve their Territories greater still. As long as he allowed them to each express their unique natures, he could guide them to a higher purpose. His purpose.

Zakareth reached out one hand and placed it against the Pillar of Sunset. Its red-and-black marbled surface throbbed with living heat, and the scarlet dome over Cana’s sky pulsed in time.

The King couldn’t help but notice his own hand, pushed against the pillar. He wore a gauntlet of black and red, chased with gold, but he was seeing flashes of red and gold from between the armor’s joints.

Was that his hand? He rejected the idea instinctively. That couldn’t be his hand within the gauntlet. There was something inside made of metal, not flesh. For an instant, the thought disturbed him. But only for an instant.

He had paid his price. Now it was time to reap the rewards.

He tore his power from the Pillar, and it crumbled into ash and dust. The red veil overhead ripped itself to shreds and vanished, letting through the painfully bright sun and vivid blue sky for the first time in six months.

Counting himself, he had half a dozen Incarnations under his control.

And now they were free.

From behind the Ragnarus Gate, Cynara kept her eyes fixed on the approaching Tartarus Incarnation, its steel armor gleaming under the newly revealed sun. “He will need a gatecrawler, and then the Spyglass to guide him to the Gate. Perhaps something to help him once he’s inside. That’s quite a bill you’re running up, for a single Territory.”

“I assure you,” King Zakareth said, “the prize is worth the cost.”

Indirial would have left from Leah’s camp, just outside Cana’s walls. Which meant there would be the residue of an old Valinhall Gate somewhere down there.

They only had to find it.

***

Get up! the Gold Light screamed. You have to fight!

Alin didn't feel pain anymore. Not like he used to. He experienced the suffering of his body, but only in a distant way, like he was hearing about someone else's injuries rather than feeling his own.

His body was complaining quite loudly. His back ached, his armor pressed in on his chest, and he had scrapes all over his head and neck. If he were human, he would have been dead.

And the blow had come from Simon, of all people. Months ago, when he had seen the fight with the Valinhall Incarnation, Alin had wondered if Simon might actually pose a significant threat. But then he had Incarnated, and realized the truth: the Valinhall Incarnation must have simply been weak. No ordinary Traveler could oppose him.

Now Simon had made him look ridiculous.

Fury rose in Alin, and he levitated himself to his feet on a wave of Orange Light.

You're angry because you're embarrassed, the Violet Light said.

Don't let those emotions drive you, the Green Light agreed.

Alin called Rose, flooding his body, erasing his wounds in an instant. Then he summoned the Gold Light, filling his palms with destructive power, and the Gold Light became the loudest voice in his head.

Tear him apart! was all the Gold said.

Alin hadn't seen him move, but Simon was now standing on the top of the steps leading down from the Naraka waystation building. He stood amid the debris of the ruined doors, the silver-and-black mask glaring out from within his dark hood.

Combined with the seven-foot sword held in his right hand, the whole should have made Simon look ridiculous. Instead, he looked like an executioner, come to put an end to Alin.

The impression was completed by Simon's silence. He didn't say a word, only stared from behind his mask.

Filling his legs with Red Light, Alin dashed to the side. He didn't want to endanger the people inside the building; not while Grandmaster Naraka might escape in the confusion. When he had a clear shot at Simon without blowing the entire Naraka waystation to dust, he hurled both orbs of Gold Light.

They blasted through the air like balls of lightning, spiraling around one another and centering on Simon.

Well, where Simon used to be.

Then Simon wasn't over there anymore, he was right here, and his sword gleamed silver as it struck for the throat. Alin threw up a shield of Green Light in time, but the blow landed with such force that the Green Light actually cracked. Alin had a second to think, That shield held under Overlord Malachi's best attack, and then Simon had vanished again. Alin flung a wave of Silver Light all around him in a panicked screen, trying to find him, and the Silver Light was screaming:

Where is he? Why can't we get a look at him, where is he? No! Up! He's above you!

Alin looked up, summoning Blue Light, the sapphire tendrils exploding from the ground around him to try and bind Simon, to trap him and drain his strength, using it against him. But Simon twisted in the air, somehow flowing through the loops of Blue Light, and only a last-second double-layered shield of Green kept Alin from being split down the middle by Simon's blade.

This was getting absurd. Simon was keeping him on the defensive in his own city. That shouldn't be possible!

The Silver Light whispered to him, and Alin realized what was wrong. He was fighting out of shame, rushing the battle, trying to prove he was better. That was not Elysia. He was fighting as Alin, son of Torin, not as the Elysian Incarnation.

In a breath, Alin embraced the Green Light and covered himself in a shell of six-sided plates of shining green, interlocking to form a dome blocking Simon out. The Valinhall Traveler struck at the shield in pokes and probes, but he didn't assault it directly.

Alin used the time to hold the Green Light, letting its patience flow into him, washing away his recklessness.

He was not fighting to prove a point. He was not fighting for his pride.

He fought because he was right, and it was time he remembered that.

And what are you right about, exactly? the Violet Light asked, but Alin ignored it. He didn't have time for distractions.

Alin released the Green shield, whipping sheets of Violet at Simon, trying to banish his sword, his cloak, whatever he could get ahold of. Simon dodged with ease, as Alin had known he would, but at the same time Alin let his anger as an Incarnation flood out of him with invisible urgency, summoning all the Elysian natives in the city.

One by one, the fuzzy creatures in the Violet District dropped their meals, the red gnomes picked up their tools, and the Silver automatons stopped patrolling.

Elysia was in danger, and all his sons and daughters came to answer.

Now Alin had to keep Simon from killing him before they got there.

For some reason, Simon had abandoned his sword outside the Green Light. He was reaching out into midair as though to summon it again, but Alin couldn't figure out why he had banished the blade in the first place...

Then Simon drew out of nowhere a massive hammer, mirror-bright steel from its haft all the way up to its head, easily as tall as Simon himself. He hefted the hammer in both hands, swinging it against the plates of Green Light in a blow that Alin knew would break through. That was a problem; when his Green armor broke, it gave him a piercing headache and enough painful mental feedback that it would disable him for a few seconds. More than enough time for Simon to take his head from his shoulders.

So, in the split-second before Simon's hammer made contact with the Green Light, Alin banished the shield.

Simon did an impressive job of controlling his momentum and not spinning around or staggering off his feet, but when his blow didn't hit as anticipated, he did miss a step.

And Alin caught him in a trap.

A bubble of Orange Light rose from the ground where Alin was pointing, snaring Simon around the middle and raising him into the air. Simon struggled, trying to break free, but the Orange didn't bind him. It simply lifted him, quickly and easily.

Alin didn't have to win, not now. He had to stall out the fight until the legions of Elysia arrived. Then it would be an all-out war between the City of Light and the House of Blades. In a contest like that, he liked his chances.

Besides, he doubted Valinhall had any powers that could deal with levitation. Simon would surely die from the fall.

I never took you for such an optimist, the Silver Light muttered.

***

Get down there! Rebekkah shouted. He's going to get away!

Simon let the orange cushion take him where it wanted. It was almost soothing, actually, once he had stopped panicking in sheer surprise at being lifted off the streets. He had never seen the world from this high up; the buildings looked like toys far below, Alin like a golden fly. From this vantage point, he could see that Alin had summoned help: brightly colored specks rushed toward him from every District in Enosh, all converging on Alin's position.

That was good to know. It meant he would have to focus on defeating Alin one-on-one, while Leah and Indirial and the rest took out Alin's army. He had no doubt they could do it, even though Elysia undoubtedly held some surprises.

He wondered if he could beat Alin in time.

He'd learned a few things about the mask, after his fight with Valin. While the mask was active, he didn't run out of steel or essence. Not ever, as far as he could tell. Even the single-use powers like the frozen horn recovered much more quickly.

In exchange, his chains grew at an alarming rate. Since he had thrown the first punch, his chains had raced from his wrists to twisting around his back. Soon, they would encase his ribs like bands of iron.

So he couldn't fully release his powers without removing the mask, but he could slow the growth of the chains by drawing less. He pushed the steel out of his system as much as he could, until the chill flowing through his veins was negligible. Then he released Nye essence in a breath, so the world returned to almost normal speed.

In this state, his chains would almost stop growing. It was a trick he had learned to extend the amount of time he could keep wearing the mask, which was critical: as far as he could tell, the mask crippled him after he used it, even if he had only worn it for a second.

So each time he put it on, he had to make it last as long as possible.

Simon twisted in the light’s orange grip, looking up at the clouds. They were rushing toward him, and with a mix of excitement and alarm, he realized that he might actually reach one. He had never thought of clouds as things that could be touched; they were always impossibly far away, like stars.

From this close, he could see wisps of mist radiating out from the cluster of white. Was that all a cloud was? Nothing more than a bunch of fog floating up in the air?

Focus! Rebekkah sent. There’s a fight going on down there, and we’re missing it! I’ll tell you all about clouds later.

I can’t get there any faster by worrying about it, Simon pointed out. I’m waiting until this light wears off.

You should be more excited about this!

He sighed behind the mask and aimed himself back down at the ground, where the city now looked like a gameboard of nine colors. The white part was the smallest, and the Gold District the biggest. He had imagined that it would be laid out in nine equal wedges, but the size and locations of the different colors seemed almost random.

The Orange Light flickered, and Simon summoned Azura.

I can survive a fall from this height, right? Simon asked.

You need to, Rebekkah said. Otherwise you won’t get to see Alin’s face when you beat him till he begs for mercy.

The light had grown still more pale, and Simon called another trickle of steel.

The funny thing was, he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill Alin. That was a crippling weakness in a fight, being unwilling to kill your opponent, he had learned that lesson long ago. Kai had never taught him, nor had Indirial; he had learned it from Valinhall. If he held back against the Nye, they would strangle him. If he had let the fiery snake in the forge live, it would have melted the flesh from his bones.

And if he didn’t kill Alin, or find some way to force him back into Elysia, he had no doubt that Alin would kill him.

This has to be done, Rebekkah said, with uncharacteristic patience in her voice. You know it does. Even if he’s not completely evil now, he’ll only get worse. You can put a stop to it.

Simon clung to that advice, pushing the doubts out of his mind. Alin was an Incarnation, and Incarnations were both unstable and unbelievably powerful. He had to die, or he would become an even bigger danger than he already was.

He had to fight to kill. Anything else was unforgiveable.

On a whim, he spun around. A second before the Orange Light ran out, he swept Azura’s blade through the belly of a cloud.

He felt no resistance, and the steel emerged trailing mist and patterned with dew.

Huh, he thought. So that’s a cloud.

The Orange Light failed, and Simon began to fall.

Rebekkah made a sound like a growl. Give me your killer instinct back! You almost had it!

Sorry, Simon sent, as the ground rushed up to meet him. I’ll focus.

He called steel and essence both, flooding through him in a rush of wind and ice. Then he pictured a stone amulet.

The stone was one of his newer powers, and he hated calling on it; steel protected him enough for most fights, and calling stone was distinctly uncomfortable. It felt as though his skin had become dry and solid, like he had to grind his skin to gravel every time he moved his joints. It didn’t actually happen, but it felt like it should, and that unnerved him enough that he tried to avoid using the power.

But he had the feeling that he was about to need all the defense he could get.

Here we go! Rebekkah cheered.

He called stone.

CHAPTER 12:

FIGHTING IN THE STREETS

When Simon knocked Alin through the doors of the waystation and out into the street, Leah didn’t have time to react.

Indirial gave Ilana a hand up from the floor, where he had thrown her after snatching her out of the way of Simon’s punch. Feiora had propped herself up against the wall, and was now struggling to stand on her feet again, Eugan squawking in panic.

Leah found that she had her spear raised, ready to throw, and nothing to target. She caught a glimpse, through the ruined doors, of Simon standing on the steps outside the waystation. Alin was levitating to his feet across the street, so Leah hurried over. She needed to get a clear shot; maybe if she hit Alin with the Lightning Spear, Simon could do the rest.

She found her way blocked by a black cloak.

Indirial gripped her arm and practically dragged her to the back of the room, toward the Naraka Gate. “Sorry, this is far too much of a risk,” he said pleasantly. “You’re pulling out.”

“Release me!” Leah commanded. “I can kill him!” She struggled, but the man had a grip like an Ornheim golem.

Indirial nodded, but he didn’t stop dragging her toward Naraka. “I’m sure you could, given the time. Legend says that’s how the last fight between Ragnarus and Elysia went, after all. But this is not important enough to put you in danger. Do you understand?”

She did. As much as she would have preferred to win her way clear on the battlefield, it was a foolish chance. She was the only battle-capable Ragnarus Traveler left, and gambling her life on a fight with an Incarnation in Enosh was not only sheer idiocy, it was selfishness.

She stopped fighting him, so Indirial released her arm. It was only then that she noticed something was wrong.

She couldn’t see Grandmaster Naraka through the Gate.

Her two Naraka guards were clearly straining to hold the Gate, shouting something at one another. The three Tartarus Travelers had blades drawn, and one of them reached out to one side of the Gate, dragging Grandmaster Naraka back by the hem of her robes.

One lens of her red spectacles was gone, but she wore a mad smile. As a Tartarus pulled a length of rope out of her pack to tie the Grandmaster’s arms, the old woman got one last gesture in with her branded palm.

Indirial rushed forward, his cracked blade drawn, but he wasn’t fast enough. The Naraka Gate winked shut, Grandmaster Naraka’s laughter drifting out.

From the look of things, the guards had restrained the Grandmaster before she shut the portal. If that was true, then they would be able to open a new Gate from their side at any moment.

Unless the Grandmaster knew a way to seal a Naraka Gate and keep it sealed. Unless she hadn’t been tied securely as it had looked. Unless the Travelers took too long, and Leah’s fight ended before they made it.

Too many possibilities.

Indirial skidded to a halt where the Gate had once hung. “We need another way out,” he said. “Valinhall Gates take up to a minute. What about Ragnarus?”

Leah hefted her spear, walking toward the broken doors. She could hear the fight between Simon and Alin in a series of deafening cracks and crashes, but she couldn’t see much except a few flashes of colored light. “That’s not an option. There may be enemies in the Crimson Vault.”

Indirial didn’t ask for any more details, moving on to the next possibility. “What about Lirial?”

With her Spear, she nudged one door open. It swung crazily from one hinge, dropping splinters like a tree shedding leaves, but she got a better look at the fight. Alin was standing in a dome of Green Light, and Simon had dropped his sword. What were they doing?

“Lirial’s no good,” Leah responded. “According to the scout reports, he’s got a network of guards on the other side. We’d be detected and detained.”

The Overlord’s gaze snapped to Feiora.

Leah shook her head. “They’ve got guards on the other side of Avernus, too. That would be the same as Lirial.”

Feiora hesitated. “Not quite,” she said. “There are some other…complications.”

Simon had produced a giant silver hammer from his Territory, and he swung at Alin’s green dome. Leah silently cheered, waiting for him to break the barrier so she could hurl her Spear.

The green shield vanished, and Orange Light wrapped Simon in a bright cocoon. Before she could even think of interfering, he shot up to the sky.

She felt a moment of panic for Simon. How long would he rise like that, drifting toward the clouds? Would he ever come down? But she focused on what mattered most.

Alin was standing in the street, exposed and undefended.

She drew back the Lightning Spear, ready to throw…

And a blue tentacle wrapped around her right arm. A cold tingling, buzzing sensation ran up and down her arm, as though it was carried through her bones. The Spear clattered to the floor, and she collapsed to her knees, all but out of strength.

Then Indirial was there, and his blade passed through the blue tendril, severing it into two twitching pieces. The buzzing feeling ended quickly, but the weakness remained. She shook it off and looked up at the drifting jellyfish-creature that had managed to sneak up on her while she was focused on the Elysian Incarnation.

Its body was the size of a horse, its tentacles at least eight feet long. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the thing spoke.

“Surrender and you will find mercy,” the creature hummed, in a voice like a nest of hornets. “Resist and—”

Indirial’s blade split it down the middle, and it collapsed into piles of shining blue goo.

Leah turned back to Alin. He was gone from his spot in the street, so she didn’t waste time looking for him. She twisted her left wrist, until the crystal she always wore there caught the light.

Then she called Lirial.

A pair of white crystal spheres spun out of her Lirial sanctum and into this world, one flying up the street and one down.

Almost immediately, she heard a chime in her mind as one of the spheres spotted Alin. A silver-white light flared in her vision, invisible to anyone else, pointing at a spot hidden in a nearby alley.

Leah didn’t wait until she got a clear shot. She didn’t stop to think about the collateral damage. She had a chance, and she took it.

She threw the Lightning Spear.

As always, the Spear blasted from her hands with force dozens of times greater than her merely human throw. It streaked toward Alin in a blur of steel, ruby, gleaming gold, and black wood.

She didn’t get to see it land, though, because she all but collapsed in pain. It felt like a thousand wasps stinging every inch of her skin, while at the same time a thousand hammers smashed each of her bones to splinters.

Leah had to cling to the stone wall to stop from falling over, and she bit her lip until she tasted blood to keep from screaming.

The Lightning Spear was not the most pleasant weapon in her arsenal.

There was a sound like a building collapsing, and Leah snapped her head up, worried that she actually had broken someone’s home. But the Spear hadn’t needed to crash through a wall.

It had flipped into midair, after rebounding off Alin’s shield of green light. Alin stood at the mouth of the alley, both hands out toward the spear as if he were trying to push it away with the force of his mind. A wall of green plates rose between him and the spear, and his face was twisted as if in pain.

With a thought, Leah summoned the Spear back. It flipped around in midair and started to hurtle toward her outstretched hand.

Upon further inspection, it looked as though there was a second layer of green light in the air around Alin, but this one had a hole in it big enough to drive a wagon through. It seemed that the Lightning Spear had been enough to punch through his green shield, but not enough to penetrate two layers.

The warm wooden haft of the Spear smacked into her palm, and she levered herself back to her feet.

Now that she knew she could break his defense, she would need to keep attacking until she drew blood.

Speaking of blood, something purple and sticky splattered the stairs in front of her, and she looked up in alarm to see a bird-man in the traditional wooden armor of Avernus shredding a fuzzy, purple Elysian creature with its twin blades.

The Gendo bird-man, which Feiora must have summoned from Avernus, turned its beak toward Leah. It dismissed her after a second, running off on taloned feet with leaps and bounds that ate up five paces at a time.

Indirial grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back into the building. In the same motion, he turned around and put his back to the street.

A blast of gold almost blinded her, shattering against Indirial’s back. The force from the gold light slid the debris on the stairs backwards in an invisible ring, knocked one of the doors off its hinges, and set the other to smoldering.

Indirial offered her a smile. “Feiora can open you a Gate,” he said.

“How are you still alive?” she asked, almost involuntarily.

He turned his back to her, holding his blade out toward Alin. He wore a plate of translucent green light, like part of a suit of armor that only existed in her imagination. “I like to come prepared,” he said. As she watched, the spectral plate on his back flickered and went out.

Valinhall, she thought. Why am I ever surprised when they have a new weapon? I should get him to make me a list.

Feiora put a hand on her arm. Behind her, a two-foot-tall bearded man in a tall red hat burst through one of the blue windows, brandishing a pickaxe and screaming. Eugan shrieked at the gnome, flapping his wings to hover over the red creature’s hat.

The Elysian choked and fell over, apparently victim to one of Avernus’ psychic attacks.

The Overlord drew Leah back to the other end of the room, never checking to see if Eugan was safe. “It will take me a second to open an Avernus Gate. Stay here.”

“Not yet,” Leah said.

Feiora looked at her as though considering whether to knock her out and drag her into a Territory on general principle.

Leah flipped her left hand at an encroaching gold-armored dog, which had bounded through another broken window. A spike of crystal shot out from the tiles beneath it, enveloping the dog and sealing it in midair.

“You need me here,” Leah said.

After a second, Feiora nodded, and then she turned back to the fight. She had gotten a spear from somewhere, although Leah would have sworn that she didn’t have one before the battle began, and she used it to poke a slithering, boneless blue cat away from Indirial, who had managed to swat a ball of gold light out of the air with the flat of his blade.

Just then, Leah realized what was missing.

“Where’s Ilana?” she shouted.

No one answered.

***

Alin's head wouldn't stop screaming.

Leah's Ragnarus spear had blasted straight through an entire wall of Green Light, and he had barely been able to throw up a second shield in time, before the weapon destroyed his head as easily as it cracked the Green. The feedback from a broken Green shield was one of the few things that still pained him; Rhalia had once explained that the wall was constantly linked to him, which was why it felt like someone flogging his skull with burning whips every time a shield broke.

Currently, he was hurling blasts of Gold Light blindly at the Naraka waystation, trying to buy time until the fire in his head died down.

The noble citizens of Elysia were doing a wonderful job of earning time for him. Three of the Blue District jellies had been destroyed, and a handful of the gnomes were disabled, though their brothers kept fighting. Gold soldiers marched in formation against the side of the waystation, trying to knock their way into the walls, even as Violet and Silver creatures hopped or flew into the broken windows.

The Rose Light filled with compassion and horror at the number of living beings who were losing their lives crawling into that waystation, but Alin drowned out that voice with Gold. This was a battle, and he intended to win.

The Elysians swarmed the building, tearing chunks of stone out of the pillars to carve new entrances, slithering through cracks, hopping over shattered glass and into the windows. In fact, the most difficult point of entry might have been the gaping open hole where the doors used to be.

A Valinhall Traveler stood there, in the empty doorway, deflecting everything that Alin could throw at him and still managing to kill any summoned beings that got too close. At first, Alin had thought it was Simon, but when his vision cleared a bit he realized that was ridiculous. This man, Alin had met only once: he’d pulled Alin away from Leah, just as Alin's rage had gotten the better of him.

This Traveler was older and taller than Simon, with lines of gray at the edges of his hair. He had the dark complexion of a villager, and he kept his shirtsleeves pushed up—even in this cold—to expose the black chains that wrapped up his forearms. He wore his cloak with the hood up, and when he moved, Alin could only see him for an instant. All he could see clearly was the flashing sword in his hands, which looked as though it had been notched and cracked by years of abuse.

The man grinned, bright and cheery, as he slapped away a bolt of Gold Light and sliced an approaching slitherback—one of the blue-skinned lizard-cats—into three equal chunks. Blue blood oozed down the stairs, mixing with red, purple, and yellow in a macabre rainbow.

Your people are dying, the Rose Light cried.

Put an end to this, the Gold advised. The quicker the battle ends, the fewer lives lost.

That sounded like good sense to Alin, so he summoned his golden blade.

It formed in his hand, an artifact created of Gold Light. Its blade was straight, its crossguard wide enough to protect him, its hilt long enough to hold in both hands if necessary. It wouldn’t get rid of his reach disadvantage against a Valinhall blade, but Alin had other powers for that.

Red Light coiled around his legs, and he launched himself into the fight.

The raven's scream crashed into his mind, telling him to give up, to run away, to find a place to hide, and a thousand other conflicting instructions meant to distract him. He ignored that one; his bond with the Silver Light protected him. Somewhere, he could hear the Silver laughing at the pathetic attack.

A sheet of Violet Light fell like a luminescent blanket over the Valinhall Traveler, covering him and hopefully providing an instant's distraction while Alin landed. It worked; the enemy dodged out from under the Violet with blinding speed, allowing Alin to end his jump by slamming into the stairs, legs braced and slightly bent under him. The lines of Red Light in his lower body absorbed most of the impact, flaring briefly brighter.

Then Alin realized a problem. He couldn't see the Valinhall Traveler. Where was he? Alin must be looking straight at him, given the direction he'd dodged, but there was nothing there. Nothing but a blurry shadow that Alin was, for some reason, having trouble looking at...

A burning line scratched his left side as the Traveler's curved Valinhall blade slashed through Alin's armor and scored a hit on his side.

Alin was calling Rose Light at the first hint of pain, and his wound flared pink as it healed. He swung his golden sword from side to side, hoping to take the other Traveler's head off.

The ball of smoke and shadow rolled away—he knew it must be the Traveler, but he still couldn't bring himself to focus directly on it, as though it slid away from his eyes. Silver flashed, and the sword was coming up from the ground, angled at Alin’s neck. He put a single six-sided plate of Green Light in the way, and the tip of the blade skated off the shield like fingernails off a glass window. Alin retaliated by calling Blue Light out of the ground. It sprouted in tendrils, grasping for the Traveler.

But Alin had misjudged the other man's position badly, and he felt a stabbing pain in his back as once again the Valinhall Traveler practically ignored his armor. Why couldn't he look directly at the other man? What was he doing that would prevent Alin from so much as looking at him?

Alin knew he should have been beyond such emotions, but fury and frustration raged in him.

Stop holding yourself back, the Gold Light advised. You're not a Traveler anymore. Don't fight like one.

The Violet, Silver, and Red Lights agreed, so Alin gave himself over to the Incarnation of Elysia. He was thinking like a human, because that was all he had ever known.

But he was capable of so much more than that now.

Alin let his blade dissipate into motes of yellow, and threw his gold-armored hands out to either side.

Then he really called Blue Light.

The staircase of the Naraka waystation, the tiled floor inside, even the cobblestones behind him began to glow with a soft azure light. all the Elysian creatures except those from the Blue District scrambled away: gnomes scampered over debris, Gold soldiers backed away from the waystation in proper military order, Silver constructs flitted out the windows.

They knew what was coming.

The Valinhall Traveler scored another hit on Alin's back, through the previous hole in his armor, but he had Rose Light ready. The wound closed almost instantly.

And the Blue Light answered his call.

Tendrils and tentacles of luminous blue, each as thick around as a tree trunk, erupted from the ground. Many of them stretched eight or ten feet in the air, and they glowed so brightly that everything was tinged in sapphire.

There was no need for Alin to see the Valinhall Traveler, so long as he didn't give the man anywhere to run.

He heard a few shouts from inside the building, and a muffled thud from what might have been a body collapsing. That would be better for them, in time. The Blue Light wouldn't kill them—he would extinguish it before it went that far—but it would keep them unconscious. After they woke up, he would be in control of Enosh again, and he could teach them the truth.

The shadow of the Valinhall Traveler dodged in the forest of blue, landing two or three more cuts on Alin's arm, his neck, even alarmingly close to his eye.

Alin didn't bother dodging, or putting up a shield of Green. He poured all his will into Blue.

When the Valinhall Traveler fell to his knees, whatever power had kept him hidden died, revealing a cloaked man with a cracked sword in one hand. No longer smiling, he looked up at Alin, showing exhaustion in his eyes. He lunged weakly, and Alin let the sword land.

The tip of the Valinhall blade scratched Alin's armor. The strike had no strength behind it, but it used the last of the Traveler's vigor. He pitched over, sprawling halfway down the stairs with his chin resting on the street.

We should let him live, the Blue Light said. Alin was so deep in the Blue that the thought was a matter of course; any other alternative was unthinkable. Why would he not let the man live? Mercy was the hallmark of true strength, and only with mercy would Alin be able to show this man the error of his ways.

He's not the only enemy, though, the Gold Light pointed out.

It would be better if you could get Simon and Leah on your side, the Orange said.

Speaking of Simon, said the Silver, aren't you forgetting something?

Alin had actually taken another step inside before it occurred to him what the Silver Light had already started to realize. He whirled around, staring into the sky. The tendrils of Blue Light all bent over him, protecting him from the threat.

Then he saw Simon falling from the clouds like a silver-and-black lightning bolt, heading straight for Alin.

We should catch him, the Orange Light suggested. He might die, from that height.

The Silver Light laughed, and Alin was inclined to agree. He filled his palms with Gold.

Protect yourself, the Green Light said. Just in case.

Alin spread a shield of Green over his head.

The Violet Light, always honest, started to panic. Are you sure that will be enough?

Reaching into the Green, Alin put another shield over that layer. And another, to be safe.

Behind three shields of Green Light, his palms filled with destructive Gold, and surrounded by a forest of power-draining Blue tentacles, Alin felt as prepared as he ever could be to receive an attack.

You can handle this, the Gold said.

Then Simon struck.

He slammed into the first shield sword-first, with the impact of a falling catapult stone. The wall completely failed to hold, shattering like glass. It didn't even seem to slow him down; he was crashing through the second layer almost as soon as Alin registered the sight of him.

The pain of two Green shields breaking at the same time was enough to make Alin wonder if he would burn up from the inside out, but he channeled Red determination and put all his strength into the third layer. He could stop Simon here, bind him with Blue, and blast his defenses away with Gold...

Before he completely slammed into the third shield of Green Light, Simon slashed his blade across the emerald plates. How could he possibly move so fast?

The final shield shattered, and Simon was still falling right on top of Alin. His view was filled by that horrible mask, silver and black and utterly without pity. Simon’s sword flashed again.

Alin screamed in the pain of his broken shields, releasing the Gold Light in his hands.

It splattered inches from Simon's eyes, stopped by a spectral green helmet. The impact illuminated a full suit of ghostly armor. Had he been wearing that the entire time, invisible?

The Silver Light reminded him that he had seen such things before: when he fought the white-haired Valinhall Traveler back in Bel Calem. That armor could shrug off practically anything that Alin could call.

Well, good-bye, the Violet Light said. We asked for a fair fight, and we got one.

Simon hit Alin at the collar, slicing his way down.

The blazing pain in Alin's body hardly compared to the burning in his mind from the shattered Green, but the fact that he felt it at all meant that he must be in real trouble. Too fast for Alin to see, Simon's blade passed through his upper-right breastplate, across his stomach, and cut across his left thigh. It sliced through his armor like it wasn't even there, spraying blood across the steps.

His blood shone.

It was still red, but it glowed with its own inner light, such that it looked like luminous crimson paint splattered on the stone in front of the waystation.

That's not right, he thought, absently. Blood isn't supposed to be like that.

You're not the same as you were anymore, the Silver reminded him.

Alin fell over on his back, staring up at the sky. The Blue Light started to dissolve, its essence returning to Elysia.

It’s over, then, he thought. As last thoughts went, it wasn’t much. He had always imagined himself dying with words of wisdom on his lips, or his true love’s face in his mind’s eye. But when he thought about dying now, he felt…nothing much at all.

The Gold Light sent him a feeling that didn't quite translate. It felt like a bleak secret, a dark joke, a grim smile.

Well, the Gold said, I wouldn’t exactly say ‘over.’

CHAPTER 13:

INVASION

Lycus Agnos could tell: his sister wasn't paying attention.

Oh, she went through all the right motions. When he slashed at her legs, she hopped back and countered with a thrust to his neck. As he knocked her blade aside, she stepped in close, popping him in the nose with a quick punch.

Andra acted like she always did, but he knew her well enough to look beneath the surface. They had spent almost all their time together in the months since they had moved to Valinhall, as they had no one else to talk to. He knew her better than he ever had. Better than he wanted to, to tell the truth.

The biggest change had come when she got those chains on her arms.

As she punched him in the nose, he got a close-up look at the mark on the back of her hand. It looked like a black oval with squared-off corners, but he recognized it for what it was: the first link of a chain. all the Valinhall Travelers had these chain-shaped marks, which began on their hands and wrapped up their arms like snakes twisting up a tree branch.

That knowledge hurt even more than the punch, since Andra's chain was only one link. That meant she wasn't drawing any strength from the House, and yet she was still beating him with less than half her attention.

Lycus' head snapped back and pain flashed through his skull, but he kept his sword up. He focused through watery eyes, to see where her next attack would come from.

Andra wasn't attacking. She stood with her sword to one side, looking at him in concern.

“Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” Lycus tried to say, but it came out as though he were speaking through a heavy cold. He sniffed and wiped at his eyes, hoping that she wouldn't think he was crying. His eyes were watering because he'd been hit in the nose, that's all.

Andra glanced around the garden, tapping the tip of her sword against her boot. “If your nose is broken, you can go dip in the bath. I'll wait.”

Lycus shook his head furiously, keeping his sword up to show her he could still fight. “It's not.” He had broken his nose five times since coming to live in Valinhall, so he knew what it felt like. “Let's go.”

Without another word, Andra brought her blade up and bent her knees, balancing on the balls of her feet, waiting for him to attack. The delay was another sign that she wasn't taking him seriously. Andra always attacked, never started on the defensive, and she liked to joke while she fought. If she was quiet, stalling until he took the initiative, then she was really thinking about something else.

Lycus stepped forward and poked at her defense with a weak thrust, trying to prod her into attacking.

She parried gently, stepping to the left to force him to move, matching her.

At least they were fighting now, but it burned in him that he couldn't make her focus. No one took him seriously, that was the problem. He was the youngest around here, and by far the weakest. Even the Nye treated Andra like an adult, coming at her from the shadows, attacking her in pairs, dragging her out of her bedcovers with an iron chain around her neck.

When they attacked Lycus, they barely tried to kill him at all! Once, a Nye had even shaken him awake and allowed him to climb out of bed before whipping him with a chain. Lycus' mother believed that the Nye were an important and natural part of the House, testing its inhabitants to make sure that they were always alert, always prepared for Valinhall's harsher tests.

If so, why didn't they test him? He was ready! If he couldn't conquer the rooms deeper in the House, how was he ever going to defeat Simon?

Lycus stepped once more to the side, but Andra didn't circle him. She stared at something over his shoulder, letting her sword fall again.

“What is that?” she asked, in a tone reserved for cockroaches and squirming reptiles.

They normally fought in the garden, but today Chaka had told them that their ‘clashing and clanging’ was getting on his nerves, and that they should take their ‘limp-wristed flailing’ somewhere else, before he taught them a lesson. So they had walked back through the main hallway and begun sparring in the entry hall.

If Andra had seen something in this room, that could only mean that someone was opening a Gate. Valinhall Gates could be opened from anywhere outside, but they always led here, to the House's entry hall.

It was technically possible that Andra was baiting him, luring him into turning around so she could attack him from behind. Lycus would actually have been relieved if that were the case, since it meant that she thought him dangerous enough to be worth tricking.

He turned around, hoping his sister would stab him in the back.

A Gate was indeed opening in the entry hall, but it didn't look...healthy. When a Valinhall Traveler opened a Gate, they sliced it from top to bottom, as though a curtain was being drawn back, revealing a different world on the other side. When they finished, the Gate would stabilize into a white-edged swirling doorway.

This time, the Gate was beginning in the middle, roughly chest-high on Lycus, not head-high on an adult. The edges weren't white, but red and angry. And while the blade that poked through the air had an edge of freshly polished steel, it was not one of the gently curving Dragon's Fang swords that Valinhall Travelers used.

So if it wasn't one of the Dragon Army opening a Valinhall Gate, who was it?

Lycus took a step back from the Gate, glancing over at his sister. As much as he hated to admit it, she was supposed to be a fully-fledged Valinhall Traveler now. Maybe she knew something he didn't.

She glared at the hole in the world, fingers clenched around her Dragon's Fang. She looked dangerous now, in a way that she hadn't when she was fighting him. “Lycus, go warn someone. Something’s trying to come through.”

“Warn who?” Lycus asked. Simon wasn't in the House at the moment, he was outside doing whatever he did. Probably killing more people. Lycus had trouble thinking of Simon now without picturing him bathed in the blood of Damascan soldiers, men who had been supposed to protect Lycus and take his family to safety. True, Simon had sent the Agnos family to Valinhall, but it was to save them from a mess that he had created.

Besides Simon and Andra, Lycus only knew of three other Valinhall Travelers. Overlord Indirial only showed up when he was on business for his realm or for Queen Leah, and he never stayed long. And he was an Overlord. Lycus wouldn’t have called to an Overlord for help if he were drowning; he would have been afraid of distracting them from something more important.

Lycus didn’t know Denner, who entered the House every once in a while, slept here for a day or two, and left without warning. He seemed the most normal of the Travelers, and he even told Lycus stories during his stays in the House. But Lycus had no idea where to find him now.

The other Traveler, Kai, was...odd. Lycus' mother had warned him never to talk to Master Kai without another adult present. He spent all his time talking to those little dolls, and Lycus got the impression that he would happily murder anyone who so much as mussed a single hair on a doll's head. Lycus was too scared to look in Kai's general direction most of the time. He had heard that Kai was staying deep in the House, deeper than Lycus had ever seen, but he didn't know why.

So all the Travelers were out. He supposed he could warn Chaka, but Chaka was stuck in the garden. What could he do about a threat in the entry hall?

“What about Erastes?” Andra suggested, keeping her gaze on the growing red Gate. The blade slashed up, tearing a chunk out of the air, revealing a black-and-white tiled floor on the other side. And what looked like the body of an impossibly huge man in shining silver armor.

The sword worked slowly but steadily, as though sawing through the world was a demanding physical chore.

“Where is he?” Lycus asked.

The torn Gate was growing at an alarming rate. Soon the armored giant would be able to step through.

“Find him!” Andra snapped.

Lycus stayed where he was.

“Go!” His sister yelled. The Gate grew another two inches.

“I need to help you!” He couldn't leave her here, alone, to fight whatever was about to come through this Gate. What kind of brother would he be if he did that?

She gave him the look, the lopsided half-smile with a twinkle in her eye that she always used when she saw a joke that nobody else realized was funny. “You're a hero, Lycus, you really are. But what are you gonna do that I can't?”

A second dark link slid into being on her wrist, and a third was beginning to materialize. The chains of Valinhall were growing on Andra's arms, which meant she had called steel.

Lycus wondered what they would do if Overlord Indirial stepped through and demanded to know why they were pointing swords at him. They would get in a lot of trouble. The Overlord might even arrest them; some Overlords did that to people who got in their way.

That’s probably all it is, he reasoned. Overlord Indirial’s going to come through that door, and he’s going to yell at us for pointing swords at him. He had never actually heard Indirial shout at anyone, but he could imagine it easily enough.

Then, with a screech like tearing metal, the Gate finished. It was two feet taller than a normal Gate, stretching from the entry hall's wooden ceiling all the way to its carpeted floor.

The armored giant stepped through, and Lycus saw that it wasn't a man at all. It looked like a man—two arms, two legs, a torso, a sword in its right hand—and it was covered in intricate gleaming steel armor, but it had no face. Its helmet was open, revealing thousands and thousands of metal gears where a human would have eyes, a nose, a mouth. It was like looking inside a man-sized clock. As it stepped through the Gate, it whirred and clicked and clanked. There was no flesh in that armor.

Lycus felt like an idiot. Chaka reminded them every day of the first rule of Valinhall: it's always a threat.

He swore he would never forget that again.

“Stop where you are!” Andra called, and she sounded like she had the authority to make that demand. “Who are you?”

The helmeted head creaked as it swiveled on an armored neck. Twisting bronze gears surveyed Andra instead of eyes.

The metal giant spoke with a voice like grinding rocks. “I am Tartarus. I will not be stopped.”

It marched forward, sounding with each step like a cupboard full of pots and pans crashing to the ground. The sword in its right fist had a blade as long as Lycus was tall, but it wasn't made of the same silver metal as its armor or Andra's Dragon's fang. The blade was solid, shining red, with twisting black lettering crawling up its flat surface. In the few moments of silence between the giant's footsteps, Lycus thought he heard the sword screaming.

Andra must have heard the same thing, because she gave the weapon a wary glance. “Lycus, run. You need to find Simon.”

With a shout, she jumped forward and thrust the point of her lightly curved blade up and into the shoulder, between the breastplate and the upper arm.

Sparks flew, and Andra stumbled back. Tartarus didn't slow down, walking implacably toward the hallway. Toward Lycus.

He stood frozen for perhaps a second, stunned. The Dragon's Fangs could cut through anything. He had seen those Valinhall-forged swords slice through trees, chains, and stone walls. What was this giant's armor made of?

Then he realized that, if he didn't move from where he was, he was going to get an up-close look at the bottom of Tartarus' steel boot.

Hating himself, Lycus turned and took off running down the hallway. He would warn Chaka, and hopefully find Erastes. They could help Andra, even if he couldn't.

And maybe they would know where to find Simon.

***

Simon slammed into the street on his hands and knees, Azura skittering away. His skeleton rang like a bell, his wrists and kneecaps felt like they had exploded, and his vision had whited out from pain.

But he clutched a single thought: he wasn’t dead.

Rebekkah was laughing harder than he had ever heard her, or any of his dolls for that matter. She practically sobbed with laughter, and he was sure that if he could pull her out of his cloak, she would have a huge grin on her painted face.

That was, by far, the greatest thing I have ever seen anyone do, she managed. Caela is going to be so mad she didn’t get to see it.

Simon crawled a few feet away, nudging his aching body across the rough cobblestones. His stone and steel had held out—in fact, thanks to the mask, they were still going strong—but he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of damage he’d taken on the inside.

You know you wouldn’t have made it without those shields slowing you down, Rebekkah sent. She had the tone of someone telling a joke. I think he might have saved your life!

I should thank him. Then he remembered that he’d landed a blow in the last instant before he hit the street. Alin was an Incarnation, true, but he’d seen Incarnations die from lesser wounds.

If his eyes would hurry up and clear, instead of showing him a blurry world full of phantom doubles, he could check for himself.

Hey Simon, Rebekkah said, still in her cheery tone. Put your hand out to the right.

Simon didn’t question it; he reached blindly out and felt around on the street until something met his hands. It was a rough, round ball, about the same size as a coin, and it felt warm and slightly sticky.

His hand jerked back. Was she trying to get him to put his hand on a bloody piece of someone’s body? What kind of gory prank was that?

Don’t be a child. Pick it up.

Reluctantly, Simon did as she asked. As his vision cleared, he saw that he was holding something like a dried fig, only dark red. It didn’t look sticky, or blood-covered, or anything else to account for the sensation, but it felt like it was trying to cling to his hands. It was too warm, and it seemed to almost pulse, as if it contained an impossibly small heart.

What is it?

Rebekkah gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. How would I know? But it feels important. I bet you two hours that it’s an artifact from another Territory. Probably Elysia. The Eldest will love that.

Simon slipped the red fig into his pocket before he realized what she’d said. Wait. Hours? You bet hours?

Yeah, she said casually. Hours out of the House. The only reason I came with you today is because I wagered Otoku twelve hours that you’d earn the ghost armor. She thought you wouldn’t be able to do it for at least another two weeks.

But…you don’t choose which doll I take, Simon sent. I do.

Rebekkah’s mental voice took on a pitying tone. Awwww, that’s cute. You can believe that, if it makes you feel better.

That idea became more disturbing the more he thought about it, so he put it out of his mind.

Speaking of time, you’re almost out of it.

Almost, he sent. Not quite. He could feel the chains wrapping around him; they twisted down his legs and under his feet, until he felt like he was bruising his heels on steel links with every step. They wrapped his ribs and snuck up his shoulders, and he could feel them sliding up his neck. Once they wrapped around his throat, like a Nye’s noose, he would be fully bound to Valinhall.

Here, now, that almost certainly meant Incarnation.

But it looked like he wouldn’t have to risk it.

Alin lay less than five paces away, face-up in a pool of strangely glowing blood. His gold armor was split down the middle by a blow Simon didn’t remember delivering, and pieces of metal had flown all the way to Simon’s feet. Alin’s eyes were still rainbows, but they were frozen; they didn’t shift and change in the disturbing way they had when he was alive. His pale hair was matted and still, and he wore an almost comic look of surprise.

Simon’s eyes burned, and he tried to wipe moisture away before realizing that he still had the mask on. Why should he care if Alin died? Simon had never liked him.

But he shouldn’t have had to die. Alin had turned to Incarnation for no reason other than to save his sisters. He had taken over Enosh, and planned to take over Damasca, to prevent tragedies like it from happening again.

And he was from Myria. He wasn’t the kindest, or the easiest to talk to, but Simon had grown up with him. He remembered Alin getting caught stealing at eight years old, and talking his way out of it.

Simon shouldn’t have been the one to kill him. If the world was right, Alin shouldn’t have to die at all.

In your fantasy world, sure, Rebekkah said. In that magical Territory where nothing bad happens to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. That’s not reality, though, so take off your mask before you make this situation worse.

Simon looked up at the waystation. None of the Elysian creatures had returned after Alin’s death; in fact, they seemed to be backing up farther. Indirial was still sprawled on the steps, twitching and shifting underneath his cloak. Overlord Feiora marched out the doors, an armed bird-man in front of her holding a pair of swords, and a raven circling her head. Finally, Leah stepped out, the Lightning Spear in one hand.

“Did you get him?” she called.

Simon winced. “I got him,” he yelled back. It sounded callous; they should have been mourning the death of a man they knew, not celebrating it.

Despite the steel, essence, and stone running through him, begging to be used, he forced himself to sit down. When he took off the mask, he’d collapse, so it would be much better if he didn’t have quite so far to fall.

When he was seated on the street, he reached up to peel off the mask.

Eugan the raven let out a single, shrieking caw.

Behind you! Rebekkah shouted. Get him!

Simon jumped up, banishing and re-summoning Azura into his hand with a simple effort of will.

Alin's body rose like a puppet pulled up by invisible strings. The wound across his chest sealed itself with a shimmering pink light, but his body still hung as stiff as a slab of meat on a hook. His arms dangled at his sides, his knees on the point of collapsing. He still stared as blankly as before, his rainbow eyes frozen mid-swirl.

Kill him now! Rebekkah sent.

Simon stood locked in place. His every instinct in Valinhall was screaming at him to either finish Alin off or run, not to stand there like an idiot, but he had lost himself in regret for Alin's death. Now, he wasn't sure what to do.

He hesitated too long. Alin's eyes snapped to one color: blazing gold. His head jerked forward as though someone else was moving his body like a doll, his hand rising up, filled with gold light.

Simon may have hesitated, but Leah didn't.

The Lightning Spear flashed toward Alin so fast that Simon almost didn't catch it, even through the Nye essence. Alin should never have been able to react in time, but he managed to get one palm between his side and the spearpoint.

A gold flash, bright enough to all but blind Simon through the mask, met the Spear and blasted it aside. It flipped through the air toward the waystation, but Simon didn't stand watching it. He moved at last, drawing on essence and steel as deeply as he could. The world slowed, and he dashed toward Alin.

You have half a minute, at best, until the chains reach all the way around, Rebekkah warned him. So finish him quick.

Simon held Azura low in both hands, running for Alin. His golden armor wouldn't stop a Dragon's Fang, and he didn't have the reaction time to combat Simon with the Nye essence; this should be easy.

Alin's head snapped to the side, his eyes blazing gold, and he flooded the street with a river of white-hot light.

Simon called ghost armor. It should have taken longer to regenerate, but under the effects of the mask he could call on his powers almost with impunity.

The destructive light swallowed his vision, blinding him, and crashed into the transparent green plates of the ghost armor. He braced himself against the onslaught, holding one arm in front of his face in an instinctive attempt to ward off the heat and pressure directed at his eyes. It still felt like getting pounded by a tide of molten steel, but he held on.

The ghost armor lasted long enough before it died like a spent candle, finally vanishing as the stream of Alin's gold light dried up. Simon survived, but he found himself fifty paces farther down, surrounded by cracked stones, glowing bits of metal, and rising wisps of smoke. The fronts of many houses were missing completely, and the entire street was covered in drifting ash.

Are you okay? he asked Rebekkah.

You don't have time for this! she snapped. Run after him!

Simon dashed in the other direction, only to see Alin throwing a bright lasso around something inside. He had seen Alin summon something like that before: he had used it to decapitate the serpent that had killed Simon's mother. This time, he was wrapping it around Indirial, who had woken up despite a bleeding head wound.

The Overlord stood on shaky legs outside the waystation steps, calling a distantly flickering version of ghost armor to keep the lasso from splitting him in half. It was obvious that the armor wouldn't last long, but Simon didn't need much time. In the waystation doorway, Leah had hefted the Lightning Spear and readied it to throw, her off hand braced against the door as if expecting an impact. Behind her, Overlord Feiora fiddled with what looked like a little leather bag.

While Alin had his attention entirely focused on the waystation, Simon drove Azura at his side with all the force of a fifty-pace charge.

The lasso didn't disappear, as Simon had half-expected. The red light coiled around Alin's feet flared, but Alin didn't even stagger backwards. The Dragon's Fang split his armor, penetrated the Incarnation's rib cage, and stabbed out the breastplate on the other side.

Blood leaking from a corner of his mouth, Alin turned his head to look at Simon. Slowly, he gave a bloody smile.

Despite himself, Simon jerked back. He had to fight the urge to pull his blade back out and run away, as fast as he could.

The Incarnation's eyes shone bright, but Alin wasn't behind them.

A hammer of gold light fell on Simon from feet above, and he yanked Azura out of Alin's flesh and held it up as though it could shield him from the attack. It did nothing, and Simon was blasted down into the stones of the street.

His vision was consumed in white.

He came to himself a short time later, realizing that he was sprawled in a tangle of aching limbs, Azura just out of his reach. His cheek was pressed in a pile of ash, and the smell of burning coals filled his nose. Dust choked his throat, and he coughed roughly until he felt like he could breathe again. He tried to stand, and his leg hurled a spear of pain through him. He stood anyway.

Then he became aware of Rebekkah shouting his name. ...don't have much time, Simon! Wake up!

I'm up, he sent. Even his thoughts sounded groggy.

You've got seconds left, Simon. Seconds. Get moving!

Simon forced his head up. Through the mask, he saw Alin calmly, methodically, blasting the corners of the Naraka waystation to rubble. The roof had already begun to sag, and Alin conjured another fist-sized globe of gold light, tossed it into the air like a juggler's ball, caught it, and threw it underhand into the corner of the building.

A sound like a falling boulder, and cracks spread out through the front of the waystation.

Anger surged through Simon, and a renewed resolve.

This wasn't Alin.

With all the steel, stone, and essence he could call through the mask, ignoring the pain in his leg, he jumped forward, summing Azura into his grip as he began a downward slash.

Alin caught the attack on a sword of golden light, but Simon was through pulling punches. He pushed with all Benson's steel, cutting with the impossible quality of a Dragon's Fang, with the full intention of slicing through Alin's blade and down into his neck.

Loops of red light flashed on Alin's arms, then down his torso and into his legs, bracing him against the blow. He managed to turn Azura to one side, but his weapon showed glowing yellow fractures.

Faster than the Incarnation could follow, Simon stabbed Azura through Alin's chest. He didn't wait to see a reaction, but kicked Alin off the end of his sword. Through the Nye essence, it looked as though the Incarnation was drifting inches off the street, even though Alin was already looking around, trying to find him through the concealing shadows of the Nye cloak, raising a hand that steadily filled with a whirlpool of golden power.

Simon leaped forward, bringing Azura down once more. The Incarnation brought up the blast of gold he had conjured, knocking the sword away in time, but Simon still scored bloody hits across Alin's chest and the palm of his hand, shattering another plate of the armor and sending shimmering blood scattering over the street.

The force of the golden detonation knocked Azura back, and Simon braced against it, skidding to a stop against the street. Alin had finally landed on his own feet, and was drawing both hands together, filling them with a ball of gold.

He was aiming it at Simon, but in the course of the fight, Simon had come to stand in front of the waystation. Alin was planning on blowing Simon and everyone in the waystation away.

In his mind, Rebekkah cackled like a mad witch. Duck, Simon!

With the grace and speed of the Nye, Simon threw himself to the ground. Something loud and almost impossibly fast rushed by overhead in a blur of red, gold, and black.

The Lightning Spear caught Alin full in the breast, snatching him backwards and into a stone wall across the street.

Caela was right about that Leah, Rebekkah said. She'd do well in Valinhall. Time's up, though.

Simon didn't look to see if Alin had survived. His exhaustion and pain were piling up on top of one another until it felt like he wouldn't be able to swing Azura even if Alin rose up out of the ground. Folding his legs up under him, he sat down and peeled off the mask.

Then he fell over.

CHAPTER 14:

BATTLE IN THE HOUSE OF BLADES

The building was crumbling around Leah, she couldn't figure out what Feiora was doing, and Indirial was surely all but dead.

To top it off, her body was shaking with unspeakable pain after so many uses of the Lightning Spear. She was going to have to ask Indirial about that healing pool in Valinhall; she didn't think she would survive the day if she didn't get some kind of medical help.

But at least she had finally scored a clean hit.

“I'm going to start cutting a Gate,” Indirial announced, his voice weak. He could barely hold his blade up with both hands, a sure sign that he had run out of whatever strength had kept him going this long. It took him three tries to get the point of his sword to stop shaking so he could slice open the portal.

Leah nodded at him, too tired to say anything else, and mentally ordered the Lightning Spear to return. If she had it in hand, she would at least feel safe enough to try retrieving Simon from the middle of the street. As it was, she knew she was all but defenseless against the Incarnation of Elysia.

The Lightning Spear still had not come. She called it again.

When it didn't show up the second time, she knew something was wrong.

“Indirial, work faster!” she shouted. “Feiora, do something!”

A scrape and a flash came from Feiora's corner of the waystation, as did the acrid smell of smoke, as though she had just set something on fire. “Sorry, Your Highness! I took the time to do my hair. Doesn't it look nice?”

Leah's gaze was stuck on the shadows of the other collapsing building across the street, where Alin's body had vanished along with her Ragnarus spear. On some level, she was convinced that if she turned around to look at Feiora, that would be the exact instant that Alin appeared and skewered her through the neck.

So she didn't turn around, but she did shout again. “What are you doing, Overlord?”

Feiora muttered something, Eugan squawked, and the Traveler sighed. “There's an emergency measure that most Avernus Travelers have. We can Travel straight to our tribe's lands instead of to the point that actually corresponds to where we are. In this case, we can't cross over to Avernus, because the guards from Elysia would kill us and toss our bones into a fire. But I've almost figured out where this will take us, it'll just—”

Her voice cut off as a shining gold light appeared in the shadow of the broken building on the other side of the street. It began weak and steadily grew, like a rising sun.

“Seven stones,” Leah breathed. She had seen four Incarnations in battle over the past six months, and she had started to think of herself as an expert. But none of them had taken this much damage and walked back out.

Alin's armor was crumbling around him, pieces of metal falling off and plinking to the ground. In his right hand, which glowed red, he carried the Lightning Spear. The weapon shook and struggled, trying to respond to Leah's call, but helpless in the fist of an Incarnation.

In his left hand, he held a bolt of golden light.

To Leah's confusion, he didn't raise the light toward the waystation. Instead, he only lifted the hand a little.

He pointed at Simon's unconscious body.

There was one power that Leah hadn't used throughout the entire fight. She considered it a last resort, because its cost was too inconvenient to pay otherwise. Her father had taught her to always save it for a true emergency. She felt this qualified.

The ruby in Leah's Ragnarus crown blazed like a dying star, filling the street with crimson light.

Stepping forward, the Queen of Damasca announced her will to the enemy Incarnation. “Alin, son of Torin!” she shouted. “Give up and die!”

The order blasted out from her crown on a tide of red. Chains of scarlet light burst out of the Crimson Vault, binding the Incarnation's arms and legs, drawing him down to his knees.

And one chain, the one that only she could see, crept up inside Alin's body, passing like a ghost through skin and flesh and bone. It sought out Alin's heart, and it began to squeeze.

When the Queen ordered you to die, she meant you to hurry up about it.

The Incarnation struggled against the Ragnarus binding, trying to fight his way up to his feet, lurching forward toward Simon—or maybe toward her—in a last-minute attempt to kill someone.

Then he relaxed. His eyes closed. He made a choking noise, probably in reaction to what her bonds were doing to his insides, but otherwise remained silent.

When he opened his eyes again, they were no longer gold. They shone luminescent violet.

Strips of purple light, like unraveled bandages, whipped out from his hands and severed the chains of Ragnarus. In a violet flash, his body was cleansed of her power.

Then he casually rose to his feet, twirling a strip of violet light like a flail. He had released the Lightning Spear, though, so she called that back into her hand. It flew obediently, straight into her hand, and she snatched it from the air. She felt as though taking another shot with the weapon might kill her, but what choice did she have?

She raised the Spear, but then a hand grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and pulled her back, yanking her off-balance.

Leah got a good look at Overlord Feiora's grim expression before she was shoved through a white-edged Gate and into a forest. The scent of pine and fresh air overwhelmed her, after a battlefield choked in smoke and ash, and the calls of a thousand birds were almost deafening.

Feiora raised one leg to step into the Gate, but a whip of violet light wrapped around her arm. Her eyes widened in surprise and alarm before she was jerked backwards, off her feet. She slid across the debris-strewn floor, fighting the power of the Incarnation that was dragging her toward him.

Leah tried to shout, but her voice was silenced. Part of the crown’s price. She lifted her spear for another throw, but then there was a violet flash and the Gate vanished.

Nothing but forest.

Avernus. She was in Avernus, a Territory hardly ever used for Traveling, and as such a Territory she was largely unfamiliar with. There was every likelihood that, while she was gone, Alin would kill Indirial, Simon, and Feiora all three.

What have I done? she thought. It was an old pattern, drilled into her by both her father and mother: the first thing to do, after a defeat, was to figure out where you had gone wrong. Then you should never make that mistake again.

She had underestimated Alin. Even though she knew he was the Incarnation of Elysia, she had never taken him seriously. He hadn't even caused a massacre, like so many of the other Incarnations.

She had overestimated herself. She had been so sure that, whatever happened, she could handle it.

She should never have brought Grandmaster Naraka anywhere into enemy Territory. The Grandmaster would try to betray them, given half an opportunity, and Leah had known that. She and Indirial had discussed it specifically, and they had finally decided that she didn't pose much of a risk. Even if she did manage to close the Naraka Gate, they had said, that would hardly affect the success of their mission. They had, between them, four other Territories to choose from. If the Grandmaster closed off Naraka, they could escape in some other way.

Besides, her guards would have her under control in an instant if she tried anything. They most likely had her now: even a Grandmaster couldn’t evade a pair of fellow Naraka Travelers and a team from Tartarus. They had probably subdued her in seconds, then bound her hand if not cut it off.

But something had stopped them from re-opening the Gate. What?

It was a futile question to be asking now. The point remained: she had considered the benefits of taking Grandmaster Naraka along to outweigh the risks.

She had been an idiot.

And now Simon and Indirial were paying the price.

Oh, Maker, she thought. Keep them alive. Praying to the Maker wasn't a very Damascan thing to do; her grandfather, Zakareth the Fifth, had specifically banned the practice during his reign. But after two years with her aunt Nurita, she had picked up some villager habits.

Tightening her grip on the Lightning Spear, Leah amended her prayer. At least keep them alive until I can get there.

A panicked caw sounded from directly overhead, and her head jerked up, the Spear at the ready.

It was Feiora's raven, Eugan. She hadn't realized the bird had followed her through the Gate.

It let out another squawk and flew through the empty space where the Gate had been. Flapping its wings frantically, it banked for another pass and swept through the space again.

Trying to get back to Feiora.

The sight tore at her heart, but she didn't let herself react. The only way she could get back and help Simon, Indirial—and even Feiora, if necessary—was to get out of Avernus.

And she was no Avernus Traveler, so she needed a guide.

***

Lycus was out of breath and holding back tears by the time he found Erastes, fighting against Benson in the skeleton's basement. Torches blazed blue on the walls, all dim enough to allow an ocean of shadows, and twenty-four hulking forms rested on pedestals all down the room. They were suits of armor, Lycus knew, and they could come to life to fight challengers.

The huge block of stone at the far end of the room was a rough-hewn throne, and Benson usually lounged on it, one steel leg hanging over the armrest, foot idly kicking. Now, the skeleton was swinging an axe at Erastes' head.

His news was urgent, but Lycus knew he couldn't interrupt a fight like this. If he shouted something and distracted Erastes at the wrong time, the man could die. Lycus took his responsibilities very seriously; he kept his mouth shut and made not a sound, even though his message squirmed inside him, trying to get out.

The old soldier ducked, moving like a man half his age, and brought a gleaming infantry sword up into the skeleton's chin. Benson leaned back, holding his wide-brimmed hat on his head with one hand.

Erastes pressed his advantage, stepping forward and bringing his sword down on his opponent's steel rib cage. The two metals clashed, sending up sparks, but he didn't let up. Lycus had always thought that Erastes was the perfect image of a Damascan soldier: his hair was iron-gray and cut short, his face weathered, his eyes cold. He looked like a man from the stories, like someone who would stare Death in the eyes without ever blinking.

Benson, on the other hand, looked like Death itself. He was a skeleton made entirely of some shining silvery metal, his bones glittering in the blue light of the basement. The same light as the torches blazed in his eye sockets, and he wore an old, tattered, wide-brimmed hat on his exposed skull. The axe he wielded should have been too big to lift—it looked like it was made for two-handed use by giants, which may have actually been the case—but Benson spun the weapon over his head like a staff, bringing the double-headed battle-axe crashing down on Erastes' head.

The soldier raised his short sword and caught the blow. His blade shone mirror-bright, like one of the Dragon's Fangs, though he had owned this sword as long as Lycus could remember.

Erastes strained, pushing up with both arms. One of his sleeves slid down, and Lycus saw the black chains printed on his arm.

With a final heave, Erastes pushed the blade away.

Benson chuckled, reversing the axe and grinding its head against the basement floor. “You're a quick one, aren't ya? Not a month with the steel in you, and you're already giving me a close run.”

The soldier smiled, just a little, but Lycus saw his chance.

“We're under attack!” he yelled.

Erastes turned, his blade in one hand, his shirt soaked in sweat. “Where?” he asked. That was what Lycus liked most about Erastes; he took everyone seriously, even children. So many people thought of Lycus too lightly, but not him.

“Entry hall,” Lycus said, and the soldier ran up the steps, taking them two at a time.

Benson managed to raise an eyebrow, even though his face was nothing more than a skull. “It's been a long time since we've been under attack in the House, kid,” he said. He didn't go any further, but Lycus could hear the skepticism in his voice.

“Well, we are,” Lycus said firmly. He hesitated, then added, “It would help if I had the steel, too. You know, so I could fight.”

The skeleton grinned even more broadly than usual, tilting his hat down to cover one eye. “More than happy to. Come and challenge me whenever you're ready.”

Lycus ground his teeth in frustration and ran after Erastes. He had challenged the basement practically every day for weeks, but he lost every time. Once, he had been hurt so badly that he had lain bleeding on the basement floor for four hours, until Simon noticed he was missing and carried him up to the pool. Since then, he hadn't been back.

His own weakness grated on him, even though the adults all insisted that he would grow out of it. He didn't want to grow. He wanted to do something now.

But as it stood, the only thing he could do was run for help.

A crash like a whole cart being smashed to splinters echoed through the upstairs room as he was halfway up the staircase, interrupting his thoughts. He froze for a moment, trying to figure out where the noise came from, until he heard Erastes and his sister shouting over one another, followed by the sounds of steel on steel.

Lycus leaped up the last few steps, his own small sword clutched tightly in his fist.

The Tartarus Incarnation stood with its armored back to Lycus, the red-and-black Ragnarus blade in its right hand. It loomed over the broken remains of the door to the forge, which it had apparently knocked off its hinges. The steel giant strained forward, pressing against the combined might of three Nye.

Each of the Nye wrapped a long black chain around some part of the Incarnation's body. Two had chains binding the giant's arms, and the third had slipped a noose over its thick neck. They pulled against their chains, trying to keep it from entering the forge, stopping it from moving forward, as Erastes and Andra did their best to kill it.

Andra poked the Incarnation's armor joints with her Dragon's Fang, its blade spattered with black spots like ink. Every time she stabbed it, her strikes were deflected, as if she had been attacking the strongest parts of the armor rather than the weakest.

On the other side, Erastes whirled and thrust his sword two-handed into the monster's open faceplate. Erastes heard a sound like the grinding of gears, though the Incarnation said nothing. The sword popped out like a spring, launching into the forge and spinning across the floor.

Without missing a beat, Erastes lifted a chair and slammed it against the giant's face. One leg snapped off, but nothing else happened that Lycus could see. He smashed it into the intruder, again and again, until the chair was little more than splinters.

Then he tossed the last bit of wood aside, disgusted. For all their effort, the Incarnation strained against the chains no less than before.

And he was starting to gain ground.

The Nye slid across the polished wooden floor, trying to set their stance, but they might as well have been standing on ice. Slow, unstoppable, the Incarnation of Tartarus took one step forward. And another.

Lycus had never been more aware of his complete lack of Valinhall powers. His sword hung heavy in his hand, and Erastes and Andra both were hitting the Incarnation harder than he could possibly manage. His arms were short enough that he'd have to practically leap on the giant's back before he could do anything, and even a Dragon's Fang couldn't pierce the Incarnation's armor at its weakest point.

Simon would do something, he thought. And if Simon could do it, Lycus had to prove that he was strong enough to do it too.

He ran toward the giant, not because he felt an outpouring of bravery, but because he was afraid that he needed his own momentum to keep going. If he hesitated, he might stop.

When he reached the Incarnation's metal legs, still braced against the House's polished wooden floor, he didn't hesitate.

He jumped.

Lycus didn't have Benson's steel running through his veins, so he didn't leap high enough to land on the giant's shoulders, as he had halfway intended. He managed to cling to the Incarnation's waist, which clicked and whirred beneath him as though he had grabbed on to a huge, living clock.

He scrambled up, finding more handholds than he expected, ignoring the horrified cries from his sister.

“Get down!” she yelled. “We can take care of this!”

Erastes ran into the forge to retrieve his sword. He didn't say a word, which encouraged Lycus enough that he found the strength to climb even higher. He didn't drop his sword, for which he felt a surge of pride.

The Incarnation's chest rumbled like an earthquake beneath Lycus' arms, and it twisted around, spinning at the hips until its upper body was facing backwards, and the gears it wore instead of a face stared at Lycus from inches away from his nose. The black chains of the Nye spun with the Giant as it turned, and out of the corner of his eye, Lycus spotted the three robed shadows gaining better footing on the wood, bracing themselves for a stronger pull.

They would be too late for him, though. The Incarnation seized him around the middle and lifted him up, inspecting him through the clicking clockwork inside its faceplate. Lycus tried to stab it, but the point of his sword scraped the side of the giant's steel helmet, doing nothing.

The giant didn't crush him, as he'd feared. It simply hefted him in one hand and threw him across the room.

***

Kai leaned against the edge of Valinhall’s healing pool, his elbows up against the surface, relaxing. Only the waters of this bath dulled the ache in his back, like a tent peg hammered into his kidneys over and over. The second he left the pool, the wound would start getting worse, steadily burning more and more until the pain became unbearable, but for now it subsided into a dull bruise.

Beneath the suds on the water’s surface, Kai felt something move. It was only the briefest of brushes, a soft current against his leg, but he had lived in this House for a long time. He lashed out with one foot, cupping the imp’s skull under his toes, and pressed it down against the bottom of the pool.

The water-imp’s skin felt like rough, leathery bark, and its metallic nails scratched against his foot. He kept up the pressure on its head. Nothing it could do to him would hurt half as badly as the never-healing wound in his back, and the slices disappeared almost instantly inside the pool’s water.

After a few seconds of being pressed against the stone at the bottom of the tub, its skull at the edge of breaking, the imp stopped fighting and started struggling to get away.

Over the years, Kai had learned that it was best to set them free at this point. If you kept an imp close to death, others would come to defend it, and then you ended up having to kill a dozen of them. Which would wake their mother, and he wanted to avoid that. Kai lifted his foot and let it swim away.

He had never opened his eyes.

When he was as clean as he was going to get, and his stab wound didn’t hurt quite as badly as before, he climbed the stairs out of the bath.

As he did, his toes brushed Mithra’s hilt.

To his surprise, the blade’s emotions flowed into him. She felt determined, frustrated, and the sort of anticipation that prefaced a battle. So…she had been screaming to try and get his attention for minutes now, but he hadn’t noticed. Now that she finally had him listening, she wanted him to go to war right this instant.

Kai stepped away from the hilt, and the emotions stopped. Like Azura, Mithra rarely let him know what she was thinking. Unlike Azura, though, she was so insistent. Not nearly as polite, or graceful, or passionate as Azura.

He slipped into his clothes quickly, but not so fast as to make the sword think he was rushing because she wanted him to. When he finally picked Mithra off the ground, she smoldered with frustration.

He smiled. He never could stand passive ladies; he preferred his blades with a bit of a temper.

It only took him a second in the hallway before he realized what Mithra had been trying to tell him: a giant covered in Tartarus steel was marching in from the entry hall, an angry red Gate behind him. He had clearly torn his way into the House with a gatecrawler, and now he was locked in combat with the young girl Traveler, Andra. She was oblivious to his presence, her back to him as she swung Seijan in a futile effort to pierce the invader’s armor. Her brother was nowhere to be found, which surprised him; he had thought those two were sewn together at the hip.

Far be it from me to disturb her, Kai thought, and he stopped at the seventh bedroom. Mithra practically shrieked in frustration.

He tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Only Azura’s bearer, or those he specifically permitted, could enter the seventh bedroom easily. Despair rose in Kai’s chest as he remembered how this used to be his room, but he put that aside. He had long thought about what he would do in this situation, when the desire to see his dear little ones became too much.

Calling steel, he pulled his foot back and stomped the door in.

The wood around the doorframe shattered, and the door swung open. The Nye would not be pleased with him, but he was too happy to care.

His beautiful dear ones were talking.

I had a dream this would happen, Lilia said sleepily, her purple eyes content. Or was it a nightmare?

Delaine sighed. I should have known it would be you.

You should be helping, you know, Caela said, scowling from beneath her blue bonnet.

She’s absolutely right, Angeline agreed.

Kai forced reluctance into his voice. “I would love to help, if only I had an advisor. It would be foolish to head into battle as I am now…”

The statement was met with sighs, jeers, and mocking laughter from the dolls. Kai was sure that Simon must have taken Rebekkah, or else he would have heard ‘punch you in the face’ included somewhere in the verbal abuse.

Otoku had her arms folded, though Kai hadn’t seen her move. Oh, and you don’t think your advisor will show up soon? He’s the last person to ignore a direct threat to the House.

“Be that as it may, he’s not here now. I’m afraid that I can’t risk heading into battle without an advisor, it simply wouldn’t be wise.”

She grumbled a bit more, and her sisters joined in, telling him what a horrible person he was. His smile broadened; he had missed them.

Simon’s not here, Otoku said at last. So fine, I will allow you to borrow me. Only for today. And no baths! She held her arms out for him to pick her up.

Tears burned at the corner of Kai’s eyes. She had actually moved. For him! He picked her up as delicately as a sculpture of spun glass.

I hope you appreciate the sacrifice she’s making, Caela sent. Make sure you get rid of the Incarnation.

He’s absolutely wrecking the House! Gloria added.

The invader had given him a chance to use his beloved dolls in combat again. Far from killing him, Kai wanted nothing more than to shake the creature’s hand and thank it, from the bottom of his heart.

But the little ones wanted him to take care of this threat, and that was what they would get.

He pulled open the door to the bedroom, and Otoku sighed. Place me and Mithra on the ground.

He couldn’t conceal his disbelief; she normally hated being set on the floor. It could smudge her dress. Are you sure?

No, I’ve given up my magical powers of prediction and now I’m wildly guessing. Hurry up.

Smiling to himself, Kai set Mithra and Otoku down. Then, to his surprise, he saw a body flying toward him.

***

For a second, as Lycus flew through the air less than a foot from the room's ceiling, Lycus marveled that he didn't feel any pain. Surely the Incarnation should have killed him, and he would die in horrific agony...compared to that, this seemed almost pleasant.

He had realized what would happen to him at the end of his fall, and the seeds of panic started to bloom, when his trip came to an abrupt halt. This, too, didn't hurt as much as he'd imagined. In fact, it almost felt like someone had caught him.

He looked up to see Kai’s smile. His eyes were hidden behind clumps of his shaggy white hair, and he was smiling down at Lycus as though he held his own precious infant.

Lycus leaped out of the swordsman's arms as fast as possible.

Kai didn’t seem to mind. He reached down and picked up one of his dolls from the floor: this one wore a long red dress with flowers on it, and her black hair hung loose down her back. He scooped her up, brushed off her dress, and arranged her gently on his left arm.

Then he grabbed a Dragon's Fang. It was easily as long as Simon's, covering more than half the room, and it had a smooth vein of gold running down the flat of the blade.

He must have placed the sword and the doll there before he caught Lycus. How had he known to do that? How had he found the time?

Kai looked at the Incarnation and cocked his head to one side. “So noisy, my dear, so noisy. You know I need my rest. Shall we stop the noise, so silence reigns supreme once more?”

The steel giant heaved its right arm, pulling one of the Nye off its feet, and then smashed a fist into the black robes. The Nye deflated as though it had been filled with nothing more substantial than air, flowing off like a snake made of black cloth and squirming blue-white light.

Erastes dodged one blow, and Andra hurled a decorative urn, which shattered against the Incarnation's armor. The other two Nye strained even harder, but the giant seemed to ignore them now. It ducked beneath the door to the forge, walking inside without looking back, then seized the handle to the workshop in one armored fist.

Lycus looked up to beg Kai to help, but the man was gone.

In his place hung a cloud of black smoke.

Smoke whirled through the room, flowing into the forge, reforming into Kai, standing beside the Incarnation. He brought Mithra's silver-and-gold blade down on the giant's exposed neck.

The room rang with the sound of a bell cracking, and Incarnation of Tartarus almost dropped to one knee. That was more than Erastes and Andra had managed, and for the first time, Lycus thought they might actually be able to defeat this thing. Kai was a full member of the old Dragon Army, not a new Valinhall Traveler like Andra or Erastes, and he could do things with his powers that Lycus couldn’t imagine. If anyone could beat this creature, he could.

The Incarnation righted itself and slammed a skull-sized fist into the metal of the workshop door. At the first hit, the door dented. At the second, it caved in. At the third, it was knocked off its hinges and went flying into the room, crashing into a table and sending tools spilling all over the floor.

The Incarnation headed inside, and Lycus gasped as he heard his father, Caius, scream for help.

Lycus felt as though his heart would stop. His father almost lived in the workshop, some days, and the room wasn’t that big. It would take the Incarnation significantly less effort to crush Caius than it had to crush the door.

Erastes, Andra, and Lycus all ran forward, even though the Nye had lost their grip on their chains. The two black chains now dangled from the Incarnation's shoulders and arm, flying behind him like streamers as he marched through the room.

The two Nye looked at each other, black hood meeting black hood, before they backed into the shadows and disappeared.

“Hey, get back here!” Andra shouted, but they were gone.

Why did they leave? Lycus thought, astonished. Had they realized they couldn't beat an Incarnation, and therefore abandoned the rest of them to their fate? Were they trying to test the humans, to see if they were 'worthy' of defeating this invader? Or maybe they were trying to do something useful, and they had gone for help.

Now that he thought of it, Kai was standing there too. He stood with his head cocked, looking at the Incarnation's back, Mithra held in one hand and the black-haired doll in the other.

Lycus rushed past him, hoping desperately that the Traveler would decide to fight. Kai was always strange, even frightening, but he was still an ally. Even a friend. He lived in Valinhall, too, which made Lycus think of him as on their side. The idea that he might stand aside and let the rest of them die...it hurt in ways that Lycus didn't even like to think about.

As terrible as Simon had been, that day when he killed the soldiers under Erastes' command, at least he hadn't abandoned his friends.

The Incarnation kicked and smashed at the tables in the workshop, destroying almost as an afterthought, as though it had been ordered to crush every piece of furniture it could lay its hands on.

Lycus' father, Caius, carried a smith's hammer in both hands. He looked determined, but he had backed himself into a corner. He held the hammer out, as though it had the magical power to ward off Incarnations, and it looked like he was prepared to die fighting.

The Incarnation's helmet swiveled to look at Caius, and Lycus lunged forward, driving his sword into the base of the giant's breastplate, around the hip. That looked like a weak point, and there was no way he was letting this thing kill his father if he had a say in the matter.

The giant surveyed Caius for a second, then turned his gaze to a wooden table set with bags of precious stones. It swept the jewels off the table, then smashed its fist down into the wood, blasting the table to splinters.

Then it looked around, as though seeking something else to dismantle.

Meanwhile, Erastes plucked the hammer from Caius' grip. Holding the weapon one-handed, he jumped high enough to reach the Incarnation's head, driving the hammer down on its helmet.

Andra hacked furiously at the back of the giant's armored legs, trying to cut its feet out from under it, but as far as Lycus could tell, she was only scratching the metal.

Kai...still stood outside, in the forge, looking thoughtful.

Finally, the Incarnation caught sight of the blank patch of stone that held the hidden door to the gallery. Ignoring the futile attacks of the Travelers, it walked up and rubbed a palm over the wall, almost tenderly.

Lycus thought that it would hammer the wall into pieces, just as it had done the doors to the forge and workshop, but instead it reached out a finger and delicately flipped the disguised switch that opened the door.

The stretch of stone swung open to the tune of grinding machinery, and the Incarnation hummed in pleasure. “Efficiency,” it said, in its rumbling voice. “Excellent.”

Then it ducked, moving carefully to avoid wrecking the hidden door, and slid sideways into the gallery.

Lycus stared after it, wondering. Now that it was in the gallery, surrounded on two sides by stools and polished wooden bars, it merely glanced around. It almost seemed like an interested foreigner, taking in the local sights. Like it was only pretending to be a monstrous destroyer.

Now that he thought about it, what was the Incarnation here for? It hadn't attacked the humans directly, instead moving deeper into the House. It hadn't tried to take anything, nor had it fought them seriously. It did nothing but move from room to room, breaking furniture almost absently, as if it couldn't be bothered to ruin a room completely before walking farther.

It didn’t come to kill us, Lycus realized. So why is it here?

He couldn't figure out the answer, but the question troubled him. He didn't follow the giant into the gallery, though Andra and Erastes did.

Well, they tried to.

Kai stepped forward, though Lycus hadn't seen him move out of the forge. He placed a hand on Erastes' shoulder, lifting his gold-and-silver blade to bar Andra's way.

Both of them stopped, looking at him.

“Please,” he said, bowing slightly. “Allow me.”

He swung his Dragon's Fang around to point it through the door, so it didn't get caught on the doorframe, and then he followed his blade inside. He moved with smooth grace, as though he was only one step away from starting a dance.

Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised Lycus if Kai did start to dance. He was the strangest adult Lycus had ever met.

Kai stopped and glanced back into the gallery, where Lycus noticed that the black-haired doll was sitting on one of the few workbenches to survive the Incarnation's rampage.

“Otoku, if you please?” Kai said sweetly.

Lycus thought he heard a distant, windy voice let out a sigh.

Then Kai popped into a cloud of smoke, which rushed behind and above the Incarnation, reforming into an image of Kai standing atop the giant's steel shoulders. Kai drove his blade down, into the top of the shoulder joint, where the armor should have been weakest.

Nothing. His blow did even less than Andra's had. The Incarnation didn't even seem to notice, except that he absently swung his Ragnarus sword over his head, swatting at Kai like a horse's tail sweeping away flies.

Kai leaped back, his head skirting the tall ceiling, and landed lightly on the bar. He began to chant, or possibly to sing, a little above a whisper. “Hush, little one, there's naught to fear. It's just the wind, that's what you hear.”

The Incarnation drove a steel fist at Kai so fast that Lycus couldn’t see it, but the Valinhall Traveler ducked out of the way as though he'd known the hit was coming.

“Hush, little one, it's not the end. Just put your trust in steel...and wind.”

Not for the first time, Lycus wondered if Kai was quoting something. Half of his little rhymes seemed made up on the spot.

Then again, there did seem to be something happening to his blade. It was almost invisible, like a heat haze in the desert, but the air warped around the Dragon's Fang. It twisted in transparent rivers around the sword's edge, and Lycus thought he could hear the rush of a breeze through the trees.

What power of Valinhall was that?

Kai jumped back up, onto the giant's shoulders. This time, the Incarnation seemed to be expecting it: the giant lifted its blade to drive into the Traveler's side.

Raising his own sword, Kai drove it down into the armor's shoulder joint.

At first, Lycus wondered why Kai had done it. The Tartarus armor had repelled his attack only seconds ago, surely nothing was different now.

Then he noticed that the Dragon's Fang was inches deeper than it should have been. It had driven through one of the weakest joins in the Incarnation's armor, the wound red-hot at the edges and dribbling molten steel.

Kai hopped back down to the floor, his blade still swirling with almost-visible wind. He ducked one of the Incarnation's slashes, then returned with an overhand cut of his own, landing on the split he’d made in the giant's right shoulder.

He slashed through the metal, leaving glowing, heated links of chain in his wake. The Incarnation shouted, perhaps in surprise or pain, as its armored right arm slid off the shoulder, dangling only by a few bits of mail. The bronze, steel, and iron clockworks inside its arm clicked away, exposed to the air.

Humming to himself, Kai dodged a second punch from the creature's left hand. Then he took his blade in both hands, swinging with his whole body at the Incarnation's breastplate. He didn't bother aiming for a weak point, this time; he hit the giant square in the chest with the edge of his Dragon's Fang.

The Incarnation staggered back a step, grabbing a bar in its left hand for support. Kai kept pushing, long after he should have realized this wasn't going to work.

Then, to Lycus' shock, the edge of the Dragon's Fang actually pushed through the giant's polished armor. Kai's gold-and-silver blade tore through the breastplate and into the clockwork beneath, the wound dribbling melted steel.

Groaning, the Incarnation dropped to one knee. “You...” it groaned out. “Why...how...”

In one final motion, Kai sliced all the way through the creature's chest. The sword emerged trailing drops of molten steel, and the Incarnation crashed to the ground in two pieces.

“Welcome to Valinhall,” Kai said lightly. Then he flicked his blade as if to clear it of blood, and placed the Dragon's Fang on the bar.

Lycus passionately wished that he could be half that strong when he grew up.

The swordsman's head cocked again, but he didn't turn back to look at Lycus. “You were kept by urgent business, I trust?” he said.

In a rustle of cloth, the Eldest Nye drifted past Lycus. His robes were stormcloud gray, where most of the Nye wore black, and his sleeves drooped down almost the length of Lycus' legs. Andra and Erastes seemed as surprised to see him as Lycus was; Erastes took one careful step back, and Andra hurriedly lowered her sword so the Nye could glide into the gallery.

He spoke to Kai, in his rasping voice. “You were here, as was the other one. I have more than a single matter to occupy my time.”

“You're dealing with something more interesting than the invasion of Valinhall?” Kai asked. His voice sounded humorous, as though he found the whole situation funny, but Lycus wondered if he might actually be furious.

The Eldest chuckled unpleasantly. “This? I would hardly call this an invasion.” His hood turned to the shadows at the corners of the room, and instantly a pair of Nye materialized, seemingly out of nowhere. Lycus had nothing to prove this, but he was sure they were the same two who had used their chains to try and slow the Incarnation down.

No one gave any orders, but the Nye bowed to the Eldest, then swept over to the Incarnation's body. It was still, though some of the gears still clicked and whirred. They began pulling plates off, removing gears, carrying them away.

“That will be valuable for study, I think,” the Eldest said. “Someone has given us a present. I can only wonder why.”

Kai nodded to the red-and-black blade that Lycus was sure came from Ragnarus. “What about that?” he asked.

The Eldest held one sleeve over the sword, just as Lycus might have held his hands up to a fire to keep himself warm. “Did he use its powers?”

With a shrug, Kai said, “He almost poked me with it once or twice.”

The Nye's head swept from side to side. “We can be certain that was not its only purpose. Why, then, is it here?”

Kai walked away, leaving his sword sitting on the bar. As he passed, he glanced up at the four masks, hanging on the wall by their racks. “There is only one thing I can think of that has changed in this House,” Kai said. “And the Incarnation headed straight for it.”

“I did not ask you for speculation,” the Eldest replied. “We will study the creature's body, and I will tell you what we find. In the meantime, be on your guard.”

Scooping up his doll with one hand, Kai laughed. “On guard? What would I do without your sage advice?”

He walked away without a word for any of the other humans, whispering to his doll. Caius was holding on to a table with both hands, trying to catch his breath.

Erastes and Andra looked at one another.

“I'm going to challenge another room,” Andra said at last. “I've got a long way to go.”

The soldier nodded, and almost smiled. Andra hurried out of the room, clearly upset with herself. Lycus knew his sister well enough to leave her alone for the moment, until she stopped blaming herself for not being able to help.

And what about me? Lycus thought. I added nothing.

The thought made him ache even more for the powers and privileges of Valinhall, but he couldn't shake something else.

Why did it come here?

He couldn't think of an answer.

CHAPTER 15:

PRICES PAID

Zakareth faced the gates of Cana with the Incarnations of Helgard and Lirial behind him. His ancestors had constructed this wall, including the massive metal doors set into the stone. He couldn’t begin to guess how many thousands of wagons and hundreds of thousands of people had passed through those doors over the generations.

He had always been proud of his family for bringing something like this into being, but since his…change…he had gained a new appreciation for these projects.

How much time had Queen Cynara the Second spent raising the walls of this city? How many workers? How many of them had died building defenses, watering the stones with their blood? How many homes had gone untended, how many fields untilled, while these gates were formed and assembled?

It was all part of the price. If you wanted strong walls, you had to pay for them: in money, in time, in sacrificed opportunities. That was the way of the world.

Ragnarus simply made matters more…direct.

“Can you see them?” Zakareth asked.

“Of course I can,” Lirial chimed, amused. “I can see everything.” Her milky eyes stared through the walls of Cana, watching a battle in a Territory far away. “The time inconsistencies distort things, you realize, but Tartarus has been defeated. They are dragging his pieces away.”

Lirial’s crystal body shone a reflected red in the setting sun, the silver wire wrapping around her body burning with fiery sunlight. Helgard stood beside her, running a hand over the curling horns behind her ears. A small snow flurry extended only a pace away from her; frost melted and ran in tiny rivulets at her feet. Zakareth wondered if she even noticed.

“And Elysia?” the King asked.

The melodic voice of the Lirial Incarnation grew distant. “It is remarkable. He has none of the control of his predecessors, but all their power. He keeps banishing my probes. By accident, I’m sure, but it’s irritating nonetheless. And yet…the battle seems to have drawn to a standstill. Your Valinhall Overlord is badly injured, but still alive.”

“The time has come, then,” he said. With a thought, he summoned his crown onto his head. His shadow gained three tall spikes.

Lirial stepped into a sunbeam, her body becoming the crystal key to her Territory. In front of her, a Gate opened, swirling gray and silver at the edges.

“My constructions will guide you,” she murmured. “Travel quickly, before the moons shift.”

Zakareth followed her into the Crystal Fields without another word. He could tear his way free of any Territory now, and the Lirial Incarnation would not be able to resist him outside. She was afraid, and therefore she could be trusted. She would not lead him astray.

Helgard stood at his side, idly stroking the head of a furry, white, three-headed dog that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “So this is Lirial…it’s a bleak place, isn’t it? I wonder where the Daniri kept their tombs.”

She couldn’t hide the greed in her eyes, and she didn’t bother. It was in her nature, and they both knew it.

“This way,” Zakareth said, tracing the lines of power in Lirial to a tiny, floating crystal. It bobbed in their presence and sped off, not waiting for them to follow.

One step in Lirial took them beyond Cana’s walls, and a hundred paces closer to Leah’s camp outside.

In the ancient days, before the Territories had come fully under humanity’s control, walls had served as an effective defense. High walls on a city meant that traditional assault was all but impossible, and only the best Travelers could bypass your protection to attack you directly. That age was long past.

In the end, his ancestors had paid their price for nothing.

***

The whole world had been washed in shades of purple and violet. He could dimly remember a moment before, when his surroundings had been made of gold, but the violet was so much more pleasant. His thoughts were clear now, even straightforward. Honest, that was the word.

Alin pulled the Avernus Traveler toward him, his Violet Light wrapped around her ankle like a lasso. As he dragged her across the stones, she scrabbled for purchase on the stone, her fingernails scraping against the stairs.

He didn’t know this woman. She wore an armored black outfit, and her expression stayed rigid even as she struggled to escape.

I don’t care about her, he thought. I should kill her. That will keep her out of my way while I rescue Ilana, and finish Simon and Leah.

That brought another issue to his attention: did he have to execute Simon and Leah? Before, he had resolved not to hurt them any more than necessary, but he seemed to recall doing his best to destroy them both.

No, I don’t need to kill them. Not unless it’s too much hassle to keep them alive. I want them to live so they can see how great I am.

Alin would never have admitted that before, even to himself; he marveled at the simplicity and freedom that honesty brought.

A shrill cry, like that of a hunting hawk, shattered Alin’s ear. To his right, a blur of brown-and-white rushed toward him, feathers ruffled, beak sharp. One of this Traveler’s Avernus bird-men, no doubt.

He didn’t have to do anything. Fuzzy violet creatures—the Thrulls of the Violet District—leaped out of cover and landed on the bird-man. The bird should have been larger than all the Thrulls combined, but when their thin feet met the Avernus creature, the bird-man popped in an explosion of purple light and vanished.

The Thrulls raised their sticklike arms and grinned. “We don’t like doing this, but we’re obligated to serve you!” one of them cried.

Alin held up a fist in salute. “I shouldn’t need to thank you! You have done nothing more than your jobs!”

The fuzzy, purple Thrulls bowed at the waist before scurrying away.

He felt a strange lack of resistance on the end of his Violet binding, and looked over. The Avernus woman had escaped, somehow, and started limping her way back up the steps toward a black shape in the waystation.

No, wait, that’s the Valinhall Traveler. The shadows that had concealed him before seemed weaker now. They flickered fitfully, like a guttering fire, and Alin wondered if the Traveler had run out of whatever power kept him hidden.

Idly, Alin twirled a strip of Violet Light around his finger as he walked up to the Naraka waystation. Simon lay in a heap behind him on the street. He was taken care of; Alin would have a long talk with him whenever Simon managed to wake up.

He didn’t see Leah or Ilana, though. That was interesting. Perhaps these two had agreed to buy time for them until they got away. He should use Silver Light to search the city, he knew that, but somehow the Silver had never felt so distant.

I’ve given myself entirely over to Violet, he thought. It was likely a defensive reaction to keep me from dying.

That made sense, but he couldn’t help feeling a little irritated that he couldn’t call on his other powers. Not to mention the fact that he never should have been pushed that far to the brink to begin with.

The Avernus Traveler had made it behind the man from Valinhall. She rummaged through her pockets, pulling out an empty leather bag and what looked like a handful of herbs and feathers.

Alin didn’t care. He was in no hurry. Red gnomes circled the crumbling building, and the roof was covered by blue floating jellies. Come to think of it, he never had learned what those jellyfish were called. He should find out.

With trembling hands, the Avernus Traveler poured the handful of herbs into the bag. She started to say something, but Alin didn’t wait to see what it was. He flicked his long, violet bandage like a whip, cracking it into her hand.

The bag and its contents vanished. Finally, the Avernus showed fear. Her skin paled, and she swallowed visibly, but she ground her jaw and forced herself to meet his eyes.

In front of her, the Valinhall Traveler had lost his concealment. He stood, looking years older than he had earlier, the black chain-marks peeking through the top of his shirt as they showed on his collar. He swayed in place, and he held his cracked sword in both hands as though he didn’t have the strength to hold it one-handed any longer.

Somehow, the man smiled reassuringly, despite his obvious fatigue. “This is unnecessary. Nobody has to die today.”

Alin heard the words, he weighed them, and he found them less than honest. “You’ve killed many of the citizens of Elysia.” He gestured to the steps and to the street, where corpses of all colors bled a rainbow of blood. “A dozen dead, maybe two, I’ll need to get someone in here to check. Do they not matter to you?” He was honestly curious. “Is it because they’re not human?”

“I’m sorry about that,” the Traveler said easily. “Nobody else has to die today.”

Unlike his previous statement, that one was true. “You’re right,” Alin said. “Surrender yourselves, and I’ll take you alive.”

Alin waited.

The Traveler waited.

His eyes flicked toward Simon’s body, and his shoulders seemed to slump. “I can’t do that. It’s gone too far.”

The man’s shoulders firmed. His bright smile grew steadier. The point of his sword stopped wavering in midair, and stayed pointed at Alin’s chest.

The woman behind him let out a bleak laugh. “You always have to be the hero, don’t you?” Her eyes drifted to Alin. “I’m not going to surrender either, but I won’t be so dramatic about it.”

Alin wanted to answer. He tried to make his voice work, but something had stuck in his chest, as though he had swallowed a bone.

You always have to be the hero, don’t you?

Through the ruthless honesty of the Violet Light, he took a look at himself. And he finally saw.

He was the powerful, all-but-immortal Incarnation standing tall after a harsh battle. He was the menace, looming over a weary swordsman who kept his blade raised in futile defiance. He was the uncaring master, carelessly discarding minions by the score, their bodies strewn all over the street. He was the traitor who had beaten Simon bloody for trying to protect Alin’s own sister.

At last, the Violet Light showed him his own appearance in a cruel, unrelenting mirror.

He looked like a villain.

Alin drifted back, away from the Travelers, until he felt a wall where he could brace himself. He leaned with one arm against the cracked stones, the Violet Light fading from his body.

When the Violet faded, the other voices returned.

The enemies are still there! the Gold Light raged. Go get them, you coward!

This is wrong, said the Green.

Sadness radiated from the Silver. There were so many other ways you could have handled this.

Spare them, the Blue begged. Please. For your own sake.

They were your friends, the Orange said.

The Rose Light whispered, What have you done?

And then a smaller, more distant voice, one he almost didn’t recognize.

Who am I?

***

Overlord Feiora Torannus watched the Incarnation of Elysia limp away to lean against the building on the opposite side of the street. For her life, she couldn’t figure out how they had driven him away.

But she intended to take advantage of it.

“Indirial, make a Gate,” she ordered.

The other Overlord looked as stunned as she felt, and even more bruised and battered. “Why did he leave?” Indirial asked.

Feiora clapped her hands loudly. “Indirial! Gate!” She pointed to the blue jellies floating over the roof, their giant tentacles dangling down.

Indirial shook himself, gave her a sheepish smile, and started cutting one of his Valinhall Gates. She could have opened a Gate to Avernus, but her scouts had told her about the guardians on the other side of this place, and she had no wish to run into them. The only token she’d brought that would send her directly into safe lands had gone with Leah, who had probably followed Eugan straight to a comfortable Corvinus tribe lodge.

The thought of her raven was too painful to focus on, so she hurried as best she could over to Simon, keeping one wary eye on the Incarnation, in case he changed his mind and returned to sanity.

Her shins would be nothing more than a set of massive bruises tomorrow morning, her fingernails were scraped bloody, and she was sure she’d twisted her left ankle. But somehow, she managed to lower herself and scoop Simon into her arms, cloak and all.

She almost fell, and her knees sent bolts of pain shooting all the way up into her spine. He looked small, but this kid was heavy. He had put on more muscle than it looked, apparently.

Feiora staggered over to Indirial, leaving Simon’s sword lying in the street. If she had learned anything about Valinhall from watching them today, it was that they could banish and summon their swords as they liked. Even if it wasn’t as easy as she imagined, she simply couldn’t carry the sword and him both. So that was that.

The Elysian creatures had started growing restless, shouting and growling and shrieking around them, but they still didn’t charge. They seemed as confused by the Incarnation’s change of heart as Feiora herself.

When she reached Indirial, his slice in midair had snapped into a proper white-edged Gate. An old-fashioned, well-appointed sitting room rested on the other side.

Indirial wasn’t looking through the portal, though; his gaze remained locked on the Elysian Incarnation.

“What happened?” he wondered aloud.

Feiora shoved Simon through the Gate and to the carpeted floor beyond. She couldn’t carry him any farther, and if she tried, they were both going to pitch over. “I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t care. Let’s get out while we still can.”

Indirial shook his head, took one last look at the Incarnation in his shredded remnants of gold armor, and walked into Valinhall.

The Gate zipped shut behind them.

***

Something grabbed Ilana, and she struggled, but she wasn't strong enough. They seized her, a whole crowd of creatures and two-foot-tall men in hats, dragging her out the broken window of the waystation. She screamed, but it was swallowed up in an explosion from outside, where Simon and her brother fought in a battle she would never have believed a few weeks ago.

She lashed out with a foot and kicked one of the gnomes. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he took the kick on his bearded chin and nodded approvingly. What kind of weird, twisted people were these?

Ilana didn't stop fighting. She punched, jerked, screamed, clawed, and bit until she was exhausted.

When her strength ran out, she realized she was lying on a bed of soft grass, looking up at a golden sky. She glanced around, seeing nothing but a grassy horizon occasionally broken up by flowers. Surely this plain of waving grass didn't go on forever. It had to stop at some point, right?

When she turned back the other direction, she was met with bright blue eyes and a fuzzy white snout.

She yelped and scrambled backwards on all fours. The dog—which, she now noticed, was strapped with plates of gold—bounded after her. It let out one bark, which rang in the emptiness like a bell echoing in a castle.

Ilana was no Traveler, but she knew a Territory when she fell headfirst into one. And this dog was wearing armor, so that was another clue that she wasn't in her world. Dog-armor. There was only one reason for that: someone expected this dog to fight in a battle. This was obviously a vicious warrior-dog, protecting the Territory from intruders. Intruders like her.

She got to her feet and backed slowly away—somewhere she had heard that if you moved slowly, dogs wouldn't chase you.

The dog sat on its hind legs, puzzled. It scratched at the armor around its neck and whined.

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn't about to step into a pit full of armored snakes, or whatever other horrors this Territory had in store for her, but when she turned back to the dog, there was a face three inches from hers. Golden eyes stared straight at her.

Ilana screamed, the face screamed back, and the dog barked happily and started running around in circles. That was when Ilana realized the face was upside-down. Long, gold-blond hair dangled from the top of this upside-down girl's head, almost reaching to the tops of the grass. She wore a white one-piece dress, belted in the middle by a gold sash.

Strangely, Ilana found herself wondering how the woman's skirt stayed up, when by all logic it should have flipped down and covered her completely, but Ilana’s instincts ran away without her.

On pure panicked reaction, she punched the woman in the nose.

Her fist slammed into a surface that felt like metal, but looked like a six-sided plate of green glass that floated in front of the other woman and definitely hadn't been there a second before.

Pain shot up Ilana's fist and into her arm, and she backed away from the floating woman, cradling her hand. It wasn't the first time she had punched someone, but it was the first time she had tried to punch somebody who could conjure armor out of nowhere. This woman was obviously a Traveler, and that meant that Ilana's chances of getting out of here alive had shrunk to almost nothing.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” the other woman said, drifting around so she could look Ilana in the eye again. She was still upside-down. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Ilana wasn't fooled; she kept her distance from the weird floating Traveler. “What are you, a Traveler? A ghost?”

The other woman shrugged, which looked particularly disturbing when she was hanging upside-down. “A little of both, actually,” she responded. She gave a bright smile and flipped right-side-up. “My name is Rhalia, and you must be Alin's sister!”

She stuck a hand out for Ilana to clasp.

Ilana bolted.

Whatever reason this Traveler had for dragging her here and persistently trying to touch her hand, it couldn't be good. Maybe they could kill with physical contact; she didn't know. Half the things Simon and Alin were doing she would have sworn were impossible.

She managed to run for perhaps ten paces—the armored dog easily keeping pace with her the whole time, like he thought it was a game—before she slowed to a halt. She couldn't help it.

A wall of white stone, gold edges, and silver plating rose in front of her, seemingly a hundred paces in the air. It was definitely miles long, as it stretched around a city bigger than anything Ilana had ever seen or imagined. Tower-tops soared over the wall in every color she could think of, silver and gold and ruby and white and green...

Now that she thought of it, even the walls were worked with a variety of colors. Emeralds spiraled in complex patterns over a seemingly insignificant stretch of wall, next to a mural of a rising sun made out of precious stones.

She stood, stunned by her own wonder, as a column of light like solid lightning shot up from somewhere in the city and blasted into the clouds.

At least I know what Territory this is, she thought.

Rhalia drifted up beside her, smiling like a proud mother. “Isn't it wonderful? You should have seen it when Travelers lived here to hold Gates open, and people came and went...” She sighed. “Sadly, they're all gone. For now.”

“What about my brother?” Ilana asked. “You mentioned him. This is his Territory, isn't it?”

“It's his Territory, yes, but I wouldn't call him a Traveler any longer.”

Elysia was plenty warm, but Ilana shivered. “Why did he bring me here, then?”

Rhalia's eyes widened. “Oh, no, he didn't bring you here. I did!”

“Why?”

The other woman floated behind her, pushing gently to guide her toward the city gates. “There's someone I'd like you to meet,” Rhalia said.

CHAPTER 16:

THE FOUNDER’S HEIR

When Simon woke up, he couldn't move.

He lay on his back, staring up at the plaster ceiling of his bedroom back in Valinhall. As far as he could see from craning his eyes, he was still fully clothed and wearing his Nye cloak. The bed was soft beneath him, but he wasn't wrapped in a sheet. Someone must have dumped him here. Bits of his clothes were still damp, and the rest was stiff, as if recently dried—he recognized the scent of soap from the healing pool.

He was grateful. If they had deserted him here without healing him, he would have felt burning agony instead of paralyzing numbness.

I guess we won, Simon sent.

A few of the dolls tittered, some scoffed, and a few groaned. The total effect was like one long, exasperated sigh.

No one died, if that's what you're asking, Caela told him.

Not as far as we know... Lilia added.

Not even Alin! Rebekkah said, irritated. You waste way too much time standing around when you're wearing that mask. Leah almost got him, but he ended up going crazy and letting everyone get away. You should have punched him harder.

How did I get back here?

Ask him, Angeline sent.

Before Simon could ask who she meant, a dark hood leaned over his bed, giving him an eyeful of the void the Eldest Nye wore for a face.

His whole body twitched, and his heart hammered against his ribs. Everything he'd learned in Valinhall was screaming at him to jump up and stab the Eldest through the chest, before the Nye could draw a chain around his neck and choke the life out of him...

“Be still, son of Kalman. I have not come to kill you while you sleep away the effects of your mask.” He leaned closer. “Though my mind could always change.”

“What…you want?” Simon grunted. It was the best he could manage through his all-but-paralyzed throat.

The Eldest held up a shriveled fig the color of blood, pinching it through his sleeve. “Why did you bring this here? It's not a weapon, it cannot be attuned to us. If it were planted here, it could be the end!”

What is it? Simon tried to ask. It came out sounding more like “Whatsit?”

In a flicker of one black sleeve, the Eldest made the object vanish. “It is a seed of the Crimson Vault's domination. It is vile. It is disgusting. And it is not something the Founder's heir should ever touch!”

He seemed genuinely angry rather than simply menacing or threatening, and maybe that had led the Eldest to speak carelessly, but Simon felt sure he had let something important slip.

With a monumental effort, Simon craned his head forward and spoke clearly. “Founder's heir?” he asked.

The dolls went totally quiet.

The Eldest hesitated. “The point remains that you were thoughtless, bringing this here. This seed is not something we can make our own! I am afraid even to destroy it here, in case we awaken it through foolish action. You have put us all in danger!”

Simon refused to be distracted. “Tell me.”

The Nye's hood twitched from side to side, as though trying to think of a way out. At last he spoke, forcing the words out as though they pained him. “This Territory...it began as dozens of empty shards, splinters of a world that came before. Perhaps all Territories begin this way. In our case, Valin was the man who bound our splinters together into one new Territory. He was, and is, our Founder.”

He drifted out of Simon's sight, but from the rustle of shuffling robes, Simon got the impression that he was pacing. “When he was taken from us...we discovered that Valinhall needs a Founder. It is a relationship of equal exchange that we have with our Travelers, you see, and without a Founder, the two sides do not balance. Our Travelers take more from us than they give. We needed our master back, but we could not have him. So she selected a replacement.”

“Who?” Simon grunted.

Mithra, Angeline sent. The other dolls remained silent.

The Eldest's hood flicked over to the dolls' shelf, but he addressed Simon again. “Mithra was always Valin's blade. Whoever inherits her, inherits the responsibilities of Valinhall's Founder.”

“Kai,” Simon said.

A laugh scraped its way out of the Eldest's robes. “Kai? He shirked his duties even before he was crippled by Ragnarus. Now, if someone does not make up for his lack, our world will fade away, another dead splinter adrift on an endless void. Just like before.”

Simon tried to ask another question, but his throat wouldn't cooperate. What responsibilities? he asked the dolls.

Angeline dutifully repeated his question to the Nye.

“I have said too much, daughters of wind,” the Eldest replied. “He will learn fast enough by doing as he is instructed.” The Nye flowed over to the door, out of Simon's field of vision. His voice floated back to the bed. “I am taking this demonic seed with me. Perhaps I can find a way to dispose of it.”

He made no other sound.

Is he gone? Simon finally asked.

No, he's behind you! Otoku called.

He's gone, said Angeline.

You're no fun.

Simon found himself mentally rehearsing the Eldest's speech, and it didn't comfort him much. What does he want Kai to do? You know, don't you? Does he expect that of me?

Gloria sighed. Oh, honey, I don't think it would be wise to talk if the Eldest doesn't want us to.

It sounds smart to me, Otoku said. What can he possibly do to us? Oh, I'm sorry, I meant what can't he do. That list is much shorter.

I'll tell him, Rebekkah said casually. He needs to know.

It was a good life while it lasted, Lilia sighed.

The Eldest told us not to! Angeline put in.

A few of the others started to argue, until it sounded like a whispered twelve-sided debate in the middle of a windstorm.

Finally, Caela's voice cut through the rest. Actually, I believe I've thought of a solution, she sent, her mental voice pleased.

The whispering stopped for a second, and in the moment of quiet they all seemed to come to some sort of agreement.

Oh! That's a good point.

If anyone would know, he would.

I'm sure he's not afraid of the Eldest.

What would he have to be afraid of?

Finally, Simon cut in. What are you talking about?

There was a brief silence, which Simon felt certain was filled with condescending pity.

Think about it, Simon, Caela said. Who knows everything there is to know about Valinhall? Who would gladly tell you anything the Eldest won't?

Rebekkah jumped in, as subtle as ever: Who is currently stuck in the graveyard with nothing to do but answer your questions?

Simon felt like an idiot. I should have asked Valin a long time ago, right?

You're learning, Otoku said.

I'm surprised it only took him this long, another doll sent.

He may be slow, but at least he's... Lilia's voice trailed off.

She didn’t finish the thought.

Thanks, everybody. Thank you. Simon leaned back against his pillow and sighed. Now if only I could move.

***

It had only taken Simon about six hours to climb to his feet, according to the clock beside his bed. Someone had pounded on the door a few hours before, but since Simon was physically incapable of shouting or rising to answer it, the mysterious person was on their own. It was probably Andra anyway.

The dolls had taken turns entertaining Simon with their favorite stories during his paralysis, some of which had involved Kai. Many of them were embarrassing incidents featuring him. For some of those, he hadn't even had a doll with him.

He almost called steel so he would turn into an Incarnation and be done with it. By the time he was strong enough to limp to the hallway, he almost wept.

You're welcome! Otoku said cheerily as Simon left.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the hall, though it took all his concentration and both hands against the wall for him to stay upright, much less walk.

To his surprise, Overlord Feiora was waiting for him. She wore solid black, though her armor from the day before was missing, and her blunt face hardened on seeing him. “Good, you're awake. You need to take me back.”

“Sorry,” Simon said, pushing himself a few feet down the hall. “I can't help you right now.”

“You can and you will,” she said. “I have business that can't wait.”

“Same here.” Maker, how long would it take him to get down this hallway? It had never seemed so long before.

Feiora stared at him as though she couldn't figure out what he was talking about, and was stuck deciding whether or not to break his legs. “It's an order from an Overlord, Traveler.”

“Not from Damasca,” he said. “Sorry.” Later, he would probably regret speaking to her like this, but he had spent hours being bullied by the Eldest and embarrassed by his own advisors. He wasn't exactly in the right mood.

“You're from the village of Myria,” she said. “I'm an Avernus, and I like to know who I'm working with, so I did my research. Myria is as much a part of the kingdom as Bel Calem.”

“Who says?”

“Centuries of tradition! Thousands of maps!”

“You need new maps.”

That didn't even slow her down. She started talking about how the kingdom could be falling apart, and he was stopping her from saving lives, and he couldn't imagine what was at stake, and a few other things that he didn't much pay attention to.

He'd known that he shouldn't have tried being clever with her. It never worked. So he resorted to his old habit: saying nothing. Simon pulled himself along the wall, through the House, and into the garden.

Overlord Feiora didn't stop until he shut the door to the rain garden almost on top of her. She couldn't open it, but she did pound on the stone for a while, shouting something muffled that sounded like curses.

Simon was already relaxing in the beautiful sounds of the steady rain and the wind through the nearby plants—and the glorious lack of anyone speaking to him—when he realized that, since the graveyard had moved, the courtyard wasn't directly accessible through the rain garden anymore. He had gone the old way. If he wanted to do this without doubling back, he was going to have to cross through six rooms, and in at least three of them he'd have to fight his way past.

At the thought, he almost cried.

***

Two hours later, panting and covered in shallow slashes, Simon arrived at the graveyard.

Valin wasn't there.

The sheets of emerald lightning rolled overhead, lending the usual green cast to the headstones and ivy-shrouded pillars. Simon usually saw Valin sitting on one of the tombstones, or else locked in combat with Kai.

Today, he saw no one.

Simon walked forward on shaky legs, concentrating on not falling over. Valin wasn't behind the first stone column, as he had half-suspected, nor was he behind the second. He glanced over behind the first row of graves...

And there he saw Valin, crumpled in a pile of tangled limbs. He couldn't have been sleeping; no one could sleep with their legs twisted at different angles. Besides, one hand was outstretched toward the hilt of a sword that rested a foot away on the grass. Either he had been crawling toward it, or he'd dropped it when he fell.

Simon collapsed to his knees by the Wanderer's body, feeling the man's neck for a pulse. Nothing. His skin was waxy and cold, and his gray eyes stared blankly into the dirt.

So he's dead, Simon thought. Again. I wonder if it will stick this time?

The strangest thing, to him, was that he couldn't see any obvious injuries. He would have thought that, if a room guardian were destroyed, it had to be the result of someone challenging the room. But if Kai had killed his former master at last, there should be some evidence of it. Blood, sword wounds, something.

Maybe the Eldest Nye's resurrection technique had been temporary, and Valin had simply returned to his natural state. That would make sense, but if that were the case, why had the Eldest given him a position as a room guardian? He should have known that Valin could pitch over dead at any time.

Valin heaved a great breath and bolted upright, his eyes widening.

Simon almost fell backwards, startled but not surprised. He hadn't really expected the Wanderer to stay dead.

Valin squeezed his eyes shut, at the same time pulling a dagger away from Simon's neck.

That, on the other hand, surprised him quite a bit. He hadn't even noticed that Valin had a knife.

“How long has it been?” Valin rasped, his throat sounding caked with dirt.

“I saw you yesterday,” Simon responded. “Or...maybe the day before, I'm not sure.”

Valin blinked his eyes open and gave Simon an easy smile. “At least it wasn't twenty-five years, this time. Are you here for training?”

Simon eased himself onto a gravestone, trying not to fall off. “I met the Eldest today.”

“Oh, I get it.” Valin pulled one arm over his head, stretching sore muscles, then he cracked his neck with a sharp sound that made Simon wince. “You've got questions.”

“Yeah. My first one: does this happen to you every time? The dead thing, I mean.”

Valin rolled his chain-wrapped shoulders, working them loose. “I'm only around when the room needs me,” he said. “Usually, that's when a Traveler's here. When nobody's around, I get weaker and weaker until, eventually, I keel over and die.” He paused for a moment before adding, “It got worse after what I did for you the other day, calling on my old power for a few minutes. Turns out that wasn't such a good idea. Who knew?”

“So you're not...” Simon stopped. He wasn't even sure what question he wanted to ask, much less how he was supposed to say it.

The older man flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fists. “I don't understand how the Eldest brought me here. I wonder, sometimes: was I actually dead? I feel like myself, and yet...thin, somehow. Sort of hazy, like a ghost.” The Wanderer looked off into the distance, far past Simon. “I don't know how he did it, but I wish he hadn't.”

Simon waited, wary of saying something to set him off.

“But I'm here now,” the man continued, brushing dirt from his pants. “And I don't think you have to worry about ending up like me, so you can relax. I'm Valinhall's Founder; it's as much a part of me as I am of it. Not to mention that I was an Incarnation at the time, so...”

He shrugged. “Was that it? Were you worrying about having to share a room with me? I have it on good authority that I don't snore while I'm dead.”

“Not quite,” Simon said. The thought of ending up like Valin had never occurred to him, but it didn’t sound so bad. No matter what the Wanderer said, working as a room guardian in Valinhall still had to be better than dying. “The Eldest mentioned that you were the Founder, and I'd never heard that before today. What does that mean, exactly?”

Valin glanced in his direction, and then away. He stepped forward, putting his short sword through a casual three-part combination that de-limbed and decapitated an invisible opponent. While he moved, he spoke. “He's setting you up as the Founder's heir, is he?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, he is. I was hoping you could tell me what that means.”

At the end of a thrust that skewered another nonexistent man through the heart, Valin shrugged. “I'm not too surprised it's you. From what I hear, Kai hasn't done much in the past two and a half decades, and there had to be some reason why the Eldest gave the Nye essence to a new kid. Why do you think he picked you? Instead of, say, Denner or Indirial.”

Valin was picking up speed, slashing imaginary opponents behind him, to either side, and even above. Simon took one prudent step back; the Wanderer seemed to think that friendly, good-natured violence was all in good fun, and he was more than capable of attacking without warning. As he had proven often enough in the past.

“The Eldest said everyone else had turned him down,” Simon responded.

“That ought to tell you something, don't you think? If the Nye passed up two—well, Kathrin's still alive, so three—highly trained and experienced Travelers, and he's trying to put you in charge...I can only think of one reason.” Valin spun, his sword blurring to a halt in front of Simon's nose. Simon didn't flinch; for Valinhall, this wasn’t worth noticing.

“He wants a Founder who will do what he says. Seven stones, I never listened to him, and it seems like Kai isn't listening to anybody. Kathrin would do what she wanted even if the Eldest had his chain around her throat, Denner takes every chance he can get to leave the House, and Indirial would probably bring everything to his Queen first.” Valin spat to one side. “That leaves someone new, preferably someone young and ignorant enough that he'll do whatever the Eldest tells him.”

Simon bristled at the comment about his ignorance, but he cast his mind back over his early conversations with the Eldest. It seemed to fit. He had always known that the Eldest was trying to scam him into a bad deal, but his real question remained: how bad of a deal was it, really?

“He hasn't asked me to do anything terrible, so far,” Simon said. “Nothing I might not have done on my own.”

Valin propped one leg up on a headstone and leaned down on it, stretching out the muscle. “I know how he works. You've acted exactly as he wants, but somehow you always end up deeper in his debt than before. Am I right? You brought him some new artifact, and he acted like he was doing you a favor by letting you use it.”

Simon thought back to the mask. “Yes, actually.”

The Wanderer laughed, shaking his head. “When you get to be a few centuries old, I guess you never change. Listen. All the Eldest wants is the expansion of Valinhall, because the healthier and stronger this Territory is, the more power he's got. He'll want you to raid other Territories for weapons and creatures, find enough bearers for all thirteen Dragon's Fangs, anchor the deep rooms so they're passable again, and ideally bring a population of human servants here to serve under the Nye. It's the job of a lifetime, and he'll never be satisfied.”

“He did ask me to find the lost Dragon's Fangs,” Simon said. “That was one of the first things he asked me to do.”

Valin whirled on Simon, sword clenched in one fist. “Lost Fangs? Plural? They're not here, in the House?”

Simon shook his head.

The bald man plopped down on a gravestone, driving his sword into the ground with more force than necessary. “How many do we have left?”

“Six, I think,” Simon said. “Indirial, Denner, Andra, Kai, and I all have one. Plus Kathrin is supposed to have one, but I've never met her.”

“They lost half my swords!” Valin exclaimed. “More than half! I don't—all right, kid, look. The Eldest is right about some things, and he's wrong about others. He may be old and mysterious and creepy as a Strugle—”

A what? Simon wondered.

“—but he can be wrong, like everybody else. He's right that, if things keep going as they are, Valinhall's going to drift apart. It'll end up like I found it, and that's...” He shuddered. “Believe me, nobody wants that. And if he thinks we need a Founder to prevent that, he's probably right. But listen to me, and listen close.”

Valin leaned forward, and Simon couldn’t look away. The Wanderer's gray eyes shone with a hint of metallic silver, as though the Incarnation of Valinhall spoke through him. “If we need a leader, we need one who knows what he's getting into, and who chose to do it. This Territory was left in the hands of four people who didn't want to take responsibility for it, and it's falling apart. Using lies and traps to snare a Founder won't work. We need someone to step up, do you understand?”

He did, and the words sounded great in theory, but he was worried about something a little more practical. “How am I supposed to say that to the Eldest? Right to his face...er, his hood.”

Valin grinned and leaned back. “The Eldest forgets that, if he puts you in charge, then you get to be in charge. Ultimately, that means you do what you want. Not what he wants. Sometimes, you have to remind him of that.”

Simon sat in place for a moment, mulling it over. He didn't want to lead Valinhall. Ideally, Kai or Indirial would do it. But the Eldest wanted him to lead, and that meant that, for once, he had some leverage.

He stood and, after a moment's hesitation, bowed to Valin like one of the Nye. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Valin waved away the thanks. “Don't forget to come by and resurrect me every once in a while, okay? I don't want to wake up and find out I've missed a quarter of a century. Again.”

Simon left the room, heading for the Nye's lair. The Eldest had taken something from him, and if he wanted to start acting like he was in charge, he needed to take it back.

***

As soon as the kid was gone, Valin rose back to his feet and called out, “So what did you think?”

A patch of shadow slid out from behind a column, resolving in to the figure of the Eldest Nye. “You told him far too much,” the Eldest rasped. “And you are turning him against me.”

Valin gave him an insolent grin, purely out of spite. The Eldest hated being mocked. “I thought you'd like that.” With one hand, he tossed his sword into the air, almost high enough to hit the lightning that danced on the ceiling. “I'm right, and you know it. He can't be what we need if he only does what you tell him.”

“If he does not do what I tell him, he will not survive,” the Eldest snapped. “I will move him like a puppet if I must, but I will not go back to what I was. Little more than a shadow.”

“He seems like he's coming along,” Valin said, catching his sword by the hilt as it came down. “Correct me if I'm mistaken, but he doesn't have much of a life outside Valinhall, does he?”

The Eldest said nothing, which Valin took as agreement.

“Well, then. That's the game half-won. He has nothing to lose by doing what you want. Maybe he won't do it the way you want, or when you want, but he'll be working with you instead of against you.”

Slowly, the Eldest shook his hood. “You do not know him as well as you think. At times, the son of Kalman is a boulder rolling downhill. He decides that he must do something, and he lets nothing stop him. Even when it would be wiser to stop. But that is only sometimes. The rest of the time, he is a leaf in a breeze. He does not know what he wants, so he does what others tell him. It is an irritating combination.”

Valin stared up at the lightning crackling on the ceiling. The Eldest had argued against the construction of this very room, but it had always been one of Valin's proudest achievements. “There's your mistake, Ka'nie'ka. You're trying to keep him from deciding, so you can steer the leaf wherever you like. I don't want a leaf. I want a boulder. But I want that boulder on my side.”

He looked back down to see the Eldest looking thoughtful. He decided to press his advantage. “You're making progress. In a year or two, perhaps as many as five, he'll be ready. You've got to win him over, instead of tricking him into serving you.”

“Kai stands in the way,” the Eldest rasped, but he sounded contemplative rather than angry.

“You're worried about Kai? The Kai I remember might have been a problem, but that Kai would have made an excellent Founder. This one...”

Even more than seeing the state of his Territory, even more than realizing his students had betrayed him, even more than remembering how he betrayed his students, Kai had been the greatest disappointment to Valin. He remembered an eccentric genius who radiated potential, not this...broken wreck who wanted nothing more than to play with his dolls.

But then, it was Valin who'd broken him.

“Kai would trade Mithra for Azura if Simon so much as suggested it,” Valin said at last. “He’s practically begging for the chance. He won't be a problem, as long as we can get Azura to agree.”

The Eldest put his sleeves together and bowed, unintentionally mimicking Simon's gesture from moments earlier. Or maybe it was intentional; Valin had never been able to understand any of the Nye, much less this one.

“I will consider your words, Master,” the Eldest said at last. “Now, I must go. I suspect the son of Kalman is searching for me.”

“What does he want?”

The Eldest shivered, his many layers of cloth and shadow rustling. “A seed of that which imprisoned you.”

Valin felt like he'd been dunked in a bath full of ice water. “Burn it. Cast it out. Get Kai to open the Nexus, and hurl it as far away from us as you can.”

“I'm not so certain that would be a...permanent solution,” the Eldest said. “Besides, I believe it was you who advised me to let the boy make up his own mind.”

Valin wrestled for a moment with his own rage, with the Incarnation of a warrior Territory rising up inside him, before he could make himself relax. The Eldest was right. Simon had the right to decide, and it seemed that he was even friends with that Ragnarus girl. Maybe he could persuade her to destroy it.

“You're right,” he said at last. He forgot, sometimes, that this wasn't his Territory any longer. He was nothing more than a passenger.

The Eldest paused outside the door. “I respect your motivations today,” the Nye said. “But do not oppose me too often. I can just as easily return you to the state in which I found you.”

Valin grinned and raised his sword in a salute to his old friend. “I might say the same to you.”

After the Nye vanished, Valin put himself through a few more forms. He wanted to fit in some exercise before he died again.

His steps felt lighter, and he found his smile lingering. He had a new student to train, a Territory to rebuild, and an old friend to outwit in a lethal contest.

Life didn't get much better.

CHAPTER 17:

CAPTURE

In the House's entry hall, Indirial placed his sword on its rack. Vasha's cracked blade gleamed in the lamplight, reflecting Feiora's irritated expression.

“What are we still doing here, Indirial?” she demanded. “You said he would show up.”

“Relax. I know where he is. There are a few ways in and out, so I don't know exactly where he'll pop out, but this is a pretty safe bet.”

She paced restlessly up and down the room. “They've been alone for too long now. I didn't fully complete the transfer process, so they could have ended up practically anywhere! We need to do something.”

Just to show her that he was capable of relaxing, Indirial walked over to a plush sofa, sat down, and propped his feet up on a table. “It hasn't been as long as it feels. You know how this works. I'm sure Eugan is fine, and I know Leah is.” That was one of the major purposes of the Damascan royal family's trial: every Heir and Heiress was sent off to live essentially on their own, teaching them self-reliance and practical survival skills. Leah would be well-prepared for surviving in Avernus, especially with Eugan as a guide.

Not to mention the fact that, in direct combat, a Ragnarus Traveler could eat any number of Avernus tribesmen alive. As long as she was willing to pay the price.

“What if she's not?” Feiora demanded. “Are we supposed to bring the crown to Adessa, hm? Or how about her older sister?”

“Feiora,” Indirial said, “I'm as eager to act as you are. You have to understand that there is nothing we can do! A couple of hours ago, Simon was too weak to lift a fork, let alone a Dragon's Fang. And with the way his chains had grown, I wouldn't be surprised if he’d Incarnated the second he tried to open a Gate.”

“I still don't see why—” she began, but Indirial gently spoke over her.

“I can only take you two places. The Latari Forest, or straight back to Enosh. That was the last place I opened my Gate. Simon, on the other hand, opened his Gate exactly where we want to go. Even if I did take you to the forest and you Traveled from there, it would take you, what, a whole day to get where you're going? And that's if they're there. It makes far more sense to wait.”

Indirial had made the argument before, but he didn't blame her for her agitation. Avernus Travelers shared a bond with their birds that he didn't fully understand, but they became almost dangerously overprotective when their advisors were in danger.

Besides, he knew how he would feel if his family had been trapped in another Territory. He had almost dissolved in panic when he found out how Cana had been sealed, thinking his wife and daughter were inside, until he remembered that they'd left the city before Enosh attacked. They waited for him even then, safe in Leah's camp. Well, as safe as anyone was, with the Incarnations loose.

“How long has it been for them, in Avernus?” Indirial asked, mostly to make conversation.

“It's hard to say, exactly,” she said. “Avernus is like Helgard, in that the flow of time fluctuates in patterns. Unlike Helgard, though, Avernus is notoriously unpredictable.”

Indirial nodded along. He had learned this years ago, but for her sake he tried to look studious and alert. The longer he could keep her talking, the more patiently she’d wait for Simon.

“If it's been one night outside, in Avernus it could be...half that. A quarter. Less. Or perhaps as much as seven-eighths, I can't say for certain.”

Indirial smiled as though that solved the matter. “See? For them, it's barely been any time at all.”

“Far too much time,” Feiora began, but she stopped when a rug lifted in the center of the room. It bulged evenly in the middle, as though a door had been opened beneath it. Which was, of course, exactly what had happened.

“Hey,” Simon called out. “Is there somebody out there? I don't want to call steel right now.”

Indirial leaned down and tossed the rug out of the way, then gave Simon a hand up. He had climbed up a ladder that stretched all the way down into the bowels of the Territory, well out of the reach of the light.

“Thanks,” Simon said, looking suspiciously from one Overlord to the other. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Indirial responded. When he spoke, Simon slipped something in his pocket. Something that had been hidden in his hand. “What have you got there?” he asked, but Feiora shouldered him aside.

“I already told you what we want!” she said. “Open a Gate to Cana!”

Simon looked at Indirial. “Oh, that's right. You opened the Gate from Enosh, didn't you?”

Indirial turned and lifted Azura's gleaming blade from its rack. Since he hadn't called steel, it took him both hands. “If you would, sir.”

He hesitated to take his sword. “I don't want to call steel.” He pulled the collar of his cloak aside, revealing black chains that were starting to retreat down his back. “Is there any other way...”

“No, there isn't,” Indirial said, as gently as he could. “We do need you to do this.” His own chains wrapped around his midsection, and he was reluctant to call any more power. Simon's were in even worse shape, but there was no other choice. He hadn't heard from Denner in weeks, not that being unable to contact Denner was in any way unusual, and Kai had retreated back to the deep rooms, where Indirial wouldn’t follow.

More importantly, he had no idea where Kai's Gate would come out. That left Simon.

To his credit, Simon didn't hesitate any further. He seized the blade with one hand, and the chains on his back began to creep upward as he called steel.

Simon had gotten faster at opening Gates; it only took him half a minute to slice open a portal leading straight into the inside of a tent that Indirial recognized from the camp outside Cana.

Feiora stepped through without a word, and Indirial followed. “Thanks, Simon. Report back here after another night, and we'll see what we can do about finding these Incarnations.”

The boy had already placed Azura back on its rack and released his steel; he sagged in place, just strong enough to remain standing. He nodded to Indirial before the Gate vanished altogether.

Feiora was gone, no doubt to open a Gate of her own to Avernus. Indirial couldn't blame her.

But he had his own work to do.

The first thing he did was inform all his officers and high-ranking Travelers that he had returned, which was a visible relief to them. It wasn't often that two Overlords and the Queen vanished for almost a full day after heading out on what was supposed to be a short-term scouting mission.

Next, he asked about the team of Travelers who had been assigned to guard Grandmaster Naraka during his disastrous excursion to Enosh. To his shock, they were all unharmed, and the Grandmaster was back in custody. She had escaped long enough to close the Gate and seal the waypoint somehow, which even the two Naraka Travelers working together couldn't undo.

The three Tartarus guards, meanwhile, had clubbed the Grandmaster over the head and bound her with chains “so tight she couldn't sneeze without picking three padlocks.” They had remained in Naraka until the seal on the waystation dissipated, at which point they'd glanced through the Gate and seen the building in rubble. Wisely, they had trekked back to the camp and informed their superior Travelers.

They all five seemed anxious that Indirial would blame them for what happened; on the contrary, he complimented their quick thinking and devotion to their duty. It was his fault that he had allowed the Grandmaster as much freedom as he had, not theirs. He thought of himself as somewhat of an expert at fighting Naraka Travelers, and he'd never seen one seal a waystation completely. He hadn't considered it possible.

After that, he indulged himself by spending half an hour describing to Grandmaster Naraka, in detail, the punishments she had earned by endangering the Queen. Justice would catch up to her at last, and there was something poetic about that.

He spent the next two hours poring over reports. Nothing of significance had happened while he was gone, but everyone under his command had to tell him that, in triplicate and signed if possible. With that taken care of, mostly, his next priority was to help find the Queen. Feiora had taken that duty on herself, and since Leah was in Avernus, Indirial should technically have deferred to the other Overlord. But the situation was volatile enough with all the Incarnations missing; they couldn't afford a misplaced monarch as well.

However, he could allow himself a short stop on the way. The sun had just set, so Nerissa and Elaina would be sitting down to eat. Perhaps he could grab a bite or two.

He ducked into his family's tent, already grinning. “Here I am, back from the dead!” he called. “It took two Incarnations and a...”

The gold medallion he wore grew cold against his chest. Danger… Korr whispered.

Korr, his advisor, rested in the black gem at the heart of his medallion. Korr wasn’t the most talkative advisor of the thirteen, and he only gave advice when he thought it would be needed.

A violet flame, visible only to Indirial’s eyes, burned in the heart of his tent. He turned, and for a moment he couldn’t accept what he was seeing.

It wasn’t the inside of his tent. It was a swirling window to another world, its red edges wide enough to scrape the edge of the tent.

Indirial looked into a cavern lit by rough scarlet torches. A pair of silver doors, each carved with half of the face of a one-eyed king, had been flung open, giving him a look into the Crimson Vault.

Without hesitation, he backed out of the tent. Leah had not opened this Gate, and that meant that someone else had. He would bet everything he owned that it wasn't one of the remaining Heiresses—one of them still exiled to Lirial, the last he'd checked, and the other gibbering and weeping in an Asphodel asylum—and that left only one possibility: the Ragnarus Incarnation.

The camp was under attack, and his family had been the first victims.

His heart burned to go inside, to kill whoever he needed to kill to get his wife and daughter back. No Territory was as good for fighting Travelers as Valinhall, not even the Crimson Vault.

But the fact that this Gate had been left open in his tent meant that this attack, or at least its initial stages, had been aimed at him personally. He wasn't enough of a fool to give the enemy what he wanted.

“We're under attack!” he bellowed, as loudly as he could, as he emerged from his tent. “Incarnation in the camp! Raise the—”

A violet flame burned to life in the corner of his vision: Korr’s warning. Something white and gleaming streaked toward his stomach, so fast that the human eye could barely track it.

So it was a good thing he'd called Nye essence the instant he recognized a Ragnarus Gate.

Summoning Benson's steel, he slapped the projectile out of the air with the flat of his hand. It looked and felt like an oblong ball of ice, and it still tore through the tent next to his after he knocked it aside.

“Fascinating,” the Helgard Incarnation said. She stood outside his tent, curly white hair flowing behind her spiral horns. The emerging starlight shone on her blue skin, and her glacial eyes were curious. “Is that reaction time something that you learn in your Territory, or a power you are granted? Does it work if you are caught completely off-guard?”

Vasha shimmered like an illusion and appeared in his hand, phantom chains crawling across his flesh. “Return your captives,” said the Overlord of Cana.

Helgard ran a hand down the white fur that covered her like a dress. “Don't worry, they're completely—”

Indirial lunged. He didn't have to move far, considering Vasha's length, and he brought his blade down diagonally across the Incarnation's body. A bar of black ice spun into being, meeting the Dragon's Fang with a nearly unbreakable surface.

He had expected that. He bore down with all the power he could draw from Valinhall, every drop of liquid steel he could summon from Benson's blue-lit basement. His strike didn't cleave the ice in half, but the force of his blow drove the ice downward. Vasha, with a bar of dark Helgard ice on the end, slammed into the Incarnation's left shoulder like a hammer.

Bone crunched, and she tumbled down and away, coming to a halt five paces away. Her white fur was speckled with rich blue blood.

“That wasn't a yes,” Indirial called. She wouldn’t have died from a hit like that, so she got the message. He raised his voice once more, blue-white mist puffing out of his mouth as his Nye essence drained. “Incarnation in the camp! Travelers, to me! Incarnation in the camp!”

Soldiers boiled out of the nearby tents, but most of them had the good sense to keep their distance. Distantly, he heard a horn as his warning was picked up and spread. Another horn followed, and another.

Soon, he would be surrounded by allied Travelers. He only had to stall until they got here.

He could do it. He had fought this Incarnation before, and even though he didn't think he could kill her, he could at least burn time until backup arrived. They would capture this Incarnation and find out where she was keeping his family.

Assuming nothing else went wrong.

Danger! Korr hissed.

He turned to see a slight flash out of the corner of his eye, little brighter than a reflection of moonlight off a spearhead. He spun, swinging the flat of Vasha's blade toward the light.

It was like a star the size of his fist, speeding at him out of the darkness. The light exploded when it hit his sword, instantly searing his hand and sending him stumbling backwards, almost knocking the Dragon's Fang from his hand with the force.

A second Incarnation strode out. It was another woman, this time made entirely out of smooth crystal that flowed as she walked. Loops of silver wire wrapped her limbs and neck, tightening around her torso in a solid sheet of armored metal. Her body was almost completely transparent, but her eyes were the more typical milky-white crystal that Indirial associated with her Territory. She wore a slight smirk, and three more of those stars orbited her head in a pale halo.

“Lirial, I presume,” Indirial said, calling ice. His body flooded with cold even deeper than the steel and Nye essence could account for, numbing all his injuries at once. Even the tearing burn in his right hand subsided to a dull throb, so he didn't drop his blade.

“Valinhall, is it?” she said. “In my day, we didn't—”

Indirial jumped backwards, propelled by all the steel he could draw. He felt a little ridiculous doing it—Valin had always warned them against unnecessary acrobatics—but when he reached the height of his jump, he flipped in the air.

He landed on top of the Helgard Incarnation, driving Vasha down into her chest. To survive this fight and go on to find his wife and daughter, he had to eliminate one of the Incarnations early. He stood practically no chance against two of them, but one-on-one he could at least draw out the battle until reinforcements arrived.

The point of his Dragon's Fang met a shield of black ice.

Helgard's glacial blue eyes snapped open, her wounds already beginning to freeze over. To his eyes, slowed by the Nye essence, she seemed to drift to her feet, stretching slowly with a series of disgusting cracking sounds, as if her bones were snapping back into place.

He flipped up the hood of his cloak and swung Vasha overhand at her neck, taking advantage of the fact that she wouldn't quite be able to see him.

Two of Lirial's white stars blasted into the ground on either side of him, and the third crashed into his back. She had cast all three at him in the hopes of hitting him, since she couldn't pinpoint him exactly.

It had worked, but fortunately he'd anticipated her.

Instead of slamming into his unprotected back and pushing him forward into the Helgard Incarnation, the third star crashed into a plate of ghost armor and dispersed.

He turned and ran at Lirial. His initial strategy had been to overwhelm Helgard while she was injured, but since that obviously wasn't working, he would take out the weakest link in the chain first. Lirial was like Avernus: no matter how powerful the Traveler, they wouldn't be as useful in battle as most of the other Territories. He should be able to at least drive her off, keep her separated from her ally.

Down the row of tents, a few red-robed Naraka Travelers ran with leather-wrapped Endross Travelers, lightning already playing around their hands. Some of them carried storms the size of their two hands together, and they were headed toward him.

Good. He wouldn't have to hold out long, and then they could begin the real search: finding his family.

He stepped forward and drove Vasha into the Incarnation's crystal chest.

Well, he tried to.

When he maneuvered his sword for a stab, his hands stayed locked together, jerking him off-balance. Loops of solid crystal cuffed his wrists to one another.

He didn't even let that slow him down. Without a moment's hesitation, he jumped forward, intending to slam his stone-encased hands on the Lirial Incarnation's head.

In midair, he smacked into dark ice. Before he had a chance to react, the bar seemed to reach all the way around him, freezing into a wide circle of ice around his middle. The ice slowly levitated back down to the ground, locking him into an awkward position: twisted at the hips as if to stab, both hands clutching an immobile sword in front of him. The skin around his stomach was already starting to burn from the cold.

“I've been trying to do that since the fight began,” Lirial confided, running a hand over her crystal head. “Do you know—”

Indirial's legs were still free. He jumped up and slammed both his feet into the Incarnation's diamond chest.

With a satisfying crunch, she flipped over backwards, spinning a full revolution in the air before she crashed into the ground.

An instant later, he fell into the bar of ice on his back, slamming into his ribs, and only the Valinhall ice he had called into himself prevented him from screaming out in pain.

But seeing the Lirial Incarnation's face right before his boots slammed into it had been worth every second of agony.

Helgard peeked over at him as the shouts from the allied Travelers grew louder. A bright orange fireball shrieked into existence over him, but it snuffed out in a flurry of wind and snow almost before it finished forming.

“You're unspeakably interesting, did you know that?” Helgard said. “What keeps you going?”

He struggled, trying to stretch Vasha's point closer to the Incarnation. With her bar of ice around him, surely she would be less protected now.

“I keep waiting for one of you to open your mouth,” Indirial replied. “Then I attack. You'd be amazed how many people choose to talk instead of fighting.”

A pale bolt of lightning crashed into a nearby tent, setting it ablaze. “I see,” the Helgard Incarnation said, even as Lirial pulled herself up and brushed dirt from her jeweled skin.

“It was my own mistake,” Lirial allowed. “I should never allow myself to be anything less than perfectly attentive.”

Helgard flicked a blue hand in her direction, and a screaming orange wasp the size of a small dog froze solid and dropped before it reached Lirial. “Hmph. Of course it was.”

“Shall we go?”

“The Gate is still open.”

Indirial screamed and yelled, but the Incarnations met any attack from the crowd of Travelers without seeming to pay attention. The band of ice around his ribs dragged him into the air, pulling him behind them.

And into the Crimson Vault.

As soon as he vanished into the tent, his Travelers tore the fabric apart, blasting it into shreds and ash, trying to catch sight of him again. Indirial glimpsed a few desperate, friendly faces before the red Gate sealed shut.

Leaving him at the entrance of Ragnarus with two Incarnations.

Or...possibly three.

The sounds he typically expected from a trip to the Crimson Vault were all missing: he didn't hear the growls of a distant beast, or the rushing of a river that didn't exist, or the clatter of a dozen legs on the stone beyond this cavern. He heard only what might be a faint breeze blowing through a crack in the rocks, and nothing else.

But there was another detail that had changed from most of his visits: the silver doors, instead of staying closed, had been thrown wide open.

And through them, deep in the Vault, he could see a woman with red skin lounging on a dark chair. He thought she was looking at him, but it was hard to make out detail when staring into the depths of Ragnarus.

It wasn't any of the living Heiresses, he was sure of that, so it had to be the Ragnarus Incarnation. Had someone else in Cana trapped the Incarnation while the city was sealed? Had the Incarnation done it to herself?

Something inside him relaxed. He had been afraid, all this time, that when the barrier of Cana fell, they would find that Zakareth had Incarnated and had been soaking the city in blood. He knew that there had been a Ragnarus Incarnation sealed under the capital for hundreds of years, but somehow he'd always worried about seeing Zakareth with bright red skin or burning scarlet eyes.

At least his friend and king was truly dead, fallen in battle. In that, he could relax.

Lirial and Helgard chatted with one another about the armaments here, and the history of the place, and who the Founder must be, and whether the weapons were added regularly or if there were an unlimited number.

At first, he listened attentively, trying to sift through the banter for a clue to his release. But two things happened at once: first, he realized they were passing time waiting for something, and second, his ice ran out. Suddenly, the actual, physical ice wrapped around him seemed to burn, and his crystal-encased right hand flared as if he had dipped it in molten steel.

He almost screamed, but bit his lip. In front of some Incarnations, he'd be better off tossing bloody meat to a pack of wild dogs than releasing a scream. He didn't think Lirial or Helgard would be that vicious, but he couldn't take any chances.

Lirial examined a levitating javelin, silver-white crystals whirling around every inch of the weapon, when another Gate opened.

The Ragnarus Incarnation must have conjured it for them, because it was an ordinary red-bordered Gate to Ragnarus, leading out into the royal palace. The Blue Room had been decimated, its shattered blue tiles held together by twisting red wood and stone evidently summoned by the Ragnarus Incarnation, but he still recognized the remnants of the rooms.

Helgard and Lirial left, Helgard walking out of the shadows with a dissatisfied look, and Lirial giving one last, longing gaze to the vault full of weapons.

Helpless, Indirial drifted behind them, suspended in a prison of black ice.

He had spent most of the last twenty-five years in the royal palace, so it only took him a few minutes to map the passages in his head and realize where they were going: the throne room.

A sick feeling grew in his stomach, and he struggled against his bonds even as the last of his steel ran out and the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

Much of his job as King Zakareth's bodyguard had taken place in the throne room. When they reached the great double-doors, etched with a nine-pointed star and a bright red eye, Lirial flicked a single wrist toward the hall. Two crystals flew out, pushing the doors open.

The room had greatly changed since his last visit. He remembered it as a high, wide room with the royal throne at the end, and a row of tall windows on the east side. Banners had hung from the ceiling, and tables for documents and chairs for petitioners were often laid out on the wooden floors.

Practically the only thing that remained was the throne. The windows were gone, replaced by black stone that glowed with veins of sullen red, providing bloody light to the room. The banners were gone, spiked iron cages dangling in their places. Most of them were empty, and a few held corpses, but on first inspection he didn't see any living prisoners.

The throne remained intact and unchanged from when he'd last seen it: a solid block of ruby hewn into the shape of a wide chair, and ornamented in lines of gold. A man filled the seat, one elbow propped up on the armrest, his chin held in one hand. He wore a tall, spiked crown, and in his right hand he gripped a ruby-headed staff. From the bulk of his silhouette, he seemed to be wearing plate armor, and his left eye burned with a bright red light all its own.

Indirial almost screamed, trying to call more steel, trying to shatter his frozen bonds. But his steel had run out, and nothing he could do would summon more.

“Welcome home, Indirial,” King Zakareth said. He leaned forward, and Indirial got a better look at his face.

Patterns of red and gold swirled up over his skin, as though he had been painted with whorls of metallic paint. The mesh seemed to glow softly, but not enough to overshadow the light from his left eye, which gaped empty. Instead of the stone, which Zakareth had given to Indirial personally, his socket was filled entirely with swirling crimson flames. His right eye, which still looked more human, had turned from its usual icy blue to an unnatural shade of blood-red. Even his hair hadn't escaped unaltered: most of it was still iron-grey, but it showed odd threads of bright gold or ruby.

Indirial's greatest fears had come true. He had been afraid of any Ragnarus Incarnation, but in the same distant, vague way he would fear any Incarnation: not someone he would choose to fight if he got the chance, but not anything that would cause him to lose sleep at night, either. He was a Valinhall Traveler, after all. He feared very little that other Travelers could do to him.

But Zakareth...Zakareth knew him.

And that meant he could hurt Indirial very badly indeed.

“You know why I brought you here,” the King said, and his voice was so much the same that it filled Indirial with a mixture of revulsion, relief, and anger. Even his way of cutting straight to the topic at hand, without any sugar-coating or dancing around, proved that this was the real Zakareth.

“You want something from Valinhall,” Indirial said. “You're holding my family hostage until I give it to...”

He trailed off. That couldn't be right. Zakareth knew Indirial, better than almost anyone else. Surely, the King would know that Indirial wouldn't betray his Territory to save his family. He would do everything he could to rescue his wife and daughter, and if that failed, he would do everything in his power to end those responsible.

He wouldn't give in, and Valinhall could strengthen his body and fortify him against pain. So what did Zakareth want that taking Indirial's family would get him?

Cold washed through Indirial like a breath of Nye essence. “You want me,” he said.

Zakareth nodded.

“Why take Nerissa and Elaina, then? Zakareth, you can let them go. They're unnecessary.”

Pleading with King Zakareth the Sixth's pity was an exercise in futility, but appealing to his sense of efficiency could often work.

Then again, he realized, the King had never needed to take Indirial's family to get him here. The two Incarnations could have made sure of that on their own. And that meant...

He wanted them for something else.

“I do need you, Indirial,” King Zakareth said, his voice as blank and expressionless as ever. “It would have worked with any Valinhall Traveler, but when the fates were unkind to me, I decided to exercise my will more directly. And that meant I got to pick the Traveler I wanted.”

“All you had to do was tell me you were alive,” Indirial said. Maybe if he kept the King talking, he would reveal something about Nerissa or Elaina.

The King drummed his fingernails on the arm of his throne, and they clicked like stone-on-stone. “You would never have obeyed me as I am now. It is not within you. Not as you are.”

“Of course I would have!” Indirial lied. “I would always serve you.”

“On that, we agree.” Without any visible signal from Zakareth, two of the cages above began to lower, their chains rattling. Indirial wasn't sure whether the King was doing it himself or if Lirial or Helgard had done it for him, but that thought soon left his mind.

Nerissa, his wife, huddled in one cage, her back pressed against the bars, her knees drawn up to her chest. His daughter Elaina slammed her fist against the iron, shouting for him, telling him to run.

He had expected it, but the sight of his family still acted on him like a spark on tinder. He wrenched the last drop of liquid steel from Valinhall, surging to his feet and stumbling three feet toward the throne before tipping over forward, almost impaling himself on his own crystal-locked blade.

“I will hold them here,” Zakareth said. “I am in no rush. I require only one thing of you: survive, Indirial. If you don't, neither will they.”

The crystal holding his hands together vanished, and with a crack like a calving glacier, the ice around his middle dispersed into dark snowflakes. He shivered uncontrollably and pitched over, Vasha falling from numb hands.

His steel and Nye essence were completely out, and would take minutes to regenerate. He had other powers he could call, but none of them were likely to help him here. Worse, his chains wrapped almost all the way around his shoulders. He had to wait until his steel was back, but even so, would he be able to fight his family free before he transformed into another Incarnation to threaten them?

A bare foot, hard as stone, met him under the ribs and kicked him up. He landed on his knees, a flower of pain blooming in his chest, his breath leaving his lungs. The Lirial Incarnation stood over him, dispassionate, glancing into a crystal lens she held in her left hand as though she were more interested in what was happening far away than in his torture.

King Zakareth leaned back, resting against the throne. “We have time, Indirial. We don't eat. We don't drink. We don't sleep. And while you're here, neither will you. How long will you last, I wonder?”

Indirial couldn't help it: he called stone. The next kick hardly hurt, but when he tried to grapple with the Incarnation's crystal leg, he didn't have the strength to knock her on her back, as he intended.

The King wanted him to Incarnate. If he wanted to win, he would have to remain himself at all costs. But that meant not calling upon Valinhall, which would surely result in his death, not to mention the deaths of his only remaining family.

He would simply have to draw it out as long as possible. He'd endure as long as he could without Valinhall powers, and—once he called them—hold onto them as long as he could.

If he could only survive long enough, at some point, he'd think of a plan. He always did.

Korr whispered into his mind, more worried than Indirial had ever heard him. So much danger…

CHAPTER 18:

A CONVERSATION IN AVERNUS

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

3 Days Since Spring’s Birth

Leah marched through the undergrowth, her whole body burning from the aftermath of the fight in Enosh. She hardly knew how long it had been since she'd found herself in Avernus, but she and the raven, Eugan, had spent one night huddled under a wide-leafed bush, sheltered from the rain. She seemed to remember that time in Avernus moved more slowly than in the outside world, which meant two whole days may have passed in Damasca. Perhaps as many as four in Valinhall.

Leah tried to stop herself from wondering why no one had found her. She was capable of speech again, finally, but the other part of her crown's cost had yet to wear off.

She still couldn't summon Ragnarus. Even the Lightning Spear was nothing more than an ordinary weapon to her now—she had tried to throw it at a bird that startled her the night before, and the Spear practically flopped into a bush.

Leah didn't expect to be able to open a Gate to the Crimson Vault. That never worked in a Territory. But she could call on her Ragnarus weapons no matter where she was; it was the crown's price that prevented her from speaking and from using any other weapons from the Vault. After she used the circlet to issue one absolute command, it took time to release her from the cost, usually in proportion to the strength of the order. She had put everything she had into binding Alin, but it rarely took longer than twenty-four hours for the curse to wear off. If that remained true, she should be getting her Ragnarus powers back any time now.

Worse was her physical condition. She had suffered only minor wounds in the fight against Alin, but she was still painfully bruised in her left leg, her right hip, both her elbows, and her neck. She was covered in more scrapes and cuts than she liked to think about, and hiking through the Avernus wilderness wasn't helping that. More than that, throwing the Lightning Spear the way she had took its toll on her body. The pain that tortured her with every throw was more than in her mind, and her limbs still shook with echoes of that agony.

“How much farther?” she asked Eugan.

He screeched, and Leah may not have been an Avernus Traveler, but she got the message: 'Don't ask stupid questions.'

Then she pressed through the next clump of underbrush and found that she was standing on the top of a hill, overlooking a wide camp of wooden outbuildings and crude tents.

She looked over at Eugan, who had perched on a branch beside her head. “You could have told me,” she said.

The raven opened his beak and let out a raucous laugh.

Leah's whole body ached with pain, and she hadn’t slept last night, crouched as she was beneath a leaf and soaked with freezing rain while birds screamed practically in her ear. So, all things considered, her brain wasn't moving at its customary speed.

But she was still embarrassed when she realized she had stood there, staring at the Corvinus tribe Avernus outpost, for five minutes without making a move. She'd been wearily trying to construct a stealthy plan of approach that would allow her to survey the area and find a loyal Damascan Traveler who could open a Gate for her, but that would be idiotic. For one thing, she was a Lirial Traveler. She wouldn't need to go down there herself; she could summon a couple of scout crystals, direct them down there, locate an appropriate Traveler, and send Eugan to guide them back to her.

More importantly, everyone down in the camp had a mind-reading raven. They'd known she was coming long before she had.

Abandoning any attempt at stealth, Leah slipped and slid down the front of the muddy hill. She briefly considered concealing her identity: in Avernus, the Travelers tended to live based on tribal affiliations rather than national allegiance. There could be as many Enosh Travelers down there as Damascans, and even a substantial group who owed nothing to either side.

It wouldn't do her any good, though. The Avernus Travelers couldn't pull any specific thoughts from her through her crown—it was one of the crown's many protective functions, and she'd been thankful for it often—but they could still sense her presence, and likely that of Ragnarus as well. If a young woman came into their outpost whose mind they couldn't examine, carrying artifacts of the Crimson Vault...well, it wouldn't take a genius to draw the right conclusion.

So she entered with her head held high, as though she expected nothing more than generous treatment. She didn't pretend that she wasn't tired, because that would have been transparently ridiculous. She was wearing villager clothes that looked like they had been through a mudslide and a fire, not necessarily in that order. But she'd been taught that half the journey toward getting people to obey you was expecting them to do so.

Therefore, she walked into the Corvinus tribe as though she owned the whole outpost, nodding to everyone she met. Most of the people she passed wore feathers and soft leather, even children that were clearly too young to be Travelers. Small groups huddled in the doors of their cabins, whispering to each other in her wake.

Seven stones, how long is it going to take to get someone's attention?

Ravens flew everywhere, and for the first time since entering the Feathered Plains, she saw and heard nothing of any other type of bird. Only the black-feathered hunters like Eugan, perched on rooftops or fenceposts, occasionally fluttering out of doorways to get a look.

All of them staring at her with dark eyes. And all of them could surely sense her thoughts, if not read them in detail. So why wasn't someone here to help her?

At last, after she had covered half the length of the outpost, an Avernus Traveler walked up and bowed to her. She wore the same calf-length soft leather dress as most of the others, with black feathers arranged around her collar and in her sandy hair. A bronze-and-pearl badge at her chest, in the shape of a fan of brown-and-white feathers, marked her as a Traveler of Damasca rather than just someone living in the village.

“Your Highness,” she said. “Traveler Galene, at your service. If you would follow me, please, I can take you to the one who will serve you.”

Leah glanced up at Eugan. He had stuck with her all last night, so he was the closest thing to a native guide and a friend that she had in this place.

The raven cawed and landed on her shoulder, which she took to mean that she was doing the right thing. She nodded at Traveler Galene, who bowed again and walked off, clearly expecting her to follow. Leah did so, ignoring the whispers that drifted along behind her.

She ground the butt of the Lightning Spear into the mud, using it more and more as a walking stick. Her strength was starting to leave her, which put her on her guard. She needed to find a safe place where she could rest soon, or else a Gate out.

Galene finally stopped at a broad tent, much larger than the others, almost a campaign tent. It was propped up on smooth wooden poles at the corner and at the center, and the flap was secured by a complex knot in a white rope. It took Traveler Galene a moment to undo the knot, and when she drew the tent flap aside, Leah couldn't see anyone inside. Only a few candles burning, even though it was midday outside and the light filtering through the canvas should have been enough to see.

She thought she caught a glimpse of a spread wing and a few loose, drifting feathers, but that shouldn't have been a surprise—this was Avernus, home to ten thousand species of bird.

“After you,” Leah said. She wasn't about to trust the word of a Traveler she'd never met about the safety of a mysterious tent in a foreign Territory.

Traveler Galene shook her head, shooting a fearful glance into the tent. “I'm sorry, Highness. I'm not allowed.”

Who was in the tent? It wasn't Overlord Feiora, or the woman would have marched out and demanded to know why Leah looked like such a wreck. It can't have been Overlord Lysander, because—unless some other Lirial Travelers had been hard at work without her permission—he was still sealed in a crystal coffin on a hillside outside a random country village.

Which left the regional commander of this outpost, whoever it was. How could he or she inspire this much fear in their Travelers? Unless...

Goosebumps prickled along her arms, and she took a healthy step back. She twisted her arm so the crystal she wore there, suspended on a fine silver chain, caught a ray of sunlight.

It took her a long moment, and far more concentration than usual, all the while Traveler Galene insisted on interrupting her with questions that she, in turn, ignored. Finally, her call to Lirial was answered.

After another few seconds, her viewing lens fell into her hands. It was roughly the size of a dinner plate and made of smooth, translucent crystal.

With a slight mental effort, she focused on the person she wanted to see: the only Incarnation that she and Simon had managed to actually seal back into its Territory, these past six months. The only Incarnation they hadn't either watched escape or been forced to kill.

The Incarnation of Avernus.

Sure enough, the image resolved in her lens almost instantly: a face almost like a human woman, with eyes of a bird of prey and soft brown feathers instead of hair. Two pairs of wings rose in layers from her back, each wing a different color: one the deep black of a raven, one the gentle white of a seagull, one gray, and one a startling jade-green.

“Come on in, Leah,” the Incarnation's voice said from within the tent and inside the crystal at once. “I'm much more myself this time, compared to when we last met.”

When they'd last met, the Incarnation of Avernus had been a screeching madwoman who'd controlled the minds of the Damascan citizens around her, directing them like puppets.

“Just a moment,” Leah said, turning to leave.

Eugan hopped up from her shoulder and flew into the tent. After he left her view, he let out a sharp caw. She was sure that meant he wanted her to follow, but that made her walk faster. Of course he thought she should enter the tent; he was part of Avernus. He would likely laugh as his Incarnation stripped the flesh from Leah's bones.

Leah almost ran straight into a man's chest before she realized the inhabitants of the outpost were all standing in her way. Hundreds of ravens covered every nearby surface, staring at her, and the humans stood in front of them, silently barring her way.

Traveler Galene stepped up, blushing. “This...isn't what it looks like, Your Highness. She doesn't want to hurt you. She only wants to talk.”

Leah couldn’t imagine a worse time to be without her Ragnarus powers. If she had been at full strength, she would feel much more confident about facing an Incarnation of Avernus. Even though Avernus had accounted for hundreds of lives during her rampage, before Leah had managed to put a stop to it, she still wasn't much use in combat against another Traveler. With Ragnarus, Leah might have been willing to climb into the tent.

Without it, Leah was little more than a Lirial Traveler. And if there was any Territory that was just as unsuited for battle as Avernus, it was Lirial.

A voice sounded in Leah's mind, like one of Simon's dolls. I have news about your father.

Well, that was hardly fair.

I swear that I will not attempt to harm you, the Incarnation went on. You are free to come and go as you wish. I foretold that you would be abandoned in Avernus, which is why I asked Eugan several days ago to bring you here. I think Overlord Feiora told you, didn't she?

Come to think of it, the Overlord had said something about Leah going to Avernus. And the Incarnation wasn't acting like any other hostile Incarnation she'd ever met—which meant, essentially, that she hadn't tried to blast Leah to pieces or capture her for study.

And she'd promised news about Leah's father. It could have been a simple lie, but she would never forgive herself if she didn't at least find out for herself. Like any good Lirial Traveler would do.

Indirial would beg her not to take this risk.

She went inside anyway. Sometimes, if she wanted to make the right decision, she would have to wager her own safety. She kept her connection to Lirial open, tapping into her Source in case she needed to encase anyone in crystal.

She may have been taking an intentional gamble, but she didn’t have to be stupid about it.

Leah walked into the tent calmly, as though she were the one who had arranged this meeting. The interior was plainly furnished: a cot, a desk, a small chest, a pile of what might be mouse carcasses. Only the bare necessities for this Incarnation. She didn't let herself look shaken, adopting a careful mask of polite neutrality. The Incarnation couldn't read Leah's mind, so if she kept her expression blank, she ought to have an advantage. If her thoughts were blocked from influence, she had nothing to fear from this particular Territory.

Then she realized that the Incarnation had somehow managed to make psychic contact already, speaking to her through the protection of her crown. Leah clenched her fists to keep from bolting out of the tent.

Avernus herself sat on a stool to the right of the entrance, her four strikingly different wings folded up behind her. The bronze feathers that served her instead of hair had been tied back into a single tail, which ran between her wings, and she was wearing the same softened leather outfit as everyone else in the outpost.

“Feel free to have a seat,” the Avernus Incarnation said smoothly. She picked up a teacup that Leah hadn't noticed before, lifting it to her lips. “I'm sorry I only have the one cup. Just because I see pieces of the future doesn't mean I don't forget things. Would you like me to have another brought?”

“No, thank you,” Leah said. She didn't think anyone in Avernus would need to poison her—they would likely try and invade her mind directly, rather than through more subtle means—but she didn't know much about the plants of this Territory.

Besides, a quick nap on the bare cot in the corner looked more inviting than an entire pot of hot tea.

“I wanted to speak with you while you were here, because I didn't think I'd get another chance. As one of the last active Ragnarus Travelers, perhaps the last, you should know the truth behind what your family has been doing for three and a half centuries.” She spoke carefully and precisely, with no accent, as though she sculpted each word before it left her mouth.

“I appreciate your candor,” Leah said, though her tone remained a bit too dry.

The Avernus Incarnation chuckled and took another sip of tea. “But you have no reason to trust the truth from one of the mad Incarnations. Tell me, do I seem insane to you?”

Leah had to admit that she didn't, but crazy didn't necessarily mean foolish. An Incarnation as in control of herself as Avernus might be able to pretend sanity long enough that she could fool all but the most careful watchers.

“Incarnations become much less, after some time in their home. When a few months have passed, they will be Incarnations no longer.”

That made sense to Leah. “That’s why we get a reprieve after sealing the Incarnations into their Territories. For a few months, at least, they still exist as Incarnations, before they…fade away.”

“This is knowledge that has been lost throughout the years,” the Incarnation said wistfully. “I remember when that was not the case. I remember when the second Queen Cynara sealed me. I remember the rage...”

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment her raptor's eyes began to glow slightly, as if she had started to become once more the force of nature in her memory. But her eyes dimmed, and Leah relaxed.

“What has been lost?” Leah finally asked. “The knowledge that you're not insane?”

Avernus chuckled over her teacup. “Hardly. The knowledge that an Incarnation, in her own Territory, becomes nothing more than another native. We can't call on our full powers, we can't summon or banish, and we can't appear in the Unnamed World unless we are summoned by a Traveler.”

The Unnamed World. It was the oldest title of the outside world, what some called the 'real world': the place beyond the Territories. The ancient scholars had feared that to name their world, as they had the Territories, would somehow reduce it, and that by giving it a name they would be contributing to a potential apocalypse.

Leah's tutors had been of the opinion that these original scholars had simply been afraid to name their world, because that would make it seem more like a Territory. The idea that they were all living in the largest Territory instead of a whole, unique world was too terrifying for them to consider.

Either way, very few used the term 'Unnamed World' anymore, and it drove something home to Leah: this Incarnation was from a different age, when legends walked the earth and the Territories were still wild and free, rather than tools of war, trade, and commerce.

She would have to screen the Incarnation's words appropriately.

“We have that knowledge today,” Leah said. “That's why we sealed you here. If you seal an Incarnation back into its Territory, they fade away, and we earn a time of respite during which no other Travelers can take its place.”

The Incarnation of Avernus held out both hands, palms-up, and moved them up and down as though imitating weights on a scale. She had talons instead of fingernails.

“Hmmm...” she said. “True, but incomplete. An Incarnation is part of its Territory, no matter where she is. That's why, when she walks around, the world around her shapes itself to resemble her Territory. The Unnamed World seeks to correct a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“The Incarnations are not meant to exist in the Unnamed World,” Avernus said firmly. “They never were. Incarnation only happens to Travelers who upset the balance, and only because they draw too much of their Territory's power into themselves. Through Incarnation, they become part of their Territory, which means they are supposed to stay inside that Territory. Do you understand?”

Leah thought she did: Travelers in the outside world should rarely be able to Incarnate, except under certain specific conditions. However, she saw at least one flaw in the argument. “If that's true, why are there so many Incarnations running around in the Unnamed World?”

The Incarnation shook her head. “I wondered that for years. What do you know about the history of the Incarnations that Queen Cynara sealed?”

“Led by the Elysian Incarnation, they attacked the young nation of Damasca,” Leah said. “They were encouraged to gather as much support from their Territories as they could, so the Damascan Travelers wouldn't be able to oppose them...”

Leah trailed off as if she had finished, but in reality she had been struck by a sudden thought. She'd always imagined the ancient Incarnations as monsters from long ago, like mythological creatures that mothers used to frighten their children into behaving. Even after she found out what the sacrifice was for, and that the Incarnations were in fact sealed beneath most Damascan cities, she'd still thought of them as impossibly distant.

Now, it was striking her for the first time that she was sitting directly across from an ancient Incarnation. This woman had actually served under the first Incarnation of Elysia, marching against Queen Cynara the First and, later, was personally sealed by Cynara the Second.

Avernus smiled a little, as though she knew what Leah was thinking. Maybe she did. “I was a young Strigaia, a simple fortune-teller. A group of people approached me, saying they worked for the Elysians. They claimed they could teach me a way to see farther, to sense more, to grow closer to Avernus than I'd ever dreamed. I didn't trust them at first, but they seemed respected by the older Travelers, and some of my teachers even encouraged me to study with them. So I did.”

She took a sip of tea, then sighed regretfully. “It took me only a few months to Incarnate. When it first happens, you're almost overwhelmed by your new instincts. I lashed out mentally, and I'm afraid I crushed the minds of quite a few bystanders whose only crime was to be standing near me. But, above all, I struggled to get back to my Territory. Those teachers, the supposed Elysians, stopped me. They held me back.

“When my mind was my own again, they explained to me that, if I returned to my Territory, I would be trapped. I didn't want to go after hearing that, so they found it easy to persuade me to join with Elysia. I want what Avernus wants: true community, on an honest and open level, nothing hidden. Complete loyalty and dedication...They said I could achieve that among all the Avernus Travelers, and even including some Travelers of other Territories. We would be one, and I would get a chance to understand people I had never met.”

The Incarnation's face crumpled up, either in disgust or in suppressed tears, Leah wasn't sure. She tilted her head back and drained her teacup in one shot.

Silently, Leah pulled apart the Incarnation's story. It fit the facts, but it would be easy for her to craft a lie that Leah couldn't possibly see through. With events that happened so long ago, what objections could she have?

Above anything else, she was sure that the Avernus Incarnation wasn't giving her this information out of the goodness of her avian heart. She was building up to something, and Leah had to find out what it was.

“I suspect the other eight had similar stories,” Avernus continued. “Well, perhaps not Elysia, but certainly the other seven. What about the modern Incarnations? Valinhall, Ragnarus, that second Endross Traveler?”

“Ragnarus is an ancient Incarnation,” Leah said, confused. “It was sealed before you were. Isn't that right?”

Avernus rubbed her forehead with a taloned hand. “I get ahead of myself, I'm sorry. Valinhall and the new Endross, then.”

“No. No, we're not going to switch topics because you think the timing isn't appropriate. Tell me what you were going to say about the Ragnarus Incarnation. Is it my brother? My father?”

Leah held her breath, fearing and hoping. If it was her father, that meant he was alive—in a manner of speaking—and that she could deal with him. If Talos had somehow survived and Incarnated...well, at least killing him would be easier than dealing with King Zakareth the Sixth.

The Avernus Incarnation sighed. “Your father.”

She nodded, too sick to say anything. It was one thing to suspect, but quite another to have her fears confirmed at once.

“I'm sorry, Leah. I truly am. But please, concentrate on the questions I asked you. Why did the Valinhall Incarnation and Endross give in? What happened to them?”

Leah answered automatically, her mind still focused on her father as an Incarnation. “Valinhall was the one who created the Territory. His name was Valin. If I recall correctly, he Incarnated because he had some sort of personal vendetta against my grandfather. Or perhaps because he opposed the system of sealing the Incarnations under the Hanging Trees, I'm not completely sure.”

Avernus was chewing on her bottom lip, a surprisingly human gesture from a woman with two sets of wings. “The Founder of Valinhall became an Incarnation? I thought the two were mutually exclusive...would it make him more powerful, I wonder, or simply unique?” Abruptly she shook herself, and all the feathers on her body ruffled at once, then flattened. “I apologize. But notice that, either way, he was driven to Incarnation to oppose the reigning trend of keeping us sealed. Indirectly, he Incarnated because we did. And the other Endross?”

“He was a follower of the ancient Endross Incarnation. When we killed the first one, he saw his chance to become, as his own followers believed, a demigod. There were almost a dozen of them trying anything they could to transform, and he was the first to succeed.”

The Incarnation pointed at Leah with a taloned finger. “That's it. You see? He intentionally chose to do it to imitate an Incarnation he'd already seen. There is a pattern at work here, not simply unfortunate chance.”

Step by step, Leah worked it through in her mind. If the Avernus Incarnation was telling the truth—and for the sake of argument, she had to assume that was the case—then at least eight of the original nine Incarnations had been lured to transform outside of a Territory.

The Avernus Incarnation leaned in, her hawk’s eyes sharp on Leah. Her wings had stretched out now, so the white and the emerald feathers were actually pressing against the canvas of the tent. “You see it,” she stated, with absolute certainty. She folded her wings back in and crossed her legs, wearing a smug smile. Idly, Leah noted that her feet were complete bird talons.

“Why would anyone do this?” Leah asked. “Who benefits from creating wild, murderous Incarnations instead of allowing them to serve their Territory?”

Avernus raised her teacup to her lips, realized it was empty, and tossed it behind her. It landed on the ground with a tinkle of broken porcelain. “No one, as far as I know. But that’s not what happened, is it?”

Behind her, a pair of hands reached in underneath the canvas. They scooped the shattered teacup into a dustpan and quickly retreated.

Leah spoke her thoughts aloud. “The Incarnations were born here, instead of in their Territories. There was a war, and they were sealed.”

“So for three hundred years…”

“…we haven’t had to deal with any Incarnations,” Leah finished. The implications were unsettling.

“When the Incarnations exist in our own Territories, we advance our own goals, even at the expense of foreign Travelers,” Avernus said. “Many Incarnations would destroy outposts, waylay or deceive merchant caravans, or seduce Travelers into their service. So who benefits from nine Territories free of any Incarnations?”

Leah thought of the single, dominating factor that had allowed Damasca to prosper and flourish under her family for the last three-and-a-half centuries. They didn’t need an intricate system of roads or communication, because messages and goods passed through Territories. They never had to fear drought or plague, because they could always get their crops from Avernus or Asphodel. Their borders were secure from all but Enosh, because the ways in and out of each Territory were secured by semi-permanent outposts. Until recently, the Overlords had been kept in line because only the royal family could deal with the Hanging Trees…and the creatures sealed beneath their roots.

If anyone turned a profit from Territories that were easier to control, it was Damasca.

At last, Leah answered the question.

“I do,” she said.

CHAPTER 19:

CREATING INCARNATIONS

Indirial hadn’t eaten in two days. He hadn’t slept. Neither he, nor his wife, nor his daughter had been given a drop of water. None of his bones had been broken, and he wasn’t bleeding badly enough to endanger his life. The Incarnations were very careful to preserve him as they kicked him, taunted him, sent phantom noises into his mind, lured his eyes with illusions, tore his skin and bruised his flesh…

And through it all, King Zakareth watched. Indirial didn’t think the man had moved in forty-eight hours. He sat on the ruby throne of Damasca, leaning on his elbow. Watching.

“Don’t be a coward, Indirial,” the King said. “Face the challenge and overcome it. Fight for freedom. Earn it.”

Every few hours he would make similar announcements, appealing to the Valinhall philosophy of fighting for what you wanted.

He didn’t realize that Indirial was already fighting. Not for his own desires, but to keep his enemy’s plan from succeeding. He struggled to keep from calling on his Territory.

He’d been forced to draw on Valinhall to stay conscious, to see through illusions, to burn poison from his veins, to deflect a spear launched at his daughter. Now, as the Ornheim Incarnation lifted him in one rocky fist, preparing to drop him one more time to the floor below, he could only feel one thing: the black chains wrapping around his throat.

They were too close. His time was almost up. It was a miracle that he’d lasted this long without going over the edge.

Ornheim dropped him, and he fell.

When he hit the tiles, he heard the damage to his body more than he felt it. It sounded like a solid, meaty crunch. Maybe he had finally reached the point where he was too numb to feel anything else. If so, he thanked the Maker for it. That meant death was close; he could die with a clean conscience.

His neck was twisted around against the tiles. Not enough to snap his spine, no matter how much he wished that were the case, but enough to force him to stare at Nerissa and Elaina in their cages. Nerissa had stopped whispering words of encouragement yesterday, when she had apparently lost her voice. She sat huddled in her cage now, her ice-white eyes strangely blank and locked on him. Even Elaina had gone quiet, though both her fists were scraped and raw from where she’d hammered on the bars of her dangling cage. Her eyes were closed, but she jerked and whimpered at every sound.

They wouldn’t survive him long. That was what the King had promised, and Indirial didn’t doubt that he meant it. Once Indirial was dead, Zakareth had no reason to keep Nerissa and Elaina alive or around. He would either execute them and toss their bodies out as refuse, or leave them here until they died. Indirial prayed for the former.

King Zakareth held up one hand, and the Ornheim Incarnation froze. It looked like one of the Territory’s golems, but intricately carved with the detailed features of a tough older man, his skin lined with years. The Incarnation was made out of a fine white stone, with lines of every color running through him. In other circumstances, Indirial would have called this creature beautiful.

“Get back to work,” Zakareth ordered. The Incarnation rumbled deep inside its chest, glaring at the King with what Indirial recognized as restrained hatred. Its marble fists slowly closed, with a sound like grinding gravel.

He almost expected Ornheim’s eyes to be gemstones—that was the tradition in Ornheim golems. Instead, they were far more bizarre for looking disturbingly human, as though someone had imprisoned a man’s eyes in a statue. The effect was doubly disconcerting when they shone with hot rage.

But the King rapped his staff down on the floor, and Ornheim simply bowed at the waist and walked out, its footsteps crashing on the tiles.

Indirial let himself relax. Maybe he would be able to snatch a few minutes of sleep, or at least fade into unconsciousness to forget the damage to his body. If he was lucky, the King would lose his patience and execute him while he slept.

Zakareth gestured again, and a stream of silver mist flowed in the doors.

Indirial struggled weakly, thrashing and trying to persuade his body to move. He almost pushed himself up, but his arms were too weak.

Is it worth calling steel?

He considered for a moment, sorely tempted. He would have plenty of strength to get up and fight this new Incarnation, at least as long as his steel lasted. But the price was too great.

No, that’s what he wants.

Indirial fell back down, his elbows collapsing under his own weight, chin smacking against the floor.

The boots of the Asphodel Incarnation clicked as he walked past Indirial without a word. The Overlord couldn’t see anything of his enemy above the knees, but the boots seemed to be made of gracefully flowing wood and decorated with vines that sprouted tiny, brightly colored flowers. A wave of Mist flowed behind Asphodel like a cape.

King Zakareth liked to move the Incarnations around in rotation, using their unique abilities to torment Indirial in new and unexpected ways. Over the past two days, he’d seen six of the nine Territories: Avernus, Naraka and Tartarus had yet to make an appearance, but he’d personally witnessed that Avernus had been sealed back into her Territory. That left Naraka and Tartarus. Maybe Zakareth hadn’t been able to recruit either of them, or maybe he was saving them for some hideous torture later.

But of everyone he’d seen so far, the Asphodel Incarnation was the worst.

Asphodel swept a bow, his mist-cape billowing behind him. “Zakareth, allow me to compliment you on your excellent health and keen sense of color coordination.” A smile shone through his words, though Indirial couldn’t see his face. “How may I serve the throne today?”

Each of the Incarnations had reacted differently, confronted with the man who had effectively imprisoned them for three hundred years. Indirial kept track of these reactions in the hope that, against all odds, he would be able to use the information against his enemies someday.

Lirial and Helgard seemed to let their curiosity overwhelm their resentment, but every once in a while anger would burn through. Ornheim had stated his objections clearly, and Endross had openly tried to kill Zakareth every time he was summoned, but Zakareth forced them both into line with his Rod of Harmony. Asphodel was the only one who seemed genuinely not to care about his three centuries of inactivity and torment.

It was entirely in character for him. Asphodel Travelers, as a rule, didn’t allow themselves to experience much emotion. The Incarnation wouldn’t have feelings, he’d simply feed on the feelings of others.

“Educate the prisoner,” King Zakareth ordered, his burning crimson gaze returning to Indirial.

Asphodel bowed once more. “Yes, Majesty. And I must remark once more on how intimidating you look. Sitting there in your bright red throne, left eye glowing, cages dangling overhead…not to mention the implicit threat of the Rod in your right hand, and the whole armor-and-spiky-crown image. Your enemies must positively quake with fear.”

The speech was delivered in the same smooth, content, slightly disinterested voice, as though he were complimenting a poorly paid gardener.

“I have many uses for your time,” King Zakareth said, not shifting position in the slightest. The ruby on top of the Rod of Harmony flared. “Stop wasting it.”

The Asphodel Incarnation waved away the threat, turning to walk away from Indirial. The floor tiles cracked as a vine as thick as an oak tree curled up from the soil beneath, blooming into a flower big enough to swallow a man whole. Asphodel settled back into the soft yellow petals, which contoured around his form to make a seat.

“Ah, Ragnarus,” the Incarnation said with a sigh. “Territory of overt violence and instant gratification. Mine is the art and science of subtlety. The audience should be quiet and watch.”

King Zakareth’s face hardened even further at that, and Indirial dared to hope that he would take the time to teach Asphodel a lesson. The King had never learned how to take orders, and Indirial couldn’t believe that Incarnation had changed that about him.

But the Incarnation of Asphodel didn’t seem to care what Zakareth did. He lounged in his flower, plucking petals from his hair.

This Incarnation was somehow both more and less human than many of the others Indirial had seen. He didn’t look like a monster, which already put him above Endross and Ornheim, but he was covered in clothes made of living roots and ornate bouquets. His skin was pale, but it was the white of a lily, not of healthy flesh. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in locks of silver, ornamented with a circlet of yellow, red, and blue flowers. His eyes were soft lavender, and he wore an amused expression as he stared down his nose.

Straight at Indirial.

Asphodel’s head snapped up in alarm. So did the King’s.

“Go find—” Zakareth began, but a door-sized section of the stone wall blasted inward, scattering the throne room with rubble.

Simon shot in through the hole, nothing more than a blur of black-and-silver to Indirial’s exhausted eyes. The boy dropped his huge Tartarus steel hammer to the floor, pulling Azura out of midair as he ran.

Still moving, he swung the Dragon’s Fang in a gleaming arc through Asphodel’s neck. The Incarnation had raised one hand as if to stop him, but it did no good. When Asphodel’s head rolled across the tiles, it still wore a look of mild surprise.

Simon brought Azura down with both hands on the King, who managed to block with his staff. The Rod of Harmony wasn’t made for melee combat, though, and Simon’s Tartarus steel blade sent a chip of gold spinning off into the distance.

Red light leaked from the Ragnarus weapon, and even Zakareth’s eyes widened in alarm.

Simon threw himself backwards as the Rod exploded, sending shards rocketing everywhere in the hall. In their hanging cages, Nerissa and Elaina cowered, protected from the debris by the bottoms of their steel prisons. Indirial himself tried to keep his eyes open despite the almost overwhelming desire to squeeze them shut: he had to see Simon strike the final blow, had to know that his torment was finally over.

The throne had been broken into pieces by the explosion, lying in boulder-sized chunks of ruby. Of King Zakareth there was no sign, but a larger pile of rubble in the back corner of the room shifted.

Then Simon was there, helping Indirial to his feet. The pain that shot through him felt like being hit by an Endross lightning bolt combined with having Benson beating him into the pavement, but he didn’t complain.

“Did you…” his voice gave out, so he tried again. “Did you get him?”

Simon was wearing that mask of his, half his face silver and the other half black, so Indirial couldn’t see his expression. His voice echoed hollow. “No, I just stunned him. We have to hurry; can you make a Gate, if I hold him off?”

Indirial considered for an instant. He’d have to call steel to keep himself on his feet, and then summon Vasha and cut the Gate. Considering how much space his chains had left…

“Barely,” he said. “You’ll have to save my family.”

Simon nodded, and King Zakareth rose from the pile of rubble, his burning eye almost a blood-red bonfire. He pointed the Rod of Harmony in Simon’s direction, though Indirial wasn’t exactly sure what it would do when used against Simon in the mask. The Rod was meant to turn a Traveler’s own powers against him, but since Valinhall’s powers were internal, would it even work? The mask had originally been an artifact of Ragnarus; would that change anything?

Is this real? he wondered. It seemed real, and he didn’t doubt that Simon would have headed off to Cana as soon as he learned that Indirial had been captured.

But he had to know for sure.

Valinhall offered a host of powers to deal with physical threats: he could make his bones and muscles stronger, armor his skin, burn away poison, increase his body’s ability to heal, numb pain, block direct attacks…practically any threat he might face in battle could be blocked or reversed by the forces he could summon from the House of Blades. But against mental attack, they only had one defense.

Until this point, Indirial had avoided using it. He had even survived Asphodel’s last visit without it, by reminding himself over and over that the images he saw of his family being tortured to death were within his own mind. But this...this didn’t seem like the kind of thing the Asphodel Incarnation could make up. How would he even know who Simon was?

Just in case, Indirial called diamond.

All at once, the world clarified. It didn’t slow, as when he summoned the essence of the Nye, nor did his senses heighten. Everything simply…made more sense, as if the weight on his thoughts had finally lifted.

Indirial glanced at Simon, who was pulling his hand away from Indirial’s shoulders, preparing to charge Zakareth.

How did he find out I was missing? Only the Damascan camp knew, and none of them could have gone to the House. Besides, Simon’s still recovering from the last time he used the mask. If he wore it again, he would become the Valinhall Incarnation before I got a chance.

“This is a pathetic attempt, Asphodel,” Indirial said. “I hope you didn’t expect me to believe this.”

The scene wavered and blew away like smoke in the wind, the masked Simon vanishing to nothing. The Asphodel Incarnation sat, unharmed, in his blossoming chair, idly chatting with Zakareth. “…the information comes from within them, you see,” Asphodel was saying. “All I have to do is nudge it, give it form.”

King Zakareth hadn’t twitched. He still leaned with his elbow against the arm of his throne, Rod of Harmony on the other hand, looking at Indirial.

Indirial was actually standing, which was unexpected. He had thought everything about the scene must have been an illusion, but evidently the Incarnation had coaxed him to his feet even with his broken body. Remarkable.

He felt that same agony now, but he set it out of his mind. It was only pain.

“It seems you are to be congratulated, Asphodel,” King Zakareth said. There was no triumph in his voice, only utter confidence.

The Asphodel Incarnation buffed his fingernails on the edge of his flower-petal shirt. “Well, I hate to brag, but I am the best.”

“Congratulations,” Indirial said, “I’ve called on Valinhall.” He knew with perfect clarity that, a moment ago, he would have released the diamond immediately, fearing to push himself past his limit. If his debt to Valinhall grew too great, he would Incarnate.

But so what?

Zakareth wanted him to become an Incarnation because the King believed he could control Indirial with the Rod. But he wasn’t even certain the Rod of Harmony would work on a Valinhall Traveler, who kept all his powers within himself. Beyond that, King Zakareth had obviously been unable to command Valin to any degree, or the original Valinhall Incarnation would still be living under Damascan rule.

So the solution became utterly clear.

Situation: the enemy is holding two priority targets hostage. He has left me the freedom to call on my Territory because his objective requires me to do so.

Primary Objective: free the hostages, take them to Valinhall.

Secondary Objective: total destruction of all enemy forces.

Question: do I allow him to accomplish his objective in order to accomplish mine?

Nerissa was pressed against the edge of her cage now, calling something, but Indirial didn’t listen. It wouldn’t be combat-relevant information, so he didn’t waste his attention.

Indirial glanced between the Incarnations of Asphodel and Ragnarus. Could he take them both? Asphodel was hardly a threat; with the diamond protecting his thoughts, he could destroy that Incarnation in short order. So would he be able to kill an impossibly powerful Ragnarus Traveler in one-on-one combat?

I can’t be sure, he concluded. There’s too much in the Crimson Vault that I’m not aware of. As far as I know, he has some weapon that controls Incarnations without any possibility of resistance, and the cost was too expensive for him to pay while he was a human. I should release the…

Something in his thoughts clicked together as the last link of chain formed around his throat.

…no, my reasoning is flawed. Of course I can win an open battle.

I am Valinhall.

***

The Avernus Incarnation settled back on her wings, holding a newly delivered tea-tray in her hands. This one held a pot and two cups, in case Leah might change her mind.

This time, she accepted. There had been water out in the wilderness, but she was still thirsty. Besides, whether Avernus was lying or not, Leah thought the threat of being poisoned had passed. And she wanted something to do while they talked.

Leah took a sip, finding it a balanced blend of savory sweetness. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised; much of Damasca's tea was imported from the Feathered Plains. The Asphodel blends were better, but most people didn't trust leaves harvested from a Territory known for poison and mental deception.

“Who would try to control the Incarnations like that?” Leah asked, trying to steer their conversation back on track.

Avernus ruffled her feathers in what looked like her equivalent of a shrug. “Other than your ancestors, I have no idea, though I had some passing familiarity with Queen Cynara the First. She seemed genuinely enraged at the Elysian Incarnation's manipulation of us, calling us abominations and all that. Perhaps she was simply an excellent actress, I don't know. And as for the one who first led us, the Incarnation of Elysia herself...” Avernus shook her feathered head. “She was honest to a fault, which I suppose came from her Territory. She never told a lie or ordered another to do so, even when it would have been tactically sound. And I never sensed any deception or ambition in her, just a warped desire to guide us to a better future.”

At last, they were beginning to get to the portion of the conversation where the Avernus Incarnation started to conceal how much she knew. Leah had wondered when they'd get to this part. “As I understand it, you Incarnated during a war between Ragnarus and Elysia. If, as you say, someone manipulated you into it, then how can you possibly believe it wasn't someone representing one side or the other?”

Avernus looked down into her cup, swirling one talon idly on the surface of the tea. “It is more accurate to say our Incarnation ignited the war, rather than occurred as a byproduct. As for who placed the pieces on that particular board...I must admit that I don't know.”

Very carefully, she set her teacup aside and leaned in toward Leah, her raptor eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “However, I've told you all this for a single purpose: to illustrate to you that this current system is unnatural. It was engineered! This whole, messy business with all nine—or eleven, I suppose—Incarnations running around, it would never occur in nature. You simply have to find a way to restore the original balance.”

As reluctant as Leah was to accept the advice of an Incarnation regarding the current policy toward her kind, she would be foolish to turn down any information about old Damasca. No matter how biased the source. “What would a balanced world look like, then?” she asked. “As you helped me realize, I would ruin myself if I allowed the Territory outposts to be destroyed.”

Avernus smiled. “That's the beauty of it! You don't have to give up the outposts. Simply run them by the Incarnation's laws, not yours. The Territories have a symbiotic relationship with their Travelers, and most Incarnations know it. So, for instance, if the Naraka outpost were subject to its own justice system outside of Damascan law, the Naraka Incarnation should be perfectly satisfied. The Asphodel Incarnation...well, I have practically no idea what the current Asphodel Incarnation wants, but in general those outposts should remain untouched as long as everyone knows to steer clear of the Mist.”

“And what about Avernus?” Leah asked pointedly.

“Arrange the outposts according to tribe rather than national allegiance,” the Incarnation said.

Leah thought of the outpost in which she sat: Damascan and Enosh Travelers lived together with their families, and she had seen no birds but ravens. “That seems to be the trend already,” she said dryly.

“Then you truly have nothing to lose.”

If the whole situation was as simple as the Avernus Incarnation seemed to think, then Leah would give up her crown to her insane sister Cynara and go off and live as a hermit in the most desolate part of Lirial. For one thing, she couldn't see the Endross Incarnation standing for an outpost under any circumstances. Even if he agreed to it initially, there was nothing to stop him from blowing it to splinters when a violent mood took him.

There were other holes in the plan as well. “Am I to believe that, if we sorted out all the current Incarnations into their original Territories, that all my problems would be solved?”

“No, of course not,” Avernus said, picking up the corpse of a dead rat and casually biting off its head.

Leah was rather proud of herself for keeping her composure at that moment. She even managed to take a casual sip of her tea.

“There's no stopping human nature,” the Incarnation said, munching on the rat's bones. A bit of blood dribbled down her chin, and Leah took a quick gulp of scalding tea to keep herself from becoming sick. “Travelers would still Incarnate here and there, but this whole mess with nine people Incarnating at the same time would never happen again without direct intervention. All you would have to do is deal with the Incarnations as they pop up, which should be relatively simple.”

Simple? Would it be simple when a Naraka Incarnation emerged in the center of Bel Calem, burning an entire city block to the ground before her Travelers could get there and seal him? Leah couldn't believe that Avernus didn't see these problems—maybe she was reducing the problem for the sake of rhetorical argument, but Leah still thought she was painting over some fairly serious objections.

Even more than that, what motivation did she have to listen?

“The Hanging Trees have worked for my ancestors for generations,” Leah said, watching the Incarnation for a reaction. “Why should I value your solution over theirs?”

Very carefully, Avernus set the decapitated rat down on the tea tray. “The time beneath the Tree was...unpleasant. It was like a restless sleep, plagued with nightmares, in which I could almost wake up, but never quite enough. During those times when I slept the lightest, I could feel the Tree feeding on me, draining my power away one sip at a time. It was like having leeches all over my body, taking away my blood drop by drop. For three hundred years. Time still moved for me, there under the ground, even if I slept through most of it. Instead of three centuries, it felt like...let's say, one. Would you like to be trapped for a hundred years?”

To keep her reaction blank, Leah took a sip of tea.

“Birds are meant to fly free, with the entire sky behind them,” Avernus went on. “Being locked in the earth for so long...I can't describe it to you. It's the reason why I insisted on a tent this big—” she waved around her, indicating the high ceiling—“but also why I demanded a tent at all. If I didn't keep myself inside, I'm afraid I would start flying and never stop...”

Her voice trailed off, and in spite of her determination not to let an Incarnation's words sway her, Leah couldn't help but ache for her. She had never thought of it quite like that before: unable to move, buried alive for generations, fed upon by a vampiric tree from another Territory. Death would be a welcome relief.

“Thank you for your perspective,” Leah said, and stood. If Avernus was lying, then Leah had done nothing more than waste a few minutes in exchange for a quick trip back to the outside world. If she was telling the truth, then Leah had gained valuable information. Either way, it was time to leave. “Please have one of your Travelers send me back to my camp. If I wish to consult with you further, will I still find you here?”

The Avernus Incarnation didn't stand, but she did stretch out both pairs of mismatched wings, reaching from one wall of the tent to the other. “The next time you set foot in Avernus, wherever you enter, you don't need to worry about finding me. I’ll find you.”

She opened her mouth and made a sound like a raven's caw, and two ravens fluttered in. One of them, Leah somehow recognized as Eugan—she couldn't remember him flying out, but he must have left the tent at some point. They flapped over to Leah, landing one on each of her shoulders.

“Take Eugan back to his Overlord, if you would,” the Incarnation said. “She's looking in entirely the wrong part of this Territory, and I can see that you will encounter her before I will. Murin, on your left shoulder, is my gift to you. She does not belong to you, but I have no doubt that you will find a use for a mind-reading raven in the Damascan court. She will serve you for as long as you wish, and help advise you on the matter of the Incarnations.”

Murin made a sound in Leah's ear that sounded like a gurgling purr. She couldn't think of a way to get rid of the raven short of killing her and enraging the Incarnation, so it looked like Avernus had managed to literally perch a spy on Leah's shoulder. Even if everything else the Incarnation had said was completely accurate, this alone would have reminded Leah never to trust anyone who tried to ambush her for a meeting.

She hoped the raven would at least learn to speak a language she could understand. If she had to interpret a code of squawks directly into her ear, she would go deaf.

“I'm overwhelmed by your generosity,” Leah said, smiling warmly to cover up the irony in her voice.

“Galene will take you home,” the Incarnation said, but then she hesitated. “However you choose to deal with the Incarnations, I hope you remember this one thing. We are not pure evil, no matter what you think, nor pure forces for destruction. We are, as our name suggest, simply incarnations of our Territories.”

“I’ve tried to believe that,” Leah said honestly. “But it's hard to do, when we can lay such a toll in death at your feet.”

Avernus sighed. “An Incarnation in the Unnamed World is like a hawk pushed into a river. At first they panic. The instant an Incarnation is created, the very first moment when they begin the transformation, that's when they're the most dangerous. The compulsion to act according to their Territory is overwhelming, and it's not until later that their own will comes back into play. For hours, even days...well, I'm afraid at that stage there's no appealing to reason. You just have to try and survive.”

CHAPTER 20:

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW ENEMIES

There was a straight sword in his left hand and a Dragon's Fang in his right, and Indirial was falling toward King Zakareth. He didn’t know how it had happened. He didn't remember jumping or summoning either weapon, but now he hung in the air, ready to draw blood.

He hadn't called Nye essence, nor did Benson's cold steel flow through his veins. And yet, somehow, the world slid slowly by. He felt enough power in his hands to rend iron.

He didn’t need to hold the diamond anymore—the power was part of him now. His every thought was precise, filtered to absolute clarity by the focus of the Valinhall diamond. In that clear, cold light, his future became simple.

He was going to kill Zakareth. Then Asphodel. After that, he would begin the selection process: there were too many Travelers, too many people, who weren't strong enough to hold their own in combat. He would be doing them a disservice if he didn't attack. They would learn or they would die, and if they failed, he would be sparing them a worse death in the future.

It was so simple, he couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it before.

Vasha struck first, because of her length, but King Zakareth brought up a black-and-gold shield directly from his Territory. The tip of the Dragon's Fang skittered to one side, repelled by something more than mere metal.

Indirial reversed the infantry sword in his left hand, driving it down like a dagger toward the Damascan King's crown.

Zakareth's expression didn't falter, though the red light of the room glittered in the odd ruby and gold swirls on his skin. He met the second blow with the shaft of Rod of Harmony. The Ragnarus artifact didn't shatter, as it had done in Indirial's vision, so the King managed to knock both of Indirial's strikes aside.

He remained motionless, focused, determined. Indirial knew him well enough to guess his thoughts: the King truly believed that the future held nothing but victory, so not a single wrinkle of worry marred his expression. He was that confident.

Indirial landed with both feet on the stone, but he drew one leg up and kicked Zakareth in the chest.

Red bolts of lightning, like tiny flickering worms, crawled all over the King's black armor. The ruby at the center flared, but some power of the Crimson Vault had scattered the strength of Indirial's kick.

It hadn't worked, and Zakareth was moving his Rod of Harmony forward, so Indirial dropped his swords and fought bare-handed. He slapped the Rod aside with the back of his left hand, bringing the right up to wrap around the King's throat.

King Zakareth's command flared with the light of the Crimson Vault, sending another flash of light rolling through the hall. He spoke only one word: “Surrender.”

Indirial's hand unclenched without his will, as though a muscle spasm had seized his fist and forced it to open. His knees buckled, and he flopped to the ground at the King's feet.

Without a look of triumph or celebration, the Ragnarus Incarnation raised the Rod of Harmony. He didn't look like someone who had defeated a worthy foe. To him, the outcome of this fight had never been in doubt.

Indirial, on the other hand, felt fantastic.

This is what I was missing, he thought. He had never realized how long he'd lived without a real opponent. Sure, he had Travelers to kill every once in a while, and some of them even posed something of a challenge. Other times, an enemy would catch him off-guard, and he would suffer a severe injury.

That danger had given him an illusion of satisfaction, but now the veil had been ripped from his eyes. He wasn't satisfied. He had never been satisfied! Valinhall wasn't meant for crushing the weak, it was meant to challenge those with even more power.

So as the King activated the Rod of Harmony, a single spark of light igniting in the tip of the ruby, he must have seen something in Indirial's grin. He hesitated.

Indirial felt it when the chains on his skin turned to steel.

The marks of Valinhall had never grown up to his scalp or down over his face, as they had with Valin. They began at his wrists, wrapped around his midsection and down to his feet, but they ended in a collar around his neck. And suddenly, they flashed from black to shining chrome.

Doors opened in Indirial's mind as though he walked through the House of Blades, throwing open each new room and devouring the power within. He called nothing specific, but the ruby light binding him was a simple thing to throw off, so long as he had a moment of spare concentration. And the King had hesitated.

Indirial bent all his focus to the commands of the Ragnarus crown, and he sliced through that power like a Dragon's Fang through a length of twine. Still wearing his grin, he strode toward King Zakareth.

For a fraction of a second noticeable only because of the half-frozen world around him, the Incarnation of Valinhall stared into the eyes of Ragnarus.

Zakareth's eyes widened—the first time his expression had changed since the fight began—and the jewel at the top of the Rod of Harmony flashed.

The red light crashed around Indirial like a warm wave, but he'd called no external powers from the House. The Rod found no purchase, nothing to turn against him, and he exulted in the freedom.

That was one gamble won...but it wasn't even much of a gamble, was it? Of course he'd won. He was unstoppable.

Indirial summoned Vasha, and he could fully sense her personality for the first time. Every other time he'd held the blade, he could only feel Vasha as a distant mind. At times, he'd wondered if she was even real.

Now, her cold hunger for battle flowed through him, matching his own. But there were other things that didn't feel quite right, so he stood in place, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Ah, that’s right. The King had banished his medallion, Korr, almost as soon as Indirial had been captured. Incarnation of Valinhall or not, he wanted his advisor.

Ordinarily, he couldn't summon his advisor directly from the House, but it seemed so straightforward now. He simply willed it to happen, and Korr vanished from Valinhall and appeared, hanging on a gold chain around his neck.

I'm sorry, Indirial, Korr whispered. That almost threw him off. Korr never apologized, and he couldn't remember the last time the medallion had actually used his name.

But, well, at least Korr was here now. He didn't feel comfortable fighting a battle without him. Speaking of which...

He was already reaching out to summon the Nye cloak from Valinhall when he stopped. He didn't need the cloak anymore, and who knew how it would react to his new eyes? He needed something better. Something more.

Shadows crawled from the House, folding into a hood that crept over his forehead. The shadows flowed down behind him, spreading into a cloak that fell almost to his feet. After a quick mental adjustment, the fabric retreated to leave his arms bare.

Vasha, Korr, his cloak...perfect. Now he was prepared for a real fight.

The Ragnarus Incarnation surprised him, leaping over his own throne in a jump that might have been fueled by Valinhall's steel. King Zakareth wasn't showing his age, but then again, Indirial wasn't sure such mundane concerns even applied to Incarnations. He had the Lightning Spear in both hands, and for a second Indirial was surprised; hadn't Leah held that spear? But then the spearhead was driven toward his chest, and he had to slap it aside with one hand, thrusting Vasha toward Zakareth's throat as he did.

The length of their weapons was almost exactly equal: the Lightning Spear drew a slice across the inside of Indirial's arm as Vasha cut a piece of King Zakareth's cheek.

The King's wound healed in a sizzle of scarlet sparks, and Indirial's flesh knit together with a spray of green and gold.

So neither of them could be permanently injured. “This should be interesting,” Indirial said happily. He couldn't imagine a better fate than two immortals, locked in combat. The only problem was going to be finding a challenge to top this one, after the King was taken care of.

“Asphodel!” King Zakareth called, turning another strike from Vasha with the end of his spear.

Maker, that's right! Indirial thought. He'd almost forgotten about the other Incarnation, focused as he was on Ragnarus.

He knocked the Lightning Spear aside and jumped backwards, though he hated to do it. More distance favored the man who held the devastating ranged weapon, but he had to get some space to see what Asphodel was up to.

The Asphodel Incarnation was...still lounging on his chair of petals.

He noticed Indirial looking at him, and a broad smile split his pale face. “Oh, excuse me, gentlemen. I'm afraid I'm entirely outclassed.”

A blue-edged Asphodel Gate spun open beside him, and he casually strolled inside. “Oh horrors, it seems that he's caught me. No, help, I'm bound in my Territory. Ah, cruel fate.”

He turned toward King Zakareth and waved good-bye as his Gate shrank behind him. “If you need me, Your Majesty, you know where to find me.”

The Asphodel Gate winked shut.

What was wrong with him? He had decided to seal himself permanently into his own Territory instead of seeking out a perfectly good fight?

King Zakareth shook his head. “I never have understood Asphodel.”

“Me neither,” Indirial said. Then he leaped straight up.

Sure enough, the Lightning Spear blasted into the tiles at his feet, driving a hole through and into the ground beneath. A rough-edged crater of rubble and dust now dominated the center of Zakareth's throne room, and through the ensuing cloud, the Spear flew back to its owner.

Indirial whipped Vasha to one side, then the other. She bit through the ordinary steel, slicing through the chains above his wife and daughter's cages. The prisons fell alongside Indirial and he tossed Vasha away to free up both his hands.

Then, reaching to the sides, he caught each cage by the bars.

When his feet hit the ground, he had to hold the cages up to the sides to prevent them from crashing and injuring his family. The bars warped and bent under his grip, the bolts at either end popping out, but his strength seemed limitless. He hardly felt the strain.

Delicately, he placed the cages down. He didn’t notice the tears that wove their way down his wife's face, or his daughter's look of unrestrained horror.

He summoned Vasha back to his hand and slashed her down from head-height all the way down to the floor. Earlier, all his Gates would have been the same size, and it would have taken him the better part of a minute to open one.

Now, the Valinhall Gate opened easily.

His family screamed questions at him, but he didn't bother to answer, tossing them through the portal. He willed it shut in time, as the Lightning Spear blasted toward him from the cloud of dust.

Danger, Korr said, and the violet flame burned on the end of Zakareth's spear.

Indirial had never felt anything so intoxicating. He could die here, now, and if he did, then he would go to his grave at the hands of a powerful enemy.

On an instinct, he dropped Vasha again.

If this didn't work, the Spear would blast him to pieces, and he would see what the immortality of the Incarnations was worth.

But he couldn't resist the chance to try.

He clapped both hands together on the head of the Spear, catching it between his palms.

The sheer force of the blow knocked him ten paces backwards, the bottom of his boots skidding along the shattered tiles. He ground to a halt at the end of the throne room, the Lightning Spear quivering in his hands.

But he'd caught it.

He grabbed the weapon around the shaft as it tried to jerk out of his grip, attempting to fly back to its master. It struggled, but he wouldn't release it.

The Ragnarus Incarnation had lost, but by the Maker, he'd put up a good fight. He was worthy. Indirial would let him live; in the coming world, he would need warriors like Zakareth.

He started to say so, but then the column of dust and smoke cleared.

King Zakareth stood next to a huge Ragnarus Gate. Another woman, red-skinned and clothed in scarlet light, sat inside the Territory, perched on something that looked like an impossibly massive barrel tipped on its side so Indirial looked down its deep, dark mouth. If the woman on the top of the barrel was any indication of scale, it looked like it could swallow a wagon and a team of horses.

Indirial didn't know what was supposed to come out of that barrel, but he liked the look of it. Maybe this would be a true test. He dropped the Spear and summoned Vasha, holding her in both hands.

We’re dead, Korr whispered.

“There's no one else like you, Indirial,” King Zakareth shouted. “But I can always build another palace.”

Red light swelled deep within the barrel.

Indirial called ghost armor.

The room vanished in a tide of red light.

***

Leah, stepping out of the Avernus Gate with a raven on either shoulder, was swarmed by officers, clerks, and concerned well-wishers.

“Thank the Maker!” one woman said. “You were gone, Overlord Feiora was gone, Overlord Indirial was gone...we were afraid you were all dead.”

Cold fear settled into the pit of Leah's stomach. “Slow down a moment,” Leah said. “Indirial's gone? Where did he go?”

Then the Lightning Spear vanished from her grip, and she knew.

***

When Indirial regained consciousness, his entire world was dark. Practically every part of his body felt torn and broken, but in a distant way, as if he had simply heard of someone else being tortured. He tried to reach up and feel his way forward, but his arm wouldn't respond.

Then it began to heal, and in the gold-and-green sparks he was able to see a bit of his prison. His elbow was twisted around like a wrung-out towel, bone and blood and muscle showing through the torn skin, but Indirial was sure that his powers would sort that out in a moment. More importantly, a slab of rough stone the size of a palace ceiling hung only inches away.

For a second, he wondered if he had been sealed underneath a Hanging Tree. Panic seized him: would he be down here for decades or centuries with no weapons? No one to fight? He would rather die.

Then the rocks above him scraped and moved, and he realized there were no roots twisting around his flesh, hungering for his blood.

He relaxed and waited to see who would pull him free. Whoever it was must have been strong enough to move a whole wall's weight, which meant they were worthy. Anyone that powerful had earned their place in Valinhall.

Finally, the stone slid to one side, and the sun shone down in Indirial's eyes. Once, it would have been blinding. Now, he didn't even blink.

King Zakareth stood over him, his armor flaring with red light as it provided him the strength to push tons of rock out of the way like he was sliding the lid off a coffin.

He raised the Lightning Spear in one hand.

“I have paid the price for you again and again, Indirial,” he said, his voice once again certain and commanding. “Will you obey me at last?”

Indirial couldn't help himself: he began to laugh. “With persistence like that, you would have done well in Valinhall. Not to mention your weapons.”

He reached out a hand to the Ragnarus Incarnation. Not that he needed the assistance; it was symbolic, and Indirial remembered that such things were important.

“I'm with you,” he said. “You've earned it.”

The King's eyes flared with something like satisfaction, and he hauled the Incarnation of Valinhall to his feet.

***

The Eldest stood before two caged human women, studying them both. The older one had explained the situation, asking him politely who he was, begging him to let them out. Everything he would have expected from a human captive. The younger one had alternated between threats and stubborn silence.

That one might have a future here.

They insisted on using Indirial’s name as much as possible, as though he couldn’t see Indirial’s presence hanging over them like a banner.

“I will free you,” he said at last. The older woman’s eyes filled with hope, but the younger’s narrowed in suspicion. Yes, she would have a future in this place. He would make sure of it. “Before I do, I have a few conditions of my own.”

If their story was to be believed, Indirial had succumbed to his chains at last. The Eldest wondered if that should be counted as a loss or a gain. On one side of the scale, Incarnations were notoriously lacking in self-control. Getting him to do anything productive would be like teaching a newborn Nye to walk in the light. On the other side, the Eldest now had a powerful avatar of the House wandering around in the outside world. Surely, there must be some way to twist that to his advantage.

“You will spend some time as my guests,” the Eldest said at last. “I must decide what is to be done about Indirial.”

A pair of valuable pieces had fallen into the Eldest’s grasp, and it was finally his turn. If he played this right, he might be able to walk away with a new Founder after all.

One way or another.

CHAPTER 21:

DAUGHTER OF WIND

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

6 Days Since Spring’s Birth

”No one's heard from Indirial?” Simon said.

“...and tell them they can decrease the guards on the Avernus side,” Leah murmured to a servant in a messenger's uniform. “I don't think we'll have any trouble from them anytime soon.”

The messenger bowed and departed, and Leah turned back to Simon. “Indirial was last seen five days ago, screaming about an Incarnation in the camp. Some soldiers witnessed him fighting what may or may not have been an Incarnation before he vanished. Into a Gate, some say.” Her lips tightened. “Into a red Gate.”

Simon paced restlessly, trying to work off the feeling of doom that had been hanging over him ever since his fight with Alin. Now that Indirial was gone...well, Indirial could handle most anything, but they had perhaps eight Incarnations unaccounted for. Images flashed through his head: a man, charred on the ground. A shriveled woman, held in the fangs of a giant snake.

He hadn't been able to do anything to help his parents, but Indirial had saved him. He burned for the chance to return the favor.

But he couldn't do anything if he wasn't there.

“Let's say it was a Ragnarus Gate,” Simon said, pausing his pacing to stop directly in front of Leah. “Where would it come out?”

Leah shook her head wearily. “He could be anywhere by now, Simon. And without Indirial, it's even more important that you stay here.”

“I came after you.” Simon hoped that would make enough of an impact to end the argument, but Leah's mouth quirked up into a one-sided smile.

“Yes, and look how necessary that turned out to be. We're not even sure it was a Ragnarus Gate. If it was red, it could as easily have been a Gate into Naraka, or even parts of Ornheim. It could have been an Elysian Gate, for all we know.”

Simon turned that over in his mind. It still irked him, a little, that Alin was still alive and free. Not that he wanted Alin dead, exactly, but it almost insulted his pride that an Incarnation had fought him one-on-one and escaped virtually unharmed.

Would Alin have kidnapped Indirial? Simon still wasn't sure what the Elysian Incarnation might be capable of, but Alin himself wouldn't have targeted the Overlord of Cana. It might not have even occurred to him to do so. If he came after anyone, it would be Simon or Leah. Or perhaps Grandmaster Naraka, who was still bound, gagged, and guarded somewhere in the camp.

He couldn't believe that Alin would plan and execute a trap to capture Indirial, but it seemed that someone had. And even though Vasha was missing from the entry hall, Indirial hadn't entered the House in over a week, as Valinhall reckoned time.

Simon had recovered enough from the mask that Valin and the dolls had pronounced him fit for duty. The chains hovered around his shoulder blades, but he could feel their cold links crawling back down even as he met with Leah.

“I don't think it's Alin,” he said. “You have to say, it makes more sense if it's Ragnarus.”

Leah sighed and nodded. “It does. That's why I have the camp on alert. We've been avoiding Cana ever since the barrier went down, waiting for someone to contact us, but so far no one has. The people are getting restless; many of them have family in the city. We're going to send a few parties of Travelers in later.”

“When do they leave?” Simon asked.

“I would rather you stay here,” she said. “An Incarnation, possibly two, infiltrated the camp only a few days ago, and we haven't heard from our most powerful combat Traveler since. We need you in case of an attack.”

It made sense, but Simon didn't have time to explain the powers of Valinhall to Leah. As long as he had a mask and Indirial didn't, Simon had a better chance of pulling him out of Cana. In his mind, he had a responsibility to try.

“If they were going to follow up with an attack, they would have already done it,” he said reasonably. He was interrupted by the raven on Leah's shoulder.

He'd tried to ignore the bird throughout their conversation, which was what Leah had advised him to do, but it was getting harder. The bird stared at him, stared through him, in a way that made him nervous. He couldn't help feeling that the raven knew his thoughts and didn't approve.

Besides, it was shouting in Leah's ear, which made it hard to ignore.

Leah didn't seem as irritated as he would have expected, given that a bird was shrieking at her. Instead, she reached out and pulled the Lightning Spear from out of nowhere, her eyes searching the sky. He didn't know what she was looking for, but she obviously knew something he didn't. He called steel.

A screech, as though from a hunting bat the size of a horse, echoed through the camp. The noise of the people dulled to a muted roar as many froze, waiting to see whatever had made that sound.

They didn't have to wait long.

A man, blazing with blue-white lightning, rocketed through the sky. His eyes shone like a pair of thunderbolts, and even his hands and feet were shrouded in bright, flickering light. A set of wings streamed from his back, seemingly made from smoke...no, from stormclouds. They, too, flashed with light from deep within.

The Endross Incarnation screamed again, and this time it sounded like laughter.

A dozen bolts of white, unnaturally straight lightning hammered down from a clear sky, all over the camp.

Leah and Simon stood on a hill rising above most of the tents, so Leah would have a better view of the camp's overall layout. Where the lightning struck, fires burned, and smoke began to rise. Meanwhile, rolling thunderstorms the size of donkey carts flowed through the rows between tents, spitting out hissing snakes, giant lizards, and vines that sizzled and sparked.

Simon summoned Azura, looking up to judge the distance between himself and the Endross Incarnation.

Leah was faster.

The Lightning Spear shot forward like a streak of dark lightning itself, headed directly for the Incarnation. She staggered as if in pain, clutching Simon's shoulder for support.

The Spear tore through Endross's side, sending him shrieking and plummeting into the ground.

With his free hand, Simon had already grabbed Leah, pulling her into a nearby tent. “Keep down,” he said. “This attack will be aimed at you.”

Her eyes were determined even as she staggered after him, leaning on his arm for support. “I can take him out of the air more easily than you can.”

“I’m going to lead him away from you,” Simon said, overriding her objections as he pushed her through the tent-flap. “You can throw the Spear if he gets too close—”

“Caw!” yelled her raven.

The Lightning Spear tore through the side of the tent and smacked into her hand, then she leaned out of the flap and threw it again.

The Endross Incarnation rose from the camp in a fury, trailing smoke and ashes behind him. He shouted at them, his voice choked and barely understandable, his eyes locked on Leah: “I HAVE THE—”

The Lightning Spear crashed into the top of his skull, sending him flipping over backwards in midair. His head was a ruined, bleeding mess that resembled nothing so much as a smashed melon, but it began to rebuild itself even before he fell beneath the line of tents.

“Your turn,” Leah said, panting. She leaned back into the tent, and Simon stepped away. Immediately, he flipped up the hood of his cloak. When the Endross Incarnation burst out of the row of nearby tents, roaring, Simon called the essence of the Nye.

Leah was in the tent, out of the Endross Incarnation’s view. And if this Endross was anything like his predecessor, he would aim straight for whatever target he could see first.

Then again, none of that would matter if Simon hit the Incarnation before it had a chance to strike.

Endross had no more than an instant to look confused before Azura took him in the neck.

At least, it should have. The blade actually paused an inch or two from the Incarnation’s skin, held at bay by a shield of dense air.

Simon jumped back as the Endross Incarnation gestured, and a thunderstorm Gate opened where Simon had been standing. A reptilian head reached out of the Gate, snapping hungrily, sparks flying from between its teeth.

It occurred to him that finding himself so close to death would have been a traumatic, horrifying experience for him before his time in Valinhall. Now, narrowly escaping death didn’t warrant his attention. He stepped away from the gnashing Endross creature and thrust Azura at the Incarnation.

…who suddenly wasn’t there, having taken wing and flown off, tossing lightning bolts across the camp.

Simon started to run off, but Leah jumped out of the tent and seized his arm.

He almost pulled her off her feet before he realized he was supposed to stop and wait for whatever she had to say.

“There’s something wrong here,” Leah said, after she had regained her balance.

Simon looked down the hill, across the camp. Columns of smoke rose from tents and patches of grass where the Incarnation’s lightning had struck, and Endross creatures snapped at the heels of practically everyone he could see.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re under attack.”

She stepped closer, and the raven on her shoulder let out a soft sort of mewling sound. “Then where are the bodies?”

Simon strained his eyes, wishing he’d brought a doll. Down there, one royal soldier pulled another from a burning tent as an Endross crocodile looked on…and did nothing more threatening than snarl and blast lightning into the sky. A giant snake slithered through a crowd of washerwomen, snarling at each but not biting. The Endross Incarnation himself swooped down on crowds, making a startling show of lights and sounds, but now that he thought about it, Simon couldn’t remember seeing him kill anyone.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

Leah shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “But something else is coming, and we need to be ready.”

Simon grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her back toward the tent. “Then let’s start by getting you inside.”

***

King Zakareth stood on the walls of Cana, watching the destruction in his daughter’s camp through a spyglass. Ragnarus had many tools, but all of them had some application as weapons; the Vault held nothing to let him see supernaturally far. Perhaps he could rectify that himself, once he’d pulled Elysia down and looted its treasures for his own.

Indirial stood next to him, the chains on his arms turned to steel, a cloak of shadows flowing from the top of his head all the way down to the stone behind him. His eyes were seas of black, on which floated circles of burning violet.

That surprised the King, deep in a part of him that was still capable of experiencing surprise. He had thought the only colors of Valinhall were black and silver, and he wondered if irises of violet flame were Indirial’s choice, somehow.

That was an idle thought, and had to give way before more practical concerns. Indirial’s new appearance was more intimidating, which meant more effective.

Indirial smiled like a proud father. “Leah almost brought down Endross on her own. I think if she’d been forced into a full-on fight, she might have won.”

“The weapons of Ragnarus have great power,” King Zakareth said, wishing he’d seen the battle in more detail. Why did Valinhall have an ability to increase eyesight, but the Vault did not?

That was an irrelevant thought, and he couldn’t afford distractions. He had to stay focused.

Indirial squinted. “Is that…Simon down there?”

“Where?” Zakareth asked. Through his lens, he had seen Leah as a crimson dot, and the hill where she stood as an island in a sea of burning tents. She was missing now, but he had trouble making out details at this distance. Even the Endross Incarnation was little more than a bright spot among the veil of smoke.

“There was someone in black with her before,” Indirial said. “But now I see no one. It’s enough to make me wonder if we waited too long.”

“Do you think he’s recovered from the mask by now?” Zakareth asked, keeping his spyglass trained on the hill. Indeed, there did seem to be a patch of shadow that gleamed strangely, as though the darkness concealed a length of polished steel.

But then, it could easily be a trick of the light.

Indirial leaned forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the wall. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I never was familiar with the mask, and it wouldn’t do me any good now. All it does is allow them to draw on Valinhall more strongly, just as I do.”

When the mask had been a part of his Vault, it had been intended to strengthen other Travelers, to increase the reach and depth of their powers. In its original state, it had a series of safety measures built in to keep Travelers from delving too deeply and burning their life away. Then, in a battle long ago, it had been shattered.

Malachi had used it for years in its broken condition: all the power, none of the restraint. Zakareth could hardly imagine what this mask—built from the remnants of the old one and attuned to a new Territory—was capable of. But if the Valinhall Incarnation didn’t know either, then that could be cause for concern.

“If Simon is down there,” King Zakareth said, “his blade will be as well. Do we dare continue?”

Indirial chuckled, pulling his cracked and pitted sword from midair. “If it’s Simon alone, we can take Azura from him at any time. Besides, I’m glad he’s not in the House. I don’t want to fight him in a group, or as part of an ambush.” He spat out the word ‘ambush’ as though it burned his tongue, grimacing in distaste. “I want to duel him man-to-man, when he’s at his best. He’s the only one to win against the last Valinhall Incarnation.”

His burning violet eyes grew distant, staring off at Leah’s hill. “In fact, why not now? Why don’t I do that first? If he is down there…but if he’s not, I might be able to find Leah. She might be something of a challenge…”

Zakareth laid a gauntleted hand on Indirial’s shoulder. “We have a purpose,” he said.

Indirial shook himself and nodded, walking over to a relatively clear stretch of wall. He didn’t seem to notice how the stones smoothed and cut themselves into tiles as he passed.

Out of idle curiosity, King Zakareth glanced down at his own feet. The stone was turning red in a steadily expanding pool, as though blood spilled from his feet in a constant wave.

That was appropriate enough.

“This would be easier if we had Asphodel along,” Indirial commented, raising his Dragon’s Fang.

“We do not,” Zakareth said.

“Or even Avernus.”

“You know exactly what happened to Avernus.”

Indirial sighed. “But does it have to be Ornheim?”

The Ornheim Incarnation shuddered to life from where he had been crouched against the side of the wall. The stone had actually started to grow around him, forming a little cave complete with tiny stalactites.

He grumbled, loud and low in his throat, his body vibrating. He was shot through with jagged lines, like marble, but these veins came in every color. He looked like a statue designed for decoration, not war.

And his all-too-human eyes were locked on Zakareth in an expression of pure hatred.

The King couldn’t even remember a time in his life when that might have bothered him.

“Ornheim is what you have been given,” King Zakareth said, in tones of command. “If you can take their swords, he will be enough. If not, I have kept Helgard with me, and I can send her in reserve. Lirial goes ahead to prepare the way.”

Indirial sighed and sliced open a Valinhall Gate. “Well, since I can’t go myself, I guess two Incarnations are all right. If they can get the job done.”

Ornheim tried to shoulder Indirial aside with a stone arm as he walked into the Gate, but the Valinhall Incarnation didn’t budge.

From inside the Gate, Zakareth could sense two expressions of Ragnarus. The first was shaped like a sword, and was one of the Vault’s various gatecrawlers. With an effort of will, he banished the device at a distance. He didn’t want to leave it there long enough for the Valinhall creatures to attune it to their Territory.

The second throbbed and pulsed in time with the beat of Zakareth’s own chest. The Heart of Rebirth wasn’t a pleasant artifact, and it had taken several citizens of Cana to pay enough of its cost to make it functional.

But now the price would justify itself. He clapped once, sending out his will in an invisible wave.

Deep within the House of Blades, the Incarnation of Tartarus began pulling himself together.

For an instant, Zakareth felt another expression of Ragnarus power, pulsing to a different beat. It was more distant, and in another direction…it seemed to be coming from the hill on which Leah stood.

That made sense. Leah was the only active Ragnarus Traveler left. She had almost unrestricted access to the Vault, so it was no surprise that she would have something of his. He recognized the Lightning Spear she held, though. This was something else, something he almost remembered…

But once again, he put aside irrelevant thoughts to focus on the mission at hand.

“Do what you must,” King Zakareth said. “It’s time for me to slip the muzzle back over my hound.” Then he stepped out over Cana’s wall.

His foot came down on a tower of packed snow that hadn’t been there before. Helgard waited at the base of the wall, holding a book in front of her frozen eyes. Zakareth marched forward, each step landing on a slightly lower tower of snow, as though he walked down a staircase that existed only because he needed it.

Behind him, the Incarnation of Valinhall was giving orders. The King allowed himself to feel a small spark of satisfaction. For once, he had paid for a weapon and received even more than he was expecting.

Indirial was far more than a mere sword, to be used until broken. He was a warrior, and a trusted servant.

He would fulfill his purpose.

***

Indirial watched the Ornheim Traveler take the first few steps into the entry hall and look around for threats. This was one reason he hated working with Ornheim: he would measure twice before cutting once, and all Indirial needed this time was a sharp cut.

“The swords,” he commanded. “Get the swords.”

Ornheim didn’t stop looking around. He even lifted up a sofa as though to see if there was something dangerous underneath. Maker, what could possibly be threatening about a sofa?

Finally, the Incarnation seemed satisfied, turning his head to the sword-racks. He reached out for Seijan, its blade small and speckled with ink.

A black chain looped around his wrist, pulling him short.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a Nye,” Indirial said.

Ornheim slammed his free fist down on the Nye’s shadowy form…but before the blow could land, that hand was bound by a different chain.

Then the Nye were everywhere. They filled the room like a hill full of ants swarming a carcass, and Ornheim was covered by so many black chains that Indirial could barely see the stone beneath.

The see of black parted, and a hunched figure in dark gray slid past, gliding up to the Gate. “We have so few of the Fangs left,” the Eldest hissed. “You would steal them? Even you?”

Indirial met the Eldest Nye’s empty hood without looking away. In his current state, he could sense each of the Nye, like knowing his shadow trailed behind him without having to look. They were more than expressions of his power; they were at the heart of whatever made Valinhall the way it was. He had never fully appreciated that before.

But that didn’t mean he had to do what they told him.

“The Dragon’s Fangs will be returned, along with all that we’re missing. The King has ordered me to collect them, for now, so the other Travelers of Valinhall cannot interfere with our mission.” It had been his idea to disarm the Dragon Army, actually, not Zakareth’s, but the orders to do so had come from the King. “They will be re-distributed to the worthy.”

The Eldest’s own chain, rough and heavy even compared to those of the other Nye, ran between his sleeves in a hissing, clinking river. “Not only have you lost control, you have sold your home to the King of the Vault. My master would rip your throat out with his teeth.”

“Your master is imprisoned in a graveyard, where he belongs,” Indirial said. Behind the Eldest, the sea of black chains bulged and pressed upwards as the mountainous strength of the Ornheim Incarnation strained against the combined might of the Nye.

The Eldest didn’t look behind him, but he did consider for a moment. “I have your wife and child with me. I can make sure that they take months to die.”

Indirial shrugged. He would prefer his family to live, but if they did not…well, that meant that they couldn’t handle the trials of life. “If they’re worth saving, they’ll save themselves.”

“You speak like the true Incarnation of Valinhall,” the Eldest whispered. “But still you plot to give your own power to Ragnarus.”

That wasn’t quite accurate, but nothing Indirial could say would sway the Nye’s belief, so he let the Eldest think what he wanted.

In the background, the Ornheim Incarnation had risen fully to his feet, and was tossing Nye away from him like a child splashing in the waves.

The Eldest ran his chain through his sleeves again. “I cleaned this room only yesterday. But it seems I must have missed a pebble or two.”

He practically vanished, even from Indirial’s vision, and when he reappeared he was standing behind Ornheim. His thick chain was wrapped around the Incarnation’s neck, and the Eldest heaved, pulling Ornheim over on his back.

The Ornheim Incarnation struck the floor of the House with a booming crack so loud that Indirial wondered if the others could hear it even in Valinhall’s depths.

Rocky white fists flailed at the Eldest, but he dodged each strike without even seeming to pay attention.

The Nye had swarmed again, rushing at Ornheim’s prone form and lashing him with the ends of their chains. Indirial couldn’t help it; he was a little impressed. They were managing to chip stone from the Incarnation’s solid skin.

So it was a good thing he had a backup plan.

It started with a rhythmic pounding, as though someone in the distance had decided to strike up a beat on a vast drum. When the sound rose to drown out even the Nye’s treatment of Ornheim, the rhythm vanished.

The Eldest raised one sleeve as though he were about to issue an order, but the floor of the entry hall exploded.

Tartarus, the gleaming ten-foot giant in the mirrored steel armor, landed on the edge of what had once been the trapdoor down to the Nye’s basement. Evidently they had kept his pieces down there, never realizing that he could be pulled back together at King Zakareth’s will.

Blades flashed into the Tartarus Incarnation’s grip, and he impaled Nye after Nye with seemingly unlimited shards of metal. Wherever his clockwork gaze fell, another cloaked shadow was pinned to the wall.

After only a moment, the Ornheim Incarnation unfolded and stood next to Tartarus, equal in height and strength. Spinning rocks appeared out of nowhere, lashing forward like shooting stars and tearing through black robes.

“I know what I’m doing, Eldest!” Indirial called. “I came prepared.”

The Eldest stayed focused on Indirial, though he dodged spikes and flying stones almost as an afterthought.

“Did you?” he rasped, and somehow the sound cut through even the din of combat.

Then the Eldest raised his sleeve again.

And, all over the entry hall, the furniture joined the battle.

The sofa curled up its legs, leaping onto Ornheim’s arm, its scarlet cushions working like a great mouth. It growled and snarled like a pack of wolves, sending handfuls of gravel up into the air.

One of the tables reared like an angry horse and kicked Tartarus hard enough in the chest that he staggered backwards. A rug lifted off the floor and seized a nearby chair with one tassel, slamming it against the back of the Tartarus Incarnation’s helmet. Somehow the chair didn’t break, and the rug knocked the Incarnation again and again.

The room was a flurry of flying stone, metal, cloth, and wooden splinters as the two Incarnations demolished furniture and the furniture smashed back.

He’d had no idea they could do that.

Now that he looked with the eyes of the Valinhall Incarnation, it seemed obvious. The tables and chairs of the entry hall remained hidden and innocent unless called upon, like a sleeping guardian. But now, through his violet eyes, he could see the dormant potential lying within each plank of wood.

Against all reason, he felt a surge of pride in his Territory. How could anyone ever choose to Travel Naraka or Helgard when Valinhall was this magnificent? Even the furniture rose to defend it from outsiders!

Not that sofas and lamps had any chance of defeating two Incarnations, but they could be rebuilt, and the House would be stronger than ever for this battle. He would make sure of it.

In a matter of seconds, the room looked like it had been trampled by a herd of oxen. The walls bristled with spikes of mirrored steel, and fist-sized rocks were scattered across the ground. The air was filled with drifting bits of cushion stuffing, and the floor covered by splinters. One grandfather clock against the wall had been gutted, spilling gears and springs everywhere, and every mirror in the room was reduced to shards.

The sofa pulled itself closer on one leg, snarling weakly, before it finally collapsed, weak and inanimate once more.

There was no way someone in the House hadn’t heard that commotion, and all the Nye were slithering away like snakes of shadow and light. It was only a matter of time before someone showed up, and he had to complete his mission before that happened.

“Back to work,” Indirial said.

Seconds later, the two Incarnations tossed him three Dragon’s Fangs. A Valinhall Traveler in the outside world could summon his blade from the House, but the reverse was not true. And once he got the Fangs into a different Territory—in this case, Ragnarus—they wouldn’t be able to banish the blades back to Valinhall, unless they got close enough to touch the weapons directly.

Effectively, by keeping the Fangs out of the House, he was disarming the other Travelers of Valinhall. Kathrin and Denner couldn’t return and fight him, Andra would never get a chance to progress until he found her worthy, and Simon and Kai…they would have an opportunity to kill him in a duel, but only when he allowed it.

Indirial glanced at the pile of Tartarus steel waiting for him at his feet. Counting Vasha, that made four out of six. “We’re missing two,” he said.

Azura and Mithra were gone. Simon was probably down on the hill with Leah, so Indirial would be able to recover that one at his leisure, and Kai was undoubtedly challenging a room deeper in the House. That seemed to be everything to his life these days.

But those were the two most dangerous Travelers left, so he decided to be certain.

“Tartarus, go check the seventh bedroom,” he said. “Down the hall on the left, marked with a large circle and two smaller circles.”

The Incarnation’s armor creaked as he stared at Indirial with blank clockwork eyes, as though trying to figure out who was giving him orders.

Indirial glared back, until finally Tartarus turned to march down the hallway.

If Azura was anywhere, it was probably with Simon, but the Fangs could sometimes be kept in the bedrooms instead of the entry hall. There was no telling where Kai or Mithra were; as far as Indirial knew, Kai had never used Valin’s room, even though Mithra would have granted him access. It wasn’t worth chasing down all the possibilities looking for Kai, not when Kai was more likely to lock himself in the House anyway. That was what he’d done for practically twenty-five years. If Azura was there, then Simon was disarmed, and that was a bonus. If not, then Indirial got the chance to challenge the boy for his blade.

Either way, it was a win for him.

Then he noticed the Eldest was missing.

***

Kai stood on a circle of earth in a sea of darkness.

All around him, in every direction, was complete emptiness. He could still see, somehow, as though he and his little chunk of rock and dirt were outlined in dim light. Not that there was much to see, in this room.

Idly he wondered if the room had a name. Probably not; it served no function, and as far as he knew, granted no power. It did, however, have a guardian.

Standing on his island, knees bent, Mithra held before him in both hands, Kai waited.

As usual, he heard the guardian before he saw it: the ringing rattle of steel against steel, growing until it was louder than thunder, getting closer. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound. For the tenth time that minute, he wished for his dolls.

Then he threw himself to the side as a chain the width of a house drove through empty space, missing him by a hair.

The chain seemed to scream like an enraged bull, its links whipping by one after the other, wider around than his body, faster than a speeding horse. He ran Mithra’s edge along the chain, letting her blade throw up sparks against the chain’s seemingly infinite steel.

It roared again. As the guardian chain stretched out, it seemed miles long against the darkness, its head looping up and around to come lunging back down toward Kai like a striking snake.

He leaped from his patch of earth, suspended over the void for one long instant before he crashed back down on a second floating island of soil and stone.

The chain’s head slammed into the first circle. It didn’t blast straight through the earth, as he would have expected, but pushed the soil down like a hammer driving a nail.

Then the darkness seemed to peel away from itself, black becoming storm-gray, and the Eldest Nye stood beside him on his little island.

“Ah, and here you are, to spoil another wonderful day,” Kai said.

For once, the Eldest wasn’t in the mood to trade insults. “The House is under attack.”

From the void, the head of the chain gleamed, rushing up at him like a blacksmith’s hammer big enough to knock the tower off a castle. He was too far away from the next island to jump, even with Benson’s steel running through him, so he focused on his target destination and called smoke.

As usual, turning into smoke felt like having his body pulled apart. It was oddly painless, but he had the disturbing sense of falling, of drifting apart, of becoming nothing.

In a black cloud, he puffed back into existence on the distant circle of earth. The giant chain circled the island he had left like a confused snake whose prey had disappeared.

He could see, now, why Valin had never liked to call smoke. He couldn’t see or hear anything in transit, and there was no changing his route mid-way. Once he called smoke, he wouldn’t reassemble until his pieces reached their destination. It was risky, and prone to manipulation by a clever opponent.

Besides, he felt like he was going to drift away and ceased to exist every time he used it. He would never grow accustomed to that.

“You have inherited this responsibility,” the Eldest hissed, right in his ear. “You must defend the House.”

Kai almost groaned. He had dared to hope that the Eldest had been killed when the chain attacked the last island. The Nye could manipulate and communicate with the intelligent guardians, but some of the creatures this deep in the House had no minds to speak of. This chain was likely incapable of processing any thought other than ‘destroy all intruders,’ so the Eldest would not be able to exercise any authority over it.

That was a very comforting thought. If Kai weren’t completely sure he would die the instant his steel ran out, he would live here permanently.

“Lead the way through the dark, O shifting shadow,” Kai said, with a bow. Without another word, not even a taunt, the Eldest took off. He leaped from island to island, heading for the door floating in space.

Kai followed, his steel waning. He still had a few minutes left, enough to get him through the House, but he tried to keep his steel called as often as he could, now. The cool power rushing through his veins was the only thing that calmed the throbbing burn in his back. Perhaps it was time for another healing bath, to push back the fire behind his kidney.

After he dealt with whoever was foolish enough to attack Valinhall.

***

When the Tartarus Incarnation made it to the seventh bedroom, he reached two ginger fingers out and turned the doorknob. Nothing happened. Indirial had ordered him to avoid damage to the bedroom doors if possible, because he wanted to limit Valinhall’s destruction as much as he could. He would need the Territory intact.

A face full of clockwork gears turned toward Indirial, awaiting new instructions.

The bedroom doors were a part of Indirial now; he could sense them in his mind, feel them refusing to give in to the strength of Tartarus. He twisted his thoughts, granting the Incarnation permission to enter the room.

Tartarus tried again, but nothing had changed.

Indirial crossed his arms, thinking. Maybe the bedrooms were bound to the Dragon’s Fangs in a rule of Valinhall so deep that even he couldn’t change it. Or maybe he could, if he was in the Territory itself, and not standing on the brink of a Gate. For a moment the temptation to enter the House was almost overwhelming; he belonged within, it was a part of him, just as he was a part of it. He longed for Valinhall like water longed for the ocean, and he knew that if he stepped inside, he would be joining a greater whole…

He moved back a pace or two. As tempting as it would be to set foot in the House, the King had earned his loyalty. Who would he be if he denied proper rewards to the warriors that earned them?

Besides, there was one law respected in Valinhall above all others: force.

“Break it down,” he ordered. The Tartarus Incarnation stared at him with eyes of blank metal gears—he didn’t know Indirial, and clearly didn’t fully understand why he had to follow the Valinhall Incarnation’s orders.

“I represent the Incarnation of Ragnarus in this matter,” he said, in cold tones appropriate to the Overlord of Cana. “If you disobey me in this, you will answer to him. Now, when I command you to destroy, you destroy.”

The Incarnation snarled, a sound like a quick avalanche, but he drew back a fist to do as commanded. His blow shattered the door, and his shoulders broke the frame as he forced his way inside. From the cracks and bangs issuing from within the bedroom, Indirial assumed that Tartarus was stretching his command to destroy as far as it would go. It was the action of a petty child, breaking whatever he could reach, but anything in the bedrooms could be replaced.

Then Indirial heard the screams.

***

Kai flew through room after room, passing at last into the familiar parts of the House. “Where are the others, may I ask?”

“I locked the family in their gallery,” the Eldest responded. He didn’t seem to be moving any faster than a walk, but somehow he was matching Kai in speed. “Simon is away, and Denner has had his Dragon’s Fang removed. I doubt he is aware, or he would have banished it and re-summoned it already. I fear that Ragnarus will soon prevent that course of action entirely.”

“I’m surprised you spared the girl and the old man,” Kai said idly, dodging around the yellow-lit columns of the courtyard.

“They face two Incarnations,” the Eldest said. “That would not be a test, it would be murder. I am no murderer.”

Kai chuckled at that as he leaped over the healing pool, landing on the rough stone of the other side without slowing. “Of course not,” he said. “Just a killer.”

“There is a difference.”

The Eldest pulled open the bathroom door and Kai sped out, into the room beyond.

Then he stopped.

He could see the hallway from there, and the bedrooms on either side. One of the rooms was shattered, the door broken off its hinges. Distant, whispered screams, threats, and horrified gasps drifted from inside.

Kai didn’t remember calling smoke, but the next he knew, he had reformed in the middle of the seventh bedroom.

The shelf holding his precious little ones, the shelf he had carved, polished, and installed himself, had been destroyed. His dolls were scattered all over the floor.

And they were hurting. He could feel their pain like his own—no, this was worse because it wasn’t his.

Rebekkah’s left arm was ripped halfway off at the shoulder. She clutched it with her right, glaring murder at the Tartarus Incarnation and threatening death in her mind. Lilia crawled away from the metal giant’s stomping boots, her white dress torn and both her feet crushed. Gloria wept into her hands, her hair and dress ripped, her chest cracked. Still others had cracks, or fractures, or were simply frightened.

But Otoku lay on the floor under Tartarus’ feet, motionless, staring up at the ceiling with one eye. The other side of her face had been crushed, shredded away, ripped casually from her head.

Kai knelt beside her, ignoring the ten-foot metal giant standing behind him. He laid Mithra down on the ground, and gently took Otoku up in both hands. He smoothed her red, flower-patterned dress. He straightened her long, dark hair.

Well, she sent, her whispered voice weak. At least I’ll look good while I die.

And so she did.

CHAPTER 22:

GRIEF

The Endross Incarnation hovered over the Damascan camp on stormcloud wings, occasionally throwing a bolt or a ball of lightning. He was making some speech about how the world would burn, all its citizens his fearful subjects, and Simon had finally stopped listening. It didn’t make any sense.

He stood inside the same tent that sheltered Leah, peeking out the tent-flap to watch the Incarnation. He kept his hood up in case he was spotted, calling as little Nye essence as he could. At this rate, he should remain shrouded from the Incarnation’s sight for…five, maybe ten more minutes.

Simon drove Azura into the ground at an angle, trying to figure out what Endross was up to. It looked like he was trying to avoid killing anyone, against all reason. Simon had fought the last Incarnation of Endross, and even been present when this Traveler had snapped and Incarnated. More than any other of their kind, the Endross Incarnations acted like natural disasters, tearing the land and the people around them apart.

The Endross Incarnation should be anything but restrained. So what was going on?

Leah had spun out three or four floating Lirial crystals, which zipped out of the tent to collect the reports of various Travelers around the camp. None of them had seen any actual casualties that could be directly attributed to the Incarnation. The Endross Travelers were baffled. Some of the monsters they saw running free were more than capable of tearing through crowds of soldiers like a fox through a henhouse. But they were acting like leashed hounds.

“Maybe he really is in control of himself,” Leah suggested, after reviewing the latest report in one of her crystals.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t believe it. In his experience, assuming that the enemy was less dangerous than he looked would lead straight to gruesome injury or horrible death.

“Surely it’s possible,” she said defensively, as though he’d spoken his doubts aloud. “The Helgard and Avernus Incarnations could carry on perfectly intelligible conversations. So could Alin, and so can this Endross, it seems. A measure of intelligence suggests some free will, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think they’re stupid,” he said. “Not most of them. And it’s not like I think they’re out of control. I think that whatever they’re doing…it makes sense to them. It’s the only logical thing for them to do.”

Leah’s blue eyes were distant, considering. Her raven let out a caw that seemed approving.

“It’s like when I fought Valin,” Simon went on. “He didn’t think he was going crazy, killing everybody he ran into. He was attacking people to see if they were strong enough to handle it. He thought he was helping them.”

“So what does this Endross think he’s doing?” Leah asked. Simon had no response to that.

But something else had started to bother him.

A sense of dread had begun creeping over him, raising goosebumps, filling his heart with a feeling of sickening tragedy. It was the strangest thing: they didn’t feel like his emotions, as though someone were pressing their feelings on him from the outside. He could think about it intellectually and realize that there was no reason to feel this way, but that didn’t shake the nauseous dread.

“I think…I think something bad happened,” he said. He knew it sounded stupid, and Leah raised one eyebrow at him, but he couldn’t think of a better way to say it. Somehow, he knew something terrible had happened to someone. Or maybe…was about to happen.

Above the camp, behind the Endross Incarnation—who was still giving a speech that made him sound like a newly installed tyrant—a dark figure rose slowly into the air. It looked like a man in armor, wearing a helmet covered in spikes and holding a staff. His armor was black, edged in gold, and set with rubies. Another ruby capped his staff, and nestled in his crown above his forehead.

His skin glistened in the sunlight, as though he wore whirling metallic tattoos of red and gold, and one of his eyes blazed red.

“Leah,” Simon said, his voice dry. “You need to come see this.”

She hurried over to the tent flap without a word, pushing him aside so she could see out. “Oh, no,” Leah whispered. “Oh, Maker, please no.”

She seemed to realize something, and she jerked her head around, searching for something along the ground in the tent. When she saw the Lightning Spear lying nearby, she snapped out a hand to summon it into her palm.

It vanished.

***

All the dolls were absolutely silent.

“Mithra,” the Tartarus Incarnation rumbled. He bent at the waist to pick up the Wanderer’s silver-and-gold sword.

Kai started to laugh.

It began in his chest, an involuntarily convulsion that shook him, tearing out of him until he couldn’t help but cackle, chortle, positively choke in spasms of mirth. This was too much. He’d finally left them alone, tried to stay away like they wanted, respected Azura’s choice. And this was what happened. This was what happened.

He laughed until tears streamed down his face as the Tartarus Incarnation scooped up the sword and walked away.

Abruptly quiet, Kai held out a hand to the crowd of dolls.

“Caela, if you would,” he said smoothly. Caela rose to her feet and hopped up to his arm without a word. Reaching up with her wooden hands, she tightened her bonnet.

Go, she said.

Kai exploded into action. His steel had been running out, but he did not accept that. As he’d done once before, he reached deeper into Benson’s basement until the skeleton’s burning blue eyes loomed in his mind.

Kai, my friend, Benson began, you look—

Kai ripped the power from him, and steel flowed through his muscles in a torrent. His leap took him over the Tartarus Incarnation’s shoulder, until he almost hit the ceiling, but as he passed over the Incarnation, he seized its breastplate in both hands.

When he landed in the hallway, he dragged the Incarnation down with him.

The giant flopped over onto its stomach, blindly waving Mithra. The edge of the Dragon’s Fang scraped at the walls and doorframes, leaving shallow gouges. With its free hand, Tartarus pulled a steel spike out of midair and thrust it at Kai’s neck.

Behind, Caela snapped.

Kai leaned his head to the right, and the spike drove through empty air. He grabbed it with his own free hand, jerking the weapon out of the Incarnation’s grip and tossing it to the ground.

He kept walking forward, dragging the ten-foot titan behind him like a struggling child.

He didn’t walk back to the entry hall, though he was vaguely aware of a stone giant and a shadowy figure back there, as well as a swirling Gate. Now, he had a new plan. Someone had sent this Incarnation into his Territory, into his home, to kill his dolls.

Kai wasn’t satisfied with breaking the enemy’s weapon. He would break the enemy.

When he finally reached the door to the forge, Kai picked up the Tartarus Incarnation with both hands and used him as a hammer, slamming him once, twice, three times against the door until it broke inward.

This is the second time he’s broken this door, Kai thought. Naughty, naughty.

Inside the next door, the Agnos family waited. They screamed and scattered as he walked in, dragging an Incarnation behind him. Andra and Erastes stood in front of the others, Erastes clutching a Tartarus steel infantry sword and Andra a smith’s hammer.

Kai paid them no heed. When the Tartarus Incarnation reached out for a workbench to try and pull itself up, Kai broke the bench into splinters. When it tried to throw a blade at one of the bystanders, Caela warned him, and Kai stomped its hand until it crumpled.

When he made it to the gallery, he heaved the Incarnation in the room ahead of him. Behind, the hidden door slid shut.

The Incarnation placed one metal hand on the counters to either side of him, pushing himself up. One of his gauntlets still gripped Mithra’s hilt. Above, five complete masks—one more than last time—looked down on them.

“I am bound by honor to tell you that I was operating under restrictions the last we fought,” the Tartarus Incarnation grated out.

Kai didn’t care. He looked up at the masks on the wall. “You have no guard,” he said. “No trial. No way to release your power.” He pointed at the Incarnation, still looking up at the masks. “So with my own trial, I will prove my worth.”

Tartarus struck at Kai with Mithra’s blade, but Caela called out, and Kai ducked. He never glanced at his opponent.

“The enemy is strong,” he continued. “The enemy is here. The enemy threatens us all. It’s carrying Valin’s own blade, and if that’s not enough for you, then I don’t know what else you want!” By the end he was screaming at the masks, at the room, at Valinhall itself.

The sword fell like an executioner’s axe, and Kai stepped to one side. If defeating the same Incarnation twice in one room doesn’t count as earning a power, I don’t know what does.

Caela’s mental voice was grim. If it doesn’t, then tear this House down and build it again, she said. Because I won’t want to live here anymore.

Tartarus swung the sword at Kai’s neck, and Kai stepped forward, inside Mithra’s reach, calling stone.

His skin hardened, and he struck upward, driving his fist at the Incarnations’ descending wrist.

The metal arm collapsed in on itself with a deafening crunch, and steel fingers flew open. Blindly, Kai reached out and snatched Mithra’s hilt with his left hand, the blade reversed.

Then he called wind, letting the power flow down into his sword, strengthening and sharpening.

Blades appeared in the Tartarus Incarnation’s hands, but not fast enough.

Mithra passed through the Incarnation’s neck, sending his head clattering to the floor in another spray of gears and molten metal. The body jerked and twisted, but it didn’t attack anymore.

But Kai wasn’t one to lose the same way twice.

He slashed through the Incarnation’s breastplate with a wind-enhanced strike, tearing open the gears and springs inside, ripping the armor away plate by plate and severing each limb. When the Incarnation was little more than scraps, he reached in and pulled out something that looked like a pulsing, red-hot heart.

Ragnarus, he thought, and rage swelled within him. I will tear apart the Crimson Vault with my bare hands.

I…don’t think it was Ragnarus, Caela said reluctantly. I feel someone outside the Gate. A Valinhall Incarnation.

Kai froze. Last time they had entered the House through a gatecrawler, so he had assumed…but the Gate was clean and white, not angry and red. He remembered the shadow he’d glimpsed outside, at the end of the hallway.

One of his own, betraying him, attacking him in the House.

Again.

Kai collected what he needed from the gallery, stalking out into the workshop. “Take the scrap metal to the furnace,” he said, on his way out. No one said anything.

The Eldest was waiting for him in the forge, so he tossed the Ragnarus heart at the Nye. “Cast this into the void. Let it drift away from existence for all time.”

He bowed, his sleeves folded together. “It shall be done.”

The tip of Mithra’s point winked under the Eldest Nye’s hood, and Kai slowly moved the flat of the blade upward, lifting the Nye’s head. “If I find that you have tried to bend it to your will, you will answer to me,” Kai said softly. “Destroy it.”

The Eldest bowed again, and Kai walked out of the hallway to the entry hall.

The Gate had vanished.

***

Indirial felt Kai’s fury, felt one of the daughters of wind die, felt the destruction of Tartarus.

He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake.

When the Ornheim Incarnation left Valinhall, Indirial considered for a moment leaving the Gate open. Kai would charge after him in a rage, and they would have their showdown. After all, Kai had beaten him once. Maybe he could do it again.

The thought was tempting, but the mission came first. And Kai wasn’t much of a threat, not after twenty-five years of isolation and slow, creeping insanity. Indirial would be better off cherishing the memories of their first fight.

Ornheim gathered up the three Dragon’s Fangs, and the two of them began walking along the wall, preparing to jump off. They needed to reach King Zakareth as soon as possible, so he could seal the Fangs in the Vault. There, they couldn’t be banished, and the remaining Valinhall Travelers would be all but powerless…until they were tested and proven worthy.

One Incarnation for three Dragon’s Fangs and, essentially, control over Valinhall. King Zakareth would probably consider that a good trade.

Ornheim stepped off the wall, landing in a crater far below, and set off at a jog toward Leah’s camp. Indirial began to follow him when something burned at the back of his awareness, like a mole trying to burrow its way into the back of his skull. He turned and saw an angry red light where the Valinhall Gate had once hung.

Five spiked black fingers stuck out into midair, clawing the Gate back open.

The black gauntlet: Valinhall’s gatecrawler.

The call of the frozen horn would seal even this Gate, and for a moment Indirial wondered if he ought to try. It would be a race to see whether the horn’s powers ran out first or the gauntlet’s, and it would eat up precious time.

Now, it seemed like he would get the fight he wanted.

With Vasha gleaming and ready at his side, Indirial grinned.

***

With the spiked fingertips of his black gauntlet, Kai gutted the world. He tore a gaping red hole where the Gate used to be, and stepped through it. Wind snatched at his clothes, at the hair over his eyes, as he walked onto the mighty walls of Cana.

The stones of the fortifications had been marked by the presence of Incarnations. One stretch of rock was dyed red as though it had been soaked in blood. The Crimson Vault. A few steps away, the wall’s bricks had melted and flowed into a small cave set with sparkling crystals. The Maelstrom of Stone. Outside the walls, pillars of snow and ice lowered in a makeshift staircase heading toward a distant camp. The Tower of Winter.

And further along, the stone formed neat squares of smoothly polished tile. The House of Blades.

On those tiles, the Valinhall Incarnation stood ready for battle.

His boots were dark and practical, his pants black, his shirt crisp white and missing the sleeves. The chains that spiraled up his tanned arms glistened in the sun, reflecting light like a steel mirror. An otherworldly cloak, woven from what looked like solid shadows, rose from the ground behind him. It flowed like a cape, untouched by the breeze, and covered his head in a cowl.

Three things shone from inside the darkness of that hood: the twin violet circles of his eyes, and his bright smile.

Of course it was Indirial.

It had to be Indirial, because Kai had once let him live. This was all Kai’s fault. If he had killed Indirial a quarter of a century ago, then he wouldn’t have to worry about this. Or if he had let Indirial kill him. If he hadn’t taken in Simon, then Azura would never have abandoned him, and he could have protected Otoku as she deserved.

But then, if he had killed Indirial, then Indirial would never have saved the child Simon’s life. Azura would never have had the chance to choose another.

No matter how he twisted it, everything came down to Kai’s poor decisions.

Indirial leaned forward, Vasha in one hand, Korr dangling from his neck. “Challenge me, Traveler,” he said. “Come on!”

The wound in Kai’s back burned, but now he didn’t care about the pain. It felt like a fire at his back, prodding him to action. His minutes were numbered, now that he’d left the protection of the House and the poison of Ragnarus could reach its full capacity. Besides, no matter how much power he’d taken from Benson, it would wear out eventually. And his chains had already reached past his shoulders, from his work in the deep rooms and his fight against Tartarus.

Indirial could move faster than Kai, could hit harder, could last longer. But Kai only had to last long enough to see him die.

The mask Kai pulled from his belt wasn’t as deadly looking as Simon’s. It was half white and half gray, with two rectangular slits for his eyes and no mouth. He slid the metal up, under his bangs.

If this doesn’t work, I will tear Valinhall down to its foundations.

Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Caela said.

When he moved his hand away, the mask stayed. Steel coursed through him in a rolling, icy storm. Chains crawled across his skin even faster, but what did he care? He could fight.

Indirial blurred toward him, powered by the Nye essence that Kai had never earned. If he were on his own, he would never have been able to react.

But he wasn’t alone.

Left, Caela called. Left, then right, then straight ahead.

Kai stepped forward and swept Mithra up and to the left, knocking Vasha’s cracked blade wide. Indirial came in with another strike to the left side, but it was a feint. He reversed the blow, his weapon flowing from the right, but Kai turned it aside again. When Indirial brought Vasha down with both hands, Kai raised Mithra.

The gold-and-silver Dragon’s Fang of Valin, the Wanderer, met the cracked and pitted blade of his first student. For a moment they stayed evenly matched, quivering with tension, Kai’s mask only a pace from Indirial’s grin.

Then, in a puff of smoke, Kai vanished.

He’ll expect you behind him, Caela sent, as he dispersed. He’d anticipated that.

Which was why he formed above Indirial, falling toward the Incarnation’s head, his sword reversed so he could drive it down and through Indirial, pinning him to the stone like an insect to a board.

That was the plan, but something made the Valinhall Incarnation look up, and he almost seemed to blur as he sidestepped, moving so fast that Kai couldn’t see it. He called wind anyway, and when he landed, his sharpened Dragon’s Fang drove into the stone wall of Cana as if into soft mud.

Vasha flashed toward his throat, but he disappeared into another cloud of black smoke.

They continued that way for a tight handful of seconds that stretched on like minutes. Indirial was too fast for Kai to land a clean hit, but between Caela and the smoke, Kai could avoid anything the Incarnation tried to deliver.

Thanks to the mask, they were matched in strength. But with every second, his wound tightened and burned worse, until even his fury couldn’t ignore it. And the ends of his chain-marks had started creeping up to his neck.

I won’t be able to finish this before the chains reach their end, will I?

Not unless he throws himself off the wall, Caela said. Probably not even then.

Indirial ripped a chunk of stone out of the wall with one hand and hurled it at Kai. Mithra sliced it in half, the two pieces flying off to either side, but it was a distraction: Indirial flew straight toward him, violet eyes glowing, Vasha pointed at Kai’s chest.

He swung his blade with both hands, Mithra meeting Vasha strength-for-strength. The force almost knocked Kai off his feet, and he stumbled several paces backwards, almost knocking himself over onto his back.

His time was running out. At this rate, he’d never be able to avenge Otoku.

I need a new plan, he thought.

***

Simon watched as King Zakareth the Sixth, Incarnation of Ragnarus, defeated the Endross Incarnation in an entirely staged contest.

He and Leah stood with their cheeks pressed almost together, so they could both see out the tent-flap without opening it. He felt a little ridiculous, like a child trying to spy on an adult’s conversation, but two facts remained: they had to know what Zakareth was saying, and they couldn’t risk being spotted. That meant peeking out of a tent like an eight-year-old.

Zakareth rose in the sky on a glowing platform—glowing red, of course—and stood there, with a staff in his right hand and the Lightning Spear in his left. If he’d been serious about attacking Endross, he would have thrown the Spear from the ground, not levitated up to fight him one-on-one.

The Endross Incarnation growled and spun when he realized Zakareth was there, throwing out both hands and blasting a double-fistful of lightning at the Ragnarus Incarnation.

The ruby on the top of the King’s staff flashed, and there was a blinding explosion.

When Simon could see again, the Endross Incarnation was plummeting to the ground, trailing smoke. The King raised his staff again, and all the Endross Gates around the camp were swallowed by red light. Even the summoned creatures vanished.

“How did he do that?” Simon asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Leah said, in a flat voice. She seemed to be handling news of her father’s survival and Incarnation better than Simon had thought she would.

King Zakareth raised his staff again, and the Endross Incarnation was hauled back up into the air by his throat. A glowing red collar wrapped around his neck.

“There’s no Ragnarus weapon that does that many different things,” Leah said. “He’s cheating somehow.”

Simon suspected that Incarnations were allowed to ‘cheat’ when it came to their own Territories, but he said nothing. Zakareth was already faking the fight; why not fake the extent of his own powers?

“I am the King of Damasca,” the Incarnation announced, his voice carrying easily through the whole camp. “I have come to protect my people.”

A few isolated cheers went up, but even most of the soldiers in the royal army seemed too stunned by the turn of events to react.

“If you yield to my rule and guidance, Incarnation of Endross, you shall keep your life…though not your freedom. Do you submit?”

Simon couldn’t imagine anyone believing a scene like that, even from a King. It sounded like Zakareth was reading off a page, like Alin reciting an old, memorized story around a bonfire.

“I humbly submit myself to you,” the Endross Incarnation said, thus cementing his place in Damascan history as the worst actor of all time.

“Then kneel,” the King said. Endross went to one knee in midair, effortlessly hovering.

If this wasn’t practiced, how did he know that the Endross Incarnation could kneel in open air? Simon wondered. I wouldn’t have expected that.

Not for the first time, he wished he’d brought a doll. The inside of his head seemed a lonely place without one of them around.

“Kneeling on air,” Leah muttered. “That’s a neat trick.”

“Exactly!” Simon said. “Thank you. That’s what my dolls would have said.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she gave him a strange look.

In the sky, King Zakareth raised his staff and spear above his head. “People of Damasca! I have returned to you.”

This time, there was a definite cheer from the camp below.

“I have been away for some time, securing the city of Cana. At this time, the city is open to you. You may now return to your homes.”

The cheering grew louder, accompanied by a series of quiet murmurs.

“I regret to inform you that some of your friends and family, husbands and sons, wives and daughters, did not survive the war in Cana these past six months.” His voice hardened. “For make no mistake, there was a war. But I—and the loyal citizens of Damasca still in the city—have emerged victorious.”

“A war against who?” Simon asked, but Leah’s tan skin was growing a shade paler with every word her father spoke.

“The Incarnations now bend knee to me and me alone,” the King continued. “As should you. As will Enosh, very soon.”

There was no cheering at this, but the confused murmurs intensified.

“You all have followed my daughter for half a year, and for this I commend you. She is my Successor, and a worthy Traveler of Ragnarus. But now I have returned, and I have no need of Heirs or Successors. With the full power of the nine Territories, I will lead you against Enosh. I will never leave you, I will never fail you, and I will crush them at last.”

As he spoke each word, the ruby glow grew brighter and brighter around him, until at last he was surrounded by a scarlet aura like the one that had sheltered Cana for months.

The roar from the camp was almost deafening.

Simon didn’t know what to make of half that speech, but the part about not needing any Heirs or Successors was fairly clear. “That’s it,” he said, reaching for Azura’s hilt. “We need to get you out of here.”

Leah laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. Her eyes shone with anger.

“He can follow me into the House,” she said. “Especially if he was the one who took Indirial.” Simon flinched at the idea that the Ragnarus Incarnation might have the Overlord of Cana under his control, but he had to admit that it seemed likely. “I need to Travel through the one place where he can’t follow me. Or won’t, at least.”

She placed her palm flat against the empty air, and space bloomed into a swirling red Gate, opening on a pair of silver double doors.

Leah and her raven stepped into Ragnarus.

“Find out what happened to Indirial,” Leah ordered, as she walked through the Crimson Vault. Her red dress blended in perfectly with the light. “See if you can get the Valinhall Travelers all together; we might need them. And find out what my father wants. It sounds like he intends to attack Enosh, and if that’s true…” She took a deep breath. “We might need to work with Alin.”

Simon flinched at the thought, but he swept a bow anyway. He’d been working on that, and this time he thought he’d done well.

She turned slightly and smiled at him. “Not bad, Simon.”

He straightened. “When I’ve finished all that, how will I find you?”

She shook her head, returning her attention to the silver doors. “When I need to, I will find you.”

The Ragnarus Gate shrank, and Simon looked back out of the tent to find the King’s blazing red eye locked on him. He reached for Azura.

Whatever she says, I think everything would be a whole lot simpler if I killed him right here, he thought. But Zakareth didn’t attack.

And when Simon’s grip closed around his Dragon’s Fang, he realized whose fear and pain and panic he’d been sensing for the past few minutes.

Azura’s.

Her dread and grief crashed into him, and agony hit him like the death of his mother all over again. A tear crawled down his cheek, and he didn’t even know why.

What’s going on? he asked, trying to send his thoughts to her the way he would with a doll.

She didn’t say anything he could understand, but he felt another surge of grief, and a single image:

Otoku, half her face torn away, staring at the ceiling of the seventh bedroom, nothing more than lifeless wood.

Steel flooded him, and he raised his blade to begin cutting a Valinhall Gate right there in the tent. Someone had attacked his Territory, and if he had anything to say about it, they would never get a chance to escape.

No, wait…

He dropped the Gate. That wasn’t the right place to go, and he knew it. No…Azura knew it. The enemy wasn’t in the House. So then, where?

Behind him. He pushed out of the tent and saw, miles distant, the stone walls of Cana.

The threat was there, sure as he knew his own name. But even with steel and essence in him, it would take minutes for him to cover that distance.

Simon didn’t have minutes. Otoku’s killer might be escaping even now.

He pulled out the mask.

CHAPTER 23:

A PAIR OF MASKS

The first time Indirial had fought with Kai, he hadn’t expected much. Kai had been shorter, weaker, and slower…but somehow it hadn’t mattered. With the help of those dolls of his, and some scary ability of Kai himself, the kid had been able to predict everything Indirial did. It didn’t matter that Indirial was faster and stronger, with better reach. Kai anticipated every move Indirial made and positioned himself to meet it.

Before, that had driven Indirial half-crazy. He’d been fighting Kai to save Kai’s life, in part. He’d seen through Valin’s insanity, though Kai hadn’t. He still wondered, sometimes, how they would have changed—how the world would have changed—if Kai had lost that day.

For one thing, there would have been no Travelers from Enosh on a rainy day nine years ago, looking for Valin’s Hanging Tree. Simon’s parents wouldn’t have died, and he likely would have never become a Valinhall Traveler.

At the time, Indirial had known he was right, and Kai’s resistance had filled him with frustrated anger.

Now, on the walls of Cana, he feinted at Kai’s left side, changed direction to sweep at his throat and force him to back off, summoning a spear from the Valinhall armory to thrust at his chest. Kai didn’t even blink at the feint, leaned back to let Vasha’s point scrape the chin of his white-and-gray mask, and then grabbed the spear below the head, jerking Indirial off-balance. In one smooth motion, he pulled Indirial toward him and drove Mithra through his stomach.

Far from frustrated, Indirial didn’t think he’d ever had a better time.

Valin had always spoken of the joy of battle, how there was no game greater than wagering your life in a contest of strength and skill between two evenly matched opponents, but Indirial had only ever caught glimpses of that in himself. He enjoyed using his Valinhall powers; how could he not? He could leap to the top of a tall building and look out over Cana, enjoying a view that only the Avernus fliers got to see. Unlike them, he didn’t even have to worry about falling. Travelers held very little fear for him, because he knew that in a straightforward combat scenario, he would always hold the edge.

But he’d rarely felt the sheer thrill, the enjoyment of battle for its own sake. Not until now.

So he let Mithra slide in through his stomach, relished the distant pain of his mortal body. Kai had earned that. It was a beautiful move, and had Indirial been only human, that would have been enough to outplay him. Taking this hit was something like applause from an appreciative audience.

“Well done!” Indirial said, through a genuine grin. “I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

While Indirial was talking, Kai released Mithra’s hilt, pulled a two-headed battle-axe from the armory, and swung it at Indirial’s neck. Indirial ducked under it—which felt a little more awkward than usual, considering the six feet of steel sticking through him.

He coughed up a little blood, idly wiping it away, and drew Mithra out of his stomach inch by inch. He tossed it underhand, back to Kai.

In a spray of green and gold sparks, his torso knit itself back together.

Kai stepped forward with Mithra in both hands, working the forms as beautifully as if he were practicing in front of a mirror. He swept the blade diagonally up, then across, driving Indirial back. At some point, Indirial knew, his back would hit a wall. Kai was backing him into a corner. It was such a classic move that Indirial almost wanted to let him land it, but that would remove the spirit of the game, so right when he sensed he was about to be backed into a corner, he jumped. His strength as an Incarnation let him soar over Kai easily, even considering his reach with Mithra.

Kai had been waiting for him.

He hadn’t banished the battle-axe after all. He had only dropped it. Indirial had stopped paying attention to the weapon after it left Kai’s hand, but that was a mistake.

Kai scooped up the axe, big enough to bisect an ox, and hurled it one-handed. It spun over and over on its way to meet Indirial in the air.

He got Vasha up in time to deflect the axe-blade, but he didn’t expect Kai to be right behind it, leaping after the weapon to clash with Indirial in midair. Indirial managed to twist out of the way, avoiding a Dragon’s Fang through the chin by mere inches.

Indirial had tried that move earlier with a simple chunk of stone he’d torn off the wall, and now Kai copied him with a battle-axe?

He was falling, but he already had his feet under him, and with the Nye essence it felt like a casual glide. “Is it the scroll?” Indirial shouted up. “Is that how you’re doing this?” Kai had always claimed he had a power called the ‘iron scroll,’ or the ‘black scroll’ or some such thing, and that allowed him to understand the flow of combat better than anyone else. Indirial had never found such a power, but Kai definitely had some edge. If he spent enough time as the Incarnation of Valinhall, he’d solve the mystery, but everything would be so much easier if Kai would play along and answer him.

Indirial landed lightly, and Kai hurled a spear after him. He deflected it with the flat of his blade, watching Kai hit the ground in a crouch, Dragon’s Fang held out to the side. Under his shaggy white hair, the white-and-gray mask was featureless. Pitiless. Cold.

It hadn’t been long since Indirial had hated the masks, hated the very idea of them. Calling more power at the expense of increasing your debt to Valinhall seemed like the exact trap that had ensnared Valin. The same trap that had caught him, if he was honest.

But now? He liked the look of the masks. They would be the faceless executioners of Valinhall, and the last sight the unjust or unworthy would take to their graves would be a blank plate of gleaming metal.

Come to think of it, Indirial thought, what about that debt?

He glanced up at Kai’s neck.

The black chains were only one link from completion.

All his life, Indirial had heard horror stories about what happened when two Incarnations existed at the same time. Most of them, it seemed, simply died. Others lost all their powers and went insane, or one lost their powers and the other their sanity. Valin always said that he’d personally witnessed a double Avernus Incarnation, where each Incarnation had physically fused with the other, creating a horrifying monstrosity with extra parts, both bird and human, constantly tugging between two wills.

Indirial wasn’t quite sure how that would be possible, since Valin’s entire life had passed while the Incarnations were sealed beneath the Hanging Trees. But he’d taken the stories to heart.

He let Vasha vanish and raised his empty hands.

“We should do this again, Kai,” he said. “If I was…like I was before, you’d have killed me. But I’m not, and you can’t. Now take off the mask.”

Kai had paced back and forth on the wall while he was talking. He seemed to be limping, favoring his left leg. But when Indirial stopped, Kai puffed into smoke and swirled in Indirial’s direction.

Look out, Korr warned. The violet flame burned at the center of the smoke, flying along with the black stream, and came to rest in front of him.

So Kai was going for a frontal assault, then? Fine.

The white-haired Traveler manifested before Indirial with the point of his sword an inch from Indirial’s chest. He pushed it up, skewering straight through the heart like a knife through an apple.

Blood welled up and flowed through Indirial’s lips, filling his mouth with the taste of copper, but he finally had the chance he’d been looking for: he grabbed Kai’s shoulder with one hand and his mask at the other, prying with all his strength and the full will of his Territory, trying to peel the mask off his old friend.

Kai jerked back, tearing the mask from Indirial’s fingers. It was still stuck, so the Incarnation tried another tactic.

When Kai struggled to pull Mithra out of Indirial’s chest, Indirial held on to the blade and stepped forward.

He kicked Kai in the ribs.

Kai brought the Dragon’s Fang with him, pulling it out of Indirial with a sucking noise. He flew through the air, blood trailing from his sword, and landed hard on his back at the foot of the still-open Valinhall Gate.

He writhed on the ground, in even more pain than the fall could account for. That’s right; he must have fallen on his wound. So much the better, for Indirial’s purposes.

This time, when Indirial reached down to peel the mask away, Kai didn’t resist.

The last link around his neck was half-formed, but if Simon’s experience with the original mask was any indication, Kai wouldn’t be able to call any powers from Valinhall for hours, if not days.

“You should have…left her alone,” Kai said, choking up. “She didn’t…deserve that.”

Indirial let his joy fade a little; it wouldn’t be appropriate to keep grinning in the face of Kai’s obvious grief. “I didn’t want any of them to die,” the Incarnation said. “They’re part of me, now. As are you.”

He reached down and grabbed Mithra, summoning Vasha again so he held a Dragon’s Fang in each hand. All the Wanderer’s remaining swords were now in his possession, except for Simon’s Azura. “Can you make it through the Gate, Kai?”

Laughter burbled up in Kai’s throat, sounding like he had a mouth full of blood.

Indirial sighed. “Kai, I can’t believe how often we have this conversation. Get back through the Gate, or you’re going to die. The fight’s over. I won.”

“Hmmmm?” Kai said, his voice suddenly smooth. “Did you?”

He reached out, and the air shimmered as he summoned something from the Valinhall armory: a giant hammer, mirror-bright Tartarus steel from head to hilt.

With an audible click, the black chains around his throat snapped together.

Indirial’s mind shattered, reformed, shattered again. He was vaguely aware of falling to his knees, but he also felt the cold stone against his back, the burning Ragnarus sword wound in his back, and an overwhelming grief for a broken doll in a red dress. Steel shifted and pushed like needles beneath his skin, as patches of his flesh painfully hardened.

He was looking up into his own eyes, which burned with violet flame like a warning from Korr.

No, wait…that was a warning from Korr.

Danger! His advisor shouted.

With the last of his strength, Kai tossed the Tartarus steel hammer over the wall.

And Simon rose up from the walls of Cana, masked in mirrored steel and dark iron. His cloak trailed black behind him, the hood raised. In his right hand he held Azura, long and gleaming silver, and with his left hand he plucked the falling hammer from midair.

He seemed to hover for an instant, a specter of shadow and bright steel like an Arbiter of Naraka come to deliver judgment.

Indirial had one moment to think, That is exactly how a Traveler of Valinhall should look.

Then Simon struck.

That glimpse of Simon was the one clear look that Indirial got. As soon as the boy started moving with his hood up, the essence of the Nye flowing through him, Indirial had a hard time looking at him straight on. He wondered briefly if certain Incarnations had an easier time looking through the Nye cloak than others, but then Simon was on him.

His first strike was a slash with Azura, which Indirial had to nudge with the Dragon’s Fang in his left hand. Simon followed up with a one-handed swing of the hammer, aimed at Indirial’s head.

Ordinarily, he would have dodged, continuing his attack from a lower angle. Perhaps ducked under the hammer and driven his sword up into Simon’s stomach. But he had a good sense of Kai’s strength when he was wearing the mask, and he didn’t really want to kill Simon. The boy wouldn’t give him the same fight as Kai, but maybe in twenty or thirty years he’d turn into something truly spectacular. Indirial the Overlord, Indirial, son of Aleias, and the Valinhall Incarnation were all in agreement: they wanted to see Simon reach his potential.

So he caught the blow one-handed with Vasha. Assuming that Simon in his mask was just as strong as Kai had been, Indirial wouldn’t need to meet the attack with his full strength.

Indirial had already begun planning his next strike—stepping forward and hitting Simon in the head with the flat of Mithra’s blade, hopefully tripping him up and letting Indirial subdue him unharmed—when he realized the hammer was still coming.

Under the Nye essence, the instant had felt much longer, but the Tartarus steel head of Simon’s hammer met Vasha and didn’t even slow down. It was headed straight for Indirial’s temple.

In a split second, he redirected all his strength as the Valinhall Incarnation into supporting his one-handed defense, pushing against the hammer with everything he had.

Superhuman strength or not, there was only so much he could do against momentum with poor footing and no leverage.

The hammer, along with the back of his own blade, smacked Indirial in the face.

Even as an Incarnation, he felt that pain. The hammer smashed the side of his head, whiting out his world and sending him flying into a wall. He hit hard enough to crack the bricks and most of his bones before flopping down to the ground. Which, he couldn’t help but notice, was also solid stone.

As his body knit itself together in a blinding display of gold and green, he came to a realization: That mask is stronger than the other one.

Oh. So that’s how Valin lost.

Still, Simon didn’t have the Ragnarus blade that had crippled Kai and killed Valin—however impermanent that had turned out to be. No matter how strong the boy was, he didn’t have a way to kill Indirial. And he was still shackled by Valinhall’s chains, so he was working under a time limit. The only thing Indirial had to do was stall—

His world shook again. He was staring up at the blue sky, his white hair falling into his eyes, then he was on his hands and knees, looking at the stone, then he was Kai again, whose skin was slowly turning to steel…

Kai was transforming. He had already half-changed into an Incarnation, and if he kept going, either he or Indirial would die.

Indirial’s hand grew numb and began to shake. He tried to make a fist, but he couldn’t control his body. Indirial and Kai shook at the same time, and Kai and Indirial felt both sensations together.

With a supreme effort of will, Indirial wrenched his consciousness back into the right body. He forced himself up.

Black-cloaked Simon, with his cold metal expression, was swinging the hammer in both hands. It came straight for Indirial, and he was having trouble remembering why that was supposed to be a bad thing…

The hammer hit him like a falling star, and for a while he knew nothing.

When he came to, he was lying on the floor of the hallway in the House of Blades. He glanced to his left. Yes, there was the bedroom where he’d spent most of his life. Where was Valin? The graveyard, part of him murmured. Where were the others? The graveyard.

Gold and green sparks flickered in front of his eyes—or possibly in his eyes—and he leaped to his feet.

The Gate! He had to reach the Gate.

He was there almost as soon as he’d thought of it, his body reacting with superhuman speed. He pushed through the Gate, and it was like walking into an invisible screen door. He could almost walk through, but the air pressed against him, holding him back in a solid barrier, as though the world itself wanted him on this side. He strained and shoved with all his will as the Incarnation of Valinhall, but the screen never tore.

He reached out for Vasha, and realized she wasn’t at his side. Where was she? Not on the rack, all the racks were empty. He tried to summon her, but she didn’t come. Where…

He looked out through the Gate. There, on the walls of Cana, where he’d tossed every other Dragon’s Fang he could find, lay Vasha. Unreachable.

Outside the Gate, Simon peeled the mask away and collapsed. Inside the Territory, Indirial pulled up a padded chair and sat in it backwards, straddling the back.

He’d thought he would have felt bitter at being so thoroughly defeated, but he felt more pride than anything else. Simon and Kai had surpassed his expectations, and both of them for the second time.

Maybe he should learn to stop underestimating them.

“Well played,” he said.

CHAPTER 24:

THE END OF A TRAVELER

Simon commanded his body to do anything other than sit slumped against the edge of the wall, but he could barely raise one trembling hand. At least he hadn’t lost consciousness this time; he hadn’t worn the mask to its absolute limit, so he could stay seated, and could even move his limbs an inch or two at a time. That was about as far as his body would take him.

But he had to do more than sit here. He needed to help Kai.

Kai lay on the stones less than a pace away, covered in blood and steel. It looked like the Incarnation had begun with his hand and gone terribly wrong: one hand was encased by a mirror-bright gauntlet that ended at the wrist, but the rest of his body was practically torn apart. A metal spike had burst from his elbow, beneath the skin, trickling blood onto the ground. Two blades pushed out from his shoulders, also dripping blood.

Patches of mirrored steel had replaced his skin seemingly at random, and clumps of his hair had started to transform as well. Most of the hair hung naturally: shaggy, grimy white, smudged by dirt and blood. The transformed spots didn’t look like real human hair. It was bright white, strangely stiff-looking, and blood seemed to flow through it without leaving any spots behind.

The whole of Kai made him look like a hideous abomination, like a man and an artificial creature from deep in a Territory had been blended randomly together.

That’s almost exactly what happened, Caela sent. Oh, Kai…

Kai’s body shook again, with another spasm, and a dagger-blade pushed itself up from inside his rib cage. His white-gray mask clattered to the ground, the force that attached it to Kai’s head vanishing. Simon forced himself to look away.

Call Andra or Erastes, Simon ordered her. We have to get him into the pool.

Caela sat by Kai’s body, staring up at the sky from under her blue bonnet. Simon wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or not, but one of her wooden hands lay on Kai’s arm.

Not the pool, she said. We need to get him into the bedroom.

How will that help?

That’s where he wants to die.

Simon refused to accept that. Kai’s chest still rose and fell with each breath, and his head moved from side to side. If he could still communicate with Caela, he could still be saved.

He looked over at the shadow-cloaked Incarnation sitting in the entry hall. “Indirial, can you move him?”

Indirial waved at the Gate. “You saw what happened when I tried to leave. Besides, the pool won’t save him.”

“If you can’t help, then get someone who can.”

“No one can.”

“Then get the Eldest!” Simon shouted. “Go find him, and promise him whatever he wants to get him here now.”

Finally, Simon managed to push himself up to his feet. He swayed and almost fell when a wave of dizziness caught him, but he steadied himself with one hand on the edge of the wall. Good. He was recovering much faster than before. His chains still reached up to his neck, so that could be a problem, but he surely had enough time left to drag Kai through the House.

Where’s Andra? Simon asked Caela.

On her way, the doll responded. She and Erastes will take him.

By the time Andra hurried into the entry hall, carrying an ordinary sword and looking ready for a fight, Simon had managed to stand on his own. He stood, wavering, just outside the Gate, trying to muster up the strength to drag Kai on his own.

Andra stopped at the edge of the hallway, staring at Indirial’s shadowed form. Warily, she raised her blade. Erastes hurried in behind her, chain mail jangling, and his Tartarus steel sword was out of its sheath and pointed at Indirial before he even made it into the entry hall.

“Leave them alone, Indirial,” Simon said, trying to inject some authority into his voice. He was worried that he only sounded tired. “Don’t hurt them.”

Indirial’s eyebrows lifted. “You defeated me in combat. I won’t stand in your way.” His violet eyes turned to Kai. “I won’t do anything for you, either, but I won’t get in your way.”

Another spike pushed out of Kai’s skin, and he groaned weakly.

“Help him!” Simon demanded. Andra and Erastes left the Gate together, bending down to grab Kai under the shoulders.

“What happened to Seijan?” Andra asked, as she pulled Kai into Valinhall, moving carefully to avoid cutting herself on his spikes.

Her Dragon’s Fang, Caela reminded him.

“Oh, right. It…I mean, he…she?” Now that he knew the Dragon’s Fangs could think for themselves, at least a little, what was he supposed to call them? “You should probably banish it and re-summon it,” he said at last.

Indirial smiled a little over the back of his chair. “You should hurry up about it. The King can seal them in the Vault, and then you’ll never get them back without his permission.”

Andra stuck one arm out, past the Gate, and in the entry hall Seijan appeared. It was half the size of Azura but roughly the same shape, with its shorter blade speckled with spots of what looked like ink. Andra glanced behind her and sighed with relief, then turned back to Kai.

“Take him straight to the pool,” Simon said.

Erastes nodded and started pulling Kai toward the hallway, but Andra hesitated. “Your doll said…”

“I don’t care what she said,” Simon snapped. “Take him to the pool.” Was he the only one who hadn’t given up yet?

Andra and Erastes pulled Kai into the hall, and Simon glanced behind him. The top of Cana’s wall was little more than a ruin. Not only had chunks been broken, crushed, or sliced out of the stone, the evidence of the Incarnations’ presence remained: pools where the bricks had turned red, a cave where the rock had flowed into something resembling a natural formation, a stretch of tile shaped by Valinhall that had been shattered by Valinhall’s powers.

On that ruin lay three Dragon’s Fangs.

He’d dropped Azura when he needed to use the hammer, and there she sat, shining in the sun and almost seven feet long. A few paces away, Vasha—bigger and thicker, riddled with cracks—sat where it had flown from Indirial’s hand. At the foot of the Gate, in a pool of Kai’s blood, lay Mithra.

The Wanderer’s sword looked much like Azura except for the line of gold running up the blade from hilt to point. The three blades sat there, visible from the Territory, and Simon knew he’d need to pick them up. They were too valuable to leave sitting out in the open, but how was he supposed to carry them? He could banish Azura, but he wouldn’t be able to lift the others without calling steel. He wasn’t sure he could call on Valinhall at all so soon after using the mask, but even if he could, it might do to him what it had done to Kai.

He pictured spikes stabbing out of his skin from the inside, and shuddered. I don’t want to die like that, he thought, but then he stopped himself.

No. Kai’s not dead yet.

With a thought he banished Azura, and she appeared on the rack across from the Gate. He managed to bend over without falling, scooping up Caela and tucking her into his cloak. Then he looked for Indirial, to see if he could help.

His chair was empty.

He left minutes ago, Simon, Caela said softly. Did you not notice?

That was stupid. He was letting himself slip because he was exhausted, and all but powerless, and maybe about to pass out. So what? He wasn’t wounded. Kai had taken far more damage today than he had.

Caela shifted inside his cloak pocket. It’s not just today. It’s all piling up on you, Simon. You need to stop pushing yourself.

The dolls were always trying to keep him from using the mask. He couldn’t fight an Incarnation without it on, certainly not the Valinhall Incarnation, so he would have to live with the risk until the danger was past.

He was coming up with another way to get the swords when the Eldest appeared in a flutter of black robes. “I hear you have lost another two of the swords,” he hissed. “Every time I think you have stepped forward, you show me that you have actually taken a step back.”

Simon met the Nye’s empty gaze, trying to project an image of confidence and strength. If he wanted the Eldest to take him seriously, he had to act like he was in charge. “I will get them back. I will get them all back. But you need to hold up your end of the bargain and save Kai.”

The Eldest paused for a moment, and then he began to chuckle. “You get one miracle out of me, and you begin to expect them on command. I am loath to disappoint you, O exalted heir, but Valin was an exception in more ways than one. It was no great thing to bring him back. I am more impressed that he managed to die at all.”

You know he’s right, Simon, Caela said, but Simon didn’t let that sway him. The Eldest might sound convincing, but that didn’t mean he was telling the truth.

“You’ve bargained with me before,” Simon said. “Why not now? Do you want Kai to die that badly?”

“I don’t care how long he lives before he dies, but he was transformed halfway into an Incarnation. That is a death sentence. The merciful thing would be to put a chain around his neck right now.”

Simon forced himself to march forward and grab a double handful of the Eldest’s robes. He’d never tried to fight the Eldest directly, but he’d do what he had to for Kai.

“Save him!” Simon commanded.

“I cannot.”

Simon’s hands were shaking on the Nye’s robes, and he made them unclench. “I’d better…” he began, but he wasn’t sure how to finish.

What was he supposed to do?

Let’s go see him, Caela urged.

Step by step, Simon marched down the hall, toward the bathroom. He felt like he was marching toward his own funeral, and his mind kept racing toward a way out. The Eldest had said Kai’s transformation into an Incarnation had been interrupted.

Because of Indirial, Simon realized. There could be only one Incarnation at a time. Just because Indirial had been sealed into the Territory, he hadn’t lost all his powers yet. So what if Simon killed Indirial? Would that help Kai?

Simon shook his head, forcing his thoughts back in line. That would only put Simon in the same situation. He would have to call his powers to execute Indirial, and besides: he didn’t want Indirial to die either. None of them should have to die! He wasn’t even sure why they’d been fighting in the first place!

It all came back to Valin’s question: What do you want?

Why was he fighting? What was he willing to fight for?

To keep Kai alive, he resolved. That’s a good enough reason for anyone.

We’re here, Caela announced.

No, we’re not. We’re still in the hallway. The bath is still...

Then Simon realized the seventh bedroom, his bedroom, had been torn open. Andra and Erastes waited within, and they’d been joined by Caius, Lycus, and Olissa. The five of them stood in a half-circle around Kai’s bleeding, transformed body.

But that wasn’t what held Simon’s attention. The floor was scattered with walking dolls. Walking, moving, broken dolls.

Rebekkah’s arm was bound in a sling that it looked like she had tied herself. As he watched, she tossed her red braid back over her shoulder and tightened the sling with her teeth. He hadn’t known that she could move her jaw.

And there, Angeline was carrying Lilia on her back. Both of Lilia’s feet had been crushed, and the hem of her flowing, white dress was torn away. Gloria sat nearby, her hair and dress ruined, sniffling and wiping at her eyes as though to brush away real tears.

All of the dolls moved around on the floor; for the first time since Simon had seen the room, their shelves were completely bare. Even the dolls who hardly ever spoke to him—Delia, Reka, Sara, the twins—they all worked to help the injured.

Then he saw Otoku.

Kai clutched her to his chest, stroking what remained of her long, black hair. Half of her face had been shattered, as if with a hammer, and the remaining half stared up at the ceiling with an expression of mild surprise.

It finally hit Simon that he’d lost someone. Again.

Ever since he’d gotten his powers from Valinhall, he’d managed to save everyone who needed it. Now Otoku, who should have been safe, was gone. And Kai…

One by one, the dolls walked up to Kai. Some of the injured and broken had to help each other, but every one stopped and placed a hand on Kai’s forehead. Serious Angeline bent over to plant a wooden kiss in his hair, and the twins actually threw all four of their arms around him for a hug.

No one said anything.

When all the dolls had finished, they stood around Kai’s body in a complete circle, facing inward. Simon’s mind was still racing: Were they doing something? Maybe they could save him. He’d never understood the powers of the dolls—maybe they could bring Kai back.

He was surprised to realize that Caela had crawled up out of his cloak and was sitting on his left shoulder; he hadn’t felt her at all. And she never moved so much.

Good-bye, she said, softly. Several of her sisters echoed her. Kai smiled, and he let out one last, contented sigh. “My little ones…” he said.

Then his hand, still brushing Otoku’s hair, stopped moving.

That was it. Simon had waited long enough. He called steel and stepped forward, shoving aside the nearest few dolls, reaching for Kai. He would pick the man up and drag him to the pool, no matter what he wanted, and if that didn’t work he’d take Kai to see Valin…

Somebody stood in his way, and Simon tried to push past, but he couldn’t. They were holding his shoulders, and they were just as strong as he was.

Erastes, he realized. Simon didn’t hesitate; he drove his fist into the old man’s gut.

Filled with steel, the soldier didn’t make a sound. He stepped in front of Kai, blocking Simon’s vision. “He’s dead, son,” Erastes said, his words characteristically hard.

Simon knocked his hands away and tried to push past, but Andra was holding his left side, and Erastes his right. He struggled against them for a moment before he realized it was useless.

You can’t do anything now, Caela said.

No, he couldn’t.

And he cried for that as much as anything.

***

Leah walked into the middle of the Crimson Vault, standing between the rows of weapons on their marble shelves, with their delicately carved labels. She stopped in what she guessed was the center of the long gallery, and turned to the raven on her shoulder.

Murin purred, or the raven equivalent. It sounded like she was gargling birdsong, but Leah got the impression that the raven did feel another mind. Another sound, almost a soft bark, and Leah understood that this person was quite close.

It could be convenient, having a raven that could sense, read, and possibly manipulate thoughts. But Leah hoped that one day the bird would learn to communicate more clearly. Having to interpret each little sound, even with Murin’s mental assistance, was becoming a noticeable inconvenience. Still, at least she was getting better at it.

Leah looked around at Ragnarus, at the glittering weapons that surrounded her, and she raised her voice. “I’ve come to talk with you,” she said.

For a few seconds, only silence answered. Then a woman stepped into Leah’s view. She walked as if she had exited a door, but Leah could clearly see a straight hallway in either direction. There was no way for this woman to have hidden anywhere.

Even if she would blend in.

Her dress was scarlet light folded into waves of solid fabric, and her skin a dusky red that looked painted on. Her eyes were shaped like those of an ordinary human, which Leah hadn’t expected, but their irises were clearly red.

The former Ragnarus Incarnation put a hand on her hip and smiled with one side of her mouth. “I suppose you’re the daughter.”

“Queen Leah the First. And which of my ancestors are you?”

The red woman’s smile widened. “Queen Cynara, also the First of that name. A pleasure to meet you, Highness.” She bent her knees in an ironic curtsy.

Leah had been somewhat prepared for this. She’d already thought through all the possibilities of exactly who could be sealed beneath Cana’s Hanging Tree. It couldn’t be Queen Cynara the Second, since that Queen of Damasca had remained alive to seal the other eight Incarnations. That left either her mother, Cynara the First, or one of the Ragnarus Travelers of old, before the Vault was bound by the Elysians and re-opened.

She had considered this possibility, but her expectations paled before the reality. She was standing before the first Queen of Damasca, the woman who had torn away the seal on Ragnarus, bound the Territory to her bloodline, defeated the last Elysian Incarnation in single combat, and formed Damasca into a unified nation almost singlehandedly. Leah had grown up hearing legends of this woman’s adventures, both historical and mythical.

So she was proud that her voice didn’t waver as she said, “The pleasure is mine.”

Cynara nodded, accepting the compliment. “You approached me. You wish to bargain?”

“I wish to stop my father.”

Leah’s hand brushed the ring-box in her pocket. A former Incarnation of Ragnarus would surely ask for payment, so hopefully an old artifact of the Crimson Vault would do the job.

Queen Cynara paced slowly across the Vault’s broad floor, seemingly lost in thought. “There is the matter of price…but we will get to that. How do you know you want to oppose your father? Do you even know what he wants?”

“If he’s the Incarnation of Ragnarus, then he wants power,” Leah said. “He doesn’t care how or where he gets it, so long as someone pays a price.” Murin fluttered her wings and squawked, agreeing.

Cynara nodded, once. “True and wisely spoken. Still, why stop him? He would make a better ruler than some.”

Because he’s an insane, murderous Incarnation, Leah thought. “Because I don’t trust his judgment,” she said.

“Ah.” Queen Cynara pondered for a moment, tapping a finger against her lower lip. “Take it from me, his judgment is certainly questionable. As was mine, until…recently. But you want more than to prevent your father from reaching his goals. Be specific.”

If that’s the way she wants it, Leah thought. “I need the answers to three questions. What is my father planning? How do I stop him, and the other Incarnations? And how do I deal with the Incarnations as a whole?”

She wasn’t sure Queen Cynara would have an answer to the last question, given that she had apparently failed to control the Incarnations the first time around, but it would be worth comparing what she said to the Avernus Incarnation’s advice to find any flaws.

“The last one is easy,” Queen Cynara said, shrugging one red shoulder. “Simply return each Incarnation to its home Territory. The longer I spent in the Unnamed World, the more my thoughts began to bend to my new nature. And now, as I spend time in my Territory, I begin to remember who I used to be.” Her eyes grew distant. “I wish I’d known that before I saved your father from the brink of death.”

Leah, too, wished that she had let Zakareth die on the Vault floor. “So, if I return the Incarnations, everything works out?”

Cynara waved a hand. “Of course not. Nothing ever ‘works out’ so easily. You’ll have to create a team of Travelers dedicated to finding and stopping Incarnations. That’s what the Elysians did, in my time, but now I’d recommend that Valinhall of yours. Or at least I would have, except that Zakareth attacked them. I don’t know how it ended up, but we do have two of their excellent swords here in the Vault.”

Leah’s first thought was to run and go tell Simon, but if the attack was over, then he surely already knew. And she had better things to do than to worry about a bunch of Valinhall Travelers in a fight.

She decided to ask the ancient queen the same question she’d asked Avernus. “The Territories would become more difficult to colonize and control if I left the Incarnations loose,” she said. “Why don’t I use the Hanging Trees again?”

Cynara stiffened visibly at the mention of the trees, and she began rubbing her wrist. “Even if you were willing to bear the moral burden of the yearly sacrifices, which I suspect you are not, the situation is much worse for the Ragnarus Incarnation. The Trees were never meant to work on our kind.” Cynara’s eyes blazed, and her voice shook with remembered pain and grief. “I never fully lost consciousness as the Tree fed upon me, do you understand? Not for one moment. I was even aware of the outside world, able to sense events to a certain degree. I cannot imagine a more complete state of agony.”

Leah managed to repress a shudder. She would subject the Incarnations to that if she had to, to preserve the security of the realm, but she would certainly prefer another way. A way that Avernus and Cynara seemed to be offering.

“Well, then, on to my other questions. What is my father planning, and how do I stop him?”

Queen Cynara released her own wrist and composed herself, brushing off her scarlet dress. Her smile returned, and this time it had an edge. “In this, help and payment are the same. Here is my price: I will give you the information you seek, and in exchange, you will embrace the power that you now hold.”

“I will not become an Incarnation,” Leah said at once. She had decided on that before coming here. The last thing they needed was another Incarnation taking her father’s place.

“Not that,” Cynara said irritably. “Why does everyone assume I speak in riddles? The power you now hold. In your hand.”

Leah’s hand clenched on the ring-box, and she drew it out of her pocket. “This?”

“The Eye of Ages,” Queen Cynara said, her smile broadening. “I’ll help you replace your eye, and tell you your father’s plans…not that he’s been keeping them secret. All you have to do is accept.”

Leah rattled the box in front of her. “What do you gain from this?”

Queen Cynara rested her chin in her hand as though thinking. “That wasn’t one of the questions I agreed to answer, was it? No, it was not. Let us say that our interests coincide, for a time.”

I can’t see a trap, Leah thought. Which means there must be one somewhere. What angle is she playing? What am I missing?

The problem was, she didn’t know enough. She knew practically nothing about the Eye of Ages, or about Queen Cynara. What could possibly motivate the woman?

“What do you think?” Leah muttered to Murin. She hadn’t quite decided whether to trust the bird—she had come from another Incarnation—but it seemed that Leah’s interests and the interests of the Avernus Incarnation should align on this issue.

Murin ruffled her feathers in what looked like a shrug. From everything the bird could tell, Queen Cynara had no secret agenda.

Which meant that her move was so subtle that even a mind-reading raven couldn’t ferret out its meaning. That made Leah even more nervous.

Cynara hadn’t stopped pacing. Or smiling. “One eye in exchange for wisdom. There are worse bargains.”

Leah’s father had a saying about bargains. It takes two people to make a deal: a desperate man and a winner.

So far in her life, Leah had always tried to be on the winning side. In this bargain, she was afraid she knew where she fell.

But she was desperate.

“I have some conditions,” she began, but Queen Cynara spoke over her.

“No, you don’t!” she said sweetly. “You’re quibbling to make it look like you haven’t given ground. Come now, I’m a weapons dealer, not a merchant. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Cynara clapped her hands, and a chair slammed into the backs of Leah’s knees. She collapsed backwards, sinking in the soft, padded fabric. Murin took off from her shoulder in a flurry of black wings.

Her parting caw had a distinct flavor of You’ll get no help from me.

Queen Cynara leaned over the chair, with her red eyes and ruby smile. “Just relax and let me take care of everything. It’ll all be over soon.”

Then she reached for Leah’s eye.

CHAPTER 25:

NEWFOUND POWERS

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

7 Days Since Spring’s Birth

Simon sat on the grass of the graveyard, looking at the newest headstone.

He realized he’d never even known Kai’s full name. What was his father’s name? Or his family’s, if he was Damascan? Simon didn’t know. He knew so little about the man who’d given him a new life.

Now he may never learn. The tombstone read, simply:

KAI AND OTOKU

That was it. No birth date, no cause of death, no prayer to the Maker or mention of family. Valin had added Otoku’s name without Simon having to ask for it, for which Simon was grateful, but he still felt like it wasn’t enough.

Valin stepped up beside him. “Nine graves, huh. Better than I’d expected. I’d have thought there would be thirteen, by now. Then again, I also thought we’d have overthrown the Damascan throne, so what do I know about realistic predictions?”

Simon said nothing. He didn’t have anything to say.

The Wanderer sighed and ran a hand over his bare, chain-marked scalp. “Sulking, huh? Seven stones, I was good at sulking when I was your age. I’d had a lot of practice, you see.”

He thought grieving would have been a better word than sulking, but Valin wouldn’t appreciate the difference. This was the man who had founded Valinhall—he wasn’t likely to overflow with compassion and pity.

A shadow stepped up to Simon’s other side. Speaking of pitiless…

“He’s still dead,” the Eldest Nye said. “As I said he would be. Watching the rock will not bring him back.”

“Not that it would change much if he did come back,” Valin remarked idly, scratching the back of his neck with a dagger. “He didn’t do much but lounge around the House all day. He’ll probably be happier dead, all things considered.”

Simon looked up at him, feeling surprisingly…blank. This was an obvious attempt to provoke him, for some reason. The Eldest and Valin were trying to get a reaction out of him.

So be it. If they kept it up, he’d kill them both. Was that what they wanted?

The Eldest folded his sleeves. “He had such promise as a child. To think he never accomplished anything of worth. It’s an unforgiveable waste.”

Simon hadn’t brought Azura with him, and he couldn’t summon or banish anything within the House. It seemed Kai had known how to do so, but that secret, too, had died with him.

But Simon never went anywhere in Valinhall unarmed.

He didn’t attack the Eldest first. Since the Nye had been last to speak, he would be prepared. Instead, Simon pulled the dagger from his belt and struck at Valin, slashing at the man’s legs.

Valin stepped back, but Simon pressed the advantage, pushing the knife toward the Wanderer’s bare middle. The older man caught his arm in a grip that didn’t budge under Simon’s steel-enhanced strength.

He had expected as much from Valin, but this gave him the opportunity to try a move that Kai had demonstrated but never properly taught him. He dropped the dagger and grabbed on to Valin’s wrist with his newly empty hand, pulling himself up and off his feet. Then he drove a knee into the Wanderer’s face.

Valin’s nose crunched, spraying blood down his chin, and he staggered back. Without a pause, Simon turned and shot a fist at the Eldest.

His knuckles slammed into the Eldest’s upraised arm, which felt like punching a steel bar wrapped in yards of thick cloth. The Nye started to speak, but Simon kicked his dropped dagger up, snagging it out of the air with his left hand and driving the blade into the Eldest’s hood.

The Nye swayed backwards, bending almost entirely in half. Simon snapped a kick at his waist, forcing him to take a step back, and then turned the weapon back to Valin.

He scored a long hit across the Wanderer’s chain-marked chest, but Valin didn’t seem to notice. He stood smiling, his nose and his chest both bleeding freely.

“I suppose you can fight like the Valinhall heir should,” Valin said.

The Eldest flowed around to stand side-by-side with his former master. “If Kai has brought us the Founder’s heir, then perhaps his life was not such a waste after all. If, instead, he only brought us a worthless recluse to replace him…I would be very disappointed.”

The Eldest Nye took one step to the side, and beside him, driven at an angle into the earth of the graveyard, was a slightly curving sword almost as long as Azura. A line of gold ran from the hilt to the tip of the blade.

“You defeated me when I held Mithra,” Valin noted, ticking the point off on one finger. He raised another finger. “You were Kai’s choice as his apprentice.” Third finger. “And technically you defeated a second Valinhall Incarnation.” Valin spread his hands. “Mithra wouldn’t abandon her previous bearer, but now Kai is dead. You’re the obvious candidate.”

Simon had spotted the setup between King Zakareth and the Endross Incarnation earlier, and he wasn’t about to miss this one. He looked to the Eldest Nye. “This is what you want from me. This is where you’ve been steering me since the first day. And…is this why you brought him back?” He nodded to Valin.

Pressing the ends of his two sleeves together, the Eldest bowed slightly. “I revived him for many reasons, some of which you could not comprehend. This was but one of them. As for you, I did not ‘steer’ you anywhere. I had to practically choke you with this.”

Valin wiped blood away from his chest with one hand—his wound had already closed on its own. “I’d hoped to have this conversation with you in five years, when you’d…filled out a bit. But time moves on and nothing stops it, not even a Territory like this one.”

On the surface, it seemed that they were offering to put him in charge. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? They didn’t want to give him more authority; they wanted somebody to take responsibility.

A few quick objections flicked through his mind—I’m too young, I’m not ready, there are better choices—but he set them all aside. There were two questions that needed answered.

First, did this need to be done?

And second: was he willing to do it?

The Wanderer’s earlier question, separate from but related to the first two, passed briefly through his thoughts: What do you want, Simon?

Valin spoke up again, wiping blood away from his mouth. “Kai died in a fight with another Valinhall Traveler, and I hear Indirial became an Incarnation. Those things should never happen. It’s a mess around here, and we need a Founder to take charge, to make us all march in the same direction. Essentially, to keep everyone alive.”

So it did need to be done, then.

If you boiled it down, this was the same problem that had gotten him to leave Myria in the first place. People needed help, and no one else was going to help them.

What do I want to do?

When he put it like that, there was no choice at all. He’d made his decision the minute he walked away from his village.

He stepped over to Mithra and placed his hand on her hilt. Then he hesitated. “Wait. What about the dolls? They’re bound to Azura, aren’t they?”

“You will take a new advisor,” the Eldest said, in his raspy voice. “He will guide you forward not in battle, but in the order and governance of Valinhall as a whole.”

Guilt pecked at his insides like a sparrow plucking seeds from dry ground. He couldn’t abandon the dolls, not now. Not when they were broken, and scattered. Kai would never forgive him.

“Azura doesn’t have a new bearer yet,” Valin pointed out. “Until she does, you’ll still be able to come and go in the seventh bedroom. And the dolls can always talk to you, if they wish, though I understand it’s harder for them to communicate with the bearer of a different Fang.”

At least he wouldn’t have to abandon them immediately. Not until Azura chose a new Traveler.

Valin leaned close. “So, Simon. Did Kai waste his life, or not?”

Simon wrapped his hand around Mithra’s hilt, and he felt a surge of satisfaction that he didn’t think came from him. He still held steel—though he was starting to worry about his chains—and he pulled her from the soil, adjusting to the balance. She felt much the same as Azura, but was shaped slightly differently, and perhaps a few inches shorter. He would have to practice even harder now.

It took him a moment to notice that something had changed.

The grass, which usually rippled in a gentle breeze, had stilled. Even the crawling nest of emerald lightning overhead was completely frozen. Simon stood in a lake of absolute quiet and stillness; for a moment he thought he’d called as much Nye essence as he could hold, but he felt no ice in his lungs.

The Wanderer had his eyes shut, and the Eldest drew a deep, rattling breath through his hood, as though savoring a new scent.

“It has been too long since we were complete,” said the Nye.

“I can already sense the difference,” Valin responded. “The scales are swinging, I’m sure you know that.”

“But this time, they will settle on balance.” The Eldest took one more breath, and the world snapped back into motion.

Simon stood holding Mithra in one hand, feeling like he’d missed most of what had passed between the other two. “What now?”

The Eldest turned to him. “Now? Someone created and controlled an Incarnation of Valinhall, sending him to lead an attack against us and steal our weapons.”

“And I think we all know who,” Valin said, his voice hot with anger.

“The Ragnarus King has delivered us one insult too many,” the Eldest continued. “I have spoken with Indirial, and I can be sure that the blame for this latest injustice lies at the feet of Zakareth the Sixth. He has, in effect, murdered Kai, corrupted Indirial, and declared war on the House itself. You tell me, Founder’s heir, what should be done about a man like that?”

Anger grew in Simon even as his fist tightened on Mithra’s hilt. Zakareth and his family had sacrificed thousands of lives over the years to protect the people from Incarnations, and now he was killing people as an Incarnation himself.

More to the point, for Simon, King Zakareth was the man responsible for Otoku and Kai’s death, as well as Indirial’s Incarnation. He opposed Leah, and if you looked at it from a certain perspective, set into motion the events that led to the murder of Simon’s mother.

And now he was a reckless, deadly Incarnation, who was rallying the other Incarnations under his immortal rule.

No matter how Simon looked at it, the man needed to die.

“I’m going to find him,” Simon said. “I’m going to take our swords back, and in the end I’m going to chop his head off.”

Valin jabbed a finger at him. “With that attitude, you’ll do well around here.”

Simon started walking to the graveyard door. He wasn’t exactly sure how much time had passed in the outside world since Kai’s death, but he knew that he needed to meet up with Leah. It might already be too late for the defense of Enosh, but in case it wasn’t, he’d need to contact Alin. And for the fight itself, he’d have to mobilize everyone who could possibly carry a Dragon’s Fang. They’d need the two missing Fangs back, and maybe he could persuade Benson to lend Lycus some steel…

He was lost in thought when he realized he’d forgotten one very important question.

“I almost forgot to ask,” he said, turning back to the other two. “Who’s my new advisor?”

Valin looked at him. The Eldest looked at him. Then the Nye pressed his sleeves together and gave him a little bow.

The Wanderer started laughing.

“No,” Simon said in horror. “Please, Maker, no.”

The Eldest bowed deeper. “I am pleased for this opportunity, son of Kalman. We shall be working much more closely in the future.”

***

When Leah left the Crimson Vault, her world had changed.

Everything seemed flatter, for one thing. As she picked her way over the rubble of the royal palace—Ragnarus Gates only had one exit—she stumbled and fell no less than six times. Her hands were scraped raw from catching herself on rough stone, but she couldn’t seem to judge distances properly with one eye. Her father had apparently adjusted, so she would have to as well.

Besides, the other advantages more than made up for the drawbacks.

The place on the ground floor where the Hanging Tree had once stood, she still saw as the ghost of a crimson door, towering over the ruins of the palace. That, she was sure, marked the exit of a Ragnarus Gate. Other ghosts hung in the air: sparkling white stars that bobbed down the street, drifting fireballs with screaming faces, miniature towers sculpted from ice. Remnants of Travelers’ powers.

When she glanced at Murin, the raven swirled with feathers of white and bronze. The bird was bound to Avernus, which was obvious even without her crimson eye. But she found it most interesting that the bird apparently was bound to the Territory and Leah in equal measure: a thin red line tied one talon to Leah’s shoulder.

So the raven was connected to Leah, not the Incarnation. That was cause for relief and suspicion at the same time. On the one hand, she was glad not to be carrying a spy around on her shoulder. On the other, the Avernus Incarnation’s motives were unclear. How did she benefit from the Queen of Damasca gaining a loyal advisor? Did she want Leah to think better of Avernus?

As Leah snuck up to the walls of Cana, she had more disturbing things to occupy her mind than the possible plans of the Avernus Incarnation.

For one thing, the top of the wall was crowded with transparent specters. Golems of ghostly light patrolled back and forth, under a steady snowfall and a rain of blood. Ornheim, Helgard, and…Ragnarus, she thought. She was certain her father could have figured out exactly what each of the different Incarnations were doing here based on the remnants of their power, but she still wasn’t used to the Eye. She would have to learn its abilities one by one.

Black chains, seemingly made of shadow, crawled over everything. If the chains had any connection to the marks on Simon’s arms, then this meant someone had called on Valinhall in great measure. Perhaps even a Valinhall Incarnation.

Fear gripped her chest, but she forced it away, walking among the chains. Even if there was still a Valinhall Incarnation around, worrying about it wouldn’t do any good. It could kill her the same whether she was prepared or not.

Murin gave a soft caw and flew in a broad circle around her head, sending a flood of reassurance through their mental bond. The raven didn’t sense another mind nearby, which did help Leah to relax.

Only a moment later, she reached her destination: at the center of the web of chains, there stood the ghost of a door. It was made of wood, and carved with the emblem of a sword—long and slightly curved, like Simon’s—but bound in chains.

She had no doubt that this was the door to Valinhall. Someone had opened a Gate here, and not long ago.

Reaching deep into Ragnarus, she withdrew what she needed. A straight sword, its blade twisting with black and red in a vaguely shifting, nauseating pattern, appeared in her hand in a flash of red light. This was one of the Vault’s several gatecrawlers, though she couldn’t recall its name at the moment.

She had promised Simon that she would contact him when she wanted him. Well, now she wasn’t sure how to send him a message without tearing open his Territory. Hopefully he’d see the need.

Holding the sword in both hands, Leah jammed it into the translucent door. The steel edge of the blade glowed red, and the red-and-black lines twisted and danced. Leah sawed back and forth, cutting open the Gate one inch at a time.

Now that she thought of it, she’d never operated a gatecrawler personally before. She’d never had to; there was always another capable Traveler around to do it for her. Somehow, she had never quite realized they were so much work. It was like chopping down a thick tree with a dull spade. She was sweating before she got the Gate halfway complete, and her arms ached and burned by the time she finished, and the Valinhall Gate snapped open.

She found herself staring down seven feet of a silver-and-gold blade, looking into Simon’s hooded face. An old soldier at Simon’s side carried a Tartarus steel infantry sword—she thought his name was Erastes, from the last time she had entered the House. Beside him, Andra Agnos had her long blond hair bound up in a tail, and chains were crawling up her forearms. She held her short, black-spotted blade in both hands.

So they had reacted to a gatecrawler as if to an attack. That was…not unexpected. In Valinhall, even the most innocent actions could conceal aggression, and ripping open a foreign Territory wasn’t usually the action of a friend.

If it was just Simon, she might have apologized. But Erastes and Andra were there as well, and they were proper Damascan citizens. They should see their Queen composed.

Leah pushed aside Simon’s blade and stepped into Valinhall, letting the gatecrawler vanish back into the Vault. “I need to speak with you, Simon. I’ve gained some information regarding the enemy’s next move.” Behind her, the Gate slid slowly shut.

That reminded her.

“Ah, before I forget…” She walked to the edge of the Gate and reached both hands into the air of the outside world. Then she summoned two more swords from the Crimson Vault.

These swords were reasonably sized, compared to a few of the other Valinhall blades, but she still felt every ounce of their weight when she held one in each hand. She turned without showing the effort.

“I believe these belong to you,” she said.

Simon’s eyes widened, and he tossed his own gold-streaked weapon onto a nearby sofa, freeing his hands to pick up the new blades.

“Diava,” he said, hefting the short-handled, red-wrapped sword in his right hand. This blade had a more pronounced curve than his own. “And…” He glanced at the second weapon, which had a strangely long handle to pair with its short blade. “I don’t know the name of this Fang, but I’ve seen it here. I guess it’s Kathrin’s.”

He looked at Andra, who shrugged and returned her sword to one of the wooden racks.

Erastes was still on his knees; Leah hadn’t even noticed him kneeling. “You may stand,” she said absently. She really needed to change that tradition.

Simon placed the blades on a couple of nearby racks, a few spaces away from Andra’s. “Where did you find these?”

Leah arched an eyebrow at him. “It seems they were sealed inside the Crimson Vault. I removed them during my visit there.”

Simon stared at her left eye. “Oh. Yeah. How…is it? The eye?”

Queen Cynara had managed to transplant the Eye of Ages in a quick procedure that involved no blood or unpleasant tools, and had only taken a handful of seconds. By contrast, Leah had required six hours to recover from the pain. Her eye still throbbed, and she was constantly fighting the urge to scratch the socket.

Not that Simon needed to know any of that.

“I can see farther than I ever have before,” she said, which was a mysterious enough answer to suit even her father. It was true, though. The chains on Simon’s arms didn’t stop at his skin. She could now see them twisting off into the distance like black ribbons, disappearing into the air of the Territory.

As he used his powers, he was binding himself to Valinhall in some way. Hopefully he knew already, but just in case, she would have to tell him about it later.

“More importantly, I need to speak with Indirial,” Leah said. “Have you found him?”

Some emotion twisted Simon’s expression for an instant, but he smoothed it again. “He attacked us. We had to seal him here.”

It took a few seconds for the full impact of the words to sink in.

If Indirial had laid siege to the House of Blades, that meant he had been working for Zakareth. Cynara had explained that his first step would be to destroy or recruit the Valinhall Travelers, as they would be the most capable of defeating him or the one remaining Elysian.

And if he was sealed in the House…

“I see,” Leah said, fighting the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “He will be missed.” She hadn’t spent much time with the Overlord of Cana the past few years, that was true, but he had once been more of a father to her than King Zakareth. Now…he might be lucid, but there was no telling how much of him would be left. Some Incarnations were little better than monsters.

Leah took a deep breath, steadied herself, and walked over to the tallest table in the room. It was different than she remembered: slightly smaller, and carved in a new pattern. Freshly carved, if she wasn’t mistaken. She spread out the map that always covered the table and nodded to Simon. “I need you to inform the other Valinhall Travelers. We’re going back to Enosh.”

Simon, Erastes, and Andra walked up to the table, and Simon met her gaze. His eyes were even darker than usual.

“I can’t call anyone else,” he said. “This is it. Now, what’s the plan?”

***

It had been a few days since Simon had visited the camp outside of Cana, but tonight it looked almost completely deserted. Trash, discarded weapons, wagon ruts, and torn-up grass were all that remained of the army of refugees who had followed Leah for six months, aside from a couple of patrols and a few isolated tents.

With Andra and Erastes trailing her, Leah made her way through the dark to one of the remaining tents. Every once in a while, her bird gave a peaceful-sounding gurgle, which she seemed to interpret as helpful advice.

“We can get to Enosh through any number of Territories,” Simon muttered. He kept his voice low; they weren’t sneaking, exactly, but she had said to avoid attracting attention as much as possible. “If we can send Alin a message, he might even be able to lend us some bears. There are other ways.”

Leah turned to him, one eye blue and the other glowing red. She smiled. “Trust me,” she said.

Simon wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the Ragnarus eye. It reminded him uncomfortably of her father, though at least she’d managed to avoid the scar running across his eye socket.

Although, now that he thought of it, Leah might look good with a scar. Everyone could use a few scars; Maker knew he had his share.

I can’t believe I have to tell you this, Caela sent, but keep your mind on the mission.

We’re not in Enosh yet. I can’t defend the place until we get there.

Certainly not, she said reasonably. Hey, Queen Leah: you should get into more knife-fights. Simon would like you better with a few prominent facial scars.

Simon stumbled and caught himself, face flaming. Andra, Erastes, and Leah had all turned to stare at him before he realized Caela hadn’t actually cast that thought in Leah’s direction.

Judging from her peals of laughter, though, she did find his reaction hilarious.

His cheeks burning, Simon shook his head. “Dolls,” he said.

Without a word, Leah beckoned the guards at the front of the tent. They opened their mouths when they recognized her, but she put a finger to her lips and waved them closer.

“I hereby order the prisoner punished,” she said, after a brief, whispered consultation with her raven. “Beat her, but don’t inhibit her permanently. While you’re doing that, accidentally loosen the restraints on her hands.”

One of the guards, a Naraka Traveler, cleared his throat. “I’m not…certain that’s wise, Your Highness.”

Leah feigned a look of surprise. “Oh? Are you unable to have an accident on command, Traveler?”

The guard sighed. “No, Highness. But she could very easily kill us all.”

“She won’t,” Leah said confidently, and the raven croaked alongside her. “She’ll be looking for a different opportunity.”

The two guards saluted at the same time before heading into the tent. Within seconds, the thud of fists on flesh floated out, along with their grunts of effort.

Grandmaster Naraka made not a sound in protest.

“She’ll head in a line straight for Alin,” Leah said, her eyes flicking over the tent. “And…I see her deep in the fires of Naraka. She craves justice for the other Grandmasters.”

“There are other ways,” Simon said again. “Just have one of those other Naraka Travelers take us.”

Leah didn’t respond. She stared at the tent, her mind obviously elsewhere. “Simon, how many Incarnations can you handle, if you had to?”

The question caught him off-guard, though he understood why she was asking. According to her mysterious information, King Zakareth was preparing to attack Enosh with everything he had, hoping to destroy Alin and Elysia. With Valinhall and Elysia gone, he would have all the Territories under his control.

That meant he would be attacking Enosh with all the Incarnations he could command. Counting himself, he had at least five Incarnations, perhaps as many as seven.

Far more than Simon could handle on his own.

He pulled down the collar of his cloak, revealing the chains stretching up to his neck. “I’ve been using the mask too much, lately. I’ve only got a few minutes of power left. With that…one, maybe two, if they don’t work together. Andra and Erastes, perhaps one more. And let’s say that Alin can get one.”

“That’s as optimistic as we can be,” Leah murmured. “Minimum, that still only takes care of the Incarnations under the King’s command. Not King Zakareth himself.”

Another slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed from the tent, as the Grandmaster endured her beating. She still made not a sound.

“Which means that we have no choice but to fight in Elysia,” Simon said. He’d tried making this argument before, but Leah hadn’t been much interested in taking advice. “I can still draw on my power in another Territory, but most of the enemy Incarnations won’t be able to use their full strength. If Alin can call up the City’s whole army, we might have a chance.”

Leah shook her head. “We need the City as a fallback position,” she said. “If we leave Alin exposed, he’ll be overwhelmed and eliminated in seconds. He can’t enter the Territory or he’ll be trapped, and that means he probably won’t let any of his citizens inside either. We’ll form lines outside of a Gate and fight a retreat into Elysia, as planned.”

Simon didn’t see why they had to fight for the city of Enosh at all. As far as he was concerned, the city was lost. All they could do was stop the Incarnations after they weakened themselves to assault the City of Light.

“And you’re sure you can’t find the other two Valinhall Travelers?” Leah asked, for at least the third time.

“You’re the Lirial Traveler,” Simon said. “You find them.”

Kathrin’s advisor is capable of long-distance communication, Caela noted. It’s too bad Kathrin’s not here to contact…Kathrin.

Leah was thinking again—he knew that look. It was like she was absorbed deep in some book, and she would come back to reality in a few seconds with a random question.

“Do you have that mask here?” Leah asked, finally.

Unfortunately, Caela sent.

Simon dug around in his pockets for the mask, and his hand encountered something round, warm, and slightly tacky. He pulled it out for a better look.

Oh, that’s right. He’d almost forgotten the red stone that the Eldest had tried to take from him. He’d mentioned something about the Crimson Vault in connection to the stone, and Simon had intended to tell Leah.

“Do you know what this is?” Simon asked, holding it up to the starlight.

Leah hissed, her eyes widening. She snatched it out of his hand, dropped it immediately, and then almost fell to her knees scrambling to catch it before it hit the ground. When she managed to catch it out of the air before it struck dirt, she heaved a sigh of great relief.

Simon could only stare. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so startled. Andra and Erastes moved closer, readying their swords as if to defend her from some threat, but Simon waved them away.

Leah rose to her feet, brushing herself off with her left hand and holding the stone up in her right. “I don’t believe it,” she breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this?”

“I didn’t know what it was. I still don’t,” he added, hoping she would take the hint.

She shook her head wonderingly. “I can see now. No wonder…”

Simon had to restrain his impatience, but he refused to ask the question again.

“It’s a Seed of the Hanging Tree,” she said at last. “Maybe the last one, as far as I know.”

He took a step back from it, wary. He didn’t know what a Hanging Tree would do to an ordinary Traveler, but he knew what it did to Incarnations, and he had no wish to spend three hundred years as compost. He pointed to the Seed. “Can we use it?”

“I think…yes, I think we can. Simon, I can’t believe you had this. This might mean the difference between living and dying.” She gave him the most genuine smile he’d seen out of her in years, and her red eye did nothing to ruin the effect. “This could be exactly what we need.”

He cleared his throat. “Then, uh, I’m glad I found it.” Completely by chance, he added in his head.

You should always take credit for your own good luck, Caela said. After all, who else will?

“You realize what this means,” Leah continued. “The Seed can’t be planted in a Territory. It seems we’ll have to fight in Enosh after all.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised, Simon thought. We suddenly find something that could turn the battle around, and it supports Leah’s plan over mine. Naturally.

Maybe she should inherit Valinhall, Caela said thoughtfully. What do you think, Mithra?

The sword, thankfully, remained quiet.

The sounds from within the tent had stopped, and the two Naraka guards emerged. One of them was nursing a split knuckle. They bowed to Leah and took up their posts outside the tent.

The raven purred in the back of its throat.

“Not long now,” Leah whispered.

After a few more minutes of silence, during which Andra lay back on the grass and began snoring softly, a flash of orange light brightened the tent.

Andra snapped awake, swinging her Dragon’s Fang wildly.

“Open a Gate!” Leah ordered the Naraka Travelers, marching with Simon and the other two on her heels. This was one part of the plan that she hadn’t explained to Simon.

“There will be traps,” one of the guards said, but he continued waving his hand in preparation to open a Gate.

“Your turn,” Leah said, and Simon stepped forward.

Sure enough, as soon as the Naraka Gate opened, a screaming orange fireball hurled itself from the Territory’s depths.

Simon called ghost armor, throwing up his arm between the Gate and the Traveler. The fireball shattered inches from his forearm, broken by a plate of spectral green armor.

A disgusting smoke-and-sulfur smell wafted from the Territory. “Do we have to go through Naraka again?” Simon asked.

Leah shot him a look. “It’s that or fly.”

Simon was prepared to try flying.

Erastes moved to enter the Gate. “Should we follow her, Your Highness?”

Leah pushed past him and took the first step into Naraka. “I can track her,” she said. “And we know where she’s going.”

“I don’t see how having her along will help us,” Simon remarked. “It practically killed us last time.” Maybe if Leah gave up this idea, they could Travel through another Territory. Any other Territory.

“Trust me,” Leah said again. She was leaning on his trust fairly hard, tonight. “We’ll have a difficult enough time winning Alin over. This time, we’re bringing a present.”

CHAPTER 26:

STRATEGIC PLANNING

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

8 Days Since Spring’s Birth

Alin didn’t sleep anymore, so he spent a lot of time thinking. All night, he’d been meditating on the same topic that had haunted him for the past week: his own failure.

You proved yourself an enemy to those who should be your friends, the Orange Light said.

You let them get away! said the Gold.

The Violet Light had a different opinion. You lost control, it told him.

He was inclined to agree.

Alin knew he was an Incarnation, and for the most part that fact didn’t bother him. His Incarnation let him think more clearly, to bond fully with the essence of his Territory. What harm could there be in the manifestation of Elysian virtues? He was honest and compassionate, wise and patient, valiant and loyal, merciful and diligent.

So how had he allowed himself to be taken over? When he’d let the Gold Light govern his body, he hadn’t been patient, or loyal, or merciful. The Light had consumed him in valor, so much that he needed to prove his bravery through victory.

But now, after a week of meditation and productive work, he was finally composed. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

In the Gate next to him, Rhalia drifted over the grass of Elysia, her golden hair shining in the sunrise. “How are you feeling today?” she asked.

“In control.”

Rhalia smiled, watching the sun peek over the city walls. “Ah, so then you’ve learned nothing. That’s what I suspected, but it’s good to have confirmation.”

Irritation shot through him before the patience of the Green Light ground it down. “I am complete, Rhalia. In balance.”

“Not without the White, you’re not,” she added cheerfully, juggling a few balls of Gold Light. She’d been in a better mood ever since the fight in Enosh, in direct contrast to his own feelings. He wondered what had happened.

He elected to overlook her comments about the White Light, which were becoming more frequent these days. “I will not let one battle throw off my balance this time. I will remain composed.”

Rhalia frowned out the Gate, letting her golden lights vanish. “That’s good to hear, because I think you’re going to get a chance to prove it.”

Silver constructs approached from practically every direction, radiating something like panic. A winged silver eye flew up to him and began delivering its report, though he could feel the urgency flowing from it in waves.

“Cordon in Helgard is breached—”

Another Silver construct, like a spider of polished steel, clattered up on the cobblestones and spoke over the first messenger. “Our outlook in Endross was destroyed—”

A golden hummingbird came up from behind him, delivering its message in a disturbingly deep voice. “Over the city walls, Eliadel. You should come and see.”

He leaped toward the walls with Red Light flowing through his limbs, lift provided by a cushion of orange. He was practically flying as he soared over the city, landing with a crunch on roof tiles or cobblestones and pushing off again. The specifics of the various messages differed, but the core intent was clear: he was under attack.

Alin’s heart tore in a dozen directions.

His Rose-colored compassionate side broke at the thought that the citizens under his protection might be in danger. His Blue mercy urged him to surrender, his Orange loyalty to protect those beneath him at any cost.

But today, he felt more in line with the Gold Light.

At last, he thought, with a sigh of great relief. An enemy.

When he landed on the golden walls of Enosh, he realized how right he was.

The army wasn’t as large as he’d expected. Only a few thousand soldiers, mostly Travelers, had lined up in the wasteland between Myria and Enosh. More important by far were the five figures standing at the front, surrounded by a host of vicious creatures.

Helgard, a horned woman with blue skin and white fur, stroked the head of a giant blue cat. It was practically a desert out there, but she moved in her own private snow-flurry, a trail of melted snowflakes following her wherever she walked.

Lirial stood next to her, a woman of white crystal and silver wire. She gleamed like a star in the sunrise, and Alin was only sure of her identity because of the open Lirial Gate next to her. She sent flashing crystal probes in and out, apparently communicating with someone.

Ornheim was next, a giant of white stone standing nine or ten feet tall. He crouched in the sand, absolutely still as stalagmites rose from the ground around him. One of them broke off, the rock forming into a three-foot-tall man-shaped golem. It staggered drunkenly around before dissolving into gravel. The Ornheim Incarnation didn’t react. Veins of every color ran through him, so he seemed designed for decoration rather than war.

Endross never stilled, pacing up and down the line of other Incarnations. His wings were formed of black stormclouds flashing with heat lightning, his eyes blazing like lightning bolts themselves. Even his hands and feet glowed with lightning, the rest of his body shrouded in what looked like snakeskin. Creatures of Endross burst into existence around him in a cloud of sparks, hissing and crawling through the sand, growling and spitting at the other Incarnations. No one seemed to care, least of all Endross himself, who stared without ceasing at the walls of Enosh.

Finally, King Zakareth the Sixth stood at the end of the line.

Alin recognized him, even at a distance, even with the significant physical changes that the King had undergone during Incarnation. Alin had been the one to kill the man, after all, though it looked like transformation had saved him. His skin swirled with designs of gold-and-ruby, his stone eye replaced by a rolling fireball of crimson. He wore the same black armor as last time, set with rubies and trimmed in gold, and even his gray hair was speckled with the occasional hair of red or gold. In his left hand he held a ruby-topped staff, and in his right a spear. The same spear that Alin had seen him use to fight off half a dozen Grandmasters and highly trained Enosh Travelers.

The King was speaking, giving orders to his fellow Incarnations, but his eyes were fixed on Alin.

You will likely die today, the Violet Light pointed out.

Alin considered that and found it true. The fact didn’t bother him much.

Then I will die defending my city and my Territory, he thought. At the very least, I will die a hero.

The Gold Light approved.

Then an explosion from behind him caught his attention. He didn’t stop and stare; he hurled a cloud of Silver Light behind him, sensing the location, and his body flared with Red and Orange Light as he launched himself backwards off the wall. He was in the air and flying toward the source of the noise before the explosion even finished.

It was in the Blue District. The ruins of the Naraka waystation, naturally, because it seemed that he couldn’t have a disturbance anywhere else in his city. He hadn’t seen a Naraka Incarnation under Zakareth’s control, but it had been long enough since Alin had destroyed the last one. It was possible that King Zakareth could have kept Naraka in reserve, to send saboteurs through to weaken Alin’s defenses.

A familiar presence glowed in his mind with Silver Light.

No… he thought. No, I couldn’t possibly be that lucky.

Grandmaster Naraka stood outside the ruined Naraka waystation, her red spectacles turned up to watch him.

He landed in front of her, hands trembling, all the old emotions surfacing at once. She was the one who had demolished his hometown. She was responsible for the deaths of two of his sisters, and the escape of the third. She was the one who had caused him to give up his humanity in the first place. She was even the one who had taught him to Travel.

No matter how he turned the situation over in his mind, she had brought him here.

His palms filled with Gold Light, almost on reflex, but he banished the force before it could fully form. He didn’t need to blast her down in cold blood; he wanted to do this right.

Naraka’s mouth twisted into a smile, and she spoke in her usual, creaking voice. “I come for justice, Eliadel.”

“And justice you shall receive,” he said. That was a line from a story, but whether she understood the reference or not, he didn’t care.

She shook her head slowly. “It’s difficult to become a Naraka Incarnation. Far more difficult than it is for Elysia, it seems. It’s not only a matter of drawing too much power, you see. You have to flee justice, and yet hunger for it at the same time.”

Grandmaster Naraka raised her right arm, which no longer ended in a smooth stump. Her right hand was a shriveled black claw, crawling with orange flame. “I escaped the Queen of Damasca and my well-earned punishment for betraying her. I come here, now, to a place where the law says I could be executed.”

She smiled widely, and as Alin watched, her canines elongated into fangs. “I come because I have only one desire: to bring you to justice. You, who killed my fellow Grandmasters. Who ruined everything good in this city. You, Alin, deserve justice.”

Her other hand burst into flames, and Grandmaster Naraka cackled loudly enough to shake the streets of Enosh. The Silver Light warned him that a handful of other people were scrambling out of the Naraka Gate behind her, but he didn’t care that she’d brought backup. The Incarnation would be the real threat, and his eyes were stuck to her transformation.

The glasses slipped from her nose, red lenses shattering on the ground. Her pale white eyes turned orange, like live coals, her body twisting and stretching into a hunched, serpentine form. She spat out a tongue of flame.

Then Leah’s voice echoed through the street, supernaturally loud. “We allowed her to come to you, Alin,” she said. “A peace offering. Do with her what you will, and none of us will interfere.”

For an instant, the hideously transformed Grandmaster Naraka looked as surprised as Alin felt. But then she turned back to him, unable to look away for very long. A red, pebbled tail shot out from under her robes, spikes on the end scratching the stones.

Fury pounded in his heart, the Gold Light crying out for victory.

But he had regained control of himself. Did he dare give in to his desire for vengeance now? What would that do to him?

Then again, there was an Incarnation here on his streets. Surely the right thing to do would be to destroy her before she ran rampant and killed his citizens. Yes, he was sure that in this, what was right and what he wanted were one and the same.

In her Gate beside him, Rhalia was whispering advice, but he didn’t listen. He called Gold Light.

Then there was a streak of shadow and steel, and Simon slammed a giant hammer down on Grandmaster Naraka’s head. She crumpled with a noisy crunch, though ash sprayed out instead of blood.

Simon looked up, meeting Alin’s gaze. His hood was down, and his eyes were angry.

“I’m sorry about that,” Simon said. “She didn’t tell me what she was going to do.”

Bones popped and slid as the Naraka Incarnation pulled herself together, flesh sliding back into one piece, her head rising out of the pile of her body. Fire gathered in one of her hands.

Simon slammed the hammer down again.

He ground the head of the weapon into her body, leaning casually on the handle. “We heard the King was going to attack you, and we wanted to come help. He already invaded Valinhall, now he’s moving against Elysia.”

Elysia? The King was trying to destroy not just Enosh, but Elysia? Alin glanced over at Rhalia who was looking thoughtfully at Simon. “You know, I like his approach,” she said. “It’s efficient.”

“Are they really going to attack the City?” Alin asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said, her voice grim. “It’s been tried before, and it was futile, but we had many Travelers then. Now, you can’t even set foot in the Territory, and I can’t leave unless I’m summoned…on our own, against six Incarnations—”

“Five,” Simon interrupted, slamming his hammer down on Grandmaster Naraka again.

Rhalia laughed. “Five, right. Five Incarnations, on our own…they could do it. Bring down the walls of Elysia.”

Simon had tossed his hammer aside, and had started driving a sword into the pile of flesh, bone, and ash that had once been Grandmaster Naraka. This was a different sword, Alin noticed: roughly the same length and shape, but with a line of gold running down the middle. The gold sang to him, shining brighter than the ordinary metal should have. It couldn’t be from Elysia, could it?

“See?” Simon said. “You need our help. The enemy of your enemy is…us.” He frowned down at his own cloak. “Stop laughing, he knows what I meant.”

An old man in chain mail and a gray uniform had stepped up beside Simon, stabbing his infantry sword into Grandmaster Naraka. A blond girl of maybe thirteen or fourteen joined him, cutting off limbs and pieces of bone with her own short, slightly curving blade.

Everything was happening so fast, Alin couldn’t get a grip on himself. But one thing was clear: he couldn’t attack them, now that they’d named themselves his allies. None of the Elysian virtues would allow that, no matter how much the Gold Light grumbled that he needed to finish the fight.

There was one thing, though, that Alin himself wanted. He pointed to Naraka.

“Step away from her,” he said. “She deserves justice.”

The Valinhall Travelers didn’t listen. Simon looked up at him with evident surprise. “You don’t think she got it?”

When Alin didn’t budge, Simon finally ordered the other two back. That was interesting: Alin would have expected the old man was in charge, but he and the girl both stepped back when Simon said so.

Grandmaster Naraka…didn’t look like much anymore.

She was little more than a man-sized pile of ash, with bones and pebbly bits of lizard skin sticking up at odd angles. Without the shattered spectacles lying in front of her, Alin would have never known who these remnants had been.

His impotent fury rose up again. How dare they take her from him? He had spent six months searching for her, and now Simon killed her before he got a chance? Simon had circumvented justice! He deserved to be punished!

That’s not justice, the Blue Light pointed out.

What you wanted was vengeance, the Silver Light said.

It was true, and the Violet Light confirmed it. Now, he wanted to challenge Simon out of sheer frustration, defeat him, and use that to proclaim his superiority. But the right thing to do was let it all go and accept the help.

He raised his voice to include Leah as well. “You are welcome here,” he said. “We always need more allies.” Leah, he noticed, had replaced her left eye with a glowing red substitute. He wondered if that should bother him, but his own eyes were anything but human.

With a deep breath, he drew on the Green Light and banished all thoughts of vengeance. Those desires were beneath him, now.

“Maybe you can learn after all,” Rhalia said thoughtfully.

***

“I don’t know what he’s waiting for,” Leah said. “But we need to take advantage of this time and come up with a plan.”

That’s why Simon had suggested meeting in Valinhall: whatever time they had would be doubled, here.

Alin’s eyes flashed silver. “He’s bringing his forces through various Territories, so they won’t all reach at the same time. He will be waiting until his side is in position, both in this world and in each Territory. We should have at least an hour.”

That sounded reasonable. He spoke with such confidence that Simon had to believe him, even though for all Simon knew, Alin could have been making it all up.

For the first time since Myria, Simon shared a room with Alin and Leah. They stood around a table in the House of Blades: the only neutral location where they could be sure they wouldn’t be observed.

In each of them, the changes couldn’t have been more apparent.

Alin, of course, was no longer human. He was clad head-to-toe in gleaming golden armor, and his hair matched. His skin was a shade paler than it had ever been, and his eyes shimmered with slices of every color in the rainbow. More than that, he carried himself differently. His face was all but expressionless, and he had the tendency to stare at something for long minutes without blinking. He had always laughed and told stories for anyone who would listen, radiating warmth and confidence like a bonfire. Now the fire was cold and distant, like a star.

In some ways, the changes in Leah were more dramatic. She had taken command of any situation, even before Simon had known who she was, but now she wore a long, expensive dress of pure red, with a silver circlet on her head. The pale crystal on a chain around her wrist seemed like a lady’s ornament, now, rather than simple jewelry worn by a villager. And only one of her blue eyes remained. The other shone bright red, seeming to stare right through him. The raven on her shoulder let out a caw before preening its wing. The whole of Leah, with the raven and the eye and the crown, left her looking like the powerful Queen out of some Territory, not the ordinary ruler of an earthly kingdom.

And then there was Simon.

The cloak makes you look like a bad actor in some cheap play, Caela commented. You don’t even have the sword now, but if you did, it’s way too long to take seriously. You look like a child playing with your father’s weapon. The mask looks like it was hammered by an amateur with a pile of scrap metal, which is almost the truth, and—lest we forget—you’re carrying around a doll.

I always did feel ridiculous bringing you around, Simon admitted.

What? No, I make you look much better. ‘I don’t know who that idiot is, running around in that cloak like he thinks he’s an assassin, but where did he get that beautifully crafted doll?’ That’s what people say about you.

Simon considered and discarded half a dozen possible responses before realizing that, no matter what he said, Caela would win in the end. I’m…sure you’re right, Caela, he sent at last. That’s exactly what they’ll say.

“We need to lure them over the wall,” Alin was saying, when Simon turned his attention back to the discussion. “Fight them on our terms.”

“Can we fight them, on any terms?” Leah asked. “We only have three Valinhall Travelers at most.”

Alin frowned. “Of course we can. I am Elysia, and I will destroy them all.”

Leah raised one eyebrow. “Honestly, Alin?”

After a moment, Alin’s irises flared violet. “Honestly, no. I can account for two Incarnations, as long as one of them isn’t Ragnarus. The King is too dangerous on his own.”

It was disturbing, listening to Alin change his mind so fast. It was almost like they were having a conversation with more than one person in the same body.

“Why didn’t you bring more Travelers?” Alin continued. “You’re the Queen, surely you could have ordered a few along with you.”

Leah toyed with the bracelet on her left wrist. “I could find some, but there are many who would say I stopped being the Queen the moment my father revealed his survival. No matter what state he’s in, he’s still the King. Anyone I brought would be just as likely to switch sides at any moment. The real threats are the Incarnations anyway; once we destroy them, I can command the remaining Damascan Travelers to return home.”

Simon studied the map on the table, which had been switched from a map of Damasca as a whole to one specifically showing the city of Enosh. The Nye knew what they needed, and prepared accordingly. Judging from the layout, Simon realized he knew precisely nothing about predicting a battle based on terrain. He could have used Indirial’s instruction, but the Incarnation had vanished somewhere in the House, and Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to know where. If he chased blindly after Indirial, he might find the Overlord consumed by his Incarnation powers, trying to murder Simon in the hallway.

Then again, this was an emergency.

“Eldest,” Simon said, and instantly the Nye in the dark gray cloak was standing by the table. Leah took a step back, and Alin’s palm filled with gold light, but the Eldest bowed.

“Where’s Indirial?” he asked.

“In his new room,” the Eldest rasped out. “With his family.”

Leah’s eye flicked between Simon and the Nye. “Indirial’s here? Bring him out. We need his advice.”

The Nye shook his hood. “He is a room guardian, now. He cannot leave the gallery. And I do not think he would welcome visitors, at the moment, no matter who they are. He is…struggling with himself, you could say.”

So they wouldn’t get any help from Indirial. That was a disappointment that might well get them all killed—his experience was invaluable. With him on their side, he could almost believe that they would win. Without him…well, at least he could leave a Valinhall Gate open and retreat when things got too rough.

You wouldn’t do that, Caela said confidently. If you would, Mithra would have never chosen you. Neither would Azura, for that matter.

No, he admitted. But I’ll be able to order Andra and Erastes back.

A flash of light caught his eye, and he happened to glance up at the weapon racks on the wall.

The empty weapon racks.

Only two blades still rested on their racks: Azura, long and gleaming and silver, and Indirial’s Vasha. The others were all missing.

A ray of sunlight pierced Simon’s thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, they’d have more backup than they expected.

But there was no need to count on theoretical support. He’d have to rely on what they had and hope for the best.

“Kai and Indirial were our two strongest fighters,” Simon said. “Working together, Andra and Erastes and I can take care of two, maybe three Incarnations before we run out of power. That’s if we can take them one at a time.”

“Which are ideal conditions,” Leah added. “That’s not likely.”

“Yeah. The problem is this.” Simon pulled out the mask and placed it on the table. Leah gasped and her hand jerked forward as if she wanted to touch it, but didn’t trust herself to do so.

“Simon, is that…was that…”

“It’s the same mask I used to fight Alin the other day,” Simon said. Alin’s eyes had gone flat and gray at the sight of the mask. “It allows me to draw much more power from Valinhall, maybe as much as an Incarnation, but there are…drawbacks.”

Leah’s fingers drifted through the air above the mask, tracing something that Simon couldn’t see. “It binds you to the House,” she said. “I can see the chains. The House practically eats you alive when you wear this, doesn’t it?”

Simon had never thought of it quite that way, but it sounded accurate. “That’s the problem. If I put on this mask, I’ll be a match for any of the other Incarnations. Even Ragnarus, I think. But I can only wear it for a couple of minutes, the way I am now, and then I’ll run out of power completely. If I keep it on any longer than that…”

“Double Incarnation,” Leah said, nodding.

Alin’s eyes were back to rainbows again, though the violet slices were shining bright. “Which means you die. That’s a pity. We could have used a Valinhall Incarnation on our side.”

Simon couldn’t keep the irony from his voice. “Yeah, that’s tough for you.” He tapped the mask with one finger. “This is the Valinhall weakness. We’re almost unbeatable in battle, but only for a few minutes. If we don’t win quickly, then Erastes, Andra, and I are going to end up either useless or dead.”

The three of them stood around the table, looking at the map, lost in thought. Simon couldn’t escape the vision of himself ending up like Kai: metal spikes shredding his body from the inside out, dying slowly and painfully in a way that the pool couldn’t heal. He wouldn’t mind meeting his end in battle, if he had to, but he had trouble imagining a more agonizing death than Kai’s.

“How many Travelers do you have, Alin?” Leah asked.

“Almost two hundred,” he said, and Simon’s hopes lifted again. Why were they even worried about a handful of Valinhall Travelers if they had two hundred other Travelers to call on?

Leah didn’t seem as excited as he felt. She simply nodded, as though that was the answer she’d expected. “And how many more fighters from Elysia?”

“Perhaps five hundred.” His eyes flashed silver, and he added, “Closer to six hundred, actually, and roughly a thousand ordinary soldiers equipped for battle. Enosh isn’t large.”

She sighed. “That’s what I thought. We have enough to match the force outside, without the Incarnations.”

That’s why, Caela said. If they have you to defeat the Incarnations, then they can focus on the mundane battle. As it is, you have enough to defend against the army or the five Incarnations, not both.

Leah rolled the Seed of the Hanging Tree between her fingers. “And we have this. I didn’t want to use it, but we’ll take whatever weapons we can get.”

Alin’s eyes flashed gold. “So you did steal that from me. I’ll have it back, now.”

Leah’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “Hmmm…no, I don’t think so.”

They matched stares for a few moments, red eye meeting rainbow, until Simon finally cleared his throat to get their attention.

“It was hers to begin with,” he pointed out. “Besides, wouldn’t you use it for the same reason? As long as she uses it to trap one of the Incarnations, who cares which of you plants it?”

They eyed each other for a few seconds before Alin finally nodded and turned his attention back to the city map.

I hate doing that, Simon thought.

Doing what? Caela sent. Speaking common sense to two people who were bragging and posturing over something senseless?

Keeping the peace, he responded.

Oh. Well, get over it.

Such sage advice he got from his dolls.

Over the next hour or two—as time passed in Valinhall—they came up with a plan. Leah expected Zakareth to lead with his Incarnations and follow up with the army, but whenever the Incarnations were committed, Leah would join Andra and Erastes in separating their five enemies from one another. Simon and Alin working together had the best chance of actually finishing off an Incarnation, so they would engage any lone Incarnation, kill it as quickly as possible, and move on to the next one. Whichever of the five was left at the end would earn the Hanging Tree.

The plan was clear, simple, and Simon hated it immediately.

For one thing, it relied on the fact that they knew nothing of King Zakareth’s plans. The Ragnarus Incarnation had shouted to practically the entire nation that he was going to attack Enosh, but he hadn’t given any specifics. Leah wouldn’t reveal how she had learned that the King was going to be here today, or that his real goal was Elysia, but she had claimed that her source was reliable. And she couldn’t use Lirial to scout out the enemy for more specific intelligence, because they had a Lirial Incarnation on their side. None of her crystals would return, so she didn’t bother sending them.

That was one hole in their plan: they were relying on the assumption that King Zakareth would be attacking all at once, with overwhelming force. True, that was apparently his favorite strategy, but the King wasn’t an idiot. If he had decided that one huge assault was the appropriate tactic, that meant that he thought it had the best chance of success.

“We’re basically relying on him not knowing that we’re here,” Simon pointed out. “Does that seem stupid to anyone else?”

Alin and Leah didn’t say anything, but they wouldn’t like having their intelligence insulted, even by implication. Simon forged on nonetheless. “They have the Lirial Incarnation, so they probably have eyes everywhere. And I’m sure he could sense you, Leah, as soon as you stepped into the city. Why wouldn’t he expect us to be here? Where else would we be?”

“I would like to suggest something,” the Eldest said, and Simon almost jumped. He had forgotten the Nye was in the room. “The King of Ragnarus forced Indirial to embrace Valinhall and become an Incarnation. It is safe to believe that he has been informed that the assault on this House has failed. If that is the case, then let us assume that he knows all. We have lost two of our strongest warriors, and the only full Traveler of Valinhall available to us is this boy. Imagine, for a moment, that he is aware of all this.”

Simon pictured the situation from King Zakareth’s side, and he had to admit, matters looked pretty bright for them.

“If that is the case,” the Eldest continued, “then what need has he to account for you in his plans? He may expect his daughter to resist him, and he has surely planned for the Incarnation of Elysia, but to him, Valinhall is broken. We have been disposed of. Even if we brought all our force to bear, in his eyes we are only one Traveler. A Traveler who cannot even become an Incarnation and thereby challenge him, because Indirial has yet to fully rejoin the House.”

The Nye spread his black sleeves. “It seems to me that you have been underestimated.”

Leah tapped her chin thoughtfully at the Eldest’s words. “Even if what you’re saying is true, he will surely have considered the possibility that there are other Valinhall Travelers left.”

“Perhaps he has,” the Eldest said. “However, you have forgotten the one great weakness of the Incarnations. They are slaves to their nature.”

“Present company excluded,” Alin said, in what was probably an attempt at a joke.

The Eldest Nye stared at the Elysian Incarnation for a moment before he continued. “Ragnarus, for all its strength, is very straightforward. He pays the cost, unleashes the weapon, and destroys his target. In his mind, the target called ‘Valinhall’ has been destroyed. It is my reckoning that you might count on some surprise, at least from the House.”

“That does help,” Simon said. “A little. Thank you. It’s not like we have much to surprise him with, though.”

“Then you may be surprised yourself,” the Eldest said, and Simon could practically feel a smile through the impenetrable darkness of the Nye’s hood. “One week ago, I took the liberty of dispatching messengers to the ends of the realm. I did not expect the Dragon’s Fangs to be taken hostage, but if I have timed this correctly—ah, see. No matter how old I get, I can still fit a trick or two in these sleeves.”

A pair of Valinhall Gates were opening at almost the same time, cutting the entry hall with slashes of white light. Simon had never seen two Gates open simultaneously before; instead of overlapping, they simply slid to the side where the edges of the Gates connected, pushing each other apart.

At practically the same time, the two final members of the Dragon Army stepped into Valinhall.

As usual, Denner sported a brown, dirt-stained traveling cloak. His clothes were rough and worn, and he wore three days’ worth of stubble. He carried his Dragon’s Fang in one hand, and under his other arm he had tucked a huge book bound in red-and-gold: his advisor, Hariman.

Simon recognized the other Traveler by reputation alone. Her solid gray hair was cut very short, close to the skull, so she initially reminded Simon of Erastes. Her face bore the faint marks of a dozen small scars, as though she had taken many cuts to the cheeks while fencing. She wore armor that was practical and simple, and she held her short-bladed Dragon’s Fang in both hands. Her eyes were bright green, and they surveyed the entry hall with distaste.

The Eldest rasped out a chuckle. “As you will recall, son of Kalman, my only joy is that of a good entrance.”

Simon felt his spirits lift. He had given up on contacting Denner and Kathrin weeks ago, because there was no way to find them, much less send them a message. But the Eldest had managed it. Adding two Travelers shouldn’t have made much difference to their side’s chances, but since they were from Valinhall…that might mean another dead Incarnation.

Kathrin glanced around the hall, expression flat and hard. “You redecorated,” she said.

“The room was destroyed,” Simon said. “Incarnations.”

Denner sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. And, uh, who are they?” He nodded to Alin and Leah.

“For that matter,” Kathrin put in, “who are you? And why couldn’t I summon my sword yesterday? I was almost killed by pirates. Pirates, you hear me? The beggars of the sea, and they nearly got me.”

“He’s Kai’s apprentice,” Denner said, before Simon could say anything. “But I was wondering about the Dragon’s Fang myself. Before the Eldest’s messenger found me, I thought Diava had stopped listening.”

Kathrin marched over, threw herself on the sofa, and propped both feet up on a nearby table. “Where is Kai? Hasn’t killed himself yet, has he?”

Simon didn’t know what his reaction looked like, but Denner took one look at him and sighed heavily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You can tell us everything later, but for now: who are we fighting?”

CHAPTER 27:

WAR IN THE CITY OF LIGHT

The battle began only an hour later.

Simon and the other four Valinhall Travelers waited in the Violet District of Enosh, crouched in a house that was painted a blinding purple. According to Alin, the house had elements that would hide them from opposing Lirial scouts, but the hiding and waiting portion of the battle was almost over.

He knew the fight had begun when the earth shook beneath them, setting the house rattling so that it felt like it would collapse at any second.

“Let’s hope that was the King exploding,” Andra muttered.

Kathrin held her Dragon’s Fang to one side and threw the door open, glancing up and down the street in sheer defiance of her orders to keep hidden. “The first one to attack will be Endross,” she said. “He’ll head straight for the Elysian Incarnation, and you can trust that.” She banished and summoned her Dragon’s Fang, then did it again, in what seemed like a nervous tic. “Can’t believe they attacked Valinhall…show them what it means to break into my House…” Her voice dissolved into angry mutters.

Denner sighed.

“I hope Endross does come alone,” Simon said. “We can take him down together. But we need to wait for Leah’s signal.”

“The Queen,” Erastes corrected. “Speak with some respect.”

Caela giggled. Yeah, Simon. You should learn to speak respectfully, like me.

I could have chosen Angeline, Simon sent.

Chosen? We decided that I should go with you because I know you best, and I could help you work through Kai and Otoku’s death. Even Angeline agreed.

Simon was about to respond, but a silver-white crystal spun into the room, flashing and screaming.

“THIS IS THE SIGNAL,” the crystal yelled. “THIS IS THE SIGNAL. THIS IS THE SIGNAL.”

All five Valinhall Travelers hurried out of the violet house, as much to escape the shouting crystal as anything. “Somebody shut that thing up,” Kathrin said.

“Not me,” Andra said. “I got the last one.”

Jogging down the street, headed into a battle, was a different kind of anticipation than Simon had ever experienced. Sure, he’d run toward danger before, but he was usually forced into them by circumstances. When the options were fight or die, he had little trouble making up his mind. But this time, he was running into an open battle against a superior force, and anything that went wrong would—to one degree or another—be his responsibility.

It was similar to the normal thrill of fear, combined with the dread of speaking in front of the entire village. He couldn’t decide if he liked the feeling or not.

He glanced up, where Alin hovered over the city, glowing with red and orange light, hurling balls of golden force at the rubble that had once been a wall. That explained the earth-shattering explosion earlier: the opposing Incarnations must have knocked down the city’s walls as their opening move.

Alin glowed like a sun, shouting battle cries with superhumanly strong lungs, and generally drawing all the enemy’s attention toward himself. He waved a golden blade, his armor shining in the sunlight, occasionally throwing a blast of power at the assembled enemy. In short, he made an obvious target.

That was the heart of the plan, and it looked like he was holding up his end.

It was time for Simon to uphold his.

“Spread out underneath Alin,” Simon said. “If any Incarnations show up, split them up, try to get them alone. I’m going up to support him.”

“Why?” Kathrin asked. “We have a specialist right here.”

Without slowing, she clapped Denner on the shoulder.

The Endross Incarnation, as expected, blasted straight toward Alin on wings of cloud and lightning. He laughed with a sound like thunder, hurling a bolt at Alin that shattered on a shield of green light.

Simon didn’t have time to argue about this. “Denner, can you take down Endross?”

Denner looked up and sighed, but he nodded.

“Then you support Alin, and I’ll stay below.”

Without another word, Denner leaped on top of the nearest building, banishing his Dragon’s Fang and summoning a spear from the armory.

As planned, the four remaining Valinhall Travelers took up positions beneath Alin, each standing at one corner of the block. Simon could see Andra on his right, and Kathrin around the corner to his left. This was the Red District, and everything seemed to be organized in perfect squares, which helped when he needed to keep an eye on two streets at once.

At first he was surprised that the streets had been so empty. They hadn’t seen anyone or anything between the Violet District and the Red.

They’re all fighting at the walls, Caela reminded him.

What’s headed our way? Simon asked.

Surprisingly…not much, she sent.

He supposed he should be grateful. No one coming meant that he could go longer without calling on his Valinhall powers, and his chains would stay where they were. But he couldn’t escape the thought that he was playing right into someone else’s plans.

Correction: we’ve got a few pets on the way, Caela sent. A pack of dogs from Naraka, headed straight for us. Kathrin should get them.

“Kathrin, on your left!” Simon shouted. He couldn’t be sure whether she heard him; she did wave in his direction, but she didn’t turn her attention from the battle overhead. Simon didn’t bother to look up, though the flashes of light and sudden sounds made it difficult. Between Denner and Alin, they should have no trouble with Endross.

Six ash-gray hounds with manes of smoldering flame burst around the corner, lunging at Kathrin.

She didn’t take her eyes off the battle in the sky. With her short-bladed Dragon’s Fang held in both hands, she jabbed one dog through the throat as it lunged, spun and gutted the second, shattered the third’s spine with a reversed stroke, kicked the fourth through a nearby window, crushed the fifth hound’s skull beneath her boot, and impaled the last one through the ribs.

Kathrin covered her mouth as she yawned, wiping her blade absently on a dog’s gray coat. She still seemed more interested in Denner’s fight than her own. “Don’t tell me I got out of bed for this,” she called over.

Simon didn’t say a word.

Andra! Caela sent, and Simon summoned Mithra. An Endross serpent appeared next to the blond girl in a flash of lightning, coiling up to strike. Andra didn’t back down; she pulled her own Dragon’s Fang back to cut the snake’s head off.

A streak of white light flashed past Simon, singeing his arm. It blasted a smoking hole through the giant snake, sending the monster’s body to the ground, where it twitched and sent off sparks.

Simon looked back to where the light had come from, only to see Kathrin standing six feet behind him, looking over his shoulder. She banished the same huge steel bow that Valin had used against him in the graveyard, already walking back to her corner. Her eyes were on Denner and Alin. “That’s seven for me,” she yelled back to him. “You’re going to make Mithra cry.”

The Endross Incarnation’s body hit the street next to Simon an instant before its head, which rolled almost to Simon’s feet. Its eyes were nothing more than smoking sockets.

He looked up to see Alin and Denner. The Incarnation was still shouting war cries and hurling bolts of gold, while Denner sat on the roof nearby, panting and emptying a waterskin over a burn on his right arm.

Nothing else happened.

Simon could hear the distant battle over by the walls, and Alin was obviously shooting at something, but where were the Incarnations? Their primary objective was to eliminate Alin and, if possible, Elysia. So why weren’t they going for it? Was the trap that obvious, or had something gone wrong?

Leah still hadn’t commanded him elsewhere, but Simon called steel and hopped up to a second-story window ledge, and from there to the top of a two-story house.

He couldn’t see much: a group of soldiers, supported by red gnomes from Elysia, engaged a handful of Ornheim Travelers a few streets over. Other than that, mostly all he could see were wheeling birds, bolts of lightning, and flashes of colored light.

Caela, where are the Incarnations?

Don’t rush me, she snapped. There are a few thousand bodies down there, and it’s not as easy as you think to tell them apart. Truly, only someone as skilled and talented as I would even bother to try…

After a few more seconds, she gave him the mental equivalent of a frustrated sigh. They’re not there, she said. I’d bet a thousand hours on it. The only Incarnation on this battlefield was Endross.

So the King had anticipated them and set them up. The thought almost made Simon feel more comfortable—he wasn’t sure what he’d do if a plan went exactly as he expected it to. Die of shock, probably.

Simon shouted some quick orders to Andra and hopped to a nearby rooftop. “Lead me to Leah,” he said.

You’re talking out loud again, Caela reminded him, but she still gave him directions.

Predictably, Leah was standing behind a wall of golems and Travelers, issuing instructions. The fact that these soldiers weren’t Damascan probably hadn’t occurred to her, and they seemed to salute and obey her quickly enough. Even the gold-armored, winged warriors of Elysia listened to her, running where she pointed.

Simon hopped down from the house and released his steel as soon as possible: the chains were creeping up to his neck, and he needed to delay as much as he could.

“The Incarnations aren’t here,” he said.

With her red eye, Leah scanned the nearby battle: a bunch of bird-men engaged against a giant blue jellyfish floating in the sky. It was odd to think that he was on the side of the jellyfish.

“I know,” she said. “We saw them, but they disappeared shortly before Endross attacked, presumably into a Territory. There’s no telling where they’ll come out.”

“Oh.” It was good to know that Leah was aware of the problem, but she didn’t seem as upset as he had expected. “What are we going to do about it?”

“That’s why I keep a bunch of Valinhall Travelers around,” Leah said, tapping a nearby golem on the shoulder and pointing toward the bird-men. The creature of living rock hefted a stone axe and turned its emerald eyes to the battlefield, lumbering down the street.

“We will engage the Incarnations when we see them,” Simon said. “We’ll try to slow them down until you can get there.”

Leah nodded, her red-and-blue eyes still on Simon. “Just slow them,” she said seriously. “Don’t throw your life away for Alin’s. I’d rather have you back alive than him.”

Awww, how sweet, Caela sent.

“I’m not sure how I can protect him without risking my life,” Simon said, but he owed her more than that. He met her eyes and gave a little smile. “Sorry. I’ll do my best.”

She returned the smile, and he left.

He was almost back to his corner of the fight, underneath Alin, when a swirling blue-edged Gate flashed into being right next to Kathrin.

Caela and Simon shouted a warning at the same time, but a torrent of chaos blasted out from the open Gate: lightning, stones, a spear, some sort of flashing crystals and jagged ice, and maybe a hundred other things bursting from the Territory with the force of a titan’s hammer.

The wrath of the Incarnations met ghost armor, and Kathrin was launched backwards, down the street, her Dragon’s Fang falling from her hand.

She’s alive, Caela said hastily, and she’ll be coming back. But that surely broke her ghost armor, so she’ll have to be careful.

The four remaining Incarnations piled out of the Endross Gate, along with a single Endross Traveler in loose-fitting white clothes. Now that the Endross Incarnation was gone, the Incarnations could all Travel through Endross as a unified group.

King Zakareth, the patterns on his skin shining red and gold in the sunlight, held out a hand. The Lightning Spear smacked into his palm, and he raised it to throw.

Andra ran from the other side, rounding the corner to come face-to-face with four Incarnations.

Helgard waved a hand in her direction, and the black ice sharpened into a jagged icicle pointed straight at Andra.

Lirial extended both hands toward the far side of the building, where Simon knew Erastes waited. The old soldier only had the steel; he couldn’t stop a bolt from an Incarnation.

Ornheim stepped forward, raising a red-and-black sword in both hands. Simon felt like he’d seen that weapon before, somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place it. The Incarnation thrust the blade into the air and began sawing away.

A gatecrawler. While everyone else was distracted, the Incarnations had decided to cut their way into Elysia and bring down the City of Light behind Alin’s back.

All of this flashed through Simon’s mind in a single instant, but one thing rose above all the rest: Andra and Erastes were in danger. They were entirely outclassed…and for that matter, so was he.

He reached into his cloak pocket.

I have to, he sent.

I know, Caela said, sadly. It’s what Valin would have done. Mithra felt somehow both resigned and eager.

Simon put on the mask.

***

Only a few minutes since Alin and the brown-cloaked Traveler finished off the Endross Incarnation, the Silver Light alerted him to something down below. It felt like a Gate opening, and four impossibly bright individuals walking out.

He flew over, prepared to unleash Gold Light on them, when someone stuck a burning, jagged blade into his mind.

Gatecrawler, the Silver Light whispered.

Leah’s spear shot toward him. He summoned a shield of Green Light, as thick as he could, and the spear struck with only enough force to send a crack running through the plate and give him a splitting headache. He retaliated with a two-handed blast of Gold Light, but the King caught it on his shield.

“Duel me with honor, Elysia,” King Zakareth called, in the dramatic voice of a trained orator. “Let us not settle for these—”

And then he was blasted off his feet when Simon slammed into him.

To Alin’s vision, he was little more than a black-and-silver blur cloaked in shadows, but it couldn’t be anyone else but Simon. He hit the Ragnarus Incarnation’s shield with his shoulder, knocking the King off his feet and onto his back, but he didn’t stop moving.

His blade passed through the Helgard Incarnation’s wrist in a sheet of shining gold, so she dropped her spear of ice. Her expression was annoyed, rather than surprised or pained. Then, without seeming to move, Simon was ten feet away, standing in front of the Lirial Incarnation, deflecting her incandescent white bolts with his flashing blade.

The King regained his feet, but not before Simon kicked Lirial up, across the street, and onto a nearby roof.

We shouldn’t waste that opportunity, the Gold Light pointed out, and Alin agreed. He called Gold from Elysia in a hammer that fell from the sky on top of Lirial, blasting her down through two floors of the house.

Simon, meanwhile, had managed to go blade-to-blade with Ragnarus. The King held his spear in both hands, sweeping the butt of his weapon at Simon’s feet and managing to get his spearhead between every one of Simon’s strikes, in spite of the Valinhall Traveler’s impossible speed. Alin couldn’t see the details of the match, thanks to Simon’s cloak of shadows, but Ragnarus was clearly on the back foot.

Helgard, meanwhile, was engaged in combat with the blond-haired Valinhall girl. Actually, the Incarnation didn’t seem particularly engaged at all: she was focused on fitting her severed hand back to her wrist, where it froze back on to her arm. Her ice was doing all her fighting on its own, spinning and parrying every one of the Valinhall girl’s strikes.

Alin lowered himself to the ground.

They need you to even the odds, the Orange Light said, and he had to say: he was looking forward to it.

He summoned his sword of golden light and swung it at Helgard’s back in a Red-enhanced fist.

A second length of black ice materialized out of nowhere, catching his strike. Helgard turned slowly to look at him, her eyes flashing with every color of winter.

“Alin, son of Torin,” she said. “Elysia. I have always wanted to see the City of Light.”

Then the whole street froze.

Snow simply appeared, perhaps summoned from Helgard, and every exposed surface was suddenly covered in a layer of frost. Even his armor crawled with white, growing like moss over his golden breastplate. Snowflakes whirled through the air in a white flurry.

Alin opened himself up to Violet, planning to banish every inch of this snow, but he hesitated. He couldn’t dive in too deep to the Violet Light, or he would end up like he had the last time he’d fought Simon. He couldn’t afford to lose control now.

And in that moment of indecision, a frozen hand formed out of the snow, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him to the ground. A layer of black icicles flashed up to meet him, stabbing through his armor and driving into his flesh. The cold was at least as shocking as the pain, which remained as distant as ever, but his Rose Light flared at every wound. The spears of ice drove into him as quickly as he healed, tearing his wounds even deeper, pushing in agony so deep that it reached him even through his Incarnated body.

For the first time in six months, he screamed with actual pain.

His honest, wordless cry summoned Violet Light, which flailed blindly from his body in long, bandage-like strips. Scoops of snow vanished wherever the Violet struck, and it only took a second to clear out the icicles that were driving into his ribs. The Rose Light began repairs instantly.

But Helgard had been busy.

A blue-skinned hand big enough to juggle an ox wrapped around Alin’s middle and tossed him into a building across the street.

Alin surrounded his body in a bubble of Green, filling himself with Red an instant before he hit. He crashed straight through the solid wall, tumbling and rolling to a stop on the second floor.

He glimpsed a room filled with hand-carved wooden toys, perhaps a child’s bedroom, before he was falling again.

The ground hadn’t given way—there was already a hole in this floor, and he had simply rolled into it.

He caught himself with Orange Light before he struck the ground, the Rose still repairing the damage from Helgard’s icicles. He let himself drift gently down.

When his eyes were blinded by a flash of light, he realized he wasn’t alone.

His head blasted backwards as though he’d been hit with a hammer, and he heard a woman’s mocking, crystalline laughter.

Ah, the Silver Light noted. This is where Simon threw the Lirial Incarnation.

You’re blind, the Rose Light added. Nothing we can do about it for a few seconds, at least.

So Alin called Silver Light.

The world appeared before him, drawn in shades of white and shining gray. Inanimate objects—the walls, floor, the rubble around him—were somehow indistinct, as though he were looking at them from the bottom of a lake. But Lirial shone with perfect clarity, a trio of stars whirling around in a halo behind her head.

Another blast hammered into him, but this one he caught on a shield of Green Light. Then he reached out and grabbed Lirial’s head in a hand filled with Red.

With Red Light coiling through his whole body, Alin hurled the crystal Incarnation through an undamaged section of wall.

That, it seemed, was too much for the building. With a slow roar, the house buckled in on itself, sagging and sliding down to the snow in the street below. Tons of debris collapsed on Alin’s head, but he covered himself with a shield of Green and Orange. The large chunks floated away from him, the smaller pattering against the six-sided plates of Green. He walked out unscathed.

The Rose Light had already completed its work on the rest of his body, and had started repairing his eyes. The world went from fuzzy outlines to clear, distinct colors as he exited the building, and he took a look around.

The Lirial Incarnation was nowhere to be seen, but Helgard’s blue giant was rampaging down the street. It towered above all the buildings he could see, its entire face nothing but one huge eye. Its head turned, that eye swiveling to look at Alin.

There were beings he could summon from Elysia to battle this titan, but they would all be needed to defend the City in case Enosh fell. No matter what this giant was capable of, he would be no match for the Incarnation of Elysia.

The one-eyed titan reached down and scooped up the Helgard Incarnation, lifting her to stand on its shoulder. Helgard raised her hands, and a blizzard howled down the street, covering everything else in a blanket of white.

***

Simon couldn’t understand why the Ragnarus Incarnation wasn’t dead.

He planted his foot in the old man’s chest, kicking him with enough force to crack a stone pillar. The King flew up and back, flipping in midair and landing on his feet on top of a nearby building. Simon leaped after him, vaguely aware of a towering blue giant and a flowing cloud of snow rushing along beside him. Helgard was Alin’s problem now, and Simon only had enough time to deal with one opponent at a time.

Deep in the Nye essence, Simon flashed toward King Zakareth, sweeping Mithra in wide arcs to back him up. Once the Incarnation had his back to the ledge, Simon could launch a real attack and finish him.

That was the plan, but the King was proving a match for him even with the Nye essence. The point of the Lightning Spear caught the flat of his blade and knocked it up, leaving a gap in his defenses that he had to step back to cover. From there, the Ragnarus Incarnation had the advantage, and his Spear seemed to be everywhere. It was all Simon could to do turn each blow with Mithra’s edge, knocking the spear aside high, then low, then sidestepping as the Lightning Spear reached for his throat.

Panic gripped him by the gut. He wasn’t worried about losing the fight, not with the mask, but he was running out of time. There were only half a dozen links left in his chain before it closed around his neck, and he died. Like Kai had.

You’ve driven him away, Caela said. Leave him! There’s nothing he can do on his own.

The second I turn my back, he’ll put the Lightning Spear through me, Simon said, slipping past a strike from the same spear. I need…

Help, Caela finished. Fortunately, you’ve got some coming.

Behind Zakareth, Erastes climbed up the side of the roof. The King would never be able to read Simon’s eyes behind the mask, but he still tried not to look directly at the other Valinhall Traveler, for fear of drawing the Incarnation’s attention.

It didn’t matter. Zakareth cocked his head to one side, as though listening. His expression never changed as he pivoted smoothly, hurling the Lightning Spear straight at Erastes.

The soldier had no chance. He only had the steel, not the essence, and he would never be able to react in time. His eyes barely had time to widen before the Spear…

…shivered to a stop in mid-air, frozen and hovering.

To your right! Caela called, and Simon glanced over to see Leah standing on the next rooftop over, red eye blazing, with one hand outstretched toward the Spear. Her raven whirled overhead, screaming.

The Spear started to float toward Leah, but then Zakareth beckoned sharply, and it flipped back into his hand.

“Hello, father,” Leah began, but Simon didn’t have time to listen to a conversation. He threw himself back at the Ragnarus Incarnation, trying to push the old man around so Erastes could have a shot at his back.

Unbelievably, Zakareth got even faster. He ducked a strike from Simon, spun around and tripped Erastes with the butt of his spear, then completed the turn and thrust the Lightning Spear at Simon’s chest.

So that’s what happens when you use Ragnarus enhancements on an Incarnation’s immortal body, Caela said. The Nye will be interested to know that.

What can I do? Simon asked, the chains on his neck closing around him like the hands of a murderer. But when Lirial alighted on the building, firing a series of white bolts at Leah, he knew the answer.

Nothing.

***

Leah had come to fight directly, even though she knew she shouldn’t have. Murin thought she was an idiot for doing so, and she couldn’t help but agree with the bird. Direct combat wasn’t her style; that was why she had Simon and Indirial.

Or…just Simon, now. She would have to get used to that.

She was preparing to call Lirial crystal and seal her father’s feet, maybe at least trip him up a bit, when Lirial herself drifted to the rooftop, her dress of silver wire flashing in the sun. Lirial struck with her version of a star-net, blasting Leah with a mixture of crystals and spears of solid white light.

She called crystal out of the roof, and a jagged spire of pale stone met the bolts, defending her for a moment. Only for a moment. If she could summon the Lightning Spear, she would be fine, but her father held that weapon in an iron grip.

She did have one card yet to play, though.

Kneeling behind her tower of crystal, Leah pressed both palms to the roof and stretched her will out to Ragnarus.

“Cynara the First, Queen of Damasca, your daughter calls upon you,” she said. The Queen had insisted that her summons should be appropriately respectful, or she wouldn’t bother answering.

For a few seconds, the Lirial Incarnation continued chewing through Leah’s crystal shield, and she started wondering if she should repeat the call again, though with some more flowery language.

Then there was a red flash, and Cynara stood over her.

Her dress of scarlet light flowed against the wind, crimson flesh standing out like a spot of blood against the white snow on the roof. Her eyes were locked on Lirial, and there was a small smile on her lips.

Leah didn’t know what price Cynara had taken for her help, but whatever it was, it left her feeling like she was on the edge of passing out. “I’m glad…I met…with your approval,” she managed to say.

Cynara waved a hand. “Good enough,” she said. “Now, I don’t have quite the power I once did, but since Zak isn’t using it…”

Leah had a second to think, Zak?

Then Cynara pulled the Rod of Harmony from the Crimson Vault, and stepped in front of the Lirial Incarnation.

The bolt from the star-net crashed into a wave of red light from the ruby on top of the Rod. Lirial screamed, and then her own bolt reappeared an inch from her eye, slamming into her forehead and flipping her over backwards.

Queen Cynara was already on her, moving with a grace and athleticism that Leah would never have expected. The Rod was gone, and she was driving a heavy mace down on Lirial’s crystal head.

There was a flash of white light, and Lirial was floating across the street. Cynara walked to the edge of the building, next to Leah, her stride casual. The mace was missing, and she held a gold-and-ruby dagger in each hand.

Cynara bent her scarlet legs as if to leap after Lirial, but she evidently thought better of it. The twin daggers went back into the Vault, and a wide, shallow bowl came out.

“Watch yourself,” she called to Leah.

Leah wasn’t sure what she was meant to look out for, but she backed up as far as she could. Simon was still locked in battle with King Zakareth, two or three roofs over, but the old soldier Erastes was gone. Dead?

Then Alin’s gold-armored figure came hurtling out of the snow like a falling star. He flew straight toward the bowl that Cynara held, which she angled to catch him. In a flare of red light, Alin froze ten feet from the bowl, hovering in midair. When he stopped, a blast of wind shot out from him, as though the force of his flight had been dispersed into the air. Snow blasted away from him in a ring.

The snow that had started to melt on the roof, even what had half-melted to slush, froze solid. Leah shivered again; the temperature seemed to drop into the depths of winter in the span of a few seconds.

“The Bowl drains heat,” Cynara explained, levering the bowl to the side. Floating in the air, Alin moved along with the artifact, falling on to the ceiling when she dumped the bowl over. “That’s the only price, though I’m not entirely sure why.”

Alin rose to his feet, brushing snow from his shattered armor. “Thank you,” he said, then he gave Cynara a closer look.

“You’re the former Ragnarus Incarnation?” he asked.

Cynara smiled more broadly, then gave him a mocking curtsy.

Alin stood for a moment, thinking. After a few seconds, he held out one golden hand.

“Please, Rhalia,” he said.

A woman popped out of the air in front of him. She wore a long white dress belted with a golden sash, and her blond hair almost reached down to her feet. She spun a loop in midair, her arms and smile broad. “You should have summoned me ages ago! It’s a lot whiter than I…remembered…”

Her loop slowed to a crawl, and she drifted down to the roof, staring at Cynara. The two summoned women stared at one another with wide eyes. Even Queen Cynara looked as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“…Rhalia?” she whispered, and several dozen separate facts clicked into place for Leah. Cynara had mentioned her sister, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Leah had known that her sister was an Elysian Traveler…but the Elysian Traveler? The first Incarnation of Elysia, and the one that had almost destroyed Damasca?

Tears welled up in the golden eyes of the legendary Elysian Incarnation, and she staggered toward her sister, wrapping her pale arms around Cynara’s red shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” Rhalia murmured through her tears. “I always…wanted to tell you…”

They held each other for a while, and then Cynara released her. Rhalia didn’t let go.

“Rhalia,” the Queen said.

The former Incarnation of Elysia shook her head. Alin stepped off the edge, caught by Orange Light, flying away to join Simon.

One roof over, the Helgard Incarnation landed in a crouch. Her one-eyed giant strode up beside her, raising its fist as if to smash the building on which Leah stood.

“Rhalia,” Cynara said, more urgently.

“I’ve waited three hundred years for this,” Rhalia said, without releasing her sister. “I can take a little longer.”

“No, you can’t!” Leah yelled. She drew as deeply as she could from her Lirial source, tried to summon the Lightning Spear—it failed; her father must still be holding it—then attempted to summon the Titan Shield, but that failed as well. Her father still had a grip on everything useful.

As the giant’s blue fist fell, she wondered if her crystal would be enough.

Then an orange sun bloomed between her and the descending blow. The giant’s hand rose into the sky, pulling its enormous body along with it. At any second, Leah expected the orange light to vanish, letting the one-eyed titan fall back down to earth. It never happened. It kept drifting up, silently struggling, until Leah lost it among the clouds.

Helgard seemed more stunned than anyone else, her mouth working soundlessly.

Rhalia finally let go of her sister, smiling proudly. “I am sorry,” she said at last.

“Yes, well, I spent the last three and a half centuries sealed inside a blood-sucking tree,” Queen Cynara said dryly. “For the first hundred years, I kept planning out how to escape and make you suffer.”

Rhalia’s face crumpled, and she looked as though she were about to cry again.

“…stop that. You’re almost four hundred years old, act your age. It’s been a long time since I blamed you for this. I paid my price, and I reaped the reward. Bitter as it may have been.”

Ignoring the Helgard Incarnation, who looked curious rather than confused, Queen Cynara gestured to Leah.

“Leah, daughter of Zakareth, this is my older sister Rhalia.”

Rhalia beamed and drifted over to Leah, spinning circles around her in midair. “This is Leah, huh? She wears the Eye well. Much better than that old man.”

Cynara’s expression hardened. “Anything was better than the old man.”

At first, Leah was inclined to correct them about her name—she was the daughter of Kelia, not Zakareth. But Cynara had never met Leah’s mother, so she let that slide. Then she thought they were talking about her father as the ‘old man,’ but the context made that unlikely. Rhalia didn’t know Zakareth the Sixth. Someone from their own time, then?

A shrill alarm from one of Leah’s scout crystals shrieked in her ear, and she spun around to find a dozen White Razors—sharpened snowflakes the size of wagon wheels—spinning straight at her, out of the snow.

She blocked the first one with crystal, but Cynara shattered the rest with a fistful of crimson darts. They shot out of midair and pierced each snowflake through the middle.

Leah was forcibly reminded, then, exactly how much she had left to learn about the Crimson Vault.

“We are in control of this situation, Leah,” Queen Cynara said, launching a red wooden javelin at Helgard.

“Could you go see to the Elysia Gate, if you don’t mind?” Rhalia asked. “A golem cut his way inside.”

That’s right, I almost forgot. Ornheim had been using his gatecrawler to slice his way into Elysia, and the rest of them had been too distracted by the other Incarnations to pay him any attention. Without another word, Leah started climbing down from the roof.

“Too slow!” Rhalia called, and Leah felt herself lifted up by the shoulders and carried down to the street below.

…it wasn’t the most dignified way to travel, but at least it was fast.

***

Alin fought side-by-side with Simon, and it was the most fulfilling thing he had done in years.

He blasted King Zakareth with Gold Light, sending the Incarnation staggering, but when he turned to launch his spear in Alin’s direction, Simon was all over him, swinging that gold-and-silver blade of his so fast that Zakareth had to summon his shield. He used both that and his spear to keep Simon at bay. Meanwhile, Alin had the space to summon a coil of Blue Light underneath Zakareth’s foot, snagging his grip and draining a bit of his armor’s power away.

The Ragnarus Incarnation broke the Blue binding, but it still made him stagger, taking a little energy away from his weapons. He would fall to the two of them, and soon.

And there was something…right about it. Alin and Simon, side-by-side, standing against the evil Incarnation. Alin was even fighting like a Traveler; he couldn’t call much more power without endangering Simon as well, so for a moment he could pretend that all was as it should be, and he and Simon were about to vanquish the King together.

If you hadn’t made so many stupid decisions, the Violet Light said, perhaps you could have fought this way in truth, and not just in your mind.

Simon finally landed a good blow, knocking Zakareth’s shield aside and slashing across his breastplate with the tip of his blade.

While the Ragnarus Incarnation staggered backwards, Alin called Gold.

The hammer of Gold Light blasted King Zakareth off the roof, sending him flying down and toward the original building, where a hastily torn Elysian Gate waited.

“Thanks,” Simon said, panting.

“You didn’t do too bad yourself,” Alin said. “You know, for someone who’s not a real Traveler.”

Simon stared at him from behind the mask for a second before he snorted a laugh. “You know, I—”

Something caught his attention, as if he was listening to someone else talk, and his whole body tensed. He leaped off the roof after Zakareth, his blade held in both hands.

Obviously he had thought of something that Alin hadn’t noticed with his Silver Light, so Alin flew after him on wings of Orange Light.

Leah was there, crouched at the edge of the Elysian Gate with her hands raised, as if she were about to summon some power. Her father had one leg lifted to enter the portal himself, shield in one hand and spear in the other. His gold-and-ruby-patterned face caught the light. Simon landed, his knees bent, blade drawn back for a strike, his mask turned up toward Zakareth.

As had happened once before, in Malachi’s mansion, the moment froze.

Alin stepped away from his own body, turning to look at himself. His rainbow eyes had frozen with orange prominent, so the slices of orange glowed most brightly. His hair had turned from blond to something that looked like strands of actual gold—he wondered for a second if the hair on his head had turned to metal, or if it was just his appearance that had changed. His armor was practically in ruins again, and after all the effort he’d gone through to have it repaired the first time.

But it was his expression that bothered him the most. He stared forward, looking completely blank. He showed less emotion than a statue, as if nothing had ever happened that he cared about, and nothing ever would.

In his featureless confidence, he looked just like King Zakareth.

Rhalia walked up beside him, casually strolling along, glancing into everyone’s eyes one at a time as if to memorize the scene.

“How did you do this?” he asked.

“Oh, you should know that by now,” she said. “And now your brain won’t sizzle quite so fast, so we can take our time.”

When Alin bothered to think about it, with all the knowledge of Elysia, it seemed obvious. “It’s a Silver artifact, combined with Red Light to enhance the mind.”

Rhalia clapped three times. “You win the prize! My body’s over there.” She motioned to a building across the street, where her white-robed form fought next to her red-clad sister. “So let’s see if the wisdom of the Silver Light is all it’s supposed to be. What do I have to tell you?”

“Something about the King,” Alin said. “Does he have a weapon I don’t know about?”

She shrugged. “Probably. But no, that’s not why I’m here.”

Rhalia hopped over to Simon and pointed at his collar.

To Alin’s surprise, Simon was still moving. Everything else looked perfectly still, but Simon actually crept forward, his legs springing up, his sword drifting around in a strike that would take days to land.

“How is he not frozen?” Alin asked.

“No one’s frozen,” Rhalia corrected. “We’re experiencing time very, very quickly…and separate from our bodies, of course. The fact that we can perceive him move at all is a reflection of how fast he’s managed to go. But that’s not what I’m here to point out.”

She gestured under his cloak again, and Alin leaned in for a closer look.

Those black marks, the chains that crawled up Simon’s arms, had reached all the way around his neck.

The final link was gray, like the fuzzy edge of a shadow, but when it turned black, the chain would have covered Simon’s body completely.

“What does that mean?” Alin asked, quietly.

She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with Valinhall, but even I can sense it. He’s too far in debt to his Territory. When that chain is completed, he will either Incarnate or die.”

Simon had warned him about this, about what would happen if he wore the mask. The chain must be his time limit.

“There was another Valinhall Incarnation only days ago,” Alin said. “He told us.”

“Then Simon will die.” Rhalia waved a hand. “Or he may fuse with his Territory or the current Incarnation. In those cases, he will wish for death.”

That would be a tragedy, the Rose Light whispered. Simon has never tried to do anything but good.

You owe him, the Orange Light said.

There’s nothing you can do about it, the Silver pointed out.

You don’t need to worry about him, the Gold said proudly. He’s a warrior, dying in battle. He’s lived a full life, short though it was. Everyone should be as lucky as he, meeting their end like this.

“He lived a good life,” Alin said out loud. “He will die with honor.”

Rhalia swept a strand of hair out of her golden eyes. Alin knew they weren’t really in their bodies, but it all looked real.

“Wouldn’t it be better if he could live with honor, instead?” Rhalia asked.

She knows a way, the Violet Light said.

“What do you want me to do?”

Rhalia turned and looked at the Elysian Gate. “There is one door you have yet to open.”

The White District. Whenever he asked Rhalia for advice, it always came down to the White.

“…in the City,” he said.

“Yes. The White Light can only be used on another’s behalf. It can empower Simon with all the might of Elysia, giving him the strength he needs to win this battle. But it would mean staying here, with me.”

You have to save him, if you can, the Blue Light said.

Going through that Gate would be like dying, the Red argued. Worse: it would be like surrender!

Alin took a moment to think of the problem from every angle. “I wish I could go,” he said at last, “but I can’t. I would be trapped there, and the people need an Elysian Traveler to lead the way into the light. It would be selfish of me to protect this one man and deprive the world of the City of Light.” He wanted to save Simon, but it wasn’t practical.

He had to admit a certain measure of relief, though. The thought of staying trapped in one Territory forever chilled him; he almost thought dying in battle would be the better fate.

“That’s…not exactly right.” Rhalia smiled a little. It was the kind of smile that said, I have a surprise, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.

She walked around the King, standing in front of the Elysian Gate. She stood, waiting expectantly, clearly indicating that he should follow.

With an unexplainable sense of dread, Alin followed her. And he looked into Elysia.

The field of grass and flowers outside the walls was all but torn up. Four people engaged the towering Ornheim Incarnation and a small army of golems. One was the blond girl, Andra, her black-spotted sword clenched in both hands. She had driven her sword through a golem’s neck joint, popping its head off. The gem-spotted boulder still hung in the air, wearing a comical expression of surprise.

The second person was also a Valinhall Traveler, but much older. Kathrin was in the middle of swinging a giant mirror-bright hammer at Ornheim’s stone kneecap. A mask of blood covered her forehead, and her snarl made her look as though she wished she could bite the Incarnation in half.

The other two people were his sisters.

Ilana, five years older than he was, stood ten paces away with a bow in both hands. She had hardly touched a bow in years, but this one was made of some golden wood, and she was fitting a gleaming arrow to the string. One small, dog-shaped golem had been impaled through its gemstone eye by a shining arrow that matched the one Ilana held in her bow.

That brought him to his little sister, Shai. She had the same bored expression she always wore when she was intensely interested in something.

And she was wielding a strip of Violet Light in each hand, like a pair of whips. Piles of rubble sat at the end of the light, as though she had reduced a group of golems to inanimate gravel.

“She’s…alive,” Alin said, his voice unsteady.

Practically glowing with pride, Rhalia drifted over to watch his sister. “Back in Myria, when you opened the Gates to Elysia, I was able to bring her inside. She needed a lot of attention in the Rose District, but I kept her in the City. Safe from Naraka, and from you.”

Indignant anger welled up in him for a moment—I would never hurt her! She’s my sister!—before he crushed the feeling down. All things considered, Rhalia had made the right call.

“Thank you,” Alin said. “You probably saved her life.” Another thought occurred to him, and he almost dared to hope. “What about Tamara? Did you save her?” He had seen his oldest sister die, but if Rhalia had managed to heal Shai…

Rhalia shook her head, but she said nothing else.

Alin’s hopes fell, but Green patience saved him from grieving anew. Instead, he focused on the sister in front of him, the one who had miraculously returned from death. “Is she a Traveler?”

“It wasn’t uncommon, back in my time, for there to be two natural Elysian Travelers from the same family.” Rhalia kept her words quiet, studying Alin as if to gauge his reaction.

“What about the prophecy?” he asked.

Rhalia sighed. “That was after my time, but I can make a good guess. The fact that there was a prophecy at all suggests that Avernus was involved. Strigaia-tribe owls can see the future, but only in vague, specific pieces. I have no doubt that you were the boy some Grandmaster Avernus once predicted would free the Incarnations. And so you did. You even killed King Zakareth, which may have been part of the same prediction.”

But that doesn’t mean those things were good, the Silver Light pointed out. Nor does it mean you’re the only one.

“Call Violet,” Rhalia suggested. “Tell me the truth. What does this make you feel?”

“Relieved, that my sisters are alive,” Alin said, through a haze of Violet honesty. “Confused. And…disappointed, because I thought I was the only one. I wanted to be the hero.”

Rhalia looked back at Simon, who was still inching forward through the frozen moment. “You can be.”

***

You’re out of time, Caela said.

Simon slammed Mithra into King Zakareth’s back, knocking him through the gold-edged Gate and into the City of Light.

I know, Simon sent.

Something else blasted past him into the portal, something orange and gold and glowing, but he didn’t get a good look. All his attention was focused on his enemy, as he threw himself through the Gate and after the King. There was even a battle going on around him—he vaguely noticed Kathrin fighting a huge, white golem—but he ignored it.

If he was about to die, he wanted to do it while taking Zakareth’s head from his shoulders.

I wanted to tell you… He hesitated. He’d never been good at saying the right thing, but he had to try. When would he get another chance? Of all the swords I could have gotten, I’m glad it was Azura.

So were we, Caela whispered. It was hard to tell, with her shifting, windy voice, but she sounded on the verge of tears. You were so much better than Kai.

***

Alin hurtled through the streets of the City of Light, blasting past shops and homes and towers. In seconds, he reached the heart of the city.

Please don’t be too late, he said to himself. He would have hated to do all this for nothing. Please don’t be too late, not too late…

Relax, the Green Light told him.

He spun around, surrounded by colored doors. He saw the violet, the red, the orange…and there. So small and shabby that it looked like it belonged on a garden gate.

The White Door.

He twisted the handle and pulled, flooding the room with White Light. For a moment, he panicked: this hadn’t happened when he opened any of the other doors! The power washed his mind clean, swallowing him whole.

For what felt like an eternity, he drifted on an endless sea of white. All his concerns melted away, and for the first time since he gave up his humanity, Alin finally relaxed.

After a time, the White Light asked him a question. What do you want me to do?

From deep within him, the other virtues of Elysia responded.

Defeat the enemy, the Gold Light said.

Protect our allies, said the Orange.

Give us peace, said the Green.

Finish the battle, said the Red.

Help us save the day, said the Violet.

The White Light was quiet for a long time, though Alin himself floated in complete peace.

Those are all wonderful goals, the White Light said gently, but it’s not about you.

And everything was silent.

Finally, the Gold Light spoke up. It sounded almost reluctant. Simon has proven his valor, it said.

He needs help, said the Rose.

We’d like to have this power to ourselves… the Violet began.

…but you should give it to him instead, the Blue finished.

Help Simon, said the Silver Light. Give him whatever he needs.

And, floating on White Light, Alin agreed.

That, I can do. The White flowed out of him, draining his strength, carrying it away…to Simon.

***

Helgard was coming after her, but Leah sealed the Incarnation’s legs in a quick layer of crystal before tumbling through the Gate.

It was all chaos and madness inside. The Ornheim Incarnation had summoned a bunch of golems to fight Kathrin and Andra and what looked like Alin’s sisters, one of whom was laying everything around her to waste with a couple of glowing violet whips.

Setting aside her shock at seeing the two sisters both alive and in Elysia, Leah stared at the most horrifying thing she could see.

The huge, dark chain stretching away from Simon’s neck, leading into the distance.

To her Eye of Ages, each link in the chain was as wide around as a wagon, binding Simon closer and closer to his Territory. That chain was almost complete, and she knew with instinctive certainty that as soon as it snapped shut, terrible things would happen. Certainly terrible for Simon, and possibly for all of them.

He was facing her father, so Leah summoned the Lightning Spear. To her shock, it came spinning toward her—King Zakareth must have been even more surprised by Simon than she was.

She snatched the Spear out of the air, preparing to throw…

…and the chain turned white.

Not just the spectral chain that she saw through her crimson eye, either. All the black chains on Simon’s skin glowed a pure, bright white, and white light blazed from the eye sockets of his mask. Was he Incarnating?

The dark chain stretching out from his neck dispersed and blew away like the memory of smoke. Meanwhile, Simon shone white.

Leah heard a cry, and she looked down to see the doll in the blue dress and bonnet sitting on the grass next to her. Caela.

What’s happening? the doll asked, in her mind. He left me here when he was going to die, but now I can’t see. What’s going on? Did he call too much?

“I don’t know,” Leah said, studying the scene through her Eye. “I don’t see the chains of Valinhall on him anymore. Wherever he’s calling that power from, it’s not the House.”

As she spoke, something faded into existence behind him. She could barely see it with her Eye of Ages, but it was becoming clearer every second: a winged sword, point-down, on a field of white.

Elysia.

***

If this was how Incarnation felt, Simon liked it.

Before, he’d felt as though the powers of Valinhall were flowing through him with the strength of a river. Now, it felt like a placid ocean. He could draw as much as he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and it would never run dry.

He never wanted the feeling to go away.

With Mithra’s dull edge, he knocked the Lightning Spear out of Zakareth’s hand. Immediately it spun away, hopefully over to Leah. The King struck out with his shield, intending to knock Simon backwards, but he caught the rim of the shield in one hand and tore it away, tossing it to the grass.

Andra shouted behind him, and it occurred to him that he should be back there.

His body moved as soon as he had the thought, and he was standing in front of Andra and Kathrin. They had already knocked the Ornheim Incarnation over onto his back, but he was still flailing around with a rocky hammer.

Simon brought Mithra forward, idly noting as he did so the line of gold in her center had turned a bright, vivid white. He slid the Dragon’s Fang in and out of Ornheim’s head, as simply as slipping it into a pool of water.

The Incarnation fell apart.

Then Simon was moving again, over to Helgard, who still stood in the border of Elysia and the outside world. He struck at her, but his blow was turned by a staff of black ice. His blade sent a chip spinning off into the distance, and he attacked even faster than the bar could react, slashing at Helgard from the other side.

Then a second shaft of dark ice flew out of nowhere, blocking his other strike.

The two bars worked in unison, whirling with impossible speed and turning his every attack. However fast he moved, it didn’t matter; there was always one in the way. Helgard stood with both her blue-skinned hands out, her frozen eyes narrowed in concentration as she bent all her power to warding him off.

A red blade emerged from her stomach.

The two bars of ice quivered in the air for a moment before plummeting to the ground. Helgard put two fingertips to the blood, then raised the fingers to her eyes.

“Fascinating,” she murmured. Then she fell over.

Erastes pulled the crimson Ragnarus blade from the Incarnation’s body and wiped it on the grass. “I knew I’d find a use for this,” he said.

Simon laughed and ran out the Gate, chasing the final Incarnation.

Lirial was floating away at her top speed, which wasn’t nearly fast enough. He caught up with her in a handful of seconds, but she spun toward him and flared with white light.

His eyes felt like someone had stabbed them with steel picks, and he was flash-blinded, but that hardly made a difference.

Caela, he called.

I still want to know why you’re not dead, she said. Above you, and a little to the left.

Simon leaped, Mithra spinning in his hands.

When he landed, the Lirial Incarnation followed him a second later. She hit the cobblestones in three pieces, each of which shattered like thin glass.

Those white chains look good on you, Caela observed. You should keep them.

I will if I can, Simon said. He’d found that power like this never lasted, but it would be nice if this was the exception.

When Simon returned to Elysia, King Zakareth was holding the crimson Ragnarus blade in both hands. Erastes had the good grace to look ashamed.

For someone facing down a growing half-circle of opponents, the King didn’t look afraid. Andra, Kathrin, Erastes, Shai—wait a minute, was she an Elysian Traveler now? It looked like she was using one of Alin’s powers—Ilana, and Leah stood against the Ragnarus Incarnation, each of them brandishing their weapons.

Simon stepped out, Mithra held loosely in one hand.

“Seal yourself in the Vault,” Simon said. There was no sense in making it any more complicated than it had to be. “That’s all we need.”

Zakareth looked over to Leah. “Remember this, Leah. This is exactly why you save up power for emergencies.”

With his spare hand, he reached up and grabbed the huge ruby at the center of his breastplate.

Then he crushed it in his fist.

Crimson light flowed like blood from the shattered gem, highlighting each plate in the armor. all the rubies he wore started to glow like stars, and even the fire in his left eye socket flared. He lifted the Ragnarus blade.

Erastes! Caela cried. Simon, he’s going for Erastes!

With all the speed he could draw, Simon hurled himself toward Erastes, even though he didn’t see how the King could possibly get there before him.

In an instant, King Zakareth lunged straight at Erastes’ chest. Simon got there in time, turning the red blade with Mithra’s edge.

Alin’s sister!

Which one? Simon screamed in his mind, but Caela didn’t know their names, so he dashed toward Shai. This time, he’d guessed right. He managed to catch this blow on Mithra, but it took both hands. Zakareth struck with so much force that Simon felt his feet being driven down into the soil.

“This is what the blood of thousands will buy you,” King Zakareth remarked.

Then the King was gone again, and Simon had to follow, desperately hoping his increased power would last longer than the Ragnarus Incarnation’s.

***

Leah almost threw the Lightning Spear, but Murin screamed in her ear. Her mental projection—that throwing the Spear would be a bad idea—seemed unnecessary considering the bird’s sheer volume.

Mentally, Leah scanned a list of her options, which was depressingly short.

Until she got to the final item: her last resort. Which now seemed much more appealing than it had before.

Leah hurried out of the Elysian Gate, pulling the Seed out of her pocket as she ran.

Bare patches of earth were easy to find, considering the way the street had been torn up in the battle. Even the layer of frost created by the Helgard Incarnation had been shattered in most places.

Strangely, she was having trouble finding a blade. She would need to spill blood for this to work, and—though she bled from a thousand tiny cuts—she had to make sure that she gave it enough.

It took her a moment to think of a blade from Ragnarus that wouldn’t do something horrible to her with a simple cut. At last, it occurred to her: the Lonely Dagger. It was a long dagger made to slice through manifestations of Traveler powers that were normally insubstantial, but it was still a dagger. It would break her skin well enough.

Leah hurriedly scooped dirt away in a shallow hold, shoving the seed down inside. Then she drew the Lonely Dagger across her left palm.

The weapon seemed to murmur in her ear as it cut. She bled freely down onto the soil.

How long will this take? she thought, as she banished the Dagger.

A red tendril burst from the ground and wrapped around her bleeding hand.

She could feel the blood leaving her, which was an even stranger and more nauseating sensation than the pain. Her hand grew cold, then her arm, and she managed to pull away before she bled too much.

With the newborn Hanging Tree snatching at her heels—and still growing at an alarming rate, pushing soil aside to make room for its roots—she stumbled back into Elysia. The crimson branches waved at the Gate, unable to cross the portal.

Good. She had thought, staring at the Seed with her Eye of Ages, that it had to be planted in the Unnamed World. It was nice to see she had guessed correctly.

Now all they had to do was get her father outside.

***

Simon had the advantage of reach, and he was still stronger and faster, even considering the King’s enhanced armor. He should have been able to cut Zakareth down.

But every time he got an inch of space, the Ragnarus Incarnation struck at someone else. They were all doing their best to resist—Ilana and Kathrin fired supernatural arrows at the King, and the others tried to hold him off with their blades—but Simon and Zakareth were operating on a level beyond them, now. When the King changed direction to attack Andra or Shai or anyone else, Simon had no choice but to turn aside and stop him.

Which meant, essentially, that he was letting his opponent dictate the fight. Chaka would have killed him.

Worse yet, he could feel the White Light leaking out of him. It had lasted much longer than he thought it would, doing more for him than he could believe, but he could feel that he was reaching the end of his newfound strength and speed. When he did, he suspected the mask would take its toll.

And then, one way or another, he would die.

“I’ll give you Indirial’s job,” Zakareth said conversationally, as he ducked under a sweep of Mithra and drove his red-bladed sword at Ilana’s ribs. Simon summoned a second blade from Valinhall in time to parry, hitting the crimson point away from Ilana.

“We could pull down Elysia,” the King continued. “We don’t need them to rule over us, especially not with Valinhall to deal with the Incarnations.”

“Stop…talking!” Simon shouted, kicking the King in his breastplate and knocking him three paces backwards. Maker, he hated it when people tried to talk to him instead of fighting.

The King stood with his back to the Elysian Gate…which, Simon noticed for the first time, was filled with thousands of waving, flailing branches.

Leah.

The Lightning Spear blasted toward King Zakareth from the side, intended to knock the Ragnarus Incarnation out of the Gate at an angle.

For a brief, frozen instant, Simon thought it was going to work.

Then Zakareth snatched the Spear out of the air, turning it as if to examine the blade. “I have a lot to teach you, Leah,” he said. “Using my own weapons against—”

Simon dashed forward and kicked the former King of Damasca in the chest. The Incarnation staggered back, his elbow peeking out of the Territory. The Hanging Tree took advantage of the gap, swarming over him and grabbing his arm, yanking him away and devouring him in a flurry of crimson branches.

Maybe that would teach him not to talk in the middle of a fight.

Zakareth thrashed and fought for a few seconds, then the bright red light of his armor faded. His struggles weakened, and the Tree raised him into the air, preparing to swallow him.

Even now, the King didn’t look surprised or defeated. He stared Simon down with utter confidence plain on his fate. “Maybe it will take three hundred years,” he announced. “Maybe a thousand. But I will return. What about you, Simon, son of Kalman? You’ve used great power today. What price will you have to pay, Valinhall Traveler?”

Leah stepped up beside Simon, watching King Zakareth with her father’s eye.

“I’ve been told it’s a fate worse than death, for a Ragnarus Incarnation to be sealed beneath a Hanging Tree,” Leah said. She was holding Caela, for some reason, and the doll looked upon the King with a smug expression.

“Perhaps we should show mercy,” Leah said.

Simon looked at the Queen of Damasca. “Is that an order?” he asked.

“A favor,” she said quietly.

The Tree had begun to swallow King Zakareth into the earth, but Simon stepped forward, Mithra flashing in his hand as he slashed down every branch in his way.

“So,” Zakareth said. “She gets you to do—”

Simon cut his head off.

CHAPTER 28:

REWARDS

359th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

15 Days Since Spring’s Birth

“I’ve heard reports that you were present at the Battle of Enosh,” Leah said, leaning back in her chair. “They say you rallied the troops and led the victory, once we had taken care of the Incarnations.”

Overlord Feiora Torannus sat across the desk, her arms folded and her jaw set. “I don’t think I had to take a single Damascan life. They were more than ready to surrender once the Ragnarus Incarnation left. Besides, I’d been looking for you for days, so as soon as I found out you were in Enosh, I naturally headed straight there. It’s not my fault I ended up in the middle of a battle.”

Implying that it was Leah’s fault. There was no complimenting this woman.

“Be that as it may, the fact remains that you have given excellent service to the throne this past few weeks. I am inclined to grant you a favor.”

Feiora scratched her chin. “Well, I could use a little more land…”

An awkward pause stretched the moment between them.

“That’s an…unconventional request,” Leah said at last.

The Overlord cleared her throat. “It was a joke.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

After a few seconds, both of their ravens each gave a loud caw.

Leah decided to move on. “Your brother tried to kill me,” she said. “But given that it was an incompetent attempt, and considering the service you have rendered me personally and the Damascan cause as a whole, I will remand him to your guardianship. Please, keep him out of trouble.”

Feiora sighed. “I’ll try.”

“If he does anything else remotely traitorous, I’ll have him executed on the spot.”

“He’s an idiot,” the Overlord said. “I understand. I’ll keep him in Avernus, for the time being. Maybe he’ll learn some patience…or at least some better assassination techniques.”

This time, Leah gave a little laugh. “He literally threw birds at me. I’ve felt more threatened by an unruly horse.”

The Overlord hesitated, shifting in her chair. That caught Leah’s attention. Any display of discomfort was unlike Feiora, who usually walked around as if she intended to march straight through anything in her way. If she had something that distressing on her mind, Leah only hoped it didn’t have apocalyptic consequences.

“I…used to be…working against you,” she admitted at last. “I was staying at your camp, trying to follow you around to find a chink in your armor. I wanted to rally the other Overlords against you, so I could bring you down and force you to release Lysander.”

Leah wanted to be shocked by what was, essentially, an admission of treason by one of the Kingdom’s highest officials. But she simply wasn’t surprised.

“Why didn’t you?” she asked.

“Given the way things went…” Feiora shrugged. “There was too much at stake. I couldn’t risk the nation to get back at you.”

If Leah had been blessed with a brother or a sister who understood that much, she would never have been Queen. “You’d be surprised how many people wouldn’t even think it through that far,” Leah said dryly.

“I deserve exile,” Feiora said. “But, given my service, if you could find it in your heart to simply demote me instead…”

Leah sighed. “Did you actually talk with any of the other Overlords about a rebellion?”

She shook her head. “Just a mocking remark every now and again.”

“I can live with that. At this time, I don’t find that any disciplinary action is necessary.” Leah stared across the desk, taking advantage of her bright red eye to make the Overlord uncomfortable. “But, Feiora? Don’t do it again.”

Feiora nodded sharply, and even leaned forward in the suggestion of a seated bow. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Then she whispered something to her raven, Eugan. The bird let out a mewl in response. “There is something else,” Feiora admitted. “Without him, I would never have been able to rally the Enosh Travelers. He managed to get an entire squad of Damascan Tartarus Travelers to surrender without killing any of them, which was the single most impressive achievement I’ve ever personally witnessed. If it weren’t for him, I might have had to kill a lot of Damascans.”

Some of the reports had mentioned a young Traveler from Enosh who had helped Overlord Feiora win his people over. Whoever it was, Leah looked forward to meeting him.

“Send him in,” she said.

“Come on in, Gilad,” Feiora called. A young man shuffled in, perhaps as old as twenty. He held his hand down and his hands in his pockets—not at all the confident strut she normally associated with genius Travelers. At first, she wondered if this was the right person.

“Gilad, let me introduce Queen Leah the First, of Damasca.”

He went clumsily to one knee, but his eyes widened as he looked up and saw Leah. “I know you! Er, at least, I thought I did. I didn’t know you were the Queen, I’m sorry.”

Leah’s mind was completely blank. “I apologize. Have we met before?”

Gilad frowned. “I think so, but you weren’t the Queen then. Or I didn’t know it. You were coming from the village of Myria, right? You stayed in Enosh for a while. I think Eliadel rescued you, or something.”

That was her, but she wouldn’t remember this boy if he had offered her another crown. “I’m sorry, perhaps I simply don’t recall. In any case, I’ve heard you did a great service for both my people and your own. Is there anything I can offer you in return?”

This time, Gilad met her eyes more boldly. “Don’t burn my city down, ma’am.”

Leah gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Simon had never attended an official Damascan awards ceremony before. He desperately hoped he never had to do so again.

The first hour wasn’t so bad. Leah stood next to the entire Agnos family, Erastes, and Denner—Kathrin had disappeared after the battle in Elysia, and no one knew how to contact her. Leah had provided them matching uniforms: crisp black trimmed with silver thread. A silver badge over the heart showed the emblem of Valinhall, which she claimed to have designed herself: a Dragon’s Fang, point-up, wrapped in chains.

Standing there in his clean new clothes next to others in the same uniform, Simon felt like a real, official Traveler for the first time.

Then the second hour crawled on. Each of the Overlords made speeches. Indirial’s wife emerged from Valinhall to deliver one on behalf of the Overlord of Cana, who couldn’t make it due to ‘binding personal issues,’ which was apparently court-speak for being sealed in his own Territory.

By the time the third hour began, Simon was still standing. Andra had fallen asleep on her feet, snoring quietly, and Lycus shifted from foot to foot, clearly longing to sit down, and just as clearly determined to remain upright.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst came when all the Overlords had finished speaking, and Leah called on him to make his speech.

She looked regal, as well she might considering that she was sitting there on a throne. The ruby-and-gold seat had been hauled out of the ruins of the main palace and relocated here, a separate building on palace grounds that had miraculously escaped destruction.

Leah rested on the throne, looking perfectly comfortable on top of a block of solid ruby. Her dress was long, red, and pristine, trimmed in thread-of-gold. She wore the same silver chain and white stone on her left wrist, and in her right hand she held the Lightning Spear like a scepter. The silver circlet on her head gleamed a strange red, as though it were always reflecting a red light, but her most commanding features were by far her eyes. Her right eye was the bright blue of the Damascan royal family. Her left, a blazing crimson stone.

When she turned that gaze on him and told him it was time for him to speak, a sick feeling grew in his stomach. Though, to be perfectly honest, that might not have had anything to do with her Ragnarus eye.

Simon made his way up to the podium next to the throne, where everyone else had made their speeches. They had practiced this. He would be fine.

Woodenly, he recited his speech.

“I, Simon, son of Kalman, accept the burden of Valinhall’s leader. On behalf of all Valinhall Travelers present and future, I commit my Territory to the service of Damasca, and pledge my sword in defense of the ruling monarch and the nation.” As if he were about to take a plunge into icy water, he took a deep breath and forged ahead. “As the primary duty of Valinhall, I hereby agree to supervise the Incarnations of all eleven Territories, taking action when and if my Queen decrees them an issue of the nation’s safety.”

That created a buzz. He’d heard from Leah that no one knew how she was planning on handling the Incarnations now that the Hanging Trees were destroyed, and it had been a source of much speculation. Handing the job over to a new, mysterious Territory must have made quite an impression.

“On behalf of the Damascan crown, I accept your service,” Leah said. Then she departed from the script. “As a token of which, I ask you to receive these symbolic cloaks representing your new office.”

A train of servants appeared from behind the throne, each carrying a folded black cloak. Simon had wondered why she insisted that he wear his over the uniform; he had assumed she wanted him to look more like Indirial. Now it made sense.

The Eldest is going to kill us all for this, Simon thought, but he had to accept. The Nye were going to think these ‘fake’ cloaks were mocking them, since most of the current Valinhall Travelers didn’t actually have access to the Nye essence. Maybe they could get away with only wearing them outside the House.

“And on a more personal note, I’d like to address the absence of Overlord Indirial,” Leah said, still ignoring the lines they’d practiced. “Due to his…binding responsibilities…he will be away from the capital for the foreseeable future. He will still be able to oversee the day-to-day management of his realm from within Valinhall, but he has left another vacancy that must be filled.”

She smiled straight at Simon, and he had a moment of panic. “I need a bodyguard.”

Simon had fallen off cliffs and walked away feeling less stunned. “I…you…I have many other responsibilities, uh, Your Highness.”

Leah adopted a regretful look. “That’s too bad, since I expect my safety will be seriously threatened over the next few years. I already have guards for my day-to-day activities, but who else would you recommend to oversee my security on missions involving great risk?”

Simon struggled with that for a moment, glad for once that he didn’t have a doll with him. Finally, he snapped his heels together and swept a bow that would have done Indirial proud.

“I would be honored to accept the position of your personal protector, Your Highness.”

Leah’s smile widened, and she nodded graciously. The room burst into spontaneous applause, and Andra looked like she would choke herself laughing.

“Stand behind me,” Leah whispered, so softly that only he could hear it over the applause. He took up a position behind the throne as if it was his idea, and tried to look intimidating instead of bored.

“I realize not all of you here today are Travelers,” Leah went on. “However, I trust the impact of my next announcement will not escape you.”

Simon perked up. They had practiced this, but he was still looking forward to it.

Leah nodded to a teenage girl sitting on a nearby bench. “The City of Light, Elysia, is now accepting students.”

Shai stood, in her own white-and-gold uniform. She executed a bow that was much better than what Simon could manage, and stepped up. In the full view of the whole room, she opened a Gate to Elysia.

She had angled the Gate so Leah could see inside, for which Simon was grateful, because otherwise he would have been staring at the featureless back of a portal.

Alin stood on the Elysian fields, and Rhalia drifted next to him. His golden armor had been repaired, and he already looked much less like an Incarnation. His skin was still a little pale, and his eyes still looked like rainbows, but at least they didn’t glow.

And he was smiling.

“Lords and ladies of Damasca,” Alin said, “welcome to the City of Light.”

He got a much warmer round of applause than Simon had.

“In the past, I have been your enemy,” Alin confessed. “I have hated you, and set myself against you, and even tried to destroy you. I tell you all that to show you that I am now as sincere as I have ever been in my life. We in Elysia are now taking applicants. We will train students from Damasca, from Enosh, from the villages, from the Western Isles…anyone, of any age, may be tested. For we seek to build a force of Travelers that benefits not only Damasca, but all mankind.”

He sketched a bow—How does everyone get so good at bowing? Do they practice?—and turned to Rhalia.

She smiled before she began to speak. “There were a few bloodlines that produced natural Elysian Travelers, but in the old days, most Travelers of Elysia were trained. With the permission of the Damascan throne, we would like you to send volunteers for testing. In the City of Light, all are welcome.”

Leah applauded, and everyone else followed suit, if with a great deal of whispering among themselves. They’d do it eventually, though. Elysia had a reputation as the most powerful Territory, and the opportunity to get involved with the founding of a new Territory—or the re-founding of an old one—was too tempting.

Looking at Leah’s smile, Simon couldn’t help but think, I doubt she cares much for all mankind, but she definitely sees some benefit for Damasca.

Not that he blamed her, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about more potential Elysian Incarnations running around.

It was another two hours before Simon was allowed to go home.

As he placed Mithra on her rack in the entry hall, Simon noticed a girl he didn’t know standing in the hall, looking up at Vasha. She had pale skin and short blond hair, and she looked eighteen or nineteen, at most. She turned slightly, and Simon realized where he’d seen her before.

“You’re…Indirial’s daughter, aren’t you?”

She got the rest of her coloring from her mother, but she had her father’s eyes.

“Elaina,” she said. Then she pointed up to Vasha. “My father has the strength to swing this with one hand.”

“He does,” Simon said warily.

“That’s a power he earned in Valinhall.”

“Yes…”

She turned a confident smile on him. “So when do I learn that?”

Simon begged off for the moment, pleading exhaustion, but he had to promise tutoring later. She didn’t seem interested in any explanation that the Fang itself would have to approve of her, and that it would probably take months of training before she could lift a blade of Vasha’s size.

At last, he made it back to his bedroom.

The thirteenth bedroom, the room Valin had built for himself, was certainly…big. The bed took up twice the space Kai’s had, and all the furnishings were trimmed in gold. It even had a little door that stepped into a private outhouse, though Simon found himself wondering if the hole simply emptied into an infinite abyss.

But there were no shelves. No dolls. No one to whisper at all hours of the night, keeping him awake.

He couldn’t stand it.

Today, though, he was tired enough that he didn’t let it bother him. Simon tossed himself on to the bed, lying fully clothed on the blankets while staring up at the ceiling. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

He woke to something tickling his face, and he swatted his own nose out of reflex before it occurred to him to open his eyes.

Curly blond hair and a blue bonnet filled his vision, along with a painted wooden frown. Caela stood over him, her hands on her hips, expression disapproving.

It’s your first day of three new jobs, and you decide to sleep?

Caela, he sent. I didn’t think…

She waved a hand through the air, which was the most motion he’d seen from a doll since Kai’s death. Advising the bearer of Azura is more of a career than a necessity. I can speak with whomever I wish, and there are plenty of my sisters around. I think I’ll allow you to carry me a little while longer.

Simon’s spirits lifted, and he couldn’t stop a smile. I’d like that, he said.

She scowled at him again and kicked his shoulder. Then you’d better get to work!

The Eldest materialized out of shadow next to the bed, which was a much less pleasant surprise. His voice scraped out of an unseen throat. “She’s right,” he said. “You foolishly accepted the positions of royal protector and custodian of the Incarnations, when you already must see to your responsibilities as Founder of Valinhall.”

“I will begin my search for the lost Fangs tomorrow,” Simon promised. “It’s the first thing I’ll do.”

The Nye shook his hood. “No,” he said. “I have another job for you. You recently met the last soldier of the Dragon Army, the one who has all but abandoned her Territory. She did not aid us when the Incarnation was freed, nor when the House was attacked by foreign forces. Yet she still holds her Dragon’s Fang. If she does not return to her duties as a Traveler, then she should relinquish her blade to another.”

“Why does it matter?” Simon asked. “Kai barely did anything when he was here. Kathrin’s still a Valinhall Traveler. She can do what she wants.”

The Eldest chuckled. “You understand nothing. A bond to this Territory works both ways. If she wishes to enjoy Valinhall’s powers, then she must pay her debts.”

“Who says?”

The Nye bowed. “You, Master.”

He tried to think of a way out, but the Eldest had a point. If he was going to act like the Founder of Valinhall, he might as well start now.

Simon sighed and rolled out of bed. “I’ll get my cloak.”

THE END

Of the Traveler’s Gate Trilogy

The Traveler’s Gate Chronicles

(Nine short stories in the Traveler’s Gate universe.)

Welcome to Elysia, young Traveler.

You will have heard many stories about what it means to be one of us. Do not be fooled. No outsider understands our purpose. They think we are here to lead other Travelers, to make the decisions they cannot.

This is true, and it is not true.

They think we are here as a last resort, as an ultimate power, to keep the Incarnations in check.

This is true, and it is not true.

They think we are here to balance the other Territories, to keep them from obtaining too much power and upsetting the natural balance.

This is true, and it is not true.

What I am about to tell you is known by few, and understood by even fewer: we are not here to lead, or to threaten, or to eliminate threats. In the course of our duties, we will do all these things, but ultimately we are here for a single purpose.

We are here to guide. We are here to lead by example, inspiring other Travelers to live up to their own potential. We should be as beacons in the darkness.

Welcome to the City of Light.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Page 1

Tower of Winter

First, you should observe the Violet Light, which is aligned with Helgard, the Tower of Winter. Many students who came before you have wondered why the Violet virtues of honesty, openness, and genuine expression are linked with this specific Territory. Helgard’s Travelers are scholars, known for their dedication to knowledge, research, and memory. Why, then, are they not linked to wisdom, or even diligence?

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 1: Violet

Donia Sarkis, Traveler of Helgard, had great things ahead of her. Everyone said so. She might be an Overlord one day, when Vasilios stepped down. She might end up as an explorer, braving the unknown dangers of the Tower’s uppermost floors.

Today, it seemed, she was meant to be a nursemaid.

Nikolos shivered in his heavy, fur-lined cloak. He sniffled miserably, his well-bred good looks spoiled by a bright red nose. His sleek blond hair was ruffled by the wind, and he could barely keep his hood up.

“Wait!” he said. “Did you see that?” He stared off into the blowing snow as though he had spotted some danger.

“I don’t see anything but snow, Nikolos,” Donia said, keeping her tone polite. Nikolos was the Overlord’s son, and a bad report from him would haunt her for years. She could not afford to let the Overlord down.

“Regardless, we should wait and watch,” the boy said, sniffling at every other word. “We wouldn’t want to run into an unknown danger.”

Nikolos stumbled through a drift and plopped down on top of a thick, rounded boulder carved like the head of a statue. It was a grossly exaggerated caricature of a face, locked into the expression of a monster about to devour a meal. Its long tongue hung down almost into the snow, baring four pointed fangs at the corner of the mouth.

It looked as if someone had carved a stone statue of a hungry monster, severed its head, and thrown that head on the ground. Donia happened to know the statue’s “neck” actually grew down into the bedrock of Helgard’s fifteenth floor, and there were hundreds of such heads scattered all around the floor. Some were so small they were often covered entirely by snow, though others were the size of a barn.

No one knew the purpose of the heads, though there were theories. Somehow, Donia doubted they were originally intended as benches for spoiled children.

“I seriously doubt we’re in danger here,” Donia said, because she couldn’t help herself. “This floor is well controlled. There are even a few permanent outposts.”

“You never know,” Nikolos said. “We should keep an eye out.” He was hugging himself and staring at the ground, not even pretending to watch for danger.

Nikolos had come up with some excuse to rest every hour since they had entered the Helgard Gate. At first, he was simply “overcome with the natural beauty of the Tower,” and he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. He would insist that he had heard a voice in the howling wind, or that he only needed a moment more to decipher the ancient runes on Helgard’s outer walls. Once, when he caught sight of an icefang shuffling through the snow, he had sworn there was a dead body beneath the powder, struggling to surface. They had to freeze in place, he said, because sudden movements could set it off.

Donia remembered herself at fifteen, so she kept herself polite, though she couldn’t ever recall being so obnoxious. If she was tired, she would have said so. None of this dancing around the subject or making up excuses.

His attitude shouldn’t matter, she reminded herself. He could be a screaming terror, and I’d still have accepted. Jobs like this are a ladder straight to the top.

Overlord Vasilios had insisted Donia should escort his son from his relatives’ estate in Alrin all the way back home to Bel Tara. It was an easy assignment, but one that showed a great deal of trust in Donia. She had only been a Helgard Traveler for a few years, but she was already getting personal assignments from the Overlord.

Annoying as this job might be, she had to prove she could do it.

A patch of glittering snow caught Donia’s attention, lying at the base of a twisted tree. In the right light, it looked as though someone had sprinkled the snow with a handful of crushed diamonds or powdered glass.

She recognized the signs immediately, as any Helgard Traveler would: an icefang lay in wait beneath that shimmering snow.

Icefangs were among the least of the dangers Helgard had to offer, but she had known careless Travelers to lose chunks of flesh to an icefang bite. The creatures were scavengers, usually preying on the sick or the dead. She wondered if Nikolos counted as sickly. They were also highly territorial, and it was entirely possible that she had stepped near this one’s burrow without realizing it.

Donia took a few steps closer to the icefang, away from Nikolos. The beast began to tremble, almost imperceptibly.

She held her middle two fingers together, leaving her other fingers spread out, stretching her hand out to the icefang in a sign of peace.

For a few seconds, the scavenger’s eager trembling stopped as it felt Donia’s imposed peace wash over it. That wouldn’t be enough to stop it, not on its own, but it gave Donia enough time to enact the next step.

Under her breath, Donia whispered the icefang’s name.

Not its personal name, of course. Learning that would have taken entirely too long, and she didn’t have time. Instead, she recited the generic name for the icefang species. It was twelve syllables long, all but impossible to pronounce, and all icefangs would respond to it to some degree.

She had heard it said that being a Helgard Traveler was half research and half rote memorization. In fact, she had spent three-quarters of her time as a student simply memorizing the hundreds upon hundreds of names all Travelers of Helgard were expected to know as a matter of course.

At this point, keeping an icefang quiet required no more effort than walking through the snow.

As usual, when she correctly named a creature, she felt a rush of emotions in return. With more intelligent creatures, she would receive a rush of specific thoughts and memories, but the icefang was little more than a vulture. It felt frustration, deep hunger, and a barely-restrained eagerness to attack the intruders that had dared to set foot in its home.

The peace she had imposed with her sign still lingered in the creature’s mind, and the unnatural calm also gave the icefang a degree of confusion. It wasn’t used to being calm.

As always, the icefang’s emotions weren’t the only things that transferred along the bond. Donia felt her own frustration with Nikolos, her hope to please the Overlord, her fear that she wouldn’t live up to her reputation, and her satisfaction at finally being home in Helgard all flow out of her.

The icefang wouldn’t fully comprehend any of that, of course, but it grew to understand her nature just as she understood it. More than anything, it felt her power and authority as a Traveler of Helgard. It knew she could call up a dozen forces more deadly than itself, and it wanted no part of that.

The glittering snow shrunk two sizes as the icefang cowered in the snowbank.

Nearby, Nikolos heaved a sigh and rose to his feet.

“I suppose I was mistaken,” he said at last. “We must remain vigilant.”

He trudged over to Donia with his hands tucked into his pockets and his blond hair disheveled. The corner of his boot almost scraped the icefang hidden in the snow. Without her interference, it would have taken his foot off.

Nikolos never even noticed.

***

After Donia and Nikolos climbed up the seemingly never-ending ladder leading from the fifteenth floor to the sixteenth, Donia remembered something she had been trying to ignore.

She hated this floor.

The entire thing was one open room, with no trees or hideous statues to break up the monotony. The blue-gray outer wall of Helgard encircled the floor, and without any obstructions, Donia thought she could make out the curvature of the tower, though it was hard to say for sure since she couldn’t see the far wall.

The floor appeared somewhat even, which she knew was an illusion. There was no snow here, and the ground was made entirely of uninterrupted ice. It looked as though the ocean’s surface had frozen during a choppy ocean storm: waves and spikes and curls of ice rose from the surface in a twisting frozen maze.

That was one of the things she hated about this floor. Damasca had a small outpost here, but she couldn’t see it from the floor entrance because of all the waves breaking up her line of sight. She could barely judge distance at all.

The icy floor glowed from inside with a pale greenish light. Perhaps she should have enjoyed that—there were much darker floors in Helgard, after all—but occasionally the light would flicker out, as though something in the depths of the ice had passed briefly in front of the light’s source.

That was a continual reminder of a fact she didn’t want to think about: something lay beneath the ice here, and no one knew what. The older Helgard Travelers had stories, of course, but they had no more idea than she did. Everyone who might know was either dead or insane.

Which brought her to the worst thing about the sixteenth floor: the silence.

From the frozen waves below to the enormous, distant icicles on the roof above—each of which was the size of a lighthouse—there was plenty of space to create air currents. Many of the Helgard floors generated their own weather. But not the sixteenth.

Nothing disturbed the air on the sixteenth floor. Not a breeze, not the call of a bird, nothing. It was the closest to absolute silence Donia had ever endured.

And she couldn’t stand it.

Nikolos cleared his throat, and it sounded like the rumble of thunder. “Quiet here, isn’t—“

Donia clapped a gloved hand over his mouth.

Nikolos’ words echoed softly off the nearby ice. Donia remained tense and alert until the sound died away, then she relaxed. Slightly.

She put her mouth close to his ear and whispered as softly as she could. “What did I say before we climbed up here?” She loosened her hand, giving him a bit of room to speak.

“Quiet,” Nikolos breathed, barely moving his lips.

“That’s right. Better men and women than you, all Helgard Travelers, have made too much noise on this floor and regretted it. Do you understand?”

Nikolos nodded eagerly.

“Now, I’m going to take my hand away, and I want you to remain as quiet as possible.”

When the boy nodded again, Donia took her hand away and turned back toward the field of ice.

A worn, dirty Traveler with a scraggly beard stood not a pace behind her.

Nikolos shrieked, though to his credit he stifled it quickly. Donia’s heart was pounding, but she reacted with more composure, as befit a Traveler of Helgard: she held her right hand out in a sign of aggression, words of summoning on her lips.

The Traveler, whose blue-and-white Damascan uniform was torn to ribbons, held up both of his hands, palms out. The gesture showed he was unarmed and, for a Traveler, showed he wasn’t making any hostile signs.

“No, wait!” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “Help! I need your help!”

Donia looked around, wary of a trap or ambush, though she couldn’t understand why this bait would be necessary if he meant to attack them. The floor was lonely and silent; he and his friends could have jumped on Donia and Nikolos, if such was their intention.

“Where is the rest of your unit, Traveler?” Donia asked.

The stranger shook his head frantically, like a dog trying to shake off water. "Gone," he whispered. "Attacked. Viciously attacked. Please, help me. I can't leave this floor."

Nikolos must have felt the need to interfere, because he said, "Of course you can. We're standing not ten feet from the way down."

Donia ignored him, keeping her focus on the shaken stranger. "What's your name, Traveler?"

"Lukis, ma'am," he responded. "Inspector Lukis, Outpost Sixteen. Listen, I need you to take word back to the first floor. They're here. They're here for the Frozen Ones!"

By the end, his voice had risen until it was more of a scream than a whisper.

"Inspector Lukis," Donia repeated calmly. "Why can't you leave with us?" She had read that you were supposed to remain calm in these circumstances, even though all she wanted to do was bolt back down the ladder that had taken them here. This was more trouble than she was authorized to handle.

With a trembling finger, Lukis pointed down at the glowing ice on which he stood.

At first, Donia saw nothing, and she almost told him so. Then something flickered deep below the frozen surface, like the glimmer of a fish's scales.

Lukis took a step to one side, and the distant gleam followed him.

"What is that?" Nikolos asked, staring down into the ice himself.

"They called it up from the ice," Lukis whispered. "They sent it after me, but it can't get me up here. It can’t break the surface. If I tried to climb down the ladder, I'd have to pass through the ice. It would have me."

"How do you know?" Donia asked.

Lukis shuddered. "I could feel it," he said. "It...called my name."

Donia felt a chill pass through her. Naming a creature of Helgard created a bond between the Traveler and her named companion. With intelligent creatures, it was more a sharing of names, in which both parties learned equally about one another. However, the Traveler always initiated the bond, and it was up to her how far to pursue it. If there was something here that could name them back...

"We'll carry your warning, Inspector," Donia said, trying to project the same absolute certainty she had seen in Overlord Vasilios so many times. "Who's doing this?"

Lukis let out the quietest laugh Donia had ever heard. "They’re some kind of cult, maybe a dozen Travelers. I don't know who they are, exactly, but they killed the rest of Outpost Sixteen before we could even react. They’re ruthless. And they…”

He leaned in close, his eyes flicking from side to side. "They want to raise the Frozen Ones."

Donia cleared her throat. He had mentioned the Frozen Ones before, but she had decided to overlook that. The Frozen Ones were part of an ancient legend of Helgard, and one that seemed to have its basis more in colorful rumor than actual history.

"Believe me," Lukis went on, sounding desperate. "Maybe they’re crazy, I don’t know, but they believe there are beings sealed here, on the sixteenth floor. They've been calling down into the ice for hours, trying to wake up whatever they can. They killed my unit because they need the bodies. They think the blood might help..."

His whispers trailed off, but Donia had no idea what she could say.

"Are they from Enosh?" Nikolos asked, sounding strangely excited. "I've heard the Grandmasters do things like that. You know, blood sacrifice to raise monsters, that sort of thing."

From what Donia had heard of Ragnarus Travelers, the Damascan royal family was more likely to be involved in human sacrifice than anyone from Enosh, but she kept that to herself. The annual sacrifice was cloaked in mystery, and no one outside the Royal Palace in Cana really knew what went on there. It was all way above her, and none of her business besides.

"Not Enosh," Lukis said. "I know all of the Helgard Travelers that Enosh ever sends to this floor. One of them was visiting the outpost when these...cultists tore it down."

Nikolos' face twisted into an expression of revulsion. "How can you stand to be so close to an Enosh heretic? I'd kill them on sight, myself."

Nikolos wasn't a Traveler, and Donia was of the opinion that he would get himself eviscerated before he managed to kill anybody, but she held her opinion close. "Inspector. Are we safe here?"

Lukis chuckled bitterly, though he didn't raise his voice above a whisper. "As safe as we ever are on this floor. They're busy with their ritual, or whatever dark business they have going on, and they're all the way over by the outpost. Where the outpost used to be, anyway. They won't be coming back after me."

"You should stay here, then," Donia said, though she realized immediately her suggestion was useless. Of course he would stay here, where it was safe. What did she expect him to do, run back in and fight the cultists singlehandedly?

"In the meantime," she continued, "Nikolos and I will head back down and warn the Inspectors on the first floor. From there—"

"Hold on," Nikolos interrupted. "How long will that take?"

Donia sighed. "Nikolos, surely you can see that—"

"And what will they do about it?"

"They will send Travelers," Donia said impatiently. "A small army of Travelers, with powers at their command you couldn't even pronounce."

Nikolos met her gaze, his eyes more serious than she had ever seen them. "So we climb back down sixteen floors, which will take us hours, if not longer. We convince the Inspectors to send people up to the sixteenth. Even if they believe us without sending someone to look for themselves, how long will it take for them to gather enough Travelers? Not to mention getting them back up here."

"What would you have us do, Nikolos?" Donia asked. She meant it to be mocking, but if he had a real suggestion, she was more than willing to listen.

"There's a route to my father through here, right?" Nikolos said. "That's why we're on this floor in the first place. We should go to him. It's faster, he'll believe me immediately, and we won't need an army. My father alone will be more than enough."

Donia had to admit the boy had a point. She had seen Overlord Vasilios in action, and the man was like a Helgard Incarnation in the flesh. And according to rumor, the Overlords each had artifacts of Ragnarus ensuring they would always be more powerful than their competition. With that kind of weaponry on their side, they would have nothing to worry about. Besides, the Overlord would surely want them to come to him with this.

She turned to Lukis, outlining exactly which crossing they needed to take. "Where is the enemy?" she asked. "Can we cross without running into them?"

Lukis rubbed his gloved hands together nervously. "I couldn't say...I think, if you skirted the center of the floor and headed straight to the crossing, you could open a Gate without them being any the wiser. But there would be no guarantee you wouldn't run into a straggler, or a scout, or somebody in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Donia stared off into the featureless waves of ice, mulling over the situation. It would be safer to go down to the first floor, that was for sure. It was her responsibility to keep Nikolos safe. The safer option wasn't necessarily the right one, though. She wasn't certain whether the Overlord would love her for bringing him the news first, or hate her for taking his son into danger.

As she sometimes did, she pictured herself as she imagined others thought of her: strong, skilled, confident. Always ready with the right answer. That woman would know exactly what to do. She would likely press forward, relying on her own ability to keep them all safe.

Unfortunately, Donia wasn't sure that woman actually existed.

"We will move forward," Donia said at last. Lukis groaned, but Donia continued speaking. "As carefully as we can. If we see anyone, anyone at all, we immediately turn around, no questions asked. Now, Inspector Lukis, are you with us?"

Lukis gaped at her. "Me?"

"We've never encountered this enemy before, we're not familiar with the floor, and the boy here is the Overlord's son. He's not a Traveler."

Inspector Lukis looked Nikolos over more carefully.

"The boy?" Nikolos whined.

"As you can see," Donia went on, "we could use your help."

Lukis glanced from one side to the other as though trying to find his way out of a trap. At last, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Let me show you the way," he said at last.

***

For the first few minutes, the silence of the sixteenth floor was laced with tension. Donia barely took a step without craning her neck to see over a frozen wave, and three or four times she almost called on Helgard's power to destroy a shape that turned out to be nothing more than a flickering shadow.

But Lukis set a pace barely greater than a crawl. He called a stop at any sound, seemingly even the echoes of their own footsteps. An hour into the journey, without seeing any sign of danger, Donia's alarm began to fade, and she started to worry.

Nikolos drifted up to her, seemingly casual, speaking under his breath.

"What do you know about him?" the boy asked, nodding toward Lukis. The Inspector stared intently between two man-sized curls of ice as though expecting someone to materialize inside them.

"Nothing more than you do," Donia said. She had never heard of Lukis before. But then, Outpost Sixteen was one of the most isolated positions in the Tower. The more social or ambitious Travelers avoided it, leaving those who had a reason to stay alone.

"I've been thinking. Isn't this a little suspicious? We haven't seen anything wrong this whole time. We're taking his word about this threat. We're taking his word on where it is. How do we know there are even any enemies out here at all? Even if there are, how do we know he's not with them?"

They were far enough behind Lukis, and Nikolos was speaking quietly enough, that Donia doubted they would be overheard. In truth, Donia thought much the same. Lukis had shown them nothing to back up his claims.

But there was something of an understanding between Helgard Travelers, even between Travelers of Enosh and Damasca. They may be enemies on the outside, and they would work against each other when ordered, but the real danger was the Tower itself. Tradition said she could trust Inspector Lukis.

"I say we trust him," Donia said. "For now. But I'm on my guard."

Nikolos clearly wasn't satisfied, and he seemed on the verge of voicing another complaint.

The ice in front of them exploded.

The frozen wave burst with a sound like a thousand falling trees, bursting into a cloud of ice shards that tore into Donia, tearing through her clothes, slicing her skin.

With well-trained speed, Donia threw her hands up, holding her fingers in the correct signs, and whispered a quick word.

Helgard Travelers collected names and gestures that allowed them to summon, control, and influence the creatures of the Territory. But she was not limited to calling on living creatures.

She held out the signs, whispered the key, and the Tower of Winter answered.

Freezing wind whipped up around them, tearing at the fringes of her coat, throwing her dark hair in her face. In front of Lukis, it was much stronger. So strong that the wind blasted many of the flying ice chunks from the air, blowing them to one side of Donia's group.

Some of the ice got through, drawing lines of burning red on her skin. Far fewer than before, though.

Lukis hadn't reacted as quickly as she had, but he had been closer to the initial explosion. As the ice shards continued to fly, he huddled behind Donia's barrier of wind, curled up on the ground. His torn coat was in tatters now, and he was visibly splattered in blood.

Donia didn't have time to worry long over Inspector Lukis. Three figures appeared in the blowing snow and ice. One of them raised a hand, and the daggers of ice stopped flying.

I guess I owe Lukis an apology, Donia thought. Here were his mysterious cultists.

And they were dressed...exactly as she had imagined.

They wore the typical uniform all Helgard Travelers shared, out of necessity: a fur-lined coat with a hood and thick, warm gloves. Unlike Donia's outfit and Lukis', both of which were blue with white fur, these three wore black coats lined in dark gray fur. The lower halves of their faces were covered by a black mask that, Donia had to admit, looked rather warm.

In another circumstance, the effect might have been silly. They were dressed up like the villains of some bad play, and there wasn't even any reason for it; black was no good for stealth up here. The landscape was white, the light blue-green, and night never fell on the sixteenth floor. Part of her thought they couldn't be serious.

Then she saw the dark stains, glistening against the black of their coats, and she had a disturbing thought.

Those coats wouldn't show bloodstains for long.

One of the figures stepped forward and spoke. His voice was cultured and educated, possibly a wealthy son raised at the heart of Cana. "I'm sorry for that. We can't be too wary out here, you know. We've heard rumors that there might be some Enosh Travelers around here, and we were not as careful as we should have been."

Blood dripped into Donia's eye, and she wiped it away so it wouldn't freeze her eye shut. Anger and fear warred for control.

"You're sorry?" she said. "You could have killed us! You nearly did! Give me one reason why I shouldn't report you to my Overlord. One!"

The lead figure bowed at the waist, inclining his head a fraction. "As I said, it was a misunderstanding. We have heard rumors—"

"We've heard some rumors ourselves, today," Donia said. Fear and anger were still having their match, but anger was leading by a head. "Who are you, and what is your business here?"

He paused, glancing down at Lukis.

"Ah," he said at last. "Rumors. Yes, I imagine you might have heard a few. Well, I have nothing to hide. There is a being sealed in this floor known as a Frozen One. Perhaps more than a single individual. We are here to share our names, perhaps form a bond with this being, as has been the tradition in Helgard since time immemorial."

Casually, Donia slipped her left hand into her pocket, swiftly forming sign after sign. She would have to move quickly, when the time came, so it would be best to do as much of the preliminary work ahead of time as she could.

"And what about Outpost Sixteen?" Donia asked.

Nikolos edged around until he stood behind her. Wisely so, she thought.

The black-coated man shrugged. "Mistakes were made."

That was all.

"Well, I think," Donia began, and before anyone could react, she shouted for her strongest ally.

She called him Rishla, for short, because his full name was fifteen syllables and required years of linguistic training to pronounce. He looked something like a furred serpent, or a long weasel, with pale tan fur and a dozen legs. He was fiercely loyal to her, devilishly intelligent, and one of the most powerful creatures she had ever encountered at the tower. More importantly to her right now, he would come at the sound of his nickname, said alongside the proper signs. She didn't have time to shout all fifteen syllables.

Well, he would normally come at the sound of his nickname.

Creatures of Helgard could hear their name spoken anywhere, especially by their bonded partner. Why wasn't he coming already?

More importantly...

Usually, a battle between Helgard Travelers was a match of who could make their signs and shout the words the most quickly. The three cultists should have been yelling like town criers and frantically twisting their fingers, but they did nothing.

Lukis barely managed to raise himself on one bloody arm, twisting to look at Donia.

"No!" he croaked. "Don't summon...not here."

He collapsed again, his strength exhausted.

The black-coated speaker swept a hand in Lukis' direction. "You heard the man," he said. "But it seems like it's too late."

The light beneath the ice vanished entirely, for one disturbing second leaving the entire floor in complete darkness.

She heard a sound like a cross between a lion's roar and the tolling of an enormous bell.

One of the cultists who had previously remained silent started laughing.

"This floor is sealed by the power of the Frozen One," the speaker said. "We've managed to encourage that much cooperation, at least. Anything that tries to enter is met by his wrath."

Donia didn't respond. Not in words. She crossed the first two fingers of each hand and stuck them out, one to each side.

She spoke a key.

This time, the enemy Travelers sputtered their own keys and began raising their hands in signs. The speaker raised his hands and made a warding gesture, trying to get his key phrase in place.

He was too slow.

A gleaming crystal snowflake the size of a wagon wheel came hurtling out of the distance, spinning through the air, its edge sharp enough to cleave bone. It had formed itself from loose ice and snow, and she could now control its flight with the motion of her right hand.

She whipped her right hand forward to point at the cultist speaker, then brought her left hand in as well.

A second giant snowflake followed.

She didn't know any of the powers associated specifically with the sixteenth floor, but she could use this one anywhere. Very few people in the entire Tower could form two White Razors at once, much less so quickly.

Donia was counting on the surprise.

One cultist called up a burst of wind, blasting a single Razor from the air, but not before it could nick her in the leg. A second cultist dropped to his knees, letting the Razor fly over his head, straight at the speaker.

The speaker spoke the last syllable of his key and stumbled backwards. In front of him, the loose ice-shards rose into the air, forming into a blue-white wall.

The White Razor slammed into his ice-wall in a thunderous collision, sending chips of ice and a freezing wind flying in all directions.

Donia was already forming new signs, speaking the key to her next summons.

The cultists muttered along, doing the same.

Then Inspector Lukis picked his head up once more, thrusting a bloody fist at the ceiling.

He breathed out three final syllables, smiled, and collapsed with his face on the ice.

A crack echoed throughout the sixteenth floor, as though the world itself were breaking. Donia couldn't help but look up...and up...and up...

At the icicles on the ceiling. The icicles that could crush an entire village.

One of them, with its point directly above Lukis, started to fall.

It looked deceptively slow, she noticed, as though it would take ten minutes to reach the ground. And beautiful. It refracted the ambient light of the sixteenth floor with the thousand indescribable colors of the rainbow.

It didn't look anything like incalculable tons of ice rushing toward her at lethal speeds.

All of this flashed through her mind in a single instant before she grabbed Nikolos' arm and hauled him along behind her, running recklessly over the icy surface. She didn't know which way she was going, and she didn't care a bit, so long as it was away from that mountainous hammer of ice.

Ordinarily, she would never have run over this ice. One slip on ice this irregular could mean death at the best of times, and now it certainly would. Mentally, she thanked her father for the gift of the new boots he had sent her last Winter's End. She did not slip, and she did not look back. She kept running.

For a few seconds.

She crested the rise of a frozen wave, dragging Nikolos behind her like a cart behind a horse. She jumped off and almost landed on another Traveler in a black coat.

He had fallen onto his backside, scrambling backwards, face locked on the descending icicle. Donia couldn't blame him. She vaguely noticed a half-dozen other figures, dressed the same as the first, all around her, and a huge red circle painted on the ice.

She would worry about all that after she survived. She ran.

She made it a few more steps before the icicle hit, tossing her from her feet.

Donia slammed face-first into the ice, and the world went dark.

***

She woke to agonizing pain.

Donia's cheek, pressed against the ice, had begun to burn with the cold. She felt like she had been stabbed with a dozen knives, all up the right side of her body. Her hip sent up lances of pain when she tried to move, and it made a disturbing clicking sound.

Worse, she could barely move. She was trapped. Her breath came faster and faster as she rolled her eyes around, trying to see a way out. All she could see, by the light of the dim glow beneath her, was ice: chunks of ice pressed against her face, above her, beneath her, all around. She was buried alive.

The thought brought on a new wave of panic, and she instinctively tried to push herself up with her right hand. As soon as she leaned on her arm, pain shot through her as though someone had crushed every bone in the arm with a hammer.

She couldn't help herself. She screamed.

When her shout faded from her own ears, she realized she could hear voices. Not from far away, either; maybe she wasn't buried as deeply as she thought.

As loud as she could, Donia shouted for help.

Outside, someone cleared his throat. "Someone survived in there," he noted. Donia recognized the voice.

It was the cultist who had spoken earlier. And he wasn't alone; several others muttered along with him.

Just when she had thought things couldn't get any worse.

The thought of other people outside, not far away, actually calmed her down. For the first time, she managed to take a calm look at her surroundings.

Piles of ice, many the size of boulders, had fallen all around her. None of them rested on her directly, for which she was thankful. Several could have crushed her to death.

Upon further inspection, there were gaps here and there around her. She might even be able to lever herself into a sitting position.

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring her pain, Donia wriggled inch by inch up, so she wouldn't have to lie trapped under the ice.

The speaker outside wouldn't shut up, though.

"Was it the lady who made it?" he called. "Do you have the boy with you?"

Donia was having trouble breathing through the pain, but the thought of Nikolos took the rest of the breath from her lungs.

Nikolos was most likely dead. She would have to face his father. Suddenly she wished the collapsing pillar of ice had managed to crush her, too.

"Let me out and we'll talk about it," Donia managed to yell.

"Hmmm...no, I don't think I will," the speaker said cheerily. "Though you couldn't have been more of a help to us, really. All that blood and noise and power flying around. The Frozen One is stirring. He just needs one more push. I'm going to do you a favor; I'll allow you to be one of the first witnesses to the birth of a new Tower."

Donia had a little pride left, so she only screamed at them. She didn't threaten. She didn't beg.

But she was going to die buried alive under a thousand tons of ice; she felt she was due a little screaming.

She had heard nothing but her own shouts for so long that she almost didn't believe it when she heard another sound.

"Um," someone said. "Hello?"

It sounded scared. Vulnerable. Young.

"Nikolos?" she asked, barely willing to hope.

"Traveler Donia? Is that you?"

Donia felt more relief at the sound of Nikolos' voice than she would have ever expected. "Nikolos. You're safe. Are you hurt?"

"I don't know. I...I can't feel my legs." Panic entered the boy's words. "I can't feel my legs!"

It took Donia many long minutes to calm Nikolos down. She was nearly at the end of her road, but giving in to terror wouldn't help anyone. She told Nikolos so.

"They're outside," she told him. "I heard them. They're doing their ritual, and that gives us some time. I'll think of a plan, and as soon as we get an opportunity, I'll get us out of here."

"Okay," Nikolos said, gasping out the word. "Okay."

To her, waiting for an opportunity felt a little too much like doing nothing.

She could call up enough power to shift the ice, but doing so might destabilize the entire pile and crush her. Besides, she had no idea where Nikolos was. Anything she did might kill him. She had some bonded creatures who could dig her out, but her summons had failed earlier.

If she had to, she would try summoning every being of Helgard whose name she knew. She would keep it up until her voice failed her or something got through.

But she wasn't sure what had happened to Rishla when she had tried to summon him earlier. She wouldn't call anything else into an unknown danger until she had no other choice.

The cultists hadn't left. They still spoke with one another outside her frozen prison. Occasionally Donia heard a crunching footstep on the ice, or a single word made oddly clear. Some of them began to chant.

When she yelled, they ignored her. She shouted until her throat hurt and she started coughing, but she never got another response.

That left her sitting there with her injuries, propped up against the bitter cold of the ice. Even through her Helgard training and her thick coat, the chill of the ice seeped into her bones. She needed something to distract her from the cold and the pain.

Nikolos chose that moment to ask a question.

"Traveler Donia?"

"Hm?"

"What are they doing out there?" he asked. "What are the Frozen Ones?"

Donia thought back to her long years in the Helgard libraries, reading through the long history of myths and legends in the Tower of Winter. She had never taken the stories seriously, and comparative mythology was hardly her field, but some of it stuck.

"Stories," she said. "Very old stories."

"True ones?"

"Nobody knows. These Travelers outside obviously think so. There's a legend that says Helgard was once part of a greater world. A world torn apart by unimaginable beings of terror and rage. The men of that world built the Tower of Winter to freeze these things, to keep them asleep for all of time. Now, we call those beings the Frozen Ones."

"So the whole tower is nothing but a big icebox," Nikolos said.

"Right now, I can believe it," Donia replied, pulling her coat closer.

Outside, the chanting of the cultists grew louder. The light beneath her flickered.

Time passed, she wasn't sure quite how much, but Nikolos said nothing. Donia had seen people fall asleep and freeze, here in the Tower. They moved and spoke a little less, and then still less, and finally not at all. It was hard to notice the transition.

If that happened to Nikolos, she would never forgive herself. Forget what the Overlord would do to her; Nikolos was a fifteen-year-old boy, raised by over-indulgent parents, thrust in a situation for which he wasn't prepared. She was responsible for him, and she had put him here.

The pain shooting down the right side of her body didn't matter. She had to keep him awake, aware, and alive until she could find a way to get him out of here.

"Both your parents are Travelers," Donia called.

Nikolos said nothing for so long that Donia's heart dropped, but he finally grunted in agreement.

"Did you never take the tests?"

"...every week since I was ten," Nikolos said. "They put me through every test known to mankind. I've spent the night in Asphodel gardens; I've had a Corvinus raven read my mind; I even hiked up a mountain in Ornheim."

"Not Helgard?" That would be surprising, considering his father was one of the most skilled and powerful Helgard Travelers in the world.

Nikolos laughed for a moment, ending in a gasp of pain. Still, he forced his words out. "Oh yes. Helgard more than anything. They forced me to keep an icefang as a pet for months, to see if I would bond with it. They didn't get rid of it until the third time it chased me up a bookshelf and wouldn't let me come down. Another time, they brought me to the edge of the Badari Desert, and gave me this little frozen goblet. They told me that, if Helgard accepted me, the goblet would fill up with water and I'd be fine. I passed out six hours in, and my father had to get an Avernus Traveler to fly me out."

"Sounds terrible," Donia said honestly. She had to keep him talking. The cold was starting to slice through even her, so she could only imagine how Nikolos must feel.

"It wasn't so bad," the boy said. "If I was a Helgard Traveler, I could become Overlord after my father. Even if I Traveled a different Territory, at least I could do something worthwhile."

"It's not like Travelers are the only ones worth anything," Donia said. "Most people aren't Travelers, and they live perfectly productive lives."

"Yeah," Nikolos said, "let me go and sell carpets for the rest of my life. That's just as good as calling fire from the sky."

He sighed. "Anyway," he went on, "what about you? Did your parents have you tested?"

“Not exactly,” Donia responded. A real conversation, at last. Some part of her was convinced that, if they could just keep talking, everything would turn out all right.

“My mother works for the Seamstress Guild when she can, and my father serves in your household,” she said. “They couldn’t afford to give me a real test. And it would never have occurred to them anyway.”

“Hold on a moment,” Nikolos said. “Is Master Sarkis your father?”

Donia smiled, even though she knew no one could see her. The trust Overlord Vasilios had for Donia’s father was one of the main reasons why she had been trusted with this mission in the first place. And the boy hadn’t even known who she really was.

“He is,” she said.

“Seven stones! I never knew.”

“Well, when I was twelve, your father sent a team of Helgard Travelers to our house, to live with my family while new quarters were constructed. This was a few years before you were born, by the way. One of the Travelers had an icefang with him, crawling along at his feet, and I decided to reach down and pet it.”

She could still see the creature: a clump of snow running along at its master’s heels like a dog, sparkling in the sunlight as if it were covered in diamonds. Something in her had to touch it, as though the icefang itself were calling to her.

“And you survived?” Nikolos sounded horrified.

“Instead of tearing my finger off, it hopped up on my shoulder and wouldn’t leave. Its Traveler couldn’t get it to come off all day.”

Nikolos stayed silent for a moment, then he burst out laughing. Out of instinct, she almost told him to be quiet, but what was the point? He couldn’t wake anything worse than what the Travelers outside were already calling up.

So she might as well keep talking.

“They took me to Helgard immediately for training, though I was still allowed to live with my parents. I spent most of the next fifteen years studying and learning. I wasn’t allowed full access to the Tower until a few years ago.”

In truth, most Helgard Travelers were never allowed to travel freely from floor to floor. They were restricted according to their ability, and most never progressed beyond a certain point.

“I wish I could be like you,” Nikolos said. "Even among Travelers, you stand out. You've got the talent. You've got the skill. I bet you could free yourself if I wasn't here, couldn't you?"

Maybe she could. It wasn't a sure thing, but if Nikolos hadn't been in danger, she would have rolled the dice already. As it was, she couldn't risk his life as easily as she could risk her own.

"It's not like that," Donia said.

"It's okay," Nikolos replied, and he sounded dreamy. Sleepy. "I've given up. You get out of here, you can do it. You'll be okay. My father needs you more...more than he needs..."

Nikolos' voice drifted off into indistinct murmurs.

"Nikolos?" Donia called. "Nikolos?"

No response.

She had to keep talking. Talking might keep him awake, might give him something to concentrate on. It might keep her awake, for that matter.

"It's not as easy as you think," she said. "They give me tasks they would never assign to anyone else, and they expect me to do it. They know I won't fail. So far, I haven't. Not until today. I'm the one who succeeds every time. What will they think when they hear I've died?"

Donia let her voice ramble as she wondered out loud. "What will they think, when word gets out that I died in some random engagement on the sixteenth floor? Will anyone ever tell my parents? The rest of Helgard might have more to worry about soon. Maybe no one will ever know. Maybe I'll be one casualty among many..."

She sat there as her voice died, letting the silent cold sink into her skin.

Outside, the cultists murmured their indistinct chants.

Something tickled at the back of Donia's mind, like a half-remembered dream mixed with a sound out of hearing.

She strained to hear the whisper, to remember the thought.

In her mind, she reached out.

And a tumble of thoughts, ideas, and images blasted into her head, sitting her bolt upright despite the pain. It was more than a simple voice, in the same way a wild forest fire was more than a single color, but somehow she understood.

Go on, it said.

It wanted her to keep talking.

"Who are you?" she asked. On instinct, she glanced around, though of course she saw nothing but ice.

The voice responded.

It sounded almost like words; a string of a hundred syllables somehow shoved into her mind in the space of a heartbeat. But these words carried the image of ice, endless ice, a timeless winter, a green light, an impossibly ancient intelligence forced to sleep and kept from waking for countless thousand years...

...now, finally, roused from its dreams.

The rush of thoughts slammed into Donia's brain, leaving her panting, disoriented, trying to sort words from memories from ideas. It felt like she had managed to read an entire book in half a second, with every word shoved through her at the same time so none of it made much sense. She only caught broad themes, and a few key facts, but something jumped out at her.

He's a Frozen One. I'm speaking with a Frozen One.

The ice rumbled beneath her feet, and the light far below flickered once more.

The thought triggered a wave of fear on pure reaction. She could barely fathom the nature of this thing, any more than she could understand the size of the Tower itself. What little she could piece together scared her more than anything she had ever seen in her Territory.

After a moment, her fear subsided, and rational thought caught up with her once more. The cultists outside had been trying to find and raise the Frozen One, but he had not come to them. He had come to her first.

She could use this.

"I need help," she said. "I'm trapped. Can you help us?"

She was more prepared, this time, as a rush of sensations flooded through her mind. Two strangers, meeting across a frozen plain. Two points as impossibly distant as the stars. An insect and an oak tree, discovering one another for the first time.

I do not know you, he meant. And he was right.

For two beings in Helgard to call upon one another, they had to share not only names, but also the essence of who they truly were. Their histories, their personalities, their secrets. For something like an icefang, a creature of pure instinct, Donia only had to open herself a fraction. But something this intelligent, this powerful, this old...he would know her entirely. Every shameful secret, every painful admission, every stark truth of her personality. He would learn things about her she had never known herself.

Even worse, she would learn about him in return.

Could she handle it?

Once more, Donia pictured herself as others saw her: strong, competent, unfailing. She would not have hesitated to give her name to this frozen elder being, not if it meant rescuing an Overlord's son and destroying a danger to the Tower at the same time.

The real Donia had already hesitated, but that didn't mean it was too late to try.

She took a deep breath.

"My name is Donia Sarkis," she said, and she filled the name with more than just sound. She released her dreams, her ambitions, her hobbies, her fears, using them to add texture to the name until it meant all that was her.

The Frozen One heard her name.

And he heard far more than she had ever meant to say.

She wasn't the best choice to send on the mission with Nikolos, and she knew it. She hadn't told the Overlord because this was her chance to look better in his eyes with very little effort. She remembered, and the Frozen One learned.

Three years before, on Helgard's eighth floor, she had seen a pack of snow bats tear into an Enosh Traveler. She was only twenty yards away, and had tamed a snow bat of her own, and she could have saved him. She was supposed to; all Travelers of Helgard should look out for each other. But she had been afraid of failure, afraid of calling the bats down on herself. And he was from Enosh, after all. No one would blame her. She had stood there, watching his blood stain the snow, frozen. She made no decision, and he died.

The Frozen One learned.

As a student in Helgard, Donia had only one rival. Another girl who, despite an almost pathetic lack of ability to bond with any of Helgard's creatures or powers, still managed to out-score Donia in every test. One night, Donia snuck in and tore random pages out of her rival's textbook.

The Frozen One learned the worst of her. He learned things she had forgotten, that she had pushed out of her memory because they were too embarrassing or painful. He learned the best of her, too: the time when she spoke with Overlord Vasilios and secretly negotiated her father's promotion. The time she had saved a crippled mirka and nursed it back to health, releasing it into the wilds of the fourth floor before it was returned to pulling carts on the second.

Finally, after an endless instant, the Frozen One had learned everything about her. She sagged back against the ice, as exhausted as if she had slogged a mile through hip-deep snow. She wanted nothing more than to let the cold lull her to sleep.

She wasn't prepared when the Frozen One shared his name in return.

It was a thousand syllables pronounced in a second, impossible to memorize, and yet somehow burned into her brain.

The name carried a poem of meaning in each breath: this being was a cog in the wheel of creation and destruction, an agent of change, a lonely force with the job of keeping nature in flux. The Tower of Winter was built around him, locking him in place, robbing him of meaning and power and purpose.

Him and a hundred like him.

He wanted nothing more than to return to his place in his own world. That need burned in him, hotter than a star, more insistent than gravity. But he knew his world was long dead, and only the Tower was left, drifting in time on an empty sea.

Another time, Donia would have been fascinated by these concepts. Here was a being that understood, really comprehended, the nature of the Territories. Or one Territory in specific, at least. And she was sharing his memories.

Another time, she would have given anything for the opportunity to study the Frozen One's thoughts. But at that time, she struggled just to stay conscious.

The Frozen One's story continued until she felt as though she had aged to death, been born again, and aged once more.

It stopped, and she found herself back in the ice, where she had started.

Her thoughts were torn to shreds, like a child shredding a sheet of paper into a thousand pieces and scattering it all over the floor.

Nikolos, she thought, but for a moment she couldn't remember who he was or why he was important.

It's cold. Why was that bad?

My ribs hurt. I'm in danger. The Tower would go on long after her body died. It would drift, stuck between reality, never to end because it existed in a place without beginnings or endings...

What would you ask of me, Donia Sarkis? the Frozen One rumbled. The sleep calls to me. I must rest again soon. Before I do, I want to see something change.

Donia looked down at the ice, completely unsurprised to see a face watching her in return. The eye alone was bigger than she was, set in a rough, craggy, mostly human face somehow leeched of all color. The green light glowed, far below.

His voice was no longer too much to bear. Compared to the thunder of hearing his name, his usual speech was nothing more than a bumblebee's whisper.

"Release me," Donia said. "Save the boy."

She whispered one last, long name.

With a thunderous crack, the ice split beneath her. The huge chunks and boulders of ice that had surrounded her whisked away, hurtled into the distance as though they had been thrown from a catapult.

A single hit from any of those flying bits of ice would have torn chunks out of her flesh. She felt no fear.

Compared to his fear, still burning in her mind, her own was nothing.

She sat up, blinking around at the world. A circle of black-coated cultists stood a few yards away around a circle of red, stumbling backwards and pointing into the air at the flying ice. She looked in another direction, and saw Nikolos' blond hair lying almost at her feet. He had been so close all along.

His chest rose and fell, barely. Hope kindled once more in her chest, though it seemed a tiny, feeble thing, barely noticeable against his loneliness and despair.

But it was enough for her.

Donia turned her head and met the eyes of the nearest cultist.

"Well," he said, and she instantly recognized his cultured voice. "Well, well, well. That's an impressive showing, I know, but—"

Ice cracked beneath the bloody circle, and a huge body shifted beneath the ice. The black-dressed Travelers stumbled backwards. They pointed and started laughing. Some of them cheered in victory. The speaker turned around and rubbed his hands together.

"At last!" he cried.

Donia had the feeling he was about to be drastically disappointed. She pointed.

"Him," she said.

With a sound like a collapsing barn, a blue-skinned fist big enough to grip a horse punched straight through the ice, sending black-coated Travelers flying.

Donia’s blood had frozen on her skin. Her vision blurred, and her thoughts swirled with memories taken from the ancient titan. She wondered if she would survive this. Even if she did, would she be able to open up a Gate and take Nikolos home?

Whether we make it or not, she thought, we still won. She supposed she had accomplished something great today, after all.

Pushing his way through the ice, the Frozen One rose.

To summon a creature of Helgard, you must understand its name, its nature, its very soul. To understand another, you first reveal yourself. To do so is painful, fraught with risk, and highly rare.

It is also the key to the Violet Light.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 1: Violet

The Feathered Plains

Loyalty is a fine attribute, though it is often misunderstood. Some interpret loyalty as nothing more than allegiance to a group or cause, but this is far from complete.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 2: Orange

Denner had never liked Avernus. It was one of the safer Territories, but that only meant it wasn’t always crawling with murderous specters and fire-breathing monsters, and it had plenty of water and fresh air. In Endross or Naraka, drinkable water was far more valuable than gold. As locations went, Avernus boasted some impressive scenery: waving plains, forests of impossibly tall trees, sharp-sided mountains like daggers of stone.

He wasn’t sure what it was about the Territory that irritated him so much. Probably the people.

Denner stood in a high-roofed tent lined with Avernus Travelers. Each of them wore some arrangement of buckskin or hide, decorated liberally with feathers. They clearly meant to imitate the Avernus tribes of old, who had lived off the land in the Feathered Plains and only occasionally stepped out of their Territory.

Unfortunately, these modern Travelers got most of it wrong. One skinny fifteen-year-old kid wore a bear-tooth necklace—bears were not native to Avernus—and a wide-brimmed hat made out of felt. Another woman squinted at him through a pair of spectacles perched on her nose.

The end result was a tent full of people who looked like they had bought their costumes from a shady acting troupe.

Each of them had an owl.

One woman cradled a giant brown owl in both her arms. Another man sported a fluffy black owl on one shoulder, and the woman next to him had a sleek white owl perched on the top of her head.

All the birds stared directly at Denner. He couldn’t escape their huge, unblinking eyes without walking out of the tent.

Maybe this was what he hated about Avernus. There was always a bird watching you.

The High Watcher of the Strigaia tribe sat at a desk directly in front of Denner. She reached up and adjusted the blindfold over her eyes.

“We believe the Halliat tribe has taken our young rebel in an attempt to use her powers against us. We have seen this future. If our rebel remains alive, everything the Strigaia tribe has worked for all these years will count for nothing.”

Denner cleared his throat. “What has the Strigaia tribe worked for all these years?”

“Never mind that,” the High Watcher snapped. Her huge black owl glared at him from over her shoulder.

Denner’s over-sized, leather-bound book shifted under his arm. He pressed his arm tighter against his side, squeezing the covers together.

The book let out a little squawk, but it sounded enough like a bird that Denner hoped nobody noticed.

“Eliminate the rebel,” the High Watcher continued. “Bring proof of her death back to us. You will be compensated appropriately.”

She produced a leather purse and upended it on her desk, spreading gold coins across its surface.

“How dramatic,” Hariman said, from beneath Denner’s arm. Denner held the book tighter, wishing he would shut up for another minute.

Several Avernus Travelers gave Denner odd looks, perhaps wondering how he could speak without moving his mouth. A couple of owls cocked their heads.

Denner barely noticed; he was staring at the gold. How many nights in a real bed would the money buy him? He had been on the road for so long. He could always stay in his bedroom back in Valinhall, but that place had…unpleasant memories for him now. Like most of the others, he stayed away as much as he could.

“Do I have to kill her?” he asked at last.

The old woman raised an eyebrow, which looked decidedly odd behind her blindfold. “I thought I had hired a warrior of Valinhall, not an Asphodel gardener.”

“You haven’t hired me yet,” Denner said, though the gold did look awfully tempting. It did bother him, though, that they simply assumed a Valinhall Traveler would be comfortable murdering some stranger. Was their reputation as bloody as all that?

“As it happens, yes, we do need her killed,” the High Watcher said. “Her sight is too dangerous to simply keep locked away.”

Denner scratched at the stubble on his cheek, debating. “If she can see the future, I don’t see what hope I have of catching her by surprise.”

There were ways, in Valinhall, of evading visions and other forms of supernatural sight. But none that Denner could access on short notice.

The High Watcher waved her hand. “Our sight is not such a convenient thing. I do not anticipate you will have any trouble. We would catch her ourselves, if she were not so close to Halliat land. We are not a match for their eagles in open combat; only by foresight and preparation do we remain safe.”

“What makes you think I’ll be any safer, then?” Denner asked.

“We wish to hire the best,” she said. “And we’ve heard you have something of a specialty in this area.”

Under Denner’s arm, Hariman cackled.

Everyone was staring at the book now, even the blind High Watcher.

“Is your book talking?” she finally asked.

Now, how does she know he’s a book? Denner wondered. Out loud, he said, “Getting him to talk is no problem. It’s getting him to stop that’s the trick.”

Inwardly, he debated for a few more moments. Then he sighed. He was putting off the inevitable.

“Where do I find her?” he asked.

The High Watcher smiled and gave him specific directions. So specific, in fact, that they must have been watching the rebel from afar. Were they sending birds to spy out the land? Or were their powers of clairvoyance that formidable?

“She has short brown hair,” the old woman said. “She will try to stab you at your first meeting. And she will not be wearing the proper uniform of a Strigaia tribe Traveler.”

Denner took that to mean she wouldn’t be dressed like a novice actor in a cheap city play. He bowed to the Watcher. “I will keep you informed,” he said, and turned to walk out.

Hariman’s fussy voice interrupted his exit. “I can’t help but ponder the irony inherent in calling a blind woman the ‘High Watcher.’ Aren’t you rubbing her nose in it a bit too much? Or is it that she’s less manipulative and shortsighted than the rest of your—”

Whatever else the book was about to say was cut off as Denner picked him up and squeezed him between both palms.

Denner offered a shaky grin to the room of insulted Strigaia tribe Avernus Travelers.

“Books, right?” he said, trying to laugh. “You can’t take them too seriously.”

***

Hours later, Hariman was making up for the time he had spent silent by chattering non-stop.

“…so you see, the term ‘Feathered Plains’ is actually a misnomer! The first Travelers to return only saw plains, so they assumed the entire Territory was nothing but a vast stretch of rolling grassland! Naturally, that’s not the case, as was proven by the scholars—”

“We’re proving it right now,” Denner interrupted. He pushed a branch away from his face. “These obviously aren’t plains.”

“Tut-tut,” Hariman said. “Never mistake subjective experience for proper objective proof. It took years of cartography and observation to finally determine that the ecosystem of Avernus is so varied!”

“That, or a single Traveler with open eyes.”

The forest around them had everything Denner would have expected in ordinary, mundane woods: blooming trees, a green canopy, a carpet of fallen leaves, scattered underbrush. But everything here seemed to be scaled for giants.

The fallen leaves were the size of bedsheets, the berries on nearby bushes bigger than Denner’s head. The trunks of the thinnest trees were wider around than a ballroom, and the canopy was so far overhead the leaves might as well have been a green, sun-dappled sky.

The branches Denner pushed away from his face were attached to bushes the size of ordinary trees. On the scale of this forest, they might have been weeds.

“At least they got the ‘feathered’ part right,” Denner said. He meant it idly, but he knew Hariman would respond. Hariman never passed up the opportunity to lecture.

“Yes, indeed they did!” Hariman said brightly. “Every observed animal native to Avernus is some kind of bird. There are the birds of the five main tribes, of course, but thousands of others, many of which remain undocumented even today! What an exciting Territory this is!”

A swarm of small, blurring forms the size of mosquitoes flew out of a nearby bush, pausing to hover in a flock over Denner’s head. As he got a closer look, he realized they weren’t bugs at all, but some kind of tiny black hummingbird.

Something rustled the leaves of the canopy overhead, and Denner craned his neck to look up. High above, a beaked head pushed its way down through the leaves. Its feathers were the color of flame, and its beak looked long and sharp enough to stab through bear hide. It cracked its beak and let out a ‘caw’ that actually shook the ground under Denner’s feet.

The ambient noise that usually filled the forest, the chirps and songs and rustling of leaves and feathers, went silent.

The giant bird at the top of the forest glanced around, then slowly withdrew its head. Its beak slid out of sight, like a dorsal fin disappearing under the ocean.

“Hariman,” Denner muttered, “how big do you think that thing was?”

“At this distance?” Hariman asked, making no effort to keep his voice down. “It’s hard to say. How are we to know how far away those leaves are? More than big enough to swallow you whole, for certain. If Manyu was around, I’m sure he could tell us precisely.”

“That’s okay,” Denner said wearily. “I don’t need to know any more precisely than that.”

Maybe Avernus wasn’t as safe as he’d thought.

Hariman’s gold face, engraved on his front cover, squinted off into the distance. “I thought you might want to know,” he said, “we are about to cross over into Halliat lands.”

“How do you know?”

“Those feathers, on that tree next to the red bush.”

Denner looked, and saw a bundle of white feathers nailed to the bark.

Hariman chattered on, “Three feathers, the middle one reversed, means that—”

Something caught the edge of Denner’s hearing, and he clapped a hand over Hariman’s face.

In his mind, he reached out to Valinhall, to a stone tablet engraved with the stylized image of an eye.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he saw the world through a red haze. The forest floor was dull, almost rusty, while the trees had veins of ruby running through them. The birds, hidden in the underbrush, were brighter still.

From past experience, he knew the symbol of an eye—an exact match to the image on the tablet—would have appeared in the center of his forehead. His would be drawn in red light, which he supposed explained why he saw the whole world in red every time he called the third eye. Valin’s had been purple, and if he remembered correctly, Kathrin’s was blue.

Denner slowly turned his head, scanning the woods; turning too quickly would give him a splitting headache. After only a few seconds, he spotted what he was looking for: a mass of bright red, seething light.

As best he understood it, the third eye allowed him to see life. The more energy a living being had, the brighter they showed up. Plants were dull, and lifeless stone all but invisible, though humans blazed like stars.

A human like the one trying to hide herself behind a nearby tree.

Denner banished the third eye. He could have held onto it longer, but it would take five or six hours to recharge already, and the longer he held it the more time it would take to return. Besides, banishing the eye always gave him a splitting headache, and he wanted to get over the pain as much as he could before this woman tried to ambush him.

“What is it?” Hariman demanded. “What’s wrong? I can tell something’s wrong, I’m not an idiot.”

Denner sighed. “I thought I heard something, Hariman. I checked it out, but I was wrong. It was nothing.”

Deliberately, Denner turned his back on the hiding woman and began to take loud, heavy steps back the other way.

“You really don’t need to be so paranoid, you know,” Hariman said. “I don’t think it would kill you to simply let yourself relax and enjoy your exotic surroundings. There’s much to be learned in Avernus. For instance, did you know if you ate a berry from that bush behind you, you would grow feathers instead of hair? It’s true. I once knew…hold on. Who is that?”

Denner turned, calling stone. The power of Valinhall hardened around his skin, defending him, in case this woman was as dangerous as the High Watcher suspected.

He caught sight of her, with her hands empty and open, her knife sheathed at her side, and he realized she wasn’t a woman.

She was just a girl.

Maybe fifteen, at most, scrawny and underfed and covered in more scrapes and bruises than clear skin. Her hair was hacked short, as though she had cut it loose with her own knife.

She stared at Denner with a determination so fierce it looked almost like anger.

“I didn’t stab you,” she said.

“I noticed.”

“They said I would stab you, didn’t they? Well, I didn’t.”

“I appreciate that, thank you,” Denner said politely. Privately, he wondered why the High Watcher hadn’t mentioned that their ‘rebel’ was little more than a child. Had she been trying to trick him? Had the girl’s age not mattered to her? Or had she expected it not to matter to Denner, because he was a bloodthirsty killer of Valinhall?

No matter what, he was going to have a few words for the Watcher when he returned.

“Just a moment,” Hariman said. “This is the dangerous rebel of the Strigaia clan? I hope she’s more dangerous than she looks.”

“My name is Keiren,” she said. “And yes. There’s a lot more to us than you think.”

“Us?” Denner asked, but he should have known better.

A shadow passed over Denner’s head, and he instantly summoned his Dragon’s Fang. Like most of the other Fangs, Diava was curved and sharp along only one edge. Its hilt was wrapped in red-and-gold thread, and a line of spidery script ran up the flat of the blade. It was a normal, comfortable length for a sword—nothing like Kai’s seven-foot monstrosity.

With Hariman tucked under one arm and Diava gripped in his other hand, Denner crouched and raised his eyes, ready to strike a bird from the sky.

A brown-and-white owl glided silently overhead, lighting on Keiren’s shoulder. The bird scowled at Denner and gave him a single, disapproving hoot.

“Us,” Keiren said.

“You see what I mean about paranoia?” Hariman put in. “We need to work on your nerves.”

Feeling somewhat silly, Denner relaxed, releasing the stone amulet—its power was about to run out anyway—and banishing his sword.

“We’ve seen you already,” Keiren said. “Standing there. Sent to kill us. Do you even know why?”

“I don’t think it’s my job to ask,” Denner said. He had taken money for this kind of thing before, but he was usually hired to kill enemy commanders on the battlefield, or stop out-of-control Travelers. Not to kill a girl who had run away from home.

Keiren absently stroked her owl’s head, but they both continued staring at Denner, absolutely serious. “Strigaia owls, and therefore Travelers of the Strigaia tribe, have visions,” she said. “You know that.”

“Everyone knows that,” Denner said. That was all anyone did know; everything else was shrouded in typical Traveler mystique.

“It’s not as convenient as you think,” Keiren went on. “You can’t decide what you want to see, whenever you want to, like opening a book. Each Traveler sees something different. The High Watcher, for instance, sees gold.”

“Gold?” Denner asked. “Like, veins of gold? Gold mines?” That would explain why she was willing to spend so much money to hunt down one rebellious girl.

Keiren and her owl rolled their eyes at the exact same time, which was more than a little creepy. “Not just gold. Money. Currency. She sees visions of times when buying something will affect her future. She probably saw herself handing you coins, so she knew she would—or maybe should—hire you. Do you see?”

“Apparently you’re the ones who see,” Hariman quipped, laughing at his own joke. “You get it? See?”

Denner sighed.

“It’s not all that useful,” Keiren went on, ignoring Denner’s advisor. “Most of the tribe only sees very specific things. One of my best friends could see the positions of the stars anytime. If he concentrated on a day in the future, he could see what the stars would look like that night. It was more helpful for predicting the weather than anything, since he knew whether it was going to be cloudy. My father could predict down to the hour when the latrines would need emptied. It wasn’t glamorous, but he saved us from disease more times than we’ll probably ever know.”

Keiren stared off into the forest, her face growing distant. Her owl nuzzled into her head, hooting softly.

Denner waited a few more seconds, then cleared his throat. Keiren and her bird turned back to look at him. They blinked at the same time.

“No one of us is too useful on our own,” Keiren continued. “Our visions are too limited. But together, we can shape the future.”

Denner looked into the giant forest, thinking over the girl’s words. This was getting far too troublesome for him. There were too many factors at play here that he did not, and could not, understand. He never should have taken a bargain with the Strigaia in the first place, but last night he had boiled stolen heads of wheat to make a thin soup. The coins were too appealing.

Hariman squirmed under his arm, and Denner let him speak. “Pardon me, but there seems to be an inconsistency in your story. If Strigaia visions are as limited as you claim, why should the tribe care about you? Surely you can’t pose a threat on your own.”

Keiren’s owl sighed and shook its feathered head, like a teacher exasperated by a stupid pupil. The Traveler smiled and stroked the bird’s head. “I see Travelers,” she said. “Not just Avernus Travelers. I see Travelers from all different Territories, and I see them in moments where they will have to make an important decision. I’ve seen the King several times, deciding whether he will personally ride to battle. I’ve seen Grandmaster Helgard deciding whether to step down, and Overlord Indirial considering whether or not to train his daughter. I’ve seen you, Valinhall Traveler, standing in front of a tree, deciding whether to kill me or speak to me first.”

Denner stared at her, stunned. No wonder the High Watcher wanted this girl dead so badly. In any conflict, Travelers were the most valuable resource. If one side could read the decisions of the enemy Travelers before they were even made…well, Denner would rather have Keiren’s power on his side than two dozen Naraka Travelers calling fire from the sky.

As he stood there, trying to digest the full implications of this girl’s ability, his mind latched onto the one least significant aspect of his situation: he was being rude.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I never introduced myself. I’m Denner Weeks.”

She cocked her head at him, the same way Kai always did.

“That’s not your name,” she said.

Denner fought back a chill. “It is now,” he responded, as firmly as he could.

There was a long silence apart from the chirping of a thousand birds. Overhead, a giant limb shook, as though something had landed on it.

“Ahem,” Hariman said, “while this has been interesting and everything, we really should move this along. Either kill her or let her go, Denner.”

“The book’s right,” Keiren said. “You have another decision to make. I’ve already seen the results of trying to run from you. I can’t do it. My only chance is to persuade you face-to-face.”

Denner had killed more people than he cared to remember, and he had more dead friends than live ones. But he didn’t consider himself much of a murderer. He wanted an excuse, any excuse, to let this girl go free.

But he was also a man of his word. So that excuse would have to be a good one.

“Why did you run away?” Denner asked, at last.

Keiren raised her head to stare into the trees. Denner was struck once again by how lost and alone she looked: her face was caked with dirt, her hair ragged and hacked short, her clothes barely holding together.

“I’d be happy to answer you,” she said, “but it looks like we’re out of time.”

Denner looked up himself, and saw what he had already begun to expect: huge white eagles, the mounts of the Halliat tribe, had landed on most of the limbs in view. He could count six mounted Halliat-tribe Travelers without even trying, and he knew more must be on their way.

But he was still a Valinhall Traveler, and these were Avernus. Maybe Endross or Tartarus could have posed a threat. He had to admit being a little nervous—no battle was certain, no matter how overwhelming it appeared—but he doubted his story would end in this feather-strewn forest

“We have time,” Denner said calmly. “Tell me.”

Beneath his arm, Hariman chuckled.

Keiren glanced nervously up at the trees, then around at the underbrush, as though looking for an opportunity to flee.

Denner stayed where he was. He could catch her easily enough if he wanted to, and she knew it.

“One day the red trees will die, and the Incarnations will be free once again,” Keiren said at last.

Denner’s heart froze. She shouldn’t have known enough to say that. He supposed he should stop underestimating the girl who could see the future.

“The Strigaia tribe has known this for years,” she went on, keeping both eyes on the Halliat Travelers in the trees. “They think the Incarnations breaking free will mean a world free of Ragnarus’ control, that the world will be restored to its natural order. We’ve all been raised to agree. My parents believe it. My teacher believes it. I was raised here in this Territory, so all my friends believe it.”

Hariman made a choking sound.

Denner probably sounded the same way. “Why would anyone want the Incarnations free?” he said. “Do you have any idea how many people would die?”

“Do you?” Keiren challenged. “I’ve seen it. They will escape, I can’t see anything we can do to stop that. But we might be able to do something about the Incarnations after they’ve broken free.”

“What?” Denner asked. He had seen an Incarnation before, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

Keiren shrugged, almost dislodging her brown-and-white owl, who flapped its wings for balance and hooted indignantly. “I don’t know yet. I’ll figure something out. For now, I have to get away.”

A deep male voice called down from the trees. “Outsider,” he said. “We are taking the Strigaia girl. Do not resist and we will allow you to leave.”

Seemingly on instinct, Keiren took a step backwards, her face twisting in fear. “What are you going to do, Denner?” she asked, keeping her eyes locked on the Halliat eagles.

There was only one decision he could make, really. Even when he’d been played like a game piece, it burned him to go back on his word, but there was nothing else he could do.

Denner summoned Diava.

The Dragon’s Fang shimmered like a heat haze as it materialized, its weight comforting in his hand.

“I can find you a home in Damasca,” Denner said. “I’m friends with an Overlord, after all.”

Keiren gave him a relieved smile. “Thank you,” she said, “but I can’t. Everyone I know is here. I can’t leave them, even though they want me to. When they succeed, they’ll suffer under the Incarnations as much as anyone. I have to help them, even if they kill me for it.”

Her determined resolve made her look much older. She had clearly made up her mind.

“What a surprise,” Hariman said, “Strigaia Travelers being foolish and shortsighted even though they can see the future.”

“I think you made that joke already,” Denner said.

“Who’s joking?”

“Last chance, outsider,” the Halliat Traveler roared from overhead. One of the giant eagles shrieked, and Denner winced at the sound. “Walk away! We’re taking the owl girl with us.”

Denner used Diava to gesture into a bush big enough to hide an entire house. “Get in there and hide until the fight’s over,” he said. “If you see a chance, run.”

Keiren crawled under the bush, but she hesitated before she disappeared completely into the leaves. “Do you know a man, about your age, who has white hair? He may or may not be carrying a doll?”

A shiver ran down Denner’s spine. “I think I know who you’re talking about.”

Hariman snorted. “Ha!” he said. “You think?”

Keiren licked her lips. “At some point, he’s going to have to decide whether or not to take an apprentice,” she said. “Tell him he should.”

She seemed shaken by something, above and beyond the eagle-riding Travelers about to descend from the sky, so Denner gave her a smile. “I will,” he said reassuringly.

Keiren stood up, grabbing his forearm in both her hands. “This is important,” she said. “He really, really should take an apprentice.”

Denner pulled his arm away, trying not to show how uncomfortable he felt. He was used to Traveler work, but he could never relax around someone predicting his future. It was unnatural.

“I’ll tell him,” he said. “I promise.”

“Stay where you are!” The Halliat Traveler roared from overhead, and Denner sighed.

He was going to have to deal with this troublesome situation after all.

He called steel.

Instantly, the chains began crawling up his forearms. They may have looked like shadows, but they felt like real chains, and they grew link by link as they slithered up the backs of his hands and around his wrists.

At the same time, the steel flowed through him like an icy river.

Three of the white Halliat eagles were lifting off from their branches high overhead. One of the birds carried a huge Traveler with a feathered leather helmet on over his head. He held a spear in one hand. Denner presumed he was the one who had spoken.

Denner jumped.

He didn’t have the increased speed he had seen Indirial and Valin use, but he was fast enough on his own. Agile as a cat, he hopped from tree trunk to tree trunk, steadily leaping higher until he reached one of the lowest branches.

Before the Travelers could react, Denner was among them, staring an eagle in the face.

He jumped again before the bird could bite his nose off, landing on a higher branch. The huge Halliat flier was hovering only six feet away; from this position, Denner could speak with him over his bird’s flapping wings.

But the other Traveler was still staring below him, at the spot where Denner had stood only a moment before.

“Over here,” Hariman called.

The big Traveler’s head spun around, and he found himself staring at Denner from only a few feet away. From his perspective, the scene must have been quite strange: Denner had climbed up these huge trees in an instant, and here he was, wearing a travel-stained brown cloak and carrying an enormous red-and-gold book and a long, gleaming sword.

“What…what tribe are you with?” the Traveler demanded, though his voice was shaky. He sounded much less intimidating now that he wasn’t shouting. “Are you Gendo?”

As Denner often had to remind himself, most Travelers had never heard of Valinhall. The Strigaia were something of an exception, he supposed, since they could see into the future.

“I’m not an Avernus Traveler,” Denner explained.

“Of course not!” Hariman said contemptuously. “Do you see a bird anywhere? Honestly, doesn’t anyone think anymore?”

“I’ve been hired by the Strigaia tribe,” Denner continued. “We’ll take care of the runaway girl in our own way. Leave her alone.”

The Halliat man frowned in confusion. “But it was one of your owls who told us where to find her. You said we’d have a chance to do whatever we wanted with her.”

“Playing both sides of the board, eh?” Hariman said. “Both shortsighted and manipulative. This is truly a shock.”

“You really need to get some new jokes,” Denner said to his advisor. He looked back to the Halliat eagle-rider, who was staring at Hariman in some confusion. Why were talking books always so much of a surprise?

“Back away, and this doesn’t have to end in violence,” Denner said.

The Halliat Traveler’s face hardened.

Denner sighed. Then, with the strength of Benson’s steel, he leaped forward.

The white eagle squawked and flapped its way backwards, but it wasn’t fast enough. Denner landed on its back and grabbed the Traveler by his collar. With one hand, he hauled the man over the towering drop to the forest floor.

The Traveler kicked and screamed, and the eagle bucked under Denner’s feet, but thanks to the steel he ignored it all.

“I’d still rather this not end in violence,” Denner pointed out.

The other Traveler nodded vigorously, his feathered helmet flapping.

“I love to see a peaceful resolution,” Hariman said. “This reminds me of one of Valin’s first battles after…”

Denner let him ramble. With any luck, the eagles would fly away that much faster to escape the lecture.

***

When the High Watcher felt her way into her tent that night, using a cane to feel her way inside, Denner was waiting for her.

“You didn’t tell me she was a girl,” Denner said. He didn’t sound as angry as he felt.

The High Watcher froze, fear flashing across her face.

The mighty warrior of Valinhall, Denner thought, assassin of children and bane of blind old women everywhere. Angry as he was, he still had to fight an urge to help her into a chair.

After only a second, she mastered herself, and her cane came down to rest on the ground. “Her age should not have mattered to you, killer that you are,” she said. “We told you enough to recognize her. Isn’t that enough?”

Denner’s anger flared up again. That was how she saw him, was it? Willing to kill anyone, anytime, with or without justification?

He supposed she had reason to think so. Valinhall had a certain reputation, after all.

And that reputation was not without its uses.

“Well, she’s dead,” he said. “Give me my money.”

The High Watcher nodded, though she was looking at the wrong corner of the tent. “Do you have any proof?”

“No,” Denner said.

He summoned Diava, laying it across his lap. He knew she wouldn’t be able to see it, but he had prepared for this eventuality: he pulled an ordinary rock out of his pocket.

He began to draw the rock across his sword. It produced the distinctive ring of a blade being sharpened.

Diava was made of Tartarus steel, tempered in the forges of Valinhall. He couldn’t sharpen it; all this would accomplish was grinding down the rock.

But it sounded intimidating.

For about half a minute, Denner sat there, drawing the rock across his blade, filling the silence with the sound of steel on stone.

Then the High Watcher pulled out her purse.

You show true loyalty when you remain dedicated to those who have turned their backs on you. If they reject you, you need not reject them in return.

One may remain loyal to a cause even when all others have forsaken it.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 2: Orange

The Crystal Fields

A Traveler of Lirial would tell you that intelligence and quick wits are the most valuable tools in the Crystal Fields. These are indeed admirable traits, but a would-be master of the Silver Light requires something deeper.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 3: Silver

This story has been passed down to Lirial Travelers since the dawn of Elysia itself. As it was told to me, so I will tell it to you.

This is the story of Korriphus, the best of all Lirial Travelers. He was known as a wise and learned man who served the Elysians well. It was he who gave us the first moon charts, who outwitted the first Lirial Incarnation, and who organized teams to explore the tombs of the Daniri, seeking their treasures. Truly, he was a great man.

And none knew the greatness of Korriphus better than Korriphus himself.

In those times, Lirial Travelers were plentiful, so they built cities for themselves among the Crystal Fields. One day, a white ape with six eyes walked into the greatest city in Lirial, where Korriphus ruled. None had ever met this ape, but they treated him with respect, for Lirial Travelers know better than most how wise it is to show respect to strangers.

The ape called himself Seliethin, and he was most interested in Korriphus.

"Who is this Korriphus?" he asked people in the city streets. "Is he worthy of rule?"

"He is the best of us," the people responded. "He reads the moons like ink on a page! He punishes and rewards with an even hand! When his own son spoke against his rule, he punished the boy according to the law, with no favoritism. Naraka Travelers come to him for justice! There is none more worthy of rule."

"I see," Seliethin said. "He rules fairly, then. But is he strong?”

“Strong as the mountains themselves. He Traveled deep into Ornheim and, on his own power alone, subdued a hundred golems. He brought them back here to raise the very walls you see around you. When the black army rose up in Tartarus, he drove them back into the Labyrinth before the Elysians heard a word of unrest. Lirial is not known for its strength of arms, but Korriphus is the one exception.”

“So it seems,” Seliethin said. “Very well, he is strong and just. But is he wise?”

“Wise?” the people cried. “Look no further for wisdom! He has raided the libraries of Helgard, bringing back their books for our own study. He devised the most intricate mechanisms for keeping our precious Sources hidden. He is on the very brink of deciphering the language of the Daniri themselves.”

Seliethin pondered for a long time. Finally, he shook his head.

“This Korriphus sounds like a learned man indeed,” said the ape. “He does not, however, strike me as wise.”

The people were shocked at Seliethin’s words, but none more so than Korriphus himself. When rumor reached him that a stranger had questioned his wisdom, he sent for Seliethin immediately. You see, Korriphus took his appearance very seriously, and to challenge Korriphus’ reputation was to challenge Korriphus himself.

When Seliethin was brought before him, Korriphus first tried to reason with him. “It has come to my attention that you doubt my intelligence,” he said. “This troubles me greatly.”

Seliethin bowed. “My lord, it is not your keen mind I doubt, but rather the use to which you put it.”

No one else had ever questioned Korriphus’ wisdom, but he was determined to remain polite to Seliethin’s face.

“How may I prove to you my wisdom?”

“Fortunately, my lord, there is a simple test,” Seliethin said. “The Daniri left a riddle behind, as they left so many other things, and we may use it to better ourselves. I am told you are close to deciphering the Daniri tongue?”

Korriphus waved a hand lazily in the air. “I have yet to properly apply myself. I am sure the solution is not so complex as most believe.”

“Then this puzzle shall not trouble you long. When you solve it, you shall find me among your most vocal supporters.”

“Very well,” Korriphus said. “Show me your riddle.”

Seliethin, Korriphus, and a team of Korriphus’ closest friends and advisors set out that day, guided by the six-eyed ape. They rode for an entire cycle of the moons before they found themselves in front of the smallest Daniri tomb Korriphus had ever seen. It was only a single obelisk, sticking up out of the gray dust of Lirial, covered in the writing of the Daniri people.

“Tell me what words are written upon this stone,” Seliethin said. “You may use any means at your disposal. Only when you find the answer to this riddle will I call you truly wise.”

Seliethin bowed to Korriphus and left, vowing to return in one year’s time for the Traveler’s answer.

In the first year, Korriphus rallied the top scholars of Lirial. They spared no expense in attempting to decode the language of the Daniri, and to some degree they succeeded. It is thanks to their work that we can now read the marks on the outside of many Daniri tombs.

But when the year ended and Seliethin returned, Korriphus was no closer to reading the words on the stone. He made three guesses, and when none of them were correct, Seliethin left once more. Again, he promised to return after one year had passed.

The next year, there was a famine in Lirial. Some of the underground mushroom farms had failed to produce a full yield, and blight had struck many of the flocks. The people turned to Korriphus for a solution, but he had nothing to give them.

“If I am not wise enough to solve the riddle of the stone,” he said, “how can I be the one to solve your problems? Go, turn to another for answers.”

His advisors rationed the remaining crops, and the city was saved, but Korriphus hardly noticed. Another year passed with Korriphus still unable to read the stone.

This time, when Seliethin arrived, Korriphus challenged him. “What do you know of the Daniri secrets?” he mocked. “You are an ape from the gray wastelands of Lirial.” He arranged a hundred puzzles and riddles in front of them, and dared Seliethin to solve even half of them, if he was worthy.

Seliethin bowed before him. “My lord, I am secure in my own wisdom. Are you? What does the stone say?”

Korriphus had no answer. Once more, Seliethin left.

This time, Korriphus promised a fortune in gold and powerful artifacts to any Traveler who could bring him the key to the stone’s secret. Lirial Travelers are not immune to greed, and they spread out into the unexplored wilds of Lirial. Even Travelers of other Territories came to Lirial, eager to try their minds against the riddle that had bested the famous Korriphus.

That year, a rebellion rose against the Travelers of Elysia. Their ruling council sent to Korriphus, asking for Lirial Travelers (for in those days, the Lirial Travelers served and supported the Elysians without question). Korriphus had few Travelers of any worth to give them, for all his best and strongest were out of the city, trying to solve Seliethin’s riddle.

At the end of the year, Seliethin returned. This time, Korriphus had a dozen possible answers to lay before him, but the ape rejected them all.

“I see why men call you learned,” Seliethin said. “I fail to understand why they also call you wise. In one year, I will return.”

The ruling council of Elysia was not pleased at Korriphus’ poor support in their time of need. That year, they sent Elysian Travelers into Lirial, where they removed Korriphus from power and put another in his place.

By that time, Korriphus did not care. He brought a tent into the endless gray sands, making his home outside the Daniri obelisk. Some of his old friends and servants brought him food every once in a while, and thus he passed the rest of this life, meditating each day on the stone’s words.

Every year, Seliethin came from his distant home to challenge Korriphus. And every year, Seliethin left, saying the Traveler was not yet wise.

In this way, Korriphus came to the end of his allotted years.

As Korriphus lay dying, his sightless eyes staring up at ancient words he had long since memorized, he heard Seliethin approach one last time.

“Please, before I die, tell me the answer,” Korriphus said. “Is it a map? Is it nothing more than nonsense? What have I done wrong? Tell me, before I leave this world forever.”

Seliethin placed one of his hands on Korriphus’ bony shoulder. “It is an old Daniri proverb. A warning, to men such as you and I. ‘Wise men seek understanding so that others might gain. To pursue knowledge at all costs is the mark of a true fool.’”

So Korriphus died, and the wind buried him at the foot of the prize he had chased for so many years. There are those who say he lies there still.

Even now, when many of his accomplishments are lost and gone, the warning of Korriphus remains, etched in a forgotten language onto a spire of stone. Let us not forget his lesson, lest we must learn it anew.

Intelligence without wisdom is like a sword without a hilt: it will bring you only harm.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 3: Silver

Gardens of Mist

Compassion, tied to the Rose Light, is also the virtue most necessary for leading Travelers of Asphodel. To protect their minds, they cut themselves off from each other. This is understandable, perhaps, but it is also a tragic weakness. If we are to heal them, we must first show them what they lack.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 4: Rose

Today, I learned why Damascan magistrates don’t accept eyewitness testimony gathered in Asphodel.

It’s not like I didn’t know what could happen to people out in the Mist. I’ve lived in the Gardens my entire life. I was born here, in a hollowed-out tree on the edge of the Midnight Fields. Every day, I step out of my door and walk into the Mist without a second thought. I’m not rich enough for a carriage, and I have to get to work somehow.

I give the Mist nothing to feed on, so it can’t touch me. My emotions are my own, locked up and held tight until I’m back between four walls. I’m no Traveler, bending the Mist to my will, but I know how to survive. So it always surprises me a little when someone vanishes into the forest and is never heard from again, except as a drifting voice on the wind.

Don’t they know any better?

It’s not fair of me, I know, but I expect everyone to know the rules of Asphodel like I do.

First, you don’t walk into the Mist unless your mind is clear as good glass. When I walk outside, I’m a saint in human skin. You couldn’t get a rise out of me if you stabbed me through the foot.

Second, you don’t stop and smell the flowers. The bigger and brighter the blossom is, the more it wants to eat you. Nobody survives a day in the Midnight Fields unless they learn this lesson.

Third, you don’t trust anything you see in the Mist. Not ever.

It’s hard for some people to remember the last rule, which I guess I understand. If you can’t depend on your own eyes, how do you know what’s real?

The answer: you don’t. But it’s easy to forget that.

Which is what killed Adrian Corydon.

I never had a problem with Adrian. He was about forty years old, and had been working in the Fields ten years longer than even I had. He rescued me one day, when I was foolish enough to let myself get distracted by a herd of wild bulls and forget I was standing in a patch of purple blossombells. They had dissolved through my shoes and started digesting my ankles by the time Adrian pulled me out, and I never felt a thing.

Even when the pain set in, I didn’t scream. I didn’t allow myself to think about my shredded, bleeding feet. I knew better; the Mist was all around.

So anyway, I remember Adrian as a good man. Not everyone thought that way.

Adrian tended to get a little angrier than he should, a little more stressed. He let the work in the Fields get to him, and sometimes he raised his voice in the middle of the Mist. One time, he staggered into our work site, stole another man’s hoe, and waved it in the air while screaming about how his wife didn’t respect him. He had a bottle in his other hand, and I had no doubt what it contained. Adrian was partial to a particular recipe of nasty liquor made of yellow starvine sap. It was cheap, he could brew it at home, it burned like a bonfire, and yellow starvines were known to produce the most pleasant hallucinations of any of the flowers in the Midnight Fields.

That was only one of the Adrian stories that floated around my work pool like kites on the wind. Adrian was a big, bearded man, and he threw his weight around even where he shouldn’t. Some people resented him. Others wondered about his wife, Phelia. Was she safe? Did he hurt her? Maybe we didn’t see her as often as we should…

Looking back, it was all a recipe for some kind of disaster, but I didn’t notice at the time. I tended my own garden, as they say in Asphodel, and let everyone else tend theirs. I keep to myself as much as I can. I’ve been that way for years, ever since my own wife left me for a merchant back in Damasca.

“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s this place. It does things to you. It’s not natural.” She walked through a Gate, and I never saw her again.

I wanted to feel something, but I didn’t. The Mist was excited that day, and I knew I shouldn’t stretch my luck.

You’re right, I should get back on track. Adrian Corydon. I was sleeping when it began.

Someone pounded urgently on my door, which woke me immediately. No one’s ever urgent in Asphodel. There are other things in Asphodel, worse than the Mist, and they’re attracted to signs of panic.

I still live in the hollowed-out tree I inherited from my parents, and it’s not a big one. I barely had to roll out of my hammock to unlatch the door and push it open.

Adrian stood there, right outside my door, his boots planted in a big puddle of Mist. It’s winter here—Asphodel has seasons like normal, though I know a lot of Territories don’t—and the air was cold enough that I regretted every second I held the door open. Adrian, though, he was soaked in sweat. His beard clung to his chest like a pile of soggy leaves sticking to the forest floor.

His hands spasmed opened and closed, like he couldn’t wait to get his fists around someone’s neck, and he had to lean one forearm against my doorframe to stay upright.

“Took me a long time to find out where you lived,” Adrian said. He was panting like he had run all the way here from town.

By “town,” I mean the cluster of huts and homes around the Midnight Fields that we affectionately called “the town.” It probably qualified as a village, I guess. Enough people lived there.

“All these trees look alike.” I held the door out a little wider, inviting him to step inside.

As he walked past me, I smelled no spirits on him, just sweat and the clean-water tang of the Mist on the winter air. At the time I thought that meant he was sober. Later, I told myself of course he had been drunk, and I hadn’t noticed. Now, I don’t know what to think.

With the Mist safely locked outside, I let my irritation bubble up from the place where I’d shoved it down. I don’t know anyone who likes being woken from a sound sleep in the middle of the night. I’d spent the whole previous day hoeing my row and picking blossoms in the Fields, as Adrian himself had. The last thing I wanted was a mystery visit infringing on my allotted eight hours of sleep.

“What do you want from me, Corydon?” I asked.

It wasn’t the most hospitable thing to say, I’ll admit, but he must not have minded too much. He laughed.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a long visit. I need to ask you a question.”

“Get to it,” I said. “My bed’s not getting any warmer.”

Adrian rubbed his hands together and blew on them, as though to capture the heat. “I don’t have many friends, you know. Nobody who would take me seriously. I haven’t talked about this much, but lately I’ve been…seeing things, hearing things. At the edge of my eyes. It’s like I can’t turn around quite quick enough, but I know something was there.”

I couldn’t help the hint of humor that crept into my voice. “You been out in the Mist too long, Corydon?”

Adrian wasn’t born here, like me, but he was the next thing to it. I couldn’t think of anyone who had walked the Gardens longer than he had. He should know better than to give in to fantasies born in the Mist.

Adrian jabbed a finger at me. “That’s it! That’s just it. I don’t see anything moving in the Mist. I don’t see dead relatives, or walking nightmares, or anything else Mist-touched people claim to see. It’s the Mist itself that’s moving.”

“The Mist moves all the time, Adrian,” I said. The Mist, for all its supernatural properties, is still water in the air. It moves with the wind like any cloud.

“I know what it does,” Adrian snapped. “Don’t treat me like a new hire, you know better. This is different. Sometimes I think the Mist is moving around behind my back, you know. Reaching into me, pulling stuff out. The anger, the fear, the…you know what I mean. One day, I’m afraid the Mist is going to get what it wants, and everything I’ve pushed down all these years is going to bubble up to the top and come bursting out of me. It’s going to keep on coming, up and up, and the Mist is going to feed and keep feeding until there’s nothing left of me at all…”

His voice drifted off. He didn’t seem to need a response, for which I was glad. If I had reacted honestly at the moment, it would have been to run out of my house, into the night, and to keep running away from this potentially deranged madman.

I’ve seen dozens of people whose sanity has been eaten away by Asphodel. None of them are what I would consider safe living companions.

I don’t know why I didn’t leave. Maybe something he said rang true in me. Maybe I just wanted to know. But I had to ask the next question.

“Why did you come to me?” I asked. I had a positive opinion of Adrian, but we were hardly friends. In many ways, I barely knew the man.

“You’ve been around longer than anyone,” he said. “You know what the Mist can do to folks. And there was your wife. And…well, I don’t want this conversation getting around, if you understand me.”

I did. Not only did I stick to my own company, and was therefore not likely to spread any rumors, most people around here considered me the lonely man who lived on his own because his wife had left him for mysterious reasons. I couldn’t ruin Adrian’s reputation in town because, frankly, no one would listen to me.

“I understand,” I said. That probably didn’t sound too gracious, so I tried to offer him what advice I could. “Listen, if you want my opinion, I’d say you should go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Talk to your wife, if you can. But more than anything, keep control of yourself. You’ve managed to keep the Mist out this long; you can do it a little longer.”

Today, as I look back on this conversation, I wonder if I should have said something different. Maybe I could have said something else, something that would have helped.

Probably not.

Adrian straightened up and nodded without looking me in the eye. He looked sober now, and his sweat was at least starting to dry. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve gone this far. What kind of man would I be if I backed down now?”

He stuck out one hand, and I took it. His huge hand had a set of calluses to rival my own.

After that, he left. As he walked off, I would have bet good money that a wave of Mist followed him.

I know, it was probably my imagination. A dozen people have already heard this story, and they all said the same thing. But I can’t forget the Mist, slithering after Adrian’s footsteps like a snake. Outside of a mist-binder’s control, I’ve never seen it act like that.

But, like you said. Probably my imagination.

I managed to scrape up a couple more hours of sleep before the next knock came. This time, I wasn’t nearly so irritated. I knew what was coming. I’ve always had a sense for bad news.

The foreman of my harvest crew—my boss—stood outside, holding a glowing cluster of pink night-roses like a lantern. She was one of the few bald women I knew, and she had tiny black eyes like a pair of beetles.

She was also a gardener, a Traveler with the power to call on the plants of Asphodel. Despite my exhaustion, I straightened my back and bowed my head in respect.

“I beg your pardon for waking you,” she said. She wasn’t really sorry, but good manners were a matter of survival here. Provoking someone else could be just as bad as letting yourself get provoked.

“No pardon necessary,” I said. “Is there a problem in the Fields?”

The foreman lowered her bundle of glowing flowers, shifting the pale pink light away from her face. “Phelia Corydon is dead. We need you to help find Adrian.”

Her words stunned me, but a tendril of Mist was creeping in my door, so I let the cold swallow my reaction. “Of course. Let me get my coat.”

Perhaps luckily, we weren’t the ones to find him. We wandered around in the cold and the dark for only an hour before we came across a small crowd, maybe ten or twelve people. I knew most of the faces. They were gathered around a tree, all talking at once. Some of them held bundles of night-roses, like the foreman; others lit their way with more traditional lamps, or even wickwood torches.

The crowd stood in a mass, facing a bloody mess at the foot of a tree.

Despite all my years of training and conditioning, I almost lost control of myself when I saw what lay there on the Mist-shrouded ground.

Adrian Corydon sat with his back propped against the tree. He was as wet as the last time I had seen him, but this time his clothes were soaked in blood. Adrian didn’t have a scratch on him, though his wife lay in a heap next to him. Her once-white nightgown had been stained dark red.

I didn’t stop to look for further details. The ground lurched, my stomach twisted, and I had to look away before I called the Mist to me.

The foreman demanded answers in a calm, reasonable tone. As though there was no corpse at her feet. Rule number one in Asphodel: stay calm.

I’m still not sure if Adrian heard her or not, but he spoke anyway. His voice quaked with emotion released: fear, anger, horror, relief, I’m not sure.

“It was the Mist. It got me. It got me at last. I told you it would. It set a trap for me, do you see? It’s a trap.”

By the end he was pleading, reasonable. At his feet lay a bloody hunting knife, of the sort we used to skin bulls or peel the bark off shellvines.

When he said all that, we knew what had happened. We’d all seen it before. He’d panicked in the Mist, let it get to him. It had eaten him from the inside out, twisted him, turned him into something that couldn’t tell the difference between reality and nightmare. It was best to put such people out of their misery.

So we did. They did, I mean. I was with them, but I wasn’t with them, do you know what I mean? I think, even as dark as it got, part of me knew something was wrong. I didn’t do anything.

I didn’t say anything either. I didn’t tell them what Adrian had told me, or beg them to stop. I put all my effort into keeping myself absolutely calm.

I wouldn’t want to let the Mist in.

They were a quiet mob. Quiet, and efficient. They had a rope up and over a tree before the sun’s first rays crept over the forest.

Adrian kept repeating, over and over, “It was the Mist, you understand? It got me. It wasn’t me, it was the Mist!”

At first, he was as calm as usual, but as they dragged him closer to the rope he got more and more frantic. Which, of course, made them drag him faster. Excited by his emotion, the Mist pooled closer, twisting toward him in questing tendrils as it looked for a gap in his mind.

On its own, the Mist is harmless. We live in it, work in it. But when it senses prey, it’s more deadly than a wildfire. Everyone around is in danger.

The foreman was the one who finally got Adrian’s head in the noose. Her beetle-black eyes were cold when she ordered the drop.

They lifted him up, pulled the rope tight, and dropped him short.

He kicked a few times, the Mist surged up, and they both went quiet.

“Well,” the foreman said, “that’s that. I’ll expect to see you all at work in two hours.”

Without another word, everyone went home. Even me. I couldn’t sleep, but I tried; I knew I would need my strength for today’s work. Besides, disposing of madmen was familiar work for anyone who stayed in Asphodel any length of time.

Not that it was usually quite so…graphic. Or personal. But I repeated that to myself until the sun rose higher and the bell chimed, letting all the harvest crews know to report to their fields.

As I did every morning, I picked up my equipment: hoe, gloves, hat, spade, shears. I made sure it was all in place, and I made the usual hike down to the Fields.

When I got to the edge of town, a little collection of propped-up wooden shacks next to the tangled rainbows of the Midnight Fields, I noticed two things. First, no one was working. Everyone on my crew was gathered up in the town, silent, tools hanging forgotten at their sides.

Second, a woman with loose, stringy hair was walking from worker to worker, asking a question I couldn’t quite make out. A woman in a white nightgown.

Eventually, as I knew she would, she made her way over to me.

“Have you seen Adrian?” Phelia Corydon asked. She had panic in her eyes, but none made it into her voice. “I woke up, and he wasn’t there.”

Later, the foreman made it very clear I should not have told her. She almost had me brought up on charges before the Overlord. By telling Phelia what happened to her husband, I might have made her vulnerable to the Mist, and thus endangered all of us.

But as it happens, Phelia Corydon acquitted herself well. I told her the story I’ve just told you, and she didn’t scream. She didn’t attack me, or break down into tears, as I might have in her place.

Like a true woman of Asphodel, she made a mask of her face. Then she spat at my feet.

Without looking at anyone else, she walked into town. I don’t know where she was going, but I heard later she had reclaimed Adrian’s body and was taking the case to the Overlord. It’s probably true.

So I’ve told you the whole story, even the parts I should probably leave out, for my reputation’s sake. But as I said already, I don’t have much of a reputation.

I know, I should have realized immediately what the Mist had done to us. I should have insisted we take Adrian inside, wait for morning, and examine the evidence.

It hasn’t been long. I’m still shaken by the whole thing. I’ve had enough practice staying calm, you’d think I’d be able to keep my head in any situation, but I’ll tell you what: this one gnaws at me.

But given time, I’ll pack it away. Shove it down. I’ll bury the memory so deep that I don’t feel anything, so it can’t be used against me. As much as I can, I will forget Adrian Corydon.

I have to.

In their attempts at self-preservation, Travelers of Asphodel often throw away the only parts of themselves worth protecting.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 4: Rose

Maelstrom of Stone

There is always time for patience…

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 5: Green

When Chloe etched the final rune into her knuckle-sized sapphire, it felt like being let out of prison.

She dropped the sapphire—cut into two dozen facets, all covered in fresh, blocky runes—on her workbench, next to a sprawling collection of her tools.

“That’s one sapphire heartstone done!” she called into the swirling tunnels of her house. “In record time! You should go ahead and retire, I’ll take over for you.”

She always tried to make jokes when she needed to leave the house in a hurry. Sometimes she could slip away while her grandfather chuckled.

Chloe pulled her padded leather jacket on with one hand and opened the door with the other. Maybe, if she were only quick enough, she could make it outside.

The scuff of her grandfather’s slippers behind her warned Chloe that she had been too slow.

She spun around, favoring him with a bright smile. “I was heading out, grandfather…I mean, ah, Grandmaster Ornheim. Can I get you anything while I’m out? Something to eat, or…”

Chloe’s grandfather, whose name was once Deiman Uracius, looked like nothing more than a village child’s idea of a wizard. He sported a white beard long enough to reach his belt, had he worn one. But of course he didn’t wear a belt, because that would mean forgoing his traditional thick, brown robes. Rings of precious metals and gems flashed on each of his fingers: plain halfsilver bands; gold rings set with sunstone; rune-etched rubies; obsidian bands with small caps of iridian sand. On his face, as always, he wore that small, infuriating, invincible half-smile.

Nothing will ever disturb me, his expression said. Nothing ever could. If gold coins rained from the sky I would not laugh, and if the sun failed to rise I would not weep.

Grandmaster Ornheim laced his ring-speckled fingers together and fixed his granddaughter with the same not-quite-smile. “I am proud to be your grandfather, Chloe, you know that. But it is important for you to use my title.”

Chloe would be lucky to get out of this without a twenty-minute sermon on Enosh cultural propriety. “I know that, Grandmaster, I apologize.”

The Grandmaster took no more notice of her words than a golem would have. Less notice, if the golem were well made. “Not even in private. Our habits in private never fail to carry over into the public sphere.”

“Perhaps the reverse is true as well.” Chloe snapped her fingers as though she had realized something. “That would explain all the lectures! You don’t give enough of them to your students, so all the undelivered speeches bubbling up within you must carry over into the private sphere.”

Her grandfather’s patient smile didn’t flicker. “Your tolerance astounds me. You absorb every word of my wisdom with the patience of a mountain, and yet you still find time to put every one of your tools up in its proper place. How do you do it?”

She was becoming too predictable; he hadn’t needed to glance over at the workbench. Chloe let her shoulders slump—she needed to show him that she wasn’t happy about this—and marched over to the workbench, hurriedly scooping up her tools and dumping them into the appropriate rack, drawer, or box.

Grandmaster Ornheim strolled over to stand beside her, plucking her carved sapphire up from the surface of the workbench. “This is functional. Clean. I can see how this might work quite well, actually.”

“Of course,” Chloe said, but she couldn’t help a little spark of pride. She had worked for hours on that heartstone, after all, even if she hadn’t done it willingly.

“Have you any thoughts on the golem?”

“Oh! Yes, hang on…” after a moment she found it: a glass jar of sparkling golden sand. Iridian.

She poured a handful of iridian into her hand, willing it into the air. A tendril of sand rose, following her thoughts, spreading out into a gleaming sheet of tiny stars.

“I was thinking something like a bird, you see.” The sand condensed into a glittering model of a stationary bird. She wasn’t sure what kind of bird it was—there were no birds native to Ornheim, so she had only ever seen them on trips outside—but this model looked like a bird to her. “I’d like a light rock for the body, maybe something volcanic, I’m not sure.”

“And the skystones?”

“Here, here, and here.” At each word, a hole appeared in the iridian bird: one each at the tip of the tail and at the end of both wings. “Before you say anything, I know it will be a little unbalanced, so I’d plan to put the heartstone here, in the middle of its back.” Some of the spare iridian floated around the bird’s back, encircling where the heartstone would go.

This was the one part of the process in which Chloe had actually invested time and effort. Anyone could carve the runes of a heartstone; the process was mostly tedious memorization and hours of mindless drudgery. She would rather spend her time in the mines. Designing the golem itself, on the other hand, actually took a degree of creativity, even artistry.

Plus, in her personal opinion, skystones were amazing. With only a little mental effort, an Ornheim Traveler could make those little blue stones rise and hover in midair. She had begun practicing with skystones since she had first felt her bond to Ornheim’s vast stores of earth.

Grandmaster Ornheim waved his hand, and the iridian wrenched itself from Chloe’s control, flowing back into the jar in a sparkling golden river. One tendril of sand even reached back out and pulled the lid back on. “Very good. You’ll be ready to assemble your golem soon, but don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve got plenty of time.”

This from the man who would spend six weeks studying a block of marble before he first touched it with his chisel. “Yes, Grandmaster.”

Before her grandfather could say anything else, Chloe turned and pulled open the door. Some of her friends were going Beneath today, and if she was lucky, she might get there in time to join them.

Grandmaster Ornheim’s hand rested softly on her shoulder, and she almost screamed in frustration.

“I hope you’re not leaving quite yet.”

“No, I’m not,” Chloe said, in the most unconvincing tone possible.

“You need to—”

“Yes, I know. You tell me every time.”

The Grandmaster stroked his beard, always playing the venerable old teacher. “You do? Then tell me, what must you do before leaving?”

Chloe almost started running. How far would she make it before her grandfather brought her back? It was an unfair thought, of course, since Grandmaster Ornheim would never physically stop her from leaving. His disapproval, along with the inevitable lecture when she returned, was enough to keep her in place.

Besides, she owed him more than that. Even if he sometimes made her want to slam her face into the side of a boulder.

“An Ornheim Traveler must always stay and watch the Cycle,” she recited. “It is by the flow of the Maelstrom that our lives are guided, and we must respect that flow.”

“Lest we be crushed beneath it,” her grandfather finished. “Sit. Watch the Cycle. The City Beneath has existed for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. It will still be there in an hour.”

An hour? In her estimation, she could learn the Cycle safely in one look. It wasn’t so much different from glancing at a clock. Not in principle, anyway.

Chloe walked up to the edge of the cliff outside their house and leaned on the railing. Her home—like everyone’s home, here in Ornheim—was carved into the side of one of the more stable mountains. A path three or four paces wide stretched out from the front of the house like a porch, terminating in a seemingly endless drop down to Ornheim’s dark surface. Only Master-level Ornheim Travelers were allowed to descend that far. Master Ornheim Travelers, or those few who fell through the thin wooden safety railing.

Chloe didn’t spare much thought for the drop. She had lived with that threat for most of her life. Besides, she had better things to worry about.

Above her whirled the Maelstrom of Stone, flying and dancing in an endless Cycle.

Rivers of shining golden iridian drifted by, twisting like giant ribbons on an invisible breeze. A star-shaped chunk of rose quartz the size of a barn rolled in a lazy orbit around an inverted mountain with a flat top. It looked like it had been torn up from the ground by the roots. As Chloe watched, she saw specks of blue flickering toward the bottom of the floating island. It must be kept aloft by veins of skystone running all the way through its mountainous bulk.

A stone titan plodded by, its craggy face almost as big as Chloe’s mountain. Its dull eyes were fixed on some invisible point in the distance. Some people built villages on stone titans; they steered themselves around great danger, and tended to visit water sources quite often. Chloe could never imagine living on a mountain that wasn’t stationary, herself.

The sky of Ornheim remained in constant motion. There was no backdrop of sun or stars, as there might have been in the World Above, but layer after layer of spinning, walking, shifting, dancing, moving stone in every shape, size, and color. As legend told it, Ornheim was nothing more than an unimaginably vast cavern, with a ceiling out there in the distance, but Chloe didn’t place too much faith in the theory. For one thing, how would a roof that big stay up?

After only a few minutes of staring out at the Cycle, Chloe began to grow bored. The ribbons of iridian circled her mountain, making a full round once every eight or nine minutes. The chunk of rose quartz, on the other hand, only took twenty-eight seconds to encircle its island, and was getting a little closer each time. The upside-down mountain seemed to drift randomly, though it looked mostly stable. The rose quartz star and its inverted island would crash together eventually, though that was hardly remarkable. Rocks the size of small towns slammed into each other all the time here, with a noise like thunder.

Nothing else even remotely interesting was happening nearby. She had a good grasp on the Cycle, or at least the part of it affecting her. What was she going to gain by standing here waiting? The Cycle took more than a few minutes to change.

Chloe had almost turned away when she noticed a flash of green on the surface of the floating island, maybe fifty paces away.

She spun back to look, since anything that deviated from the Cycle was worth investigation. But the island’s rose quartz “moon” quickly rose, blocking her view.

She waited the next fourteen seconds in utter impatience, mentally begging the chunk of rock to hurry up and cross over to the other side, so she could see what was happening on the island’s surface.

After the most agonizing quarter of a minute she could remember, Chloe almost cheered when the chunk of pink quartz floated to the other side.

This time, she recognized what she had failed to notice before. The speck of green was not a rock formation, but a girl. A dark-haired, tan-skinned girl in a green dress.

Chloe let out an involuntary gasp. There was a girl, who looked to be less than Chloe’s own age, out in the Maelstrom itself. Alone. Even Grandmaster Ornheim would not have traveled beyond the mountain without a good reason and extensive preparation, and he likely would have brought help.

The spiky ball of rose quartz floated by on another orbit, reminding Chloe: it was going to crash into the island. It might take minutes, hours, or even a day, but when it eventually happened, the girl would die.

Saints above, what am I supposed to do?

“Grandfather!” Chloe screamed. She seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the girl in the green dress. No, I can’t call him that, he won’t answer. “Grandmaster Ornheim!” No response. “Grandmaster!”

He may have left. That wouldn’t be too unusual; he was a Grandmaster, after all. Ornheim was his backyard, and he could come and go as he pleased. Did she have time to go look for him? Did she have time not to?

Her grandfather, she knew, would tell her to wait. Observe. There is always time for patience; that was one of his favorite sayings. Another of his most common: You must learn the board before placing your first piece.

Chloe respected her grandfather, and patience was the way of Ornheim. Carving a golem’s hearstone took weeks, and building its body could take months. Learning to read the Cycle took years; learning to navigate the Maelstrom took a lifetime. There were no shortcuts in Ornheim, and endurance always yielded results. But she could not justify doing nothing while a girl died in front of her eyes.

She wasn’t sure what exactly she could do, but surely something would be better than nothing. That, or it would result in two bodies lost on Ornheim’s surface instead of only one.

One of the giant ribbons of iridian floated by, and Chloe got a terrible idea. Before she could think about it too much, she vaulted over the railing and into empty space.

For a sickening instant, her stomach lurched, and she wished with all her being that she could take it back. She was going to fall into the hazy, brown distance, and—while she didn’t know exactly what waited on the ground—she was pretty sure she would get there by means of a sudden, violent stop.

In response to her mental screams, the river of iridian flowed down and cushioned her fall. Not that it felt much like a cushion at all, really; it felt more like slamming face-first into a beach. But she would take what she could get.

She had initially imagined using the iridian to form a bridge and letting the girl cross. The problem was that a full bridge lay far beyond the scope of her abilities with the substance. Maybe Grandmaster Ornheim or one of his top students could do it, but Chloe certainly couldn’t. Not yet. Commanding iridian took great concentration and physical stamina, the demands on which increased exponentially when you tried to work at a distance. Chloe’s only hope was to stick as close to the iridian as possible, carrying herself over to the island, and then hopefully both of them back.

Seconds in, she started to shake. It felt as though she had tried to drag a cart uphill. Soon after, she started to sweat.

It shouldn’t be this hard, she thought. Maybe I’m using too much power. Experimentally, she relaxed her mental grip on the sand.

Immediately, the gritty golden cloud started to disperse, and she began to fall through.

She tightened her grip once more before she had fallen more than a few inches. After about ten seconds of silent, terrified shaking, she got her flying carpet of sand moving once again.

She didn’t know how she made it—the iridian river seemed to crawl forward an inch at a time—but she eventually covered the fifty paces to the island.

She had imagined setting her floating platform down, reaching out to the girl in green, and the both of them flying gracefully back to the mountain.

Instead, she let herself crash to the island’s surface, the glittering golden sand drifting off like smoke to spiral through the air once more. Every muscle in her body hurt, as though she had run for days while carrying a sack full of stones.

Sweaty, shaking, and lying flat against the rock, Chloe barely managed to speak. “I’m here…to…get you.”

The girl measured Chloe with dark eyes, and then looked back up at the escaping sand. “Do you have more of that?”

Between labored breaths, Chloe shook her head.

“Then it seems we’re both stuck,” the girl said. “Unless you have a golem nearby. Or some other plan I haven’t thought of.”

She didn’t seem nearly as panicked as Chloe thought she should be in this situation. Nor as grateful as she’d hoped. “I thought…you would be…scared.”

The other girl thought for a moment. “My mother wouldn’t be scared. She would say fear is a waste of energy.”

Chloe had finally started to get her breathing back under control. “Your mother would get along well with my grandfather, I think. I’m Chloe.”

“Deborah, daughter of Deborah.”

Deborah inclined her head formally, and Chloe did the same. As best she could while remaining face-to-face with the stone, anyway.

A shadow passed overhead, and Chloe knew it had to be their pink-hued moon. She raised one hand and pointed. “That’s going to crash into us at some point.”

Deborah followed Chloe’s finger up. “I had hoped I was imagining things. Well, no use waiting for it to happen. Maybe, if we work together, we can call the iridian back.”

“Not me,” Chloe said. “It’s too far away, and I’m too tired from making it all the way over here. It would kill me.”

In truth, Chloe would try it if she had to, but she wasn’t exaggerating when she said it would kill her. In her current condition, she was sure the iridian would simply slip from her grasp and drop her.

Deborah patted the stone on which she sat. “There’s plenty of skystone here. But it’s far too deep to do us any good.”

Chloe pressed her own palm against the rock and listened to the voice of the stone. It passed through her like a wave of distant whispers.

There was indeed a vast network of skystone here, as she had expected. Deborah was right, though; there was no way to pull even a single chunk of skystone up through such solid rock.

“We don’t need a piece of skystone,” Chloe said. “We need to use what’s already here. We can fly the whole island.”

Deborah glanced over at the mountain, which seemed much farther away from this side. Skepticism was evident on her face. “Even if we can activate so much skystone, I can’t steer it.”

“I can.” Probably.

“Really?” Deborah’s eyebrows raised. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” Chloe said. Assuming it’s exactly like a theoretical iridian bird.

In true Ornheim fashion, the two Travelers didn’t act immediately. They sat there, waiting, for over half an hour. Partially, Chloe wanted to regain her strength before she tried activating and controlling whole veins of skystone. She also wanted to give her grandfather time to show up and stage a miraculously timed rescue.

After half an hour, though, neither of them could deny it any longer: the chunk of quartz was getting closer. Even now, if they timed the activation badly and lifted the island too quickly, they would slam themselves against the quartz.

“Seems like this is the time,” Deborah said, as though she had checked a clock. She knelt, placing both palms flat against the rock.

Chloe didn’t have to imitate the other girl’s pose, but she did so anyway. It seemed like a good position for speaking with the stone. “Ready anytime,” she said, hoping it was true.

She let her mind drift down into the jagged roots of the floating island, seeking skystone. The blue stone webbed the inside of the inverted mountain, filling the ordinary rock like a bright blue skeleton.

When the quartz passed by overhead once more, Deborah flared the skystone. The veins flashed blue in Chloe’s mind, and the island jerked upwards.

No, not like that, Chloe thought. More like…

She sent herself down, into the rock, and activated the skystone on the far side of the island. It flared to life, pushing them forward and slightly up. They drifted closer to the mountain on their own momentum, now; they might come in a little high, but Chloe would be more than willing to risk a broken leg by jumping down rather than a broken spine by falling.

“Above!” Deborah shouted. Chloe jerked her head up to see the barn-sized star of rose quartz flying down at them like a colossal hammer.

Together, the two young Travelers flared the skystone so hard they blasted toward the mountain, barely scraping by the quartz in time to avoid a titanic collision.

And they were headed straight for the side of the mountain.

Desperately, Chloe flared the skystone closest to the mountain, trying to slow them to a safe speed. Deborah, on the other hand, had a different idea: she was trying to bring them higher, apparently so they could float safely over the peak.

Chloe felt it would have worked out much better if they had worked together instead of moving in two different directions, but it certainly could have been worse. Their island came to rest above Chloe’s mountain, hovering exactly over the highest peak.

“It worked!” Chloe said, her voice filled with exhilaration.

“Yes it did,” Deborah agreed, in much the same sound as a sigh of relief. “Now, how do we get down?”

***

Deborah, as it turned out, was the daughter of the current Overlord.

During the two or three hours they had spent trapped on the same floating island, Chloe had never thought to ask Deborah where she lived. She had simply assumed Deborah was one of the many deserters Enosh received from the Damascan villages.

Grandmaster Ornheim, once he found and rescued them, had known exactly what questions to ask. In short order, and with impeccable manners, he had figured out precisely who ‘Deborah, daughter of Deborah’ was.

When Chloe first heard the news, her first reaction was confusion. How could Deborah be an enemy? Chloe had risked her life to rescue the girl. Her second reaction was fear; surely, Grandmaster Ornheim would hold the young Deborah hostage against her mother’s behavior. That was, if he didn’t execute her outright.

Instead, Chloe’s grandfather sent a sapphire messenger golem to tell the Overlord what had happened, and to offer her daughter back.

When the Overlord and her entourage arrived, full of gratitude and words of friendship, Grandmaster Ornheim let out the longest speech he had delivered in weeks.

He had been holding back, Chloe could tell.

Within the lecture, he had a lot to say about the great Cycle, about what it meant to be an Ornheim Traveler, and, of course, about stone. Chloe’s grandfather could never say more than three words together without talking about stone.

She was just considering sneaking off when the sound of her name brought her back to her senses.

“...Chloe has always had a problem with waiting. ‘Listen,’ I always tell her. ‘Watch. Be still and think.’ These are good lessons, but there are other things worth learning as well. Things that she teaches me.”

Chloe frowned. She couldn’t remember ever teaching her grandfather anything in her life.

“She reminds me that certain situations call for action, not preparation. We can’t always be perfectly informed or absolutely prepared. Sometimes, we simply have to act. There are times when I forget that. If anything, today’s events have shown us why we can’t always wait for an opportunity. Every once in a while, we must seize whatever chance we can, and hope for the best.”

Grandmaster Ornheim turned toward Chloe, a broad smile splitting his beard in half. “For if we don’t act when we need to,” her grandfather said, “then what were we waiting for in the first place?”

…but sometimes, there is no time for waiting.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 5: Green

The Steel Labyrinth

Diligence and humility are abundant in Tartarus. To truly fight as a unit, you must work without complaint and suppress your selfish pride. No Territory teaches these lessons better than the Steel Labyrinth.

There is no such thing as a lone Traveler of Tartarus.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 6: Red

296th Year of the Damascan Calendar

2nd Year in the Reign of Queen Deianira III

12 Days Until Spring’s End

Everywhere Valin looked, he saw swords. The tiles in the floor were made of a thousand blades, hammered flat in an interlocking pattern. From the ceiling hung a forest of sharp metal, honed to a razor’s edge. Each wall bristled with hundreds of needle-tipped knifepoints.

And the three Travelers standing in front of him each had a sword pointed straight at his chest.

The young woman in the middle was in her mid-twenties, roughly Valin’s age, and the patch on her uniform indicated she was a lieutenant in some Overlord’s private army. Her right eye was covered in a black patch, and she had her long hair tied behind her back.

“State your name, your rank, and your allegiance. Keep your hands away from your weapon.”

Casually, Valin rested a hand on his sword’s hilt. “Aren’t Damascan soldiers supposed to keep their hair short? It’s not like I care, but I thought it was regulation.”

According to Deianira, Valin had three bad habits.

His first: he talked far too much, even in situations where he should keep his mouth shut.

The lieutenant’s grip tightened, and she took a threatening step forward. “If you do not state your name and allegiance, I have no choice but to treat you as an agent of Enosh and deal with you accordingly.”

To either side of her, her fellow Tartarus Travelers spread out to keep Valin encircled.

Valin tried to keep his face serious, he really did, but he couldn’t help a small smile. “Out of curiosity, how would you treat me if I were an agent of Enosh?”

Another bad habit: he taunted his opponents. He didn’t have to, he supposed, but it was so easy. Everyone took combat so seriously all the time; because it was a matter of life-and-death didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun with it.

A hand brushed Valin’s shoulder as one of the soldiers tried to seize his sword arm. He should have moved faster.

Which brought to mind Valin’s third habit, and the one that came up most often: he loved a good fight, so he started as many as possible. More than he should, to tell the truth, but he saw himself as a helpless prisoner of his own impulses. Nothing got his blood up quite like a good brawl.

As a way of keeping himself in line, he always tried to wait until the other man threw the first punch. No one had punched him this time, but surely grabbing him was just as bad. They wanted to take Valin prisoner as a suspected killer from Enosh, and if they succeeded, how would he do his job?

Valin’s elbow crunched into the soldier’s nose. Warm blood spurted onto Valin’s arm, and the Traveler let out a shout of pain.

“If I really were from Enosh, that would have been a knife,” Valin said. “Did you really think it was a good idea to try and grab someone you thought was a dangerous assassin?”

The lieutenant seemed stunned for a second—in Valin’s experience, people often reacted that way when he stopped to chat in the middle of a fight—but she recovered quickly. While Valin was still talking, she lunged, her swordpoint leading the way.

It was exactly the move they taught Damascan twelve-year-olds in their first year of fencing school. Valin slapped the sword away with the back of his hand and stepped forward, grabbing the Traveler by her collar.

“Stab, you’re dead,” Valin said. “You’re a Tartarus Traveler in the Labyrinth. Surely you can do better.”

He shoved her backwards and she stumbled, barely managing to keep her feet. The third of the trio had raised his sword, but he changed his mind and knelt, pressing a hand to the metal floor of the Steel Labyrinth.

A hissing sound echoed through the hall as the mysterious mechanical contraptions of this Territory whirred to life.

Valin’s smile widened. “See? There we go.”

With a sound like a sail snapping in the wind, half a dozen spears launched from the far end of the hall, flying straight for Valin. They passed harmlessly around the three Tartarus Travelers; Valin almost thought one of the spears actually corrected itself in mid-flight to avoid the lieutenant.

In the split second it took the spears to reach him, Valin had his sword drawn. It was a standard Damascan longsword, forged for him by the best smiths in Cana. Deianira had bought it for him only a couple of months ago as a Winter’s End present.

He only hoped it wouldn’t break.

The first spear reached his right leg, and he barely stepped out of the way in time. The second he had to kick out of the air. The third, he dodged by leaning to the right, and the fourth simply missed.

The fifth and sixth spears flew true, and he didn’t have the time to dodge. With both hands on the hilt, he brought his sword crashing onto the first spear, striking it down with a shower of sparks. Without a second to pause, he swept his blade to the right, knocking the final spear off-course and sending it spinning in midair. The butt of the spear smacked into his ribs, but without enough force to do any actual damage.

The spears clattered to the sword-patterned floor in a crash of falling metal.

Valin slid his sword back into its sheath. “Now that was a rush! I’ll have to come back here. Good practice.”

His heart pounded with exhilaration, and at last he felt the old fire in his blood. It was all too rare these days that something challenged him.

The three Travelers were still on the ground. They weren’t unconscious, were they? He didn’t think he’d hit any of them too hard.

The lieutenant stared at him as though he had started to glow. “How did you do that?”

“Years of training and experience, a good night’s sleep, and loads of natural talent.”

The man with the bleeding nose raised himself to one knee. “Who are you?” he choked out.

“Oh, right.” Valin glanced around the hall until he spotted what he was looking for: a canvas satchel leaning against the spiked steel wall. He’d dropped it there as the three Tartarus Travelers attacked him.

“In the front pocket of my bag, there’s a piece of paper. Could you grab it for me?”

The lieutenant exchanged a look with one of her subordinates. After a few seconds, she reached warily into the front of the bag and plucked out a crumpled, browned sheet of paper.

“Deianira sent me,” Valin explained. “She thought you might need some help.”

The lieutenant’s eyebrows drew down, so close together that it looked like she was trying to glare a hole in the paper. She flipped it around, showing him the red wax seal on the other side.

“This is the royal seal,” she said. “By Deianira…do you mean Deianira the Third? Our Queen?”

“How many Deianiras do you know?” Valin asked. “I’ve only ever met the one. Didn’t you ask for help?”

He reached out for the paper. In what looked like an unconscious reflex, the lieutenant clutched it tighter. “We asked for reinforcements and advice, actually. From our Overlord, not from Cana.”

Valin didn’t know how the Queen had intercepted a message from Tartarus, but he had learned long ago not to underestimate her ability to ferret out secrets. “My strength and considerable experience are at your disposal,” he said. “I also took it upon myself to evaluate your combat skills.”

The lieutenant winced and looked away. “I can only say that, unlike many Travelers, we’re actually weaker inside our Territory than outside it.”

He had assumed as much. Tartarus had a well-earned reputation as a deadly combat Territory, but much of their strength came from their ability to summon their weapons almost instantly. Inside the Territory itself, they couldn’t summon weapons directly.

He knew that, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

“But I have no excuse,” the lieutenant continued, to Valin’s surprise. “We took you too lightly, and you were gentler than we deserved. Thank you.”

That may have been a first. Usually, the people Valin defeated showed one of three reactions: fear, anger, or disbelief. The lieutenant didn’t seem resentful at all, but he supposed carrying a letter with the royal seal on it could have simply impressed her. Perhaps that was all it was.

Still, he wasn’t sure how to respond.

“No need for thanks. I was rougher than I should have been.” Deianira would have passed out from shock if she heard those words coming from his mouth. “Besides, I was looking forward to the opportunity to come to Tartarus. I’ve never spent much time here—I can’t imagine I’ll find what I’m looking for, though I guess you never know.”

One of the other Travelers spoke up: “What are you looking for?”

“Dragons,” Valin said simply.

The soldier with the bloody nose snorted, and Valin shot him a look to shut him up.

The lieutenant looked completely lost. “But dragons aren’t real,” she said. “Are they?”

Valin sighed. He had delivered this lecture a thousand times, and sometimes he got sick of doing it. “In Naraka, there are black-skinned lizards that breathe fireballs. In Endross, there are huge flying drakes that spit lightning. In the lowest levels of Ornheim, there’s a species of burrowing worm that hurls sparks and is intelligent enough to speak. With all that, why shouldn’t there be dragons?”

“But—” the lieutenant began, but Valin kept going.

“And no, I know what you’re going to say, those aren’t dragons. I’m looking for a real dragon. Strong, intelligent, flies, breathes fire…a dragon. We’ll find one in a Territory one of these days, mark my words.”

Valin had seen plenty of draconic creatures, but nothing gave him the sense of majesty he had always pictured in the dragons of legend. Dragons should be more…magical, he guessed. And somewhere out there, in one Territory or another, he’d find one. He only had to keep looing.

“I see,” the lieutenant said in a voice that said she didn’t see at all. Clearly, she had lost the thread of the conversation a while back.

“You’ve seen many Territories,” one of the other Travelers said, in a transparent attempt to change the subject. “But I haven’t seen you summon anything. What kind of Traveler are you?”

“I’m not a Traveler,” Valin said. “I don’t have bonds to any Territory. I go from one to another, doing what I can. That’s probably why they call me the Wanderer.”

The three Travelers exchanged glances, but they had nothing to say.

***

The way back to the nearest Damascan base was tricky, and Valin was soon lost. Every half an hour or so—though it seemed completely unpredictable—the Labyrinth whirred and shifted. The hallways shuffled, the floor separating and sliding apart, new gaps opening in the walls. Once, a dead end transformed itself into a room full of whirling circular blades inches in front of Valin’s face.

The Tartarus Travelers took such things in stride, adjusting their course accordingly every time the maze shifted. They barely spoke about their route at all, following a mental map they all evidently shared.

As they walked, they answered Valin’s questions.

There were very few permanent outposts in the Steel Labyrinth. At least, none permanently manned. By order of the Overlord, no Damascan Travelers were allowed to sleep in their Territory; there had been disappearances, including a handful of tragic incidents in which the sleeping Travelers had been trapped in rooms with no exits. Sometimes, when they woke up, they were able to make Gates and escape. Other times, they would be skewered by traps while still unconscious.

Thus, the rule about sleeping in the maze.

The Tartarus Travelers understood these rules and seemed to accept them. Valin had been summoned for a more urgent reason.

“Something has been killing Travelers in our unit,” the lieutenant—whose name was Roshan—said, as she gently guided Valin away from a pit of gnashing mechanical traps. “They’re usually alone, and they fail to report in. When we find them next, it’s only their mangled bodies.”

“You think it’s Enosh?”

“We think one of them has disguised themselves as one of us,” Lieutenant Roshan said. “We think he or she is ambushing us when we’re alone, or else has summoned something to do it for them.”

She seemed more disgusted at the thought of a summoned killer. Was that because she was afraid of monsters from another Territory, or because she hated the idea of someone too cowardly to do their own killing? Valin had heard odd things about notions of honor in Tartarus.

“I’ll need to see the body. I can’t guarantee I’ll find anything helpful, but I’ll do what I can.” He wasn’t rude enough to say it to her face, but he was certainly more likely to know something useful than any of these Tartarus soldiers. He had devices in his satchel that might come in handy.

“You’re more likely to find something than we are,” Roshan said, impressing him yet again. “We’re going to stop by and pick up some more weapons before we show you the scene, just in case…”

Her voice trailed off as the wall in front of them parted, revealing a man lying on his back in a small pool of blood.

Too small, Valin noted immediately. The corpse was partially curled around a circular chest wound as big around as a man’s head. Anything that caused a wound that size should have left a puddle of blood twice as deep.

To her credit, Lieutenant Roshan did not hesitate. She snapped orders to her two subordinates, and they quickly drew their swords and positioned themselves around the body, watching the corners of the room for movement. It was not a large room, perhaps five paces to a side, and the only visible entrance was the one through which they had come. But if Valin had learned anything from his short time in Tartarus, it was that the Labyrinth could open up a new door anytime and anywhere.

“I take it this isn’t the body you meant to show me,” Valin said.

“The Captain’s body is in a coffin,” Roshan said in a tight voice. “We left the blood where he was killed, in case we needed to examine it again. This is a totally different room.”

Valin dipped his fingertips in the blood: still warm. He gestured to the corpse. “Who was this?”

“He was meant to stay with the Captain’s coffin.”

“Alone?”

She nodded. “This is the fourth victim. The second one taken right under my nose.” Roshan stared straight at the wall, and Valin left her to her thoughts. He had nothing productive to say.

Besides, the body was more interesting.

He ran a finger along the edge of the wound, coming up with a thin layer of black grit. Ash, perhaps? If so, they were most likely looking for a killer from Naraka, or maybe Endross.

He examined the body for another five minutes before he came up with another source of the black dust. Under the fingernails this time, as though the soldier had managed to scratch his attacker.

Valin scraped out a little of the dust and rubbed it between two fingers. Against his better judgment, he placed a little on his tongue.

He spat it out immediately. It didn’t taste foul; worse, it tasted like good topsoil. That narrowed his list of possibilities down to one. “Everybody who died was alone?” he asked, to be sure.

“They were.”

“Then I’m afraid I can probably tell you what killed them,” Valin said. “And you’re not going to like it.”

All three Tartarus Travelers turned to face him.

“What?” Lieutenant Roshan demanded.

“A Strugle.”

The room fell into a long stretch of silence.

“The monster from the children’s rhyme? ‘Good little girls, they must obey, or else the Strugle will take them away’? The Strugle is real?”

One of the male Travelers coughed to cover up a laugh.

Valin knelt and began rummaging through his pack, wishing he had packed the stone amulet he had once unearthed in Ornheim. It had been designed specifically to block the attack of a Strugle.

“Strugles are native to Ornheim, though based on the way it hunts, some naturalists believe it originated in Asphodel.” He had a dagger here that could heat itself red-hot but never lose its shape; no, if he got close enough to use a dagger, the Strugle would simply eviscerate him. “It locks on to feelings of loneliness, uncertainty, isolation, and it uses them to identify its prey. Its favorite tactic is the ambush; some people believe it feeds on the fear and surprise of its victims as much as their flesh and blood.”

The frozen horn he had picked up in Helgard, perhaps? Maybe it could banish the Strugle back to the Territory from whence it came…but no, blowing the horn in Tartarus was too risky. It might banish whole rooms from the Labyrinth around them, leaving them to fall right through the floor.

“Tartarus Travelers would normally be a good match for a Strugle,” Valin continued. “You summon quickly, you’re usually armored, and you’re rarely alone. It’s hard for a Strugle to target someone like you. But that’s when you’re outside your Territory. If you’re here, and you don’t know what you’re facing, you’re little better off than an ordinary person.”

These days, it almost never occurred to Valin that he, too, could be considered an ordinary person. He had certainly never thought of himself as ordinary.

“How do we catch it?” one of the men said.

“We don’t,” Lieutenant Roshan responded, reluctance heavy in her voice. “We tell everyone we can about it. We let the Overlord know what we’re up against. We prepare, and we hit it together.”

“Lieutenant…” the man began, but he let the statement hang.

Valin thought he saw the problem. He wasn’t the most familiar with Tartarus Travelers, but they had a reputation for their prickly sense of honor. He didn’t fully understand it—honor seemed like an unnecessary set of arbitrary rules, to him—but he could at least accept it.

“Is there some reason you might want to catch this thing yourself?” Valin asked. He kept rummaging around in his satchel; surely something in his collection would come in handy.

“As I said, two victims now have died under my protection,” the Lieutenant said. “Including my commanding officer. The Overlord has yet to send a replacement for him, but when he does, I have no doubt I will be at least demoted. Capturing or killing the beast myself would go a long way toward restoring my honor, but that won’t happen.”

“Why not?”

She met his gaze levelly. “Because it’s not about me. It’s about saving lives. The smart move is to regroup, report, and form a plan of attack.”

“Aha!” Valin said. At last, he had found something worth looking for. It was a plain gold medallion, unmarked, that gave its wearer a vague sense of danger. He had received it as a gift from a Tartarus Traveler, actually, who had found it in a locked chest deep in the heart of the Labyrinth. Valin was convinced the medallion was unfinished—there had to be some way of improving it, even if no one else would try—but it would be perfect against an ambush predator like the Strugle.

“Fortunately for you,” Valin said, “I rarely do the smart thing.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how they sounded, but he plunged ahead anyway. “I’ve hunted Strugle before, in teams and alone. You can evade them, you can trap them, and you can kill them. All you need is bait.”

Roshan shook her head. “I told you, I won’t—”

“Let me put this to you another way, Lieutenant,” Valin said. “I’m going to find a Strugle. With your help, I’m much more likely to survive. And if I die, it will be because you abandoned me.”

Without another word, Valin set off down the steel-plated hallway. Deianira would have backed these Travelers into the same corner, he was sure, but she would have felt badly about it. Valin didn’t. He would have been perfectly happy to hunt the creature alone, but if she followed, perhaps Roshan would get a little bit of the credit.

Only seconds later, three more sets of footsteps followed him.

***

Several hours after Valin’s conversation with Roshan, he knelt on a metal ledge, looking down into a cavernous steel bowl. Blindfolded, Lieutenant Roshan crouched at the center of the bowl. His golden medallion hung around her neck.

They needed bait for the Strugle, and at first Valin intended to use himself. He found a likely spot to set up a trap—a room with lots of the dark tunnel entrances Strugles preferred, close to where it had carried out its earlier killings. When he started tying the blindfold around his own eyes, Roshan had stopped him.

You’ve fought these things before, she’d said. Are you afraid of them?

Well…no.

Then that settles it. They’re attracted to fear. I’ve never seen one of these things before, I’ve only seen what they can do to my men. I’m terrified.

And somehow, Valin found himself prepared to carry out an ambush, while Roshan sat out there waiting for one.

He had faith in their chances of attracting a Strugle. The hunter was obviously very active, considering its recent body count, and the conditions were perfect. As long as Roshan was genuinely shaken, they had a good trap.

Assuming they could kill the creature once they caught it.

Strugles may have originated in Asphodel, but they were adapted to life in Ornheim. Their hides were covered in thick, stony plates that would turn any blade short of a pickaxe. For the two Strugles Valin had killed before, he had lured one into an ambush of fireball-wielding Naraka Travelers, and crushed the other beneath a giant boulder.

Valin had heard great things about the superiority of Tartarus Steel blades, but if they could pierce the hide of an Ornheim predator like a Strugle, he would buy one of those weapons for himself. Maybe Deianira could get him one.

He waited in silence as two hours stretched into three. It wouldn’t have surprised him to spend an entire night waiting patiently for the Strugle to arrive, but obviously it had instructions to strike early and often.

At the edge of the metal bowl, a flicker of movement caught Valin’s attention.

He stared into the shadows, trying to figure out whether his eyes were tricking him. The darkness shifted again, and a brown-black lump slid into view.

It looked like a starving man strapped with stone armor. Slatted ribs pressed against thin, flaky skin underneath heavy blocks of granite. Its arms tapered to black spearpoints at the end; he couldn’t see anything like hands or claws.

As he had recalled, the face was the worst. Its mouth was a circular, sucking vortex full of teeth, its eyes huge moons of milky white. It was a face bred for inspiring nightmares in children.

Luckily—or perhaps not—Valin had seen worse.

Quietly, he signaled the other two Travelers, gesturing down toward the creature. Roshan couldn’t see his gestures from behind her blindfold, but it seemed she sensed something. She froze as soon as the Strugle emerged from the shadows, slowly turning her head to face the monster.

The Traveler nearest to Valin reached over, lifting the lid of a long silver treasure chest. He had insisted on picking it up from a Damascan armory before they set this ambush.

Across the room, on the opposite side of the great steel bowl, the other male Tartarus Traveler raised one hand in front of him.

A spinning blade the size of a cartwheel erupted into the air out of the silver chest, so big it seemed like it couldn’t possibly have fit inside. Almost soundlessly, it whirred into the air and spun into the Traveler’s waiting hand.

The closer soldier reached into the chest with one hand. When he pulled it out, the hand was covered by a gleaming silver gauntlet.

So quietly Valin almost couldn’t believe it, more pieces of armor flew from the chest and assembled themselves on the Traveler’s waiting body. In only a few seconds, and with less sound than a clattering teacup, the soldier of Tartarus was covered by a suit of polished steel.

Unaware, the Strugle crept closer toward Lieutenant Roshan. It scuttled like a crab, though it only had four limbs, inching sideways and lurching forward as though nervous.

Right now, the medallion she wore should be warning her of the Strugle’s approach. She would be ready to attack when the time came.

Valin placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. The three Travelers would attack first. With any luck, they would finish it off before he managed to climb down. If not, he stayed in reserve. Everything had lined up exactly as they had planned.

With a grinding squeal of shifting gears, the Labyrinth changed.

The bowl slid back, bringing the Strugle and Lieutenant Roshan away from the rest of the room. Valin’s ledge raised even higher, and the room widened, separating him from his allied Traveler on the other side.

Great, Valin thought. Now it’s going to take me forever to climb down.

It actually took him another second to realize the real problem: now, even the two Tartarus Travelers were too far away. The Strugle would get the first strike.

“Go now!” Valin hissed to the Traveler next to him. “I’ll catch up!”

But the man didn’t leave. He reached into the chest and pulled out one of the strangest swords Valin had ever seen. It was long, clearly meant to be used with both hands, and slightly curved. The sheath still covered its blade, but Valin knew it would only be sharp along the outside edge.

The Traveler leaned back, poised to throw the sheathed sword like a javelin.

“Lieutenant!” he bellowed, and launched the sword like a ballista.

It shot straight for Lieutenant Roshan, who did not turn toward the sound of her subordinate’s voice, as Valin had expected she would. Instead, she turned to face the Strugle and tore her blindfold off.

For a split second, as the curved sword flew through the air, she stared into the Strugle’s horrific milky eyes.

And without looking, she reached up and caught her sword in her left hand.

In one smooth motion, she pulled the sword from its sheath and swept its edge toward her opponent.

Valin didn’t watch how it turned out; he started to scramble down the side of his steel cliff. The landscape was made up almost entirely of interlocking steel plates, and he cut himself more than once, but he knew he would need to get down there as fast as possible.

The Strugle’s preferred method of attack was ambush, terrifying the victim into paralysis before impaling them on its spear-like arms and draining them of blood. But if it was confronted, it would not run away and seek other prey, as would many predators. Instead, it hunched into an almost turtle-like defensive stance, using its stony armored plates to defend itself as it continued to force its victim into a corner. Only when it had no other options would it finally flee.

In this situation, the Strugle running was probably a worst-case scenario. It would be free to hunt on its own, and there was no realistic chance of tracking it down a second time before it killed again. They had to kill it before it either devoured Lieutenant Roshan or decided to run.

Why did the room have to shift? Valin wondered. Why then, at that exact time? If the bowl had stayed in place, the Travelers could have killed the creature instantly, from a safe range.

If the Steel Labyrinth was self-aware, it had a sick sense of humor.

On the far side of the room, the Traveler with the bladed disc hurled it toward the Strugle. Closer to Valin, the man covered in armor leaped down from the ledge, landing easily on the ground twenty feet below.

Obviously, the armor reinforced his body somehow, which Valin deeply envied at the moment.

I’d give my left leg for strength like that right now. He wouldn’t mind the armor part either, to tell the truth; his fingers were bleeding from a dozen little cuts.

When he finally reached the bowl, the three Tartarus Travelers had things well in hand. The one with the disc waited high on his ledge, throwing it every few seconds and calling it back to his hand. It didn’t do much damage to the rocky monster of Ornheim, but it left little chips of stone in its wake.

It seemed the armored Traveler’s job was to keep the Strugle from reaching its prey. Every time the creature got close to stabbing Roshan, the man pulled it backwards. Roshan herself used her gleaming blade to deflect strike after strike, occasionally flickering out to draw blood.

Delay tactics, Valin realized. They were holding it there, chipping away at the predator little by little, waiting for it to succumb to its wounds and die.

Not a bad strategy, but if this kept up, Valin wouldn’t get his chance to fight. The whole trip would be a waste.

Apparently the Strugle heard his thoughts, because the creature’s head twisted almost backwards on its neck, its two white-lantern eyes staring him straight in the face. Its round mouth let out a growling shriek, and it slipped through the armored Traveler’s gauntlets to scuttle straight toward Valin.

It seemed to prefer weaker prey.

Valin drew his sword and held a basic stance: blade up, feet apart, crouched on the balls of his feet. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. This wasn’t, perhaps, the most efficient way of getting rid of the creature, but Naraka take him if it wasn’t more fun.

The Strugle opened with a probing jab of its spear-arm that Valin had no trouble deflecting. The second had a little more spirit behind it. Rather than trying a third time, the Strugle hissed and rushed him, loping straight forward with both arms extended.

Valin twisted to the side and put his whole body behind a thrust to the Strugle’s relatively unarmored chest.

Then Tartarus played yet another underhanded trick on him.

His sword bent and snapped off, clinging as it struck the metal floor.

Without missing a step, Valin threw his hilt aside. If he tried to back off, the Strugle would simply stab him through the back. So he leaped forward.

He didn’t have anything like the strength it would take to wrestle with the creature evenly, but he would settle for not getting stabbed. Awkwardly, he pushed at the Strugle’s arms with hands and feet, trying to keep it entangled long enough for Lieutenant Roshan to strike the final blow.

Over the monster’s plated shoulder, he happened to catch a glimpse of Roshan’s eyes.

She had her curved sword held in both hands, and was almost here. He hoped he could hang on long enough for her to get there and stab the monster through.

Wait, come to think of it, how will I get out of the way when she does? She won’t stab me, will she? This was a bad plan.

Instead of crossing the last few paces to him, though, she stopped, drew one arm back, and threw her sword forward.

Is she trying to hit this thing with her thrown sword? Valin thought. People tried it occasionally, but it never worked. Never. If she managed to kill a Struggle with it, he was going to apprentice himself to this woman, and never leave until he learned her miraculous sword-throwing secrets.

The sword didn’t fly nearly as straight as it had earlier; it looped and wobbled through the air

Oh, she’s not throwing it at the Strugle. She’s throwing it to me.

If anything, the thought was even less comforting…but still interesting. He couldn’t deny he liked the idea of finishing off this creature himself. He had to let go of one of the Strugle’s arms—potentially freeing it to stab him in the back—to reach up and snatch the hilt of the lieutenant’s sword.

He was face-to-face with the Strugle’s whirling circular mouth, close enough to smell the iron on its breath. His body was pressed against the creature’s unarmored underbelly.

He had the perfect chance. So he grabbed the hilt of the sword in both hands and drove it down, putting three and a half feet of steel into the monster’s guts.

It spasmed as it died, leaking strangely dark blood all over the place. Valin stepped back, to avoid getting more blood on his skin than he absolutely had to. He pulled the sword out with him, and it slid from the monster’s body with miraculous ease.

“I need to get one of these swords,” he said. “They’re incredible.”

Lieutenant Roshan’s grin made her look ten years younger. “Come and see me in the Forges, and I’ll show you how they’re made. We’ll have plenty of time, since I suspect I’ll be on forge duty for the next few weeks. If not the rest of my natural life.”

Valin reversed the bloody sword and held it out to her, hilt-first. “I might take you up on that. But who says you’ll be punished at all? We caught the thing, didn’t we?”

She took the sword from him and began wiping the blade down with a thick cloth she produced from her pocket. “Not enough, I’m afraid. It was your plan that worked, and you that struck the final blow. Thank you, by the way.”

Tartarus Travelers and their honor. They could be even more confusing than the Labyrinth itself. “If you knew that, why did you toss me the sword? Why didn’t you wait and kill it yourself?”

Roshan moved around to the armored Traveler, helping him out of his breastplate. Apparently he couldn’t just conjure it off the same way he could summon it on. “I knew you had the better shot,” she said. “That was what mattered. Besides, it’s not like this is over. We still don’t know who summoned it in the first place.”

“Sure you do,” Valin said. “Enosh. It’s always Enosh.”

“We’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

Valin nodded absently, still looking at the Strugle’s corpse. “That’s it for me, though. My job’s done. I was almost hoping it would take longer.”

“Hoping you would run into a dragon?” the armored man asked. His voice was somewhat muffled by the helmet.

Valin spread his hands helplessly. “Not entirely. The Territories are fascinating; I can never see enough of them. I’ve never spent much time in Tartarus before, so I was hoping to get to know it a little better.”

He hesitated, then added, “And you never know. Maybe there are dragons here after all.”

Lieutenant Roshan shrugged. “Well, good luck to you. Tell the Queen we were grateful for your assistance, and hers. If it helps…I’ve heard rumors of fire-breathing snakes with golden scales. Not dragons, exactly, but close.”

“It’s just a tale we use to keep the novices up at night,” one of the men put in. “But as you said, you never know.”

Valin had certainly followed up on less. “Where?” he asked.

“Supposedly, in the center of the Labyrinth.”

He picked up his satchel, slinging it over one shoulder. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

“It’s a labyrinth,” Lieutenant Roshan said. “That’s more than a name. It’s a big maze.”

“So no one knows where the center is.”

Oh, well. He would find it himself. He liked things better that way.

“Before I forget…” Roshan said, and tossed him his gold medallion. “I had a real battle with myself about giving that back to you. It may have saved my life today. The voice is a eerie, though.”

Valin snatched the medallion out of the air and tucked it away in his satchel. He hadn’t forgotten; part of him had been hoping that Roshan would stay quiet and try to keep the artifact for herself. He should have known better.

“You wouldn’t be willing to part with your sword, would you?” Valin asked hopefully. “I could make a trade.”

She laughed. “Pick one up yourself. There are plenty around here. If you want a good one, though, you’ll have to come see me in the forges.”

“Oh, well. It was worth a try.”

Valin raised a hand in farewell and headed out of the room and back into the razor-filled hallway. He had a few days before Deianira expected him back. Maybe as much as a week.

The Wanderer walked deeper into the Steel Labyrinth, looking for dragons.

You will find that the Red light of diligence shines strongly in the Labyrinth, for many of its Travelers hold fast to the old ways. Rather than guiding them, we must ask them to guide us.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 6: Red

The Lightning Wastes

Valor is an easy virtue to admire.

We make heroes out of those who charge recklessly against superior forces. We idolize the warriors who risk their lives to save the innocent, who stand firm in the face of certain death. Truly, bravery and courage are fine qualities.

But Travelers of Endross can take it too far.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 7: Gold

358th Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Leah I

9 Days Until Autumn’s End

Queen Leah the First slumped over onto her camp desk. The thing almost collapsed—it was made to fold and pack up for easy marching, and she'd been using it as a permanent fixture for months now. She was lucky it had lasted this long without buckling under her.

She kept her face pressed against the desk. So what if the desk broke, sending her crashing to the ground? She couldn't bring herself to care.

She had other things to worry about. Such as her meeting with the nine Overlords, which had just ended.

“Could that have possibly gone any worse?” She asked, into the desk.

Indirial's cloak rustled and a chair creaked; he must have sat down. “An Incarnation didn't blast through the tent and kill us all. In that light, I'd say we came out ahead.”

Leah raised her head, which took ten times as much effort as normal. “They're not listening to me anymore, Indirial. They're not concerned about the nation. They can hardly see past their own cities.”

Indirial's easy smile never left his face, blinding white against his tan villager's skin. It was hard to put a dent in his optimism. “You're young, and they barely know you. Give them time. Besides, the nation's going through a crisis. Of course they're going to look to their own realms first.”

He had taken his black cloak off, draping it over the back of his chair, leaving his chain-wrapped arms bare. She had rarely seen the shadow-chains that marked his arms so short; they stopped above his wrists. He wore confidence like a second cloak, solid and dependable even in a crisis. He had to be as old as her father—old enough to be her grandfather, in fact—but he looked twenty years younger. The benefits of Valinhall, she was sure.

Leah glanced over at the table next to her. It was much sturdier than her portable writing desk, and covered with a giant map of the kingdom of Damasca. The map was almost lost beneath a chaos of pins and buttons in every color imaginable. The release of the Incarnations had worked on the nation like a kick on an anthill. Cities were practically trading refugees, as their citizens fled one citadel for perceived safety in another. Thousands of them were here, camped under her command, less than five miles from the sealed city of Cana.

“It's not what they're doing that bothers me,” Leah said. “Look at what they're not doing. None of them bothered to address the Endross Incarnation. Not even Overlord Feiora.”

Only a few days ago, they had received word that the Endross Incarnation had burst forth from its prison beneath the city of Eltarim. It had left the city largely untouched for some reason, blasting off into the wilderness to terrorize ordinary merchants and a handful of small villagers.

Indirial folded his arms. “Overlord Feiora rules Eltarim, but the city and the surrounding lands are practically unharmed. She's no Endross Traveler.”

“She should have been,” Leah said. Her father had appointed Feiora Torannus to guard the Endross Incarnation, even though she was an Avernus Traveler. In every other case, the Overlord Traveled the same Territory as the Incarnation he or she guarded. Feiora was the sole exception, and at the moment Leah was having trouble recalling why. “In any case, that's no excuse for her shirking her duty.”

“You think she may have a...personal reason for refusing to listen to you?” Indirial's grin got a little wider. “Maybe you shouldn't have trapped her brother alive.”

Lysander Torannus, Feiora's brother, had been another Overlord. Before she sealed him into a block of solid crystal for treachery and attempted regicide.

Leah glared at the Overlord of Cana. “I'll let him out at any time, if you think she won't mind me executing him instead.”

Indirial put on a thoughtful look. “No...no, I don't think that would win you any friends. Besides, she has a point. She's got enough trouble keeping her people from panicking. She doesn’t need to hunt an Incarnation down. What would she do if she found it?”

Leah had to resist raising a hand to her pounding head. She always got a headache after meeting the Overlords. Instead, she scooped up a report detailing the number of Travelers under her direct command.

“How many Endross Travelers did you have working for you?” she asked.

“Six.”

“Can you find any of them now?”

“I'd bet I can tell you exactly where they are.” Indirial craned his neck and looked meaningfully out the flap of the tent.

A few miles distant, but still clearly visible, the city of Cana glowed like a cherry-red sunset. The whole capital, from wall to wall, was covered by a shining dome of scarlet light.

Sealed by the power of the Ragnarus Incarnation. No one had been in or out since the Incarnations first escaped, over three months before.

Leah found herself wondering whether any of the Endross Travelers were still alive. Whether anyone was alive, under the dome, or if their blood, minds, and souls had been used as fuel for the weapons of the Crimson Vault.

“I don't see any on the list,” Leah said, scanning it quickly.

Indirial leaned forward, shuffling through her papers. “I think there's...ah, yes, here we go. One of Cana's weather-workers made it out before the city was sealed.”

Leah took the paper he offered her. “An Endross weather-worker? I never knew Cana had one.”

“The weather in Cana's pretty mild, so she had an easier job than most, but she warded off her fair share of storms.”

She stared at the one single name under the “Endross” column, as though she could make it multiply by sheer force of will. “Where are the others? Even counting the people trapped in Cana, we should have seen some Endross Travelers from other cities.”

Indirial hesitated for a moment before speaking. “This is hearsay, you understand, but I've talked to the other Overlords. They're all missing Endross Travelers. I'd go so far as to say we're missing maybe half of all the Endross-trained Travelers in the kingdom.”

“Where did they go?” Leah asked. Her tone sounded much more harsh than she meant; she sounded like she was going to track them down and strangle them all one by one.

Then again, that might not be such a bad plan.

“With the King dead, and the Incarnations loose, and no Overlord specifically looking over their shoulder, where do you think they went?” Indirial leaned over the map. “Some of them probably deserted, I'm sure some of them started following their Incarnation around, and I'd bet most of them took the excuse to move to their Territory. You know how Endross is.”

Endross itself was a blasted landscape, half storm-wracked desert and half deadly jungle. Endross Travelers were the only ones crazy enough to try and live there.

Leah stood up, taking care not to put any weight on the unsteady desk. “Since the Overlords are unwilling to do their jobs, I'll have to go myself.”

Indirial pulled his cloak off the chair. “I figured as much. Let's go get that weather-worker, she can guide us.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Not us, Indirial. I have a different assignment for you.”

The Overlord's eyebrows raised. “You can't go without a bodyguard.”

“I need you to hunt down the Endross Incarnation. Kill it if you can, but if not, drive it away from the populated areas.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Huh. I guess there's no one else around to do the job. Very well, my Queen, I live to serve.” He gave her a little cloak-flourishing bow. “I will leave as soon as you select another bodyguard.”

“I hardly need one.”

“No one is safe alone,” Indirial said, for once completely serious. “Particularly not with the Incarnations around. And no matter how confident you are, you'll be surrounded by Endross Travelers in their own Territory.”

“They're Damascan citizens,” she pointed out. They should obey her without question.

“They're Endross,” he said simply. “You need a bodyguard. I haven't seen Kai in weeks—”

Leah shuddered at the thought of spending even one day with Kai. She had never gotten over her distaste for the man. He was simply...eerie.

“...and Denner's in the south, leading refugees away from the Asphodel Incarnation. If I could find Kathrin, I could hire her to guard you, but that would take a few days.”

Indirial's grin was back, in full force. “There’s one Valinhall Traveler left.”

“It doesn't necessarily have to be a Valinhall Traveler.”

“Would you prefer one Valinhall or four Tartarus?”

Bringing one guide and one bodyguard meant she was confident enough in her royal commands that she didn't need to lean on force. Bringing one guide and four bodyguards meant she felt she needed protection, because she didn't expect the Endross Travelers to obey her. They would see it as a sign of weakness.

“...one.”

“Excellent!” Indirial said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I'll open a Gate.”

***

Indirial left his Gate open, then walked out of the tent. She called after him, but he didn't respond, which was typical: once the Overlord had a new goal in his sights, he tended to head straight for it, blocking out everything else.

She turned from the portal and faced the entry room of the House of Blades. It looked like nothing so much as a sitting-room for a wealthy noble. A wealthy noble from a century past. It was a little dim, and the swords—hung in wooden racks on the walls—left a little to be desired, as far as decor went. Ornately carved tables sat here and there in the room, covered by books and surrounded by plush, red-cushioned chairs. Against one wall set a comfortable-looking red sofa, though she thought she could hear a soft growling coming from that direction. It sounded like a badger stuck beneath the cushions.

Between the ostentatious furniture and the soft lighting, the scene almost looked like it belonged in an attic, covered in dust. She ran a hand along the top of a desk. It was spotlessly clean, and had been recently polished. She'd only entered Valinhall a handful of times before, and she had never caught a glimpse of anyone doing housework. Perhaps the House cleaned itself. Or maybe this was how they trained Travelers: by forcing them to dust the furniture.

“Excuse me,” she called into the hallway, which extended out beyond the entry hall. “Is anyone there?”

She felt distinctly uncomfortable, calling into a foreign Territory like this. Who knew what sort of creatures she might awaken? Then again, she had never seen anything here that looked remotely dangerous. Indirial and Simon always spoke as though the House was the most deadly Territory of all the eleven known to man, but she had yet to see why. It seemed quite comfortable, to her. Maybe they were spoiled.

When no one responded, she marched forward, into the hall. Doors stretched down the hallway on either side. To her left was a door with a single small circle; to her right, a door with a huge circle orbited by three small ones. Some way of distinguishing the bedrooms, she supposed, but she had never gotten a look inside one of these doors. She had no idea which one was Simon's. Maybe she should knock on each one separately, and see if someone answered.

As she raised her hand to knock, the door on the far left opened, and a woman stepped out. She had a pair of goggles pushed up her forehead, tied around the back of her head with a leather strap. They looked almost like Avernus flight goggles. Her long auburn hair was bound back with a rag, and she wiped her hands with a similar scrap of cloth. She looked like a miner's wife, more than anything else, though Leah knew she had some job here in Valinhall. She wasn't entirely clear what that job was, no more than she could remember this woman's name.

Her eyes grew wide, and she immediately fell to her knees, prostrating herself on the ground. “Your Highness! We were not expecting you.”

“You may stand,” Leah said wearily. She got sick of having to order people to stand; wouldn't it be much easier if they stood by default, and then she could order them to kneel if that was what she wanted? “I'm looking for Simon.”

“Of course, my Queen, of course,” the woman said, scrambling to her feet. She tried to smooth her hair, realized she held a dirty rag in her hand, and stuffed it into her pocket. “I'll have to wake him up, though. He's been fighting like a madman. Spends hours deep in the House, comes back bleeding so badly he can barely make it into the pool. The imps are going to get him one of these days, I swear they are. Maybe you can talk him out of it, Highness.”

“Perhaps,” Leah said. Imps? She wasn't sure what the imps were, though she had heard about Valinhall's healing pool. “Which room is his?”

The woman hesitated. “I'm sorry, Your Highness, but it might be better if you waited in the entry hall. I'll fetch him for you.”

“I've woken him up before,” Leah said, and the other woman frowned.

“Have you, now? I had wondered why...well. You're that Leah, are you?”

Leah cleared her throat. “Yes, I probably am.”

The woman nodded as though she had figured out the solution to a difficult puzzle. “Well, now. That explains some things. I always think I know that boy better than I do, but he never talks about himself. He always makes you ask.”

She chuckled, and Leah laughed politely along.

At exactly which point did I lose control of this conversation?

“So, which bedroom...” she said, trying to steer the woman back on track.

“Ah, yes. This way. I know you said you could handle it, but you might want to stay in the doorway.”

Handle what? Leah thought, but the other woman was pushing on one of the doors, the one marked by a large half-circle above two smaller circles.

Inside was a bedroom as well appointed, if not as large, as any of the rooms in the royal palace in Cana. The bed was a huge four-poster, with a bedside table on each side and a mirror against one wall, next to a washbasin. The only aspects of the room Leah didn't understand were the shelves built into the far wall, so they were the first thing anyone in the bed would see upon waking.

The shelves were covered in dolls. Dozens of little girls’ dolls, wearing every sort of clothing from a villager's brown shirt and pants to long, flowing court dresses. They had blond hair, and black, and white, and red, and every color Leah had ever seen on a human being.

And they all stared, with painted eyes, straight at Leah. As though they had been positioned that way all along.

“I see the dolls are doing…well,” Leah said. She knew how useful they could be, but she still couldn’t help a little shudder when she saw them looking at her. “Does he have to keep them right there in the bedroom?”

The other woman shrugged. “It's Kai's thing, I think. I’m sure he put the shelves there. Anyway, I don't question Travelers.”

Simon lay, shirtless and sound asleep, amid the cloud-soft whiteness of the bed's blankets. He was all tangled up in a sheet, as though he had tried to escape and the sheet had grabbed him and pulled him back. She always thought of him as small, and he would never be much more than her height, but he had put on a surprising amount of muscle in such a short time. If she hadn't known better, she would never have recognized him as the scrawny boy from Myria.

Instead of walking over to shake him, as Leah had expected, the woman cupped her hands to her mouth. “Simon!” she yelled. “Company!”

Leah barely saw it happen. First Simon was tangled up in the sheet so thoroughly that she was sure it would take a seamstress and a pair of gardening shears to get him loose, then he was across the room, inches in front of her, with a knife in his fist. The gleaming point of the steel pressed against her collarbone.

She choked down a scream and stepped back, proud of herself for not falling over backwards. “What do you think you're—” she demanded, but she stopped herself.

Standing in front of her, Simon woke up.

He blinked a few times, let out a little half-yawn, and noticed her for the first time. “Leah? Why are you…” He saw the knife in his own hand, and his fingers jerked open. The knife clattered to the floor.

“Ah! Sorry. I didn't...they try to kill me in my sleep. All the time. It's a habit, I'm sorry. Are you hurt?”

Leah shook her head, too numb to speak. He had almost stabbed her in the chest before he even realized who she was. Wait. Who, exactly, tries to kill him in his sleep?

Simon frowned at the other woman. “Mistress Agnos, how did you get in here?”

“Like this,” Mistress Agnos said, miming twisting a doorknob and pushing the door open. She watched the two of them with a little amused smile on her face. “You should keep it locked. And I told you to stand back, Your Highness.”

“So you did,” Leah said sourly. “Simon, I need someone to guard me while I go to Endross. We'll be in a Territory where it rains lightning, and we'll probably be surrounded by dozens of Travelers that want to kill me. I need someone to keep me alive and unharmed until we get back. Will you do it?”

Simon glanced down at himself, then at her, and his face flushed. “Uh, let me get a shirt on first.”

“That would be best.”

***

It took Simon a few minutes to get ready, but he eventually emerged, wearing his hooded black cloak and carrying a doll. This one wore her long red hair tied back in a tail, and her outfit was nothing more than a plain villager's shirt and pants. He held the doll in the crook of his arm as he followed Leah out through Indirial's Gate.

“Come back and visit us, Your Highness!” Mistress Agnos called, from back in the entry hall. Leah gave a noncommittal smile and wave. She was actually a little wary of the other woman, who seemed to swing between utter deference and a sort of motherly concern. It was disconcerting.

Helene Rhode, the Endross weather-worker, waited for them on the other side of the Gate. She was perhaps forty years old, with the bright green eyes characteristic of some Western Isles ancestry. Her sandy blond hair was cut close to her scalp, and she had a horizontal scar across one cheek. Most noticeably, she had a weapon strapped to every inch of her clothes. An unstrung crossbow hung from a harness at her right hip, opposite a one-handed infantry sword. She had buckled a dozen knives across her chest, on the outsides of her thighs, and on the insides of her boots. The hilts of two long knives, almost swords, poked up from her shoulders.

Thanks to the time fluctuation between Valinhall and the outside world, Leah had only been gone two or three minutes, but during that period Indirial had evidently found Helene in the camp and gotten her to the command tent. The man did work fast.

I thought she was a weather-worker, not a walking armory, Leah thought, but she kept it to herself. Helene probably expected anyone she came across to mention the weapons, so Leah would maintain the upper hand by saying nothing about them.

“Helene Rhode, I presume,” Leah said.

Helene tilted up a silver flask and took a drink before answering. “You need someone to show you around the Wastes, am I right?”

“That's correct.”

“Fifteen years I've been working in Cana, keeping the worst of the storms away. Ten years before that, I was guiding merchant caravans across Endross, trying to keep them alive. I'll get you wherever you want to go.” She flashed Leah a grin that looked more like a lioness baring her teeth than a smile.

Leah nodded as though she had expected no less. “You'll do perfectly, then. I need the Endross Travelers of Damasca to stop ignoring their duties and return to their posts. I don't know who can make that happen, but you will take us to them, and I will deliver my commands in person.”

Helene took another swig, arching an eyebrow at Leah over her silver flask. “Is there a reason you're going yourself, Your Majesty? No offense meant, but wouldn't you be better off sending a lackey?”

“I can delegate anything except my duties as a Traveler of Ragnarus,” Leah said, half-truthfully. The full truth was that she needed as much authority here as possible, and she didn't have an Overlord to represent her in this matter. It would be easier and faster to do it herself.

“You think this will involve Ragnarus?” The Endross Traveler sounded uneasy.

“It will if our friends don't cooperate.” In reality, if Leah had to rely on her crown to force the Travelers to obey her, she would have already lost. She was hoping to do this without using any of her Ragnarus weapons.

Not that she wouldn't bring them anyway, of course.

Helene nodded to Simon, her first time acknowledging his presence. “And him? I thought you were going to get a bodyguard.”

He had quietly walked over to the map table and sat his redheaded doll next to him. They appeared to be studying it together.

“My bodyguard. That's right.”

“Not to overstep my bounds, but wouldn't it be better to bring another Traveler? Between you and me, I think we can handle most trouble, but I don't think a boy with a sword is going to do us any favors.”

“I am a Traveler, actually,” Simon said. He sounded totally calm, but Leah knew he must have been irritated, or he would have left the question for her to answer.

“Oh really? Which Territory?”

Simon met her eyes. “Valinhall.”

Helene shot Leah a puzzled look. “Where?”

Oh, of course. Sometimes Leah forgot Valinhall's existence wasn't common knowledge. “The same Territory as Overlord Indirial, Helene.”

“Overlord Indirial? Really? I always thought he was a peculiar Tartarus.” She shrugged. “Well, the older you get, the more you learn, I guess. Now then, boy, what's with the doll?”

Simon looked down at the doll and back up, and Leah got the impression they were having a silent conversation. “She wants me to tell you her name's Rebekkah,” he said. He winced and added, “She would also like me to punch you in the face.”

Helene grinned her lion's grin once more. “I'd like to see that play out, Valinhall.”

Leah stepped in between them and gave Simon a cold look. He shrugged and pointed to Rebekkah, who seemed to have the slightest glare on her face. “That's enough. Helene, can you take us where we need to go?”

The Endross Traveler buckled her flask next to her crossbow and spread her hands. “I can take you to the main outpost. It's not hard to get there from here, actually. Short walk. I don't know who's in charge over there, but whoever it is, you'll probably have to fight them.”

“Excellent,” Leah said. “That's why I brought a bodyguard. Lead the way.”

Helene swept out of the tent, Leah followed, and Simon walked behind them, muttering softly to his doll.

***

Leah learned something that day.

She learned that she hated Endross.

It had taken them an hour of walking to reach the place where Helene had decided to open a Gate. Leah wasn't sure whether this was simply the closest place she could open a passable Gate, or whether this took them somehow closer to the main Endross outpost. It was supposed to be accessible from Cana, and they had walked directly away from Cana to open the Gate, but distance could be strange in Territories. An hour's walking west in the outside world could put them two hour's distance east in a Territory. Or a thousand feet up. It all depended on the Territory and the nature of the Gate.

In this case, Helene stopped by a cactus and an unremarkable stretch of scrub grass and announced, “This is it.” She spread her hands, opening one of the swirling, violent thunderstorms that Endross Travelers used as Gates. It hung horizontally in the air, a lightning-filled shadow roughly in the shape of a round doorway.

Helene stepped through without hesitation, obviously trusting the other two to follow. Simon waited for Leah to move first. Leah glanced at him, hoping to see him nervous, so she could offer support and thus make herself feel better. No luck. Simon looked back at her curiously. He even raised his eyebrows, silently asking if she needed anything.

She shook her head and stepped through the Gate. Back in Myria, she had so often wished Simon would act with a little confidence. Now, she wanted the old Simon back. If only to have someone around who was more uncertain than she was.

She stepped through, and had an instant to observe the landscape—a flat, cracked wasteland of yellow sand stretching as far as she could see, beneath an overcast sky—before something hit her ribs like a kick from a horse. She tumbled backwards, caught a glimpse of a blinding flash in the sky, heard thunder loud enough to tear her ears apart, and slammed into the unyielding ground. Her breath whooshed out of her, and she gasped for air, clawing for the weapon she’d dropped.

“Whew,” Helene said, grinning into Leah's face from two inches away. “Close one.”

It all came together: Helene had tackled Leah out of the way. Of what? Leah rolled to one side to see a smoking black scorch mark on the sand for an instant before the wind whisked the char away, leaving clean sand in its wake.

“Surely that would have missed me,” Leah said. The bolt looked like it would have hit several paces off the mark.

“Lightning works a bit different here than it does in the other world,” Helene said, pushing herself to her feet. “But it still carries along the ground. It doesn't have to hit you straight on. Standing too close still gets you.”

The other woman was practically shouting, both over the ring in Leah's ears and over the constant howling of the wind. The storm caught strands of Leah's hair and flailed her face with them, forcing her to constantly hold her hair back. She hadn't even managed to stand up yet.

Simon walked through the Gate a moment later. Leah was on the ground, covered in sand, trying to keep her face clear of her own hair. There was a scorch mark two paces from the Gate. Helene was still brushing sand from her pants.

“What happened?” he asked, in all innocence.

“Never mind,” Leah called over the wind.

The sky above her turned from a cool gray to jet-black in little more than an instant. She scrambled out of the way, imagining another lightning bolt blasting her to smoking pieces, but Helene didn't move.

An instant later, a waterfall of rain blasted Leah, soaking her to the bone in a second. Her crimson dress—formal attire, for when she was acting as Queen—deflated, fabric clinging to suddenly ice-cold skin. Her hair went from flapping around her face to hanging in front of her eyes in a sodden mask.

Then, after only a moment, the rain stopped.

Leah peeled hair back from her eyes to see Simon and Helene still standing in the exact same places, dry as the cracked sand.

Helene shrugged. “That happens,” she said. She started to trudge across the desert.

Leah couldn't remember the last time she had felt so embarrassed. She must look ridiculous. At least there was no one around to see. Well, Simon, but he hardly counted.

Simon let out a choking noise that might have started as laughter, and he was clearly losing the struggle to keep a smile off his face.

She raised one eyebrow at him, as her aunt would have done. “Well?”

Without saying a word, Simon walked over to her and extended a hand to help her up. He was still smiling, though, so she ignored him, instead searching around for the weapon she had dropped. When she found it, she shoved it into the ground and used it to prop herself up without Simon's help.

As Simon looked at the gold-headed, black-hafted Ragnarus spear, his smile faded. “Do you think you'll have to use that?”

“If I do,” Leah said, pushing hair out of her face, “then your presence here will become unnecessary.”

Simon nodded seriously, and together they began walking after Helene. A few more seconds passed, during which Simon wisely kept his mouth shut. Then his wisdom ran out.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

Leah shoved him with the butt of her spear.

***

The Endross outpost looked like a primitive fort. The wall was fifteen feet high and made of logs with the bark still on, lashed together by brown vines. A network of square wooden towers showed above the walls, each one made of rough-hewn timbers. The entire outpost was a square, not a circle as Leah had expected, and from each corner rose a tall metal spike.

“It’s to catch the lightning,” Helene explained, when Simon asked about them. “Funnels them into a…you know what? I’m not supposed to talk about it. Keeps the whole place from burning down, that’s all you need to know.”

Two Travelers, a man and a woman, stood guard outside the outpost gate. The woman was dressed in what Leah would expect from one of the Badarin desert people: her head was wrapped in a white cloth, she wore loose-fitting, pale-colored garments, and the pommel of her sword had no bare metal showing. The man dressed more traditionally for Endross Travelers, in a leather breastplate and leather-padded leggings, with a leather cap. A necklace of what looked like lion’s claws hung down over his chest.

He smiled broadly when he saw them, baring all his teeth like a maniac. “Who goes there.” It was a statement, not a question, delivered in the most evil, threatening tones Leah had ever heard.

Without being asked, Helene announced them in a clear, ringing voice. “Her Highness Leah the First, Queen of Damasca, seeks an audience with the leader of this outpost.”

Leah wasn’t ‘seeking an audience’ with anyone. She was demanding the presence of whoever currently commanded this outpost, so she could get her Travelers back. However, Endross Travelers seemed unlikely to appreciate a political distinction, so she let it slide.

Simon stood to her right, and at some point he had raised the hood of his cloak. She found herself oddly comforted to have him there, even though—as she reminded herself—she still had her father’s spear. Surely that would be enough to deal with anything an Endross pulled.

The man lost his smile, and the woman at his side pulled a cloth away from her mouth to whisper in his ear. Her expression said she never smiled, and did not expect that trend to change anytime soon.

The man cleared his throat. “You would be looking for Corthis, then. He’s the strongest around here. But you’ll have to prove who you are.”

Leah and her companions stared at the guard. Before they reached the outpost, Leah had arranged her crown on her head: a silver circlet set with a large ruby. The gem gleamed and pulsed with its own crimson light.

Hefting the spear, Leah took a step toward the guard. “You want to see proof of my identity?” she asked quietly. With a touch of her will, she prepared the circlet for action. It flared with a harmless red light; the crown wouldn’t activate without more effort on her part, but it still looked impressive.

The male guard took two steps back. Then one more, just to be safe. The woman stayed where she was, but she cringed from the light nonetheless.

“Sorry, my Queen, I didn’t recognize you,” the man croaked. “Enjoy your stay in the outpost.”

With a shockingly loud voice, the woman bellowed for someone on the other side of the gate to let the strangers in.

Leah let the light in her crown die and strode in, following a chuckling Helene, and followed by a silent Simon, who had taken the rear without being instructed. Perhaps he might grow into the bodyguard business after all; half of it was simply looming behind his employer, letting people know he was there without saying a word. Granted, that would be easier for him if he were two feet taller, or if he had more of a reputation. Or if people knew what a Valinhall Traveler was.

But she saw some potential.

Corthis, it turned out, was in the very back of the outpost, in a building that looked like a wooden amphitheater. He sat in a raised box above the stadium, which was packed with roaring Endross Travelers. And, for that matter, roaring Endross creatures. Snakes slithered among the feet of the stomping fans, deftly avoiding being crushed by their masters. Something like a reptilian panther wove in and out of the shadows beneath the stadium supports, its coat occasionally crackling with blue sparks. Tiny storm drakes flashed in glittering swarms above the crowd.

As Leah stepped inside, she got her first glimpse at why the Travelers were all cheering.

The floor in the center of the stadium was bare, packed Endross sand. Two big men in torn leathers, presumably both Endross Travelers, circled each other in the ring. They were scratched, bleeding, and unarmed. One of them roared and charged like a bull, slamming his shoulder into his unprepared opponent’s middle. He didn’t stop there. He kept charging until he hit the short wall marking the edge of the floor. He slammed his opponent’s body into the wall, flipping the other man up and into the spectators on the other side.

The watching Travelers loved it. They roared and stood, some of them literally glowing with excitement. Those few shone like bolts of lightning themselves.

A gong rang out, echoing through the stadium, apparently announcing the end of the fight.

After about five minutes of non-stop cheering, Corthis raised a hand. He had once been a truly enormous man, but now age was catching up to him. His hair and beard were as much gray as black, and Leah suspected he hadn’t had his huge gut for long. But his arms were as wide around as Simon’s waist and thick with muscle.

“Men and women of the Wastes!” Corthis announced, his voice ringing like a town crier’s. “We have a royal visitor!”

A few people laughed, a handful booed, but most stayed silent. Everyone in the stadium, even the bleeding man on the floor, turned to look at Leah.

Well, her parents had prepared her for nothing if not addressing the public. “I would speak with you, Corthis, if you represent these people. May I approach?”

Without waiting for a response, she walked toward the stairs leading up to Corthis’ box.

“Anything for my queen!” he shouted, and a dozen spectators laughed. Leah walked up into the box, her guide and her bodyguard following.

Up close, Corthis seemed to fill the entire box. Between his loud voice, his expansive gestures, and his physical size, he had a sense of presence that made him almost overwhelming. Also, he had a huge snake wrapped around the head of his chair, and he was leaning against it like a pillow. That was the sort of disturbing detail she was sure he used to throw people off track.

“So, Your Highness, what can I do for you?” he asked smoothly, as soon as she entered the box. She did not let herself be rushed. Instead, she pulled up a chair, angling it so that she could look him in the eye.

“I suspect you know,” she said. “The Endross Travelers have settled here instead of seeing to their duties in the kingdom. We have an Incarnation running around loose, and none of your Travelers to help contain it.”

Corthis opened his eyes wide, as though startled. “Only one Incarnation? Why, this situation must be better than I’d heard! Let’s all pack up and go home right now!”

Scattered laughter from the nearby seats. Corthis was making no effort to moderate his voice.

“You are all Damascan Travelers. Your duty is to your country.”

“Let us speak seriously,” Corthis said, which had to have been a deliberate insult. “We have no Overlord above us. We cannot stand against an Incarnation. What are we to do? Who is to tell us our duty?”

Leah let a little heat into her voice; it was appropriate at this point. “I’ll tell you what your duty is not, Traveler Corthis: hiding while the citizens of Damasca die beneath the lightning of your Incarnation.”

Corthis smiled and spread his hands, not at all put off by her words. “I still see no reason why we should return to a devastated kingdom instead of staying here to secure our own lands.”

“Because I command it,” Leah said. She had intended to wait a little longer before playing that piece, but he had set her up too well.

“And who are you to command me, little girl?” Corthis asked, amused.

Leah shrugged. She raised her voice to match his, letting her words echo through the stadium. “You value bravery in combat here, don’t you? Let’s meet in the ring.”

She didn’t move, exactly, but she shifted so the light caught the rubies set into her crown and spear.

Corthis coughed. “None of that, now, none of that. No one doubts the strength of Ragnarus, to be sure.”

A few people in the crowd murmured uneasily.

“But it’s not the strength of your Territory in question,” he continued. “And what is the strength of a leader if not the strength of his men? Let’s test two of yours against two of mine, and see who comes out on top.” He smiled as though he had finally trapped her. In that moment, she almost pitied him.

Endross Travelers had a reputation for being brave, vicious, and slightly insane. They were also known to be stubborn, stupid, and…she supposed the best phrase would be ‘predictably unpredictable.’

Leah saw nothing here to refute those beliefs.

“Agreed,” Leah said, feigning reluctance. Helene, to her credit, didn’t hesitate. She loosened the sword at her side, checked a couple of knives, and walked down the stairs to the center of the stadium.

Simon, on the other hand, stopped and gave Leah a questioning look, which was not the image she wanted to present in public. He should have given every appearance of accepting her orders without question.

“You’ll be up here alone,” he said, in a low voice, which made it a bit better. Her bodyguard should worry about leaving her unprotected.

“Don’t be concerned,” Leah said, loud enough that Corthis could hear her. “I have nothing to fear from him.” It was true; she could activate her crown as quickly as she could speak, she held her Ragnarus spear in her hand, and she had a few other surprises prepared in her pockets. She could handle an Endross Traveler or six.

“He’s right here, though,” Simon said, in the same low voice. “Why don’t we deal with him?”

What did he mean by ‘deal with?’ Did he literally mean make a deal with the man, or was he suggesting execution? Perhaps torture? With Simon, she wasn’t sure.

“I have every confidence in your ability to ‘deal with’ anyone. However, please proceed into the arena and do as your queen commands.”

Simon winced, but he managed to execute a fairly credible bow. “And what does my queen command?”

“Win.”

“I can do that,” he said. His cloak trailed behind him as he walked down the stairs.

Corthis shouted a couple of names, and two big leather-clad brutes walked from the seats. One of them held a huge two-handed sword, and the other walked with something like a glowing blue crocodile at his side.

“The Queen’s men will be put to the test of the storm!” Corthis called, in his booming voice. The crowd’s cheering drowned even his bellowed words. Helene, Leah noticed, rolled her eyes at being counted among the Queen’s ‘men.’

The four combatants stood on the sand. The three Endross Travelers—including Helene—looked like dogs at the ends of a series of chains, each straining to reach the others but holding themselves back. Simon, in contrast, hadn’t lowered his hood or summoned his sword. He wasn’t crouched, or in any kind of stance Leah could recognize. He just stood there.

“What’s wrong with your boy?” Corthis asked in a whisper. He peered closer, leaning forward in his chair. “Is he carrying a doll?” Leah didn’t respond, hoping he would take it for mysterious confidence.

From somewhere in the stadium, a gong rang out, and the Endross Travelers started moving.

Not faster than Simon.

In an instant, he crossed the space between him and his two opponents, and had one hand around each of their necks. He heaved his shoulders, tossing them three paces backwards, over the short wall and into the stands.

The gong rang again, weaker this time, as though the one ringing it hadn’t been quite prepared. The glowing crocodile hissed and ran up to Simon, but Simon leaned down and stared it in the eyes. He didn’t do anything but stare, as far as Leah could tell, but the reptile froze.

It backed away, moving in a reverse waddle until it got far enough away to scurry out of the arena entirely.

“Are they out of bounds?” Simon called up to the box. Leah didn’t think it mattered whether they were disqualified or not; they lay motionless on the steps and didn’t show any signs of stirring.

Corthis cleared his throat. “Indeed they are, indeed they are. That was…a remarkable display.”

Helene had her head cocked and was looking at Simon as though she had never seen him before.

Leah shouted down into the ring. “Simon, why don’t you keep going while Corthis and I have a talk?”

Simon swept another bow in her direction.

“What do I do?” Helene muttered. She was probably talking to Simon, but Leah could still hear.

“Relax,” Simon suggested. “Get a seat, have a drink. I can’t keep going forever, so you can take over for me when I’m done.”

Leah turned to Corthis, making a point of not looking into the arena as the gong rang again. “We were discussing my Travelers?”

“Yes…” Corthis said absently. He seemed to be having trouble tearing his eyes off the spectacle below. This time, lightning flashed in the corner of Leah’s eye before a body hurtled into the stands. “Look, Your Highness, I’m trying to do right by my people. There’s nothing they can do to help in the outside world. More important, they believe there’s nothing they can do. And there’s nothing more deadly to an Endross Traveler than a lack of heart.”

The gong sounded, and Leah pretended not to notice. “I could debate this with you, Corthis. I don’t agree with your assessment of the situation, and I could explain why. But I don’t have to.” She leaned closer, forcing him to look away from the fight and meet her eyes. “It is my place to determine when and where I need my people. It is not yours to question and second-guess, do you understand me? Not now.”

This was a tactic Leah had seen her father use to great effect on more than one occasion. There were two possible outcomes: either Corthis would collapse and do what she said, or he would act out of wounded pride and…

His eyes hardened, and the beginnings of a sneer grew on his face. The ghost of fear chilled Leah’s heart. Maybe she had miscalculated. If he stood against her here, she would have to kill him. Or have him killed. Either way, the Endross Travelers would at best divide, at worst rebel.

He started to respond, but his eyes were drawn to the arena floor. His words died. Leah followed his gaze.

Simon stood, his hood down at last, surrounded by four Endross Travelers and an equal number of summoned beasts. One of them was a snake as big around as a tree trunk. Its eyes glowed shining blue, and its exposed fangs sparked with lightning.

Leah’s breath caught. Simon had seen one of those serpents before. It had killed his mother and almost killed him. If he froze up now…

Simon leaned in, looking the giant snake in the eyes, ignoring the other monsters and Travelers around him.

In a voice audible from her box, he announced, “I’ve seen bigger.”

He held his hand out to one side and summoned his blade.

The sword was awkwardly long, probably seven feet from hilt to point. It gleamed in a graceful, slightly curving arc, and Simon held it in one hand.

“What Territory is that?” Corthis asked.

The gong rang.

Almost as one, the four Endross Travelers and their creatures blasted a wave of sparks, light, and crackling lightning, all directed inward, toward Simon. For a second, Leah was blinded.

When she finally blinked her eyes clear, Simon had landed with his feet on top of one of the other Travelers, slamming the man chest-first into the sand. With the back of his blade, he knocked a second man backwards, sending him staggering into the back wall of the arena. In the reverse stroke, he sliced a reptilian monster’s wing off. It screamed and writhed on the ground.

Simon leaped again, landing on the third Traveler and bisecting his beast from head down to tail. The final fighter screamed and raised a sword, which flashed a bright white. Simon glanced down at the redheaded doll—Rebekkah—in his left hand, and looked up at the last Traveler standing.

He stabbed his blade down at an angle into the sand and walked toward the man with the sword. The other man struck, but Simon swayed to one side.

Then he punched the man in the face, laying him out on his back.

The snake slithered up behind him, catching him apparently unawares, and Leah had to resist the urge to call out. Without turning around, Simon stepped back, slamming his heel down on the serpent’s head with a wet, audible crunch.

The rest of the snake’s body quivered and went still.

The sound of the gong floated over the utter silence in the rest of the stadium.

Corthis’ sneer had transformed into a look of complete disbelief.

Leah raised one eyebrow. “As I said, Traveler Corthis, you don’t have a choice.” And, in case that threat wasn’t blunt enough, she added, “I wonder how quickly he could jump up here, given a reason.”

Either he somehow heard her across the distance of the arena, or else he had the world’s best natural timing, but Simon’s shadow fell across Leah’s face. He was crouched on the railing of Corthis’ box, his cloak falling behind him, his outrageously long, gleaming sword held out to the side in one hand.

He didn’t say a word, and he didn’t look toward Leah. He stared at the big Endross Traveler, who was steadily losing color.

Leah stood. “Every Traveler who is capable will come with me right now. I expect to see the rest of you in my camp outside Cana within three days’ time. If you do not arrive by dawn three days hence, I won’t come back. He will.”

Simon kept staring. Leah could have sworn that she heard the doll’s distant, whispered laughter.

Corthis cleared his throat. Then he did it again. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“You’re welcome.”

***

Only a handful of minutes later, Leah was walking back across the Lightning Wastes with Helene beside her. A dozen Endross Travelers walked behind them, keeping a healthy distance back, and behind even them was Simon, hanging around the area like a watchful sheepdog.

For some reason, Helene kept shooting glances backwards. “So, that Simon of yours,” she said at last.

“What about him?” Leah asked. She couldn’t help but feel a little pleased with herself. If Simon could repeat this performance, she could think of several scenarios where the demonstration of his talents would prove very useful indeed.

“That was an impressive display,” Helene went on, taking a drink from her flask again. “If I were fifteen years younger, I’d have caught a man like that. He’d never stand a chance. Does he belong to anyone?”

Well, this conversation had rapidly taken a turn into uncomfortable territory. “He’s not a dog. But if you’re asking me if he’s…romantically engaged, no, I don’t think so. He tends to spend most of his time alone.”

Helene shrugged. “You can cure him of that. If I were your age, I wouldn’t let him get away.”

Leah stared straight ahead, determined not to show any reaction. Her aunt had droned on this topic with disturbing regularity, though more often than not, she had tried to set Leah up with Alin. “He does have a way with swords, I’ll grant you.”

“What other virtues does a man need?” Helene nodded decisively, as though she’d settled the matter, and then she upended her silver flask over her own head. Water. Had it contained nothing more than water the entire time?

Helene probably wasn’t the best source of relationship advice, but she had played her role in this operation well. So had Simon, and she would need to thank him later.

As they stepped through another Endross Gate and back home, Leah let her thoughts slide to the next item on her list.

The Endross Incarnation wouldn’t go down easily.

Maybe Simon could help with that as well.

Valor unfettered is no more than recklessness.

Your bravery must be matched by an equal measure of patience, compassion, and understanding. Otherwise, it is worthless.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 7: Gold

Caverns of Flame

Perhaps due to the harsh and unforgiving nature of life in the Caverns of Flame, Naraka Travelers do not consider mercy a virtue. Tragically, it is often seen as a weakness, rather than as a component essential to true justice.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 8: Blue

The ash hound looked up at Rasmus, one of its eyes cataract-white, the other glowing orange like a hot coal. It growled once, flame licking up its mane and back, before it hopped around playfully.

Rasmus took a step back, lest the pup scratch up his shoes. This was the first creature he had called, and he knew he should feel grateful. Ash hounds were useful, summoned all over the kingdom to sniff out murderers. With proper control and training, they could find one murderer in the center of a crowded city, even if he had been hiding for decades. They were handy beasts, he could admit, but they were so...common.

First off, they looked like ordinary charcoal-colored dogs. What kind of Naraka Traveler inspired fear and respect by walking his dog around? Any villager with a leash and a mutt could strike an equally imposing figure. Besides, he had barely to turn his head to see a pair of ash hounds worrying at a well-worn haunch of meat, or another pup burrowing deep into a pile of yellowed human bones. His own small hound whined, as if he wanted to join them in their play, but was afraid to leave Rasmus alone.

He didn’t share a bond with this creature—he was no Helgard Traveler—but Rasmus knew a simple mental call would bring the dog running back, so he released the creature with a simple psychic effort. The flames on its back flared up with its joy, it left one lick of scalding-hot saliva along the side of his leg, bounding off to dive into the stack of bones.

For Naraka Travelers, the trick was modifying your mental call to attract exactly the creature you wanted, and getting it to do what you intended. There was rarely a long-term bond between summoner and summoned, except in certain special cases.

At least he had finally commanded a beast of Naraka, and it had responded. He had taken three days of preparing bait, patiently waiting, and constant mental effort to lure even this pathetic specimen close. This should be a day of celebration, but he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

Disappointment flared into hot, sickening shame when the ground rumbled around him, and Taichon's shu'kra erupted from Naraka's red stone.

The shu'kra, or cavern-worm, was a ravenous rock-eating monster the size of one of Cana's sewer pipes. Rasmus could only see its head and a few segments of bright pink skin; the rest of the creature's long body was hidden underground. The exposed portion was still nine or ten feet long, leaving him to wonder exactly how massive the worm's whole body must be.

Its head was a nightmare of clacking mandibles and spinning, grinding teeth in a vertically slitted mouth, with no apparent eyes, but Taichon reached up and patted the worm on its salivating maw with no evidence of discomfort.

“There's a good boy,” Taichon said, smiling up at the shu'kra. “You're hungry, aren't you? Don't worry, we'll have plenty for you to eat.”

Taichon had the pale skin of a Damascan and a mop of curly black hair. He was the son of a minor noble—one of Overlord Eli's relatives, Rasmus had heard—and the two boys were much the same age. Rasmus had come to study in Naraka only four days before Taichon showed up, and they had been trained together ever since. By rights, they should be closer than brothers by now, after three years of rigorous training in the history and methods of Naraka.

Rasmus hated him.

There was no test in which Taichon didn't have to out-perform Rasmus, no trial he didn't have to complete a little faster. He had his noble training to fall back on, that was what it was. Rasmus was the son of a weaver, he didn't have the sorts of advantages that a rich boy like Taichon must have enjoyed. It wasn't fair that they should be held to the same standard.

“Marvelous!” Tutor Petrus said, clapping his hands and beaming at Taichon. “You're doing a wonderful job of exercising such delicate control. In the best partnerships, as you know, there's a subtle degree of give-and-take.”

Taichon ran a hand down the cavern-worm's pale skin. “I never thought it would be so easy. You only have to nudge him in the right direction, don't you? He knows what he's doing. It's not even a command, really, so much as a request.”

Tutor Petrus chuckled. He was an older man, perhaps as old as Rasmus' grandfather, with a bulging belly and a prominent bald spot. The boys were lucky to have him, or so they were told, because he usually served as the personal advisor to Overlord Malachi himself. He had a soft eye for Taichon, for sure.

“Binding a shu'kra at your age. You'll be in high demand around here if you can keep this up, I’ll say that for certain. We haven't had a good rock-worker at the outpost in years. Once we get past your Initiation, you can help us expand the farmland, maybe even clear out the tunnel between the Cana and Eltarim waypoints. We'll put you and your worms to work, son, no need to worry.”

Finally, Taichon seemed to remember that Rasmus was there. It was about time someone did.

“What happened to the ash hound, Rasmus?” Taichon asked.

The question sounded innocent enough, but Rasmus' face burned. He knew what the other boy was doing. He was trying to compare his shu'kra to a plain runt of a dog. “I sent him off,” Rasmus said casually, as if he didn't notice Taichon's plan. “There was no reason to keep him around, I can always call another.”

“Have you given it a name yet?”

“Why would I? It’s not as though it’s special. If I need a hound, I’ll just call up the closest one.” On a sudden burst of inspiration, he decided to try and get the instructor on his side. “Then again, I haven’t heard Tutor Petrus' input. Sir, what can you tell us about ash hound naming conventions?” Tutor Petrus rarely missed an opportunity to demonstrate his familiarity with Narakan history.

The old man flapped a hand in Rasmus' direction, walking over to squint at Taichon's worm. “Name it whatever you like, son. I named my first ash hound after a boy who used to throw sticks at me. Petty, I know, but I got a sense of satisfaction out of being the one to throw the sticks for a change. So, Taichon, what kind of bait did you use? I could have sworn I saw you walking down here with the skull of a thief, but could you perhaps have had a stretch of hangman's noose somewhere about you?”

Ignored completely. Rasmus felt like this was his lot entirely too often, and it was always Taichon's fault. He acted like he didn't plead for the attention, that he didn't beg and dance like a dog for scraps, but Rasmus knew the real story.

While the other two talked excitedly about the potential uses for a tame cavern-worm, Rasmus watched his dog drag the end of a bone all over the red dust of the cavern floor. He lost himself in a vision of a snapdragon lurching up the side of the cliff, wreathed in flame, and gulping up the ash hound in its crocodile jaws. It would turn on Petrus and Taichon, but Rasmus would save the day at the last second by commanding it in an overwhelming burst of psychic talent. Maybe that would count as his first successful summons, and he could forget the dog ever existed.

Rasmus replayed this version of events in his mind several times—sometimes Taichon escaped with no wounds except to his pride, sometimes his shu'kra was sliced to ribbons, and sometimes Taichon suffered terrible injuries before Rasmus could finally bring the snapdragon to heel—until he noticed Tutor Petrus clearing his throat pointedly.

“At the risk of repeating myself, it is time for you to be about your chores. The tower sanctuary needs water, after which you should deliver four buckets to my personal dwelling. Quickly, now.”

Taichon patted his worm on the flank one more time, and it slithered backwards into the rock, no doubt to continue tunneling somewhere far below. Rasmus didn't spare his hound a second glance. He followed Tutor Petrus, hoping the old man would notice his dedication and focus.

Damasca controlled most of the useful routes through Naraka. Rasmus had always assumed this was because of the inherent superiority of Damasca-trained Travelers versus those self-taught or trained in Enosh, but there turned out to be a much simpler reason. Damasca built an outpost around each waypoint, those towering obsidian obelisks marked by golden runes. The waypoints marked the only places where you could make a Gate into or out of Naraka, so they became the only locations of strategic importance in the entire Territory. Enosh controlled the routes in and around their one city, but they were welcome to stay in their barren stretch of wilderness. Between all the other major cities, Damasca owned the roads.

The outposts were villages, really, each centered around a waypoint leading to one of the kingdom's largest cities. Rasmus and Taichon approached the Bel Calem outpost, which was surrounded by a ten-foot wall of coal-black wooden planks bound together. Rasmus had only ever seen one tree in Naraka, and it wasn't the kind you would cut down for wood. Without water or sun he didn't see how any plants could survive here anyway, but he was assured that the charwood was in fact native, and was heat-resistant enough for the climate here. He had never seen the wall burst into flames, so he supposed the material must live up to its reputation.

Inside the walls, past a couple of savage-looking Itasas tribesmen standing guard, the complex looked largely empty. Only a handful of buildings were scattered all over the empty space inside the wall, leaving plenty of bare ground—one stubby tower of red stone for the full Travelers, one blocky barracks of charwood for the Itasas tribe, a second, almost identical charwood building for holding supplies, and the tiled courtyard surrounding the obsidian tree. Its spiked black branches stabbed into the sky, almost higher than the walls. In the very center of the wall, surrounded by all the man-made buildings, the waypoint stood straight and tall, its black spike pointed at the cavern ceiling far above. Its runes shone brightly enough that they lent a soft yellow light to the whole outpost.

Those were the only constructions that, for one reason or another, needed to rest aboveground. Everything else was built below, in natural tunnels expanded by tame cavern-worms.

Today, there was one extra feature in the outpost: a wagon shaped like a vast barrel, pulled by four nervous-looking oxen. Rasmus always thought animals from the outside world looked exotic, though he couldn't understand why merchants insisted on using them here. The creatures inevitably hated Naraka's persistent smell, and panicked at the first sight of any native wildlife, so they were less than practical to bring along. But most water merchants insisted on trying.

A line of people waited behind the water-wagon, carrying buckets, pails, pans, smaller barrels, canteens, flasks, and bottles. Anything they could use to carry a mouthful of water. There were no full Travelers in line, of course; they had people to haul water for them. People like Rasmus and Taichon.

Petrus nodded toward the water line, as though they hadn't performed this same chore a hundred times. “He'll have buckets for you. Bring two each to the foot of the sanctuary, empty them in the well, then fill them again and take them to my house. If you hurry, we can talk about your Initiation.”

Rasmus' gut seized up, and he found himself grabbing his teacher by the sleeve. “I'm sorry, sir. Initiation?”

One of the Tutor's gray eyebrows raised. “Yes, of course. We've spoken of this before. Once you've called your first creature, you're to be made an Initiate. Surely you should know this by now.”

Rasmus felt his face flush. “Yes sir, I know, but I mean...so soon? I thought we would have time to prepare first.”

“There's very little to prepare for, really. We call it an Initiation and surround it with ceremony, but really you walk up to the obsidian tree and confess. Depending on the weight of your confession, it will grow you a fruit. You eat the fruit, and you're qualified as an Initiate. It's a practical requirement more than anything else. Now, if you will excuse me...”

With that, Tutor Petrus hurried off, his hand raised to wave at another old man in red robes.

Rasmus was familiar with the obsidian tree, of course. It was housed in this very outpost, so Naraka Travelers from all over the country came here for Initiation. Once the black tree produced its fruit, whoever ate it gained the ability to handle fire and not be burned. Some could only resist a candle's flame, and anything hotter would eat through them as quickly as anyone else. Rumor said Overlord Malachi could swim through lava and bathe in molten iron without feeling the slightest discomfort. Your degree of protection depended on your confession.

And there was Rasmus' problem: he had nothing to confess.

As he and Taichon retrieved their wooden buckets from the water merchant, Rasmus considered his history. What had he done? Was there any crime he committed, anything he had hidden from himself? He wanted as dark a sin as possible: rumor among the other Travelers-in-training said only the most severe, profane crimes earned the highest degree of protection.

Taichon tried to start a conversation while they stood in line, but Rasmus was too tied up in his thoughts to pay much attention. He had tried to steal a sack of figs, once, from a stall in the streets of Bel Calem, but the stall owner had caught him with his fingers around the fruit. When they got home, his father switched him. Surely that wouldn't work: he had already received punishment, which under Narakan law meant the crime had never happened.

The merchant worked a pump on the back of the water wagon, and the clean stream flowed out into Rasmus' bucket, splashing his hands. No charge for them; the merchant recognized they were running errands for the sanctuary, and he would bill the Travelers later.

What terrible thing must Overlord Malachi have confessed for his legendary protection? Perhaps he killed a family member, or organized a rebellion. Maybe he spat in King Zakareth's face and got away with it. That didn't make much sense, as he would never have risen to the rank of Overlord with any of those crimes on his record, but it had to be something truly terrible.

Rasmus hurried toward the tower as best he could with a bucket in each hand, lagging behind Taichon, who always seemed to make everything a race.

This time, to Rasmus' surprise, Taichon slowed and waited for him to catch up. “You're quiet today.”

“That's my right,” Rasmus snapped.

Taichon shifted one bucket to his other hand so he could scratch his head. “Are you worried about the Initiation?”

He held both buckets in one hand and he still didn't spill a drop. Rasmus tried to imitate him, as casually as possible, but he almost sloshed a pail full of water down his shirt. “Worried? No, of course not. Are you?”

“Terrified,” Taichon said.

They stopped talking when they reached the charwood door at the base of the red tower. The Traveler assigned to the door recognized them and waved them through, and they jogged down a short set of stairs to the well, where they dumped their buckets into the pool of waiting water. It wasn't a real well, of course, since there was very little natural water in Naraka. It was nothing more than a stone pool to collect their purchased water. But since the Travelers used it for everything from drinking to bathing to laundry while they were in the Territory, they called it a well.

The boys hurried back up, and once they cleared the sanctuary, Taichon continued. “I know nobody's supposed to listen to the confession. And even if they do, nothing you confess to the tree can be held against you, but I can't help but worry.”

“Why?” Rasmus asked, as they filled their buckets from the wagon again.

Taichon waited until they exited the wall of the outpost before answering. “When I was a child, back in the outside world, I was climbing a tree with my sister.”

Rasmus didn't have any brothers or sisters, and he hadn't known Taichon did either. The thought made him uncomfortable, somehow, as though Taichon had more of a life outside of Naraka than Rasmus did.

“We started messing around, you know, teasing. I couldn't take a joke when I was young, and I started to get mad, so I pushed her a little harder than I should have. I didn't mean anything by it, I was just mad, but she fell. The tree wasn't terribly tall, but she still broke both legs and hit her head. For a minute, I thought she was dead. I ran and got our father, and by that time she woke up, and she was in terrible pain. She recovered, of course—she's fine now—but she didn't remember the few minutes leading up to her fall. So when my father asked me how it had happened, I told him she had tried to reach a bird's nest and slipped. Everyone believed me, even her, and I was never punished for it.”

That was a good one. It was a crime of passion, and thus not as damning as if it had been planned or premeditated, but he had harmed another out of anger, lied to cover it up, and injured an innocent in doing so. Taichon's fruit would surely be the size of a melon. Rasmus would be lucky if his looked like a grape.

“Are you sure you should have told me?” Rasmus said, as he marched along the dusty red stone of Naraka's caverns. “Maybe the tree won't count it if you've already confessed.”

“I don't think so. According to the Principles of Admission, an admission of guilt is only valid if it's made to a duly appointed representative of the law, or else directly to the wronged party. You're not either. Besides, you're a close friend, so your testimony wouldn't be accepted in a court on my behalf anyway. By the laws of Naraka, I'm clear.”

Taichon always sounded so pleasant and certain, even when he was lecturing on principles they had learned together years before. Rasmus knew the law as well as Taichon did. And he couldn't help but notice how Taichon counted Rasmus among his close friends when it came to a court case; how convenient for him. That ensured Rasmus would never be able to testify against him. Undoubtedly he was planning some crime and wanted a silent compatriot. Was that all Rasmus' friendship meant to him, after three years of joint training?

Tutor Petrus' private dwelling was dug into the rock about half a mile from the main outpost. While most Travelers lived in the tower sanctuary during their stay in Naraka, a few of them—those who spent the most time in specific regions of the Territory—kept small, permanent houses here. Rasmus didn't mind the trip, since no senior Travelers were around to give him any other chores while he was outside the outpost walls, but the ever-present threat of predators hung over him like a cloud of smoke.

The deadliest creatures waited deeper in the Caverns, away from populated human settlements, but you could find ash hounds anywhere, trotting down tunnels or over cliffs. Sometimes a snapdragon or swarm of mor'we got hungry enough to hunt down the dogs near a waypoint. Everyone who lived long in Naraka knew someone who had vanished outside of the outpost walls, never to be heard from again.

Tutor Petrus' well waited outside his round charwood doorway. The pool was covered by a stone lid that took both of them to drag it off, and it was much smaller than the well in the sanctuary. Their four buckets filled it almost to the brim.

“How about you?” Taichon asked, as they walked away from Tutor Petrus' house. “Do you know what you're going to say to the tree?”

Rasmus couldn't tell the truth, of course. That would be admitting defeat to Taichon again. “I have...some idea,” he said.

Though part of the route back to the outpost wound through tunnels carved in the red stone walls, much of the road was exposed. They had to step carefully on these sections, because there was often a sheer cliff to the side, dropping ten or fifteen feet to another plateau of solid rock. Rasmus had known careless students or visitors to slip in the grit and ash, tumbling down to the stone below. The fortunate survived with only a few broken ribs, while the unlucky could suffer a twisted neck or shattered skull.

“Well, I told you my story...” Taichon trailed off uncomfortably. Good manners suggested Rasmus should share his tale now.

“It's a lot like yours, I would say,” Rasmus said. The bucket in Taichon's right hand swung out over a fifteen-foot drop. “Pushed someone. They fell and got hurt. The difference was, they deserved it.”

“Huh.” Taichon sounded disappointed. He clearly didn't think Rasmus had any such story. That was just like him: he never believed anything Rasmus said. Hadn’t they built up any trust between them, over the years?

“You don't believe me.”

“No, that's not true,” Taichon protested.

Rasmus would show him.

He barely thought about it. It was more a surge of emotion, of inspiration, of something long hidden inside him lurching up and taking control for a single instant.

Rasmus took one step to the right and shoved.

Taichon had time for one startled, panicked expression before he went over the cliff. A second later, a cracking thud and two hollow thunks marked Taichon and his pair of barrels hitting the ground.

I’ve done it now, Rasmus thought. I did it. His head felt like someone had pumped it full of smoke. Would the Travelers find him now? He had intentionally injured another student, after all. That was a crime. He had committed a crime in Naraka, of all places. What was going to happen to him?

No, not a crime. A punishment. After all, had Taichon not confessed to him that he had gone unpunished for hurting his little sister? Wasn't it a Naraka Traveler's job to arbitrate such cases? In fact, this was the best kind of penalty: one that fit the transgression. Taichon had pushed his sister out of a tree, and in just retaliation, Rasmus had pushed him off of a cliff. If the fates were kind, Taichon would suffer the same injuries as his sister. The scales of justice would be balanced. Rasmus might even be rewarded, for acting as befit a Traveler of Naraka.

It occurred to him that he couldn't hear any of the noises he had expected from Taichon. No screams, no groans, nothing. Maybe he had hit his head, like his sister. That would be for the best; maybe he wouldn't remember anything when he woke up.

Rasmus stepped around a wild ash hound as he walked toward the cliff, shoving the dog out of the way with one leg. He leaned down.

Most of Taichon's body lay pressed flat against the stone, but his head had twisted almost all the way around, as though he had tried to get one last look at Rasmus.

His killer.

Rasmus stumbled back from the edge, thinking fast. He would have to come up with a story that didn't make him sound like a murderer. He couldn't lie; the older Travelers had ways of finding guilt through the most clever lies. He had to make the truth serve his purposes.

Taichon had fallen from a cliff, and Rasmus saw it happen. He wished it hadn't happened, he was full of regrets, and all that. It was true; he now wished he had waited for a shorter drop. He had never meant to have a body on his hands.

As cover stories went, that one would do. But he had to look like a real friend in grief. He threw his buckets to the ground, as though he’d abandoned them in his haste to help his fallen friend.

Rasmus started to run. Someone in his position would be expected to go for help as soon as possible.

As he ran, he couldn't escape one thought: at least he would have something to confess in his Initiation.

He barely made it three paces before he was forced to stop. A trio of ash hounds, their manes burning, stood in his path. They stared at him with orange eyes.

Odd behavior for the dogs. They were mostly scavengers, except under certain conditions, when they would work together to bring down larger game. They never stood and waited for something to come to them. Rasmus swerved to run around them, but another hound emerged from a nearby tunnel and glared at him with glowing eyes.

Rasmus spun around to try another route. There was a second tunnel back near Tutor Petrus' house; it took more time, but he could always explain that he had been forced to take the longer route.

As he hurried back, he noticed three or four more ash-gray shadows, smoldering gently and trailing smoke.

He ran faster.

He had passed the spot where Taichon's body lay before he saw the hound behind him. Now, how had it gotten through? It couldn't have passed him without him seeing it, and it couldn't have come from behind him: the only other thing behind this point was Petrus' house.

The tiny dog, barely more than a puppy, stared at him, its back burning with a line of embers. Something in its stance gave it away.

This was his ash hound, so to speak. The first creature he had ever summoned.

“I didn't call you.”

Rasmus sent a mental command before him, ordering the dog aside. It stayed where it was. Instead of moving, it lowered its snout to the ground and drew in a long breath through its nose. Once. Twice. All of the other ash hounds, in fact, were loudly sniffing the air and drawing closer.

Ash hounds could smell a murderer.

His stomach twisted, and his heart hammered through his rib cage. “No, it's not me. It wasn't me. It's not a murder, it was an accident.”

One of the largest hounds, whose fur was actually ablaze, let out a growl like distant thunder.

“He deserved it!” Rasmus begged. Sometimes, his tutors said, you could talk Naraka creatures into agreeing with your view of justice. If you made your points in the right way. Rasmus sent his sincerity into a mental pulse aimed at the ring of hounds; surely they could sense he was right. “I gave him a just punishment. You see? I'm not a murderer! I'm a Naraka Traveler!”

One of the closest hounds lunged, knocking him onto his back. Its teeth in his shoulder felt like a handful of red-hot knives. Rasmus screamed as he'd never screamed before, a desperate sound that tore at his throat.

Another set of jaws closed around his ankles, and he thrashed physically and mentally, trying to shake them loose. They were going to tear him to pieces. This was how he would die. Not like a Traveler, but like a criminal, torn apart by a pack of hungry dogs.

It took him a handful of seconds to wonder why more of them hadn't started biting him. Some had the tops of their heads pressed against his side. Were they trying to save him? Maybe a handful of the pack agreed with his version of justice.

Pain tore at his ankle, stone scraped his back, and he realized they weren't going to eat him after all.

He screamed louder.

With one final push, the pack of ash hounds hurled him off the cliff.

He only had an instant, twisting in the air, to see the coal-orange eyes of his summoned hound, staring down at him like an Arbiter in judgment.

Then he hit the rock.

Naraka Travelers believe punishment should be like a well-executed crime: direct, focused, and brutal.

Very few of them have ever experienced real mercy. They are not to be judged for this, only pitied.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 8: Blue

Ragnarus

1st Year of the Damascan Calendar

1st Year in the Reign of Queen Cynara I

Winter’s End

Cynara of Damasca stood on the remnants of a wall she herself had broken. Only a few months ago, Cana had been an enemy city she’d paid dearly to capture. Now, it was her final refuge.

And not much of one, at that.

From here, she could see the enemy arrayed against her, a set of game pieces arranged neatly on a vast board. They stood in three distinct groups, as she would have expected, given their vastly different natures.

To the north, the Asphodel Incarnation towered over the rest. He looked like nothing so much as a cloudbank shaped into a robed scholar. His head scraped the sky, and at his feet, a colorful garden of deadly plants sprouted spontaneously. Serpentine shapes moved in the clouds of his feet, and flocks of birds wheeled in the Mist of his chest, but he was otherwise motionless.

To the south, a flashing thunderstorm followed the hordes of Endross. Wyverns flew and spat lightning back up at the clouds while, on the ground, giant snakes and draconic lizards frolicked in a spectacle of blue-white sparks. The Endross Incarnation was lost among them, but she supposedly had the face of a beautiful woman and the clawed limbs of a giant reptile. That was solely rumor, though; the last Endross Incarnation Cynara destroyed had been a man who looked like he was made of packed sand and pure lightning.

Directly ahead, between the other two camps, were the Elysians.

They were divided into nine neat camps, color-coded for her convenience. She couldn’t make out the details of individual figures, but she could guess well enough. The Gold District would be made up of armored soldiers, some of which had the heads or bodies of animals. The Red District would be tiny, deceptively strong gnomes; the Blue made up of twisting vampiric sea creatures, and so on. After the campaign she had fought, she was more familiar with Elysia than she’d ever wanted to be.

The wind caught Cynara’s blond hair, pulling it behind her like a flag. She felt the icy winter wind on her face and didn’t flinch. It would be hot enough in the battle; she should cool down now, while she still could.

The Old Man’s laughter sounded from the swirling crimson portal next to her. “You’re so grim, child, when you should be celebrating! Only three Incarnations here. Those are much better odds than you expected.”

Cynara kept her eyes fixed on the Incarnation of Elysia, who at this distance was nothing more than a gold-and-white blur. “Three? So six are free to rampage across my kingdom, killing as they wish.”

The Old Man smiled, splitting his gray-black beard in two. As always, he carried a simple wooden staff, despite the weapons available to him in his Crimson Vault. He wore unadorned gray robes, tied at the waist by a hemp rope, and his beard fell in a fan across his chest. From those features alone, he might have looked like a homeless beggar, but the whole of him was…majestic, somehow. As though he were a king who had decided to dress himself as a peasant to survey the common folk.

He turned his eyes to her, one an ordinary gray eye, and one a shining scarlet stone. “Truly, you always look on the sweet side of things.”

Cynara lowered herself to sit on the wall. No need to keep standing, and she would need all her strength for the upcoming fight. “Have you found a solution?”

“As it happens, I have.”

She eyed him suspiciously. With the Old Man, answers were never cheap. “Is that so?”

He spread one gnarled hand, revealing a handful of blood-red seeds. They looked simple enough, like stubby beans. “It took me years to gather this many, but I’ve finally done it.”

She didn’t take them. “We’ve been down this path before.”

“There are nine here, Cynara. One to bind each of the eight lesser Incarnations, and one for Elysia.”

Cynara shook her head, watching the wind push the Asphodel Incarnation’s mist around. “Only nine? I would have thought you’d want a backup plan.”

The Old Man leaned heavily on his staff, making the wood creak. Or maybe that was his spine. “The Hanging Trees work best in multiples of three. More than nine, and it may become unstable. You don’t want that.”

“I don’t want to pay your price at all,” she said. “We’ve spoken of this before. There’s only one life I have the authority to sacrifice.”

He nodded toward the three otherworldly armies. “How many lives have they taken, do you think? How many more, before you or they are defeated? I’m asking you to walk the path of lesser carnage, not greater.”

Cynara pretended to work that over in her mind, but the truth was, she had reached a decision weeks ago. She only argued for the principle of it, to soothe her wounded conscience. He was right. In this case, a lesser sacrifice was necessary to prevent a greater.

And she would be the first. She would not let her people pay a price she could not afford herself.

She reached out to take the seeds, but he pulled back his fist.

“So eager, all of a sudden,” the Old Man said. “I must first recover my investment.”

Cynara glared at him, wondering—not for the first time—if his own weapons would work against him. “You may have my life. That’s all I have to give.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Well…not quite.”

Anger finally burst through her, sharp and hot. “This subject is closed!”

“You could rule when Elysia is cast down.”

“And become a tyrant worse than she could ever be!”

“Not a tyrant. A queen. An immortal queen, commanding a united land.”

Cynara stood, putting herself face-to-face with the Old Man’s crimson eye. “I will pay whatever price I must to keep my daughter and her kingdom safe. But that does not include becoming a monster. I would put her in even more danger than the threat of Elysia. I have put one amount on the table, now take it or be gone.”

The Old Man’s red eye flared, and his gray grew suddenly piercing. “I see I cannot sway you. Very well. You have forsaken life eternal, and Ragnarus will drink the last of your blood.”

She snatched the seeds from his hand.

“I hope you choke on it,” she muttered.

A horn drifted to her on the wind, sweet and pleasant as an angel’s song. Her heart turned to ice.

Asphodel and Endross remained motionless, waiting on the plains. They would be used as reinforcements for the primary assault. An assault that, she knew, would be coming any minute now.

The armies of Elysia had begun to move.

***

Cynara finally found her daughter racing through the twisting streets of ruined Cana. They had been searching for one another.

The fourteen-year-old girl collapsed into her mother’s arms, shaking uncontrollably. “I heard the horn. Everyone else is in hiding, but I had to find you.”

Cynara the First pushed her daughter out to arm’s length, the better to get a look at Cynara the Second. The girl had the same blond hair and piercing blue eyes as the rest of her family, and she was just as gangly and awkward as her mother had been at her age.

She smiled at her daughter, pushing a handful of eight seeds into the confused girl’s hands. “Take these. Plant them in bloody ground, then lure the Incarnations close. The Tree will bind them. They need to be fed, one life per year.” Their hunger would grow with time, but they were a temporary measure at best. Meant to last for a few years, at most. Hopefully Cynara the Second would do what the First could not, and find another way to deal with the Incarnations for good.

The girl took the seeds, confusion plain on her face. “Mother, why…why don’t you…”

Cynara grabbed her daughter tight, hugging her one last time. “The others will follow you. I’m taking the easy way out, I’m afraid. I’m only dealing with one Incarnation. You’ll have to take care of the other eight.”

“Wait, please, I don’t—”

She placed a single kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Rule wisely, Cynara the Second. May your reign be longer and more fruitful than mine.”

A terrifying screech sounded overhead, and Cynara spun, summoning the Lightning Spear into her hand. Its blade was worked with gold, its hilt black wood, with a bright ruby set into its head.

“Run, daughter,” Cynara said. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the slap of feet on stones as the girl ran.

Just in time. Something like a bright blue jellyfish the size of a horse swung up the side of a broken building before scuttling like a spider down toward Cynara. At the same time, an animated suit of gold armor came dashing down a side street, roaring a wordless war cry.

Cynara stepped forward, hurling the Lightning Spear. She felt the price immediately: her body was wracked with indescribable pain, as though her every bone had been shattered at once. The spear itself flew with a hundred times the force she had used, striking the charging armor like a thunderbolt and blasting it to red-hot shards of smoking metal.

The blue jellyfish made a wet, sticky, whistling sound and leaped, its tentacles curling in midair. The Spear was already on its way back to Cynara’s hand, but she couldn’t throw it again in time. So she raised her other hand.

The red wand drizzled sparks of red light, like glowing crimson tears.

Flexing her will, Cynara triggered the power of the Bleeding Wand.

With a shriek, the Wand’s power blasted forward. A wave of crimson light devoured the jellyfish, but it didn’t slow. It continued forward until it hit the side of a three-story tower, which instantly dissolved and blew away as featureless gray dust. The tower stood for a second on three legs instead of four.

A great roar drowned the city as the side of the building slid away. Rubble crashed into the street like an avalanche.

Cynara stood in the middle of a broken street as the Lightning Spear smacked back into her waiting palm. The bill for the Bleeding Wand would come due later, but she’d never thought she would be willing to pay it. The Wand devoured the user’s sanity with every use. In time, it would leave her a cackling madwoman eager to blast everyone to dust.

She had never planned to use the Wand, but it was amazing how different the world looked in the face of her imminent death.

A woman’s voice, sweet and clear like the chiming of a crystal bell, sounded from behind her. “Your Territory is an abomination, Cynara. It thrives on blood and death.”

Cynara turned, a crimson weapon in each hand, to face the golden-haired Incarnation of Elysia.

“I’m not the one who destroyed this country, Rhalia.”

Rhalia’s eyes were cool, like a pair of gold coins. “Sometimes a mother must be rough with her children to show them the right way.”

She didn’t look monstrous, like many of the other Incarnations Cynara had seen. She wore a simple white robe, belted by a golden sash, and her skin was still clear and as pale as it had ever been. Her bare feet drifted six inches above the ground, with not even an orange glow to give her away, but Rhalia had always been skilled with the orange light. Even before Incarnation took her.

Cynara couldn’t help it: she let out a peal of laughter. “You see yourself as a mother, now? That’s how you justify wholesale slaughter?”

“Those who follow me are safe and secure. I’m building a paradise.”

“You’re filling a graveyard.”

Rhalia called a globe of golden light into one hand. The other writhed with knots of twisting blue. “Then let your grave be the last.”

The Incarnation thought she was being clever, but Cynara was ready for her. She sidestepped, firing her wand at the ground where she had been standing a moment before. The cobblestones disintegrated, as did the tentacles of blue light that had been waiting beneath them.

Rhalia had never been very good at setting traps.

Cynara hurled the Lightning Spear at Rhalia’s chest. It blasted through the orb of gold light the Incarnation had just thrown, slamming into a hexagonal plate of green in front of Rhalia’s dress.

The green light cracked, and Cynara intended to follow up with a blast from the Wand to break the shield, but the spasm of pain from throwing the Lightning Spear caught up with her. She shook once, and the moment passed.

A cushion of orange caught her feet, dragging her up toward the sky. The Spear hadn’t returned yet, so Cynara called a different weapon into her empty hand: the Lonely Dagger. Its red-streaked blade sliced through the orange light as if through paper, and Cynara twisted in midair, landing in a crouch.

The Lightning Spear met her outstretched palm, and she hurled it again, blindly. Pain shuddered her body, but she was more worried about the Dagger’s price.

She could summon it and use it freely, but the minute she banished it back to Ragnarus she would forget someone. The longer she kept it here, the more important the person she would forget.

After a moment’s thought, Cynara banished the Dagger. As useful as it would be to keep around, there were a few people she wouldn’t want to forget. Not on the day she died.

She wasn’t sure what memories she had lost—that was the nature of the cost—but she only had the Dagger out for a few seconds. In the incredibly unlikely event that she survived this day, some minor noble was going to be very offended when she forgot him completely.

Rhalia deflected the Spear with a wall of green, and Cynara realized she had a chance. She scrambled over to the section of road where the cobblestones had shattered, baring earth.

This was the third time the city of Cana had been invaded. Twice in the last year. Enough blood had been spilled in this city to soak the soil.

Or so she hoped. If it hadn’t, the Hanging Tree wouldn’t take root, and she would die at the Elysia Incarnation’s hands.

Frantically, she dug at the dirt with her bare hands, pressing one of the seeds down and sweeping some soil over it.

Red light flared underground, shining through the thin layer of earth. Cynara’s heart unclenched.

Rhalia held a sword of gold light in one hand now, but she stared at the ground, uncertain.

“What is that?” she asked.

Cynara didn’t call the Lightning Spear to return. She left it lying on the ground like a piece of debris. She dropped the Bleeding Wand to one side. “I win,” was all she said.

She was covered by a dozen cuts, some of which wept freely. In the case of her left arm, a piece of flying debris had sliced her deep.

Cynara pinched the wound together, sending a drop of blood onto the ground above the seed. The earth trembled. Rhalia raised a hand to hurl golden light.

A tendril of red erupted from the ground, wrapping around Cynara’s wound. She could feel blood flowing from her into the Tree, weakness taking over her body. It wasn’t painful, but neither was it pleasant.

“What did—” Rhalia began, but she was interrupted by the rising of the Hanging Tree. It rumbled as it rose, little more than a sapling in size, but menacing still. Its leafless limbs whipped blindly at the air, each covered in tiny thorns.

The root around her hand was not. It was smooth, almost gentle, as it drew upon her blood for power.

Sensing danger, Rhalia flared orange light at her feet and began to fly away.

The Hanging Tree didn’t let her.

Thorny branches seized her around each ankle, dragging the Incarnation closer and closer to the ground, even as she strained to fly away. She turned, hacking branches with her sword of yellow light, but the branches kept growing back, kept reaching.

Cynara’s arm had grown cold, and she was feeling dizzy. Death wasn’t such a bad fate for her, she supposed. Not for such a good cause. But her daughter would be alone. She was only fourteen; what if the lords and ladies didn’t listen to her? What if she couldn’t rebuild? There was every chance she would be killed before she could get the Trees planted. Would their new nation of Damasca ever escape its birth pangs?

Rhalia dropped her sword, having switched to a new tactic. Even as she was dragged backwards, scraping across the ground, she held out her palms.

A golden portal opened in front of her. A Gate, leading into the City of Light.

It was beyond anything Cynara had ever imagined. Graceful walls of gold and silver rose from a flower-strewn field, and towers of every color stretched almost to the sunset-colored sky.

Red light—of her own generation, not from Ragnarus—twisted around Rhalia’s limbs. With her newfound strength, she tore free of the Hanging Tree.

It wouldn’t last. The Tree was already reaching for its Incarnation, and it would catch her before she got too far.

But it was enough. Rhalia crossed the border of her gate, into the fields of Elysia.

The thorny branches recoiled, unable to cross from one world into another. That was interesting; the Old Man had never mentioned that the Trees wouldn’t work in a Territory. That must have been why he had insisted on her planting them here.

Cynara’s dizziness had grown so she could barely stay upright, and her vision was beginning to fuzz at the edges, but she still fixed the Incarnation with a smile. “Good enough. Stay sealed in that world or this one, Rhalia, it means nothing to me.”

Rhalia shrugged, the motion more graceful than it had any right to be. “I would say I got the better of this little exchange. I keep my life, while you have parted with yours.”

Cynara couldn’t stay standing any longer. She collapsed, landing hard on her knees. She barely felt the pain. “I can think of greater prices.”

“I am eternally patient,” the Elysia Incarnation said. “You should have stood with me, sister.”

Then the shining Gate closed, and the last thing Cynara saw of her older sister was a pair of golden eyes. Eyes that were once a blue as bright as her own.

Her vision was fading quickly, but as far as she could see down the road and into the city, red roots were erupting from the cobblestones, seizing creatures of Elysia and draining the life from them.

All over the city. Does the Tree’s influence really stretch so far? She hoped it would be enough to keep the other Incarnations away, until her daughter had a chance to drive them into a corner and seal them for good.

Her thoughts drifted to Cynara the Second, as she fell onto her back, staring up at the clear winter sky. For the first time in years, she felt some measure of hope. Her daughter had the seeds. She had the key to the Crimson Vault.

Maybe the Incarnations wouldn’t be the end of this world after all.

My life was a small price to pay.

Everything went black.

***

It was difficult to open a Gate from the other side, not to mention expensive. Abominably expensive. But every once in a while, the Old Man felt it was worth it.

The Ragnarus Gate formed, opening directly beside Cynara’s body, sprawled across the shattered street. A root of the Hanging Tree uncurled from her wrist.

The Old Man stepped out, using his staff for balance.

The Tree itself, little more than a sapling, hissed as he approached. It wanted even him, hungered for even his blood, but it didn’t attack.

Even the murderous plant knew better.

Leaning on his wooden staff, the Old Man knelt, tolerating the creaking pain in his knees. Queen Cynara’s eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky. Her eyes were beautiful, he supposed, if you appreciated that sort of thing. Personally, he thought they would look much better in red.

“You have given everything you have to Ragnarus,” he murmured. “Let me help you take the last step.”

The Old Man extended one gnarled finger and pressed it to her forehead. Before her soul departed completely, he willed some of his power into her, flooding her body, repairing its damage.

She gasped and jerked awake.

Her eyes were already gone, replaced by solid orbs of red flame. Her new skin crept over her, like ice over a freezing lake, turning her to a fluid statue of blood-colored steel. Her clothes flared and blazed away, replaced by a long dress of scarlet light.

The Old Man stepped back to admire his handiwork as the first Incarnation of Ragnarus rose to her feet.

“What have you done?” Cynara whispered, through metallic red lips.

He prided himself on his tolerance and even disposition, but he was a tad offended. “I have saved you from the brink of death, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve made a masterpiece from that which you would have wasted. You can fill the gap your sister left. You will be my hand in this world.”

Cynara met his gaze. He had been right: her new eyes were much more beautiful.

“You told me this would only cost me my life!”

The Old Man smiled fondly, as he would at a naïve granddaughter. “You will find that’s not the only time I have lied to you. Now, Ragnarus, go forth and take your throne!”

She looked at him, and down at the bloody branches twisting around her feet. “I do not answer to you.”

She walked into the Hanging Tree, her arms spread wide. The branches picked her up, lifting her into the sky, and then pulled her down under the ground. She didn’t say a word.

Once, in a place far away, the Old Man had been renowned for his foresight.

But he hadn’t seen this coming.

He knew she would be able to hear him, still. The Hanging Tree was of Ragnarus, and now she was Ragnarus. Unlike the other Incarnations, she would never fully lose consciousness. It would be a fate worse than death; she should have listened to him.

“Well. Your line will continue, Queen Cynara. Our pact remains unbroken. I will deal with the others, your sons and daughters, since you would not let me deal with you. And who can tell? Maybe someday, when you are free, you will come to see things my way.”

With one last backward glance to see the Tree waving in the air, the Old Man stepped into his Vault and closed the door.

If you still put your own needs before the needs of others, every other virtue is without meaning. This is the key to all I have taught you.

There is no love greater than sacrifice.

-Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 9: White

THE END

Of The Traveler’s Gate Chronicles

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OF SEA AND SHADOW

(Book #1 of the Elder Empire: Sea)

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OF SHADOW AND SEA

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Table of Contents

Contents

Damascan Map

Title Page

Copyright

The Damascan Standard Calendar

HOUSE OF BLADES

CHAPTER 1: Ghosts and Demons

CHAPTER 2: Sacrifices

CHAPTER 3: Travelers

CHAPTER 4: Hidden Talents

CHAPTER 5: A Step Forward

CHAPTER 6: Welcome to Valinhall

CHAPTER 7: Sharp Lessons

CHAPTER 8: Risks and Rewards

CHAPTER 9: Deals and Darkness

CHAPTER 10: Another Test

CHAPTER 11: Orgrith Cave

CHAPTER 12: Escape

CHAPTER 13: The Chains of Valinhall

CHAPTER 14: The Wrong Place

CHAPTER 15: Playing With Dolls

CHAPTER 16: The Road to Bel Calem

CHAPTER 17: Midsummer's Eve

CHAPTER 18: Convergence

CHAPTER 19: Overlord Malachi

CHAPTER 20: Bad Habits

CHAPTER 21: A Victory

CHAPTER 22: The Hope of Escape

CHAPTER 23: Aftermath

THE CRIMSON VAULT

CHAPTER 1: A Prison in the Rain

CHAPTER 2: Weapons Old and New

CHAPTER 3: Royal Blood

CHAPTER 4: Rebirth

CHAPTER 5: The Rising Sun

CHAPTER 6: The Grandmasters' Council

CHAPTER 7: Avoiding Justice

CHAPTER 8: Ice and Moonlight

CHAPTER 9: The Incarnation of Valinhall

CHAPTER 10: Return to Bel Calem

CHAPTER 11: Alin Vs. Kai

CHAPTER 12: A Declaration of War

CHAPTER 13: Nine Doors

CHAPTER 14: The Frozen Horn

CHAPTER 15: Succession

CHAPTER 16: Careful Plans

CHAPTER 17: The Royal Army of Damasca

CHAPTER 18: A Duel

CHAPTER 19: Ambush

CHAPTER 20: The Mask

CHAPTER 21: The End of the Dragon

CHAPTER 22: The Crimson Vault

CHAPTER 23: Seeds

CHAPTER 24: The Gates of Heaven

CHAPTER 25: Long Live the King

CITY OF LIGHT

CHAPTER 1: Gathering Weapons

CHAPTER 2: Arrivals and Departures

CHAPTER 3: Gates in the Snow

CHAPTER 4: A Dead Man in the Graveyard

CHAPTER 5: Disturbing Explanations

CHAPTER 6: A Test and a Ghost

CHAPTER 7: Elysian Rule

CHAPTER 8: The Gallery

CHAPTER 9: Inside Enosh

CHAPTER 10: Stories in the City

CHAPTER 11: Elysia Vs. Valinhall

CHAPTER 12: Fighting in the Streets

CHAPTER 13: Invasion

CHAPTER 14: Battle in the House of Blades

CHAPTER 15: Prices Paid

CHAPTER 16: The Founder's Heir

CHAPTER 17: Capture

CHAPTER 18: A Conversation in Avernus

CHAPTER 19: Creating Incarnations

CHAPTER 20: Old Friends and New Enemies

CHAPTER 21: Daughter of Wind

CHAPTER 22: Grief

CHAPTER 23: A Pair of Masks

CHAPTER 24: The End of a Traveler

CHAPTER 25: Newfound Powers

CHAPTER 26: Strategic Planning

CHAPTER 27: War in the City of Light

CHAPTER 28: Rewards

TRAVELER'S GATE CHRONICLES

Welcome to Elysia

Tower of Winter

The Feathered Plains

The Crystal Fields

Gardens of Mist

Maelstrom of Stone

The Steel Labyrinth

The Lightning Wastes

Caverns of Flame

Ragnarus

Sequel Page

The Future

Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

The Damascan Standard Calendar

HOUSE OF BLADES

CHAPTER 1: Ghosts and Demons

CHAPTER 2: Sacrifices

CHAPTER 3: Travelers

CHAPTER 4: Hidden Talents

CHAPTER 5: A Step Forward

CHAPTER 6: Welcome to Valinhall

CHAPTER 7: Sharp Lessons

CHAPTER 8: Risks and Rewards

CHAPTER 9: Deals and Darkness

CHAPTER 10: Another Test

CHAPTER 11: Orgrith Cave

CHAPTER 12: Escape

CHAPTER 13: The Chains of Valinhall

CHAPTER 14: The Wrong Place

CHAPTER 15: Playing With Dolls

CHAPTER 16: The Road to Bel Calem

CHAPTER 17: Midsummer's Eve

CHAPTER 18: Convergence

CHAPTER 19: Overlord Malachi

CHAPTER 20: Bad Habits

CHAPTER 21: A Victory

CHAPTER 22: The Hope of Escape

CHAPTER 23: Aftermath

THE CRIMSON VAULT

CHAPTER 1: A Prison in the Rain

CHAPTER 2: Weapons Old and New

CHAPTER 3: Royal Blood

CHAPTER 4: Rebirth

CHAPTER 5: The Rising Sun

CHAPTER 6: The Grandmasters' Council

CHAPTER 7: Avoiding Justice

CHAPTER 8: Ice and Moonlight

CHAPTER 9: The Incarnation of Valinhall

CHAPTER 10: Return to Bel Calem

CHAPTER 11: Alin Vs. Kai

CHAPTER 12: A Declaration of War

CHAPTER 13: Nine Doors

CHAPTER 14: The Frozen Horn

CHAPTER 15: Succession

CHAPTER 16: Careful Plans

CHAPTER 17: The Royal Army of Damasca

CHAPTER 18: A Duel

CHAPTER 19: Ambush

CHAPTER 20: The Mask

CHAPTER 21: The End of the Dragon

CHAPTER 22: The Crimson Vault

CHAPTER 23: Seeds

CHAPTER 24: The Gates of Heaven

CHAPTER 25: Long Live the King

CITY OF LIGHT

CHAPTER 1: Gathering Weapons

CHAPTER 2: Arrivals and Departures

CHAPTER 3: Gates in the Snow

CHAPTER 4: A Dead Man in the Graveyard

CHAPTER 5: Disturbing Explanations

CHAPTER 6: A Test and a Ghost

CHAPTER 7: Elysian Rule

CHAPTER 8: The Gallery

CHAPTER 9: Inside Enosh

CHAPTER 10: Stories in the City

CHAPTER 11: Elysia Vs. Valinhall

CHAPTER 12: Fighting in the Streets

CHAPTER 13: Invasion

CHAPTER 14: Battle in the House of Blades

CHAPTER 15: Prices Paid

CHAPTER 16: The Founder's Heir

CHAPTER 17: Capture

CHAPTER 18: A Conversation in Avernus

CHAPTER 19: Creating Incarnations

CHAPTER 20: Old Friends and New Enemies

CHAPTER 21: Daughter of Wind

CHAPTER 22: Grief

CHAPTER 23: A Pair of Masks

CHAPTER 24: The End of a Traveler

CHAPTER 25: Newfound Powers

CHAPTER 26: Strategic Planning

CHAPTER 27: War in the City of Light

CHAPTER 28: Rewards

TRAVELER'S GATE CHRONICLES

Welcome to Elysia

Tower of Winter

The Feathered Plains

The Crystal Fields

Gardens of Mist

Maelstrom of Stone

The Steel Labyrinth

The Lightning Wastes

Caverns of Flame

Ragnarus

Sequel Page

The Future