Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Chapter One: A Prison in the Rain

Chapter Two: Weapons Old and New

Chapter Three: Royal Blood

Chapter Four: Rebirth

Chapter Five: The Rising Sun

Chapter Six: The Grandmasters' Council

Chapter Seven: Avoiding Justice

Chapter Eight: Ice and Moonlight

Chapter Nine: The Incarnation of Valinhall

Chapter Ten: Return to Bel Calem

Chapter Eleven: Alin vs. Kai

Chapter Twelve: A Declaration of War

Chapter Thirteen: Nine Doors

Chapter Fourteen: The Frozen Horn

Chapter Fifteen: Succession

Chapter Sixteen: Careful Plans

Chapter Seventeen: The Royal Army of Damasca

Chapter Eighteen: A Duel

Chapter Nineteen: Ambush

Chapter Twenty: The Mask

Chapter Twenty-One: The End of a Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Crimson Vault

Chapter Twenty-Three: Seeds

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Gates of Heaven

Chapter Twenty-Five: Long Live the King

Sequel Page

THE CRIMSON VAULT

Will Wight

www.WillWight.com

To Devin, for giving me so much work.

Copyright © 2013 Hidden Gnome Publishing

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Chelsey and Caitlin Bateson

CHAPTER ONE:

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, really, 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. Let it try all it wanted; he knew what he was doing.

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. As he watched, the amethyst flared with violet light.

Deep in the forest, the same light—a light that 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 amethyst in its center. Or maybe Korr was a different being entirely, and he just 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 flares of violet light.

Korr only spoke when he felt he had to. Whatever was happening off in the forest, Indirial’s advisor must think it important. And this time of year, in this place, there was only one threat that 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 he felt the chill settle 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 wrapped around his wrist. It was the same on his other arm. Even seconds after he had called steel, the chains had already begun crawling up 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 had to meet it. If he called too much power, well, he would deal with that as it came. He hadn’t made it this far in life by doubting himself.

Indirial stretched his mind back to his Territory, reaching for a black box that 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 felt like inhaling a blizzard. 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, stayed leaning 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, anyway.

Indirial returned his attention to the pulsing violet star deep in the forest. Then he kicked off, launching himself into the trees.

He shot into the forest like an arrow, blasting through the raindrops 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 violet 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; he had seen the Nye in the House move 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 that 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 have lasted much longer anyway, 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 from the cart, 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 were from Enosh, of course. Damascan Travelers would never have entered the forest at this time of year without informing him first. Their King knew better than that.

A blond Naraka Traveler stood beside the scarred Asphodel mist-binder, her face twisted in disgust. Likely in pain, as well, considering that she had just summoned a mor’we whose twisted, wasp-like body was now curled up underneath a man’s charred corpse. An Asphodel and a Naraka; not a usual combination, but not too rare. He shouldn’t have much trouble.

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.

He was close to the northwest edge of the Latari Forest, near the road that led up to Enosh. That explained why a pair of small-time village merchants had apparently sheltered here against the rain. 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 when they let their guard down. He could probably take them head-on, but there was no sense taking the chance just to avenge some unfortunate villagers. He had to prevent the Travelers from reaching the Tree, no matter what.

Then the Naraka woman lifted her palm toward the cart, her mark glowing cherry red. Why? Was there something in there that she wanted destroyed? Maybe the merchant had found something he shouldn’t have.

She spoke then, and even though Indirial couldn’t make out the sound of her voice over the rain, he could 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 merchant couple had a child.

The steel running through Indirial’s veins felt warm compared to the frost that gripped 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 just this 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 never released 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.

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 cold 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 some attempt to convince him that they were just ordinary wanderers lost in the woods who had come across an injured family. The fact that the Asphodel Traveler was talking instead of attacking meant that 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 immediately, 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. Indirial wasn’t sure how that had happened. 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 just cut the wasp out of the air. Possibly an ash hound, then, or one of the hulking akna’dorma. Or maybe something even more exotic.

Mist gathered around the gray-robed man’s hands. He had 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 essence.

Then he ran forward.

Powered 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 been summoning a creature, then, 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.

Fire from the Furnace would, from what Indirial had heard, bind its target and burn them according to their own guilt. Right now, he believed those stories. As he watched the bright orange fireball form in front of the Naraka Traveler’s hands, he saw what seemed to be faces, wide-mouthed screaming faces, swirling in 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. With his past, he would be lucky to survive just the one fireball; he had enough crimes in his past for a dozen men. But if he did survive, the Asphodel Traveler was there to pour mist into him, feeding on the panic that the Furnace created. Between them, the mist and the flames would have eaten both his mind and his body from the inside out.

Fortunately, 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 looked 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 that 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 just 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 ice-blue 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, anyway. 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 beautiful diamond, cut with a thousand facets so that it looked almost like 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.

And everything became simple.

The Asphodel man stood next to the body of his companion, his face composed underneath his scars. But of course his face was composed, because Asphodel Travelers had to stay calm, or 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 just 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 onto his face. “Please,” she whispered, and held up an arm that ended in a bloody stump. His sword dripped red; he had taken her hand.

His 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; they would have her on the ground 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 he watched his daughter pulled down by blazing hounds.

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. Then 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 right now. 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 just 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 that the man couldn’t see. Then he pushed the Traveler off of 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.

After all, 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?

Then 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 that indicated the presence of danger, but it wasn’t there. He glanced down at the medallion.

The violet 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 her mental injuries 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 that 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 injuries were more than physical. The pool would be more danger than benefit to her. 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 just tended to his mother.

There had to be something Indirial could do for him. He couldn’t just 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 TWO:

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. That would never have happened if his dolls were around.

The wolves’ bodies were made of smooth, polished obsidian, their eyes of amethyst. 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. Then he called stone.

The six-legged wolf’s obsidian 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 than that.

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 amethyst 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 get it over with. 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, apparently 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 with the axe. It 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 a move like that, 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, and 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 seized 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-amethyst eyes fixed on him, and he would have sworn they gleamed.

No need to be afraid, Kai reminded himself. They can chew on me all they like, and never get a drop of blood. They couldn’t penetrate his flesh. All he needed to do was let them chew 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 just before its jaws closed on his throat. The other hand, he slid up the shaft of the axe, holding it just 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 amethyst eyes flaring with reflected sunlight.

The second wolf finally died under the brutal hammering of the axe-head, collapsing onto Kai’s stomach in a heap of lifeless rock. Then Kai was free to turn the axe onto 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 the heavy axe-head down on the wolf that had tried to sneak up on him.

The creature was crushed under the blow, shattering instantly. Its amethyst 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 just strip it down and use it for raw materials; it was no Dragon’s Fang, after all.

Of course, that was 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. And 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 that carpeted 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 that 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 that door.

Go now, Lilia whispered in his mind. Like all of 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 away from the rain, of course. Kai would murder him if he ruined her dress.

At the doll’s signal, Simon stepped into the downpour just 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 that 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 just 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 this 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 that 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.

Immediately, 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 raindrops, and he just fitted himself into it. He had to remember to move slowly and carefully, though, since in this test too fast was just 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. No problem; he could move faster, too. He increased the speed of his forms, cutting and slashing and piercing invisible enemies by the dozen.

Then the rain sped up again. Without the essence in him, it would have been impossible to follow.

Soon Simon was moving just 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.

Then 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 he felt them slamming into his skin like hundreds of tiny hammers. Desperate, he called steel, feeling the icy rush through his blood as he was filled with strength.

Then he turned away from the wolf-carved door and began to run back toward Lilia, who sat next to the door where he had entered. 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, slashing 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 of 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.

Oh, I had a dream just 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. Apparently they could only exist in the rain garden, which was a relief. He had been afraid that 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 just ahead of a dozen more of its kind. The surface of the pool churned with activity just under the surface, but he had made it out just in time. He had stayed in longer and survived, but 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, feeling the healthy skin and muscle that, minutes ago, had been huge, bleeding gashes. 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, feeling the ridges where three long scars slashed diagonally down his body. It looked as though a monster had tried to carve him open with its huge claws.

That 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 heal his injuries completely, leaving him with an impressive collection of scars. The three slashes across his chest were the worst, but Olissa had said that, without the magical healing of the Valinhall pool, he would have spent the rest of his life in a crippled wreck of a 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 that 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, after all. Well, they were wooden dolls, 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 anyway. 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.

“Just a minute,” 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. Then he pulled the door 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. He didn’t much care; he 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 really 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 then 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. That 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…you know, uncomfortable here. Considering.”

He winced. That had been 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 that 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 that 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 just doing your job, just like I was doing mine when I arrested your villagers. But you stole my life, and you killed my men.

“We are not friends.”

Then he pushed the garden door open and walked inside.

Simon stood at the entrance of the garden for a moment, feeling 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 just celebrated his eleventh birthday, 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.

As Simon watched, 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 that looked 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, just sword blades where hands should be. He parried Lycus’ blade with his left arm, knocking it wide, then blocked Andra’s attack with his right. The edge of Lycus’ sword just barely scarred the leather of Chaka’s chest.

When Simon had first seen Chaka, he had assumed the fighter was just 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, just 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 look her in the eyes.

“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 just smile at me?” Simon said. Lilia said nothing, but he could sense her sleepy amusement.

“No, really,” 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 yellow gemstone 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 he just stared.

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 forge sparks, Caius looked like an entirely different man.

He looked 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 onto 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, Simon noticed that one half of the plate was darker than the other. It seemed that he had joined two different metals together. Why?

He decided that 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 something at all, Lilia said.

Caius pulled the plate off of 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 on the anvil. 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 was just 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. Unfortunately, his paranoia turned out to be perfectly justified.

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 slit in the same place, but the metal was darker. It was black around the edges, like wrought iron, but in the middle it still looked somewhat red, as though it held some heat from the forge. The two halves joined seamlessly in the middle, so that if he hadn’t seen Caius working, Simon would have thought the whole thing had been made of one piece and then dyed. The join was uneven, not a straight line, as though the plate had once been shattered and then re-forged.

As he looked at it piece by piece, Simon caught myself wondering once again what purpose this plate could possibly serve. Were the slits for ventilation? Was this just one 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 in the middle 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, just 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, he had woken up to fight off one of the Nye. 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 apparently 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 I had 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?” Then 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 forge, it occurred to him that there had never been a door here before. He had once fought a giant, burning snake made of red-hot metal in the forge. If there had been a way to escape, he would have noticed. Which meant this door had somehow appeared in the last few months.

He had heard that 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 looked more like a cluttered storeroom than 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 sure that he was supposed to show how impressed he was, but something else came out of my mouth.

“What is it for?”

Olissa didn’t seem put off by Simon’s less-than-eager response. She grinned like her daughter, apparently 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 after a moment, something in his pocket buzzed like a swarm of trapped bees.

Simon sighed, reaching in and pulling out the device that Alin had given him. It looked like a little acorn trapped in a delicate golden birdcage. As he watched, the acorn went crazy, 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 THREE:

ROYAL BLOOD

Leah could barely tolerate any of her siblings, really, 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 that would 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 really wanted to keep him out, she would have encased the door in solid crystal.

Talos likely knew that, 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, of course, that he was telling the truth.

Leah turned her wrist, so that the blue-white summoning crystal she wore there 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 scrying 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 that, 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 looked like 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 just 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. Hence its name, Leah supposed.

The Wand 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, of course, 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 that they do not mean to try an open battle, but instead ambush or guerilla tactics. I would imagine that 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 unfortunately she agreed.

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’ passages?” 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 that he had 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 summoned their Gates—like rolling thunderstorms captured in their hands—and just 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 that 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 crimson 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 that Leah recognized, and King Zakareth.

Leah’s father, Zakareth, commanded immediate 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 that wove 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 or other official document. As they were both bowed over the paper, neither of them looked up at the sound of the opening door.

Adessa and her group did not waste any time. As soon as she saw that the King was indeed 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 apparently 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. Then 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 then sank down to one knee, making retching noises in his throat. Leah’s heart dropped. Apparently 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 glittering 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.

Then 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 dull white light flashed in the middle of the whirlwind. 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 moved.

He appeared ten feet away, just in front of Adessa, as though he simply 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 war-hammer 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, then he turned his momentum into a huge overhand throw. He hurled the war-hammer at the wall just 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 thrust 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 summon anything, then he once again moved 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 that he was too young to know what he was doing, that his elders had just 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 rebels 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.

Then 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 just received some new piece of data, but his hand tightened on his sword. By contrast, Lysander’s mouth hung open a little 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 that Talos hadn’t noticed. The King had been holding his breath. He had used no otherworldly protection from poison; he just held his breath and 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 that rose 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 just 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 be worthy of being named 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, just 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 just spoke over her.

“Indirial, make it so,” he said. Indirial bowed from the waist, grabbing the Heiress by her wrist and pulling 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 exile 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 exile 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.”

Then 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.

Then 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, then waved her hand, 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. I bet 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, his expression so sad that he looked like 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, just 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 FOUR:

REBIRTH

Kai looked down the corridor to his left, which was filled with darkness and dust. The thick sandstone blocks of the walls looked no different than the ones surrounding 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.

He looked to his right to see an identical passageway, also dark, likely hiding a dozen golems.

“I am hopelessly, deliriously lost,” Kai said to himself. Or, at least, he thought it was 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.

Of course, 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 that somewhat creepy.

“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, clusters of yellow quartz embedded 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 quartz, 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 missed his dolls very much right then.

The Eldest finally decided to speak, perhaps in response to Kai’s earlier question. “Many of the Nye cannot 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 that 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, of course. The Eldest could be terrifying, when he chose. But at the moment, Kai didn’t care. Both of them knew that 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 unfortunate offer, and he had never agreed to help Simon 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, after all. He would be a hypocrite if he changed his mind now.

But maybe, if he had just told Simon what he knew, the boy would still be alive.

Surprisingly, Kai actually felt a wash of guilt at the thought. Then it occurred to him that Azura was free, with Simon’s death. Maybe his dolls, his beloved little ones, would finally take him back…

He felt guilty for that, too. Why should he? The dolls were his, after all. 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 scimitar 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 armory. Then he called steel and reached back to the armory, but not for the scimitar. He needed something bigger.

The war-hammer was made entirely of mirror-bright Tartarus steel, so that 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, feeling his skin tighten 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 that 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 that 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 quartz, just a pedestal about waist-high on Kai. 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 wrapped in gold. A finger-thin line of pure gold also ran up the center of the blade, from hilt to tip. Kai knew from past 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. Of course, that was 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.

As he watched, the boulder grew 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 just as it would have crushed his skull into jelly. The war-hammer smashed into the fist, knocking it to the side just enough that it slammed into the tiles instead of reducing Kai to paste.

The boulder grew a second arm. Then short, stubby legs. Then a head poked its way out of the enormous sandstone body.

An amethyst 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, just as his stone power ran out. Great. 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 only narrowly dodged.

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, then sidestepped 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.

Exactly as Kai had predicted. He didn’t need to defeat the golem. He just needed to get past it.

Kai landed on the golem’s crossed arms and pushed off, behind the golem, landing on the pedestal holding Mithra.

The golem turned and roared as it realized its mistake, amethyst eye gleaming.

Too late now, Kai thought. He banished the hammer, sending it back to Valinhall. Then 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 gems located somewhere in its body. If you found the right gem 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, then. He’d just 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. He was stronger than he had expected; 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 collapsed from the sudden surge of weakness. It didn’t matter, though.

He had sliced through the middle of the golem’s heartstone.

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; he could get himself back.

After about a minute, Kai had sliced 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 in order to provoke Kai, he knew that. Valin was safely asleep, sealed away, as he had been for the last twenty-five years.

Kai hesitated for a moment, and then began to walk 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 onto 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 keyhole. He gathered up his concentration, reaching through the Dragon’s Fang as he did when opening a Gate. Then 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 wrenched 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 Simon’s direction. But the Tree’s attack was lazy and listless, not the savage 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 protest.

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 weaken 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, after all, and Kai had even prepared him to succeed. He had known the potential consequences, and his conscience had driven him to act anyway. But this possibility had always remained just that: a possibility. A slim, dark chance. He had never thought Simon could actually weaken this 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 after all.

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 just 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 then, 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 just 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 apparently 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. They flared with light the color of the moon.

Suddenly, they moved 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. Then his steel ran out.

Kai sagged, the sudden feeling of 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 just barely see the Gate still shrinking. If he were 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 Crimson Tree.

The gold-and-silver sword flashed as it spun, end over end, before stabbing itself into the center of the tree. It landed right in the middle of 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 stabbing into his flesh, 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 crimson 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.

He was covered entirely in dirt and dust. It made sense; he had been buried for almost twenty-five years. He stood, brushing a hand over his bald head, scraping dirt from his eyes. His shirt crumbled off as he stood up, 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 not unlike having his clothes torn off by a hurricane while leaving his skin untouched.

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 together, 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, of course, 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 then…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. “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.” Then 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. Then he went 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, focusing on Benson as he always had on his dolls.

The steel skeleton’s eye widened. “I’ll see what I can do, kid. Just 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 vial 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.

It all 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 attack 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 attacks. The Valinhall Incarnation had almost unlimited strength, speed, and endurance, but Otoku or Gloria could have warned him of Valin’s strikes before they landed. Without their advice, he just 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 gauntlet. 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 portal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had foreseen it.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“Indirial. What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE:

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 breastplate so it best caught a ray of sunshine through the high windows, gleaming like a fallen star.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Master Farin pressed the breastplate against Alin’s chest.

“I will wave to the people, and I will demonstrate the power of Elysia,” Alin recited. “I will then tell the people how Enosh needs to be strong, and that together we can bring Damasca’s unnatural blight to an end. I will then remind them how we defeated Overlord Malachi—“

“You,” Grandmaster Naraka corrected.

For a moment Alin didn’t understand what she meant. Then Master Farin tugged the straps on his breastplate so suddenly that he almost fell over.

“You will remind them how you defeated 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 apparently 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 just 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, right? Then they’re on our side.”

Sadly, Grandmaster Naraka shook her head. “I wish that were true. Unfortunately, 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. Just like they killed my granddaughter.”

Master Farin cleared his throat and suddenly became very focused 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, then 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; 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. Suddenly 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 then 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 in order 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. Unfortunately, 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.

Fortunately, she had mastered the trick to putting a Gate in this one old closet. She just wished 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. Then 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 if 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 just 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; any family that held the throne gave up 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 just 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 tasks 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 ascend 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 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 sneaking around, apparently 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 just 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 immediately 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 SIX:

THE GRANDMASTERS' COUNCIL

Simon’s Gate opened onto 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 then 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 that way, of course. 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 in the middle of the room?

Rich people, he thought, with a mental shake of his head. Then he stepped out of the room and almost ran straight 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, after all.

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 just 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, of course, 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 just 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.

“Anyway, 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. Just a little. 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, of course, I thought he was just an incredible swordsman good enough to take on Travelers. Then, 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 captive. 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 just wanted to make sure I wanted it bad enough.”

“No,” Leah said, “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 just 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 compatible. 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.”

In Simon’s pocket, his caged acorn began to vibrate. Leah glanced at his buzzing pants, and then 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 just laughed herself sick.

“When you find out, let me know,” she said. “I need to know whether or not I should be worried.” Then 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 just 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, after all.”

“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, haunt 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 cheering 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 hummingbird 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 and quiet. 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 hummingbird 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,” the hummingbird responded. “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 wishes 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 hummingbird 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. After a moment, 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 hummingbird 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. Suddenly 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 just 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 suddenly 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, apparently unconsciously, drifted down to his sword-belt, which hung 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 up, 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. Apparently, 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 simply 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 defended.”

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 then sat back down. Apparently Lirial felt his or her part was done. Naraka, however, 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 anyway.

“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 of 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. Alin seemed to accept that as an answer, turning back to the Grandmaster and listening 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 vote 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 anyway, Simon decided. I can just 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 SEVEN:

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 apparently 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 or insult 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 just 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 just 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. And I just 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, then—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 little 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 little birdcage, call Alin, and then 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 apparently 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. He has apparently 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 privately certain that 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 every time, 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 right now,” Simon called. “Just wait, I’ll be there in just 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; she seemed to be shouting at him, in her way.

They’re fighting again, Simon thought. It had happened before; among more than three dozen 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 of the dolls 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 of 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 immediately 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, you might 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, then 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 rust-red 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 immediately. 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 immediately, 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.

Come on, it could happen.

The red-dressed lizard-man’s lips peeled back, revealing dozens of sharp triangular teeth in his flat mouth. “We have come for your blood, Traveler,” the lizard-man 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 punish 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. That meant they had probably been summoned by Damascan Travelers, though he supposed they might have been able to cross over from Naraka on their own. Why now, though? 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 was apparently just 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 just in time. Not that it mattered; Simon was about to take the lizard-man’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 twisted away so suddenly 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 then 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 the chest of the black-robed Gar’rosh. The assassin flew backward like a stone from a sling, flying into another window—one of the ones the assassins 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 assassin 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; 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, but his Nye essence was running out. In seconds, Simon would be only as fast as an ordinary human. And then 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. The assassin bent backwards—it bent almost in half, in fact; its spine must be unbelievably flexible—but Simon was able to slip by the assassin and run toward the Gate.

Come on, Simon thought. Just 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 just 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 assassin’s 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 slashed 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 assassin’s wrist, letting it stumble backward. Then he walked over and snatched Azura up from the floor. He ran the palm of his hand carefully 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. Apparently, 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. Then 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-robed Gar’rosh 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 dead assassin’s throat. 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 apparently 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 then thrust the blade down. The black-robed Gar’rosh twitched once, and then 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 counting on a holiday.

CHAPTER EIGHT:

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 behind by the long-departed Daniri. Raiding Daniri tombs was always a deadly risk; even though they were sure to be unoccupied, the tombs 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 artifacts, 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.

Of course, 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.

Fortunately, 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; it had been 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 just 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 just noticed the grit blown in the wind as something she had to keep out of her eyes while she watched the two guards below. Then 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 recording 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 with star-nets. 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. Unfortunately, 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. Artifacts 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 of 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.

She could only summon items from her sanctum; that was one of the restrictions placed on Lirial Travelers. She could also only summon 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; it was a generally accepted rule in Traveler theory that physical transposition could only take place between two different realms.

Fortunately, every rule had its exceptions.

A four-pointed crystal star shimmered and appeared in Leah’s palm, like a mirage suddenly 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 casting 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 for her bait.

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 loped easily 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 just 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 shattered. They 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. Then 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 just 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. Unfortunately, in this case, it turns out 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 shifting 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 Crimson 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 Crimson Vault, 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 then 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 shifted into a more favorable position—which could take several nights—or take a horse from Cana’s stables and just ride normally to Enosh. 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. Then 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; 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, just 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.

Unfortunately, tearing a Gate out always took longer than the Gate in. Almost a full minute after she had started concentrating, the Gate slowly tore itself open, and she looked out onto her father’s palace.

More specifically, she looked out onto the Blue Room. Queen Cynara, who had originally commissioned this palace, had apparently thought that returning Ragnarus Travelers would need a break from all of 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; he didn’t seem bothered by the cold, which she supposed was to be expected. “This is the twenty-first floor, 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 fortunate, 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. Fortunately, it pulsed with an inner heat, refusing to give in to the cold of Helgard. She was glad of that; otherwise, it would 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. 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; they haunted the snow of Helgard, waiting for corpses, or else the weak and injured. Why hadn’t the show-shark attacked her, the relatively soft and unprotected prey?

The clump 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 of its fur was matted down with its own navy blue blood.

It took one step toward her.

Then the air exploded.

That was what it sounded like, anyway: like standing in the middle of a thunderclap. Leah screamed, but she couldn’t hear herself; it felt like something in her ears would tear.

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 then. For the Travelers here, it had been over a week. The Helgard Travelers loyal to Enosh had used that time to assault this fortification 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 reinforcements to get the Enosh Travelers to reconsider; they had pulled back to regroup just 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 then 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; 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 rubies 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 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 immediately. 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 just 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, and then narrowed, as though he had just 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 just wants to slaughter indiscriminately to satisfy some mad urge."

Zakareth met her gaze then, 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.

After a moment, 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; 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 know the theory; 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 sighed—inwardly; she wasn't fool enough to do anything but obey to her father's face—and spoke what she and her father had both considered immediately.

"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 a strategy we have to consider," 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; her father's opinion should mean nothing to her. But approval or encouragement from her father was more rare and valuable than diamonds.

Talos' face twisted. He sneered at them, and it did terrible things to his face. He didn't look like a hero now, just like 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; he was just making a statement. 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 in the middle if the argument between two Ragnarus Travelers came to blows.

"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 up 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, then hurriedly stepped 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 alternative is 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 streak of cruelty.

"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. Then she cursed herself. Why was that so often her first thought?

Still, 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 NINE:

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 just 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 just 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. Then 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 unfortunate, considering that's where—"

He cut off as Denner slapped him on the binding. "Sorry about that, Simon. Sometimes he just 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 really 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."

Simon's head jerked almost involuntarily toward the book, and he wrenched himself out of Kai's grasp one more time. "It's the Valinhall Incarnation? The Grandmasters didn't say that."

"They probably didn't want to tell you," 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 up onto 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, then—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 rarer 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, then, 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 Abdera.”

"Bring them here, to the other survivors," 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 then a giant white eagle appeared out of nowhere, as though it had simply come into being mid-dive. 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 on 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. Then 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 apparently 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 really 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, then 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 loses control. Excellent question! Often, these Travelers 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 then 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 man's 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 banish 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 what he deserves."

"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, just 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 then 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 then 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 just 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 just 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 just 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." Then 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 just 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 just 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, then?"

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 just 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 just wasn't.

There came a blur of black motion, and then 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 anyway, 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, then 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 just 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 alongside 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 will arrive in two hours, at most."

"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 whole thing 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 just assumed so because of what happened with the sacrifice and the Overlord.

I never thought of myself as siding with 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 siding 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.

Just 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 his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of trumpets, shattering 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, apparently 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, apparently 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 then squirm together, like a severed earthworm of shadows, cloth, and moonlight. It slithered together and began crawling off into the night.

Of course, 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 just deflated on top of him. It took him 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!

Apparently 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 whirled the sword around 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 in a few minutes, and he would need it if he had to fight Valin himself. For now, he could survive with just the steel. He had been defeating the Nye since before he had gained their speed, after all.

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 tactic that 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 the House.

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 of 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 really 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 suddenly Simon 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 just 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, then reversing the blade and skewering the black-robed figure into the ground.

Then he let Azura vanish, and he released 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 in all this," 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. Then 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 just 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. He thought quickly; 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, then, Kai’s apprentice: who would you have us follow?"

"How about me?" Simon said. He hadn't intended to say that; 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. Apparently, 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 strikes blew hair back 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 all of his student's strikes 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 the sight 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." Then, 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 TEN:

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 Simon'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 just 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, preferably, or at least in a safe room on the ground floor. If we have to, we'll just 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. He was getting used to it; he found that 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 moment 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 immediately 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 just 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. Then 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. We do have a limited window of time, after all."

Alin nodded, and the three of them walked down the hall toward Simon's room.

Alin knocked first, though he didn't really expect a response. Simon should be sleeping, if anything. Still, he raised his caged acorn alarm and gave it a shake; it was still buzzing, which meant that, wherever Simon's was, it 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 and shattered 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 tiles.

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 shattered 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. Just 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, then 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, then 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, then 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; 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 accompany the Grandmaster on her attack; after all, 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.

And 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 just 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, launching an attack of his own.

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 gracefully 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 launching himself 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 the pain of having them wrapping tight around his entire body; like being 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. Then 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 of 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, of course," 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 changes him. Just 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 just 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 of his strength, everything he had drawn from Valinhall, was just 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, instantly summoning 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. Then 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 up 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 with just 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.

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 just 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 been like cutting off one of his hands.

"...will be positioned outside the house, and of course we have a significant force waiting for incursion from Naraka," the lady Adrienne was saying. Kai barely heard her; he was staring at her and 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, after all.

"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 padlock out of Tartarus steel. It would be all but indestructible, sure, but as a result it would be much easier to just shatter the chain itself. Even the wall that anchored the chain would be easier 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, then 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 just reached into his pocket. He had always wished Valinhall had a power to dull the senses instead of enhancing them; the clamor 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 merely a distant scream. Lady Adrienne shouted something at him, which of course 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 icicles 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 just 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 for just a minute; 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, though; this one 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, after a moment. "Did they really not have any guardians in this room?"

"Nor do I," Grandmaster Naraka agreed. "I also sense no alarms, but I detected 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 just 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. Suddenly, the silent room was filled with a clatter of wood and metal. Alin spun on his heel to see that one of the Enosh soldiers had just collapsed 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 sing-song 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, and then flicked 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 immediately 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 just 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 shadowed figure.

This time, the man in shadows didn't even bother to raise his arm. The fireball crashed against his chest, splashing harmlessly against a ghostly green breastplate that the man most definitely 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. Then it trembled, as though it was stuck in 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? Alin had always thought they had to be made out of metal.

The man in the shadows...shrugged. "I'm sorry," he said. "Were you not done?"

Alin gave some serious thought to retreating.

Fortunately, 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. Then he stepped forward, inside the reach of two other spearmen, and suddenly 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 alongside 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 razor-edged wheel spun over the shield, shaving a splinter of wood from the shield's very tip. Then 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 something that 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 broadsword 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 armored 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 just 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 then 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 just over his shoulder. Bright golden force began to gather between his palms.

"Below it is," Alin said. Then he blasted a hole in the floor.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

ALIN VS. KAI

Simon stared at the sword jutting from the Incarnation's chest. Indirial barely hung onto the hilt, still kneeling on the ground, apparently 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 paces away. Valin kicked his former student hard enough that Indirial's body rose into the air. Then 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 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. Then they collapsed into shadows and moonlight essence, slithering away. The soldiers who had just been engaged in combat looked around, bewildered, wondering where their opponents had just 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.

Then 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.

Apparently 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. Then it flicked its tail forward, sending three tiny fireballs buzzing toward the Incarnation's face.

He didn't bother blocking; he let them hit. The fireballs shattered 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; 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, then he forced 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. Of course, defending himself from lightning bolts was worry enough.

Alin let the green shield flicker out of existence in order to hurl a head-sized globe of golden light, but he had to immediately 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 sudden 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 then 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 are quite resistant to 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 just 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.

Of course, 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, then," 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."

Of course, 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 corpses 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 just 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; 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. Then 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. "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! Just 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 accomplish their mission, 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. He would be more likely to survive; 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 retreat through Naraka, where the Naraka Incarnation couldn't follow them, 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 portal, onto the softly waving grass. Then 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 vanish as soon as he stepped into another Territory.

"Rhalia," Alin called weakly. 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, and then 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 in midair, 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 a shot. The swordsman had successfully defended the Tree; if Alin could just get him to back off, then 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; they were 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 and Simon were going to have a long talk.

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 looked 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 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 just 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; instead, 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 with both his hands. The sword flared 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, after all—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 TWELVE:

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 transformed from peaked canvas into wooden structures with shingled roofs. They looked like doghouses. The earth between the rows of tents had transformed into wood-paneled flooring, the grass into green carpeting. Lantern-poles and hitching-posts for the horses had transformed 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 just barely see Valin's chain-shrouded 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; trees he passed 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.

Of course, 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 paces 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 just sighed.

The Incarnation stopped and turned, his black-and-silver eyes locked on Simon. He didn't smile or make jokes this time; 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 then 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 forehead, and that symbol was now glowing.

"Excuse me just 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 just 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 onto its side, grew out of thin air just 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 just 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 just a moment, while I have a word with these fine ladies and gentlemen," the Incarnation said.

From where he was bowing 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 anyway, 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 just 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 goals,” 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 rustle 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 seeks 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 oppose 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, of course, was precisely 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 oppose the nature of my Territory. If you want to stop the Wanderer's rampage, you must earn this through force of arms."

The Eldest hesitated, then added, "Let me give you a piece of advice: the Incarnation has access to almost all of 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 just 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 just 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. Apparently 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 looked on 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 not need it any longer." His voice held no doubt. Each of his words possessed 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 just barely see what happened. It was so quick that he could still barely see the details; 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 of course.

Of course. Denner may have Traveled to one of the Overlords, killed all the attackers, and then hitched a ride back here, all in an hour or two. That didn’t seem too unbelievable.

Now that he thought of it, how long had Denner been gone, anyway?

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 paces 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 just 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 immediately 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 crushing 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 crush 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 held back her dark hair; it was made of silvered steel that shone an unnatural red, 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 of course 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 THIRTEEN:

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 have earned 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 also, unfortunately, 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 injured 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 cowardice.

"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 suddenly 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 just a child. Scarcely fifty. He can barely go a day without proving his valor to somebody. He'll grow out of it."

"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 then. "Maybe I'll tell you, one day," she said.

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; apparently it 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 but 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; apparently, 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. Either way, 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 paces 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. The door through which he had just entered, of course, led 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 it; 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 immediately. "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 twisting 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 just 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."

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 right now?"

"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 got suddenly 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 embodiment 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 a tendency to pay the prices for their weapons 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 of 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.

Rhalia could say what she wanted, but Alin thought he would save the white door for last.

***

Simon said nothing, just moved 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 realm."

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 anyway. 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 village, after all. 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. Just a bit. 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. Then 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 acted 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 just now 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 just 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 check-in, 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 really lived. Yes, my mother really did come from Myria. Yes, Aunt Nurita was really 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, really.

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, having experience with liars, he felt better. If Angeline could vouch for Leah, then he would accept that. For now.

Leah watched him raise the doll to his face and then 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, of course," 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 then return. It's not something you can do accidentally or unaware. Except apparently, in the case of Elysia, 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. Anyway, he insisted on checking the survivors, on making sure that there were no Enosh agents among you. He was just 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 up 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 just 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 just then.

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 just 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 just 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 was supposed to be the one controlling people; it was either that, or accept getting controlled in return. 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 FOURTEEN:

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 had just 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—really only had a few rooms that they could all enter, but apparently they had found the few rooms where they could go and Simon could not.

That meant, unfortunately, 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 of his internal injuries with only one session, so the Overlord apparently 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, of course, had 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 just another villager, and no matter how he tried to remind himself that she had been born into her status, he still remained somehow unconvinced.

Anyway, 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, then, was he supposed to do? Should he just 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 hate people like that; 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 just one guy 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 defeated 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; apparently, 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. Then 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 stance 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. After a moment, 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. Then 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 vortex 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 vortex 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. Then 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 then 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 immediately 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 immediately 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 looked longingly at the next door. "But..."

"I wouldn't open that now, if I were you," Indirial said. "What waits on the other side will immediately 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, apparently every other attack had gone just 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.

Of course, even without a direct answer, Alin knew the other reason. The reason they didn't mention, but the word that was on everybody's lips just now.

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. Just in case he was a Traveler, she planned to overwhelm him in an ambush and then report immediately 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 then relaxed, the skin smoothing out. Muscles writhed around the wrist, building themselves up. The scar shrank slightly.

Grandmaster Naraka's breath caught and then relaxed, and—though it might have been Alin's imagination—she seemed to breathe a little more easily than before.

Alin himself didn't; 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 healing 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, anyway: 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. Then 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 of 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, just a second too late. They're probably still sleeping. Anyway, 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 he realized: 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. As he watched, she pushed her long 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 just 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. Just 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 wind-up 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 just 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. They didn't know anything, after all. 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 FIFTEEN:

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; it drifted down much slower than it should have, as though it were drifting through water. "These materials must have come from foreign Territories. Amazing."

Indirial 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 anyway. "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, just 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 apparently 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 behind 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 just 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.

After a moment, she relented, 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 see 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 just 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 just watched the two in silence. They were treating him like a child. He could almost understand that; to them, he was a child. And if Indirial had known something he didn't about the mask, he certainly wanted to know what that was.

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; 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 suddenly 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 for the ages, Caela responded.

No, I mean, why aren't you as slow as everything else?

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 really much more efficient than speech; I'm not sure why you ever bother moving your mouth at all.

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 of 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 then suddenly 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 him 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 really 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. Then 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. Then 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. Then Simon looked at his arm.

It was covered by a design like black chains. The chains twisted all the way up his arms.

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, then you can wear the mask. I do not care."

Olissa came rushing into the workshop then. "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 the artifact meets the correct requirements. If they did so, then you would be able to summon it in the outside world."

"Do it," Simon said, but Indirial immediately 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 just 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."

His eyes widened 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 then 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. "What 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 just 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 anyway, 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 just 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, anyway.

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, then pushed 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 of 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, he could have been watching the serpents crawl all over the man's 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 just 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 know 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; it just wasn't something he did.

"I don't want the law code's answer," he said. "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 just 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 then. 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. After all, she would never attain a higher rank.

"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, after all.

"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, really." 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 mace 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 was suddenly two sizes too tight. Then it lifted, and 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. Undoubtedly, 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 attacking force."

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 SIXTEEN:

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 suddenly 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 addressed him with such an obvious lack of respect since he had come to Enosh in the first place.

He was just 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 of 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 then 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. 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 off in 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 immediately.”

“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, then 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 then 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 just 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 little 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 immediately 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 onto 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 onto 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 seized the back of the Heir’s collar and pulled him backwards, slamming Talos down onto the table behind him.

The scholarly-looking man moved forward immediately, 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 of 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, then 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 immediately 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 alliance.

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 SEVENTEEN:

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.

Apparently, 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 of tents were patrolled not just by groups of soldiers, 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; 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 really 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. After a moment, she spoke, and several people went running.

Indirial finally reached Leah's side and bowed, as did Denner.

Awkwardly, Simon followed suit. He considered just 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 anyway."

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, really?

Leah began to speak, but then 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 a little, then turned and walked 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 just 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 really 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 EIGHTEEN:

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 apparently taken that as permission to do whatever he wanted, because Denner had immediately 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, just 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; 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 just 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.

Hm? 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 sealed 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 sealed 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. "Of course they can move. They can speak, after all."

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 just 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 so without taking a single scratch?

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 it's 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 restrict Simon's motion the way he had once assumed it would.

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 just 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 something, 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 blocked 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 strikes 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 just in time 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.

Simon didn't see Kai move. First he was seated with his back to Simon, still whittling, then he stood 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 really had been a friendly match. Had Talos actually taken the fight seriously?

Lysander looked at the Heir and let out a breath. The flock of sparrows around his head 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 fight.

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.

Of course, 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; how threatening could birds possible be?

Kai smiled slightly at Talos. "I'm sorry, child," he said, in his sing-song 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. "Of course, 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. "Really? A mental attack, then?"

"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 with me. 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 just in time 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 bird 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 felt his thoughts boil up, as though everything he had ever wondered was being 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 just 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 a sapphire sky. Denner, his face dirty and unshaven as usual, was peering down at him in concern. Someone’s blood had spattered his face.

“Feel better?” Denner asked.

Bird incoming, Otoku sent, and Simon rolled to the side just 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, and then Denner’s voice saying, “Seven stones, Kai, he doesn’t have the stone amulet 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.

After a moment, 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.

As did Otoku’s weight from his cloak pocket, as well as the cloak itself. Even Azura disappeared 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 just 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 just 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.

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, however, no corpses of 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, apparently looking 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, then?”

Denner shrugged, looking sheepish. “I can only use it once. It takes a day or two to repair itself. And they were only Avernus, after all; it was probably just 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, then,” 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.

Just 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.

Then 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 NINETEEN:

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 the furnace 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 just walk out, but pride held him in his place. He had made such an issue of staying here; 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; 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 just 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. “Just 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.”

“Of course,” 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 suddenly 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, apparently not sure which side to support. They murmured among each other, but—maybe because of the bodies—nobody called out. They just 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 apparently 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 daggers.

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, then! No, too obvious. Besides, he 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.

Just as the light built to a crescendo, Simon threw himself to the ground, sliding under the lightning that thundered above him, just 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. Apparently, 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 suddenly 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, of course, 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 right then—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, 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, 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. Then 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 TWENTY:

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 really 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 onto 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 then the both of them got 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 onto 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 evident pain. “The Valinhall Travelers…they’ve turned on us. They’ve joined with their Incarnation.”

Deliberately, 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. I think he’s 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.

Not that Simon wouldn’t oppose Damasca; that would be entirely in character for him. 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, and then waited until the perfect time to execute an ambush.

That was a tactic she would have expected from Lysander.

He would have known all of 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 obviously, 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, suddenly not quite as crippled as before, and threw both hands out in front of him. A flock of Sarin sparrows, from Avernus, erupted 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 fortunately accuracy wasn’t 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 simply locked its targets in solid rock.

Of course, that was no less lethal for most of the birds. If their entire bodies had been trapped, they would have been fine, 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, to her surprise, they were both staring between her and the Overlord in stunned disbelief. Apparently they had 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 then 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 Travelers interfering. 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 sword, she pushed him down to his knees. Then 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. Then she stood up, 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 as soon as possible.

But he had another plan in mind, and for that, he would need his powers to last for as long as possible.

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 just call steel and tear the door down.

Fortunately, 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 just 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 just 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 defeat the Incarnation.”

“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; 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. But you must abide by that responsibility regardless.”

“Of course!”

“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, then.”

Simon watched the mask glow. The eye-slits flashed blue-white once, and then died. “Defeat him before he can take the mask from me. Got it. 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 onto a belt, and her advisor drifted 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 apparently 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 just 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, of course, he had to find and fight an immensely powerful, insane avatar of battle with the strength of an entire Territory, somehow tricking this being 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, then,” 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 just as easily have put his foot through Kai’s ribs. In this case, Kai just 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, right now, none of that mattered.

He just 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, almost immediately, 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. Then he pressed the mask against his face.

The eye-slits flared briefly with white light, and then 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, the force of his momentum, 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 midair 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, suddenly 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 apparently drawing on enough Nye essence to speed him up to Simon’s level, because he launched a series of midair 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 TWENTY-ONE:

THE END OF A 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 just 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, then,” she said. She pulled something out of her pocket that Alin couldn’t see, and suddenly 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 suddenly 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—fortunately, it was just 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 splashed 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 just 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 their conflict threatened to blow 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 just 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 relentless 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 battlefield 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 battlefield 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.

Fortunately, 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 just 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?

Of course, it didn’t matter now.

She shoved the well-meaning Traveler off of 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 just 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 just 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 chipped 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; with his other hand he crushed 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.

Suddenly, one of the blurred 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, then 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 then 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 then 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.

Where had he left it, anyway?

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 just want to hang on until I see Valin fall. It’s my…my fault, after all. 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 just 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 just 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. Then 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’ve got one minute until insanity.

“Right,” Leah agreed, glad to change the subject. “Get out there and finish the job.”

Simon shook his head, then leaped away, 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 scored 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, then 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 just 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 just had a little more power. Just a little more, and he could do this now.

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.

Immediately 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 crimson 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 crimson sword.

Simon let Azura drop from his fingers, taking the Ragnarus blade in both hands. Then 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 up 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 really 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 TWENTY-TWO:

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 behind 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 then 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 healers?”

“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’ll heal you,” 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 immediately, 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 just a moment, Alin stood, torn between going to help Simon and walking into Ragnarus. He agonized over the decision for what seemed like much longer than just 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 then 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 just 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 anyway.

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. She just watched.

“Fine.” Alin touched the golden power of Elysia, tapping into the force just beyond sight, and blasted 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 really 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 just then. 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, just 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; he wouldn’t have kept a secret for any longer than he had to. And he couldn’t imagine Leah keeping a secret from him and then sharing it with Simon, of all people.

Simon must have learned her identity recently, just as he had. But if that was true, then 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 immediately 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 paces of walking 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 just hammered away, roaring impotently.

A second later, the spear blasted through the fire-beast’s chest, and then immediately again 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. Supposedly, 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?

Of course, Elysia had 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, then 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 just 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. Then 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.

Alin decided it was time for him to get involved; he 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 of course, 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 just fought occasionally—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. Just 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 apparently 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 simply flinched. Slightly. It looked as though he 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 had actually 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, he had 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, apparently 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 just 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 noose 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 noose 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, just 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 TWENTY-THREE:

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, just a little, and they painted everything in a comforting shade of red.

Of course, considering the torches just outside the Crimson Vault, she didn’t need any help seeing the world in red.

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. Then, 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 just 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, apparently. 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 onto 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, then 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.

Immediately, two men in blue uniforms stepped forward.

“Highness,” one said immediately. “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 an ash-gray rope tightened around his throat.

His eyes bulged. Then 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 really was a traitor.

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

The Grandmaster smiled down at Talos.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alin took one involuntary step back.

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

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

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

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

“Why me?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He saw a sick, dying old man.

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

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

***

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

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

“Is he dead?” she asked.

Alin nodded, his fist tightening on the red seed.

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

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

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

“It’s mine.”

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

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

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

“As always, I’m a step ahead of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

But that wasn’t all.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“It’s already started.”

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

She ran faster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 her father’s 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. After a moment, she realized 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 really 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 really a sea of melted rock?” she asked eagerly. “How does rock melt?”

“In a really hot fire, I 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 it; he glanced 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. Just 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 concluded.

“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.

Fortunately, 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. Fortunately, Bel Calem was relatively close to Enosh; it was most of four day’s journey over land, but through Naraka, it would take 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 hardened 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. Its shaft was of obsidian; its head, flame itself.

“You stand accused of cheating the innocent,” the Incarnation rumbled. 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 just 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 flared 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…” he rumbled slowly. “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 TWENTY-FOUR:

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 all of a sudden everyone was trying to touch him, even just 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 just 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 just 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 just collapse with the suit still on.

“I killed the King, and practically won your war single-handedly,” 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. Other than 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 his 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 with my mind,” 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, then reached 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. I know it’s easier to open a Gate to Elysia at midday.”

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 just 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 hurtled through the air like a flame-colored meteor.

He had never moved with such speed. In only a matter of minutes, he went from Enosh to just outside of Myria. He recognized the lay of the land; his family’s property wasn’t far from here.

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.

He landed outside the doorway, and immediately a hulking four-armed lizard with black skin leaped out of the nearby flames, ambushing him the second he landed.

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 just 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 onto 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 just 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 for some reason 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 just 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 after all—the silver light 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 got any 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 glowing 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.

Just as the Incarnation looked like it was about to speak, Alin slammed his shielded 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, then Alin wouldn’t be able to beat it to nothing more than 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 then huge, bat-like wings of ash sprouted from its back. With lumbering sweeps of its giant wings, it somehow managed to gain enough momentum 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, blasted from its palm.

Alin didn’t even move, he just 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, blasting Alin and his green shield into the dust.

Alin struck with the power of a meteorite impact, sending rings of dust blasting away from his landing.

Fortunately, the shield absorbed most of the damage, leaving Alin to stand up mostly unharmed. If he had taken the hit, then 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.

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 him long before he saw him, and he simply flew out of the way.

The Incarnation crashed into the ground, blasting himself into a cloud of ash. He re-formed almost instantly, lifting his 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.

Tendrils of blue light erupted from Alin’s hand, winding around the Incarnation, sliding around and binding its limbs. They leeching away its strength, flowing with pulses of blue light. 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 pitiful 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 power 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. “Tell all the districts to see to the villagers. Treat them with all 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 travel-bag over his shoulder, he went to search for his Gold soldiers. He needed Ilana.

And then he had some business to conduct.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:

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 just 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 celebrated something, 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 wasn’t everyone celebrating?

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. Apparently things were 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 no such luck: the room was small, with just 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. No Incarnation or hostile Traveler could possibly get to him in the face of a barred door. Now he felt secure.

That means I don’t 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 really had no reason to. He had very little idea where ‘Abdera’ was, and even if he did, he’d rather be in the House anyway. 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?

Suddenly 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. 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 immediately. 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, shifting so that the orange was the most obvious one second, then the pink the next, then the aquamarine.

“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.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t banished Azura.

Alin ignored the question, carefully laying his sister down on the freshly made bed.

“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. Just 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. Not really.”

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 then tossed his care out the window and said what he really 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 off in 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.

Immediately 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 immediately 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 just now.

Alin, an Incarnation.

And 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.

“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; Gates to Cana just won’t open anymore.”

“Oh,” Simon said. Then 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, anyway.

“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.

After a moment, 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. Then 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 anyway. It was slow, but also somehow 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, just 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 eyes 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 sound, 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, of course, 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

To Be Concluded In…

CITY OF LIGHT

(Book #3 of the Traveler’s Gate Trilogy)

Available When the Moons of Lirial Have Aligned

(Early 2014)

Also, check out Will’s website for book updates, news, occasional fiction, and the Secret Recipe.

www.WillWight.com

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Chapter One: A Prison in the Rain

Chapter Two: Weapons Old and New

Chapter Three: Royal Blood

Chapter Four: Rebirth

Chapter Five: The Rising Sun

Chapter Six: The Grandmasters' Council

Chapter Seven: Avoiding Justice

Chapter Eight: Ice and Moonlight

Chapter Nine: The Incarnation of Valinhall

Chapter Ten: Return to Bel Calem

Chapter Eleven: Alin vs. Kai

Chapter Twelve: A Declaration of War

Chapter Thirteen: Nine Doors

Chapter Fourteen: The Frozen Horn

Chapter Fifteen: Succession

Chapter Sixteen: Careful Plans

Chapter Seventeen: The Royal Army of Damasca

Chapter Eighteen: A Duel

Chapter Nineteen: Ambush

Chapter Twenty: The Mask

Chapter Twenty-One: The End of a Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Crimson Vault

Chapter Twenty-Three: Seeds

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Gates of Heaven

Chapter Twenty-Five: Long Live the King

Sequel Page