The Crimson Vault (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (35 page)

"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.