The Crimson Vault (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (50 page)

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?”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO
:

T
HE
C
RIMSON
V
AULT

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.’