City of Light (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy)

by Wight, Will

  Avernus rubbed her forehead with a taloned hand. “I get ahead of myself, I'm sorry. Valinhall and the second Endross, then.”

  “No. No, we're not going to switch topics because you think the timing isn't appropriate. Tell me what you were going to say about the Ragnarus Incarnation. Is it my brother? My father?”

  Leah held her breath, fearing and hoping. If it was her father, that meant he was alive—in a manner of speaking—and that she could deal with him. If Talos had somehow survived and Incarnated...well, at least killing him would be easier than dealing with King Zakareth the Sixth.

  The Avernus Incarnation sighed. “Your father.”

  She nodded, too sick to say anything. It was one thing to suspect, but quite another to have her fears confirmed at once.

  “I'm sorry, Leah. I truly am. But please, concentrate on the questions I asked you. Why did the Valinhall Incarnation and the second Endross give in? What happened to them?”

  Leah answered automatically, her mind still focused on her father as an Incarnation. “Valinhall was the one who created the Territory. His name was Valin. If I recall correctly, he Incarnated because he had some sort of personal vendetta against my grandfather. Or perhaps because he opposed the system of sealing the Incarnations under the Hanging Trees, I'm not completely sure.”

  Avernus was chewing on her bottom lip, a surprisingly human gesture from a woman with two sets of wings. “The Founder of Valinhall became an Incarnation? I thought the two were mutually exclusive...would it make him more powerful, I wonder, or simply unique?” Abruptly she shook herself, and all the feathers on her body ruffled at once, then flattened. “I apologize. But notice that, either way, he was driven to Incarnation in order to oppose the reigning trend of keeping us sealed. Indirectly, he Incarnated because we did. And the other Endross?”

  “He was a follower of the ancient Endross Incarnation. When we killed the first one, he saw his chance to become, as his own followers believed, a demigod. There were almost a dozen of them trying anything they could to transform, and he was the first to succeed.”

  The Incarnation pointed at Leah with a taloned finger. “That's it. You see? He intentionally chose to do it in order to imitate an Incarnation he'd already seen. There is a pattern at work here, not simply unfortunate chance.”

  Step by step, Leah worked it through in her mind. If the Avernus Incarnation was telling the truth—and for the sake of argument, she had to assume that was the case—then at least eight of the original nine Incarnations had been lured to transform outside of a Territory.

  The Avernus Incarnation leaned in, her hawk’s eyes sharp on Leah. Her wings had stretched out now, so that the white and the emerald feathers were actually pressing against the canvas of the tent. “You see it,” she stated, with absolute certainty. She folded her wings back in and crossed her legs, wearing a smug smile. Idly, Leah noted that her feet were complete bird talons.

  “Why would anyone do this?” Leah asked. “Who benefits from creating wild, murderous Incarnations instead of allowing them to serve their Territory?”

  Avernus raised her teacup to her lips, realized that it was empty, and tossed it behind her. It landed on the ground with a tinkle of broken porcelain. “No one, as far as I know. But that’s not what happened, is it?”

  Behind her, a pair of hands reached in underneath the canvas. They scooped the shattered teacup into a dustpan and then quickly retreated.

  Leah spoke her thoughts aloud. “The Incarnations were born here, instead of in their Territories. There was a war, and they were sealed.”

  “So for three hundred years…”

  “…we haven’t had to deal with any Incarnations,” Leah finished. The implications were unsettling.

  “When the Incarnations exist in our own Territories, we advance our own goals, even at the expense of foreign Travelers,” Avernus said. “Many Incarnations would destroy outposts, waylay or deceive merchant caravans, or seduce Travelers into their service. So who benefits from nine Territories free of any Incarnations?”

  Leah thought of the single, dominating factor that had allowed Damasca to prosper and flourish under her family for the last three-and-a-half centuries. They didn’t need an intricate system of roads or communication, because messages and goods passed through Territories. They never had to fear drought or plague, because they could always get their crops from Avernus or Asphodel. Their borders were secure from all but Enosh, because the ways in and out of each Territory were secured by semi-permanent outposts. Until recently, the Overlords had been kept in line because only the royal family could deal with the Hanging Trees…and the creatures sealed beneath their roots.

  If anyone turned a profit from Territories that were easier to control, it was Damasca.

  At last, Leah answered the question.

  “I do,” she said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  CREATING INCARNATIONS

  Indirial hadn’t eaten in two days. He hadn’t slept. Neither he, nor his wife, nor his daughter had been given a drop of water. None of his bones had been broken, and he wasn’t bleeding badly enough to endanger his life. The Incarnations were very careful to preserve him as they kicked him, taunted him, sent phantom noises into his mind, lured his eyes with illusions, tore his skin and bruised his flesh…

  And through it all, King Zakareth sat on his throne and watched. Indirial didn’t think the man had moved in forty-eight hours. He sat on the ruby throne of Damasca, leaning on his elbow. Watching.

  “Don’t be a coward, Indirial,” the King said. “Face the challenge and overcome it. Fight for freedom. Earn it.”

  Every few hours he would make similar announcements, appealing to the Valinhall philosophy of fighting for what you wanted.

  He didn’t realize that Indirial was already fighting. Not for his own desires, but to keep his enemy’s plan from succeeding. He was fighting not to call on his powers.

  He’d been forced to draw on Valinhall to stay conscious, to see through illusions, to burn poison from his veins, to deflect a spear launched at his daughter. Now, as the Ornheim Incarnation lifted him in one rocky fist, preparing to drop him one more time to the floor below, he could only feel one thing: the black chains wrapping around his throat.

  They were too close. His time was almost up. It was a miracle that he’d lasted this long without going over the edge.

  Ornheim dropped him, and he fell.

  When he hit the tiles, he heard the damage to his body more than he felt it. It sounded like a solid, meaty crunch. Maybe he had finally reached the point where he was too numb to feel anything else. If so, he thanked the Maker for it. That meant death was close; he could die with a clean conscience.

  His neck was twisted around against the tiles. Not enough to snap his spine, no matter how much he wished that were the case, but enough to force him to stare at Nerissa and Elaina in their cages. Nerissa had stopped whispering words of encouragement yesterday, when she had apparently lost her voice. She sat huddled in her cage now, her ice-white eyes strangely blank and locked on him. Even Elaina had stopped fighting, though both her fists were scraped and raw from where she’d hammered on the bars of her dangling cage. Her eyes were closed, but she jerked and whimpered at every sound.

  They wouldn’t survive him long. That was what the King had promised, and Indirial didn’t doubt that he meant it. Once Indirial was dead, Zakareth had no reason to keep Nerissa and Elaina alive or around. He would either execute them and toss their bodies out as refuse, or leave them here until they died. Indirial prayed for the former.

  King Zakareth held up one hand, and the Ornheim Incarnation froze. It looked like one of the Territory’s golems, but intricately carved with the detailed features of a tough older man, his skin lined with years. The Incarnation was made out of a fine white stone, with lines of every color running through him. In other circumstances, Indirial would have called this creature beautiful.

  “Get back to work,” Zakareth ordered. The Inc
arnation rumbled deep inside its stone chest, glaring at the King with what Indirial recognized as restrained hatred. Its marble fists slowly closed, with a sound like grinding gravel.

  He almost expected Ornheim’s eyes to be gemstones—that was the tradition in Ornheim golems. Instead, they were far more bizarre for looking disturbingly human, as though someone had imprisoned a man’s eyes in a statue. The effect was doubly disconcerting when they shone with hot rage.

  But the King rapped his staff down on the floor, and Ornheim simply bowed at the waist and walked out, its footsteps crashing on the tiles.

  Indirial let himself relax against the floor. Maybe he would be able to snatch a few minutes of sleep, or at least fade into unconsciousness to forget the damage to his body. If he was lucky, the King would lose his patience and execute him while he slept.

  Zakareth gestured again, and a stream of silver mist flowed in the doors.

  Indirial struggled weakly, thrashing and trying to persuade his body to move. He almost pushed himself up, but his arms were too weak.

  Is it worth calling steel?

  He considered for a moment, sorely tempted. He would have plenty of strength to get up and fight this new Incarnation, at least as long as his steel lasted. But the price was too great.

  No, that’s what he wants.

  Indirial fell back down, his elbows collapsing under his own weight, chin smacking against the floor.

  The boots of the Asphodel Incarnation clicked against the floor as he walked past Indirial without a word. The Overlord couldn’t see anything of his enemy above the knees, but the boots seemed to be made of gracefully flowing wood and decorated with vines that sprouted tiny, brightly colored flowers. A wave of Mist flowed behind Asphodel like a cape.

  King Zakareth liked to move the Incarnations around in rotation, using their unique abilities to torment Indirial in new and unexpected ways. Over the past two days, he’d seen six of the nine Territories: Avernus, Naraka and Tartarus had yet to make an appearance, but he’d personally witnessed that Avernus had been sealed back into her Territory. That left Naraka and Tartarus. Maybe Zakareth hadn’t been able to recruit either of them, or maybe he was saving them for some hideous torture later.

  But of everyone he’d seen so far, the Asphodel Incarnation was by far the worst.

  Asphodel swept a bow, his mist-cape billowing behind him. “Zakareth, allow me to compliment you on your excellent health and keen sense of color coordination.” A smile shone through his words, though Indirial couldn’t see his face. “How may I serve the throne today?”

  Each of the Incarnations had reacted differently, confronted with the man who had effectively imprisoned them for three hundred years. Indirial kept track of these reactions in the hope that, against all odds, he would be able to use the information against his enemies someday.

  Lirial and Helgard seemed to let their curiosity overwhelm their resentment, but every once in a while their anger would burn through. Ornheim had stated his objections clearly, and Endross had openly tried to kill Zakareth every time he was summoned, but Zakareth forced them both into line with his Rod of Harmony. Asphodel was the only one who seemed genuinely not to care about his three centuries of inactivity and torment.

  It was entirely in character for him. Asphodel Travelers, as a rule, didn’t allow themselves to experience much emotion. The Incarnation wouldn’t have feelings, he’d simply feed on the feelings of others.

  “Educate the prisoner,” King Zakareth ordered, his burning crimson gaze returning to Indirial.

  Asphodel bowed once more. “Yes, Majesty. And I must remark once more on how intimidating you look. Sitting there in your bright red throne, left eye glowing, cages dangling overhead…not to mention the implicit threat of the Rod in your right hand, and the whole armor-and-spiky-crown image. Your enemies must positively quake with fear.”

  The whole speech was delivered in the same smooth, content, slightly disinterested voice, as though he were complimenting a poorly paid gardener.

  “I have many uses for your time,” King Zakareth said, not shifting position in the slightest. The ruby on top of the Rod of Harmony flared. “Stop wasting it.”

  The Asphodel Incarnation waved away the threat, turning to walk away from Indirial. The floor tiles cracked as a vine as thick as an oak tree curled up from the soil beneath, blooming into a flower big enough to swallow a man whole. Asphodel settled back into the soft yellow petals, which contoured around his form to make a seat.

  “Ah, Ragnarus,” the Incarnation said with a sigh. “Territory of overt violence and instant gratification. Mine is the art and science of subtlety. The audience should be quiet and watch.”

  King Zakareth’s face hardened even further at that, and Indirial dared to hope that he would take the time to teach Asphodel a lesson. The King had never learned how to take orders, and Indirial couldn’t believe that Incarnation had changed that about him.

  But the Incarnation of Asphodel didn’t seem to care what Zakareth did. He lounged in his flower, plucking petals from his hair.

  This Incarnation was somehow both more and less human than many of the others Indirial had seen. He didn’t look like a monster, which already put him above Endross and Ornheim, but he was covered in clothes made of living roots and blooming flowers. His skin was pale, but it was the white of a lily, not of healthy living flesh. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in locks of silver, ornamented with a circlet of yellow, red, and blue flowers. His eyes were soft lavender, and he wore an amused expression as he stared down his nose.

  Straight at Indirial.

  Asphodel’s head snapped up in alarm. So did the King’s.

  “Go find—” Zakareth began, but then a door-sized section of the stone wall blasted inward, scattering the throne room with rubble.

  Simon shot in through the hole in the wall, nothing more than a blur of black-and-silver to Indirial’s exhausted eyes. The boy dropped his huge Tartarus steel hammer to the floor, pulling Azura out of midair as he ran.

  Still moving, he swung the Dragon’s Fang in a gleaming arc through Asphodel’s neck. The Incarnation had raised one hand as if to stop him, but it did no good. When Asphodel’s head rolled across the tiles, it still wore a look of mild surprise.

  Simon brought Azura down with both hands onto the King, who managed to block with his staff. The Rod of Discord wasn’t made for melee combat, though, and Simon’s Tartarus steel blade sent a chip of gold spinning off into the distance.

  Red light leaked from the Ragnarus weapon, and even Zakareth’s eyes widened in alarm.

  Simon threw himself backwards as the Rod exploded, sending shards rocketing everywhere in the hall. In their hanging cages, Nerissa and Elaina cowered, protected from the debris by the bottoms of their steel prisons. Indirial himself tried to keep his eyes open despite the almost overwhelming desire to squeeze them shut: he had to see Simon strike the final blow, had to know that his torment was finally over.

  The throne had been broken into pieces by the explosion, lying in boulder-sized chunks of ruby. Of King Zakareth there was no sign, but a larger pile of rubble in the back corner of the room shifted.

  Then Simon was there, helping Indirial to his feet. The pain that shot through him felt like being hit by an Endross lightning bolt combined with having Benson beating him into the pavement, but he didn’t complain.

  “Did you…” his voice gave out, so he tried again. “Did you get him?”

  Simon was wearing that mask of his, half his face silver and the other half black, so Indirial couldn’t see his expression. His voice echoed hollow. “No, I just stunned him. We have to hurry; can you make a Gate, if I hold him off?”

  Indirial considered for an instant. He’d have to call steel to keep himself on his feet, and then summon Vasha and cut the Gate. Considering how much space his chains had left…

  “Barely,” he said. “You’ll have to save my family.”

  Simon nodded, and King Zakareth rose from the pile
of rubble, his burning eye almost a blood-red bonfire. He pointed the Rod of Harmony in Simon’s direction, though Indirial wasn’t exactly sure what it would do when used against Simon in the mask. The Rod was meant to turn a Traveler’s own powers against him, but since Valinhall’s powers were internal, would it even work? The mask had originally been an artifact of Ragnarus; would that change anything?

  Is this real? he wondered. It certainly seemed real, and he didn’t doubt that Simon would have headed off to Cana as soon as he learned that Indirial had been captured.

  But he had to know for sure.

  Valinhall offered a host of powers to deal with physical threats: he could make his bones and muscles stronger, armor his skin, burn away poison, increase his body’s ability to heal, numb pain, block direct attacks…practically any threat he might face in battle could be blocked or reversed by the forces he could summon from the House of Blades. But against mental attack, they only had one real defense.

  Until this point, Indirial had avoided using it. He had even survived Asphodel’s last visit without it, by reminding himself over and over that the images he saw of his family being tortured to death were within his own mind. But this...this didn’t seem like the kind of thing the Asphodel Incarnation could make up. How would he even know who Simon was?

  Just in case, Indirial called diamond.

  All at once, the world clarified. It didn’t slow, as when he called the essence of the Nye, nor did his senses heighten. Everything simply…made more sense, as if the weight on his thoughts had finally lifted.

  Indirial glanced at Simon, who was pulling his hand away from Indirial’s shoulders, preparing to charge Zakareth.

  How did he find out I was missing? Only the Damascan camp knew, and none of them could have gone to the House. Besides, Simon’s still recovering from the last time he used the mask. If he wore it again, he would become the Valinhall Incarnation before I got a chance.

  “This is a pathetic attempt, Asphodel,” Indirial called. “I hope you didn’t expect me to believe this.”