The Lightning Wastes (The Traveler's Gate Chronicles: Collection #3)

by Will Wight

  Rhalia had never been very good at setting traps.

  Cynara hurled the Lightning Spear at Rhalia’s chest. It blasted through the orb of Gold Light that the Incarnation had just thrown, slamming into a hexagonal plate of Green Light just in front of Rhalia’s dress.

  The Green Light cracked, and Cynara intended to follow up with a blast from the Wand to break the shield, but the spasm of pain from throwing the Lightning Spear caught up with her. She shook, just once, but then the moment passed.

  A cushion of Orange caught her feet, dragging her up toward the sky. The Spear hadn’t returned yet, so Cynara called a different weapon into her empty hand: the Lonely Dagger. Its red-streaked blade sliced through the Orange Light as though it had physical substance, and Cynara twisted in midair, landing in a crouch.

  The Lightning Spear met her outstretched palm, and she hurled it again, blindly. Pain shuddered her body, but she was more worried about the Dagger’s price.

  She could summon it and use it freely, but the minute she banished it back to Ragnarus she would forget someone. The longer she kept it here, the more important the person she would forget.

  After a moment’s thought, Cynara banished the Dagger. As useful as it would be to keep around, there were a few people she wouldn’t want to forget. Not on the day she died.

  She wasn’t sure what memories she had lost—that was the nature of the cost—but she only had the Dagger out for a few seconds. In the incredibly unlikely event that she survived this day, some minor noble was going to be very offended when she forgot him or her completely.

  Rhalia deflected the Spear with a wall of Green, and Cynara realized that she had a chance. She scrambled over to the section of road where the cobblestones had shattered, baring earth.

  This was the third time the city of Cana had been invaded. Twice in the last year. Enough blood had been spilled in this city to soak the soil.

  Or so she hoped. If it hadn’t, the Hanging Tree wouldn’t take root, and she would die at the Elysia Incarnation’s hands.

  Frantically, she dug at the dirt with her bare hands, pressing one of the seeds down and sweeping some soil over it.

  Red light flared underground, shining through the thin layer of earth. Cynara’s heart unclenched.

  Rhalia held a sword of gold light in one hand now, but she stared at the ground, uncertain.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Cynara didn’t call the Lightning Spear to return. She left it lying on the ground like a piece of debris. She dropped the Bleeding Wand to one side. “I win,” was all she said.

  She was covered by a dozen cuts, some of which wept freely. In the case of her left arm, a piece of flying debris had sliced her deep.

  Cynara pinched the wound together, sending a drop of blood onto the ground above the seed. The earth trembled. Rhalia raised a hand to hurl golden light.

  Then a tendril of red erupted from the ground, wrapping around Cynara’s wound. She could feel blood flowing from her into the Tree, weakness taking over her body. It wasn’t painful, but neither was it pleasant.

  “What did—” Rhalia began, but she was interrupted by the rising of the Hanging Tree. It rumbled as it rose, little more than a sapling in size, but menacing still. Its leafless limbs whipped blindly at the air, and Cynara saw that they were covered in tiny thorns.

  The root around her hand was not. It was smooth, almost gentle, as it drew upon her blood for power.

  Rhalia, sensing danger, flared Orange Light at her feet and began to fly away.

  The Hanging Tree didn’t let her.

  Thorny branches seized her around each ankle, dragging the Incarnation closer and closer to the ground, even as she strained to fly away. She turned, hacking branches with her sword of yellow light, but the branches kept growing back, kept reaching.

  Cynara’s arm had grown cold, and she was feeling dizzy. It wasn’t so bad that she would die, she supposed. Not for such a good cause. But her daughter would be alone. She was only fourteen; what if the lords and ladies didn’t listen to her? What if she couldn’t rebuild? There was every chance that she would be killed before she could get the Trees planted. Would their new nation of Damasca ever escape its birth pangs?

  Rhalia dropped her sword, evidently having switched to a new tactic. Even as she was dragged backwards, scraping across the ground, she held out her palms.

  A golden portal opened in front of her. A Gate, leading into the City of Light.

  It was beyond anything Cynara had ever imagined. Graceful walls of gold and silver rose from a flower-strewn field, and towers of every color stretched almost to the sunset-colored sky.

  Red Light—of her own generation, not from Ragnarus—twisted around Rhalia’s limbs. With her newfound strength, she tore free of the Hanging Tree.

  It wouldn’t last, Cynara could see that. The Tree was already reaching for its Incarnation, and it would catch her before she got too far.

  But it was enough. Rhalia crossed the border of her gate, into the fields of Elysia.

  The thorny branches recoiled, unable to cross from one world into another. That was interesting; the Old Man had never mentioned that the Trees wouldn’t work in a Territory. That must have been why he had insisted on her planting them here.

  Cynara’s dizziness had grown so that she could barely stay upright, and her vision was beginning to fuzz at the edges, but she still fixed the Incarnation with a smile. “Good enough. Stay sealed in that world or this one, Rhalia, it means nothing to me.”

  Rhalia shrugged, the motion more graceful than it had any right to be. “I would say I got the better of this little exchange. I keep my life, while you have parted with yours.”

  Cynara couldn’t stay standing any longer. She collapsed, landing hard on her knees. She barely felt the pain. “I can think of greater prices.”

  “I am eternally patient,” the Elysia Incarnation said. “I can wait forever. You should have stood with me, sister.”

  Then the shining Gate closed, and the last thing Cynara saw of her older sister was a pair of golden eyes. Eyes that used to be a blue as bright as her own.

  Her vision was fading quickly, but as far as she could see down the road and into the city, red roots were erupting from the cobblestones, seizing creatures of Elysia and draining the life from them.

  All over the city. Does the Tree’s influence really stretch that far? She hoped it would be enough to keep the other Incarnations away, until her daughter had a chance to drive them into a corner and seal them for good.

  Her thoughts drifted to Cynara the Second, as she fell onto her back, staring up at the clear winter sky. For the first time in years, she felt some measure of hope. Her daughter had the seeds. She had the key to the Crimson Vault.

  Maybe the Incarnations wouldn’t be the end of this world after all.

  My life was a small price to pay.

  Then everything went black.

  ***

  It was difficult to open a Gate from the other side, not to mention expensive. Abominably expensive. But every once in a while, the Old Man felt it was worth it.

  The Ragnarus Gate formed, opening directly beside Cynara’s body, sprawled across the shattered street. A root of the Hanging Tree was just uncurling from her wrist.

  The Old Man stepped out, using his staff for balance.

  The Tree itself, little more than a sapling, hissed as he approached. It wanted even him, hungered for even his blood, but it didn’t attack.

  Even the murderous plant knew better than that.

  Leaning on his wooden staff, the Old Man knelt, tolerating the creaking pain in his knees. Queen Cynara’s eyes stared sightlessly up at the sky. Her eyes were beautiful, he supposed, if you appreciated that sort of thing. Personally, he thought they would look much better in red.

  “You have given everything you have to Ragnarus,” he murmured. “Let me help you take the last step.”

  The Old Man extended one gnarled finger and pressed it to her forehe
ad. Before her soul departed completely, he willed some of his power into her, flooding her body, repairing its damage.

  She gasped and jerked awake.

  Her eyes were already gone, replaced by solid orbs of red flame. Her new skin crept over her, like ice over a freezing lake, turning her to a fluid statue of blood-colored steel. Her clothes flared and blazed away, replaced by a long dress of scarlet light.

  The Old Man stepped back to admire his handiwork as the first Incarnation of Ragnarus rose to her feet.

  “What have you done?” Cynara whispered, through metallic red lips.

  He prided himself on his tolerance and even disposition, but he was just a tad offended. “I have saved you from the brink of death, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve made a masterpiece from that which you would have wasted. You can fill the gap your sister left. You will be my hand in this world.”

  Cynara met his gaze. He had been right: her new eyes were much more beautiful.

  “You told me this would only cost me my life!”

  The Old Man smiled fondly, as he would at a naïve granddaughter. “You will find that’s not the only time I have lied to you. Now, Ragnarus, go forth and take your throne!”

  She looked at him, and down at the bloody branches twisting around her feet. “I do not answer to you.”

  Then she walked into the Hanging Tree, her arms spread wide. The branches picked her up, lifting her into the sky, and then pulled her down under the ground. She didn’t say a word.

  Once, in a place far away, the Old Man had been renowned for his foresight.

  But he hadn’t seen this coming.

  He knew she would be able to hear him, still. The Hanging Tree was of Ragnarus, and now she was Ragnarus. Unlike the other Incarnations, she would likely never lose consciousness. It would be a fate worse than death; she should have listened to him.

  “Well. Your line will continue, Queen Cynara. Our pact remains unbroken. I will deal with the others, your sons and daughters, since you would not let me deal with you. And who knows? Maybe someday, when you are free, you will come to see things my way.”

  With one last backward glance to see the Tree waving in the air, the Old Man stepped into his Vault and closed the door.

  If you still put your own needs before the needs of others, every other virtue is without meaning. This is the key to all that I have taught you.

  There is no love greater than sacrifice.

  -Elysian Book of Virtues, Chapter 9: White

  The Story Concludes In…

  CITY OF LIGHT

  (The Traveler’s Gate Trilogy, Book 3)

  Coming When the Moons of Lirial Have Aligned!

  (Early 2014)

  Also, check out Will’s website for book updates, news, original fiction, and his long-forgotten True Name!

  www.WillWight.com