The Crimson Vault Part 44

"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 sc.r.a.ped 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+eld. 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 hereawell, 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'samost 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 n.o.ble 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 Incarnationsa"

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 itawell, 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 wanteda" 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 a.s.sumed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y sc.r.a.pes 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 gla.s.ses. "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 confidentathat 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.