City of Light (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (37 page)

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.”

The scene wavered and blew away like smoke in the wind, the masked Simon vanishing to nothing. The Asphodel Incarnation sat, unharmed, in his blossoming chair, idly chatting with Zakareth. “…the information comes from within them, you see,” Asphodel was saying. “All I have to do is nudge it, give it form.”

King Zakareth hadn’t twitched. He still leaned with his elbow against the arm of his throne, Rod of Harmony on the other hand, looking at Indirial.

Indirial was actually standing, which was remarkable. He had thought everything about the scene must have been an illusion, but evidently the Incarnation had coaxed him to his feet even through his body’s pain. Remarkable.

He felt that same agony now, but he set it out of his mind. It was only pain.

“It seems you are to be congratulated, Asphodel,” King Zakareth said. There was no triumph in his voice, only utter confidence.

The Asphodel Incarnation buffed his fingernails on the edge of his flower-petal shirt. “Well, I hate to brag, but I
am
the best.”

“Congratulations,” Indirial said, “I’ve called on Valinhall.” He knew with perfect clarity that, a moment ago, he would have released the diamond immediately, fearing to push himself past his limit. If his debt to Valinhall grew too great, he would Incarnate.

But so what?

Zakareth wanted him to become an Incarnation because the King was certain he could control Indirial with the Rod. But, as Indirial had wondered earlier, he wasn’t even certain the Rod of Harmony would work on a Valinhall Traveler, who kept all his powers within himself. Beyond that, King Zakareth had obviously been unable to control Valin to any degree, or the original Valinhall Incarnation would still be living under Damascan control.

So the situation became utterly clear.

Situation: the enemy is holding two priority targets hostage. He has left me the freedom to call on my Territory because his objective is to get me to do so.
 

Primary Objective: free the hostages, take them to Valinhall.

Secondary Objective: total destruction of all enemy forces.

Question: do I allow him to accomplish his objective in order to accomplish mine?

Nerissa was pressed against the edge of her cage now, calling something, but Indirial didn’t listen. It wouldn’t be combat-relevant information, so he didn’t waste his attention.

Indirial glanced between the Incarnations of Asphodel and Ragnarus. Could he take them both? Asphodel was hardly a threat; with the diamond protecting his thoughts, he could destroy that Incarnation in short order. So would he be able to kill an impossibly powerful Ragnarus Traveler in one-on-one combat?

I can’t be sure,
he concluded.
There’s too much in the Crimson Vault that I’m not aware of. As far as I know, he has some weapon that controls Incarnations without any possibility of resistance, and the cost was simply too expensive for him to pay while he was a human. I should release the…

Something in his thoughts clicked together as the last link of chain formed around his throat.

…what was I thinking? Of course I can win an open battle.

I am Valinhall.

***

The Avernus Incarnation settled back on her wings, holding a newly delivered tea-tray in her hands. This one held a pot and two cups, in case Leah might change her mind.

This time, she accepted. There had been water out in the wilderness, but she was still thirsty. Besides, whether Avernus was lying or not, Leah thought the threat of being poisoned had passed. And she wanted something to do while they talked.

Leah took a sip of her own tea, and found it a balanced blend of savory sweetness. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised; much of Damasca's tea was imported from the Feathered Plains. The Asphodel blends were better, but most people didn't trust tea leaves harvested from a Territory known for poison and mental deception.

“Who would try to control the Incarnations like that?” Leah asked, trying to steer their conversation back on track.

Avernus ruffled her feathers in what looked like her equivalent of a shrug. “Other than your ancestors, I have no idea, though I had some passing familiarity with Queen Cynara the First. She seemed genuinely enraged at the Elysian Incarnation's manipulation of us, calling us abominations and all that. Perhaps she was simply an excellent actress, I don't know. And as for the one who first led us, the Incarnation of Elysia herself...” Avernus shook her feathered head. “She was honest to a fault, which I suppose came from her Territory. She never told a lie or ordered another to do so, even when it would have been tactically sound. And I never sensed any deception or ambition in her, just a warped desire to guide us to a better future.”

At last, they were beginning to get to the portion of the conversation where the Avernus Incarnation started to conceal how much she knew. Leah had wondered when they'd get to this part. “As I understand it, you Incarnated during a war between Ragnarus and Elysia. If, as you say, someone manipulated you into it, then how can you possibly believe it wasn't someone representing one side or the other?”