House of Blades (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (27 page)

“Tree?” she asked.

Malachi froze for a moment, studying her. She realized her mistake immediately, and responded with the speed of a well-trained liar. “Oh, of course,” she said, as though she had just realized something. “The Tree. That must be what you call it. In Ragnarus, we use different terms.”

Whatever this Tree was, it obviously had something to do with the sacrifice, and the sacrifice was a function of Ragnarus. She just wasn’t sure how. In any case, Malachi should now assume that she had misunderstood him for some secret and mystical reason known only to the royal family. He would likely drop the topic immediately.

“Maybe we should inspect it together, then,” Malachi suggested. His voice was altogether too light; he suspected something.
 

Leah laid her fork down calmly across her plate. “Whatever for?”

He shrugged. “If the sacrifice is taking too long, perhaps there is something wrong with the Tree itself. I’m no expert, but it has seemed...restless, for quite some years now. I would certainly not wish to risk the sacrifice on my own ignorance, and a Ragnarus Traveler such as yourself may be able to give me some expert advice.”

Leah made a show of brushing her hands and mouth off with a towel while the servants took breakfast away. What could she say? He was obviously just trying to prod her, get her to reveal some weakness. She couldn’t back out now. And anyway, all she would have to do is take a quick look and say that everything seemed in order. He would never be able to tell.

“Very well,” Leah said. “Lead on.”

After all, what could go wrong?

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
:

T
HE
W
RONG
P
LACE

Simon stared into the space where Kai’s portal had been for a long minute. Excitement warred with fear and nerves inside him, and his stomach churned. The only thing he wanted to do was bring the captive Myrians home, but he wasn’t such a fool that he thought there wouldn’t be some resistance. But how could he challenge Malachi? An Overlord had years of experience as a Traveler behind him, not Simon’s few weeks. And that didn’t even count his legions of soldiers, throngs of loyal supporters, and resources Simon likely couldn’t even understand.

On the other hand, in about eight more days, people he had known all his life would be dead. He hadn’t especially liked any of them except Leah, but they were his own people. Practically family. And you didn’t have to like your family to protect them.

At that moment, the steel in his blood ran out. Azura suddenly felt as if it weighed as much as a blacksmith’s anvil, and the hilt wrenched itself out of his hand. As soon as the sword left his fingertips, it vanished.

Kai had been able to let the sword go whenever he wanted without it vanishing; there must be some trick. Hopefully he would learn that with time. More importantly, his head swam, and his vision was so blurry he could barely make out anything besides a moonlight-colored smear. He dropped back onto one of the crates.

The chains on his arms didn’t vanish, but they started to retreat. He could feel them crawling down his shoulders like steel-scaled serpents.
 

Was the light-headedness related to the chains in some way? Or was this what happened when he released the liquid metal power too quickly? He had always felt less when he lost his enhanced abilities, but he had assumed that was just what it felt like when you went from being a superhuman Traveler to a young man with too-thin arms. Maybe there was some kind of aftereffect, like with his mother’s stronger powders? Or maybe he was just tired.

“Kai could tell me,” Simon mumbled thickly. It was a measure of his disorientation that he spoke to himself; he had always hated it when others did that. “If he was here.”

Well, he’s not
, came a woman’s voice.
And good riddance
. The voice was soft, as though coming down a long tunnel, and overlaid with a sound like wind whispering through trees.

Simon’s first thought was to turn to see who had spoken, but he wasn’t being honest with himself. He knew who it was.

He met the painted wooden eyes of the doll across from him. “Are you speaking to me?”

No answer.
 

The dizziness had mostly passed, so he hauled himself over to the doll’s crate and picked her up in one hand. She was even lighter than she looked, her light blue dress woven of finer and softer material than anything his mother had ever owned.
 

“If you’re talking to me, talk,” Simon said to the doll. She gazed at him out of a wooden face. “What’s your name?” Nothing. “Aren’t you my advisor? Advise me!”

He had gotten more conversation out of tree roots.

Roughly he shook the doll in his hand. “Answer me!”

Of course, Olissa picked that moment to check on him. She froze halfway inside the wagon, holding the canvas flap over her head with one hand. There he was, holding a little girl’s doll in one hand, standing over it, screaming. A rush of heat set his face aflame. He stammered something, trying to come up with a reasonable-sounding explanation, but evidently the fact that he was standing up outweighed his obvious insanity in Olissa’s mind. She moved the rest of the way into the wagon, her face firm.

Her voice, however, remained gentle. “You shouldn’t be up on your leg so soon,” she said. “It needs a chance to heal.”

“Um, no ma’am, thank you,” Simon responded. “It’s better now. See?” He stepped from behind one of the crates so that she would have a clear view of his previously-injured leg.

Her brow furrowed as she looked. The rock-worm’s teeth had shredded his pants leg into tatters, most of which had to be removed before they could put bandages on him in the first place. As a result, his left pants leg ended above the knee.

From her distance, Olissa should have been able to make out the lack of blood, even in the dim light. But she frowned and moved closer.

“Put the leg up,” she said, motioning to one side. Simon did as he was told and put his right foot on a crate. As though she couldn’t believe her eyes, Olissa reached out and poked his leg with a finger. Nothing happened, and she gasped, sharply raising her head to look him in the face.

It occurred to Simon for the first time that Andra and Lycus’ mother was a more-than-pretty woman. Her honey-colored hair—a shade lighter than any he’d ever seen, except on her daughter—spilled in waves down her back, and she stared at him with wide eyes of pale green.

If it was possible, the realization made him even less comfortable. She was old enough to be his mother, after all—if she had looked older, maybe put on a few dozen more pounds, he would have had no problem. But as it was, all he saw was a pretty woman, and that weighed down his tongue.

“Uh,” he said. “I healed it. It was...I mean, it’s healed.”

Awkwardly he pulled his leg from the crate and, just to give his hands something to do, began brushing off his pants.

“Amazing,” Olissa breathed. “The children told me, but I wasn’t sure...You must be a Traveler. Asphodel?”

Simon just stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out the word. Asphodel had to be the name of another Territory. One connected with healing, maybe?

“No,” he said. He should say something else, but nothing came to mind.
 

She leaned forward. “Did you come here for us? Do you work for the Overlord?”

Simon let out a short laugh before he could stop himself. “I mean, no, I don’t work for Malachi. I’m just—”

Something she had said jumped out at him, and he stopped mid-sentence. “What do you mean, did I come here for you? Why would the Overlord be sending you a Traveler?”

Olissa shifted her eyes uneasily and opened her mouth as if about to respond, but she was interrupted by the sound of hooves on hard-packed dirt. It sounded like many horses, not just one.

For the first time, Simon realized the wagon wasn’t moving. “We’re stopped,” he said. “Where are we?”

She smiled and gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “You slept a long time. We’ve stopped at the northwestern edge of the Latari Forest. Don’t worry, we’ve put that...Cave...” she shuddered, “far behind us.”

Northwest of Latari? That would put them close to Myria. Simon opened his mouth to ask what they were doing there, but a voice from outside called Olissa’s name. She apologized quickly and hurried out of the wagon, pulling the flap shut behind her.

He should probably leave. Whoever was riding into camp, odds were good that they were Damascan, and there wasn’t anything good that could come of mixing with a crowd of strange Damascans. He couldn’t escape by Traveling through Valinhall, he knew that; the Gate opened wherever you had last made it. But he could be out the back of the wagon and into the night before anyone knew he was missing. It would probably be the smart thing, in case the Damascans somehow learned he was from Myria.

On the other hand, how would they know him? His skin and hair were too dark for a real Damascan, but they would only think of him as the strange villager boy who had saved two children. Now that he thought of it, the fact that he had rescued Andra and Lycus would probably weigh the scales heavily in his favor. And there was nothing that marked him out as from Myria rather than from a hundred other towns and villages in the realm. He should be safe.

Besides, what if these riders weren’t friendly to the Agnos family? His presence could mean the difference between repelling the attackers and the four of them being robbed, captured, or killed.

His stomach rumbled, and that decided the matter. He wasn’t going to get any food in here.

He started toward the flap, but something made him hesitate. He turned his gaze back, staring at the doll in the powder-blue dress.

Black painted eyes stared him straight in the face. He was sure that when he sat her down, she had faced a different direction.

With a reluctant sigh, he walked back and picked up the doll. He didn’t want to walk out in front of a bunch of strangers carrying a girl’s wooden doll, but he couldn’t risk leaving her behind. No matter how much the idea appealed to him.

As he crept outside, he thought the doll’s face now looked just a bit smug.

Caius and Olissa, their children gathered before them, stood at the very edge of a ring of firelight. Someone, apparently, had built a bonfire as soon as the wagons had stopped, and it was just beginning to really blaze up. In the darkness beyond the fire’s reach, Simon caught glimpses of a column of men on horseback. Only one had moved close enough for Simon to make out details: an old man, maybe sixty or seventy, with a wrinkled face that looked like it had dried into an eternal frown.
 

The man with the iron-gray hair stepped into Simon’s view, standing between the Agnos family and the riders. To Simon’s surprise, the lead rider saluted, hand to chest.

“Captain Erastes, sir,” said the old man on the horse.

“Ansher,” Erastes responded. “Come on down. You can make your report after we eat.”

So the man with the iron-gray hair—Erastes—was a captain in the Damascan army. He had always looked like a soldier, but knowing his identity for certain somehow made him twice as frightening. Sure, a human soldier wasn’t anything compared to a carnivorous serpent of living rock, but in Myria, Damascan soldiers had been the stuff of legend. They were the unending, faceless extensions of Zakareth’s will. If Erastes decided Simon looked suspicious, he could have the full might of the Damascan nation behind him.

Ansher shook his head and stayed on his horse. “I’d advise against it, sir. There’s something in the trees.” He gestured to the edge of the forest, about fifty paces away, where shadows flickered back and forth. “Nobody’s seen anything clear, but...I get reports. We’re all on edge. Even the captives.”

Erastes nodded and cast a glance into the shadows. Even though Simon could only see the back of his head, he got a sense that the man was suddenly alert, ready for action.

“Then we had best get moving,” Erastes said. “Bring in the captives; we’ll load them up on the wagons and leave this place. Once we’re on the road, I’d like to speak with you, Ansher. We’ve had an eventful evening.” His voice turned dry at the last sentence, and Simon was sure the captain was talking about him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. If a Damascan captain had taken a closer interest in Simon, then he should have left long since.

Simon slipped into the shadows between wagons and drew lightly on the Nye’s essence. Not enough to slow his perception of time, he breathed in just enough for an extra edge of reflex and coordination that let him move both quickly and silently. His footfalls fell so lightly on the sandy dirt that he doubted anyone would have heard him ten feet away.

Sneaking away, in total silence and under cover of darkness, would be easy as picking fruit. He had even begun when a shout from out beyond the wagons snapped him short. It was a man’s voice, strangled and desperate. Simon couldn’t quite make out the words, if words there were, but it sounded like he was pleading.

Simon knew that voice.

Without really thinking about it, Simon called steel. Cold ice in his veins joined the cool breath of the Nye, and in one smooth motion he leapt onto the top of a wagon. He was careful to land on one of the broad wooden supports, not on the canvas; no matter how strong or swift he was, he didn’t want to risk dropping his full weight on a loose stretch of fabric.

From this vantage point he could make out the Damascan soldiers much more clearly. There were maybe seventy-five of them, about fifteen of whom were on horseback. The rest walked behind in neat ranks. And behind them, stretching off in a line easily as long as the rest of the column, stumbled the captives.

They were all held on one long rope, with both their hands bound and tied on to the main line. They wore loose clothes of brown and tan, desert colors, with worn shoes or sandals and little more than a stretch of rope for belts. The same clothes Simon wore, that he had worn all his life. One of the men, larger than most in the line, crouched on his knees, holding his arms above his head defensively. A soldier standing over him beat him with a long stick, yelling something Simon couldn’t catch.