House of Blades (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (31 page)

Simon’s hand snapped up almost without his conscious direction, grabbing the haft of the spear below the head. The person on the other end, maybe Olissa, tried to pull back, but he moved with the motion, stepping inside the darkened wagon.

Olissa crouched in front of him, clutching the Damascan spear in both hands. She was leaning back, putting her whole body into the effort of wrenching the weapon away from him. Andra faced the opposite entrance, just barely short enough to be able to stand without bending over. She held a small knife up, and had glanced over her shoulder to see who was coming in. Her eyes were wide and terrified; a dark smear of blood covered the blade.

Caius and Lycus sat in the center of the wagon. All the cargo had been removed and sorted, so they leaned against the edge of the wagonbed rather than against a crate. Caius breathed shallowly, and a great dark stain spread over his right side. Lycus kept a bundled-up rag, apparently an old shirt, pressed to his father’s side.

Olissa gasped at the sight of Simon stepping in through the canvas flaps. Outside, a few of the Myrians cheered or called Simon’s name.
 

Leaving the spear in Simon’s grip, Olissa ran to cover Caius and Lycus with her body. Andra turned and held the knife in his direction, shaking. Such a change. Two hours ago, they had thought him a hero.

“Please don’t,” Simon said wearily. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Andra’s voice shook, and she sounded even younger than her years. Like a lost child. “Then why did you kill them? You killed everybody.”

“No! No, I...” How was he supposed to explain? Everything had moved too fast. “They attacked me. And the captives were from my village. Was I supposed to just let them stay in chains?”

Suddenly Simon noticed the night brightening around them. Not long until dawn. Kai had said there were nine days left before Leah and the others were sacrificed to Zakareth’s Territory. But nine days from when? Did this rising sun mean he had nine days left, or eight? And did that mean the first sacrifices would begin today?

He wasn’t sure, but either way, he had too much to do and not enough time.

“Not nearly enough time,” he muttered.
 

Chaim’s voice bellowed, “Simon? How’s it going in there?” A big shadow approached the canvas.

“Talking with the prisoners,” Simon said, improvising. “I need another minute alone.”

No time left. He had to do something, even if it made the situation worse. Reaching out his hand, he called steel and summoned Azura. The Agnos family wailed almost as one, and shrunk down against the wagon bed.

 
Spectral chains pressed against the back of his hands again—when had they vanished the first time? As he had done once before, Simon pointed Azura’s tip at the top of the wagon’s cover and reached through the sword to Valinhall. Dragging the blade down through the air, Simon tore open a Gate. It took thirty, maybe forty heartbeats, and every second Simon was sure someone was just about to jump in the wagon and demand to know what he was doing.

This hole was wider than the one he had made for Kai, though he wasn’t sure what he had done to make it so. Yet another thing he was going to have to learn at some point. So many things to learn, and never enough time. The far end of the wagon completely disappeared behind the familiar scenery of the entry hall.

Andra and Olissa goggled at the Gate, then at him. Olissa looked like she was contemplating running, Andra as if presented with a new hope. Lycus continued pressing the rag against his father’s side, though he sent nervous glances toward Simon and the Gate equally. Caius made no reaction; his skin glistened through a sheen of sweat, and he muttered faintly to himself. Simon wasn’t sure he was even fully conscious.

“What is that?” Andra asked.

“My Territory,” Simon replied. Olissa drew in a sharp breath. “You can stay there for the time being,” he continued. “Once I settle things with the other villagers, I’ll come join you. And when things calm down, I can take you back to your home.”

“This was our home,” Olissa said softly. “Everything we owned was in these wagons. Once we finished this job, we were going to find a place to settle in Deborah’s realm.”

Simon winced. If he hadn’t gotten involved, their home wouldn’t have been taken from them. They would have concluded their business and moved on. Of course, if he hadn’t gotten involved, Andra and Lycus would probably either be dead or trapped in Orgrith Cave. There were no good choices, and nothing easy to regret.

“Well, then, you can stay in here for the time being. We’ll work something out. But you should get going.”

They’re about to come in
, Caela’s voice whispered, just as the canvas behind Simon peeled open. Chaim poked his face in, his eyes growing huge as he took in the Gate. “What is that?” he asked. At his words, a few people behind him pressed their faces forward, trying to see for themselves.

Thanks for the warning
, Simon sent to Caela. She loftily ignored his sarcasm.

“Hurry,” he told Olissa, pushing her toward the Gate. She and Lycus grabbed Caius, half-carrying and half-shoving him into Valinhall. Andra stood, hesitating before stepping through. The Gate shrunk steadily as it sealed itself.

“The bedrooms are on either side of the hallway,” Simon said hurriedly. “It’s past that door right there. You can’t open any of the bedrooms, so just head on through. If you see the guys in the dark hoods, tell them I sent you, and they probably won’t strangle you. Walk through the white-and-gold door, and you’ll see a pool of water. You need to get Caius into it as soon as possible. It will heal him. Watch out for the water demons, they’ll try to eat you.”

Olissa, Andra, and Lycus stared at him from the other side of the Gate; judging from their expressions, they were trying to decide if they were better off coming back through. Simon released both his sword and his strength, and the portal shrank even more quickly.

Andra stepped forward before the Gate could close completely. “Simon!” she called. “Where’s Erastes?”

Last time Simon had seen him, the captain had been struggling for breath on the ground. He was almost certainly dead by now. “I’m not sure,” he hedged.

“Please save him,” Andra said. Her pale eyes were practically the only things that showed through the narrowing portal. “I know you can do it.”

The Gate closed.

Great. How was he supposed to refuse a request like that?

The wagon shook as Chaim stepped up. “Sweet Maker. How did they disappear like that? And what was that you were telling them?”

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Simon muttered. He walked out the far end of the wagon. The people gathered there gasped as he walked out and they got a clear glimpse of the empty wagon. At another time Simon might have worried about what they thought; not now. He had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he may have sent the Agnos family into even worse danger by trying to save them; they had no one to show them around the House. Simon would go there himself as soon as he could, but first he had to deal with the villagers. Who would probably try and lynch him when they found out he had helped a family of Damascans escape.

He wanted to sleep for a year.

Circling around the wagon and ignoring a barrage of questions, Simon scooped up Caela and began walking to the other side of camp. When he reached the glowing embers that were all that remained of the night’s fire, he stopped.

Erastes lay much as Simon had left him, though someone had stripped away his armor and his hands and feet were bound with rough ropes. Bruises marred his face and every inch of exposed flesh Simon could see, some already starting to swell. A gang of boys ranging in age from about fourteen to a few years older than Simon surrounded the Damascan captain. One used a stick to flick coals over Erastes’ body. When he shouted, it came out muffled, so Simon gathered he had been gagged. If he wriggled away from the pain, another boy would use the flat of a short sword to smack him back into place.
 

The blade gleamed strangely in the predawn light, and Simon recognized it. They were beating Erastes with his own sword. Where had they gotten it? The last time he remembered having the weapon in his own hands was shortly before he passed out, so they must have either taken it from Simon’s unconscious body or picked it up from the ground afterwards.
 

A dim memory told Simon which of the boys was in charge; he was one of the oldest, no bigger than the others, but harder of face. He had spent more of his childhood being punished for one reason or another than anyone else Simon knew; the kid had bragged about it, sometimes. Simon walked up to him.
 

“Simon,” the young man said. He made it sound like a challenge.

“I don’t remember your name,” Simon replied. “Sorry.” The boy’s face hardened even further, and Simon couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I need the soldier and the sword.”

“What for?”

Simon reached out and grabbed the other boy’s wrist, twisting a way that Kai had done to him a hundred times. The boy gasped, dropping the sword, and Simon plucked it out of the air before it hit the ground. Without a word, he turned his back on the other boy and walked away.

Even as tired as he was, some part of him enjoyed that.

When he reached Erastes, Simon knelt and examined the soldier’s injuries. Some of the gang shouted at him, and he suspected they were beginning to find their spines again. So he called steel and held it. Icy power flowed through him, and he ignored their threats, returning his attention to the Damascan on the ground.

Erastes was fully conscious, steely blue eyes bright with pain. His gaze showed no fear, only hatred and anger. Simon pulled the gag out of his mouth. One of the boys, behind Simon, kicked him in the back. That boy screamed as though he had slammed his foot into a stone, and Simon heard him hopping around in the sand.

Simon smiled. With the steel running through him, he had barely felt a thing.

Erastes tried to swallow, found his mouth too dry, and tried again. He spoke as though he had a mouthful of sand.
 

“Coward,” he rasped.

“If you can talk like that, you’ll be fine,” Simon said. “Probably. I’m no healer.” He drew Erastes’ own sword across the man’s bonds, slicing them as easily he could have with a Dragon’s Fang.

Then, standing, he summoned Azura into his other hand. The boys yelled and scrambled away, undoubtedly going to fetch someone else. That was fine; there was nothing they could do to stop him, anyway.

He drew Azura down the air, opening another Gate.

Erastes’ raspy voice grated on his ears: “There’s nothing more you can do to me,” the gray-haired man said, as if Simon was about to take him into some new torment.

None too gently, Simon scooped him up in both arms. With steel flowing through him, it took about as much effort as picking up a newborn kitten.

Simon walked through the Gate, holding it open with his will. He laid Erastes down on a couch, saying, “Caius and Olissa are here somewhere. Tell them I said to get you into the water as soon as possible.”
 

“Don’t need a bath,” Erastes said. “Need a miracle.”

Simon thought about explaining, then decided it would take too much effort. He tossed the old soldier’s bare sword down beside him. “Let me know if you find one,” Simon said, and walked back into the world.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
:

T
HE
R
OAD
TO
B
EL
C
ALEM

None of the Myrians were happy about losing their few remaining Damascan prisoners, Chaim and Nurita least of all. They appeared to have taken charge of the surviving villagers, since no one of any greater influence had accompanied the group south.

“They’re
gone?
” Chaim had demanded. “Where did they go?”

“Who gave you the right to send them anywhere?” Nurita had asked. “You’re just a child.”

Even more than that, as he had expected, they wanted to know about his newfound powers. Was he a Traveler now? How had that happened? Was he working with Alin?
 

He tried to dodge those, ashamed for some reason that he could not quite pinpoint. He had been proud of his abilities; if anything, he should brag about them to anyone who would listen. But he didn’t feel like it. Maybe once he rescued Leah and the other captives from Malachi’s grasp, then he would show his pride. Until then, he was almost afraid that he would look like a pretender, a child dressing up as a warrior of legend.

Still, the other villagers would not be put off by half-truths and misleading answers. Even if none of them had directly seen him draw on his Territory, they had already seen too much.

At last, when he could take Chaim and Nurita’s incessant questions no longer, he told them. “I’m a Traveler now,” he said. They looked at him warily, but didn’t gasp in horror or gape in wonder as he had half-expected. They seemed almost...doubtful.

“What do you mean by that?” Chaim asked, as though testing Simon’s words, trying to find something hidden.

“You don’t have to compete with Alin, just because—” Nurita began, but she was cut off by the tip of Azura pointing at her throat. Simon stood the better part of ten feet away, holding the blade steady in his steel-infused right hand. With his left, he rolled up his right sleeve, exposing the shadowy chain marks that crawled steadily up his arm.

A few people did gasp then, at the enormous sword, at Simon’s apparent strength, or at the fact that Simon had called the sword out of midair.
 

“You led the ones who attacked the Damascans,” Chaim said. He sounded almost in awe.

“I didn’t lead anybody,” Simon replied. “It was just me.”

Most of the bodies around the camp hadn’t been removed or buried yet, simply piled where they were least inconvenient. Chaim looked from one stack of Damascan bodies to another, and he appeared to be doing sums in his head.