Part 49 (1/2)

Simon winced, as well he might; he had played his role in letting that disaster move forward.

No, it wasn't fair to blame it all on Simon. It was more her fault than his, anyway.

”The Incarnation of Ragnarus rules Damasca now,” she finished.

”What about the King?” Simon asked. He didn't mean anything by that, she knew. He had asked the question in complete innocence.

But it still hurt.

Quietly, Kai said, ”You stand before the Queen of Damasca, little mouse.”

Simon was silent for a long time, but Leah didn't look at his face. This had to be confusing for him, and she wasn't sure what she would see there.

After a moment, Simon walked over and knelt before her. He even bowed his head, though he somehow managed to make it seem unbearably awkward.

”Your Majesty,” he said. Then he lifted his head and looked her in the eyes.

Strictly speaking, he shouldn't have done that, but she allowed it.

”I'm sorry,” he said simply. ”What can I do to help?”

Leah's eyes swelled with tears, and she had to blink them away.

This is childish, she thought. She hadn't even liked her father.

But, in the past three days, she had lost her family, her home, and her country. She supposed she was allowed a tear or two.

Later. For now, she forced herself to answer Simon's question.

Leah cleared her throat, making sure she sounded completely in control. ”We think my brother Talos is in command of Cana, if the Ragnarus Incarnation let him live. For now, we need to focus on building up our support outside of the city. There are at least four Incarnations on the loose, and we need to deal with them. Once we do, we can find a way back into the capital.”

She hoped she sounded confident. She wasn't. The plan was too vague; there was too much left to chance, too much that could go wrong.

But she knew one thing: she wasn't going to leave Cana to suffer at the hands of the Ragnarus Incarnation any longer than she had to. As a Ragnarus Traveler and as a Queen of Damasca, it was her duty.

She would not let her nation down.

On the floor of the Crimson Vault, a man struggled for breath.

Why did he have to breathe at all? His lungs didn't seem to want to inflate, but somehow his chest moved in and out anyway. It was slow, but also somehow mechanical, as though something was moving him outside his own body.

The armor, he realized. There was something about the armor doing whatever it could to keep him alive. He should have taken it off beforea Before what? Who was he? He had a nameaor at least he had, once.

Zakareth. That was it. That was who he was. Zakareth, just like his father, and his father before him.

Memory came drifting back, not in a single storm, but one gust at a time. He was the king. His son betrayed him. His daughter, left behind, not ready to be queen. His people, about to be slaughtered by the Incarnations.

Failure burned worse than the wound in his chest. That was his job: to keep his people safe from the dangers they couldn't handle. The Hanging Trees had been handed down for generations, but he had been the one to let the prisoners escape their cage.

He had failed. And now, he couldn't even relax into an easy death. He was fated to lie here and suffocate, or perhaps bleed to death all over the floor.

It's no worse than I deserve, he thought. I've failed.

In the polished blade of a nearby sword, he caught a glimpse of his face. His skin was pale and sunken. Half of his face was covered by an eyepatch, which hid his eyes empty, gaping socket. Truly, his was the face of a corpse.

Zakareth leaned back and waited to die.

For a while, the only sound was his own heartbeat.

Then he heard a ringing sound, like metal on stone. At first, he believed the sound was in his head, but it grew louder and louder until it ended right next to his ear.