House of Blades (The Traveler's Gate Trilogy) (Volume 1)
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Simon can only watch, helpless, as his family is killed and his friends captured by enemy Travelers--men and women who can summon mystical powers from otherworldly Territories. To top it off, another young man from Simon's village discovers that he's a savior prophesied to destroy evil and save the realm.
was late. You know what that means.” Leah shuddered and nodded. “This year, of all years,” Zakareth continued. “When the Incarnations shake their cage and all the Territories tremble. The sacrifice is late. And now we are missing an Overlord, while all Enosh gathers for war behind their Rising Sun. Tell me, since you know him, is he as dangerous as they think he is?” “I don’t think so,” she responded. “But he is growing. I hesitate to think what he will be like in a year. And in five years,
Leah shot a glance at her father. “I don’t think Simon cares about Enosh,” she said. She hoped Zakareth didn’t read too much into that. If he started thinking Leah could be used as leverage against both the Elysian Traveler and a new Valinhall Traveler, well, she would never get her life back. “Simon?” Indirial said. “Is that his name?” “Yeah. Simon, son of Kalman.” Indirial swallowed his smile. A strange expression passed over his face: shock, pity, maybe regret. “He lived in Myria,
than letting that huge wasp stab him with its stinger, but his body wouldn’t listen. “No!” his father cried, and ran after the cart. When he got close enough, he lunged at the wasp with his whole body, tackling it to the ground. He drew it into his chest, curling himself around the monster, though Simon could see its wings and glowing legs struggling, trying to escape. Edina screamed, wrestling the donkey to a stop. She scrambled down, running toward her husband. Then the wasp flashed
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,
girl from sticking a knife in him if the world kept spinning, and he didn’t know how many Damascan soldiers were still in the camp. He stumbled toward what he thought was a wagon, trying pathetically to hide until the ground finished rocking. When he came back to himself, the fire had burned itself almost down to coals, and the only surviving Damascans had run, crawled, or stumbled into the night. He vaguely remembered seeing some of that process: men in uniform running fast, casting fearful