They were probably right.
Siris rose and walked along the path outside the ancient doorway into the cliff. Sounds inside evoked strange emotions in him. Metal against metal, the clanking of tools. Raidriar’s Devoted worked, with recruited soldiers as laborers, to install the resurrection device and the Pinnacle.
Siris could almost remember a time when machinery like this had been commonplace. What had that life been like? Machines like TEL to work the fields, hunt for food, build houses? Surely it would have been a paradise. But the Deathless chose this world instead—a world of poverty and sorrow, a world where survival was a constant struggle. Why?
Once past the doorway, Siris looked along a small pathway that wound upward between the rocks. Isa sat up there on a large stone, arms crossed on top of her legs, looking out over the ocean.
Siris almost walked up to her, but he recognized that hers was not the posture of one who wanted company.
I should have told her, he thought. Right from the start, I should have told her what I was planning.
Clinking footsteps came from the entrance a short distance back. Siris turned and spotted the God King striding out. Raidriar had reluctantly returned Dynn’s armor, choosing instead to wear armor taken from one of the dead. Dynn had been found alive, as promised. But lacking a hand, also as promised.
Raidriar walked up to Siris, balancing an unsheathed sword against his shoulder, edge toward the sky. “You show them your face,” Raidriar said from within his helm. “Have you forgotten that we do not do this?”
“It’s not that I’ve forgotten. It’s that I don’t care.”
Raidriar grunted. Siris couldn’t help shifting his stance to be better ready to dodge that sword, should it swing. And yet . . . he knew that it would not. They had killed one another many hundreds of times over, but that had been then. This was now. They had better things to do.
He realized, disturbed, that the Dark Self trusted the God King not to betray his word. Oh, he knew that Raidriar would eventually try to destroy him. But he would not violate his oath. Raidriar was an arrogant, imperious tyrant—but he also held honor in high regard. He might believe humans were beneath him, but he saw lying as even farther beneath him.
Raidriar turned, looking up the rock cliff toward Isa. “Your woman is not taking this well.”
“It might have worked better if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Oh, no need to be bitter. I suspect she’ll come around. They find us difficult to resist.”
“That’s so casually insulting I’m not going to bother responding,” Siris said, looking at Raidriar. “What is our first move?”
“We will need to create a strike team of Deathless from among those mortals you trust, then we must reclaim the Weapon.”
“You’re sure the Soulless one has it?”
“Reasonably sure,” Raidriar said, shrugging. “Either that, or it is a trap. I doubt we will know the truth unless we try.” He twisted his sword in his hand, swinging it to the side. “The Soulless will think, to an extent, that it is me. The Worker will have neutered its ability to rule, but it will try anyway. And it will be able to fight.”
“As well as you?” Siris asked.
“Likely. It hasn’t been that long.”
“That long? How does that matter?”
“You really don’t . . . Of course you don’t. You insist on basking in the ignorance with which this latest incarnation has plagued you. Bah. It is nothing but a copy of me, using the residual pattern from one of my rebirthing chambers. Its Q.I.P. will be fragmented, incomplete. Manufactured. The Soulless will have some of my memories and most of my skills and inclinations. But it will degrade over time. They live ten years at most.”
“Hell take me,” Siris said. “You mean, one of us could be one of these things, and not even know it . . .”
“Don’t be daft, Ausar,” the God King said. “You’d know. I’d know. It will know. It may be trying to pretend otherwise, but deep down, it will know what it is. You aren’t Soulless; neither am I. The difference is obvious to those who know what to look for. That is why my copy will have gone into isolation from other Deathless.” Raidriar raised his sword, looking at it thoughtfully. “You’ll need to kill it and recover the Infinity Blade. That thing is an abomination of the worst kind.”
“Why me? Why not you?”
Raidriar slipped the sword into the sheath at his side, then turned his helmed gaze toward Siris. “I have always believed,” he said, “that when one has a task that needs to be accomplished, one seeks out the best tool for the job. Distasteful though it is to admit, I do not know of anyone better suited to this task than you.”
“Killing you,” Siris said, nodding. “This why you really came for me, isn’t it? You weren’t certain you could kill the copy yourself, so you sought out an expert.”
Raidriar did not respond. He folded his arms instead. “You agree that we need the Weapon?”
“To fight the Worker? Most certainly. And you’re right—I am the one to recover it.”
Raidriar nodded.
“But not with a strike team,” Siris said. “I’ll go alone.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. As you said, I am the right . . . tool for the job.”
Raidriar nodded.
“Aren’t you worried?” Siris asked. “What if I come back with the Blade and use it against you immediately?”
“It is a risk.”
“And?”
“Well, I am reasonably certain I can out-think you, old friend. But the Worker is a different story. If one of the two of you is to hold that weapon, I’d much prefer it be you. Besides, I suspect that once you have it, you’ll give it to me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“We shall see,” Raidriar said, nodding to the side. Isa had begun to pick her way down from her perch. “I will make certain the rebirthing chamber is attuned to your Q.I.P. If you die facing my Soulless, we can rebuild you.”
“If your Soulless really has the Weapon,” Siris said, walking toward Isa, “then the rebirthing chamber won’t matter.” With that, he left Raidriar behind.
It’s too bad, a part of Siris thought, that there isn’t a good reason for Raidriar to go fight the Soulless. Seeing him die, skewered on the Infinity Blade while fighting a version of himself . . . How satisfying would that be?
He stopped in front of Isa, but she passed him by, walking toward the camp of soldiers.
“I forgave you,” Siris said, turning after her.
Isa stopped in place.
“Just after we first met,” Siris said, “You betrayed me and tried to kill me. I forgave you. Do I not deserve the same consideration?”
“The problem isn’t forgiving you, Siris.” Isa turned back and stepped up to him. “The problem is that I’m afraid you don’t need to be forgiven.”
“I should have told you what I was planning.”
“Yeah. Sure. I agree, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that I might have spent two years raising up a rebellion, only to give right back in to the Deathless.”
“You don’t—”
“He’s right. You’re right. They’re not just immortal, they’re near-invincible. It makes perfect sense. How do we fight them? We make our own Deathless. Ideal. Wonderful. We set up another aristocracy to replace the one before, and everything just continues on. New names, same rules . . .”
“It won’t be that way.”
“Can you promise that, Siris? Really?”
“I . . .” The Dark Self still lurked inside. “No. I can’t.” How he wished he could, but the truth was that he couldn’t even trust himself. He’d made an alliance with a monster—an honest monster, perhaps, but still a monster of the worst kind. Raidriar, the God King himself.
Isa sighed, then leaned against him. He hesitantly put his arm around her, then closed his eyes, breathing in her scent.
“I’m not built for this,” Isa said, head against his chest. “I
keep trying to find an excuse to run off, hide in a tavern somewhere, and wait until everything blows over. And you . . . I worry you are built for this—and that’s more dangerous than anything else.”
“I know. I feel the same way.”
“Then what do we do?”
“For now?” Siris said, holding her. “This. We do this. Tomorrow, I will go to recover the Infinity Blade.”
“And then?”
“And then . . . then we try to save this land without ruining it any further than we have to.”
DEVIATION
THE EIGHTH
URIEL FOUND Mr. Galath on his way out of the building.
Just in time.
The chairman had two men carrying umbrellas for him. Galath was the type of man who would never have to fiddle with car doors. Someone always opened them for him.
Uriel didn’t bother to use an umbrella. He was already as wet as he could get, he figured. He crossed the parking lot in the rain. One of Mr. Galath’s bodyguards moved to intercept him, but the chairman stopped the man with a hand on the arm.
“Uriel?” Galath asked. “Good graces, man. What are you doing out here in this weather?”
“You have an opening in your new project,” Uriel said. His voice rasped as he spoke.
“My new project,” Galath said, voice monotone. “I don’t—”
“Sir,” one of the guards said, grabbing Uriel. The hulking brute had a face like a boulder. “There is blood on his shirt, sir.”
“Uriel, what have you done?” Galath demanded.
“Adram was unsuitable for your project, sir,” Uriel said. “I removed him from it.”
The bodyguard’s grip on Uriel grew tighter. Rain no longer hit him; it thrummed against the guard’s umbrella.
“I did not think you had this in you, Uriel,” Galath said at last.
“Adram spoke of . . . immortality,” Uriel said.
“He must have been delusional.”
“Am I also, then?” Uriel asked. “Hidden bunkers around the world, funded quietly through shell corporations of shell corporations. Secret facilities to build weapons. A war you’re intentionally precipitating.”
The guard moved to tow Uriel away.
“No, Gortoel,” the chairman said. “This is what we have been seeking. Wits and initiative. Perhaps I did not give you proper credit, Uriel. I had not thought to have many statisticians among the elite of my new world. Perhaps you have proved me wrong.”
“I accept your offer,” Uriel spat, “and reject it too.”
Galath frowned, cocking his head.
“I don’t want this gift for myself,” Uriel said. He glanced back at the too-red car, which he’d raced here with a body in the seat beside him. “I want it for my son.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
SIRIS STOPPED at the edge of the cliff overlooking his destination.
That same castle complex. The Soulless was here, of all places. Empty bridges spanning chasms, beautiful arches in the sunlight. The twisting tree out front, dry, as if dead for an eternity. Siris could smell the dungeons, hear chains rattle on the lift, feel the ground tremble from the felled daerils.
Was it a message? This place, so familiar. Here, he had killed the God King for the first time.
I died here too, he thought, fitting on his helm. Dozens of times, perhaps hundreds. He didn’t remember those deaths, each the end of a life lived as the Sacrifice—a boy raised to be sent to this palace to fight the God King.
The ruined wall, where enormous golems had attacked the throne room, still lay broken. In fact, the entire palace was as he remembered it from years ago. It almost seemed . . . homey, if a deathtrap designed to kill him could be called such.
Behind him, Terr helped TEL break down the camp. Siris had agreed, under pressure from both Isa and Raidriar, to bring Terr and the small construct with him, to help get him out if something went very wrong. In turn, however, he’d insisted that Isa remain behind. If this was a trap, then he didn’t want her caught in it as well. That would leave only Raidriar to lead the rebellion.
Siris kind of wanted to avoid that.
“Here, sir,” Terr said, handing over a small buttonlike device.
Siris took it, frowning at the balding man.
Terr cleared his throat. “It’s a—”
“Recording device,” Siris realized, the Dark Self filling in the holes. “It will create an aura around me that sends information back to you. We have magics like this?”
“Recovered in the latest infiltration, sir,” Terr said. “We didn’t know what it was until that priest told us. We’ll be able to watch you on a little mirror and see if you need help.”
If I need help, Terr, Siris thought, slipping the device into the small leather fold just inside his gauntlet, I severely doubt that a mortal like you will be of any help. He pulled on his gauntlets, completing his armor.
Nearby, TEL—made completely of rock this time—scrambled up.
“Remain here, TEL,” Siris said.
“But—”
“Here,” Siris said more firmly.
The small construct obeyed. From there, Siris trod a very familiar trail. Down from the cliff overlooking the God King’s palace, across the barren, packed death zone surrounding it, to the pathway leading toward the gates. The old palace lay decrepit, stone collapsed in places. Why would the Soulless come here? Why not someplace more grand?
On the pathway close to the palace, Siris found the first daeril. Dead.
Siris knelt beside the creature. It had been hacked to pieces with a sharp blade. He thought he recognized the beast from its orange-red skin, twisted too-long limbs, inhuman face. It was one of those who had greeted Siris when he’d come to this place years back, after defeating the God King.
But this creature was freshly dead; the blood was dry, the body cool, but rot had not yet set in. Wary, Siris picked his way across the ruined grounds.
He found more dead just beyond the gateway. An entire heap of trolls, mountainous beasts that he’d once assumed to be unintelligent—until he’d met one with an alarmingly strong wit. That troll had betrayed Siris, unfortunately.
He walked across the causeway and entered the grand hall. More dead daerils, and broken machines. A few chains hung down from the ceiling over a deep hole in the floor, remnants of the lift. It had been destroyed, apparently during the same battle that had killed the tower’s defenders.
With a sigh, Siris removed his gauntlets, stepped back, then dashed forward and jumped out over the void, catching one of the chains. He swung back and forth until the momentum ran out, then began to climb upward, toward the God King’s throne room.
ISA DRANK alone.
Contrary to what many would assume, she didn’t prefer to drink alone. She’d rather be out with the soldiers, enjoying their company. She liked people. Well, she liked listening to people. Analyzing them. She didn’t particularly like talking to them, but a woman could prefer being silent in the company of others, as opposed to drinking alone, couldn’t she?
You’d better not get yourself killed, Whiskers, she thought, taking a pull from her beer. She sat at a barlike shelf in the cavern of the God King’s hideout, waiting for contact from Siris.
“That is not a table,” said Eves, the stout Devoted, as he shuffled past her and checked on some wires. “That is a bank of very important, very holy equipment.”
“Yeah?” Isa said.
“Yes. And you’re drinking at it as if this were the bar of some tavern!”
“I’ll try not to spill,” Isa said, taking another pull on her drink.
The priest huffed and wandered away. Isa had watched him the entire day, including the point where—she was quite certain—he’d almost transformed himself into a Deathless. He’d primed the machine, set some input into the mirror, and stood facing it with sweat on his brow. Then he’d cursed and turned it all off before leaving to get some lunch.
Now he seemed to be fretting abo
ut other items. He eventually left to check on the men outside. He wouldn’t make himself Deathless unless permitted to do so by his god. Well, you have to admire his loyalty, she thought, taking another drink.
Wait. No you didn’t. The man was nearly as evil as his master, and culpable in his schemes and murders. That wasn’t loyalty to admire. She’d rather the man worshiped a rock than served the Deathless.
And I’ve basically delivered the rebellion to one of them. Damn. What did she think of Siris? No idea. Maybe the beer knew.
She took another drink.
“You pine for him.”
Isa spun, jumping from her stool, nearly throwing her mug toward the sound. The God King stood in the shadows back there, bare-chested, wearing the head of a jackal as some kind of illusion to hide his features.
She hadn’t seen or heard him enter. How long had he been there? Had he watched Eves consider making himself Deathless?
“You,” Isa said, “are one creepy bastard. You realize that?”
He stepped forward, watching her with eyes she could not see. “It is natural to be captivated by one of the Deathless. We are your gods, are we not? I would love to hear what you have spoken of when alone together, if only to judge what parts of his mortal upbringing he has adopted.”
“You think I’d tell you?”
“Of course not,” Raidriar said, walking over to her pitcher of beer. He sniffed at it, then—surprisingly—poured himself a mug. He raised it. “To our alliance.”
“Go suck on a rock.”
He drank anyway, the front of his illusory head engulfing the mug as he put it to his unseen lips. “I promise,” he said lightly, “that all in my lands will know freedom, prosperity, and ease for the next, say . . . thousand years. A mythologically appropriate number, wouldn’t you say?”
“What?”
“Before, when I first joined with Ausar, you insisted that you would keep fighting me. You said you would never turn the kingdom back over to me. Well, obviously, you are going to do just that. So I have decided it is time for benevolence to my people.” He sniffed, and wiped his hidden face with his hand. “After all, them hating their god was always just a means to an end, to ensure they kept sending the Sacrifices. I hardly need that anymore.”