Chapter Four
TRUE TO HER WORD, Isa was lounging outside when Siris burst from the castle’s outer court gate. She tucked a book into the pocket of her long coat and slung her crossbow over her shoulder. “So, where are we going?”
“The God King is alive,” Siris said, panting. He’d gathered his armor and regrown his shield, though he hadn’t taken the time to don the armor. He had it tied in his cloak, slung over his shoulder, and wore the Infinity Blade at his side in the improvised sheath that didn’t fit it very well.
“Well, he is immortal,” Isa said. “People like that have a tendency toward, you know, not dying.”
This upended everything. He hadn’t won. He’d failed.
“I need to find a way to make the Infinity Blade function,” Siris explained. “It . . .” He stopped. Telling her that the God King had planned to make it work by killing Siris didn’t seem particularly wise. In fact, telling her anything didn’t seem particularly wise.
But he was alone, ignorant, and running low on options. Isa seemed to know it, for she was watching him with a sly smile.
Siris took a deep breath. “You said you know how to get everywhere. So . . .”
“‘Making the Infinity Blade work’ isn’t a place, whiskers.”
“I need to find someone to help me. Maybe someone to take the sword off my hands. Can you find the Worker of Secrets?”
Isa froze, and he felt a sliver of satisfaction—through the anxiety—at having finally said something that surprised her. “The Worker of Secrets is a myth,” she said. “Pure fabrication. Nobody fights back against the Deathless. Nobody.”
“I did. You seem to have been intending to, in some way.”
Isa didn’t respond.
“The Worker made the Infinity Blade,” Siris said, though he had gotten that information from Kuuth. Could he trust anything that troll had told him?
The God King told him to answer my questions. Why?
“Yes, it’s said the blade is the Worker’s creation,” Isa replied, which shocked him. She did know about it. Or was she playing along?
Terrors, he thought. What am I doing? I can’t handle this. All I know how to do is kill people. It appeared he couldn’t even do that properly.
“The Worker of Secrets,” Isa said thoughtfully. “Ancient enemy of the Deathless, trapped in a prison where time does not pass—his punishment for making a forbidden weapon.”
“What do you know, Isa?” he said, pointing at her. “What do you really know about all of this?”
“Not as much as it seems,” she said lightly. “And certainly not where the Worker is imprisoned, if he even exists.”
“You said you can take me anywhere.”
“Anyplace not mythical, whiskers,” she said skeptically, folding her arms. “I think the Worker is probably a rumor spread among the Deathless to cover up the true origins of the Infinity Blade.”
“Well, we have to go somewhere,” Siris said, looking back at the castle. It seemed hollow and empty. A throne without a king. “Let’s get moving, for now. I’ll . . . I’ll think about what to do.”
Isa shrugged, then started down the path. He followed, hoping he didn’t look as uncertain as he felt.
I’M A CHILD, Siris thought. A child playing at games only the adults understand.
He trudged along the road, his armor heavy in his pack. Isa, it turned out, had a horse—a luxury that nobody in Drem’s Maw had been able to afford. She clomped along the road behind him, humming a tune softly to herself, wearing a narrow hat with a wide brim to keep off the sun.
He’d always wanted to ride a horse. What would it be like? He shook his head, trying to force his thoughts away from that path. The world was crumbling. What did horses matter?
And yet, a piece of him still struggled to discover itself. He wanted to live, to thrive. He wanted to know things, be things, experience things. He’d always denied himself the slightest bit of pleasure, worried that if he tasted the life of a real person, he’d develop a hunger for it.
He’d been right. He’d tasted it now. He was ruined.
And he was happy for it.
Perhaps Isa would help him achieve that; perhaps not. It seemed terribly convenient that she would arrive, decide not to kill him, and now offer to take him wherever he wanted to go. There had been no discussion of price. Probably because they both knew her leading him was merely an excuse for her to stay near the Infinity Blade, and perhaps get a chance to snatch it.
I should ditch her, he thought. Go on alone.
Go where?
Into hiding? He could make his way into the mountains, alone, live off the land . . . only, he had never learned how to do something like that. Beyond that, what good would it do to hide with the Infinity Blade? Potentially the only weapon humankind had for fighting back against the Deathless?
I need to find people who are fighting back. Give the sword to them.
The Worker of Secrets, if he existed, would be a place to start. If not him, then some other rebellious group. Surely something like that existed.
“You realize that this looks odd,” Isa noted.
He looked up at her, frowning.
“Me riding,” she explained, “and you walking like that. It looks unusual. I assume you want to be . . . what is the word in your language? Inconspicuous?”
Was she going to invite him to ride with her? The prospect of being that close to her made him wary, and he glanced at the knives on her belt. He also found himself intrigued by the prospect of being that close to her, however, and he tried to quash the emotion.
She tried to kill you, he reminded himself. And will probably try again.
Still, it would be nice to try riding a horse.
“Yes, this is not very inconspicuous,” she said, looking at him appraisingly, “not with a weapon like that. You could be my guard, but anyone we pass is going to wonder why a woman in simple leathers can afford a guard. I don’t look like a merchant—and there are no wares besides—but I’m certainly not going to pass as one of the Devoted or the Favored.”
“I don’t suppose you have a fancy dress tucked away in your saddlebags?” Siris asked.
She raised an eyebrow at him, looking highly amused.
“I guess not,” he said.
“Assuming you want to travel incognizant,” she said, “we need to do something about the sword.”
“Wait, incognizant?”
“Wrong word? In . . . I swear there was one.”
“Incognito?”
“Yes, that’s it. What a stupid language. Anyway, if you want to travel incognito, we need to do something about that sword.” She made a great show of thinking it over, then sighed loudly. “Guess you’ll just have to let me tie the sword to the saddle up here, where I can cover it with a blanket.”
“You really think I’m that stupid?”
She just chuckled, reaching into her saddlebags. “Merely trying to measure your stupidity, whiskers. You soldier types get knocked upside the head frequently. Who knows how forgetful you might become?” She pulled something out and tossed it to him. A cloak, nicer than the one he’d used to pack up his armor. “Tie that on, let it drape over your left side. Maybe it will hide the weapon well enough to turn aside questioning eyes.”
He lifted up the cloak, looking at it carefully, wary of some kind of trap.
“I sewed deathfang spiders into the collar,” she said dryly.
“Just being cautious,” Siris said, throwing on the cloak, letting it fall as she’d described. It did an acceptable job of hiding the sword. “Thanks.”
They walked a little farther along the dusty trail. It wasn’t really a road. In another part of the countryside, it would have become overgrown long ago. Here, where the weather was hot and the terrain was stony, there wasn’t enough life to overgrow anything.
Siris trudged along beside the horse, his armor feeling like bricks on his back, trails of sweat making their way leisurely down the sides of his cheeks.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Isa asked.
“Beautiful?”
“The rock formations,” she said, nodding to the side. The ground there fell away into a series of gullies, then rose sharply in a ripple that exposed lines of strata shaded red, yellow, brown, orange. “I’ve always loved this part of the island.”
“Island?” Siris said. “We live on an island?”
“A big one,” Isa said, sounding amused. “But yes, Lantimor certainly isn’t a continent. You could ride from one end to another in about a month.”
“Lantimor,” he said, working the word over in his mouth. Someone else’s name for where he lived. Names like that belonged to the Deathless. Everyone he knew just called it the land or the area.
“So naive,” Isa said, mostly under her breath. She probably didn’t realize he’d heard.
He kept his eyes forward, trying not to let her words dig at him. He didn’t care if he was naive. He didn’t. Really.
I’ll show her naive. I’ll show her what it’s like to know truths. Pain like the world crumbling, shame like it might consume you, guilt like a sky of lead . . .
He stilled himself, hand shaking on the hilt of the Infinity Blade. The sweat beads on the sides of his face grew larger.
“Did you really best him?” Isa asked. “In a duel?”
“The God King? Yes. For all the good it did. He isn’t dead.”
Isa pursed her lips.
“What?” Siris asked.
“Raidriar—you call him the God King—is said to be among the greatest duelists of the Deathless.”
“It was part luck,” Siris said. “Any duel is. A dodge at the last moment, an attack in the right opening. He was good; better than any I’d faced.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Raidriar is thousands of years old, whiskers. Thousands upon thousands. You think he hasn’t faced skilled opponents before? He has. Hundreds of them—many of them Deathless who have lived, and trained, as long as he has. And you say that you beat him.”
“What? You think I found this sword sitting in the midden heap or something?”
“No. But a shot with the crossbow to the back could work. It wouldn’t kill him, but it might knock him out for a little while, let you steal the blade. Hell, hit a Deathless with enough destruction, and they’ll need to grow a new body. Cut off his head while he sleeps, then take his sword, get out before he comes back . . .”
“I fight with the Aegis Forms,” Siris snapped, hand growing tight on the sword hilt. “I follow the ancient ideal. If a man faces me with honor, I will return it.”
“Might as well have thrown that in the midden heap,” Isa muttered. “That’s where it belongs.”
Siris said nothing. You couldn’t explain the Aegis Forms to someone who didn’t understand, who didn’t want to understand. When he and the God King had fought, they’d shared something. They’d set out to kill one another, and on one level, they had hated one another. But there had been respect too. As warriors who followed the ancient ideal.
Of course . . . as he considered it, the God King had known that he wasn’t fighting for his life. Immortality would make it a whole lot easier to follow the Aegis Forms.
Before talking to the minions in the castle, he hadn’t even known that Deathless could restore themselves to life. He’d known the God King had lived a long time, but had figured a sword in the gut would end any man, no matter how old he was.
Naive. Yes, she was probably right.
“You didn’t seem surprised to find that he wasn’t truly dead,” Siris said. “You seem to know a lot about them.”
“I stumbled upon one of their rebirthing chambers once,” she said absently. “It was an . . . educational experience. So, where’d you get that healing ring?”
Siris snorted. “You acted so surprised at my beard. You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“I’m good at connecting facts,” she said. Which wasn’t really an answer to his question. “Where did you find it?”
“It belonged to the God King,” Siris said. “I found others, though. On the bodies of the guards I fought. I’ve got a few of them in my pouch.”
“Huh,” she said, thoughtful.
“What?”
“Did the guards ever use the rings against you?” she asked. “To heal themselves?”
“No,” he said. “Actually, they didn’t.” He considered for a moment. “Usually when I found one, it was hung by a strap around their neck, or kept in their pouch. That makes sense for the trolls, who couldn’t fit them on their fingers. But a few of the guards I fought were ordinary men, knights or Devoted who served the God King.”
“Maybe they didn’t know how to work them.”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Siris said, holding up a hand, looking at the ring. “I just kind of . . . did it, naturally. Most of the rings stopped working after I killed the God King, though.”
Isa frowned.
“You know something, don’t you?” Siris said.
“No.”
He eyed her.
“I know many things,” she said, haughtily sitting atop her saddle. “I know how to get anywhere. I know that you walk like a soldier—with a gait I’ve seen from men who have trained in the military for decades—yet you can’t possibly have that kind of experience yet. I know a really incredible recipe for cinnamon-baked sweetbread. But I don’t know anything more about those rings. Honestly.”
He said nothing.
“What?” she demanded.
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” he said, looking ahead.
“I’m telling you,” she said, “it’s really good cinnamon bread.”
He found himself smiling. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, people do usually assume I’m lying when I speak of baking. I’ve been told I don’t look like the baking type.”
“You did glare at me when I suggested you might have a frilly dress in those packs.”
“That was not a glare. That was a dignified look of measured contempt.”
“I’m sure,” Siris said. “So, you can really bake?” Cinnamon sweetbread. That sounded delicious. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never have let himself taste during his years training.
“I like to be able to do things for myself,” she said. “Unfortunately, I also like to eat meals that don’t taste of moldy rat leather. This sort of conundrum necessitates a woman taking a few liberties with her chosen persona. And if this entire line of reasoning is intended to get me to prove myself with an outpouring of cinnamon sweetbread, then I’ll relent.”
“You . . . will? So you’ll fix me the bread?”
“As much as you can eat, whiskers. Price is one sword. Oh, look. You happen to have one. What a fortunate turn of events!”
“Well, you certainly are determined.”
She smiled. “Actually, I’m persistent. You are so fond of using the wrong words. Are you not the one who speaks this language natively?”
“Natively,” he said. “But apparently not that fluently.”
“I’ll trade you my very nice dictionary—”
“—for this sword, I assume?” he asked, taking a drink from his canteen.
“Nonsense. The sword is worth far more than that. I’ll throw in a pair of penis.”
Siris nearly choked, sputtering through the water.
Isa looked at him, frowning.
“A pair of them, eh?” Siris asked, wiping his chin. “Wow. Must have cost you a lot.”
Isa, looking confused, pulled two pens out of her saddlebags. “They were quite pricey, but are very nice. You are still laughing. I see. One pen, two penis? No?”
“I think you, uh, may want to work on your pronunciation there, Isa. You say pen in a way that does not sound at all like—”
Isa suddenly froze, turning forward, coming alert.
Siris cut himself off, loosening the Infinity Blade in its sheath. What was that? Voices, he thought.
Isa pointed. “Ahead, I think.”
“I agree.”
“Hide the sword! Remember what I said!”
“I’m not a fool,” Siris said, moving the cloak to cover his arm. Isa checked her crossbow, making certain it was covered. It wouldn’t be much good if there were a tussle, at least not immediately—he doubted she could get the leverage to cock it from horseback. It was of the ‘step and pull’ variety.
A small group of people appeared atop a hill on the road ahead of them. Isa slowed her horse and inspected the ragged group. They didn’t seem dangerous. There were three of them, men in caps and workers’ smocks. No trousers, just knee-length tunics and sandals.
They’d be from one of the farming regions to the near west. It had been a shock for Siris to discover that people even in nearby areas dressed quite differently from those he’d known in Drem’s Maw. The newcomers stopped on the road after seeing Isa and Siris. Their chatter quieted.
They’re trying to decide what to make of us, Siris thought. Isa had a horse—a mark of someone rich, lucky, or favored. But, true to her suggestion, the lack of arms seemed to convince the three that Isa and Siris were not a threat. The peasants continued their trek, carrying sticks with bundles and walking cautiously.
“Ho, travelers,” one called when the two groups grew near. “You come from the east! What word?” The man’s voice sounded nervous.
“It’s hot,” Siris called back. “And dusty. What word from the west?”
“Much of the same,” the man called, voice growing more calm. “With a little bit of wind.”
“That will be nice.”
“Well, it is a hot, dusty wind, mind you.”
Siris laughed, walking up to them. The three men had relaxed, and one pulled out a canteen, offering him a drink. All looked to be of their middle years, but hard work in the sun could age men quickly.
“Thank you,” Siris said, taking the canteen. It likely held only water, but sharing anything with a stranger was unusual.
“It’s a fine day, young traveler,” one of the men said. “Tell me . . . have you come from paying homage?”
“Homage?”
“To the Sacrifice,” the man said.
“Has that come, then?” Siris asked, taking a sniff of the canteen, then lifting it to his lips. He made as if he were drinking, but barely let the water touch his lips. Best to be careful.
“It has,” one of the other men said, whispering in a solemn tone. “A mortal has been sent to face the God King.”
The third man gestured to his bundle. “Three villages’ worth of spices. An offering for the Sacrifice’s grave. We were chosen. If he has not yet been buried, we will see the job done.”
Everyone knew the story, the legend. By tradition, the God King would dump the Sacrifice’s body outside of his castle, and would not interfere with those who came to remove it. One or two from each village or town would be sent. The God King would not molest them as they stripped off the armor and shield, then buried the fallen hero. The armor would be returned to the Sacrifice’s home city, where it would be passed on to the next chosen sacrifice. Usually his son. Siris had broken that tradition by not marrying or siring a child before he left.
It had always bothered Siris that the God King allowed the harvesting of the armor, but it now made sense. The God King had wanted these Sacrifices to continue. Somehow, they had been what he needed to make the Infinity Blade work.
All this time, the people had thought they were showing defiance. A hint of resistance against the beast that oppressed them, worked them, taxed them nearly to starvation. Turned out that all this time, even this one little act of rebellion had been controlled by the creature they hated.
What would these men do when they found no body to bury, no corpse to revere?
“You did not know it was the time?” one of the men said.
“I . . . heard a rumor,” Siris said. “But people are always speaking of the Sacrifice; I didn’t believe the time had really come.”
“It has,” the man said. “Our elders counted the days with extreme care. All three villages agreed.”
“Come with us,” one of the men offered. “You can tell your grandchildren that you saw him. Only one Sacrifice comes each generation.”
Siris handed back the canteen, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have other tasks. But I wish you luck.”
They parted ways, the men continuing toward the God King’s castle. Siris watched them go, solemn, until Isa rode up beside him.
“I worry for them,” he said. “What will the God King do to them?”
“Probably nothing,” she said. “He’ll need them, and the others that come, to spread whatever propaganda he decides fits his return. He might even toss out a corpse and pretend you never defeated him, that he killed the Sacrifice.”
And the tradition will continue, Siris thought, disturbed. Only I will know the truth.
Another reason for the God King to hunt him. “You didn’t join the conversation.”
“My accent may have been memorable,” she said. “Besides, I have a way of being off-putting to those I just meet.”
“It might be the crossbow bolts you shoot at people before introducing yourself,” Siris said. “You might want to, you know, look into not doing that.”
“An astounding revelation.”
“Well, I’ve been told that my people skills are admirable.”
“Actually,” she said, “they seem to be.”
He glanced at her. She sounded sincere.
“They trusted you right off,” she mused. “People don’t do that to me. They assume I’m lying to them, cheating them, or smuggling something.”
“And are you?”
“Always,” she said absently. “Hell, I’ve got six pieces of contraband farshot magics in my saddlebags right now.”
“Wait, really?”
“Can’t make the toorim things work,” she said. He didn’t know that word she used. Was it some kind of curse? “You need a magic tube to activate them. Anyway, that’s beside the point. People don’t trust me.”
“You could try being honest.”
“It doesn’t work,” she said. “The more honest I am, the less they believe me. Like our discussion about those rings. I really don’t know anything about them, by the way.”
Siris hesitated.
“You’re skeptical,” she said.
“I . . .”
“It’s all right. I’m more than used to it. But you . . . you’re genuine.” That, oddly, seemed to trouble her. “What is this Sacrifice thing they spoke of?”
“You don’t know?” he asked, shocked as he turned to her.
“No.”
“Everyone knows.”
“Humor me.”
“One man each generation is chosen to fight the God King,” he said, starting to trek down the road again.
“Chosen? How?”
“It’s the nearest relative of my family line,” Siris replied. “Usually, the Sacrifice marries and has a child before he leaves.”
“You’re married then?”
“No,” he said.
“But—”
“Things were different for me.”
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. The girl the town elders had chosen for him had been nice enough, but Siris hadn’t been able to force himself to marry her, only to leave her a widow one year later, so he’d backed out of the marriage. His mother had instead sent word to her husband’s family, so the new Sacrifice could be chosen from the children there. Poor kid.
They continued on their way. About a half hour later, Isa suddenly started laughing—a quick, exuberant bark. He glanced at her, and found her reading in her dictionary.
“Ah yes,” she said to herself, still chuckling, “I see. Peens. No. Pens. Yes, I must learn to pronounce that one right.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Damn, I wish I’d done that one on purpose . . .”
SIRIS LET ISA pick the camping spot for the evening. He wanted to be off the roadway, but otherwise didn’t know much about picking a campsite. Isa seemed to find that amusing—she had an expectation that people from ‘rural villages’ should be capable trackers and wilderness experts.
Siris shook his head. He’d never even worked the stalactites, let alone left the village to wander the wilderness. His every moment had been needed to train. Leaving Isa for a moment, he went off to test the transportation ring with the sword. It still worked, even though they were away from the castle. He was relieved to find that; since the elemental rings had stopped working, he’d worried that eventually this one would as well.
That confirmed, he went and helped unload the horse, passing Isa with the saddlebags. He began to undo the saddle, and then noticed the crossbow sitting in its strap. A deadly weapon; he’d heard of its type, but hadn’t ever seen one. It was easy enough to figure it out from a short inspection.
Isa walked back a short time later. Their camp was at the base of a small hill. Not on top of it, as Siris would have probably chosen. That might have to do with the small spring Isa had found at the bottom, or with not making them visible from a distance.
“We haven’t talked about price yet,” Siris said, pulling off the last saddlebag.
Isa eyed it, though obviously tried to remain nonchalant. As if he would make off with her goods. That woman is about as trusting as . . . well, as I am, lately.
“Price?” she asked.
“You’re not going to guide me for free.”
“So far, there hasn’t been much guiding. You don’t know where you want to go.”
“Regardless. You don’t seem the type to provide a service—even a meaningless one—for free.”
She looked at him solemnly, and there were no signs of mirth in her voice. “You die. I get the sword.”
“That—”
“Not if I kill you,” she said. “I mean, my price is this: I’ll be your guide. If you die along the way, the sword is mine. I think you’ll find it a fair price. It doesn’t actually cost you anything.”
“Except my life.”
“I only take the sword if you die because of some something outside our control,” she said, shrugging. “Losing your life is not a cost.”
He rubbed his chin as she went to the horse, slinging her crossbow over her shoulder, then pulling off the saddle. She began scraping at the horse’s coat with a small, handheld tool, which Siris found baffling.
He rounded the hill and settled down in the hollow to care for his armor—the leather needed oiling—and later Isa joined him. The two worked in silence, and eventually Siris moved to take up his logbook and begin writing items down. He’d spent a large part of the walk deciding on things he wanted to try.
See the ocean. Play an instrument. Learn to make my way in the woods. Eat cinnamon bread. Play cards.
She’d probably have laughed at him if he’d mentioned he didn’t know how to play cards. Everyone—even the simplest of men in the town—had played. Not Siris.
Isa started a small fire and boiled some water.
“Any chance of some of that bread you talked about?” Siris asked.
“Do you have sugar, butter, and cinnamon handy?”
“I have some jerky and some oatmeal.” He held up a small jar. “And some armor polish.”
“I suppose I could try to make something out of those three ingredients . . .”
“Uh, no. Thanks.”
Isa smiled, and they dined on travel rations. The things tasted like sawdust. Before long, Siris was pulling his blanket over himself—head resting on his armor pack—and closing his eyes.
He was exhausted. After fighting those golems, making the discovery that the God King lived, then walking for hours . . . he was worn out, wrung dry.
Yet sleep was elusive. The three peasants weren’t the only ones they’d met on the roadway—they’d passed two other groups, and both had spoken of the Sacrifice. Siris had felt . . . dishonest speaking to them. How would they react if they knew that he’d lived, yet had also failed to kill the God King?
I could find a way to make the sword work, a piece of his mind whispered. Then go back. Face him in truth. End him.
The next thought was immediate. Why? Why Siris? He’d done his part, hadn’t he? Didn’t he deserve freedom? Didn’t he deserve, for once, to play cards? To go swimming? To see the ocean?
Finish what you began. . . .
Time passed as he lay in thought. He didn’t toss or turn; that wasn’t his way. He lay, eyes closed, breathing regularly. As if to coax himself to sleep. Also, there was another reason to be still. One he dearly hoped was unjustified.
After about an hour, he heard a soft boot scrape rock.
He snapped his eyes open. Isa crouched beside him, crossbow pointed at his neck. Bathed in moonlight, her expression was grim, her eyes hard.
He exhaled slowly, regretfully.
They exchanged no words; both knew what this was. She reached down for the sword at his side.
He tapped his fingers together, then sat up, grabbing his sword in one hand. She pulled the trigger on her crossbow.
At least, she tried to. Nothing happened. She moved her finger frantically and backed up, eyes going wide. Siris held something up in the moonlight: the trigger mechanism. He pried the transportation disc off it—he’d attached the disc earlier, when inspecting the crossbow—and tossed the trigger into the night. He’d been expecting it to bring the whole crossbow, but this would work as well.
Siris stood in a fluid motion, whipping the Infinity Blade free and leveling it at Isa’s throat.
“In my defense,” she said, “I didn’t try to murder you in your sleep. I waited for you to open your eyes first.”
“You were planning to take the sword and run,” Siris said coldly. “And if I woke and tried to stop you, you’d have killed me.”
“I—”
“You don’t point a crossbow at someone’s throat by accident, Isa,” he whispered. Hell take me! “And you damn well don’t pull the trigger by accident.” He found himself furious. He’d been growing to like her!
“Fine,” Isa said, sounding exhausted. She sat down, tossing aside the crossbow. “But don’t feign the high ground here. Don’t pretend you weren’t planning to do something similar to me one of these nights. I just acted first.”
“Do something similar . . . Isa, what reason would I have to do that!”
She regarded him flatly, but said nothing more.
Frustrating, intolerable woman! He thought. What in the name of the ancient prayers am I going to do with you?
He struggled to hold himself from ramming the blade into her chest and being done with it. She’d betrayed him! How dare she! He stepped forward and she backed up, tripping on a rock and falling so that he loomed over her.
She looked up, eyes wide in the moonlight. Well, she would know the price of treason. He would—
No! he thought to himself with some effort.
It was the blasted sword. It was doing things to him. Siris forced himself to slam the Infinity Blade back into its sheath. He was going to have to find one that fit it better, eventually.
Isa let out a long breath. She hid her fear well, but her hands were shaking. Couldn’t she have simply been content with her “price”?
She knew things. Much more than she was sharing. He could make her speak of them. He could force her to—
No! Heaven take this cursed blade!
“Go,” he said to her, surprised at how ragged his voice was. “Take your horse and your things. Leave.”
“You’re . . . you’re letting me go? And I can take the horse?”
Siris said nothing.
“You’re going to stab me as I turn away,” she said. “Run me down. I . . . You . . .” She was rambling, shaken, as she sat where she had tripped. Her hair was loose, having fallen from its ponytail. She seemed baffled.
“You can take the horse,” Siris said, “because I am no thief. You can leave, because I don’t seek death without reason.”
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be faceless enemies, fought in honorable duels. Not crossbow bolts in the night from people he was starting to trust.
“Let me stay,” she said.
“Are you mad? You think—”
“Tie me up at nights,” she said. “I’ll give you all of my weapons. You ride the horse; I’ll walk in front. No chance for betrayal. No need for trust. But let me stay.”
“What reason could I possibly have to want you around?”
“Saydhi.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s one of the Deathless,” Isa said. “She has lands that border those of the God King. She’s less powerful than him, but has managed to remain autonomous. She’s an information dealer. If anyone knows where the Worker of Secrets is, it will be her.”
Siris rubbed the hilt of the Infinity Blade. The Worker of Secrets. Did he really want to find the man?
If he created this weapon, Siris thought, he’ll know how to use it. It would be right to give it up to him. He’d fight the Deathless better than I ever could.
Siris could find the freedom he craved and do something good in the name of his people. It was a tempting, tantalizing prospect.
Isa was still watching him.
“I don’t have anything to offer this Saydhi,” he said. “If she deals in information, I’ll have to pay her something dear to get her to give up the location of the Worker. The only thing of value I have is this blade, and I’m not going to deliver it back into the hands of one of the Deathless.”
“You won’t need to,” Isa said. “Saydhi has a standing invitation. She loves duels. Any man who can best her champions wins a boon. Fight your way to her, and she’ll answer a question for you.”
Siris gripped the blade’s hilt. It could be a lie. Isa could be leading him into a trap. She probably was.
But, hell take him, there was something in her eyes. A frankness, a sincerity, that he hadn’t seen before. This night had shaken her. He couldn’t fathom why she wouldn’t just run, perhaps take the chance to gather reinforcements and hunt him down. Wouldn’t that make more sense than a convoluted trap?
He still wanted to trust her. What was wrong with him? Maybe he should pay more attention to the hateful thoughts the sword seemed to be trying to force on him.
“Fetch your rope,” he said, blinking. Ancient Prayers, but he was tired! “I’ll sleep on it.”