Being the Sacrifice had dominated everything he’d ever done. But that was done with. Finally. Finally he could figure out who he was—the person he could be when he didn’t have this terrible duty weighing him down. He hesitated, then fished a small woodbound book out of his pocket. His mother had given it to him and told him to record his thoughts each night as he traveled to the God King’s castle.
His mother and he were among the few in the town who could read. The Sacrifice had to be literate. Siris wasn’t certain why—it was merely tradition. He hadn’t considered it an arduous requirement; reading and writing had come easily to him.
The logbook was empty. Siris had never written in it, and felt foolish for ignoring his mother’s suggestion. He hadn’t been able to force himself to do it. He’d been marching to his death, determined to avenge his fathers who had fallen to the God King’s blade. Not by killing the creature, but by fighting him, by proving that—despite what he may think—the world was not completely his.
Siris’s mother had included a charcoal pencil with the book. Siris raised it and turned to the first page. There, in bold letters, he wrote one sentence.
I hate fenweed soup.
The door opened, and Siris turned to face the town’s elders. Master Renn stood at their forefront, a short, bald man with a round face and red ceremonial robes now faded with age. “Siris,” Master Renn said. “We were wondering . . . what it is you intend to do next.”
Siris thought for a moment. “I intend to visit my mother,” he said. “I’d assumed she’d be in the town, as it’s midday. I should have gone to her hut first.” She lived outside of the main cavern, in the open air.
“Yes, yes,” Master Renn said. “But after that . . . ?”
“I’ve given that a lot of thought, master,” Siris said, tucking away the book. “And . . . well, I’ve come to a decision.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going swimming.”
Master Renn blinked in surprise, then turned to the other elders.
“After that,” Siris continued, “I’m going to eat an everberry pie. Do you realize I’ve never tasted everberry pie? I was always on too strict a diet to eat the pies during feasts. A warrior cannot afford such frivolity.” He rubbed his chin. “Everyone says everberry is the best type of pie.”
I hope I like it, he thought. I’d hate to have spent all of these years envying everyone else for nothing.
“Siris,” Master Renn said, stepping closer. His eyes flickered toward the corner of the small room, where Siris’s armor lay piled, bundled inside his cloak—which doubled as a pack. The Infinity Blade rested against the pile. “Did you really do it? You didn’t . . . just sneak in and steal his sword, did you?”
“What?” Siris said. “Of course not!”
The fight flashed in his mind. Sword against sword. The God King’s voice, commanding, dismissive—yet surprisingly honest. It had been an unexpectedly honorable dual, after the ancient ideal.
“And the others?” Master Renn asked. “The other six members of the Pantheon? You killed their king. Did you face the others?”
“I dueled some captives in the dungeon,” Siris said. “I think they might have been important, but they didn’t look like members of the Pantheon. I didn’t recognize them, at least.”
Master Renn glanced at the other elders. They began shuffling, uncomfortable.
“What?” Siris demanded.
“Siris,” Master Renn said, “you can’t stay here.”
“What? Why not!”
“They’ll come hunting you, son,” Master Renn said. “They’ll come hunting for that.” He looked toward the sword again.
“All Deathless covet the Infinity Blade,” Master Hanna said from behind Renn. “Everyone knows that.”
“They’ll be angry,” Master Hord said. “Angry at you, for what you’ve done.”
“We can’t let you remain in the town,” Master Renn said. “For the good of us all, you have to go, Siris.”
“You’re exiling me?” Siris said. “Hell take me . . . I saved you. I saved all of you!”
“We appreciate that,” Master Renn said.
Several of the others didn’t look like they agreed. Just a week before, these people had toasted his bravery. They’d sent him off with a feast and fanfare. They’d praised him and lauded him. They didn’t want me to win, he thought, looking into those hostile eyes. They’re afraid. They spoke of freedom, but they don’t know what to do with it.
“You should go quickly,” Renn said. “We’ve sent word to Lord Weallix, inviting him back.”
“Him?” Siris demanded. “You’d serve that rat?”
“Our best hope now,” Master Hord said, “is to look cowed, placated. Dominated. When the other gods come searching, they must not find a town in rebellion.”
“It is the best way, Siris,” Master Renn said.
“You’ve been slaves so long,” Siris spat, “you don’t know how to be anything else. You are fools! Children.” He was shouting, he realized. “After all of these centuries, time after time feasting and dreaming, now you throw it away! Now you throw me away!”
The elders shied bac
k before his rage. They seemed frightened of him. Terrified.
Siris formed fists, but then found his rage evaporating. He couldn’t be angry at them. He could only pity them.
“Fine,” he snapped, moving to pick up his gear. “Fine, I’ll go.”
An hour later, Siris lifted up an old, worn axe. Its blade was chipped, the haft grayed and weathered with time. He hefted it, judging its weight, and tried to ignore the tempest of emotions inside of him. Betrayal. Frustration. Anger.
His training let him banish all of that for a moment, as he stared at the axe. In his mind, he saw the ways he could use it to win a fight.
Smash his foe at the knees, then bury the axe into his chest as he fell . . .
Hack at the neck, coming in furiously, using the long haft for additional reach . . .
Bash the axe against an opponent’s shield time and time again to throw him off balance, then step back and strike unexpectedly from the right . . .
He raised the axe . . .
. . . then swung it down at a log resting on the stump before him. He hit the log off-center, and the axe bounced away, as if the wood were stone. Siris growled and swung again, but this time only managed to hack a chip off the side.
“Damn,” he said, resting the axe on his shoulder. “Chopping wood is a lot harder than it looks.”
“Siris?” a shocked voice asked.
He looked up. A middle-aged woman stood on the pathway up to the forested hut, clutching a bucket of water. Her hair was starting to silver, and her clothing was of the simplest wool. His mother, Myan.
His mother would know what to do. Myan was solid, in the same way that an ancient tree stump was solid, or the balanced boulder outside of town was solid. He’d tried to push that over as a child. Though it seemed delicate, he hadn’t been able to shove it an inch.
“Mother,” he said, lowering the axe. She hadn’t been in the hut when he’d arrived a half hour ago. Fetching water. He should have known. That task he’d always done for her, as the jog to the river and back fit well with his training.
“Siris!” she said, putting down the bucket. She hurried to him, stepping with a limp from her fall ten years back. She took his arm tenderly. “You saw reason, then? You actually refused to go to the God King’s castle? Oh, lights in the heavens, boy! I never thought you’d come to your senses. Now we . . .”