“I did it once.”
Her smile faded. “I meant that jokingly, whiskers.”
“I know.”
“So . . .”
“So I don’t know,” he said, slamming the sword back into its makeshift sheath and continuing on. “I feel like my entire life has been controlled. I was the Sacrifice, and that was it. I trained, I focused everything I had on facing the God King. And you know what? Part of the reason I could do that was because I saw an end.”
She moved the horse up beside him, listening.
“An end,” he continued, fingering the pommel of the Infinity Blade. “It was death, yes, but at least I knew exactly what I had to do. It’s like . . . like I knew there was an enormous race in front of me, but there was also a finish line, after which I could rest.
“These last few weeks, they’ve taken that finish line from me. Fight the God King. Oh, you won. Well, now you’ve got to fight him again. And if you manage that, you’ve got an entire Pantheon to worry about. And maybe hundreds of other Deathless nobody has told you about. Want to bring freedom to your people? Well, you’re going to be fighting every moment of your life, like a drowning man struggling to hold his head above water.
“So I don’t know, Isa. This sword is a lead weight at my side. I should use it, but I’m exhausted, and someone has stolen my prize away. I lost my entire childhood. I’d like to live a little, just for myself. Does that make sense?”
“More than you could possibly imagine,” she whispered.
He glanced at her. He still didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed to like it that way.
“I think,” she said, “that what you are doing is more than noble enough. You shall find this Worker, and give him back his sword. Nobody could ask more of you.” She grinned. “And if you die instead, I shall then take the sword and sell it for a mountain of gold.”
He eyed her.
“I’ll use it to throw you one hell of funeral party,” she promised solemnly. “I’ll make sure the Dark Barrower himself comes to take your soul, and that no Deathless claims it.”
“Thanks. I’ll just try to live, though.”
“Sure. Make things boring.”
Siris got a good look at Saydhi’s estates as they wound their way down around the side of a ridge. Instead of a castle, it appeared that this Deathless preferred sprawling estates with ornamental gardens. There were practically no walls, just streams, stands of bamboo, and the occasional peaked building.
One building stood out: an open-sided structure in the center of the gardens. “I fight my way there, I assume?” he said, pointing.
“If she keeps her word, yes,” Isa said. “You challenge the guard at the pathway in. If he falls, it will draw her attention and alert the other champions. Saydhi will probably watch from a distance to see if you’re entertaining enough. If you are, she’ll summon her current high champion. Defeat him, and you get your answer.”
“Supposedly.”
“Supposedly,” Isa admitted.
He took a deep breath. He’d feel less nervous if he could remember how he’d performed that True Pattern sword dance. His instincts—ones he hadn’t realized he had—whispered that the True Patterns were extraordinarily varied, and the one to use depended specifically on the number of attackers, their skill, and how they were surrounding you. Using the right form could end them all in a series of perfected strikes. Using the wrong one meant leaving yourself wide open to multiple attackers.
He shouldn’t need that today. These should be duels after the ancient ideal. As they rode, he found himself increasingly nervous, more so than when facing the God King. Then, at least, he’d assumed he knew the fight’s result. “All right,” he eventually said, stopping. “You wait here.”
Isa raised an eyebrow at him as he unloaded his armor. “I don’t recall,” she said, “being turned into a golem, instructed to obey your every command.”
“Hey,” TEL said. “That’s what I am. Did you realize that you were saying—”
“Shut up,” Isa said.
“Oh.”
“I’m aware that you don’t need to do as I ask,” Siris said, strapping on his left forearm guard. “But you’re in no condition to fight.”
“I thought I was here to help.”
“But not to interfere,” Siris said. “These battles are one on one. I won’t have you joining. My honor won’t allow it.” He met her eyes to let her know he was serious.
He didn’t get an eye roll, as he’d been expecting. She did lean down from horseback and rest her hand on his shoulder. “If you do fall, I might be able to get you out before they finish you.”
“You wouldn’t be fast enough,” he said. “The Aegis Forms all include finishing strikes. These are duels to the death. It’s not about mercy or ruthlessness; it’s just how things are done. If I fall, I die.”
“And the blade . . .”
“Fighting won’t get it for you,” Siris said. “If they recognize it for what it is, you’d just get yourself killed trying to grab it. If they don’t, it will be much easier for you to take by slipping in quietly.”
“All right,” she said, though she didn’t seem pleased about it.
“TEL,” Siris said. “I need to rest for a bit before attempting this. I need my cloak, also.”
“Your . . . cloak?”
“I left it at the camp, I’m afraid.”
The golem fidgeted. He probably realized that Siris had left the cloak intentionally. It was time to see how far he could push the creature’s subservience.
“You’ll wait until I return?” TEL asked.
“Of course.”
Two conflicting commands, Siris thought, but an implication that he can follow both. What will he do?
The golem left, muttering to himself. “Oh, not good. This is not good. Not good at all . . .”
Isa watched him go, then turned back and raised an eyebrow at Siris as he finished putting on his armor. “You think that will work?”
“If it doesn’t, I haven’t really lost anything. But I don’t trust that thing, and I’d rather it be gone while I do this.”
He unsheathed the Infinity Blade, then tossed the sheath aside before attaching the transportation disc to the hilt of the blade. This time, if he dropped it, he’d be able to get it back with speed.
He pulled on his helm. He breathed the stuffy air inside the metal shell.
“Siris?” Isa said.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll try to sneak in after you. I’ll be watching. Maybe if something goes wrong, I can . . .”
“Don’t get yourself killed, Isa.”
She smiled wanly. “I’ll promise that if you’ll do the same.”
“It’s a deal, then,” he said. He did up the final straps at the side of his breastplate, then pulled on his gauntlets and nodded toward her. “Wish me luck?”
She shook her head. “The Deathless have all the luck, whiskers. They always have. You don’t need luck. You need obstinance, belligerence, and a bit of selective stupidity.”
“Selective stupidity. Yes . . . that sounds like me.” He marched out of the woods, armor clanking, toward a serene pathway of moss and overgrown stones. A daeril guard stood there, slender and lithe.
Siris held his blade up in the posture of one requesting a formal duel. The monster fell into a familiar stance, causing Siris to release a breath of relief. This was familiar. This was where he excelled. He stepped up.
The duel began.
Siris yanked his sword free of the chest of the last of the guards, dropping the beast like the others before him.
Siris breathed in and out inside his helm for a moment, then stepped from the pathway out into the open gardens. The sky was dark with gloom and melancholy. It had begun to drizzle again.
For a time, he’d managed to forget all else—all but the duels. He cherished that focus. During such moments, he didn’t worry or wonder. He could fight and seek the solace of a spinning blade, a shield
turning aside attacks.
The open-sided building was just ahead. It was a thing of beauty, with ornate carvings and subtle colors, set in a garden with bridges spanning ponds and slow streams. He’d never before realized that a building could be a work of art.
“I seek the champion of Saydhi,” Siris called. “I have come for my boon.”
“A little early to be making demands, warrior,” a feminine voice said from the building. He could see someone sitting in the shadows there, in a cushioned chair. A larger figure stood beside the chair. It began moving, stepping out into the dampened sunlight.
The champion was a hulking brute who was almost big enough to be a troll. He might have been human beneath that evil silver mask, or he might have been a daeril. Either way, he wore little armor, leaving his thick chest—bulging with both fat and muscle—bare.
Siris raised his blade. The champion raised a huge machete-like sword and leaped down the steps, shaking the building as he landed.
Time for the real challenge, Siris thought.
The champion started immediately. Three quick blows, forcing Siris back.
Insolent grub, Siris thought. They use our fighting forms, but they are not worthy.
Siris attacked into the creature, moving by instinct, with a barrage of blows.
We shouldn’t give them privileged positions. Raidriar was a fool. Saydhi is a fool. Choosing “champions” like this encourages these grubs to think themselves special.
Siris battered aside the champion’s weapon, then slid the Infinity Blade forward. The skin split like water parting before a slimfish. Siris pushed the blade in up almost to its hilt, then whipped it out, spinning it around back to the ready position.
Pathetic.
The champion collapsed without a grunt, bleeding out on the pathway. Siris brushed past the dying creature.