“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.”