CHAPTER
ELEVEN

RAIDRIAR FIDDLED with the machine parts of the abomination he’d slain. Behind him, the carcass slumped where it had fallen, mouth open, one tattered wing toward the air. Teeth had begun to fall out of the mouth with a sound like dropping pebbles. Lacking the machinery to sustain it, the thing was literally falling apart.

Raidriar pulled out some wires. This was why he’d always preferred independent organic minions, crafted through Q.I.P. mutation. The best of them could even breed true. Independent, capable of thought. That was true creation. This sloppy piece, this was nothing more than a monument to mediocrity.

Eves approached. The High Devoted bore a few new scratches on his face, but had otherwise survived the collapse of the tunnel. His nephew, however, was another matter.

“Your funeral service was properly morose, I presume,” Raidriar said, twisting two wires together.

“I commended his spirit to your care, great master,” Eves said softly. “Your wisdom was profound in letting him survive to see your return before taking him.”

Raidriar grunted, twisting the ring from his pouch into the center of the wires. He eyed the Devoted.

“It was for the best, Eves,” he said.

“Great master?”

“This way, the lad fell in battle,” Raidriar said. “Frankly, he was annoying, and I was probably going to execute him eventually. At least this way, he had an honorable death.”

“I suppose, master,” Eves said. “It’s just . . . I don’t know what I’ll tell my sister . . .”

“When you talk to her, give her my condolences,” Raidriar said. “And send her something from me. A basket of fruit or some such.” What was the proper gift for the death of a mortal, these days? He could never keep up with their traditions, which were nearly as fleeting as the lives of the mortals themselves.

Raidriar reattached one final wire, then stood up. He backed away from the machine.

“You will want to take shelter,” he noted to Eves.

The Devoted ran. Smart man. Raidriar stepped away more carefully, clasping his hands behind his back—though he wore his healing ring in case anything went wrong—and watching patiently. The machine sputtered and sparked, then the modified energy output spurted a column of pure darkness directly at the structure ahead.

Raidriar’s Seventh Temple of Reincarnation was marked by calm rocks and a field of green bamboo set into the tops of the hills here. It shook, the entire structure groaning, then collapsed upon itself like crumpling paper. Rocks and stones broke free, crashing to the ground as the core of the hill itself was swallowed by the Incarnate Dark.

The machine finally sputtered and died, leaving nothing behind but a gouge in the landscape where the temple had once sat. Raidriar strolled forward, still bare-chested, wearing sandals he’d stolen from a dead daeril. The machinery he’d worked on had become encrusted with a material like obsidian.

Eves stumbled up hesitantly beside him, looking from the glassy machine to the hole in the hillside.

“When the Worker sends minions to investigate,” Raidriar said, “they will find this symbol of my rage. And, of course, your vengeance upon my fallen Devoted is complete.”

“Thank you, great master. It was . . . satisfying to observe.”

Raidriar folded his arms. He had done this, in part, because he felt it was unexpected. Under most circumstances, in this position he would have secured this location and used it to start rebuilding his empire. The Worker would expect that to be his move, and would plan for it.

Hopefully, this would send a message directly to the Worker. You cannot anticipate me.

But now what?

He needed allies, resources. He needed to slay the Soulless who sat upon his throne and reclaim the Infinity Blade.

He needed to do the unexpected. The unanticipated. Something daring, something that the Worker would never consider. Fortunately, a plan had already started to blossom in Raidriar’s mind.

He smiled. “Come, Eves,” he said, turning and walking away. “We have an appointment with an old friend, and I would not wish to be late.”

SIRIS SCOOPED out the last bite of goopy violet pie and shoved it into his mouth.

He’d spent much of his youth worrying about maintaining peak physique for fighting the God King—only to discover that as a Deathless, his body would basically keep itself that way on its own. Without help. True, he had an odd body for a Deathless—he still didn’t completely understand what had been done to make him be reborn as a child, rather than an adult, all those times. But it was still hard not to feel cheated by his youth spent training all the time. He should have allowed himself to relax, now and then.

He settled back, savoring the flavor of the pie. TEL sat next to his chair, wearing a metallic shape almost doglike in appearance. The little construct seemed very happy to have Siris back.

It felt nice to be wanted. Not as the Sacrifice, or as the Deathless who would save humankind. Just as himself. As the day grew long, he’d lit an oil lamp and turned back to his research on the rebellion’s status.

He felt more . . . himself than he had in some time. Playing with children, eating pies—these were things that made his Dark Self retreat. The experiences actually felt new to him. That was surprising, for during the months since he’d realized he was Deathless, he’d started to assume that he’d done everything in his life, even if he couldn’t remember most of it.

Experiences like these, however, shocked him in their freshness. Many activities were faintly familiar to him, but playing games with the children . . . no haunting sense of recollection, no instincts speaking to him from a time before.

Could it be that he’d lived thousands of years, but never taken the time to do anything purely fun? Could he have lived as a Deathless and never eaten everberry pie, or swung on a tire swing, or gone swimming in a warm summer lake?

He held up the scout reports and forced himself to study the facts they showed. A crumbling empire, a Deathless who didn’t seem to care about ruling.

He could play, he could eat, but he couldn’t let those activities only define him. He had work to do. So what was the Worker doing? What could Siris learn from his actions?

On one hand, Siris was pleased to see the Worker so obviously distracted. It gave Siris’s rebellion a chance. They might be able to gain enough momentum, raise support among the people. Perhaps by the time the Worker realized what had happened, there would be no stopping them. Deathless were immortal, yes, but they still fell in combat. They could be pulled down by a half-dozen soldiers, forced to reincarnate. They could be bound, held captive. They could be defeated, even if they couldn’t be killed.

They were not nearly as dominant as the people believed. Fear and tradition kept the people in check more than anything else.

So Siris was happy to see this chance. But it also worried him. If the Worker of Secrets wasn’t focused on administering and ruling his empire, then what was he doing? And just how much should Siris fear it?

Wait a moment . . . Siris hesitated on a page, which was a map stolen by one of the people who had fled the Deathless. Siris held it up, noting the list—written in old Deathless script—of what the facility contained. One item on the list struck him.

He then flipped through the stack of papers, searching out a list of the God King’s strongholds that Lux had described. Underneath each one was a scout report on its particular defenses. Lux had planned to attack one of these next, to steal weapons, rings, equipment—but she had hesitated, worried about retaliation.

The facility that Siris had noticed was isolated, infrequently supplied. It seemed to have been completely forgotten by the Worker. Could he really have left something so important unguarded?

This facility . . . Siris thought, instantly understanding the implications. This is what we need.

The Dark Self moved within him. Siris felt a chill. It wanted to go here. Wanted that facility, and badly.

A knock came on the door. Siris lowered the papers quickly, startled, ashamed—though he doubted anyone else in the valley could read the symbols on this particular map.

Isa stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She still wore her leathers, as if for fighting, her arms folded, hair in a simple tail. She always seemed ready to take off in a moment, prepared—even anxious—to be on her way. Settling down here, taking charge, must have been very difficult for her.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s a mess,” Siris said with a grimace, waving his hand over the piles of notes.

“I meant the pie.”

“Oh.” He looked at the empty plate. “Well, it all kind of . . . vanished.” He scratched at the side of his head. “I might need another one to really make a determination.”

Isa snorted, strolling into the room, coming to look over his shoulder at the papers he’d been studying.

“What you told me about the army is true,” he said with a sigh. “Our soldiers are a determined group, but we have a long way to go before we can become a realistic threat to the Deathless.”

“Yeah,” she said, speaking softly.

“If we’re going to grow this rebellion,” Siris said, “you and I will be doing a lot of the work. I’ll need you to infiltrate, gather information, pry secrets from Deathless hands.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s a whole lot more appealing than acting as a nursemaid to this lot. They come to me asking about everything. Hell take me . . . if I have to listen to one more man whine about his bunkmate snoring, I’m seriously going to start stabbing something.”

She settled down at the table to his right, crossing her arms on top of the stack of maps.

“You really think we can do this?” he asked. “Lead a rebellion? Change the world?”

“No,” she said. “But I think you can.”

He settled back. “You’re not starting to believe your own stories, are you? Me slaying dragons, rescuing thousands of people, murdering Deathless while swinging on ropes from palace to palace . . .”

She smiled. “No. But I’ve seen you with them, Siris. You are a leader. A real leader.”

The Dark Self stirred, and Siris felt satisfaction from it. It knew. It knew he needed it.

No. He knew. He had to stop thinking of it as a different thing from himself. The Dark Self was him, not some alien thing. For all he wanted to play with children and eat pies, that wouldn’t save his people. Getting to this facility on the paper in front of him . . . that would give him a chance.

“I guess the greater truth is,” Isa said, “it’s not important if we win or not.”

He looked up at her.

“Something has to change, Siris,” she said. “The world, the people in it . . . Well, sitting around with my nose in a mug, not looking at anything happening around me—that’s not working for me anymore. So we’re going to fight instead. You’re going to lead, and I’m going to . . . well, do whatever the hell it is I do.”

Siris nodded, meeting her eyes. “You’ve changed.”

“It’s been over two years.” She looked back at him, defiant at first, but then relaxing. He found himself remembering the days—short though they had been—that he’d spent with her. Days he had sincerely enjoyed.

Her hands rested a few inches from his own. She moved one closer to his.

“I’ve changed too,” he warned. “Those years in the prison, they were . . . difficult.”

“I can believe it. I wasn’t expecting things to just pick up where they left off. Hell, you’re still Deathless, and . . . Well, what I did wasn’t about us. Not entirely, at least. It was as much about those people down below.”

“Thank you,” Siris said, resting his hand on hers. “Thank you for coming for me. You don’t know what being trapped in there was doing to me, Isa. I don’t care about your reasons. Just . . . thank you.”

She nodded.

“There’s a problem, though. I’m not good at leadership.”

“Sure you are. They—”

“I’m not, Isa. I grew up isolated, treated as a doomed Sacrifice, forced to practice swordsmanship instead of spending time with others my age. I know nothing about leadership.”

She frowned.

“Everything I know about being a leader,” he said, “comes from somewhere else. Other instincts. Not me—or at least, not the me I want to encourage. If I’m to lead here, I’m going to be relying upon the methods of our enemies.”

“We can’t fight a war with brave songs and good intentions, Siris. You’re our weapon. They forged you, yes, but we can use that.” She hesitated. “And I trust you.”

Hell take me . . . He met her eyes again. Then, making a decision, he slipped a paper off the stack—the map with the facility he’d been looking at earlier.

“Then we’re going to strike here,” he said. “How soon can the men be ready?”

“Immediately.”