Salt Lake City, Utah

PROLOGUE

“YOU WANT stories of Siris, do you? Stories of the Deathless who fought for ordinary men?”

“Yes.”

“Stories of the youth reborn a thousand times, raised in each incarnation to try—and fail—to slay the God King? Stories of the man who did not know he was immortal?”

“Yes.”

“Stories of Siris abandoned? Locked in the Vault of Tears, betrayed by the Worker of Secrets? Left to rot by the one who should have been his ally? These are the stories you seek?”

“They are.”

“Well, good. Because stories . . . stories I have. Too many stories. Stories like rats in the wheat, fat and glutted upon my thoughts and memories. It’s well past time that someone heard them . . .”

CHAPTER

ONE

SIRIS SNAPPED open his eyes and rolled. He had only a few moments before—

Hands grabbed his hair, yanking his head upward. A knee against his back forced him down to the cold stone.

Vision blurry, Siris twisted, trying to claw at the hands holding him. He had to—

The hands smashed Siris’s face down into the stone ground.

All went black.

CONSCIOUSNESS returned to Siris like an eagle spreading its wings. His mind flooded with sensation. The cold ground. His face resting in a pool of nearly dried blood, sticky against his skin. The stale scent of the prison.

He took a deep breath and threw himself to his feet, turning to swing. He opened his eyes to a blurry world of shadows and filtered light.

Those shadows caught him, tripped him, then slammed him back against the ground.

Siris growled. His primal instincts knew where his enemy would be, and he kicked upward into a soft stomach. Connecting felt so satisfying.

The shadows cursed. Siris pulled his foot back and rolled to his feet.

A weight slammed him backward against the wall. Siris writhed, but hands grabbed his head and jerked it to the side.

Snap.

All went black.

SIRIS WAITED for his body to restore itself.

First, his soul tried to flee, to escape to a rebirthing chamber. That was far better than returning to a body that had been defeated—a fallen body was a compromised body. Innate Deathless programming tried to send his soul, his Q.I.P., to safety.

Siris registered this as a vague sensation, tangible only in the most fleeting of ways. Like the memory of a taste. A sense of uncontrolled soaring, a panicked flight.

Then a wall, like invisible glass. His soul was rebuffed as it had been each time before. It could not break out of the prison, and was instead forced back. Back into the imperfect body, the trapped body.

That body belonged to an immortal. It would restore itself, given time.

Eventually, consciousness swelled in his mind, and he regained control. He tried to feign death. His thinking was fuzzy, his eyes not fully restored, he needed to—

“You think I don’t notice you, Ausar?” a voice said from nearby. Siris felt warm breath on his neck. “You think I can’t hear you stir as you struggle back to life?”

Siris snapped his eyes open and reached for the figure above him, his ancient enemy. He could see only a blur.

“I put your eyes out each time I kill you,” the God King growled, grabbing Siris’s head and smashing it down against the floor.

Pain.

“Your body heals essential organs first,” the God King continued. “Your eyes come late in the process.”

Siris screamed, flailing.

The God King smashed his head against the floor again.

All went black.

DEVIATION

THE FIRST

RAIN BLEW against the window of Uriel’s cubicle.

A window. He had worked hard for a window. Mary had pushed him to reach for that achievement. When you worked every day with numbers and abstractions, she said, it was good to be able to look out and see the world as it was—not as simply figures on a page, to be added and assessed.

There are numbers out there too, though, Uriel thought, looking out the window. Natural laws commanded the rain. Unseen statistics and figures determined where each drop would fall, how hard each would hit, the precise route each would take sliding down the glass. It was well beyond the abilities of mankind to calculate those figures, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

“So,” Adram said nearby, “I told her that she’d better turn down the oven, because it was about to get a lot hotter inside!”

The regular team of coffee-mug-holding, suspender-and-tie-wearing marketing fellows laughed at Adram’s joke. At least Uriel assumed it was a joke. He didn’t understand why it was funny. Too many jokes didn’t make sense when you broke them apart, not logically. The numbers didn’t add up to laughter. Not for him.

He turned back to his smartdesk, lifting his stylus and making a few notations on a screen already full of numbers and ledgers.

Nearby, Adram leaned with one arm on the wall of the cubicle nearest him. He continued to chat as people passed. Some joined his group while others moved off. But Adram kept talking. Always talking. The man never seemed to get anything productive done.

Normally, Uriel could ignore him, but today it was tougher. The numbers . . . the numbers were so worrisome. Uriel needed quiet, not this constant blathering. Who had thought it a good idea to put an actuary next to the marketing department?

Uriel raised his hand to his forehead, kneading it as he tapped his smartdesk screen, bringing up percentages. If this happens . . . He brought up another list of percentages. Not if. When. It will happen.

Each calculation spelled out disaster.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t what people wanted to hear from him. They got angry when he told the truth—as if it were his fault. As if he could make the numbers do anything.

He wished so much that he could.

Perhaps I can sugarcoat this, he thought. I could present the more optimistic side. Like they’re always telling me to.

He glanced at the picture on the top of his desk. Jori, wearing a baseball cap. No. No, Uriel would not sugarcoat what could happen if this technology were released. He would have to tell the truth. For his son’s sake.

That would make him unpopular, but why did they order a risk-assessment analysis if they didn’t want to hear the findings? Executives were so odd. All except for Mr. Galath, chairman of the board. He always seemed to listen. He was one of the only people who made Uriel think this company had anything of a future.

Adram’s chatter finally died down. Uriel glanced over. It looked like people had passed on to do actual work for once, leaving Adram alone. The tall, overly smiling man glanced at Uriel.

Please, no.

Adram sauntered over to Uriel’s cubicle. “Ho there, Spunky!” The man placed a hand on Uriel’s shoulder. “You’ll have good news for us at the meeting, right?”

“I will have facts, Adram,” Uriel said, prying the man’s fingers from his shoulder. “Nothing more or less.”

“Sure, sure.” Adram took a sip of coffee, then gestured toward the desktop and its display of neat ledgers. “You can really make sense of all that?”

“This is my domain,” Uriel said. “I can make the numbers speak—assuming I care for them, encourage them. Control them.”

“You make it sound like you’re a king, Uriel.” Adram laughed. “King of the ledgers.” He leaned down. “You’ll make them speak good things about Project Omega, right?”

“The numbers do not lie. I will say what they tell me.”

“They don’t lie. Cute. Look, Uriel. If you are so good with numbers, why do you always see the opposite of what everyone else knows?”

“Everyone else is wrong.” Wasn’t that obvious?

Adram sighed. “You realize that this is why nobody likes you, Uriel.”

“That statement is patently false. My wife and son both like me.”

“I wasn’t trying to pick an argument,” Adram said. “I was trying to help you out. As a bud.”

“A . . . bud.”

“Sure.”

“You.”

Adram sighed again, standing up straight. “Project Omega is going to happen, and it’s going to make us all very rich. You count those beans, Uriel. Count them well. And take a piece of advice—for once? Make them say that Project Omega is ready to go live.”

Adram patted Uriel’s shoulder, as if with affection, then he ambled away, raising a hand toward Jane and calling out something flirtatious.

CHAPTER

TWO

I WOULDN’T be here if I hadn’t grown weak, a part of Siris thought.

The Dark Thoughts were stronger now. Siris recognized them as part of himself, and had admitted—to his shame—what he had been. A warlord. A despot. A murderer.

He didn’t remember that person. Whatever had been done to him . . . it had wiped away those memories, permanently. He felt blessed for that, was thankful for it.

The process, however, was incomplete. Those terrible memories had been taken, but that left him with something more primal. Instincts. The brutality of a creature who had lived as a tyrant for eons.

I could have dominated, ruled. I had the Blade. I could have left the Worker alone, could have slain Raidriar. Now . . . now all that is left to me is vengeance.

Siris threw himself to his feet, eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, he let the Dark Thoughts—the shadow of his ancient self—control him.

He caught the God King’s arm as it reached for him. Eyes still shut, Siris spun around, twisting the arm in its socket and popping the joint at the shoulder. Raidriar screamed. Siris felt the man writhing, cursing, spinning into another attack. Siris stepped away, but a shade too slow. The God King’s leg sweep sent him tumbling.

He kicked as he fell, striking where he knew—somehow—the God King would be standing. Siris’s foot connected with something hard—the God King’s knee.

A snap, accompanied by another scream.

Siris moved. No thought. No planning. He scrambled forward, eyes still firmly shut. He couldn’t trust them. Trying to rely on them only got him killed. Over and over.

His hands found an arm. The God King reached a clawlike hand to Siris’s face, ripping at the skin.

Siris ignored the pain, methodically grabbing his enemy by the head and pounding his skull against the floor.

Smash.

Smash.

Smash.

Like a primeval man breaking open a fruit with a tough rind.

Time passed. Siris eventually became aware of himself in the prison, kneeling over the God King’s bloodied corpse. Raidriar, the God King, did not breathe. Siris’s own breathing went in and out with ragged gasps.

His eyes finally worked, but he didn’t see much. An open cell of rough-hewn rock—the soul prison in which the Worker of Secrets had been held.

Much of the floor was coated with dried blood. His, and that of the God King.

This is what I can do, he thought. When I let my Dark Self free.

He forced down those instincts. It was a struggle, one nearly as difficult as killing the God King had been. Eventually, Siris reached forward and pressed his thumbs into the God King’s eyes, bursting them, though the creature’s skull had been cracked wide open by his attacks.

The skull would heal—but the eyes would come last.

“Thanks for the tip,” Siris said, stumbling to his feet.

DEVIATION

THE SECOND

THE TIME for the meeting with the executives, including Mr. Galath, approached. Uriel could do nothing more to prepare, so he diverted himself by summoning some different ledgers. A pet project of his.

Like all ledgers, these did not lie. They showed him that Mr. Galath, the chairman, had been withdrawing resources from the company. Subtly, slowly. Uriel had access to all of the accounts, though he wasn’t technically an accountant. He needed these numbers to create his risk assessment charts.

Mr. Galath was up to something. He was the source of pretty much everything that the company had created, from the satellite technology to the new data compression methods. Galath was a genius—but genius in and of itself was unremarkable. What made Galath special was his ability to run a company at the same time. He was smart, but also wily.

It had only been six months since Galath had revealed the technology that had been christened Project Omega. Teleportation. Real teleportation. Six months of frenzied work to test products, to obtain patents, to prepare for a world reveal.

And yet, during all that, Galath had been subtly moving resources to another, hidden project. One nobody else seemed to know about. But Uriel had found it in the numbers, for the numbers did not lie.

How he wished he could make people act like the numbers did. Rational, consistent.

This is something big, Uriel thought, sorting through the ledgers. Important.

But what? That was Uriel’s pet project. Trying to figure out what it was, to guess what Galath was attempting to accomplish. What would his next wonder be?

As Uriel worked, his screen’s automatic reminder feature pulled up the news of the day. Mary was behind that, as part of her desire for him to pay more attention to the outside world.

He wasn’t certain why she bothered. The news had nothing interesting for him. More killing in the Middle East. The war in South America. Radiation poisoning from the bombs in India.

Wasn’t progress supposed to have brought an end to all of this? What of the wonders of technology? We look down on the ancient days for their brutality, but when people murdered each other then it was by the dozen. Not by the million.

Modern men were the real barbarians.

He closed the news feed and turned back to his spreadsheets. Curious—according to Galath’s schedules, the chairman had been vanishing for long periods lately.

That’s odd . . . Uriel thought, noticing something else. Meetings before each disappearance, usually with someone from the company. Not always executives.

Each time an individual met with Galath in one of these instances, they immediately took a leave from work. So far, none had returned, yet all were still drawing salaries.

He’s gathering them, Uriel thought. The best of the company, judging by the numbers. He’s placing them on the new project. Uriel pulled up some more files, noticing that each person chosen got a promotion around the same time.

He found himself increasingly excited. This was really, really big. The corner of his table screen started flashing. A phone call. He tapped on the square, sending the conversation directly to his implanted earphone.

“Hello?” he asked, distracted.

“Uriel?” Mary’s voice.

He smiled immediately. Her voice . . . it always took some of the tension away. He looked up from his screen. “Hey.”

“I was just wondering,” Mary said. “Is there something special I could get for dinner tonight? Something you’d like?”

He looked down at the hive of numbers. “I . . . I might be working late again.”

“Oh, you needn’t say it so hesitantly, Uri. I know your work is important. Do you know when you’ll be home?”

“Ten?”

“How about I order in something from that Thai place you like so much? It will be waiting in the fridge when you get home.”

“That would be nice,” Uriel said, smiling. “You’re too good to me, Mary.” He hesitated. “But what about Jori? He hasn’t seen his dad in three days.”

“I’ll let him stay up,” Mary said. “He won’t be home until later, anyway. Hockey practice is tonight.”

There was a game this weekend, a championship. It was blocked out on his schedule, marked in red, immovable even if Mr. Galath demanded it. Uriel often worked late—too often—but he’d never missed a game.

“Mary,” Uriel said, leaning down. “I think something is coming. Something amazing.”

“Uri? I haven’t heard you sound this optimistic in a while. Aren’t you worried? About . . .”

She didn’t say it. He wasn’t supposed to talk about work with family, but she was one of the only people who ever actually listened to him.

“I am worried,” Uriel said. “But I think this project is a cover for something greater. I don’t think Mr. Galath intends to release the . . . other thing. He’s watching to see what we’ll say about it. I just . . . I can’t explain. But it’s in the numbers. He’s pulling people aside, one at a time. Telling them about the new project. Preparing them.”

“That’s wonderful! Do you think he’ll choose you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” People, even Mr. Galath, didn’t make as much sense as numbers did.

“We should get you a new suit, just in case.”

“You know I hate shopping.”

She laughed. “All you have to do is try it on. That won’t be so bad, will it?”

“No, I guess it won’t. First dinner, now this. You’re wonderful.”

“I guess I just want to do something special for you, Uri. You’ve been working so hard lately. See you at ten.”

He hung up with a tap on the screen. Rain still washed against the window outside, but despite the dreary weather, he was glad for the window. Mary had been right about that, as she was about so many other things.

He found himself writing down his thoughts, as he sometimes did. A kind of journal, but one filled with his dreams of what could be. What would the world be like if people made sense? What would the world be like if they were not able to kill each other so easily? Could he make the ideas work? He wrote it all down.

“Hey,” Jarred said, walking by. “Aren’t you supposed to be coming to this?”

“Hmm?” Uriel asked.

“The meeting? Mr. Galath? Project Omega?”

Uriel sat up straight, checking the time on his screen. He cursed, sliding his spreadsheets off the virtual table and into the chip in his wristwatch. Some made fun of him for it. So archaic. He liked it better than carrying around an embedded datacore.

“Seriously, Uriel,” Jarred said, shaking his head. “You’re in your own little world, aren’t you?”

Uriel hastened to grab his suit jacket and throw it on while jogging after Jarred.

CHAPTER

THREE

EVEN AS he was slaughtered, Raidriar planned.

Each moment of awareness helped him put together a plot, a method of escape.

Control. He would be in control.

So, even as he died, even as he flailed and struggled, he continued to plan.

It involved holding himself back and waiting for an opportunity. That opportunity was not now.

But it would come.

SIRIS KILLED. And he was killed.

Again and again, they made those same rounds. Sometimes he defeated the God King, and would keep him crippled and broken for weeks on end. But then he’d lose track of the passage of time. He wouldn’t notice that it had been far too long since he’d smashed the God King’s face against the ground.

Sometimes . . . he almost welcomed it. A change. Another voice, just for a few moments. He walked that line, letting Raidriar come just to the brink of recovery.

Because of that, sometimes he lost. When he did, he would swim that void, letting the Dark Self grow stronger and stronger until it broke him free again.

It was difficult to track the changing of days in this prison, particularly while wearing a body that did not age and did not need to eat. He felt hunger, yes—it was perpetual, a horrid scratching inside, as if something were trying to eat its way out. But he did not need food. He was immortal—truly immortal.

He won. He lost. They played this game over and over. Dozens of reversals. Hundreds of deaths and beyond.

Siris gave a brief notice to when he died his thousandth time in the prison. He had already killed Raidriar twelve hundred times at that point. Keeping track of those numbers . . . they were the only things for him to keep track of.

This became his world. His life.

Kill. Be killed.

With each death, the Dark Self grew stronger. Instincts he did not want, but which he seized and used anyway. A primal force that lived inside of him, like a monster bound in fragile, fraying ropes.

A nightmare.

YES . . . RAIDRIAR thought as he awoke from death. Hold something back.

He threw himself to his feet as awareness returned. He struggled, he fought, but he did not give everything.

A nugget of strength, buried within. He would need that. For now, he played the game. He fought back. This time he actually won, blinking his eyes as they restored themselves, looking down at the corpse of the man he’d battered against the wall until his neck broke.

Raidriar took a deep breath and settled down to think, plan, and plot.

SIRIS WAKENED from death and waited for the blow to fall.

He had recovered too slowly this time. Disoriented, he prepared to fight back, to reach up with hands gnarled and twisted. He had begun breaking Raidriar’s hands each time, and so his foe had begun doing the same thing.

No blow fell.

Go! the Dark Self said.

Siris roared to his feet, ready to punch with the backs of his wrists, fingers flopping uselessly. If he could get his arms around . . .

Around . . .

He searched about, blind, swinging this way and that. Where was his enemy? What game was this? Would Raidriar give him hope, then crush him? Raidriar was a fool! Any advantage would be seized, would be used. And—

“I never thought,” a weary voice said, “I would ever grow tired of killing you, Ausar.”

Siris’s eyes finally started picking out light. He backed away from the shadow near the voice and put his back to the wall of the prison.

Shadows became fuzzy images, which slowly became distinct. Raidriar sat on the floor, wearing only a loincloth and a ripped shirt stained with blood. He looked young—too young to be this ancient thing.

No armor, of course. Siris had stripped that from his enemy early on, and had broken it as best he could, pounding it flat with rocks. That was the Dark Self’s influence. Take away the enemy’s weapon. Disarm him. Expose his vulnerabilities before going for the kill.

Raidriar had done the same for Siris, of course. Often, one or the other would use bits of that armor as a weapon to murder his foe as he awoke. Most of the time, they just used their hands.

Raidriar leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, sighing. “Turns out I was wrong,” he said, his voice echoing in this cavernous chamber, lit dimly by the glow of ancient machinery hidden in the floor and ceiling. “I can grow tired of killing you. It took merely sixteen hundred and fifty-two murders. Apparently, even the most pleasing of tasks can grow mundane by repetition.”

Siris rounded the chamber, keeping his distance. He picked out a chunk of metal, one of their shields, battered and broken, cracked down the middle. He tossed it aside.

“Nothing to say?” Raidriar asked.

“Fifty-one,” Siris said. His voice sounded ragged to his ears.

“What?”

“Sixteen hundred and fifty-one,” Siris said. “That’s how many times you’ve bested me. Not fifty-two, as you said earlier.”

“And of the two of us, you’d trust your own memory above mine?” Raidriar sounded amused. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

Siris grunted. He found his sword, but Raidriar had beaten it against the Worker’s throne over and over, rendering the weapon a mangled mess, broken halfway down. Siris sensed anger in those marks on the rock throne. They were mirrored by marks along the back, where Siris himself had pounded with his shield in a frenzied tempest, frustrated, powerless.

The Dark Self was powerful, but it was also wild, temperamental.

Siris picked up the broken sword.

“How long,” Raidriar asked, “do you suppose he was playing us?”

“I don’t know,” Siris said. “I doubt he originally wanted me to trap him in here.”

“Are you certain?”

Siris hesitated. “No.” He didn’t know anything, not any longer.

“Perhaps you are right, though,” the God King said idly. “What kind of creature could put himself in such a helpless state? Powerless, no control—uncertain if he’d ever be freed? It reviles the senses and the mind alike.”

Warily, Siris walked over near the God King. He passed a portion of the wall that was scraped and bloodied. At one point, the God King had apparently tried to claw his way through the rock—for all the good it did.

Still, in a way he envied his enemy. Siris had been bound here by his soul, same as the Worker had been. Raidriar, however, had simply been dropped in—he was a casualty of location. The prison would keep him as surely as it kept anyone, but if he could get through those rocks, he could find freedom.

Not Siris. He would never be able to escape, not unless he found a way to make someone else take his place.

Convenient, he thought, stepping toward Raidriar, that I have another Deathless here to force into that role.

But how? He’d have to be outside to set up the swap.

“We have to escape,” Siris said to the man he once knew as the God King. “Together.”

“If there were a chance for escape, do you not think that the Worker would have taken it during all those centuries? No. There is no escape.”

“Then what? Continue to kill one another?”

“A little boring, wouldn’t you say?”

Siris reached Raidriar. He hesitated.

And the Dark Self took over.

Siris attacked without planning to. He fell upon the God King, butchering him even as the other man reached up to try to strangle Siris.

When he was done, Siris stood over the dead body, and let himself feel horror.

It’s starting to rule me, he realized.

Once, he worried that these thoughts would return him to being the man he had once been, the callous Deathless tyrant. This was worse, though. Far worse. He had all of that man’s rage, frustration, and skill—but none of that man’s control.

He sank down beside the corpse and sighed, resting his head back against the stone.

DEVIATION

THE THIRD

“IN CONCLUSION, we have a decision to make regarding the product,” Jarred said, standing at the head of the small room. “By far the largest of our potential markets are companies that do a lot of shipping. They can use Omega to cut their costs incredibly. Because of this, I suggest delaying the home user product to focus on an expensive, high-end commercial product.”

Uriel sat in the select crowd watching the presentations. The seats were supposed to be comfortable, but he couldn’t use either of his armrests, as others had taken them. How did people know when to use an armrest and when not to? Was there some rule of sharing the space that nobody had thought to teach him?

The elbows of large executives crowded him on either side, making him feel scrunched in his seat. He glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Galath sat at the top back of the tiered room, in a row all to himself. He seemed . . . profound, with that short, greying beard and those deep, unfathomable eyes. Quite possibly the greatest inventor who had ever lived, and certainly the greatest mind of their time. He sat and watched, and did not say anything.

“Well, that’s really interesting,” Adram said from his seat. “Because I think the opposite.” The lanky man sprang to his feet, edging Jarred off the stage. He swiped Jarred’s presentation from the wallscreen.

“See, the problem with going for a few corporate clients,” Adram said, “is that it just doesn’t capture the imagination of the public. We have something new here, something incredible!”

He swiped something up onto the wallscreen, a splashy graphic with two metal bands at the center. “I call it InstaBe.”

“InstaBe?” one of the executives asked with a flat voice.

“Instant-being,” Adram exclaimed. “Personal teleportation.”

“It doesn’t work on living things,” another executive said. “Inorganic transmission only.”

“I’m sure Mr. Galath will figure out that little limitation eventually,” Adram said. The smile he gave was so transparent that Uriel rolled his eyes. “And even if he doesn’t, InstaBe will still be a smash hit. Look, most companies, they never have a real chance to grip the public. They release their products into a tempest of a marketplace, and have to scream just to get the smallest bit of attention.

“We won’t have that problem. Everyone is going to want an InstaBe. They’ll want five or six! Park your car and go for a hike? You can teleport it to your location when you’re done. Always losing your wallet? Stick a ring on it, teleport it to yourself when you need it.” He grinned even wider. “We’re gonna change the world, folks!”

“It’s not safe,” Uriel said.

Adram stilled, his smile cracking. He forced it back on immediately, not showing his annoyance.

“It’s perfectly safe,” one of the executives said. “Thousands of teleportations made, no mishaps.”

“The technology itself is safe,” Uriel said. “But it is not safe to give to people. They will kill with it.”

“Come on, Uriel,” Adram said. “Give us the bright side, remember?”

“There is none,” Uriel said. “People will teleport bombs into secure locations. Criminals will be armed, no matter where they go. Those are just the minor applications. Militaries will be able to move supplies and equipment instantly. Imagine assault teams who can summon tanks and artillery at the snap of their fingers. This will embolden the governments who have it. They will strike. I have run the numbers, the statistics. What we have developed is a weapon. It will be treated like one.”

“Guesses,” Adram said.

“I don’t guess,” Uriel said. “I project. And I am rarely wrong.” He turned in his seat, looking up at Mr. Galath. “I have a son, sir. I don’t want him to live in a world that isn’t safe . . . Well, a world that is less safe than it is now. If we release this, the result will be war.”

Mr. Galath nodded slowly. He understood. He got it. Uriel relaxed.

This was what he was waiting for, Uriel thought. Someone who would speak out against the technology. It seems I am the only one bold enough.

“He is right,” Mr. Galath said. “We must sell it to governments first, as they will pay the most.” He looked at Adram. “Your name . . . Adram, is it?”

“Yes, sir!” Adram said, walking down off the stage and toward the audience.

“I would speak with you after the meeting. You show great initiative. I have a special project I may wish you to be part of.”

Uriel gaped. He found himself standing. “But . . . No. Sir, not him. Not—”

Adram slapped Uriel on the shoulder, drawing close. “Hey, Spunky. Thanks for the help. You’re a real . . . pal.”

The meeting broke up, leaving Uriel standing on the front row, stunned.

What had just happened?

CHAPTER

FOUR

SIRIS LOUNGED on the stone chair, one leg up over the broken and ruined side, the bloody corpse of Raidriar at his feet.

The God King’s body held Siris’s broken sword, rammed through the back, hilt pointing upward. That wouldn’t stop Raidriar from returning to life, but it was a convenient place to hold the weapon.

“In a way,” Siris said to the empty room, putting his feet up on the back of the dead man, “this is perfect! I was raised to hunt you down and kill you, don’t you see? That was my purpose. To be the Sacrifice, to face you. Now I get to live it, over and over! It’s the only thing in the world!”

Siris laughed, cackling, unable to control himself. How long had it been? Years? He’d killed Raidriar well over two thousand times now. He didn’t remember how many, exactly. He’d have to ask, next time his footstool started moving.

What a state he was in! If he controlled the Dark Self, Raidriar won their contest, and Siris was driven deeper and deeper into madness by repeated death. So he let the Dark Self rule, and this happened! This primitive version of himself that moved by instinct. It was madness too!

He threw back his head and laughed again, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Light split the sky.

Siris laughed at it. A fine hallucination. He often dreamed of escaping, of the roof of this chamber splitting to reveal the top of the pillar, lowering down. The promise of freedom . . .

He looked closer. It was real.

Siris started, leaping to his feet, his laughter dying. That was no hallucination. The entrance to his prison was a large triangular pillar that lowered down from above. Light—real light—outlined the prismlike column of stone. Beautiful. Perfect.

He wiped his eyes, then stepped over Raidriar’s body, which was beginning to twitch. Siris pulled his mangled sword free of his enemy’s back and held it forward, his hand trembling. He could barely see for the light. Those shadows on the platform . . . figures?

The Dark Self responded instantly. The Worker had returned! Siris screamed and ran forward, sword raised—

“Siris?” Isa said, pulling back her hood as she stood on the pillar. “Is that really you?”

Siris stumbled to a stop.

“It is you,” she said in her lightly accented voice. She cursed in her own tongue, leaping off the platform and rushing to him. Behind, on the pillar, several bound figures fought against the ropes holding them.

“Siris . . .” Isa said. She hesitated, reaching toward him, then withdrawing her hand.

He looked down at himself. Clothing that was little more than rags, most of it bloodstained. A full beard and scraggly hair—he’d shorn it at one point, using the dull sword, but it was still a matted mess. He clung to that broken, half-bladed sword as if it were the Infinity Blade itself.

He looked up. Seeing Isa . . . reminded him.

I am a man, he thought, not a monster.

Was that true any longer?

He dropped the sword with a clang, then stumbled past her onto the platform. There, he collapsed and curled up beside the bound figures.

“Siris?” She stepped up and knelt beside him. “I’m sorry. It took so long to find a way to unlock this prison . . .” She reached down, doing something on the floor.

A flash of blue light.

“It is now attuned to one of these two I brought,” Isa said. She kicked one of them down onto the floor of the prison, then the other. “Two, just in case. We captured them both together, anyway. You are free, Siris. I—”

She cut off.

Scraping came from behind.

Siris opened his eyes. Raidriar had risen, and was staggering toward the platform as well.

FREEDOM.

The prison was unlocked. Raidriar had to get onto that pillar. If he did, he could go free. His soul was not bound to this place. He simply needed to reach that column.

It was time.

The first thing he did was lock away the frayed parts of his soul. One grew accustomed to this, after thousands upon thousands of years of life. The complex refit that transformed a person from mortal to Deathless protected the mind, to an extent, from the weathering of the ages. However, being killed time and time again over the course of many months . . . that affected the psyche.

Raidriar could not allow such a thing. He had to remain in control. Later, he would take the memory of his murders and cleanse them, healing the more dangerous mental wounds. For now, he quarantined them and focused his attention on his surroundings.

He stumbled as he stepped through the horrid prison—a prison for a god, a person that should not be—passing two tied-up figures on the ground. Poor fools.

A weapon. He needed a weapon.

Ausar stumbled to his knees on the platform. Freedom. A woman grabbed him by the shoulder—Raidriar recognized her, the woman Ausar called Isa. She steadied Ausar while trying to pull out a crossbow to level at Raidriar. She also had a long knife at her belt.

That would do.

Raidriar used the reserve, the portion held back. During their confinement, he could see that Ausar had fought with everything he had. How like him, always overextending. Forever passionate, but frequently out of control.

It was what set them apart. This made Raidriar a king, while making his former friend simply a glorified warlord.

Raidriar sprinted forward, feet steadying. The girl was obviously expecting weakness in him such as Ausar displayed. What tenderness she showed for the fallen man. Raidriar noted it with a portion of his mind as he slammed into her, knocking the crossbow aside before she could shoot.

The bolt loosed, hitting the ground and bouncing off stone into the darkness. The woman grunted, reaching for Raidriar, but he twisted away while grabbing the hilt of her belt knife. He whipped it free, dancing to the side on the pillar, the knife out.

Freedom. He could taste it.

Yes, there was tenderness in the way she held Ausar’s arm. Had he taken a lover in this new form, with his mind still like that of a child? The old Ausar would scream to know of it.

“I could have let the crossbow bolt hit as I reached the pillar,” Raidriar noted, “but it is not for one such as you to kill a god.”

“Raidriar,” Ausar said, reaching out, lifting his head. “I . . . I am ready to talk . . . as you wished to do those weeks ago, when we stopped our fight.”

Raidriar inspected the knife. A fine weapon, forged from folded steel. It would do. “I think not,” he said.

Then he slit his own throat.

SIRIS WATCHED the God King’s body slump lifeless against the pillar. This time, it would not heal, would not recover. In this position, his soul could escape through the hole in the ceiling.

“What,” Isa said, “was that?”

“Freedom,” Siris mumbled. “How long has it been?”

“Almost two years,” Isa said, recovering her knife and shivering visibly. She kicked the God King’s body, making sure it was dead, then stepped up beside Siris again.

So short? Hell take me . . . I could have sworn we were in there for a millennium.

The Dark Self growled within him.

“Come on,” Isa said, kneeling and triggering the platform. It rose slowly into the air, stone grinding stone. “A lot has happened since you were imprisoned.”

As the stone pillar reached the roof, Siris watched the two figures below slowly consumed by darkness. One of them escaped her bindings and ripped the sack from her head.

Siris was left with the image of her scrambling for his broken, pitiful excuse for a sword, clutching it as the other figure ripped free of his bonds . . .

DEVIATION

THE FOURTH

URIEL WIPED digital spreadsheets from the top of his desk, sliding them out of the way with an annoyed gesture. He grouped others, bringing them down and arraying them beneath his fingers.

The numbers. What did the numbers say? Mr. Galath . . .

Why? Why couldn’t Uriel make sense of the world like he could these sheets and statistics? He was never wrong—not with numbers. When they’d demonstrated the Sympathetic Thermal Conduction mechanisms, who had guessed the exact bids that each participant would present? Uriel. When Mr. Galath had come forward with his Advanced Artificial Entity matrix, who had predicted to the day—to the day—how long it would take the government to develop regulations? Uriel.

The numbers didn’t lie. War. Why would Mr. Galath want war, after all of these years? Any of their devices could have been used militarily. They’d always put protocols in place to prevent such things. Now . . . now they went to militaries and took bids.

What was the man working on? The new secret—it had to be incredible, amazing, transformative.

Uriel would find the answer. Men should make sense. If they listened to reason, they would make sense. Perhaps if governments focused more on what was logical, rather than killing one another, the world would work as it was supposed to.

Adram passed by. “Staying late?” he asked.

Uriel didn’t look up.

Adram patted him on the shoulder anyway. “Look, no hard feelings. I don’t mind that you tried to sabotage me.”

“You don’t?” Uriel asked. That didn’t make sense, even if he had been chosen by Mr. Galath. Uriel looked up, but Adram really did look pleased.

“You should be angry at me,” Uriel said. “I tried to stop you from getting your way.”

“Nah. It’s cause and effect, Spunky. It’s like . . . you’re hardly a person. No offense there! It’s a compliment. You’re like a machine. Data in, data out. No emotion!”

Uriel pressed his fingers against the table until the tips were white. The display warped, spreading a little halo of color around each finger. “Did he say . . . ?” Uriel barely kept his voice in check. “Did he say what it was about? The special meeting?”

Adram leaned down. “I’m gonna live forever, Uri boy.” He winked, grinning, then stood up straight. He obviously shouldn’t have said anything, but the bounce to his step as he moved off—humming to himself and doing a little slide on the carpet as he took the corner—spoke volumes of his euphoria.

Live forever? Impossible. Even for Mr. Galath.

Or was it? Uriel turned back to his spreadsheets, then hunkered down. He spent an hour teasing information from accounts that were nested inside subsidiaries and shell corporations, and a strange string of answers began to form. The moon? What was Mr. Galath doing on the moon? And these bunkers around the country? Uriel couldn’t think what else to call them, judging by the specs and supply lists.

Mr. Galath was getting ready for war. What have I become a part of? Suddenly nauseous, Uriel sat back in his chair. No place on the planet would be safe. If the greatest mind of their time wanted war, then what safety could there ever be?

His eyes drifted to the picture of his son sitting in its little frame on the desk. Uriel stared at that picture, taken two years ago. In fact, he looked at it so often that he was sometimes surprised when he saw Jori in person—the child didn’t quite look like the picture.

Uriel knew that little piece of paper better than he knew the son it represented.

What am I doing? he thought. Death was coming. Destruction. Hell . . . it was already here, in most of the world. And Uriel worked late nights, looking at a picture instead of holding his son?

He stood up and shoved his chair aside and looked at the clock. Seven. Jori would be home from practice for dinner in a half hour.

A half hour. He could make that.

He didn’t bother to shut down his desk or its screen as he left. That felt sinfully negligent to him, and so he found himself smiling.

He had worked all his life for Mr. Galath. The man had taken Uriel’s sweat, but he would not have Uriel’s blood. Not tonight.

CHAPTER

FIVE

THE SCHOLARS of ancient days had a great deal to say about the soul. They claimed that the idea of an immortal soul was simply wishful imagination. Instead they spoke of the Quantum Identity Pattern: a state of matter that could be attuned to a certain configuration—a set of memories and a personality.

The Q.I.P. allowed every person to remain themselves even as their cells died and were replaced. Scientists explained that there was nothing “eternal” about personality—that it was an illusion, but one that could be manipulated. They said the illusion could be perpetuated, associated with one form after another, to create a sense of a continuing identity.

Raidriar rejected these explanations.

Yes, this science had given him immortality. The scientists themselves, however, did not see the majesty of it all—they saw only bits and numbers. When your eyes were forever squinting at a single tile, you easily missed the beautiful mosaic of which it was part.

He was immortal. The scientists were wrong, and their explanations were the frantic excuses of little men failing to grasp something vast. It was Raidriar’s self—now free from that prison—that flew on wings of time, to true freedom. It was the God King who opened his eyes in his Seventh Temple of Reincarnation. It was really him, immortal ruler, who gasped in a lungful of fresh air—starting these lungs breathing for the first time.

He was not just some personality, fabricated from quantum entanglement and made active by chemical process. It was him. A new body, but an ancient soul, seizing again the life that was his birthright.

He breathed in and out, lying naked on the table, looking up at a fine bamboo ceiling. He did not like how familiar that feeling of death was becoming. Even with his mind partitioned, the trauma of his captivity sequestered, it was like septic flesh. He knew he had died far too often recently. He could not banish every memory of his captivity. He needed some recollection.

Without that, after all, he would not be able to summon the proper spirit of divine wrath against those responsible for his imprisonment. Yes, a little memory would help his vengeance be all the more sweet. Memory of what Ausar had done to him, memory of his pain and frustration.

Vengeance . . . against the Worker.

As Raidriar’s Devoted hurried into the room to serve him, he contemplated his rage. An ember deep within. Not a fire—no, a fire consumed and left its host as ash. An ember was a truer flame—less transient, more powerful.

Yes, he hated Ausar, but that hatred was nothing compared to his hatred of the Worker. It was so clear now, how the Worker had manipulated them all.

Raidriar’s Devoted knelt around his table, eyes down, for he had not yet covered his face. One of them—a hook-nosed man that Raidriar recognized only vaguely—held out a ceremonial mask to him, head still bowed.

Raidriar sat up. He had constructed this room to evoke a sense of serenity. A hushed brook bubbled outside, accompanied by the sounds of rattling bamboo. The floor was draped in finely woven mats, the room lined with plants instead of metal. Metal surfaces reminded him of the old days. Days before . . .

He despised those days.

“How long has it been?” Raidriar asked, reaching for the mask. “How long was I . . . away?” Men such as these did not need to know the details of his imprisonment.

“Nearly two years, great master,” said the Devoted offering the mask.

Two years. An eyeblink by the reckoning of the Deathless, but still a dangerous amount of time. What plots had the Worker executed during such a period? Dared Raidriar hope that the creature had spent the time licking his wounds and recovering from his long imprisonment?

Raidriar took the mask. “Where is Eves,” he asked, “my High Devoted?”

“Dead, great master,” said the hook-nosed Devoted. “Six months ago, in bed. We believe it was his heart.”

Pity. Raidriar had grown fond of Eves. Still, he was accustomed to the fleeting lifespans of mortals. He could not turn a corner without half of his staff dropping dead from one silly malady or another.

He moved to put on the mask, but froze. Quick breathing from the Devoted. Sweat on their brows. Had that been a tremble in the voice of the one who had spoken?

Raidriar narrowed his eyes. There, on the inside of his mask, he spotted a tiny row of very fine needles. Needles that would pierce his skin as he placed the mask over his face.

Poison.

So, he thought, you got to my Devoted, did you?

How inconvenient.

Raidriar twisted from the table, bringing a fist down on the shoulder of the lead Devoted. He then smashed the metal mask into the face of another. The rest leaped to their feet in a frantic, terrified scramble.

“The prophecy is fulfilled!” one of the Devoted yelled, lunging for Raidriar. The fellow was a thick-necked man with wide hands. Raidriar let the man get hold of him, bringing them close enough together that Raidriar could press the mask—and its traitorous needles—against the man’s face. He fell, twitching.

“The Dark Father has arrived!” another was crying. “To arms, to arms! It is—”

That Devoted was cut off as Raidriar grabbed him by the throat and spun him about into the path of several others, who had just pulled out swords to attack. The man he held went down in a spray of blood, and the two who had slain him stepped back in horror at having stabbed their ally. One even dropped his bloodied sword.

Raidriar kicked that up into his hand and sliced it through the man’s neck in one smooth motion.

“Thank you,” Raidriar noted, then caught another Devoted by the arm as the man lunged for him. Raidriar twisted the man about, pulling free his shawl, then kicked him aside. Raidriar reached up and twisted the shawl about his face to hide it from these lesser beings.

“And thank you,” he said to the shawl-less Devoted as he rammed the sword through the man’s back. It was convenient that his priesthood could be so helpful, even as he slaughtered them.

He was still naked save for the shawl, but at least the most important part was covered. These treacherous dogs were not worthy of gazing upon the visage of a full Deathless—even if it would be the last thing they saw.

Four remained, including two who had run into the room when they heard the yell for help. Raidriar’s Devoted could all fight—he made certain of it—but they were no match for him. He was a Deathless with thousands of years of practice, not to mention a body crafted to the peak of physical capability. It was hardly a fair fight.

Still, one of these could always get in a lucky blow, which would be problematic. Raidriar backed carefully around the fallen High Devoted, whom he’d hit first. The man was groaning but climbing to his knees. Raidriar planted a foot in the man’s stomach, then cracked him on the head with his sword butt.

Nearby, a set of armor on the wall awaited Raidriar. It hung on its mountings, opened up like the husk of an insect recently shed. With that, he could . . .

But no. They were ready for his arrival. The living Devoted regarded him as they would a snake. Shouts still sounded down the hallway, passing the word of his awakening.

The Worker had prepared this place well. The armor would be a trap.

Raidriar lunged for it anyway.

The four Devoted relaxed. The change was subtle—a slight lowering of the swords, a release of breath. Ten thousand years taught one to notice such things, if you paid attention.

And Raidriar did. He always watched and studied. He was a king—and you could not properly dominate that which you did not understand.

His lunge for the armor was a feint—he hit the release latch, tumbling the suit to the floor with a crash. He leaped across the slablike table where he had been reincarnated, then separated one of the Devoted from his arm with a swing. The man went down, screaming.

The other three engaged him at once. On one hand, he was proud that they showed such bravery in fighting, rather than fleeing. But on the other, he was disgusted. They knew the ancient protocols known as the Aegis code. True honor lay in engaging foes one at a time. Raidriar himself had instituted these codes millennia ago, seeking a more honest form of combat between men. Even the most brutish of his daerils followed the code. To have his Devoted ignore it, particularly in fighting Raidriar himself, was an insult.

He dispatched the three with little trouble. Such a waste. He stepped over to the High Devoted, but the man was out cold from the knock to the head. That left only the one whose arm he had separated from its shoulder. Raidriar strode over and lifted the bloodied man into the air with one hand.

“What did he say about me?” Raidriar asked, curious. “How did he turn you?”

The Devoted squeezed his eyes shut and started whispering a prayer. To Raidriar himself, of course.

“I’m right here,” Raidriar said, shaking the Devoted.

“I will not listen to you, demon. You may wear the form of my master, but you are not him. He warned us of your coming. In his truth I bask, in his name I die . . .”

“A Soulless,”Raidriar guessed. “The Worker has given my crown to a Soulless, has he?”

A Soulless—a copy, a body awakened without the actual Q.I.P. to inhabit it. Such a thing was possible, but creations such as this were unstable, their memories flawed, their personalities erratic.

“I put protocols in place to prevent something like this,” Raidriar said to the Devoted he held. “Why did you not spot the lies? You were trained better than this.”

The Devoted was too busy dying to reply.

Raidriar sighed, dropping the Devoted in frustration. The rest were dead or unconscious, save . . . Yes, the bulky man that still wore Raidriar’s mask. He knelt beside the fallen Devoted, noting the steady rise and fall of his chest. Raidriar pulled the mask free, needles sliding out of the skin of the cheeks and neck. He smelled the poison . . . what was left of it.

Nightdew. It was meant to bring unconsciousness, not death. A temporary way to incapacitate a Deathless. Left too long under the influence of such drugs, the soul would break free to seek a better vessel, but it would work for a time. The Worker would rather not have Raidriar killed and his soul freed to travel to another rebirthing chamber.

He checked the armor next, but as he’d suspected, it was useless. The joints of the elbows and knees had been welded together. If he had stepped into it and allowed it to enclose him with its automatic locking mechanism, he would have been trapped and immobile.

They should not have tried the mask. If he had simply been allowed to put on that armor . . .

He stood, increasingly annoyed, and investigated the deadminds in the room. He was locked out of any important systems. He could access the lesser functions, however—likely he had been left some small amount of control, so as to not arouse his suspicion should he look at his deadminds before putting on his armor. But anytime he tried to change something, the deadmind gave him some kind of excuse, speaking in a flat-toned feminine voice. The excuses were what might have been called “error messages” in ancient days.

He did manage to find an image of himself, supposedly created only one week before. A powerful figure in lean, smooth armor. The face was masked, so it might not matter if the fake was a true Soulless or not, but it was his voice that accompanied the image.

“My loyal Devoted,” the recording said, “cower and give awe. My prophecy is at hand, and my enemies work to deceive you. Stay alert and serve your lord.”

It did sound like him, but it grandstanded too much. The Worker liked theatrics, but Raidriar despised them. One could know merely by looking at him—seeing the way that he stood, hearing the way he spoke—that he was of the elder Deathless. Trying so hard to emphasize it only made the impostor seem pathetic.

Raidriar shook his head, keeping alert for the arrival of more foes. Daerils would be on their way, those who had been built for fighting. One would not be a problem, but several of them might possibly stand against one of the Deathless.

Raidriar turned to leave the mirrorlike deadmind, but hesitated. What was this? A tidbit of information that he could see, but not manipulate. Prisoners in the dungeons. Not the Soul Cells, but the ordinary cages for mortals. Could it be . . . ?

He could find out nothing more. Well, he would need to pass near those cells in his next task, which would be to reach the central deadmind core of the temple. Perhaps it would be profitable to make a slight detour to investigate.

Before that, however, some clothing was in order.

The armor was useless—no profit in trying to repair it, for he hadn’t the time nor the resources. He pulled some cloth from a cabinet and affixed it about his waist in the form of a simple wrap that hung from waist to knees. It was an appropriate costume for a god, despite its simplicity. The wrap left his chest exposed, displaying a body perfected—it had a certain classical elegance to it.

The cabinet also contained a gold-plated necklace. He picked it up and activated its light-bending properties. The device still worked, and bore no needles or other traps. Likely an item with such simple magic had been beneath the Worker’s notice. Raidriar removed the shawl from his face, then put the necklace around his neck.

He turned to inspect himself in the mirror. The necklace projected an illusion around his head, hiding his divine features. The image was that of a regal green mask with dark eyebrows. Larger than life, the jade mask’s features would not change when he spoke.

No, Ausar had been fond of that style of face. Instead, Raidriar settled on the head of the jackal. The ancient symbol had already been old when he was young.

Knowledge of things like that disturbed him, deep within. Those ancient gods . . . they seemed so similar to Deathless. But Raidriar had been alive when the process to create immortals had been discovered. He remembered it. The cold table. The agony of loss. Coming back for the first time . . .

Too much metal. Even still, he remembered that day because of its metal surfaces, reflecting his face . . . and his tears.

Regardless, the first Deathless had been created near that time, and not before. Of this he was reasonably certain. The ancient gods of before his time could not have been Deathless.

But knowing that did not stop him from wondering anyway.

A tall figure darkened the doorway. Raidriar turned, bringing his stolen sword to the side as the newcomer entered. It was a daeril with hauntingly hollow features and a skeletal ribcage that protruded from its skin. It did not attack immediately, but made the sign of an offered challenge.

Raidriar smiled. His Devoted, so civilized, had shown less honor than this brute. The Worker and Devoted alike undoubtedly hoped the daerils would ignore such protocols, but this thing had been created by Raidriar himself. It was better than that.

“It will be an honor to slay you,” Raidriar said, pointing his sword at the creature. “I do enjoy inspecting my handiwork now and then.”

He stepped into the proper stance, and the contest began.

CHAPTER

SIX

SIRIS RODE in silence.

His horse’s hooves beat a familiar thumping rhythm on the packed earth. A . . . horse. His imprisonment had only been two years. This should not feel so strange for him.

Two years and two thousand lives—many of them very short, a few days at most, a few moments at least. He felt those lives all heaped upon him, like dirt upon a newly buried corpse.

Was he supposed to just move on? Forget the pain, the isolation, the anger? If he had just been Siris, he could almost have done it. But the man he had become in that prison, the Dark Self, was not something so easily forgotten.

“I see you managed to grow more facial hair,” Isa said, riding beside him. “Looks itchy. I’ve always wondered—how do you stuff a beard like that inside a helm? Doesn’t it stick out the breathing holes?”

Siris grunted. They rode through dusty scrubland, broken here and then by plateaus and foothills, with distant mountains behind. He remembered passing through this empty place on his way to the Vault of Tears. It seemed like forever ago.

Isa turned their course along the rim of a large plateau. “Typically,” she said, “it is customary for someone who has been rescued in a dramatic way—such as you just were—to fawn over their rescuer. Joyous exultation and all that.”

Siris rode in silence.

“I can say your part, if you want,” Isa suggested.

He shrugged.

“Very well. ‘Gee golly, thanks for saving me, Isa. I sure am happy you done did that.’”

“‘Done did’?” Siris asked, looking up. “‘Gee golly’?”

“Well, I’m not terribly good at accents in your stupid language, but you’re a farmer boy, aren’t you?”

“No. You know what I am.”

“I do—you’re a hero.”

“That’s not what you said when you first found out I was Deathless.”

“I will admit,” Isa said, “I was surprised.”

“Surprised? You were outraged. Betrayed.” He looked away from her, scanning the hilly scrubland. “I understand. I felt the same way.”

“You are a hero, Whiskers,” she said. She sounded like she was trying to convince them both. “At least, that’s how you’re going to act—because that’s what I’ve made of you.”

He looked at her, frowning. She simply smiled, and then guided her horse into a small canyon.

Siris followed, joining her when she eventually dismounted and stepped up to the far wall of the canyon. She pulled back some scrub brush, revealing a small cavern mouth—a tunnel into the rock. Together, they pulled the dead brush away, making a hole wide enough to bring the horses through.

The inside of the cavern reminded him of growing up in the hills outside a city that had been built within an enormous cavern. This was much smaller, but it smelled like home.

How many lives have I lived? he wondered. My home was not truly my home, no more than a crab’s temporary shell is its home. That’s just a skin to be discarded, once outgrown.

They wound through the tunnel, continuing eastward. Isa got out a rod that glowed like a torch when the top was twisted, but it didn’t let off any heat. One of the wonders of the Deathless, he supposed. Had these things been common to him, once? Why did his kind hoard this sort of knowledge? Wouldn’t life be better for everyone, themselves included, if such wondrous items were part of everyday use?

“What did you mean?” Siris asked. “About you having ‘made’ a hero of me?”

Isa continued through the tunnel without answering. Siris followed, growing annoyed, but stopped moving when he heard a noise. It seemed to becoming from inside the wall. He reached for the sword that Isa had given him, but she waved him down.

Stone ground on stone, and a section of the cavern wall slid back. Scout post, Siris realized, noting the holes in the rock he had mistaken for natural depressions. Someone here could send warning—probably by pulling a string or making some sort of noise that would echo in the cavern—if enemies came through the tunnel.

A youth peeked out of the scout hole. Though the boy wore a sword strapped at his side, he couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He stood up straight and saluted Isa, then glanced at Siris.

“Is it . . . him?” the boy asked.

Isa nodded.

The boy stood up straighter. “I . . . um . . . oh! Sir! Mr. Deathless, sir! I’m Jam.”

Siris glanced at Isa. Behind him, his horse snorted and tugged against the reins. Jam blushed, then fished out an apple, which he tossed to the floor awkwardly, then saluted again. “Sorry, Mr. Deathless, sir! Grummers likes his apples.”

“I see,” Siris said as the horse crunched the apple.

“I’ll tell the others!” Jam said, then scrambled down the tunnel. He soon started yelling. “He’s here! She found him! He’s here!”

“What did you tell them about me?” Siris demanded of Isa.

“The truth,” Isa said. “With some extra . . . extrapolation.”

“‘Extrapolation’?”

She tugged on her horse, continuing. He joined her, the tunnel having widened to the point their horses could walk side by side.

“I thought you were dead,” she said softly. “Killed for good by the Weapon. Then the God King returned . . . but worse. In the past, he’s always kept order—too much order for my tastes, but structure can be a good thing.

“Well, that stopped. He let thugs take over cities, allowed chaos to reign. He seemed angry—like he just wanted everything to burn. I hadn’t thought the world could get worse than the tyranny of his Pantheon in days past, but it could. It did.”

“I’m sorry,” Siris said. “It was my failure that led to this.” That wouldn’t have been the real God King, but an impostor of some sort, sent by the Worker. “What did you do?”

“I fled, of course,” she said, blushing. “Left the God King’s lands, found a safe, free city ruled by a lesser Deathless and her cabal. Good taverns in Lastport. I got a job with an information dealer.”

“That’s what I’d have expected from you. There’s no shame in it.”

“No honor either,” she said softly, then shrugged. “News kept coming in of Raidriar’s lands, bad news. It seemed to be spreading all over, infecting lands nearby. I thought of you, and what might have happened to you . . . so I started telling stories. About you—the Deathless who had fought for us, the Deathless raised by a human mother. The Deathless who had died trying to free men from tyranny.”

She glanced at him. “I made up a few doozies, I’m afraid. Really great stuff. You’re the substance of legends now, Siris. I figured you wouldn’t mind, being dead and all.”

“Not so dead after all.”

“Yeah. I was shocked when the stories started to come back to me changed. They spread faster than an autumn cough, Siris—people were telling them all across the land. They latched onto the stories about you. They were all waiting for something to believe in.

“When the stories returned to me, they’d changed to include the promise that you were going to come back. I guess it fits the trope, you know? The returning hero? Nobody from the old stories ever really dies. There’s always another story. It got me thinking. Had I fled too quickly? Had I given up too easily? So I started to dig. I found what had really happened to you. I started to tell stories of your imprisonment too, and people came to me. Well, one thing led to another . . .”

Ahead, light in the cavern indicated an opening. Indeed, the tunnel ended, revealing a small valley and an entire town nestled between hills. People flooded from log buildings. Barracks, by the look of how many of the men carried swords strapped to their waists.

There were hundreds of people here. All coming to see Siris, calling that “he” had arrived.

“You started a rebellion?” Siris asked, looking to Isa. “In my name?”

“Yeah.”

“You started a rebellion!”

“All right, yes, you don’t have to rub it in.” She grimaced. “Against my better judgment, I took charge. Somebody had to. The idiots were getting themselves strung up, making a ruckus but accomplishing nothing. They needed focus, someone to bring together the malcontents from all the villages, organize them. I figured since I was the fool who started those stories, I should be the one to keep the rebels from getting themselves killed.”

She looked at the oncoming crowd. “Honestly, they don’t have much in the way of wit.” She hesitated. “Heart though . . . they’ve got a whole lot of that, Siris. That they do.”

Siris felt a sense of grimness as he watched the people approach, looking at him with awe, hesitance, expectation. Why should this adoration bother him? He’d been raised as the Sacrifice. He was accustomed to notoriety.

Except . . .

The Dark Self—it knew what to do with followers.

Siris had never been trained for leadership. He was a solitary warrior, a Sacrifice sent to fight and to die. The only part of him that knew anything about leading others was that buried part, those instincts he didn’t fully understand.

It responded to the devotion these rebels showed him.

“Well done,” he said to Isa, then smiled proudly at those who had come. “Well done.”

DEVIATION

THE FIFTH

THE RAIN had grown worse by the time Uriel reached his car. It pounded him as he worked to get the door open, briefcase in one hand, umbrella in the other. He climbed in, the car starting on its own. The two-seater vehicle was intended primarily for commuting. Practical. The numbers made sense.

Adram didn’t drive a practical car. He drove a car that growled when you started it. He bragged about it frequently, talking about how he worked on it himself, tweaking the engine. It didn’t even drive itself—it was old, and considered a classic. That made it exempt from the legislation requiring all cars to have a self-driving mode in case of emergency.

Uriel’s car didn’t growl as it started. It hummed pleasantly, and Beethoven—“Romance for Violin and Orchestra”—started playing as Uriel shook the umbrella and pulled it into the car.

“Hello,” the vehicle said in its sterile voice. “Road conditions are reported dangerous. It is strongly recommended that you engage self-driving mode.”

“Like I’ve ever used anything else,” Uriel said. How could he work on the way home if he had to pay attention to driving? He’d purposely bought a car where you had to fold out the steering wheel if you wanted to drive yourself. He tapped on the display, telling it to drive him home, and then blanked the windshield, which tried to show him news stories. Mary’s work again.

Uriel settled back for the drive as the car pulled out of the parking lot—his was one of the last there, other than Mr. Galath’s limo—and took him through the rain to the freeway. He opened his briefcase and tapped idly on the display inside, retrieving some company health insurance reviews he’d been going over. But found himself too distracted to work.

Mary probably won’t even be there when I arrive, he thought. In this weather, she’ll have gone to get Jori so he doesn’t have to ride his bike home.

A surprise, perhaps? Maybe he could pick up dinner. She often got Thai for him, even though she didn’t like it much. Had she put in the order already? He looked up some places, trying to find which had the best deal, until his car pulled through the splattering rain up to his house. It stopped at the curb.

The curb?

Uriel looked up, frowning. Why was there a car parked in his place on the driveway? A bright red car, bulletlike, old-fashioned and dangerous . . .

Adram’s car.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

SIRIS BECAME a leader.

It happened just like that. He gave his Dark Self a little freedom, and it transformed him.

When Isa introduced him to the troops, he knew to nod and commend them on their bravery. He knew to ask the captains if their men were being properly fed, if they needed new boots. He knew to bolster the men with compliments, rather than pointing out that they looked half-trained, that a third of their number saluted with the wrong hand, and that their uniforms didn’t match.

Isa, at his side, relaxed noticeably. “You’re good with them, Whiskers,” she whispered. “A regular dominatrix.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Where did you get that word?”

“I read it.”

“What kinds of books have you been reading?”

“Whatever I could find! Not enough people read out here—most of them are illiterate. It’s not easy to find books. I read it, and assumed it meant dominating, commanding . . . like a leader, right? No?”

He smiled. “Not really.”

“Stupid language.” She dug out her notebook and made a notation.

Once the inspection was done, they followed the captains to the rebellion’s version of a command center—a log cabin with maps on the inside walls.

As they entered, one of the men asked Isa where to find the latest scout reports, and she just shrugged. “Why are you asking me?” she said. “Talk to the scouts, dimwit.”

Siris smothered a smile. She was hardly a natural leader—while she was clever, she did not know how to deal with people. Not without insulting them a few times, at least.

The commander of Isa’s “troops” was a weathered, white-haired woman named Lux. Those scars on her face, and the way she scowled perpetually, made her seem part daeril. She hadn’t come to meet him with the others; instead, she looked him up and down as they entered the command center, then snorted.

“Hell take me,” she said. “You really are one of them.”

“You can tell by looking?” Siris said.

“You all look like teenagers,” Lux said. “Pampered teenagers with the baby fat still on you.” She turned toward the maps on one of the walls. “Eyes are wrong, though.”

Curious. She had seen Deathless without their helms or masks on, then? Siris filed away the information. “Too old?” he asked, stepping up beside Lux. Isa joined them.

“Yeah, you know too much. But the greater part is because you’re just too damn confident. I’ve never met a boy your apparent age who is so sure of himself. Arrogant, yes. Confident, no.”

He didn’t feel particularly confident—but the Dark Self was. And, he supposed, she was probably right because of it.

“You’ve had combat experience,” he said.

“Served under Saydhi during the Broken Cliffs campaign. Heard you offed her.”

“I did.”

“Permanently? Gone for good?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not supposed to be possible,” Lux said, still looking at the maps.

“It is now,” Siris said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I killed her, and you realized that they could be fought.”

She eyed him. “Know too much,” she said under her breath. “Yeah, definitely one of them.”

And, startled, he realized that he did know too much about her. Not this woman specifically, but her type of person. He had lived for a long, long time. Buried deeply within him was an instinctive understanding of someone like Lux. She’d always fought for Saydhi loyally, counting herself lucky at least to not be one of the poor sods who had to work the fields.

That had built in Lux a certain guilt, perhaps even a resentment. She was happy to not have a worse life, but felt that she profited from the sacrifice of so many others. When Saydhi had fallen, it had come to Lux like a moment of revelation and light. The Deathless could actually die. They weren’t gods.

Siris would bet she had resigned her post that very day.

“What kind of training do your soldiers have?” Siris asked.

“As much as I could give them in six months,” Lux said. “We have done a few raids on the God King’s thugs, killing everyone involved and leaving signs to make it look like wild daerils were behind the attacks. He sent troops and wiped out the nearest batch of those, though, so if we try it again we’ll need a different cover.”

She hesitated.

“That was just training,” she continued. “A skirmish, not a full fight. I worried that anything more would reveal us.” She looked at him. “This is not a rebellion, Deathless.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s a desperate group of fools who need something to believe in. If you want a real rebellion, you’re going to need a real army.”

“No,” Siris said. “You’re wrong.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“To have a real rebellion, General,” he said, meeting her gaze, “we don’t need an army. We just need to convince everyone that we have one.”

“A lie.”

“Isa tells me that there is a rising air of malcontent,” Siris said. “We need the people out there—the townsfolk telling stories about oppression, the cobblers who are tired of taxation, the farmers who are starving—to believe that fighting back has even the smallest chance of working. Then you’ll see a rebellion. Do you have any intelligence on the enemy?”

“Some,” she said. “I brought what I could with me when I abandoned my post—some stronghold layouts, troop numbers, things like that. A few of the people who joined us also worked for the Deathless, and they brought information too. That, mixed with what we’ve stolen in our raids, gave us something to work from. It’s random and spotty, though.”

“Bring it to me,” Siris said. “I want everything you have.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

RAIDRIAR DISPATCHED the golem—last in a series of combatants—with reluctance. He had been hoping to recover some of these to serve him. Who knew what resources he would be able to find once free of this place?

But it was no use. The golem had only the most basic of deadminds, and Raidriar could not reason with it. It collapsed, shaking the ground with an awful crunch.

I need to be faster, Raidriar thought, moving deeper into the catacombs beneath the temple that housed his rebirthing chamber. The Worker could be sending more resources. Each moment spent fighting was a costly delay.

He had finally reached the dungeons. Raidriar pushed through the doors, sliding his swords into sheaths at his sides as he did so. He’d stolen these off a particularly well-equipped daeril—one he’d been fond of, unfortunately. Despite his initial pleasure at the contest, this business of fighting through the place had left him depressed. He was like a master huntsman being forced to put down his own loyal hounds.

He counted out three cells in the dungeon, each of which was fitted with a thick, windowless door. Breaking down such a door was beyond him, even with his fit body; instead, he took off his ring. It was a simple loop—the type that fascinated his daerils. They carried his old castoffs and failed experiments with great pride. He looked at the small display on the inside of this one. Seven years and three months. Had he really needed that much healing? That would push this brand-new body to its mid-twenties already.

Normally, he wouldn’t care. He had bodies to spare, and this one—like his others—had been modified to restrict hair and nail growth so that healing would not leave him with an unsightly mangle of a beard.

Yet he didn’t know how many bodies he would have access to in the near future. He might need to keep this one fit, rather than running it ragged, healing it to the point that it grew to middle age in the course of an afternoon.

I will have to be more careful with healing, he thought. His body’s Deathless nature would heal him slowly on its own. Unfortunately, when surrounded by enemies and lacking his armor, he had often needed the ring for a quick burst of restoration.

He shook his head, tucking away his ring in a pouch he had tied at his waist. He then fished out his others. One teleportation ring. That could be useful; it separated into two different loops, and when one was activated, it would teleport the smaller ring to the larger. You could use it to summon a weapon in a moment of need, for example. Unfortunately, the process did not work on living flesh.

He tucked that one away and inspected the third. Constructed of black metal, it looked like iron fresh from the forge. He held it cautiously. They knew so little of the element they called Incarnate Dark. Even the Worker had always seemed wary of it, though he—and his scientists—spoke of it in their usual scholarly way, explaining its import in the universe and its influence on the movement of celestial bodies.

To Raidriar, Incarnate Dark was just another tool. A dangerous tool—in other words, the best kind.

He slid on the ring and summoned from it a small shield of force that fit his palm and fingers like an invisible glove. He felt only a faint tingling. An anticipation of energy to come.

He allowed a tiny amount of that energy to seep through, a fraction of a drop of Darkness Incarnate. His shielded skin reflected the energy—or the not-energy—outward. Raidriar pressed his hand against the wooden door.

The door crumpled.

The darkness pulled everything toward it, ripping the door to its fundamental pieces, sucking them inward. Wood cracked and popped, as if an invisible hand squeezed the sides in with an awful strength. In seconds, the Incarnate Dark had been expended, leaving the door in shambles, the greater portion of it simply . . . gone. It had been sucked through the tiny portal in his ring that was connected—like all of the rings—to a distant power.

The cell now open, Raidriar stepped inside.

DEVIATION

THE SIXTH

URIEL ENTERED his house, laughing to himself. The storm would probably cover his entrance, wouldn’t it? Perhaps he should be more quiet.

He laughed anyway. Of course. He moved up the stairs, leaving wet steps. He pushed open the door to the bedroom. Mary screamed, reaching for blankets. Adram scrambled out of the bed in shock, falling to the floor.

Uriel took off his jacket, shaking the rain free. “You know, this makes sense,” he said, chuckling. “The world makes sense for once. I could actually have guessed this would happen!”

Adram—a look of sheer panic on his face—barreled out of the room, carrying his trousers. Mary was weeping. Why should she cry? She hadn’t been hurt.

Uriel sat down on the bed. “I stayed late too many times, I see. That’s a number. I can add that in a column and see what it creates. If it had been another person in the office talking about his wife, I probably would have noticed immediately what was happening.” He looked toward her. “But it wasn’t another man’s wife. It was you. The flaw was never in the numbers. It’s in me. I can’t see them when you are involved.”

“Uriel . . .” she said, reaching a trembling hand toward him. Below, Adram’s monster of a car roared to life.

“Now, now, don’t worry about me. I don’t have emotions, you see. Adram explained it all. I . . . I don’t . . .” That wetness on his cheeks. Rainwater, obviously. He took a deep breath. “Jori?”

She glanced wildly at the clock. “Jori!”

“I’ll go for him,” Uriel said, standing. “I hope he’s not riding home in this. And then, weren’t we going to have Thai? Something special. For me . . .”

Uriel walked toward the door.

“Uriel . . .” Mary said. “I’m sor—”

“Stop. You don’t get to say that.”

He walked out. Where had his smile gone? The situation really was amazing. Perfect, even. That he should be so oblivious. He—

Tires screeched outside.

CHAPTER

NINE

TWO FIGURES—dirtied, blinking against the sudden light—huddled inside the cell that Raidriar entered. A stout, bald man stood up on trembling legs, raising a hand toward Raidriar. Then, the man fell to his knees and bowed himself.

“My God,” Eves breathed, “you have returned.”

Excellent. Eves, Raidriar’s High Devoted, head of his priesthood. “Ever known the truth,” Raidriar said, repeating a passcode set up between him and Eves should there ever be a question of Raidriar’s authenticity. Because of the possibility of Soulless copies, it seemed wise to have such a protocol in place.

Eves’s shoulders relaxed and he looked up. “It is you. Oh, great master. I have failed.”

“I noticed.” Raidriar waved for Eves and his companion, a younger man, to rise. “How complete is the impostor’s domination?”

“I do not know, great master. I was not suspicious of the creature at first. It wasn’t until the second day that I demanded the sign from him. When he could not produce it, I tried to raise the Devoted and Seringal against him. Great master, my rival among the Devoted—Macrom—was ready, and he turned them all against me.”

“Curious,” the God King said. “So he was informed of the plot ahead of time.”

“It seems that way.”

The Worker had found a way to communicate while imprisoned. Had he led Ausar to search him out there in the first place?

The answer was obvious. Of course he had.

“Macrom had been whispering poison to the others for some time,” Eves said. “We who remained loyal fought them, but most of the Seringal sided with the impostor. All that remain of your true Devoted are myself and young Douze. We have been imprisoned here for months upon months, great master. Perhaps years . . .”

Raidriar grunted. He had hoped that Eves would at least have some information for him.

“Great master?” Eves asked as the other Devoted bowed and gave obeisance. “Macrom . . . Did you slaughter him in a particularly painful way?” Eves sounded hopeful.

“Thin fellow?” Raidriar asked. “Upturned nose?”

“That’s him, great master.”

“Hmmm. I may have actually left that one alive. I don’t fully remember.”

“That is . . . somewhat uncharacteristic of you, great master.”

“I haven’t entirely been myself, lately,” Raidriar said, stepping through the mangled remains of the door back into the dungeon corridor. The two Devoted followed, Eves limping noticeably. His robe was stained from old blood and ripped on the left side—the sign of a wound that had long since healed. That was good to see. Raidriar would have been annoyed to find his High Devoted unwounded. Eves should not have been taken alive without a fight.

“Great master,” Eves said, barely keeping pace. “We two are weak, for it has been very long since you vanished, at least by the reckoning of mortals. You deserve much better servants than myself and this one. That stated, great master, I offer my most sincere prayer of thankfulness to you for our rescue. I did not give up hope during the long, dark days, for your triumph was assured. I did, however, worry that I would not be worthy to be released, following my failure.”

Raidriar waved an indifferent hand as they walked the quiet hallways. “You have proven useful in the past, Eves.”

“Thank you, great master.”

“Besides, I’m fond of you. You remind me of your grandfather.”

“Toornik? Great master . . . didn’t you execute him?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Sword through the gut after he tried to embezzle tax monies, if I recall. But if I hadn’t liked him, I’d have hanged him by his ankles in the sun and let him starve.”

“Ah, of course.”

The catacombs had grown suspiciously silent. Raidriar frowned, expecting more daerils—or even several Seringals—to appear and challenge him. No further enemies appeared. Surely he hadn’t yet slain everyone in the temple.

No challengers presented themselves as he and his Devoted approached the stone-walled core at the center of the temple. Here, a burnished wall of reflective steel was inlaid with an etched mural depicting Raidriar’s glory.

The God King stopped before it. When had this etching been made again? Two, three thousand years back?

That’s right, he thought, dredging the depths of his organic memory. That blind sculptor who etched by touch. He had taken seventeen years to create this etching. It was exquisite. I really should have visited this more often, he thought as he tore a hole through it with the Incarnate Dark.

Beyond lay silvered surfaces. Like the old days—metal everywhere. He entered, his Devoted following with heads bowed in reverence. Spiderlike machines scuttled along the walls and the draping cords—those tiny machines were the caretakers of this place, this throwback to another time. A far worse time, when men lacked direction and gods were things only found in books. A time that had proven that mankind was incapable of self-rule.

Raidriar approached a mirror that was hooked to a central hub of wires and steel. It was dust-free, thanks to the caretakers, and the mirror . . . the monitor, as they used to be called . . . turned on when he touched it. He tapped slowly at first. How long had it been since he had been forced to use a touch interface for longer than a few taps?

Fortunately, those memories were secure and pristine. He reversed the Worker’s lockout, at least for this one facility. He couldn’t expand his influence farther, unfortunately. The same fail-safes that allowed him to physically take control here prevented him from doing so remotely for his other palaces, rebirthing chambers, barracks, and castles.

Still, it was something. Now that he had full control of this facility, a quick survey of the place showed him that many of the traitorous Devoted and soldiers had gathered in the rebirthing chamber, where he had left their leader. That man slumped in a chair, conscious again, as the others ministered to him. A dozen or two daerils guarded the approach to the room.

Raidriar shook his head. Cowards. A flick of the screen locked them in that room. Another locked the daerils in, preventing them from escaping their hallway. For good measure, he locked all of the other doors in the temple, trapping the rest of the Devoted and the soldiers in their quarters.

These, he gassed to death. There was no such option for the rebirthing chamber, unfortunately.

“Wait,” a voice asked from behind. The Devoted who had been imprisoned with Eves. “Great master? There are ways to release poisonous gas into the chambers of the Devoted? Why would you need something like that?”

“To kill them, obviously.” Raidriar inspected the fellow. Young and narrow-faced, he had very large ears and a malnourished build.

“But,” the Devoted continued, “I mean . . .” He paled, realizing that Raidriar’s jackal-eyed gaze was still on him. He gulped audibly and retreated to the other side of the room.

Nearby, Eves sighed audibly. “I’m sorry about Douze, great master. He’s my sister’s son. I’m not entirely certain he’s suited to your priesthood, but what can one do?”

Raidriar turned back to the terminal, inspecting the state of his empire. It was not encouraging. Since he’d been gone, the Worker had assumed thorough and complete control. Key Devoted and other officials had been replaced and protocols had been set up, subtly, to prevent Raidriar from retaking power. The prophecies were one method, but he found others. His castles and governmental offices had enforced orders for communication silence. Even with control of this facility, he wouldn’t be able to contact others to reestablish his authority. Information could go out from the false God King, and it could go back to him, but the various substations could not contact one another.

But why? Raidriar thought as he searched this station’s records for what little information he could find about the rest of the empire. The other members of the Pantheon . . . wait, what was this? Insults and offenses. The Worker had systematically used Raidriar’s Soulless to alienate all his former allies.

The Worker had gone too far. His empire was crumbling. The policy of isolation mixed with over-insistent demands by the Soulless, and the result was chaos. Raidriar’s lands fracturing, despotic worms—lesser Deathless—seizing territory and grabbing what they could. Villages starving, bandits running wild, untamed daerils raiding government officials . . .

Why would the Worker do this? Why seize the empire, only to abandon it to chaos? The Pantheon could have been a great resource to him, but instead the Worker threw them aside. Isolating the different stations made it difficult for Raidriar to take control, but it also made running the empire practically impossible.

He throws away so much just to hinder me, Raidriar thought. I should be flattered.

He was not. The move did not make sense; the Worker couldn’t have known Raidriar would escape. What was happening here . . . it was insanity.

But the Worker was not insane. He was clever, subtle, and brilliant. Raidriar’s confusion meant that the Worker’s plots were beyond him. Raidriar was too far behind to even grasp what his enemy was doing.

That terrified him.

He checked on a few more items—including his secret kingdom to the south, where he was called by different names. Excellent. That seemed to be untouched. If all went very poorly, he could travel there and rebuild.

He would rather not. It would mean abandoning this empire, admitting defeat, and allowing the Worker to drive this realm into the ground.

Raidriar memorized what he felt he would need from the information, then set the machine to wipe itself. He took his Devoted from this holy hub, stepping out as the spiderlike keepers began to deactivate and drop from walls and wires. They clicked against the ground like falling coins.

He walked from the temple structure toward the sunlight, traveling down a long tunnel that would open onto the plains beyond. How could he reclaim his empire? He would need resources, allies. Unfortunately, going to the other Deathless would be dangerous. They would see him as weak. Beyond that, he wasn’t certain any of them would be all that useful against the Worker. The creature would have them all in hand, and would have prepared for Raidriar to try turning them.

Raidriar needed to do something more unexpected than that—

Thump.

He stopped, looking up out of the metallic tunnel. Something blocked the sunlit sky just outside, casting an enormous shadow. A four-legged monster with tattered wings—half machine, half rotting flesh. No artistry to it at all.

Raidriar sneered. At least he now knew why there had been no further resistance. The Worker had sent this beast. It meant that Raidriar’s escape had indeed been noted, and his edge—if he’d ever had one—was no more.

Bother.

The beast smashed a limb down, crushing the tunnel opening. Raidriar rolled free, weapons out. He heard a pathetic scream from behind. The two Devoted being crushed. Raidriar growled, launching himself forward, trying to get beneath the beast’s four stubby legs. Monsters like this had trouble if you could get underneath them . . .

A large mouth gaped on the bottom of the beast’s body, full of fangs and dripping drool. Now that was just plain wrong. The beast lurched downward, trying to shove him into the maw. Raidriar dodged away. The thing left chunks of decaying flesh on the ground where it scraped and smashed.

“At least,” Raidriar said, “send something of beauty to try to kill me!”

This was an insult—and knowing the Worker, a deliberate one. In addition, there were likely traps set up at other rebirthing chambers. If Raidriar died here, when he awoke . . .

He’d just have to avoid being killed. Raidriar growled as the thing snapped at him with its proper mouth—not the one on its underside, but the one at the end of its long neck. The creature looked like a dragon out of fanciful mythology—some of the Deathless were positively neurotic about creating such things. Only its skin was more leathery than scaled, and along with its long, clawed hands it had four trunklike legs. They’d probably used an elephant as a base, grafting on wings, clawed forearms, and a sinuous neck.

Honestly. Q.I.P. mutants and creations were supposed to make sense, supposed to look dangerous and deadly—not horrifying and monstrous. There was a difference.

As the abomination swiped a clawed hand at him, Raidriar twisted his sword deftly and sheared free a few of the clawed fingers. The machine part of the beast—a large section of its back that leaked ichor—glowed with lights, and the beast screeched in anger. Raidriar dodged another snapping hand.

The head is a distraction, he thought. It’s kept alive by machinery, not by a brain. A kind of undeath.

Raidriar sheathed one sword, then reached into his pouch and fished out the teleportation ring. Then, he raised his blade and dashed at the beast.

“I am not some peasant to be toyed with!” Raidriar shouted.

He dodged under the creature’s inevitable swing, then leaped, slamming his sword into the beast’s leathery side. He used that handhold to heave, pulling himself upward to scramble onto the monster’s back.

Here, he whipped out his other sword. The thing lurched.

“I am not an irritation!” Raidriar rammed his second blade into the monster’s back, using that for a handhold as the thing thrashed and lurched. It smelled awful.

“I am a God,” he shouted, rolling across the beast’s back and slapping the key of the teleportation ring against the machinery keeping the monster alive.

It thrashed again, throwing him free. He slammed to the ground nearby with a grunt, ribs cracking. He rolled over, then took the second half of the teleportation ring and hurled it while activating its summoning property.

The machinery vanished from the beast’s back in a flash of light, then it appeared nearby, teleported to the thrown ring. Only non-living matter could travel with the ring, after all.

The monster dropped with a thump, ichor spilling from the hole.

Raidriar groaned, rolling to his knees. That was the problem with these terrible hybrids. Not organic enough to be considered fully alive, but not machine enough to have proper shielding. He lurched to his feet and walked to the machinery that he had teleported, a lump of metal and wires about the size of a small table. He found the lens, through which he knew the Worker would be watching.

“These are my lands,” Raidriar hissed, leaning in. “And these are my people. Remember that, Worker. You do not take what is mine.”

He picked up a rock and smashed the lens with a swift motion.

CHAPTER

TEN

THIS, SIRIS thought, holding up the next sheet of paper, does not make sense.

Isa was right. The brutality in the God King’s lands was astonishing. Raidriar’s empire was declining rapidly. Barely any coordination between its pieces, local minor Deathless taking up dominion of their little fiefdoms and ignoring decrees from the fake God King, villages starving because shipping had broken down.

He could have fixed this easily, Siris thought, turning to the next report. It’s like he doesn’t care.

A knock sounded at the door. Siris looked up from his reports and maps. He sat in the top room of the command center. It had its own window, which he left open to the cool mountain breeze.

The newcomer was a woman in an apron and a dark grey cotton dress. Nice clothing, for a peasant. She was one of the cooks, likely someone who had run from direct Deathless employ.

“Mr. Deathless, sir?” she asked from the doorway.

“Don’t call me Deathless,” Siris said, smiling. “It’s nothing for me to be proud of. I’m Siris.”

“Siris, sir,” she said, then curtsied. She was one of several dozen who had come to him during the last few hours. Isa was sending them up, he assumed. Soldiers, grooms, the town chandler, and now a cook.

The Dark Self was furious at the interruption, but it adapted quickly. He would need the good will of his minions.

They aren’t minions, Siris told himself forcibly. Hell take him . . . the more he leaned upon the Dark Self, the more those kinds of thoughts crept into his mind.

“What can I do for you?” Siris asked.

“I just wanted to see you,” she said. “With my own eyes.” She looked at him adoringly.

The Dark Self was pleased.

“You’re really going to kill him?” the woman asked. “The God King?”

“I’ve killed him already,” Siris said. “Hundreds of times. I’m going to do something better. I’m going to free us all.”

And after that, he’d be the only remaining Deathless.

She withdrew, and Siris settled back, disturbed at the realization of how desperately he wanted to be the only living Deathless. How much could he trust himself? Once, he’d blamed these instincts on the Infinity Blade, assuming that it was corrupting him. The truth was far more disturbing. There was no corruption—no exterior object to blame. This was him.

The piece of him that knew how to lead, how to inspire men and make them eager to follow, was also the piece that had oppressed and destroyed.

Another sound distracted him from his reports, but this time it wasn’t someone at the door. It came from outside. Siris tried to work, but the boiling dread of the Dark Self—mixed with his frustration at the Worker’s unseen plots—kept him from being able to focus.

Instead, he rose and went to the balcony to investigate the sound—that of children playing. He stood up above, watching them for a time, then glanced at the steps going down. The balcony had its own set, of course. Isa ran this place. There would always be a back way out of any building she ordered built.

The Dark Self wanted him to get back to his studies. So, defiant, he did not.

He started down the steps instead.

ISA SHOVELED soup into her mouth, eating quickly. There was so much to do, now that Siris was actually back. So many people she needed to make sure he met, so many plans he needed to know.

She ate quickly. Little time could be spared for food, even good food like this. The rebellion ate well; she saw to that. She’d keep these people strong.

When the cook returned from upstairs, she sent the next man in line—the last one. A lanky soldier named Drel that the others looked up to. She’d found him raiding Deathless on his own, spreading stories of Siris. Now he’d get to meet the real thing.

She nodded, sending him up the steps. Before she could return to her food, however, she heard a familiar voice coming from the front of the building.

“Hereherehereherehere!” She could barely separate the words one from another. She smiled and stood as TEL scrambled into the room.

The thing—it wasn’t really a he, though she often thought of it that way—wore the shape of a rabbit. A rabbit made completely of entwined brambles, colored like dead brush. It crackled as TEL moved, hopping through the door at a bolt.

“Stop!” she snapped at the thing.

“Master has returned,” TEL said. “Master lives. Oh, this is very good. Very good.”

The brambles suddenly collapsed and a small man-shaped thing made out of wood—matching the floor—crawled out of what was left. TEL took the substance of things he touched, and changed shape at will.

She kept feeling she should be able to find a way to use that more than she did. The thing didn’t like to listen to her, however. She could barely get it to do scouting duty.

“He’s upstairs,” Isa said. “But give him time to get done with the person I just sent up.”

“How much does he remember?” TEL asked, dancing from one foot to the other, like a child needing to piss. “Is it bad, very bad?”

“I don’t know,” Isa said.

He seemed different from the man she remembered—but then again, it had been two years.

“I need to speak with him,” TEL said, moving toward the stairs. She stepped up to stop him, but hesitated as boots thumped on the steps.

“Back so quickly?” Isa asked Drel as he appeared on the steps.

“Well, he’s . . . um, not up there.”

“What?”

“He’s not up there, sir.”

She hated being called “sir.” “My Lady” was far worse, though. She was not, and had never wanted to be, a lady. Confused, Isa stalked up the steps. TEL pushed past her, scrambling up more quickly.

Siris wasn’t in his room. Isa felt a moment of panic. Had an assassin attacked?

Don’t be an idiot, she thought at herself, entering the room. He’s immortal. Who cares about assassins?

She crossed the room, and noticed the door to the balcony cracked open. TEL joined her as she stepped outside.

“So you’re saying,” Siris said from down below, “that being ‘it’ is a mark of dishonor? But if only one person can be ‘it,’ is the position not one of distinction and exclusivity?”

A child’s voice replied. “You’ve gotta chase people when you’re it.”

“And in so doing, emulate the predator,” Siris’s voice replied. “Rather than the prey. Why doesn’t everyone want to be this ‘it’? That seems the preferred mode to me.”

“If everyone wanted to be it,” another young voice said, “then the game would be stupid!”

“But—”

“Just run, mister!” another child said.

Giggling followed. TEL moved toward the steps, but Isa stooped and grabbed him. “Wait a moment,” she ordered quietly.

Amazingly, he obeyed. Isa moved to the edge of the balcony, and found Siris—immortal, Deathless, Sacrifice, and possibly the world’s greatest living swordsman—playing a game of tag with various children of camp.

Isa leaned down, crossing her arms on the balcony railing, watching. Seeing him again had raised an entire host of emotions. Hope that this thing she had begun might actually have a chance at success. Embarrassment for the way she’d treated Siris, all those months ago.

And also hatred and betrayal, deep down. Emotions she didn’t like, but which she also couldn’t control. He was Deathless.

Watching him play tag helped change some of those feelings.

He played for a long while, though eventually the children ran at the dinner announcement. Siris watched them go, wiping his brow, then turned to climb the balcony steps. Only then did he see her.

He stopped halfway up. “Oh! Um.” He looked over his shoulder at the children. “I never—”

“‘Never got to play games as a child,’” Isa said. “I know.”

“Not that I remember, anyway,” he said, climbing the steps to join her. “TEL!” he said, noticing the small creature for the first time.

Isa cocked her eye as Siris ran up. He was more excited to see the golem than he had been to see her? It was hard not to feel a little offended by that.

“Master, you’ve been reborn too many times,” TEL said. “Oh, this is bad.”

“It is bad and good, TEL,” Siris said, sighing. He reached the top of the balcony, and turned to watch the children as they ran toward the dining hall.

“Isa,” he said. “Tell me of Siris.”

“What? Yourself?”

He nodded.

“Uh . . . you’re kind of strange? You are also Deathless, and rather tall. And . . .”

“No,” he said. “Tell me of the man they think I am. Tell me what you told them, the ‘extrapolations,’ as you put them. Tell me the person I need to be.”

She collected herself, gathering her thoughts. “You want stories of Siris, do you?” she began. “Stories of the Deathless who fought for ordinary men?”

He looked to her quizzically.

“It’s how I start,” she said. “You want to hear it as they did? The stories? Well, stories I have. Too many stories. Stories like rats in the wheat, fat and glutted upon my thoughts and memories. It’s time that you heard them.”

DEVIATION

THE SEVENTH

URIEL CRADLED his son’s limp body. Rain pelted him. Tears from far above.

Adram stood to the side, a trail of blood washing from the cut on his head and streaming down his face. He raised his hands beside his head, blabbering nonsense, eyes wide.

“Jori . . . Jori . . .” Uriel whispered, shaking.

“I didn’t see him!” Adram screamed. “The rain! I couldn’t see him!”

The too-red car rested with one tire up on the curb, the other on the mangled remains of Jori’s bicycle.

“This is your fault, Uriel!” Adram bellowed into the rain. “You . . . you should have stayed at work! You were supposed to stay late! You did this! You forced this!”

“Yes. I did.” Uriel laid down the broken body. “Cause and effect.”

“Yeah . . .” Adram said. “Cause . . . cause and effect . . .”

“No emotions,” Uriel said, rising.

Killing a man turned out to be more difficult than Uriel would have expected. Even as Uriel had Adram pinned up against the car, hands around his neck, the man fought back. Adram was wounded, dazed from the wreck, but he was still stronger than Uriel and managed to batter his way free.

As he was running away, Adram slipped on the grass, just as Uriel noticed a large wrench in the passenger seat of the man’s car. Presumably for “tweaking the engine,” as Adram always said. Uriel picked it up, hefting it, feeling its weight. It would do for fixing other problems.

As Adram scrambled to get to his feet, Uriel stepped behind him and slammed the weapon down. Heavy as the wrench felt, it still took a good five hits to break the man’s skull open.

Fortunately, the rain washed the blood away. That kept things neater. Cleaner.

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.”

CHAPTER

TWELVE

LESS THAN a week later, Siris crept along the shelf of rock, following Isa and two members of her strike team. He tried not to look over the ledge’s side to his left, or at the sheer drop there.

He wasn’t certain what would happen if he died falling off that cliff. He couldn’t awaken at the rebirthing chamber near Saydhi’s lands, the place where Isa had taken him over two years ago. That had been destroyed by the Worker.

Perhaps his soul would find another rebirthing chamber. More likely, he’d end up lying broken on those rocks below until his Deathless body regenerated and he woke up. But a third possibility worried him more than the other two—the possibility that he’d be reborn as a child again, as he’d done so many times during his centuries as the Sacrifice. He had grown accustomed to—though not particularly comfortable with—this life as a Deathless. Losing his memory again, his identity, frightened him.

It frightened the Dark Self even more.

Isa held up a gloved hand ahead, and the team stopped. The two other men with them—Isa had introduced them as Dynn and Terr, expert scouts—were as silent as she was. Siris was amazed at how they could move without their steps making sounds on the rock.

Siris wasn’t as good as they, but fortunately he wasn’t some lumbering lout either. Apparently, Ausar had been reasonably accomplished at stealth. Perhaps thousands upon thousands of years of life left one reasonably accomplished at just about everything.

Isa moved on ahead alone, leaving Siris with Dynn and Terr, all three crouching on the ledge. A cool wind gusted over them, and Siris settled himself to wait, one gloved hand against the mountainside to his right, the other gripping the edge of the pathway to his left. He could feel the sharp rock of the ledge through his glove; the thing felt frail to be supporting all four of them.

Their week of travel had brought them high in the mountains, away from what passed for civilization in the God King’s lands. Siris’s breath puffed in front of him. He wore his helm strapped to his back, and was clothed in supple leathers with a tight chain shirt. The bulk of their raiding force—almost a hundred strong—waited below with Lux, closer to the front of the stronghold. Hopefully, traveling at night and eschewing cookfires had allowed them to approach unnoticed.

The sky was starting to dim; they would attack at dusk, as Lux had suggested. It would be light enough for his troops not to need torches, but late enough in the day that the guards might be drowsy from long hours on duty.

As they waited for Isa to return, Terr turned to Siris. Lanky and mostly bald, he had an oval face and an angular nose. He wore assault armor, tight chain and a breastplate, manufactured light and strong, Deathless style.

Terr looked Siris up and down. These two scouts had spent most of the trip scouting ahead. “You really don’t look like much, you know,” Terr said softly. “Without the helm. Just a regular guy.”

“Thank you,” Siris said.

Terr cocked an eyebrow. Not the answer he’d been expecting, apparently.

“Is it boring?” Terr asked.

“What? Waiting?”

“No. Life. Being thousands of years old. Doesn’t it get dull, after a while?”

“I don’t remember any of it,” Siris said.

“Nothing?”

Siris shook his head. “Not before this life.”

“A Deathless with no experience. What good are you, then?”

“Draw your sword and I’ll show you.”

“Hush, you two,” Dynn said, glancing back at them. He immediately blushed. “I mean, hush, Terr. And Lord Deathless, if you don’t mind.”

Siris smiled at the way Terr rolled his eyes; there seemed a familiarity between the two of them. Brothers, he decided, though they didn’t share much family resemblance.

Isa prowled back to them. “No guards on our direct path,” she said. “But be careful anyway. They have guards on the tops of the fortress, and the Deathless like to set daeril guards hiding in the least expected of places.”

They continued forward, rounding the mountain cliffs, approaching a stronghold set into the snowy heights, like a slab of iron deposited from orbit.

Orbit, Siris thought. I barely know what that means. A word from the old days, uncovered in his mind like last fall’s leaves.

Their path led around to the back of the iron fortress. Lux and the others would be making their way up the main incline, but with those murder-holes in the face of the fortress, charging the front would be suicide. They needed to get the gates open and hopefully distract the archers inside.

Siris and his team buckled themselves together with ropes, then began a careful scale up and around to the upper back of the fortress. Siris spotted a few guards on the ramparts, walking back and forth, but they mostly kept their eyes forward. Hopefully, in the dusk, they’d miss the small figures climbing along the cliff face.

Not enough guards, Siris thought. The Dark Self knew. There should have been more up there.

“This feels like a trap,” he whispered to Isa as they scaled down the rock face, shadowed by the setting sun. They came down to another ledge.

She nodded, but said nothing more. The four of them rounded the back of the fortress. They didn’t go to the ramparts—that would be suicide. Instead, they made their way to the back right corner of the fortress, about halfway up its side. Steel walls blocked their way into the building. A small window just above—far too small to slip through—indicated there was a room here.

The brothers hung back as the rear guard, leaving Isa and Siris to cover the last distance to the fortress on their own. They kept low, beneath the window. Once they arrived, Isa peeked up, then ducked back down. She nodded. The room beyond was empty.

Siris took a deep breath, pulling out a glove and gauntlet, with a ring affixed to the finger. He slid it on, then made a fist.

“You sure you can handle this?” Isa asked.

“Sure. I’ve used the other rings. How hard can this one be?”

She gave him a flat look. “I’ve seen entire villages sucked into one drop of Incarnate Dark, Siris.”

“What . . . Really?”

“Well, all right. One village—run by one of the lesser Deathless, looking to elevate his position. And I kind of sold the ring to him. But he did ask me to retrieve it.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “It was long ago, before I stopped taking jobs from Deathless. This one thought . . . well, I told him not to play with the stuff. He wouldn’t listen to a mere mortal, and he paid well, so I got it for him. I left just before he activated it.”

“The whole village?” Siris asked.

“It was awful. Whole place just . . . crumpled. Don’t know how to explain it any other way. I was just outside of town, riding as fast as I could. I swear I felt something straining to pull me into it. Like the darkness itself was alive.”

“Hell take me,” Siris said, looking at the gauntlet. Then he pressed it against the wall. His palm shook, but he knew, like always, how to control the element. It felt natural to him.

Even years ago, when he’d first attacked the God King, the Dark Self had protected him. It felt the same way now. Siris didn’t know how to manipulate the Incarnate Dark—but Ausar did. The corner of the wall crumpled, the steel straining and cracking. An opening formed before them. At the end, a small bead of metal—no bigger than a marble—dropped to the ground with a terribly loud thunk, as if it weighed far more than it appeared it should.

The process was louder than he’d have wanted. He nodded to Isa, who slipped through the opening, raising her crossbow. Sure enough, a guard peeked his head into the room just as Siris was following Isa through the hole.

He got a crossbow bolt in the forehead.

Siris caught him and hauled the body into the room. They waited a few tense minutes, but no other guards arrived.

“This really feels like a trap . . .” Siris said.

Isa nodded, peeking out into the fortress hallways. Stark, made of cold steel. Creating something like this would cost a fortune, but for most of Siris’s kin it was a fortune barely missed. Why build a fortress entirely of forged steel in the mountains?

Well, why not?

“I agree,” Isa said. “It’s too quiet, too easy. Do you want to withdraw?”

Siris shook his head. “If it is a trap, then someone already knows too much about us—and our rebellion is doomed anyway. Maybe it’s easy not because we’re expected, but because the Worker’s empire is in such a state of chaos.”

Isa nodded. Siris dug out his helm, slipping it on. Isa went without one, but Dynn and Terr both slid on helms, covering their faces. An old tradition, started by the Deathless.

“Dynn, watch our retreat,” Isa said. “Terr, with us.”

The three of them slipped into the corridors. They were poorly lit, the occasional window slit providing the only light. Siris and the others wound forward and downward through the fortress, but passed no guards. The place had an eerie feeling of having been abandoned.

They reached a crossroad, and Siris grabbed Isa’s arm, pointing to one side.

The gate is this way, she mouthed.

I know, he mouthed back, then led them the other direction.

She followed with a soft sigh of exasperation. However, it was possible a full assault wouldn’t be needed. Their target, the facility’s heart, was just around this way . . .

He reached a corner and peeked around it, expecting to see nothing. Instead, he found himself looking right at a guard.

Siris felt a moment of sudden panic, but held it in. He was looking at the back of a uniformed guard, one of the God King’s elite soldiers. An entire rank of forty or fifty stood here, facing the wrong way. Inward, toward the center of the facility.

What the hell? Siris thought, holding a finger to his lips and gesturing for Isa to look. She peeked, then looked back at him.

What the hell? she mouthed.

He shrugged, then gestured them back the other way. He wasn’t about to try to take an entire rank of elite soldiers on his own.

Once they were a good distance away, Isa took him by the arm. “They’re guarding the wrong way.”

He nodded.

“That’s a rebirthing chamber, right?”

He nodded. It was one—that, and something else he hadn’t yet told her about.

That room was the basis for this entire assault. Yes, the fortress had supplies they could steal—rations, weapons, Deathless technology. Their greatest advantage as a rebellion, however, was Siris himself. One of the Deathless. But to make full use of that advantage, they needed a rebirthing chamber.

Of course, that alone wasn’t going to be enough, not by a long shot. The Dark Self knew it. Siris had really come for something else in that room, another piece of ancient technology—one far more rare.

“Come on,” Siris said. “Whatever has drawn their attention, it’s to our advantage. Let’s break this place open like a walnut.”

The three of them continued on toward the front gates. They crossed almost the entire distance without incident—but then Siris heard a hissing from behind.

He spun, hand on his sword. The daeril must have been prowling the hallways on watch. It wore a mask—it was favored among its kind, then. The wicked, horned thing accompanied a body with twisted limbs, knotted like wood but colored red. It hissed again behind its mask, but raised its sword in a sign of challenge, after the ancient ideal.

“You hit it straight on,” Terr said, voice muffled by his helm. “I’ll come in from the left.”

“No,” Siris said, raising his sword to acknowledge the challenge. “I will face it alone.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Terr said. “I realize that you can’t die, but if you let the thing raise the alarm, we could be done for. We should fight it together—”

“No,” Siris snapped, striding forward. “It showed us honor. I must return that honor.”

“It’s a monster!”

Siris ignored him, falling into a dueling stance.

“This is ridiculous,” Terr hissed.

Honorless peasant, Siris thought, snarling softly. “Go on,” he said to Terr and Isa. “I stay to duel.”

They left, and Siris fought.

He’d practiced with the sword all his life. Fighting was something familiar to him, something noble—one of the few skills he felt that he had earned, rather than just inheriting from another self. True, he likely owed some of his prowess to his ancient self, but he had worked hard during his youth to grow, to progress. Whatever skill his former self had once possessed, he’d added to it during this lifetime.

The beast also fought with skill—it was indeed among the God King’s most elite of creations. The duel ended in the familiar way, however, with Siris slamming his sword into the beast’s chest, sinking it in deep. The thing growled softly, blood from its hidden lips spilling out through the front of the mask.

“You did well,” Siris said to the daeril. “You fought with honor and prowess.”

The thing sighed, almost seeming content as it slid off his sword and stopped moving. In some ways, he envied the creature, created for a single purpose and living its life simply, doing nothing but fulfilling that purpose. He doubted it had ever questioned its existence.

Siris wiped his blade clean as Isa returned.

“I’ve killed the bowmen in their watchposts,” she said. “Terr is at the gate.”

Something thumped in the near distance.

“Onward, then,” Siris said, rising and charging back toward the inner chamber where the God King’s soldiers awaited.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

ISA SURVEYED the dead, stepping carefully to avoid the blood, both human and daerilic. Old instincts itched at her to search the bodies, but she suppressed them. It had been a long, long time since she’d been forced to sink so low as to rob corpses. She held no illusions that she had grown beyond such things—you did what you needed to in order to survive—but this was not the day for looting.

This battle had been far too easy. It had felt like a trap up until the end. The soldiers had been crowded around the entrance to the rebirthing chamber, swords out—as if they fully expected the threat to come from inside. Lux and the troops had been able to take them with a surpising degree of ease.

They’d lost men, of course. That was part of what Isa hated about leading, and was why she had Lux perform the actual management of the troops. Isa avoided looking at the faces of the fallen. She would ask their names. Later. For now, she stepped into the rebirthing chamber, passing Dynn and Terr, still helmed and armored, standing guard at the door.

Don’t deceive yourself, she thought. You might not be robbing bodies, but today is about plunder. You’re still a thief, you’re just a higher-class one.

That thought actually comforted her.

Siris sat inside, hands clasped before him, helm off, blood in his hair. Not his own. It had dried, crusting.

What was she to make of this man? Half the time he seemed so confident, as if he could stride off a cliff and not fall, gravity itself too intimidated to inconvenience him. And then there were the haunted times. Eyes that had seen too much. Shadows moving behind them.

She had a habit of preferring dangerous men. This one, however, was a different beast entirely.

She stepped up next to him, then ran her fingers along the edge of the tub device. Attuning Siris to this one would allow him to awaken here quickly, and would rejuvenate and strengthen him when needed. Dials, buttons, and wires connected it . . . things she didn’t understand, and didn’t really care to.

“We have our quiver,” she said, speaking in the blunt language of this island continent, where the God King ruled.

“Quiver?” Siris asked, looking up.

“You are the weapon, Whiskers,” she said, tapping the device. “This is just for reloading.”

He smiled wearily. “This was too easy, Isa. Why were the guards so frightened?”

“I know,” Dynn said from the doorway. “It’s actually quite obvious.”

“Is that so?” Siris asked. “What, then, were they so frightened of?”

“Me, clearly,” Dynn said.

Wait. Isa frowned. Dynn’s voice didn’t sound right.

Siris suddenly leaped to his feet and ran toward the soldier. Terr backed away, confused, as Siris and Dynn clashed.

No. Not Dynn at all. Someone laughed behind that helm with a familiar voice.

“You!” Siris said, swiping his sword at the impostor. “What did you do with the man who wore that armor?”

The laughter continued.

That was the God King’s voice.

Oh, hell, Isa thought, reaching for her sword.

“They were worried about me awakening in here,” the God King said, stepping back from Siris. “With good reason.” He held up a hand as Siris prepared to strike. “As much fun as it would be to kill you again, Ausar—and honestly, I’m already growing nostalgic for the experience—I can’t spare the time to indulge myself. Neither, I believe, can you.”

“Your empire is crumbling, Raidriar.”

“And your little rebellion is doomed. He’s planning something dangerous.”

“Have you figured out his endgame?” Siris asked.

Raidriar shook his head. “No. You?”

“No idea.”

“It’s big,” the God King said. “He tossed aside the Infinity Blade as if it were nothing. Whatever he’s working on, he doesn’t consider you, me, or this empire to be a priority.”

Siris hesitated. “Damn.” Finally, he lowered his sword. “Damn.”

Isa looked from one to the other, as they sheathed their swords and walked toward the other side of the room. Almost like old friends.

What, she thought, did I just miss?

She gestured for the other guards to secure the chamber. “Keep the door closed,” she ordered, “and see if you can find Dynn. He might be back in the room where we entered the complex.”

Terr ran off immediately. Others stood guard behind the door as Isa closed it. She went over to where the God King and Siris were talking.

“You need me,” Raidriar was saying.

“Hardly,” Siris replied.

“Oh? And the machinery in this chamber? You were going to move it on your own? Have you any knowledge of how to disassemble it, how to set it back up? Do you even know how to work it?”

“We could leave it here, make this our base.”

“And stay exactly where the Worker knows he can find you?” The God King left his helm on. He wouldn’t show his face to those he considered his lessers.

“Where is my soldier?” Isa demanded, stepping up next to Siris.

The God King looked her over. “He is alive,” he said. “I realized that Ausar would whine and moan if I killed one of his little rebels, even if they are all my subjects.”

“Where?” Isa demanded. “In the room where we entered?”

“Obviously,” the God King said with a wave of the hand. “Calm yourself, child. I barely even harmed him. He didn’t need that hand; he has two, after all.”

“You monster,” Isa said, lunging at him. Siris caught her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

“Honestly,” the God King said, “no need to fuss for something so minor. You mortals break so easily, one would assume you’d be accustomed to it by now.”

“You—” Isa started.

Siris took her by the shoulder. “He’s taunting you, Isa. Don’t rise to it.”

She cut herself off, fuming. If Dynn was dead . . .

“You do need me,” the God King said, turning back to Siris. “I brought one of my loyal Devoted, one of the few mortals I allowed to develop expertise in Deathless technology. He can disassemble the machinery here and set it up somewhere else. Some location you choose.”

“Fine,” Siris said. “Very magnanimous of you. And your part in it? What do you gain?”

“We defeat him, and I get my empire back.”

“Like hell you do,” Isa spat. “We’re not going to rebel against him, only to give everything back to you.”

“And him?” the God King asked, amused, waving toward Siris. “You think that giving the empire to Ausar here will be any different?”

“He won’t rule.”

“Oh?” the God King asked. “I find that . . . unlikely. He has always loved to rule. He’s never been good at it, granted, but he does love it. Don’t you, Ausar?”

Siris didn’t reply, his lips a tight line.

“Regardless,” the God King said, “it isn’t important now. First we need to defeat the Worker. Anyone’s rule would be better than the chaos and misery he has sewn since his return. Mortals or not, these are my people. I will not abandon them. We can discuss the nature of our . . . alliance later.”

“I don’t trust you, Raidriar,” Siris said.

“I should hope not! You’re a fool, but not that big a fool. But you also know that I will keep my word. So I vow to you that I won’t move against you, as long as the Worker rules. I will have my man set up this equipment as-is, installing no hidden subroutines, no Q.I.P. alteration algorithms. We will be allies until our common enemy falls.”

Siris met the God King’s eyes.

“You know this to be the right course,” Raidriar said. “Just as I knew you would come here. As soon as I considered, I knew where to find you.”

“Fine,” Siris said, holding out a hand. “But the equipment stays under my control. You swear not to use it without my approval.”

“Fine,” the God King said, sounding annoyed within his helm.

“We need a place the Worker won’t think to look for us,” Siris said. “Do you know of any such place? A place secret even from those who work with us, to preserve a layer of security.”

“Well,” the God King said as they clasped hands. “I do have a few hideouts that were not in my records. You can choose one of many.”

Isa stared at them both, horrified. “This can’t possibly be right, Siris,” she said.

The God King looked to her. “Isn’t she the one who killed you with that crossbow bolt, all those months ago?”

“Yes,” Siris said.

“I suppose I have to like her, then. I assume you’ve chosen her to be first.”

“First?” Isa said. “First what?”

“He didn’t tell you?” the God King said, sounding amused. “About this place?”

“What about this place?” Isa asked.

“Raidriar . . .” Siris said.

“First? First what?” Isa snapped.

“You were going to have to tell her eventually, Ausar,” the God King said, strolling through the room, nodding toward the rebirthing tub and equipment. “Best to get it over with quickly. Like an execution—one swift chop.”

Siris sighed.

Isa looked to him. “What’s he talking about?” she asked, feeling a chill.

“This isn’t just a rebirthing chamber, Isa,” Siris said. “It’s a Pinnacle of Sanctification.”

“A what?”

“A device for making new Deathless, child,” the God King said, his voice echoing in the metallic room as he turned toward her. “Your hero plans to create his own pantheon of immortals—and you are to be the first of their ranks.”

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

SIRIS WATCHED the fire flutter and shake as the sea winds blew across it. Behind him, a cliffside set with ancient blocks formed a doorway cut into the stone. Majestic, only the ruins of this place remained. Isa’s people had draped tents between the half-fallen rocks, creating a semblance of civilization.

Water lapped against the shore nearby. Siris did not know much of the ocean, even though he’d grown up on what was essentially a very large island. This sheltered location was not an area he had ever traveled. He got the sense that few came this way. The God King’s lair here, chosen by Siris from among those offered, was a hidden place he claimed that even the Worker wouldn’t know about. A location locked only in his own memory.

Soldiers huddled nearby around their own fire. Not all of their force, only a select few. They couldn’t hide a full army here; just the equipment. The majority of the troops would remain back at the village in the valley.

Siris looked them over. These men had been recruited and trained to attack the Deathless—but so far, they hadn’t fought any. They’d been joined by two instead. They had to be wondering, are we being manipulated? Is this rebellion all just another Deathless game?

They were probably right.

Siris rose and walked along the path outside the ancient doorway into the cliff. Sounds inside evoked strange emotions in him. Metal against metal, the clanking of tools. Raidriar’s Devoted worked, with recruited soldiers as laborers, to install the resurrection device and the Pinnacle.

Siris could almost remember a time when machinery like this had been commonplace. What had that life been like? Machines like TEL to work the fields, hunt for food, build houses? Surely it would have been a paradise. But the Deathless chose this world instead—a world of poverty and sorrow, a world where survival was a constant struggle. Why?

Once past the doorway, Siris looked along a small pathway that wound upward between the rocks. Isa sat up there on a large stone, arms crossed on top of her legs, looking out over the ocean.

Siris almost walked up to her, but he recognized that hers was not the posture of one who wanted company.

I should have told her, he thought. Right from the start, I should have told her what I was planning.

Clinking footsteps came from the entrance a short distance back. Siris turned and spotted the God King striding out. Raidriar had reluctantly returned Dynn’s armor, choosing instead to wear armor taken from one of the dead. Dynn had been found alive, as promised. But lacking a hand, also as promised.

Raidriar walked up to Siris, balancing an unsheathed sword against his shoulder, edge toward the sky. “You show them your face,” Raidriar said from within his helm. “Have you forgotten that we do not do this?”

“It’s not that I’ve forgotten. It’s that I don’t care.”

Raidriar grunted. Siris couldn’t help shifting his stance to be better ready to dodge that sword, should it swing. And yet . . . he knew that it would not. They had killed one another many hundreds of times over, but that had been then. This was now. They had better things to do.

He realized, disturbed, that the Dark Self trusted the God King not to betray his word. Oh, he knew that Raidriar would eventually try to destroy him. But he would not violate his oath. Raidriar was an arrogant, imperious tyrant—but he also held honor in high regard. He might believe humans were beneath him, but he saw lying as even farther beneath him.

Raidriar turned, looking up the rock cliff toward Isa. “Your woman is not taking this well.”

“It might have worked better if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Oh, no need to be bitter. I suspect she’ll come around. They find us difficult to resist.”

“That’s so casually insulting I’m not going to bother responding,” Siris said, looking at Raidriar. “What is our first move?”

“We will need to create a strike team of Deathless from among those mortals you trust, then we must reclaim the Weapon.”

“You’re sure the Soulless one has it?”

“Reasonably sure,” Raidriar said, shrugging. “Either that, or it is a trap. I doubt we will know the truth unless we try.” He twisted his sword in his hand, swinging it to the side. “The Soulless will think, to an extent, that it is me. The Worker will have neutered its ability to rule, but it will try anyway. And it will be able to fight.”

“As well as you?” Siris asked.

“Likely. It hasn’t been that long.”

“That long? How does that matter?”

“You really don’t . . . Of course you don’t. You insist on basking in the ignorance with which this latest incarnation has plagued you. Bah. It is nothing but a copy of me, using the residual pattern from one of my rebirthing chambers. Its Q.I.P. will be fragmented, incomplete. Manufactured. The Soulless will have some of my memories and most of my skills and inclinations. But it will degrade over time. They live ten years at most.”

“Hell take me,” Siris said. “You mean, one of us could be one of these things, and not even know it . . .”

“Don’t be daft, Ausar,” the God King said. “You’d know. I’d know. It will know. It may be trying to pretend otherwise, but deep down, it will know what it is. You aren’t Soulless; neither am I. The difference is obvious to those who know what to look for. That is why my copy will have gone into isolation from other Deathless.” Raidriar raised his sword, looking at it thoughtfully. “You’ll need to kill it and recover the Infinity Blade. That thing is an abomination of the worst kind.”

“Why me? Why not you?”

Raidriar slipped the sword into the sheath at his side, then turned his helmed gaze toward Siris. “I have always believed,” he said, “that when one has a task that needs to be accomplished, one seeks out the best tool for the job. Distasteful though it is to admit, I do not know of anyone better suited to this task than you.”

“Killing you,” Siris said, nodding. “This why you really came for me, isn’t it? You weren’t certain you could kill the copy yourself, so you sought out an expert.”

Raidriar did not respond. He folded his arms instead. “You agree that we need the Weapon?”

“To fight the Worker? Most certainly. And you’re right—I am the one to recover it.”

Raidriar nodded.

“But not with a strike team,” Siris said. “I’ll go alone.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. As you said, I am the right . . . tool for the job.”

Raidriar nodded.

“Aren’t you worried?” Siris asked. “What if I come back with the Blade and use it against you immediately?”

“It is a risk.”

“And?”

“Well, I am reasonably certain I can out-think you, old friend. But the Worker is a different story. If one of the two of you is to hold that weapon, I’d much prefer it be you. Besides, I suspect that once you have it, you’ll give it to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“We shall see,” Raidriar said, nodding to the side. Isa had begun to pick her way down from her perch. “I will make certain the rebirthing chamber is attuned to your Q.I.P. If you die facing my Soulless, we can rebuild you.”

“If your Soulless really has the Weapon,” Siris said, walking toward Isa, “then the rebirthing chamber won’t matter.” With that, he left Raidriar behind.

It’s too bad, a part of Siris thought, that there isn’t a good reason for Raidriar to go fight the Soulless. Seeing him die, skewered on the Infinity Blade while fighting a version of himself . . . How satisfying would that be?

He stopped in front of Isa, but she passed him by, walking toward the camp of soldiers.

“I forgave you,” Siris said, turning after her.

Isa stopped in place.

“Just after we first met,” Siris said, “You betrayed me and tried to kill me. I forgave you. Do I not deserve the same consideration?”

“The problem isn’t forgiving you, Siris.” Isa turned back and stepped up to him. “The problem is that I’m afraid you don’t need to be forgiven.”

“I should have told you what I was planning.”

“Yeah. Sure. I agree, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that I might have spent two years raising up a rebellion, only to give right back in to the Deathless.”

“You don’t—”

“He’s right. You’re right. They’re not just immortal, they’re near-invincible. It makes perfect sense. How do we fight them? We make our own Deathless. Ideal. Wonderful. We set up another aristocracy to replace the one before, and everything just continues on. New names, same rules . . .”

“It won’t be that way.”

“Can you promise that, Siris? Really?”

“I . . .” The Dark Self still lurked inside. “No. I can’t.” How he wished he could, but the truth was that he couldn’t even trust himself. He’d made an alliance with a monster—an honest monster, perhaps, but still a monster of the worst kind. Raidriar, the God King himself.

Isa sighed, then leaned against him. He hesitantly put his arm around her, then closed his eyes, breathing in her scent.

“I’m not built for this,” Isa said, head against his chest. “I keep trying to find an excuse to run off, hide in a tavern somewhere, and wait until everything blows over. And you . . . I worry you are built for this—and that’s more dangerous than anything else.”

“I know. I feel the same way.”

“Then what do we do?”

“For now?” Siris said, holding her. “This. We do this. Tomorrow, I will go to recover the Infinity Blade.”

“And then?”

“And then . . . then we try to save this land without ruining it any further than we have to.”

DEVIATION

THE EIGHTH

URIEL FOUND Mr. Galath on his way out of the building.

Just in time.

The chairman had two men carrying umbrellas for him. Galath was the type of man who would never have to fiddle with car doors. Someone always opened them for him.

Uriel didn’t bother to use an umbrella. He was already as wet as he could get, he figured. He crossed the parking lot in the rain. One of Mr. Galath’s bodyguards moved to intercept him, but the chairman stopped the man with a hand on the arm.

“Uriel?” Galath asked. “Good graces, man. What are you doing out here in this weather?”

“You have an opening in your new project,” Uriel said. His voice rasped as he spoke.

“My new project,” Galath said, voice monotone. “I don’t—”

“Sir,” one of the guards said, grabbing Uriel. The hulking brute had a face like a boulder. “There is blood on his shirt, sir.”

“Uriel, what have you done?” Galath demanded.

“Adram was unsuitable for your project, sir,” Uriel said. “I removed him from it.”

The bodyguard’s grip on Uriel grew tighter. Rain no longer hit him; it thrummed against the guard’s umbrella.

“I did not think you had this in you, Uriel,” Galath said at last.

“Adram spoke of . . . immortality,” Uriel said.

“He must have been delusional.”

“Am I also, then?” Uriel asked. “Hidden bunkers around the world, funded quietly through shell corporations of shell corporations. Secret facilities to build weapons. A war you’re intentionally precipitating.”

The guard moved to tow Uriel away.

“No, Gortoel,” the chairman said. “This is what we have been seeking. Wits and initiative. Perhaps I did not give you proper credit, Uriel. I had not thought to have many statisticians among the elite of my new world. Perhaps you have proved me wrong.”

“I accept your offer,” Uriel spat, “and reject it too.”

Galath frowned, cocking his head.

“I don’t want this gift for myself,” Uriel said. He glanced back at the too-red car, which he’d raced here with a body in the seat beside him. “I want it for my son.”

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

SIRIS STOPPED at the edge of the cliff overlooking his destination.

That same castle complex. The Soulless was here, of all places. Empty bridges spanning chasms, beautiful arches in the sunlight. The twisting tree out front, dry, as if dead for an eternity. Siris could smell the dungeons, hear chains rattle on the lift, feel the ground tremble from the felled daerils.

Was it a message? This place, so familiar. Here, he had killed the God King for the first time.

I died here too, he thought, fitting on his helm. Dozens of times, perhaps hundreds. He didn’t remember those deaths, each the end of a life lived as the Sacrifice—a boy raised to be sent to this palace to fight the God King.

The ruined wall, where enormous golems had attacked the throne room, still lay broken. In fact, the entire palace was as he remembered it from years ago. It almost seemed . . . homey, if a deathtrap designed to kill him could be called such.

Behind him, Terr helped TEL break down the camp. Siris had agreed, under pressure from both Isa and Raidriar, to bring Terr and the small construct with him, to help get him out if something went very wrong. In turn, however, he’d insisted that Isa remain behind. If this was a trap, then he didn’t want her caught in it as well. That would leave only Raidriar to lead the rebellion.

Siris kind of wanted to avoid that.

“Here, sir,” Terr said, handing over a small buttonlike device.

Siris took it, frowning at the balding man.

Terr cleared his throat. “It’s a—”

“Recording device,” Siris realized, the Dark Self filling in the holes. “It will create an aura around me that sends information back to you. We have magics like this?”

“Recovered in the latest infiltration, sir,” Terr said. “We didn’t know what it was until that priest told us. We’ll be able to watch you on a little mirror and see if you need help.”

If I need help, Terr, Siris thought, slipping the device into the small leather fold just inside his gauntlet, I severely doubt that a mortal like you will be of any help. He pulled on his gauntlets, completing his armor.

Nearby, TEL—made completely of rock this time—scrambled up.

“Remain here, TEL,” Siris said.

“But—”

“Here,” Siris said more firmly.

The small construct obeyed. From there, Siris trod a very familiar trail. Down from the cliff overlooking the God King’s palace, across the barren, packed death zone surrounding it, to the pathway leading toward the gates. The old palace lay decrepit, stone collapsed in places. Why would the Soulless come here? Why not someplace more grand?

On the pathway close to the palace, Siris found the first daeril. Dead.

Siris knelt beside the creature. It had been hacked to pieces with a sharp blade. He thought he recognized the beast from its orange-red skin, twisted too-long limbs, inhuman face. It was one of those who had greeted Siris when he’d come to this place years back, after defeating the God King.

But this creature was freshly dead; the blood was dry, the body cool, but rot had not yet set in. Wary, Siris picked his way across the ruined grounds.

He found more dead just beyond the gateway. An entire heap of trolls, mountainous beasts that he’d once assumed to be unintelligent—until he’d met one with an alarmingly strong wit. That troll had betrayed Siris, unfortunately.

He walked across the causeway and entered the grand hall. More dead daerils, and broken machines. A few chains hung down from the ceiling over a deep hole in the floor, remnants of the lift. It had been destroyed, apparently during the same battle that had killed the tower’s defenders.

With a sigh, Siris removed his gauntlets, stepped back, then dashed forward and jumped out over the void, catching one of the chains. He swung back and forth until the momentum ran out, then began to climb upward, toward the God King’s throne room.

ISA DRANK alone.

Contrary to what many would assume, she didn’t prefer to drink alone. She’d rather be out with the soldiers, enjoying their company. She liked people. Well, she liked listening to people. Analyzing them. She didn’t particularly like talking to them, but a woman could prefer being silent in the company of others, as opposed to drinking alone, couldn’t she?

You’d better not get yourself killed, Whiskers, she thought, taking a pull from her beer. She sat at a barlike shelf in the cavern of the God King’s hideout, waiting for contact from Siris.

“That is not a table,” said Eves, the stout Devoted, as he shuffled past her and checked on some wires. “That is a bank of very important, very holy equipment.”

“Yeah?” Isa said.

“Yes. And you’re drinking at it as if this were the bar of some tavern!”

“I’ll try not to spill,” Isa said, taking another pull on her drink.

The priest huffed and wandered away. Isa had watched him the entire day, including the point where—she was quite certain—he’d almost transformed himself into a Deathless. He’d primed the machine, set some input into the mirror, and stood facing it with sweat on his brow. Then he’d cursed and turned it all off before leaving to get some lunch.

Now he seemed to be fretting about other items. He eventually left to check on the men outside. He wouldn’t make himself Deathless unless permitted to do so by his god. Well, you have to admire his loyalty, she thought, taking another drink.

Wait. No you didn’t. The man was nearly as evil as his master, and culpable in his schemes and murders. That wasn’t loyalty to admire. She’d rather the man worshiped a rock than served the Deathless.

And I’ve basically delivered the rebellion to one of them. Damn. What did she think of Siris? No idea. Maybe the beer knew.

She took another drink.

“You pine for him.”

Isa spun, jumping from her stool, nearly throwing her mug toward the sound. The God King stood in the shadows back there, bare-chested, wearing the head of a jackal as some kind of illusion to hide his features.

She hadn’t seen or heard him enter. How long had he been there? Had he watched Eves consider making himself Deathless?

“You,” Isa said, “are one creepy bastard. You realize that?”

He stepped forward, watching her with eyes she could not see. “It is natural to be captivated by one of the Deathless. We are your gods, are we not? I would love to hear what you have spoken of when alone together, if only to judge what parts of his mortal upbringing he has adopted.”

“You think I’d tell you?”

“Of course not,” Raidriar said, walking over to her pitcher of beer. He sniffed at it, then—surprisingly—poured himself a mug. He raised it. “To our alliance.”

“Go suck on a rock.”

He drank anyway, the front of his illusory head engulfing the mug as he put it to his unseen lips. “I promise,” he said lightly, “that all in my lands will know freedom, prosperity, and ease for the next, say . . . thousand years. A mythologically appropriate number, wouldn’t you say?”

“What?”

“Before, when I first joined with Ausar, you insisted that you would keep fighting me. You said you would never turn the kingdom back over to me. Well, obviously, you are going to do just that. So I have decided it is time for benevolence to my people.” He sniffed, and wiped his hidden face with his hand. “After all, them hating their god was always just a means to an end, to ensure they kept sending the Sacrifices. I hardly need that anymore.”

“You think I’m going to just believe you? Accept that you’ve changed in an eyeblink? Become compassionate?”

“Changed?” Raidriar asked. “No, I have not changed. I am king and god to this people—I have always been both destroyer and life-giver. We do not change.” He inspected the bottom of his mug. “None save for Ausar. He is different. I have not yet decided fully if I find that remarkable or reprehensible.

“Regardless, child, human civilization goes in cycles. One cannot let them have prosperity for too long, or they will misuse it, destroying themselves and others. For this reason, they have been cast down—given humble roots, to inspire simple wholesomeness. Still, it has been a good long time since I have allowed a golden age, an age of discovery and wonder. I had been thinking of having one arrive soon; and for your rebellion, I have moved up the timetable.”

“Go suck on a rock,” she said again. “A muddy one.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Raidriar said. “I assume it’s a grander insult than it sounds. You really mean to keep fighting me?”

“Yes. We’ll rebel.”

He laughed. “Against what? Did you hear me? I’ll make the people free. You’ll lead my people to rebellion while those underneath the other Deathless are being beaten and oppressed? You will waste your time in the one place in the world where everyone will be fed and happy?”

“I . . .”

“I always keep my word,” Raidriar said. “You have won. Rebellion over. Freedom established. Congratulations.”

Isa felt nauseous. The problem was, he might be telling the truth. What would she do if he started treating everyone in his kingdom well, without any further need for bloodshed?

“With freedom proclaimed here,” Raidriar said, “with me becoming a benevolent god who grants technology and wonders, you could take your fighters to the other oppressive regimes. You could change the entire world, free hundreds of thousands. Or, I suppose, you could stay here to sputter and fight, becoming increasingly irrelevant as I bestow boon after boon.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I think you know I don’t really care,” Raidriar said. He set his empty mug on the equipment, then strolled toward the way out. “But don’t sound so surprised that I have bested you. I have been doing this for a very long time, child. Did you think, perhaps, I had learned nothing in those thousands of years?”

He left.

Isa stared at her mug, fuming. Heaven take that creature.

I can’t fight things like him, she thought, angry—though she wasn’t completely sure why. Angry that Raidriar had agreed to give his people freedom, wealth, and technology? Why should that make her so furious?

She turned, looking at the equipment behind her.

She had watched Eves set it up, then almost use it.

She had watched very, very closely.

Oh, hell, she thought, realization dawning.

IT WAS quite an undertaking in full armor, but he was Deathless, and his body worked at a constant peak of efficiency. He arrived cautiously, peeking over the lip of the floor toward the throne room.

It appeared to be empty. The throne hadn’t even been repaired from the attack that Siris had fended off here, so long ago. He heard the faint drip of water leaking somewhere. Raidriar insisted that the copy was here, in this palace somewhere. Could the God King be wrong?

Siris rocked on the chain, swinging back and forth until he could throw himself out over the small gap onto the floor of the throne room. He landed with a crash of clanking armor, but came up quickly and slipped his sword from its sheath with a leathery rasp.

He waited there, in a crouch, listening. He heard only that same dripping from before. That, and . . . muttering?

What in the name of the seven? Siris thought, and spared a moment of amusement that his instinct—given him by his upbringing—was still to curse by Raidriar and his Pantheon.

He crossed the throne room and found an open door at the back. He could swear this hadn’t been here before—but, then, the opening looked to be hidden in the stonework. Perhaps it had existed, but Siris hadn’t found it.

The muttering came from inside. Siris located the source of the dripping. Not water, but blood, dripping from the toe of a daeril who had been nailed to the wall with a spear through its chest.

Siris stepped through the door and into a room of silvery metal and wires. Raidriar sat here, with no helm, muttering to himself and tapping his finger against a mirror.

Hell take me . . . Siris thought. The Soulless wore hair that hadn’t seen a comb in far too long. Its clothing was soiled, and beside it sat a plate of what appeared to be fingers. It raised one of these to its lips, gnawing on the flesh and tapping at the screen.

“He’s going to end it,” the Soulless muttered. “Boom. Gone.”

The Infinity Blade lay in a heap of swords beside the doorway. Discarded as if it were junk. Did that mean the Blade was a fake? Siris slipped it from the pile, causing several swords to clank.

The Soulless twisted in its seat, his eyes wide, hands clawlike and rigid. Siris raised the Blade, falling into a battle stance.

The Soulless snorted. “Come to kill me? Ha! Joke’s on you. Just a copy. How stupid you look!”

“You do know, then,” Siris said.

“Yes, yes. Just a copy. Everything is a copy.”

Siris frowned. “You’re a Soulless.”

“Everything is Soulless!” The clone ran fingers through its hair. “Whole world. We thought we were playing chess with him, you see. We’ve all gotten very good at the game. We know all the rules. Problem is, he’s not playing chess. He’s playing solitaire!”

The Soulless’s mind, it appeared, had not lasted the ten years that Raidriar had said it would.

“Solitaire!” The Soulless put another severed finger into its mouth and chewed at the flesh. “Don’t you see? Different game entirely! Different pieces? We’re the pieces! We aren’t playing against him.”

“It is hard,” Siris said, lowering the Infinity Blade, “to realize you are not what you thought. I understand.”

“Wait.” The Soulless stopped laughing, then focused on him more directly. “Ausar?”

Siris nodded.

“I should probably kill you,” the Soulless said. Instead, it turned away from him back to his mirror, spitting out a fingerbone with the flesh chewed free. “It’s hard to decide. What is my allegiance? Do I resent my prime, the real Raidriar? Or do I wish him to survive, so at least one of us can. Of course, he’s a copy too . . .”

“A copy?”

“Not of anyone specific,” it said. “But this whole world is a copy, you see, just like me . . .”

“Why did you kill the daerils?” Siris asked, looking at the fallen fingerbone.

“Killed everyone. I couldn’t let them see my face, and my helm was getting stuffy. The fingers are disgusting, I realize, but I need to eat something. Stops those damn corpses from scratching the ground, too. Yes, I’m quite mad. Combined effects of an unstable Q.I.P. and an existential crisis, I suspect. Dagger?”

“What—”

The Soulless spun and lunged for Siris in a fluid motion, carrying a dagger, lips wide and bloodied from its gruesome meal.

Siris took a step forward and rammed the Infinity Blade into the copy’s chest. The poor creature’s knife skidded ineffectually across Siris’s armor. It might have once had Raidriar’s skill—the dead daerils indicated that was likely the case—but by this point, the copy had fallen too far to fight with any real skill.

The Infinity Blade flashed briefly. Not as it would for even a lesser Deathless, and the corpse slipped off the Blade.

Siris shook his head, stepping up to the mirror that the Soulless had been inspecting. He read in silence for a moment.

Then he gasped.

ISA RESTED her fingers on the machine.

This cursed machine . . . it was the source of everything wrong in the world. It was the source of them.

She almost went back to her drinking. She’d only had one mug so far, not enough to really even notice. Perhaps if she were more drunk, this decision would make more sense.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself, walking around the device.

She should destroy this machine. Stop Siris from being able to change any of her soldiers into abominations like he was.

But she didn’t. She stopped beside the control mirror instead and stared at it for a long, long time.

She wanted to fight them. She knew, deep down, there was only one way to do that. She’d rescued Siris because of that single fact—that without Deathless of their own, they had no chance.

It’s going to come to this, she thought. I can either make the decision myself, or I can be pushed into it.

That, in the end, was the deciding factor. She had always been, and always would be, the master of her own destiny. She would not let another make this choice for her.

She made it herself, and began working on the machine, pushing the buttons she’d memorized as Eves worked earlier in the day. It was time to become one of the things she hated most in the world.

She’d just have to see if she could live with herself after it was done.

DEVIATION

THE NINTH

“YOU ARE fortunate,” Galath said as his scientists prodded at Jori’s limp body. “He is not quite gone. His Q.I.P. can still be associated with this form.”

Uriel knelt beside the table. “You’re going to destroy the world.”

“The world will destroy itself,” Galath said. “It does this periodically. I simply intend to ride that wave of destruction, to shape what develops next.”

The room was dense with monitors, beeping equipment, and metallic surfaces. Galath had built one of his bunkers beneath the offices where Uriel had worked each day.

Uriel felt tired, drained completely, soaking wet. Was that really . . . really his son, there? That pale body, not breathing, even though the scientists spoke of him as if he were alive.

“Sir,” one of the scientists said. “We are ready. But . . .”

Galath glanced to them. “Speak.”

“A youth?” the scientist said. “Not even through puberty yet? Will this really aid our empire?”

“A youth,” Galath said. “With no preconceptions. Yes, this will be good. And I am not to be questioned.”

“Yes . . . Yes, sir.”

“You will make him a king,” Uriel said, still kneeling beside the table. He rested his hand on his son’s arm.

“Those who survive will all be kings,” Galath said. “And more. But I will not give it to him. Each will find his or her way.” He nodded to his people.

Uriel stepped back as the process began. Injections. Organ scans. Tissue embedding. Radiation. All made by devices he did not recognize and probably could not comprehend. And yet, despite the wonder of it all, he thought he heard Galath whisper, “So primitive . . .” as they worked.

At the end of it, the scientists withdrew, congratulating themselves. Galath moved to leave as well. Jori remained on the cold metal table. He still seemed dead to Uriel.

“I will not repeat the process for you,” Galath noted from the door. “His father living into immortality would only serve to hinder him. I will not have the gods of the new world running at the whims of their daddies.”

“I don’t care,” Uriel whispered. “Project Omega. It’s about much more than just the teleportation devices, isn’t it?”

“Obviously,” Galath said. “Now say goodbye. I want you out of my bunker in five minutes.” He closed the door, leaving them alone in the sterile room.

Jori stirred.

His breath catching, Uriel stepped up to the table. He took the boy’s hand in his own, and felt tears well up as Jori took a deep breath.

Jori opened his eyes. “Father?” the youth asked. Barely thirteen. How would he survive in a world of gods?

He will survive, Uriel thought. That is enough.

“Why are you crying?” Jori asked.

“Son, I am . . . sending you to glory.”

The boy started to look panicked. “Father?”

“The world is a broken, ruined place,” Uriel said. “I want you to make it better. Stop them from fighting, son. Take away their guns and their bombs. They don’t deserve what they’ve been given. Mankind had a chance to reach the stars—but all they did was use that abilty to cast down fire upon one another. Eyes always downward, never toward the lights above . . .”

“I’m scared,” Jori said.

“I know.” Uriel kissed him on the forehead. The only beautiful thing left in the world.

Uriel took off his wristwatch, including the datachips. “Take this. Look at the numbers. Understand them. Read what I have written. It is all you’ll have of me. Be a king, son. Be a king.”

“Father!” Jori said, taking the watch but reaching for him. He was still tied down, however, on the table.

Uriel walked from the room.

“Father!” Jori was weeping. So was Uriel. He passed Galath in the hall outside, speaking with one of the scientists. One of the guards moved to open the door for Uriel and escort him out.

“Where will you go?” Galath called after him, sounding genuinely curious.

Uriel looked back. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Galath said. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Uriel stepped out into the metallic hallway, rode the elevator up to the main floor, and let the guard shove him out into the rain again. He started walking.

And did not stop.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

ISA’S EYES didn’t itch.

She walked along the rocky shore near the God King’s hideout, in awe. Ever since she’d been a little girl, her eyes had itched in the spring. It was just something that happened to her. She’d learned to live with it. She hardly noticed it anymore.

Except now it was gone. In its place was energy. She no longer felt the muddled drowsiness that sometimes struck in late afternoon. She didn’t feel lethargic after sitting for a long time. She didn’t sneeze. Her nostrils, both of them, were perpetually unclogged.

Heaven above, she thought, holding her hand up before herself. This is ecstasy. Not a false ecstasy, like the buzz from something narcotic. No, this was a thrill for life, a sense of really living that she’d never known.

Being Deathless was about more than just not dying. She felt as if she could run a hundred miles and barely break a sweat.

Boots on the rocks. She spun to find the God King strolling nearby, wearing his stolen armor. He stopped, hands behind his back.

Damn him. He knew.

“We have been . . . summoned,” he said.

“What?”

“To the rebel village. Your man wishes you and me to meet him there.”

“The original plan was for him to meet us back here.”

“So it was. He won’t say why we are to return, only that we are.” The God King did not make a move to walk away.

“Well, I suppose we should be off, then,” she said, turning and walking toward the dock, where a commandeered ship waited. It could get them near to the village in under a day, and a few hours more of riding would bring them to the meeting point.

“Finding it hard to despise,” the God King asked, “that which blesses you so?”

She said nothing.

“You are better than them now,” he said. “These lesser beings.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, not looking at him as she walked past.

“Will you deny facts?” he asked, sounding amused. “Will you deny that you are superior? It is apparent what you are.”

“I have a stronger body,” she said, stopping. “That doesn’t make me superior.”

“And what does?” Raidriar asked. “Better understanding? Wisdom granted by eons of life? A perspective that no mortal can hope to understand.” He walked up beside her. “This is why we rule. It is simple, it is logical, and it is purposeful. Equality is a sham. There must be kings—so why not have them be men and women who are truly distinct—privileged not just by a fluke of birth, but by capacity, ability, and knowledge? Something to think on as you hate me.”

He walked on toward the ship.

SIRIS RODE his horse hard.

Harder than was wise. Harder than the beast would be able to take.

Hell take me, he thought. Oh, seven. Worker, no . . .

ISA AND the God King arrived at the village before Siris returned, so it seemed she would have to wait to discover the meaning of his cryptic message.

She walked among the people, returning their waves, but inside feeling a traitor. Not for what she’d done, but because of how much she enjoyed what she had become. Even food tasted better. She had slept soundly last night, and had woken wonderfully refreshed

At one point during the trip, she’d burned herself on the rope of the rigging. The wound had healed of its own avail within the hour. This was marvelous, this was wonderful.

And at the end of it all, guilty though she felt, at least one thing good came of it. She found that, finally, her grudge against Siris—and what he was—evaporated. She could not blame him for being Deathless.

If she got her way, everyone would know this wondrous state eventually. Now that she’d embraced it, she realized that was the only true answer to this mess.

Make everyone Deathless. Then, Raidriar’s arguments held no weight. Then, she would never need to feel guilty again. She hastened to the command center to tell Lux of the plan.

She made it halfway before the fire began to rain down from the heavens.

EXPLOSIONS ON the horizon.

“No!” Siris screamed. He ran, frantic, helpless—his horse dead on the steppes somewhere behind him. He’d long since outpaced Terr and TEL.

The ground shook. Light flashed in the evening darkness. Again and again.

Destruction.

Death.

He’d failed.

The rebellion was no more.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

SIRIS WALKED, head down, among the blasted ruins of what had once been the rebellion headquarters. Burned bodies lay scattered like fallen branches. The command center was a smoldering heap, not a single wall still standing.

The Worker had known. All along, he’d known. He’d sent machines across the sky to deliver death. Siris fell to his knees near where small bodies lay in a depression, where they’d tried to hide. The children . . . the children he’d played with . . .

The Dark Self stirred. Furious, it wanted to lash out. Siris screamed, stabbing the Infinity Blade down into the ground.

Why? Why hadn’t the people fled? He’d sent messages telling them that the Worker knew where they were! What had gone wrong?

Coughing.

Siris stumbled to his feet, pulling the Blade out of the ground and waving it in the darkness. Burning fires gave light to the armored figure who approached. The figure had lost most of its breastplate and was missing one arm, which ended in a burned stump.

Siris recognized that armor. But moreso, there were few beings who could walk so confidently after taking such terrible wounds.

“Raidriar,” Siris said, lowering his sword. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be back at the hideout?”

In a rare show of trust, the God King removed his helm, ripping it free with his remaining hand. The Dark Self thrashed inside of Siris. It recognized that face, identical to that of the Soulless he had killed shortly before.

“What happened?” Raidriar asked, dropping his helm, then wiping sweat from his brow.

“He knew,” Siris said. “At the palace, your Soulless . . . he was researching the Worker’s plots. He had found them, pulled them up on his screen. The latest was a strike that had been ordered on this very location.”

The God King cursed, stumbling closer. Siris tightened his grip on the Infinity Blade.

“Why are you here?” Siris demanded. What was going on? Isa? She would be back at the hideout, fortunately.

“Why am I here?” Raidriar said. “You summoned me!”

“I tried to send everyone away! My message was an alarm!”

“So he beat us in that, too,” Raidriar said. “He intercepted your communication, twisted it. Damn.” Raidriar glanced at the Infinity Blade, a veiled hunger in his eyes, but he didn’t reach for it. He walked over to a rise of broken earth and slumped down, back to it, breathing out.

Siris turned about, the numb feeling of loss returning. In his mind’s eye, he remembered these people cheering him, saluting him, looking upon him with awe. He’d failed them miserably.

“At least you have it,” Raidriar said. “The Weapon.”

Siris turned the Infinity Blade over in his hand. “He knew I was coming for it, Raidriar. The Worker . . . he knew everything. He even knew that your Soulless was infiltrating his systems.” Siris laughed, feeling as mad as the copy he’d just faced, and settled down on the ground. He pulled out a small mirror—a datapad—and tossed it to Raidriar.

The God King caught it with his single hand. He grunted, reading the illuminated screen.

Siris lay back, staring up at the sky. The only direction he could look and not see corpses.

He could still smell them burning, though. The Dark Self shook and growled. Siris barely kept it contained.

“He was wrong,” the God King said.

Siris sat up. “What do you mean? He knew about this, about the rebellion. He knew about Lux, had lists of our officers . . .”

“He thought you’d have an entire force of Deathless by now,” Raidriar said, holding up the pad. “It says here that this attack was in part meant to clog your rebirthing chamber, force you to spend weeks rebuilding your Deathless army.”

“A minor error,” Siris said with a sigh. “He was right about everything else.”

“It is important,” Raidriar said softly. “It means that he can be wrong.” He rubbed his finger along the outside of the mirror, as if it were some holy relic. “Unless this is some way of manipulating us as well. How to know . . . ?”

Siris groaned, climbing to his feet.

“And what are you going to do?” Raidriar asked.

“Keep looking for survivors.”

“You won’t find any,” Raidriar said, then pointed. “Though if you were going to, they’d probably be that direction. Near Isa’s body.”

Siris froze. “She came with you?” he screamed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

The God King didn’t reply.

No!

Siris came to himself cradling the burned corpse. He didn’t remember running to it. It was her. Oh . . . it was her. Enough remained of her face for him to make it out.

Raidriar walked up, armor clinking.

Siris hissed, the Dark Self squirming free. He dropped Isa and scrambled for Raidriar, picking up a blackened stone in his hand, the only weapon he could find.

Raidriar leveled the Infinity Blade, which he’d been carrying behind his back. “You dropped something.”

Siris stopped short. Even the Dark Self cowered.

Raidriar held its point to Siris’s chest for a moment, then lowered it. “I am going to go and kill him,” Raidriar said, voice cold. “The Worker goes too far. This wholesale slaughter of my people . . . the indifference he shows for rule. I will cut his heart from him with the Weapon he himself forged.”

“I get first chance at him,” Siris hissed.

“Have you ever fought the Worker?”

“Does it matter?” Siris demanded, stepping forward, clutching his rock.

“Get hold of yourself, Ausar,” Raidriar spat.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was . . .” Siris gasped in breath. “You held off. To bring me pain.”

Raidriar glanced at Isa’s corpse. “I held off to get information. I didn’t want you running off until I knew what had happened. Now . . . forgetting to tell you that she was Deathless . . . that I did to bring you pain.”

“Deathless?” Siris stammered. He spun on Isa’s body.

“She stepped into the Pinnacle of Sanctification before we came here,” Raidriar said. “Her body is new to being Deathless, however. It will take more time than usual to recover. The first times are hard, as you may remember—but no, of course. You do not.”

Siris knelt again beside Isa. Could it be true? Was Raidriar lying?

If Isa was Deathless . . .

Siris looked up, coming back to himself. The Dark Self retreated—it wasn’t pushed down, it merely retreated to smolder like the burning buildings around him. To plot.

Oh, how I hate you, he thought, looking at Raidriar.

Now in control of himself, the Dark Self and his own self working together, he remembered the little precaution he’d put into place. He tapped his finger against his palm and activated the teleportation ring.

The Infinity Blade vanished from Raidriar’s hand, instead appearing in Siris’s own grip.

“Ah, clever,” Raidriar said. “I should have inspected it for a teleportation ring.” He nodded. “This is good. If I should fall while fighting the Worker, you can summon the Weapon back to you, so he cannot have it. It might even save my life, depriving him of the Blade, should the duel turn against me.”

“You really think I’m just going to let you leave with it?” Siris snapped.

“Do you remember fighting him?” Raidriar challenged. “Do you know his favored blows, his techniques? He is a master duelist. He is a master at everything. Have you fought him, Ausar? Do you know how to defeat him?”

Siris hesitated.

“I have,” Raidriar said, soft, dangerous. “I have bested him in sparring matches, on occasion. You will give me that weapon for the same reason that I sent you to fight my Soulless—because in this case, I have the better chance of winning. And we cannot risk losing.”

“We could go together,” Siris said.

“With one Infinity Blade? It would be pointless. I will go. It is my place. And you . . . you should take that one back to the hideout and place her in the rebirthing chamber. She has no buds yet to return to, and the chamber will ease the difficulty of her first recovery. Her Q.I.P. remains in a fragile state. She will need you near her when she wakes.”

Siris took a deep breath. All around him burned the tattered remnants of Isa’s rebellion. If she still lived . . .

The Dark Self had an idea.

With a sigh, Siris rammed the Infinity Blade into the smoldering earth, then gestured.

Raidriar snatched it up eagerly. “It is well you brought the information you did. We know where to find the Worker, now. I will strike as soon as my arm is regrown.” He raised the Blade. “It feels so right in my hand . . .” He started to walk away.

Then he hesitated, turning back in the night. “Our ship is at the hidden dock in the southern cove. Use it. See to your woman. I . . . I will see the Worker dead. I will chop off his head and set it up on a pole, for all to revile. This has been a long time coming, for me, Ausar. Farewell. Try not to let anyone kill you while we are apart. I prefer to think of that as my personal privilege.”

He stalked out into the night.

The Dark Self stirred, pleased.

I don’t mind if the Worker kills you, Raidriar, Siris thought, gingerly lifting Isa’s body. I’ve had my fill of it. I just want you gone.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

IT DID not take Raidriar long to heal. He inspected his new arm as he rode his horse to the Worker’s bunker, a monolithic stone tower in the middle of a wide expanse of desert.

He was almost to the end. He stopped as he drew near, then unpacked something he’d tied to the back of the animal. Armor, his real armor, finished by Eves, who had met him on the way. The man had gathered several loyal Devoted out from under the Worker’s heel, and Raidriar had sent them on plots even Ausar didn’t know about.

Raidriar put on his armor. He would not go into this particular battle poorly equipped.

Curiously, he saw two daerils guarding the way in. Unusual for the Worker, who normally eschewed daerils in favor of Deathless guards. It seemed something just for Raidriar, a nod to the way he personally had always done things.

That made him even more angry. The Worker knew he was coming, and had set these beings out here for him to fight, as Raidriar himself had always done with the Sacrifice who came to fight him. A subtle message that the Worker knew he’d be coming.

Raidriar growled and stepped up to engage the first beast.

SIRIS ROCKED in the cabin of the ship, wood groaning softly, waves crashing softly outside. Isa lay wrapped in a sheet on her bed, lashed in place. She was healing, slowly. He’d met back up with TEL and Terr, who now guarded his door.

Siris raised a mirror before himself and engaged it. He was immediately rewarded with an image of the God King riding up to the Worker’s stronghold.

The remote viewing device. Siris had slipped it onto the Infinity Blade’s handle. Now, he would watch for the perfect chance. For there was one thing that had been on the Soulless’s datapad that he’d deleted. One thing that Raidriar hadn’t seen and didn’t know.

The Dark Self hummed softly. No, Siris hummed softly, in satisfaction.

The perfect trap.

RAIDRIAR KICKED a daeril off his sword. The dying creature tumbled down the stairs and slammed against the door at the bottom, throwing it open.

Breathing hard inside his helmet, Raidriar followed it down. The deadmind in his armor chirped a quiet bird whistle in his ear, informing him of a minor injection to boost his stamina. Oddly, as he stepped over the corpse, he found himself struggling to remember the name of the bird that had once made that song. One of his favorites, from long ago . . .

It was gone from his mind, lost to the thousands upon thousands of years it had been since his father had left him on that slab of metal. The bird species itself had been extinct for nearly as long, part of the price paid to bring about the era of the gods.

Raidriar entered the chamber. A throne room, after Deathless ways—but then again, also different. Where the Worker sat at the end, lofty and imposing, was a throne for certain. His seat lay on a large dais high above the room, with a long set of steps leading up to it.

But images hovered around him, screens projected into the air—a contrast to the throne. All those screens, powered by deadminds. Images tugged at the edges of Raidriar’s memory. Visions of another time, visions of his youth, when he had been called Jori. The person he had once been.

Huge windows rimmed the upper edges of the room, showing the desert vista outside. The Worker worked in his hub of light, helm on the chair beside him, looking so . . . human, with the light of the screen reflecting in his eyes. He looked old. Not ancient, but certainly middle-aged, with creases in his skin, silver in his hair.

Raidriar hated how human they all looked, once the masks were gone.

“Worker!” he bellowed, crossing the floor of the chamber.

The Worker didn’t look at him.

“I have escaped your prison, Worker! I am here for you.”

“You are such an interesting specimen, Raidriar,” the Worker said, still watching his screens. He spoke softly, as he often did, though his voice always seemed to carry. That voice . . . it pierced. “Do you realize that? You are like a rare butterfly, whose patterns take generations of breeding to perfect.”

“I am not here for word games, Ancient,” Raidriar spat. “You will face me. We will end this.” He raised the Infinity Blade, pointing it at his ancient enemy. The man once named Galath, the one who had given him immortality.

The Worker smiled. “You see? That is what makes you so wonderful! The others, they never really bought in. It’s an act to them. When they put aside the masks, they put aside the god. But you . . . you believe.” He hesitated. “Of course, it does make you damn pretentious on occasion.”

The Worker raised a hand, and a column of light split the ground. A pillar rose, releasing a series of daerils.

“More minions?” Raidriar demanded. “This is pointless. Face me yourself and know my fury!”

“Do you listen to yourself, Raidriar?” the Worker said, amused. “You really are something special.” He turned back to his screens, tapping away at a set of figures. Most of the screens were in motion. Deadminds executing commands. He was working on something big. Something important.

Raidriar didn’t have time to look over much before engaging the first of the daerils. The fight was not terribly difficult. Yes, the creature had been created well, but it could not match the God King, fully armored, with the Infinity Blade in his hands. He dispatched the beast, leaving it to twitch its final moments on the floor.

“A waste,” Raidriar said, shaking his head. “Such a fine creation, slain for no reason.”

“I agree,” the Worker said from above. “It will be a shame to see you dead.”

Raidriar snorted. “Do not play your games with me, Worker. Your life is mine, and I have come to claim it.”

“You see?” the Worker said, tapping on his screen, then moving to the next one. “There you go again. Once in a while, I create something truly remarkable. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

“I am not one of your pawns, Worker.”

The man on the throne above hesitated, then turned. “You really do believe that, don’t you, Raidriar?”

“It is the truth.”

The Worker grinned broadly. “Wonderful.”

“I came to you as a child,” Raidriar said. “I am not some daeril plaything, crafted from the flayed souls of men. I am—”

“—your doom,” the Worker said. “Yes, yes.”

Raidriar hesitated. That had actually been what he’d been about to say. A—

“—fortuitous guess on the Worker’s part,” the Worker said.

Can he . . . read my mind somehow?

“No, I can’t read your mind, Raidriar,” the Worker said. “Let’s just say I’ve known a few versions of your personality subtype before.”

“I was born, not created!”

“Oh?” the Worker asked. “And there was no interference between your birth and now? No changes made to your Q.I.P. to grant . . . say . . . functional immortality?”

Control, Raidriar told himself. Retain control. He is playing with you. Ausar imprisoned him for a thousand years in the Vault of Tears. If he could read everyone as perfectly as he pretends, that would never have happened.

“Well, fight your way past my guardians,” the Worker said, going back to his typing on the projected screens. “Then we’ll be on with our climactic final duel, or whatever you want to call it.”

So, what trap would the Worker have laid for him? Raidriar approached the throne hesitantly, noting a figure sitting beside the stone stairwell that led to the throne.

The figure wore gold armor, helm on the steps beside him. The face looked . . . beleaguered. A mop of brown hair, too-thin features.

Eyes that had seen eternity.

“Ashimar,” Raidriar said, using the being’s Deathless name. Once, this creature had been known by another name, however. An ancient name. Jarred.

“Jori,” Ashimar replied. He sounded tired.

“So,” Raidriar said, stopping before the steps. “He pits us against each other. Another of his games.”

Ashimar nodded.

“I have not forgotten the kindness you showed me,” Raidriar said, “when I was young. The stories of my father you shared, memories I needed before I truly came to my strength. For that, I will spare you. Lay down your weapon and leave this place.”

“He’s only going to take one with him,” Ashimar said softly, rising. “A seed, he calls it. Me or you. His favorite pets. Everything else will be . . . gone.”

“What are you talking about?” Raidriar snapped.

“You can’t fight him, Jori,” Ashimar said, sighing. “He knows too much. Everything we do is but a string he has pulled.”

“And this?” Raidriar asked, raising the Infinity Blade toward the steps and throne. “I hold the only weapon that can destroy him. It was a mistake to give this back. He is capable of making mistakes.”

Ashimar looked up, meeting Raidriar’s eyes. Then the Deathless stood and pulled a sword from its sheath at his side.

An Infinity Blade.

ANOTHER INFINITY Blade.

Outside Siris’s cabin, the sky rumbled with distant thunder. The ship rocked back and forth, and he smiled. Then, he took out the small ring of teleportation. He could summon the Infinity Blade back in a heartbeat, leaving Raidriar unarmed and facing a weapon that could kill him for good.

The perfect betrayal. Vengeance, at long last. A conclusion to what he had been built to do, what he had been trained to do.

Defeat the God King.

He moved to activate the ring . . . but found himself hesitating.

On the screen, the fight began.

RAIDRIAR WAS not stunned to see a new Infinity Blade. He could not afford to be stunned. Lesser beings let surprises destroy them. Not him.

It could only mean one of three things. Ashimar’s Blade was a fake. Raidriar’s Blade was a fake.

Or the Worker had created more Infinity Blades.

You are a fool, Worker, he thought. A duel would solve this problem. He would need a Deathless soul to feed to his Blade to test it, and that meant he could no longer allow Ashimar to leave. A pity.

“I am sorry, old friend,” Raidriar said, entering a dueling stance.

“I am not,” Ashimar said, putting on his helm. “I can’t let myself die. Curse me, even still, I cling to life . . . I can barely remember the old days. The good days.”

The old days, good days? Perhaps putting poor Ashimar down would be an act of mercy.

Raidriar attacked.

Ashimar stood on the steps leading up to the throne’s dais, and that high ground should have given him the advantage. But his attacks were sluggish. Raidriar easily forced him up the stairs, using his shield like a bludgeon, keeping his opponent’s Infinity Blade away. He did not plan to test its authenticity with his own blood.

SIRIS WATCHED the fight.

Inside of him, another fight raged, more powerful. So strong, he could barely focus on the screen.

Betray Raidriar or not?

This monster had killed him hundreds of times. Siris could have the perfect revenge now. If he took the Blade at just the right moment, in the instant when Raidriar tried to parry, this enemy’s weapon would find Raidriar’s soul.

It would end him forever. Raidriar deserved it. He truly did.

And yet . . .

He didn’t kill me when he had the chance, Siris thought. He believes in honor. He’s a tyrant, a murderer. But he’s an honest one.

Could Siris really do this? The Dark Self wanted to lash out, wanted to see his ancient foe defeated.

The man that Siris had become fought back, clinging to his morality by his fingernails.

RAIDRIAR FORCED Ashimar up the last few steps and onto the dais above, then came in like a tempest. Raidriar threw aside his shield and attacked with overhand blows in rapid succession.

Ashimar was Deathless, and he was skilled, but Raidriar was among the best. Only one man had beaten him in recent times.

Ashimar floundered, dropping to the floor of the dais. He lunged in a desperate maneuver.

Raidriar moved to batter the weapon aside.

SWEAT SLICK on his brow, Siris watched.

The moment came.

And to his sorrow, to his shame, he activated the button and betrayed the God King.

Nothing happened.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

SOMETHING CHIRPED in Raidriar’s helm—the chip that Ausar had embedded into his weapon, the one that would have teleported it away, had been activated. Raidriar had removed it, of course.

So, you decided betray me after all, Raidriar thought, surprised as he continued his swing and battered aside Ashimar’s weapon.

Raidriar’s blow threw the weapon from Ashimar’s hand. It clanged to the floor of the dais, skidding away, toward where the Worker sat, engaged by his screens.

Raidriar’s enemy slumped down, defeated.

Ah, Ausar, Raidriar thought. That move with the teleportation ring was clever. Just not clever enough. He activated his armor’s personal interference shield, as he knew that Siris would be watching remotely. That would inhibit the image, make it so that his old friend could no longer watch.

Raidriar should be angry at Ausar. Instead, he was impressed. That would have been a wonderful betrayal. Treachery worthy of the highest Deathless.

He still hated Ausar, of course. Deeply. But that didn’t matter right now. Secure that Ausar could no longer watch, he knelt and grabbed Ashimar by the throat, lifting him.

“Thank . . . you . . .” Ashimar whispered.

Raidriar nodded solemnly. “Goodbye, my friend.”

And with that he slammed the Infinity Blade into Ashimar’s chest. The proper flash of light followed, indicating the severing of the immortal bond, the end of a life thought endless. When Raidriar dropped the husk he knew that the Weapon he held was no fake.

SIRIS SAT back, his mirror greyed out.

He’d been outmaneuvered. Not just politically and technologically, but morally as well.

What have I done? he thought.

The Dark Self seethed.

I hate you, Siris realized. Even if you make me strong, I hate you. Far more than I hate him.

There was nothing to be done about it. For now, he admitted defeat.

He was the Dark Self.

RAIDRIAR PICKED up Ashimar’s weapon. It was, to Raidriar’s eyes, identical to the Infinity Blade he held.

“Why?” he called to the Worker, who was still tapping on the screens projected around his throne. Raidriar was only a few steps away by now.

“To occupy them,” he said. “And to make certain I could replicate the device.”

“Foolish,” Raidriar said, striding forward. “That gives them a chance to destroy you. You ignore too much. Even if I do not defeat you, someone will. They will raise empires to rival you.”

The Worker turned to him, then slowly shook his head. “You still haven’t figured it out, I see.”

Raidriar prowled forward, glancing at the screens around the Worker, which were now close enough for him to make out. Schematics of the world, each continent outlined, and . . . satellites in the skies? Launch trajectories?

Another war? No . . . this was more extensive than that.

“Did you know,” the Worker said conversationally, “that there are actually two ways to kill a Deathless? I’ve known of the first for ages. It requires leaving the soul with no place to hide, no body to restore.”

“Impossible,” Raidriar said. “Even if you destroyed all of the rebirthing chambers, the soul would return to the original body and heal it.”

“Not if there is nothing left to heal.”

Raidriar saw it, then. Full orbital bombardment. Laying waste to the entire world, reducing it to ash and slag. Extinction of all life.

“No . . .” Raidriar whispered.

“I hate to do it,” the Worker said. “I will have to live offworld for centuries while the planet recovers. But occasionally, a resurrection is needed—a cleansing. What did you once tell me?” The Worker smiled. “That men must be cast down on occasion, or they will grow too high-minded? That goes for Deathless too.”

“Not this,” Raidriar said, looking at one of the screens with dread. “Everyone . . . everything. You go too far, Galath! I will not allow this. These are my people, and I am their king. I will not allow—”

“Allow?” the Worker said, amused. “Who are you to allow anything, Jori?”

Raidriar turned to face him, then fell into a dueling stance, wary for traps. Before him, screens displayed a multitude of plots. Images of the satellites that would vaporize all life. Views of the various places where Deathless fought one another, struggling for supremacy, never realizing that their creator had already deemed them obsolete.

He fought down the terrible, nauseating horror of it. He was a king, and he would not allow emotion to cloud what he needed to do.

He would stop this. And then, each and every Deathless on the planet would owe Raidriar their lives. He would make certain they knew of that debt.

“Still assuming you’re going to be able to kill me, Raidriar?” the Worker said, sounding amused. He stood up, passing through his screens, to a small workstation near the throne. The desk was scattered with bits of ancient technology.

He paid Raidriar little heed, taking out a datapod and laying it on his desk, opening up files.

Raidriar vaguely remembered datapods. His father had used one to transfer information between electronic surfaces. He’d carried his life about on the thing. Raidriar had once been very jealous of that datapod his father carried in his watch. And then the man had given up immortality for him.

Be a king, son . . .

“But, of course,” the Worker said, “I know that you aren’t yet convinced. I know you too well to assume otherwise.” He sighed. “Well then, come on over. I believe I owe you a duel.”

Raidriar growled, striding up to the monster. The Worker tapped a few times on his desk screen. “This really is a waste of time.”

Raidriar stabbed him through the chest with the Infinity Blade.

“Are you quite done?” the Worker asked, the Weapon still poking through his chest. “I have a lot I need to be doing.”

No flash of light. No disjunction of the Q.I.P.

“It’s a fake after all?” Raidriar whispered.

“Hardly,” the Worker said. “Do you really think I would build a weapon that could destroy me?” He pinched the Blade between two fingers, then grunted and pulled himself off it. There was no blood.

Raidriar raised the Weapon for another swing.

“What are you going to do?” the Worker asked, settling down into the chair at his workstation. “Chop off my head? When you parted with Ausar, didn’t you say something about that? That you’d display my severed head for all to regard? You realize I’d grow my head back faster than you could hack it off.”

Raidriar hesitated.

“Right now, you’re wondering if I have bugged you, to listen in on things you’ve been saying.” The Worker paused. “No. And now you’re wondering if Ausar contacted me after you left—you wonder if he was a spy all along. Neither is true, Jori. The truth is simply that I know you, and can pick out exactly what you’ll say. I know everything.”

“Lies.”

“So stubborn. Tell me, how is your backup kingdom?”

He can’t possibly know . . .

“You know, the one you have stashed away in South Alithenia somewhere. I haven’t bothered to look, but I’d guess . . . where, Eropima? A small kingdom, dedicated only to you—though they’d call you by a different name. None of your Devoted know of it, of course. You only travel there by being reborn, so nobody can trace you. You keep it just in case, a place to rebuild. And you’ve never spoken of it to a soul, nor have you written down knowledge of it.”

Raidriar stumbled backward.

“Shall I keep going?” the Worker asked. “Before you came here, you sent your Devoted in three different directions. One to recover the Infinity Blade—which I assume you have set up to be teleported away in case you should fall. Another you sent on a fool’s errand to disguise your trail and confuse your enemies. The third you sent to assassinate the other clone of you that I created as backup to rule your kingdom.”

Shock. Surprise. He was a god! He should not be so predictable. So readable. How . . .

The Worker leaned forward. “I know everything, Jori. When you were but a child, I had already lived ten thousand lives.” He smiled. “Go ahead, ask me a question. Anything you wish.”

A question. “How . . .” Raidriar gulped. Then it came to him. “If you are all-powerful, then how did you let yourself get trapped in a prison for a thousand years?”

The Worker tapped a finger on the screen of his desk. Then he leaped to his feet, an Infinity Blade appearing in his fist in a flash of light. He struck at Raidriar, who barely got his weapon up in time to defend.

“It was Ausar, wasn’t it?” Raidriar demanded, backing away.

“He is an . . . anomaly,” the Worker growled.

Ausar.

The data they’d recovered . . . it showed that the Worker had projected that Ausar would create a Deathless army, but he had not. The Worker did not know about their hideout, otherwise he would have bombed that too. Ausar had chosen to put the resurrection chamber there, instead of elsewhere.

“You may have lived thousands of lives,” Raidriar said, dancing backward, “but you don’t know everything. You merely know almost everything. You didn’t expect his betrayal.”

“I didn’t expect the timing of it,” the Worker said, advancing.

“He frightens you. You cannot anticipate him like you do others. Instead of imprisoning him, you made a child of him, wiping his memories. Or did he do that to himself? Either way, he transformed during those years—transformed into something far more dangerous than what he had been. Someone different from anything you’d seen before.”

The Worker attacked.

Raidriar fought.

But he was outmatched.

The Worker was good, so good, with the sword. Before him, Raidriar finally saw himself as he was—a babe. He danced around his enemy, moving backward across the dais, trying to fight. He was one of the most skilled swordsmen who had ever lived, but the Worker . . . the Worker had no trouble.

Raidriar fought anyway. He fought with everything he had, and in the end, none of it mattered—for the Worker had battered the Weapon from Raidriar’s hand. It flew away, scraping against the floor.

The Worker slammed his shoulder against Raidriar, who fell back against the workstation behind him. The Worker grabbed his helm and pulled it free, tossing it away. Then, the creature leveled the Infinity Blade at Raidriar, the point touching his nose.

“I,” the Worker said, “am true divinity. I am the father of nations, peoples, and gods. Everything that exists on this planet exists by my forbearance. I am the thing you merely pretend to be. And you can never defeat me.”

Raidriar believed him. Looking into the depths of this creature’s eyes, he understood. Everything he had done or tried, the man he had once known as Galath could anticipate.

“Now,” the Worker said, lowering his Blade. “Now you understand, and now you take your place. You are mine, and you always have been. We are going to cleanse this planet and start anew. I need a few to serve beneath me. You will take this opportunity, and you will savor it, Raidriar. Tell me of my mercy. Beg me to let you live.”

The words bubbled to his lips, but he did not speak them. So many people would die . . .

What were they to him? Worms? Insects? He should take this chance, as he always had. The chance to live, to struggle on another day. Perhaps get his vengeance.

The world is a broken, ruined place . . . Whispers from another time. Another world. Make it better. Make it better . . .

Be a king, son.

He looked up and met the Worker’s eyes. “I cannot defeat you,” Raidriar whispered. “I don’t have to. For I know who can.”

He twisted, grabbing something on the desk. The datapod, filled with the Worker’s plans and mysteries. Then, as the Worker roared, he turned and threw himself off the dais with the throne, tumbling past the steps.

He cradled the datapod, grunting as his body crashed to the ground, bones breaking. The Worker shouted, scrambling around the desk, running for the steps.

He should have jumped.

Raidriar disengaged his armor’s disruption field.

THE MIRROR on the table in Siris’s cabin winked on.

Siris looked up, straightening from his slumped posture. Raidriar lay chest-down on the shiny, metallic floor of the Worker’s base. His helm had been removed, and he was bleeding from the corner of one lip.

“Ausar,” Raidriar said, fiddling with something in his gauntlets. “I’m going to send you something. I have my own teleportation ring. You need to find it.”

He held something before him. A datapod he struggled to attach the ring to.

“I cannot explain,” Raidriar said. “I haven’t the time. All is soon to be lost. Everything. You have to stop him. You can stop him.”

Siris picked up the mirror. Behind Raidriar, he could make out someone barreling down a set of steps. The Worker, carrying an Infinity Blade.

The datapod flashed in Raidriar’s hands.

The Worker bellowed in rage.

“I trust you can find it,” Raidriar whispered. “Think, and you will know where it is. Get there before him—it has information you will need to beat him. Once you have it, you will need to find him—he will go into hiding after this, as is his way.

“Know that he can be wrong, Ausar. Even about me. He thought I’d betray my people, leave them to die. But he was wrong, so wrong. I will do my duty.” Raidriar smiled. “For I am a king.”

THE WORKER ran up, howling.

Raidriar turned on him and smiled.

The Worker rammed his Infinity Blade down into Raidriar’s chest, yelling obscenities.

Raidriar’s last emotion was pleasure. He could surprise the creature after all.

A king.

He looked upward, smiling toward the light, as the Blade sent him into the infinite.

EPILOGUE

“HELL TAKE me,” Siris whispered, rocking in the ship.

On his mirror, Raidriar died the final death, killed in a flash of light.

Gone.

Impossible, Siris thought. Not that Raidriar had died. But that he . . . the creature that Siris had been born to fight, the oppressor and tyrant . . .

That man had sacrificed himself.

Oh, hell, Siris thought, slumping backward. I tried to betray him, and he sacrificed himself. I was the villain. And Raidriar . . . Raidriar just became a hero.

The Dark Self stirred.

“No,” Siris said. “I don’t have to be you.”

It shook within him, writhing to break out.

“No,” Siris said. “No.”

It thrashed and struggled, like a trapped rat. Siris clamped down on it and squeezed until . . .

Until it was no more.

He stood on shaky legs and looked at Isa, slowly healing on the bed. He left the cabin, passing TEL at the doorway. Siris walked up onto the deck, each footfall stronger than the one before. In the distance behind, rain fell over the ocean. But ahead . . . ahead was light.

Siris turned away from the storm and walked to the prow of the ship. The Sacrifice was complete. His ancient purpose, to defeat Raidriar, was no more.

And in the end, they had fulfilled one another’s roles, to an extent. He felt guilty, but soon found even that emotion evaporating. Replaced by awe.

If a man like Raidriar could be a hero, what did it mean for Siris?

It meant freedom.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONCE AGAIN, this story exists because of the folks at ChAIR Entertainment who have allowed me to take the Infinity Blade world for one more ride. Working with Donald and Geremy Mustard on the books and the games has given the gamer in me a chance to geek out in a new way, and for that I thank them.

Laura Mustard is a publicity and marketing genius. My assistant, the infinite Peter Ahlstrom, stepped up to the plate and once again went beyond the call of duty. Adam Ford and Donald Mustard knocked out another brilliant cover, and Calum Watt's interior illustrations added another great multimedia aspect to this project. Finally, many thanks to my editor Simon Hurley, the super-talented team at ChAIR, and everyone at Epic Games.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you will continue to follow the future of the Infinity Blade world.

Brandon

ALSO BY

BRANDON

SANDERSON

NOVELETTES

Firstborn

Defending Elysium

NOVELLAS

Infinity Blade: Awakening

Legion

The Emperor’s Soul

NOVELS

Elantris

Warbreaker

The Rithmatist

Steelheart

ALCATRAZ

Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians

Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener’s Bones

Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

Alcatraz Versus the Shattered Lens

MISTBORN

Mistborn: The Final Empire

The Well of Ascension

The Hero of Ages

The Alloy of Law

THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE

The Way of Kings

Words of Radiance

THE WHEEL OF TIME, WITH ROBERT JORDAN

The Gathering Storm

Towers of Midnight

A Memory of Light

OTHER INFINITY BLADE WORKS BY BRANDON SANDERSON

AWARD-WINNING INFINITY BLADE GAMES FROM CHAIR ENTERTAINMENT

INFINITY BLADE

INFINITY BLADE II

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

INFINITY BLADE: REDEMPTION

Copyright © 2013 by Chair Entertainment Group, LLC

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Adam Ford and Donald Mustard

Interior illustrations by Calum Watt

Edited by Peter Ahlstrom, Simon Hurley, Geremy Mustard, and Donald Mustard

A ChAIR Book

Published by ChAIR Entertainment Group, LLC

10813 S River Front Pkwy, Suite #350

Salt Lake City, UT 84103

www.chairentertainment.com

ISBN 978-0-9839430-2-0

CONTENTS

Title Page

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Deviation the First

Chapter Two

Deviation the Second

Chapter Three

Deviation the Third

Chapter Four

Part Two

Deviation the Fourth

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Deviation the Fifth

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Deviation the Sixth

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Deviation the Seventh

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Three

Chapter Fourteen

Deviation the Eighth

Chapter Fifteen

Deviation the Ninth

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments