“Shut up,” Isa said.
“Oh.”
“I’m aware that you don’t need to do as I ask,” Siris said, strapping on his left forearm guard. “But you’re in no condition to fight.”
“I thought I was here to help.”
“But not to interfere,” Siris said. “These battles are one on one. I won’t have you joining. My honor won’t allow it.” He met her eyes to let her know he was serious.
He didn’t get an eye roll, as he’d been expecting. She did lean down from horseback and rest her hand on his shoulder. “If you do fall, I might be able to get you out before they finish you.”
“You wouldn’t be fast enough,” he said. “The Aegis Forms all include finishing strikes. These are duels to the death. It’s not about mercy or ruthlessness; it’s just how things are done. If I fall, I die.”
“And the blade . . .”
“Fighting won’t get it for you,” Siris said. “If they recognize it for what it is, you’d just get yourself killed trying to grab it. If they don’t, it will be much easier for you to take by slipping in quietly.”
“All right,” she said, though she didn’t seem pleased about it.
“TEL,” Siris said. “I need to rest for a bit before attempting this. I need my cloak, also.”
“Your . . . cloak?”
“I left it at the camp, I’m afraid.”
The golem fidgeted. He probably realized that Siris had left the cloak intentionally. It was time to see how far he could push the creature’s subservience.
“You’ll wait until I return?” TEL asked.
“Of course.”
Two conflicting commands, Siris thought, but an implication that he can follow both. What will he do?
The golem left, muttering to himself. “Oh, not good. This is not good. Not good at all . . .”
Isa watched him go, then turned back and raised an eyebrow at Siris as he finished putting on his armor. “You think that will work?”
“If it doesn’t, I haven’t really lost anything. But I don’t trust that thing, and I’d rather it be gone while I do this.”
He unsheathed the Infinity Blade, then tossed the sheath aside before attaching the transportation disc to the hilt of the blade. This time, if he dropped it, he’d be able to get it back with speed.
He pulled on his helm. He breathed the stuffy air inside the metal shell.
“Siris?” Isa said.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll try to sneak in after you. I’ll be watching. Maybe if something goes wrong, I can . . .”
“Don’t get yourself killed, Isa.”
She smiled wanly. “I’ll promise that if you’ll do the same.”
“It’s a deal, then,” he said. He did up the final straps at the side of his breastplate, then pulled on his gauntlets and nodded toward her. “Wish me luck?”
She shook her head. “The Deathless have all the luck, whiskers. They always have. You don’t need luck. You need obstinance, belligerence, and a bit of selective stupidity.”
“Selective stupidity. Yes . . . that sounds like me.” He marched out of the woods, armor clanking, toward a serene pathway of moss and overgrown stones. A daeril guard stood there, slender and lithe.
Siris held his blade up in the posture of one requesting a formal duel. The monster fell into a familiar stance, causing Siris to release a breath of relief. This was familiar. This was where he excelled. He stepped up.
The duel began.
Siris yanked his sword free of the chest of the last of the guards, dropping the beast like the others before him.
Siris breathed in and out inside his helm for a moment, then stepped from the pathway out into the open gardens. The sky was dark with gloom and melancholy. It had begun to drizzle again.
For a time, he’d managed to forget all else-all but the duels. He cherished that focus. During such moments, he didn’t worry or wonder. He could fight and seek the solace of a spinning blade, a shield turning aside attacks.
The open-sided building was just ahead. It was a thing of beauty, with ornate carvings and subtle colors, set in a garden with bridges spanning ponds and slow streams. He’d never before realized that a building could be a work of art.
“I seek the champion of Saydhi,” Siris called. “I have come for my boon.”
“A little early to be making demands, warrior,” a feminine voice said from the building. He could see someone sitting in the shadows there, in a cushioned chair. A larger figure stood beside the chair. It began moving, stepping out into the dampened sunlight.
The champion was a hulking brute who was almost big enough to be a troll. He might have been human beneath that evil silver mask, or he might have been a daeril. Either way, he wore little armor, leaving his thick chest-bulging with both fat and muscle-bare.
Siris raised his blade. The champion raised a huge machete-like sword and leaped down the steps, shaking the building as he landed.
Time for the real challenge, Siris thought.
The champion started immediately. Three quick blows, forcing Siris back.
Insolent grub, Siris thought. They use our fighting forms, but they are not worthy.
Siris attacked into the creature, moving by instinct, with a barrage of blows.
We shouldn’t give them privileged positions. Raidriar was a fool. Saydhi is a fool. Choosing “champions” like this encourages these grubs to think themselves special.
Siris battered aside the champion’s weapon, then slid the Infinity Blade forward. The skin split like water parting before a slimfish. Siris pushed the blade in up almost to its hilt, then whipped it out, spinning it around back to the ready position.
Pathetic.
The champion collapsed without a grunt, bleeding out on the pathway. Siris brushed past the dying creature.
“Impressive,” said the woman under the pavilion, her voice curious. “Who taught you the Aegis Forms, warrior?”
He could see her better now, a slim woman with a golden mask, hiding her face after the way of the Deathless and their servants. Her armor gleamed with gold and straps of black leather.
“I have come for my boon,” Siris said harshly, trying to control the tempest within him. His calmness was gone. Those Dark Thoughts-they seemed like they’d consume him. “I wish a question answered.”
“Something so . . . pedestrian?” she said, rising and walking around him in a circle. Inspecting him. “You could be my new champion. You could duel my challengers, slay them, find glory in battle. And, of course, there would be other rewards. Riches, women, power. I treat my champions well.”
“A question.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “What great mystery does your small mind ponder?”
“Where can I find the prison that holds the Worker of Secrets?”
The woman froze, her armor clinking faintly. She looked toward him, eyes narrowing. “Whose child are you? Which immortal’s blood do you have in your veins?”
“Answer my question.”
“The Vault of Tears,” she said. “The place once known as Saranthia. Take a ship due west until you strike land, then climb the mountains to the north. You could find him there.” Her eyes flickered toward Siris’s hand.
The sword. She recognizes it.
“But you won’t,” she added, raising an arm.
Siris raised his shield to parry the knife he assumed would be thrown. Saydhi’s hand instead let loose a jet of fire.
Even behind the shield, the heat was nearly overwhelming. Siris felt as if he was going to suffocate within his armor, and his shield didn’t completely block the flames. The metal on his side grew so hot it scorched his skin. He stumbled backward, turning his head and gasping for fresh air.
The flames stopped and he turned back toward her, his shield steaming. He forced himself to raise his sword and made the sign of one offering a challenge, after the ancient ideal.
She lowered her hand, and he thought he caught a sign of guilt in her posture. She removed a tall, slender pole from its place beside her throne. The weapon had a long, golden blade affixed to one end.