“Huh,” she said, thoughtful.
“What?”
“Did the guards ever use the rings against you?” she asked. “To heal themselves?”
“No,” he said. “Actually, they didn’t.” He considered for a moment. “Usually when I found one, it was hung by a strap around their neck, or kept in their pouch. That makes sense for the trolls, who couldn’t fit them on their fingers. But a few of the guards I fought were ordinary men, knights or Devoted who served the God King.”
“Maybe they didn’t know how to work them.”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Siris said, holding up a hand, looking at the ring. “I just kind of . . . did it, naturally. Most of the rings stopped working after I killed the God King, though.”
Isa frowned.
“You know something, don’t you?” Siris said.
“No.”
He eyed her.
“I know many things,” she said, haughtily sitting atop her saddle. “I know how to get anywhere. I know that you walk like a soldier—with a gait I’ve seen from men who have trained in the military for decades—yet you can’t possibly have that kind of experience yet. I know a really incredible recipe for cinnamon-baked sweetbread. But I don’t know anything more about those rings. Honestly.”
He said nothing.
“What?” she demanded.
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” he said, looking ahead.
“I’m telling you,” she said, “it’s really good cinnamon bread.”
He found himself smiling. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, people do usually assume I’m lying when I speak of baking. I’ve been told I don’t look like the baking type.”
“You did glare at me when I suggested you might have a frilly dress in those packs.”
“That was not a glare. That was a dignified look of measured contempt.”
“I’m sure,” Siris said. “So, you can really bake?” Cinnamon sweetbread. That sounded delicious. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never have let himself taste during his years training.
“I like to be able to do things for myself,” she said. “Unfortunately, I also like to eat meals that don’t taste of moldy rat leather. This sort of conundrum necessitates a woman taking a few liberties with her chosen persona. And if this entire line of reasoning is intended to get me to prove myself with an outpouring of cinnamon sweetbread, then I’ll relent.”
“You . . . will? So you’ll fix me the bread?”
“As much as you can eat, whiskers. Price is one sword. Oh, look. You happen to have one. What a fortunate turn of events!”
“Well, you certainly are determined.”
She smiled. “Actually, I’m persistent. You are so fond of using the wrong words. Are you not the one who speaks this language natively?”
“Natively,” he said. “But apparently not that fluently.”
“I’ll trade you my very nice dictionary—”
“—for this sword, I assume?” he asked, taking a drink from his canteen.
“Nonsense. The sword is worth far more than that. I’ll throw in a pair of penis.”
Siris nearly choked, sputtering through the water.
Isa looked at him, frowning.
“A pair of them, eh?” Siris asked, wiping his chin. “Wow. Must have cost you a lot.”
Isa, looking confused, pulled two pens out of her saddlebags. “They were quite pricey, but are very nice. You are still laughing. I see. One pen, two penis? No?”
“I think you, uh, may want to work on your pronunciation there, Isa. You say pen in a way that does not sound at all like—”
Isa suddenly froze, turning forward, coming alert.
Siris cut himself off, loosening the Infinity Blade in its sheath. What was that? Voices, he thought.
Isa pointed. “Ahead, I think.”
“I agree.”
“Hide the sword! Remember what I said!”
“I’m not a fool,” Siris said, moving the cloak to cover his arm. Isa checked her crossbow, making certain it was covered. It wouldn’t be much good if there were a tussle, at least not immediately—he doubted she could get the leverage to cock it from horseback. It was of the ‘step and pull’ variety.
A small group of people appeared atop a hill on the road ahead of them. Isa slowed her horse and inspected the ragged group. They didn’t seem dangerous. There were three of them, men in caps and workers’ smocks. No trousers, just knee-length tunics and sandals.
They’d be from one of the farming regions to the near west. It had been a shock for Siris to discover that people even in nearby areas dressed quite differently from those he’d known in Drem’s Maw. The newcomers stopped on the road after seeing Isa and Siris. Their chatter quieted.
They’re trying to decide what to make of us, Siris thought. Isa had a horse—a mark of someone rich, lucky, or favored. But, true to her suggestion, the lack of arms seemed to convince the three that Isa and Siris were not a threat. The peasants continued their trek, carrying sticks with bundles and walking cautiously.
“Ho, travelers,” one called when the two groups grew near. “You come from the east! What word?” The man’s voice sounded nervous.
“It’s hot,” Siris called back. “And dusty. What word from the west?”
“Much of the same,” the man called, voice growing more calm. “With a little bit of wind.”
“That will be nice.”
“Well, it is a hot, dusty wind, mind you.”
Siris laughed, walking up to them. The three men had relaxed, and one pulled out a canteen, offering him a drink. All looked to be of their middle years, but hard work in the sun could age men quickly.
“Thank you,” Siris said, taking the canteen. It likely held only water, but sharing anything with a stranger was unusual.
“It’s a fine day, young traveler,” one of the men said. “Tell me . . . have you come from paying homage?”
“Homage?”
“To the Sacrifice,” the man said.
“Has that come
, then?” Siris asked, taking a sniff of the canteen, then lifting it to his lips. He made as if he were drinking, but barely let the water touch his lips. Best to be careful.
“It has,” one of the other men said, whispering in a solemn tone. “A mortal has been sent to face the God King.”
The third man gestured to his bundle. “Three villages’ worth of spices. An offering for the Sacrifice’s grave. We were chosen. If he has not yet been buried, we will see the job done.”
Everyone knew the story, the legend. By tradition, the God King would dump the Sacrifice’s body outside of his castle, and would not interfere with those who came to remove it. One or two from each village or town would be sent. The God King would not molest them as they stripped off the armor and shield, then buried the fallen hero. The armor would be returned to the Sacrifice’s home city, where it would be passed on to the next chosen sacrifice. Usually his son. Siris had broken that tradition by not marrying or siring a child before he left.
It had always bothered Siris that the God King allowed the harvesting of the armor, but it now made sense. The God King had wanted these Sacrifices to continue. Somehow, they had been what he needed to make the Infinity Blade work.
All this time, the people had thought they were showing defiance. A hint of resistance against the beast that oppressed them, worked them, taxed them nearly to starvation. Turned out that all this time, even this one little act of rebellion had been controlled by the creature they hated.
What would these men do when they found no body to bury, no corpse to revere?
“You did not know it was the time?” one of the men said.
“I . . . heard a rumor,” Siris said. “But people are always speaking of the Sacrifice; I didn’t believe the time had really come.”
“It has,” the man said. “Our elders counted the days with extreme care. All three villages agreed.”
“Come with us,” one of the men offered. “You can tell your grandchildren that you saw him. Only one Sacrifice comes each generation.”
Siris handed back the canteen, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have other tasks. But I wish you luck.”
They parted ways, the men continuing toward the God King’s castle. Siris watched them go, solemn, until Isa rode up beside him.