“Of course not,” the God King said.
The Devoted said nothing; they knew the God King was not supposed to have been reincarnated here for some time yet. They also knew not to demand answers of him.
Some Deathless would execute their servants for even this small amount of questioning, but the God King was no fool. Mortals were a resource, one he had used to great advantage when many of his peers dismissed them out of hand. In fact, he was fond of many of them, including Eves, High Devoted of this particular temple.
Surround yourself with people too afraid to speak, and you left yourself to only your own ideas. That could be disastrous. It was important to have men who would question you and see flaws in your plans, so long as you could control them. It was all about control.
The rain continued outside; the God King wished he could control that. He was trying to find ways, for it galled him that he could not do something so seemingly simple.
The eye of the room’s primary deadmind displayed a window into his palace on Lantimor, the place where that . . . child had defeated him. It displayed an empty throne room, and information came up in lists beside it.
A week had passed since his death. A tiny smidgen of time, barely worth noticing—except it meant that the child had had time to escape with the Godkiller. No matter. Raidriar had good ways to keep track of him.
A particular bit of information scrolled past, and it gave the God King pause. Dead, he read. All three of my captives. But those were soul cells. They couldn’t be completely gone unless . . .
The sword was working. That should have been impossible, in the hands of one such as he’d faced. The proof was before him, however, and he felt a thrill at it. How, then, had Raidriar himself survived? He confronted this question, the one most worrisome to him, as it displayed a profound lack of control. That fight had not gone the way it should have.
Of course. It was strong enough to kill lesser Deathless, but not yet at full power. He should have realized this. Perhaps only one more death of the right bloodline, and . . .
Ah, he thought, seeing another bit of information. That could be an issue.
“Find me a recording of the moment where I let him defeat me,” he said out loud. The servants worked, and the deadmind mirror displayed an image of him fighting the child in the throne room.
Too many questions. He hated questions. They would surrender their secrets to him; he had come too far to let this plan spiral away from him now. In a way, all that had happened was good, as he now had the proof he needed.
And so, he decided he had not been defeated. This was what the plan had required, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.
Those moves . . . he thought idly, pondering the recording. So familiar. Who trained him . . . ?
And then it all locked into place.
He’d been played. Masterfully. Worker of Secrets, he thought. My, but you are a subtle one.
“Gather the Seringal,” he said, sending his Devoted to fetch the most skilled of his knights. “And set up surveillance on that child.”
The Devoted burst into motion. The God King sat back, contemplating. He waited for six hours, practically motionless, a few thoughts playing across his mind. He could faintly recall when six hours would have felt like a great deal of time to sit and think, but now it passed as quickly to him as a single breath.
His servants located the child, crossing the rocky expanses of his homeland. The God King laced his fingers, inspecting the child’s path.
So. This ‘Siris’ was returning to the palace, was he? Why? The God King leaned forward and watched with interest.
Siris stepped up onto the edge of a rocky precipice overlooking the God King’s castle. It squatted in the cliffs, like a nugget of dark iron trapped in the surrounding rocks.
He’d decided that he needed to start here, primarily because he wanted to lay down a new trail for anyone looking for him. He didn’t want them tracking him to Drem’s Maw; he needed, instead, to lead them another direction.
He started the hike down to the castle. The other Deathless, he thought. Maybe I could . . . buy them off.
He looked down at the sword he wore in an improvised sheath at his side. They wanted the God King’s weapon; perhaps he should just give it to them.
No, he thought. They’ll still execute me for killing their king. A mortal did not slay a god.
He continued down the pathway toward the God King’s palace. It stood to reason that they’d begin looking for him here; if there were daerils still in this place, he could make a big show for them of going somewhere other than Drem’s Maw. That might work, might give his mother some protection.
The rocky path was slippery with pebbles and shale. He remembered walking this long route just over a week before, each footstep electric. He’d been marching to his death. That doom was one he’d come to grips with, however, and he had even been excited by the challenge ahead of him.
This time, he walked with a slower step. He felt . . . older now. Ancient.
At the base of the cliff, he put on his armor. He continued forward, reaching a tree hung with ropes just outside the palace walls.
He stopped and inspected the tree. A rope could be a weapon, if you really needed one. Tie a heavy bit of metal to one end, then swing it about and attack. He’d practiced that.
The children of Drem’s Maw had done something different with ropes. They’d created swings on the trees outside of the maw
. Siris had once stood on one of those, then had several boys push, so he could practice keeping his balance on unsteady footing.
He’d never just sat down and swung. What is wrong with me, he thought, continuing forward with clanking steps. Why didn’t I ever try it, even once?
He reached the side gate to the castle, and a daeril stepped out. Long of limb, with red-orange skin and a skeletal cast to the arms and legs, the daeril had a horrifically twisted face.
Siris raised his sword with a sigh. He’d have to fight his way in again, it appeared.
“Great master!” the daeril exclaimed. It jumped forward, and Siris stumbled back, wary. The creature didn’t attack, but threw itself at Siris’s feet. “Great master, you have returned!”
“I . . . State your purpose, daeril!”
“We live to serve you, master. I am Strix, and I obey. The castle is yours, now! The kingdom as well.”
The kingdom . . . mine? He almost laughed. He’d never be able to stand against the forces of the other gods, even if this creature were telling the truth. Which he found suspect.
“What am I supposed to do with a kingdom?” Siris said, walking around the daeril—keeping an eye on it—and crossing the bridge to enter the palace’s outer court. The court seemed strikingly familiar to him, though he’d only passed this way that one time.
“Great master—” Strix began.
“Don’t call me that,” Siris said.
“Greatest lord of all that is powerful and—”
“That’s really not any better.”
The daeril fell silent. “My lord . . .” the daeril began again, stepping up to him. “Please. Let us serve you. Remain here and rule us. Do not leave us again.”
Siris hesitated. “How many of you are there in this place, still?”
“Perhaps two dozen, master.”
“And you will all serve me?”
“Yes, great master. Yes indeed! You have slain our ruler, and in so doing have become our leader.”