Brandon SANDERSON: Infinity Blade: Redemption

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?

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.