Infinity Blade: Redemption

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