Infinity Blade: Redemption

number, wouldn’t you say?”
    “ What? ”
    “Before, when I first joined with Ausar, you insisted that you would keep fighting me. You said you would never turn the kingdom back over to me. Well, obviously, you are going to do just that. So I have decided it is time for benevolence to my people.” He sniffed, and wiped his hidden face with his hand. “After all, them hating their god was always just a means to an end, to ensure they kept sending the Sacrifices. I hardly need that anymore.”
    “You think I’m going to just believe you? Accept that you’ve changed in an eyeblink? Become compassionate?”
    “Changed?” Raidriar asked. “No, I have not changed . I am king and god to this people—I have always been both destroyer and life-giver. We do not change.” He inspected the bottom of his mug. “None save for Ausar. He is different. I have not yet decided fully if I find that remarkable or reprehensible.
    “Regardless, child, human civilization goes in cycles. One cannot let them have prosperity for too long, or they will misuse it, destroying themselves and others. For this reason, they have been cast down—given humble roots, to inspire simple wholesomeness. Still, it has been a good long time since I have allowed a golden age, an age of discovery and wonder. I had been thinking of having one arrive soon; and for your rebellion, I have moved up the timetable.”
    “Go suck on a rock,” she said again. “A muddy one.”
    “I have no idea what that means,” Raidriar said. “I assume it’s a grander insult than it sounds. You really mean to keep fighting me?”
    “Yes. We’ll rebel.”
    He laughed. “Against what? Did you hear me? I’ll make the people free. You’ll lead my people to rebellion while those underneath the other Deathless are being beaten and oppressed? You will waste your time in the one place in the world where everyone will be fed and happy?”
    “I . . .”
    “I always keep my word,” Raidriar said. “You have won. Rebellion over. Freedom established. Congratulations.”
    Isa felt nauseous. The problem was, he might be telling the truth. What would she do if he started treating everyone in his kingdom well, without any further need for bloodshed?
    “With freedom proclaimed here,” Raidriar said, “with me becoming a benevolent god who grants technology and wonders, you could take your fighters to the other oppressive regimes. You could change the entire world, free hundreds of thousands. Or, I suppose, you could stay here to sputter and fight, becoming increasingly irrelevant as I bestow boon after boon.”
    “I hate you,” she whispered.
    “I think you know I don’t really care,” Raidriar said. He set his empty mug on the equipment, then strolled toward the way out. “But don’t sound so surprised that I have bested you. I have been doing this for a very long time, child. Did you think, perhaps, I had learned nothing in those thousands of years?”
    He left.
    Isa stared at her mug, fuming. Heaven take that creature.
    I can’t fight things like him, she thought, angry—though she wasn’t completely sure why. Angry that Raidriar had agreed to give his people freedom, wealth, and technology? Why should that make her so furious?
    She turned, looking at the equipment behind her.
    She had watched Eves set it up, then almost use it.
    She had watched very, very closely.
    Oh, hell, she thought, realization dawning.
    IT WAS quite an undertaking in full armor, but he was Deathless, and his body worked at a constant peak of efficiency. He arrived cautiously, peeking over the lip of the floor toward the throne room.
    It appeared to be empty. The throne hadn’t even been repaired from the attack that Siris had fended off here, so long ago. He heard the faint drip of water leaking somewhere. Raidriar insisted that the copy was here, in this palace somewhere. Could the God King be wrong?
    Siris rocked on the chain, swinging back and forth until he could throw himself out over the small gap onto the floor of the throne room. He landed with a crash of clanking armor, but came up quickly and slipped his sword from its sheath with a leathery rasp.
    He waited there, in a crouch, listening. He heard only that same dripping from before. That, and . . . muttering?
    What in the name of the seven? Siris thought, and spared a moment of amusement that his instinct—given him by his upbringing—was still to curse by Raidriar and his Pantheon.
    He crossed the throne