Awakening

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Who led you before I returned?”

  “Kuuth, master,” Strix said. “He is ancient and wise, a troll nearly forty years old.”

  “Send for him,” Siris said. “And gather the other daerils. Every one of them in the castle. Bring them to the throne room.”

  He didn’t trust these creatures, not for a moment. But perhaps he could use them.

  Finish what you began.

  Siris sat on the God King’s throne. What had his mother meant by that? Surely she hadn’t meant to imply that he should take the God King’s place. That would be suicide.

  The God King’s throne wasn’t very comfortable—though Siris was wearing armor, which never made sitting particularly comfortable. He’d removed his helm and set his shield to the side, though he kept the Infinity Blade close.

  Seeing his face unnerved the daerils. That seemed a good enough reason to him to keep the helmet off, for now. He inspected the Infinity Blade as he waited. The blade had some kind of magic that had let the God King summon it, making it appear as if out of nothing in a flash of light. So far, despite a week of tinkering, Siris hadn’t been able to figure out how that magic worked.

  Something chirped beside him.

  Siris jumped, glancing down. Only then did he remember the little mirror built into the armrest of the throne. He poked at it. The thing had done . . . something following the God King’s death. It was magical.

  Poking at the thing made it speak, which chilled him. “What is your command?” it asked.

  “I . . .” Siris looked up at the shuffling host of daerils—in a variety of shapes and colors—gathering at the back of the room. “I’d like to know how the God King’s sword works.”

  “Answer pending. Please enter the pass phrase.”

  “Pass phrase?” Siris said. “I don’t know it.”

  “Would you like to retrieve it?”

  “Um . . . yes?”

  “Very well. Please answer this security question: In what kingdom did you first meet the Worker?”

  So it was a riddle. His mother had told him stories of magic mirrors that asked riddles. “In the kingdom of night and dawn, at the break of the day,” he said. It was the answer to one of the riddles from the stories.

  “Answer incorrect,” the mirror said politely. “Security question two: What was the name of your first and most trusted Aegis?”

  Aegis. It was a word for a master duelist, after the classical ideal. The daerils that guarded the castle had all followed the old precepts. Horrific and terrible though they had been, they had each shown that much honor.

  “Old Jake Mardin,” Siris said, saying the name of the first man who had trained him in the sword, a retired soldier.

  “Answer incorrect,” the mirror said.

  “Your riddles make no sense, mirror,” Siris said. “Am I supposed to answer as myself, or as the God King?”

  “I’m sorry,” the mirror said. “I don’t understand that query. Security question three: How many days passed before your first reincarnation?”

  “Uh . . . five?”

  “Answer incorrect.”

  “Damn it, mirror!” he said. “Please, just tell me how I make the sword come at my will.” He was silent for a moment. “Even better,” he whispered, “how can I find freedom? Can you answer that for me, mirror? Can you tell me how I can be free of all this and live my life?”

  A rope swing from a tree, he thought. He’d write that in his book tonight, beginning a list of things he would try, once he didn’t have to worry about being hunted.

  “I’m sorry,” the mirror said. “I am not authorized to speak further. The waiting period is one day before the next access attempt.”

  The mirror grew black.

  “Hell take me,” Siris said, leaning back in the horrid throne. Honestly, couldn’t someone who called himself the God King get a decent cushion?

  “The deadminds will not speak to you, slayer of gods,” said a deep, tired-sounding voice.

  Siris sat up, turning toward the back of the room. Something moved in the shadows, where a doorway led to the servants’ quarters. The shadow lumbered forward, entering the light and revealing itself as a massive troll. It leaned on a staff as thick as Siris’s leg, and wore bandages covering its eyes. White hair fell around the thing’s animal face, a face furrowed with wrinkles that were sharp and distinct—like the scars left by an axe chopping at a tree.

  “Kuuth, I assume?” Siris said, standing up.

  “Yes, great master,” the beast said, lumbering forward. The other daerils parted for him, and a younger troll helped the elder, looking concerned. This younger beast moved like an animal, with quick steps, testing the air with its snout, walking in a crouch. The aged one, however, had an unexpectedly civilized air.

  “What’s a deadmind?” Siris asked Kuuth. Even stooped with age, the beast towered a good ten feet tall. Kuuth wore a strange robe that had the right shoulder cut out, exposing a wicked scar on his shoulder and neck.

  “It is a soul without life, great master,” the troll said. “The God King instilled these souls into objects. They are knowledgeable about some things, but cannot make choices for themselves. They are like children, and must be instructed.”

  “Brilliant children,” Siris said. He shivered. Had the God King used the souls of children themselves to create these things? The legends said that he feasted upon the souls of those who fell to him. Siris scooted a little farther away from the mirror. “Well, perhaps I won’t need its help. I summoned you because I hoped you’d be able to answer questions for me.”

  “Unlikely, great master,” the ancient troll said, then coughed into his hand. “I know more than most here, but a cup with two drops instead of one still will not quench a thirst.”

  “I’ll start easy then,” Siris said, walking down the steps to the throne. “The God King spoke of greater evils. And then, after that, I met a man in the dungeon who claimed to be my ancestor. He said that someone—or something—would come hunting me. Am I to assume that they referred to other members of the Pantheon?”

  “Perhaps,” Kuuth said. “Ashimar, the Sorrowmaker. Lilendre, Mistress of the End. Terrovax, Blight’s Son. Others whose names I do not know. Each will be angered by what you have done.”

  “As I feared,” Siris said, speaking loudly, so the other daerils could hear. “I will need allies, troll. Do you know where I should search for them?”

  “Master,” Kuuth said, sounding confused. “These are not questions I can answer for you.”

  “Surely the Deathless have enemies,” Siris said.

  “Well . . . I suppose . . . there is the Worker of Secrets.”

  That was a myth even Siris had heard of. He doubted the Worker was real, but hunting him was a perfect way to start laying down a false trail. “Where can I find this Worker?”

  “He is imprisoned,” Kuuth said. “But, master, I do not know where. It is said that nobody knows.”

  “Surely there are rumors.”

  “I’m sorry, master,” Kuuth said. “I know of none.”

  “Fine, then. I wish to attack one of the other Deathless. One who is very powerful, and also very cruel. Whom would you suggest?”

  “Master? This is an odd request.”

  “It is the one I make nonetheless.”

  Kuuth frowned. “A Deathless who is close but powerful . . . Perhaps the Killer of Dreams? You travel to the north, across the ocean, to find him. He is not part of the Pantheon, and has of late been very antagonistic to our former master.”

  Siris frowned, sitting down. There were Deathless who weren’t in the Pantheon?

  Well, perhaps that’s what I killed, in the dungeon, he thought. But then, there had also been Siris’s ancestor. He wasn’t certain what he believed of what that man had said. When Siris had taken off the man’s helm, he had found a youthful face beneath it. Perhaps serving the Deathless granted men immortality? Was that why one who had come to kill the God King would instead choose t
o serve him?

  Siris knew so little. “Do you know how the God King made the magic of his sword and shield work, Kuuth?” He asked it in a softer voice, no longer for the show of the watching daerils.

  “I may be able to guess, great master,” Kuuth said. “I believe it had something to do with his ring.”

  Siris fished in his pocket, taking out a silvery ring. He’d pried it from the finger of the God King. “This? It’s a healing ring. I have others, taken from the bodies of Aegis I slew.” He slipped it on; he could feel its healing magic tingling on his finger.

  “That one is more useful than the others you found,” Kuuth said. “It somehow let him summon his sword to him.”

  “How?” Siris asked.

  “I do not know. Before I lost my eyes, I saw the God King use it to sling fire as well.”

  Siris frowned, then extended his hand to the side and attempted to summon fire. It didn’t work. Once he’d defeated the God King, all of his rings save the healing rings had stopped functioning. “It can’t do that anymore. Why?”

  “I do not know.”

  “All right, then. What were those creatures in the dungeon? They seemed . . . different from other Aegis I fought.”

  “I never saw them, master.”

  “Why did the sword flash when I slew them, and why did the God King have them imprisoned?” He still worried that he’d killed what could have become his allies. Yet, each one had fallen into the Aegis stance and then attacked him.

  “I do not know that either,” Kuuth said.

  A sudden flare of annoyance rose in Siris. “Bah. Do you know anything, fool creature?”

  Siris froze. Where had that outburst come from? It had been many years since he’d lost his temper; his mother had trained him to deal with that as a child. He immediately took a grip on his frustration and shoved it down.

  The ancient troll stood quietly, then sniffed the air a few times. He’s blind, Siris reminded himself, looking at the bandaged eyes.

  “Do you mind if I sit, great master?” Kuuth asked.

  “I don’t.”

  The great beast tested with his large staff until reaching the steps to the throne, then settled down quietly. “Thank you, great master. It is growing difficult to stand in my age.”

  “What happened to your eyes, Kuuth?” Siris asked, sitting on the lip of the throne dais, hands clasped before him.

  “I put them out.”

  “What? Why would you do that?”

  “Among the kavre—that is what we call ourselves, great master, though many just call us ‘trolls.’ Among the kavre, the most powerful lead. I was wounded many years ago, when . . . well, it would have been when your father entered the palace. I fought him, and I lost.

  “My wound was great, and I should have been slain by my kin in mercy. That would stop a younger troll from killing me and taking my honor, you see. However, the blind and the mute are not to be killed—they are left alone in the wilderness to die, as they are marked by the gods.”

  “So you . . .”

  “Blinded myself,” Kuuth said. “So that my kin would exile me rather than killing me. It also made the younger trolls see me as lame and blemished, to be left to rot, rather than to be slain as a rival.”

  “That’s horrible,” Siris said.

  Kuuth chuckled. “Yes. Horrible. And our way. At times, I wonder at what I did. A troll is not meant to reach ages such as I have. Still, now that I am of this great age, the others have begun to respect me.”

  “The other daeril . . . he said you were forty years old?”

  “In another two years,” the troll said, shaking a long-snouted head. “Ancient. But, great master, my concerns are not yours. I wished to speak more softly with you. Most of the denizens of this castle do not think about the future, and I do not wish to make them question.”

  “Very well.”

  “Over the years,” Kuuth said, his voice quiet, “I have seen many things. I have thought many things. Perhaps these thoughts will be of use to you. You see, this castle has no servants. No maids, no groundskeepers, none of the things that are kept by the lesser lords beneath the God King.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” Siris said. “I would have assumed that the God King would want comforts for the place where he lived.”

  “You see,” Kuuth said, “he did not live here. He only came to the castle on occasion, usually when there was news of a warrior of note fighting his way through the wilds.”

  Siris fell silent. “So this place was a trap.”

  “Trap? I do not know that I’d say that, great master. But a destination . . . yes, that is what it was. Like a metal pole set up high to draw the lightning when it comes, this castle was placed here to draw the warriors who sought to kill the God King.”

  “He dueled them,” Siris said. “He could have just used his magic to kill them, or overwhelmed them with his forces. Instead, he faced them in person. Why?”

  “What do you know of the Deathless?”

  “Not much,” Siris said. “Seven lords, ruling together, with the God King above them all.”

  “Yes, though that is mostly just the illusion they give to others in the land nearby. The God King was but one of many who name themselves Deathless. They are immortal—truly immortal. They need neither food nor water to live. They do not age, and their bodies heal if wounded. Chop them to pieces, and their soul will seek out a new receptacle to be reborn. Often they are reborn into what the God King called a ‘bud,’ a replica of themselves, prepared ahead of time.”

  “I saw some of those,” Siris said. “Below.”

  “Yes,” Kuuth said. “But even without a bud, the soul of a true Deathless will find a new home. Unless . . .”

  “Unless.”

  “The God King’s sword. You mentioned its magic before. You have the weapon?”

  Siris reached to the side, fingers resting on the blade.

  “The Infinity Blade,” Kuuth whispered. “Crafted by the Worker of Secrets himself.”

  “But he’s just a myth, isn’t he?”

  “What better creator of a sword that should not be, a sword to kill the unkillable? Great master, that weapon is designed to slay the Deathless. Permanently. It is a terrible and wondrous thing. The Deathless have lived for thousands of years, and have come to see themselves as eternal. But if one of them were to gain access to a weapon which could finally threaten them . . .”

  “He’d be a God,” Siris whispered.

  “God among gods,” Kuuth said. “King among kings. First of immortals.”

  Siris ran his fingers along the blade. “They will chase me. They’ll hunt me, for this.” He gripped the sword by the hilt. “I should throw it away.”

  “And they would still hunt you,” Kuuth said. “Because you know the secret. Because you’ve done the unthinkable.”

  “You’re dead too,” Siris whispered, realizing the truth. “Everyone in this castle. Each Aegis or daeril who knows that a mortal slew one of the Deathless.”

  “You see why I needed to whisper this to you,” Kuuth said. “No need to inspire a panic. Many of the Aegis in this castle are golems with deadminds controlling them, but many are not. All will likely be destroyed. Just in case.”

  “You don’t seem afraid.”

  “I’ve lived many years beyond my lifespan,” Kuuth said. “I believe my death will be a nice rest. The others . . . well, they’ll probably be allowed to fight one another until one champion remains to fall upon his sword. It is the method commonly granted to skilled Aegis who have acquitted themselves well. They will consider it an honor.”

  “Hell take me,” Siris said, looking at the creature’s bandaged eyes, then at the gathered daerils at the back of the room. “You’re all insane.”

  “We are what we were created to be, great master,” Kuuth said. “Though, the rebel inside of me tells you all of this to perhaps . . . repay the God King and his ilk. My kind were created to die and to kill.” He raised his head, blin
d eyes looking toward the ceiling. “But they are the ones who created us this way.”

  Siris nodded, though the beast couldn’t see him.

  “Great master,” Kuuth said hesitantly. “If I may ask a question. Why do you say that phrase that you did?”

  “Hell take me?”

  “Yes,” Kuuth said.

  “It is a saying from my village and the region about,” Siris said, standing up, taking the Infinity Blade. “These Deathless are the gods; they claim to rule the earth and the heavens. And so, when we die, we wish for a place where they are not. Better the pains of hell than living in heaven beneath the Deathless.”

  Kuuth smiled. “And so, we are not so different, are we?”

  “No,” Siris said, surprised at the answer. “No, I suppose we are not.”

  “Then I must ask you,” Kuuth said, “as one warrior to another. Will you stay? Rule here, make your stand here. Together, the two of us may be able to decipher the secrets of the God King’s deadminds. We might be able to face the others.”

  That . . . that was tempting, when put that way. Siris considered it for a long moment, but eventually discarded it. Making a stand here, even with daerils, was suicide.

  As frustrated as he was with the townsfolk of Drem’s Maw, he was coming to understand why he’d been required to leave. He couldn’t remain long in any location where the Deathless knew to find him. They’d kill him and take the sword. If he was going to survive, he needed to escape them.

  Freedom . . .

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But it is not to be.”

  Kuuth lowered his aged head.

  “Your words are wise, Kuuth,” Siris proclaimed loudly, standing. “I will seek out this Killer of Dreams, starting immediately. If he was an enemy of the God King, then he may be an ally to me. If not, I will slay him, then hunt out the true location of the Worker of Secrets. You and the other daerils are to remain here and guard my castle.”

  That should do it—his home was to the south, and so if he traveled north, he would leave a trail that would not endanger his mother. Speaking these words, however, gave Siris an immediate sense of regret. He was leaving these creatures to die. They were daerils, true, but it didn’t seem fair.