The Demigod Proving (12 page)

“Fool boy, you’re missing the feast.”

“I’m not here by choice,” Wrend said. “I can’t get loose.”

“Who put you there?” Naresh splashed across the ten-foot wide river. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he stepped out of the water. “A serving girl?”

An image of the redheaded serving girl invaded Wrend’s head. She was the only girl he’d ever really found intriguing, but he pushed her likeness and Naresh’s comment to the side.

“Please loose me.”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

He climbed up out of the river, and in another few steps reached Wrend. He dripped chilling water on Wrend’s face as he knelt in the dirt and reached out to take hold of the rope at Wrend’s neck. The feelers moved toward him, and he batted them away.

“Stupid things.”

“Do you have a knife?” Wrend said. “Mine’s gone.”

Naresh shook his head. “You look terrible. Like someone hit you with a tree.”

With hardly a strain on his face or in his neck, he pulled on the rope, and with a pop it snapped. He felt his weight shift closer to the water. His heartbeat quickened. There was no way this old man could keep him from falling into the water. Once the ropes broke, he would slide right off the bank into the water, and the current would carry him on.

“Don’t let me fall into the water!”

“Trust me,” Naresh said.

He turned his attention to the ropes at Wrend’s chest. Without so much as a grunt, he ripped one apart alike a seamstress breaking the weakest thread.

Wrend’s body shifted again. Now only the rope at his waist kept him from falling into the water. It dug into his stomach with enough force to nearly drown the pain in his head.

“Don’t let me go in! Don’t break the last one!”

“Quiet!”

Naresh pressed Wrend’s chest with one hand, and with the other pulled on the rope. His face strained, and the rope broke.

Wrend began to fall—but the one hand Naresh had on his chest slowed him enough that Naresh could drop the rope and grab him with the other hand. Wrend lifted his legs and tried to scramble backward, but Naresh did more pulling than he did scrambling, and in a moment Wrend found himself lying on the riverbank, in the middle of the feeler bush, breathing hard. The feelers pounced on his face, caressing his cheeks and forehead. One tried to go up his nose, and he hit it away.

Naresh stood above him, shaking his head and batting the feelers away.

“A fine mess you’re in.”

“How . . . “ Wrend said, but his words sputtered to an amazed nothingness.

How had Naresh broken the rope with such ease? How had this old man kept him from falling into the water with just one hand? Only demigods could use Ichor.

“You don’t have much time,” Naresh said. “Get going.”

Naresh was right. Wrend needed to get to the Master.

His head spun as he stood from the feeler bush. But freedom had come quickly, and he lost his balance. He stepped to the side, to reach out to the tree to steady himself. The old man helped him.

“When I left,” Naresh said, “they hadn’t started eating yet. I did come far, but I came fast. They might not have begun, yet.”

“How did you break those ropes?”

“No questions.” Naresh pushed at Wrend’s back, urging him toward the river. “Go! Hurry!”

Wrend started to go, but Naresh grabbed his arm, keeping him in place.

“There!” He pointed into the feeler bush, near the center of its base. “There’s your knife.”

Wrend stepped back to the bush and peered in. A swath of feelers lay crushed against the ground, where he’d landed. Next to them, steel glinted near the base, where the feelers shied away from the cold metal. He knelt, having to shove his face into the mass of feelers to reach far enough in to grab his knife. The antenna barraged him, pressing themselves against his cheeks and neck and body. It made him shiver.

His hand closed around the familiar ebony hilt. As he straightened and pulled away from the bush, the feelers reached out for him. He smiled at Naresh.

“Go,” Naresh said.

He turned Wrend upriver, and pushed his back. Wrend obeyed and started to run. He would have to cross the river upstream, at a bridge; he didn’t feel strong enough to try crossing where Naresh had.

He faltered, though, still confused about Naresh’s sudden strength. He stopped and looked back at Naresh, who stood by the tree, with the broken ropes at his feet. He stood all hunched over, the way Wrend had always seen him, looking old and frail.

 
“Go! Don’t look back!” He waved Wrend on with both hands. The palsy made them tremble. “Go as fast as you can, or we’ll both regret it.”

Wrend had no idea what that meant—why would Naresh regret it?—but turned upstream, again. While his body and head ached, his legs hadn’t taken serious injury and he could run reasonably well. He darted up the darkening forest, following the river. He caught a glimpse of a woodpecker frozen in place against a tree.

Naresh, who had always hobbled and whose hands had always shook, had not exhibited any malady of age during most of the encounter. Not only had he used the strength of ten men, but his hands hadn’t shown signs of palsy, and he’d sprinted across and through the river with ease, without limping.

Unless it had been his imagination. Could it have been? No, it couldn’t have been. Naresh had broken the ropes. He’d held Wrend back from the river with one hand. How could that possibly be?

“Go!” Naresh shouted from behind him. “Hurry! Don’t be afraid!”

But Wrend feared. What would the Master do? With luck, he would reach the feast before it had gotten underway.

Unfortunately, upon arrival, he found that luck was not with him.

Chapter 12: Interrupting the Reverencing

The sole purpose of a demigod is to act as an extension of god, to be there when he cannot be there. Failure in this regard will always merit death.

-Athanaric

Wrend paused in the doorway to the courtyard, panting with his mouth wide and his chest burning. He was ready to face the Master.

He’d run the entire distance from the forest. To arrive sooner, he’d crossed the river lower than he’d anticipated—not at the bridge, but at a slow part, where the water ran shallow. Since then dirt had gathered on the wet of his legs, making his pants heavy, and the dampness chilled him in the twilight air. His chest felt like it might burst, but at least he’d managed to open his left eye a little. Small victories. He had to take them where he could, because things might end soon.

He strode into the hubbub. Dozens of tables filled the courtyard—enough to seat three hundred Caretakers—although many chairs sat empty because a good portion of the demigods filled the dance floor at one end of the courtyard. The Caretakers moved in rows and squares with each other, in time with a handful of fiddles. So far from the music, Wrend could barely hear it over the laughter and chatter.

At the other end of the courtyard, half a dozen small platforms rose above the tables and chairs. On each of them, a Caretaker performed some trick or displayed some talent. To Wrend’s understanding, the Caretakers practiced feats of strength and skill all year long to display to their siblings at the Reverencing. It was their one chance each year to gather with their peers, to impress them with some unusual talent.

One demigod had stacked several teacups atop each other, and balanced on them upside down, on one hand. On a second platform, a male Caretaker held one arm over his head, with one finger extended. A female Caretaker balanced on that finger, upside down, also on an extended forefinger.

On the middle stage, a female Caretaker threw a male Caretaker into the air. He tucked his body into a ball and flipped around and around. He rose at least thirty feet into the air, flipping the entire while. He continued to rotate as he crested and descended. At the last moment, he extended his feet and landed standing on the shoulders of the Caretaker who’d thrown him. The Caretakers gathered nearby cheered and clapped.

The displays almost distracted Wrend. He’d heard rumors of these feats, and always thought it strange that at the Reverencing—a feast to honor those demigods who would soon sacrifice themselves to the Master—the demigods celebrated with tricks and performances. To his understanding, the formal ceremonies, laden with solemnity and sorrow, took place late into the night. Until then, the demigods entertained each other. Since learning that he would be attending the Reverencing, he’d looked forward to the displays.

But he couldn’t watch. He had to talk with the Master. He turned his attention away from the platforms.

Many demigods sat at the tables, eating. Plates of pastries sat empty on the tables. Some turkeys were stripped of meat. Plenty of fruit bowls needed refilling. Serving girls in yellow moved among the tables, pouring ale and removing empty plates.

At the back of the area, where a white building with arched windows and doors that rose three stories high, a man and a woman hung from two draegon gargoyles by ropes around their necks. Wrend paused for a moment, trying to determine if he knew them. He didn’t; they wore Caretaker clothing. They must have been casualties from that afternoon—more cultists, strung up to remind everyone what happened when you disobeyed.

Along the edges of the courtyard, spherical cages sat atop ten-foot wooden poles. Within the cages, lightning lynx lay or prowled, watching the feast below. Their fur emanated a white glow, adding light to the festivities, but the big cats were more for show than anything.

As Wrend continued on, he squinted and wished to cover his ears from the noise—the music and chatter and clapping. Lanterns dangled from ropes overhead, providing most of the celebration’s light. Between them, great lengths of red fabric stretched across the courtyard, held up in places by poles. The smell of turkey and bread, potatoes and gravy filled his head.

But none of that mattered. Only one thing—one person—mattered.

The Master sat just below the hanging Caretakers, at the head of the head table, towering above the crowd as he always did. He sat cross-legged on the ground. All around and behind him, more than a dozen wolfhounds lay on the floor and crowded at his legs. He tossed several pieces of meat toward them, and they jostled for the food. To his right, along the side of the table, Teirn sat on a high stool, his face toward the Master as he listened to the Master speaking.

Wrend made his way through the feast, trying to ease his thundering heart. Hopefully he would at least have a chance to explain his tardiness.

Some of his siblings stared at him. A few poked their neighbors and gestured at him. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in a steel serving pitcher and looked away from the ghastly mess of flesh on the left side of his face. Instead, he kept his gaze toward the Master, ready to drop to his knees and beg for mercy.

Teirn spotted him first, as he momentarily diverted his eyes from the Master to his plate. When his gaze moved up again, his eyes found Wrend. They widened in surprise, and in that instant, Wrend knew for certain that his brother had sabotaged him. Whatever the Master wanted to say to them tonight, Teirn had wanted to be the sole benefactor.

I intend to be god.
That’s what Teirn had said. Wrend hadn’t believed the words, before. Not really. But now, after being knocked out and tied up, he understood Teirn’s seriousness. The realization struck him like a knife in the gut.