The Demigod Proving (22 page)

He awoke in the chilly predawn, when neither darkness nor light dominated his tent. For several minutes he tossed on his cot, beneath his blankets, but couldn’t get back to sleep; his thoughts had turned too quickly to talking with the Master. Resolved to no more sleep, he decided to get dressed. He sat up and threw his covers off to the cold morning air.

And noticed the figure standing near the door of his tent.

His heartbeat hastened. “Who are you?”

The figure wore the white half-jacket of a priest beneath an open cloak, with a hood over his head. The shadows and dim light concealed his face. He raised a finger to his lips to quiet Wrend.

“What are you doing in here? How long have you been there?”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Wester. Wrend had only spoken with him once, but recognized the voice. His heartbeat accelerated even more; the night before he’d heard of the demigods killed back in their towns.

Sitting up with the covers over his legs, not wearing a shirt, he turned and reached under his pillow for his sacrificial knife.

“Wrend, I only ask that you listen to me."

“I want nothing to do with you.”

He unsheathed the knife and kicked his covers off. He wore long sleeping pants. He rolled off of his cot, so it provided a buffer between him and Wester. He had no plan other than protecting himself, but if he thought hard, maybe he could find a way to kill or capture Wester.

“I only want to present facts. Then let you decide.”

“I’ve already decided.”

Wrend had paladin guards outside his tent. He could call them for help. He began to shout, but Wester had already begun to move so fast that barely a squeak left Wrend’s mouth before Wester had hurdled the cot, grabbed his wrist in one hand, and covered his mouth with the other. He twisted Wrend’s arm, so that he had to let go of the sacrificial knife. It thudded to the carpeted floor.

Wrend imagined the paladins would discover his corpse later. He struggled to back away, and shouted against Wester’s hand, but Wester pulled him by the arm, preventing him from moving backward, and pressed his hand tighter against Wrend’s face. He squeezed so that Wrend couldn’t get free.

“It’s no way to live, Wrend." He leaned in close, his eyes intense. The hood had fallen from his head when he’d leapt the cot. “Under the thumb of a father who could kill you any second—and who will kill you when you reach age fifty.”

Wrend shook his head as best he could. His jaw and wrist ached from Wester’s Ichor-strengthened grip.

“And the people live in subjugation to him. How many does he kill each year—or how many do the priests kill for slight infractions, small mistakes? Innocent errors.”

Wrend didn’t know the answer. It didn’t matter to him.

Or did it? All his life, he’d only learned what the priests, mothers, and the Master had taught him. Wester offered a different point of view. Did it have worth, even though it went against everything Wrend had learned his whole life?

How could it? God was god. His will was law. He determined right and wrong.

“Wrend, you can help the country be free and live in peace. Without fear. You know the fear. You’ve lived with it every day. Every person in the country feels it.”

Wrend relaxed, hoping Wester would loosen his grip.

“I’ll come back in a few days,” Wester said. “Think on it. Look for signs that I speak the truth. Make the good choice.”

He looked at Wrend with solemn eyes. His grip loosened just a little, enough for Wrend to pull his head away with a jerk.

“Guards, I’m under attack!”

Wester snarled and gripped Wrend’s mouth, again. He twisted Wrend’s arm nearly to the breaking point.

“When I next return, if you’re not on my side, then your life isn’t worth sparing.”

A pair of paladins pulled the tent flaps aside and stepped inside. They spotted Wester, lowered their spears, and charged, one around each side of the cot. With a snarl, Wester threw Wrend backward. He stumbled and fell into an open chest, expecting Wester to leap between the paladins and over the cot. Given his speed, it would have been an easy escape.

But he didn’t flee.

He produced a long knife from beneath his cloak and barreled at a paladin as it came around the cot. He twisted to the side to avoid the spear's head, and with two quick swipes cut the paladin’s arms off at the wrists. A third swipe at the neck nearly decapitated it. Its head dangled on the spinal chord, and it reeled away without a sound.

Wester turned in time to dodge a spear from behind. He lunged at the paladin, slashing it across the eyes. Its mask split open, revealing the gray skin beneath, and its eyes popped. A swipe at the neck took the head off.

Wester moved so fast, with such finesse, that dispatching the two paladins had only taken a few seconds—not even enough time for Wrend to pull himself out of the chest. As the second paladin collapsed in a heap, Wester headed back to Wrend, ignoring the handful of other paladins coming through the door. Wester bent down and placed the knife at Wrend’s chest. The point bit into the skin at his sternum. Wrend didn’t dare move.

Wester had already killed other demigods. Caretakers who knew how to use Ichor.

Wester raised one eyebrow. “Make me want to spare your life next time I see you.”

Then he leapt to the side of the tent, cut a quick slit down the side, and fled into the morning.

Wrend stared at the flapping cloth. Blood oozed from the wound in his chest, rolled down to his belly button.

Hopefully this would prompt the Master to spare some time for him.

And indeed, it did. Later that evening.

Chapter 26: Divine correction

Exercising power requires a willingness to do unpleasant things.

-Pyter

The Master frowned at Wrend.

“Explain to me,” he said, “the meaning of Wester visiting you this morning.”

Wrend looked up from where he knelt, hands clasped together on lush red carpet, legs tucked under his body.

“He asked me to join his rebellion.”

The Master nodded thoughtfully. He sat above Wrend, on a throne of red oak. At the top of the chair’s high back, a carved “1820” designated the year the Master’s followers had built the way station and chair. Certainly in the subsequent five hundred years, they’d changed the throne’s cushions, although the wood of the chair had probably lasted that long. Great curls and grooves decorated the beams, and tacks of gold held the red cushioning into place.

The Master’s feet rested on a similarly constructed stool, around which lay a dozen wolfhounds with tangled gray fur. They’d greeted Wrend with enthusiasm and returned to their places to fall asleep instantly. Two of them actually sat in the throne next to the Master, their heads in his lap. Their jaws gaped and their tongues drooped out between their teeth. Their bodies rose and fell with each breath. Only one sat awake, with her head raised. She looked at Wrend with suspicion.

Behind the throne, a fire burned in a hearth, casting light and heat into the room; it was an unusually cool night, even for spring. The smell of the smoke mixed with the odor of dog. Next to the throne sat a table covered in a dozen types of fruits, vegetables, and breads. Plush couches lined the walls, and Wrend groveled between them.

 
“Interesting,” the Master said, “that Wester wouldn’t kill you or Teirn. Why wouldn't he?"

"He says he wants our help."

"Doing what?"

"He hasn't said, exactly. Overthrowing you, I suppose."

"And tell me—is it a risk for me to have you here in this room with me?"

"What? No! I would never—"

"There are some who think you and Teirn have proven yourselves to be unfruitful boughs.”

“They're wrong, Master. I live only to ser—”

“Would you die for me, Wrend? Like Brittinay?”

For hours, images of Brittinay had filled Wrend’s head. She’d died that afternoon in the Strengthening. Until that day he’d only ever heard of the ceremony, and it had surprised him how he couldn’t look away from the scene of worship as the people of the district bowed and chanted, how the demigoddess—her face filled with adoration—offered a full-sized sculpture of the Master as a gift before dying, and how tears streamed down the Master’s face as he slit the demigoddess’s throat in such a manner that her blood drained into a great silver bowl. The priests scooped it up and dumped it into bins filled with seed, and mixed the blood in with great wooden spoons. Brittinay had given her life without so much as flinching.

The Master expected the same of Wrend.

“I would. I only wish to serve you, and succeed in this proving.”

A slight smile finally broke onto the Master’s face, although it looked more tired than Wrend had ever seen it. For a moment, it almost looked like his two thousand years would come upon him all at once.

“You’re still concerned about our conversation at the feast?”

Wrend nodded, and again lowered his face to the floor. “If you could tell me what's expected of me—what the purpose of the proving is—I could do much better.”

“If I asked you the same question now that I asked at the feast, what would you answer?”

“I would say that the right thing to do is your will—to command the people of Hasuke to follow and worship you. Those who disobey your command must suffer your wrath.”

“You hesitated.”

Heat rose in Wrend’s neck and cheeks. “I’m trying to make my will one with yours.”

The Master studied him as if deciding what to say. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.

“I’ll do anything to regain your favor,” Wrend said. “If you tell me the purpose of the proving, I can excel.”

The Master sighed and shook his head, closed his eyes for a moment.

“Wrend, I have great things in mind for you. You’re an exceptional son. But first you have much to learn.”

“Teach me. I’ll do and learn whatever you want.”

“You saw the sacrifice today. You watched me spill my daughter’s blood. Do I take joy in doing that, year after year?”

“Of course not.”

“And these loyal dogs.” He gestured with one hand at the wolfhounds lying at his feet. “Will I take joy in rending their souls from their bodies? Or in taking the souls out of the soldiers they’ll become?”

“I’m sure not.”

“And my little ones? Your siblings. What pleasure do I find in killing them?”

“I understand, Master. You do many things you don’t want to do. But they’re necessary.”

The Master nodded and pursed his lips. “This is a valuable lesson you’ve identified. But you must learn to practice it.”

“I’ll do anything you want.”

“There are many tasks—“