The Demigod Proving (4 page)

Athanaric swung up onto the saddle on the shoulders, between the wings and the serpentine neck. He grabbed handfuls of red fur, tightened his legs, and ordered the draegon to take him to the Courtyard of the Wall.

He would wait no longer.

The time had come to cleanse his kingdom of treacherous children.

As the draegon wheeled into the sky, a memory came, as clear as if it had happened one day past, and not two millennia before. The vision assaulted him every few years, in moments when he didn’t expect it, like a vision triggered by some small detail. Perhaps today, the glint of the sunlight on the wooden stairs leading up to the porch triggered the memory.

On that day two thousand years before, he’d entered the Divine Palace and found that his brothers had killed Fedron, the sibling who’d taught him in secret to use Ichor. He’d found his ten brothers standing over Fedron’s broken and still body. They’d looked at him apologetically, and said it had to be so.

Fedron. The brother who’d loved him most.

In the subsequent years he’d found revenge against them all, until only he remained to bring the land peace.

And now, his children had broken the peace again.

He turned the draegon westward, toward the Courtyard of the Wall.

Chapter 3: Unexpected attention

The only way to free a people is to enlighten their minds, to teach them how their world could be if they understood the lies they’ve learned from the cradle. For this reason, those in power always silence those who speak the truth.

-Wester

Attending the Reverencing should have excited Teirn like it excited Wrend. Wondering at his brother’s unusual seriousness, Wrend followed Teirn up past the wagons and buildings, toward the trees that bordered the top of the courtyard. Beyond a thirty-yard expanse of open flagstone, the stone narrowed into a path that wound among pines and firs. To the right, along the back of the courtyard, other paths also led up into the canyon.

“What’s the problem?” Wrend said as they approached the trees. “What has you so worked up?”

Teirn looked back, his lips narrow and thin. “I’ve wanted to tell you for years.”

“What?” Wrend said. “Tell me.”

Teirn started to respond, but a voice called them from behind. They halted and turned.

Rashel and Calla had disappeared among the wagons, but an older demigod, a Caretaker probably in his forties, jumped down from the end of the boardwalk and approached them.

Like all male demigods older than twenty, he wore plain pants, a white button shirt, and a black vest. Golden thread decorated the shoulders of the vest and sleeves of the shirt in intertwining branches with broad leaves and heavy fruit. Wrend’s shirt bore similar embroidery, but without the fruit. At age twenty, when he passed from the status of Novitiate and became a fruitful bough in the Parable, he would earn the fruit-bearing design. He would also swap his white bracers for red ones, like those that extended halfway up this Caretaker’s forearm, covering the cuffs of the shirt.

Wrend recognized the Caretaker’s face, but didn’t know his name; most Caretakers spent so little time in the Seraglio that Wrend couldn’t hope to know any of the three hundred very well.

The Caretaker waved and called for them to wait. He moved past the last wagon and through the open space with the confidence only a Caretaker could possess. As he approached, he held out his hand in greeting, and as they met he closed his left hand around Wrend’s left bracers. Wrend returned the gesture, wondering what his brother could possibly want.

“I’m Wester,” he said. “I know that you’re Wrend and you’re Teirn. How are your studies?”

The greeting roused suspicion in Wrend. Teirn furrowed his brow and frowned.

“Has the Master taught you how to use Ichor, yet?” Wester said.

“No,” Wrend said. “We can harvest it, but not use it.”

Just talking about Ichor made Wrend focus on his discernment. As with all his senses, discernment was always there; but he didn’t recognize it unless he consciously thought about it. As he did, he saw waves emanating out from his stomach. They weren’t strong waves, since he hadn’t eaten in several hours, but he saw them clearly: green, measured, small.

However,
saw
wasn’t the right word, for he didn’t see the waves with his eyes.
Felt
also wasn’t the right word, for he didn’t feel them with his body or mind. He
discerned
them, and could therefore harvest them back into his body.

“Of course,” Wester said. He smiled and leaned in close. “Most of us don’t actually wait until the Master teaches us—“

A roar from overhead interrupted him. Wrend looked to the sky, searching for the source, but not finding it. He knew the roar. He’d heard it many times. It belonged to the Master’s undead draegon, Cuchorack. But as far as Wrend knew, the Master had never brought Cuchorack to the Courtyard of the Wall. The draegon’s size simply made it too much of a threat to the buildings and ground.

The singing of the demigods throughout the courtyard faltered and died. Serving girls on the boardwalk dropped to their knees. A lone priest near the back of the wagons also knelt—so did the few other dozen people that Wrend could see scattered among the wagons. All of them turned their attention toward the sky above the forest, to where Wrend couldn’t see because he stood so close to the trees.

Wrend descended to one knee and rested his elbows on the other. Teirn and Wester joined him.

Throughout the courtyard, no one moved or spoke.

Cuchorack roared again. Wrend’s chest vibrated at the deepness of the sound—so much closer than before. The draegon descended into the back of the courtyard to Wrend’s left. It landed with its wings spread wide, yet slammed into the ground like a boulder falling from the sky. A tremor ran up Wrend’s legs. Where the draegon landed, the red and blue pavers buckled and shifted, rippled.

Wrend had seen Cuchorack many times, but never like this, in this place. Its posture bore a threat, a warning of imminent suffering. The threat shone in Cuchorack’s black eyes and glistened along its sharpened horns as it reared back onto its two hind legs, letting its forelegs hang down in front of its hairy body, and cast a shadow over the courtyard by snapping its wings open.

It extended its slender neck high, tilted its snout skyward, and roared. The noise filled the otherwise silent courtyard as if Cuchorack’s body had grown to fill the space. Its head reached well above the tallest trees behind it, and its horns curved down past its chin whiskers. Its tail curled up, reaching almost to the base of its neck.

Straps around Cuchorack’s shoulders and chest secured a saddle onto its back. In the saddle sat the greater source of Wrend’s awe: the Master; god and father, Athanaric.

At eighteen feet tall, the Master sat on the draegon as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Like always, he wore all black—except for the intricate pattern of golden tree roots covering the front, sides, and back of his shirt. With every move of the draegon, he adjusted his weight and held onto the reigns with a grace that bespoke his two thousand years. His every motion conveyed dominance and control. Everywhere his gaze passed, his children, priests, and servants shuddered.

Athanaric looked over the courtyard, his jaw set in anger. It meant something important that he’d brought Cuchorack to the Courtyard of the Wall on the day of the Reverencing.

It could only mean one thing.

Wrend bit his lip. The Master had come to kill a demigod. Wrend looked over the courtyard, trying to remember which Novitiates—demigods younger than age twenty—were there.

Who would the Master kill this time?

From his position near the trees, Wrend could only see a few dozen people, though he knew that perhaps a hundred knelt out among the wagons. Toward the Master, a pair of female Caretakers knelt along with a priest. Down between the wagons and the boardwalk, a handful of male and female Caretakers knelt and bowed their heads. On the boardwalk, a gaggle of serving girls trembled. No doubt other priests, serving girls, and Caretakers knelt throughout in the courtyard, among the wagons, but Wrend couldn’t recall seeing any other Novitiates in the past hour.

That could only mean one thing. The Master had come for either Wrend or Teirn.

A tingle ran along his arms and down his legs. He cast his mind over the recent day, looking for something he’d done to merit death; even favorite sons could fall from grace. But he found nothing. He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t even taken any cheese.

Teirn. The Master had come for Teirn.

Wrend reached over and placed a hand on Teirn’s shoulder. His brother’s eyes bored into his. A shared knowledge of impending death passed between them.

What could Teirn have possibly done?

The Master motioned for the draegon to let him down. The creature obeyed by dropping forward to all four paws, again sending tremors through the ground. With a flapping noise, it folded its wings against its weasel-like body and lowered its tail. The Master lifted one leg over the shoulders and saddle, and slid to the flagstone. His eyes swung back and forth over the courtyard and wagons.

Wrend held his breath.

The Master leapt forward.

Chapter 4: A lesson in Ichor

The extent of what can be done with Ichor far surpasses the comprehension of the average demigod. What limits them is their imagination.

-Pyter

The Master leapt
forward
, toward the center of the courtyard and into the midst of the wagons.

Teirn was safe. Another Novitiate must have been in the courtyard. But who?

The Master towered over the wagons as he jostled past them. After only a few steps, he bent and reached down. When he straightened, he held a male demigod as a man might hold a disobedient two-year-old.

Wrend gaped in surprise.

The demigod wore red bracers. Not white.

He was a Caretaker, a demigod that had successfully navigated youth to prove himself worthy of a life of service to the people. Once demigods reached that milestone, they always lived to age fifty, when the Master sacrificed them to the people. Wrend had never heard of the Master otherwise killing a Caretaker.

Yet, the Master placed a hand over this demigod’s head and twisted. Even at the distance, Wrend heard the crack as the head came off.

“What,” Teirn said, “in the name of the Master’s fury is going on?”

Wrend shook his head. His mouth gaped.

The Master tossed the Caretaker aside. He placed a hand on the roof of a wagon and jumped over it. As he landed, he reached down again. This time as he stood, he yanked the head off of a flailing demigoddess.

Another Caretaker.

Down toward the Wall, someone shouted, “We’re discovered! Kill him now! Loose the kiranas!”

Throughout the courtyard, more than a dozen Caretakers rose into view over the wagons. It was like they were puppets, and some unseen person in the clouds had lifted their strings. Wrend had never seen anything like it. They hung there for a moment as they drew swords or long knives, then surged at the Master like they’d pushed off of a wall.