The Demigod Proving (45 page)

“I’ll trust you, Master.”

He lifted his hands, balled fists upward, to show the Master the white bracers laced halfway up his forearms. He meant it not only as a reminder that he'd severed his hand, but also as a general sign of obedience and dedication: he wore the bracers as a sign of willing servitude.

“I’ll obey you, and show you my devotion.”

He meant it. He would do anything the Master asked.

“Then you’ll complete this task. To the southwest in the foothills of those mountains, there’s a small village.”

He pointed, and Wrend looked at the mountains at least a dozen miles away.

“Just beyond that, about a mile up the main canyon, there’s a place at the base of a cliff, where the river makes three pools. The remainder of the rebels have fled to the highest pool, intending to escape my judgments.”

His eyes hardened and his voice flattened, as if, as he looked across the desert, he penetrated the distance and whatever obstacles might be between him and the cliff, and looked at the people and passed a final judgment on them.

“I need you to go there and be my sword. None of them should live. Bring me the head of the leader.”

“I will do it,” Wrend said. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

“Take fifty paladins with you.” He lowered his gaze to Wrend’s eyes. “This is
your
task.
You
need to do this. No matter what obstacles come in your way—no matter who tries to stop you—you need to do this. You must kill the leader. Do you understand?”

Wrend nodded.

A grim sadness descended over the Master’s face. He shook his head.

“No, you don’t, yet. But you will. This is
your
task. This is what I am asking of
you
. Don’t let anyone stop you in completing it. You must learn to make the hard choices, to do the things that you don’t want to do, but that also benefit the most people. You understand?”

Wrend nodded again. In that moment, he felt like he would do anything the Master asked.

But the feeling wouldn’t last.

Chapter 57: Brother against brother

Nothing brings me greater joy than to see my children treating each other as friends and companions.

-Athanaric

As he chewed on some fresh potatoes, Athanaric watched Wrend depart from the caravan on horse, leading the paladins. He wondered—was he doing the right thing? It felt so cruel.

But he needed to choose an heir. He needed to select the best son.

Pitting them against each other was as effective a way to decide as any. He loved them both equally, and could not choose between them.

Steeling his heart, he looked back at the caravan as Teirn rode up through the wagons toward him. What a good son this was. He bore some anger in his heart, but he was flawlessly obedient—which was more than could be said of Wrend, who had in recent days come to worry Athanaric some.

Yet, despite that worry and disobedience, Wrend had demonstrated considerable strength of mind and will. He was willing to make sacrifices for what he believed in, take risks for things that mattered. Athanaric had been the same way when he was young. That was what a god had to do, and that alone had kept Wrend alive. That was why Athanaric tolerated the insolence. Any other child would have died long before for the things he’d done.

And because of that—because both sons bore attributes that would serve them well if they replaced him as god—he couldn’t choose between them. He needed them to choose for him.

As he waited for Teirn to reach him, he thought of Rashel. He hadn’t seen her since the morning before, and the servants had said she’d left the caravan without a word to anyone. That bothered him; she’d never disappeared, despite her general dissatisfaction with being his wife. But he didn’t worry too much. She also loved him deeply. She would return.

When Teirn came, Athanaric halted the draegon and helped his son mount the neck and sit in the thick fur before him. When the boy had settled into place, he looked back and up at his god, devotion blazing in his eyes.

Athanaric swallowed his sorrow.

“My son, I have a task for you. This will be
your
task, and you cannot let anyone stop you from completing it. Do you understand?”

Teirn nodded, his face solemn. In his eyes, Athanaric saw that it mirrored his own look.

“To the southwest,” Athanaric said, “in the foothills of those mountains, there’s a small village. . . .”

Chapter 58: A mother’s price

The longer you neglect something, the more likely it is to come at you when you least want it to.

-Leenda

Five days. Five days had passed since Leenda had tasted Wrend’s lips and felt him near her. She hated to go much longer without talking with him, but had no idea how to get close.

At the very least, she would need Krack’s help.

“Krack. Time to go. We need to keep up with the caravan.”

He didn’t open his eyes or lift his head. He lay with his body, neck, and tail stretched out on the red dirt, over a patch of ground he’d cleared the night before. He always did that before settling down to sleep: he scratched the shrubbery, grass, and weeds away from the ground, so that he could lie on newly churned dirt, as if he prepared a field to plant himself into. It took nearly an hour each night, but he didn’t seem to mind it. Perhaps because he slept in so late.

Not that she could fault him for sleeping in. She really had no good reason to rouse him at dawn when she awoke. However, at noon she had plenty of reason.

“Come on,” she said. “Wake up.”

She stood on a brownish-red rock about forty feet above him. Other boulders surrounded the one she stood on, creating a pile that curved around the wide bowl in which Krack slept—or pretended to sleep. From the lip of the bowl where she stood, the land spread out around her, rolling in a series of massive stones. Here and there a ridge of rock rose up like the body of a draegon, sometimes with multiple windows piercing their forms. To the west, a massive arch spanned a riverbed.

“Krack!”

Her voice echoed off of the opposite lip of the bowl. As if in response, a duck hawk lit from a juniper that seemed to grow out of the rock. It screeched as it rose up and away.

Annoyed, she began to climb down the rocks, picking her way along the outcroppings and ridges. As always, it was harder to climb down than up, and halfway she nearly slipped, but caught herself by throwing her back against the cold rock and standing there for a moment, breathing hard, heart pounding. It scared her even despite her ability to use Ichor to save herself.

Below, Krack huffed in amusement. He had one eye open.

“That’s right,” she said. “You lay there and laugh while your mother falls off a cliff and kills herself.”

He raised his head, tossing it from side to side. In draegonspeak he said, “You wouldn’t have trouble if you had a draegon body.”

Half a dozen sharp responses came to mind, but Leenda bridled them. With her balance regained, she continued down.

“It’s time to get going. We need to keep up with the army.”

“Why bother?” He rose and shook his body. The fur rippled. “He’s too surrounded by guards. We’ll have to wait.”

He was right, of course, but Leenda didn’t want to wait. She’d already gone into the camp three times in the last three days, and not even caught a glimpse of Wrend. The paladins surrounding him kept her far away.

“We have to keep trying,” she said. “We never know when an opportunity will arise. Besides, we need to get me some food. I haven’t eaten since early yesterday.”

She reached the bottom of the cliff, jumped the last few feet, and turned to face him.

“I can always get you some food,” he said.

He extended his forepaws ahead of him and leaned back, stretching his legs and flexing his paws, extending the claws so that they dug into the ground. His bones creaked at the stretch.

“I’m not eating raw meat,” she said. “I could go for some bread bathed in butter. There was that settlement nearby. You can leave me outside of town, and I’ll go in and get some food.”

“You want to leave me alone?”

He said it nonchalantly, but the way he looked at her from the corner of his eye belied his nervousness at the idea of being alone. He’d been especially nervous five nights before, after the encounter with Athanaric.

“You’ll be fine. We’ll make sure Athanaric isn’t around.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

He said it too quickly, and didn’t look at her as he opened his wings wide and fluttered them, airing them out. As he did, he bent his neck around with his teeth bared, to nip at the joint where the wing met his body: scratching an itch.

“It’s just safer to be together,” he said.

They hadn’t talked about the encounter with Athanaric. She hadn’t dared bring it up, fearing to embarrass him for his reaction. Nothing had really even happened to him—Athanaric hadn’t even touched him—but he’d only flown a mile before the trembling of his body had forced him to land.

But she had to bring it up. They had to talk about it. He needed to face that fear down, because they could very well confront Athanaric again. She was building up her Ichor reserves for it, and had instructed him to do the same.

She had the problem, however, of how to start the conversation. Wrend—Cuchorack—had handled this type of thing with their children. Plus, since their last discussion about his behavior, back with the cows, he’d been sensitive to any observation about how he acted. Though he said he would stay and help her, she didn’t know how firm his resolve was and didn’t want to scare him off.

Yet, something had to be said. He needed to resolve it.

“Krack . . .”

“What?” he said.

He paused his stretching and sat back on his haunches the way he always did when ready for an argument.

“I don’t like your tone,” he said.

She sighed, and her shoulders sagged. Why wasn’t she any good at talking with him?

“It’s understandable for you to be afraid of Athanaric.”

The fur on his neck and body stood on end, and his neck stiffened.

“That’s not why I don’t want to get father. He’s just too well protected.”

“Krack, you can’t fool me. I was riding you. I could feel your body shaking. You’ve never been like that. There’s only one reason for a draegon’s body to shake like that.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice grew angry and hard. He swung his head low, and she stepped back from how close he brought his snout to her face. He spoke in quick growls and short grunts—methodically, as if he’d rehearsed what he would say. “Because he encounters the god who captured and tortured him as an infant—and defeated his mother and killed his father. That is the only reason for a draegon to tremble with fear.”