The Demigod Proving (56 page)

He was softening. He didn’t want to kill her, or he already would have.

“She only talked with him. She said so herself.”

He glanced at her. She lay in the dust, still. Perhaps she’d died, already. A wave of ire swept over the Master’s face and he leaned in close to Wrend, roaring. His hot breath beat against Wrend’s forehead, and his hands shot out and pushed Wrend aside. Wrend flew away, rolling over the ground and grunting. By the time he stopped, lying with his legs and back twisted, and could orient himself, the Master had picked up Rashel again, and held her over his head.

Leenda dismounted and started toward Wrend.

“No!” Wrend cried, struggling to stand.

The Master froze, his face hard, Rashel high overhead. Her arms and legs dangled. His armor clanked as he trembled—certainly not from the strain of holding her up.

“Don’t kill her,” Wrend said.

He found his knees. Leenda reached him, helped him to his feet. Athanaric looked at him, his face pained. He didn’t want to kill her. Wrend could see it in those eyes. Yet he could also see the fury, the desire for utter dedication.

Calla stepped forward, past Teirn, who still knelt. She kept her face calm and cool.

“Dear god,” she said, her voice smooth and tempered. “She is my sweet sister-wife. I beg you to not kill her. Though she has proven unfaithful and unworthy, don’t kill her, despite how she mocks you with her infidelity.”

With those words, Wrend understood Calla. Just as she wanted Teirn to be god, she wanted to be the favorite wife. She’d revealed Rashel’s secrets, and now her tone had no passion in it, no real plea. If Rashel died, it would be Calla’s fault for revealing Rashel’s secret—which Wrend had decided he couldn’t do. He would have stood there forever, not telling the Master about his mother’s secret.

But not Calla. She wanted to be the favorite.

The understanding conceived hatred in Wrend—hatred for her and the things her ambition had driven her to do.

The Master looked at Calla. His face grew calm, and for a moment Wrend thought that Calla’s words had back-fired.

“You make it clear,” the Master said. “
You
wouldn’t do this.
You
are true and faithful, as the wife of a god should be.” His head swiveled to Wrend. “I’m sorry. She’s worthy of death.”

Wrend wrested free of Leenda’s grip and ran toward the Master, but he couldn’t move fast enough. Maybe if he’d already had Ichor bound to his body, he might’ve caught Rashel—or been crushed under her. But in the confusion of the moment, he hadn't thought to use Ichor. But not next time. He wouldn't forget next time.

The Master slammed Rashel against the ground. Her body thumped in the dirt like a stone.

Sprinting, Wrend arrived at her body, and without slowing threw out his arms as he bent, his hands grasping for anything, and caught one of Rashel’s arms. Her weight jerked him almost like an anchor finding purchase, but with a grunt he continued on, dragging her across the ground and out from beneath the Master’s shadow. Her body was an awkward tangle of twisted limbs and a lolling head. For all he knew, she could be dead already.

He half expected the Master to strike him next, but continued on, pulling her away, his back toward the Master. People were shouting—Calla and Leenda and Teirn—but he couldn’t make out anything they said and didn’t look back at them. He just wanted to get his mother away from the Master. He dragged her ten feet, fifteen, twenty—knowing all the while that the Master would fall upon him at any moment. His hand slipped. He lost his grip on Rashel's arm and fell forward to the ground, catching himself before his face hit.

He scrambled to rise, looking back, and halted before reaching her again.

The Master hadn’t moved. He stood tall, his mouth wide open and his eyes huge as he stared at Wrend. Even his hands hung slack at his side.

Teirn's and Calla's and Leenda's shouting faded. Stillness came upon the area. The draegon didn’t move or make a sound. Neither did any of the thousands of paladins.

A tremble arose in Wrend’s body as he looked at the Master. Indignation and fear and uncertainty all barraged him, but from somewhere deep within—in the core of his soul or the deepest part of his memory—he found the strength to rise.

He stood and took a step over to Rashel, then past her, so that he stood between her and the Master. He lifted his chin and threw his shoulders back, well aware of the defiance the posture conveyed.

But what did he have to lose, at this point?

Chapter 72: The breaking point

When you understand what is right and what is wrong, the path to take becomes clear. There is no more uncertainty or confusion. No worrying over what choice to make. The reason is that when you understand what is right, and commit yourself to following the correct path, the decision is already made.

-Wrend

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Master began to shake his head, his mouth still wide open.

“No one,” he said, “has ever stopped me from killing.”

“He defies you,” Calla said. “Kill him, with her.”

“He’s the only reasonable person here,” Leenda said. “Killing him would be the biggest possible mistake.”

The Master just stared at Wrend, his face unreadable. Wrend didn’t back down, though he wanted to look back and see if Rashel yet lived. It might not matter, though. His life was in the Master’s hands. He couldn’t fight him, and probably couldn’t run from him.

“Why?” the Master said. “Why do you resist me? I’ve worked so hard to mold you as I needed you to be—so you could be the most fruitful bough in my garden. Why do you defy me?”

Two true answers came to Wrend’s mind. One—that he could do a better job than the Master—would get him killed. So he chose to give the other.

“She’s my mother. Your favored wife. I love her. You love her. Why kill her in a fit of rage, when afterward we’ll both regret it? Why not show mercy to the ones you love? Why not show mercy to yourself? Surely you don’t want to lose her any more than I do.”

Tears welled in the Master’s eyes, and just as he’d shaken his head before, now he nodded—ever so slightly.

“I tire of the killing.”

The pain in his voice nearly broke Wrend’s heart. Even despite his anger, he wanted to run to the Master and embrace him, comfort him. But instead, the Master came forward, his hands reaching out tenderly and his face utterly soft.

“Is it too late? Is she dead?”

As the Master reached Rashel, he fell to his knees and Wrend stepped aside and turned, looked down at his mother. The Master leaned close to her, placing his ear near her mouth and running a hand down to her wrist. Bruises had risen on her face and almost every inch of visible skin. Wrend knelt next to the Master, numb, shrouded in a fog. He hardly understood how he could have convinced the Master to stop the slaughter. Yet somehow he had. And yet he lived.

Wrend, unable to see Rashel because of the Master’s form over her, glanced around at the people he’d brought here. Leenda stared at him with a mixture of horror and admiration. Teirn watched with his eyes wide. Calla stood next to him, her arms folded across her chest, scowling.

“She’s alive,” the Master said. “Wrend, use your Thew to heal her. Bind it to her body and apply as much as you can, as fast as you can.”

Wrend obeyed, focusing on his discernment. Could he have saved her from the Master’s wrath? He bound Thew to her body, and pushed. It flowed out of him in a torrent. His body seemed to feel lighter, less full, yet he didn’t care. He had a huge supply from his many months of harvesting it—and besides, the speed at which he applied it caused the bruises covering her skin to lighten over several seconds. Her breathing became stronger, and the unconscious pain in her face eased.

He pushed and pushed, watching the transformation come over her, losing track of time, until the Master placed a hand on his back and spoke.

“That will do. She’ll be fine now.”

A half laugh escaped Wrend’s lips. She would be fine. He’d succeeded in saving her.

The Master scooped her up into his arms and stood. He hugged her close to him. For a moment, Wrend thought a tear might actually fall from the Master’s eyes.

“Mrendran,” the Master shouted, looking across the front ranks of the paladin army. “Mrendran, come here.”

A middle-aged demigod standing at the front of two hundred paladins came forward, jogging along the front rows of the paladins. In a dozen seconds, he stood at the Master’s feet. Wrend couldn’t remember having ever seen Mrendran before. The Master bent low and transferred Rashel into Mrendran’s arms.

“Take her,” he said. “Make her comfortable and safe until I get back. I have an enemy to attend to.”

Mrendran nodded. Cradling her in his arms, he moved toward the back of the army. Wrend watched his back until the Master drew his attention by placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. He fell to one knee and lowered his face to Wrend’s. All traces of tears had faded, and solemnity filled those eyes.

“I don’t know what to do about you,” he said. “You’re a blessing and a curse. You defy me and help me all at once.”

Wrend’s throat seized up. The Master was paranoid, controlled by fear and anger, killing without reason or exception if someone opposed him.

And that would be Wrend’s inheritance. If he lived to assume the Master’s position as god, his would be a kingdom ruled by bloodshed, where he would kill loved ones for minor infractions and force his enemies to bow or die. He would have to kill his sons and daughters. His throne would sit on a pedestal of skulls, the first of which would be his brother’s.

He wouldn’t have it. He didn’t want it. Better to die.

Thoughts of Wester bombarded Wrend. He saw the demigod there in the Chapel, pleading with him and Teirn to join the rebels in their cause to overthrow the Master. His face had been so sincere and his tone so pleading as he’d asked for help. And now Wrend understood why. He understood what Wester had said: “You say he brings tranquility to the land, but I say that a forced tranquility is no tranquility at all.”

Wrend finally understood.

The Master stood, his armor clanking. His gaze swept up over the group, from Wrend and Leenda to Teirn and Calla, and back to his other nearby sons and draegon, who had watched the scene with detached sobriety.

“It’s time to parley with our enemies,” Athanaric said. “But there will be no negotiations. They’ll surrender under my terms, or they’ll perish resisting them.”

Those words, along with the memory of Wester, broke something in Wrend, as if a thread connecting him with the Master snapped.

The bracers around his wrists felt like shackles.

He’d thought it noble and right to follow the Master, but now he saw Naresh’s correctness. Just because Athanaric was god didn’t make him right. A greater governing power—though Wrend didn’t know what that might be—designated what was right.

No, that was wrong, there was no greater governing
power
than the Master, yet the Master was subject to a greater governing
rule
. Wrend knew it for the truth. It resonated in his soul.

In order to be loyal to himself, to the universal truth, he would have to be disloyal to the Master.