And the way he sat perched on the sloping bank, only the ropes securing him against the tree kept him from tumbling into the water and over the edge. If the ropes were to suddenly snap, he could not keep himself from falling into the water.
Yet, he couldn’t remember coming here. Someone must have banged him over the head, brought him, and put him in a position that he could not escape without endangering his life. But he couldn’t recall any of it. The last thing he remembered was Teirn leaving his house.
Sunlight cut through the trees and leaves at a soft angle; he’d been unconscious for at least an hour. If it hadn’t already, the Reverencing feast would soon start. He couldn’t possibly make it on time.
Who would want to make him late to the feast?
Teirn. To gain an advantage in this test they would share.
He pushed anger and injury away, to focus on escaping without falling into the water. He tried to pull his arms loose. The rope against his neck chaffed. The feelers prodded at his left arm and leg; harmless, yet annoying. He could’ve cut the ropes if he could reach his waist, where he kept his sacrificial knife, but his abductor had looped the ropes around his bracers and arms, keeping his hands in place against the sides of his legs, and the rope under his armpits ensured he couldn’t squirm down and out of the ropes.
And besides, his sacrificial knife was gone.
He couldn’t remember ever being without his sacrificial knife. He’d carried it every day of his life, every moment. He slept with it beneath his pillow, and bathed with it always within arms’ reach. In thirty-three years, when he reached age fifty and had served the people and the Master without fail, he would carry that knife to an altar, and there lay down. The Master would use the knife to spill his blood and strengthen the seeds of the people’s crops.
And someone had taken it.
That was secondary, though. He needed to escape—without falling into the waterfall. He needed to get to the feast at the mouth of the canyon, or the Master might render a quick and deadly judgment. He often killed in a rage, without asking questions, but if Wrend had even a moment to explain, surely the Master would understand. He would see the wounds on Wrend’s face and the marks of the ropes on his bracers and neck, and know Wrend hadn’t intentionally disrespected him.
Wouldn’t he?
The Master is ruthless. That’s what Wester had said—with such conviction and certitude. The words had new meaning for Wrend in light of his proving, and of the possibility of arriving at the Reverencing late.
The sun dipped low enough that its fading rays touched Wrend’s face, warming his cheeks as he strained at the rope around his bracers. They protected his skin, and so he could pull hard. He grunted with effort and ignored how, even through the leather, the cords dug into his flesh. The pain was nothing compared to the throbbing in his head, anyway, and he had to get free. He needed to explain to the Master what had happened.
Only, the thick ropes wouldn’t break. He was too weak.
Or was he?
He had Ichor. He’d collected it for two years, ever since the Master taught him about his sense of discernment. Whenever he ate, he focused on the discernment so he could sense the green waves of Ichor emanating from his body, and pull the power in, store it in his soul. Whenever he focused on it, he felt the Ichor inside him, as if in his veins, pushing against his skin. Some Ichor naturally seeped out, especially during sleep, but he still had plenty there: a great store to enhance his own strength. If only he knew how to use it.
The Master had purposefully not taught Wrend how to bind and apply the Ichor. Wrend only had permission and ability to absorb and store Ichor. He was to do that every day, at every meal, until it became habit. At age nineteen, he would learn how to bind and apply it. Until then he was forbidden.
But did he dare defy the Master’s direct order, and try? Was his situation dire enough to merit deliberate disobedience?
Yes.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He wished for Teirn to be there, to help him decide and shore up his resolve. But would Teirn help him, now, given their rivalry in the proving?
Swallowing hard, Wrend focused on his discernment. Just as he didn’t always notice the touch of his clothes against his skin, the taste of his mouth, or the distant noises, he didn’t always notice the Ichor radiating off of his body or the feel of the harvested Ichor inside him. But, just as he could bring any of his senses alive by focusing on them, so could he enhance Ichor by bringing it to the forefront of his thoughts.
He discerned a greenish ripple extending out from his belly. It repeated in a long, slow pattern. That was the Ichor his body created as it digested whatever remnants of food he had in his stomach. The greenish waves flowed stronger whenever he ate, as his body started to process that food. During and right after meals he would always focus on discernment and absorb the bulk of the Ichor. He’d grown so accustomed to it that he could practically forget about it, and still harvest it. It was almost like a bottomless bucket beneath a faucet: once you turned on the faucet and placed the bucket beneath, you didn’t have to hold the bucket there in order to fill it.
He relaxed his body and closed his eyes, trying to shut out all his other senses. But as he tried to focus on his Ichor, he thought again that his knife was gone, and his other senses surged forward. He couldn’t push out the sound of the waterfall or a sudden cool breeze rustling through the leaves or the woodpecker beating on a tree. The rope prickled against his neck. The bark rubbed against his back, through his shirt, and the dirt felt cool through his pants. The air smelled wet and fresh. The feelers pressed against his side, as if trying to tickle him. He tasted blood. All of those senses barraged him, distracting him from the Ichor.
He clenched his jaw and turned his thoughts inward to consider the unphysical swelling of his body, the pushing of Ichor against the inside of his skin.
How to use it? In snippets of overheard conversation—mostly from his older siblings—he knew he had to do two things to use the Ichor: bind it and apply it. But what did it mean to bind Ichor? Applying the Ichor made perfect sense: the Ichor was used to some purpose, to some end. But how did the Ichor know where to go and what to do? Was that binding? It had to be. Binding had to mean telling the Ichor what to do.
His face grew cold as the touch of sunlight disappeared. He opened his eyes. The sun had dipped lower, its light now blocked by the trunks of several firs.
It was too late. He would arrive at the feast late.
Regardless, he would go. He’d spent his life learning to serve and honor the Master. If he’d proven unworthy to serve the people in the name of the Master, then so be it. He would die, and he would die with honor, with praises on his lips.
But how to bind Ichor? He’d seen demigods use it, witnessed the physical manifestation of the Ichor, but didn’t know what they’d done on the inside to bind the Ichor. Had they spoken?
“Make me stronger,” he said.
He focused on the Ichor, tried to push it out into his body. He strained against the ropes. The feelers caressed his thigh and arm.
“Make me stronger.”
Nothing happened.
He growled, exerted his strength again.
“Break the ropes!”
He’d worked his whole life to please the Master, to be obedient and honorable. It infuriated him that a simple knock over the head—by his closest friend—could defeat him.
“Break!”
But his sense of discernment had fled his consciousness. The ropes dug into his arms and neck, and he pushed against them with everything he had, not caring that if the ropes broke he would spill into the water and over the edge of the falls. His vision blurred again, because his eyes watered at the pain of his body and the devastation at disappointing the Master. And, his sacrificial knife was gone.
“Wrend!”
The cry came from across the river.
Wrend perked up. Through the trees and the fading light, he couldn’t see the voice�
�s source. He couldn’t tell its gender or age.
“I’m here! I’m across the river!”
On the opposite bank, something moved in the trees. He tried to raise a hand to wave, but couldn’t.
“I’m tied up across the river!” His voice quivered at the prospect of freedom.
The movement in the trees became less subtle. It flashed white and red, and the voice grew louder. A man’s voice.
“Over he—.”
Wrend cut the cry short. Surprise overtook him as his savior emerged from the trees about twenty feet from the opposite bank. It was Naresh, the old priest who’d made sly comments to Wrend from time to time.
He saw Wrend and stopped, his hand on the trunk of a tree. His eyes widened. He wore the usual garb of priests: the white jacket that covered the arms, shoulders, and chest, with three golden buttons down the front and red embroidery flowing in praises to the Master on the shoulders and arms. Beneath that he wore a red shirt that went nearly to the knees. Black pants. His wrinkled face could have used a good shave.
He scrambled down into the water. For a moment, Wrend thought the river—so fast and deep now, in the spring—would wash him away, but he pushed through the water, arms raised, without any trouble.
“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.
The Demigod Proving Page 7