The Master’s gaze swung to Wrend. “And what would you do?”
Wrend licked his lips, trying to formulate his answer. He couldn’t give the same answer as Teirn. It would seem he just copied his brother. And besides, a different method came to mind. A fairer, better method. As he considered it, a stubborn resolve permeated his heart. He’d never felt anything like it, never felt so certain he was right.
“I think I would do it differently,” he said.
The Master smiled and raised his eyebrows. He’d stopped eating. Teirn, too, stared at him. The serving girl had moved around the table, and although Wrend hadn’t taken a sip since the last refill, she leaned over his shoulder and poured water to the brim of his goblet.
“You’re god,” Wrend said. “A mighty and generous god. When the people of Hasuke learn that their god is dead, they’ll need direction and comfort. If you went into Hasuke and showed them your mercy and goodness, they might willingly come under your wing.”
The Master’s expression had not changed. “Go on.”
“Invite them into your fold. Accept those who come.”
“What of the others?”
Wrend took a deep breath. “Let them live as they choose.”
Teirn laughed. “Let them defy God Athanaric?”
Wrend looked from his brother to the Master. He’d made a mistake. A tightness around the Master’s eyes betrayed sorrow, a strange regret as if he’d just realized that years of effort had accomplished nothing. He pursed his lips and shook his head ever so slightly. Wrend’s boldness and stubbornness melted away, and for the second time that night, he feared the Master would strike him down on the spot.
The demigods that hung above the Master stopped swaying as the air fell still. The head of the woman lolled to the side. Her empty, dead eyes, looked to Wrend.
He waited for his punishment.
Chapter 14: Starting out at a disadvantage
Being special is not an advantage in any situation. It only means that people have different expectations for you—either higher or lower. If they have lower expectations for you, there’s probably a good reason, but if they have higher expectations, they're probably too high, and you will most likely fail to meet them.
-Teirn
The Master shook his head in disapproval. He didn’t strike. Not yet. But surely it would come.
“Wrend,” the Master said, “where did you get that idea?”
Wrend’s stomach churned. How could he be so stupid? How could he say such a thing, even if it was what he believed? Where had he even gotten the idea?
A memory came. He stood in a dining hall up the canyon with the other twelve-year-old demigods. Several more aggressive kids had just forced a more timid boy to give up his dessert. Wrend had witnessed it, but done nothing, and walked past Naresh. The priest grabbed Wrend’s sleeve and met his eyes.
“Why should he bend to their will?” Naresh said, pointing from the boy to the group. “I wonder: should he have the right to choose, and not simply bend to the will of the stronger?”
Then he let Wrend go, although the words had stuck with Wrend. They took root in his heart and grew because they made perfect sense. Why should the weak bow to the will of the strong if they didn’t want to? Shouldn’t people have freedom to choose their own paths?
Wrend had never applied that logic to the Master. He was god. Regardless of all other things, he was right. If he wanted something, he should have it. But did that apply to the hearts of men? If a man wanted to act contrary to god’s will, should he have that right? Wrend’s soul told him yes, but the shame in his heart told him no.
“I don’t know,” he said. He looked down at his plate, and with his fork mixed some peas into his mashed potatoes. He scrambled to think of an explanation other than the real one. “I just—they’d be more loyal if they chose to follow you.”
The Master placed a heavy hand on Wrend’s shoulder and frowned. “You’re compassionate and conscious of justice. But justice doesn’t take place in a void—it has constraints, and I determine those constraints. My will becomes law, and I can punish those who violate my law as I see fit. Is this not true?”
Wrend nodded. It pained him to meet the Master’s eyes. What would his punishment be?
“In time, you will learn this.” The Master removed his hand, placed his other on Teirn’s shoulder, and smiled. “You’ve already learned that lesson, Teirn. Well done.”
The words, though directed at Teirn, landed like blows on Wrend. He’d already started down the wrong path on this proving. It could end in his eventual death. This was his punishment: shame and guilt, and starting this proving at a disadvantage.
The Master returned to his food. “Tomorrow, you two will journey with me. We’ll travel with the Caretakers as they return to their counties. You’ll see the Strengthening. We’ll take twenty thousand paladins with us, and you will watch as I take control of a portion of Hasuke.” His eyes swiveled back-and-forth between the two sons. “You both have much to learn. Your proving has only just begun.”
Wrend sat up straighter. A smile touched his lips. He would get to leave the Seraglio—two years before other demigods got to. And he could still prove himself a good and loyal son. He started to respond, but the redhead cut him off as she stepped between him and the Master. Relief and confusion covered her face, and she looked ready to speak.
Chapter 15: Certainty
One of the most important things a serving girl can learn is to not stare. Another is walking on stilts in a crowd without injuring anyone.
-Marilla, mistress of the serving girls
Leenda’s legs trembled. For a moment she thought she might trip on the stilts, and steadied herself by leaning on the table between Athanaric and Wrend.
She needed to tell him. She needed to embrace him and kiss him. Goat guts!
It was Wrend. He was her mate.
She didn’t doubt it. No draegon would say what Teirn had said: force others into submission. Draegons didn’t think that way. They thought like Wrend: let others make their own choices and reap the benefits or consequences.
No doubt when Athanaric had extracted Cuchorack’s soul, he’d taken the time to let the memories drain out of it before placing it into Wrend’s body. Yet, even without the memories of his life as a draegon, Wrend would retain his personality, his attributes. He’d always valued fairness and justice. He’d always let their children make their own decisions. He’d taught them, of course, but when the time came for them to choose, he let them do as they thought best.
That was so different than humans, who simply took what they wanted. Athanaric was the worst. He’d wanted a draegon for a mount, and had taken Cuchorack from her. On a spring morning, he'd come up to their lair in the high mountains, held their pup as bait, and ambushed Cuchorack as he came into the cave.
She remembered it well—she walked into the cave behind Cuchorack, and Athanaric emerged from the shadows, rending Cuchorack’s soul from his head so he collapsed, unconscious. She still remembered her horror. Her rage. The memory of that day still etched her heart.
She’d lunged at Athanaric, and he’d threatened to kill her pup, Krack, if she didn’t back down. She did—at least until Athanaric dragged Cuchorack’s body out of the lair, leaving their pup behind, and started to carry Cuchorack down the mountain. With her pup safe, she attacked Athanaric, and their fight ranged for days as he descended the mountain. Cuchorack awoke often, and Athanaric used his Spirit Ichor to momentarily detach Cuchorack’s soul from his head, so that he fell unconscious for another while. She’d attacked and fought without ceasing, but he proved too much for her, and took Cuchorack to the Seraglio.
And now, seventeen years later, Athanaric still held her mate captive. In fact, he was more captive now than ever; for now Athanaric had enslaved not only his body, but also his mind.
“Are you all right?” Wrend said.
She started, realizing she’d been staring at him. He gave her a worried expr
ession. She couldn’t think of another time when their eyes had met as humans, and clung to that gaze. He lifted a hand as if to steady her, and she wished he would. She longed for him to do so, to touch her.
That was the human body, again. Draegons didn’t desire in such a manner. They didn’t express affection through physical contact. But now she wished he would take her in his arms and kiss her. He was a handsome man, with such thick, black hair and perfect matching eyebrows. He needed to shave. Or not; she rather liked his thin beard of dark, short hair. He had full lips and sharp eyes practically the color of pine needles.
“Are you all right?” he said again.
She swallowed hard and reached out to an empty bowl on the table. “Yes, I’m fine. I just need to get more rolls.”
He nodded and looked down. His eyes clouded with worry.
Of course he worried. He’d lived to serve and please Athanaric, and now, by speaking his mind, he’d lost a measure of favor in Athanaric’s eyes.
If only he knew what he’d gained in hers. If only he cared.
Bowl in hand, she headed away from the table, pushing tears down as the stilts clopped on the flagstone. She finally knew for certain who her mate was, yet what if he didn’t want her? What if he didn’t believe her when she told him who he was? How would she convince him?
By the time she’d entered the kitchen, despair threatened to overcome her. Her hands trembled as she threw the bowl down onto the counter and stood there, ignoring the heat, smells, and sounds in the enormous room. Scores of cooks labored over fires and stoves, and dozens of serving girls in yellow hurried back-and-forth on some urgent errand of the demigods.
“Need more rolls?” Cressa said. She stood on the opposite side of the counter, which was covered with stacks of rolls, piles of mashed potatoes, and golden turkeys.
“Yes,” Leenda said. She covered her mouth with one hand. Tears welled again in her eyes. Now that she finally knew for certain who her mate was, how would she reclaim him?
“Are you well?” Cressa said.
“Goat guts!”
“You don’t look well.”
Leenda shook her head, unable to speak. She turned and darted toward a doorway, ignoring Cressa’s further questions. Fortunately, Leenda could still think enough to remember the stilts, and paused for a moment to unbuckle them and hop down. She threw them aside and ran through the doorway and down a hall. Tears flowed. People stared at her, and she hated herself for letting the human body hold such power over her.
She rounded a corner at full speed. For an instant she saw a stern-faced woman in a blue dress—the Mistress—accompanied by three girls in yellow: Brentna and her two friends.
And she slammed into them.
She thought they would all crumple to the floor, arms and legs everywhere. But she struck the Mistress like she would have hit a wall, and actually bounced back. She stumbled, but managed to keep her feet.
“Leenda,” the Mistress said. She had a deep voice, almost like a man’s. She looked down at Leenda with tight lips and narrow eyes. “Where are you going?”
Leenda looked at the Mistress and girls and wiped the tears from her face. Brentna had gained enough courage to tell the Mistress about their little episode, and now the Mistress would have Leenda either flogged and thrown out, or executed.
The mistress folded her arms. Brentna mimicked the gesture. Leenda didn’t stay to see if the other two girls followed suit. She turned and bolted back the way she’d come. All emotions fled her mind, and she could only think of escaping.
She ran. The Mistress pursued.
Chapter 16: An attempt at mass murder
The Reverencing is the only time all Caretakers gather together. Therefore, it is the best opportunity to destroy the greatest number of them.
-Wester
Wrend watched the serving girl disappear into the kitchen and turned back to his food. He mixed some peas into the mashed potatoes and dished up more gravy. He knew of nothing worse than dry mashed potatoes, and nothing better—except a good slice of cheese—than a pool of gravy to mix with creamy spuds. Funny how gravy could make something that much better.
Had it been wrong for him to say what he thought, to give the answer he felt was right? The method contradicted the Master’s goals, certainly, but it was the fairer way to overtake a country. Maybe fairness didn’t apply when it came to a god obtaining what he wanted.
Wester, apparently, had thought it did.
“Wrend,” the Master said. “Stop moping.”
He looked up from his plate, but a scream from the dance floor interrupted his reply. On the edge of the wooden floor, a Caretaker knelt on his hands and knees like a dog. Vomit spewed from his mouth as his body heaved.
Before Wrend could even really react, the Caretaker four chairs to his left stiffened and began to shake. He grunted and lurched forward, slamming his hands onto the table. His face smashed into his plate of food, and as he recoiled he also began to puke. Chunky fluid splashed over the plates and table. Wrend’s eyes watered at the reek. He leaned away.
Demigods everywhere began to reel. Their bodies stiffened and convulsed for a moment, and vomit erupted. The music died down as the musicians fell over or off their chairs. Dancing Caretakers collapsed to the floor. One, on a platform, tumbled off, clutching her stomach. Others sitting at the rows of tables grabbed at each other or hunched over their plates. Several of the serving girls collapsed—and even the dogs began to whine, moan, and convulse. Within thirty seconds, retching and vomiting filled the air.
“Poison,” the Master said. He stood, an expression of concentration on his face. “They’ve poisoned our food.”
Wrend looked down at his meal and pushed his plate away. He wanted to reach over and help the Caretaker by his side, but didn’t know what he could do to stop the shaking or the retching. He leaned over and stretched out his arms, to slide the plates, cups, utensils, and food out of the way, so the Caretaker didn’t injure himself with them. Before Wrend could straighten, more vomit from the demigoddess across the table splashed on him. The fluid seemed everywhere.
“Children,” the Master said. His voice covered the sound of retching. “You’ve been poisoned. You have to gain enough focus to start using Thew to heal yourselves.”
Across the table, Teirn pitched backward in his chair. He dropped a cup and it clattered to the floor as his back arched. As he rocked forward, his eyes rolled upward, so only the whites were visible. His hands slammed into the table and vomit spewed in an arch, splashing over Wrend’s chest and lap.
Wrend’s stomach churned, but he couldn’t be sure whether it was from the reek, his food, or nervousness for his brother.
“Use your Ichor,” the Master said, filling the area with his calm voice. He looked out over the tables with an expression of sober concentration. “Heal yourselves. Apply as much as you can, as fast as you can, and you’ll be fine in moments.”
“Master,” Wrend said.
Bile rose in his throat, and he pushed it down. The sickness had come upon him. He wouldn’t be able to hold it in much longer. It was so sudden. So powerful.
“Master!” he said again.
His eyes began to water, and the world started to blur. An unearthly violence rose in his belly.
“What, Wrend?” the Master said. But he didn’t look at Wrend. He turned back to his dogs. They retched and groaned.
Wrend pointed at Teirn, who’d leaned back in his chair, shaking.
“He can’t use Ichor, yet. He can’t heal himself."
The green waves of Ichor he’d been harvesting disappeared as his sense of discernment slipped away.
The Master’s eyes widened. “I nearly forgot.” He leaned over and placed a hand on Teirn’s shoulder.
Wrend didn’t see or hear what the Master did after that, because that’s when the vomit came.
Chapter 17: Escape
The Mistress of the serving girls fancies herself a god in her own right, and she will send
you to the chopping block as quickly as Athanaric will kill a disobedient demigod. After all, a girl who served a god and his demigods could not show any amount of bad behavior.
-Cressa
“Leenda!” the Mistress said. “Get back here.”
Leenda ignored the command and shoved people aside as she ran. They protested, but she didn’t care. She needed to get out. She had to get away from the Seraglio or she might not live to see the morning.
The closest exit was through the banquet area. In the doorway from the kitchen, she pushed past a serving girl with a bowl of mashed potatoes. The bowl struck the ground with a crack and a squish, but Leenda almost didn’t hear because of the sound of heaving. She ran a few steps out of the doorway, and faltered to a halt, surprised by the scene.
Throughout the area, demigods, serving girls, and musicians convulsed and vomited. The smell made her cringe. Only Athanaric didn’t seem affected by this sudden illness. He stood over Wrend and Teirn, his face intense as he spoke to them.
From behind Leenda, a hand closed around her arm.
“Stay right there,” said a man’s voice.
Panic surged and she tried to pull away without success. She turned to find a priest grinning at her. He was missing a few teeth. Behind him, another four priests came toward her, followed by the Mistress and Brentna.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the priest said.
“Excuse me,” she said. She bound Thew Ichor to her arms and shoulders, and added just a touch of Flux to her free fist as she brought it around and connected with the priest’s jaw. He reeled away, releasing her arm. “I’ve got to be leaving.”
She darted toward the opposite end of the courtyard.
“Leenda, get back here!” the Mistress said.
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