“You did not.”
“You were weak and nearly incoherent from the blow to your head. How can you say with any certainty that you remember what you saw?”
“I remember it distinctly. I was awake for several minutes before you came to me. I tried to free myself for a few minutes.”
He’d tried with Ichor, and only half an hour later had learned how to use the power. Did that mean he could use it at will—as much as or whenever he wanted? He itched to use it again, to practice applying it in different ways. He would have to talk more with Teirn about that—they’d talked about it briefly the night before, when returning to their houses with a substantially increased paladin guard. They could work through things together, figure out different ways to use the power.
“You pulled the rope apart like it was weak thread. And you kept me from falling into the river.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You can’t fool me. You were strong and alert last night.”
“Boy, I haven’t been strong and alert since the night I sired my last daughter.”
“You have children?” Priests never married, which meant that Naresh had either sired children out of wedlock—a serious crime—or hidden his past when taking the sacred vows. Either way, he’d sinned grievously.
Naresh gave him another sharp look. “I was being facetious. Now go away. You’re interrupting my sleep.”
He settled back on his seat, shifted away from Wrend, and closed his eyes.
Wrend stayed there for several seconds, riding alongside Naresh and thinking. But finding no answers, he decided to find Teirn and practice using Ichor.
Together, later that day, they witnessed something they’d never seen before.
Chapter 22: A mother’s counsel
Your best chance for survival in any situation and throughout life is to listen to your mother.
-Leenda
Wrend had never seen the sun set. Neither had Teirn. Night came quickly in the Seraglio’s deep canyon, providing rare glimpses of color from the sunset. So, the first evening out, they sat in silence on a rock atop a hill, where they could see not only the entire camp, but most of the valley spread out around them.
Shadows crept from the western mountains across the land. The indirect sunlight cast a soft glow over the world. Darkness consumed the bases of hills throughout the valleys, and sunlight crowned their tops. The sky turned orange where the sun had dipped below the mountains, and the clouds streaking from east to west assumed a purple hue.
In the morning they sat on the same rock overlooking the camp. They weren’t the first to arise; the paladins had never retired, and moved among the city of tents on errands. Serving girls scurried to-and-fro as the sky lightened and the sun came up over the horizon to lay its light across the land. The shadows retreated from the bases of the western mountains, creeping in the opposite direction they’d grown the night before. It was if they’d taken all night to move from one side of the valley to the other. The cycle made Wrend feel small.
When the tents started coming down, Wrend and Teirn went to help. It was their duty—the responsibility of every demigod—to serve whenever possible. They existed to aid the Master’s people in all things. Indeed, the Caretakers served the people throughout the countryside all day every day, helping them on their farms, in their shops, or with their herds.
The caravan set out an hour after sunrise, traveling without the Master at its head. He’d left in the night. A priest told Wrend that the Master had gone in search of the renegades.
Teirn rode with Wrend, but refused to discuss the proving. Wrend resigned himself to Teirn’s unwillingness to talk about it, and together they practiced binding Ichor to their bodies. Teirn seemed to be very good at it, already.
While most of the land was empty and wild, they passed through several small villages. People in red clothing lined the streets and waved carmine sheets or banners. They held up their babies for blessings. They waved at the Caretakers, and watched in muted fear as the paladins passed through in undead silence. Near the settlements, irrigation ditches fed fields of wheat, corn, alfalfa, and other crops. Herds of cattle and buffalo roamed many areas, driven by men or boys on horses.
It made Wrend feel insignificant. No one waved at him or knew his name. He had no idea how these people lived day to day, what their lives entailed. He knew in theory how their cities and farms functioned—his education had included that—but he couldn’t fathom what life was really like for them, eking out a survival. He’d lived a protected life. The world had much to offer that he’d never even heard about. He was naïve, unlearned.
On the morning of the third day, he searched out Rashel, hoping to talk with her about the proving.
The previous night they’d camped at the mouth of a canyon. During the night, low clouds had rolled in, concealing most of the mountains and casting a general shroud over the world. Smaller side canyons, with battlement-like rock formations, lay covered in the mist. A light rain fell from time to time.
Wrend found Rashel ahead of the wagons and paladins, riding a tawny mare alongside Calla and half a dozen other mothers. He soon made eye contact with her, but rode nearby, not wanting to pull her away if she wasn’t willing to talk. He waited for nearly an hour, watching the side canyons fall behind by one by one.
In each of the side canyons, rocks jutted up and out of the green vegetation. The copper-colored stone loomed like castles over the road. Higher up, the clouds concealed the stones’ details, revealing only their basic shapes. Periodically, a cloud would shift and a sentinel of stone would emerge, only to be engulfed again a moment later.
The misty rain and foggy surroundings seemed to oppress sound. Aside from the clop of horses’ hooves on the stone road, and the quiet hiss of light rain, the land lay in silence, as if animals and birds waited to emerge until the clouds went away.
Eventually, Rashel drifted away from the other mothers into relative seclusion. She wore a brown riding skirt and a white shirt with a trunk of a tree embroidered in gold. Wrend pulled his blood bay mare next to her, and the two of them rode about thirty feet to the caravan’s side, off the road and through the grass. Here in the canyon, they’d left the sagebrush behind, trading it for scrub oak and wild grasses and flowers.
She gave him an expectant look from beneath her white, wide-brimmed hat.
“You’ve moped around since we left the Seraglio. What’s the problem?”
He shrugged and looked to his left, up at the rocks in a side canyon. “You heard what happened at the feast?”
“Of course.” How she raised her eyebrows in humorless disdain annoyed him. That—and her exasperated tone.
“I made a mistake. I’m lucky to be alive”
She reached over to pat his hands, which rested on the pommel of his saddle holding his reigns. “Oh, poor baby.”
He growled and started to lift his reigns to pull way. He didn’t need this. He’d come for support, not derision.
“Oh, stop it.” She leaned over further and grabbed his arm. “He didn’t kill you. You’re fine.”
“For now.”
“That’s all that any of us can say. Who knows if or when we’ll push him beyond his limits. It’s the nature of our god.”
“My time may be limited, anyway.” He didn’t know how much he could tell her, but decided to take a risk. “Either Teirn or I will die at the end of this test.”
“Yes, that’s what I understand.”
“You knew, already?”
She considered him for several moments then looked away. “I did know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was forbidden.”
“That didn’t stop Calla from telling Teirn.”
“She told him?”
“Years ago. It’s put me at a disadvantage.”
“That little sneak.” She looked toward the group of mothers and shook her head with a calculating expression. “What else did she tell him?”
>
“There’s more to tell?”
“No. Nothing more.”
But she said it too quickly. There had to be other secrets.
“I don’t want to be part of this proving. I don’t want to be his heir. Will you help me convince him?”
“You can’t dispute god’s will. He’ll have an heir.”
“Fine, but why does one of us have die? I'd be fine to let Teirn be the heir.”
“That’s a poor idea. It should be you.” A sardonic smile touched her lips. “Despite what his mother thinks.”
“You know who his mother is?”
Just as the Master didn’t let children know the identities of their mothers, he kept mothers from knowing who any of their children were. It prevented inappropriately strong bonds from forming.
She responded with a guilty shrug and glanced away.
“It’s obvious that she’s Calla.”
She gave him a sharp look. “I can’t comment on that.”
Now that he’d breached the taboo subject, the floodgates opened. “And it’s just as obvious that you’re my mother.”
The comment made him feel little again, like a child seeking comfort in the arms of the mother he most liked.
Surprise washed over her freckled face. “Of course I’m your mother: I’m the mother to all demigods.”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re my mother.”
Again, she stared at him without speaking.
He steered his horse around a young clump of trees with trembling leaves. She still hadn’t spoken by the time he came back to her side. He decided to lay all his theories on the line. What did he have to lose, at this point?
“You’re one of his favorite wives, and I’m your son. That’s why I’m one of his favorites. Calla is his other favorite wife, and Teirn is her son. That’s why he and I are out here—outside the Seraglio, being tested. That’s why one of us will become his heir.”
“I admit,” she said, “that I did have a child during the time when you were born. It would please me if you were my son.”
This was all of the admission he would get out of her. But it was enough. He nearly leaned over to embrace her, but her horse moved aside to go around a bush.
“You don’t know this,” she said, “but I’ve had six children. I’ve never known for certain who they were, but I think that Athanaric has killed three of them, already.” A strain touched the corners of her eyes.
It had never even occurred to him that he had any full siblings. He felt a sting at their loss, and curiosity at who they were.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She glared. “The point is you’re important not only because you may be my son. Teirn isn’t important only because he’s Calla’s son. We’ve both had children who’ve been killed. You’re important for other reasons.”
“You can’t hint at it and not tell me.”
She shook her head and pulled her reigns. Her horse veered back toward the road.
“I’ve said too much. So have you. Resign yourself to your fate, and find a way to win this proving. It would be for the best.”
By then, she’d turned her back to him.
He watched her ride to the road and the group of mothers, where Calla laughed with several of them. Rashel didn’t go to Calla, but stayed on the opposite side of the cluster.
He looked up at the foggy mountainside, at the vague shapes of rocks in the mist. This proving was already driving him mad. He couldn’t take the secrecy and pretending. He needed to go to the Master, to try and get the Master to tell him the point of the proving. Then, he could plead for release from the test.
That was it. That was what he would do. And he would do it at the first opportunity.
Unfortunately, that opportunity would not come for days; the Master was out hunting apostates.
Chapter 23: Weakening god
The highest purpose of a demigod is to ease the burdens of others. I cannot expect any demigod to do this except I offer an appropriate example.
-Athanaric
The people of Archer’s Gate had laid Athanaric’s children—their demigods—out in the village center, near the statue where they worshiped daily. Over four hundred men, women, and children knelt around Athanaric on the grass and in the dirt, watching his reaction. Some wept for their fallen servants.
The people had done their best to make the demigods presentable. They’d spread fine red silk over the ground and laid the demigods on it. They’d washed away the blood, covered the fatal wounds, and dressed the demigods in fine white clothes. In death, the Caretakers looked at peace. Spring flowers of every color, picked and placed by children, surrounded each of the dead demigods, filling the air with sweetness.
Athanaric stood at the feet of his slain children. Their heads rested on the silk near the stone altar, a three-foot high rectangle of white stone, smooth from centuries of worship and daily cleaning. On that altar, demigods—including the most recent—had led the people in worship for generations. Behind the altar, a full-size statue of Athanaric stood with hands out-stretched, face serene, benevolent, giving.
He did not feel any of those things, now. He couldn’t even look up at the people who knelt all around him and the statue. He didn’t want them to see his sorrow. His weakness.
“Tell me, again,” he said. “What you know?”
The priest of Archer's Gate knelt by Athanaric’s side. He cleared his throat.
“The morning after the caravan passed through, none of the demigods emerged from their chambers in the synagogue. When we investigated, we found Ailyssia dead in her bed, with no sign of a struggle. We found Nathcott and Tyl dead in Nathcott’s chambers. From the mess in the room, it was obvious they’d died fighting.”
Athanaric nodded. He tried to blot out the sound of weeping, but couldn’t. These three demigods had been the servants of these people. Now, these people had no demigods to serve them.
Ailyssia had always loved children. At eight, she’d carried around a little doll of wood and cloth, pretending to nurse it, to change its clothes. It had always bothered Athanaric that she, of all his daughters, never had the chance to bear her own children. Of course, no demigods could. He castrated the men and sterilized the girls when they became Caretakers, and any who abused their procreative powers before then died; their having children would only lead to chaos. But Ailyssia had cared for the little ones around her, those of the people, with particular joy.
Nathcott had excelled at farming. Tyl delighted in whipping his brothers in wrestling matches. Both of them had served the people faithfully. The people loved them.
And now, the people in this village, just thirty miles south of the Seraglio, had no demigods to help with their farms, to bless their children, or strengthen their seeds.
Athanaric looked out over the crowd, at the dirty faces of humble desert farmers bowed low, at the young faces lifted in innocent disrespect to their god. What would they do, now, without demigods to help them tend their farms, dig irrigation ditches, build structures, judge disputes, lead the worshiping, or perform any of the other tasks assigned to Caretakers?
Wester and his gang of thugs had done this. The day before, the second day out from the Seraglio, Athanaric had gone to another village, where the demigods spoke of fighting off three rogue demigods in masks. Then, later the previous evening, he’d gone to a second village where two demigods had died—and a third nearly had—at the hand of the same masked attackers.
The cultists were thinning the ranks of his children to weaken him. He’d hurt them too badly in the Seraglio; they no longer had the strength of numbers to rebel openly. So they would kill his children, weaken his nation a few demigods at a time.
He needed to find Wester. He needed to wipe the heretics off of the face of the earth. He could not rest easy until then.
He motioned at his children, and spoke to the priest. “Bury them with proper respect.”
He wanted to stay and help with the funeral, but n
eeded to get back to his caravan. He wanted to counsel with his priests and chief demigods regarding the course to take.
“I’ll send word when I know how soon I can get new demigods here, to serve you and the people of this area.”
“Yes, lord,” the priest said. He still knelt on the ground.
Athanaric turned to go, and as he did, his gaze swept across the crowd. Most kept their faces down, but some looked up, their eyes desperate and afraid. Children looked at him with mouths and eyes wide.
These people depended on these demigods to survive. They leaned on them for so many things. And now, they had no help.
He couldn’t leave them. Not like this. It simply made his heart ache too much.
“Before I leave,” he said, “does anyone need healing?”
Sighs of relief washed through the crowd. The people looked at and murmured to each other in amazement at this blessing: their god would stay with them. With grateful eyes, they brought their children and elderly forward. He healed them all with Thew Ichor.
And, yet unable to leave, he inquired about their farms and houses, and if they needed aid in any fashion.
He stayed through the day and into the night, rendering what service he could, doing the job that his children would have done if they lived.
And all the while, he yearned for release, and looked forward to the day when one of his sons could inherit his duty.
He would speak with them as soon as he could.
Chapter 24: A disgrace to draegons everywhere
Children left on their own inevitably turn into little monsters.
-Cuchorack (when he was a draegon)
Leenda stood in the mouth of the draegon’s lair for a long time, letting the draft at her back diminish the cave’s rotten stench. Since her last visit more than a year before, her son had become a slob. A goat-gutted slob.
Sunlight bounced in through the wide entrance, illuminating all parts of the cave except for the deepest corners. Bones littered the floor, jumbled against the wall, or mixed with piles of treasure. On the pedestal of dirt and rocks in the cavern’s rear, instead of a nest of trees and branches, her son had formed a nest of ribcages from mountain goats, antelope, and grizzly bears. The animals’ pelts lay draped over the edges and lined the nest’s middle. No respectable draegon would use bones like that. It was barbaric. Civilized draegons might stack bones in the corner, place skulls like gems among the golden coins, or stash skeletons in a separate room, but they would never use ribs for a nest. It was simply in poor taste.
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