“When I next return, if you’re not on my side, then your life isn’t worth sparing.”
A pair of paladins pulled the tent flaps aside and stepped inside. They spotted Wester, lowered their spears, and charged, one around each side of the cot. With a snarl, Wester threw Wrend backward. He stumbled and fell into an open chest, expecting Wester to leap between the paladins and over the cot. Given his speed, it would have been an easy escape.
But he didn’t flee.
He produced a long knife from beneath his cloak and barreled at a paladin as it came around the cot. He twisted to the side to avoid the spear's head, and with two quick swipes cut the paladin’s arms off at the wrists. A third swipe at the neck nearly decapitated it. Its head dangled on the spinal chord, and it reeled away without a sound.
Wester turned in time to dodge a spear from behind. He lunged at the paladin, slashing it across the eyes. Its mask split open, revealing the gray skin beneath, and its eyes popped. A swipe at the neck took the head off.
Wester moved so fast, with such finesse, that dispatching the two paladins had only taken a few seconds—not even enough time for Wrend to pull himself out of the chest. As the second paladin collapsed in a heap, Wester headed back to Wrend, ignoring the handful of other paladins coming through the door. Wester bent down and placed the knife at Wrend’s chest. The point bit into the skin at his sternum. Wrend didn’t dare move.
Wester had already killed other demigods. Caretakers who knew how to use Ichor.
Wester raised one eyebrow. “Make me want to spare your life next time I see you.”
Then he leapt to the side of the tent, cut a quick slit down the side, and fled into the morning.
Wrend stared at the flapping cloth. Blood oozed from the wound in his chest, rolled down to his belly button.
Hopefully this would prompt the Master to spare some time for him.
And indeed, it did. Later that evening.
Chapter 26: Divine correction
Exercising power requires a willingness to do unpleasant things.
-Pyter
The Master frowned at Wrend.
“Explain to me,” he said, “the meaning of Wester visiting you this morning.”
Wrend looked up from where he knelt, hands clasped together on lush red carpet, legs tucked under his body.
“He asked me to join his rebellion.”
The Master nodded thoughtfully. He sat above Wrend, on a throne of red oak. At the top of the chair’s high back, a carved “1820” designated the year the Master’s followers had built the way station and chair. Certainly in the subsequent five hundred years, they’d changed the throne’s cushions, although the wood of the chair had probably lasted that long. Great curls and grooves decorated the beams, and tacks of gold held the red cushioning into place.
The Master’s feet rested on a similarly constructed stool, around which lay a dozen wolfhounds with tangled gray fur. They’d greeted Wrend with enthusiasm and returned to their places to fall asleep instantly. Two of them actually sat in the throne next to the Master, their heads in his lap. Their jaws gaped and their tongues drooped out between their teeth. Their bodies rose and fell with each breath. Only one sat awake, with her head raised. She looked at Wrend with suspicion.
Behind the throne, a fire burned in a hearth, casting light and heat into the room; it was an unusually cool night, even for spring. The smell of the smoke mixed with the odor of dog. Next to the throne sat a table covered in a dozen types of fruits, vegetables, and breads. Plush couches lined the walls, and Wrend groveled between them.
“Interesting,” the Master said, “that Wester wouldn’t kill you or Teirn. Why wouldn't he?"
"He says he wants our help."
"Doing what?"
"He hasn't said, exactly. Overthrowing you, I suppose."
"And tell me—is it a risk for me to have you here in this room with me?"
"What? No! I would never—"
"There are some who think you and Teirn have proven yourselves to be unfruitful boughs.”
“They're wrong, Master. I live only to ser—”
“Would you die for me, Wrend? Like Brittinay?”
For hours, images of Brittinay had filled Wrend’s head. She’d died that afternoon in the Strengthening. Until that day he’d only ever heard of the ceremony, and it had surprised him how he couldn’t look away from the scene of worship as the people of the district bowed and chanted, how the demigoddess—her face filled with adoration—offered a full-sized sculpture of the Master as a gift before dying, and how tears streamed down the Master’s face as he slit the demigoddess’s throat in such a manner that her blood drained into a great silver bowl. The priests scooped it up and dumped it into bins filled with seed, and mixed the blood in with great wooden spoons. Brittinay had given her life without so much as flinching.
The Master expected the same of Wrend.
“I would. I only wish to serve you, and succeed in this proving.”
A slight smile finally broke onto the Master’s face, although it looked more tired than Wrend had ever seen it. For a moment, it almost looked like his two thousand years would come upon him all at once.
“You’re still concerned about our conversation at the feast?”
Wrend nodded, and again lowered his face to the floor. “If you could tell me what's expected of me—what the purpose of the proving is—I could do much better.”
“If I asked you the same question now that I asked at the feast, what would you answer?”
“I would say that the right thing to do is your will—to command the people of Hasuke to follow and worship you. Those who disobey your command must suffer your wrath.”
“You hesitated.”
Heat rose in Wrend’s neck and cheeks. “I’m trying to make my will one with yours.”
The Master studied him as if deciding what to say. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.
“I’ll do anything to regain your favor,” Wrend said. “If you tell me the purpose of the proving, I can excel.”
The Master sighed and shook his head, closed his eyes for a moment.
“Wrend, I have great things in mind for you. You’re an exceptional son. But first you have much to learn.”
“Teach me. I’ll do and learn whatever you want.”
“You saw the sacrifice today. You watched me spill my daughter’s blood. Do I take joy in doing that, year after year?”
“Of course not.”
“And these loyal dogs.” He gestured with one hand at the wolfhounds lying at his feet. “Will I take joy in rending their souls from their bodies? Or in taking the souls out of the soldiers they’ll become?”
“I’m sure not.”
“And my little ones? Your siblings. What pleasure do I find in killing them?”
“I understand, Master. You do many things you don’t want to do. But they’re necessary.”
The Master nodded and pursed his lips. “This is a valuable lesson you’ve identified. But you must learn to practice it.”
“I’ll do anything you want.”
“There are many tasks—“
One of the dogs lifted his head and woofed. Immediately, the other dogs did the same: every last one of them awoke from their drowsing. They looked toward the door, eyes intent.
The Master frowned at the dogs, but continued. “There are tasks in store for you which you’ll find unpleasant. If you’re to succeed in this proving, you’ll have to do those tasks even though you may not want to. You have to make the hard choices.”
Wrend’s heart pounded. Why wouldn’t the Master just say that one of them would die at the end of the proving?
“Please, tell me the goal of this proving so that I can do better.”
Again, the Master paused as if deciding what to say. One by one the dogs lowered their heads and shut their eyes. The Master took a loaf of bread from the table and tore a bite away.
“It’s not important right no
w. What’s important is that you serve me well.”
Anger rose in Wrend, and for the first time he thought he might willfully disregard the Master’s commands. He had to do hard things. Was one of them killing Teirn? If not directly, then indirectly. He wanted none of it.
“I’ll do my best.”
A flash of indignation filled the Master’s face, as if he’d perceived Wrend’s heart. Maybe there had been some hint in Wrend’s tone, or a movement of the eye that had betrayed him.
“Wrend,” the Master said. A dark tone laced his words. “I want you to show me right now that you will do anything I say. Draw your knife.”
Still kneeling, Wrend obeyed. He held the knife in his right hand, point up. The blue of the steel glinted in the lamplight. He tried to swallow, but found his throat dry.
“Lift it over your head.”
He did.
“Hold out your left hand.”
Wrend did, so that the lace side of the bracer faced down.
This was happening too fast. He didn’t have time to think about what was going on—but he couldn’t afford to, anyway. Any hesitation on his part would lead to disaster. He could feel it. The Master wouldn’t let him trifle with disobedience.
“Now, cut off your hand.”
Wrend didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. And hadn’t he just told the Master that he would give his life if needed? Giving his hand should be nothing.
And he found it was nothing. Better to lose his hand and demonstrate devotion to the Master, than to exhibit disobedience. The only reason to falter was the pain. The Master had asked this of him, and he’d always done as the Master had commanded. He’d spent his life in submission. And he wouldn’t stop now.
It would take a strong blow to cut through the bracer and sever his hand, so Wrend lowered the blade with as much force as he could.
He tightened his jaw and neck, ready for the pain. He watched his left hand, ready for it to drop away as the knife cut through his wrist.
The knife sliced through the bracer. Pain exploded through his arm. He’d never experienced anything like it. His left hand dropped away.
He screamed as he stared at the blood gushing out of his wrist and at his hand lying on the carpet. His heart began to beat fast—as if his body just realized what had happened. On the carpet, the fingers twitched. Wrend imagined he could feel the movement. The metallic reek of blood rushed into his nose.
He dropped the knife. In an effort to grip his forearm, he knocked off the half of the bracer on his wrist. His initial scream faded, and he choked back a second one. Excited, the dogs leapt up and began to bark.
But they moved slower than the Master. He jumped from his throne and dove through the dogs to Wrend. He snatched up the hand. The half of the bracer, covered in blood, fell away to the carpet. The Master placed it against the gushing stump, holding his hand over the seam. The bleeding slowed, though the pain continued. The dogs leapt around the Master and Wrend. He barely heard their barking from the thundering in his head, the pulsing in his arm. Flecks of light filled his vision. He started to wobble. Only the Master holding onto his hand kept him upright.
He’d just cut his hand off for the Master.
“Help with the healing,” the Master said.
A strange softness touched his voice, and he looked at Wrend with mystified eyes. Wrend stared back, his mouth wide open.
“Wrend, bind Ichor to your wrist. Apply with all of your ability.”
Wrend obeyed. He bound Ichor to his wrist with a thought, and applied it. He pushed it out as if he were expelling poison. He couldn’t feel his hand any longer. The sensation of having a hand, the ability to move it, had suddenly disappeared, and it hadn’t returned yet.
Would it, or would it not heal properly?
He couldn’t guess. He could only trust the Master. And he would. Hadn’t he proved it? He’d cut off his blasted hand, for pity’s sake. He did love the Master. He would do anything the Master asked. He’d proven it not only to the Master, but also to himself.
As the pain began to subside in Wrend’s wrist, the Master leaned forward, placing his free hand on Wrend’s head. The weight pressed down on Wrend’s neck, warm and comforting. It was a familiar gesture, one Wrend remembered with fondness from his earliest days. The Master’s solemn eyes met his.
“You’ve proven yourself.”
Suddenly the feeling returned to Wrend’s hand and he gasped—half from the sensation of having a hand again, and half from the bolt of pain it shot through his arm. The Master pulled his hand away, and blood covered Wrend’s wrist. He wiped it away with his right hand, turning his wrist, feeling for a wound, looking for a scar. But he saw none. The skin seemed unscathed. He could move his fingers again. The sting in his arm lessened with every moment as he continued to pour Ichor into it.
“Wrend, listen to me. Look at me.”
Wrend obeyed.
“Continue to dedicate yourself to me. Do my will. Purge all unrighteousness from your soul—and remember that I define what is righteous and what is not. You do not. Bring your will into oneness with mine, and you will do well. This is a good start. But you have not yet proven yourself to be a fruitful branch of my tree.”
That admonition burned itself onto Wrend’s brain and heart like a branding. A minute later he left the way station feeling almost dazed, and headed through the small village back to his city of tents, intent on deciding how to best follow the Master’s counsel while saving himself and Teirn.
And enjoying the simple fact that he had two working hands.
He became so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the redheaded serving girl trying to get his attention.
Chapter 27: Giving up on subtlety
Any boy who gives you his attention easily is probably not worth your own attention.
-Brentna
Leenda tried several things to get Wrend’s attention. She walked a little ways in front of him and darted down an alley in a suspicious manner. When he didn’t respond to that, but walked right past, she hurried on ahead to the outside of the village, to the edge of the city of tents and wagons. There, she stood in the darkness between two tents and whistled at him as he walked by. Again, he either didn’t notice or ignored her.
Frustrated, she folded her arms. She wanted to be subtle with how she got him out into the forest. There were too many paladins, priests, and serving girls around to make a scene. It would already be hard enough to convince Wrend that he had a draegon’s soul, without the complication from unwanted participants.
She watched his back as he meandered down the street between the tents. He wore the traditional outfit of a Novitiate: a simple white woolen shirt with long sleeves and gray woolen pants tucked into black boots. He walked without purpose, as if his thoughts had consumed any awareness of the world around him.
From the direction he’d just come, a group of giggling serving girls approached. Leenda backed further into the shadows and crouched out of sight. The girls passed, gossiping about some boys, and didn’t notice Leenda. She listened as their voices trailed off down the street; it was no wonder she’d never gotten along with any of them.
She stayed there for a moment, hugging herself against the chill of the clear night and wishing for a goat-gutted coat. She’d protected herself against the cold of the mountains with Thew Ichor, but had used so much that she didn’t have much left to warm herself now. A few clouds might have helped keep the temperature up, but not a single one spotted the sky. Directly ahead of her, the sparkling band of stars known as the Spilled Milk illuminated a wide swath of southern sky.
She and Krack had descended into the valley that day, as the population had assembled for the Strengthening and subsequent feast. She’d hidden her son beyond a copse of juniper trees about half a mile outside the village. During most of their journey, they’d managed to stay hidden in the surrounding mountains, but now that they needed to get close to Wrend, they had to risk someone seeing Krack. That wasn’
t dangerous, except that if Athanaric found out about a draegon nearby, he would investigate.
After a few moments of thought, Leenda decided that she couldn’t afford subtlety—and she had no patience for it, besides. If someone saw her, she had enough Thew and Flux to get away.
She slunk forward to the edge of the tents and looked both ways. The girls had disappeared into a tent or down another street, but Wrend’s white shirt was visible in the distance. A few paladins stood at the end of the street, their backs toward her and Wrend. She hurried after him, sprinting through the dirt and over the sagebrush. He didn’t even turn at her footsteps, and so jumped in surprise when she came up to his side and slowed her pace to match his.
He gave her a long, confused look.
She smiled. “I want to show you something.”
He stopped walking, and he shook his head as if clearing it from some mind-bending blow.
“What?”
She grinned again—she had his attention—and started to run.
Chapter 28: Chasing living flame
If someone gives you an opportunity to claim you didn’t know any better, take it. Run with it.
-Wrend
As the serving girl darted off along the row of tents, it took Wrend several moments to process what she’d said. He was too distracted by his naked wrist and the memory of chopping off his own hand. Drying blood covered his hand and arm, coated his pants and shirt. He still couldn’t believe that he’d done it. He’d lowered the knife, and the hand had just dropped away. And he’d done it without a thought, without hesitation.
Had it been part of the proving? Would Teirn have to do the same thing?
But all thoughts of severing hands disappeared as he raced through the city of tents after the serving girl. It felt like he chased a living flame, with how her yellow dress and fiery red hair shone in the night. He could barely keep up with her as she ran through the grass or around the sagebrush, sometimes even leaping over the silvery-gray bushes.
The Demigod Proving Page 14