As he sat there, thinking on that, the tent faded away, out of his consciousness. His mind and thoughts consumed his attention as questions flowed into his awareness from an unknown place—perhaps from a different person, or from a hidden place of memories. Yet they felt right, like questions he’d always known he should ask but simply couldn’t think of—things he never would’ve been able to come up with on his own. And all of it started with the one undeniably good point Naresh had made.
Who ensured that the gods were good and true, that they didn’t abuse their powers?
For if they were truly gods, they surely had the responsibility to rule over their people with love and kindness. They had the charge to see that their people were happy and safe, fed and sheltered. Free from war, crime, and suffering. Who kept these gods in check, ensured that they fulfilled those responsibilities? Was it Naresh, himself? The Godslayer?
What, exactly, did it mean to be a god? Did they really have any responsibility to do good, or by virtue of their godhood could they do whatever they wanted? Were they laws unto themselves, above the reproach of man or nature? And if he or Teirn became god, would they suddenly become subject to that higher law? Was there any over-arching governance that determined what, ultimately, was right and wrong, and who should be god?
Were any of the questions even relevant?
Yes.
He felt it in his core, from the deep recesses of his mind, where if he could light a lamp, he would find the answers.
What was that place in his mind? He’d never encountered it before, and though he reached for it he couldn’t quite grasp it.
Where did those questions even come from? Had Naresh placed them there? Could that be done?
Doubts flowed through him. He could not find any solutions. Only more questions—questions that there should have been answers to. Questions that everyone should have had answers to. But he had none. Did anybody?
He didn't want to wait for the Master to return. He focused on his discernment, intending to break his bonds.
But the Master entered the tent in a rush.
The dogs leapt to their feet and Wrend jerked up, straightening his shoulders and lifting his head. He hadn’t realized that he’d hunched over the ropes, but the dull throbbing in his arms and chest indicated he’d assumed that position some time before. The momentary brightness of the kerosene lamp proved that his eyes had been closed.
How much time had passed?
The Master strode through the pack of dogs, to Wrend. For a moment, Wrend thought his end had come, that the Master had decided to kill him. But the fear lasted only until he saw the emotions—determination and almost satisfaction, tinged with love and pride—in the Master’s face.
The Master stopped in front the chair and fell to one knee, bringing his face level with Wrend’s. His back was to the lamp, and so his face was dark except for the reflection of a bit of light in his eyes.
“My son, I have a work for you.”
“Anything you say.”
“This will be your final test. You mustn’t fail, or it will be your end.”
“Anything.”
The hounds still clamored around their master, nudging his legs and hands, sniffing at his clothes. He held still and silent, and his limned silhouette expanded and contracted with each breath that touched Wrend’s face with a scent of bread.
“Did you get him?” Wrend said, unable to hold the question back. “Naresh?”
“He escaped.”
“He killed Hasuke’s god? And the other gods whose lands you’ve taken over?”
The Master nodded. “At the least, he helped.”
Wrend had known Naresh his entire life, had been friends with him and gained important perspectives from him—the man who’d killed gods and brought nations to their knees. And yet with all this new knowledge, the Master wasn’t going to kill Wrend. He yet had a task for Wrend.
Could it possibly be to kill the Godslayer? He couldn’t do that—there was no way. But it would be a fine method for the Master to dispose of a favorite, disobedient son without making it look like he’d been disobedient.
“What do you need me to do?”
He held his breath. His heart began to beat faster.
“When the time is right, I’ll give you the task.”
“I can’t know now? So I can prepare for it?”
“No. I want to see how you handle it without much preparation.”
Wrend tried not to scowl. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The Master nodded, his face still in shadows. "Wrend, you may yet prove to be a fruitful bough. The most fruitful of all. Just prove faithful."
"Yes, Master."
“Let’s get you out of these ropes. You must be hungry.”
“A little.”
Wrend forced a chuckle and looked at his knife where it lay among some plates and bowls. He would be glad to have it back in its sheath at his side.
As the Master untied him, his head churned with all of the things that had happened that night, the things he’d learned. The questions he discovered. He wanted more than anything for someone to talk with about it all.
Not Teirn. He wouldn't do. He'd kept too much from Wrend. Same with Rashel.
But Leenda. Leenda had actually tried to give him information.
He would seek her out at the first chance.
Chapter 46: Fire in the veins
The accumulation of Ichor is the most fundamental task in obtaining and maintaining power. Neglecting this duty will result in failure in all cases.
-Athanaric
Not long after night fell, Leenda sought out Wrend.
She returned to the camp by Ichor-leaping over the paladins on watch. She then infiltrated past the paladins spread throughout the camp, into a demigod’s tent. There, she stole a shirt, pants, and a wide-brimmed hat. In the dark she could pass herself off as a young boy; she was small enough, and her body hadn’t developed too much, yet, even if it did give her trouble. She tucked her hair up under the hat and stuffed her pockets full of dried apples pilfered from one storage wagon, crusty old bread from another, and cured beef from a third.
Still avoiding the paladins, she found a dark place up in the prickly branches of a young spruce across from Wrend’s tent and ate. She harvested Thew as she waited. She would probably need it. If she couldn’t convince Wrend to come with her, she would club him over the head like she’d done with Rashel and carry him away. Brute force seemed like a good alternative if he wouldn’t listen to reason.
Paladins passed by often. She didn’t even chew when they did. They walked by in silence, the crunching of their boots in the dirt and the quiet rattle of their armor the only indication that they’d passed by.
She left, once, and snuck back through the tent streets to the wagons for another bunch of food. Though the fruits of her first theft had filled her stomach, she needed Ichor, and that required a thorough gorging.
Not long after she returned to her perch, just before midnight—as she wondered if she could possibly take another bite—Wrend came to his tent. Shortly after he entered, he lit a lamp and the light illuminated the tent’s thick canvas like an oversized lantern. His shadow, faint because of the canvas’ thickness, moved back and forth.
A few other people started to appear, returning early from the Strengthening. But the streets remained quiet, except for the paladins. In another hour or two, the celebration would begin to wind down; those returning probably had to rise early to cook breakfast before everyone took down the tents.
Soon, Wrend settled down onto his bed and reached up to dim the lamp. Leenda watched and waited for a chance to sneak past the patrolling paladins. It took nearly fifteen minutes, during which she forced herself to finish her food. Eventually, an opening came, and she descended from the tree, crossed the path, and pulled Wrend’s tent flap aside to enter on her tiptoes.
He’d left the lamp just barely lit, but had fallen asleep on his cot in the tent’s cent
er. He wore no shirt and laid on his side, with his back to her. The muscles of his shoulders shifted as he breathed. A dark blanket covered his legs and waist.
A small table with a washbasin, a pitcher, and the lamp stood at the head of the cot. An open trunk rested on the ground against the right wall, at his feet. A chamber pot just to the right of the entrance, sitting on the dirt floor, gave off a putrid stench. She would never understand those things. Better to get the stuff out of the tent, as opposed to letting it fester there all night. Better yet, just find a remote place to do your business and bury it. That’s what a draegon did.
She crept around the foot of the cot. He still wore his white bracers and had thrown his clothes into the trunk without folding them. She’d never seen him sleeping, and the serenity of his face made her pause with a hand raised to touch his shoulder. She withdrew it, and just looked at him.
He needed to shave—or not. He looked rugged with the scraggly beard. In sleep, and in the dim light, the hard lines of his jaw softened under shadows. His eyebrows relaxed, so they weren’t as close as when he was awake. His chest muscles were smooth and defined. She wanted to touch them. She wanted to kiss his lips.
Again—for the thousandth time in recent days—she remembered their kiss, the honey taste of his lips against hers and the feel of his body as she leaned into it. His mouth had fit hers so perfectly, especially in the moment that he’d kissed her back, letting his lips soften. How was it that the act of putting flesh together could thrill her so? It was such a simple thing. Yet her human body seemed to need it.
She leaned toward him, to kiss him again, but stopped. Three small figures lay on the cot before him.
They stood about three inches high: a bear reared up on its hind legs, a crouched lion, and an eagle with its wings extended and claws reaching down. Even in the dim light she could make out their fine lines for feathers or hair, tiny gemstones for eyes, and expressive faces. They glittered gold and silver.
She picked up the lion, examining it, touching the mane almost with the expectation that it would feel soft like hair. It was light enough that it was probably made of wood covered in gold leaf. She wanted to keep it, to add it to her horde up in the mountains.
The thought startled her, even if it wasn’t the first time she’d had it. She’d thought like that for fifteen years, ever since she’d taken on a human body. She’d thought of the lair up where Krack had lived as hers, and the piles of treasure as hers. She’d even accumulated shiny coins and stones wherever she’d lived, intending to take them up the mountains to add them to her treasure.
That must be what Wrend did, as well. Without realizing it, he was gathering a horde. Back at the Seraglio, he probably had more than just these three figures.
He shifted on the bed, rolling to his back so that his face turned upward. His lips parted, and his arms fell to his sides so she had a clear view of his naked torso.
Goat guts! It was too much for her. She placed the lion in her pocket and reached out to touch him, running her hand across his stomach, relishing the warmth of his skin. She could not resist the urge to touch his mouth with hers.
She moved fast, sliding both hands up to his chest and leaning over him. Their lips touched and his reacted, puckering. She pressed, letting the weight of her torso fall against him. He was so warm and solid. His lips were so soft. She needed to have his arms around her. She would gladly lose herself in this strange human passion.
There was nothing like this as a draegon, no fire in the veins.
Wrend awoke. He jerked as his eyes shot open and widened. His palms came up her shoulders, knocking the eagle and bear off the cot as he moved to push her away. His entire body tensed, became like stone as the muscles flexed. She felt it through her clothes and readied herself to be thrown off.
But he didn’t cast her away.
Lips still touching, eyes locked, hands on her shoulders, he stared at her in confusion. His face showed him weighing the options, processing what was happening, reconciling that against a hundred possible actions. She felt like her life hung in the balance. She couldn’t bear to have him thrust her away. Her body couldn’t take something like that.
The expression in his eyes changed. It became decisive and hard, and his arms encircled her, pulling her close. She felt like water being gulped in, and let his lips press against hers. It was rough and awkward. He didn’t seem to know what to do any more than she did, but the fire in her raged to life.
Warmth filled her. She pressed her weight more fully on him and slid her hands down the side of his body, so that she could press her torso against him. There wasn’t much to press, but she did it, and started to swing her legs up onto the cot.
He stiffened. An expression of terror flooded his face. He slid his face out from beneath hers, and pushed her off.
Chapter 47: Tipping the scales
Sometimes you just can't maintain control.
-Leenda
Leenda stumbled back from the cot and landed on her tailbone on the ground. The hat fell from her head, and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She cried out, her lips burning and her fingertips tingling from the feel of his skin.
“What are you doing?” he said.
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. For a moment she thought he would help her up, but after he jumped up—he wore white cotton undershorts down to his knees—he backed away from her. She couldn’t see his face in the dimness, but could imagine its terror.
Now that she had his attention, she didn’t know what to say. She’d thought to insist that he come with her, that he listen to reason, but that seemed as inadequate as asking Rashel to tell him the truth. She started to stand and accidentally kicked the eagle figurine.
He leaned over and snatched the figures up from the ground.
“Where’s the lion?”
On her feet, she dug into her pocket and pulled out the lion. As she extended her hand to him, palm up, the lion resting on it, the figurine seemed to wink at her in the light. He reached for it, and she snatched her hand back.
“Not until you finish that kiss."
He gaped at her. “What?”
“I want a proper end to that kiss. Throwing me off is no way to treat me. I’m your mate.”
He made noises of confusion and frustration.
“You felt it just like I did,” she said. “The power of that kiss. We were meant for each other, Wrend. You belong with me. And you know it.”
She really had no idea if he knew it, or not, but a human would say that kind of thing. Did the human brain influence even her words? It wasn’t enough that the body affected her emotions, now the brain dictated what came out of her mouth?
“It’s forbidden,” he said. “I can’t kiss you.”
She stepped toward him, tilting her head forward so she had to look at him from beneath her eyelashes.
“Let’s get away from here, Wrend. Let’s go somewhere we can be alone—without worrying about paladins or anyone else.”
A struggle passed through his eyes as she put the lion on the cot behind him, and placed her hands on his hips. It took all of her effort to not kiss him again—if he got another kiss he’d have to work for it. And he wanted it. She could see the hunger in his eyes, feel it in the trembling of his stomach muscles.
“Just come with me for a little while, so we can talk.”
“You don’t want to just talk.”
“We do need to talk. But if other things happen,” she said, running a forefinger down his arm and taking his hand in hers, “I won’t object.”
He licked his lips. His eyes glinted with conflict, and she feared that if he voiced his doubts they would overtake him. So, she reached both her hands up to the back of his neck, stood on the tips of her toes, and pulled his face down to hers.
He resisted far less than she expected or hoped.
Chapter 48: Willful disobedience
It's natural for all beings of intelligence to test the bound
s around them, to push against the walls that create their world. It's part of having the ability to act and make decisions. The trick is to not push too hard, and to not push against the wrong bounds.
-Wrend
Wrend felt himself slipping into uncharted territory for the second time that night. But this time, he knew exactly what was going on.
And not only did he welcome it, he enjoyed it.
Her mouth tasted both sweet and salty, like cured beef and apples. Her hands on the back of his neck felt warm; he wanted her to run them over his chest. Touch his stomach.
He stood there with his eyes open as he drank her in, relishing the softness of her lips against his. She closed her eyes and leaned her body into his, tilting her head back. In the dim light it almost looked like her head had caught fire, the way her tangled hair shifted in the shadows.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. It was forbidden for him to have any kind of relationship of this manner.
Yet, what would happen if he did? The Master didn’t have to know. And, indeed, the Master hadn’t said anything about avoiding her when he’d confessed that Wrend was a draegon, and this girl possibly his mate. He hadn’t told Wrend to avoid her. He hadn’t forbidden contact with her.
And besides, it might not matter soon, anyway. If Wrend failed in whatever task the Master had in store for him, it didn’t really matter what he did, anymore. And if he succeeded, the normal rules wouldn't apply to him. In fact, if he became god, he would probably take on wives like the Master did.
The question—did it matter if he obeyed the Master—nearly made him pull away. Of course it mattered. Yet something held him there. Perhaps the words of Naresh and the seeds of doubt they’d planted. Maybe the questions that resonated with his soul, as if they were old memories coming to the surface: was the Master even god, or just a man who’d set himself up as god?
The Demigod Proving Page 25