Thirty feet.
Athanaric had nearly used all of his Flux.
Twenty feet.
He reached out, almost able to grab the draegon's tail. Leenda's eyes, wide in horror at her failure, met his.
Ten feet.
Something struck him in the back, throwing him off balance. His hand, extended to grab onto the draegon's tail, closed over empty air. The weight on his back pulled him down, and he began to spin.
“Yet another god loses,” Naresh said into his ear, and the weight was gone.
And so was Athanaric’s Flux.
He spun and rotated as he plunged, so that one moment he saw the ground coming closer, the next the draegon in the sky. He caught a glimpse of Naresh landing on the draegon's back, above, and of his paladins meeting the Hasuken, below.
He couldn’t suppress a roar of anger.
He'd failed. He had failed. The Godslayer had bested him. A favored son—one who might have inherited his godhood—was dead. His other choice son had betrayed him. He had no heir, no oasis against the despair of his years.
And he was falling.
But he still was moving, and so he still created Flux. It emanated from him in waves of white. He could harvest that Ichor and slow his fall enough to survive the impact.
Yet, he could also let himself fall and fall and strike the ground like a star descended from heaven, and die. He could end it all and no one would think he'd done it on purpose. He could do it, and end his agony at life—so much the greater without the promise of an heir to relieve him of his duty.
No. He had a people to lead and love. They depended on him, and they would need him to protect them from the other gods, who ruled not with generosity and kindness, but with fists of steel. His people still needed him.
And the country of Hasuke needed taming. It needed to pay for what it had done to his little ones and wives through its alliance with the apostates. He had vengeance to levy on his enemies.
Especially Naresh and Wrend.
And so he harvested the Flux, bound it to his body, and applied it upward. He would hit the ground hard, but hopefully he could slow his descent enough that it wouldn't kill him.
He would live to protect his people. He would live to mete out justice.
Chapter 88: Remembered memory
Every human dreams of flying, of lighting on the wind like a bird or a draegon. How strange it is, when as a human you remember doing exactly that.
-Wrend
Wrend knew it was his own memory. It was too strong and vivid to be anything else. It wasn't an imagination or a dream, a vision or a revelation. It was a memory.
His red wings spread out on both sides, the wind flapping their edges and rustling through his fur. The ground slipped away below him: an alpine forest with snow frosting the needles of spruces and pines.
His draegon-shaped shadow grew and shrunk as it moved over trees, and dropped fifty feet to the bottom of a ravine. To each side of him, larger draegons flew. His mother on his right, with her amber fur, and his father to his left, with his dark red fur and the splotch of white on his nose. He loved to fly.
It was an old memory. Very old—from the time when he was a draegon pup, just learning to fly. But it was his.
He was a draegon.
Chapter 89: Something like victory
Rarely do you achieve your goal in one gigantic event. More often than not you get there slowly. Step by step, like the rising of the sun.
-Weicketable
Leenda tried to grip Wrend. It was goat-gutting difficult because she had to twist her body to hold on to him, and he seemed to want to do nothing but laugh and spread his arms wide. He had his eyes closed and his head thrown back. It seemed he'd snapped. Gone goat-gut crazy.
“I'll hold him,” the old man said.
He crawled up Krack's back, holding on to fistfuls of fur. Leenda had no idea who the man was, but didn't care. He seemed to be on their side.
Below, Athanaric struck the ground, right in the middle of a battalion of paladins. They bounced up and away from the force of his impact. The wind carried away the sound of him hitting the ground, but Leenda imagined it would have satisfied her very much.
As they approached the opposite butte, Krack began to descend. She laughed at the wind in her face. She had her mate. He had escaped from Athanaric. That didn’t mean he’d decided to join her and return to a draegon body, but she’d gotten him halfway there. It was a victory. Not everything she’d hoped for, but that would come in time. No doubt it would.
And, just as important, her son had come back to her.
She leaned low against Krack’s neck, nestling her face in the fur's softness, and hugged him.
“You came back for me.”
He twisted his head around to look at her. His great black eyes reflected her face, and he didn’t speak for a few seconds. When he did, he tilted his head in an expression of sarcasm.
“Of course I did. I’m a draegon, aren’t I?”
She didn’t know how to take it. Had he decided to live like a noble draegon, or was it simply guilt that had brought him? Maybe his motivation didn’t matter. It, too, was a victory. Perhaps not everything she wanted, but close.
His wings fluttered as he touched down. He took several quick steps and stopped. She dismounted, careful to step around a poison sage, and helped the old man lift Wrend down. He still had a vacant look in his eyes. She guided him over to a rock and sat him down.
“Wrend,” she said. “Wrend.”
He didn’t respond. She straightened, shaking her head, and turned around. Nearby, the old man stood looking at Wrend with a furrowed brow.
“Who are you?” she said.
He shrugged and pointed with his chin at Wrend.
“His mentor, I suppose.”
She raised her eyebrows. “He never told me about you.”
He laughed at her as if laughing at a little child who’d stumbled while learning how to walk, and gave her a look as if indulging her on some trivial thing. He might have been on their side—and was obviously very powerful—but he was still a goat-gutted idiot. She could see that.
When he’d finished laughing, he leveled his eyes on her.
“And you’ve spent so much time with him that he would have told you everything? Who, I should ask, are you?”
In complete silence, Krack lowered his head, placing it about a foot behind and to the left of the man’s head. Leenda didn’t let her eyes wander to her son. Instead, she pursed her lips, placed her hands on her hips, and stepped between the man and Wrend.
“I’m his mate.”
His eyes widened. “I had no idea that he’d—“
“And that,” she said, nodding at Krack, “is his son.”
Naresh turned his head—and yelped to find the draegon so close. He jumped away, and looked back-and-forth several times from Leenda to Krack, clearly trying to figure it all out. Finally, he threw his hands up in the air.
“I thought I’d seen everything,” he said. “But maybe not.”
“Leenda.”
Leenda snapped around, turning back to Wrend. He looked up at her with an expression full of understanding. Comprehension. For the first time since she’d seen him, she saw light in his eyes. True light. Heart pounding, she knelt before him. His gaze locked with hers. His mouth gaped.
“What is it?” she said.
He shook his head and chuckled in complete wonder. “I remember now.”
Her heart leapt. Could he remember his draegon form? Could he remember that she was his mate?
“You remember what?”
A corner of his mouth twitched in a smile.
“I’m a draegon.”
Chapter 90: Just the beginning
Do the best you can with the circumstances you’re given. That’s all anyone can ask of you.
-Naresh
From their position of safety atop the butte, they watched the two armies clash in battle. They were much more evenly matched
than Wrend ever would have expected.
At the outset, the Master had withdrawn, limping back to the rear ranks of his army—probably not out of cowardice, but in an effort to recover from wounds. Wrend imagined that he would go to Rashel, to recover along with her. Well, he hoped the Master would. And hopefully his mercy toward Rashel would continue.
The paladins attacked with their usual doggedness, going down only once they’d lost their heads. They cut down plenty of Hasuken soldiers with ease, and kept on fighting even after they’d lost their arms and legs. But they didn’t simply overrun the Hasuken, many of whom leapt and dodged with unusual speed and strength.
“How is that possible?” Wrend said.
Leenda stood next to him, gripping his hand. Disappointment had painted her face when he’d admitted that he didn’t remember being her mate. He didn’t even remember her in his draegon form. He could only remember one or two things from his time as a draegon. A few of the things that must’ve been most vivid to him when he was a pup.
According to Naresh, when the Master had transferred his soul from the draegon body into the body he now had, the memories had drained out of the soul, with the newest first, and going back. If the Master had kept Wrend’s soul without a body long enough, Wrend would have lost all his draegon memories. As it was, it had taken flying on a draegon to trigger the ones he had left.
“How are they using Ichor?” Wrend said,
“Your father,” Naresh said, “lives in his own little world. He’s not particularly aware of the things that go on outside it. Many have known for a time—and, granted, kept it secret—that anyone can use Ichor. Not just descendents of Pyter.”
“Anyone?” Leenda said. “You’re sure?”
Naresh nodded.
“I don’t understand,” Wrend said.
Naresh shrugged. “It’s simple. You’ve been in the dark your whole life, knowing only what your father chose to tell you—which wasn’t much. And which, of course, is not even close to the aggregate body of what the world knows. Either he deceived you and the rest of his kingdom about Ichor, or he simply doesn’t know that every person can use Ichor. The most common child can learn to use it.”
Wrend shook his head. It seemed impossible. Dangerous.
“There’s so much I was never told. So much to learn. Why aren’t you down there, fighting with the Hasuken?”
Naresh sighed with frustration.
“They’re bloodthirsty. I told them I have no interest in conquest over Locaran, but their minds are set.”
“The Hasuken are going to invade Locaran?”
“About eight years ago I started my work in Hasuke, to bring down the god of that country. I recruited many priests. My goal was a peaceful coup, but they had ideas of their own, and killed their god. Now, they’ve turned their eyes north, to Locaran. Against my wishes, they allied with the apostate Caretakers, and made a plan to take over the country—starting with the slaughter of all the Novitiates in the Seraglio.”
A dull distrust rubbed in Wrend’s belly. Naresh didn’t seem to be telling him everything. He painted events in a light that made him look innocent. Was he, really?
“You mean, you didn’t do those things, but you prompted them to do them?”
“No, I would do it a different way. In fact, you were my experiment for doing it a different way, but you’ve ruined my plans.” He frowned and shook his head. “If you weren’t so stubborn, we’d all be much better off now.”
“How so?” Leenda said.
“I wanted Wrend to inherit Athanaric’s kingdom. Then, over time, we set the people free, and teach them that he wasn’t a god, that Athanaric wasn’t a god, that Pyter isn’t a god.”
Wrend grunted. None of it surprised him anymore, but it didn’t ease the guilt stabbing at his belly. He’d betrayed the Master, and been at least in part responsible for his brother’s death—even though he’d done his best to convince his brother to let him be. None of that felt good. His wrists, pale where the bracers had always covered them, felt naked. His hips felt strangely unbalanced without the sacrificial knife.
But, he felt gladness to no longer serve a god that killed his own children and pitted brother against brother. He’d gained freedom to do and act as he pleased, to live as he wanted.
Was it worth the price?
Yes. Yes it was.
“What do we do now?” he said, not certain he wanted to take Naresh’s answer at face value, or trust anything he said.
Naresh shrugged and looked out over the battle.
“We come up with a new plan.”
His eyes narrowed, and he squinted down at the chaos and tilted his head to one side with a frown. After a moment, his expression changed to one of confusion.
Wrend followed his gaze, but could only see the turmoil of the battle.
“What are you looking at?” he said.
“Didn’t you say that Teirn was dead?”
“Yes.”
Naresh shook his head and pointed. “You’re wrong. He’s alive, and is headed this way.”
Chapter 91: Saved
From the first day I learned about the potential need to kill my brother, I loathed the idea.
-Teirn
Teirn awoke to a blue sky, considerable pain searing his skin, and a great deal of noise: shouting, metal clashing, and weeping. A haze covered everything—not only his vision, but also his brain. It was as if a heavy veil lay over his mind.
It took him a moment to realize that his mother knelt over him, her head on his chest, her sobs punctuating the sound of battle. Above and around him, paladins stood in several concentric circles with their backs to him, swords ready. Just past them, a battle raged. Hasuken men hacked at paladins, who in turn swiped at the men—who moved with such grace and speed they clearly used Ichor. That didn’t surprise Teirn. After all, even his mother could use Ichor. He had no idea how that could be, or what it meant.
He inhaled as if taking his first breath in days. Air burned in his lungs, rattled in his throat. He groaned.
Calla sat up and gaped at him. Tears streaked the dirt on her cheeks. Her eyes met his, and elation replaced the grief.
“You’re alive. You’re alive!”
He shook his head, trying to clear the haze. He shouldn’t have been alive. He’d fallen into a thicket of poison sage.
Everything came rushing back to him. In a moment of clarity, the events of the last two weeks bombarded his head, foremost among them how, in his dying moments, Wrend had fed a surge of power and health into his body.
Wrend had saved him.
“Wrend,” he said. His voice sounded like an old hinge.
New tears rand down his mother’s face.
“He’s betrayed your father. That means that you’ve won. You will be god.”
Even through the film over his mind and the blur of his vision, he could see the joy on his mother’s face, and knew it didn’t derive from his being alive. Not really. As it ever had, ambition gleamed there, only now triumph joined it—the fruition of years of work in a hard-won victory. Her son would be god, and she would rule through him.
For the first time in Teirn’s life, since he’d learned that one day the Master would choose between him and Wrend, everything seemed clear.
“Where’s Wrend?” he said.
Calla looked up at the western butte. “He flew with a draegon up there. Your father pursued, but they got away.”
Teirn, ignoring the searing in his muscles, tried to push her aside and stand, but she pressed her weight down on him, holding him down. He was too weak to move her. A paladin looked down at him, uninterested yet dutiful in its protection.
“What are you doing?” Calla said.
She continued to hold him down, but something was wrong with her. Tightness surrounded her eyes and she winced repeatedly. She seemed to hold her weight in an abnormal manner.
“Are you hurt?” he said, still trying to sit up.
She nodded, and pulled the hem of
her skirts up. Her legs, covered down to the knees in dirt-stained undershorts, twisted at painful angles in unnatural places.
“Wrend broke my legs.”
“What? How?”
Nearby, a man plowed into the group of paladins, nearly penetrating the circles before being repulsed in a flurry of metal.
Calla covered her legs again.
“I was finishing off that redhead, and he tackled me off of her. In the fall, my legs got twisted and broke.”
Teirn’s indignation faded. Wrend had only defended the redhead. Surely, with Calla injured, he could have killed her easily if he wanted to, but instead he’d chosen to escape.
Again, Teirn struggled to rise, but she pushed him down. His body still felt weak, and he could hardly resist. Not without a little help.
“What are you doing?” she said.
He focused on his discernment. With a quick binding and application, he pushed his mother off. She fell backward, crying out in pain and surprise, and collided with a paladin.
Teirn leapt to his feet despite the protest of his entire body, and stood over her.
“I’m going to my brother.”
Chapter 92: Renewal
Most people do not regard the concept of “brotherhood” as highly as they should.
-Wrend
“I can’t see him,” Wrend said.
Relief at Teirn’s survival filled him, mixing with the fear over what Teirn would do. Leenda stood next to Wrend, holding one hand in both of hers and watching the crowd. The draegon laid a little ways back, away from the edge of the cliff, apparently uninterested in what they looked at.
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