The Demigod Proving (13 page)

When Wrend still had forty feet to go, the Master’s gaze turned to him. A cool rage filled those eyes. Wrend lowered his face, dropped to his knees, and bowed his head. He drew the dagger from his side and held it out before himself, in his open palms.

He closed his eyes; if he would die, he didn’t want to see it coming—he saw it clearly enough in his mind: the Master twisting his head off.

“Master,” he said. “Have mercy. Let me explain.”

Silence rolled out from Wrend. Those sitting at tables nearest him fell quiet first. Then the nearby demigods and serving girls also stopped talking or moving; and so it went, like a wave through the celebration. The fiddles died. The sound of hundreds of dancing feet ended. The clank of a fork on a dish was the last sound before several seconds of silence.

Then he heard the rustling of clothes and the thud of heavy footsteps, getting closer and closer to him. A shadow fell over Wrend. He felt it like a shroud settling over his shoulders. A warm, familiar breeze touched his face: the Master’s breath. It smelled of honey and turkey. The knife left Wrend’s hands, picked up by the Master.

Wrend’s heart seemed to stop.

“Look at me.”

The Master’s deep voice filled the silence like a boulder bounding down a rocky mountainside. It made Wrend’s chest rattle, and the wounds on the side of his face quivered.

Wrend lifted his face and opened his eyes. He’d long since grown accustomed to the Master’s size; it now felt more threatening than ever. The Master’s physical dominance demanded respect even at the most amicable of times. Now it required fear and trembling.

The Master had knelt to lean over Wrend. His lips pursed and his brow furrowed. His eyes roiled with an anger and curiosity. He gripped the dagger so that it pointed downward, in the way one would hold a dagger to kill by stealth.

Wrend dared to speak. “Forgive my tardiness, Master. It was not by my design.”

“Hmmm.” The ponderous sound vibrated from the Master’s throat. “What happened to your face?”

“I don’t know. I was in my home, and the next thing I knew, I awoke tied up against a tree by the waterfall.” He touched his face. “I don’t know how I got this.”

The Master’s brow furrowed even deeper. “Who would dare to harm one of my Novitiates?” It was a musing, a question asked of no one. A protective anger flickered through his eyes.

Wrend’s eyes darted to Teirn, who sat with a stony face at the high table. He looked back at Wrend with a cool gaze. How had Teirn gotten him out of the house, past their paladin guards?

“Given today’s events,” the Master said, “I worried when Teirn arrived without you. He said you disappeared—I thought maybe you’d fled with Wester. We have priests and paladins searching the canyon for you. You said you were tied up. How did you escape your bonds?”

“A priest found and loosened me.”

Wrend’s shoulders and arms relaxed. The Master wasn’t going to kill him. That was clear. He’d worried for nothing. His relief was so complete that he couldn’t keep himself from uttering thanks.

“Praise the Master’s mercy and love.”

“You don’t know who did this?”

Wrend couldn’t name Teirn, since to the Master’s knowledge Teirn had no reason to hurt Wrend. They’d been the best of friends and brothers all their lives; the Master would find Teirn’s turning as unbelievable as Wrend found it painful.

“No, I don’t know.”

Softness touched the corners of the Master’s eyes and he shook his head. A slight smile touched the edges of his lips.

“My son. My dear son. You feared for your life?”

Wrend lowered his eyes and nodded. “I never want to disrespect you, especially after receiving the invitation to dine with you, and the events of earlier today.”

A heavy hand touched Wrend’s back, and he looked up to see tears welling in the Master’s eyes.

Neither spoke for that moment.

Then, the Master raised one hand, keeping the other on Wrend’s back. He looked up at the crowd and smiled.

“Continue the celebration.”

He proffered the knife to Wrend. It looked like a toy in his open palm.

It took a moment, but conversation resumed. Fiddles began to play again, and soon the rhythmic thump of dancing feet filled the air again. A woman laughed on the opposite side of the tables, and the tension eased out of the air.

Wrend took the knife from the Master. “Thank you, Master.”

Again, he bowed. A tremble rose through his legs and into his body. How could he not love such a merciful and loving father? How could Wester be right?

“I’ll heal you,” the Master said. “As we eat. Come, sit. We have your proving to discuss. I want to get right to it.”

Chapter 13: A simple question

The Reverencing serves no purpose beyond distracting a handful of demigods from their imminent deaths.

-Wester

“Sit up here,” the Master said, gesturing at a stool. “Then I‘ll tell you everything, and you’ll understand better why you're here.”

Ignoring the protest of his arms and legs, Wrend climbed the three rungs of the ladder to the padded stool on the Master’s left hand. The surface of the table stood six feet off the ground. Bowls of fruit, plates of rolls, and platters of turkey covered the table. The Master sat to Wrend’s right, at the table’s head, on the floor, cross-legged. A dozen wolfhounds surrounded him. Several rested their heads on his legs, big eyes begging for a bit of food. Others lay on the flagstone nearby, sleeping or watching the tables with interest. Above the Master, the slain demigods twisted in a breeze.

To Wrend’s left, three chairs and place-settings sat empty, and a fifty-year-old male Caretaker occupied the fourth. Opposite him sat a female Caretaker. They both had graying hair, and talked with each other in subdued tones. Before long, the Master would offer them up as sacrifices to the people they’d served for the last thirty years. Wrend acknowledged them with a nod, grateful for the honor to sit with them at this celebration.

Somewhere in the Reverencing were another eight Caretakers who would give themselves up as sacrifices.

A pair of serving girls in yellow dresses moved along the table, pouring ale into the Caretakers glasses and refilling bowls of grapes or saucers of gravy. The girls walked on stilts strapped to their legs so they could reach the table.

One reached over Wrend’s shoulder with a pitcher, and poured water into his silver goblet. She had flaming red hair that looked ridiculous with her yellow dress. Wrend had seen her many times—one could not forget the beauty of that hair—and found her striking, even if she was a few years younger than him. He didn’t know her name or anything else about her; demigods weren’t allowed to speak with the servants on any personal level.

“Where did you go?” Teirn said from across the table. He gave Wrend a concerned look. “I waited for you outside, and when you didn’t come out, I entered your house. But you were gone.”

The concern surprised Wrend. He found himself doubting that Teirn had bound him. After all, how could he do that with all of the paladins about?

“I don’t know what happened,” Wrend said. “You didn’t see anyone enter my house? Did you ask the paladins?”

“They didn’t say anything about it. After I went in to look for you, and you were gone, your guards spread out to look for you, while mine came with me down the canyon.”

Wrend frowned. He couldn’t sense a lie in Teirn’s tone or words, but since their earlier conversation, he had a hard time trusting Teirn.

The pain had started to ease out of his skull. The throbbing had already weakened. The Master hadn’t placed a hand on him or spoken a word, but the healing had already started to take effect. Had he used Ichor or some other power? There were rumors among the Novitiates that there were various types of Ichor. Maybe one had healing properties.

“My sons,” the Master said. Piles of carrots, radishes, potatoes, and turnips sat on his plates. He grabbed a raw potato and bit it in half. “This mystery will wait now that Wrend is safe. I’m anxious regarding your test, so we can enjoy the rest of the celebration.”

Wrend looked at the Master expectantly.

“Put some food on your plate,” the Master said. He motioned at the array along the table, but then frowned at the table setting in front of Wrend. He reached over to pick the spoon up, scowled at it, and held it out to the nearest serving girl—not the one with red hair. “This is dirty. Take it away and bring another.”

She took the spoon, bowed and nodded, and scurried away.

“Eat while we talk,” the Master said. “You’ll feel better.”

At the instruction, Wrend found himself famished. The aroma of fresh bread, hot turkey, and garlic potatoes made his mouth water. He took a roll from a nearby basket, and out of habit lifted the basket toward Teirn, who in response pointed down at the half-eaten roll in front of him. Wrend piled other foods onto his plate. Mashed potatoes, turkey, cooked peas. Across the way, Teirn watched the Master. The nearby demigods talked amongst themselves as if they were miles away. Indeed, they were further: more than thirty years removed from Wrend and Teirn.

As Wrend ate, he focused on his discernment. Greenish waves of Ichor flowed out his body in a long, slow rhythm. He pulled them back into himself with his discernment, so they seemed to bounce off of an unseen barrier a few feet out from his body, and return to him. It created a non-physical swelling sensation, a sense of fullness to his discernment.

The way he understood it, his body utilized most of the nutrients in food to maintain his health and growth. But his demigod body also utilized other nutrients in the food to produce Ichor. No doubt, all of the demigods around him also harvested Ichor. One could only see and harvest his or her own Ichor.

“Tell me,” the Master said, “what other gods have you learned of?”

“Your grandfather,” Teirn said. “Our great grandfather, Pyter, the Father of Gods.”

Wrend finished swallowing and jumped in. “And his grandchildren—your siblings you defeated.”

The Master nodded and used a knife to chop the top and bottom off of a turnip. He popped the vegetable into his mouth.

“There used to be many gods. Dozens. My cousins and uncles. But over the last thousand years they’ve been killed off. Gods live forever, unless they are killed. Or choose to die. There’s been much strife over the last five thousand years, with gods warring and fighting to gain dominion. Hundreds have died. Now, only a few remain in our part of the world, although there are others in distant lands. In fact, there used to be a god just to the south of our country.”

“Used to be?” Wrend said.

“I’ve recently learned,” the Master said, “that about a year ago he was killed. His name was Hasuke. Since then, his priests have tried to conceal the fact that he’s dead.”

“They’ve failed, then,” Teirn said.

The Master shrugged and put a turnip in his mouth. He spoke as he chewed. “No, not really. It’s not common knowledge, yet. He was killed by the one known as the Godslayer.”

Wrend shivered at the word. Godslayer. A fearsome title earned through fearsome acts. How did one gain the power to kill a god? Wrend again felt the curious sensation from earlier in the day, when talking with Wester about the rebels. Gods could be killed. How intriguing.