The Demigod Proving (16 page)

But Leenda ignored her and watched Wrend as she passed along the path between the tables and the dance floor. He lay slumped over the table, his hands splayed out before him, his cheek resting on his plate. Puke covered the area around him.

He looked helpless, just like he had seventeen years before, as Athanaric had carried him into a massive building in the Seraglio, through wide-open double doors into a cavernous chamber. She’d watched from a distance, weary from the struggle to rescue him, staying out of range of the hailstorm of arrows from paladins. As the doors swung closed, Athanaric laid Cuchorack down on a massive altar and chained him down. As the doors shut with a boom, she roared in rage over the loss of her mate.

Now, seventeen years later, she knew who her mate was and wanted to shout for joy. If only he knew, as well.

She jumped over a demigoddess who lay sprawled on the ground, and nearly turned back to Wrend, to ensure his safety and health. But Athanaric was too close, speaking intently to him. She couldn't go to his side, but she could help him.

She could bind Ichor to him.

As she ran past the tables, still pursued by the Mistress and priests, she bound Thew Ichor to Wrend's body, and applied it in a rush. She let it flow out of her and into him, strengthening him. Certainly it wouldn't be enough to completely heal him, but it would help. Maybe it would be the difference that would save his life.

She continued to apply it as she passed the platforms where the Caretakers had been doing tricks, until she reached the arched entryway. Once through it, she passed beyond the reach of her binding to Wrend, and it broke. She ran up the stone path toward the forest, speeding her flight with the copious application of Thew and Flux Ichor, and escaped into the dark forest, already formulating a plan.

Step one: travel to her son and enlist his help.

Hopefully Athanaric would save Wrend from whatever was going on.

Chapter 18: Binding Ichor

Learning how to use Ichor is best done in a quiet room with no distractions.

-Wrend

Wrend didn’t care that he lay in mashed potatoes and turkey, and hardly realized that the wetness covering his entire body came from his and others’ vomit. He didn’t even really fret over the fact that—stained with a rainbow of puke—his bracers would be ruined. He couldn’t really think about any of that. The pain churning in his stomach and lashing out into his chest and limbs was simply too dominant. He opened his eyes once and saw only a blazing brightness.

The familiar weight of the Master’s hand fell on his back.

“Boys.” The Master’s voice penetrated the cloud of agony. “You have to listen to me.”

Wrend tried to nod, but couldn’t. His stomach clenched and another bout of vomit burned up his throat. His jaw snapped open and his tongue protruded as the fluid came up.

“I don’t have enough Thew Ichor to heal you. You’ll have to do it yourselves. I’ll teach you how.”

Wrend managed a nod, but kept his eyes closed. He wanted to grab his stomach with his arms, but couldn’t control them.

“You have to open your discernment. Concentrate on it.”

Wrend tried to obey, but his twisting belly demanded all of his attention.

“Focus on your soul. Feel the Ichor inside of you pulsating, waiting for you to use it.”

Wrend tried again. He’d done it before—he did it every time he harvested Ichor. He reached inward with his awareness, groping for his discernment and soul, and seemed to find it, to feel the pulsing mass within his body. But then it slipped away as more vomit came. How much could possibly remain inside him?

“Keep trying,” the Master said. A hint of panic tinged his voice. “You’ve got to do it. I can’t do it for you.”

Using discernment was usually like listening to a distant sound, but this time it felt like trying to keep from slipping down a cliff. Every time he reached out to grab something to stop his fall, his grasp missed, and he slipped further down. Once, twice, three times he caught glimpses of Ichor radiating from the food in his intestines, but each time it all slipped away before he could latch onto it.

The pain had spread into his chest. If he didn’t stop it, he would die. He could feel it.

“Wrend,” the Master said. He shifted his hand up and down, rubbing Wrend’s back. “Be calm, you’ll be fine. Stop worrying. Just focus on my voice.”

Wrend tried to nod, but a twinge crept up his neck. His head throbbed.

“Just look inside yourself. Shut out your body and the world around you.”

The world around him was no problem—he’d stopped hearing anything at about the time he’d first vomited—it was his body he couldn’t ignore. But he tried. He turned his mind away from the pain and groped for his discernment.

“Your Ichor is a tranquil pool inside you. You can discern it. You can sense it there.”

He’d done it a hundred times. A thousand. It was easy.

Without warning, the sickness in his body lessened. It didn't go away, but the reeling in his stomach diminished a little bit. The throbbing in his head weakened. It was just enough.

He found his discernment—that familiar non-physical sensation of fullness, of something existing inside him in a plane that he couldn’t touch with fingers or hands. But it was there, in his chest and arms and legs and head. Everywhere, like two of him occupying the same space without any discomfort. Faint green waves emanated from his abdomen, and he latched onto them with his discernment, pulling them back into his body.

“Good. Now bind the Ichor to your body. That means to attach it. Use your discernment to make the Ichor in your soul stick to your body. Just think it, and it should happen.”

Attach the Ichor. He’d tried and failed to bind Ichor earlier, back by the river, but he hadn’t tried attaching it. He’d only tried pushing it. He thought of the Ichor connecting to his body.

Nothing happened, although thinking of his body brought the pain back to him. He dry heaved and nearly lost focus on his discernment. What ungodly poison had he ingested?

“Try again,” the Master said. “Reach out with your soul. Control it just like you control your body. Binding Ichor is as simple as reaching out with your hand and grabbing hold of . . . of one of your trinkets out of your horde.”

The Master had hundreds of children—more than a thousand, some said—yet he knew of Wrend’s horde. He knew that detail.

Wrend imagined his soul expanding just a little, wrapping around his body and permeating his insides, and becoming one with the organs, skin, and muscles.

It happened. The Ichor latched onto his body with an odd rush. It was as simple as the Master had said—like reaching out with the mind or with a part of him he always knew was there, but couldn’t quite access.

“That’s the hardest part,” the Master said. “The rest is easy. Now you apply the Ichor. You just push with it. It’s like pushing aside a curtain and walking through. Just push.”

Wrend ignored another bout of retching. He could do that, now, with so much attention on his soul. With a slight mental shove, he imagined the Ichor seeping from that non-physical plane into his body, like stepping through a door.

The Ichor obeyed as his soul seemed to flex. The power trickled across the plane dividing the physical from the spiritual. His body tingled, and with that new sensation mixed with the racking of his insides, he nearly lost control of the binding. The Ichor almost slipped away, and his discernment practically disappeared. His mind was going dark.

“Don’t hold back,” the Master said. “Push as hard as you can. You’ve no reason to hold it in, anymore. Don’t push—shove.”

Wrend obeyed. He strained his soul, focusing on the connection to his stomach, the place of the poison’s origin. The Ichor flowed out of him. His soul felt smaller and weaker, less full, but he ignored it because he knew this was right. He pushed harder, expanding the area of focus to let the Ichor rush out of him in a torrent.

The Master patted his back again. When he spoke, it was with relief. “Good. Excellent work. You’ll be fine, now.”

Through the pain, a thrill rushed up and through Wrend. He knew how to use Ichor. What wonders would he accomplish with it, someday?

The hand left his back. “Now, excuse me, boys,” the Master said. “I have to investigate this poisoning.”

Chapter 19: An old foe

The best way to ensure that your enemies don’t return to harry you further is to incapacitate them. In the end, there is really only one way to accomplish that.

-Athanaric

When it became clear that Wrend and Teirn would survive, Athanaric straightened to survey the scene, to try and learn who’d poisoned his children. From the corner of his vision, he’d seen a redheaded serving girl fleeing the Reverencing. Perhaps it had been her.

Vomit covered the tables, chairs, and dance floor. Its reek made his eyes water. A dull rumble of voices filled the room as Caretakers began to rise and help each other up, verifying each other’s health. They wiped puke from their chins and looked for cups of water to wash out their mouths—hard things to find; hundreds of people throwing up all at once had produced enough vomit to cover about every surface. The fiddlers and other band members lay dead. So did several serving girls and two priests. And all the dogs.

A few dog souls—gray whirling masses—lingered near the corpses, and other souls hovered above the bodies of a serving girl, priest, and fiddler. After a few moments, the souls lifted up past the lightning lynx and lamps and disappeared into the darkness.

His poor dogs. A dozen of them lay around him, their fur matted with chunks of turkey and bile. One twitched and breathed a final time.

What a waste. A tragedy. Some people looked at dogs as despicable creatures, even insulting enemies by calling them dogs. But what a narrow-minded view. Dogs were loyal. They loved unconditionally and obeyed when trained properly. They didn’t betray or question you. They made the best soldiers, especially when they had a human brain to think with.

He needed those dogs. He needed their souls to create undead paladins, since soon he would battle Hasuke. He would lose some paladins, and would need to replenish them by taking the souls of dogs and placing them into the bodies of men.

What a waste for these dogs to die. At least none of his children had perished.

He turned back to Wrend and Teirn. They each lay slumped over the table and vomit dripped from their lips, but the color had returned to their faces and they no longer convulsed.

Under extreme circumstances they’d both learned to bind and apply Ichor—a difficult task at the best of times, and nearly impossible with frogweed working its effects. But they were strong-bodied and sharp-minded. He’d bred them that way, given them exceptional souls for that reason.

A lot depended on them—on one of them. He didn’t yet know which, but he would choose one as his heir so he could lay down his life, shed his body, free himself from weary living.

But neither was ready, yet. Whichever he eventually chose wouldn’t be ready for decades. Assuming, of course, they proved loyal and managed to live through the rebel attacks.