The Demigod Proving (27 page)

Teirn turned and raised a forefinger to his lips. “Shh.”

Wrend crept over to see what Teirn looked at. As he drew nearer, he began to hear the murmur of voices, and found that Teirn crouched over a rectangular gap in the floor, one too square to be a mistake in the architecture. He looked down the length of the room. Every ten feet a gap opened up between the wall and window: vents to allow for air circulation.

“Listen,” Teirn said.

Wrend squatted and leaned his head close to Teirn’s, so he could look down the hole. According to his knowledge of synagogues, he was above the main chamber, against an outer wall. Below, in dim light, three figures—just dark shapes in the dimness—huddled close together in an embrasure in the chapel’s side. By some trick of the architecture, their voices came through the vent with clarity.

“Is everything ready?” said the strong voice of a man.

“Everyone knows their place,” said a second voice.

The third figure shrugged and looked backward. When he turned back, he said, “I’m still not convinced that this is the right thing to do. The demigods couldn’t even kill him. How do we think we will?”

“We’ll have surprise on our side,” said the first voice. “Steffan has served us for decades. He’s
our
god. And we’ll have a handful of demigods helping us.”

Wrend gave Teirn a startled look, but Teirn remained focused on the men below.

Wrend had heard rumors that some people thought like that, and some of his education at the Seraglio had prepared him for it—inoculated him against thinking he could become greater than the Master. But to hear someone who thought like that surprised him. Of course, these weren’t the first ones he’d met. Wester was one. So were the other demigods who’d attacked the Master in the Courtyard of the Wall. He could still see it clearly, those demigods swarming on the Master like bees on a dog. It still shocked him that anyone would even try that.

Yet, here were more. He and Teirn had stumbled upon some heretics.

"How many times has Athanaric even been out to our village?” the second voice said. “A handful? All he does is send out his children and they do all the work, while he just—“

“No need to get blasphemous,” the third man said, again looking behind him. “He’s still our god.”

“Don’t be a fool,” the first voice said. “We’re going to kill him. That’s as blasphemous as it gets.”

Wrend shivered. He needed to find and warn the Master.

Or did he? If these rebels succeeded, the proving would end. Neither him nor Teirn would have to die.

He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t think like that. He needed to learn to accept the Master’s will, to make the hard decisions. If either he or Teirn had to die, surely there was a good reason for it—or an acceptable way to convince the Master against it.

“Everyone’s ready,” the second man said. “I spoke with them all this morning.”

“Good,” said the first. “Then today at the Strengthening, it won’t be Steffan that dies, but Athanaric.”

The three men moved out of sight, and Wrend stood up. Teirn did the same. His face displayed no emotion, but his eyes spoke of hurried turnings in his mind.

“Do you think,” he said, “this is part of our proving?”

The idea hadn’t occurred to Wrend. “We need to warn the Master.”

A resolve settled over Teirn’s face—the same expression he’d had back at the Seraglio, when telling Wrend that he would win the proving. It made gooseflesh rise on Wrend’s arms.

“We? No, not
we
. We can’t do it together. This is part of the test.”

Wrend pushed panic down. “Then here’s our chance to throw off this proving. Let’s work together. Let’s warn the Master together. We can say we didn’t know it was part of the proving—and then ask for clarification on the purpose of the proving. Here is our chance to get me out of the proving.”

Teirn shook his head. “No. I can’t afford to risk anything like that.”

He turned to go. Wrend tried to grab his arm and stop him, but he yanked his arm free, gave Wrend a scowl, and hurried away.

Wrend watched him, frozen in shock. But it only took a moment to realize he needed to act if he wanted to stay alive.

So he got moving.

Chapter 32: A conspiracy uncovered

Conspiracies to get gain and power abound throughout the world. Some people will roll their eyes and shake their heads at such an idea, but these people are simply deceived. Conspiracies abound, and will one day threaten the very fabric of our society.

-Athanaric

By the time Wrend returned to the synagogue, he had few options left. He’d looked everywhere, and the afternoon had grown late.

He paused on the top step of the synagogue, in the shadow of the Master’s statue, which stood high above, atop the synagogue steeple, and looked out over the street. The crowd had thinned. The few people about no longer loitered, but walked with purpose. Down on the street, a woman holding a man’s hand sprinted past, and her wide-brimmed hat with a red ribbon flew off her head. She cried out and started to turn back, but the man pulled her on.

Soon, not far beyond the city borders, the Strengthening would take place. Those who hadn’t already arrived would have to hurry if they wanted to attend. Including Wrend.

Since overhearing the conspirators, he’d spent hours searching in the city and camp for the Master. He’d last looked at the hill of sacrifice, where a priest had said that sometimes the Master meditated at the synagogue before a Strengthening. Sometimes he came from his tent. Other times he spent the morning at the hill, greeting the people as they gathered.

This time, it seemed he’d done none of those things, for Wrend couldn’t find him anywhere. Now he’d come too far, spent too much time, and would only barely make it to the hill on time. He should’ve waited there for the Master to arrive.

Everywhere he’d looked, he’d seen renegades. In every face and smile. If people could conspire against the Master in his own sanctuary, everyone was a suspect. Wrend trusted no one. He couldn’t tell anyone about the overheard conversation. Not even priests, mothers, or paladins. He could only tell the Master.

Sighing, he resolved to sprint back to the hill of sacrifice and hope to catch the Master before the ceremony began. To interrupt the ceremony was blasphemy. It disrespected both god and demigod, and the Master wouldn’t tolerate such dishonor. Wrend had grown up watching children who’d disobeyed the Master in small ways die for those infractions; no one would consider interrupting this ceremony a small infraction.

The doors to the synagogue opened behind Wrend, and a bustle of voices and footsteps erupted. A group of eight or nine priests dressed in the crimson robes of sacrifice, with hoods drawn up over their heads, filed out and brushed past him. One bumped him and murmured an apology. Two stayed behind to pull the doors shut. One of the priests locked the door with a large key, and the two followed after the others.

The last of them stopped half way down the steps. A shadow from his hood deepened over his face as he looked at Wrend.

“You should hurry,” he said. He had an unusually high voice for a man. It seemed familiar. “The ceremony is slated to begin soon.” Then he turned to follow the others.

Wrend tried to place the voice, but failed. The priest in the very front walked with his hands held out before him, with a sheathed knife lying across them. The blade of sacrifice. These priests had spent the last hour praying over the steel, preparing it for the moment it would kill Steffan. They would pass through the midst of the crowd at the hill, carrying the blade up the slope to the Master as other priests gathered the people’s seeds to be sprinkled with the demigod’s blood.

Wrend started down the steps. He would have to beat the priests to the hill by several minutes. He reached street level only a few moments after the last priest, but stopped.

There’d been a paper on the steps. One of the priests had dropped it when bumping past him.

He leapt back up the stairs, three at a time, and indeed found a folded parchment resting on the top step. He bent and picked it up, unfolded it, and read the hasty script. It was written in the sacred flowing style of the demigods—which was different than the blocky type the rest of the country used.

My beloved followers, plans have changed. Attack only after Athanaric lifts the knife to slay me. In the moment of distraction, I will rise from the altar and slay him myself.

Wrend looked up from the letter, after the priests. They marched with their heads bowed and bodies swaying in unison as they chanted a prayer. Two had taken up positions ahead of the one with the knife, carrying cisterns that belched black smoke around them, into the faces of the priests behind.

At least one was a rebel. More importantly, Steffan, the demigod who would die that day, was also corrupt.

The priest in the rear broke away from the group and darted to the side. He leapt up onto the wooden boardwalk, looked back at his brethren and up at Wrend, and ran into the alley. It was the same priest that had spoken to him.

Wrend jumped down the steps in two bounds and started down the street.

He didn’t follow the priests or run ahead of them. Instead, he cut into the alley after the priest who’d fled. He ran past the barrels and crates lining the buildings on either side. Already breathing hard, he burst into the next street over. His feet clattered on the wooden boardwalk for two steps before he stopped. He turned his head from side to side, searching for a flash of crimson cowl or the pumping feet of a fleeing man.

But he saw nothing. Only the last few people hurrying down the street, northward toward the hill of sacrifice.

“Did a priest run past here?” he shouted.

The people looked at him, startled. One man shrugged, but another pointed down and across the street, at an alley.

Wrend bolted on, focusing on his discernment. The usual Ichor waves emanated from his body, and beneath them flowed others—the elusive ones he’d almost grasped before. They bore a white hue and pulsed faster than the Thew waves. They especially emanated from his legs and pumping arms. Flux Ichor.

But he didn’t have the skill to harvest it while binding Ichor to his legs—his clear priority. With the Ichor bound, he applied it, pushing in that half mental, half physical way. He didn’t know if it would work to make him run faster, but it stood to reason that it would.

And it did. His legs grew stronger, and he began to leap farther with each stride—not much farther, perhaps a foot, but it was enough to notice. He also found he could move his legs faster than ever, almost just by willing it.

The street disappeared past him, the few faces nothing more than blurs. He burst into the alley at such a speed that he glanced off the side of a brick building, and in two steps climbed an unintentional staircase of several crates because he couldn’t stop. He leapt off of them, nearly careening forward to the dusty ground as he landed, but stumbled past the texture of gray bricks on both sides.

Praying that he wouldn’t lose his balance or run into a person, he leapt up and over the boardwalk, into the street.

This time, he couldn’t keep his feet. With a grunt, he fell forward. His palms, face, and chest slid across the dirt street as he skidded to a halt. He stood, ignoring the pain in his face and hands, and looked both right and left.