The Demigod Proving (33 page)

Only when Rashel began to stir in her arms did Leenda emerge from her brooding reverie.

Chapter 37: The dutiful wife and mother

The first duty of any follower of Athanaric is to Him and Him only. All other responsibilities fade and turn to dust under that one supreme obligation.

-Rashel

Leenda dragged Rashel to the middle of the rock to make sure she wouldn’t fall off when she awoke, and positioned herself on the edge, so that she could look out over the valley and see if anyone approached from the city. No one did, although she could clearly make out Athanaric’s form near the tents.

Rashel groaned and her eyes fluttered open, then shut.

He was so huge. So powerful. He’d chased her down with the intent to kill, and tried to rip her soul out of her body. The memory of his enraged face made her tremble, and the thought of how the ground had shook made her breath come short and quick. She hugged herself despite the day’s warmth.

Rashel’s groaned again, and her eyes blinked open. She stared for a moment at Leenda, then her face grew wild and panicked as she took in her surroundings. She jerked upright and scrambled backward over the rock, and nearly teetered off. She stared at Leenda with deserving suspicion, and stood.

"Stop!" Leenda said. "I'm not going to hurt you!"

"Who are you?" Rashel said.

"I just need your help."

"I'll jump—I swear I will."

"Don't! I need your help with Wrend."

Rashel narrowed her eyes. "What's going on?"

Leenda gave her a quick explanation of the situation. Throughout it, Rashel stayed on the opposite end of the rock, at the edge.
 

“Why are you half naked?” she said.

Leenda looked down at herself. Scrapes covered her knees. Blood and dirt stained the once white and blue undershorts. At least the pain in her head had started to subside, and blood had stopped flowing from the wound on the back of her head—although her muscles and joints still ached.

“It’s hard to face a few dozen paladins wearing a dress.”

“What do you want from me?”

Now that the moment had come to explain herself to Rashel, Leenda didn’t know how to start. It amazed her how much less confident she felt, not just in comparison to a few hours before, but to fifteen years before. At the time, shedding her draegon body had seemed like the right and noble thing to do. It still did, but faced with all these humans it didn’t seem like enough.

“I know about Wrend and where he came from.”

Rashel’s face blanched, and her jaw dropped. “How can you possibly know about that?”

“I’m Wrend’s mate.”

It took longer for Rashel to understand than Athanaric. When she did, it wasn’t realization that lit her face, but relief.

“You’re a draegon in a human body, just like Wrend.”

“Wrend deserves to know about himself.”

Rashel shook her head and closed her eyes. “It’s not my place to tell him.” A flash of anger passed over her face. “Athanaric swore me to secrecy when he placed Wrend inside me.” She sneered and nearly spoke again, but clamped her mouth shut.

"Draegons are different than humans. Our souls are different. We can’t be happy in a form other than draegon. Don’t you want him to be happy?”

Rashel shrugged. “Unfortunately, that can't be a consideration for me.” Again, darkness fell over her face. “Besides, he's probably happier than he has a right to be, all things considered.”

“He deserves to know the truth.”

“Yes, he does—more than you know. But I can’t tell him. My first allegiance is to my god. Not to you. Not to Wrend.”

Guilt struck Leenda. Her first allegiance had been to her mate—to the point that she’d left her pup to practically raise himself. Could she possibly convince this woman to do the right thing? If she were Rashel, would she tell Wrend the truth, or be loyal to her mate?

Probably stay loyal to her mate.

She stood there in silence, just shaking her head, marveling at the disaster the day had become.

Rashel frowned. She took a step forward and pointed past Leenda, to the place where she looked.

“What is that?”

Leenda, wary of a trick, half turned. In the distance, past the ridges that led to another valley, a bright red shape descended through the sky, and disappeared below the horizon.

“Was that—“ Rashel said, her eyes wide. “Was that what I think it was?”

Leenda nodded, wondering what Krack could possibly be doing off in that direction. “Yes.”

“Athanaric have mercy,” Rashel said. She gave Leenda a horrified look. “There’s a village in that direction. Would it . . . would it eat the people?”

Goat guts. The last thing she needed was for Krack to cause trouble. She’d told him to stay out of sight. If word spread that a draegon was terrorizing the countryside, no doubt Athanaric would take steps.

“Yes, he probably would.”

“You brought a draegon out here?”

Leenda gave Rashel an un-amused look. She needed to get to Krack, to stop him from doing something rash.

“Go back to Wrend. Tell him the truth. It’s your duty to ensure his happiness.”

The hypocrisy of the words burned in her heart.

Perhaps worse, she hated to return to Krack without good news. He wanted to leave her. She knew it. Would he, now that she’d failed again?

She found out when she reached him.

Chapter 38: Killing a son

Successful completion of the Strengthening is the crowning accomplishment of any demigod's life. It is the way whereby a demigod can prove utter devotion to me. The slightest flinch at the last moment can invalidate an entire life of service and dedication. This is a high standard, as it should be.

-Athanaric

As the demigods bound Wrend with ropes, they murmured about his foolishness and gave him baleful looks. They commented among themselves that the Master would deal with this barren tree when he returned.

They piled the rebels’ bodies a short ways back from the altar, and placed Wrend kneeling near the carnage. Then they fell back to the positions they’d occupied during the ceremony. The reek of blood and guts, mixed with grass and dirt, filled Wrend’s head.

Everyone around him thought him a turncoat. The Master had thought it too, in that instant when he’d nearly killed him. Wrend had seen the shock in his face, and confusion as he stayed his sword.

A dull murmur lifted from the crowd. Wrend felt every eye on him, each like a small weight on his shoulders. But thousands of pebbles made for a great burden, and he had to force himself to keep his head high and his shoulders straight.

He looked out past Steffan and the altar, trying to find Teirn in the crowd. Not only could his brother corroborate his motives, but he could give Wrend advice. He’d always had good ideas for what to do in tough situations. But Wrend couldn’t spot him anywhere among the people.

One of the bins of seeds had been overturned in the fight, and the few remaining priests spent several minutes scooping the seeds up with their hands and picking as much out of the crushed grass as they could. When they finished, they placed the bin back with the others by the silver bowl at the altar’s head, and retreated to the front of the crowd.

Steffan, still lying with his hands over his stomach, had adjusted his position so that his head rested on the stone. For a while he looked at Wrend, his eyes confused and accusing, but he never spoke, and Wrend didn’t dare say anything. What could he say? Eventually the demigod turned his head toward the people.

By the time the Master appeared, walking around the base of the opposite hill, Wrend had imagined a thousand ways in which he might explain himself. But none of them would save him. He’d once seen a brother killed for questioning the Master's suggestion on how to place the sticks to start a fire.

Wrend didn’t expect mercy or understanding, but he hoped for a chance to explain his actions.

The crowd fell silent. For a moment, the sound of kneeling was the only noise, and a hush fell over the hillsides. The people scooted aside as the Master made his way through them, along the base of the hills. When he came even with the altar, he turned uphill, taking the same path the priests and Steffan had taken. His shirt and pants bore great rips and holes, with dried blood crusted along the cuts. His face bore no expression, and not until he reached the altar did his eyes meet Wrend’s.

He stepped around the altar, furrowing his brow, and stopped between Wrend and Steffan. He blocked out the sun from Wrend’s view. His shadow felt cold and harsh.

Wrend held his breath.

The Master looked down at him and shook his head. “For a moment I thought you were one of them.” He gestured at the corpses. “But then I saw in your face that you weren’t trying to kill
me
, but Steffan.”

Wrend didn’t respond. He didn’t even nod. He could only meet the Master’s gaze and hope his love was obvious.

“I think,” the Master said, “you owe us an explanation.”

With permission to speak, Wrend let everything spill out. In just a few breaths he told of the conversation he’d overheard that morning, his efforts to find the Master, and the note the priests had dropped. The Master listened in silence, his face unreadable, although at the end he stepped aside so that Wrend could see Steffan. He lay in silence despite the accusations, his expression one of disgust and rage.

The Master took the note from Wrend.

“What do you say to this accusation?” the Master said, looking from the paper to Steffan.

In response, Steffan scooted up on the altar, so that his head hung over the edge, above the silver bowl.

“I’m no traitor, Master. Finish the ceremony.”

“It’s easy," Wrend said, "for you to say that now that your allies are dead. You have nothing left to lose.”

“Wrend, what proof do you have that this note is authentic?”

Wrend blinked. He hadn’t thought to question the letter’s authenticity. Back in the Seraglio, no one would have ever forged something like that. He felt painfully inexperienced. A churning nausea rose in his belly.

“I have no proof, Master.”

“We can test it,” Steffan said. “Let me write the words of the note, and compare the handwriting.”

The Master assumed a ponderous look and shook his head. “I don’t question your loyalty.”

Steffan sighed and shot Wrend a triumphant smirk. Wrend looked down and bit his lip. He had so little experience with these things, with people who purposefully misled. Had the rebels done it, hoping he might prove a distraction while they attacked? It seemed like the best possibility. But why him? Why not any other number of people? Or had it simply been coincidence that he’d found the note?