The Demigod Proving (35 page)

Krack didn't so much as blink his glassy eyes as he twisted his neck, stood, and brought his mouth down on Leenda. Damp darkness surrounded her as she closed her eyes and hugged her arms close to her body. The sound of him breathing surrounded her, and the wetness of his tongue pressed against her face and torso.

But he didn't close his mouth. His teeth didn't clamp shut on her legs. He hadn't decided to eat her. The warmth of his mouth and the reek of cowhide and guts enveloped her. She kept her eyes closed and held her breath, and listened to the deep breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Ten seconds. Twenty.

She stood there inside his mouth, trembling, long enough that she began to wonder. Maybe he was still considering eating her. Maybe he was debating.

The space around her tightened. His tongue pressed against her front, and the roof of his mouth against her back. His teeth jabbed into her shins and calves.

She began to scream. She couldn't help it. She screamed like a little human baby and wished that Wrend could be with her in her last moment.

A rumble arose from above her head, from up in Krack's throat. The space around her expanded. The teeth withdrew. He lifted his mouth and pulled back.

Her eyes wouldn’t open. She just stood there, body shaking, hardly believing what her goat-gutted son had done. A breeze touched her face. Although it was warm, she shivered like she’d just stepped out of a mountain stream. Wetness had penetrated through her clothes to most of her body. Her hair dripped draegon slobber.

She’d been inside her son’s mouth. He’d nearly eaten her. She couldn’t purge her mind of the sensation, of the dark and damp, and the press of his teeth against her lower legs.

The wind touched her again, smelling of innards. It wasn’t a wind, but the breath from Krack’s nostrils brushing her face with warmth. She opened her eyes and another of his breaths stirred her gore-spotted blouse and dirt-covered undershorts. A pair of vultures landed on the street’s far end and began to peck at the open skull of a cow. The people in the wagon watched her and Krack with wide eyes.

Leenda had thought to teach Krack with firmness, and it had gone well until now. But he’d apparently decided that he didn’t want her demanding instruction and tiresome lectures. She didn’t blame him; it had already started to wear on her nerves.

Silence thickened between them. He stared at her. She stared back, unable to say any of the things she thought. The threat of being eaten kept her mouth shut. She considered turning away, using Flux to get away faster, but decided that she wouldn’t abandon him again. If he didn’t kill her, she would continue to try and teach him. It was her duty.

The seconds of silence stretched to a minute. Then another.

More vultures landed on the same de-brained cow down the street. Even the people in the wagon gained enough courage to start to flee. The old man got down from the wagon first, and raised his arms to help the old woman descend. Krack finally moved. He lifted his head up and away. Leenda tensed and sucked a breath. The old man froze with his hands on the woman’s hips, and she with her hands on his shoulders. They watched the draegon.

“I’m tired of your lectures,” Krack said in draegon.

Leenda licked her lips. “Yes, I got that feeling.”

“Why do you care what I do or don’t do?”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

He growled and bared his teeth. “What makes you think I want or need your help?”

She paused, not sure if she should give the real answer. After all, maybe he didn’t want to be a better draegon. For that matter, maybe Wrend didn’t want to be a draegon at all, and she was wasting all of her efforts. Was she merely projecting her desires onto others, trying to get them to do things they didn’t want to do? Had she always been like that?

She didn’t enjoy entertaining those questions.

Krack opened his jaws and a growl slipped out. “Answer me. What makes you think I want or need your help?”

“You’re going to force the issue?”

He lowered his gigantic face down to her level. Down the street, the old man seized the opportunity to lift the old woman to the ground.

“
Yes, I’m going to force the issue.”

She nearly said what she’d been thinking, but that would have launched her into another lecture about the responsibility of draegons to rule over the humans in justice and honor, and how those times would someday return—but only if the draegons endured their exile with dignity. She nearly answered that he couldn’t possibly be happy or have any kind of self-satisfaction living in such depredation, that joy came from restraint, and pride from nobility. But she didn’t. Instead, she said what her heart had been telling her to say all along.

“Because you’re my son. And I love you.”

Because I want what’s best for you
, nearly left her mouth, but she held it back. His interpretation of what was best for him was different than hers. As it was, her expression of affection shocked her enough that she might not have even had the capacity to speak more. She rarely spoke or thought like that, but it was certainly true. She did love him.

He regarded her with black eyes. His tongue passed over his lips, wiping a bit of blood away. The corners of his eyes turned down in a frown.

“You left me to fend for myself when I was a pup. Strange way of showing your love.”

“I left you with a guardian. It was the best I could for you. But I know that’s no excuse. And I’m ashamed.”

That was no lie. In fact, it was an understatement.

He exhaled through his nostrils. The hot air rustled her hair. “I’ve never eaten a human. You tasted funny. Too salty.”

She smiled weakly. “Remember, I’m a draegon.”

He looked at her for another few moments and tilted his head from side to side. He grunted.

“I told you I would help you save father. And I will.”

Satisfaction pushed aside just a little of her guilt, although it did little to erase the memory of being inside his mouth. He wasn’t all bad, not a lost cause. He still had a glimmer of nobility in him—enough that he’d keep his word and hadn’t swallowed her whole. She would have to consider adding more salt to her diet.

“But no more lectures,” he said. “No more talking about what kind of draegon I should be.”

She nodded. “Fine, but I can’t have you doing things like this.” She waved at the carnage. “It hinders our efforts. Now Athanaric will know you’re in the area and will look for you. Plus, I needed you where I left you—only luck kept me alive. If you’d been there, I could’ve gotten away more easily.”

Perhaps she only imagined it, but she thought a moment of guilt passed across Krack’s face. At the least, he turned his head away. The people had all gotten down from the wagon and started to dart for the cover of a building.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said.

“Well, if you’re going to help, you have to obey me. Otherwise, I should release you from your promise.”

He swung his head back to her. “I get it. Enough.”

She nodded, satisfied. She’d seen a spot of honor in him, but he’d also rejected her efforts to tame him, to turn him into the kind of draegon the world needed. All in all, she didn’t know whether or not she was helping him, or if she was just making him angry. Either way, at least he hadn’t eaten her.

It was another step in the right direction—which was about as much as she could hope for, right then.

What could she hope for with Wrend? She needed to help him move toward her, as well. She needed to see him as soon as possible.

So she made plans to visit him that night.

Chapter 41: Admission

It's never as bad as you fear or as good as you hope.

-Wrend

Wrend waited in the Master’s tent for his punishment. Two demigods had brought him. Without speaking, they tied him to a chair, put his sacrificial knife on the far end of a nearby table, and left him to consider the day’s events.

Although the sun shone outside, darkness filled the spacious room. A few errant tent flaps let in cracks of light that illuminated a slice of chair or cushion, a thin stretch of carpet. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he became aware of vague shapes around him—a massive throne here, a table there, a divan that could seat half a dozen women. An enormous bed. Other than the sparse cracks of light, he saw no walls. He couldn’t get a feel for the room’s size, although he’d seen it from the outside many times and knew it to be immense—it housed an eighteen-foot god, after all. The sound of his feet shifting on the carpet or periodic sneezing from the dust seemed empty, as if he sat in a great open space. The sounds didn’t echo back at all.

He felt the same way about his circumstances: he was in a dark space with no information about his surroundings or what was going on or what he should do. There was simply no feedback. No input. What little direction he did have seemed inaccurate or tailored to foil him.

He felt certain that the day’s events hadn’t been part of the proving. Rather, he’d gotten caught up the conflict between the rebels and the Master, somehow become a pawn in somebody’s hands. But whose? Possibly the heretics', but a niggling worry told him that maybe Teirn had tricked him in an effort to win the proving. It seemed painfully possible.

He waited with patience. He could’ve escaped with ease, since he knew how to use Thew and could have broken his bonds, but he wanted to convince the Master to tell him the goal of the proving. Maybe he could pretend he’d guessed the purpose, or at least pretend to have a theory. It seemed like a good idea.

As long as the Master didn't kill him for his rash actions. He'd have to get past that, first.

He sat there for hours. His eyes often wandered to where his sacrificial knife sat on the high table. He felt incomplete without it at his side. After a time, a pair of priests came and retrieved new changes of clothing for the Master. They didn’t speak to Wrend. The cracks of light from the tent flaps had begun to fade when finally the door in front of him opened, held aside by the Master’s silhouette.

Though twilight had arrived, the light from outside blinded Wrend; he squinted at the loping shapes that entered the room. They woofed and growled and panted, bringing the distinct smell of dogs. Several of them padded over to him, sniffing at his feet and legs and face. One lifted its forepaws onto his legs and licked his cheek. Its breath smelled of raw meat. Behind him, another licked his hands. He nudged the one away from his face by tilting his head into its snout, and it barked and hopped down.

When he looked up, a black shape stood above him. He felt it more than saw it: an immense presence staring down at him, evaluating him.

“Did I hurt you?” the Master said. “When I pushed you off of Steffan.”

“No,” Wrend said.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m not in pain.”

The Master moved away, a blob of blackness against deeper blackness. In a moment, Wrend heard the striking of flint and steel as the Master lit a kerosene lamp. At first the glow only illuminated the Master’s solemn face, but a knob creaked as the Master turned it and flame sprouted in the lamp. The light increased so Wrend could see the tent.

It was as he’d imagined, with huge pieces of furniture all around, the floor covered in an intricate red and black carpet—although he hadn’t anticipated the immensity of the bed.
 
The dogs had settled around the base of a black divan, but the Master didn’t go there. Instead, he took a seat at the table, in a chair that towered above Wrend. He placed an elbow on the table and propped his chin up on a thumb, and covered his lips with the forefinger. He looked down at Wrend, and didn’t speak.