The Demigod Proving (36 page)

Wrend waited. After several minutes, the Master reached onto the table to a loaf of bread. He took a bite and spoke with his mouth full.

“You broke a holy obligation to hold the Strengthening sacred. You held the consecrated sacrificial knife, and tried to kill a true and faithful demigod. And now you stare me in the eyes. Bold. Unapologetic.”

Wrend began to defend himself, but the Master raised a hand with bread pinched between forefinger and thumb.

“I understand why you did it. There’s no question where your loyalties lie.” If possible, the Master’s voice turned even more solemn. He spoke in a deliberate voice. “Don’t try to protect me. I’m god. I’m can protect myself and further my work regardless of the threats of men and demigods. Don’t think you need to steady my cause.”

The rebuke stung. Wrend’s eyes watered as he nodded and looked down. “How will you punish me?”

“When I have determined a demigod to be an unfruitful branch, and I punish the demigod, there is but one punishment. You know that.”

Wrend’s mouth dried. “Then I beg you—end it quickly.”

He shook his head and frowned. “I can’t punish you, yet.”

Wrend didn’t know how to take that. He finally felt like he could breathe, again, but the word “yet” didn’t make him feel much better. He still had this proving to get through, and the prospect of either dying or losing his brother. Why? Why this ridiculous proving?

“Teirn apparently had similar cause as you to fear for my life. You would do well to follow his example.”

“Was he misled by a note, like I was?”

The Master shook his head.

“How could I know the note was a trick? I’ve spent my entire life sheltered in the Seraglio, where no one has ever misled me that way. I feel ill-equipped for all of this.”

“You make good points, but no suitable excuses.”

“I thought that maybe it was part of the proving—one of the hard things you said I would need to do.”

The Master raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“If only I knew the purpose of the proving, maybe I would have acted differently.”

The Master leaned forward and extended his arm, placing a hand on Wrend’s shoulder. “As I said, I have no question where your loyalties lie. It’s understandable that you did what you did; but still, obedience to my laws is what you need. You should consider
that
your greatest test.”

Wrend took a few deep breaths. The Master had purposefully ignored his question.

“But what is the purpose of this proving? I feel like I walk in the dark. If I had a bit of light, I could do so much better.”

The Master removed his hand from Wrend’s shoulder and leaned back. He grabbed more bread.

“What do you think the purpose is?”

The way he asked it, with an almost-smile, was as if he didn’t think Wrend had any idea. Wrend’s heart pounded at the risk he would take, but he would never have a better chance.

“Forgive my insolence, the Master. But I believe you’re trying to find an heir to your godhood.”

The Master’s eyes widened. He jerked his head, so he looked straight at Wrend.

“What would give you that idea?”

“I just feel it, Master.” Wrend had never lied outright to the Master; he had no idea if the Master could detect the fib. “And I believe that in the end, you will choose either Teirn or I, and the other’s life is forfeit.” Now that he’d started talking, he couldn’t stop—even despite the terror rising in his chest. Would the Master know that Rashel had told Teirn, and Teirn him, and punish them all? “But I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to be your heir. I don’t want to die because Teirn triumphs in this proving. And I don’t want to win and cause Teirn’s death. I want no part of it.”

With everything out—and with a lie fresh off of his tongue—he breathed hard. Blood pumped in his head. The ropes securing him seemed tighter than only a minute before, as the Master looked down at him with a thoughtful expression.

“I didn’t expect you to figure it out so soon. How did you do it?”

“Teirn and I have talked about it. We figured it out together.” He hoped that the Master wouldn’t go to Teirn and find out the truth. “Master, please release me from this test. I’ll gladly let Teirn take the honor, if only we both can live.”

The Master considered him for a long time without speaking. He finished his bread, took an apple from the table, and tossed it into his mouth. He mumbled around his chewing.

“This is no small thing, Wrend. I can’t do what you ask.”

Wrend wanted to fall to his knees and beg. He wanted to scream in frustration. “Master—.”

“Wrend, I’ve looked for an heir for over two centuries. No one has ever proven strong enough or good enough, so I crafted you and Teirn. But I can only determine which of you is the right one by testing you against each other.”

“Why does one of us have to die? There must be some other way.”

“There isn’t. I’m sorry.”

Wrend looked away, trying to think of anything he could do or say. He’d finally gotten the Master to admit the purpose of the proving—apparently without endangering Teirn and Calla—but that hadn’t mattered. The Master wouldn’t relent.

“Do you know why I left the ceremony today?” the Master said. “Did you see where I went and why?”

Wrend didn’t look up. At the time he’d wondered why the Master had abandoned the hill, but had nearly forgotten because of the events since.

“I went in pursuit of a red-headed serving girl.”

Wrend’s head snapped up in surprise.

“You know of whom I speak?”

He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t get him in trouble, so just nodded. His mouth had gone dry again.

“She’d taken Rashel. She wanted to convince Rashel to tell you who you really are. As if that would make a difference.”

“Who I really am?”

“Yes. You see, Wrend, you are unique. So is your brother. You are not normal demigods.”

A draegon. He was a draegon. What Leenda had said was true.

“I specifically chose the soul that would go into your body. Same with Teirn. For all my other children, I let nature take its course. I let the soul come into the body from the firmament, without any influence on my part. But with you and Teirn, I chose which souls you would get because I needed to find an heir; my regular children simply weren’t proving strong enough.”

“This is why Teirn and I are special? This is why you’ll choose one of us to be your heir? What are we?”

He leveled a solemn look at Wrend.

“You, my son, are a draegon.”

Wrend just sat there, dumbfounded, staring at the Master. It was true. What Leenda had said was true. He couldn’t fathom it. It seemed unreal.

“And Teirn is a scaella.”

Wrend stared, trying to understand. Thousands of years before, draegons and scaella had ruled over humans. The draegons had made laws and served as judges, while the scaella had enforced those laws and levied punishments. That had all changed when Pyter had led a rebellion to overcome them. Draegons and scaella had been driven nearly to extinction, and certainly into obscurity.

“You see, Wrend, why I’ve chosen you and your brother for this? I live only to ensure the peace and happiness of my people. I can’t leave them under the rule of someone who isn’t suited to greatness.”

“Pyter overthrew draegons and scaella because of their harsh dominion over humans. Why would you put one of us back in power?”

“The human body tempers some of the draegon and scaella nature. Coupled with my guidance, whoever is my heir will prove the strongest and most just god there has been.”

Wrend didn’t know what to say or to think. It seemed unreal that he was a draegon. And Teirn a scaella. He almost didn’t believe it. After all, he felt no different than a minute before—not beyond being disturbed.

His stomach rumbled; he hadn’t eaten since morning. One of the dogs stirred, whimpered in its sleep. Another got up from the floor by the divan and padded over to the Master’s feet. He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears with one hand, while with the other he ate the other buttered half of the bread.

“This serving girl claims that she, too, is a draegon. She says she was your mate when you were a draegon, and she wants you to go back to being a draegon with her. What do you think of that?”

“I can’t remember being a draegon. I know nothing about her. It means nothing to me.”

The Master nodded, apparently satisfied with something.

“Why does one of us have to die?”

“To prevent future discord, Wrend. I have seen much more history than you, and understand this to be necessary. You would do well to accept it, for I will not budge on this.”

Wrend felt mentally and emotionally numb. What more could he possibly do?

His body ached from the ropes. He shifted in his chair, hoping the Master would untie him. Yet the Master didn’t move, except for eating some strips of dried meat. Several dogs looked up at Wrend. The one at the Master’s feet settled down with its head on the carpet, and looked at Wrend as if bored with the conversation.

“I see you aren’t convinced,” the Master said. “Recite for me the Parable.”

Wrend blinked. “The Parable?”

“Don’t you know it?”

“Of course I—.”

“Then recite it for me.”

All Novitiates knew the Parable. They learned it before reaching age four. It taught them their place in the world, and within the program of the Master.

“Locaran,” he started, “is like a pleasant garden, where men and women live their lives in peace and comfort, in the shade of a Great Tree that protects them and even produces fruit for them.”

The Master nodded. He ate as he listened, leaning one elbow on the table and turning his head toward the food, not looking at Wrend.

“Athanaric, god and father, is the Great Tree. He is the trunk, and his wives are the roots. His children are the branches. They stretch wide, shading the garden, dropping fruit to feed those below.”

Wrend swallowed, trying to see what lesson the Master would teach from it. He thought he knew what the Parable meant, and saw no new application.

The Master did not look up from the table.

“Keep going.”

“But some of the branches, as they grow, do not bear fruit. They are weak and provide little shade. Such fruitless boughs are pruned away—and in this manner they serve the tree. By dying, they do not take up the nutrients needed to make the tree strong. They do not choke and tangle the branches that remain, and they do not grow large and then die—cluttering the tree and perhaps breaking off and crushing those below. Their pruning serves the purposes of the tree.”

“Tell me, Wrend,” the Master said. “Why do I allow these fruitless boughs to grow in the first place? Why not only allow to grow the number of branches I know I will need?”

Wrend licked his lips. Every Novitiate knew the answer.

“If you only grew the number of branches that you needed, some would prove weak and harmful to the tree and all around it. So you grow many, and keep those who will bear the best fruit. Those most-choice branches will spread wide to shade the people below, and drop their fruit to feed them.”