The Demigod Proving (49 page)

-Rashel

For a moment, Wrend forgot his feud with Teirn—who seemed to forget, too, for he lowered his sword. His jaw dropped, and he gave Wrend a baffled look. Rashel was not Teirn’s mother, but Wrend knew he still loved her; as all mothers in the Seraglio, she’d cared for him and helped raise him.

The paladins lifted the cultist leader to his feet. He struggled against them, grunting as he tried to pull his arms free.

As the other paladins brought Rashel forward, she stumbled once, nearly falling to her knees. With her back still bent, she looked up. Tears streaked her face, and again she shouted.

“Boys, stop this!”

Both Wrend and Teirn stepped toward her.

“What are you doing here?” Teirn said.

“Let her go,” Wrend told the paladins.

They released her arms. She stumbled forward and began to collapse, but Wrend caught her with his free hand as she threw her arms around his shoulders. She was light, easy to hold up.

“Are you injured?” Wrend said.

She lifted her face to his. They were only inches apart. Her lips quivered and her eyes glistened with unspent tears.

“They’re killing everyone,” she said. “The paladins are killing the women and the children in the other cave.”

Now that she said it, Wrend noticed the screams flowing out of the rear of the cave, lifting over the clamor of paladins still trying to get into the back tunnels. Although the Thew had long since slipped from his eyes, he could still see well enough; his vision had adjusted to the dimness, and several lanterns burned throughout the cavern.

“This has to be done,” Teirn said.

He grabbed one of her arms and lifted her, helping her stand fully on her own.

“Rashel,” the rebel leader said. He stopped fighting, and his face pled with her. He stood captive a dozen feet away from Wrend and Teirn. “Run! Get out of here.”

He couldn’t have done anything worse, for that drew Teirn’s attention. A stoic mask of resolution dropped over his face. He turned and raised his sword, point forward, and lunged.

Panic moved Wrend. This was
his
task.
He
had to do this. He applied Thew to his legs and arms and leapt faster than Teirn, deflecting Teirn’s sword with his, and shouldering Teirn aside.

But Teirn’s blow was fast and hard enough that Wrend couldn’t completely stop it. With a metallic thunk and rasping sigh, it punctured the armor and chest of a paladin. The soldier reeled from the blow, pulling the leader down with him.

Teirn tried to yank the sword free, but the way the paladin fell twisted the sword out of his hands, and he had to let it go in order to keep his feet. With a roar, he clasped his hands and swung, hitting Wrend in the jaw.

Wrend spun away, stumbling to the ground face down. His sword clattered away, and as he tried to get up on his hands and knees Teirn jumped on his back. It felt like his spine would snap as he collapsed flat on the dirt floor, his face jamming into the ground. Teirn punched him in the back of the head, then in the back of his neck. The pain made him cry out. His vision began to swim.

“You monster!” Teirn said. “You little traitor.”

Wrend fought to throw Teirn off of him, but he couldn’t quite concentrate on his discernment—everything blurred in fog and pain—and couldn’t get his hands or feet under him. He could hardly move, from Teirn’s weight on his back. He couldn’t twist his body or lift his head.

Blow after blow crushed his face in the dirt. Its smell filled his nose. Bright lights swirled in his vision, and the thudding in the back of his head grew duller and duller. Two weeks before, he and Teirn had been best friends their entire lives, and now Wrend would die at the hands of his brother.

But there was another thud—this one not in his head—and the blows stopped. The weight slid off of Wrend, and Teirn collapsed to the ground next to him, eyes closed and jaw slack.

Rashel knelt next to Wrend and placed a hand on his back.

He lifted his head and turned it toward her. She dropped a large stone on the ground next to her knees.

“Are you okay?” she said.

He could barely make his mouth move. “You killed Teirn?”

“I hope not,” she said. “I just wanted him to stop.” Grunting, she helped Wrend roll over and sit up. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I just bashed the back of his head.”

“He’s unconscious?” Wrend said.

She leaned away from Wrend to examine Teirn, touching his face and moving her ear close to his mouth. After a moment, she returned her attention to Wrend.

“Yes, unconscious.”

Strength surged in Wrend. Despite the thundering in his skull and how the edges of his vision blurred, he knew he needed to kill the leader before Teirn regained consciousness.

“What are you doing?” Rashel said.

She tried to hold him down. Panic tainted her voice.

He shoved her away and rolled to his hands and knees. His head swam and he blinked several times. Just to his side, Teirn stirred, and his eyes seemed to flutter.

“Wrend, what are you doing?” his mother repeated.

He ignored her and with a growl stumbled to his feet—then staggered to the side. The throbbing in his head increased. He nearly tripped over Teirn’s body. His sword lay a few feet away, past Rashel. He stepped toward it. But she snatched the weapon up and stood.

“Give me that,” he said. “I have to kill him.”

“You can’t kill your brother,” Rashel said.

With a horrified expression, she stepped back and held the sword away. She was so small that it seemed comical the way she clutched the hilt between her breasts, sword point down nearly to her toes.

Wrend didn’t even want to explain that she’d gotten it wrong. He didn’t have time. Teirn grunted. His hand twitched. Wrend turned back toward the paladins and the leader. Now three of the undead held the apostate: one on each arm and a third with a sword at his back. The fourth sat on the ground, his hands over the gash in his chest. Rocks of salt spilled out between his fingers and the cut in his leather armor. A sword lay at his feet.

Wrend lunged for it.

The leader redoubled his struggles, yelling for Rashel to save herself. He kicked as Wrend bent to take up the sword, but missed by a foot. The hilt was cold in Wrend’s palm. Dust covered the blade.

“Wrend,” Rashel said. “Stop. Don’t kill him.”

“I have to,” Wrend said. He took a step back and readied the blade. His arms trembled. "The Master commanded it.”

“And I tell you to stop.”

“You can’t oppose the Master’s will.”

“But I do. Believe me when I say that you’ll regret it.”

The honesty in her voice made him look at her.

“You want me to defy your god and husband?”

Some of the fog in his head had cleared. He could focus on her, where she stood above Teirn with the sword in her hands. For a moment, her tears had dried, although they threatened to spill again.

“Don’t kill him, Wrend,” she said.

She stepped forward and reached a hand out. The sword slipped from her grasp. As it clattered to the floor, she spoke again, although so softly that the noise of the sword drowned out her voice.

But he thought he’d read her lips.

He’s your father.

“What?” the leader said. He stopped struggling.

Wrend’s body seemed to freeze as he tried to process the information. But his brain locked up, unable to comprehend her words. They couldn’t possibly be true.

She nodded, covering her mouth with one hand as more water gathered in her eyes.

“Is it true?” the leader said.

To Wrend, it almost seemed the rebel had reached into his mind and pulled out the dominant thought.

It couldn’t possibly be true. First Leenda had said he was a draegon, and now his own mother claimed he was the son of someone completely different than the Master.

Rashel nodded, tears flowing as she looked from Wrend to the cultist and back. “Don’t kill your own father.”

Chapter 64: The first kill

Every secret will someday be revealed. It’s best to keep very few of them.

-Rashel

Wrend’s legs trembled, and he gaped at Rashel. She was his mother. She would know who his father was.

And she thought it was this man. A leader among the apostates.

In the back of the cavern, the last of the paladins disappeared into the openings beyond, still howling like dogs. In their wake, near the mouth of the tunnels, corpses lay scattered—men who’d failed at defending their families. The screaming from beyond had become softer, more distant, as if the women and children had either fled further back into the caves, or the ones closest to the main cavern had died.

Teirn moaned. His foot twitched, scraping the boot against the dirt.

“Is it true?” the leader again said to Rashel.

She nodded, still covering her mouth with one hand and folding the other across her stomach.

“No,” Wrend said.

He took a step toward Rashel. The fog created by Teirn’s fists had cleared, but new fog rose in his head. He jabbed a finger in her direction. Why would she lie like this? Why did everyone want him to disobey the Master, to prove disloyal?

“I’m
the Master’s
son.”

“Wrend,” she said, “this man is your father. I promise it.”

“No!”

“When Athanaric chose me, I’d already lain with this man.” She pointed with her chin at the renegade. “Just a week before. I already had the morning sickness. I’m so sorry, Wrend.”

Wrend grasped to understand. His knees wobbled and the tip of the sword lowered to the ground.

“Then how can I use Ichor?”

To reassure himself, he focused on his discernment. Faint Thew emanated from his stomach. He harvested it, bound it to his head, and applied, hoping it would ease the throbbing. Could he use Ichor on his heart to ease this sudden uncertainty?

“I can’t explain it,” Rashel said. “I don’t know why you can use Ichor. I feared for years that when Athanaric tried to teach you how, you would fail and he would kill you.”

Wrend shook his head and looked from Rashel to the leader. The man just stood there, no longer resisting, looking at Wrend with a strange mixture of confusion and pride. The paladins showed no signs of surprise or interest in the entire affair.

“Wrend,” she said, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

He looked her in the eyes. They seemed so sincere, so honest. But she had to be lying. Or at the very least mistaken. His father was the Master, not this rogue. The Master had raised him and loved him, taught him so much and done so much for him. This man was nothing to him—nothing but a task to complete.