The Demigod Proving (9 page)

Eventually the Master came back. In a brief speech, he told everyone about the cultists and what they’d done at the nursery, but that they hadn’t touched any other village. He hadn’t killed the last of them, yet, but suspected who they were. Until he eradicated the group, all Novitiates and mothers would have paladin guards.

Once Wrend and Teirn had their guards assigned to them, they headed back up the canyon toward their village, so they could change into clothes more suitable for the feast.

With the guards around them, they couldn’t talk about any of what had gone on, but walked in silence. Wrend started at every noise in the forest, and watched everything around him every second. He’d never felt unsafe in the Seraglio until that day.

Still holding the miniature eagle, Teirn said, “This was always my favorite.”

Wrend turned from the window. “How many times have you said that?”

“That’s because it’s true.”

Wrend stepped over to his brother’s side, to look at the objects on the shelves. Golden figurines of every imaginable creature filled the shelves: bears, deer, elephants, draegons, lions, birds, people. A precious few included tiny rubies, pearls, or amethysts in eye sockets or navels. Other types of shiny knick-knacks covered the shelves: gilded shapes of trees or unusually pretty rocks. A silver plate that Wrend had made. A chalice with pearls along the rim.

The Master didn’t permit his demigods to own much. They spent their first twenty years of life in preparation for the next thirty. Worldly possessions meant little to them; if they exhibited too much tendency toward material comforts, they inevitably wound up dead. But the Master allowed all the demigods something, a little bit to call their own.

Wrend had his horde.

He adjusted the position of a lion and blew dust off of a coiled snake. He picked up a figure of a squirrel. Sometimes at night, he would gather some of the trinkets around himself in his bed, and just look at them glittering in the candlelight.

“I wish I could make something like this,” Teirn said. He put the eagle down and picked up a scaella, a mix between a wolf and a man.

“I just plate them. The real skill is in the carving.”

While he didn’t possess much ability with wood or stone, he could fashion gold or other soft metals with ease. He’d long since learned to trade his metallurgical abilities for the artistic skills of some of his siblings, and many of the shapes on the shelves had been carved by them and gilded by him. Further up the canyon, a mine worked by the demigods produced a small bit of gold and silver each year, and Wrend had spent many of his hours there, digging and searching for fine metals. He’d crafted a few of his objects out of pure metal.

Sometimes it took weeks to finish a project between his lessons and duties. Three sat on the table, in varying stages of completion.

One, an owl sitting on a tree branch, carved out of pine, still sat naked of precious golden covering. He hadn’t even had a chance to treat it, yet. A second, a white porcelain plate, bore twirls of gold and silver around the lip. He needed to add a few more touches to that, especially near the center. The third project, a miniature sacrificial knife about the size of his little finger and made out of spruce, only had gold leaf on one side of the wooden blade.

“Do you think,” Teirn said, “scaella look like this?”

He held up the scaella figurine for Wrend to see, even though Wrend knew every detail of the figure. It had the body and head of a wolf down on all fours, with a human torso growing out of the wolf’s back.

Wrend shrugged. “I doubt it. How long has it been since someone has seen a scaella?”

“Maybe less than you think.”

“Teirn—enough. What’s going on? Why don’t you want to go to the feast?”

Teirn took a deep breath and looked at the scaella. But he didn’t seem to see it. His eyes bore a far-off expression.

“I knew this day would come. I’ve known for a few years.”

“What day? What are you talking about?”

“Two years ago, Calla told me that the Master has grown weary with life, and wishes to die.”

“He what?”

“He wants to find an heir,” Teirn said. “Someone to take his place. He’s already looked for generations for the right person, but found no one.”

“What are you saying? That you or I could become god?”

“He fashioned us, created us, to be the heir. But first, he must prove us, to determine which of us should inherit his godhood. Only one of us can become god.”

Silence stretched between them. It seemed outlandish. Unreal. He could never be god. But it also seemed possible given what the Master, Calla, and Rashel had all said that afternoon.

“We’re being tested?” Wrend said. “You and I? For godhood?”

Teirn nodded. “Only one of us will survive.”

“How is it possible for us to even become gods? We’re mortal because of our mothers.”

“Are we? How do demigods die?”

That made Wrend pause. He’d never heard of a demigod dying from old age, sickness, or even an accident. They only died when the Master killed them—either as they sinned while young, in the Seraglio, or as sacrifices at the Strengthening.

“Why us?” he said.

Teirn looked away. He placed the scaella back on the shelf.

“Why will only one of us survive?” Wrend pressed.

“Calla said that the Master wants to preserve the peace. She said that after the proving, one of us might dispute the result, and rebel against the decision. So, to prevent rebellion and war, the Master will kill the one who will not inherit.”

“And the proving begins tonight. At the Reverencing?”

Teirn nodded.

If it was true—and Wrend had no reason not to think it wasn’t—then Wrend hated it. He couldn’t fathom the wonder of becoming god, but hated the prospect that if he did, Teirn would die. The alternative pleased him just as little.

“I don’t want to do it,” he said. “I’ll tell the Master that I don’t want to be god. I’ll let you be god. We don’t even have to have the proving.”

Teirn laughed bitterly. “You don’t think I’ve thought of that? But Calla forbids it. She says that if the Master discovered what she’d told me, he would execute her. He doesn’t want us knowing what the eventual ‘prize’ of the proving is.”

It made sense. Wrend couldn’t tell the Master that he’d learned the purpose of this test. It would anger the Master, and he might slay those responsible for revealing the information: Calla and Teirn.

Teirn turned to Wrend, face intense. “There’s nothing we can do. We’re stuck. And I tell you now: I intend to be god.”

The declaration and Teirn’s determined tone made gooseflesh rise on Wrend’s arms. He shivered. His brother and best friend was resolved regarding his death.

“We have to convince him,” Wrend said. “Together we can convince him that there’s no need for this test.”

“We can’t say a word to him. It’s useless. Wrend, I’ve had years to think about this and get used to the idea and to try and find a way around it. But I haven’t come up with anything. We’re stuck. We have to do this.”

“You’ve known for years and haven’t told me?”

“Calla forbade it.”

“But you’re doing it, now?”

In the little light that came through the window, Wrend thought he saw Teirn’s eyes moisten. His face contorted in sorrow.

“I think it’s fair that you understand what’s going on. Calla would kill me if she knew I’d told you. She’s determined that I will win.” His voice grew hard. “And so am I.”

Wrend couldn’t find words. Too many things passed through his head and heart.

Teirn shook his head and turned away, again. His voice grew brutal.

“Though I dread the day I do, Wrend, I will win. I will become god. It’s the right thing for me to be god. This is the right way for the Master to choose an heir.”

The words stung—Teirn had never spoken to Wrend like that. Yet, Teirn’s confidence made Wrend pause, question if he could possibly be right. Rather than cast the possibility away, Wrend considered it. Naresh, the palsied priest with crazy hair, had taught him to do that. Wrend remembered the lesson well.

He was twelve. One of his sisters and brothers argued over how to sow the fields up the canyon. The brother wanted to plow them one way, while the sister wanted them to do it differently. Most of the demigods stood behind the sister, and in the end, by sheer force of numbers, rejected the brother’s opinion without really considering it.

Afterward, Naresh casually strolled by Wrend, and with a sly glance at the defeated brother said, “I wonder how he feels about being cast aside like that.”

A quick comment. A simple phrase. And Naresh moved on, but it made Wrend think about the brother’s point of view. Before then, no one had ever suggested considering others’ perspectives. Not in any of his lessons. It was always just obedience to the Master. Do what he would think best, without any hope of personal glory or elevation. Empathy—if that was the right word—was a novel concept, but it made sense from many standpoints. Since then, Wrend had sought to consider everyone’s perspective. As a result, he’d gained many friends in the Seraglio. Ultimately that didn’t matter much, but he felt good about it.

And so now, hearing Teirn’s declaration, Wrend couldn’t help but wonder if it were true that this was the best way for the Master. And for the people of the nation. Maybe it wasn’t.

Teirn turned away from Wrend, toward the door. “I have to go change. I’ll meet you back outside in a few minutes.”

He gave Wrend a glance as he opened the door, and left without saying another word or giving Wrend a chance to speak.

Wrend stood there in the darkness for half a minute, trying to understand his new knowledge, how he should respond. The best option seemed convincing the Master to simply grant the inheritance to Teirn, to bow out of the proving. But he couldn’t do that without revealing that he knew the purpose of the test, and risking the Master’s wrath on Calla and Teirn.

No, he had to get the Master to reveal the purpose of the test. Then he could reasonably offer to bow out.

And that would be easier if Teirn decided to help him.

With that new resolve, he moved into his bedroom, past a pitcher and basin on the table at the bed’s foot, and stripped down to his undershorts. He poured water from the pitcher into the white ceramic bowl, and clenched his teeth at the cold as he washed the grime and sweat away from his body.

Afterward, he turned to his open closet, donned his red doublet—his favorite color—and pulled on some black pants. As all of his doublets, this one had tree branches embroidered from the shoulders down to the arms, in golden thread. He sat on the bed to buckle on his knee-high boots, and at his waist cinched his thick belt with a built-in scabbard for a knife. Not just any knife, though, his sacrificial knife.

At age twelve, every demigod received a sacrificial blade. Just the blade. The Master then required them to add a hilt, but allowed them to fashion it however they liked. The priests taught that the knife was a symbol of the demigod’s service to the Master: all demigods served, but could do so in the manner that seemed best to them. Within reason, of course.

The sacrificial blade itself had a double edge and stretched about nine inches long. It was made of an unusual metal, colored the slightest bit blue. Even with his metallurgical knowledge, he had no idea what gave the blade its color. He’d only ever seen the metal on sacrificial blades, as if the Master had forbidden any other thing to be crafted with the steel.

He’d kept the hilt simple, with a curved guard and a ridged, ebony grip. He’d added an elongated pommel, and considered placing a jewel in the end. However, he’d never encountered a gem large enough to not look silly.