The Demigod Proving (11 page)

Chapter 11: Bound

There’s no feeling quite as sickening as knowing you’ve displeased your god—unless it’s knowing you’re going to die because of it.

-Wrend

Keeping his eyes closed, Wrend slipped into consciousness and found himself falling. Except, something kept him up, prevented him from tumbling forward. His head lolled forward, from side to side, as he tried to understand.

Another feeling overtook the falling sensation—agony barraging the left side of his face and the crown of his head. He’d never felt anything quite as painful as the throbbing in his brain.

The tumbling of a waterfall filled his ears and the wet air near a river smelled fresh in his nose. The familiar touch of bark rubbed against his back. His feet dangled in midair. He could swing them back and forth as if he were a child sitting on a very tall chair.

Off somewhere behind him, a woodpecker hammered away. Something rough—a rope, probably—chafed against his throat as his head lolled forward. He could feel that other ropes dug into his chest and stomach—they were what kept him from tumbling forward.

A familiar caressing covered the left side of his body and his left leg, as if several fingers ran lightly over his clothing. It was a feeler bush, a harmless plant of supple stalks with a purple flower at the end. Out of each flower came antenna that stretched forward, to feel the warmth of a living thing.

He tried to lift a hand to feel his face, to understand what made his head throb, but something coarse and biting held his hand down. He struggled to open his eyes, and discovered that the left eye wouldn’t budge and the right eye still viewed things through a haze. The spruces had blurred edges. The feeler bush to his left stretched as far as it could to touch him with its dozens of flowers and antenna.

Directly in front of him, just a few feet down, the river, swollen and raging with snowmelt, tumbled over a thirty-foot cliff to a jumble of rocks below.

He recognized the place, half a mile up from his village and a quarter mile into the forest; he’d visited here often. A year before, another Novitiate had fallen over the cliff and died on the rocks below.

And the way he sat perched on the sloping bank, only the ropes securing him against the tree kept him from tumbling into the water and over the edge. If the ropes were to suddenly snap, he could not keep himself from falling into the water.

Yet, he couldn’t remember coming here. Someone must have banged him over the head, brought him, and put him in a position that he could not escape without endangering his life. But he couldn’t recall any of it. The last thing he remembered was Teirn leaving his house.

Sunlight cut through the trees and leaves at a soft angle; he’d been unconscious for at least an hour. If it hadn’t already, the Reverencing feast would soon start. He couldn’t possibly make it on time.

Who would want to make him late to the feast?

Teirn. To gain an advantage in this test they would share.

He pushed anger and injury away, to focus on escaping without falling into the water. He tried to pull his arms loose. The rope against his neck chaffed. The feelers prodded at his left arm and leg; harmless, yet annoying. He could’ve cut the ropes if he could reach his waist, where he kept his sacrificial knife, but his abductor had looped the ropes around his bracers and arms, keeping his hands in place against the sides of his legs, and the rope under his armpits ensured he couldn’t squirm down and out of the ropes.

And besides, his sacrificial knife was gone.

He couldn’t remember ever being without his sacrificial knife. He’d carried it every day of his life, every moment. He slept with it beneath his pillow, and bathed with it always within arms’ reach. In thirty-three years, when he reached age fifty and had served the people and the Master without fail, he would carry that knife to an altar, and there lay down. The Master would use the knife to spill his blood and strengthen the seeds of the people’s crops.

And someone had taken it.

That was secondary, though. He needed to escape—without falling into the waterfall. He needed to get to the feast at the mouth of the canyon, or the Master might render a quick and deadly judgment. He often killed in a rage, without asking questions, but if Wrend had even a moment to explain, surely the Master would understand. He would see the wounds on Wrend’s face and the marks of the ropes on his bracers and neck, and know Wrend hadn’t intentionally disrespected him.

Wouldn’t he?

The Master is ruthless.
That’s what Wester had said—with such conviction and certitude. The words had new meaning for Wrend in light of his proving, and of the possibility of arriving at the Reverencing late.

The sun dipped low enough that its fading rays touched Wrend’s face, warming his cheeks as he strained at the rope around his bracers. They protected his skin, and so he could pull hard. He grunted with effort and ignored how, even through the leather, the cords dug into his flesh. The pain was nothing compared to the throbbing in his head, anyway, and he had to get free. He needed to explain to the Master what had happened.

Only, the thick ropes wouldn’t break. He was too weak.

Or was he?

He had Ichor. He’d collected it for two years, ever since the Master taught him about his sense of discernment. Whenever he ate, he focused on the discernment so he could sense the green waves of Ichor emanating from his body, and pull the power in, store it in his soul. Whenever he focused on it, he felt the Ichor inside him, as if in his veins, pushing against his skin. Some Ichor naturally seeped out, especially during sleep, but he still had plenty there: a great store to enhance his own strength. If only he knew how to use it.

The Master had purposefully not taught Wrend how to bind and apply the Ichor. Wrend only had permission and ability to absorb and store Ichor. He was to do that every day, at every meal, until it became habit. At age nineteen, he would learn how to bind and apply it. Until then he was forbidden.

But did he dare defy the Master’s direct order, and
try
? Was his situation dire enough to merit deliberate disobedience?

Yes.

The thought made him uncomfortable. He wished for Teirn to be there, to help him decide and shore up his resolve. But would Teirn help him, now, given their rivalry in the proving?

Swallowing hard, Wrend focused on his discernment. Just as he didn’t always notice the touch of his clothes against his skin, the taste of his mouth, or the distant noises, he didn’t always notice the Ichor radiating off of his body or the feel of the harvested Ichor inside him. But, just as he could bring any of his senses alive by focusing on them, so could he enhance Ichor by bringing it to the forefront of his thoughts.

He discerned a greenish ripple extending out from his belly. It repeated in a long, slow pattern. That was the Ichor his body created as it digested whatever remnants of food he had in his stomach. The greenish waves flowed stronger whenever he ate, as his body started to process that food. During and right after meals he would always focus on discernment and absorb the bulk of the Ichor. He’d grown so accustomed to it that he could practically forget about it, and still harvest it. It was almost like a bottomless bucket beneath a faucet: once you turned on the faucet and placed the bucket beneath, you didn’t have to hold the bucket there in order to fill it.

He relaxed his body and closed his eyes, trying to shut out all his other senses. But as he tried to focus on his Ichor, he thought again that his knife was gone, and his other senses surged forward. He couldn’t push out the sound of the waterfall or a sudden cool breeze rustling through the leaves or the woodpecker beating on a tree. The rope prickled against his neck. The bark rubbed against his back, through his shirt, and the dirt felt cool through his pants. The air smelled wet and fresh. The feelers pressed against his side, as if trying to tickle him. He tasted blood. All of those senses barraged him, distracting him from the Ichor.

He clenched his jaw and turned his thoughts inward to consider the unphysical swelling of his body, the pushing of Ichor against the inside of his skin.

How to use it? In snippets of overheard conversation—mostly from his older siblings—he knew he had to do two things to use the Ichor: bind it and apply it. But what did it mean to
bind
Ichor? Applying the Ichor made perfect sense: the Ichor was used to some purpose, to some end. But how did the Ichor know where to go and what to do? Was that
binding
? It had to be. Binding had to mean telling the Ichor what to do.

His face grew cold as the touch of sunlight disappeared. He opened his eyes. The sun had dipped lower, its light now blocked by the trunks of several firs.

It was too late. He would arrive at the feast late.

Regardless, he would go. He’d spent his life learning to serve and honor the Master. If he’d proven unworthy to serve the people in the name of the Master, then so be it. He would die, and he would die with honor, with praises on his lips.

But how to bind Ichor? He’d seen demigods use it, witnessed the physical manifestation of the Ichor, but didn’t know what they’d done on the inside to bind the Ichor. Had they spoken?

“Make me stronger,” he said.

He focused on the Ichor, tried to push it out into his body. He strained against the ropes. The feelers caressed his thigh and arm.

“Make me stronger.”

Nothing happened.

He growled, exerted his strength again.

“Break the ropes!”

He’d worked his whole life to please the Master, to be obedient and honorable. It infuriated him that a simple knock over the head—by his closest friend—could defeat him.

“Break!”

But his sense of discernment had fled his consciousness. The ropes dug into his arms and neck, and he pushed against them with everything he had, not caring that if the ropes broke he would spill into the water and over the edge of the falls. His vision blurred again, because his eyes watered at the pain of his body and the devastation at disappointing the Master. And, his sacrificial knife was gone.

“Wrend!”

The cry came from across the river.

Wrend perked up. Through the trees and the fading light, he couldn’t see the voice’s source. He couldn’t tell its gender or age.

“I’m here! I’m across the river!”

On the opposite bank, something moved in the trees. He tried to raise a hand to wave, but couldn’t.

“I’m tied up across the river!” His voice quivered at the prospect of freedom.

The movement in the trees became less subtle. It flashed white and red, and the voice grew louder. A man’s voice.

“Over he—.”

Wrend cut the cry short. Surprise overtook him as his savior emerged from the trees about twenty feet from the opposite bank. It was Naresh, the old priest who’d made sly comments to Wrend from time to time.

He saw Wrend and stopped, his hand on the trunk of a tree. His eyes widened. He wore the usual garb of priests: the white jacket that covered the arms, shoulders, and chest, with three golden buttons down the front and red embroidery flowing in praises to the Master on the shoulders and arms. Beneath that he wore a red shirt that went nearly to the knees. Black pants. His wrinkled face could have used a good shave.

He scrambled down into the water. For a moment, Wrend thought the river—so fast and deep now, in the spring—would wash him away, but he pushed through the water, arms raised, without any trouble.