The Demigod Proving (26 page)

There it was. There was the logic: he harbored such bitterness at her for leaving him, for not being there to teach him—now that she had the opportunity to mentor him, he could not remain consistent by rejecting her offer to instruct him.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll talk with you.”

His head snapped around, and again lowered his face until it was only a few feet from hers.

“This isn’t about me. Don’t pretend it is. It’s always been about you and your mate. You only want me around for my size.”

“That's ridiculous.”

"Is it? Why did you finally come back to the lair? Why did you want me to come with you? Would you have stayed with me if you hadn't needed me? Would you have brought me with you? Or would you have even bothered with me, at all?"

She couldn't answer those questions. He was right—but only to a degree. She did care about him. Didn't she?

She looked deep and hard and fast, and saw that yes, she did. She’d merely forgotten it. He hadn’t been a focus for her at all, even since she’d gone to his lair just a few days before and resolved to teach him. But he needed to be a priority. She had to make his education and upbringing—what was left of it—a focus for herself.

And he needed a strong hand. Discipline. A parent. After all, despite his size, he was still an adolescent. A teenager.

“Krack, you’re staying.”

He grunted. “I’ll decide when to leave. You can’t keep me here.”

She shrugged. “You’re staying. I’m your mother. I may not have been a good one until now—but I’m ready to change. And you will do as I tell you to. A draegon respects his mother. And his father.”

Again, he looked at her for a long time without speaking. When he did growl, it was with clipped-short sarcasm.

“Very well. I’ll do as my mother commands.”

She nodded, satisfied. It was a start. A poor one. But a start, nonetheless.

And as she learned soon enough, a good start still does not make the middle of a difficult journey much easier.

Chapter 31: Heavy burdens

If your enemies seem stupid, assume it’s an act meant to lull you into some kind of mistake. I learned this lesson first-hand.

-Wrend

Two days later, Teirn was winning. Despite Wrend’s efforts, he couldn’t carry the crate of books as quickly as his brother.

In fact, by the time Wrend made it half way to the synagogue, Teirn had dropped his first crate off and started back. As he passed Wrend, heading the opposite direction, he gave a good-natured smirk and jostled Wrend’s load.

“Too heavy for you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he hurried on.

Wrend turned to watch Teirn disappear into the crowd. The wooden box’s size made it awkward to carry, but its weight made it difficult. So far he’d rested twice, but Teirn had hefted the box up on his shoulder and scurried off without so much as a strained expression.

People wearing their finest clothing—tailored suits and enormous dresses—filled the street, hurrying every direction in preparation for that afternoon when the Master would perform the Strengthening on Steffan. Following the sacrifice, the people would hold a feast of thanks as a different demigod became their servant.

Black and red buntings festooned the brick buildings along the street, giving the otherwise drab structures a little color, reminding Wrend of the Seraglio when he’d last seen it. Most villages looked like this one: a handful of streets, two-story buildings constructed of dry brick bleached grayish-brown by the sun, a flagstone main street with dirt roads everywhere else. A few of the fancier structures had large windows in the front. Most buildings stood separate from others, with narrow alleys between them. Covered boardwalks stretched down the length of the street, connecting all of the buildings together. It reminded Wrend of the Courtyard of the Wall.

People filled the town, having come from nearby villages. They filled the boardwalks and flowed into the street, so that wagons and horse-drawn carriages could only creep along. The clop of the horses’ hooves on the stone mingled with the murmur of the crowd. The smell of dung on the pavement mixed with the reek of too many bodies too close together.

Wrend enjoyed the energy of the crowd, even if he didn’t agree with it. A certain excitement hovered over the area. Men greeted each other with handshakes and half embraces. Women kissed each others’ cheeks and smiled out from beneath their bonnets. Often, groups would break out in laughter.

Wrend didn’t understand it: a demigod who’d served them for thirty years would die that afternoon. Yes, his blood would strengthen the seeds for the next ten years of crops, but it seemed like the people should mourn, not celebrate. Maybe they hid their sorrow with a show of welcoming the new demigod.

Wrend started forward again, walking on the stone street below the wooden boardwalk. He focused on his sense of discernment. For just a moment, he thought he saw another set of waves joining the Thew emanating from his torso. He’d noticed these new waves several times since talking with Leenda. He suspected it was Flux Ichor created by the motion of his legs, but every time he tried to focus on it, it slipped away, like something moving fast in the corner of his vision.

But he’d successfully practiced using Thew, and so this time it came easier to bind it to his arms. He pushed with his discernment, and Ichor flowed out.

Instantly, the weight felt less. The strain on his arms lightened and his muscles became stronger. But his shoulders and back still balked at the effort, and when he tried to bind Ichor to them, his focus slipped away form his arms, and the weight became heavy in them again.

So it went as he walked the rest of the way toward the synagogue. He would alternately strengthen his arms, shoulders, and back, never succeeding at getting even two of the body parts empowered at the same time.

He and Teirn had worked together over the past few days to develop their skills. Teirn had caught on much faster than Wrend, which accounted for his superior crate-carrying skills.

Wrend’s destination stood out from the rest of the buildings like a pretty girl in a row of dogs. As the Master’s followers did in every town, the people here had constructed the holy building out of stone. Its white walls shone so bright that the people must have re-painted it recently. A narrow dome capped its steeple, and at the dome’s crest stood a statue of the Master, hands spread wide in a gesture of giving. At the statue’s feet lay an altar. In some cities, the altar included the body of a sacrificial demigod, but this one did not.

By the time Wrend reached the top step of the synagogue, he needed another rest before lugging the books inside. He groaned as he leaned forward and almost dropped the box on the porch with a clatter. He had no idea why the wagon hadn’t dropped the crates off in the city, in front of the synagogue. Probably just to give him something to do. He didn’t mind it, although he would’ve preferred crates of cheese.

In the two days since he’d last talked with the Master, and soon thereafter conversed with Leenda, he’d had plenty of time to think. He’d reached the conclusion that he had to lie outright to the Master. He would say he’d
guessed
that the Master searched for an heir, then offer to remove himself from the unwanted competition.

With luck, the Master wouldn't detect his game. It seemed ridiculous that he should even have to lie.

He leaned over on the box, breathing hard. He’d tried to convince Teirn to work with him, to join the lie, but Teirn had held firm in his resolve. He refused to put his mother at risk. Wrend had even confided in Teirn regarding the redheaded serving girl’s claim that he was a draegon. Teirn had reacted with surprise, and said, “Sure, you’re a draegon. And I’m a scaella.” Perhaps most notably, Teirn had seemed quite troubled with the fact that the Master had asked Wrend to chop off his hand. Teirn had endured no such trial. Wrend didn't know what to think about that—whether to find it good or bad.

Groaning, Wrend straightened. He’d watched for a chance to talk with the Master, but never found it, partly because the Master had left camp early the next day, apparently looking for Wester and the other apostate Caretakers. His time seemed consumed in the task.

Fortunately, Wester hadn’t returned to Wrend’s tent.

“Too heavy for you?”

Wrend turned at the voice. Teirn had started up the synagogue stairs, carrying a crate.

“Just admiring the synagogue,” Wrend said.

Teirn rolled his eyes. “Had to take
another
rest?”

He reached the top of the stairs and set his box down like a stack of towels. He bent over and lifted Wrend’s box. He laughed as he straightened, hefting the box and placing it on the top of his head. He grunted—but in amusement, not effort.

“Mine is just as heavy as this one.”

“It amazes me how you caught on to using Ichor so fast.”

Teirn smiled and shrugged. “We’ll keep working at it, and you’ll get it soon enough.” He headed toward the doors.

Wrend picked up Teirn's box. He grunted and his back strained as he straightened. Lagging behind Teirn, wishing again for cheese crates, he entered the synagogue.

He stopped for a moment inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the relative dimness. The air felt different inside. Cooler and older. The whispers of worshipers or the sound of their footsteps as they walked between the benches echoed from the high ceiling and far walls.

Back at the Seraglio, he’d felt inconsequential whenever he entered the synagogue, and this time he had the same sensation. The high ceiling and the chair at the front of the cavernous chamber—big enough for the Master to sit in—seemed designed to make people feel small. It was odd, because Wrend never felt like that in the Master’s presence.

A priest in his white robes and red half-jacket diverted Wrend from the main chapel toward an open door with spiral stairs immediately beyond. At the top of the staircase, a dozen windows of yellow stained glass lined the left side of the attic, spilling golden light over the boxes, random pieces of furniture, and canvas-covered shapes. Wooden trusses supported the roof that angled up and to the right, disappearing beyond the wall opposite the windows.

Teirn had left his crates at the top of the stairs, but disappeared. With a groan of relief, Wrend unloaded his burden and stretched his back. Teirn couldn’t have descended the stairs, but probably hid behind something, ready to scare Wrend with an ambush.

Wrend took a few steps forward, to peer around a nearby stack of boxes, and startled upon seeing a woman standing there. He began to apologize for surprising her, but realized she was a statue. A canvas lay in a pile at her feet. Her hands rested on a pregnant belly. An expression of sublime peace touched her face, and she looked down and to one side. Wrend stepped forward to examine the face more closely. A sorrow seemed to touch the eyes and lips.

“Teirn,” he said. “Did you see this?”

“Shh,” came the response. Wrend couldn’t see from where.

He glided forward, hand on the hilt of his knife, holding his breath and squinting to see around the tall shapes—probably more statues. It was exactly the kind of place where Teirn could surprise him.

Wrend took slow steps and peeked around each object as he came to it, but his caution proved unnecessary: halfway down the room, he found Teirn crouched beneath one of the windows, with his face intent on something on the floor. The gold light touched his bent back and shoulders, making the embroidered, fruitless tree branches on his shoulders and arms sparkle.

“What are you doing?” Wrend said.