The Demigod Proving (40 page)

But the Master entered the tent in a rush.

The dogs leapt to their feet and Wrend jerked up, straightening his shoulders and lifting his head. He hadn’t realized that he’d hunched over the ropes, but the dull throbbing in his arms and chest indicated he’d assumed that position some time before. The momentary brightness of the kerosene lamp proved that his eyes had been closed.

How much time had passed?

The Master strode through the pack of dogs, to Wrend. For a moment, Wrend thought his end had come, that the Master had decided to kill him. But the fear lasted only until he saw the emotions—determination and almost satisfaction, tinged with love and pride—in the Master’s face.

The Master stopped in front the chair and fell to one knee, bringing his face level with Wrend’s. His back was to the lamp, and so his face was dark except for the reflection of a bit of light in his eyes.

“My son, I have a work for you.”

“Anything you say.”

“This will be your final test. You mustn’t fail, or it will be your end.”

“Anything.”

The hounds still clamored around their master, nudging his legs and hands, sniffing at his clothes. He held still and silent, and his limned silhouette expanded and contracted with each breath that touched Wrend’s face with a scent of bread.

“Did you get him?” Wrend said, unable to hold the question back. “Naresh?”

“He escaped.”

“He killed Hasuke’s god? And the other gods whose lands you’ve taken over?”

The Master nodded. “At the least, he helped.”

Wrend had known Naresh his entire life, had been friends with him and gained important perspectives from him—the man who’d killed gods and brought nations to their knees. And yet with all this new knowledge, the Master wasn’t going to kill Wrend. He yet had a task for Wrend.

Could it possibly be to kill the Godslayer? He couldn’t do that—there was no way. But it would be a fine method for the Master to dispose of a favorite, disobedient son without making it look like he’d been disobedient.

“What do you need me to do?”

He held his breath. His heart began to beat faster.

“When the time is right, I’ll give you the task.”

“I can’t know now? So I can prepare for it?”

“No. I want to see how you handle it without much preparation.”

Wrend tried not to scowl. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

The Master nodded, his face still in shadows. "Wrend, you may yet prove to be a fruitful bough. The most fruitful of all. Just prove faithful."

"Yes, Master."

“Let’s get you out of these ropes. You must be hungry.”

“A little.”

Wrend forced a chuckle and looked at his knife where it lay among some plates and bowls. He would be glad to have it back in its sheath at his side.

As the Master untied him, his head churned with all of the things that had happened that night, the things he’d learned. The questions he discovered. He wanted more than anything for someone to talk with about it all.

Not Teirn. He wouldn't do. He'd kept too much from Wrend. Same with Rashel.

But Leenda. Leenda had actually tried to give him information.

He would seek her out at the first chance.

Chapter 46: Fire in the veins

The accumulation of Ichor is the most fundamental task in obtaining and maintaining power. Neglecting this duty will result in failure in all cases.

-Athanaric

Not long after night fell, Leenda sought out Wrend.

She returned to the camp by Ichor-leaping over the paladins on watch. She then infiltrated past the paladins spread throughout the camp, into a demigod’s tent. There, she stole a shirt, pants, and a wide-brimmed hat. In the dark she could pass herself off as a young boy; she was small enough, and her body hadn’t developed too much, yet, even if it did give her trouble. She tucked her hair up under the hat and stuffed her pockets full of dried apples pilfered from one storage wagon, crusty old bread from another, and cured beef from a third.

Still avoiding the paladins, she found a dark place up in the prickly branches of a young spruce across from Wrend’s tent and ate. She harvested Thew as she waited. She would probably need it. If she couldn’t convince Wrend to come with her, she would club him over the head like she’d done with Rashel and carry him away. Brute force seemed like a good alternative if he wouldn’t listen to reason.

Paladins passed by often. She didn’t even chew when they did. They walked by in silence, the crunching of their boots in the dirt and the quiet rattle of their armor the only indication that they’d passed by.

She left, once, and snuck back through the tent streets to the wagons for another bunch of food. Though the fruits of her first theft had filled her stomach, she needed Ichor, and that required a thorough gorging.

Not long after she returned to her perch, just before midnight—as she wondered if she could possibly take another bite—Wrend came to his tent. Shortly after he entered, he lit a lamp and the light illuminated the tent’s thick canvas like an oversized lantern. His shadow, faint because of the canvas’ thickness, moved back and forth.

A few other people started to appear, returning early from the Strengthening. But the streets remained quiet, except for the paladins. In another hour or two, the celebration would begin to wind down; those returning probably had to rise early to cook breakfast before everyone took down the tents.

Soon, Wrend settled down onto his bed and reached up to dim the lamp. Leenda watched and waited for a chance to sneak past the patrolling paladins. It took nearly fifteen minutes, during which she forced herself to finish her food. Eventually, an opening came, and she descended from the tree, crossed the path, and pulled Wrend’s tent flap aside to enter on her tiptoes.

He’d left the lamp just barely lit, but had fallen asleep on his cot in the tent’s center. He wore no shirt and laid on his side, with his back to her. The muscles of his shoulders shifted as he breathed. A dark blanket covered his legs and waist.

A small table with a washbasin, a pitcher, and the lamp stood at the head of the cot. An open trunk rested on the ground against the right wall, at his feet. A chamber pot just to the right of the entrance, sitting on the dirt floor, gave off a putrid stench. She would never understand those things. Better to get the stuff out of the tent, as opposed to letting it fester there all night. Better yet, just find a remote place to do your business and bury it. That’s what a draegon did.

She crept around the foot of the cot. He still wore his white bracers and had thrown his clothes into the trunk without folding them. She’d never seen him sleeping, and the serenity of his face made her pause with a hand raised to touch his shoulder. She withdrew it, and just looked at him.

He needed to shave—or not. He looked rugged with the scraggly beard. In sleep, and in the dim light, the hard lines of his jaw softened under shadows. His eyebrows relaxed, so they weren’t as close as when he was awake. His chest muscles were smooth and defined. She wanted to touch them. She wanted to kiss his lips.

Again—for the thousandth time in recent days—she remembered their kiss, the honey taste of his lips against hers and the feel of his body as she leaned into it. His mouth had fit hers so perfectly, especially in the moment that he’d kissed her back, letting his lips soften. How was it that the act of putting flesh together could thrill her so? It was such a simple thing. Yet her human body seemed to need it.

She leaned toward him, to kiss him again, but stopped. Three small figures lay on the cot before him.

They stood about three inches high: a bear reared up on its hind legs, a crouched lion, and an eagle with its wings extended and claws reaching down. Even in the dim light she could make out their fine lines for feathers or hair, tiny gemstones for eyes, and expressive faces. They glittered gold and silver.

She picked up the lion, examining it, touching the mane almost with the expectation that it would feel soft like hair. It was light enough that it was probably made of wood covered in gold leaf. She wanted to keep it, to add it to her horde up in the mountains.

The thought startled her, even if it wasn’t the first time she’d had it. She’d thought like that for fifteen years, ever since she’d taken on a human body. She’d thought of the lair up where Krack had lived as hers, and the piles of treasure as hers. She’d even accumulated shiny coins and stones wherever she’d lived, intending to take them up the mountains to add them to her treasure.

That must be what Wrend did, as well. Without realizing it, he was gathering a horde. Back at the Seraglio, he probably had more than just these three figures.

He shifted on the bed, rolling to his back so that his face turned upward. His lips parted, and his arms fell to his sides so she had a clear view of his naked torso.

Goat guts! It was too much for her. She placed the lion in her pocket and reached out to touch him, running her hand across his stomach, relishing the warmth of his skin. She could not resist the urge to touch his mouth with hers.

She moved fast, sliding both hands up to his chest and leaning over him. Their lips touched and his reacted, puckering. She pressed, letting the weight of her torso fall against him. He was so warm and solid. His lips were so soft. She needed to have his arms around her. She would gladly lose herself in this strange human passion.

There was nothing like this as a draegon, no fire in the veins.

Wrend awoke. He jerked as his eyes shot open and widened. His palms came up her shoulders, knocking the eagle and bear off the cot as he moved to push her away. His entire body tensed, became like stone as the muscles flexed. She felt it through her clothes and readied herself to be thrown off.

But he didn’t cast her away.

Lips still touching, eyes locked, hands on her shoulders, he stared at her in confusion. His face showed him weighing the options, processing what was happening, reconciling that against a hundred possible actions. She felt like her life hung in the balance. She couldn’t bear to have him thrust her away. Her body couldn’t take something like that.

The expression in his eyes changed. It became decisive and hard, and his arms encircled her, pulling her close. She felt like water being gulped in, and let his lips press against hers. It was rough and awkward. He didn’t seem to know what to do any more than she did, but the fire in her raged to life.

Warmth filled her. She pressed her weight more fully on him and slid her hands down the side of his body, so that she could press her torso against him. There wasn’t much to press, but she did it, and started to swing her legs up onto the cot.

He stiffened. An expression of terror flooded his face. He slid his face out from beneath hers, and pushed her off.

Chapter 47: Tipping the scales

Sometimes you just can't maintain control.

-Leenda