The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

  “Stop!” he called to her.

  She didn’t respond. He considered halting, knowing she wanted to draw him somewhere for a reason that might prove dangerous. No doubt she’d purposefully lured him down streets without paladins, at a time when the camp was relatively empty and no one would witness their chase; he could still hear the faint music and chatter of the celebration behind him. Most people would remain at the feast long into the night.

  She reached the edge of the tents and wagons and turned back to grin at him. Her teeth flashed in the starlight. With a coy laugh, she darted on.

  Not far behind her, he stopped at the edge of the tents and took a moment to think. He could find a dozen rationalizations to follow her, but knew that the Master would condemn the action and say he should have stayed. Following her teetered on the scales in his head, opposite staying in the tent city. The options wavered back and forth until tipping in favor of following.

  If the Master wouldn’t tell him the purpose of the proving, he could always claim he thought this might be part of the test. And besides, he didn’t feel in danger. Not from the girl. And surely he’d proven his intention to obey by cutting off his hand. Couldn’t he satisfy his curiosity?

  Taking a deep breath, for the first time in his life he purposefully did something he knew might upset the Master. He stepped past the last tent, into the clearing. Then he started to run after the girl. His boots pounded in the dirt, and he kept his breath measured. How could she possibly outrun him? She was so slight.

  She led him up a hill that sloped for half a mile outside of the camp. His curiosity increased, but the intensity of the chase subsided. She looked back often, but always stayed a little ways ahead. He called out several times for her to wait, that he would go with her, but she ran on.

  At the top of the hill grew a clump of pinion pines and juniper trees. She entered ahead of him, and by the time he followed he couldn’t see her through the darkness among the twisted trunks and thick branches.

  “Keep coming,” she said from ahead.

  He continued on. Little starlight filtered in through the branches, and he had to feel his way through the rough bark and prickling leaves. He tripped several times, but never fell. In just a minute, he emerged on the other side of the grove and stopped with his hand on the trunk of a juniper.

  His legs began to tremble. Though he needed to breathe deeply from the run, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes slowly moved upward.

  The girl stood smiling, hardly winded, looking for the entire world like the master of the draegon that lay behind her.

  “Close your mouth,” she said. She stood between the draegon’s forelegs. “You look like a lunatic.”

  Words wouldn’t come to Wrend’s mouth. His body had seized up; he couldn’t move as he stared up at the draegon’s black eyes. He felt like food on a dinner plate.

  Behind the draegon, and to the sides, the desert stretched into the night. All of the pinions and junipers grew behind Wrend; in the direction of the draegon, only sagebrush and other low bushes peppered the countryside. A cool breeze blew into his face, smelling of dust, sagebrush, and what he could only assume was a draegon that needed a bath.

  The serving girl gestured up at the monster.

  “Wrend, I’d like you to meet your son. This is Krack.”

  The creature was simply so huge. Wrend had stood near the Master’s draegon before, but only on a few occasions. Even then, knowing that the Master controlled his loyal mount because it bore the soul of a wolfhound, Wrend preferred not to linger near it. It made him feel small and powerless. And now, standing near an unknown draegon apparently controlled by a girl with unknown intentions—well, a terror-driven flight seemed prudent.

  Only his feet had seemingly melted into the ground. He could only look up at the monster. It huffed as if in derision. Its body shifted, and the claws in its front paws dug six-inch deep trenches in the ground. The fur along its back rippled in the wind. Its long body wound back into the darkness, and the great canvas of wings shifted with a rustle. It smelled of rotten meat and sweat.

  Teirn was never going to believe this.

  The girl stared at him, amused. She looked like she’d recently experienced a severe beating. Dirt smudged her face and clothes, and her dress had tattered edges. Her hair hung loose and tangled around her face. She reached out and stroked the draegon’s foreleg.

  “He’s a handsome boy, isn’t he?”

  Wrend swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice came out as a squeak. “Why did you bring me here?”

  Chapter 29: An unexpected compulsion

  If you do not learn to control the urges of your body, it will control you at the most inopportune times.

  -Leenda

  The moment Leenda had waited seventeen years for had finally come.

  She paused for a moment to both relish and despise it.

  “Why did you bring me here?” Wrend said again.

  The way he asked his question—with his head tilted to the side, his brow furrowed, uncertain of himself—struck Leenda as familiar. It had been years since she’d received such a direct question from him, but a thousand conversations coursed through her mind, remembrances of when he still had a draegon body. Even as a human, he had the same manner.

  An unexpected desire pulsed through her. She became aware of the softness of the starlight and the slight breeze that rustled her hair and dress. She smelled the sharp scent of the juniper trees and sagebrush behind Wrend. Everything seemed more alive, as if she’d spent years enhancing her senses with Thew Ichor. She especially recognized the shape of her own body and how her dress hugged certain parts more than others. Things stirred in her heart and bones that she’d never sensed before. She wanted to press herself against Wrend and devour his lips.

  It made her pause. She hadn’t anticipated this failing of the human body, the strength of the draw to the man she loved.

  “You’re not supposed to address me directly,” he said. His voice was absent and his eyes dazed. He looked up at Krack. Sweat glistened on his face. “Not unless you’re serving me.”

  “I needed to show you some things,” she said.

  He didn’t seem to hear. He hardly looked at her, but instead gaped at Krack.

  “And where did you come from? I haven’t noticed you in the caravan until now. And I would have. And you’re not even winded from that run. How did you do that?”

  She laughed, enjoying his innocent directness. He’d always taken the straight route, as had she—which resulted in a fast courtship before their first mating.

  “I had to keep ahead of you somehow. So I used Ichor.”

  He frowned. “Ichor? As in . . . Ichor?”

  “Yes. Thew and Flux.”

  His dark look deepened, and he took a few steps toward her, out of the trees. He struggled for a few moments, as if choosing which question to ask.

  “Thew and Flux? How can you use Ichor. Only gods and demigods can use that.” His eyes widened. “Are you a demigod? Are you with Wester?”

  Again, his innocence made her laugh. “No, no.”

  His body tensed. “The daughter of another god? Pyter?”

  Thus far, Krack had remained still, but now he shifted one leg and spoke in his language.

  “He’s absolutely brilliant.”

  Wrend tensed at the growling and barking, and stepped back.

  She glared at Krack. “Stop talking. You’ll scare him away.”

  Krack grunted and rolled his head from side to side. She turned her attention back to Wrend, hoping to still explain everything to him.

  “Some things that you’ve been taught are wrong. I am no child of a god—especially of Athanaric. But yes, I can use Ichor.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Let me show you.”

  She stepped forward, purposefully brushing past him and going to the closest juniper tree. Its trunk, a foot in diameter, twisted up into the night, with the lowest boughs a
dozen feet above. She focused on her sense of discernment, and became aware of the Flux created by her walking. It flowed out of her body in irregular, fast waves of white. She began to harvest it, bringing it into her body. A relatively strong wave of green Thew emanated from her stomach in slow, regular ripples, generated from the cheese she’d stolen from a supply wagon that night. She harvested it, as well.

  As she reached the tree, she bound Thew to her upper body—her hands, arms, shoulders, chest and back—and legs, and looked at Wrend before taking hold of the trunk. His concentrated eyes trained on her. How good it was to finally have him looking at her, as if he’d even forgotten Krack. It was so like him to focus so directly, to center his attention on one thing.

  She didn’t have much Thew left, so she would have to do this in a quick burst. If she’d had enough Thew she could’ve shown him with only that, but instead she would also use Flux to make it easier on her body. She bound the Flux to the trunk of the tree fifteen feet above her—to get the most leverage possible—then at the same moment applied both the Thew and Flux.

  The Thew rushed out of her soul and into her body, which seemed to thicken as it became stronger. Her muscles bulged as she pushed. Her arms trembled at the force. The tree creaked as it began to tilt. The ground tore and popped. The dirt where she stood tilted as the roots pulled it up. The juniper groaned as it came loose from the dirt and its root system broke. It toppled over with a crash. Dirt sprayed up from the unearthed roots, fresh and earthy.

  She nearly fell as the tree came to rest on it side, but managed to keep her feet on the now-horizontal tree trunk. She hopped down, to the dirt, and looked at her handiwork.

  A chunk of dirt had come up with the roots, which twisted and tangled in a mess of broken wood. Some were as thick as her arms, others merely a web of roots the width of her fingers. She’d never pushed a tree over, before. She usually let strong winds do things like that.

  “By the Master’s grace,” Wrend said. He backed away. "How?”

  “I told you,” she said. She wiped her hands on each other and unbound the Ichor. She kept her sense of discernment active and harvested the Thew from her belly. “I used Ichor.”

  He shook his head and stared at the felled tree. Again, as she watched him, that feeling of desire rose in her. He was such a handsome man. She wanted to touch the line of his jaw and direct his gaze into her eyes.

  “What does Flux Ichor do?” he said.

  “It creates motion. See.”

  She bound Flux to her center of gravity and jumped straight up. Normally, she could only jump a few inches, but by applying Flux she flew up twenty feet. Simultaneously, she harvested the Flux created by her motion, so that the net reduction of her store of Flux was quite minor. Over the tops of the trees she caught a quick glimpse of the village and caravan city down the hill, and fell. She slowed her descent by pushing upward with Flux, and landed lightly only a few feet in front of Wrend.

  She caught his gaze and a whiff of his sweat. It smelled sweet to her, and she fought the impulse to embrace him. How silly was that—embracing? What was the point? Draegons did no such things.

  He stared at her, his jaw gaping.

  “He does that a lot,” Krack said.

  Wrend, reminded of the draegon, pulled his gaze from Leenda and stepped back.

  “Quiet,” she said.

  “You’re talking to it?” Wrend said. “You command it?”

  She shrugged, careful not to say anything that might offend Krack. He’d complained the entire journey down from the mountains and often threatened to turn back. He’d only come out of politeness—as if he had any—and would leave as soon as his part had finished.

  “As I said, he’s your son. And he’s also my son.”

  Wrend shook his head. “That makes absolutely no sense. Are you . . . quite well?”

  “I’m not insane. I’m a draegon. And so are you.”

  “That’s—“

  “Impossible?” She placed her hands on her hips, and stepped closer to him—so near that she had to tilt her head up to look into his face. “Doesn’t Athanaric take wolfhound souls and place them into the bodies of humans, to make paladins?”

  “They don’t have to eat. Their bodies fall apart after some time. It’s not the same.”

  “But it’s similar. Seventeen years ago, Athanaric caught my mate—a draegon. You were born only a few days later.”

  He shook his head and continued to look at her with disbelief. “You’re saying that Athanaric took the spirit of your draegon mate and placed it into my body?”

  “Yes. You and I are mates.” Heat rose in her cheeks at the implication of being his mate. Humans, of course, hardly used that word, mate. They spoke of husbands, wives, lovers. “I resolved to reclaim you, and so went in search of a suitable human body. I found this.”

  She ran her hands down her stomach and hips, hoping he would notice what little curves she had. He didn’t seem to, but stared with a blank, uncomprehending look.

  “Even if it’s true, why are you telling me? I can’t do anything about it. Neither can you.”

  Behind her, Krack huffed—laughed. The question jarred her resolve: Wrend didn’t understand. She’d anticipated that he might not believe her at first, but hadn’t thought he wouldn’t see the point of her telling him.

  “I want you to come with me. We’ll find some gravid draegons, and have them place our spirits into those fetuses.”

  He shook his head and took a step back. He rubbed his left wrist, which she noticed bore no bracer.

  “No. I’m the Master’s son. I don’t believe anything you’ve said.”

  She swallowed hard and moved toward him, taking each step with deliberate slowness to avoid scaring him off. How stupid of her to think that all it would take was her waltzing in, showing him a draegon, and asking him to join her. Perhaps she should have been more subtle, gone about it in a different way.

  He didn’t back away, and she paused within arm’s reach. She licked her lips, resisting the urge to fling her arms around his neck and pull his face to hers. His mouth looked so sweet and soft. Surely it would fit hers perfectly, and would feel warm against her. Surely it would. Surely he would hold her close.

  She marveled at the desire. How could it be so strong? Why did the human body do this to her?

  He looked down into her eyes, his own expression distant. His lips parted just a bit.

  Goat guts!

  She gave up.

  She stepped forward the rest of the way, reached up, and placed her hands over his cheeks and ears. She stood on the tips of her toes and brought his face down. As their lips met, she leaned her body into his, relishing the feel against her. She could smell his skin and taste honey on his lips.

  For a moment, he responded. His lips transformed from soft and supple to hard and pressing. They tightened against hers with force, and in that instant she realized that she didn’t want to devour his lips.

  She wanted him to devour her.

  He pushed her away, and she stumbled back, falling to her rear with a cry. Krack growled, leapt to his feet, and lowered his head toward the two of them.

  “No, Krack!” Leenda said.

  But Krack didn’t stop. He moved far enough forward that his snout came within inches of Wrend’s face. Leenda looked up to see the bottom of his jaw and horns just above her. Wrend stood there, eyes wide and mouth practically a line of fear. Yet he made no sound, no move to protect himself—as if he’d decided not to let his fear rule him.

  “Tell him I’m making him come with us,” Krack said. His breath rustled Wrend’s black hair.

  “I’m not telling him that,” Leenda said.

  “What did he say?” Wrend said. “Is he going to eat me?”

  Krack huffed in amusement, and moved his muzzle even closer to Wrend—who still did not back down. Krack opened his great maw and a growl rumbled from his throat. Leenda couldn’t help feeling sorry for Wrend, because no doubt Krack’s breath
reeked of spoiled meat. Not to mention that Wrend probably wondered if she’d brought him here to become her pet draegon’s snack.

  And just maybe he would become one.

  “Tell him I’m going to eat him.”

  “Krack! Get back from him!”

  She scrambled out from beneath Krack’s jaw, even as Krack obeyed. He backed away, lowered onto his haunches, sat up straight so that his forelegs dangled down his chest and belly, and lifted his head into the air.

  “He’s not going to eat you,” she said. “I command him.”

  “You don’t command me.”

  Wrend, with his eyes wide, began to turn and creep away—although he kept his eyes on the draegon.

  “Wrend, it’s fine,” Leenda a said. “Everything is under control. He won’t harm you.”

  She motioned for Krack to move further back. The draegon retreated several steps and laid down by the time she reached the edge of the trees. Wrend still stood with his back toward her, looking over his shoulder.

  “We won’t harm you,” she said. “I swear it.”

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m Leenda. Please, come back and talk with us.”

  He shook his head and looked past her, at Krack. Her plan had been a poor one. She hadn’t anticipated his fear or Krack’s aggressiveness. She also hadn’t thought she would want his kiss so badly.

  “Stay away from me,” he said.

  With a final look at her and his son, he ran off into the trees. In only a moment, he disappeared in the darkness. She considered going after him, but the thump of Krack dropping to his forelegs made her turn. With a snap, he flung his wings wide.

  “Well, my work here is done,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

  Chapter 30: Becoming a mother

  If you do one thing right, you mother will expect you to do everything right.

  -Krack

  “You can’t leave,” Leenda said.