The Master seemed to sense Wrend’s change. His face drooped with a tinge of sadness. For an instant Wrend wondered if he could read thoughts. He’d wondered the same thing many times.
“Tell me,” the Master said. His eyes locked on Wrend’s. “Does it matter what kind of soul you have? Am I not still your father, and you my son? Haven’t I raised you and taught you from your cradle, and haven’t you always served and loved me?”
Wrend nodded. He couldn’t remember flying over the mountains, feeding on goats, or living in a cave filled with treasure. It seemed unreal, and therefore didn’t really matter. What mattered was what he could remember, the years spent in the Seraglio, learning trades and worshiping the Master.
“Being a draegon doesn’t feel real to me.”
He sat with his body and neck twisted, so he could look at the Master behind him. The Master took a deep breath. His voice became low. His eyebrows bunched over his eyes and his gaze intensified.
“And Wrend, does it matter who I am and how I became what I am? I’m god. I have power over all flesh in my kingdom, and the people worship me. I’ve lived for two thousand years, and have endured the hardships of the disobedience of my people. Usurpers have plotted against me a hundred times, and failed each time to defeat me. And yet, don’t the people bow down before me and worship me? Doesn’t this make me god?”
The rebuke cut Wrend to the very center. He felt ungrateful and petty, ashamed that in recent days he could not claim complete obedience to the Master.
“Of course. I know you are god.”
The Master raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side.
“And as god, haven’t I reigned in peace? Don’t my people thrive in great abundance? Doesn’t the desert land produce crops to feed them, due to the blood of my children? Don’t my children serve them in power and might, and ease their burdens? And don’t my priests administer the sacred rites to keep them pure and peaceful? Wrend, am I not god?”
He nodded, and tried to speak several times before the words actually came out.
“Of course you are god.”
“Then Wrend—given all of this, I ask only one thing: that you trust me.”
The feeling Wrend had first had back in the Seraglio, at the feast, and then later in the way station where he'd chopped off his hand, had returned. For a time, in his pride and hard-heartedness, in his doubting and temptation, that feeling faded in and out, weakened and strengthened.
But now, at the Master’s words, it had returned.
He wanted nothing more than to obey the Master. That was all he’d ever wanted, but in recent days, the prospect of him or Teirn dying had blinded him, led him to forget his dedication. That blindness had come because of his selfishness. If he had a pure heart, one unquestioningly dedicated to the Master, he would have trusted the Master, accepted his will.
“I’ll trust you, Master.”
He lifted his hands, balled fists upward, to show the Master the white bracers laced halfway up his forearms. He meant it not only as a reminder that he'd severed his hand, but also as a general sign of obedience and dedication: he wore the bracers as a sign of willing servitude.
“I’ll obey you, and show you my devotion.”
He meant it. He would do anything the Master asked.
“Then you’ll complete this task. To the southwest in the foothills of those mountains, there’s a small village.”
He pointed, and Wrend looked at the mountains at least a dozen miles away.
“Just beyond that, about a mile up the main canyon, there’s a place at the base of a cliff, where the river makes three pools. The remainder of the rebels have fled to the highest pool, intending to escape my judgments.”
His eyes hardened and his voice flattened, as if, as he looked across the desert, he penetrated the distance and whatever obstacles might be between him and the cliff, and looked at the people and passed a final judgment on them.
“I need you to go there and be my sword. None of them should live. Bring me the head of the leader.”
“I will do it,” Wrend said. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
“Take fifty paladins with you.” He lowered his gaze to Wrend’s eyes. “This is your task. You need to do this. No matter what obstacles come in your way—no matter who tries to stop you—you need to do this. You must kill the leader. Do you understand?”
Wrend nodded.
A grim sadness descended over the Master’s face. He shook his head.
“No, you don’t, yet. But you will. This is your task. This is what I am asking of you. Don’t let anyone stop you in completing it. You must learn to make the hard choices, to do the things that you don’t want to do, but that also benefit the most people. You understand?”
Wrend nodded again. In that moment, he felt like he would do anything the Master asked.
But the feeling wouldn’t last.
Chapter 57: Brother against brother
Nothing brings me greater joy than to see my children treating each other as friends and companions.
-Athanaric
As he chewed on some fresh potatoes, Athanaric watched Wrend depart from the caravan on horse, leading the paladins. He wondered—was he doing the right thing? It felt so cruel.
But he needed to choose an heir. He needed to select the best son.
Pitting them against each other was as effective a way to decide as any. He loved them both equally, and could not choose between them.
Steeling his heart, he looked back at the caravan as Teirn rode up through the wagons toward him. What a good son this was. He bore some anger in his heart, but he was flawlessly obedient—which was more than could be said of Wrend, who had in recent days come to worry Athanaric some.
Yet, despite that worry and disobedience, Wrend had demonstrated considerable strength of mind and will. He was willing to make sacrifices for what he believed in, take risks for things that mattered. Athanaric had been the same way when he was young. That was what a god had to do, and that alone had kept Wrend alive. That was why Athanaric tolerated the insolence. Any other child would have died long before for the things he’d done.
And because of that—because both sons bore attributes that would serve them well if they replaced him as god—he couldn’t choose between them. He needed them to choose for him.
As he waited for Teirn to reach him, he thought of Rashel. He hadn’t seen her since the morning before, and the servants had said she’d left the caravan without a word to anyone. That bothered him; she’d never disappeared, despite her general dissatisfaction with being his wife. But he didn’t worry too much. She also loved him deeply. She would return.
When Teirn came, Athanaric halted the draegon and helped his son mount the neck and sit in the thick fur before him. When the boy had settled into place, he looked back and up at his god, devotion blazing in his eyes.
Athanaric swallowed his sorrow.
“My son, I have a task for you. This will be your task, and you cannot let anyone stop you from completing it. Do you understand?”
Teirn nodded, his face solemn. In his eyes, Athanaric saw that it mirrored his own look.
“To the southwest,” Athanaric said, “in the foothills of those mountains, there’s a small village. . . .”
Chapter 58: A mother’s price
The longer you neglect something, the more likely it is to come at you when you least want it to.
-Leenda
Five days. Five days had passed since Leenda had tasted Wrend’s lips and felt him near her. She hated to go much longer without talking with him, but had no idea how to get close.
At the very least, she would need Krack’s help.
“Krack. Time to go. We need to keep up with the caravan.”
He didn’t open his eyes or lift his head. He lay with his body, neck, and tail stretched out on the red dirt, over a patch of ground he’d cleared the night before. He always did that before settling down to sleep: he scratched the shrubbery, gr
ass, and weeds away from the ground, so that he could lie on newly churned dirt, as if he prepared a field to plant himself into. It took nearly an hour each night, but he didn’t seem to mind it. Perhaps because he slept in so late.
Not that she could fault him for sleeping in. She really had no good reason to rouse him at dawn when she awoke. However, at noon she had plenty of reason.
“Come on,” she said. “Wake up.”
She stood on a brownish-red rock about forty feet above him. Other boulders surrounded the one she stood on, creating a pile that curved around the wide bowl in which Krack slept—or pretended to sleep. From the lip of the bowl where she stood, the land spread out around her, rolling in a series of massive stones. Here and there a ridge of rock rose up like the body of a draegon, sometimes with multiple windows piercing their forms. To the west, a massive arch spanned a riverbed.
“Krack!”
Her voice echoed off of the opposite lip of the bowl. As if in response, a duck hawk lit from a juniper that seemed to grow out of the rock. It screeched as it rose up and away.
Annoyed, she began to climb down the rocks, picking her way along the outcroppings and ridges. As always, it was harder to climb down than up, and halfway she nearly slipped, but caught herself by throwing her back against the cold rock and standing there for a moment, breathing hard, heart pounding. It scared her even despite her ability to use Ichor to save herself.
Below, Krack huffed in amusement. He had one eye open.
“That’s right,” she said. “You lay there and laugh while your mother falls off a cliff and kills herself.”
He raised his head, tossing it from side to side. In draegonspeak he said, “You wouldn’t have trouble if you had a draegon body.”
Half a dozen sharp responses came to mind, but Leenda bridled them. With her balance regained, she continued down.
“It’s time to get going. We need to keep up with the army.”
“Why bother?” He rose and shook his body. The fur rippled. “He’s too surrounded by guards. We’ll have to wait.”
He was right, of course, but Leenda didn’t want to wait. She’d already gone into the camp three times in the last three days, and not even caught a glimpse of Wrend. The paladins surrounding him kept her far away.
“We have to keep trying,” she said. “We never know when an opportunity will arise. Besides, we need to get me some food. I haven’t eaten since early yesterday.”
She reached the bottom of the cliff, jumped the last few feet, and turned to face him.
“I can always get you some food,” he said.
He extended his forepaws ahead of him and leaned back, stretching his legs and flexing his paws, extending the claws so that they dug into the ground. His bones creaked at the stretch.
“I’m not eating raw meat,” she said. “I could go for some bread bathed in butter. There was that settlement nearby. You can leave me outside of town, and I’ll go in and get some food.”
“You want to leave me alone?”
He said it nonchalantly, but the way he looked at her from the corner of his eye belied his nervousness at the idea of being alone. He’d been especially nervous five nights before, after the encounter with Athanaric.
“You’ll be fine. We’ll make sure Athanaric isn’t around.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
He said it too quickly, and didn’t look at her as he opened his wings wide and fluttered them, airing them out. As he did, he bent his neck around with his teeth bared, to nip at the joint where the wing met his body: scratching an itch.
“It’s just safer to be together,” he said.
They hadn’t talked about the encounter with Athanaric. She hadn’t dared bring it up, fearing to embarrass him for his reaction. Nothing had really even happened to him—Athanaric hadn’t even touched him—but he’d only flown a mile before the trembling of his body had forced him to land.
But she had to bring it up. They had to talk about it. He needed to face that fear down, because they could very well confront Athanaric again. She was building up her Ichor reserves for it, and had instructed him to do the same.
She had the problem, however, of how to start the conversation. Wrend—Cuchorack—had handled this type of thing with their children. Plus, since their last discussion about his behavior, back with the cows, he’d been sensitive to any observation about how he acted. Though he said he would stay and help her, she didn’t know how firm his resolve was and didn’t want to scare him off.
Yet, something had to be said. He needed to resolve it.
“Krack . . .”
“What?” he said.
He paused his stretching and sat back on his haunches the way he always did when ready for an argument.
“I don’t like your tone,” he said.
She sighed, and her shoulders sagged. Why wasn’t she any good at talking with him?
“It’s understandable for you to be afraid of Athanaric.”
The fur on his neck and body stood on end, and his neck stiffened.
“That’s not why I don’t want to get father. He’s just too well protected.”
“Krack, you can’t fool me. I was riding you. I could feel your body shaking. You’ve never been like that. There’s only one reason for a draegon’s body to shake like that.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice grew angry and hard. He swung his head low, and she stepped back from how close he brought his snout to her face. He spoke in quick growls and short grunts—methodically, as if he’d rehearsed what he would say. “Because he encounters the god who captured and tortured him as an infant—and defeated his mother and killed his father. That is the only reason for a draegon to tremble with fear.”
His intensity—the raw anger and emotion—caught her off guard. She stepped back again, and her heel hit a rock at the base of the cliff; she only kept herself from falling by throwing a hand back against the stone.
He kept his face close to hers, so it nearly blocked all of her vision. But it couldn’t hide how his body began to shake. Ripples ran along his furry back. Waves ran down his neck. His wings opened just a bit as they fluttered like canvas in the wind. A dull pain invaded his eyes. If a draegon could weep, he would’ve done so right then. She blinked back her own tears.
“Krack, I . . . “
She had nothing to say as she realized that she’d never talked with him about his experience seventeen years before—not even right after. She’d been too absorbed in her loss to think about what he’d endured and help him address it.
Athanaric had bound him—just a pup—in chains, and held him there for hours until she and Cuchorack had returned from their hunting. What terror had he endured then? What loss at the bereavement of his father compounded by the abandonment by his mother? She’d never asked, and he’d never brought it up—no doubt because he feared looking like a coward.
She choked on the swelling tears, and brought a hand to her mouth. How hypocritical of her to demand that he play the noble draegon, when she had acted most un-draegonlike and ignoble.
The strength in her legs faltered. She felt like she would collapse. But she fought it. She couldn’t do this—she couldn’t, again, become consumed in her own world. She had to be a mother.
“You see,” Krack said. “I’m right.”
He lifted his head back up, straightening his neck and standing on his hind legs. He turned his head to the right and left, looking out over the edge of the bowl.
“I’m going hunting.”
“No!” She stepped forward and reached up to him, though he stood twenty feet back. “We’ve broached the topic. We should talk about it.”
He didn’t look down, but spread his wings so they nearly touched rock on both sides and blocked the sun from her view. It became a round ball silhouetted through his wings.
“Krack, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know what else to say, but nevertheless words spilled out of her lips, forming even as the thoughts b
urgeoned in her head. Her mind, opened by the realization of her own selfishness, loosened from shackles, and she saw herself as he must’ve seen her.
“I haven’t considered you in all of this. I’ve only thought about me and myself, and what I need. It’s been that way since the day we lost your father. It’s been all me, me, me; and not only have I not considered you in all of it, but I’ve completely disregarded the fact that you might need something different than me.”
He remained there, his head high and turned away from her. He didn’t even direct his gaze at her. His body shook as if an earthquake had struck at his heart. His wings tensed, stretching just a bit further.
“I understand, now,” she said. “I see what kind of draegon I’ve been—exactly the opposite from what I’ve asked you to be.”
He looked down at her, but stayed standing with his neck and wings extended.
“It’s not that I don’t want to rescue him.” If it could happen to a draegon, his eyes grew distant. “I remember father, you know. Even though I was just a pup. I remember when he taught me to fly—how he caught me when I faltered. I would’ve broken my wing. I remember a lot about him.”
Leenda felt light-headed. She stepped over to a waist-high rock and leaned on it with one hand. She had no idea what to say or do. Her heart told her to continue on after Wrend, but it also told her she needed to be a mother, to help her child. Could she do both, or was forcing Krack to go with her abusive?
Her guilt made her want to tell him to go away, to return to the caves so she wouldn’t expose him to Athanaric any more. Yet, she couldn’t do that. She was right. A noble draegon would face down his fears and take back what was his—especially if that thing was his father.
But what right did she have to hold him to a draegon code of conduct? Goat guts!
“And I remember . . .” Krack said. He squatted back on his hind legs, with his body upright. His wings folded just a little. “I remember when Athanaric came.” A growl drifted from his throat. He stared off into nowhere. “He wasn’t even as big as me, and I thought I could fight him, but he tackled me and pinned me down. He was so strong. I nipped at his face, but he moved too fast, and threw that muzzle over my snout. I couldn’t even call for you then. Or warn you.”
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