The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

  “Wrend,” Rashel said. “Stop. Don’t kill him.”

  “I have to,” Wrend said. He took a step back and readied the blade. His arms trembled. "The Master commanded it.”

  “And I tell you to stop.”

  “You can’t oppose the Master’s will.”

  “But I do. Believe me when I say that you’ll regret it.”

  The honesty in her voice made him look at her.

  “You want me to defy your god and husband?”

  Some of the fog in his head had cleared. He could focus on her, where she stood above Teirn with the sword in her hands. For a moment, her tears had dried, although they threatened to spill again.

  “Don’t kill him, Wrend,” she said.

  She stepped forward and reached a hand out. The sword slipped from her grasp. As it clattered to the floor, she spoke again, although so softly that the noise of the sword drowned out her voice.

  But he thought he’d read her lips.

  He’s your father.

  “What?” the leader said. He stopped struggling.

  Wrend’s body seemed to freeze as he tried to process the information. But his brain locked up, unable to comprehend her words. They couldn’t possibly be true.

  She nodded, covering her mouth with one hand as more water gathered in her eyes.

  “Is it true?” the leader said.

  To Wrend, it almost seemed the rebel had reached into his mind and pulled out the dominant thought.

  It couldn’t possibly be true. First Leenda had said he was a draegon, and now his own mother claimed he was the son of someone completely different than the Master.

  Rashel nodded, tears flowing as she looked from Wrend to the cultist and back. “Don’t kill your own father.”

  Chapter 64: The first kill

  Every secret will someday be revealed. It’s best to keep very few of them.

  -Rashel

  Wrend’s legs trembled, and he gaped at Rashel. She was his mother. She would know who his father was.

  And she thought it was this man. A leader among the apostates.

  In the back of the cavern, the last of the paladins disappeared into the openings beyond, still howling like dogs. In their wake, near the mouth of the tunnels, corpses lay scattered—men who’d failed at defending their families. The screaming from beyond had become softer, more distant, as if the women and children had either fled further back into the caves, or the ones closest to the main cavern had died.

  Teirn moaned. His foot twitched, scraping the boot against the dirt.

  “Is it true?” the leader again said to Rashel.

  She nodded, still covering her mouth with one hand and folding the other across her stomach.

  “No,” Wrend said.

  He took a step toward Rashel. The fog created by Teirn’s fists had cleared, but new fog rose in his head. He jabbed a finger in her direction. Why would she lie like this? Why did everyone want him to disobey the Master, to prove disloyal?

  “I’m the Master’s son.”

  “Wrend,” she said, “this man is your father. I promise it.”

  “No!”

  “When Athanaric chose me, I’d already lain with this man.” She pointed with her chin at the renegade. “Just a week before. I already had the morning sickness. I’m so sorry, Wrend.”

  Wrend grasped to understand. His knees wobbled and the tip of the sword lowered to the ground.

  “Then how can I use Ichor?”

  To reassure himself, he focused on his discernment. Faint Thew emanated from his stomach. He harvested it, bound it to his head, and applied, hoping it would ease the throbbing. Could he use Ichor on his heart to ease this sudden uncertainty?

  “I can’t explain it,” Rashel said. “I don’t know why you can use Ichor. I feared for years that when Athanaric tried to teach you how, you would fail and he would kill you.”

  Wrend shook his head and looked from Rashel to the leader. The man just stood there, no longer resisting, looking at Wrend with a strange mixture of confusion and pride. The paladins showed no signs of surprise or interest in the entire affair.

  “Wrend,” she said, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

  He looked her in the eyes. They seemed so sincere, so honest. But she had to be lying. Or at the very least mistaken. His father was the Master, not this rogue. The Master had raised him and loved him, taught him so much and done so much for him. This man was nothing to him—nothing but a task to complete.

  He had to kill him.

  Teirn groaned and lifted his head, trying to focus his clouded eyes on Wrend. He mumbled something incoherent.

  Wrend couldn’t fail, couldn’t disappoint the Master again. He couldn’t forget the Master's expression four nights before, after he’d tried to sneak out with Leenda. He’d never seen such disappointment in anyone’s eyes. The way the Master had shaken his head had felt like a sword slashing across Wrend’s face.

  He couldn’t fool himself. Despite all that had happened in recent weeks, and the things he’d done and the doubts that had found root in his heart, he wanted to please the Master. He wanted to make the Master proud—give him reason to celebrate. Not to shake his head in disappointment.

  “Wrend,” Rashel said, “please put the sword down.”

  “No!”

  He had to do this. The Master demanded it.

  He wrenched his eyes from hers and turning, took two steps toward the leader and raised his blade. The sword grated as he pushed the point through ring mail into the man’s stomach. The renegade, caught by surprise, cried out and doubled over. The paladins kept their grips on his arms as he lifted his head, meeting Wrend’s gaze in disbelief. That only made Wrend angrier.

  This man was not his father. The Master was. He was a demigod. He had accepted a task.

  He withdrew the blade and with both hands swung the sharp edge upward at the man’s bowed face.

  “No!”

  It wasn’t Rashel that shouted it, but Teirn.

  Wrend finished his swing and let the momentum turn him away from the gore, toward Teirn. He’d sat up, and an expression of utter despair consumed his countenance. In that instant, as Wrend let the point of the sword fall to the ground, he hated himself for foiling his brother.

  “It was my task,” Wrend said. “The Master gave me the task.”

  He pushed the guilt away, and anger at the Master rose in him. Why this test that pitted him against his friend and brother?

  The paladins released the limp body. It crumbled to the ground behind him, and he took a step toward his brother.

  Teirn’s eyes boiled, and he began to stand.

  Next to him, Rashel’s knees buckled. She fell to them, hunched forward. Tears flowed, and she looked at Wrend with agony.

  His anger shifted toward her. It was unfair of her to put him in this position, to try and stop him from obeying the Master.

  “What are you even doing here?” he said. “Are you one of them? One of the apostates?”

  He stepped over to her, leaning over and grabbing her arm. He lifted her to her feet with one hand and pulled his face close to hers.

  “No.” It came out only as a whisper between the sobs.

  He shook her and she slipped out of his grasp, again falling to the ground. How disappointing that his own mother was a traitor. If not now, then at least seventeen years before. No wonder the Master valued him so much. A truly faithful person was hard to find; even one of his favorite wives had betrayed him.

  “The Master has to know,” he said, “that you betrayed him.”

  “I never did,” she said. She propped herself up on one elbow. “I’ve been faithful to him since he chose me. I didn’t know he was going to choose me that day.”

  “Then why are you here?” he said. “If you’re not a traitor, why are you here?”

  She looked past Wrend, behind him, shaking her head in sudden panic.

  “Teirn, no!”

  Wrend began to turn and lift the sword. A bl
ow of double-clenched fists caught him in the side of the head and he staggered to one side, his body bending so his face came down nearly to the level of his belly.

  “You little monster,” Teirn shouted.

  He kicked high, and his boot caught Wrend in the jaw. This time Wrend flew up and backward, landing on his back. The wind rushed from his lungs, and the sword clattered away from him. He couldn’t inhale. Teirn kicked him in the ribs and pain exploded up through his side—accompanying the sharp crack.

  “Teirn, stop!” Rashel said.

  Teirn did, but only long enough to bend over and pick up the sword.

  “I may not have killed the apostate leader,” he said, standing above Wrend, “but I can kill you.”

  Wrend struggled for air and tried to roll, but Teirn stomped on his chest, pinning him down to the ground with a Thew-strengthened foot. He lifted the sword high in both hands, holding the point down, aimed at Wrend’s face.

  Chapter 65: Victor of the proving

  At some point you realize that some things are more important than others. Hopefully that realization doesn’t come too late.

  -Teirn

  Gasping for breath, Wrend struggled to get out from beneath his brother’s boot. But his ribs and head hurt too much, and he had no strength. He couldn’t focus on his discernment because of the pain. The sword point hovered over his face, wavering back and forth. It would split his head, just like it had divided the leader’s only a minute before.

  Wrend had killed a man. He’d opened the man’s head with a sword. He couldn’t banish the images from his mind, even as he struggled to free himself and find his breath. He still saw the way the sharp edge of the sword connected with the man’s face, and cut through it. He’d done that. With his own hands.

  But he wouldn’t do it again. Not ever.

  “Teirn,” Rashel sobbed. “Teirn, please no.”

  Teirn stared down at Wrend, his teeth bared and the corners of his eyes tight. His foot slid up Wrend’s chest, to apply pressure on his neck.

  But despite that, Wrend’s breath finally came to him, and he inhaled. He grabbed Teirn’s foot and tried to twist it away.

  And he succeeded.

  Teirn’s eyes softened. The anger in his face dissolved. He moved his foot off of Wrend’s neck, and tossed his sword aside. He staggered away, bringing both hands to his head as if he suffered from a massive headache.

  “I’m undone!” he said. Despair made his voice quiver. “I can’t return and face the Master.”

  Wrend scrambled to his feet and turned to Teirn. A left rib still throbbed; he applied Thew to it, to heal it. Beyond that, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand what was happening; from the moment he’d seen Rashel in the cave, nothing had made any sense.

  He glanced at the leader’s split-open head, and looked away to avoid being sick. But everywhere he looked, other bodies lay strewn about the cavern floor.

  He’d done this. He’d brought troops here to kill. He’d killed.

  Rashel still lay on the ground where Wrend had dropped her. Dust covered her face, except where tears had left tracks. She looked at him with an expression that stung him to the core.

  “He wasn’t my father,” Wrend said. “The Master is my father.”

  She shook her head. Her lower lip trembled.

  “I’ve failed him,” Teirn said. He collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t return.”

  “Teirn,” Wrend said.

  Cautiously, he stepped toward his brother. He wanted to thank his brother for not killing him. Instead, a question came out.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  Teirn withdrew his hands from his face and twisted his body so that he looked at Wrend. His cheeks were wet. Torment wracked his face.

  “I thought I was strong enough, that I’d prepared myself well enough for this day.”

  Conflicting emotions struggled within Wrend: gratitude for his brother’s friendship; anger that he’d kept information from him for so long; guilt for killing the heretic; relief at still being alive.

  Teirn turned back the other way. His shoulders slumped.

  “Calla warned me. She said I couldn’t be your friend, that it would be too hard to do what I had to do.”

  “Well,” Wrend said, still not knowing what to say. Nothing he could think of sounded sufficient. “I’m glad she was right.”

  He placed a hand on Teirn’s shoulder. He looked at Rashel. She’d buried her face in her hands, with her elbows close against her body that shook with sobs. He glanced again at the leader.

  What had he done? She’d loved that man. She’d lain with him, whoever he was. And he’d killed him.

  But the Master had commanded him to. The Master had told him to do that. It was a test. He’d passed.

  And Teirn had failed.

  “I tried to convince him,” Wrend said. “I asked him to release me from this proving.”

  He laughed, feeling no mirth. The pain in his ribs cut his laughter off. He winced and brought a hand to his side, applied more Ichor to the injury.

  Teirn stood and turned to Wrend. Sorrow and bitterness passed through his face. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “You win. Because I couldn’t kill you, now I will die.”

  “There has to be a way around it.”

  “Have you thought of one?” Teirn raised his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head. “There’s no way. Even despite everything she’s done, I’ve still failed her.”

  Wrend didn’t understand. Not everything. It was clear from Teirn’s face that there was more that he hadn’t said.

  “Her? You mean him. You’ve failed the Master.”

  Teirn’s face blanched. He shook his head. “Yes, him—but also her. Calla. She believes that no draegon should rule over a nation—that’s what Pyter stopped in the first place: the domination of draegons over humans. If you won this proving, that could bring back the dominion of draegons. So she took action to make sure you lost.”

  Understanding dawned on Wrend. It filled him like light.

  “So she tied me up. That night at the Seraglio. She tied me up, so I would be late.”

  Teirn nodded. He wiped his eyes. Guilt etched his face.

  Wrend didn’t know whether to reach out and embrace his brother and say all was forgiven—for clearly he regretted it all—or to let Teirn have it.

  “And she planted that note,” Teirn said. “The one that made you interrupt the Strengthening. That was her.”

  At that, anger came. Tremors ran up Wrend’s legs. His hands shook, even though he clenched them. Teirn had known all about it. He’d been party to Wrend’s troubles and worries over the past weeks. Though he hadn’t done the work, he’d known about Calla’s efforts to get Wrend killed. Not once, but twice.

  “Please,” Teirn said. “Please forgive me. She’s my own mother. She convinced me she was doing the right thing.” Anger and determination flashed in his eyes. “But no more. I don’t care, anymore. I won’t betray you again.”

  “You little traitor!”

  Wrend started at Rashel’s shout. For a minute he’d forgotten about her. She leapt to her feet and charged Teirn, her hands held out like claws.

  Teirn didn’t move, as if resigned to his fate, but Wrend stepped between them, caught Rashel’s wrists in his hands, and pushed her back. The motion banished his anger at Teirn.

  “Let me go!” she shouted. “He betrayed you.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  That seemed like a sufficient explanation. Even to his own surprise, he felt no anger toward his brother. How could he? They were both caught in the same situation.

  Rashel struggled against him for a moment, screaming and pulling, trying to twist her wrists free. Wrend just looked at her, keeping his face neutral, holding her tight.

  “You have to forget it,” he said. “Let it go.”

  Still in his grip, she lunged at him, screaming, trying to bite his f
ace, but he pushed her away and held her there. Her entire body succumbed to a spasm for a few seconds, and she collapsed against him, weeping again.

  “He was your father,” she said. “He was your father.”

  He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. He looked over her shoulder at the cultist, and forced himself to stare at the split head and the oozing brains and fluids. Rashel’s trembling body seemed to speak to his soul, and for one terrible moment, he believed her. He believed that he’d killed his own father.

  And Teirn was there, touching his shoulder and drawing his attention.

  “She’s right, you know,” he said. Resignation filled his face. “I betrayed you. You should hate me and kill me. I can’t go back to the Master again, anyway. Not having failed.”

  “No!” Wrend said it more sharply than he’d intended. But it communicated the fierceness he felt. “We go back together. We take this man's head back together, and we tell the Master that we did it together. We give no indication who won.”

  It might not work. Even if it did, the Master would eventually choose between them. He would pit them against each other until they couldn’t plea a tie. Wrend couldn’t serve two masters—the Master and his brother. Not indefinitely.

  But he could for now, until he came up with a better plan.

  “We go back together,” he said again.

  He looked down at the body. At the man who’d supposedly sired him. Could he ever know for sure? But even if this man had sired him—but if so, how could he use Ichor?—the Master had raised him and loved him as his son. The Master: god and father. Perhaps not of his body, but of his mind and soul.

  No, not his soul. His soul had come from a draegon.

  Was he the Master’s at all? In any way, shape, or form?

  The very thought made his knees weaken again. He couldn’t fathom not being the Master’s son.

  He tightened his grip on Rashel, trying to still her shaking. Her weeping broke his heart. Had the Master known about any of it? For the last seventeen years, Rashel had obviously remembered her illicit lover. Maybe she’d pined after him all that time, and now as he’d become a heretic she’d thought to betray the Master? The thought made Wrend indignant.