The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

“We need to find the Master,” he said.

  It wouldn’t be too hard to locate him. The priests left behind would know where he’d taken the paladins.

  Without even a glance at his mother, Teirn preceded Wrend out of the tent. Leenda and Rashel followed them into the twilight. It was colder outside, with the sun down. Stars, sharp and clear, had begun to appear in the sky. By the time Wrend mounted and pulled Leenda up behind him, Calla appeared in the tent flap, pulling on boots.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said. “I want to see how he handles the news you’re taking him.”

  Leenda snorted and shook her head.

  Rashel glared at Calla. “You just want to try and protect yourself.”

  Calla narrowed her eyes at Rashel. “I want to see how he reacts to our sons’ failures. And to your return, following your sudden departure. My guess is that your hours are numbered.”

  “No fewer than yours,” Rashel said.

  Wrend glanced at Teirn, amazed at the animosity between the two mothers. He’d always thought of them as close friends. Teirn shrugged. Ever since the cave, he seemed so at a loss regarding what to do.

  Well, Wrend knew what to do. And he was going to do it.

  He would go to the Master.

  Chapter 68: By starlight

  The best advisor is one who has no emotional attachment to a situation. All others will color their advice with their own emotions and interests. You cannot trust anything they say, because whether they realize it or not, they are only looking out for themselves.

  -Naresh

  Before the night ended, Wrend had three important conversations.

  But first, he led his group out of the sea of tents, into the wild countryside. They moved across the untamed ground slower than Wrend had hoped for, but had no other choice; the paladins had directed him to head due south, and the road had turned westward only a mile out of camp. Off of the road, the land proved treacherous in the starlight. More than once a horse stumbled in a rabbit hole or whinnied in pain and surprise as it brushed a cactus. They watched to make sure they didn’t rub against any of the yellow poison sage that mixed with the silvery blue sage.

  By midnight it became clear that the horses needed to rest, and so Wrend found a place to stop near a pile of boulders.

  “We’ll ride on in two hours,” he said.

  He found a good spot to tie his horse—as good a place as he could. There weren’t really any good places, but one spot near a juniper tree proved best. Some plants—he couldn’t tell which in the darkness—grew nearby. Perhaps his horse could feed on them.

  He started to climb some rocks to get a better view of the surrounding area. Though he was weary to the bones, he wouldn’t sleep. Not only did he not trust Calla, but too much weighed on his mind; he couldn’t have slept even in his own bed back at the Seraglio. He used Thew to help him climb the rocks, and perched himself on the highest one. It had a slow curving crest, like a hilltop, with enough room for a dozen men to stand on. A breeze made him shiver, and he looked out over the quiet land and quieter stars.

  In a few minutes, Rashel scrambled up the rocks behind him, breathing hard. Once she cried out—presumably because she nearly fell—and he stood to turn around and help her. But she waved him off, finished her ascent, and settled down by his side. She sat there, silent for long minutes, eventually placing an arm around his shoulder.

  “Wrend,” she said, “what’s your plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan.”

  “When we find Athanaric, what will you tell him?”

  “I’ll tell him that Teirn and I completed the task together.”

  “What about me?”

  “That’s your concern. Not mine.”

  She stayed silent for a long time.

  "Tell me," he said, thinking of how fast Calla had moved back in the tent. "What do you know about Calla's history."

  "Her history?"

  "Where she is from? Where did the Master obtain her as a wife. When?"

  Rashel shrugged. "She came from up north. The Master chose her from a line of girls after a Strengthening the same year he chose me."

  "You saw it happen?"

  "I was there. Why do you ask?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing."

  Perhaps he'd only imagined Calla's speed back in the tent. Maybe it wasn't any faster than anyone else. That made more sense than the Master marrying his own daughter.

  Rashel stared at him for another minute, then spoke.

  “The Master doesn’t have to know, Wrend. He doesn’t have to know that I was there in that cave.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. The wind had blown her hair back from her face, and her eyes glistened in the starlight.

  “Wrend, what good will it do for him to know?”

  “It may not do him any good, but he deserves to know if his wife isn’t loyal to him.”

  She gave him a desperate look. It reminded him of the moments when she’d told him not to kill the heretic leader. He couldn’t believe it before, in that moment, and couldn’t believe it now, even despite her earnestness and conviction.

  Yet worry nagged him. Fear. What did it mean to him if, in fact, he had killed his father? Surely, he still owed the Master everything. But did it change anything? He couldn’t decide, and would probably never come to a conclusion.

  He did know that since the cave, the vision of his sword cutting open that man’s head had stayed before his mind’s eye. The unpleasant task of cutting off the head had left his hands bloodied to the point that even after washing in the lake outside, he’d still felt like he would never be rid of the stains. He would certainly never forget the look the man had given him right before perishing.

  Rashel shook her head and squeezed his shoulders. “I wasn’t unfaithful, Wrend. I only went to talk to him.”

  “One does not have to physically do anything to be unfaithful. The Master requires not only our bodies, but also our minds and hearts.”

  Though she remained silent for a long time, anger built in her. Words gathered behind her mouth, until at last they spilled out.

  “He never asked me, you know. Neither did my parents. They simply put me in that line that I didn’t want to be in, and he chose me out of all the girls. That monster chose me. He could tell I didn’t want to be chosen, and chose me anyway. And I hate him for it.”

  He stared at her in disbelief, unable to articulate his surprise.

  She stood and glared down at him.

  “You tell him, Wrend, because I’m not going to. Tell him everything you’ve found out, and when you’re done and he kills me, then you’ll be the one who finished it. It started with my parents, then continued with Athanaric, and today you about did it by killing your father. Well, finish the job by telling the Master I betrayed him—though I didn’t—and when he kills me, you can know who did it. You. You did it.”

  She didn’t wait for a response before turning. He wouldn’t have given a response, anyway. The Master deserved loyalty. That was all he wanted, and he’d suffered enough of disloyalty in recent weeks.

  She climbed back down the rocks.

  Wrend looked out over the desert and sighed. He pulled his legs close to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. The distant noise of some animal reminded him of the wail of a child, like he’d heard only that afternoon in the cave.

  How responsible was he for the deaths of those women and children? Of those men? He hadn’t wielded the swords that had killed them, but he’d wielded the paladins, just as the Master had wielded him. Was he justified in the killing because his god, king, and father—the ruling force in his life and the lives of those he’d slain—had wanted it?

  He pondered the questions, running in circles of logic, until Teirn came to him thirty minutes later. He sat next to Wrend and chuckled as he looked out over the land.

  “It’s not funny,” Teirn said, “but it is.”

  Wrend just looked at him, trying to appear un-amused.

 
; “The Master has sought an heir for hundreds of years without success. We’re not making it any easier.”

  Wrend grunted. “What do you want me to do about it? I won’t make the choice for him. You’re my brother. He’s my Master. Who should I choose?”

  “There’s nothing either of us can do.”

  Teirn lay back on the rock, his palms behind his head. For a moment, as Wrend looked at him, he felt almost like he was back at the Seraglio. He’d seen Teirn lay like that a hundred times or more, on the many nights they’d stayed up late, just speculating on what the future held for them. Neither had ever guessed anything like what was happening, but maybe Teirn had foreseen it years before and just not said anything.

  Did Wrend wish he’d known? Did he wish that Teirn had told him when he’d found out? No. It wouldn’t have changed anything, just like it had changed nothing now. Wrend still loved his brother, and would prove true to him for as long as he could.

  “Do you suppose,” he said, “that the Master will continue testing us against each other?”

  Teirn shrugged. “Probably. If he doesn’t kill us. For some reason he wants to force us into making the choice for him.”

  “He’s been telling me that I need to learn how to make the hard choices,” Wrend said. “Does he think one of those hard choices is killing my brother?”

  Teirn gave him a solemn look. “He always tells me that I have to sacrifice what I hold most dear in the world.”

  “Is it true? Do we really have to learn those things if we’re to be god? Maybe so. But isn’t there a better way than killing those who disobey or oppose you?”

  “You know,” Teirn said, “that what you’re doing is putting you in danger. There’s no telling how the Master will react to you not making the hard choice.”

  Wrend shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not fit to be god.”

  At least, not by the Master’s standards. But if he were god, he would find a better way to rule. A merciful way.

  After a few minutes, Teirn clapped him on the shoulder and, pleading the need for a little sleep, descended the boulders. As if she’d been waiting only five feet away, Leenda soon occupied the spot Teirn had sat on only a few moments before.

  She felt the rock. “It’s still warm from Teirn.”

  “Your turn to talk with me?” he said.

  He looked at her and how the moonlight lit softly on her face. Her hair seemed the color of dying embers as she looked out over the desert.

  “What," he said, "do you have to tell me?”

  She looked him in the eyes.

  “I just want to be near you. That’s all I’ve wanted for the last seventeen years.”

  She scooted in close to him, linked her arms in one of his elbows, and rested her head on his shoulder. He liked it. It felt good to have her next to him—natural. He thought about how he could go with her, and that would make the Master’s choice for him. But would the Master let him go, or come hunting his traitor son?

  He pushed those thoughts from his mind. He would be loyal to the Master.

  Leenda looked at him, but didn’t speak. He met her eyes, and for a moment it seemed they might kiss. He would have liked it very much, but then she leaned her head back down with a sigh and pressed closer to him. He rested his head on hers, and tried to clear his mind of all thought. He didn’t, of course. During the next thirty minutes, he resisted the urge many times to lean down and kiss her lips.

  Finally, something occurred to him.

  “When I was back at the cave, I used Thew to make my eyes stronger, to see in the dark.”

  “What cave?” she said.

  He’d forgotten that she didn’t know about the day’s events. He didn’t want to tell her.

  “Just a cave. But tell me—could I do that with a horse? Could I use my Thew on its eyes?”

  Never mind that she shouldn’t have been able to use Ichor at all—just like Naresh. Perhaps the Master would explain that to him someday.

  She shrugged. “Well, sure.”

  He leapt up and reached down toward her with both hands.

  “And I could use it to ease their tired bodies?”

  She took his hands and let him lift her to her feet. “Yes.”

  “Well then, we have no reason to be resting here, when we could be finding the Master.”

  He gave her a grim smile and led her down the rocks.

  In minutes they started moving again. In the morning they found the Master, and gave him the news.

  Part IV: Ax to the root

  Chapter 69: The southern limits

  If you’re going to fight a battle, you might as well win it.

  -Athanaric

  Athanaric sat on Cuchorack’s saddle, clicked his tongue, and confronted the entire Hasuken army.

  He pulled on the reigns to urge the draegon to stand on his hind legs, and pushed the stirrups forward. Cuchorack stepped to the edge of the butte, perched on the cliff. He stretched his neck high, tilted his head up, and roared.

  Three hundred feet below and about a mile south of the base of the black and red rock cliffs, the Hasuken troops’ eyes widened. Athanaric could hear the rumbling of their voices, even with the hot desert wind blowing in his face. Their frowns betrayed their fear. And right they should fear. Behind Athanaric, on the opposite side of the butte, twenty thousand paladins waited to annex Hasuke and kill the Hasuken soldiers, in their green livery and with their little round shields and pikes and swords. All forty thousand Hasuken would die. True, they outnumbered Athanaric’s army two-to-one, but paladins counted as ten men.

  At the front of the Hasuken army, a clump of banner-bearers held triangular flags at the tops of poles, and a cluster of leaders sat on horses, looking up at him. Naresh sat among them. Athanaric would make sure to kill him near the first.

  Cuchorack stood on the northwestern end of the butte, which curved less than a mile to the southeast. To Athanaric’s right, the ground dropped almost straight down about three hundred feet to large boulders. To the west, another butte of red rocks rose up and continued on, soon transforming into broad ridges and long hills, eventually blocking anything in that direction out from his sight. Between the bases of the two plateaus, a stone wall lay in ruins: the remains of a long-dead country’s effort to defend itself. The wall dated from before the nation of Hasuke, which made it nearly two thousand years old.

  This place had seen many battles. The people had called it Fort Bluff, and built a city of stone buildings, but when Athanaric had annexed it a hundred and fifty years before, he’d forced the people to abandon the fort, and built them a new home further north. He’d then renamed the area Southern Limits. What remained of the stone ruins lay scattered on the northern side of the wall, near his army of paladins. People still came down to this area to take the red stones and use them in their buildings further away. On the opposite side of the broken wall and the buttes, near the Hasuken army, the rotting remains of siege engines and broken wagons spotted the ground.

  To the south and east, other ridges and plateaus rose in the distance: dull red spotted by green juniper trees and cacti. In the valley beyond the Hasuken army, whirlwinds stirred up dust and hawks circled above. At the moment, one of the innocuous white clouds that spotted the sky had covered the sun. Athanaric would have appreciated rain. The air was dry, and his throat was absolutely parched. But rain rarely fell here.

  A wall, he thought, wasn’t such a bad idea. He didn’t indulge himself in elaborate architectures and projects like other gods did; he made a point of not abusing his people by living in opulence. Yet, a wall might have been a good idea, to keep people in or out of his country. Although, of course, the walls at the Seraglio had only succeeded to a certain point at keeping people out. A wall could only do so much. A determined person could certainly find a way in or out of any location.

  Cuchorack roared again, and Athanaric prepared to turn around and return to his army. But as he pulled on his reigns, a voice called from below.

&n
bsp; “We want a parley!” Naresh shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth. Certainly he used Ichor on his throat to make his shout louder. “We would give you the opportunity to surrender.”

  Athanaric grunted. These common soldiers couldn’t stand against his paladins, let alone defeat them. He raised his voice to a shout.

  “Very well!”

  Naresh motioned ahead of himself, to the general area of the wall between the buttes.

  “There. In ten minutes.”

  Athanaric waved his assent. He could’ve met right then. It wouldn’t have changed anything. He also could’ve stayed right where he was—he had no need to return to his camp to discuss strategy or negotiation tactics with any advisors. He’d already talked with his three children who led the army, as well as the ten who each led two thousand paladins, and the hundred who each led a force of two-hundred paladins. They knew what to do.

  As he turned and looked back at his troops, a cloud of dust rushed down a hill behind them, from four galloping horses. Further up the ridge, about a hundred paladins followed.

  Athanaric swore.

  Wrend rode on the front-most horse, and next to him Rashel, her face screwed up tight like she had a lot to say but didn’t want to say it. He’d seen that face a thousand times, borne that scorn just as many. Someone had upset her, but probably not as much as she’d upset Athanaric. She’d disappeared two mornings before, causing him worry.

  But Rashel wasn’t what made him swear. It wasn’t even the redheaded sitting behind Wrend with her arms around him like she owned him—he would have to deal with that soon. What upset him was that Teirn rode behind Wrend, next to Calla. The two had their heads together, and motioned fervently with their hands as they talked with each other.

  One of those boys shouldn’t have returned. One of them should have killed the other.

  Not that he wanted to lose one of them—he loved them both. He was just weary of this contest to select an heir. He wanted it to end, even at the cost of his draegon or his scaella.