Chapter 5: Seeking Safety

 

As unpleasant as the task may be, there is no excuse for not considering another’s point of view.

-Wrend

 

Wester intervened.

He leapt in front of Wrend, ducked under the upside down wagon, and extended his hands over his head so they touched the red-tiled roof. His face contorted in effort, and he pushed.

The wagon lifted into the air, still spinning, and passed over Wrend’s head. It soared into a cluster of pines. Branches cracked and broke as they caught the wagon. Wrend gaped. His blood thundered in his head.

Wester turned toward him. “Don’t just stand there!”

All thoughts of defending the Master disappeared from Wrend’s mind. He turned and bolted for the forest. Ahead of him, Teirn had already passed from the flagstone to the dirt beneath the trees. Wrend followed, pumping his arms and legs as fast as he could, ignoring the continued sound of wood shattering and bones breaking behind him.

“Hurry!” Wester said. “We need to get to safety!”

Wrend followed Teirn into the forest. He didn’t look back. His breath burned in his lungs. He hardly saw where he ran, for in his mind the wagon loomed before him, about to crush him. It filled his head, made his heart pound and his legs weak. As he ran past the trees, pushing branches out of his face, he saw it over and over. The wagon nearly flattening him.

Before he knew it, the sounds of the draegon, kiranas, the Master, and the demigods had all faded, absorbed by the soft dirt and the pinion pines and blue spruces. Wester had passed him and Teirn, ahead, and led them through the dried pine needles.

“Where are you leading us to?” Wrend said, thinking he knew.

“To safety,” Wester said.

“To the Chapel in the Forest?” Teirn said.

Wester nodded. “It’s far enough away from the courtyard that it should be safe there.”

In another ten seconds, they reached a wide stone path that stretched perpendicular to the course they’d been running, and turned left to follow it through the forest. In another thirty seconds, they reached their destination.

Wrend had always liked the Chapel in the Forest. He’d first seen it in the winter, after a blizzard. As he’d approached it, he hadn’t even seen it because of how the ubiquitous white stone blended with the snow.

The pure stone blanketed the ground as it rose in steps up the canyon slope. On each step, a row of white benches stretched in a half circle, so that from the front of the courtyard, where Wrend and his brothers entered, concentric half rings of white bench on white ground stretched up the canyon wall, broken in places by flights of stairs. It took a thousand people to fill the Chapel, and it happened every day. Here, the oldest Novitiates, serving girls, and priests gathered to worship the Master daily, in the shadow of the Enclosure.

Wrend had never climbed over the Enclosure, though like all Novitiates, he’d been tempted to. A few years before, five demigods somehow got over the Enclosure, spent a night outside the Seraglio, and returned. They’d subsequently perished at the Master’s hands.

The Enclosure surrounded the entire Seraglio. It stretched from the Wall at the canyon’s front, up both sides to the very top of the canyon. Constructed of gray and brown stone, it stood forty feet tall and actually leaned inward at an angle that would prevent anyone from climbing it from the inside. Wrend had never seen the opposite side of the Enclosure, but understood that thick thorn bushes grew all along its base and even up its side. Along the top, metal spikes protruded straight up.

Beyond it, steep canyon walls stretched high into the air. They towered over everything. Wrend had never known a day without their presence, watching over him with their swaths of granite stone jutting out in the midst of firs and spruces and pines. How many times had he wished to scale those canyon walls, to see the world beyond? A hundred? A thousand? A dozen times everyday ever since he could conceptualize it?

Wester stopped as they entered the amphitheater, but Wrend continued on, to the first row of benches so he could sit down. Teirn joined him, and they sat panting together, looking back at Wester. He stood just a dozen feet away, near the altar at the foot of the full-size statue of Athanaric. 

“What was that all about?” Teirn said.

Wrend shook his head, still barely able to get the wagon out of his head. He couldn’t fathom what he’d seen—the Master’s own children trying to kill him. It had never even occurred to him that the Master could die, though it made sense. There had been other gods in the past—the Master’s siblings, at the least. The Master had killed them to end their tyranny. That meant the Master could die.

The thought chilled Wrend.

Wester, not even winded from the run, placed one hand on his hip and the other on the metal pommel of his sacrificial knife, belted at his side. His gaze switched between Wrend and Teirn, as if evaluating them. He looked back the way they’d come through the woods, then up at the statue of Athanaric, and spoke with caution.

“The world is . . . different than you think.”

“What do you mean?” Teirn said, echoing Wrend’s thought.

Wester smiled bitterly. “You’ve lived your lives like all of us do at first: sheltered here in the Seraglio, learning only what the Master wants you to know, living as obediently as you can, so that you’re not deemed a fruitless bough, and pruned.”

Gooseflesh made the hair on Wrend’s arms stand. He’d never heard such blasphemy.

Wester continued. “You don’t know any other way. You don’t know any better. But the world is not as you think it is.”

Just hearing the seditious words made Wrend want to take a bath. He gripped the hilt of his knife; he hadn’t sheathed it back in the courtyard. The blue metal glinted eagerly.

“That sounds a lot like blasphemy,” he said.

“More like the first ray of truth shed onto your lives.”

“You’re one of them,” Teirn said. “Aren’t you? You should have been fighting the Master back there. You’re one of them.”

He stood, drew his own sacrificial knife, and assumed a defensive stance. Wrend followed his brother’s example, standing and tightening the muscles of his legs and arms, crouching just a bit. He and Teirn had trained together. They could defend themselves against a normal man.

But normal men did not use Ichor, as Wester surely did.

Wester ignored their daggers, and stared at them with intense eyes as he stepped closer.

“You two are unique. You—of all the demigods—can effect the most change.”

“We serve the Master,” Teirn said. “We want nothing to do with you.”

“Other,” Wrend said, “than to subdue you for the Master’s sake.”

He lunged, slashing at Wester’s stomach. Teirn followed, only an instant behind.

With an amused expression, Wester jumped aside of the blow and slapped Wrend’s wrist, knocking the dagger down. It clattered on the stone as Wester shoved Wrend. He stumbled back and fell on his rear.

Wester dodged Teirn’s slice and grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the dagger. He twisted it as if to make Teirn drop the weapon, but surprise flitted across his face as if Teirn resisted with unexpected strength. With a shout, Teirn pulled his hand away and didn’t wait even a moment to lunge with his blade again. Wrend had never seen him move so fast. Not in all of the times they’d sparred in practice.

Wrend began to scramble to his feet.

Wester stepped aside of the blow, leaving Teirn with his arm extended and his body twisted. Wester darted behind Teirn and grabbed the hand that held the knife. With his other hand, he shoved Teirn backward, even as he stuck a foot out at Teirn’s ankles.

Teirn didn’t lose his grip on the knife, but he lost his balance and fell backward onto the white stone next to Wrend. The force of Wester’s push actually made him slide half a dozen feet with the dry rasp of clothes on stone.

Wrend had gained his feet and so dove at Wester, trying to tackle him. But once again, Wester stepped aside with inhuman speed. He shoved with both palms held forward. With a thump, they struck Wrend’s chest, and he found himself on has backside, next to Teirn, breathing hard.

In the struggle, they’d reversed positions, so that Teirn and Wrend were near the altar, and Wester stood near the first row of benches. He stared down at them with narrow eyes.

“Well, well, Teirn. You have secrets, don’t you?”

Teirn ignored the comment and leapt to his feet. Wrend joined him, but neither of them advanced. Wrend felt naked without his dagger, but it lay on the white stone close to Wester. Wrend’s chest and wrist hurt where Wester had struck him.

“Your spirit is commendable,” Wester said. “But useless—and ultimately fruitless.”

From the direction of the courtyard came a massive boom. Wester glanced in the direction of the sound and stepped back. He raised his hands.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“Your mere presence injures my sensibilities,” Wrend said.

“I could kill you now if I wanted,” Wester said. “So don’t tempt me.”

It was the kind of thing the Master might say if he minced words, and Wrend believed it. The brief struggle hadn’t even left Wester winded. Even after Teirn had proven more formidable, Wester bested them with ease.

But what had Wester meant that Teirn had secrets?

“Better to die than become an unfruitful branch,” Teirn said.

“Ah, yes, the Parable. You only say that because you have limited information. Believe me, there are two sides to every story—even the Master’s.”

“How can you even pretend that?” Teirn said. “Our country lives in peace and harmony. Before the Master, there was only chaos and destruction. He brought tranquility to the land.”

Wrend nearly agreed, but somehow faltered.

Was what Teirn said true? Of course, Wrend had been taught that it was, but he’d only ever heard the one side of the story—the side that the priests and the Master had told. Was there another side? Surely there was. One of the priests, Naresh, had taught Wrend that every issue had two sides, but Wrend had never thought to look at the other side of this particular topic.

Was it blasphemy to do so?

“Tranquility?” Wester said. “Eventually the Master kills all of his children—every one of us. You believe that is tranquility?”

“He only kills us when we’re disobedient,” Teirn said.

“No, the Master is ruthless. You’ll die at his hand sooner or later—whether by disobedience or in the Strengthening. And how many hundreds or thousands of people does he kill each year because of their disobedience? Not just demigods—but average people who have slipped and made a mistake, or who’ve said one wrong word against the smothering thumb of the priests. Or maybe all they did was neglect their ceremonies. The people are slaves to him.”

The sound of crashing through trees came from the direction of the courtyard and a deep voice sounded indistinctly through the forest, into the Chapel. A vague movement flitted among the distant tree trunks.

“What do you want with us?” Wrend said.

“You’re special,” Wester said. He took a step forward. “You both are. The Master trusts and loves you. You’re close to him.”

The voice from the forest became clearer, and the snapping of trees and branches came closer.

“Wrend! Teirn!”

The Master. Wrend could distinguish his massive shape among the trees, growing closer.

“I can’t explain,” Wester said. He edged toward the steps between the benches. “I don’t have time. But remember my words: you say the Master brings tranquility, but I say a forced tranquility is nothing more than slavery.”

He turned to flee up the steps toward the back of the Chapel. Wrend lunged at him, trying to tackle him. Teirn did the same, shouting.

But Wester moved too fast, and Wrend and Teirn only collided in empty space. As they stumbled to keep their feet, Wester leapt up the stairs and benches toward the Enclosure. In one bound he flew thirty feet. In another, he reached the back row. Without looking back, he took another jump, high into the air. He ascended above the top of the wall, and disappeared into the forest on its other side.

Twenty yards beyond the side of the Chapel, in the direction of the courtyard, the Master emerged from the forest near the back row of benches, at the top of a flight of stairs. He stopped there, half as tall as the trees, and started down the steps, taking them five at a time. His face hardened as he descended toward Wrend and Teirn.

“Someone was here with you,” he said, his tone accusing. “It was Wester, wasn’t it?”

Wrend started to respond, but the words caught in his throat as he understood exactly who he’d been with, and what it indicated to the Master. A chill settled over him.