Chapter 25: A second chance

Athanaric must cull his brood by necessity, but his biggest mistake is not giving his children more than one chance. Surely the best children—the most passionate and action-oriented ones—die simply because Athanaric doesn't give them a second chance.

-Wester

On the sixth morning out from the Seraglio, Wrend had trouble sleeping. He dreamed of someone entering his tent and waiting for him to rise.

He awoke in the chilly predawn, when neither darkness nor light dominated his tent. For several minutes he tossed on his cot, beneath his blankets, but couldn’t get back to sleep; his thoughts had turned too quickly to talking with the Master. Resolved to no more sleep, he decided to get dressed. He sat up and threw his covers off to the cold morning air.

And noticed the figure standing near the door of his tent.

His heartbeat hastened. “Who are you?”

The figure wore the white half-jacket of a priest beneath an open cloak, with a hood over his head. The shadows and dim light concealed his face. He raised a finger to his lips to quiet Wrend.

“What are you doing in here? How long have you been there?”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Wester. Wrend had only spoken with him once, but recognized the voice. His heartbeat accelerated even more; the night before he’d heard of the demigods killed back in their towns.

Sitting up with the covers over his legs, not wearing a shirt, he turned and reached under his pillow for his sacrificial knife.

“Wrend, I only ask that you listen to me."

“I want nothing to do with you.”

He unsheathed the knife and kicked his covers off. He wore long sleeping pants. He rolled off of his cot, so it provided a buffer between him and Wester. He had no plan other than protecting himself, but if he thought hard, maybe he could find a way to kill or capture Wester.

“I only want to present facts. Then let you decide.”

“I’ve already decided.”

Wrend had paladin guards outside his tent. He could call them for help. He began to shout, but Wester had already begun to move so fast that barely a squeak left Wrend’s mouth before Wester had hurdled the cot, grabbed his wrist in one hand, and covered his mouth with the other. He twisted Wrend’s arm, so that he had to let go of the sacrificial knife. It thudded to the carpeted floor.

Wrend imagined the paladins would discover his corpse later. He struggled to back away, and shouted against Wester’s hand, but Wester pulled him by the arm, preventing him from moving backward, and pressed his hand tighter against Wrend’s face. He squeezed so that Wrend couldn’t get free.

“It’s no way to live, Wrend." He leaned in close, his eyes intense. The hood had fallen from his head when he’d leapt the cot. “Under the thumb of a father who could kill you any second—and who will kill you when you reach age fifty.”

Wrend shook his head as best he could. His jaw and wrist ached from Wester’s Ichor-strengthened grip.

“And the people live in subjugation to him. How many does he kill each year—or how many do the priests kill for slight infractions, small mistakes? Innocent errors.”

Wrend didn’t know the answer. It didn’t matter to him.

Or did it? All his life, he’d only learned what the priests, mothers, and the Master had taught him. Wester offered a different point of view. Did it have worth, even though it went against everything Wrend had learned his whole life?

How could it? God was god. His will was law. He determined right and wrong.

“Wrend, you can help the country be free and live in peace. Without fear. You know the fear. You’ve lived with it every day. Every person in the country feels it.”

Wrend relaxed, hoping Wester would loosen his grip.

“I’ll come back in a few days,” Wester said. “Think on it. Look for signs that I speak the truth. Make the good choice.”

He looked at Wrend with solemn eyes. His grip loosened just a little, enough for Wrend to pull his head away with a jerk.

“Guards, I’m under attack!”

Wester snarled and gripped Wrend’s mouth, again. He twisted Wrend’s arm nearly to the breaking point.

“When I next return, if you’re not on my side, then your life isn’t worth sparing.”

A pair of paladins pulled the tent flaps aside and stepped inside. They spotted Wester, lowered their spears, and charged, one around each side of the cot. With a snarl, Wester threw Wrend backward. He stumbled and fell into an open chest, expecting Wester to leap between the paladins and over the cot. Given his speed, it would have been an easy escape.

But he didn’t flee.

He produced a long knife from beneath his cloak and barreled at a paladin as it came around the cot. He twisted to the side to avoid the spear's head, and with two quick swipes cut the paladin’s arms off at the wrists. A third swipe at the neck nearly decapitated it. Its head dangled on the spinal chord, and it reeled away without a sound.

Wester turned in time to dodge a spear from behind. He lunged at the paladin, slashing it across the eyes. Its mask split open, revealing the gray skin beneath, and its eyes popped. A swipe at the neck took the head off.

Wester moved so fast, with such finesse, that dispatching the two paladins had only taken a few seconds—not even enough time for Wrend to pull himself out of the chest. As the second paladin collapsed in a heap, Wester headed back to Wrend, ignoring the handful of other paladins coming through the door. Wester bent down and placed the knife at Wrend’s chest. The point bit into the skin at his sternum. Wrend didn’t dare move.

Wester had already killed other demigods. Caretakers who knew how to use Ichor.

Wester raised one eyebrow. “Make me want to spare your life next time I see you.”

Then he leapt to the side of the tent, cut a quick slit down the side, and fled into the morning.

Wrend stared at the flapping cloth. Blood oozed from the wound in his chest, rolled down to his belly button.

Hopefully this would prompt the Master to spare some time for him.

And indeed, it did. Later that evening.