Chapter 71: The choice is made

 

To a child, there is nothing more terrifying than watching your parents argue. The two people who should be the most solid in the child’s life. The two people who should be united in all things. To see them quarrel terrifies a child. To see one harm the other is close to murder on the child.

-Wrend

 

The Master picked up Rashel, and for a moment Wrend thought he would wring his mother’s neck, simply twist the body one way, and the head another. But the Master didn’t. Instead, he gripped the back of her dress and lifted her face to his. Beneath her dress, her legs dangled limp, like the clappers to a bell. She kept her hands in her face, not looking at him.

“Look at me,” he said.

He shook her. Her head jerked back and forth and her dress started to rip in the back, where the buttons held it closed.

“Look at me!”

Wrend tensed. This was his mother. The Master would kill her. Could he let that happen? Could he stop it if he wanted? The Master was god. He had the right to do as he pleased.

But was this right? Was it right for the Master to punish her for a secret she’d kept since before they’d been married? She hadn’t even known at the time that her god would choose her. It seemed unfair and ridiculous that she be punished for something she’d done before becoming accountable for it in this way. Of course, going back to the man implied unfaithfulness of the heart. Did that merit death?

Like so many other things relating to the Master lately, it seemed wrong. Unfair. But the Master was god. He had all power and authority in his country.

But as Naresh had said, who made sure the gods were just and right? Did no one? Those questions had kept Wrend’s mouth shut when the Master had asked about Rashel. Those doubts had made him keep Rashel’s secret. Those, and his love for her. He could not, he’d found, betray her. Not even to his god and father.

The Master shook Rashel again, and the dress ripped open as buttons popped off. Her arms flailed as she plummeted, but the Master caught her before she hit and lifted her back up to his eyes, his hands closed around her shoulders so she couldn’t cover her face again.

“Is this all true?” he said.

Wrend stared in disbelief that the Master would even verify the truth. He’d always killed in his rage—which he was in now. His face contorted as if he endured great agony.

Rashel didn’t answer. She still didn’t look at his face.

He roared, long and loud. It beat Wrend’s ears, and continued as the Master lifted Rashel over his head, turning her body parallel to the earth. Calla shouted something unintelligible over the Master’s scream.

The Master slammed Rashel down onto the ground.

Wrend had seen violence. He’d seen his brothers and sisters killed before his eyes. But he’d never seen violence directed toward his mother. He rushed toward her, where she lay in the dirt, dust rising around her still body. He jumped over her and stood facing the Master.

“Stop!”

He didn’t dare glance down to see if she were dead, but kept his eyes on the Master’s. The Master loomed, his face red. His fists clenched at his waist.

“Out of the way, son.” His voice was pained and raspy.

“You are my father. No one else.”

“I’m well aware of that. You can use Ichor—which makes you my son. But her infidelity cannot go unpunished.”

“Then you’ll have to kill me, too.”

He, too, felt anger at his mother for the things she’d done, but she didn’t deserve to die. She deserved the freedom to choose.

All people did.

In that moment, as death towered over Wrend, he knew for certain that he could do better than the Master. He could be a better god and could treat the people more fairly. There would be none of this—no killing people because of a single word of disagreement, or for a single act done in poor judgment. Under him, when he was god, people could choose the way they lived. They could choose to worship him or not, and would not suffer if they didn’t.

Rashel hadn’t chosen to be the Master’s wife. She hadn’t wanted it, and as a result she’d lived nearly two decades wishing to be with another man. If she’d had the freedom to choose, none of this would have happened.

“Master, you love her,” Wrend said. “Don’t kill her, now. Don’t waste seventeen years for something done many years ago.”

“She went to him.”

He was softening. He didn’t want to kill her, or he already would have.

“She only talked with him. She said so herself.”

He glanced at her. She lay in the dust, still. Perhaps she’d died, already. A wave of ire swept over the Master’s face and he leaned in close to Wrend, roaring. His hot breath beat against Wrend’s forehead, and his hands shot out and pushed Wrend aside. Wrend flew away, rolling over the ground and grunting. By the time he stopped, lying with his legs and back twisted, and could orient himself, the Master had picked up Rashel again, and held her over his head.

Leenda dismounted and started toward Wrend.

“No!” Wrend cried, struggling to stand.

The Master froze, his face hard, Rashel high overhead. Her arms and legs dangled. His armor clanked as he trembled—certainly not from the strain of holding her up.

“Don’t kill her,” Wrend said.

He found his knees. Leenda reached him, helped him to his feet. Athanaric looked at him, his face pained. He didn’t want to kill her. Wrend could see it in those eyes. Yet he could also see the fury, the desire for utter dedication.

Calla stepped forward, past Teirn, who still knelt. She kept her face calm and cool.

“Dear god,” she said, her voice smooth and tempered. “She is my sweet sister-wife. I beg you to not kill her. Though she has proven unfaithful and unworthy, don’t kill her, despite how she mocks you with her infidelity.”

With those words, Wrend understood Calla. Just as she wanted Teirn to be god, she wanted to be the favorite wife. She’d revealed Rashel’s secrets, and now her tone had no passion in it, no real plea. If Rashel died, it would be Calla’s fault for revealing Rashel’s secret—which Wrend had decided he couldn’t do. He would have stood there forever, not telling the Master about his mother’s secret.

But not Calla. She wanted to be the favorite.

The understanding conceived hatred in Wrend—hatred for her and the things her ambition had driven her to do.

The Master looked at Calla. His face grew calm, and for a moment Wrend thought that Calla’s words had back-fired.

“You make it clear,” the Master said. “You wouldn’t do this. You are true and faithful, as the wife of a god should be.” His head swiveled to Wrend. “I’m sorry. She’s worthy of death.”

Wrend wrested free of Leenda’s grip and ran toward the Master, but he couldn’t move fast enough. Maybe if he’d already had Ichor bound to his body, he might’ve caught Rashel—or been crushed under her. But in the confusion of the moment, he hadn't thought to use Ichor. But not next time. He wouldn't forget next time.

The Master slammed Rashel against the ground. Her body thumped in the dirt like a stone.

Sprinting, Wrend arrived at her body, and without slowing threw out his arms as he bent, his hands grasping for anything, and caught one of Rashel’s arms. Her weight jerked him almost like an anchor finding purchase, but with a grunt he continued on, dragging her across the ground and out from beneath the Master’s shadow. Her body was an awkward tangle of twisted limbs and a lolling head. For all he knew, she could be dead already.

He half expected the Master to strike him next, but continued on, pulling her away, his back toward the Master. People were shouting—Calla and Leenda and Teirn—but he couldn’t make out anything they said and didn’t look back at them. He just wanted to get his mother away from the Master. He dragged her ten feet, fifteen, twenty—knowing all the while that the Master would fall upon him at any moment. His hand slipped. He lost his grip on Rashel's arm and fell forward to the ground, catching himself before his face hit.

He scrambled to rise, looking back, and halted before reaching her again.

The Master hadn’t moved. He stood tall, his mouth wide open and his eyes huge as he stared at Wrend. Even his hands hung slack at his side.

Teirn's and Calla's and Leenda's shouting faded. Stillness came upon the area. The draegon didn’t move or make a sound. Neither did any of the thousands of paladins.

A tremble arose in Wrend’s body as he looked at the Master. Indignation and fear and uncertainty all barraged him, but from somewhere deep within—in the core of his soul or the deepest part of his memory—he found the strength to rise.

He stood and took a step over to Rashel, then past her, so that he stood between her and the Master. He lifted his chin and threw his shoulders back, well aware of the defiance the posture conveyed.

But what did he have to lose, at this point?