The Demigod Proving Read Free Page B

black vest. Golden thread decorated the shoulders of the vest and sleeves of the shirt in intertwining branches with broad leaves and heavy fruit. Wrend’s shirt bore similar embroidery, but without the fruit. At age twenty, when he passed from the status of Novitiate and became a fruitful bough in the Parable, he would earn the fruit-bearing design. He would also swap his white bracers for red ones, like those that extended halfway up this Caretaker’s forearm, covering the cuffs of the shirt.
    Wrend recognized the Caretaker’s face, but didn’t know his name; most Caretakers spent so little time in the Seraglio that Wrend couldn’t hope to know any of the three hundred very well.
    The Caretaker waved and called for them to wait. He moved past the last wagon and through the open space with the confidence only a Caretaker could possess. As he approached, he held out his hand in greeting, and as they met he closed his left hand around Wrend’s left bracers. Wrend returned the gesture, wondering what his brother could possibly want.
    “I’m Wester,” he said. “I know that you’re Wrend and you’re Teirn. How are your studies?”
    The greeting roused suspicion in Wrend. Teirn furrowed his brow and frowned.
    “Has the Master taught you how to use Ichor, yet?” Wester said.
    “No,” Wrend said. “We can harvest it, but not use it.”
    Just talking about Ichor made Wrend focus on his discernment. As with all his senses, discernment was always there; but he didn’t recognize it unless he consciously thought about it. As he did, he saw waves emanating out from his stomach. They weren’t strong waves, since he hadn’t eaten in several hours, but he saw them clearly: green, measured, small.
    However, saw wasn’t the right word, for he didn’t see the waves with his eyes. Felt also wasn’t the right word, for he didn’t feel them with his body or mind. He discerned them, and could therefore harvest them back into his body.
    “Of course,” Wester said. He smiled and leaned in close. “Most of us don’t actually wait until the Master teaches us—“
    A roar from overhead interrupted him. Wrend looked to the sky, searching for the source, but not finding it. He knew the roar. He’d heard it many times. It belonged to the Master’s undead draegon, Cuchorack. But as far as Wrend knew, the Master had never brought Cuchorack to the Courtyard of the Wall. The draegon’s size simply made it too much of a threat to the buildings and ground.
    The singing of the demigods throughout the courtyard faltered and died. Serving girls on the boardwalk dropped to their knees. A lone priest near the back of the wagons also knelt—so did the few other dozen people that Wrend could see scattered among the wagons. All of them turned their attention toward the sky above the forest, to where Wrend couldn’t see because he stood so close to the trees.
    Wrend descended to one knee and rested his elbows on the other. Teirn and Wester joined him.
    Throughout the courtyard, no one moved or spoke.
    Cuchorack roared again. Wrend’s chest vibrated at the deepness of the sound—so much closer than before. The draegon descended into the back of the courtyard to Wrend’s left. It landed with its wings spread wide, yet slammed into the ground like a boulder falling from the sky. A tremor ran up Wrend’s legs. Where the draegon landed, the red and blue pavers buckled and shifted, rippled.
    Wrend had seen Cuchorack many times, but never like this, in this place. Its posture bore a threat, a warning of imminent suffering. The threat shone in Cuchorack’s black eyes and glistened along its sharpened horns as it reared back onto its two hind legs, letting its forelegs hang down in front of its hairy body, and cast a shadow over the courtyard by snapping its wings open.
    It extended its slender neck high, tilted its snout skyward, and roared. The noise filled the otherwise silent courtyard as if Cuchorack’s body had grown to fill the