of these actions is disobeying your mother.
-Teirn
“Why,” Wrend said, “do you think that going to the Reverencing is a bad thing?”
He said it as he shut the door behind him, and turned to look at Teirn, who stood next to a series of shelves. Wrend had built those particular shelves right into the wall a year before, when he’d constructed the house. But each week, afterward, he’d added more shelves, until they covered every inch of wall space. Then he’d filled the shelves with trinkets.
The only other furniture in the room was a wide worktable and a chair. Four wooden boxes sat along the top of the table. They housed Wrend’s tools, which he used to make the trinkets. He always cleaned them up, after every use.
“I always thought these were so amazing,” Teirn said.
He shook his head in admiration as he looked over the scores of miniature figures on the shelves. He picked up an eagle in flight and admired it.
Wrend stepped past Teirn to lean out the window. Glancing at the paladins outside his house, he pulled the shutters almost closed. Without the window open, the room fell dim, with only a crack of light coming through the partly open shutters.
After the Master had found them in the glade, he’d taken them back to the courtyard, where serving girls, priests, and mothers had already started to clean up the mess. A few minutes later, paladins flowed in through the Wall’s open gates. They filled the courtyard and moved up into the canyon, to the villages spread throughout the Seraglio. The Master flew away on his draegon, pleading a need to check on the villages to ensure their safety.
Wrend and Teirn helped the priests, serving girls, and Caretakers clean up some of the mess in the courtyard—the crushed wagons, broken crates, kirana corpses, and other bodies. Miraculously, the cheese wagon survived without a scratch. Only over time, as word spread throughout the group, did they learn about the slaughter up at the nursery. Wrend’s heart sickened at the news; he knew many of the mothers at the nursery. They’d helped raise him, cared for him, taught him.
Eventually the Master came back. In a brief speech, he told everyone about the cultists and what they’d done at the nursery, but that they hadn’t touched any other village. He hadn’t killed the last of them, yet, but suspected who they were. Until he eradicated the group, all Novitiates and mothers would have paladin guards.
Once Wrend and Teirn had their guards assigned to them, they headed back up the canyon toward their village, so they could change into clothes more suitable for the feast.
With the guards around them, they couldn’t talk about any of what had gone on, but walked in silence. Wrend started at every noise in the forest, and watched everything around him every second. He’d never felt unsafe in the Seraglio until that day.
Still holding the miniature eagle, Teirn said, “This was always my favorite.”
Wrend turned from the window. “How many times have you said that?”
“That’s because it’s true.”
Wrend stepped over to his brother’s side, to look at the objects on the shelves. Golden figurines of every imaginable creature filled the shelves: bears, deer, elephants, draegons, lions, birds, people. A precious few included tiny rubies, pearls, or amethysts in eye sockets or navels. Other types of shiny knick-knacks covered the shelves: gilded shapes of trees or unusually pretty rocks. A silver plate that Wrend had made. A chalice with pearls along the rim.
The Master didn’t permit his demigods to own much. They spent their first twenty years of life in preparation for the next thirty. Worldly possessions meant little to them; if they exhibited too much tendency toward material comforts, they inevitably wound up dead. But the Master allowed all the demigods something, a little bit to call their own.
Wrend had his horde.
He adjusted the position of a lion and blew dust off of a coiled snake. He
-Teirn
“Why,” Wrend said, “do you think that going to the Reverencing is a bad thing?”
He said it as he shut the door behind him, and turned to look at Teirn, who stood next to a series of shelves. Wrend had built those particular shelves right into the wall a year before, when he’d constructed the house. But each week, afterward, he’d added more shelves, until they covered every inch of wall space. Then he’d filled the shelves with trinkets.
The only other furniture in the room was a wide worktable and a chair. Four wooden boxes sat along the top of the table. They housed Wrend’s tools, which he used to make the trinkets. He always cleaned them up, after every use.
“I always thought these were so amazing,” Teirn said.
He shook his head in admiration as he looked over the scores of miniature figures on the shelves. He picked up an eagle in flight and admired it.
Wrend stepped past Teirn to lean out the window. Glancing at the paladins outside his house, he pulled the shutters almost closed. Without the window open, the room fell dim, with only a crack of light coming through the partly open shutters.
After the Master had found them in the glade, he’d taken them back to the courtyard, where serving girls, priests, and mothers had already started to clean up the mess. A few minutes later, paladins flowed in through the Wall’s open gates. They filled the courtyard and moved up into the canyon, to the villages spread throughout the Seraglio. The Master flew away on his draegon, pleading a need to check on the villages to ensure their safety.
Wrend and Teirn helped the priests, serving girls, and Caretakers clean up some of the mess in the courtyard—the crushed wagons, broken crates, kirana corpses, and other bodies. Miraculously, the cheese wagon survived without a scratch. Only over time, as word spread throughout the group, did they learn about the slaughter up at the nursery. Wrend’s heart sickened at the news; he knew many of the mothers at the nursery. They’d helped raise him, cared for him, taught him.
Eventually the Master came back. In a brief speech, he told everyone about the cultists and what they’d done at the nursery, but that they hadn’t touched any other village. He hadn’t killed the last of them, yet, but suspected who they were. Until he eradicated the group, all Novitiates and mothers would have paladin guards.
Once Wrend and Teirn had their guards assigned to them, they headed back up the canyon toward their village, so they could change into clothes more suitable for the feast.
With the guards around them, they couldn’t talk about any of what had gone on, but walked in silence. Wrend started at every noise in the forest, and watched everything around him every second. He’d never felt unsafe in the Seraglio until that day.
Still holding the miniature eagle, Teirn said, “This was always my favorite.”
Wrend turned from the window. “How many times have you said that?”
“That’s because it’s true.”
Wrend stepped over to his brother’s side, to look at the objects on the shelves. Golden figurines of every imaginable creature filled the shelves: bears, deer, elephants, draegons, lions, birds, people. A precious few included tiny rubies, pearls, or amethysts in eye sockets or navels. Other types of shiny knick-knacks covered the shelves: gilded shapes of trees or unusually pretty rocks. A silver plate that Wrend had made. A chalice with pearls along the rim.
The Master didn’t permit his demigods to own much. They spent their first twenty years of life in preparation for the next thirty. Worldly possessions meant little to them; if they exhibited too much tendency toward material comforts, they inevitably wound up dead. But the Master allowed all the demigods something, a little bit to call their own.
Wrend had his horde.
He adjusted the position of a lion and blew dust off of a coiled snake. He
Similar Books
