picked up a figure of a squirrel. Sometimes at night, he would gather some of the trinkets around himself in his bed, and just look at them glittering in the candlelight.
“I wish I could make something like this,” Teirn said. He put the eagle down and picked up a scaella, a mix between a wolf and a man.
“I just plate them. The real skill is in the carving.”
While he didn’t possess much ability with wood or stone, he could fashion gold or other soft metals with ease. He’d long since learned to trade his metallurgical abilities for the artistic skills of some of his siblings, and many of the shapes on the shelves had been carved by them and gilded by him. Further up the canyon, a mine worked by the demigods produced a small bit of gold and silver each year, and Wrend had spent many of his hours there, digging and searching for fine metals. He’d crafted a few of his objects out of pure metal.
Sometimes it took weeks to finish a project between his lessons and duties. Three sat on the table, in varying stages of completion.
One, an owl sitting on a tree branch, carved out of pine, still sat naked of precious golden covering. He hadn’t even had a chance to treat it, yet. A second, a white porcelain plate, bore twirls of gold and silver around the lip. He needed to add a few more touches to that, especially near the center. The third project, a miniature sacrificial knife about the size of his little finger and made out of spruce, only had gold leaf on one side of the wooden blade.
“Do you think,” Teirn said, “scaella look like this?”
He held up the scaella figurine for Wrend to see, even though Wrend knew every detail of the figure. It had the body and head of a wolf down on all fours, with a human torso growing out of the wolf’s back.
Wrend shrugged. “I doubt it. How long has it been since someone has seen a scaella?”
“Maybe less than you think.”
“Teirn—enough. What’s going on? Why don’t you want to go to the feast?”
Teirn took a deep breath and looked at the scaella. But he didn’t seem to see it. His eyes bore a far-off expression.
“I knew this day would come. I’ve known for a few years.”
“What day? What are you talking about?”
“Two years ago, Calla told me that the Master has grown weary with life, and wishes to die.”
“He what?”
“He wants to find an heir,” Teirn said. “Someone to take his place. He’s already looked for generations for the right person, but found no one.”
“What are you saying? That you or I could become god?”
“He fashioned us, created us, to be the heir. But first, he must prove us, to determine which of us should inherit his godhood. Only one of us can become god.”
Silence stretched between them. It seemed outlandish. Unreal. He could never be god. But it also seemed possible given what the Master, Calla, and Rashel had all said that afternoon.
“We’re being tested?” Wrend said. “You and I? For godhood?”
Teirn nodded. “Only one of us will survive.”
“How is it possible for us to even become gods? We’re mortal because of our mothers.”
“Are we? How do demigods die?”
That made Wrend pause. He’d never heard of a demigod dying from old age, sickness, or even an accident. They only died when the Master killed them—either as they sinned while young, in the Seraglio, or as sacrifices at the Strengthening.
“Why us?” he said.
Teirn looked away. He placed the scaella back on the shelf.
“Why will only one of us survive?” Wrend pressed.
“Calla said that the Master wants to preserve the peace. She said that after the proving, one of us might dispute the result, and rebel against the decision. So, to prevent rebellion and war, the Master will kill the one who will not inherit.”
“And the proving begins tonight. At the Reverencing?”
Teirn nodded.
If it was true—and Wrend had no reason not to think it wasn’t—then Wrend hated it. He couldn’t fathom the wonder of becoming
“I wish I could make something like this,” Teirn said. He put the eagle down and picked up a scaella, a mix between a wolf and a man.
“I just plate them. The real skill is in the carving.”
While he didn’t possess much ability with wood or stone, he could fashion gold or other soft metals with ease. He’d long since learned to trade his metallurgical abilities for the artistic skills of some of his siblings, and many of the shapes on the shelves had been carved by them and gilded by him. Further up the canyon, a mine worked by the demigods produced a small bit of gold and silver each year, and Wrend had spent many of his hours there, digging and searching for fine metals. He’d crafted a few of his objects out of pure metal.
Sometimes it took weeks to finish a project between his lessons and duties. Three sat on the table, in varying stages of completion.
One, an owl sitting on a tree branch, carved out of pine, still sat naked of precious golden covering. He hadn’t even had a chance to treat it, yet. A second, a white porcelain plate, bore twirls of gold and silver around the lip. He needed to add a few more touches to that, especially near the center. The third project, a miniature sacrificial knife about the size of his little finger and made out of spruce, only had gold leaf on one side of the wooden blade.
“Do you think,” Teirn said, “scaella look like this?”
He held up the scaella figurine for Wrend to see, even though Wrend knew every detail of the figure. It had the body and head of a wolf down on all fours, with a human torso growing out of the wolf’s back.
Wrend shrugged. “I doubt it. How long has it been since someone has seen a scaella?”
“Maybe less than you think.”
“Teirn—enough. What’s going on? Why don’t you want to go to the feast?”
Teirn took a deep breath and looked at the scaella. But he didn’t seem to see it. His eyes bore a far-off expression.
“I knew this day would come. I’ve known for a few years.”
“What day? What are you talking about?”
“Two years ago, Calla told me that the Master has grown weary with life, and wishes to die.”
“He what?”
“He wants to find an heir,” Teirn said. “Someone to take his place. He’s already looked for generations for the right person, but found no one.”
“What are you saying? That you or I could become god?”
“He fashioned us, created us, to be the heir. But first, he must prove us, to determine which of us should inherit his godhood. Only one of us can become god.”
Silence stretched between them. It seemed outlandish. Unreal. He could never be god. But it also seemed possible given what the Master, Calla, and Rashel had all said that afternoon.
“We’re being tested?” Wrend said. “You and I? For godhood?”
Teirn nodded. “Only one of us will survive.”
“How is it possible for us to even become gods? We’re mortal because of our mothers.”
“Are we? How do demigods die?”
That made Wrend pause. He’d never heard of a demigod dying from old age, sickness, or even an accident. They only died when the Master killed them—either as they sinned while young, in the Seraglio, or as sacrifices at the Strengthening.
“Why us?” he said.
Teirn looked away. He placed the scaella back on the shelf.
“Why will only one of us survive?” Wrend pressed.
“Calla said that the Master wants to preserve the peace. She said that after the proving, one of us might dispute the result, and rebel against the decision. So, to prevent rebellion and war, the Master will kill the one who will not inherit.”
“And the proving begins tonight. At the Reverencing?”
Teirn nodded.
If it was true—and Wrend had no reason not to think it wasn’t—then Wrend hated it. He couldn’t fathom the wonder of becoming
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