by ML Spencer
He would have to cut fast and deep, just like Mister Raynel did when he slaughtered goats. The goats didn’t seem to feel much pain, so maybe Aram wouldn’t either. Maybe he would just slip off to sea with his puffy clouds and his fast ship. Markus bit his lip, steadying his trembling hand. But when it came time to use the knife, his hand didn’t move.
“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice giving way to sobs.
Dropping the knife, he gathered the boy in his arms.
And then the dogs were upon them.
But when the hounds lunged for their throats, someone yanked them back by their chains.
A net was thrown over him. Markus struggled to escape, but someone kicked him in the head, and he sank back to the dirt, stunned. He lay trembling as they bound his arms and legs. Then they left him there, lying on his side in the dirt and detritus. Tears washed his cheeks, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn and see what they were doing to Aram.
After several minutes, he heard the soft crunching noise of approaching footsteps. He turned his head and looked up to see a man standing over him—a man he recognized. It was the sorcerer from the village. Markus felt an intense, visceral revulsion at the sight of him, and a fear that made his throat clench.
The man squatted down next to him and stared Markus keenly in the eyes with a sharpened glare. “You killed my Shield,” he said softly. “I suppose you’ll have to replace him.”
He turned to his men. “Go get the wagon.”
Chapter Thirteen
Aram’s leg throbbed with a mountain of ache.
He lay blindfolded and bound on a pile of dead leaves and brittle and pokey twigs. He hadn’t squirmed much as they tied him up; the soldiers were too strong, and his leg hurt too badly. He felt dizzy. The wet feeling on his leg meant that his wound was bleeding again.
He could hear Markus moaning and thrashing a short distance away. The noises were muffled, as though they’d shoved a rag in his mouth. Eventually, the thrashing stopped, and Markus was quiet. Then, all Aram could hear were the sounds of footsteps in the dirt and voices in the distance.
“Get him to the wagon,” said someone close by.
Footsteps approached and paused right next to his head. A hand pressed against his leg, causing enough pain to rip a scream right out of his throat.
“Open your mouth.”
It was a man’s voice, even and calm, devoid of all emotion. Aram thought it a strange request, but he was frightened, so he did as he was asked. When a piece of wood was jammed between his teeth, hard, he bucked and cried out in surprise and fear. More feet rushed toward him, and strong hands held him down.
“I’m going to cauterize the wound,” said the man with the cool and even voice. “It’s going to hurt. A lot. Bite down on the stick.”
Fear squeezed sweat from Aram’s pores, but he bit down as hard as he could on the wood. He wouldn’t cry out. He wouldn’t. No matter what.
When it came, the pain was like a tidal wave that broke over him. Agony shot up his leg, tearing him open, burning and searing all the way to his skull. He screamed in spite of himself, howling until his throat burned raw. He bit the stick in his mouth clean in half. The pain was so intense, so awful, that it overwhelmed him quickly, grabbing hold of him like a rip current and jerking him away.
When Aram woke, he was in a wagon.
The floorboards beneath him shimmied and juddered, making his body shake. He lay bound and gagged on the splintery boards, curled up on his side, his leg stabbing pain all the way up his spine. He couldn’t see, for they still had him blindfolded. He was miserable, his throat dusty and raw. And he was empty inside, an emptiness that ached worse than his leg.
The wagon rattled and shuddered along. His teeth rattled with it. He listened hard but couldn’t hear the sound of anyone else in the bed of the wagon with him. Where was the terrible man who had burned his leg? He wished he could have seen the man’s colors, but he was also glad he hadn’t.
He wondered if Markus was there with him in the wagon. He didn’t think his friend had gotten away. There was a small but awful part of him that hoped Markus was there with him, for he didn’t want to be alone. He hated himself for thinking that way, so he stopped thinking altogether.
The emptiness inside ached harder.
His stomach roiled. His wound hurt terribly, irritated by the constant rattling of the wagon. The pain was making him nauseous. There was a growing lump in his throat that made him gag and soon had him fighting back bile. Which, with the cloth stuffed in his mouth, was terrifying. What would happen if he vomited? If it came out his nose, could he breathe?
Fear raked like claws down his back, making him squirm. He pumped his wrists against the bonds that held him, twisting his arms until the coarse rope fibers dug their way under his skin. Then he stopped and went limp.
Vomit surged into his throat. He gulped it back down.
Panic took hold of him. He bucked harder against the ropes.
“Hold still.”
It was that same, cool voice, hollow and without emotion. He felt a hand on his forehead. It was cold to the touch, as if a piece of ice had been pressed against his skin. A light, tingling sensation fluttered down his face, startling him, and at first, he tensed. But the tingling felt good. It made his leg feel better. His eyelids grew heavy and his body grew warm. He slipped softly to sleep.
Markus sat in the bed of the wagon, his arms bound behind his back. He stared at Aram, who was unconscious again. The sorcerer had done something to him; he didn’t know what. He watched the contemptable man lower the vial in his hand, tucking it into a leather strap on his belt. Then he turned to look at him.
“What’s your name?” the sorcerer asked.
Markus didn’t answer. He was still aching from the hole this man had carved out of his heart when he’d ordered his father killed. The sorcerer’s men had sacked his village and taken many of the children captive. They rode in wagons behind them, mostly girls. A few boys. After hours of riding, many still hadn’t stopped crying. He didn’t know what had become of the bard. He’d seen Master Ebra being loaded, unconscious and bloodied, into the back of another wagon. He’d looked bad. Markus had no idea if he was even still alive.
The sorcerer stared at him flatly. He didn’t seem to be bothered by Markus’s lack of response. Nothing seemed to really affect him at all. He sat beside Aram, his blue mantle pulled around him like a cloak. His blond hair was tied back, though the shorter locks around his face had escaped the knot. His eyes drilled into Markus as though boring through his soul.
“You killed my Shield,” he said. “That’s inconvenient. Your friend created a rupture, so that means the Veil has been destabilized in this region. There might be more ruptures, kind of like aftershocks. And if any therlings come through, they’ll be looking for him.” He inclined his head toward Aram. Then he glanced back to Markus. “And I don’t have a Shield.”
Markus didn’t know why the man was telling him that. He glanced away, looking back to Aram, taking in the sight of his unconscious face. So much had already happened to him. He wasn’t sure how much more the boy’s poor body could take. The sorcerer had done something to him, and it had helped a little. Not much, but at least he had gotten the bleeding to stop. But Aram still looked pale, his face clammy.
The man turned from him, his gaze drifting away.
Markus sat listening to the persistent creek of the wagon’s wheels and the constant jingle of the horses’ tack, though everything else seemed all blurred and muddled, as though the rest of the world had lost its relevance. He gazed blearily at the clouds of dust kicked up behind them. The road they followed was little more than two broad ruts where the passage of wagon wheels had scored furrows in the ground. To either side of them, wide, heathered meadows sprawled toward the flat horizons, broken in places by stands of maple and fir trees. Clumps of purple flowers mottled the pasturage, swaying slightly on a breeze.
He could feel the sorcerer’s gaze on him
again. Hard. Penetrating. He didn’t dare look. Markus closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the wagon until it was the only noise in the world.
But even that didn’t help.
He had to look. Had to see if the man was still staring at him.
He cracked his eyes open and saw that the sorcerer was looking at him. A slow smile spread across his face, an expression contradicted by the coldness of his eyes.
Markus froze, unable to break his gaze from that cold-as-steel glare.
He shivered harder.
Aram felt someone lifting him, and the movement of his leg ripped him out of sleep. He woke with a muffled cry, disoriented, his entire body hot with pain. He was lifted out of the wagon and settled on a mat. He lay there listening to the sounds of footsteps and voices around him, the noises of the children being unloaded from the wagons, and the general bustle of people setting up a campsite. He had no idea where they were, or even if they were still in the Vardlands. Shivering, he rolled onto his side, curling tight into a ball.
He lay there until someone came and removed the gag from his mouth. When the cloth was gone, he wheezed a great gasp, drawing in a huge chestful of air. He felt around his mouth with a tongue that felt parched and foreign. The absence of the rag had an immediate soothing effect. He could breathe easier now, but he couldn’t relax completely.
“Aram.”
It was Markus. He turned his head, but with the blindfold on, he couldn’t see his friend. He was so grateful to hear the sound of Markus’s voice that he wanted to weep, though at the same time, he hated himself for feeling that way. He should be sad that Markus was there, not glad for it. Feeling as fickle as a square knot, he curled up tighter.
“Aram, do you hear me?”
“I’m sorry you’re here,” he whispered, drowning in shame. “This is all my fault…”
“It’s not—”
“Of course it’s his fault,” snapped a different voice.
It was the voice of the man who had burned his leg with fire.
“If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be here,” the voice went on, speaking to Markus. “None of you would be here. It doesn’t make sense to lie to him.”
The man was right. Everything was his fault. He had brought death to Anai. All his life, Aram had never understood why people treated him differently, why no one ever liked him. Now he knew why—because he brought destruction to everyone he loved.
Had his mother survived? He hoped she had.
Never rely on hope. Rely on yourself.
It was one of his father’s old sayings. His father had always said little things like that. Clever things. Wise things. Aram missed them.
He wanted to cry, but he didn’t let himself. He didn’t want the man with the calm voice and the burning fire to see him weak.
He heard the noise of footsteps walking toward him. Aram stilled his breathing, for he was afraid to move so much as his chest. Behind his back, his fingers twitched. There was a gap of silence that seemed broader than all the sky. Around him, the sounds of the camp faded to obscurity.
“What’s your name?” The man’s voice was soft and smooth like velvet.
Aram didn’t want to tell him his name. He felt a sudden pressure squeezing him on the inside. Like a giant, clawed fist that gripped his backbone. It didn’t hurt, but it was the eeriest feeling he’d ever known.
“I’m going to remove your blindfold,” the man said. “I want to see your eyes.”
Aram didn’t want him to see his eyes. They were an outward symbol of all that was wrong with him. But more than that, with the blindfold off, he would have to look at the man. He didn’t want to. He was afraid to see his colors.
The man grasped him by the shoulders and raised him into a sitting position. Then he reached behind Aram’s head and gently untied the knot, removing the strip of cloth bandage from around his head.
When the blindfold fell away, Aram gasped at the swirling colors that surrounded the blond man in a dizzying aura, so bright they were hard to look at.
Too many colors…
Leaning forward, the man inspected him closely, staring deeply into his eyes.
“Opal.” He nodded as though confirming a suspicion.
Aram glanced from the man to Markus, who sat across from him against the trunk of a tree, his hands bound behind his back. Markus looked pale and terrified. His eyes were red and raw, and there was a mark on his cheek that had started swelling.
On the ground beside them, Master Ebra lay unconscious on a tarp. His face and head were covered in blood, and there was more blood on his clothes. His eyes were swollen shut, his lips split, and his nose had been badly broken.
Aram felt his stomach cringe with nausea. Master Ebra looked bad. He looked very bad. He looked like he was dying.
Aram shivered, feeling the blond man’s eyes on him. He was afraid of him. Afraid of his colors.
The man sat hunched over, white-gloved hands resting on his knees. He gazed at Aram with piercing eyes, as though trying to peer deep inside him. He sat back, picking up a stick from the ground and resting it against his knee.
“My name is Sergan Parsigal. For now, you may call me Sergan.” The many-colored man smiled a grim smile. He said nothing more for a moment, as though he were waiting for something to happen. Eventually, the smile slipped from his face. “I have told you my name. Now, I would like you to tell me yours.” He raised his eyebrows, looking back and forth between Aram and Markus.
A long, uncomfortable minute dragged by, after which he let out a mirthless chuckle. “You don’t like to talk much, do you?”
Fools always talk. Wise men listen.
That’s what his father had always said.
“Fortunately, you don’t have to tell me,” said Sergan. “Someone already did.”
Aram glanced down. When he looked back up, he found Sergan’s gaze locked on his face. The colors around him stagnated, slowly running together like bleeding paint, growing darker as they mixed.
“Your name is Aramon Raythe,” the man said. “And you are Markus Galliar.”
Aram glanced at Markus, wondering how the many-colored man could know their names.
Sergan tapped the stick he was holding against his boot. “That’s what the bard told me, anyway. The real bard.” He cast a meaningful grin at Markus, whose face reddened. His eyebrows pinched and his eyes narrowed, glistening as they filled with tears.
“He isn’t doing very well,” Sergan said softly, sparing a glance for poor Master Ebra. “I’m afraid he doesn’t like to talk much, either.”
Aram understood why Master Ebra hadn’t wanted to talk to this man. The bard could see auras too, just like him. He probably hadn’t liked Sergan’s colors either.
“You son of a bitch!” Markus growled, glaring at Sergan with hatred in his eyes.
Aram winced. He’d never heard Markus talk like that. He’d never heard any boy talk like that, especially not to an adult.
For some reason, Sergan seemed to find humor in the comment. “Why, yes, I am a son of a bitch. I have to be. It’s my job, you see.”
“What’s your job?” Aram asked, honestly curious.
Sergan turned to him, and his smile finally warmed, if only just a bit. “I’m a sorcerer of the Exilari. A Rift Warden.” He said it as easily as though admitting to being a wainwright or a blacksmith.
Aram’s spine went rigid, hearing that. His hands were still tied behind his back, which was an awful feeling. A vulnerable feeling. He needed his hands, needed them badly. Whenever he was nervous or afraid, tying knots was the only thing that gave him comfort. Right now, more than ever, Aram needed that comfort, because he suddenly realized what Sergan’s swirling colors meant.
He was gazing into the face of a predator.
Chapter Fourteen
The sorcerer smiled congenially. “Enough about me. I want to talk about you, for both of you are indeed special.” He looked at Aram. “I have never felt the kind of power you used l
ast night. No one has. No one alive, at any rate. You ruptured the Veil all by yourself. That’s impressive.” For the first time, he had real emotion in his voice, and a passionate excitement lit his eyes. “And you, Markus. You’re a True Impervious, the only one I’ve ever met.”
Aram glanced at Markus, wondering what ‘Impervious’ meant. It was a word he’d never heard before. Markus was staring hard at the ground, ignoring the sorcerer. If he was surprised by the man’s statement, he didn’t let on about it.
“What are you going to do with us?” Aram asked quietly.
“I’ll be taking you to Karaqor,” the sorcerer answered. “It’s where we—the Exilari, that is—have our headquarters.” He tossed the stick he was holding over his shoulder. “You, Markus, will be trained as a Shield. People like you aren’t found every day, and your talents—or lack of them—are sorely needed. My superiors will also be very excited to meet Aram. No one like him has been discovered in generations.”
Beside them, Master Ebra let out a groan. He moved a little bit, thrashing his head back and forth. He was still unconscious, though Aram could tell he was in great pain. He didn’t like seeing that. Master Ebra was a good man, and he didn’t deserve what had happened to him.
“Can’t you help him?” he asked.
“No. I have little use for him, and he’ll probably die anyway. He’s not worth the essence.”
To Aram, it sounded like the sorcerer could help Master Ebra, but was choosing not to. He wondered why he would do that. Even if he had little use for him, Master Ebra was still useful to other people. He wondered why Sergan would have gone through all that trouble to bring him along in the first place, just to watch him die.
His leg was starting to throb again. He wasn’t sure what Sergan had done to it. The bleeding had stopped, though the pain seemed even worse than before. He was miserable in other ways too. The coarse hemp rope bit into his skin, and he hadn’t had a sip of water since morning. His mouth was so dry it felt stuffed with sand.
