by ML Spencer
Frantic, he turned his attention to the nearest candle, willing it to snuff itself out. The candle flame wavered blissfully, ignorant of his need. Aram narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the colorful threads that flickered around it, and reached out with his mind to touch them. But, just like they always did when no one was in danger, the filaments parted like vapor and wouldn’t let him grasp them.
He shook his head. “Please. I can’t. Please….”
“Then down you go.”
“No.” Aram’s tears spilled down his face. “Please. I’ll try again.”
But he knew he couldn’t. One last time, he held his breath and reached out desperately for the threads of aether.
Once again, his attempt failed.
He blew out a heavy sigh, wilting with despair. “Please don’t put me in the well.”
Sergan gestured to the shaft. “Climb onto the bucket, or I’ll have Markus flogged.”
Hope flared. At last, someone else was at stake. Aram turned to the nearest candle and pinched his brow in concentration, knowing that now he could put it out.
But nothing happened.
It was just a dirty trick, he realized with despair. Sergan had made it clear that Markus’s punishment didn’t hinge on his use of magic. The only way Markus would be hurt was if Aram didn’t obey and let the sorcerer lower him into the well.
Sniffing back his tears, he drew himself upright and turned to Sergan. “You won’t have to hurt Markus. I’ll go.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Aram leaned over the opening of the window and peered down the well shaft. There was no light down there, so he couldn’t see the bottom. The rope disappeared into bottomless shadows, and anything could be down there. Anything at all. Aram drew back, feeling his courage start to slip.
“Let me by,” Sergan snapped.
Aram stepped back to let the sorcerer take his place at the window. Sergan grabbed hold of the rope and started hauling. From somewhere above came the sound of a pully creaking as it turned. Hand over hand, Sergan pulled the rope through the pully, which screeched in protest every time he yanked. Aram stood rigid, his hands and feet tingling, his heart thrumming with wild abandon. A slick sweat had broken out across his forehead and on his palms.
At last, a wooden pail appeared. Sergan stopped pulling and grabbed the pail, tossing the water out of it and hooking it on a metal rod that had been put there for that purpose.
Sergan said with unbearable calmness, “Go fetch a candle.”
Aram’s body reacted automatically without his mind willing it to. He went and fetched a taper off the wall, handing it to Sergan. The sorcerer blew it out, then broke it in half before handing top part back to Aram.
“You’ll keep this candle on you the whole way down, and you better not drop it. When you manage to light it, I’ll haul you back up. Not before.”
“What if I can’t?” Aram asked, his voice wavering. His jaw was beginning to tremble as he stared straight ahead at the shaft.
“Then you will spend the rest of your life in agony,” the sorcerer responded with the same, implacable calm.
“What?” Aram whispered, hoping he’d heard him wrong.
Sergan turned to fix him with a frigid glare.
“If I fail to teach you to use magic at will, then my superiors will hand you over to the Extractors, who will take you down to the essence cellars. There, they will bind you and stab a hot poker into your eyes to prevent you from using magic ever again. After your eyes are burned out of your head, they will strap you to a table, where they will extract what’s inside you to be distilled like liquor. It’s an excruciating process that involves inflicting a tremendous amount of mental pain, enough so that your body responds by secreting essence in a desperate attempt to stop the anguish. As the essence leaks from you, it’s harvested and stored for people like me to consume.”
Aram could only stare at him, slack-jawed and numb, stunned by the horror of it. Part of him wanted to deny Sergan’s words, deny that anyone could possibly be that evil. But another part of him knew that Sergan was that evil. And everyone like him.
“What would you do to Markus?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Markus is in no danger. He will be trained as a Shield, and eventually, he’ll be awarded to me.”
Aram backed away from the man, slowly shaking his head. There were a hundred things he wanted to say, and all of them started with ‘I can’t believe you would…’
But that was the problem. He knew Sergan would do everything he promised. Which was why he had to go into the well.
“Then move, so I can get over.” Strangely, his voice sounded just as calm and even as the sorcerer’s.
When Sergan stepped aside, Aram limped to the window and placed the candle in the bucket. Swinging his bad leg over the sill, he waited for the sorcerer to take hold of the rope before closing his eyes and swinging his other leg over to straddle the pail.
“Go ahead,” Aram whispered, trying not to stare straight down into the dark shaft.
Without a word, Sergan complied, lowering the bucket down the shaft in jarring increments. Aram clutched the rope, which creaked overhead as the pail beneath him swung in a pendulous arc. Every time Sergan let the rope slip, a rain of dust from the rope’s fibers fell into his eyes. Nevertheless, Aram kept his head craned back, preferring to look up instead of down.
Slowly, the light faded in the shaft and shadows closed in around him. Still, the pail continued its relentless journey downward as the light above drew further away. The air of the shaft was cool, and it smelled wetly of old mildew. From somewhere down below, he could hear the slow, consistent noise of dripping water. Little by little, the pail lowered until the light overhead was just a distant glow, barely more than a memory.
His feet touched water.
Startled, Aram reached down and grabbed the candle from the pail before it could float away. Then with a splash, the rest of him went in, and his head plunged under. He clung to the rope, using it to pull himself back to the surface and then keep himself there, so that he wouldn’t have to tread water.
“I can’t see!” he shouted up the shaft. “I can’t light the candle if I can’t see it!”
A light blossomed directly above him like a silvery mist.
“Light the candle.” Sergan’s voice echoed from above, reverberating hollowly off the walls of the shaft.
But Aram couldn’t. It was all he could do to keep the taper out of the water and cling to the rope at the same time.
He was starting to panic. His breath came in gasps that made him dizzy. The rope had stopped moving and creaking. He was trembling. Shaking. His fingers ached, screaming to open up and let go.
Fear is your enemy. Don’t surrender to it.
It was his father’s voice, echoing in his mind. The sound of it comforted him. Strengthened him. Soothed the exhausted muscles of his hands and calmed his brain so that he could think.
The water lapped at him, wanting to slurp him down. He couldn’t let it. There had to be some way to light the candle, some way to convince himself that Markus would be in danger without him. But the sorcerer had deliberately chased that possibility from his mind.
He was shivering, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from cold or fear or both rolled up into one.
He concentrated on the candle, applying all of his mind to it. It would take so little effort to create a spark, just enough to make a flame. All he had to do was sever one thread of aether and release the energy stored within it.
But to sever a thread, he had to touch it first, and the aether around him remained as intangible as the air. His tears came back, and this time he didn’t try to stop them.
They would be coming for him, to take him away. They would burn out his eyes and strap him to a table. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life screaming in agony.
But then he realized he didn’t have to.
He could simply let go.
“Light the candle, Ar
am,” came Sergan’s voice, echoing distantly. “Don’t make me hand you over to them. Just light the candle.”
Aram glanced down at the cold, dark water, feeling empowered by it. He didn’t have to spend the rest of his life in the cellars. He had a choice.
Growing up in a seaside village, he had seen people drown. He had also listened to the accounts of survivors who had been revived after drowning. They all said the same thing: that after the fight leaves you and the water fills your lungs, all that is left is a great sense of peace.
That’s what he wanted.
Peace.
Aram opened his hand and dropped the candle, letting it fall into the black water.
Then he let go of the rope.
He slipped beneath the surface and bobbed back up, treading water while resisting the impulse to climb onto the rope. He knew that rope would become a problem later on. When the panic set in, he didn’t think he could stop himself from reaching out for it. He would have to swim down as deep as he could, deep enough that he wouldn’t be able to fight his way back up.
“Aram!” Sergan’s voice echoed down the shaft. “Did you let go?”
I did.
“Climb back onto the bucket, Aram. I’ll haul you up.”
No.
“Climb up, Aram. I won’t give you to them. I promise. Just climb back up.”
But he wasn’t going to climb back up. He had to go, now, before he started believing the sorcerer’s lies.
“Aram! Take the rope!”
No.
With a last breath of air, he let himself sink beneath the surface. He turned and swam downward toward the bottom of the well, kicking hard and taking long, steady strokes. It was difficult. Swimming into that cold darkness went against every instinct of self-preservation. He forced himself to swim deeper and deeper, until his lungs started burning. Then the anxiety set in, making him doubt himself.
Fear is your enemy. Don’t surrender to it.
His father’s voice helped a bit. It strengthened his resolve, allowing him to continue, to push himself deeper, until he was past the point of no return.
He swam as hard as he could, until his lungs burned for air and panic overcame his courage, snatching away his control. Suddenly desperate, he turned and started back, kicking and clawing for the surface. He wanted out of the water, he wanted to breathe again, he wanted to go home.
Soon the urge to breathe became unbearable. He clenched his jaw to keep from inhaling, struggling to go faster, fighting as hard as he could. He could see the light of the shaft so very far above, so far out of reach.
The burning pressure in his lungs made him feel like his insides were on fire. He couldn’t bear it any longer. The pain was excruciating. He didn’t have the strength to endure.
Giving in, Aram opened his mouth and sucked in a great, great, gasp.
Cold water filled him. He could feel the weight of it dragging him down. The water made his lungs burn worse … so much worse. It hurt so badly. So very, very badly.
The darkness around him receded, glittering with innumerable sparkling lights.
A great calmness descended upon him. It cradled him like a mother’s embrace, bringing him comfort and peace. He stopped kicking and just floated there, letting the gentle water rock him to sleep.
See you soon, papa…
He felt his father’s strong arms wrap around him, holding him tight.
Pulling him upward toward the surface.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Markus sat next to Poda at one of the long tables in the dining hall, sore from the day’s exercises in the practice yard. He’d spent half the day sprinting back and forth to the river and the other half of the day swimming in it. His muscles felt like limp rags of cloth with all the strength wrung out of them. He kept glancing at the doorway, wondering where Aram was.
“Next time, I won’t let Obriem beat me,” grumbled Poda. “I thought I’d had him, but my foot slipped.”
“Oh, your foot slipped?” Peshka asked with a taunting grin on her face. “Like it does when it goes in your mouth?”
Poda chuckled. “Yeah. Like that.”
Earlier, Poda had, in so many words, called Sword Brother Davir old. He hadn’t meant to, but Poda was shy and sometimes he got things twisted around in his mouth. Davir probably knew what he meant but chose to make a big deal of it anyway. He’d challenged Poda to a wrestling match, which hadn’t ended well. Poda’s lip had been split right down the middle, and he limped a little when he walked, which was why Obriem had beat him in the footrace.
Markus glanced at the door and frowned. It was getting late. Supper was just about over, and Aram still hadn’t returned from his lessons with Sergan. Markus couldn’t imagine what was keeping him. The sorcerer had kept him to himself all day—he had even missed afternoon exercises.
“Hey, where’s your friend?” asked Poda.
“I don’t know.” Markus tore off a bite of bread and chewed on it, his eyes darting back to the dining hall door.
Peshka said, “That was incredible what he did in class. I can’t believe how smart he is.”
“Yeah. Aram’s smart, all right.”
Halfway down the table, Babalo erupted in a fit of shrill laughter and hand clapping. His partner, the Odessian girl named Enari, stood up from the table and fled toward the door in tears. Seeing the way Enari could handle a sword, Markus was sure he wouldn’t want to be Babalo tonight.
The bell rang and everyone in the hall rose from their tables and headed for the door, leaving their empty plates behind for the servants to pick up. Markus followed the flow of the crowd out into the courtyard then stopped and turned back, hoping to see Aram. He waited in the twilight, watching people making their way back to the dormitories, until the last person drifted past him and the door shut. He stood in the courtyard a moment longer, alone, before finally turning and heading back toward Small House.
As he walked, he gazed out at the fading sunset that was already waning to purple on the horizon. The courtyard’s braziers had been lit, drawing bats that fluttered by overhead in search of insects attracted by the light. It was a pleasant evening, warmer than the past two had been. The nights in Small House could get cold, and there was no hearth to warm their beds.
Markus was hoping to find Aram in the cell they shared but was disappointed to find that his friend hadn’t returned yet. When Ando Nambe came along to lock the door for the night, the big eunuch peeked his head in and frowned heavily, scrunching up his face.
“Where is Initiate Raythe?”
“I don’t know.” Markus couldn’t keep the apprehension he felt out of his voice. “He was with Lord Parsigal … but it’s been hours.”
Ando Nambe nodded slightly. “I will check.”
He closed the door, shutting out the light of the hallway. As complete darkness fell over him, Markus heard the sound of the key turning the lock. He lay down on his cot and drew his blanket over him. He wondered if Ando Nambe would stay to let Aram in when he arrived. He lay there for a long while, waiting, his mind torn between exhaustion and anxiety.
Eventually, exhaustion won out.
The lock turned, and the cell door opened.
Markus jerked upright, throwing off sleep and squinting into the glare of the light. Holding his hand up to shield his eyes, he made out the shape of Ando Nambe silhouetted in the doorway. With a glance at Aram’s cot, he noted that it was still empty.
“Where’s Aram?”
“Initiate Raythe took ill,” the eunuch informed him. “He is in the infirmary.”
Ando Nambe stepped back from the doorway, using his key to unlock another cell door. Markus stood and followed after him, alarmed by the news.
“Took ill with what?”
Ando Nambe didn’t look at him, “Lord Parsigal did not say.”
“Is he all right?”
The big man finally turned to frown at him. “Worry less about Initiate Raythe and more about your physical training. Sword Broth
er Davir says you are not giving enough effort.”
A sleepy Babalo wandered out of his cell, rubbing his eyes. Markus stepped past him, trailing after the eunuch. Apprehension screamed at him that something was wrong. He didn’t trust these people, didn’t trust them with Aram especially. He had no reason to believe them and every reason not to.
He demanded, “I want to see Aram.”
Ando Nambe continued down the hallway toward the door. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Initiate Raythe will return when he is well.”
That wasn’t good enough for Markus, but he could tell by the eunuch’s dismissive indifference that he would get no further information from him. Reluctantly, he followed the other students out to the practice yard through the gray light of early morning. There, they met Sword Brother Davir, who stood before them in a padded arming jacket, holding a wooden practice sword and carrying a wooden shield. Spread out on rugs before him were eight other practice swords and shields.
Markus came forward and selected a sword and shield and was shocked by how heavy they were. The sword was easily twice as heavy as any metal sword he had ever held, as though it had been weighted, its insides hollowed out and filled with iron. The shield was similarly weighted, not quite as outrageously as the sword, but enough to make him realize that the day’s lessons would be exhausting.
“Who can tell me why we train with wooden swords?” Davir asked.
“So we don’t get injured fighting with real ones,” Obriem responded.
“There is that. What else?”
“So we don’t hurt real swords?” Enari asked.
“There is that also. Now. Why do we train with weighted swords?”
“To make us stronger and faster,” Markus responded.
“Yes.” Davir smiled. “We train with weighted swords and shields so when it becomes necessary for us to wield real weapons, they will feel light and agile in our hands. You may set your shields down. Markus, come here. Bring your sword with you.”
Markus set his shield down and moved forward to stand in front of the other students.
