by ML Spencer
Calise sat blinking, taken aback by what had just happened. Luvana had just shut the conversation down prematurely, before she had a chance to agree to anything—or disagree. She glanced uncomfortably at Luvana and found the Dedicant Mother staring at her as though daring her to protest. Her stomach scrunched. Calise had always heard that Luvana had the personality of a battle axe, but this was the first she’d had a chance to experience it.
“Why is the boy with Esmir?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it make better sense to bring him to the infirmary?”
“Esmir seems to think the boy might have what it takes to be a Champion,” Luvana stated casually, as though speaking of a piece of furniture or the ingredients of a dish. “He wants to keep him close.”
Calise’s confusion deepened. “But, Mother, I thought you forbid training any more Gifted.”
“I did. But this boy is not merely Gifted.”
Calise’s jaw dropped. “The boy’s a Savant?”
Luvana nodded gravely. “We believe so. Will you help him?”
Calise was speechless. She sat staring straight ahead, blinking slowly, as she pondered the implications. A True Savant hadn’t been born in hundreds of years. If this boy could pass the Trials and become a Champion, then they still had hope of defeating Araghar.
“Of course,” she whispered absently, the mug of honeywine forgotten in her hand.
Luvana removed it from her grip, then stood, motioning her toward the door. “Thank you very much, my dear. Do you know your way to the Heights?”
Calise nodded, drifting toward the door in a daze.
She left Luvana’s quarters and mounted the steps to the Heights, the abandoned cliffs of Skyhome where the eyries that had once housed the Greater Dragons were located. Of all the eyries in the Heights, only one was still occupied, and that was Esmir’s. Even though his dragon had been lost centuries before, the old man had remained behind, the lone survivor of a lost heritage.
As Calise arrived before Esmir Revin’s eyrie, tendrils of anxiety squirmed across her skin. For a moment, she paused, staring at the humble-looking oaken door in front of her that led to the eyrie that had once belonged to Daymar Torian and his dragon, Agaroth the Red, two names right out of legend. Esmir had been Torian’s Warden, his friend, his partner in life. But Esmir had failed his Champion—a failure that had resulted in the loss of Araghar … and the loss of Daymar Torian.
Calise shuddered, thinking of the boy, and raised her hand to knock. It took some time before she heard the sound of shuffling footsteps on the other side. The door cracked open, and out peered an old man with a greasy gray beard and a red nose much too big for his face, which was beleaguered by a perpetual frown. Without preamble, Esmir pulled the door open wider and beckoned her inside, gesturing toward a large alcove at the far end of the cavern.
Nervous, Calise muttered a greeting and stepped inside the ancient eyrie. She paused, her eyes taking in the enormous chamber that had once housed Greater Dragons. A pool of clear water gurgled in the center of the chamber, fed by the Wellspring that existed deep beneath Skyhome. There were two room-sized alcoves carved out of the walls on either side of the main cavern, for the eyrie was meant to house two large dragons and their riders. The cavity on the right stood dark and empty. The alcove on the left, partially hidden by a wicker partition, contained a bed and several other items of furniture, as well as its own hearth, and was exceedingly cluttered with what looked like a lifetime’s worth of items that had never once been gone through and sorted.
Esmir pulled back the partition and led her through the cluttered alcove to the bed, upon which lay the boy beneath a mound of covers. A chair had been pulled up next to the bed, and Calise sat down upon it, leaning forward to take in the boy’s features.
He was older than she’d thought he’d be. With all of Luvana’s talk of a boy, she wasn’t expecting a youth of fifteen or sixteen years. His skin was waxy, stretched tight over a face that might have been handsome if it wasn’t so thin and mottled. Matted, reddish-brown hair clung to his forehead, and his breathing was weak and shallow. Apparently, the Dedicant Mother hadn’t overstated his condition.
She glanced up at Esmir. “What happened to him?”
The old man stared down at the youth through scraggly strands of white-streaked hair. “He was tortured and reaped of essence.”
Calise sucked in a breath, looking back at the boy with profound sympathy. No wonder his face looked so haggard and drawn. He was too young to experience such horror.
“Where did he come from?” she asked.
Esmir pursed his lips. “The Abadian Empire, I believe.”
“Where is that?” She had never heard of the place.
“The World Above.”
Calise glanced at Esmir, thinking he was being sarcastic. When she realized he wasn’t, she stared harder at the young man on the bed. He appeared to be Auld, though it was hard to tell. Were there still Auld in the World Above?
“Who would do such things to a boy?” She placed a hand on his brow and was shocked by the lack of warmth in his skin.
“There are a great many people who would.” Esmir sighed heavily. “We have our work cut out for us. His muscles are atrophied, and he’s obviously suffered from hunger, so whoever did this had him for a long while. There’s much damage here that needs undoing.”
Calise nodded, understanding. “I’ll do what I can for him.”
She felt a strong presence behind them and turned toward the mouth of the eyrie. “Here’s Zandril.”
Esmir hurried across the cavern to the wicker partition and slid it back, exposing the mouth of the cavern. A shadow passed over the wide terrace beyond the opening as something outside blocked the sunlight. Seconds later, a small golden dragon alighted on the end of the terrace with elegant precision and folded her graceful wings. Noticing Esmir, she froze, her delicate head slightly tilted, the round pupils of her eyes contracting to slits. But then she relaxed and slinked forward, moving with the grace of a stalking leopard, the firm muscles of her shoulders rippling beneath her glistening skin.
Smiling, Calise rose and crossed the alcove to meet her soul-bound companion, thankful she was here. She hugged Zandril’s sinuous neck, the dragon returning the gesture by drawing her close. Zandril was a beautiful creature, with a long, tapered head that ended in a beak-like snout. She had twin horns that looked carved from jasper, and her eyes were a burnished gold, large and expressive. Darker, soft spines ran the length of her back, all the way to the end of her serpentine tail. Releasing Calise, the dragon turned to consider the man standing next to her with a look of reproach that was impossible to mistake.
“It’s just Esmir,” Calise said, scratching Zandril under the chin. “Come, love. There’s a boy I want you to meet.”
Calise turned and walked back into the alcove. Zandril followed her with a side-eyed glare of distrust for the old Warden when she passed. Calise worked hurriedly to move odds and ends out of the dragon’s way, while Esmir scooted furniture. When the area in the center of the floor was cleared, Zandril crept forward, pausing before the bed and tilting her head like a hawk. Tentatively, she extended her neck and sniffed the boy’s face, her eye ridges constricting in an expression that looked very much like human concern.
“What do you think?” asked Calise.
She felt Zandril’s response in her head, an upwelling of sympathy for the broken creature on the bed. The dragon settled to the floor, curling her body on the rug as she did for sleep. But instead of tucking her head beneath her wing, as was her custom, Zandril rested it instead across the boy’s legs.
Calise smiled at Esmir. “I think she’s adopted him.”
Aram opened his eyes to find himself encased by the same darkness that gripped him every night in his narrow cell. Fear had woken him from sleep, as it always did. He was cold and shivering, and he could feel the panic already setting in. He didn’t know what time it was, but he was terrified it was morning. That’s when they came.
Every other morning, without fail. Terrified, he gave a whimpering moan, tears of panic coursing down his face. He had lost the will to fight a long time ago. Now, deprived of all semblance of courage and dignity, all he could do was cower.
When he heard the metallic ring of keys, he shrieked and scampered to the corner, tucking his body against the cold, filth-greased wall of his prison. He squatted there in the dark, shaking and hyperventilating, whimpering in fear, completely naked, for he wasn’t allowed to wear clothing in his cell, lest he try to strangle himself.
The door opened with a metallic shriek, and a dark form stood silhouetted in the doorway. Aram curled up, covering his face and pressing his trembling body back against the wall, shaking his head frantically.
When the man stepped forward to claim him, he started screaming.
“No!” Aram shrieked. “No more! Please! No more!”
The man reached out to haul him from the cell.
But then the man evaporated, as did the cell around him.
The shadows receded.
A soothing tranquility settled over him like an invisible embrace filled with warmth and compassion. A strong, protective presence entered his mind, pressing its soul against his and lending him a sense of comfort and security he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
He felt a soothing hand stroke his hair.
“It’s all right … It’s all right … we’re here. You’re safe.”
A calm, feminine voice uttered words in an accent he’d never heard before. Yet the profound sense of serenity that voice brought him made him sigh in relief, and he could feel the tension leaving his body, draining right away.
For the first time in years, he felt content.
Opening his eyes, Aram gazed upward into a face he didn’t recognize. It belonged to a teenage girl, close to his own age, with brown, shoulder-length hair and freckles, and a nose that looked slightly askew. Her compassionate smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She had a yellow aura like Mora Haseleu, though richer and far more golden.
“Who are you?” he tried to whisper, but the words came out raspy and barely audible.
“I’m Calise,” the girl said. “I’m a friend.”
Her accent was thick but beautiful. Some of the consonants were softened, the vowels drawn out in a way that made her words sound almost like a foreign language, though he understood her. “Where’s Markus?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.”
Aram closed his heavy eyelids and slipped toward sleep. But then her voice brought him back.
“Here. Drink.”
She propped his head up and held a cup to his lips. The water that entered his mouth was the purest he had ever tasted. Aram drank as much as he could, until he was too tired to swallow any more. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed, letting go.
“Sleep, my friend.”
The comforting presence was back, enfolding him, and he knew he wasn’t alone. It was like another mind pressed against his in an embrace that was warm and soothing, and he understood that he was protected and secure. The strength of that presence was almost overwhelming, and he knew it would never let anything harm him ever again. With a smile on his lips, Aram faded back to sleep.
He slept a long time.
Sometime in the night, the shadows started slipping back again, and he felt the cold darkness of his cell encase him once more. He started shivering in anticipation of the pain.
His door creaked metallically, making him tremble and whimper. “No… Please, no…”
But then the presence inserted itself between him and the doorway, denying entry to those who wanted to claim him.
The door closed and locked.
The shadows receded.
Later that night, when that door tried opening again, the protective presence was back, shielding him, making the shadows go away. Each time that door tried to open, it closed quickly, until finally, it stayed closed and locked.
“You’re all right,” whispered the feminine voice. “You’re safe. Sleep, my friend.”
He slept.
And for once, it was a peaceful sleep.
When Aram awoke, the girl was gone.
In her place was a dragon.
Aram screamed, cringing back from the powerful figure that loomed over him like a sentinel pine. The dragon tilted its head and peered down at him intently, as though contemplating how best to eat him. Aram curled into a ball, but that was all he could do to protect himself. He didn’t have the strength to squirm away from the beast. His limbs felt like they were weighted down with lead.
The dragon extended its head toward him and sniffed. As it did, a peaceful sense of comfort filled his mind and, at that moment, Aram recognized that this was the guardian who had been watching over him, the fierce presence standing between him and the man in the doorway of his nightmares.
Aram’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude, and he reached his hand toward the dragon’s face. He touched his fingers to the soft muzzle, which was covered in smooth scales that felt like satin. Movement beside him caught his attention, and he turned to see the face of the girl that had appeared in his dreams. What she was still doing here, outside of the dream, he didn’t know, but her very presence was comforting.
“Thank you,” he whispered, filled with a strong sense of certainty that he would have died without this girl and her dragon’s intervention. “Thank you both.”
“You’re welcome,” the girl responded with a smile.
Aram frowned at her voice, which sounded so familiar and yet so foreign. Something about her speech reminded him of the way some of the old farmers talked. Perhaps her people were some distant relation.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Aram smiled weakly. “I’m better. Thank you.”
“Are you hungry?”
Aram’s smile grew bigger. “Yes. I’m hungry.”
She patted his shoulder then stood and walked away, leaving him with the dragon, which he regarded with curiosity. It was far smaller than the void dragon who had carried him here, wherever here was. It was only then that he realized he was in a bed, the softest bed he had ever lain on, within some kind of cave that had been converted to a home. He looked around at the stone walls and the dilapidated furniture, wondering if this was the dragon’s den, though it looked more like the cave of a hermit.
The girl returned a minute later, carrying a bowl and spoon. Settling into a chair at his side, she set the bowl down then arranged the pillows behind his head, propping him up, then brought a spoonful of golden liquid to his lips.
“Open.”
“What is it?” Aram asked.
“Broth.”
Aram sipped the spoonful of broth, which was rich and delicious, the best he’d ever swallowed in his life. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste and texture of fresh food, something he hadn’t had in a long, long time.
“More broth?”
He nodded and let her spoon him another mouthful. The broth felt good and warm in his stomach. He drank as much as he could, but then his eyes started feeling heavy again.
“Better?”
“Yes…” Aram whispered. “Better.”
She smiled, setting down the bowl. “Sleep, my friend.”
With a smile, he obeyed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Markus lay on his stomach in the infirmary, every breath he drew an excruciating labor. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, and it took him some time to remember how he’d ended up there. He heard the squeak of a chair next to him and then winced at the sight of an Exilari mantle. He couldn’t see who it belonged to because he was too weak to turn his head.
“There’s an arrow in you.” He recognized Sergan’s voice. “It went through your ribs and into your lung, and that’s where it got stuck.”
Markus knew the sorcerer was right, for he could feel the arrowhead there, wearing at his tissues every time he drew a breath. His lung was heavy with fluid, ei
ther infection or blood, and his chest gurgled and popped with every inhalation.
Sergan’s voice went on, “Now, we have two options: either pull it out of you or push it through. The arrow’s barbed, and it’s held onto the shaft with sinew, which softens when it gets wet. So, it’s unlikely we could pull it out with the arrowhead still attached. Which means we’re pushing it through.” He leaned closer to Markus’s ear. “Regretting your actions yet?”
He was not. Aram was out of the dungeons and wouldn’t have to suffer there another day. His own suffering was acute, but it wouldn’t last forever.
Sergan drew back. “I think it’s rather ironic that your attempt to save your friend actually killed him. Aram’s dead, by the way, in case you didn’t know. Void dragon.”
He’d already known that. Markus had seen the void dragon snatch Aram up in its deadly jaws. He was glad for him, for he knew his friend was now beyond the sorcerers’ reach, and they couldn’t hurt him anymore. He just wished he could join him, but he knew that Sergan Parsigal didn’t have the mercy to execute him. He drew in another excruciating breath that popped and wheezed, and he had to clamp his jaw to keep from coughing. The arrow was agony, and he wanted it out, one way or another.
He found the strength to look up and saw Sergan rise and move his chair back, a chirurgeon coming to stand behind him. The man held some type of metal instrument that looked twisted and brutal.
“Awake or unconscious?” the chirurgeon asked.
Sergan appeared to think about it a moment, his face squirming through expressions as though tormented by the decision, at last muttering reluctantly, “Put him out.”
The chirurgeon came forward. “Probably for the best.”
Markus didn’t protest as the chirurgeon pulled out a flask of amber liquid and uncorked it, spilling some onto a cloth.
Markus awoke in pain, but not nearly as much as before. The arrowhead was out, which was a source of heady relief. He could take all but the deepest breaths without experiencing too much pain. His lungs no longer sounded like he was breathing through a froth of soap bubbles, and the air was much easier to move.
