by ML Spencer
Opening his eyes, he saw that he still lay in the infirmary. All of the other beds were empty, including the one Aram had occupied when they said he had drowned. Looking at that bed, Markus’s eyes started to water. He hoped that, wherever he was, his young friend forgave him and understood.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling and drifting in and out of sleep. He had no idea how much time had passed since his ill-fated rescue attempt. It seemed like only hours but judging by the amount of pain he was in, it was more likely days.
He recognized the sound of Sergan’s footsteps when the sorcerer entered the room. There was something about them that was unmistakable, as though Sergan’s arrogance affected even the sound of his stride. Markus didn’t want to look at him but was forced to when the man arrived at his bedside. He was dressed in his formal robes, his hair pulled back and neatly tied. In his hands, he carried a sack of wine.
“I brought you a gift,” he said and set the wine sack down on a table by the bed. “It’s fresh from the vineyard. I’m happy to see you’re feeling better.”
Markus couldn’t stand to look at him, so he directed his stare back up at the ceiling.
“I came to let you know that I’ve forgiven you,” Sergan went on. “You paid the price for your mistake. You killed your friend and nearly killed yourself. All for nothing, really. Aram was so weak, he wouldn’t have survived the rescue, I’m told.”
Markus glared at him hatefully.
“I’ll be leaving for a year,” Sergan told him. “While I’m gone, do everything your betters tell you to do. I’m told that when you graduate, you will be awarded to me. I’m sure we’ll make a very effective partnership. Our talents have already been commissioned by the Emperor. You’ll have the chance to save thousands of lives from monsters like the one that killed Aram. I’ll leave you with the wine.”
Sergan started to turn away but then paused. His hand went to his side, withdrawing a flask of Aram’s essence from his pouch. “I really hope that we can let bygones be bygones. Try to understand that this”—he waggled the flask in front of Markus’s face—“is what’s going to save those thousands of lives.”
Then he turned and walked away, the sounds of his arrogant stride echoing off the walls of the infirmary.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Aram awoke groggy from the most peaceful sleep he remembered ever experiencing.
The girl and the dragon were gone. He was alone in a large cave that reminded him of the one he’d had when he was a boy, where he’d kept his knot collection. Only, instead of mold and seawater, this cave smelled of cloves and roasting meat.
He tested his limbs and found that they had more life in them. Gathering his strength, he pushed himself upright and sat looking around the cave. It was bigger than he’d thought, for the area he was in was just a niche carved into the wall of an even larger cavern. There was a fire pit in the middle of the room that served as a hearth, with a kettle suspended over the flames. Whatever was in the kettle was filling the room with a mouth-watering aroma. Dozens of rugs covered the floor, all looking decades old. In fact, the entire living space looked well-used and yet entirely neglected. Every aspect of it seemed foreign, from the interlaced designs of the tapestries to the sinuous shapes of the furniture.
He heard the screech of a scooting chair and turned to see an old man rise from a desk and amble toward him with an arthritic stride. The man looked like he had been tall once, before his back had become stooped with age, though if he had ever had a waistline, it had long ago been consumed by his gut. His complexion was muddied brown, and his eyes were brilliant turquoise, a color Aram had never seen on a person. He wore a thick wool coat darkened by years of soot and body oil, and his hair and beard looked like they had never seen a bath.
“Where am I?” Aram asked.
“Pyrial,” the old man answered matter-of-factly. “Some call it the World Below.”
Aram believed him, for the bard’s ballad had mentioned such a place. “How did I get here?”
The old man cocked an overgrown eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”
Aram thought about it. His memories were dim, though he remembered Markus rescuing him from the cloister very vividly. After that … an image flashed in his mind of flying among the clouds with the ocean beneath him, milky-white wings bearing him higher into the sky.
“I think a dragon brought me.”
“That’s right. A dragon did bring you, but that was several weeks ago.
“Several weeks?” Aram didn’t understand. Had he been asleep all that time?
The old man nodded. “You’ve been gravely ill. The void dragon used the last of its strength to bring you to me. Do you know why?”
“No.” The news saddened Aram, for the dragon had saved his life.
“I think I do.” With a pained grimace, the old man lowered himself to sit beside him on the bed. “You see in color, don’t you?”
The question provoked a stab of fear, for nothing good had ever come from a mention of his Gift. Aram whispered, “Everyone sees in color.”
The old man scowled. “You know what I mean. You see the threads of the aether in color. Only True Savants have that ability.”
Aram cringed at the words, a jolt of panic shooting through his body, for those were the same words that had condemned him to the cellars. A panicky sweat broke out on his forehead. But though the old man looked gruff and stern, he didn’t seem like he was there to do him harm.
“My friend…” Aram said. “Markus… Did the dragon bring him too?”
“No.” The old man shook his head. “No one else. Just you.”
“He was injured trying to help me. He was hurt bad.” A great sadness filled him. “I have to go back for him.”
The old man swiped his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You can’t go back. They would find you and throw you right back in their cellars. I don’t think that’s what your friend would want.”
Aram clenched his fists in despair. Markus had been shot with an arrow in the back. At the very least, he was seriously injured. He could even be dead. But Aram knew that if he did try to go back, there was nothing he could do to help his friend. He couldn’t go anywhere near the College. The Exilari would sense him immediately. He couldn’t hide his shine, not from Sergan or those like him.
He lifted his eyes to the old man, studying the quilting of wrinkles that creased his cheeks. He saw that the man was looking at him just as intensely, as though he were studying him too.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Aram.”
The old man nodded. “My name is Esmir Revin.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
Esmir leaned forward, his gaze hardening. “Understand something, Aram. Your job for now is to recuperate in body, mind, and spirit. You will stay here with me and eat every morsel of food you can stuff down your gullet. I also want you up walking as much as possible. Your muscles are weak from disuse. We need to get you well and strong as quickly as possible.”
“Why is that?” Aram asked.
“Because this world needs a Champion.”
Aram stared at the man sideways, blinking in confusion. It took him a full second to realize what he meant and, when he did, he shook his head adamantly. “I can’t be a Champion. I can’t even help Markus.”
Esmir looked him up and down with an appraising eye. “If they let me train you to pass the Trials, believe me, you will be able to help far more people than just Markus.”
Aram continued to stare at him in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘if they let you?’”
The old man shifted position, grimacing as he transferred his weight from one hip to the other. “Every apprentice needs to be approved by the Council of Elders. I will put forth your petition.”
Aram frowned. “If I have as much potential as you say I do, then why would they not let you train me?”
“It’s less of a problem with you,” said the old man. “And more of a pr
oblem with me.” Aram waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead, the old man changed the subject. “I didn’t know there were any Auld left in the World Above.”
Aram realized he was talking about him. “I’m not Auld.”
“Well, you certainly have Auld in you.” The way the man’s eyes raked over him made Aram uncomfortable.
“I’m a Vard,” Aram explained. “It’s said we have Auld blood in our veins, but it’s diluted.”
The old man let out a grunt. “Well, your own bloodline can’t be very diluted, because you look like you could be my nephew.”
Aram frowned. “What if I don’t want to be a Champion?”
The man looked offended by the question. “What would you rather be? A milkmaid?”
Dismayed and embarrassed, Aram said quietly, “All I ever wanted to be was a sailor. That’s all.”
Esmir looked perplexed. “Why a sailor?”
“I love rope. I love knots. I’m very good at them. I’m not very good at anything else.”
The old man spread his hands. “But don’t you see? Auld magic is based on knots—it’s all about tying and breaking threads of aether. That’s why you love knots. It’s your mind trying to master what comes to you naturally: magic.”
Aram just stared at him, for the explanation frightened him as much as it excited him. For the first time in his life, he understood why he was driven to spend so much time practicing an activity that everyone around him had always considered a waste of time. His mother had always claimed that his knots were what he did with his hands when he got nervous or upset, but there had always been more to it than that. He’d always had an obsession with knots, and there were never enough knots in the world to quench his thirst for them. Now, he understood why. But that reason terrified him.
Feeling weak, Aram lay back in bed, resting his head on the overstuffed pillow. The old man leaned forward and patted his arm then rose to his feet with a grimace.
“I’m too damn old for this,” he grumbled. “You rest. There are some people I have to talk to.”
Aram felt suddenly guilty, for he knew that this man, along with the girl and her dragon, were the reason he was still alive.
“Thank you for saving me,” he said.
The old man paused, his face looking suddenly regretful. “How long did they have you, boy?”
Aram swallowed, for he wasn’t sure. “I honestly don’t know,” he said softly with a shiver. “Years, I think.”
“And how did you gain their attention in the first place?”
Ashamed, Aram hung his head. “I caused a rupture in the Veil.”
For some reason, the old man looked startled by the answer. With a grunt, he walked away.
Esmir left his young charge to rest and made straight for the stairway. Earlier, he had noticed a thin line of white smoke rising from the terrace below, so he knew that the Council was meeting. They would probably just throw him out, should he push his way in there, but he had to try. He was old enough to know that miracles didn’t fall out of the sky every day, and when they did, they usually went unrecognized—even by the people who desperately needed them.
When he reached the council chamber, Esmir paused just long enough to run his hands through his hair. He should have taken more time to clean up, but he’d been flustered by the boy’s reluctance. Drawing a deep breath, he puffed out his cheeks. Then, without knocking, he swept open the door that had been barred to him for over four hundred years, letting himself in.
Within, the members of the Council were gathered on rugs arranged around a small fire pit. There were twelve members in all, including Luvana, who, as Dedicant Mother, guided the Council, the ruling body of Skyhome. Four of the people gathered around the fire were respected windriders, true warriors of the air. There was also the head cook and the head steward, as well as representatives from the powerful craft halls. One wall of the chamber was open to the elements, revealing the bottomless chasm of the Pyranthian Gorge below them. The opening provided a mercifully swift end for those the Council convicted of crimes meriting execution and had always made Esmir nervous.
As soon as he entered the room, Luvana stopped talking in midsentence. “Warden Revin! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Her voice dripped caustic acid. “It’s been years since you’ve graced our hall.”
“It’s been years since I’ve had reason,” Esmir grumbled, limping forward.
“And what reason have you now?”
As if she didn’t know. Coming to stand across the fire pit from her, Esmir snapped, “Don’t fence with me, Luvana. You know why I’m here. I want to train the boy.” He folded his arms, not caring that every person in the room was staring at him with expressions of disgust.
Luvana flashed him a condescending smile. “That’s exactly what we convened to discuss. Please join us, Warden. Many of us have quite a few questions.”
“What questions?” Esmir grimaced as he lowered himself to the ground, his hips and knees popping in arthritic protest.
Luvana poured him a cup of tea from the pot over the fire. “For one thing, this boy is not from our world. Our war is not even his to fight.”
Wingmaster Vandra, a muscular woman with long black hair and brown skin that was thicker and rougher than cow leather, turned to regard him with a thoughtful expression. “We are told this boy fell into the hands of the Exilari, who are thralls of an Archon,” she pointed out. “How do we know he’s not in league with them?”
“He’s not a boy,” Esmir barked. “Aram is a young man. A young man they tortured for years to extract his essence. That doesn’t smack of cooperation.”
“And then there’s the matter of who would train him, should we decide to go that route,” Luvana said quietly, in the act of refilling her mug.
“We’ve been down this road before, Luvana.” Esmir raised a finger. “And I’m still the only person in Skyhome who’s ever successfully trained a Champion.”
The Dedicant Mother’s face heated at the barb, but at least she had the wisdom to hold her silence. Pushing himself painfully off the floor, Esmir swept his gaze over the gathering. “Do what’s right,” he growled. “For us and for Aram.”
With that, he turned and made his way toward the door. But before he could reach it, Luvana called to his back:
“One last thing.”
Esmir turned around.
Luvana asked, “Do you think he can survive the Trials?”
Esmir spread his hands, for who could say? Aram was as frail and thin as a wraith, and the Exilari had surely dealt his spirit a devastating blow.
“Now, that, I’m not sure about,” he admitted. “But if you won’t let him train, then we’ll never know. Now, good day to you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
That night, Aram dreamt of Markus carrying him once again out of the hell that had been his prison for so many years. In his dream, they stumbled together along a shoreline, and when Markus went down with an arrow through his heart, Aram held him in his arms and watched him die. He awoke gasping ragged breaths, his body chilled by fear and grief. He fought tears from his eyes for, even though he hadn’t seen Markus die in real life, he feared for him. He lay in bed for a long time, unable to return to sleep, until he heard the sounds of Esmir moving about.
He rolled over and opened his eyes, finding the old man stirring the morning coals awake. He asked in a scratchy voice, “What did they say?”
Esmir turned to look at him. “They said they would think about it.”
Aram took in the answer, not sure how he felt about it. Should he be happy or disappointed? He didn’t know. There was a lot he didn’t know, and that bothered him. The old man wasn’t pleased, he could tell. Esmir went about preparing the fire with a dark glower on his face.
Feeling guilty, Aram decided to test his strength and rose from the bed, steadying himself against a bedpost. He stood there hanging onto the bed until a wave of dizziness passed, then walked unsteadily to the woodpile on the oth
er side of the cave. He picked up a log, which was all that he could carry at one time, and delivered it to the fire. Esmir shot him a look that Aram ignored, and he returned to the woodpile to fetch another. Esmir didn’t say anything, just watched him like a mother hen while Aram fed the hearth until its fire was burning lively.
Aram watched in silence as Esmir prepared a breakfast of goose eggs and some kind of fried flatbread. Aram accepted his plate with a word of gratitude and stared down at it for a moment, trying to figure out how best to arrange it. He settled on tearing the bread into four pieces that he spaced evenly around the plate, with the egg yolk in the center like a rising sun. Satisfied, he dug in, eating as much as he could, until his stomach felt like bursting. When he was done, he set his plate on the floor and leaned forward to warm his hands over the fire.
Esmir nodded at the plate. “You didn’t eat very much.”
“I’m sorry. I’m full.” His stomach just wasn’t the size it once was. He noticed the old man staring at him from out of the corner of his eye, and it made him feel uncomfortable. Esmir seemed to stare a lot, and he wished he knew why.
Esmir grunted. “Calise is on her way. Do you remember her?”
“Yes.” Aram liked Calise and her dragon. They had both been very kind to him.
Esmir took Aram’s plate and set it aside before pushing himself up off the floor. “I asked her to take you for a walk today.” His voice was raspy with effort. Ambling stiffly toward the table, he added, “It will do you good to get some fresh air.”
Aram glanced around the room. “What’s wrong with the air in here?”
The old man paused in the action of lowering himself into a chair.
“It’s fresh enough,” Esmir muttered with an affectionate smile, and settled into his seat. He opened a text that had been lying on the table and started reading, skimming a finger across the page. He sat like that in silence as Aram scanned the room, mesmerized by the elaborate designs of the tapestries that reminded him of the heart knot he wore about his neck, the only item he retained that anchored him to his roots.
