by ML Spencer
Embarrassed and humiliated, Aram sat in the back of the small group of six boys and five girls who all turned to gawk at him. He tried not to look at them, for it wasn’t the first time he felt like the object of ridicule, and he found that pretending he didn’t notice was the easiest way to handle it.
Vandra took a seat on a nearby boulder and leaned back with one knee up, while Master Henrik took up position at the front of the class, his hand resting on the sword at his side. He launched into giving the students a set of detailed instructions that Aram didn’t pay attention to. He was too busy avoiding the stares that kept shooting back to nettle him. When Henrik was done, every student jumped up with a loud “Ha!” and took off at a run. Caught off guard, Aram pushed himself to his feet and started limping after them.
“Not you.” Vandra pointed at her side. “Over here.”
Aram approached her, feeling chagrinned. “They’re children.”
Vandra shrugged dismissively. “These ‘children’ have been training to be warriors since they were old enough to hold a spear. Any one of them could beat the snot out of you.”
The information made Aram feel even more out of place. “Why am I even here? I’ve never had that kind of training!”
“You begin today.” Vandra drew a long knife from her belt and used it to scrape the dirt out from under her fingernails. “Do you know how to swim?”
“Yes…” Aram shivered, his mind going instantly back to the well. He felt his pulse speed up.
“Good.” Vandra blew the dust off her nails and, flipping the knife, dropped it back into its sheath at her waist. “I want you to start by swimming back and forth across that pond as many times as you can.” She pointed behind him.
Turning, Aram saw a wide pond behind them that was almost the size of a small lake. It was buried beneath the shadows of the cliff, under a great lip of rock. It didn’t look terribly wide or deep, but just the sight of it made Aram’s stomach tighten. His experience in the well had made him afraid of water, and his legs were burning and weak from the walk down to the training grounds.
But Vandra didn’t look like she was willing to argue.
Blowing a sigh, Aram stripped down to his breeches and started toward the pond. The water was a lot colder than it looked, and he shivered and clutched himself as he waded in deeper, until he could no longer touch the bottom. He treaded water for a minute, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ward off the fear of drowning. It took a great effort of will to force himself deeper.
He swam out into the pond, kicking as little as possible and using his arms to carry him forward. When he reached the middle, he glanced back over his shoulder at the shore. When he saw how far away it was, he felt a sharp stab of panic lance through him. He lingered for a moment, treading water, fighting to steady himself. When at last he got his breathing under control, he started forward again.
As Aram swam, he fought back memories of the well, of the burning need of his lungs for air, of the outright panic that had seized him as he struggled for the surface. Of the great gasp of water he had taken in, and the horrendous pain that had swallowed him whole.
By the time he reached the opposite shore, he was shaking so hard that he couldn’t stand, both from the fatigue and the fear. Teeth chattering, he sat hugging himself in the cold mud. He looked back across the pond at Vandra, flushed with shame.
“Swim back!” the Wingmaster called to him.
Balling his fists, Aram forced himself back into the water. His arms hurt terribly, and he found himself having to kick more than he wanted to. He kept his gaze fixed on the shoreline, taking comfort in the fact that every stroke carried him a little closer to it. Once, he broke his rhythm and came up sputtering, terror seizing his breath. Somehow, he got his fear under control and managed to make it to the center of the pond. He squeezed his eyes closed, trembling in frustration and despair. He pulled himself forward through the water, jaw locked and groaning with every stroke.
Before he reached the shore, his strength failed.
He tried not to panic, for he knew how to float. And it worked, at first, but after a few seconds, he was sinking. The water of the pond simply wasn’t as buoyant as seawater.
Desperate, Aram turned over and started dog paddling. He was having a hard time keeping his head above water, and he started taking in mouthfuls of it. He floundered, coughing and sputtering. At last, he came to the end of his strength.
He wanted to shout for help, but he didn’t have the breath.
He was drowning again.
The knowledge made him want to weep, but he was too tired to be sad or scared. He closed his eyes and gave in, letting the water carry him under.
Just as his lungs started burning, an arm slipped around him and hauled him upward. He broke the surface with a great gasp and let his body go limp as Vandra towed him back to shore. There, he curled up on his side in the sand, panting and shaking, coughing the water out of his lungs.
He didn’t know how long he laid there. He must have passed out, for the next thing he knew, someone was shaking him awake. Opening his eyes, Aram found himself looking up into the face of a wiry boy who looked to be the oldest student of the bunch, standing shirtless over him.
“Get up!” the boy ordered. “You’re my partner, and I’m not going to let you make me look bad!”
Groggy, Aram climbed to his feet on legs that felt like jelly. Glancing around, he saw that the other children had divided into pairs for sparring. He had never sparred in his life and had no idea what to do.
The boy he was paired with immediately dropped into a fighting stance and brought his fists up, his left foot forward, his weight balanced between his feet. Aram tried his best to copy the stance, bringing his arms up and centering his gravity over his squishy legs. But before he got his feet into place, the boy struck out with a lightning-quick jab that cracked Aram on the cheek.
Crying out, he lurched back, cupping his face. He glanced at Vandra in confusion, for he didn’t understand why the woman was doing this to him. Didn’t she understand that he’d almost just died in the water? Didn’t she understand he had no idea how to fight and was too exhausted to react in time?
Before he could recover, the boy swung again, landing a solid punch on the side of his head and sending him reeling. Aram rubbed his aching temple and looked up from the dirt, only then realizing he’d been knocked to the ground. Rolling over with a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet.
“Again,” the Wingmaster ordered, clapping her hands.
Aram’s opponent dropped into his stance more, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. Aram barely got his arms up before the boy struck out with a left hook. When Aram moved to block, he received a head-stupefying punch from the boy’s right fist.
He fell, moaning, to roll back and forth on the ground. His opponent stood over him, arms still up and ready to land another blow.
“Again,” said Vandra.
Shaking and dizzy, Aram pushed himself to his feet, swiping the sweat out of his eyes. His ears were ringing, and his vision was fuzzy. His opponent waited for him to find his balance before bringing his hand back.
Aram threw himself forward, pawing at the boy like a cat goading a rat. The boy stepped sideways and struck out with a combination of punches that took him in the nose and the eye before sending him solidly to the ground.
Aram knelt in the sand, clutching his face as blood leaked through his fingers from his nose. The pain was white-hot, though it was a pain he could tolerate, for he’d endured far worse every day in the cellars.
Peering groggily up, Aram saw that all of the other children had stopped fighting and were gathered around, staring at him with either concern or contempt—he couldn’t tell. His opponent dropped his hands and backed up, turning to look at Vandra for direction.
“Again,” the Wingmaster said, hands on her hips.
The boy looked down at Aram, hesitating. He licked his lips then glanced back at Vandra. “I think he�
�s had enough.”
Vandra shook her head. “I’ll tell you when it’s enough.”
Hearing that, Aram felt defeated. Vandra didn’t want him—that was easy enough to tell. He figured the Wingmaster was trying to make him give up, to make him quit. He ground his teeth, the bloody taste of failure on his tongue.
No.
He wasn’t going to give up. If all it took was a nosebleed to defeat him, what hope did he have against an Archon?
Wiping the blood from his face, he stood and brought his hands up.
His opponent swept out with a jab that took Aram in the ribs. The next punch hit him in the jaw. Aram staggered back, his head spinning. But he didn’t go down. Spitting blood, he straightened and brought his hands up again.
“I’m ready,” he said.
The boy glanced at Vandra, who nodded.
He struck out with a heavy blow that Aram somehow blocked. But the next punch slugged him in the gut, doubling him over and knocking the wind out of him. Aram bent, clutching his middle and groaning. Vandra came forward to stand behind him, arms crossed. Her presence incited him. Clenching his jaw, Aram drew himself upright and brought his fists up.
“Come on,” he said.
His opponent nodded and dove at him with an uppercut that snapped Aram’s head back, then he followed up with a punch that drove him straight to the ground. Aram stayed down, dark, syrupy blood draining in a thick rope from his face, his vision darkening.
“I’m sorry,” his opponent whispered.
Aram shook his head. This boy wasn’t his true adversary. It was Vandra, and he wasn’t going to let her win.
Summoning his resolve, he pushed himself off the ground and stood wavering, bringing his fists up.
“Enough.”
All eyes turned to Vandra, who laid a hand on Aram’s shoulder.
“Everyone gather around!” the Wingmaster called. “Let’s welcome our newest student…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned. “What’s your full name, son?”
“Aramon Raythe.”
The woman’s face went slack. Her lips parted, her eyes widening. She whispered, “Raythe?”
Aram nodded, then turned to spit a mouthful of blood on the sand. “Yes. Why?”
The woman stood studying his face intensely as he stared back at her in confusion and growing dismay.
“It’s a common name here,” she said at last. “You must have Auld roots.” Gathering her composure around her like a cloak, she turned her back on him. “Class dismissed.”
Aram stood, dizzy, while the other students filed past him, clapping him on the shoulder. When the last boy left the training yard, Aram limped after him, leaving Vandra behind, staring at his back.
Esmir paused before the door to the Council chamber long enough to start fussing with his tunic before giving up on it. Taking a deep breath, he thrust the door open and entered, striding forward to stand before the members of the Council with as much failed dignity as he could muster. Luvana greeted him with a sardonic smile.
“Warden Revin, thank you for coming.”
Esmir scowled. “Always a pleasure.”
Gesturing around at her fellow council members, Luvana informed him, “We have decided, with two noted abstentions, to allow your foundling to be trained. Wingmaster Vandra has vouched for his character. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure whether we are doing the young man a favor or handing him a death sentence, for it seems unlikely he will survive the Trials.”
Esmir inclined his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Dedicant Mother, for giving Aram the opportunity to prove you wrong.”
Before he could turn to leave, Luvana’s voice stopped him. “One last thing. Why didn’t you bring Aram’s family name to our attention?”
Esmir frowned in confusion. “I didn’t think to ask him his family name. Why?”
Wingmaster Vandra’s eyes stabbed him like a cold spear. “Well, I did think to ask him. He introduced himself as Aramon Raythe.”
Esmir glanced from Vandra to Luvana, an avalanche of thoughts cascading through his head. “Raythe? Are you saying that he might be Darand’s boy?”
“He’d be the right age,” Vandra mused. “Have you looked at his face?”
Esmir exhaled, his shoulders wilting, for he hadn’t looked hard enough, apparently.
He said quickly to Luvana, “Don’t tell him.”
Vandra broke in, “If he really is the son of Darand Raythe, then he needs to know about his father.”
Esmir strode forward, positioning himself directly in front of the Dedicant Mother. “He’s been through enough, Luvana,” he said firmly. “Give Aram time to mend.”
Luvana and Vandra exchanged critical glances.
“Talk to him,” Luvana ordered. “Let’s make sure we’re right.”
Esmir nodded. Mind spinning, he left the council chamber and hurried back to his quarters. Opening the door, he noticed that his young charge had arrived home before him. Aram was sitting hunched beside the fire pit, his head cradled in his hands. Upon hearing him enter, the boy turned around.
At the sight of his face, Esmir drew in a cursing breath. If the young man really did resemble his father, it would take him at least a week to find out, because Aram looked like he’d been set upon by a band of brigands. His face was cut and bruised, his lip split, and both eyes were purple and swollen. Dried blood crusted his nostrils, and his pupils looked bleary and out of focus.
Esmir motioned him forward. Aram rose and approached, walking as though in a drunken stupor. When he halted before him, Esmir took him by the chin and lifted his swollen face to examine it. The boy was really a piece of work. He felt a sharp flash of anger, then shoved the feeling aside. Despite the fact that he’d taken a beating, Aram had managed to impress Vandra, and that was no easy thing to do.
“Next time try ducking.” He released Aram’s chin and moved toward the table, where a decanter of whiskey sat waiting for him. “I have good news. The Council has decided to approve your training. I want you to work with Henrik during the day, and I’ll work with you in the evenings.”
“Work with me on what?” asked Aram, sliding into the chair next to him.
“Magic, of course.”
Esmir uncorked the decanter and poured himself a healthy cup. Taking another glance at Aram’s face, he poured the young man one as well.
“I can’t do magic,” said Aram, staring down into the cup. “Not unless someone is in danger.”
Esmir nodded. “That’s how Auld magic works.”
Aram’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“It’s thought to be some type of safeguard.”
Aram’s breath caught, and he sat looking straight ahead with an expression of profound shock. Esmir nudged Aram’s cup. “Here. Drink. Believe me, you need it.”
Aram lifted the cup to his lips, wincing at the bite of the alcohol. But he persevered and got down a few sips. Esmir topped off his own cup then sprawled back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
“Keep drinking while I’m talking,” he ordered. “Auld were created by Ahn the Father, or so the story goes. He didn’t want his children to be seduced by power, so Ahn put a block within us: we are unable to use magic for our own gain, even to save our own lives. We can only use magic as an act of altruism.”
Frowning, Aram asked, “Then how do Champions fight?”
Esmir took a heavy sip of his drink. “That’s the reason for the Trials. Supposedly, it’s to prove to the gods that a candidate’s abilities and character justify having their magic unlocked.” Esmir downed another swallow of whiskey. “That’s what a Champion is: a person whose block has been removed. Take another sip.”
Scrunching his nose, Aram did as he bid.
“You’re a good lad,” Esmir said, staring hard into Aram’s bruised face. “I bet your father is very proud of you.”
Aram shook his head, staring vacantly at his cup with his swollen eyes. “My father left us when I was small.”
The answer made the hairs on the back of Esmir’s neck rise. “So sorry to hear that. Do you know why he left?”
“No. My mother said she guesses he went off to fight some war somewhere. Only, he wasn’t a soldier, so I don’t understand why she would think that. He left this behind.”
Reaching into his shirt, Aram pulled out a necklace made out of knotted twine. He untied it from his neck and handed it across the table. Esmir stared down at the necklace’s pendant, which was simply a large, intricate knot in the shape of a heart. At the sight of that knot, Esmir sighed heavily.
He held up the necklace. “Do you know what this is?”
“It’s an eternal heart knot,” replied Aram.
And so it was. There was a lot of symbolism in such a knot. Esmir wondered if the young man knew any of the stories that knot could tell him.
“What was your father’s name?” he asked, handing the necklace back.
“Darand Raythe.”
Esmir took another sip of his whiskey. “Well.” He did his best to smile. “I’m sure that, wherever he is, Darand Raythe is very proud of you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The next morning, Aram returned to the training grounds, though getting there was even more of a challenge than the previous day, for his muscles burned terribly. His aching body had kept him awake most of the night, and he’d tossed and turned on his pallet. He was sure his nose was broken, and he thought he might have a bruised rib. The headache was the worst. He didn’t know if it was from the blows to the head or from all the whiskey Esmir had made him drink, but it hurt just to hold his swollen eyes open, and every candle he looked at had a shimmering halo around it that had nothing to do with magical auras.
By the time he got down to the level of the training grounds, all of the students were already there, sitting cross-legged on the ground around Master Henrik, who sat on a boulder above them. Upon seeing that the class had started without him, Aram froze, his stomach taking a plunge into a dark vortex. Anxiety got ahold of him, for after yesterday’s failures, he feared that his classmates wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Interactions with people had always made him uneasy, and this situation was so much worse because he knew nothing about these people or their world.
