by ML Spencer
Trying to be as quiet as he could, Aram crept up behind the rest of the students and sat well back from them in the lee of the wall. He tried to make himself as small as possible, hoping to all the gods they wouldn’t notice him coming in late. When Henrik’s eyes fell upon him, Aram ducked his head to hide his face.
“Ah, Aram. Good of you to show up.”
Aram slumped, looking up at Henrik through a lock of ruddy brown hair. He didn’t know what to say—or even if he was supposed to say anything at all—so he kept his mouth shut and sat frozen, like a hare confronted by a lion.
“Tomorrow, try to arrive on time,” Henrik advised, his voice mild, then returned to his lecture.
Unable to listen, Aram sat steeped in feelings of worthlessness and self-pity. Humiliation filled him, and he wanted to weep, but weeping would be even more humiliating, so he didn’t.
To his dismay, the boy who had given him a licking the day before stood and walked toward him, probably to torment him some more. Aram tried pretending like he didn’t notice him, even when the boy came up next to him.
“Can I sit with you?” the boy whispered.
Aram glanced at him, confused. No one ever wanted to sit with him. He didn’t know what this boy’s purpose was, but he feared it was malicious. He’d come to expect terrible things from people, and he didn’t see any reason for this boy to be different from anyone else who had mistreated him.
“I’m Kye. You’re Aram, right?”
Aram nodded, unable to look at him.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for yesterday. I think you’re very brave.”
Now Aram knew Kye was there to torment him, for there was no way Kye could think that after the beating he had given him. Feeling a profound sadness, Aram gazed down at the sand in front of him.
“What’s wrong?” Kye whispered.
Aram shook his head.
There was a long silence as Kye stared at him and Henrik went on lecturing about something that probably was important. At last, Kye turned away.
“Sorry,” he whispered, and started to rise.
“Wait,” Aram said.
Kye sat back down, gazing at him quizzically.
“Do you really mean that?” Aram didn’t think it was possible, but just in case it was—on the slightest sliver of a chance it could be possible—he wanted to make sure.
“I do.” Kye nodded. “You kept getting up. Even after you knew you were beaten. You kept getting up.”
Hearing that kind of praise coming from someone younger than himself made a knot form in Aram’s throat. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I busted your nose,” said Kye. “And your lip.”
“And my ribs,” Aram added factually.
Kye giggled, earning him a glare from Henrik.
“Do you have something to add?” their instructor demanded with an irritated glare.
“Nuh-uh!” Kye’s face reddened, and Aram couldn’t blame him.
Henrik’s eyes narrowed, but he returned to his lecture. “As I was saying, there’s an art to defensive fighting. Think of it as the art of not getting hit. Too many people think that the best defense is a good offense. They focus on hurting their opponent, while oblivious of the fact that they are taking damage themselves. Let’s take Aram yesterday.”
Hearing his name, Aram wanted to melt into the ground.
“Aram. What was the biggest mistake you made?”
What was it that Esmir had said? Oh, yeah. “I didn’t duck.”
The students laughed, but Henrik nodded. “That’s right. Not once did you try to dodge a blow. While you were so focused on hitting Kye, he was tearing your face up.”
Aram nodded glumly, for it was true. Kye ribbed him with an elbow, sending a jolt of pain through his side that made him wince.
“Sorry!” Kye gulped.
“So, if you’re so focused on defense, when is it time to strike?” Henrik rose from his rock and walked toward the nearest boy. “Stand up and hit me.”
The boy, a wiry youth with a prominent nose, rose to his feet and adopted a fighting stance. For seconds, he just stood there. Then, without warning, he lashed out.
There were two sharp thunks, and the boy was on the ground.
Henrik stepped back, looking at the class as he offered his hand to the boy to help him up. “Don’t attack. Counterattack. Every time you defend, attack at the same time or immediately after. Don’t passively defend—aggressively defend. Make your opponent pay in blood for every attack they make. Any questions?”
There were none.
“All right. Sparring pairs. Practice aggressive defense. Not you two.” He motioned for Aram and Kye. When they came forward, Henrik told them, “Aram’s head looks like it needs a day off.” He raised a finger at Aram. “But you still need to build your muscles. Kye, take him up to the Henge. Show him what he’s in for. On the way back, get him some food.”
“I already ate—” Aram protested.
“Eat again.”
“The Henge?” Kye asked. “But that’s for—”
“People like Aram,” Henrik finished.
Kye’s eyes grew huge.
The boy trotted toward the stairs, and Aram followed him with a glance back at Henrik. He wondered what the instructor had meant by ‘people like’ him. The names he used to be called came immediately to mind—words like ‘moron’ and ‘idiot.’ He didn’t want to be called those names here too.
But as they started up the dim stairwell, Kye turned to him with burning eyes. “You’re training to be a Champion?”
Embarrassed, Aram could only nod.
“That’s … wow. I mean … wow.”
Aram hoped he meant it in a good way.
Kye glanced down at Aram’s body, his eyebrows knitting together. At last, he smiled. “You’ve sure got a long way to go.”
Aram’s face reddened, but then Kye laughed. At first, Aram thought he was laughing at him, but then he realized Kye was joking good-naturedly.
“A long way,” he agreed, doing his best to smile, despite his swollen lips. He was already having a hard time with the stairs, and he wondered how far up the cliff they had to climb. He didn’t want Kye to have to wait through all the rest breaks he would need if they had to climb to the level of Esmir’s quarters.
“What’s this Henge?” Aram asked, already winded.
“It’s where Champions used to train.” Kye glanced at him. “Are trained.” He frowned hard. “Seriously? Are you really training to be a Champion? I mean, no offense, but … you really do have a long way to go.”
Aram didn’t have the breath to spare on a response because he was already panting.
“Do you need to stop and rest?” asked Kye with a look of concern.
“No,” Aram gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain in his legs as he forced himself up another switchback of stairs.
Kye was right—he was horribly behind. He had to catch up to the other students—not just the students in Kye’s class, but the students his own age, whom he hadn’t even met yet. He didn’t have time to stop and rest. He never would.
“Only really special people can be Champions,” said Kye. “Are you like that?”
“I see in color,” Aram admitted, hoping Kye knew what that meant.
“Oh. Oh! That means … you’re a True Savant?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so? Do you have any idea how many years it’s been since the last Champion passed the Trials? Like, centuries!”
Aram clenched his jaw and tried to narrow his focus to the step immediately ahead. Sweat streamed down his face, and his legs and lungs felt like they’d been lit on fire. He took another step and felt his muscles turn to liquid. He collapsed on his rump and glanced up to find Kye hovering over him with a look of shock and concern.
“I’m fine,” Aram panted. “Fine.” Using his hands, he started pushing himself back to his feet.
Kye stared at him, shaking his head. “You don’t st
op, do you?”
“I can’t,” Aram gasped.
Kye glanced back up the stairway, his finger ticking the air, as though trying to count how many flights they still had left to go. Frowning, he sat down on a step. “Well, you’ll have to stop, because I need a rest.”
Aram dropped back down beside him, heady with relief. He brought his legs up and rested his head against his knees. They sat there for minutes until, at last, Kye rose and helped him to his feet.
“We’re almost there,” Kye said, trying to sound cheerful. “Only a dozen flights more to go.” He managed a weak smile, which was stillborn, as he seemed to think better of it.
He started forward, Aram climbing doggedly after him. By the time they reached the top of the steps, Aram figured he’d probably feel better if they amputated his legs. But he’d made it, and that’s what mattered. He felt a small amount of pride in that.
They stepped out of the stairwell onto the summit of a high bluff at the top of the gorge. Aram found himself standing in a circle paved in fine white sand, and at its center rose a dark obelisk made of one enormous chunk of obsidian. The square was ringed by massive dolomite monoliths, the outer ring free-standing, the inner ring consisting of four structures that resembled doorways, with two vertical stones capped by another stone laid across the top of them.
“What are they?” Aram asked, turning slowly to take in the imposing structures.
“Portal Stones,” said Kye, swiping his hair out of his eyes. “They’re ancient. No one knows who built them.”
Aram stared in wonder and trepidation at the monuments, filled with a burning curiosity. “Why are they here?”
Kye gestured around them. “This place is called the Henge. It’s where people training to be Champions are tested.”
Aram stared at the dark monoliths, a cold feeling slithering over his skin. “What if a person doesn’t pass the Trials?”
Kye peered at him with a look of dismayed confusion. “You don’t know?”
Aram shook his head. “No.”
Kye frowned deeply, licking his lips. He looked like he didn’t want to tell him. But then he pointed at the nearest trio of standing stones. “You go in, and either you come out or you don’t. If you do come out, you’re either a Champion or your mind is broken … there’s nothing in between.”
Aram stared at the standing stones, a cold feeling of dread coiling in the pit of his stomach. The dark monoliths suddenly looked like doorways to nightmares, even though he could see right through them to the other side. There was a slight shimmering between the stones, like air heated by the ground. But there was something else too. A sinister feeling, like the promise of pain. He wondered if Kye felt it, or if it was only for him.
“What’s inside?” he asked.
“What you take in with you,” said a woman’s voice.
Startled, Aram turned to see Wingmaster Vandra striding toward them across the circle of sand. This was the first time he had seen her wearing her hair loose, and it fell down her back in a snarly mess. She was wearing black leathers made from some animal Aram was unfamiliar with, covered by a fur-lined cloak that billowed behind her, tossed by the wind blowing across the gorge.
“The Trials are the measure of a man,” Vandra explained, coming to stand before him. “These are portals to the Shadow Realm. There are creatures in there that are not men. We call them the Overseers, and it is they who administer the Trials. No one knows whether it’s these creatures’ intent to forge a Champion, or whether they serve their own purpose, and only Champions can win their way back out, despite them.”
She turned slowly, her gaze traveling from stone to stone in the wide circle. “Most who enter, don’t come back. Whatever the Overseers are, they are powerful enough, and sinister enough, to break the minds of most who enter, by using your own thoughts and weapons against you.”
She turned back to Aram, her face hard and implacable. “Now you understand why I will spare you no blow and show you no mercy. It is my responsibility to give you the best chance of returning from those stones with your mind intact.”
Aram met her gaze. “Do you think I’ll fail?”
The woman hesitated, at last nodding. “Most likely. But I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you alive.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“I spoke to Eraine Vandra,” said Esmir, plopping his considerable weight into the chair across the table from Aram. “Tomorrow, she wants you to move into the dormitory with the other students.”
Hearing that made Aram sad. He had just begun to get used to Esmir’s abrasive company. He nodded, his eyes fixed on the table while his fingers fiddled with the drawstring of his pants, tying and untying it over and over again.
“I don’t want to move to the dormitory,” he said softly. “I want to stay here with you.”
Esmir snorted. “You’d rather be around a flatulent old man than children your own age?”
Aram looked up sharply. “They’re not my age. I’m a lot older than they are, which makes me look like an idiot. And I’m not near as good as any of them at anything, which makes me look even more like an idiot.” Just thinking about living with the boys in his class was a prospect that terrified Aram, for he knew that he wouldn’t be accepted. He glanced at Esmir with pleading eyes.
Esmir waved his hand dismissively. “They know you’re not an idiot. You’re Gifted, which puts you on a level that none of them could ever approach. Maybe you’re not as physically strong as they are, or as skilled with weapons, but they have been training their entire lives to be windriders, while you have not. And they know that.”
Aram sighed, his shoulders sagging, for he saw that there was no way he was going to be able to change Esmir’s mind. He would be relegated to the dormitory, where he’d likely spend every evening being either ignored or ridiculed by boys four years his junior.
“You need to make a friend or two.”
Aram looked at him plaintively. “I’m not good at making friends.”
“Well, maybe you just need practice.” Esmir spread his hands. “That’s what we do when we’re not good at something, isn’t it? Practice?”
Aram puzzled over the idea for a long moment. He didn’t think Esmir was right, because he’d practiced making friends his entire childhood—had even invented imaginary friends to practice with—and yet, that practice had never helped him make real friends.
Until Markus. And now Calise.
Aram frowned, realizing that maybe Esmir was right. Maybe all that practice was finally paying off. Kye seemed friendly enough.
“Maybe there’s one boy … I guess I can try,” Aram allowed.
“Excellent.” Esmir clapped his hand on the table. “Now, let’s eat! I know I’m hungry, so you must be starving.”
Standing, the old Warden went to the hearth, where a kettle hung over the fire. There, he ladled peas onto two plates. He then retrieved a potato that had been roasting down in the coals, dividing it between the two plates, then added slices of buttered beef. Replacing the pea ladle, he crossed the room back to the table, where he set Aram’s plate down before him.
Seeing that some of his peas had run into his potatoes, Aram picked up a wooden spoon and started separating them, scooping the peas to one side of the plate and the potatoes to the other, with a perfectly straight line running between.
“Stop.”
Lowering his spoon, Aram glanced at Esmir.
“Every night at supper, you always eat the same way,” the old man pointed out. “You push everything around your plate until you have an arrangement that satisfies you. Then, you only eat one thing at a time and never alternate. Is there a reason why you do this?”
Aram frowned at Esmir, uncertain why the old man suddenly cared about how he arranged the food on his plate. He said with a shrug, “I like eating one thing at a time.”
Esmir peered at him hard. “Why?”
“I don’t like to mix the flavors.”
“Why n
ot?”
Aram made a face. “It’s gross.”
Esmir stared at him sideways. “So, if you mixed everything together on your plate, you would find that gross?”
Aram was repulsed by the notion. “That would be disgusting.”
As soon as he said it, Esmir picked up his own plate and started mixing his peas together with his potatoes, mashing it all up with animated motions, adding insult to injury. Aram stared in horror at the travesty of a perfectly good meal, now destroyed. Even the slice of beef hadn’t been spared but was coated with mashed-together peas and potatoes.
“This bothers you?” Esmir asked, still stirring. “Just looking at me doing this?”
Aram nodded, feeling queasy.
“Why?”
Aram stared at him in incomprehension, wondering how it could be that Esmir didn’t understand. “It’s like … how would you feel if someone licked a chamber pot in front of you?”
Esmir chuckled. “I supposed I’d feel disgusted, but this is food, not a chamber pot.” With one last, explicative mash, he set the spoon down. “What other kinds of things bother you like this?”
Aram thought about it. “Scratchy wool. Ticks.”
“Ticks don’t count,” dismissed Esmir. “What else?”
“Really loud noises. Certain sounds…”
“What kinds of sounds?”
“I don’t like it when people scratch,” Aram admitted.
“Like this?” Esmir scratched at his arm vigorously, the noise sending a nerve-abrading shiver down Aram’s spine.
“Yes!” Aram winced, cringing and squirming in his seat.
Esmir smiled kindly. “Daymar was the same way. There were certain things that annoyed the hell out of him. Being touched was one. Heat was another—made him anxious and cranky. And food. For him, it was texture. He couldn’t eat beans of any kind, even though he said he liked the flavor—it was just the texture that bothered him. Want to know what he did about it?”
