by ML Spencer
“And what if your every effort isn’t enough?”
Recognizing Vandra’s voice behind him, Aram turned to look at her. “Then I guess I’ll fail the Trials. But that’s not going to stop me from attempting them.”
Vandra nodded gravely. “You brought the tokens?”
Aram thrust his hand into the pocket of his vest and removed the three items he had brought with him. There were five bowls set in the center of the circle, one for each item. Into the first bowl, Aram placed the small willow switch. Into the second bowl, he placed the small knife. He placed the remaining items into the last three bowls in no particular order.
“These tokens symbolize the faith that is being placed in you,” the Dedicant Mother explained. “The offering of a weapon represents your willingness to fight for our cause. The offering of bread represents your willingness to give back to the world what the world has given to you. The offering of a flower represents the honor you show the Earthmother. The offering of a switch represents your pledge of obedience to your superiors. And the offering of the letter represents your gratitude to your parents, for raising you to be a son of the world.”
When all five bowls contained their respective items, they were collected and, one by one, fed to the fire, all except the knife. Aram felt weak as he watched the letter he had written his father blacken and curl, eventually deforming into a gray piece of ash. When the fire had consumed all of his offerings, Vandra rose and retrieved his knife from the bowl, handing it back to him.
“This offering we return to you,” Vandra said, “to remind you of the commitments you made here tonight. Wear it always, so that you never forget your purpose.”
Accepting the knife back, Aram bowed.
Taking him by the arm, Vandra turned him to face the Council and stated formally, “Your pledge of service has been accepted. Go forth as a Confirmed member of the fighting Wing.”
Chapter Forty-Two
A year and a half had passed since the ill-fated rescue attempt, but Markus still found himself sore in the mornings from the arrow he had taken. As he stood in the yard beside the stables, he worked his shoulder around, trying to stretch some of the stiffness out of it. With his other hand, he stroked the neck of his horse, a dappled gray ambler that was probably worth more than the entire village of Anai. Behind it was tied a pack horse that was loaded with all the supplies he and Sergan would need for their journey to the capital. The stallion kept rubbing its muzzle against him, probably looking for carrots. He didn’t have any; all the supplies were loaded in bags on the back of the pack horse.
The sun was hot, for summer was well underway, and even though the bay kept the air at a moderate temperature, the stable yard was hot and dry. He’d been waiting there a half-hour already, with no sign of his traveling companion. Reaching up, Markus gave the stallion a good scratch behind the ear. With nothing better to do, he checked the ropes on the pack horse one more time, making sure the load was secure.
Sergan’s laughter echoed across the yard before the man came into view, walking beside his most recent lover, an exceptionally beautiful young woman who worked in the College library. Seeing Markus, Sergan gave his companion a lingering kiss goodbye then made straight for his black courser. Hoisting himself into the saddle, he donned a felted travelling hat and riding gloves.
“Are you coming?” he asked Markus, turning his horse toward the road.
Gritting his teeth, Markus put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself over the back of his horse. He waited for Sergan to go ahead before falling in behind him. The horse he rode eagerly picked up its feet, clopping out of the yard in a swaying, four-beat gait. Sergan said nothing to him as they rode out of the College grounds and into the streets of Karaqor, which bustled with people and carts, loose animals and dirty children. It took another hour to clear the city gates and pass over the ancient stone bridge into the lowlands beyond. There, they headed southward along the edge of the Bosphian Sea past fields of lavender and grain.
The road they followed was known as the Amber Road, an ancient stone-paved Haddian highway that had persisted for centuries as one of the main trade arteries that connected the northern Empire with the southern provinces of Felora and Kartak. The road ran straight through vast swaths of flat lowlands that had been reclaimed from the sea, bordered by sluices and dikes. Every so often, they passed numbered mile markers, tall stones that had been erected alongside the road by the ancient Haddians. They passed other travelers, sometimes in wagons or carts drawn by teams of horses, though most people simply went on foot, clutching walking-sticks and wearing large packs on their backs.
Markus rode in silence throughout the morning, staring at the black horse ahead of him and the swollen saddlebags it carried. The longer he stared at those bags, the angrier he got, for he knew what was in them. Sergan never went anywhere without a good supply of essence and, by the bulge of his saddlebags, he had brought enough to level a city. Markus wondered how much of that essence had been harvested from Aram and came to the conclusion that probably most of it had been. Sergan had kept the reason for their journey to himself but had let slip something about the importance and difficulty of their mission. Which meant that he’d brought along a trove of “the good stuff,” as he called it.
The knowledge that Sergan carried bottles of essence distilled from his best friend made Markus physically ill. If he hadn’t been convinced of the necessity of the work they did, and convinced of Sergan’s importance in it, he would have run the sorcerer through with his sword a long time ago. He rode in silence, eyes pinned on those swelled saddlebags, every mile gouging dull spikes of guilt and hatred a little deeper into his soul.
Eventually, they came to a forested region. There, they turned off the Haddian road and followed a narrow ridgeway along the hilltops. The ridegeway was dry and afforded a commanding view of the area around them, which was probably why Sergan had decided upon that route, for they would have due warning if any brigands intended to waylay them.
Markus’s body rocked with his horse’s hypnotic gait, his head nodding in time to the creak of his saddle. He found that his eyelids kept slipping lower and lower, and he was starting to have a hard time holding them open. The cool breeze was peaceful, the sun warm and gentle on his skin.
“Do you intend to ignore me the entire trip?”
Markus jerked upright in his saddle, shocked to find Sergan riding beside him. He must have fallen asleep without realizing it.
“If I can,” he said.
The sorcerer pursed his lips. “We’re going to have to learn to work together. We are partners now, and we’re likely to be together for a very long time.”
Markus scowled, for he didn’t have the words to say how much that bothered him. “That doesn’t mean I have to like you.”
“No. It doesn’t mean you have to like me,” Sergan agreed. “As long as you keep me alive, you can despise me all you want. And you will keep me alive, won’t you?”
Markus swallowed a bitter lump of anger, for the sorcerer was right. He would fight to the death to preserve Sergan Parsigal’s life, because to do any different would put too many other lives in jeopardy.
“Why are we going to Ababad?” Markus asked. “Doesn’t the Emperor have Exilari at his disposal?”
Sergan waved an insect out of his face. “He does. But none like us.”
“What do you mean, ‘like us?’”
“You are the most Impervious Shield the world has seen in a few hundred years, and I’m the most talented sorcerer.” Sergan smiled. “Together, we make one hell of a team. It appears our talents are needed.”
“What for?” Markus asked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Sergan admitted. “Something secret. But I’m told that if we’re successful with this mission, then there’s a good chance I’ll be appointed to the Imperial Court.”
“And what about me?”
“As my Shield, you’d accompany me to Court. Of course, you’ll have to dress
the part and look respectable every day. No more letting your whiskers go days between shavings.” Sergan smiled sardonically.
Markus grimaced, looking away. The last thing he needed was the sorcerer presiding over his grooming habits. With a laugh, Sergan kicked his horse forward, resuming his place at the front of their small column.
Markus rode, fuming, his stomach roiling from the same oily sickness he felt whenever he was forced to interact with Sergan. It was starting to sink in that he might very well be forced to serve a life sentence at this man’s side. The more he thought about it, the more nauseous he became. It was a dilemma that occupied his mind throughout the whole of the afternoon, until evening finally descended upon them.
The shadows were lengthening as they approached Maran’s Ferry, a small town on the banks of the Namsby that was the only river crossing in a hundred miles, so it saw a fair amount of trade. Because of that, the town offered a few good inns, including one that catered to a higher class of traveler.
Even though it was after sunset, the guards at the town gate let them by without question, for they took note of the Exilari insignias on their mantles. The streets of Maran’s Ferry were narrow and muddy and smelled heavily of smoke. By the time they drew to a halt in the inn’s yard, Markus was ready for a bed. He dismounted and waited while Sergan paid a stable boy to put their horses and baggage up for the night. Then he followed Sergan across the yard and up the wooden steps to the inn, a river rock structure with soda-lime glass windows and a wood shingle roof. After such a long ride, his legs felt spongy and foreign, but he was grateful to be able to stretch them after so many hours in the saddle.
Sergan opened the door for him, letting him into the inn’s great room, which had several long tables arranged on a rush-strewn floor. They found the proprietor in the back, bringing up fresh potatoes from the cellar. All it took was one look at Sergan’s mantle to have the man fawning over them, promising his best cheese and beer and mattresses filled with fresh straw.
“One or two rooms?” the innkeeper asked.
“Two rooms,” Sergan said, passing the man a silver Exilari coin.
Markus fled up the wooden stairs to the second floor, where he found his own room, which was outfitted with a strongbox and a bed. He slipped his coin purse into the strongbox then flopped his exhausted body down on the bed. For long minutes, he just lay there, staring up at the wooden rafters of the ceiling and scratching at the fleas that crawled up out of the mattress to bite him. He figured he could go downstairs and get a meal at any time, but he would wait as late as he could in hopes of avoiding Sergan.
He stared at the bedroom door longingly, wishing he could open it and run. No one would stop him if he did. Sergan wouldn’t know he was gone till morning and, since he was Impervious, there was no way he could track him down and bring him back.
But Markus knew he couldn’t do that.
Wherever there was a rupture, people died. Sometimes many people. That’s why they needed the Exilari. And that’s why the Exilari needed him.
He despised his life and he despised himself for living it.
Regardless, it was his duty to endure.
Markus slept restlessly, for the hay in the mattress wasn’t fresh and was filled with vermin. There were rats in the rafters. He could hear them scratching and gnawing all night. He rose early and went downstairs, hoping to get the packhorse loaded before Sergan came out.
As he crossed the yard, his attention was drawn to a young woman operating a sweep to draw water from the inn’s well. The sweep was made from a tall post to which a horizontal pole was fixed, one end weighted. The woman lowered the bucket down into the well, using the counterweight on the sweep to help draw it back up. When she had filled two large pails, she picked them both up and started lugging them across the yard toward the inn’s back door.
Markus jogged up to her, bending to relieve her of the weight of her burden.
She let him take the buckets with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much!”
The woman led him into the inn and across the great room to the kitchen in the back. There, he set the pails down.
“That was very nice of you,” the woman said. “I didn’t think Exilars stooped to hauling water.”
Markus grinned, amused by her statement. “The day I think I’m above hauling water is the day I should probably quit the Order.”
Looking at her face, he realized she was much younger than he had first thought, perhaps even younger than himself. Her eyes had a mischievous glint in them that caught and held his attention.
She smiled, motioning for him to follow her out the door. “What’s your name, Exilar?”
“Markus. Markus Galliar.”
Leading him back out into the great room, she offered him her hand. “Lyra. Pleasure to meet you.”
He shook her hand awkwardly, the action bringing a smile to her lips.
“So, what exactly does an Exilar do, other than hunt people?” she asked.
Markus’s buoyed mood sank deeper than the ground. Suddenly, he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“We try to keep people safe,” he muttered. “From … things.”
He turned to go, desiring nothing more than a hasty exit.
“Things?”
He turned back around, nodding glumly. “Things.”
He wanted to explain to her that he wasn’t a child-torturing monster. But he was forbidden from talking about the Order, so people like this girl were left to think about him what they would.
“Can you elaborate on these ‘things’ you keep me safe from?” she asked.
Markus shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I can’t. It’s kind of ridiculous, but there it is.”
“Galliar!”
Markus winced at the sound of Sergan’s voice.
“Time to go!” the Sorcerer called across the great room.
Lyra looked from Markus to Sergan then back to Markus with a grin.
“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, miss,” Markus said sheepishly.
“And it was a pleasure meeting you, Exilar. Look for me the next time you come through this way. You’ve managed to spark my curiosity.”
Markus grinned. “I will.”
Now he didn’t want to go. Hating Sergan and the Exilari and the entire Abadian Empire, Markus walked across the room, glancing back for one last look at Lyra before the door closed behind him. Feet crunching on the gravel of the yard, he followed Sergan toward the stables.
“Well, it seems you’re already turning out to be an improvement over my last Shield,” Sergan commented. “If you can get the women to come to you, I’ll spend less money on whores.”
“All I did was haul water for her,” Markus said defensively.
Sergan chuckled as he opened the stable door. “That’s the problem with women. They all want men to do something for them.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Aram took the cloth Jeran tossed him and used it to wipe the sweat off his face. Looking over the edge of the cliff, he could see the rooftops of Hearth Home far below. They had run half the Gambit, but they still had the other half to go, and his legs and lungs were already burning. It was heartening to see that Jeran was just as exhausted as he was. The youth was bent over with his hands on his knees, panting hard to recover his breath. After a year and a half of climbing the long staircase from Hearth Home to the Henge, Aram could finally keep pace with the other apprentices in his class.
“Ready?” Jeran panted.
Aram took a gulp from his waterskin. “Ready.”
They started up the second half of the long staircase. Aram took the stairs two at a time, his hamstrings screaming in protest. He knew he would be worthless tomorrow, but at the moment, he didn’t care. The only thing he could focus on was reaching the top of the Heights.
“Almost there,” Jeran gasped.
There were still a couple hundred more stairs ahead of them. Gritting his teeth, Aram did his best to ignore the pain,
determined not to fall behind. The world seemed to narrow around him, compressing until it encompassed only the next step above him. He was just about to give in to his body’s aching need for rest when a conical marker on the edge of the staircase told him there were only fifty more steps to go. Summoning the last of his endurance, he pushed on, at last crossing the threshold at the top of the stairs and there collapsing to the ground in a gasping ball of jelly.
“We made it,” he panted, rolling onto his back and staring straight up into the sky.
He wanted to whoop with joy, but he was too tired, so he closed his eyes and smiled. Eventually, Jeran rose to his feet and offered his hand to help him up. Grateful, Aram accepted the help and stood swaying on legs that felt insubstantial.
“Now to get down.” Jeran wheezed a laugh.
Aram groaned. He glanced around and saw the Portal Stones of the Henge across from them. The sight solidified his resolve. He couldn’t give up. He had to push himself as hard as he could, and then press further. He had no choice.
“Let’s go,” he said with fresh determination, and started toward the stairs that would lead them back down to Hearth Home.
“Wait for me!” Jeran gulped and rushed to catch up.
The journey down wasn’t as bad as the race up the cliff had been, but it was still brutal. By the time they arrived at the bottom of the long staircase, Aram’s clothing was drenched with sweat—literally dripping. He stumbled into the bath after Jeran, leaving a trail of clothes behind him on the floor. He lay in the heated water until his muscles felt somewhat capable of supporting his weight again, then picked up his soggy garments and retreated to the dormitory to find fresh clothes.
The only shirt he had clean was a sleeveless vest, which he pulled on over his head, then scrubbed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. Figuring he was somewhat presentable, he made for the door, intent on going up to Esmir’s eyrie for another look at an illuminated text on knots that the old man had salvaged from some dark corner.
