by ML Spencer
As he passed by Jeran, the youth clapped him on the back. “You’re getting there!”
Aram smiled and nodded, for he was. At least in some ways. He still had a long way to go with wrestling and weapons, although he was proving to have some skill at archery. He could read as well as any, and he was blessed with a memory for words and facts, so studying was not something he really had to apply himself to. If anything was going to hold him back, it was his lack of martial skills—or lack of confidence, although even that was improving.
Walking down the corridor, Aram stopped at the sound of his name. Turning, he found Calise behind him, rushing to catch up. He couldn’t help grinning when he saw her face. He didn’t get to see her much, but whenever he did, he could feel his spirits lift.
“You look exhausted!” she said, catching up to him.
“I am,” he admitted. “Henrik’s been running us ragged. What are you doing down here?”
He hardly ever saw Calise on the lower levels. She spent most of her time in the infirmary when she wasn’t flying with Zandril to the various towns on her healing circuit. She was carrying a leather satchel that hung from her shoulder by a long strap that looked heavy. She patted it, grinning.
“Books,” she said. “For Esmir.” Then she thought about it. “Actually, they’re probably for you.”
“Really?” Aram asked excitedly. Since he’d started studying with Esmir, he had developed a love of books. “Want me to take them to him? I’m heading up there right now.”
“Sure, you can take them. But how about I walk with you?”
Glad to have her there, he relieved Calise of the satchel, which proved to be heavier than it looked. Aram wondered what kind of books it contained—they felt more like stone tablets.
“Is that muscle I see?” Laughing, Calise reached out and squeezed his arm.
“I guess it is.” Aram grinned sheepishly as he walked with her down the hallway. In truth, his body had filled out so much that he had grown out of several sets of clothes since the first ones she had helped him purchase.
“You look really different from the first time I saw you,” Calise told him with a cursory glance. “You’re like a different person. You’ve really come out of your shell.”
Aram frowned, not understanding. “I’ve never had a shell.”
Calise laughed and clapped him on the arm. “You’re so funny, Aram! I love your sense of humor. So, how’s training going?”
“Exhausting. And frustrating,” he admitted. “I’m working as hard as I can, but I’m still not sure it’s enough.”
Calise gave him a smile of encouragement. “It will come. You still have time.”
“Let’s hope it’s enough.” He had been working so hard, but he still wasn’t at the level of his classmates. And to succeed at the Trials, he would have to surpass them. By far.
Calise’s face grew serious, and they walked in silence for a while. At length, she asked, “Do you ever get scared that you’ll fail the Trials?”
“I do,” Aram admitted. “I’m terrified of letting everyone down.”
For just a second, her lips compressed, but then she raised her chin and gave him a reassuring smile. “You won’t let anyone down. There’s no way you’re going to fail. I know it.”
“How can you know it?” Aram asked.
“I just do.”
He nodded absently, wondering how she could be so sure when he wasn’t. Maybe it was part of her Talent, like healing. Maybe she could read the strands around him. He hoped so. It made him feel better that Calise thought he had a chance.
From ahead down the corridor came the sound of shouts.
Aram glanced at Calise, but before he could react, a group of people rushed past them down the corridor, dodging around them. Alarmed, Aram pressed his back up against the wall and turned to Calise.
“What’s going on?” he gasped.
“I don’t know.”
Taking him by the arm, she hurried him down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. He jogged up the stairs behind her despite his legs’ screaming protest, all the way up to the Southern Eyrie. There, they crested the staircase into a bedlam of windriders scrambling into their armor and gear as the Wings prepared to take flight.
Calise gasped, “I’m sorry, I have to go!”
Aram understood. Whatever was happening couldn’t be good. It looked like Skyhome was preparing for war.
“Stay safe,” he muttered, though she was already gone, rushing across the eyrie to the alcove she shared with Zandril. He wondered what was happening but didn’t dare stop anyone to ask.
“Aram!”
He turned to see Vandra coming toward him, her face grave. “Where the hell have you been?”
Aram opened his mouth to respond, but the Wingmaster talked right over him. “There’s an army from Araghar headed south, and the Eldenwood’s on fire. I need you to come with us.”
“Me? Why?” Aram gasped.
“Because there might be people who need defending in a way that only you can defend them.”
Aram froze, feeling suddenly stunned. He wasn’t ready for something like this. He had no idea how to use magic, not really, at least not at this level. He wanted to tell Vandra he couldn’t do it, but he was too afraid to say the words. One look at the Wingmaster’s implacable face sealed his silence. They both knew that if others were in danger he may—just may—be able to do something. And that scared him too.
“You’ll ride on Narath, if he’ll have you,” Vandra said, propelling Aram forward with a hand on his back. “His rider’s taken ill and can’t fly.”
Aram followed Vandra, having a hard time keeping up with the Wingmaster’s long strides. She led him toward a large alcove on the far wall, where a dark gray dragon lingered protectively over a young man who lay sweating on a cot. When they neared, the man lifted his head, looking pale and flustered. The dragon glowered at them, its dark pupils contracting.
“This is Osgan and Narath,” said Vandra.
The rider nodded a weary greeting.
The dragon tilted its head, peering down at Aram with a reticent look. Uncertain, Aram moved forward, extending his hand toward the dragon’s glistening snout. Narath lowered his head, accepting his touch, allowing Aram to set his palm upon the smooth scales of his face. When he felt the dragon’s mind meet his own, Aram stiffened, for Narath was a much stronger presence than Zandril, instantly commanding his awe and attention. He stood for a moment locked in an acknowledgment of mutual evaluation as the dragon accustomed itself to him, and him to it. He could feel its wary hesitance give way to curiosity. He opened himself further and let Narath probe his mind, feeling the dragon’s curiosity yield to a deep and solemn respect.
Aram lowered his hand slowly, staring up into the dragon’s face in startled wonder. For a moment only, he had seen himself through the dragon’s eyes. Instead of a weakling, Narath recognized in him an ancient and eldritch strength, greater than any he had ever sensed in a mortal. Aram took a step back, feeling overwhelmed and humbled.
“He’ll carry me,” he whispered.
The Wingmaster lifted Osgan’s arming jacket off the floor and held it up for Aram. “Turn around.”
Aram did as she bid with a glance at Narath. He put out his arms to his sides, allowing Vandra to draw the padded jacket around him, securing it with laces. It was followed by a brigandine breastplate and a scaled skirt, which Vandra buckled in place with silent efficiency. Aram looked down at himself then glanced at Osgan to thank him, but the young rider had fallen asleep.
Vandra thrust Osgan’s sword into Aram’s hands. “Stay on my wing,” she ordered, handing him an iron helm. “Understand?”
Aram nodded, knowing that he could trust Narath to obey the Wingmaster’s command. Watching Vandra stride hurriedly away, he pulled the helm over his head and buckled the chinstrap. Then he looked up at the dragon.
Responding to his silent question, Narath knelt and swept a wing back for him to moun
t. Aram accomplished the act much easier than he had with Zandril, for his body was much stronger now. As soon as he strapped himself into the riding harness, Narath lurched upright and stalked forward toward the mouth of the eyrie. He spread his dark wings, shaking them slightly, as though stretching from sleep. They waited on the terrace for Vandra’s Ragath to take wing, then Narath kicked off from the edge and dove after them into the canyon.
Startled, Aram clung to the dragon’s spines as they plunged straight down the cliff before leveling off seconds later. Soaring steadily above the abyss, the dragon drew abreast of Ragath, while the rest of the Wing took up position behind them, two dozen dragons flying in branching formations.
Aram rode leaning forward over Narath’s neck, thrilled and terrified at the same time. They crested the rim of the canyon and climbed higher, sweeping over the ridges of the surrounding mountains. They were flying northward, toward the opposite side of the continental divide with the grasslands at their back. Ahead, Aram made out a brown haze on the horizon, though it took him seconds to realize that the haze was actually smoke spread out in a thick, dark layer, reinforcing his sense of urgency. He didn’t know what kind of land lay ahead of them but, somehow, he could sense its need.
As they soared over the flanks of the mountains, a great, dense forest appeared in front of them, stretching into the distance until it was veiled by smoke. Aram let his eyes rove over the deep green of the canopy as they flew over it. Converging on their position were flights of dragons that had set out ahead of them from Skyhome’s other eyries, flying in elongated, V-shaped formations.
Ahead of them, from out of the forest canopy, rose an enormous tree, taller than all the rest, its branches stretching over the surrounding grove like a protective mother. It was toward that tree that Vandra angled her dragon, the rest of the Wing following. Aram wondered if Vandra aimed to land near the tree, though he didn’t know how they could possibly find a landing place amidst such dense growth. But as soon as his mind formed the question, it was answered. On the other side of the great tree was a ridge of rocky hills that rose above the surrounding forest.
Vandra’s brown dragon banked toward it, spreading his wings and arresting his flight, coming to land on the crest of the hill. Narath alighted next to him, the others setting down along the ridgeline. Vandra slid immediately from Ragath’s back, and Aram followed her to the ground, striding forward as the other members of the Wing collected around them.
Within seconds, a group of men and women emerged from the forest, clothed in leather and suede, their garments ornamented by feathers. They had the proud look of the Auld, brown-skinned and brown of hair, though they were not as stout as their mountain-bred kinsmen, and more willowy than even the people of the grassland.
Vandra strode toward them as they approached, greeting the first man who came toward them by raising her fingers to her brow. “Harak! What’s the situation?”
Harak stopped and regarded them with the haunted eyes of a man who had looked upon the face of death. The sight of him set Aram instantly on edge. He swept his gaze down the line of people who had come to stand before them and saw the same look in many of their eyes.
“An army from Araghar descended upon us, thousands strong,” said Harak. “They brought fire to the forest! Void walkers and therlings supplement their ranks.”
Hearing that, Vandra’s glower deepened. Her gaze turned to the north, where thick gray smoke billowed from the forest in the distance. She stared at the churning smoke for a long while, her gaze seemingly lost in it.
“Darman! Fax!” she called in a ringing voice, sending two scale-armored warriors scrambling toward her. “Get the Wings in the air. Don’t attack head-on. Come in high and fast from the north.” As the men sprinted back to their dragons, Vandra turned to Aram.
“Go with them.” She pointed at the forest folk.
“And do what?” Aram asked.
“The Great Tree’s an Anchor. Don’t let it burn.”
Aram glanced toward the enormous tree that dominated the forest, rising far higher than any other tree around it. It was so big … it towered hundreds of feet like a colossal sentinel, its trunk a dark contortion of burls and furrows. Like the Elesium, it had a pure, silvery aura that was so vibrant it took his breath away.
“That’s an Anchor?” he asked, staring in awe at the Tree. “I don’t understand.”
Vandra gave him a sideways glance, as though she couldn’t believe he was so ignorant. “The Anchors uphold the Veil. We can’t let it fall.”
Aram glanced back at the Tree. It looked strong, certainly, but strong enough to hold up the entire Veil? He didn’t know exactly what that meant, only that it sounded a lot like holding up the sky. He pressed his lips together, his mind grappling with the logic of it.
Vandra turned and started away, but Aram called after her, “I don’t know what to do—”
“Do everything you can!”
Then she was gone, and Aram brought his hands up to shield his face from the powerful gust of wind created by Ragath’s wings as the dragon vaulted into the air. The rest of the Wing rose after them into the sky, climbing steeply and angling toward the north. Aram watched them go, feeling smaller and weaker as the dragons diminished in the distance, leaving him alone with an impossible task. He glanced at Harak, who regarded him with a withering look. Then he turned in panic to Narath and felt the dragon’s mind press against his.
He felt helpless. He was just a weakling boy with a love of knots. Nothing more.
The look in the dragon’s eyes seemed to disagree. No, it seemed to be saying. You are far more.
Chapter Forty-Four
Aram stood on the rocky outcrop, watching Vandra and her flight of dragons take to the sky. To the north, a great swath of the forest burned. He could see the orange glow of the fire, for its flames leaped high over the canopy. Ash rained down around them like snow, coating the ground in gray powder, and the smoke was so thick, it burned his throat. Even though the fire was still in the distance, it looked like it was advancing quickly.
Feeling confused and overwhelmed, Aram turned to Harak. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
The man did not appear to hear him. He was staring at the fire, eyes distant and sorrowful. His hair was long, worn in thick ropes reminiscent of the limbs of the Great Tree. The skin of his face reminded Aram of tree bark, and his visage was both grave and resolute.
Turning away from the fire, he waved Aram forward. “Come.”
Aram left Narath with a last, regretful glance and followed Harak back toward his waiting people. Together, they turned and headed down the rocky hill. Entering the forest, Aram found himself suddenly transported to a different world. The air darkened and cooled dramatically, filling with moisture and a thick, verdant aroma. A fine mist sprinkled his face, and motes of dust circulated in the angled rays of light streaming down to dapple the forest floor.
The footpath they followed was little more than a deer trail, and Harak’s people followed it in silence. The air thickened the further they went into the grove, taking on a musty odor that spoke of patience and age. It was almost as though he could sense the presence of the grove through his feet, as though the trees themselves had souls that stirred around him. It was a surreal feeling that would have normally set him at ease, had he not realized the danger that loomed ahead of them, threatening all that was wondrous about this place.
They reached an overgrown thicket completely sheltered from the sun by overhanging branches. The canopy solidified above them, soaring upward and vaulting overhead, until they walked beneath an enormous dome created by interlaced branches and leaves. Thousands of lanterns dangled from above, lighting the bowl of the dome, which was dominated by the enormous trunk of the Great Tree that rose from its center, its roots radiating outward like sprawled legs. All around the rim of the dome were masses of huts that looked to have been built of mud and woven vines. Each hut was covered in foliage, with warm light glowin
g from within. People were about, mostly gathered along the shore of a pond that ringed the enormous trunk of the Tree.
Aram stared upward at the verdant dome, at the lanterns casting a restful, whimsical light over the hollow, and realized that their glow was not produced by oil or candle flame. Instead, they emitted a steady cool light that didn’t waver or gutter. Glancing around the dome, Aram saw that the same cool light emanated from deep within the waters of the pond, the mud around it glistening as though coated with silver dust.
There was magic here. The kind of passive magic that Esmir had spoken of, born of the earth itself. It was an ancient and potent magic, different than the kind he knew. It had nothing to do with knots or threads in air, and everything to do with the ageless spirits of the trees and the nourishing vitality of the forest loam. It was the same kind of magic he had sensed in the Elesium, and it permeated the entire forest and the ground beneath it.
“What is this place?” he breathed, lost in a daze of wonderment.
“It is Edylwylde,” answered Harak. “The Heart of the Grove.”
Walking to the edge of the pond, Aram bent and scooped up a handful of water. The water shimmered in his hand, casting its silvery light in thin ripples over his flesh.
“What kind of magic is this?” he asked.
“The pool is a Wellspring, the lifeblood of the earth,” Harak answered in a sad, strained voice, gazing down at the water in Aram’s palm. “It has great healing properties.”
Aram tilted his hand and let the water spill back into the pond then glanced around at the people gathered around its shore: mostly women and children. They were working feverishly to fill pitch-lined cannisters and ceramic amphorae with the water from the pool.
“You’re going to carry it all out?” asked Aram in disbelief.
“No. We are gathering the sacred water to fight the fire. Every drop is equal to ten pails of mundane water. Even so, our efforts are not likely to be enough.”
“Why don’t you evacuate?”
