by ML Spencer
“I like it,” said Iver, nodding slowly.
“Of course you do,” snapped Jeran. “You just want him to get caught!”
Iver snorted. “That’s not true. Well, maybe a little true. But still.” Noticing Markus glaring at him, he gave a frustrated sigh. “Look, I like Aram as much as anyone.” He spread his hands. “That’s why I don’t want him to get killed. In fact, I’m surprised you do.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want him to get killed?” Markus asked.
Iver flashed him an incredulous look. “He didn’t tell you? People who fail the Trials don’t come back alive. Or at least not sane.”
Markus’s face slackened. Then he swung to Aram. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Aram shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“You didn’t think it mattered?” Markus turned back to Iver as the rest of the boys edged away. “What are his chances?”
“Almost none.” Iver glared at his friends. “That’s what I keep trying to tell everyone!”
Markus looked around the ring of other apprentices. “Is it true? Is he right?”
There was a long pause followed by a general consensus of nods. Markus threw his hands up. He stalked to the side of the room, where he stood glaring at the wall and scrubbing his hands through his hair.
“I’m not supporting this,” he said at last. He swung back around, face red with anger. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk to Esmir and tell him we quit. We’ll find a way to get back home—”
“No.” Aram strode toward him, hands clenched into fists. “I’m needed here.”
“Not if you can’t pass the Trials!”
Aram pointed at Iver. “He doesn’t know me! But you do. You do!”
Markus went quiet, closing his eyes. For long moments, he stood stiff and still as a scarecrow. At last, his shoulders slumped, and he let out a protracted sigh.
Opening his eyes, Markus glared defiantly at Iver. “He’ll pass the Trials.”
Hearing the confidence in his best friend’s voice made Aram want to hug him.
Iver held Markus’s gaze for a long time without looking away, as if the two of them were locked in some contest of wills, where the winner would decide Aram’s fate. In the end, it was Iver who backed down.
“All right,” he said. “If you feel that strongly, then I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. But mark my words”—he lifted a finger—“if he goes into those portals and doesn’t come back out, don’t blame me. Understand? Don’t. Blame. Me.” Each word was punctuated by a finger-shake.
“I won’t,” Markus said in a gruff voice, looking down. “I’ll blame myself.”
Aram shook his head. “No. If I don’t pass the Trials, then I’m the only one to blame. Just me. This is my life, and I’m the only one who’s going to say what I’m going to do with it.”
Markus licked his lips, at last nodding. He glanced around the room. “Then I guess it’s settled.”
“Good!” Corley smacked his hands together. “Now, Aram’s going to go scout us out some dragon eggs! Right, Aram?”
“That’s right.” Aram started toward the door.
“Just don’t prove me wrong!” Iver called to his back. “And don’t give us up if you get caught!”
Feeling vindicated, Aram smiled. He went and fetched a candlestick then left the dormitory. The hallways at night were very different than during the day. There was no light from the shafts, so the only illumination was the faint glow of the taper in his hand. He walked with his hand cupped, shielding the candle’s delicate flame, watching the strange knotwork on the walls squirm in the shadows as he passed.
Taking the steps up to the eyrie, he paused outside the door, wondering if he should snuff out the candle. He wasn’t sure which would be worse: announcing his presence with the light or being caught sneaking around in the dark. In the end, he decided that being sneaky just wasn’t right. If he got caught, he’d rather get caught out in the open.
Keeping the candle shielded, he opened the door and stepped into the Southern Eyrie. It was cold inside, far colder than the dormitory or even Esmir’s eyrie at night, which was better shielded and had a smaller opening. The enormous cavern was dark, except for a few lights that glowed from behind the privacy screens that had been drawn across the alcoves.
Aram stood by the door for a moment, surveying the room, considering his chances. There were still a couple of people moving around, and he was pretty sure he would get caught. He almost turned back and retreated down the stairs, but then a terrible fear stopped him. For the first time in his life, he had friends who believed in him. If he turned back now, he would prove their faith unjustified.
Holding the taper near his chest, he pondered the problem. Should he go ahead and risk Vandra’s wrath? Or turn back and face the disappointment of his friends? It was a terrible decision. He stood for long moments licking his lips, toes squirming in his boots, his stomach tied into knots.
At last, he made up his mind. Girding his courage, he started forward, walking purposefully as though he had every right to be there. He hadn’t gone far when a screen opened, and a man appeared in front of him. His heart leapt into his throat. Aram fought it down and nodded a greeting at the dragon rider then continued on his way. He could see his objective clearly in front of him: the soaking pool. All the big eyries had one. This pool was large, extending all the way from the center of the cavern toward one of the shadowy back corners.
He set his course toward it, his gaze scanning the walls, searching for the opening to the steam room. It took him a moment, but he finally saw it: a dark oaken door in the shadows behind the pool. Aram paused for a moment and glanced behind him, making sure no one was looking. Then he hurried around the pool and tested the door to see if it was locked.
It wasn’t.
Opening the door, he stepped inside.
The air within was sweltering and humid, fed by steam rising from a small pool of bubbling water in the center of the floor. A hazy, golden light filtered down from above, though Aram couldn’t see its source. He took a step forward, his boot sinking into deep sand that covered the floor. And then he saw it: a hollow dug out of the sand, filled with eggs. Sucking in a breath, he froze, his eyes going wide.
He had never seen a dragon egg before, and he found himself mesmerized. They were different shades of tan and speckled with dark brown flecks like a wren’s egg, though instead of a shell, they were covered with a soft, leathery membrane. Each egg was as large as a good-sized melon, irregularly shaped.
Moving to the clutch, he sank to his knees and twisted the candlestick into the sand to prop it upright. Eyes wide with wonder, he ran his gaze over the seven eggs that sat tilted at various angles inside the nest. Hesitantly, he reached his hand toward the nearest one.
“Don’t!”
Aram flinched, jerking his hand back.
Glancing behind him, he met Vandra’s eyes and froze, his heart growing cold with shame.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Vandra sprang forward and caught Aram by the arm, dragging him roughly away from the eggs and hauling him to his feet. She caught hold of his face and jerked his head toward her, forcing him to look her in the eyes. There was such fire there, enough to set a wet haystack ablaze.
“What are you doing here?” she snarled, tightening her grip until her fingers dug into his cheeks.
Aram opened his mouth to answer but panic ripped the words right out of his throat. He froze, not knowing what to say. He didn’t want to get the others in trouble, but his father had raised him not to lie.
Lies breed like rats and gnaw at you just the same.
Drowning in shame, Aram whispered through trembling teeth, “I wanted to see them.”
That was true at least, even if it was just part of the truth. Yet the explanation seemed to exasperate Vandra, and her fingers dug deeper into his cheeks. Aram clamped his eyes shut.
“How did you know the eggs were here?”
He
couldn’t tell her. Then Iver would get in trouble—just when he’d won his friendship and trust. If he admitted the truth then that tentative bond would be severed, and Aram couldn’t bear to sacrifice even one of his new friends.
Swallowing, Aram found his resolve. He wouldn’t lie to Vandra, nor would he give up Iver. “I’m sorry.”
“I asked you a question,” Vandra growled. “Who told you the eggs were here?”
“I can’t say.”
The words took every scrap of courage he could summon, for he feared the Wingmaster’s wrath. He didn’t know what the woman would do—punish him, maybe dismiss him altogether. Whichever, he had to accept it. The truth was, whatever happened, he deserved it. What he couldn’t do was confess the others’ involvement. Not even Iver’s. Aram’s desperation for acceptance from his peers overrode even his fear of Vandra’s disappointment.
Vandra hauled him outside the door, closing it behind them. She softened her grip on him. “Understand something.” Her voice was suddenly even, which somehow made it worse. “If you had touched one of those eggs, it wouldn’t hatch. Because whoever touches a dragon egg makes a soul-bond with the dragon inside. No Lesser Dragon could survive a bond with you—your touch would have killed it.”
“Just my touch?” Aram asked in horror. “Why? Am I that terrible?”
“You’re that powerful.” Vandra’s eyes flared in contempt. “Now, who put you up to this? This is no small thing.”
“I can’t say.” Aram felt thoroughly defeated. Vandra was going to take him to task, and he knew he deserved everything he got.
“Aram,” Vandra said in a kinder voice. “Whoever told you to do this knew you would get caught. No matter what you think, they’re not your friend, so there’s no reason for you to protect them. Tell me who it was. They’re just as guilty as you are, and you don’t owe them a thing.”
He could feel the burden of Vandra’s disappointment settling around his shoulders like an ox collar. Perhaps Vandra was right. Perhaps Iver was lying and had set him up to get caught. Even still, Aram hesitated. On the chance that Iver did have faith in him, he would have to keep that faith. His newfound friendships were much too valuable to risk.
“I’m sorry.” He hung his head. “I’m not going to tell you.”
Vandra raised her eyebrows. “You realize you’ll have to take the punishment for both of you, then?”
Aram nodded, his eyes filling with tears of shame, his lips trembling.
“Very well.” Vandra let go of his arm, taking him instead by the collar of his tunic. “Whoever it is you’re protecting, they don’t deserve your friendship.”
With that, she hauled Aram forward by the collar, walking him swiftly back across the eyrie. People had gathered in the open space of the cavern, drawn by the commotion. They looked on curiously as Vandra marched Aram through their midst. He glanced at Calise as they walked by Zandril’s alcove. He saw the dismay in her eyes, and his shame bit deeper. He couldn’t keep the tears back. He could feel them wetting his cheeks as Vandra shoved him out onto the terrace in front of the eyrie, propelling him toward the edge of the cliff.
Seeing where she was taking him, Aram began to struggle, but Vandra caught him in a headlock, and no amount of fighting was going to do any good. She was a big woman, taller and stronger than him.
More riders helped her restrain him. Together, they forced him all the way to the lip of the terrace, until the tips of his toes touched the very edge of the cliff. Panicked, Aram went limp, terrified of struggling and knocking them all off the cliff. One glance downward filled him with a heaving vertigo. He sagged, trembling in Vandra’s arms, staring into the gaping maw of the chasm.
He could feel Vandra’s hot breath against his ear. “One last time. Who told you the eggs were there?”
He was going to die.
But if he named Iver, he would lose his friends. All his life, he had known only the pain and despair of isolation. The self-doubt, the feelings of worthlessness—he couldn’t bear to live like that again. He’d rather die.
Clenching his jaw, Aram squeezed his eyes shut and silently shook his head.
“Very well.”
Vandra jerked him by the hair. Aram cried out in anticipation of the fall. But instead of pushing him forward, the Wingmaster dragged him backward.
“Toss me the rope!” she called to someone behind her.
As Aram stood staring at the cliff, held forcibly by strong, stout men, Vandra tied the rope about his torso, pulling the knot tight, then proceeded to tie his wrists in front of him with a thinner cord. Another man lashed the other end of the rope to a metal bar driven into the rock of the terrace.
Then, they hauled him forward.
This time, when Vandra shoved him to the edge, she leaned him out over it.
Aram screamed, recoiling.
With a heave, she shoved him forward.
He was falling.
The rope jerked taut, nearly cutting him in half. He slapped hard against the cliff, the impact stunning him instantly. He went limp as his body moved in a pendulous swing, spinning and swaying at the end of the rope as Vandra lowered him, foot by foot, down onto a ledge that was just wide enough for him to sit upon. For several minutes, all he could do was lie there, pressing his body as close as he could against the rock. The icy breath of the abyss ghosted past him, and the world rocked and spun beneath him.
Desperate, he sat up and tugged hard on the rope, but his hands were tied, so he couldn’t climb it. He saw Vandra peering over the edge at him, her long hair whipped by the wind. There was sadness and disappointment on her face, and something else that Aram had a hard time reading.
“We’ll bring you up in the morning!” Vandra called down to him.
Before he could plead for mercy, she disappeared.
Aram brought his knees up to his chest, his bound hands clutching the rope with all their strength.
He felt more secure like that, but it still took a while for the motion of the world to stabilize. There was some measure of comfort in knowing that the rope anchored him somewhat. If he did fall from the ledge, he wouldn’t fall far. But then, he would end up dangling over the bottomless gorge all night, and he could think of few worse fates. And he was cold. So cold.
He sat there, gripping the rope as the night lengthened, waiting for the terror he felt to lessen. It never did. Instead, he just got colder as the shadows grew longer. He started shivering violently, and he had to fight a growing terror that he was going to pass out from the cold and fall from the ledge. He curled up as tightly as he could, squeezing himself against the cliff, and sat quivering in panic as the minutes wore on to eternities.
The night deepened.
He could hear sounds coming from above as the eyrie went on about its life without him. Occasionally, a dragon would launch from the terrace overhead, startling him mercilessly. Every time he thought the sky to the east was warming, it turned out to be his imagination.
Eventually, either exhaustion or the cold got to him, and he started nodding off. He didn’t fight it, even though he didn’t know whether he was drifting toward death or sleep. Instead, he gave in to the mercy of oblivion and let it carry him away.
Aram woke to sunlight and the tugging of the rope. It took him a panicked second to realize that he was being hauled back up the cliff. But when he finally felt solid ground beneath him, he didn’t have the strength to rise. He lay there shivering in the sunlight, flat on his belly on the terrace. He couldn’t feel his hands or legs. He was shivering too hard to move, and the terrace beneath him didn’t feel stable, but rocked and bobbed like a bark tossed by waves.
He hardly noticed when someone wrapped a blanket around him and coaxed him to rise. He was led back inside the eyrie and tucked into bed, warm covers piled atop him. All he could think of was how cold he was, how desperate he was for heat. He didn’t know or care who the person was that helped him. He felt a soothing hand caress his hair.
“Sleep, my frien
d. Sleep.”
He did.
Vandra never mentioned the incident again. Not once.
She treated Aram no differently, as though it had never happened. After he woke, Aram returned to the dormitory, to his normal life. Shivering on the ledge overnight had given him a cold, but otherwise, he was no worse for wear. And to his surprise, he was greeted with hugs and apologies from his friends. Even Iver looked humbled, hardly able to meet his gaze.
“I can’t believe you didn’t give me up,” Iver said.
Aram just shrugged. “You had faith in me,” he said, thinking that would explain everything.
But apparently, it didn’t. The young men of his dorm kept staring at him all day—all but Markus, who for some reason, became exceptionally quiet. He sat on his bed most of the evening, shooting hateful glances at Iver whenever he wasn’t looking, until it was time to snuff out the candles.
When Aram closed his eyes, he heard a quiet and beautiful voice echo through his mind: Sleep, my friend.
Calise’s voice.
It took a few days for Aram to truly feel like the cliff was behind him, and even then, he still occasionally felt like the world was tumbling out from beneath him. He continued to train in the Henge with Markus, but there was a little less sureness in his step. His self-confidence had taken a blow—not that it had ever been strong in the first place. As the days went by, he caught Markus and Esmir exchanging worried glances more and more frequently.
Before he knew it, it was the day he was supposed to head back down to the Brausas’ workshop for the next stage of his sword’s manufacture. He had been looking forward to it all week, and he felt his spirits lift as he descended the long stairs to Hearth Home. When he entered the smithy, the heat and the odor of the forge hit him in the face, a smell like fire and earth all rolled into one, combined with the odor of sweat from the men who worked there. The star-steel forge was already lit, the coals glowing orange. Seeing Aram, Onsel waved him over. He tossed him an apron and wound a strip of cloth around Aram’s head to keep the sweat out of his eyes.
