by ML Spencer
“Are you joking? You have a gaping hole in your shoulder!”
Aram brought a hand up and discovered that his shoulder was heavily bandaged. He glanced at Esmir in alarm, and the old Warden nodded.
“I don’t understand … how could I be hurt and not know it?”
Come to think of it, his shoulder had ached something fierce. And he didn’t remember leaving the cavern. The last thing he remembered was Vandra telling him that Markus was going to be all right.
“Did I pass out?”
“You could say that.” Esmir smiled. “You’d lost a lot of blood. But the Wellspring sped the healing remarkably. What affected you more was the amount of magic you used. That much magic doesn’t come without a price.”
“You’ve been out for three days!” exclaimed Kye. “We kept coming to check on you, but he kept kicking us out.”
Esmir snorted. “Because you have no idea how to be quiet! Now. All of you! Aram needs to recuperate, and he doesn’t need you loudmouths hounding him!”
Chastised, the three youths said their goodbyes and departed. Esmir rose from his chair and went to the fire pit, returning with a bowl.
“See if you can sit up and eat,” he said, groaning as he lowered himself to the floor at Aram’s side.
With Esmir’s help, Aram was able to eat nearly the entire bowl of soup, but by the end of it, he started to tire, so Esmir left him to his rest.
As Aram slept, he had the strangest dream. In it, he was being carried by the void dragon. Only, this time, he didn’t ride clutched in the creature’s talons, but rather on its milky-white back. The void dragon tucked its wings and veered downward into a steep dive, angling straight into the great fissure in the earth at the bottom of the gorge. Instead of pulling up, the dragon continued on down into the yawning crack, maintaining its speed as darkness closed in around them. For several seconds, they flew straight down, deep into the ground, Aram clinging as hard as he could to the dragon’s back as blasting-hot wind sped past them.
Far below, a deep red glow appeared, winding like a thin river through the darkness. It was rushing up to meet them, the walls of the fissure closing in, and still the dragon continued its descent, picking up speed.
Suddenly, the dragon lost control and started tumbling.
Aram gasped as he startled awake.
He was panting, and an aching anxiety squeezed his heart. The void dragon had saved his life, and in turn, had given its own. It had fallen into that great crack in the earth, into that searing darkness.
But why?
Why had it saved him? Why had it not saved itself?
Aram lay awake long into the night, pondering these questions, until exhaustion won out and sleep claimed him.
He awoke to daylight.
Opening his eyes, Aram sat up anxiously to see if Markus was awake and found Vandra there, kneeling beside Markus. The Wingmaster was changing his bandages. The whole while she worked, Markus remained sleeping.
Vandra finished tying off the bandages and started gathering up the old ones but, seeing Aram awake, she turned toward him. A quiet smile passed her lips, and Aram thought he’d never seen such a look of warmth on Vandra’s face.
“I owe you thanks,” she said. “We all do.”
Aram ducked his head self-consciously. “No. It’s Calise you need to thank. Without her, I don’t think I would’ve made it out of the Henge.”
Vandra shook her head. “You must learn to take credit when credit’s due. Without you and Markus, we would have lost the Anchor and most of the Wing.”
Aram’s cheeks heated, for he didn’t deserve the compliment. He’d just done the only thing he could do—there’d been no other choice.
“Markus killed Obriem and stood up to Sergan,” he said softly. “I didn’t do much.”
Vandra cocked her head slightly. “How about this. Why don’t you tell me what happened, and let me be the judge of who saved what.”
Aram smiled shyly. As best he could, he described what happened, telling Vandra about how Markus had killed Obriem, and how he’d taken on Sergan too—a fully-fledged sorcerer. He didn’t intentionally try to minimize his own involvement, but he didn’t really try to dwell on it, either. But Vandra kept pumping him with questions, until the full story finally came out.
When it did, she shook her head slowly, her eyes going distant. “That is … remarkable. I wouldn’t have thought anyone but a Champion could defeat an Exilari sorcerer.”
“He got away,” Aram said, “so I really didn’t defeat him.”
“It still counts as a defeat.” Vandra smiled and stood up. “In a couple of weeks, the rest of the apprentices are going to be inducted into the fighting Wing. So will you and Markus. I’ll be proud to serve with you.”
Aram frowned. “But I can’t bond a dragon, so how can I be a member of the Wing?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Vandra assured him. “You still have valuable skills that are assets to the Wing, and the fact that you don’t have a dragon of your own hasn’t slowed you down yet.”
She walked across the room to where Esmir sat at his table, a ceramic cup cradled in his hands.
“I need you to get Aram ready for the Trials,” Vandra told him. “He’s proven he’s capable, and we don’t have any more time to delay. You’ve got one month.”
“The hell you say!” Esmir barked, sitting bolt upright and slamming down his cup. “He’s nowhere near ready—”
“Then what’s it going to take to get him ready?”
“Time!” Esmir scooted his chair out with a nerve-grating screech and rose, towering head and shoulders over Vandra. “I need time—he needs time! You say he’s capable, but I say we almost lost him! There are four tests he’ll have to survive to pass the Trials, and each is exponentially harder than the one before it.”
Aram didn’t understand why Esmir was arguing with Vandra. If they needed him, then they needed him, and it was as simple as that. Gathering his blankets about him, he rose unsteadily to his feet, walking around the fire to stand beside Vandra.
“What changed?” Aram asked. “Why the rush?”
Esmir glared at Vandra, his eyes narrowing in burning accusation.
“There was a sorceress with their army,” Vandra said. “She was the one who called down the lightning upon us. Esmir thinks she’s a Champion. An enemy Champion.”
Shocked, Aram glanced at Esmir. “How’s that possible? Would the Overseers allow someone like that to become a Champion?”
The old man brought a hand up to roughly scratch his whiskered cheek. His skin and hair looked oily, as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Come to think of it, Aram couldn’t remember Esmir ever bathing at all.
Vandra crossed her arms. “We need a Champion to fight a Champion. And if we keep using Aram constrained the way he is, we’re going to get him killed.”
“And if you force him into the Trials before he’s ready, you’ll accomplish the same damn thing!”
“I’ll do it,” Aram said.
“And if he—” Esmir started.
“I’ll do it,” Aram repeated more firmly, meeting and holding Esmir’s gaze. “Wingmaster Vandra’s right. Sergan almost killed me because I couldn’t defend myself. And if I can’t defend myself, I’m no good to anyone.”
Vandra caught Esmir’s arm. “They’re already regrouping. We’re fighting the Archons of two worlds, and we can’t fight them alone.”
“Come on, now,” came a weak voice from behind them. “Can’t you argue somewhere else?”
Aram whirled at the sound of Markus’s voice. With a yelp of joy, he sprang to his friend’s side. Markus still looked pale and haggard, but his eyes were full of life and light. Aram threw his head back and laughed. For a moment, the two friends just sat together without speaking, for what passed between them didn’t need words. Vandra came and knelt beside them, draping a hand over her knee.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Like a dragon bit me.” Mar
kus smiled his usual, lopsided grin.
Vandra chuckled. “I suspect a dragon would have caused less damage. Fortunately, you have a thick head and a quick-thinking friend.” Reaching out, she mussed Aram’s hair.
She stood and said to Esmir, “I’ll give you a month. No longer.”
“My birthday is in a month,” Aram muttered, wondering if that was coincidence or portent.
“Then we’ll set the date of your Trials the day before,” said Vandra, “that way you can celebrate your birthday as a Champion.”
Esmir didn’t say anything, but the glower on his face wasn’t difficult to interpret. After Vandra was gone, he walked over to his table and splashed some whiskey into his cup, grumbling under his breath.
“What was that all about?” Markus mumbled, closing his eyes.
Aram leaned over and pulled his friend’s covers up but didn’t bother to answer. Markus was already asleep.
Esmir had Aram up in the Henge the very next day, despite the fact that he was still recovering. Over the next several days, he worked him harder than ever before, making him spend more and more time inside the first portal, until he was entering the Shadow Realm several times a day. The tests the Overseers gave him seemed to be increasing in difficulty every time he went in. Sometimes, the tests were physical, while at other times, they required a magical response. His shoulder didn’t really bother him much anymore, which helped, and Aram found that the mental tests were often the hardest to endure.
It was another few days before Markus was up and moving around, and even then, Calise insisted his head wasn’t ready to go back to training. He still got headaches often and felt dizzy sometimes when he stood up. He seemed to be improving every day, though, and his spirits were good. It helped that some of the apprentices came by to spend time with them in the evenings, mostly Jeran and Kye, though sometimes Corley and Eugan came with them. Iver even made an appearance, though he was quiet and didn’t say much.
Esmir decided that they should live with him until after Aram’s Trials, for he needed every moment he could get to work with him, so they didn’t return to the dormitory. Markus didn’t object, and Aram knew his friend was worried sick about him. Markus had been very vocal about his concerns over moving up the Trials—until Vandra reminded him that Aram was incapable of defending himself with his magic locked. After that, he’d stayed quiet, though his worry still showed whenever the subject came up.
After supper one evening, their friends spilled into the eyrie bubbling with excitement. It took over a minute before both Markus and Aram understood the source of their delight, for they were all too giddy to stop talking over one another.
“Dragons!” Kye exclaimed. “We’re going to get dragons!”
“Dragons?” Markus asked.
“The eggs,” said Corley, coming over to plop down at his side. “The eggs are ready to hatch! Vandra said it could be any time!”
“There’s enough for all of you,” Aram said, excited for them, even though he knew he wouldn’t be getting a dragon of his own.
The smiles disappeared from the apprentices’ faces when they remembered that Aram was destined to stay dragonless.
“I’m sorry, Aram,” said Corley. “I’m really, really sorry. I forgot!”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Aram told him. “I’m glad for you. I really am. If I ever need a dragon, I can always just borrow one. They don’t seem to mind giving me a ride.”
Even though Aram insisted that it didn’t bother him, the joyous mood had been broken. The apprentices left a few minutes later, congratulating each other, mired in a guessing match over which of them would end up with which egg, all agreeing that Corley would probably end up with the runt.
When they were gone, Esmir pulled a chair over and sat next to them, folding his hands on his lap. Aram glanced at Markus, who stared back, for it was easy to tell that something was wrong by the look on Esmir’s face.
“What is it?” Aram asked.
“Markus won’t be bonding one of the hatchlings,” Esmir said, a statement which shocked Aram.
“Why not?” he gasped, at the same time as Markus shrugged and whispered, “That’s all right.”
Esmir smiled slightly. “You won’t be bonding a hatchling because you’re already spoken for, you see.”
When both Aram and Markus just stared at him blankly, the old Warden explained, “We wanted to wait a bit before telling you, to make sure he didn’t change his mind. This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often, you see. Not in the last hundred years, that I can remember.”
Markus and Aram exchanged confused glances.
“What are you talking about?” Markus asked. “Who are you talking about?”
“After we found you in the cavern, Siroth was so distraught that he decided to linger in this world until he knew you were out of danger. And then…” Esmir shrugged. “I think his concern for you overrode his natural instinct to accompany Faril to her grave. He let us bury her, instead, and he remains with us.” For a few seconds, Markus just stared at him as though he wasn’t sure what Esmir was trying to say.
“You mean…”
“Siroth has become quite fond of you,” Esmir confirmed.
Markus’s eyes grew wide, his jaw slackening. “But I thought … I thought that wasn’t possible.”
“It’s possible, just very rare. Very rare indeed.”
Aram asked, “Can humans survive the death of a dragon?”
Esmir shook his head sadly. “No. No, we can’t. We are not so resilient as dragonkind.”
A startling thought struck Aram, and he frowned. “Esmir, how is it you’re still alive? Didn’t your dragon die?”
The smile departed from Esmir’s face, and he bowed his head. He took a moment before answering. “When Daymar was captured, our dragons were caught in the space between the worlds.” He drew in a deep, troubled breath. “Faranth … she isn’t dead. She’s a void dragon now, as is Daymar’s dragon, Agaroth. Or, at least, he was.”
“Was?” Aram asked. “What happened to Agaroth?”
The frown on Esmir’s face intensified, growing as deep and dark as the chasm below.
“Agaroth was the void dragon who brought you here,” he said at last. “The one who fell into the abyss.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Sergan took one last glance around his tent, making sure he had everything he needed, for he hoped he would never be coming back. He spied a bone-handled knife that had belonged to Obriem and decided to take it, since it was finer than his own. He winced in pain as he stooped to collect it, his injured back shooting hot daggers throughout his torso. It had been only a week since he’d been slammed into a wall full of short but painful spikes, and some had punctured deeper than others. Fortunately, Lazair’s healers had proven skilled, more so than any he had ever met.
He picked up his pack, carrying it at his side instead of throwing it over his shoulder. Outside, the morning sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon, and the early morning shadows clung to the ground. Even the birds hadn’t stirred awake yet, and there was a lingering stillness broken only by the crackle of the campfires. He stood for a moment looking out across the gray dawn, thinking there was no way in hell he was going to miss this place.
“Where are you going?”
Sergan turned to regard Lazair, who was sitting at the fire in front of his tent. Her pale hair was bound in a long, thick braid, and she wore lamellar armor that consisted of lacquered black scales. Her features were so pale and emaciated that he still couldn’t decide whether she was ugly or gorgeous. He supposed it made no difference. She was dangerous, and that’s what was important.
“I’m heading out early,” he said. “It’s a long ride back to the rupture.”
She rose, dusting off her armor’s skirt, and walked around the campfire toward him. “Why are you leaving?”
He couldn’t believe she’d have to ask such a question, for he thought the answer obvious. If it hadn’t been for
his wounds, he would have left a week ago. “Because we lost. There’s no point of continuing.”
Lazair waved her hand dismissively. “A minor setback.”
“That was more than a minor setback for me. In the past few weeks, I’ve gone through two Shields and four flasks of essence, not to mention coming damn close to getting killed by an untrained adolescent.”
“I think we both know that Aramon Raythe is far more than just an ‘untrained adolescent.’”
“I agree.” He sneered. “So good luck with him.”
Lazair’s gaze turned skyward as the shadow of a dragon passed over them. He had no idea if it was one of Lazair’s tame dragons or one of their enemy’s and, frankly, didn’t care. Dragons and adolescents were no longer his problem.
She caught his arm, preemptively stopping him from walking away. “My master wants to make him a priority.”
Reaching up, Sergan calmly extracted her hand. “Aram should have already been a priority. If he’s this dangerous now, what do you think he’s going to be like if he becomes a Champion?”
Sergan was genuinely frightened of the thought, and he didn’t scare easily. In the cavern of the Wellspring, he had gravely underestimated the boy. He shouldn’t have toyed with him, and he wanted to kick himself for it. Aram couldn’t even defend himself—and yet he’d still almost killed him. It was so odd that a person’s magic could be locked in such a way. He hadn’t known that before, that there were rules to Auld magic. If he had, the boy would have never gone to the Extractors.
“He won’t pass the Trials to become a Champion,” Lazair promised.
“And why is that?” Sergan lifted an eyebrow, feigning interest, even though he’d already grown bored with the conversation.
“The Trials are administered by a race of creatures who call themselves the Unan,” she explained. “Gifted people who fully enter their realm return with their Gift unlocked—if they return at all. In my time, the Unan were called the Overseers and they were thought to be gatekeepers of magic. We thought they were some type of higher race whose job it was to make certain Auld magic would not be used for evil. But we were wrong. Like we were about so many things.”
