by ML Spencer
“Indeed,” he mumbled.
Bored, Sergan looked out across the encampment. The soldiers were already up and about their daily routines, stoking the cook fires, gathering water, and collapsing the tents for the day’s march. The air was filled with the scent of wood smoke and cooking meat, odors that made his mouth water.
Lazair guided him to the fire, where one of her soldiers was tending an iron skillet. Strips of meat that resembled pork belly, but likely weren’t, sizzled in the pan. Lazair crouched next to the fire, patting the ground next to her. Sergan declined, not wanting to mar the perfection of his blue mantle.
“So, why do they do it?” he asked. “What do these Overseers gain by administering the Trials?”
Lazair plucked a strip of meat from the pan, holding it in front of her gingerly, so as not to burn her fingers. Blowing on it, she slipped it into her mouth, making him wait as she slowly chewed. “It turns out that the candidates who end up ‘passing’ their Trials are those who have actually failed them, in the minds of the Overseers. They’re looking for Gifted humans with little mental fortitude, you see. Basically, people that can be easily dominated and enslaved. These, they take to become their thralls—which explains why so many of the candidates who enter their portals never come back out again.”
Sergan plucked his own strip of meat from the pan, waggling it in the air to cool it before biting off a piece. “That is interesting. What about the people who come back insane?”
“People who are too strong of will are perceived to be a threat,” Lazair said glibly. “They are either killed or their mind is broken.”
Sergan pondered that, reflecting on what he’d learned of Aram Raythe from the short time he’d spent as his mentor. The boy had been very shy and very awkward, and he walked just a little out of step with the rest of the world. He was a congenial boy, though, who had tried hard to please. In the little time he’d known him, Sergan had almost grown fond of him.
“Aram is very biddable,” he said at last. “If I had gold to put on it, I’d wager he’s exactly the type of person these creatures are interested in taking.”
“Fortunately, my master has an arrangement with the Unan. They’re interested in more than just humans, you see. They actually prefer Elesium to men. So we’ve been trading them—for every human they return to us alive with their Gift unlocked, we offer them an Elesium foal.” She smiled broadly. “I’m certain they would be happy to accept a colt or two in payment for one boy.”
Her smile was infectious. Sergan found himself grinning too. Perhaps he’d remain, after all. It seemed things were just about to get interesting.
“I want you to stay,” Lazair said. “You may name the price for your services. As long as it’s not too extravagant, I’m certain my master will accommodate it.”
Sergan would have to think about that long and hard, because the reward had better be worth it. “So, what’s our next objective?”
“I received word today. Your Emperor has promised us ten more of your Exilari. My master has grown impatient with our lack of progress. We are to direct our efforts at the keystone Anchor, what’s known as the Heart of the Mother. The Veil has already been destabilized, so if the Heart of the Mother falls, then the rest should fall with it.”
Chapter Seventy
“Are you sure you want me here?” Aram asked.
Markus looked up in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re the closest thing I have to family. Of course I want you here!”
Aram felt profoundly moved by his best friend’s words. In truth, Markus was the closest thing he’d ever come to having a brother. He felt deeply honored that Markus would want him to be present at such an intimate occasion as the bonding of dragon to rider, the twining of two souls until the end of time. He was not jealous of Markus, even though he knew he would never bond a dragon of his own. He felt truly glad for him and especially glad for Siroth, who had found, in Markus, a reason to live.
Vandra appeared in the doorway, dressed in a tunic that wasn’t quite ceremonial, yet definitely an improvement over the war-beaten leathers that were her usual apparel. Seeing her, Markus’s eyes flicked to Aram.
Aram squeezed his arm in reassurance. “You’ll do fine.”
Markus smiled with all the nervous anticipation of a bridegroom.
“Are you ready?” Vandra asked.
When both young men rose and moved toward her, Vandra raised her eyebrows in surprise. But Markus didn’t say anything, so Vandra walked past them and pulled back the wicker screen that guarded Esmir’s quarters, letting in the sunlight and a cool afternoon breeze. Aram and Markus followed her through the eyrie and out onto the terrace.
There, they waited, the wind teasing their clothes, eyes drawn to the sky. Vandra lingered back against the wall alongside Esmir, while Aram took his place at his best friend’s side, feeling nervous enough for the both of them. For his part, Markus looked remarkably at ease, the only outward sign of tension the occasional twitch of his cheek. And even though the wind whipped his dark hair about his face, he looked oddly dignified.
They stood there for a few minutes, just long enough for the apprehension that gripped Aram’s stomach to loosen somewhat.
A long shadow fell over them, eclipsing the sun.
Aram took a step back, craning his neck and shielding his eyes as a large black dragon descended upon them, alighting on the terrace with predatorial grace. For a moment, Siroth stood frozen in the action of landing, wings spread and horned head tilted at an angle, peering down at them with molten gold eyes. He settled slowly into a crouch, as though wary or uncertain of this place. Then his eyes came to rest on Markus and their gazes locked, his sleek obsidian body tensing as though to spring.
Startled, Aram had to restrain himself from stepping protectively in front of his friend, for he had never seen a dragon look so fearsome.
Markus stood his ground, though his breath came in sharp gasps. He glanced at Aram as though seeking reassurance. Aram set a hand on his friend’s back.
“Go to him.”
Markus swallowed hard, then walked forward in a measured pace, looking very much like an unkempt groom arriving before his ferocious bride. He approached the dragon cautiously, and then he paused, looking uncertain about what to do next.
It was Siroth who made the next move.
With a low rumble, the black dragon lowered his head. Hesitantly, Markus reached up and laid a hand upon Siroth’s scaled brow, and their eyes met. For long moments, the two simply stood in regard of one another, two warriors paying respectful homage in a gesture that was strangely noble.
Then something changed.
Markus sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening for just an instant before closing completely. His body wavered, and Aram almost rushed forward to steady him.
But it was not Aram that Markus needed in this moment of vulnerability, for that honor was meant for another. Siroth curled his neck around Markus and let him sag against him, catching him against his muscular chest as Markus clung to the soft spines that ran the length of his dragon’s body. Siroth gave a low rumble, and the two simply stood there, locked in a mutual embrace, as something significant passed between them. When at last Markus recovered somewhat, he glanced back over his shoulder with tears in his eyes, flashing Aram a joyous smile.
Aram smiled back, for he was glad for his friend. Siroth was a valiant and fearsome soul, and he was everything that Markus deserved. When Markus climbed onto his dragon’s back for their first flight as a bound pair, Aram watched in awe as Siroth launched from the terrace with a wind-gusting downstroke of wings. The sight of them gliding over the canyon was exhilarating, and yet, at the same time, it made his heart ache. For even though he was happy for his best friend, Aram was also very aware that he would never know a love so profound.
When he turned away from the terrace, he found Vandra and Esmir looking at him, and at first, he felt ashamed, for they had surely seen the sadness on his face. He forced a smil
e as best he could, deciding to focus on Markus’s happiness instead of his own self-pity.
“I’m sorry,” said Vandra, and the compassion in her eyes told Aram that she truly understood.
Esmir gave him a look of sympathy, for, more than anyone else, the old Warden knew what it was like to be dragonless.
“I’m happy for them,” Aram said, his gaze following Markus and Siroth as they soared across the sky.
“I know you are,” said Vandra, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Aram spent the remainder of the morning at the Henge with Esmir, drilling sword forms over and over until sweat drenched his clothes and his arms hung limp with exhaustion. When the sun reached its zenith, Esmir threw him a water skin and a damp cloth to wrap around his head and called him into the shade of one of the monoliths for a rest. Aram sat down heavily, his back against the stone, breathing hard and gazing down at the dulled blade in his hands.
“What about my own sword?” he asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “And my armor? Are they going to be ready any time soon?”
“Your armor will be ready in the next couple of days, I’m told,” Esmir assured him, then took a swig from his water flask. Stoppering it, he set the flask back down in the dirt. “Your sword is going to be the problem. I asked Onsel if he could speed the process up, and he assured me that he was already doing everything in his power. Unfortunately, it has to pass through the hands of several different craft masters. Right now, it’s with the polisher, and then it will go to the woman will put the final edge on the blade. I’m told those two steps cannot be rushed.”
Aram nodded. More than anything, he did not want Onsel to sacrifice quality. If he passed his Trials, his life would depend on that sword. It was good news about his armor, though. He was eager to see it and even more eager to wear it.
“All right,” Esmir said, gesturing with his cane toward the first portal. “Let’s see what kind of tests the Overseers have for you today.”
Aram sighed heavily, for the last two times he’d entered the portal, his resolve had been sorely tested. He was not looking forward to finding out what kind of assaults they would throw at him today. Reluctantly, he laid down his sword and bent to remove his clothes.
“What will happen if I don’t survive the Trials?” he asked quietly. “What will you do?”
Esmir opened his mouth but then closed it again, his eyebrows drawing together. “I don’t know.”
Aram knew it was an honest answer, and it made him a little sad. Tossing his clothes on the ground, he walked toward the portal and, drawing a deep breath, stepped through.
Looking down at himself, Aram saw that he was dressed in dragon-scale armor, though it was different from the mail he had seen in Master Krommer’s shop. This cuirass had scales lacquered with black enamel that glowed orange in the light of flames. The flames themselves were cast by torches hung from sconces all around the dark, circular room he found himself within. Aram turned slowly in place, raising the sword in his hands.
It wasn’t the star-steel blade that was being crafted for him, but a similar sword of far less quality. For a moment, Aram looked around in confusion, trying to understand the nature of this test. The timing of the sword and armor appearing after his conversation with Esmir was not lost on him. He thought perhaps this exercise was a direct result of it.
The floor shivered beneath his feet.
He sprang away as the shadows rushed from the walls and converged on the spot he had just been standing. There, they solidified into the form of a man. It was no ordinary man, but one that looked like a blackened corpse covered in armor that glowed red as though slightly molten. It held a round shield in one hand and a short sword in the other. The corpse stank of death and rot, wheezing breath through gaping rents in its chest.
In the past several days, Aram had been presented with a menagerie of frightening adversaries. For some reason, this one seemed worse than most. For one thing, he was already at a disadvantage, for this opponent bore a shield, while all he had was a fragile, mundane sword.
The corpse—or whatever it was—didn’t hesitate, but conjured a lance of magic that Aram wasn’t expecting because he’d been so focused on the weapons. It slammed into his chest, hurling him backward. He hit the ground and lay there dazed, his body numb from the shock, the air driven from his lungs.
As he struggled to regain his feet, the corpse’s head elongated and shot toward him like a striking snake. He rolled away just in time to see the head reshape itself into a mercurial sword that cleaved the earth where he’d just been lying.
Somehow, he ended up on his feet in a fighting stance.
The creature changed back into its human form and threw itself at him, striking out with its sword. Aram brought his own sword up to block then swung it around, severing his opponent’s arm. Its weapon went flying, and the creature recoiled with a snarl.
There was a sick, oozing sound, and the corpse somehow cleaved in half, both halves leaping in opposite directions. Suddenly, he was fighting two corpses instead of one. Aram swung low and carved a slice out of the leg of one then kicked out at the other, knocking it backward.
The first creature went down with a snarl, while the second came back at him. This one had two swords, which it jabbed at him in a scissoring motion. He dodged back out of reach, bringing his blade around just in time to deflect a strike coming at him from a third adversary that had appeared from out of nowhere.
With a growl, Aram spun sideways to avoid one sword, only to find himself confronted by another. This, he smacked aside with the flat of his blade, continuing the motion to drive the pommel of his hilt into the eye socket of the corpse.
Scalding ichor spattered his face. He wiped it out of his eyes just in time to see the edge of the shield that smacked him in the head.
Aram went down and rolled away as a blade pierced the ground where his chest had just been. Spitting blood, he pushed himself upright, but the moment he regained his feet, the first creature swept his legs out from under him. He could feel his knee give out, and he fell to the ground with a pained cry.
When he glanced up, three living corpses loomed over him, and he feared he was beaten. The three fell upon him at once, stabbing with their swords.
With a sweep of his hand, Aram wove strands of air into a shield that turned the blades aside. He wrenched himself to his feet, braiding another handful of aether into a burning whip, which he lashed out with at one of the demons. At the same time, he arced his blade toward another. His sword arm jarred as his weapon connected with bone and sinew, cleaving one of the three bodies entirely in half.
He cracked the flaming whip at the creature on his left, sending it shrieking and chattering to the other side of the room. Then he swept his sword around, cutting a deep slice into the torso of another. Black gore spilled from the wound, and ropes of steaming entrails squirmed to the ground. The thing collapsed, crumpling as though squeezed by an enormous fist.
Which left only one last adversary. Favoring his leg, Aram turned toward it and drew his sword back, preparing to strike.
“Aram!”
He whirled at the sound of his mother’s voice.
Another corpse had appeared, standing behind his mother, holding her firmly by the hair. Dark bruises and open wounds covered her body, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Blood drenched her clothes and streaked her face.
Aram froze. He didn’t dare strike out at the corpse with his mother in the way, and the other creature was advancing. He had no idea whether or not she was real, but he couldn’t risk it. The wounds that he took in the Shadow Realm followed him outside, so he had to assume that whatever happened in here was more than just illusion.
He dropped his sword and raised his hands.
“Please!” his mother shrieked. “Stop coming here!”
“Why?” Aram asked, watching the other corpse warily out of the corner of his eye.
“They’ll kill you!” she wailed. “Go away! Go a
way and never come back!”
Aram gritted his teeth, his resolve slipping. He couldn’t kill the creature behind his mother without cutting her down. But now he wasn’t so sure that this woman was truly his mother. His real mother would never ask him to run away from duty.
Suddenly, he understood the nature of the test.
His hands started shaking when they realized what he was about to do. He adjusted his grip on his sword then drew the blade back over his shoulder, whispering, “Forgive me.”
And then he struck.
Not at the creature, but at his mother. His sword met her neck, severing it with little resistance. Aram screamed as he saw her head come away, her body toppling to the ground.
“Aram!”
He moaned at the feeling of someone striking his face over and over.
“Aram! Wake up!”
He opened his eyes with a cry, scrambling for his sword.
But it wasn’t there. He was lying flat on his back in front of the Portal Stone, staring up into Esmir’s whiskered face, which was grave with apprehension. His breath came in gasps and his heart pounded furiously against the walls of his rib cage. He sat bolt upright and bent forward, hugging himself.
“Is it real?” Aram demanded. “Did I kill her?”
Esmir sank down to his haunches with a troubled look. Aram grasped him by the fabric of his sleeves, shaking him.
“Is it real? Tell me, Esmir!” Tears drained like lifeblood down his face. “Tell me I didn’t kill her!”
The old Warden shook his head, his mouth open, his eyes wide and moist. “I don’t know.”
Aram let out a strangled sob, all of the strength draining from him. “You don’t know? How don’t you know?”
Esmir glanced down, and he seemed to be trying to compose himself as Aram clung onto him, his hands shaking.
“I don’t know,” Esmir repeated. “Some believe it’s real. Some don’t. What do you believe? Do you think it was real?”
