by ML Spencer
When he reached his dragon, Agaroth tilted his head, considering Aram with concern in his golden eyes.
“I’m fine,” Aram assured him, bringing a hand up to feel his injured ribs. “How are you holding up?”
He reached to examine a wound on the dragon’s shoulder that had parted the scales. Agaroth flinched but then suffered his touch. The wound was not deep and had already closed. Apparently, the waters of the lake worked its wonders on dragons as well as men.
“Do you think you can fly with that?”
In answer, Agaroth rose and stretched his wings as though eager to be away. Aram smiled, patting his neck. “All right. Just let me say goodbye, then we’ll be off.”
He made his way back to where the others were gathered. He rounded up his star-steel blade, and Althea helped him into his armor, an excruciating labor he could have never accomplished on his own. After he thanked Althea for her care, people and Elesium alike came forward to see him off, standing in a circle around Agaroth as Aram climbed stiffly onto his dragon’s back.
Agaroth kicked off from the ground and vaulted into the sky, banking sharply over the valley before gliding out over the plain where the battle had taken place, now smoldering with cremated remains. Through the link he shared with Agaroth, Aram could feel the wound on the dragon’s shoulder. It ached with each stroke of his wings, yet no more so than his own injuries. The waters of the lake were indeed potent, and he was more than grateful for the care shown them by Althea and her people.
It took them the rest of the morning to make it back through the ridges and canyons of the Kemeri Mountains to the gorge. As they flew over the streets of Hearth Home, people looked up and pointed at the great crimson dragon that was, to them, still an anomaly, a creature from a lost past, a greater time, a symbol of hope.
Reaching their eyrie, Agaroth turned lithely in the air and touched down upon the terrace. Siroth came forward immediately to greet them, appearing unsettled.
“Aram!”
He turned to see Markus rushing toward them, his face haggard and his eyes rimmed with red. Instantly alarmed, Aram felt a chill seep into his body, knowing in his bones that something had gone terribly wrong.
“What is it?”
When Markus reached him, he took Aram’s bruised and peeling face in his hands, turning his head from side to side. “That isn’t sunburn. What happened?”
“There was a battle.” Aram said absently, wincing away. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong, I can tell.”
Markus’s face darkened in anger and dismay. “You fought a battle without me?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Aram said. “They sent a raiding party after the Elesium. I’m not—”
“What about the rest of you?” Markus stepped back, his gaze scouring Aram for signs of injury.
“I’m fine,” Aram assured him. “Just bruises and scrapes.”
Planting his hands on his hips, Markus turned and paced away, raking a hand through his hair. “There was a battle here too.”
“What happened?”
Aram listened in trepidation as Markus described the battle for the fortress and Vandra’s capture in great detail. When he was done, Aram stood staring past him, numb with grief and aching with guilt that he hadn’t been there.
“But she’s alive?” Aram whispered.
Markus nodded heavily. “Ragath’s still with us. But he knows he can’t fly down there and risk himself, so he’s practically insane.” He bowed his head. “The fortress was overrun. I couldn’t save her.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Aram said. “If anything, it’s mine, for not being here.” He picked up a twig off a tall stack of kindling and held it in his hand, squeezing it. “And it was Sergan? Are you sure?”
“I saw him.” Markus’s voice shook in grief and anger.
The twig snapped in Aram’s hand. He looked down at it in surprise. Opening his hand, he let the pieces drop to the floor. He hated Sergan more than any other person he had ever known.
“I’ll kill him,” Aram vowed. Standing, he started toward the terrace.
“Where are you going?” Markus called after him.
“I’m not going to just leave her there,” said Aram. “I’m going to get her back.”
Markus rose. “The hell you are! The only place you’re going is the infirmary.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
Striding forward, Markus caught his arm. “Why don’t we let the healers decide that.”
From the terrace, Agaroth gave a growl of agreement. Aram sighed. Reluctantly, he let Markus lead him back across the eyrie to the door, trying hard not to limp.
He followed his friend down the hallway, letting his gaze trail over the intricate knotwork carved into the walls as they walked. He recognized many of the types of knots portrayed in the stone, even though they were ornamental. Ever since he’d started his training, he’d begun thinking of knots more in terms of magic than in terms of cordage. And now, for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps the walls of Skyhome might be more than just ornamental.
For just a moment, he felt a tingling of excitement. But as he studied the walls harder, his excitement faded, for though he could make out the individual knots, he didn’t understand the larger picture. Disappointed, Aram let his attention drift away from the walls. Only then did he realize that Markus had been speaking to him the entire time they’d been walking.
“Their army’s continuing on,” Markus was saying. “It’s headed for the Hills of Eranor. Somehow, we have to figure out a way to get our dragons down there past their sorcerers.”
Eranor. The keystone anchor was there, the Heart of the Mother. If Kathrax destroyed that Anchor, then the two worlds would come crashing back together and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
“I killed their Champion,” he said with a shiver. “Maybe that will slow them down. It’s one less sorcerer, at least.”
Markus glanced at him in shock. “You killed their Champion?” He shook his head roughly. “I should have been there.”
His regret sounded just as plaintive as Aram’s own. Neither of them said another word all the way down to the lower level, where the infirmary was located. When Markus escorted him through the door, Aram halted abruptly.
Calise was there, talking to one of the other healers. She glanced up and noticed him standing in the doorway.
Aram flinched, having to stop himself from turning around and walking back out again. As though sensing his reaction, Markus took hold of his arm, denying him any possible hope of escape. Aram’s heart flailed in panic, for he had no idea how to act in such an uncomfortable situation. Sweat broke out on his brow, and he felt his courage waver more than it had on the battlefield. When Calise turned and walked toward them, he averted his eyes from her.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked Markus. Even though her voice was full of concern, Aram didn’t miss the detail that Calise was addressing Markus instead of him.
Markus answered, “He claims he’s just bruised up, but I figured I’d let you check him out, just in case.”
Aram glanced back at him in panic as Calise led him away to a corner. There, he stood staring intensely at a dark stain on the wall as Calise looked him over.
“You’re going to need to remove that,” she said, nodding at his armor.
Aram winced at the mere idea. He couldn’t bring himself to move his arms, much less unfasten all the straps that held his armor in place. So Calise took over, unbuckling the straps and setting the various pieces on the floor while Aram stood gritting his teeth, trying hard not to groan. When he at last stood shirtless and ashamed before her, she looked him over critically, only patience and professionalism in her expression.
That hurt more than his wounds.
She bent to examine the deep purple bruising on his side, a large mark in the shape of a crescent moon that wrapped all the way from his chest around to his back.
“Take a deep breath,”
she ordered.
Aram tried to comply but stopped when a sharp pain speared him all the way to his spine.
“Broken,” Calise confirmed, frowning heavily. “What happened?”
“I was hit with something,” Aram mumbled, staring at the wall behind her. “Magic, I think. I don’t really know…”
She scowled as though irritated by the answer but motioned to a pallet that lay on the floor behind her. “Sit. This is going to make you woozy.”
Aram obeyed, looking up at Markus helplessly. Markus gave him a beleaguered smile, but one glance from Calise washed the expression off his face.
She sat next to him and placed both of her hands over the injury. “When I count to three, hold still and don’t breathe.”
Aram nodded, biting his lip, finding her touch almost painful. Not because it hurt his ribs, but because it felt so heartbreakingly good.
“One… Two… Three.”
Aram held his breath. A burning warmth bloomed in his side, and he resisted the impulse to suck in a gasp of air. He clenched his hands instead, squeezing his eyes shut hard. The warmth spread down his side and toward his back like a wash of scalding water.
Calise sat back, bringing her hands up to her temples as though warding off a terrible headache. Aram wavered, feeling just as dizzy as she’d promised. The light in the room dimmed, and he thrust out his hands to stop himself from falling over. Eventually, the world stabilized and the sound of his pulse in his ears faded.
Calise said to Markus, “Make sure he rests for a couple days.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” Markus grumbled as he helped Aram up, then bent to collect his armor off the floor.
Aram protested, “Vandra doesn’t have a couple of days—”
“And if you do something stupid, neither will you,” snapped Calise.
Deflated, Aram said nothing as Markus thanked her and led him away, hurrying him down the hallway in the direction of the stairs. He still felt terribly dizzy, and the floor rocked beneath his feet, so he was grateful for Markus’s steadying grip on his arm.
“If we leave now, maybe we can—”
“Don’t even think about it,” Markus growled. “There’s nothing you can do, anyway. I can’t protect you from an entire army.”
Aram’s body wilted as the futility of the situation finally seeped in. Vandra was truly gone. Even though she was still alive, there was absolutely nothing he could do to help her. Aram threw his head back, squeezing his hands into fists. What good was magic if he couldn’t even save a friend?
“Come on,” Markus said. “Let’s get you back.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way back to their eyrie. Once there, Aram forced down some soup then wandered to his bed. Whatever Calise had done had made the bruise on his side fade to a dull yellow-green but had also sapped his strength. He lay down on the straw-stuffed mattress and drew his scratchy wool blanket up around himself. The last thing he thought of as he drifted off to sleep was the way Calise’s soft hands had felt against his skin.
When Aram woke again, it was evening, and the smell of roasting meat filled the eyrie, making his mouth water. When he sat up, his ribs didn’t stab him. He moved to the fire, nodding at Markus, and poured himself a cup of wine.
“Doing better?” Markus asked.
Aram nodded, not feeling like talking. He sat gazing into the flames while Markus turned the leg of lamb he was roasting on a spit. The logs in the fire cracked, raining a shower of embers his way. Aram absently brushed them back toward the fire, struggling to clear the drowsiness from his head.
Markus made small talk over supper, conspicuously avoiding the subject of Vandra. An uncomfortable heaviness hung over the room, weighing down on both of them and making conversation difficult. Even the dragons seemed to sense it and fled the tension by leaving to hunt.
After supper, Aram cleaned their plates. He was about to go down to check on Esmir, but a knock at the door changed his plans. He glanced at Markus, who walked to the door and opened it.
It was Calise.
Markus glanced back at Aram then opened the door wider. Calise smiled a greeting at him as she entered, her gaze flitting hesitantly toward Aram. Aram could only stare back at her, his jaw slack, terrified and achingly hopeful all at the same time.
Markus muttered, “I’ll be downstairs.”
Aram barely noticed him leaving. Suddenly the door shut, and he was alone with Calise. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her, though he didn’t think she was angry—the look on her face didn’t match her body posture, which confused him. In truth, he didn’t know what to make of her. When she gave a tentative smile, that set him at ease a bit, though his heart still ached with regret.
“You look better,” she said, coming toward him.
“Whatever you did helped a lot.” He reached down to touch his side, which barely hurt at all anymore. “I wished I could do magic like that.”
Calise’s magic was beautiful, and it came from an even more beautiful place within. It wasn’t like his. She was limited in what she could do with it, but in some ways, it was even more powerful than his own.
She stopped in front of him and looked steadily into his eyes. “I came to say that I forgive you for taking Zandril.”
The gratitude he felt nearly took his breath away. “You don’t have to forgive me.”
“I know. But I’m going to anyway, because I feel like it.” Her gaze wandered to the hearth. “Can I sit down?”
“Please.” Aram moved rapidly to grab a cushion for her, setting it down beside his own. As she took a seat and adjusted her skirt over her legs, he went to fetch a sack of honeywine from the decrepit cabinet that served as the larder. He poured her a cup, which she accepted with a grateful smile and a murmur of thanks.
He lowered himself onto his cushion, sitting with his legs stretched out. Nervous, he longed for a piece of string or just something to fidget with in his hands, but she might notice, and that would be embarrassing. Instead, he settled for twitching his toes.
She took a sip of her wine, cradling her cup in her hands. Softly, she said, “When I was young, Lowland Fever took my parents.”
Feeling terrible for her, Aram whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, taking another sip of wine. “They weren’t nice people. Anyway, I grew up raising my younger sister, just her and me. We did everything together. We were best friends. All we had was each other, but I think we were better for it. She was the most lovely, gentle person. I loved her more than anything in the whole world.”
He gazed at her as she talked, for he found her beautiful and baffling. She had her hair up in a sloppy bun atop her head, but wispy strands had escaped, fringing her face. She spoke quickly, as though nervous, and never looked at him. But when she raised her cup to her lips, she did so with meticulous grace.
“One day my sister just disappeared,” Calise continued. “She knew I liked truffles, and she wanted to surprise me with some. So she took our sow out rooting for them in the forest behind our hut. She didn’t tell me what she was doing or where she was going. Anyway, a storm came through that no one expected, and she was caught out in it. The sow came home. Nedira didn’t. I told myself she’d just gotten lost in the storm, and I looked for her for days. Eventually, I gave up. All I could do was wait and hope for her to make her way back. Every day I’d wake up thinking this was going to be the day Nedira found her way home. But it never was. Years later, a couple of trappers found her bones. She’d fallen down a ravine in the storm and gotten carried away by a flood. All because I liked truffles.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was a sad, sad smile that made Aram wish he could do something to take it away.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
“You don’t have to be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” All traces of sadness were suddenly gone from her face, as though washed away.
She was right; it wasn’t his fault
, but he didn’t know what else to say. So he lowered his eyes and gazed into the fire and said nothing. They sat in silence for a time, watching the flames dance over the graying logs. The silence grew uncomfortable, so much so that Aram started feeling a mild kind of panic. He feared he was supposed to be saying something, and he found himself groping for a subject to talk about. Nothing came to mind, and the more desperate he got, the less he could think.
Calise said, “When Zandril came back without you, I felt like I was right back there again, waiting for Nedira to come home.”
“I’m sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. He clamped his mouth shut, knowing he’d screwed up.
“Good.” She looked at him directly, her eyes digging into him. “You should be sorry about that, because that was your fault.”
He hung his head. “I know.”
Aram wished he could tell her he regretted taking Zandril, but that would be a lie. He had needed Agaroth, and Agaroth had needed him. Because of that, he couldn’t regret what he’d done. But he did feel terrible about it.
“Look at me,” she ordered.
He raised his eyes and looked at her, even though it was painful to do so.
“I didn’t want to fall in love with you, because of what you are,” she told him softly.
It hurt to hear that. He looked away quickly, trying to hide the pain he felt, which had to show in his eyes. “It’s all right.” He shrugged. “Girls don’t fall in love with people like me.”
She set her cup down at her side. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she insisted firmly. “It’s what’s wrong with me. I didn’t want to fall in love with a Champion. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying about whether or not you’d be coming home.”
He understood completely, though it still hurt. He couldn’t blame her, not after what she’d told him about her sister. Suddenly, he felt bad for ever wanting to kiss her. More than anything, he wanted to give Calise what she needed. And what she needed wasn’t him.
